The Listener, 30 December 1971

We have all heard of good composers, and even of one or two great ones, who have been ignored during their lifetime, and only recognised at their true value long after their death. There are others who, though they have established a reputation while they are alive, are somehow taken too much for granted: the name is known, but the actual music is not. Alan Rawsthorne, though greatly appreciated by musicians, falls nevertheless into this category: music-lovers speak of him with respect, often with enthusiasm when they have heard one of his works, but seem to know little of his music in general. Considering his impeccable craftsmanship and the individual character of his musical personality, one asks oneself why this should be so. The primary reason is that his works are not enough played, but again one asks why. The answer, I think, lies partly in the nature of the music itself. It requires concentration and a considerable effort on the part of the listener. This may be one of the reasons for its rare appearance in concert programmes. There is an element of austerity in it certainly, but it is never arid or dull, and the intellectual interest with which one can follow the composer's thought is equalled by the sheer pleasure to the ear that his sense of instrumental colour gives. Though the musical idiom he used is basically traditional, a very distinctive personality emerges: as so often happens in all the arts, something truly original occurs when it is not sought after for its own sake.