Anissimov’s period at the helm of the National Symphony Orchestra of Ireland has coincided with a marked improvement in that orchestra’s technical standards, yet his Rachmaninov series for Naxos has been generally underestimated, possibly because of its undemonstrative character. Generally speaking, he eschews the ‘neurotic’ Russian-ness of Vladimir Ashkenazy for something softer grained and always naturally phrased. I am not familiar with the RTE Philharmonic Choir, but I regret to say that their contribution on this occasion will not pass muster. Tuning can be alarmingly approximate and there is nothing remotely Slav about the timbre. All of which is a great pity when the sound is more consistent than has sometimes been the case from this source and the soprano (heartfelt if mature-sounding) and bass (big and declamatory) make interesting soloists. The tenor fares less well in the first movement. Delaying the first choral entry (until 1'58) by holding on to his opening summons – ‘Listen!’ – for so long that it goes horribly sharp, he disappears altogether in the exultant final climax which is perhaps just as well. The Rock is not a generous coupling.
Mikhail Pletnev’s CD feels more like an event: this is not merely the final instalment in his high-profile Rachmaninov survey but the penultimate disc in the RNO’s current DG series. In the circumstances, one is tempted to portray this account of The Bells as an unmitigated triumph. The truth, as so often, is not so simple. The players produce the range of sonority and fabulous clarity of articulation for which they are famous, but the deployment of a relatively modest chamber choir is unexpected. That Pletnev is more concerned to project super-refined orchestral textures than to engage fully with the vision embodied in the texts is confirmed by his extraordinary choice of the simplified Gutheil vocal score in the third movement. The effect is to blunt the force of the invention at critical points. Take the first choral entry. The initial, purely instrumental passage is superbly realised. What we get from 0'47 is a damp squib: the choir, no longer participating in the orchestral clamour, remain decorously apart, their wings clipped; even the harmony is neutered. The final pay-off isn’t spine-chilling at all. I have never heard so much of the instrumental contribution laid bare, but you may feel that the coarser grain and heavier gait of Anissimov’s amateurish forces convey more in the way of expressive content.
The rest of the performance is less problematic. The first movement is particularly successful – fresh, vernal and minutely observed, with feathery strings and precisely etched piano. While Sergei Larin may be larger than life, he is hugely ardent and always audible; the downside is the relative reticence of the choir at the climax – a balance problem created by the resonant venue or a deliberate interpretative choice? The main tempo is fractionally swifter than usual, but there are no awkward gear changes as there are in Ashkenazy’s volatile account. It helps to have echt Russian singers: the finale comes off beautifully, with sterling work from that accomplished Verdian, Vladimir Chernov. The final turn to the major is exquisitely done, coolly observed rather than nostalgically indulged as it is by Previn.
No clear recommendation is possible. The ‘historic’ Kondrashin, with its authentic (that is, impossibly grating) soprano in the second movement and stunningly powerful choral contribution in the jet-black Scherzo has been shoddily remastered. Previn with an English-sounding choir and fondly remembered English singers, is certainly easier to listen to. Ashkenazy, less impressive than usual in this repertoire, and with a chorus not consistently well tuned in the third movement, is only available in a three-CD set. Anissimov is badly let down by his choir. Pletnev adds to the distinctiveness of his own package by unveiling a ‘surprise’ coupling.
Following hard on the heels of Ashkenazy’s own Taneyev collection (Ondine, 6/01), the time may be ripe to reassess this diligent, somewhat shadowy figure whose music Rimsky-Korsakov condemned as ‘most dry and laboured in character’. The pale, self-consciously detached, almost Brahmsian invention of the cantata, the first work the composer permitted to be performed in public (he was already 28), ought to sound dull. And yet there is something rather special about the austerity of the orchestral adagio with which it begins; the elevated mood proves unexpectedly compelling, drawing you in. Taneyev wrote a treatise on counterpoint, and at times it shows too much. In any event, the piece is unlikely to receive stronger advocacy than in this characteristically provocative and provoking mixed bag. Over to you