Karajan's Beethoven

I felt like listening to a bit of classical music today and pulled an old Deutsche Grammophon LP from the shelf: Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, recorded in 1977 by the Berlin Philharmonic under the baton of Herbert von Karajan.

As the music began, I was immediately struck by the clarity and ferocity of the performance. Those famous opening four notes seemed to leap from the speakers with such force that I instinctively stepped back across the room, just to take in the full weight and flavour of the sound.

This LP formed part of Karajan's second complete Beethoven cycle for Deutsche Grammophon. By then, he had spent much of his career returning to these symphonies, revisiting them as recording technology evolved and as his own interpretations deepened with age and experience.

Karajan's association with Deutsche Grammophon, which lasted more than four decades until his death in 1989, remains one of the most influential partnerships in the history of recorded classical music. He saw the recording studio not merely as a place to document performances but as an instrument in its own right, working closely with engineers to shape every aspect of the final sound.

The sleeve itself is unmistakably Deutsche Grammophon: the familiar yellow banner across the top with a typography that reflected the label's sense of elegance and consistency.

Musically, this recording is all about control and momentum. Karajan's earlier 1963 account of Beethoven's Fifth has a certain warmth and lyricism, but the 1977 version feels leaner, more urgent and more dramatic. Recorded in the Berlin Philharmonie, it captures what many listeners describe as the "Karajan sound": smooth, rich and powerful, with individual instruments blending into a single orchestral voice. Some critics have argued that this sacrifices a degree of transparency for sheer beauty, but there is no denying its impact.

Karajan was also an enthusiastic advocate of new technology. He embraced digital recording early and later worked with Sony and Deutsche Grammophon in promoting the compact disc, famously declaring: "All else is gaslight."

Perhaps his lifelong engagement with Beethoven says more about him than anything else. He recorded the complete symphonies three times for Deutsche Grammophon. First was in 1963, again in the late 1970s and finally in the early digital era of the 1980s. Few conductors have left such an extensive recorded legacy of a single composer.

By the time of his death, Karajan had sold an estimated 100 to 200 million records worldwide, a figure that remains extraordinary in the world of classical music.

The original Chipmunk music

I must have been seven, eight or perhaps nine years old when my father brought home these two Chipmunks records from Wing Hing Records, his friend's shop along Campbell Street. At that age, few things gave me more happiness than listening to David Seville and the Chipmunks. I played those LPs over and over again until I practically knew every song by heart.

For a few years, they were constant companions. Then I grew older and gradually moved on to other kinds of music. The records went back into their sleeves, placed in a cupboard and left untouched for decades. Until recently.

Something stirred in me and I went looking for them again. When I finally played them again and heard those familiar high-pitched voices, I felt an unexpected lump in my throat. In an instant, I was transported back to a time when I had not even yet reached the age of ten. Wonderful how music can do that. A song lasts only a few minutes, yet somehow it can unlock entire rooms of memory that have remained closed for half a century. What more a whole hour's worth from Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks and Sing Again with the Chipmunks.

As a child, I never questioned who the Chipmunks were. They simply existed. After all, children do not worry about such details. Alvin, Simon and Theodore were mischievous little creatures who sang funny songs, while the long-suffering David Seville tried to keep them in line. Only much later did I learn that neither the Chipmunks nor David Seville actually existed. The entire concept was the creation of one remarkably inventive man: Ross Bagdasarian Sr.

Bagdasarian was a first-generation Armenian-American from California. Early in his career, record executives felt that his surname was too long and too ethnic for show business. During the Second World War, he served as a control tower operator with the US Army Air Forces and spent some time stationed in Seville, Spain. The city made such an impression on him that he adopted "David Seville" as his stage name.

Before the Chipmunks came along, he had already established himself as a songwriter. In 1951, he had collaborated to write the quirky song Come On-a My House. After spending months trying to persuade someone to record it, he finally found success when Rosemary Clooney turned it into a number one hit.

Yet success in the music business can be fleeting. By late 1957, despite his earlier triumph, Bagdasarian was facing financial difficulties. Supporting a wife and three young children, he reportedly had only about US$200 left. Instead of spending the money on household expenses, he took a gamble. He bought a dual-speed tape recorder and began experimenting with tape speeds at home. He discovered that by recording his voice slowly at a lower pitch and then playing it back at normal speed, he could create an entirely new sound: bright, squeaky and unlike anything listeners had heard before.

His first experiment was Witch Doctor, released in early 1958. The famous refrain, Oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla, bing-bang, became an instant sensation, selling more than a million copies and helping to rescue Liberty Records from financial trouble. Asked to come up with a follow-up, Bagdasarian expanded the idea into three animated chipmunks. Their names were playful nods to the executives at Liberty Records: Alvin after company president Al Bennett, Simon after co-founder Simon Waronker and Theodore after recording engineer Ted Keep.

Creating their voices was a feat in the days before digital technology. Bagdasarian recorded every character himself; four separate vocal tracks for Alvin, Simon, Theodore and Dave Seville while matching the timing manually with extraordinary precision. The result was The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late), released in late 1958. It became a runaway success and won three awards including Best Engineered Record (Non-Classical) at the inaugural Grammy Awards in 1959.

A string of hit records followed, including Alvin's Harmonica and Ragtime Cowboy Joe. Soon came the first full-length albums: Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks pressed on red vinyl in 1959 and Sing Again with the Chipmunks the following year. Those were the very records, with their 24 songs, that eventually found their way into my childhood home in Penang.

