You might imagine from the symphony's opening sentence—from the first three minutes of this performance—that Bernstein is poised to conduct a memorable account of the work. The tempo seems judicious. Dynamic shadings are strikingly observed within the context of the larger line. The Vienna Philharmonic playing—above all, the brass playing—is organ-rich. The recording is superb.
Alas, it is not to be. At least, not in the first movement where Bernstein emerges as an uncertain keeper of the Bruckner Grail. What happens in the great concluding Adagio is another matter. Here inspiration descends. Amfortas, it seems, has been healed. And with that healing we experience music-making that from the first note to last is affecting and profound.
The troubles in the first movement start at a predictable place in the exposition: the Langsamer at fig. D. Or, more precisely, nine bars on (4'27'') at the charged oscillations between F sharp major and D minor. Here Bernstein slackens the pulse, allowing the music to sink deeper and deeper into the mire. By fig. E it is more or less dead on its feet. Revivals follow. But the further we get into the movement, the more it is clear that there is no basic pulse underpinning the reading. Subjects come, go and reappear at a variety of often unrelated speeds. (Exacerbated, perhaps, by the editing together of takes from separate performances?) As a result, the first movement's great central plateau of development and recapitulation becomes a musical wilderness from which there seems to be no logical means of escape. You might argue that by conducting the music in this way, Bernstein is intuitively in touch with the existential bleakness of Bruckner's despairing spirit. Perhaps. In fact, I think Bernstein loves the music but doesn't know it—doesn't know it, that is, as a finished work of art in the way that (on record) conductors like von Hausseger, van Beinum, Walter, Karajan (DG, vintage 1975), Giulini (DG), Wand and Barenboim (Teldec) have all demonstrably done. (The VPO knows it, of course, which is why, to the casual ear, the playing of the first movement might seem hunkydory.)
Predictably, Bernstein's reading of the Scherzo is thunderous and slow. It is not perhaps quite what Bruckner had in mind; but the music can stand it. You might even think it thrives on it. And then comes the Adagio. Interestingly, Bernstein doesn't overplay his hand here. In any case, problems of structure and pace are now rather less acute. (Barenboim is slower than Bernstein, Giulini slower still.) It is an eloquent reading in its own right. Coming to us as the posthumous offering of a great musician, it is doubly moving: Bruckner, in Bernstein's hands, seemingly anticipating what Mahler will do in the concluding movement of his Ninth Symphony. How the strings mourn. And how those great glooming climaxes with their sad aftermaths tower and touch the heart. (The grinding C sharp minor climax has rarely sounded more cruel on record.)
It is, above all, a triumph for the Vienna Philharmonic: their second memorable live Bruckner Ninth in so many months. The first, part of DG's 12-CD VPO 150th anniversary edition, was a 1976 Salzburg Festival performance under Karajan's direction (2/92).
Given my reservations over Bernstein's handling of the first movement, this is obviously no front-line library recommendation. But, Bernstein being Bernstein, he can misdirect parts of the first movement and still go on to conduct an utterly memorable performance. As Schumann said of Chopin in a rather different context: ''Hats off, gentlemen, a genius!''.'