When Kubelík left Czechoslovakia, just after opening the Prague Spring festival of 1948, he had no trouble establishing himself: he was welcome everywhere, and after barely two years he was engaged as music director of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Although the recordings he made in Chicago for the Mercury label played a conspicuous role in welcoming and defining the era of high fidelity, his position there was undermined by a faction that didn’t care for his attention to contemporary music and other elements of his programming: he left Chicago in 1953. His subsequent position with the Royal Opera in London was just as brief but altogether happier, the reason for his departure this time being simply that he had too many invitations to fill elsewhere.

Despite his overall success, it was not until 1961, when he was 47 years old, that he accepted a position in Munich which he was to hold longer than any of his previous ones and is seen now as the pinnacle of his career, providing stimulation and recognition on a level he had never enjoyed before. He served as chief conductor of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra for 17 years, and remained for another eight years as principal guest conductor, with little reduction in his duties, while also establishing a special relationship with the Berlin Philharmonic and touring actively in Europe and America. The recordings made during this rich period are gathered together in the set under discussion here, with exceptional care for sound quality, musical good sense and tasteful presentation.

(Further biographical information on Kubelík may be found in a piece from the program book of the Prague Spring festival of 2014, an event dedicated to the memory of the conductor on the centenary of his birth. Numerous details and clarifications were provided by his son Martin Kubelík and the editor of the program book, Pavel Trojan Jr., and the piece includes a vivid report by the music critic and photographer Paul Moor of Kubelík’s first concert in Prague after his 42-year absence.)

The exterior of the big box calls attention to itself with its uncluttered bulk. The name KUBELÍK in stout red capital letters is strung along its full length. That accent pointedly in place over the letter "I" hardly ever appears in anything printed outside his homeland. A small matter, perhaps: Kubelík himself never fussed over it, and Deutsche Grammophon had never used it before, but in the present context that little mark, which does not appear quite so little here, may be said to validate the label's seriousness and thoroughness in undertaking this project.

The first of the discs in this set, in fact, more or less sets the frame for its content: outstanding performances of familiar music, and a healthy serving of definitely lesser-known but substantial material well worth discovering. Here we start out with a stunning performance of Bartók’s best-known work, the Concerto for Orchestra, performed by the Boston Symphony Orchestra, which introduced it to the world, and it is followed on the same disc by two splendidly crafted piano concertos by Alexander Tcherepnin, with the composer as soloist: music filled with charm, inventiveness and an assuring professionalism bound to make listeners who had never heard of this composer wonder why they hadn’t. This sort of contrast makes itself felt throughout the set.

Since the box includes all the symphonies of Beethoven, and Mahler, it will be understood that these composers had particular importance in Kubelík’s repertory, but he never spoke of "my Mahler," or "my Beethoven." What distinguished his music-making, in large part, was his reversal of that pattern of ownership: he simply gave himself totally and unreservedly to the music, so that it took possession of him. Performing Mahler’s Ninth Symphony, in particular, often left him physically and emotionally drained, unable to speak, totally (and not unhappily) spent. It was a work particularly close to his heart, and was the first part of his Deutsche Grammophon Mahler cycle to be issued: in that recording, the climax a little past midpoint in the final movement shines with both intensity and clarity well beyond the norm, bearing out Kubelík’s remarks on how a modern stereophonic recording of a Mahler symphony can deliver greater detail of the orchestration than we are likely to hear in the concert hall.

Another work prominent in his repertory was Smetana’s epic set of patriotic tone poems called Má vlast ("My Fatherland"), which he performed on numerous special occasions (and with which he turned numerous concerts into special occasions). This was not only a work he performed frequently, but was also the last music he conducted anywhere -- in the course of a tour of Japan with the Czech Philharmonic in November 1991. Among his several recordings of Má vlast, both live and under studio conditions, it is generally agreed that the one he made with the Boston SO in March 1971 is both musically and sonically the finest of all, and it is of course preserved in this set.

There is no way, and actually no need, to overstate the value of these recordings, or the enthusiasm with which they are sure to be received. The alternation of familiar and lesser-known works may not have been part of the plan, but it is definitely effective, giving the set a fine sense of balance, and I can honestly declare that among the 63 CDs of Deutsche Grammophon material there is only a single performance that does not call for the greatest enthusiasm and admiration: that of Mozart’s expansive "Haffner" Serenade, recorded in Munich in 1973. While the orchestra plays well, and the violin solos by Rudolf Koeckert, the orchestra’s concertmaster (and leader of his own string quartet) are both warm and tasteful, the work somehow fails to come together: in this one case, other conductors, by no means all stellar ones, have found its spirit more accessible.

