Prokofiev's second childhood: Jose Serebrier (ASV, 7/91) recently took a similar trip down this particular memory lane, but the images here are clearer and more refined, the impressions more lasting. Soundwise, the quality of this excellent Hyperion production is established right at the start as 'Soviet 231' steams its young pioneers off to summer camp for their Winter bonfire. How touchingly the ageing and ailing Prokofiev retreats here into his winter wonderland: the picture-book snow scene, the gleaming skaters' waltz, the jolly campfire song—innocence and homespun tunes are the order of the day. Summer day brings more misty-eyed romance—ghosts of the past, this time orchestrations of his piano pieces, Music for children. And the images are dancing ones—balletic little chips off the blocks of Cinderella and Romeo and Juliet: ''Morning'' will do nicely as the moody pas de deux, all silvery strings and distinctive groundswells; ''Tag'' calls to mind any one of those fleet-footed caricature dances, there's another waltz, and of course another piquant march. Ronald Corp's New London Orchestra do a good job: everything is well-pointed and sensitively inflected.
I've never much cared for The ugly duckling. This older 'child' acknowledges the orchestral interest (particularly as the mood darkens and the frosts set in) but wearies of the shrill, overbearing (and, I would have thought, rather thankless) operatic declamation—a simple, charming tale turned grand scena. Penelope Walmsley-Clark rises proficiently to the occasion, though the inevitably chaste English vowels bother me. The strict 'maiden aunt' image is certainly one that the piece can do without.
I think we all could have done without another Peter and the wolf, even one with two generations of Prokofievs retelling the tale. Certainly it's a nice idea, an excellent opportunity to underline the generation gap between Peter (Gabriel Prokofiev, Oleg's son, is just about the right age) and dear old grandfather (who's a Russian, naturally—Oleg's accent could be a problem for younger children). But beyond that it's all rather bland. Whatever happened to the humour and the drama? The pace is slow, the noose around the wolf's tail is not all that needs tightening during the 'baiting' sequence. Compare Sting and Abbado (DG), the best by far of current versions. Sting is every boy-next-door's hero and where Corp is squarely efficient, Abbado works wonders with phrasing, emphasis, dynamics. I would cite the wistful, lump-in-the-throat moment after the Duck's demise: Corp's cello harmonics are far too present, he does nothing with the pianissimo which follows—no tears before bedtime from this oboe lament. So where does that leave us? With at least half an excellent disc: the winter and summer daydreams are captivating; the storytelling leaves something to be desired.'