Ashkenazy's Shostakovich Eighth steers a middle course between the glacial stoicism of Maxim Shostakovich and the fresher, more urgent 'authenticity' of Kondrashin (Le Chant du Monde, 5/89—nla) and Mravinsky. The unsensational results may not appeal to those who seek coded messages of dissent in every bar (the writer of Decca's note is one of them) but, for a straightforward, central interpretation which retains a sense of the music as an abstract symphonic structure, Ashkenazy will not let you down. Inevitably, the RPO sounds unvarnished beside Haitink's 1983 Concertgebouw. He cannot rely on the automatic radiance of a great string section, and Decca's recording, while superbly realistic and well balanced, is drier and less imposing in this instance.
In the two march-cum-scherzos, Ashkenazy does not always avoid an impression of rhythmic squareness: compare, if you can, Andre Previn and the LSO in their pioneering Western account (HMV, 10/73—and still not remastered for CD). Under Ashkenazy, the first of them is neither as bitter nor as powerful as it could be, though there are some sprightly woodwinds to compensate, whether or not you go along with the notion that the piccolo solo 'represents' the delight of a young army officer who has received an unexpected weekend pass! In the second scherzo, Ashkenazy is close to Haitink in terms of pace; it is probably the Concertgebouw's sheer weight of sonority that makes Haitink's rather stolid manner seem that much more persuasive. The best Soviet-era performances are altogether harsher in both movements, conjuring specific wartime resonances at the expense of pin-point precision. Yet I still hanker after Previn's deftness and attack in what then become brilliant (if distinctly mid-Atlantic) display pieces. Closer to the marked tempo, Ashkenazy tends to fall between stools. To some extent, his Largo makes amends; it is plain and unaffected and, like the long opening movement, holds together exceptionally well without quite plumbing the depths. The finale's initial, equivocal idea is simpler, more naturally inflected than it is under some conductors—Haitink's bassoonist rather gets lost in the resonance—but continuity is slightly impaired by what sounds like an edit at 8'47''. The couplings are dutiful potboilers commissioned for taped installation at Soviet war memorials and for aficionados only.
Don't hesitate if you're collecting Ashkenazy's cycle. I cannot share DJF's enthusiasm for Rostropovich's Teldec recording: for me it lacks the charismatic impact of his live music-making. Of currently available versions it is Mravinsky who brings the greatest authenticity of experience and hence intensity of feeling to this colossal score—though not quite as colossal as it might be when Philips's transfer is a semi-tone sharp.'