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Orchestre Revolutionnaire et Romantique
John Eliot Gardiner, conductor
Philips 434 402-2
It seems highly significant that the CD revolution, and the
debate it has engendered over the accuracy of recorded sound, first took hold in the realm
of classical music, even though the genre accounts for a minute share of the overall
record market. Classical composers and performers have always been extremely sensitive to
the aural setting surrounding their works, often customizing an entire piece to the
particular qualities of the performers and location of the premiere.
Hector Berlioz is generally acknowledged as the first romantic
composer to lavish great care over orchestration, and the Symphonie Fantastique is
his most popular work. It has hardly lacked for great recordings in the past, including
those by Monteux, Walter, Munch, Bernstein and Davis. Each conveyed in ever improved sound
the glories of Berlioz's score, which is filled with bold, experimental touches: the four
glittering harps of the second movement, the arid winds in the third, the blaring
trombones of the fourth, and the eerie bells and violins played con legno (with the
wood of their bows) in the fifth. The trend seemingly culminated in the revelatory use of
original instruments in the highly acclaimed 1989 recording by Roger Norrington and the
London Classical Players (EMI CDC 7 49541 2). But now, Gardiner goes an important step
further. His is the first recording to use not only original instruments but to be made in
the Ancien Conservatoire of Paris -- the very room where Berlioz gave the world premiere!
If there is one valid criticism of Norrington's version, it lies
in its sterility, which is a function both of the conductor's strict and unyielding tempos
as well as the studio atmosphere. The startling instrumentation is captured with great
clarity, but tends to sound more like a calculated product of the control room rather than
something more human and organic. Gardiner allows his players greater interpretive
freedom. He achieves sonic clarity comparable to Norrington, but through natural means,
without the artifice of spot-miking and studio enhancement.
Gardiner's pioneering approach is to take full advantage of the
acoustic of the Ancien Conservatoire known to Berlioz. He replicates the staging of the
time by arranging the musicians on steep risers. This enabled each player to project his
sound clearly and directly to each member of the audience (and now the microphone). The
presentation is complemented by the small but ambient concert hall, which contributes only
a minimum of reverberation, yielding a tight, focussed sound. As a result, the recording
has fine natural presence. Listening provides an enhanced satisfaction, something
akin to a meal that tastes even better because of unadulterated, healthful ingredients.
But isn't this a mere gimmick? Curiosity aside, should we really
care how a composer first heard his own work? Absolutely! A composer arranges abstract
musical thoughts into formal patterns, and any successful performance requires the artist
to penetrate the mind of the creator in order to complete the process of translating the
abstractions into tangible form once again. An understanding of the initial creative
impulse is crucial to the integrity of a performance. And knowing how a composer
"heard" his ideas is crucial to that understanding.
This quest for knowledge about artists is hardly new. For
centuries, scholars have avidly delved into the biographies of the great composers, even
going so far as to pry into their private lives to determine the identity of the
"Immortal Beloved" who fueled Beethoven's frustrations and creativity, the cause
of Schumann's insanity, the source of Wagner's poisoned politics, and the types of drugs
to which Berlioz was addicted. Surely this is not mere meddling but a deeper urge to delve
into the creative process in order to relate to and better understand it.
And yet, while certainly interesting, this type of detective work
is not only highly speculative but is of limited value to get at what really counts for a
performing artist. After all, it is anyone's guess how Beethoven's afflications or
Berlioz's drugs affected their minds; Beethoven may have been deaf, but he
"heard" with greater depth, insight and vision than any unimpaired person. And
limiting the goal of classical performance to an exact replication of the composer's aural
image would result in nearly identical performances, an awfully boring and uninspiring
prospect.
As previous recordings so vividly demonstrate, Gardiner's
documentary approach may not be the only or even the best way to perform the Symphonie
Fantastique. But knowing how the music actually was intended to sound is a fascinating
and significant start.
Copyright 1994 by Peter Gutmann
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