Here are three Eroicas, each of which confounds critical cliches about its respective conductor. Furtwangler’s 1944 recording is swifter than you might imagine, certainly in the first movement; Knappertsbusch’s 1953 Munich broadcast is often wilful though disarmingly understated, and Toscanini’s 1939 radio broadcast, although forceful in the extreme, is also among the most songful, most flexibly phrased interpretations on disc.
Both the Furtwangler and Toscanini performances lay claim to being the best of various alternatives under the same conductors, and both have been reissued many times before; but while Naxos’s transfer is only moderately successful, Tahra’s is among the finest we have had. RCA reissued the same Toscanini recording as part of their feted Toscanini Collection in better-focused sound, and there are various unofficial transfers – both on CD and LP – that run this rather rough-edged Naxos transfer pretty close.
Furtwangler’s first movement is distinguished above all by warmly arched string phrasing. The second subject slows less perceptibly than in Toscanini’s performance, mainly because – as usual with Furtwangler – tempo fluctuation is in any case par for the course. Note how the cellos play out just prior to the great central conflict (at 5'04'', bar 232), and how the retreating crotchets that mark the close of the principal climax slink away, as if exhausted (6'12''). Toscanini keeps the same passage very much in tempo (5'31'') and while his handling of the coda is intense almost to the point of self-combustion (I’m reminded of Jung’s aphorism ‘Only that which can destroy itself is truly alive’), Furtwangler draws greater attention to the crescendoing repeated string figures that lead up to it (bar 338, 7'36'').
Both conductors make a humbling statement of the Marcia funebre, Furtwangler’s being broadly paced and loose-jointed, with mellow lower strings and impressive weight of tone, while Toscanini is anxious, candid and desperately expressive. Furtwangler slows the closing bars so dramatically that the fragmented theme all but disintegrates. Toscanini, on the other hand, holds fast to the lyrical line, and the effect is hardly less devastating. Like Furtwangler, he favours marked flexibility of pulse – especially at 9'26'' (bar 150) and, again, at 10'39'', just before the principal theme returns.
Toscanini’s Scherzo is fleet and furious, whereas Furtwangler’s gentler manner breaks the Marcia’s spell like a lone dove fluttering against a stormy sky. Some might balk at how Furtwangler’s Trio broadens before the outer section returns (marvellous horns, incidentally), but Beethoven’s questioning modulations somehow justify the approach.
In his perceptive analysis for the Furtwangler CD, Harry Halbreich reminds us that Furtwangler had two fundamental speeds: a metrical tempo ‘applied to the rhythmical sequences’ and a melodic tempo for the lyrical passages. Generally speaking, Toscanini preferred to inflect the lyrical line rather than bend the tempo, and yet on occasion he too broadens the pace as an expressive ploy. Both finales work well, though Toscanini ‘holds the plot’ with a firmer grip.
Which leaves good old Hans Knappertsbusch, or ‘Kna’ as he was sometimes known, with his amiable gait, unmarked string accents, tweaked dynamics and revised timpani part (at bar 139, or 8'25'', into the Marcia, where he instigates a crescendoing roll). The sound is comfortable but muddy and a sudden volley of coughs greets the first movement’s development section; but there are also some lovely moments, such as the warmly converging string lines 4'59'' into the Marcia and the rocking clarinet triplets 8'20'' into the finale. Like Furtwangler, Knappertsbusch tends to bend the line, though his shifts of tempo – mostly in the second movement – are less thoughtfully negotiated. Heard in concert, his performance may well have proved a deeply satisfying experience, but on disc it will only really appeal to Knappertsbusch fans or students of historic recordings.
The final reckoning finds me equally well disposed towards both Toscanini and Furtwangler, although not everyone will want Toscanini’s hard-driven account of Beethoven’s First Symphony (so much less satisfying than his two studio recordings), let alone the ephemeral spoken commentaries that surround it. Still, in the Eroica, both conductors offer a singular musical experience: gripping, inspired and always worth the effort needed to ‘listen through’ old sound. The further we journey from these venerable old masters, the more we treasure their individuality and commitment. True, opposing camps will lock horns over who best realizes the composer’s intentions (as if we could ever know), but those listeners sensible enough to keep an open mind on the matter cannot fail to perceive that both routes lead to the same life-enhancing destination. Which is surely what great music-making is all about.'