Gwyn Pritchard's music celebrates the issuing of sound out of silence, music out of ideas, and melody out of harmony. From his earliest acknowledged works, such as Enitharmon (1973) for mezzo-soprano and piano, the music strikes the listener with a sense that its progress and indeed very existence is somehow inevitable. Towards the beginning of Pritchard's mature output this progress is from object to object, the music rising out of the drama of juxtaposition, in the form of a still-life arranged in time, or the simultaneous existence of several musical organisms. Key works of this period are Strata (1977) for chamber ensemble, and Objects in Space (1978) for clarinet, harp and percussion. Strata presents three small ensembles together, their material and progress living independently more often than not. Each layer has a gestural precision and strength which ensures the survival of its discrete life, while the texture of the piece as a whole is engendered with an energy which seems more than the sum of its parts. 

This exploration of the relationship between static objects and the drama which it can produce continues in Pritchard's next piece, Objects in Space. Here there is only one stratum, the three instruments joining to form an ensemble as instrument texture, the clarinet having prominence only by merit of being melodic. Each unit is self contained, as in the previous piece, but the nature of the drama, aligned as it is in time, encourages spillage between sections which in its turn encourages so much melodic invention that a drama also arises between the forward mobility of the clarinet line and the more rootednature of the harp and percussion material. In the end the impulses of the clarinet are contained, although one feels that a much larger world of dramatic possibilities has been glimpsed, as if by accident. Earthcrust (1980) for six percussionists, extends these preoccupations, having as its basis static, monolithic textures, often of great richness. Rather than striking sparks off each other as in earlier pieces, here the textures contain (or produce) large amounts of energy, holding within them the drama itself, or spilling out into bursts of forward energy.

This exploration of the power inherent in blocks and their interrelation centred itself mainly on the nature of sonority and texture; however, with the Sonata (1982) for solo guitar Pritchard shifted his emphasis more towards focusing on pitch itself. Sonata form concerns itself with long range structuring by essentially harmonic means, whereas much contemporary music achieves this aim through purely textural or orchestrational devices (despite posturings to the contrary). With his first mature piece for a solo harmony instrument, the composer took up the challenge of true sonata form, turning his back, for the moment at least, on many of his earlier techniques. This concern for functional harmony produces a new melodic fecundity, not as a static, textural phenomenon, but as a strongly directional element, rooted in audible harmonic logic. The resulting piece is tighter and terser than Pritchard's earlier work, while at the same time giving the impression of being yet more imaginative. 

This new- found melodic gift is given full rein in his mini-concerto Moondance (1982) for clarinet and small ensemble. Brilliantly imaginative and atmospheric, its melodic starting point allows Pritchard to show off his orchestrational skills, the writing for all instruments being notably economical and idiomatic. Nothing is spurious and yet the effect is of an almost decadent richness, recalling the most successful works of the Second Viennese School. Indeed, the influence of Schoenberg's actual harmonic world can be detected, particularly that of Pierrot Lunaire, and the result is perhaps this composer's most approachable work. Lollay, Lollay (1982) for cor anglais, bass clarinet, viola, cello, piano and percussion, continues the exploration of the relationship between harmony and melody, setting solos for each melody instrument in the context of monolithic lullabies for the whole ensemble. These latter are transformations to the point of perversion of real lullaby melodies and rhythms, and this, added to the darkness and muteness of the orchestration go to make a piece of uncomfortable and pessimistic beauty. 

Dramalogue (1984) for solo percussion in some ways looks back, to the music of Earthcrust and before. The total lack of pitched instruments disallows many of the preoccupations of preceding pieces, replacing a concern as before with juxtaposition and repetition. Pritchard's experiences during the period between the two percussion works makes inevitable a florid precision exceeding that of the earlier music, but the newly acquired functionality and pitch based energy cannot be transferred in quite the same way. Bringing to an end this phase of Pritchard's output, the Chamber Concerto (1985), for piano and four players, charts a more gradual easing of melody out of harmony than in any other of this composer's pieces. After an extended opening section of purely homophonic writing for the whole ensemble, the piano breaks into a texturally florid but harmonically static cadenza which then inspires a similarly florid exposition of the harmonic world in the ensemble. Only towards the end of the piece does the ornamentation gain a life truly its own, and start breaking away from its harmonic roots. At the end of the piece, one is witnessing the beginning of a proliferation, rather than the summation. This contradiction forms the crux of the piece and is a rare example of a retrospective structure in Pritchard's work, where the functionality of the whole is only apparent after the event.

