It's awkward, writing of "remembering" somebody you've never met-- somebody only encountered through the medium of music making frozen in amber, thanks to tape recordings. But then, if we extend that reasoning further, do we ever know those whom we speak with on a daily basis; understanding the associations gathered in a lifetime behind each of their words taken separately, much less the motivations that drive their thoughts and emotions? More than a gleam of essence is denied us on a personal basis, even in the closest of personal relationships. Perhaps a "work"-- a composition, a poem, a painting, a novel, a performance-- is a means of getting beneath the skin of reality after all, and intuiting something of the person that lies behind the mischief of reality.
To that extent, I knew Sergiu Celibidiache, and was both touched and impressed by his exceptional abilities. I first encountered his performances with 1950's Italian Radio performance groups in the early 1980's, when I was program director for a public radio station in Florida, USA. I sought out interesting classical material that was not available elsewhere, and contacted RAI. They furnished hundreds of tapes, but nothing impressed me so much as the small handful under Celibidache's magisterial control.
Ordinarily, and in just about everything else from the Italian sources, the orchestras varied from acceptable to hairraisingly bad, as if they'd just started sightreading whatever they were about to record. Not so, Celibidache's readings. Somehow, he galvanized these same musicians into matching his vision in a way that lifted them beyond their apparent limitations. I have never shuddered at the finale to Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony, the idea is ridiculous-- elsewhere. With Celibidache's reading, the energy crackles, the taut, linear logic of Mendelssohn acquires a demonic edge.
So it was with other recordings from the same venue. I was only saddened to discover that the great conductor, who at first had simply disapproved of studio recordings, later extended his ban to live ones, too. At least, such I'd been told; and little enough has emerged to contradict this. I am aware that much is lost in removing a performance from its time and place, but too, much remains-- and we're all a bit emptier for lacking even the shadow of Celibidache's inspired musicality on records.
What remains are the few recordings he made, and the lives he touched, in whatever fashion. That must be enough for us.
Barry Brenesal