It
is a tribute to the affection and loyalty
Ančerl inspired in those who knew
him and worked with him, as well as
his fans in a wider sense, that my merely
daring to suggest, in a previous review,
that the question of whether or not
he was a great conductor was a matter
which might still be open to discussion
rather than accepted as a matter of
course, produced a prime specimen of
hate-mail. Our Webmaster was exhorted
not to give any more Ančerl reissues
to “this twit”. This contrasts
interestingly with the complete lack
of any such reaction which has met my
lambasting of certain famous recordings
by, for instance, Klemperer, Giulini
and Colin Davis. Our Webmaster’s reaction
was to send me this set!
As a general issue,
I am concerned by the alarming proliferation
of "great conductors" in the
recent past, a proliferation which was
not particularly noticed at the time.
When I began my listening in the late
1960s there were plenty of well-respected
names around such as Jochum, Kempe,
Böhm, Keilberth, Szell, Munch,
Cluytens and Ančerl
himself, but critics in those days were
too busy telling us that we would not
be seeing again the likes of Toscanini,
Furtwängler, Beecham or Walter to claim
“great” status for any of these. Now
they and many others are the subject
of historical reissues and special
editions. I am sure it is right to question
continually our historical perspectives,
but if we apply the epithet "great"
too easily it will become debased, becoming
merely synonymous with "excellent",
and we will have to invent a new "super-great"
status for the Toscaninis and the Furtwänglers.
But to return to Ančerl,
the present set of radio performances,
consisting of works which the conductor
did not record for Supraphon, with the
exception of the Prokofiev (and even
in this case there is a movement more
included in the Leipzig version), has
clarified my ideas
considerably and leaves me in no doubt
that Ančerl was a great conductor
– sometimes. To illustrate what I mean
I will turn first to the Slavonic Dances.
In the op.46 set Ančerl’s treatment
of the music put me in mind of the Strauss
family performances which Robert
Stolz used to give and which we get
today from Ernst Märzendorfer.
That is to say, performances in which
the dance element comes first; the polkas
are really polkas (none of the lugubrious
treatment we often hear of no.3 for
example), the furiants are really furiants
and so on, and each is danced through
without any of the sort of rubato which
compromises the spirit of the dance.
It is at the opposite pole to, say,
Celibidache’s treatment of these eight
pieces, where he indulged in a wide
range of
speeds to elevate each one into a personal
and poetic statement – but one which
ultimately told us more about Celibidache
than about Dvořák. Since Ančerl’s
rhythms are always alive, his phrasing
and his response to orchestral colour
always precise, it follows that
these are "authentic" performances
in a true sense but, just as no one,
so far as I am aware, has claimed that
Stolz’s and Märzendorfer’s similarly
authentic Strauss performances are the
work of great conductors, nor would
I make any such claim for Ančerl
here.
But in the op.72 set
something remarkable happens. The approach
is still "authentic" – none
of Szell’s lavish rubato in no.2 for
instance – but there is also a sense
of complete freedom of expression, each
dance being liberated from the page,
the strings soaring or sizzling as required,
the countermelodies luscious, the rhythms
all-embracing. From the melancholy sweep
of the wonderful no.4 to the galvanic
fire of no.7 there is a sense of oneness
between composer, conductor and orchestra
that I would say only a very great conductor
can produce.
So what has happened?
There are three possible explanations.
One relates to the fact that, somewhere
between these two sets of Dances, Dvořák
himself had become a really great composer
for, enchanting as the op.46 set is,
it can be argued that it is high-quality
light music whereas by the time of op.72
the composer had become able, as was
Schubert or Chopin, to make the dance
forms into a true
poetic statement, into something universal.
So one possibility is that Ančerl
deliberately held back in op.46 in order
to let us hear the difference.
Possibility
no.2 is that Ančerl gave great
performances of a small core of works
to which he possessed a special
insight, and resolved a wide range of
others with fine musicianship and technical
ability, while possibility no.3 is that
the great conductor that was in him
might come to the surface at any time,
in almost any work, but that he might
equally turn in a well-prepared, musicianly
but ultimately unremarkable performance.
