Lest anyone doubt Rostropovich’s commitment to (and sense of identification with) the composer, this 12-CD box comes emblazoned with an account of their last meeting, shortly before Rostropovich left for the West with, we are told, a pledge to record all the symphonies beginning with No. 4. That cycle is now complete, although, puzzlingly, Rostropovich did not start with the Fourth. Nor have his recorded performances always conveyed the sense of commitment one might have expected.
As seasoned collectors will know, attitudes to the Shostakovich symphonies have tended to polarize in recent years and competing notions of authenticity are well-nigh impossible to square. In the blue corner – those listeners who prize above all the music’s confident rhythmic impetus and thorough-going sense of linear development. Ranged against them, an increasingly vociferous lobby setting greater store by Shostakovich’s (real or imagined) capacity to communicate coded truths to an oppressed people. Whatever your point of view, it would be a mistake to come to this set expecting tightly sprung rhythms and minutely observed detail. Rostropovich’s cycle is more uneven than those listed above. At his best, he gives us readings of great emotional clout, full of subjective touches perhaps but intent on communicating musical as well as quasi-political messages. At his worst, he is merely heavy-handed and rather nondescript. Like Rozhdestvensky, whose Olympia series is sadly unavailable at present, he has come to favour generally slow tempos but is less consistently adept at sustaining intensity over the longer span. His Washington players produce a rather shallow sonority while the LSO remain a law unto themselves, playing well it seems only when it suits them. That said, the series contains good and bad performances from both sides of the Atlantic plus a Russian-Soviet classic.
Things begin well enough. Although it’s possible to imagine playing and recording of greater refinement in the First and Ninth, it would be churlish to ignore the natural eloquence of these readings. True, Rostropovich rushes the scherzo of the First off its feet and is at pains to score extra-musical points in the finale of the Ninth; even so, there is a greater sense of involvement than in many Western accounts. The Second and Third were made in London and successfully convey the very real excitement that Rostropovich can engender in concert. Both are vehemently expressive and crisp of ensemble; the sound is first-rate too. After this, it’s back to Washington for an altogether soggier Fourth, intermittently compelling but no match for previous all-American recordings by Ormandy (Sony, 3/97) and Previn (EMI, 3/78 – nla). Both Kondrashin and Rozhdestvensky – a live relay is available from Russian Disc (1/94) – bring the music that much closer to the abyss. Rostropovich is sometimes merely plodding, especially in the passage from 12'41'' in the opening movement; the famously hysterical fugal build-up from 16'31'' is also too cautious.
The Fifth is more personal even if it, too, ultimately disappoints. There is a lack of rhythmic incisiveness in the opening bars, and, while the long-limbed second subject does not lack individuality (there is some characteristic, would-be emotive swelling), inner intensity is less in evidence. In the second movement Rostropovich is at least distinctive, insisting upon dogged articulation and some unconventional bowing. The finale tries to make a big statement and the dubious nature of the festivities is never in doubt. As I suggested in my original review (4/95), Rostropovich transforms what might be construed as an active Soviet symphonic archetype into a heavy-footed dirge of dissent. When the sunlight breaks through as it must shortly before the close, the fraudulent nature of Stalin’s new dawn could not be more glaring. The Sixth, from the same sessions, is new to the catalogue. Rostropovich gives a thoroughly decent, long-breathed account of the first movement but again neither articulates the big gestures with sufficient decisiveness nor plumbs the depth of feeling that lies behind the notes. The remaining movements are fast and faster, deliberately marked off from the opening Largo as non sequiturs that burlesque the positive outcome demanded by Party guidelines. The agitprop Twelfth is entrusted to an LSO whose playing if not quite without flaw has greater weight of tone to commend it. The strings attack the music with relish and Rostropovich, plainly sympathetic to Shostakovich’s political plight, points up the way the cogs grind without quite meshing even in this Leninist “Dawn of Humanity”; the final climax is pushed into parody.
Surprisingly, Rostropovich is just as brisk and crisp in the Leningrad where one might have expected an overstated, over-moulded sort of epic. While the first movement is not unsuccessful, the Adagio fatally lacks gravitas. The Eighth was well received in these pages but I have never found it wholly satisfying. The subjective approach calls for advocacy of a kind only intermittently in evidence here, and it is not only the ‘unsuitable’ orchestral timbre that falls short of expectations. Parts of the first movement seem positively cosy in Rostropovich’s fond embrace while others coast by without much sense of urgency or engagement. Without anticipating maximal rhythmic definition from this source, the scherzos seem heavy-handed even if the remaining movements are by no means unaffecting. Should desolation have such a soft grain? The LSO take over for a flat, undermotivated version of the Tenth bereft of narrative drive, sounding for all the world like second-raters at a first run-through; low level recording scarcely helps. The near-70 minute Washington Eleventh has had some negative press – the ill-tuned timpani do not inspire confidence – but I found real atmosphere in it and an epic breadth from which most recent performers have shied away. How ‘authentic’ is it though, given that Kondrashin races through the piece in under 54 minutes? (Haitink clocks in at just over an hour.) It is Rostropovich who gives us the most even-tempered Thirteenth, no challenge to the various Kondrashin versions – and don’t forget that superb early concert performance on Russian Disc (3/94). Rostropovich is almost dispassionate: the soloist has a fatherly dignity and the choir is bass-light.
When recordings by Shostakovich’s closest friends, colleagues and relatives differ so radically one from another, it is surely the case that the only authenticity available to us consists in locating performances which work for us. That said, this has always been a very special Fourteenth (credited to members of the Moscow Philharmonic on its previous appearance). Shostakovich was present at the sessions and in the notes Rostropovich speaks of the LP as his “calling-card”. Competition is fierce, however, and even here I found myself wondering whether Rostropovich’s extremism was actually as effective as the tauter approach of Kondrashin or Barshai. The latter’s official Melodiya recording used different soloists but we now have the virtual premiere on Russian Disc where the vocal line-up is the same even if the text hasn’t quite settled (1/94). Whichever version you choose, the extraordinary Vishnevskaya demands to be heard in this music. Which is no doubt why her husband insisted that their collaboration be resurrected. Understatement was not on the agenda in 1973 and the sound stands up remarkably well with the soloists up-front in every sense.
What of the elusive Fifteenth – so well handled in their different ways by Haitink and Kondrashin? Alas Rostropovich’s account is slack, unmagical to a fault and scarcely enhanced by the dull recording. Another reason for caution then. Only if you don’t already have the best of the individual issues – and the Fourteenth is new to CD – should you contemplate acquiring the integrale. The documentation includes an interesting conversation between the conductor and Dorothea Redepenning – “Is the second movement of the Tenth a portrait of Stalin? “No, I don’t think so” – although the notes on the individual symphonies fail to make the most of his revelations. English language translations of the texts are included without the Russian originals, transliterated or otherwise.
Whatever their sonic failings, the 12 CDs of EMI’s “Rostropovich: the Russian Years” (5/97) present some definitive performances by an astoundingly gifted cellist. Rostropovich is a less commanding presence on the podium even in Shostakovich and you may not be able to afford both sets. The choice is yours.'