Shostakovich’s Thirteenth Symphony was completed in July
1962 and first performed in December of that year in the Grand
Hall of the Moscow Conservatoire, where this recording was also
made. The composer had wanted Boris Gmyrya to sing the solo part
and Mravinsky to conduct, but in the event, both refused. Gmyrya
was undoubtedly fearful of the consequences of taking part in
such a politically sensitive event, but the reasons for Mravinsky’s
refusal have never been satisfactorily explained. He had directed
the premieres of many of Shostakovich’s earlier works,
and the composer was bitterly disappointed. “Eventually,
the two would be able to re-establish professional contact,” writes
Laurel Fay in her life of the composer, “but the loss of
trust was never repaired.” The premiere eventually went
ahead, as did a second performance two days later, with Vitali
Gromadsky singing the solo part and Kyril Kondrashin conducting.
The work was apparently rapturously received by the public, but
as is well known, changes were imposed before further performances
were allowed. The music itself was subject to little official
comment, but Yevgeny Yevtushenko, the author, was obliged to
rewrite part of the first poem, and though some later performances
incorporated these changes, the composer never approved of them
and never copied them into his manuscript score.
On two successive days in September 1941, at the place known
as Babi Yar, near Kiev, almost thirty-four thousand people, most
of them Jewish, were herded together by the Nazis, laid down
one on top of the other in pits, and shot. Yevtushenko’s
poem commemorates this, but, crucially, uses it as a symbol of
anti-Semitism in general and, by careful allusion, of contemporary
anti-Semitism in the Soviet Union. Shostakovich reportedly decided
to set it to music as soon as he had read it, and lost no time
in choosing three others. Yevtushenko then wrote a fifth poem,
Fears,
at the composer’s request, which became the Thirteenth
Symphony’s fourth movement. The five poems deal with different
subjects and are quite unconnected, but Shostakovich’s
mastery of form and thematic content ensure the required symphonic
structure, unity and growth. Repression is an ever-present subtext,
but only the first poem was explicit enough to trouble the authorities.
This is a recording of a live performance and, more than many
such recordings - where the presence of an audience seems undetectable
- this has its advantages and disadvantages. The sound is fine,
very immediate and carefully balanced, but there are more coughs
than we are used to, some of which appear to come from the musicians,
as certainly do the various platform creaks and noises. You forget
this though, because the performance is incandescent with the
fire that comes of making music in front of an audience.
The orchestra has resisted - praise be! - the transformation
into a homogenised, international sound. This is brilliant and
highly disciplined playing, but the sound can be brash and unrefined,
a little rough round the edges. The instruments actually sound
different, one from the other. This is positive comment! When
the occasion demands, such as the end of the first movement,
they play with huge, ferocious power. The second movement is
entitled
Humour, and rarely has the humour sounded more
forced, more ironic than here. The conductor’s way with
the piece leaves the listener in no doubt of his view of things.
It is still shameful, he is saying, that Russia’s women
have to queue all day to buy basic foodstuffs. And no, he makes
clear in the fourth movement, the fears of the Russian people
have still not been laid to rest. He makes these points by constantly
moving the music on, by underlining expressive effects such as
accents, and above all by encouraging his musicians to play and
sing with real passion. It is a stunning performance to which
I will often return, and in which I take issue with only one
thing, which is Fedoseyev’s uncharacteristic decision to
slow down the tempo for the return of the wistful little waltz
in the final pages of the work. It’s not quite sentimental,
but it comes perilously close.
The typically dark tone of the choir is a huge advantage, and
they acquit themselves splendidly throughout. Sergei Aleksashkin
is marvellous too, hugely communicative and powerfully expressive.
There is some vocal strain in the head voice as he describes
the stoicism of the queuing women in the third movement, and
this, in the context of a live performance, is very affecting.
Less so is his acting out, with very approximate pitch, of the
opening of
Humour. Six years earlier, for Rudolf Barshai
- Brilliant Classics 6324, the complete symphonies and the finest
bargain in my collection - where he is much more careful about
the notes, but straighter and less ironic.
The presentation of the disc is strange. A long essay in German
is given also in English and French. The French translation seems
a safer bet than the English one which is at times unintelligible.
A few quotes are then appended from what the unnamed writer refers
to as “Solomon Volkov’s once controversial but now
almost universally accepted book
Testimony.” Information
about the conductor and the orchestra is given in English only,
and there is nothing at all about the soloist or the choir. The
text of the symphony is included too, but in German only. Then
there are several photographs, including one of the painfully
shy composer receiving the poet’s embrace on the platform
after the symphony’s first performance. I think Yevtushenko
might well be talking about this, amongst other reminiscences
of Shostakovich, in the ten minutes of “Yevgeny Yevtushenko
reads” which ends the disc, but since he speaks in Russian
and the documentation provides no further information - and certainly
no translation - there is sadly no way of knowing.
William Hedley
Sergei Aleksashkin (bass); Moscow
Chamber Choir 
