Sibelius demonstrates in the First Symphony a powerful sense of forward momentum. This is demonstrated with relentless energy by the Lahti Symphony (Sinfonia Lahti) in this recording, with razor sharp precision. This style brings out something that seemingly de-Romanticises the work, bringing out something more “modern”. There is a powerful sensation of gusts, of momentum in the reading. Whatever the case, their performance is one of amazing unity – at no point does the energy let up nor the movement falter. Phrasing suffers a bit under this hectic treatment, and listeners familiar with the work may find it doesn’t give the phrases much space for characterisation.
But Osmo Vänskä’s direction of the orchestra is acutely well-timed and executed, dramatic without being overblown. Couple this with the wide dynamic range and sonic sensitivity of the BIS recording, and you get an open arena for pin-point precision music-making. An example of this is the rush of anticipation towards the sudden subito piano at 4’22”. Even as the orchestra drops away, the reverberation it leaves behind creates a tense atmosphere for the four pizzicato chords – pure drama. Continue reading The Lahti Sibelius Cycle – Symphonies 1 & 4 (BIS)
From the volcanic land of Björk Naxos has launched its new (the second after Adrian Leaper’s, also good) cycle of Sibelius Symphonies. For a company not well-known for repeat recordings of the same music, I can only say this bodes well for the composer – and what a smashing start this is!
Led by their new and able Finnish director Petri Sakari, the Iceland Symphony (who have previously recorded some Sibelius for Chandos) provide very tightly etched and sharply responsive account of the music, combining precision which never becomes rigid, with strength of conviction and energy. The result is readings which feel confident and highly charged but never over-indulges, as heard in the first and third movements of the Romantically-inclined Symphony No.1. Continue reading Icelandic Sibelius – Symphonies 1 & 3 (Naxos)
Symphony No.2 in D major, op.43 Symphony No.3 in C major, op.52
Lahti Symphony Orchestra
conducted by Osmo Vänskä
by The Inkpot Sibelius Nutcase
Let’s get to it. This is not the best Symphony No.2 (1901-2) I’ve heard at all. If Sibelius can be called Romantic, the strongest traces are probably found in the first two symphonies and much of the Violin Concerto. In his recording of the First Symphony, Vänskä produced one of the most magnificent performances I’ve ever heard on record. It is thus somewhat disappointing for me that the energy of that performance is mostly missing from this Second.
Vänskä chooses a relatively reticent mode, playing down the gargantuan Romanticism that the Second is capable of. Perhaps what he is doing is emphasizing the structural unity instead, which he succeeds in the nicely held-together first movement, the Allegretto.
Not that the Romanticism is missing – it is there, but the expression of contrast is somehow unsuccessful. There is a one-dimensionality to this performance despite the – as usual – vivid orchestral detail. For example, the Andante slow movement is somewhat un-dark. It lacks that sense of impending doom, the sensation of dark clouds gathering. At worst, the players sound a little…. bored?
Even the Vivacissimo, with its opening rushes of strings, begins as a mere trickle, warming up only around the second trio into the Finale. The majestic Finale is performed impressively – all the pacing and handling of the opening lines are well done. The tempo is well chosen and the moulding of the music refined and attentive. Maybe too attentive – I feel as if Vänskä is paying too much deliberate attention this time. Personally, I would rather the performers all let go and play their heart out in this unashamedly Romantic/emotional/patriotic finale. The second half of the finale, after the recap of the opening theme, is the most moving. Churning impressively into the Finale‘s final (and potentially embarrassing) trumpet chorale – I suddenly realized Vänskä’s treatment might work here… and yes, like the sun shining through the clouds, the triumphant hymn is gathered without overindulgence, but with glorious nobility.
Sibelius’ Second Symphony is quite a tough nut to crack (then again, all seven are). I remember a time when a group of friends and I went around searching for the “perfect Second”, our attention largely centred on the finale. Opinions differed of course, though we were most impressed with Mariss Jansons’ on EMI (to my utter disbelief and disappointment, he no longer seems to intend to finish that cycle, having also recorded the First, the Third and Fifth). If you want a version with gleaming contrast and enormous power, try Segerstam’s on Chandos. Budget: Ormandy on Sony Essential Classics.
The Third Symphony (1904-7) is apparently still Sibelius’ least popular, something which I don’t understand because I feel it possesses one of his most beautiful symphonic slow movements.
