This is another indispensable document rescued from obscurity courtesy of EMI and the Furtwangler Archive (which has private tapes of the performance, the Austrian radio originals no longer existing). After several abortive attempts to have Furtwangler conduct Figaro at Salzburg, he eventually directed the work in 1953, insisting on performing it in German rather than the Italian used when the production was new the previous year. As one might expect, the reading is the antithesis, some may say the antidote, to hurried modern performances using period instruments.
Furtwangler’s tempos and whole approach may at first seem staid, but as soon as one adjusts to the measured speeds, the significance of the interpretation becomes clear, his methods allowing us to hear, as in Klemperer’s recording, much detail usually occluded and, more important, allowing room for the singers to fill their music with meaning, all the more welcome when they’re performing in the vernacular they know and articulate so well. They may not be that familiar with Furtwangler’s reading, but it is quite obvious from start to finish that what is basically the Vienna cast of the day respond most eagerly to their conductor.
The contrast with the Karajan EMI set, recorded in November 1950 (which, in any case, omits recitative), employing some of the same singers is most marked. Where everything there is taut and disciplined, here everything is spacious, yet the core of the drama is never mislaid. The big ensembles are shaped, as you would expect, with an unerring sense of structure, and the comedy is justly tempered by an underlying seriousness of purpose. This may not be Mozart for every era or even for an audience nowadays brought up on other premises, but on its own terms it is valid and convincing – not least because the live recording gives a natural sense of dramatic development so seldom achieved in the studio. The main price to pay is applause at the end of almost every number and the occasional stage noise.
The singers are even more satisfying than I expected. All three sopranos, in their mid-thirties, are at the absolute peak of their careers: it would be hard to find in any other version three with such perfectly focused voices. The slightly dull but well-groomed Countess presented by Schwarzkopf on the Karajan set here becomes a pivotal and emotionally intense figure, alive to every move in the drama, every nuance of the recitative all the better for being sung in her native tongue. Her shimmering tone illumines all her set pieces. Where most sopranos in the theatre start tentatively, Schwarzkopf begins on top form with a glorious “Gott der Liebe” (“Porgi amor”), phrased and sung exquisitely. “Wohin flehen” (“Dove sono”) is even better and, with Furtwangler’s important support, probably the most rounded, confident account of the piece on disc. By her side her old colleague Seefried – together their account of the Letter Duet is pure bliss – is a delightfully fresh, sprightly yet warm Susanna, vital in her Act 2 aria when dressing Cherubino, amusing in her accents on “Deine Mutter?” in the Sextet, supremely affecting in “Oh saume” (“Deh vieni non tardar”).
Gueden, still an underrated singer, again proves the advantage of casting a soprano as Cherubino as always used to be the custom. The ease of her vibrant, effortless singing of both arias, both benefiting from slower tempos, is balm to the ear. Elsewhere she provides lively characterization.
The men are almost as good. Kunz, on prime form, offers his nimble, characterful Figaro. “Nun vergiss” (“Non piu andrai”) is all the better for a speed at which every word can be so clearly articulated in a language singer and audience comprehend. At almost 56, Schoeffler remains a commanding Count, his years of experience in the role self-evident even if he has gruff moments. His by-play with Seefried’s Susanna in their Act 3 duet bespeaks long acquaintance with each other’s performance. Koreh is a larger-than-life, not very steady Bartolo, Klein an insinuating Basilio. Both Basilio’s and Marcellina’s arias are cut as was then regular practice. The choral singing is ineffectual, but the orchestra play as if they relished Furtwangler’s ways.
The recording, which occasionally distorts the voices, has the singers blessedly in the forefront, although the players are by no means out of the aural picture. At mid price, this is a version of more than historic interest. It held my attention from start (including the conductor’s outrageous accelerando in the Overture’s coda) to finish.'