Karajan The Interpreter A Cri

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Karajan the Interpreter
A Critique
by
Parke G. Burgess Jr
A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment

of the degree requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Musical Arts
University of Washington
1997
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Abstract
Karajan the Interpreter
A Critique
by Parke G. Burgess Jr
Chairperson of the Supervisory Committee
Professor Peter Eros
Department of Music
This work investigates the nature of orchestral conducting using the

famous Austrian conductor, Herbert von Karajan, as its principal example.
The dissertation divides into two general parts: the first (occupying Chapters
1 and 2) concerns the philosophical problem of speaking meaningfully about
art in general and musical performance in particular; the second part (the
remaining chapters) involves detailed analyses of Karajan in his four
complete sets of the Beethoven symphonies. Arturo Toscanini, Wilhelm
Furtwangler and Claudio Abbado are used as foils in the analyses of
Karajan’s performances.
The Introduction first poses the problem of speaking about
conducting and the shroud of mystery behind which the profession has long
resided, then the author explains his choice of Karajan as his primary
example of the conductor at work, concluding with an extended section
devoted to the methodologies and techniques to be used in the main body of
the text. Chapter I explores the philosophical issues of the topic with
reference to remarks by Ludwig Wittgenstein and Susanne Langer, and closes
with an application of these remarks to the analysis of music. Chapter II
proposes a fuller understanding of musical interpretation, dividing
interpretive issues into three categories: texture, ground and gesture. This is
followed by a discussion of the conductor’s gestures and a detailed analysis of
Karajan in rehearsal.
Chapter III lays the groundwork for the analysis that will occupy the
remainder of the dissertation, including an in-depth description of the seven
sets of Beethoven symphonies under review and a visit to the debate over
Beethoven’s metronome markings. Chapter IV concerns the topic of
"texture" in interpretation. Chapter V explores the topic of "ground" as it
pertains to given performances. Chapter VI discusses issues of "gesture."
The conclusion revisits the original problem of verbalizing musical
interpretive issues in light of the intervening analysis, then offers some
observations about how the sort of analysis introduced in the dissertation
might be continued. The work closes with recommendations about the
conducting profession and how it might benefit from the approach advocated
throughout the study.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page
List of Figures ii
Introduction 1
1. The Mysterious Art of Conducting 1
2. Karajan the Interpreter 8
3. A Critique 15
Chapter I: Philosophical Models 32
1. Wittgenstein and the Problem of M eaning 33
2. Langer and the Animal Symbolicum 40
3. The Mechanism of Musical Meaning 54
Chapter II: Musical Interpretation and the Conductor at Work 69
1. The Limits of Interpretation 69
2. Conducting Gestures 87
3. Karajan at Work 110
Chapter III: Karajan and Beethoven 158
Chapter IV: Texture 182
1. Balance 182
2. Articulation 211
Chapter V: Ground 231
1. Tempo 234
2. Flux 246
3. Pulse 253
Chapter VI: Gesture 282
1. The Super-Phrase 289
2. The Structural Area 306
Conclusion 342
1. New Modes of Analysis 342
2. Performance Studies: New Avenues for the Educator 347
3. Implications for the Conducting Profession 350
Bibliography 360
Appendix 1: Beethoven Symphony No. 1, Op. 21 364
LIST OF FIGURES
Num ber Page

1. Bartok Bagatelle with Alternate Ending 50
2. Brhams Sym phony No. 1, Introduction 58
3. Standard 2-beat Conducting Patterns 93
4. Rollercoaster 97
5. Graphic Display of Rollercoaster Motion 98
6. Legato 2-beat Pattern Showing Velocity 101
7. Schumann Sym phony No. 4., First Movement 111
8. Tempo Analysis of Beethoven Sym phony No. 1 170
9. Beethoven Sym phony No. 1, Opening Bars 184
10. Balance Analysis, Karajan 1961 187
12. Balance Analysis, Toscanini 1951 194
13. Balance Analysis, Furtwangler 1952 197
16. Balance Analysis, Abbado 1989 206
17. Beethoven Sym phony No. 3, Second Movement 214
18. Beethoven Sym phony No. 4’ Introduction 235
19. Two Flux Graphs 248
20. Beethoven Sym phony No. 6, Second Movement 259
21. Beethoven Sym phony No. 7, First Movement 291
22. Beethoven Sym phony No. 9, First Movement 308
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to express sincere appreciation to Peter Eros for his
support and encouragment through the years. Also, special thanks to the
Kingsley Trust Association for their financial assistance. This dissertation
would not have been possible without the invaluable teaching of past mentors
Joseph Schaaf, Otto-Werner Mueller and Charles Brack.
Introduction
Those who honor the conducting profession, who feel a sense of

wonder as they watch a master conductor at work, and who seek to
understand the greatness that the best examples of the art afford struggle at
the surface of a philosophical dilemma that has never been penetrated. To
look at the existing literature, it would appear that few of the musical or
philosophical authorities are even aware of this dilemma’s existence, and
fewer still have fathomed its profound depth. This work takes as its object
the thorough examination of the dilemma raised by a musical profession
which does not include making sound, but whose relation to sound is both
immediate and essential.
In the ensuing pages I will address three issues which relate to an
analysis of the art of conducting. To begin, I will discuss the first obstacle to
a deep understanding of conducting: the shroud of mystery behind which it is
so often given to hide. Then I will discuss my choice of Herbert von Karajan
as the principal personality of this study, a man who is reviled by some as
much as he is revered by others. Finally, I will embark upon a rather lengthy
discussion of the nature of a critique of the present sort.
1. The Mysterious Art of Conducting
[Poets] are the very opposite of performing artists, who, except in

peculiar cases, will kn o w whether or not they have succeeded in their art___
It would be very odd to go to a concert hall and discover that the pianist on
offer wasn’t any good a t all, in the sense that he couldn’t actually play the
2
piano. But in poetry this is an experience we take in our stride. There are no
forensic tests for poetry, in the sense that there are for musicians. It’s obvious
that if I can’t pass Grade Five there’s no point in booking Wigmore Hall. But
who can prescribe the skills I must achieve before I publish a poem? Who is
to devise the exercises, the examinations?
What James Fenton says about poetry goes equally well for the
conductor, surely a "peculiar case” among performing artists. The true art of
the poet and conductor lies so deep within their being that public criteria such
as worldly success, fame, riches, or an extensive curriculum vita ultimately
come to nothing. Fenton contrasts this with the technical skill of the pianist,
which the public can easily recognize.2 Like the poet, how do we really know
how good a conductor is? After all, the conductor never ventures a single
musical sound in public. Few of the public claim to understand the
vocabulary of a conductor’s stock-in-trade: the waving and pointing and
posturing. Like poetry, people have very strong opinions on which
conductor is good and which is not, but on what basis are these opinions
formed? This is a philosophical problem.
To understand the art of the conductor, one must have some
understanding of the art of music, and the relation of the performer to the
artwork being performed. It is not surprising that the common citizen does
not have ready answers to these questions, or that commercial success as a
conductor or poet has little to do with serious matters of art. If one looks
superficially upon the activities of the conductor, it seems that the conductor
wields a tremendous and mysterious power. The orchestra responds to the
1 James Fenton, "Some Mistakes People Make About Poetry," T h e
New York Review o f Books 25 M arch 1993: 19.
2 However, the matter of the artistry of the pianist, as opposed to the
technique, remains a more difficult judgment.
3
conductor’s motions as if by magic. It seems that the conductor causes great

eruptions of sound by the mere flick of the wrist. In his own heart, the
conductor himself may feel that he is endowed with superhuman gifts. A well
timed gesture can create a real sensation of power for the conductor, and the
physical caressing of a beautiful phrase might seem, of its own accord, to
induce a melancholic attitude. Indeed, the conductor suffers most from the
illusion of his own grandeur, he not only observes but feels the radiance of his
power through music. In addition to these felt powers, the conductor
possesses very real political power over the orchestra and the institutions that
surround it. The music can become, in this sense, an extension of the political
ego: the acting out of real power.3
The illusion of power leads the conductor and critic into a confusion
about where the composer leaves off and the performer takes up. The
conductor often gets credit for what is properly due to the genius of the
composer. Because we do not fully understand the relation of the
conductor’s silent gestures to the sounds which emerge from the orchestra, it
is difficult to assess his role in the interpretive process. To understand this
relation correctly, therefore, we must have in view an accurate concept of the
interpreter’s activity.
Little help is afforded by the existing literature on conducting. An
outstanding survey of this area was made by Elliott W. Galkin. The greater
3 See Norman Lebrecht, The Maestro Myth (New York: Birch Lane
Press, 1991) for a full discussion of this aspect. Lebrecht’s strict focus on this
aspect of the profession might make a refreshing antidote to my strict focus
on its musical aspects.
4
part of his book, A History of Orchestral Conducting in Theory and

Practice,4 reviews the most important of a relatively small number o f treatises
and articles about the technique of the conductor. What emerges quite
clearly from this study is the lack of philosophical curiosity in these works
about the problem suggested by Fenton: what is the conductor’s a rtl
William Steinberg, an important conductor who died in 1978, said, "After
nearly five decades of conducting symphony and opera performances around
the world, I have come to the irrevocable conclusion that there is no function
in the entire realm of the performing arts as universally misunderstood as that
o f the conductor."5
Helena Matheopoulos, in her book Maestro: Encounters with
Conductors of Today, reveals a basic assumption about the art of conducting
which is ubiquitous to the subject:
. . . even after three years of constant thinking and talking about

conducting, and of observing twenty-three conductors at work, the essence of
this art remains and always will remain a mystery, "nearly unexplainable"
according to Herbert von Karajan who understands it better than most--not
only to me but even to those who practice it.
The art of conducting will certainly remain mysterious as long as the
philosophical assumptions surrounding it include the idea that the
conductor’s activity is impenetrable to meaningful analysis.
4 Elliott W. Galkin, A History of Orchestral Conducting in Theory

and Practice (New York: Pendragon Press, 1988).
5 William Steinberg, "The Function of the Conductor," in Robert
Cumming, ed., They Talk About Music, 2 vols. (New York: Belwin Mills,
1971), 2:69. Found in Galkin. History xl.
6 Helena Matheopoulos, Maestro: Encounters with Conductors of
Today (New York: Harper & Row, 1982) xvi.
5
Led by the interviewer’s assumption that conducting is indeed

mysterious, Matheopoulos’ subjects tend to confirm it. Gaudio Abbado said
of his idol Wilhelm Furtwangler," ... his technique, his beat, was not always
clear for the orchestra. This must mean that other factors like a certain
magnetism, a certain emanation and power to transmit energy through the
eyes and body play a vital part in conducting and I understand why you
[Matheopoulos] feel that it is a mysterious art."7 But one must not conclude
that Karajan or Abbado do not understand what they do. Conductors, by
temperament and training, are not usually philosophers. Conductors prefer
to engage in their activity rather than analyze it. This may explain the lack of
light shed on Matheopoulos’ pressing problem. Leonard Bernstein, however,
reveals an important truth about the mystery of conducting when he says:
. . . the mystery of conducting is the same as all musical mysteries-

although, to me, no mystery begins to approach the mystery of getting an
idea—and I try to find it out for myself so that I can share it with people.
Mystery, in short, has as little (or as much) to do with the real art of
conducting as it does with any other human endeavor. If the conductor’s
activity appears especially mysterious, that only means that we do not
understand it philosophically. In truth, any creative act-like getting an idea-
is deeply mysterious. But with this we do not yet come to the end of
7 Matheopoulos, Maestro 82. I reach a different conclusion: that

Furtwangler’s technique was extremely clear, but not in the obvious way.
Abbado’s use of the word "technique" is limited by traditional ideas about it.
Furtwangler is the best proof that these old ideas are inadequate to explain
the conductor’s real activity. See Giapter 2 (pp. 79-97) for further discussion
of this subject.
8 Matheopoulos, Maestro 10.
6
explanations; more can be learned about the substance of conducting than

the current literature provides. No comprehensive description of conducting
has yet emerged. The assumption that the conductor’s work must remain
obscure has been so ingrained that few have attempted to get beyond it.
Going beyond these assumptions, however, proves difficult. It requires, first
of all, that one adopt a philosophy of music in general terms that can provide
the substance necessary to talk about the real activity of the conductor.
Historically, the philosophy of music has been dominated by two
opposing camps, the emotivists and the purists. The emotivists, to one degree
or another, hold the view that music expresses emotion as its primary
function. The purists, on the other hand, argue that music is a purely formal
phenomenon, acquiring its artistic integrity from its mathematical perfection,
or (which is the same thing) its obedience to natural laws.
While either view might have yielded an interesting theory of
conducting, the fact remains that neither one did so. There may be good
reason for this. A purely emotivist view of the conductor might have him
playing at emotions, like a clown trying to personify sadness, for example.
This is comparable to the popular idea that an actor needs to occupy the
literal emotion of her character. Many conducting students seem to
understand their work along these lines. They try to become the emotion
which they believe to be the content of the music they wish to conduct. As a
result, the student only becomes a caricature of a conductor: the resulting
emotional display invariably descends into comedy.
7
The purist view, on the other hand, tends toward silence on the subject
of the conductor’s art. The purists argue, logically enough, that the
substance of music is only music. For the purist, language cannot begin to
express the inner workings of music, so a philosophical theory o f conducting
would only beg the deeper question. Therefore, the mystery of conducting
must forever remain so.
O f course, the purists have a point: music is about music. And so, too,
do the emotivists: music is about feeling. Susanne K. Langer suggests that
the weakness in each side of this philosophical debate resides precisely in its
wholesale rejection of the other
The polarity of feeling and form is itself a problem; for the relation of
the two "poles" is not really a "polar" one, Le. a relation of positive and
negative, since feeling and form are not logical complements. They are
merely associated, respectively, with each other’s negatives The
conception of polarity, intriguing though it may be, is really an unfortunate
metaphor whereby a logical muddle is raised to the dignity of a fundamental
principle.
Langer takes the rather controversial view that these two elements form a
paradox that can be resolved by penetrating philosophical insight. Such a
resolution forms a philosophy of art. I wish to show in the succeeding
chapters that the same principle applied to the problem of conducting leads
one to comparable success in forging a fruitful understanding of the
conductor’s art.
Any purely philosophical discussion, however, will fail to reveal the
genius of the practicing conductor. Langeris approach suggests the means by
9 Susanne K. Langer, Feeling and Form (New York: Charles

Scribner’s Sons, 1953) 17.
8
which actual conductors at work may be understood in the words that they
use and the gestures they employ in the studio and concert hall. The ability
of these tools to underscore specific practices of master conductors will be
shown by applying them to Herbert von Karajan in rehearsal and
performance. Through a detailed study of Karajan at work, the principles
first outlined in philosophic form will be used to penetrate, if not overwhelm,
our central dilemma.
2. Karajan the Interpreter
Tragically, Karajan’s personal dynamism and problematic relation to

the Nazi regime have so dominated publications about the man that his
conducting has been virtually ignored. The present study seeks to restore
some balance to the literature available about Herbert von Karajan, and to
provide a purely musical analysis of his interpretive art, particularly as it
revealed itself in his recordings of the Beethoven symphonies.
Feelings run so strongly, however, that I feel compelled to address the
claim that a study of Karajan the musician cannot be undertaken without
either serving as an apologist for his Nazi years or condemning the man, his
music and his career based upon the moral violations inherent in his Nazi
Party membership. I argue that Karajan’s abilities and achievements on the
podium possess a purely musical aspect deserving of study. This does not
mean that we ignore or forgive the moral failings of the man, nor does it
mean that we hold Karajan’s careerism up to be emulated by ambitious
9
conductors of the future-quite the contrary. Indeed, the very purpose of this
study lies in stripping the conductor of the usual trappings of power, prestige
and ego in order to reveal what truly matters: the musical mind that lies
behind the image.
My hope is to educate the reader in the real business of conducting so
that he might go into the cultural marketplace with a keener sense of the true
dynamics of the conductor’s relation to the score, the musicians and the
audience. I hope that the charlatans of the trade, of which there are legion,
might be better distinguished from its true practitioners. I hope that aspiring
conductors might better understand the art which they undertake to master.
And I hope that audiences will better appreciate the profound musical and
philosophical depths plumbed by those conductors of real merit.
Though this study uses Karajan’s interpretations of the Beethoven
symphonies as its primary source material, I will also discuss at some length
the conducting o f three other masters of the podium in the recorded age:
Arturo Toscanini, Wilhelm Furtwangler and Claudio Abbado. Furtwangler
and Abbado were chosen because they represent, from Karajan’s perspective,
the past and the future of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, Karajan’s most
important orchestra. It was from Furtwangler that Karajan inherited the
Berlin group, and it was to Abbado that Karajan bequeathed it (though, in
both cases, the dying conductor did not know to whom the orchestra would
pass). Toscanini is included because Karajan identified him, along with
Furtwangler, as one of his primary influences. In each case, however, these
10
three conductors will be used only to serve as a foil to provide a better

understanding of Karajan’s unique interpretive genius.
Karajan the man presents difficulties because he gave off a myriad of
conflicting signals concerning his true nature. He was, of course, king of the
European musical mountain, merciless taskmaster, megalomaniacal
controller o f every aspect of his productions, unrepentant member of the
Nazi party, paranoid and insecure to his dying day. He was maker of
incredible performances, sometimes intimate, often majestic, always vital and
sumptuously beautiful. He was driver of fast cars, amateur sailor and pilot.
He was philanthropist and educator. He showed remarkable loyalty (at least
until the very end) to his own Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, forging one of
the longest and most fruitful collaborations in musical history. He was a Zen
Buddhist. Who was the real Herbert von Karajan?
I have no intention of answering this question: too many studies have
already attempted such a project. These efforts all suffer from the same flaw,
however, which it is my intention to correct here. Without exception, the
existing biographical literature on Karajan is strongly biased either in his
favor or against it. Karajan was neither god nor beast, but a fully human
mortal man with the usual host of conflicting motives, from altruism to
obsessive self-absorption. He had the talent and the will that enabled him to
fill a vacuum in his heart with the adoration of audiences and the obedience
of employees. Thomas Merton put it well when he suggested that there were
no evil people, just good people who did not know how to be good. Karajan,
through his music, his philanthropy and his Buddhism sought to be good.
11
But his psychological frailty led the same man to live the isolated life of a
dictator, and to embrace Naziism to serve his own careerist goals.
The primary biographical literature in English on Karajan as of this
writing consists of five books: Robert Vaughn’s Karajan. Richard Osborne’s
Conversations with Karajan. Robert C. Bachmann’s Karajan. Notes on a
Career, Franz Endler’s telling of Herbert von Karajan. Mv Autobiography,
and The Karajan Dossier by Klaus Lang. Of the five, Lang is the most
balanced, and also the only one written after Karajan’s death. But the book
itself, a series of primary materials and observations thereof, offers little
insight beyond those specific events highlighted by the documents presented.
Vaughn and Osborne offer the most substantive material, but tend to be
strongly sympathetic to Karajan--at least in part because he was still living
and they wished to maintain good relations with the maestro. Endler’s book
nauseatingly trumpets Karajan’s party line in a badly written, self-serving
diatribe that one would have hoped Karajan would not have allowed to carry
his name. To his shame, he did allow it. Bachm ann’s book is equally
disturbing, equally self-serving and not convincingly written. But, in this
case, the purpose was to show that Karajan possessed no virtue, that even as
a musician he was incompetent and evil.
Quite a few books include large chapters devoted to Karajan, of which
I would cite three that stand out for the quality of material they provide:
Maestro. Close Encounters with Conductors of Today by Helena
Matheopoulos, The Maestro Myth by Norman Lebrecht and The History of
Conducting in Theory and Practice by Elliott W. Galkin. Matheopoulos and
12
Galkin both revere Karajan and treat him with utmost respect, while
Lebrecht berates him as a principal example of the kind of image a world-
class conductor employs to obscure inadequacy and incompetence. All these
studies, however, include insightful analysis and good writing.
After reviewing these and other similar publications, one becomes
aware of a certain litany of subjects that come up again and again, often
slanted differently by different writers, but rarely increasing our
understanding of Karajan himself. Karajan told the same stories to
interviewers year after year, as though he wished to hide behind a seemingly
generous fagade of insights, but one which never grew or evolved. The real
Karajan, one suspects, lurked behind these stories. His performances
demonstrate a real evolution and transformation as he grew older, giving the
lie, perhaps, to the constancy of his public utterances.
A great deal has been written about Karajan’s relationship with the
Nazi regime, under which he worked throughout its existence. Richard
Osborne presents the latest understanding of the true facts of Karajan’s Nazi
membership in the Preface to Conversations with Karajan (which was written
in the year after Karajan’s death),10and finds that the facts as we currently
understand them accord with the version of events maintained by Karajan all
along. As he claimed, he joined the Nazi Party in 1935 in order to become
eligible for the Music Directorship of the city of Aachen, a position he held
from that year forward. Karajan frames the act entirely in terms of his
10 Richard Osborne, Conversations with Karajan (Oxford: Oxford

University Press, 1991) vi-viii.
13
opportunities to advance his own career, and challenges us to question

whether we would not have done the same thing. He was by no means
established at this time, having only held a minor position in the remote town
of Ulm and having been completely unable to find more work before the
Aachen job became available. The Aachen position promised national
recognition and the chance to work in a sophisticated cultural environment
with top-flight musicians. Karajan had reason to believe that he might never
get such an opportunity again.
Meanwhile, we have the example of Toscanini who, at the first hint of
tyranny, left his beloved Italian homeland and refused to conduct in any
Fascist country again until it was rid of its totalitarian regime. His position
was pure, unequivocal, and morally righteous. Why did Karajan fail to
realize that he had some obligation to stand up for human rights and proper
political process when musicians that he clearly knew and admired were
leaving Germany and Italy in droves?
Unlike Toscanini and many of the others who left, Karajan had
nowhere to go. Toscanini already had a well established international
reputation, as did many of the other German musicians who left at that time.
Indeed, it was Karajan’s very lack of prominence in 1935 that led him to take
the actions he did. He felt he needed the job in order to realize his profound
professional ambitions. He also felt, we might surmise, that he was not of
sufficient renown at that time to have any effect on the reputation of Nazi
culture one way or the other, whether he left or stayed.
14
In light of the Nazi’s genocidal anti-Semitism, we can easily see how

Karajan’s professional hopes pale before the moral weight of the regime his
actions helped to legitimize. We cannot, therefore, allow Karajan to escape
ownership o f the ethical implications of his choices even though we might
understand them from a personal, psychological point of view. Indeed,
Karajan’s refusal later in life to admit the error of his ways and to assume
some responsibility for his actions represents, in my view, his greatest failing.
For this, he will forever be condemned as having wronged the human
community.
Despite the controversy of his career, however, Karajan offers an ideal
opportunity to study the conductor’s craft. Two simple and obvious reasons
for this present themselves immediately: Karajan has recorded copiously,
both on audio and video formats, enabling one to study his work intensively;
and Karajan is dead, allowing one to study him in the abstract, as historical
artifact rather than deal with the complexities of an interactive subject. Many
other advantages accrue to this choice: Karajan’s conducting has been
praised for its technical consistency, allowing one to draw more general
lessons from specific instances without too much danger of elevating a
momentary idiosyncrasy to a general principle; Karajan was also a
tremendously important conductor, dominating Europe for three decades
and serving as a model for younger conductors through to the present day;
and, finally, Karajan was always quite passionate and articulate about the
work of the conductor.
15
While some critics admire the perfection of his performances, others

attack its lack of spontaneity. Meanwhile, his music has been alternately
described as hot with intensity and ice cold with calculation. Karajan surely
offers a complex object of study, possessed of a unique balance of elements
which may be more to the taste of some observers than others. This merely
shows that the terms of the present debate are woefully inadequate to do
justice to the philosophical, musical and psychological complexities of
performance analysis. For this reason I offer the philosophical and analytical
arguments and methodologies that will follow, in hopes that a more informed
and fruitful discussion of Karajan and conducting in general might become
possible.
3. A Critique
I call the scholarly study of a performance document a "critique" and I

use this word in a very specific sense. I mean to distinguish this activity from
what we generally call a "review." Performance analysis has long been the
ken of the joumalist-critic who attends concerts or listens to new releases with
the intent to write a "review" of the experience in a newspaper or periodical.
Indeed, the reviewer is normally under contract to do so and enters into the
musical environment with these commercial obligations in mind. Reviews
range in style and approach as drastically as they range in quality and insight.
However, as a class of utterances made about performances and recordings, I
16
would like to separate the critique from the common review with which the
reader is no doubt quite familiar.
Specifically, I would enumerate four particular respects in which the
review differs from the critique. First, reviews as a class have no formalized
standards or guidelines. This violates a basic premise of any scholarly
endeavor that some consistency be maintained throughout the field so that a
greater understanding might emerge from a variety o f sources working
independently but with reference to one another. Second, reviews abound
with subjective value judgments. While such judgments cannot and must not
be entirely avoided, reviews tend to depend upon such judgments for their
principal content. In short, the review usually comes down to "I liked it," or
"It was bad." Third, reviews possess no requirement of clear reasoning in
defense of a particular point of view. A contention may be given without any
factual or argued support, based, one supposes, on the sheer authority of the
critic to speak truly and wisely. And last, reviews suffer from a structural
flaw which inevitably distorts the purity of their content: they appear in
newspapers and periodicals bent upon selling as many copies as they can.
Reviewers are subject to space restrictions, editorial pressures and the ever
present thirst for entertainment and scandal of the readership. The rare
reviewer who steers clear of these many temptations probably has a short
future in the newspaper business.
The critique, having a scholarly purpose rather than a commercial
one, must avoid these four principal pitfalls. In the first place, the critique
must establish certain scholarly standards. Second, the critique must
17
systematically avoid the use of subjective value judgments. Third, it must

place due emphasis on the clarity and quality of argumentation and a solid
body of evidence. And, in the fourth place, the bottom line of the critique
must not be profit but the education of the reader and the further
understanding of the interpretive art. In the discussion to follow, I will
consider certain issues of methodology with the purpose of providing a
framework for an interesting and informative study of Karajan the
interpreter.
One might say that a study of Karajan the interpreter is, by definition,
a work of musical criticism. Unlike most musical criticism, however, the
present study purports to examine a body of musical work according to
certain explicit philosophical principles. A certain level of scholarly rigor,
therefore, follows from this ambition. The value of the ensuing analysis
depends upon the richness and general applicability of the analysis itself and
the conclusions drawn therefrom. The role of the analyst in the sort of
critique that I wish to present is to play the part of a medium between the
document and the interested reader. The medium exposes hidden facts,
identifies obscure connections and draws conclusions that have implications
for a broader understanding of music, art and human endeavor.
Because I am studying Karajan, a performer, I intend to avoid the
emphasis which criticism normally places on the perspective of the listener, or
what we call the "appreciation" of music. Indeed, sensitivity to the
performer’s point of reference is badly wanting in the critical and
philosophical literature. Only by judging what the artist actually does,
18
unencumbered by purely subjective interjections, can the critic truly

understand the aesthetic experience from the point of view of those agents
who unquestionably govern it: the composers and performers. From this
perspective, the leading issues become: why did the composer write what he
wrote, and why did the performer do as he did?
The aesthetic philosopher Susanne Langer, who plays an important
role in the philosophical discussion of this study, shows an admirable
deference to the perspective of the artist at work. She writes:
In the first place, philosophy of art should, I believe, begin in the

studio, not the gallery, auditorium, or library. Just as the philosophy of
science required for its proper development the standpoint of the scientist. . .
so the philosophy of art requires the standpoint of the artist to test the power
of its concepts and prevent empty or naive generalizations. The philosopher
must know the arts, so to speak, "from the inside."11
A great deal of wisdom can be gathered in the studios and classes of
great artists. The teachings of the world’s most accomplished performers and
composers often have the unmistakable quality of oracular wisdom. But like
all the great prophets, their words veil the exact meanings that they so
tantalizingly suggest. Philosophical confusion results when one tries to apply
systematically or over-literally the statements of these great teachers.12 The
express intent of this study is to pry open the mysteries of the great artist-
teachers, who speak from the perspective of a lifetime of performance, upon
the framework of a clear philosophical system. Moreover, it is my purpose to
demonstrate the validity of my interpretation of these teachings, and
Langer, Feeling ix.
12 For an extended example of the artist at work see Chapter 2, which
examines Karajan in rehearsal.
19
consequently o f the philosophical basis I have laid for them, by fruitfully

analyzing the actual activities of the performers.
The methodological challenge is to model the analysis used upon the
nature of the activities being analyzed. In order to avoid purely subjective
biases on the one hand, and sterile fact-finding on the other, the approach of
this study depends upon an organic unity of the nature of my subject and the
manner in which I study it. Ludwig Wittgenstein, the eccentric though
brilliant Austrian language philosopher, offers a conception of philosophical
activity with valuable parallels to the analytical work of this study. As an
accomplished musician and architect himself, belonging to a family immersed
in the highest cultural values, including his brother, the famous left-handed
pianist Paul Wittgenstein, Ludwig had ample access to the internal processes
of an artist at work.
Because Wittgenstein brought into question the most fundamental
issues of language, which is the very tool of philosophy, he felt the need to
establish a new model of philosophical work. He argues that philosophy is an
activity rather than a body of knowledge or a series of revered questions; it is
a process of discovery which every philosopher explores independently. In
one’s own activity, by this model, one looks carefully at the world and
examines the language that is used to describe it, thereby refining at the same
time one’s perception of the world as well as one’s thought and discourse
about it.
Wittgenstein differs from philosophical tradition in several important
respects. By stressing the importance of process in philosophical thought,
20
Wittgenstein de-emphasizes the actual results of philosophy. Wittgenstein

rejects the notion that philosophy should seek some particular conclusion,
such as the elusive Platonic ideals which traditional philosophy has sought in
a variety of guises since the idea was proposed in ancient times. On the
contrary, Wittgenstein argued that no such ideal exists, or at least that it is
not the purpose of philosophy to find it. "Don’t think, but look,"
Wittgenstein perversely admonishes us.13
But Wittgenstein’s ’looking’ suggests something rather special.
Wittgenstein means for us to look very closely and see what the casual
observer fails to notice. And this sort of looking becomes a kind of therapy,
a language therapy, through which we acquire a heightened sensitivity to the
grammar and usage of language, and through which the traditional mistakes
of philosophical thought can be made to disappear.14 Like psychiatric
therapy or physical therapy, philosophical therapy is most important as a
process which takes place over an extended period of time, during which
fundamental problems are slowly eroded until, which happens periodically,
great breakthroughs occur. But the breakthroughs would be inconceivable
without the arduous process of therapy that precede them.
In this way, therapy is rather like the Zen technique of the koan, with
which, incidentally, Karajan was quite familiar. The Zen master gives the
13 Wittgenstein, Investigations, trans. G.E.M. Anscombe (New York:
MacMillan, 1968) 31 (section 66).
14 Wittgenstein, Investigations 51 (section 133): "For the clarity we are
aiming at is indeed complete clarity. But this simply means that the
philosophical problems should com pletely disappear There is not a
philosophical method, though there are indeed methods, like different
therapies."
21
novice an anecdote that appears nonsensical by normal logical standards.

The student meditates upon the apparently meaningless story at great length,
sometimes for many years at a stretch, until, like a stroke of lightning, its
"solution" becomes suddenly very clear.15 The Zen master knows the student
has understood the koan when the student responds to the story with a
certain demonstration, and only the very demonstration that has served the
same koan for hundreds of years. The response itself is not very important,
but the process of coming to understand how the koan and its "solution" are
integrally and inviolably related lies at the crux of the spiritual growth of the
novice.
The Zen technique of the koan loosely parallels what Wittgenstein has
in mind when he speaks of the therapeutic nature of philosophy, but in
philosophy the material is much more mundane. The purpose of the koan is
not to discover some intricately logical solution to a puzzle, but to strip away
the fog of daily life and see the anecdote simply and clearly for the first time.
Likewise, in Wittgenstein we contemplate basic utterances of language and
determine their meaning, their clarity, their true function in their cultural
context. The proof of Wittgenstein’s proposals are in his pudding—like the
15 This idea of meditation is the subject of one of Karajan’s favorite

Zen stories about a novice who was having difficult maintaining his
concentration while meditating. So the Zen master asked him what his
favorite animal was, and the boy replied, "buffalo." The Zen master then told
him to go into his teepee and meditate on buffalo. Several days later, when
the boy had not yet emerged from his teepee, the Zen master looked in on the
boy, who was still concentrating deeply, and asked why he had not come out.
The boy answered, "I cannot come out, for my homs are too wide!"
22
Zen master, Wittgenstein draws great insights from the most mundane
utterances.16
Musical analysis parallels Wittgenstein’s linguistic analysis. By
focusing upon the logical form of the musical passage and asking sharply
defined questions about its structure, use and meaning, revelations of a koan-
like force are possible. Indeed, this is precisely the activity of the interpreter.
The performer examines the musical text left by the composer and seeks to
find the forms, gestures and ideas lurking within. What we discover when we
analyze a piece of music, for example-its form, its treatment of harmony and
melody, and so on—becomes secondary to the very process of our immersion
into the piece itself. This immersion brings revelation. These revelations are
not factual but conceptual. We do not discover information, but unexpected
conceptual relations between things.
But what do we do when we analyze a piece? In one sense, we 'look
and see" as Wittgenstein would have us do. Analysis is a sort of structured
looking, a methodical observation of actual musical materials. We examine
the harmonies and classify them, as we do with formal elements, and rhythms
and features of orchestration and phrasing. What we find, the m inutiae of
the work’s composition, is not what gives purpose to our labors, but the very
process of analysis itself. Not our knowledge about the work, but our deep
level understanding of it lends the process its meaning. Over time, this
16 Wittgenstein, Investigations 48 (section 119): "The results of

philosophy are the uncovering of one or another piece of plain nonsense and
of bumps that the understanding has got by running its head up against the
limits of language. These bumps make us see the value of the discovery."
23
analytical process serves as a form of therapy in the same sense intended by

Wittgenstein. We increase our understanding of how musical materials relate
to one another, how our musical responses relate to one another, and, most
significantly, how the musical materials relate to our musical responses.
Slowly, we begin to see the connections between one thing and another. We
begin to fathom the mechanism which carries music’s expressive power.
Intimacy with the details of the score in all its aspects leads to revelation, just
as it does with the koan. In a flash, we comprehend the composer’s idea.
The critic must examine the documents left by the performer in the
same way. Karajan has been subjected to countless analyses in the presses
and cafes o f the western world. The scholar, however, must take
Wittgenstein’s rigor and apply it to the document that remains behind: the
audio or video recording. In doing so, however, the scholar will discover
nothing truly new. The rigor of the analysis, and the precision of insight
brought to bear on the musical document are required for a much more basic
purpose:
The aspects of things that are most important for us are hidden
because of their simplicity and familiarity. (One is unable to notice
something—because it is always before one’s eyes.) The real foundations of
his enquiry do not strike a man at all. Unless that fact has at some time
struck him.--And this means: we fail to be struck by what, once seen, is most
striking and most powerful.17
Karajan’s recordings, for example, are everywhere. Most critics alive
today grew up with his recordings and performances in their ears. The goal
of musical therapy is to hear Karajan afresh, to imagine what this music
17 Wittgenstein, Investigations 50 (section 129).
24
sounds like without all the resonances of past criticism and prejudice. The
scholar must differ from the casual judge precisely by eliminating the "noise"
around the object of study. The scholar must hear only Karajan.
David Zinman, conductor of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra,
adds additional nuance to the analytical process which he uses to prepare for
his performances. He calls it "fantasy."18 Through analysis of the score, he
seeks to arrive at a mental vision of the work in all its detail as well as its
broadest strokes. Like a daydream, Zinman imagines the score realized with
the greatest possible immediacy and specificity. Thus is bom a musical
interpretation.
At root, musical fantasy is nothing more than a sophisticated
refinement of the faculty of musical listening. When we hear a performance
our musical fantasy is externally engaged by the performance itself. Without
the capacity for musical fantasy we would hear tones but would not recognize
ideas. As one becomes more familiar with music and more cognizant of its
conventions and patterns, the ability to identify and respond to meaning
within the musical texture develops. In persons of great musical talent, this
skill can be so extended that one can create a performance rich in feeling and
nuance purely within one’s own mind, with no external input apart from the
score itself.
If musical fantasy is, so to speak, the muscle of musical understanding,
then the object of analysis is the flexing of this muscle. We exercise it,
18 Zinman used the word in a masterclass I attended in College Park,

Maryland in November, 1989.
25
strengthen it and, as result, heighten our sensitivity and intelligence about the
musical process as a whole: like a therapy. Listening, not surprisingly, is the
central activity of music. Whether you are a composer developing a
compositional idea, a performer imagining a musical piece, an audience
member taking in a concert, or even an academic preparing a class on chorale
harmonizations: your expertise depends upon the faculty of listening. The
degree to which this faculty is developed relates directly to the degree of one’s
musical understanding.
Whereas the novice depends upon the actual sounds of performance
to excite musical fantasy, musical literacy enables the musician to listen
mentally--to engage in a musical fantasy inspired not by sound but by direct
intercourse with the composer’s notation, the score. We call this activity
musical analysis. The ultimate aim of musical analysis is the total command
of the score by the inner ear. By this I mean that the analyst mentally
conjures up the score in the greatest possible detail~not just the succession of
harmonies or melodies, but the voicing of chords, the sonorities of
instruments, the proper dynamics, along with phrasing, breath and structure.
The interpretive process, which will be discussed in detail in Chapter 2, is
merely an extension of the analytical process into the realm o f fantasy. The
interpreter passes seamlessly from the details of the score into the imaginative
act o f fantasy. This is what distinguishes the gifted performer as an artist,
rather than merely a very skilled craftsman. In concert, the performer brings
to concrete fulfillment a fantasy that began as mere analysis.
26
It may be less evident that the theorist, too, must strive toward
fantasy. Responsible musical fantasy reveals the guiding idea which music
symbolically presents. To understand a work, and the motivating principle of
the composer in writing it, the theorist needs to recognize the musical idea
symbolically expressed therein. From the idea, a connection can be
discovered between the craft and the art of the composer. Without fantasy
this connection is unknowable. Our knowledge of it depends upon our
familiarity with the mental mechanism which leads from the guiding idea to
the musical notation.
Musical criticism, or the activity of evaluating performances, also
requires the fantasy of the artist. The legitimate critic knows the score as well
as the performer. With him, too, analysis leads to fantasy. He imagines what
he would like to hear in an ideal performance. The critic, however, has the
special responsibility to attempt to understand the fantasies of the artists
whose work he studies. The critic must have the capacity to sympathize with
the artistic orientation of the performer, and to assess the performer on his
own terms. The critic must be able to see the intrinsic value (or its absence) of
an interpretation before he is competent to judge it. Just as Wittgenstein
would certainly argue that an inarticulate person cannot do philosophy, so
one can argue that a person with no capacity for this specialized form of
fantasy cannot "do" criticism.
The critique, therefore, takes the view of the artist in the studio, rather
than the audience. The critic examines the score left by the composer and
engages in an analysis of the deepest sort which yeilds revelatory insights into
27
the composer's intentions. The critic employs his capacity for fantasy to
imagine a fully formed and articulated performance. To this point, the critic
and the performer cannot be distinguished. The performer then brings the
idea to concrete fulfillment in performance, by making an interpretation and
projecting it outward to the listener. The critic, in turn, makes a good faith
effort to capture the performer’s idea in his own net of musical fantasy. The
critic must adapt his own thinking, adjust for his own biases, and attempt to
see the composer’s idea in light of the performer’s interpretation. The degree
to which the critic can adopt the performer’s relation to the score is the
degree to which the critic has understood the performance. This superhuman
effort on the part of the critic represents a second phase of analysis, this time
of the performance rather than the score, which forms a second level of
therapy, generates new types of revelation and excites a different sort of
musical fantasy. Having completed this process, the critic then turns to his
readers and shows the way, remarks at the connections and reveals that piece
of truth his troubles have managed to uncover. At this juncture, the critic
must bring to bear his own particular genius, experience and musical
authority, whatever that may be. The critic may conclude that the
performer’s efforts were deeply misguided or incompetently executed. Such
determinations are fully within the critic’s prerogative, but approach
dangerously close to the slippery slope of subjective value judgment. To
retain a degree of scholarly precision and purity, the critic must present his
judgments carefully and persuasively.
28
In this regard, the critic much resembles a judge sitting on the U.S.
Supreme Court. The High Court settles legal disputes and renders opinions
which become the law of the land. The opinion itself consists of an often
lengthy rational argument which may support one side of the dispute, or may
find a middle ground between the two poles represented in the dispute.
Though the Court depends upon the U.S. Constitution, most would agree
that in a given case the Constitution might be interpreted in a variety of ways.
The authority of the Court rests in the integrity of its Constitutional power
and the persuasiveness of the rational arguments disposed to justify the
Court’s ruling.
In many ways, interpretation of the Constitution offers similarities to
the interpretation o f a score, except that the score contains even greater
latitude in possible meaning. A particular performer comes to the concert
hall arguing a certain interpretation of the score. Implicitly, she competes
with all other performers who have brought their own interpretations to the
same forum. The critic evaluates these interpretations, much as a justice of
the Supreme Court might. What the critic concludes is also, like the Court, a
mere opinion. It may be overruled by future reverses of course, and it admits
to the possibility of reasonable disagreement. The authority of the opinion,
like the Court, resides in two aspects alone: the musical integrity of the critic
himself, and the persuasiveness with which the critic expresses his opinion.
The analogy o f the Supreme Court properly underlines the importance
of both the critic’s perceptiveness and the rigor of his case, but it fails to
capture the essence o f the critic’s responsibility to his readership. While the
29
Supreme Court makes law, and has the fundamental responsibility of sitting
in judgment of matters relating to the Constitution, the critic by no means
makes laws nor does he sit in judgment. The critic, rather, is teacher. He
teaches music students, music audiences and fellow scholars. This capacity as
teacher far outweighs the critic’s capacity as judge. The idea that music critics
serve on some high court of taste is anathema to the richness of artistic
diversity. The critic’s true role, on the contrary, is to educate his fellow
citizens not in taste but in understanding.
Because the process is more important than its results, the scholar
should not fall into the trap of believing that he can discover and disseminate
the final solutions to musical puzzles. The scholar can only lead each student
toward their own path of discovery. This means, in this case, that I cannot
pass decisive judgment upon Herbert von Karajan as an interpreter. While I
may have my own opinion on the subject, as a scholar I can only present a
way of thinking about Karajan’s work that will lead the reader to make as
wise an assessment as he is capable. I profess to offer no answers, but rather
a way of thinking. I suggest a process, an activity, a frame of mind.
I do not deem myself competent, in any event, to serve as final judge
upon the fantasy which Karajan or his colleagues have generated for a
musical piece. After all, the recordings I analyze were all the work of very
mature performers of the greatest possible experience, who are esteemed as
being among the greatest artists of their time. Who am I, or any other critic
for that matter, to judge their understanding of the musical idea? Thankfully,
the purpose o f the present study diverges from the usual role of the critic. My
30
goal is not to evaluate Karajan and his colleagues, but rather to use their
work as a way of understanding the nature of the interpreter in general. I am
assuming, therefore, that Karajan was an exemplary interpreter, who offers a
true picture of what we understand by interpretation in today’s musical
environment. Rather than assuming that Karajan has flaws or idiosyncrasies
which it is my duty to expose, I assume the opposite: that Karajan represents
a more or less pure example of the interpreter. To protect myself against
whatever idiosyncrasies Karajan might have, I also examine the work of some
of his colleagues, whom I treat with equal deference.
The role of the critic which I have assumed is a demanding one. In
many ways, it is also doomed to inadequacy: I cannot reveal any answers, but
only make suggestions about how the reader might further develop his
capacity of musical analysis and fantasy. But whatever revelations result
from the mutual efforts of the readers and myself, they would not be possible
without the philosophical groundwork laid by Susanne Langer and Ludwig
Wittgenstein.
The philosophical issues will be discussed in some depth in Chapter
One. I will then develop the distinction between those aspects of a
performance which are fixed by the notation and those open to interpretation
in Chapter Two, in order to define with precision the actual parameters of the
interpreter’s work. Then I will investigate the nature of the conductor’s
physical technique, in order to develop a better understanding of how the
interpretive mind of the conductor translates into musical results. Chapter
Two will conclude with a detailed analysis of Karajan’s video recording of a
31
rehearsal of Schumann’s Sym phony N o. 4. This reveals Karajan’s mind at

work and demonstrates the nature of the language which Karajan uses to
express his musical ideas, a feature which becomes very important in light of
our discussion of Wittgenstein’s philosophy of language.
Chapters Three through Six concern themselves entirely with
performances of the Beethoven symphonies. In Chapter Three I give an
overview of the seven cycles that serve as the basis for what follows,
particularly with regard to the raging debate on Beethoven’s metronome
markings. These cycles include the four complete cycles recorded by Karajan,
and one cycle each from Toscanini, Furtwangler and Abbado. Chapter Four
takes up issues relating to musical texture in Beethoven’s First and Third
symphonies; Chapter Five addresses musical ground in the Fourth and Sixth
symphonies; and Chapter Six concerns itself with musical gesture as shown in
performances of the Seventh and Ninth symphonies. There follows a brief
conclusion in which implications of the present study are suggested and
explored for the profession of conducting as a whole.
Chapter I: Philosophical Models
In order to speak fruitfully about the nature of music, we must accept

that in some way it carries meaning. I do not mean that music carries
meaning in exactly the same way as does language: Susanne Langer rightly
warns us to avoid this treacherous error.1 Rather, music carries meaning in
precisely such a way that language cannot; and this is why humankind has
developed both forms. They supplement and augment one another. We
must be extraordinarily careful, therefore, to apply the notion of meaning to
music in only those ways which are apt, rather than as if language and music
use the same mechanisms and convey the same content, which they do not.
Despite their differences, the common fact that both forms, language
and music, communicate ideas within the human community requires that we
carefully investigate the nature of meaning. The great twentieth century
language philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein recognized for the first time that
the traditional understanding of meaning that can be traced through
Descartes and Augustine back to the Ancient Greeks failed to account for
difficulties fermenting at the most basic level of language. The same difficulty
exists for the same reasons in any philosophy of art that admits to the idea of
meaning, including Langeris own.
1 While Langer carefully avoids the term "meaning" in musical

contexts, she does so primarily to avert a simplistic analogy between music
and language. See Langer, Feeling 31-32.
33
1. Wittgenstein and the Problem of Meaning
Wittgenstein demands to know in the deepest possible way: how does

meaning get started? He calls into question the nature of the original relation
between words and what they mean. Wittgenstein does not worry about why
we say a particular word, like "chair," when we refer to an object. Rather, he
is interested in how any word can be associated with any meaning. When we
hear "chair" in a sentence, for example, how do we understand it? If someone
were to say to me, "I was in a furniture store and saw the most beautiful
chair." What do I understand by this sentence? I have never seen this chair,
and for all I know it resembles no chair I have ever seen. So how can I
appreciate my companion’s sentence? Yet I do understand it. The problem
that Wittgenstein saw afresh lay embedded in our structure of assumptions
about language and the world. Plato had argued that we understand a word
when we grasp the ideal for which the word stands. To understand "chair,"
we arrive at the concept of "chaimess," or "chair" as an ideal form. The
definitions we associate with words approach this ideal—"chaimess" includes
a seat, four legs and a backrest, for example.
Wittgenstein punctured the idea that concepts, whether they be
propositionally or symbolically expressed, have a fixed relation to some
objective ideal form. He looked at the way children learn language and
abstracted from that how meaning might have started at the beginnings of
34
human civilization.2 He found that no model of learning based upon the

principle of objective ideals could satisfactorily explain how children or
cultures leam to use language. He demonstrates the principle by arguing that
we can imagine chairs which have no legs, or no backrest, or even no seat
(like the chair of a committee).
Descartes established the modem philosophical method with his
famous words"Cogito ergo sum ” Modem philosophy, consequently,
became firmly rooted in introspection. This model of philosophy was based
on the presumption based in ancient thought that behind every word lay an a
priori ideal form of the object or idea so named. The modem philosopher
could ask himself, "what is truth," knowing that some objective ideal existed
for that concept, if only he could precisely define it and therefore illuminate
it.
Wittgenstein destroyed the Cartesian method by changing the way we
view language. A word did not refer to some elusive yet ultimately objective
ideal. Wittgenstein argued, to the contrary, that m eaning is use. A word was
nothing more than how people used that word. Wittgenstein viewed the
question of "what is truth" as ultimately nonsensical, because no objective
form exists for "truth" and, consequently, the question has no answer.3
2 Wittgenstein, Investigations 4 (section 5): "It disperses the fog to
study the phenomena of language in primitive kinds o f application in which
one can command a clear view of the aim and functioning of the words. A
child uses such primitive forms of language when it learns to talk. Here the
teaching of language is not explanation, but training."
Wittgenstein, Investigations 48 (section 116): "When philosophers
use a word--"knowledge", "being", "object", "I", "proposition", "name"-and
try to grasp the essence of the thing, one must always ask oneself: is the word
ever actually used in this way in the language-game which is its original
35
Instead, he would ask, "what do I mean when I say that such-and-such is

true?" The relations of words to their meanings remain in constant flux,
depending upon culture, context and use. Meaning, for Wittgenstein, is
firmly and resolutely entrenched in the world of activity.
Wittgenstein’s philosophical model fundamentally alters the way
philosophers do their work. Descartes locked himself in his study and
introspectively sought the Platonic forms and objective knowledge.
Wittgenstein thrust open the study doors and went out into the world to see
how words were used in the living marketplace of human interaction. His
favorite expression when confronted with a philosophical problem was "look
and see."4
The job of philosophy was not to discover the tmths of the universe;
that, he said, was the province of the scientist. Rather, the philosopher’s duty
was to clarify what we already know. The philosopher must look at the
world around him and clarify the actual quantities found. The philosopher
must sharpen the tools of language, perfect his understanding of the use of
words, and use those words to describe exactly and precisely the relations of
things in the world. Wittgenstein writes:
We must do away with all explanation, and description alone must

take its place. And this description gets its light, that is to say its purpose,
from the philosophical problems. They are, of course, not empirical
problems; they are solved rather, by looking into the workings of our
home? What we do is to bring words back from their metaphysical to their
everyday use."
Wittgenstein, Investigations 31 (section 66). Also see section 340:
"One cannot guess how a word functions. One has to look at its use and
learn from that."
36
language, and that in such a way as to make us recognize those workings: in

despite o/[sic] an urge to misunderstand them. The problems are solved, not
by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known.
Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of
language."
This procedure inverts the order in which traditional philosophy
operated. Traditional thinkers start with an intuition about the ideal form,
an actual shape, toward which the imperfect forms of the real world aspire.
The philosopher sought to eliminate randomness and imperfection of certain
concepts by approaching what he believed would turn out to be the ideal
form.
Wittgenstein takes an unlimited view of the world, in all its richness of
cultural forms, epoches and anomalies, and understands meaning strictly
according to the patterns that emerge from this dense fabric. There is no
ideal form toward which the real world concepts aspire, but rather the
spontaneous use o f words and the interaction of different people in different
times and in different circumstances describe a vast and interconnected set of
relations. Ideas connected in this way Wittgenstein describes as "family
resemblances": related but unique members of a common circle of concepts.6
Paradoxically enough, recent work in the sciences adds a powerful
dimension to Wittgenstein’s view. The exploration of chaos,7 which is
quickly becoming an established field of science in its own right, has brought
5 Wittgenstein, Investigations 47 (section 109).

^ Wittgenstein, Investigations 32 (section 67).
7 See James Gleick, Chaos, Making a New Science (New York:
Penguin Books, 1987), a national best-seller, for a complete discussion of
chaos. Gleick expresses the view that this science seeks the ideal form which
governs chaos. But if it succeeds, it does so only at the Wittgensteinian cost
of transforming the nature of that ideal.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited w ithout permission.
37
to light a model of real phenomena very similar to Wittgenstein’s model of

concepts. Chaos specialists study the patterns and shapes of matter and
events which defy linear analysis. The patterns of fluid dynamics in a
turbulent sea, or the irregular cycles of the stock market or cotton prices, or
the rise and fall of animal populations, all come under the auspices of the
study of chaos. The startling revelation of the science of chaos has been that
these phenomena, when mapped and studied by powerful computers, appear
to possess some internal form.
It has been posited that this internal order suggests the existence of a
holistic organizing principle which applies even to random and chaotic
events—an ideal form of complexity. But current evidence rather reinforces
the Wittgensteinian view. These patterns, which are transformed graphically
by computers into vast and fascinating shapes, are no more than the sum
total of a dense dust of unrelated points. The internal shapes which combine
to make the whole picture, for example, are all similar in appearance to one
another, on all levels of structure, but no two internal shapes are identical.
No scientific model could more poetically describe Wittgenstein’s idea of
"family resemblances.”
Unlike the linear properties of stable matter, chaotic matter does not
possess an equilibrium, an ideal form. Chaos produces an infinite number of
unique points, which combine to make a picture of discernible shape. But
this shape is infinitely deep and infinitely variegated, with infinite surface
area. No two points, when entered into the computer’s program, will follow
38
a pattern, but both points will participate in the whole shape that emerges
only after thousands of points have been entered.
Wittgenstein anticipated this scientific model when he proposed to
view language as a great human edifice of infinite variety and infinite
variability. Rather than start with a hard shape, an objective ideal form, the
concept rather emerges as a complex entity with all sorts of edges, cubbies
and trap doors.8 The meaning of an utterance, then, cannot be externally
defined, but depends upon the specific context of its use.
By asserting that meaning is use, Wittgenstein argues that how a
sentence is understood depends upon the context in which it is uttered. By
rejecting the notion that words have fixed relations with fixed concepts, he
arrives at the paradox of the origin of meaning: how did words come to
communicate anything at all?
To dissolve this paradox, Wittgenstein constructs an elaborate but
profound analogy which equates understanding a language with knowing
how to play chess. He is interested in understanding what we do, cognitively,
when we obey a rule. Obeying a rule in chess, he posits, is analogous to
speaking a language, or, as he would say, "playing the language game." He
discovers that when we play chess we simply play. We do not, in any self-
conscious way, obey a series of rules:
8 Wittgenstein, Investigations 82 (section 203): "Language is a

labyrinth of paths. You approach from one side and you know your way
about; you approach the same place from another side and no longer know
your way about."
39
Where is the sense of connexion effected between the sense of the

expression "Let’s play a game of chess" and all the rules of the game?--Well, in
the list of the rules of the game, in the teaching of it, in the day-to-day
practice of playing.
But how can a rule shew [sic] me what I have to do at this point?. . .
any interpretation [of the rule] still hangs in the air along with what it
interprets, and cannot give it any support. Interpretations by themselves do
not determine meaning.
. . . What this shews is that there is a way of grasping a rule which is
not an interpretation, but which is exhibited in what we call "obeying the
rule" and "going against it" in actual cases.
. . . And hence also ’obeying a rule’ is a practice. And to think one is
obeying a rule is not to obey a rule.9
When we use language, we speak according to rules of the game, such
as our grammar, how we were taught the language as children, and according
to our daily contact with the language. But at any given point, we might ask
how we can understand a given sentence that is before us. What rule could
we apply to understand it? Wittgenstein argues that we do not apply a rule to
understand the sentence at all—that is a false model of our real activity—we
simply obey the rule. Understanding language does not consist in
interpreting the rules thereof, but of simply obeying the rule as a matter of
daily practice. Indeed, the rule itself is a ruse. Our use of language depends
only upon our practices and conventions of use.
The paradox of the origin of meaning dissolves because it was based
upon the false assumption that meaning began by the formulation of rules of
use. On the contrary, use preceded rules. Rules are merely the description of
our practice. Language is a complex system of conventions, according to
which we understand each other in the particular circumstances of our
interactions. It began, perhaps, with the most primitive sorts of grunts and
9 Wittgenstein. Investigations 80-81 (sections 197-202).
40
gestures. It evolved into a highly differentiated labyrinth of practices and

conventions.
2. Langer and the Anim alSymbolicum
Langer’s philosophy of music, which she regards as the starting point

of a total philosophy of art, relates feeling and form as integral aspects of
each other. Consequently, she sums up her philosophical view of music this
way:
The tonal structures we call "music" bear a close logical similarity to
the forms of human feeling—forms of growth and attenuation, flowing and
stowing, conflict and resolution, speed, arrest, terrific excitement, calm, or
subtle activation and dreamy lapses-not joy and sorrow perhaps, but the
poignancy of either and both-the greatness and brevity and eternal passing
of everything vitally felt. Such is the pattern, or logical form, of sentience;
and the pattern of music is that same form worked out in pure, measured
sound and silence. Music is a tonal analogue of emotive life.
This beautifully stated summary seems to capture the real business of
musical expression in its true light. Langer’s explanation avoids the notion
that music merely arouses emotions in the manner of the simplest emotivist
theories, and yet allows for an intimacy and intensity of feeling to arise in the
artistic context that the purists alone cannot explain.11
Langer was a protege of Ernst Cassirer, a German philosopher who
emigrated to the United States after Hitler came to power, late in his career.
Langer, Feeling 27.
1 For a fuller explanation of her theory, the reader is advised to
become familiar with Langer’s Philosophy in a New Key, 3rd Ed.
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979), which lays out the
philosophical background for her views, and Feeling and Form, cited in the
Introduction, which generates a total theory of art from the first book.
41
Cassirer’s towering achievement, completed in 1929, was the multi-volumed

work The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms.12in which he put forth a theory of
cognitive development which began deep in humankind’s prehistory and
extended to the present.
Cassirer contends that human cognition, in its natural mode, is based
on the perception and communication of symbolic forms. He writes:
Between the receptor system and the effector system, which are to be
found in all animal species, we find in man a third link which we may describe
as the sym bolic system . This new acquisition transforms the whole of human
life. As compared with the other animals man lives not merely in a broader
reality; he lives, so to speak, in a new dimension of reality. . . . No
longer in a merely physical universe, man lives in a symbolic universe.
Language, myth, art, and religion are parts of this universe. They are the
varied threads which weave the symbolic net, the tangled web of human
experience.13
The human animal is not a naturally rational beast. Logic, the modem
science of reason, came very late in human development. According to
Cassirer, this development led not so much from false notions to truer ones,
as from more primitive states to more advanced-all equally "symbolic" in
their fundamental structure. He writes:
Reason is a very inadequate term with which to comprehend the forms
of man’s cultural life in all their richness and variety. But all these forms are
symbolic forms. Hence, instead of defining man as an anim alrationale, we
should define him as an animalsymbolicum. By doing so we can designate
his specific difference, and we can understand the new way open to man—the
way to civilization.
12 Ernst Cassirer, The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms, trans. Ralph

Manheim, 3 vols. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1953).
13 Ernst Cassirer, An Essay on Man (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1970) 24-25.
14 Cassirer, Essay 26.
42
Just because humans evolved new symbolic forms over time does not
mean that the older ones fell completely away. Art, argues Cassirer and
Langer after him, is one symbolic form which has continued to flourish and
grow alongside language. It is only by understanding art as a parallel
symbolic form that we can understand how ideas can be conveyed in music as
they are in language, while the content of the utterance and the manner of its
expression are so vastly different. And it is in this way that we can
understand that, while both forms are immensely meaningful in their own
way, neither form can be transmuted, translated or reduced into the other.
Cassirer’s idea of the anim alsym bolicus requires a special
understanding of the word "symbol.” Cassirer goes to great pains to dispel
any confusion:
All the phenomena which are commonly described as conditioned
reflexes are not merely very far from but even opposed to the essential
character of human symbolic thought. Symbols—in the proper sense of this
term—cannot be reduced to mere signals. Signals and symbols belong to two
different universes of discourse: a signal is a part of the physical world of
being; a symbol is part of the human world of meaning. 5
Contrary to common usage, therefore, a symbol does not "stand for" an idea,
but "articulates" and "presents" concepts.16
If humankind is truly an anim alsymbolicus, then the art form of
music must have some symbolic aspect according to which it is understood.
Langer’s task is to show the manner in which sonic events become vitally felt
by the listener-by which these acoustical phenomena become symbolic of
anything at all. Langer suggests five conditions which are necessary and
Cassirer, Essay 32.
16 Langer, Feeling 26.
43
sufficient to create the artistic symbol. The first condition requires that the
symbol share a common logical form with that which it symbolizes:
Such formal analogy, or congruence of logical structures, is the prime
requisite for the relation between a symbol and whatever it is to mean. TTie
symbol and the object symbolized must have some common logical form. 7
Langer believes, moreover, that the formal significance of the artwork
lies in making the symbol "a highly articulated sensuous object, which by
virtue of its dynamic structure can express the forms of vital experience which
language is peculiarly unfit to convey."18 The second condition of the artistic
symbol is, therefore, that it present or express specifically the forms of feeling,
for which its is especially apt.
The artistic symbol does not occur as an accident of nature. The
artistic symbol is created through craftsmanship, by an artist who has the
intention of creating just such a symbol. This gives rise to the third condition
of the artistic symbol, the intention of the artist to create one. Of course, the
artist need not be philosophically aware of the symbol as such, but
nonetheless creates willfully and ingeniously a work of art which symbolically
conveys the forms of feeling. Indeed, it is a matter of definition for Langer:
"Art is the creation of forms symbolic of human feeling."19
The fourth condition requires that art objects stand out from everyday
objects, so that they may be understood in the appropriate symbolic context:
Every real work of art has a tendency to appear thus disassociated
from its mundane environment. The most immediate impression it creates is
| 7 Langer, Feeling 27.

