Gustav Mahler - Symphonies 1-9 and Adagio from Symphony 10

Hänssler Classics 093130000

SWR Symphony Orchestra Baden-Baden and Freiburg
Conductor: Michael Gielen

Leonard Bernstein accompanied his ground-breaking integral Mahler cycle for Columbia with an essay proclaiming, boldly and unequivocally, that Mahler’s time had come. No one facilitated acceptance of Mahler more than Bernstein, and no one was more aware of his accomplishments than Bernstein, as demonstrated by the almost complete, somewhat uneven, self-indulgent but largely satisfying set he made for Deutsche Gramophon, missing only Symphony of a Thousand at the time of his death in 1990. It seems that every survey to emerge since has been either a blatant reaction against Bernstein’s largess and freedom or an imitation, homage or otherwise. On the one hand, we’ve experienced (sometimes endured?) the fascinatingly deconstructionist renderings of Sinopoli and the more even-tempered and equally rewarding readings by Boulez, both fairly far afield from Bernstein’s energetic emotiveness. On the other extreme, Simon Rattle’s traversal (Will he ever set down number 8?) often shocks by out-extreming Bernstein, Mahler’s not-so-nascent moment form pushed and stretched into sharp relief under Rattle’s merciless but obviously dedicated baton.

While towering and undeniable accomplishments, these digital cycles always leave me pining for history, for a long-gone excitement engendered merely by the effort of getting through the score rather than simply being the product of one leader’s vision, to whatever degree of single-minded unity or diversity. The sure-fire steadiness and “organicism” of Horenstein’s Mahler, the focused flexibility of Kubelik, the supposedly authentic episodicity of Mengelberg—I’ve returned to these again and again for perspective and balance. Sure, times and interpretations have changed, and part of the allure for me may be in the grittily unreliable orchestral playing itself, but these Mahler veterans somehow let each topic speak for itself while maintaining some semblance of linearity.

Yet, it may be just such a pluralistic vision that makes Michael Gielen’s Mahler symphony recordings, newly boxed and re-released by Hänssler Classics this past summer, so important, so revelatory. Recorded in rough chronological proximity to those cycles mentioned above, Gielen’s set stands out precisely because it combines a razor-sharp sense of detail and structure with an equally keen sense of history, both musical and human.

Any follower of 20th century music would not have missed the first recording of Ligeti’s Requiem, a technically flawed but thrilling and disturbing account that has not been equaled. Somewhat drier but finely chiseled is Gielen’s approach to Schonberg’s two Chamber Symphonies and piano concerto, pianist Alfred Brendel proving an excellent foil twice in the same work over thirty-six years. The same can be said of Gielen’s pioneering Moses und Aron—wonderfully structured and executed but bettered since in terms of energy and dramatic insight. Knowing these recordings, I expected similar results from the Mahler set, consequently ignoring it for ten years, there being no lack of recordings worth exploring.

Then, without any warning, entirely unaware of who conducted, I heard Gielen’s first. Perhaps the closest comparison is Claudio Abbado’s mature but tightly-wound live digital recording with Berlin; both are singularly transparent yet full at the right moments, bristling with undercurrents of demonic energy that are unleashed at points of climax. The difference is that Gielen has all the excitement coupled with an extraordinary wealth of new insight. That oft-sited cuckoo motive, the descending fourth heralding new day in the first movement, is highlighted across voices throughout, simultaneously giving the music a decidedly pointilistic bent and further unifying a consciously disparate construction. Never is energy sacrificed for detail, and the converse is also true.

Further investigation of the cycle revealed another layer of discovery, one that I’ve never heard achieved by one conductor. Somehow, inexplicably, Gielen renders both the lovelorn youth of symphony 1 and the dark death-ridden nostalgia of symphony 9, and he makes both extremes convincing, even vital. The works in-between actually seem to be one narrative, autobiography as musical construct, and never once did I feel the vision to be forced or false. In fact, I was unaware of the trajectory until I endured Gielen’s incomparably restless take on Symphony 9’s finale, the most disunified version to have scarred my ears. Totally and irreparably opposed to Bernstein’s lugubriously heartfelt digital reading, this beautifully elegiac rondo becomes a testament to change, to the uncertainty underlying the vague oneness behind change and to the process of discovering this dialectic.

Only after I’d understood Gielen’s real accomplishment could I then return to the other symphonies and perceive the path. A superficially disappointing Resurrection then became the unwitting precursor to Schonberg I’d always thought it to be; like Beethoven’s Hammerklavier, it is shown to embody romanticism at it’s finest and most fatal, dying on the vine even in full bloom. It signifies a form that has outlived its relevance, and it was down to Symphony 3’s first movement to revamp and redefine formal procedures.

The whole cycle continues along a similarly dualistic road, the journey becoming the important consideration in light of, sometimes despite, Gielen’s remarkable ears, skill and intellect. Works that have been treated individually as era-straddlers by other interpreters are quite unified and logical in Gielen’s hands, notably Symphony 7, so wonderfully troublesome to Barbarrolli. Symphony 6, especially the epically tragic last movement, conveys more optimism than most other readings, the opening flourish and string melody subdued but insistent. So for once, we are given a cycle containing Mahler’s vision and the road leading to its manifestation.

The set is certainly not perfect. Some of the playing is just not powerful enough, not opulent enough, even though a remarkable consistency of balance is maintained over the 16 years of this set’s history. There are a few roughshod moments, too brief to mention, and they pale in the light of Gielen’s marvelous conducting. In fact, they provide a refreshing humanity to the proceedings. I can’t recommend the set for one or two readings, which explains why I have all but avoided detailed mention of individual works here. Every Mahler enthusiast is going to have a favorite version of any given symphony, and for him, nothing else will do. I can say that no other cycle I’ve heard in recent years has represented Mahler as completely as this one, and that each listening reinforces just how well the set works as a unit. In many ways, this is the most “modern” of the digital cycles and should be welcomed for that reason alone.

~ Marc Medwin