Symphony No. 7 in C major, Leningrad, op. 60.
Valery Gergiev, Kirov Orchestra, Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra.
Philips 470 845-2. DDD. TT 78:47.
Recorded live De Doelen, Rotterdam, Netherlands, 19-21 September 2001.

Symphony No. 7 in C major, Leningrad, op. 60.
Semyon Bychkov, WDR Sinfonie Orchester Köln.
Avie 0020. DDD. TT 72:30.
Recorded Kölner Philharmonie, February 2003.

Now straddling two millennia with its colossal brand of defiance, the Seventh Symphony of Shostakovich has, unlike its ancient, statuesque Dodecanese counterpart, beaten fate. Opus 60 has survived everything to emerge apparently triumphant, a symphony neither analogous to the pile of rubble and scrap at the bottom of Rhodes harbour, nor disguised as the gigantic four-square Socialist Realist war memorial to which the wartime West had paid such enthusiastic homage, before abruptly cancelling the flowers once the Cold War supplanted the real, killing one.

How can the Colossus stand on its own two feet, without the props and scaffolding of the War, the Siege, Lehar, Maxim's, Stalin destroying and Hitler finishing off, Toscanini and the microfilm, firefighting and marching hordes of Huns? Leningrad is gone forever, a historical blip. The composer has said all he can say. So what's left for us, beyond a cartoon soundtrack to the Seventh's own stranger-than-fiction history? Is the work's renaissance attributable to its innate symphonic qualities? Or to our own current obsession with meaning and specific significance? Or galloping revisionism? Or a cultural dumbing-down that makes respectable once more a second-rate blockbuster with lots of loud bits? Do we just like symphonies that are long, loud and preferably as slow as possible, nowadays? Have we simply run out of good symphonies, finding ourselves forced to pretend the also-rans are better than they really are? Is it all Philip Glass's fault?

Surviving WWII, the critical backlash and the mythology of its own early history is one thing. Surviving Bartok is quite another. Uniquely, this symphony still experiences the indignity of regular public lampoonery from the work of a senior colleague: the Concerto for Orchestra's star did not fade, post-war, and it opposes the Seventh to this day with a series of joking, posthumous questions - the Seventh's very own eternal musical Yurodivy.

That the Seventh, seemingly re-established in the West as a crowd-pleasing concert-hall favourite, is able to face these questions is due in no small part to the continued existence of recordings. Some of those recordings are also a part of the Opus 60 myth, of course. And all along it seemed that if you were going out to buy the Shostakovich Seventh, then you were really buying into the gargantuan minimalism of The March, a section of the work that has perhaps always worried and distracted critics more than audiences.

Sleevenotes for Opus 60 were still apologising to Bartok about the variations that don't vary when Paavo Berglund made his groundbreaking taping of the Seventh for EMI in 1974 (EMI Double Forte 7243 573839 2 9), twelve long years after the passionate but cut version recorded by Bernstein in New York, in studio-bound Columbia sound (Sony Classical SMK 47616), and seventeen years on from the sure-footed, warm-hearted but thin-sounding Ancerl (Supraphon SU 3683-2; reviewed below), then to be heard only through the noise from unpredictable Supraphon pressings, and soon to be crammed onto a single, low-level LP. With Toscanini in and out of the catalogue too, the Seventh seemed very much a historical work, a blast from the past; always Leningrad; forever 1941; the vast forces compressed and miniaturised - ironically for a work whose notoriety rested as much on the extravagance of its forces, as on the Hollywood aspects of its genesis - reduced to the level of an AM radio signal, fit only to annoy the odd Hungarian emigré genius.

But Berglund, leading a modest British orchestra, played to his considerable Nordic symphonic strengths, and the EMI engineers had one of their finest hours (and a quarter), Mottley and Eltham surpassing their own exacting standards to deliver the Seventh for the first time into your home with a recognisable simulation of concert-hall sound and ambience. Live performances of the Seventh were rare events indeed in the seventies, but critics with good record players sat up and noticed that we might have a proper symphony on our hands after all ... except the march, of course, only the rest of the Symphony. We were reminded once more of the physical impact of the Seventh in performance, and of its delicacy.

