The Shot, op. 24
The Human Comedy, op. 37
Three Fragments from The Nose, op. 15
String Quartet No. 3, op. 89
String Quartet No. 8, op. 110
Piano Sonata No. 2, op. 61
Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues, op. 87
Krzysztof Meyer: Au-delà d’une absence for String Quartet, op. 89
Rachmaninov: Piano Sonata No. 1, op. 28
Kabalevsky: Piano Sonata No. 3, op. 46

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Theatre, Film and Opera – Premiere Recordings

The Shot, op. 24 [a, b].* The Human Comedy, op. 37 [a, c]. Three Fragments from The Nose, op. 15 [d]. The Vyborg Side, op. 50, “March of the Anarchists.” Reconstructed and/or edited by Mark Fitz-Gerald, except [*] reconstructed and/or edited by Mark Fitz-Gerald and Edward Stewart.

Malmö Opera Orchestra/Mark Fitz-Gerald. Malmö Opera Chorus (Elena Mitrevska, Chorus Master) [a]. Tor Lind (baritone), Kenny Staškus Larsen (flute), Allan Sjølin and Jesper Sivebæk (balalaikas), Edward Stewart (guitar) [b], Christian Einarsson (piano) [c], Lars Notto Birkeland (organ) [d]. Recorded at the Malmö Opera House, Sweden, 5–7 March 2024. Organ part in The Nose recorded on the Orgelbau Goll organ at the Fagerborg Church, Oslo, Norway, 4 April 2024. TT: 56:42. Naxos 8.574590. All world premiere recordings or world premiere complete recordings.

Naxos continues its cycle of Shostakovich’s incidental music with Mark Fitz-Gerald not only conducting, but also arranging the pieces into suites, reconstructing, editing and orchestrating previously unpublished excerpts.

The Shot was the only theatrical play written by the Komsomol (“Communist Youth”) poet Aleksandr Bezymensky (1898–1973), whose verses Shostakovich had earlier set to music in his celebratory Second Symphony, To October (1927). In the 1929/30 season, the play—denouncing the bureaucrats who drove a fervent Komsomol youth to suicide and praising the enthusiastic young proletarians and their Party curators—became something of a repertoire hit. It was staged by numerous theatres across the country, including the renowned, trend-setting Meyerhold Theatre in Moscow. In December 1929, almost simultaneously with its prestigious Moscow premiere, the play was produced in Leningrad by the semi-professional Theatre of Working Youth (TRAM) under the direction of Mikhail Sokolovsky. The 23-year-old Shostakovich was appointed the theatre’s staff composer, and the music for The Shot marked their first collaboration. Judging by contemporary reviews, the TRAM production emphasised the play’s grotesque, satirical aspect; needless to say, this approach aligned with young Shostakovich’s artistic preferences.

Shostakovich’s complete score for The Shot has not survived. The only excerpt published during his lifetime was a “romance” sung by a comic character named Dun’dya (hitherto usually rendered in English as Dundee). In 1984, several manuscript drafts, in varying degrees of completeness, were unearthed from the Shostakovich archive; shortly thereafter, seven finished numbers were published in Volume 27 of the Complete Works (Moscow: Muzyka, 1987). The suite compiled by Mark Fitz-Gerald includes all of these excerpts along with several transitional passages reconstructed from Shostakovich’s rough sketches. In total, it comprises sixteen numbers with a combined duration of approximately 15 minutes, concluding with the aforementioned “romance”.

Three of the numbers feature choral singing. The disc’s track listing includes titles for two of them, evidently invented specifically for this edition—both, in fact, rather inappropriately. No. 1, titled “Workers’ Song of Victory”, was originally conceived as a peculiar counterpoint to the funeral of the unfortunate suicide victim; it is stylised in the manner of Musorgsky’s folk-inspired passages. The melody of no. 9, “Bored Workers’ Song of Protest”, bears a resemblance to the vigorous 1905 revolutionary song My kuznetsy, i dukh nash molod (“We Are Blacksmiths with Young Spirit”): the workers in the play proclaim their devotion to the revolutionary cause and protest against the spirit of complacency that has supplanted the fervour of the recent past. Both choruses are orchestrated by Fitz-Gerald with a brilliance and bite reminiscent of Shostakovich at his best; the descending trombone glissandi in no. 9, echoing the word skuka (“boredom”), are particularly impressive, evoking the notorious bedroom scene from Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District. The third of the choral episodes, the galloping no. 13—arguably the one that truly deserves the title “Workers’ Song of Victory” (though the choir primarily shouts rather than sings revolutionary slogans)—is presented in Shostakovich’s original, markedly simpler orchestration.

