Allan Pettersson – Complete Edition: Symphonies Nos. 10-11, Symfonisk sats, 1971-73

Symphony No. 10 (1971-1972)

Not since Harrison Birtwistle’s Exody have i had so much trepidation writing about an orchestral piece. Pettersson’s Symphony No. 10 picks up the baton from No. 9 and doesn’t just run with it, but positively sprints for a full 25 minutes. That in itself makes the piece a daunting proposition. Whereas previously Pettersson could be relied upon to allow his strong melodic sensibility to break up – or, at least, challenge – the prevailing momentum, for the most part in Symphony No. 10 that’s really not the case at all. Furthermore, Pettersson’s fondness for chugging tempi is jettisoned here in favour of a very fast fundamental pulse that barely wavers throughout. It’s interesting to reflect that this unstoppably fluid work was begun while Pettersson was himself reduced to complete immobility, hospitalised for many months due to both his rheumatoid arthritis and an associated kidney problem.

One of the ways into the symphony is Pettersson’s ongoing obsessive streak, which manifests in a widespread, highly contagious use of motifs. There are several that crop up throughout the work, essentially variations of each other (simple mixtures of short and long durations) and to an extent these give some shape to the relentless forward motion, rhythmically characterising episodes along the way. There’s an evolutionary quality to the use of motifs, such that one seems to morph into the next, in an organic development just as continual as the underlying propulsion. Also, while Pettersson greatly dials down the lyricism in this symphony, as i already mentioned, there are melodic threads that pop up along the way, not exactly distinct but certainly discernible, increasing our sense of perspective regarding what’s going on in those passages.

The one major behavioural shift in the piece occurs around six minutes before the end. Pettersson abruptly cancels everything for a brief moment of just violins, before entering a sequence that’s more rhythmically, harmonically and texturally clear. Motifs still run wild, but there’s now something possibly hymn-like playing out underneath the momentum. It doesn’t manage to expand, still less cause a structural change to the symphony’s trajectory, but it’s an important few minutes, which bring about a return to how the piece began before tumbling towards a brash conclusion.

All the same, though, Symphony No. 10 is formidably convoluted, and without getting into a full-scale, in-depth analysis of the piece, it’s probably not helpful to say too much more here about what’s going on. Indeed, convolution is just as much a primary characteristic of the piece as its unstoppable tempo, which therefore creates significant challenges for anyone courageous enought to record the work. Three have tried; only one has demonstrably succeeded. That being said, the other two are not failures, not at all, but they each suffer from elements that detract from an entirely transparent reading.

In the case of the NDR Radiophilharmonie Hannover conducted by Alun Francis, the recording yet again has issues with the CPO label’s inability to adequately capture low register weight. There is, admittedly, a hell of a lot going on in the upper registers of the orchestra, yet it’s rooted in, and often propelled along by, the bass instruments – indeed, the entire symphony gets going from a rushing kick in the lower strings. Nonetheless, the orchestra needs to be praised for their tenacity; that in itself often makes this a thrilling performance. However, there are three sequences where the music becomes especially convoluted, and in all three of them, Francis doesn’t manage to clarify the inner details sufficiently, with the result that, for all their wild activity, they become strangely inert and undifferentiated.

A much earlier recording by Antal Doráti with the Swedish Radio Symphony Orchestra isn’t readily available, as it’s never been reissued since its 1975 vinyl release. It’s a shame, as it’s significantly better than the CPO recording. For a start, it’s quicker (two minutes shorter than Francis), but more importantly Doráti makes a lot of the individuated lines and details that Pettersson occasionally emphasises. He also clarifies the times when falling motifs undergo an extension into the makings of a brisk but sustained line, making a link between rhythm and melody almost entirely lacking in Francis’ performance. Those convoluted sequences are better here, though the first of them does sound rather monotonous. The other two, though, are hugely exciting, with the last of them (during the late, clearer episode) genuinely mesmerising, clarified as multiple layers happening simultaneously but all part of a complex, larger connected whole. The stereo field seems somewhat narrow, but with audio issues it’s hard to tell to what extent it’s due to the unavoidable limitations of vinyl; it would be interesting to hear what a modern digital remaster of this recording would sound like.

