Jiri Belohlavek is a lucid, sure-footed guide through Dvorak’s mightiest symphonic utterance, and his sympathetic direction combines both warm-hearted naturalness as well as total fidelity to the score (dynamics are scrupulously attended to throughout). If this newcomer sounds just a little under-energized next to such vividly dramatic accounts as those from Dorati, Kubelik or Rowicki (the latter on Philips, 3/73, but currently unavailable), the sheer unforced eloquence and lyrical fervour of the playing always give enormous pleasure. Certainly, the first movement’s secondary material (into which Belohlavek eases effortlessly both times round) glows with affectionate warmth, whilst the sublime Poco adagio emerges seamlessly, its songful rapture and nostalgic vein captured as to the manner born by this great orchestra (listen out for some gorgeous work from the principal flute, clarinet and horn). The Scherzo trips along with an infectious, rhythmic spring, as well as an engaging poise and clarity; moreover, the dark-hued unsettling trio (a casualty in so many rival performances) is handled with equal perception, particularly the poignant, all-too-brief glimpse of D major towards the end at 4'28'' (such marvellous horns here). The finale, too, is immensely pleasing, marrying symphonic thrust with weighty rhetoric rather in the manner of Sir Colin Davis’s distinguished Amsterdam account. The closing bars are very broad and imposing indeed. All in all, a performance of considerable dignity and no mean stature, benefiting from characteristically vibrant Chandos engineering.
The symphony is followed by a long-breathed, slumbering account of the Nocturne (gloriously played by the Czech PO strings) and the disc concludes with a fine Water goblin. Again, the orchestral response is as disciplined and poised as you could hope to hear, but perhaps the last ounce of narrative flair is missing: none of my chosen comparative versions – from Talich, Kubelik and Zdenek Chalabala (whose memorably intense recording, made in 1961, I would still be inclined to rate as the finest of all) shirk the red-blooded melodrama which is such a potent element not just in this particular work but in all four of Dvorak’s Erben-inspired symphonic poems. None the less Belohlavek’s reading has much to commend it: note especially the eloquence of the muted violins’ passage at fig. 5 (2'48''), the impressive build-up (from 16'44'' onwards) to the savage final climax, as well as the inconsolable grief of the coda (witness those numb-sounding flutes and piccolo at the outset).'