The clarity of its classically inspired architecture is of course much opportunity for Vänskä’s superb orchestra. Their performance of the opening Allegro moderato is very fine indeed – listen for the interplay of woodwind and strings.
This performance of the Third is one of a very rare breed where the Andantino con moto is longer than the Allegro moderato (11’12” and 10’15” respectively). No matter, for Vänskä’s performance is very beautiful, played with feeling. Listening to the wistful woodwind thirds, passing their melancholia to the strings, there is a feeling of slowly moving energy, sometimes flowing, sometimes draining. It is like the waters of a lake gently lapping on a quiet shore. The winds sigh, the grasses sway, all adding to the sense of beautifully melting sorrow.
The strangely, softly booming bass lines and timpani add to the star-lit darkness of the work. Listen to the quiet tolling effect of the timpani at the beginning as well – magical. As the movement draws towards its end, the tone and music broadens, becoming more and more beautiful. The orchestral detail breathtakingly depicts the dusky landscape. And then everything ends, quite suddenly, with just the slightest hint of tragedy.
The last movement of the Third is a scherzo and finale fused together. Vänskä’s handling of the transition from the “scherzo” part into the “finale” is seamless and convincing. The movement as a whole is very well done, very impressively unified, with many fine contributions from the winds. The Third is said to end abruptly, as if there was meant to be more – but in fact everything necessary has been done. Vänskä, to my ears, actually manages to make the work sound “finished”.
If you like the Third played with great excitement, I highly recommend Lorin Maazel’s very immediate account on Sony (SK61963). For a classic performance of the beautiful slow movement, go for Rattle’s mid-priced disc on EMI (CDM7 64120-2), also coupled with the Second (not good though).
An original 1996 review by the Inkpot Sibelius Nutcase
Like the disc of the two versions of the Violin Concerto (BIS-CD-500), this record couples the first and final (third) version of Sibelius’ Fifth Symphony. BIS’s re-release of the original 1915 Fifth Symphony (also available on BIS-CD-800) here makes the Vänskä cycle a unique treasure. Presumably, the manuscript has been returned and it is unlikely that the Sibelius family will allow it to be recorded again.
The original 1915 version is in many senses quieter and not as bold as the final. For example, the dawning horn-call of the opening is missing. Instead, you have a serene sky of soft horns where, almost tentatively, the woodwinds call out to each other. Even more significantly, the original Fifth is darker. I don’t mean to say that the music sounds less “tonal” or is more sad. Rather, the contrast between sections of light and darkness is much greater. If the final Fifth is “light/dawn”, and the Fourth Symphony is “dark/dusk”, then the original Fifth is a magical aurorae of wavering darkness and light, full of mystery. It encapsulates the organic-musical link between the “bleak” Fourth and the optimistic Fifth, a bridge that I had been looking for for years.
I have never understood why so many commentators have called the original Fifth startlingly different from the final. To me, the feeling of kinship between these “twins” was immediately recognizable. Yes, the technical differences are there, but it doesn’t feel drastic. Rather, you can see the way the original “grew” into the final version. The famous example of this is the original first two movements, which were fused together in the final.
The original first movement, Tempo tranquillo assai, ends abruptly, with a mysterious pause and a sense of mildly playful expectation. The quiet way in which it departs is taken up by the second movement, Allegro commodo, which unobstrusively trickles in. The feeling is that the first movement never left, and the second was always there, unseen. Their combined presence is thus – natural.
Again, the ending of the original is quieter than the grand blaze of brass of the final version. The effect is this: in the former, one is given a glimpse of nature, and one feels awestruck by nature. The final version is more open, full-blooded, bursting – it is the immersion into the glory of nature herself.
The slow movement retains its child-like, pastoral mood in both versions. The primary difference is an alternative sequence of the material. The original is also 200 bars longer, with more frequent use of pizzicato. Let’s highlight the superb Lahti Symphony Orchestra here. The opening horns, their very sensitive timpanist and their achingly rich strings… ah… and their invocation of the subtlest sensations…
The original finale has its surprises too. During the “Swan Hymn”, the woodwind melody that soars above the horns is still in embryonic form. For those familiar with the work, you can only hear tantalizing wisps which tug at the memory. Its beauty remains breathtaking, perhaps even more so because it seems to be struggling in its birth. The themes blossom into the world, struck by the wonder of their own creation. As the orchestra pours into C major, there is a heartwrenching interjection by the trumpet [track 4, 2’34”]. Its brief dissonance is sharp, penetrating deep into the soul, almost twisting in tortured ecstasy.
