In the Dvorak, Masur's typically Austro-German approach—as ever, one of gripping integrity—yields a few surprising echoes of Bruckner along the way, plenty enough bloom for Dvorak's lyricism, and evinces an awareness of the extra-musical imagery. One cannot but admire the orchestral balances, the strong contours of the phrasing, the control of dynamics, the firmness of tone and sureness of pitch and articulation. There is a sense of pride in the playing of the New Yorkers, and justifiably so.
The tempos for the first three movements are well chosen, but the tempo plan for the finale marks a break with tradition. After the fanfares, it is common to start the main theme (cellos at fig. A) at below the metronome mark, but here no reading that I can recall is as slow as Masur's and, as that develops, as heavily emphatic. This slow basic tempo initially has a certain logic, in that it enables Masur to make merry in the first tutti from fig. C (2'20'') at the prescribed marking, and to increase the speed for the following flute solo—most conductors, among them Kubelik, Kertesz and Mackerras, 'take off' at C. But the movement's second half (the return to the cello theme and more extended quiet variations) strikes me as very static at Masur's now even slower basic tempo, especially as there has not been much preceding driving excitement to fall back from.
Again the dancing seems rather heavy in the second movement of the Janacek (Kubelik and Ancerl are both faster than the Universal Edition score's markings), though the movement's evocative penultimate pages are beautifully done. New York's first horn deserves a medal for his bold secure and superbly timed demisemiquaver yelping in the third movement (from 3'57''). And then, at the climax (4'20'') comes the biggest surprise of all—sudden half tempo and a mightily imposing maestoso rather than a prestissimo. The manner for Janacek's finale is also rather sedate; with Kubelik and Ancerl, you feel an anticipation of gathering excitement in those string ostinatos right from the start, and, as Masur's finale builds, the air is hardly filled with the Czech conductors' wild woodwind cries (or Mackerras's, for that matter). The recorded sound too—elsewhere clean, very present and expertly balanced—fails in the final pages adequately to resolve the ecstatic trilling of violins and clarinets (particularly amidst the last chord), or to separate ideally the fanfaring brass across the stage so that their exchanges have the antiphonal effect Janacek surely intended.'