My first Record Store Day

Yesterday was my first experience of Record Store Day, for one reason or another – and I sincerely hope it won't be my last. It isn't often that I get up at 4:45am on a Saturday morning, so it felt like I was going on holiday to start with. In reality I was actually arising to join the throng assembled outside Rough Trade East. Into the queue at just after half six, chatting to fellow punters, having a reality check about how unlikely a Bowie purchase was – but on the other hand secretly hoping my own wants list, headed by Van Dyke Parks, would yield some results.

My chances weren't helped by the fact Rough Trade had the artwork on prominent display in their window – and there were only 250 copies nationwide! "You're safe there mate!" was the common consensus in the queue though, but as anyone with such a specific shopping list knows, it is possible to inflate your own imagination so that everyone ahead of you in the queue wants what you do as well!

The cold deepened as the clock on Spitalfields church ticked round towards 8, and the conversation lagged. The sun was shining but there was a cold breeze taking the edge off any warmth, applying itself straight to my feet. Texts confirming wives and friends of our group were reading the news in bed with coffee weren't helping either. The queue moved gradually once 8 arrived though, and the guys at the front were in.

Half an hour later we were at the door, held amicably outside by security, but at this point an incredibly helpful member of the Rough Trade staff set the tone for the day by asking if there was anything I was after. On learning my request he went to the racks of vinyl, producing said Van Dyke Parks release! Bullseye. And then we were in.

No Bowie of course, not the valuable older 7" releases at any rate, but to my surprise there were still plenty of copies of Pink Floyd's See Emily Play, and a number of the Moby and Mark Lanegan duet The Lonely Night. British Sea Power's Facts Are Right was still there, as was Nick Cave's Animal X, an unreleased track originally intended for the Push The Sky Away album. Also on the 7" desk, unexpectedly, was a duet between Sébastien Tellier and Caroline Polachek, In The Crew Of Tea Time limited to only 250 copies.

That was one of the big appeals of Record Store Day, discovering releases that you didn't realise were happening alongside the big hitters. Other than the Bowie the only other thing I didn't get was a CD, King Creosote's That Might Well Be It, Darling, but the Rough Trade staff again excelled themselves by combing the store and declaring it was a US only release. The only real down side was that even as we drank strong coffee near the entrance, chuffed with what we'd got, the Bowie singles were already up to £20 in auctions on EBay. Bastards.

Still, that was a relatively minor gripe, for it was well worth getting up early for Record Store Day – and all being well I'll make the same pilgrimage next year, maybe to Berwick Street, which by all accounts resembled a carnival throughout Saturday. Oh, and I brought a cassette of Discover America to bolster my Van Dyke Parks collection still further. Opening it, his business card fell out – with his real e-mail address on it. Thank you Rough Trade, and Van Dyke? I'll be in touch tomorrow about that unlikely collaboration.

British Sea Power and an over-bear-ing album launch

Only one band could mastermind an album launch event that involves a pub quiz on a boat on the River Thames in the company of a Bulgarian chorus, a tour of London on a Routemaster with Jock Scot as the conductor, and a club night that starts with communist ping pong, a raffle and an interpretative dance number on their lead single.

That band is British Sea Power – or 'British Tea Power', as the mugs on the souvenir stall proclaim – and the album is their fifth, the rather wonderful Machineries Of Joy. They have always had a wonderful knack for the original and the peculiar, and have almost always managed to deliver it without any sense of talking down to their fans or audience.

The band, now six strong, continue to be fiercely passionate in their advocacy of sound environmental practice and opposition to the 'bad things' of the world, and singer / principal songwriter Yan has more recently added to that by wearing literary references to Ray Bradbury rather more boldly on his sleeve. But here again, as in their music, there is a sense of taking those bits of their contemporaries that they know and love, and adding something a little bit different.

The evening begins on the boat, which arrives at Westminster pier at 6:30, and it's all aboard the Valhulla – a bit appropriate, that, given their previous album was Valhalla Dancehall - and we start to enjoy the yelps and sharp tones of the Bulgarian chorus, wearing traditional dress. BBC Radio 6 DJ Shaun Keaveny then proceeds to give a pub quiz that taps into the band's loves – so we get Thin Lizzy's Boys Are Back In Town in a chirpy rendition from the trumpet of Phil Sumner, and then we have to differentiate which 'tit' is genuine – no, not that sort of question! Is a Chimney Tit or a Siberian Tit a genuine species? Answers on a postcard.

