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Doráti

Kodály
Háry János Suite 

Bartók
Divertimento for Strings

Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra

Antal Doráti conductor

Rec. 1950  

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PASC 134    

A March 1985 Gramophone review of this live 1952 Furtwaengler Brahms C Minor Symphony in Vienna (from EMI) called the performance "incomparable," which, considering the plethora of Furtwaengler Brahms readings extant, becomes a hearty claim. Most striking, the tone of the VPO strings, horns, and winds sustains its warm purity throughout, and the sustained melodic line of the first movement finds a consistent buttress in the tympanic girding of the ur-rhythm. That Furtwaengler saw the C Minor Symphony of Brahms as a direct extension of the Beethoven Ninth has become common currency, so a solemn energy pervades the whole that contains both menace and spiritual consolation. The Andante sostenuto receives, indeed, a lyrical flow that receives dramatic import without undue heaviness, an organic nostalgia that sings in spite of whatever personal malaise sounds ominously prior to the appearance of the conciliatory first violin, whom I assume to be Willi Boskovsky.

R.O. in his 1985 review stated that "the reading is full of insights. Nothing is wasted, not even the Allegretto e grazioso third movement which Furtwaengler treats as a microcosm of the symphony. . ." The "microcosm" notion, a clear allusion to the Beethoven procedure operative in his own last movement of the Ninth, may or may not find a receptive ear in every auditor, but Furtwaengler certainly educes a visceral response to the third movement's middle section, whose subsequent horn calls assume a more Wagnerian character than the otherwise bucolic sentiments usually warrant. A deliberate marcato slows down the energy of the movement, now rife with portent, as its coda prepares for the dire shadows of the fourth movement's Adagio. After the pizzicato interlude, Furtwaengler builds a colossal wall of sound up to the tympani roll prior to and included within the Schwarzwald aura of the horn call and its string support answered by the flute.

The well-familiar hymnody proceeds with noble fervor, and its evolution, canonically or sequentially, gains impressively clear vigor and resolution. The power of Furtwaengler's transition to the recapitulation proves as noteworthy as the tumultuous development, and uncanny moments of light, of startling inwardness, manage to escape from the often turbid ebb and flow of emotions. The extended coda will provide for Furtwaengler devotees opportunities to indulge in metaphysics, but the musical effect hurtles us forward with a transcendent resolve, the con brio richly textured in spite of any tragic muse.

The Haydn Variations from the same concert (27 January 1952) reveal the same attention to color detail as the C Minor Symphony. A stately Andante sets the tone of the St. Antoni Chorale, and the variants follow in solemn, vivacious, or gracious character, as required. Furtwaengler called the Vienna Philharmonic his "mistress," as opposed to the "wifely" duties and ministrations of the Berlin Philharmonic, and a genial but vibrant resonance permeates each of the transformations, and the Brahms penchant for siciliani (No. VII) finds a responsive vehicle with these collaborators. The French horn in the con moto variation (III) suffers a cracked note, but the general level of intonation proves accurate, especially as restoration engineer Andrew Rose has adjusted to the tuning to standard pitch. Flute and low strings gather an immense cloud to themselves in the Andante con moto (IV). The next two variations dispel any ideas that a lugubrious tempo prevails, since Furtwaengler, too, can shake the ground when he desires. The peroration, as per expectation, projects the grand heroism we expect from Furtwaengler, and the audience well appreciates the moment.

Furtwaengler made studio recordings of a few, selected Hungarian Dances between March and April 1949. Whatever 78 rpm crackle that may have intruded has been vanquished, and the G Minor urges a vivacious and oceanic, if tragically hued, gypsy dance. The D Minor I believe is usually numbered at 6, and its polka-like opening breaks out in to a gypsy dance that reminds us at once of Liszt and Sarasate. Bruno Walter also gave the No. 10 (Presto) loving attention; Furtwaengler's alternates between a pesant energy and a whimsical bravura that quite takes the breath away.

