The character of the Bamberg Symphony is far better suited to Dvorak than Janacek. The ten Legends—charming everyday sketches of country-folk—plainly thrive on warm woody woodwinds and mellowed brass; on honest homespun strings for whom these notes are of course second nature. Each seize their moments here: expansive clarinets and bassoons filling out a reflective page or two in the middle section of No. 2 the gracefully articulated horn solo at the close of dreamy No. 8 the ambling rusticity of No. 6 with its subtle and captivating modulations. The native colour is most beguiling throughout and Jarvi, is at his most relaxed—as witness the gentle free-flowing phrasing of No. 10.
Sadly, those same woodwinds and strings don't always come through with the requisite cut and thrust when Dvorak's blended colours must yield to the coarser and sparer lines of the Janacek. I particularly miss here an uncouthness in the rhythm, a rosiny edge in the strings, not least in the heavy and hyper-active bass lines. The second movement demands it—as does the critical middle section of the finale where wild ostinatos and rowdy high woodwinds, like an over-excited crowd, prepare the way for that momentous return of the opening fanfares. I say momentous but somewhere along the line here Jarvi or his orchestra, or both, have loosened their grip, and in consequence the returning fanfares take a while to quicken the senses. The closing paean is good and resolute with decent bass trumpets and timpani. There are other moments too, the best of them in repose—the tender 'far-away' close of the third movement, for instance. But even so, and despite the incentive of the Dvorak, this isn't a competitive Sinfonietta—not with Abbado (DG) and Mackerras (Decca)—the latter still in a class of his own—there to shadow it.
We have been spoiled forever, I fear, not only by Mackerras's stunning VPO account of the Sinfonietta but also Tarus Bulba: by comparison, the modest Slovak Philharmonic offerings on Opus sound primitive indeed. Yet there, in a sense, lies the attraction: it's always good to be reminded of the 'old' Czech sound in this music: the fiery gipsy-fiddler strings, the characterful homespun winds with their warm vibratos, the craggy trumpets and trombones. Indian-born Daniel Nazareth—one time assistant to Leonard Bernstein at Tanglewood—clearly thinks so too, accentuating here all those earthy primary colours, and never for a moment compromising Janacek's unique and sometimes bizzarre scoring: the still spare opening of Taras Bulba, beginning almost as if in mid-sentence with plaintive cor anglais over rocking strings; the strange disembodied lament for organ which keeps interceding; or the hypnotic harp ostinato against sustained flutes and clarinets which opens the second movement, and then, of course, the brassy pagan hue of the Sinfonietta and its clamorous fanfares. The playing here may be unglamorous, indeed decidedly rough and ready at times (I do especially miss the burnished splendour of Mackerras's VPO brass), but its spirit is irresistible, not least in the many yearning woodwind plaints (cor anglais and oboe gorgeous in the third movement of the Sinfonietta) and those moments where the music really hitches up its skirts and dances: the boisterous second movement of the Sinfonietta, for instance, and the middle movement of Taras Bulba where uninhibited strings, trombones and later E flat clarinet make something suitably raucous of the closing pages (from 4'07''). Despite all the rough ends then, and a disconcertingly boxy, erratically balanced recording (harp and trombones absurdly favoured), I rather enjoyed myself. I repeat, though, if you don't yet have the Mackerras, it's about time you did.'