The “romance”, labelled “Dun’dya’s Lament” in the track listing, follows the age-old Russian tradition of plaintive “petty bourgeois” urban song. It is stylishly rendered by Swedish singer Tor Lind, with guitar accompaniment edited and played by Edward Stewart.

Among the remaining excerpts—all considerably shorter than the vocal numbers—the most memorable are “Entry and Exit of the Heads of Departments” (no. 8), depicting senior bureaucrats, and “Entry of the Technical Secretaries” (no. 12), portraying their lower-ranking counterparts. Both are performed in Shostakovich’s original version. The former is a mock-triumphant flourish for brass instruments, while the latter is a deliberately primitive balalaika duet, reminiscent of the accompaniment to servant Ivan’s song in The Nose.

Bezymensky’s play had fallen into complete obscurity during the author’s own lifetime, and Shostakovich’s music for it suffered the same fate. As for the CD’s next item, the music for The Human Comedy—an adaptation from Honoré de Balzac’s La Comédie humaine, staged at the Moscow Vakhtangov Theatre in April 1934—it includes several numbers that have been performed and recorded with some regularity, among them at least one genuine hit. The suite compiled for this CD comprises 23 numbers (tracks 17–39), with a total duration nearly half an hour.

Among Moscow’s finest theatres, the Vakhtangov stood out not only for its productions but also for its superb in-house orchestra. Shostakovich had already worked with the theatre in 1932, contributing an inventive score to its famously eccentric staging of Hamlet (Shostakovich’s op. 32). The Human Comedy, obviously, was not so eccentric, and therefore it enjoyed long-term success (in contrast to the short-lived Hamlet production); accordingly, Shostakovich’s music for it is notably traditional, with little trace of the grotesque that is so characteristic of his early style.

In his well-known 1952 book Ukroshchenie iskusstv (The Taming of Arts, New York: Chekhov Publishing House), Yuriy Yelagin—formerly a violinist with the Vakhtangov orchestra—recounts their collaboration with Shostakovich:

“The music Shostakovich composed for The Human Comedy was never performed as a suite on the symphonic stage, and likely never could be, due to the peculiarities of its form. It consists of a series of short musical fragments, highly varied in character, yet all [in fact, rather mostly — L. H.] based on a single theme. According to the director’s vision, this theme—the theme of Paris—serves as the central leitmotif of the entire production, accompanying all the actions of Balzac’s characters. […] Shostakovich brilliantly fulfilled the task of scoring The Human Comedy, composing a kind of set of variations on his ‘Paris theme’, making extensive use of our orchestra’s soloists. One piece was written for solo French horn with string accompaniment; another was a refined, virtuosic solo for violin, accompanied by bassoon and double bass.”

Interestingly, in the “Paris theme” itself—in the fifths and fourths of its anacruses—Shostakovich anticipated the sound of the first movement of his famous Fifth Symphony, which in 193 was still far off, and which he would reach only after enduring and feeling so much. Soviet critics later remarked that the Fifth Symphony opened a completely new direction in his oeuvre. But that’s not entirely accurate. The music for Balzac’s The Human Comedy already belongs to the same artistic line as the Fifth Symphony.

