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
Saša Večtomov (cello) 
