the red house, aldeburgh

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Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears shared this house for nearly twenty years, and Britten wrote some of his most famous works here. I really ought to try harder to like his music, but with a few exceptions, it just doesn’t do it for me – it just seems too smug and self-satisfied by half.

Were he alive today, there’s no doubt questions would be asked about Britten’s fondness for young boys, but despite the best efforts of muck-rakers and mud-slingers, nothing of any substance seems to have stuck – which perhaps is just as well, given the cultural and economic importance of his musical legacy.

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