The “short musical fragments” Yelagin refers to include several distinctive set pieces with strong melodic appeal: “Waltz” and “Elegy” (both scored for solo piano, played here by Christian Einarsson), “March”, “Merry Paris”, “The Panorama of Paris”, “Barrel Organ”, “The Bank of the Seine”, “Sarabande”, and—above all—the irresistible “Gavotte”, known in numerous arrangements. Fortunately, Yelagin’s assumption that Shostakovich’s score for The Human Comedy could not be performed as a suite proved incorrect, and this CD offers its compelling full rendition. In this case, the conductor’s editorial intervention was minimal: he arranged only one brief excerpt—originally not orchestrated by Shostakovich—for string quartet. In addition, the musicologist Anastasia Belina provided a purposefully inane text for “The Student’s Song”, whose original lyrics are believed to be lost.

Aware of Gerard McBurney’s deep expertise in Russian matters, I could hardly believe what I read in his sleeve notes: “In 1934 Stalin had attended the first performance of Shostakovich’s opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, and sat in a box that was located over the very loud percussion section. His reaction was to tell the composer that this music was unacceptable for the people of the USSR to hear. Under threat, Shostakovich had no choice but to comply with Stalin’s demands. The first work he wrote after this episode was for the Vakhtangov Theatre’s 1934 production of The Human Comedy.” Let me leave this statement without comment.

For me personally, the main attraction of this CD lies in the discarded versions of two interludes and the opening of Act III from The Nose. Contrary to what is stated in the booklet, I was the one who discovered these excerpts in 2015 in the Shostakovich Archive during my work on the publication of The Nose for the New Collected Works, issued by the DSCH publishing house.

My article describing these documents—which are reproduced in facsimile in Vol. 51 of NCW—appeared in the DSCH Journal, 47 (July 2017), 27–32, under the title “Newly Discovered Versions of Episodes from The Nose”. To put it briefly, the file of manuscripts for The Nose contains scores of two previously unknown, fully completed pieces, one titled “Entr’acte Before the Kazan Cathedral”, and the other “No. 10a Entr’acte”. Evidently, the former was meant to precede the final scene of Act I, while the latter to connect the first and second scenes of Act II. Both pieces are neatly notated in Shostakovich’s own hand—the first in two distinct instrumentations. In addition, there exist two full scores of the same pieces prepared by a professional copyist and, apparently, authorised by Shostakovich himself. Another newly discovered excerpt is a tentative opening to Act III, written in Shostakovich’s fair autograph hand.

These manuscripts bear no relation to the opera’s published music. The “Kazan Cathedral” piece opens with an extended organ solo—a rarity in Shostakovich’s oeuvre—and quotes Alexander Alyabyev’s famous romance The Nightingale (c. 1825), a natural symbol of Russia’s “ancien régime”. In “Entr’acte” no. 10a, the motif of the pre-revolutionary Russian anthem “God Save the Tsar” is heard, played by the French horn.

One may reasonably assume that the ultimately rejected versions of both entr’actes were conceived as simplified options for use in the opera’s hypothetical productions—substituting the violent virtuoso galop before the Kazan Cathedral Scene and the intricate fugato at the heart of Act II found in the opera as we know it. Even so, both pieces stand as fine examples of young Shostakovich’s sarcastic humour and would surely impress audiences in search of showy concert repertoire. While the opening of Act III may not stand alone as a concert item, it works well as a transitional link between the entr’actes. In 2017, this three-movement “suite” was premiered at the Shostakovich International Festival in Gohrisch by the Staatskapelle Dresden under Thomas Sanderling, a recording of which was released on Deutsche Grammophon 4867190 in 2025 (to be reviewed in a future edition of DSCH). To my mind, Sanderling’s rendition—commendable though it is—falls short in energy, particularly in “No. 10a”, which is performed at a noticeably sluggish tempo. In this regard, Fitz-Gerald’s reading is more convincing thanks to its dynamic pacing and compelling expressive drive.

The final item on this CD is the “March of the Anarchists”, a miniature piece drawn from Shostakovich’s score for the 1938 film The Vyborg Side. The conductor transcribed the music from the original soundtrack and orchestrated it for military band. Once again, I feel myself perplexed by Gerard McBurney’s disorientating comment that this “piece is based on the Kanonen-Song from Die Dreigroschenoper” by Kurt Weill. In reality, the tune originates from the street song Tsyplenok zharenyi (“Fried Chicken”), which likely dates from around 1918 and was familiar to virtually every citizen of the Soviet state; in the film The Vyborg Side, it is sung by the celebrated actor Mikhail Zharov portraying an anarchist.

