Hot on the heels of the Dutton Laboratories' transfer of the 1939 Serafin version of the Verdi Requiem (reviewed by AB in March) comes Pearl's transfer of the same recording, and a declaration of faith in the purist view of CD transfer. As the note says – firing the clearest shot over the Dutton bows – ''No artificial reverberation or phase-shifting pseudo-stereo effects have been added to the original recording in this transfer. Computerised processing has been employed only to eliminate pops and clicks – not to alter the characteristics of the original disc surfaces. ''Strong as that argument is in principle, the practical advantages of the Pearl approach, as they strike the ear, are rather few here. Occasionally there is a fraction more clarity where the voices are concerned, but quite apart from the characteristically higher surface hiss and fizz on fortissimo tuttis, there is nothing like the body and sense of immediacy in the sound which make the Dutton disc such an involving experience. Compare the opening of the Dies irae, and the contrast is presented at its clearest: you take your pick. Personally, I find the spatial dimension given by Dutton to such a passage as the ''Tuba mirum'' very thrilling. Incidentally, I still wonder why the soloists' second a cappella passage, just before the end of the ''Lux aeterna'', was cut in the original recording, when it involves only a few seconds of music (track 19, 4'03'').
Compare the Dies irae in that Dutton transfer with EMI's long-awaited reissue of the 1954 de Sabata version, and initial impressions of the 1954 sound are hardly favourable, with far less body, lightish bass and clattery brass. Happily that is one of the very few penalties of a unique, incandescent set now making a belated reappearance after 30 years in limbo. Its very unavailability in the catalogue since just after the mid 1960s (Columbia, 7/64 – nla) has tended to add to its legendary status, amply borne out in this CD renovation, in which dynamic extremes are well caught.
Even so, I can understand why the late Alec Robertson gave it a lukewarm reception on its initial appearance, so different is it from the Serafin, which at the time was our recorded lifeline to the work, brisk and dramatic as it was. As AR said, ''I have rarely been so puzzled by a recording as by this one''. Statistics alone demonstrate how different it is from Serafin: de Sabata takes no less than 95 minutes over the work, as against Serafin's 73 minutes, an astonishing discrepancy. In the opening movement alone de Sabata takes 6'38'' against Serafin's 4'34'', and the difference is more extreme still in the Lacrymosa, 7'18'' against 4'26''.
The electrically urgent de Sabata – well illustrated in some of the orchestral fill-ups on the set – flashes out only occasionally in sudden dynamic bursts, as in the Dies irae. Otherwise this is a raptly devotional, totally concentrated reading to a degree that would be hard to match. The obvious parallel is the Giulini (EMI, 4/87) made ten years after, again with Schwarzkopf as soprano soloist, and with Walter Legge as producer. Yet far more than Giulini's, de Sabata's is a performance of extremes, not just magnetic but very personal in its new look. So the ''Te decet hymnus'' section of the opening movement is made emphatically marcato with underlining that draws attention to itself. That and dozens of other points which are determinedly different in their exaggeration of markings make me draw a parallel with another Italian conductor, berated by many critics, but always with revelations to bring, Giuseppe Sinopoli.
Where de Sabata rides triumphant is in his spine-tingling authority, even when you disagree and the four superb soloists respond with total commitment, Schwarzkopf most of all. AR criticized her for ''crooning her way'' through the pianissimo return of ''Requiem'' during the Libera me. I can see what he means, with caressing portamentos at a very slow tempo, but the pianissimo half-tone is wonderfully pure and well supported, leading back to Schwarzkopf at her most vehement in the main part of the Libera me, snorting fire. The voice is a degree fresher and younger-sounding than ten years later for Giulini, thrilling in attack on top notes, both loud and soft, with many fine-spun top A flats pianissimo, not to mention the top B flat in that ''Requiem'' reprise, marked pppp in the score and so interpreted here.
Oralia Dominguez excels herself, as cleanly focused as Schwarzkopf, with her rapid flicker-vibrato adding character to the firm mezzo timbre. Giuseppe di Stefano sings with headily fresh tone, and de Sabata even woos the occasional mezza voce from him, while Siepi, not quite as rocklike or imaginative as Pinza for Serafin, is splendid too. The chorus sing lustily, but with characteristic Italian reluctance to match in an ensemble.
The fill-ups complete the picture of de Sabata. The Traviata Preludes, rapt and finely shaded, were what first suggested the Sinopoli parallel to me, and each of the other items reveals a different facet of this fascinating artist – the Respighi sensuously atmospheric, Guillaume Tell given surprising refinement. Best of all are the two little Wolf-Ferrari items, in their point and sparkle deliciously witty in a way one might not have expected from de Sabata. A unique set and a wonderful revelation. '