Charles Camilleri is a Maltese composer now in his early sixties. These three concertos span the greater part of his creative life so far, the First written when he was 17 (though revised 30 years later), the Third dating from the late 1980s. They chart his progress from a colourful, modal Maltese nationalism, through a period in which he sought musical affinities by looking south and east rather than west and north, to a personal interpretation of 'modernism' and an attempt to use music to speak about political and moral issues: the Third Concerto, though the composer is apparently reluctant to be specific, is in some sense 'about' the crushing of the human spirit by totalitarianism.
They certainly make a varied trio. The First is exotic and tuneful light music, with many overtones of Spain and Italy (the finale is a tarantella), and of nineteenth-century evocations of the mysterious East, as well as nineteenth-century pianism. The Second, subtitled Maqam (from an Arabic word signifying improvisation) is indeed improvisatory; a rapid alternation of sharply differentiated ideas, several of which recur in varied form. The florid arabesques and quasi-oriental toccatas relax for a sparsely scored 'slow movement' of bare lyricism. The Third Concerto (Leningrad) is not dissimilar in form, though quite different in effect. Here the outer, toccata-like sections are angular and driving, often dissonant, often based on very few notes. The slow middle section, reached after a tense climax has twice shattered into fragments, is almost motionless: a high string shimmer, with sparkling arabesques from the keyboard, tuned percussion and high woodwind. The toccatas return, however, now as a forceful moto perpetuo, propelling the music to a violent conclusion.
Camilleri's music has been praised by critics whose judgement I respect. His quest for a 'pan-Mediterranean', then for a universal musical language, has been taken very seriously. It may be that I have simply failed to tune in to his wavelength, but after several attempts I have to report that all three concertos seem to me to be built from gestures rather than ideas of substance, which are either discussed (not developed) as in the First Concerto or juxtaposed, but with little sense that the Second, for example, needs to be 20 minutes long, rather than 10, or 40. Christopher Palmer, however, in an interesting Musical Times article in 1972, spoke of ''an oriental negation of the time-sense'' in the Second Concerto, and suggested that in it Camilleri achieved a true musical impressionism ''through the embracing of an oriental passivity of temper and technique''. Maybe, and perhaps I am listening to this music with impatient Western ears; possibly it will appeal to readers who are readier than I to embrace music that invites contemplation rather than intent listening, though Camilleri's musical pulse is a great deal faster than, say, Arvo Part's or John Tavener's.
At all events all three works are brightly played (though the orchestra's time-sense seems occasionally to have been negated in the First Concerto), and the recordings are excellent.'