Symphony no. 4, opus 43 (Mäkelä)

Symphony no. 5, opus 47 (Mäkelä)

Symphony no. 6, opus 54 (Mäkelä)

Symphony no. 6, opus 54 (Rouvali)

Symphony no. 9, opus 70 (Rouvali)

Symphony no. 10, opus 93 (Rouvali)

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Mäkelä, Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra, Starting Another Cycle

Symphony no. 4, opus 43 [a]; Symphony no. 5, opus 47 [b]; Symphony no. 6, opus 54 [c]
Recorded, Oslo Konserthus. 16 September 2022 [a]; 26 May 2023 [b]; 21 January 2022 [c].
TT: 1:06:58 [a]; 46:47 [b]; 31:19 [c]
Decca 4854637.

At the age of 29, Finnish conductor Klaus Mäkelä is taking the music world by storm. His prestigious line-up of recent and future appointments testifies to the widening recognition of his talents. He has been Chief Conductor of the Oslo Philharmonic since 2020 and Music Director of the Orchestre de Paris since September 2021. He will take on the title of Chief Conductor of the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra in autumn 2027, and in the same season will commence as Music Director of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. His recordings of the complete Sibelius symphonies, as well as a handful of other works, all on the Decca label, have garnered wide critical acclaim. He now ventures into the Shostakovich repertoire with an ambitious programme consisting of Symphonies nos. 4, 5, and 6.

Mäkelä clearly enjoys an affinity, and what one may unhesitatingly call an enthusiasm, for the music of Shostakovich. The stamp of distinction he brings to this repertoire is a strong combination of romantic and expressionistic sensibilities, responses that, side by side, engage the music on its own terms and on very personal terms.

The formidable challenges of the Fourth Symphony illustrate this well. When the work was recorded for this release in 2022, Mäkelä was 26 years old, three years younger than the composer was when the piece was written. He may be the youngest conductor to have ever recorded the work, his youthful energy a clear and present asset. The opening pages are delivered as robustly as they have ever been heard, steadily and sturdily paced, with ample driving force and rhythmic bravado. The same applies to the rest of the movement, including its crowning episode, the central fugue.

If there is one measure by which Mäkelä earns his badge as a Shostakovich interpreter, it is the intensity with which the climactic moments are approached and executed; case in point, the opening movement of the Fourth. The titanic outbursts that underline the feverish frenzies are conveyed with all their expressionistic terror: the hysterical outburst at 7:26 (fig. 30), and the passage starting at 13:06 (fig. 47) that ascends the chromatic scale, here with slow and maddening intensity. The timpani and bass drum punctuations are delivered with gratifying strength and audio capture.

Just as notable throughout this performance is the thorough attention given to the solo passages and chamberlike textures in between the grandiose episodes. The various solos for bassoon, oboe, and French horn are each given individual expressive space that lends character and intimacy to the interpretation.

The second movement, with its broad descending theme and obsessive lyrical turns, is well paced, as is the ascent to its final crescendo. I wish there had been better auditory capture in the coda of the percussive chatter between castanets, wood block, and snare drum, which is set all too far into the distance to achieve its beguiling effect. Let this be a heads-up to the studio engineers who may be recording the Fifteenth Symphony, or the Second Cello Concerto, for that matter, with its similar percussive intonations.

In the final movement, Mäkelä again shows his strengths in building and delivering crescendi, and focusing on detail in the quieter passages. The bassoon and flute solos in the opening Mahler-inflected march are nuanced, the section ascending to a mighty crest. A rousing percussive lead-in to the wild twonote exchanges follows, with strong wind entries, leading to another muscular peak. In the ensuing transitional passages, the solo bassoon and solo trombone muster just enough jollity and equivocality to provide the anticlimactic lead-in to the final eruption. And when the final eruption does emerge, it does so with shuddering force and a sense of ultimate doom. The coda fades into the shadows with poignant melancholy.

In Symphony no. 5, Mäkelä’s romantic and expressionistic sensibilities again bear fruit. The two thematic areas in the Moderato’s exposition—the descending theme and the Carmen theme—are stated in restrained tones, full of heartfelt expression, leading to strong crescendi epiphanies. The development section is built with rousing drama and spontaneity. When the march variant appears, the action shifts into higher gear, the ascent toward the central melee made all the more exciting, its monumentality wellsummarised. The recap is stated with much sensitivity.

