Shostakovich chose to work within the Soviet Union establishment’s ‘liberal’ wing. So, too, did Shchedrin. But Shchedrin’s problem is that he isn’t dead and so hasn’t been forgiven for criticising Edison Denisov in the 1960s or for signing that infamous Pravda denunciation of Sakharov in 1973 – the one Shostakovich also put his name to. He is not the only composer of our time who might be described as an eclectic – far from it, yet he is often accused of a certain slipperiness or worse.
What of the music itself? The Cello Concerto, Sotto Voce, was composed for and was previously recorded by Mstislav Rostropovich with the LSO under Ozawa (Teldec, 6/96 – nla). It is a fascinating, often haunting work, one that strikes deeper than the conceptually related Concerto Cantabile in which Shchedrin showcases the talents of Maxim Vengerov (EMI, 6/00). The opening approaches the ecstatic/contemplative Tavener of The Protecting Veil; the more rebarbative passages are closer to Kancheli. The potentially cliched childhood memory of shepherds piping across fields is put to strikingly original use. The finale, in particular, is a (sometimes Brittenish) commentary on the fragility of innocence, but it is also ‘green’, lamenting the loss of pastoral simplicity to the ravages of the modern age in the manner of Elem Klimov’s (Schnittke-scored) film Farewell (1981). If the surprise deployment of recorders momentarily recalls Ligeti’s use of ocarinas, Shchedrin’s remains the simpler – some would say cruder – art. He wants above all to communicate and in this he surely succeeds. The piece still feels over-long.
The coupling offers highlights from one of Shchedrin’s many ballets on Russian literary classics – he is married to the ballerina Maya Plisetskaya and was responsible for the celebrated dance version of Carmen. A Bolshoi recording of The Seagull was briefly available through Russian Disc. Here, though, the personality is harder to pin down. The composer scores wonderfully well, but his slapstick circus interludes and expressionistic melodramas seem more purely illustrative, less fresh. Fortunately, as so often from this source, Ondine’s warm, wide-ranging Finlandia Hall recordings are a source of pleasure in themselves. Olli Mustonen, best known for the edgy individualism of his piano playing, secures an excellent response from the Helsinki Philharmonic, while Marko Ylonen, in the Concerto, seems not one whit overawed by Rostropovich’s example.
The copious notes are at once helpful and off-putting: only time will tell whether this music is quite as significant as the composer imagines it to be. I was reminded of what Mark Lubotsky had to say about Shostakovich’s funeral: ‘In Shchedrin’s speech every word was in its proper place. One only wished for a bit less self- assertion and a bit more of the grief felt by the people outside the Hall.’ Recommended – with reservations.'