But of course, the songs were only part of the story. Beneath the squeaky voices was something far more personal: my father's love of his child in bringing those records home, the excitement of discovering new music as a child and the simple happiness of sitting beside the gramophone with nothing else demanding my attention. The Chipmunks may have been fictional, but the memories they created were very real. And after all these years, they still have the power to make me smile.

Maxwell Road

Ever since I wrote about old Gladstone Road several days ago, I have been thinking that perhaps a story about the schools, cinemas and amusement parks that disappeared during the KOMTAR redevelopment would also be in order. Many of them were located along Maxwell Road, another old street that vanished during the same redevelopment period. But roads alone do not make up a city. What truly gives life to an urban neighbourhood are the people, the schools where children studied, the cinemas where families gathered at night and the amusement parks where crowds drifted through beneath bright lights and loud music. Much of that old social landscape disappeared along with the roads.

When the KOMTAR project was launched in the 1970s, it was presented as a vision of modernisation for George Town. Large sections of the roughly triangular-shaped district, bordered by Prangin Road, McNair Street, Magazine Road and Penang Road, were cleared to make way for the massive 27-axre complex. Hundreds of buildings disappeared in the process. For many people today, especially younger Penangites, it is difficult to fathom just how densely packed and lively that part of town once was.

Along Maxwell Road and the nearby streets stood rows of traditional pre-war shophouses facing the old Prangin Canal. Many housed long-established Chinese family businesses such as metalsmiths hammering away in narrow workshops, bicycle and tyre shops, provision stores stacked with sacks of rice and dried goods, herbal medicine halls with drawers of roots and herbs, coffee shops and small trading companies dealing in everything from household utensils to joss paper offerings. Opposite these shophouses were compact roadside stalls selling inexpensive local goods and daily necessities to workers, students and shoppers passing through the area. Cobblers too were a common sight, quietly repairing worn shoes for customers seated nearby waiting patiently for the work to be completed.

The district was also one of George Town’s busiest transport hubs. Along Maxwell Road stood the old bus terminals and stopping points for the Lim Seng Seng green buses, the blue Hin Company buses and the familiar buses of the Penang Yellow Bus Company that connected the city to the suburbs. There was even a public toilet built on a pedestrian bridge across the canal, and one could not help wondering whether the waste went straight into the murky water below or was somehow channelled elsewhere for disposal. The entire area constantly moved with people: office workers, market traders, schoolchildren, cinema patrons and bus passengers all crossing paths from morning until late into the night. For a brief period from 1980 to 1983, I too became part of that daily flow of commuters, waiting along Maxwell Road for a green bus that would take me home to Ayer Itam.

Among the losses were four well-known cinemas that had once formed part of George Town’s busy entertainment circuit. There was the Capitol Theatre along Maxwell Road, built on land originally occupied by the Windsor Theatre. Nearby stood the Paramount Theatre and the Royal Theatre, both especially remembered for screening Hindi and Tamil films and attracting large Indian audiences from across Penang. Somewhere around where Komtar Walk is today, crowds once queued outside these cinemas. Then there was the Eastern Theatre, another familiar single-screen cinema that disappeared during the early redevelopment phase.

In those days, cinemas were not simply places to watch films. They were social gathering points. Young couples went there on dates, families planned weekend outings around them, and workers escaping the day’s heat found refuge inside the cool darkness of the theatre halls. Before television became dominant, these cinemas formed part of everyday urban life.

Several schools also vanished during the redevelopment. One of the most historically significant was Chung Hwa Confucian Primary School at Maxwell Road, among the oldest Chinese schools in the country. Its old premises served generations of students before the final batches left in 1979. The school later moved to Ayer Itam and split into Chung Hwa Confucian A and B.

Li Teik School also stood within the redevelopment zone. Interestingly, its Maxwell Road premises had once belonged to the old Anglo-Chinese School long before ACS moved to Ayer Itam Road in 1929. Li Teik inherited that educational space and carried on serving the local community until relocation became unavoidable. The school eventually shifted to Macallum Street Ghaut.

Then there was Tong Sian Primary School along Gladstone Road itself. Unlike the larger brick school compounds, Tong Sian functioned from converted pre-war shophouses in the crowded heart of the old neighbourhood. One can only imagine what school life must have been like there, surrounded by metalsmith shops, traders, food stalls and the nearby Sia Boey market. When Gladstone Road disappeared, the school too had to move, eventually settling at Dato Kramat Road where it remains today.

And somewhere amidst all this stood the old Great World Amusement Park. Older Penangites still remember it as one of the lively entertainment spaces of central George Town. There were games, food stalls, music and crowds wandering about in the evenings. Nearby too was the Fun & Frolic Park, another amusement area that formed part of the same nightlife landscape around Prangin and Magazine Roads. These places belonged to an era before shopping malls and multiplexes, when entertainment was more open-air, communal and slightly rough around the edges.

The redevelopment that produced KOMTAR undoubtedly changed George Town forever. From the planners’ perspective, it was meant to modernise the city and prepare it for the future. But in doing so, an older urban world disappeared. Roads vanished. Schools relocated. Cinemas closed. Amusement parks faded away. A neighbourhood that once remained active day and night gradually gave way to concrete plazas, office towers and wide traffic systems.

