Gergiev's Shostakovich
justly has a vast following. This five-disc
set of the War Symphonies brings together
six performances that represent an emotionally
exhausting journey.
We begin with the notorious
Fourth Symphony, a huge work
that marries the compositional exuberance
of the Second and Third symphonies with
the vast canvas of the Seventh and Eighth.
It is an unsettling mix – nothing is
seemingly as it should be, even in formal
terms, with two huge movements framing
a much shorter one. The history of the
Fourth is probably more famous than
the piece itself. Rehearsed by the Leningrad
Philharmonic under Fritz Stiedry, the
work never made it to its intended premiere,
having to wait until the great Kondrashin
unveiled it in Moscow in December 1961.
Gergiev is given a
spacious recording which accommodates
the fiery, cacophonous climaxes with
ease. Dissonances become almost scary
as is the obvious intent. The orchestra
is superbly drilled, not only in the
tricky faster sections but in the sheer
control required for those moments when
Shostakovich 'freezes time', or when,
as at the beginning of the third movement,
he retreats to an elusive, disjunct
world. It is in this latter portion
that Mahlerian elements perhaps come
most obviously to the fore - except
for a Mahler 2 allusion around 13'10
- but if one thing remains in the listener's
mind it is a sense of the bizarre married
to a sense that this is a genius at
work. The glacial end is spot-on. True,
no recording can hope to equal the sheer
force of this work live, as Gergiev's
recent LSO account at the Barbican reminded
those of us present (review),
but this is as near as one can get.
The Fifth of
course brings us to far more familiar
territory. The gritty playing is fabulously
captured by the recording. This is fantastically
involving but also full of careful detail,
and that control is present still; the
way Gergiev can persuade his violins
to thin down a line to the merest of
threads is spell-binding. There is a
tremendous momentum built up from the
low horn unison entry accompanied by
relentless piano. It is inevitable that
there will be a current of unrest still
present at the famous horn/flute duet;
interestingly you can hear the horn
player's nerves.
The string discipline
that marks the opening of the Scherzo
is most impressive, as is the sweet
solo violin. Yet interpretatively it
is the hugely interruptive timpani that
make their point felt the most. The
prayer-like strings of the slowly swelling,
concentrated Largo make this the emotional
centre-point of the entire work. Whatever
compromise there may be in the rest
of the work, there is precious little
here. No surprise then that Gergiev
effects maximum contrast in his finale.
He even times the very end well. Interestingly,
he emphasises any aspect of the foregoing
that might conceivably have been a hint
of the subversive - solo trumpet piercing
through swirling strings around 2'25,
for example - so that the end seems
even more puzzling than usual.
The Sixth, like
the Fifth, found public favour around
the time of its premiere. Strange, then,
that it has dipped in concert-goers'
attentions, especially when one encounters
a performance as committed as this.
The feeling of monumentalism was implicit
at best in Ashkenazy's reading with
the Philharmonia on the South Bank last
November (review).
With Gergiev it is almost heart-breaking,
reaching its apotheosis with the long
cor anglais melody. Gergiev avoids any
suggestion of rushing whatsoever, and
all of his wind soloists respond with
their best in their various solos. The
elusive, disjunct second movement provides
the perfect foil for the completely
madcap finale. Gergiev opts for the
nearly slapstick rather than the simply
outrageous.
The Seventh is
another work with history, with its
first three movement composed in a besieged
Leningrad. A combined Rotterdam/Kirov
orchestra is fully able to realise the
huge climaxes, with the fairly close
recording contributing to the frightening
effect of the long crescendo. Gergiev's
way with the 'keening' figure is particularly
memorable. One really feels as if the
Soviet chill immediately afterwards
is a requisite part of the experience.
A distinct feeling
of unreality to the parts of the second
movement that try for cheerfulness just
serves to underline the full-blown parody
later. Resplendent brass in the third
movement, long lines and a sense of
breadth lead to a finale of great string
depth, huge excitement next to desolation
and a superb, blazing close. It is almost
de rigueur to hear commentators refer
to the Seventh as one of the weaker
of the cycle; Gergiev clearly does not
believe them.
The Eighth is
hardly a slighter piece. Gergiev's includes
a rawness that is most impressive, one
that encompasses exploratory woodwind
- around 4'20 in - as well as positively
crushing climaxes. The long, desolate
cor anglais solo that emerges out of
the first movement's huge climax is
a particular high-point. This, I would
suggest, is the finest performance of
the set - or maybe, if pushed, equal
first with the Fourth. Like a Mahler
symphony, this Eighth seems to include
the World, and it is perhaps this all-encompassing
emotionalism that makes this performance
so very exhausting to listen to, yet
so very rewarding. Unlike so many, Gergiev
has the full measure of this piece.
After the canvasses
of the Seventh and Eighth, the Ninth
is a strange way to end this set,
but perhaps this would appeal to Shostakovich
himself. There is no doubting that Gergiev
revels in the outrageous antics, the
sudden juxtapositions of the first movement,
the catch-me-if-you-can chase of the
third or the jovial bassoon of the finale.
Huge care has gone into the balancing
of parts to the whole, and the orchestra
seems to revel in Shostakovich's own
mastery.
Booklet notes by Andrew
Huth are informative and superbly written.
This set is a must for all students
of Shostakovich.
Colin Clarke
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Kirov Orchestra, Mariinsky Theatre, St Petersburg,
dRotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra/Valery
Gergiev. 
