Beecham's love affair 
                with the Gallic muse was no temporary 
                dalliance. It can be traced from his 
                first concert to his very last. The 
                record catalogue also carries the evidence. 
                The splendid Sony UK Beecham series 
                keeps enthusiasts alternately satisfied 
                and on tenterhooks. For all that we 
                pour scorn on Sony at an international 
                level the artistic judgement and perceptive 
                choices of the UK and French outfits 
                continue to please. The notes for the 
                Beecham series are just as much an exemplar. 
                Whoever chose Graham Melville-Mason 
                to provide the commentary has nothing 
                to be ashamed of. GM-M's notes evince 
                the drudgery of research but cloaked 
                in brilliance of expression. 
              
 
              
Beecham's Berlioz is 
                rightly famed. His Harold bloomed 
                from its beginnings in concerts with 
                Tertis in 1933, to Primrose in 1942 
                and 1952 and Riddle in 1953 and 1956. 
              
 
              
With an orchestra in 
                which personality was not a dirty word 
                we find Gerald Jackson (flute), Terence 
                MacDonagh (oboe), Jack Brymer (clarinet), 
                Gwydion Brooke (bassoon), Dennis Brain 
                (horn), Leonard Brain (cor anglais) 
                and David McCallum (violin). 
              
 
              
What strikes me about 
                this performance is Beecham's sauntering 
                'sprung' way with Pilgrims' March 
                and his silky seamless supercharged 
                continuity of line in Harold in the 
                Mountains and The Orgy. There 
                might be more snap and smash to the 
                Orgy but its smoothness of lyrical 
                line are compensation enough. Primrose 
                is steady, pliant, and responsive; the 
                ideal complement to the orchestra or 
                vice versa. The mono sound is secure 
                and, if this makes sense, very easy 
                and pleasing to listen to. 
              
 
              
The fillers remind 
                us of the young Beecham poking around 
                the librairies and bibliothèques 
                of 1904 Paris. From these forays 
                he built his library of Grétry 
                and Méhul, Isouard and Monsigny. 
                The Zémire is a soupy 
                but uncongealed confection with a prominent 
                rounded line for the cello. The Massenet 
                is another classic lollipop in the Zémire 
                mould although the lovely fade at 
                the end gives signs of having been aided 
                by the technicians of the time. The 
                three Méhuls include some real 
                rarities. Timoléon is 
                lively and of a sweet though unsleepy 
                disposition - an approach to Mozart's 
                opera overtures via Berlioz. It sports 
                some mercurial flute solos. Le Trésor 
                Supposé is similarly shaped 
                but much more earnest; not as successful. 
                All is forgiven with the more famous 
                La Chasse (a classic of the 78 
                era). Honeyed work and sensitive playing 
                down to a silky pianissimo characterise 
                the introduction. From a serenade-like 
                tune of Mozartian 'fall' we move into 
                a magically balanced dialogue of hunting 
                horns sounding distantly. Then comes 
                an elegant chasse which has the grand 
                manner of Mozart's Jupiter and 
                the lightning strikes of Beethoven's 
                Seventh. The blast of the French horns 
                in the final pages is unforgettable. 
              
 
              
Beecham soothes and 
                stimulates in this generous collection 
                of the familiar and the unfashionable. 
              
Rob Barnett  
                
              
see also review 
                by Jonathan Woolf