Antonín Dvořák
Slavonic Dances Opp. 46 and 72 (1878, 1886)
Chamber Orchestra of Europe / Nikolaus Harnoncourt
Recorded: Stefaniensaal, Graz, June 2000 (Op. 72) and June 2001 (Op.
46)
Teldec Classics 8573-81038-2 [73:23] DDD
The Slavonic Dances — those beguiling bursts of Bohemian folk spirit that have lodged themselves so firmly in the popular imagination — here receive a treatment by Nikolaus Harnoncourt and the Chamber Orchestra of Europe that’s equal parts exhilarating and, well, somewhat vexing. This is no timid salute to nationalism, no wistful summery stroll through rustic idylls. No, it’s a sharp-edged, adrenaline-fuelled sprint.
Virtuosity—there’s the word. The orchestra’s technical command is nothing short of staggering: at times, the string articulation is so crisp, so gimlet-sharp, that one might suspect a touch of surgical precision was at work rather than the warm pulse of folk dance tradition. The chamber-sized ensemble brings a transparency to the textures, making every woodwind flutter and brass fanfare brilliantly audible, but this clarity sometimes tips into a certain coolness—the romantic glow, that lilting charm of Dvořák’s score, feels at odds with this approach.
Harnoncourt’s tempi are brisk—faster than George Szell’s famously taut readings, even. Yet speed alone doesn’t capture the essence here: it’s in the phrasing, which often leans toward a relentless forward push. The slower dances, which should breathe with tender nostalgia, instead seem to bristle with a restrained urgency, as if caught mid-motion.
There’s a peculiar tension between the radiant folk melodies and this almost martial precision—a tension that fascinates but also distances…. Recording-wise, the Stefaniensaal acoustics are intimate, yet natural, capturing the ensemble’s instrumental colors with admirable fidelity. The balance leans delicately towards strings, with brass and percussion occasionally stepping forward without overwhelming the texture.
This smaller orchestral scale reshapes the dances’ character: the boldness of the brass in a larger Czech; Philharmonic or Budapest Festival Orchestra version is somewhat tamed here, replaced by a leaner, more chamber-like dialogue. One misses the ‘earthiness’—the almost tactile sense of village square celebration—that larger forces can conjure. Comparisons are inevitable.
The 1960 Supraphon set with the Czech Philharmonic under Karel Šejna remains the yardstick for the Slavonic Dances. Šejna’s orchestra pulses with a natural, lilting rhythm, woodwinds and strings entwining in a way that feels not just authentic but lovingly organic. It’s not just nostalgia: that disc possesses an immediacy of folk idiom that Harnoncourt’s more cerebral approach sometimes seems to intellectualise away.
The Philips recording by Ivan Fischer and the Budapest Festival Band offers another alternative—more overtly steeped in Eastern European idiom, with a warmer, more expansive sound world. Though it doesn’t supersede Harnoncourt’s exceptional technical polish, it invites the listener into a more familiar, dance-hall atmosphere. To say that Harnoncourt’s Slavonic Dances is “fast and furious” almost understates the case.
It’s a bold, uncompromising vision that challenges our expectations of these ever-popular works. The intuitive ebb and flow of folk dance gives way to a more architectonic rigor; every note, every accent, seems scrutinized and exact. For some — this will be a revelation—a fresh way in.
For others — it may lack that warmth, that joie de vivre that defines Dvořák’s dances. In the end, this release stands as the most exciting modern reading in recent years, a dazzling display of orchestral prowess and conductorly will. But it’s also one that demands a willingness to accept a less cuddly, more disciplined Dvořák—one where the music’s vitality is conveyed through precision and drive rather than pastoral dalliance.
If you prize technical brilliance, clarity of texture, and a perspective that shakes the dust off these dances, this recording is essential listening. But if your heart beats for the genuine folk soul of Dvořák’s Bohemia, you should also seek out Šejna’s Supraphon and Fischer’s Philips, each offering distinct, compelling counterpoints. After all, the ultimate winner here is Dvořák himself—whose music, in all its guises, continues to delight and challenge anew.
