Among all the treasures rediscovered in the BBC archives, this disc of a Barbirolli Promenade Concert of 1969 is among the most enticing. He opens with one of his favourite Haydn symphonies, and only Beecham can match his delightful characterisation of The Hen (dainty violins, plus gently clucking oboe) which Haydn makes sure we hear several times in the course of a most appealing first movement. As shaped by JB the Andante combines an Elysian simplicity with classical beauty of line, and the Minuet and finale similarly match grace with exuberance. There is surely no finer performance on disc.
Then comes the Johann Strauss section, with Sir John himself vocalising in the Overture’s glorious waltz theme. But the highlight is a richly contoured, magical account of the Emperor Waltz, with all the mellow nobility of line one associates with Bruno Walter, plus an added touch of Barbirolli’s Italianate sunshine. The reprise is so lovely it would melt the hardest heart. Then follows a fun performance of the Tritsch-Tratsch-Polka, with outrageous agogic tempo distortions and sudden pauses which bring a couple of great bursts of laugher from the Promenaders. But the best is yet to come.
With the Rosenkavalier suite the Halle strings and horns surpass themselves. This musical patchwork may be no more than a comparatively inept pot-pourri, but Sir John invests each section of the score with such loving detail that one can only regret that he never recorded the whole opera. The Prelude, with its sexy, whooping horns, and a great passionate tenuto on the key moment of the lovers’ passionate embrace (behind the curtain), then leads on to a wonderful feeling of tenderness as their ardour gently subsides. Later the Presentation of the Rose scene, with exquisite oboe playing, is meltingly beautiful. After the great surge of the Viennese waltz sequence, the closing section and the softly sensuous duet that sees Octavian and Sophie raptly departing together is wonderfully affectionate, rudely interrupted, of course, by the explosive coda (which badly needs re-organising).
The encore is Lehar’s Gold and Silver, and Sir John encourages his Promenaders to hum along gently so as not to overwhelm its famous lyrical melody; and he even manages to entice them into a pianississimo when it is reprised. (I can see him in my mind’s eye turning round and holding his finger to his lips with a silent ‘Ssssh’.) Prommers in the late 1960s were then just as appreciative (the audience tension in the first movement of the Haydn symphony is palpable), but more self-disciplined than they are today, and there is no hint of vulgarity and much warmth in their response. It is a thrilling moment and I hummed along, too. Sir John cuts the coda to make time for his own witty little speech in appreciation of their contribution, continuing with a warmly expressed wish to return with his orchestra; and this alone is worth the price of an unforgettable disc, recorded with great warmth and atmosphere.'