There are times when Brahms’s remark that his Second
Symphony was so "light and carefree, as though written for a young
married couple" has seemed to be one of his more obtuse attempts
at humour. Grand, majestic, spacious, warm-hearted, these are the adjectives
that spring to mind from the "normal" performances that we
hear. And has not Toscanini also taught us that it contains great drama?
Have we not learnt from Klemperer that it also has a rugged depth with
hints of tragedy? I’ve heard performances where the first movement’s
development is made to grind away like a precursor of Shostakovich 10.
In Mengelberg’s hands the symphony exactly matches
Brahms’s description of it. The first movement, light and flowing at
the outset, moves on swiftly in fortes, maintaining a Mendelssohnian
lightness (admittedly the sound itself, warm and natural in pianos,
has not much body in the stronger passages). Small (and sometimes large)
rallentandos in second subject territory are short-lived and the tempo
always picks up before any heaviness has crept in.
The second movement is fairly slow and is striking
for the extreme plasticity of phrasing which Mengelberg’s use of string
portamenti allows. This is an obviously dated aspect of the performance
and on the whole I feel the latter half of the twentieth century did
well to rid itself of the habit. There is nothing more enervating than
the sloppy application of portamenti by second-rate orchestras under
second-rate conductors which disfigures so many early orchestral recordings.
And yet, hearing the thing done so expertly and so naturally, one comes
to wonder if we have not scrubbed our string-playing too clean.
In this movement, too, Mengelberg moves on considerably
in forte passages, again avoiding heaviness. In the last two movements
there are few liberties apart from the accelerando at the end which
few conductors have resisted, and I have actually heard the finale’s
second subject dawdle a good deal more in some other performances.
The controversial aspect of the performance will obviously
be the extreme tempo changes in the first two movements. It all boils
down to a question of degree. Few conductors in my experience
have actually beat rigidly and unswervingly through these same passages;
indeed, the music itself tends to impose a certain flexibility unless
the conductor consciously resists it. Such conductors as Toscanini,
Klemperer and Boult who were famous for their fidelity to the score
actually turn out, if you try to follow their performances with a metronome,
to be making little adjustments all the time. We also know that Brahms
walked out of a performance of one of his symphonies conducted by Hans
Richter because it was too rigid in it pulse. The question is, how much
flexibility did he want? In the present case I found myself accepting
the flexible pulse quite happily because it is done with such warmth
and musicianship. I have heard Mengelberg performances in which he seems
to be saying "listen to what I can make an orchestra do" but
I didn’t feel that here.
More important is the question of the general character
of the symphony in Mengelberg’s hands which is, as I said at the outset,
unusually close to Brahms’s own description of it. Is there any reason
to suppose this may be right and others wrong? Alan Sanders, in his
notes, very fairly points out that there was not a precise link between
Mengelberg and Brahms as there was with Richard Strauss and Mahler.
He did once conduct the Brahms Violin Concerto for its dedicatee Joseph
Joachim and took the opportunity to learn from him about interpreting
Brahms generally but this is all, although when he began his career
Brahms was still alive and plenty of people were around who had memories
of him. As far as records are concerned, as Sanders also points out,
the two conductors most associated with Brahms who recorded the two
symphonies here, Weingartner and Max Fiedler, took very different views
of them. However, if we come to second-generation Brahmsians, a good
number of conductors who recorded the symphonies even in the stereophonic
age – Sir Adrian Boult, for example – had clear memories of Richter,
Nikisch and, especially, Steinbach and the Meiningen Orchestra who were
thought by many at the time to enshrine true Brahmsian interpretation.
So it rather looks as if Brahms’s symphonies were subjected to a wide
range of personal interpretations right from the beginning and there
is no way of verifying whether a particular interpretation is more or
less authentic than another. Let us therefore value Mengelberg’s for
its warmly human approach and as a corrective to sterner and weightier
interpretations.
I quite deliberately wrote these comments before listening
to no. 4, and spent some time trying to imagine what sort of a performance
he might give. For this is a symphony whose tragic content seems to
loom larger with the passing of time – some of Giulini’s last performances
dragged it into an almost post-Mahlerian world, provoking the thought
that if Brahms had lived as long as Verdi he would have seen the First
World War. The question of what might have been his musical response
seemed in a way to find its answer in these late Giulini performances.
To return to Mengelberg, he does not deny the tragedy
– the work ends in a maelstrom of fiery energy – but he enjoys the sweeter
pastures on the way when he can. The big rallentando at the end of the
opening paragraph of the first movement should not lead listeners into
expecting an unduly indulgent performance, and note how skilfully he
moves on again before the music has come to anything like a halt. Certain
passages are more in tempo than I’ve heard them from some other conductors
and the coda to this movement – treated to an accelerando by Klemperer
of all people – is brought home with magnificent steadiness, save for
a rallentando on the timpani in the penultimate bar. There is one of
his famous "changements" when the violins take up the second
subject – his shortening of certain notes in order to clarify the phrasing
and let the wind chords through still sounds odd to me. At first I thought
my equipment was playing up! All this sounds a bit niggling but overall
this first movement is well-integrated and full of warmth.
The very gravely paced "Andante moderato"
(almost two minutes longer than Boult) shows that a very slow tempo
in this movement is not just a modern invention (I had rather supposed
it was). Whereas the likes of Solti or Leinsdorf can be stultifyingly
rigid at a similar tempo, the warmth of Mengelberg’s phrasing is balm
to the ear. He maintains a remarkably even pulse in this movement, with
plenty of power where needed, but it is the sheer loveliness of the
lyrical moments, and in particular the return of the second theme, which
shines out.
The scherzo goes with plenty of energy. However flexible
Mengelberg might be on other occasions, he actually had a very strong
sense of rhythm and he produces thrilling results in the forte passages
while holding the tempo firm.
If you have a friend who is obstinately prejudiced
against Mengelberg, play him this finale "blindfold". Yes,
he does slacken the tempo a little in the 3/2 section (starting with
the famous flute solo), but I’ve heard more from conductors who have
not acquired a particular reputation for that sort of thing. I don’t
see how anyone could fail to judge this as great conducting, moving
as it does from variation to variation with a perfect sense of both
continuity and of the particular character of each new turn the music
takes.
The recording of no. 4 is, if anything, smoother and
fuller than that of no. 2. I should perhaps add that the legendary quality
of the Mengelberg’s Concertgebouw Orchestra is fully born out by the
strings, but there are a few raucous sounds from the wind, even spots
of suspect intonation. However, I don’t think this will stand in the
way of enjoyment. These are performances which definitely add to our
knowledge of the music and if you have not investigated the art of Willem
Mengelberg this is as good a place to start as any.
Christopher Howell
Concertgebouw Orchestra,
Amsterdam/Willem Mengelberg