No doubt there are exceptions, but I guess that the natural habitat of
the species maestro conductorus is the concert hall or opera house with
live audience.  Apart from anything else, when he strays into the rather
different ambience of the recording studio he is invading the territory of
a quite different species, technicus technicus, who is in possession and,
albeit in the most deferential manner, in a very real sense actually holds
sway.

Of course, there is tension in the concert hall, but in the recording
studio there is stress as well as tension.  In concert, you start at the
beginning, play through till the end, acknowledge the inevitable applause,
and then go home.  In recordings, usually the number and timings of
sessions is pre-determined, so the pressure is on to create the best
possible performance within the time available.  Inevitably, with a few
notable exceptions it hardly ever happens that the work can just be played
through as the composer intended.  Some conductors like to record short
takes, others prefer long takes, but each method has its problems.  Someone
has a slight problem with timing or intonation of a short phrase? In
concert, that's just part of the immediacy of the performance, very often
forgiven (or at least patiently tolerated) by the audience if they like the
performance as a whole.  In recording, however, that must be repeated
perhaps many times, until it is just right.

What can be particularly frustrating in recording is when, after perhaps
several takes of a passage, there is a particularly good take, musically
speaking, that the conductor and all the players are specially pleased
with, only for the engineer to ask for another take because of some
technical problem.  Usually there will then be a pause, waiting for the
red light to come on again, instead of which an assistant will emerge from
the control box, make his way to some obscure microphone somewhere, make
some imperceptibly minute adjustment to it, and retreat back to the control
box.  The musicians will then have to try to reproduce exactly what they
have just done, all over again, entirely for the benefit of the minutely
adjusted device, and hope that this time the gods of technology have been
appeased.

It is hardly any wonder that so few recordings are able to match the vital
spontaneity of a live performance.

On the other hand.  Some recording projects are very special occasions.
There could be all sorts of reasons for that, of course.  Perhaps it is a
premiere recording, or one with a rare combination of great artists, or one
that has never been done in that way before, or one that is not likely ever
to be done again for some time to come, or even where the venue is special,
whether it's the Beatles returning to Abbey Road or the Quatuor Pour La Fin
Du Temps recorded at Auschwitz.  Putting such a performance on permanent
record can be anything but a routine engagement.  There is a special
responsibility involved in bringing something new, definitive and quite
possibly unique into the world.  With apologies to Orwell, one can say that
all musical occasions are unique, but some are more unique than others.
Concerts come and go, great concerts are remembered by those who attended
them, but a great or important recording is something else.

Alan Moss
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