Nikolai Golovanov was born in 1891, two years before Tchaikovsky’s death, and died in 1953, six months after the death of Prokofiev – and of Stalin on the same day. He lived through turbulent times, and was, as a commemorative article by Boris Khaikin puts it, ‘a stormy talent’. His qualities are formidably displayed in these Tchaikovsky recordings, some of which have already appeared in the West: there is, for instance, the version of the First Piano Concerto which shows Emil Gilels at his most powerful, efficient and least emotional. This was made in 1945 or 1946: there is no precise dating for anything on this set, nor any details, documentation or notes on the conductor or the music.

Golovanov was always at his best with the more strenuous and emotional side of Tchaikovsky, which encourages him to give excellent accounts of the Tempest Fantasia and especially of Francesca da Rimini, which has a splendidly sombre opening and lyrical, impassioned handling of the love music. He is less successful with the First Symphony. His tendency to exaggerate tempi does not help the easy flow of the first movement, the Scherzo could be lighter and the finale is very hard-driven. He is at his best with the Adagio, and though the oboe sounds harsh, this does no harm since, in Martin Cooper’s words, it seems to ‘call up the voice of a marsh-bird [in] the sinister emptiness of a deserted winter landscape as the fog descends’. The end is beautifully played.

With the Pathétique comes one of Golovanov’s most characteristic performances. The opening is heavy and burdened, the Allegro nervous and rushed until the second subject, which is played with an almost improvisatory rubato everywhere. The music can take it, including Golovanov’s lavish string portamenti, since it is coherent with the style of the whole interpretation. Yet even with this proviso, it is difficult to accept the huge ritardandi, the slowing of the tempo to almost half-speed for some phrases, the rewriting of the dynamics so that at one point poor Tchaikovsky’s sempre fff becomes a drop to something like mf followed by a huge crescendo. The 5/4 Allegro con grazia is distinctly short on grazia, though the scurrying, panicky Allegro molto vivace works well, especially with the plunge into the lamenting finale. This is a feature of the transfers: there is practically no pause between movements or even works, perhaps in the interest of fitting some three and three-quarters hours’ music on to three discs.

The Gebhardt remasterings are by and large effective, given the condition of Soviet recording during these years, 1944-49. The Marche Slave has a pretty fierce hiss, and in Moscow the chorus are coarsely treated, though the mezzo and baritone soloists sing out strongly (which is more than can be said for the quavering tenor in Lensky’s ‘Kuda, kuda’). There are, then, plenty of reservations to be made about this batch of recordings, but Golovanov was a compelling conductor and one whose music-making invariably had a strong personality behind it.