being there
a tribute to analog antiques
by patricia hammond | august 1999
I often get customers in the Classical Department who only seem to want the latest in sound. When choosing which performance to buy, they look for the most recent production date, and the "three Ds". Of course, these are not good guidelines for finding great-sounding recordings; some of the warmest and most impressive Audiophile recordings were made (gasp!) in the fifties and sixties (like Fiedler's recording of Shchedrin's "Carmen Fantasy" on RCA's High Performance label). Besides, there's more to life than a glossy surface! There have been moments, among the approximately 500 million hours of classical performances this century has known, that are extraordinary enough to make up for any lack of hi-fi.
Some of these performances, in addition to being Great, have interesting stories behind them, and we are damned lucky that someone happened to be there to capture them for posterity. Some call them historic reissues. I call them Time Travel.
To me, the most obvious example is a certain recording of Beethoven's Ninth, performed by the Berlin Philharmonic in 1942. The conductor is Wilhelm Furtwängler, who many agree was one of the greatest conductors of all time.
Furtwängler lived his life for art, particularly German art. But the activities of the Nazis sickened him. He stayed in Germany when he should have gotten out, and quickly became trapped in a horrible situation. (Two very good books that go into the details are "The Devil's Music Master" by Sam Shirakawa, and "Trial of Strength" by Kurt Prieberg).
It is worth noting that while in Nazi Germany, Furtwängler never gave the Nazi salute, never said "Heil Hitler" (and remember, that was a standard, expected greeting, especially when speaking with officials), never joined the party and helped countless people whose lives were in danger. He also conducted banned works by Jewish composers as late 1939, long after it was considered dangerous to do so. (And unlike Mr. Karajan, he never conducted in an SS uniform).
So here we are in 1942, in the splendid Berliner Philharmonie (which will collapse into rubble a couple years on). Right now the Nazis are riding high, having conquered most of Europe, and confident of being as successful in the Soviet Union... Josef Goebbels is in the audience (Hitler regrets that he'll be too busy to attend). The strange, gangling figure of the famous conductor walks to the podium to conduct the work that was, his biographers say, tantamount to a sacred ritual.
So, what kind of performance could this great man and his devoted musicians deliver, considering the situation? This work, with its amazing choral ending, has the choir and soloists sing "O Joy...All become brothers under the sway of your gentle wings...Every living creature drinks joy at Nature's breast; Just and unjust alike taste of her gift...You millions, I embrace you. This kiss is for all the world. Above the starry canopy there must be a loving Father." Hmm. As John Ardoin puts it so eloquently:
- "One of the noblest utterances of the Human Spirit was being voiced in a country engaged in some of the most appalling atrocities to be committed in the 20th century. Furtwängler felt this blatant dichotomy, and it was surely responsible for the cyclonic fury of the 1942 performance. It is drenched with torment, anger and a sense of struggle that goes beyond the 1937 Ninth to a more frightening and exhausting plane. Accents are more brutal in the first and second movements, but there is greater repose in the slow movement (it is Furtwängler's most expansive on disc). It is the finale, however, that makes the greatest impact with its almost desperate appeal, as if Furtwängler were somehow attempting through the music to alter or reverse the events surrounding him."
(from the booklet notes, Music&Arts CD 653)
For anyone still not convinced of Furtwängler's anti-Hitlerian stance, all I ask is that they listen to the timpani at the opening of the last movement. It speaks volumes.
This event, historic in countless ways, is available on the Music & Arts label, CD 653.
Also available on disc is Furtwängler's reunion with his beloved Berlin Philharmonic after the long and humiliating de-nazification trials that nearly killed him. His name finally cleared by the veritable parade of people, including Yehudi Menhuin, who stepped forward to testify for him, at last he could again conduct the people he loved in the music he loved, this time in a movie palace that was used as a temporary replacement for the bombed-out Berlin Philharmonic Hall. It was an emotional event for everyone. The works were Beethoven's 5th and 6th symphonies. The 5th was played last, and, I think anyone will agree, grippingly, like you've never heard it played before. It's now been beautifully remastered, on the Tahra label. (Furt 1016)
I could keep going on about Furtwängler--it's an addictive subject--but I think I'll move on to Shostakovich, an equally addictive subject. (In case you didn't know, Patricia wrote about Shosty's Fifth here. -ed)
As most people are aware, Shostakovich never seemed to stop getting in trouble with the authorities, which wasn't hard at the time, given what a nasty piece of work Stalin was. Just after the first major setback of Shostakovich's career, when Stalin's famous article against his music sent Soviet artists everywhere into shock, the young composer said matter-of-factly to his friend Isaak Glikman, "Even if they chop my hands off, I will still compose, albeit I have to hold the pen in my teeth."
