La combinación de ambos, fuego y hielo, cerebro y corazón, sencillamente ideal, unida a la sabiduría de Kubelík que completa este triángulo musical para la historia, y además muy bien grabado para la época. Aquí no hay excesos sino una atmósfera asfixiante que en vez de estallar se apaga en un descenso mágico y espeluznante hacia las tinieblas para hundirse en el mar de lágrimas. Un merecido homenaje a su centenario y un esencial que lo ubica junto a los infaltables registros de Fricsay, Pierre Boulez, Istvan Kertesz y el reciente de Ivan Fischer.

La Messe en la bémol (1828), chef-d'œuvre de synthèse spirituelle et musicale, jouit d'une discographie luxueuse, presque idéale ; à elle seule, la Radio bavaroise en a fourni deux des interprétations les plus abouties, sous Sawallisch (Emi) puis Giulini (Sony) : à la justesse perpétuelle de ton, fruit d'une approche souple et ductile du premier a répondu la vision très creusée, parfaitement unifiée, du second. Ce live capté quelques années plus tôt ne peut prétendre à une telle postérité, fût-il offert dans un nouveau son, en SACD. Bien installé dans son règne munichois (1961-1979), Kubelik ose une option très personnelle, aérée et articulée, mais qui pose davantage de questions qu'elle n'en résout. Ainsi dès l'entame, cette Messe oppose à l'oreille son esthétique tout en petites césures : pour autant la phrase respire-t-elle, vit-elle vraiment ? Plus loin (Gloria), pourquoi le chœur, qui bonifiera en quelques décennies, propose-t-il ces « Glorificamus te » si verticaux, statiques ? Et nous passons sur le jeu des cordes, étonnamment plus rêches que soyeuses, des fugues par trop empesées ou heurtées, l'intonation un peu problématique (« Miserere » !). Jour sans ? Ce serait occulter les rais de lumière qui traversent de part en part la lecture de Kubelik, comme dans le thème en croix de l'Agnus Dei, qui esquisse des reliefs choraux saisissants (le pupitre de mezzos !). Et le plateau de solistes, bien que peu sollicité dans cette œuvre, est d'une maîtrise remarquable.

Dieser Live-Mitschnitt stellt eine echte Erweiterung der Kubelik-Diskographie dar, denn "Das Lied von der Erde" fehlt in seinem Studio-Mahler-Zyklus. Kubeliks Lesart zählt fraglos zu den bleibenden Einspielungen dieses bewegenden Werks. Ihm standen in Janet Baker und Waldemar Kmentt zwei ausgezeichnete Solisten zur Verfügung. Zwar reicht Kmentt nicht an Fritz Wunderlich heran, doch für eine unretuschierte Live-Aufnahme bewältigt er den schwierigen Tenorpart mehr als achtbar und überzeugt auch durch sensible dynamische Schattierungen. Janet Baker kann sich dagegen durchaus mit Kathleen Ferrier und Christa Ludwig messen, einige wenige Schärfen in der Höhe nicht gerechnet.

La combinación de ambos, fuego y hielo, cerebro y corazón es sencillamente ideal unida a la sabiduría de Kubelík que completa este triángulo musical para la historia, y además muy bien grabado para la época. Aquí no hay excesos sino una atmósfera asfixiante que en vez de estallar se apaga en un descenso mágico y espeluznante hacia las tinieblas para hundirse en el mar de lágrimas. Un merecido homenaje a su centenario y un esencial que lo ubica junto a los infaltables registros de Ferenc Fricsay, Pierre Boulez, Istvan Kertesz y el reciente de Ivan Fischer.

There were improvements to be made on Abbado’s 1980 Vienna recording of Mahler 3, especially given dim timpani strokes and sour chording in the final bars, and this live 1999 performance with the Berlin Philharmonic in London’s Royal Festival Hall gains in terms of refinement. Surprisingly, perhaps, the lyrical high-spots move faster than before, rather than slower, relating more tellingly either to their folksong roots (the posthorn serenade) or to the world of searing music drama, whether supporting the deeply expressive phrasing of alto Anna Larsson or bringing the Parsifal touch to the finale. Abbado’s miraculous flexibility has been honed to a fine art, as the flower-piece now tells us, and the inner-movement textures are as supernaturally and beautifully ‘live’ as Rattle makes them on EMI. The explosive ‘panics’ of the Symphony, though – and I use the term in the original, godlike sense Mahler intended – are never as threatening as either Rattle or Kubelík, in another live performance captured just before his 1968 studio recording, make them. Kubelík’s reading dates from a time when every orchestral nerve was straining to register the shock of the new, and if this occasionally means sour intonation and brass solos much less rounded than those of Abbado’s aristocratic Berliners, it does come closer to the anarchic voices of nature which resonate throughout the Symphony. This and other later instalments in Audite’s Kubelík Mahler cycle are much nearer in time to his DG studio recordings than revelatory early instalments, but his intensely mobile, very Bohemian point of view is worth hearing in either format.