Not surprisingly by the time we arrive at the Tower of London we're running a bit late, so the super-fans and those closest to the band board the Routemaster with Jock Scot, and those of us who can't fit on board pile in to a coach that takes us straight to the 100 club and the band's Krankenhaus night. Scot gets up on stage for an amusing introduction, and then we’re in to a short burst of interpretative dance, where three ladies dressed as druids declare themselves to be 'Machineries of Joy'. After this, the album launch proper begins!

The logical first song is the blissful title track, with its throbbing Krautrock-like bass underneath and Byrdsian guitar melody up top. Capping this, as with many songs, is the silvery viola tone of Abigail Fry, who later has an encounter with the band's polar bear. We hear more blissful, spring-like strains from the new album, plus a welcome visitation from the towering Waving Flags, which still sounds epic, even on the 100 Club scale – all the more so with the Bulgarian chorus called into action once again.

There is a frenetic, pumped up version of 'Apologies To Insect Life', its vocals delivered with great gusto by Savages singer Jehnny Beth, while 'No Lucifer' and the late tandem of 'Carrion' and 'All In It' make a rousing closing paragraph, for which we are joined onstage by the massive polar bear, dispensing love and hugs to everyone. There'll be no fines from the Norwegians for this sort of behaviour towards the animal – quite the opposite, as everyone goes home from here wreathed in smiles.

British Sea Power played: Machineries Of Joy, Remember Me, Favours In The Beetroot Fields, Bear, Spring Is Sprung, Loving Animals, Waving Flags, Great Skua, Apologies To Insect Life, Mongk ii, No Lucifer, Warmwire, What You Need The Most, K Hole, Carrion, All in it

Hubert Parry - time for a rethink?

Before talking about two new discs featuring choral music by Hubert Parry, I should immediately admit to one thing – that up until now, Jerusalem has been one of my least favourite pieces in all music. Yet listening to two new recordings from Neeme Järvi and Robert King has taught me one thing – it’s the words of William Blake that are the reason for my discomfort. It's not even Blake's fault either, as I'm sure his words about England were much more accurate at the time than they might be now. I believe my pathological dislike spreads from hearing the hymn sung and experiencing an extreme reaction to its meaning now, that this country isn't really as great as we like to think it is when we’re at the Last Night of the Proms.

But there I must stop digressing, as this is a music blog! Taking Jerusalem at face value, it is a very fine and memorable piece of music, and the two performances under scrutiny here reveal very different aspects of its splendour. Robert King, as part of the first release on the King's Consort's new VIVAT label, aims to present this music as it might have been heard at the time of composition in 1916. He succeeds handsomely, with performances of great clarity and precision. His singers are brightly toned and extremely well drilled, and the orchestra, with a rich treble of brass at the top end, are relatively spare in texture but reassuringly full bodied in the execution of the performance.

Neeme Järvi's forces on Chandos are the more conventional sounds of the BBC National Orchestra of Wales, and there is a greater heft here, a firmer drive to the tempo too. Järvi uses the original version of the hymn, his first verse given by a solo soprano (), which makes it sound more bound to the concert hall than the church.

The same is true of the 'Coronation' Te Deum, a piece also common to both discs. It is an impressive utterance, working up a head of steam in the Järvi version with some expansive sweeps that lend grandeur to the setting, especially when the organ is used. King goes for a little more English reserve but his key watchword is clarity, and his singers are excellent in the quality of their singing and diction. Reserve does not mean less passion, either, the input of the conductor and his forces unstinting – which is abundantly clear from the detailed and enlightening booklet notes.

King's Jerusalem comes at the end of an exceptionally fine collection of Parry and his contemporary, and fellow 'English music renaissance godfather', Sir Charles Villiers Stanford. King alternates four Stanford settings of the Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis with Parry anthems, the first of which, I Was Glad, is a real thrill, its celebratory air given plenty of room. The Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis settings are beautifully observed, too, alternating moments of contemplation with unadorned praise, and it doesn't matter too much that the same text is heard on four occasions, because the settings are varied enough. On several occasions King's choral forces bring a tear to the eye, such is the magnificence of their singers, while in the orchestra, performing at more or less absolute pitch, the sound is extremely cultured. It is natural to experience a minor tuning problem or two with the brass, given the temperamental instruments they play, but enjoyment is never compromised – as is abundantly clear from this video clip.

Neeme Järvi's disc focuses exclusively on Parry, the first time this often recorded conductor has looked at his music. He unearths a couple more examples of nationalism to complement Jerusalem, and finds a substantial and rarely heard sacred piece too. This is the Magnificat, a bold piece that works well with Amanda Roocroft's commanding singing, and although her vibrato is sometimes a bit wide she gives the music the passionate input it deserves. Of the secular pieces The Birds of Aristophanes finds Parry in rare energetic mood, while the funeral ode The Glories of Our Blood and State is dignified and elegant. Meanwhile the short song England is a curiosity that deserves to be better known.

