These recordings were made between 1952 (Lenore) and 1954 (No. 8) with the RIAS (Radio in the American Sector) orchestra under studio conditions in the Jesus-Christus-Kirche, home to Karajan’s first stereo Beethoven cycle for DG a decade later. A recording of the Overture appeared on disc as part of an EMI Fricsay collection reviewed by James Miller in 26:2, but I believe it was a live transcription rather than the studio version heard here. The Audite engineers have done a very creditable job, providing a clean-sounding remaster with plenty of instrumental detailing—the winds in the Presto from No. 7, for example; the sound is on the bright side, but there is quite adequate bass as well.

The performance of the Seventh is impressive, with little of the “measured, weighty approach” that Miller detected in Fricsay’s performance of the “Eroica.” Tempos aren’t quite up to those supported by the latest research, but the only other remnants of old-school Beethoven interpretation that some (like me) will find objectionable are the omission of repeats in the first movement Vivace and in the fourth movement Allegro con brio. Those cuts aside, this is an enjoyable, spirited performance, with a convincingly fluid Allegretto and a rollicking, boisterous Presto.

As annotator Friedrich Sprondel writes, “Fricsay moves his performance of the Eighth towards the Seventh,” mostly by investing the first and last movements with a four-square deliberateness, and presenting the Eighth as the logical if slightly anachronistic bridge between the Seventh and the majestic Ninth. Absent the kind of light-textured, energetic reading more regularly heard now, this Eighth becomes monotonous, a kind of lumbering pixie trying to impress with its nimble footwork. The orchestra is impressive, however, and can’t be faulted for whatever disappointment the performance produces.

The recording of the Lenore Overture shows its age more than the symphonies, with copious tape hiss and exceedingly thin-sounding brass. This is a dramatically convincing (if occasionally slow-paced) performance, however, evidence of Fricsay’s years in the opera house (where he programmed the overture at the end of the opera as a kind of “dramatic résumé”).

Aficionados of Ferenc Fricsay will want this disc; I can happily recommend it to those listeners interested in postwar Beethoven and high-quality mono-era recordings.

So many recorded concerts derived from radio tapes have proven disappointing, it comes as a refreshing surprise to hear each of these releases. Most striking in this regard is the Testament disc. Drawn from tapes made by the BBC, it offers stereo sound that is equal to that of studio efforts of the period. Indeed, in listening to the Strauss, it was hard to determine whether it was Karajan’s conducting or the exceptional engineering that was so seductive. Not having heard the conductor’s other recordings of the work, I cannot judge how this performance compares to them. But as an example of the brilliance of the Philharmonia Orchestra and a flair for color that Karajan did not always display, this performance makes this disc worth having. The account of the Beethoven Fourth is not nearly as distinguished. Shorn of repeats in outer movements and rather bland, it lacks the wallop of some of Karajan’s studio efforts, the strongest among them the first of three he recorded for DG.

The Audite release, by contrast, is remarkable on a number of levels. For one thing, each of the symphonies it offers was recorded at a concert marking a historic event, the “Eroica” from one that comprised the first post-war public appearance of the Berlin Philharmonic, that of the Ninth occurring on the 75th anniversary of that orchestra. Musically, each is a defining point in Karajan’s approach to Beethoven. The earliest of the conductor’s surviving accounts of the “Eroica” is a 1944 performance with the Prussian State Orchestra of Berlin (possibly still available on Koch 1509). It is the broadest of the six Karajan versions that I have heard. This 1953 account is very different. In many respects it anticipates the lean, comparative fleetness of the conductor’s last (all digital) effort for DG. Indeed, it is often a more incisive version than Karajan’s recording from the previous year with the Philharmonia Orchestra. But it also features occasional rhythmic ruptures that characterized Furtwängler’s approach, albeit less extreme. Unfortunately, the sound, although ample in presence and free of tape hiss, is marred by an unpleasant metallic harshness in the strings that cannot be neutralized with a treble control. But a flexible equalizer should help to improve things. This Ninth Symphony from five years later is remarkable for the way it echoes Karajan’s first studio effort (with the Vienna Philharmonic from 1947, still available on a single EMI CD). Particularly noteworthy are the cascading, explosive legatos of the first movement and, on the negative side, some undue haste in the finale. But this live account offers greater intensity in the second movement, where a first repeat (omitted in 1947) is included. Moreover, it is sonically better than that recording, and vastly superior in that regard to the strident “Eroica” included in this set. A few bloopers from the horns simply add to the “live” ethos. Certainly, for those who admire Karajan, this release should have great appeal.

