Sibelius, Jean: Symphony No. 7 in C, Op. 105;
Tapiola, Op. 112.
Philharmonia Orchestra, Vladimir Ashkenazy, Conductor.
Decca 411-935-2 (Digital Stereo).
Recorded March 1982 at Kingsway
Hall, London.
Currently Available on
London 455-405-2 (Digital Stereo).
I hadn't realized it at the time I bought this disc (actually, it was a cassette, and I later bought the disc while stationed in Germany when the tape wore out), but I was being set-up for an education in "how to properly appreciate Sibelius." I bought these superb recordings at the Camelot Music store at a mall in Lynchburg, Virginia (a seemingly most improbable place) in 1983 while driving from my parents' home in West Virginia to Alabama, to attend my Army technical school, right off Christmas furlough and right out of basic training.
Prior to purchasing this cassette, I had only
previously been exposed to Sibelius' Second Symphony 
(A
1950's RCA "Living Stereo" record of Monteux/London Symphony, which I adore
to this day) and his Fourth (a symphony which I would not fully
appreciate yet for a few years) and the Jenson/Ormandy Violin Concerto.
I bought the tape because I admired Sibelius' Second and Violin
Concerto so much. At the time, I was only familiar with Ashkenazy
as pianist, so it was a curiosity to me to see him on the cover, baton
in hand.
On the drive from Lynchburg to Interstate 81 at Roanoke, I listened to music on the radio, and as I entered the interstate, the radio station started fading out, and a fine, misty, rain began to descend from the skies. As I was leaving Roanoke, and driving up graded, curving pavement towards Wytheville, the subtle, yet ominous timpani introducing Sibelius' Seventh Symphony glued my ears to the speakers, and my eyes to the road. Hearing the symphony for the first time, in an almost desolate part of the Appalachians was so foreboding, I immediately felt my own vulnerability before the freezing rain of a dank, cold, winter's night. I drove my car in the slow lane, as trucks passed, they splashed onto my windshield the frozen muck of the road, my wipers laboriously sloughing it away. It was the most surreal musical experience I've ever had the terrifying pleasure to enjoy. The road seemed to climb and descend in tempo with the music; the hurried runs on the upper strings were intensified by the car's speeding down the mountain passes -- the langorous scaling on the lower strings stressed by the car's motor slowing and revving, as I slammed it into third to climb the steep grades; the dark, imposing trombone theme was accompanied by the tall Allegheny pines looming in the headlights. When the tape switched sides, the mocking, monomaniacal, calls on the upper woodwinds in Tapiola even further magnified the omnipresence of the bare, cold, nature around me. Never had I had such an exhilarating, frightening, introduction to a piece of music in my life -- before, or since. I think that this type of musical experience is exactly what Sibelius had in mind when he wrote these two valedictory compositions.
I have never thrilled to Vladimir Ashkenazy as
a pianist. To quote a friend: "He has two dynamics -- piano
and forte, that's it." I find him a competent pianist, but
that is about all (you Ashkenazy aficionados, sorry). However, as
a conductor, I find him to be one of the best. As a conductor of
Sibelius and Rachmaninoff, he easily offers challenge to the greatest of
all time. His Sibelius Seventh is a case in point: The
treatment in uncontroversial, yet thoroughly convincing. He conducts
the Seventh as it was intended to sound - seamless, with moments
of passion, building forcefully to the majestic resolution. He does
not primarily focus on any particular instrumental ensembles or 
passages,
but treats the symphony as a unified whole. Whereas Stokowski would
break up the symphony into sections in order to build up to its climax
and whereas Ormandy concentrated particularly on the strings in his 1960
CBS recording and on the precise phrasing of the wind ensembles in his
1978 RCA recording, Ashkenazy uses a less-disciplined hand with the Philharmonia.
Yet, this ought not be mistaken for a lack of vision: This is a "big
picture" rendering, whereas the other recordings mentioned tend to focus
in more minute detail. The effect in this recording is more sweeping,
the subtlety found not in individual passages so much as in the overall
arch of the performance.
Ashkenazy's Tapiola does beautiful justice to the piece: This is by-far the loneliest of all versions I've heard, and one of my favourites. The opening bars of the piece on the timpani, horns and strings build an early climax. This tone poem is written as a series of dark and evocative restatements of a singular theme. They are not so much "variations," for a set of variations conjures in one's mind wildly divergent tableaux on a seminal theme, such as Moussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition, or Charles Ives' Organ Variations on "America." From Ashkenazy's baton, Tapiola is more like extremely regimented chaos, much like the Vivacissimo of Sibelius' Second Symphony.
What I enjoy most about Ashkenazy's recordings with the Philharmonia Orchestra is the utter simplicity and integrity of their performances. This is exemplified in Tapiola. The different instruments which jump out at you and make their presence felt - only to disappear into the camouflage of the "forest" of Sibelius' orchestration - expertly weave the taut fabric of this piece. Whether the flutes, timpani, oboe, basses, clarinets, 'cellos or horns, violas, all state or augment the piece's theme in flawless synchronization with Ashkenazy's firm tempo, yet their playing remains pliant, supple, expressive, spontaneous. This duality of Ashkenazy's interpretation allows the listener to be pulled into Sibelius' Nordic forestland on a basically emotional level. Ashkenazy achieves this primarily through the tight, logical rigour required to pull it off; Any hint of sloppiness would throw us out of Sibelius' orbit, the piece collapsing of its own weight. Tapiola required musical genius to be properly executed, and Ashkenazy more than fills the bill.
Oh, yes: These are digital recordings which are only cold because that's what Sibelius - not the recording engineer - intended. Where the sound demands a rumbling bass and warm acoustics, there they are. Unfortunately, this disc is no longer available as originally released. The Seventh Symphony and Tapiola are available on a 2-cd set of symphonies (includes 3rd, 5th and 6th and En Saga) I recommend buying both sets (there's another one, London 455-402-2, which features the 1st, 2nd and 4th symphonies), because Ashkenazy is one of the best Sibelius interpreters, past or present (plus, the Luonnotar with Elisabeth Söderström hearkens back to Kirsten Flagstad's mesmerizing soprano!)
