Liadov: Orchestral Works
Slovak Philharmonic Orchestra / Stephen Gunzenhauser
Naxos 8.555242 [58:05]
The historical irony still stings a bit, doesn’t it? Here was Liadov—a composer of genuine gifts, a master orchestrator who’d absorbed everything Rimsky-Korsakov could teach him—and his most enduring claim on musical posterity is the Firebird commission he botched. Diaghilev’s impatience with Liadov’s legendary dawdling handed Stravinsky his breakthrough, and the rest belongs to the history books. But this reissue of a mid-1980s Marco Polo recording (the Slovak Philharmonic recorded everything in those days) offers a chance to hear what Liadov actually accomplished when he roused himself to put pen to paper.
And what he accomplished, within his self-imposed limitations, has considerable charm. Liadov understood his métier: he was a miniaturist, though calling a seven-minute tone poem a miniature stretches the term. These orchestral pieces—the three fairy-tale evocations that constitute his best-known work, plus some earlier dances and two later, more ambitious fragments—display an ear for instrumental color that rivals anyone in the Belyayev circle. The harmonic language never ventures far from safe waters, true enough. But the craft is impeccable.
Baba Yaga opens the program with its familiar chittering woodwinds and skittering strings, Mussorgsky’s witch taking flight in music of considerable rhythmic ingenuity. Gunzenhauser catches the mercurial changes of texture—those sudden shifts from full orchestra to chamber-like combinations—though the recorded sound, adequate at best, robs the climaxes of their proper bite. You hear what Liadov intended; you don’t quite feel it in your chest.
The two Polonaises (Opp. 49 and 55) reveal a more ceremonial side of Liadov’s personality. These aren’t the neurotic, tortured polonaises of late Chopin but rather stately, beautifully upholstered orchestral showpieces. The Slovak players respond with properly noble phrasing, though one senses they’re working harder than, say, the Concertgebouw would need to in this repertoire. The string tone lacks that last degree of lustrous warmth.
The Enchanted Lake—now here’s the piece that justifies the entire disc. Conceived for an opera project that Liadov naturally never finished, this shimmering evocation of still water under starlight reveals what he could do when inspiration struck. The orchestration is genuinely subtle: muted strings, tender harp arabesques, wind solos that emerge from and dissolve back into the texture. It’s music that practically demands to be heard in glowing recorded sound, which makes this particular recording’s limitations all the more frustrating. The instrumental colors register as muted watercolors when they should blaze like oils.
Kikimora, another refugee from the abandoned Zoryushka project, depicts a female house spirit with music of quirky character—spiky rhythms, odd instrumental doublings, a certain acid humor. Gunzenhauser shapes the piece well enough, though the celesta (if that’s what I’m hearing through the somewhat opaque recording) sounds more like a distant music box than the crystalline presence it should be.
The program’s substantial surprise comes with the nearly ten-minute fragment from Iz Apokalipsisa (From the Apocalypse), a late work that suggests Liadov might have developed a more expansive manner had he lived longer. The thematic material has real weight, the harmonic progressions venture into genuinely dark territory, and the scoring—what we can hear of it—suggests apocalyptic visions rather than fairy-tale enchantments. It’s frustrating to have only this tantalizing fragment.
Nänie, the final work, returns to more characteristic Liadov territory: elegiac, beautifully voiced, essentially static. The early Intermezzo and Mazurka that round out the program show a young composer already in command of his resources, if not yet fully developed in personality.
Stephen Gunzenhauser conducts with competence and evident affection for this music. The Slovak Philharmonic plays well within its capabilities, though those capabilities in 1985 didn’t quite extend to the tonal richness and technical polish these scores ideally require. Ensemble is occasionally approximate in the faster passages, and the winds—particularly the clarinets—don’t always blend as seamlessly as one might wish.
The real problem is the release itself. Made in Bratislava’s Concert Hall, it captures the general shape of the music but misses the fine details that make Liadov worth hearing. The dynamic range feels compressed, the orchestral perspective too distant, the instrumental colors insufficiently vivid. When The Enchanted Lake should shimmer and glow, it merely reflects dully.
Keith Anderson’s program notes provide useful context, though they repeat the usual anecdotes about Liadov’s indolence without much fresh insight.
So where does this leave us? If you’re curious about Liadov and operating on a budget, this disc serves its purpose. The performances are honest, the programming intelligent, and the price presumably right. But this isn’t the definitive Liadov recording—not even close. Until someone with better orchestral resources and modern recording technology tackles this repertoire wide-rangingly, we’re left with serviceable rather than revelatory accounts of music that deserves better.
Worth hearing, then, but not quite worth treasuring.
