The Turangalīla
Symphony was commissioned
by none other than Serge Koussevitsky
in 1945. It was given its world premiere
in Boston in 1949.
This version was the
earliest international recording. There
had previously been a de luxe French
Véga LP set but that did not
travel far. As it is, the Ozawa has
hardly been out of the catalogue over
the years ... and no wonder. Such is
its profile it needs little comment
from me. In any event it has been reviewed
here comparatively recently under another
banner as part of a two CD set (French
BMG Artistes Repertoires) including
symphonies by Roussel. While it labours
under the burden of 1960s analogue sound
this is not a comment on the presence
of hiss or on any intrinsic weakness
in the sound although it has acquired
a hint of deckle edge over the years.
Hiss has been well suppressed. Recently
I have been listening to Munch’s Boston
Debussy from 1963-65. Hiss is far more
apparent on that disc than it is here.
The symphony’s filmic,
even psychedelic, excesses are there
to be gloried in rather than decried.
Part of these excesses is accounted
for by the feral ‘loopiness’ of the
ondes martenot and the braying brass.
This is a work that defines ‘over the
top’. Try the Hollywood-style luxury
in Chant d'Amour 2 (tr. 4 at
2.28). You have to surrender yourself
to this music if you are to get anything
from it at all. The score is a luxury
item crying out for every advance in
recording quality. There are nice subtle
spatial effects in the quiet dialogue
of woodwind at the start of tr.9. Less
subtly sultry but just as impressive
are the primitivist rhythmic interest
rapped out in the piano line.
Ozawa directs this
work without hesitation. This is a confident
reading by a conductor prepared to make
unequivocal statements. Of course the
authoritative presence of Yvonne and
Jeanne Loriod also makes a difference
and adds to the standing of this classic
of recorded sound.
Perhaps the passing
decades have taken some toll on the
tone which, while respectable enough,
would benefit from greater succulence
instead of the mildly synthetic sense
you transiently get when listening to
parts of this recording. This is not
unduly disturbing until the listener
comes to the last few pages of the finale
(tr. 10) where there is a real rawness
and some distortion. Nothing disastrous
but it is a momentary shame to leave
this performance with such an aural
blemish.
Rob Barnett
Yvonne Loriod (piano) 