His favorite composition student, Benjamin Fleishmann, died during the seige of Leningrad when he was still a youth. (His birth and death dates are, officially, "? -- ?".) This loss crushed Shostakovich, and it was his dream that Fleishmann's only composition, an opera called "Rothschild's Violin", get a public performance. However, it was repeatedly rejected because of its Jewish content.
Later, in 1961, just after the Krushchev "Thaw," as it is known, when people were lead to believe that the late Josef Stalin's censorship policies (ie camps, bullets, gas) were more or less things of the past, the poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko had some poems published that would have been unthinkable a few years back. One, called "Babi Yar," was a lyrical, impassioned outcry against antisemitism. (Babi Yar is a ravine in Kiev where 20,000 Jewish people, including children, were massacred at the hands of the Nazis.) A couple of fragments from the poem:
-
Over Babi Yar there are no monuments.
The steep precipice is like a crude gravestone.
(...)
I am every old man here shot dead.
I am every child here shot dead.
Nothing in me will forget this.
Shostakovich decided to use some of Yevtushenko's poems to make a suite for bass soloist, male choir and orchestra. It was to be his 13th symphony. "Babi Yar" was an obvious choice, as Shostakovich had always felt sympathy for the sufferings of the Jewish people, and had been inspired by their folk music. It is also believed that Fleishmann's death and the many Jewish themes in "Rothschild's Violin" still haunted the old composer.
But the authorities objected strongly to his using the jewish "Babi Yar" poem for the new symphony. It was deemed un-Soviet because, among other things, it grieved for a people who were considered separate from Soviet culture. It also contains a rebuke aimed at anti-semitic Russians.
They told Yevtushenko to rewrite the poem to include unjustly slaughtered Russians (at the hands of Nazis, you understand, not Stalin).
Shostakovich refused to compromise. Yevgeny Mravinsky, the conductor who premiered almost every Shostakovich symphony, was so scared of the brewing scandal that he refused to conduct it. The composer was crushed by this betrayal. So he called the young Kyrill Kondrachin, who was too honoured to refuse. But then, there was the problem of the bass soloist. Shostakovich, in "Testimony" tells Solomon Volkov:
-
"Unfortunately, the soloist in the Thirteenth is a bass. One after the other, they dropped out of the running. They were all worried about their position, their reputation. They behaved shamefully, shamefully. They almost destroyed the premiere, which took place by sheer accident."
The atmosphere in the hall was tense. Contrary to standard practise, no texts were printed in the programme. There was little or no media coverage. In the artists' room, Kondrachin received a phone call from the Minister of Culture sinisterly enquiring about his health, and if anything could possibly happen to prevent him from conducting. Kondrachin didn't budge. Next, the Minister asked that the first movement (the "Babi Yar" section) be cut, but the conductor told him that would be impossible.
The recording of the premiere is quite amazing; you can really feel the mood of the occasion. There is some debate as to whether this recording is from the premiere or two days later. In any event, it was as good as banned immediately thereafter, and Yevtushenko altered the text to make it less controversial. The two initial performances were major events.
I am particularly moved by the last part, where the old composer reveals his lifelong philosophy through the young poet's words. I won't spoil it by quoting it divorced from its music. It's available on Russian Disc RDCD11191. The label is going through troubled times, so grab it while you can.
Now onto singers.
The three Rückert songs of Mahler (so called because they were all poems written by Friedrich Rückert), "Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen", "Ich atmet' einen Linden duft", "Um Mitternacht" (Click here to go to the Lied and Song Texts Page.) were recorded by the contralto Kathleen Ferrier in 1952, with Bruno Walter conducting. Kathleen, at that stage, was being treated for cancer, and suffering terribly. Her bones were getting brittle, she was in pain and constantly fighting nausea.
The tragedy of what was happening to Kathleen Ferrier touched everyone around her deeply. Here she was, one of the greatest contraltos in living memory, a wonderful, fun person, and better, artistically and vocally, than she had ever been before--really at her peak--and she was dying.
The morning of the recording session, she suffered a relapse and doubted her ability to go through with it. But she forced herself to eat, and went anyway. These poignant songs took on extra meaning that day.
The last, "Um Mitternacht" is very taxing to sing, almost Wagnerian in its textures and breadth. The poem, about lonely suffering and the vastness of space and eternity in the darkest hour, ends in an immense cry of faith, for which Mahler wrote an enormous crescendo in both the solo and orchestral parts. For two hours, Kathleen repeated it over and over again, and couldn't seem to summon the required strength and intensity. The engineers presented what they thought was an acceptable version in terms of balance between soloist and orchestra, but Kathleen wasn't happy. She tried again twice, but the strain was still noticeable. The third time, her voice cracked.
A coffee break was called and she limped to a chair, ashen-faced. She drank some coffee, rested, then got up to resume the session. As she did so, she twisted her back violently and fell, crying out in agony. Everyone thought this was the end of the session, but she dragged herself to her position, hunched and with eyes screwed up in pain and insisted on one more try.