If we were to assemble other recordings
of him conducting these Slavonic Dances
(I don’t know how many might survive
in various radio archives), would he
always be great in op.72 and
just very good in op.46 (= possibility
no.2), or would he sometimes be great
all through, or not at all, or in op.46
but not op.72 (= possibility no.3)?
For the moment this
question remains unanswered, but the
set yields at least one other really
great performance – that of the Schubert
C major. British listeners may be disturbed
at the outset by the horn’s vibrato
and, even if this were to your taste,
his wobbly tone surely proclaims him
less than a prime specimen of his kind.
You will also notice that the ensuing
string phrases are generously sung rather
than magically hushed. But you will
also notice, I hope, that this introduction
sets up an inexorable sense of striding
forward, so firm and powerful as to
seem unstoppable. At the end of the
introduction Ančerl
allows only a slight accelerando – much
less than most conductors – so he still
needs to leap forward into the Allegro
proper. This is sufficiently steady
to accommodate the second subject without
a change of pulse, yet by digging into
detail the playing is frequently
incandescent. Again it is the sheer
inexorability which is so impressive,
and a sense of almost raw exposure to
the music which I don’t think I’ve ever
felt so strongly. Just to show that
even Jove can nod, after a truly remarkable
development and beginning to the recapitulation,
the tempo momentarily races in the ensuing
bridge passage, settling down again
at the second subject. Here we have
to regret that Ančerl
did not have the opportunity to return
to the work in the studio with his own
Czech Philharmonic – it would surely
have been a record to treasure.
Never mind, this is
exceptional enough as it is. Pace is
again the key to the second movement
which sets up a sort of inexorable (I
keep coming back to that word) trudge,
a winter’s journey against which the
different melodies are sung dolefully
or passionately. And in spite of the
undeviating rhythmic pulse, these melodies
are sung with real expressive freedom
– and how impressive, indeed terrifying,
is the central climax without a trace
of acceleration.
Ančerl’s
sense of the dance could be taken for
granted in the scherzo, but not in the
sense of Viennese schmaltz, for the
dance proves to be only the backdrop.
Though the pulse has quickened the performance
is still moving steadily, inexorably
(sorry!) towards its ultimate
goal. The finale, too, is not especially
swift but absolutely incandescent as
a result of really getting into every
note. As the movement proceeds, though,
the pace just slightly quickens, resulting
in a more conventional incandescence.
Again, we have to regret the studio
recording that never was. Ironically,
at about the time of this Berlin radio
recording, Supraphon’s "horses
for courses" policy resulted in
their inviting the Music Director of
the Leipzig Gewandhaus, Franz Konwitschny,
to record this symphony with the Czech
Philharmonic.
I don’t want to make
too much of these two very minor miscalculations
in the course of a long and problematical
symphony. This performance remains one
of the most powerful in the catalogue
and it has changed my mental image of
Ančerl
overnight. It is the sort of performance
we are told Klemperer gave, though in
this particular symphony I have yet
to hear any evidence that he actually
did so.
The
Haydn, however, is the work of Ančerl
the expert musician. Tempi are well-chosen,
the phrasing is well-prepared
and always musical, but it has left
me with no particular memory.
The remaining disc
is mostly the work of the expert musician,
with occasional hints of more. The first
movement of Scheherazade is quite broad.
This does not prevent
some exciting brass contributions but
the performance seems to hang fire in
its quieter moments. Basically, I feel
that Ančerl’s concentration on
purely musical values does not do quite
enough for a work which needs all the
wizardry and sense of story-telling
of a Beecham to bring it to life. In
particular, and especially in view of
Ančerl’s enthralling recording
of Rimsky’s Spanish Caprice, I thought
the finale somewhat lacking in “go”.
The Prokofiev has power,
passion and an almost Mravinsky-like
electricity
towards the end. Ančerl’s Supraphon
recording of a slightly shorter selection
was long a prime bargain recommendation
but unfortunately I do not have it to
hand for comparison. The recordings
(which all seem to have been made in
the studio, without an audience)
are remarkably good for what they are.
For the imperishable performances of
the op.72 Slavonic Dances and the unique
vision of the Schubert Great C major
this set is worth its price many times
over.
Christopher Howell
see also review
by Jonathan Woolf
Berlin Radio Symphony Orchestra except 