Daniel Barenboim and Erato may regret having been pipped at the post by the recent reissue of Boulez's own recording of Rituel on Sony Classical. But are they 'pipped' artistically? Barenboim has the advantage of more up-to-date technology, and once you find the right (high) volume level at which to play the disc the sound is impressive. Boulez's performance has a flatter perspective, with the all-important percussion 'choir' of seven gongs and seven tam-tams sounding almost as if it is at the front of the orchestra, rather than, as specified in the score, at the back. Barenboim proves no less adept than the composer at marshalling the various staggered entries of the eight distinct instrumental groups, and his sustained control of the work's long final section creates the right atmosphere of solemn celebration. Even so, I found Barenboim's performance as a whole less imposingly monumental than Boulez's. If the composer risks seeming slightly laborious in the deliberative way he pauses between the work's various sections, Barenboim risks the opposite, pushing on—especially in the earlier stages—with what sounds suspiciously like uncertainty as to the music's ability to justify its existence unless an unambiguous continuity is imposed. The two orchestras sound quite different, as you would expect, the French less hard-edged, the British almost brazenly full-blooded; and the general effect of Barenboim's reading is to suggest that Rituel is more refined and intimate than the composer himself would have it.
Barenboim is up against another formidable rival in Notations. His account is undoubtedly more polished than that of the Vienna Philharmonic in their live performance under Abbado on DG. But the boldness and sheer brilliance of the Vienna version, especially in the explosive final piece, embodies the kind of adrenalin-fuelled excitement virtually impossible to manufacture in the recording studio. Barenboim also includes Messagesquisse, for seven solo cellos, Boulez's highly schematic seventieth birthday offering to Paul Sacher. Two accompanied recitatives alternate with two moto perpetuos of surprising metric and rhythmic regularity, ringing the serial changes on Sacher's name. It is done with style and sensitivity, like everything else on this finely-recorded disc.'