BBC Legends BBCL 4251, 79:58 **** [Distr. by Koch]:
A fine splicing of two Royal Festival Hall concerts by the late Klaus Tennstedt (1926-1998) gives us an extroverted, lithe Brahms Symphony No. 1 in C Minor (6 May 1990) with the LPO, a rendition serious, at times radiant with affectionate energy, and hewn in a panoply of variegated colors. What will impressive collectors of this erratic, if volcanic personality is the consistency of emotional effect in this reading, a homogeneity of affect lacking in his 1983 commercial inscription–the simple matter of Tennstedt’s having a live audience to bear witness to his capacity to surpass a “canned” performance with that extra dimension of improvisation. The LPO strings, winds, and tympani bring a decided acuity of pitch and articulation to the Brahms figures, and the added dimension of textural warmth illuminates the otherwise somber momentum of the opening movement.
The sense of valediction permeates the Andante, an autumnal hymn that suggests something of a lachrymosa from an unwritten requiem mass. The palpitating rhythms beneath the plaintive oboe and clarinet give us pause for repose, reflection, and more than a throwback to the fateful contours of the opening movement, a momento mori both driven and curiously serene. The tension between dramatic weight and lyrical warmth finds sweet resolution in the violin solo and its ensuing development. For the kind of elegiac effect Tennstedt elicits, we must lament that he never led the Brahms D Major Symphony at all. More colors from Indian summer reign throughout the Intermezzo, whose texture enjoys a particularly diaphanous patina, a delicacy of approach that dramatically contrasts with moments of rushing energy in the fanfares of the trio section. Attacca for the colossal last movement, on which Tennstedt lavishes seamless patience. Even the opening pizzicati assume a warm luster prior to the rolling tympani and staggered pageantry from the arco strings. The hunting call from the Black Forest moves us like a fabulous sunrise, all luxuriant, crimson glow. Great flute solo, the French horn in harmonious tandem. Majesterial and graceful, the ceremonial procession unfolds, the hymn pours out, a musical libation to the tranquil spirit. The ensuing development has too much vigor and assertive confidence to play the tragic muse; rather, the movement wants–through the trumpet work and intensity of the counterpoint–heroism in Brahms, even if the rigor of the sonata-form inhibit its full expression. The London audience knows it has heard something quite extraordinary here.
To hear the great Cuban pianist Jorge Bolet (1914-1990) in the Schumann Concerto (7 October 1984) brings us a rare privilege, especially as Bolet subdues his natural, virtuosic exuberance in favor of a studied, deeply thoughtful exposition of Schumann’s classical–that is, twice repeated–figures, elastic and intimate at once. In a brief interview I had with Bolet in Atlanta, 1987, I congratulated him on his Metropolitan Opera intermission feature, where in a strict, 15-minute presentation, he expounded on Liszt reminiscences, transcriptions, and paraphrases from operas, a momentous fusion of discipline and voracious, musical allusiveness. This fine Schumann Concerto–into which Tennstedt injects his own symphonic equivalent of poetic innigkeit–resonates with plastic, dreamy authority, the very essence of Schumann’s Eusebius. Light, clear runs and arpeggios saturate the air until the inevitable sense of return takes us to the oboe’s re-statement, with horn, of the first movement’s main theme. The cadenza, for all its natural, romantic ardor, keeps a steadiness of pulsation and evenness of figuration reminiscent of Bach. The tendresses and caresses of exchange between piano and orchestra in the Intermezzo completely belie Bolet’s repute as a “mere” showman at the keyboard. The jouncing, martial Allegro vivace brings out the childlike thrill of collaboration this spirited movement can inspire in musicians initiated into the Schumann mysteries, waltzes mixed with pearly fairy-tales, the stuff of legend.
–Gary Lemco
