This is Rattle's second recording of the Seventh Symphony. We shall never hear the first. Those tapes, made in the studio, did not add up to the maestro's satisfaction. Certain elements, he felt, had been left in the concert-hall: that problematic finale, for instance, had in his view lost its coherence and audacity, the energy that comes from those now-or-never, do-or-die concert-hall tensions. For once, the conductor and not the critic had made the accusation 'studio-bound'. Rattle asked EMI for another go—and an audience. I think it has paid off.
Like me, you may be wondering about the choice of venue—The Maltings, Snape: a great sounding hall—one of the most natural and focused in the world—but for Mahler? Well, there are times here where the hefty tuttis of the outer movements sound fit to burst at the seams. The tonal quality is first class, the immediacy is to some extent exciting; one can see right into the phantasmagorical scoring of the inner movements—a clear, gently ambient sound serving both intimacy and atmosphere. But I am not ultimately convinced that this is a Mahler acoustic. The big moments sound confined, and you cannot confine Mahler. Compare Rattle's recordings of the Second and Sixth Symphonies (Watford and Warwick respectively)—room to spare in both cases. They don't come much more impressive.
But then you might well say as much for this performance of the Seventh Symphony. Last things first. The finale is for once a sensation. From the quasi-baroque splendour of the opening procession (carolling woodwind voices coming through the texture like I've never before heard) right through to a coda which truly flings wide its glorious excess (outreaching trumpets, horns and celestial cowbells), the adrenalin really pumps. Rattle pulls off a mad kind of coherence, a wholeheartedly vulgar apotheosis of Viennese dance with no apologies made for Mahler's seemingly irrational changes of gear and direction. Even the most unruly transitions (and this movement is almost entirely transitional) are met head-on with ferocious energy (the only way), episodes falling over each other in the jostling for centre-stage. The characterization is acute, the colours are wonderfully garish (just listen to the squally clarinet trills at 2'48''—hair-raising). Mahler was not one to mince his notes, and neither is Rattle.
Not even Bernstein (DG) is as uncompromising in the Scherzo. The nightmare comes quickly into focus: the shrieking glissando on two clarinets at 00'28'' is at once surreal, a flash of grinning skull behind the face. Rapier violin sforzandos claw the texture, an emaciated string bass slithers from behind a bellowing tuba, the contra-bassoon grunts and snorts, the strings really relish their grotesque waltz. The dynamic extremes are vicious. At 5'34'' (fig. 148) a wooden-sticked thwack on the timpani brings a venomous retort from three bassoons, and nothing will prepare you for the alarming snap-pizzicato—fffff in cellos and basses—which arrests the panic and confusion of strings and woodwinds at 7'18'' (4 bars after fig. 161). This is the loudest single dynamic marking in the piece. Rattle is unique in making it sound thus. On either side of these grisly goings on, the two Nachtmusiks could hardly be more beguiling. Poetic sonorities abound. In the first, Rattle lays on a wry charm with even the morbid col legno tread of the little ''night patrol'' (gruff bassoons colouring splendidly upon its return at the close); the episode with cowbells and horns calling across the valleys is exquisite in its refinement. Then the second Nachtmusik, Andante amoroso, ambling gracefully, guitar and mandolin teasing the ear, an Italian serenade in all but name: Rattle is plainly mindful of that from the way he plays the ardent middle section.
Only the first movement slightly disappoints. Structurally, sonically, it is impressive—organic and elemental. The CBSO violins really are right inside that second subject and as harps draw back the veil on Mahler's central idyll, they could hardly sing more sweetly. But whilst Rattle pulls off the somewhat corny recapitulation with aplomb, there isn't the almost euphoric release that one experiences with Bernstein: the exciting developments from here to the baton-twirling coda do rather hang fire. But trombones proudly take command in the coda and the first trumpet's fearless ascent to his high-stopped f into Tempo 1 brings a genuine tingle of excitement.
This is the first single-CD version of Mahler's ''Song of the Night'', a feature which triumphantly reflects the ''wholeness'' of the performance. Few orchestras play the score this well; few conductors have explored it so exhaustively. Against these considerations, my reservations count for little.'