I first heard Wagner’s comedy at the fourth and last performance of the now-legendary revival conducted by Beecham as part of the Festival in Britain, 1951. It was revelatory, with a near-ideal cast. By that final performance all the disparate elements had come together into a convincing whole. The extracts from Acts 1 and 2 issued by Gebhardt (they have circulated in inferior sound for years) were made on acetate by an enthusiastic amateur, presumably from a Third Programme broadcast of the second performance.

They confirm my contemporary view that Peter Anders was a wonderfully lyrical, ardent Walther, of the calibre of Sándor Konya on Kubelík’s set, his delivery of an ease and tonal glamour not available today. Elisabeth Grümmer’s Eva is even more youthfully bright and articulate than on the EMI/Kempe set of four years later, so that the lovers’ encounter in Act 2, often a low-point in performances of the opera, is here a highlight. Anders is equally attractive in his Act 1 solos, and Grümmer eager and inquisitive in the duet with Sachs a little earlier in the act. Unfortunately, Hotter was obviously struggling with hay fever that summer (it prevented him singing on the first night): by the final night he was transformed. Still his well-known reading of the Flieder monologue is as poetic as ever.

What we hear of Weber’s thoughtful Pogner, Kusche’s minutely observed Beckmesser (it can be heard in its entirety elsewhere), Murray Dickie’s sprightly David, Constance Shacklock’s youthful Magdalene and the extremely young Geraint Evans as Nightwatchman (who once remarked how disconcerted he was when Beecham shouted near the complex end of Act 2: ‘Where the hell are we?’, ben trovato, no doubt), is admirable. As was his wont, Beecham is invigorating within fastish speeds that sometimes catch out some of his experienced singers. What is in no doubt is the glowing sound he extracts from the ROH orchestra, which can be reasonably well judged on the surprisingly clear recording, though the level varies from acetate to acetate, and excerpts often end abruptly. Nevertheless, at mid-price this is a valuable addition to the live discography of the work.

In the case of the two Bayreuth performances in successive years, the quality of the transfers are of the essence. My comparisons of the Karajan 1951 version with EMI’s 1990 transfer revealed that Mark Obert-Thorn for Naxos, using LPs as his source, provides surprisingly more presence and a more forward sound: you really feel you’re in the stalls of the theatre on the Green Hill. Similarly, Archipel, said to be working from ‘the original source’, presumably Bavarian Radio tapes, offers a clearer sound picture and greater presence than Music & Arts managed five years ago.

I have rehearsed the relative merits here before, most recently in my ‘Collection’ survey (1/99). Both benefit from the dedicated singing and playing of the Bayreuth chorus and orchestra, who perform equally well for their young and old conductors. Karajan’s vital, dramatic reading is contrasted with Knappertsbusch’s more reflective and bottom-heavy reading. Many of the soloists return to their 1951 interpretations in 1952, with Edelmann more confident as Sachs on the later occasion. In his informative Naxos note, Tully Potter is hard on Schwarzkopf’s Eva, one of her most glorious portrayals (TP is also dismissive of the later Karajan – has he heard that conductor’s marvellous 1970 Dresden account of this very work?). Della Casa, in a slightly cooler way, is just as fine in 1952. As Beckmesser, Pflanzl is no match for Kunz the year before.

I would not be without either performance, which both offer further evidence of the spirit of renewal at postwar Bayreuth. Even without text and translation, the Naxos transfer of the 1951 production is now the one to have. Knappertsbusch in 1952 is to be preferred to his 1951 studio-made Decca set or his 1955 Munich version. In its refurbished guise it is the best souvenir of this variable conductor in this score.