Despite its ethereal floating chords and textures, the magical rushes of quiet wonder, some critics have called the original version “uneventful”, “rhythmically unfocused” and generally less forward in character. To me, these are elements of subtlety, and speak of Sibelius’ ability for economy of expression with maximum effect. The 1915 version is more “innocent”, questing for its final form. Unsatisfied with the original, Sibelius (left) wrote: “I wished to give my symphony another – more human – form. More down-to-earth, more vivid.”
You can hear him struggling with this in the conclusion of the finale. Whereas in the 1919 version, the five concluding chords are interspaced with silence, in the original the first four chords are uttered above a cloudscape of wind and string tremolo. The effect is of experiencing awe in the arms of nature. In the final version, more human and vivid as Sibelius suggests, the composer and symphony stands on its on, proclaiming itself as child of nature, and of nature herself. Hence, within the majesty of nature’s embrace, the “human” celebrates its place in the universe by uttering five existential shouts into the cosmic well of being.
The superb recording and performance aside, the recording of the original Fifth serves as an important reminder to us of the nature of the evolving artist and his dynamic art. If Sibelius’ music is essentially organic in nature, then the opportunity to hear the original Fifth showed me clearly the link between the Fourth and the Fifth. It is almost as if it was meant to be Symphony No.4. It also thus served to remind me of the illusion that differently numbered symphonies are separate entities. In fact, the entire symphonic cycle is a singular Nature in itself.
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As for the final 1919 version, what satisfies me about this performance is how unpretentious it is. An example of this is the “Swan Hymn” passage. Whereas some conductors follow the urge to slow down at the C major climax – which is fine to me if they do it well – Vänskä does not. On the contrary, there is a momentary rush as, with the slightest trembling push, the music pours irresistibly into the new key. It is like standing at the ridge of some mountain, eyes closed, feeling the wind rushing by. Suddenly, you open your eyes and behold – the first ray of sunlight piercing past the horizon.
Although the music has always inspired awe, here it exudes a sense of wonder. Throughout, Vänskä’s pacing of the music is wholly natural. It is allowed to breathe, organically shifting to fit the music. To try to describe the musical way he moulds the phrases is pointless – hear it for yourself. The transition between the original first two movements is unnoticeable. As it was meant to be.
The Lahti Symphony Orchestra play with obvious familiarity with the music, as you might expect from a Finnish orchestra. To their credit, there is absolutely no sign of monotony or routineness. Instead, I hear kinship and intelligence. During the quiet, “misterioso” sections of the first and last movement, their empathy with the Nordic sound world is unique. The special colours that the Orchestra has repeatedly demonstrated is audible here.
And what better landscape then the pastoral tranquility of the slow movement, the Andante mosso. It is played with great warmth and feeling… almost a feeling of love. The brief sighing melody is made all the more sweet in this way. These are moments when the music breathes an air of contentedness, something which I think Sibelius sought, having struggled with the Symphony for so long.
Thus, we return to the finale. The conclusion of the 1919 version is in a sense the finale of Sibelius’ five-year struggle. In it is the culmination of not one symphony, but the apotheosis of the “three” Fifth Symphonies: the original 1915, the first revision of 1916 and the final 1919. Here you will hear the fulfilment of “Nature’s Mysticism and Life’s Angst! The Fifth Symphony’s finale-theme: Legato in the trumpets!”
As if following the evolving path of the Symphony, struggling and growing its way into higher form, the Lahti Symphony present the work in a way I can only describe as “natural”. Nothing, breathtakingly nothing, is out of place. Everything – every tree leaf, every mountain rock, every snow crystal, every twinkle of starlight, even the floating clouds – is as it should be.
Vänskä spaces out the final five orchestral chords wide, but surprisingly, all five are “pronounced” differently and each makes its point. Anyway, I have increasingly come to appreciate the silent spaces between these chords, no matter their duration. “… [T]he pauses between the notes…[is] where the art resides.” – Artur Schnabel.
