In 2018, the Jewish Museum Vienna mounted an exhibit called “Leonard Bernstein: A New Yorker in Vienna.” The accompanying catalog featured the words “Bernstein in Vienna became the medium through which a prosperous democratic German-speaking cultural community could display its newly found post-war liberal tastes.” Yes, exactly. The ovations for Bernstein went on forever in part because Vienna was celebrating its release from infamy. Perhaps only an American Jew—open, friendly, but a representative of a conquering power—could have produced the effect that Bernstein did.
After his initial Vienna triumph in 1966, Bernstein returned to New York, and the embarrassment and condescending reviews petered out. Vienna had taught New York how to listen. The Europeans were enchanted by the expressive fluency that the New York critics had considered vulgar. Everyone but the prigs realized that Bernstein’s gestural bounty was both utterly sincere and very successful at getting what he wanted. He wasn’t out of control; he was asserting control. Karajan, by contrast, worked through the details in rehearsal and then, in performance, stood there with his eyes closed, beating time, thrusting out his aggressive chin and mastering the orchestra with his stick and his left hand. He was fascinating but almost frightening to watch.
Karajan radiated power when he conducted; Bernstein radiated love. Smiling, imploring, flirting, and commanding, he cued every section and almost every solo, and often subdivided the beat for greater articulation. If you were watching him, either in the hall or on television, he pulled you into the structural and dramatic logic of a piece. He was not only narrative in flight; he was an emotional guide to the perplexed. For all his egotism, there was something selfless in his work.