Geoffrey Allen (1927-2021)
Complete Piano Sonatas
Murray McLachlan (piano)
rec. 2021-2022, Carole Nash Hall, Chetham’s School of Music, Manchester, UK
Métier MSV 77502 [5 CDs: 389]
This set of CDs offers premiere recordings of a remarkable set of compositions: seventeen piano sonatas, plus another late work which is a sonata in all but name. More remarkable still, the works were mainly composed within quite a compressed period of time, late in the composer’s life. The First Sonata was begun in 1959, laid aside and then finished in 1995. Its successor was written in 1989/90. The remainder were produced between 1995/96 and 2019. All this music was the work of an Englishman, long resident in Australia: Geoffrey Allen.
I suspect that Allen’s name may be unknown to most, if not all of our readers. I freely confess that I had never heard of him or his music until I was offered the opportunity to review this set. I don’t often venture into the solo piano repertoire as a reviewer but this project really intrigued me.
I think it’s essential to offer some biographical information and, indeed, some background on this recording project. For this I draw on the comprehensive documentation which is authored by Murray McLachlan himself. It was through Stephen Sutton of Divine Art that McLachlan first became aware of Geoffrey Allen. Apparently, Sutton contacted him in January 2019 and asked if he would be interested in recording the sonatas. Pianist and composer thereafter engaged in email correspondence. As Murray McLachlan observes, Geoffrey Allen “was extremely succinct in concentrating an autobiography into a solitary paragraph”:
‘As to who I am, suffice to say that I was born in Essex in 1927, so that I am now relatively ancient, went to school in Brentwood and then on to St Edmund Hall, Oxford, where I read initially chemistry and then, after 2 years in the army, geography. I graduated in 1951, got married, and emigrated to Australia, initially to Sydney, but after 9 years there I moved to Perth where I have lived since 1961. I earned my living as a librarian, retiring from the position of University librarian at Curtin University in 1992. I then started a literally one-man music publishing venture through which I published some 500 Australian works, including my own, until I decided I had done enough and handed my imprint, The Keys Press, on to another in 2014.’
From what I’ve learned, I’d say that Allen modestly undersells himself in this paragraph. For one thing, I believe that his list of compositions runs to over 100 works. Apart from his own compositional efforts, as McLachlan says, “[Allen’s] achievement in publishing so much music by living Australian composers makes him something of a hero down-under.”
I think I ought to give readers some general idea of what to expect from Geoffrey Allen’s music. Thanks to my son, I saw an article which Murray McLachlan wrote in the May 2023 edition of the magazine International Piano and in this paragraph and the one that follows it I have drawn on that article. Noting how many pieces of music – including most of these sonatas – Geoffrey Allen wrote in retirement and, let’s be frank, in his old age, McLachlan draws an apposite parallel with Havergal Brian (1876-1972), who produced so much music in later life. “Is Geoffrey Allen, through his sonatas, the piano world’s equivalent of Havergal Brian? Certainly, there are striking similarities in the way both figures continued to work with energetic resolution well into their nineties. Neither Brian nor Allen was allowed the privilege of hearing many live performances of their music, but their tenacity and productivity continued resolutely, nonetheless. In terms of stylistic approach, it is tempting to parallel the ways in which both Brian and Allen were able to forge their own individuality without completely ‘reinventing the wheel.” My acquaintance with the music of Brian is limited in the main to his orchestral writing; I know nothing of his piano music. However, risking a sweeping generalisation, I would say that much of Brian’s later music has a gruff, brusque, take-it-or-leave-it feel; I don’t get that with Geoffrey Allen. McLachlan continues his comparison of the two composers thus: “it would be wrong to call either composer unoriginal. Far from it! Brian’s symphonies are characterised by a sense of restlessness. Pictorial settings and characterisations seem destined never to outstay their welcome. Contrasted interruptions are essential features of many major works. In an analogous way, Allen’s wrong-footing piano sonatas refrain from settling into routine. True, they use traditional structures, including sonata-allegro form. They have pitch centres. They have melody lines. Rhythmically they can become complex, but they stay within the recognisable area of sophistication that was evident in the first half of the twentieth century (one thinks of sonatas by Scriabin and Bax in particular).” Having listened to all this music by Geoffrey Allen, I would concur with those comments.