Never having heard Karajan’s EMI recording of Fidelio (1970), I cannot say how it compares to this live one of 13 years earlier. But having read unfavorable reviews of that later one, I doubt if they are similar. Put differently, this is a compelling production, laudable in several ways. The sound is better than that of many live Orfeo productions I have heard: wide in frequency response, sufficiently well balanced so that characters never seem to move too much off of the microphone, and encompassing a dynamic range, its only lack is the dimension that stereo can provide. It is the fifth live account of the opera in my collection. The others include two led by Bruno Walter at the Met (1941and 1951, both with Flagstad in a three-CD West Hill set sold only outside the U.S.), two led by Furtwängler at Salzburg (with Flagstad, 1950 and Martha Mödl in 1953, the latter on a now hard-to-find Virtuoso set, 2697272, where at one point the orchestra falls apart in the Leonore No. 3), and the fine 1961 Covent Garden production led by Klemperer, with Sena Jurinac in the title role, a kind of graduation from her many phonographic appearances as Marzelline.

This 1957 performance marked Karajan’s first summer at Salzburg and is unlike any of the others just cited, less shapeless and better disciplined that either of Walter’s, more propulsive, yet with a wider range of tempos than Klemperer’s or either of those led by Furtwängler. It also features one oddity I’ve never previously encountered: in what (presumably) may have been an attempt to avoid applause at the end of the rousing Leonore No. 3, Karajan launches immediately into the courtyard finale by cutting its opening chords and choral “Heils.” On first hearing, it comes as a shock, but it makes dramatic sense. So does the entire performance. The comparative lightness of the first act never drags, Nicola Zaccaria’s projection of Leonore’s “Abscheulicher” and “Komm, Hoffnung” aptly fierce and tender, the Prisoners’ Chorus a poignant blend of tenderness and assertion. Florestan’s act II opener, “In des Lebens Frülingstage,” may be a bit too sweet-toned for one in a dungeon, but is nonetheless superbly sung. Ironically, the kind of dreary dankness suggested in some studio recordings through the use of echo is absent here, but the scene is still compelling. And the other singers are all more than adequate. Most of all, one hears this performance not as a recording, but as a dramatic theatrical experience. Even those who own some of the other live accounts cited here (Klemperer’s is especially distinguished) would do well to investigate this one. Orfeo provides a plot summary but no libretto.

Though the Brahms quartet leads off the program here, it’s the quartet by Felix Otto Dessoff (1835–1892) that’s the more noteworthy item. As you can see from his dates, he was an almost exact contemporary of Brahms, and the two men had close ties. Dessoff, however, was not, in the manner of so many others of the same time and milieu, a Brahms wannabe. In fact, his career took him in a different direction, away from composing and into conducting. It was in this latter capacity that he was best known, eventually working his way up to director of the Frankfurt Opera. As conductor, Dessoff premiered a number of Brahms’s orchestral works, including, in 1876, the composer’s First Symphony. Dessoff composed very little of his own—the current 1878 F-Major String Quartet being his most widely known (perhaps his only known) work—but either he was full of himself or he and Brahms had a very fun-loving, jousting relationship; for in dedicating his quartet to Brahms, Dessoff wrote, “You will be relieved to see your name on the title page of the quartet preserved for posterity. When people have forgotten your German Requiem, people will then say, ‘Brahms’? Oh yes, he’s the one to whom Dessoff’s op. 7 is dedicated!”

Audite and the Mandelring Quartet (Sebastian Schmidt and Nanette Schmidt, violins; Michael Scheitzbach, viola; and Bernhard Schmidt, cello) have released two companion discs to this one, pairing each of Brahms’s other two string quartets with a quartet by a near contemporary. Brahms’s C-Minor Quartet is paired with a quartet by Friedrich Gernsheim, and the B♭-Major Quartet is paired with a quartet by Heinrich von Herzogenberg.

My previous encounter with the Mandelring came with four cpo CDs of chamber music by Georges Onslow, in which repertoire I thought they were quite good. The field for Brahms’s quartets, however, is far more crowded; and the present release does not have timing on its side, having arrived not long after the Brahms set with the Emerson Quartet. While the A-Minor Quartet is not as tightly wound and aggressive as its sibling C-Minor Quartet, there is still a nervous unease to it that the Mandelring’s more laid-back reading seems to miss. The playing is beautiful, but it’s a bit too relaxed for my taste and lacking the edginess that the Emerson brings to the score.

