Hey everyone! Happy Halloween and welcome to Day 61!
I love a good theme, and if I'd had the foresight I would have tried to plan out the project in such a way that today would have been entirely spooky music. I did not do that, so unfortunately you'll have to make do with the next best thing: Christmas music.
Tchaikovsky: Nutcracker Suite - November 19th, 1951
Toscanini conducted the then three-year-old Nutcracker Suite at the first orchestral concert he ever led, in March of 1896. He performed it again at La Scala one month later, and then did not touch it again for another forty-four years. I don't know exactly why he only decided to return to the score when his career was beginning to near its end, but I'd like to think that the genuinely spirited Christmas aura of the music had an effect on him. It certainly does on me.
This recording is overall quite good, but Toscanini's pacing of the individual movements is extremely uneven. Some movements are excellent, notably the Overture, March, Chinese Dance and, above all, the fabulous Trepak. Other movements are overly tight and slip into the worst of the Toscanini stereotypes, such as the Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy and Arabian Dance. Most bizarre of all is the Waltz of the Flowers, which has a drastically re-composed harp solo and two extra chords at the end imposed by Toscanini. The conductor also shortens the third-beat quarter notes of the main tune, producing a strangely limping rhythmic effect.
For a conductor as well-versed in the theatre as Toscanini, I would have hoped for more sensitivity to the danceability as a whole in this recording. As he chose to ignore this aspect of the ballet, all we have left is the substance of the music, and this he did seem to give serious, if occasionally misguided, attention to. This recording is extremely flawed, but it does make me long for Christmas cookies and festively stuffed stockings. In a way, I suppose that does make Toscanini's recording very effective indeed.
Beethoven: Septet - November 26th, 1951
I have an enormous affection for this piece because I spent the entirety of my last year of high school working on it while I was living in England. This was my second year attending the Purcell School, which is located just outside of London and is one of the great music schools of Europe. That was a particularly happy year for me, and the time I spent working on this Beethoven work was a wonderfully collaborative experience shared with good friends, as any good chamber music experience should be.
Toscanini had an enormous affection for the work because it was the first score he ever purchased with his own money.
Nostalgia, in short, seems to be a common reason for enjoying this piece. Beethoven himself felt it was short of his best work, and in all honesty I completely agree. Objective listening has forced me to conclude that the structures of the Septet are too ponderous for the slight musical materials. But that's okay, really. Nostalgia is as good a reason as any to like a piece of music. Why do you think Christmas music is so popular?
In any case, Toscanini's performance of the Septet is excellent, and particularly well-played by the NBC Symphony. The other chamber works Toscanini gave the symphonic treatment to tended to sound a bit elephantine and unwieldy. Most notable in this regard are the NBC readings of the Mendelssohn Octet and Mozart's Divertimento No. 15 (the latter work was particularly embarrassing, possessing such a high violin part that the NBC fiddlers had no chance of playing it with facility). Beethoven's Septet, on the other hand, comes off quite well, and is a splendid example of the remarkably precise ensemble of the NBC Symphony in its best moments.
Wagner: Prelude to Act III from Die Meistersinger - November 26th, 1951
The delicate Prelude to Act III of Die Meistersinger is worlds away from the grandeur of the more familiar Act I Prelude. This is music of subtle beauty, held together with sublime fragility. Toscanini approaches this work with quiet intensity and rapt attention to the long strands of line. The cello section is outstanding in the exposed opening passage, while the horns (generally not of the glories of the NBC Symphony) are particularly luminous in their beautiful quartet. This may not be the most noteworthy of Toscanini's recordings, but it is one of his most tender.
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That's it for Day 61!
Check back tomorrow for music with an intimate connection to Brad Pitt, a musical riddle wrapped in an Enigma, and a trip to Rome that has nothing to do with Dan Brown.
Happy Monday!
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Day 60: The Greatest Brahms Symphony was Beethoven's Tenth
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 60!
This morning I woke up at 6:00 AM and drove five hours across the state to watch the Seattle Seahawks play a monumentally poor game against the Cincinnati Bengals. I was so distraught over this that I had to rush right home and write about Toscanini. Enjoy!
Brahms: Symphony No. 1 - November 6th, 1951
It is simply a fact that by this point in the project we are dealing substantially with remakes of recordings Toscanini made earlier in his career. As the conductor got older, he tended to consolidate his repertoire, and concentrate on the music he knew best. Depending on your perspective, this resulted in either the stagnation of the orchestral repertory, or an exciting choice of different interpretations of the Great Classics by a Master Conductor. Both are true, at least to some extent.
There are only so many Beethoven Fifths and Brahms Firsts that you can listen to without being stricken with musical hardening of the arteries, and Toscanini could have used his late-life celebrity to broaden the repertoire of what can be considered classics. For the most part, he did not do this (interestingly however, the very last piece to enter his repertory was a frequently-performed classic: Schubert's Symphony No. 5, which he performed for the first and only time in 1953, at the age of eighty-six). At the same time, his repetitions allow us to trace his interpretive development over many years, and there is no question that this is a great gift to music lovers. A double-edged sword, perhaps, but a gift nonetheless.
Toscanini performed the Symphony No. 1 more than any other work of Brahms during his NBC years, including for his first broadcast for the network in 1937. That stunning first performance is available for download in a fabulous transfer on the Guild Historical label. Toscanini's first broadcast shows how immediate was the bond between conductor and orchestra, but also how startling and and remarkable a way he had with the music of Brahms. The 1937 broadcast performance is a perfect example of how exciting Brahms can be when its excess weight is jettisoned. Toscanini honed this interpretation through five more broadcast performances and two studio recordings. This 1951 performance was the latter of the two accounts from the studio.
This is a familiar interpretation, containing similar nuances to Toscanini's earlier performances of the Brahms First. The primary difference is in the overall sweep; this recording is tighter and punchier (but with less energy) than the conductor's earlier accounts. There is still great beauty to this performance, but this lies more with the fact that Toscanini's interpretation was so powerful to begin with (not to mention the superb quality of the recorded sound) than with the quality of the performance itself.
Nonetheless, the positive attributes of this recording are nothing to sniff at. For the first time we really get to hear the sonority that Toscanini could produce with this music. The poorer technology of earlier years could not hide the beauty of the conductor's interpretation, but it did substantially mask the timbres that he shaped. No longer, as we now get to hear a great symphonic interpretation in full-fledged color. That's a double-edged sword I am willing to grip.
Beethoven: Symphony No. 7 - November 9th and 10th, 1951
Toscanini ended up remaking every one of the seventeen works he recorded with the New York Philharmonic while at NBC, and in most cases the later recordings do not come off well by comparison. This is particularly glaring in the case of Beethoven's Symphony No. 7. The Philharmonic account of this work is widely considered to among the greatest, if not the greatest, recording Toscanini ever made. The NBC account, however, is not generally considered to be in the same class. And that's the kind way to put it.
Mortimer H. Frank bluntly wonders if "the many distinctions that that can be made between Toscanini's two approved recordings of the Beethoven Seventh Symphony…display anything beyond the later one's inferiority," while Robert C. Marsh feels that "when we consider the two performances it becomes clear that at eighty-four Toscanini could not duplicate what may have been his greatest achievement with this music." This is all perfectly clear from even a superficial listening to the 1951 recording.
This performance does, obviously, exist in considerably better sound than the Philharmonic recording, but this is no compensation for the alarming drop in control coming from Toscanini. The entire reading is astonishingly unsteady rhythmically, and is so haphazardly paced that the climaxes are no more conclusive than the development. Some blame for this must of course go to the NBC Symphony, which should have at least been able to accurately render the dotted sixteenth-note figures in the first movement regardless of what was coming from the podium. I don't know why the recording ended up like this, but it sure is disappointing.
This morning I woke up at 6:00 AM and drove five hours across the state to watch the Seattle Seahawks play a monumentally poor game against the Cincinnati Bengals. I was so distraught over this that I had to rush right home and write about Toscanini. Enjoy!
Brahms: Symphony No. 1 - November 6th, 1951
It is simply a fact that by this point in the project we are dealing substantially with remakes of recordings Toscanini made earlier in his career. As the conductor got older, he tended to consolidate his repertoire, and concentrate on the music he knew best. Depending on your perspective, this resulted in either the stagnation of the orchestral repertory, or an exciting choice of different interpretations of the Great Classics by a Master Conductor. Both are true, at least to some extent.
There are only so many Beethoven Fifths and Brahms Firsts that you can listen to without being stricken with musical hardening of the arteries, and Toscanini could have used his late-life celebrity to broaden the repertoire of what can be considered classics. For the most part, he did not do this (interestingly however, the very last piece to enter his repertory was a frequently-performed classic: Schubert's Symphony No. 5, which he performed for the first and only time in 1953, at the age of eighty-six). At the same time, his repetitions allow us to trace his interpretive development over many years, and there is no question that this is a great gift to music lovers. A double-edged sword, perhaps, but a gift nonetheless.
Toscanini performed the Symphony No. 1 more than any other work of Brahms during his NBC years, including for his first broadcast for the network in 1937. That stunning first performance is available for download in a fabulous transfer on the Guild Historical label. Toscanini's first broadcast shows how immediate was the bond between conductor and orchestra, but also how startling and and remarkable a way he had with the music of Brahms. The 1937 broadcast performance is a perfect example of how exciting Brahms can be when its excess weight is jettisoned. Toscanini honed this interpretation through five more broadcast performances and two studio recordings. This 1951 performance was the latter of the two accounts from the studio.
This is a familiar interpretation, containing similar nuances to Toscanini's earlier performances of the Brahms First. The primary difference is in the overall sweep; this recording is tighter and punchier (but with less energy) than the conductor's earlier accounts. There is still great beauty to this performance, but this lies more with the fact that Toscanini's interpretation was so powerful to begin with (not to mention the superb quality of the recorded sound) than with the quality of the performance itself.
Nonetheless, the positive attributes of this recording are nothing to sniff at. For the first time we really get to hear the sonority that Toscanini could produce with this music. The poorer technology of earlier years could not hide the beauty of the conductor's interpretation, but it did substantially mask the timbres that he shaped. No longer, as we now get to hear a great symphonic interpretation in full-fledged color. That's a double-edged sword I am willing to grip.
Beethoven: Symphony No. 7 - November 9th and 10th, 1951
Toscanini ended up remaking every one of the seventeen works he recorded with the New York Philharmonic while at NBC, and in most cases the later recordings do not come off well by comparison. This is particularly glaring in the case of Beethoven's Symphony No. 7. The Philharmonic account of this work is widely considered to among the greatest, if not the greatest, recording Toscanini ever made. The NBC account, however, is not generally considered to be in the same class. And that's the kind way to put it.
Mortimer H. Frank bluntly wonders if "the many distinctions that that can be made between Toscanini's two approved recordings of the Beethoven Seventh Symphony…display anything beyond the later one's inferiority," while Robert C. Marsh feels that "when we consider the two performances it becomes clear that at eighty-four Toscanini could not duplicate what may have been his greatest achievement with this music." This is all perfectly clear from even a superficial listening to the 1951 recording.
This performance does, obviously, exist in considerably better sound than the Philharmonic recording, but this is no compensation for the alarming drop in control coming from Toscanini. The entire reading is astonishingly unsteady rhythmically, and is so haphazardly paced that the climaxes are no more conclusive than the development. Some blame for this must of course go to the NBC Symphony, which should have at least been able to accurately render the dotted sixteenth-note figures in the first movement regardless of what was coming from the podium. I don't know why the recording ended up like this, but it sure is disappointing.
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That's it for Day 60!
Check back tomorrow for music to crack nuts by, music to sing masterly by, and music for seven performed by many more than seven.
Happy Sunday!
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Day 59: If You Murmur in the Forest, Do You Make a Groveling Sound?
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 59!
For today I listened to something classical, something celestial, something noisy, and something of "groveling imbecility." Sounds like my youth orchestra concerts.
Prokofiev: Symphony No. 1 - October 11th, 1951
Toscanini's take on the Classical Symphony is much more Prokofiev than it is Haydn, and I find this to be quite effective. Performances of this symphony often suffer from a misplaced lightness that play up the classical aspects of the work without acknowledging that it is, after all, by Prokofiev. And yet Toscanini never lets this performance get bogged down in symphonic weight; it still has that tensile verve that is inherent in the work's running lines and skipping intervals.
Sadly, this is the only work of Prokofiev that Toscanini ever conducted. A recording of this quality suggests he would have made an ideal interpreter of other of the Russian composer's pieces. We will never know.
Wagner: Preludes to Acts I and III from Lohengrin - October 22nd, 1951
As noted way back in Day 3 (you've been been keeping up, haven't you?), the Prelude to Act I from Lohengrin was the work that first attracted a young opera orchestra cellist named Arturo Toscanini to the music of Richard Wagner. Toscanini was to lead the work throughout his career, and produced three official recordings of it over the course of fifteen years. This 1951 recording is the last of those.
What this performance lacks is the ethereal tone quality of Toscanini's 1936 account with the New York Philharmonic, his finest recording of the work. The 1951 recording does, however, have a much more sustained approach to the line than the 1941 version. Overall, this 1951 recording is not fully of the class of the Philharmonic. But it is beautifully phrased, and is a considerable improvement on the overly earthbound recording from ten years earlier.
The Prelude to Act III is very enthusiastically rendered, and fully the equal of earlier performances right up until the end, when it becomes a bit rigid and lacking in weight.
Wagner: Forest Murmurs from Siegfried - October 29th, 1951
I have always loved this excerpt, and was quite surprised to read this commentary on the present Toscanini recording from Robert C. Marsh: "Of all the raw and bleeding fragments of Wagner which reach the concert room, this one reaches the level of "groveling imbecility" according to Tovey, whose judgment I second with a lusty aye!"
While I agree that the concert ending to this excerpt is not exactly first-rate, I think it is monumentally ridiculous to apply to it the term "groveling imbecility." The nature sounds of this excerpt are beautifully atmospheric, and perfectly evocative of the feelings of the opera's title character. Fortunately, Toscanini felt the same way, and this is one of his finest performances of excerpts from The Ring. The wind playing of the NBC Symphony is especially fine in this recording, rendering the bird calls with luminous clarity of execution. This is a fine performance of a fine excerpt. Anyone who thinks differently might just be a groveling imbecile - or at least a murmur in the forest.
Weber: Euryanthe Overture - October 29th, 1951
Toscanini led the Italian premiere of Euryanthe (nearly eighty years after the fact) at La Scala in 1902. The Milanese evidently felt that Weber was beneath them, and the opera ended up seeing only three performances. The first of these was cut short by the audience's enthusiastic clamoring for an encore of the overture, which Toscanini refused to give. After repeated attempts to begin the first act were drowned out by shouting from the audience, Toscanini stormed out and refused to go on. The management's assurance that the conductor had suddenly felt ill were understandably met with skepticism, and the production failed shortly afterwards.
Forty-nine years later, Toscanini returned to the very overture that caused him so much trouble in the theatre. If the La Scala performance was anything like this later NBC recording, it would not be hard to understand the enthusiasm of the Milanese audience. The NBC recording is outstanding, and filled with brilliant orchestral wizardry. The moments of repose in the middle of the score have a remarkable stasis that continues to move forward almost imperceptibly, leading to an extraordinary build-up to the work's furious conclusion. This recording is proof that Toscanini could still lead performances of extraordinary energy well into his 80s.
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That's it for Day 59!
Check back tomorrow for the seventh and tenth symphonies of Beethoven, at least one of which was written by Brahms.
Happy Saturday!
For today I listened to something classical, something celestial, something noisy, and something of "groveling imbecility." Sounds like my youth orchestra concerts.
Prokofiev: Symphony No. 1 - October 11th, 1951
Toscanini's take on the Classical Symphony is much more Prokofiev than it is Haydn, and I find this to be quite effective. Performances of this symphony often suffer from a misplaced lightness that play up the classical aspects of the work without acknowledging that it is, after all, by Prokofiev. And yet Toscanini never lets this performance get bogged down in symphonic weight; it still has that tensile verve that is inherent in the work's running lines and skipping intervals.
Sadly, this is the only work of Prokofiev that Toscanini ever conducted. A recording of this quality suggests he would have made an ideal interpreter of other of the Russian composer's pieces. We will never know.
Wagner: Preludes to Acts I and III from Lohengrin - October 22nd, 1951
As noted way back in Day 3 (you've been been keeping up, haven't you?), the Prelude to Act I from Lohengrin was the work that first attracted a young opera orchestra cellist named Arturo Toscanini to the music of Richard Wagner. Toscanini was to lead the work throughout his career, and produced three official recordings of it over the course of fifteen years. This 1951 recording is the last of those.
What this performance lacks is the ethereal tone quality of Toscanini's 1936 account with the New York Philharmonic, his finest recording of the work. The 1951 recording does, however, have a much more sustained approach to the line than the 1941 version. Overall, this 1951 recording is not fully of the class of the Philharmonic. But it is beautifully phrased, and is a considerable improvement on the overly earthbound recording from ten years earlier.
The Prelude to Act III is very enthusiastically rendered, and fully the equal of earlier performances right up until the end, when it becomes a bit rigid and lacking in weight.
Wagner: Forest Murmurs from Siegfried - October 29th, 1951
I have always loved this excerpt, and was quite surprised to read this commentary on the present Toscanini recording from Robert C. Marsh: "Of all the raw and bleeding fragments of Wagner which reach the concert room, this one reaches the level of "groveling imbecility" according to Tovey, whose judgment I second with a lusty aye!"