This concert from 24 April 1969 demonstrates how the concerto should be--but often is not--done. The relaxed, sinuous entry of the violin in the first movement immediately tells us we're about to be treated to some great musicmaking. The 21-year-old Zukerman's unforced, sweet-toned playing has all the fresh, vibrant, unaffected honesty of an astonishingly gifted young performer riding the great wave of confidence and energy that comes with first arriving at artistic maturity. His grasp of the solo part is masterly and completely self-contained. Nothing is wanting.

Zukerman tackles the first movement cadenza with no apologies for its virtuoso-showpiece qualities, but he also brings to it nuanced expressiveness. He links it organically to the rest of the movement, rather than treating it as a tacked-on party piece. As it is through the entire performance, his tone is firm but never forced, harsh, squeaky, or abrasive. There is polish without blandness, and a wonderful silvery quality to it, like nicely patined fine silver.

The slow movement starts off shakily in the orchestra, with some untidy ensemble and sour playing from the clarinet. Then Zukerman enters and all becomes sweetness and expressive light again. Despite his brilliant handling of the first movement's keen technical demands, his playing in II is tinged with just the right gentle Tchaikovskian melancholy. It is neither heavy and tragic nor sentimental. The finale is remarkable for its freshness, vitality, and breathtaking, crisp articulation from the soloist, despite the brisk pace he and Kubelik take. The atmosphere of these proceedings is anything but "ho-hum, we're doing the Tchaikovsky again".

Kubelik was not a great Tchaikovsky conductor, but here he leads a solid, sensitive accompaniment and he doesn't fight the soloist for control. They work together, and we--and the audience at the concert--are the beneficiaries. Nevertheless, there is some inconsistency to his handling of the orchestra.

For example, the two waltz-like orchestral climaxes in I are superb--noble, spacious, elegant--but the transitional passages directly afterward are slack and directionless. The Bavarian Radio Symphony, then as now, is clearly not one of the world's first-rank orchestras, but the unfortunate moments from the orchestra pass fairly quickly.

Zukerman's playing binds the proceedings together with a superb concentration and focus that are all too rare even in concerts. One question: Is the solo work as beautiful as Repin's on the new Philips disc I reviewed last issue? Oh, yes--much more so. It approaches the level of the classic Szeryng/Munch RCA recording. Even in an outrageously overcrowded field, this performance stands out, though patches of scrappy orchestral work prevent me from making an unqualified recommendation. Rather than serve as one's only recording of the piece, this is a good supplement for a collection that already contains the Szeryng, Heifetz/Reiner (RCA), Stern/Rostropovich (Sony), and Mutter/Karajan (DG). After all, who can get by with only one copy of the Tchaikovsky concerto?

Kubelik's take on the symphony is clean and professional but nothing special. The trumpets in the ominous first movement fanfares are strident and shrill, but the woodwind playing is better than in the concerto. Kubelik churns up some fury in the big, gangly first movement, but he lets it become episodic, lacking the dramatic build this music should have. The conviction and frisson of the great performances just isn't anywhere to be heard. Kubelik is serviceable, not incandescent, and efficient rather than moving, despite his audible stomping during some of the high-stress passages. At least the Munich audience is pleasantly quiet, despite the April date of the concert.

There are many better recordings out there, starting with Kubelik's own earlier Chicago Symphony account. Even there, his take on the work is rather driven, hard-edged, and forced--and not helped by Mercury's glassy LP sonics (which would undoubtedly benefit from modern digital remastering). I certainly would turn to Bernstein (Sony, rather than the later DG), Karajan (preferably EMI), Muti (EMI), Ormandy (Sony), and Monteux (RCA) first. Those interpretations differ widely in character, but they all have far more to say than Kubelik.

Audite's sound is good FM-quality stereo, with a natural balance between soloist and orchestra and no distortion. There is some hail ambiance, a sense of air around the instruments, and a touch of reverb (added in the remastering?). The lower bass is a bit muddy. The sound is not dry but also not lush and tropical. Tape hiss is minimal--almost inaudible on speakers, though I could hear it when I put on some high-end headphones and boosted the treble unnaturally high. The packaging doesn't indicate if the recording has been put through No Noise or a similar noise-reduction process. Under normal playback, the treble is clean and clear but not brittle.

