Still the enigma among Mahler symphonies, or is it that commentators still miss the point, or that the work as a whole is simply not good music? This live account, from a dedcated Mahlerian, does not readily provide answers, but makes speculation the more worthwhile.

A central factor in interpreting the Seventh Symphony is its form, each movement a sonata-rondo derivative that proceeds in circular rather than linear fashion. The outcome: a symphony which repeatedly turns back on itself, tying up loose ends across rather than between movements. Kubelík understands this so that, for instance, the initial Langsam, purposeful rather than indolent, is integral to what follows it. Similarly, the expressive central episode (8'43") is no mere interlude, but a necessary stage in the E/E minor tonal struggle around which the movement pivots. Kubelík catches the emotional ambivalence, if not always the fine irony, of the first Nachtmusik's march fantasy, while the Scherzo not only looks forward (as note writer Erich Mauermann points out) to La valse but also recalls the balletic dislocation of 'Un bal' from Symphonie fantastique. The second Nachtmusik is neither bland nor sentimentalized, just kept moving at a strolling gait, its course barely impeded by moments of chromatic emphasis. The underlying élan of the 'difficult' finale is varied according to each episode, with the reintroduction of earlier material (12'26") felt not as a grafted-on means of unity, but a thematic intensification before the affirmative reprise of the opening music: 'victory' in the completion of the journey rather than in the arrival.

Drawbacks? The extremely high-level radio broadcast, coupled with the frequent sense that Kubelík has rehearsed his players only to the brink of security, gives climactic passages a certain desperate quality — much of the detail is left to fend for itself. The six-note col legno phrase in the second movement is never played the same way twice, while the balance in the fourth movement does the guitar few favours. Yet there is a sense that this is the personal reading Kubelík was unable to achieve in the studio, before he either changed tack or lost the interpretative plot in his bizarrely laboured New York account. In their different ways, Bernstein, Haitink and Rattle are each more 'realized' as interpretations, but overt spontaneity may count for more in this Mahler symphony than any other.

Still the enigma among Mahler symphonies, or is it that commentators still miss the point, or that the work as a whole is simply not good music? This live account, from a dedcated Mahlerian, does not readily provide answers, but makes speculation the more worthwhile.

A central factor in interpreting the Seventh Symphony is its form, each movement a sonata-rondo derivative that proceeds in circular rather than linear fashion. The outcome: a symphony which repeatedly turns back on itself, tying up loose ends across rather than between movements. Kubelík understands this so that, for instance, the initial Langsam, purposeful rather than indolent, is integral to what follows it. Similarly, the expressive central episode (8'43") is no mere interlude, but a necessary stage in the E/E minor tonal struggle around which the movement pivots. Kubelík catches the emotional ambivalence, if not always the fine irony, of the first Nachtmusik's march fantasy, while the Scherzo not only looks forward (as note writer Erich Mauermann points out) to La valse but also recalls the balletic dislocation of 'Un bal' from Symphonie fantastique. The second Nachtmusik is neither bland nor sentimentalized, just kept moving at a strolling gait, its course barely impeded by moments of chromatic emphasis. The underlying élan of the 'difficult' finale is varied according to each episode, with the reintroduction of earlier material (12'26") felt not as a grafted-on means of unity, but a thematic intensification before the affirmative reprise of the opening music: 'victory' in the completion of the journey rather than in the arrival.

Drawbacks? The extremely high-level radio broadcast, coupled with the frequent sense that Kubelík has rehearsed his players only to the brink of security, gives climactic passages a certain desperate quality — much of the detail is left to fend for itself. The six-note col legno phrase in the second movement is never played the same way twice, while the balance in the fourth movement does the guitar few favours. Yet there is a sense that this is the personal reading Kubelík was unable to achieve in the studio, before he either changed tack or lost the interpretative plot in his bizarrely laboured New York account. In their different ways, Bernstein, Haitink and Rattle are each more 'realized' as interpretations, but overt spontaneity may count for more in this Mahler symphony than any other.

Still the enigma among Mahler symphonies, or is it that commentators still miss the point, or that the work as a whole is simply not good music? This live account, from a dedcated Mahlerian, does not readily provide answers, but makes speculation the more worthwhile.

