Both these symphonies are filled with incident and drama, often quite astonishingly distilled from the simplest ingredients. The first movement of the Fourth Symphony, for example, proceeds from striking introductory gestures (a bold rocking motive in the strings, a plain trombone phrase) via a tense climax to a baleful close almost without your noticing until you listen again that much of the argument has been built from resourcefully deployed scales. The beautifully grave lyrical counterpoint of the finale, too, constantly interrupted by gestures of protest (the work was inspired by the premature death of a friend) gains some of its eloquence from the very simple (but very cunningly handled) interval structures that underly it.
In the Sixth Symphony there is a curious little intermezzo in which Frankel almost seems to be debunking his own simplicity of means (a tuba solo demonstrates that an industriously used three-note fragment could perilously easily turn into a drunken rendering of “O sole mio”). But the very fine first movement, in music of nobly intense lyricism, shows that his ‘simple’ descending figure and its ascending equivalent are in fact crafted with great skill as well as resourcefully used. The tensely striving central Adagio, too, and the disturbing finale (an almost lullaby-like melody emerges from abruptly attacking music, but is not victorious over it) are further demonstrations that Frankel’s simplicity is deceptive.
Mephistopheles’ Serenade and Dance is vividly orchestrated programme music, almost light music, written several years before any of the symphonies and audibly related to the style that made Frankel such a popular and successful film composer. It is minor but provides an entertaining contrast to the symphonies. As before in this series, Albert draws performances of distinction from an orchestra who, like him, seem urgently convinced of the stature of this music. The recordings, too, are excellent.'