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When the London Symphony Orchestra announced they were to perform a complete cycle of Beethoven's symphonies under Bernard Haitink, surely nobody could have imagined that it would be the most revelatory event of their season.
Most of the qualities that made the live performances of the Ninth Symphony so special have now been vividly captured on this recording. The rhythmic precision, the splitting of the violins into two independent groups, and the rigorous tempi are all still there on this new release from LSO Live.
More than anything, though, Haitink's Beethoven is highly situated in history, at the turning point between the classical and romantic eras. Rather than being an overblown product of late nineteenth-century symphonic syrup, this performance looks to Haydn, Mozart and Schubert for its attack, which is nimble and rigorous, whilst preserving the epic, heroic character that was almost unique to Beethoven in his time.
Taking a brisk but not too-fast tempo, Haitink makes sure that the first movement does not drag. Notes are held for the correct duration rather than being overindulged, and the strings' precision helps the conductor to bring out all the complexity of detail. What one gains more than anything is a sense of the movement's contrapuntal workings. Lines are passed from one instrument to another, and Haitink makes clarinet and flute interjections just as prominent as the violin melodies. He also makes sure that this is the most stirring account of the movement on record by treating the dotted rhythms with baroque-like meticulousness: the opening motive is almost double-dotted, and it gains an extra thrust as a result.
The second movement is strong on the big moments but perhaps loses occasionally on both woodwind details and on architecture in the moto perpetuo theme. Just when it seems to be going nowhere, though, Haitink pulls the music back together and the final four minutes easily attain the excitement of the first movement. The timpani player, Antonie Bedewi, deserves a special mention: his dotted triplet theme is a consistently rousing call to attention, both at the beginning and at the recapitulation.
Nothing can rival the beauty of the third movement, here lovingly shaped by Haitink and gloriously played by the LSO in luminous form. The clarinet is to the fore, conjuring up the romantic sunshine of a late summer's day, while the violins produce the most lovely ripples of sound in their duet with the oboe and flute. It's simply the most glorious orchestral playing you could ever hope to hear.
My only scruples about unreservedly recommending the recording lie with the famous choral fourth movement, and specifically with the soloists. The orchestra is faultless: the introduction's summation of the themes from the first three movements is done with an operatic sense of drama, whilst the build-up of the Ode to Joy theme in the strings before the voices enter is done with a poignancy rarely found on record.
But as soon as Gerald Finley pops up as the bass soloist to sing the 'O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!' recitative, the tension is lost. Finley has one of the most beautiful voices on the planet, but here he sounds underpowered and lacks the heft needed to top the orchestral introduction's power and launch the chorus. He sings the music like a nice domesticated Schubert Lied, and it simply doesn't work.
Nor is John Mac Master one's ideal tenor soloist in the Turkish music, and both Twyla Robinson and Karen Cargill are disappointingly ordinary, underwhelming singers.
Yet there's a huge plus in the London Symphony Chorus: they sing like the greatest professional choir on the planet. Their enthusiasm is infectious, even on record, and are unusual in their consistency in all four vocal sections. The gentlemen are at their best in the Turkish music, singing with muscle, whilst the ladies scale the heights of the canonic statements of the 'Ode to Joy' theme near the end with remarkable agility.
Soloists aside, this is an incredible recording, and at six quid a throw, definitely worth the investment.
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