To sum up: a highly satisfying disc featuring several remarkable rarities, though the accompanying booklet would benefit from more accurate fact-checking.

Levon Hakobian
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DSCH and Beyond
String Quartet No. 3, op. 89

String Quartet No. 8, op. 110

Krzysztof Meyer:
Au-delà d’une absence for String Quartet, op. 89
Eliot Quartett:
Maryana Osipova and Alexander Sachs (violins)
Dmitry Hahalin (viola)
Michael Preuß (cello)
Recorded at the Festburgkirche Frankfurt/Main, Germany, 17–20 July 2024
TT: 81:57
GENUIN GEN 25919

Reviewing this album from the Frankfurt-based Eliot Quartett has not only provided the opportunity to dig into fresh approaches to two of the most frequently performed of Shostakovich’s fifteen string quartets and make the acquaintance of the closest thing we have to a sixteenth, Krzysztof Meyer’s Au-delà d’une absence, but also spurred me to investigate Meyer’s own first fifteen entries in this genre.

I regret not discovering Meyer’s quartets sooner, as they all prove to be rewarding, each with its own coherent narrative. His expressionistic quartets of the 1960s and early 1970s are more bracingly experimental than his later entries, but their avant-garde methods, like atonality and microtonality, play communicative roles. Meyer rejects modernity for its own sake, being inspired by new techniques only to the extent that he finds them useful; he considers the artist’s prime goal to be “the finding of her own way, the creation of his own, individual world.”

The bulk of his quartets embrace earlier models, and even the most recent in his personal voice, No. 15 from 2017, would be accessible to any audience at ease in Shostakovich. Meyer’s quartets constitute a consistently serious-minded body of work that deserves to be better known. The Wieniawski Quartet have recorded numbers 1–13 on Naxos, and 13–15 on Dux.

Technically Meyer’s String Quartet No. 16, Au-delà d’une absence, sits apart from his numbered quartets in that he wrote it as an homage in Shostakovich’s style rather than his own. Meyer’s preface to the score explains his inspiration:

Shostakovich planned the composition of 24 string quartets in all keys. He did not, however, manage to realise his plan entirely. Nevertheless, the 15 works of this genre that he did compose represent one of the most important chapters of twentieth-century chamber music.

When I visited the composer, who had meanwhile become seriously ill, in Moscow in the spring of 1974 for the last time, I asked him a question—possibly an inappropriate one in this case: “And when will the Fifteenth String Quartet come? Is it possibly already being written?”

“No, there is nothing like that,” replied Shostakovich, “I haven’t written down anything yet…” And as if to justify himself, he added: “I was ill, after all… but I’ll write it, I’ll surely write it. You know, I even have two new quartets in my head. The next one will be an Adagio—a single large Adagio, maybe a Grave… in one movement. And the Sixteenth will be in three parts, with a fugue in the finale, you understand, with a double fugue. The second movement, very lyrical…”

The Fifteenth String Quartet appeared shortly thereafter, completely in the tempo of adagio. Shostakovich did depart from his original idea in that he chose a six-part form instead of a single movement, but he retained the tonal plan with the key of E-flat minor.

Concerning the work’s successor, which probably was to have been written in B major, he made the following statement in the presence of Dmitri Tsyganov, the first violinist of the Beethoven Quartet:

“I decided to write the 16th Quartet and to dedicate it to you, the Beethoven Quartet, with your new personnel.”

This was not to be. In this respect, Au-delà d’une absence represents an imaginary continuation of Shostakovich’s cycle and is my bow before the great composer. In writing it, I submitted myself entirely to his style without, however, quoting from his works. The world premiere took place on 5 June 1998 in Hamburg, performed by the French-Belgian Quatuor Danel.

