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A rare chance to hear three of the composers I write about along with their male contemporaries. I’ll be saying a few words about each woman and her music.

There’ll be a chance for an informal chat duringÌýthe long interval (wine provided for those who wishâ€�)

There should be tickets on the door. See you there?

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I made a pilgrimage recently to this unassuming building, just off the Portobello Road in London.ÌýWhy? Because it embodies the spirit and determination of a group of composers and performersÌýwho â€� denied a more conventional platform â€� created their own space for new music.

I have been moved to tell their storyÌý by the inspirational initiative of the London Oriana Choir whose five15 series will offer something as exciting and something, sadly, as needed in 2016 asÌýit was in 1931. You can !

This building matters because�

The young composer Elizabeth Maconchy, fresh from success in Prague, and a Proms debut in the summer of 1930, was finding it hard to get her music played. The lack of a career infrastructure and performance opportunities for all young composers was exacerbated for women by good old-fashioned sexism in the classical music industry. Even after the triumphs of 1930, Maconchy later recalled no one

suggested a commission, or a grant, or even a chatty interview on the radio, let alone another performance. The publishers weren’t interested. They were all men, of course, and tended to think of women composers being capable of only the odd song or two.

They would have ‘liked some pretty little thing � I don’t mean a pretty little person � not steady, serious music.� Maconchy singled out Lesley Boosey, of Boosey and Hawkes, as particularly hostile. One of Boosey’s readers ‘was frightfully keen to publish some songs and a string quartet� of her, but ‘all Boosey would say was that he couldn’t take anything except little songs from a woman.� Later, using her typical understatement which masks but does not completely hide her bitterness, she would say ‘that really was a very difficult thing to get over.�

But she did � with a little help from her friends.

Faced with the intransigence of the music industry, a remarkable group of women got together in 1931 and changed the face of music in London, at least for a few years. One was Iris Lemare, that rare thing a female conductor. The other two were the violinist Anne Macnaghten, and the composer Elisabeth Lutyens. Together they launched a series of concerts to showcase new music by young composers, alongside works from eras under-represented in the concert halls of London at the time. The Macnaghten-Lemare Concerts were to prove a lifeline for Elizabeth Maconchy through the 1930s.

And this is where the building comes in â€� theÌýsmall, necessarily cheap Ballet Club theatre in Notting Hill, once a Ragged School would be their venue. It had been bought inÌý1927 by Marie Rambert’s husband as a performing and rehearsal space: the blue plaques today honour Rambert. There is no acknowledgement of the Macnaghten-Lemare initiative.

The women’sÌýmethods were collaborative and informal, with no committee, no hierarchy, just the drive to create a platform for their own work, whether as performer, conductor or composer: ‘honestly,â€� remembered one of the organizers, ‘it wasn’t altruistic, it suited each other’s ends.â€� Anne Macnaghten, who shouldered much of the organizational responsibility, was, however, eloquent about the driving vision, her words relevant to the world of music, past, present and future: ‘the great thing is to have lots of music going on all the time, lots of things being performed.â€� Committees mightÌýset themselvesÌýup as arbitrators as to what is good and what is bad, but the thing is â€� get the music played, and

it will settle itself sooner or later. As long as there’s plenty of opportunity to get new works performed, no harm will be done; what is awful is if somebody is really doing something very good but nobody knows about it.

I could dwell on the predictable (and sexist) responses to the concerts, I could ask why they seemed to help a very young Benjamin Britten launch his career, butÌýoffer yet another dead end to the women involved, but â€� on the day on which my book is published in theÌýUnited States, I’m determined to beÌýoptimistic. So I’ll leave the last word to theÌýMusical Times:

there is nothing quite like these concerts in London. The concert givers get to grips with the real thing in a most delightful, unconventional way, and after an evening spent with them one feels that music is gloriously alive.

The experience of women such as Fanny Hensel, who found it so hard to find a public platform, makes me all the more grateful for these upcoming events � where you can find out more about the women I write about, and hear some of their wonderful music. You’ll need to book for the first three�

7 th April 2016, 12 noon, Oxford Literary Festival (at the Weston Library)

17th May 2016, Fulbright Frontiers lecture: tea/coffee at 5pm, talk starts 5.30pm, at Rewley House, Oxford. Drinks in the bar afterwards!

