The first thing to be said about this set is that it sounds a good deal more comfortable than the last EMI References reincarnation – smoother, more natural, better focused and without the tiresome top- and bottom-end boost that made the earlier transfers so wearing on the ears. Abbey Road’s technical wizards Andrew Walter and Simon Gibson have done us proud, as they say. The second point is that for all their laid-back grandeur and mellifluousness, these performances tell only part of Furtwangler’s Beethoven story. Richard Osborne provides some superb annotation, but I would take issue with his assumption that the ‘classically measured’ aspect of these performances is due more to their late provenance (in terms of Furtwangler’s career) than to studio conditions. The majesty is still in place, and so is the overall interpretative plan. But as to the sense of awe that informs the greatest of the live recordings, sorry, it just isn’t there.
Take, for example, the Fifth Symphony, recorded in Vienna during February and March 1954. If you turn to the Berlin broadcast of May 23, 1954, and try either the transition from the end of the scherzo to the beginning of the finale, or even the very end of the finale, you immediately sense an almost tangible frisson between the conductor and his players. The interpretation might be similar, but the effect is entirely different.
The Eroica provides another telling example. EMI’s Vienna November 1952 recording has its live counterpart in the December 8, 1952 Berlin broadcast that Tahra includes in the same superb-sounding ‘Tribute to Wilhelm Furtwangler’ that also features the Fifth Symphony. Listen, in particular, to the passage in the Marcia funebre where oboe, then flute take the top line above string triplets (from bar 69, 4'55'' on the EMI set; 5'22'' on Tahra). Follow both performances for as far as you like and note the extra weight, breadth and elasticity of the Berlin option. Pauses speak, whereas in Vienna they merely stay silent. Differences in playing style, though noticeable, are neither here nor there. What matters is the concentration and the involvement. Please believe me: there is no contest. The Tahra has to be the greatest-ever recording of the Eroica (that’s putting it on the line for you).
One last specific example involves the Fourth Symphony and the first movement’s ‘darkness to light’ transition from Adagio to Allegro vivace. This 1952 recording has a superior EMI shellac predecessor (also post-war and with the Vienna Philharmonic), but an even more pointed comparison takes us back to Berlin on June 26, 1943. In Vienna, the Adagio marks time for 2'38''; in Berlin, it holds us in suspense for 3'26'' and the sense of release when the fortissimo chords finally break is overwhelming. So much for Furtwangler slowing down in old age.
One could go on ad infinitum, comparing this or that concert performance with a studio recording and almost always coming down strongly in favour of the live event. Furtwangler, like his colleague Wilhelm Kempff, was a composer who also performed. We might not care to remember him that way, but that was how he saw himself. He gave of his best when spontaneously communing with, and recreating music for, an audience. But there were exceptions, and the October 1948 Royal Albert Hall concert performance of the Second Symphony – sounding as dreadful here as it does elsewhere – is one of them. True, the introduction is fairly imposing (though Toscanini’s similarly paced reading from 1939 conjures an even greater sense of momentum), but there are some passages – the minor-key centre of the Larghetto is one – where the expected glowering presence simply doesn’t appear. When you think of all that Furtwangler found in the more classically tempered First Symphony, it’s incomprehensible how little he found in the Second. This particular performance sounds more like a worthy Beethovenian outing with, say, Joseph Keilberth – in other words, good but not great.
The Seventh is both excitable and carefully considered, the Sixth mostly amiable, and the Eighth (a live Stockholm broadcast) enthusiastic and energetic. These recordings are by now extremely well known and yet all have been superseded by superior live releases. The one exception is the 1951 Bayreuth Choral, though even there, other more recently issued live alternatives are constantly jostling for first place in collectors’ affections. But you’d be hard pressed to find a more questioning first movement or a more exultant account of the finale. It was the first live Furtwangler Beethoven recording to enjoy commercial release, and boy, did it teach us something!
It’s not that I want to do these EMI sessions down. The orchestral playing is invariably beautiful and, viewed purely as studio documents, all the performances are at the very least enjoyable. But if you want to hear what Furtwangler meant by what he did with Beethoven, then you have to hear his live recordings.'