In harmony with Shostakovich’s intention, the String Quartet consists of three movements. The first, a sonata movement, is based on two themes: the first is dramatic, the second contains lyrical elements. I had Shostakovich’s words in mind the whole time whilst composing the melodic, very cantabile second movement. The third movement, a double fugue, ensues without a break. An epilogue follows as a kind of post scriptum. The work concludes in pianissimo, as do most of Shostakovich’s quartets.

This account aligns with Meyer’s reminiscences reported elsewhere. The latter adds the nugget that Shostakovich played the theme of the fugue of his intended Sixteenth Quartet to Meyer during their final meeting.

Meyer’s booklet notes for the present release elaborate further, indicating that said theme made it into Au-delà d’une absence:

He approached the piano and played a simple figure (in E minor) with his left hand and said, “this will be one of the themes of the fugue.” Immediately after our meeting, I wrote down the theme he played for me on the piano, and that was the only musical material I had.

Said seed of the third movement—a syncopated hopping motif—is echt Shostakovich in style. One could say the same of the rest of this tribute, as Meyer deploys hallmark gestures of the honouree throughout. Indeed, characteristic rhythmic cells transplanted from Shostakovich’s own quartets and symphonies supply much of the potential energy that propels Au-delà d’une absence.

I confess that I spent my first two or three auditions ticking off the sources of Meyer’s many allusions, but with familiarity has come admiration for how successfully the work hangs together on its own terms.

Notwithstanding its imagined position at No. 16, Au-delà d’une absence is closer in spirit to the early Shostakovich quartets, gentler and less death-obsessed than most of what we count as “late Shostakovich.” Then again, might not Shostakovich have followed his own No. 15 with a restorative look backwards rather than continuing to stare into the abyss? Such an alternation seems plausible when we recall that the dose of pessimism is far lower in No. 14 than in its next-door neighbours.

Notably, each of the three movements of Au-delà d’une absence ends on a question mark instead of a full stop. Thus, Meyer’s work does not circumscribe its namesake absence; the conversation remains open.

Although the Quatuor Danel are the dedicatees of Au-delà d’une absence, they have yet to add it to their discography. Instead, the first recording was set down in 2001 by Warsaw’s Kwartet Wilanów, for whom Meyer wrote nearly all of his string quartets.

The Wilanóws’ recording of Au-delà d’une absence is a tough act to follow, the players alert moment by moment to the work’s diverse moods. The Eliots, however, are more than up to the challenge. Their more restrained handling of the opening pages is clearly deliberate, aligning with their more measured pace in the first movement overall.

Though lyrical as per Shostakovich’s intention, the second movement imparts a sense of loss. The Eliots plumb deeper than do the Wilanóws, especially in the pianissimo passage where the violins and viola lament in unison.

In the final movement, too, I find the Eliots better at invoking absence. Some listeners may prefer the Wilanóws’ warmer style, but it is a testament to the quality of Meyer’s homage that it supports such divergent interpretations.

This release is the Eliot Quartett’s fifth on the GENUIN label but their first to include Shostakovich. The album opens with Shostakovich’s Third Quartet. Even more evident in the present recording is a tendency to hold back from the beat, lending the first movement a decidedly unsettled atmosphere.

The album also includes the Eighth Quartet. No matter how stiff the competition, a reading this sensitive and intelligent would vie for a spot on the winner’s podium. Never resorting to extremes, the Eliots keep their audience transfixed start to finish in a performance that feels spontaneous yet possessed of exquisite attention to detail.

Notes:
1 Małgorzata Woźna-Stankiewicz, “Artistic attitudes in the 20th century and the problem of tradition in the autoreflection of Baird, Kilar and Meyer,” Musica Iagellonica 4 (2007), 113–141.
2 D. Tsyganov, “Polveka vmeste,” Sovietskaya muzyka 9 (1976), 31.