Within these spaces is the moment between birth and death. Just as there was a Fourth Symphony and a Fifth Symphony, and a period of “silence” between them, the original Fifth Symphony is – was – the unheard “silence” between them. Similarly, between the seven symphonies of Sibelius, there are “silences”. We can now hear what the silence was between the Fourth and the Fifth – and it is no longer a quiet void. It is the sound of a whole symphony blossoming into being. Within the silences therefore, resides the art of Jean Sibelius.
This recording of the 1915 version of the Fifth is also available coupled with the original version of En Saga (below, BIS-CD-800, released Feb 1996) and in the Sibelius Edition Vol. 12 (BIS-CD-1933-35)
Symphony No.6 in D minor, op.104
Symphony No.7 in C, op.105 Tapiola, op.112
Lahti Symphony Orchestra
conducted by Osmo Vänskä
BIS Records BIS-CD-864 (Details)
An original Inkpot review by the Inkpot Sibelius Nutcase
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At last, the final installment of the Lahti SO and Osmo Vänskä’s 1996-1997 BIS Sibelius Symphonies cycle. Appropriately, it ends with the Sixth and Seventh Symphonies and the Symphonic Poem Tapiola– in many ways Sibelius’ “last symphony”.
Here we have a bright and winsomely beautiful performance of the Sixth Symphony (1923), as in the first movement, full of fairy lightness and glittering sunlight. Indeed, the Lahti players bring much light to a D minor symphony, something which I found very heartwarming. The second movement opens nostalgically, with distinctively flavoured orchestral colours despite the economy of the score. As usual, the Lahti/BIS team is wondrous at revealing every intricate detail in the score, especially with the shimmering strings and fluttering birdsong – like some magical trip into a half-lit forest. (There is a story of Sibelius and his habit of turning on the radio to full volume when his music was being played, so that he could hear every single note.)
The third movement poco vivace includes a quaint passage which I call a “march of the fairies” which is joyfully yet nobly delivered here. Throughout this performance there is beautifully luminous stringwork, including the harp. This is one of very few recordings I know of where the harp sits comfortably in the orchestra, playing as an orchestral harp sprinkling a field of sparkling stars over all, without screaming out for attention.
The Allegro molto finale is satisfyingly unified – all the different threads and moods are beautifully weaved together. The final moments are both heartwarming and heartbreaking to the core, with its gentle, serene yet infinitely sad ending, half yearning, half hymning. It is ephemerally fleeting and all the more sad, full of some fading distant sorrow, and yet smiling with contented resignation.
This performance broke and healed my soul – it is the most endearing Sixth I have ever heard. The CD is worth its price for this alone.
As for the Seventh Symphony (1924), I found the reading here rather cool, similar to the straight-faced account by Blomstedt on Decca. With the Lahti strings singing in a soft, glowing tone, there is a slow and noble buildup to the first appearance of the great trombone theme. The orchestral soundscape is deep and sweeping, like a great field of clouds surrounding the Alpine trombone peak. Like the harp in the Sixth, the trombone soloist stays within the orchestral picture without sticking out.
The central sections of the Symphony are performed relaxed – it is almost graceful. The second climax in C minor is similarly expansive and dark, but not really intense in the manner of Karajan. The buildup to the last appearance is the most magnificent, with a long drawn-out prelude. The 2nd and 3rd trombones weave into the principal’s solo with a powerful and grand choral effect. The ensuing section of bass rumblings is surprising quiet. The high strings soar impressively into the heights before introducing the horns; then a natural link to the quiescent flute solo that preceeds the final Largamente. And here, the Lahti’ans bring the Symphony to its grand conclusion with all due grandeur. The final bars are concisely uttered, neither drawn out nor clipped. Generally, I prefer it drawn out, but I guess this one makes its point.
A noble performance – not an emotional one, but certainly musically moulded, with the score cleanly held together with intelligent – not sterile – hands. Above all, the Lahti orchestra’s colours are breathtaking. To be honest, I found this performance very difficult to describe. As you all know, I’m totally biased towards the Lahti “Dream” Team and the Seventh is my favourite symphony – yet, I found this rendition hard to praise and also hard to fault. It is not a reading that really moves me, but neither can I seriously call it inadequate – the decision depends on your needs then.
