Concerto for Cello and Orchestra No. 1
Symphony No. 7
Russian State Symphony Orchestra
Valery Polyansky (conductor)
Alexander Ivashkin (cello)
Although these two major works are from the last period of Alfred Schnittke's life, they are very different. The Cello Concerto was begun before the composer experienced the first in a series of catastrophic cerebral strokes. When he returned from the hospital he found that he no longer knew in which direction he had intended to go with this concerto, and so, in spite of a few initial sketches, he began the work a second time, finishing it in1986. The concerto is wildly theatrical, the themes (and their treatment) more agonized than had been the norm for Schnittke prior to this time. The first movement seems to depict a struggle for life, and the soloist is eventually obliterated by an orchestral maelstrom. The second movement provides contrast, but not necessarily respite, because of its trance-like, almost stunned character. A short, violent Allegro vivace leads directly into the fourth movement, which is the concerto's apotheosis. This movement, a sort of prayer for cello and orchestra, was a late addition to the composer's plans for the concerto. It begins quietly and rises to ecstatic heights, and now the cello triumphs, albeit given the assistance of amplification.
Several cellists have recorded this concerto; indeed, the work already has become a standard piece in the cello literature. Natalia Gutman, the work's dedicatee, is most impressive, but her two recordings may be difficult to find. Torleif Thedéen (Bis) and Maria Kliegel (Marco Polo) are viable alternatives. There is, however, something very special about Ivashkin's performance; he is more passionate, more humanly vulnerable, than any of these players. He's also the author of a Schnittke biography, and of Chandos's booklet notes. Add Ivashkin's playing to committed work from Polyansky and the Russian orchestra, plus Chandos's fantastic house sound, and you have an essential recording for anyone who admires this concerto.
In contrast to the Cello Concerto, the Symphony #7 is a terse, laconic work, but equally worthy of a listener's attention. It is about half as long as the Cello Concerto, and it is much less overtly dramatic. It opens with a long violin solo. Strings join in, and the textures remain open and luminous. The brief second movement, which follows without pause, introduces more material for the rest of the orchestra, and several long pauses create tension and expectation. The last movement is much longer than the first two combined. Here, Schnittke's macabre humor comes to the fore, first with machine-like material in the woodwinds, and later with a gloomy waltz tune. Schnittke's affinity with Bruckner also is apparent in this movement, which maintains dignity in spite of the extremes. The work premiered in 1994 by Kurt Masur and the New York Philharmonic.
The only other recording of this symphony I know is the one conducted by Tadaaki Otaka, with the BBC National Orchestra of Wales (Bis). Polyansky's speeds are a bit slower than Otaka's, but not importantly so. Chandos's engineering emphasizes the symphony's chamber music-like textures; Bis's engineering is more "wide-screen." This is the only obvious difference between the two recordings. Both are good recommendations. (Otaka's coupling is the Symphony #6.)
Raymond Tuttle
Classical Net, 2001
Chandos have done Schnittke proud with their catalogue graced by a full quiver of CDs. They, together with BIS, have established Schnittke in the catalogues.
Schnittke is not an easy listen. The music is not the equivalent of shrapnel, neither jagged nor disconnected. Its sour long lines are lyrical and commanding. The lyricism is acrid, burning and dissolute. Both Bach and Beethoven are in evidence though glimpsed through the veils of twentieth century dissonance. This description well fits the first two movements of the seventh symphony (a Masur/NYPO commission) while the third which is almost as long the other two put together is even more strained and rent with conflict and dark subway elegies (2.50). His hallmark harpsichord enters at 3.00. The music may be tough going but the tattered and vulnerable trumpets at 6.02 are undeniably communicative.
The big cello concerto was written either side of the destructive stroke he suffered in 1985. This landmark event turned the key on his dissonant style releasing it is a flow of expressionist protest. This leaves the concerto a dilapidated caravanserai of sour fluency and negation. Ivashkin is seemingly the sympathetic equal of this; bardically authoritative singing a song of devastation. I find this music extremely difficult. This is not the Schnittke to start out with. Certainly a connoisseur's choice.
Rob Barnett
MusicWeb, January 2001
After his catastrophic stroke in the summer of 1985 Alfred Schnittke's music changed radically, becoming violently expressionistic and often brutally dissonant. The First Cello Concerto was written immediately after that close approach to death, the Seventh Symphony nine years later, but although the concerto is the more savage of the two (and is, besides, almost twice as long), the symphony is even more bleakly pessimistic. They make a very grim coupling indeed. From its gloomy opening (a sad violin solo gradually joined by other strings in harsh counterpoint), the Symphony soon proceeds, especially in its long last movement, to a series of isolated gestures. Some are marginally less bleak (a brief moment of tranquillity in the horns), but all die or falter in a depiction of frustrated despair. There is a brief gleam of grace from the woodwind, but then all the lowest instruments of the orchestra (tuba, contrabassoon, double-bass, bass drum) join in a banal funereal waltz.
The Concerto begins rather similarly: a mournful cello solo over a drone. But this is quickly snuffed out by shrieking dissonance and soon a pattern is built up of repetitious conflict between tearfulness and ferocity. In the second movement the cello grieves at greater if histrionic length; the Scherzo has grim energy, alongside a Shostakovich-and-water main idea and further roars of pain. There follows a grindingly dissonant quasi-passacaglia (described by Schnittke as a 'prayer') which becomes 'increasingly ecstatic'. It does indeed rise to a huge climax which requires the solo cello to be amplified. This is the Concerto's fifth recording (and the Symphony's second) and I cannot imagine it being played with more commanding virtuosity or more rhetorical intensity; like the symphony it is finely recorded. Any reaction to a contemplation of death is bound to be subjective, but to me both these works seem not only intensely depressing but hysterically over-stated.
Michael Oliver
Gramophone, September 2000