8 Langer, Eeeling 32.
19 Langer, Feeling 40.
44
one of "otherness" from reality—the impression of an illusion enfolding the

thing, action, statement, or flow of sound that constitutes the work.
. . . This detachment from actuality, the "otherness" that gives even a
bona fide product like a building or a vase some aura of illusion, is a crucial
factor, indicative of the very nature of art.20
By virtue of this feeling of "otherness," the artwork distinguishes itself from
the normal flow of life and calls upon the beholder to operate in a different
symbolic mode while perceiving it.
The intention of making a symbol on the part of the artist is not
sufficient for a work of art, for it must also be understood. Understanding
on the part of the beholder, therefore, represents the fifth and last condition
of the artistic symbol. Langer writes:
An articulate form, however, must be clearly given and understood
before it can convey any import, especially where there is no conventional
reference whereby the import is assigned to it as its unequivocal meaning, but
the congruence of the symbolic form and the form of some vital experience
must be directly perceived by the force of G estalt alone.21
The five necessary conditions for the artistic symbol, therefore, are: 1)
the symbol shares a common logical form with that which it symbolizes, 2)
the symbol presents forms symbolic of human feeling, 3) the symbol is created
intentionally by the artist, 4) the symbol possesses the distinctive quality of
"otherness," and 5) the symbol is consequently understood by the beholder.
The power of Cassirer’s idea of the anim alsym bolicus, and of
Langer’s examination of that animal in the artistic sphere, consists in the
fluidity allowed between the symbol and the idea. As the symbol does not
behave in the "stands for" relation with what it symbolizes, the creator of
symbols exercises the greatest freedom in choosing his mode of expression,
20 Langer, Feeling 45-46.
21 Langer, Feeling 59 (my emphasis).
45
and the beholder of the articulated symbol might understand it in any

number of ways. This understanding will be related to the creator’s intent,
but not determined fixedly by it.
This fluidity derives from the fundamental difference between the
symbolic and prepositional modes. If a series of proper syllogisms were
presented which related a to h, and h to £, then we could deduce c from
knowing a and h, or we could deduce a from knowing h and £. The flow
from a to £, or the reverse flow from £ to a, is fixed by rigid and inflexible laws
of causality. This is the essence of prepositional thought.
But imagine a dream sequence in which event a was followed by event
h, which was followed in turn by event £. No longer can we assume that by
knowing a and h we can predict £, nor could we deduce a from knowing h
and £. This is because the causal relation between adjacent terms is based on
free association, rather than upon logical rigor. When I wake from such a
dream, I marvel at the randomness of its events, but I have understood the
dream when I understand at some level how these events led from one to the
other. I say "cream cheese" and one person thinks of the moon, another
thinks of a dairy cow, and a third is reminded of his own poverty ("I never get
to eat cream cheese"). We can see how these different ideas relate to that
which prompted them, despite their outward appearance of randomness.
Such is the structure of our dreams, and our response to ink blots and the
like. There is logic to our associations, but not the kind o f logic from which
propositions are made.
46
In music, as in dreams and other non-propositional symbolic modes, a

leads to h according to a process of symbolic transformation. One idea is
transformed into the next. Cream cheese becomes the moon, and the moon
cream cheese: we can eat the moon. Likewise, Jesus becomes God: all-
powerful, yet still made of the flesh; a sinner, human, and capable of pain and
death. One idea merges with another, both ideas cross-pollinate and
multiply. Certain aspects of each idea are developed, others are not. None of
this proceeds according to a firm and immutable rule, but whimsically,
according to the fancy of the wielder of the symbol.
The creative artist indulges in such fancy, and is considered great when
his whimsy forges powerful symbolic ideas that resonate with the beholders
of his art. So, too, does the beholder play a fanciful role. One can take the
ideas of the artist in any number of ways, according to one’s own relation to
the ideas expressed. In one listener, the idea might bring great joy; in another,
great sorrow; in a third, indifference and boredom.
The nature of symbolic transformation, both from the idea to the
symbol in the artist, and from the symbol to the idea in the beholder, is fluid.
None o f it can be predicted in advance, just as the laws of physics are
powerless to explain the unique phenomena of dreams. But the analysis of
the artistic experience depends upon our ability to see in retrospect the fluid
and associative logic that led the artist to the specific symbol, and the listener
to the specific response that we call the aesthetic experience.
Let us return for a moment to the primary concern raised by
Wittgenstein: the original relation between musical sound and the ideas they
47
symbolically express. Precisely this represents the point of intersection

between the Wittgensteinian problem of meaning and a philosophy of art. A
dissonance might be sonically more intense than most consonances, for
example, and it might consequently play a particular part in some symbolic
form of an idea about feeling. But Wittgenstein’s question would be: how did
this come to be so? Where and by what means did this relation between a
sonic event and a feeling or idea begin? Wittgenstein asks how sounds and
ideas ever came to be associated with one another in the first place. In this,
he approaches the very roots of cognition, of how the human mind works.
Heinrich Schenker, the brilliant polemicist, editor and music theorist
from the first part of the twentieth century (and an older contemporary of
Wittgenstein), held the view that there was one set of laws that governed
musical art. These laws were perfected by the masters Bach, Haydn, Mozart,
Beethoven and lastly Brahms. The music written before Bach was evolving
toward the golden age of music, and everything written since Brahms
represents its decline.22 The masters wrote according to natural laws, called
by Schenker "the necessities of tonal life."23
By appealing to the harmonic series, a natural acoustical phenomenon
important to the way tones are heard, Schenker argues that the principles of
counterpoint and harmony which were practiced during the golden age of
22 See Heinrich Schenker, Harmony, ed. Oswald Jonas, trans.

Elisabeth Mann Borgese (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1954),
Counterpoint, ed. John Rothgeb, 2 vols. (New York: Schirmer Books, 1987),
Free Composition, ed. Ernst Oster (New York: Schirmer Books, 1979).
Heinrich Schenker, Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Trans, and ed.
John Rothgeb (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992) 6.
48
music were rooted in Nature, and were completely independent of the

creative drive. These laws of musical tone were discovered just like the other
physical laws, and music written accordingly made great art, while music
written without full appreciation of these laws made lesser art. These laws
had the force of Platonic ideals: one could speak of the ideal form of
dissonance, and the manner in which dissonances should resolve. Schenker
assumed that dissonance, for example, was a physical and immutable feature
of a given interval. He did not acknowledge the possibility raised by
Wittgenstein’s attack on meaning that the very idea of dissonance may be a
cultural construct artificially attached to a given acoustical interval. And
certainly, he never imagined that this relation between the human construct
and the acoustical one presented a problem of meaning.
Consequently, for example, tritones must resolve. For various
acoustical reasons, Schenker argued, the tritone is an unstable entity, a
dissonance, which yearns for resolution into a stable state, just as an unstable
atom will eventually break down to a state of equilibrium. Moreover, the
tritone will resolve in one of two ways, determined by the necessities of its
tonal character. The augmented fourth will expand to a consonant sixth (C
and F# to B and G, for example). The diminished fifth, on the other hand,
will collapse into a consonant third (C and Gb to D\>and F).
In the spirit of Wittgenstein, we must ask whether these laws of the
tritone are physical laws or cultural ones.24 While it is true that the harmonic
series generated by a tritone is much more complex than one generated by a
24 See Wittgenstein, Investigations 230.
49
perfect fifth, for example, by what physical law does complexity necessarily
equate with instability or tension? These are qualities we attribute to it, not
given features of the acoustical phenomenon itself.
We humans might seek to bring matters to a state of order, but this
becomes a principle of human psychology not natural law. Moreover, in
spite of Schenker5s claims to the contrary, music written in the recent past
soundly refutes the specifics of Schenker’s natural law. Many of the works of
Bela Bartok, for example, resolve to a tritone. In the context of these works,
moreover, the tritone is completely accepted as the proper stable interval of
resolution. Were one to tack on a traditional resolution of the tritone itself,
thereby ending the piece on a consonant sixth or third, for example, it would
sound strangely inappropriate (see Fig. 1). Bartok’s music, often written
according to the tritone-based octatonic scale, revolves around the tritonic
poles. It is only natural, therefore, that resolution would occur upon the
unadorned and stable tritone sonority.
Wittgenstein argued that meaning is use. A word means whatever we
mean when we use and understand it. The same might be said of the musical
symbol. The tritone means whatever we understand by it when we hear it in
use. The tritone in Mozart is the highest form of dissonance. The tritone in
Bartok is the highest form of stability. The philosophical difficulty, therefore,
concerns the historical question of how specific musical symbols acquired
their particular presentational significance in the first place. How did it come
to pass that humans began to yearn for resolution upon hearing a tritone,
50
VI.
Lento %•
p pocoespress.
a tempo
$ ntard.. poeoem e.
pra— | y r fl
w m poco cspr&xs-
r nr dim
■ iu —n----------------
^ --- ;---
5=r-r<J
i! ' c l t I --- T T
u» I * ;J
1 p — - - - - - - - - - ~~m
? * - - J — ■ ; r ---- --- i :
■m r r
ppp
FIGURE 1: Bartok Bagatelle with Alternate Ending

Bela Bartok, 14 Bagatelles, No. 6 (Budapest: Editio Musica, 1970) 13.
Alternate ending written by the author.
51
and how did it happen that the same interval can mean something completely
different in the music of a later era?
Wittgenstein might suggest this scenario: musical utterances, which
may have begun as primitive and spontaneous outbursts of spiritual or
emotional feeling, were understood according to the evolving complex of
practices in the societies which spawned them. Gradually, these practices
grew in complexity and subtlety. The elements of dance and song, which may
have been separate at the outset, commingled. Rhythmic complexities and
melodic ones may have begun to proliferate. In western music, polyphony
gradually expanded the relation of parts. This caused to arise conventions
regarding the contrapuntal, harmonic and rhythmic relations of different
voices.
Contrary to Schenker, the history of western music did not develop
toward the perfection of natural laws of tones, but rather toward the logical
extreme o f certain underlying assumptions that had characterized the music
of these peoples’ practices. The distinction between dissonance and
consonance is itself an arbitrary one. Why should music possess such a
polarity? Can we not imagine a different musical complex of conventions in
which, for example, pitches of extreme register were considered "dissonant"
relative to pitches of medium register, so that all pitch in music tended toward
the center? Naturally, a whole different set of musical principles would flow
from this different basis. Or, we might imagine a music which had no polarity
at all, where every sound was of co-equal status with every other sound
(dodecophony?).
52
The tritone, as a dissonance requiring resolution, calls upon the whole

complex of western ideas about tension, resolution, dramatic form and
artistic ideals. This is much more than an acoustical phenomenon, and it is
more than the mere correspondence of symbolic forms with forms of feeling.
Rather, such principles of musical art depend upon the historical
development of practices and conventions that happened to spawn the
musical tradition so beloved by Schenker and Langer. a towering and awe
inspiring testament to our collective form of life.
It is easy to see the fundamental conflict between Wittgenstein and
Schenker. Schenker, in effect, tried to divine a hard-edged shape for the idea
of music according to a tiny slice of data: the music of four or five admittedly
great composers. But music is an open-ended concept, still being defined as
human cultures continue to develop and grow. Langer’s view operates on the
same premise as Schenker, but her indiscretions are of a subtler type: her
explanation applies to a much wider part of the whole shape of music and art.
But Wittgenstein would quickly hasten to point out that Langer’s view,
however compellingly it may characterize what we think of as "art," could not
have the authority of definition, in the Platonic sense.25 As true as her
insights about art might ring, they are based upon a narrow scope of the
term. Rather, Langer speaks more to the mechanism by which a certain
25 Wittgenstein, Investigations 16 (section 29): "So one might say: the
ostensive definition explains the use—the meaning—of the word when the
overall role of the word in language is clear.. . . And you can say this, so long
as you do not forget that all sorts of problems attach to the words ’to know’
or ’to be clear.’ One has already to know (or be able to do) something in
order to be capable of asking a thing’s name. But what does one have to
know?"
53
period of western musical ideas are expressed. She does not define art, perse,
but a particular process of mind which characterizes the artistic mode
explicitly under examination. This process is revealed through the artistic
experience as we know it, but is not limited to that experience, nor can we say
with certainty that the artistic experience will always depend upon this
process.26
Langer understood what we (that is, people of our time and place, in
our cultural milieu) mean when we talk about serious musical art. Her
precision in describing this gives her the strength to survive in Wittgenstein’s
very different philosophical environment. Like Newton’s description of
mechanics, Langer’s view serves very well to describe the phenomena of the
artistic experience within our narrow range of experience. Like Einstein,
Wittgenstein has called into question some basic assumptions made by
traditional thinkers about meaning or art without entirely destroying the
valuable insights of those thinkers.
Langer’s success, from a Wittgensteinian point of view, stems from her
loyalty to experience and the artist’s actual activity. She shares with
Wittgenstein the conviction that philosophy should look to the real world
and examine what we find there. While not inspired by Wittgenstein’s world
view, Cassirer and Langer find themselves in a kind of perverse agreement
with his conviction that the relationship between symbols and how they are
understood depends upon the circumstances of their use. What Cassirer and
26 Wittgenstein, Investigations 62 (section 156): "... these mechanisms
are only hypotheses, models designed to explain, to sum up, what you
observe."
54
Langer call "cultural forms" Wittgenstein calls the "forms of life."27 Forms of
life, like cultural forms, are the modes by which and through which humans
in civilized society share their concepts. Likewise, the "tangled web of human
experience" in Cassirer becomes "the structure of convictions" in
Wittgenstein.28
3. The Mechanism of Musical Meaning
The theory constructed thus far does not actually build the bridge
between a general philosophy of music and a technical theory that would
enable one to examine specific works or performances according to the
principles o f symbolic form. In short, the ideas developed thus far remain
firmly in the realm of philosophy. But before specific methods can be devised
and analyses undertaken, the philosophy already established must be linked
to its technical aspect: music theory.
If music reaches the realm of feeling through its formal structures,
then it becomes theoretically possible to analyze the formal structures
themselves for their symbolic properties. While I contend that one cannot
predict the aesthetic response to a given passage by examining the musical
27 Wittgenstein, Investigations 8 (section 19): "... to imagine a

language means to imagine a form of life." And section 241: "It is what
human beings say that is true and false; and they agree in the language they
use. This is not an agreement of opinions but in form of life."
28 Ludwig Wittgenstein, On Certainty ed. G.E.M. Anscombe and
G.H. von Wright (New York: Harper and Row, 1972) 16e: "Not that I could
describe the system of these convictions. Yet my convictions do form a
system, a structure."
55
structures alone, I do argue that one can retrospectively trace the mechanism
that led from the musical structure of a passage to one’s specific aesthetic
response to it.29 This chapter will seek to establish just such a mechanism in
general terms, which will be applied to a musical example by way of
illustration.
The common element in both emotive life and musical sound is
energy. Energy has both degree and kind. Gravity, for example, is an energy
of a very different quality than electricity. In other words, our sensation of
gravity differs not only in degree but in kind from our sensation, for example,
of an electric shock. Even more subtle differentiations are possible. Our
sensation of falling a certain distance is totally different from our sensation of
jumping the same distance, despite the equal force of gravity in both cases.
Falling and jumping relate to the energy of gravity differently.
We experience emotions also as forms of energy. I do not mean this in
a strictly physiological way. While it may be true that a certain amount of
physical energy can be measured, for example, during the sensation of anger,
I am more concerned about the way anger feels. The energy of feeling may or
may not coincide strictly with physiological measurements of energy. I know
what "rising" anger feels like. I know the rhythm of its explosion into
tantrum.30
29 The argument for this view is rather involved and depends upon
various sources. It follows from the observations above, about the fluid
nature of the musical symbol, and from various observations made by
Wittgenstein. To date, I have made the latter argument only in the
unpublished article, Wittgensteinian Applications in Music (1992).
30 It has been established by the Karajan Foundation, whose medical
wing explores the physiological aspects of music, that physiological energies
56
The materials of music themselves, for example, have many elements

of energy in them. Tones are, by definition, the sensation of a certain
frequency of vibration. Pitch itself may be understood as the aural sensation
of energy. Loudness and softness is another aspect of that sensation—based
on the amplitude rather than frequency of the tone. The quality of tone,
which depends upon the specific balance o f the overtone series, lends the
added dimension of color to the sensation o f energy. The combination of
elements of pitch, dynamics and color give a vast palette of physical energies
available to music.
The energy of music need not depend upon the acoustical energies of
tones. A single chord, in itself stable and acoustically unintense, might create
enormous musical tension if held much longer, for example, than its
structural context would lead one to expect. In such a case, the listener
begins to feel a symbolic tension as the chord continues to sound. A form of
expectation-the threat of violence or surprise, perhaps-might begin to
agitate the listener. This is the energy of tension, which might be resolved or
compounded upon the arrival of the next musical event.
These and other forms of energy in music are moulded by the creative
artist into elements of tension and resolution. Tensions can be produced in
music in any number of ways. Harmonic tensions can be produced through
any number of levels of dissonance, melodic tensions can be produced by
leaps or chromatic motion, structural tension can be produced by repetition
and felt energies can be very different. See discussion in Klaus Lang, The
Karajan Dossier trans. Stewart Spencer (London: Faber and Faber, 1992).
57
or denial of repetition, surprise or hypnosis. Orchestration, dynamics,

balance, and tempo can all introduce their own variety of tensions in a vast
spectrum o f degrees. When combined, a virtually infinite range of tension
and resolution becomes available.
The transfer of meaning from the sonic event to the response of the
listener depends upon the common currency of energy. Composers have long
been able to create sonic forms which bear a strongly evident logical similarity
to the energies of emotive life. It is by virtue of this analogue that music
conveys meaning.
Let us consider briefly one musical example. Brahms’ First Symphony
begins with a slow introduction, marked "Un poco sostenuto." See Fig. 2,
which shows the first eight measures of this section. Three elements comprise
these opening bars. The timpani, basses, contrabassoon and C horns hold a
C-pedal throughout the passage, with all but the horns sounding every
eighth-note. The violins and cellos, encompassing three octaves, play the
second element. This melodic material roughly follows a bell-shaped curve in
its pitches, peaking in bar 4. The third element, played in thirds by the
remaining woodwinds and violas (with some assistance from the Efc>horns), is
a scalar melody whose contour more resembles a reverse bell-shape, with its
lowest ebb in measure 4.
One might characterize this opening in purely contrapuntal terms.
The three elements combine to produce all the forms of possible motion:
contrary, parallel and oblique. Contrary motion occurs between the two
melodic elements of the strings and the winds. Parallel motion occurs
58
Sym phony N o. 1
in C M inor. O p. 68
Cn poco sostenuto
■B r-5 - t
j/rtP
2 F lo ten
IF*
2 O bocn
*
2 K la n n c tte ti m B
2 F a g o tte
mC
4 H bm er
in E s
T ro m p e ten m C
P auken m C u . G
I- V ioline
2 .V io lin e
« ♦♦*»T» ** ^
Bratsche
ait zmT m.
V ioloncell
K ontrabaO
/ prtmwtr
Un poco sostenuto
FIGURE 2: Brahms Symphony No. 7, Introduction

Johannes Brahms, Complete Symphonies (New York: Dover Publications,
1974). Reprinted by permission.
(measures 1-7)
59
FIGURE 2 (con’t)
(measures 8-14)
60
between the two parties of the third element in the winds, the first and second
player of each part. And the repeating C serves as oblique motion with
respect to the other two elements.
As many writers have acknowledged in the past, each of these types of
contrapuntal motion have their own dynamics. Each form traffics in a
certain realm of tension-producing energy. Contrary motion holds the most
obvious tension-producing possibilities. But one can speak of two general
classes of contrary motion: motion which converges on a single point, or
motion that diverges from a single point. The former begins in tension and
moves toward resolution, whereas the latter begins in agreement and moves
toward dissension. The contrary motion in the Brahm s begins on the unison
C and moves divergently outward from it, clearly making it the second type
of contrary motion.
Parallel motion can either be similar or dissimila r Similar motion,
which we see in the Brahms example, involves not only motion in the same
direction but of the same or similar intervals. In the present example, for
instance, each of the two lines in the woodwinds generally moves a step or a
half step, thus making some kind of third (major or minor) throughout the
passage. Similar parallel motion can produce chains of either consonant,
perfect or dissonant intervals between the two voices. Since thirds are
produced, this passage proves to be an example of consonant, similar, parallel
motion. This form of motion tends to produce little tension of its own
accord. Indeed, the identification between the two parallel lines becomes so
close that the parts become functionally indistinguishable. This form of
61
parallel motion, then, serves to strengthen and reinforce the contour that
both lines share.
The reinforcement of the woodwind element through its parallel thirds
serves to intensify the contrariness of its relation to the upper strings. In the
last eighth-note of the first measure, for example, we see not only the tension
between the Cl in the strings against the Bb in the woodwinds, but also a
dissonant G is introduced as the lower third to Bb. This creates a diminished
triad, rather than just a minor third. In other words, the parallel motion of
the woodwind element adds an additional dimension of harmonic tension to
the contrary motion with the strings.
Oblique motion, where one voice remains on a given pitch while others
move, serves to intensify whatever motion happens around it. This is
especially true when tensions are introduced. Oblique motion is the source of
suspensions (the oblique voice holds into a dissonance with the other voices)
and anticipations (the oblique voice precedes a resolution in the other voices).
The pedal, perhaps the logical extreme of obliqueness, can ground a certain
pitch under figuration in upper voices, lending harmonic stability despite
fleeting dissonant elements; or the pedal can intensify the dissonance which
develops and multiplies around it (although, in fact, these two forms are not
entirely different). By and large, the latter description describes the pedal in
the Brahms example. On the last eighth-note of the first bar, for example, in
addition to the G-diminished triad formed by the melodic elements, the C-
pedal introduces a further, more intense dissonance: the half-step with Cl,
and the whole-step with Bb. Moreover, the pedal’s persistence, particularly
62
with its eighth-note repetition in the timpani, lends the passage a terrific force
which the other elements could not have created on their own.
The contrary rising of the strings and falling of the winds does not
occur in rhythmic unison. The changes of pitch rarely occur in tandem. As
students of fourth species counterpoint well know, shifts o f rhythmic phase
generate a new class of tensions: suspensions, anticipations and appogiaturas.
This is precisely the case with the present example. In addition, the lack of
regular rhythm, particularly in the strings, disturbs the metric stress normally
suggested by the 6/8 meter. This disruption goes even further in the 9/8 bar at
the end of the example.
To this point, my analysis of the Brahms example has concerned itself
with traditional theoretical types of analysis. I have given the formal
terminology which applies to the various elements of the example. The
tensions indicated so far have been discussed in terms of their purely formal
character. According to the mechanism suggested in this chapter, however, a
further step can be taken in the present analysis. Knowing how this passage
of music moves me, and knowing the formal structure of the passage, I can
undertake to discover the links between these two areas. I can look to the
common currency of energy to explain, to some degree at least, why this
passage of Brahms moves me in the exact way that it does.
I know as a listener what this passage of the Brahms First Symphony
feels like when I hear it. I know, in short, what I understand by it. The
opening gesture of the symphony radiates tremendous force. The whole
orchestra bursts into sound with a "unison" C encompassing six octaves.
63
Three strikes to the timpani resound before we become aware of motion in

the winds followed by motion in the strings.
The brutal disregard for dissonance produced by the contrary motion
establishes a sense of anguished submission to force as the music unfolds.
The two contrary elements, the winds and strings, which are contrary by
virtue of their contrapuntal relation, share a general form similar to the
conflict o f will that we experience in the realm of feeling. Although the two
melodic elements possess opposing contours and rhythms, they do reveal a
similar emotive tenor. Both melodies are essentially scalar, although in the
second half of the excerpt the scalar motion in the strings is disguised by leaps
into the lower register. To put the emotional quality which dominates these
lines in rather crude terms, one might say that the ascending line expresses a
quality o f yearning whereas its descending complement expresses the quality
of disappointment or lost hope.
These crude descriptions might, at some risk, be distilled from the play
of energies involved. The passage, which lies quite high in the register of most
of the instruments, particularly the first violins and cellos, relentlessly pushes
even higher with an impetuosity of rhythm against the pull of both the earth-
bound pedal and the downward gravity of the woodwind line. This creates
the sensation that the strings strive ever higher against a tremendous
resistance in the other elements. Meanwhile, the falling line of the winds feels
as if it succumbs to the negative pull of the timpani in the first four bars.
The two melodic lines, therefore, share not only a contrary
contrapuntal contour but also a conflicting though related pattern of
64
sentience: rising hope versus falling expectation. Around the fourth bar,
however, the lines reverse roles as the winds begin to ascend and the strings
begin their fall. In the end, both lines express the same sort of idea, but
nevertheless remain in continual contrast with one another.
While the patterns of sentience might be similar, taken as a whole, the
structures of the two lines are very different. The quality of ascent or descent,
when compared directly against one another, are not identical. The rise of
the string line, for example, seems more impetuous, irregular and somewhat
warmer than the rise of the winds a few bars later. The winds, by
comparison, seem to march upward against the flow with a colder, more
willful determination.
The power of the dissonances and the sheer force of orchestral sound
are trebled by the unrelenting severity of the timpani pedal. The timpani long
outlasts its welcome, acquiring, one might say, a will of its own, a destructive
power over the yearning quality expressed in the melodic parts.
The rhythmic ambiguity, created by the irregular line of the strings in
combination with the drive of the woodwinds and the unrelenting regularity
of the timpani, gives rise to a whole realm of tension of its own-the stress of
unpredictable duration. Pitches change without explicit pattern, producing
disturbing new harmonies without the assurance of order. The rhythmic
ambiguity o f the opening bars is further complicated by the 9/8 bar which
concludes Fig. 2. The 6/8 pattern has been established by Brahms in the
woodwind part, especially in bars 3-7. The additional dotted quarter value in
m. 8 further extends the crescendo which occupies the whole 9/8 bar, and
65
allows for the harmonic expansion through the Italian augmented sixth chord
to the cadence on G Major. The overall effect of the rhythmic ambiguity and
this three-beat extension is the disorientation of the listener, who experiences
a virtually narcotic sensation of a willful, forceful and overwhelming drive
toward the cadence.
Of course, any effort to reduce this immortal passage of music to a
specific human situation or emotion robs the music of its timeless, general
character. Such an effort overloads the musical symbol with representational
baggage. This is so in particular because my specific response to the work will
not be identical with anyone else’s response. Any effort at description that
becomes too specific to my response will not ring true with another’s, and
consequently the value of the exercise will be greatly reduced. The value of
the present description, however, is to illustrate the manner in which musical
tension might translate into certain general tensions of sentient life.31
In a most unsystematic way, at least, I hope to have given some
illustration of the manner in which the sonic relations of musical elements as
understood by music theory present forms of energy through the dynamic of
tension and resolution which can be applied through symbolic analogy to the
forms of human feeling.
31 This whole description of the Brahms, in fact, is unique to me, to

speak purely. The purpose of the description can in no way be intended to
inform the reader how to feel or even what to hear. All I seek to demonstrate
is an example of how musical energies can be understood through the
symbolic mode as energies of human feeling. Ultimately, each listener must
reach their own conclusions about the Brahms or any other example. See the
discussion about the nature of analysis in the Introduction.
66
This analysis offers certain advantages over the purely technical

descriptions favored by the music theorists and the poetically adjectival
descriptions found on most record sleeves and program notes. A depth is
available to the sort of analysis that I have illustrated that neither of the
traditional modes yeflds. In the first place, the feelings which were identified
in relation to the Brahms excerpt are the ideas that I understand when I listen
to the passage. I do not mean that I feel yearning, or disappointment or the
urge toward violence, for example. I merely understand the symbolic relation
between the forms of feeling and the music of Brahms.
I am, nevertheless, moved by what I hear. This music does arouse
some sort of passion in me by virtue of the mechanism described here. But
this is not the passion of yearning, disappointment, or rage, but the passion
which is aroused by recognizing an intensity of feeling—the idea of pure
feeling-present in symbolic form in music. The arousal one feels from music
corresponds more to the arousal one feels at observing a stunning sunset, or
in watching the marriage of two strangers who are wholly and achingly in
love, or feeling oneself in the presence of God. One’s reaction depends more
on one’s state of mind than on the objective facts under observation.
As the purists would argue, I hold that our passion about music
derives entirely from its form. But I join with Langer in adding that the form
is a sensuous one, rich with vital import, which yeilds some sort of meaning, a
meaning generated by the symbolic transformation of sound into idea. And
the mechanism for this transformation is the mechanism of energetic tension
and resolution.
67
The tensions and resolutions of music are not static. Even if we admit
descriptive words such as "yearning" or "relentless” into our analysis, it would
appear that no single of these terms could apply to whole passage, or even to
any given moment in the passage: three different elements, in this case, each
with its own pattern of sentience, are operating simultaneously. And we have
only examined the first eight bars of a symphony of more than a thousand.
The fleeting transience of emotive content in music, however, does not make
it any less compelling. Indeed, human feeling shares this attribute. How
often does one feel a certain, specific emotion exclusively and
unambiguously? In music, this phenomenon, or its tonal analogue, is equally
rare.
Langer recognized the importance of tension and resolution in the
play of symbolic forms in music. Music, in her view, is primarily about what
she calls "virtual time." The musical manipulation of time represents the
primary illusion of that art form as opposed to the other arts. For Langer,
the idea of virtual time and the notion of symbolic tension and resolution are
inseparable. They are two facets of the same concept which comprises the
essence of musical art. She writes:
. . . The phenomena that fill time are tensions—physical, emotional, or
intellectual. Time exists for us because we undergo tensions and their
resolutions. The direct experience of passage. . . is the model for the virtual
time created in music. There we have its image, completely articulated and
pure; every kind of tension transformed into musical tension, every
qualitative content into musical quality, every extraneous factor replaced by
musical elements. The primary illusion of music is the sonorous image of
passage, abstracted from actuality to become free and plastic and entirely
perceptible.32
32 Langer, Feeling 112-113 (my emphasis).
68
It is through the dynamics of felt time that tensions arise and

eventually pass into their resolution. These tensions and resolutions,
therefore, create the dynamic illusion of musical art—a vital analogue to
sentient life.
Chapter II: M usical Interpretation and the Conductor at Work
In the philosophical literature, a great deal of debate surrounds the

matter of musical interpretation. In practice, however, performers go about
interpreting music blissfully untroubled by the philosophical tempest raging
around them. The great music teachers, in studios all over the world, teach
the principles of interpretation to their students; but they do so, by and large,
very unphilosophically. While every teacher and performer may have a
somewhat different idea of what interpretation is, and they might articulate
their ideas very differently, a fundamental consensus on the nature of
interpretation can be detected throughout the performance community- The
challenge of the present chapter is to convert this underlying agreement into a
consistent and articulate form. Susanne Langer, because of her deference to
the artist, offers the best foundation upon which to base such a discussion of
interpretation.
1. The Limits of Interpretation
My application of Langer’s philosophy of music in the previous

chapter culminated with the idea that music presents powerful and moving
ideas about feeling through the dynamic illusion of tensions and resolutions
given in virtual time. While Langer concluded that virtual time is the primary
illusion of music, I would like to focus on the property of virtual shape.
These two properties are really different ways of visualizing the same idea.
70
The flow of tension and resolution organizes our impression of time, but it
also creates sonic shapes, like waves, which move not only through time but
with certain qualities of volume, dimension and character. Whether we speak
of time or shape, however, it is in the nature of illusions that they have no
physical manifestation. The shapes of music, therefore, do not exist in the
acoustical properties of sound; nor do they exist in the physical dimensions
and notation of the musical score itself. An illusion, by definition, exists only
in the mind of its beholder.
If meaning in music depends upon these illusionary shapes, as I have
argued, but these shapes exist nowhere in tangible form, then the dynamic
illusion is an implicit rather than explicit function of the musical work. In
this sense, the score serves as a code for the guiding idea which exists in the
mind of the composer and which is, in turn, understood in the mind of the
sensitive listener. But the transmission of the idea from the encoded notation
to the living experience of the idea lies with the performer. The performer
needs first to understand the composer’s intentions, to imagine the illusion
that the composer sought to achieve, and then to realize a performance
tailored to achieve it. The performer not only brings to life the notes and
rhythms of the score, but indeed resurrects the latent idea, the dynamic
illusion, which was only implicit before.
The performance, therefore, has two distinct aspects: the technical
execution of the explicit demands of the score, and the musical realization of
the implicit demands of the composer’s guiding idea. Technical execution in
the absence of musical realization happens often, particularly among less
71
experienced or gifted performers, and represents the most common flaw in

musical performance. Musical realization in the absence of technical
execution happens much less often but is the more tragic scenario, as the
artist cannot express what he knows, like the stroke victim who can think, see
and feel but not communicate. If we recognize and understand that
performance consists in these two aspects: technical execution and musical
realization, we are equipped to expose the flaws in many theories of
interpretation that plague musical thought.
Toscanini represents the school of thought that argues that one does
exactly what the score asks—not a thing more and not a thing less. Toscanini
seemed to suggest that interpretation was no more than the technical
execution of the score’s explicit requirements. In short, Toscanini subscribed
to the notion that there is no such thing as interpretation at all. "I am just an
honest musician," he would often say, as if his own musical imagination were
completely irrelevant to his performances. But Toscanini nevertheless made
choices (some of which clearly violate the letter if not the spirit of the score),
and was guided by an extremely powerful sense of the meaning of a given
work. Indeed, Toscanini’s very strength as an interpreter was the intensity of
his musical convictions. This was not an intensity bom of a love of technical
perfection, but rather of a strong feeling for the dynamics of musical shape,
over which he was among the greatest masters.
Furtwangler, the great antipode to Toscanini in nearly every respect,
appeared to argue the opposite extreme: that the score itself becomes lost in
the imagination of the great artist in the interpretive process. The interpreter
72
reinvents the score, in his own image, and the performance becomes a deeply
personal confession of the performer’s very soul. While technical execution is
necessary as the foundation upon which the interpreter works, slavish
adherence to every nuance given by the composer unduly shackles the
interpretive artist, keeping him from his sacred duty. But the performances
o f Furtwangler, while somewhat freer than those of Toscanini, were
remarkable for their adherence to the score in great detail. Like Wagner, who
defended tempo fluctuations on the basis of the requirements of the m elos
(the flow of the melody at any given point), Furtwangler allowed himself
liberties of tempo and flux, but only with the express intent of serving the
spirit of the score more perfectly. Dynamic indications, balance, and many
other details of the score almost always remain wholly intact. The integrity of
the score is never compromised (or only rarely: Furtwangler did have his
moments of excess).
Toscanini and Furtwangler frame the eternal debate about the role of
the interpreter, but actually behaved quite similarly on the podium.
Although Toscanini had the Italian habit of quick tempi and light textures
and Furtwangler the German love for slower tempi and thick textures, both
adhered to the explicit demands of their scores quite vigilantly and both were
musical visionaries of the first order.
According to the understanding of music engendered throughout this
study, however, neither extreme is necessary. The creative artist, consciously
or subconsciously, lends the score its symbolic meaning, taking the form of
tensions and resolutions which produce vital, if illusionary, gestures and
73
shapes. The explicit content of the score contributes to the creation of the
symbolic idea the composer wishes to express. There is no tension between
the explicit and the implicit. One leads to the other in the mind of the
composer, and also in the imagination of the sensitive interpreter. The
explicit requirements of the score anchor the interpreter to the composer’s
idea; the strength of this bond liberates the interpreter to discover and
explore that idea. The apparent paradox between the bond of the interpreter
to the score and his freedom to interpret, a false paradox, fuels the equally
false debate that separates the Toscaninis from the Furtwanglers.
In order to identify with greater exactitude what the interpretive
process entails, one must clearly distinguish the elements of a performance
which flow directly from the explicit requirements of the score and those
elements of a performance which are only implicit in the notation. In what
follows, I will attempt to draw a line between the composer’s realm and the
performer’s, knowing full well that they overlap somewhat. This line, blurry
though it may be, defines the point of intersection between notation and
interpretation. To this end, I will enumerate the various elements of a
performance that are fixed in the notation, followed by those that require the
interpretive influence of the performer.
To the features of a performance that are fixed by the notation, one
can always dream up various exceptions and caveats which could be given
against the stated examples. Thankfully, art knows infinite variety, and such
exceptions will inevitably exist. Nonetheless, it is my intent to focus the
reader upon the general classes of features which distinguish between
74
notation and interpretation. The exceptions only prove the rule. In

enumerating the fixed features of the score, moreover, it will become
apparent that usually I can only speak of the relative fixedness of these
features (the fixedness of different parts relative to one another), rather than
absolute fixedness (the fixedness of all the parts with respect to an absolute
standard).
Bearing these qualifications in mind, the most obvious element of a
performance that is fixed by the notation is pitch. The shape, contour and
structure of the melodies, and the choice and voicing of harmonies, tend to be
given in full by the composer. The fixedness of pitch extends to the
contrapuntal relations between different voices, and the nature and harmonic
implications of motives. In short, all aspects of the composition which
consist in their pitch content are given by the notation. The second element
given by the notation is rhythm. This concerns the proportionate relations of
notes to one another, and consequently the proportionate relations of voices
to one another, with respect to duration. From these two primary elements,
pitch and rhythm, comes the third feature of the performance fixed by the
notation: structure. The meter of a work, its key, its general formal type and
genre are all given by the notation. Motivic relationships and developmental
procedures therefore also fall under the rubric of fixedness. Finally, the
instruments to which the pitches and rhythms are assigned are usually fixed
by the notation. This includes the acoustical properties of the individual
instruments, and such properties of the various instruments in given
combinations. The range of the instruments as required by the score, and the
75
consequent physical aspects of register and tone quality flow from these fixed
properties. The entrances and exits and tasks assigned to each instrument are
directly controlled by the composer.
The notation gives another class of commands to the performer that
may offer general indications of intention, but which must be determined by
the performer in their exact degree. I refer to tempo indications (like allegro,
langsamer, ritardando or piu presto), dynamic indications (such as piano or
forte), and articulation marks (such as staccato or tenuto). These indications
generally can be interpreted only relativistically: "letter A must be louder than
letter B," or, "letter C must be slower than letter D."1 The actual speeds,
dynamics or articulations chosen by the performer, however, are matters of
interpretation. The job of interpretation, therefore, depends in large part
upon the limitations of the notation to convey exact quantities. The
ambiguities of absolute speed, loudness or articulation allow the performer to
respond to specific conditions and spontaneous inspiration. More
importantly, the elements of choice given to the performer enable him the
flexibility to discover the implicit aspect of the composition: its symbolic
meaning. The interpreter is given the necessary freedom to realize the
composer’s vision-the idea that motivated the composer to write exactly as
he did.
The primary element of the dynamic illusion consists in the realization
of the symbolic idea given by the tensions and resolutions of the work. This
1And even this depends on context and may vary from performer to
performer, depending on how they interpret the context.
76
idea manifests itself as vital form—gestures of line, shape and substance which
create the illusion of moving and changing through time. The ruling function
of the interpreter, therefore, is to discover, reveal and project this illusionary
form to his audience. For the purposes of brevity, I shall refer to this
function o f the interpretive art as "gesture." The aspects of gesture,
consequently, occupy the loftiest place in the interpreter’s work, and serve as
the highest office of the performer.
Below the concerns of gesture, I identify two classes of features of the
performance which are not fixed by the notation and which require the
guiding hand of an interpreter. The first I call "ground," because it concerns
the temporal relations upon which all other aspects of the performance are
founded. Ground encompasses choices of pulse, tempo and flux. The final
class of interpretive choices I call "texture." This class concerns localized
choices of articulation, dynamics, color and balance, which tend to occur on
the surface o f the musical mass.
The trinity of gesture, ground and texture subsumes within it all the
aspects of a performance given by the interpreter. Both Toscanini and
Furtwangler would agree, I believe, that every choice suggested by these
classes of interpretation, in order for a performance to be considered a valid
interpretational effort, must respect the explicit requirements of the score,
and they must conspire to present a coherent and significant musical idea.
Allow me to enumerate more specifically the features of each of the three
general classes of interpretational choices.
77
The three elements of ground are pulse, tempo and flux. Pulse
concerns the unit of measure; tempo concerns the speed of the unit; and flux
concerns the variations of speed. Pulse is the basic unit of measure. It refers
to the unit of time that serves as the basic temporal division of musical events
over the largest structural expanses. Pulse is the unit of temporal regularity.
In one performance of a given piece the interpreter might set a pulse at the
quarter-note. This means that the quarter-note, whatever speed it might
have, is like a heartbeat running evenly through the performance. Another
interpreter might choose to perform the same piece with a different pulse, the
half-note, for example. The speeds of the performances might be equivalent,
but in the second case the listener feels the half-note as the heartbeat—the unit
of regularity—which underlies the whole. The pulse is an extremely subtle
aspect of the performance, occurring on the deepest levels of musical
structure. It may be imperceptible, but the masterful interpreter always
brings a pulse to the performance, knowingly or not.
Pulse can be distinguished from "beat." The beat, as I use the term, is
the poorer cousin to pulse. The beat refers simply to the most convenient
division of the bar. The conductor’s pattern, for example, usually reflects the
beat but may not reflect the pulse. Often, the beat is given by the
denominator of the meter signature in the beginning of the passage. In 3/4,
for example, the "4"-quarter-note--often gets the beat. The pulse, however,
might be the eighth-note, quarter-note, whole bar or several bars taken
together.
78
Tempo, in its deepest sense, depends upon pulse. Tempo is the speed
of the unit of pulse. If the pulse is the quarter-note, then the tempo might be
described as J=80, for example. The sense of pulse, and consequently of
tempo in this deeper sense, is central to the ultimate conception of the
symbolic idea for the interpreter. In common usage, however, one describes
the tempo in terms of the beat. The two levels of tempo, therefore, may be
distinguished as pulse-tempo and surface tempo.2
A word is in order about metronome markings. It has been argued
that the composer who gives metronome markings has fixed the tempo
scientifically, so the performer is bound to it. On the contrary side of the
debate, the temperament of various famous metronomes, the wavering of
countless composers about their own markings upon later review, and the
practical impossibility of being perfectly faithful to these markings under all
conditions have been cited as reasons to take such markings lightly. Much
more to the point o f this study, however, is the case established by the
practices of the master interpreters. With a few experimental exceptions, the
great interpreters o f all recorded stripes, colors and eras have shown
respectful disregard for the exactitude of metronome markings. Naturally,
this discussion shall be resumed in much greater detail in Chapter Three
during our study o f the performances of the Beethoven symphonies. In the
meantime, I shall maintain tempo as the province of the interpreter.
2 In the analysis of future chapters I will generally use the term tempo
in its usual sense, as the rate of the beats.
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Flux refers to any variations in speed. Like tempo, which can be

understood superficially with regard to beat or deeply with regard to pulse,
flux also operates on two levels. Surface flux concerns those slight ritardandi
and accelerandi, those bits of time stolen or given back, which always adom
the surface of the musical performance. Pulse-flux, on the other hand,
concerns the deep-level pulling or slackening which affects the very
foundations--the ground--of the performance. Like the pulse itself, this sort
of flux is the hardest to acknowledge consciously, but holds the greatest
importance to the symbolic structure of the interpretation.
The elements of ground concern the temporal decisions forced upon
the interpreter by an inadequacy of notation, as well as the necessity for the
specific performance to have the freedom to find the symbolic structure of the
work. These elements have a dual nature characterized by the depth or
superficiality of their structural position. We have pulse versus beat, pulse-
tempo against surface tempo, and lastly, pulse-flux and surface flux. In these
six concepts reside all the measurable elements of musical duration.3
Texture, the second class of interpretive aspects, concerns the sonic
qualities exclusively on the surface of the performance. The first aspect of
texture is articulation, meant in its technical sense. Articulation concerns the
manner in which the note is begun, the nature of its duration, and the way in
which it is released. Certain types of articulation, especially at certain speeds,
3 All aspects of duration excepting rhythm, that is. Rhythm, as stated

above, is a fixed function of the score and involves the proportions of
duration within the aspects of ground. In a given tempo, the rhythms are
essentially fixed, although they may be inflected by flux.
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merge these three elements of articulation into one. But, in principle, they
represent distinct elements of the tone.
The manner in which a note is begun might reflect a sharpness or
laxness of attack, and is best described according to the technique by which it
is produced. In string playing we might refer to a "maicato attack at the
frog,” or an "off-the-string spiccato toward the tip." Wind players speak of
tongued attacks, and various sharpnesses associated with tonguing. A
vocalist might consider glottal or aspirated attacks, or any number of
consonant attacks. The duration of a note remains an element of articulation
only as long as it remains sufficiently brief. (Once the note acquires a
"horizontal" identity it passes from the realm of articulation to that of color).
But even very short notes do have quality of duration. The note may be of
the same quality throughout, or it may change. The note might become
louder or softer, or some combination of the two, even in a very brief
moment. We speak for example of "tapering," a practice revived by interest
in "authentic" early music performances, wherein the note is confidently
attacked but quickly diminishes. The vibrato might also change during the
note, or the speed or focus of the column of air which produces the sound in
a wind instrument. Notes can be released in a great variety of ways, which
comprise the third phase of articulation. Notes can disappear into thin air
(which we might call notes which never truly release), or those which release
at the point of greatest energy, as if "ripped off’ the string. Notes can be
clipped, closed out gradually to a sung consonant, or allowed to vibrate long
after the bow has left the string. When one note leads into an adjacent note,
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the release of the first becomes conflated with the attack of the next, and a
number of different issues enter the fray, from distinctions o f legato and
staccato, to different types of tenuto and portamento.
A second element of texture is dynamics. The absolute dynamic
remains in the realm of the performer, despite the crude indications notated
by the composer. At a minimum, the actual dynamic depends upon the size
of the forces employed, nature of the hall, and the capacity o f the performers.
In addition, all crescendi and diminuendi require regulation as to how far
they go and at what rate, and whether that rate remains constant, accelerates
or decelerates. Even within a stable piano or forte, all sorts of shades of
dynamic exist between the Italian terms used to indicate them. This aspect of
dynamics dovetails with the aspect of color.
Color concerns the tone-quality of a given note or passage. Color
refers not so much to the shape of a note, but its general quality of sound,
although these are related concepts. This is affected by vibrato, fingering,
choice of string or position, bow speed and placement, support, air speed,
and resonance of the player or singer. The score sometimes gives loose
indications of elements of color, such as "dolce," "warm," "brassy" or
"pesante."
Intonation sits on the fence between the class of pitch, which depends
upon the notation, and the interpretive class of color. To a great extent, the
intonation of a tone depends upon immutable physical principles derived
from the harmonic series. Consequently, very little variance is available to
the performer. But a certain minute freedom can be used to great, though
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subtle, effect in the hands of a sensitive interpreter, in the name of "expressive

intonation." It is my opinion, although I admit to being in the minority, that
"expressive intonation" simply refers to the differences that arise between the
equal temperament of the piano and the more acoustically correct tuning
available to non-keyboard instruments. The latter is more expressive, but
only because it is more purely in time.
The last aspect of texture, and the most important, is the balance o f all
the elements already mentioned among the different performers playing
together. I refer to the consistency of articulation among like parts, the blend
of color among instruments which are meant to sound together, and the
contrast of color of those instruments set apart. The balance extends to the
dynamic levels which allows the lead voice to dominate and the
accompaniment to support. I also refer to the balance of different voices
within the chords of the harmony, allowing certain parts to emerge in order
to motivate changes in harmony, or to realize the dramatic content of a given
harmonic moment. The balance can also be affected by the minute tuning of
chords. Balance contains a richness little understood outside the world’s
rehearsal halls, and holds perhaps the greatest importance of any of the
features of texture in fashioning a successful performance.
Ground and texture control the deep and surface levels of the
performance, respectively. The elements of ground and texture combine to
create, and are also encompassed by, gesture. The gesture depends upon
pulse, tempo and flux as the very medium in which it is formed. Gesture also
depends upon articulation, dynamics, color and balance as the superficial
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manifestations of its presence. By way of crude analogy, ground is like the

marble of which a sculpture is formed, and texture is like the many chisel-
strokes that adorn the marble’s surface. Gesture is like the whole aesthetic
appearance of the finished stone, which in turn consists of many smaller
shapes within it, and each shape within that, down to the very chisel-strokes
of texture.
Ultimately, gesture guides the considerations of ground and texture,
but gesture is also nothing more than the sum of these elements. Despite its
poetic supremacy over the other classes of interpretation, gesture can also be
divided into various elements. These elements, like the shapes o f the
sculpture, consist in different dimensions of gesture at different levels of
musical structure, like an ever-enlarging series of concentric circles.
To start at the most local level, the gesture of a single note has the
elements of articulation and color already discussed with respect to texture.
But here, we do not look at the note in terms of its technical execution as we
did before, but consider it as an abstract shape, bursting with symbolic
meaning.
Several notes in succession are often grouped together in patterns of
articulation. Two note groups might be strung together, with the first
tapering into the second each time: this exemplifies a simple sub-breath
structure. Sometimes eight or ten notes combine to make a certain shape,
followed by a consequent shape of similar dimensions. These two units,
grouped together, might be sung or played under a single breath by the
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performer. Then we could classify this as two sub-breath units which

combine to make one breath unit.
After the single note, the single breath marks the next natural
delineation of musical shape. Units which can be sung under the power of a
single breath have a special place in musical structure. Even in music which
was not written for players who require breath, composers in the western
tradition almost universally retain the habit of writing in units of this size.
More important than the length of the unit, however, is the shape of it. How
one apportions one’s breath through the unit gives it its unique character.
One might use most of the breath in the first notes, or in the middle, or (if you
are good) at the end. The pacing of breath (or of the use of the bow for string
instruments) reflects the musical requirements of the phrase and gives shape
to it.
It should be evident that all of the units so far expressed could be
called phrases in the traditional sense. The word "phrase" has no specific
structural limitations. In its loosest sense, it is interchangeable with my use of
"shape" and "gesture." For the purposes of clarity, however, I shall reserve
the term phrase to refer to musical units of breath size or greater, up to the
point of the structural area. Phrases can be four bars to thirty-two, and
beyond (although this rarely occurs). Phrase units are delineated according
to extended melodies they make, the repetitions of material that occur at this
level of structure, or by various orchestrational, harmonic or dynamic factors.
The structural area refers to large segments of a movement which are
distinct, usually according to the expectations of genre which the composer
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evokes. First and second themes, development sections, recapitulations,

codas, variations and extended episodes are all examples of structural areas.
These areas are not the static monoliths one studies in music appreciation
courses and theory classes, but dynamic musical gestures on a macro level of
structure. Like the torso of a sculpture, which is comprised of many shapes
and itself contributes to the larger shape of the whole work, the structural
area requires a larger vision, a greater distance of perspective, in order to view
and understand its distinctive shape—its internal unity and its organic relation
to the whole.
From the structural area, one passes on to the movement as a whole.
The movement is a massive, self-contained shape, much like the single panel
of a multi-paneled painting. Some multi-paneled paintings keep each panel
very separate in subject matter and design, while others possess more
continuity of ideas from panel to panel. The same is true of the various
movements of a multi-movement work. The highest level of structure upon
which a gesture can meaningfully be said to exist in music, therefore, is the
level of the whole work. While it may have many panels, the guiding idea of
the composer encompasses all of them in a single organic whole.
A performance consists of two general aspects: the explicit
requirements o f the score, and the implicit demands of the composer’s
symbolic idea. The interpreter, therefore, faces two conditions for fram ing a
valid interpretation of the composer’s work: he should remain faithful to the
explicit demands of the score, and he should mould the implicit gestures of
the score into a single, multifaceted but coherent musical-symbolic idea.
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The notation gives the elements of pitch, rhythm, formal structure and
instrumentation, as well as an ambiguous class of relative commands
concerning tempo, dynamics, articulation and color. The interpreter,
through a minute knowledge of the score and a great loyalty to it, is given the
freedom to fashion a series of gestures, on a variety of structural levels, from
the materials of ground and texture. He makes choices with regard to pulse,
tempo and flux as well as articulation, dynamics, color and balance. He
fantasizes about each note, group of notes, breath, phrase, structural area,
movement and work in its symbolic element as line, shape and gesture. We
call the result an interpretation.
We have now established a fairly detailed and precise model of
interpretation which accounts for general aesthetic questions of meaning, as
well as the daily grind of the performer in rehearsal. An example might be
useful at this juncture, however, to demonstrate some of the practical value of
this model. In a conducting class, I once encountered a student conducting a
piece by Debussy waving his arms about in a most pu llin g fashion,
intending perhaps to be poetic, but being merely vague and perplexing.
When asked why he was conducting in this way, he replied, "I am conducting
impressionistically because this is an Impressionist piece." He was right, of
course: he was conducting most "impressionistically," and he was conducting
an Impressionist piece. His mistake was semantic; these two facts bear no
logical relation.
Impressionism, a style of composition associated most with Debussy
and Ravel, got its name from certain similarities with the school of painting
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of the same name. The Impressionism of Debussy, for example, comes from
his harmonic language, his use of rhythm and his coloristic orchestration. All
of these elements, it should be noted, are from the list of notationally fixed
features of the performance. The conductor is responsible for none of these;
they lie outside the ken of the interpreter. In short, the work will be
Impressionist no matter what the conductor might do. The conductor can no
more make Debussy Impressionist by moving impressionistically than the art
lover can make a Renoir Impressionist by looking at it impressionistically.
In the next section, we will discuss the nature and meaning of the
conductor’s gestures. There are indeed ways that the conductor might
enhance Debussy’s musical style, but vague gestures are not among them.
Wittgenstein was fond of remarking, "What can be said at all can be said
clearly; and whereof one cannot speak one must be silent."4 The same might
go for the conductor whatever the conductor may do, he demonstrates his
competence and artistry only when he does it with the utmost clarity.
2. Conducting Gestures
The theory of conducting, as it has developed since Berlioz’s time,

assumes the same distinction between technique and interpretation that
applies to instrumentalists. Accordingly, conducting technique concerns the
direction and manner of certain body movements, mainly in the arms, hands
4 Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (London:

Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd, 1990) 27.
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and fingers as a craft distinct from the host of musical decisions associated
with the art of interpretation, just as instrumental technique concerns the
position of the hands or embouchure and the movement of certain body
parts to produce certain sounds.
The most noteworthy of modem treatises on conducting technique,
Max Rudolfs The Grammar o f Conducting.5suggests the student practice
various motions described in the text, much like a violinist practices scales.
Then the student applies these motions to certain relevant excerpts, in the
manner of etudes. Eventually, one supposes, enough practice enables the
student to venture out into the world of actual repertoire, ready to face any
technical challenge. Like the athlete or instrumentalist, the conductor is
expected to develop certain muscles and refine certain habits o f movement
with an aim toward acquiring a clear technique which accurately disposes of
whatever musical difficulties may present themselves in orchestral music.
With enough talent and hard work, the conductor will eventually be prepared
to "beat through" any work she chooses.
Of course, Rudolf takes great pains to point out that technique is but
a small part of the total conductor. No amount of technique can compensate
for a lack of musical talent, experience or score preparation. Nevertheless,
the presence of The Grammar of Conducting and many other similar books
has caused countless students, teachers, and critics to view technique
narrowly in terms of the content of such treatises. Although the conducting
5 Max Rudolf, The Grammar of Conducting (New York: Schirmer

Books, 1980).
89
textbooks are not without value, surely Max Rudolf would have agreed that
they represent only the very beginning of a complete understanding of the
conductor’s craft.
The moment they stand before a real orchestra, students who have
tried to learn conducting primarily from such treatises discover that
everything they thought they knew has flown to the wind. To make matters
even more confusing, when these novices watch the master conductors at
work, the sanctity of the standardized beat patterns suffer routine violation in
a gestural melange exhibiting all manner of personal idiosyncrasy.
The tension between the standardized technique o f the textbooks and
the apparently unrelated motions of master conductors suggests to some that
these conductors do not necessarily have, nor do they require, a proper
technique. Furtwangler, for example, was said to have had terrible technique
despite a successful career. Teachers, put on the spot by this apparent
inconsistency, often argue that a conductor with the good fortune of
conducting the Vienna Philharmonic does not need technique--the orchestra
could play perfectly well without him. This explanation, were it true, would
create a major philosophical dilemma for the profession of conducting. It
would follow that the skill required of a conductor decreases as the skill of
the orchestra increases. The conductor becomes less necessary, and therefore
freer to indulge in "improper" gestures which only benefit his own ego. By
this formula, the conductors of the greatest ability should conduct the
orchestras of least ability, while the sham-conductors belong in front of the
greatest orchestras. I maintain, to the contrary, that the master conductors
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who appear to break every technical rule in the textbook actually possess
technique at the highest levels of accomplishment. The failure to recognize it
in these conductors follows from an incomplete concept of the actual nature
of conducting technique.
Wilhelm Furtwangler, in an impressively insightful article called "The
Tools of the Conductor’s Trade," addresses this dissonance directly:
There is, incidentally, a technique taught universally today in
textbooks-a kind of standardized skill which produces an equally
standardized orchestral sound, a routine technique aimed at achieving a
precise ensemble. This turns something which ought to be a matter of course
mto a self-justifying object of study, and a technique of this kind can never do
full justice to the music. There is something dry and mechanical about it, as
though the physical ’business’ of conducting were oppressing the spirit of the
music and threatening to stifle it.
The problem is that our understanding of conducting technique has
been taken over from instrumental technique without proper recognition of
the differences between the two fields. Conducting is a unique activity among
musicians and has special problems. Some important similarities do exist, of
course, between conducting and instrumental techniques: both fields involve
the manipulation of the body; such manipulation is, at least to some degree,
distinguishable from the musical mind of the performer in both cases; the
purpose of both techniques is to achieve a clear and intelligible result; and,
technique in either case is designed to bridge the gap between the musical idea
and the performance itself.
6 Wilhelm Furtwangler, "The Tools of the Conductor’s Trade," (1937)

in Ronald Taylor, ed. & trans., Furtwangler on Music (England: Scolar Press,
1991) 17. This reminds me of a typically colorful quote from one o f my own
teachers, Peter Eros, referring to standardized technique: "Give me four
weeks and I could teach a horse to conduct!"
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But the differences are important. The technique of the

instrumentalist directly produces sound. The technique of the conductor
directly produces nothing. Therefore, one often hears that the orchestra is
the conductor’s instrument, like the violin to the violinist. The conductor,
consequently, "plays" his orchestra like an instrumentalist. But a serious
misconception issues from this model. Conducting is reduced to a
mechanistic process whereby a given movement of the conductor is directly
linked to a specific result in the orchestra. This view leads to a misleading
choreography of the arm under the regimen of beat-pattems and other
technical formulas. In my view the technique of a conductor actually bears a
much greater affinity to that of the singer, whose body is likewise his
instrument. But the singer’s physical movements do not serve as a sort of
choreography, but emerge out of musical necessity. Like the singer, the
whole body is the conductor’s instrument--a physical manifestation of the
drive of the musical mind. The orchestra responds to the conductor’s
movement because of its compelling authority. The technique of conducting
involves the psychological and symbolic act of inviting and inspiring a body
of musicians to realize a single musical idea in unison. Even in the simple
upbeat gesture the conductor does not merely make a motion of certain
speed, size and direction; rather, she compels the orchestra to breathe, play
and continue together in a certain tempo and style.
There can be no technique without the presence of an orchestra with
whom to communicate, just as there can be no dialogue without a partner.
Technical exercises performed by the conductor in the absence of an
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orchestra is like push-ups performed by an athlete. It may serve as a form of

preparation for the game, but it bears little resemblance to the actual activity
of his sport. Furtwangler puts it this way:
...there are no objective gestures as such but only those directed to a
practical purpose, i.e. to the orchestra. This is the basis—the musia and only
the music--on which a conductor’s movements have to be judged.
The rem aind er of this section concerns two levels of the conductor’s
technique. I refer to them as "basic” and "expressive" technique. This
division arbitrarily separates a lower order of conducting from a higher order,
a difference in degree but not of kind. Basic technique concerns the sort of
inevitable gestures one finds in traditional technical treatises. Through two
examples I will recommend a new, somewhat more complex approach to even
the most elemental of these gestures.
Expressive technique has always gotten short shrift in the traditional
literature. Since it does not reduce to universally accepted patterns, and
varies greatly from conductor to conductor, the scholarly literature has
remained mostly mute on the subject. Nevertheless, it is both possible and
crucially important to speak interestingly and informatively about this higher
order of technique. Like basic technique, the expressive gesture springs from
a specific musical impulse and should communicate a musical idea to the
orchestra with the utmost clarity.
Basic Technique. Fig. 3 shows two standard 2-beat conducting
patterns. Pattern (a) shows a "stopped" 2-pattem, in which the conductor
7Furtwangler on.Music 21.
93
(a) (b)
>r
E
FIGURE 3: Standard 2-beat Conducting Patterns
94
comes to a full halt on each beat. Pattern (b) shows a "legato" 2-pattem
which moves smoothly and continuously throughout its shape.
Diagrams of this sort have frequented treatises on conducting
technique since its inception, but one feature of these diagrams has never, to
my knowledge, been explored—yet this one aspect must be considered the
single most important issue raised by the diagram. While the diagram was
intended to give the shape and direction of the pattern, it neither shows
precisely where the beat occurs in the pattern nor why it occurs there. The
diagram of the "stopped" pattern (a) appears to indicate that the beat occurs
when the pattern stops, on the square boxes. But this may not be so simple as
it seems. We do not really know whether, 1) the ictus (exact moment of the
beat) occurs at the instant the motion stops, or 2) at the instant the motion
begins, or 3) at some point during the motion between stops, or lastly 4)
sometime during the stop itself. The failure of the traditional literature to
answer this basic problem of technique derives from a lack of underlying
theory about the nature of the conductor’s movement. By applying the
mechanistic idea of technique taken over from instrumentalists, it is merely
assumed that by moving the hand in the shape and direction of the pattern
the location of the ictus will automatically fall "into place,” wherever that
may be.
I propose that this problem clears itself up if the gesture, rather than
the pattern, is considered primary. By gesture I mean not only the totality of
the conductor’s movement, but also the intent behind it and the musical
impetus that drives it. The clarity of the conductor’s beat depends upon the
95
ability of her gesture to locate and communicate the precise moment of ictus.
The patterns shown in the diagram are loose and crude representations of a
real gesture given over time in three dimensional space by one person
interacting with many others. The humanization of this interaction opens a
new avenue of study for the student of the conductor’s movement.
I will examine two simple technical issues with a view toward
suggesting how such a study might proceed. First, I will investigate the
problem of the exact moment of ictus in the legato 2-beat pattern (shown in
Fig. 3(b)), then I will explore similar types of reasoning to explain the most
important of the conductor’s gestures, the upbeat.
The legato 2-beat pattern, as given in diagram Fig. 3(b), shows the
direction and shape that a conductor might describe with the baton. This
pattern, according to tradition, would be used during a duple meter passage
which was to be played in a smooth fashion. As with all standard conducting
diagrams, this one fails to identify the exact locus of the beat. In reality,
however, the conductor’s gesture has more components than just shape and
direction. The gesture also has velocity. If we trace the pattern in a rhythmic
manner, we see that at certain points, namely the points of greatest curvature,
we automatically increase the speed of the baton. In the flatter parts of the
pattern we tend to decrease the speed of the baton. The speed of the baton,
therefore, is in constant flux throughout the pattern. If, with great effort, we
attempt to trace the pattern with perfectly uniform speed, it becomes
impossible to sense any rhythmic impetus at all. It seems that the locus of the
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beat (indeed, its very existence) depends upon the changes of speed of the
baton. The beat, in short, depends upon the baton’s pattern of acceleration.
Fig. 4 shows a brave couple about to embark on a rollercoaster ride at
the county fair. Their cart, at the moment of the picture, has a velocity barely
more than zero-just enough to get them to the precipice. As they descend
the first slope they will gather considerable speed, so much, in fact, that they
will climb the next rise on momentum alone. At the next peak, their speed
again approaches zero. But before reaching a stop, the cart turns
groundward again and repeats the pattern of the first dip.
This scenario is a basic model of simple harmonic motion, in which the
increasing energy of descent is matched by the energy of ascent, with just
enough energy left over to propel the cart to the next descent.8 Simple
harmonic motion involves a play of acceleration according to the graph given
in Fig. 5. Notice that the upper portion of Fig. 5 gives the acceleration, and
the lower portion gives the concurrent velocity of the cart. The rollercoaster
begins at (or near) zero velocity and zero acceleration. As the slope of the
rails becomes steeper the rate of acceleration increases. The slope begins to
even out as it approaches the track’s lowest point. Consequently, the rate of
acceleration begins to diminish. Bear in mind, however, that the cart
continues to accelerate, but at an ever-diminishing rate. At the exact bottom
of the first dip, but still prior to the next climb, the rate of acceleration passes
8 This is not perfect harmonic motion, however, because energy is

being lost by the friction of the cart. As a consequence, each subsequent hill
has to be lower than the previous in order for the non-powered cart to
continue the journey.
97
FIGURE 4: Rollercoaster
98
Acceleration Graph
•r
Velocity Graph
FIGURE 5: Graphic Display of Rollercoaster Motion
99
through zero. This is the point of highest velocity. Now the cart begins to
decelerate as it climbs up the next incline. Again, the rate of deceleration, as
the cart loses momentum up the hill, will vary in relation to the slope of the
rails. Upon reaching the highest point in the incline the rate of acceleration
once again returns to zero. At this moment, the speed is at its lowest ebb,
very nearly zero. Then, as the cart turns downward again, the pattern begins
again. It is important to distinguish between rates of speed and rates of
acceleration. The velocity graph has a different shape than the acceleration
graph, with its extremes always occurring concurrently with a rate of
acceleration of zero.
All of us who have braved a rollercoaster know that the greatest pull
on our innards comes at the moment we hit the lowest point in the dip (the
point of greatest velocity). We also know that the moment of greatest
expectation (or dread, if you share my love of living) comes at the exact peak
o f the incline as we get a first look at the horrors that await us below. The
feeling of impending doom coincides with the near stoppage of the cart (the
point of lowest velocity) which occurs just before the next fall begins.
Cartoons abound with brilliant symbolic representations of this
phenomenon, such as when the hapless hero treads beyond a cliff ledge and
finds himself suspended over a deep abyss. That moment of near-zero, before
the fall, is captured and extended to comic lengths.
The rollercoaster analogy shows that certain physical principles of
motion and acceleration are known to us intuitively, if not consciously. We
feel them in our bones. We know (after some initial experimentation) how
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high we will jump when we push off from a trampoline, or how high a
superball will bounce, or how much it will hurt when we fall out of a tree.
The acceleration o f the rollercoaster represents an ingrained paradigm for all
sorts of simple harmonic motion which we experience in everyday life.
The conductor employing the motions of basic technique draws from
this wealth of experience. The legato 2-beat pattern given in Fig. 3(b) can
now be shown in a meaningful way which gives exact information about the
location of the ictus. See Figure 6. The thickness of the line represents a
greater velocity of motion. This pattern is like the rollercoaster ride described
above, but inverted and twisted over itself. Therefore, unlike the
rollercoaster, the conductor’s pattern defies the laws of gravity, because it
develops great speed in the second beat, for example, despite its more
complex relation to the force of gravity. The conductor’s pattern is a
symbolic representation of simple harmonic motion, and is automatically
understood as such by the player. By virtue of this symbolic understanding,
all one hundred players know exactly where the beat is: at the point of highest
velocity, where acceleration is zero—that same place where our stomach drops
out at the county fair.
I will consider one final aspect of basic technique: the upbeat gesture.
The most fundamental truth of conducting, which is little understood outside
of the profession, is that conducting happens before the music.9 In order to
influence events, the conductor must act ahead of time. If the conductor
9 Furtw angler on M usic 20: "The power to affect a note—and this
cannot be emphasized too often-lies in the preparation of the beat, not in the
beat itself."
101
FIGURE 6: Legato 2-beat Pattern Showing Velocity
102
indicates a musical nuance at the moment it is to be played, he is already too

late. The orchestra cannot respond. Therefore, conducting happens in the
upbeat. This one tool of the conductor, the capacity to influence coming
events by making a decisive gesture one beat in advance, makes the job
possible.
The first duty of the upbeat is to establish the tempo at the beginning
of a piece of music. But this phenomenon presents a fascinating riddle that
the mainstream conducting literature does not appear to acknowledge: how
does one establish a tempo with only one motion? As a line is determined by
two points, so a tempo must be determined by two events. The truth of this
assertion may be tested by allowing a metronome to sound for only one tick.
Naturally, one cannot possibly discern the intended tempo from this single
sound. If the metronome is allowed to tick twice, however, the tempo
instantly snaps into focus.
Despite this, conductors only require one beat to establish a tempo.
This can be tested with good results by sitting opposite a colleague and
making a single motion with your hand, and asking your colleague to sing the
tempo she understands from the gesture. Within a certain range of tempo,
the results will consistently be in accordance with your intentions (when a
good upbeat is given). From a single upbeat gesture, in the range of about
J=60 to J=120, one can accurately catch the tempo given by a single gesture.
Tempos slower than the given range become progressively less accurate, and
those faster than 120 tend to be interpreted at half the intended value (so, for
example, an upbeat given at J=144 might be sung back as J=72). The same
103
experiment can be made with an orchestra with equal success. How can it be
that the conductor can indicate a tempo by a single gesture when logic
requires that two events determine a tempo? The answer lies in the sort of
reasoning already established in the preceding discussion of the legato 2-
pattem: the upbeat is not a simple gesture, but a complex one, with its own
pattern of acceleration.
When we jump up from a trampoline, we know exactly when we shall
again fall to its surface. We know immediately how high we shall ascend, and
how forcefully we shall return. We have a feel for it. We have experience
with our weight, with the kind of force with which we propel ourselves
upward, and the kind of acceleration we can expect when we fall. Just as we
anticipate the moment of impact even as leave the trampoline, so the
orchestral player senses the inevitable moment of impact the moment the
conductor’s upbeat gesture begins. The speed at which the upward motion
occurs indicates the energy of the "jump," and the "weight" with which the
conductor imbues his arm and baton reveals the resistance against gravity
that is overcome by the gesture. Knowing this, the player knows instantly
and intuitively when the next downbeat is due. The player can anticipate the
whole course of the gesture almost from the moment It begins.
Symbolically speaking, then, two events do occur to set the tempo in
the conductor’s upbeat gesture. One event occurs in the present, the upbeat
itself; the other event is anticipated in the future, and is the downbeat to
come. By the time the downbeat falls, the musician can already confidently
subdivide the first beat of music in the tempo intended by the conductor.
104
This phenomenon, which might well seem to defy logic at first glance, and
further entrench the mysterious nature of conducting, is merely the
application of our innate symbolic faculty to a basic practical problem.
Expressive Technique.
In the dance, the actual and virtual aspects of gesture are mingled in
complex ways. The movements, of course, are actual; they spring from an
intention, and are in this sense actual gestures; but they are not the gestures
they seem to be, because they seem to spring from feeling, as indeed they do
not. The dancer’s actual gestures are used to create a semblance of self-
expression, and are thereby transformed into virtual spontaneous movement,
or virtual gesture.10
Here the great aesthetic philosopher, Susanne K. Langer, was
speaking of dance, but she might as well have been referring to conducting.
The expressive gestures of the conductor are real movement with symbolic
significance: they suggest a musical idea. Langer argues (implicitly) that the
gestures of conducting are logically expressive of specific musical concepts
and ideas.
Unlike dance, whose whole purpose is to express artistic ideas to an
audience through these virtual gestures, the conductor makes her gestures in
the spontaneous act of leading an orchestra in an interpretation of a musical
work. While some very significant teachers of conducting have taught that it
is a conviction of feeling that leads to good conducting,111 do not believe
they are fundamentally in disagreement with Langer. Rather I offer, along
with Langer, a refinement to this principle: it is not actual feeling that one
Langer, Feeling 180.
111am thinking of another of my teachers, the late Charles Brack,
who continued the teaching of Pierre Monteux: if one "feels" the music
strongly enough, the technique will follow.
105
must bring to conducting, but strong convictions about the musical ideas,
which are ideas about feeling.
A performance consists in a variety of musical gestures symbolically
understood, on all levels of structure, which combine to express the guiding
idea of the interpretation in all its richness and depth. The conductor shapes
the gestures of sound by using actual physical gestures in a logically
expressive way. Langer said, "music sounds the way feelings feel." One could
extend the symbolic structure a step further and say: "conductors move the
way music sounds." Interestingly enough, the audience may not appreciate
this correlation, but with a great conductor the orchestra invariably does.
The proof that the orchestra understands lies in the degree to which the
orchestra responds to the conductor’s vision.
Expressive technique is the language of a silent dialogue between the
intelligence of the conductor and the intelligence of his orchestra. As the
primary interpreter, the conductor suggests musical ideas to the players. This
suggestion takes the dynamic form of invitation, or inspiration. Under the
leadership of the conductor, he and the orchestra agree on a musical shape.
The audience may watch this silent interaction uncomprehendingly, but the
shape thus agreed upon acquires a sonic form, becoming part of the
audience’s aural experience.
In many ways, a conductor is a kind of abstract mime. Where a real
mime might try to give her audience the illusion of pulling upon a rope, or
opening a window, the conductor works with illusions of abstract musical
shape. The illusions of both, however, depend upon the same physical
106
principles. Think of a mime pulling on an imaginary rope. The success of her

illusion depends upon the mime’s ability to project the appearance of volume
onto her rope. No one will be taken in if the mime’s hands do not appear to
contain an object of a certain size. More importantly, the mime must give the
appearance of resistance to the rope. It is the illusion of resistance which
enables the mime to do all sorts of comic battle with imaginary objects.
The conductor, likewise, establishes physical parameters which enable
him to establish the symbolic illusion. The tip of the conductor’s baton
describes a line which forms a pattern, or shape, in three-dimensional space.
The actual properties of this shape, and the manner in which it is formed,
possess virtual properties in the symbolic mode. Like the virtual properties of
volume and resistance for the mime, the conductor’s success depends upon
creating the compelling illusion of meaningful gestures.
The first virtual property is the sense of scale which accompanies a
certain series of gestures. Only after establishing a sense of scale, can gestures
be understood as being relatively large or relatively small. Scale involves the
apportionment of space in the gesture. A conductor who establishes a small
scale, for example, can achieve massive effects by enlarging the gestures
relative to the scale. Fritz Reiner, for example, was famous for his small
conducting and was capable of enormous crescendi that were inspired by
gestures which would seem insignificant from nearly any other conductor.
Like the mime who defines the space of an imaginary rope, the conductor
must establish the scale upon which the gestures are to be understood.
107
The second virtual property in the conductor’s bag of tricks concerns

the sense of resistance. The gestures of the conductor can demonstrate the
appearance of resistance either through the illusion of weight, or the illusion
of traveling through a medium of a certain density. Both illusions offer forms
of resistance to motion of a specific type. In the upbeat, for example, the
expectation of the following downbeat depends upon the pattern of
acceleration (the speed) of the upward gesture, and the resistance against
which the conductor’s gesture travels. In a denser medium, like molasses, it
takes greater energy to "lift off' and the gesture will consequently have a
different curve than in a medium as light as air, where the gesture will fly
higher before losing its momentum and dropping back to the starting plane.
A conductor who expands her gestures through the dense goo of molasses,
for example, expands the beat itself as experienced by the player. The beat
becomes like molasses; which means that it is pliable and likely to ooze
beyond its strict metronomic bounds. The notes which are played in this
environment also take on molasses-like qualities: they become thick and rich
in sound, expansive with wide vibrato and deep resonances. In more clinical
terms, the density of the medium through which the gesture moves establishes
a symbolically related density of sonority (color) and expansiveness of tempo.
Toscanini’s specialty concerned the virtual property of the sense of
flow. Karajan often described Toscanini’s motions as "whiplike," and it was
to this virtual property that Karajan referred. By creating the feeling of
momentum in the gesture, much like being caught in the urgency of a
rollercoaster ride, Toscanini was able to negotiate hair-raising tempos and
108
transitions. The gesture seems to move unrelentingly forward, admitting to

no dallying or expressive introspection. As important as the sense of flow,
however, is the corresponding power of the conductor to interrupt the flow.
This virtual slamming of the brakes can be as compelling on the musical-
symbolic level as it is on the actual highways and byways of daily life.
Conducting turns sound into a mass of certain volume (the scale of
gesture), and density (the resistance of the gesture). The conductor can also
adorn the surface of that mass with elements of texture. The fingers can
mould a phrase, or pucker-up the sound surface in spikes or mounds. The
arm can smooth the musical fabric, or endow it with hard angles and curves.
The sound mass can appear fat and globular, or lean and taut. The
conductor can give it the appearance of shimmering brightly or boding
menacingly. In short, the gestures of the conductor are capable of creating
the virtual property of a sense of texture.
I identify two further virtual properties, but these might be
understood more as meta-properties, or properties of the properties already
mentioned. The first I call the sense of connectedness, which concerns the
relation of the conductor’s movement to the sound mass. A conductor can
give the illusion of reaching into the sound mass and pulling out the desired
effect. Contrariwise, the conductor can move in a such a way that is
perceived as floating somewhere above the sound itself, in a disconnected
way. These disconnected gestures are meta-gestures in the sense that they do
not give the impression of "making" the sound itself, but rather give the
impression of suggesting an idea about the sound to the players. This
109
becomes rather complex when compounded with the notion that, in reality,
all gestures are gestures "about" the sound and cannot possibly "make" the
sound of their own accord. But, within the context of virtual gesture, the
disconnected gestures are to be understood as gestures within gestures—as a
parody of the connected gesture.
A similar though distinct meta-property of the virtual properties is the
sense of relation. This concerns the relation of the gesture to the conductor’s
own physique. Gestures can usually be classed into those which relate the
sound to the body of the conductor, and those which keep the sound at some
distance from the conductor. The sound can appear to flow from the body,
or to draw into the body; both of these are gestures of the first type. On the
other hand, the sound can be kept at bay by the conductor whose gestures
never seem to relate to the body. Toscanini’s conducting is a good example
of this distancing of the gesture from the physique, whereas Karajan’s
gestures overwhelmingly relate to his body.
This summary of virtual properties by no means exhausts the elements
of gesture available to the conductor, but suggests the nature of those
movements which have traditionally stood outside the fray of scholarly
discussion. Understanding conducting through the symbolic relation of
physical gestures to musical ones opens even the most abstract and bizarre
techniques to analysis. Furtwangler’s genius, for example, now may be
understood as deriving not merely from some mysterious personal charisma,
but from a very sophisticated use of movement to achieve specific results.
Furtwangler unequivocally urges us to this very understanding in "The Tools
110
of the Conductor’s Trade." Indeed, the whole world of expressive technique

hovers in the sub-text of Furtwangler’s own tantalizingly suggestive remark:
If, as I said earlier, it is the preparation, the actual beat itself, and not
just its termination, that exerts the strongest influence over the sound that
emerges, would it not be possible to envision a manner of conducting which
dispensed as far as possible with these terminations, these brief, fixed
moments, and have recourse only to the beat and its preparation? This is no
matter of mere theory. I have myself been endeavoring for years to evolve a
practice of this kind.12
3. Karajan at Work
In all of the preceding remarks, my primary concern has been to

establish an approach to the issues of interpretation which sheds light on the
musician’s actual contribution to performance and to offer a model by which
we might understand the technical means available to the conductor to
convey his interpretation. The most revealing laboratory for the real work
that conductors do, however, is the orchestra rehearsal.
To demonstrate what the preceding discussion has sought to describe,
I will engage in a detailed analysis of Karajan’s rehearsal of the Schumann
Fourth Symphony (see Fig. 7). This rehearsal was recorded on video by the
director Henri-Georges Clouzot in late 1965.13 It shows Karajan rehearsing
the Vienna Symphony for an upcoming recording session. Despite being an
exemplary rehearsal by one of the century’s most accomplished conductors,
12 Furtwangler on Music 20-21.

13 Karajan. Early Images, dir. Henri-Georges Clouzot (Hamburg:
Deutsche Grammophon, 1991) vol. I.
I ll
Symphony No. 4 in D Minor, Op. 120

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FIGURE 7: Schumann Symphony No. 4\ First Movement

Robert Schumann, Complete Symphonies, ed. Clara Schumann (New York:
Dover Publications, 1980). Reprinted by permission.
(measures 1-7)
112
Symphony No. 4 311
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115
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316 Sym phony No. 4
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(measures 57-64)
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318 Symphony No. 4
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(measures 65-72)
Reproduced with permission o f the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission.
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(measures 104-109)
125
324 Sym phony No. 4
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(measures 110-116)
FIGURE 7 (con’t) Sym phony No. 4 3
(measures 117-124)
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FIGURE 7 (con’t) Symphony No. 4 327

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129
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328 Sym phony N o. 4
FIGURE 7 (con’t)
(measures 139-146)
130
there is nothing particularly radical or innovative here. In many ways,

Karajan simply does very well what all conductors strive to do in their
rehearsals. Any musician who has had the pleasure of working with a gifted
conductor will recognize a familiar tone and pattern to Karajan’s approach
to this rehearsal. This video, therefore, proves that conducting at the highest
levels differs only in degree but not in kind from rehearsals everywhere. Here
we see the issues that Karajan considered significant in the Schum ann
symphony. We see the manner in which he applies his abstract ideas to the
practical issues of performance. While Karajan no doubt excels in these
things, the more striking fact is that Karajan’s issues are no different than any
other competent conductor.
On the other hand, Karajan’s analytical grasp of the music, and
particularly of how to achieve results in a practical way, makes a perfect case
for the view of interpretation and conducting offered in this study. In the
first place, Karajan brings to the rehearsal a carefully studied and strongly
etched idea of how the symphony as a whole is constructed. In the
terminology established earlier, Karajan has an idea of the symphony’s total
shape—as one gesture throughout. The majority of Karajan’s remarks
directly link with the overall conception of the piece to which Karajan
repeatedly refers. In the second place, Karajan never articulates the idea of
the total symphony itself perse. In the third place, Karajan achieves his
vision by offering specific and practical solutions to short-term
interpretational issues. And finally, in his directions to the orchestra,
131
Karajan hits upon a certain balance of technical language and symbolic

language which reflects the sort of balance suggested elsewhere in this study.
What strikes one about this rehearsal is the philosophical work
Karajan does through purely technical means. Karajan relies little upon
imagery or literary symbols to get the highly artistic job of shaping a
symphony done. Instead, Karajan most often appeals to the purely musical
content of the score. On the other hand, one gets the impression that what
Karajan seeks has to do with feeling. He uses the word "passion" several
times to get results from his orchestra. The shape, the structure, the gesture is
achieved by a careful working-out of purely musical content. Its ultimate
function, however, lies in the realm of human passion. Thus Karajan finds
the union suggested by Langer of form and feeling.
Herbert von Karajan: Good morning. Well, gentlemen. This is the last
rehearsal before tomorrow’s recording. I would like to run through once
more the passages ofspecial importance fo r the atmosphere o f the piece.
M ay we begin?
Ifirst chord only]
The whole piece begins with an opening atmosphere which is slow, heavy. So
it shouldn’t start with an accent [slaps hands together]like that. Take your
time. Feel the way the double basses begin. Then apply the accentuation
slowly. D on’t punch it. Wait fo r it. Take a deep breath.
[first chord only]
B ut a bit more forte.14
14 This italicized passage and those to follow are a transcription of

Karajan’s actual rehearsal. See footnote 13 above.
132
It is hard to imagine a Reiner or a Toscanini devoting the final

rehearsal to matters of "special importance to the atmosphere of the piece."
Karajan places himself in a particular philosophical relationship to the score
with this remark. He wishes to evoke a certain atmosphere. Allowing many
m in o r technical flaws to go unchecked, Karajan applies himself to fashioning
the total experience of the piece. When he uses the word atmosphere, he
refers to the same aspect of music that I mean by gesture, which connects
directly with hanger’s phrase, "the tonal analogue of emotive life."
Already, in the first directions of the rehearsal, Karajan establishes a
trademark feature of his characteristic sound. Big chords often are sunk into
as opposed to struck by Karajan’s orchestras. To achieve this result, Karajan
uses some interesting language and psychological techniques. The directive
to "take your time" might appear somewhat paradoxical, in that the chord
must sound at a particular time no matter whether accented or not. Yet, at a
m in ute level, Karajan appeals to physical principle to demonstrate his
meaning. By referring in the subsequent sentence to the double bass he

conjures the image of the bass’ thick strings being gradually excited into
sound. A trumpeter, needless to say, experiences none of this in actual
physical terms, but can imagine the sense of delay that the double basses
experience and can evoke that same sensation in the manner of his
articulation of this opening chord. In case the double bass image failed to
convey his meaning, Karajan further clarifies the idea by suggesting that one
"apply the accentuation slowly." Throughout this discussion Karajan makes
gestures which appear to have weight sinking into a substance of great
133
resistance. He gives the gestural complement to the images his words seek to
express.
When Karajan asks the orchestra to "wait for" the accentuation, he
urges them, in a sense, to get into the sound and let the weight of the sound
make the fo rte called for by Schumann. What Karajan is saying, in simple
terms, is that there is no accent, but merely a fo rte--a big, heavy sound.
Finally, as he is in the midst of the upbeat gesture, he suggests taking a "deep
breath." In this, Karajan expresses the wish that orchestra exhale the first
chord as deeply as they have inhaled Karajan’s upbeat.
Typically, the orchestra responds with a less accented but conservative
articulation of the first chord. Karajan asks for more sound, reinforcing his
consistently urgent distinction between accented or weighty articulations
from fo rte or other dynamic indications in the score. He saying: it is possible
to have a chord that is quite loud and quite heavy without a sharp accent.
This is precisely what he seeks in this case.
[begins again, goes to middle o f m. 3]

le a n ’t say it too often. These first two crescendiare so important. So don’t
bring the note in all o f the sudden. Prepare fo r it. [sings crescendo] Then
don’t place one note after the other. L ink the two. Please, can I ha vejust this
sm all detail.
[2nd violins and violas play from the m iddle o fm . 1 to end ofm . 2]
You see, i t ’s quite different now. It makes it legato a t once. From the
beginning again, please.
134
Here, Karajan imprints his trademark sound once again, this time in
its melodic incarnation. Karajan always seeks a pure legato, especially in a
melodic line with creseendiand diminuendi. He asks, again paradoxically,
that the violins and violas not play "one note after the other." But, o f course,
one note does follow the next exactly. There is no other way to play it. But
Karajan wants to create an illusion—the illusion of one note merging and
flowing into the next, which has quite a different flavor. In short, Karajan
seeks to make the crescendo an organic outgrowth of the melodic contour of
the line. He wishes that the middle strings would sense some form of
resistance as the melody approaches the climaxes in each case, so that the
crescendo is not a superficially imposed nuance, but a function of musical
necessity. This serves as a classic example of what I call the shape or gesture
of the musical line. It is not enough for Karajan to allow the middle strings
simply to get louder on the creseendi; these creseendi, rather, must emerge
from the very texture of the legato as an organic feature of the melody itself.
/ tu tti from beginning to the sforzando in m. 5]

[to the 1st violins]Please come in without a break. Prepare fo r it. Play the
crescendo up to the last moment, then in to the next accent. Please bring out
fo rm e as much as possible that you are the exact opposite o f what we ha ve
here, [points to middle strings] This is underpressure andhea vy. You are
altogether relaxed and light, [sings 1st violin part in m. 4] Three seconds o f
brightness, please.
[tu tti from beginning, stops after s f in m. 5]
There is something I m ust explain. Look, first violins, when you start your
short intermezzo you are doubled by the flute. N o wplease, flute and violins
together. Play with yo u r normal tone.
[flute and 1st violins play m. 4]
135
That's whyyou don’t connect. You don't hear the flute. So I want you to
play on the fingerboard at this point. Why? I f you play on the fingerboard it
gets rid o fth e harmonics and you '11hear the flute's timbre. Please play it
again and listen to what the flute is playing.
[flute and 1st violins play m. 4]
You see, now there’s unity. A nd when this passage comes, listen first.
Because the flute gives the timbre we want. D on't press down with the bow.
Play very flexibly. Then we’l l get this complete contrast. Please, m ay we start
once more from the beginning?
In this set of directives, Karajan demonstrates the incestuous nature of

musical content. Karajan expresses the rich idea that the violin line in m. 4
represents the "opposite" of the middle string line in the two previous bars.
This is an incestuous comparison: these two musical events refer to one
another, rather than to some outside phenomenon. On the other hand,
however, Karajan expresses the character of each as, alternately, "heavy" and
"bright." The purely musical polarity that Karajan seeks has an expressive, or
even symbolic, function. Note, however, that Karajan does not put too fine a
point on the symbol. He does not say, for example, that the heaviness should
be like that of a summo wrestler, and the brightness like the rays of the
noonday sun. Rather, the heaviness is like the double bass sound and the
brightness is like the flute timbre. Again, the reference of the symbol falls
back into the realm of pure music. It does not depend upon literary allusions.
Particularly fascinating in this excerpt is the manner in which Karajan
achieves a most personal touch in his vision of these opening bars. Here
occurs an excellent example of where the notation leaves off and the
interpretation begins. Nothing in the score suggests that m. 4 ought to be
136
"three seconds of brightness" as compared to what came before. Indeed, the

better part of the bar is spent in a crescendo to the same accent with which
the movement began, which Karajan himself described as "heavy." And yet,
the higher registers of the violins and flute do take possession of the
foreground from the lower inner voices that had come before. But imagine
what the violinists must have thought as they looked into their parts. They
see a big crescendo back to a forceful and weighty accent. Predictably, their
first impulse was to play m. 4 in as heavy a manner as possible, to match the
sound of the 2nd violins and violas. But Karajan, as it turns out, wanted the
exact opposite. He chose, as he might not have done, to bring out the change
of range and register and timbre that occurs in the fourth bar rather than
emphasize a continuity of sound. In doing this, Karajan is fully within his
rights as an interpreter. He still scrupulously observes the score. But here he
pulls out a nuance that was not indicated directly by Schumann. Instead,
Karajan sees the possibilities for shape and gesture only implicit in the score
itself.
Karajan does not merely tell the violins to play softer in m. 4. He asks
them to listen and cede to the flute’s timbre. Karajan imagines not just a
change in character but, more importantly, a change in balance. He wants
the silvery, floaty tone of the flute to change utterly the quality of sound in
the fourth bar, which generates a striking contrast with the string-dominated
sound of the previous bars. He achieves his "three seconds of brightness" by
subtly reworking the balance of orchestral forces.
137
[begins, in m. 8 says "quite relaxed, "stops in m. 12]

Thank you, that’s quite clear. So don’t forget, again in bars 7 and 8 two m ore
times, holding right back. The same burdened, oppressive atmosphere begins
on the bar before the m ezzo forte. M ay I have bar 7 again?
[begins at m. 7, midway through m. 9 h e says, "the opposite," stops in
m. 10]
Wonderful! Now le t’s go to straight after the climax, afterbar 18.
[begins atm. 18, stops in m. 22]
Just a minute. One very important thing, [to 1st violins] You m ake a
decrescendo. You come down, down, down. A n d on the note where you
ought to be quietest ofall, on 1, you ’re louder. Why? Because o f the barline.
The bo w changes direction. A nd instead ofgetting softer, you get louder,
and th a t’s wrong.
In this sequence of directives, Karajan attends to various details of

execution. Especially relevant to the terms of this study is his innocent and
unselfconscious phrase, "that’s quite clear." He does not mean that the notes
are speaking clearly, or that the dynamics are clearly differentiated. What
Karajan means, I believe, is that the meaning o f the passage as conceived by
Karajan is now being given clearly by the orchestra. In short, the gesture is
clear. The phrase now has shape. This has been Karajan’s purpose in all of
his remarks about the music to this point.
Karajan’s remark about mm. 7 and 8 ("holding right back") appears to
refer to the motion from A to Bt>which occurs in the melody over the
barlines, going into mm. 8 and 9. In several different ways, Karajan indicates
that the orchestra should be "quite relaxed" here, or "the opposite" of the
heaviness which comes in the upbeat to m. 10. He appears to be setting up a
phrase pattern by which three bars of oppressive music (mm. 1-3 and 5-7) are
138
followed by a bar or two of "brightness" or relaxation (mm. 4 and 8-9). This

alternation suggests, perhaps, an antecedent-consequent relation between the
opening sforzato and the one in m. 5, as well as between the violin/flute
passage in m. 4 and mm. 8-9. Although he does not say this directly, Karajan
clearly indicates that the motion in the bass in the second part of m. 10
inaugurates the return to the heavy music. These differentiations, while all
supported by orchestrational details and the harmony, might just as well have
been sacrificed for a continuity of character throughout. Karajan, however,
exercised his interpretive prerogative to the opposite effect.
The last directive given above is more in the character of error
correction, or habit-breaking, that conductors also engage in during
rehearsal, even with the best orchestras. To a certain extent, even Karajan at
the height of his international prestige had to spend precious rehearsal time
reinforcing basic rules of music-making that one might expect would not be
necessary at so high a level.
[begins atm . 18, stops in m. 23]

Please, let me remind you once more. This ostinato in the basses m ust not
wobble or fade. Each note the same as the next, but legato. Again, please.
P lay fortissimo in the legato. There, at 22, but play fortissimo.
[cellos and basses begin atm. 22, stop in m. 23]
Yes, and now play it piano. A nd give me exactly the same impression. There
was the feeling ofan ostinato then. Now do exactly the same in piano.
Perhaps we should take it from 5 bars before the double bar.
139
Here we come to a most important word to which Karajan returns

several times: "ostinato” In general, this word refers to any repetitive bass
accompaniment. But, as will soon become evident, Karajan has a more
significan t meaning in mind, one that is central to his conception of the
symphony. Karajan desires an obsessive effect, drawn from the purely

repetitive and unrelenting nature of ostinato. Therefore, the gesture of the
whole symphony, as Karajan understands it, is at risk if the cellos lose
intensity between the notes of the alternating A to Gif figure that begins in m.
22 (causing it to "fade"). Also, the effect will fail if one note tends to be
weaker than the other (a "wobble").
Karajan demonstrates the point by asking the cellos and basses to play
the passage fortissimo, even though it is marked to begin in piano. Then he
asks them to play it piano, but "give me exactly the same impression."
Karajan wants intensity without volume. He achieves it by requiring a
constancy of pressure, an unrelenting legato.
(begins atm . 20, stops in m. 29]

Look, there’s one thing we must clear up. This Allegro begins legato. Only
when it’s staccato, at the end, is the bowing detach€. A nd then the scansion
changes altogether. Please play the Allegro theme from the Allegro. Just the
first violins.
[1st violins begin at Lebhaft, stop in m. 31]
Look, keep this in mind. The contrast between the legato and the staccato is
not distinct enough. I must ha ve a Jong legato and two short staccato notes.
Please play it again very slowly.
[1st violins play slowly from Lebhaft to m. 31]
You always get faster on the last two and the whole thing runs a way.
140
[1st violins play from Lebhaft into m. 32]

Yes, yes. A n d now up to tempo.
M uch better already, but can I please ha ve the slur even longer. I need to
ha ve it audible. That’s what makes the ostinato.
Again Karajan speaks of the ostinato, but now in the most striking
connection. He is speaking of the figure with which the Lebhaft opens, in the
first violins. Normally, one might call this a melody or a subject or even a
rhythmic figure, but the term "ostinato" evokes entirely different
connotations. Karajan means to give the impression that this rhythm
acquires its structural significance from its very unceasing regularity of
rhythm. As a consequence, the rhythmic integrity of the figure becomes of
the greatest importance for Karajan’s vision of the structure of the symphony
as a whole. In the preceding passage, Karajan expends a great deal of time
achieving perfection of rhythm in the first violins. He wants a long and
audible slur, or legato, in the first two notes, and an entirely contrasting and
sharply defined staccato in the last two notes of each beat. The ostinato
effect depends upon the contrast of these two articulations, and the regularity
of each articulation over many beats. Karajan gives a revealing insight into
his understanding of the ostinato principle in the following passage:

[tutti] Can we please ha ve the transition once more. I d like to do the last five
bars before the double bar.... Perhaps bar20. Look, gentlemen, [to 1st
violins]Diminuendo to piano--don’t forget on the last note, [to cellos and
141
basses/ When the piano begins this insistent A-G i-A-G $-A. [to the 1st
violins] When you state the subject for the first time, now, it’s only a hint.
Leave it com pletely uncertain. D on’t scan it precisely. I t’s ju st a first
suggestion. A n d then it actually begins andgro ws more and more. B u t the
more it gro ws—and when you enter in the last bar before the Allegro, the
centralidea o fth e sym phony m ust already be there. The idea ofclinging to a
thought to the point o f madness. You know what happened. Please, 20.
The ostinato figure represents for Karajan "the idea of clinging to a

thought to the point of madness," which is what Schumann might have done.
The composer did, in fact, spend his last tragic years in an insane asylum.
Karajan implies that this symphony expresses some of the psychological
elements of Schumann’s madness. Whether this interpretation would have
struck Schumann rightly no longer matters. But here we have clear evidence
that this was Karajan’s own interpretation, and it obviously informed some
of his specific decisions. But perhaps more interesting still is the fact that this
whole biographical and psychological subtext gets only passing notice from
Karajan. More important to him is achieving the purely musical
understanding of the passage which he sought to do first. (In short, Karajan
was more intent on legato and staccato than on waxing philosophical about
Schumann’s neurosis). Feeling, perhaps, that the orchestra still did not fully
grasp what he was after, Karajan then used this psycho-biographical
approach to get results.
Another fascinating element of the preceding speech is Karajan’s
conception of the birth and maturity of the main Allegro theme in the
transition. The sixteenth-notes in the first violins, beginning in m. 22, are
meant to be "completely uncertain." And Karajan says to the violins, "Don’t
142
scan it precisely." This last directive contains great richness. Karajan

certainly does not mean that the violins should be less than precise about the
pitch, nor does he mean that they, as a section, should not be precisely
together. This last, in turn, suggests that he cannot mean, in any superficial
way, that they should not be precisely in rhythm, either. What Karajan does
mean, I submit, is that the violins should not give the eight notes of each
slurred figure a clear shape at first. Karajan seems to desire an amorphous
gesture here, one that has ambivalence and hesitancy. By sacrificing clarity of
phrase on the micro level, Karajan adds a new dimension to the clarity of the
gesture o f the whole transition. In addition to being a transition of tempo
and thematic content, this passage becomes a transition from formlessness to
order.
[tu tti atm . 20, stops atm . 45]

Please h o ld the note no w, untilyou sense the others entering again. There
m ust n o t be a gap. A, please.
[begins a t A, stops atm . 51]
Now, Id id n ’t mention this before. We m ust see to it that this subject, which
comes from the Allegro theme, gives us the modulation into the next subject.
I t’s im portant that you realize--I think it’s safe to say-that this phrase comes
from piano writing. It is essentially a keyboard phrase. You m ust m ake sure
that you bring about the transformation. M ake it lyrical, even though it’s
forte. B u t don’tplay[sings violin double figure a t m. 49in a very detached
way]. That’s because o f the repeated notes....
[to 1st violins] Willyou play it alone?
[1st violins begin atm . 49 to endofm . 50]
143
You could play [sings figure atm . 49 very detached], or I can let the notes
hang on and m ake a melody out o f them, as though they were slurred. Try it.
D id you know, incidentally, that Richard Strauss and Weingartner touched
up the scoring to bring out precisely these features so characteristic o f
Rom antic music, and which certainly are not clearin the score. Please, le t’s
have it again.
[1st violins begin at m. 49 to end o f m. SO]
Yes, and don’t play [sings very staccato version ofm . SO], play [sings more
legato version ofm . SO] Just bear in m ind the lyricism o f the whole thing....
In these remarks, we get an important insight into the particular

quality of Karajan’s interpretive vision. In this monothematic exposition
Karajan seeks to find some elemental contrast between the first and second
subjects. The first subject, which he likens to a keyboard figure, occurs in the
first violins at the Lebhaft (m. 29). The second subject begins in m. 55 with
the same figuration in the first violins over a dotted rhythm in the high winds
and second violins, the new element of the second subject. Although the first
violin figure occurs in both subjects, Karajan seeks to distinguish the first
from the second by making this figure more obsessive and pianistic in its
earlier incarnation and more lyrical and cantabile in the later one.
Karajan wishes to use the transition between subjects in order to make
a modulation of character (from obsessive to lyrical) in addition to the
expected modulation of key (from d minor to F major). To this end, Karajan
brings out the lyrical possibilities in the bridge section (mm. 43-54). He
focuses on m. 49 in the first violins. Because of the double on the sixteenth
notes, violinists are tempted to make a very mechanical exercise out of the
figure. This would be wrong not only because of the intrinsic lack of musical
144
feeling that would result, but especially because of the "transformation" that
Karajan seeks between the pianistic manifestation of the theme and the
upcoming lyrical one. Karajan, therefore, asks that the doubldaspect of m.
49 be sublimated to the more important general shape of the figure, as it
appears, for example, in the flutes and oboes.
Karajan also applies his lyrical reading to m. 50, the dotted cadential
figure. This should not be accented and abrupt, but a sweeping and caressing
close. For Karajan, even a forte can be tender. In the ensuing comments,
Karajan returns to m. 50, this time in the cello part, to reinforce the concept:
[1st violins begin at m. 49 to end o f m. 52]

[to tutti] N ow can we begin again a t A?
[tu tti begins at A, stops in m. 48]
Do you know why this happens? You change the bow. [sings the cello and
viola line atm . 47 with accents on each beat] A nd that makes it m uch too
chopped up. Try again the [sings the same, but very legato] Change the bo w
as sm oothly as i f it were alllegato, allright? Because what we need is this
passionate expression here. Then suddenly it changes completely and m o ves
into softer realms.
[begins tu tti at A, stops in m. 54]
[to cellos and basses] These fortes are still too harsh. We’re in a lyrical
melodic... D on’t play [sings very choppy version ofth eir line a t m. 50] That
m akes it like a military march. No. [smgs same but very legato] Even when
i t ’s forte it can be legato. Please, the same passage.
Karajan returns to the passage just preceding mm 49-50 to embellish

upon the sense of continuity and lyricism that he requires. Earlier, he had
compelled the first violins to hold their quarter-note in m. 44 until they could
145
"sense the others entering again." In short, Karajan wanted no holes or gaps
between phrases, but a continuous seamlessness. The same idea occurs with
respect to the violas and cellos in mm. 47-48, where they had put accents on
each group of four sixteenth-notes, thus chopping up the line even within the
bar. Karajan, predictably, asks that they play with perfect legato through
each whole figure.
Karajan equates this continuity of line to the idea of "passionate
expression." From a semantic point of view, this equation is most interesting
and relates significantly to the views already expressed in this study. Karajan
does not ask his orchestra to conjure up the image of their dearest beloved,
nor does he recite poetry to bring to the minds of his players the right
passionate mood. The passion, Karajan implies, resides in the music.
Specifically, it resides in the legato. To put it differently: the passion implicit
in this passage depends upon shaping the line in a particular way. The same
notes shaped in another way (with accents on each beat, for example) would
fail to express the exact quality of passion that Karajan sees in the music.
Schumann’s pitches and harmonies mixed with Karajan’s specific form of the
legato makes the gesture. The gesture expresses the passion.
[begins a t A, stops in m. 63]

Yes. From about bar 50, once again we want to bold on to this broadening.
This briefm om ent o f lyricism. As you know, the trombone chord comes
immediately thereafter. B ut at that moment stay as easy and relaxed as
possible, the winds too. [sings wind line ofm . 56 quite lightly] No. [sings
same with accents on every beat]Don’t count the beats. Go by the character
o f it.
[begins a t A, stops in m. 74]
146
Those two bars, they are... Again, there’s too much rhythm and n ot nearly
enough expression, [sings mm. 73-74 very dryly] No, le t’s build up and
vanish again, like a wave, [sings same very legato] A nd passionate in
expression.
W hat’s happened now? Those two bars give rise to the next melody, which is
basically exactly the same as the Allegro theme, only in the major. Like this:
[sings m elody from first Allegro theme] A n d ofcourse that changes its
character. Because I m ust ha ve the contrast to lead into the trombone
passage. L ike this: [sings mm. 73 and 74 very legato] A nd then continue
with this passage [sings violin line o f mm. 76-78] You see, it m akes all the
difference. M ay I hear it again, please?
Here, Karajan rehearses the second subject. One senses that Karajan
feels the weight of the impending "trombone chords” very strongly. The
lyricism of the second subject seems to offer one of the few moments of
respite in the movement. And yet, even during this respite, the specter of
doom in the trombones haunts Karajan. As before, Karajan sets up a
musical dialectic. In one moment we have a certain mood, but this mood
must eventually make its gradual transformation to a strongly contrasting
one. So in the original mood must already exist the seeds of change. And as
the moment of catharsis approaches, these transformative elements must
gradually overwhelm the musical foreground.
Bars 73-74 represent an important shift in direction toward the
trombone chords. (One assumes that Karajan is referring to the chords that
begin at C, rather than the short supporting chords which begin in m. 79).
These wave-like hairpins suggest a volatility that will eventually ignite into the
more manic spirit of the development section.
147
First, Karajan accuses the strings of playing these measures with "too
much rhythm and not enough expression." By the manner in which he sings
to them their error, it becomes clear that his objection is specifically to a
break in the legato between the dotted note and the sixteenth. Of course, the
crescendo must occur at exactly the same moment as these breaks, which is
impossible. Karajan, therefore, might have made his point on purely logical
grounds: one cannot do the hairpin at all if one does not connect the
beginning of the crescendo to the end of it, and from the beginning of the
diminuendo to its end, as well. But Karajan chooses to make his point in a
more direct way. The break not only robs the crescendo and diminuendo,
but the expression itself. Once again, the gesture (as opposed to the notes
alone, for example) contains the expression. The passion resides in the shape
of these bars. The meaning of these bars, so to speak, derives from their
volatility, according to which the relaxed lyricism of the main body of the
second subject turns toward a more animated and restless state.
Here we can see that musical meaning and musical structure are
intertwined. The passion of mm. 73-74 depends upon two structural elements
working simultaneously, one on the micro level and the other on the macro
level. The micro-gesture is the wave-like structure that Karajan explicitly
requests. The macro-gesture concerns the whole transformation of the lyrical
second subject back to the neurotic obsessiveness which comes into its own at
C (or, if the repeat is taken, at the return to m. 29). While both of these
gestures are clearly recognizable in the score, they remain only implicit.
Karajan, as the interpreter, makes it his business to make these matters
148
known to his orchestra and to bring those features which he deems important
into relief. Another interpreter might have stressed the monothematic nature
of this exposition, and continued to press the violins in the obsessive way that
Karajan contains to the first subject. Then this moment at m. 73 would have
an entirely different structural significance and meaning.
[begins atm . 73, stopsjust after C]

[to trombones] N o diminuendo. Keep it up tillIg o on. A nd also the cellos
play straight into it without a break.
[begins at C, stops after m. 90]
We need fu ll intensity there. D on’t play [sings the string double figure ofm .
88 very staccatissimo] instead [sings the same very sm oothly] Draw the bow
out very slowly, orelseyou won’t have enough. I t ’s quite different.
[begins at C, stops in m. 94]
I t’s always the same, [sings cello passage at m. 93 with accents on every beat]
No. [sings same as one even line] Please dra w it out. N o accent please.
[cellosplay m. 93]
Each ofyou, long, [sings the legato version again] I don’t hear, don’t feel any
drama in it.
Karajan again stresses those elements which characterize his famous

sound: the connectedness of elements, the unrelenting intensity of sound, and
the ever-present legato. Despite the marking of sforzato, Karajan wants no
diminuendo at letter C in the trombones, nor elsewhere in the orchestra. The
cellos, which must continue after the fermata with the sixteenth-note figure,
are not allowed to pause or even to retake their bows before launching into
the next figure. And the figure itself cannot be played mechanically, just as in
149
m. 49, where the same double was made as legato as possible. Even though
this figure requires a tremendously fleet bow stroke, Karajan wants the
players to slow it down as much as possible in order to "have enough" to
create the legato. This slowing, of course, does not concern the tempo of the
piece nor does it concern the rhythm of the figure—both remain constant.
What Karajan actually seems to want is the illusion of a slow bow. This is
accomplished by making a longer bow in the same amount of time (thus
eliminating any tiny gaps between bow strokes). Paradoxically enough, this
actually produces a faster bow stroke while creating the illusion of slower
movement.
When the figure becomes a true legato, with slurs, Karajan returns to
his earlier critique of the cellos from m. 43ff. Following the slurs, which
change every beat, the cellos unconsciously put an accent on every beat of the
melody. Karajan chastises them for forgetting so soon what he had just
corrected in the exposition. When accented Karajan cannot "feel any drama
in it." Somehow, the legato throughout the phrase makes the drama. If we
examine mm. 93-101 we can begin to understand why. The first bar of each
entrance, which consists of sixteenth-notes, is followed by a quarter-note trill
which resolves down by a semitone. Casals called the trill a celebration of the
note. It is an explosion of energy, elaborating upon a certain pitch. Trills
function as accents and emphasis. Clearly, the second bar of the figure is the
goal of the sixteenth-notes which precede it. An accent on any part of the
first bar (such as m. 93 in the cellos) only dissipates the sense of direction in
the phrase to the trill. Moreover, the trill and the subsequent half-step
150
resolution sets up a sequence of imitative half-step resolutions for the

remainder of the phrase. So, in the case of the cellos, the trill spawns two
additional measures of half-step resolutions (on the pitches of Db to C). This
pattern is imitated in the higher instruments as a four-part canon at the bar.
The drama comes from the ambiguity of key, which centers around the
diminished seventh sonority (which has prevailed since the first trombone
chord at C), augmented by the canon-like imitation that rises from the depths
of the orchestra to the upper range of the flute.
Karajan seeks, firstly, to clarify the phrase structure. The sixteenth-
notes must move toward the trill without accent. Even more, Karajan wants
a mighty and seamless rise from the lowest to the highest registers of the
orchestra in the pattern of sixteenth-notes that results from the canon.
Accenting each beat would make this powerful ascent sluggish and
unconvincing, in short-lacking in drama.
[cellos and violas begin at m. 93, gets into letter D]

[turns to violins] Play this passage alone, with the second violins.
[violins begin at D, play intom . 103]
D on’t forget, it’s forte.
[violins begin at D, play through m. 104]
I t stays the same. Two bars forte, two barspiano. Now, can I have the cello
arpeggio, two bars before.
[cellosplay from D to m. 105]
Yes, but it’s piano, then sforzato. [sings arpeggio figure with quick accent on
the si7 Short, with a little wood.
151
[cellosplay from D to m. 105]

That’s all right now, we’l l go on. L et’s start again at C.
In this passage, Karajan clarifies his understanding of what is intended

by the notation of Schumann, particularly with regard to dynamics. At letter
D, the violins have sforzato in forte, which Karajan points out. But the
ambiguity comes in mm, 105-106, where the last dynamic given in the violin
part is piano, and the sforzato at m. 105 might be interpreted as an accent in
the general piano dynamic. Karajan confirms that each time the sixteenth-
note figure returns, it is to be played forte. This reading is further
substantiated by the forte in the cellos and basses, and horns. On the
contrary, the tricky cello figure in mm. 103-104 occurs in the general dynamic
of piano, and the sforzato is quick and light. When Karajan says, "with a
little wood" he seems to be making reference to bow technique, but it is
doubtful that he meant some sort of colIegno here. Nevertheless, the image
immediately evokes the kind of sforzato he wants in the mind of a string
player. In literal terms, the cellists respond by using a quick and light bow on
the accent.
[tu tti from C tom . 116]

lean ’tsa y too often how important this rhythm is. I f you play this rhythm
[sings the 2nd violin rhythm at D very lazily] That’s not good. I t’s the
ostmato again. I t runs notjust through the whole movement, but through
the whole symphony, doesn’t it? A nd it m ust be, whenever it comes,
especially when i t ’s forte [sings same verymarcato in a tight rhythm ] You’re
playing [sings lazy version again] So that the first phrase has a center o f
gravity, and the second hasn’t. For example, your rhythm there, you know
where it begins, D ....
152
[2nd violins play a t D to m. 103]

Yes, you see, it's missing. The notes are not equal in weight. An ostinato is
always a continuation ofequal sounds.
[2nd violins and violas play at D to m. 106]
That’s it. Can we do the same once more?
In a sense, Karajan corrects a rhythm that is inaccurate and imprecise.