Parry has not always enjoyed a great reputation. Although he is in essence the grandfather of English classical music, his music has received its fair share of flack. In his book The English Musical Renaissance, Peter Pirie is extremely disparaging about the composer's achievements. "Robust, solid and plain, Parry’s music was like himself", he says. Both these discs think – and prove – emphatically otherwise.

Chamber Music by Jacques Ibert

Jacques Ibert (1890-1962) is one of those fringe composers whose name you often hear, but whose music is rather more difficult to pin down. If you choose to explore his orchestral works, the rewards are many – the exuberant Divertissement, the colourful Escales (Ports Of Call), the Flute Concerto and the Bacchanale are more than enough for starters. The chamber music, however, has had a very raw deal on record, so it is to Somm's credit that they have enlisted some fine musicians to give us a disc of Ibert writing for smaller scale forces.

Unfortunately they begin with a tough nut to crack. Like many of his compatriots, Ibert wrote just the one String Quartet – and this one came at a particularly difficult period in his life, when he had to relocate his family to Switzerland at the height of World War Two. The music betrays a lot of the strife and uncertainty that so many works of the time do, but it does so in a way that can leave the listener similarly uptight. There is very little let up, the four instruments playing almost all the time, and the melodies they exchange do not last long in the memory. The overriding impression is that this is a work Ibert had to write, to purge his feelings, but in my mind it doesn't communicate well to the recording studio or concert hall. The Bridge Quartet are not in any way responsible for this predicament, for they give an excellent account of it, impassioned in the cello second theme of the first movement, and impressive in their ensemble when the writing gets choppy.

Elsewhere the story is a much happier one. The Trio for violin, viola and harp, written the same year as the String Quartet was premiered, displays more of Ibert's exuberance, as well as his ability to score lightly for instruments. It is a substantial three movement piece, but with none of the hang-ups of the Quartet, and Ibert's fun side comes through a lot more naturally.

It is also interesting to hear shorter pieces such as Ghirlarzana for cello, and Caprilena for violin. Listening to Caprilena, it is perhaps a surprise that Ibert did not write a Violin Concerto, as he wrote very naturally for the instrument. This comes through also in the charming Jeux Sonatine for violin and piano, which transcribes effortlessly from the flute version, singing sweetly in a way that reminds of the Franck Violin Sonata. The Entr'acte for violin and harp, meanwhile, has a strong Eastern flavour and some clean, Ravelian lines that are immediately appealing. Finishing the disc is a Souvenir for string quartet and double bass, a charming piece that is also lightly elegiac.

A mixed bag, then. Newcomers to Ibert are directed firmly in the direction of the orchestral works, but if you're willing to give the String Quartet a go you're unlikely to find a better performance than this one – and the reward for hearing it is to then explore the lighter side of one of French music's more underrated composers of the 20th century.

The Rite of Spring - 100 Years On

With the climate as it is in arts and music now, it is difficult to imagine the full extent of shock and rage unleashed on the night of May 29th, 1913. At the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, Stravinsky's Le Sacre du Printemps, The Rite of Spring, was receiving its first staging. It is no exaggeration to say what followed changed the course of 20th century music. In the third chapter of his book The Rest Is Noise Alex Ross sets the scene brilliantly, recalling how even Diaghilev was nervous at rehearsals when he became aware of the content. Technically this music is remarkably difficult to get right, its rhythmic complexities doubled with the composer's writing for instruments on the edge of their capabilities. Difficult for dancers too, which would only have heightened the tension at the famously scandalous premiere.

Since the Rite's reception history is well documented, it is interesting to look at how Decca have stolen a march on their competitors by issuing two sets to mark the anniversary. The first is a potentially grueling but probably ultimately fascinating 20CDs of alternative versions of the ballet, moving from Eduard van Beinum's 1946 Concertgebouw recording through to Gustavo Dudamel's 2010 offering with the Simón Bólivar Orchestra. The second is a rather more palatable four discs that offers six versions, from Pierre Monteux in 1956 through to Esa-Pekka Salonen in 2006, together with an audio documentary that takes us back to the night in Paris.

The recordings chosen for this smaller release could have been more varied, however, for they weigh down heavily on the side of the digital era. Not that any of those recordings are bad, but they are quite similar, and show how although technical prowess in orchestral performance is probably at an all time high, there is a propensity on the part of conductors and studio engineers to highlight technical brilliance over musical expression. I would have preferred to have heard Ernest Ansermet, who knew Stravinsky well, along with Sir Colin Davis and Claudio Abbado, whose versions are on the bigger set. Boulez is the right inclusion, though, and the detail he secures in his reading is remarkable, coupled with a composer's understanding of how the piece works.