McLachlan also raised a key point with Allen during their extensive email correspondence: “Was Allen influenced by his colleagues in his adopted country? Has he found an ‘Australian’ voice for the late twentieth century piano sonata? Not at all, as far as Geoffrey was concerned: ‘Although I came to Australian in 1952, when I was only twenty-four and became an Australian citizen a few years later I do not think my music is in any way “Australian”. My music language was mainly influenced by the English composers I grew up with – Delius, Walton, Ireland, Vaughan Williams etc – and also by French music from Debussy on, to which I am quite addicted. But there are many other composers I would acknowledge – Prokofiev, Scriabin, Hindemith, Villa Lobos etc. So, I don’t think it is appropriate to mark me down as Australian, and in any case, music today has become quite international.’ “
I trust these quoted comments by pianist and composer will give readers some inkling of what they might expect; I hope I’ll provide further signposts in my brief comments on each sonata.
There is one further parallel with Havergal Brian which is worth recording: the very limited extent to which they heard their music performed publicly. Brian was the luckier of the two: he achieved several performances early in his career and in his later years, the championship of Robert Simpson in particular brought about a few more performances. Lacking a similar champion to Simpson, Allen saw less of his output reach the concert hall. So far as I’ve been able to establish, the Second Sonata was played twice in the 1990s by Peter Sievewright – he gave the first performance in 1995 – and, as we shall see, the Fourth Sonata was recorded by Trevor Barnard. That appears to be it. The original intention, I believe, was that Geoffrey Allen would attend at least some of Murray McLachlan’s recording sessions but it was not to be. For various reasons, including Covid lockdowns, the sessions suffered a few postponements. Eventually, the first session (Sonatas 1 and 5) was scheduled for September 2021 but, sadly, Geoffrey Allen fell ill and he died just one week before the recordings began; so, he never got to hear McLachlan record his music.
It’s time to consider the sonatas, which were set down in a series of sessions between September 2021 and February 2022.
I’d suggest listeners might start with the Second Sonata. That may seem odd but I have my reasons
We learn from the notes that Allen had got ‘stuck’ with the First Sonata and laid it aside. His
successful completion of No 2 gave him the impetus to return to it. The Second Sonata is entitled
‘Sonata Espanola’; it was written following a visit to Spain and there’s a pronounced Iberian feel to
the music, though that influence comes through a very natural way. The first movement ’Salamanca’
has an almost improvisatory feel at first – musing under the hot sun? – before the music bursts into
life. Thereafter, the musical ebb and flow is most attractive. Salamanca is a wonderful city with its
twin cathedrals, medieval university buildings and magnificent Plaza major; I’m not surprised it made
an impression on Geoffrey Allen. The slow movement, ‘Lagrimas de Sangre’ is harmonically
searching; dissonance is used for expressive purposes and the music is very unsettled. The last of the
four movements is entitled ‘Danzas Sevillanas’. That’s an innocent title for what is in fact a complex
and varied movement. This by no means a straightforward dance movement, but it’s most interesting.
This sonata made a strong impression on me.
The reason I suggested starting with the Second Sonata was partly because I found the music so appealing. More importantly, though, the completion of that work encouraged Allen to go back to the First Sonata. He had partly composed the second and third movements in 1959 and then laid it aside. Now encouraged, he returned to the score, completed those movements and added a first movement. I wonder to what extent the Second Sonata not only unlocked Sonata No 1 but also acted as a spur to all the other works which were to follow. The first movement opens with great energy, and though there are calmer episodes later on, the primary impression one has is that of a dam bursting. Murray McLachlan describes the middle movement as “much simpler”. I wouldn’t disagree, though the structural simplicity is balanced out by harmonic complexity. In the finale the music is often angular and austere. There’s significant energy here, even when we reach a calmer episode in mid-movement. The movement – and the work as a whole – ends loudly but on an ambiguous, unresolved chord.
The Third Sonata is in four movements. Initially, the first of these is calm and attractively lyrical. Even when the music eventually becomes more animated, this is done without impairing the lyricism. The second movement is, in McLachlan’s words, a “wistful” set of variations on a “child-like” theme. The variations are interesting and during their course the musical argument becomes more complex. The sonata closes with a short Rondo Burlesque movement which contains delightful, spirited music.
