There is a sense of occasion about this recording of the Ninth Symphony generated not by musicological probings or contingent political events but by the music itself and by the broad and deep perspectives of a conductor for whom it is clearly an abiding passion. Indeed, it is interesting that one has to go pre-1970, or earlier— Furtwangler at Bayreuth in 1951 or Klemperer in 1958, both on EMI—to find relevant comparisons for the new Giulini.
Some will say the world has moved on since then and that expressing regard for Giulini's approach to the Ninth is rather like wanting to hear the scriptures read in the Authorized Version or Matins sung to the text of 1662. But in music as well as theology both sides have a point. Beautiful as the Authorized Version is there is little doubt that it renders much of St Paul unintelligible; and it will be argued equally strongly that what Giulini does with the Ninth occasionally flies in the face of musical sense as it is embodied in such things as metronome marks, contemporary manuals on string playing, theories of tutti reinforcement, and so on. On the other hand, there is no fail-safe way with the Ninth and even the best laid schemes of mice and men ''gang aft a-gley'', as Burns asserts, and as Norrington proves in his sometimes wayward reading of the finale on EMI. The fact that there is nothing radically amiss with Giulini's Ninth owes everything to its inner consistency, to its powerfully sustained sense of purpose. He remains, from first to last, his own man. In the booklet accompanying his earlier recording of the Ninth (EMI, 2/73—nla) he made the point: ''In Beethoven there is a common denominator which holds good for all times and all people: the human denominator''. And, certainly, Giulini's is as human, and humane, a reading of the Ninth as any we have had since the demise of men like Klemperer, Furtwangler, and Bruno Walter.
The 1972 recording was a very grand affair, right down to the heavy red cardboard slipcase; as for the performance, it was noticeably spacious even then, aided by some trenchant playing from the LSO and sturdy choral work from Arthur Oldham's LSO Chorus. The new recording was made in Berlin's Philharmonie in February 1989 (i-iii) and February 1990 (iv). It is similar in purpose and outline but the effect is one of even greater power and commitment. Overall, it is a slower performance, though the first movement is actually quicker, at once grand and incisive. The Scherzo, by contrast, is slower, jettisoning Beethoven's perfectly reasonable metronome mark for a measured pulse that is more or less identical with Klemperer's. Yet, as with Klemperer, the performance has splendid impetus—rather more, it must be said, than on the LSO recording. If Klemperer has an edge over Giulini it is in the forward thrust of the Philharmonia woodwinds. On the matter of repeats, Klemperer includes the whole lot, Giulini omits the repeat of the Scherzo's second section.
In the slow movement, the new performance has all the breadth and emphasis one would expect Giulini to bring to late Bruckner. It is slower than before, but unlike conductors like Bernstein and Solti, Giulini is never self-indulgent or merely dull. Klemperer is much quicker, within sight of the metronomes, as is Toscanini (RCA) in a stunning 1952 account of the Ninth which is entirely different from Giulini's; far more theatrical and more overtly dramatic.
The DG recording inevitably has greater weight and clarity than the older Giulini EMI analogue LPs. On the other hand, the choir sounds, if anything, less imposing, with modern recording methods robbing one of that good old-fashioned sense of space and perspective that we have, for example, on the Klemperer where the resplendent Philharmonia Chorus is heard at a pleasingly natural distance in the very spacious London Kingsway Hall recording. On the new recording Giulini has a first-rate soprano and tenor, but the bass is disappointing, a far cry from the musicianly John Shirley-Quirk on the deleted EMI set.
My own recommendations for the Ninth, both of which involve some compromises on sound, are the Toscanini (in mono) and the Klemperer; the one fast and theatrical, the other gaunt and imposing but both at once dramatic and far-seeing. Norrington is worth hearing for the textures and pacing of the two inner movements, Karajan (1976 vintage) for the technical surety and musical incandescence of his finale. But if you want a Germanic Ninth, long on old-fashioned virtues and short on radical chic, in generally good digital sound, then Giulini has no obvious rivals.'