There’s a touching paradox here in that while Barenboim’s Arab-Israeli orchestra attempts to counter painful traditional antipathies, it’s Vänskä who offers the more radical re-think of Beethoven’s Choral Symphony, a youthful, brave statement, free of iconic influences. Considered in purely musical terms, Vänskä’s version would better fit the idea of revolution through renewal, which is not in any way to undermine Barenboim’s noble cross-cultural achievement.

Still, facts are facts, and Barenboim again treads the tried-and-tested Furtwängler axis, much as he did on his Berlin recording (Teldec, 4/00) and as Leonard Bernstein did, at least to some extent, when conducting a live performance that marked the demolition of the Berlin Wall (DG, 3/90). And yet there are wonderful things here, such as the explosive crest of the first moment, the way the curtain lifts on the Adagio, gradually and serenely, the distant, hymn-like entrance of the basses as the “Ode to Joy” theme wafts in after the angry bass-led recitatives sound their last alarm.

Tempi are slow, minutes slower than Vänskä’s in fact, which is no problem in my book; neither is Barenboim’s very free approach to tempo relations, but where Furtwängler could gather speed almost imperceptibly, some of Barenboim’s accelerations sound jerky and manufactured. The orchestra plays well and the soloists are good (René Pape especially), though internal balancing is less than ideal and the occasionally ragged German State Opera Chorus tends to mask important instrumental detail.

Barenboim’s opening bars, like Furtwängler’s, have a primeval, mystical feel to them whereas the opening of Vänskä’s Choral, though deathly quiet, is chiselled and precise, the first tutti like a fireball from the heavens, much aided by a hugely dynamic recording. Within a mere minute or two, one quality has made its mark with maximum force, namely rhythm, tight as a drum – that, and an astonishing power of projection. But what really struck me was the muscularity of the playing, its clipped, propulsive phrasing, quite unlike any other modern-instrument version of the Ninth. Suddenly this quirky first movement sounds like tough-grained middle-period Beethoven, the fugal writing at its centre granitic and purposeful, the music’s many calculated repetitions unnervingly obsessive. The contrast with the Bacchanalian Scherzo is more marked than usual, Vänskä again focusing the music’s rhythmic profile with unwavering control. The Adagio’s quiet opening is breathtaking and although the variations that follow are seamlessly interwoven, the effect is anything but rigid – and the great pedal note at 11'28" sounds a humbling alarm, even more so because the agitated strings that respond to it hold the tension.

Vänskä’s finale returns us to the shock and awe of his first moment, with a decisive, tight-lipped opening (the fast tempo held absolutely firm), warmly phrased counterpoint surrounding the “Ode to Joy” build-up and then, with the unleashing of the voices, an excellent group of soloists and a well drilled chorus who sing as if they really know (and mean) what they’re singing. The tenor’s March episode is fairly swift, leading to a razor-sharp fugue. And when the chorus enters, well – that’s what I meant by “divine madness” when I bemoaned the lack of it in reviewing Haitink’s otherwise fine LSO Ninth (11/06). In a word, zeal – Vänska’s finale is full of it.