In a generation, Rachmaninov’s symphonies have come in from the cold, and none more so than No 1 in D minor, the work the composer suppressed during his lifetime. Reconstructed from orchestral parts unearthed in 1945, it has enjoyed the advocacy of some unlikely commentators, not least Robert Simpson, though for Trevor Harvey, writing in these pages in the 1970s, it was still very much the long-suppressed student failure and (despite the appropriation of its finale as a TV signature tune, not to mention Ormandy’s ardent advocacy) something of a problem piece.
The score’s checkered history means that there are marked textual and interpretative variables between recordings. If you want the climax of the first movement development capped by bells you must look to Ormandy, Previn or Litton (Virgin Classics, 5/90 – nla) – Litton has prominent cymbals, too. Like Ashkenazy, Pletnev has no truck with the tinkling. The opening Borodin-like gestures of the first movement are variously reinforced in these recordings. The lean-toned, feathery effect of the Russian National Orchestra’s divided violins is both a plus and a minus. This is repertoire in which a more concentrated and luscious string sonority might be thought at least as authentic, but then Pletnev’s Rachmaninov is a law unto itself. His account of the Second has tremendous drive and dash, whereas No 3 lets it all hang out with exaggerated expressive gestures and lashings of nostalgic rubato.
Pletnev would appear to regard the First as young man’s music, not that this is a young man in any particular hurry. After the brief introduction, he treats much of the first movement with unusual lightness: rhythms are tight and woodwind lines exceptionally clear. The central movements are arguably more impressive still; the stratospheric string writing of the third is affectionate and ardent, more confidently brought off than by Previn’s LSO. The finale is, however, not the most exciting on disc. As with the rival recording by Mariss Jansons, there is a curious dearth of brilliance at the start. Though climaxes are effectively whipped up, the effect is somehow episodic.
The Isle of the Dead is the makeweight, and again it may disappoint those more interested in forward thrust than textural elucidation. A rare moment of uncertainty mars the high-lying string passage from 4'26'', while the powerful inevitability of a reading like Koussevitzky’s is not consistently striven for. There is, however, an impassioned surge towards the central crisis. Pletnev is always thought-provoking and this disc can be confidently recommended to those collecting his cycle. Ashkenazy’s red-blooded recordings of these works are among the very best things he has done away from the piano. I would not rate Pletnev’s quite so highly.'