Whatever else might be said about this set (and I rather suspect that a good deal will be said), no one could accuse Daniel Barenboim of pandering to current fashion. Call it 'reactionary romanticism', 'subjective bias', or whatever, this is the Beethoven of our forefathers - momentous, malleable, candidly expressive and in diametric interpretative opposition to the sleek, weight-conscious and historically informed approach favoured by many of Barenboim's peers. Those with a taste for vintage records will inevitably refer back to Wilhelm Furtwangler, a sure influence on Barenboim (who, as a child, received encouragement from the great conductor) and a towering interpreter of The Nine. But to call these readings merely imitative would be to misrepresent them; for while Barenboim has clearly taken certain Furtwanglerian influences on board (more of those later), he also has ideas of his own.
Some aspects of historic performances cannot be gleaned from old mono recordings. Orchestral layout, for one - and I was delighted to note that Barenboim divides his violin desks to the left and right of the rostrum. This makes for greater clarity and a degree of antiphonal interplay that is as crucial to musical argument as the notes themselves. We know that the period-instrument teams have already set a precedent in this respect, but gut strings tend to project less vividly than steel, so the effect (as recorded) is occasionally compromised.
Most repeats are played (Furtwangler was habitually stingy with first-movement repeats in Beethoven), though not the optional da capo in the Scherzo of the Fifth Symphony. The issue of dynamics is interesting in that Barenboim adds some of his own at, for instance, 1'59'' into the first movement of the First Symphony, where he effects a subtle but sudden dip in volume. There are many similar instances of tweaked dynamics, though in general this is not a cycle for those listeners who like to spot musical details they had never noticed before. Barenboim is notable more for his sweeping gesture than for any preoccupation with textual minutiae. As to choices of tempo, it seems clear that, for Barenboim, musical argument, modulation (especially in key transitional passages), line and mood are more suggestive of an appropriate tempo than Beethoven's metronome markings.
So much for interpretative principles. But do Barenboim's methods actually work? The inevitable answer - I say inevitable because subjective performances tend to inspire equally subjective reactions - is that they do ... sometimes. Tradition of sorts establishes itself right from the sonorous first bar of the First Symphony. The recorded sound is nicely rounded; there's a perspicacious relaxing of tempo at 2'33'' (bar 77), good middle movements and an excited bustle of second violins and violas in the finale's Allegro. It's a powerfully voiced reading, rich in texture but lacking in wit.
The Second Symphony opens imposingly, more a parallel of the Heiligenstadt Testament than an outsize throwback to Haydn. Note the warmth of the cellos and basses under violin triplets at 2'08'' into the Adagio molto introduction, and the gutsy fortissimo staccato strings at 3'32'' into the main Allegro. Barenboim favours strong bass lines (8'05'') but is also capable of cueing a sudden pianissimo, as at that marvellous moment when the violins curve back into the recapitulation (9'18''). The Larghetto parades prominent inner string choirs, and the crisply animated Minuet incorporates a properly accented Trio.
Barenboim shapes the Eroica with imagination and a considerable degree of leeway in tempo. The leisurely (19'10'') first movement is exceptional. I would single out in particular how the strings respond to the woodwinds for the second subject (5'18'') and the hushed transition into the development section (6'51''). There's also an unmarked dip in dynamics at 18'33'', designed (I presume) to accentuate the drama that follows. The Marcia funebre generates considerable visceral force, especially at 7'08'', where thundering timpani are tailed by a dramatic silence and the return to the opening theme. The Marcia's coda (from 14'36'') is especially beautiful, and the horns in the Scherzo's trio are among the best on disc.
But is Barenboim's Eroica a truly great performance? And if it isn't, but exhibits all the stylistic hallmarks of a great forebear, what then is missing? To attempt some sort of answer I would suggest playing a three-minute slice of the Marcia - say, from 2'56'' to 5'59'' (bars 36 to 102) - then turning to Furtwangler's December 1944 Vienna broadcast of the same passage (2'50'' to 5'54''). The difference is not so much in the actual timings (which, as you can see, match virtually to the second) but in Furtwangler's perfectly modulated, breathing rubato, the way he senses, along with his players, precisely where to apply the pressure and where to let go. Even the tiniest pauses, or gaps in the musical line, don't actually sound like pauses, but rather, approximate a sort of 'silent' music. It is an ecstatically controlled continuum borne of an instinctual gift, one that Barenboim doesn't quite match - though if you listen to his recording on its own terms, without recourse to memory or comparison, you'll have no cause whatever for complaint.
