This Danacord set is in fact anything but "new"; it was
recorded in 2001, over four years ago! According to Jesper Buhl,
the company's founder and seemingly indefatigable M.D., this
unusually long delay was due to the recording engineer falling ill
during the sessions. In the world of the small, independent record
company, such a seemingly mundane eventuality tends to behave like
a snowball on an alpine slope. A replacement engineer had to be
found, and the remaining sessions re-scheduled for a date when the
various personnel and the hired venue were all available.
The snowball rumbled on. The replacement engineer didn't know the
original microphone layout and, of course, his equipment was in any
event completely different. Thus, it was a major job even to
approximate the sound of the original sessions. Broadly speaking,
the upshot was a "recording" comprising a mixture of two
differently-balanced, partial sets of masters.
The snowball rumbled on! To produce a final master now involved not
one, but two extra factors. Firstly, there were three busy
people - two independent, freelance engineers and the
producer, who was also Danacord's M.D! - to bring together on
as many occasions as necessary. Secondly, specialised equipment was
needed to "weld" the disparate sources. There is plenty of this
equipment about, but as it tends to reside in big broadcasting
houses or permanent studios, where it is in almost constant use,
finding a slot was another major headache. As Jesper said, "Before
you know [it], four years have passed away." Amen to that.
Was it worth the effort? That's what we're here to find out.
Feeling certain twinges of sympathy with my colleague John France,
who has also
reviewed this recording, I echo his implicit "dismay" at the
numbers of alternative recordings of this repertoire. As John
implies, if you want the "best" of each, you have to pick and
choose your way through a heaving morasse of alternatives,
and - unless money is no object ‑ be
prepared for heaps of overlap and excess baggage. On the other
hand, if you're content to trade having the "best" recording and
performance of each individual concerto for the "best" all-round
recorded cycle, then the job's a bit less messy.
Consequently, like John, over the years I too have "largely stuck
with" Decca's Ashkenazy/LSO/Previn set. Ever since its first
release, way back in the Dark Ages B.C.D. (before compact disc),
reviewers have time and again seen fit to hail it as the best
all-rounder - and with substantial justification. Hence,
this set can fairly be said to have stood the fabled "test of
time". Therefore, it would seem eminently sensible to press it into
service as a benchmark. So, I'm going to be quite contrary, and
start by looking at another recording
entirely ‑ and moreover a recording of just the
First Concerto.
I've had the Katz/LPO/Boult recording in my collection for nearly
40 years, firstly as a Pye Golden Guinea LP and latterly as a PRT
CD (PVCD8376) whose almost irredeemably grotty presentation is more
than compensated by Michael J. Dutton's utterly exquisite digital
re-mastering. The recording itself is currently available on Cembal
d'Amour CD109 (see Jonathan Woolf's
review). Even allowing for the unavoidable feeling of cosy
familiarity with an old friend, to me this recording of the
Prokofiev still sounds just about as good as it can get. For its
age (1959), the sound is lovely, full-blooded yet clear enough, and
commendably stereophonic. More importantly, the performers rarely
put even a toe wrong, and here I'm talking not of mere
technicalities, but of the spirit in which Prokofiev's
outrageous music is represented.
The opening brass chords rasp fit to take the skin off your aural
knuckles, their corpulent consonance cracking wide open the
ambivalence of the subsequent skipping theme. Veering vertiginously
between childlike playfulness and adult inebriation, this sets the
tone of the whole performance. Every episode crackles with its own
distinctive character, yet each yields to its successor with almost
organic inevitability. For example, Katz catches the vodka-soaked
lurching of the passage following the concerto's slow core as near
as dammit to perfection, whilst Boult's stage-management of the
build-up to the final flourish, with its sizzling syncopated
episode, is hair-raising.
However, it's that "slow core" which is most captivating. Like
Mahler's infamous "allegro energico, ma non troppo" (Sixth
Symphony, first movement), Prokofiev's "andante assai" is, to
say the least, an ambiguous marking. "Andante" means "slowish, but
not slow", or "walking pace", so what modification is implied by
the "assai"? Is it slower than walking pace, or faster? Quite
properly, to my mind, Katz and Boult shelve the assai
altogether and opt for a straight andante. At this pace,
playing with delicacy and circumspection, and studiously avoiding
any exaggerated expression, they find in the movement a feeling of
slightly tainted innocence that mirrors the naïve roguishness
of the outer sections.