But Karajan focuses more on the structural importance of this rhythm and
the character, the work this figure must do. The rhythm, is the second
part, or supporting figure, of the sixteenth ostinato that comes in the first
violins throughout. Karajan needs the marcato here to support the
obsessiveness with which he associates the ostinato principle in this
symphony. When he claims that the figure comes throughout the symphony,
it is unclear whether he means the ostinato principle itself or the exact
rhythm of the second violins in this passage. The second violin rhythm never
comes back in exactly the same form, but certain related rhythms figure
prominently in the fourth movement.15
Karajan wishes to set up a contrast between the forte and piano
passages that alternate at letter D. He needs the first phrase to have a "center
of gravity" while the second phrase, with the trombone line in piano, does
not. I believe he wishes to bring out a contrast between the strictly
15 The dotted theme of the fourth movement Lebhaft, which also
happens to alternate with the sixteenth-note ostinato right at the beginning,
has the residue of the second violin figure. The second violin figure m the
third bar after U is the same rhythm as the first movement, but for the eighth-
note rest. Finally, in the Coda, beginning nine bars after the Schneller, the
rhythm returns almost in its original form, written as J JT2.
153
rhythmicized forte bars and the sustained and arhythmic quality of the
woodwinds and the tremolo strings in the piano bars. The cello, being just a
flicker, does not overcome the sense of suspended animation that
characterizes these bars. The strongly etched rhythmic quality of the first
bars depends upon the marcato articulation in the second violin, giving it a
grounded, gravitational quality, which provides a distinct contrast to the
unearthly trombone line. (This anti-gravitational feel in the second phrase
actually allows the chord to rise by a half-step going into the fifth bar after
D!)
[tutti begins a t C, stops in m. 123]

Now, m ay I have the woodwinds alone in the same passage?
[woodwindsplay from pick-up to m. 121 to m. 126]
Please, gentlemen, the first note is much too short. It makes it completely
insubstantial. I t ’s no longer solid enough.
[woodwinds play from pick-up to m. 121 to m. 126]
That’s right. Good, [to strings]A nd now, please, don’t forget this returns in
the last movement, reversed. Here at the beginning [points to woodwinds]i t ’s
the new subject, and it ’s also your basic theme, [sings the first violin line ofm .
122] So it m ust be especially well articulated. Can I ha ve 115?
[tu tti begins a t m. 115, stops in m. 122]
[to the violins] You m ust hear the winds from the bar before. I t was so loud
ju st now that nobody heard them at all. I t’s immensely im portant to bring
out the second subject now. A fter all, it’s the main subject o f the last
movement.
Karajan concerns himself with the structural significance of m. 121,

which is the beginning of a new subject and the foreshadowing of the last
154
movement’s main theme. By insisting that the eighth-notes get full value,
Karajan was simply adjusting a balance which would only cover the
woodwinds if they did not make a special effort. Karajan then turns to the
strings and reminds them that they are playing the ostinato figure again,
which reappears in association with the wind theme in the last movement.
(Karajan mentions that the rhythm is reversed in the last movement, by
which he means only that we hear the sixteenth-note first here, but in the last
movement the theme generally starts with the dotted note). Karajan wishes
in this speech to stress the importance of the ostinato at m. 122. The
unintended effect, however, is that the strings play much too loud in m. 121,
covering the balance he just achieved in the winds. He therefore requests that
the violins make a difference in dynamic between mm. 121 and 122, despite
the absence of such a marking by Schumann.

N ow we m ust be sure that we can go from this m ood directly into the very
delicate, lyrical m ood without taking bow from string. Can I ha ve one bar
before the fermata?
Yes, th a t’s different. Do you see what you are doing? You play a
diminuendo, don ’tyou? Then come back into the m elody with the crescendo.
You need something quite different. I t must emerge automatically out o f the
reduction in volume—thispassage, which is very delicate. L et m e have the
m elody in the violins alone.
Karajan seeks a sort of connection between the fermata in m. 146 and

the ensuing lyrical passage which is as magical as it is elusive. Despite the
155
slurs given in the score, Karajan wishes the violins to slur into m. 147 as part
of the diminuendo which occurs throughout the fermata, so that the new
phrase emerges imperceptibly out of the previous passage. This further
demonstrates Karajan’s characteristic desire for seamlessness of line and
continuity of form. But more importantly, what Karajan seeks is a very
subtle and uplifting gesture through the transition. It is these moments of
affective shift that provide the greatest challenges to the interpreter. Just as
in acting, for example, changes in mood are the hardest to accomplish. These
changes must be motivated by the substance of the music or text, flowing
without artificiality or awkwardness from one state to the next. Naturally,
and for these reasons, this passage proves especially challenging for Karajan’s
orchestra. For the remainder of the rehearsal of this movement, Karajan
continues to address this change of character.
[1st violins begin a t m. 147 to m. ISO]

But, you will only g et it really lyricalifyo u play the upbeats. That’s always
the second note, slow ly and calmly, to the full. D on’t play [sings detached
version o f violin them e atm . 147].
[1st violins begin atm . 147tom . 149]
Pleasejoin the C to the E. I always hear: [sings again detached version o ffirst
two notes ofthem e] You fa ll down there. A beautifulslur, the top note
down to the next, [sings very legato version, with slight portam ento] Begin
very carefully at the bottom.
[1st violins begin at m. 147 to m. 151]
Good. N ow le t’s do it diminuendo from the forte C....
[1st violins begin at m. 146 to m. 150]
156
Good, [to tutti] Now, may I please have the ferm ata again...the bar before E,
fo r Emil, [to first violins] Only stop fo r a b riefinstant. You m ust hold the
fermata.
[tu tti begin at m. 133, stops in m. 147]
[to 1st violins] No, still too weak. We can’t hear your C. It stops and starts
again, n o t a t all beautiful. You should make sure you hold it, very slowly
grow softer gradually. And then come into the m elody automatically. L e t’s
take one bar before the fermata.
[begin at m. 145, stops in m. 154]
Yes. N ow it ju st repeats. We’ve covered the m ost im portant things.
This notion of coming "into the melody automatically" resonates with

the same sort of incestuous symbolism that characterizes most of Karajan’s
remarks throughout the rehearsal. Of course, the melody cannot start
"automatically." It must come from an act of will on the part of the players,
particularly in the first violins. Indeed, the trouble Karajan has with this
passage only proves that this act of will creates great difficulties. But his
objective transcends the problem of will. Karajan strives to unclasp his
players from their pre-conceived notions and anxieties about this transition.
He says, in effect: forget about what you want to do here, or what you think
needs to happen here. Just follow the music. Do not make it happen, he
suggests, but simply let it happen.
This most Zen-like idea springs from Karajan’s apparent conviction
that the gesture will emerge "automatically" from the score: that the dolce
develops organically from the crisis of the fortissim o that precedes it. Again,
Karajan does not use colorful metaphors from literature to evoke the proper
spirit for the transition, but depends on the emotive logic of the music itself.
157
This self-referential symbolic language, which we have seen repeatedly in this

short excerpt from a conductor at work, gives a clue not only to the nature of
music itself, but to the manner in which a fruitful analysis of music and
performance might proceed.
In the remaining chapters, I will engage in discussions of increasingly
complex interpretive issues and will therefore develop an increasingly
symbolic m an n er of articulating the analysis. But the use of symbols will
reflect Karajan’s style of self-referential metaphor, wherein the analytical
ideas depend upon interconnections discovered within the purely musical
conventions invoked by the composer--in this case Beethoven—and the
interpreter.
C hapter III: K arajan and Beethoven
In the remaining chapters, I will focus upon a fixed set of recordings

left by Herbert von Karajan and certain of his colleagues. Because Karajan’s
reputation as an interpreter rests largely upon the cycles of the Beethoven
symphonies he recorded throughout his career, I have elected to make these
cycles the object of study. The first set, made in the early fifties with the
Philharmonia Orchestra, established Karajan as the leading Beethoven
interpreter in Europe after the passing of Furtwangler. He then recorded the
same cycle with the Berlin Philharmonic three times: the first released in 1963,
the second in the late seventies, and the last in the mid eighties.
Each of the Berlin sets comes from a different period in Karajan’s
relationship with the orchestra. The first set from the early sixties comes from
the period when Karajan reigned as "Music Director of Europe." During the
period from 1955, the year Karajan was appointed Music Director for Life at
the Berlin Philharmonic, to the release of these recordings, Karajan also held
the post of Music Director at the Philharmonia Orchestra, the Vienna
Symphony Orchestra, Artistic Director of the Vienna State Opera and
Vienna Gesellschaft der M usikfreunde, as well as leading roles at La Scala
and the Salzburg Festival. While the Berlin Philharmonic might have been
the feather in Karajan’s cap at this time, he was so busy that he did not
devote himself to the orchestra as completely as he was to do in the 1970s.
The second Berlin set, released in 1977, comes toward the end of a decade of
virtually exclusive focus on the Berlin Philharmonic. During this period,
159
Karajan gradually reduced his activities so that, outside of the Berlin

Philharmonic, his only major obligations were the Easter Festival in Salzburg
and an ongoing relationship with the Vienna Philharmonic. The final
recorded cycle of the Beethoven symphonies, made in the mid eighties, comes
during a period of great turmoil in the relationship of Karajan and the Berlin
Philharmonic. Labor disputes, physical infirmity and a growing sense of
paranoia afflicted Karajan in his last six years with the orchestra. In the mid
to late eighties Karajan was to throw off the Berlin Philharmonic almost
entirely in favor of the Vienna. In April of 1989, just four or five years after
this set was recorded, Karajan resigned his life-long post with the Berlin
Philharmonic, mostly for health reasons. He died on July 16,1989.
The four complete cycles of the Beethoven Symphonies recorded by
Karajan (which I will heretofore refer to by the following years: 1955,1962,
1977 and 1984, respectively) represent the whole span of Karajan’s
dominance of the musical world of Europe. Before the early fifties, his fame
was generally limited to certain circles in wartime Germany. It was not until
his collaboration with Walter Legge, EMI and the Philharmonia Orchestra
that Karajan became an international figure. It is fitting, therefore, that the
present study begins with the most significant fruit of this collaboration.
Karajan, certainly, made many recordings of the Beethoven symphonies
which are independent of the complete cycles. But these four cycles are
perhaps the best vehicle by which we can follow the progress of Karajan the
interpreter through the three primary phases in his international careen the
expansionist phase, the exclusive Berlin phase and the disintegration phase.
160
Methodologically, little can be gained from regarding Karajan in a

vacuum. Karajan, like all interpreters, is a world unto himself. To better
appreciate that world, it behooves one to examine the work of other
interpreters in the same repertoire. Thus, the elements which are unique to
Karajan can be seen in greater relief. To this end, the discussion of Karajan
and the Beethoven symphonies will include comparisons with three other
eminent conductors who have a special relation with Karajan. The first two I
have chosen because Karajan specifically and repeatedly names them as his
primary influences as an interpreter they are Arturo Toscanini and Wilhelm
Furtwangler. The third conductor was to become Karajan’s successor at the
Berlin Philharmonic, and also names Toscanini and Furtwangler as
important influences in his work: he is Claudio Abbado. Unlike the Karajan
sets, the earlier sets were not envisioned as a complete cycle. Indeed, before
Karajan and the long-playing record such a project was inconceivable. As a
result, the Toscanini and Furtwangler sets are really just compilations of
various recordings found in the archives. The Abbado set consists of a series
of live recordings made with the Vienna Philharmonic over four years in the
late 1980s.
The Toscanini set is part of the A rturo Toscanini Collection put out
by RCA on CD in 1990 and consist of recording sessions and broadcasts with
the NBC Symphony Orchestra from the late forties to the early fifties. In
terms of Toscanini’s whole career, which began in the 1890s, these are very
late interpretive efforts of the great Italian master. The Furtwangler set is
even less homogenous than the Toscanini set. Put together by EMI under the
161
References label, it uses recordings made from 1948 to 1954, mostly with the
Vienna Philharmonic, but with the Stockholm Philharmonic Orchestra in the
case of the Eighth Symphony and the Bayreuth Festspiele Orchester for the
Ninth. This is an uneven set at best, depending upon live and studio
recordings of greatly varying quality. The Second Sym phony; for example, is
of such low engineering quality that it is almost unbearable. In the record
jacket this fact is more or less acknowledged, with the apologia that no better
version of the symphony can be found under Furtwangler’s baton.
Furtwangler was notoriously uneasy with the recording process, and many of
these recordings surely fail to capture the Furtwangler that captured the
hearts of Europe. Nevertheless, certain important historical insights into the
nature of Furtwangler’s interpretive personality can certainly be gained.
Indeed, there are a number of recordings in this set which rate as sublime
examples of Furtwangler’s art. By contrast, the Abbado set was recorded
digitally from the start. So flawless are the performances and clean the
engineering that it comes as a great shock to learn that these recordings were
drawn from live performances. Moreover, despite the fact that these
recordings were made over a relatively long period o f time, they come across
as a coherent, homogenous argument for a certain interpretive style in the
Beethoven symphonies in much the same way as each of Karajan’s sets do.
It must be remarked that while these seven sets encompass the whole
historical span of quality recordings (from the late forties to the late eighties),
and the polarity of Italian and German (Toscanini and Abbado versus
Furtwangler and Karajan), much more has been left out than included. I
162
have not included such Beethoven masters as Klemperer, Reiner, Szell or

Bohm, all of whom have been captured on recordings. Nor have I sampled
the more contemporary fare of such artists as Bernstein, Solti, Guilini or
Muti. And, perhaps most significantly of all, I have utterly failed to consider
the Early Music movement which, in the case of the Beethoven symphonies,
was spearheaded by Roger Norrington. But these omissions do not sully the
purposes of the comparison (nor do they reflect my personal view of the
conductors and styles of performance omitted).
This study seeks to make meaningful observations about Karajan’s
interpretive decisions, rather than to give a complete overview of all possible
interpretive styles. Thus, it is more important that we have in view those
interpreters that Karajan regarded as his own personal models, namely
Toscanini and Furtwangler. The inclusion of Abbado serves as a different
kind of comparison within the same tradition that formed Karajan’s artistic
temperament. Abbado is much younger, growing up in Karajan’s shadow,
idolizing the same models as Karajan, yet we see a dramatically different kind
of interpreter in the Abbado set. The comparison between performances of
totally alien aesthetics would be much less informative. Such a comparison
would only reveal the differences of aesthetic, which are generally self-evident
to begin with. Comparisons within a particular tradition reveal the more
personal differences that separate one conductor from another. Especially
given what the ensuing discussion needs to prove—the true nature of
interpretation as developed in Chapters 1 and 2—little value would be gained
from engaging in comparative arguments between radically different styles of
163
performance. I could just as well have taken Norrington as my primary

example rather than Karajan. The same argument would undoubtedly apply
were I to compare Norrington’s set with those other Beethoven cycles which
also attempted to achieve historical authenticity. In theory, such a study
would prove equally well that the nature of interpretation is something like
what I have described in earlier chapters. It should make no difference,
therefore, which conductor I examine or to which tradition that conductor
might belong.
In the remainder of this chapter I will briefly overview the seven sets of
the Beethoven symphonies in terms of their general interpretive point of view
and certain outstanding features of the performances that make a particularly
strong impression. Then I will consider in some detail an issue which has
dominated discussion of the Beethoven symphonies for more than a century:
Beethoven’s metronome markings. Very interesting facts emerge when all
seven cycles are considered in terms of the comparison between Beethoven’s
and the conductors’ tempos.
Toscanini’s recordings, all made for the radio by the National
Broadcasting Company, reveal many of the trademark features of Toscanini’s
style. He favors brisk tempi in order to gather incredible momentum; he
tends to exact exceedingly short articulations whenever staccato dots are
found, and even on many occasions when they are not. The orchestra
generally sounds somewhat cramped and brittle, mostly due to the
engineering of the sound. Though exceptional precision of ensemble can be
detected throughout the set, many small disasters occur as well—these
164
recordings, after all, were made from live broadcasts. One of Toscanini’s
greatest gifts as an interpreter, which shines through these recordings, lies in
his ability to draw the cantabile line from Beethoven’s rather coarse textures.
Also, Toscanini ruthlessly employs the sensation of momentum to achieve
formal coherence at the largest levels of structure. The crowning achievement
of the set must be the Ninth Symphony. Toscanini crafts the most successful
Adagio molto (third movement) this author has ever encountered, and one of
the most brilliant and operatic renderings of the last movement available.
In the Furtwangler set we feel as though we are in the presence of a
mystic. The set tends to be messy, heavy and dark, but in spite of this—or
because of it—imbued with a great sense of spiritual power. Grandiose
gestures lean toward bombast, and tender gestures become exceedingly
intimate and profound. While idiosyncratic, Furtwangler nevertheless taps
into the powerful emotional undercurrent which motivates these symphonies.
Furtwangler’s tempi tend to be extremely slow in the slower movements, but
also rapid in the faster ones. The set, as I stated earlier, is rather uneven. The
Second Sym phony is disastrous, and minor catastrophes appear in nearly
every other symphony, including a painfully inadequate fourth horn
performance in the third movement of the N inth Symphony which single-
handedly destroys an otherwise beautiful reading. The Sixth Sym phony
emerges as the greatest jewel of the set. In it, Furtwangler appears at his most
spontaneous and inspired. He truly achieves what he claimed to be seeking: a
deeply personal and intimate expression of the inherencies of the score.
165
Karajan’s first set, recorded with the Philharmonia Orchestra, reveals

a distinct quality of sound which Karajan later abandons as he turns to the
Berlin Philharmonic. The string sound is grainy, and the wind sound is nasal.
The first oboe continually offends this ear with its tight and ducky sound. In
the spirit of Toscanini, Karajan prefers tight, angular articulations and
bright, gritty sonorities, though, in deference to Furtwangler, he often allows
for a large bass presence. The brass tend to be heavy and overbearing in
balance when allowed to let loose by Karajan. Surprisingly, though this set
was recorded in the studio expressly for release on LP, many ensemble
problems are allowed to go uncorrected. Though the classicism and brilliance
of this set show Karajan’s interpretive genius, and we can see how its release
generated a stir at the time, the existence of the later sets overshadows the
achievements of the first one.
Karajan’s next cycle was recorded after several years with the Berlin
Philharmonic and is generally regarded as the most significant of his career.
The most astonishing achievement of this set is the perfection of orchestral
balance. Karajan’s tempi are actually faster than they had been with
Philharmonia, and the sound lightens considerably. The wind playing has
never been surpassed, particularly from the first flute who brings revelatory
insight into the possibilities of orchestral wind playing. Each symphony
offers a host of discoveries, including some of the tightest ensemble work ever
recorded (such as the Scherzo of the Third Symphony), and what may be the
cleanest, most polished articulations ever evinced from an ensemble of
mortals (such as in the opening of the first movement of the Fourth
166
Sym phony. All of these aspects of the performance benefit from superior
engineering.
The third cycle, recorded in the late seventies, exudes a sense of
assurance and refinement that speaks of the two decades that Karajan had
enjoyed with the Berlin Philharmonic by this time. The sound has more
warmth and depth but without as much heaviness as the sixties recordings.
The ensemble and tuning are less self-conscious but nearly as precise as
before. Karajan’s tempi have gotten slower and broader and more reflective,
but nevertheless he maintains a steady and confident hand generating
forward momentum through the largest structural expanses. The dramatic
moments achieve quite extraordinary temperatures, while the cantabile
phrases approach a Furtwanglerian intimacy.
Karajan’s final Beethoven cycle, recorded in the midst of the strife that
would eventually drive him away from the Berlin Philharmonic, offers the
least contrast with its previous incarnation. Indeed, Karajan’s primary
purpose, as his old age advanced, was to get his rendition of the cycle on a
digital format. Unlike the 1977 cycle, he was not compelled by a natural
maturity in his own interpretation or in his relationship with the orchestra,
but by advances in technology. Therefore, the differences that occur are
more akin to differences that might arise from one performance to another
over the course of a week than those that would arise from one creative
period to another in the course of a lifetime. Nevertheless, some signal
differences can be detected which reflect changes discernible in Karajan’s
other recordings made in the eighties. His tempi continue to get slower, and
167
his readings broader and more ponderous. Still, a tremendous flair exhibits
itself in the most dramatic moments—Karajan does not fear invoking the
brass to terrifying degrees of intensity. Another trend manifests itself here
also: the tendency to allow ensemble to deteriorate at the lowest levels. I do
not attribute this to a flagging aural capacity in the aging conductor, nor to a
breakdown in discipline, but rather to what appears to be a shift of priorities
from technical perfection to spiritual perfection, wherein momentary
ambiguities of rhythm are made to enhance the aesthetic properties of the
phrase.
Abbado’s love affair with the Vienna Philharmonic bears fruit in his
exquisite cycle recorded within a few years of Karajan’s last set. Abbado uses
the subtle and refined Vienna string sound to ideal effect, and achieves a
similar lightness and delicacy in the winds. His approach to the symphonies is
refreshingly and unrelentingly light and buoyant. Even Toscanini, Abbado’s
countryman, fails to achieve the grace and elegance of Abbado. At the same
time, ironically, Abbado’s tempi are closer to Furtwangler’s than even
Karajan’s slower readings. Meanwhile, Abbado’s adherence to the details of
the score, down to the staccato dots and distinctions between single and
double forte, are more true and impeccable than any of the other interpreters
under review. Like Toscanini, Abbado emphasizes the cantabile line to lift
his textures from their earth-bound moorings. Like Karajan, Abbado revels
in a purity of orchestral balance that enables Beethoven’s four-square
orchestration to shimmer with light. Astonishingly, given that these
recordings are apparently live, one can hardly detect even the smallest error
168
of intonation or ensemble in this set. Beautifully engineered and carefully

edited, this cycle benefits not only from advances in technology, but also
from the interpretive foundation laid by his predecessors.
Each of the seven performances under review were subjected to a
detailed analysis of tempo. The tempi were measured by separating different
structural areas and dividing the quantity of music by the amount of time it
took to perform that music and thereby arriving at an average metronome
marking for the given structural area. It is important to bear in mind that the
metronome speeds cited throughout the study represent only average tempos,
not absolute tempos that might apply at some given point (or throughout)
the part of music in question.1 All conductors fluctuate in tempo throughout
a large expanse of music. Other factors, such as fermatas, caJandos and
rubatos of all sorts, will distort the meaning of the tempo average. This
deficiency is necessary but not particularly problematic. It is necessary
because sampling very small units of music (such as a bar or a four-bar
phrase) introduces a very high margin for error. But even if a measuring
device were to be invented to measure the exact tempo at any given moment
of a piece (which could easily be accomplished), this would represent no great
advantage over the present clumsy system, because the overall averages
would remain the same, and it is these averages from which the most
important conclusions about the tempos of the various conductors are
derived.
1 Except where otherwise noted.
169
The Appendix includes the complete information regarding the

average tempos of the seven cycles under review here. In the ensuing
paragraphs I will explain how to read the numbers given. Figure 8 shows the
tempo analysis for Beethoven’s First Symphony. The upper block of
numbers, running horizontally across the four pages of Fig. 8 pertain to each
tempo, as indicated by Beethoven’s metronome markings. All measures
which are contained by a certain tempo are listed on the first page of Fig. 8.
Beethoven’s recommended metronome marking is also given on the first
page.
The next block of numbers running across all four pages, the Tempo
Relations section, adds a crucial new bit of information. In the right-most
column of the first page, for example, each tempo is divided by the tempo
that preceded it (iherefore the first row is empty, or zero). Each number in
this right column, therefore, is a ratio of the current to the previous tempo.
The third movement (Menuetto), therefore, according to Beethoven’s
metronome marking, is 90% of the tempo of the second movement’s Andante
(108/120= .90).2
In the second page of Fig. 8, the Karajan recordings are listed with the
tempos of the particular recordings. Note that each recording is headed by
2 This ratio can become complicated in those symphonies, like the

First, where Beethoven does not offer a different metronome marking for the
Trio of the third movement. One assumes, given the tradition of performance
practice in Beethoven’s time as well as those markings which occur in other
Beethoven symphonies, that Beethoven expected the Trio to take a different
tempo. So the indication of a tempo relation of 1 for the Trio to the Scherzo
does not necessarily reflect Beethoven’s actual intention. This has an
important bearing on the statistical analysis of the performances themselves.
170
Area Measures Beethoven Tempo

I
1: Adagio 1-12 88
1: Allegro 13-297 112
II: Andante 1-195 120
III: Menuetto 1-79 108
III: Trio 80-137 108
III: Total 1-137 108
IV: Adagio 2-5 63
IV: Allegro 8-303 88
i1 1;
Tempo Relations j curn/prev.
1 i
! I
1: Adagio 1-12 88 0
1: Allegro 13-297 112 1.2727
II: Andante 1-195 120 1.0714
III: Menuetto 1-79 108 0.9000
III: Trio 80-137 108 1.0000
III: Total 1-137 108 0.9000
IV: Adagio 2-5 63 0.5833
IV: Allegro 8-303 88 1.3968
FIGURE 8: Tempo Analysis of Beethoven Symphony N o. 1

page one: Beethoven’s Markings
171
iArea 1954! 1961 1977 1984 Average

: ■ ! 1
II: Adagio 62! 69 69! 65 66
II: Allegro 98! 96 91 89 94
III: Andante 96, 102; 98 94 98
III: Menuetto 101 98 103 94 99
III: Trio 89! 88 95 88 90
III: Total 97| 94 100 92 96
IV: Adagio 46! 54 57 60
IV: Allegro 76 i 75 78 72 75!
■ 1 , :
Tempo Relations • i j j
1 ! ! i 1
1: Adagio 0! 0 0 0
1: Allegro 1.5806' 1.3913 1.3188 1.3692 1.4150
II: Andante 0.9796 I 1.0625 1.0769 1.0562 1.0438
III: Menuetto 1.0521 ! 0.9608 1.0510 1.0000 1.0160
III: Trio 0.8812 i 0.8980 0.9223 0.9362 0.9094
III: Total 1.0104! 0.9216 1.0204 0.9787 0.9828
IV: Adagio 0.4742 I 0.5745 0.5700 0.6522 0.5677
IV: Allegro 1.6522! 1.3889 1 1.3684 1.2000 1.4024
l
i i i ■ ■ i
' !I nji
Average Disparities :
1 ! i
tempo 0.8268! 0.8472 0.7434! 0.8180 0.8088
relation 1.0636! 1.0083 1.0134i 0.9983 1.0209]
FIGURE 8: (con’t)
page two: Karajan Sets
172
Area !T: 1951 F : 1952 iA: 1989 IAVG: OtheriTotal AVG Adjusted
! i i I i
1: Adagio 85 63 i 76 75 70 73
1: Allegro ! 108 91 ! 97 99 96 97
II: Andante 93 80 i 92 88 94; 91
III: Menuetto i 108 98 i 99 102 100 101
III: Trio ! 104 90 I 93 96 92 94
Ill: Total I 107 95 i 97 100 97 99
IV: Adagio 60 44 60 55 54 55
IV: Allegro ! 76 68 73 72 74 73
i ' 1 t 1
[Tempo Relations 1 ! I
i i i : i ! i
jl: Adagio 0 0 0
1: Allegro ! 1.2706 1.44441 1.2763 1.3304 1.3788 1.3516
ill: Andante 0.8611 0.8791 0.9485 0.8962 0.9806 0.9331
III: Menuetto 1.1613 1.2250 1.0761 1.1541 1.0752 1.1196!
III: Trio 0.9630 0.9184 0.9394 0.9402 0.9226 0.9325
III: Total 1 1.1505 1.1875 1.0543 1.1308 1.0462 1.0938
IV: Adagio ! 0.5607 0.4632 0.6186 0.5475 0.5590 0.5525
IV: Allegro 1.2667 1.5455 1.2167 1.3429 1.3769 1.3578
' l ! ■
| j
! i ! i
i
Average Disparities i i
! i 1 i i
tempo 0.92291 0.7773 0.8588 0.8530 0.8278 0.8419
relation j 0.9774 i 1.0404 0.9761 0.9979 1.0110 1.0037
FIGURE 8: (con’t)
page three: Other Sets, Averages
173
Area 'Karajan 'Others Tote* Adjusted

i ; j
1: Adagio 0.75 0.85 0.79 0.82

I: Allegro 0.83 0.88 0.85 0.87
II: Andante 0.81 0.74 0.78 0.76
III: Menuetto 0.92 1 0.94 j 0.93 0.94
III: Trio 0.83 0.89 0.86 0.87
III: Total ! 0.89 0.92! 0.90 0.91
IV: Adagio l 0.86 0.87 0.86 0.87
IIV: Allegro 0.861 0.82 0.84 0.83
i ! '
Tempo Relations: j
!l: Adagio
II: Allegro 1.11 1.05 1.08 1.06!
III: Andante 0.97 0.84 0.92 0.87!
III: Menuetto 1.13 1.28 1.19 1.24!
III: Trio 0.91 0.94 0.92 0.93
III: Total 1.09 1.26 1.16 1.22
IV: Adagio 0.97 0.94 0.96 0.95
IV: Allegro 1.00 0.96 0.99 0.97
; ! i
] i I
1 i
Average Disparities i l l
1 1 1 1 !
tempo ! 0.84 0.85 0.85! 0.85
relation 1 1.02 1.00 1.01 1.00
FIGURE 8: (con’t)
page four Percentages of Beethoven’s Metronome
174
the actual year in which the recording was made, if known, which is not
necessarily the date of release.3 The top block of numbers gives an average
tempo per tempo marking, as before.
The second section expresses the ratios of adjacent tempo relations.
Therefore, we discover that Karajan’s second movement was approximately
98% of his first movement tempo in 1954, whereas it was 6% faster than his
first movement in 1984. This does not mean, necessarily, that Karajan’s
tempos got faster, but only that the second movement got faster relative to
the first. Indeed, in this case, the first movement has become much slower in
the later of these two recordings, and the second movement actually slows in
1984 as well. Only the relation of the two tempi increases in 1984.
The two rows of numbers running along the bottom of the second
page of Figure 8 express two types of disparity between the performances and
Beethoven’s tempo indications. The upper number represents the disparity
between Karajan’s average tempo for the symphony taken as a whole versus
that which is expressed in Beethoven’s markings. The bottom number of the
page compares the average tempo relation over the course of the entire
symphony in a given performance to that indicated by Beethoven’s
metronome markings.
To provide an example of these two types of disparity, note the
numbers given for the 1954 performance of the First Symphony. Karajan’s
tempos were, on average, 83% of Beethoven’s. In other words, on the whole,
3 The 1977 Berlin set with Karajan provides no information about
actual recording dates. Therefore, all these recordings bear the 1977 release
date.
175
Karajan went about 17% slower than Beethoven indicated. But in the same
recording, Karajan’s tempo relations, on average, were very 6% faster than
those expressed by Beethoven. This last number is quite abstract. It states, in
effect, that Karajan averaged very close to Beethoven’s tempo relations, but
tended to get slightly faster as the performance progressed than Beethoven
would have done. The right-most column of page 2 gives the averages along
each row for Karajan’s recordings.
The third page of Figure 8 gives the same numbers for the three
performances by the other conductors under consideration here, including
the averages along each row for these three performances. In addition, the
Total Average column averages all seven performances together. The
Adjusted Average column averages all four of Karajan’s performances to
derive one number which is then averaged against the three other
performances, to arrive at a truer balance between the four different
conductors.
Figure 8, page 4 contains the most telling of the figures on the
performances being analyzed. Here, each performance tempo is expressed as
a percentage of Beethoven’s metronome marking. In the top section, for
example, one sees that in the first Allegro Karajan’s average tempo is 83% of
Beethoven’s marking. We know from page 3 that Karajan’s average tempo
relation of this Allegro as compared to the Adagio which precedes it is 1.42.
This means, on average, Karajan’s four Allegros are 42% faster than their
respective Adagios. The Tempo Relations block of page 4 reveals that this
represents a tempo relation 11% greater than Beethoven recommends.
176
In the Average Disparity section at the bottom, we see that Karajan,

on average, was at 84% of Beethoven’s metronome markings for the First
Symphony. We also see that Karajan’s tempo relations, on average, were 2%
faster than Beethoven’s. This means that while Karajan took tempos on
average of 16% slower than Beethoven, the work progressed in proportion to
Beethoven’s original m arkings, to an accuracy of 2% (with a statistical margin
of error quite a bit larger than that). The second column expresses the same
averages for the three other conductors. The Totals column takes all seven
performances together, and the Adjusted column averages in Karajan’s
performances as only one of four equal parts, as in the comparable column
on page 3.
These numbers, though rough and sometimes quite obscure, go to the
root of the debate that has occupied Beethoven scholars for quite some time.
Two opposing camps have formed on the issue. The less popular argues that
Beethoven’s tempos were exactly accurate and represent Beethoven’s specific
intention with regard to the performance of these symphonies. The opposing
view argues that Beethoven’s metronome suffered some sort of malady (i.e.,
the metronome was too slow, resulting in numbers too high) and that his
marked tempos must be treated very lightly indeed. Other arguments have
been levied to support the latter position. It has been suggested that, since
they were an afterthought that Beethoven added later in life, these markings
do not represent the intentions of Beethoven as he composed the symphony
itself. Others question the validity of metronome markings in general,
pointing to the experience of Bartok, who religiously used metronome
177
markings throughout many of his compositions, only to reject them in his

dying days.
In the middle stands Erich Leinsdorf who wrote, "In the quest for the
great design that is in every composer’s mind from the first, the single most
important directive for performers to look for is the relationship of tempos
within a work."4 And, later in the same chapter, "In any case, the method
that will lead each performer to the right tempos is the comparative one, with
an awareness of all available authentic directives, including the metronome
figures.”5 Leinsdorf argues, in effect, that while one may differ somewhat on
the actual tempo, Beethoven has clearly indicated the intended relation
between different tempos. Whether his metronome was too fast or too slow,
the relation remains intact. The structural integrity of the performance,
therefore, depends upon honoring these relations.
All of the interpreters, including Toscanini, seem unanimous in
believing Beethoven’s markings to be too fast. Toscanini averages 95% of
Beethoven’s marking throughout the cycle, going as slow as 68% of
Beethoven’s marking (in the Adagio of the Ninth Sym phony and as fast as
155% (in the Ode to Joy theme toward the beginning of the fourth
movement of the same symphony, but all the conductors under review post
similar numbers here). In first movements Toscanini is almost always below
Beethoven’s recommended marking (excepting the introduction to the
Seventh Sym phony sometimes by as much as 26% (the Eighth Symphony).
4 Erich Leinsdorf, The Composer’s Advocate (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1981) 144.
5 Leinsdorf, Composer’s Advocate 166.
178
In slow movements, Toscanini tends to be even slower in relation to

Beethoven’s markings than in the first movements. (In the Eighth
Symphony, strictly speaking, there is no slow movement. In the second
movement, an Allegretto, Toscanini actually slightly exceeds Beethoven’s
mark.) Scherzos, however, tend to be faster than Beethoven recommends.
Last movements vary the most; some go quite quickly {Fifth Symphony,
Seventh Symphony), some move more than ten percent more slowly than
Beethoven’s indication ( Third Sym phony, Eighth Symphony).
Furtwangler, not surprisingly, offers the lowest average relating to
Beethoven’s metronome markings at 84%. Furtwangler exceeds Beethoven’s
marking twice (6% above) in the outer movements of the Seventh Sym phony
and takes Beethoven’s recommended speed for the Scherzo of the Ninth. His
slowest tempo relative to Beethoven’s indication comes in the third
movement of the N inth Symphony, a shocking 48% below Beethoven. His
slow movements tend to be relatively slower compared to Beethoven than his
first movements (though this proportion is reversed in the Sixth Sym phony.
Furtwangler’s percentages seem to rise in the Scherzo and Finale movements
of the symphonies. In general, though Furtwangler tends to prefer slower
tempi, it is more accurate to say that his slow movements tend to be slower
than others, and that his faster movements tend to be more mainstream in
tempo. In this way, Furtwangler enjoys a greater contrast of tempo than his
peers.
Abbado posts numbers nearly as slow as Furtwangler, averaging 88%
of Beethoven’s markings. Abbado’s slowest numbers also come in during the
179
N inth Sym phonys Adagio, at 35% below Beethoven’s mark. Abbado

exceeds Beethoven’s indications far more often than Furtwangler did, and his
tempi remain more consistently in the 80-90% range. Abbado remains fairly
steady from first movement to second except, most notably, in the Eighth
Sym phony; where he shoots up from a 72% tempo to a 97% tempo in the
Allegretto.
All of Karajan’s average percentages over the four cycles come in
between 88 and 90 percent. Like Abbado, Karajan’s numbers remain fairly
consistent throughout a performance, hovering mostly in the eighties. In the
famous Adagio molto of the Ninth Symphony; Karajan’s slowest account
(1977) is 42% below Beethoven. Karajan’s fastest moment comes in the Trio
of the Ninth Sym phony s second movement, where he posts a 22% overage in
1962.
If Leinsdorf is right, then the ultimate function of the metronome lies
in preserving fundamental tempo relations between sections of movements
and among the whole movements. In this area, too, the interpreters under
examination show little inclination to reflect exact proportions. Some
performances offer tempo relations closer to 1 than others, such as Karajan’s
1984 reading o f the Second Symphony, during which his relations remain
within 6% of those recommended by Beethoven. One generality that emerges
from an examination of the tempo data is that the performers tend to exceed
the tempo relation, which means that as the performances progress they
become faster than Beethoven’s relations would do. Perhaps this serves as a
180
natural balance to the fact that the interpreters generally choose tempi slower
than Beethoven’s in the first place.
Underlying the debate about metronome markings is a fundamental
philosophical issue which the debate itself rarely addresses, but which the
results of the statistical survey of the recordings under review press to the
foreground. The choice of tempo is crucially specific. It depends, as Karajan
often pointed out, on the breath of the wind players, or the resonance of the
hall or mood of the day. The Karajan Foundation, begun by Karajan to
study the physiological effects of music, has demonstrated that heart rate,
breathing, flow of adrenalin and a thousand other biorhythmic factors relate
to the mental perception of the musical experience.6 I contend that these
elements have considerable power over the choice of tempo made by a
performer.
The relation between two movements or tempo areas is, after all,
fundamentally symbolic. After a vigorous first movement, perhaps, the
second movement should serve as some sort of relief, a relaxation. Just as no
two performers would execute a ritardando in exactly the same way, so the
exact casting of such a relaxation of tempo across movements is also deeply
personal-specific to the idea of the interpreter. Though I agree with
Leinsdorf in principle, that the metronome markings are important
indications from the composer about the intended speed of the music and the
intended relation between parts, I must argue that these indications,
6 Lang, Karajan Dossier. See pp. 54-61 for a complete discussion o f

the Karajan Foundation and its mission.
181
numerically expressed, can only point to a more fundamental symbolic

relation. Thus, the interpreter engaging in the act of musical fantasy has an
obligation to work with Beethoven’s markings, or at least the relations
expressed therein, but that a deeper symbolic understanding of the musical
content may lead the interpreter to diverge from the exact indications given
with respect to the metronome. I contend that the results of our survey of
tempi shows little more than the various ways in which our exemplary
interpreters were so moved.
Tempo is but one of many interpretational choices left, for better or
worse, to the discretion of the performer. In the chapters that follow, I will
take up each of the major interpretational choices in turn, examining how
they play out in a number of selected cases in the Beethoven symphonies. I
begin with the aspects of texture, move to issues of ground, and then take on
the more philosophical area of gesture.
C hapter IV: Texture
1. Balance
I have argued that balance plays the greatest role of all the elements of
texture in fashioning an interpretation. Balance refers to the relative strength
of the various voices sounding simultaneously in the score. The manner in
which a given performer balances the orchestral forces depends upon that
performer’s idea of how the foreground and background elements of the
score ought to relate. The significance of such relations cannot be
overestimated. Pulse, for example, is defined as the unit of duration brought
to the structural foreground by the interpreter. Therefore, the sense of pulse-
-so vital in great music-making-depends on balance. It is possible for the
performer to suppress voices which have every appearance of being leading
ones, and to bring to the foreground elements that, at first glance, would
appear to be subsidiary. In so doing, the performer inverts the expected
foreground/background relation and transforms the idea expressed in the
passage. This very procedure explains many of the most memorable
moments in the history of musical interpretation.
Karajan was one of the few performers who spoke about balance as a
leading interpretive issue. In general, however, decisions regarding the subtle
balancing o f forces occurs, I believe, at an intuitive level. Conductors might
adjust the occasional balance in rehearsal—they might, for example, ask the
bassoon to play a bit louder and the violins to play softer—but for the most
part, specific balances emerge from an orchestra because it intuits the general
183
sound ideal implicit in a certain conductor’s whole manner the way in which
the conducting gestures are inflected, the instruments toward which the
conductor turns, the expressions of the maestro’s face. Thus, balance turns
out to be a greatly personal matter. Even with the same conductor, each
orchestra will have a unique response to those gestural cues. In many cases,
after all, the performance and its balances are at the mercy of individual
players, usually in the winds, who have a distinctive style and a personal
understanding of the conductor’s intentions. No two performances will be
alike, and the subtleties of each performance, at the hands of a master
conductor, can run exceedingly deep.
To flesh the principle out, I have elected to review in detail the opening
four bars of Beethoven’s First Symphony in all of the seven recordings of this
study (see Fig. 9). This passage lends itself easily to such examination because
of its chordal nature, and amply demonstrates the subtleties and complexities
of balance. I review all the recordings in order to provide a sense of the
available spectrum of contrast, and give some indication of how modest
differences in balancing can have fundamental significance for our
understanding of the interpreter’s guiding idea. Moreover, Karajan often
referred to his painstaking efforts to find the proper balance for these bars.
We will see how Karajan’s approach to the passage evolved over the years.
The Adagio molto introduction has aroused the curiosity of music
critics ever since the premiere, although perhaps the passage of time has
exaggerated the initial response of the day. The symphonic introduction,
which occurs frequently in both Haydn and Mozart, generally began in the
I
I
184
Symphony No. 1 in C Major, Op. 21
A d a g io m o lto .« _ m .
i O ■ , % . f f . l
Flanti.
cretc.
Oboi.
r a m i
Clarinetti in C.
crete.
Fagotti.
Crete.
A dttîo m o l t o . - m . —*
Corni in C.
. )Jot,
Trombe in C.
Timpani in C-G.
A d ag io m o lto . — aa.
Violino I.
sJ- U T iA
arco.
Molino II.
crete.
arco.
Viola.
Violoncello
e Basso.
FIGURE 9: Beethoven Sym phony No. 1, Opening Bars

Ludwig van Beethoven, Symphonies Nos. 1.2.3 and 4 (New York: Dover
Publications, 1989). Reprinted by permission.
185
tonic key and moved to the dominant to prepare the Allegro. This occurs,
for example, in all of Haydn’s last five symphonies (although in two cases the
introductions begin in the tonic minor), as well as in several of Mozart later
symphonies. Beethoven also uses the same technique in his Second\ Fourth
and Seventh symphonies. Less common, but theoretically acceptable in 1800,
the year in which the present work was written, would have been an
introduction which begins in the dominant, only to turn to the tonic at the
Allegro. Beethoven uses this technique, in fact, in the last movement of the
First Symphony.
Beethoven chooses to begin his symphony, however, with neither and
both o f these techniques. His symphony does begin with the tonic chord, C,
but it appears as a dominant seventh, as though F were the real tonic. The
first three bars then become a dominant preparation for G, which then serves
as the undisputed dominant of C Major, the true home key. The First bar,
then, establishes a "false" dominant-tonic relation. The second bar, to make
matters worse, begins as if to sequence down by a fourth (which would have
led to a tonic cadence on C), but moves deceptively to A minor. Then the
sequence continues down another fourth, to D, whereupon the promise of
resolution is fulfilled, this time on 5Z. Perhaps these elements of the
introduction are nothing more than an "effect," without much in the way of
musical substance. Even so, this is the material Beethoven entrusted to his
interpreters, and this is the material that Karajan and his colleagues have
been asked to represent.
186
These opening bars possess the kind of compositional wit we normally

associate with Haydn, not Beethoven. Beethoven’s humor normally resounds
more deeply, sometimes even grotesquely. But it should not surprise us that
Beethoven should borrow his master’s humor for his first symphonic essay.
Many other strokes in this symphony remind one of Haydn: the playful
opening to the last movement, the very material of the slow movement, and
the orchestration throughout.
I will begin by studying the treatment of these bars in Karajan’s first
Berlin set, recorded in 1961. I begin here, rather than with the Philharmonia
recording, because I believe that Karajan’s results were more pure here. He
seemed to achieve his own vision to a greater degree with Berlin than he did
with Philharmonia. Indeed, the 1961 recording shows an incredible
consistency of result and purity of sound. These attributes, as I stated in the
previous chapter, are among the most striking of this set. Indeed, they may
explain the profound impact this set has had on the history of recording as
well as performing the Beethoven symphonies.
In Figure 10 a diagram of the first four bars shows the relative
strength of each of the instruments. The beats and measures run along the
bottom axis. Brown boxes refer to a voice which dominates the balance of
sound. Pink shows lines which are still strongly heard, but less dominant
than the brown. Blue shows voices which can be heard distinctly, but not in
the foreground. Lime shows those voices which are indistinct, or nearly
inaudible, in the total texture. I must point out that these judgments are, in
many cases, very difficult ones and remain subjective. Other listeners may
187
Legend: n u \
maudibie background foreground dominant
Flute
n
I
Oboe
II
I
Clarinet
n
I
Bassoon
n
i
Horn
ii
i
Trumpett
n
Timpani
Violin
I
□ □ I □ i b
i
□ 1 □_P_
n
□ 1 □ ! □ i 0 □ □ 0
Viola
□ : □ □ ! ib
; □ I
; i
Cello
1 1 | I i ■ ~ T i i I: " I I
■ i 1! 1 1!
Bass
1 I I ■i- - - - - - - - - - 1—
bt. 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3
m. 1 2 3
FIGURE 10: Balance Analysis

Karajan 1961
188
respond somewhat differently to these sounds. I have based my decisions on

my own hearing of these chords, as well as considerable experience with
working around symphony orchestras and listening to the balances of
instruments. For example, when the oboe and flute are playing the same note
in the same octave (as in the beginning of the second measure in the second
flute and first oboe), I give preference to the leading timbre of that pitch as I
hear it. In the 1961 recording, for example, I hear flute sound, but not oboe
sound (although clearly both sounds are present). Consequently, the results
of these analyses must be viewed not as scientific, but as a groundwork from
which to begin a more substantive discussion of the issues brought to light.
Karajan’s 1961 recording, as in all but one of the versions reviewed
here, lacks a stinging forte-piano in the winds in the first and second bars.
While one can discern something of an accent in each case, the winds do not
return to a true piano, as if the accent were within mezzo-forte rather than
within piano. Indeed, the sting is thoroughly absent from the string pizzicati,
which only rate a pink mark on the balance graph (for the most part), despite
a written forte on each downbeat. I do not think that Karajan made a
mistake here, but rather made a choice. Karajan chooses purity of sound
over wit. Karajan’s obsessive interest in the balancing of these chords flows
from his view that Classic music must be pure and transparent at the expense,
perhaps, of its jagged edges and witty repartees.
One can begin to see how Karajan might be accused in this instance,
as he often was, of valuing perfection over expression. He sacrifices the
humor of these bars in order to perfect an abstract notion of balance. But
189
such an argument greatly over-simplifies the case. Karajan could rightly

argue that Beethoven’s wit is present in any case. The composer’s harmonic
game does not depend upon the interpreter. It is fixed by the notation. The
interpreter may choose to make this bit of compositional humor the sole
substance of the opening, or the interpreter may leave the wit to Beethoven
and focus on other substantive elements, such the purity and beauty of the
chords themselves. While this may have the effect of making his performance
less witty, it also carries the potential of finding another level of meaning in
the opening which lies deeper than the surprise itself.
Karajan achieves his purity of sound and lightness of texture by
allowing the flute to dominate completely the texture throughout. The first
flute has the upper hand until the resolution in the fourth bar, when it passes
to the violins. The second flute dominates the inner harmonies in the winds.
The first bassoon dominates the bass line, which is doubled in a variety of
instruments. While the second bassoon and the horns sometimes appear in a
strong supporting role to the first bassoon, the whole of the first three bars
really rests on the timbres of the trio of first and second flute and first
bassoon. It is remarkable that Karajan is able to suppress both oboes so that
they are virtually inaudible here. The oboe has a much more penetrating
sound than the flute and is capable of dominating a wind texture very easily.
The first clarinet also disappears into the flute sonority. The second clarinet
is slightly more audible only because it has pitches which the flutes do not
possess, and therefore has a certain independence. Nevertheless, the second
clarinet plays considerably beneath the flutes and bassoon.
190
The horns blend with the bassoon so well that one hears almost
exclusively bassoon sonority. Even more astonishing, the two octaves of the
bass part in the bassoons and horns blend with each other so that the lower
octave actually disappears into the upper octave. This is a reversal of the
normal procedure, in which the upper octave disappears into the lower, and is
much more difficult to bring off. The crescendo in bar three largely comes
from the taking over of sonority by the homs from the bassoons.
The string pizzicato becomes a mere background reinforcement for
the wind articulations. The bass is somewhat louder than the rest, and the
upper pizzicad in the violins are essentially unheard. In the third bar, the D
in the violins becomes somewhat more noticeable, and in the second half of
the bar the lower D in the violas, cellos and basses becomes quite audible as
part of the crescendo.
On the downbeat of bar four, the violins take over the foreground
from the flute. At the same time the second trumpet finds such a perfect
intonation and blend with the cello octave, that a very compelling and strong
bass G appears briefly during the first beat, competing for dominance with
the violins. Time is on the side of the violins, of course, as they hold their G
into the rest, later to be joined by the second violins in moving into the next
phrase.
In the end, Karajan creates a clean, clear and pure atmosphere which
serves to reveal the harmony of this opening with utter transparency. It
becomes stately and elegant, rather than witty or shocking. Yet, the
ambiguities of harmony are certainly present and played with the greatest
191
delicacy. Karajan treats this as if it were a sip of line wine rather than a
radical or impudent tweaking of the hose at the classical genre.
The 1954 recording of the same passage (see Fig. 11), made by
Karajan with the Philharmonia Orchestra, is so similar in general shape that
one is tempted to view it as a less mature and less perfect attempt to achieve
the same results. Like the 1961 version, Karajan makes little of the forte-
pianos in the winds and reduces the sharpness of the string pizzicati. Both
recordings make a rather large ritardando in the second half of the third bar,
which leads into a strong and full arrival on G, grounded by a clean trumpet
sound. The aesthetic approach in both of these recordings highlights the
purity of sound and fullness of color, characteristic of Karajan in general.
The element which distinguishes the 1961 version from its earlier
counterpart is the absolute dominance of the flute sonority. In 1954, this
sonority becomes much more complex and unstable. In all fairness to
Karajan, these differences might well have been perfectly intentional, for the
1954 recording certainly makes a convincing case for itself. Nevertheless, it
seems plausible that Karajan’s later effort more perfectly fulfilled his own
underlying conception of these bars and the classical tradition which inspired
them.
In the 1954 recording, the second flute’s timbre invariably collapses
into whichever oboe part doubles it at the time. This in itself changes the
character of these bars. The lightness and purity of the flute duet in 1961 is
compromised by the tighter and more intense oboe sonority. Indeed, as the
passage progresses, the oboe sound becomes gradually more dominant. In
192
Legend-
m n rfih u h y jfp w inrf foreground d o o m u tf
Flute
II
I
Oboe
II
I
Clarinet
II
I
Bassoon
II
I
Horn
II
I
Trumpet
1n
Timpani
1
Violin
ii
Viola
Cello
Bass

Karajan 1954
193
the first bar, the second oboe is but a shadow of the first flute. In the second
bar, the first oboe virtually achieves parity with the first flute. And in the
third bar the oboe gradually overtakes the flute sound altogether, so that the
resolution is felt more strongly through the oboe than the flute. The pizzicati
in the strings are certainly more present in the 1954 version than they would
be in 1961. And while the bass remains the leading element of the string
sound, there seems to be more body in the upper registers here. Indeed, in the
third bar the violins rather than the bass notes lead the crescendo in the
strings, as if to set up the violin soli in bar 4.
As one might expect, the Toscanini version (1951) begins forthrightly
enough, with a strong balance favoring the treble (see Fig. 12). The uppei
parts of the string pizzicato come to the fore, providing a real pop to the
opening sonority. In the winds, the first oboe and first flute compete for
dominance, though in retrospect the oboe seems to win the upper hand.
Indeed, the first oboe dominates the texture until the beginning of bar 4. In
the last two beats before m. 4 the hom sonority emerges into the foreground
so clearly and blatantly that it sounds as though they enter then (which they
do not). Toscanini relies on the strings to provide the forte-piano effect in
the first and second bars, offering no diminuendo in the winds until their
resolution in the middle of the bar, as though Toscanini took the dynamics
given in the strings to apply to the winds as well. Passing into the deceptive
cadence in the middle of bar 2 Toscanini achieves a softer dynamic as the
winds resolve. Starting from piano, the winds, supported by a much stronger
pizzicato presence, swell uniformly throughout the first half of the bar. A
194
Legend:
inaudible background foreground dominant
I
Flute
II
I
Oboe
II
I
Clarinet
II
I
Bassoon
n
i
Horn
ii
i
Trumpet
n
Timpanii
i
Violin
n
Viola
Cello f" i ■
lo □ □
■ i
□
■
□
Bass
to i i ■ ■
H1 1---- 1
,
bt. 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3
m. 1 2 3 4

Toscanini 1951
195
tenuto articulation characterizes the third and fourth quarters o f bar 3,

which sustain rather than crescendo. The arrival at m. 4 is strong and pure in
sound, with the violins clearly in com m and Toscanini reads the dynamics of
this bar quite literally, resisting the temptation to make a diminuendo until
the last moment before the eighth-notes, which are marked piano by
Beethoven.
Perhaps the most telling result of the analysis of Toscanini’s balances,
especially in comparison to Karajan’s readings, is the inconsistency of the
lower order voice-leading. Toscanini forges a strong lead voice in the
principal oboe, which passes to the violins. But the supporting balances
change with every chord. The flutes, which compete with the principal oboe
in the first bar, fall away sharply in the second. This reflects Toscanini’s
apparent desire to focus on the leading-tone relation of E and F, which then
becomes intensified as the F is raised to F t and serves as the leading tone to
G. In the second bar, the first flute jumps up to give the B-C leading-tone
relation, and so the flutes are overwhelmed by the oboe. The C falling to B as
bar 3 passes into bar 4 does receive important treatment as the secondary
voice, especially in the second oboe and the first clarinet, the latter of which
had been all but inaudible until then. I have already mentioned a similar
phenomenon in the horns in the second half of m. 3. The first horn pops out
of the texture somewhat in bar 2; and the first bassoon, which had
disappeared into the second bassoon’s octave in the first bars, comes into its
own in the crescendo bar. One strongly perceives a switch in the favored
196
octave, which is reinforced by the stronger role of the horns in bar 3, from the
lower to the upper.
In m any ways, Toscanini’s solution differs radically from Karajan’s.
The pizzicati play a stronger role, truly accounting for the forte-piano effect
which he omits from the wind articulation. What the wind balances lack in
purity and clarity, they possess in energy and verve. Rather than obsess
about perfecting this brief moment, as Karajan clearly did, Toscanini prefers
to brush past it, in a strongly directional motion toward the dominant in bar
4. Indeed, Toscanini accelerates toward the cadence, cutting short the rest
between bars 2 and 3, and continuing to push throughout the third bar.
Karajan, if anything, holds back in anticipation of the dominant resolution.
Nevertheless, some important points of similarity also emerge between
the Toscanini and Karajan readings. Neither conductor gives much attention
to Beethoven’s forte-piano in the winds. Both men favor the treble end of
the tonal spectrum (although, given Beethoven’s scoring, it would be more
difficult not to). And both interpreters use a large orchestral sonority, in the
Romantic tradition, as opposed to the more classical, chamber music style we
would be more likely to hear today, even from a full symphony orchestra.
Despite outdated engineering, Furtwangler’s pure balance of these
introductory bars comes through cleanly in his 1952 recording with the
Vienna Philharmonic (see Fig. 13). The first flute unquestionably dominates
the texture through the first three bars, just as it would in Karajan’s 1961
version. But the quality of sound achieved here differs radically from
Karajan’s. While Karajan sought a transparent, treble sonority, FurtwSngler
197
Legend: tu rn
maudxbk background foreground dominant
I
Flute
II
I
Oboe
II
I
Clarinet
Bassoon
Horn
I
Trumpet
II
Timpani
-T - “
Violin
I
d : ■ 1 § 1 1 H H
!
ffl
II 1 !
□i □ 0 i 1 0 I d b P !
Viola
d : □ i □ i o : □ : □ □ — 1 !
Cello
Bass
0 i □! □ □ i □ □D I
! i i
!
!
C I
i! I 1! 1 1 ■■ ■ !
bt. 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3
m. 1 2 3 4

