Even today, Nielsen’s
is hardly a household name. Back in the early 1960s, the nearest
I’d come to it was the “Nielson’s Ice Cream” van that, round my
way, competed with “Mr. Rossi” in the threepenny
cornet stakes. I first came across Carl Nielsen’s music when
Barbirolli and the Hallé performed the Fourth Symphony at a 1963 Bradford concert. I wasn’t alone – it seemed
that nobody in the audience had even heard of Nielsen and, if
the post-concert chit-chat was anything to go by, most folk were
wishing it had stayed that way. Not me though; I was completely
bowled over – “it blew my mind” was not yet common currency –
and the very next day I bought the Barbirolli recording.
This in itself was
something of a rarity for, apart from a few from pioneers such
as Tuxen and Jensen, recordings of Nielsen were pretty thin on
the ground. Prior to the 1960s, Nielsen was generally even more
unappreciated than Sibelius – and this sets the context of the
present issue. In the decade following the Great War, the orchestral
cellist Tor Mann (1894-1974) became increasingly appalled by Nielsen’s
inept conducting, but proportionately inflamed with enthusiasm
for the music. Consequently, as the RSPO’s radio musical director
in the 1940s and 1950s, alongside the music of fellow Swedes such
as Berwald and Stenhammar, he championed that of the great Dane
– and “bully for him,” I say.
History, though, pulled
a rather dirty trick on him. The activities of “Nielsen’s prophet
in Sweden”, whilst wholly admirable, were also entirely parochial.
Apparently, nothing ever penetrated beyond Sweden’s borders, at
least partly because Mann’s only recordings were made solely for
the convenience of Swedish radio broadcasts. Those familiar with
the riches amassed over the years by broadcasting organisations
in general may well exclaim, “But that’s not so bad – we still
have those, don’t we?” Well, back then Swedish Radio’s recording
policy was, “Use it then, unless it’s by a Swedish composer, bin
it”. This ridiculous rule was rigidly enforced by myopic management,
though mistakes were occasionally made.
These four CDs contain
all that survives, mostly, though not exclusively, through such
“mistakes”. It’s just done nicely enough to make you weep. We
can infer from the note by Carl-Gunnar Åhlén, the restoration
engineer, that nothing survived unscathed. The good news is that
the First Symphony, Saul and David, and the Oriental
Festival March were recorded on professional-standard (high-speed)
tapes. The rest, however, is all bad news. At some juncture, these
good recordings were transferred – presumably for reasons of “economy”
– onto much poorer-quality, low-speed tapes. Paradoxically, this
is fortunate – according to the rule, they should simply have
been wiped!
The Second Symphony
seemed to fare better, as it was made on wax masters, subsequently
transferred to metals. However, at bar 102 of the finale, a mechanical
failure put paid to the rest of the recording. The remaining symphonies
were captured on acetates. An inherently grotty medium, acetate
is exceedingly crackly and preserves the noise of the cutting-head,
which typically sounds somewhat like a cat trapped in the groove.
The last side of the
Fourth Symphony turned out to be completely unplayable.
However, by a stroke of sheer good fortune, there came to light
an off-air recording of a later (1954) performance, from which
it was feasible to patch in a conclusion. Saga-Drøm very
nearly didn’t make it at all. In 1961 the recording was indeed
wiped – and what we have here is another off-air recording, poor
in quality but nevertheless better than nothing. In passing, I
am amused at how quickly necessity transforms an “illegal activity”
into a “public service”!
Don’t be taken in
by the inlay card’s claim that these recordings “are now revived
with a surprisingly good sound quality.” Who is “surprised”? It
can’t be you or I. How good is “good”? We do not know. In both
cases, we have no primary standard against which to measure –
these aren’t from previously available commercial recordings but
are effectively “brand-new” issues. I don’t think this is deliberate
wool-pulling – in all likelihood it’s the production team’s own
reaction to the outcome of a long, hard slog. If so, I shudder
to think what some of the originals must have sounded like.
Anyway, I can convey
some idea of the sound quality by adopting an admittedly rather
rough secondary standard. I’ll compare these recordings with the
general quality of a typical historical restoration – broadly
equivalent to a decent monaural LP pressing. However, you should
not take my comments as adversely critical in the normal
sense of “this could have been done better”. By rights, these
recordings should not have survived – I’m just trying to describe
the outcome of what seems increasingly to be an heroic rescue
mission.