Today, when people walk through KOMTAR, Prangin Mall or Komtar Walk, very few would realise how much life once occupied the same ground. Beneath the modern structures lies an older layer of George Town memory, one filled with schoolchildren, cinema queues, market traders and the sounds of amusement parks glowing into the Penang night.

Austrian music: two poles apart

Some time ago, while browsing through a stack of records in my collection, I realised that I had two albums that, in their own very different ways, captured something of the musical spirit of Austria. One came from the Alpine folk tradition, the other from one of the world’s most famous choirs. Listening to them back to back was almost like taking a short musical journey through that country.

The first record was a Polydor LP, issued in 1973 to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the Austrian folk group Die Lustigen Arlberger, with the title 25 Jahre Volkstumsgruppe Die Lustigen Arlberger. Since the album commemorated 25 years in 1973, it meant that the group was founded in 1949.

The Arlberg region lies in the Tyrol, and the group came from the well-known mountain resort of St Anton am Arlberg. In those days, visitors to the area would often attend what was called a Tiroler Abend, or Tyrolean Evening, which was a lively programme of folk music, yodelling and traditional dances performed for both tourists and locals. Groups like Die Lustigen Arlberger were at the heart of this tradition.

For many years the ensemble was led by the colourful musician Sepp Staffler who was not only a skilled yodeller but also known for playing the unusual instrument called the "singing saw". Under his leadership the group became a regular presence in the region’s folk entertainment scene.

Their music reflected the unmistakable Alpine folk style. Instruments such as the zither, dulcimer, clarinet, harmonica, accordion, and even the occasional xylophone contributed to the lively arrangements. Some members of the ensemble were also well-known specialists on these instruments, including zither and dulcimer players Werner Nußbaumer and Margit Raffl Staffler.

The anniversary LP functioned almost like a sampler of their repertoire. Among the pieces were Ein Jodlergruss, which opened the record with a cheerful yodel greeting; Salzkammergut-Plattler, a traditional dance tune associated with thigh-slapping; and Kirchtag in St. Anton, which evoked the atmosphere of a festive church fair in the mountains.

One particularly eye-catching item was Zirkus Renz, a dazzling showpiece that featured rapid-fire passages on the xylophone. It is the sort of virtuoso novelty number that audiences always enjoyed at folk concerts. Another track was the Dengel-Lied, a song that grew out of everyday rural life.

The LP was issued as part of Polydor’s Austria Gold series which aimed to preserve and promote traditional Austrian music. One can almost picture a mountain inn with wooden tables and a cheerful gathering of singers and dancers after a long day in the Alps.

The second Austrian record in my collection came from a very different musical world: an album titled Austria Revisited, recorded by the famous Vienna Boys' Choir and issued by Capitol Records as part of its Capitol of the World series. 

Released around 1958 or 1959, the album was clearly intended for international audiences. Capitol had the clever idea of presenting music from different countries almost like musical travel postcards to give listeners a taste of distant cultures through recorded sound.

The Vienna Boys’ Choir is known in German as the Wiener Sängerknaben and they are the perfect ambassador for Austrian music. With a history dating back centuries, the choir had already built a worldwide reputation for its pure, disciplined sound.

During the period when this album was recorded, the choir was typically conducted by musicians such as Helmuth Froschauer or Xaver Meyer. Under their direction the ensemble toured extensively and was widely admired for the clear, almost crystalline quality of the boys’ voices.

The programme on Austria Revisited mixed classical pieces with traditional songs. Naturally, the music of Johann Strauss II appeared prominently. The album opened with the famous waltz An der schönen blauen Donau, better known in English as The Blue Danube, followed by the lively Sängerlust-Polka. Later in the programme came another Strauss favourite, G’schichten aus dem Wienerwald (Tales from the Vienna Woods).

Alongside these orchestral classics were several folk-influenced items, including the Erzherzog Johann-Jodler which linked the choir’s repertoire to the same Alpine traditions celebrated by Die Lustigen Arlberger.

The album also included gentle choral pieces such as Johannes Brahms’s lullaby Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht, as well as sacred music by Johann Sebastian Bach. The result was a programme that moved gracefully between the concert hall, the church and the countryside.

When one listens to these two records together, an interesting contrast emerges. The Vienna Boys’ Choir represented the polished musical culture of Vienna: refined, disciplined and steeped in centuries of tradition. On the other hand, Die Lustigen Arlberger embodied the more rustic side of Austrian life, with its yodels, folk dances and cheerful village celebrations.

Yet both recordings shared a common thread. Each reflected a different facet of Austria’s musical identity: the elegance of its classical heritage and the earthy vitality of its Alpine folk traditions.

For a music enthusiast, that combination made for a rather satisfying discovery. Two albums, separated by style and audience, but together offering a small window into the sounds of a remarkable musical nation. After listening to them, I found myself thinking that perhaps one day I should finally visit Austria and experience some of this musical culture first-hand.

Pirated discovery

Over the years, I’ve accumulated what many people would probably describe as a fairly decent record collection. Once in a while, someone would look at the shelves and immediately call me a record collector. I understand why, but somehow I’ve never been comfortable with that label.

The term record collector often gives the impression of someone chasing rarity for the sake of ownership. First pressings sealed in plastic, catalogue numbers carefully ticked off, records stored away more as trophies than as music. Of course, there is nothing wrong with that, but that has never really been my relationship with records. I own records because I want to listen to them.

