Mahler   
Symphony No 2, ‘Resurrection’

Yvonne Kenny sop  Jard Van Nes mez
London Philharmonic Choir; London Philharmonic Orchestra / Klaus Tennstedt
LPO LPO0044
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Recorded live at Southbank Centre’s Royal Festival Hall, London on 20 February 1989 Klaus Tennstedt was always at his best in the two symphonies where Mahler “lets the people sing”, the Second and the Eighth, and his finest recorded statements of both works were recorded “live” at the Royal Festival Hall. This version of the Second throws open its arms to embrace a broader world than the good but less exceptional EMI recording of some eight years earlier: the later total timing adds an extra four minutes to its studio predecessor.

Taken down as part of the invaluable “Music Preserved” initiative, this particular performance is the second of two that Tennstedt gave early in 1989, quite different to the first according to the critic Richard Morrison who contributes a perceptive and sympathetic booklet-note. The evidence, which is for the most part superbly recorded, is imposing, the first movement embracing the full range of emotional extremes from despair to exultation, often revelatory in terms of both detail (the telling presence of the bassoon near the opening) and scale. Speeds, whether constant or shifting, are thoughtfully negotiated; the movement’s quietly ascending string figures are breathtakingly controlled, and the moments of sudden drama, humbling in their effect. I’m not sure that I agree with Morrison that Tennstedt’s “unrelentingly tragic view of the symphony admits no respite” in the second movement, where to my ears “respite”, of a kind, is precisely what we do experience, albeit a mere few miles from the edge of a precipice.

The third movement is rustic and playful, the “Urlicht” (the one movement that is marginally swifter than on the commercial recording), warmly sung by Jard van Nes. The finale is of truly epic proportions, though I found the march-episode after the great percussion climax at 10'36" (disc 2, track 4) a mite underpowered, the only part of the performance that is, though the catharsis that follows a few minutes afterwards is colossal. The choral apotheosis grows by stages and the sum effect is both inspirational and moving, knowing as we do that this “experience” (the only word for it, really) was granted us at the tail-end of a remarkable career. Of recent live versions, Klemperer with the Vienna Symphony (in passable mono sound, on Testament) tops Tennstedt for savagery and impulse, but anyone who fancies the idea of a performance charged with a very personal spirituality that transcends mere “personality”, one that’s for the most part beautifully played (the cellos in particular excel) should look no further. It’s as worthy a tribute to a great conductor as one could hope to have. Rob Cowan

Read Michael McManus's recent survey of Klaus Tennstedt's live recordings