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The great tone poem Tapiola (1925-6) is Sibelius’ last major symphonic work, depicting the forest essence of the Finnish God of the Forests, Tapio. Within five years of its premiere, it was already being called “the culminating point of [Sibelius’] entire creative activity, and a consummate masterpiece… Even if Sibelius had written nothing else this one work would be sufficient to entitle him to a place among the greatest masters of all time” (Cecil Gray).
There is an understatedly terrifying quality to the music – not in the stereotypical relentless, noisy, “avant garde” style, but in a deliberately quiet, brooding way, as of the Forest’s eyes watching your every move as you tread between the trunks, the winding roots of his children. Vänskä has a way with the quick phrases – very sudden and frightening flashes of terror. Yet he never dwells on these excessively, rearing the vision of Tapio only long enough for you to catch a good look – and shiver. His masterly moulding of tempi is very effective, every shift like the undulating breaths and unseen movements of the Forest God. In contrast to the (very sudden!) loud utterances of terror is the gloomy chill of the slowly breathing, mist-enshrouded sections.
Scandinavian orchestras are experts at creating the chilly, glowing, steely tone that fits the stark yet varied textures of this tone poem. (A notable exception is the Berlin Philharmonic in Karajan’s legendary and spine-tingling 1984 recording on DG 413-755 or 445-518.) It is like looking at the simple silhouette of a tree (canopy and trunk) – as shafts of light stream through the canopy, you realize the immense intricacy of the branches, the leaves, the grooves and cracks of the bark or even the invisible root system embedded in the ground.
At 14’16”, the orchestra suddenly disappears – the CD goes silent. I know many listeners will think either the disc has ended or “There goes BIS again, with their ridiculously extreme volume range.” This part of the score (between letters P and Q) is marked “dim(inuendo) possibile” and pp. I am now convinced that the inclusion of silence is deliberate. As in the conclusion of the Fifth Symphony, there is meaning in silence (but I’m not referring to any postmodernist idiocy regarding 4’33”). Those of you who might have walked into the middle of a forest alone will understand.
You suddenly stop and stand among all these ancient trees. Listen. Don’t make a single sound, just listen. The silence is at first deafening, but then you realize it isn’t that quiet. Listen carefully, and you may hear a distant bird calling out, or a rustle of leaves.
Listen on and you will hear the trickle of water somewhere, or the sound of a leaf falling, forest sprites weaving their magic secrets. Listen, and you will hear the sap of tree-blood coursing through the ancient wood. Now you can even hear the orchestra. You can hear the wooden limbs of trees moving ever so slowly, stretching with primeval strength toward the light.
Finally, you will hear Tapio himself breathe, his heart pulsating in the Earth beneath your feet. The living wood of the string instruments begin to sing of their true homeland, as they hymn the misty final chords in the serene glow of B major… Then you know… for you are in… Tapiola.
Symphony No.2 in D major, op.43
Symphony No.5 in E-flat major, op.82
The Philharmonia Orchestra
conducted by Herbert von Karajan
EMI Classics Karajan Edition CDM5 66599-2
[77:04] mid-price Symphony No.2 recorded March 1960. No.5 recorded Sept 1960.
An original Flying Inkpot review by The Inkpot Sibelius Nutcase
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Herbert von Karajan (1908-1989) has always been rather special to me. You see, unfortunately (for me), he died the very year I discovered many of his greatest recordings, which contained music which has influenced me to this day. Since his death, the usual reactions occured and many collectors and critics alike came out to bash him. This posthumous bashing is pathetic and typical of the narrow-minded who can only appreciate art by listening to cynics and not the music itself. Every conductor has his good and bad recordings, bar none. For Karajan, when they were good, they were REALLY good.
Since the first batch of CDs from EMI’s Karajan Edition came out, I have been waiting for the Philharmonia recordings of the Sibelius symphonies – some of these, especially the Fourth, Seventh and Tapiola, are the stuff of legends, with the personal approval of the composer.
Sibelius’ Fifth Symphony is a Karajan specialty, having recorded it four times. The 1965 recording for DG (Galleria 439 982-2) remains the best. This version opens well, and is just as fine until the flute spoils the picture with a strained note or two. The performance is slightly wanting in concentration for the first third of the movement, though the orchestra plays with marvelous skill throughout the symphony. The first big climax near the beginning does not quite have the swell and burst of light which distinguishes the Berlin 1965 recording. Nevertheless, the point where the two original movements were joined (around 8’46”) is beautifully executed by Karajan. In the monumental conclusion, the Philharmonia rises to the occasion with a glorious blaze of brass. The precision of their playing, along with the pulsating horns in the background, provide an exciting ending.