Some albums I return to repeatedly. Others may sit quietly for months before suddenly matching a certain mood or memory. For me, the enjoyment comes not just from possessing the LP but from cleaning the surfaces, lowering the stylus onto the groove, hearing the slight pops and crackles before the music begins, and allowing the sound to fill my listening space. The records are tied to moments in life, to particular periods of youth, to old discoveries and rediscoveries.

So I suppose music enthusiast would describe me better than record collector. The records themselves are only part of the story. The real connection is with the music, the voices, the performances, and sometimes even the memories attached to them.

And speaking of records, I must admit that among my shelves are also a small number of pirate LPs from the 1960s and 1970s. In those days, pirated records were everywhere, mainly sold in the pasar malam. Sometimes, I'd see them stacked in a quiet corner of non-descript record shops, not displayed openly. These shop owners had a knack of recognising prospective customers, or maybe their regular clientele. Anyway, music copyright enforcement was practically non-existent in those days and for many ordinary listeners pirate record purchases were often the only affordable way to hear certain albums. Interestingly enough, some of those pirate pressings actually sounded surprisingly good.

Among my pirate LP collection is a copy of Frances Yip’s Discovery, recently acquired from my cousin. It simply turned up among a batch of old LPs he gave me, and I only realised what it was when I started going through the stack at home. I was in two minds whether to play it or not. How would the sound quality be? How close would it be to the original pressing? Would it be worth keeping? In the end, there was only one way to find out.

The original album, Discovery, was released in the early 1970s and tied to her work with Cathay Pacific at the time. It was conceived almost like a musical travel record, moving across different Asian countries through song. In its official form, it was very much a product of that era when Asian pop was beginning to find its own identity while still drawing heavily from traditional melodies and Western arrangements.

But as I mentioned earlier, my copy is a pirate pressing. Like many of those records from the 1960s and 1970s, it carries its own story. The cover is slightly off in colour and the printing not quite sharp. Where the EMI label would have been, there is instead a rather nondescript catalogue marking. Still, the sound itself is surprisingly decent. That alone says something about how these unofficial pressings were not always crude copies. Some were made with enough care that the music survived quite well.

The content itself is what makes the album interesting. It moves through a series of songs representing different parts of Asia, from Arirang in Korea to Bengawan Solo in Indonesia, from Dahil Sa Iyo in the Philippines to Rasa Sayang Eh much closer to home. There is a clear travel narrative running through the record, as though each track is a postcard from a different place. Frances Yip’s voice sits neatly above these arrangements, smooth and unforced, carrying that slightly cosmopolitan tone she was known for in the 1970s.

There is something ironic about a record designed as a kind of official musical tour of Asia ending up reproduced unofficially and circulating through markets and second-hand shops across the region. But that, in a way, was also part of the musical landscape then. Music travelled in many forms, not all of them official, and listeners simply followed wherever it arrived.

It is an album that reflects a particular moment in time when Asian pop was still forming its identity, when travel and cultural exchange were beginning to shape popular music, and when even pirate records became part of how that music was heard and remembered.

Quiet tragedy

So there I was with this Bakat TV 1971 record in my hand. Until that first moment when I placed the record on the turntable, I was mainly interested in listening only to Bryan Jeremiah sing Love Knot in My Lariat and Rajadin Wan Mat's My Funny Valentine, two songs which had impressed me those 55 years ago. But when the stylus reached the fourth track on Side Two, I stopped in my tracks. Hearing Feather in My Pocket today was like hearing it for the very first time in 1971. Michael Tan’s lone voice, accompanied by his guitar, carried a plaintive honesty that cut through everything else on the album.

The song was quiet. Just a voice and a guitar, nothing more. The stark simplicity allowed the words to stand on their own. Nothing to hide behind, no orchestral sweep to distract the listener. It sounded like someone thinking aloud, perhaps while travelling, perhaps in a moment of solitude.

There's this image of the feather in the pocket. It felt like a small reminder of home or direction. Even when the lyrics spoke of not knowing when home would come, there was still that feather to be carried along for comfort. Hope tucked away in a pocket.

The folk imagery, though not something we grew up with locally, reinforced the mood of the song. Malaysia does not experience the four seasons, so references to autumn skies, white winters and fields of wheat turning brown felt slightly out of place to us. Still, the pictures suggested movement and transition, a sense of time passing and life changing. There was weariness in the line about concrete stretching endlessly. The overall tone remained reflective and gently wistful.

Then there was the solo guitar being finger-picked. Clarity in every note. Everything felt intimate, like a private living room performance that gave the song space to breathe and leaving the listener with a thoughtful silence at the end.

And who was this 20-year-old Michael Tan? Not only was he a talented performer from the Bakat TV stage, but also a University of Malaya graduate in English, He hailed from Malacca and had honed his singing and guitar skills while still at the Malacca High School. After the loss of both parents, grief weighed heavily on him. He struggled to cope and eventually turned to substance abuse, a path that led to a tragic and untimely end at 41. 

Knowing all that inevitably changed how I heard the song. The themes of wandering, distance and longing...all felt more appreciated. The feather in the pocket seemed less like a poetic device and more like a quiet emblem of someone searching for steadiness in a life that later became unsettled. It was a gentle song, but it now felt like part of a larger story. One of promise, talent and eventual loss. In the end, it is hard not to see it as a quiet tragedy.