A central factor in interpreting the Seventh Symphony is its form, each movement a sonata-rondo derivative that proceeds in circular rather than linear fashion. The outcome: a symphony which repeatedly turns back on itself, tying up loose ends across rather than between movements. Kubelík understands this so that, for instance, the initial Langsam, purposeful rather than indolent, is integral to what follows it. Similarly, the expressive central episode (8'43") is no mere interlude, but a necessary stage in the E/E minor tonal struggle around which the movement pivots. Kubelík catches the emotional ambivalence, if not always the fine irony, of the first Nachtmusik's march fantasy, while the Scherzo not only looks forward (as note writer Erich Mauermann points out) to La valse but also recalls the balletic dislocation of 'Un bal' from Symphonie fantastique. The second Nachtmusik is neither bland nor sentimentalized, just kept moving at a strolling gait, its course barely impeded by moments of chromatic emphasis. The underlying élan of the 'difficult' finale is varied according to each episode, with the reintroduction of earlier material (12'26") felt not as a grafted-on means of unity, but a thematic intensification before the affirmative reprise of the opening music: 'victory' in the completion of the journey rather than in the arrival.

Drawbacks? The extremely high-level radio broadcast, coupled with the frequent sense that Kubelík has rehearsed his players only to the brink of security, gives climactic passages a certain desperate quality — much of the detail is left to fend for itself. The six-note col legno phrase in the second movement is never played the same way twice, while the balance in the fourth movement does the guitar few favours. Yet there is a sense that this is the personal reading Kubelík was unable to achieve in the studio, before he either changed tack or lost the interpretative plot in his bizarrely laboured New York account. In their different ways, Bernstein, Haitink and Rattle are each more 'realized' as interpretations, but overt spontaneity may count for more in this Mahler symphony than any other.

Les dates de ces concerts inédits nous ramènent à une époque de relatif consensus interprétatif, antérieure en tout cas à l'irruption des « nouveaux beethovéniens ». Le phrasé, le poids, la densité que met Kubelik dans l'Adagio molto de la 2e suffisent pour s'en convaincre. Un chef up to date recourrait sans doute aujourd'hui à un autre type d'articulation, d'accent, de rebond rythmique. Ce qui n'aurait rien que de très normal, puisque, depuis, notre regard s'est déplacé. Mais voilà : dès l'entrée de l'Allegro con brio, dont il souligne le rythme en frappant du pied, Kubelik s'envole sans rien perdre de sa chaleur. Et, durant toute l'exécution, les phrasés espressivo incarnent une narration toute de vie et de relief, dont la combativité résulte d'une volonté expressive subtilement retranscrite par un orchestre réactif, et non d'une simple mécanique de la dynamique. Les deux derniers mouvements, très enlevés, pugnaces, sont d'une vivacité exubérante, Kubelik embrasant la fin de l'Allegro molto - ce à quoi le public parisien (le concert a été enregistré en 1971 au Théâtre des Champs-Elysées) répond avec élan.

La « Pastorale » revient à plus de classicisme. Mais la continuité de la pulsation, la flamme intérieure jamais démentie, la façon dont le quatuor porte la narration, la luminosité de la polyphonie, toutes ces caractéristiques vibrent avec une nécessité plus grande que dans l'enregistrement studio DG de 1973, avec l'Orchestre de Paris (dans le cadre de son intégrale Beethoven à neuf orchestres, cet ensemble est en cours de reparution en collection allemande « 2 CD »). Plus généralement, les deux exécutions soulignent la force de l'entente qui unit Kubelik à son orchestre bavarois – ressort important de la spontanéité humaniste de ces lectures –, et combien la présence du public peut susciter chez le grand chef une inspiration renouvelée, ce qu'a bien montré le cycle Mahler entrepris chez le même éditeur (d'autres Beethoven en concert existent sous sa baguette).

S'essayant à cette mise en perspective, il n'est pas question de suggérer de revenir à un passé qui serait forcément « supérieur » ; chaque époque, par grands cycles, produit ses propres vérités. Mais, par comparaison, ces documents mettent en lumière ce qui, chez certains « nouveaux beethovéniens », sépare parfois le discours affiché du passage à l'acte... alors qu'ils dénient parfois imprudemment la présence chez leurs grands aînés de ce qu'eux-mêmes tentent de réinventer.

