Having been galvanised recently by the Czech Philharmonic under the batons of Ancerl and Belohlavek, I thought it was time to explore their expositions in domains other than Martinu. It did not take long for my eyes to fasten upon their Bruckner with the formidably named Lovro von Matacic.

I have long maintained that Bruckner is best played by Germanic orchestras. This axiom is cardinal. That being said, exceptions arise - and there is nothing to say that an ensemble must possess the same patina as the Berlin Philharmonic et al. For sure, there is a different timbre to the woodwind and brass of the Czech Philharmonic but not unidiomatically so: Bruckner is no stranger to the bucolic. Indeed, it is a relief to escape the ultra refinement of the usual suspects, orchestra-wise. If the strings are somewhat thinner in comparison here, surely one can forego the "saturated fat" for once?

It is evident from the first note that Matacic is a Brucknerian of distinction. All the attributes are in play: patience, the feel for the long line and a willingness to evoke the score's expectancy. Each one of Bruckner's symphonies (with the possible exception of the First) is a reckoning with the Numinous. Matacic is deeply alive to this dimension; for instance, the great self-contained episode before the coda of the first movement (here, at 18'33" to 20'07") is ferocious in its address to "that which walks in the Garden in the cool of the evening." The coda which follows is a lesson in cosmic radiance. As played here, one wishes that Tricky Dicky Wagner had died a few times over if Bruckner's response on each occasion would be to write an elegy of this mettle. Matacic is inexorable in the build up to the cymbal clash; when it comes, it's like a bolt from Jupiter. The latter two movements sound more pastoral than usual and enjoyably so. One trips the light fantastic in the final coda - and how! All power to the Croatian for providing such licence to the double-basses throughout this performance. Listen to them at 5'15"ff in the first movement. This is not music; it is kerygma

Underwritten by a superb recording from March 1967, this is a first class exposition of the Bruckner Seventh. Herbie, button up that Tiger tank!

Unlike the recipient of its payload, this 1978 performance of the Requiem will not die. Fresh from Resurrection City, here it is again in its latest guise, now manacled to Barbara Hendrick's account of Exsultate Jubilate which the engineers ruined by virtue of their failure to master the acoustic.

First, if you are going to record K 626 with a legionary array, this is the way to do it. It is the best-recorded "railway-gun" Requiem on the market. The choir sings lustrously and its quartile demarcations are crystal clear. The Philharmonia Orchestra is likewise excellent.

The soloists are less impressive. While Helen Donath is splendid, Christa Ludwig sounds grandmotherly throughout - a semi-mystery in itself - and Robert Lloyd wobbles like jelly (to wit, his articulation in the Tuba Mirum). That leaves Robert Tear. One day I am going to understand why he features in so many recordings. Is he a tenor? Is he a high baritone? What is he? Can he actually sing? Only subterfuge can explain his prominence. Here, he grates away in his normal fashion. Sandpaper, anyone?

Carlo Maria Giulini's long suit is spirtuality but as he grew older, his dramatic instinct ebbed away. This performance of the Requiem is not too testudinal. If anything, it is lacking in contrast. The one tempo seems to prevail across all movements. Nor do I detect any real desperation here. The Sequence speaks of Judgement and Damnation where even the just man is barely safe. Listen to the Confutatis. For all the stylishness and panache of the Philharmonia Choir, anguish is in short supply. As expected, CMG shines in the Hostias, thereby offering reparation for the sacrilege that was perpetrated by Harnoncourt whose recording is aimed at the greyhound market (Mozart: Requiem /Harnoncourt).

All in all, this is a flawed reading which is listenable by virtue of the choir and orchestra. Karajan's last performance of the Requiem is another railway-gun job (Mozart: Requiem). It is not as well recorded - where in the hell are the women choristers in the Requiem Aeternam - but intensity-wise it operates on a higher level. Go there.

Whoever the Real McCoy is, this is one of his CDs. Indeed, it does not get any more idiomatic than this: Karel Ancerl, a graduate of the Aeschylean School of Suffering and Wisdom, leading the Czech Philharmonic in Martinu's last two symphonies and the Memorial to Lidice.

