It makes an original and attractive coupling having the Tchaikovsky concerto together with this twentieth-century Russian masterpiece. The implication is that Shostakovich in this darkly introspective work is less a modernist than a successor to the romantic Tchaikovsky, and Midori’s readings, recorded live, do bring out the likenesses quite as much as the obvious contrasts. With the solo instrument naturally balanced, not spotlit in the manner common in studio recordings, the most striking point about both performances is the way that Midori, never lacking in virtuoso bravura, makes an even more distinctive impression in the many passages where she plays in a hushed, intimate half-tone.
At the beginning of the Moderato first movement of the Shostakovich her tone is so withdrawn that one has to listen hard to detect precisely when she starts playing. She may not convey quite the weight of feeling that Lydia Mordkovitch finds in that opening on her Gramophone Award-winning Chandos version, but the inward intensity is comparably great. In the Passacaglia third movement she also conveys an ethereal poignancy in her pianissimo playing. Even in the Tchaikovsky it is striking to what degree Midori brings out a meditative quality in passages normally treated merely as sweet and songful, a point established at the very start in her first ruminative solo.
As these are live recordings, it is not surprising that in both works Midori is often rhythmically free, always sounding spontaneous, though the central Canzonetta of the Tchaikovsky, at a markedly slower tempo than those chosen by Chung and Bell, does run the risk of sounding a little sticky, with marked agogic hesitations. Even so the hushed intensity is most compelling; in bravura passages too, particularly cadenzas, Midori tends to be rhythmically freer than the rivals I have listed, sparkling and volatile in the flourishes at the beginning of the finale of the Tchaikovsky. Incidentally, like Joshua Bell and Chung in this earlier recording, Midori adopts the tiny traditional cuts in the finale, arguably the preferable course.
In both works Abbado is a powerful and sympathetic, yet discreet accompanist, with tuttis designed to support the soloist, rarely drawing attention to themselves. Abbado’s fresh, clean account of the brief tutti at the start of the Tchaikovsky makes that point, though in the tutti which opens the finale of the Shostakovich it is striking how even before Midori enters Abbado finds an element of jollity in a movement which more often is treated as thrustful and demonic. Not that there is ever any lack of weight in the Berlin Philharmonic’s playing, with a recording that is both warm and well detailed.
Strongly recommended for anyone fancying this coupling.'