Mois après mois, toutes les clés pour comprendre les chefs-d'oeuvre du répertoire : histoire, enjeux, guide d'écoute et repères discographiques.

[...]

Plus que de simples outsiders, deux Tchèques ont su retrouver les racines bohémiennes de Mahler : Kubelik, dont le live lyrique et véhément (Audite) est bien préférable à la version de studio, exactement contemporaine (DG), et le trop oublie Vaclav Neumann [...].

Mois après mois, toutes les clés pour comprendre les chefs-d'oeuvre du répertoire : histoire, enjeux, guide d'écoute et repères discographiques.

[...]

Plus que de simples outsiders, deux Tchèques ont su retrouver les racines bohémiennes de Mahler : Kubelik, dont le live lyrique et véhément (Audite) est bien préférable à la version de studio, exactement contemporaine (DG), et le trop oublie Vaclav Neumann [...].

It’s really a pity that this disc is just a reissue of a performance previously available in DGG’s set of complete Mahler symphonies conducted by Kubelík, as there’s so much I’d like to say about it that’s probably already been said, so I shall reduce my comments to the minimum.

Being personally very fussy in regard to symphonies including singers, I’ll automatically reject performances with defective voices even if the conducting is considered to be the best ever. For this reason, I don’t own the otherwise fantastic performances by Jascha Horenstein and Klaus Tennstedt, and never will, just as I don’t own or even listen to most recordings of the Beethoven Ninth made after, say, 1980. Solti’s famous studio recording of this Mahler symphony had, perhaps, the best eight singers amassed in one place, but they were recorded separately from the orchestra, which created a flat, two-dimensional sound I find offensive. That being said, I am partial to the recordings by Leopold Stokowski (1950), Bernard Haitink (the earlier recording with Cotrubas, Harper, and Prey), and Antoni Wit, in which the defective voices are, to my ears, less annoying than in the others, and generally just one bad voice per ensemble.

The fact that Kubelík, who never pushed his name or fame and in fact retreated from a publicity machine, was able to entice these eight outstanding singers to Munich for this performance says a lot for how much he was respected as a musician. The one name not universally feted at the time was tenor Donald Grobe, and ironically he produces the finest singing of this very difficult music I’ve ever heard (James King with Solti notwithstanding). Kubelík also managed to get truly involved and exciting singing out of Martina Arroyo, and that in itself is a miracle. (He did the same with Gundula Janowitz in his studio recording of Die Meistersinger, though overall his conducting on that set, like most of his conducting in a studio environment, lacks the full power and emotional commitment of his live work). Sometimes the singers are a little off-mike, coming only out of the left or right speakers, but that’s a condition of the original microphone setup and can’t be changed.

Undoubtedly the most controversial aspect of this performance is its full-speed-ahead tempos, particularly in “Veni, Creator Spiritus,” which Kubelík dispatches in a mere 21 minutes. (Don’t believe the designation of 21:30 on the CD box; 25 seconds of that is silence with audience coughing before part II.) But, shockingly, it doesn’t sound terribly rushed most of the time, there are few dropped notes, and the whole thing has the ecstatic quality of a satori. If you happen to be allergic to fast tempos in Mahler, then, this recording is not for you, but if that’s not a problem you’ll find this the greatest Mahler Eighth ever issued. I’ve hereby retired the Haitink recording from my collection; good as it is, it doesn’t have Kubelík’s overwhelming emotional impact. Since not every performance in the Kubelík set is of equal quality (no conductor’s integral set is consistently great), I encourage you to add this disc to your collection. Audite’s 24-bit remastering brings out every detail of this performance with stunning warmth and clarity. I’d compare the sound favorably to any all-digital Eighth on the market.