While I agree that the concert ending to this excerpt is not exactly first-rate, I think it is monumentally ridiculous to apply to it the term "groveling imbecility." The nature sounds of this excerpt are beautifully atmospheric, and perfectly evocative of the feelings of the opera's title character. Fortunately, Toscanini felt the same way, and this is one of his finest performances of excerpts from The Ring. The wind playing of the NBC Symphony is especially fine in this recording, rendering the bird calls with luminous clarity of execution. This is a fine performance of a fine excerpt. Anyone who thinks differently might just be a groveling imbecile - or at least a murmur in the forest.
Weber: Euryanthe Overture - October 29th, 1951
Toscanini led the Italian premiere of Euryanthe (nearly eighty years after the fact) at La Scala in 1902. The Milanese evidently felt that Weber was beneath them, and the opera ended up seeing only three performances. The first of these was cut short by the audience's enthusiastic clamoring for an encore of the overture, which Toscanini refused to give. After repeated attempts to begin the first act were drowned out by shouting from the audience, Toscanini stormed out and refused to go on. The management's assurance that the conductor had suddenly felt ill were understandably met with skepticism, and the production failed shortly afterwards.
Forty-nine years later, Toscanini returned to the very overture that caused him so much trouble in the theatre. If the La Scala performance was anything like this later NBC recording, it would not be hard to understand the enthusiasm of the Milanese audience. The NBC recording is outstanding, and filled with brilliant orchestral wizardry. The moments of repose in the middle of the score have a remarkable stasis that continues to move forward almost imperceptibly, leading to an extraordinary build-up to the work's furious conclusion. This recording is proof that Toscanini could still lead performances of extraordinary energy well into his 80s.
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That's it for Day 59!
Check back tomorrow for the seventh and tenth symphonies of Beethoven, at least one of which was written by Brahms.
Happy Saturday!
Friday, October 28, 2011
Day 58: Black Sheep Redux
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 58!
I'm anxious to get back to the World Series, so I'll get right to it.
Rossini: Semiramide Overture - September 28th, 1951
Toscanini recorded this overture with the New York Philharmonic in 1936, in one of his most outstanding early documents. The conductor's NBC Symphony recordings oftentimes don't hold up well against his Philharmonic counterparts, but this account of the Semiramide Overture is one of the best in that regard. It has precision, energy, elegance and humor. Just as important, it is preserved in good enough sound to make Toscanini's palette of orchestral sonority beautiful audible.
Weber/Berlioz: Invitation to the Dance - September 28th, 1951
This is a remake of a recording Toscanini made with the BBC Symphony in 1938. The critical consensus seems to be that this NBC recording is the better of the two, as it offers an identical interpretation in better sound. That is true to some extent, but this doesn't take into account the tonal characteristics of the two orchestras. Although there is certainly beauty to the NBC recording (particularly the cello solos of Frank Miller), to me there is just no comparison of the overall sonority between the two ensembles. The range of colors produced by the BBC Symphony is simply in a different league, in my view. The NBC recording is also a bit less energetic, and lacking in the flare that makes Berlioz's orchestra come to life. From an interpretive point of view, these certainly are very similar performances, but this does not tell the entire story.
Beethoven: Symphony No. 2 - November 7th, 1949 and October 5th, 1951
This recording is a microcosm of the best and worst of Toscanini. It has forward drive and momentum, but is often rigid and unyielding. It is beautifully phrased, but the line often lacks nuance. Despite significant reservations, I still find this recording to be powerfully compelling. This symphony has always been the black sheep of Beethoven's family of nine, and for this reason alone I am very much moved by fine performances of this work. The best of Toscanini steps up to the plate in this regard, and I am willing to forgive him his worst in exchange for what is so wonderful.
Donizetti: Don Pasquale Overture - October 5th, 1951
Like the Rossini overture and the Weber/Berlioz, this is a remake of a recording Toscanini made at an earlier date, but his first recording of the Don Pasquale Overture comes from a very early time in his discography. Thirty years earlier, Toscanini recorded this overture with the La Scala Orchestra, in one of the most satisfying of that first series of historic documents. The two recordings are very similar interpretively, and in this case the distance in recording technology between the two are so vast that this later recording must be considered preferable. The beautiful cello solos of Frank Miller also give the NBC an edge in this regard.
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That's it for Day 58!
Check back tomorrow for some murmuring in the forest and a lower grin, all done very classically.
Happy Friday!
I'm anxious to get back to the World Series, so I'll get right to it.
Rossini: Semiramide Overture - September 28th, 1951
Toscanini recorded this overture with the New York Philharmonic in 1936, in one of his most outstanding early documents. The conductor's NBC Symphony recordings oftentimes don't hold up well against his Philharmonic counterparts, but this account of the Semiramide Overture is one of the best in that regard. It has precision, energy, elegance and humor. Just as important, it is preserved in good enough sound to make Toscanini's palette of orchestral sonority beautiful audible.
Weber/Berlioz: Invitation to the Dance - September 28th, 1951
This is a remake of a recording Toscanini made with the BBC Symphony in 1938. The critical consensus seems to be that this NBC recording is the better of the two, as it offers an identical interpretation in better sound. That is true to some extent, but this doesn't take into account the tonal characteristics of the two orchestras. Although there is certainly beauty to the NBC recording (particularly the cello solos of Frank Miller), to me there is just no comparison of the overall sonority between the two ensembles. The range of colors produced by the BBC Symphony is simply in a different league, in my view. The NBC recording is also a bit less energetic, and lacking in the flare that makes Berlioz's orchestra come to life. From an interpretive point of view, these certainly are very similar performances, but this does not tell the entire story.
Beethoven: Symphony No. 2 - November 7th, 1949 and October 5th, 1951
This recording is a microcosm of the best and worst of Toscanini. It has forward drive and momentum, but is often rigid and unyielding. It is beautifully phrased, but the line often lacks nuance. Despite significant reservations, I still find this recording to be powerfully compelling. This symphony has always been the black sheep of Beethoven's family of nine, and for this reason alone I am very much moved by fine performances of this work. The best of Toscanini steps up to the plate in this regard, and I am willing to forgive him his worst in exchange for what is so wonderful.
Donizetti: Don Pasquale Overture - October 5th, 1951
Like the Rossini overture and the Weber/Berlioz, this is a remake of a recording Toscanini made at an earlier date, but his first recording of the Don Pasquale Overture comes from a very early time in his discography. Thirty years earlier, Toscanini recorded this overture with the La Scala Orchestra, in one of the most satisfying of that first series of historic documents. The two recordings are very similar interpretively, and in this case the distance in recording technology between the two are so vast that this later recording must be considered preferable. The beautiful cello solos of Frank Miller also give the NBC an edge in this regard.
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That's it for Day 58!
Check back tomorrow for some murmuring in the forest and a lower grin, all done very classically.
Happy Friday!
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Day 57: Heckfire and Darnnation
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 57!
I probably shouldn't have tried to pursue this project while the World Series was going on, but I'm doing the best I can. On to Game 7, and one more evening of avoiding doing anything worthwhile for society!
Today's listening comprised all of the recordings Toscanini approved from his fourteenth season at NBC. This season was shortened by the conductor's knee troubles, which limited him to only four broadcasts. Toscanini evidently had a feeling that his last concert from this season would be the last of his career, but not only did he return for another season (plus two more after that), but season fifteen would prove to be his most prolific year of recording. An incredible forty-three works were to be recorded that year, showing that Toscanini had no intention of letting age get to him. And to think I already complain about feeling old and I'm only thirty-one.
Strauss: Don Juan - January 10th, 1951
Arturo Toscanini is not usually associated with the music of Strauss, but their association went back to the end of the 19th century. Toscanini gave the Italian premieres of many Strauss works during the early years of his career, and first led Don Juan in 1906. The same year Toscanini even stalked Strauss outside his home in Berlin, when hoping to engage the composer in negotiations for the first Italian performance of Salome (I don't know if Toscanini went through his garbage, though I'd like to think he did).
Toscanini was an incredible philanderer well into his old age, which should mean that Don Juan was the perfect music for him. While this recording of the first major tone poem of Richard Strauss is quite respectable, it is nothing special. Perhaps the now eighty-three year-old conductor had finally run out of energy for such things.
(I feel I should be congratulated for not using the word "flaccid" in the preceding paragraph. You're welcome.)
Verdi: Requiem - January 27th, 1951
Toscanini conducted the Verdi Requiem throughout his career, beginning with a special performance at La Scala to honor the first anniversary of Verdi's death in 1902. This NBC recording was culled from his last performance of the work, though the broadcast account was patched up with large quantities of rehearsal material for the RCA release. Toscanini only agreed to release this last Verdi Requiem when the alternate rehearsal takes were offered to him.
This recording is far from perfect. It is a bit rigid and lacking in nuance. But good heavens, is it dramatic! I will never forget my first experience with the Dies Irae, while observing a Seattle Symphony rehearsal in June of 1999. The famous bass drum notes left a major impression on me, and I have always felt that these notes are the key to the effectiveness of any performance of this work. Just wait until you hear the bass drum in this recording. This is such a powerful moment that I would really prefer to not comment on the rest of the performance (though there is an interesting mix of affects to the rest of the work that are worth listening to). Sometimes there are moments that you just want to remember without thinking about the other moments around them (Indiana Jones shooting the swordsman in Raiders of the Lost Ark is another of those moments).
This is hellfire and damnation of the most powerful sort, and yet somehow I feel morally elevated. I must be looking forward to watching Game 7 tomorrow.
Beethoven: Symphony No. 4 - February 3rd, 1951
As Toscanini only performed this symphony twice during his seventeen years at NBC (the first broadcast was in 1939; the present recording was culled from the second), it is natural to judge this account primarily against his 1939 recording with the BBC Symphony. The latter performance is one of Toscanini's finest Beethoven recordings, combining supple grandeur with biting strength.
Skipping ahead twelve years, the NBC broadcast is an impressive achievement in its own way, and even exceeds the BBC recording in its visceral energy. The scherzo is particular impressive in its explosive articulations. But the NBC cannot compete with its British counterpart in the moments of the symphony that call for a more full-bodied approach. The misterioso introduction to the first movement simply feels slack, while the fortissimo outbursts lack the sustained power that make them an effective contrast to the fleeter passages.
This performance has its strengths, but on the whole I prefer the BBC recording. But then again, I also used to strain the mushrooms out of Cream of Mushroom soup, so what do I know?
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That's it for Day 57!
Check back tomorrow for another even-numbered Beethoven symphony (isn't it interesting that the even-numbered ones are the most even-tempered?), two Italian overtures, and some Berlioz dance music that was composed by Weber.
Happy Thursday!
I probably shouldn't have tried to pursue this project while the World Series was going on, but I'm doing the best I can. On to Game 7, and one more evening of avoiding doing anything worthwhile for society!
Today's listening comprised all of the recordings Toscanini approved from his fourteenth season at NBC. This season was shortened by the conductor's knee troubles, which limited him to only four broadcasts. Toscanini evidently had a feeling that his last concert from this season would be the last of his career, but not only did he return for another season (plus two more after that), but season fifteen would prove to be his most prolific year of recording. An incredible forty-three works were to be recorded that year, showing that Toscanini had no intention of letting age get to him. And to think I already complain about feeling old and I'm only thirty-one.
Strauss: Don Juan - January 10th, 1951
Arturo Toscanini is not usually associated with the music of Strauss, but their association went back to the end of the 19th century. Toscanini gave the Italian premieres of many Strauss works during the early years of his career, and first led Don Juan in 1906. The same year Toscanini even stalked Strauss outside his home in Berlin, when hoping to engage the composer in negotiations for the first Italian performance of Salome (I don't know if Toscanini went through his garbage, though I'd like to think he did).
Toscanini was an incredible philanderer well into his old age, which should mean that Don Juan was the perfect music for him. While this recording of the first major tone poem of Richard Strauss is quite respectable, it is nothing special. Perhaps the now eighty-three year-old conductor had finally run out of energy for such things.
(I feel I should be congratulated for not using the word "flaccid" in the preceding paragraph. You're welcome.)
Verdi: Requiem - January 27th, 1951
Toscanini conducted the Verdi Requiem throughout his career, beginning with a special performance at La Scala to honor the first anniversary of Verdi's death in 1902. This NBC recording was culled from his last performance of the work, though the broadcast account was patched up with large quantities of rehearsal material for the RCA release. Toscanini only agreed to release this last Verdi Requiem when the alternate rehearsal takes were offered to him.
This recording is far from perfect. It is a bit rigid and lacking in nuance. But good heavens, is it dramatic! I will never forget my first experience with the Dies Irae, while observing a Seattle Symphony rehearsal in June of 1999. The famous bass drum notes left a major impression on me, and I have always felt that these notes are the key to the effectiveness of any performance of this work. Just wait until you hear the bass drum in this recording. This is such a powerful moment that I would really prefer to not comment on the rest of the performance (though there is an interesting mix of affects to the rest of the work that are worth listening to). Sometimes there are moments that you just want to remember without thinking about the other moments around them (Indiana Jones shooting the swordsman in Raiders of the Lost Ark is another of those moments).
This is hellfire and damnation of the most powerful sort, and yet somehow I feel morally elevated. I must be looking forward to watching Game 7 tomorrow.
Beethoven: Symphony No. 4 - February 3rd, 1951
As Toscanini only performed this symphony twice during his seventeen years at NBC (the first broadcast was in 1939; the present recording was culled from the second), it is natural to judge this account primarily against his 1939 recording with the BBC Symphony. The latter performance is one of Toscanini's finest Beethoven recordings, combining supple grandeur with biting strength.
Skipping ahead twelve years, the NBC broadcast is an impressive achievement in its own way, and even exceeds the BBC recording in its visceral energy. The scherzo is particular impressive in its explosive articulations. But the NBC cannot compete with its British counterpart in the moments of the symphony that call for a more full-bodied approach. The misterioso introduction to the first movement simply feels slack, while the fortissimo outbursts lack the sustained power that make them an effective contrast to the fleeter passages.
This performance has its strengths, but on the whole I prefer the BBC recording. But then again, I also used to strain the mushrooms out of Cream of Mushroom soup, so what do I know?
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That's it for Day 57!
Check back tomorrow for another even-numbered Beethoven symphony (isn't it interesting that the even-numbered ones are the most even-tempered?), two Italian overtures, and some Berlioz dance music that was composed by Weber.
Happy Thursday!
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Day 56: My Bonnie Lies Over La Mer, My Bonnie Lies Over the C
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 56!
For today I listened to the three works that Toscanini recorded shortly after the completion of his famous transcontinental tour of the United States with the NBC Symphony in 1950. The musicians of the orchestra widely considered this tour to be the artistic high-water mark of the ensemble, with its lack of outside distractions and numerous fine concert halls in which to perform. Both Toscanini and the orchestra were in an extremely positive frame of mind when they returned to New York for what turned out to be their final sessions in Studio 8-H (the broadcasts moved to Carnegie Hall the following season, and since 1975 Studio 8-H has been used by Saturday Night Live). These recordings are with one exception among the greatest of Toscanini's entire recorded legacy, and this listening session was a particular pleasure.
Debussy: La Mer - June 1st, 1950
Arturo Toscanini only ever performed nine works by Claude Debussy, but his favorite of those nine, La mer, was at the foundation of his repertoire. Toscanini performed La mer thirty-two times (!) during his decade with the New York Philharmonic, eighteen times with the NBC Symphony, and at least six times with other orchestras.
Obviously a Toscanini specialty long before he arrived at NBC, La mer was apparently a rather frightening specter to the young musicians of the new radio broadcast orchestra. The Debussy work was programmed on Toscanini's third broadcast with the NBC Symphony, and the musicians actually procured the services of Pierre Monteux to "teach" La mer to them before the maestro's arrival in New York for his first week of rehearsals in 1937. This says as much about the relative modernity of the score at that time (it had been premiered only thirty-two years earlier) as it did about the humility of the NBC Symphony and their eagerness to please their elder statesman conductor.
Toscanini had made a studio recording of La mer with the Philadelphia Orchestra in 1942, but this went unreleased during his lifetime and is marred by poor sound. After performing the work six times during the transcontinental tour of the United States, the NBC Symphony reconvened in Studio 8-H five days after the last concert to finally make a proper studio recording of Debussy's poem of the sea. This recording has achieved a legendary status among aficionados of Toscanini's work, and is widely regarded to be among his very finest surviving documents of any piece of music.
My own reaction to this recording was at first a bit uncertain. I have long been a devotee of Pierre Boulez's stunning recording of La mer with the Philharmonia Orchestra, and it is still difficult for me to hear the work played in a different way. But Toscanini's more muscular conception of the score continues to grow on me the more I listen to it. The ocean is not, of course, a wispy, ethereal geographic phenomenon. It is an immense, powerful, and dangerous organism, and Toscanini (who crossed the Atlantic dozens of times) displays unique understanding of that power in this recording. At the same time, the fine details of the work are immaculately worked out (including some reorchestration that was apparently approved by Debussy), as though it was very important to Toscanini to not let one wave go unnoticed.
I'm still not ready to call this one of my favorite recordings, but there is no denying its power. La mer was a work that was extremely deep with Toscanini's musical DNA, and the care he lavished on it shines luminously through every measure. There may be more beautiful performances of La mer out there, but I doubt there are any others that are more of an experience.
Saint-Saens: Danse macabre - June 1st, 1950
Danse macabre? More like Dance and Sob.
At his worst, Toscanini was certainly capable of being overly rigid and hard-edged in his rhythmic drive. This was disastrous in recordings like the 1942 Liebestod from Tristan or the Blue Danube waltz from the same year, but I think that trait could have actually have been an asset to Saint-Saens' Danse macabre (at least at times). This work should sound demonically driven with bone-rattling fury, and the hard-driven approach Toscanini was (fairly, at times) accused of applying to the classics would have worked perfectly for this piece.
