Two distinct ages of Brahms interpretation are represented here – and if we consider just two moments from the First Symphony, the differences in terms of style, taste and sonic effect will become clear. The dramatic introduction of the symphony in a sense expresses the burden of expectation that Brahms experienced over the long gestation of this piece; it is, if you like, the heartbeat of the 19th century. The younger Thomas Dausgaard and his augmented Swedish Chamber Orchestra give it a forward-looking momentum; Klaus Tennstedt reflects the breadth of tradition in a solemn grandeur. Listening to the songful intensity of the solo oboe towards the close of this paragraph, those of us who experienced Tennstedt in the flesh can see that pained and yet ecstatic expression on his face.

The other moment that illustrates changing times is the entry of the solo horn in the finale, a shimmer of strings clearing like the mists of time to reveal a new age in a new idea. Dausgaard is again less predisposed towards a public statement; Tennstedt gives us a real Valhalla moment, with the ensuing solo flute really shining like the proverbial shaft of sunlight.

I had hoped for leaner, keener definition – a little more contour in the sound – from the BIS engineers for Dausgaard. The Brahmsian bloom is there, the euphonious blend, and there’s even an old-fashioned ritardando at the climax of the first movement. For my ears the timpani are too puddingy and the clumsy exposition repeat is really not necessary. The gains are in the intimacy of a smaller group, not least in the slow movement, where the effect of the string-writing, not least the weighing-in of basses, is that of a listening group of individuals. Solo oboe and clarinet carry a more personal message. I like, too, the homespun feel of Dausgaard’s Scherzo (with its bucolic clarinet) and there is undeniable immediacy and bite to the main Allegro of the finale.

But perhaps my more positive response to Tennstedt is coloured by my experience of him in the concert hall because this live performance (much more compelling than his studio recording with the LPO) combines a familiar breadth of vision with his all-or-nothing commitment in sound that isn’t at all bad for 1976 and is ultimately more of an event with the drama of the piece played out, as it were, in widescreen. His coupling is intriguing, too – a studio recording (1973), new to Tennstedt’s discography, of Martin≤’s Fourth Symphony. But in this instance I have to say that the spirit of the piece is more omnipresent than the letter of the score. Tennstedt’s highly strung nature plainly chimes with the fierce contrasts implicit in this post-war mix of melancholia and euphoria but the Stuttgart Radio Symphony Orchestra feels its way a bit and the engineers haven’t really sorted the inner workings of Martin≤’s busy, whirring textures. Clarity is compromised, rhythms unsure, awkward – it’s all a bit messy. But Tennstedt’s inner light shines through the mysterious Largo and that for some will be the heart of the matter. Tennstedt collectors will want it.

Dausgaard meanwhile makes capital of his more modest forces, very charmingly adding an orchestral selection of Brahms’s Liebeslieder-Walzer in performances which emphasise both their salon demeanour and their origins in piano-accompanied Lied. Persuasive, coquettish, wistful by turns. The more demonstrative swagger of three Hungarian Dances serves as his pay-off.