A tale of two records.
First up, a sturdy 10” Columbia LP from the early 1950s, in which George Szell conducts the Philharmonic-Symphony of New York (soon to be re-christened New York Philharmonic) in two Wagner overtures. Side one, Flying Dutchman; flip side, Tannhäuser. After giving AL 55 a proper bath, both inside and out, I put it on my VPI Scout II and settled back for a listen. The Dutchman emerged with almost incredible vigor; this is without a doubt the most dynamic, surging, and just plain fantastic Dutchman overture I’ve ever heard. Even in his pre-Cleveland days Szell could squeeze the last ounce out of even an outfit as raggedy as the NYS-P.
It soon became obvious that AL 55’s earlier owner was just as taken with the Dutchman performance as I was. Even though the little record has been well cared for, even though it shines merrily and is free from obvious scratches or dings, as soon as the volume levels creep up to forte its grooves begin gasping. At louder levels, AL 55 starts blowing raspberries. Diagnosis: severe groove damage. Treatment: none. Prognosis: uncurable.
Early-50s tonearms pressed down hard; it was the only way to get a measurable response from a ceramic cartridge. AL 55 clearly enjoyed the roughshod embraces of a sultry bruiser of a tonearm in the past. It enjoyed them well and often. AL 55 Side One has been played half to death. It’s worn out. The grooves probably look like dried-out lava channels. Side Two appears to be the unwanted maiden aunt; having experienced little to no rough trade, it plays with nary cough nor wheeze.
I wasn’t upset about AL 55’s shortcomings, given their source. Tough love or not, it was indeed love. Decrepitude notwithstanding, AL 55 still blazes through the Dutchman Overture, even if it gets croupy in some places and downright farty in others.
Then there’s the much sadder tale of Capitol P 8271, a handsome 12” LP from 1954 that was among a batch of records I rescued sight unseen. Whereas AL 55’s contents have become discographic rarities, this celebrated performance hasn’t been out of print since the original release. Nathan Milstein plays the Brahms Violin Concerto, accompanied by William Steinberg and the Pittsburgh Symphony. Befitting its status as a crown jewel amongst Brahms Concerto recordings it has been re-released, re-mastered, and ultimately enshrined in EMI’s “Great Recordings of the Century” series. That’s only right and proper. The recording captures Milstein, Steinberg, and the Pittsburghers at their collective glorious best.
This afternoon was the first time I actually took P 8271 out of the box and gave it a look-see. My heart sank. No inner sleeve. The grimy cardboard jacket has split apart on two sides. The LP itself is vintage early-50s Capitol, meaning a splendid pressing on high-grade vinyl. But the record’s surface is a psychotic gridlock of scratches, gouges, and scuffs. Slashes and scratches every which direction, fat ones, skinny ones, short ones, long ones. It couldn’t be done merely by scraping a tonearm across the record surface. The poor thing looks as though somebody took a steak knife to it.
There was no point in risking my precious Lyra Delos stylus on such a grubby vinyl horrorscape. Besides, I’ve got EMI’s best recent digital remastering sitting right on my media server. So one mangy old beat-up copy shouldn’t matter very much. But I started feeling indignant, maybe even a bit angry. How dare they treat Nathan Milstein like this, I thought. It isn’t as though this is Ethel and Bob’s Accordion Favorites. This is Nathan Milstein, ferkrissake, a patrician violinist at his peak, playing an Olympian masterwork, partnered by a wonderful orchestra, captured in deep, rich monophonic high fidelity audio. Records don’t get any classier than this.
Unlike AL 55, P 8271 didn’t wind up a mess because somebody loved it too much. I doubt that somebody hated it, though. Maybe the kids used it as a frisbee. Or maybe it fell out of that disintegrating jacket and got ground and sanded by objects hither and yon. Casual neglect is far more likely than deliberate abuse.
But it’s a crying shame anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t care. After all, it’s not as though there aren’t umpty-million copies of the Milstein/Steinberg Brahms Concerto floating around in various guises. Somehow that doesn’t make it less precious, though. It’s a great performance of a great work, superbly recorded and expertly pressed onto prime-grade vinyl. This record should have been treated like the royalty it is.
I gave P 8271 a thorough cleaning on my VPI machine. I gave it a new inner sleeve. I cleaned the jacket and carefully taped up the split edges. I enclosed it in a protective outer plastic sleeve, just as I do with all my records after cleaning them. Then I placed it on the shelf alongside my other Capitols. Sonically long dead from multiple stab wounds it may be, but at least I can give it a dignified final resting place.