To the best of my knowledge, most of the sonatas are here receiving their first recordings. One sonata that has definitely been recorded before is the Fourth Sonata. Trevor Barnard, to whom the work is dedicated, recorded it in 2001 as part of a collection of Australian piano pieces; the album is entitled Blue Wrens (review). It’s cast in two movements but these are played without a break and are here presented in a single track. This is the shortest of Allen’s sonatas, playing here for 10:00. The first movement, Moderato, is highly chromatic; so much so, in fact, that at times I rather lost track of where the music was heading. Murray McLachlan comments: “Remove accidentals and it would remain as a relatively simple, wistful pastorale”. However, one can’t escape the plethora of accidentals, and though McLachlan suggests the music “evokes the world of Finzi, Howells and Vaughan Williams” I wondered if an even stronger parallel would be with the late music of Frank Bridge. I think the second movement, Allegro non troppo, begins around 5:45 (a separate track would have been helpful). Here, the harmonic language is simpler; one exchanges harmonic complexity for complexity of rhythm.
With the Fifth Sonata Allen reverted to a four-movement format. The work opens with slow, mysterious music which Murray McLachlan suggests may evoke the wide spaces of the Australian Outback. Once the main body of the movement gets going the music is energetic and melodically nimble. I liked the third movement; this is an elusive pastorale with a toccata-like central episode.
The Sixth Sonata is inspired by conflict: Allen was moved to write it as his response to the fighting in Kosovo and East Timor in the late 1990s. It’s in two big movements. The music in the first movement is intense and very unsettled; despite this, though, the melodic inspiration remains strong. Allen has said that he wanted to make a statement with this sonata. Well, in the first movement, the statement seems to me to be ruminative and introverted. I wonder if he is expressing deep regret at what was happening in those conflict zones. I find the music moving to hear. By contrast, the second movement, which, at 13:58, is the longest single movement in this entire set, opens with harsh, dissonant energy, the writing very percussive. Is there a sense that in the first movement the conflicts were being observed from a distance but that now composer – and listener – are confronted by the violence? That said, there are a number of what the composer has called “sudden quiet, almost pathetic, incidents”. There’s also a funeral march episode (around 5:00) which builds to a big climax. Thereafter, we experience something of an emotional roller-coaster as the percussive music and the quieter passages vie for our attention. The concluding pages are inward-looking and culminate in a strange, unresolved chord: does this signify Allen’s feeling of resignation in the face of conflict over which he has no influence. This is an impressive sonata.
Composition of the Seventh Sonata is bound up with its predecessor. Allen completed the first movement of the Sixth and then broke off to write other pieces, one of which eventually became the slow second movement of the three-movement Seventh; the latter sonata was composed contemporaneously with further work on the Sixth. The first movement of the Seventh has more of the restlessness which we experienced in the previous sonata. Murray McLachlan points out an affinity between the second subject and the melody of ‘God save the King’. Allen says that the slow movement of this sonata “continues the sombre and introspective mood of the first movement of the sixth sonata” and I think McLachlan hits a nail squarely on the head ion noting a “spartan wistfulness”. To me, this seems a choice example of Allen’s introspective, thoughtful way of expressing himself in music. The finale is more extrovert than what has gone before, I think, though even here the music wears a serious countenance. The ‘God save the King’ material is revisited n the movement’s lyrical central section, after which a brief, energetic coda leads to an emphatic, almost brusque, ending.
There’s an unusual, quite possibly unique feature to the Eighth Sonata: all four of its movements are in triple time. The first movement, a waltz, is generally relaxed in mood. However, you won’t be surprised to learn that the relaxed nature of the music does not preclude a high degree of chromaticism; there are many unexpected harmonic turns. Murray McLachlan observes that in the next movement the world of Petrushka is never far away; the music is pointed and seems to me to be deliberately – and successfully – gawky. The pensive third movement is, in McLachlan’s words “wistfully longing”. This is music of gentle melancholy which never raises its voice very much. In some ways the mood of that movement carries over into the finale but in this concluding movement that mood is amplified and intensified. Rest assured that a succession of four movements in triple time is not a recipe for dullness, nor does the self-imposed discipline appear to have stifled Allen’s creativity in any way.
