Anyone who can shape Rachmaninov with Shelley's instinctive feeling for those subtle internal rubatos has to be a natural for Gershwin. And he is. But Tortelier and the Philharmonia—they hit the high-life of New York and Hollywood as though they've never been away. The sound of the Second Rhapsody opens lavishly to them, so does Chandos's spacious, high-lacquered production. In another life the Couzens father-and-son team must have been Hollywood's engineers. You could lose yourself in the opulence of these orchestral tuttis: cue in at 5'40'' and then at 6'25'' and note the swoon and sheen of Tortelier's violins—they can hardly wait for the inevitable big-blues, and when it comes it's so gaudily decked out in echt Gershwin accessories (the Philharmonia horns sound almost indecently ripe here) that you might easily think you've strayed on to a Busby Berkeley soundstage.
It's a challenging piece, caught as it is in a cross-current between urban grittiness and Hollywood dreams, but Shelley has it in his fingers: he as surely plays the percussionist in those rivet-like jazz breaks (at 3'30'' he and the timpanist actually mirror each other) as he turns on the movie magic, the glamour and the grandeur. He may lack the sheer volatility, the sense of improvisation-on-heat such as a Bernstein or a Tilson Thomas can so readily convey, but he is certainly slick and classy—and the accent is spot-on.
His Rhapsody in Blue is all urban chic and sophistication, born of the concert-hall but mindful of the jazz club. Michael Whight is the coolest of alley-cats in his opening clarinet solo, Shelley though, is thoroughbred. The manner is free and easy, laid back but ready and eager to party. The dashing passagework plays off nicely here against the schmaltzy dignity of the 'blue' tune. And all the while Grofe's jazz-band-turned-symphony-of-the-stars is pure luxury. I've always preferred the pithier, spunkier original (Litton on RPO or Donohoe/Rattle on EMI) but when the sound of the symphonic version is this good …
I should now like to hear more of Tortelier Stateside (and not necessarily An American in Paris, either): this Frenchman has a real feeling for the American musical vernacular. Just listen to his persuasive handling of the big lyric tune in the first movement of the Concerto in F—one of those grand, old-fashioned tunes that make no secret of their origins or period. The second movement trumpet blues rings true in sound and shape, too: lazy, lonely—lovely gravelly bottom notes (the player should be credited), and the solo flute manages a most seductive bending of the 'blue' note in his solo at 9'04''.
Against this rich and authentic-sounding backdrop, Shelley plays out the Gershwin fantasies. So relaxed is his very first solo that he might easily be strumming away alone in the wee small hours. But there is playfulness and quick wit, too; spectacle (suddenly the recapitulation at 10'47'' is pure Rachmaninov)—and dynamism, though not quite Donohoe's steely-fingered drive in the moto perpetuo of the finale. Quite a disc, then—not even Gershwin comes much plusher.'