If we turn to the "benchmark" Ashkenazy/LSO/Previn recording, there
are of course very many good things to savour, but they come mostly
courtesy of the LSO and Previn, who create some delicious sounds.
The Decca recording is both richer and more detailed, but the flow
is disrupted by some over-interpretation - for instance,
the "mysterious" episode ‑ without any obvious
rhyme or reason - at one point grinds to a complete halt.
Moreover, Ashkenazy's piano is too far forward, tending to
predominate even where it is quite evidently supposed to be
accompanying.
Compared to Katz, Ashkenazy somehow seems a bit po-faced and
aggressive, lacking that essential degree of playfulness whilst,
compared to Boult, Previn makes the orchestral sound feel rather
too civilised for such wickedly mischievous music. Those opening
chords again set the tone. Although they are better balanced, with
more body in the strings, that sassy brass rasp is sadly missing.
Then again, Ashkenazy has under-dosed on the vodka, and the
acceleration towards the final climax is overdone, so that the
syncopations sound "gabbled". Although their Andante Assai
is only marginally slower, Ashkenazy declines to deliver the legato
that the music demands, and his climax is redolent not so much of
dewy-eyed youth as of care-worn middle-age.
At this point it's only fair to ask, why has the Decca set ruled
the roost for so long? The obvious reason is that Previn and
Ashkenazy are individually superlative interpreters of Prokofiev,
but I think there's a bit more to it than that. I can remember the
first time I saw Ashkenazy in the flesh, at the very first symphony
concert I attended. As he took a bow alongside Barbirolli, I was
struck by his diminutive stature - I can say this with impunity,
being no great shakes at the high jump myself - but still more so
by the sheer power of his playing of the Emperor Concerto,
the recoil frequently forcing his bum clear of the piano stool.
Later, as a student, I saw him again, playing the Beethoven
Fourth. The start of his cadenza nearly lifted the roof of
Newcastle City Hall! Of course Ashkenazy can also play with the
utmost delicacy but, somehow, when he does there's always this
feeling of an iron fist clad in a velvet glove.
Sadly, the only time I've ever seen Previn in the flesh, he was not
performing, but being interviewed. So, to judge his qualities as a
conductor, I can only go by his recordings and broadcast
performances. They are impressive enough. To an uncommon degree he
combines those two old incompatibles, dramatic flair and structural
sense, which rapidly became evident during his love affair with
English music ‑ especially Walton and Vaughan
Williams. His recording of Prokofiev's complete Romeo and
Juliet ballet seemed to suffer by comparison with the
Cleveland/Maazel recording, which happened along at practically the
same time. Yet, to this day his version remains one of my favourite
records, precisely on account of those virtues, compounded by a
supple, elastic approach to tempo, and a willingness, even
eagerness, to put the lyrical on an equal footing with the
rhythmical.
Thus, it seems to me, the secret of this set's success is that
Previn regards Prokofiev as primarily a "Romantic", whilst
Ashkenazy, contrariwise, treats him more as an out-and-out
"Modernist". These effectively conflicting viewpoints, coming from
two powerful musical personalities, infuse their joint performances
of these concertos with a certain extra electrical tension. It's a
bit of a shame, then, that the recording tends to pull the rug out
from under their collective feet. Make no mistake - in
most respects the recording is superb, as rich as Christmas pud, at
times positively luxuriant. The trouble is that, much of the time,
the piano is too far forward, tipping the balance too much in
favour of Ashkenazy. It's true that there are places where Previn's
LSO produces some awe-inspiring power, but these are often places
where the piano is silent, or buried in its own bass. Turn to the
quiet passages, where the piano is supposed to be whispering, and
that undue prominence seems to fray the edges of the velvet gloves.
Step forward the Young Pretenders! What do they have to offer?
Well, first let's complete the trio of First Concertos.