Once again, the BIS Complete Edition triumphs over the competition, and once again it’s down to Lief Segerstam with the Norrköping Symphony Orchestra. He’s just as quick as Doráti, but in every other respect the symphony is raised up several notches. The opening becomes a tangle of exciting fanfares, which here become the apparent seed for the assorted motifs that will soon spring up and start spreading. There’s also a beautifully clear presentation of half-speed lines and full-speed momentum (similar to the concentric tempi heard in Symphony No. 9), setting up a differentiation that’s crucial to maintaining clarity as the work progresses. Unlike either Francis or Doráti, Segerstam is able to open out the symphonic scope – in the process almost disconnecting the rhythmic motifs from their metric foundation – without in any way diminishing the rapid forward motion. It’s one of a number of ways that this recording, again unlike the others, conveys the sense of different episodes that the symphony is passing through, always interconnected (even interpenetrating) but definitely distinct. All of the most convoluted sequences are kept riveting, either through vivid clarity of their inner details or, as in the second of them (around 14 minutes in) by a serious reduction in volume, holding our attention as it drives on just as relentlessly but at a fraction of its previous size. This is also the only recording that strongly projects the notion of harmonic possibilities through certain passages, throwing out maybe “dominants” at various points that suggest they want resolution. It’s not that kind of music, and there aren’t the overt cadences of previous symphonies here, but they also help to provide shape to the overall structure of what seems to be, at first listen, an immensely challenging work.

Symphony No. 11 (1971-1973)

There’s no need to approach Allan Pettersson’s music chronologically, as i’m doing here, but in many ways it’s helpful to have explored Symphony No. 10 before turning to No. 11. Again we’re thrust into a relentlessly inventive 25-minute melee, again we’re forced to do our best to connect with and make sense of the ideas rushing past us. To an extent, it’s actually harder to parse its details, as this time Pettersson doesn’t provide the luxury of strong motivic movement. One could hear this as a return of sorts to the intense volatility of the earlier symphonies, though, as with No. 10, there’s a cogent sense that the orchestra is united, perhaps not all on the same page but definitely all on pages from the same book.

It perhaps makes most sense to elaborate about Symphony No. 11 via the two recordings that have so far been made of it, as they give different impressions of what’s going on. For Alun Francis and the NDR Radiophilharmonie Hannover, it’s a work of high drama, characterised by the certainty, quantity and enormity of its swelling climaxes. The ever-present snare drum marshals the orchestra once again, this time with considerable support from the timpani, between them providing a metric underpinning and injections of energetic oomph that keep the symphony hurtling along. Thankfully, the orchestra brings vivid transparency to the textures (better than they did in No. 10), throwing special light on sustained string passages that meander incongruously through extreme turbulence. In this reading those strands are essentially inconsequential, a contrasting element but not a significant one, lost and all but forgotten in the rhythmic stridency and near-chaos that forms the symphony’s central section. Only toward the conclusion, when Pettersson clarifies things, and even hints at a possibility of contrapuntal music (which doesn’t happen) do those strands seem pertinent. We’re left, at the end, with a strong hint that this is actually what the piece wanted to do, wanted to be, though by this stage it’s like an afterthought, one that makes the final chord sudden and unconvincing.

An alternative reading, which bestows on these lyrical threads much greater importance, is given by the Norrköping Symphony Orchestra with Leif Segerstam, included in the Complete Edition. This difference is made overwhelmingly apparent at the very start, Norrköping suffusing it with warmth and beauty. It’s strongly redolent of the lyrical introductions to previous symphonies, though here free of all traces of heavy-laden plangency. Segerstam doesn’t waste any time undermining this opening gambit; the brass are especially harsh in what follows (biting accents), and every section of the orchestra seems to have been treated to an independent energy boost. A curious chiming effect around three minutes in is made genuinely uncanny in this performance, like a ghostly element heard from a parallel musical plane. Though Segerstam ramps up the level of drama, this is channelled, a couple of minutes later, into a distinct musical split between lyrical tendrils – which connect back to the start – and driving rhythmic impulses. The underlying volatility is thereby made separate, like something playing out at a tectonic level, subjecting both melody and rhythm to its whims (whereas for Alun Francis the rhythmic momentum is an integral part of – and indistinguishable from – the volatility).

Symphony No. 11 is thereby articulated as a predominately lyrical work, but where its driving force is up against highly energised elements. This doesn’t indicate conflict – all pages from the same book, remember – but rather a jostling of sympathetic ideas, none of which intends to wipe out the others. (One might almost think of them as complementary, though that might be stretching a point.) As in No. 10 there’s a sequence around halfway through that in the CPO recording becomes flat and glazeworthy, but Segerstam keeps it alive through clear distinctions not only between melodic and rhythmic materials but between the sections of the orchestra; we can literally hear how their behaviours connect back to earlier in the work. On a couple of occasions Segerstam seemingly throws everything into the middle distance, a bold move that also gives shape to the work’s dynamic contour and only makes the subsequent eruptive moments more impactful. But, of course, it’s already been established that that’s not what the work is about, and so it’s no surprise in the closing minutes, as things clear, to find ourselves in a strongly lyrical place (even with cadential hints) and a final chord that seems to have been our destination from the very first bar.

