‘I only study things that suggest music to me’, Gustav Holst wrote to a friend in 1914. ‘That’s why I worried at Sanskrit. Then recently the character of each planet suggested lots to me, and I have been studying astrology fairly closely.’ He began work on The Planets that summer, but with his busy teaching schedule it took him more than two years to complete it.

The composer’s daughter Imogen speculates that ‘without the help of a clearly defined character for each of his seven movements it is unlikely he would have attempted to write a symphonic suite of such dimensions … He was in his fortieth year, and his ideas were becoming more and more insistent. Suddenly, with the character of each planet suggesting a strongly contrasting mood, he was able to express these insistent ideas in music that was different from anything he had written before.’

The suite was first performed at a private concert in London in September 1918 (thanks to Holst’s friend Balfour Gardiner, who footed the bill) by the Queen’s Hall Orchestra under the 29-year-old Adrian Boult. Gustav Holst himself conducted the first recordings of The Planets – an acoustic set in 1923 and, three years later, a re-recording using the new electric technology, both with the LSO. They reveal Holst’s abilities as an orchestral conductor to be adequate enough to provide an overall sketch of what he intended, although Imogen later warned (in reference to the 1974 LP reissue of the latter recording) that while the interpretation offers ‘many reminders of the rhythmical vitality of his live performances … it should never be referred to as “authentic”’. Noting the compromises involved with recording at the time, she adds that ‘it is important to realise that it cannot solve the problem of the right basic speed for each movement’.

To my ears, Holst’s conducting resembles Elgar’s in its dynamism and sweep. Imogen described it as ‘brimful of nervous energy’ and said her father ‘cared for each note with fiery intensity’. What comes across in both recordings, but especially in the better-played and sonically superior 1926 set, is each movement’s distinct character. Holst is a straightforward interpreter, almost to a fault, and often seems more interested in the big picture than in detail, yet there’s sufficient atmosphere and emotion to create a sense of vivid tone-painting. And even bearing in mind Imogen’s warning about authenticity, there are some crucial lessons to be learned.

Following the Queen’s Hall premiere, Holst wrote to Boult (who was preparing for The Planets’ first public performance) that ‘Mars, the Bringer of War’ should sound ‘more unpleasant and far more terrifying’ – and those characteristics are readily apparent in Holst’s own recording, where the bellicosity is indeed gut-wrenchingly blunt. ‘Venus, the Bringer of Peace’ is emotionally cool but glimmers with seductive passion in its central Andante section (aided by lovely portamentos in the strings). ‘Mercury, the Winged Messenger’ scurries along frenetically, and while the composer often struggles to maintain precision, the music unfolds in long-breathed phrases nevertheless.

‘Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity’ is marked Allegro giocoso but here it’s nearly manic in its verve, while the central section (now associated, for better or for worse, with the hymn version known as ‘Thaxted’) has the formality of a minuet. And, unlike many conductors since, Holst clearly (and excitingly) observes the Presto indication for the final bars. The composer’s favourite movement, ‘Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age’, starts with a sense of time relentlessly ticking away and only finds peace in the last half-minute. He told Boult that in the Queen’s Hall concert ‘the 4-flute tune was soft enough but try and get the timp, harps and basses also down to nothing. This part must begin from another world and gradually overwhelm this one … Make the climax as big as possible. Then the soft ending will play itself.’ Curiously, Holst did not heed his own advice in either of his recordings, although I very much like how disruptively alarm-like he makes the bell-clanging animato passages.

Imogen said, when Holst conducted ‘Uranus, the Magician’, that ‘its galumphing six-four tune was able to dance with cheerful abandon’. And she adds a warning: ‘Since then, the movement has become such a brilliant show-piece that there is occasionally a temptation to let the noise become aggressive instead of exhilarating.’ In Holst’s recording, the movement does indeed dance exhilaratingly, though in a relaxed way. ‘Neptune, the Mystic’ is neither serene nor comfortable, and every minor event registers as significant, no matter how small or how quiet.