Willén restores the brazen, but sadly not the rasping,
quality of those tone-setting chords, whilst Marshev's chirpy piano
slots into the ensemble like the leader of the pack. Out on
his own, following the opening peroration, Marshev
is - perhaps surprisingly - the slowest of the
three. Nevertheless he is also, by some margin, the most
beguilingly playful. At his tempo, he gives himself elbow room
sufficient to explore every cunning little twist in the thematic
tale - this really sparkles!
Like Katz and Boult, Marshev and Willén don't faff about
with their "andante assai" - only they go straight for
the assai's jugular, and adopt a diametrically opposite "at snail's
pace", playing very sweetly and sensitively, but also
oh-so-languorously. Granted, it is gob-smackingly beautiful, but it
is also seductive, indulgent and too self-aware, as though the
naughty child of the outer sections had temporarily grown up.
Although they avoid the Decca team's ponderousness, their climax is
nonetheless grandiose and sweeping, making the movement sound more
like ripe Rachmaninov than pubescent Prokofiev.
Still, in the deliciously vivacious outer sections Marshev is much
nearer to Katz than to Ashkenazy: Marshev simply oozes
whimsical impudence. For example, take the point where Ashkenazy
ground to a halt. Marshev does indeed slow right down, but with him
there is nothing arbitrary about it. At the same time his playing
acquires an improvisatory feel then, at the ensuing presto,
although he's not the quickest he gives every impression of taking
off like some small boy caught snitching apples. Similarly,
Willén is much nearer to Boult than to Previn. If he
sometimes doesn't quite hit the nail on the head, he does know
exactly when to tuck his tongue firmly in his cheek.
Whilst this newcomer leaves my affection for Katz and Boult,
like 007's Martini, shaken but not stirred, it nevertheless manages
to knock the formidable Ashkenazy and Previn into a comparative
cocked hat. Admittedly, we lose the frisson generated by
Ashkenazy's and Previn's disparate attitudes, a special quality
that will keep their set always close to our hearts. However, by
sailing closer to my First Concerto first choice, to my ears
at least Marshev and Willén already show considerable
mettle.
Marshev is still, unaccountably, relatively little-known; at least
in the UK! Yet, as has been observed in numerous reviews within
these web pages, he is not only a supremely talented pianist
but also a musician who thinks long and hard about what his fingers
should be doing. This is not to imply that his performances sound
in any way dull and deliberate - quite the contrary: once
his fingers get going, the music seems to flow right off the cuff.
In these concertos, he seems to seek the golden mean between the
Romantic lyricism of Previn and the pungent aggression of
Ashkenazy. That's the "deliberation" bit. However, Marshev
recognises that the enfant terrible of the First
Concerto, a bit like Peter Pan, does not entirely grow up.
Right through the cycle he can be heard "spontaneously" seasoning
the music with twinkles of boyish mischief.
Willén's is a name with which I'm not over-familiar. In
fact, to be ruthlessly honest, before this set dropped though my
letter-box he'd never particularly impinged on my consciousness.
Yet, as you can see if you look at this
page of the Hyperion web-site, he's been around a bit. Then,
when I noticed the CD booklet's mention of a recording of
Alfvén's First Symphony he had made for Naxos, the
penny dropped - I do indeed have that very disc on my
shelf! Willén is a superbly sympathetic partner, coaxing
from the SJSO mischief to match Marshev at his cheekiest, proving
the equal of Previn when it comes to the lyrical line, and adept at
teasing out telling orchestral stones that many others leave
unturned. It seems to me unlikely that either the SJSO is incapable
of erecting massive walls of sound such as do the LSO for Previn,
or that the Danacord engineer(s!) are incapable of capturing them -
the often imposing solidity of the bass drum proves that point.
Hence, the generally relatively slender sound is a matter of choice
on the part of the conductor, all part and parcel of their view of
Prokofiev as a composer who is both lithe and light on his feet.