Symfonisk sats (1973)

Around the same time as these two symphonies, Allan Pettersson also wrote a short orchestral work – his first non-symphony in over 15 years – as a tribute to filmmaker Boris Engström. Originally titled Poem, Pettersson gave it the more formal name Symfonisk sats [Symphonic movement] some time after. The name change makes sense, as it’s easy to regard Symfonisk sats as a miniature version – or even an offcut – of either Symphony No. 10 or No. 11. With a duration of just over 10 minutes, it’s a bit like a fever dream of the previous two symphonies, featuring an equivalent juxtaposition of lyrical and rhythmic elements though, due to a mixture of the compressed time span and Pettersson cranking things up a bit, the tone is frantically intense almost throughout. The only calm comes at the very start, which is like a music waking up (or, if it’s a fever dream, falling asleep), and gently opening out. This lasts for a mere 20 seconds, until an abrupt rupture throws us pell mell into a maelstrom in which melody doesn’t immediately disappear but soon becomes almost irrelevant in the hectic tuttis where ideas, lines, gestures and shapes continually overlap in a huge, swelling cascade.

This is countered by a gentler middle episode where there’s the impression that Pettersson isn’t merely alluding to extant music but actually quoting something, with clearer harmonies and even cadential moments. Everything swings back the other way, a messy tangle of colliding notes that soon rushes into the stratosphere in a climactic moment highlighting the brass. It descends back into the lyrical music again, essentially picking up where it left off earlier but at a pace that feels uncomfortably brisk, though over time one feels this is actually a demonstration of melodic confidence, particularly as the quasi-tonic-dominant cadences sound more emphatic. This isn’t the end, though; the work abruptly halts, restarting at speed, not returning to the tumult but instead broadening out, concluding with fragments in the winds over sustained strings. It’s a lot of drama for just over 10 minutes of music.

The earliest of the three recordings, by the Stockholm Philharmonic Orchestra with Yuri Ahronovitch (not on streaming services but availably digitally), is of dubious quality, in terms of both performance and sonics. Taken from a live performance on 12 April 1986, it’s described in the liner notes as a “private recording on tape”, and while it’s certainly bright, there’s a noticeable lack of low register clarity. Furthermore, no doubt another limitation of the recording, the frantic tuttis are just a large busy mess, in which it’s extremely hard to make out any details except for the most demonstrative. The performance is just weird, partly because it’s so slow (2-3 minutes longer than the other two recordings) that the early portion of the work sounds stodgy and sluggish, but mainly because Ahronovitch makes the structural shifts between contrapuntal complexity and lyricism sound like two different pieces of music bolted together. Some sense comes when we hear the lyrical music emerging through the fug of the later processional sequence, but this is in turn undermined by the final eruption, making the whole piece just seem random, when it’s anything of the kind.

The BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra conducted by Alun Francis give a much stronger performance that really leans into the drama and makes it coherent. All the same, the work’s lyrical material comes across as somewhat matter of fact in character – making it sound at the mercy of the work’s volatile state, rather than an equal participant (which, depending on your perspective, could be true) – though there’s some lovely shaping of its contours in the winds. But the performance is at its best in the punchy, pounding, frenetic passages where the combination of a pummelling pulse with the multiplicity of instrumental strands – clearly discernible here – makes for a deliriously heady concoction.

‘Balance’ wouldn’t necessarily be the right word to use in music like this, but in terms of the juxtaposition of melodic and rhythmic elements, the recording in the Complete Edition, by the Norrköping Symphony Orchestra and Christian Lindberg (a new recording made specially for this edition), in a similar way to Segerstam’s reading of Symphony No. 11 gives much more weight to the lyrical music. For all its instability, there’s an overwhelming melodic sensibility communicated within the first couple of minutes, which only evaporates when things heat up around it. In this performance there’s a glorious sense of enthusiasm as the cause for such a superabundance of activity. Again, there’s no sense of conflict, but rather of sheer elation at the act of invention and mass music-making, in which the trumpets, rather bombastic under Francis, here become joyously heraldic. The gentler episode hints more clearly at Baroque music as possible inspiration, though remaining elusive, and there’s a lovely clarification in what follows of two superimposed layers, a clear line being traced through the middle of a streaky, cloud-like string texture. The ending is a blast, suggesting oom-pahs in the ostensibly too quick tempo for the final melody, but ultimately maintaining focus on lyricism right to the very end.

---