Bakat TV 1971

During my recent slow stretch away from the blog, I found myself revisiting something from the early 1970s that came back to me quite unexpectedly: the Bakat TV 1971 talent show. What made it more meaningful was that I had actually watched the programme when it was telecast live. I was in Lower Six at the time, and I still remember how the next day Bakat TV became the talking point in the whole school. Everyone had something to say about the performances. It left quite an impression on me, even then.

So I was genuinely surprised to find this record recently among a stack given to me by one of my cousins from Petaling Jaya. It was not something I was actively searching for, but there it was, and it was very much welcomed. Thanks, Eng Chye! In fact, I had noticed in the past that a second-hand vendor in KOMTAR was selling the same record at what I thought was a rather exorbitant price. At the time, I had simply looked at it and moved on. Now, having a copy in my own hands felt different.

The album was produced by Radio Televisyen Malaysia (RTM). Bakat TV itself was one of those early televised talent competitions designed to discover new performers across the country, long before the era of modern talent shows. In those days, television felt more communal. When a programme aired live, the whole country seemed to be watching together.

The 1971 record captured finalists and selected performers, backed by the RTM Orchestra under Johari Salleh. It was quite something to think that a national broadcaster made the effort to preserve a talent show in this way. There was a seriousness about culture and broadcasting then, and perhaps a sense that these moments deserved to be documented properly.

Playing the record brought back good memories of my Lower Six days almost immediately. I could picture classmates discussing the performances and debating the results the next morning in school. In those days, a programme like Bakat TV could become the talk of the whole school overnight. Some of the names on the album went on to establish themselves in Malaysian entertainment, and hearing those early recordings again felt like stepping briefly back into that period of youth.

Bakat TV 1971 was more than just another record. It captured a time when television, live performance and recorded music came together. Finding the record unexpectedly among a stack of old LPs made the rediscovery even more meaningful.

Rail memories

I came across two old photographs of the Butterworth railway station platform that were taken before the railway service was upgraded and electrified. They had that slightly lazy, unhurried look and I found myself lingering over them longer than I expected. It brought back some vivid memories of the nights when I used to catch the train from that very platform.

In the 1970s when I was still living on the island and needed to travel to-and-from Kuala Lumpur, this was part of the routine. I would buy my ticket earlier from Howe Cheang Dispensary along Penang Road, then made my way across by ferry to Butterworth. From the terminal, it was a short walk to the station, perhaps a hundred metres or so, where rail passengers would wait for the collapsible grille gate to open. A railway staff member would check the tickets and let us through.

Train services were sparse in those days. From what I remember, there were maybe two, at most three, a day: a morning train, a night train and occasionally a railbus service in the afternoon. Because there were so few services, the morning and night trains were long, easily 15 or 20 carriages by my estimation, and pulled by a diesel engine. Walking from one end to the other could feel like a journey in itself.

Travel was not quite as convenient as it is now. Luggage didn’t come with wheels, so every bag was carried by hand, often over quite a distance just to find the coach. The night mail offered second-class sleeping berths, but third-class passengers had to make do with upright seats. These were unnumbered, taken on a first-come, first-served basis. Tickets were often oversold, and during the run-up to national holidays, it could turn into a scramble. Those who were late, or simply unlucky, ended up sitting or trying to sleep along the passageways, or at the space, called vestibules, I believe, at either end of the carriage, right by the open exits.

Between 1973 and 1976, when I was studying in Kuala Lumpur, these journeys became a regular part of life. I still remember one trip just before Chinese New Year when I had no choice but to settle into the vestibule. As it turned out, I was sharing that cramped space with a woman who, to my surprise, was also an Old Free but a year my junior. We struck up a conversation, and what could have been a long, uncomfortable 10-hour ride passed rather more easily than expected.

Every now and then, I would opt for something different: the newspaper vans. In those days, freshly printed newspapers from Kuala Lumpur were sent north and south overnight in vans, and for a small fee, anyone could hitch a ride. We would gather at a designated spot in the city, usually around two o'clock in the morning and waited for the vans to arrive. There would be a few others like me, and we would climb into the back, settling ourselves on stacks of newspapers.

The vans would head north, stopping along the way to drop off bundles, each stop briefly interrupting whatever sleep we managed. Looking back, it sounded rather precarious, but at the time, none of that mattered or even crossed our minds. There were no worries about accidents, no thoughts about insurance or safety. It was simply a cheaper way to travel, and more than that, it felt like an adventure. Those, indeed, were the days....

ADDENDUM: How can I leave these rail memories without mentioning one other thing that shaped those journeys? The single track. Before electrification, there was only one line running north to south, shared by everything, passenger trains and goods trains alike. It meant that timing was never entirely in our own hands.

The Ipoh railway station was the key point. That was where the northbound and southbound trains had to meet and pass. Although Ipoh sat roughly halfway between Butterworth and Kuala Lumpur, the stretch southwards was actually longer, so the train from Butterworth would almost always be the one waiting. And waiting it did. Delays were part of the system, and it wasn’t unusual to be at the Ipoh station for an hour or more while everyone waited for the other train to arrive.

