''Under-heralded, under-sung, under-appreciated except by those who knew'' runs Leon Fleischer's tribute, one of many, in the booklet of this important box. It is more true now than ever, which is why this set is important. These days, when the merits of our century's podium giants are considered, whether in print, on television or radio, Monteux is often ignored.
Legendary status for a great conductor is usually clinched by long-term directorship of one of the world's recognized great orchestras (and especially by having one created for you), and certainly Monteux needed this earlier than the 1961 contract with the LSO which guaranteed the Maitre, then in his mid-eighties, 25 years of exclusive rule (with an option to renew!). Perhaps he realized this himself as he reminisced to his third wife (the 'Eroica', as he called her) in It's All in the Music (New York: 1965) with pride but uncharacteristic bitterness about his first Boston years: the years 1919 to 1924 when he restored the orchestra to its former glory, and a post he was compelled to leave before he could enjoy the fruits of his labours. He would not return to Boston for a further 26 years, and only then at Munch's prompting and as his guest (the Boston recordings in the set, many in stereo, all date from this reacquaintance). Instead, he left in 1924 to conduct in Amsterdam and Paris, and returned to America in 1935 to rebuild the orchestra in San Francisco.
Inevitably, as the majority of these RCA Victor recordings were made during Monteux's 17-year tenure in San Francisco, you may wonder how to interpret the claims of colleagues at the time that Monteux had achieved marvels there. Be not anxious: the only San Francisco recording here that reveals the orchestra as seriously less than world-class is the Tod und Verklarung which Monteux recorded in 1960 as a guest, eight years after his directorship there had ceased. For the rest, what this playing lacks in ultimate refinement of tone, it more than makes up for with unfailing responsiveness to its conductor's priorities; and as the conductor is Monteux, that means a lot. There is not one single routinely played or badly balanced bar of music, though tolerance may be needed for unexpected gremlins in the machinery (moments of distortion and congestion) in the pre-tape San Francisco recordings (i.e. about a third of the set).
As Monteux was the conductor of the most (in)famous premiere this century, Stravinsky's Rite, and its subsequent champion, you might expect these two restored recordings of the work (he recorded it four times) to shine more brightly than they do. His pioneering 1929 recording (now on Pearl, 2/92), made with the newly formed Orchestre Symphonique de Paris, is an exciting mix of interpretative daring, and of challenges, both superbly met and spectacularly flunked. In these 1951 RCA/Boston and 1956 Decca/Paris Conservatoire recordings, there is better co-ordination in the danger spots, but not today's familiar precision of ensemble, and they both often sound casual next to Stravinsky's own 1960 account (Sony Classical, 7/91). Ensemble is generally tighter in Boston but there are moments of untypical laxity and coarseness (bellowing tubas that blot out detail in the ''Procession of the Sage''). The less heavyweight Paris Conservatoire reading (in stereo) shares much with the 1960 Stravinsky: not as incisive but quite as revealing of the score's no less revolutionary intimate secrets, in other words, for the connoisseur, more rewarding than the endless list of modern recordings that turn the work into a percussion concerto. But Monteux in Paris is simply not his usual self in Part 2; by his own standards it is routine, until the ''Danse Sacrale'' with a return (at fig. 186, 16'10'') to the plucked strings of his first Paris recording, and a final injection of vigour.
A stereo Petrushka (the 1911 score without the optional scene-linking drum) is the coupling on both discs here. RCA/Boston offer a better balance between strings and woodwind, a sharper focus for percussion and more space around the sound. The Decca/Paris strings are closer than the woodwind, and the string detail that emerges, particularly given Monteux's separated violin desks, is never less than extraordinary. Throughout both accounts' Fair scenes, the characterization is earthy without ever being clumsy, and Petrushka himself is pathos in person. He does have the last laugh, though, and Monteux makes sure than the ghost's cries mock as well as menace. Again, if you are looking for the general whipcrack impact of many a modern version, you will be disappointed, though there are numerous instances where Monteux knows and shows how to articulate a difficult figure or a whole passage (for example, the final chase and death of Petrushka) with greater precision than in the average showpiece account. It is also worth mentioning, in view of Stravinsky's praise for Monteux's selfless way with his music, that Monteux made the occasional tiny alteration to the score, for instance in the Allegretto of the Moor and the Ballerina's waltz: in Boston he delays the entry of the cymbals for nine bars (but not in Paris), and in Paris he has his flutes play minims not crotchets for the third note of their falling phrase (but not in Boston). Over 40 years on from his first acquaintance with the score, and he was still exploring new and effective ways of presentation. ''My Petrushka'' he called it. We have every reason to treasure either of these mementos of that benevolent guardianship. The Paris recording is a further memento of Julius Katchen's dazzling but discerning pianism, and French winds of the period.