For the Dessoff, choice is extremely limited, the current recording being the only one listed. Experience has taught me, however, to make a more thorough check before declaring a recording to be the first or only one in existence. And sure enough, a quick perusal of my own collection turned up a 1983 Antes CD (319023) of the piece played by the Bartók Quartet. It has the advantage of being coupled with a 1986 performance of Dessoff’s even more rarely heard 1880 G-Major String Quintet. In a case of reverse influence, it may be that Brahms’s own two string quintets may have been inspired by Dessoff’s earlier written work, though Brahms chose to follow Mozart’s model with two violas, while Dessoff chose Schubert’s model with two cellos. Whether the Antes disc is still available or not, I can’t say.

Dessoff’s F-Major Quartet could not be mistaken for Brahms, no how, no way. The harmonic language is similar, but the melodic profile doesn’t match, the texture is lighter, and the overall mood is gay—more reminiscent of Johann Strauss’s Vienna than Brahms’s. Listen, for example, to the Poco andantino that serves as the quartet’s Scherzo movement. Most delightful is the last movement, Allegro con brio, a joyous, jocular affair that dashes breathlessly here and there like a busy aunt arranging the table decorations and everything else for a wedding reception. It’s a lightweight, playful piece that makes a fine foil to Brahms’s much darker and heavy-hearted work.

Playing and recording are excellent. Recommended.

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Para haberse opuesto ferozmente a las grabaciones y no haber pisado el estudio desde los años 50 (su última grabación ¡de 1953! fue el Concierto para violín de Brahms, con Ida Handel y la London Symphony Orchestra, para Decca, disponible en Testament), poco a poco la dispersa discografía de Sergiu Celibidache se va ampliando hasta adquirir proporciones considerables, acorde con su justa fama. Para los admiradores del maestro siempre será escasa. Quince años después de su muerte, apagados los ecos de las macroediciones de EMl (Munich) y DG (Stuttgart, Suecia), que ahora se venden en funcionales cajotas a precio de saldo, aun queda espacio para la novedad y la sorpresa. En el boletín n° 181, de mayo de 2009, comenté una magnífica caja del sello Orfeo con grabaciones de la Radio de Colonia de los años 1957-58. Ahora Audite, adelantándose un año al centenario del director rumano (1), publica un estuche de tres compactos con grabaciones poco conocidas y varios inéditos del periodo 1948-57, con la Filarmónica de Berlín y la Orquesta de la RIAS (luego Sinfónica de la Radio de Berlín).

En la etapa berlinesa ya habían buceado antes sellos como Arkadia, Tahra, Music & Arts y Audiophile Classics. Lo que Audite publica, con el mejor sonido posible, son las cintas originales conservadas en los archivos de la RIAS (hoy Deutschlandradio Kultur). "Por su inferior calidad", Audite ha desechado las grabaciones "oficialmente destruidas ", aunque se sabe que hay copias que perviven en otros archivos y en colecciones privadas. Parte de ese material excluido lo publicó hace años Audiophile: cosas como el Concierto "Capricornio" (1944) de Barber, el Concierto para soprano coloratura y orquesta (1943) de Glière (también en Myto y Music & Arts), o la Novena (1945) de Shostakovich (también en Tahra). Arkadia y Music & Arts editaron sendos álbumes de 4 compactos con jugosos registros, como El mar de Debussy (también en Tahra), el Concierto para violonchelo de Dvorák (con Tibor de Machula, primer chelo de la Filarmónica de Berlín – después lo fue de la Concertgebouw – y no Pierre Fournier, como erróneamente señalan algunas ediciones espurias), la Sinfonía de réquiem (1940) de Britten, la Obertura-Fantasía "Romeo y Julieta de Tchaikovsky o la Sinfonía en Do de Bizet. El sello de la Filarmónica de Berlín ha publicado un CD con Jeux de Debussy, la Cuarta de Mendelssohn (también en EMI Great Conductors of the XX century) y la Suite francesa (1944) de Milhaud (hay versión con la Filarmónica de Munich en EMI).

