Kurt Sanderling and the Leningrad Philharmonic recorded this work for DG in the 1950s (11/56—nla); Mikhail Pletnev and his Russian National Orchestra did so last year. In the intervening period most of the interpretative running was made in the West by adoptive Americans like Eugene Ormandy and Andre Previn, supplemented by the occasional emigre Slav. Now, hard on the heels of Pletnev's revelatory account, two more Russian versions enter the lists.
I had high hopes of Jansons in particular, given the excellence of his recent recording of the Third Symphony (EMI, 12/93). Unfortunately this Second, like his earlier version for Chandos (8/88), is not entirely convincing. EMI's note is misleading too. Ignoring Jansons's track record in this work, we are promised both the first movement exposition repeat (which unsurprisingly Jansons doesn't observe) and absolute textual scrupulousness (Jansons adds a vulgar timpani thwack to the first movement's final unison E on cellos and basses and a crassly insensitive cymbal crash to usher in the big lyrical climax of the finale at fig. 87, track 5, 11'46''). The introduction sets the tone; it begins broadly only to push on abruptly from fig. 1 (1'40''), anticipating Rachmaninov's Poco piu mosso and unsettling the natural flow. When the exposition arrives, Jansons distorts the rhythm of the first subject with his excessive rubato, the poco rits. perversely overheated. True, this brand of hyper-expressivity can usually be related to one or other of Rachmaninov's indications, and yet it seldom rings true: every detail sounds artificially implanted rather than genuinely felt.
There is much typically supercharged playing from the St Petersburg Philharmonic but some sour clarinet too, even, here and there, a more general feeling of indeterminacy, the musicians seemingly confused by so many fluctuations of tempo. Whether or not the restlessness is deliberately sought, the effect is to make the music feel less cogent than it is. Some of the effects are interesting. But is it Jansons or the engineers who highlight part of the cello line at fig. 13 (track 2, 4'55'')? The failure to return to the dark sonority of cellos and basses at the close is indicative of the prevailing short-termism, the very opposite of Pletnev's patient determination to build a truly symphonic structure. Is it possible that Jansons lacked confidence in the staying power of a denuded string section? More technically assured than their Kirov counterparts, the St Petersburg strings are still outclassed by Previn's LSO, not to mention Pletnev's Russian National Orchestra, currently unrivalled in this department. Valery Gergiev (who unlike those rivals mentioned above includes the repeat) is much less cavalier with the movement as a whole, even if he too cannot resist adding some pizzicato basses to double that last note. His soft-grained reading makes great play with Rachmaninov's autumnal half-lights, but it can seem overly muted—in part the consequence of a dim, oddly hemmed-in recording.
In the remaining movements Jansons is certainly impressive in his way, the sound, as throughout, more analytical than Philips's subfusc sonics for Gergiev or DG's muddled production for Pletnev. This EMI recording is the only one of the three performances not acoustically challenged from the word go, and even here the closely observed, locally accented winds will not be to everyone's taste. The second movement provides an excellent showcase for Jansons's sinewy strings, the 'big tune' unsubtle but effectively phrased. Gergiev's reticence here works equally well; unfortunately his brass are rather less proficient in the outer sections. Jansons shows unexpected restraint in the Adagio, the first clarinet making hitherto unforeseen efforts to stay in tune and produce grateful tone. Although the virile string sound is perhaps not ideally suited to this music, only the whiney, brass-capped climaxes may disturb.
Without approaching Pletnev's extraordinary feeling for Rachmaninov's long fluid lines, Gergiev eschews the brash characterization of individual episodes. Subtle reductions of volume and delicate effects are more his line. If only the strings had provided a more luxurious cushion of sound, this might have provided real competition. As it is, Pletnev sweeps the board, above all in the finale, and I see little point in pretending otherwise. For EMI and Philips, the timing of these releases is, to say the least, unfortunate. Those who like their Rachmaninov hectoring, extrovert and explosive should appreciate Jansons's manner in this music more than I do. He includes two makeweights: the Scherzo, a Mendelssohnian student work, and the Vocalise—not the strings-only arrangement favoured by some but a fuller orchestration which accords prominence to that acrid St Petersburg clarinet.'