(PASC340, 75:06)

 

The Guido Cantelli (1920-1956) legacy enjoys a happy restoration from Andrew Rose with this live New York Philharmonic concert from 21 March 1954. The major work, Luigi Cherubini's Symphony in D Major (1815) may well legitimize for many listeners Beethoven's accolade of the composer as "the greatest dramatic composer of his time." The music manages a fascinating cross between Haydn's nobility of spirit and the eminently relentless energy Beethoven can usher almost at will. Even at the Largo introduction to the Allegro first movement, Cantelli elicits a glowing response from his ensemble, and the Carnegie Hall sonics only embellish the intensity of effect. High, exhilarated spirits reign, rife with Cherubini's own version of Mannheim Rockets. The moments of counterpoint pile on rather thickly, the technique almost anticipatory of the Berlioz notion of polyphony. The galloping figures ring with bright authority, and the more lyrical figures bask in Mediterranean sunlight.

The second movement, Larghetto cantabile, projects a rather Wordsworthian image of pastoral solitude touched by moments of illuminated grandeur. Cantelli does not particularly linger over the proceedings, yet the sudden surges of energy can still startle and delight us. The Philharmonic woodwinds certainly shine, and the strings, including some resonant bass fiddles, have their own claim to fame.  The rather blustery Menuetto receives an impish reading, a subtle synthesis of Haydn and Mendelssohn, metrically intricate at times. The Trio section urges a parlando quality over an ostinato that captures the folk spirit much in the manner of the later Verdi. The robust virility that Cantelli brings to his readings permeates the Finale: Allegro assai, music that proves as nimble as it is buoyantly and confidently carefree. The sheer virtuoso appeal of this Cantelli performance should endear this music as required listening by connoisseurs and initiates alike.

There must be a certain irony in the fact that Mitropoulos performed the Richard Strauss symphonic poem Death and Transfiguration in 1956 as part of the Cantelli Memorial Concert, a point I have made previously in my review of Cantelli's 27 December 1952 concert with the NBC Symphony (rev. 9 February 2012).  In even superior sound to the NBC rendition of Tod und Verklaerung, Cantelli embraces both the fatal menace of the sick room and the ultimate release of a spirit in pain. French horn James Chambers offers some brilliant flourishes in the course of the spasmodic episodes of turmoil and bittersweet recollection. In fact, the entire NY Philharmonic brass section commands the spotlight, offering majestic swaths of sound, aspirations for a sustained epiphany of vision. Winds and harp, a combination rife with Mahler, infiltrates the latter pages, Meno mosso, a section that virtually throbs with luminous intensity. The last pages convince us that the passing of a hero has taken place, and that Promethean impulse belongs to Everyman. An appreciative audience concurs.

Busoni's Berceuse elegiaque has the subtitle "The man's cradle song at the gravesite of his mother," and the piece received its official premier 21 February 1911, as part of the mortally ill Gustav Mahler's last appearance before an orchestra. Busoni described his work as "Poesy for sixfold string quartet [six violins, six violas, six celli, six double basses] with mutes; three flutes, one oboe, three clarinets, four horns, gong, harp, and celesta." Often, the strings suggest a cold wind blowing across a desolate landscape or feet treading on a grave. Cantelli and Toscanini each championed this eerie piece, though Cantelli seems not to have rendered it with the NBC. The somewhat unsure audience applauds cautiously.

Busoni's Op. 53 Dance-Waltzes were written in tribute to Johann Strauss, and Busoni claimed they were inspired by strains of music overheard from a coffee-house. Like Ravel's La Valse, the swaying rhythms and swirling melodic riffs pay homage to bygone age. A kind of drunken revel infiltrates the dances, and they become rhythmically askew, perhaps a response to the 1920s sensibility of their origin, that post-apocalyptic malaise that defines "the lost generation." I would rank this Cantelli version and one by Jascha Horenstein as the two dominant realizations of this darkly jesting score.

(PASC343; 68:01)