This is, to say the least, a varied programme. But Rachmaninov enthusiasts will want the three unaccompanied choruses in which the Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatoire is (sonically) transformed into a huge, cathedral-like space and Polyansky’s choir has a real chance to shine. Published as a set as recently as 1972, these are attractive works in an idiom that always sounds like Rachmaninov, whether orthodox and sacred, such as O Mother of God (1893), or exploratory and secular, such as Panteley the Healer (1900), with its harmonic intimations of the Second Piano Concerto. The central piece, Chorus of Spirits for ‘Don Juan’, is an evocative offcut which ought to be better known: the composer worked on an abortive Don Juan project in the mid-1890s after completing his symphonic poem, The Rock. Texts and translations are provided, though a transliteration of the Russian text would have made these easier to follow, and the booklet’s cues for tracks 6 and 7 are reversed. The cantata, Spring, is relatively unfamiliar, too – strange that Chandos should wish to record it a second time! Tigram Martyrosyan is an echt Russian soloist, which makes for a specific kind of effect, and yet, idiomatic or not, Jorma Hynninen on the earlier recording is much the more sensitive artist.
The problem lies with the main work. There are so many remarkable readings of the Third Symphony already in the catalogue that it is difficult to see the point of this newcomer. Rachmaninov’s penultimate composition used to be disparaged as an outmoded utterance, but it has come to seem more adventurous, even experimental, a quintessential product of the emigre experience. That said, you won’t find Polyansky’s players elucidating textural detail in the manner of Pletnev’s Russian National Orchestra. Nor is the more conventional interpretation from Jansons and the St Petersburg Philharmonic ever seriously rivalled.
Polyansky’s romantic flexibility is not always flattered by the Mosfilm Studio acoustic, which makes for a rather blowsy effect, and, as is often the case with Russian exponents, he does not take the first-movement exposition repeat. The second movement feels unduly cinematic and just a bit sleepy. And the finale is more interested in generous expressivity than symphonic cohesion or pinpoint precision. But then the collection as a whole may well appeal, even if the Symphony is better served by Jansons or Pletnev; their (conventional) coupling is the Symphonic Dances.'