BOULT, THE TORCH-BEARER

Adrian Boult recorded The Planets in 1945 with the BBC SO, the first of five studio recordings. While not quite as incendiary as his contemporaneous account of Elgar’s Second Symphony, it still packs a satisfying punch. ‘Mars’ moves with purpose, weight and menace; ‘Mercury’ is elegantly articulate; ‘Jupiter’ is ‘buoyant, hopeful and joyous’ (which Imogen said was her father’s ideal) with a stirring, hymnlike central section (apt for a wartime recording, I think). The slow tread of ‘Saturn’ is mesmeric, heightening the contrast not only with ‘Jupiter’ but also with ‘Uranus’, which swaggers memorably, while ‘Neptune’ provides an enveloping sense of awed mystery.

Boult’s 1966 New Philharmonia recording (his fourth) is worth hearing but is currently out of print. This is just as well, really, for despite a few instances of imprecise ensemble, I prefer his final account, taped with the LPO in 1978. ‘Mars’, more measured this time around, is absolutely harrowing, and then ‘Venus’ is painted in muted colours, as if our view were mediated by something gauzily luminous. ‘Jupiter’ has become slower and heavier, but is hearty in a way that seems lovably Falstaffian. The climax of ‘Uranus’ is thrilling (with a spine-tingling organ glissando) and in ‘Neptune’ the Geoffrey Mitchell Choir project the quality of an alluring, alien instrument.

A HI-FI SHOWCASE

Leopold Stokowski’s 1956 recording of The Planets for Capitol may not qualify as a stereo demonstration disc as the sound is a bit diffuse, but Stokowski’s legerdemain is a marvel nevertheless. He tinkers with the score here and there (because of course he does), but not in a way that’s distracting. ‘Mars’ is truly ominous, and although the brass-playing isn’t always entirely secure, Stoki’s colour palette is unusually broad. Is his ‘Venus’ too beautiful? Not for me, especially as his pacing is so sensitive to the music’s ebb and flow. ‘Jupiter’ starts out a little subdued, relatively speaking, but quickly becomes more characterful, while ‘Neptune’ is simultaneously lyrical and unsettled, which is in line with the composer’s own interpretation.

The first recording to present The Planets as a stereo spectacle came from Herbert von Karajan and the VPO in 1962, and Decca’s sound continues to impress. Karajan might seem an even more unlikely Holstian than Stoki, but the way he heightens the music’s contrasts is true to the work’s spirit. The fortississimo climaxes in ‘Mars’ are crushing in their power; if Holst wanted this movement to be ugly in its belligerence, that’s exactly what we get here. Might Karajan have listened to Holst’s own recording? The way he binds together the phrases in ‘Mercury’ certainly makes me think so. Note, too, how he gets the Viennese players to dig into ‘Jupiter’ with gusto but without sacrificing an ounce of finesse. Even ‘Thaxted’ sounds utterly fresh. I’d always thought that the first 20 or so bars of ‘Saturn’ paid homage to the opening of Sibelius’s Fourth Symphony, and never more so than here – but then again, Karajan’s interpretation of that symphony remains nonpareil. His ‘Saturn’ is a mini-music-drama all in itself, and one that suggests a palpable struggle to break free from time’s unceasing forward march. If ‘Uranus’ is slightly stodgy compared with Stoki’s, the beautifully integrated, shimmering details of ‘Neptune’ more than make up for it.

Karajan re-recorded The Planets in 1981 for DG with his own Berlin Philharmonic, but I don’t find it nearly as convincing. The Berliners seem far less comfortable with Holst’s style than the Viennese, oddly enough, and the entirety lacks the vivid characterisation that makes the Decca performance so persuasive.

I first got to know The Planets through William Steinberg’s 1971 DG release with the Boston Symphony (my hometown band), and revisiting it in this comparative context I’m pleased that it more than holds its own. Steinberg’s ‘Mars’ is a juggernaut – belligerent, yes, but also light on its feet. His beguilingly passionate ‘Venus’ is bound to be controversial as there’s little that’s cool or remote about it, although I personally find it difficult to resist. ‘Jupiter’ is vibrantly colourful, ‘Saturn’ mesmeric – even the clangorous climax unfolds as if in a single phrase – ‘Uranus’ tremendously exciting, and ‘Neptune offers a sense of depth and space that I believe has more to do with Steinberg’s craftsmanship than with microphone placement. The engineering is outstanding, however, although it might seem understated when heard alongside Zubin Mehta’s Decca recording with the LA Phil, also from 1971.

