In the past years, particularly in Britain, there seems to be a widespread urge to reconnect to the landscape and to the nation’s rural past. Is this an escape from the stress of 21st Century urban life? Does it stem from disillusionment at the current political scene? Is it an expression of a search for an alternative spiritual source, outside the norms of mainstream religion(s)? Is it simply another facet to contemporary ecological concerns? I will hazard no guess, but this cultural phenomenon is inescapable and manifests itself in a myriad of ways: from the newfound popularity of travel and nature writing to a rediscovery of ancient pilgrimage routes, from a resurgence of interest in folklore and traditional music to a renewed obsession with folk horror in literature and cinema.

Richard King’s The Lark Ascending taps into the zeitgeist. Its title refers to a composition for violin and orchestra by Ralph Vaughan Williams, possibly the composer who did most to wed the tunes of British traditional music to classical forms. Inspired by a poem by George Meredith, RVW’s famous work portrays the flight and song of the eponymous lark through soaring folk-tinged melodies. King takes this piece as a starting point for an exploration of 20th Century British (mainly English) music and its connection to landscape and rural life. In particular, the book provides intriguing insights into how the landscape has been politicised across the decades of the last century. It may come as a surprise, for instance, that between the wars, the concept of the “land” was glorified at either end of the political spectrum: on the one hand by left-wingers who believed in public access to the land and, on the other hand, by right-wingers for whom the “call of the land” chimed with the “blood and soil” mentality influenced by Nazi Germany.

After the war, the land became a veritable (and in some cases, literal) battleground reflecting wider class struggles. History tends to repeat itself and, in the book, a pattern start to establish itself – fringe communities settling in rural outposts (such as the Travellers converging on Stonehenge) and being broken up either by the authorities (as in the infamous Battle of the Beanfield) or, sometimes even more effectively, by their own popularity (as in the case of the open-air free raves of the 1990s before they entered the capitalist mainstream).

Throughout this intriguing, alternative history of Britain’s landscape, there is the sound of music, weaving in and out of the narrative, acting sometimes as subject and at others as commentary. King’s choices reach far and wide – from good old Ralph, that “least typical of typical Englishman” (as he is described in the acknowledgments section at the end of the book) to the folktronica of Ultramarine and Boards of Canada, via the folk/prog rock of the 60s and 70s, the experimental works of Gavin Bryars, Brian Eno and Michael Nyman, the “stateless world music” of the Penguin Café Orchestra, the lyricism of Kate Bush and much more. As mixtapes go, there can hardly be a more eclectic one than that compiled by Richard King.

Every traveller follows their own itinerary and I am quite sure that different readers may have approached the subject through different choices of music depending on their background. In my case, for instance, the choices would have veered more towards the classical music world. Ralph Vaughan Williams is just one of several composers of the “pastoralist” school. George Butterworth and Gustav Holst come to mind, but they only get a passing mention in the book – the less lucky Gerald Finzi gets none. Benjamin Britten was one of the major figures in 20th century English music and his oeuvre is shaped by the bleak coastal landscape of Suffolk and the town of Aldeburgh which he made his home. He is not featured. King mentions the rock artists who moved to rural Wales and Scotland but does not refer to Peter Maxwell Davies, Master of the Queen’s Music, whose musical style changed radically when he settled in remote Orkney. From the jazz scene, I’m rather surprised at the non-inclusion of John Surman, an ECM label stalwart who has combined the seemingly disparate influences of John Coltrane and English folk in albums such Road to St Ives and Saltash Bells. On the other hand, much as I enjoyed the chapters on Gavin Bryars and the Penguin Café Orchestra, I also felt that their link to the “landscape” theme was, to say the least, tenuous. But I’m not complaining – I do appreciate that Richard King’s book is a very personal one, and therefore also bound to reflect personal choices.

I also couldn’t help feeling that some of the musical movements portrayed in the book – especially in the final chapters – tend to be rather over-romanticised. It is, obviously, natural and just, that one should sympathise with fringe groups such as the Travellers who were often the victims of aggressive, heavy-handed and – indeed – illegal actions by the police and the authorities. However, there were also less savoury aspects to these groups. These include prevalent drug use, which, in this book, tends to be shown in a benign light – either as a contributing factor to the “spiritual” aura of open-air music festivals or, at worst, as an unpleasant but excusable side-effect of the injustices suffered by these ‘outsiders’ at the hands of the law.

Whether one agrees or not with certain aspects of the book, including the choice of featured music, The Lark Ascending is essential reading and not just for music-lovers. Its distinctive mixture of nature writing, music criticism and cultural history, spiced with elements of memoir and psychogeography, never fails to be original and fascinating. ( )

In the past years, particularly in Britain, there seems to be a widespread urge to reconnect to the landscape and to the nation’s rural past. Is this an escape from the stress of 21st Century urban life? Does it stem from disillusionment at the current political scene? Is it an expression of a search for an alternative spiritual source, outside the norms of mainstream religion(s)? Is it simply another facet to contemporary ecological concerns? I will hazard no guess, but this cultural phenomenon is inescapable and manifests itself in a myriad of ways: from the newfound popularity of travel and nature writing to a rediscovery of ancient pilgrimage routes, from a resurgence of interest in folklore and traditional music to a renewed obsession with folk horror in literature and cinema.

