George Lloyd (1913-98) had one of the more remarkable careers in 20th-century music. At the forefront of younger British composers by 25, at 40 he had abandoned music for market gardening, with occasional hearings prior to the broadcast of his Eighth Symphony in 1977. Two decades on, nearly all of his works had been recorded – conducted and financed by Lloyd himself. They are now being reissued as a ‘Signature Edition’, starting with his symphonies.

Although an admirer of Elgar, Lloyd was anxious to eschew late-Romantic opulence and his First Symphony (1932) does just this in a single movement whose three sections elide sonata, ternary and rondo designs by a fluid variation process that judiciously balances melodic verve with motivic cohesion. The Second Symphony (1932‑33) is no more conventional, its incisive Con brio and capricious Alla marcia framing a plaintive Largo, with the final Andante ending in restive ambivalence. Nor does the Third Symphony (1933) draw on obvious precedent, its continuous sequence taking in an impulsive Allegro, yearning Lento and an energetic finale that surges to its close. The status of these works as trilogy or even meta-symphony is undeniable.

Opera occupied Lloyd’s next five years, then a period encompassing war service, near-death and recuperation that led to his Fourth Symphony (1945‑46). Scale aside, this is no ‘war work’: its initial Allegro charts a journey of resolve yet uncertainty, with a Lento whose pensiveness readily depicts those Arctic wastes of this piece’s subtitle, then a playful and pensive Scherzo; the final Allegro heads gradually though never discursively to a close less of triumph than of affirmation in mere survival. Hardly much shorter, the Fifth Symphony (1947‑48) is also finer, taking in a Pastorale that evokes halcyon days in his wife’s native Switzerland, an ominously if unyieldingly solemn Corale then a Rondo of whimsical cast; an anguished Lamento channels exposed emotions that the finale overcomes prior to its exhilarating conclusion.

Either symphony could have relaunched Lloyd’s career but their remaining unheard and the relative failure of his third opera sidelined composition for more than two decades. Yet Lloyd persisted, the Sixth Symphony (1955‑56) being his shortest, with an Allegro whose animation subsides to a central Adagio heartfelt in its restraint, then a Vivace deftly eliding scherzo and finale before its nonchalant close. More than twice as long, the Seventh Symphony (1957‑59) alludes to the legend of Proserpine, as headings from Swinburne confirm, yet neither this nor any persistent inner demons readily explain its impact, whether in the pulsating undertow of its initial movement, the plangent intensity of its Lento or a finale whose sustained momentum presages a violent denouement then desolate epilogue. Lloyd left this work un-orchestrated some 15 years, as though conscious he had unwittingly created his symphonic masterpiece.

Four years elapsing between its composition and orchestration, the Eighth Symphony (1960‑61) finds Lloyd on more familiar ground, but a wistful introduction never allows the energy of its Allegro full rein, while the ensuing Largo mines a vein of sombre introspection such as the final Vivace counters in sheer dynamism and ‘lust for life’. The Ninth Symphony (1969) ranges far wider than its prefatory note implies, its quirkily disjunctive Allegro leading to a Largo fairly racked with pain, then a finale whose high spirits verge on the manic. Forget shy girls, old women and merry-go-rounds – this is as edgy a Ninth as that by Shostakovich.

Scored for just 13 brass, Lloyd was right to call November Journeys his Tenth Symphony (1981‑82) as its four movements chart an eventful discourse much more substantial than any divertissement. His Eleventh Symphony (1985) confronts large-scale symphonism head on, the granitic force of its opening Vivo thrown into relief by the searching quality of two slow intermezzos which frame a lively yet taciturn Scherzo. Marked Con esultazione, the finale strides to Lloyd’s most uninhibited peroration, yet a sense persists of this journey overriding its destination. Which is what makes the Twelfth Symphony (1989) so striking. Consciously coming full circle, its variation process outlines a four-movement sequence: the piquancy of its opening span heads into an Adagio of deftest eloquence and an Allegro that facilitates a joyous climax then a coda whose limpid poise guides this work to its rightful resting place.

Throughout this cycle, made during 1986‑96, Lloyd secures dedicated playing from his British and American forces in clear and spacious sound, with insightful yet objective notes by Paul Conway. Also here are the perky overture from Lloyd’s final opera, John Socman (1951), his sceptical but rarely sardonic take on 1960s fads in the suite Charade (1968) and a substantial First Suite derived from his second opera, The Serf (1938/97), directed by David Alan Miller – his contribution oddly uncredited. Several of the symphonies warrant a place on any British shortlist, and these reissues will hopefully prompt their wider reappraisal and performance.