A flyweight among heavyweights perhaps, but Segerstam is not to be discounted. Any conductor with a hand as firm as this on the tiller of the Seventh Symphony merits our fullest respect. I should like to hear what the Berlin or Vienna Philharmonic might make of his big, brave Mahlerian rubatos. There's no doubt that his orchestra (for all their energy and prowess) ultimately diminish his achievements here. The Chandos engineering at least helps flesh out an illusion of bigger-boned sonorities (Segerstam's massive langsam at the outset boasts an extinct beast of a tenor horn), but deficiencies in the strings are less easily disguised and come the ravishing central idyll of the first movement, Segerstam's rapt, long-spun way with the violins' second subject is plainly beyond the reach of his players. I feel for him; and I admire his refusal to compromise. But there is the reality. Mind you, he can and does secure some breathtaking pianissimo playing from them. The magical transition to these remote regions (very expansive) is masterly: ghostly trumpet and woodwind fanfares lead us to an extraordinary moment of stasis at 10'57''. And as we come to rest a couple of bars later, I love the way in which the bass clarinet discreetly colours the texture. That's typical of his sensitive ear.
Segerstam's Mahler is indeed acutely well heard. Perhaps the most distinguishing feature of this Seventh is the extreme delicacy, refinement and truly elusive Nachtmusik quality of the inner movements. Textures here are airy, at times barely tangible—from the gentle Alphorn-led second movement with its warbling woodwinds and wafting cowbells to the dreamy tinkle of mandolin and guitar in the third. It could be argued that he is in fact too dreamy and too discreet in these middle movements: the central Scherzo certainly needs to be tighter and sharper, more made of the earpopping dynamic extremes, the phantoms of the night as personified in the grunts, thwacks, and snaps of assorted sforzandos. In these areas I sorely miss the fevered brow of Bernstein (DG) and indeed, Rattle (EMI): they are among the very few to emerge unscathed from the finale—that bizarre apotheosis of the Viennese dance, as I tend to think of it. Segerstam and his orchestra simply lack the audacity, the swagger, the staying-power, allowing themselves to get all too bogged down in the fancy footwork of Mahler's sour minuets.
But at least these are no routine repertory readings. A similar sensitivity and awareness of shadow and subtext characterize the Ninth. Tender aspirations fare better here than deathly apparitions (Mahler's countless stopped horn sneers could always be fiercer), but there are a number of textural surprises like the trombones at 12'52'' brandishing a phrase of the first subject that I cannot recall having heard quite so vividly before. Segerstam also takes no prisoners at the climax of the development, rightly witholding maximum force for the moment of collapse—the trombones' thunderous death knell (the faltering heartbeat of the symphony's opening bars). As the main theme drags itself back from the abyss, shockingly disfigured, Segerstam again spares us nothing. His middle movements could afford, occasionally, to court recklessness. Impetus is a little lacking in the lumpen Landler (some nice gruff detailing here: fearsome bass drum reinforcement—a real Chandos special—and an uncommonly vociferous contrabassoon solo in the coda), and whilst the stark counterpoints are all plainly revealed in the Rondo-Burleske, it could still be leaner and meaner a la Bernstein (DG). Again, I should like to hear Segerstam's last movement with a great string section—though what you gain outwardly you could lose inwardly. His special relationship with this orchestra plainly counts for more than we know. I doubt that any could do better by the ebbing final bars. The music, as ever, is in the silence.'