Looking out from then, the Colossus can survey more than twenty recordings in more-or-less respectable sound that post-date Berglund and the contemporaneous Neumann (Supraphon SU 0177-2; deleted). Back in the harbour are nine or ten Historicals. Toscanini has stayed afloat and available for most of these sixty years  (RCA Victor Gold Seal 60293-2-RG; deleted), joined later by the fine Stokowski (Pearl GEMM CDS 9044; deleted); but Mravinsky's Melodiya reading, which suggests layers of meaning and a range of expressive power not hinted at by most Western performances, has surfaced only occasionally, and remains in the legendary category - an absurd situation (Omega Classics OCD 1030).

Other Russian recordings, compelling at least in part from Svetlanov, Kondrashin and Rozhdestvensky have sunk more often than they've floated, in the digital age, despite offering a range of orchestral pigments that were surely included in Shostakovich's palette, as he composed. The interpretative current has therefore not flowed as freely from East to West as it should have done, when it comes to the Seventh, for reasons partly political and partly economic; and also out of technical considerations.

The old versions will never blow you away, sonically, or hold the market alone; the newer ones, even those with some magnificent aspects like the slowest-of-them-all Bernstein Chicago remake (Deutsche Grammophon 427 632-2), the Rostropovich (Apex 0927414092) and the Järvi (Chandos CHAN 8623), still seem to be missing ... something.

The two latest contenders to dive in, as Bartok sits, still chuckling on the quayside, raise questions before the CDs even leave the jewel cases. Two outstanding Russian conductors, yet one is working with a German Radio orchestra, the other combining Dutch and Russian players in an unusual experiment, taped live a couple of years ago, but without applause or audience noise. Having started his recording career with Philips, and a far from negligible Shostakovich Fifth, beautifully recorded in Berlin, Bychkov now finds himself on the Avie label, in direct competition with the ascendant and brilliant Gergiev - on Philips.

Avie's front-packaging is penny-plain, and laudably lists composer, orchestra, then conductor in decreasing typeface point-sizes. Gergiev has his own typeface, larger than the composer's name, and the orchestras aren't mentioned on the cover at all. The two names seem shot through the conductor's head like an arrow, and he is, perhaps understandably, giving a sidelong glance at the word "Shostakovich". On the back, just a close-up of Gergiev's hands, resting on the score. Inside and on the disc itself, some chic Red-Army imagery, and war photos for the inlay and booklet; and, it should be added, at last, two nice shots of the composer, including the 'shy fireman in gloves' one. It all speaks of the marketing of the myth, and of 1941, quite as much as the work we're trying to assimilate afresh in 2003. I sense the Colossus furrowing over his glasses, and Bartok rubbing his hands, before the drawer of the player is even open.

Again before we hear a note, the timings beg answers to some of the nagging questions. Gergiev takes over twenty minutes for the fourth movement, very close to being the slowest on disc, just pipped by Svetlanov. His recording of the second is also slower than all others, bar the Bernstein/Chicago remake. Maxim's protracted recording of the third movement, and Lenny's half-hour-and-change for the first are the only comparable aberrations among the surprisingly consistent timings within the Seventh's discography. The other movement durations from Gergiev are within usual bounds, as are all those of Bychkov, who comes home six minutes sooner than his compatriot. Will the Gergiev, then, be a performance for the Cultural Student; the Seventh freshly manufactured to suit our own ends, easy prey for Bartok's jokes and suspicions with regard to timing, intent and a contemporary obsession with significance?

