If there’s one benefit to the general stalling of major labels’
new recording projects, it’s the chance to explore back catalogues
for overlooked gems. This bargain box set of the Tchaikovsky’s
symphonies led by Mstislav Rostropovich is a good example of the
sort of illumination that can be found in reconsidering older
recordings. Originally set down in 1976 and released on record,
it appeared only briefly on CD in the mid-1990s, so this issue
may be its best chance yet to gain a following.
When it was originally released, the Rostropovich cycle had
some adherents, though many criticized its broad tempos. Thirty
years on, what makes even more of an impact than the spacious
speeds are the rich, full sounds Rostropovich encourages the
London Philharmonic to make. In some ways, it must have been
one of those great artistic “cross pollinations”, as this was
an orchestra accustomed at that time to the restraint of Sir
Adrian Boult and Bernard Haitink, or the athleticism of Sir
Georg Solti. Rostropovich’s bear-hug of warmth drew radiant,
creamy sound from the strings, which is no surprise, considering
that his first career was as one of the foremost cellists of
the twentieth century. But he extends that palette throughout
the orchestra.
This makes such a vivid impact now because the trend over
the last thirty years has been for conductors to winnow away
rich, dense orchestral sound and replace it with something far
sleeker. Indeed, Rostropovich was already something of a throwback
when he recorded this cycle, as Antal Dorati and Lorin Maazel
had already made revisionist cycles by then. Muti started a
much sleeker cycle (also for EMI) shortly after these recordings,
though, inexplicably, they’re not recorded nearly as well. Then
in the eighties came the full sea-change, led by Mariss Jansons
and the Oslo Philharmonic on Chandos in lean and lithe performances
that set the modern standard. Abbado followed with a similar
cycle in Chicago. Most modern versions now feature the familiar
style: swift tempos, emotional restraint, and lean orchestral
sound with a silky sheen.
Rostropovich, conversely, is broad, visionary, saturated.
That is not to say that his set is the ultimate that could be
achieved in this direction. Indeed, parts of it miss the mark
fairly widely, and there are notable late recordings by Leonard
Bernstein and Sergiu Celibidache that go much further in the
visionary direction. But what is so refreshing about this cycle
is the sense of openness and sincerity. As an instrumental player
who was only beginning to make the transition to the podium,
Rostropovich seems happy to encourage the players. He holds
the reins loosely in places, letting the orchestra become an
active partner in creating the performance. This leads to a
few clunky transitions, but it also results in performances
that have an alert, organic feel. Instead of a hundred bored
musicians, one senses a hundred engaged — if occasionally skeptical
— players. And there probably was some skepticism, as Rostropovich
came late to conducting and never became a technical wizard
along the lines of a Maazel or an Ozawa. On the other hand,
his performances were rarely plagued with the sense of bored
perfection that has so often crept into those conductors’ recordings.
Rostropovich’s Tchaikovsky First is one of the highlights
of the set because he commits to the piece’s aspirations and
doesn’t obsess over its youthful flaws unlike, say, Karajan,
who seemed afraid to take the finale to extremes. Likewise,
Jansons and Abbado concern themselves with transitions and forward
flow, whereas Rostropovich is not averse to lingering, particularly
in the slow movement, where he finds visionary breadth, not
unlike the superb Temirkanov recording on RCA from the early
nineties. In the end, my choice performance for this work is
Antal Dorati on Mercury, who doesn’t treat it as a lightweight,
yet still manages to keep it tersely focused and to the point.
Rostropovich stands among the finest here.
That same spaciousness of conception, however, does no great
favors for the Second, which truly is a lighter work,
delightful though it is. Here I like the drive of Dorati, the
galvanized excitement of the young Giulini - though his EMI
early stereo recording isn’t sonically rich, and he makes a
cut in the finale - or the punchy attack of Svetlanov’s 1967
Melodiya recording. If one must go on the slow side, then the
way to pull it off is to really grind it out, like Markevitch
and the LSO on Philips. Rostropovich’s version of the second
movement march is fairly laid-back, especially when compared
to the dash made by Bernstein: 6:06 to Rostropovich’s 7:41.
On the other hand, several are slower than Slava, not to mention
Beecham, whose recording I have heard though I don’t have a
timing for it.
Tchaikovsky’s Third is arguably the most elusive of
Tchaikovsky’s symphonies, but I’d credit Rostropovich with getting
more to the heart of it than most. This work is where Dorati
is weakest, opting for a light, balletic approach, when there
is arguably room for more substance here than first meets the
eye. Accordingly, Rostropovich takes the central slow movement
quite slowly, almost as slowly as Ormandy and Svetlanov, allowing
it time to build its lonely moods. Unlike those two conductors,
though, Rostropovich precedes it with a leisurely Alla tedesca
waltz, which gives hints of melancholy. For a true ‘valse triste,’
Temirkanov’s astonishing eleven-minute traversal of the Alla
tedesca should be heard. Rostropovich also elicits a beguiling
atmosphere in the Scherzo, making his recording a top
contender in the Third.
