These are probably Shostakovich's least impressive symphonic utterances, but it makes sense to link them, as two scores which cannot usefully be detached from their political and social moorings, even if we reject some of the ideas posited in Ian MacDonald's tendentious note. That said, there is—so Ashkenazy's virile interpretation would seem to tell us—rather more to No. 3 than a cynical accommodation with the norms of officially inspired proletarian culture. The RPO are on excellent form, although the high-lying string writing is better handled by Rostropovich's LSO. The one real disappointment is the unfervent contribution of the Bach Choir. Here again Rostropovich's professional group is more convincing. Throughout, Ashkenazy tends to be less indulgent with expressive detail than his Teldec rival and some may think the music the better for it.
The Twelfth receives a comparatively restrained, almost reluctant sort of reading, marginally less well executed than its companion. In conspicuously avoiding Mravinsky's wilder histrionics, Ashkenazy may be truer to the dour nature of Soviet reality. Or is it simply that his performance lacks Mravinsky's conviction? It is difficult to say. MacDonald's note strains to justify a yurodivy interpretation of the score which I don't yet hear in the performance. Not in doubt is the characteristic truthfulness of Decca's recording. A shade more resonance would have flattered the players to advantage but no one investing in this important series is going to feel short-changed by the present issue.'