Symphony No.1
- Allegro assai
- Scherzo: Presto con malizia
- Andante con malinconia
- Maestoso – Allegro, brioso ed ardentemente – Vivacissimo – Maestoso
"Your oeuvre is not a very large one, is it?" observed Roy Plumley of William Walton during his appearance on Desert Island Discs in 1982. "Not at all," replied Walton, going on to observe that he had composed only two symphonies: “Two too many!"
Walton's own flippant assessment aside, his first symphony undoubtedly consolidated a meteoric rise to fame, and is regarded by many as one of his defining works. He once described it as “the climax of my youth.” It sits as the work that definitively moved him into the musical establishment, and yet in its protracted genesis foreshadows the increasing difficulty he found in composing, which would leave his output at his death shortly after his encounter with Roy Plumley so meagre.
Walton in 1930 stood as one of a triumvirate of British composers who would dominate the musical landscape of the country. One one side of him was Britten, the prodigious talent ("the head prefect" as Walton described him to friends). On the other side was the mercurial, eccentric Michael Tippett. Walton stood between these two poles. He felt acutely aware that his background, born in Oldham to a provincial organist, was considerably less privileged than the likes of Britten. Despite this, he made a very good job of ingratiating himself with the upper echelons of British society. He first came to widespread attention as the prodigy of the Sitwell family, and achieved his early success through controversial avant garde works such as Façade, mixing high and low art with a liberal dose of ironic archness. He established himself as a serious composer with his Viola Concerto and the the brilliant, extravagant oratorio Belshazzar's Feast. In the wake of this success, he began in 1930 to write a symphony, a genre that anyone who wanted to be regarded as a musical heavyweight needed to tackle. This was especially true in England at the time, where the enthusiasm for the symphonies of Sibelius was at its height.
The composition of the symphony coincided with a major shift in Walton's life. His move from enchant terrible towards the heart of musical establishment was mirrored by his gradual estrangement from the eccentric Sitwells, which was fuelled not simply by artistic differences, but by Walton's relationship with Baroness Imma Doernberg, whom he had met in 1929 and by 1931 was living with in Switzerland.
It was a stormy affair, and perhaps contributed to the slow progress on the symphony, although Walton's increasing self-doubt was also a factor. By 1934 three movements were complete, but Walton, depressed after the Baroness left him for a doctor, was stuck on the finale. He took the unusual step of allowing the three extant movements to be performed. They proved a great success, but this only put more pressure on Walton to come up with a finale to match. He could not work out how to write the central part of the movement. His friend and fellow composer Constant Lambert suggested he write a fugue, dismissing Walton’s protest, “but I don’t know how to write one” with the observation that there were “a couple of rather good pages on the subject in Grove’s Dictionary.” Walton followed his friend's advice, read the article, and wrote the fugue. The complete symphony was finally performed in 1935.
Walton’s decision to allow performances of the symphony without its final now rebounded on him: inevitably critics began to suggest that the finale he had come up with was not up to the standard of the earlier movements, and that there was an abrupt change of character between them and the finale. In fairness, Walton is hardly the only composer to have dramatically switched tones in a finale; but it cannot be denied that there is a distinctly new atmosphere in the last movement. The crack was made that “the trouble was that Willie changed girlfriends between movements.” This may not be an entirely facetious observation: by 1935 Walton had taken up with Lady Alice Wimbourne, a relationship that would last until her death in 1948.
The opening movement is relentless: a churning maelstrom of long melodies underpinned by a relentless rhythmic drive. It is followed by an extraordinary scherzo whose spiky, constantly wrong-footing rhythms fully embody the direction “con malizia”.
The third movement by contrast is weighed down by melancholy whose gently pulsing opening builds to ever more anguished climaxes before sinking back into a stygian gloom. The contrast with the subsequent movement is starling. The finale combines grandiose fanfares with buzzingly energetic music and builds to a triumphant conclusion. The style points the way towards the work he would write not long after that cemented his place in the British establishment: the coronation anthem for George VI, Crown Imperial. Although by the time he completed the symphony he was fully ensconced in his new life with Lady Wimborne, Walton dedicated the symphony solely to Baroness Imma Doernberg. Perhaps the stridently optimistic tone of the finale is as much a kiss-off to an ex as a paean to new love.
