Edward Johnson, who writes the fascinatingly comprehensive notes for this CD had told me (enthusiastically) about the existence of this concertante arrangement by Lawrence Leonard of Mussorgsky's Pictures for piano and orchestra, but I could not have believed it would be so entertainingly successful. It ought to be played more often—especially at the Proms—as an alternative to the ubiquitous Ravel orchestration (which Stokowski, with some justice, thought too French). Ravel is, in his Gallic way, much more subtle with his orchestral effects, but Leonard paints his canvas with bold sweeps of the brush and the arrangement not only has great panache but genuinely amplifies the original piano role (which can at times sound a bit bare-boned: Mussorgsky was no Liszt). The freedom of the orchestral scoring is obvious in the very opening ''Promenade'' with its whiff of bells and a full panoply of colour, strings and horns alternating. But elsewhere the piano dominates, and making his entry in ''Gnomus'' achieves an immediate, forcefully robust presence (though the double-bassoon comments are a nice touch).
Obviously ''The Old Castle'' is right on top of the hill, for the wind whistles over the turrets, and the portrait is less nostalgic than usual (one feels the troubadour had to button up his doublet). ''The Tuileries'' brings a happy alternation of piano and woodwind, while in ''Bydlo'' the pounding piano line is just as overpowering as any orchestral brass. I particularly enjoyed the ''Unhatched chicks'', a piquant mixture of flutes and piano filigree, with a slight xylophone condiment, and the addition of the heavy brass to the unison strings to depict ''Samuel Goldenburg'' is also very arresting. The piano bleats out Schmuyle's response and the joining of a fat tuba presence to the sonority when Goldenburg replies is suitably mock-portentous. The following ''Promenade'' (omitted by Ravel) is shared by piano and orchestra, and the piano again leads in the ''Limoges market'' scene (with xylophone spicing), then enters the ''Catacombe'' confidently (supported by the brass), takes the sinister solo role in ''Cum mortuis'' over tremolando strings, and proves a domineeringly monstrous ''Baba-Yaga'', almost defeating the venomous brass response; again the wind can be heard whistling eerily as the witch comes in to land. ''The Great Gate of Kiev'' brings what (as Edward Johnson points out) is like a grand concerto finale: the piano cascades (at 1'28'') are superb, followed by a splendid chorale for horns and brass (1'56''). After the ecclesiastical interlude (rather tastefully scored), in the final re-statement of the grand tune the orchestral chords are accented, semi-staccato to let the piano through and the piece ends with proper concertante grandiloquence.
I have not space to detail the many other effects of scoring which are so often imaginatively different, but the result certainly brings a refreshing change from the usual version. Of the rest of the novelties here I especially enjoyed Rimsky-Korsakov's chimerically wispy scoring of the Scherzo in B flat (probably partly orchestrated by the composer) and Hans Kindler's charming orchestral presentation of From my tears, which is a very Slavic melody, almost Tchaikovskian. The other three piano pieces (grouped together as Pictures from the Crimea), somewhat darkly coloured, are more conventionally scored by Walter Goehr, although the central ''Douma'' (Reverie) is nostalgically pleasing in its gentle melancholy. The remaining orchestral items are almost all more familiar (the energetic ''Gopak'' used to fit neatly on one side of a 12-inch 78rpm disc, as of course did the very beautiful Khovanshchina Prelude). Stokowski's flamboyantly sombre arrangement of ''Golitsyn's journey'' with its growling brass is another rare item. All this music, including the much heard Rimsky version of A Night on the Bare Mountain is vividly played by the Philharmonia Orchestra under Geoffrey Simon and Tamas Ungar obviously relishes the bravura opportunities offered by the expanded piano part in Pictures at an Exhibition. The recording is reverberant (so that detail is not always crisp in focus), but otherwise its ambience suits the music's colour and spectacle.'