By Cliff Hall | From the May/June 2026 issue of Strings
There was a time when the Austrian maker Jacob Stainer (c. 1617–1683) reigned supreme. “In England, France, Germany, and Holland, it was the same; especially in England, as Stainer influence was early imported here—soon after 1700,” posited W. Henry Hill, Arthur F. Hill, and Alfred E. Hill in their 1902 edition Antonio Stradivari: His Life and Work (1644–1737). “How much richer we should be in old English instruments of merit had Stradivari’s precepts obtained the firm footing acquired by those of his rivals!”
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But violist, educator, chamber musician, and member of London’s Riot Ensemble Stephen Upshaw plays an instrument made during this period by one English maker not in Stainer’s thrall. Daniel Parker (c. 1680–1730) looked elsewhere—toward Antonio Stradivari, still more provocation than myth, associated with flatter arching, power, and a new kind of clarity. Stradivari instruments were on the English horizon early: In 1682, the Venetian banker Michele Monzi is reported to have ordered a complete set from Stradivari intended as a gift for King James II. By Parker’s working years in London, the Cremonese master’s ideas were close enough to study—and Parker, unusually among his peers, seems to have found them irresistible.
“That Stradivari violins were early brought to our country is certain. We have the instructive fact that Daniel Parker—a maker working as early as 1714, and who was probably a pupil of Barak Norman—made instruments in which are reproduced more or less correctly the main features of the ‘Long Strad,’” continued the Hills. “He even picked out the outline of the head and scroll in black. With the possible exception of Nathaniel Cross, none of the other contemporary makers seem to have been impressed with this worthy example; all soon became completely Stainerised!”
In that climate, a Strad-facing maker in London was effectively swimming upstream: Prevailing taste was Stainer, and Strad had not yet ossified into the default ideal. And even so, Parker’s name isn’t better known, in part, because he wasn’t trying to produce Italian facsimiles. When Strad finally did become the standard, Parker’s instruments remained insistently his own—Stradivari as catalyst, not template—too thoroughly British to slide neatly into an Italian-centered canon of greatness. While the instruments could be admired, the maker stayed marginal.
When the playing world finally did pay attention, it tended to praise the sound while misnaming the maker, as Alfred Hill’s private diary wryly records. On February 8, 1911, Hill wrote that the prominent violin virtuoso Fritz Kreisler “has fallen in love with a Daniel Parker” and “preferred it to the tone of the Joseph Guarnerius” the firm had recently bought back. Kreisler “played one of his three concertos on it last night,” and a customer who was present “could not detect any difference between the tone of it and his Guarnerius.” Yet Hill’s conclusion is pure trade-floor despair: “To persuade the average violinist to recognise this seems a hopeless task”—especially when “Kreisler intends to call it a Balestrieri.”
A few years earlier, violin historian William Meredith Morris had supplied the adjacent explanation in print—strong work, but so unmistakably English that it could never quite trade on an Italian identity. “Parker’s instruments are typical examples of British work of the classical period. They embody the strong points of those who may be considered to be above him, as well as some of the weak points of those who were below him,” wrote Morris in his 1904 book British Violin-makers: Classical and Modern. “He was a good maker, but only a moderately good copyist. His fiddles will never pass as Italians, because they are too thoroughly British in character.”
It is in this same arc that Atlanta-born violist Upshaw, who has made a life and career in London, turned to this “thoroughly British” maker to forge his own spirit of inquiry—playing a 1715 Daniel Parker viola and carrying Parker’s independent streak into the present through contemporary practice: close composer collaboration, hundreds of premieres, and cross-genre projects (from new-music “supergroup” work with Riot Ensemble to collaborations with artists like Max Richter and Tilda Swinton), all aimed at widening the range of what the viola can do and what its repertoire can contain.
Tell me about your primary instrument.
It is a very beautiful and rare example by Daniel Parker, made in London around 1715.
What do you know about this instrument’s history?
