Composers from the between-the-wars lost generation keep coming to the surface and, just because their achievements are modest compared to the best of Korngold, Braunfels and Schulhoff, they still command attention for purely artistic reasons and as unorthodox case histories in creative survival. Walter Arlen, the latest discovery by the former Decca label executive Michael Haas, has such a soft-spoken compositional voice that you understand why he has been obscure until now. The most emotionally restrained Fauré and pared-down Killmayer seem garrulous next to some of the songs on this well-performed two-disc selection, making the set problematic for continuous listening. Any one of the three- and four-song cycles would be exquisite relief on a recital programme of dense Wolf or Brahms. But hearing an entire disc in one sitting is tough.

Born in Vienna, Arlen (né Walter Aptowitzer) fled from the Nazi regime and arrived first in Chicago and later in Los Angeles, where his composing life was eclipsed by his need to make a living, specifically as a Los Angeles Times music critic. The booklet-notes refer to some of his songs being drawn from earlier larger works that he wrote with little hope for a performance. As much as one has romantic notions about composers writing masterpieces for their desk drawers, that’s hardly the optimum situation, realistically speaking, since creativity rarely flourishes in isolation. In effect, he wrote for himself, or rewrote. Many songs here were rewritten three times over many years. Remarkably, there’s no sign of creative patchwork. The vision is sure. If only the music had a stronger pulse.

Never does Arlen pursue the same relationship between words, vocal line and piano in any two songs, and he is particularly free to do so given his taste for through-composed songs and with a harmonic language that might be described as vaguely tonal. Both in terms of form and harmony, Arlen seems to enjoy netherworlds. His taste in poetry (mostly in English) is wide and impressive, from plain-spoken Robert Frost to St John of the Cross to Constantine Petrou Cavafy to Shakespeare’s sonnets, the latter pieces reimagined in a highly personal way, and without any signs of poetic intimidation. Such is the luxury of composing for oneself. Intriguingly, poem, piano and voice sometimes seem to be living in three separate zones, throwing sparks off of each other, almost with a sense of chance about what meaning might arise. At times, the piano frames the vocal line, but in a way that wanders away from the voice’s meaning.

Performances are anchored by pianist Danny Driver’s strong personality and sense of continuity. Baritone Christian Immler has a good, virile sound and fine musical intelligence but a limited range of colour and expression. Soprano Rebecca Nelsen has the sort of lyric soprano that suggests good Richard Strauss roles to come, though in one song from the Endymion cycle, she adapts an innocent, vibrato-less boy voice. What does that have to do with a ballad-like song about an emperor dressing in the clothes of a monk? It’s yet another Arlen moment with no set answer, and is likely to mean different things on as many days.