Despite the (necessary!) tailing off in complete cycles over the last decade, recordings of Mahler symphonies are far from drying up. Rafael Kubelík and Claudio Abbado recorded the first and second such cycles for DG ­ in a period, from the late 1960s to the early 1990s, during which Mahler passed unstoppably from the periphery to the epicentre of today's musical culture.

As with his live Sixth Symphony (reviewed in June 2002), Kubelík's live Third is contemporary with his studio account ­ still among the most spontaneous on disc. Similar virtues are in evidence here, though some will question the rushed ascents to the Kräftig's climactic peaks (listen from 11'51" and 27'00"), which undermine an otherwise fluid, coherent approach to this too-often sprawling movement. The Menuetto's coda (8'26") is winsome, while the posthorn interludes of the Comodo (5'32" and 12'51") have a repose to contrast with the fantasy that Kubelík captures elsewhere. Marjorie Thomas is thoughtful rather than profound in the Nietzsche setting, and the balance of boys' and women's voices in the Wunderhorn movement lacks definition. Kubelík again rushes his fences in the finale's central climax (13'42"), but there's no doubting his overall command of form and expression. String playing is assured throughout, though wind intonation in the closing pages (21'09") is raw to say the least.

This is something that could not be levelled at any stage of Claudio Abbado's live traversal: indeed, the fastidious balance and clarity of texture are remarkable even by his standards. An emotional detachment is evident in the opening movement ­ notably the central development (15'46"), where Abbado evinces little of the character or imagination of Kubelík. After a powerfully sustained reprise (23'42"), the coda is curiously stolid, lacking the joyful discharge of energy essential at this point. The Menuetto, pellucid in tone and manner, is perfectly judged; the Comodo lacking in an imaginative dimension, and with a posthorn balance (listen from 5'21") so distant as to be more a timbral shading than a melodic contour. Abbado's way with the Nietzsche setting ­ a tensile arioso, with Anna Larsson ideally poised between agitation and restraint ­ is spellbinding, as is the glinting aggression drawn from the orchestral passage after the Wunderhorn movement's central section (2'16"). In the finale, the inner intensity of the Berlin Philharmonic's playing, and the unerring pacing across its 22-minute span secure an apotheosis that eluded Abbado in his disappointingly bland Vienna account. The audience is suitably impressed, though to retain three minutes of applause on disc does seem excessive.

The sound on the Audite release is decent and not too scrawny, and there are inscrutable booklet notes from Erich Mauermann: worth hearing, though Kubelík's studio account should be made available as a competitive 'twofer'. The DG engineers have worked hard to open up the notoriously cramped Royal Festival Hall acoustic ­ and if the results convey little sense of a specific acoustic, balance of ensemble in a believable ambience makes for a sympathetic listen, enhanced by comprehensive notes from Donald Mitchell. This is a recording which can rank high, if not quite with the best, of those listed.

Despite the (necessary!) tailing off in complete cycles over the last decade, recordings of Mahler symphonies are far from drying up. Rafael Kubelík and Claudio Abbado recorded the first and second such cycles for DG ­ in a period, from the late 1960s to the early 1990s, during which Mahler passed unstoppably from the periphery to the epicentre of today's musical culture.

As with his live Sixth Symphony (reviewed in June 2002), Kubelík's live Third is contemporary with his studio account ­ still among the most spontaneous on disc. Similar virtues are in evidence here, though some will question the rushed ascents to the Kräftig's climactic peaks (listen from 11'51" and 27'00"), which undermine an otherwise fluid, coherent approach to this too-often sprawling movement. The Menuetto's coda (8'26") is winsome, while the posthorn interludes of the Comodo (5'32" and 12'51") have a repose to contrast with the fantasy that Kubelík captures elsewhere. Marjorie Thomas is thoughtful rather than profound in the Nietzsche setting, and the balance of boys' and women's voices in the Wunderhorn movement lacks definition. Kubelík again rushes his fences in the finale's central climax (13'42"), but there's no doubting his overall command of form and expression. String playing is assured throughout, though wind intonation in the closing pages (21'09") is raw to say the least.

This is something that could not be levelled at any stage of Claudio Abbado's live traversal: indeed, the fastidious balance and clarity of texture are remarkable even by his standards. An emotional detachment is evident in the opening movement ­ notably the central development (15'46"), where Abbado evinces little of the character or imagination of Kubelík. After a powerfully sustained reprise (23'42"), the coda is curiously stolid, lacking the joyful discharge of energy essential at this point. The Menuetto, pellucid in tone and manner, is perfectly judged; the Comodo lacking in an imaginative dimension, and with a posthorn balance (listen from 5'21") so distant as to be more a timbral shading than a melodic contour. Abbado's way with the Nietzsche setting ­ a tensile arioso, with Anna Larsson ideally poised between agitation and restraint ­ is spellbinding, as is the glinting aggression drawn from the orchestral passage after the Wunderhorn movement's central section (2'16"). In the finale, the inner intensity of the Berlin Philharmonic's playing, and the unerring pacing across its 22-minute span secure an apotheosis that eluded Abbado in his disappointingly bland Vienna account. The audience is suitably impressed, though to retain three minutes of applause on disc does seem excessive.

The sound on the Audite release is decent and not too scrawny, and there are inscrutable booklet notes from Erich Mauermann: worth hearing, though Kubelík's studio account should be made available as a competitive 'twofer'. The DG engineers have worked hard to open up the notoriously cramped Royal Festival Hall acoustic ­ and if the results convey little sense of a specific acoustic, balance of ensemble in a believable ambience makes for a sympathetic listen, enhanced by comprehensive notes from Donald Mitchell. This is a recording which can rank high, if not quite with the best, of those listed.

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.

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Il est fascinant de constater grâce au disque combien certains artistes ont pu évoluer au cours de leur carrière, particulièrement dans le cas d’un musicien comme Curzon (1907-1982), qui avouait volontiers que son Mozart changeait « chaque semaine ». Bien au-delà d’une différence de galbes, de phrasé ou d’acoustique, ses 21e et 24e Concertos avec Kubelik des années 70 offrent une approche assez distincte de celles que nous connaissions de lui par ailleurs – avec Krips, Kertesz, Britten ou d’autres… Les poids allégé du son, la tension très marquée des phrasés, l’envergure des cadences (de Busoni pour le 21e, de Marius Flothuis et George Szell pour le 24e) sont bien loin du Mozart emporté qu’il avait pu nous donner par ailleurs. Quant aux concertos de Beethoven, toujours live avec Kubelik, ils marquent si besoin était une évolution – frappante dans le cas de « L’Empereur » par rapport au Decca officiel – vers un art débarrassé de tout effet, et ne tendant que vers la seule lumière.