There are some marvellous moments in Mehta’s reading – the fortississimos in ‘Mars’ aren’t just loud, they’re implacable; he dramatises ‘Venus’ with serene outer sections cradling a febrile central Andante; and with its crisp, dancing and swaying rhythms, ‘Uranus’ is unusually playful. I do wish that ‘Jupiter’ was more fully characterised, and while ‘Saturn’ is beautifully played, Mehta seems to skim its surface, so the music lacks that hint of terror that makes the coda so consolatory. It’s easy to understand why audiophiles continue to treasure this recording, however, as it hits home in a way that no other version quite does; the sound is opulently rich and the big moments practically jump from one’s speakers.

It’s a pity that Decca’s production team couldn’t work quite the same magic for Georg Solti and the LPO, especially as this 1978 performance is often imaginative. Where many conductors let the quieter central section of ‘Mars’ simmer away, for instance, Solti gives us increasingly powerful ocean currents – so much so that I envision it as a naval battle. The high-lying violin passages in ‘Venus’ have a slightly unpleasant edge (due to the digital remastering, perhaps?) and I think the conductor might have demanded a greater hush in softer passages. His ‘Jupiter’ is predictably brilliant, although it comes off more as a showpiece than a character study. ‘Uranus’ goes like a shot but is generously phrased, while ‘Neptune’ is notable for its delicacy.

Decca’s engineers certainly got their mojo back in 1986 for Charles Dutoit and the Montreal Symphony Orchestra. Indeed, the recording uncovers detail without sacrificing atmosphere, enhancing the Gallic refinement Dutoit brings to this score. It’s not over-refined, however. The strings in the opening of ‘Mars’ are hair-raisingly sinister, and the climax of ‘Saturn’ seems crushing in its power. ‘Mercury’ is well-nigh perfect – soft, supple and feather-light – and ‘Jupiter’ is so ebullient it sometimes seems to be airborne. The organ glissando in ‘Uranus’ is breathtaking, and ‘Neptune’ conveys a rare sense of awe. A few details are slightly bothersome – the distended rallentando at the end of ‘Mars’, for instance, which incongruously conjures Darth Vader for me – but all in all, this is as much a musicianly view of The Planets as it is a sonic blockbuster.

From its founding, Telarc has positioned itself as an audiophile’s label, and so it’s hardly a surprise that it has issued three recordings of The Planets thus far. The most satisfying, both interpretatively and sonically, is Yoel Levi’s with the Atlanta Symphony from 1998. Like Mehta’s and Dutoit’s, Levi’s is a demonstration-quality disc, although he never treats the suite as a mere showpiece, and in fact myriad details emerge freshly thought out. At the ffff climax of ‘Mars’, for one example, the strings nearly match the power of the full orchestra’s cataclysmic scream (they have the same dynamic marking). ‘Venus’ manages to be intimate and heart-meltingly tender without any hint of sensuality; ‘Mercury’ dances and flows with airy ease and no sharp edges; The syncopations in ‘Jupiter’ are joyful without being punched hard. Why Levi holds back the tempo after the luftpause in the opening section is the one odd distraction (Holst only writes Meno mosso … accelerando … a tempo when it reappears following the ‘Thaxted’ tune), but otherwise he hardly puts a foot wrong.

BRITISH LUMINARIES

Simon Rattle’s first shot at The Planets came early in his career (1980), and it’s not among his most impressive efforts. It doesn’t help that EMI’s early digital sound is unflattering to the Philharmonia Orchestra or that there are various instances of untidy ensemble besides. His second go-around, recorded in Berlin in 2006, has much to recommend it besides immaculate playing and excellent sound. Although I find Rattle’s ‘Mars’ more loud than menacing and ‘Venus’ serene to the point of being sleepy, his ‘Jupiter’ is marvellously articulate in its Allegro giocoso outer sections and unexpectedly melancholic in the central Andante maestoso. Rattle’s slow-moving, weighty ‘Saturn’ becomes a monumental tone poem (à la Karajan), and ‘Neptune’ – very relaxed, like ‘Venus’ – is quietly dazzling in its colour and expressiveness.

Virgin Classics’ 1989 production with Charles Mackerras and the RLPO scores big musically, although the engineering tends to blur detail. Mackerras differentiates between fff and ffff in ‘Mars’ to shattering effect. ‘Jupiter’ glances back to Holst’s own highly caffeinated approach but it’s rollickingly joyous rather than manic. And Mackerras makes ‘Saturn’ a dark vision, with a grimly purposeful march and a coda that’s more resigned than consolatory. His ‘Neptune’ is special, too, because it has narrative thrust (much like Holst’s own recording) rather than being observational and aloof.