Keeping safely to sound, rather than music, Bychkov on Avie is given a consistent, honest and credible WDR recording, clearer than that from Philips, and with some trace of the hall's ambience. It's neither ideal nor spectacular - not really expansive enough - but it is less controversial than the quality given to Gergiev, which can sound synthetic as it tries to portray the huge and disparate forces. The shrieking Mahlerian winds at 5:46 in the second movement are differentiated in the Gergiev recording, a reasonable decision, but they move so far towards the microphones that they seem to occupy a wholly different acoustic to the rest of the orchestra. The final crescendo is tremendously extended and impressive, but the drums just before the end create an oddly cavernous effect, sending one back to the very start, and the not-quite-believable string tone. Bychkov's old Philips recording of the Fifth presented a more convincing soundstage than this, and a truer picture of the Shostakovich orchestra.

Will the Avie/Philips duel be a battle between honesty and significance, as packaging and timings suggest? Well, from Bychkov we get a broadly extrovert, dramatic and forthright reading, and from Gergiev an extended, thoughtful one. Time and again, Gergiev dwells on a quiet string or wind passage in a manner that recalls the Tchaikovsky of the symphonies and ballets, as well as the more expected Mahler. Some parts of the Seventh achieve thereby an unprecedented beauty, and the shade of Sir John Barbirolli is occasionally at hand. More often, though, one is made to imagine the passage's potential for beauty and expression, rather than the actual achievement; I don't think this particular taping represents the considerable best that Gergiev has given in the Seventh to date. Wind solos, prepared with great care, can seem to lack character at first hearing, for example from 8:50 in the second movement. Comparisons with Bychkov and the WDRSO in this department tend initially to be all in their favour; but the sustained introversion of such moments in the Gergiev is hard to forget, once heard, part of a laudable emphasis on the work's quiet aspects.

In the third movement, Bychkov's more straightforward approach, with less varied tempi, wins the day; though here, of the non-Russians, Ancerl and the Czech Philharmonic seem to know best what this music is about, and how to express it. Neither newcomer moves the emotions in that way, at any stage. Gergiev and his hybrid orchestra build up a sizeable head of steam in the faster section, all sadly dissipated by the start of the finale.

In the last movement, Gergiev avoids the usual impression of a short Allegro non troppo with long denouement, by not having an Allegro at all, leading to a rough consistency of tempo throughout the movement. In this instance Sir John's shade is absent, and the result is neither inexorable, nor exciting. Bychkov, at a more conventional tempo, is genuinely impressive in the Allegro, though without quite the menacing aspect others have found there.

Played well, this Allegro non troppo, often characterised as pictorial war-music - Bychkov's note writer refers to the 'stock images of war' here - is actually Shostakovich close to his cogent best. Later in the movement, as Martin Anderson once pointed out, the symphony can on a good day sound like orchestral chamber music. With Gergiev, I'm afraid interest wavers ... until the roof-raising final bars. Bychkov better holds the attention. He has a more modest conclusion, but creates the more enjoyable impression of conventional and vigorous symphonic coherence throughout the movement.

Leaving consideration of the do-or-die first movement until last, we find neither conductor quite challenging the best. Bychkov starts out brisk and purposeful, Gergiev steady and imposing. Both have impulsive moments along the way, and in neither case do we feel at the end "changed utterly" after such a journey, as surely we should, if we believe once more in the work's innate qualities, and if the music making has had purpose and meaning. Both conductors bring out the composer's unique and disquieting instrumental touches with aplomb, especially Gergiev. But ... something is missing. Which brings us finally to the march: the arrested development section that dominated wartime airwaves and interrupted Bartok's intermezzo.

For Bychkov, the Colossus is made to dance a brisk Bolero; Gergiev too features pointed rhythms, the repeated two-note tag more staccato and emphatic than is the norm. Read into that what you will, but both conductors make the march seem an interlude, an orchestral favourite-within-a-favourite, a guise this section has not shaken off since the first performances, those days of crackly radio and the Bartok story. Neither performance is slow enough and Gergiev speeds up.