Stravinsky also praised Monteux's 1950 San Francisco Beethoven Eighth. No wonder. Here is the jester in the Age of Elegance; and Monteux has the measure of both. Here too, in the first movement, is the dynamism and splendour (if not the dolce) that the VPO in a later Decca recording (1/62—nla) seemed unwilling to give him, and many small modifications of tempo and dynamics that have a genuine on-the-spur-of-the-moment feel. I must also mention the energizing spring to the opening figure of the Minuet, and the completely unbuttoned but never unruly finale. Much the same could be said of his airborne 1952 Beethoven Fourth. It is strong without heaviness or overemphasis; and that, to oversimplify, is the secret of Monteux's success in the Austro-German repertoire; the repertoire he loved more than any other, but which the public, or to be more precise, those that chose what the public should receive, decided was not his forte. There is a marginally finer later stereo LSO Beethoven Fourth (12/65) which Decca should restore; in fact Decca have an almost complete stereo LSO/VPO Monteux Beethoven cycle (no Ninth) in their archives (only the Seventh is available), including a never issued VPO Third Symphony [all to be reissued next month—Ed].
All credit to RCA for the courage to release this previously unissued 1947 San Francisco Heldenleben; as well as the wisdom to record it in the first place. I imagine that one of the reasons for the half-century delay in its appearance is the sound-quality, which is generally less clean than RCA's 1928 New York/Mengelberg (though that was exceptional for the period). Monteux shared the podium of Amsterdam's Concertgebouw Orchestra with Mengelberg from 1924 for ten years, before he left for San Francisco. They also shared the Strauss. Their two recordings do have features in common: to name just one, their refusal to wallow in the 'love scene'—like so much else here, how often do you hear this passage sounding so alive? And Monteux's mastery of orchestral balance survives the sound; more than that, he can again be heard making tiny adjustments to aid clarity and character, like the delaying for a beat of the solo violin's upward run (three after fig. 30, track 3, 4'40'') as tempers flare before the 'love scene': normally a run that is lost under brass. Monteux's hero initially struck me as man-about-town to Mengelberg's conqueror, but as this performance—and it really is a performance—develops, passage after passage of glorious conducting (and playing), not least the moment of recapitulation, guaranteed goose pimples despite the sweltering hot July day of my listening session. This is a unique and revelatory Heldenleben.
Monteux recorded the Brahms Second Symphony four times, and the first two were made in San Francisco. The box includes his first (1945) recording (not the 1951 account as stated in the booklet), and it has all the joie de vivre and superb string detailing that you would expect from a Monteux performance, but the extent of which always takes you by surprise. Another surprise is the tensely blazing first movement development. Don't be put off by the constricted sound, or the lack of a proper sotto voce at the start of the finale; most Brahms Seconds sound hopelessly retentive after this. Monteux's Song of Destiny (sung in English) moves swiftly through the Elysian Fields, without lack of repose, to storm-tossed suffering humanity. I suspect that it is the dry sound of the 1950 San Francisco Kindertotenlieder that accounts for lack of repose at the end of the fifth song, rather than Monteux's generally impulsive (to some ears impatient) way in this, his only Mahler recording. They are worth hearing for Monteux's and Marian Anderson's acute insight into their musical and dramatic needs, if not what we might think of today as their Mahlerian ones. Fluffs and woodwind intonation are more than usually troubling here.