To exemplify, let's first look at the Second Concerto, which
stands apart from the other four in its almost entirely pervasive,
red-eyed rage. The opportunities for displays of motoric modernity
offered by the music are right up Ashkenazy's street. Small wonder,
then, that Ashkenazy gives a fair impression of "The Terminator" -
it matters not which model! - in his relentless pursuit of the
towering, glowering first-movement cadenza. This is something that
Marshev doesn't match, any more than, in the dénouement,
Willén and the SJSO match Previn and the LSO in the way the
crushingly baleful orchestra seems not merely to enter, but to be
sucked into the fray. However, it is not that Marshev cannot
match Ashkenazy, part of whose power is due to the prominence given
to the piano by the recording. It is simply that Marshev's view is
more balanced, finding more poetry and swagger at the start, and
finer poignancy at the conclusion. Neither does the SJSO lack sheer
brute force: Willén goes on to generate a devastating
conclusion to that climax.
This overwhelming episode is symptomatic of the Decca performance
as a whole, from the measured deliberation of the opening, through
the unwavering pianistic perpetuum mobile of the second
movement, the third's clockwork "todtentanz" which Previn launches
with "chasmic" power, and the pungently propulsive finale.
Contrariwise, Marshev throughout finds more poetry in the music,
which after all incorporates an expression of not just anger at,
but also grief over the wasteful loss of his friend Maximilian
Schmidthof. In the second movement, Marshev's attention to subtle
accents gradually begins to tell, as does Willén's habit of
teasing out orchestral detail. Again, whilst they make the third
movement, comparatively, a funeral march, they replace the Decca
team's drive and aggression by grimly sardonic, mordant humour.
Ashkenazy and Previn can be said to take a "traditional" viewpoint:
by stressing the mechanistically aggressive, they make the music
massively imposing, melodramatic and physically stimulating.
Marshev and Willén, their far more pliant perspective
drawing out many more of the threads of romance that Prokofiev
weaves into his textures, offer a more measured view of the
composer's soul - and, moreover, one that is less likely,
albeit only marginally, to give grannie an attack of the vapours.
In the sterner passages of the Third Concerto, Marshev again
lacks the sheer brute force of Ashkenazy, but more than compensates
with a finer sense of mystery and playfulness. Much as Previn
elicits from the LSO a warm, airy, "balletic" range of expression,
his sound is perhaps a bit too sanitary for Prokofiev's acoustical
jungle ‑ Willén's SJSO sounds leaner and
more fitted to the purpose. Danacord's recording again blends the
protagonists rather better - at least, unlike
Ashkenazy's, Marshev's piano stays in one place throughout! This
tendency of Ashkenazy's piano to "move forwards" is particularly
obtrusive in the finale's lyrical episode, where the piano
"accompaniment" consistently threatens to drown Previn's
sensitively-drawn orchestral line. I suspect that this is not so
much down to Ashkenazy, who is perfectly capable of playing
delicately, as it is to some "fader-fiddler" in the control-room.
Prokofiev starts his second movement in very much a Classical vein,
so it would seem reasonable for the soloist to enter at the tempo
established by the orchestral exposition. Marshev does just that,
and it sounds so right. Ashkenazy doesn't - he slows it
down! ‑ and it sounds wrong; at least, it does
now! Thereafter, although everyone keenly captures the
characters of the variations, it is Marshev, less driven in the
"driven" variation, who carries the "Classical" feel right through
the movement. Yet, and as if to underline my comment in the
previous paragraph, it is Ashkenazy who most effectively provides a
quality of disembodiment in the "impressionistic" variation. Like
Ashkenazy and Previn, Marshev and Willén start the finale at
snail's pace. However, the latter opt, not for a gradual increase
of pace, but a relatively sudden "take off", whereby they seem to
release more "bounce". In the central episode, the SJSO may not be
as fine-spun silken as the LSO, but their playing is more
dolce, and even more heartfelt. In Marshev's hands the
reprise is not so propulsive. It is less visceral, but Marshev puts
the elbow-room to good use, being the more effervescent. For all
his hair-raising articulation, especially of that blood-curdling
cycle of dovetailed chords, Ashkenazy rather dashes off the coda.
Sadly, that comment is not a prelude to a Marshev "coup": those
fiendishly difficult dovetailed chords are not so well brought off,
and somehow the "tune" gets a bit lost behind all the rhythmic
figurations.
