Clément Guérard–aka Clym–stated in his audiophile guide to Wagner that “there is no war of the Rings.” What he meant was that each recording stands as a supreme achievement of its own—irrespective of personal taste, conviction, philosophical leaning, or otherwise. It is a generous form of agnosticism that spares its practitioner the ire of the ever-furious Wagnerian.

So be it; and while, as a preamble, I’d like to subscribe to Clym’s absolutist regard for “The Ring” tetralogy, the new Delos release invites a more pragmatic approach. Epigonal at heart, it can’t escape—if not a war—at least a battle with “Rings” in the past.

But first, how does it stake out its uniqueness? Ironically, by circumventing the conceptual unity of the Gesamtkunstwerk. For the Delos “Ring” originates in a series of semi-staged concert performances, rather than in the theater.

Listeners on CD might feel indifferent to this; yet for those present at the I. M. Pei-designed Symphony Center in Dallas in 2024, the placement of the orchestra behind the singers—rather than in the pit—must have spoken volumes: no Regietheater or avant-garde experiments, but an absolute emphasis on the sonic. This aligns with Wagner’s own, albeit uncharacteristic, adage that “people shall hear what they cannot see.”

A comparison with the architectural togetherness of biblical oratorios might be the most apt to capture the overall sentiment of this “Ring.” It is solemn but not rigid, as Fabio Luisi—at the podium—imparts his Italianate legato to the transitions between scenes.

Note, for instance, the almost dreamlike airiness leading from the theft of the Rhinegold to Wotan’s Awakening—or, from a micro-perspective, the ebb and flow in Siegfried’s Funeral March, whose two-note tag feels integrative, like a pacemaker, rather than disruptive. The March breathes a processional air; it is a building wave rather than a string of syncopated beats, so to speak.

In this, Luisi’s “Ring” inches closer to the vision of Erich Leinsdorf—embedded, as it were, within a symphonic framework—than to the outright mystique of Furtwängler or Goodall. Some passages even sound remarkably alike: just listen to how the hero motif pierces through when Wotan, in his Farewell, sets down his sacrificial decree (“Denn einer nur freie die Braut”). Luisi achieves a near-transcendent astuteness and dramatic concision akin to Leinsdorf in 1961.

What works, works: Luisi’s approach is pragmatic, though perhaps too straightforward in Brünnhilde’s Todesverkündigung, where there is virtue in Wagner’s long unmeasured pauses. As a psychopomp, “The Valkyrie” mediates between life and death—sound and silence. The void after “Siegmund! Sieh’ auf mich! Ich bin’s, der bald du folgst” cannot be long enough—for my taste, that is.

The Dallas Symphony Orchestra (DSO), in turn, sounds superb. Over the course of this “Ring’s” 14 hours and 47 minutes, the Dallas symphonists prove themselves to be one of America’s great orchestras. During the Awakening of Brünnhilde, the strings—with their trills and tremolos—quiver with as much crispness as in any of the reference recordings. The symphonic allure of “Siegfried” serves the DSO especially well, and I have no hesitation in believing that it is the most compelling part of the Delos set.

Cast Highlights

As for the cast, Mark Delavan’s Wotan relishes the same sophistication as Luisi—eclectic though it is. The quasi-Belcantist “Abendlich strahlt der Sonne Auge” is almost anthological in its steadfastness, a mix of legato firmness and Delavan’s Germanic emphasis on consonants. I could have done with a less pompous “Wer meines Speeres Spitze,” but that is mere nitpicking in light of the sincerity imparted to his interpretation.

Daniel Johansson also dwells in unaffected candor reminiscent of the Scandinavian Heldentenors of previous generations. One might wish for his Siegfried to express a touch more abandon in the Forest Murmurs—or deeper wonder in his encounter with Brünnhilde. Yet Johansson’s strengths rest on his unobtrusiveness of tone, similar to Christopher Ventris’s unblemished naivete–in its purest sense. As Siegmund, he refuses to bark or indulge in vocal machismo, preferring instead to infuse the melodic line of “Wälse! Wälse! Wo ist dein Schwert” with disarming youthfulness. He is suave alongside Sara Jakubiak’s delightful Sieglinde, and pensive in “Hehr bist du, und heilig gewahr ich das Wotanskind.” The ensuing confrontation with Stephen Milling’s granite Hunding is all the more striking for it.

Lise Lindstrom as Brünnhilde does not muster the same degree of vocal sprezzatura. Though her vibrato has tightened—particularly at climaxes (“Siegfried, selig grüsst dich dein Weib”)—it is through her interpretive conviction that the Immolation scene draws on Wagner’s inexorable logic. She inhabits her part rather than just singing it—and through this, becomes rooted in the same text-conscious tradition as Tómas Tómasson’s Alberich, whose monolithic presence is among the finest on record–as far as recent performances are concerned.

And so one returns to the war of “The Rings,” or—for that matter—the lack thereof. Not because I believe Clym’s stance to be infallible (after all, battles there are!) or criticism to be unjustified unless it is a cosmetic flourish—but because the DNA of Luisi’s “Ring” is eclectic in itself. As such, it is not the work of an ideologue.

Rather than adhering to a single concept, therefore, it borrows from the language and architectural sweep of others–Leinsdorf, Solti, if comparisons be allowed–to earn its keep among the finest modern traversals of “The Ring” tetralogy committed to disc.