Estas reveladoras grabaciones nos muestran a un arrebatado e inmaduro Celibidache empeñado en romper moldes (siempre fiel a sí mismo), interpretando repertorio infrecuente al frente de una orquesta depositaria de la Gran Tradición; después lo haría abordando el repertorio tradicional con un enfoque infrecuente. En 1948 programó un monográfico Gershwin (Celi adoraba al judío americano, prohibido durante el nazismo) con la Orquesta de la Radio: Rhapsody in blue, Un americano en París y Concierto para piano en Fa. Se agotaron las entradas para los dos conciertos. En la Rapsodia (versión orquestada por Ferde Grofé), el pianista Gerhard Puchelt, coetáneo del director, rescatador de olvidados compositores románticos y defensor de la música contemporánea, responde al modo académico, con seriedad, recursos justos, bon goût y escaso swing. Por el contrario, Celi, intuitivo, al frente de una orquesta masiva y pesante, es libérrimo, con más intención que dominio del estilo. Una curiosidad. Mayor interés presenta la grabación pionera (1948, ¡en estudio!) de la Rapsodia española de Ravel. Aunque con el tiempo puliría el concepto (mayor control, no sólo rítmico, en Feria) y la puesta en sonido, el taller del alquimista ya funcionaba por entonces, y sus resultados en los compositores franceses eran muy superiores a los de Furtwängler.

No hay muchas oportunidades de escuchar, ni siquiera en disco, el Concierto para violín, pieza exigente, representativa del "joven clasicismo" de Ferruccio Busoni (2), que requiere un virtuoso del instrumento. Aquí se luce y sufre (afinación aproximativa en algunos pasajes especialmente endiablados) Siegfried Borries (1912-1980), concertino de la Filarmónica desde los 21 años, con sonoro acompañamiento de aviones (3). Cierra el primer CD una soberbia, intensa obertura de Anacreonte, de Cherubini, que Celi gustaba colocar de starter (también Toscanini), no para calentar, sino para impactar al público. El espléndido segundo disco está dedicado a obras estrictamente contemporáneas: el bello Concierto para piano y orquesta (1945 , estrenado en 1947) de Paul Hindemith (Gerhard Puchelt repite como pianista), el Concierto para flauta y orquesta de cámara (1944) de Harald Genzmer, discípulo de Hindemith (con el estupendo flautista Gustav Scheck, uno de los responsables del revival de la música barroca en la primera mitad del siglo XX), y la suite del ballet Primavera apalache (1945), de Aaron Copland, que recibe una lectura sorprendentemente idiomática. Podemos disfrutar aquí del Celibidache comprometido, campeón de la música de su tiempo, que organiza conciertos consagrados íntegramente a música contemporánea y apoya activamente a compositores como Genzmer, de quien estrenó en Munich su Tercera Sinfonía (1986). Esta interpretación de su Concierto para flauta (4) posee valor documental, pues la partitura se perdió poco después.

Además de la deslumbrante interpretación de Introducción y fuga para cuerdas (1948) de Reinhard Schwarz-Schilling, arreglo de un movimiento de su Cuarteto en fa de 1932, el tercer disco contiene un concierto que con el tiempo se ha convertido en histórico. Ausente de Berlín tras la decepción que le produjo la designación de Karajan como titular de la Filarmónica, que el rumano había dirigido entre 1945 y 1954, Celibidache regresó en 1957 para dirigir a la Orquesta de la Radio un concierto homenaje con motivo del 70 cumpleaños de su maestro, Heinz Tiessen. Fue su despedida de Berlín. Celi no volvió a la capital alemana hasta 1992, cuando dirigió a la Filarmónica una memorable Séptima de Bruckner, editada en su día en VHS y LD por Sony.

NOTAS

(1) Este año se celebra el centenario de otro rumano ilustre, igualmente en la diáspora: Emil Cioran.
(2) Hay pocas grabaciones, casi todas excelentes pero de difícil localización, entre las que destacan: Joseph Szigeti/NYPO/Dmitri Mitropoulos (M&A), Manoug Parikian/RPO/Jascha Horenstein (LP), Jaime Laredo/BBCSO/Daniel Barenhoim (lntaglio), Franz Peter Zimmermann/RAI-SO/John Storgårds (Sony), Adolf Busch/RCO/Bruno Walter (RCO).
(3) Debido al Ilamado Bloqueo de Berlín, bloqueo del ferrocarril por parte de los soviéticos, los aliados se vieron obligados a fletar un número inusual de aviones para transportar a la gente a la zona controlada por ellos, lo que se denominó Puente aéreo de Berlín.
(4) El Rondó final comienza exactamente igual que Fêtes, segundo número de los Nocturnos de Debussy.

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