17th June 2016, Concert (voice and lute), talk, and wine: 6pm at The Schott Music Shop, London

I’m also giving a talk for the Benslow Music Trust in Hitchin, in collaboration with David’s Bookshop of Letchworth on Friday, 22nd April, at 4.30pm, and a talk at the White Horse Bookshop in Marlborough, on Thursday 26th May at 7pm.

Looking further ahead, there will be a concert and talk at 11am (coffee at 10.50)Ìý focusing on the music of Caccini on Saturday, 6th August in St Michael’s Church, Sittingbourne.

And, looking even further ahead, I’m very excited about a plan for an event at Handel House (or more correctly these days Handel and Hendrix House) in 2017, again focusing on Caccini…fingers crossed for that one.

I’ll post more about the bookshop events nearer the time � or do please get in touch if you’d like more details.

In the mean time, the book of songs by Johanna Kinkel has arrived � now all I need is a friendly tenor!

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The challenge is on! Simply listen to these seven extracts (it will take less than 4 minutes), and guess the sex of each composer. Let me know what you think � and why � using the reply button below.

I’ll be reporting back on your responses next week, on International Women’s Day � when you’ll also have a chance to win my new book.

And I’ll be revealing the answers on 7 April, which is the day of publication!

By the way, I explored some of the issues at stake in

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Do listen to .

If it’s remarkable that women wrote classical music in the first place (when all the odds were stacked against them), it’s a bloody miracle when that music survives after their death. So, imagine my surprise when I came across this gloriously evocative recording, billed as the work of composer, Johanna Kinkel.

Now, I am well aware that, in terms of its musical quality the song is pretty average, perhaps interesting only as a period piece. But to come across any legacy for Kinkel, however trivial and/or dubious, is exciting, because this particular composer’s lifeÌýhas come to represent, for me at least, the dark side of the history of women’s music.

It all began so well. Kinkel was a multi-talented woman, both author and composer. She was a political radical, and, rare for her time, spoke up for the causes she believed in. She was generous in her praise for other women, as here in an accountÌýof Fanny Hensel in action:

She seized upon the spirit of the composition and its innermost fibres, which then radiated out most forcefully into the souls of the singers and audience. A sforzando from her small finger affected us like an electric shock, transporting us much further than the wooden tapping of a baton on a music stand. When one saw Fanny Hensel perform a masterpiece, she seemed larger � Even her sharp critical judgements shared with close acquaintances were founded on ideals she demanded from art and human character alike � not in impure motives of exclusion, arrogance and resentment. Whoever knew her was convinced that she was as ungrudging as she was unpretentious.

Kinkel knew Hensel’s world very well indeed, because she was absolutelyÌýpart of it. Born in Bonn in 1810, she was mentored by Felix Mendelssohn, taught by some of the great figures in German music, praised by Robert Schumann for her songs.

So far so good.

The challenges would come thick and fast: an abusive first marriage (she left him); four children by her politically radical second husband; his sentence of life imprisonment, which promptedÌýJohannaÌýto engineer the family’s escape to England. Kinkel proved to be courageous and resourceful. She needed to be.

But then, an all-too-familiar story: in London,ÌýKinkel would scrapeÌýa living teaching music and writing, holding the family together, financially and emotionally, while her husband continued on his revolutionary path, now in America. As a composer, she fell silent. Before she died, she did complete a novel, with a struggling, desperate composer for a hero: the fact that the hero is a man does little to conceal the work’s status as misery memoir. A visiting friend noted that she ‘accepted her lot, but not without serious dejection.â€� Her health was deteriorating, ‘conditions of nervousness,â€� began to appear, the news from America ‘did not suffice to cheer the darkened soul of the lonely woman.â€�

Kinkel’s life ended on the pavement below her St John’s Wood home. She fell, or threw herself, from an upper window. The composer’s posthumous life is just as dispiriting. An enemy, one Karl Marx (also exiled in London), viewed her as an ‘old harridan,� and was disgusted that her husband, his political opponent, received sympathy merely because his wife had ‘broken her neck.� Mr Kinkel, for his part, never realized his plan to publish his wife’s compositions.