W. Mark Roberts
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20th Century Russian Piano Sonatas, Vol. 2

Rachmaninov: Piano Sonata No. 1, op. 28
Shostakovich: Piano Sonata No. 2, op. 61
Kabalevsky: Piano Sonata No. 3, op. 46

Anastasia Yasko, piano

Recorded at the Klavierhaus Schimpelsberger, Wels, Austria, July 2024
TT: 78:11
ARS Produktion ARS 38669

Anastasia Yasko’s first CD of Russian piano sonatas (ARS 38581) included works by Prokofiev, Sviridov, Feinberg, and Weinberg. The second volume, reviewed here, opens with Rachmaninov’s monumental Piano Sonata No. 1, op. 28. Completed in 1908 and premiered by Konstantin Igumnov in Moscow the same year, the sonata remains less known than its successor, op. 36. Its difficulty is, of course, a factor, as well as its complexity, and while it is not purely programme music, awareness of its initial inspiration from Goethe’s Faust (though Rachmaninov abandoned the detail of this plan) can help both the listener and performer digest this symphonically conceived work.

Despite Rachmaninov’s pessimistic prediction that “nobody will ever play this composition. It’s too difficult and long…”, the First Sonata has been successfully performed and recorded by pianists such as Vladimir Ashkenazy, Boris Berezovsky, Nikolai Luganski, and Daniil Trifonov, among others.

The first movement has a searching, dramatic character, exploring several ideas and motifs. Long melodic lines, chromaticism, and virtuoso writing characteristic of Rachmaninov’s music abound. Yasko effortlessly handles all difficulties presented to her. Technically solid, her performance is also musically satisfying, as she plays with clarity, awareness of structure, attention to detail, and beauty of tone.

The second movement, marked lento, is the traditional lyrical slow movement. Rachmaninov’s gentle triplets create a sense of lulling in which the melodic duet rests and slowly grows. Yasko performs with beautiful, full sound and takes us seamlessly through the journey. Somewhat on the fast side of the lento marking, she plays with directness. Personally, I would have loved to hear a more intimate treatment of the movement, allowing for freedom and colour in expression, but Yasko’s conviction is compelling and convincing.

The final movement, marked allegro molto, is the most symphonic of the three. Its power, tumultuousness, and drive are a feat for any pianist who attempts to perform this work. Motives from the previous two movements return, along with the outlines of the terror-inspiring Dies Irae chant. The stamina and technical ability required for a successful performance are formidable.

Yasko’s interpretation is powerful. She manoeuvres through challenges without losing a sense of the large structure. Her clarity of thought and ideas emerge, and the listener can follow her without difficulty. In my opinion, this movement could benefit from a more dramatic change of character in places such as the dotted-rhythm march and cantabile sections. While Yasko’s strength and determination are admirable, a more varied sound could better bring out the work’s theatrical and poetic images.

The next work is Shostakovich’s Piano Sonata No. 2, op. 61. Written in early 1943 in Kuibyshev (now Samara), to where his family had been evacuated, it is dedicated to the memory of his piano teacher Leonid Nikolaev, who had died the previous October. It is a substantial work for piano—second in scope only to the cycle of 24 Preludes and Fugues, op. 87.

While the sonata has not been widely programmed, it has begun to gain recognition, with multiple recordings emerging and adding to the legacy of those by early advocates such as Maria Yudina and Emil Gilels, and more recent ones including Vladimir Ashkenazy and Alexei Lubimov.

The first movement, marked allegretto, bears a resemblance to a Bach two-part invention. Its sparse texture, length, somewhat fragmented nature, and use of broad registration present the pianist with the difficult task of holding the structure together. In her recording, Yasko handles this challenge beautifully through decisive and well-informed character changes and tempo control.

The second movement is marked largo. This highly chromatic, lyrical, and profoundly expressive movement acts as the emotional centre of the sonata. Yasko’s performance pays the utmost attention to the score. Her tone is warm, full, and direct, and her phrasing breathes naturally through the long melodic lines.

The final movement, in the form of a theme and variations, opens with a thirty-measure unaccompanied melodic line. Yasko projects a declamatory rather than lyrical character, bringing out the movement’s storytelling nature. The following variations are marked by crystal-clear articulation, intense energy, and forward motion.

The final work in this recording is Kabalevsky’s Piano Sonata No. 3, op. 46, completed in 1946. It provides a contrast to the rest of the programme with its lighter, energetic character. The sonata is small in scale, somewhat reminiscent of Prokofiev’s writing.