Monteux would often allow fluffs to pass if the spirit was there, even if there was an imprecision in the second bar, as there is in this 1945 Berlioz Symphonie fantastique. The sound, and again the woodwind intonation, in this, the second of his five recordings of the work, can be uncomfortable, next to his last, otherwise drab Vienna recording. But it is a properly volatile reading: one that lives close to the edge. The playing in an excitable and sharp-featured Waltz (with superbly managed rits.) may perhaps strike you as often too loud, but Monteux will then suddenly surprise you with a brilliantly placed hush. This was a real Monteux speciality—establishing a mean of quiet that was practical for projecting clarity (especially for gramophone listeners) and to allow players to phrase properly, and then to select the right moment to drop from it. Another was the use of timbre, not dynamics, to create atmosphere, for instance the loudish, but distinctively muted snarl from the horns at the start of the March. And was there ever a more accomplished architect of the climactic paragraph? The accomplishment is that you are rarely aware of the mechanics of the operation. To analyse how he does it would probably take a week-long conductors' symposium, so I'll settle for a shorthand guess and call it an inspired mix of planning and spontaneity. The Witches' Sabbath abounds in examples, as do the Boston Liszt Les preludes and Scriabin Poem of Ecstasy.
Sadly, there are no recordings here with Monteux as concerto collaborator (Decca have most of those), as this all too brief Saint-Saens Havanaise is an example of bonding between soloist and conductor which, given the freedom of the music-making, is rare. We do have the d'Indy Symphonie sur un chant montagnard francais, with Monteux and pianist Maxim Shapiro achieving, particularly in the first movement, a poised elegance that eluded Munch, and which the 1941 sound cannot dim. In fact, the set contains all Monteux's d'Indy recordings. A good decision; d'Indy needs his champion's recordings returned to circulation as a new generation of French conductors take up the cause. Monteux was certainly the man to give life to d'Indy's ambitious essay in theme transformation—the Second Symphony. (The short but hypnotic Fervaal Prelude, in this transfer, is in F; it should be in F sharp.)
If the record moguls and opera impresarios of the time were unwilling to allow Monteux to indulge his passion for Wagner, he undoubtedly found a ready outlet in d'Indy, Franck and Chausson (and Lalo's Le roi d'Ys Overture). His celebrated 1961 Chicago Franck Symphony must be in the collection of anyone who loves the work, and here is a marginally smoother transfer than the still available one on RCA Papillon (3/89), with one or two edits/dropouts newly attended to. I had not heard Monteux's 1950 San Francisco Chausson Symphony before, and was worried that it would not compare with the 1962 Boston/Munch. As sound, it doesn't (though Monteux's own balance is actually more revealing). Nor are the San Francisco brass especially noble at the start of the finale's coda. In all other respects, this is the finest performance of the symphony I have heard, or expect to hear: the tempo relationships in the first movement are judged to perfection, climaxes throughout are of blistering intensity, and in the furious horseback flight of the finale the whole orchestra is on fire … purple prose, I know, but if ever a recording warranted it, this one does. It also sees off the claim, as do the last minutes of his San Francisco Ravel La valse and Ibert Escales, that Monteux would never electrify an orchestra in the manner of a Toscanini, Koussevitzky or Stokowski. Gladys Swarthout's pure tone and precise enunciation in the Chausson Poeme de l'amour et de la mer are a pleasure; her slightly dispassionate manner leaves Monteux's orchestra to work the narrative miracles. After this the Chabrier ''Fete polonaise'' from Le roi malgre lui lightens the mood: not even Paray is as uproariously festive, and the timing of the main theme is a joy.
Monteux's Delibes and Gounod ballet suites are stylish, but also vital and strong. Typically, tempos here and in his Rimsky-Korsakov, are swift but fluid. There are references in the accompanying booklets to his knack of finding Le tempo juste, and time and again a phrase of Christoph von Dohnanyi's came to mind: ''when the music is on its feet, it does the right thing''. Music on its feet was, of course, the making of Monteux, but well before the Diaghilev connection, the teenage Monteux had played second violin in the Folies Bergeres. Years later Gershwin complimented him on his marvellous rhythmic sense, and Monteux cited his Folies experience as the training for it. This rhythmic sense … the spirit of the dance (call it what you will) permeated everything Monteux conducted, especially his Ravel, as it did virtually everything Ravel wrote. In parts of the Valses nobles, for example, Monteux insists on clearly demarcated phrase groupings. He is not generally fanatical about this but, as historically informed performance has certainly made clear in recent years, these phrase groupings are invariably there to enhance or elaborate rhythm. Another reason to value these earlier San Francisco recordings of the Ravel La valse and Daphnis Suite (and Rimsky Scheherazade) alongside the later LSO stereo remakes is their consistently bolder dramatic thrust. The sound is often very crude by comparison and the LSO solos are a class apart, but the exquisite refinements Monteux wrought from the LSO in his last years were, on balance, accompanied by a more relaxed, more exploratory manner of music-making.
