from his stormy role in French “musicalrnpolihcs and his battles with the corruptrnestablishment, and his reputation wasrntied to the famous Dore caricature—flyingrnwild hair and coattails. Those whornwanted to listen to what Berlioz created,rnrather than to what the critics said ofrnhim, had little more to go by than a fewrnrecorded excerpts from the Damnation ofrnFaust, and the concert halls were notrnmuch more generous. Today, Schwann’srncatalogue lists columns of recordings ofrnthe Symphonie Fantastique, Harold inrnItaly, the Requiem, Romeo et Juliette, thernEnfance du Christ, and others of hisrnworks. Yet some critics still write of hisrn”flawed” passages and miss the logic ofrnhis musical thinking.rnBut they are confronted by the musicrnitself—a confrontation not possible whenrnhis music could not be heard —and byrnthe respect of those who play it. Theyrnmust also take into account JacquesrnBarzun’s brilliant and insightful two-volumernBerlioz and the Romantic Centuryrnand the composer’s own Memoirs, whichrnare reasonably available. From the soulshakingrnfortissimi of his Tuba Mirum tornthe violins in sordino, it is there. And forrnthose of us who return again and again,rnBerlioz grows with each playing, as newrninner voices, new intricacies, and new insightsrnreveal themselves.rnFor some, of course, Berlioz is foreverrndamned by the label of “romantic”—presumablyrnthe voice and, in some ways, thernprogenitor of an oft-misunderstood periodrnin which the arts moved away fromrn”classicism” and proclaimed a new andrnincreased sensibility. It was not reallyrnnew, of course, since romanticism was arnrefocusing of elements which, as JacquesrnBarzun has noted, were not alien to Euripides.rnHow true that is can be seen inrnany analysis of the Berlioz oeuvre, whichrninvolves and incorporates the voices andrnthe structure of all schools, going back tornplainchant. Even the leitmotif, advertisedrnas a distinguishing mark of romanticism,rnhas an ancient derivation. And canrnwe forget Berlioz’s love affair with Shakespeare,rnor that he once attended eightrnconsecutive performances of Mozart’srnDon Giovanni?rnTo wrap Berlioz in the cliche of impetuousrnartist, rapturously dashing offrnscores between breakfast and lunch, ignoresrnthat his Grande traite on instrumentationrnand orchestration is one of thernmost important contributions of his centuryrnto symphonic art, that he refined hisrnscores painstakingly, and that as a conductorrn—and he was a fine one —he insistedrnon thorough fidelity to the composer’srnintent. His censure of Wagner,rnwhose conducting he likened to “dancingrnon a slack rope . . . sempre tempo rubato,”rnspeaks for that insistence. Wagner’srnriposte that Berlioz was a “vulgarrntime-beater” —out of the great MannheimrnSchool, perhaps —reinforces thernpoint. (Wagner might have confessed atrnthe time to his considerable plagiarism ofrnBerlioz.) I lowever “romantic” (in the pejorativernsense) Berlioz’s flying coattailsrnmay have been, he approached music asrna discipline, not as an exercise in psychoanalysis.rnBerlioz was composer, conductor, andrninstrumentalist—his instrument beingrnthe orchestra, though he played an excellentrnclassical guitar. His contemporariesrnscoffed at his “idea orchestra” of 465 instrumentsrnand 360 voices —252 strings,rn50 pianos, phalanxes of brass and woodwinds,rnand a percussion section of 50 —rnstill smaller than Gustav Mahler’s idealrnl,00G-piece orchestra. What he soughtrnwas not grandiosit)’ but the “million combinationsrnpossible . . . in richness of harmony,rnvariety of sounds, [and] multitudernof contrasts.” Mahler and Brucknerrnachieved a composite of instrumentalrntimbres, blending, whereas Berliozrnsought and achieved a clarity and brilliancernby keeping the instruments at allrntimes recognizable. And it was with thisrnmusical of purpose that, at the first fullrnperformance of the Requiem, he augmentedrnhis orchestra with four brassrnbands, each at one of the distant cornersrnof the Invalides where Napoleon wasrnburied.rnWe can choose today from manyrnrecordings of Berlioz’s great oeuvre. Ofrnthe Harold in Italy, I once found thernCharles Munch/Boston SymphonyAVilliamrnPrimrose version for RCA the closestrnto the Berlioz hope that “the violarnshould figure as more or less active personagernof constantly preserved individualit)’rnrather than the show-off instrument ofrnthe classical concerto.” But this recordingrnsuffers from the over-trained andrnovermanicured Boston Symphony, andrnI find greater empathy with YehudirnMenuhin’s traversal with Sir Colin Davisrnand the Philharmonia Orchestra. Therernis a fluidity and introspection in Menuhin’srnplaying which Primrose’s highlyrndisciplined technique seems to lose. Asrnfor program, that myth goes by the boardrnsince, in mid-eomposition, Berlioz changedrnthe setting from Scottish to ftalian.rnLike Beethoven, Berlioz did not possessrnwhat critics have called the “stagernsense,” so I flee from his operas. But hisrnovertures are something else — rich, melodic,rnand alive —and in Sir ThomasrnBeecham’s traversal for Columbia, yournwill be caught up by that delicately contrivedrnpassage of the Francs ]uges inrnwhich strings and woodwinds move inrncommon time while the t)’mpani shiftsrnfrom 3/4 to 2/2 time, with the entire orchestrarnchallenged in the last measuresrnby the bass drum in 3/4 time.rnBerlioz was 30, a leader of the Frenchrnavant-garde, when his Requiem was performedrnat the Invalides. He had written itrnalmost obsessively with his head “burstingrnwith the flood of ideas”—and the poetrnAlfred de Vigny woidd write that it wasrn”beautiful and strange, wild, convulsivelyrnthrobbing and heartrending.” But unlikernany other Requiem, it was addressed tornthe dead and dying, not to the mourners.rnDeath and transfiguration and the fear ofrnHell, a tremendous assault on man’srnmortal preoccupation —it in no wayrnsoothes the living or brings them peace.rnPerhaps St. Peter would prefer a quieterrnknock at the gates of Heaven or agreernwith what Berlioz is doing, shaking a fistrnat God—but it is sfill music of faith.rnYet the Requiem —oi the intricate ‘FernDeum, with its majestic double fugue,rnwritten a dozen years later—was not hisrnonly religious voice, L’Enfance du Christrnspeaks simply and tenderly—so much sornthat Berlioz, to confoimd his critics ofrnhis authorship at the first performance,rnwanted the Enfance simg almost likernplainchant, not with some aspiring andrnfinger-milking prima donna exhibitingrnher larynx. And to this can be addedrnthe “symphonic opera,” Romeo et Juliette,rncelebrating more earthly passions.rnJacques Barzun says that it is Berlioz’s onlyrnflawless work—an evocation, thoughrncertainly not a translation into music ofrnShakespeare’s drama. For this, the worldrncan thank Paganini, the great violin virtuosornwho presented Berlioz with 20,000rnfrancs to allow him six months of uninterruptedrnwork without the distractions ofrnthe journalism with which he kept himselfrnalive.rnRalph de Toledano writes fromrnWashington, D.C.rne^^’GdMK*)rn54/CHRONICLESrnrnrn