I’ve spent a lot of time this weekend with Beethoven’s fourth piano concerto, and for an interesting reason. I recently read an article by one Norman Lebrecht on the subject of the conductor Herbert von Karajan, the centenary of whose birth is being celebrated this year. Some highlights from the article include his characterization of Karajan as “Hitler’s poster boy” and the following heartwarming conclusion:
He inflicted his ego on the world of classical music in a way that crushed independence and creativity and damaged its image for future generations. It is not the bad man he was that we should deplore but the reactionary and exclusivist legacy which is being “celebrated”. For music lovers, there is not much to celebrate. Once the centenary is over, we will drop the curtain once and for all on a discreditable life that yielded no fresh thought and upheld no worthwhile human value. Karajan is dead. Music is much better off without him.
I confess, I had previously given little thought to Karajan. Despite a dim awareness that he had some unsavory Nazi ties, I considered him a safe bet when purchasing a recording, especially for something big and romantic. When I decided it was time to own a set of Brahms symphonies, I picked the Karajan set, little suspecting that I was thereby contributing to the crushing of musical creativity.
Before I proceed further, I should probably make an embarrassing confession. I have always been a bit puzzled by the cult of the conductor. While I have many favorite musicians and composers, I can’t say that I regard many conductors as particular favorites. I recognize some of them for expertise in certain areas. I will always favor William Cristie in the French Baroque, for instance. But given a choice between Karajan and Sir George Solti for the Brahms symphonies, I’d probably have flipped a coin. No doubt this reveals an insensitivity on my part to the subtleties of orchestral music, but so be it.
A quick survey of my CD collection revealed a handful of Karajan recordings. In only one case did I have an alternate performance to compare it to: Beethoven’s fourth piano concerto. The Karajan recording is from 1975 with Alexis Weissenberg as the soloist. The alternate performance is conducted by Claudio Abbado (coincidentally, Karajan’s successor at the helm of the Berlin Philharmonic) in 1994 with Maurizio Pollini.
The comparison is not an easy one. Needless to say, the quality of the recordings differed. Even with modern remastering, the older Karajan recording sounds muffled compared to the much brighter 1994 Abbado. Also, I confess to being a fan of Pollini, so I’m already biased toward the Abbado account without even considering the quality of the orchestral playing.
Frankly, I find both recordings artistic and engaging. I will say that Karajan’s take is somewhat more forceful and focused, while Abbado’s reading is a bit more relaxed and elastic. The Abbado recording also seems to demonstrate a greater degree of communication between conductor and soloist, but this could be my imagination. On these grounds, as well as my preference for Pollini’s playing, I slightly prefer the Abbado recording, but I can’t quite see the anti-musical Nazi evil in the Karajan. Perhaps a symphonic comparison would have been more telling, since in a concerto even the allegedly autocratic Karajan must share the spotlight. I might also understand Mr. Lebrecht’s criticisms more fully if I had access to a larger number of Karajan recordings. I suspect, though, that Mr. Lebrecht has made the error of letting his distaste for Karajan the man unduly color his hearing of Karajan’s music.