The success of any Toscanini broadcast series depends largely on the quality of available source material, and on that count alone, Naxos’s enterprise seems notably superior to most that have preceded it (certainly preferable to those dim old ‘Toscanini Society’ LPs). I had initially balked at the prospect of ‘complete concerts’, preferring one-composer programmes or at least ‘themed’ sequences knitted together by a common musical thread. That same objection registered again for these latest releases, especially with reference to the 1941 concert where disc 1 (46'51'') features significant Wagner and Schumann, while disc 2 (42'21'') is given over to works by Martucci and Tommasini that not everyone will want. Still, the performances are quite something and, as on previous CDs in the same series, there are real gems on offer.
Martucci’s lyrical La canzone dei ricordi (or ‘The Song of Remembrance’) was orchestrated by the composer in 1900 and is vaguely reminiscent of Debussy’s La damoiselle elue (composed two years earlier). Bruna Castagna’s seamless mezzo is well employed, and so are the tender-toned NBC strings. Debussy’s muse also haunts Tommasini’s colourful Carnival of Venice Variations where Toscanini’s characteristic interpretative priorities are textural clarity, singing lines and driving rhythms. Neither work strikes me as especially memorable, but if pressed to choose one or the other, I’d probably opt for the Martucci. Both sound adequate, though the opening bars of La canzone are prone to crumble.
Now down to business. Of the three Toscanini recordings of Wagner’s Faust Overture that I’ve heard so far, this 1941 air-check would earn the highest rating. The tension of the opening pages, the swelling Brucknerian curve of the broadened principal theme and the finely tensed delivery of the main argument, all are exceptional. So is the playing, though it’s not as demonstrably spectacular as the second movement of Schumann’s Second Symphony. Aside from staccato-style phrasing at great speed, the switch between the main motive and two successive trios witnesses a degree of dynamic elasticity that any soloist would view as a severe challenge. Here, the entire band swings from one episode to the next like a single player. It’s simply stunning.
The first movement is again visited by dynamic extremes, though Schumann’s architecture is never compromised. The Adagio espressivo responds to Toscanini’s penchant for long-breathed, singing lines (not inappropriately, given Schumann’s songful muse) and the finale is made flexible by tiny adjustments in tempo that are also evident in the better-known (and marginally clearer) NBC/Toscanini broadcast of 1946. There, as here, tempos are generally swift (very similar in fact), but the string playing is less well drilled and inflections far less dramatic. In a word, the 1941 performance is tighter.
Turning to the 1940 concert, Schubert’s Second is again up against a Toscanini rival, from 1938 this time. But while the 1946 Schumann Second does at least have a spot of extra clarity on its side, the 1938 Schubert Two (the two performances are usefully coupled together on Dell’Arte) sounds bad-tempered and relentless virtually for the duration. ‘Toscanini makes a man of the boy,’ as a friend put it to me many years ago, inappropriately I thought – until I heard this less well-known 1940 alternative. Two years later, Toscanini let the air in – and he also encouraged his players to sing. True, the mood is still high-octane and speeds are pretty nifty (a pitch rise in the second movement further intensifies a sense of haste). But those who know only the earlier broadcast will note how this second version accommodates added perspectives, as well as extra flexibility and countless tiny crescendos that were barely hinted at before. It’s a far more musical reading, better balanced as sound though not as viscerally ‘immediate’ as its predecessor.
The Parsifal selection is fascinating, though the ‘acid top’ that grated on my old Music & Arts LPs is still sometimes in evidence. Generally, though, the sound is improved and the performances are, for the most part, extraordinarily gripping. I except the Prelude, which Toscanini played with greater intensity on other occasions, though here the closing pages are beautifully sustained. Naxos advises us that, in addition to the Prelude and Good Friday Music, we should expect 24 minutes’ worth of Klingsor’s Garden. Not so. The general intention seems to have been to counter the static aura of the previous excerpts with a healthy quota of music drama. What we actually hear is the Prelude to Act 2, followed by the Third Act Prelude, the animated lead-up to Klingsor’s Magic Garden, the Garden itself and then an orchestrated version of the opera’s serene closing pages. Why Toscanini didn’t insert the Good Friday Music between the Klingsor’s Garden and the finale is anyone’s guess, but as a makeshift ‘synthesis’ it works well, and most of the playing is fabulous. It offers a tantalising glimpse of what Toscanini’s Parsifal might have sounded like in the theatre, though tempos are rather faster than we have been led to expect.'