The first movement has fairy-tale overtones, played with uninhibited energy and transparency. The second movement has a waltz character, its theme emerging beautifully with rich tone and carefully layered harmonies. The final movement, allegro giocoso, is energetic, mischievous, virtuosic, and light.

It is a pleasure to hear this recording and a great achievement for a pianist to bring these massive and lesser-known works to life with such mastery. Each sonata creates a distinct musical world, allowing Yasko to illuminate different facets of her pianism and musicianship.

Teodora Adzharova
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Two Recent Releases: Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues, op. 87
Sofia Sacco
Recorded at the Menuhin Hall, Kent, UK, 14–16 February 2025
TT: 145:17
Orchid Classics ORC100385
Yulianna Avdeeva
Recorded in the Mendelssohn-Saal of the Gewandhaus zu Leipzig, Germany, 24 February–4 March 2025
TT: 147:22
Pentatone PTC 5187 480

There was a time when recordings of the complete Preludes and Fugues were rare pearls. Following the completion of the work in 1951, many pianists showcased selected movements of the cycle in the concert hall or on disc, including the composer (who made the first recording—of the Prelude and Fugue No. 23—on 78 rpm in 1951). Other early partial adopters included Richter, Gilels, Sofronitsky, and Grinberg.

Dedicatee Tatiana Nikolaeva’s first recording of the complete cycle came as late as 1962. Two further complete recordings followed in 1987 and 1990. Nikolaeva also recorded the cycle for BBC Television in 1992, the year before her death. Western pianists came comparatively late to the complete cycle, beginning with Australian Roger Woodward in 1975. Since then, full-cycle editions have appeared from pianists such as Marios Papadopoulos, Keith Jarrett, Caroline Weichert, Boris Petrushansky, Vladimir Ashkenazy, Konstantin Scherbakov, Colin Stone, Alexander Melnikov, Peter Donohoe, and Igor Levit.

To commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of Shostakovich’s death in 2025, two new recordings were released, by Yulianna Avdeeva and Sofia Sacco.

Sofia Sacco is a prolific performer and teacher, working in Italy as well as the UK, Germany, Spain, and Belgium. She recently toured China with recitals in Beijing, Shanghai, and several other major cities. As a young pianist she was drawn to Bach’s music, later winning First Prize at the Bach International Music Competition. She studied with Rustem Hayroudinoff at the Royal Academy of Music in London, after which her repertoire expanded naturally into Russian music, including Shostakovich and his Bach-inspired Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues. Sacco also released a high-quality video performance of the entire cycle on YouTube.

Yulianna Avdeeva, by contrast, is an internationally renowned pianist born in Moscow in the 1980s. Her musical education included the Gnessin School of Music and the Zurich University of the Arts. In 2010 she won First Prize at the XVI International Chopin Piano Competition. She has recently toured extensively with performances of the Preludes and Fugues, including appearances at the Shostakovich Festival in Leipzig during the summer of 2025.

In a work of such scale it is worth noting that Sacco and Avdeeva adopt tempi close to the interpretative average of previous recordings, which typically total between 140 and 147 minutes for the cycle. This contrasts with Petrushansky’s extraordinarily extended version and Jarrett’s notably swift reading. Nikolaeva’s recordings are slower than the modern average; despite her close association with the composer, she often ignored Shostakovich’s metronome markings in favour of broader tempos.

Unlike many interpretations of the opening Prelude in C major, Sacco’s approach is far from simple or naïve. Her phrasing and dynamic shaping feel deeply personal, almost apprehensive. Avdeeva’s contrasting approach is characteristic of her entire set: elegant playing combined with a regular, unwavering sense of rhythm and articulation.

The Fugue that follows opens unusually hushed in Sacco’s reading, gradually building through delicate control of touch. Avdeeva’s interpretation is somewhat more predictable, though beautifully shaped. Differences in recording acoustics also play a role: Avdeeva benefits from a livelier acoustic, while Sacco’s closer recording favours intimacy in quieter movements.