Moving into the later symphonies, competition becomes tremendous.
Rostropovich’s Fourth is again broad and grand, unlike
the feisty drive of Maazel or Dorati, nor does it have the fanatical
intensity of Mravinsky’s alternately manic and depressive performance
on DG. But again, its broadness holds considerable warmth without
resorting to exaggeration for effect. The first movement never
quite catches fire until Rostropovich’s impulsive coda, thus
it may seem a slow burn compared to those used to Maazel, Monteux,
Rodzinski or any number of non-Russian conductors. Best of all
is the powerful finale, where he keeps a firm pace, letting
the brass pour their energy into a big, full sound.
Rostropovich’s grand manner works its best in Tchaikovsky’s
Fifth, giving Tchaikovsky’s score epic horizons. It’s
really amazing, considering how often this work has been played
and recorded over the years, that few conductors have tried
such a broad, visionary approach to this music. In some ways,
Rostropovich reminds me of the broad, oft-derided recording
Boult made with the LPO in the 1950s, though twenty years on,
the orchestra seems much more capable of taking broad tempos
in its stride. But this is great music, and it can handle distinctive
visions. Whether Tchaikovsky would have liked such tempos is
questionable - though there are those who claim that the current
western printed editions are riddled with errors. Nevertheless
I find them intriguing. The first movement becomes an epic structure,
slowly gathering momentum for its militaristic coda. Rostropovich
glides into an Andante cantabile that is slow, but wisely
not too slow, allowing for a flexibility that builds up considerable
emotional tension. My favorite version of the slow movement
remains the incredibly lithe and flexible version Claudio Abbado
achieved with the Chicago Symphony in the mid-1980s. The Finale
again opens with an unusually broad tempo, immediately summoning
wide-horizoned images to the imagination. Rostropovich again
builds his energy, playing up the conflict of the music instead
of skating over it at breakneck speed. His coda is luscious
and juicy, which works wonderfully here, unlike in the Igor
Markevitch recording, where the lush coda following an almost
grimly ascetic performance sounds absurd.
Surprisingly, Rostropovich is not as broad in the Pathétique
as one might expect, particularly after the visionary Fifth.
Perhaps it would have benefited from some extra space. The finale,
in particular, seems too flowing to truly take root, though
I must confess to being a fan of slow versions of this finale.
Since Rostropovich’s tempos come across as moderate, he runs
into competition from Bernard Haitink, who proved just how powerful
a restrained, shrewd rendition of this work can be. For higher
intensity, Mravinsky is the benchmark, though the frenzied Mitropoulos/New
York Philharmonic recording is a fascinating early stereo recording,
if you can find it. Perhaps the finest virtually unknown performance
of the work is one made a few years ago for the Pope Music label
by Russian conductor Mark Gorenstein and the Russian Symphony
Orchestra. The performance is alternately brilliant and bleak,
recorded in gorgeous digital sound. It’s somewhat hard to find
because it was marketed confusingly, with the cover bearing
only the word “Farewell,” and it was never mass-produced. It
is well worth the search, though, and ample proof in itself
that there’s at least one great conductor still in Russia that
the West has yet to discover.
This set also contains some not-insubstantial bonuses, including
a magnificent version of the programmatic Manfred Symphony
just as spacious as the numbered symphonies. This work requires
the spirit of the moment to carry the day, thus my favorite
version remains the live recording of a concert of the Cleveland
Orchestra under Lorin Maazel in 1972 which the orchestra put
out on a deluxe box set in 1993 before everyone and their neighbor
was producing in-house releases. Maazel can be arch and arbitrary
when he gets bored, but when he clicks in, he can be blindingly
good, and that concert shows how well the episodic Manfred
suits Maazel’s restlessness. Rostropovich goes again for a broad,
epic view, which provides some interesting alternative approaches
to this music, including the slowest version of the Finale
which I have heard. Instead of trying to barrel through the
movement with sheer momentum, Rostropovich gives it space, letting
every section make a strong, declamatory impact, which starts
to make all “normal” renditions of the movement facile. This
set also includes a passionate Francesca da Rimini, and
one of the few truly moving performances of the Romeo and
Juliet Fantasy Overture I’ve ever heard.
Despite the arguable
missteps in the Second and Sixth, this is a welcome
and engaging set, priced very nicely. I’m glad to reserve it some
space on my shelf, especially as it preserves a kind of rich,
luscious orchestral sound that is fast disappearing. The discs
are well-filled and are handsomely remastered, keeping the warmth
of the original LP releases, while offering a new clarity and
space.
Mark Sebastian Jordan
London Philharmonic Orchestra/Mstislav Rostropovich