On a journey that already took close to nine hours, that stop could feel longer than it really was, especially at night if sleep didn’t come easily. You lay there in the second-class berth, half-aware of the stillness, wondering what time you would finally reach Kuala Lumpur, or back in Butterworth. If it was the return journey, there was always that worry at the back of the mind whether I’d make it home at a reasonable hour, perhaps even catch the family by surprise. There was a certain kind of boredom in that semi-darkness. And just when the mind had drifted far enough for sleep to take over, there would sometimes be that sudden, unmistakable jerk of the carriage, the whistle unheard, as the train eased back into motion. But more often, it was quiet and smooth, the movement returning almost unnoticed, and it was the unsteady rhythm of the carriage, the soft clacking of wheels on the rails, that told me the journey had resumed.

It was a long chain of small uncertainties, and yet that was simply how travel was in those days. Looking back now, what I remember most is that mixture of anxiety and anticipation, the slow approach towards home after being away for weeks or months, and the sense that every delay, every pause along the way, only made the arrival feel that much more satisfying.

The girl from Ipanema

Every now and then I come across a significant album that I need to talk about. Getz/Gilberto is one of those. I’ve known it for years but coming back to it recently, I found myself wondering about how it came together. Before this album came out, Stan Getz was already circling around the Jazz Samba sound, thanks to Charlie Byrd who had brought back records from Brazil. So when Getz finally got together in the studio  with João Gilberto and Antônio Carlos Jobim in 1963, it wasn’t just another session. João’s guitar had that soft, almost stuttering pulse that didn’t push. Jobim’s writing held everything together without drawing attention to itself. And Getz was somehow finding a way to fit in.

The whole situation was quite funny in a way. Getz and João didn’t speak the same language and Jobim had to translate, not just words but intentions. João, from what I’ve read, was particular about everything: the phrasing, the space, the balance. Getz came from a different world altogether. And yet when I listen to the album, none of that friction really showed. If anything, it felt as though everyone was holding back just enough to let the music breathe.

Then there’s Astrud Gilberto. I’ve heard The Girl from Ipanema more times than I can count, but it still reverberated every time I hear it again. There’s nothing showy about her voice. It was almost hesitant, as if she was feeling her way through the song. And knowing she wasn’t even meant to be the singer, that she just stepped in because she could handle the English lyrics, made it all the more remarkable. That slightly detached, untrained sound was exactly what the song needed. 

I also find myself thinking about the small decisions that shaped the record. The producer trimmed João’s Portuguese vocal for the 45-inch single and pushed Astrud’s lines forward. From a listener’s point of view, it worked. From João’s, probably less so. He wasn’t entirely happy with how things were handled, and in the background, things between him and Astrud weren’t exactly steady either. But that’s the nature of the music industry. What we hear is often the result of compromise.

Sonically, the album still holds up today. It doesn’t sound dated. If anything, it sounds cleaner than a lot of what came after. Very little reverb, everything close and direct. On the early stereo pressings, the separation was wide with sax on one side and guitar and voice on the other. It gave the music space. 

Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to either the record or the compact disc. There’s this sense of restraint running through the whole album, nobody trying to dominate, nobody in a hurry. The music just unfolding at its own pace. I don’t think the people in that studio fully knew what they had at the time. These things are usually clearer in hindsight. But listening to it now, with all the stories behind it, this was one of those moments where everything lined up just right.

I also have this compact disc, Getz/Gilberto #2, recorded live at Carnegie Hall on 9 October 1964. This should have been a perfect concert with Stan Getz and João Gilberto riding high after Getz/Gilberto, and appearing together at Carnegie Hall with Astrud Gilberto who was now a star. But the occasion was anything but perfect. 

First, Getz came on with his quartet filling the hall confidently with his music. Then João followed, and the whole mood shifted. Just his voice and guitar, sounding soft and almost fragile. A complete contrast. A concert in two acts. It felt like they were not really sharing the same evening. The more I listened, the more I noticed the tension. João’s idea of bossa nova was always about restraint. Getz played with more presence. Side by side, the contrast was sharp.

I’ve read about the arguments over sound during rehearsals, João wanting the drums muffled while Getz wanting something that would carry in a hall that size. Listening now, I can almost hear that disagreement in the music itself. Even when they finally come together at the end, it felt more like an obligation to the audience than a natural meeting between collaborators. 

And then there’s Astrud, somewhere in the middle of all this. By then she wasn’t just the accidental singer anymore. She was part of the sound and part of the connection between the two men. Not long after that concert, João and Astrud divorced. Once she was gone, it was hard to imagine how the two men could have kept going in any meaningful way. And when I go back to that Carnegie Hall album now, it felt less like a reunion and more like the last time all the three pieces were still in the same room, even if they were already pulling apart.

The great composers

After an old friend passed away last year, I collected a stack of records from his sister, who was looking to give away his things. Among them were 19 classical LPs from The Great Composers and Their Music series. I was mighty pleased. I thought I had stumbled onto something rather special.

But when I finally got round to playing them, that sense of discovery quickly faded. The records looked fine - no obvious scratches or blemishes - yet the sound was poor. Not the usual pops and crackles, but a kind of distortion that crept in whenever the stylus passed over certain sections. And it wasn’t just one record. It was all 19. It took me a while to realise that the problem wasn’t with my turntable, but with the records themselves.

To squeeze half an hour or more onto a single side of a 12-inch LP is no small trick. Under normal circumstances, you would expect about 20 minutes, and perhaps a little more sometimes. Push it to 30, and something has to give. In fact, quite a few things give way at once.