In the Ninth Sonata, two complex movements encase a pair that are shorter and more straightforward. Apparently, in the first movement Allen experimented by avoiding the use of bar lines in certain passages: I must say that those instances weren’t obvious to me. It seems to me that the overall tone of the movement is positive, though there are some introspective episodes and there are several fragmentary references to the ‘Dies irae’ motif. The Largo seems to me to have some of the characteristics of a song without words. The scherzo – Presto ben marcato – is highly dynamic: I love the upward glissando right at the end. In the finale there are some passages of quick music but I’d characterise the principal mood as one of lyrical seriousness.
The three-movement Rhapzonata, Op. 51 could be regarded as a sonata in all but name. Its three movements are: ‘Rhapsody (Over the Moon)’; ‘Canzonetta (In a Perfumed Garden)’; and ‘Toccata (Only on Wednesday)’. Even if it’s not formally a sonata, its inclusion is welcome. The work is split across discs 4 and 5; that’s only a minor inconvenience and I can’t see any way in which it would have been possible to avoid this. In the first movement we hear long melodic streams; under these lines the harmonies are unpredictable and interesting. The music is Romantic in nature and McLachlan plays it most expressively. In his hands there’s almost an improvisatory feel to the music; one has the sensation that the music, once started on its way, is allowed to go where the spirit wills it. The Canzonetta contains music that is possibly the most direct and simple in expression to be found anywhere on these five discs. By contrast, the final movement is quirky, boisterous and full of energy; it’s something of a shock to the system after the Canzonetta. Goodness knows what events peculiar to Wednesdays Geoffrey Allen had in mind when he wrote this!
The composer’s own note tells us that the Tenth Sonata was a direct response to the political situation in early 2003 when the US government was seeking to assemble support – including from Australia – for an invasion of Iraq. Allen opposed this and even took part in an anti-war demonstration. He says that he composed the sonata “in a mood somewhere between anger and despair”. (Incidentally, there’s a small error in the booklet track list which omits mention of the third movement, though it’s correctly listed on the back of the disc sleeve.) The first movement, Moderato, is clearly the product of strong feelings. The music becomes increasingly intense and unsettled, not least in harmonic terms. Maybe it’s owing to Allen’s cantabile style that I pick up despair rather than anger in this impressive movement. A tiny Allegro giocoso, lasting just 1:06, intervenes before we are confronted by the last movement, Grave. This contains music of deep seriousness; everything is expansive and very intense. There are a couple of brief episodes of relative relaxation but most of the music is extremely powerful, as is McLachlan’s playing. The whole thing culminates (at 8:28) in an imposing and very severe funeral march which concludes the movement and the sonata. This sonata is a very unsettling piece; it’s also one of the peaks in this cycle.
The Eleventh Sonata is in four movements which play continuously – or with the briefest of inter-movement pauses. Here, the first two movements are separately tracked but the last two are contained on one track. The first movement, Lento, initially displays a somewhat lighter tone than we experienced in the Tenth; however, the movement grows in intensity as it unfolds. The second movement, Andante cantabile does just what it says on the tin. It’s an excellent example of Allen’s propensity for cantabile writing; the music is Romantic in tone, a fact emphasised by the warmth of the harmonies. The short third movement has the interesting marking Vivo come il buffone. Murray McLachlan references the “harlequinesque energetic unpredictability” of the music; that’s spot on. This witty, strongly rhythmic music runs straight into the Allegro finale (at 2:56, I think). This movement is full of surging life.
In the first movement of the Twelfth Sonata, we find Allen in his most Romantic vein. In his commentary, Murray McLachlan draws parallels with the piano music of Bax, Medtner and early Scriabin. As I listened, I thought the Bax comparison was particularly apt. The music is consistently restless; we encounter a good deal of turbulence, although just once or twice Allen pauses for breath in brief passages of calmer music. The sonata is cast in three movements and I was especially impressed by the ardent passion of the writing in the finale (Maestoso); this is powerfully delivered by McLachlan. After this outpouring, the quiet, simple conclusion comes as a bit of a surprise – in a nice way.
The Thirteenth Sonata is in four movements. The start of the opening movement is gentle, almost tentative, but gradually the music becomes more purposeful and, at the same time, more chromatic. I think McLachlan plays this movement beautifully. After a quite short Presto movement comes the Lento piacevole slow movement. This is spacious music in which McLachlan generates a fine atmosphere through the sensitive way in which he weights every element of the piano part. McLachlan comments that hereabouts the piano evokes “visions of distant stars and the vastness of the great unknown”. By contrast, the finale (Allegro con fuoco) is strong and forthright in character; much is made of accented rhythms. There are, though, some contrasting ruminative episodes. The work ends in a positive fashion.
