The great works really are so elusive. In one sense I hope never to hear my ideal Gerontius, because that could be the day that it loses its mystery for me. But I still await a digital recording that surpasses the ''innermost abandonment'' of the Barbirolli (Richard Lewis, Janet Baker) and Sargent (Richard Lewis, Marjorie Thomas) recordings—the finest to have yet met the challenge in this imperfect world. There are moments in which Vernon Handley comes close, others where he and his team are weighed in the judgement and found wanting—and there is one fatal flaw. I say that despite the best sound and the best choral singing that the piece has yet enjoyed on disc—by far. Perhaps my expectations were simply too high. Perhaps my reservations will prove another's revelations. What follows is highly subjective; Gerontius defies objectivity.
The first thing to be said is that the spirit does move. From the first murmured phrases of the Prelude, from the rapt diminuendo just before fig. 2 as hushed cellos begin the ascent to prayer and the solo viola brings solace with sleep, Handley would have us drink the atmosphere of this wonderful score, wrapped as it is in such mystery. Its aerial qualities are most poetically realized: the illuminating halos of violins, sub-divided, as in the quiet ecstasy of Gerontius's words '''Tis this strange innermost abandonment'' (note, too the faltering heartbeat of thrumming harp), and equally, the awesome descents into the shadows—the shiver of bass-clarinet and contrabassoon walking over your grave as the Demons pass on; the deep, vibrating, organ-reinforced void as the final shout of ''Praise to the holiest'' vanishes into the ether. You feel as well as hear these details, and, needless to say, they are plentiful. Handley's well-practised ear, and an exceptionally lucid, open, weighty recording see to that. You feel confident in this Gerontius, you feel secure in Handley's intuitive pacing and grip. It takes a real conductor to pull off those mighty intakes of breath at the climax of the Prelude; and as for the supreme moment—the blinding glimpse of the Almighty himself—Handley fills the split-second of silence before it with that very real sense of a life flashing before one.
The big choruses, as I implied earlier are tremendous, the great Huddersfield tradition clearly providing the backbone, the fervour and heft of the sound. ''Go forth''—with Michael George a sturdy motivator—washes over you (sopranos separating gloriously above in the reprise), the Demons sustain rhythm and tension in a way that is rare indeed (though perhaps more of a sneer in the laughter might not have gone amiss), ''Praise to the holiest'' is carried forward with thrilling unanimity (and great diction). But where Handley is the High Priest of Gerontius—noble exalted—someone like Barbirolli is the God-fearer. It is his temperament, volatility, and occasionally over-heated ardour that I miss in Handley's reading.
To some extent the Handley approach is exemplified in the Gerontius of Anthony Rolfe Johnson. To most, I suspect, Rolfe Johnson will have struck the perfect balance between the oratorial and the operatic. There is purity, rapture, an aching sincerity and, of course, it's such a lovely sound. In the Sanctus fortis episode, he achieves real uplift with the line ''to the God of earth and heaven'', melting then into his beautiful mezza voce for the reprise. Similarly ''Novissima hora est'' is everything it should be. But is there sufficient torment, is there enough of the dramatic tenor for ''O Jesu help! pray for me, Mary, pray!'' or ''Take me away''? For me not quite. But no one could doubt the inwardness and heart. Which, alas, is more than can be said for Catherine Wyn-Rogers. To be fair, I've a feeling that she was not singing here at the full extent of her possibilities. Perhaps she was overawed by the occasion. She sounds cautious, inhibited (particularly at the start): the tone can be lovely (especially in pianissimo), but the support wavers, the pitch is inclined to discolour, and she really doesn't sing through the text. Whatever it is that makes ''Softly and gently'' so unforgettable, she has yet to find it. And an Angel without aura …
Not, then, everything I had hoped for, but still a great deal. Any further judgement must be down to the individual. Remember the bonus, too. This reappearance of Gordon Jacob's eminently opulent orchestration of the Organ Sonata No. 1 in G is chronologically, if not spiritually, appropriate here. I still think there's a shade too much emphasis from pomp and circumstantial percussion, but everything else (deeply upholstered, highly idiomatic in the woodwinds, the flecks of harp, the ripe, tumbling horns) rings true. Symphony No. 0 indeed.'