The first casualty is the bass. Low frequencies take up space - real, physical space in the groove - and if you are trying to pack in as many revolutions as possible, the only option is to thin them out. What you are left with is a sound that feels weightless, almost tinny, as if the orchestra has been drained of its lower register.

Then there is the matter of volume. Narrower grooves mean the signal has to be cut at a lower level, otherwise the stylus would simply plough into the neighbouring groove. So you turn up the amplifier, but in doing so you also bring up everything else, such as the faint hiss of the production tape, the soft shush of the stylus moving across plastic.

And towards the end of each side, the problem tightens further. As the stylus moves closer to the centre, the available space shrinks while the record continues spinning at the same speed. Everything is compressed into a smaller circumference. High frequencies begin to strain; strings lose their sheen, and sibilants take on a brittle edge.

There is also a subtler loss. To keep the needle from misbehaving in these cramped conditions, the music is often compressed. The difference between the quietest and loudest passages is reduced. In classical music, where so much depends on contrast - a solitary flute against a sudden orchestral surge - this flattening dulls the emotional shape of the piece. Everything sits at roughly the same level.

Once I understood all this, the behaviour of those 19 records made sense. They were not faulty in the usual way; they were simply over-ambitious. The series itself, The Great Composers and Their Music, was issued by Marshall Cavendish in the early 1980s. It followed the part-work model of weekly or fortnightly instalments, each accompanied by a magazine and a record or cassette tape, inviting the buyer to build a library over time. It looked respectable, even a little scholarly, and for many it must have served as an entry point into classical music.

But the format carried its own compromises. Classical works are not easily contained. A symphony by Beethoven or Brahms does not naturally fit the neat constraints of a single LP side, let alone one already stretched to its limits. Something had to be trimmed, rearranged or split. And so movements ended where it was convenient to turn the record over, not where the composer intended. A musical argument that ought to unfold in a single arc was interrupted midway, resumed a few minutes later and sometimes followed immediately by something else altogether.

The sound itself carried another layer of remove. These were not original recordings but licensed ones drawn from established labels and passed along as production copies. Each step away from the source introduced a small loss such as a touch less clarity or a faint veil over the upper frequencies. On a well-pressed record with generous groove spacing, you might hardly notice. Here, with everything already pared down, it became part of the overall texture.

And then there was the pressing itself. These records were made in large numbers, meant for newsstands and supermarkets rather than specialist shops. One cannot expect too much fussiness under those conditions. Imperfections crept in. A bit of non-fill here, a slight roughness there, the sort of things that might pass unnoticed on a louder, fuller pressing but which became more apparent when the music itself had been cut so quietly.

It also explained something else I had been puzzling over. The sounds I was hearing were not the familiar trio of vinyl artefacts (hiss, pops and crackle) that one learns to accept, even to some extent to enjoy. Those have their own causes: dust caught in the groove, static discharge, the faint imprint of tape hiss from the original recording. What I was hearing was different. It had a pattern to it, a consistency across all the discs, appearing at roughly the same points. It was not dirt, and it was not wear. It was design.

In time, my initial disappointment gave way to something closer to acceptance. These records were never meant to be definitive. They were an introduction, a gateway of sorts, assembled for convenience rather than fidelity. And that, I realised, was a thread that did not end with vinyl.

In the early 1990s, another publisher, Orbis Publishing, brought out The Classical Collection on compact disc. I happen to own the first 45 issues of that series, and in many ways it felt like a continuation of the same idea, only updated for a new format.

By then, of course, the technical battle had been won. The compact disc had none of the physical limitations of the LP. There were no grooves to cram, no inner-edge distortion to contend with, no need to lower the volume just to make everything fit. A full symphony could sit comfortably on a single disc, often with room to spare. The sound was clean, stable and free of the surface noise that had plagued those earlier records. Yet the underlying approach remained familiar.

Like the Marshall Cavendish series, the Orbis collection was built up issue by issue, with each disc accompanied by notes that guided the listener through the repertoire. It, too, drew on licensed recordings rather than producing its own. And while the sound was undeniably better, the programming often reflected the same editorial mindset: a balance between completeness and coverage.

Sometimes there would be a full work. At other times, the disc would move from one piece to another, offering a sampler rather than a sustained listening experience. It was less about presenting a single performance in its full integrity than about giving the listener a workable map of the classical landscape. In that sense, the compromises had shifted rather than disappeared. Where the LPs had been constrained by physics, the CDs were shaped by editorial choice. One strained the medium; the other curated it.

Between the two, I found myself looking at my friend’s records in a slightly different light. They were part of a longer continuum: one that tried, in its own way, to make a vast and sometimes intimidating body of music more accessible to a wider audience. This wasn't perfect, not even especially refined, but purposeful.

I have kept his set. Not because it sounds good but because it tells a story about a time when building a classical collection could be as simple as a weekly visit to the newsagent; about the compromises hidden in the grooves, and later, in the programming; and, perhaps most of all, about the quiet afterlife of things once valued, passed from one pair of hands to another, carrying with them more than just the music they were meant to contain.

