In part 1 we saw how Rodziński could analyze a score like no other without killing its spontaneity. In this second part we dive into his theatrical instinct: the decades in the opera pit that permanently colored his way of making music.
The man of the theater: music that tells stories
One of the most characteristic qualities of Rodziński as a conductor is his experience as an opera conductor. Decades in the opera pit – he conducted, among others, the Western premiere of Shostakovich's Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District – have profoundly influenced his way of making music. With him, music is rarely played merely beautifully: it must speak, have characters and build tension. This explains why especially the repertoire in which theatrical elements play a role belongs to the strongest moments of this box.
This begins already with George Bizet (1838-1875). The suite from L'Arlésienne (cd 2) sounds with Rodziński not like a collection of French atmospheric paintings, but as a dramatic whole in which every scene gets its own character; sometimes the edges are sharp and even somewhat rough: Rodziński does not seek smooth elegance, but seeks the tension present beneath the surface. The Carmen suites are treated in the same way: not popular orchestral fragments that above all should charm, but music that never loses its origin in the theater, where behind every melody the dramatic situation remains palpable.
These same qualities also make both Peer Gynt suites (cd 9) by Grieg (1843-1907) particularly convincing. Without stage text and without the original context, Rodziński makes of both suites one great musical drama: the Morning Mood becomes not a noncommittal nature scene, but a moment of expectation, Åse's Death moves through simplicity and restraint without exaggerated sentimentality, and In the Hall of the Mountain King the threat emerges not only through tempo and volume, but through an ever-sharpening rhythmic tension. In the Piano Concerto Rodziński shows his qualities as an accompanist: Yuri Boukoff may not be a familiar name for many listeners, but convinces through his musical simplicity, especially in a slow movement in which the orchestra carries him without ever overwhelming him.
Zoltán Kodály (1882-1967) also benefits from that same ability to approach music as narrative. In the Háry János suite and the Dances of Galánta and Marosszék (cd 10), each orchestral group gets a clear function – the woodwinds get their own voice, the strings provide warmth, the rhythmic elements retain their sharpness – and Rodziński lets the folk music origins be heard without ever losing sight of the larger compositional structure. Especially in Háry János it becomes clear that he needs no images to evoke a world: the orchestra itself becomes the stage.
The two cds (13-14) with works by Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953) may well be among the greatest surprises of the entire box. The Classical Symphony sounds with him anything but well-behaved or neat: the opening movement possesses enormous drive and an almost defiant freshness, the tempo is high but never at the expense of clarity, and every orchestral group remains audible while every detail gets its place. The suite from The Love for Three Oranges also brims with life – Rodziński understands the irony, the absurdity and the theatrical energy of Prokofiev's music: not mechanical virtuosity, but music that breathes and moves. Particularly interesting are the two versions of Peter and the Wolf: one with narrator Garry Moore (cd 13) and one as a pure orchestral version (cd 14). Here it becomes clear what a storyteller Rodziński was – even without spoken text the characters remain recognizable and a complete musical story emerges.
One of the most stunning discs of the entire box is undoubtedly the one with music by Richard Strauss (1864-1949): Till Eulenspiegel's Merry Pranks, Don Juan and the suite from Der Rosenkavalier (cd 18). Till Eulenspiegel sounds faster than Strauss himself ever performed it in his own recordings, but nowhere does the music become superficial or hurried; precisely through the high tempo the rhythmic sharpness and the humor gain extra power, and every detail of the orchestration remains audible. Don Juan becomes not an empty virtuoso piece in which the orchestra above all admires itself, but a story whose tension arises from the way the episodes flow logically from one another, while the suite from Der Rosenkavalier provides a beautiful contrast to it: Viennese elegance gets all the space here, but never becomes sentimental or superficial, and the atmosphere of the opera becomes almost tangible. Here precision and theater fully coincide – and that makes this cd one of the most beautiful calling cards of the entire box.
Ballet music also reveals how strong Rodziński's theatrical instinct was. The complete Nutcracker with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra sounds lively, richly nuanced and full of character, with orchestral colors that are carefully elaborated without ever compromising the larger line – this is not accompanying music waiting for dancers and scenery, but independent music theater. The suites from Swan Lake and The Nutcracker, recorded with the Vienna State Opera orchestra, add another dimension: the warmer string sound of this ensemble gives especially the lyrical passages extra depth, and Swan Lake thereby acquires an almost melancholic beauty, with a beautifully integrated harp and an orchestral color entirely at the service of the music.
We find the absolute proof of this theatrical power, however, at the end of the box, in the fragments (cd 24-25) from operas by Richard Wagner (1813-1883). This is not a collection of famous fragments meant primarily to impress separately – Rodziński treats them as scenes from a larger whole. The Walkürenritt possesses enormous rhythmic energy, but remains always organized; the Feuermusik from Die Walküre does not arise from sheer volume, but from carefully built tension; and the Trauermarsch from Götterdämmerung is even among the most impressive moments of the entire box, not a massive monument but a tragedy that becomes inevitable step by step. The Lohengrin Prelude also convinces through its transparency and almost supernatural atmosphere, while the overture to Die Meistersinger again shows how precisely Rodziński could place rhythm and structure, in a tempo that surprisingly aligns more with the energetic Strauss tradition than with the heavily laden Wagner interpretations that later often became dominant. It is precisely here that it becomes clear why Rodziński ultimately was more than a technically skilled conductor: his greatest strength lay not only in precision or control, but in the ability to give music an inner necessity, as if he wanted not so much to display a score as to reveal a story.
That narrative instinct does not succeed everywhere equally well. The waltzes of Johann Strauss II (1825-1899) undoubtedly show Rodziński's craftsmanship (cd 17) – the orchestral balance is carefully maintained, accents are precisely placed and every section receives attention – but still something is missing here that is essential to this music: the self-evident Viennese elegance, that combination of lightness, charm and subtle melancholy that makes the best Strauss interpretations so special. Where with great Strauss conductors one ultimately forgets that someone is steering, here one sometimes remains too consciously listening to the conductor himself. The result is certainly not unsuccessful, but it mainly makes clear where Rodziński's greatest strength lay: he was at his best with music that demands dramatic structure and architecture, less so with a sense of style that must be almost instinctively present. It also remains unfortunate that these works were not recorded with the Vienna orchestra; precisely that ensemble might have added an extra dimension to this music.
Continued in part 3, with among others Rodziński as accompanist to soloists (Morini, Janigro, Badura-Skoda, Demus), the late Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich recordings and the conclusion.
