This disc promises much, but ultimately delivers little. Yefim Bronfman is a pianist with bags of technique and a proven record in Russian repertoire, and I expected good things from this recording. From the start of Tchaikovsky’s Seasons (the composer accepted a commission to write a piece for 12 monthly issues of a music journal, so the title is really a misnomer), Bronfman demonstrates excellent control of dynamics and pedalling, creating a good sense of ebb and flow and melodic shape. His playing is precise, with scrupulous attention to small details in the score, and his sound is crystalline rather than softly melting. However, despite his ability to shape gently lyrical phrases – notably in ‘January’ and the popular barcarolle, ‘June’ – I found his playing disappointingly cool and detached.
The shortcomings of Bronfman’s reading are cruelly highlighted by comparison with Pletnev’s highly personal recording. A musician with a special affinity for Tchaikovsky, Pletnev adopts a more characterful approach, with a wider range of colour and expression. He is much freer with individual details of the score, but his version speaks with a much stronger and more distinctive voice. Bronfman understates the extrovert urgency of harvest in ‘August’ and produces a hard and unyielding tone in the hunt of ‘September’; by contrast, Pletnev is far more exciting in both movements (controversially pedalling through the join between them), and is elsewhere more receptive to tenor and bass voices, giving added colour and variety to the texture. Bronfman seems monochromatic by comparison. Pletnev may take certain liberties, and his rubato might be too elastic for some (try his ‘November’), but I would choose his vivid personality and imaginative spirit every time.
Balakirev’s Islamey completes the disc (at 49'49'' the playing time is miserly), but anyone expecting pianistic fireworks will be disappointed. Bronfman’s opening tempo is unexpectedly slow, and while his crisp articulation allows every note to be heard, there is a lack of temperament, colour and excitement. The cautious tempo leaves little room for contrast in the middle section, where Bronfman is again curiously phlegmatic, refusing to indulge in exotic colouring or even to sing the beautiful Caucasian melody with any real affection. The result, for all its cool efficiency, is uninvolving.'