This is one of the few uncut performances of Parsifal
with a timing under four hours, and as such ranks as one of
the fastest on record. Karajan at Vienna in 1961 comes in
at about the same time and only Boulez in 1966 (3:49:00) and
1970 (3:39:00) is faster. Whereas Boulez sounds detached, scrambled
and even perfunctory, Krauss never feels rushed or dismissive;
he has a real grasp of the ebb and flow of this piece and is
also alive to its poetry. His more lithe and responsive approach
is certainly preferable to the sclerotic and marmoreal readings
of Levine in 1985 and Goodall in 1971, both of whom, absurdly,
take just under four and three quarter hours. To take Knappertsbusch,
as a reasonable comparison, even he generally takes another
quarter of an hour in his various accounts, but another favourite
version of mine by Armin Jordan in 1981 takes just five minutes
over four hours. While I concede that a crude comparison of
duration does not necessarily indicate the relative merits of
performances, you will by now have gathered that I am not in
favour of Parsifal as a cure for insomnia and am in favour
of a more forward narrative momentum as opposed to the petrified
stasis that passes for spirituality in some conductors’
interpretations.
Several of the cast in this 1953 performance are the same who
sang in Parsifal the previous two years at Bayreuth but
conducted by Knappertsbusch. The big changes are the substitution
of Ramon Vinay for Wolfgang Windgassen in the title role and
the inheritance of the conductor’s baton by Clemens Krauss.
The 1951 broadcast has generally been the more admired, but
I would suggest that the arrival of Vinay represents a marked
improvement over his predecessor, that both Weber and Mödl
sing better than in previous performances and that Krauss’s
propulsion is preferable to Knappertsbusch’s reflection
and restraint. I realise that some will disagree with me; what
cannot be disputed though is that Andrew Rose at Pristine has
performed another miraculous re-mastering of the dim mono sound
of the original broadcast tapes in the same way that he recently
revitalised Krauss’s Ring. That accomplishment
alone is enough to make this Parsifal preferable to all
the other live Knappertsbusch accounts recorded at Bayreuth
throughout the 1950s, regardless of the merits of the various
casts. As Rose notes, this transmission by Bavarian Radio was
made a couple of weeks before Krauss’s Ring so
the engineers would not have had opportunity to fine-tune the
location and settings of their equipment, thus the quality of
the tapes is about the same as he had to deal with in Das
Rheingold and they were as such more recessed and afflicted
by whines, hums, hissing and rumbling. He has clearly done a
wonderful job in removing or at least alleviating those defects.
Voices occasionally go off microphone but in general we are
now not missing much, I think.
Parsifal is ideally heard in sumptuous stereo sound,
but I am tolerant of live, historical mono, especially when
the performance is first class and the recording is as well
refurbished as here by Pristine. However, I return again and
again to two modern recordings, not just to be able to hear
the musical nuances but because in both Kurt Moll is an ideal
interpreter of Gurnemanz. These are the 1980 Kubelik and the
1979/80 Karajan sets. Ludwig Weber has his moments; he has a
big, authoritative, paternal voice and is clearly vastly experienced
in the part, but his frequent unsteadiness and approximate pitching
mean that he cannot really deliver the shiver down the spine
that Moll provokes when he rolls out his huge, smooth black
voice in climaxes such as “Gesegnet sei, Du reiner”
through to “die letzte Last entnimm nun seinem Haupt!”,
at the anointing of Parsifal. Robert Lloyd for Jordan is another
bass whose sheer beauty of sound seduces the ear during those
long narrative monologues; I do not really look forward to them
with Weber, as when the vocalisation is less than perfect they
can drag. There is no doubt that he understands the text at
a profound level, but his vocal resources are not always able
to produce the effects he is aiming for. Hotter, for all his
verbal acuity, has similar vocal limitations; I’m afraid
I do not find his voice especially beautiful but rather “woofy”.
An unwelcome side-effect of the audio restoration of this performance
is that it reveals just how persistently bronchial the supposedly
reverential Bayreuth audience were that night; I know it’s
absurd to feel homicidal towards an audience member of nearly
sixty years ago who has now probably long since passed away,
but there is one I would happily throttle; he invariably saves
his throatiest blasts for the most tender moments. Perhaps his
interventions partially explain why some crucial moments remain
earthbound; I don’t think any other conductor emulates
the ecstasy Karajan generates at key points, yet at other times
Krauss manages to create a suitably elevated and weighty ambience,
such as in the Transformation music. The orchestra, some iffy
intonation in the woodwind and flutes apart, is generally more
comfortable than in previous years, having already been put
through their paces by Knappertsbusch. The chorus trained by
Wilhelm Pitz is superb. Krauss’s approach is certainly
less internalised than his predecessor but there are benefits
to his more dramatic treatment of the score, especially in Act
2, at Klingsor’s magic castle, which is charged with evil
tension.
Hermann Uhde repeats his nonpareil of a Klingsor; he is to this
role what Gustav Neidlinger was to Alberich - although the latter
also sang Klingsor too. His biting, febrile, almost hysterical
characterisation of the magician is thrillingly voiced and we
can well believe that this sinister Klingsor “laid violent
hands upon himself”. He is aptly partnered by Martha Mödl’s
coruscating Kundry. No wonder the Flower Maidens - led by a
lovely Rita Streich - quail before her. She underscores her
reputation as a splendid singing actress; she is wholly uninhibited
in how she growls and yowls to emphasise the sensual and bestial
side of Kundry’s nature and the result is compelling;
she is a complete stage animal and here delivers a seminal performance
to stand alongside her Isolde for Karajan a few years earlier.
Windgassen’s Parsifal was arguably vitiated by the querulous
whine in his voice which compromised his otherwise admirable
Tristan and always made him sound too old. Vinay is an improvement
vocally and he sings beautifully, but there is no denying that
his big, dark, baritonal tenor also sounds too old for the naïve
Parsifal, but for different reasons. Nonetheless, he is in good
company here with other mature-voiced Parsifals like Vickers
and Baldelli (the latter in an estimable but cut recording sung
in Italian alongside Callas and Christoff) and he sings as if
he is really living Parsifal’s painful journey towards
enlightenment; just listen to the torment in his outburst "Amfortas!
Die Wunde!” It’s a fine, involving performance.
Perhaps one day Jonas Kaufmann, with a voice still boyish yet
of Heldentenor amplitude, will give us the perfect Parsifal?
George London’s bleak, world-weary Amfortas is the best
of his various incarnations, certainly far superior to the “big,
black bawl” of his performance for Knapperstbusch too
late in his sadly curtailed career in 1962. His huge, resonant,
rock-solid voice grandly embodies Amfortas’s grief and
anguish, although I still think José Van Dam’s
account for Karajan is both the most beautifully vocalised and
the most subtly characterised on disc. Resident Bayreuth cave-man
Josef Greindl is suitably sonorous and sepulchral as Titurel.
All in all, this a valuable and worthy issue of Wagner's last
opera (Gesamtkunstwerk, Buhnenweihfestspiel?) in sound far superior
to any of its previous incarnations. This quadruple set comes
in two double CD cases: the Prologue and Act 1 span discs one
and two, using a natural break to separate the continuous music
into two halves of similar length, with brief fades of background
atmosphere ending and beginning these CDs. Acts 2 and 3 fit
in their entirety onto CDs 3 and 4 respectively.
Ralph Moore