On the evidence of his recent Prokofiev disc (Chandos, 5/92) and now this, Kitaienko's penchant is for the moody, slow-burn, slow-to-evolve reading where atmosphere is all and momentum simply an inevitability. Except that it isn't, of course. This Firebird steals almost imperceptively into one's consciousness. Be warned, you'll not know it has begun: the recording level is low, the dynamics extraordinarily withdrawn.
Throughout the crepuscular opening pages there is precious little sign of rhythmic life, still less of dynamic variance. The tiny animations in bassoons, trumpets, clarinets and harp are anything but—subdued, sluggish, uniformly muted. To a point the effect is strangely provocative. Crossing the threshold of Kastchei's enchanted garden can rarely have elicited such a shiver of apprehension (sul ponticello strings, ominous bassoons, the chill glint of celeste barely breaking the surface). But this dearth of rhythmic life quickly palls. Where are the contrasts? Where is the movement? Stravinsky's canvas is already much richer and busier than Kitaienko would have us believe. Even the Firebird's exotic plumage does not enliven the texture as it might. Her dance, a whirl of Scriabinesque brilliance (though not in Kitaienko's hands), must light up the page; only then, by contrast, can the languorous beauty of her supplications achieve due poignancy. He is much too free with the soft-focus; it is all a bit too diaphanous, chiffony. One's overriding impression is of the palest watercolours. But Russian folklore is bolder, gaudier. The fantastic magic Carillon, the appearance of Kastchei's monsters, the Infernal Dance—all are to some extent compromised for want of rhythmic dynamism and a sharper, more primary response to texture.
But one must give credit where it is due, for Kitaienko coaxes some very sensitive, subtly shaded playing from his Danish Radio forces, and when they are galvanized they can and do deliver. Kastchei's demise is seismic (Chandos sonics at their most dramatic), the descent into tremulant darkness gives even Rattle a good run for his money. But as the new day dawns (a rosy, glowing peroration with an impressive line in bass trombone pedal notes), it still ultimately isn't enough. Rattle (EMI), in one of his best ever studio recordings, is less the dreamer, more the seasoned story-teller, alive to facets of this score that Kitaienko merely wafts over.
It is easier to succeed with Le chant du rossignol, easier to stand back while those beguiling oriental illusions work their magic. Kitaienko does just that. Other readings reveal more of the inner-workings, the secrets behind those weird and wonderful sonorities. But then it could be argued, why give away the tricks when you've the sleight of hand not to?'