Unfortunately, what we get in this recording is a bizarrely weighty spaciousness. The genuinely macabre elements of this work are transformed into an effect of misplaced grandeur, as though we end up looking at an enormous gargoyle dressed up like Monopoly's Uncle Moneybags smoking a fat cigar. I like Danse macabre very much, and I find Toscanini's recording to be both gravely disappointing and a serious misrepresentation of Saint-Saens' intentions.
For a truly macabre presentation of this music, I would suggest watching Jean Renoir's classic film The Rules of the Game. A devastating satire of the decadence of the French aristocracy in the years before World War II, The Rules of the Game features Danse macabre during a disturbing scene at a masquerade ball that is filled with skeletons. I wish Toscanini could have captured some of the same spirit.
Debussy: Ibéria - June 2nd, 1950
The French have always had a thing for Spain, and Debussy's Ibéria is one of the best of the Gallic takes on the music of their southern neigbor. Toscanini dearly loved this piece, which was one of the cornerstones of his repertoire. He apparently never conducted the other two of Debussy's Images (which is disappointing, as I'm sure he would have led a fantastic Rondes des printemps), but programmed Ibéria no fewer than twenty-five times in the United States.
Even more so than the La mer recording from the previous day, Toscanini's reading of Ibéria is richly atmospheric, and fully evocative of a foreigner's fascination with Spanish exoticism. The typically Toscaninian rhythmic drive suits the music very well, but the conductor applies tasteful elasticity to the tempo at appropriate moments. NBC Symphony violist Milton Katims (a fascinating man who lived very close to where I grew up in Seattle and knew my parents quite well) recalled telling Toscanini about a guest conductor who gave a performance of Ibéria with the NBC Symphony that was intensely boring "because he played precisely what was printed on the page." When the maestro insisted that that was exactly how he performed it, Katims placed the score on the piano, and asked Toscanini to play it as he saw fit: "As he played, I pointed out the slight stringendi here, the poco ritardando he made there, his rubato in another spot, etc. - none of which was in the score…He protested that it wasn't possible to be a machine."
Katims' story is very instructive about the relative value of the rhythmic units of tempo. While it is true that Toscanini generally had a very forward-moving conception of time, he did not believe that tempo should be without nuance. His finest preserved performances show that he could be as malleable with time as any other conductor (in fact, I find the rubato of some of his New York Philharmonic recordings to be a bit extreme). No musician can, of course, be a machine, and even if one was sufficiently gifted to perform a score exactly in tempo and with the exact relative rhythmic values of every note, such a result would be profoundly unmusical - because music is not a machine, and cannot be performed as such. Toscanini was one of the great musicians of his time, and while his musical decisions were at times highly questionable, they were always as deeply felt as any other great musician.
.........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 56!
Check back tomorrow for some sacred music, some womanizing music, and some music that is (probably) neither of those.
Happy Wednesday!
For today I listened to the three works that Toscanini recorded shortly after the completion of his famous transcontinental tour of the United States with the NBC Symphony in 1950. The musicians of the orchestra widely considered this tour to be the artistic high-water mark of the ensemble, with its lack of outside distractions and numerous fine concert halls in which to perform. Both Toscanini and the orchestra were in an extremely positive frame of mind when they returned to New York for what turned out to be their final sessions in Studio 8-H (the broadcasts moved to Carnegie Hall the following season, and since 1975 Studio 8-H has been used by Saturday Night Live). These recordings are with one exception among the greatest of Toscanini's entire recorded legacy, and this listening session was a particular pleasure.
Debussy: La Mer - June 1st, 1950
Arturo Toscanini only ever performed nine works by Claude Debussy, but his favorite of those nine, La mer, was at the foundation of his repertoire. Toscanini performed La mer thirty-two times (!) during his decade with the New York Philharmonic, eighteen times with the NBC Symphony, and at least six times with other orchestras.
Obviously a Toscanini specialty long before he arrived at NBC, La mer was apparently a rather frightening specter to the young musicians of the new radio broadcast orchestra. The Debussy work was programmed on Toscanini's third broadcast with the NBC Symphony, and the musicians actually procured the services of Pierre Monteux to "teach" La mer to them before the maestro's arrival in New York for his first week of rehearsals in 1937. This says as much about the relative modernity of the score at that time (it had been premiered only thirty-two years earlier) as it did about the humility of the NBC Symphony and their eagerness to please their elder statesman conductor.
Toscanini had made a studio recording of La mer with the Philadelphia Orchestra in 1942, but this went unreleased during his lifetime and is marred by poor sound. After performing the work six times during the transcontinental tour of the United States, the NBC Symphony reconvened in Studio 8-H five days after the last concert to finally make a proper studio recording of Debussy's poem of the sea. This recording has achieved a legendary status among aficionados of Toscanini's work, and is widely regarded to be among his very finest surviving documents of any piece of music.
My own reaction to this recording was at first a bit uncertain. I have long been a devotee of Pierre Boulez's stunning recording of La mer with the Philharmonia Orchestra, and it is still difficult for me to hear the work played in a different way. But Toscanini's more muscular conception of the score continues to grow on me the more I listen to it. The ocean is not, of course, a wispy, ethereal geographic phenomenon. It is an immense, powerful, and dangerous organism, and Toscanini (who crossed the Atlantic dozens of times) displays unique understanding of that power in this recording. At the same time, the fine details of the work are immaculately worked out (including some reorchestration that was apparently approved by Debussy), as though it was very important to Toscanini to not let one wave go unnoticed.
I'm still not ready to call this one of my favorite recordings, but there is no denying its power. La mer was a work that was extremely deep with Toscanini's musical DNA, and the care he lavished on it shines luminously through every measure. There may be more beautiful performances of La mer out there, but I doubt there are any others that are more of an experience.
Saint-Saens: Danse macabre - June 1st, 1950
Danse macabre? More like Dance and Sob.
At his worst, Toscanini was certainly capable of being overly rigid and hard-edged in his rhythmic drive. This was disastrous in recordings like the 1942 Liebestod from Tristan or the Blue Danube waltz from the same year, but I think that trait could have actually have been an asset to Saint-Saens' Danse macabre (at least at times). This work should sound demonically driven with bone-rattling fury, and the hard-driven approach Toscanini was (fairly, at times) accused of applying to the classics would have worked perfectly for this piece.
Unfortunately, what we get in this recording is a bizarrely weighty spaciousness. The genuinely macabre elements of this work are transformed into an effect of misplaced grandeur, as though we end up looking at an enormous gargoyle dressed up like Monopoly's Uncle Moneybags smoking a fat cigar. I like Danse macabre very much, and I find Toscanini's recording to be both gravely disappointing and a serious misrepresentation of Saint-Saens' intentions.
For a truly macabre presentation of this music, I would suggest watching Jean Renoir's classic film The Rules of the Game. A devastating satire of the decadence of the French aristocracy in the years before World War II, The Rules of the Game features Danse macabre during a disturbing scene at a masquerade ball that is filled with skeletons. I wish Toscanini could have captured some of the same spirit.
Debussy: Ibéria - June 2nd, 1950
The French have always had a thing for Spain, and Debussy's Ibéria is one of the best of the Gallic takes on the music of their southern neigbor. Toscanini dearly loved this piece, which was one of the cornerstones of his repertoire. He apparently never conducted the other two of Debussy's Images (which is disappointing, as I'm sure he would have led a fantastic Rondes des printemps), but programmed Ibéria no fewer than twenty-five times in the United States.
Even more so than the La mer recording from the previous day, Toscanini's reading of Ibéria is richly atmospheric, and fully evocative of a foreigner's fascination with Spanish exoticism. The typically Toscaninian rhythmic drive suits the music very well, but the conductor applies tasteful elasticity to the tempo at appropriate moments. NBC Symphony violist Milton Katims (a fascinating man who lived very close to where I grew up in Seattle and knew my parents quite well) recalled telling Toscanini about a guest conductor who gave a performance of Ibéria with the NBC Symphony that was intensely boring "because he played precisely what was printed on the page." When the maestro insisted that that was exactly how he performed it, Katims placed the score on the piano, and asked Toscanini to play it as he saw fit: "As he played, I pointed out the slight stringendi here, the poco ritardando he made there, his rubato in another spot, etc. - none of which was in the score…He protested that it wasn't possible to be a machine."
Katims' story is very instructive about the relative value of the rhythmic units of tempo. While it is true that Toscanini generally had a very forward-moving conception of time, he did not believe that tempo should be without nuance. His finest preserved performances show that he could be as malleable with time as any other conductor (in fact, I find the rubato of some of his New York Philharmonic recordings to be a bit extreme). No musician can, of course, be a machine, and even if one was sufficiently gifted to perform a score exactly in tempo and with the exact relative rhythmic values of every note, such a result would be profoundly unmusical - because music is not a machine, and cannot be performed as such. Toscanini was one of the great musicians of his time, and while his musical decisions were at times highly questionable, they were always as deeply felt as any other great musician.
.........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 56!
Check back tomorrow for some sacred music, some womanizing music, and some music that is (probably) neither of those.
Happy Wednesday!
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Day 55: The Wary Wives of Windsor
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 55!
Today was a long day, so this account of my listening session of Verdi's final opera is not nearly as developed as I would have liked. Just think of this as incentive to buy the book version of this blog, which should be available in better bookstores everywhere by 2096 at the latest.
Verdi: Falstaff - April 1st and 8th, 1950
For Arturo Toscanini, Falstaff was not just the crowning glory of Giuseppe Verdi's operatic canon, but one of the grandest achievements in all of opera. In 1936, one year before giving his final staged performance of the work, Toscanini told a friend that "No opera is more beautiful, more complete, newer and more Latin than Falstaff." Considering the exceptional authority Toscanini had with Verdi operas such as Otello, Rigoletto, and Aida, this is really saying something.
Toscanini did not get to witness the first performance of Falstaff, but it soon became one of the cornerstones of his repertoire. The opera went on to be the work Toscanini conducted more than any other on the stage (twenty-seven productions in all). Verdi's publisher, Giulio Ricordi, complained about Toscanini's excessively metronomic interpretation of Falstaff, but the opera's librettist, Arrigo Boito, gave his hearty approval. I think Boito knew what he was talking about.
Fifty-six years after his first production of the opera, Toscanini recorded Falstaff over two broadcasts with the NBC Symphony and a superb cast of soloists. These broadcasts are not his only surviving account of the work, but it is the only one to be preserved in listenable sound. The only other surviving Toscanini performance of Falstaff comes from an air check of a performance from Salzburg in 1937 that has yet to see a proper release. I have not heard the Salzburg recording, but the critical consensus is that it possesses more flexibility and theatricality than the NBC broadcast. That may or may not be, but I can only judge Toscanini's conception of the opera from what I have heard, and what I have heard is extraordinary.
This NBC recording is brilliant in every way, but especially so for the stunning cohesion of the cast. Giuseppe Valdengo made for a perfectly rapscallion title character, while Herva Nelli, Nan Merriman and Cloe Elmo made for imposing trio of merry wives. The NBC Symphony gave one of its finest efforts in the music of Verdi in these broadcasts, and filled the score with beautifully timed accents that accentuate the glorious humor of the opera.
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That's it for Day 55!
Check back tomorrow for a trio of French masterpieces, only one of which is about Spain.
Happy Tuesday!
Today was a long day, so this account of my listening session of Verdi's final opera is not nearly as developed as I would have liked. Just think of this as incentive to buy the book version of this blog, which should be available in better bookstores everywhere by 2096 at the latest.
Verdi: Falstaff - April 1st and 8th, 1950
For Arturo Toscanini, Falstaff was not just the crowning glory of Giuseppe Verdi's operatic canon, but one of the grandest achievements in all of opera. In 1936, one year before giving his final staged performance of the work, Toscanini told a friend that "No opera is more beautiful, more complete, newer and more Latin than Falstaff." Considering the exceptional authority Toscanini had with Verdi operas such as Otello, Rigoletto, and Aida, this is really saying something.
Toscanini did not get to witness the first performance of Falstaff, but it soon became one of the cornerstones of his repertoire. The opera went on to be the work Toscanini conducted more than any other on the stage (twenty-seven productions in all). Verdi's publisher, Giulio Ricordi, complained about Toscanini's excessively metronomic interpretation of Falstaff, but the opera's librettist, Arrigo Boito, gave his hearty approval. I think Boito knew what he was talking about.
Fifty-six years after his first production of the opera, Toscanini recorded Falstaff over two broadcasts with the NBC Symphony and a superb cast of soloists. These broadcasts are not his only surviving account of the work, but it is the only one to be preserved in listenable sound. The only other surviving Toscanini performance of Falstaff comes from an air check of a performance from Salzburg in 1937 that has yet to see a proper release. I have not heard the Salzburg recording, but the critical consensus is that it possesses more flexibility and theatricality than the NBC broadcast. That may or may not be, but I can only judge Toscanini's conception of the opera from what I have heard, and what I have heard is extraordinary.
This NBC recording is brilliant in every way, but especially so for the stunning cohesion of the cast. Giuseppe Valdengo made for a perfectly rapscallion title character, while Herva Nelli, Nan Merriman and Cloe Elmo made for imposing trio of merry wives. The NBC Symphony gave one of its finest efforts in the music of Verdi in these broadcasts, and filled the score with beautifully timed accents that accentuate the glorious humor of the opera.
........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 55!
Check back tomorrow for a trio of French masterpieces, only one of which is about Spain.
Happy Tuesday!
Monday, October 24, 2011
Day 54: Swimming With Trees
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 54!
For today I listened to two tone poems and an overture. Two of these three recordings are remakes of works Toscanini recorded with the New York Philharmonic between 1929 and 1936, allowing an interesting glimpse both into how the conductor's interpretation changed over the years and into how these interpretations were carried out by different orchestras. As you will see, I think both the New York Philharmonic and the younger Toscanini are the winners of these comparisons. But we are still quite fortunate to have these later recordings, as they give us the chance to hear Toscanini conduct this music in sound quality that is still perfectly listenable.
Dukas: The Sorcerer's Apprentice - March 19th, 1950
Toscanini's biographers seem to pretty much unanimously feel that this NBC recording is vastly superior to the 1929 New York Philharmonic set. Mortimer H. Frank, for example, calls the earlier recording "unduly rushed," and feels that the NBC reading "succeeds far better in conveying the music's wit and programmatic content." Well, Mr. Frank is welcome to his opinion, but I can't say I agree. My own test for an effective reading of this work is whether or not in its performance I can picture Mickey Mouse in full panic mode.
Despite the ancient vintage of the sound quality, I get much more of a sense of the brilliance of Dukas's kaleidoscopic colors from the earlier recording than from the later one from NBC. The 1950 recording seems almost self-consciously spacious to my ears (beyond the famous contrabassoon solo, which in both recordings is bizarrely played almost strictly in tempo), and lacking in drama. Though the NBC account has strength and precision, it is not in my view the most effective document of this work as led by Arturo Toscanini. I think Mickey would agree.
Smetana: The Moldau - March 19th, 1950
Though this performance is a bit harder-edged than one usually encounters of this piece, it has a lovely sheen to it than in its own way is beautifully atmospheric. The running figures in the flutes that open the work are virtuosic, but never self-consciously so. Meanwhile, the more light-hearted episodes possess a dancing buoyancy that is made all the more effective by Toscanini's forward-moving conception. This is a wonderful recording, and one I would eagerly return to again.
This has nothing directly to do with Toscanini, but I would be remiss if I did not at this point mention the recent beautiful use of The Moldau in director Terrence Malick's stunning film The Tree of Life. Smetana's tone poem is used in the film to symbolize the joy of the newness of young life. Rivers are often used in literature and in paintings as metaphors for the cycle of life. The use of this most famous musical evocation of a river at this point of a film called The Tree of Life illuminates the power of this music in a way that the auditory sense alone cannot provide. Sometimes it takes a film to show the art that is in music.
As it turns out, it is actually not a complete stretch to write about The Tree of Life while blogging about the recorded legacy of Arturo Toscanini. As we will see in Day 62, there is in fact a direct and fascinating connection between the two. But that's a story that can wait until the right moment in the cycle of this blog's life.
Rossini: L'italiana in Algeri Overture - April 14th, 1950
Toscanini's 1936 recording of this overture with the New York Philharmonic is one of the glories of his discography. It is a prime example of a master conductor at the height of his powers collaborating with one of the world's great orchestras to produce music-making of exceptional precision and tonal beauty. This 1950 recording with the NBC Symphony, on the other hand, is a sad display of Toscanini's fading energy. There is still intelligence and crisp precision in this performance, but the NBC Symphony does not respond with anything like the resplendent energy of the New York Philharmonic.
........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 54!
Check back tomorrow for something Shakespearean, though with a distinctly Italian accent.
Happy Monday!
For today I listened to two tone poems and an overture. Two of these three recordings are remakes of works Toscanini recorded with the New York Philharmonic between 1929 and 1936, allowing an interesting glimpse both into how the conductor's interpretation changed over the years and into how these interpretations were carried out by different orchestras. As you will see, I think both the New York Philharmonic and the younger Toscanini are the winners of these comparisons. But we are still quite fortunate to have these later recordings, as they give us the chance to hear Toscanini conduct this music in sound quality that is still perfectly listenable.
Dukas: The Sorcerer's Apprentice - March 19th, 1950
Toscanini's biographers seem to pretty much unanimously feel that this NBC recording is vastly superior to the 1929 New York Philharmonic set. Mortimer H. Frank, for example, calls the earlier recording "unduly rushed," and feels that the NBC reading "succeeds far better in conveying the music's wit and programmatic content." Well, Mr. Frank is welcome to his opinion, but I can't say I agree. My own test for an effective reading of this work is whether or not in its performance I can picture Mickey Mouse in full panic mode.
Despite the ancient vintage of the sound quality, I get much more of a sense of the brilliance of Dukas's kaleidoscopic colors from the earlier recording than from the later one from NBC. The 1950 recording seems almost self-consciously spacious to my ears (beyond the famous contrabassoon solo, which in both recordings is bizarrely played almost strictly in tempo), and lacking in drama. Though the NBC account has strength and precision, it is not in my view the most effective document of this work as led by Arturo Toscanini. I think Mickey would agree.
