The last SwanLake to come my way
was Neeme Järvi’s Chandos
account with the Bergen Philharmonic; others raved about it, but for
me it was dead in the water. It seems that my old favourites, among
them Ernest Ansermet’s classic Decca set with the Orchestre de
la Suisse Romande (reissued on Major
Classics), have yet to be supplanted. Admittedly that version is
heavily cut – it runs for a mere 83 minutes – but it combines
theatrical intensity with remarkably good sound for 1958.
Then there are complete versions from Charles Dutoit and the Orchestre
Symphonique du Montréal (Decca), Mark Ermler and the Orchestra of the
Royal Opera House Covent Garden (originally released on the ROH label,
but now available on Sony)
and André Previn and the LSO (Warner). John Lanchbery’s Philharmonia
recording, slightly abridged to fit on two CDs, is also worth hearing
for Pleasure). The sound quality of these three issues varies somewhat,
with Dutoit’s ultra-vivid 1992 recording the best of the bunch.
That’s hardly a comprehensive list – according to ArkivMusic
there are at least 57 available sets – but it does represent a
broad spectrum of performing traditions and more than three decades
of recorded sound. I would have been very content with this trio, but
that was before I chanced upon Svetlanov's Melodiya account. Given that
conductor’s unique and authoritative way with so much Russian
repertoire this set promised to be rather special. Indeed, it was First
Choice in BBC Radio 3’s Building a Library in April 2015.
Happily, audio samples indicated the recording – made in 1988
– was pretty impressive as well.
Act 1 gets off to a glorious start; Svetlanov makes the Introduction
seem nervier than usual and in the ensuing Allegro giusto the
percussion and brass have a powerful presence that bodes well for what’s
to come. Svetlanov is rhythmically alert too, the opening Waltz
attractively sprung; not only that, Tchaikovsky’s multi-hued writing
is explored to the full, with luminous colours filtering through at
every turn. Also, this is a real-world performance, sensibly paced and
eminently danceable. Even at this early stage it’s clear this
conductor isn’t one to overdrive the music. More important, perhaps,
he doesn’t busk through it either.
A corollary of this very proportionate, thoroughly musical
approach is that the score’s quieter passages – the linking
narrative as it were – unfold in a very natural, unflustered way;
and although the grander ones are sensibly scaled they’re always
drenched in drama. The balances are just fine, but the bass is a little
soft-edged at times. I’d far rather that than the aggressive Soviet-era
treble and weird perspectives one associates with Melodiya recordings
of old. Nadezhda Tolstaya's harp playing – especially at the start
of the Pas de trois – is very well caught; ditto the
refined string sound and velvety woodwinds.
What a delight it is to be reminded that Swan Lake is a veritable
daisy chain of lovely tunes and even lovelier interludes. The real pleasure,
though, is hearing Svetlanov at his affable and engaging best; every
change of mood or pace is seamlessly managed, and each number has its
own distinct character. The Coda to the Pas detrois
is a case in point: just listen to how the snappy side drum brings a
sudden frisson to the mix. Such flourishes are all the more
exciting for being framed with sensitivity and a sure sense of style.
Forget those fruity, excitable Russian bands of old, for this is playing
of rare finesse and feeling. The grateful recording is a bonus.
Svetlanov ensures the Act 1 Pas de deux is wonderfully supple;
even better, Yuri Torchinsky’s violin solo in the Andante
– Allegro – Molto più mosso is as clear and colourful
as one could wish. It certainly isn’t soupy, self-seeking or a
mix of the two. Yes, he is too far forward, but that hardly
matters when the playing has so much point and personality. And what
a fierily executed Coda, very much in the Ansermet mould. By
contrast the Pas d’action has real tenderness and the
polacca in the Danse des Coupes is deft and dynamic.
Everything segues so naturally, and the whole is shaped with a quiet
conviction that I’ve only encountered once or twice in the theatre
but never on record.
Tolstaya sets the moonlit scene at the start of Act 2, where Siegfried
first glimpses the swans and eventually succumbs to the enchanted -
and enchanting - Odette. Very quickly Svetlanov draws us into the quickening
vortex in a way that the brusque, almost peremptory Järvi fails to do.
The Russian brass cut through the orchestra like scythes here, yet they’re
mercifully free of edge or old-style excess. As for the Danses des
Cygnes it has both glow and grace; not only that, it’s delivered
with a singing, ardent line that’s just ravishing. Torchinsky
is at his most beguiling here, and Yuri Loyevsky’s cello contributions
are most affecting. Also, the brass bring a tingle or three to one's
spine in the Pas de quatre.
Here, more than anywhere else in this set, the sense of theatre –
one of Ansermet’s greatest strengths – is simply overwhelming.
There’s nothing routine or drearily corporate about the playing;
it’s feisty when it needs to be, and supremely elegant, too. As
always Svetlanov judges the big moments to perfection; just listen to
how he makes the music burgeon and billow at Odette’s transformation.
The flipside, if you like, is the raunchy start to the palace party
in Act 3. In spirit it reminds me of Matthew Bourne’s clubby,
neon-lit take on this scene in his own, very individual version of Swan
Lake. Even if you're a traditionalist do try and catch it on DVD;
it's by far the most inspired of his Tchaikovsky ballets. Adam Cooper's
dancing is splendid, too.
Svetlanov's party certainly goes with a swing. For once his trusty steeds
seem as if they’re about to bolt, but he reins them in before
any damage is done. The royal fanfares – realistically balanced
– are thrilling, as are the powerful, punctuating cymbals in the
introductory waltz. This is a remarkably visual Swan Lake, not just
an orchestral run through. Indeed, the Pas de six found me
spellbound in the stalls, eyes riveted on the brightly lit stage. As
expected the national and regional dances are dispatched with brio and
brilliance; the Hungarian Czardas is as mesmerising as watching
a whirligig. Torchinsky’s earthy violin sound in the Danse
Russe is as idiomatic as it gets. The Spanish and Neapolitan displays
are just as captivating. Incidentally, I could swear a cornet is used
in the latter, but the booklet credits Lev Volodin on trumpet.
The public glitter of Act 3 is tinged with private grief. Svetlanov
really racks up the tension here, the bass drum thudding into action
as if to underline the extent of von Rothbart’s cruel trick. Also,
I’ve never heard the trumpets cackle with such devious delight
at Act's end. There’s no holding back there, or in the tense and
twitchy Entr’acte to Act 4. Ansermet and Lanchbery are
especially memorable towards the end, driving the drama towards its
dark denouement. Svetlanov is even more compelling, though;
clear-headed and far-sighted he’s the master of both detail and
The sense of approaching apotheosis is more palpable than ever, an effect
achieved through steady, scrupulous progress rather than synthetic thrills.
That’s probably why Svetlanov’s thunderous finale has a
transfiguring intensity that few can aspire to, let alone match. Indeed,
if this were a theatre the audience would rise as one, sure in the knowledge
they'd just witnessed the Swan Lake of a lifetime.
Simply unforgettable; Svetlanov at his considerable best.
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