The last few years have seen a notable expansion in range in Pritchard's output, anticipated in the works after 1980 but only coming to fruition since 1986. Madrigal (1987) for flute, oboe, clarinet, percussion and harp makes explicit for the first time the relationship between harmony and melody which was explored more circuitously in earlier works. Independent sections of distinctly different emphasis (Chorales, Solos and Verses) are set next to each other, demonstrating almost schematically the relationship between the dry, homophonic material of the Chorales and the richly profuse melodic web of the Verses, via the sparsely accompanied melody of the Solo sections. The piece as a whole rather than expressing its processes, describes them. After having thus consolidated his attitude to these relationships, Pritchard's natural next step was to stretch them to their limits, in the expansive arena of a piece for large orchestra. 

La Settima Bolgia (1989) stands as one of Pritchards most successful compositions to date, and sums up the aims and preoccupations he discovered in the 1980s as a whole. The piece progresses as naturally and improvisatorially as could be imagined, in complete contrast with Madrigal, harmony implicitly generating melody with an exhilarating profuseness and naturalness. The orchestration is masterly, as one would have expected given the smaller beauties of Moondance and Lollay, Lollay, and the drama which ensues has a richness and complexity which would have been impossible in Pritchard's work of the 1970s. The seamlessness and range of La Settima Bolgia carries forward into Eidos (1990) for six percussionists, a far more melodically conceived piece than any of his previous percussion works, while the melodic profusion suddenly focuses and friezes in Janus (1991) for flute and clarinet. Here the harmonic roots of the melodic material are for the first time merely implied, the piece flowing continuously with melodic invention, unrestrained and yet (as so often in Pritchard's work) with a sense of inevitability. The two lines spark off each other in a new way, based not on blocks of material standing or running, together, but on a more visceral, virtuosic discourse which results both from and in the richness of melodic detail in the piece: the inevitability is that of a self-perpetuating organism.

Pritchard's most recent works bring a new found maturity to some previous preoccupations, synthesising elements which before would either have been concurrent but differentiated in their implicitness or firmly kept separate (such as the explicit harmonic and melodic blocks of Madrigal). A fluidity of cause and effect rises out of this synthesis, different kinds of material often tumbling on top of one another in an endless stream of reaction, propulsion and negation. This is most obvious in pieces such as Demise (1994) for piano, percussion trio and live electronics, and the major recent piano work Raum greift aus (1996), but in varying degrees it also informs the progress of Wayang (1993), and Break Apart (1995). Demise and Raum greift aus also share memories of La Settima Bolgia's sonority which leads one to look forward to Pritchards next essay for large ensemble or orchestra. In Raum greift aus the powerful combination of these elements heralds a yet higher level of expressive confidence which bodes well for the future.

Amongst commissions in hand Pritchards projected opera on Eilmer, the twelfth century monk from Malmsbury, England who tried to fly, will surely be a natural and essential carrying through of the achievement of La Settima Bolgia, extending at last the composer's melodic talent to the medium it lies best in; and a Cello Concerto* will allow the composer to re-explore the dramatic world of the concerto, not touched upon since Moondance and the Chamber Concerto. How Pritchard meets these challenges and where he goes next will be of great interest to all those concerned with the music of today.

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*Since this survey was written the ‘cello concerto has been completed, entitled The Fruit of Chance and Necessity (2004) and performed at the 2004 ISCM World Music Days.

NICOLAS HODGES is an internationally celebrated pianist and also a writer on contemporary music. As well as performing both in Britain and internationally he is a regular contributor to specialist musical publications.