Why should anyone want this much-recorded work in a version dating from 1965, with abundant tape-hiss to show its age, and with no coupling? Answer: because it's unique. In what way unique? Well, not in the sense of interpretative quirks; in fact, with the exception of an unduly steady fugato in the finale, Ancerl is scrupulously faithful to the score. The uniqueness is in the orchestral sound, a kind of individuality which, as we are so often being told, is in danger of disappearing forever, if it has not already done so. That sound is partly defined by specific tone-colours—the perkiness of the Czech Philharmonic clarinet sound, for instance, is utterly irresistible, at least for me; it is partly a question of recording—truthful perspectives and rather more ambience than Western recording companies favoured in the 1960s; it is above all a question of rhythmic poise and careful articulation, giving a supple quality crisp and light but immensely strong. It is an unmistakable sound, and it is the foundation for the expressiveness, the wit, the sense of propulsion in Ancerl's reading.
There have been performances which display equal orchestral virtuosity and idiomatic pointing—indeed Solti's marvellous LSO recording for Decca appeared in the same month and has rather overshadowed this one. But the atmosphere and inner tension of the Supraphon fully justify its reappearance. I only hope this heralds the reissuing of other Czech Ancerl classics—if possible rather more generously coupled.'