The prospect of a 36-minute first movement for the Ninth (Klemperer’s is 28'18") did not bode well on this final instalment of Lorin Maazel’s new Mahler cycle. Even taking into account a powerfully distended first climax, Maazel’s last recorded traversal does indeed have trouble holding things together. Beam up 14'40" and the effect is like a battered, blood-gorged whale netted perilously close to death, pitifully exposed and struggling. Caught on the verge of collapse, Mahler’s loudly raging gestures seem tragically emasculated. True, the penultimate climax, with its roaring declamation of the movement’s opening motif, is imposing – here the slow tempo makes a point of sorts – but the ultimate judgement has to be a regretful rejection of excessive distortion. The second movement lets in more sunlight and a rustic element of the Ländler with it (I’m again reminded of Klemperer’s New Philharmonia recording) but the ‘Rondo-Burleske’ lacks a crucial element of terror. As for the closing Adagio, the first few minutes are beautifully drawn, with warm, luminous playing from the Philharmonia strings, but it’s not enough to redeem what is in essence a woefully exaggerated reading. Years ago Maazel’s Vienna Philharmonic Ninth (Sony, 12/85) came in for some stick, but this new version just about takes the biscuit.

The 1984 Vienna Philharmonic Seventh (also on Sony, 6/86) was a highlight of Maazel’s previous Mahler cycle and although this 2011 remake is similarly sardonic and, at times, hedonistic (in the first movement’s sunnier moments), it too wants for spontaneity. The opening lurches forwards as if under duress – you can almost smell the sweat – the tempo painfully slow, and once into the Allegro con fuoco Mahler’s bold resolve has a job establishing itself. The expected sense of yearning a little later on arrives at a premium; and although the mood does eventually lighten, the sum effect is frankly glum. The first ‘Nachtmusik’ is rather better, with beautifully balanced sound (especially between brass, strings and timps) and an implied half-smile that suits the music, though the playing at 3'02" momentarily sounds confused. The Vienna strings are more yielding throughout (the violins especially) but Maazel chooses his tempi well and the effect is at least consistent. The verdant middle section, with its bird-like woodwinds, earthy climax and what I always think of as a Mahlerian ‘tango’ is especially good. Then again the mischievous Scherzo is oddly inhibited, quite deadpan in comparison with, say, Kubelík in Munich (either on DG or Audite) or Bernstein (Sony or DG). The second ‘Nachtmusik’ is, like its sibling at the near side of the Scherzo, restrained and gently playful; but when the ragbag finale thunders in, all comes right for a performance where weight of utterance at last seems called for, various musical side-glances make their effect and the closing bars are imposing. Not a great Seventh, and certainly no match for its VPO/Maazel predecessor, but pretty good, especially in the context of the rest of the Philharmonia cycle.

Maazel’s Vienna Eighth dates from 1986 and is in general to be preferred to this worthy newcomer. Here the best singers are the sopranos Sally Matthews and Ailish Tynan, while tenor Stefan Vinke, although sounding fully engaged, tends to strain. The opening of ‘Veni, Creator Spiritus’ packs a fair wallop but surely the ‘Imple superna gratia’ that follows is too slow. Temperature levels vary (try the somnambulant opening of ‘Accede lumen’, which does pick up in energy), and although the initial reprise of ‘Veni, Creator’ is exciting, it’s not enough to shift the critical balance away from Tennstedt live (LPO), Bernstein with the LSO (Sony), or Abbado in Berlin (DG). Part 2’s 12-minute orchestral opening is the performance’s high point – here Maazel fixes the atmosphere with some of his old magic – and baritone Mark Stone delivers his Pater Ecstaticus solo with much feeling. There are delicate moments and the closing ‘Alles Vergängliche’ is impressive. But moving, humbling, uplifting? Not really. Most of what we hear sounds like a dutiful night’s work (all these performances were recorded live at the Royal Festival Hall). The notes are securely in place but not their reason for being there. Tepid might seem like a cruel word to use, especially for a performance of this of all symphonies, but it’s not too far from the truth. At least there’s no applause to put up with.

So a bit of a disappointment, given that the previous two volumes of this cycle had so many good points. Vol 1 (3/14) is, I would say, the one to go for, but in other respects, thinking in terms of Nos 1 9, Kubelík, Haitink (Philips), Gielen (Hänssler), Abbado and Zinman (RCA) would be my first ports of call, with Bernstein (Sony) as an enticing supplement. This set is mainly valuable for those who attended the Southbank concerts. Maybe the more controversial performances came across more compellingly live than they do on disc.