Another striking contrast between the two interpretations appears in the fiery A minor Prelude. Sacco’s impeccable technique leads seamlessly into the spiky Fugue, where she introduces subtle rhythmic inflections that heighten tension. Avdeeva, by comparison, glides elegantly over the music’s surface, technically accomplished but less individual in character.

The third Prelude in G major provides further contrast. Sacco highlights the dynamic contrasts of the score and performs the accompanying Fugue at the breakneck tempo indicated by Shostakovich—an approach that few pianists attempt. Avdeeva takes a slightly slower tempo, producing a more dance-like character.

In the fourth Prelude in E minor, Sacco’s articulation gives the music a slightly “spoken” quality, emphasising its lyrical depth. Avdeeva draws out the expressive qualities of the melody in a smoother, more linear interpretation.

The fifth Prelude in D major restores humour and lightness. Sacco’s reading has a whimsical quality, while Avdeeva places greater emphasis on the bass line. The following Fugue is playful and comic in Sacco’s hands, her phrasing introducing small pauses that lend the music a distinctive personality.

These interpretative contrasts continue throughout the cycle. Some listeners may prefer Avdeeva’s refined elegance over the long span of the work, while others may favour Sacco’s more individual, risk-taking approach.

The ninth Prelude in E major offers a striking example. Sacco adopts a slower tempo, shaping the upper-voice figures with remarkable delicacy and creating an atmosphere of uncertainty and drama. Avdeeva’s version is faster and brighter, though arguably less introspective.

According to Nikolaeva, Shostakovich altered the tempo marking of the tenth Prelude after hearing her perform the work in concert. Sacco leans toward the earlier tempo indication, while Avdeeva adopts a slightly faster pace; both interpretations prove convincing.

In the twelfth Prelude, a passacaglia with nine variations, Nikolaeva famously gave the opening statement monumental weight. Neither Sacco nor Avdeeva follows her example exactly, though Sacco captures some of the movement’s deeper intimacy in later variations. The accompanying Fugue, which many interpreters regard as marking the end of an implicit “first book,” is brilliantly executed by Sacco, who allows the drama to intensify throughout.

The following Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp major show both pianists at their most lyrical. Sacco emphasises rhythmic clarity in the Fugue, whereas Avdeeva brings a softer, more expressive character.

In the Prelude in E-flat minor, Sacco proves dramatically compelling, choosing a tempo closer to the composer’s own interpretation than Avdeeva’s slower approach. Both pianists handle the accompanying Fugue with conviction.

The famous Prelude and Fugue No. 15 demonstrates Avdeeva’s strengths particularly well. Her performance captures the music’s dark humour and relentless rhythmic drive, producing one of the most impressive interpretations of the Fugue currently available. Sacco’s reading is more restrained, lacking some of the manic intensity that defines the movement.

In the Prelude and Fugue No. 16 in B-flat minor, Sacco excels with elegant phrasing and expressive nuance. Her interpretation of the Fugue also shows close attention to Shostakovich’s rhythmic complexities, whereas Avdeeva’s technically flawless playing can occasionally seem emotionally detached.

The remaining Preludes and Fugues continue to highlight the differences between the two pianists. Sacco’s playing frequently emphasises clarity of voice-leading and subtle rhythmic flexibility, while Avdeeva maintains a polished and consistent interpretative style.

The final Prelude and Fugue in D minor form a monumental conclusion to the cycle. Avdeeva’s interpretation, however, lacks some of the epic drama inherent in the music. Sacco shapes the movement more convincingly, building from an extraordinarily hushed opening to the powerful final climax.

Among the many recordings of op. 87, both of these new interpretations have much to recommend them. Of the two, however, Sacco offers the more engaged and distinctive reading, and her set is therefore the one most warmly recommended.

As a postscript, Avdeeva’s recording includes a short Prelude in C-sharp minor discovered in the Shostakovich Archive and apparently intended for the cycle but ultimately abandoned. Krzysztof Meyer completed the piece with a Fugue “in the style of Shostakovich.” These brief movements are of interest to collectors, though their placement after the monumental final Prelude and Fugue slightly undermines the dramatic conclusion of the cycle.

Alan Mercer
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