‘Break the machines!’ roared Arturo Toscanini – so the apocryphal story goes – after being told by an engineer that taping the NBC Symphony at the volume the conductor desired would damage the recording equipment. The work in question was Ottorino Respighi’s Roman Festivals, the third of his Roman Trilogy, but it could just as easily have applied to the noisier sections of the two more famous symphonic poems that concern us in this Collection, Fountains of Rome and Pines of Rome, particularly the decibel-crunching march along the Appian Way that brings the latter to a thunderous close.

Toscanini was instrumental in the success of all three works. Indeed, he was meant to conduct the 1916 premiere of Fountains of Rome, but that concert ended prematurely thanks to his being heckled for including music by Wagner earlier in the programme. Fountains flopped when the first performance eventually took place in 1917, the Orchestra dell’Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia playing under Antonio Guarnieri. When Toscanini conducted it at the Milan Conservatory in 1918, the composer was so convinced it was going to fail again that he didn’t even bother travelling to hear it. But the performance was a great success and Tito Ricordi, Respighi’s publisher, sent a telegram to describe the enthusiastic reception. Respighi’s response read: ‘In Toscanini’s hands, everything takes on strength and colour; he understands and brings out the composer’s innermost thoughts.’

Lavish orchestrations: Respighi honed his craft under Rimsky-Korsakov (photography: Lebrecht Music Arts/Bridgeman Images)

The first performance of Pines of Rome in 1924 – again by the Santa Cecilia, this time conducted by Bernardino Molinari – received a mixed reception. The first movement, ‘The Pines of the Villa Borghese’, was hissed, but during the closing bars of ‘The Pines of the Appian Way’, the audience was on its feet, cheering. Just over a year later, Toscanini conducted the US premiere (his debut with the New York Philharmonic) and dragged Respighi to the stage afterwards, joking, ‘Come share my success!’

Postcards from Italy

Fountains and Pines have always been the most popular of Respighi’s compositions. Audiences lap them up, even if some critics have been rather sniffy about their picture-postcard qualities in depicting the Eternal City. ‘Respighi is a slick manipulator of the orchestra,’ reported Gramophone on the first recording of Fountains (7/28). ‘He scarcely ever gives us a memorable idea.’ They are pictorial rather than narrative and, in the preface of each score, the composer wrote a description of each section. Respighi’s orchestrations are truly lavish – in 1900 he studied with that master orchestrator Rimsky-Korsakov – and he spares nothing in the paint he throws at the canvas.

Fountains depicts ‘four of Rome’s fountains contemplated at the hour in which their character is most in harmony with the surrounding landscape’. It is framed by pastoral scenes beyond the bustling city centre – the Valle Giulia at dawn and the Villa Medici, high on the Pincian Hill, as the bell tolls for Vespers. In between, we see the Triton Fountain, practically a musical setting of this wonderful description by Gabriele D’Annunzio in his 1889 novel Il piacere (‘The Child of Pleasure’): ‘Bernini’s fountain shone strangely in the sun, as if its dolphins, conch and Triton had been turned into a more diaphanous material, not stone nor yet crystal, by some interrupted metamorphosis.’ Then we stroll upon the grandiose Trevi Fountain, immortalised by Anita Ekberg frolicking in its waters in La dolce vita, in the bright glare of midday, Neptune’s chariot drawn by sea horses.

Pines opens with children playing boisterously in the groves of the Villa Borghese, a raganella (cog rattle) whirring frantically, before we are transported to trees fringing the entrance to Rome’s catacombs, from which strains of plainchant are heard and a solitary offstage trumpet laments. The Janiculum depicts pines silhouetted against a moonlit sky and features as a cadenza a nightingale – not depicted by a musical instrument but via a gramophone recording (specified in the score as R6105). Finally, a misty dawn on the Appian Way dissolves into a vision of past glories, a consular army marching triumphantly towards the Capitol. Respighi bolsters the brass section here, calling for six buccine (a coiled military bugle used by the imperial army), which in practice means flugelhorns or trumpets and trombones.