Smetana: The Moldau - March 19th, 1950
Though this performance is a bit harder-edged than one usually encounters of this piece, it has a lovely sheen to it than in its own way is beautifully atmospheric. The running figures in the flutes that open the work are virtuosic, but never self-consciously so. Meanwhile, the more light-hearted episodes possess a dancing buoyancy that is made all the more effective by Toscanini's forward-moving conception. This is a wonderful recording, and one I would eagerly return to again.
This has nothing directly to do with Toscanini, but I would be remiss if I did not at this point mention the recent beautiful use of The Moldau in director Terrence Malick's stunning film The Tree of Life. Smetana's tone poem is used in the film to symbolize the joy of the newness of young life. Rivers are often used in literature and in paintings as metaphors for the cycle of life. The use of this most famous musical evocation of a river at this point of a film called The Tree of Life illuminates the power of this music in a way that the auditory sense alone cannot provide. Sometimes it takes a film to show the art that is in music.
As it turns out, it is actually not a complete stretch to write about The Tree of Life while blogging about the recorded legacy of Arturo Toscanini. As we will see in Day 62, there is in fact a direct and fascinating connection between the two. But that's a story that can wait until the right moment in the cycle of this blog's life.
Rossini: L'italiana in Algeri Overture - April 14th, 1950
Toscanini's 1936 recording of this overture with the New York Philharmonic is one of the glories of his discography. It is a prime example of a master conductor at the height of his powers collaborating with one of the world's great orchestras to produce music-making of exceptional precision and tonal beauty. This 1950 recording with the NBC Symphony, on the other hand, is a sad display of Toscanini's fading energy. There is still intelligence and crisp precision in this performance, but the NBC Symphony does not respond with anything like the resplendent energy of the New York Philharmonic.
........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 54!
Check back tomorrow for something Shakespearean, though with a distinctly Italian accent.
Happy Monday!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Day 53: Unfinished Epiphany
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 53!
For today I listened to a Spanish dance written by a Russian, and two Austrian symphonies written by, well, Austrians. I guess the Russians just don't find Austria to be all that exotic. At least the Austrians make great energy drinks.
Glinka: Jota aragonesa - March 4th, 1950
This piece has been described as the father of Rimsky-Korsakov's Capriccio espagnol, and that is a pretty fair assessment. This music does have its charm, despite some rather haphazard construction. Toscanini conducts the work with great vitality and intelligence, but this recording is more remarkable as a document for how far the NBC Symphony had come in its twelve years of existence.
Even in the finest moments of their early years, this orchestra did not possess the same richness of sonority and tonal weight of the world's great orchestras. Though the NBC Symphony never did quite reach the level of ensembles like the Philadelphia Orchestra and New York Philharmonic (to cite two of the other orchestras with which Toscanini recorded) in this regard, by 1950 they had developed a powerful cohesion of ensemble and superb depth of sound. This 1950 recording of Glinka's Jota aragonesa is a perfect example of the extent to which they had improved. The winds are in perfect balance, and the strings play with more unanimity of attack than in any recording I have yet listened to from this ensemble. This is not a great piece of music, but it is a great showpiece for a great orchestra.
Mozart: Symphony No. 40 - March 12th, 1950
Mozart's Symphony No. 40 was the first work Toscanini recorded with the NBC Symphony, and that early effort was so brutal in its execution that even hardened prison inmates would have fled from it in terror. This later recording from 1950 is more gentle in execution, but it also lacks flexibility and is a bit too self-consciously symphonic for my taste. The light, elegant approach that is widely and uncritically applied to Mozart by default drives me absolutely crazy, but the full-bodied approach of Toscanini is misapplied, in my view. The conductor once admitted that the Symphony No. 40 was the only Mozart work (outside of the concertos) that he did not find "boring", and that he considered it "great tragedy." That may be, but every tragedy has moments of repose that place the pain in perspective. Toscanini may have liked this piece more than most 18th century music, but it cannot go down as a work he led with great sympathy.
Schubert: Symphony No. 8 - March 12th and June 2nd, 1950
It always drives me nuts to hear this piece played with the ponderous, back-of-the-beat weight it is given in most performances. The first movement may be marked Allegro moderato, but it is still an Allegro, not a slow movement. I was very happy to hear Toscanini's tempo for this movement, which is forward-moving enough to give this piece the power and intensity it deserves. This tempo is a bit unyielding, however, and at times devolves into the unfeelingly rigid execution Toscanini lapsed to in his worst moments. The first movement is also marred by the poor intonation of timpanist Karl Glassman, whose upper drum F# is cringe-inducingly flat. Why did Toscanini not correct this? Beats the hell out of me.
The second movement is much better (I believe this was what was recorded in the March session). Where the first movement was rigid, the Andante con moto is flexible and rich in tonal beauty. The wind soloists are particularly good in this music, and the strings play with a singing cantabile that moves when it needs to and stands still when the score reaches its moments of pastoral stasis.
As these two movements were recorded several months apart, it should perhaps not be surprising that they don't really mesh together as the finest NBC recordings do. But at its best, this recording is fully representative of Toscanini's finest work. It is just a bit marred by a few bumps in the road.
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That's it for Day 53!
Check back tomorrow for a river trip, a North African adventure and a visit from Mickey Mouse. It'll be buckets of fun.
Happy Sunday!
For today I listened to a Spanish dance written by a Russian, and two Austrian symphonies written by, well, Austrians. I guess the Russians just don't find Austria to be all that exotic. At least the Austrians make great energy drinks.
Glinka: Jota aragonesa - March 4th, 1950
This piece has been described as the father of Rimsky-Korsakov's Capriccio espagnol, and that is a pretty fair assessment. This music does have its charm, despite some rather haphazard construction. Toscanini conducts the work with great vitality and intelligence, but this recording is more remarkable as a document for how far the NBC Symphony had come in its twelve years of existence.
Even in the finest moments of their early years, this orchestra did not possess the same richness of sonority and tonal weight of the world's great orchestras. Though the NBC Symphony never did quite reach the level of ensembles like the Philadelphia Orchestra and New York Philharmonic (to cite two of the other orchestras with which Toscanini recorded) in this regard, by 1950 they had developed a powerful cohesion of ensemble and superb depth of sound. This 1950 recording of Glinka's Jota aragonesa is a perfect example of the extent to which they had improved. The winds are in perfect balance, and the strings play with more unanimity of attack than in any recording I have yet listened to from this ensemble. This is not a great piece of music, but it is a great showpiece for a great orchestra.
Mozart: Symphony No. 40 - March 12th, 1950
Mozart's Symphony No. 40 was the first work Toscanini recorded with the NBC Symphony, and that early effort was so brutal in its execution that even hardened prison inmates would have fled from it in terror. This later recording from 1950 is more gentle in execution, but it also lacks flexibility and is a bit too self-consciously symphonic for my taste. The light, elegant approach that is widely and uncritically applied to Mozart by default drives me absolutely crazy, but the full-bodied approach of Toscanini is misapplied, in my view. The conductor once admitted that the Symphony No. 40 was the only Mozart work (outside of the concertos) that he did not find "boring", and that he considered it "great tragedy." That may be, but every tragedy has moments of repose that place the pain in perspective. Toscanini may have liked this piece more than most 18th century music, but it cannot go down as a work he led with great sympathy.
Schubert: Symphony No. 8 - March 12th and June 2nd, 1950
It always drives me nuts to hear this piece played with the ponderous, back-of-the-beat weight it is given in most performances. The first movement may be marked Allegro moderato, but it is still an Allegro, not a slow movement. I was very happy to hear Toscanini's tempo for this movement, which is forward-moving enough to give this piece the power and intensity it deserves. This tempo is a bit unyielding, however, and at times devolves into the unfeelingly rigid execution Toscanini lapsed to in his worst moments. The first movement is also marred by the poor intonation of timpanist Karl Glassman, whose upper drum F# is cringe-inducingly flat. Why did Toscanini not correct this? Beats the hell out of me.
The second movement is much better (I believe this was what was recorded in the March session). Where the first movement was rigid, the Andante con moto is flexible and rich in tonal beauty. The wind soloists are particularly good in this music, and the strings play with a singing cantabile that moves when it needs to and stands still when the score reaches its moments of pastoral stasis.
As these two movements were recorded several months apart, it should perhaps not be surprising that they don't really mesh together as the finest NBC recordings do. But at its best, this recording is fully representative of Toscanini's finest work. It is just a bit marred by a few bumps in the road.
.............................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 53!
Check back tomorrow for a river trip, a North African adventure and a visit from Mickey Mouse. It'll be buckets of fun.
Happy Sunday!
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Day 52: I Put a Good Friday Spell on You
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 52!
Today must be a bit abbreviated due to my Spokane Symphony duties. I can't believe my stupid job is getting in the way of my blogging! Gee whiz!
Wagner: Siegfried's Rhine Journey from Götterdämmerung - December 22nd, 1949
Toscanini performed this quite frequently, and released three commercial recordings of his own arrangement of the excerpt (though retaining the standard concert ending by Humperdinck). This one is my favorite of the official recordings. It has both great, spacious grandeur and exuberant vitality.
Wagner: Prelude and Good Friday Spell from Parsifal - December 22nd, 1949
Parsifal was an opera Toscanini took very, very seriously. He took special pains to attend performances of it at Bayreuth as a young man, and when he was at last invited to conduct at the Wagner temple he led what is still the slowest Parsifal ever given at the theater. Toscanini's performance clocked in at four hours, forty-two minutes.
Toscanini regularly performed the Prelude and Good Friday Spell in the concert hall, but these are his only recordings of the excerpts. Toscanini was reported to have entered a state of almost meditative concentration when performing this music, and I can believe it from the extraordinary beauty of these performances. There is a stunning, religioso serenity to these readings, a rapt homage of obeisance to a master composer Toscanini revered.
Cherubini: Medea Overture - February 18th, 1950
This piece is a bit like a poor-man's Der Freischütz Overture. It has similar melodic contours and sonorities, but is, to use the technical term, more crappier. Toscanini still manages to make this into compelling listening, and the NBC Symphony maintains a high energy level throughout.
Cherubini: Requiem - February 18th, 1950
If you can believe it, the Cherubini Requiem was once widely considered to be one of the greatest pieces ever written. Berlioz and Schumann both considered this work to be an immortal masterpiece, and you would think they know something about such things. You would think.
Toscanini sang in a performance of this work as a boy, but this 1950 recording is evidently the only time he ever conducted it. It is certainly well-performed, but I would need to spend more time with this piece to form more of a firm opinion on Toscanini's interpretation. To my ears this work just sounds very non-descript and frankly a bit dull. But I'd like to think Berlioz and Schumann knew what they were talking about, so I may give it another chance at some point.
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That's it for Day 52!
Check back tomorrow for some Viennese classics and a Spanish dance by a composer who was probably more familiar with Troikas.
Happy Saturday!
Today must be a bit abbreviated due to my Spokane Symphony duties. I can't believe my stupid job is getting in the way of my blogging! Gee whiz!
Wagner: Siegfried's Rhine Journey from Götterdämmerung - December 22nd, 1949
Toscanini performed this quite frequently, and released three commercial recordings of his own arrangement of the excerpt (though retaining the standard concert ending by Humperdinck). This one is my favorite of the official recordings. It has both great, spacious grandeur and exuberant vitality.
Wagner: Prelude and Good Friday Spell from Parsifal - December 22nd, 1949
Parsifal was an opera Toscanini took very, very seriously. He took special pains to attend performances of it at Bayreuth as a young man, and when he was at last invited to conduct at the Wagner temple he led what is still the slowest Parsifal ever given at the theater. Toscanini's performance clocked in at four hours, forty-two minutes.
Toscanini regularly performed the Prelude and Good Friday Spell in the concert hall, but these are his only recordings of the excerpts. Toscanini was reported to have entered a state of almost meditative concentration when performing this music, and I can believe it from the extraordinary beauty of these performances. There is a stunning, religioso serenity to these readings, a rapt homage of obeisance to a master composer Toscanini revered.
Cherubini: Medea Overture - February 18th, 1950
This piece is a bit like a poor-man's Der Freischütz Overture. It has similar melodic contours and sonorities, but is, to use the technical term, more crappier. Toscanini still manages to make this into compelling listening, and the NBC Symphony maintains a high energy level throughout.
Cherubini: Requiem - February 18th, 1950
If you can believe it, the Cherubini Requiem was once widely considered to be one of the greatest pieces ever written. Berlioz and Schumann both considered this work to be an immortal masterpiece, and you would think they know something about such things. You would think.
Toscanini sang in a performance of this work as a boy, but this 1950 recording is evidently the only time he ever conducted it. It is certainly well-performed, but I would need to spend more time with this piece to form more of a firm opinion on Toscanini's interpretation. To my ears this work just sounds very non-descript and frankly a bit dull. But I'd like to think Berlioz and Schumann knew what they were talking about, so I may give it another chance at some point.
.......................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 52!
Check back tomorrow for some Viennese classics and a Spanish dance by a composer who was probably more familiar with Troikas.
Happy Saturday!
Friday, October 21, 2011
Day 51: Bleeding Torsos Can Be Beautiful, Too
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 51!
For today I listened to two large programmatic works. One made me eager to visit the festivals of Rome, and the other convinced me to never try to summon dark spirits while hiking in the Alps (it just seems like a bad idea).
Tchaikovsky: Manfred Symphony - December 5th, 1949
There is sometimes no accounting for taste, even in the case of an artist like Toscanini. He seemed to generally dislike the music of Tchaikovsky, and refused to conduct such popular works of his as the Fourth and Fifth Symphonies. The Fifth in particular he sneered at as "banal." He did, however, strongly approve of the composer's Manfred Symphony, and felt that it had "not one banal note." Toscanini led Tchaikovksy's enormous program symphony six times at NBC, more than any Beethoven symphony save the Eroica and Pastoral. Manfred was clearly a work that appealed greatly to Toscanini's temperament, and yet if he felt it had "not one banal note," he must have thought it had a great many banal measures.
It has become a boring cliché in discussions about Toscanini to get bogged down into talk about "literal" interpretation. The conductor was widely perceived, particularly by his detractors, as being overly literal and objective in the way he interpreted the notes he conducted. At times Toscanini himself seemed to support such a view, by saying such things as "tradition is only the last bad performance" and "the score is my tradition!"
Yet Toscanini's actions in a wide variety of cases are evidence that he felt that the interpreter really was the final arbiter of decisions on how to play the notes on the page. He was less different from conductors like Wilhelm Furtwängler in this regard than either would have liked to admit.
The most extreme example of this is in this recording of the Manfred Symphony, in which Toscanini is a true law unto himself when it comes to interpreting what Tchaikovsky wrote. Numerous elements of the orchestration were changed, and some excisions were made in the score. Most glaring was a huge cut of 118 bars from the last movement, leaving it a bleeding torso of itself. Not that I ever plan on counting exactly how many, but I'm guessing there are quite a few notes in those 118 bars (but the problem obviously can't possibly have been that they were banal, no siree). The result of this is that the Manfred Symphony's monumental structures are considerably tightened in Toscanini's hands. This does make the work more easily digestible, but I don't think it does Tchaikovsky any favors.
Tightening does not mean improving. The effect of this tampering with the architecture of the symphony is that proportions are lost, and climaxes lose their impact. Tchaikovsky had a keen sense for structural proportions, and I find Toscanini's modifications to be quite injurious to the Manfred Symphony. This is a work about summoning evil spirits. When you take away the darkest music from this score, these spirits take on a less menacing form (I bet they even wear a monocle).
What does this mean for Toscanini's actual performance? Nothing. This recording is fabulous. It is stunning in its visceral impact, and the build-up of nerve-gripping tension has an overwhelming inevitability about it. If you only measure emotional impact, this is certainly one of the finest recordings Toscanini ever made. It has great interpretive sweep, and is stunningly played by the NBC Symphony. But on an intellectual level the cuts are a deal-breaker for me. While Toscanini's performance has undeniable power, the loss of Tchaikovsky's immaculate structures are too high a price to pay. In the end, this underwhelms my emotional response as well.
Respighi: Roman Festivals - December 12th, 1949
Toscanini premiered this work with the New York Philharmonic in 1929, and twenty years later he had not lost his touch. This 1949 NBC recording is absolutely thrilling from start to finish, and displays remarkable orchestral virtuosity. Toscanini had last recorded Roman Festivals with the Philadelphia Orchestra in 1941. Though well-performed, the Philadelphia recording is dim-sounding, and suggests little of the vibrant orchestral colors Toscanini must have given it. By contrast, the NBC recording is one of the most brilliant-sounding recordings that had yet been produced by 1949. RCA's engineers really stepped up to the plate for Roman Festivals, and gave Toscanini all the technical leeway he needed to fully place Respighi's rich palette of hues on display. I can't imagine ever listening to a more satisfying recording of this work.
For today I listened to two large programmatic works. One made me eager to visit the festivals of Rome, and the other convinced me to never try to summon dark spirits while hiking in the Alps (it just seems like a bad idea).
Tchaikovsky: Manfred Symphony - December 5th, 1949
There is sometimes no accounting for taste, even in the case of an artist like Toscanini. He seemed to generally dislike the music of Tchaikovsky, and refused to conduct such popular works of his as the Fourth and Fifth Symphonies. The Fifth in particular he sneered at as "banal." He did, however, strongly approve of the composer's Manfred Symphony, and felt that it had "not one banal note." Toscanini led Tchaikovksy's enormous program symphony six times at NBC, more than any Beethoven symphony save the Eroica and Pastoral. Manfred was clearly a work that appealed greatly to Toscanini's temperament, and yet if he felt it had "not one banal note," he must have thought it had a great many banal measures.