But that is a single work, and the set is otherwise filled with unarguably treasurable musical experiences, all set forth in a vivid sonic frame, and there are some lovely surprises throughout the set, which includes, in addition to the interviews on the bonus discs, about a half-hour of rehearsal of Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The one surprising shortcoming in the set is its documentation, an element that has been rather seriously neglected.

For starters, the box includes several operas and a number of other works for voices, more than a few of which are bound to be unfamiliar to most listeners, but no texts are provided for them.

Of similar importance, while Rob Cowan has given us a fine biography of Kubelík within modest space, the booklet contains not a word of background on any of the music itself, which includes more than a few unfamiliar titles. such as those Tcherepnin concertos. Among these is ’s Diary of One Who Disappeared, which Kubelík does not conduct, but provides piano accompaniment for the singers. One of the other works by the same not exactly overexposed composer is his wildly exalted Glagolitic Mass. What on earth is the meaning of "Glagolitic?" Decades ago, a music-appreciation broadcaster excitedly told his radio audience, "This work is sung in Czech, ladies and gentlemen! Not in Latin, but in Czech!" Well, not really: it is actually sung in Old Church Slavonic, which is said to be most closely resembled among today’s languages by Bulgarian -- and whose alphabet is what is labeled as "Glagolitic." This remarkable work, in fact, is sometimes billed simply as "Slavonic Mass." In any event, it defines its own terms, and its fiery glory here is irresistible.

Naturally, the listener may want to know something of the work’s background, and it happens that there are more than a few items here that are as little-known as the Tcherepnin concertos. How many of us can claim any familiarity with Carl Orff's vast opera Oedipus der Tyrann (recorded here with the composer present), or Pfitzner's Palestrina? Or the symphonies of Karl Amadeus Hartmann? Or a violin concerto by Jean Martinon? (Like Kubelík himself, Martinon had a short term as conductor of the Chicago SO and was generally underappreciated there; like Kubelík again, Martinon was succeeded in Chicago by a phenomenally popular and respected Hungarian: Fritz Reiner after Kubelik, Georg Solti after Martinon. All the Chicago recordings by all of these conductors have been recirculated on CD).

And there is that Beethoven symphony cycle, which calls for some clarification. Just after Deutsche Grammophon made Kubelík the first conductor to record Mahler’s nine completed symphonies with a single orchestra, he became the first to record the nine of Beethoven with nine different orchestras, and of course this cycle is included in the big box. But there are two Deutsche Grammophon recordings of the Seventh Symphony, and nothing in print to prepare us for this duplication or clarify it for us. One is performed by the BRSO, while the other is played by the Vienna Philharmonic. The former was recorded early in 1970, before the nine-orchestra project was planned; the latter is the one included in the nine-orchestra set. But -- not that this matters all that much -- how was anyone to figure that out?

In any event, having both Sevenths is by no means a mere duplication. The two performances are fascinating in somewhat different ways, despite the striking similarities in the individual movement timings. Briefly, it may be said that the BRSO Seventh is rather more energetic and exciting, while the Viennese performance noes not lack vigor, but offers an overall feeling of grandeur and expansiveness -- or, one might say, a different level of vitality.

In spite of the failure to provide what many of us might regard as fairly basic information, this set definitely calls for the most positive reception for its painstaking attention to other details: for the sound quality, for the sensible layout of the various discs (not a single symphony is split between two discs this time around), for acquainting us with music beyond the basic repertory, and in general for the sense that this is an important and brilliantly executed musical offering, beyond its status as a memorial tribute worthy of the unforgettable musician it celebrates. I can imagine that those who buy it will find ways to fill in some of the informational gaps, or simply dismiss them as being too unimportant to modify the profound pleasure in what they hear, just as they write off the "Haffner" Serenade in light of the resounding glory of the rest of this marvelous memorial so brilliantly worthy of its subject. Altogether, with the single exception of that Mozart serenade, and a passing sigh over the missing documentation, this generously filled box recalls Artur Schnabel’s remark on the Schubert piano sonatas, which he described as "a safe supply of happiness."