Upon hearing the latter, I read up again on the atrocity. Fornicate me dead: not even the occupants of the cemetery were left in peace: they were exhumed from their graves and scattered to the winds. That was news to me. This is a barbarism beyond anything that one might encounter in the Congo. No wonder our Germanic friends received their comeuppance in spades. Good night Reinhard! Enjoy Hell!

Back to the recording: to the last man, the orchestra believes in every note of this glorious music and why shouldn't they? Their attack, élan and refinement are second to none in this repertoire. Upon hearing the commencement of the Lento of the Fifth Symphony, I initially thought it was being sung by a choir: that's how sonorous it is.

If these are not definitive performances, then what are?

I am somewhat mystified by the somewhat boomy recording: is it expansive mono or centralised stereo? As this was a download, I cannot say. In any event, one soon forgets its minor limitations to revel in these masterworks, creations of light written in darkness.

"The artist is always searching for the meaning of life, his own and that of mankind, searching for truth. A system of uncertainty has entered our daily life. The pressures of mechanisation and uniformity to which it is subject call for protest and the artist has only one means of expressing this: by music." Thus speaks Bohuslav Martinù, one of the Twentieth Century's greatest composers. By virtue of his conservative idiom, he has never received his due in sharp contrast to contemporaries of lesser talent. His time is coming. Martinu has a distinctive patina of his own which is a hallmark of a great composer; his music is instantly recognisable.

Martinu's Fourth Symphony is his calling-card on eternity but there is much to be said for its siblings on either side. The Third is a wartime, exilic work written "by the rivers of Babylon" whereas the Fifth, written in 1946, is mired in the tensions of the post-war years when it appeared that the conflagration past was a mere prelude to Armageddon. Both symphonies are top-tier Martinu.

Reader, it is horses for courses. Leave Elgar to the Poms and Bruckner to the Germans - and if an old unrepentant Nazi is around to conduct the latter, so much the better. Equally, Martinu belongs to the Czechs like no-one else. Place a Belohlavek, Neumann or an Ancerl in front of the Czech Philharmonic and a bullseye invariably ensues.

Re this Naxos disc. It is a stopgap and no more, particularly when the Naxos recording is so pedestrian. I cannot hear any deep-set affinity between the Ukrainian orchestra and the composer. Surely you can do better.

If Kierkegaard is to be believed - and who would argue lightly with our Danish friend - Don Giovanni offers catharsis, understood as the purification and purgation of emotions - not least pity and fear on the part of the viewer - through its exposition, interplay and resolution. True, there is a stupendous deus ex machine at the conclusion of K 527 with the arrival of the Commendatore but who is able to retain their critical faculties at this point? It is the one instance in his oeuvre, varied though it be, where Mozart red-lines himself in an effort to keep up with his own inspiration. A successful performance of Don Giovanni should leave one fully energised and, as William Mann states, ready for anything.

Which brings me to the set in question. I enjoy the virility of Terfel's Don: he's wearing the ever-so tight trousers of Priapus and sure as hell he is going to do something about it. Pertusi as Leporello lacks projection (let's blame the placement of the microphones) but otherwise has a pleasant voice. Groop as Zerlina is leathery: errrh, read this as a fail. Ann Murray, as ever, is serviceable at best as Donna Elvira. The Commendatore sounds elderly and not inappropriately so but a Kurt Moll he ain't. Fleming burns as Donna Anna. Herbert Lippert is a non-wimpy Ottavio even if he fails the breath-test at Il Mio Tesoro. Equally, the Masetto sounds breathless. Solti certainly earnt his wages on the night.

Above and beyond the debits and credits, there is a wider flaw to my ears: catharsis is non-existent. As portrayed, I don't care about the fate of any of these protagonists: they can all go to hell with the Don. This is canned heat, not genuine fire. As I understand it, this is a concert-performance rather than a stage production and the lack of greasepaint is telling. Nor is the cause assisted by the London Philharmonic which plays pertly and ever so blandly; I cannot recall a single instance of incandescence on their part. The Decca recording is excellent.

If you want a polished concert-performance of Don Giovanni, this hits the mark or thereabouts. Consummation and catharsis lie elsewhere.

