Antonín DVOŘÁK (1841-1904)
Cello Concerto in B minor, Op. 104 B191 (1895) [38:10]
In Nature’s Realm Op.91 B168 (1892) [14:00]
Josef SUK (1874-1935)
Pohádka (Fairy Tale) Op.16 (1900) [27:35]
Saša Večtomov (cello)
Central Bohemia Symphony Orchestra/unknown conductor
rec. c. 1973, Poděbrady Theatre, Czechoslovakia
ORCHESTRAL CONCERT CDs CD9/2009 [79:45]
This concert was given in Poděbrady Theatre c.1973. The scene is set
in the booklet note which relates that the recording engineer Geoffrey Terry
was invited to the Sunday afternoon concert by the cello soloist Saša
Večtomov (1930-1989) and Ivan Moravec. He was hoisted onto a small platform
above the stage and it was in this ad hoc position that he recorded
the concert. It’s true also, as he intimates, that the sound in the
concert was rather boxy. It doesn’t particularly open out, nor is there
much bloom to it. However as a snapshot of a single performance it does serve
one invaluable service to posterity - and that is to memorialise that marvellous
cellist in his performance of the Dvořák Cello Concerto.
One takes a while to adjust to the audio; the strings sound rather recessed
and perspectives are not as natural as Terry managed to achieve in more sympathetic
recording environments, even in rather ordinarily intractable acoustics such
as London’s Royal Festival Hall. Still, one listens to Večtomov
and his unidiosyncratic phrasal assurance and tonal qualities with great admiration.
His legato is splendidly deployed, but never indulged; he never takes liberties
or becomes too elastic in his approach. As the concerto develops it’s
clear that Večtomov, so august a member of the Czech Trio, was certainly
a big enough concerto soloist, but one who does not seek to impose his personality
onto the music. Instead he illuminates it from within. Give and take with
wind and brass principals is a given with a musician of this calibre. True,
there is quite some vibrato in the horns but the winds are articulate and
dovetail with acumen and technical polish. Večtomov’s commentaries
in the finale are for once heard in a right light, and where necessary he
accompanies or qualifies ruminatively. The reminiscences of the slow movement
are all the more effective for being slightly understated; noble simplicity
is the order of this day. There is directness but not militancy, pliancy and
variety of tone colour, an avoidance of spurious pathos, and a close focus
on the purely musical qualities of the work. This is not quite as commonplace
as one might think. I’ve not mentioned the conductor for a reason. We
don’t know who he is.
Whoever he is he takes Suk’s Pohádka at a relatively sedate
but affectionate tempo, one of the slowest ones in my experience. As a result
it’s not quite as detailed as it might be and rhythms don’t kick
with the expected animation. But there’s an appealing first violin solo
- not spotlit, thankfully, as are so many anaemic studio recordings of this
piece - and a well marshalled animating pizzicato. Swans and Peacocks
- the second movement Polka - is nicely accomplished, though some will find
Mourning Music (the third section) rather brisk and businesslike. Here’s
where Macal’s 1968 Czech Philharmonic traversal really proves its worth.
The concert began with a pleasing performance of Dvořák’s
In Nature’s Realm, though one that lacks the weight, sheen and
sculpting of Kertesz’s slightly earlier late 1960s recording with the
LSO.
Where does this leave one? This all-Czech concert preserves Večtomov’s
reading of the concerto, one he never committed to posterity in the studio.
That’s a blessing. The rest of the concert is rather less successful.
But just who was that mystery man on the box?
Jonathan Woolf