Audite is in the process of assembling a complete Mahler cycle with Kubelík and the Bavarian RSO from radio relays. So far the recordings date across a period of 15 years‚ with this Das Lied von der Erde‚ broadcast in February 1970‚ among the earliest. Kubelík’s Mahler is heard here at its most typical‚ so much at ease with the sound­world and tempo of the music that other conductors can seem heavy­ handed by comparison. It is at the other extreme from the explosive collision of emotions that makes Bernstein’s recordings so intense and choppy: Kubelík is natural‚ easy­going‚ fresh in his delight at the score’s exquisite detail. Although the poems of Das Lied refer to several seasons‚ this performance surely belongs to the spring‚ when ‘the dear earth everywhere blooms… and grows green again’. Waldemar Kmentt is strong and sure in the tenor songs but rather pedestrian. There is not much sense of wide­eyed wonder at the arrival of spring or uninhibited hedonism as the wine is being poured. Dame Janet Baker already features on several other recordings‚ including a live broadcast on BBC Legends‚ but no two of her performances of this work were the same. Here‚ in 1970‚ she sings with much pure‚ vocal beauty and a desire for intimacy that is remarkable in a large concert­hall. In the second song the close to each rising phrase is beautifully handled. The fourth song is graceful‚ though less sensuous than on her Philips recording under Haitink. In the final ‘Abschied’ the voice truly sails ‘wie eine Silberbarke’ on hushed legato lines shimmering with intensity.

Some may prefer to stick with studio recordings of Das Lied‚ where the orchestra has had the luxury of extra takes to polish every detail‚ but there are no complaints about the Bavarian orchestra here. There are also a few studio recordings (Karajan and the Solti among them) that perform technical somersaults to end up with a recorded balance less satisfying than here.

Schubert's sixth and final mass (seventh if you count his German Mass) is his masterpiece in the genre and part of the incredible gush of musical glories from his final months. It gets far fewer performances than it deserves. The work is built on the innovations first seen in his previous A-flat Mass, also from his final years (1826). Both works – especially this one – offer the kind of scope and dimensions characteristic of his great C-major Symphony.

Schubert was certainly familiar with his idol Beethoven's Missa Solemnis and paid tribute to it here. Running nearly an hour, its “heavenly lengths” indeed approach the dimensions of that choral behemoth. But, unlike Beethoven (who didn't care whom he offended), Schubert couldn't bring himself to entirely abandon the strict Viennese church music protocols of the day. So he avoided Beethoven's humanistic overtones, wrote distinctly non-operatic parts for his soloists, and stuck to subdued orchestration that eschewed “frivolous” instruments like flutes. Remember, Schubert was deeply steeped in the classical mass tradition, having sung the best ones by Haydn and Mozart as a Hapsburg Court choirboy under Salieri.

But why look for hints of Beethoven from Schubert's gentle soul? He has left us here what he's best at: broad rivers of long-breathed melody, ingenious modulations, gut-wrenching beauty – and his own sweet sincerity of spirit. No composer captured moods and emotions – including sacred ones – more honestly or effectively than Schubert. Just as he can sound happier, more playful, more lovesick, more agitated, or more depressed than any other, he can sound more pious and reverent as well. Even though Schubert was insecure about his abilities as a contrapuntalist, he achieved sacred drama and solemnity here (and further supported sacred traditions) by means of some very impressive polyphony, especially the massive fugues that end both the Gloria and the Credo.

This account – recorded in concert – is a dream come true. Rafael Kubelik is a Schubertian to the core and taps this ethereal score for every drop of its spiritual exaltation. Chorus, orchestra, and soloists are all caught up in his spiritual spell and perform splendidly. All of the rather subdued solo roles are beautifully handled, but I fell in love with Gundula Janowitz’s radiant soprano all over again. Their ‘Et incarnatus est’ ensemble, not far into the Credo movement – ravishing, gently rocking interlude in 6/8 time – is unforgettable.

This is part of a new Super-Audio series from Audite, dubbed “Listen and Compare”. Each release contains two versions of the same recording. One is a sophisticated digital restoration of the original concert tapes, re-engineered for multi-channel SA; the other – also copied into the SA format – presents the otherwise unrestored historical archive. And therein lies the only fly in the ointment for me. My SA player duly delivered the very lush and detailed restoration in totally ear-pleasing fashion, but wouldn't read the tracks containing the undoctored copy of the source tapes. Having noticed no other defects in my equipment, I hesitate to lay the blame on it. Perhaps the producers of this recording should be aware that some SA players apparently can't handle their product.

But no matter: a sublime masterpiece, sympathetically performed by legendary artists and reproduced in rich, clear sound is always welcome. I'll look forward to future releases from this series.

Like Audite’s disc of Kubelik’s Mahler Sixth (reviewed in 25:5), this recording was made at a concert that preceded the studio recording of Mahler’s Third issued by DG as part of Kubelik’s complete cycle. And like the performance of Mahler’s Sixth, this one illuminates many facets of its conductor’s art.

