Audite 23.415 (2 CDs), 51:08, 40:04 (Distrib. Albany) ****:
It is no small coincidence that among my last impressions of music director Herbert von Karajan (1908-1989), I see his limping figure ascend the podium in 1989 Salzburg for one of two pieces he had prepared in his handicapped state, months before he died: the Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto No. 1 (with Evgeny Kissin) and the Verdi Requiem. And now, from 14 August 1949 Salzburg, we have his live performance of the Verdi, a conception of intensity and power to match the German Requiem inscription Karajan made in 1947 with Hotter and Schwarzkopf. The year 1949 marked an emotionally and professionally turbulent period for Karajan: harassed by de-Nazification authorities and by Wilhelm Furtwaengler’s intrigues, Karajan found his conducting tenure in Salzburg reduced to one Beethoven Ninth and the Verdi Requiem. Recorded–at times distantly–by the Allied-forces station Rot-Weiss-Rot, the present performance became part of the RIAS broadcasting company archives in Berlin.
In 1949 Karajan was forty-one-years old, a veteran of the Aachen theater and orchestra, and an ardent admirer of Toscanini’s methods and style, having seen Toscanini in Vienna.
The opening Kyrie rather stutters and starts, a tentative, edgy groping until the fugato at Te decet hymnus, an assertion or demand for cosmic recognition. The Kyrie proper flows with authority, confident in the union of flesh and spirit. Suddenly, the Dies Irae crashes down, all fire, and Boris Christoff intones of the last trumpet: his three “Mors” have all the somber finality of his tragic monologue in Moussorgsky. Margarete Klose is a hefty, gritty mezzo, and her picture of souls flying to judgment posits nervous dread. Hilde Zadek’s plea, Quid sum miser, with antiphons from Klose and Rosvaenge, seems more contrived than actual spiritual desolation would require; but as an example of German ensemble, it is effective, especially as Karajan tears into the stunning tuttis. Boris Christoff, again, at the Rex tremendae and Salve me, both marvelous examples of his controlled, deep resonance. A slow tempo for the Recordare milks the sweetness in Jesus’ intercession for humanity, righteous judge, a fine duet between the female soli. Tenor Rosvaenge in the Ingemisco, his “guilty” voice more than one recalling the unaccompanied, verismo solo in Orff’s Carmina Burana. Exquisite agony in the orchestra for Ne perenni cremer igne. Christoff’s Confutatis characterization is but a step from his Mephistopheles, the orchestra twisting in spiritual torment. A silken descent from Christoff, sotto voce, for Oro supplex et aclinis to his Gere curam, a musical marvel of vocal and breath control that ushers in Hell’s flames with renewed fury, the trumpet’s triple-tonguing quite present. The Lachrymosa projects fervent sincerity, perhaps a hue and cry from the ashes of Germany’s postwar soul.
The operatically opulent Offertorium begins with the impassioned and sustained Hostias, a quartet of simply divine, operatic beauty, imploring mercy for souls that would otherwise be cast into eternal darkness. The strings’ shimmering light at the movement’s end might be an angelic tear. Unbridled energy in the choral Sanctus, Karajan tolerating spontaneous, ragged edges he would abandon later, when he courted only a seamless melody in all parts, as though every score were Tristan. The tender a cappella duet that opens the Agnus Dei is followed by a haunted choral sound, a veritable mystery of faith. Karajan captures the “antique” style of the Lux aeternam magisterial serenity, the airy promise of heavenly light permeating every measure. A somewhat histrionic opening for Libera me, played like Lucia’s mad scene. But the justification lies in the vision of the terrors of Hell once more witnessed. The return of the Dies Irae suggests what debts Verdi might owe Berlioz. The sting of calamity abates, and Zadek’s lulling tessitura embodies eternal rest for the faithful. Like a Fury, Klose invokes the final, contrapuntal Libera me, a Gordion Knot of sin and culpability untied at last; the twisted places made straight. If music be the food of (political) forgiveness, this performance is Karajan’s Day of Atonement.
— Gary Lemco
