There are many fine conductors working today, but who among them has the sheer panache of a Beecham, a Bernstein, a Karajan, or a Munch (to name only four)? Charles Mackerras does, and when he retires we’re in big trouble. The Roman tone poems need to be played with gusto, with abandon, and with a shameless celebration of their brilliant and gaudy colors. Antonio Pappano gets some very pretty and atmospheric textures in the quiet moments, such as the outer sections of Fountains, or the nocturne in Pines, but the climaxes uniformly fizzle. In Pines, the Catacombs literally are dead; the final march resolutely fails to build, thanks to indifferent brass and sonics that seem too diffused through a large acoustic. Festivals has loudness, but the always second-rate Santa Cecilia Orchestra never brings to the music the requisite sharpness of focus or rhythmic punch. Il tramonto comes off best–it’s for string orchestra after all–and Christine Rice sings well. But really, who wants 80-plus minutes of boring Respighi?
