The sessions for the Ashkenazy disc were held in Cleveland's Severance Hall in 1991, with Decca's producer at the time, Ray Minshull, in the control-room. Back in 1965, Minshull presided over another Dvorak Carnival taping in London's Kingsway Hall, on that occasion conducted by Kertesz, and one wonders if memories of Kertesz's perennially exuberant Carnival came back to haunt him as he listened to the merely capable results emerging from the Cleveland control-room monitors. One wonders too whether the 'luxury list' has become a thing of the past; was there no time to do anything about the shy (or unfocused) horn echoing the clarinets at 2'43'', the synthetic-sounding solo violin from 4'12'', the submerged primary woodwind lines after 8'27'' or to moderate the percussion in the final stages (percussion that, heard after the 1965 Kertesz, resembles the rattling of a huge cutlery drawer; and a take-over that was not tolerated by Kertesz, Kubelik or Ancerl and their engineers working with less sophisticated equipment)?
I would imagine that, up to a point, these problems arise from Decca's grappling with a famously dry acoustic. Of the previous issue in this cycle, the Brahms Second Symphony (10/93), AS remarked on a ''slightly close, overbright recording'' and found the tutti sound ''a little overbearing''; remarks that equally apply here. Severance Hall, however, need not sound as overcrowded and fatiguing as it does in Ashkenazy's Dvorak, or as unaccommodating as it does in his Brahms (Dohnanyi's Teldec disc of Ravel, 4/92, springs readily to mind); and those pejoratives are arrived at after direct comparison with Kertesz in Carnival and Eschenbach in the symphony.
The two pianist-conductors' approaches to the symphony could not be more different. Ashkenazy is a very self-effacing Brahmsian; neutral even. After the unsteady horns for his opening chord (and the repeat), this turns out to be a decently played, rigorous and lucidly expounded account, but one that is narrow in expressive range. Potential for mystery and romance is rarely explored, with pianissimos mostly passed over. The two inner movements almost play themselves.
At the opposite pole interpretatively is Eschenbach, with more communicative phrasing, all manner of tenutos, hesitations and dynamic refinements, a third movement intermezzo that is extended to become a second slow movement (7'45'' to Ashkenazy's 5'51''), and Furtwangler-like variations of pace in the outer movements. Eschenbach even begins with the older master's broad and crescendoing opening motto (I am referring to a 1949 Berlin/Furtwangler concert recording, available over the years on a number of labels). But—and in the first movement this is important—Eschenbach doesn't have Furtwangler's symphonic sweep and seemingly intuitive rhythmic grip (let alone his burning intensity; but then, few have). The moment of recapitulation, where that motto returns (Tempo I) after the slower ''profound night'' (Tovey) at the end of the development, typically finds Furtwangler and Eschenbach mirroring their opening posture for the motto. However, Furtwangler's motto is related to the slower 'night' by a ratio of four to the preceding six beats in the bar, and Eschenbach's isn't related at all. Pedantic mathematics? Not in the least. It is the difference between the movement being spectacularly re-affirmed (Furtwangler) and the movement being bump-started all over again (Eschenbach). Abbado, who also dares to slow considerably towards the end of this development, relates his moment of recapitulation by two to the preceding six.
Abbado's and Eschenbach's expansive readings are not really comparable, as the former is founded on the rich and firm Berlin strings (the wind band is occasionally edged out of view). Houston's complement of strings is audibly smaller; the internal balances rather more 'democratic'. Virgin Classics' excellent recording relates this more revealing balance with satisfying transparency, and greater openness than either the Abbado or Ashkenazy accounts. Yet, even though there are countless examples of sensitive and refined playing from the Houston's string players, one can't help feeling that Eschenbach's reading would have thrived on greater resources of string tone, particularly in the finale's development where (from 3'51'') the strings' whirring triplets are increasingly overawed by menacing brass.
Eschenbach's Alto Rhapsody is, however, a pearl of considerable price. Quite aptly, given the Wagnerian feel of the opening verse, Vejzovic's Kundry for Karajan (DG, 10/84) is recalled as she chillingly colours and times the words ''die Oede verschlingt ihn'' (''the wilderness swallows him up''); and though she may swallow a few too many of her consonants compared with, say, Lipovsek for Abbado, or Baker for Boult (EMI, currently only available on cassette, 5/91), her style is noticeably less declamatory than either. Here, too, Eschenbach's flexibility and shadings really make their mark. The final verse—properly sotto voce and with Vezjovic more integrated with chorus and orchestra than Jard van Nes for Blomstedt—is balm indeed.
For the symphony, the recommendations for Abbado and Walter must remain, though some of the Columbia Symphony Orchestra's playing for the latter requires tolerance (clarinets particularly), and the channels are reversed in the first movement's coda from 8'26'' for 48 seconds. As we are hardly overwhelmed by recommendable Brahms Thirds, it is good news that RCA will be reissuing Reiner's later this year. Perhaps EMI will revive their Barbirolli and Jochum recordings as well.'