The Fourth Concerto must surely rank alongside Ravel's D
Minor, as arguably the finest commissioned by the one-armed
Paul Wittgenstein. I can remember arguing with the late, lamented
Adrian Smith about "left hand only" piano concertos. Adrian agreed
that it was, of course, right and proper that a one-armed pianist
should have one-handed music to play. However, performances of that
same music by two-armed pianists with, effectively, one hand tied
behind their backs he regarded as ridiculous displays of virtuoso
vanity. As he could play the piano and I can't, I found that hard
to counter. In any event, I have to admit that it does seem to make
sense: redistributing the notes between two hands will render the
music easier to play, and hence will "free up" the player to
concentrate better on his or her interpretation. It's a thought,
isn't it? Moreover, it provokes another thought: when we hear a CD
of such a work, we don't actually know how many hands the
player is using.
In his detailed, eleven-page booklet note, Daniel Jaffé
gives a lucid explanation of Prokofiev's compositional strategy. I
would quibble with his description of Ravel's concerto as a
"brilliant show piece [sic]" - the Ravel is almost
always described as "dark-hued" or "sombre", though this has
nothing to do with any technical limitations, and everything to do
with what Ravel was trying to express in his music. Prokofiev, on
the other hand, modifies his instrumentation for purely technical
reasons: he both darkens his orchestral palette and slims down the
orchestra's size, to compensate for the piano's perceived handicap.
Ashkenazy and Previn make a splendid start, Ashkenazy positively
sizzling over the keyboard, and Previn splashing PLJ (lemon juice)
over the basically "peaches and cream" orchestral sound. The good,
clean recording, relatively well-integrated, captures the crisp
sparkle of the incisive higher notes without sacrificing the deep
"boom" of the bottom. Yet, the whimsical Marshev is still more
magically mercurial, defter and lighter of touch, with
Willén's orchestra sympathetically less fulsome. Marshev's
piano lacks the bass solidity of Ashkenazy's, although this is not
down to the recording because the thudding of the SJSO bass drum
has all the subterranean substance your bottom could desire.
The Danacord team manage to stretch the second movement to some 13
minutes, fully four minutes or, to put it even more
dramatically, around 45% longer than the Decca timing! This
is an alarming difference, especially when you consider that the
movement is marked "andante", plain and simple, with not even the
excuse of a water-muddying "assai" to hide behind. By rights, it
should sound dreadful - but it doesn't, far from it.
Marshev and Willén do a magnificent job of conspiring to
control the contours of the movement (and so they jolly well
should, seeing as it was their fault that it was so stretched out
in the first place). Delicacy is rife, lending comparative power to
the moments of greater amplitude and revealing certain acidic
elements ‑ including a dissonant pang near the
end ‑ that eluded the more lustrous Decca team.
Wisely, Marshev resists any temptation to stress the bass notes on
the bar-lines, thus avoiding the lumps that Ashkenazy, sadly, puts
back into Previn's carefully-stirred custard. Tender, nostalgic and
thoughtful, Marshev's performance is thoroughly absorbing and
convincing in itself ‑ but that doesn't explain why
it has to be so damnably slow.
The third movement is one of those that brings home how beautifully
rounded is the tone of Ashkenazy's piano. He plays most charmingly,
demarcating the shifting moods through a nigh-on perfect balance
between sweet and bitter combined with some suitably subtle
variations of tempo. As ever, Previn's LSO is smooth, full-toned,
colourful and - of course - too far back.
Marshev's piano is lighter and a tad harder of tone, but is
well-suited to his delicately crystalline approach. Although their
timing is almost identical, Marshev and his cohorts use wider
extremes of tempo to impart a greater sense of playfulness though,
I should add, sometimes these "kiddies" play rough. Marshev's
deftness is complemented by Willén, who capitalises on the
SJSO's more slender sound to neatly delineate the sweet/bitter
quality of Prokofiev's music.