Richard King’s The Lark Ascending taps into the zeitgeist. Its title refers to a composition for violin and orchestra by Ralph Vaughan Williams, possibly the composer who did most to wed the tunes of British traditional music to classical forms. Inspired by a poem by George Meredith, RVW’s famous work portrays the flight and song of the eponymous lark through soaring folk-tinged melodies. King takes this piece as a starting point for an exploration of 20th Century British (mainly English) music and its connection to landscape and rural life. In particular, the book provides intriguing insights into how the landscape has been politicised across the decades of the last century. It may come as a surprise, for instance, that between the wars, the concept of the “land” was glorified at either end of the political spectrum: on the one hand by left-wingers who believed in public access to the land and, on the other hand, by right-wingers for whom the “call of the land” chimed with the “blood and soil” mentality influenced by Nazi Germany.

After the war, the land became a veritable (and in some cases, literal) battleground reflecting wider class struggles. History tends to repeat itself and, in the book, a pattern start to establish itself – fringe communities settling in rural outposts (such as the Travellers converging on Stonehenge) and being broken up either by the authorities (as in the infamous Battle of the Beanfield) or, sometimes even more effectively, by their own popularity (as in the case of the open-air free raves of the 1990s before they entered the capitalist mainstream).

Throughout this intriguing, alternative history of Britain’s landscape, there is the sound of music, weaving in and out of the narrative, acting sometimes as subject and at others as commentary. King’s choices reach far and wide – from good old Ralph, that “least typical of typical Englishman” (as he is described in the acknowledgments section at the end of the book) to the folktronica of Ultramarine and Boards of Canada, via the folk/prog rock of the 60s and 70s, the experimental works of Gavin Bryars, Brian Eno and Michael Nyman, the “stateless world music” of the Penguin Café Orchestra, the lyricism of Kate Bush and much more. As mixtapes go, there can hardly be a more eclectic one than that compiled by Richard King.

Every traveller follows their own itinerary and I am quite sure that different readers may have approached the subject through different choices of music depending on their background. In my case, for instance, the choices would have veered more towards the classical music world. Ralph Vaughan Williams is just one of several composers of the “pastoralist” school. George Butterworth and Gustav Holst come to mind, but they only get a passing mention in the book – the less lucky Gerald Finzi gets none. Benjamin Britten was one of the major figures in 20th century English music and his oeuvre is shaped by the bleak coastal landscape of Suffolk and the town of Aldeburgh which he made his home. He is not featured. King mentions the rock artists who moved to rural Wales and Scotland but does not refer to Peter Maxwell Davies, Master of the Queen’s Music, whose musical style changed radically when he settled in remote Orkney. From the jazz scene, I’m rather surprised at the non-inclusion of John Surman, an ECM label stalwart who has combined the seemingly disparate influences of John Coltrane and English folk in albums such Road to St Ives and Saltash Bells. On the other hand, much as I enjoyed the chapters on Gavin Bryars and the Penguin Café Orchestra, I also felt that their link to the “landscape” theme was, to say the least, tenuous. But I’m not complaining – I do appreciate that Richard King’s book is a very personal one, and therefore also bound to reflect personal choices.

I also couldn’t help feeling that some of the musical movements portrayed in the book – especially in the final chapters – tend to be rather over-romanticised. It is, obviously, natural and just, that one should sympathise with fringe groups such as the Travellers who were often the victims of aggressive, heavy-handed and – indeed – illegal actions by the police and the authorities. However, there were also less savoury aspects to these groups. These include prevalent drug use, which, in this book, tends to be shown in a benign light – either as a contributing factor to the “spiritual” aura of open-air music festivals or, at worst, as an unpleasant but excusable side-effect of the injustices suffered by these ‘outsiders’ at the hands of the law.

Whether one agrees or not with certain aspects of the book, including the choice of featured music, The Lark Ascending is essential reading and not just for music-lovers. Its distinctive mixture of nature writing, music criticism and cultural history, spiced with elements of memoir and psychogeography, never fails to be original and fascinating. ( )

The piece of music behind the title of the book was first played in 1921. Ralph Vaughan Williams’ evocative piece has filtered its way into the national consciousness to portray a gentle countryside of meadows, quiet country lanes and of course, skylarks. But this rose-tinted view of a past that probably didn’t even exist. Unless you were in the upper echelons of society, living on the land was hard and relentless. But that emotive connection we have to our landscape is the same one that connects us to music.

King meanders through the links that have existed between a variety of music genres and the countryside. Some of the connections are obvious, folk music has very strong ties to the landscape and the farming seasons, but there are chapters on political action, Greenham Common, hippies and druids and most recently the Acid house scene and rave parties that were the precursor to clubbing.

I thought that this was an interesting take for a subject on a book. People connect to the landscape in all sorts of ways, and I had never thought of it with regards to music. I was more interested in the more contemporary accounts to do with the travelling community and rave culture in the later chapters in the book. It was interesting how this bought all sorts of draconian laws to curb their excesses. It did feel for a couple of the chapters that connections between the music elements and landscapes were an afterthought. There is a playlist to go with the book here ( )