In this performance of the gentle Andante, the subtle ‘dancing’ pulse seems to be emphasised. I can almost feel a little waltz, a whiff of the anxiety of the Valse triste. In the finale, the Philharmonia horns ring out like bells in the “Swan Hymn”, an alternative to the softer “hymn” tone. When more than a little brash, the former approach is a little ugly and clumsy. But here it is carefully done – the horns are brought to the fore without drowning the strings or the majestic winds in the background. The great C major climax is certainly not the best I’ve heard – Karajan’s DG recording “blossoms” with greater excitement.
Karajan moulds the misterioso section with great atmosphere, misty and then chilly. Towards the end, the trumpets’ climax is earthshaking (in fact, it’s very loud – watch the volume!). Six orchestral chords end the Symphony – there are a huge number of ways to deliver this unique conclusion: Karajan takes them straight, determined rather than anticipating, with a purposefulness which reads differently from other versions. In fact, come to think of it, there is a sense of purposeful moulding which marks this version more than the Berlin 1965 recording – this is both a pro and a con. It makes the music move more efficiently, but at the same time reduces the naturalness with which it flows – works in some passages, but not others.
Karajan’s Philharmonia recording of Sibelius’ Second Symphony appears for the first time on CD here. With its majestic finale, one would think it’s completely suited to the lush “Karajan sound” – believe me it is. The first movement is an Allegretto landscape by turns calm and stormy. The moody second movement, a brooding D minor exploration of darkness. Karajan and the Philharmonia show excellent sense of pacing and contrast, responding with ample understanding of the music’s dramatic shifts of tension. The gleaming brass and huge explosions of timpani glower in tragic heroism. The strings are skilfully articulate and richly sonorous, strongly characterising the Allegretto as well as the F-sharp major theme of hope in the Andante sostenuto of the second movement, with one of the most beautifully sculpted endings I have ever heard. With pungent double-reeds, sharply trilling flutes, grand outpouring emotions and a heartwrenching brass cry, crescendo, the orchestra truly impresses.
The vivacissimo scherzo is tautly rendered with great discipline, purposefully driven without rushing. In the pastoral trio, the oboe solo sounds nasal (or “pungent”?), neither annoying nor sweet. Thankfully, this does not seem to spoil the performance. Both these sections are repeated, but in a symphonic masterstroke, Sibelius develops the second trio seamlessly into a great churning of swirling winds and long-breathed brass chords, while the strings, sweeping in anticipation the three-note ascending motif that has been resident in the symphony, drive the music into its famous finale.
Here, the earlier symphonic material joins in a majestic melody that would have sent many a Romantic composer packing home. This great outpouring of D major, with its grand string theme, is 100% Karajan’s cup of tea. In addition to richness of sound and expansiveness of expression, the trick to making this movement sound good has always been pacing. Some conductors go too fast and sound hurried (Rattle/EMI); others fast tempo but pace and control well (Berglund/EMI). Others good pace, but lethargic, no frisson at all (Davis/RCA, Davis/Philips). Some are sustained purely by this energy and tension, whatever their tempo (Kamu/DG, Maazel/Decca, especially Bernstein/Sony). In his 1980 recording (also for EMI but with the BPO), Karajan went very slow but it produced a reading of great cosmic energy. In this Philharmonia recording, the sonic limitations aside, he belongs to the few renditions (Jansons/EMI, Segerstam/Chandos) where everything is impressively held together, energized and beautifully paced.
Restlessly propelling the music, the Philharmonia perform with enormous conviction, pouring out tremendous gales of energy all the way to its heroically defiant final coda. Many, many performances fail at this point, because this triumphant conclusion is completely and unashamedly affirmative to the point of being “vulgar” – the word used by critic Virgil Thomson. In bad renditions, I cannot help but agree – it gets very sentimentalised and overblown. I am happy to say, however, that Karajan gets everything right here – the coda is splendidly constructed, the trumpets playing with the orchestra rather than sticking out like a sore thumb. This performance ranks among the very best versions that I now own. (Yes, I’m a nutcase: I have 16 versions. But then you should trust me even more…)