The concerto's finale isn't, not
really - effectively picking up where the first movement
left off, it's more of a nifty little postlude. In the first
movement's concluding brass chord Previn had ferreted out a
strange, elusive quality that seemed to leave the music up in the
air, and this (of course) makes perfect sense when you hear their
finale, which to my ears sounds to set off at the precise same
tempo. The Danacord lads don't quite match this trick: perhaps
surprisingly, their brass chord is slightly less clean, that
elusive quality eluding them, and their finale "picks up" at a
slightly faster tempo. Purely in terms of playing there is little
to choose between the two, but fluffing that crucial connection has
to cost Marshev and Willén something in the region of half a
brownie-point. In case you're wondering: at no time did I become
suspicious that either Ashkenazy or Marshev was making sneaky use
of any otherwise idle digits!
Daniel Jaffé suggests that the underlying tenor of the
Fifth Concerto was prompted by, of all things, a boxing
match. Yet, the very opening of the concerto seems to be haunted by
the shade of the yet-unborn Cinderella ballet. Maybe, then,
the slapstick antics of the Ugly Sisters shared the same
inspiration, who knows? The Decca lads are on top
form - their sound is superb, full, with supremely ripe
brass and a tuba that would have given Hoffnung an orgasm, yet
glittering and incisive. Moreover, the soloist and orchestra for
once seem to be pretty fairly balanced! Ashkenazy flits through the
first movement like quicksilver, and renders the runs in the second
as showers of burning ice. Appropriately, he pulls no punches in
the third, ripping into the music with a fleet fury that is
reflected in the electrifying orchestral playing. Contrariwise, in
the fourth movement he renders the cascades of notes with
shimmering delicacy whilst Previn finds a hint of Copland in the
orchestral texture. Their relentless drive through the first part
of the finale is moderated by bounteous sparkle ... need
I say more?
Well, the Danacord sound is much less ample and "in yer face", but
Marshev and Willén find, if not more light, then certainly
more shade ‑ the first movement's central
"dreamscape" is slower, quieter, and more introspective. In the
second they are far more capricious and
tongue-in-cheek - Marshev even finds a little "rock 'n'
roll" in the quick variation, and by initially underplaying those
runs comes out the more electrifying when he does cut loose. In the
third movement, they are just as fast and furious, but (dare I
say?) more lightweight, more attuned to Prokofiev's
toccata marking, more poised and playful. Marshev, by
keeping things simple and avoiding Ashkenazy's over-emphasis of the
bar-lines, makes the fourth movement's melody sound less
four-square, more fluid. With Marshev, for once, yielding
absolutely nothing to Ashkenazy in terms of sheer muscle, the
Danacord forces mould the mighty climax with practically peerless
insight, accentuating the soft core and subsequently carving a
terrifyingly terraced crescendo.
To cap it all, they make the finale sound like almost a different
piece of music! Marshev is more flexible, in terms of both tempo
and dynamics, and he and Willén elicit melodious moments
that evaded the attention of Ashkenazy and Previn. The conclusion
is remarkable: it sets off "in modo Percy Grainger strolling
humlet" ‑ jaunty, jolly, brolly-swinging stuff.
Then they accelerate, but unlike Ashkenazy's and Previn's headlong
build-up, Marshev and Willén stand back and remain
internally flexible, you could say "ducking and weaving" until,
seeing their opening, they strike like lightning to deliver a
mighty knock-out punch. This on its own is almost worth the asking
price!
I must give full marks to the magnificent efforts of Danacord's
production "team", whose recording shows no obvious signs of its
troubled birth. I did keep a "weather ear" on it, and if there is
any perceptible inconsistency, I give it a big tick for ducking
completely under my guard. What the recording does reveal is the
mesmerising array of orchestral details that Willén pulls
out of Prokofiev's top hat. Inevitably, this fine resolution comes
at a small cost: the sound, whilst nowhere near boxed in and
desiccated, is just a little on the close and "dry" side, but very
pleasant on the ear withal. Most importantly, this Danacord set
offers fresh, original views of what had seemed to be repertoire so
well-trodden that it was ripe for a preservation order. Once upon a
time, if I had been exiled to that legendary desert island, the
Decca set would have gone with me.
Now . . . well, I'm not so sure!
Paul Serotsky
See also August 2005 review from John
France