Monteux's LSO Debussy Images is a particular case in point (Philips are to reissue this and his other LSO and Concertgebouw recordings in the coming months). Tempos in 1951 San Francisco are consistently faster, ensemble marginally tighter (percussion apart). Monteux here really pushes forward to the 'recapitulation' in the first movement of ''Iberia'' (and adds two extra bars of castanets!). There is less colour and expression from the strings in ''Les parfums de la nuit'', though still much mesmerizing moulding of phrase. The strings imitating guitars in the San Francisco ''Holiday morning'' are wonderful (pizzicatos are another real Monteux speciality) and this movement is more its usual bustling, festive self. The Boston Debussy La mer and Nocturnes—1954 and 1955 respectively, the latter in stereo, but with a drop in level for ''Fetes'', not beyond the transfer engineers to rectify, I should have thought—are among the finest on disc. Suffice it to say that Monteux understood that Debussy knew exactly what he wanted. This La mer is an all too rare case of the conductor working with the composer, not imagining he knows better.
It is worth pointing out that the earliest recording in this set was made when Monteux was 66 years young, and that when he came to record Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony in Boston in 1955—the Fourth and Sixth followed a few years later—he would, in a few months, have turned 80. It is abundantly clear that Monteux really knows his way around these symphonies, and that he still enjoys every second of the journey and that experience is always matched by energy—Herb Caen, in the booklet, relates that in 1950, on their return journey from an exhausting European tour, the 50-ish Doris Monteux had said ''I'm too old for all this traipsing around''. ''Eet's funny you should say that,'' replied the then 75-year-old Monteux. ''I was just zinking zat I ought to get myself a youngaire wife!'' … well, I had to work in that story somehow. But it is also abundantly clear from this set that Monteux's personality works its way into all his music-making. In the Tchaikovsky Fourth's slow movement, the second leg of the opening theme is almost jovial ('come on chaps, enough of this melancholy!'), and the central piu mosso deliriously spirited. And if the accenting of the bass line from 0'24'' in the following Scherzo doesn't raise a smile, I don't know what will (Monteux's divided fiddles also make their mark here). Yet Monteux does not flinch from delivering Fate at full force, or from whipping up a storm (and the tempo) in the first movement's development. There is also some canny, but quite unmannered, treatment of Tchaikovsky's repetitions.
Again, in the Pathetique, the Waltz trips along almost without a care in the world, but that 'almost' is enough; the Scherzo/March has a real spring in its step and doesn't crush you under sheer weight of sound, and the first movement's second subject is not a case of 'look how beautiful I can make this' but 'look how beautiful this is!'. The sudden, almost reckless, urging during the second subject in the recapitulation is an example of yet another Monteux speciality (Munch would do this too): one of challenging the players and keeping the performance alive. The finale has you hanging on to every note (so much so that if you listen at a high level, you may notice that the dying away of the symphony's final note is cut short: RCA have promised to address this). The Fifth Symphony is, perhaps, less distinctive, though never less than distinguished. If I can think of nothing more remarkable to say than, in the finale, the players are obviously enjoying themselves, isn't that remarkable enough? All three symphonies are in RCA Victor's finest early stereo.
So, if you don't know, here is a chance to find out what ''those who knew'' knew. And if you already know, you shouldn't need any further prompting from me. And no one knew more than Monteux—about conducting and how to make a huge range of music live. I can confidently state that no matter how often you investigate these recordings, there will always be more to find. ''It's All in the Music'' … in this case, over 16 hours of it. '