In case you hadn't noticed, Sir Peter Maxwell Davies has mellowed. What a ferocious thing a concerto by him for bassoon or double-bass would have been in the 1960s! Both of these impress by their quietness, their singing quality and the considerate affection shown to each soloist. The double-bass in No. 7 is a singer throughout, often in the cello's register or above; the central movement is played in harmonics, and at that altitude the instrument develops a pensive relationship with the alto flute. The orchestral basses eventually grow restive at this, and in the finale the soloist returns to the dialogues with the string section that had so preoccupied him in the first movement. A representative from the orchestral basses occasionally reminds him of his origins, but if you've ever thought that glooming away in the basement is the instrument's natural function, that it sounds awkward, even precarious in intonation, in its upper octaves, this concerto will prove you wrong. It is a lyrical, poetical, subtle piece, beautifully written for the instrument and most beautifully played.
You might expect humour of a bassoon concerto. Despite the accompanying note's invitation to find it, I can't say that I did, though there is plentiful virtuosity, gratefully seized by an excellent soloist. Again it's a largely lyrical piece, again the solo instrument is often reminded of its normal place in the orchestra (by bass clarinet and contra-bassoon this time), again it's considerately and ingeniously scored. Rather too much quiet lyrical burbling this time, I thought, but re-hearing demonstrates a formal resourcefulness that is no less quiet, and if I can still find too little contrast between the first two movements the finale is filled if not with humour certainly with good humour. Both pieces are admirably civilized re-definitions of what each instrument is about.
A Spell for Green Corn, effectively a one-movement violin concerto, is one of Davies's 'occasional' pieces and, although quieter and less surprising than An Orkney Wedding, with Sunrise, it could prove no less popular. It is based on a traditional fiddle tune and an ancient belief that a fiddler should 'prepare' each furrow for planting by playing along it: the soloist treats the orchestra like a ploughed field by moving across and across it as the work proceeds. He does so in a variety of dance measures, a vivid and quite Beethovenian storm breaks out, its clearing greeted by what in another group of northern islands would be called a 'listening tune'. A jeu d'esprit for Davies's own birthday and the Scottish Chamber Orchestra's, the work is given poetry by its pensive opening section and by occasional references to the moving middle section of his Farewell to Stromness. Again the performance is a fine one, and the recording as clean as a whistle.'