Pines was composed just two years after Ravel’s miraculous orchestration of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition – both works include scenes of children playing and catacombs – but musical debts are also paid to Strauss in Fountains, the series of chords on woodwinds, celesta and harps in the Valle Giulia surely drawn from the Silver Rose motif in Der Rosenkavalier.

There’s no doubting the scores’ cinematic qualities. Respighi’s orchestral forces are vast, and capturing them on disc – as Toscanini discovered – is a huge challenge, which is why Pines and Fountains are as much showpieces for recording engineers as they are for great conductors and their orchestras. The first recordings were by Albert Coates and the London Symphony Orchestra (Fountains, 1927‑28; 7/28) and Lorenzo Molajoli and the Milan Symphony Orchestra (Pines, 1928; 6/29) – where, incidentally, the gramophone nightingale commences its warbling a good three bars early! But this Collection will focus on pairings of these symphonic poems rather than isolated recordings (allowing for the occasional exception), which means starting with Toscanini himself.

Rome, viewed Stateside

No disc quite conjures up raw excitement in such vivid detail as Arturo Toscanini’s with the NBC SO. It’s a fierce, dry recording, made in Carnegie Hall, and Toscanini and his engineers don’t stint on the decibels. The sound can be congested and it’s a punchy, aggressive reading to boot, which can weary the ears. Toscanini doesn’t hang around, so there’s plenty of breathless excitement as the Trevi surges and soars. But there’s poetry too, the swooning strings and cascading harps of the Villa Medici especially lovely. Some of the playing is not enjoyable – the clarinet is nasal, the oboe vinegary – so this won’t feature in my top recommendations, but for historical reasons it should be essential listening.

Eugene Ormandy recorded the pair twice with the Philadelphia Orchestra (for Columbia in 1957‑58 and RCA in 1973). The earlier recording is the stronger one. The Philadelphia clarinet and oboe are better than their NBC equivalents and Ormandy is faster in Pines than Toscanini … but both his accounts are pretty anonymous. The offstage trumpet in Catacombs is far too close on both occasions – Respighi marks it in the score il più lontano possibile (as far away as possible) – and his marches along the Appian Way are brisk but characterless. The best Philadelphia disc is Riccardo Muti’s red-blooded 1984 performance. There is beautiful playing and Muti builds impressive crescendos, but EMI’s digital recording is mushy and doesn’t have as much clarity as Columbia and RCA’s analogue efforts for Ormandy.

Respighi (left) with his wife Elsa and Reiner, whose recording takes the palm (photography: Tully Potter/Bridgeman Images)

Turn from Philadelphia to Fritz Reiner and the Chicago Symphony and it’s like having your ears syringed. Even 60 years on, the clarity of this 1959 recording is still outstanding. The Chicago horns whoop lustily at the opening of the Triton Fountain and the harps, piano and percussion ripples spray jets of water everywhere. Reiner drives the Trevi Fountain episode with thrusting energy. The Borghese gardens are riotous – vulgar in the best possible way – and in Catacombs, the lower woodwinds and tam-tam are wonderfully resonant. The eloquent trumpet solo – suitably distanced but audible – is touching. The Chicago oboe tone can sound a little thin in places but the cor anglais takes careful note of dynamics in its recitative as the mists clear by the Appian Way. The RCA Living Stereo booklet note includes a vivid account of the recording process. Reiner was a noted disciplinarian – ‘If you are not quiet, I will take your chairs away!’ he warned his players – yet these performances feel wonderfully exuberant and are sonically spectacular, produced by Richard Mohr, who was also at the helm for Toscanini’s NBC recordings.

Another sonic spectacular in its day, Antal Dorati’s Minneapolis Symphony on Mercury Living Presence (1960) now shows its age, with quite a degree of tape hiss. The string tone is thin rather than sumptuous and I dislike the wheezy oboe. The brass, however, is juicy enough for the Trevi episode and the engineers perfectly balance the nightingale’s sublime appearance against the strings and celesta. In 1968 the orchestra changed its name to the Minnesota Orchestra and they can be heard in a superbly produced Pines under Eiji Oue (Reference Recordings, 3/02), a great demonstration disc for trialling new speakers. The performance is grand, with an imposing Catacombs and a thunderous Appian Way, although the Borghese episode is a touch deliberate. Alas, no Fountains, but the disc does include my primary recommendation for the Suite from Respighi’s exotic ballet Belkis, Queen of Sheba.