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Not much! As is the case with many English instruments of the period, its story is not well documented. The instrument was restored by a prominent violin maker in New York before making its way to London, where I discovered it. There are very few known Daniel Parker violas and, interestingly, most of them are now in and around London. Parker’s workshop was believed to be in the shadow of St. Paul’s Churchyard in the City of London, which I walk past on my commute to teach at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama. It’s lovely to reflect on the idea that after so many years, it’s returned to the city and neighborhood of its birth.
How did you come to play it?
As I came to the end of my studies, my teacher, David Takeno, recommended I go have a look at instruments, as he recognized it was probably time for an upgrade. We are very lucky in London to have a thriving instrument trade, and I went to J & A Beare to have a look at some instruments. After trying some Italian violas that were beautiful but not quite right, the team mentioned they had a large old English viola in the vault that might be a good fit, as I am very tall with long arms. How right they were—it was love at first play! I was then very fortunate to have the support of the Stradivari Trust, a wonderful organization that supports string players in playing and eventually owning exceptional instruments, to acquire the viola.
What first drew you to it and how did you know it was the right fit?
The first obvious thing is its exceptional aesthetic beauty. It has deep and layered varnish with double purfling on the front and back with a distinctive and charmingly idiosyncratic ornament on the back that almost looks like an old window on one of Christopher Wren’s 18th-century London churches. Then, of course, the sound. Given its size, the depth of tone is incredibly rich and variegated, and it has huge power and versatility across the range of the instrument, which I knew I needed, given the variety of repertoire I play.
What gift does your viola bring to your playing that can’t be found in any other instrument?
A huge range of colors and sonic possibilities. It’s like having a shorthand for musical ideas—the instrument feels like a conduit rather than something temperamental that has to be coaxed.
What is your instrument’s personality and temperament like?
A gentle giant.
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Does it remind you of anyone or anything?
Having lived in London for 15 years now, I regularly walk through the city and observe the parallels between the fanciful English baroque architecture and my viola. This melting pot of styles and influences yielded some of London’s most memorable landmarks, and the irreverence and bold decision making you can see in buildings like the Old Royal Naval College in Greenwich (home of Trinity Laban, where I also teach) make me think of Daniel Parker’s experimentation in instrument making happening at the same time.
Does it perform better in certain situations?
Like all old instruments, it doesn’t like rapid changes in climate, but generally speaking, it is remarkably consistent. I’ve taken it to perform in concert locations ranging from the deserts of Patagonia to the far reaches of the Arctic circle in Sweden, and its richness and strength were always fully intact.
What is its greatest strength?
Adaptability, I would say. A normal week of work for me could range from intensive rehearsals with my colleagues in the Solem Quartet studying Beethoven, Hildegard von Bingen, and Kate Bush to working on new film scores at Abbey Road to demonstrating Brahms to a student. I’m writing currently from the dressing room of the Konzerthaus in Vienna on a European tour with pianist and composer Max Richter, and it’s been wonderful listening to how the instrument blends with electronic and acoustic sounds to fill a large hall. Across all of these types of music, the instrument maintains its core quality while making available a huge range of dynamic and timbral possibilities.
What are some of its limitations?
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Colliding with colleagues when a stage is too small!
Daniel Parker is something of a ghost in lutherie history; there are no records of his apprenticeship, and because he rarely labeled his work, many of his masterpieces spent centuries attributed to other makers or carrying fake Italian labels. What does it feel like to play an instrument with such a mysterious backstory?
The viola as an instrument is very much a chameleon that moves between different roles constantly in solo and ensemble playing, and I like the idea that the mystery of my instrument underscores these character actor elements.
Parker was a radical outlier, looking toward the flatter, more powerful Cremonese patterns of Stradivari decades before they became the standard in London. Does this “English Stradivari” heritage suit your work?
Absolutely. This inventiveness in form was really forward-thinking and has set the instrument up well for modern projection. In my recent solo release, Veneer, I tried to choose repertoire that pushed the viola to its expressive limits, with experiments in altered tuning, electronics, and extended techniques, all of which the viola seemed to relish.
Does the viola ever “rebel” against the more avant-garde demands of your work, or have you found that three centuries of seasoning have actually made it more resonant and receptive to being pushed to its physical limits?
Very much the latter—it seems to be up for anything!
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