The Scherzo treads along with weighty footsteps, then elegant waltz strides. I only wish the central violin solo, its role so prominent in this midway theatre of merriment, were given a more prominent acoustic presence.

Given Mäkelä’s focus on lyrical detail, one might have expected a slower tempo in the Largo. His timing of 13:57 falls squarely in the centre of the extremes on record, Michiyoshi Inoue’s brisk but beautifully shaped 12:14, recorded live with the Yomiuri Nippon Symphony Orchestra (Exton OVCL 00822); and those at the longest end of the spectrum, specifically and most notably the deeply moving musthear performances of Vasily Petrenko (15:34) (DSCH 32) and André Previn, (15:53 with the CSO, 16:00 with the LSO). Within his chosen tempo, Mäkelä delivers a stirring epiphany in the xylophone-capped climax, and in its wake, a compelling shedding of tears in the impassioned cello section that follows.

The finale hurtles forth with vigour, its broadly lyrical passages well marinated with a sense of valedictory arrival. The coda emerges with restraint and builds to a pounding coda of unalloyed rejoicing, one that leaves little trace of Testimony-implied doublespeak.

Mäkelä brings all of his strengths to the mighty Sixth Symphony. He delivers an exceptionally impressive Largo, a performance blessed with all the elements one looks for in this most transcendental of Shostakovich’s music: grand gestures, atmospheric depth, mystical evocation, spellbinding solos. With tempi neither too fast nor too slow, the drama unfolds in a cavernous acoustic space that sumptuously accommodates the grand statements while preserving the sublime details of the solo passages. Mäkelä makes the most out of the singular moments of transition: the dramatic pause awaiting the English horn solo that follows the first crescendo; the resonant gong-plus-harp stroke that sets the stage for the flute solo and its otherworldly ruminations, here submitted with all its mystical abandon.

The final two movements are taken briskly and with much enthusiasm, their twisty lyrical turns and sectional shifts full of well-captured virtuosity. If there are two moments that stand as a measure of the crispness of the sound image, they are the fleeting timpani solos, which too often slide by with insufficient clarity or as undifferentiated rumbles. The passages I refer to are the Allegro’s central crescendo, which culminates in an exuberant rhythmic figure (3:39) on two timpani (pitches A and D); and the Presto’s coda, punctuated by athletic interjections (from 6:02 onwards) on three timpani (pitches F#, B and D#). Small points, perhaps. But the audibility of these kickstand details adds a measure of satisfaction to the performance and, indeed, to the listening experience. They are fairly well captured in this well-engineered recording, but best captured in those of Inoue, Kurt Sanderling and Svetlanov.

Technical points aside, Mäkelä’s first entry into this repertoire duly impresses and stirs much interest in his future contributions as a Shostakovich interpreter.

Louis Blois
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Symphony no. 6, opus 54. Symphony no. 9, opus. 70
Philharmonia Orchestra/Santtu-Matias Rouvali
Recorded, Royal Festival Hall, London, 24 September 2023/27 April 2023
TT: 58:47.
Philharmonia Records (Signum) SIGCD877.

Symphony no. 10, op. 93
Philharmonia Orchestra/Santtu-Matias Rouvali
Recorded, Royal Festival Hall, London, 7 April 2024
TT: 54:59
Philharmonia Records (Signum) SIGCD889.

Klaus Mäkelä’s rise to prominence as music director-in-waiting of two major orchestras, all before he turns 30 years old, has captured much attention in the classical music world (as can be read above), but he is certainly not the only young(ish) Finn heading up a major orchestra. Santtu-Matias Rouvali, his decade-or-so older compatriot, is finishing up eight years as Chief Conductor of the Gothenburg Symphony and is now four years into his tenure with the Philharmonia Orchestra, where he rose from his initial appointment as principal guest conductor. Like Mäkelä, he has recently ventured into recording Shostakovich symphonies as the Philharmonia ramped up commemorations of the 50th anniversary of the composer’s death. At the time of writing, performances of Symphonies nos. 1 and 15 were on the orchestra’s schedule, along with a performance of no. 10 as accompaniment to Oh To Believe In Another World, whose New York Philharmonic performance I reviewed in DSCH 62.

