I remember my excitement when first asked to make a commercial recording. My previous studio work had been for the BBC, where editing was frowned on and retakes permitted only in dire emergency. Now I would be able to repeat as often as I liked, subsequently editing my very best playing into a flawless whole. The theory sounded simple, and I approached the sessions with confidence, despite the difficulties of the repertoire, the piano works of Havergal Brian, a substantial footnote to the composer's thirty-two symphonies which includes the monstrously awkward Double Fugue. Optimism began to fade when I arrived at the venue, the concert hall of a conservatoire, to find the recording engineer gloomily assessing various sources of extraneous noise. Besides passing traffic, there was a soft but intrusive hum from the lighting and a murmured conversation of random creaks from the wooden floor, while the otherwise excellent piano had a squeaky pedal and a buzz on one of the upper strings. I learned quickly that in order to make a good recording one's best playing has to coincide with all-too-seldom moments of silence.

Another snag became apparent as soon as we began work. Neither I, nor the fledgling record company, had seen the need to engage a producer, and without an expert second pair of ears I found I would have to listen to each take, a time-consuming process that would make it impossible to establish any momentum. Fortunately, a handful of Havergal Brian enthusiasts were present out of interest, and they quickly formed themselves into a knowledgeable, if argumentative, advisory committee. After my first take, a run-through of the C Minor Fugue from 1924, a lengthy discussion produced a list of recommendations, including a new tempo, a rebalancing of the contrapuntal entries, and the addition of a grandly rhetorical final allargando, all of which I implemented, working for a further hour until everyone was satisfied.