Picasso spoke haughtily of God who was just another artist in his eyes. In his own way, I wonder whether Mozart operated in the same dynamic. Here in Cosi fan tutte, he is the omnipotent puppeteer to a gaggle of marionettes, the aim being to mock their transient loves as if Cupid's projectiles were less arrows and more like darts at best and matter little in the end. In this lesson he is assisted immeasurably by Lorenzo da Ponte, a libertine in his own right.

Indisputably, the Karajan and Bohm ('63) sets command the field. Perhaps the duumvirate does not quite become a triumvirate with the advent (in my life at least) of this Lombard set but lordy lordy it runs them close. It is spearheaded by a glorious female cast: Te Kanawa, von Stade and Stratas. The man are of a lesser standard but only just. Re the latter: for whatever reason the recording does them no favours at times; listen to the start of `Di scrivermi ogni giorno' - surely this could have been better balanced. I also prefer Don Alfonso to be more saturnine in his characterisation.

For those among us who have participated in our own School for Lovers - like a shard of the sun being dropped into the sea - Soave Sia Il Vento remains a touchstone. Will we ever understand how Legge and his cast achieved the sonorities that they did in the Bohm '63? Ravishing as this Lombard is, it is more explicable.

Tempos are sensible throughout. God forbid that Mozart's characters should have time to converse, think and judge. For those who want to view K 588 through the eyes of a greyhound, get yourselves to Rene Jacobs' alternative: it's the grand derby for dishlickers.

Woof!

Kempff is either celestial or mundane. Here in this recital recorded in Manchester in October 1967, escape-velocity is attained. Perhaps it was fuelled by three masterpieces - cantabile one and all - whose summits cannot be glimpsed by the human eye: Mozart's K 332 (arguably his greatest sonata); Schubert's D 960 and Beethoven's "We too are star dust" Opus 101.

Purists, there are more dodgy notes here than at a counterfeiters' convention; look no further than the exposition of K 332 / 1 but it matters not: the famous weightlessness prevails over all. Where else are we to find such magical playing, say, at the very end of D 960 / 1's exposition or the final transfigurative bars of the F major sonata where Mozart urges us to consider the lilies of the field in their transience and beauty? Each one of these works is an invitation to eternalise, however momentarily and here is your visa. Moreover, the 73 year old belies any suggestion of infirmity: where warranted, he slugs it out with the keyboard (say, in the fugal finale of Opus 101).

Unlike his immortal studio recording of D 960 from January of the same year (which is preferable by a whisker), here Kempff does not observe the exposition repeat in the first movement; and the Scherzo is beneficially faster in tempo. Across the board, the sound is damned ordinary - highly centralised stereo - and its roughness contributes to the impression that Kempff's fingers were errant on the night. Again, it matters not.

Whatever you are looking for in life, some of the answers are here. Yes.

What with the arrival of this Jeggy retrospective, those among us who place a premium on brisk efficiency and freeze-dried spirituality are in clover. It is an enduring source of wonder that a conductor who operates in such a restrictive emotional sphere has made as many recordings as what he has: all power to the Duke of Dorset!

The inclusions in this box are known quantities (I have yet to summon the stamina to tackle Jeggy's Purcell and Gluck). His recording of Monteverdi's Vespers is the pride of the pale fleet and rightly so: its fame will endure. As an astute man said to me recently: Johann Sebastian Bach is a thoroughly Germanic phenomenon and we ignore it at our own peril. In the Matthew Passion, Jeggy never gets a chance to find `true Berlin' in this dynamic: the finishing-line beckons. In recompense, one can admire his clean pair of heels. Mention should also be made of his recording of the Missa Solemnis; it's about as spiritual as a frozen pizza but all the notes are certainly there and how quickly they whiz past!

In a parallel universe, yours truly would be allowed to assemble his own Jeggy retrospective. In addition to some of the inclusions in the current box, it would encompass:

His Haydn-ification of Bruckner's D Minor Mass - a rare instance where the Vienna Philharmonic sounds tentative in this domain and who can blame them?
Jeggy's survey of Haydn's late masses. Praised be that which dehydrates us!
Jeggy's recording of the Messiah where he first broadcast his trademark `Brisk Efficiency' to the world.
Jeggy's performance of the Linz Symphony on Philips. Far more than the Alamogordo test site, the finale is ground-zero.
His comic, sorry, cosmic survey of Brahms' symphonies on his private label. Spruce woodwind carry the day . . . . . or do they?
Jeggy's recent survey of Mozart's last three symphonies. To have learnt nothing.

