In a broadcast concert to mark Sibelius's 90th birthday on December 8, 1955, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra under Sir Thomas Beecham (a friend of the composer for nearly 50 years and one of his doughtiest champions) played to a capacity Royal Festival Hall. It was, I have no doubt, an unforgettable event for all those lucky enough to get a ticket, and the happy inclusion here of the British and Finnish national anthems (both stirringly done) readily recreates the necessary sense of occasion.
Proceedings are launched with the delightful, still too rarely encountered Swanwhite suite, from which Beecham opts to omit the powerfully sombre fifth movement ('The Prince alone'). At first hearing, I was worried by a certain want of concentration and charisma (surprisingly so, given the conductor's genius for precisely this kind of incidental fare), but Beecham's leisurely, affectionate rendering has begun to grow on me over the last few weeks. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the account of the
Fourth Symphony which follows. Orchestral discipline takes a dip here, but far more disconcerting is the all-pervading air of loose-limbed impatience. The opening Tempo molto moderato, quasi adagio, in particular, is bafflingly wayward, fussy even, with none of the grip that distinguishes Beecham's own famous 1937 recording with the LPO. There are glimpses of greatness in the third movement (the strings at the climax have a refulgent warmth about them), as well as some effective dynamic emendations in the finale, but overall it's a curiously uninvolving display. Who knows, perhaps Beecham already had one mind on the interval, during which the Finnish ambassador conferred on him the prestigious honour of The Order of the White Rose of Finland for his loyal and outstandingly eloquent advocacy of Sibelius's music.
No, it's only in the concert's second half that this legendary partnership really begins to show what it's capable of. The Pelleas suite distils a poetic enchantment (try the ineffably touching 'Melisande', which Beecham always did incomparably well) and tingling sense of atmosphere that not only make you forget about the maddeningly bronchial audience, but also act as a timely reminder that these artists' glorious studio recording dates from exactly the same period (EMI, 7/90 - inexplicably unavailable at present).
Tapiola is even finer, a performance of giant authority, devastating emotional candour and towering humanity; indeed, I'm inclined to rate it the most powerful Beecham Tapiola currently available (what breathtakingly luminous string textures, by the way, between 8'07'' to 10'26''). There's also an encore in the shape of the fetching 'Dance of the Nymphs' from The Tempest - delectably done, to be sure, if without quite the entrancing poise and composure to be found on this team's Columbia recording (initially released in the UK on a 10-inch Philips LP) set down a couple of months previously (EMI, 7/90 - sadly just deleted).
As a substantial bonus, we get a radiantly moving Sibelius Seventh from the 1954 Proms; in terms of vaulting sweep and grandeur, it comprehensively outflanks Sir Thomas's strangely muted commercial recording set down the following year (EMI, 7/90 - nla), if not his tauter, thrillingly intense NYPO version made for American Columbia in 1942. Room has been found, too, for a personable, at times entertainingly scatty talk on Sibelius and his music that the inimitable maestro recorded for the BBC's Third Programme two weeks before that 90th-birthday concert proper.
Overall, then, a fascinating anthology, and a mandatory purchase for the frequently spellbinding contents of disc 2 alone.'