Furtwangler 1952
198
strives for his characteristic bass-rooted sound. Part of his manner of

affecting this type of sound involves diminishing the presence of middle
voices, such as clarinets and first bassoon, so that we hear the voice leading in
the flutes offset against the root motion of the second bassoon and double
bass, with little in between.
Thus, the second flute rates as the secondary voice, providing the
harmonic counterpoint to the first flute line. The oboes and clarinets, while
present and thickening the sound, possess no independence of sonority except
for a couple of spots: the first oboe in the second bar when it doubles the
second flute in the same octave, and the second clarinet in the latter part of
the third bar, as the crescendo mounts. The first bassoon also remains
subsidiary until joining with the horn sonority in m. 3. The second horn,
likewise, remains in the background until the crescendo bar. The rootedness
of the total sonority depends upon the second bassoon. While not competing
for attention from the ear, it nevertheless gives the root motion unmistakably
through the first two bars. The second bassoon acquires support and greater
definition throughout from the pizzicati in the lower strings, particularly the
double bass.
An interesting exception to the suppression of middle voices appears
in the first horn, which achieves a certain independence of sonority, especially
in the first and third bars. Indeed, the first horn appears to be the primary
source for the forte-piano in the first chord, flaring to such a degree that it
swallows the attack elsewhere in the orchestra, especially the strings. This
may be an engineering or playing flaw not intended by Furtwangler, because
199
it does not occur in the comparable place in the following bar. Rather, the
strings offer the percussive effect of the forte-piano accent in m. 2. The first
horn goes on to support the crescendo in the flutes and violins in bar 3.
The pizzicati on the downbeats of mm. 1-3 and the crescendo strokes
leading into m. 4, all possess the quality of fast rolls, or broken chords, with
the upper note speaking last. This does not apply to the piano pizzicati in
the middle of bars 1 and 2. One can see how a casual observer might have felt
that these chords were simply not together due to the supposed ambiguity of
Furtwangler’s technique. But the consistency of the effect throughout the
passage, as a form of intensification of the pizzicato, leads me to conclude
that the breaking of these triple-stops was quite intentional. (Karajan reflects
this procedure in his 1977 recording, but takes it one step further so that the
bass precedes the upper notes in the manner of a grace-note.)
The climactic downbeat of m. 4 is also remarkably pure in balance.
The first violins clearly dominate (supported by the first trumpet), with
counterbalancing strength in the bass. Furtwangler allows the first flute to
consummate its leading role in the opening bars in the resolution to the high
G in m. 4. The timpani makes surprisingly little impact on its entrance,
merely supporting and lending weight to the bass. The remaining instruments
essentially collapse into those sonorities already enumerated.
Furtwangler maintains a steady tempo throughout the passage,
making no ritardando through the third bar. Instead, he adds a luftpause
just before m. 4. This break has the exact value o f an eighth-note, effectively
transforming m. 3 into a 9/8 bar. The lift adds weight and structural
200
significance to the downbeat of bar 4, supporting a general atmosphere of

importance and profundity in the introduction as a whole. Furtwangler’s
genius derives from his ability to imbue such passages as this with
philosophical and poetic weight; yet there is often a simplicity of means and a
directness of expression which circumvents the pomposity and bombast such
weight might otherwise suggest.
In 1977 Karajan casts the first oboe in the dominant role throughout
the first three measures (see Fig. 14). When doubling the principal oboe, the
first flute more or less disappears into the lower octave, only asserting itself as
an independent voice in the second bar, when it no longer doubles that part.
The second oboe and the second flute compliment each other when they
double, again with slightly more sound in the oboe’s octave. The clarinets,
though clearly in a subsidiary role, have a real presence in the first bar, which
distinguishes this performance from Karajan’s early efforts. The bass parts
are sublimated (except for the bassoons’ lower octave in the resolution in bar
1, which pops out), but the first bassoon and first hom share in a middle-
register counterpoint (G to A and D to C) which Karajan brings into relief,
perhaps as an acknowledgment of the deceptive cadence thus accomplished.
In the third bar, the horns and first bassoon are brought up to a prominence
second only to the first oboe’s F$.
The string pizzicati are sharp and percussive, especially in the first
violins. The basses, celli and violas disappear into the treble sonority, until
the second part of the third bar. Here, the first violins appear to break their
triple-stop, so that the upper notes occur on the beat. Thus, the D ’s
201
Legend:
Flute
II
I
Oboe
II
I
Clarinet
H
I
Bassoon
II
I
Horn
II
I
Trumpet
II
Timpani
i i
Violin
I
1 i ■ 1 1 i 1 ! 1 1 H i
II
0 1 D 1 □ ■ ! ■ i □ i
Viola
□! □ □ p □ i □ o L i
Cello
Q ! □ □! P □ 1 tf b ~ B !
Bass
o1 □ o ! 0 b 1 1 B B i
bt. 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3
m. 1 2 3 4

Karajan 1977
202
throughout the string section, most notably in the basses, are struck prior to
the beat, in the nature of a grace note ( vorschlag).
On the climactic chord—the downbeat of m. 4—we hear G almost to
the exclusion of the other pitches. The timpani thunderously roots the chord,
which builds on a strong double bass sonority and second trumpet presence.
The treble winds are lost in these stronger instruments, giving way to the
dominant voice of m. 4, the first violins. Adding color to the event is a dash
of first horn, holding the fifth (D) over from the previous measure.
Karajan keeps a fairly steady tempo until the crescendo bar. The
second half of m. 3 is greatly extended, however, so that the fourth beat is
roughly twice as slow as the first tempo. Karajan then pushes forward in the
second half of the bar 4, before settling into something more steady in m. 5 (a
tempo slower than the opening).
Karajan’s 1977 version stresses a richer and altogether more majestic
aspect of this introduction than his earlier efforts. The arrival at m. 4
becomes a much heralded, pregnant event, rather than the more rhetorical
introductory gesture given (though certainly with great care) in 1961. The
richness of the present reading derives from the greater emphasis given the
middle voices of the clarinet (m. 1) and bassoons and horns (mm. 2-3), and in
the dominance of the oboe sonority over the flute. The bass grace-note
nuance in m. 3 also provides a telling clue that Karajan wished to imbue the
arrival in the following measure with a greater significance and weight. In
1977 we see Herbert von Karajan indulgently at his most romantic. This
introduction is nothing short of epic, steeping in a profound poetic ambience.
203
As in 1977, Karajan’s 1984 recording gives the dominant role to the

first oboe throughout the opening three bars (see Fig. 15). The contrasting
flute voice receives second place in mm. 1-2 (the second flute in bar 1 and the
first flute in bar 2). In bar 3 the first oboe plays off of a strong root presence
dominated by the first bassoon. In m. 1, the forte-piano seems to occur
mostly in an accent in the first bassoon. In m. 2, interestingly enough, the
same role is assumed by the first horn, which plays not the root but the fifth
of the chord, adding color to our perception of the F Major sonority. The
second bar is further enhanced by a stronger, though still subsidiary, presence
of the clarinet sound. These two elements o f bar 2 give it the impression of
greater harmonic complexity and interest, which is fulfilled, so to speak, by
the deceptive cadence into which the initial harmony collapses. In the third
bar, the first oboe, bassoons and horns dominate the texture to the exclusion
of the flutes, second oboe and first clarinet. The second clarinet gradually
emerges from the sonority as the crescendo reaches its summit, providing a
touch of middle-voice color.
The present recording is unique among those reviewed in this chapter
in its balancing of the string pizzicati. In previous recordings, the bass or the
first violins had dominated the texture. In this case, however, Karajan
chooses to emphasize the cello/viola octave throughout the first three bars.
The double bass functions merely as a deep resonance of the cello sound, and
the violins, in many cases, are hardly audible. As the crescendo heats up in
the third bar, the violins become more apparent. Karajan seems to roll or
204
Legend:
mandible background foreground dominant
j
I !
w m m !
Flute t
1 | i
II
■ ■ 1
I i
i H H i i
Oboe i !
| i
II i
[ ■ M M I
I i
I
Clarinet
II ii ■ 1
n :
I I t
u !
Bassoon
II
I M l
Horn ■ i
:
II
: h h h h □ r r
I
Trumpett : ■ r r
I
II
i □ i
1
Timpani
! ii u _
i |
I
Violin : in I i□ □ d i i 1
II
1 0 : o : i□ 0 i □ □ o L J
Viola
i i i a i1 □ □ L J
Cello
i l ! ■ I I u r m
Bass
0 1 □ 1 □ 1 b 1 □
bt. 1 2 3 1 2 3
m. 1 2

Karajan 1984
205
break the last two pizzicati chords, but this does not resemble the grace-note
feature of the 1977 version.
The arrival on m. 4 does not come with thunderous force, but with an
understated dignity. The timpani merely grounds the chord, with the first
trumpet adding weight and pressure to the sound. The first violins, as usual,
come to the fore here, with the double bass rounding out the string sound.
The woodwinds disappear, as they tend to, into the new sonority, with the
exception of the first hom whose fifth, as in 1977, persists noticeably into bar
4.
Karajan brings a lighter touch to his 1984 reading of the work than he
used in 1977. Rather than focusing on the magnitude and poetic weight of
the introduction, Karajan seeks a purity of tone and an easy smoothness of
line. The manner in which these introductory bars melt into the following
phrase is truly delicious, characterized especially by its effortlessness and
absence of bombast. While Karajan appears to retreat to an approach more
like his 1961 reading, Karajan brings an entirely different sound to this
version. He uses the lower treble octave (oboe) and avails himself more
liberally of middle-voice textures. The result has a more mature feel and a
personal touch, as though Karajan, after a lifetime of seeking to find God in
this music, had at last found humankind there.
The quartet of flutes and oboes clearly dominates the texture of
Abbado’s 1989 reading of the Beethoven introduction (see Fig. 16), but the
relationship between these four voices is somewhat complex. Abbado is the
only conductor under review here who takes the forte-piano in the winds
206
Legend:
I
Flute
n
I
Oboe
n
I
Clarinet
n
I
Bassoon
n
i
Horn
n
\
I I
Trumpet I
■ !
n
U
Timpani
i !
I
0
10 1 ■
Violin □ □ □
n 1 1 i
□ □ □ □ □ n
Viola i 1 ib I
□ □ 0 "T''0 i□ PI 1n
Cello i
0 D □ □ n
Bass 1D I0 i
□ □ 0 0 □ ,□ □ ■
bt. 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 l 2 3
m. 1 2 3 4

Abbado 1989
207
seriously. All the winds participate in the gesture, thus creating a number of
cross-balances. For example, the second oboe’s initial forte-piano comes
through more strongly than the first flute, but the latter sonority emerges as
the more significant by the resolution in bar 1. Thus, we have a strong oboe
presence on the forte, but as the sound clears, the flute sonority gradually
assumes dominance over the balance. The same phenomenon occurs in bar 2,
this time between the first flute and the first oboe. In each case, the alternate
pair within the flute and oboe quartet (second flute and first oboe in m. 1,
second flute and second oboe in m. 2) tends to favor the flute sound to the
oboe. In the third bar, the first flute never relinquishes control over the
sonority, while the second oboe maintains a secondary role throughout the
bar. The alternate pair merely supports these more prominent voices.
The quartet of flutes and oboes, though complex in their internal
balancing, clearly dominates the texture throughout the first three bars of the
excerpt under discussion. Until the third bar, when the horn emerges as an
important supporting voice, Abbado manages to suppress the middle and
lower voices to a remarkable degree while still achieving a clear and full wind
sound. The first hom pops out on both forte-pianos, and the second bassoon
emerges briefly in the resolution of the deceptive cadence in m. 2. The second
clarinet seems to bring added color to the whole of the second bar.
Otherwise, the clarinets, bassoons and horns, while certainly audible, have a
very much understated role in these bars. The bassoon’s upper octave along
with the homs do much to drive the crescendo in bar 3, as they emerge nearly
to the fore.
208
In no other version considered here are the string pizzicati so

completely suppressed as in the Abbado recording. In the fortes, they prove
to be essentially inaudible, and only barely discernible in the piano
resolutions. The strings can be heard in the last two pizzicato chords prior to
bar 4, but even then only in the upper notes in the first violins.
The resolution to the dominant in m. 4 receives its most understated
treatment at Abbado’s direction. The violins, predictably, occupy the
foreground, with a strong horn presence, particularly the fifth in the first
part. This is the only recording reviewed here where the resolution of the
tritone between the lead voices in the previous measure, the first flute and
second oboe, can be clearly distinguished. The timpani hardly makes an
impression, adding a touch of support to a fairly weak bass presence.
Indeed, the most striking aspect of this recording is the complete
suppression o f the bass line, even into the climactic resolution in m. 4. This
provides interesting insight into Abbado’s sound ideal. Unlike his mentor,
Furtwangler, who nearly always favored a strong bass, Abbado strives for a
dominant treble texture and a palpable but unobtrusive middle register over
an understated bass. This explains Abbado’s elegant and crisp sound,
providing his performances with a characteristically Italian emphasis on
melodic line over the more Germanic interest in harmonic motion.
Thus, this introduction is far lighter than those interpreted by Karajan
and Furtwangler, and even than that of Toscanini. Abbado comes from a
different generation, one that saw the emergence of the early music
movement and the passing of the Romantic performance tradition. Abbado
209
therefore seeks a leaner and lighter sound than his predecessors under review
here, and uses a fairly brisk tempo in the introduction. He brings emphasis to
the crescendo bar not by the enormity of the crescendo itself but through a
subtle, almost subliminal, means: he extends the rest preceding bar 3 by
almost a full eighth-note, and then accelerates through bar 3, only to hold up
slightly before the great resolution on m. 4. The crescendo is affected
through the growing middle-voice texture and brassy presence of the horns,
and never by a heaviness in the bass. So the resolution is given the full
measure of structural significance without sacrificing the least degree of
elegance and dignity.
From the refined simplicity of Abbado to the majestic, high spectacle
of Karajan in 1977 and all the stops in between, the spectrum of ideas
encompassed in the seven recordings reviewed here offers a glimpse of the
infinite variety that adjustments in balance can bring, even to such a minute
excerpt as the present one. The real issue, however, in terms of the urgent
problem of this study, concerns the relation between these textural
interpretive choices and the musical ideas thus developed. This relation
manifests itself in the energies of tension and resolution that such balance-
related decisions produce.
The very first sonority, the C7, contains harmonic tension that calls for
a resolution that, in fact, follows: F Major. Each performance cited above
treats this tension a little differently. Some interpretations stress a sense of
surprise (Toscanini, Abbado), others a sort of contrapuntal purity of root
progression (Furtwangler). In 1954 Karajan seems to revel in the sheer
210
sonority of the chord itself, taking emphasis away from the tension/resolution
polarity. In 1961, he leans into the dominant-seventh, bringing out the treble
tritone in the flutes while underplaying the sense of surprise or wit. In 1977
Karajan uses surprise, especially with his sharp string pizzicati, while the
winds lend a sense of urgency to the chord. Karajan returns to his earlier
preference for a purity of wind sound in 1984, but retains a sharp pizzicato,
especially in the lower strings, creating a sense of surprise in a direct and
harmonically motivated reading. If one were to construct a spectrum in
which the degree of dramatic expectancy in the opening chord was the
primary criterion, Toscanini might capture the high end, followed, perhaps,
by Karajan in 1977. Abbado and Karajan 1984 might occupy the center of
the spectrum, with Karajan 1961 and Furtwangler moving toward the low
end, which finds its most extreme example, perhaps, in Karajan 1954.
Please remember that I am assuming that the interpreter achieved the
desired results in each case. I also trust that my hearing of each
interpretation, based on a careful analysis of the details of balance, at least
reasonably approaches the intended perception of the conductors in
question. The spectrum suggested above does not indicate my judgment of
which interpretations were most successful in capturing Beethoven’s meaning,
but rather indicates my judgment of which interpretation sought dramatic
expectancy as an integral part of their concept of the piece. Where surprise
and wit were not emphasized, other aesthetic elements took their place. In no
case, however, do I mean to suggest that dramatic expectancy was completely
absent. That would be, I venture, an impossible feat given the harmony of
211
the chord. Instead, I argue that in some cases the dramatic expectancy of the
C7 chord played a subsidiary role to other elements which the interpreter
wished to give primacy. Just as the balances of instruments reduces to a
matter of foreground and background elements in our perception, so too
does any particular aesthetic aspect, such as dramatic expectancy, acquire
either a foreground or background role in any given performance.
It is just here that we begin to traffic with the fundamental language
problem in discussing music. "Dramatic expectancy" has endless
connotations and possible understandings, and what I mean by it might differ
just enough from the reader’s own notion to render any discussion of the
matter fruitless. I do believe, however, that much is to be gained from, as
Wittgenstein so colorfully put it, "running [one’s] head up against the limits of
language."1 By doing so, we discover where those limits lie, and we acquaint
ourselves with the difficult terrain around them. My purposes in discussing
the spectrum of dramatic expectancy was not to achieve consensus on my
assignment of performances along the spectrum, but rather to show how
issues of balance can be understood to relate to the more fundamental topics
of aesthetics, through the infinitely variable modes of tension and resolution.
2. Articulation
How notes are begun, the quality of their duration, and the manner in
which they finish—these comprise the interpretive issues of articulation and
1Wittgenstein, Investigations 48, section 119.
212
color. These issues conflate with every other type of interpretive choice.
Articulation certainly depends upon the dynamic level at which the voice in
question sounds, as well as upon the relative prominence of the voice in the
larger context o f instrumental balance. Articulations also vary with regard to
the tempo at which they occur. Very fast passages played at top speed have a
limited range o f technically viable articulations, whereas, if the tempo were
reduced, other types of attacks become possible. At the same time, attacks
specifically appropriate to faster speeds become increasingly difficult to
produce. Tone color depends upon the technical means by which a specific
pitch sounds on a particular instrument. Variations of pressure and vibrato
allow for a spectrum of color on any given note. Depending upon the length
of the note, the color might modulate over the course of its duration.
Pressure and vibrato vary with respect to dynamic (and, thus, balance) as
well as tempo. Like articulation, the elements of tone color encounter
limitations at extremes of dynamic and tempo.
The guiding intelligence that fashions an interpretation applies the
technical possibilities and limitations of articulation and tone color to the
expression of a coherent and meaningful idea. The interpreter uses the
variety of expressive modes of articulation and tone color to clarify the
character of feeling intended in a musical passage. Just as we inflect our
voices in speech to imbue our words with expressive depth, so the interpreter
inflects the production of pitches and rhythms in music.
To further illustrate this important principle of musical interpretation,
I will engage in a detailed analysis of the Episode II of Beethoven’s Marcia
213
funebre, from the Third Sym phony (see Fig. 17). One of Beethoven’s most
explosively passionate essays, this funeral march consists of a number of
programmatic vignettes, presumably concerning the life and death of the
Eroica Sym phonys mythical hero. The exposition (mm. 1-68) takes the key
of C minor, alternating with contrasting material in Eb. Episode I (mm. 69-
104) begins in sunny C Major and concludes in a martial brass fanfare,
leading to an apparently triumphal close in C (m. 101). But Beethoven falls
back into the despair of the exposition, as well as the key of C minor, as
Episode II (mm. 105-154) begins. This section, which will be discussed at
length below, is principally comprised of a fugal section which culminates in
harmonic crisis. This resolves momentarily into G minor, whereupon a
stormy transition to the return (mm. 154-172) begins. This transition
arguably contains the crucial moment of the hero’s final struggle with death
and fate, which passes into a grotesque and limping accompaniment for the
recapitulation (mm. 173-209). The weird mood slowly relaxes into the second
subject, again in the uplifting key of Eb. At m. 209 the recapitulation is
abruptly interrupted with a deceptive cadence on Ab, whereupon a nostalgic
and deeply emotional coda (mm. 209-247) begins. The closing bars (mm.
239-247) are justly famous for its broken final statement of the theme, so
overwrought with grief that the tune can barely falter to its close.
It is in this highly charged context that I wish to examine the nature of
articulation and tone color as aspects of the interpreter’s art. I focus on
Karajan’s third set, the 1977 version with the Berlin Philharmonic, in Episode
II. I choose this recording because it seems to me to be one of Karajan’s most
214
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(measures 97-113)
215
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216
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218
successful readings of the work, showing his conception at its greatest

maturity and depth. His inflection of this second episode through the means
of articulation and tone color reveals the incredible power of these aspects to
shape the listener’s aesthetic experience of the work. I will occasionally refer
to the recordings made by Furtwangler (1952), Abbado (1985) and Toscanini
(1949), to provide contrasting solutions to the interpretive choices of
articulation and tone color.
After the heroic climax of Episode I (mm. 98-101), the music sinks
back into the minor mode and the muted despair with which the movement
begins. Karajan treats the sotto voce (soft voice) both dynamically, as a
pianissimo, and in color the first violins, as well as the seconds, violas and
cellos, play with very little vibrato. Karajan takes his cue, perhaps, from the
first G in the violins, which must be played on the open G-string, and
therefore without vibrato. The chords in the middle strings are so muted and
uninflected that they are virtual inaudible. The lack of vibrato in the first
violins gives the theme a ghostly air. The independence of the double basses,
which of course was Beethoven’s stroke, not Karajan’s, only increases the
ghoulishness of the moment. But Karajan exaggerates this effect further by
asking his basses to play in their lowest octave (one octave lower than
Beethoven’s notation) in two of the places where it is technically possible to
do so, in the figures leading into mm. 108 and 109 (he also does this in the
comparable spot in the opening of the movement). When the cellos join the
basses (leading into m. 110), the basses return to the usual octave.
219
Furtwangler’s sound at the opening is slightly more intense, involving

somewhat more vibrato in the middle voices and more bow pressure
throughout the strings. Most notable, however, is Furtwangler’s choice to
have the basses play their grace notes on the beat rather than before it, as
every other interpreter under review here does. This choice brings the basses
strongly to the foreground, in effect accenting the grace notes, which
exaggerates the eerie quality of these bars. While Karajan chooses a limper,
paler character, Furtwangler conjures a more grotesque, growly, bass-heavy
sound here.
When we speak of articulation as a tool in the interpreter’s workshop,
we sometimes find terribly artful gestures in even the most subtle and minute
details. A wonderful example of this occurs in m. 108 in the second violins.
The F# on the second half of the first beat serves as the lower neighbor to the
two Gs which surround it; however, this neighbor relation is complicated by
the octave displacement of the first G. Consequently, the F t takes part in a
poignant upward leap. Not only is the leap itself intensely dissonant (a major
seventh), but it leaps to a dissonance with other voices (the G in the bass, and
the Eb in the first violin and viola). The Ft serves to intensify the harmonic
motion from second inversion C minor (i) to G Major (SL). Karajan asks for
a minute crescendo just after the F t has sounded in the second violins (m.
108). The preceding G totally merges with the surrounding harmony. The Ft
begins softly but, since it is higher in pitch than the melody in the first violins,
is immediately audible. Karajan then makes a very quick and subtle hairpin,
leaning into the center of the note, adding a touch of vibrato, and tapers off
220
just as quickly, so that the leading-tone motion to the following G is de

emphasized. This allows the F# its momentary prominence without robbing
the melody of its clarity of line and its leading role in the resolution from Eb
to D. The F t represents, perhaps, a sting of pain—a moment of human stress-
-in an otherwise ghostly reverie. This strategy of humanizing the F$ clarifies,
by virtue of contrast, the quality that Karajan seeks to achieve for the
passage as a whole: a chilling, otherworldly air, as if the hero were already
residing in the land of mists and spirits.
Abbado, whose general sound throughout this passage is quite similar
to Karajan’s, though even more sotto voce, takes a slightly different
approach to the second violin F$. Rather than making a quick, stinging
hairpin as Karajan does, Abbado leans into the beginning o f the note, and
then tapers off slightly to the G. He does not add, however, the spice of
vibrato that Karajan does. Thus, the feeling evoked is quite different. The
Ft, rather than coming across as a spike of pain or stress, merely confirms the
ghostly mood that prevails throughout the passage. The absence of vibrato
deprives it of the humanity and poignancy that Karajan gave it.
Karajan’s limitation of the vibrato for the passage as a whole reaches
its greatest tension in m. 110, with the half-note in the first violins. The
absence of warmth or inflection on this long note speaks of death itself. It
exaggerates the diabolical nature of the diminished seventh chord, and sets
the listener up for the further mystery of the next bar, in which another
diminished seventh chord sounds. Refusing to crescendo, Karajan allows the
221
harmony alone to do the work of climaxing toward the sforzato in m. 112.

His strategy it to let the blood drain out of his string sound altogether.
At the sforzato in m. 112, a full vibrato poignantly returns and
remains throughout the episode. In the form of vibrato, human feeling and
desire return to the fabric of Karajan’s string sound, only to increase as the
quasi-fugue begins in m. 114. The sforzato in m. 112 comes without any
crescendo preparation. It is sudden, like one emerging with a start from a
daydream.
Toscanini’s reading, which had been more active throughout the
passage than Karajan’s or Abbado’s, with more vibrato and a fuller sound in
the melody, makes considerably less contrast in m. 112. Indeed, Toscanini
does crescendo into the bar, and while the sforzato comes in part from an
increase in vibrato, this is momentary, strictly for the purposes of the accent.
It recedes as quickly as it comes. After the sforzato, Toscanini returns to the
previous dynamic until the fugue begins (m. 114), where Karajan maintains a
fresh intensity as a preparation for the mood of the fugue. Toscanini, in
short, treats the sforzato in m. 112 strictly as a surface-level nuance. Karajan
views the accent as the first throb of the struggle which motivates the fugue to
follow. Unlike Toscanini, Karajan shifts the color o f his string section at m.
112 in such way that it becomes an event of structural significance.
The soulful cry of the bassoon in m. 113 sets up the character of the
quasi-fugue, a character, perhaps, of intense yet impotent human will in the
face of mortal doom. Part of the power of this fugue comes from the
slowness and deliberation of its harmonic rhythm. A cantus firmus (1-t>6-^-l)
222
of whole bars intones over an ever rising melody. Angry sixteenth-notes join
the fray, usually in a middle voice, which add to the tension by their willful
and unrelenting determination. The timpani enters in m. 126 as the inevitable
voice of doom, harkening to the image of the funeral procession marked by
canon fire. The fugal nature of the imitation breaks down at the point when
the horn, in the most heroic incarnation yet, gives the life affirming theme
(nun. 135-139).
Karajan chooses to de-emphasize the sforzati which litter the fugal
section. They are sacrificed in favor of longer phrase units. In general, the
cantus firmus is intoned with separation between all the notes, and a slight
tenuto accent throughout. The consistency of sound throughout the four-
bar phrase appears to be the primary element of Karajan’s approach to the
cantus firmus. Likewise, the emphasis belongs to the whole phrase rather
than the sforzati in the theme itself. The long note (J.), on which Beethoven’s
sforzato is supposed to occur, is given a tenuto accent and held with great
intensity through to the trill at the end of the bar. After the trill most string
sections seem to be playing the four eighth notes on separate bows, with no
discernible accent on the given sforzati. The use of the separate bows allows
more bow for the high level of intensity Karajan demands throughout the
passage.
Toscanini pays much more attention to the sforzati and uses a shorter,
sharper stroke in the sixteenth-note counter-melody. As a result, Toscanini
achieves a more angular and brutal quality, where Karajan stresses a longer
line o f deep and resonant majesty. Toscanini’s brass are louder, brighter and
223
more accented, especially as they become increasingly involved in the fugue.

Karajan rather brings out brass’ supportive, sustaining power.
Karajan gives the sixteenth-notes a tenuto-dot style o f articulation,
wherein the notes are each very long and very full, yet with large spaces
between adjacent notes. Despite the physical shortness of each note, it is
given a strong presence by its articulation, as if each note contained a bit of a
crescendo. This makes for a very deliberate, intense and full string sound.
Furtwangler also generates considerable intensity from the sixteenth motion,
but with an articulation less inflected and weighty. Rather, his players pull
their bows across the string rapidly while remaining very much ’in the string,’
to produce a strong, clear and emphatic sound without heaviness, known to
string players as martele. Further along the spectrum, Toscanini calls for a
very short and fast bow stroke, though not nearly as short as Toscanini was
capable of demanding on occasion.
The arrival of the timpani (m. 126) corresponds with the cello/bass
version of the theme. In many performances, the timpani plays very loud and
harshly here in imitation of a canon’s report. Karajan, instead, asks for a full,
round and deep sound, rather like some profound inner pulse. The allusion
to canon fire is not extinguished altogether, but instead takes on a deeper
cast. Rather than literally imitate a canon, Karajan brings out the human
symbolic relation between the boom of the funeral procession and the despair
of death. In this, Karajan respects Beethoven’s dynamic markings: the
timpani entrance is marked only forte. Karajan saves the fortissim o
especially for the second beat of m. 139.
224
Abbado similarly emphasizes the booming depth rather than the

percussively loud aspect of the timpani’s entrance. He does not, interestingly
enough, exploit this as Karajan does in the fortisshni that follow. Abbado
prefers to cast the timpani in a supporting role throughout, never spotlighting
its dramatic possibilities in the fugue.
As the brass begin to participate more fully, Karajan asks them to play
in a big, broad and rather stoic way. They do not take part, on the whole, in
the human side of the struggle. Whatever their programmatic purpose,
Karajan again de-emphasizes their sforzatim an effort to retain an even and
deliberate articulation of the slow harmonic rhythm. The Eb horns do take
up the cause (mm. 135-139) when they intone the main theme. Karajan
allows the horns to play forthrightly, though not brassily. Again, the horns
move with deliberation and without accent. On each ascending pitch the
horns give a tenuto articulation (which allows the section, apparently, to
breathe inconspicuously after the quarter-note in m. 137). In m. 136, instead
of making a sforzato on the downbeat, Karajan asks for a swell through the
Ab, as if to propel the phrase forward into its second part. In m. 138 Karajan
does get a slight emphasis on the downbeat followed by a small decrescendo.
The tenuto articulation through the phrase actually increases the sense of
heroic power in these bars. It imbues the passage with an expansive, endless
quality, as though the hero were immortal-ever bursting with breath and
vitality. Abbado also lends the horn theme a deliberate, willful air, but in his
case the horns use a high-intensity, pressured tone. This detracts from the
triumphant quality that Karajan sought, in order to create a more forced
225
ascent to the top of Abbado’s phrase. In Karajan, the hero achieves the
summit basking in glory; in Abbado, the summit comes only at the expense of
unrelenting drive and pressure.
Bar 140 serves as the climax of the quasi-fugal section. The tension
toward that bar passes to the first violins in m. 139, as Karajan asks for
strong accents on each note and a compelling crescendo throughout the bar.
Most shocking of all, however, is the crashing violence of Karajan’s timpanist
in the upbeat to m. 140. Because this is a carefully edited studio recording, I
must conclude that the additional racket made by the timpani blast (sounds
not associated with proper timpani technique) were quite intentional. In any
case, the effect is heart-stoppingly vivid.
Over a last statement of the theme in the cellos and basses, the horns
and trumpets make a fanfare related to the cantus firmus (M-2-5), though
this really just outlines the structure of the theme itself. Again, the actual
sforzatiaxo. not given any special emphasis, but all notes receive equal accent,
with spaces between them. Since the hom theme (m. 135), the eighth-note
motion, which began as a single contrapuntal line alongside the main theme,
has transformed into a scalar passage in thirds moving, in alternate bars, in
contrary directions. This begins in the strings and moves, for the first time in
m. 140, to the winds. Even in the winds, the original articulation o f the
sixteenth-notes is preserved. They are long, accented tones with big spaces
between each. Strictly speaking, Karajan’s orchestra plays something like a
tenuto thirty-second note and a thirty-second rest. Furtwangler also retains
his earlier string articulation throughout the passage beginning in m. 135,
226
whereas Toscanini broadens his string articulation substantially at this point.

The winds, quite typically for the Toscanini set as a whole, play quite short
when they acquire the sixteenth-note figure (m. 140).
After a climactic augmented-sixth chord, all the elements of the fugal
section dissolve into a chain of suspensions (mm. 145-149). Here, at last,
Karajan honors the sforzati given by Beethoven. Indeed, crescendi in the
middle strings lead into each sforzato, followed by a diminuendo into the
next downbeat. The triplets in the first violin, which represent the upper note
o f the suspending pair, are played very long and legato in contradistinction
with the earlier sixteenth-note articulation. The sforzati are realized in the
first violin by a very exaggerated tenuto. In m. 149, as the second violins join
the firsts in the triplet figure, Karajan asks for a gradually less tenuto stroke.
As the notes become shorter and consequently lighter, the violas, with their
ascending scale, take the dominant role in setting up the downbeat of m. 150.
The D pedal, over which the chain of suspensions unfolded, begins strongly
in the C horns and double basses.
Each recording differs slightly in this passage (mm. 145-149),
particularly with regard to the first violins. Furtwangler, Abbado and
Toscanini, for instance, use a sharper sforzato, though Abbado’s is the
sharpest and Toscanini the least so of the three. Nevertheless, on the whole,
the recordings are remarkably similar in their treatment of this passage. In
each case, the suspensions in the winds, while dramatically significant, are
dynamically weaker than the first violins, and the undulating line in the
227
middle register competes but does not prevail over the first violins for our
primary attention.
When the trumpet enters in m. 148, Karajan uses it to add intensity to
the pedal, by making a crescendo into m. 149 and setting up the cadential
motion in the brass and timpani. The middle octave G in the brass is
especially menacing as m. 150 approaches. The cadence is inconclusive,
however, closing on a diminished seventh chord based on C#. In a radically
different reading, Toscanini strikes each brass chord with a brutal force and
shortness, lending the diminished chord a quality all too conclusive--
tragically so. Karajan focuses on the boding nature of G in the harmony of
m. 149, as well as the urgency of the trumpet and horn sound in Beethoven’s
orchestration. Therefore, Karajan lengthens the notes and sharpens their
initial attack. Toscanini focuses rather on the abruptness of the stop at m.
150 and uses the brass in a similarly abrupt manner to pound the apocalyptic
cadence home.
The same diminished-seventh chord, this time in a very compressed
voicing, violently returns in the strings, like a dreadful exhalation of breath.
Karajan’s sforzato is not percussive but deep and resonant, with bows
sinking forcefully into the heart of the string rather than attacking it from
above. The staccato repetitions of the chord in m. 151 are also full, but with
great spaces between the notes. The despair of the moment comes from the
fullness of sound on each eighth note. Despite their brevity, these notes each
contain a compelling shape: a crescendo which sweeps toward the silence on
each eighth. A tension obtains between the shortness of each note and the
228
fullness that Karajan nevertheless extracts from it. This generates the energy
of the symbolic struggle between the substance of the note (the sound) and
the restrictive temporal boundaries which imprison it (the silence), as if the
sound were pushing urgently against an impregnable force.
Toscanini accomplishes a similar tension using a simpler approach.
He demands full intensity from the moment of attack and sustains it
throughout the length of the note. No "sinking in” or "tapering away” or
"ripping off" here—Toscanini achieves a purity of articulation that was his
trademark. The long sforzato note in mm. 150-151, as well as the three
eighth-notes which follow all share this straight style of articulation.
Moreover, the eighths in m. 151 are longer than the brass eighths in m. 149,
which they imitate, creating a tremendous sense of urgency and excitement.
But the lack of inflection in the way in which the notes are sustained lends
them an inhuman, merciless quality.
In m. 152, the decrescendo bar, Karajan substantially reduces the
kind of into-the-string accent which characterized the previous bars, without
changing the actual dynamic right away. So the downbeat of m. 152 is forte,
full and dramatic, as the diminished seventh resolves into the SL of G (with a
4-3 suspension), but not accented. This procedure begins the modulation of
feeling from the agony of the struggle to the resignation of defeat. The
decrescendo itself comes later, where, again, the blood drains out of
Karajan’s sound and we return momentarily to the lonely despair of the first
subject. The winds enter in m. 153 softly and cleanly as the second violins
229
pass clearly but unobtrusively down through the seventh scale degree, toward
the resolution.
Toscanini attacks m. 152’s suspension over the dominant with the
same relentless brutality as he had the previous bar, though perhaps the effect
is comparatively muted, given the more complex harmonic implications at
this point. Toscanini makes some diminuendo-mostly a relieving of the
tension of the 4-3 suspension—but does not warm up the sound, which
remains strong, oppressive and uninflected. A striking iitardando in m. 153
makes the transition of mood to the G minor resolution. Nevertheless, this
transition never recovers the warmth so devastatingly lacking in the tragic
bars preceding, but confirms the reigning atmosphere of resignation and
despair.
In the Karajan performance, as well as all the others touched on in the
previous analysis, a strongly etched concept of the Episode II emerges from
the minutiae of articulation and tone color. The essential idea that
Beethoven intended remains intact in every performance, but the interpreters
have brought a dimension of specificity to the idea which the notation alone
lacks. Karajan’s reading takes on an almost fleshy immediacy, as though the
sound literally possessed the physical texture of human life: its heartbeat, its
breath, the coursing of blood through its veins. Toscanini brings to the same
music a brutally severe angularity and unrelenting willfulness. Furtwangler
emphasizes a ghoulish, morbid quality in a typically bass-oriented
performance of the same bars. Abbado achieves a sense of pressure or
230
compression in the sound, building intensity through an ominous brass

presence.
All the aspects of interpretation are inter-related. Certainly, the issues
of texture—balance, dynamics, articulation and tone color—though distinct,
all play out together to form the immediate sound impression that we hear as
listeners. This most local level of the aural experience, texture, plays a critical
role in our understanding of the larger musical idea. Texture concerns the
details of inflection of that idea. Texture also provides hints to the deeper
issues of interpretation that occupy the areas of ground and gesture.
Tempo has come up in the preceding pages because it influences the
issues of texture. We have examined, therefore, textural questions in the light
of the prevailing tempo, an aspect of the class of interpretive issues I call
ground. In the chapter to follow I will focus my analysis toward the matter
of ground directly. In this, I hope to approach a deeper understanding of the
philosophically rich matter of how an interpreter controls larger aspects of
form.
C hapter V: G round
Ground occupies an uniquely important position in the hierarchy of

interpretive issues. Tempo indications in musical notation, for example, are
notoriously unspecific. Allegro means something different in every instance,
and something different for every interpreter. On the other hand, actual
tempos taken in performances are terribly specific. They can be measured
scientifically, and captured numerically. Thus, in the Appendix I am able to
quantify all of the recordings under review with regard to average tempo and
compare them on that basis.1 While tempo yeilds itself easily to
mathematical analysis, the significance of tempo as an interpretive issue
extends into murkier realms: how can we quantify the relation between tempo
and choices of articulation in the winds, or the speed and width of vibrato in
the strings? How can we speak with specificity about the relation between
tempo and the vast symbolic gestures that go to the core of the interpreter’s
idea? Yet, such relations represent the very essence of the interpreter’s art.
These considerations determine the mathematically specific tempo that I,
stopwatch in hand, so scientifically seek to discover.
As a listener, the experience of ground precedes that of other
interpretive elements. The moment two musical events have occurred in a
performance a tempo has been established, by definition. In most cases, a
tempo is therefore established almost immediately, before the listener can
absorb any of the other interpretive aspects of the work’s opening. One can
1 See discussion of the statistical data in Chapter 3.
232
imagine cases, however, where rhythmic activity is sufficiently delayed for

other aspects to enter the fray prior to considerations of ground. Consider,
for example, the opening of Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony. The tempo does
not make its presence known to the listener until after a very long bar has
passed, during which all manner of textural and even low-level gestural issues
have been addressed. But even here, in retrospect, ground had everything to
do with our perception of the textural and gestural issues of the first bar.
When the tempo becomes manifest, in the second bar, a sort of tension is
resolved which had—we see in retrospect-haunted us throughout the first
bar. The very fact of rhythmic suspension, that the tempo was uncertain,
created a specific atmosphere in which the other aspects of interpretation
operated. We will see this phenomenon at work in the recordings discussed
below.
A specific technical dimension obtains to the relation between tempo
and articulation, for example. Parameters exist which limit the interpreter’s
options, depending on tempo. Certain tonguing patterns, for example,
cannot be reliably executed above a certain tempo. At extremes of tempo, a
certain bow stroke becomes the only viable manner of executing a particular
passage. These technical limitations demonstrate a certain specificity in the
relation between certain textural issues and tempo. Similarly, a general
principle holds for the relation between tempo and matters of gesture, though
this principle poses greater analytical difficulties. Generally speaking, the
structural level at which we perceive musical gesture depends upon the tempo
of the whole. At faster speeds, larger structural forms come to the fore. At
233
slower speeds, lower levels of gesture dominate the listener’s attention. This
fact sheds instructive light on the propensity of Toscanini, for example,
toward faster tempos, and Furtwangler toward slower ones. This is not to
say, however, that Furtwangler was not capable of making larger gestures
felt-quite the contrary, in fact. Rather, it suggests that Furtwangler’s specific
genius lay in overcoming the tendency of slower tempi to localize gesture.
Despite these formal properties of tempo, which impose limits on the
interpreter with regard to issues of texture and gesture, the business of
relating ground to the other interpretive issues is by no means strictly
scientific. Like the majority of the analysis in this study, my observations of
ground and its symbolic significance depend entirely upon my own judgment
of the relation between speed and its variations and the other interpretive
elements. Trapped in my own head and alive to a unique set of biases, I can
only pursue the question of how a certain tempo affects my perception of the
musical idea. The value of the exercise, nevertheless, depends upon the
truthfulness with which I approach my own perceptions of the performances
under review. If my observations possess an adequate degree of penetration
and sincerity, then they should serve as an excellent point of departure for the
reader. Despite this rather loose analytical basis, I have made every effort to
root my observations in a painstakingly specific study of the details of the
performances under review. The minutiae often hold the most potent lessons
for the larger questions of musical interpretation. Thus, the next section will
concern itself with a relatively brief passage from the Fourth Symphony.
234
1. Tempo
I will examine the opening Adagio in its entirety and the transition
into the Allegro which follows (see Fig. 18). Two performances will serve to
compare different approaches to the tempi of the Adagio and Allegro, and
the consequent tempo relation which obtains between them. I will consider
Toscanini’s performance (NBC Symphony, 1951) as compared to Karajan’s
(Berlin Philharmonic, 1985), in part because they have chosen extremely
divergent tempi for this passage. Then, in section 2 ,1 will discuss the matter
of flux as it pertains to local level tempo issues in the Adagio. To that end, I
will look at Furtwangler (Vienna Philharmonic, 1952) and Abbado (Vienna
Philharmonic, 1988), who take a very similar average tempo but differ
substantially in the manner in which they fluctuate within the Adagio.
The slow introduction offers special considerations to the matter of
tempo. The purpose of the introduction, especially in this case, goes beyond
a simple clarification of form. This introduction creates an atmosphere out
of which the Allegro serves as a kind of negation. The introduction offers the
chaos and darkness out of which order and light emerge all the more glorious.
Thus, the challenge to the interpreter is, like the challenge to the composer,
two-fold: to make the introduction itself meaningful and expressive, and to
make it cohere with what follows. Especially in the case of a slow
introduction to a complete sonata movement, the relation between the two
expressive worlds is as important as the internal development within each. If
we compare Toscanini’s introduction with Karajan’s 1985 introduction, we
235
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239
can see how their radically differing tempos led to both a very different
sensation of the introduction itself (the local aspect), and a different way o f
launching the Allegro (the structural aspect). In this way, we can better
understand the true significance of their choices of tempo and relation.
Surprisingly, Toscanini opens the Fourth Sym phony with the slowest
tempo of the recordings under review, at 45 beats per minute (bpm).
Karajan’s fourth set (1985) takes the lead in tempo, with 59 bpm--another
surprise, perhaps—with Abbado and Furtwangler vying for a close second.
An am azing inversion occurs when the tempos of the introduction are
compared to those of the Allegro. Toscanini jumps from the slowest first
tempo to the fastest Allegro, where Karajan (1985) jumps from the fastest
Adagio to the slowest Allegro. In every case, however, the tempo of the
performance is less than Beethoven’s metronome: J=66 for the Adagio and
o=80 for the Allegro.2
Toscanini’s performance, therefore, offers the most extreme contrast
between the two tempos. He began with a tempo only 68% of Beethoven’s.
This, in itself, bears some attention. Toscanini averages 94% of Beethoven’s
tempos in the set taken as a whole, which is considerably closer than any o f
the other conductors considered here. Though the relation of Toscanini’s
Allegro to the Adagio tempo is 30% faster than Beethoven’s own
recommended relation, his Allegro remains only 89% of Beethoven’s
metronome. Karajan (1985) offers the least contrast of the group between
2 Only one performance comes quite close to Beethoven’s exact
relation between the two tempos (1.21), and that is Karajan (1977). The
others fall evenly above and below this relation.
240
the Adagio and Allegro tempos (1.04). He begins at 89% of Beethoven’s

metronome, which is the fastest Adagio under review here. His Allegro,
however, only achieves 78% of Beethoven’s metronome, at 62 bpm.
Interestingly enough, three of Karajan’s four recordings take the Allegro at
this exact speed, even though their corresponding Adagios vary from 47 to 59
bpm (causing tempo relations varying from 1.04 to 1.31).
Because Toscanini moves so slowly in the Adagio, the first note seems
to hang interminably in the air before the strings begin their unison
descending passage. The Gb clearly plays as a surprise (since we assume the
Bb is the root of a major key, an assumption that, in fact, turns out to be
correct on a structural level). Each half-note in mm. 2-3 seems very long,
with no real sense of direction. Toscanini does carefully honor Beethoven’s
slurs, however. The Gb and the Eb are connected-not so much by a sense of
direction but in retrospect, as a result of a slight break before the next F.
And so are the F and Db connected. The four quarter-notes in m. 5 are also
connected in the same way. Even so, each note is of equal importance,
without much sense of leading. While the Gb of m. 5 leads to its resolution in
m. 6, the note itself nevertheless feels very long in duration, adding to the
general sense o f directionlessness, of mystery and wonder.
Toscanini’s performance truly stands out from all the rest by his
treatment of the eighth-note passage which begins in the first violins in m. 6.
Here, while each note in the violins has length and quality, the rest between
them takes on a tremendous dramatic weight, as though the violin notes were
drips from a leaky faucet--each note drops slowly, languidly, almost
241
whimsically; we can never be sure that another note will follow. Toscanini
apparently feels a quarter-note pulse in this passage. As we will see, this is
rather different than Karajan’s treatment of the same material. Because of
the quarter-note pulse, in part, the bassoon note in m. 7 hangs in the air
without direction, as another mysterious element in an already weird brew.
Toscanini continues this pattern of slow, deliberate eighth-notes and big,
weighty eighth-note rests through the wind passage in mm. 10-12. In the
return of the opening Bb chord in m. 13 Toscanini repeats the effects of the
beginning and continues them clear through to m. 32, where a distinct change
of mood occurs. For the first time, the music takes on a truly melodic
quality, focusing on the cello and viola line which begins on the second beat
of that bar. This becomes a warm and caressing chorale for two intimate
bars. Then, in m. 34, the chilly air of the unknown returns.
Karajan, predictably, brings a rather different feel to the same
passage. The first bars are warm and beautiful, with a refined elegance, as if
the strings were gliding effortlessly through rich oil to the F in bar 6. The
violin notes, each one warm and soft, move with clear direction toward the
following measure. Karajan apparently works with the pulse of a bar. The
violins lead to the bassoon entrance, which in turn draws the listener to the
resolution at m. 8. A similar pattern takes us into m. 10. The wind passage
beginning in m. 10 then leads back into the unison Bb like that which began
the movement. Karajan not only leads through the bars, but through the
multi-bar phrases to create a clear movement from the opening measure back
to its return in m. 13. Karajan achieves this in part because of his relatively
242
fast tempo, which allows him to create the sense of utter, clocklike regularity
from beat to beat. Moreover, Karajan shapes each eighth-note as if it leans
forward into the rest, or, rather, through the rest, so that the listener
anticipates the note to follow. Rather than promote aimlessness and mystery
in the chromatic ascent in mm. 25-29 as Toscanini did, Karajan promotes a
feeling of building, of moving toward. Karajan then relaxes into the A pedal
of mm. 32-35.
The music is the same, but these performances draw dramatically
different inferences from it. Toscanini gropes hesitantly as if he found himself
in a dense fog. Karajan moves confidently and elegantly through long
phrases rich in subtlety and nuance. In both cases, experientially speaking,
the listener is equally lost tonally and formally. But Toscanini plays directly
to our sense of disorientation, where Karajan gives us the feeling of moving
to a certain, though as yet unknown, destination. In each case, the performer
uses Beethoven’s written indication as a beginning point for their own
development of Beethoven’s idea. In each case, a clear and convincing
aesthetic environment comes into being which gives the Adagio a very specific
feel to the listener. But in addition to occupying the listener for the two-and-
a-half minutes of its duration, this aesthetic environment serves as the point
of departure for the ensuing Allegro. Just as the feel of Toscanini’s Adagio
differed radically from that of Karajan, the tempos taken by each performer
in the Adagio also have a profound impact upon the manner in which the
Allegro is first perceived.
243
It may be that, when planning the interpretation of this movement, the

conductors began with the Allegro section and worked back to the Adagio,
thus knowing how they wanted to set up the major portion o f the movement.
In any case, the tempos chosen by Toscanini and Karajan (1985) for the
Allegro sections greatly influence the musical feel which permeates them. The
brisk Toscanini tempo (°=71) moves with a relentless propulsive force,
creating an expansive sweep and driving momentum. Karajan’s much slower
tempo (o=62) establishes a spirit of majestic strength, a kind o f refined
joyousness. Karajan’s slower tempo allows him to emphasize the depth of
tone and richness of color in each harmony. Toscanini, on the other hand,
powers his way through many a figure, favoring a tremendous forward drive
over beauty or subtlety of tone.
This movement serves as such an interesting example o f Toscanini’s
interpretive art precisely because the Adagio is so much slower than his
colleagues’, contrary to the usual presumption that he took everything faster.
On the other hand, this very slow opening only increases the drama of
Toscanini’s blazing Allegro. Indeed, Toscanini clearly attempted a stark
study in contrasts here, much like the photographer who deliberately
develops a print with exaggerated whites and blacks. Toscanini’s
introduction almost achieves an inertial state of stillness. We are thrust
entirely into the mysterious moment—a moment whose mystery resides in its
lack of contextualization both melodically and harmonically. In this way, the
fortissimo which comes in m. 36 comes, more or less, without warning. After
all, the F Major sonority of this bar is deceptive after the strong dominant
244
pedal on A which precedes it. Moreover, m. 36 bursts onto the scene without
dynamic or orchestrational precedent. It merely appears, as if by grace. In
Toscanini’s recording, bar 36 blares forth with a powerful accent and brutal
force, especially in the brass and timpani. As the Allegro vivace gets under
way, the force of each tu tti chord crashes downward, driving into the bass,
so to speak, with very short and accented articulations throughout the
orchestra. The tempo is so fast, however, that the brutality of the
articulations takes on a fevered and breathless quality—that driving
propulsion for which Toscanini is justly famous.
Karajan comes to this transition from a very different vantage point.
His Adagio has been flowing and elegant, with a tremendous breadth of
phrasing. His faster tempo in the Adagio, as well as his tremendous attention
to the line, creates a sense of direction and organicity to the whole
introduction. Bernstein often remarked that the greatness of Beethoven lies
in the fact that, no matter what he did, it was almost as if the outcome were
inevitable. Karajan appears to interpret the introduction very much in this
spirit. As harmonically remote as this introduction becomes, Karajan brings
an assurance and refinement to the sound and tempo that draws the listener
through the ordeal with a profound sense of confidence in a rational and
orderly outcome. The fortissimo of m. 36 comes not so much as a surprise
but as an apotheosis. It is neither brutal nor unexpected, but powerful,
majestic and culminating. Just as night passes through dawn into brilliant
sunrise, so this Adagio leads inexorably to this turn to F Major (which turns
out to be the dominant). The ensuing written-out accelerando retains the
245
quality of majesty and the richness of sound which permeated the Adagio,
although this becomes somewhat more playful as the first subject gets under
way in m. 43. Nevertheless, the Allegro remains contained and refined
throughout, never losing its aristocratic palate and restrained character.
Whereas Karajan moves elegantly and assuredly through the darkness
and mystery of the Adagio, Toscanini would grope tentatively in an unknown
landscape cloaked in obscurity. Whereas Karajan passes into a majestic
inspiring sunrise at m. 36 (the pivot point between Adagio and Allegro),
Toscanini would rather blind us with brilliant light—as if we had suddenly
and unexpectedly come upon the image of God. Whereas Karajan steps
lightly and cleanly through the ensuing Allegro with a cultured
sophistication, Toscanini would romp joyfully and forcefully in an
unrelenting forward gallop.
While based on the same text, we see that these performances proceed
along very different lines. They have a different idea at their core, or, I
should say, a different approach to casting Beethoven’s nuclear idea. At
root, Beethoven provided the progression from some sort of chaos or mystery
through a dramatic and harmonically suggestive pivot to a sprightly and
orderly sonata allegro. But the manner of this progression, the exact nature
of our experience of it through its various stages, all depend upon how each
performer leads us through the experience. A large part of our understanding
of Beethoven’s text through the eyes of the interpreter depends upon the
latter’s tempo. We see from the preceding example that specific tempos, and
the relation of adjacent tempos, have a tremendous impact on our grasp of
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the idea which motivates the performer. But we must assume that the
performer makes these types of choices based upon a unique and specific
view of the idea which they understand to be present in Beethoven’s score.
2. Flux
The preceding analysis compared two performances of greatly

contrasting tempo. Toscanini took J=45 and <>=71, Karajan (1985) J=59 and
<?=62. But these numbers, these metronome markings, are a statistical
illusion. They represent the average tempo over the whole expanse of a
certain structural area. Indeed, it is mathematically possible that at no time
in the entire performance were these specific metronome markings in effect.
Rather, a variety of tempos were heard which, in the end, merely averaged
out to a certain number, the number quoted in the above analysis. The real
stuff of tempo happens from measure to measure, beat to beat, even within
the subdivisions of a single beat. I call this micro level of tempo variance flux.
A great deal of interpretive freedom exists at the level of flux, and
consequently, a tremendous amount can be learned about an interpreter’s
idea from an examination of his choices about where and in what way to vary
the tempo.
In order to demonstrate this phenomenon, I will study two of the
performances of the Adagio which contrast the least in average tempo.
Furtwangler takes an average speed of J=55, whereas Abbado takes the only
slightly quicker J=56. Experientially, the difference of one beat per minute is
247
hardly perceptible. These tempi are more or less identical to one another.
Over the whole Adagio, Furtwangler only requires 3 seconds more than
Abbado. Yet, within the Adagio these two performances vary tremendously
in tempo. They use flux differently and to different degrees. They express a
different understanding of the formal shape of the Adagio as a whole in the
way in which they fluctuate the tempo.
Figure 19 graphically illustrates the flux of the Adagio in the two
performances. I have analyzed the Adagio through m. 35; measure numbers
are given across the horizontal axis of each graph. Measures 1-12 are
essentially repeated in mm. 13-24 (with an important harmonic shift at m. 18);
bars 25-31 contain a developmental modulatory passage; and mm. 32-35 offer
closing material, establishing an apparent dominant pedal on A (which turns
out to be deceptive, as discussed above). Along the vertical axis, we fmd the
approximate metronome markings for each measure of the Adagio.
The pink line gives a more or less precise contour for the tempos taken
by each performer throughout the 35 bars. The blue line gives a more general
account of the shape given to the whole Adagio by the two interpreters. On
the red line, curves indicate tempos which gradually change (albeit at varying
rates); the right angles, or nearly so, indicate essentially sudden changes in
tempo with no preparation.
Several basic observations deserve mention as we begin to examine
Fig. 19. Although Furtwangler rates a slower average tempo (J=55) and
takes 3 seconds longer to play the Adagio (2’36") than Abbado, this does not
mean that Furtwangler steadily proceeds at a slower pace than Abbado, or
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FURTWANGLER 1952
a E
20 24 26 28 30 32 34
m easures
ABBADO 1986
1
1
a E
20 22 24 26 26 30 3 2 34
m easures
FIGURE 19: Two Flux Graphs
249
vice versa. Indeed, in the first 12 bars, Furtwangler keeps pace exactly with
Abbado; in mm. 13-24 Furtwangler falls behind by 2 seconds; in mm. 25-31
he actually moves one second faster than Abbado; and in mm. 32-35 he falls
behind again by a couple of seconds. The metronome markings reflect this
variance of relative speeds in the two performances.
Furtwangler’s graph certainly contains more curved lines and small
rubati than Abbado’s. Abbado only occasionally bends the tempo, but he
does not shy away from making radical changes in tempo according to the
structural divisions of the piece. His tempos vary from J=48 to J=60, a
difference of 20%, despite the total absence of any indication from Beethoven
to that effect. Furtwangler, by comparison, tends to slow more often at
structural points, although he does not always vary his tempos by slowing
them down. His tempos, for example, range from J=48 to J=63 (which is
faster than Abbado), a variance of 25%. In mm. 4 and 16, for example,
Furtwangler actually speeds up his tempo midphrase, not the opposite. This
seems to fit in with a pattern that emerges from examining his approach to
performance in general, and certainly to his approach to the Beethoven
symphonies. Furtwangler likes to bring out the leading characteristic of the
music by the creative use of flux. In mm. 4 and 16 the slow rhythm of the
previous three bars gives way to quarter-notes. Furtwangler sees this not
only as a move to faster note values, but a change of rhythmic character. The
whole-note is purely static and the half-notes remain in the realm of stillness,
but the quarter-note has the quality of motion, of moving ahead, of having
direction toward a certain destination. Furtwangler dramatizes this shift of
250
feeling by exaggerating the literal speed of the quarter-notes. The result is a