The two discs at hand—Shostakovich’s Symphonies 6 and 9 recorded live in 2023 and Symphony 10, in April 2024—are the fourth and fifth releases on the Philharmonia’s own record label, founded in 2023. The Philharmonia and Rouvali had previously released recordings on Signum, which still serves as distributor. While it has not been confirmed that these releases will initiate a cycle, the fact that two more symphonies are on the concert menu and the Philharmonia seems eager to continue their heritage as a recording orchestra certainly lends weight to the idea.

The Philharmonia was founded in 1945 by EMI producer Walter Legge, and in its early years was closely associated with the label, releasing recordings with significant conductors such as Karajan and Klemperer, and later Muti, Ashkenazy, and Maazel. Specific to the topic at hand, the Philharmonia under Efrem Kurtz made the UK premiere recording of Symphony no. 10 in March 1955 (HMV ALP 1322 and, on CD, Testament SET 1078), a month before its live debut by the London Philharmonic under Adrian Boult. Thirty years later, a young Simon Rattle also recorded it with the Philharmonia (most recently available in an eight-CD box, Russian Music, EMI 6 97597 2). In contrast, neither Symphony no. 6 or Symphony no. 9 has been previously recorded by the orchestra.

.Before I delve into each of the recordings, a few general observations on the sound quality. These are lively, bright recordings, full of crisp detail and timbre. This proves an asset but also a liability, as I found a persistent issue with all three was in the lack of balance and blend—at times, it seems like melodic and supporting lines are all vying for supremacy and notice, rather than melding together to create a unified whole or to set up a dialogue. I will have comments on this tendency throughout, as it often robs solo instruments of impact.

In Symphony no. 6, Rouvali’s tempo is at the slower end of the range. This Largo movement is well-known for a passionate opening moving to a devastating climax, followed by the stasis of its central section and sense of twilit meandering, underpinned by buzzing strings, and then relief and forward momentum until the movement ends quietly. The movement requires shaping and contrast to build through the initial climax while not losing energy through the long central section. While all the elements are there, Rouvali fails to unite them into a convincing narrative. The first climax does not so much evolve as it simply happens. In the central section, the trilling strings, which in the best recordings provide a barely-audible murmur below the various woodwind solos (all of which are outstanding), are too prominent at times; though they do eventually recede to a more appropriate level, the low harp/tam-tam notes lack the menace they should afford this nocturnal section. Its resolution is provided when the celesta picks up the low trill of the strings; here, it’s too loud, and the responding horns, which should contrast with the iciness of the trill, are as a result downplayed. Once the initial themes are taken up again, however, things move forward with more confidence, and despite rather shapeless lines from the bass clarinet and bassoon, its quiet ending is lovely and beautifully done.

At 6:29, the second movement scherzo features the slowest tempo of any of the recordings I have reviewed. As a result, there is a tendency towards lushness rather than crispness; musical lines are expressive, but this relaxation removes much of the angularity of the movement. The lack of balanced mixing leads the sound towards an impression of aimless noodling, punctuated by sudden, overaccented loud interruptions. On the positive side, the recording quality brings out the timbres of (in particular) the lower woodwinds in the playful end sequence.

The third movement is the most successful, with a fast, frenzied tempo in the opening “William Tell” sections that shows off the virtuosity of the orchestra. Rouvali once again pulls out several sudden interjections, such as the low strings in response to the second theme. Shostakovich indulged his love of the circus in this movement, and Rouvali plays up the carnival atmosphere in the lumbering triple time motif, which seems particularly chunky here. The percussion is a highlight in the movement, as tamtam, bass drum, triangle, and snare are used to excellent effect. The violin is allowed to shine in its solo, and the Rossini theme returns to lead the work to its rousing conclusion, with the low brass helping the work to end with a circus-like bang.