Time and again Barenboim and his engineers make a play for Beethoven's low horn writing - at 0'58'' into the Fourth Symphony's opening Adagio, for example, where clarity in that department is crucial. Barenboim's Fourth is, like Furtwangler's, big on sonority and dynamic contrasts. Both conductors extend the note value of the appoggiatura at 7'47'' into the opening movement (first on strings, then on woodwinds). My main reservation here is with the first movement's quiet development section (from 8'39''), where both Furtwangler and Barenboim cue a dramatic (but unmarked) reduction in tempo. Furtwangler's reading (I'm thinking of his wartime broadcast, quoted above) is so consistently intense - the contrast between eerie darkness and blinding light so unforgettable - that the gesture actually works. In Barenboim's hands, however, the same idea sounds arch and contrived, serving merely to impede the music's onward flow.
The Fifth opens to an emphatically stated Allegro, the familiar ring of fate made monumental, as of old. At 10'00'' into the Andante con moto, timpani sforzandos become crescendos, and the triumphant finale's return (as a repeat) is resplendent. The momentum holds sway for a while, but as we journey further, the energy level seems to flag. By contrast, the Pastoral's opening movement, though relaxed, is rhythmically bracing (listen to those dramatically descending cellos and basses at 8'49'') while the well-paced 'Scene by the Brook' incorporates a memorably tender central episode (from 6'44''). Barenboim's skill at negotiating transitions is on target when the Storm bridges over to the finale (with its expressive violin decorations - at 4'14''), and the reading as a whole can perhaps be viewed as the most successful in the set.
Those ascending staccato string demisemi- quavers that dominate the Seventh Symphony's poco sostenuto opening (taken fairly broadly) display impressive textural fibre, but the ensuing Vivace hammers rather than dances. As with the Second Symphony, Barenboim brings a mellow glow to the inner string parts of the second movement while the echoes and manufactured perspectives that dominate the Scherzo deliver their full measure of humour. The finale starts out as if it would rather not have bothered, but the second set picks up in enthusiasm and the closing moments go with a swing. The Eighth Symphony enjoys nicely characterised middle movements, but the first movement is a mite brusque and the fast finale sounds ill-focused.
So to the Ninth which, like the Third and Fourth, owes much to Furtwangler's example. The opening second-violin figurations side-step an obvious pulse in favour of a Brucknerian tremolando effect (which makes nonsense of their dramatic return at around 7'55''). The initial tempo is tortuously slow, but if you stay with it for the next 20 bars or so, you'll hear it gradually pick up. That more or less sets the style for the rest of the movement: in other words quiet means slower, louder means faster. True, there are some striking moments: the rage enacted by brass and timpani at 9'40''; the intense dialogue between first and second violins at 12'23'' (after the central eruption), and, for the coda, the way brass and woodwinds lament over a shivering backdrop of low strings (at 16'20''). The Scherzo and Adagio are effective throughout; the finale's opening bass/cello recitatives are rather weak, and there are some extreme tempos later on; the excellent soloists include two rather baritonal males. I am not especially convinced, whereas I was convinced (relatively speaking) by the Second, Third and Sixth Symphonies.
Having already taken up more than my quota of space, I cannot enter into detailed comparisons with other versions. What I will say is that each of the digital cycles listed above offers a more consistent interpretative picture than this latest release (Wand, Harnoncourt, Gielen and Zinman would be my own first choices and Maag should please those who crave a Furtwanglerian interpretative axis). But Barenboim still has much to communicate: indeed, he honours a noble interpretative tradition that is a vital part of our musical past. He constantly reminds me of various older performances that I still cherish, though he never quite manages to improve on them.'