The earliest is that
of the Second Symphony. Though for the most part not too
obtrusive, the expected background hiss is rather whooshy with
some sputtering. Louder passages tend to sound over-bright and
harsh. Whilst pretty solid, the bass feels a bit lumpy and, notably
in the second movement, the strings seem somewhat pallid. There
being no off-air cavalry to ride to the rescue, when the unplayable
conclusion of the original is reached, the remastered edition
has no option but to fade out discreetly, at which point you might
want to reach for a box of tissues.
In the quieter parts
of the Fourth Symphony, the “trapped cat” can be heard
tracking the signal, as a faint, violin-like mewling. Occasional
spurts of sputtering occur, notably during climactic builds-up.
Otherwise and surprisingly, this sounds better than the Second,
with a reasonable dynamic range, firmer and cleaner bass, and
a smooth overall sound that harshens only moderately in climaxes.
The switch to the off-air tape is audible through a fairly obvious
“fading up” of tape hiss as the coda starts, although it is quickly
masked by the music’s crescendo. The comparatively desiccated
tape sound has more glare on top, but at least the work is “complete”.
If there’s a “trapped
cat” anywhere in the Third, I haven’t spotted it yet! Instead,
there is just a very faint, irregular sputtering. Towards the
end of the first movement, and running into the second, I could
hear some amplitude flutter. Otherwise this pips the Fourth,
coming across as the smoothest and richest sound thus far – though
it must be said that some of the richness will be due to Nielsen’s
scoring.
Although it is the
most recent acetate, the Sixth Symphony suffers the worst
residual noise. Åhlén probably left in the sound of fat frying,
rather than jeopardise the prominent tinkly percussion. The “trapped
cat” also puts in an appearance, notably as a slow “morse code”
punctuating the finale’s waltz music. The upper strings can sound
glassy when playing loudly, and the middle strings “grey” when
playing softly, suggesting a mid-frequency deficiency. However,
other than some mild climactic congestion, distortion is not really
a problem.
Did this Oriental
Festival March really start out on professional-quality
tape? If so, then the transfer to low-speed tape must have been
right royally botched,. Even after Åhlén’s ministrations, it sounds
uneven, mushy, congested, wobbly and riddled with dropouts and
“knots”. In short, it’s “dog-rough”, but enough of the music penetrates
to convince me that, in the flesh, this must have been absolutely
glorious. Time to get out those tissues again.
Occupying the opposite
pole is Saul and David, which offers the best sound of
the entire set. This is just as well, as it occupies over 40%
of the playing time! Both noise and distortion are low and well-behaved,
the sound is open and full, and – apart from quibbles concerning
details of relative balance – everyone’s contributions are clearly
audible. This is well up to that “secondary standard”.
Really, the First
Symphony, recorded a year after Saul and David, should
have been just as good. It isn’t. Although set against a warm
ambience, with a good perspective depth and minimal noise, its
otherwise smooth, detailed sound is marred in loud passages by
some slight coarsening and treble stridency. Nevertheless, seasoned
historical recordings fans – along with sundry others – should
derive unreserved enjoyment out of this one.
By comparison, the
sound of the off-air recording of Saga-Drøm is enjoyable
only if you work at it. We should bear in mind that, in 1961,
“domestic equipment” meant things like AM radios and slow-speed,
open-reel tape recorders. I remember that the only way I could
“connect” the said bits of kit was to wedge the recorder’s microphone
against the radio’s loudspeaker!
At the start, the
sound feels “corkscrewed”, imparting a strange, un-real quality
to the strings. As the background is almost preternaturally quiet,
and sometimes I detect momentary dips in the dynamic level, I
wonder whether the noise reduction is over-cooked? Not surprisingly,
there is evidence of tape transport fluctuations but, as it’s
a fairly subdued work, distortion rarely aspires to the “sore
thumb” class.
Not so much as a shred
of any recording of the Fifth survives. That’s a real shame,
because the more I listen to these recordings, the more impressed
I become. I will happily admit that, before this set came along,
I’d never even heard of Tor Mann. I guess that he regarded himself
simply as an honest musician who just got on with his job. Yet,
he had absorbed Nielsen’s music seated – literally! – at the composer’s
right hand, and came to believe absolutely in the value of Nielsen’s
music. Then again, as a professor of conducting, his pupils included
such as Ingvar Lidholm, Stig Westerburg – and, of all people,
Herbert Blomstedt. He thus had above-average credentials to go
forth and preach the music’s gospel, so it’s a shame he got no
further than Sweden.
