On April 26th, 1945 Ida Haendel, a young violinist at the beginning of her career, entered Decca’s West Hampstead studios to record the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto. She had made her London debut at the Queens Hall a decade earlier, and in 1941-2 had put on 78s a Beethoven sonata with Ivor Newton. But this was her first venture with orchestra. Remarkably, the whole concerto was completed in a day, though Sides 1 and 3 needed retakes, and the work was completed in February of the following year. However on April 28th she returned to record Saint-Saens’s Introduction and Rondo capriccioso, a brilliantly lustrous account. I bought both these recordings at the time, and had remembered that each had something special about it. But it was the Tchaikovsky I recalled most vividly. Ida Haendel was accompanied by the National Symphony Orchestra under Basil Cameron, not a great conductor but a very competent one, and it was the youthful soloist who created the special magic at these sessions, which I can only compare with the young Menuhin’s recording of the Elgar concerto with the composer.
Both artists made second recordings and in both cases the interpretations were more intellectually mature (Haendel’s later Tchaikovsky recording is available on Testament, 10/94). But neither recaptured that special spontaneous warmth of response which is inexplicable and instinctive. It is this ‘magic’ that places Haendel’s Tchaikovsky performance for Decca among the finest recordings ever made of this wonderful concerto. The very opening has a disarming simplicity, but it is the arrival of the second subject which brings the most ravishing solo playing. The gentle central Canzonetta is quite lovely on her bow and, as in the colourful folksy woodwind interludes in the brilliant finale, one can feel the orchestra responding to the inspirational solo playing, and giving of its finest in return. The Dutton transfer from the 78 shellac pressings is a miracle in itself: it sounds just as I remember it, and so pays a great compliment, not only to Dutton’s transferring skill, but also to the Decca recording team, for the balance is natural, the orchestral sound is warm and full and the violin timbre sweet and entirely without edge. Incidentally, because of side-length the repeat of the polacca tutti is cut in the first movement.
The Dvorak concerto was recorded two years later in July 1947, but the conductor, Karl Rankl, was unsuited to the work, and the recording too is less well focused in the bass (not Dutton’s fault). It’s still a most engaging performance, with a delightful Slavonic lilt in the finale, but not a patch on the Tchaikovsky, which I have already replayed a great many times for the sheer joy of it.'