Gustav Holst (1874-1934)
The Planets, op.32 (1914-1916)
Richard Strauss (1864-1949)
Tod und Verklärung (Death and Transfiguration) (1889)
Wiener Philharmoniker/Herbert von Karajan
rec. June 1960 (Strauss), September 1961 (Holst), Sofiensaal, Vienna, Austria
Gramola 92008 [73]
The release couples two important orchestral works of the 20th century. The recordings come from the early 1960s, when Herbert von Karajan was making his ‘Golden Era’ recordings with the Wiener Philharmoniker. Originally issued on Decca under the auspices of celebrated producers John Culshaw (Holst) and Erik Smith (Strauss), they have withstood the test of time. The quality of sound is outstanding, bearing in mind that they are now two-thirds of a century old.
Straight away, the listener will be struck by the menacing opening of Mars, brutal and insistent. The Vienna brass produce a disturbing ‘snarl’ throughout. My touchstone in The Planets is Venus; Karajan’s suitably numinous account stresses its serenity. Mercury is often described as “quicksilver”, an adjective entirely appropriate here. One contemporary reviewer felt that the celesta was slightly out of tune with the orchestra. Maybe. It remains a sparkling performance.
Like other critics, I wondered how Karajan would approach the quintessentially English sound of Jupiter. In fact, he provides a broad sweep in the “trio” section, whilst avoiding any hint of sentimentality. The lead up to that ‘big tune’ is a riot of sound.
Saturn is a remorseless march, dark and lugubrious, relieved only by occasional flashes of light. The anvils at the climax are particularly effective. One commentator perfectly summed up the movement: the Bringer of Old Age “is a creaky giant, wheezy and weary, but still an eminent presence when roused”. Uranus gets a rollicking performance: the brass fanfare at the beginning is genuinely scary. In Neptune, Karajan creates pure mystery. The wordless female voices of the Vienna State Opera Chorus sustain a perfectly eerie mood as they fade away into a haunting and desolate silence.
I first came to this masterpiece through Steinberg and the Boston Symphony Orchestra; that Deutsche Grammophon LP that lived in the school music-room library. Nowadays, I would favour a British conductor when listening to The Planets. This may be Mark Elder and the Hallé on Hyperion (with Colin Matthews’s Pluto, which some listeners still resist), or Adrian Boult’s 1979 EMI recording. So why turn to Karajan? For me, his performance treats the whole suite as one vast, surging arc of cinematic colour and momentum. The movements flow into each other with a scale and inevitability that few conductors manage.
I do not normally define “best” when it comes to musicians, but I accept that Karajan was one of the last century’s great interpreters of Richard Strauss. Karajan made him sound big, beautiful, thrilling and moving. He controlled the orchestra, so everything felt smooth, powerful and perfectly timed. It is the kind of playing that sweeps people along even if they do not know a note of Strauss.
One need not understand Alexander Ritter’s poem to appreciate the symphonic poem Death and Transfiguration. In fact, Ritter wrote the text after the score was complete. The basic idea is that of a “lonely and ailing” man who fights against his inevitable death, while recalling incidents from his past life. There is no suggestion that Strauss had any specific individual in mind. More likely he was reflecting about the “eternal suffering” of humanity.
The work is divided into four sections: the sick man on his deathbed; the battle between life and death; the moment of death; and finally Transfiguration. People will sympathise with at least part of the “programme” – certainly as they grow older – but it is possible to hear this as absolute music. It is a purely musical drama, without reference to any programme, whose strength lies in its thematic transformation, orchestral colour and long‑spanned architecture.
Karajan’s account presents two sides of the piece. There is a “shattering intensity” inherent in the struggle between life and death, but also a gentler, more sensitive side in the childhood memories and the apotheosis. Surely the interpretation of the closing bars is heartbreakingly beautiful.
Whether or not Karajan’s 1960 recording with the Wiener Philharmonikeris a “definitive” version of Death and Transfiguration is not something I wish to comment on. I should also note that I have not heard his 1983 recording with the Berlin Philharmoniker. There are dozens of other recordings, those by Reiner, Böhm, Kempe and Krauss among them. An exploration of all these is a full-time occupation.
This disc, a true classic, captures a legendary conductor and orchestra at the height of their powers. If you want to hear these two epic masterworks played with maximum drama and rich, golden sound, this is the recording to own. All this is perfectly preserved by the early stereo recording.
John France
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