It has become a boring cliché in discussions about Toscanini to get bogged down into talk about "literal" interpretation. The conductor was widely perceived, particularly by his detractors, as being overly literal and objective in the way he interpreted the notes he conducted. At times Toscanini himself seemed to support such a view, by saying such things as "tradition is only the last bad performance" and "the score is my tradition!"
Yet Toscanini's actions in a wide variety of cases are evidence that he felt that the interpreter really was the final arbiter of decisions on how to play the notes on the page. He was less different from conductors like Wilhelm Furtwängler in this regard than either would have liked to admit.
The most extreme example of this is in this recording of the Manfred Symphony, in which Toscanini is a true law unto himself when it comes to interpreting what Tchaikovsky wrote. Numerous elements of the orchestration were changed, and some excisions were made in the score. Most glaring was a huge cut of 118 bars from the last movement, leaving it a bleeding torso of itself. Not that I ever plan on counting exactly how many, but I'm guessing there are quite a few notes in those 118 bars (but the problem obviously can't possibly have been that they were banal, no siree). The result of this is that the Manfred Symphony's monumental structures are considerably tightened in Toscanini's hands. This does make the work more easily digestible, but I don't think it does Tchaikovsky any favors.
Tightening does not mean improving. The effect of this tampering with the architecture of the symphony is that proportions are lost, and climaxes lose their impact. Tchaikovsky had a keen sense for structural proportions, and I find Toscanini's modifications to be quite injurious to the Manfred Symphony. This is a work about summoning evil spirits. When you take away the darkest music from this score, these spirits take on a less menacing form (I bet they even wear a monocle).
What does this mean for Toscanini's actual performance? Nothing. This recording is fabulous. It is stunning in its visceral impact, and the build-up of nerve-gripping tension has an overwhelming inevitability about it. If you only measure emotional impact, this is certainly one of the finest recordings Toscanini ever made. It has great interpretive sweep, and is stunningly played by the NBC Symphony. But on an intellectual level the cuts are a deal-breaker for me. While Toscanini's performance has undeniable power, the loss of Tchaikovsky's immaculate structures are too high a price to pay. In the end, this underwhelms my emotional response as well.
Respighi: Roman Festivals - December 12th, 1949
Toscanini premiered this work with the New York Philharmonic in 1929, and twenty years later he had not lost his touch. This 1949 NBC recording is absolutely thrilling from start to finish, and displays remarkable orchestral virtuosity. Toscanini had last recorded Roman Festivals with the Philadelphia Orchestra in 1941. Though well-performed, the Philadelphia recording is dim-sounding, and suggests little of the vibrant orchestral colors Toscanini must have given it. By contrast, the NBC recording is one of the most brilliant-sounding recordings that had yet been produced by 1949. RCA's engineers really stepped up to the plate for Roman Festivals, and gave Toscanini all the technical leeway he needed to fully place Respighi's rich palette of hues on display. I can't imagine ever listening to a more satisfying recording of this work.
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That's it for Day 51!
Check back tomorrow for some Wagner, a myth, and a Requiem. What could be more thigh-slappingly fun?
Happy Friday!
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Day 50: The Agogic Flute
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 50!
For today I listened to something Masonic, something exotic, and something heroic. That's a lot of ics.
Mozart: The Magic Flute Overture - November 26th, 1949
Like most of Toscanini's Mozart performances, this recording of the Magic Flute Overture is a bit tight and driven, but fortunately it never descends into maddening impatience as do his worst performances of 18th century music. The spacious sonority he gave the Masonic portions of the overture were perfectly realized in Toscanini's 1938 recording with the BBC Symphony. This later performance is more earthbound and lacks that dignified ambience, but it does have a bright energy to its faster sections that make this NBC recording a perfectly acceptable alternative.
Cherubini: Ali Baba Overture - December 3rd, 1949
This overture is no masterpiece, but it shows good craftsmanship and is resplendent with well-calculated entertainment. Toscanini makes the most of this music, and exploits the Janissary effects superbly. Now if only I could find a cave where saying "Open Sesame" would lead to a land where a musician can get rich.
Beethoven: Symphony No. 3 - November 28th, and December 5th, 1949
I first quoted this text during Day 9, which was the last time I listened to a Toscanini recording of Beethoven's Eroica Symphony:
"We would do well at this point to remember that we are not likely to find it 'unusual and fantastic' either - which, if so, is very much our loss. When it comes to maintaining a sense of the 'unusual and fantastic' or just of freshness, we are not much helped by conductors, particularly the ones whose attitude of reverence and awe before A Great Classic leads them into 'monumental' tempi at which the length of the work easily becomes 'inordinate', if not 'unendurable'. Of course the rare conductor of genius like Furtwängler or Klemperer can make a convincing case for a 'monumental' Eroica. More valuable by far is the fiery performance - at Beethoven's tempi or something close to them - that can give us an experience like the one the audience in the Theater an der Wien in 1805 must have had, that of an electrifying, frightening encounter with revolution, with a force sufficient to blast doors and windows out of the room. Once in a while that happens, but it is rare. Too rare."
These are the words of the late MIchael Steinberg, former program annotator for the New York Philharmonic and Boston Symphony. He brilliantly puts into words what I have desperately tried to paraphrase since first reading his wonderful The Symphony.
Steinberg was writing about Beethoven's Eroica Symphony, a work that was described by its contemporary reviewers as "unusual and fantastic," "glaring and bizarre," and showing "undesirable originality." It's not played like that very often. All too often this masterpiece is treated like a holy relic that must be kept behind bulletproof glass and worshiped from afar. Steinberg correctly notes that there are conductors of genius that can make a convincing case for this "monumental" conception of the Eroica. But with all due respect to Wilhelm Furtwängler and Otto Klemperer, the greatest and most moving readings of this work are the ones that recreate the startling, revolutionary impact of its first performance.
Arturo Toscanini performed the Eroica more than any other Beethoven Symphony, and in it he consistently induced the wrenching, emotional energy the work so richly deserves. As far as I am aware, Toscanini's earliest surviving recording of the Eroica is his stunning 1939 broadcast with the NBC Symphony. To my ears this first recording is the finest recording ever made of the work, and one of the greatest recordings ever made of any work. Toscanini led a total of seven broadcasts of the Eroica at NBC, and two of these were approved for commercial release by the maestro. This 1949 recording was his only studio effort with this music.
There are two striking things about how the studio recording measures up to the sublime 1939 broadcast: A) When you compare the two recordings, the studio set is a monumental disappointment. B) It is still one of the greatest recordings ever made of the Eroica.
Toscanini was oftentimes more spontaneous and energetic in front of an audience than he was when conducting only for the microphone. This studio Eroica does not have the frightening intensity of the 1939 broadcast, but it is so richly detailed in its interpretive substance (and close enough in its visceral energy) that any sense of let-down is short-lived. The tempo had become a bit steadier in the years between these two performances, suggesting that he had come to see this work in a more classical light. But he never allows the studio recording to become rigid or overly driven. It retains all of power and intelligence of Toscanini's broadcasts, and is only relaxed somewhat in intensity by the lack of an audience.
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That's it for Day 50!
Check back tomorrow for an unnumbered symphony from Russia, and an even less-numbered tone poem from Rome. It'll be a real festival.
Happy Thursday!
For today I listened to something Masonic, something exotic, and something heroic. That's a lot of ics.
Mozart: The Magic Flute Overture - November 26th, 1949
Like most of Toscanini's Mozart performances, this recording of the Magic Flute Overture is a bit tight and driven, but fortunately it never descends into maddening impatience as do his worst performances of 18th century music. The spacious sonority he gave the Masonic portions of the overture were perfectly realized in Toscanini's 1938 recording with the BBC Symphony. This later performance is more earthbound and lacks that dignified ambience, but it does have a bright energy to its faster sections that make this NBC recording a perfectly acceptable alternative.
Cherubini: Ali Baba Overture - December 3rd, 1949
This overture is no masterpiece, but it shows good craftsmanship and is resplendent with well-calculated entertainment. Toscanini makes the most of this music, and exploits the Janissary effects superbly. Now if only I could find a cave where saying "Open Sesame" would lead to a land where a musician can get rich.
Beethoven: Symphony No. 3 - November 28th, and December 5th, 1949
I first quoted this text during Day 9, which was the last time I listened to a Toscanini recording of Beethoven's Eroica Symphony:
"We would do well at this point to remember that we are not likely to find it 'unusual and fantastic' either - which, if so, is very much our loss. When it comes to maintaining a sense of the 'unusual and fantastic' or just of freshness, we are not much helped by conductors, particularly the ones whose attitude of reverence and awe before A Great Classic leads them into 'monumental' tempi at which the length of the work easily becomes 'inordinate', if not 'unendurable'. Of course the rare conductor of genius like Furtwängler or Klemperer can make a convincing case for a 'monumental' Eroica. More valuable by far is the fiery performance - at Beethoven's tempi or something close to them - that can give us an experience like the one the audience in the Theater an der Wien in 1805 must have had, that of an electrifying, frightening encounter with revolution, with a force sufficient to blast doors and windows out of the room. Once in a while that happens, but it is rare. Too rare."
These are the words of the late MIchael Steinberg, former program annotator for the New York Philharmonic and Boston Symphony. He brilliantly puts into words what I have desperately tried to paraphrase since first reading his wonderful The Symphony.
Steinberg was writing about Beethoven's Eroica Symphony, a work that was described by its contemporary reviewers as "unusual and fantastic," "glaring and bizarre," and showing "undesirable originality." It's not played like that very often. All too often this masterpiece is treated like a holy relic that must be kept behind bulletproof glass and worshiped from afar. Steinberg correctly notes that there are conductors of genius that can make a convincing case for this "monumental" conception of the Eroica. But with all due respect to Wilhelm Furtwängler and Otto Klemperer, the greatest and most moving readings of this work are the ones that recreate the startling, revolutionary impact of its first performance.
Arturo Toscanini performed the Eroica more than any other Beethoven Symphony, and in it he consistently induced the wrenching, emotional energy the work so richly deserves. As far as I am aware, Toscanini's earliest surviving recording of the Eroica is his stunning 1939 broadcast with the NBC Symphony. To my ears this first recording is the finest recording ever made of the work, and one of the greatest recordings ever made of any work. Toscanini led a total of seven broadcasts of the Eroica at NBC, and two of these were approved for commercial release by the maestro. This 1949 recording was his only studio effort with this music.
There are two striking things about how the studio recording measures up to the sublime 1939 broadcast: A) When you compare the two recordings, the studio set is a monumental disappointment. B) It is still one of the greatest recordings ever made of the Eroica.
Toscanini was oftentimes more spontaneous and energetic in front of an audience than he was when conducting only for the microphone. This studio Eroica does not have the frightening intensity of the 1939 broadcast, but it is so richly detailed in its interpretive substance (and close enough in its visceral energy) that any sense of let-down is short-lived. The tempo had become a bit steadier in the years between these two performances, suggesting that he had come to see this work in a more classical light. But he never allows the studio recording to become rigid or overly driven. It retains all of power and intelligence of Toscanini's broadcasts, and is only relaxed somewhat in intensity by the lack of an audience.
.......................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 50!
Check back tomorrow for an unnumbered symphony from Russia, and an even less-numbered tone poem from Rome. It'll be a real festival.
Happy Thursday!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Day 49: Chim Chim Cimarosa
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 49!
For today I listened to something Italian, something German, and something French. To my knowledge no wars broke out, and their musical currency remains strong.
Cimarosa: Il matrimonio pre raggiro Overture - November 12th, 1949
This is a delightful little comic overture, and Toscanini makes the most of its proto-Rossinian wit. But considering that this recording comes from the one performance Toscanini ever gave of this music in the United States, the work can't have had that much appeal to him.
Schumann: Symphony No. 3 - November 12th, 1949
I admit that Schumann is not a composer I generally feel a strong pull towards. I've always found his music to be a bit dull and lacking in spice. I am, however, genuinely moved by Schumann's finest passages, which have a passionate drive that is exhilarating and filled with life force. His Symphony No. 3 is a work with many of those fine passages.This symphony generally leaves me very satisfied despite several lengthy sections that are a bit listless to my ears.
By all accounts Toscanini had a very similar view of Schumann. Beyond single performances of the Cello Concerto and Symphony No. 4 (both with the New York Philharmonic), only three works of Schumann were a part of Toscanini's repertory: the Manfred Overture and Symphonies Nos. 2 and 3. B. H. Haggin also recalled a time when Toscanini sang a passage from the Symphony No. 4 in a rather mocking tone, suggesting that this piece was, to put it mildly, not one of the conductor's favorites.
Of the three Schumann works Toscanini conducted, the Rhenish Symphony was the one he turned to most often. His accounts of this symphony were widely considered to be of a consistently very high level. This 1949 recording documents his last performance of this work, and it is a beautiful one. Robert C. Marsh even calls it "one of the great Toscanini performances." Hmm. While I admire this recording very much for the brilliant way in which it treats the forward-moving exhilaration of the work's finest passages, I still can't escape the feeling that Toscanini felt he was conducting a second-rate symphony.
Although I myself would not put this work onto my Top 10 or even Top 100 list, if I'm going to listen to the Schumann Third I want to hear it conducted by a True Believer. James Levine is one of those believers, and the recordings of this symphony he has led with the Philadelphia Orchestra and Berlin Philharmonic are perfect examples of how compelling Schumann's orchestra can be. Levine also avoids the temptation to touch-up Schumann's orchestration, unlike most of his colleagues. Realizing the unique symphonic timbres of this music at its face value clearly show how original Schumann was when he was at his best.
Toscanini was not a True Believer, but he knew what he liked. This Schumann reading is remarkable for its rhythmic strength and richness of sonority, qualities that don't exist in the recordings of works the conductor performed only grudgingly. Nonetheless, there are many other Toscanini recordings more deserving of being called Great.
Ravel: Daphnis and Chloe Suite No. 2 - November 21st, 1949
This is the only Ravel work of which Toscanini made an approved recording. He also performed La Valse three times with the NBC Symphony, but apparently did not approve any of these broadcasts for commercial release.
Although you get the sense that Toscanini was genuinely trying his best in Daphnis and Chloe, he just doesn't seem to really have had his heart in this music. Gunther Schuller complains about the woodwind rivulets that open the work being treated like virtuoso exercises in Toscanini's hands, while NBC bassist David Walter reported that the conductor had some difficulty with the 5/4 rhythms of the Danse générale. This is still an exciting reading, containing all of the drive and precision you would expect in a fine Toscanini performance. But ultimately this recording is lacking in substance. As in the Schumann symphony above, Toscanini just doesn't seem to have been a True Believer in this music. That's fine, really. There are many other recordings that show Toscanini at his greatest, and that's enough for me.
..........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 49!
Check back tomorrow for some very heroic magic flutes and lamps.
Happy Wednesday!
For today I listened to something Italian, something German, and something French. To my knowledge no wars broke out, and their musical currency remains strong.
Cimarosa: Il matrimonio pre raggiro Overture - November 12th, 1949
This is a delightful little comic overture, and Toscanini makes the most of its proto-Rossinian wit. But considering that this recording comes from the one performance Toscanini ever gave of this music in the United States, the work can't have had that much appeal to him.
Schumann: Symphony No. 3 - November 12th, 1949
I admit that Schumann is not a composer I generally feel a strong pull towards. I've always found his music to be a bit dull and lacking in spice. I am, however, genuinely moved by Schumann's finest passages, which have a passionate drive that is exhilarating and filled with life force. His Symphony No. 3 is a work with many of those fine passages.This symphony generally leaves me very satisfied despite several lengthy sections that are a bit listless to my ears.
By all accounts Toscanini had a very similar view of Schumann. Beyond single performances of the Cello Concerto and Symphony No. 4 (both with the New York Philharmonic), only three works of Schumann were a part of Toscanini's repertory: the Manfred Overture and Symphonies Nos. 2 and 3. B. H. Haggin also recalled a time when Toscanini sang a passage from the Symphony No. 4 in a rather mocking tone, suggesting that this piece was, to put it mildly, not one of the conductor's favorites.
Of the three Schumann works Toscanini conducted, the Rhenish Symphony was the one he turned to most often. His accounts of this symphony were widely considered to be of a consistently very high level. This 1949 recording documents his last performance of this work, and it is a beautiful one. Robert C. Marsh even calls it "one of the great Toscanini performances." Hmm. While I admire this recording very much for the brilliant way in which it treats the forward-moving exhilaration of the work's finest passages, I still can't escape the feeling that Toscanini felt he was conducting a second-rate symphony.
Although I myself would not put this work onto my Top 10 or even Top 100 list, if I'm going to listen to the Schumann Third I want to hear it conducted by a True Believer. James Levine is one of those believers, and the recordings of this symphony he has led with the Philadelphia Orchestra and Berlin Philharmonic are perfect examples of how compelling Schumann's orchestra can be. Levine also avoids the temptation to touch-up Schumann's orchestration, unlike most of his colleagues. Realizing the unique symphonic timbres of this music at its face value clearly show how original Schumann was when he was at his best.
Toscanini was not a True Believer, but he knew what he liked. This Schumann reading is remarkable for its rhythmic strength and richness of sonority, qualities that don't exist in the recordings of works the conductor performed only grudgingly. Nonetheless, there are many other Toscanini recordings more deserving of being called Great.
Ravel: Daphnis and Chloe Suite No. 2 - November 21st, 1949
This is the only Ravel work of which Toscanini made an approved recording. He also performed La Valse three times with the NBC Symphony, but apparently did not approve any of these broadcasts for commercial release.
