I'm not sure how often I would want to hear this string orchestra version of what Rostislav Dubinsky, founder of the original Borodin Quartet, has described as the greatest of all the Shostakovich quartets (No. 8). The playing of the Moscow Virtuosi is technically first-rate, frequently dazzling, but the loss of intimacy is very marked, and I can't see that Andrew Keener's big, bold production style necessarily helps. The venue is the Great Hall of Blackheath Concert Halls: RCA are continuing their policy of taping Russian ensembles in Western venues.

The shorter works include two pieces by Arvo Part which enthusiasts might prefer to seek out in the all-Part collections listed above. The Collage is a piece of heavy-handed, premature polystylism from the mid 1960s; it predates the Cello Concerto and is rather less fun. The Cantus on the other hand is a miraculous icon in the composer's mature vein. On this occasion it is too closely recorded to make its full effect. It is difficult to know quite what to make of Shchedrin's Stalin Cocktail, an astonishingly bitter outburst from a man who did not do so badly under the ancien regime. The concept is simple and not unpersuasive. A once popular song in praise of the Leader and Teacher is subjected to various techniques of distortion and picked over like a rotting corpse. The treatment culminates in a piercing scream from all the participants including the recording team and the hall staff (not quite what it says in the notes incidentally) - but is it sincere?

The real discovery on the disc is the Denisov. A more approachable and emotional work than I have previously heard from this composer, it is scored for cello and small orchestra, lasts some 13 minutes and is well worth getting to know. As I say, the players' depth of sonority is well captured throughout the disc. Only the interpretations leave something to be desired. There is always a suspicion that the music should be darker or more wistful. Or else more blatantly perverse. Instead, Spivakov ruthlessly exposes its innards like a surgeon with a gleaming scalpel.

David S. Gutman
(From: Gramophone, December 1995)