Rouvali and the Philharmonia fare a bit better in Symphony 9, possibly because the bright, crisp sound quality is an asset to its comic neoclassicism and reduced forces. The first movement features good forward momentum and drama, albeit with the same blend issues noted elsewhere; the famous intruding trombone “bumbums” lack bite. The second movement opens with a nicely shaped clarinet solo which turns to a duet, then builds momentum and drama up to the lush triple-meter “sneak theme” in the massed strings. There’s a lovely wistfulness to all of the woodwind solos, as well as to muted strings as the movement progresses, although some balance issues persist.

The next three movements are played without pause. First up is the incredibly short, twitchy middle movement, where the bright sound world is again an asset. Momentum drains towards the end (as it is meant to), leading to the fourth movement and its bassoon solo, beautifully done here despite the underpinning sustained notes in the strings being, again, a bit on the loud side. Also less effective are the stentorian brass declarations that contrast with the lone woodwind, with the tamtam almost inaudible in the crashes that follow.

There is less of a whiplash than I am used to hearing in the bassoon line moving into the final movement, perhaps because the tempo seems a little slow. However, momentum increases to the exciting climax and releases nicely, although that which follows again starts slow and then picks up, accelerating through the coda to a satisfying ending.

Overall, these are decent renditions plagued by some issues of balance and challenges in phrasing. In general, interpretations of these two works are hard to get completely wrong. They show promise, but not brilliance.

Rouvali’s take on Symphony no. 10, on the other hand, is less successful. While the first movement opens with appropriate darkness, it fails to ignite, with the first climax lacking in phrasing and, most importantly, energy. There are the same issues in balance noted earlier and not much forward momentum—all the notes are there, but it’s almost as if the orchestra is counting out rhythm; it feels overly precise and mechanical. There is no sense of brutality—it is almost as if we are in the sound world of the Largo of the Eighth Symphony. The central climax has woodwinds that fail to scream, and phrasing without bite. The quieter moments, such as the waltzlike flute solos and the quiet ending, come off better.

The lack of energy continues in the second movement. Rouvali takes a relatively slow tempo, clocking in at about 4:20, in line with Rostropovich with the LSO or Nelsons with the BSO (DSCH 44). But the brutal energy required to make this slower pace effective is not present; it’s all too precise and crisp with no sense of panic. The buildup to the big climax in the low brass in the middle never really happens; it simply gets louder. If this is truly “a portrait of Stalin,” as popular histories have it, under Rouvali’s baton perhaps he has dozed off after too many late night cowboy movies.

Moving to the third movement, phrasing and shaping of the themes are more effective, but it seem lacking in nervous energy. The acceleration up to the first statement of the DSCH motif feels artificial, but you can certainly hear the details of the piece. The horn solos are technically perfect but lack nuance or expression, with little to distinguish the different statements of the theme from each other as they occur. Gorgeous lush strings are featured in the central part of the movement, but you can barely hear the horn over them. And then the big DSCH climax suddenly explodes (as it should) but without tension in the short lead-in, and the resulting dialogue—or, perhaps battle—between the DSCH motif and the horn motif lacks brutality or urgency. Once this episode peters out, the quiet close is full of detail and an excellent violin solo, but it feels emotionally numb.

The finale continues this detachment. There is no poignancy in the Andante; the antic Allegro lacks any spring to its step, and the evocation of the second movement’s themes followed by the DSCH is, once again, simply loud rather than triumphant or sarcastic (although it does feature an outstanding tamtam crash.) Driving to the end, the snare drum reminds me of the monotony of the Seventh Symphony’s invasion theme, and the ending seems very much like forced rejoicing (with an extra bass drum boost on the final timpani strike). For a symphony generally known for having a relatively positive, almost giddy conclusion, it felt empty.

There are just so many better versions of the Tenth available (I personally favour either of the Petrenkos—Vasily with the LPO or Kirill with Berlin), although this traversal might pair well with a score for someone looking to break down the work in more detail—some might enjoy hearing more of the individual parts. The Tenth to me has always seemed like a relatively easy work for orchestras to approach (witness how popular it is with youth orchestras), but more difficult to take beyond simply playing the notes, and this recording seems to exemplify this issue—technically perfect, but lacking in the expression or drive needed to turn a decent performance into a masterpiece.

Susan Carroll-Clark
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