For suave sophistication – yes, in Respighi! – turn to Seiji Ozawa and the Boston Symphony. The strings have a satin sheen, the offstage trumpet is beautiful, the woodwind solos polished. Even the nightingale is well behaved. I worried that Ozawa wouldn’t let his players off the leash, but the Appian Way is suitably exciting and he gives his horns their boisterous head in Triton and Trevi. There are poetry and layers of gauze in the outer movements of Fountains and I enjoyed this disc very much.

Edo de Waart and the San Francisco Symphony have their moments – sensitive playing in the Janiculum – but the performance often feels too polite, without the required sparkle. The brass sometimes get lost in the Borghese melee and the bells in the Villa Medici are almost inaudible. I was similarly disappointed by Naxos’s 2018 recording of the Buffalo Philharmonic under JoAnn Falletta, where the Triton horns are recessed compared to the piano, harp and celesta. When the percussion obliterates the brass up the Appian Way, you’ve got balance problems, and the triangle practically gets a solo in the Borghese gardens! The performances themselves are bland.

Telarc gets a big, glittery sound for Louis Lane and the Atlanta Symphony, brilliantly engineered to encompass the spatial brass in the Pines finale. Trevi is very exciting with its surging brass ejaculations, there’s a massive crescendo in Catacombs and a top-quality clarinet in the Janiculum episode, too. If anything, Telarc’s sound for Jesús López Cobos and the Cincinnati Symphony is even finer, with super-wide stereo adding excitement and lots of brassy punch. Certainly a disc to consider.

Leonard Bernstein only recorded Pines with the New York Philharmonic (paired with an equally fruity Festivals rather than Fountains). In contrast, Giuseppe Sinopoli’s New York readings are fastidiously detailed but lack energy. He takes a very deliberate tread along the Appian Way, a bloated trudge, and the Borghese games seem little fun.

Fun is clearly off the agenda completely for the Pittsburgh SO with Lorin Maazel. He gets some very beautiful playing (the hushed atmosphere in the Janiculum is special) but the horns are too well behaved at the start of Triton – which definitely needs some vulgarity – and the march along the Appian Way is more of a sprightly bounce. Maazel’s earlier recordings of Pines (Berlin Philharmonic and Cleveland – DG, 2/60; Decca, 11/77) are preferable, but they come without Fountains.

Best of British

British orchestras have scored a number of successes in Respighi’s double bill. There’s a touch of Hollywood Technicolor in Decca’s Phase 4 recording of Charles Munch and the New Philharmonia – glossy strings, woodwinds spread across the stereo spectrum, even a flock of antiphonal nightingales in the Janiculum! It sounds gaudy, although Munch’s direction veers towards the cautious; the plainchant in Catacombs is torpid and Triton is not especially playful. However, the strings swoon, and the extra brass in the Appian Way is hugely satisfying in a naughty-but-nice way.

István Kertész recorded enjoyable accounts with the London Symphony Orchestra (Decca, 7/69), available on Eloquence. The LSO is also on fine form for Lamberto Gardelli, who was better known as an opera conductor. He gets lots of drama from Borghese but allows tension to sag in Catacombs. More exuberance is needed in Trevi, too, although the detail in the outer movements of Fountains is beautiful.

From the early 1990s, the strings of the Academy of St Martin in the Fields are under-nourished, which leads to the effect of noticing woodwind details more in Neville Marriner’s disc (Philips, 4/92). Enrique Bátiz and the Royal Philharmonic (Naxos, 8/92) and Carlo Rizzi and the London Philharmonic (Teldec, 9/93) have much to commend them but are trumped by Yan Pascal Tortelier and the Philharmonia in lively performances, terrifically engineered. The wide stereo definition plunges the listener into the middle of the action, so one can pick out different brass lines in Trevi and quake at the thunderous timpani and tam-tam.