Probably nodding towards
technological limitations, Åhlén modestly admits, “the best filters
are, as always, in the ears of the listener”. Duly applying my
personal filters, I could discern Mann’s art shining like an arc-lamp
through these variously-veiled windows on the past. For as long
as I can remember, Nielsen’s music has been regarded as robust,
rugged and resolute, firmly on the masculine side of the gender
divide. Consequently, conductors tended to try – and continue
to try – to reflect this in macho, driven performances.
Tempo was also the
key to Mann’s approach but, as far as he was concerned, parade-ground
precision came a poor second to guerrilla tactics: he liberated
the music’s immense potential energy in a free-flowing flood,
through the pervasive use of subtly elastic tempi. However, every
tactical touch that inspires our immediate attention was subject
to a disciplined strategy that only gradually becomes obvious.
It’s hard to explain, but Mann, it seems, understood that there’s
a world of difference between “driving the music” and “driving
the design that shapes the music”.
Equally, he was a
supremely crafty “cook” – wherever there was a pudding he could
over-egg, he didn’t over-egg it. This was often a matter of finding
the right basic tension for his elastic. For instance,
he trod the fine line between milking those richly-scored Nielsen
melodies and rushing all the meat off their bones. The classic
case is the Third Symphony’s “Brahms” tune. It’s marked
“allegro”, so Mann makes it move, just nicely fast enough,
and suddenly it’s singing – and sounding all the better
for it. The one exception, I’m glad to say, is the Sixth Symphony’s
bibulously slithering trombone, which is over-egged to perfection.
Judging by the results,
I get the impression that, if he asked them, Mann’s RSPO players
would have followed him into the very jaws of Hell. On the down-side,
there are a couple of rather dodgy transitions from crescendo
to climax, which are probably down to inadequate rehearsal time
or – conceivably – the recordings! However, these are minor glitches
– in any other respect, it’s all “up-side”. The RSPO’s articulation
of Nielsen’s nervous edges and disturbing undertows sets my teeth
on edge, their joyful exuberance when in full flow fair warms
my cockles, and their merry wit (in the Sixth Symphony)
tickles both my fancy and my funny-bone. I have developed a soft
spot for the woodwind who, fronted by a deliciously reedy first
oboe, are an especially characterful crew.
Although they sing
well, the two vocalists in the Third Symphony sound unremarkable.
However, it wasn’t their fault – someone had a very perverse idea
of what “off-stage” means. The soloists in Saul and David
are uniformly excellent, their strong, even voices ringing out
boldly – a little too boldly, perhaps, in the long opening scene.
I find it a bit short on light and shade, becoming rather relentless
– but things do improve later on. To cap it all, the gloriously
lusty chorus throw themselves into their part with almost unseemly
enthusiasm.
The opera is abridged,
and sung in Swedish. The missing bits are substituted by lengthy
narrations, which are separately tracked. Unless you understand
Swedish, this is probably just as well because the booklet’s libretto
is given in – guess what? That’s right, Swedish only. Forgive
me, but in a booklet aimed squarely at English-speakers, that
is just plain daft. If I knew what was going on, maybe that “relentless”
might make dramatic sense?
To state the obvious,
a large part of the attraction of historical issues in general
is the “historical perspective”, the frisson of actually hearing
otherwise legendary performers in action. As I’ve already suggested,
these recordings belong to a particular, small subset: other than
any surviving listeners to the original radio broadcasts, we’ve
never been privy to them. With the fact that these recordings
somehow evaded Swedish radio’s media recycling squad, and that
they preserve the work of an unsung hero of Nielsen’s cause, it
adds up to something so special that my hackles tingle just thinking
about it.
I
would not recommend this set to anyone looking for an introduction
to Nielsen, but only because of the recordings’ “scathed” state
and the truncated Second Symphony. Such folk should first
turn to Mann’s pupil, Herbert Blomstedt, or one of his illustrious
contemporaries. Nielsen fans should grab it with both hands,
as a riveting and revealing supplement to their more modern
recordings. Serious students of Nielsen should subject it to
serious scrutiny, as in many cases it will fill a serious hole
in their studies. If there is a Heaven, I’ve a feeling that
Nielsen will be up there, smiling on this long-overdue recognition
of Tor Mann, as one of the finest friends that his music ever
had.
Paul Serotsky
Royal 