The big version that is missing from this set, of course, is the composer himself – for Sony hold the rights to that particular version. Thanks to Spotify, that was the obvious place to start, and the speed of his own interpretation is striking. The intensity is remarkable too, with a terrifying climax to the Round Dance and in the Chosen Victim, where the sheer weight of percussion is given a sharp, brassy edge. Time and again Stravinsky pushes the music forward with a ferocious inevitability, portraying the terrible fate of the dancer chosen to dance herself to death.

After hearing the composer's own thoughts, the documentary is a good place to begin the Decca listening. Written and narrated by Jon Tolansky, it brings together some interesting strands of fact and comment on the ballet and its first performance. It begins by recounting Stravinsky's vision of a girl dancing herself to death as the culmination of a pagan ritual – the inspiration for the ballet – and progresses to interviews with Sir Colin Davis, Bernard Keeffe and Valery Gergiev, as well as Dame Monica Mason, who danced as the Chosen One in Sir Kenneth Macmillan's revival of the ballet in 1962. Given the technical difficulties, it would have been good to have heard from an orchestral player too, though there is some discussion on how Stravinsky's revision is much easier to follow, the composer having changed the rest values in the orchestral parts.

Gergiev talks about how 'you have to imagine why it could be so scandalous', and that you have to look at 'not technical qualities but human ones, and a spiritual strength'. Those comments alone do much to explain why his version, for me, goes back to the heart of the ballet and what Stravinsky wanted to hear and see. There is an authenticity to the melodies that brings out their primal origins, especially in the melodic inflections of the woodwind, and the orchestral sounds are a little less polished, as you might expect in a pagan ritual rather than an orchestral showpiece.

For that reason Gergiev trumps many modern versions, the rough-hewn edge to the St Petersburg Philharmonic meaning that performance might not always be immaculate but that the music lives and breathes with real meaning. Chailly and Salonen are very fine versions but could be admired rather than loved, the sleek machines of the Concertgebouw and LA Philharmonic Orchestras doing their job but not always conveying the manic, unhinged tale that is unfolding.

The oldest version on the four discs is from Pierre Monteux, who conducted the premiere back in 1913. His 1956 recording is fascinating for that reason and many more, and he feels more in control of the music. His Auguries of Spring is a bit less ferocious, but very precise, and there is an incredibly vivid separation of Stravinsky's orchestrations three minutes in to the second part. The sound is very good, too.

Antal Dorati and the Detroit Symphony Orchestra are up next, in revolutionary Mercury Living Presence stereo, the ideal climate for an orchestral spectacular such as the Rite. The sound is indeed big, chrome plated even, but the rush of strings in the 'Ritual of Abduction' is a thrill, as is the seething mass of sound in the 'Dance of the Earth', over which the trumpets sound their fanfares. The otherworldly chill at the start of the second part is as disconcerting as any version, while the end is truly an eruption, Dorati showing off his balletic prowess in a reading that never has a dull moment.

An advantage of this Decca release is the price, with these six versions and documentary weighing in for little more than that of a full price CD. The care lavished on the issue is good, too, with incisive notes from Nigel Simeone. Through listening to so many versions the sense of scandal in Paris comes rushing back, the sheer boldness and rebelliousness of Stravinsky's approach taking no prisoners and laid bare once again – as no doubt he would have wanted it to be on its 100th anniversary. It will be interesting to see how other record companies observe the landmark nearer to May – but with what they have available, Decca have certainly done the Rite and its recorded history justice.

Songs Without Words - as Mendelssohn might have heard them

As far as I can make out this new disc from Ronald Brautigam on the Swedish BIS label is the first release of Mendelssohn's solo piano music on the fortepiano. Andreas Staier has occasionally ventured into the composer's world, while Brautigam himself has recorded the concertos on a modern instrument, but this is the first opportunity to hear the Songs Without Words on something approaching the instrument for which they were written.

The booklet of this handsomely packaged release is a very good place to start, for it details the instrument used, modeled on a Pleyel similar to the one Mendelssohn himself used to play. As with many 'period instrument' performances it takes the ear a while to attune to the sound, but it's an appealing sound, and Brautigam's sense of ebb and flow with the phrasing is natural and well thought out. As a result he gives the listener plenty to enjoy.