La obra de Bohuslav Martinu es una caja de sorpresas para el aficionado. Los discos se suelen portar bien con el músico bohemio muerto en Suiza y de vez en cuando aparecen cosas nuevas, inéditos interesantes o versiones distintas que renuevan nuestra visión de obras ya conocidas. Además, el autor de Pasión griega ba tenido estupendos valedores discográficos, de Kubelik a Beloblávec entre los directores pero también grupos de cámara, solistas, checos casi todos, es verdad, con excepciones cuino la del grande y benemérito Mackerras – su disco con fragmentos de Julieta aparecido recientemente en Supraplion es impagable – o Neeme Järvi y Walter Weller con sus integrales sinfónicas. A ellos se simia ahora Vladimir Ashkenazy. como recogiendo el relevo de Christopher Hogwood, quien grabó para Arte Nova algunas piezas de Martinu con la Orquesta de Cámara de Basilea. Y se dice esto porque el ruso nacionalh.ado islandés se pone aqui al trente de la Orquesta Sinfónica de la misma ciudad suiza, aquella que en la Fundación Paul Sacher conserva el legado de Martinu, ese estudiado a fondo por Harry Halbreicht, quien lo ordenó definitivamente y ahora tiene el honor de ver asociada la H de su apellido a cada obra del compositor.

Este disco reúne dos conciertos para piano y orquesta. El Segundo se estrenó en Praga en 1935 – por Rudolf Firkusny y la Filarmónica Checa dirigida por Vaclav Talich. El mismo pianista lo reestrenaría igualmente en 1944 en Nueva York tras la revisión a que lo sometiera el autor, quien va pensó en ella nada mas escuchar por la radio, desde Paris, la première. El Cuarto se subtitula Incantation y es una obra espléndida. Es cierto que el Segundo es el mas conocido de los suyos pero este postrero, con la originalidad de los dos movimientos, la lírica exultante de alguno de sus episodios – ese estallido orquestal en el primer movimiento, por ejemplo – que recuerdan a Janácek, que hacen pensar en la dialéctica entre la plenitud inferior y la imposibilidad de volver a la patria, es ciertamente único en su género. Y, por otra parle, muy siglo XX, para entendernos, muy de esa onda estética que fundiendo neoclasicismo y eso que llamamos modernidad elude la vanguardia – no podía ser de otro mudo – para autoafirmarse en una suerte de discurso propio bien seguro de si a pesar de todo. Lo estrenarían, en Nueva York, Firkusny y Stokowski en 1956. Junto a los dos conciertos hallamos además una preciosa Obertura de 1953, de raigambre neoclásica – neobarroca más bien pues el pretexto son, con aplastante evidencia, tos conciertos de Brandenburgo de Bach – pero con un lenguaje que no puede ser más del autor y de esa su época final. Y como obra mas conocida del programa, quizá una de las cumbres de toda la producción de Marrinu, Los frescos de Piero della Francesca, de 1955, dedicada a Rafael Kubelik y estrenada bajo su dirección por la Filarmónica de Viena en el Festival de Salzburgo de 1956.

Las versiones de los dos conciertos están protagonizadas por un pianista nuevo para quien esto escribe, el suizo Robert Kolinsky, quien negocia las obras con la soltura propia – en lo técnico y estilístico – de alguien que ha estudiado con Jan Panenka y, a lo que se ve, asimilado a la perfección sus enseñanzas. Ashkenazy, por su parte, acompaña con excelencia en las obras concertantes y firma grandísimas versiones de la Obertura y Los frescos, haciendo sonar estupendamente a la orquesta suiza – se ha convertido en un trotamundos, de Praga a Tokio, de Sidney a Helsinki, de Londres a Basilea – , demostrando de nuevo tras su Asrael qué bien le va con este interés suyo por repertorios poco habituales y sumándose, en defintiva, a los grandes directores que se comprometieron con esca música tan hermosa y tan ilustradora de lo que han sido tos avalares de la cultura europea del pasado siglo. Un gran disco.

Mahler Fifth is a reminder that you can have everything in Mahler – intricate texturing, characterful playing, purposeful phrasing and a cumulative impact which leaves you breathless with exhilaration. Only Bernstein, also captured before an audience, can do the same, and although Kubelik pulls some very theatrical stops out as the clouds part in the second movement and the light fades from the scherzo. His generally faster-moving picture tells a very different story.

Mahler Fifth is a reminder that you can have everything in Mahler – intricate texturing, characterful playing, purposeful phrasing and a cumulative impact which leaves you breathless with exhilaration. Only Bernstein, also captured before an audience, can do the same, and although Kubelik pulls some very theatrical stops out as the clouds part in the second movement and the light fades from the scherzo. His generally faster-moving picture tells a very different story.