I find myself very much at odds with fellow reviewer
Tim
Perry here on MusicWeb International; we seem to be hearing two different
recordings. He is so dismissive of Nina Kotova as to suggest that her
account of the Bach Cello Suites might serve as background listening while
doing the ironing but not for proper or repeated listening. He finds a
lack of emotional engagement or “personal communion”, a “sameness
… of tonal variety” and that “the sarabande of the third
… tends to bloat and the allemandes of the first, third and fourth
suites feel pulled about and rhythmically slack.”
Meanwhile, the “Gramophone” finds different, even antithetical,
reasons from my colleague for finding fault with these interpretations.
Far from asserting that “emotional temperature is cool”, its
critic maintains that there is “a strong sense of individuality
and strength in Kotova’s playing but this is still manifest more
as a desire to control the music than to allow it to control without a
surrender of integrity.” Her playing is “inconsistent”
and “too angry to be musically generous”. The implication
here is that this feistiness is especially unbecoming in a woman cellist
and that her aggression prevents the emergence of subtleties and nuances.
For others, the vigour and energy of her playing prove its main attraction.
Even some positive reviews smack of gender politics – “Strong
recording by a strong woman” (WAZ) – and while it is true
that few women cellists have recorded these suites since Jacqueline du
Pré, there must be more to say about the quality of her playing than to
attribute its impact to feminism. Interestingly, she is playing the very
1673 Stradivarius once owned by her famous female predecessor and its
tone is sumptuous in her hands.
Certainly Kotova’s more “masculine”, assertive yet sensuous
style seems to rankle with some listeners, yet at the risk of advancing
a theory too earthy for delicate sensibilities, I submit that the cello’s
appeal resides in its androgynous nature: it combines an overtly female
shape with a voice which is closest to the male register. It is clasped
lovingly between the knees and stroked with a bow – well, you get
the picture …
Even the technical characteristics of the recording prove divisive. Some
love its forensic clarity, others talk of its warmth and presence, others
complain of its “unhelpful proximity and brightness of the recording
… so extreme that every subtlety that is missed is amplified.”
Tim Perry tells us that “[h]eard over speakers it fills the room
with a warm and immediate presence. Heard over earphones the perspective
is flattened and a little close”; I suggest that such a contradiction
tells us more about the equipment the recording is being heard upon than
its intrinsic nature. It certainly sounds superb, if indeed very close
and immediate, on both my Sennheiser and Bose headphones but to me equally
impressive over speakers.
All of which goes to illustrate how arbitrary and personal our reactions
to different interpretations of great music and recording engineering
can be, and to what degree critics and reviewers bring their own prejudices
and preconceptions to the table. I am not exempt from that phenomenon
but can only tell it as I hear it.
I admit to being deeply impressed by Kotova's playing. I have half
a dozen other recordings all of which can make their claim to be my preferred
version; my catholic taste extends to Casals, Fournier, Starker, Tortelier
and Rostropovich. I did not care for Stephen Isserlis and no longer own
that set; otherwise I find that this miraculous music can withstand a
wide gamut of aesthetic stances and Kotova’s account happily joins
them on my shelves as another valid way of delivering it.
First, her sound is big and warm and both technique and intonation are
flawless. It's better than, Rostropovich, profound as his recording
in Vézelay is. She negotiates the intervals in the tricky descending passage
of the Prelude in No. 4 better than he. She favours a broad legato and
creates an extraordinarily rich, burring tone, such as in the frenetic
double-stopped passages in the Prelude to No. 3. Her choice of tempi is
moderate; overall she falls somewhere in between the luxuriance of Rostropovich,
who takes, 148 minutes, and the lean incisiveness of Starker, who comes
in at a mere 112. There is often a wonderful singing intensity to her
sound. This is amplified by the resonance of the acoustic despite the
proximity of the microphone, such that you can hear her intake of breath
before phrasing, like a singer – and her cello
does sing.
Sometimes she is as fast as Starker and Fournier, as in the Prelude to
No.2, followed by a very fast Courante. Yet she can also play as languorously
as Rostropovich, as in the ensuing Sarabande. Starker’s and Kotova's
timings match exactly in the sombre Sarabande of No.5, yet her gutsier
tone, so much earthier than the refined, aristocratic Fournier, is very
apparent in the sunlit serenity of the Sarabande of No. 6. In short, she
goes her own way. What matters is that a rapt, concentrated ambience should
be generated, and for me she succeeds.
Atmosphere is enhanced by the fact that despite the close recording there
is a faint, lingering resonance built into the acoustic. Despite several
seconds having elapsed, at the end of the Allemande of No.1 the tonic
is still echoing as she begins to bow the start of the Courante an octave
higher.
Oddly, no precise recording date is provided but I am assuming it was
recorded in 2014. The booklet notes are brief and unspecific.
Ralph Moore
Previous review:
Tim
Perry