Vernon Handley, in his 1993 recording with the RPO, demonstrates that energy isn’t always dependent on speed. RPO Records’ sound quality is bright but has compensating oomph, and the performance itself is consistently compelling. He keeps ‘Mars’ clenched fist-tight; the syncopations in ‘Jupiter’ are razor-sharp without undue emphases; and the staccato rhythms in ‘Uranus’ dance with controlled ferocity. Ideally, the entrance of the Ambrosian Chorus in ‘Neptune’ would be more discreet, although from there on the result is sweetly atmospheric.

Of Andrew Davis’s three recordings of The Planets, only the second with the BBC SO from 1993 comes close to being wholly satisfying – thanks in large part to Teldec’s brilliant sound. ‘Mars’ is an adrenalin rush, with a slithering middle section that could be right out of Tolkien, and a truly violent climax. ‘Venus’ offers cool and welcome refreshment; ‘Mercury’ bubbles and laughs as it flows seamlessly. ‘Jupiter’ has some elements of stodginess (those passages in 3/4, especially) but the dark colouring he gives to ‘Thaxted’ is a thoughtful touch. ‘Saturn’, on the other hand, is too unrelievedly sombre for my taste, plus the bells aren’t sufficiently disruptive and the coda is dull rather than lustrous. The last three movements all seem strangely drab, honestly.

John Eliot Gardiner and the Philharmonia Orchestra offer another mixed bag on their superbly engineered 1994 DG disc. Gardiner’s ‘Mars’ is grimly determined but ultimately lacking in urgency and tension. ‘Mercury’ abounds with humour and is played with quiet virtuoso flair. Gardiner treats ‘Jupiter’ almost flippantly; ‘Uranus’ skips along nimbly but is far from a danse macabre; and ‘Neptune’ hovers aimlessly. One bright spot is the angelic singing of the Monteverdi Choir.

A more satisfying traversal of The Planets was led by Mark Elder, who elicits impressively accomplished playing from his Hallé band, and Hyperion’s 2001 recording is a knockout. I do wish that Elder differentiated between fff and ffff in ‘Mars’, and that his ‘Neptune’ wasn’t quite so matter-of-fact (although it’s more engaging after the voices enter), but the preceding movements are all compelling. A sense of urgency in the central Andante of ‘Venus’ sets the outer Adagio sections in stark relief; ‘Mercury’ is exceptionally colourful, thanks to the Hallé’s woodwinds; ‘Jupiter’ is joyfully articulate and its central ‘Thaxted’ tune is sung with endearing simplicity; ‘Saturn’ boasts a warmly compassionate coda; and ‘Uranus’ is painted in bold colours.

AMERICAN STARS

Although Leonard Bernstein’s Columbia recording was made in 1971, the same year as Steinberg’s and Mehta’s, the sound quality is overbright and overmiked, spoiling an otherwise insightful interpretation. ‘Mars’ moves with military precision; ‘Mercury’ smiles charmingly (with what sounds like a celesta that’s pitched down an octave); ‘Jupiter’ has tremendous joie de vivre; and the bells in ‘Saturn’ evoke the clangour of Nibelheim (in homage to John Culshaw, perhaps?). Yes, ‘Neptune’ is too loud, but I love that the Camerata Singers sound like an ondes martenot.

André Previn recorded The Planets twice – with the LSO in 1973 for EMI and with the RPO in 1986 for Telarc. There’s not a tremendous difference between the two, but for me the earlier version is more memorably characterful. The brass solos in ‘Mars’ could have more presence, yes, but it’s still a ferocious performance. ‘Venus’ is other-worldly, and there’s an affecting hint of tragedy at the end of ‘Saturn’. I also appreciate that the magician in ‘Uranus’ is seriously malevolent rather than a Disney figure. Some may find the Ambrosian Singers over-sensual in ‘Neptune’ (bringing echoes of Ravel’s Daphnis), but all the orchestral details are seamlessly integrated. And it’s all captured in demonstration-quality sound.