Kubelik’s performances of the “massive” Mahler—the Second, Third, and Eighth—were less purely monumental than either Solti or Bernstein, his contemporaries in the early Mahler-cycle stakes. Kubelik often celebrates the smaller, finer gestures, so the sense of struggle between elemental forces in the first movement of the Third isn’t as pronounced as it is with the other two, especially Bernstein. Unfortunately, the sound on this new disc makes less of an impact than that on DG: The orchestra is recessed, so that the imperious horn calls and march are less so. Orchestral detailing is notable, but there are several rough patches where intonation is less than secure. There are occasions in the development where the tempo seems rushed—the sense of momentum isn’t organic. This is less of a problem on the DG recording.

Not surprisingly, the minuet is exquisite on the DG. It is no less so on the Audite, where the stereo image is just as sharp (though tape hiss is a distraction). The sound on Audite is somewhat thin, adding a metallic sheen to the winds. The playful Scherzo is also delightful, full of the small gestures I alluded to, such as the perfectly judged post horn solos. Marjorie Thomas contributes an “O Mensch!” that is fully characterized, though her voice seems to emerge from an echo chamber; the balance between choruses on “Es sungen drei Engel” is also problematic, with the women dominating the boys. Kubelik’s employment of divided violins makes the all-important string writing extra clear in the final Adagio. His is an interpretation not without emotion, but with an overall sense of balance that works extremely well.

As with the previous Audite Mahler/Kubelik, this disc is primarily of historic value, vital for those who don’t already own the DG set. It is an interpretation worth hearing, with the caveats concerning the sound as noted above.

Pierre Fournier made a number of appearances at the Lucerne Festival and this release provides examples of three such visits given over a 14-year period between 1962 and 1976. There’s an excellently written booklet to go with it.

One of the works with which he was most associated was Dvořák’s Concerto. His recording with Szell in 1962 for DG is probably the most well-known example, but those sympathetic to more intimate and introspectively collaborative rapport will probably gravitate to the less well-recorded but beautiful 1948 recording with Rafael Kubelík conducting the Philharmonia. There’s compelling evidence that he habitually took the finale a notch or two faster in concerts than in the studio – for evidence turn to the Szell-directed Cologne broadcast of November 1962 (on MM028-2) or to the powerful reading with Georges Sebastian in Prague in 1959 with the Czech Philharmonic (Arlecchino 169). This Lucerne broadcast has the significant advantage of Istvan Kertesz directing one of the major works of the composer that he was never able to record in the studio. Fournier tended to establish tempi in the first movement, although Sebastian seemed to drive him fast in Prague – and whilst there was clearly some room for latitude elsewhere in the concerto, notably so with Szell in Cologne in the slow movement, this is a standard Fournier tempo. French cellists seldom fell into the trap of drawn-out sentimentality in this work; their approach was one of dignity, though never hauteur. No one was a more dignified exponent of this work than Fournier whose bowing remained supple and unshowy, and whose tonal resources were never placed at the altar of flamboyant display. Concentrated and focused, and warmly expressive there are a few metrical displacements that momentarily imperil co-ordination with Kertesz, but they are trivial in the context. The winds are forward, orchestral pizzicati register well and the sound-stage is excellently preserved. This isn’t as intimate a performance as the one he recorded in 1948 but it has huge virtues of its own, not least the way Fournier, the great chamber player, responds to the wind soliloquys in the slow movement and fines down his tone in response to them. The brass is at its best in this movement as well. The finale works splendidly, with Fournier making a characteristic small but telling slide at the most apposite moment. Kertesz directs here, and throughout, with flair and authority.

There are no surprises discographically, either, in the next work, the Saint-Saëns A minor Concerto, with Jean Martinon in 1962. He’d recorded this back in 1947 with Walter Susskind in London, and it’s one of the works to be found in retrospectives devoted to the cellist. The balance between solo cello and orchestra is a bit cruder here than in the Dvořák as it places the cello quite far forward. In the Dvořák it was more meshed with the orchestral sound, without ever being drowned. His tone, as a result, sounds just a bit more nasal than one is used to. Martinon directs the RTF well, though it sounds pretty much Fournier’s show, with the cellist leading fluently into the central Allegretto with great facility. There’s no sense of him coasting and a very few cello squeals in the finale attest to his spirit of adventure. Audience applause is retained.

It’s Fournier himself who introduces his Casals encore, given at the festival in September 1976. His playing is once again refined and avoids any hint of the overwrought. Fournier has the support of the Festival Strings Lucerne directed by Matthias Bamert.

Though these live performances are, in a sense, ancillary to his studio legacy they do represent some exceptionally fine performances. Additionally admirers of Kertesz will find he is as perceptive a Dvořákian in the concerto as he was in the symphonies and tone poems.