BRAHMS. Symphony No. 1 in C minor, Op. 68. Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra / Carlo Maria Giulini. DG CI 435 347-4GH; CD 435 3472GH (52 minutes: DDD).

The way to Brahms's triumphal C major is a strenuous one for Giul.ini. Naturally there are moments in which to stop, listen and admire—a vista or two to revive flagging spirits. But I find the lack of impetus more and more enervating as the symphony unfolds. It is almost as if the music were somehow losing heart, the will to advance. The burden it carries is an impossibly heavy one. I can appreciate the grave and imposing sostenuto of the opening page, more moll° than poco, but with violins reaching gloriously for the light. But as the oboe takes up the second idea and cellos generously respond, the momentary imposition of a precious, halting rubato has me wondering once more if Giul.ini has simply grown to love this music too much. All things are relative, of course, and perhaps such gestures would sit more comfortably if there were appreciable momentum in the ensuing allegro. But this is effortful rather than emphatic: rhythm and counterpoint are rooted to the page.

As one might expect, Giulini's undying reverence for this music finds some contentment in the pages of the Andante sostenuto. If only there were more pliancy and movement in the phrasing generally, if only the Vienna Philharmonic violins were freer to exert their natural instincts. There are times here where one can almost feel their inhibition. But then comes one of those treasurable moments: the radiant rescoring of the second theme (involving solo violin, solo horn and oboe) in the dying pages of the movement. And all at once the complexion of the performance is transformed. Equally, the reverse is true. Just when you are thinking how amiable the scherzo is proving (the ambling clarinet counterpoint is deliciously understated) along comes a trio so heavy-footed as to defy buoyancy.

The finale begins darkly, splendidly, the abrupt changes in pace and texture boldly underlining the visionary originality of this most dramatic introduction. How different this performance might have been if Giulini had managed to apply those principles to the broader outlines of the symphony. But, again, whilst one might willingly bask in the reflected glory of the VPO's refulgent first horn, the ensuing chorale—slow, sombre, very subdued—begins to weigh us down again. And the big tune, the moment in which Brahms and his symphony stride out confidently—his ode to joy—is again the wrong side of portentous. There can be no release, no impetus to carry us into the main allegro. Once more we are driving with the hand-brake on. Small wonder the returning horn call sounds somehow so diminished—worldweary. Unlike his recent DG accounts of the Second and Third Symphonies (5/92 and 8/91) there is little here to revive memories of Giulini's Brahms in palmier days—still less which throws new light or breathes new life. Monumental in quite the wrong sense, I fear. Alan Sanders, reviewing the new Eschenbach recording (above) suggests some rather more agile alternatives. E.S.