Olympia’s Myaskovsky intégrale has now reached the Sixth‚ an epic work often rated his magnum opus‚ not least in the 1920s and ’30s when it clocked up 11 performances in Chicago alone. (Even the Seventh achieved a respectable five outings there thanks to the advocacy of Frederick Stock who went on to commission Myaskovsky’s once­familiar 21st.) No 6‚ composed in 1922­23‚ is more intensely dramatic than is sometimes the case with this composer‚ presenting ideas that anticipate the regretful nostalgia of the Cello Concerto in the context of his earlier Scriabinesque manner‚ a style expressly rejected by Prokofiev and Shostakovich. The César Franckish result is by no means easy listening‚ the mood predominantly fraught and seething‚ but the rewards are great. It may or may not be significant that Prokofiev’s own haunted Sixth Symphony‚ composed in 1945­47‚ is in the same key. Political imponderables add their own distinctive spice. The score was acclaimed domestically as the first truly Soviet symphony‚ yet its darker elements might equally well be attributed to the dashing of revolutionary hopes. The finale‚ based on two vigorous songs from the French Revolution‚ also includes the Dies irae‚ covertly present elsewhere‚ a ‘wailing’ motive (I was reminded of the ‘doleful creatures’ of Vaughan Williams’s Pilgrim’s Progress)‚ and the old Russian chant‚ ‘The parting of body and soul’. David Fanning’s booklet notes for the Järvi issue are particularly helpful here. Musically speaking‚ the ravishing trio some three minutes into the second movement is an obvious high point. Under Järvi‚ the presence of a celesta may bring to mind Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker; with Svetlanov‚ the effect – like the material – seems borrowed from Mahler’s Sixth. After some cyclical beating about the bush‚ the slow movement’s principal theme brings another eloquent idea‚ allocated initially to clarinet as in Rachmaninov’s Second Symphony. Given that several previous recordings of No 6 have failed to measure up to Kondrashin’s vintage Melodiya set‚ last sighted on Russian Disc (10/94‚ nla)‚ it is a luxury to be holding not one but two CDs that set new standards. While both conductors are well inside the piece‚ it is evident that Järvi holds the economic aces‚ with access to DG’s more flattering sonics and presumably more rehearsal time. That said‚ the work’s poignant closing pages‚ would­be chaste with Järvi where Svetlanov’s approach is more warmly moulded‚ ought surely to have been remade: the Gothenburgers are sadly less than unanimous. Crucially‚ though‚ Järvi’s team can afford to engage a choir for the second statement of the finale’s chant theme. Olympia’s annotations assure us that this is an optional extra‚ but Svetlanov’s rendition is less atmospheric without it – not that Järvi’s Swedes sound much like veterans of Boris Godunov. What Svetlanov does offer is a wider range of expression‚ the timbral specificity of Russian­Soviet brass‚ and a coupling‚ the dignified quasi­Gebrauchsmusik of the Pathétique Overture (1947). Even so‚ mainstream collectors are likely to prefer Järvi’s account for its greater drive and generally greater finesse‚ any hint of sprawl dispelled with Kondrashin­like urgency. Idiomatic as it is‚ it’s no surprise that Svetlanov’s traversal of No 7 lacks the last ounce of polish. Here‚ after all‚ the composer is attempting to temper his chromatic churnings with brighter‚ more ‘Frenchified’ orchestral textures including some plashing harp. Per Skans’s booklet notes cite Ravel’s La valse as a direct influence‚ though it would be unhelpful to imagine the Russian swinging in 3/4 time. Composed at the height of the renewed cultural clampdown imposed by the Stalinist authorities in 1948 and previously unrecorded‚ Myaskovsky’s Symphony No 26 is‚ at first sight‚ mere warmed­over Borodin‚ one of his more impersonal‚ folkish utterances. Svetlanov gives its slow introduction a ponderous weight that may or may not be authentic – to me it sounds implausibly slow – yet he also demonstrates that the mores of Socialist Realism did not corrupt the essence of a unique (and uniquely affecting) compositional persona. We must be grateful to the late‚ great and obdurate maestro for that. Anyone new to this series will find the post­Soviet version of Svetlanov’s old band an able if far from consistent unit: the distinctive intonation of its woodwind and brass is not necessarily the consequence of a different performance tradition‚ while string playing can be strong one minute‚ slipshod the next.