People couldn't believe how intensely she sang it then, as she had never sung it before. It was extraordinary. Bruno Walter had tears streaming down his face, but he kept conducting. When she finished it, she nearly collapsed, and murmered, "that was hard..."
These three songs are available on Decca's Kathleen Ferrier Edition, vol. 10, CD 433477-2. Unfortunately, it's a special import. The songs have also been included in a compilation disc called "Great Voices of the 50's". In addition to Ferrier's three Ruckert songs, there is a glowing recording of Strauss' Four Last Songs by Lisa Della Casa and also Wagner's Wesendonck Lieder sung by Kirsten Flagstad. Just the "Um Mitternacht" is available on "The World of Kathleen Ferrier," also Decca, or London, depending on where you get it. It's the same company. New compilations, of course, crop up all the time. Big companies never seem to know what to do with their very rich archives.
Just two more singers, and quickly, as I think I've already indulged myself too much, and made this far too long for a monthly entry.
Hugo Wolf's song, "Der Feurreiter" is a strange affair; about an eerie horseman who rides frantically toward (or causes?) fires, and eventually gets burned alive. It's a ferocious song with a weird, obsessive, galloping accompaniment.
In the 1930s Walter Legge, the famous producer for EMI, started a Hugo Wolf project, where he paired singers with the songs he thought they would be suited for. He also chose excellent accompanists and oversaw almost everything. The records were sold by subscription. For "Die Feurreiter" he chose Helge Roswaenge, the Danish heldentenor, for his epic voice and edgy, yet dark, vocal quality.
Unfortunately, Roswaenge proved too temperamentally reserved for the smaller and more volatile medium of art song, especially this intense little number. Legge tried to galvanise Roswaenge by a rapid series of takes and replays, which frightened Roswaenge's young child enough to have to be taken home. Then Legge discovered it was Roswaenge's birthday, and saw an opportunity to get him drunk in the name of art. He ordered a bottle of champagne, and although the tenor almost never drank, he allowed Legge to insist he drink a fair amount of it. The effect it had on him made for such a recording that when he heard it played back to him a week later, he could scarcely belive he had done it.
The Hugo Wolf Society's records have been transferred to Compact Disc format quite recently. It's a five disc set, and has full texts, translations, photographs and essays. If you have an interest in lieder, it's a great opportunity for an insight into an unselfconscious lieder singing style that has virtually disappeared. I'd grab it sooner rather than later, before EMI deems it a special import or deletes it altogether.
And then, I just have to mention Claudia Muzio's last sessions. Often when speaking of voices, people mention tone, or timbre. Muzio's tone carried more mood than any other I've heard. "Of tears and sighs," said tenor Giacomo Lauri-Volpi. People say that Callas would not have been possible without Muzio. And I agree. (She and Muzio also shared an intimate aquaintance with a certain Greek millionaire, albeit years apart. This is a useless fact.) Muzio had a very sad life, and terrible luck in love. She died at a tragically early age, and her ill health and depression caused a premature vocal decline. It is difficult to determine exactly what she did die of, but heart disease, suicide, kidney disease, lung disease, cancer, and poison are all spoken of in various sources. The fact is that the final recordings are just less than a year before her death. The voice has an unsteadiness at the top of its range that doesn't go with the evenness of the rest of it, and some of the high notes are a bit flat. But how she uses it! The weaknesses seem almost deliberate. Especially in the "Addio del passato" of Violetta on her deathbed at the end of "La Traviata." When hearing someone like Joan Sutherland warbling like a contented dove in the same situation, you don't feel emotionally touched. But with Muzio you think, here is a very ill woman. There is an inner despondency that somehow glows. A strange thing; you can really wallow in Muzio's depression, even though they say it killed her.
The last sessions were apparantly subsidised by a colleague, the aforementioned Lauri-Volpi (And check him out some time if you haven't already and are a fan of the tenor voice. He was very fine. I'd classify him as a spinto.) Evidently, Columbia didn't realize what an opportunity this was. Of course, these recordings have more than legendary status now. They are also the only electrical recordings of Muzio in existence.
Now, the complete Columbia recordings from the '30s are available, in best-ever sound, on the Romophone label (The Complete Columbia Recordings, 1934-35). The 2 CDs also include some great duets with Francisco Merli, another tenor, from Verdi's "Otello." And two exerpts from an opera written especially for her by an ex-lover, Carlo Refice. The opera, called "Cecilia," is apparantly about the martyrdom of Saint Cecilia, and Muzio sings her death scene with great languid intensity. The music is as moody as Muzio's tone, quite extraordinary. I don't know why we never hear of it. I also have to mention that in this scene, Muzio manages a death-rattle.
I could go on, but won't. These are just a few of my favorite things, preserved in time. But unlike preserved things, they can live.
 | Patricia is a classically trained mezzo who now lives and works in the UK. For more information about her, visit patriciahammond.com. |
