Here is a review of the Rostropovich from Gramophone
When the Fourth (1930 version) and Seventh Symphonies appeared independently last year, RL was none too enamoured, neither was I. Rostropovich dwelt fondly, rather too fondly, on and around the Seventh Symphony's dreamier flights of fancy. Speeds were leisurely, even listless, transitions sometimes awkward, rhythms surprisingly sluggish; though he did at least insist (and few do) on the original quiet ending of the Seventh—wistful, ambiguous; 'they lived happily ever after...'—or did they? That in itself gave him one firm advantage—the only one—over Jarvi's outstanding Chandos account which RL originally reviewed in its LP format in April 1986.
Now that the cycle has appeared in its entirety, readers will first want to know if the Seventh is typical of Rostropovich's approach in general. To some extent, yes. There is a tendency to linger and labour (the Classical Symphony is extraordinarily heavy-handed); and even where the speeds are more or less consistent with, say, Jarvi's choices, Rostropovich usually sounds slower. It's a question of movement, of accentuation. Indeed, on occasions one inevitably begins to question his technical ability (as a conductor) to convey all that he undoubtedly feels about these pieces. In the darkest of the symphonies—the forbidding Sixth—tension is certainly sacrificed to breadth. The enormous first movement may brood effectively enough, the melancholy runs deep, episode for episode. But the cumulative impact, particularly as we approach the climax of the development (throbbing sustained B flat in the horns which Rostropovich does not stint), is not all that it should be. Likewise the contrast between slow movement and finale. The latter must initially sparkle and smile more if Prokofiev's ugly revelation across the final page of all is to shock as it can and should. This is the point at which the folkdance rhythm from earlier in the movement undergoes hideous transformation and dancing feet turn to marching jackboots. The distinction, in Rostropovich's hands, goes for very little.
To be fair, Erato's spacious recorded image—as deep as it is wide but a little too 'generalized' for my liking doesn't exactly help in matters of rhythmic profile and internal clarity. If one turns to the 'Black Mass' decadence of the Third Symphony where textures are consistently dense and fantastical, the problem grows more troublesome by the bar. In the finale (conjuring, as it does in my mind, frenzied scenes of ritual exorcism), Prokofiev's great washes of sound are imposing, to be sure, but none too well defined. Even the strings—and in particular the violins, so critical in all the biggest tuttis where their searing high registers are pitted against heavy wind and percussion—sound oddly recessed. But in any event, Rostropovich's grasp of outline and rhythm here could always be tighter: he fails to clinch the orgiastic first movement climax by making so little of Prokofiev's electrifying change of gear; the slow movement wafts and meanders, lacking the sensual potency of a performance like Jarvi's; tension ebbs in the grisly scherzo.
Undoubtedly the most accomplished among these performances are those of the Second and Fifth Symphonies. The Fifth was the earliest of the recordings to be made (October 1985) and is in many ways the most impressive. The woodwind voices are definitely better projected; the strings sound fuller and marginally more immediate. I might single out the first movement's climactic processional with low brass and heavy percussion weighing-in to thrilling effect: all the more effective for the sense of purpose and cogency that Rostropovich achieves in this movement—indeed the whole symphony. Tempos are of a middlerange variety (first movement not far off Jarvi's speed: broader than Jansons/Chandos or Karajan/DG but well short of Bernstein's all-time record for CBS), languor is for the most part kept well in check (though, as one might expect, he does indulge his cellos in their extended solo at the opening of the finale); the quirkiness of scherzo and finale (some very piquant woodwind contributions oboe especially) is keenly observed. I don't know of anybody who has made the final bars of the symphony sound quite so dottily eccentric.
No less striking in its way is the relentless 'iron and steel' of the Second Symphony's first movement. Prokofiev sought to pull the rug from beneath our feet with his ferocious opening bars; Rostropovich duly obliges. The strident French National trumpets come ruthlessly into their own, here, and for some 12 minutes there is very little let-up. The dissonance is properly uncomfortable. I have heard more colourful and gripping accounts of the undeniably problematic second movement: theme and variations. But then again I don't ever recall it sounding so dark or so grimly unsettling as it does here: shades of black and grey, and very effective too.
Like Jarvi, Rostropovich offers both versions of the 'Prodigal Son' Fourth Symphony—the original 1930 score being an altogether more disciplined piece of writing than the longer, extensively re-worked and more opulently orchestrated 1947 version. To be honest, I've never been entirely convinced by either. But for the exceptionally beautiful flute melody of the Andante tranquillo—Rostropovich enjoys that—the paucity of Prokofiev's material badly lets him down. The 1947 revision is frankly a mess: trite ideas, aimlessly over-worked, seemingly inexhaustible motor-rhythms driving the piece nowhere. I don't know of any conductor who could disguise that fact. Even so, it is virtually a different symphony from the 1930 original and as such an integral part of any complete cycle. I presume Erato are planning individual releases to follow up on last year's coupling of the 1930 Fourth and Seventh. I hope so, because as you will have gathered, this is far too variable a cycle to recommend as a cycle. Particularly with Jarvi's set there to shadow it.' - Edward Seckerson
