It's difficult to find adjectives other than the well worn 'craggy' and 'rough hewn' to describe the cut of Klemperer's orchestral sound, as opposed to the haute couture of, say, Karajan and his would-be clones. As seasoned collectors know, once this is accepted, for most of his EMI 1960s sessions, little else bars the path to enlightenment. This 1966 Franck is no exception. I had half expected Bruckner with a French accent: shame on me—the Symphony's essential nobility of utterance of course remains intact, but the passionate force of the playing often takes you by surprise, as do the small variations in pulse (for example, the extra urgency for the slow movement's second idea), and all manner of interesting dynamic shadings. Typically Allegros are non troppo (the leap of faith required for the finale may be too large for some) and, just as typically, the close-focus Abbey Road's Studio No. 1 balance illuminates textures (and imprecisions) as never before or since. A one-off, like the 30-year-old Beecham and Monteux accounts (mid-price EMI and RCA respectively), made with devotion and shaped by a master.
Two musical titans grace the Schumann—disgrace some might say of the finale. Love is certainly in the air in the slow movement, intimate communion as rapt as I've heard it (Klemperer clearly overcome in the central section with a slide, no less, from his first violins); and the hushed concentration at the approaching finale is tangible. But did Klemperer really want to start the finale this slowly? The stringendo that leads to it suggests he didn't, but further broad statements from Annie Fischer of that opening flourish suggest that she did. Klemperer has no option but to follow his brilliant, but utterly singleminded soloist as best he can. Add to this an over-prominent piano balance, copious wrong notes and obvious signs of under-rehearsal in the outer movements and what do you have? Well, in my book two titans busking it is far more stimulating than two lesser figures in perfect accord.'