Chandos’s on-going Weinberg survey continues with the Third Symphony that he wrote between March 1949 and June 1950 in the wake of the “anti-formalist” purges instigated by Andrey Zhdanov. As David Fanning observes in his booklet-essay, Weinberg’s incorporation of folk material into his symphony follows a doughty tradition in Russian/Soviet music “and its appearance in such works can by no means always be ascribed to external pressure”. That said, the piece’s aborted Moscow premiere almost certainly does reflect official disquiet (although the story runs that Weinberg discovered a number of errors during rehearsals and decided against the work going public). Ten years later, the composer substantially overhauled the symphony, which was first performed on March 23, 1960, in the Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatory under the baton of Alexander Gauk.

There are four movements, the first of which uses a Belorussian folk song as a subsidiary idea (first heard on the cellos from 2'22"), its progress by turns serene and nervy, and culminating in a coda of bleached remoteness. The ensuing scherzo (originally placed third) skips along delectably and again quotes a folk tune, this time from Poland (the mazurka-like idea from 1'36"); the cheeky pay-off will make you smile. In the slow movement, the initially subdued mood gradually gives way to something approaching anguish, before at last finding solace in a radiant C major. The energetic finale contains the most conspicuous echoes of Weinberg’s friend and ally Shostakovich, and develops material from earlier in the work. Clean-cut, resourceful and by no means lacking in appealing thematic profile or communicative force, it’s a symphony which certainly warrants investigation.

For a coupling we get the last of the four concert suites that Weinberg fashioned (in 1964) from his ballet The Golden Key. Based on a Pinocchio-inspired fairy-tale by Aleksey Tolstoy (1882-1945) and completed in 1955, this toothsome score had to wait until June 1962 for its premiere, during which time Weinberg subjected it to further revisions. There are seven numbers in all, the plums from which include the wistful “Elegy” (itself a reworking of a piece from the first volume of Weinberg’s Children’s Notebooks for piano, Op 16), charming “Dance of the Cat and the Fox” and engagingly pointed “The Lesson” (of which Prokofiev would have been proud).

These are beautifully prepared and thoroughly committed renderings under Thord Svedlund’s clear-headed lead, realistically captured by the microphones within the Gothenburg orchestra’s acoustically ideal home. Don’t be deterred by the comparatively skimpy playing-time; the rewards here are considerable.