For me, as a writer, it would have been all too easy to find a bookful of Kinkels, to represent every female composer’s life as a futile struggle against impossible odds. I chose insteadÌýto celebrate rather than to mourn, and I chose individuals whose music survives in enough plenty to enable us to make an informed judgement about them as composers. But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel that the Kinkels of our world should be honoured.

Whether a scratchy, quavery rendition of a somewhat trite songÌýthat might or might not actually have been written by her is the best way to honour Johanna Kinkel is another question. Maybe it’s because it’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m in fighting mood,Ìýbut, after a bit of thought,ÌýI decided to go wild and spend $19.04 on a Performer’s Edition of Johanna Kinkel’s 6 Lieder, Op.19,ÌýfirstÌýpublished in 1848.ÌýI’m not sureÌýI’ll fall in love with her music, but it’s time to get to know it better.

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I’ve put together a playlist* so that you can discover a few gems from the hidden treasure trove of musicÌýthat has inspired my book.

It’s a work in progress, but there’s one piece from each composer â€� I’d love to hear who stands out for you. The penultimateÌýpiece may not be high quality in terms of its recording, but if you are not moved by Lili Boulanger’sÌýsetting of Psalm 130 you have a heart of stone…and then, if you need cheering up (Boulanger, above,Ìýdied horriblyÌýyoung and her anguish â€� and faith â€� permeate her music), click onÌýthe Overture from Marianna von Martines, perhaps the least known of all the composers I write about.ÌýI challenge you not to smile.

Of course, this is only the tip of the (YouTube) iceberg. You won’t find some of my personal favourites, such as Rendi alle mie speranze il verde, a stunningly beautiful song by Francesca Caccini, or Das Jahr, a lost masterpiece for piano by Fanny Hensel â€� which IÌýwrote aboutÌý

I’ve also started another playlist, showcasing the work of a handful of the composers who don’t feature in my book. I only had eight chapters to work with,Ìýand, believe me, there areÌýso many riches to discover,ÌýfromÌýa haunting song written in the twelfth century to theÌýaward-winning music for Wolf Hall.

Meanwhile, publication day’s getting closer and closer and, just as important,ÌýI’m now working with lots of lovely people on a whole range of events which will celebrate the music and the women I’ve been writing about. More about those events another time…but do get in touch if you think of something that should be added into the mix.

*OK � I had some help from my techies, Elise and Jesse…thank you guys!

Two things are really valuable when we approach the unknown or the unfamiliar in the arts.

One is for people who know about a bit about the unfamiliar experience to share their knowledge: give us some background, help us understand why we don’t know about it, point out what we might enjoy, what we might find challenging, and, maybe, share their informed enthusiasm for this new, strange experience that awaits us.

The other is for the performance itself to be wonderful � for all those involved in it to have imagined, worked tirelessly on, and then delivered something vital and engaging and transformatory.

If you have the latter, you can live without the former. (It doesn’t work the other way round � a humbling realisation for someone like me who only writes about music�)

Sometimes, if you are very lucky you get both, as I did when I saw the Brighton Early Music Festival’s production of Francesca Caccini’s La Liberazione di Ruggiero on a windy, rainy night in November on the south coast of England. Here’s an image from the closing minutes � channelling ‘Votes for Women� from Mary Poppins � or is that just me?

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You really did have to be there but trust me, it worked, the audience loved it, and (cultural historian hat on) it was yet another delightful nod to the gender politics which surrounded Caccini’s work back in 1625, and which were explored intelligently and creatively in the programme notes by Laurie Stras.

Caccini’s opera is rarely performed. (Ok, it’s not strictly an opera, but that’s how it gets into the music history books � as the ‘first opera� written by a woman � and I’ll take any media hook that’s going if it helps to get her work performed.) When writing about La Liberazione in my book, I believed that it was unlikely I would ever see a live performance. How wrong I was � and how lucky I was that the first performance I saw was the one in Brighton.

