Sibelius, Jean: The
Swan of Tuonela, (From "The Four Legends of the Kalevala,"
Op. 22)*; Finlandia,
Op. 26.
Leopold Stokowski and His Symphony Orchestra.
Robert Bloom, English Horn.
EMI Classics CDM-7243-5-65614-2-7 (Analog Stereo / ADD).
Recorded February 1957 at Riverside Plaza
Hotel, New York City.
Symphony No. 7 in C, Op. 105.
Leopold Stokowski and the All-American Youth
Orchestra.
Music
and Arts CD-841 (Mono / ADD). First Release; Stokowski's only recording.
Recorded 22 September 1940.
Symphony No. 2 in D, Op. 43.
Leopold Stokowski conducting Members of the
NBC Symphony Orchestra.
RCA
Victor Red Seal LM-1854 (Mono / A "New Orthophonic" High Fidelity Recording).
Recorded at Manhattan Center, New York City. Released 1955.
Currently Unavailable.
In my Pantheon, Arturo Toscanini is my Hermes; Dimitri Mitropoulos, my Ares and Eugene Ormandy, Apollo. But only Leopold Stokowski can hold the title of Prometheus, the bearer of light. As with the tragic hero of Greek legend, Stokowski was chained to the rock of critical indifference and envy, picked apart by their ravenous attacks as a fraud, an empty, pompous, charlatan. Only recently has his reputation been liberated, allowing the flamboyant director to take up residence at music's Mount Olympus.
The reason for this was a snobbish, elitist banishment of a man who
had the temerity to make music palatable to the average American, whilst
carrying himself with an exaggerated patrician, almost regal, bearing.
To make a further comparison: Toscanini may have been America's most
famous conductor, but no other was so firmly ensconced in popular culture
as was Stokowski. I'm not making reference to his shaking hands with
Mickey Mouse in Walt Disney's Fantasia. No; what comes to
mind, for me, as Stokowski's defining moment in the American consciousness
was the 1949 Warner Bros. cartoon Long-Haired Hare, in which a boisterous
operatic baritone Giovanni Jones is wresting Bugs Bunny from his slumber,
in his ill-placed rabbit hole right under the concert hall stage.
Extracting his revenge on the singer's effrontery, Bugs appears on stage
in white-tie and tails, his ears pulled back over his head, forming a 
glistening
silver mane. As he approaches the podium, excited whispers of "Leopold!
Leopold!" exude from the orchestra's musicians. The spotlight trained
on his platinum coif and white-gloved hands, Bugs then conducts for all
he's worth, eyes focused intently, the music under the command of the lifting
of his hand or gesture of his finger - the orchestra wailing in abandon
- putting the singer through such excruciating vocal calisthenics that
he's driven to tears. Finally, the singer collapses and Bugs is triumphant.
Any Stokowski fan (possessing even the slightest sense of humour) who's
ever seen this 'toon will recall the pure bliss of seeing that wascally
wabbit stand in for the legendary Maestro.
What does all this have to do with Jean Sibelius or Stokowski's recordings of him? Nothing at all - except this is a story too precious not to tell. Actually, though, it is quite telling to realise what a cultural icon Leopold Stokowski was in his heyday. One should keep that in mind when listening to these beautiful, passionate recordings.
The first offering only contains about 16 minutes of Sibelius, but for these two selections alone it's worth the $11.99 mid-line price. These were recorded by Stokowski "and His Symphony Orchestra," which was comprised of musicians from the New York Philharmonic and session musicians. These two recordings were recorded for Capitol Records in the mid-1950s, using "Full Dimensional Sound," EMI's counterpart to RCA's "Living Stereo" and Mercury's "Living Presence." While Robert Stumpf of the Leopold Stokowski Society of America would disagree with me here, I find the sound quality of these recordings gorgeous. Stokowski's version of Swan of Tuonela is sumptuous, and lighter than air from Robert Bloom's cor Anglaise. It is as wistful a Swan as Barbirolli's. The tremolo and vibrato of the strings are both pronounced yet subtle - a rare feat, indeed. Texturally, Stokowski has many colours and shades in his palette. While Toscanini's version is to be commended for its adherence to line, Stokowski's version has subtler shifts in portamento. Stokowski brilliantly conveys the drama of the piece; more than any performance I've heard, the blaring French horn which announces Lemminkäinen as he's about to slay the swan with his bow is a most masculine, foreboding hunter's horn. In a sea of recordings where that passage is performed like Michelangelo's David (all beauty and no threat), here is finally one akin to Bernini's (taut and muscular as Schwarzenegger, arched back - ready to attack). Stokowski's Finlandia excites no less. It is hard to find any current recordings which capture the spirit of this folk-inspired anthem so well as does Stokowski; it's all tension and release, with an undercurrent of low winds and the overt, full tonality of the famed "Stokowski sound," you can't go wrong with this.
Two Sibelius pieces not enough to make you buy this? Well, there're unique and inspired recordings of Barber's Adagio for Strings, Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor (Stokowski's famed orchestration) and two achingly beautiful pieces by Debussy: Clair de Lune and Prelude on the Afternoon of a Fawn, among other great selections.
Stokowski's only recording of Sibelius' Seventh Symphony was made in 1940 with the All-American Youth Orchestra, but don't let the name fool you; The orchestra was painstakingly handpicked by Stokowski himself, and the musicians were between 18 to 26 years old. Unlike many other Stokowski recordings, the Maestro almost seems guilty of "interpreting" this piece (rather than merely imposing his will upon the piece). The symphony, written in one movement (itself comprised of five intricately linked movements) opens up slowly, much more majestically than any other I've ever heard. It almost sounds "classical," more likened to Beethoven or Mozart than to the Finnish master. And yet, I don't believe one can chalk this up to "interpretation," so much as a clear understanding of the composer's intentions. Sibelius, in discussing the symphonic form with Gustav Mahler, remarked "a symphony must be distinguished, rather, by its style and severity of form and by the profound logic that creates an inner connection between its various motifs." This philosophy characterizes Sibelius' Seventh Symphony in every aspect.