kind of rhythmic free-fall through the bar, a certain compelling momentum
which draws its force from sheer contrast with the preceding motionlessness.
Abbado shows loyalty to his epoch in the angularity of his flux graph.
Whereas Furtwangler grew up in the Romantic age, under the tutelage of
Schenker and the influence of Wagner, Abbado is a child of modernity.
Although very much influenced by Furtwangler, Abbado grew up under the
tutelage of Swarowsky, breathing the air of Stravinsky. Thus, he maintains a
strong consistency of tempos and gives in hardly at all to the urge to wallow
into structural junctures. Despite their differences, though, Furtwangler and
Abbado share quite similar general shapes with one another. While they
never match in exact metronome marking, they tend to quicken and slow the
pulse at the same points. This is to be expected, of course. Beethoven
establishes the form of the music: to a certain extent, therefore, this lies
beyond the ken of the performer. Thus, the responsible performer who is
attuned to the idea of the composer as indicated in the notation will always
regulate the flux of his performance, at least to some degree, according to the
formal qualities inherent in the music.
One difference between these performances does stand out in the
graphic display. Furtwangler adds a dimension to his overall shape of the
Adagio that Abbado entirely omits. Abbado never exceeds the J=60 tempo
of the quarter-note material throughout the Adagio. Furtwangler, however,
adds a new level of tempo in mm. 25-30 (J=63), which exceeds any previous
tempo in his Adagio. Since his fastest previous tempo had been J=56
251
(whereas Abbado at comparable points had been J=60), Furtwangler’s faster

tempo represents a considerable increase (11%), a whole notch above his
earlier high.
This strategy has impact on our experience of the performance in two
ways. In the first place, the passage of mm 25-31 acquires greater structural
significance as the summit of the whole Adagio. In Abbado’s performance
this passage assumes its importance by virtue of its harmonic interest but
maintains its unity with the Adagio by its regularity of tempo. In
Furtwangler’s recording we immediately sense a new level of tempo, a
heightened intensity of momentum and, perhaps, a greater curiosity or stress
about what lies ahead. This, again, fits into Furtwangler’s profile as an
interpreter who uses flux to dramatize the symbolic possibilities of structure.
The second implication of Furtwangler’s procedure concerns the level
of contrast which the quicker tempo makes with the slower speed of the
transitional bars, mm. 32-35. Furtwangler drops from J=63 to J=48, from
his fastest to his slowest tempo (a difference of 25%), in a very short time.
Just as the quickening in bar 25 dramatized the modulatory passage, so the
radical slowing of tempo dramatizes the sense of expectancy of the coming
harmonic arrival (which, in turn, is subverted by the deceptive move to F
Major). Furtwangler relaxes into the A Major material at m. 32, reinforcing
the sense of repose and harmonic clarity. The move to F Major becomes all
the more shocking because of the false sense of security Furtwangler achieved
by his gentle drift into the A Major lullaby. Only in the final moments before
252
the crashing arrival of F Major as the true dominant do we suspect that all is
not neatly in place for a pleasant Allegro in D Major.
Just as a comic sets up a punchline by hitting upon the right
modulation of tone and a clever sense of timing, so does the interpreter
establish a specific mood heading into a transition that will most enhance the
character of the music to follow. Of course, Beethoven establishes the formal
procedure by which the Adagio moves into the Allegro, in the same way as a
writer gives form to a joke. But the performer in both cases lends substance
to the form, casting it in a way unique to him or her. Our experience of the
form depends upon how it is presented in performance. A large part of our
experience depends upon the very specific timing given to the performance we
hear. Tempo and flux represent the stuff of good musical timing.
We call the general rate at which the musical ideas unfold tempo. We
call the nuances of timing which characterize specific musical events flux.
Toscanini and Karajan (1985) hit upon virtually opposite procedures of
tempo in order to express the formal relation between the mysterious Adagio
and the forthright Allegro. Abbado and Furtwangler apply distinctly
different patterns of flux to the flow of tempo in the approach of the
cataclysmic F Major chord. As a consequence, we hear the same music but
inflected over a spectrum of different though related ideas. The harmonies
never change from performance to performance, but their significance is
never twice the same. Timing—tempo and flux-occupies the most important
place in the interpreter’s repertoire of specific tools for shaping the musical
idea. Indeed, timing plays such a role in all the performing arts. While the
253
issues of gesture speak directly to the musical idea itself, the elements of
ground represent the most important means by which such ideas are given
shape.
One further aspect of ground remains to be considered, and will
occupy the following section. Pulse operates at a somewhat deeper level of
abstraction than tempo or flux, serving as connective tissue between the
specific elements of duration and the symbolic material of gesture. Indeed,
the following section acts as something of a pivot in the analytical journey of
this study. At this point, we begin to enter realms of abstraction more
speculative and considerably richer than those which have occupied us thus
far. But only in these deeper and darker waters are the central revelations of
a symbolic approach to musical interpretation possible. Only here do we
approach the true art of interpretation.
3. Pulse
Suzanne K. Langer describes music on a symbolic level as "virtual

time." She refers to the fact that music takes place in time and makes its
symbols by manipulating the beholder’s experience of time. Experiential
time, therefore, has occasion to differ radically from the passage o f clock time
as we listen to a musical work. Indeed, composers have been known to slow
time to a stop, or accelerate it to breathtaking speeds. Virtual time, as Langer
intends the term, represents the shape of passage from a work’s beginning to
its end. This dimension of the musical experience is called by theorists its
254
"horizontal" or "linear" aspect. But Langeris virtual time also possesses

another dimension, which the theorists would call "vertical" or "harmonic,"
although the last of these terms is altogether too limiting. I refer, for
example, to the stress of dissonance within a chord. While this dissonance
resolves over time, which is to say horizontally, the energy of tension is felt
instantaneously. Such a tension potentially "bends" our perception of virtual
time—it imbues the moment with greater weight. Like a large star which
distorts the fabric of the gravitational field around it, a forceful dissonance
tugs at the flow of the experience of passage, pulling it toward the source of
intensity, distracting from forward flow. Equally possible would be the
opposite effect: that such a dissonance would accelerate the music’s
momentum, driving toward greater crisis. We tend to think of gravity as
motion, rather than as a field which bends and twists. Virtual time suffers
from a similar misunderstanding: we think of musical time only as the motion
of pitches, rhythms and forms from beginning to end, rather than as a fabric
which gives with the weight of musical stress. Langeris "virtual time"
translates directly into my language of "gesture," as argued earlier in this
study.
The analysis of gesture is by no means simple. An infinity of levels
permeates form, with each individual moment containing its own richness of
vertical possibility; each moment participates in any number of structural
levels simultaneously. The interpreter asserts his greatest influence in the
weighting of the different structural levels. Balance concerns the vertical
aspect of color in any given sonority, as discussed in Chapter 4, and impacts
255
structure because it brings to prominence a particular line, whether it be

melodic or harmonic in profile. Articulation and tone color bring body and
shape to the textural aspects of balance, lending certain voices a particular
dramatic significance, in contradistinction with other voices. Tempo
influences the perception of form, as discussed previously, in the relation
between speed and the size of formal area that can be thus grasped. Flux
inflects this aspect of tempo on any number of levels, most notably as a local
phenomenon.
This suggests that the interpreter has considerable power over the
balance of structural level in a given performance. The interpreter controls
the depth of field between foreground and background. The interpreter
focuses the listener’s attention on one aspect while blurring another. He
brings some elements of the background into sharper relief than others, while
always maintaining the dominance of the foreground elements. Background
and foreground can be nearly indistinguishable, or starkly distinct. This
control over foreground and background, the mainstay of the interpreter’s
art, has substantial implications for the class of interpretive choices I call
ground. The manipulation of virtual time in the service of the composer’s
guiding idea involves every conceivable level of structure. At the deepest
levels resides the subject of the present section: pulse.
Pulse concerns the unit of duration brought to the structural
foreground by the interpreter. The pulse involves a unit of duration equal to,
or, more often, slower than that of the tempo. Pulse remains constant at
relatively large structural levels, from the structural area to the whole work.
256
Pulse is exasperatingly difficult to identify. Pulse creates the impression of

rhythmic order and shape, justifying the inflection of smaller-scale rhythmic
units, often known as rubato (which I call flux). An excellent example of the
relation between pulse and flux occurs in Horowitz’s 1986 recording of
Schumann’s Tmumerei? Despite extreme freedom from beat to beat and
measure to measure, Horowitz’s four-bar phrases come to sixteen seconds
apiece with remarkable regularity. The pulse here is not at the beat level, or
even at the measure, but at the 4-bar unit of duration. Part of the repose and
peacefulness o f this performance comes from its dramatically slow pulse.
Another exquisite example comes in the Prelude to Act in of Tristan and
Isolde in a recording by Herbert von Karajan.4 Despite the taffee-like
stretching of beats, a sense of pulse strongly impresses itself upon the passage
as whole, and it is this which justifies Karajan’s freedom of tempo from beat
to beat. The slowness of this pulse resounds as clearly as the death knell it is
meant to represent.
Pulse constitutes the rhythmic organizing principle of form in actual
performance. As such, a variety of elements combine to produce a sense of
pulse. The primary criterion requires that the unit of duration be, in some
3 Horowitz, Vladimir, pianist. Horowitz in Moscow. Rec. Apr. 1986.
Deutsche Grammophon, S-419 499-2,1986: track 13.
4 Wagner, Richard. Tristan und Isolde. Rec. Dec. 1971-Jan. 1972.
With Jon Vickers, Helga Demesch, Christa Ludwig, Walter Berry, and Karl
Ridderbusch. Cond. Herbert von Karajan. Berlin Philharmonic and Chorus
of the Berlin State Opera. EMI, CMS-7 69319 2,1988: disc 3, track 5. The
pulse, while strong, is actually quite complex and demonstrates the
relationship of pulse to phrase structure m a fascinating way. The pulse
shows elasticity both of duration and of unit, while nevertheless maintaining
a strong presence in the structural foreground. Karajan reveals structure
through pulse, just as a spotlight reveals the position of an actor on stage.
257
manner, brought to the structural foreground by the interpreter. This means,

essentially, that the pulse is palpably present. Pulse also implies some degree
of rhythmic regularity over large formal expanses. The unit of duration
cannot exceed the interpreter’s fundamental phrase lengths, unless the
phrases are short, in which case, the pulse must equal some multiple of the
fundamental phrase length. Pulse is a function of structure, and therefore
must agree with the composition’s underlying form.
No law requires a performance to possess the element of pulse. As a
deep level function of formal articulation, one might argue that the presence
of pulse distinguishes the greater performances, while its absence afflicts lesser
ones. Likewise, the pulse in a particular work might be so obvious from the
manner in which it was composed that every interpreter, no matter how
dense, could not fail to achieve it in performance. Yet, in such cases, it is
often the brilliant interpreter who proposes a less obvious solution and
illuminates an altogether new way of hearing the same music.
This fluidity in the application of pulse to performance only
exacerbates the already thorny difficulties inherent in identifying pulse in a
systematic way. The presence of flux, ironically, clarifies pulse. Flux brings
the surface level into relief, revealing where deeper waters begin. Where a
tremendous amount of flux exists, the analyst can search for the level of
rhythmic activity that maintains relative regularity. If this regularity, in one
manner or another, impresses itself on the listener, then a good case can be
made that the pulse has been discovered. Greater problems arise when very
little flux occurs. In this case, all units of duration become candidates for
258
pulse status. Generally, the calculus becomes extraordinarily subtle. The

analyst must examine minute nuances of balance, dynamic, articulation and
tone color, as well as the structural properties of the composition itself. In
doing so, the analyst may determine that a particular level of structure
contains a rhythmic emphasis unique to it, and that it is palpably felt as a
fundamental unit of regularity. Only then can the case be made that the pulse
of the passage has been identified.
This section will examine the slow movement of Beethoven’s Sixth
Symphony 'm two performances: Karajan (Berlin Philharmonic, 1962) and
Furtwangler (Vienna Philharmonic, 1952). In each case, I will attempt to
engage in the sort of analysis suggested above. After identifying the pulse to
the satisfaction o f the criteria already enumerated in each performance, I will
then discuss the implications for pulse in the formal articulation of this vast
canvass of a movement. I will show how the interpreters’ contrasting
solutions to the location of pulse creates a very different symbolic
understanding of Beethoven’s score.
I will begin with Karajan’s performance, focusing entirely on the
exposition of the second movement (titled Szene am Bach, mm. 1-54, see Fig.
20). To be systematic, and in order to show as clearly as possible how pulse
may be detected, I will examine each rhythmic level of the given movement,
beginning with the eighth-note, to determine Karajan’s treatment thereof.
For the idea of pulse to signify anything meaningful, it must satisfy the
condition of being palpably felt. Therefore, my project is to discover which
level of structure, if any, makes a clear case for itself as the unit of pulse.
259
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266
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267
The eighth-note pulse holds little promise as a candidate for pulse.

Beethoven indicates the tempo as J.=50, which suggests that the eighth-notes
occur at the sub-beat level. Karajan takes an average tempo of J.=48, or
^=144. It might be possible, in an extreme case, to have a pulse equal to 144.
This, of course, would imply a rather frenetic flow and nothing could be
further from the broad pacing of Karajan’s performance. Even before we
examine the specifics of his recording, therefore, we can virtually rule out the
eighth-note as the unit of pulse. In any event, the passage spanning mm. 21-
26 proves the eighth-note pulse theory false. In the first place, the sixteenth-
notes in the middle strings flow without emphasis, giving no hint of an
eighth-note pulse whatever, despite the clear shape of the figuration.
Moreover, utter confusion surrounds the rhythm of the syncopated line in the
horn, bassoon and other winds. It appears as though the winds do not agree
with the sixteenth-notes in the middle strings or the melody in the first violin,
playing virtually randomly throughout the passage. Whether intentional or
not, this perception totally blurs the eighth-note level of rhythmic activity (as
well as the dotted quarter-note level). The sense of pulse at the eighth-note,
which might have survived otherwise, cannot be sustained through this
passage. Indeed, this passage only underscores the tendency of the
performance as a whole to brush broad strokes, sublimating the smaller
rhythmic units. Karajan seems to prefer a vague babbling of the brook—an
imperceptible murmur-which never intrudes into the sweeping flow of the
longer line. Karajan clearly defines his foreground and background elements,
placing the eighth-notes firmly in the background.
268
The dotted quarter-note fares little better as a candidate for the status
of pulse. Karajan’s longer line extends well beyond the dotted quarter level.
This can be demonstrated, for example, in bar 39 where a hemiola of dupled
eighth-notes cross the 12/8 meter throughout the bar. In an environment
constructed from a pulse at the dotted quarter we would expect this hemiola
to chafe and pull on a fundamental rhythmic level. Instead, the effect
Karajan produces is almost hypnotically relaxing. Surely, the hemiola has an
impact experientially that relates directly to the rhythmic tension between
12/8 and 6/4, but this impact strikes the author as a surface-level nuance
rather than a seismic structural shift. In the following bar, m. 40, the alleged
dotted quarter-note pulse fails to generate tension in the absence of any
activity on the second and fourth beats of the bar. Not only is the harmonic
rhythm slower than the dotted quarter-note, but all rhythm occurs at the
dotted half or greater. One might expect to experience a sense of suspended
animation when the expected pulse suddenly disappears, but the pacing of m.
40 comes across to this listener as utterly natural and straightforward. In the
closing bars of the exposition, mm. 51-52, Karajan further de-emphasizes the
dotted quarter level in his smooth phrasing between the solo oboe and flute.
Neither player phrases to the beat, but rather across the beats to the
following downbeat. This phrasing, along with the complex texture beneath
it, lends the passage a typically undetermined, rhythmically vague quality, as
though Karajan wished to imitate the feeling one would have upon floating
gently down a bubbling brook.
269
The secondary theme of the first subject (mm. 13ff.), which plays an
important role throughout the movement, strongly reinforces a motion at the
dotted half-note level, but the primary theme does not, nor does the second
subject’s main theme (mm. 33ff.). Therefore, had Karajan sought a dotted
half-note pulse, he would have to have made a special effort to establish it.
Particularly in the opening bars, we would expect a strong lilt at the half-bar.
Karajan, in the event, does no such thing. The middle strings make no
emphasis at the half-bar, and the basses, horns and melody have no power to
do so. Even when the basses and second clarinet give the second half of m. 5,
this does not come across as a structural development, but rather as a local
scale intensification which then takes on the dotted quarter unit (m. 6),
ultimately to prepare the repeat of the main theme at bar 7. In this variation
of the theme, a single event marks the mid-ban the first violin trill. Karajan
might have used this orchestrational detail to build a pulse, but he does not.
The trill starts almost imperceptibly, gently emerging from the sixteenth-note
fabric beneath it. As a consequence it reaches the listener’s ear late. Any
chance that a pulse could be felt in the middle of the bar is lost.
A pulse at the single bar offers much greater hopes of success. Indeed,
every bar of the exposition has some emphasis on the downbeat simply from
the manner in which the music unfolds and Beethoven orchestrates it.
Karajan will work with this unalterable fact one way or the other, but
Karajan may or may not choose to make this emphasis one of pulse. Rather,
the interpreter has the power to distinguish between foreground downbeat
emphases and background ones. Karajan, as it happens, brings the bar
270
clearly to the foreground from the outset. The cello/bass pizzicati ground the
pulse at the bar, reinforced by the phrasing of the middle strings toward each
downbeat. The melody in the first violins aids and abets the cause by its very
nature, which Karajan does nothing to impede. This pattern proceeds with
perfect regularity until m. 14.
The phrase structure clearly indicates the importance of bar 14’s
downbeat: the Bb with which the melody began in m. 13 returns for the first
beat of m. 14, creating a natural contour, sloping down to the F in m. 13 and
working back up to the Bb. Moreover, the clarinets and bassoons join the
fray at the downbeat of m. 14, adding orchestrational emphasis to the bar.
Karajan, however, lends the downbeat of bar 14 the quality of a secondary
emphasis. Bars 13 and 14 certainly combine to make a larger 2-bar unit
(lacking a bass pizzicato on the downbeat of m. 14), which repeats in the
following two bars. Karajan underplays m. 14 by blending the wind entrance
so neatly with the First violins that we only become aware of their presence
when the lines diverge after the second beat.
It would appear that Karajan seeks to bring out the contrast of this
secondary theme by weakening his earlier bar-by-bar emphasis. But does
this, in itself, destroy the sense of pulse, or suggest that we reinterpret what
had gone before? I recommend that the pulse, once firmly established,
persists at some length even without strong reinforcement. The interpreter
may use the established sense of pulse to bring out structural tensions and
ambiguities that arise as the movement unfolds. In this case, after some time
of regularity, Karajan wishes to imbue the second subject with a
271
weightlessness and breadth. He does so by suspending the expected emphasis

at the barline and creating an almost anti-gravitational extension to the two-
bar level.
The single-bar pulse returns by m. 19, and regains its original
prominence in the bridge passage, reminiscent of the opening in bars 21-26.
Thereafter, the music naturally falls into single-bar units, which Karajan uses
to maintain the pulse established at the start. Momentarily, in the melody’s
arpeggiating figure of mm. 36-37, which begins on the weak beats of the bar,
Karajan disorients the listener by obscuring the placement of the downbeat.
Karajan brings us back to a rootedness on the bar with the bass arco entrance
in m. 38. This represents the top of the crescendo preceding, and serves as
the climax of the whole development beginning all the way back in m. 21.
Our momentary disorientation regarding the locus of downbeat—the
intentional obscuring of pulse-has the function of creating a local-level
anxiety which only increases the intensity of the crescendo and the sense of
arrival at the summit of the phrase (m. 38).
The weakest bar of the exposition, in terms of natural downbeat
emphasis, comes in m. 46. Beethoven compensates for this somewhat by
adding the flute sonority on that bar. We can easily imagine how the
interpreter might further assist in clarifying this downbeat simply by phrasing
to F, the tonic, with which the problematic bar begins. But Karajan does not
so assist. Indeed, if anything, he undoes Beethoven’s effort to use the flute to
clarify structure by sublimating the flute sound to such a degree that we
barely perceive it, as though the violins merely acquired a slightly more
272
glistening color in this bar. Here, again, the suspension of pulse demonstrates
a structural tension. Bar 46 serves as the extra bar in this uneven phrase.
Paralleling mm. 33-40, bars 41-47 lose two bars but gain one. Measures 45
and 46 both do the work that m. 39 had done before. Karajan’s deliberate
suspension of downbeat emphasis in m. 46 creates the unsettling feeling of
aimlessness and disorientation, exactly the feeling implied by the extension
itself. The listener fails to provide the pulse because of the even, uninflected
articulation of each of many eighth-notes. Indeed, the pulse takes some time
to recover its balance after this difficult bar. A deep-level stretto appears to
take place in mm. 47-49, tempting the listener to feel the pulse twice as fast as
before, at the dotted half. In the closing material of mm. 50-53, however, the
single-bar pulse restores itself and remains strongly in force for quite some
time thereafter.
Although the idea of pulse as defined at the head of the present
chapter suggests a long-term regularity over large structural expanses, this
does not mean that the sense of pulse admits to no shifting or adjustment.
After all, variety is the spice of art, and no hard-and-fast rule would ever
survive in practice. Pulse defines a magnitude of musical space rather than a
specific durational value. The magnitude of a single-bar pulse differs
radically from the magnitude of a two-bar pulse, even when the former
occasionally adopts a bar, or drops a bar, as the phrase structure or the
interpreter’s guiding idea demands.
Our perception of structure, which occurs over an extended period of
time, tends to occur retrospectively. Our mind imposes an order over
273
multifarious events by casting its net back from the present toward the past,
collecting patterns and repetitions that become evident only after they have
sounded. Thus, while the emphasis on the downbeat of m. 2 seemed
significant enough when we heard it, the downbeat of m. 3 seems all the more
important because of the appearance of a new harmony. We look back from
the perspective of m. 3 and see Beethoven’s two-bar structure. But Karajan
has the option of reinforcing this phrasing or sublimating it. Indeed, but for
a thorny period in the middle of the exposition (mm. 29-50), Beethoven
maintains regular two-bar units.
Any theory that suggests that Karajan adopts a two-bar pulse,
however, comes into trouble right from the start. While the two-bar
harmonic rhythm surely exists and impresses itself upon our experience o f the
performance, Karajan makes no special effort to bring this level to the
structural foreground. The single bar resounds so decisively and deeply, with
a short-term evenness and predictability such that any larger structure,
though it may well be present, must be viewed as a background feature.
Please understand that by background I do not mean that the feature is o f
less importance to the performance, any more than the background of a
photograph could be expended to good effect. Indeed, these background
features often occupy the highest degree of importance at the broadest
structural levels. But they do not occupy the structural foreground. Pulse
happens at the level of my perception of this structural foreground, based on
Karajan’s actual performance. The structural tensions translate
experientially into interruptions or violations of the single-bar pulse
274
established at the movement’s outset. This very experience reveals the

fundamental function of pulse: to render structural issues at a primal level,
where they are immediate, vital and utterly palpable.
Furtwangler takes such a slow tempo throughout that even the single
bar structure which Karajan favored would be difficult to sustain. To make
matters worse, Furtwangler actually begins the movement substantially
slower than the exposition’s average tempo of J.=41. The first bar is
something closer to J.=33, followed by a gradual acceleration which, at times,
much exceeds the exposition’s average. As a result, Furtwangler trades the
opportunity to establish a long-term sense of pulse in the opening bars for an
emphasis on more local issues.
The two-bar phrasing was written by Beethoven and Furtwangler by
no means undermines it. Rather, Furtwangler’s pacing and articulations do
not bring this phrasing to the structural foreground in the particular
performance under review. Only two places in the exposition strongly
suggest the two-bar structure as a foreground feature: the cadence in mm. 17-
18, and the two bars which follow (mm. 19-20). The cadence contains a
major ritardando, and flows out to the third beat of its second bar (m. 18),
creating a larger structure. And the two bars which follow are so different
from any of the other material of the movement, and are so uninflected at the
local level in Furtwangler’s performance, that they also constitute a unit
which possesses a palpable presence in the foreground. But Furtwangler’s
performance, like Karajan’s, fails to establish this pulse of two bars at the
moment when it would have been most appropriate to do so: the very
275
beginning of the movement. By starting so slowly, and by bringing out the

eighth-note motion so strongly, Furtwangler makes it very difficult to sustain
one’s attention over the long stretch of two bars, let alone to feel a definite,
resounding presence at that level.
As the preceding analysis suggests, a pulse at the bar would be a more
tenable theory than at two bars. Unlike Karajan, however, emphases at the
bar tend to be rather weak throughout, even on many of the structural points
that Karajan especially underlines. A comparison of the Karajan and
Furtwangler performances offers an ideal opportunity to see the difference
between structural foreground and structural background. Just as two
photographs of the same scene might focus on different subjects in the frame,
so do these performances demonstrate different depths of field: Karajan
focuses on a subject at a greater distance from the lens, whereas Furtwangler
trains his eye upon a closer target.
Furtwangler seems less concerned with articulating structure as a
feature of his interpretation, preferring instead to let Beethoven take care o f
these matters. A good example of this can be seen in mm. 50-51.
Furtwangler lends an accent to the first violin entrance in the fourth beat o f
m. 50. This accent overwhelms the following downbeat to such a degree that,
at a subtle, subliminal level, one becomes metrically disoriented, a state which
persists until the development begins in m. 54. Tiny details such as this,
scattered throughout the movement, lead one to conclude that the single bar,
though a logical and unproblematic unit of pulse, is not where Furtwangler
wishes to direct our primary attention.
276
The half-bar pulse suffers the same difficulties under Furtwangler as it

does under Karajan. In the opening theme, a special effort would be needed
to give the half-bar any kind of special emphasis, which Furtwangler does not
do. Even in the second theme (mm. 13ff), where the bar naturally divides in
half, Furtwangler treads ever so gently on the critical third beat. Only in
those spots where the material cannot but divide by the half-bar, such as mm.
19-20, does Furtwangler provide some emphasis upon this durational value.
One place where the interpreter might indicate the significance of the half-bar
is in m. 39, where the hemiola divides the bar into halves rather than quarters.
But here again, as in Karajan’s version, the continuous diminuendo over the
whole bar takes definite precedence over any sense of pulse at mid-bar.
Furtwangler’s exceedingly deliberate eighth-note motion at the
movement’s opening suggests a lower-level foreground, and this is just so.
Indeed, the eighth-note moves with such clarity that we may be tempted to
view it as the level of pulse, despite the fact, as alluded to earlier, that the
tempo as indicated by Beethoven occurs at the dotted-quarter level, and pulse
has been defined as a unit of duration of equal or greater value than tempo.
The case could well be made, however, that Furtwangler takes such a slow
pace that the dotted-quarter cannot be perceived as a unit of tempo at all—his
opening speed of J.=33 weighs in several notches below the standard
metronome’s range—and, thus, the eighth-note represents the true value o f
tempo (^=100). In this way, it becomes possible to view the eighth-note as
the unit of pulse. But all of this fancy footwork comes to nothing as the
eighth-note motion in the middle strings gives way to sixteenth notes. The
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eighth-note presence gradually fades as the texture becomes denser, and

disappears into the background once and for all by bar 13. The strong
eighth-note motion in the beginning, however, serves to bring out the
appogiatura in the middle strings which occurs on each dotted quarter. This
strongly suggests that Furtwangler intended to establish a strong sense of
pulse at the dotted-quarter level from the outset. This explains the extremely
slow tempo and the focus on the middle strings, which Karajan sublimated
throughout his reading. Once the pulse of the dotted quarter has been clearly
established, Furtwangler accelerates the tempo, allowing the pulse to settle in
to its own groove thereafter.
A tactical advantage obtains to smaller units of pulse. Such units
occur so close to the surface of the music-where those features of the
performance of which the listener is conscious reside--that they do not need
to be as consistently emphasized in order to be felt. In short, Furtwangler
can afford to drop his emphasis upon the occasional pulse, knowing that the
listener, already keyed in to the established pulse, will not become disoriented
by the omission. It is almost as though Furtwangler takes pains to teach us
about the appogiatura in the opening phrase, leading us by the hand as we
discover the dotted quarter pulse throughout the first six bars. Thus weaned,
we are on our own in the variation, mm. 7-12, receiving only vague
reinforcement from the performance itself.
Only in two instances does Furtwangler appear to violate the
regularity of the dotted-quarter pulse. The first case, which need not have
shown this characteristic, comes in m. 17. The accents given over the second
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eighth in each beat occur so convincingly, especially after the suspension of

any motion directly on the second beat of the bar, that we become
momentarily confused. The second case, which Furtwangler had no choice
about, concerns the hemiola in m. 39, which cannot support a pulse of a
dotted-quarter, short of radically complicating the dynamic structure of the
bar. The shift which occurs in m. 17 can be seen as a development of the
rhythm of mm. 13-14, where the second beat is not inflected in the melody.
Indeed, at these very points, Furtwangler drops the pulse on the second beat.
The logical extension of this minor local-level tension comes in m. 17, where
not only is the second beat dropped, but the pulse shifts to the wrong eighth-
note, so to speak, and what threatened to disorient earlier (mm. 13-14) now
actually upsets the metric balance for real. The hemiola in m. 39, on the other
hand, does not involve an omission of pulse, as we might expect, nor even a
shift of pulse. Rather, the sensation of m. 39 is one of free-fall: the pulse
becomes rapid (eighth-notes), though in a mild, caressing way, as though flat
road had unexpectedly given way to a pleasantly descending slope. The fall is
broken gently in m. 40, with the omission of the weak pulses (2 and 4), setting
up a sense of returning home at m. 41, where the pulse finally resumes its
former regularity.
In both of these instances, the already established regularity of pulse
causes an intensification of stress when the phrase structure, as realized by
Furtwangler, violates expectations of rhythm on the pulse level. In this way,
establishing a sense of pulse enables the interpreter to manipulate the
experience of tension and resolution at a very deep structural level.
279
Perhaps the best argument that we indeed come to depend upon that
dotted quarter pulse in the exposition arises from the sense of stress we feel
when no musical event occurs on the pulse unit, such as the second beat of m.
47. I have discussed this phenomenon with regard to m. 17, and just above
we see how the absence of motion in m. 40 tenderly counteracts the
acceleration of the previous bar. A different quality of stress characterizes m.
47: the emptiness of the second beat is pregnant with the tension of
expectancy, so that the melodic entrance in the second half of the bar is all
the more welcome.
Karajan and Furtwangler differ not just in tempo but in pulse. One is
a consequence of the other, but not a necessary consequence. Issues of
structural foreground and background do depend upon the dimensions of
structure, but are carved out of the minute details of articulation, dynamics,
and balance of voices. Pulse provides an entry into the more abstract mind of
the interpreter. One might say that where tempo and flux ground the
physical performance, pulse grounds the metaphysical one. Pulse, an abstract
function of tempo, provides the regularity relative to which the sensation of
passage can be discerned. Pulse represents the tick-tock of virtual time. The
tensions of structure distort and bend the regularity of pulse, imbuing the
musical experience with the energies of stress and stability, the fundamental
dichotomy which makes art from sound.
Listening to the two performances just reviewed exposes the
significance of their difference. Furtwangler’s performance does take
somewhat longer in real time than Karajan, but the experience of
280
Furtwangler’s SzeneamBach is profoundly more extended than Karajan’s.

This flows from the more local sense of pulse. The heart of Furtwangler’s
performance beats four times as often as Karajan’s. Thus, the large scale
structures are all the harder to apprehend in one glance. Our minds are
focused on local activities: the appogiatura of the middle voices, and the ebb
and flow of melodies across each beat. Karajan expressly chooses to avoid all
this. He wants to create a great edifice. Or, rather, he wants to provide the
listener with a view of this edifice as though seen from the outside, all at once.
Furtwangler is content with a total absorption in the interior of the structure,
getting lost in its nooks and crannies, indulging in every detail of design.
Both interpreters build an edifice: the sense of wholeness and passage
that we feel retrospectively when this massive movement makes its final,
graceful close. After Karajan’s performance, we admire the edifice as a
whole, we have the sense of being able to take in the whole structure. But
after Furtwangler’s performance we feel that we have been through an
enormous labyrinth—a passionate journey—but we cannot see it in the sweep
o f a single glance. We felt each tension, and experienced every stress, but in
the end we feel only closure. Karajan’s approach is more classical, more self-
referential. We feel closure, but we also can look over the whole of our
experience in an objective, admiring way. Furtwangler is entirely Romantic
in his approach. Without underestimating his own phenomenal grasp of
form, the fact nevertheless remains that our experience of it, as compared
with our experience at Karajan’s hands, is more akin to our experience of life.
The movement’s form gives it shape and meaning, but we do not perceive it
281
as form. We only feel Furtwangler’s interpretation entirely in the moment, as

an immediate unfolding of events. In Karajan, we experience the form with a
consciousness of its past and a confidence in its future. We feel Karajan’s
guiding hand, leading us assuredly through the vast expanses of the score in
one sweeping gesture.
Chapter VI: G esture
A physical gesture consists of a movement of the body, but this

movement must be endowed with both a specific context and the intention
that the gesture convey a specific meaning. An involuntary shiver would not
normally be called a gesture, but a bow of the head or shake of the fist would.
Context would determine whether a bow of the head is deeply reverential or
scathingly ironic, or whether a shaking of the fist be threatening or
celebratory. The significance of the gesture lies not in the movement itself,
but what it is intended to mean in the given context.
A movement by the body describes a line, where a single focal point
on the body follows a certain path through space. By and large, the shape
thus described occupies three dimensions. We might project onto this shape
properties of depth, volume, and even weight. The conductor’s technique
emerges from such a projection. In daily life, a richly varied spectrum of
meaning obtains to any gesture depending upon the nuances of the
movement’s shape. Two instances of people bowing their heads might vary in
the depth of the bow, its speed, or the exact path the head follows as it bows.
Even the smallest difference potentially alters the meaning of the gesture,
even if only slightly.
When we adopt gesture as a metaphor for describing the interpreter’s
activity in music-making, physical movement itself falls away. Rather, the
idea of movement becomes transferred to the abstract realm of the sonic
motion of voices, and the manipulation of virtual time through a variety of
283
compositional means. Like physical movement, "virtual movement" acquires

meaning through the interpreter’s intent and the context in which the gesture
occurs. In daily life, we have no trouble passing from the perception of the
physical gesture to an understanding of its meaning. The same is true in art.
The awareness of the gesture happens simultaneously with our grasp o f its
significance. Nevertheless, in both life and art an analysis of the relation
between the outward gesture and the inner meaning can be elusive.
The problem is exacerbated in art because we have no tradition of
separating the sonic experience from the perception of gesture. When a
person shakes their fist, we can easily see that they, 1) shake their fist, and 2),
are angry with us. When a performer makes a musical gesture, however, we
have no established procedure by which to separate the meaning from the
sound. There is only sound; or, there is only meaning. We understand what
we hear, just as we understand the person shaking their fist, but, in general,
our analytical faculties are inadequately developed to separate this
phenomenon into its constituent parts.
Chapters 1 and 2 of the present study set themselves the task o f
establishing the philosophical and analytical bases to accomplish just such a
distinction. First, we must be able to distinguish between the composer’s role
and the performer’s, noting the limits of interpretation. Then we must
understand the tools at the command of the interpreter that enable the
interpreter to fashion a sonic gesture from the written notation. Once able to
isolate the gesture as distinct from the whole musical fabric, the job becomes
one of discerning the intention of the interpreter in relation to the musical
284
context of the gesture. Once understood, such an appreciation of the

interpreter’s gestural capacities leads to a fuller knowledge of the nature of
the interpreter’s art, and an ability to assess, for example, Karajan’s true
activity on the podium.
All the aspects of texture and ground are put to the service o f the
gesture. I have already suggested the analogy of the sculpture: texture
concerns the surface detail of each chisel stroke; the ground corresponds with
the stone from which the sculpture is made, and its properties. Gesture is the
myriad of shapes emanating out from the single chisel stroke, to the whole of
the sculpture seen at some distance. Without texture and ground, no gesture
can be defined. In the presence of texture and ground, gesture necessarily
results-whether it be clumsy and inadequate, or grand and exquisitely
proportionate. Thus, an analytic discussion of gesture will consist in
examining the elements of texture and ground with a view to the intent of the
interpreter to project a certain musical idea. Or, to put it in Lunger’s terms,
we will examine how the interpreter deploys those means at his disposal in
order to influence the sense of passage through virtual time.
The present chapter is devoted to an examination of gesture at two
different levels of structure: the phrase, and the structural area. A discussion
of gesture differs from one of texture primarily in the level of abstraction we
employ to discuss what we hear. Just as we might say of a sculpture, "this
particular indentation was made with a chisel of certain dimensions, engaged
at a certain angle and with a certain force," we might also say of the same
285
indentation: "this gives the face of David more shadow, providing a more
complex play of light, and projects a more thoughtful cast."
These observations show a progressively deepening symbolic use of
language. The idea of shadow already represents a first move in the direction
of metaphor, a certain chisel stroke only results in a factual shadow when
light approaches the sculpture from certain directions. One can imagine a
light shining upon the piece in just such a way as to eliminate this shadow.
But this does not change the validity of the observation. The chisel stroke
changes the shape of the face such that we symbolically project shadow onto
it.
Then we pass to a further stage along the spectrum of abstraction: we
understand that our perception of this shadow in its complex play o f light
somehow deepens the expression of David’s face. The notion of this
’deepening’ develops the factual depth created by an actual chisel stroke into
a metaphorical depth which implies a complexity of facial features, and a
diverse psychological constitution within.
The last step (the "thoughtful cast") represents a further foray into the
metaphorical mode, as stone cannot be thoughtful, and I cannot prove
scientifically that this particular stone metaphorically projects thoughtfulness
in any event. (Who am I to say that another observer might not find some
other expression in David’s face?) Nevertheless, this speculation, like the one
that precedes it, has been built up from the mechanical level, through two
stages of less abstract sorts of description. Some effort has been made to
establish an understanding of how my idea of a more thoughtful cast came to
286
be (in this case, because of the fateful chisel stroke which caused more
shadow, and thus a more complex play of light). Short of absolute proof, I
have demonstrated how a particular idea about the sculpture derives from the
material facts about it. I have described a chain of thinking which leads
clearly, if not propositionally, to a certain highly abstract conclusion.
I am compelled to acknowledge a tension between my understanding
of the sculpture and the artist’s intentions regarding the sculpture. One might
easily object, "this may be what you think, but how can you presume that this
is what the artist thought, or intended you to think?" I must evade this
charge by way of a semantic technicality: my ambition is limited to stating
what Ith in k the artist intended. Or, to put it differently, I presume that my
understanding of a performance is in some way related to the performer’s
intentions. The function of the proposed methodology lies in strengthening
this relation, so that I have greater cause for believing that my understanding
of the musical gestures bears some resemblance to the performer’s idea.
In the absence of direct corroboration from the artist, the distinction
cannot be made between what I understand by a gesture and what the artist
intends by it. When a person shakes their fist at me and I understand that
they are angry with me, I attribute to that person the intent to express anger
toward me. Unless I specifically ask for independent confirmation of my
understanding, I can only assume that I have not made a mistake. My
understanding comes from the context in which the gesture is made and a
direct observation of the manner in which the fist was shaken. If a person
says to me, "I love you," then I understand them to mean something in
287
particular. I might be mistaken in this understanding, assuming that they

mean "in a romantic way" when they really mean "as a friend," for example.
But until or unless I receive some confirmation or denial of my
understanding, I have no choice but to attribute to the speaker the idea which
I have understood them to mean.
In his later philosophy Wittgenstein argues that the meaning of an
utterance is entirely dependent on its use in a particular context.
Conventions of use, developed throughout the history of the culture in which
the utterance occurs, enable the recipient of the utterance to understand it.
This network of conventions, when combined with a specific context, gives
meaning to an utterance. Wittgenstein argues that we cannot know what the
speaker meant in any other way than to understand the speaker’s utterance as
given in a specific context. When Karajan interprets a phrase of Beethoven
and we hear it, it makes little sense to respond by saying, "yes, but what did
Karajan mean by it?" The best answer to the question is simply to play the
phrase again. The next best answer is to look into oneself and ask, "what did
I understand by it?" This comes as close to Karajan’s actual intent as one can
possibly come, short of some sort of direct independent verbal corroboration
from Karajan himself, which is rarely available.
My purpose is limited only to allowing a possible and plausible
understanding of how my particular speculations relate to the artistic
document which inspires them. To repeat arguments made in earlier
chapters: operating on such levels of abstraction significantly reduces the
relevance of prepositional logic. Language, as limited by prepositional logic,
288
remains powerless to describe the real work of art. My position suggests,

however, that with language, inadequate though it may be, I can speculate in
a somewhat controlled way, and demonstrate (rather than prove) certain
non-propositional relationships between that which can be scientifically
observed and that which is irrationally felt. To my way of thinking, this is the
only avenue by which a philosophy of aesthetics can produce richly
interesting and illuminating studies of art and interpretation.
Thus, our methodological model progresses from a purely factual
description of the document under review toward greater and greater degrees
of abstraction. I have broken this process into three general steps:
1. mechanical description (the facts)

2. a spectrum of symbolic connections between fact and metaphor
(increasing degrees of abstraction)
3. pure metaphor (speculated meaning of the gesture)
We have seen an example of this in sculpture. A musical example might be:

(1) the flute and oboe are louder than the other instruments of the orchestra;
(2) the treble wind sonority dominates the sound; Karajan brings out the
light, silvery, hollow quality of the orchestration, sublimating other possible
colors; and (3), this gives the passage the quality of shimmering
weightlessness, as though floating in air.
The mechanical fact can be proved or disproved. It is a fact. Indeed,
this level o f the model represents the only point at which what is said can be
289
proven solely on the basis of the musical document itself (the recording). The
symbolic interpretation of the mechanical facts simply introduces a
metaphoric aspect to the description: the flute and oboe are not merely
louder than their peers, but dominate them. Strictly speaking, "dominate" is
metaphorical here. Just as the sculpture’s "more shadow" appears very close
to a mechanical fact, this stage of abstraction introduces low-level
metaphorical language that will have implications for the more speculative
stages to follow. And finally, as we approach the highest stage of abstraction,
we draw ever broader conclusions about the way in which a particular
interpretation relates to the whole performance, to the composer’s total
output, and to the world at large. It is at this point that we can begin to step
outside of the purely musical world and relate the sonic forms of a
performance with the general realm o f sentient experience. In short, here we
discover meaning.
1. The Super-Phrase
Gesture occurs at all levels of structure. To demonstrate the proposed

methodological model on a relatively small scale, I will focus first on the
super-phrase. Local issues of gesture emanate outward from the point of a
single note in ever-enlarging concentric circles. A super-phrase consists of a
number of smaller units, called "phrases," which are contained by a strong
similarity of material or orchestration. Super-phrases come in all sizes,
depending upon the nature of the composition. In the present case, I wish to
290
examine the opening Vivace from the First Movement of Beethoven’s

Seventh Symphony, from bar 63, where it begins, through bar 89 (see. Fig.
21). This passage might be called the first statement of the first subject of the
sonata-allegro form. I will contrast the gestural aspects of these bars in the
performances of Karajan (Berlin Philharmonic, 1985) and Abbado (Vienna
Philharm onic, 1987). In order to clarify the procedure according to which the
analysis will develop, I offer the following outline of the various stages of the
description: A) analysis of the notation, B)-D) the three ascending steps
toward increasingly symbolic and speculative forms of analysis applied to
Karajan’s recording, E)-G) the three steps (in the reverse order) applied to
Abbado’s reading, and H), conclusions based on these two applications of
the procedure.
A. Analysis of notation. An extended introduction {Poco sostenuto),
squarely in A Major, opens the symphony. An E pedal appears (m. 53) as an
unexpected turn away from its supertonic, F Major. After four bars of
harmonic clarification of E Major, all but the E fall away in a gradually
disintegrating rhythmic momentum. At the Vivace (m. 63), the E acquires a
snappy rhythmic vitality, under which an A Major triad unfolds over four
bars as the tonic key. Measure 67 inaugurates the first subject o f the sonata-
allegro form in the first flute’s upper register. The other woodwinds support
the flute with sustained harmonic material, and the strings punctuate
junctures in the phrase with an A pedal in the same rhythm from which the
Vivace originally sprung. The pedal in the strings finds an embellished form
as a arpeggio at the end of the phrase (mm. 73-74). The clarinets and
IM SYMPHOXY \ n
FIGURE 21: Beethoven Sym phony No. 7, First Movement

Ludwig van Beethoven, Symphonies Nos. 5.6 and 7 (New York: Dover
(measures 53-70)
292
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293
bassoons periodically imitate the rhythmic figures of the melody. At m. 75

(with pick-up), the consequent phrase begins in the flute, now joined by the
oboe. The ends of each sub-phrase in the melody are imitated by the strings
in unison (mm. 77,80). The phrase culminates in a dominant chord (m. 82).
The two bars of this culmination are then repeated (mm. 83-84), fragmented
(m. 85-86), and finally arpeggiated in its fragmented form as a dominant
seventh of A Major. This rises to a fennata (m. 88), after which the strings
sweep into a full tutti incarnation of the first subject at fortissimo.
This 26 measure stretch o f Vivace material contains irregular patterns
of repetition. After four bars divided into two by the bassoon entrance (m.
65), the theme begins. But even this regularity is disturbed by the late
entrance of the oboes, clarinets and horns in the half-bar before m. 67. The
next eight bars divide squarely. From m. 75, however, the next 6 bars appear
to divide into two three-bar units of rhythmic repetition. The next two bars
(mm. 81-82) spawn a series of fragmentations thereof in the form:
2+1+1/2+1/2+1/2 +1/2 = 5, followed by the fennata bar.
B. Mechanical description (Karajan. 1985). In mm. 63-66, the last
eighth of each half-bar is short, leaving a space before the next note begins.
The crescendo gets its force from the increase in orchestration and from
greater pressure of articulation, but not from any discernible lengthening of
the notes, except perhaps in the final half-bar before m. 67. Karajan takes
pains that the strings articulate the sixteenth-note exactly in time. Their
entrance is strong, despite the piano.
294
The solo flute plays with a strong, bright sound, making slight
crescendi on the long notes with which mm. 67,68,71 and 72 begin. Each
dot given in the score is carefully observed, including a tenuto-dot
articulation on the downbeat of m. 69 and a dot on the following eighth-note.
The grace notes in mm. 68 and 72 are played like a thirty-second-note or
perhaps a triplet sixteenth just before the beat. These grace notes are not
accented but clearly serve to "scoop" into the following main note. In m. 70,
a tenuto accent is given to the downbeat. The grace notes are played as a
thirty-second triplet just before the beat, smoothly slurred in with the B-
naturals on either side. In m. 73, dots can be heard over the second A of the
bar, as well as on the C, clipping short the slur.
A brassy edge characterizes the supporting woodwinds, including the
oboe’s E pedal. The clarinets and bassoons have a strong presence,
dominated by the clarinet sonority. The lone eighth-note in m. 69 is dotted,
and all the written dots are honored. A light tenuto accent reflects the same
in the flute at the downbeat of m. 70. Bars 71 and 72 are slurred together in
the clarinets and bassoons. They also reflect the added dots of the flute line
in m. 73. The first half of m. 74 in the supporting winds is drowned out by
the strings, but the last three eighth-notes pop out and receive a kind of
tenuto-dot treatment. The horns, when they move in m. 73, maintain the
prevailing brassy sound and a dotted articulation.
The flute’s style of articulation up to m. 75 continues into the next
phrase, this time assisted by the oboe, whose presence is audible but not
dominant. The clarinets and bassoons slur m. 75 to mm. 76 and 77, and the
295
same in mm. 78-80. At the end of m. 80, their eighth-notes resemble those of
m. 74, with a tenuto-dot articulation. The strings play considerably more on
the imitative sforzato-pia.no than they do on the A pedal entrances. The
sforzato (mm. 77,80) has Karajan’s trademark rich, clean string sound. The
next eighth is pianissimo, and the final two notes of the figure are piano and
quite resolute, if not loud.
The forte at m. 82 is strong, clear, bright and dominated by the
violins, though clearly benefiting from the flute’s high register and the horns’
incisive grounding of the chord. In the series of fragments (mm. 84-87), the
sixteenth note and the eighth-note which follows are short and clipped with a
zesty attack. The repeating sforzati are full and fleshy, not particularly clean
of attack or release, but vibrant and rich. This culminates in the dominant
seventh chord of m. 88 which continues to be characterized by violin sound,
with a resonant warmth and brightness.
C. Symbolic connections between fact and metaphor (Karajan). The
opening of the Vivace, through to the entrance of the main theme in bar 67,
trips lightly along, clearly delineating its animated rhythm while obscuring the
barlines which divide it. The strings serve to mark the structural significance
of m. 67, and the two-bar structure which follows thereafter.
The solo flute derives strength and vitality from its high register and
the manner in which the long notes swell into the middle of the bar. This
contrasts with the clipped quality of the dotted notes, serving to bring out the
counterpoint of the line drawn by the longer notes: E-D-A-B, E-D-A. The B
plays a role in the cantus firmus by virtue of the emphasis accorded to it by
296
the grace notes, as well as the smooth connection by which the B’s on either
side of the grace notes are related.
The oboe drone has a trumpet-like quality, starting on m. 67, and the
clarinets and bassoons resemble a quartet of horns. The homs themselves,
when they move at m. 73, sound more like trumpets than homs, due to the
shortness of their articulation and the style of writing.
As the strings participate in the added bar of the two three-bar units
(mm. 77 and 80), they play with a strong presence, as if to justify the
extension of the phrase. The foreground focus shifts away from the flute in
these bars for the first time since the Vivace began.
The forte arrival on the dominant (m. 82) emerges with the force of a
culmination, strong and vibrant. Its intensification through repetition and
fragmentation is matched by an intensification of brightness and depth of
sonority, aided by a machine-gun-like execution of the rapid dotted rhythm
through measures 86 and 87. The dominant seventh lacks a great sense of
groundedness because Karajan chooses to focus on the seventh degree in the
first violins, thus destabilizing to some extent the root of the chord. This
increases the sense of anticipation which finds fulfillment in the return of the
main theme in tutti.
Karajan suspends a sense of definite metric orientation throughout the
first four bars (mm. 63ff.) by eliminating the barlines and de-emphasizing the
bassoon entrance. This strategy also allows Karajan the luxury of developing
a very gradual and smoothly paced crescendo which naturally takes over
from the addition of instruments to the texture.
297
The string entrance, which Beethoven clearly intended as an echo of

the rhythm with which the Sostenuto concludes, plays a strong role in
Karajan’s performance in defining structural space. It marks the two-bar
structure until m. 74. A tension obtains, however, between the string’s
sixteenth-note upbeat (reminiscent of the end of the Sostenuto) and the
rhythm in the melody. The play of sixteenth-notes against the melody’s
eighth-notes causes small tremors in the rhythmic foundation of the passage.
These tremors become elevated to structural proportions in the seismic
interruptions by the strings in mm. 77 and 80. As though the strings had been
impatiently waiting to make their case, they erupt into commentary in these
extension bars. The strings ultimately take over entirely, first arresting
attention in m. 82, then taking over for the remainder of the phrase in m. 84.
On one level, then, one could argue that this performance consists in a
struggle by which the winds eventually lose dominance of the texture to an
increasingly insistent string section.
The solo flute, beginning in m. 67, heralds the new theme in the
manner of a proclamation. The swells on the long notes demand
attentiveness, as if to say, "Listen to this! Listen to what I have to say!" The
strength, brightness and vibrancy of the flute’s tone emphasizes the
joyousness of the message, and the urgency of its dissemination. It is this
urgency which the strings take up in m. 82, and which multiplies into the
celebratory dominant seventh (m. 88). This, in turn, as we know, leads into a
truly triumphant romping through the main theme in the following tutti.
298
The winds which accompany the flute sound as much like a country
band as Karajan can make them, aside from the out-of-tuneness we might
normally expect from such an ensemble. A rawness of sound, bringing out a
kind of rustic naivete, emanates from the wind accompaniment, particularly
from the sonority of the clarinet. The trumpet-like homs in m. 73 add to this
effect. Karajan exploits the stylistic implications of the open fifth drone
between the oboes and homs to place us squarely in a simple agrarian setting.
D. Pure metaphor (Karajan). Karajan looks ahead to Beethoven’s
Ninth Sym phony as his inspiration for interpreting the Seventh. The message
ofjoy and hope proclaimed by the flute is the same one to be heralded later in
the Ode to Joy.1 The military band which accompanies the flute is the same
one that will later parade through town to the step of the Turkish March.2
Karajan plays to Beethoven’s ideals of nature and humankind in its natural
state, where a community of people live off the land, leading simple, reverent
lives. In Beethoven, prayerful joy and the enthusiasm of the drinking song
were never far apart: as Karajan reads these opening bars of the Vivace, we
are called to joy by the flute, whipped into a feverish excitement by the
strings, and launched into triumphant revelry in the following tutti.
Karajan brings to this passage the masculine, fraternal theme that
Beethoven so admired. The Teutonic intermingling of military sounds and
drinking songs with the ideals of joy and love of God make a brew every bit
as pungently German as wurst and beer. Even the flute, which is often
1The theme of the last movement of the Ninth Symphony.
2 The Allegro assai vivace; Alla Marcia section o f the last movement of
the Ninth Symphony: Eighth and Ninth Symphonies, pp. 302-312.
299
associated with more feminine qualities, has a masculine edge in this

performance: we hear the fife, played by a small boy, perhaps, messenger of a
very fraternal sort of joy, leader of the band.
Naturally, all of this is pure illusion. No fife, nor military band, nor
tavern was anywhere near the studios in which this performance came to life.
Karajan, the most meticulous of rehearsers, supposed high priest of the "cult
of perfection," has nothing of the rawness and naivete I attribute to this
passage. But Karajan, sailor, pilot, and Salzburger, clearly had an affinity
with Beethoven’s ideal and a connection with the German way of
characterizing it. Karajan fashions the illusion from a multitude of details,
many of them already enumerated, each hinting at the fraternal theme. From
the swells in the flute, to the keck of the clarinet and the pop of the homs,
intimations of certain styles, remote times and places, as well as future
symphonies, perfume the air. My intent has been to sniff at this, to
characterize its qualities, and thus to determine its origin.
An altogether different fragrance accompanies Abbado’s reading of
the same bars. I now turn my attention to the properties of his performance.
I will reverse my procedure, however, and begin with the generalities of the
third step of our methodology, working back to the "proof," the mechanical
facts from which the broader illusion is forged. This reversal of sequence
carries with it the advantage for the reader of forcing me to demonstrate the
relevance of the mechanical facts to an already stated conclusion, rather than
force the reader to go back to the mechanical facts in order to fit them into a
theory stated later.
300
E. Pure metaphor (Abbado. 1987). Abbado, in contradistinction with

Karajan, looks back to the Sixth Sym phony 'w. his performance of the
Seventh. Whereas Karajan brought out the idea of the triumph o f human
will in the realm of worldly endeavor, Abbado prefers to emphasize
Beethoven’s love of nature itself. Whereas Karajan stressed the message of
joy and brotherly love in the flute theme, Abbado makes it a birdcall. This
call bursts with joy, to be sure, but does not proclaim joy as Karajan would
do. The bird is simply joyful, and so is its call.
The supporting winds suggest homs for both conductors, but in
Abbado we hear an idealized hunting hom sonority rather than all the
brassiness of a military band. The rawness of Karajan’s band gives way in
Abbado to a purity and bracing freshness such as a hunting party might
experience at the break of dawn. The strings remain understated throughout
the passage, until Beethoven clearly passes dominance to the section in bar
84. Until that point, they occupy the deep background, playing their
structural role behind the scenes, as it were. They merely echo that rhythm
which gives birth to the Vivace, a rhythm which the strings will increasingly
energize (mm. 84-88), spawning the great hymn to nature which follows.
One way of hearing the Abbado recording draws on the tremendous
contrast of orchestral color between the opening bars of the Vivace under
review here and the tu ttiwhich follows. It is as though the opening describes
a pastoral setting at dawn just before the hunt. In the tutti, the hunt begins.
The idealized hom call transforms into the scream of the actual horns in their
highest register (which also conjures images of the excited yelps of the
301
hounds), while the timpani relentlessly crashes and clatters to produce the
thunder o f horses’ hooves. This contrast explains the simple purity of the
opening: the free and easy chirping of birds in the flute and oboe, the
freshness and transparency of the supporting winds, and the gentleness of the
strings.
F. Symbolic connections (Abbado). The flute and oboe transform the
previous rhythmic play at the E into an easy, light-hearted chirping. This
becomes taken over by the lower woodwinds, who fill out the tonic chord and
usher in the main theme. The flute freely and whimsically proclaims the
theme over a clean hom-like purity and a sublimated punctuation in the
strings. The flute grace-note in m. 70 warbles about its center axis of the B,
further reinforcing its bird-like quality. The bassoon entrance in m. 65
dominates the texture, as does each successive addition of instrumentation,
thus creating the effect of a rapid culmination of instrumental groups at the
entrance o f the main theme in the flute. The solo has a clean and free quality,
as distinct from Karajan’s more concentrated approach, with a breathier tone
and less strongly rhythmicized grace-note motion. The clarinets and
bassoons generate a counter-melody to the flute with a blend which brings
out the pure quality of the french hom sound rather than the more raw,
brassy sound that Karajan elicits from the same instrumentation. The drone
of the oboes and homs subliminally abets this effect in the lower woods by
providing a strong but unobtrusive pedal. The strings clearly occupy the
background throughout the passage, as though providing a sort of sub-
textual commentary.
302
In the consequent phrase, with the addition of the oboe, the flute
continues to chirp along. The extensions o f the phrase, rather than
contributing to a sense of unease, lend a fluid and comforting quality to the
phrase free of rigidity or any particularly pressing momentum. Indeed, the
phrase which will eventually culminate in the fennata (mm. 81-82) flows
quite naturally from what came before, giving no hint of its future role in
breaking down the phrase. Even as the two-bar unit begins to fragment, this
receives no special emphasis; nothing ominous portends for the future here.
Instead, the fragmentation leads to a natural and gentle balance point at the
fennata.
In the consequent phrase (mm. 75-80), the strings’ unobtrusive
balance results in the de-emphasis of the structural tensions implied by the
3+3 division of the phrase. The strings never assume the importance that
Karajan allows them, even in the final climax toward the fennata. Though
the strings take control of the texture starting around m. 84, they never have
the aggressiveness of attack, nor the momentum toward the fennata that
Karajan achieves. The strings maintain a gentle and unforced attitude, as
does the orchestra as a whole, throughout the entire excerpt under review.
G. Mechanical description (Abbado). The flute and oboe begin the
Vivace with a light tone and an accurate though not accentuated rhythm.
The bassoon enters in m. 65 more loudly than its treble counterparts, and
each ensuing entrance of a new wind group brings the general dynamic of the
passage higher. The strings’ entrance (around the barline of m. 67) is barely
303
audible through the arrival in the winds, and they remain at a low dynamic
throughout the remainder of the passage.
The flute solo has a clear and light quality, though with a somewhat
less focused sound than Karajan’s recording. The single grace-notes with
which mm. 68 and 72 begin are about the same length as in Karajan’s
recording, but here receive a less marked articulation. The grace-note in m.
70 combines with its main note, B, to form a loose group of four sixteenth-
notes. A slur obtains from the C at the beginning of the measure clear
through to the B which opens the second beat of the same bar. The third
eighth of bars 69 and 73 are both played with a light staccato, despite an
absence of a dot in the notation.
The clarinets and bassoons play at a dynamic beneath the flute, but
greater than the other voices of the texture, starting from m. 67. They do not
slur the two dotted half-notes which occur adjacently in mm. 67-68 and 71-
72. They play a staccato articulation on all but the first note of m. 69
(thereby adding dots absent from the notation on the third and fourth
eighth-notes of the bar). In m. 74, they play as if dots were over all the notes
of the bar, with a slight crescendo leading to the second half of the measure,
which is played with a slur-dot style of articulation. The oboes and homs
play a strong pedal, the homs especially, but at a dynamic level beneath the
other winds. The motion of the homs in m. 73 is essentially inaudible by
virtue of the activity in other voices.
The addition of the oboe to the flute in the consequent phrase has
little effect on the sonority of the melody line, though it perhaps adds a
304
sharpness to the articulation of the sixteenth-notes throughout mm. 75-81.

