Antonín Dvořák – Serenade for String Orchestra Op. 22 (1875)
Josef Suk – Serenade for String Orchestra in E flat major Op. 6 (1892)
Prague Chamber Philharmonic Orchestra / Jiří Bělohlávek
Recorded 1996, Domovina Studio, Prague.
SUPRAPHON SU3157-2031 [59:19] DDD Stereo. Here’s a disc that immediately seduces the ear but leaves you—oddly enough—wanting to shake it a little by the end. Jiří Bělohlávek’s 1996 survey of Dvořák and Suk serenades is not new by any stretch, — yet its belated arrival on the international market feels like uncovering a forgotten chamber treasure chest.
The Prague Chamber Philharmonic, under Bělohlávek’s baton, offers performances bristling with affection and insight, though not without a few quirks that warrant a closer listen. Dvořák’s Serenade opens with that buoyant rhythmic spring in the lower strings—a sort of buoyancy that instantly hooks you. There’s an infectiousness here, a pulse in the cello and viola that feels like the heartbeat of a sunlit Bohemian afternoon.
You can almost hear the rosin dust settling on the strings.
Bělohlávek’s approach is clear-eyed but warm; he doesn’t rush the opening larghetto, allowing the melody to breathe and bloom naturally. The violins tackle the more knotty passages with an ease that belies their difficulty—a testament to both the orchestra’s polish and — well — the leader’s meticulous shaping of phrase contours. One particular delight lies in the second movement waltz, which Bělohlávek propels with an almost mischievous buoyancy.
He is careful not to blur the bass line; instead, the lower strings are presented with such clarity that one’s attention is often drawn leftward in the soundstage—an unusual but welcome perspective that emphasizes the contrapuntal underpinnings of Dvořák’s texture. The "allegro" vivace "finale" sparkles with kinetic energy, its dance rhythms sharply etched without ever losing pulse or character. Suk’s Serenade, composed under the watchful tutelage of Dvořák, is a fascinating counterpoint—an emotive, sometimes hesitant younger sibling to its predecessor.
You feel Suk’s psychological tug-of-war between adhering to his teacher’s advice to write “cheerful” music and the more melancholic streak that runs so deeply through his personality. The opening theme yearns with a plaintive intensity—there is almost a visible weight to the phrasing as the violins draw out each sigh. This movement’s "allegro" ma non troppo pace is slow enough to allow the aching lyricism to fully flower, and the orchestra’s hushed, intimate dynamics in the "adagio" prove exceptional here; the quiet moments rank among the most touching on disc, revealing a chamber-like sensitivity rarely captured by larger ensembles.
The "finale", marked "allegro" giocoso, initially flirts with a lightheartedness that is almost forced—Suk’s; struggle with buoyancy is palpable—but it soon falls back into a more solemn mood. This emotional vacillation is not a flaw but, rather, a window into the composer’s conflicted soul. It’s worth pausing on the disc’s acoustics.
The Domovina Studio, while crisp and clear, lacks the warm, reverberant spaciousness one associates with the Czech Philharmonic’s House of Artists. The sound can feel a touch congested at times, as if the band is — enclosed in a box rather than performing in a hall rich with ambient resonance. This ‘studio’ quality sometimes distances the listener, making the ensemble’s charming expressivity slightly less immediate.
Yet clarity of line and — well — detail is not sacrificed; the articulation—especially in rapid string figurations—is pin-sharp and illuminating. Why did this recording take nearly six years to emerge? Perhaps it was a victim of the shifting tides in the classical marketplace — in the late 1990s — or simply a delayed gem awaiting its rightful spotlight.
Regardless, it is a welcome one, especially for those who cherish the Czech string tradition and the intimate world of late Romantic string serenades. In sum: Bělohlávek’s Serenade pairing is less a polished, studio gloss and — well — more a heartfelt conversation between composer and interpreter. Dvořák’s work here swings and sways with youthful joie de vivre, while Suk’s more introspective voice paints a portrait of a performer caught between instruction and instinct.
This disc is recommended for listeners who appreciate the nuances of Czech string writing and who — don’t mind an occasionally “close-up” soundstage—it’s a richly rewarding, if somewhat understated, release of two sibling masterpieces. A top-class wallow, indeed, with just enough imperfections to keep it human.
