I can still remember, in detail, the first four times I heard
“The Moldau”. Smetana’s masterful little tone poem became my single
favorite classical work the very first time I heard it, on a Canadian
radio broadcast when I was still in my mid-teenage years. It has
remained my favorite bit of music ever since. I was sitting in
my room doing algebra homework when the announcer introduced “The
Moldau” and the music started flowing into my headphones. I put
my pencil down, entranced, unable to solve any more problems as
Smetana’s flow of melody was running its course. It was a transformative
experience, almost hypnotic.
The second time was perhaps a year later, in the middle of summer,
in a small tourist town in Michigan. My family and I were rummaging
through an antique shop, testing rumpled old chairs and examining
cookbooks from decades past. A tiny old record player held a 78
record of “Smetana's The Moldau,” as played by the Victor Symphony
Orchestra, or perhaps the Columbia Symphony, or some similar radio
band, conducted by a name I had never heard of before and have
never seen since. I feigned interest in the device until the shopkeeper
noticed my attention and offered to demonstrate how it worked
by playing the record. Then, for maybe two minutes, I was again
in bliss: grainy, monaural, bliss, a wash of old-Hollywood violins
playing the most unearthly melody I'd ever heard. As suddenly
as it began, the music was over; I stood around the record player
awkwardly for some time afterwards, hoping the shopkeeper would
flip the disc over and let me hear the other side, but too timid
to ask. For the rest of the day, as we left the antique shop and
strolled down the town's main street, the sound of violins playing
that heavenly melody echoed in my head, over and over, until I
had the big tune memorized, but was driven to distraction by the
mystery of what came next.
The third time was sometime within a year, in a hallway at my
school; between classes, a teacher had the television on and it
was playing “The Moldau”. I had a class to go to in another building,
but froze outside this room's door, taking in as much of the music
as I could; finally, with just a minute before the bell, I awoke
from my reverie and ran out of the building. The fourth time was
just a week later, when I was thinking about that ghostly music
again, wishing that I could hear it again. In hope, I turned on
the radio, and, miracle of miracles, there it was.
For years, I refused to buy a recording of Má Vlast, fearful that
the magic would fade with familiarity. Happily, the joy has instead
spread to the rest of Smetana’s suite, but I still listen sparingly,
still afraid, still not wanting the fantasy land to which Smetana
transports us to become too known. My favorite recordings are
those which manage, instantly, to pull me into that other world,
to make me feel, for an hour or so, like a kid in a trance again.
This new recording by Tomáš Netopil and the Prague Symphony Orchestra
does not quite reach that exalted level all the way through, but
it does have the classic magic in parts.
Maybe the most successful movement is the very first, “Vyšehrad,”
the old castle, taken at a somewhat swift but very fluid pace,
alert to the music’s drama and beauty, flowing with the same radiance
as the famous “Moldau”. The opening harp solo told me immediately
that this would be a performance to savor; over the work’s course,
Netopil takes a flexible approach to tempo which allows the music
to chart its glorious path to maximum effect.
Unfortunately, “Vltava” the Moldau itself, was not quite at the
same level; here I prefer radically slow tempi, the better to
allow the strings to sing that glorious big tune, the better to
allow me to shut my eyes, sit back, and slip into the current.
The other episodes, too, benefit from a slower basic tempo; the
rustic wedding scene can be allowed a greater freedom of rhythm,
the nocturne is a joy as the woodwinds mimic moonlight reflecting
off the waters, and the reprise of the main tune can be effectively
carried out at a tempo just a hair faster than the original, to
signal the coming of the rapids.
My favorite performance of this movement is Antoni Wit’s epic
on Naxos, clocking in at 13:14; Netopil’s (at 11:20) left me feeling
a little cheated. This new account is not without merits, however:
I was impressed by the phenomenal playing of the Prague flautists,
who are happily quite distinct in the sound-picture during the
opening duet and who acquit themselves especially well in the
gloriously detailed writing of the central nocturne. Indeed, many
of the flute lines I heard in the sixth minute are details I had
not heard anywhere else. The flautists’ contributions are enough
to bring me back to this otherwise just acceptable “Moldau.”
“Šárka”, the first of the tone-poems to follow a clear narrative,
lacks the supercharged virtuosity of some rival recordings, but
this performance still left me satisfied. The clarinet solo near
the end spotlights the unique timbre of the Prague wind tradition,
and the ensuing tempest is an eye-opener. “From Bohemia’s Fields
and Groves”, by contrast, is somewhat less satisfactory. Again,
Netopil leads a performance over a minute faster than those by
Antoni Wit and Václav Neumann, and it is to his detriment, as
the movement’s repetition really becomes obvious at the faster
pace. I also think that the sense of home-coming we should feel
upon arriving at the movement’s climax is not present in as fast
a performance as this; we don’t feel like we’ve arrived at something
momentous because the climax just sounds like a louder version
of the rest of the movement.
“Tábor” and “Blaník” are generally considered the hardest movements
to get right, and the least popular among audiences. Netopil’s
speedy approach actually works very well here; after the slow
introduction and series of chorales which opens “Tábor”, the main
movement explodes out of the gate at 5:30, in a veritable storm
of virtuosic playing. “Blaník,” too, features its fair share of
heroism, and this time Netopil and his orchestra get the buildup
to the final climax exactly right.
In sum, this is a fine performance of Má Vlast which I am happy
to have, aided by very good sound quality and made more impressive
because it is a live recording made on a single night, presumably
(judging by the occasional wrong note) without any later studio
corrections. That said, for those whose passion for Smetana’s
music does not run as deeply as mine, or for those looking for
their first or second disc of this cycle, this is not a mandatory
purchase. Netopil and the Prague Symphony Orchestra are nearly
unbeatable in “Vysehrad”, “Tábor”, and “Blaník”, but for definitive
performances of Má Vlast, turn to older Czech recordings by the
likes of Václav Neumann, Rafael Kubelík and Karel Ancerl, or to
Antoni Wit’s recording on Naxos, which still contains the most
luxurious “Moldau” I know.
Brian Reinhart
Prague Symphony Orchestra/Tomáš Netopil 
