An astonishing revelation, especially to anyone who still thinks of Herbert Howells as a nostalgic English rhapsodist, more at home in an organ loft than a concert hall. The First Piano Concerto is very early (1914 – Howells was 22); it has not been performed for many years because its last few bars are missing (John Rutter has provided them). It reveals the young Howells as more Russian than English – the dazzlingly flamboyant keyboard writing is strongly reminiscent of Rachmaninov – and with hardly a trace of English reserve as he brandishes theme after theme, intensifying many of them to heights of impassioned eloquence. And yet in this quite uncharacteristic student work there are a few hints of his later reticence, one being the very opening, where double-basses, then horn, then low woodwind hesitantly suggest a splendid theme which only then arrives, sweeping nobly in the strings. One or two lyrical paragraphs also suggest the ‘real’ Herbert Howells. But who, the Second Piano Concerto demands, was he? This work was abused at its premiere (one critic shouted ‘Thank God that’s over!’) and Howells, deeply wounded, withdrew it immediately. Indeed, although it’s a lot closer to ‘real’ Howells in its rhapsodic lyricism, there’s another quality (labelled in the score ‘hard and bright’) which is angular, sometimes dissonant, tough and determined.
Surely we shall get closer to the real Howells, favourite pupil and lifelong admirer of the arch-conservative Stanford, in Penguinski, from its title an obvious satire on Stravinsky? But in fact the sidelong glances at him are admiring and affectionate, and the robust humour is Howells’ own. There is more to him than we had imagined, this disc entertainingly demonstrates, and his stature is increased, not diminished, by the realisation that he was once an exuberant romantic, that his ears were sharp and that he had a sense of humour. Enthusiastic, virtuoso, very slightly rough-cornered performances and a sumptuously rich recording.'