You might imagine that John Williams would give a swashbuckling, technicolour rendition of this score, but on his 1986 Philips recording with the Boston Pops we get instead Williams the craftsman elucidating Holst’s handiwork. He clarifies the various motifs in ‘Mars’; ‘Mercury’ moves like quicksilver within a moderate tempo; the central tune in ‘Jupiter’ splits the difference between minuet and hymn (surely Williams had heard Holst’s recordings); and ‘Uranus’ dances unhurriedly, allowing the conductor to make the most of the music’s delightful cross-rhythms. It’s all conspicuously unshowy yet abounds with character, incident and colour.

MORE RECENT EXPEDITIONS

I wouldn’t be surprised if Vladimir Jurowski had studied Holst’s recordings, too, as his 2009 LPO performance is strikingly propulsive, from the desperate call to arms in ‘Mars’ (capped by a calamitous ffff) to the unconventional fluidity of ‘Neptune’. And the overall feeling of frisson is more than just a by-product of a live concert, I think, as it’s palpable even in the cooler realm of ‘Venus’ and the chilling tick-tock of ‘Saturn’. ‘Jupiter’ goes like a shot, too, yet its giddiness is always light-hearted. The recorded sound is quite good considering, and the LPO meet their conductor’s sometimes challenging tempos with panache.

Looking back a century to Holst’s own recordings and the audible struggles of the LSO of the 1920s to meet the score’s technical challenges, it’s heartening to turn to the National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain, who play like pros for Edward Gardner on a 2016 Chandos disc. In the pounding fortississimos of ‘Mars’, for example, he has the NYO construct an imposing wall of sound, while the strings’ scurrying pianissimo passages in ‘Mercury’ are fantastically clean as well as quiet (something few major-league orchestras manage). There’s a distracting gear-shift after the slithering passage in ‘Mars’, and I’m not a fan of children’s voices in ‘Neptune’, but the NYO’s collective prowess is reason enough to cheer this release.

THE BRIGHTEST CELESTIAL BODIES

Choosing a single ‘best’ recording of The Planets is no easy task, as several recordings in this survey do the suite justice. Stokowski, Karajan (with the VPO), Steinberg, Bernstein, Dutoit, Williams, Levi and Jurowski all come to the music from outside the English tradition, yet are successful in creating a memorable cast of planetary characters and giving each of them dramatic life. If we limit ourselves to British conductors, my list would have to include Mackerras and Handley, not forgetting top-tier accounts from Malcolm Sargent (his mono account, now on Pristine – 8/54), James Judd (Denon, 3/93) and Charles Groves (ASV) that I’d hoped to include if space had allowed. If I were forced to select a single recording to live with until the end of my days, I would likely choose Boult’s from 1978. Some 60 years earlier, the composer wrote in the conductor’s score: ‘This copy is the property of Adrian Boult who first caused The Planets to shine in public and thereby earned the gratitude of Gustav Holst.’ We should all be grateful.

TOP CHOICE

LPO / Adrian Boult

Warner Classics

Boult conducted the first performances of The Planets, and his understanding of the score is so profound that there’s no need for him to impose any undue interpretative encrustations. This last of his five studio accounts still sounds terrific, too, nearly half a century after it was recorded.

THE OFFBEAT CHOICE

Boston Pops / John Williams

Philips 

The Boston Pops is not quite a world-class orchestra but that hardly matters. The film composer’s deep love for this suite is audible in every bar of this recording, and his illuminating, insider’s view of Holst’s score is accomplished without any skimping on drama, atmosphere or incident.

THE AUDIOPHILE’S CHOICE

Los Angeles PO / Zubin Mehta

Decca 

Zubin Mehta’s performance only falls short in comparison with the most stellar accounts. Decca’s vintage recorded sound, however, wows me every time. If you want to put your hi‑fi kit through its paces, you can’t do much better than this – and if you can find the original LP to spin, well, even better.

THE HISTORIC CHOICE

LSO / Gustav Holst

Naxos

Holst may have rushed through movements to fit them on to shellac discs, and the LSO sounds under-rehearsed, but the composer’s own interpretation remains invaluable. Definitive it’s not, but it is vivid, dramatic and manages to convey much of the music’s spirit. Mark Obert-Thorn’s transfer is amazingly fine.

This article originally appeared in the September 2024 issue of Gramophone. Whether you want to enjoy Gramophone online, explore our unique Reviews Database or our huge archive of issues stretching back to April 1923, or simply receive the magazine through your door every month, we've got the perfect subscription for you. Find out more at magsubscriptions.com