No prizes for speculating as to why this was Bernstein's one and only appearance with the Berlin Philharmonic. The name of Karajan springs to mind; the liner notes hint at discord: no matter. If there was an underlying clash of personality involved here, then all I can say is that negative energy spawned positive force in this thrilling encounter. The first movement, to say nothing of its two cynical offspring, the ensuing Landler and Rondo-Burleske, thrives on just such uncertainty. From the start Bernstein is tapping the instability, those little pockets of intensity which break the surface, a sudden surge of cello here, a wailing horn there. The aspiring first subject rises to the crest of a huge ritardando (3'12''), the release is incredible, great octave swoops are liberated in the violins. We are off to a vintage Bernstein start. His first movement is all febrile intensity, risky razor's-edge stuff. You would expect Bernstein to make capital of the sonic abrasions, but I have never heard the open-to-stopped horns device sound quite so unsettling (just listen to their curdling semitones in the 2/4 bar at the start of track 2); likewise those eerie sul ponticello effects in the violins. The calamitous disintegrations open up yawning cracks in the movement's superstructure (never was the tension between order and impending collapse more ruthlessly exploited than in this movement): the terrifying plunge to a hollow low E in the clarinets (track 3 at 5'16'') is a sound which has haunted me in every Bernstein performance, and does so here. The last great climax is a veritable ride to the abyss, huge calculated risks taken with Mahler's tempo fluctuations. I must say I don't much like the unmarked accelerando which Bernstein imposes on the subsequent recapitulation—that gets a little out of hand. But the coda is another of those heartbreaking reminders of a lost innocence and tranquillity. Note how Bernstein is pointedly reluctant to let go of the balm-like horns held suspended in the 6/4 bar just before the close. A tiny moment—but so revealing.
The second movement Landler trips along rather more briskly and grittily than his later DG account with the Concertgebouw. I must say I rather favour the measured ungainliness of that reading. But either way, the Bernstein characterization is right on target, affection tempered with impudence, and barring one or two imprecisions (where his quixotic rubato is not read quickly enough) the Berliners are wonderfully responsive. The coda is eminently gauche with felicitous detail: for instance, a delicious little yodel in the horn at one point (a grace note dropping to a perfect eleventh). All of which is rudely shattered by the dementia, the howls of derision of the Rondo-Burleske, the culmination of which I don't believe I have ever heard so explosively, so recklessly (or so virtuosically) despatched. From the moment that Mahler's clarinets hurl out their cruel parody of the central lovesong, the demons rule. Bernstein knew how far he could push an orchestra this good; he then pushed them further still.
So what of the valedictory last movement—the source of so much controversy in Bernstein's later account. Well, those who found his protracted, pulseless coda preposterous, impossible to swallow (and I didn't) will be relieved to hear that the maestro had not yet 'wound down' to quite that degree. He adds some three minutes to his later timing. Frankly, I find the opening pages a shade overwrought here: we are dangerously close to emotional suffocation. Still, the contrast with those strange, stark plainchants, those premonitions of Das Lied von der Erde in the still centre of the movement is potent indeed. Details like the violins ethereally high as the contrabassoon worms in from below are as memorable as ever. And Bernstein is as vocal as ever urging these 'strangers' to play their hearts out for him. He stamps his foot so hard at one point that he sounds as though he's going through the podium. That's the forte string entry just prior to the main trumpet and trombone-led climax (track 14, 1'34''). Incidentally, the nightmarish descent of cellos at that point comes through more vividly than it ever would in the concert-hall.
On the whole the recording is really rather good with just the odd anomalies of balance. Unfortunately, silence is not quite golden in the coda (thanks to one or two irritating coughers and rustlers), though Bernstein still feels and fills those rests like no one. I think he fractionally overdoes the accenting of the violas' last gasps, but by then one's ears are so finely tuned that everything seems painfully magnified. And besides, that was Bernstein's way. I'm not sure that I'll always be taking this down from the shelf in preference to his later version, but I will on occasions want to be reminded of what must have been an extraordinary night. Warts and all, a collector's item.'