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The British composer Bernard Hughes is composer-in-residence at St. Paul’s School in London, where this disc was recorded. This is only his second listing in the Fanfare Archive: His Not Now, Bernard appeared on an Orchid disc reviewed in Fanfare 44:1. This new disc on Divine Art, entitled simply Bagatelles, presents his complete output for piano (so far).

The music is pithy and often tart—which makes the warm glow of Song of the Walnut, with which the program begins, an exception. The “walnut” was the composer’s son in utero, when he was indeed the size of a walnut. Pianist Matthew Mills gives a lovely account, with his tone as warm as the harmonies. It is balanced by Song of the Button, a similarly embryo-based composition—but this time the size of the infant, his daughter, was that of a button. It is an inspired piece of programming that these two pieces bookend the Partita, and contrast maximally with its mode of utterance.

The Partita Contrafacta (counterfeit partita) moves towards a more objective stance. Written for the present pianist (and indeed for the present disc), each of the seven movements cleverly presents a substitution and is built upon a pre-extant work. For example, the first movement is “Boogie-woogie—instead of a Prelude (after L. Couperin).” It is utterly brilliant in concept, compositional execution, and performance: The link with Couperin lurks in the background while the piece also offers a tribute to Nancarrow. Even more appealing is the idea of a “Tango—instead of an Allemande (after J. S. Bach),” jazzy and catchy. The “Ländler—instead of a Courante (after H. Purcell)” is a riot in Hindemith-tinged color, based on a march from the Funeral Music for Queen Mary. Perhaps most fascinating of the choices of the “ghost” pieces is the one by Jacquet de la Guerre, a “Boléro—instead of a Sarabande.” It is Rameau’s shadow that is cast over the “Halling—instead of a Gavotte” (a movement with a simply delicious end), while Handel hovers over the “Mazurka—instead of a Minuet.” The true highlight is the ever-so-bouncy “Tarantella—instead of a Gigue (after F. Couperin),” which takes the Couperin original and reframes it in the minor.

The twelve Bagatelles, from which the disc derives its title, take Czerny to places he surely would never have imagined. I wonder if Ligeti stalks the opening “Melody”; and Nancarrow seems to return for the “Study for accuracy in the playing of double octaves.” It is one of three hyper-difficult movements called “Study”—here, “Study for dexterity in alternating between the hands.” Matthew Mills is a superb pianist, completely undaunted by Hughes’s demands. The compositional variety is enormous, with a sort of post-Debussyan haze to the fourth piece, “Footprints” (it is modeled after Debussy’s “Des pas sur la neige”). The piece called “Bog Face” is unutterably haunting, saying much with drops of treble and spatially separated gestures. My hat certainly goes off for Mills’s evenness in the scale study (the ninth movement), while Hughes’s ear for telling simultaneities certainly shines in the penultimate (untitled) Bagatelle.

Presented in a “graded sequence” of eleven movements, the Miniatures date from various periods in the composer’s output. The word “graded” is presumably deliberate, as Hughes states that the pieces ascend to around Grade Five of the ABRSM (Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music) syllabus. More to the point, Hughes also states he takes these pieces as seriously as any other; one presumes there is something of a challenge involved here that Hughes relishes. There is real care lavished on these often highly appealing morsels, and Mills finds the humor within the final “Anacharsis Cloots.”

The Three Studies are made of sterner stuff, playing with rhythmic disjunction and a tendency towards ascending repetitions. The central “The Cornice Fish Passacaglia” is certainly very clever, but is also highly engaging. Mills’s characteristic precision is a real contributing factor to the success of this music. The final “False Alarm” seems to shift towards Minimalism before opening out into a more lyrical, contrasting space.

A recomposition of a Fauré Prélude, using a rotational technique learned from his teacher Parham Vir and with an insert of a Bach chorale, Hughes’s O du Liebe meiner Liebe is arguably the most stunning work on the disc. Mills’s loving way with tissue-delicate textures helps; he can also convey intensity at higher dynamic levels without breaking the tone of the piano. The astonishing Strettos and Striations is Hughes’s largest work for piano. It is taxing for the pianist on many levels, most notably in its relentless movement—until, that is, the calmer final section. Mills’s evenness of touch is here the factor that enables the work to succeed so well. A rhythmic section for widely separated hands is beautifully placed in the structure. Finally, a short Cradle Song offers a “quiet goodnight to end the album,” as the composer puts it. It’s short, but very sweet.

So, this is a stunning album and a fine introduction to the music of Bernard Hughes. More, please.