Although you get the sense that Toscanini was genuinely trying his best in Daphnis and Chloe, he just doesn't seem to really have had his heart in this music. Gunther Schuller complains about the woodwind rivulets that open the work being treated like virtuoso exercises in Toscanini's hands, while NBC bassist David Walter reported that the conductor had some difficulty with the 5/4 rhythms of the Danse générale. This is still an exciting reading, containing all of the drive and precision you would expect in a fine Toscanini performance. But ultimately this recording is lacking in substance. As in the Schumann symphony above, Toscanini just doesn't seem to have been a True Believer in this music. That's fine, really. There are many other recordings that show Toscanini at his greatest, and that's enough for me.
..........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 49!
Check back tomorrow for some very heroic magic flutes and lamps.
Happy Wednesday!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Day 48: Blame it on Rio
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 48!
For today I listened to the greatest Egyptian music ever written by an Italian, and the greatest symphony that Haydn happened to compose during that particular month.
Haydn: Symphony No. 99 - March 12th, 1949
This recording is taken from a 1949 broadcast, in which Toscanini performed this Haydn symphony for the last time. Though not a prominent part of his repertoire, Toscanini had intermittently programmed this symphony since 1930. By 1949 he had developed a sharp-edged but beautifully flowing interpretation of this work, and this last performance is one of his most satisfying accounts of the late Haydn symphonies.
The roughish edges of this recording work beautifully, and produce a more powerful cumulative effect than the elegant interpretations of conductors like Sir Thomas Beecham (Toscanini strongly disliked Beecham, whom he considered to be a bit of dilettante, and their musicianship contrasted as greatly as their personalities). The trio from the Minuet movement of this symphony is to my ears the most beautifully-played passage Toscanini ever led of 18th century music. This passage is marked by an extraordinary pastoral serenity that is completely unlike what one would expect from Toscanini in this music. It makes the tightly-argued finale all the more convincing.
Verdi: Aida - March 26th, and April 2nd, 1949
In a very real way, Aida was the work that opened and closed the nearly seventy year career of Arturo Toscanini.
The limelight was suddenly thrust on him at the age of nineteen, when the young Parma native was playing cello with a touring opera company in Rio de Janeiro in June of 1886. The extremely inept local conductor raised the ire of the orchestra, which refused to play for him only minutes before Aida was to begin (this is every orchestra's fantasy, but I have yet to witness anything like this actually happen! ). The Brazilian audience took this as a national insult, and violence seemed likely. In a desperate attempt to avoid a riot, the baton was thrust into the hands of the young Arturo Toscanini, who had helped train the singers in addition to his orchestral duties. The audience was so shocked to see a boy come up to to the podium that the disturbance was quickly quieted.
Toscanini later recalled that he "went to conduct in a stunned state, as if I were drunk…I didn't have the technique for conducting, but I conducted. I got used to it. As you can imagine, after the second act I don't know how many people rushed onto the stage - painters who wanted to do everyone's portrait, and whatnot."
The local newspapers were extremely impressed by this debut. The Gazeta de Noticias said that "Mr. Toscanini turned out at the last minute to be a sure-handed and secure conductor," while A Evolução stated with aplomb that "this beardless maestro is a prodigy who communicated the sacred artistic fire to his baton and the energy and passion of a genuine artist to the orchestra."
Nearly sixty-three years later Toscanini recorded the same opera that had started his career. In 1949 Aida was performed over two broadcasts that were televised nationwide over NBC. These two broadcasts became the recording that was released by RCA (along with some later touch-ups), a recording that gives us a tantalizing glimpse into what Toscanini's first conducting experience may have been like. Now eighty-one years old and an elder statesman, Toscanini was obviously in a very different stage of life, and was considerably more mature as an interpreter. But I would like to think that something of his youthful experience with Aida transferred over into his late years.
Although the Otello recording from the previous season is greater, this Aida performance is the most moving of Toscanini's opera recordings. Perhaps owing to the unusually extensive experience the conductor had with this opera in staged productions (he conducted it more times than any other opera with the exception of Falstaff), this performance has more drama and theatrical ambience than in any other of the operas he programmed at NBC. It may also be that the exotic pull of this music is so powerful that it simply can't be played in any other way.
That this recording can sound like this despite extremely uneven casting is a testament to Toscanini's remarkable powers with musical pacing. Some of the singing is actually tremendously disappointing. Most notable in this regard is Eva Gustavson's portrayal of Amneris, which is a bit Miss Piggy-sounding to my ears (making me wonder if Frank Oz was back there pulling her strings). Herva Nelli was also a bit out of her element in the title role, and other tenors (notably Jussi Björling) have been more effective than Richard Tucker in the role of Radames.
These are only quibbles, however, when the thread holding this opera together is as masterful as Toscanini. Every aspect of this performance perfectly brings out the kaleidoscopic colors of Verdi's creation. The Triumphal March is played with magnificent grandeur, while the closing duet of Aida and Radames is heartbreakingly beautiful in its depiction of the last living moments of the star-crossed lovers. This is music that moves every human emotion, and every ounce of this score is exploited to its full power in Toscanini's conception.
In June of 1954, two months after his last performance as a conductor, Toscanini redid several portions of Aida in a special recording session. This proved to be the last time he ever held a baton. In a very real way, therefore, this opera truly bookended the remarkable career of Arturo Toscanini.
.........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 48!
Check back tomorrow for some Schumann, a little Cimarosa, and even a little Ravel. Let's hope these nations don't come to blows.
Happy Tuesday!
For today I listened to the greatest Egyptian music ever written by an Italian, and the greatest symphony that Haydn happened to compose during that particular month.
Haydn: Symphony No. 99 - March 12th, 1949
This recording is taken from a 1949 broadcast, in which Toscanini performed this Haydn symphony for the last time. Though not a prominent part of his repertoire, Toscanini had intermittently programmed this symphony since 1930. By 1949 he had developed a sharp-edged but beautifully flowing interpretation of this work, and this last performance is one of his most satisfying accounts of the late Haydn symphonies.
The roughish edges of this recording work beautifully, and produce a more powerful cumulative effect than the elegant interpretations of conductors like Sir Thomas Beecham (Toscanini strongly disliked Beecham, whom he considered to be a bit of dilettante, and their musicianship contrasted as greatly as their personalities). The trio from the Minuet movement of this symphony is to my ears the most beautifully-played passage Toscanini ever led of 18th century music. This passage is marked by an extraordinary pastoral serenity that is completely unlike what one would expect from Toscanini in this music. It makes the tightly-argued finale all the more convincing.
Verdi: Aida - March 26th, and April 2nd, 1949
In a very real way, Aida was the work that opened and closed the nearly seventy year career of Arturo Toscanini.
The limelight was suddenly thrust on him at the age of nineteen, when the young Parma native was playing cello with a touring opera company in Rio de Janeiro in June of 1886. The extremely inept local conductor raised the ire of the orchestra, which refused to play for him only minutes before Aida was to begin (this is every orchestra's fantasy, but I have yet to witness anything like this actually happen! ). The Brazilian audience took this as a national insult, and violence seemed likely. In a desperate attempt to avoid a riot, the baton was thrust into the hands of the young Arturo Toscanini, who had helped train the singers in addition to his orchestral duties. The audience was so shocked to see a boy come up to to the podium that the disturbance was quickly quieted.
The local newspapers were extremely impressed by this debut. The Gazeta de Noticias said that "Mr. Toscanini turned out at the last minute to be a sure-handed and secure conductor," while A Evolução stated with aplomb that "this beardless maestro is a prodigy who communicated the sacred artistic fire to his baton and the energy and passion of a genuine artist to the orchestra."
Nearly sixty-three years later Toscanini recorded the same opera that had started his career. In 1949 Aida was performed over two broadcasts that were televised nationwide over NBC. These two broadcasts became the recording that was released by RCA (along with some later touch-ups), a recording that gives us a tantalizing glimpse into what Toscanini's first conducting experience may have been like. Now eighty-one years old and an elder statesman, Toscanini was obviously in a very different stage of life, and was considerably more mature as an interpreter. But I would like to think that something of his youthful experience with Aida transferred over into his late years.
Although the Otello recording from the previous season is greater, this Aida performance is the most moving of Toscanini's opera recordings. Perhaps owing to the unusually extensive experience the conductor had with this opera in staged productions (he conducted it more times than any other opera with the exception of Falstaff), this performance has more drama and theatrical ambience than in any other of the operas he programmed at NBC. It may also be that the exotic pull of this music is so powerful that it simply can't be played in any other way.
That this recording can sound like this despite extremely uneven casting is a testament to Toscanini's remarkable powers with musical pacing. Some of the singing is actually tremendously disappointing. Most notable in this regard is Eva Gustavson's portrayal of Amneris, which is a bit Miss Piggy-sounding to my ears (making me wonder if Frank Oz was back there pulling her strings). Herva Nelli was also a bit out of her element in the title role, and other tenors (notably Jussi Björling) have been more effective than Richard Tucker in the role of Radames.
These are only quibbles, however, when the thread holding this opera together is as masterful as Toscanini. Every aspect of this performance perfectly brings out the kaleidoscopic colors of Verdi's creation. The Triumphal March is played with magnificent grandeur, while the closing duet of Aida and Radames is heartbreakingly beautiful in its depiction of the last living moments of the star-crossed lovers. This is music that moves every human emotion, and every ounce of this score is exploited to its full power in Toscanini's conception.
In June of 1954, two months after his last performance as a conductor, Toscanini redid several portions of Aida in a special recording session. This proved to be the last time he ever held a baton. In a very real way, therefore, this opera truly bookended the remarkable career of Arturo Toscanini.
.........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 48!
Check back tomorrow for some Schumann, a little Cimarosa, and even a little Ravel. Let's hope these nations don't come to blows.
Happy Tuesday!
Monday, October 17, 2011
Day 47: Tassels and Frowns
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 47!
For today I listened to the four works that Toscanini approved for release from the six all-Brahms broadcasts that opened his twelfth season at NBC. All of the recordings from this season were drawn from live broadcasts; a knee injury prevented Toscanini from attempting any work beyond his regularly-scheduled NBC work.
Toscanini was really at home in this music, and the overall level of these performances are extremely high. The previous summer he had conducted staged operatic scenes at La Scala for the last time, and he may well have been on an artistic high when he returned to New York for this magnificent Brahms cycle.
Brahms: Academic Festival Overture - November 6th, 1948
There is some irony in Toscanini leading this piece, considering it was written for the occasion of Brahms being granted an honorary doctorate. Toscanini consistently refused such honors; when Oxford University attempted to bestow the conductor with an honorary doctorate in 1937, Toscanini rejected the offer. Instead he agreed to "donate" a concert to the university as a benefit. More than £1000 ended up being raised for Oxford from a monster concert that included Beethoven's Symphony No. 6, Brahms's Symphony No. 1, and, of course, Haydn's Oxford Symphony. In a letter to his mistress, Toscanini wrote that he did this to "avoid being honored with investitures and Latin orations." It seems that even in the context of doing good deeds for stodgy academia, Toscanini couldn't help but be a bit of an anti-establishment malcontent.
Toscanini may not have seen the use for academic honors, but he did seem to take Brahms's ultimate ode to the world of tassels and gowns quite seriously. His performance of the Academic Festival Overture is a good deal slower than one would expect, yet still filled with tension. This slightly nervous yet dignified approach to this music is to my ears the perfect approach. Even the people I know who take academia extremely seriously get nervous about the prospect of graduation, even as they fully indulge in all of the Pomp and Circumstance of the event. It can be frightening to leave the ivory tower. Toscanini, though he never experienced this for himself, really understood how to put this into music, producing one of his most satisfying Brahms recordings.
Brahms: Double Concerto - November 13th, 1948
This is one of the most remarkable performances I have ever heard of the Brahms Double Concerto. In an effort to produce a Brahms "Symphony No. 5", most performances give this work a misguided weight that drags down its harmonic pull, and reduce the long, arching lines into segments of phrase. Not so this Toscanini recording, featuring his first-desk players Mischa Mischakoff and Frank Miller as soloists. Mischakoff and Miller are both absolutely first-rate in this music, and play with a vital rhythmic strength that is to my ears much more Brahmsian than the turgid and heavy sonority that is often favored. That particular tradition of weighty sound is especially perplexing to me in light of the preponderance of the hemiolas that are such an important part of Brahms's music. These rhythmic figures are only audible when the pacing is steady enough to allow them to be fully distinguished. Toscanini really understood this facet of Brahms, and even in his mediocre performances of the composer's music, always gave it the drive and power of pulse that keep it from sounding ordinary.
Brahms: Liebeslieder Waltzes - November 13th, 1948
Although Toscanini led this music with graceful elegance, nothing is going to convince me that this is an appropriate piece for a symphony concert. Intended for one voice to a part, Toscanini had this curious piece beefed up to a full choir, accompanied by two pianos, while his orchestra waited in the wings (the only remaining piece on this all-Brahms program was the first Hungarian Dance). I suppose Toscanini programmed this music simply because he liked it, and when you are Toscanini you can do whatever the hell you want. But I still find it strange.
Incidentally, this recording was drawn from one of the ten Toscanini broadcasts that were televised by NBC. I have not yet seen the tape of the Liebeslieder Waltzes, but Mortimer H. Frank reports that this performance is in some ways the "most revealing" one from the telecasts: "Possibly owing to the relative intimacy of conducting but a small chorus and two pianos…Toscanini displayed a range of facial expression that is astonishing both for its breadth and for its indication of an emotional involvement that he almost always concealed in front of an orchestra." Interesting - while this does make me want to watch the tape, I can't say I'm yet eager to listen to the recording again.
Brahms: Gesang der Parzen - November 27th, 1948
Brahms wrote this extraordinary work in 1882, the same year as the F Major String Quintet, and immediately before the Symphony No. 3. The text is by Goethe, from his play Iphigenia in Tauris, and even more gloomily fatalistic than you would expect. It is a mystery to me why this piece is not played more often. Though it has been recorded by the likes of Giuseppe Sinopoli and Claudio Abbado, performances are still all too rare. Toscanini showed great originality in programming the work for this 1948 broadcast, but this was in all likelihood the only time he ever performed it.
This broadcast performance of Gesang der Parzen appeared on the last of the six all-Brahms concerts that opened Toscanini's twelfth season at NBC. The only other work on the program was a stunning rendition of the Symphony No. 4 (the symphony was unfortunately not one of Toscanini's approved recordings, but it is available on EMI's Great Conductors of the Century series). The NBC Symphony was particularly fine in this concert, and play the choral work with a power that is almost frightening in its dramatic intensity. The excellent chorus was prepared by Robert Shaw, whom Toscanini eventually came to see as the finest chorus master he had ever worked with. This performance was pure brilliance from start to finish, and shows Gesang der Parzen to be one of the greatest and most underrated works Brahms ever composed.
..........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 47!
Check back tomorrow for the finest Egyptian music ever written by an Italian. Plus maybe some Haydn or some crap like that.
Happy Monday!
For today I listened to the four works that Toscanini approved for release from the six all-Brahms broadcasts that opened his twelfth season at NBC. All of the recordings from this season were drawn from live broadcasts; a knee injury prevented Toscanini from attempting any work beyond his regularly-scheduled NBC work.
Toscanini was really at home in this music, and the overall level of these performances are extremely high. The previous summer he had conducted staged operatic scenes at La Scala for the last time, and he may well have been on an artistic high when he returned to New York for this magnificent Brahms cycle.
Brahms: Academic Festival Overture - November 6th, 1948
There is some irony in Toscanini leading this piece, considering it was written for the occasion of Brahms being granted an honorary doctorate. Toscanini consistently refused such honors; when Oxford University attempted to bestow the conductor with an honorary doctorate in 1937, Toscanini rejected the offer. Instead he agreed to "donate" a concert to the university as a benefit. More than £1000 ended up being raised for Oxford from a monster concert that included Beethoven's Symphony No. 6, Brahms's Symphony No. 1, and, of course, Haydn's Oxford Symphony. In a letter to his mistress, Toscanini wrote that he did this to "avoid being honored with investitures and Latin orations." It seems that even in the context of doing good deeds for stodgy academia, Toscanini couldn't help but be a bit of an anti-establishment malcontent.
Toscanini may not have seen the use for academic honors, but he did seem to take Brahms's ultimate ode to the world of tassels and gowns quite seriously. His performance of the Academic Festival Overture is a good deal slower than one would expect, yet still filled with tension. This slightly nervous yet dignified approach to this music is to my ears the perfect approach. Even the people I know who take academia extremely seriously get nervous about the prospect of graduation, even as they fully indulge in all of the Pomp and Circumstance of the event. It can be frightening to leave the ivory tower. Toscanini, though he never experienced this for himself, really understood how to put this into music, producing one of his most satisfying Brahms recordings.
Brahms: Double Concerto - November 13th, 1948
This is one of the most remarkable performances I have ever heard of the Brahms Double Concerto. In an effort to produce a Brahms "Symphony No. 5", most performances give this work a misguided weight that drags down its harmonic pull, and reduce the long, arching lines into segments of phrase. Not so this Toscanini recording, featuring his first-desk players Mischa Mischakoff and Frank Miller as soloists. Mischakoff and Miller are both absolutely first-rate in this music, and play with a vital rhythmic strength that is to my ears much more Brahmsian than the turgid and heavy sonority that is often favored. That particular tradition of weighty sound is especially perplexing to me in light of the preponderance of the hemiolas that are such an important part of Brahms's music. These rhythmic figures are only audible when the pacing is steady enough to allow them to be fully distinguished. Toscanini really understood this facet of Brahms, and even in his mediocre performances of the composer's music, always gave it the drive and power of pulse that keep it from sounding ordinary.
