There is an interesting discrepancy between Alisa Weilerstein’s image and that of the two Shostakovich concertos. She is marketed photographically as though engaged in constant passionate congress with her instrument. Yet Shostakovich demands something beyond personal emoting; ultimately it speaks of ‘us’ more than of ‘me’ or ‘you’. Weilerstein herself knows this because she was told so, almost in so many words, by Rostropovich in a masterclass a dozen or so years ago (according to Decca’s uncredited, interview-style booklet essay).

Yet she cannot easily deny her own instincts. Both outer movements of the First Concerto sound just a bit in a hurry, as though the passionate urge has not been sufficiently tempered by will-power. And the big third-movement cadenza could have been even more convincing had Weilerstein not been tempted to snatch at the fortissimo scales. To be sure, the playing is extremely accomplished, and there is no reason why this music should always be played à la Rostropovich. I do like the nagging insistence of the opening, and the Bavarian hornist is tonally one of the fullest and steadiest I have heard. Furthermore, in the slow movement, where I was most fearful, Weilerstein really does hold the emotion in check, letting the music make its compassionate, rather than passionate mark. Another sign of outstanding musicianship at work is that the balance between soloist and orchestra is a constant delight (hear the bassoons in the finale, for instance).

The story is similar in the Second Concerto. A longer review would find far more to praise than to blame here. But, compared to the finest available recordings, the urge to push the tempo in the early stages of the finale does detract a little from its wistful barcarolle-like motion and hence from the denunciatory fireworks that follow. Still, bravo to the Bavarian horns for their Janáčeky whoopings around the nine-minute mark, and to Decca’s engineering for capturing such moments, and many others, in such ravishing detail.