More than the other Mahler symphonies, No 7 lends itself to many diverse viewpoints, whether as a cram-packed dreamworld (Sinopoli, Maazel), an ordered stream of consciousness (Rosbaud, Gielen), an extended study in orchestral sound (Rattle), a Bohemian romp (Kubelík) or, as here under Gustavo Dudamel, intellectual entertainment on an epic scale – which isn’t to say that Dudamel’s approach lacks emotional depth. Not for him the heavily emphasised mezzo-forte string accompaniment to the principal theme favoured by Sinopoli (the marking is actually pianissimo) or Sinopoli’s almost obsessive underlining of detail (which the pedant in me loves), but a sober opening followed by a gaily extrovert development, before visionary strings arrive on the wings of a harp (11'59") and there’s a marked change of mood. Here as elsewhere Dudamel and his orchestra spin some very refined textures, the movement’s close sounding less chaotic than on some rival versions.

The highlight, perhaps predictably, is the first of the two Nachtmusik movements, a ‘meeting of north and south’ where Dudamel and his players hit on the implied tango element, more as a folk connection than as kitsch. It’s quite beautiful, both as sound and as gentle humour, and in the way the music is balanced and phrased. The ‘shadowy’ Scherzo enjoys fine playing and lightning reflexes, though Kubelík (DG, Audite) still comes top for grizzly narrative. Interesting at the start of the lovely second Nachtmusik how clearly Dudamel underlines the violas’ apoggiatura and how effectively he traces the music’s relatively subtle course. The finale takes off like an excited call to arms, with heraldic brass and impressive tonal projection from the whole orchestra. Here, and for the rest of this madcap movement, Mahler ‘lets us have it’ with a vengeance and Dudamel happily takes his cue.

Many years ago (1969, to be exact), as an enthusiastic if naive youngster working for the BBC, I enthused to Deryck Cooke about Bernstein’s (first) New York Philharmonic recording of the Seventh. ‘I agree,’ he said, ‘but you really do have to hear Mahler Seven live.’ As it happened, Jascha Horenstein was conducting the work that night at the Proms. I attended and was rather disappointed; and, much as I admire Horenstein’s Mahler, even the BBC Legends CD release of the same performance (A/00) hasn’t much altered my view. There was so much more to hear on my Bernstein recording, which I still love. Likewise with Dudamel as recorded, who offers us a detailed riot of orchestral colour and an excellent further instalment of his Mahler series, though keep an ear out for rustic Kubelík and the ceaselessly eventful Sinopoli. I also love Maazel’s Vienna Philharmonic recording but will hold my thoughts in check until the forthcoming Philharmonia version arrives, hopefully sooner rather than later.