Because of Stokowski's stately introduction, the transition from the opening Adagio to Vivacissimo is more pronounced than other versions, and it is at this point that he builds tension in this performance. Although the recording is primitive by today's standards, the various soloists (particularly flute and clarinet) as well as ensembles come through clearly, and one can detect orchestral colour and dynamic shifts just as easily as in the EMI recordings.
Stokowski's expert buildup of tension finally comes to the breaking point at the Affetuoso. After frenzied overlapping and piling on of fragmented motifs, here is where the symphony reaches resolution, and is at peace with itself. Stokowski comes full-circle from the majestic, classical introduction, to the symphony's denouement, equally classical and equally profound. To many musical scholars, this symphony's five movements are so intricately woven together, that it's nearly impossible to tell where one ends, and another picks up. Under Stokowski's baton-less hands, it is no longer a mystery, as Stokowski makes marked divisions between the movements, though in the least obtrusive manner possible. Stokowski gets it, bringing the light of his intuitive understanding into this most seemingly dark and engimatic piece. It makes you realise why many critics were willing to include Sibelius with the "three B's" (Bach, Beethoven and Brahms) around the time this recording was made. This is a very dramatic recording, and I can only thank Robert Stumpf of the LSSA for making it possible and to Ward Marston for the clean transfer from original lacquers. Also on this disc (with the AAYO) are recordings from the same year of Dvorak's New World Symphony and Ravel's Bolero, both solid performances.
The recording of Second Symphony
in D, Op. 43, is a rare one indeed, not currently in any CD 
release.
Recorded with the NBC Symphony Orchestra in the mid-1950s, this recording
is likewise recorded with the same thoughtfulness as Stokowski's recording
of the Seventh. In the liner
notes, which were written by Stokowski himself, the symphony
is described as a portrait of Sibelius in sound. Unlike Toscanini's
frenzied, explosive account (the very embodiment of ostinato) with
the same orchestra, Stokowski conducts less frenetically (though certainly
with no less conviction), exploring the themes and motifs which unfold
in the first movement, Allegretto. Hearkening back to his
strategy in the Seventh, Stokowski lets the music establish itself
in the listener's mind before going full-throttle.
The second movement, Tempo Andante, ma rubato, opens up bleak and monochromatic, as Stokowski put it, "...of melancholy loneliness, as in remote distances of the Northland." Yet, when the oboe and brass enter the movement's second theme, theirs is a loneliness not of remoteness, but of a tragic nature, removed from humankind by self-exile and alienation from the pain and hopelessness in man's life. And yet, amidst all this, the flute, trumpet and clarinet sing the theme in a hopeful light. Maybe all is not lost, after all. The movement ends triumphantly, but treachery still lurks in the shadows.
In contrast to the first two movements (which Stokowski conducts in a rather explorative fashion), the third, Vivacissimo, opens up all subito, as the strings - broken down by instrument - slash and hack away at the movement's opening figure. One after another, violas, double-basses, 'cellos and violins repeat the phrase in lightning quick monomania. This is broken by the winds and brass, as they introduce the movement's second motif, a gentle and wistful folk theme. Stokowski is at his best here, contrasting the "black-and-white" sound of the strings, with the dolce splash of orchestral colour of the winds and brass, which are undergirded by the 'cellos.
This give-and-take builds frenetically to the symphony's majestic denouement, the Finale: Allegro moderato. The same care in juxtaposing opposites is employed by Stokowski as the ostinato of the lower strings serves as a menacing undercurrent for the movement's joyous, hopeful, themes, which are endearingly imparted by wind soloists and ensembles, as well as brass and upper strings. Again, Stokowski is as inexorably rigid - as he forges toward the symphony's climax - as he was free and probing in the symphony's two opening movements.
The tuba, trombones and French horns sing the Finale's heroic theme powerfully, instilling in the listener a sense of what Sibelius intends to be the nationalistic "awakening" of the Finns. This figure is taken up (again) by winds and brass to the undercurrent of the 'cellos, in ostinato towards the symphony's closure. Over and over this fragment overlaps itself as Stokowski wields the orchestra - in the symphony's final, glorious, fanfare - as a single instrument, imparting the will of one single virtuoso, Leopold Stokowski.
The importance of what Stokowski brings to this symphony is much more complicated than what initially meets the ears: Keeping in mind that this is the NBC Symphony Orchestra, which - in performances by Arturo Toscanini was legendary for being the conduit through which the unwavering focus of the Italian master cut like a razor across the music's line - is Stokowski's instrument here. It is bent to his will - a complex, multifaceted, almost schizophrenic will - as rigorously as they were under Toscanini's baton, itself an amazing feat, which is to the NBC's eternal credit as "an orchestra of world-class soloists."
However, what is of paramount significance in these recordings is Stokowski's musical vision: Very complicated fare from an equally complicated man, Stokowski's renderings nonetheless evince an entirely implicit understanding and sympathy with the music of Jean Sibelius (himself an enigmatic musical icon). To those who complain of Stokowski's tendencies toward "bombast," his preference for a "stylised" sound, understand the method of his madness. This is no charlatan, no egomaniac. Rather, here is a musical Prometheus, who - while on his podium, on his terms - is bearing the searing light of his unique and powerful musical vision for all of us to see. If we are willing.