I was greatly taken with the Fourteenth Sonata, which consists of three movements. The first has a rhapsodic feel to it; McLachlan references “a sense of improvisatory discovery”. It seems to me that this is a wide-ranging movement which, yet again, has cantabile writing as its foundation. McLachlan also uses the word “wistful” to describe the mood; I wouldn’t disagree. I found it fascinating. McLachlan has a vivid phrase for the central slow movement, suggesting that “[w]e are in an atonal organ loft”. Even before I’d read that, I’d jotted down in my notes that the music – and this performance – has the air of an organist improvising pensively. Allen continues his inward-looking approach in the finale (Allegretto molto espressivo). Murray McLachlan suggests that the music “seems designed for private refection”; I must say I find it very rewarding to look over Allen’s shoulder, as it were, while he reflects. In contrast to the previous sonata, this one has a quiet, rather sad-sounding ending. The Fourteenth Sonata is a very thoughtful composition.
I was interested to read that Geoffrey Allen drew a comparison between part of the Fifteenth Sonata and a passage in Bax’s Third Piano Sonata. The passage in question comes in the second movement (of four) in his own sonata. I don’t know either work sufficiently well to be able to make the connection myself but, actually, I detect an affinity with the music of Bax in the first movement of Allen’s sonata, a fairly short prelude. To my ears it seems that Allen’s music has an unhurried, rhetorical romanticism and something of a legendary feel. The second movement is the longest of the four. This is complex music, richly textured. I may be wrong but I detect a dark tone; I’ve written “melancholy determination” in my notes. It’s an extensive movement but Allen – and McLachlan – sustained my attention throughout. Murray McLachlan says that the third movement, Andante con moto, ingenuo, is “significantly more focused and economical in terms of texture” I certainly find it more direct in expression. There’s a pastoral feel and the music, which is beautifully played, is most attractive. The relatively brief finale starts off innocently but at 1:43 a darker mood (and tonal hues) arises. This is the mood that carries the sonata through to its introspective conclusion.
I’m afraid that I struggle to get to grips with the Sixteenth Sonata and I can’t help feeling that better presentation by Métier might have helped me. Let me explain. The sonata, which plays for 12:59, is cast in a single movement. The track list identifies nine different sections or tempo changes and the piece is presented in a single track. However, when we read the composer’s comments in the booklet, he tells us that the work “is made up of seven, or perhaps eight sections, each with its own melodic and other motifs”. He labels the sections A to G and goes on to explain that the material in sections A to C reappears in the materials for sections E to G respectively; section D is somewhat akin to a cadenza. If Métier had presented the work in seven tracks, corresponding to Allen’s sections, I’m sure I would have found it easier to get my bearings. As it was, I found the music difficult to follow – for example, I had a couple of stabs at identifying where the cadenza-like section began but I’m not at all confident that I was correct in my guesses. I’m afraid that so far, I’ve found it very hard to get to grips with this piece.
Geoffrey Allen’s final work in this genre, the Seventeenth Sonata, was, I believe, written for and dedicated to Murray McLachlan. The work reverts to a four-movement scheme and is one of the longest of Allen’s sonatas. The first movement has a cantabile, quasi-improvisatory flow; after losing my bearings in the Sixteenth, I found this much easier to follow. The marking for the second movement is Molto lento, di sogno. Reflecting the second part of that injunction, the music indeed has a dreamy character. It sounded rather French-influenced to me and I was put in mind of the music of Ravel and, especially, Fauré. The scherzo calls for – and here receives – dazzling finger work; the invention proceeds in a ceaseless flow. The finale opens with a big, dramatic flourish and much of the music that follows is virtuosic and extrovert. However, towards the end Allen moves into a quieter, more reflective vein. This has a dual function: it provides excellent contrast to the main musical thrust of the movement and, in addition, it enables him to bring the sonata to a thoughtful and perhaps slightly ambiguous conclusion.