The choice of tempo is the only recurring issue that might hamper enjoyment. Generally these interpretations are on the fast side, which suits some 'Songs' better than others, the rippling textures occasionally becoming choppy without the use of the sustain pedal. Compare this with the recordings of Daniel Barenboim, who in general spends more time with the music, shaping the melodic phrases more obviously than Brautigam in the faster music. A good example of this is Op.38/5 in A minor, which feels just a bit too fast and constricted, but the following 'Duett' in A flat major is just right, an affectionate amble.

The two 'songs' numbered Op.19/5 and Op.38/3 are also good examples of of a tempo taken much faster than might be expected, but the tempestuous G minor piece, Op.53/3, is an indication of where a robust approach works well. The 'Jägerlied', Op.19/3, is also well suited to the crisper style that Brautigam applies to it, and the Pleyel seems to be evoking a hunting horn. Meanwhile the last in the Op.53 book has plenty of charm and a good bit of humour, and the slight choppiness here is actually rather endearing.

In the slower pieces, when Brautigam takes time out, the results are enchanting. The slower numbers in E major (Op.30/3) and A major (Op.38/4) are given plenty of air, with a nicely subtle ending to the former that gives an indication of the intimacy that can be found by the best performers in this music. The first of the Op.38 book flows nicely, with some judicious ebb and flow of the tempo, while the following piece in C minor conveys well Mendelssohn's less conventional way with harmony.

Despite a few reservations, then, this is an interesting revival of pieces that have become well known to student pianists, but which have maybe become a bit complacent on the ear, a bit too familiar. Brautigam challenges that, and although he might not always be obviously successful, the music is thrown into a revealing context because of his approach. As such, his approach is important and fascinating.

Rose tinted spectacles and His Master's Voice

Donning my rose tinted spectacles, I'm going to attempt to explain why I think the downward spiral HMV are currently suffering is a bad thing – because as we all know it is likely to ultimately lead to the shop's demise.

I have a love / hate relationship with the main HMV store at Oxford Circus – 'love' because I find it musically inspiring, and 'hate' because until the last couple of years it has parted me from cash far too often!

Oxford Street was a lot different when I first went in there in 1994 though. It may sound sad but I was pretty awestruck by the sheer amount of stuff there was on the shelves, and an hour later I had spent £150 of my student loan on tapes. Yes, tapes. I can remember some of them – it was the week of release of Massive Attack's Protection, and I also bought Blur's Leisure, Peter Gabriel's Secret World live album and The Prodigy's Music For A Jilted Generation. Quite a start, and that's before I even discovered the classical section!

Classical was once a haven in HMV, though typically it existed in a separate room all to itself, away from all that nasty pop music. There were great long swathes of shelves though, and when I moved to London in the mid-1990s my first weekend found me stocking up on Richard Strauss, Sibelius and Shostakovich. Moving with the times (!) I had now graduated to CD.

I have HMV to thank for so many musical discoveries. On the classical front that usually meant seeing recordings I never knew existed, and parting with my cash for Bartók String Quartets, Fauré piano music, and, once I'd graduated to opera, both versions of Mussorgsky's Boris Godunov - though I remember being under the influence of alcohol when I brought that! Perhaps I'd turned in to what has been described as £50 man, the person who'd spend about that per week on CDs.

The in store gigs were a perk, too, and of those I can recall I've seen Junior Senior, Teenage Fanclub, Kings of Leon (when I still liked them!) and Dodgy, where it was so crowded we practised the old trick of going up and down the escalators to get a better view!

Now, things are a lot different, and the decline has been coming for a good few years now. The classical department still throws up the odd surprise, but for a long time the full price CDs have been weighing in at up to £17 – an expenditure I simply can't justify. The problem is thrown into greater relief when shops such as the second hand Gramex, near Waterloo, might have the same release in decent condition for just over £5. I used to spend ages going through the house and techno compilations, but that's a pointless exercise now – again, due to price.

I do still think though that it would be a huge shame if HMV goes to the wall. Having read posts on Twitter it would deprive a lot of town and city centres of the opportunity to buy music in the high street, but then that has perhaps only been an option for browsing, anyway, since most people buy their music online. I’m afraid I hold the supermarkets responsible for a lot of HMV's decline, with their deliberate undercutting of prices on a consistent basis, but then perhaps the music industry itself should also take some responsibility with its tendency to overprice, in the days when a new album release cost as much as £15 in CD form.

I guess this blog is a rambled attempt at dragging up some nostalgia, but it also gives me the chance to say that I really hope HMV survives in some way, even if – selfishly – that just means the Oxford Street store. It is something of a national institution, and its music should not be allowed to die out completely.