ADDENDUM:

Here is the full set of Marshall Cavendish's The Great Composers and Their Music series with the ones I own highlighted in bold:

1 - Beethoven: Symphony No.5 in C minor Opus 67
2 - Brahms: Symphony No.1 in C minor, Opus 68
3 - Chopin: Piano Recital incl. 'Minute' Waltz 'Revolutionary' Study
4 - Tchaikovsky: Piano Concerto No.1 in B flat minor, opus 23 with 'Romeo and Juliet' fantasy overture
5 - Schubert: Symphony No.8 in B minor ('unfinished') D.759 & symphony No.5 in B flat major D.485
6 - Beethoven: Violin Concerto in D, Opus 6
7 - Schumann: Symphony No.1 in B flat major, Opus 38 ('spring') with Piano Concerto in A minor, Opus 54
8 - Brahms: Piano Concerto No.2 in B flat major Opus 83
9 - Tchaikovsky: Ballet Music including 'Swan Lake' 'The Sleeping Beauty' & 'The Nutcracker'
10 - Berlioz: Symphonie Fantastique Opus 14
11 - Mendelssohn: Overtures incl. 'A Midsummer Nights Dream' Opus 21
12 - Liszt: The Piano Concertos
13 - Schubert: Piano Quintet in A major Opus 114 ('The Trout')
14 - Brahms: Violin Concerto in D major Opus 77
15 - Beethoven: Piano Concerto No.5 in E flat, Opus 73 ('Emperor')
16 - Tchaikovsky: Symphony No.6 in B minor, opus 74 ('Pathetique')
17 - Mendelssohn: Violin concerto in E minor, Opus 64 with Symphony No.4 in A major, opus 90 ('Italian')
18 - Beethoven: Piano Sonatas 'Moonlight,' 'Pathetique,' 'Appassionato'
19 - Tchaikovsky: Short orchestral works incl. '1812' festival overture, Opus 49
20 - Mahler: Symphonic Excerpts featuring themes from Visconti's film 'Death in Venice'
21 - Mozart: Piano Concertos Nos.21 and 22
22 - Bach J S: Brandenburg concertos Nos.2, 3 and 5
23 - Handel: Messiah (highlights)
24 - Mozart: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, K 525, three German Dances, K 605, A Musical Joke, K.522
25 - Vivaldi: The Four Seasons
26 - Bach J S: Selected Organ Works incl. Toccata and Fugue in D minor
27 - Mozart: Symphony No.40 in G minor, K.550 & Symphony No.41 in C, K.551 'Jupiter'
28 - Baroque Festival: Purcell, Albinoni, Telemann, Rameau, Pachelbel, Corelli and Handel
29 - Handel: Music for the Royal Fireworks & Water Music Suites in D and F
30 - Haydn: Symphony No. 94 in G major ('Surprise') & Symphony No.101 in D major ('Clock')
31 - Bach JS: Orchestral Suites No.2 in B minor, BWV 1067 & No.3 in D, BWV 1068
32 - Mozart: Clarinet concerto in A, K.622 & Flute and Harp Concerto in C, K.299
33 - Borodin, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov: Polovtsian Dances; A Night On The Bare Mountain; Russian Easter Overture, Capriccio Espagnol
34 - Sibelius: Symphony No.2 in D, Opus 43 & Finlandia, Opus 26
35 - Dvorak: Symphony No.9 in E minor, OP.95 'From The New World'
36 - Rimsky-Korsakov: Scheherazade Opus 35
37 - Grieg: 'Peer Gynt' suites No.1 and 2 with Piano Concerto in A minor, OP.16
38 - Dvorak and Smetana: Cello Concerto in B minor, OP.104; The Moldau (Vltava)
39 - Ravel: Orchestral Works
40 - Offenbach and Gounod: arr. Rosenthal Gaiete Parisienne; Faust - Ballet Music
41 - Strauss (Johann): Viennese Waltzes
42 - Debussy: La Mer and Nocturnes
43 - Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring and King of the Stars
44 - Strauss (Richard): Till Eulenspiegel OP.28 also, Sprach Zarathustra OP.30, Don Juan OP.20
45 - Elgar: Enigma Variations OP.36 Pomp and Circumstance OP.39
46 - Bartok: Concerto for Orchestra & Dance Suite
47 - Prokofiev, Shostakovitch: Symphony No.1 in D, Opus 25, 'The love of the Three Oranges' suite, Opus 33A; Symphony No.9 in E flat major, Opus 70
48 - Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No.2 in C minor Opus18, Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini Opus 43
49 - Orff: Carmina Burana
50 - Holst: The Planets
51 - Rodrigo: Concierto De Aranjuez and Fantasia Para Un Gentilhombre
52 - Gershwin: Piano Concerto in F, Rhapsody in Blue, I Got Rhythm
53 - Bizet: Carmen
54 - Mozart: Magic Flute & Cosi Fan Tutte
55 - Verdi: Aida And Rigoletto (operatic highlights)
56 - Rossini & Donizetti: Barber of Seville & Don Pasquale
57 - Puccini: Madam Butterfly & Turandot
58 - Leoncavallo & Mascagni: I Paggliacci & Cavalleria Rusticana
59 - Gounod: Faust
60 - Mozart: Marriage of Figaro & Don Giovanni
61 - Verdi: La Traviata & Il Trovatore
62 - Puccini: La Boheme & Tosca
63 - Strauss (Richard): Der Rosenkavalier
64 - Wagner: The Ring
65 - Strauss (Johann) & Lehar: Die Fledermaus & The Merry Widow
66 - Bonus LP: A Celebration Of Christmas