Witty, exhilarating, beautiful, thought-provoking…but don’t take my word for it, the reviews were glorious, and rightly so.

As I walked back to my airbnb room that night, I truly was lightheaded with excitement. In one evening of entertainment, that performance had done more to make the music of women a normal, natural, glorious part of our shared culture than anything else I’d come across in the years I have been engaged in exploring women’s work in the classical tradition. I could even dream that La Liberazione di Ruggiero might become part of the repertoire.

So, it was with great anticipation that I headed to Paris this last weekend to see a second performance of La Liberazione in the Palace of Versailles. I was particularly excited because I thought that to see the work in such a splendid setting � La Liberazione was originally written for princely patrons, first performed at a Medici palace in the hills above Florence � would reveal yet another side to Caccini.

The first disappointment was that it was a concert performance. Now, I know I should be grateful that the programmers at Versailles decided to put even one work composed by a woman into their entire season, but part of the thrill of Caccini’s work is that it is multi-media entertainment. In the original 1625 production, one character arrived on stage on a dolphin; magical transformations, of sets and costumes, occured before the audience’s very eyes; and there were dancing horses. Dancing horses.

Even if you strip out the visuals, however, there’s still a spicy threesome at the heart of the drama. Put simply, a wicked (but oh so attractive) sorceress, Alcina, seduces a knight, Ruggiero, to her island and entraps him there in order to take her pleasure. Worse still, he, and a host of other previous victims, seem thoroughly to enjoy the experience. Fortunately, however, a ‘good� witch, Melissa (bigendered, because s/he can appear as either male or female), triumphs over Alcina, and liberates Ruggiero and his fellows. Having seen the Brighton production, I can report the subplot � concerning some enchanted plants, and which, having read about it, I had previously dismissed as a bit of a bore � was, in performance, just as compelling.

So, maybe any concert performance was going to fall a bit flat. I take my hat off to Michaela Riener who did her damnedest to make Alcina the sexy threat to world peace that Caccini makes her (no time here to go into the political message of this work, but rest assured, it’s there and, yes, Brighton brought it out). But Riener didn’t stand a chance, with the overwhelming physical presence of the conductor â€� do we really need an old-style ‘look at me, I’m the bossâ€� conductor in music from this era? â€� Ìýliterally standing between her and her lover Ruggiero â€� who looked a little lost â€� and her arch-enemy, Melissa, sung here by a woman rather than a counter-tenor (becauseâ€�.? Who knows?)

A far cry from November in Brighton. Here Ruggiero attempts (not very successfully) to resist Alcina, watched from behind the bath-house by Melissa. You can almost hear the latter tutting his/her disapproval.

Other factors conspired to take the edge off my enjoyment. The seating arrangements in the Salon d’Hercule at Versailles left a lot to be desired. I paid 50 euros for a seat in the back row. This was my view.

The acoustic wasn’t great either. A couple of the singers were pretty disappointing, although the fact that the room was very, very chilly might not have helped. There was no libretto available (as far as I could tell) � certainly no-one around me had one, and I’m not sure how anyone could have worked out who was who, let alone what was happening, without it.

There was, however, a paragraph in the season guide which left me gasping, although it shouldn’t have done, since I’ve been living with these sexist cliches for years. Apparently Caccini’s arias are very melodious, and one perceives the subtilty of the feminine hand/writer in them. I searched the rest of the season’s offerings, and couldn’t find anything similar written about the male composers who fill up the programme. (I’m not blaming the performers for this. Having tracked down their website, the phrase is missing. It’s the Royal Opera of Versailles that’s the culprit.)

Overall, I was left with the impression that the evening was more about sitting in a big room in the palace of Versailles than about the music. Having said all that, my companion for the evening (a nineteenth-century opera fan, for whom this was a first Ruggiero), enjoyed the performance far more than I did. He was pleasantly surprised by the variety in the music � I’d warned him about the dominance of recitative � and was delighted in all sorts of ways by Alcina.