The clarinets and bassoons play a long slur in their long tones of mm. 76-80,
whereupon they adopt a dotted articulation in the last two eighths of bar 80.
In the same bar the homs very subtly reinforce the same eighth-note motion
just described. The clarinets and bassoons appear to take an audible breath
just prior to m. 82.
The strings remain at a lower dynamic than the winds (or the strings in
Karajan’s reading). Even the sforzato-pianos, while clear and distinct, occur
within the lower dynamic. This effect is achieved by a slight swell from the
pick-up eighth-note to the accent, then tapering away through to the quarter-
note. In general, the quarter-notes in the strings are not held strictly to their
full value, tending to be somewhat shorter as a result of their tapered
articulation. The one notable exception to this generality, however, comes in
m. 75, where the quarter-note appears to be held longer than the others.
The strings, though elevated to a louder dynamic, remain less loud
than the winds in mm. 82 and 84. Consequently, the forte achieved in these
bars is considerably less loud and less accented than in Karajan’s reading.
The strings continue through the fragmented bars with a clean, full sound
without any of the sharpness on the sixteenth-notes that characterized
Karajan’s recording. The fermata, though forte, is not as loud as Karajan’s,
and possesses a clean string sound supported by a strong pedal in the homs.
H. Conclusions. Although the notation is identical and the tempos
fairly close, Karajan and Abbado fashion two very different performances of
these opening bars. The differences of detail are very slight—the quality of an
305
attack here, the tone of a middle voice there—but the consequences for the
gesture resound throughout the whole reading.
This example displays levels and levels of gestures. The swell in
Karajan’s flute theme, giving a kind of expanding, willful vitality to the
melody, contrasts with the light and free expression of Abbado’s flute, with
its chirping and warbling effects so much in evidence. Karajan looks forward
to Beethoven’s massive essay on human will and fraternal love, whereas
Abbado looks back to Beethoven in the country, observing the hunt. The
tiny detail and the vast canvass are both gestures of the performance. Both
Karajan and Abbado’s approaches honor Beethoven’s notation as well as his
cultural and sociological milieu, yet both are utterly distinct and unique.
I have offered what might be considered a programmatic sub-text to
these performances, but it must be said that this is not the purpose of a
gestural analysis. Indeed, I could have stopped at any earlier point in my
description of the gestures. The function of the program was to create a
context in which to distinguish between the types of gestures in Karajan’s
reading and those of Abbado. I refer, really, to stylistic conventions--
Wittgensteinian conventions of use-to which Karajan and Abbado pay
deference. Karajan employs certain articulations and sonorities which
conventionally evoke martial images, whereas Abbado employs stylistic
elements which tend more toward the pastoral. One need not construct a
story line or a landscape to make sense out of these interpretations, but I
have found, in this case, that such extramusical references sharpen the point
of the distinctions which characterize them.
306
The limits of language make the use of symbolic modes helpful in

hinting at the indescribable. The employment of metaphor in increasing
degrees of abstractness enables the analyst to probe ever deeper into the
aesthetic realm of musical art. This is the only manner that I can see which
allows verbal discourse to penetrate the awe-inspiring mysteries of musical
thought.
2. The Structural Area
Larger structural expanses subsume the proliferation of local level

detail into gestures of broad scope. Even as these greater gestures depend
upon the minutiae that comprise them, they also lend meaning to local
events and imbue them with deeper significance. Thus, an exemplary
interpretation of a musical masterpiece can be expected to reveal this essential
relation between microcosm and macrocosm~the same sort of replication
and repetition of shapes on all levels of structure that have been discovered
by the study of complexity in the physical sciences.3
Just as before, the analysis must begin with the mechanical facts and
progress to greater degrees of symbolic sophistication. At the same time, to
capture the many dimensions of the gesture, one must consider the three
different classes of interpretational issues: ground, texture and gesture. As
gesture may be understood as the metaphorical understanding of the issues of
texture and ground worked out on all levels of structure, an understanding of
3 See my discussion of chaos on pp. 34-35.
307
gesture should arise automatically from the application of the methodological

model proposed above. In order to give a concrete example of this
phenomenon at work, I have elected to review the first subject of the First
Movement o f Beethoven’s Ninth Sym phony as performed by Karajan with
the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra in 1962 (see Fig. 22).
My procedure in the ensuing pages will consist of two narratives, one
after the other, the First concerning aspects of Ground (tempo, flux and
pulse), the second taking up aspects of Texture (balance, dynamics and
articulation). In each narrative I proceed from the beginning of the
movement to the end of the first subject (m. 80), combining the mechanical
facts with the first two stages of abstraction. After this, I consider Gesture
alone, in the realm of pure metaphor.
A. Analysis of Ground
At J=71.5, the tempo of Karajan’s 1962 performance is similar to his

other recordings under review here. His tempos lie exactly midway between
the brisker tempo of Toscanini (82), and the slower readings of Furtwangler
and Abbado (at 62 and 64, respectively). In terms of modem tastes,
Karajan’s tempo comes in on the slow side, and Furtwangler’s reading
qualifies as truly exceptional. None of these tempos match Beethoven’s own
speedy recommendation: J=88.
Sym phony No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125
A lleg ro m a non troppo, an poco m aestoso. i —*«.

Flanti.
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VIoIino I.
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FIGURE 22: Beethoven Symphony No. 9, First Movement

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315
Karajan (Berlin Philharmonic, 1962) settles into J=70 within the first
few bars of the performance.4 This tempo serves, more or less, as the median
tempo of the movement, and one to which Karajan regularly returns. Bars of
stasis, such as the first two measures of the work, and later, in m. 10, tend to
move more quickly than the bars around them. Thus, the flute entrance in m.
11 appears to emerge a tad early. This procedure of speeding static bars
shows a sensitivity to the experience of time which differs from actual time, as
measured by a metronome. The tension of stasis builds rapidly; Karajan can
only hold on for so long. Furthermore, the acceleration of these measures
reveals Karajan’s fundamental attitude toward tempo in general: strict
regularity will not carry the day. Karajan fights the sovereignty of the barline
by enforcing an elasticity of tempo.
As the falling figure moves into sixteenth-notes Karajan gently pulls
the tempo back, especially as the basses join the fray (m. 14). This broadens
the pace, just as the crescendo begins to make its presence known. As the
sixteenth-notes intensify in mm. 15-16, however, Karajan immediately jacks
the tempo up to the perceptibly higher speed of 75, as though rushing
headlong toward the impending cataclysm. At the very brink of impact
Karajan "sets" the fortissimo-, he holds back just enough to block off the new
phrase, the primary motive of the movement (mm. 17ff.)
In the ensuing discussion, all metronome marks are intended to

apply to the specific passages in question rather than the averages used in
earlier chapters. These specific markings were derived by painstakingly
measuring the speed of each measure, one at a time.
316
The slight pause before m. 17 heightens the rhetorical force of the

signature theme, which assumes a tempo very close to the median tempo (I
clock it at J=69). This phrase sounds slower, because of its heaviness, and the
pomposity of the French Overture rhythmic style. Karajan loses some tempo
in bar 20 in his efforts to accent each of the unison eighth-notes. But this
reduction of tempo (only around 2 beats per minute) barely registers, serving
more to prepare the drastic reduction of tempo that affects the following bar,
with the enormous sforzato chords, at a tempo near 62. Over the following
empty bar, and into the next sforzato bar (m. 23), Karajan regains some of
his former tempo (back to J=67). In the long Et>chord (mm. 24-25), Karajan
continues to develop tempo, very nearly regaining the median level. In the
eighth-notes that follow, however, the tempo begins to drop off, so that the
trumpet and drum figure (m. 27) comes in at J=64. This sets off the new
material from the fortissimo passage that occupied our attention since m. 17.
The wind melody which answers the trumpets and drums continues at the
slower pace, though the next forte entrance slams down slightly early, setting
in motion a J=69 in m. 29. The wind response loses speed this time,
preparing the way for the enormous chords of the ensuing bars (m m 31-33),
which move at the restrained tempo of 62 beats per m inute.
The thematic material which occupies mm. 17-33, the principal subject
of the whole movement, presents many difficulties to the interpreter. The
primary issue concerns the inherent bombast of the material and its
orchestration. In his solutions to these difficulties, we gain significant insight
into Karajan’s interpretive style. The problem of bombast threatens many of
317
Beethoven’s works, especially his symphonies. The approach of the Italians,

as reviewed here, is generally to lighten the texture and sharpen the
articulation, thereby making such phrases fleet and pointed. The Germans,
however, broaden and enrich these moments, as if seeking some greater,
profound m eaning embedded within the martial figures. Karajan, following
Furtwangler’s example, strives for a rich, bass-driven sound. Where he slows,
we can see Karajan underlining specific moments, demonstrating their
importance to his understanding of the passage. The slowest measures are 21,
27-28, and 31-33. Measure 21 offers the first break in the sound since the
piece begins. Karajan’s slowing comes from an expansion of the rest which
separates the great chords. This contributes to the sense of effort that these
chords generate. Measures 27 and 28 offer the first respite from the tu tti
fortissimo—a. breath of fresh air. Karajan luxuriates in the moment. The
violence of its repetition (mm. 29-30) revs the tension up for the laborious
and violent chords which eventually break down into a repetition of the
introduction (mm. 35ff.). These huge tu tti chords, longer and more extreme
than, though reminiscent of, the chords of m. 21, return to the same tempo
area, this time J=64.
The repetition of the introduction finds the same tempo, 70 bpm
(beats per minute), as its earlier incarnation. Again, two bars before the
fortissimo, Karajan accelerates the tempo (to 74 bpm), only to pull back just
before its arrival. As before, the fortissimo passage (mm. 5Iff.) continues at
69 bpm.
318
In mm. 55, 57 and 59, every other measure, Karajan centers on J=74,
which serves as an acceleration of what came before. This acceleration
continues in m. 56 (75 bpm), and then reaches 78 bpm in mm. 58 and 60.
Karajan employs a technique that he will use again, later in the movement,
which might be called terraced tempi. Each of the 74 bpm measures (mm. 55,
57, 59) have the same rhythmic pattern: a tu tti chord on the downbeat,
followed by a rest on the second beat and a three sixteenth-note upbeat in the
strings (the last time, the upbeat is supplemented by trumpets and drum).
The faster measures which follow contain a response in the winds. This
terraced procedure enhances the feeling that the winds are repeatedly
interrupting the strings, against whom they are caught in some kind of
bickering contest. The strings lose patience with the pattern after the third
repetition, and jump in prematurely at the end of bar 60. Karajan responds
to the intensification of rhythm brought on by the stretto in the strings with
a tempo midway between the string and wind statements of the preceding
bars, at about 76 bpm.
Until bar 63, the whole movement consists of one gesture repeated.
Out of a nebulous quiet, activity gradually emerges and intensifies, leading to
a climactic fanfare, which continues on to further fortissim o expansion. The
first time it dissolves back into the mystique of the opening. The second time,
the expansion escorts one to the new thematic material soon to be under
consideration, beginning with m. 63. Karajan uses flux both to clarify and to
intensify Beethoven’s structure. He clarifies the structure by using 70 bpm as
a reference point. Karajan begins at 70 bpm, so too does he take the return
319
of the tremolo, and again at mm. 63ff., in the material which pivots into the
rest of the movement. Karajan intensifies structure by using flux to create
variation over the two repetitions. A generally descending shape
characterizes the tempo of the first presentation of the material (mm. 1-33),
and a generally ascending shape unveils itself upon the repetition (mm. 34-
62). Thus, Karajan imposes a new dimension of structural development that,
though it might be implied by Beethoven’s notation, by no means is explicit
or necessary.
As mentioned above, Karajan settles into a tempo nearer the median
(72 bpm) at m. 63. This figure, whose deliberate eighth-notes reflect mm. 20
and 54, presses on with in a steady tempo only through m. 66. Thereafter, the
force of the sixteenth-notes drives the tempo higher. In mm. 67-68, the
sixteenths first in the celli and basses, then in the violins, push ahead
impatiently. When the eighth-note pattern reemerges in the winds in mm. 69-
70, Karajan settles upon the still quite fast 76 bpm. In the three bars which
follow (mm. 71-73), dominated by the sforzato dotted-eighth-note chords,
Karajan gradually allows the tempo to ebb. In summary, the phrase
occupying mm. 63-73 follows a bell curve which begins and ends at 72 bpm,
rising as high as 78 bpm at its apex.
The phrase from mm. 63-73 constitutes the only part of the first
subject which lies outside the opening gesture and its repetition. What
follows (mm. 74-79) leans more toward the second subject, to which it serves
as a transition, than it refers back to the previous one. The ten measures of
63-73, therefore, represent a unique and distinct unit within the structure of
320
the exposition. Karajan sets this phrase off in much the same way that he
clarifies the opening gestures, by establishing the reference (or median)
tempo, in this case 72 bpm, which opens the phrase, and to which the end of
the phrase will lead. He intensifies the natural distinctiveness of the phrase by
endowing it with a life of its own: he accelerates toward its center, and then
gradually allows the tempo to relax. This bell-curve shape lends the phrase a
sense of unity and wholeness, for it possesses a beginning (72 bpm), middle
(acceleration to and retreat from 78 bpm), and end (the final succumbing to
72 bpm).
The transitional phrase also demonstrates the principal of terraced
tempi. In the first two bars (mm. 74-75) Karajan moves along at 72 bpm, in
fulfillment o f the reference tempo set up in the previous phrase. As the horns
assume the melody (mm. 76-77), Karajan slows (to 70 bpm), allowing the
rawness of their tone to pull at the tempo. In the last two sixteenths of the
horn melody the tempo is goosed, and the clarinets and bassoons seem to
anticipate their entrance, as though Karajan had become impatient with the
horns and urge the next group to compensate for lost time. Be that as it may,
the clarinets and bassoons adopt a minutely faster tempo in m. 78. Then the
tempo drops markedly in m. 79, as Karajan prepares for the second subject.
Thus, the general curve of the transition phrase pulls the tempo downward.
A number of generalizations can be made about the way Karajan
employs flux in the first subject of this movement. The most obvious
observation must be that Karajan fluctuates the tempo liberally throughout.
This, of course, is perfectly normal. In a movement as full o f contrast and as
321
varied of material as this, one must expect such fluctuations. This amount of
variation of tempo can be detected in all the performances under review here.
Much of what has been recounted involves slight changes that we understand
only subliminally. They accord so well with the material that, as listeners, we
find them indistinguishable from the material itself. But the significance of
the interpreter’s role in a performance manifests itself in this very
phenomenon. The interpreter provides flux on a subliminal level, shaping the
way the listener understands the material in a very fundamental way. A
different pattern of flux, while apparently applying to the same piece,
produces a profoundly different perception of the character of the material.
Few listeners have the sophistication to recognize these differences for what
they are. Thus arises, in part, the mystery surrounding the art of musical
interpretation. We see from the preceding analysis, however, that much of
the power of Karajan’s reading derives from the simple device of nudging
ahead or pulling back at definite, significant moments.
Now that we have mastered Karajan’s employment of flux throughout
the performance, it is time to turn to the matter of pulse. As stated in the
previous chapter, pulse relates to the metaphysical aspect of the performance
in the same way that tempo relates to the physical. Pulse constitutes, if you
will, the deep rhythm of gesture, whereas tempo and flux concerns the surface
rhythm of specific duration. The performer establishes pulse by bringing
certain large rhythmic values to the structural foreground, like mile posts
along the freeway. In order that the pulse might be palpably felt, a certain
regularity must obtain throughout large structural expanses, against which
322
deep-level tensions might generate irregularities at significant structural

points. To a certain extent, the composers write a sense of pulse into their
scores, and this is called the phrase structure. Though less obvious, the
performer also plays a key role in the unfolding of this structure. The
performer controls the "depth of field" of the performance, bringing certain
structural points into greater relief than others, and establishing a unique
underlying rhythm of unfolding. This function of the interpreter’s art I call
pulse.
The phrase structure throughout the movement is remarkably square,
even for Beethoven. With but two exceptions, all phrases possess an even
number of bars, and in every such phrase but one they break down into
obvious two-bar units. The overall regularity of phrase structure enables the
interpreter to choose from a large spectrum of possible pulse values, from the
quarter-note (which corresponds to the unit of tempo), to the bar, to the two-
bar unit, and even the four-bar unit, though this last is more problematic. I
will argue, as it happens, that Karajan chooses the bar as his unit of pulse in
the 1962 recording, though he will occasionally broaden the pulse to the two-
bar unit, particularly in second subject material. As a foil for the analysis, I
will draw from Abbado’s very different reading (Vienna Philharmonic, 1987).
Beethoven provides an opportunity right from the start for the two-
bar unit of pulse by giving two static bars before the first figure occurs in the
first violins. Abbado capitalizes on the occasion by shaping the three next
string entrances as a unit, as though one instrument were playing the whole
thing. This perpetuates the sense of a two-bar unit of regularity. Abbado
323
continues the strategy throughout the first sixteen bars, creating tension in
two-bar increments. Karajan, though moving at a faster tempo, disconcerts
the listener bent upon hearing two-bar units. Each descending figure in the
strings has a significance of its own, breaking up the two-bar gesture of
Abbado into three distinct and seemingly unrelated events, as though there
were no organizing rhythmic principle at work. Where Abbado stresses the
organic nature of the development to the fanfare of bar 17, Karajan brings
out its unpredictability. Abbado unfolds the passage with a sense of
inevitability; Karajan cloaks it with mystery.
The culmination (mm. 17-20) fails in both recordings to maintain the
sense of pulse, in an event so calamitous as to possess a rhythmic identity of
its own. Nevertheless, Abbado manages to continue the two-bar feel in mm.
21-30, despite the tie over the phrase (mm. 24-25), whereas Karajan appears
not to attempt any such thing. Beethoven frustrates any hope of achieving an
easy regularity of pulse with the disruptive sforzato chords on the weak beats
of mm. 31-34. It may be argued that the power of these bars lies precisely in
the fact that they not only disrupt the meter (by stressing the weak beats of
the bar) but also whatever sense of pulse had been established before. Since
Karajan’s meter and his pulse come to the same thing (organization based on
the bar), those two elements merge. But for Abbado, the structural tensions
of the passage appear more profound. We experience, in both cases, a sense
of being tossed about, lost in a violent sea. We can only get our bearings
once the tempest has passed.
324
Again, in the falling figures in the strings (mm. 37-50) Karajan appears
to look to the bar and Abbado to the two-bar unit for pulse. And so it
continues throughout the movement. Having established a basic procedure,
Karajan and Abbado more or less stick to it to the end. Those skeptical
about the existence of a discernible pulse might object that it always
corresponds to tempo: interpreters taking faster tempos will choose larger
units of duration for pulse, and those taking slower tempos will choose
smaller units of pulse, thus rendering pulse as something of an automatic
reflex of tempo. But the present instance shows the opposite procedure:
Abbado takes a slower tempo (averaging 64.4 bpm) but opts for a broader
pulse, where Karajan both moves quicker in tempo (71.5 bpm) and in the unit
of pulse. Thus, the pulses move at an average of o=16 (Abbado) and J=35.5
(Karajan). Karajan’s pulse, therefore, clips along more than twice as fast as
Abbado’s.
Experientially, this results in a very different sense of passage, as
Langer understands the term. Karajan, who generally weighs in every bar,
makes a more emphatic performance, stressing the muscular, willful character
of the music. Abbado embraces a broader sweep, providing a gentler, more
organic unfolding over larger structural expanses. Both readings, true to
form, bring out aspects latent in Beethoven’s conception, but no single
performance could realize the full potential of all possible aspects. Broader
pulses have the effect of suspending the perception of time, floating the
temporal sense. Quicker pulses root the listener into a definite awareness of
the occurrence of significant musical events at regular and strongly etched
325
rhythmic intervals. As it happens, a number of passages in Karajan’s

performance can be said to adopt a two-bar pulse, resulting in a sense of
lifting off, or floating through the phrase in question, thereby creating a real
sense of contrast with the more earthy pulse of the surrounding material.
Each of these instances occur later in the movement, however, so we will not
explore them here.
B. Analysis of Texture
Karajan’s opening articulation is gentle, as the horns supply the base

of the sonority with an open, easy sustained fifth. The sextuplets, while
clearly discernible, lack any sense of rhythmic impetus, like an unobtrusive
background hum; there are no accents and no sense of direction, producing a
perfectly even execution. The cellos serve merely to reflect at a deeper
resonance the dominant texture provided by horns and violins.
The descending perfect intervals in the strings, which constitute the
melodic call of the introduction, is performed with strict metronomic
accuracy, sotto voce (as indicated by Beethoven) and with little inflection
(i.e., with little vibrato or shaping of notes) except that the quarter-note
fades somewhat as though the bow is being drawn across the string with
gradually diminishing speed. The second descending figure (mm. 3-4 in the
first violins) exactly resembles the first, except in pitch. The third, which
occurs in the violas and basses is strongly balanced in favor of the bass,
leaving the viola virtually inaudible above it, like a shadow. The change of
326
register in this final gesture (fully two octaves lower than the pattern of the
first two figures would suggest) causes a sense of surprise and justifies the
emergence of the clarinet. In this performance the clarinet eerily rises out of
the viola’s A (m. 5), as though it were playing an octave lower than written,
and seems to take a bar or so to ’float’ into its actual register. This, of course,
is a purely acoustical illusion but depends upon a certain idea of blend
brought to the phrase by Berlin’s first clarinetist who in turn, we must
presume, was inspired by Karajan.
The second cascade of descending figures (mm. 6-9) exactly resembles
the first. Karajan makes no crescendo in the falling pattern, though a sort of
subliminal crescendo already begins to take shape by virtue of the winds that
gradually join the sustained fifths begun by the horns. The oboe’s
appearance (m. 9) momentarily attracts our attention, though his dynamic is
soft and his attack gentle. Unlike the clarinet four bars earlier, the oboe
cannot find the darkness of tone that would allow a perfect blend with the
viola. As a consequence, by the sheer disparity of register, the oboe brings
the sustained fifth of the winds substantially closer to the foreground. The
second flute’s entrance (m. 11), the first wind entrance to come without
introduction by the falling arpeggio in the strings, builds on the oboe’s E
and, by virtue of its own stietto, foreshadows the diminution of rhythm that
will follow in the strings. The tone of the flute is open and breathy-suitably
neutral to the open fifth with which it becomes a part.
The flute spurs an actual crescendo into existence, not only in the
drone but also in the now accelerated melodic cell given by the strings. The
327
first violins increasingly add sound through vibrato on the eighth-note,

reaching Karajan’s characteristically rich string sound as early as the low E in
bar 12. The bass comes into the crescendo later-still not much louder in bar
13 than it had been before. Interestingly, Karajan generates this crescendo
from the treble register, rather than applying the more characteristically
Furtwanglerian strategy of pushing it from the bass.
As the descending figure activates into sixteenth-notes (mm. 13 ff.),
Karajan maintains a short articulation on the staccato sixteenth note and
gets an articulation on the slur identical to that which had been heard on the
corresponding quarter-note previously. As a result, the first note of the slur
gets a lot of sound, but the second note trails off quickly, as the violinists
draw their bow extremely smoothly through the slur. The total effect of the
bowing, therefore, might be described as a very legato tapering effect.
Meanwhile, the drone continues to develop unobtrusively, so much so that
we hardly notice the entrance of the first flute (m. 13). The bassoon,
nevertheless, immediately assumes considerable force upon entering (m. 14),
driving the crescendo for the first time from the bass. Despite their increase
in force, the winds hardly draw attention when they abandon their E (m. 13),
so distracted are we by the motion in the strings, but yet it is the strength of
the winds that ultimately obscures the bass’ last drop to the low A (m. 13).
The enormously important addition of the D in the drone, which
pivots the harmony from its A axis to the D axis, and which is given by a
potent blend of horns and bassoons, again, despite its strength, takes second
place to Karajan’s focus on the development of the sixteenths in the strings,
328
now spanning three octaves of A. Finally, in bar 16, even the violins become
swallowed in the massive conglomeration of voices and sound on the open
fifth of D and A. This occurs in part because the crescendo literally
overtakes the dynamic of the violins, and in part because the octave leaping
slurs in the first violins and violas (m. 16) becomes disorienting amidst the
accelerating speed of the passage.
The whole development of the crescendo speaks to Karajan’s sense of
gesture. He begins with a placid, unrhythmicized surface characterized by a
bustle and hum, much like the frenetic molecular activity that underlies the
serene appearance of still water. But as the image becomes brighter and more
treble in register, the molecular activity begins to boil over into our
consciousness—thus the sense of crescendo. This increase in heat originates in
the mysterious and distinct falling figure. Each cascade inspires a new treble
element, which in turn heightens the atmospheric tension. Eventually this
leads to stretto, which accelerates the rate of crescendo, whereupon the mass
of sound ultimately overtakes the arpeggiating figure which gave birth to the
crescendo in the first place. Like a chemical process, Karajan organically
develops the texture until it can do nothing but explode in the new tonic, the
true tonic of the whole massive symphony that is to follow: D minor.
The explosion itself is subsumed by the timpani from the sixteenth
upbeat to bar 17. Partly because the timpani arrives slightly on the early side,
and partly because its sound-heavy and "thudlike"-it simply absorbs the
orchestral sonority; little more can be discerned during the upbeat itself than
this percussive effect. The violins manage to regain the foreground
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thereafter, with the force of the timpani still strongly present. The trumpets
also compete for dominance. Indeed, as the fanfare progresses, one may well
argue that the trumpets muscle the violins into submission with their loud
and brassy heralding of the new-found tonic. The fanfare as a whole (mm.
17-21) possesses massive dimensions, but remains short in articulation, nasty
and brutish.
Karajan interprets the dotted eighth-note sforzati in the strings and
woods quite literally (mm. 21-23) by asking the strings to sustain somewhat
longer than the brass. Each note begins forcefully with a punch from the
timpani, but now a rich depth of tone in the strings replaces what had been
sharp and brassy just before, especially in the third chord (m. 22). This depth
of tone arises from the richness of the bass presence in the string sound as it
gives the root motion. Borrowed from Furtwangler, Karajan adds this warm
and deep aspect to a slightly grainy but strongly projecting violin sound.5
This violin sound can be heard in the sustained Bb (mm. 24-25), which,
though it becomes noticeably louder at the downbeat of m. 25, remains
stubbornly uninflected, thus maintaining an unrelentingly forceful presence
to the very end. Meanwhile, the rich bass jumps with a great sense of exertion
from the G to the Eb, which is reinforced by a heavy but not crisp entrance of
the Bb horns. The violin’s lack of inflection on the sustained note provides a
clue to Karajan’s interpretive style. Many interpreters would demand much
more crescendo in order to lend a sense of direction to this long held note,
5This violin sound is much more noticeable in Karajan’s

Philharmonia set.
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remote as it is from the key just recently established. Karajan, however, sits
forcefully on the surprising harmony in full fortissimo without offering a
strong sense of direction at all. This approach creates a different sort of
tension by virtue of its lack of direction. The Eb Major sonority acquires
structural significance precisely because Karajan refuses to justify it according
to local level expectations about phrasing. Instead, this chord appears and
sustains its presence much like a gigantic statue or architectural edifice might
appear as you round a comer. The structure simple stands before you, not in
the service of any apparent purpose, but simply as a thing-in-itself.
As a consequence of this sustained quality, the eighth-notes, once they
begin to move (m. 26), seem impatient and quick. They retain the brutal
shortness of attack of the previous fanfare and barrel without ado into the
sforzato of the following measure. In the last three of these eighth-notes, the
violin line receives added depth from a background presence in the upper
winds who really lend the diminished seventh chord at m. 27 its quality of
tension, though the balance of the chord itself is quite evenly distributed
throughout the orchestra.
This diminished chord holds into the trumpet entrance in m. 27 in
such a way as to give the impression that the new trumpet rhythm emerges
seamlessly from the first chord of the bar. Karajan’s trumpets achieve a very
dark but not at all strident or forced sound, which blends cleanly with the
timpani, such that the timpani remains totally in the background. The wind
line which follows is dominated by its higher members, with the nasality of
the oboe mixing so thoroughly with the airiness of the flute that the flute
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m aintains somewhat the upper hand. The bassoons, though clearly audible,
stay in the background. In the forte of bar 29, the violins, though entering
slightly late, dominate the texture, allowing for the same elegant connection
with the following trumpet entrance that had occurred two bars earlier.
When the violins next enter forte {m. 31), they hold back considerably
so as to give room for the weight of the succeeding sforzati. The violins go on
to dominate these chords with strong support from the D horns (playing
concert E), and then the Bt horns (when they move to concert F). The
trumpets powerfully root the sforzato chord at m. 34 (temporarily
overshadowing even the violins) before the violins strongly retake the lead for
the held A and the following tumbling scale back down to D. Each of the
preceding sforzato chords had taken its accent from the dull but forceful
thuds of the timpani. As before, Karajan holds each sustained note without
crescendo, but strongly and fully throughout. Thus, as before, each chord
takes on a static quality, as in sculpture or architecture, thereby heightening
the rhetorical force of his gestures.
Under the thirty-second note run in the first violins and violas (mm.
34-35), Karajan does not shy away from initiating the sextuplets in the second
violins and cellos at forte, where the notation literally suggests it. The
sextuplets diminish simultaneously with the evaporation o f the thirty-
seconds. Beethoven’s writing and Karajan’s literal reading of it magnifies the
sense of metric disorientation felt by the listener as we return to the
ambiguous chaos of the opening. The clarinets and horns return to their
drone inaudibly, beneath the cover of the active line in the strings, and the
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trumpet resolution to D (m. 35), which might have been used to foreshadow
the trumpets prominence in the development (see mm. 160-187), goes entirely
unheard here.
As the texture returns to the atmosphere of the movement’s opening,
the sextuplets seem slightly more active than they had been before, and also
slightly more dominant over the sustained notes in the winds. The
arpeggiating melodic call is articulated as it was before, though this too seems
to possess more presence and less of the sense of mystery or expectancy than
in its first appearance. This may reflect the simple fact that we have heard
this music before and know how it develops, and perhaps that we feel we
know what key we are in, not yet aware that Beethoven has a surprise in
store.
The oboe entrance in bar 43 is even more dominant than it had been in
bar 9, partly because of its contrast with the more active motion in the
strings, and partly for lack of a clarinet entrance to precede the latter case.
Oddly, the oboe sonority completely lacks its characteristic nasality and
achieves an open, pure tone making it seem, at first, to be a clarinet. The
crescendo (mm. 45ff.) progresses very similarly to the first incarnation,
though the move to Bb (m. 49) is perhaps more subtle, indeed devious, and
therefore not as momentous as the earlier move to D (m. 15). The orchestra
does not seem to get as loud, the bass element does not join as forcefully into
the crescendo and the Bb section, the first swath of the major mode to occur
in the symphony, does not carry the same degree of rhetorical weight as the
great D minor had done before. Therefore, in part because of the intrinsic
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compositional features of the repetition and partly because o f Karajan’s

deference to those features in the textures he employs, the second incarnation
of the opening possesses less mystery, drama and flare than the first.
Karajan, it would appear, chooses to refer to the opening in a developmental
sense rather than to relive it, or recreate the experience as we first knew it.
Be that as it may, the following fanfare (mm. 5Iff.) remains as noisy as
ever. The timpani again dominates the thirty-second pick-up, and the
trumpet blasts its notes (this time also on the pitch D, which is now the third
of the chord rather than its tonic). Now, however, the trumpet does not
complete the phrase as it had done before, mostly for mechanical reasons.
Karajan asks his trumpets to clip their last D terribly short, abruptly shunting
dominance of the orchestral balance back into the hands of the strings.
The second part of the fanfare theme (mm. 53ff.) continues to be
dominated by the strings, with emphasis on the bass. The contrast between
the notes given a staccato dot and those without is clearly reflected in
Karajan’s performance. The sforzato chords, though forcefully punched, are
held long (i.e., full value). As the winds scream out their imitations of the
figure begun by the strings, their last eighth-note seems shorter than that of
the strings, as though in response to the tonal capacities of the instruments
and the antiphonal nature of the passage. The strings command and assert;
the winds howl in protest. The affect of each voice carries with it different
requirements, one aspect of which concerns the articulation of the eighth-
note. However, in the second wind response (m. 58) a new depth of meaning
can be discerned in the final eighth-note, which is reflected in that note’s
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diminished harmony. In order to bring out the harmonic dimension Karajan
holds this eighth-note just a tad longer than he had the others before.
Consequently, the intensity of the winds’ protest is magnified.
As the stretto begins (mm. 59ff.) the timpani reinforces the strings
without becoming overbearing. In the last half bar before the arrival at bar
63 a metallic clucking rises from the winds as though Karajan had asked for a
sforzato followed by a diminuendo on this half-bar, with a very clipped
tonguing, thus--I suppose—making room for a new sforzato attack, this time
of much greater structural importance, on the downbeat of bar 63.
In the new phrase (mm. 63ff.), Karajan pushes unrelentingly ahead.
The anxious Bt>-Aalternation in the sixteenths, though forcefully felt, does
not linger or expand, but rather becomes overrun by the impatient stomping
ahead of the eighths in the first violins, low strings and heavy equipment.
Indeed, the second violins are virtually buried by the great sforzato chords of
bar 66. Through strong and heavy, these chords avoid any sharpness or
brassiness. Karajan takes the dotted eighths seriously, favoring the weight of
duration over the force of attack. As the cellos and basses take over the
sixteenths (mm. 67), in a typical bow to the Furtwangler sound, Karajan pulls
a powerful and heavy sound from the bottom strings, which propels us into
the next phrase. The violins cannot match the force of the bass when they
become the sole keepers of the sixteenth motive (mm. 70ff.). But, again, the
eighths pound ahead and the sforzati chords favor strength and weight over
sharpness of attack.
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Karajan treats the texture of bar 73 rather artfully, using the

dissonance of Gi> against the F in the bass to create a local level swell, from
which the passing of Gt? to F acts as a resolution. In so doing, Karajan
manages to create a sense of resolution on three different structural levels
simultaneously: the minor ninth tension, of course, resolves; the driving,
unrelenting momentum of the whole previous section, beginning in m. 63,
brakes and relaxes; and a pivot is created upon which the whole exposition
turns from the first subject to the second. Certainly, as with all the aspects of
any performance of the Ninth Symphony, much of the credit for the
poignancy of this moment rests with Beethoven. But it is Karajan who has
capitalized upon the opportunity. It is in the actual performance, as executed
by this interpreter in this particular instance, that these compositional
features find concrete form.
In the transition theme (mm. 74-79) the dotted quarter sustains with
fullness of tone and without a particularly strong sense of direction (a typical
Karajanesque touch). In the sixteenths, however, each of the wind sections
phrases strongly to the following eighths. The first eighth-note of each two-
bar group in the winds (mm. 75,77,79) receives the greatest emphasis, with
the next eighth-note in each group (in the second half of the bar) receiving
somewhat less weight, and the final eighths of each group (mm. 76, 78 and, by
extension, m. 80) receive the least. Throughout the transition, the strings take
a subsidiary, nearly subliminal role, punctuating the wind line with an
unobtrusive, brushy stroke. These six bars, then, continue the relaxation
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begun in the second half of bar 73, enabling an easy shift of gears to the key
of Bi? and the second subject.
C. Analysis of Gesture
The preceding analysis o f ground and texture elements, each giving the
mechanical facts alongside more metaphorical speculations about the
symbolic significance of these facts, establishes the presence of certain broad
shapes that define Karajan’s unique interpretation of the first subject.
Karajan articulates the formal dimensions of these eighty bars in his use of
tempo and flux. By establishing a reference tempo of approximately 71 beats
per minute, Karajan sets apart four super-phrases: mm. 1-34, 35-62,63-73
and 74-79. The first gives the primary motivic and melodic material of the
first subject, the second repeats the opening gestures of the first but then
moves in a different direction, the third superphrase presents a new and
volatile episode, and the last provides the transition into the second subject
area. Each of these super-phrases begins with a tempo between 69 and 72
bpm.
Though the structure, as stated in Chapter 2, resides in Beethoven’s
notation, the interpreter has great latitude in how this structure may be
articulated. Karajan’s use of reference tempo (which Karajan continues to
use throughout the first movement), while probable not conscious,
ingeniously grounds the structure in our experience of passage as we listen.
Extended periods of greater speed carry a different quality of momentum—a
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higher charge, so to speak; and areas of lower speed likewise carry a lesser
charge. By developing this spectrum of tension and resolution which unfolds
at a subliminal level of experience over the broadest structural expanses,
Karajan embeds Beethoven’s formal design in our subconscious
understanding and thus affects us in ways deeper than we can know.
Karajan not only defines the points which divide structure into its
component parts, he also fleshes out the shape of our experience within each
part through the use of tempo and flux. In the first super-phrase (mm. 1-34),
after establishing the reference tempo, Karajan tends toward slower speeds.
In the second and third super-phrases (mm. 35,62 and 63-73), except when
establishing the reference tempo at their juncture, Karajan opts for tempi
generally above 71 bpm. The transition plays out at slower speeds, as
Karajan relaxes the tension into the second subject (which begins, as we
might now expect, at the reference tempo).
While the reference tempo delineates four distinct formal areas, the
broader contour of tempi is tripartite: slow-fast-slow. The third of these
areas, the transition, is so brief and so much a part of the second subject it
helps to introduce, that one might properly view the first subject as Karajan
reads it as a simple slow-fast design, reflecting the repetition of the opening
gesture that broadly divides the first eighty bars into two chunks of music.
The exact quality o f Karajan’s shapes depends as much upon the
surface detail of texture as it does on tempo. It is in texture that Karajan
specifies the exact meanings that his choice of flux suggests. As two faces of
the same idea, ground and texture both point to and constitute the same
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gesture. Let us examine briefly how Karajan’s choices of texture further

define the gestures of the first subject.
Both incarnations of the opening material, with its drone and
gradually accelerating arpeggio motive, offer the same general outline of
textural choices. In so far as possible, then, Karajan wishes to preserve the air
of mystery and expectation in both cases. The differences of textural
approach only begin to manifest themselves at that point where the repetition
diverges (m. 55) from the original statement (m. 21). Whereas Karajan used
long, heavy bow strokes and pregnant pauses to bring a sense of ponderous
import to the first episode (mm. 21-34), he chooses more biting, incisive
attacks to sharpen the sense of frenzy in the second episode (mm. 55-62).
Though the tu tti chords remain strong and significant in the second episode,
they are delivered in a more abrupt fashion, both in the attack and in the
duration of the notes. What possessed the air of an imperial procession the
first time devolves into strife and conflict upon the return.
The mood of discontent erupts into fury at bar 63, expressed, in part,
by Karajan’s orchestra in very energetic sixteenth-notes in the strings, played
with great intensity though without accent or sharpness. Over this, the
slower theme presses ahead with a relentlessness of rhythm that belies the
heaviness and insistence of articulation, as though the melody itself bitterly
struggles between restraint and impatience. The conflict inherent in
aggressively active textures moored in heavy, rich sonorities that resist such
activation is a theme running through much of Beethoven’s most tortured
music, one that Brahms takes up to great effect. In realizing this theme,
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Karajan follows Furtwangler’s example by having his cake and eating, too: he
accelerates the passage while at the same time bringing out the deep bass
register and the weighty attacks of the orchestra’s larger instruments.
Karajan maintains this approach into the pivotal move toward relaxation in
m. 73. Thus, in the passage which runs from mm. 55-73, two textural
strategies may be discerned: in the first part short, biting attacks push
unequivocally ahead where, in the latter part, the powerful forward drive of
tempo meets with the braking counterforce of dense and heavy textures and
orchestral balance.
As we step back from the detail of Karajan’s interpretation of this first
subject area, Beethoven’s structure begins to take on a greater degree of
specificity, density and differentiation of meaning. The first super-phrase
(mm. 1-34) seems declamatory in nature: it unfolds unpredictably toward the
great D minor fanfare, but then affirms the tragic mood with all the pomp
and grandeur Karajan can muster. The repetition (mm. 35-62) begins
similarly, but the turn to Bb inspires a far more human kind of response-
angry, bickering and violent. This, in turn, leads to the deeply conflicted and
still brutal music of bars 63-73. Compared with Abbado’s performance, with
its even-tempered textures and its flowing two-bar pulse, Karajan’s reading is
fleshier, more troubled and less predictable. This contrasts greatly with his
approach, for example, to the Introduction to the Fourth Symphony, as
discussed in Chapter 5. In that case, Karajan used a slower value for pulse
than Toscanini and achieved a long-term sense of inevitability over the whole
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structure despite its local-level ambiguities. In the present case, Karajan

chooses the opposite course.
Though any modem listener can hardly help but hear the N inth
Sym phony as an inevitable unfolding of dynamic and profound musical
ideas, Karajan nevertheless manages to capture the volatility and violence of
the work’s first movement purely on the basis of his choices of tempo, flux,
pulse and texture elements. The gestures, both large and small, emanate from
the many surface-level choices Karajan made. In the sweep of a single glance,
the multiple gestures of the first subject comprise a larger single gesture—that
of intensification through the emergence o f deep-level conflict. Whereas the
passage from chaos to clarity in the creation story of Genesis has often been
suggested to explain the first 21 bars of the symphony, it is the intensely
human struggle rather than a cosmic one that occupies Karajan in the
measures which follow thereafter.
Despite Karajan’s reputation for perfectionism and the oft-repeated
claim that his were coldly calculated performances, this recording has an
immediacy, sharply conflicted ambivalence and passionate humanity that
suggests a deeper grasp of the musical idea than Karajan’s detractors would
allow him. Though I have no inclination to defend the whole body of
Karajan’s work, the present example and many discussed earlier in this study
suggest that the easy dismissal of Karajan’s interpretive genius may derive
itself from a rather superficial and simplistic critical approach to his art.
Nothing could be more complex than the delicate business of musical
interpretation. To get inside the head of the interpreter, which in truth is, of
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course, impossible, is nevertheless the aim of the responsible, scholarly critic.

One means of doing this has been offered in the preceding chapters and
applied in the analysis that followed. The Karajan that emerges seems to me
to have absolutely no interest in technical perfection as an end in itself.
Rather, we see a conductor deeply influenced by the Romanticism of
Furtwangler and affected, though to a lesser degree, by the Classicism of
Toscanini Karajan was in love with sound; but the relationship between
sound and idea was not superficial in any of the cases reviewed in these pages.
From the classically pure sonorities of the First Symphony, through the din
of a timpani’s entrance in the Third, and the architectural magnificence of the
Sixth Symphony, to the pulsatingly raw Ninth, Karajan always put sound to
the purposes of the musical idea as he understood it. Karajan’s reputation
for coolness has little to do, I think, with the intensity of his performances,
but with a misunderstanding of the noble bearing and poetic temperament of
his interpretations.
The importance of sound in music is so obvious that we may easily
forget that it is not only the material from which performances are made, but
that it possesses an inherent expressive essence. Spoken language, for
instance, is also made of sound, but in the hands of a poet we find a new
dimension of meaning as we listen to sound for its own sake. Karajan at his
best challenges us to the same effort in listening to music; he compels us to
hear the poetic essence—the vital meaning-inherent in mere sound.
Conclusion
1. New Modes of Analysis

The study of music may be divided into two general categories: that
which is treated scientifically, and that which is treated intuitively. This
division characterizes the differences that have long separated academics
from performers. Music theorists and historians have traditionally sought a
certain purity in their methods that would ally them with similar efforts in the
natural and social sciences. Performers, meanwhile, tend to shim systematic
approaches to their art, sensing that it would inhibit their creative freedom
and distract from their reveries. In this way, academics and performers have
grown farther apart in their ways and in their aims.
There continues to exist, however, one place where the analytical m ind
and the intuitive genius not only meet but are forced to verbalize their
relation: the teaching studios and rehearsal halls of the performance world.
The teacher of performance is forced by his circumstance to describe and
demonstrate the workings of his own mind so that the student may better
understand him. He uses whatever means are at his disposal: he speaks
scientifically, he uses metaphor, he employs gestures, he plays or sings—
showing the student his meaning. The same is true of the conductor, as we
saw in Karajan’s rehearsal discussed in Chapter 2. Though these points of
intersection are indeed interesting, and even revelatory, the utterances and
demonstrations of teachers and conductors rarely can be described as
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systematic. Generally they lack, in many cases quite consciously, the

scholarly manner associated with the musical "sciences" of history and theory.
The lack of systematic rigor on the part of teachers follows not only
from a difference of style between performers and scholars, but also a lack of
a philosophical basis upon which to base such a system. The presumption
lurking behind any sort of methodology, since the emergence of the
Enlightenment’s fascination with rational thought, is that a method must be
scientific in nature, by definition. And what has been considered scientific
has generally been narrowly defined as a formally pure, linear process. The
classical formula includes the great triad of observation, experimentation and
deduction. Theories are formed to explain observed phenomena and
experiments designed to test the theories. Proof is found when theories are
deduced to explain all possible physical scenarios.
But the twentieth century has cast new and fundamental doubt on the
true nature of scientific work. With Einstein’s discovery of Relativity, we
learned that we could not trust our observations implicitly, but had to
account for our specific perspective; thus, in a subtle way, the matter of
subjectivity leaked into the sterile purity of physical science. The Uncertainty
Principle only further upset the apple cart by proclaiming that the very act of
studying matter altered its behavior; now scientific law informs us that
observation itself profoundly impacts the phenomenon being observed.
Chaos theory has further divested science of its reliance upon linear thought
processes. Suddenly, we must acknowledge that events that have no linear
order have a different sort of order. This order fails to predict future events
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or explain present ones, but reflects profoundly upon past events that have
been studied, plotted and pictured. What has become of the Enlightenment
model of the impartial scholar simply observing objective phenomena and
making absolute, rational deductions about an outside world separate and
distinct from himself?
Of course, at a certain level of structure, the old scientific method
works perfectly well; but gone is our innocent assumption that observation
and deduction leads to a full, linear grasp of all physical phenomena. No
such grasp exists, we now realize. Observation and deduction have clear and
definable limits. As Wittgenstein put it, "all explanations come to an end."
Beyond these, we must employ other means to delve a little deeper. This
process involves, as Wittgenstein put it, "running our heads against the limits
of language." We must discard the notion proven false that there is an
absolute distinction between the observer and the observed. We must accept
our own role in shaping the events we seek to understand.
Just as the scientific method was thought to supersede intuitive
thinking in human evolution, now it appears that scientific thinking was little
more than an ordered kind of intuitive thinking prone to the same flaws as its
predecessors. Science is a way of imposing some kind of form upon the
manner in which or minds seem to function; but, as it turns out, reality is
both more complex and more subtle than we had anticipated. We have
discovered that a true understanding of physical laws requires us to relax our
earlier formalism. On the other hand, of course, if we allow our minds to
function without any order, we have lost the gains made by centuries of
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scientific discovery. The key, I suggest, is that we approach non-linear

phenomena with a systematic, supra-rational methodology. We push beyond
prepositional logic, following our subjective impulses with a keen analytic
sensibility. We put our stock in seeing the connections which relate our
prepositional mode (namely, language) with the non-propositional nature of
that which we observe.
The analysis of art depends upon just such a supra-rational mode of
analysis, not least because of its symbolic (Le., non-propositional) basis. Like
the old scientific method, we begin by observing an event. Rather than
expecting to find answers by looking at the event itself, however, we look to
our own subjective response to it. Then, in retrospect, we observe the
connections that link the stimulus with our response. We record that relation
in ever increasing degrees of abstraction. We use the symbolic mode of
language (metaphor) to approach the fundamentally symbolic mechanics of
art as we find them working in our own subjective experience. Our
conclusions, while personal and specific to a particular time and
circumstance, nevertheless hold the potential of serving as a kind of musical
therapy, wherein we recognize the connections between the artistic document
and the aesthetic experience, thereby deepening our understanding of the art
object itself, our own relation to it, and ourselves.
It is according to just such a system that this study has proceeded.
The subjectivity of my commentaries cannot be denied, but their value lies in
the kinds of understandings that emerged. The nature of musical
interpretation, I submit, cannot be adequately understood except through the
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subjective prism of the observer. Even the performer’s own ideas about his
work are bound by this limitation. But by connecting one’s responses to the
mechanical facts, through a spectrum of degrees of abstraction, one can at
least show the mechanism whereby a specific document leads to a specific
response. The value of the exercise lies in drawing this very line. The reader
may follow this line, agree with some aspects of it and disagree with others.
In the end, however, the reader will have developed a deeper understanding
of the musical document. The reader will have been forced to wrestle with his
own connections, responses and stimuli. It is from the wrestling itself, much
like a therapy, that benefit emerges.
I certainly do not expect artists to make any great effort to embrace a
more systematic approach. Artists depend upon pure intuition and need not
be fettered by any methodology.1 Nor do I expect theorists and historians to
alter their ways, because great value still accrues from their methods. But I
am hopeful that academics of all stripes might not too haughtily resist the
proposed trend toward a more speculative, non-propositional methodology.
This analysis cannot do the same work as the traditional methods, to be sure;
but this analysis can approach areas o f inquiry that routinely escape the
established modes of analysis. The failure of the academic community to
embrace a more holistic, integrative and inclusive approach to the various
arts and sciences that comprise human endeavor can be detected in the dearth
of informative and interesting work in a host of fascinating fields. One of
1 Those artists who teach, however, may find considerable benefit by
embracing an approach akin to, though somewhat more rigorous than, that
which most of them already use.
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these is the art of musical interpretation. The present study has been an
attempt to restore some balance to this situation. Just as conducting manuals
have limited themselves to the matter of defining the basic movements of the
arm, rather than the more substantive issue of the nature and meaning of
movement between the beats, so has the theoretical community limited itself
to discussing those aspects of a work that submit to numerical reduction.
The other end of the spectrum in the musical field, one which generally lacks
any rigor whatever, is the world of the commercial critic, one that has chosen
to accept, by and large, the unrestricted use of subjective value judgments. A
middle ground exists between traditional scientific analysis and common,
unrestrained value judgments. And this ground yeilds a depth of penetration
into the so-called mysteries of art that eludes other modes of analysis.
2. Performance Studies: New Avenues for the Educator
As performers, theorists and critics may well continue in the way to

which they are accustomed, I propose that a new breed of musical thinker be
recognized, whose specialty is the application of the proposed or similar
methodologies upon the work of performers in the act of interpreting musical
works. I suggest that universities that do not already have one should create
a new division within their music departments called Performance Studies,
and that faculty be hired whose purpose is to study, teach and publish in that
area. Though some universities currently have divisions under that name,
they are generally focused on performance practice, the historical study of
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instruments, playing techniques, and employment of instrumental forces. My

recommendation merely offers an extension of the same field, beyond its
current historical basis, to include a more aesthetically oriented analysis.
Three reasons compel me toward the given recommendation: 1) the
subject matter is interesting and informative; 2) no other specialty within
academic music departments addresses these issues; and 3), the students who
study music would gain considerably in their musical education if exposed to
the manner of thinking applied, and the results acquired.
That the subject matter is interesting and informative is established, I
hope, by the contents of this study. An infinite number of other studies
suggest themselves in the same spirit. One might examine any number of
performers, any number of works across a spectrum of performers, or any
national, ethnic or temperamental trends in the styles of interpretation certain
performers present. Indeed, some may (and undoubtedly will) take issue with
the philosophical basis of the current work and propose alternate models for
the field as a whole. This scholarly activity would generate further interest in
the work of performers and the nature of their creative process, which is the
ultimate aim of the proposed field.
Music departments tend to divide into two parts: performers and
academics. The proposed field lands dead center between these poles. It
unites what has been divided, and reveals the artificiality of the division.
Performers and scholars are linked, one hopes, by a common love of musical
art, and both, in their own way, seek to express its value and relevance in the
world. Scholars may indeed learn a great deal from the genius of performers
349
at work, as the performers have much to gain from quality scholarship.