Brahms: Liebeslieder Waltzes - November 13th, 1948
Although Toscanini led this music with graceful elegance, nothing is going to convince me that this is an appropriate piece for a symphony concert. Intended for one voice to a part, Toscanini had this curious piece beefed up to a full choir, accompanied by two pianos, while his orchestra waited in the wings (the only remaining piece on this all-Brahms program was the first Hungarian Dance). I suppose Toscanini programmed this music simply because he liked it, and when you are Toscanini you can do whatever the hell you want. But I still find it strange.
Incidentally, this recording was drawn from one of the ten Toscanini broadcasts that were televised by NBC. I have not yet seen the tape of the Liebeslieder Waltzes, but Mortimer H. Frank reports that this performance is in some ways the "most revealing" one from the telecasts: "Possibly owing to the relative intimacy of conducting but a small chorus and two pianos…Toscanini displayed a range of facial expression that is astonishing both for its breadth and for its indication of an emotional involvement that he almost always concealed in front of an orchestra." Interesting - while this does make me want to watch the tape, I can't say I'm yet eager to listen to the recording again.
Brahms: Gesang der Parzen - November 27th, 1948
Brahms wrote this extraordinary work in 1882, the same year as the F Major String Quintet, and immediately before the Symphony No. 3. The text is by Goethe, from his play Iphigenia in Tauris, and even more gloomily fatalistic than you would expect. It is a mystery to me why this piece is not played more often. Though it has been recorded by the likes of Giuseppe Sinopoli and Claudio Abbado, performances are still all too rare. Toscanini showed great originality in programming the work for this 1948 broadcast, but this was in all likelihood the only time he ever performed it.
This broadcast performance of Gesang der Parzen appeared on the last of the six all-Brahms concerts that opened Toscanini's twelfth season at NBC. The only other work on the program was a stunning rendition of the Symphony No. 4 (the symphony was unfortunately not one of Toscanini's approved recordings, but it is available on EMI's Great Conductors of the Century series). The NBC Symphony was particularly fine in this concert, and play the choral work with a power that is almost frightening in its dramatic intensity. The excellent chorus was prepared by Robert Shaw, whom Toscanini eventually came to see as the finest chorus master he had ever worked with. This performance was pure brilliance from start to finish, and shows Gesang der Parzen to be one of the greatest and most underrated works Brahms ever composed.
..........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 47!
Check back tomorrow for the finest Egyptian music ever written by an Italian. Plus maybe some Haydn or some crap like that.
Happy Monday!
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Day 46: This Really Puts the "Sin" in Sinfonia
Hey Everyone! Welcome to Day 46!
For today I listened to two outstanding recordings, one uneven recording, and one recording that should be burned in the fires of Mt. Doom. Sounds like a great Sunday afternoon to me!
Beethoven: Consecration of the House Overture - December 16th, 1947
It is fascinating that Toscanini performed this wonderful and little-heard overture, while other noted Beethoven conductors such as Bruno Walter and Wilhelm Furtwängler never did. Even now this overture is played quite infrequently, which is unfortunate, as it possesses a remarkable, spirited dignity that is an ideal showcase for an obliging orchestra. Toscanini fully exploits all of the neo-baroque elements of this piece (Beethoven wrote Consecration of the House following an extended period of study of Handelian counterpoint) while never losing sight of the breadth that is requisite to its regal sonorities. To dismiss this music as trivial is an easy and unfortunate trap to fall into, and it is to the listener's benefit that Toscanini saw this music for what it was.
Haydn: Sinfonia Concertante - March 6th, 1948
I don't know exactly why Toscanini programmed this curious piece. I assume he performed it to showcase some of the finer principal players in the NBC Symphony: concertmaster Mischa Mischakoff, cellist Frank Miller, oboist Paolo Renzi, and bassoonist Leonard Sharrow. Although Toscanini's accompaniment is suitably spirited (the first movement of this piece reminds me a bit of the Leopold Mozart Toy Symphony), this recording serves as evidence that Renzi was not of the same level as his predecessor, Robert Bloom.
As the NBC Symphony's founding principal oboist, Bloom's rich tone and steady intonation were among the highlights of the early Toscanini recordings with this orchestra. Renzi replaced him in 1945 due to a contract dispute between Bloom and the network. Though a competent performer, Renzi sometimes displayed poor intonation and did not possess a world-class tone. The prominence of his solo lines in this Haydn recording puts these unfortunate traits onto broad display. Mischakoff's playing is solid technically, but a bit overly intense for this whimsical music. Miller and Sharrow are outstanding as always.
Mozart: Symphony No. 39 - March 6th, 1948
Wow. Just…wow. I don't really know what to make of this. The level of incompetence from both Toscanini and the NBC Symphony in this recording is both staggering and utterly bizarre. This Mozart symphony ranks at the very bottom of Toscanini's legacy, along with the Jupiter Symphony, the Blue Danube waltz, and the 1942 recording of the Liebestod from Tristan. But these other performances at least have a steady continuity to them, while this Mozart symphony has such a shaky rhythmic foundation that the overall result is simply a grand mess. Meanwhile, the solo clarinet clarinet in the Minuet is so out of tune that it can't really be considered to be part of the Western tuning system at all (a similarly strange concept of pitch I witnessed at one concert prompted my seat-mate to say "Take that clarinet back to Egypt!"). Toscanini was never considered a first-rate Mozart interpreter, but I would have hoped for something better than this. Wow. Just…wow.
Verdi: Ballabili from Otello - March 13th, 1948
Verdi wrote this music for the first Parisian performance of Otello in 1894. The French have always felt the need for their operas to be performed with ballets, and Verdi was happy to oblige them with this energetic and exotic dance. Though the tune is less catchy than the ballet music from Aida, the composition as a whole is more mature and perfectly suits the character of the opera. Toscanini, however, chose to not insert this ballet into his recording of Otello from four months earlier. Whether this had to do with concerns about the dramatic continuity of the opera or with the timing requirements of the broadcast I do not know, but the issue is irrelevant as listeners can easily enough insert this later recording of the Ballabili if they so wish.
This performance shows the same committed brilliance of the complete Otello recording. The NBC Symphony is immaculate, and Toscanini seems rejuvenated with his spirited musical leadership.
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That's it for Day 46!
Check back tomorrow for the three Bs: Brahms, Brahms, Brahms.
Happy Sunday!
For today I listened to two outstanding recordings, one uneven recording, and one recording that should be burned in the fires of Mt. Doom. Sounds like a great Sunday afternoon to me!
Beethoven: Consecration of the House Overture - December 16th, 1947
It is fascinating that Toscanini performed this wonderful and little-heard overture, while other noted Beethoven conductors such as Bruno Walter and Wilhelm Furtwängler never did. Even now this overture is played quite infrequently, which is unfortunate, as it possesses a remarkable, spirited dignity that is an ideal showcase for an obliging orchestra. Toscanini fully exploits all of the neo-baroque elements of this piece (Beethoven wrote Consecration of the House following an extended period of study of Handelian counterpoint) while never losing sight of the breadth that is requisite to its regal sonorities. To dismiss this music as trivial is an easy and unfortunate trap to fall into, and it is to the listener's benefit that Toscanini saw this music for what it was.
Haydn: Sinfonia Concertante - March 6th, 1948
I don't know exactly why Toscanini programmed this curious piece. I assume he performed it to showcase some of the finer principal players in the NBC Symphony: concertmaster Mischa Mischakoff, cellist Frank Miller, oboist Paolo Renzi, and bassoonist Leonard Sharrow. Although Toscanini's accompaniment is suitably spirited (the first movement of this piece reminds me a bit of the Leopold Mozart Toy Symphony), this recording serves as evidence that Renzi was not of the same level as his predecessor, Robert Bloom.
As the NBC Symphony's founding principal oboist, Bloom's rich tone and steady intonation were among the highlights of the early Toscanini recordings with this orchestra. Renzi replaced him in 1945 due to a contract dispute between Bloom and the network. Though a competent performer, Renzi sometimes displayed poor intonation and did not possess a world-class tone. The prominence of his solo lines in this Haydn recording puts these unfortunate traits onto broad display. Mischakoff's playing is solid technically, but a bit overly intense for this whimsical music. Miller and Sharrow are outstanding as always.
Mozart: Symphony No. 39 - March 6th, 1948
Wow. Just…wow. I don't really know what to make of this. The level of incompetence from both Toscanini and the NBC Symphony in this recording is both staggering and utterly bizarre. This Mozart symphony ranks at the very bottom of Toscanini's legacy, along with the Jupiter Symphony, the Blue Danube waltz, and the 1942 recording of the Liebestod from Tristan. But these other performances at least have a steady continuity to them, while this Mozart symphony has such a shaky rhythmic foundation that the overall result is simply a grand mess. Meanwhile, the solo clarinet clarinet in the Minuet is so out of tune that it can't really be considered to be part of the Western tuning system at all (a similarly strange concept of pitch I witnessed at one concert prompted my seat-mate to say "Take that clarinet back to Egypt!"). Toscanini was never considered a first-rate Mozart interpreter, but I would have hoped for something better than this. Wow. Just…wow.
Verdi: Ballabili from Otello - March 13th, 1948
Verdi wrote this music for the first Parisian performance of Otello in 1894. The French have always felt the need for their operas to be performed with ballets, and Verdi was happy to oblige them with this energetic and exotic dance. Though the tune is less catchy than the ballet music from Aida, the composition as a whole is more mature and perfectly suits the character of the opera. Toscanini, however, chose to not insert this ballet into his recording of Otello from four months earlier. Whether this had to do with concerns about the dramatic continuity of the opera or with the timing requirements of the broadcast I do not know, but the issue is irrelevant as listeners can easily enough insert this later recording of the Ballabili if they so wish.
This performance shows the same committed brilliance of the complete Otello recording. The NBC Symphony is immaculate, and Toscanini seems rejuvenated with his spirited musical leadership.
........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 46!
Check back tomorrow for the three Bs: Brahms, Brahms, Brahms.
Happy Sunday!
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Day 45: The Lure's Revenge
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 45!
This afternoon I had the great pleasure of sharing a stage with Frank Sinatra Jr., who inherited a generous share of his father's talent. Since I'm too young to have experienced the Age of the Crooners during its heyday, this is a real thrill for me. The performance is tonight, and I should be getting in the mood for songs like "My Way" and "I've Got You Under My Skin", but first I wanted to set down my thoughts on what is widely acknowledged to be one of the greatest opera recordings ever made.
Verdi: Otello - December 6th and 13th, 1947
This is by common consent the finest of Toscanini's extant performances of complete operas, and it's hard to argue with that. Recordings of works such as Fidelio, La traviata and La bohème are looked down on by much the critical community as being overly tight and lacking in theatrical ambience. Not so Toscanini's NBC performance of Otello, which is widely considered to be the finest recording ever made of the opera. James Levine has even called this performance "an outstanding candidate for the title of Most Outstanding Opera Recording Ever Made," (but what does he know?). I don't know what the other candidates are for Levine, but this there is no question in my mind that this recording is up there with the best.
Toscanini had ample authority for his conception of Otello. He played cello in its first performance in 1887, and conducted it regularly throughout his career; he led no fewer than twelve staged productions of Otello over the course of his life. There is a strange story about Toscanini rushing home from the premiere of the opera, where he shoved his mother out of bed while yelling "Mamma, Verdi is a genius! Down on your knees to Verdi!" I certainly hope this was not actually as weird as it sounds.
At his first La Scala production of Otello in 1899 Toscanini had a dispute with his lead tenor, Francesco Tamagno, over an issue of interpretation in the final act. Tamagno had sung the title role at the premiere, and felt certain that he was singing the passage exactly as Verdi had asked him to. Toscanini would not relent, and they decided to settle the matter by calling on Verdi, who was staying at a hotel two blocks from La Scala. The composer sided with Toscanini, and congratulated the conductor for his excellent memory, whereupon Tamagno was left to grumble about composers always changing their minds.
Sixty years after taking part in the first performance of Otello, Toscanini led this outstanding performance with the NBC Symphony and some of the finest vocal soloists in the world, such as Ramón Vinay, Herva Nelli, and Giuseppe Valdengo. Although this cast did not include the wonderful Jan Peerce, who worked with Toscanini more than any other vocal soloist during his NBC years, this is on balance the finest cast that the conductor had to work with for an opera broadcast. The NBC Symphony was also particularly outstanding in this recording, providing more passion and drama than in any other their Verdi performances.
Although this recording should be experienced as a totality, there are some highlights I feel I must mention. Chief among these is the extraordinary love duet that closes the first act. The ethereal sensuality that Toscanini induces from his musicians must be heard to be believed, and must rank as among the most outstanding of all passages from the conductor's extant performances. As a bass player, I should also note the extraordinary scene in the fourth act where Otello enters Desdemona's room and meditates about whether or not to kill her. The tense atmosphere and complex emotions of this scene are perfectly underscored by the NBC double bass section, superbly playing one of the most exposed and terrifying moments in all of the bass repertoire.
There are as many tastes in the opera-going public as there are opera-goers. There are also many superb opera recordings, and there will be a different favorite performance for each of these tastes. No one, not even someone like James Levine, can say with certainty that any one recording is the Greatest Ever. Yet the broad consensus of approval this masterful recording of Otello has received must say something about its worth. I can't say whether or not I would put it at the absolute top of my list, but I do love it very much. In the end, that's what really counts.
..............................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 45!
Check back tomorrow for a little-known piece by a famous composer, an even lesser-known piece by another famous composer, and maybe even some dancing.
Happy Saturday!
This afternoon I had the great pleasure of sharing a stage with Frank Sinatra Jr., who inherited a generous share of his father's talent. Since I'm too young to have experienced the Age of the Crooners during its heyday, this is a real thrill for me. The performance is tonight, and I should be getting in the mood for songs like "My Way" and "I've Got You Under My Skin", but first I wanted to set down my thoughts on what is widely acknowledged to be one of the greatest opera recordings ever made.
Verdi: Otello - December 6th and 13th, 1947
This is by common consent the finest of Toscanini's extant performances of complete operas, and it's hard to argue with that. Recordings of works such as Fidelio, La traviata and La bohème are looked down on by much the critical community as being overly tight and lacking in theatrical ambience. Not so Toscanini's NBC performance of Otello, which is widely considered to be the finest recording ever made of the opera. James Levine has even called this performance "an outstanding candidate for the title of Most Outstanding Opera Recording Ever Made," (but what does he know?). I don't know what the other candidates are for Levine, but this there is no question in my mind that this recording is up there with the best.
Toscanini had ample authority for his conception of Otello. He played cello in its first performance in 1887, and conducted it regularly throughout his career; he led no fewer than twelve staged productions of Otello over the course of his life. There is a strange story about Toscanini rushing home from the premiere of the opera, where he shoved his mother out of bed while yelling "Mamma, Verdi is a genius! Down on your knees to Verdi!" I certainly hope this was not actually as weird as it sounds.
At his first La Scala production of Otello in 1899 Toscanini had a dispute with his lead tenor, Francesco Tamagno, over an issue of interpretation in the final act. Tamagno had sung the title role at the premiere, and felt certain that he was singing the passage exactly as Verdi had asked him to. Toscanini would not relent, and they decided to settle the matter by calling on Verdi, who was staying at a hotel two blocks from La Scala. The composer sided with Toscanini, and congratulated the conductor for his excellent memory, whereupon Tamagno was left to grumble about composers always changing their minds.
Sixty years after taking part in the first performance of Otello, Toscanini led this outstanding performance with the NBC Symphony and some of the finest vocal soloists in the world, such as Ramón Vinay, Herva Nelli, and Giuseppe Valdengo. Although this cast did not include the wonderful Jan Peerce, who worked with Toscanini more than any other vocal soloist during his NBC years, this is on balance the finest cast that the conductor had to work with for an opera broadcast. The NBC Symphony was also particularly outstanding in this recording, providing more passion and drama than in any other their Verdi performances.
Although this recording should be experienced as a totality, there are some highlights I feel I must mention. Chief among these is the extraordinary love duet that closes the first act. The ethereal sensuality that Toscanini induces from his musicians must be heard to be believed, and must rank as among the most outstanding of all passages from the conductor's extant performances. As a bass player, I should also note the extraordinary scene in the fourth act where Otello enters Desdemona's room and meditates about whether or not to kill her. The tense atmosphere and complex emotions of this scene are perfectly underscored by the NBC double bass section, superbly playing one of the most exposed and terrifying moments in all of the bass repertoire.
There are as many tastes in the opera-going public as there are opera-goers. There are also many superb opera recordings, and there will be a different favorite performance for each of these tastes. No one, not even someone like James Levine, can say with certainty that any one recording is the Greatest Ever. Yet the broad consensus of approval this masterful recording of Otello has received must say something about its worth. I can't say whether or not I would put it at the absolute top of my list, but I do love it very much. In the end, that's what really counts.
..............................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 45!
Check back tomorrow for a little-known piece by a famous composer, an even lesser-known piece by another famous composer, and maybe even some dancing.
Happy Saturday!
Friday, October 14, 2011
Day 44: That's Just Pathétique!
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 44!
For today I got to listen to two great Eastern European works with a Parma twist.
Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 6 - November 24th, 1947
"He came to the rehearsal with the preconceived idea that the orchestra was set in its way of playing the symphony, and he was right. We came to…the D-Major melody, which traditionally we had all played with a ritardando on the first three notes. He stopped: 'Signori, perché? Why? Is written so, eh? Ancora.' We started again; and again we made the ritardando: it was so ingrained in us we couldn't help it. And he threw a fit. 'Si, tradizione! The first asino the first jackass did it that way and everyone follow him.' Then he pointed to the score: 'This is my tradizione! So play like this.'"
The rehearsal NBC violinist Josef Gingold (later to become concertmaster of the Detroit Symphony and the Cleveland Orchestra) referred to above marked the first time Toscanini had conducted the Pathétique Symphony in forty years. He had last conducted the music in 1898, when it was still very much contemporary music. There was no tradition for him to lean on in 1898; he still refused to take it into account in 1938, when he first conducted the symphony at NBC. Nine years later, when this recording was made, his mind had not changed.
