SHOSTAKOVICH Piano Concerto No. 1, Piano Concerto No. 2, Cello Concerto No. 1
Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-75)
André Previn (piano), William Vacchiano (trumpet), NYPO/Bernstein; Leonard Bernstein (piano and conductor)/NYPO; Yo-Yo Ma (cello)/Philadelphia/Ormandy
SONY SMK 89752 (69.07)
These recordings have been yoked together so many times over the decades that encountering them feels less like a fresh listening experience than running into old acquaintances at a party—you know exactly what they’re going to say, but you’re glad to see them anyway. Sony (CBS as was) clearly understood it had lightning in a bottle with these performances, particularly Bernstein’s astonishing double turn in the Second Concerto.
The question of whether any pianist-conductor has successfully managed both roles simultaneously on disc remains, to my knowledge, unanswered beyond this 1960s document. Bernstein didn’t just pull it off—he owned it with the kind of bravura that makes you forget the logistical insanity of the enterprise. That final sprint in the first movement, where the piano part becomes a kind of exhilarated commentary on its own momentum… I’ve heard Shostakovich himself in this work (surprisingly literal, almost pedagogical), Eugene List’s bright efficiency, Dmitri Alexeev’s more recent and sonically superior traversal. None matches Bernstein’s sheer pianistic élan or his understanding that this 1957 score—written for the composer’s son Maxim—isn’t really about irony or subtext. It’s about joy. Uncomplicated, even naive joy.
Yes, the CBS engineers applied their spotlights with the subtlety of a Broadway opening night. The sound has that characteristic 1960s glare—woodwinds practically leap from the speakers in the opening bars. But Bernstein’s generosity in the Andante, his refusal to merely toss off the finale’s motoric energy, his sense of the work’s essential good nature… this remains definitive. If you need to convince skeptics that Shostakovich could write music of direct appeal without compromising his voice, play them this.—The First Concerto presents different challenges entirely. Miaskovsky’s contemporaneous dismissal—“brilliant with philistinism“—wasn’t entirely wrong, though one suspects the composer (this was 1933, after all) knew exactly what he was doing. The work is a stylistic magpie’s nest: vaudeville, silent film accompaniment, Prokofiev-esque motoric drive, a slow movement that quotes Beethoven with a perfectly straight face. Does it cohere? Not really. Does it dazzle? Absolutely.
André Previn brings his theatrical background to bear—the man spent years in Hollywood, and it shows in the best possible way. He understands the music’s vernacular elements aren’t parody but genuine material, worthy of affection. William Vacchiano’s trumpet cuts through with magnificent vulgarity in the outer movements; this is no genteel obbligato but something closer to a Weimar cabaret soloist who wandered into the wrong gig. Some have criticized ensemble roughness here. I don’t hear problems—I hear vitality.
The sonic disparity between these 1960s ADD transfers and the 1980s DDD Cello Concerto is considerable. Yo-Yo Ma and Eugene Ormandy (in what must have been among his final release sessions) benefit from Philadelphia’s warm acoustic and more sophisticated microphone placement. The balance feels natural rather than spotlit.
Yet something’s missing. The First Cello Concerto—composed just two years after the Second Piano Concerto but occupying an entirely different emotional universe—demands a certain ferocity, an edge of desperation. Ma plays with his characteristic beauty of tone, Ormandy provides solid support, but the performance never quite achieves the work’s potential for savagery. That opening horn call should feel like an invasion. The cadenza needs more than technical perfection—it requires a sense of the abyss.
I remember (dimly now) hearing Daniil Shafran in this work, and more clearly, Mstislav Rostropovich’s various recordings. Even allowing for the vagaries of memory, those performances excavated darker truths. Ma’s approach here is too civilized, too concerned with surface polish. The concentration is there, certainly, but concentration alone doesn’t unlock this score’s anguish.—As a collection, this disc succeeds primarily on the strength of Bernstein’s Second Concerto—a rendition that belongs in any serious Shostakovich collection. The First Piano Concerto coupling makes sense programmatically and delivers sufficient theatrical punch. The Cello Concerto, while beautifully played, serves more as makeweight than revelation.
At mid-price, with nearly seventy minutes of music, it’s difficult to argue against the package. Just don’t expect three equally compelling interpretations. What you get is one genuine classic, one highly enjoyable romp, and one respectably executed but somewhat earthbound reading. That’s still a better batting average than most compilations manage.
Recommended, primarily for Bernstein’s Second Concerto