Though the temperament and daily life of these two types of musical worker
differ greatly, the field of Performance Studies integrates the essence of both.
Moreover, it offers to the music student a unique opportunity to apply a
scholarly approach to issues of performance, and an artistically sensitive
approach to their scholarship.
The majority of students who seriously pursue music in their
undergraduate and graduate careers have a fundamental interest in
performance. Even those who go on to populate the academic divisions of
the musical establishment nevertheless, by and large, began as performers,
continue to harbor a love for their chosen instrument and its repertoire, and
continue to frequent the concert hall, either as a performer or as a devoted
and expert listener. Therefore, few students of music would be exempt from a
deep and abiding interest in the nature of musical interpretation and the work
of the exemplary performers of their day. Musical therapy—the self-
improvement that accrues from wrestling with the connections between
musical stimuli and our responses to it--holds great benefit for all students of
the art. Those who go on to more traditional scholarly careers in music will
have cultivated a deeper intellectual appreciation for the subtlety of musical
interpretation and the genius of the world’s master performers, which can do
nothing but sharpen their own sensitivity to the musical issues they face in
their academic careers. Those who go on to become performers will have
acquired a new way of approaching their own work that enables them to
analyze the performances of their mentors and colleagues and provides a
350
framework to evaluate the interpretive efforts that comprise their daily stock-
in-trade. And, not least in importance, those music students who go on to
have careers in unrelated fields will become far more intelligent consumers of
musical art. They will deepen their grasp of what performers do, how they do
it, and what constitutes a purely musical measure of success. Those who
serve on boards of musical organizations will better understand the
orientation o f the performer, and will make more informed and sensitive
decisions about the engagement of artists. In every way, finding a middle
ground between scholars and performers offers new and fruitful avenues of
thought and action, in the study and in the marketplace.
3. Implications for the Conducting Profession
A survey of the literature of conducting reveals few meaningful

insights into the real business of interpreting music, rehearsing orchestras and
getting results through the gestures of conducting. As I have suggested, this
may be attributed in large part to the absence of a consensus about how, or
indeed whether, to speak about purely musical matters. It has been my
purpose to address this problem. Therefore, I devoted Chapter 1 to creating
a philosophical infrastructure that would provide the terms for an interesting
analysis of actual musical interpretation. In Chapter 2 ,1 extended this
philosophical discussion into the more technical arenas of music theory,
conducting gesture and the nature of the language employed by conductors
in rehearsal. Having established a vocabulary and the beginnings of a
351
methodology, I followed in Chapters 4-6 with a series of painstakingly

detailed analyses of parts of the Beethoven symphonies as interpreted by
Karajan and his colleagues, Toscanini, Furtwangler and Abbado. By
applying the philosophical approach to the manner of performing the
analysis and to the language I employed in describing the work of the
interpreters, I hope to have achieved a new level of understanding that had
previously eluded scholarly efforts.
An important part of the solution depends upon the extreme attention
to detail that I have sought to bring to the discussion. The failure of earlier
treatises to get to the essence of the conductor’s work can be attributed to the
generality of their approach. To speak meaningfully about gesture, for
example, one would have to engage in a detailed analysis of the movements of
an actual conductor at work and the motions they employ in specific
instances. I have only skimmed the surface of this question; much work
remains to be done in this area. The success of the present study depends on
the specificity of my remarks with regard to particular interpretive decisions
made by certain conductors in unique performances, and my ability to draw
relevant and compelling inferences from such analysis.
Though the final word on conducting has not yet been written, and
will never be, several important issues already emerge from the somewhat
clearer idea we have of the profession. In the first place, conducting is not
about a choreography of the arm; in the second place, conducting-in its true
sense—is not about power. With few exceptions, critics, patrons, conducting
teachers and biographers make the error of characterizing conducting either
352
as a mechanistic technical exercise, or as a cult of personality and the

manipulation of power. In the end, I hope to have demonstrated that, even
when technique is undoubtedly employed and when the conductor is a person
of great charisma holding tremendous institutional power, the true
interaction which makes great performances is a collaborative one. The
conductor’s relation to the orchestra must include a meeting of minds, a
cultivation of mutual understanding, and a shared investment in a particular
musical idea.
As a result of the prevailing superficial understanding of the
conductor’s art, the modem training of conductors in America has produced
few outstanding talents. These talents, when they do appear, arise and
blossom despite the system, not because of it. The apparently tentative and
ambiguous motions of a conductor like Furtwangler, for example, would be
laughed off the stage today without further reflection. Thus, a great talent
would be denied access to the podium. No graduate program, conducting
institute or board of directors, I fear, would be able to see past Furtwangler’s
physical awkwardness into his genius. In conducting as well as instrumental
performance, technique is valued as the highest commodity; but, as I have
shown, textbook technique is not the real technique responsible for m aking
phrases and drawing out deep musical impulses from the players of the
orchestra.
The premium placed on technique, understood in its most restrictive
sense, has weeded out the unique talents who bring something other than a
choreography of the arm to their art. This weeding-out occurs at an
353
extremely early stage in a conductor’s development. In the United States, any

aspiring conductor must pass through a prominent graduate program in
order to be considered a bona fide candidate for a promising entry-level
conducting position, such as an assistant conductor with a regional or major
orchestra, or music director of a local group, or a faculty position at a small
college. Graduate programs are small, and those with substantial reputation
are few. Perhaps ten openings with real career potential occur per year at
four or five schools led by three or four conducting gurus. It is at this point
that the first cut is made. In an important respect, the future of conducting in
America depends upon the judgment of these few gurus on who shall be
endowed with the advantages of their stamp of approval. This has been the
case for the last twenty or thirty years, ever since conducting left the theater
and entered the province o f the university.
In Karajan’s day, a conductor cut his teeth in the opera, usually
serving as staff pianist (repetiteui} with the local opera company. Every town
in Europe had its own opera company, providing hundreds of potential
openings for a student conductor. By the time a conductor trained in this
way entered the national fray in search of better employment, he had
probably already conducted ten or twenty operas and observed thousands of
rehearsals. He had coached singers on a daily basis, and sat in the pit
watching more experienced conductors handling the many pitfalls of operatic
performances.
Today, a typical applicant for a Masters program in conducting at a
major university in America has conducted very little, and devoted
354
substantial effort toward mastering a choreography of the arm proposed in

one of a handful of technical treatises. Such an applicant may never have set
foot in an opera pit, or coached a singer, or worked with a soloist. This is not
due entirely to a lack of initiative on the part of the student, but to an utter
dearth of opportunities to practice their chosen craft.
In this innocent and naive state, young conductors compete for entry
into the world’s most exclusive conservatories for graduate study in
conducting. This puts the teachers in a most unnatural position: they must
judge these many applicants on merits which they cannot yet possess. As a
result, conducting teachers generally develop a profile of an ideal conductor,
usually one that reflects their own personal style, and seek to identify which
applicants might, after a few years of instruction, most perfectly suit that
profile.
The same procedure gets repeated when the student completes his
graduate education and enters the job market. This time, the student has the
benefit of a graduate education, but this education comes with little or no
podium time in front of an actual orchestra, and with absolutely no
experience running an orchestra on a daily basis. The boards of directors
who make the decisions about who will take their orchestra boldly into the
future draw up profiles of the ideal conductor and, like the conducting
teachers before them, attempt to find a match in a pile of resumes dauntingly
high and disconcertingly diverse.
The implications of the present study suggest a serious dilemma which
the current system as I have seen it operate, and explained it here, fails to
355
recognize. I submit that no ideal profile for a conducting candidate can be

formulated. There is no Platonic ideal for the perfect conductor. To
compare certain conducting candidates that appear at a given audition to the
ideal conductor is a fundamentally flawed paradigm and will only result in
generating and rewarding cardboard-character conductors. Indeed, this is
precisely the animal that the academic conductor factories are currently
producing. Expecting a particular type of ideal conductor suffers from the
same flaw as predicting any other sort of non-linear phenomena. A
conducting talent is as unique as a human personality; there are as many
types of conductor as there are conductors. The variety of cognitive styles,
artistic temperaments and manners of going about one’s business knows no
boundaries. One conductor commands, another pleads, and another appears
to do nothing whatever. If, in the end, each one produces a dynamic,
powerful and unique musical performance, then they all deserve a high degree
of respect, regardless of our preconceived notions about who conductors are
and how they should behave.
Accordingly, we should acknowledge the painfully obvious fact that a
conducting audition is a virtually useless method for discovering the talent
and potential of a conducting candidate. Watching a conducting audition is
much like reading a travel guide about a foreign country. You may get an
impression, and you may learn some facts about the candidate, but you have
no conception of the most important ingredient of the conductor the
workings of his mind. You must visit a foreign country in order to have some
grasp of its feel and flavor, and you must live there for a long time to truly
356
know its ways. Likewise, you must watch the conductor work with an
orchestra over a whole rehearsal cycle just to begin to appreciate his depth;
and you must see this conductor over many cycles to have an accurate
impression of his art. Even then, this impression will only be as accurate as
the observer’s sensitivity to the very issues which inhabit this study: the
nature of interpretation, conducting gestures, and rehearsal technique.
Knowing a conductor as an artist is no less complex than knowing a
person as a lover. First impressions, made in a self-conscious effort to market
one’s genius, rarely hold true. Lasting truths only emerge gradually, and even
these evolve over time. Ultimately, the proof of a conductor’s worth lies in
his performances. But, you must hire a conductor before you can absorb the
lessons of his performances. In this paradox arises the great problem of the
conducting profession. The solution, if indeed one can be found, cannot be
to formulate false notions of a Platonic ideal of conducting and then try to
match actual candidates to this ideal. Rather, I recommend that those
evaluating conducting candidates be especially cognizant of this dilemma,
and especially open-minded about the variety of styles and idiosyncrasy that
true genius may exhibit.
Two structural recommendations in the system by which conductors
are trained and selected would vastly improve the chances of properly
nurturing talent in the training phase, and discovering it and hiring it in the
employment stage. The first recommendation is that graduate conducting
programs dramatically increase the podium time they offer to their students.
No program that supposes to give its students a real basis for plying their
R e p ro du ced with permission o f the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission.
357
trade in the actual world should offer less than two or three hours of
exposure to a full orchestra per week, including at least three or four major
recitals with orchestra per year of training. The expense of maintaining a full
time lab orchestra, which would undoubtedly be great, is but a pittance when
compared with the amount spent on building and maintaining a modem,
state-of-the-art science building on the same campus. A serious program for
conductors would require serious investment.
The second structural change I would recommend to improve the rate
of success orchestra boards experience in finding the most talented
conductors to lead their orchestras, is the institution of consultants that
would be hired by a board initiating a search process. Though consultants do
presently exist for this purpose, I imagine a rather different sort of position.
The consultant would be more akin to a talent scout for an athletic team, a
person who scours the countryside assessing established conductors and
discovering new talent. These consultants would maintain a current database
of conductors available for hire. When an orchestra board engages the
consultant, he would make an initial list of those conductors who appear, on
the surface, to be a good match for the orchestra. This assessment would be
based on the budget of the orchestra, its salary for the open position, its
musical sophistication and its reputation as an organization. These facts
would be compared with the conductors’ current salary and budget level, the
consultant’s impression of their artistic quality and reputation as an artist.
As the search process narrows its focus onto certain candidates, or if it
identifies candidates the consultant has not studied, the consultant would
358
travel to that conductor’s home base and assess him or her freshly in their
current position. In this fashion, the orchestra search committee would have
an expert and informed voice counseling them through an often difficult and
boggling process.
Though these structural changes could greatly improve the quality of
conductor trained and hired in America, they really depend upon the artistic
integrity o f those teachers who admit students into the intensive conducting
programs I recommend, and the artistic integrity of those consultants who
evaluate aspiring conductors. In both of these areas, a balanced, thoughtful
and philosophically sophisticated understanding of the art of conducting is
required. The present work and the proposed field of Performance Studies
both strive toward such an understanding. The field of Performance Studies
offers the best training ground for the delicate business of evaluating
conductors, because it focuses on the real artistic work of the profession and
establishes the parameters within which a musical artist may be understood.
Although a conductor wears many hats in today’s musical organizations, his
primary role must be to make music with the orchestra that is vital,
compelling and profound. Those who hire conductors for other reasons,
failing to assess the conductor’s artistic integrity, do immeasurable harm to
the conducting profession and the future of orchestral music.
Though conductors and other musical performers have often been
relegated to a lower place in the hierarchy of creative artists than composers,
they alone carry the enviable duty of bringing the great masterpieces of music
to life day after day. Their grasp of the composer’s intentions, their ability to
359
fashion a compelling interpretation from their own musical fantasy inspired

by the score, and their charismatic flair which enables them to project their
shared vision with the composer to a concert hall full of enraptured listeners,
places them in a position of unique importance and power in the whole
musical process from its beginning to its end. These are the caretakers of the
most noble, richly varied and dynamic musical tradition in the world. Their
contribution to art calls to be better understood. Discerning and sensitive
attention to the activities of the musician at work promises to yield
fascinating, healthy and provocative discoveries about ourselves and our
ceaseless love affair with the art of music.
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Appendix 1: Beethoven Symphony No. 1, Op. 21

i 1 ! !
jl: Adagio 1-12 88
il: Allegro 13-297 I 112
III: Andante 1-195 120
till: Menuetto 1-79 108
llll: Trio 80-137 108
llll: Total 1-137 , 108
IIV: Adagio 2-5 63
ilV: Allegro 8-303 88 I
Tempo Relations icurrVprev.

i
II: Adagio 1-12 88 0
i|: Allegro 13-297 112 1.2727
II: Andante 1-195 120 1.0714
III: Menuetto 1-79 108 0.9000
llll: Trio 80-137 108 1.0000
llll: Total 1-137 I 108 0.9000
|IV: Adagio |2-5 63 0.5833
IIV: Allegro I8-303 88 1.3968
365
Appendix 1 (con’t)
Area ! 1954 1961 1977 1984 Average

I ■ i : 1 !
|l: Adagio 62 69 69 65 66
il: Allegro 98 96 91 89 94
II: Andante 96 102 98 94 98
III: Menuetto : 101 98 103 94 99
illl: Trio 89 88 95 88 90
llll: Total ! 97 94 100 92 96
IV: Adagio ! 46 54 57 60 54
HV: Allegro 76 75 78 72 75
!
Tempo Relations! > !
: • : . l •t 1;
1: Adagio 0 0 0 o
1: Allegro 1.5806 1.3913 1.3188 1.3692 1.4150
II: Andante 0.9796 1.0625 1.0769 1.0562 1.0438
III: Menuetto 1.0521 0.9608 1.0510 1.0000 1.0160
III: Trio 0.8812 0.8980 0.9223 0.9362 0.9094
III: Total 1.0104 0.9216 1.0204 0.9787 0.9828
IV: Adagio 0.4742 0.5745 0.5700 0.6522 0.5677
IV: Allegro 1.6522 1.3889 1.3684 1.2000 1.4024
i i
. . .
lAverage Disparities
I --- -
[tempo 0.8268 i 0.8472 0.7434 0.8180; 0.8088
[relation 1.06361 1.0083 1.0134 0.9983! 1.0209
366
Area T: 1951 IF: 1952 A: 1989 'AVG: OtherfTotal AVG Adiusted

i ' l l !
1: Adagio 85 63 76 75! 70 73
1: Allegro 108 91 97 99 96 97
II: Andante 93! 80 92 88! 94 91
III: Menuetto 108! 98 99 102! 100 101
III: Trio 104! 90 93 96! 92 94
III: Total 107! 95 97 100! 97 99
IV: Adagio 60! 44 60 55' 54 55
IV: Allegro 76! 68 73 72! 74 73
: . !
Tempo Relations; ' !
■ : ! i i !
1: Adagio 0 0 0 ;
1: Allegro 1.27061 1.4444 1.2763 1.3304! 1.3788 1.3516
II: Andante 0.8611 : 0.8791 0.9485 I 0.8962! 0.9806 0.9331
III: Menuetto 1.1613! 1.2250 1.0761 1.1541 I 1.0752 1.1196
III: Trio 0.9630 I 0.9184 0.9394 0.9402 0.9226 0.9325
III: Total 1.1505! 1.1875 1.0543 1.1308; 1.0462 1.0938!
IV: Adagio 0.5607! 0.4632 0.6186 0.5475 I 0.5590 0.5525
IV: Allegro 1.2667! 1.5455 1.2167 1.3429 1 1.3769 1.3578!
; : ! 1 '
1
: 1 ii I !1 ;
Average Disparities i 1 i ,
i i ; i ! i
tempo 0.9229! 0.7773 0.8588 0.85301 0.8278 0.8419
relation 0.9774' 1.0404 0.9761 0.9979 1 1.0110 1.0037
367
page four. Percentages of Beethoven’s Metronome
Area iKarajan Others Total Adjusted

: 1 |
1: Adagio i 0.75 0.85 0.79 0.82
1: Allegro ! 0.83 0.88 0.85 0.87
II: Andante j 0.81 0.74 0.78 0.76
Ill: Menuetto 0.92 0.94 0.93 0.94
III: Trio i 0.83 0.89 0.86 0.87
III: Total ' 0.89 0.92 0.90 i 0.91
IV: Adagio ! 0.86 0.87 0.86 0.87
W: Allegro 0.86 0.82 0.84 0.83
i i
Tempo Relations ! i
: ! 1
1: Adagio : i
1: Allegro 1.11 1.05 1.08 1.06

II: Andante 0.97 0.84 0.92 0.87
III: Menuetto 1.13 1.28 1.19 1.24
III: Trio 0.91 0.94 0.92 0.93
III: Total 1.09 1.26 1.16 1.22,
IV: Adagio 0.97 0.94 0.96 0.95
IV: Allegro 1.00 0.96 0.99 0.97
i
i I
' I
Average Disparities J
i
!
i
tempo 0.84 0.85 0.85 0.85

relation 1.02 1.00 1.01 1.00
Appendix 2: Beethoven Symphony No. Z Op. 36
Area Measures IBeethoven Tempo
II: Adagio 12-33 84 !

il: Allegro 134-360 100 J
III: Larghetta 1-276 92 s
llll: Scherzo 11-84 100 !

llll: Trio 85-130 100
llll: Total 11-130 100 j
!lV: Allegro 11-442 152 i
Tempo Relations icurr./prev.

i I i I
II: Adagio 2-33 84 0

I: Allegro 34-360 100 1.19051
III: Larghetto1-276 92 0.9200
llll: Scherzo 1-84 100 1.0870!
llll: Trio 185-130 100 1.00001
llll: Total 11-130 100 1.0000!
!lV: Allegro H-442 152 1.5200!
369
Area 195611961/62 19771 1984 Average !

: ! ! ! ; ! ;
1: Adagio 58 67! 661 691 65
II: Allegro ! 90 88. 90: 87 i 89!
ill: Larghetta 79 79: 841 80 81 ;
III: Scherzo! 99 94 97! 91 95;
llll: Trio 90 85! 90 86 881
illl: Total ! 96 91 j 95 89 93!
ilV: Allegro 141 147! 148! 141 144:
i ; ■
Tempo Relations
i ;
I: Adagio 0 0 Oi Oi
II: Allegro 1.5517 1.31341 1.3636! 1.2609 1.3724;
ill: Larghetta 0.8778 0.8977 0.9333 i 0.9195 0.9071
'III: Scherzo l 1.2532 1.18991 1.1548! 1.1375 1.18381
III: Trio 0.9091 0.9043! 0.92781 0.9451 0.92161
llll: Total 0.9091 0.9043; 0.92781 0.9451 0.9216!
IlV: Allegro 1.0667 1.0706! 1.0556! 1.0349 1.0569!
; : ; : : i ;
Average Disparities
: ; i
tempo 0.8869 0.89171 0.9156! 0.8822 0.8941 !
relation j 0.9897 0.9403! 0.95061 0.9266 0.9518 I
370
iA: 1988
! 1
!- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T' ! i j
-- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - i
!l: Adagio 82 i 63 71 ! 72 68 ! 70!
II: Allegro 95 93! 89: 92 90 91:
ill: Larghetta 84 72! 74! 77 i 79 78:
{III: Scherzo! 109 92 1031 101 ! 98 100 i
llll: Trio 102 79! 921 91! 89 90 :
{III: Total 107 87 99 i 98 95 96'
‘IV: Allegro 152 135 i 144! 144! 144 144
i . ! !
Tempo Relations
!l: Adagio , 0! 0 0
il: Allegro 1.1585i 1.4762 ! 1.2535! 1.2961 1.3397 1.3152!
ill: Larghettd 0.8842 0.7742 i 0.8315 ! 0.8300! 0.8740 0.8492 !
III: Scherzo I 1.2976 1.2778 ! 1.3919; 1.3224! 1.2432 1.2878!
illl: Trio 0.9358 I 0.8587 I 0.8932 : 0.8959! 0.9106 0.9023!
llll: Total 0.9358! 0.8587 ; 0.8932 1 0.8959 I 0.9106 0.9023;
!IV: Allegro i 1.0490 1.1013! 1.0761 ! 1.0755! 1.0649 1.0708!
Average Disparities
: ; I . J ;
itempo 0.9936 0.8503! 0.9124 i 0.9188! 0.9047 0.9126 !
relation 0.9314; 0.9599 0.9526 ! 0.94791 0.9501 0.9489!
371
page four: Percentages of Beethoven’s Metronome
Area iKarajan [Others Total Adjusted i
il: Adagio 0.771 0.861 0.81 i 0.84:

1. /Mieyiu U.09 U.9U > U.9 1 |
II: Larghetta 0.88 0.83 0.86; 0.841
III: Scherzo: 0.95 1.01 i 0.98: 1.00!
III: Trio 0.88 0.91 ! 0.89 I 0.90|
III: Total 0.93 0.98 i 0.95 j 0.96!
ilV: Allegro i 0.95 0.95 i 0.95! A AP I
0.951
Tempo Relations
I: Adagio _________ ;_________ j_________ i_________ j

■I: Allegro I 1.15; 1.091 1.13 [ 1.10!
Ill: Larghetta 0.99 1 0.90 1 0.95 j 0.92;
111: Scherzo 1.09i 1.22: 1.141 1.18 j
llll: Trio : 0.92! 0.90! 0.91! Q.9QI
illl: Total 0.921 0.901 0.91! 0.90 i
HV: Allegro ; 0.701 0.71 I 0.70 1 0.70 >
Average Disparities
tempo 0.89! 0.91 i 0.90! 0.91

relation 0.97 i 0.96! 0.971 0.96
Area IMeasures Beethoven Tempo !
I: Allegro 11-691 60!

II: Adagio 1-247 80
III: Scherzo 11-166,255-441 116
III: Trio 1167-254 116
III: Total 1-441 116 I
IV: Andante ,349-430 108;
IV: Presto 431-473 116
Tempo Relations_______________ ;__________;curr./prev.
!l: Allegro 1-691 60' 0

III: Adagio 11-247 80 ; 1.3333
llll: Scherzo 11-166,255-441 116 1.4500 I
llll: Trio '167-254 116 1.00001
llll: Total 1-441 116 , 1.45001
IlV: Allegro 1-348 76 I 0.6552 1
IlV: Andante I349-430 1081 1.4211 I
IV: Presto 431-473 116 i 1.0741 I
373
lArea 19531 1962 1977! 1984 Average !

1 | : ! I
1: Allegro 481 48 52! 50 50!
II: Adagio 61! 59 61 63 61 :
III: Scherzo 118! 118 107: 108 113!
III: Trio 102| 103 101 ! 102 102!
III: Total 115 i 114 106! 106 110!
IV: Allegro 65! 66 70! 66 67!
IV: Andante 73! 68 68 68 69 i
IV: Presto 109! 102 1131 104 107 i
iTempo Relations I
!l: Allegro 0 o 0 0
ill: Adagio 1.2708 1.2292 1.1731 1.2600 1.2333
illl: Scherzo 1.9344 2.0000 1.7541 1.7143 1.8507
llll: Trio 0.8644 0.8729 0.9439 0.9444 0.9064
llll: Total 1.8852 1.9322 1.7377 1.6825 1.8094
IlV: Allegro 0.8644 0.8729 0.9439 0.9444 0.9064
IlV: Andante 1.1275 1.1068 1.0495 1.0392 1.0807
IIV: Presto 0.5652 0.5789 0.6604 0.6226 0.6068
i : : I !
_____ . - i
i ; j | i
tempo 0.8571 I 0.8393! 0.85121 0.8348 0.8456
relation 0.9557! 0.9606 I 0.94111 0.9411 0.94961
374
Area iT: 1949 IF: 1952 A: 1986 AVG: OtherfTotal AVG Adjusted
! ! : : 1 1 i
l: Allegro I 50 44 46 47 I 48 47
II: Adagio 65 59 64! 63 ! 62 62
III: Scherzo 127 105 108 113! 113 113
III: Trio 122 88 91 100 I 101 101
III: Total 126 1021 105! 111 ! 111 111
IV: Allegro 65 58 65 63! 65 64
IV: Andante 85 81 781 81 74 78
IlV: Presto 102 104 98 101 105 103
1 I i
Tempo Relations I [
; i ,
I: Allegro 0 0 0
II: Adagio 1.3000 1.3409 1.3913 1.3441 1.2808 1.31641
III: Scherzo 1.9538 1.7797 1.6875 1.8070! 1.8320 1.8179!
III: Trio 0.9606 0.8381 0.8426 0.8804 0.8953 0.8869
III: Total 1.9385 1.7288 1.6406 1.7693 1.7922 1.7793
IV: Allegro 0.9606 0.8381 0.8426 0.8804 0.8953 0.8869
IV: Andante 1.0328 1.1591 1.1538 1.1152 1.0955 1.1066
IV: Presto 0.5159 0.5686 0.6190 0.5678 0.5901 0.5776
Average Disparities 1 ---- 1

| ! I
tempo 0.9167 0.8021 I 0.8185 * 0.8457; 0.8457 0.84571
relation 0.9697 0.9410! 0.9428! 0.95121 0.9503 0.9508!
375
[Area Karajan Others ITotal Adjusted 1

: , i i i
; i ! :
1: Allegro ! 0.83 0.781 0.80 0.791
II: Adagio ! 0.76 0.781 0.77 0.78'
III: Scherzo 0.97 0.98 i 0.97 0.981
III: Trio 0.88 0.86 i 0.87 0.87!
III: Total 0.95 0.96 j 0.95 0.96'
IV: Allegro 0.88 0.82! 0.86 0.841
IV: Andante 0.64 0.75 t 0.69 0.73!
IV: Presto 0.92 0.87! 0.90 0.89!
i i
Tempo Relations i
II: Allegro
Ill: Adagio 0.92! 1.01 ; 0.96) 0.99
llll: Scherzo 1.28! 1.251 1.26! 1.25
llll: Trio 0.91 1 0.88! 0.90; 0.89
llll: Total 1.251 1.22; 1.241 1.23
IlV: Allegro 1.38: 1.34! 1.371 1.35
IlV: Andante 0.76! 0.78 I 0.77! 0.78
|IV: Presto 0.56! 0.53 • 0.551 0.54
Average Disparities I !
tempo 0.84! 0.84; 0.84! 0.84

relation 0.97! 0.97! 0.971 0.97
Appendix 4: Beethoven Symphony No. 4’ Op. 60
lArea IMeasures iBeethoven Tempo i

! 1
II: Adagio 11-38 661 I
II: Allegro .39-498 80 j
III: Adagio 11-104 84 I
'III: Menuetto 11-90, 184-224 100 1
llll: Trio 191-178,179-183 88 I
IlV: Allegro 1-343 80 1
■— ,_______________i
■Tempo Relations -—■■-- - — —- —__________curr./prev. ■;
1: Adagio 11-38 66 0
il: Allegro 39-498 80 1.2121 ;
ill: Adagio 1-104 84 1.0500
illl: Menuetto 11-90, 184-224 100 1.1905 ;
III: Trio 191-178,179-183 : 88 0.8800 I
ilV: Allegro 11-343 80 0.9091 ;
377
Area 1955! 1962! 1977! 1985 Average
1: Adaqio 47 i 52! 51 ! 59 i 52
1: Allegro 62! 69! 62! 62 64
II: Adaqio 56! 63 i 63! 66 62
III: Menuetto 94 94! 91 ! 88 92
III: Trio 69! 75! 74! 75 73
IV: Alleqro 66; 69! 66! 65 67
Tempo Relations i !
! ,
1: Adagio 0 0! 0 0
1: Allegro 1.3191 ; 1.3269! 1.2157! 1.0508 1.2282
II: Adagio 0.9032j 0.91301 1.0161 ! 1.0645 0.9742
III: Menuetto 1.6786; 1.4921! 1.4444! 1.3333 1.4871
III: Trio 0.7340! 0.7979 i 0.8132! 0.8523 0.7993
IV: Alleqro 0.9565: 0.9200 0.8919! 0.8667 0.9088
! :
: !1 :
; ' :
Average Disparities ! ; ,
■ ' ; !
tempo 0.7912 0.84741 0.8173 i 0.8333 0.8223
relation 1.0667 j 1.0397! 1.0266! 0.9859 1.0297
378
lArea T: 1951 IF: 1952 A: 1988 AVG: OtherfTotal AVG Adjusted !

! : : ; i I !
I: Adagio 45! 55; 56! 52! 52 i 52 i
I: Alleqro 71 : 61 66' 66! 65! 65!
II: Adagio 72: 52: 62 62! 62! 62!
III: Menuetto 106! 86! 95; 96 i 93! 95:
III: Trio 89! 58 j 70! 72! 731 731
IV: Alleqro 69' 63| 70! 67! 67 : 67!
Tempo Relations ! i
1
il: Adagio Oi o; 0
il: Allegro 1.5778; 1.1091 ! 1.1786 1.2885 i 1.2540! 1.2734
ill: Adagio 1.0141 i 0.8525 i 0.9394 0.9353! 0.9576 | 0.9450
llll: Menuetto 1.4722: 1.6538! 1.5323 1.5528! 1.5152! 1.5364
llll: Trio 0.8396; 0.6744 0.7368 0.7503! 0.7783! 0.7626
IlV: Allegro 0.7753! 1.0862! 1.0000 0.9538 I 0.9281 ! 0.9426
! i I i !
! ' ;
Average Disparities !
itempo 0.9076: 0.75301 0.8414 0.8340! 0.8273! 0.8311

relation 1.08341 1.0256! 1.0277 1.0456! 1.0365! 1.0416
379
[Area iKaraian jOthers [Total Adjusted ~i

! ; ! ! i
I: Adagio i 0.79) 0.79 0.79 0.79
II: Allegro 0.80! 0.83 0.81 0.82
III: Adagio 0.74! 0.74 0.74 0.74
illl: Menuetto 0.92! 0.96 0.93 0.95
llll: Trio 0.831 0.82 0.83 0.82
IlV: Allegro 0.83 i 0.84 0.84 0.84
j i ii • I
Tempo Relations I I I
' : ! ! i
II: Adagio :
II: Allegro 1.01 I 1.06 1.03 1.05
III: Adagio 0.93; 0.89 0.91 0.90
jlll: Menuetto 1.25! 1.30 1.27 1.29 j
illl: Trio 0.91 j 0.85 0.88 0.87!
IlV: Allegro 1.00! 1.05 1.02 1.04!
Average Disparities________i_________ i_________ I_________j

i______________ ;_________ •_________ j_________ j_________ ;
tempo___________ 0.821 0.83 i 0.82 i 0.83,
relation________ 1.02 i 1.031 1.021 1.03 j
Appendix 5: Beethoven Symphony No. 5,\ Op. 67
Area__________ Measures______ [Beethoven Tempo
I: Allegro 11-474 108

{II: Andante 11-204,218-247 92
ill: Piu mosso 205-217 116
illl: Scherzo 11-140,236-373 96
llll: Trio 141-235 96
HU: Total H-441 96
IV: Allegro 1-152,207-361 84
JV: Tempo 1 1153-206 96
ilV: Presto I362-444 112
Tempo Relations curr./prev.
il: Allegro 11-474 108! 0

ill: Andante '1-204,218-247 92 0.8519
III: Piu mosso 205-217 116 1.2609
illl: Scherzo 1-140,236-373 96: 0.8276
III: Trio 141-235 96! 1.0000
[III: Total 1-441 96! 1.0000
IlV: Allegro 1-152,207-361 84 0.8750
IlV: Tempo 1 153-206 96 1.1429
IlV: Presto 362-444 112! 1.1667
381
!Area 1954! 1962! 1977! 1982 Average

' - 1 ' i i
'1: Allegro 96| 95! 99! 96 97
III: Andante 77 74; 79; 81 78
III: Piu mosso 100 100! 100 i 96 99
III: Scherzo 81.; 81 ; 86| 83 83
III: Trio 76, 80 84! 80 80
illl: Total 80! 81 ! 85 i 83 82
IV: Allegro 85 84 87' 87 86
IV: Tempo 1 95! 88! 95; 93 93
IlV: Presto 102 102! 98! 98 100
Tempo Relations 1 ■ ■ i
1
1: Allegro 0 0: 0! 0
II: Andante 0.8021 : 0.7789 i 0.7980! 0.8438 0.8057
II: Piu mosso 1.2987 1.3514 1.2658 | 1.1852 1.2753
III: Scherzo 0.81001 0.8100! 0.8600! 0.8646 0.8361
III: Trio 0.9383; 0.98771 0.9767 I 0.9639 0.9666
III: Total 1.0526! 1.0125! 1.0119! 1.0375 1.0286
IV: Allegro 1.0625; 1.0370; 1.0235; 1.0482 1.0428
IV: Tempo 1 1.1176 1.0476; 1.09201 1.0690 1.0815
IV: Presto 1.0737! 1.1591; 1.0316! 1.0538 1.0795!
: ; ; i
Average Disparities
i 1 i i
tempo 0.8900 0.88001 0.9100! 0.8925 0.8931 !
relation 0.9969; 1.0066; 0.9892! 0.9865! 0.9948;
382
Area FT: 1939/52 IF: 1954 1987 AVG: OtherTotal AVG Adjusted
! i I ! ! : i
il: Alleqro 95! 83 ! 88 ! 89 j 93 ! 91
!ll: Andante 84 i 67! 74! 75 ! 77 ! 76
ill: Piu mosso 109 i 92 ; 100 100 100 ! 100
III: Scherzo 86: 65 i 72 74 i 79 ! 76
III: Trio 85! 70; 76 77 79 ! 78
III: Total 86! 66 73 ! 75 79 I 77
ilV: Allegro i 89; iJ T 85 i 84 85 i 85
IlV: Tempo 1 98! 75 I 88 87 ! 90 88
[IV: Presto 104 91 ; 92 96 98 97
! ; ; ■ j ; '
Tempo Relations !
! i : :
il: Allegro 0: 0i 0
ill: Andante 0.8842 1 0.8072 ! 0.8409 0.8441 0.8222 0.8345
II: Piu mosso 1.2976: 1.3731 I 1.3514 1.3407 1.3033 1.3243
[lll: Scherzo 1 0.7890 i 0.7065 ! 0.7200 0.7385 0.7943 0.7629
III: Trio 0.9884 j 1.0769! 1.0556 1.0403 0.9982 1.0219
llll: Total 1.0118 ! 0.9429 I 0.9605 0.9717 1.0042 0.9859
IV: Allegro j 1.0349 ! 1.1970! 1.1644 1.1321 1.0811 1.1098
IV: Tempo 1 1.1011 ! 0.9494 I 1.0353 1.0286 1.0589 1.0418
IV: Presto 1.0612; 1.21331 1.0455 1.1067 1.0912 1.0999
;
! • i !
Average Disparities i
: i
! i
tempo 0.9375 i 0.7775 ! 0.8438 0.8529 0.8759 0.8630

irelation ! 1.0044! 1.0279 i 1.01241 1.01491 1.0034! 1.0099 1
383
Area Karajan Others [Total Adjusted
1: Allegro 0.89 0.82 i 0.86 0.84!

ill: Andante 0.851 0.82; 0.83 0.82!
ill: Piu mosso 0.851 0.86 I 0.86 0.86!
llll: Scherzo 0.86 0.77 i 0.82 0.80!
llll: Trio 0.83! 0.80 I 0.82 0.81 I
llll: Total 0.86 0.78! 0.82 0.80!
IlV: Allegro 1.02 i 1.00! 1.01 1.01 '
IlV: Tempo 1 0.971 0.91 ! 0.94 0.92!
IlV: Presto 0.89 0.85! 0.88 0.86!
i 1
Tempo Relations :
! ; i
1
1: Allegro '
ill: Andante ‘ 0.95 i 0.99 ! 0.97 0.98!
III: Piu mosso 1.01 1.06! 1.03 1.051
illl: Scherzo 1.01 , 0.89! 0.96 0.92!
llll: Trio 0.971 1.04 i 1.00 1.02 i
llll: Total 1.03! 0.97 I 1.00 0.99!
IlV: Allegro 1.19! 1.29! 1.24 1.271
HV: Tempo 1 0.95 0.90! 0.93 0.91 !
IlV: Presto 0.93! 0.95 i 0.94 0.941
! ‘ * ;
Average Disparities 1
tempo 0.90; 0.86! 0.88 0.87!

relation 1.00 i 1.021 1.01 1.01 !
Area Measures IBeethoven Tempo !

! i 1
1: Allegro 1-512 66
II: Andante 1-139 50
III: Allegro 1-164,205-234 108!
III: Piu mosso 1165-204 1321
III: Presto 235-264
IV: Allegro i1-155 1 801
V: Allegro 11-264 60!
i
Tempo Relations ;______________ j_________ icurr./prev. j

: : 1
!l: Allegro 11-512 66 I 0!
CO
CO
111: Andante 50 I 0.7576 •

I
llll: Allegro 11-164,205-234 ! 108 ! 2.16001

illl: Piu mosso 165-204 132 ! 1.2222!
llll: Presto 235-264
IlV: Allegro 1-155 80 I 0.6061 !
V: Allegro 1-264 60 I 0.7500 i
385
Area 1 19541 19621 1977 1984 Average

i ! ! i i
1: Allegro ! 55| 58! 57 57 • 57
II: Andante j 46 48! 48 54! 49
III: Allegro i 95! 95! 90 91 93
III: Piu mosso i 1121 120! 117 114! 116
III: Presto 120: 106! 106 100 i 108
IV: Allegro ! 87! 90| 89 92! 90
V: Allegro 60! 60! 62 63! 61
iTempo Relations '
II:Allegro 0! 0! 0! O1
II: Andante 0.8364! 0.8276 | 0.8421 i 0.9474! 0.8634!
III: Allegro I 2.0652 i 1.9792! 1.8750' 1.6852! 1.9011 i
III: Piu mosso 1.1789! 1.2632! 1.3000! 1.2527! 1.2487!
III: Presto 1.0714! 0.8833 I 0.9060! 0.8772 I 0.9345 i
IV: Allegro 0.7768 ! 0.7500 I 0.7607 ! 0.8070 ! 0.7736:
V: Allegro ' 0.6897 i 0.6667 | 0.6966! 0.6848 i 0.6844!
i l l ! ! !
Average Disparities 1 i !
i ; ! , i ;
tempo 0.92! 0.95! 0.93i 0.95! 0.94 |
relation 1.01 : 1.00 j 1.00! 0.98 i 1.00!
Area T: 1952 IF: 1952 A: 1986 lAVG: OtheiiTotal AVG Adjusted

i - ■ 1 '
1: Allegro i 56' 44! 49i 50 I 54 51

II: Andante ; 48! 41 ! 44 44; 47 46
III: Allegro 105! 90! 93 ; 96! 94 95
III: Piu mosso 122! 95! 112 ! 110! 113 111
III: Presto 113! 100! 113 109! 108 109
IV: Allegro 87 75! 86 831 87 84
V: Allegro 60! 56 I 56 571 60 58
:
1
1 i
;
I
i
Tempo Relations
i i
1: Allegro 0 ; 0; 0;
II: Andante 0.8571 0.9318 ! 0.8980 0.8956 ! 0.8772 0.8876
III: Allegro 2.1875! 2.1951 ! 2.1136 2.1654; 2.0144 2.0994
III: Piu mosso 1.1619 1.0556! 1.2043 1.1406! 1.2024 1.1676 1
III: Presto 0.9262 1.0526 1.0089 0.9959 ! 0.9608 0.9806
IV: Allegro 0.7131 ! 0.7895 , 0.7679 0.7568! 0.7664 0.7610
V: Allegro i 0.6897' 0.7467 ; 0.6512 0.6958 I 0.6893 0.6930
; : i ! ;
Average Disparities ! ! ! !
! : : : ! i
tempo 0.96: 0.81 : 0.89 0.89 i 0.92 i 0.90!
relation i 1.02! 1.04 i 1.03 1.03! 1.01 I 1.02!
387
Area__________ jKarajan Others [Total Adjusted I

!_________________________________________!___________________________;___________________________;___________________________ |___________________________ i
II: Alleqro______ j 0.86 1 0.75 i 0.811 0.78

III: Andante 0.98 0.89 i 0.941 0.91
llll: Alleqro ! 0.86! 0.89 i 0.87; 0.88 ;
III: Piu mosso 0.88! 0.83! 0.861 0.841
llll: Presto_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ,_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ i_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ j_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ j_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ I
IlV: Allegro 1.121 1.031 1.081 1.05 j
V: Alleqro 1.021 0.96 ! 0.991 0.97;
! : | ! I !
i- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - !- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 1- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - i- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 1- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ,
Tempo Relations I_________ j_________ .
I: Alleqro_______I_________ |_________ |_________ !_________ ;

ill: Andante 1.14! 1.181 1.161 1.17
llll: Allegro 0.88; 1.00! 0.93 j 0.97:
llll: Piu mosso 1.02! 0.93! 0.98 0.96 !
llll: Presto j_________ _________ _________ _________
[IV: Allegro ; 1.28; 1.251 1.261 1.26 i
V: Alleqro I 0.911 0.931 0.921 0.92 j
Average Disparities
| ; I i
tempo 0.95: 0.89! 0.93; 0.91 :
relation 1.05' 1.06; 1.05! 1.06;
1: Sostenuto 1-62 69
!: Vivace 63-450 104
II: Allegretto 1-276 76
III: Presto 1-148.237-408.497-640 132
III: Meno 149-236,409-496 84
Tempo Relations curriprev.
1: Sostenuto 1-62 69 > o;

1: Vivace 63-450 104 1.5072,
II: Allegretto 1-276 76 I 0.7308 i
III: Presto 1-148,237-408,497-640 132 i 1.7368.
III: Meno 149-236,409-496 84 0.6364
IV: Allegro 1-465 72 ! 0.8571
389
Area 1951 1962 1977 1985 Average
1: Sostenuto 60' 68 i 68 74 i 68
1: Vivace 92 102 101 101 99
II: Allegretto 61 70; 70 73 69
III: Presto 123 120 121 119 121
III: Meno 57 50 57 56 55
IV: Alleqro 82 78 79 80 80
Tempo Relations
1: Sostenuto o; Oi 0 0
I: Vivace 1.5333 1.5000 1.4853 1.3649 1.4709
II: Allegretto 0.6630 0.6863 0.6931 0.7228 0.6913
illl: Presto 2.01641 1.7143! 1.7286 1.6301 1.7723
III: Meno 0.4634 0.4167 0.4711 0.4706 0.4554
IV: Alleqro 1.4386 1.5600 1.3860 1.4286 1.4533
Average Disparities
tempo 0.8845 0.9088 0.9236 0.9367 0.9134

relation 1.1182 1.0748 1.0541 1.0272 1.0686
390
Area T: 1951 F: 1950 A 1987 AVG: OthenTotal AVG Adjusted

[ ' '
II: Sostenuto 64 55 i 64 61' 65 63
I: Vivace 110: 94: 95 100! 99 100
II: Alleqretto 72 55 66 64. 67 65
llll: Presto 125 123' 124 124 122 123
III: Meno 74 38 54 55! 55 55
IV: Alleqro 76 75 73 75 78 76
Tempo Relations
1: Sostenuto 0i Oi 0
1: Vivace 1.7188! 1.7091: 1.4844 1.6374! 1.5422 1.5958
ill: Alleqretto 0.6545 0.5851 0.6947 0.6448! 0.6714 0.6564
III: Presto 1.7361 2.2364! 1.8788 1.9504- 1.8487 1.9059
III: Meno 0.5920 0.3089! 0.4355 0.4455! 0.4512 0.4480
'IV: Alleqro 1.0270 1.9737: 1.3519 1.4509! 1.4522 1.4515
' | :
Average Disparities
tempo 0.9702: 0.8194! 0.8864 0.8920 0.9042 0.8973

relation 1.0476 1.2459 1.0689 1.1208 1.0909 1.1077
391
Area___________Karajan Others Total_____ Adjusted
1: Sostenuto 0.98 i 0.88 0.94 0.91

1: Vivace 0.95 0.96 0.95: 0.96
II: Allegretto 0.90. 0.85 0.88! 0.86
III: Presto 0.91 0.94 0.93 i 0.93
III: Meno 0.65 0.66 0.66 i 0.66
IV: Alleqro 1.11 1.04 1.08 : 1.05
Tempo Relations
1: Sostenuto
1: Vivace 0.98 1.09 1.02! 1.06
II: Allegretto 0.95 0.88 0.92! 0.90
III: Presto 1.02! 1.12! 1.06! 1.10
III: Meno 0.72 0.70 0.71 ! 0.70
IV: Allegro 1.70! 1.69 1.69! 1.69
i
Average Disparities
tempo 0.92! 0.89 0.90! 0.90

relation 0.91 0.95 0.93: 0.94
1: Allegro 1-373 69
II: Allegretto 1-81 88
III: Menuetto 1-44 126
III: Trio 45-52,53-78 126
Tempo Relations________________________ curr./prev.
I: Allegro 1-373 69 0;
II: Allegretto 1-81 88 1.2754
III: Menuetto 1-44 126 1.4318
III: Trio 45-52,53-78 126 1.0000
IV: Allegro 1-502 84 0.6667
Area 1955 1962. 1977 1984 Average
I: Allegro 53, 52. 54 53 53!

ill: Allegretto 85 i 84! 87 84 : 85 i
III: Menuetto 97 92! 106 90 96!
III: Trio 79 80, 88 80 82!
IV: Allegro 67 72; 78 71 72
Tempo Relations
1: Allegro 0 0! 0: 0t
II: Allegretto 1.6038 1.6154 1.6111 1.5849 1.6038
III: Menuetto 1.1412 1.0952 1.2184 1.0714 1.1316
III: Trio 0.8144 0.8696: 0.8302 0.8889 0.8508
IV: Allegro 0.8481 0.9000: 0.8864 0.8875 0.8805
Average Disparities
tempo 0.7728: 0.7708 i 0.8377 0.7667: 0.7870

relation 1.0077 1.0243 1.0394 1.0135 1.0212.
394
Area T: 1952 F: 1948 A: 1987 AVG: OthenTotal AVG Adjusted

: t i
il: Allegro 51 48 50 I 50! 52 ! 51

II: Allegretto 91 73 I 85 ! 83! 84 ! 84
!lll: Menuetto 115 93 115 108 101 105
HI: Trio 103 88: 96 96! 88 92
ilV: Allegro 68 68 70 69! 71 70
Tempo Relations
il: Allegro 0 0 0i
ill: Allegretto 1.7843 1.5208 1.7000 1.6684 1.6315 1.6522
III: Menuetto 1.2637 1.2740 1.3529 1.2969! 1.2024 1.2556
llll: Trio 0.8957 0.9462 0.8348 0.8922! 0.8685 0.8819
IV: Allegro 0.6602 0.7727 i 0.7292 0.7207 0.8120 0.7606
; | |
Average Disparities
•
tempo 0.8682 0.7505 0.8438 0.8208! 0.8015 0.8124
relation 1.0526 1.0320 1.0556 1.0467! 1.0321 1.0403
395
page four. Percentages of Beethoven’s Metronome
Area Karajan Others Total Adjusted

! ! * • 1
il: Allegro 0.77 0.721 0.75: 0.73 1
III: Allegretto 0.97 0.94; 0.96 1 0.95i
III: Menuetto 0.76 0.85 0.80 I 0.83:
'III: Trio 0.65 0.76 i 0.70! 0.73!
IV: Allegro 0.86 0.82: 0.84 i 0.83!
Tempo Relations
I: Allegro
II: Allegretto 1.26' 1.31 1.281 1.301
III: Menuetto 0.79! 0.91 0.84: 0.88
•III: Trio 0.85 i 0.89! 0.87 0.88 1
IV: Allegro 1.32 i 1.081 1.221 1.141
;
Average Disparities 1
! ; i
tempo 0.80 0.821 0.81 : 0.81 :
relation 0.97 1.04: 1.001 1 .0 2 :
lArea {Measures Beethoven Tempo

i ; ' ;
II: Alleqro 11-547 88 I
i
III: Scherzo 11-395 116
III: Trio 412-530 116
till: Adagio 11-24.43-64.83-157 60 I
llll: Andante 25-42,65-82 63
t
ilV: Theme {92-202 80 1
IIV: 6/8 11-194,213-264 84 !
IlV: Chorus 3 1-32 72
IlV: Adagio 33-60 60 ;
IIV: Chorus 4 :1-108 84 i
IIV: Chorus 5 1-69 1201
IV: Prestissimo 11-65,70-90 132!
Tempo Relations curr./prev.

> t
1: Alleqro :i-547 ! 88 0
II: Scherzo 1-395 116 1.3182
II: Trio 412-530 116 1.0000
III: Adagio 1-24.43-64,83-157 60 0.5172
III: Andante 2542,65-82 i 63 1.0500
IV: Theme 92-202 80 1.2698
IV: 6/8 1-194,213-264 84 1.0500
IV: Chorus 3 1-32 72 0.8571
IV: Adagio I33-60 60 0.9524
IV: Chorus 4 !l-108 84 1.4000
IV: Chorus 5 11-69 120 1.4286
IV: Prestissimo 11-65,70-90 ! 132 1.1000
397
[Area ! 1955 1962 I 1977 i 1983 Average

! i !I I !
II: Allegro 73 72! 72! 71 ! 72
III: Scherzo 118 123' 120 ! 118 I 120
III: Trio 139 141 ! 135 ■ 132 137
jlll: Adagio 37 36 I 35 391 37
llll: Andante 46 44 i 42 I 43 44
IlV: Theme 74 73 I 731 76 74
IIV: 6/8 122 127 I 124 I 126 I 125
IIV: Chorus 3 57 60 I 56 ! 58 i 58
IIV: Adagio 47 51 I 47 48 48
89 881 83
CO
IlV: Chorus 4 88
IIV: Chorus 5 115 109 i 110 : 105 110'
IlV: Prestissimo 158 167 169 I 160 164
1 : ! : i
Tempo Relations ‘ ' i
! •
1: Allegro 0 o 0 o;
II: Scherzo 1.6164 1.7083 1.6667 1.6620 1.66341
II: Trio 1.1780 1.1463 1.1250 1.1186 1.14201
llll: Adagio 0.2662 0.2553 0.2593 0.2955 0.2691 I
llll: Andante 1.2432 1.2222 1.2000 1.1026 1.1920!
IIV: Theme 1.6087 1.6591 1.7381 ! 1.7674 1.69331
IV: 6/8 1.6486 1.7397 1.6986 1.6579 1.6862
IV: Chorus 3 0.4672 0.4724 0.4516 0.4603 0.4629
IV: Adagio 1.6087 1.6591 1.7381 1.7674 1.6933
IV: Chorus 4 1.6486 1.7397 1.6986 1.6579 1.6862
IV: Chorus 5 ; 0.4672 0.4724 0.4516 0.4603 0.4629
IV: Prestissimo ! 2.7719 2.7833 3.0179 2.7586 2.8329
!
Average Disparities i
i i
tempo j 1.00 1.02 1.00 0.99 1.00

relation 1.22 1.24 1.26 1.23 1.24
Area T: 1952 IF: 1951 A: 1987 AVG: OthenTotal AVG Adjusted

: I ! ; !
ls>
00
1: Alleqro 62! 64! 69! 71 70

[
II: Scherzo 118! 1171 106! 114! 117 115

II: Trio 151 ; 116 i 149! 139! 138 138
III: Adagio 41 ! 31 i 35! 36! 36 36
III: Andante 44! 36! 41: 40! 42 41
IV: Theme 79! 66: 711 72! 73 73
IV: 6/8 130 133! 130: 131 127 129
IV: Chorus 3 58 54 55! 56! 57 56
IV: Adagio 44 44! 48! 45 47 46
IV: Chorus 4 93 100 90! 941 90 93
IV: Chorus 5 118! 116! 120' 1181 113 116
IV: Prestissimo 145 181 164 i 163! 163 163
Tempo Relations
III: Scherzo 1.4390 1.8871 1.6563 1.6608! 1.6623! 1.6614

ill: Trio 1.2797 0.9915 1.4057 1.2256 1.1778 1.2047
ill I: Adagio 0.2715 0.2672 0.2349 0.2579 0.2643 0.2607
III: Andante 1.0732 1.1613 1.1714 1.1353 1.1677 1.1495
IIV: Theme 1.7955 1.8333 1.7317 1.7868! 1.7334 1.7635
jIV: 6/8 1.6456 2.0152 1.8310 1.8306 1.7481 1.7945
(IV: Chorus 3 0.4462 0.4060 0.4231 0.4251 0.4467 0.4345
IIV: Adagio 1.7955 1.8333 1.7317 1.7868 1.7334 1.7635!
IIV: Chorus 4 1.6456 2.0152 1.8310 1.8306 1.7481 1.7945:
IlV: Chorus 5 0.4462 0.4060 0.4231 0.4251 0.4467 0.43451
IIV: Prestissimo 2.5000 3.3519 2.9818 2.9446 2.8808 2.9167
I I
;I ii i. !! j!
Average Disparities !
! ! ! ! f ;
jtempo i 1.03 0.98 1.00 1.00 1.00 1.00
{relation 1.20 1.35 1.29 1.28 1.26 1.27
399
Area Karajan 'Others Total [Adjusted
il: Allegro 0.82! 0.79 0.81 0.80!

ill: Scherzo 1.031 0.98 1.01 0.99 i
ill: Trio 1.18! 1.20 1.19! 1.19!
I: Adagio 0.61 0.59 0.60 0.60
HU: Andante 0.69 0.64 i 0.67! 0.65
IIV: Theme 0.93 0.90 i 0.91 0.91
IV: 6/8 1.49 1.56' 1.52! 1.54
ilV: Chorus 3 0.80 0.77! 0.79! 0.78
ilV: Adagio 0.80 0.76! 0.78! 0.77 i
IV: Chorus 4 1.04 1. 1 2 ! 1.07 1.1 0 !
i|V: Chorus 5 0.91 0.98' 0.94 0.97
IIV: Prestissimo 1.24! 1.24! 1.24 1.24
Tempo Relations
il: Allegro
Scherzo 1.26 1.26! 1.26! 1.26!
I: Trio 1.14 1.23! 1.18! 1.20
III: Adagio 0.52! 0.50 0.51 I 0.50
Andante 1.14! 1.08 1.11 1.09
;IV: Theme 1.33 j 1.41 1.37i 1.39
ilV: 6/8 1.61 1.741 1 .6 6 ! 1.71
IIV: Chorus 3 0.54! 0.50! 0.52! 0.51
ilV: Adagio 1.78 1.8 8 ! 1.82! 1.85
IIV: Chorus 4 1.20 1.31 1.251 1.28
IV: Chorus 5 0.321 0.30 0.31 ! 0.30
IlV: Prestissimo 2.58 2.68 2.62! 2.65
Average Disparities
[tempo 0.96 0.96 0.96! 0.96!

relation ! 1.22 1.26 1.24! 1.25!
Vita
Parke G. Burgess Jr
Education
1997 Doctor of Musical Arts
Orchestral Conducting
Peter Eros, Advisor
1990 Master of Music
Orchestral Conducting
Timothy Perry, Advisor
State University of New York,
Binghamton
1987 Bachelor of Arts
Music Major
Cum Laude
Yale University
1987-1989 Intensive Conducting Study
Pierre Monteux School
Charles Bruck, Teacher
Professional Positions
1996-present Music Director & Conductor
Everett Youth Symphonies
1996 Interim Executive Director
Tacoma Symphony Orchestra
1992-1996 Cello Faculty, Administration
Marrowstone Music Festival
1986-1987 Music Director & Conductor
Yale Bach Society
1984-1986 Music Director & Conductor
Yale Russian Chorus

Karajan The Interpreter A Cri

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INFORMATION TO USERS

The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the

Oversize materials (e.g., maps, drawings, charts) are reproduced by

Photographs included in the original manuscript have been reproduced

A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment

Doctor of Musical Arts

UMI Microform 9736249

This microform edition is protected against unauthorized

This work investigates the nature of orchestral conducting using the

Num ber Page

Those who honor the conducting profession, who feel a sense of

1. The Mysterious Art of Conducting

[Poets] are the very opposite of performing artists, who, except in

conductor’s motions as if by magic. It seems that the conductor causes great

part of his book, A History of Orchestral Conducting in Theory and

. . . even after three years of constant thinking and talking about

4 Elliott W. Galkin, A History of Orchestral Conducting in Theory

Led by the interviewer’s assumption that conducting is indeed

. . . the mystery of conducting is the same as all musical mysteries-

7 Matheopoulos, Maestro 82. I reach a different conclusion: that

explanations; more can be learned about the substance of conducting than

9 Susanne K. Langer, Feeling and Form (New York: Charles

2. Karajan the Interpreter

Tragically, Karajan’s personal dynamism and problematic relation to

three conductors will be used only to serve as a foil to provide a better

10 Richard Osborne, Conversations with Karajan (Oxford: Oxford

opportunities to advance his own career, and challenges us to question

In light of the Nazi’s genocidal anti-Semitism, we can easily see how

While some critics admire the perfection of his performances, others

I call the scholarly study of a performance document a "critique" and I

systematically avoid the use of subjective value judgments. Third, it must

unencumbered by purely subjective interjections, can the critic truly

In the first place, philosophy of art should, I believe, begin in the

consequently o f the philosophical basis I have laid for them, by fruitfully

Wittgenstein de-emphasizes the actual results of philosophy. Wittgenstein

novice an anecdote that appears nonsensical by normal logical standards.

15 This idea of meditation is the subject of one of Karajan’s favorite

16 Wittgenstein, Investigations 48 (section 119): "The results of

analytical process serves as a form of therapy in the same sense intended by

17 Wittgenstein, Investigations 50 (section 129).

18 Zinman used the word in a masterclass I attended in College Park,

rehearsal of Schumann’s Sym phony N o. 4. This reveals Karajan’s mind at

In order to speak fruitfully about the nature of music, we must accept

1 While Langer carefully avoids the term "meaning" in musical

1. Wittgenstein and the Problem of Meaning

Wittgenstein demands to know in the deepest possible way: how does

human civilization.2 He found that no model of learning based upon the

Instead, he would ask, "what do I mean when I say that such-and-such is

We must do away with all explanation, and description alone must

language, and that in such a way as to make us recognize those workings: in

5 Wittgenstein, Investigations 47 (section 109).

to light a model of real phenomena very similar to Wittgenstein’s model of

8 Wittgenstein, Investigations 82 (section 203): "Language is a

Where is the sense of connexion effected between the sense of the

9 Wittgenstein. Investigations 80-81 (sections 197-202).

gestures. It evolved into a highly differentiated labyrinth of practices and

2. Langer and the Anim alSymbolicum

Langer’s philosophy of music, which she regards as the starting point

Cassirer’s towering achievement, completed in 1929, was the multi-volumed

12 Ernst Cassirer, The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms, trans. Ralph

| 7 Langer, Feeling 27.

one of "otherness" from reality—the impression of an illusion enfolding the

and the beholder of the articulated symbol might understand it in any