Like many things, tradition can be either a blessing or a curse. Tradition can be the fabric that binds together the important moments of our lives, or it can leave you stuck in a rut and unable to make fresh discoveries that will benefit humankind. Musically speaking, tradition can keep alive a wealth of performance practice from a time before sound recording, or it can blind you to an artistic truth that has been obscured from decades or centuries of abuse.
Toscanini evidently felt that the Pathétique was such a work that had suffered from the abuse of time. Although the conductor was already twenty-six years old when Tchaikovsky's final symphony was first performed, it had become such a beloved work by the time he returned to it that the piece had become the very definition of effusive rhetoric. Is it wrong for the Pathétique to be interpreted in this manner?
There are no clear-cut answers to this. There is no question that this symphony is an expression of wrenching emotion, and it would be musically dishonest to interpret it with cool-headed rationalism. At the same time, Tchaikovsky's notations are extremely exacting. The score contains an enormous number of tempo modifications, the majority of which are reinforced with detailed metronome markings. It seems that the composer knew exactly how to obtain whatever effects he wanted out of an orchestra.
My own opinion is that Toscanini was absolutely on target with how to go about interpreting this symphony. It is all too easy for deeply-felt emotion to be twisted into soupy muck, and that is exactly how many performances transform this work from a gushing expression of pain into something ordinary.
Yet Tchaikovsky was not a composer Toscanini generally felt a strong pull towards, and that is a bit audible in this performance. Although Toscanini in most respects honors the composer's markings in an admirable way, I didn't leave with the impression that he really understood the meaning behind those markings. That does not make his interpretation wrong, and this is often a compelling performance. But it may well be that the search for the true meaning of Tchaikovsky's notations will remain an ongoing quest.
Kodály: Háry János Suite - November 29th, 1947
This is a terrific performance, and not one I would have expected from Toscanini. All of Kodály's splashy orchestral effects are exploited to the fullest, and carry great verve and intensity. The Song movement features a particularly effective solo from an unidentified cimbalom player. My only qualm is with the brass glissandos in The Battle and Defeat of Napoleon, which are a bit understated.
Kodály once said of Toscanini that "He could make living any work he would take in hand." When the conductor wanted to, he could always do just that.
.......................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 44!
Check back tomorrow for a recording of the only opera I know of that is a namesake for a board game.
Happy Friday!
For today I got to listen to two great Eastern European works with a Parma twist.
Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 6 - November 24th, 1947
"He came to the rehearsal with the preconceived idea that the orchestra was set in its way of playing the symphony, and he was right. We came to…the D-Major melody, which traditionally we had all played with a ritardando on the first three notes. He stopped: 'Signori, perché? Why? Is written so, eh? Ancora.' We started again; and again we made the ritardando: it was so ingrained in us we couldn't help it. And he threw a fit. 'Si, tradizione! The first asino the first jackass did it that way and everyone follow him.' Then he pointed to the score: 'This is my tradizione! So play like this.'"
The rehearsal NBC violinist Josef Gingold (later to become concertmaster of the Detroit Symphony and the Cleveland Orchestra) referred to above marked the first time Toscanini had conducted the Pathétique Symphony in forty years. He had last conducted the music in 1898, when it was still very much contemporary music. There was no tradition for him to lean on in 1898; he still refused to take it into account in 1938, when he first conducted the symphony at NBC. Nine years later, when this recording was made, his mind had not changed.
Like many things, tradition can be either a blessing or a curse. Tradition can be the fabric that binds together the important moments of our lives, or it can leave you stuck in a rut and unable to make fresh discoveries that will benefit humankind. Musically speaking, tradition can keep alive a wealth of performance practice from a time before sound recording, or it can blind you to an artistic truth that has been obscured from decades or centuries of abuse.
Toscanini evidently felt that the Pathétique was such a work that had suffered from the abuse of time. Although the conductor was already twenty-six years old when Tchaikovsky's final symphony was first performed, it had become such a beloved work by the time he returned to it that the piece had become the very definition of effusive rhetoric. Is it wrong for the Pathétique to be interpreted in this manner?
There are no clear-cut answers to this. There is no question that this symphony is an expression of wrenching emotion, and it would be musically dishonest to interpret it with cool-headed rationalism. At the same time, Tchaikovsky's notations are extremely exacting. The score contains an enormous number of tempo modifications, the majority of which are reinforced with detailed metronome markings. It seems that the composer knew exactly how to obtain whatever effects he wanted out of an orchestra.
My own opinion is that Toscanini was absolutely on target with how to go about interpreting this symphony. It is all too easy for deeply-felt emotion to be twisted into soupy muck, and that is exactly how many performances transform this work from a gushing expression of pain into something ordinary.
Yet Tchaikovsky was not a composer Toscanini generally felt a strong pull towards, and that is a bit audible in this performance. Although Toscanini in most respects honors the composer's markings in an admirable way, I didn't leave with the impression that he really understood the meaning behind those markings. That does not make his interpretation wrong, and this is often a compelling performance. But it may well be that the search for the true meaning of Tchaikovsky's notations will remain an ongoing quest.
Kodály: Háry János Suite - November 29th, 1947
This is a terrific performance, and not one I would have expected from Toscanini. All of Kodály's splashy orchestral effects are exploited to the fullest, and carry great verve and intensity. The Song movement features a particularly effective solo from an unidentified cimbalom player. My only qualm is with the brass glissandos in The Battle and Defeat of Napoleon, which are a bit understated.
Kodály once said of Toscanini that "He could make living any work he would take in hand." When the conductor wanted to, he could always do just that.
.......................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 44!
Check back tomorrow for a recording of the only opera I know of that is a namesake for a board game.
Happy Friday!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Day 43: Wolfgang Knows Art
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 43!
For today I listened to an all-Mozart program. I'm still waiting for the Mozart Effect.
Mozart: The Marriage of Figaro Overture - November 8th, 1947
Here at last we have a really satisfying Mozart recording by Toscanini. It is fast yet supple, without ever becoming steel-edged or overly driven. The sharp edges to this performance are never misplaced, and add an energetic luster to the forward momentum of the musical line.
Toscanini sadly never conducted The Marriage of Figaro in the theatre. He liked the opera very much, but admitted to not understanding it. At one point he told the composer Adriano Lualdi about an excellent performance of The Marriage of Figaro he once attended that had been conducted by Richard Strauss: "I was exalted by it. But I thought…there's something that I don't understand, that I'm not able to find, and that I miss."
It is unfortunate that Toscanini did not feel he understood this work. There is sometimes no accounting for taste, even coming from a musician of the stature of Arturo Toscanini. Based on his brilliant account of the overture, I am willing to hazard a guess that a performance of the complete opera coming from him would have been truly magical.
Mozart: Bassoon Concerto - November 18th, 1947
The soloist for this performance was the NBC Symphony's principal bassoonist, Leonard Sharrow. I had the good fortune of meeting Sharrow at the Marrowstone Music Festival in the summer of 1996 (along with NBC bassist David Walter, for whom I played in a masterclass), and I can report that he was a truly lovely human being. His playing days were long past at that point, but he was still a fountain of musical knowledge, and he loved to entertain us young students with stories from the old days.
Sharrow's performance is very spirited, with superb rhythmic verve and bite. Toscanini puts his trademark verve into this performance, and even wrote the cadenzas that were played by Sharrow. These cadenzas are a bit bizarre. To call them "unstylish" would be a charitable way to put it; a more accurate description would be "uh, what??"
Although this concerto is very much a soloist's piece, and is played brilliantly by its soloist, it is still clearly a Toscanini recording - warts and all, but still Toscanini.
Mozart: Divertimento No. 15 - November 18th, 1947
The main thing I took from this recording was "Wha?! He made the violins do that?!"
If the Mendelssohn Octet was a bit strange coming from a full string orchestra, this Mozart Divertimento sounds like a cruel joke when performed with full strings. In some respects this work is actually quite well performed and interpreted, but the 1st violin part frequently lies in such a high register that to hear it played by a full section makes your jaw drop in completely the wrong way. There was no hope that the NBC Symphony (or any other orchestra that is remotely following union regulations) violins could have possibly made this music sound idiomatic. It's all a bit strange and makes you just want to turn your head away in embarrassment.
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That's it for Day 43!
Check back tomorrow for some recordings conducted by Bruno Walter.
.................
Ha ha! Just kidding! There'll be some more Toscanini. Presumably.
Happy Thursday!
For today I listened to an all-Mozart program. I'm still waiting for the Mozart Effect.
Mozart: The Marriage of Figaro Overture - November 8th, 1947
Here at last we have a really satisfying Mozart recording by Toscanini. It is fast yet supple, without ever becoming steel-edged or overly driven. The sharp edges to this performance are never misplaced, and add an energetic luster to the forward momentum of the musical line.
Toscanini sadly never conducted The Marriage of Figaro in the theatre. He liked the opera very much, but admitted to not understanding it. At one point he told the composer Adriano Lualdi about an excellent performance of The Marriage of Figaro he once attended that had been conducted by Richard Strauss: "I was exalted by it. But I thought…there's something that I don't understand, that I'm not able to find, and that I miss."
It is unfortunate that Toscanini did not feel he understood this work. There is sometimes no accounting for taste, even coming from a musician of the stature of Arturo Toscanini. Based on his brilliant account of the overture, I am willing to hazard a guess that a performance of the complete opera coming from him would have been truly magical.
Mozart: Bassoon Concerto - November 18th, 1947
The soloist for this performance was the NBC Symphony's principal bassoonist, Leonard Sharrow. I had the good fortune of meeting Sharrow at the Marrowstone Music Festival in the summer of 1996 (along with NBC bassist David Walter, for whom I played in a masterclass), and I can report that he was a truly lovely human being. His playing days were long past at that point, but he was still a fountain of musical knowledge, and he loved to entertain us young students with stories from the old days.
Sharrow's performance is very spirited, with superb rhythmic verve and bite. Toscanini puts his trademark verve into this performance, and even wrote the cadenzas that were played by Sharrow. These cadenzas are a bit bizarre. To call them "unstylish" would be a charitable way to put it; a more accurate description would be "uh, what??"
Although this concerto is very much a soloist's piece, and is played brilliantly by its soloist, it is still clearly a Toscanini recording - warts and all, but still Toscanini.
Mozart: Divertimento No. 15 - November 18th, 1947
The main thing I took from this recording was "Wha?! He made the violins do that?!"
If the Mendelssohn Octet was a bit strange coming from a full string orchestra, this Mozart Divertimento sounds like a cruel joke when performed with full strings. In some respects this work is actually quite well performed and interpreted, but the 1st violin part frequently lies in such a high register that to hear it played by a full section makes your jaw drop in completely the wrong way. There was no hope that the NBC Symphony (or any other orchestra that is remotely following union regulations) violins could have possibly made this music sound idiomatic. It's all a bit strange and makes you just want to turn your head away in embarrassment.
..........................................................................................................................................
That's it for Day 43!
Check back tomorrow for some recordings conducted by Bruno Walter.
.................
Ha ha! Just kidding! There'll be some more Toscanini. Presumably.
Happy Thursday!
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Day 42: Czerny Waters
Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 42!
For today I began with a blast from the past, with two Beethoven concertos I neglected to include from Toscanini's eighth season at NBC. I now have a firm schedule for all of remaining listening sessions, so this shouldn't happen again. I strongly doubt that many of you care, but I am a man who likes fluid consistency. Breaking otherwise correct chronologies is very disturbing to my internal organs, and is probably linked to ebola and Middle-East tensions. I'll make it a point to fix any errors in the chronology when I publish the book version of this blog (at which point the other problems of the world should be fixed as well).
After the two concertos I moved on to the incidental music from A Midsummer Night's Dream by Felix somethingerother. It put me in a very puckish mood.
Beethoven: Piano Concerto No. 4 - November 26th, 1944
Rudolf Serkin was the soloist for this recording, which was drawn from a live broadcast. An air-check of Serkin performing this concerto with Toscanini and the New York Philharmonic in 1936 has also been preserved; I have not heard that recording, but it is by all accounts superior to this NBC broadcast. The NBC account is certainly not bad, but Toscanini and Serkin are so at odds in artistic temperament that their collaboration fails to generate the sparks a truly first-rate performance of this concerto commands.
Beethoven: Piano Concerto No. 1 - August 9th, 1945
This is certainly a breezy account of this concerto. I am not intimately familiar with this piece, but I don't believe I have heard a faster account of it elsewhere. Beethoven did not to my knowledge provide this concerto with metronome markings, but his student Carl Czerny did. These markings are rather faster than has become traditional, and are in fact quite close to what Toscanini and his soloist, Ania Dorfmann, employed in this recording.
Does that make it right? Apparently not, if you believe some critics. Mortimer H. Frank calls it "bland and glib", while Robert C. Marsh notes that Dorfman "blandly" moves along "without the qualities of color, accent and continuity which Toscanini is exhibiting and which one would expect a perceptive soloist to duplicate." Ouch.
I agree that this performance is not one of the prizes of the Toscanini discography, but I think the critical judgment is a little harsh. I don't find anything in principle wrong with the tempos, and there are moments in the recording that are quite powerful. Moments. The bottom line is that the flaws of this performance should not distract from the moments that are so right.
Mendelssohn: Incidental Music from A Midsummer Night's Dream - November 4th, 1947
Here we have the last preserved account of Toscanini's way with this music, some of which he performed with exceeding frequency, notably the Scherzo and Nocturne movements. Toscanini had last recorded an extensive selection of the Midsummer Night's Dream incidental music with the Philadelphia Orchestra in 1942 - a fabulous recording, but one marred by poor sound. This NBC remake has some beautifully atmospheric moments, and is recorded in far superior sound.
The best of this recording is very, very good, and show the NBC Symphony to be getting quite close to the level of the New York Philharmonic and the Philadelphia Orchestra. The Intermezzo and Nocturne movements in particular from this NBC recording are probably the best of Toscanini's surviving readings of these numbers, and the Overture is not marred by poor tuba playing, as the Philadelphia recording was. But the Scherzo does not have the light, silken beauties of Toscanini's 1929 New York Philharmonic recording, and the Wedding March is somehow both overly heavy and lightweight at the same time. All in all, while this NBC performance has some tremendous strengths, it cannot be considered one of Toscanini's great recordings.
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That's it for Day 42!
Check back tomorrow for the three Ms: Mozart, Mozart, Mozart.
Happy Wednesday!
For today I began with a blast from the past, with two Beethoven concertos I neglected to include from Toscanini's eighth season at NBC. I now have a firm schedule for all of remaining listening sessions, so this shouldn't happen again. I strongly doubt that many of you care, but I am a man who likes fluid consistency. Breaking otherwise correct chronologies is very disturbing to my internal organs, and is probably linked to ebola and Middle-East tensions. I'll make it a point to fix any errors in the chronology when I publish the book version of this blog (at which point the other problems of the world should be fixed as well).
After the two concertos I moved on to the incidental music from A Midsummer Night's Dream by Felix somethingerother. It put me in a very puckish mood.
Beethoven: Piano Concerto No. 4 - November 26th, 1944
Rudolf Serkin was the soloist for this recording, which was drawn from a live broadcast. An air-check of Serkin performing this concerto with Toscanini and the New York Philharmonic in 1936 has also been preserved; I have not heard that recording, but it is by all accounts superior to this NBC broadcast. The NBC account is certainly not bad, but Toscanini and Serkin are so at odds in artistic temperament that their collaboration fails to generate the sparks a truly first-rate performance of this concerto commands.
Beethoven: Piano Concerto No. 1 - August 9th, 1945
This is certainly a breezy account of this concerto. I am not intimately familiar with this piece, but I don't believe I have heard a faster account of it elsewhere. Beethoven did not to my knowledge provide this concerto with metronome markings, but his student Carl Czerny did. These markings are rather faster than has become traditional, and are in fact quite close to what Toscanini and his soloist, Ania Dorfmann, employed in this recording.
Does that make it right? Apparently not, if you believe some critics. Mortimer H. Frank calls it "bland and glib", while Robert C. Marsh notes that Dorfman "blandly" moves along "without the qualities of color, accent and continuity which Toscanini is exhibiting and which one would expect a perceptive soloist to duplicate." Ouch.
I agree that this performance is not one of the prizes of the Toscanini discography, but I think the critical judgment is a little harsh. I don't find anything in principle wrong with the tempos, and there are moments in the recording that are quite powerful. Moments. The bottom line is that the flaws of this performance should not distract from the moments that are so right.
Mendelssohn: Incidental Music from A Midsummer Night's Dream - November 4th, 1947
Here we have the last preserved account of Toscanini's way with this music, some of which he performed with exceeding frequency, notably the Scherzo and Nocturne movements. Toscanini had last recorded an extensive selection of the Midsummer Night's Dream incidental music with the Philadelphia Orchestra in 1942 - a fabulous recording, but one marred by poor sound. This NBC remake has some beautifully atmospheric moments, and is recorded in far superior sound.
The best of this recording is very, very good, and show the NBC Symphony to be getting quite close to the level of the New York Philharmonic and the Philadelphia Orchestra. The Intermezzo and Nocturne movements in particular from this NBC recording are probably the best of Toscanini's surviving readings of these numbers, and the Overture is not marred by poor tuba playing, as the Philadelphia recording was. But the Scherzo does not have the light, silken beauties of Toscanini's 1929 New York Philharmonic recording, and the Wedding March is somehow both overly heavy and lightweight at the same time. All in all, while this NBC performance has some tremendous strengths, it cannot be considered one of Toscanini's great recordings.
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That's it for Day 42!
Check back tomorrow for the three Ms: Mozart, Mozart, Mozart.
Happy Wednesday!
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