Let me try to sum up Geoffrey Allen’s achievement across some 6 ½ hours of music. Allen’s music is firmly tonal, though mild atonality has a place occasionally. However, the tonality never settles easily; the harmonic language is highly chromatic and the harmony is constantly on the move, presenting many intriguing surprises along the way, even in the shortest of movements. Dissonance, though often subtle, is very much a part of Allen’s compositional armoury. As I’ve indicated at various points in this review, Allen, like most composers, shows influences from the music of other composers, but I’m in no doubt that he is very much his own man. I must caveat my reaction to these works in one respect. I’m not really in a position to judge Allen’s success in structurally developing his material; I think he achieves this, but I’d need much greater familiarity with the sonatas before passing a judgement. My present view is that the structures are fairly free, though that’s an observation and most definitely not a criticism. What I can say with much more certainty is that there’s plenty of depth in the music, which is consistently of genuine worth.
Obviously, for review purposes, I’ve listened to these five discs in a fairly concentrated period of time; most people won’t want – or need – to do that. I’d recommend initially listening in order of composition and to, say, two or maybe three works at a time (one sonata heard in isolation isn’t quite sufficient to ‘get into’ Geoffrey Allen’s style, I think).
Murray McLachlan is in no doubt as to the importance of this body of work. Right at the end of his notes on the individual sonatas, and referencing the importance of chromaticism in them, he says this: “Allen’s eighteen sonatas for piano redefine our expectations harmonically. He has found something unique to say through the instrument, creating a new universe of keyboard discovery in the process.” That admiration for the sonatas is reflected not just in how he writes about them but also – crucially – in the way that he plays them. It must have been a prodigious task to learn so much new music from scratch but it seems to me that McLachlan has mastered every facet of the music. Frequently, there are demands for virtuosic finger work, all of which are met. Even more pronounced is the requirement for subtlety and McLachlan certainly delivers on that front. But I think his greatest achievement may lie in the clarity he brings to the music. Allen’s consistent penchant for chromatic inner voices might easily lead to muddy textures, but in Murray McLachlan’s hands the music is as clearly defined as possible. I think it’s very sad that Geoffrey Allen did not live to be present at the recording sessions and to hear the finished product; he would surely have been overjoyed at such advocacy for his music.
Métier have done Allen proud in terms of presentation. The recordings are good, though, on my equipment, the sound is a little bright; I would have liked just a bit more depth in the bass register. That may be to do with the instrument used or the venue and, of course, other listeners may well get different results. The sound, though, is very satisfactory. The documentation is excellent: Murray McLachlan’s notes are invaluable in giving the listener an insightful guide to the music. I can only applaud Métier’s commercial bravery in issuing all these works at one fell swoop. Other labels might have taken a more cautious approach, dipping their toe into the water with a single-disc release of three or four sonatas. The danger with that approach, though, is that people might have said ‘Geoffrey who?’ and passed by the disc. Releasing a boxed set is more of a statement of intent and should get the attention of the disc-buying public. I hope that the commitment of Murray McLachlan and Métier will be rewarded by good sales.
Those interested in solo piano music of the post-war era will be rewarded if they seek out these fine performances of Geoffrey Allen’s sonatas. Having heard the discs I believe that he is a significant, if unfamiliar, contributor to the solo piano literature. His music has been exceptionally well served here.
John Quinn
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Contents
CD 1
Piano Sonata No. 1, Op. 5/24 (1959/1995)
Piano Sonata No. 2, Op. 14 (1989-90)
Piano Sonata No. 3, op. 25 (1995-6
Piano Sonata No. 4, Op. 29 (1997)
CD 2
Piano Sonata No. 5, Op. 32 (1998)
Piano Sonata No. 6, Op. 39 (2000
Piano Sonata No. 7, Op. 40 (2000)
Piano Sonata No. 8, Op. 46 (2002)
CD 3
Piano Sonata No. 9, Op, 47 (2002)
Piano Sonata No. 10, Op. 52 (2003)
Piano Sonata No. 11, Op. 55 (2004)
CD 4
Piano Sonata No. 12, Op. 66 (2006)
Piano Sonata No. 13, Op. 73 (2009)
Piano Sonata No. 14, Op. 77 (2011
Rhapzonata, Op. 51 (2003) I. Rhapsody (Over the Moon)
CD 5
Rhapzonata, Op. 51 – II. Canzonetta (In a Perfumed Garden)
Rhapzonata, Op. 51 – III. Toccata (Only on Wednesday)
Piano Sonata No. 15, Op. 80 (2012)
Piano Sonata No. 16, Op. 86 (2015)
Piano Sonata No. 17, Op. 97 (2019)