Now, a little voice tells me that I should be oh so grateful to anyone for putting on any music by women. But damn it, there are performances which transform their audiencesâ€� lives and create a space for new music (for this IS new music), and there are performances which keep women composers safely in their ‘feminineâ€� box, specimensÌýto be viewed from time to time, but never truly freed to take their rightful place in our musical culture. That’s why the hashtag for the Brighton performance #freeruggiero was just so, so right.

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Time to pack my bags. But first, some images from my time here, in no particular order.

The railway line at Kampot (no passenger trains, sadly, in CambodiaÌýâ€� and no gears on the bike); two margaritas (Happy Hour when travelling soloâ€�); buffalo near Kampot; the requisite grainy, mis-shot image of Angkor Wat at sunrise; an Angkor queen who took my fancy; chilling atÌýthe Peace Café, Siem Reap; and last, but not least, three pictures from daily life in Phnom Penh: the man who sells breakfast pastries; National Road 1 at sunrise; and finally, Cambodia, land of contrasts.

For regular readers, I bring news of great change. I have not had a cup of coffee for weeks. Nor have my lips touched wine. Instead, I breakfast on jasmin tea, with fruit and small pastries bought from a stall in the market across the road (not just any road â€� the terrifying, and utterly anarchic, National Road 1). I sip my tea whileÌýa couple ofÌýfishermen lazily search the ponds below me. The sun rises, and the cool, fresh early morning disappears.

I lunch on rice and vegetables, supplemented by a handful of honey-coated cashew nuts from my secret stash; Ìýthis particular vegetarian’s protein supplement of choice. ÌýI usually dine on more rice, more vegetables, but this time with a sprinkling of peanuts. Some things don’t change, however. I look forward to, and then enjoy, my one cold ‘Angkorâ€� beer in the evening even more perhaps than I used to enjoy a glass of wine.

You’ll have worked out that I am not in Oxford. The market is in Prekeng, about 10kmÌýsouth ofÌýCambodia’s capital, Phnom Penh, and the river is, of course, the Mekong. Keep going onÌýNational Road 1 and you’ll get toÌýVietnam. The climate here is hot and humid, although everyone here keeps assuring me it’s really very cool at the moment. Since when is 34 degrees ‘coolâ€�?

My mornings are devoted to teaching English to small children. Through play. Those who know me well may now be smiling wryly. It’s no great secret that I am not the most tolerant or patient of individuals when it comes to small children. In fact, I am one of those strange parents who prefer teenagers to toddlers, and I am ecstatic that my daughters are now adults. In fact, I amÌýrubbish at ‘playâ€�. Even when I was a child, I wasn’t that good at it. I liked projects, and tests, and competitions. I devoured the classics of literature at a stupidly young age, hardly understanding a word, but loving that feeling of tackling a ‘grown-up bookâ€�. My imaginary worlds were telling: I played libraries, complete with complex filing systems but that was nothing onÌý‘swim to Chinaâ€�. Once in China, I would, with my friends Christopher and Clare, set up a shop. I still like deadlines, and spreadsheets, and exams. I like working on my own, in a corner of the library â€� or coffee shop. And I remain horribly competitive, although I like to think that IÌýcan also beÌýa gracious loser.

But…everyone can change. And these past couple of weeks have seen me dancing around the classroom, making colourful posters, playing ridiculous (non-competitive) games, and singing at the top of my voice (or humming when I simply cannot remember the words to ‘One Finger, One Thumb� and other classics of the pre-school repertoire). It’s been fun.

Maybe the children have learned a bit of English. Maybe I’m learning to play?

I was going to write a birthday tribute to Fanny Hensel, 210 years old today, but instead I’m re-posting words from March this year. I was celebrating a joyous work composed in a 1916 Paris under siege. The city and its people, all its people, are in my thoughts today.

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It’s a bit cheeky to start with an image of La Marche des Fiertes on 29 June 2013, since I’m considering a musical Marche Gaie, composed some 97 years earlier, but both gay marches are Parisian, and I wanted a joyful image (thank you Reuters) with which to start.

A few weeks ago, I spent a highly emotional half-evening at the Royal Festival Hall: emotional because it was my first venture away from Oxford for almost two months (and this is the moment to thank all those who work at the Oxford Heart Centre, but particularly Mr Sayeed�

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