The lead-in to the recapitulation and the remainder of the movement are disappointing in both cases. Shostakovich's integration of the march theme into the fabric of the music from then on, right to the closing bars, is masterly, belying the customary programmatic folk-tales told to accompany this movement. The extended climax can make a heartrendingly powerful effect if tension and belief are sustained, as Haitink, Berglund, Kondrashin, Toscanini, Mravinsky, Bernstein and others have shown, in their differing ways. It's all there in the score, but neither Gergiev nor Bychkov quite pulls it off.

Gergiev presents the more sustained aftermath, leading to the quiet equivocal close. Bychkov makes the section part of his overall, vigorous symphonic vision, sounding at most times livelier than the live Gergiev. Yet consideration of the same section in even the ancient Stokowski aircheck - a broadcast that Bartok might conceivably have heard, to indulge in more spurious myth-making - gives a salutary reminder of the qualities missing from newer performances. The NBC's principal bassoonist is stretched to the limits of phrasing and breath control by the indulgently slow Stokowski tempo, but on the day he is more than up to the task, shading the extended individual notes with real feeling, and the result, despite the intervening sixty years and the acetate noise, is a compelling, focused, meditative and tragic intensity, which seems right.

The two new discs, then, whilst worth hearing, don't necessarily make it any easier for anyone wishing to have a single, representative account of Opus 60 in their home. Bychkov and his orchestra give a confident and exciting reading, occasionally brash, which seems shorter than its 72 minutes. It is one of the best of the recent straighter readings, with no hype in packaging or presentation, and it improves on repetition.

Gergiev aims to project something much darker, slower, more subtle and more troubling than Bychkov, and should certainly be heard by admirers of the work; though I'm sure his current performances mark an advance on this one, which lacks that live spark. Philips' unrealistic and uninvolving sound almost scuppers his ambitions for a fresh consideration of the Seventh.

For less than the price of these two CDs, collectors new to the Seventh should be able to find Barshai's complete Shostakovich symphony cycle: idiomatic performances and good, modern recordings. All the other performances mentioned above have points of interest. None is perfect, but all the versions by the composer's Russian colleagues should be required listening for lovers of Opus 60, and any conductor who aspires to record the work.

Booklet notes retell the myths and legends of the Seventh, from varying angles. Gergiev's writer allows for revisionism, Bychkov's suggests the march might represent the determination of the Russian people. Neither is especially coherent, nor is much detail given on the music itself. I'd like to have read of the work's formal innovations, its bold architecture and cross-referencing; the way the inner movements seem to have missing vocal parts, for which the long wind solos seem a not always perfect substitute; above all of the stark originality of the first movement, which now seems arguably the composer's most wholly original symphonic first movement, and maybe his greatest, the Tenth notwithstanding; a play - and a tragedy - on social and musical expectations, of idioms and forms within a form, without precedent in the composer's work, forming itself one of Shostakovich's most successful solutions to the often agonisingly difficult chess problem that was his creative position, in the Soviet Union.

The composer left us a work built to last: a potboiler would never have done, for his home city, or for posterity. Its disquieting personal message is once more becoming apparent, as "peace" is replaced by the oddest of ongoing wars, led by words and attributions. The Seventh challenges us to reject denial and to accept the War, the Terror and the horrors and appalling compromises in our own lives as the real, living facts they are, to be faced and transcended with a tangible, creative response. The Seventh has always done this, telling how it is; but we've often made too much critical noise to notice, feeling it simply told how it was. The Colossus looks down at the ever-mocking Bartok, on all those critics who remain snooty about its idiom, all those embarrassed to find themselves enjoying its direct appeal and physical impact - or, heaven help us, tapping a foot to the march before things turn ugly. Like all great art it invites us to think about ourselves, our world, and our responses to the work itself. Surely now it wears a wry grin; the closest our times and history yet allow to the Seventh letting out the last laugh.

Paul Ingram
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DSCH No. 19.
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