''There is something in the Russian soul that corresponds to the immensity, the vagueness, the infinitude of the Russian land'', wrote the philosopher Nikolai Berdyaev—words that often come to mind when I hear the opening Largo of Shostakovich's Sixth Symphony. Admittedly there are times when the suffering individual steps into the foreground, dominating the canvas; but what of the long ppp flute arabesques after fig. 23? Here personal feeling seems to dwindle almost to nothing in the face of a mysterious and overwhelming stillness. The interpreter is faced with a choice: does one concentrate on the personal, the self-expressive element (perhaps in keeping with popular notions of the composer's feelings at that time), or does one extend the perspective to include the less obviously personal—the immensely slow current that underlies the anguished lyricism, or the growing sense of dark quietude that eventually soothes the passionate protestations into silence? Perhaps the most marvellous thing about the classic Mravinsky reading (EMI ASD2805, 7/72—nla) is his revelation that you can have both without diminishing the effect of either: climaxes like those at figs. 12 and 19 strike straight to the heart, and yet there's an impression of implacable growth, a kind of psychological undertow, reaching its maximum intensity and breadth in those wonderful hushed flute solos.
And what of Leonard Bernstein? Mravinsky may have strong claims to being as near as possible to the 'authentic' Shostakovich interpreter, but bernstein, so Solomon Volkov tells us, was the composer's favourite American conductor, and the 1959 Bernstein recording of the Fifth Symphony (CBS 60117, 12/60—nla) was an interpretation that he particularly admired. Well, Bernstein's conception of Shostakovich appears to have changed a good deal since then: you've only to compare the new Sixth with the 1969 CBS version 72730, 10/69—nla) to see that. In the earlier reading the first movement took nearly 19 minutes—already longer than any currently available competitor. He now takes over 22 minutes. All his tempos are very slow: the opening comes closer than ever before to Shostakovich's quaver = 72, a marking I'd previously thought impossible. Miraculously Bernstein still manages to shape and shade the composer's long-breathed melodic lines with consummate authority—the occasional falterings of tone and dynamic unsteadiness are only to be expected in a live performance. Expressively it really is a tour de force. Emotion pours out of almost every note—agonized intensity at first giving way to a sense of desolation and despair towards the end.
But what about the slow undercurrent, brought out so marvellously by Mravinsky—that feeling that something vast, elemental, is working its purpose out? In this respect I find Bernstein somewhat lacking; perhaps it simply wasn't important to him. In the long 'expository' section after fig. 4 Bernstein's tempo is still very slow—not in itself a problem, but the way he articulates the gently undulating bass triplets does'nt exactly encourage them to flow; rather they seem earth-bound, and this quality of heaviness is enhanced by a ponderous deep bass tril that Bernstein adds just after fig. 6—a small detail, but to my mind symptomatic of a general attitude. Eventually, as the flute-ornamented heart of the movement is reached, the narrative seems to stop. Emotion has been discharged, and so the story is effectively over. The coda is like a long panning shot over a deserted battlefield—deeply moving, but bereft of life.
What could possibly follow this? After the last chord of the Largo had died away, my first impulse was to press the stop button and sit in silence—but there are two more movements! And from now on, it seems to me, Bernstein struggles heroically to harmonize the rest of the symphony with his initial vision, apparently attempting to turn the remaining movements into something like a Beethovenian overcoming of previous painful tensions. The scherzo begins deliberately, and continues at this rather dogged tempo. As the movement progresses the energy grows impressively (driven on by distinctly audible stamps from the podium), but the increased weightiness has its cost: rhythmic vitality is considerably diminished. The finale gets off to a cracking pace, but a sudden, wrenching gear-change at the 4/4-3/4 transition (three crotchets now slightly slower than the previous semibreve) shows Bernstein once again determined to emphasize struggle at the expense of dance. None of this happened in his earlier recording: there he appeared to believe in the symphony as Shostakovich wrote it; here he seems to feel that it has to be made to work. And yet I feel strongly that readings like Haitink (Decca—coupled with the Eleventh Symphony on two discs), Jarvi (Chandos), Rozhdestvensky (Olympia CD OCD111—not yet submitted for review), and particularly Mravinsky conflute that view. In these performances, different as they are, the first movement steadily accumulates energy, which is released, in intermitten bursts in the scherzo, and then in a steady stream of riotous dance music in the finale. Yes, the new Bernstein is deeply moving, but it is also deeply flawed. I still feel after repeated hearings that his heart isn't in the fast movements, and that those emphatic stampings suggest an effort to convince the orchestra—and himself—otherwise.
As for the Ninth: once again Bernstein's reading has gained in intensity and depth in the more inward music (the second and fourth movements) and lost something of its former sparkle and rhythmic bite in faster movements. Despite his more classical approach. Haitink manages to make more of the almost Nielsenesque humour of the first movement—stubborn trombone and cheeky piccolo beautifully characterized. But Bernstein captures magnificently the sense of growing disquiet in the third and fifth movements. As in the first movement of the Sixth, this new version packs a powerful punch, but again I have to say that I prefer his earlier recording (CBS 73050, 12/74—nla) as an overall conception: the Moderato doesn't probe so deeply; nor is the conclusion so corrosive, but the gradual transition from innocent humour to barbed irony is unusually convincing—a remark which also holds good for the Haitink, less demonstrative though he may be.
What else is there to say? The recording capture the atmosphere of these live performances while keeping instrusive noise largely at bay. The playing of the Vienna Philharmonic, particularly the strings, is strikingly refined and expressive, and yet there's a truly Shostakovichian acerbity when needed. Both performances may have been overwhelming in the concert hall—but at home, with the score on one's knee, and a pile of comparative performances to hand, the weaknesses become apparent. Bernstein has dared to challenge the Mravinsky conception of the Sixth Symphony: there are undeniable gains, but stil greater losses.'