Josep Caballé‑Domenech elicits hugely exciting performances from the RPO, whipping up the excitement well. The engineers dive in so that details tell, like the solo cello in Valle Giulia, although balance problems have the nightingale practically nesting in the right-hand speaker for an ornithological close-up. A very enjoyable disc nonetheless.

But the best Respighi recording to emerge from the UK is the most recent one. The Sinfonia of London was originally a pick-up band founded in 1955 specifically to record film music. Its most famous album was John Barbirolli’s miraculous HMV recording of English string music (Warner, 5/63). The orchestra was reincarnated by John Wilson in 2018. The Chandos engineering is very good, with plenty of detail. Lush, syrupy strings caress the ear and there’s a feisty cor anglais solo at the beginning of the Appian Way, which is taken at an alarming jog trot … Wilson would face a mutiny from his soldiers if he marched them this quickly! Triton could be a bit more brash but Trevi is orgasmic at its climax. As well as the blood and thunder, the quieter moments tell, sensitively played.

The Italian Job

It’s good to see not one but two Santa Cecilia recordings in the catalogue. The opening of Daniele Gatti’s 1996 Fountains (originally on Conifer) is akin to water torture – the Valle Giulia flowing at a trickle – but the Triton horns get stuck in and the organ makes its presence felt in Trevi. Gatti’s pacing in Pines tends to be too slow. Antonio Pappano’s 2007 recording is much preferable. His Triton horns are absolutely filthy and the surging Trevi impetuous. In Pines, Pappano’s ragazzi relish the Villa Borghese fun and games – it’s just a 30-minute walk from the orchestra’s Parco della Musica venue, so they are almost literally at home here – and there’s an urgent drive to Catacombs. I adore the Chianti-dark clarinet in Janiculum and the Roman strings phrase lovingly. EMI’s recording is detailed; listen to the firm double-bass tread at the start of the Appian Way.

Pappano coaxes exuberant playing from his Santa Cecilia players: Respighi’s music is in their blood (photography: Chris Christodoulou/Bridgeman Images)

Other recordings from Italy are disappointing. The Rome Symphony Orchestra is a decent enough band but Francesco La Vecchia is in urgent need of an espresso or two to pep some life into proceedings: three of his Pines are the slowest on disc. No such problems for Riccardo Chailly and the Filarmonica della Scala, who are full of beans. Sadly, their disc is scuppered by a cloudy, bass-heavy recording that blunts much of the attack, blurring details.

Respighi around the world

Ernest Ansermet’s 1963 account with the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande (Decca, 1/65) suffers a typically acidic oboe but the playing is adroit and Decca’s engineers capture the climaxes well. The Berlin Philharmonic perform impressively but Herbert von Karajan’s poker-faced direction sucks any joy out of these scores. It’s technically superb, refined playing but it’s not Respighi. There’s a suggestion that the Montreal Symphony and Charles Dutoit are also a bit too in love with the sound they generate and there’s a gauze to the Decca recording that distances the listener, but the dappled light of the Villa Medici fountain is very effective. Mariss Jansons in 1995 doesn’t set the pulse racing in Pines with the Oslo Philharmonic (EMI/Warner, 3/97) but Fountains suits him better, beautifully balanced in its quieter moments. One of the best-engineered discs comes from Brazil, where the São Paulo Symphony Orchestra is impressive, even if one wishes John Neschling would encourage his players to cut loose more. They are at their best in Fountains, where the flute coils its watery plumes in the Valle Giulia dawn most evocatively.

The crown of laurels goes to …

While it’s tempting to award the laurels to the ‘home team’ of Antonio Pappano and his Santa Cecilia musicians, who have this music in their DNA, it’s Fritz Reiner and his Chicago forces who are triumphant. This is a recording that has squared up to many challengers in its 60‑plus year reign, but it still firmly swats away the competition and should be an essential disc in any collection.

This article originally appeared in the March 2022 issue of Gramophone. Never miss an issue – subscribe today