It is an impressive record in its own way. With moths amassing in the wings, I wonder whether Jeggy's real significance might lie in another realm: as a counter to global warming.

Happy Birthday Jeggy! At the Festival of the Supreme Clipped Phrase, your fame endureth forever.

Whenever I listen to Bruckner's mighty Eighth utterance, that lyric from the Carpenters, "We've only just begun" comes to mind. Will we ever understand the genesis of this work or its final address? Who can fully encompass its meaning? Does it distil a vision of the universe which the composer, a latterday Parsifal, was afforded whereas we mendicants "see through the glass darkly" at best?

All power to Christian Thielemann for looking like Klaus von Stauffenberg and refusing to conduct Mahler. This is a Bruckner Eighth in the grand old tradition. Thielemann sees the wood from the trees: there are no forays into the latter at the expense of the wider journey. While the recording has its vagaries, who can resist the opulence of the Dresden Staatskapelle (and its double-basses in particular)? Thankfully, the Haas Edition is in play.

Even so, I am not going to listen to this performance in preference to Herbie ('44, '57, '76 and '88) or Hans Knappertsbusch and the Berliner Philharmoniker: The Complete RIAS Recordings 1950-52 where Kna pokes the Berlin Philharmonic.

However one interprets it, an Otherness underwrites the Bruckner Eighth. It warrants awe and tension in equal measure. Such responses are not to be equated with a great orchestra blazing away in a minor key. Take two instances in the first movement (they occur here at 8'04 ff & 13'03"ff): both Herbie and Kna fully evoke the composer's own terror and anguish in a way that brings Isaiah 6:5 to mind "Then said I, Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts!" (no, this is not a reference to Elvis). In comparison all I hear from Thielemann is notes, consummated played and sensitively conducted. To my ears, the latter three movements are cut from the same cloth.

All in all, this is a fine recording of a masterpiece. In the current milieu, it is probably the best we can hope for. But the Word it ain't. If you want to semi-glimpse what Bruckner saw, look elsewhere.

The Universe did not have to be and yet it is; that is an enduring source of wonder. Similarly, there is no physical need for Music per se and yet it exists. Indeed, the phenomena are linked; the Pythagorean roots of music are just as engrained into the DNA of the cosmos as the valency of the carbon atom. And those among us who cannot live without `the harmony of the spheres' can surely identify with Goethe's dictum and the tension that arises therein: Music of God, why do you seek me out in the dust?

Yes indeed: all great music - be it a symphony or a mazurka - reverberates in the eternal Yes.

There is a very handy, non-doctrinaire book which surveys how various writers, philosophers and musicians over time have sought to fathom out the numinosity of music. Contributors include Plato and Plotinus (ever so rightly); Cicero; Boethius; Johannes Kepler; Chateaubriand; ETA Hoffmann; Balzac; Rudolf Steiner; George Sand; Schopenhauer; Robert Schumann; Richard Wagner and Karlheinz Stockhausen. Re the latter: I never thought that the composer of the Helicopter Quartet would write the following but there you go:

"We are mostly pretty physical sacks, are we not - all of us? (We) spend most of our time feeding ourselves, taking care of clothing and shelter, copulating and sleeping; primarily satisfying physical desires, then. Now and then one reminds oneself: `We are spirits and spirits should be connected with the superhuman, with the cosmos, with God . . . That is what is the most important thing now: that each person should gradually become conscious enough to choose specific music and be able to say `I choose that within myself which comes to vibration through this music.'"

The British composer Cyril Scott was a Theosophist. He is represented fulsomely in this volume where he writes of the age-old event-horizon between music and religion; "Whereas Melody is the cry of Man to God, Harmony is the answer of God to Man." Who has the wherewithal to rebut this?

As Rueben Tishkoff (Elliot Gould) from Ocean's Eleven would say: ignore the gaudy monstrosity of a cover. This is a serious academic production. If music means more to you than a mere divertimento, it is worth your consideration even if it may take you to places which you normally spurn via a much-travelled back-door with no landing.