This is a symphony that has unleashed passions. Although it was Mendelssohn, to whom Schumann entrusted the score he had come across on a trip to Vienna, who premiered the work in Leipzig, the symphony, which lasts almost an hour, was no less revolutionary. The Austrian composer’s masterpiece marks a boundary between two worlds in Germanic music: Beethoven and Bruckner, from the beginnings to the regrets of Romanticism. 

In this comparison I have not been able to select certain versions, firstly because of the number of recordings, and secondly because the work is, in my opinion, rarely performed well. 

The first movement consists of two main parts. The first is an Andante, a play of contrasts, light and shade, in which only complete synaesthesia combined with great clarity can bring out such important details. Indeed, they are like ghosts lighting oil lamps, each instrument makes its own measured, sometimes discreet appearance, and it is not very difficult for the conductor to fall into vulgarity, or at least banality. 

The horns sound great with Furtwangler in Vienna (1953), perhaps a little more committed in Berlin at the height of the war (1942). Then the conductor never overdoes it, it’s a disconcertingly natural game that unfolds, not a battle, but a uniqueness in favour of the detail. 

After this absolutely extraordinary version Abendroth pales in comparison, over-emphasising the romantic aspects, if not mannered like Mengelberg, at least a little bland in comparison to Furtwangler. If there has been so much talk of the Sawallisch miracle, it is, for me at least, not in the Great that it is accomplished: the marvellous Dresden sound becomes entangled in a really heavy and smooth slowness. The Viennese version, while already having the merit of giving a clear and quite pleasant vision, does not make the Sawallisch version one of the immense greats, at least for me. 

Harnoncourt, also in a Viennese concert, takes note of every detail in order to let them sound divine, but he sometimes loses himself in meanders that are a little river-like, a little in the middle of nowhere, a little too phoned in from time to time, whereas Muti (Vienna) or Celibidache (Munich) were able to keep a more than welcome balance. Giulini ( Chicago ) makes the introduction a majestic moment that seems timeless: perhaps this is the perfect introduction, which succeeds where Harnoncourt was lacking. 

Leonard Bernstein (in Amsterdam) sinks into a kind of heavy humming that does not appeal to me at all. Finally, Gunter Wand is quite incisive while keeping his lightness and sense of detail, and this hits the nail on the head. 

The second part, Allegro, of the movement allows Furtwangler to let the horses out of the saddle, and it is the romanticism that comes to us and enchants us. 

Toscanini (in Philadelphia) is too dry and far too eager, there is no point in running. Solti, if he is in a remarkably balanced form, purrs and misses the work to make a spectacle of himself, and this was not what was expected. Karl Bohm, if content with a pale performance in Berlin, gives a slightly better version in Dresden, details are missing here and there, and the tension loses balance and the timpanist in the process. Harnoncourt makes up for his introduction, though he retains a few hints of mannerism. Bernstein, for his part, continues on his path… Wand and Muti each offer a balanced vision, without artifice, honest and pleasant. 

At last the Celibidache miracle takes shape, all the possible details are revealed to form a formidable Brucknerian arch. 

The second movement is a story being told. By Jochum it is perhaps a little frozen, when Furtwangler at the same tempo offers extraordinary contrasts, and an absolutely inexorable advance. 

Celibidache excels, even with a touch of humour. Toscanini loses himself with his metronome, while Giulini shows that he never takes the easy way out. If Bohm in Dresden had completely collapsed the tension in the first movement, this is hardly better! Wand is generous, perhaps offering something ‘too pleasant’. Frans Bruggen, if he had somewhat deconstructed the first movement, forming at times a skeletal orchestration, astonishes us in the Andante con moto, a new world of enchanted spirits and obscure fantasies unfolds before our astonished ears.

There are two distinct miracles in this movement: Furtwangler in 1942, the apotheosis of the tragic, and Harnoncourt in Salzburg in 2009, ever more theatrical, oscillating between magical chiaroscuro and never forgetting that Andante means ‘going’. 

The Scherzo is a changing movement. Its great particularity, when it comes to interpretations, lies in the contrasts. If Giulini in Chicago is at his best, Jochum’s interpretation falls apart: it is smooth and lacks tension. Gunter Wand is imperial, a little demonstrative perhaps, but in the genre it is for me a reference performance. 

Furtwangler and Celibidache put on a great, lively theatre where figurative and abstract elements coexist. The movement lends itself well to historically informed interpretations, Harnoncourt and Bruggen excel, with a small reservation about the latter: so much first degree. 

I suggest you listen to the one that I think is the best synthesis of the mastery of contrasts and the theatrical aspect of the work, namely Riccardo Muti in Vienna. 

The Finale is, strictly speaking, exhilarating. Furtwangler turns it into a veritable magma of timbre and energy, with a strength that has never been equalled since, I think. 

If the breath of Furtwangler’s 1942 version has never been equalled since, some conductors are falling over themselves. Harnoncourt gives an example, contrasts and tension, contrasts that Muti lacks in Berlin, but not in Vienna. Wand finishes in beauty, once again a model of interpretation, which in a sense sets an absolute benchmark. 

Giulini and Celibidache offer us the details, both in their own very special style, but with a real elegance, completely unique and to be found throughout the discography. I suggest you listen to Celibidache’s version and its refinement which distinguishes even better the whole construction of the orchestral fabric. 

This is the most successful movement, indeed the only one, of the Bohm version (in Dresden), although I believe that the timpanist has still not been found. Bernstein and Jochum are definitely out… as is Sawallisch. Finally, Abendroth and Mengelberg, the two romantic conductors, finish their architectural and rhythmic prowess in style. 

Schubert’s Ninth is for me the composer’s greatest symphony, and history has undoubtedly recognised this, as witnessed by the immense discography available today. 

My favourite versions are the one by Wilhelm Furtwangler in 1942, a paroxysm and an extreme at the same time, which is finally quite balanced, but also Harnoncourt in Salzburg in 2009, who plays on the details and the drive, Celibidache in Munich, who reveals the construction and the architecture of the work, Giulini and his perfect copy in Chicago and finally Gunter Wand in Berlin, who is the embodiment of the clear, clean and unmistakable reference, in a way. 

The more curious will also be interested in Riccardo Muti’s versions in Berlin or Vienna, in Hermann Abendroth and Willem Mengelberg, and finally, the enthusiasts of period instruments will be delighted with Frans Bruggen and Jos van Immersel.