Virtuoso violinist Bronislaw Huberman was an idealist, an ardent Pan-European and co-founder (with William Steinberg) of the Israel Philharmonic. He was, in a sense, the prototype for such present-day fiddling mavericks as Kremer, Zehetmair, Tetzlaff and Kennedy. Whether or not he supported Kennedy’s beloved Aston Villa I cannot say, though he would certainly have applauded Villa’s refusal, during a 1938 German tour, to give the ‘Hitler salute’. Huberman’s open letter to the conductor Wilhelm Furtwangler, in which he pledged support of the persecuted and refused to perform in Nazi Germany, has become famous, and his astringent though frequently dazzling playing translates that steely resolve into musical terms.
This Naxos coupling should have been the answer to a prayer. Indeed, it very nearly is, save for a less-than-perfect transfer of the Beethoven Violin Concerto. But more of that in a moment. The 1929 Tchaikovsky recording is peerless. Huberman’s first entry reveals all: elastic phrasing, sweeping portamento s and generous rubato stamp a giant personality. Thereafter, quicksilver bowing and a steely spiccato level with the best of the period.
Brahms loved Huberman’s playing (he promised the budding youngster a Fantasy but never lived to compose it) and no wonder, given the veiled beauty of Huberman’s tone (Canzonetta) and the uninhibited swagger of his bravura style (finale). Who could resist the finale’s swinging second subject, or stay seated for the lightning pyrotechnics that set the Concerto’s closing pages alight? Not me, for sure.
The Beethoven Concerto (George Szell’s only commercial recording of the work, by the way) is no less striking, being more in line with, say, Zehetmair and Bruggen than with the stately readings of Kreisler, Szigeti, Menuhin or David Oistrakh. Huberman’s lively speeds and darting inflections spin silver beams where others opt for (in my view misplaced) ‘Olympian’ heights. The sheer luminosity of the reading, its radiance and refusal to dawdle, run counter to the languid sweetness favoured by various of Huberman’s peers and successors.
You simply have to hear Huberman’s recording, and Naxos’s give-away price makes their coupling a mandatory purchase. Unless you’re fussy about transfers, in which case, read on. Having reissued the Tchaikovsky Concerto myself back in 1969 (a decidedly amateur job for my own Melos LP label), I know some of the problems that Mark Obert-Thorn had to face in preparing his own transfer. For one, there’s a horrible side-join in the Canzonetta, where the clarinet and solo violin need to be skilfully overlaid (a task that was quite beyond yours truly and his trusty Ferrograph). Obert-Thorn hits target every time while the actual sound quality is warmer than EMI’s (excellent though currently unavailable) alternative. EMI employed limited use of Cedar (noise reduction) technology, though it was not limited enough to be inaudible.
David Lennick’s transfer of the Beethoven, although perfectly adequate, is also rather spoiled by excessive digital noise reduction. The intrusion is especially noticeable at the beginning of the slow movement. Compare Bryan Crimp’s superb refurbishment for APR (10/96, coupled with Huberman’s Lalo Symphonie espagnole) and you’ll hear how utterly natural the originals were – ambient, warm and in no need whatever of any digital ‘cleaning up’. On one occasion, at 4'57'' into Naxos’s first movement, the violinist momentarily disappears (you do hear him play very quietly on the APR disc) while in the second movement, two chords have inadvertently become one (an easily misjudged 78 side-join, at 4'08''). Still, these technical reservations will likely prove trifling for anyone who has never heard Huberman before. There are no greater violin recordings in existence, and I urge you to hear – no, to buy them.'