This is a set that no one who cares about Dvorák’s symphonies can afford to ignore. These performances really do belong in every serious collection.

Supraphon has finally released Václav Neumann’s 1970s Dvorák symphony cycle, and what a wonderful event it is. These performances are, on the whole, fresher and freer than his digital remakes, fine though those are, and more warmly recorded. The only exception is the somewhat shrill engineering in the First Symphony, but in general the sonics are comparable to other cycles of the period—Kertész, Kubelik, and Rowicki—and this is unquestionably the best played of them all. It’s difficult to overestimate the value of having the Czech Philharmonic in top form in this music, but the sound of the ensemble really does speak for itself. Kubelik’s Berlin Philharmonic might have the best strings, and the London Symphony for Kertész and Rowicki the boldest horns, but the Czech Philharmonic has the best ensemble, top to bottom, at least in Dvorák.

Consider one example: the climax of the first movement of the Seventh Symphony, a work that shows both the orchestra and Neumann at their very best. If you imprinted on this performance, nothing else can match it in power and intensity. The passionate lyricism of the strings, the thrilling low timpani roll that propels the trombones’ upward arpeggio, and those bright, sforzando trumpets combine to make an unforgettable impression (sound clip below), and it’s all exactly as Dvorák wrote it. Interestingly, where Neumann deviates from the printed page, as in the main theme’s fortissimo counterstatement in the first movement, or in the work’s concluding chorale, he gives the doubling parts to the trumpets rather than the horns, as in most other performances, and this too proves the better decision.

This brings us to Neumann’s own contribution. Traditionally he has gotten short shrift compared to the competition. Some of this was politics. In the 1960s and ’70s the British naturally preferred anything featuring the LSO, and Kubelik was a symbol of democratic resistance to Communist rule. He also had the superb Berlin Philharmonic at his disposal, rather than his usual Bavarian Radio forces, and Deutsche Grammophon behind him. Neumann, on LP at least, was spottily available on generally horrible pressings, and he had the disadvantage to be taking over from Ancerl, an indisputably great conductor who wound up on the right side of Cold War politics. Then Neumann remade all the symphonies in digital sound, a set that Supraphon promoted intensely, and this earlier effort simply disappeared from sight.

In general, Neumann’s approach might sound a touch “old fashioned”—quick movements move at moderate speeds, slow movements flow without ever dragging. Although not quite so slow in the allegros, conductors like Otto Klemperer come to mind. And yet, Neumann is by no means lacking in energy. His Eighth Symphony is as fresh (and swift) as any in the catalog. He whips up quite a frenzy in the finale of the Fifth, and this Third Symphony might just be the best on disc. Its first movement is as energetic as can be, the central funeral march is gorgeous and never stiff, while the finale actually sounds less mechanical at this moderate speed than it does when taken more quickly. The Sixth seldom has been paced more naturally, and as Dvorák fans all know, Ancerl’s benchmark performance is a tough act to follow. Neumann has nothing to fear from the comparison, especially in the coda of the finale, which is stunning.

Neumann always did well by the “New World” Symphony, and in only a few spots in the first two symphonies does Neumann sound less than fully engaged (though in the former, he’s still more effective than in his digital remake). The third movement of the Second, particularly, needs to be crisper. Suitner on Berlin Classics is unmatched here. For the most part, though, Neumann’s performances have held up extremely well. In particular, he offers an object lesson in phrasing and, especially, the correct use of legato in lyrical passages. So many performances today, perhaps encouraged by the perpetual staccato of the early music movement, break up Dvorák’s melodies into fragments, whereas Neumann conducts in whole paragraphs.

The couplings add greatly to this set’s attractions. They are uniformly excellent. The Symphonic Variations overflows with character; the three concert overtures belong together (they share a theme, heard at the outset of In Nature’s Realm), and these versions of the four late symphonic poems rank with the best available. They are also very well recorded. So to summarize, this is a set that no one who cares about Dvorák’s symphonies can afford to ignore. Even if you have the versions just mentioned, these performances really do belong in every serious collection.

-- David Hurwitz, ClassicsToday.com

Faith in God was for Dvorák the cornerstone on which he built his own life and work, hence it comes as no surprise that a number of his seminal pieces are within the domain of sacred music, and frequently linked with a strong personal story.

The first version of the oratorio Stabat Mater came into being after the death of his first-born daughter. In the wake of the triumph of its London premiere, Dvorák received more commissions from the UK, which gave rise to other paramount compositions: The Spectre's Bride, Requiem and Saint Ludmila.

The instigation for Te Deum came from New York, where following the premiere of the New World Symphony Dvorák wrote the Biblical Songs, the apex of his oeuvre of this genre. The set also contains pieces that have been seldom performed (the cantata The Heirs of the White Mountain, Psalm 149 in the previously unreleased recording made by the conductor Václav Neumann.).

At the same time, this 8-disc collection within the Dvorák series, featuring gems from the Supraphon archive, showcases superlative artists and performances in sensitively re-mastered sound.

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"The quality of the 10 orchestral pieces assembled on the three-CD Supraphon set of Kalabis reissues has to be heard to be believed, the more so since the music itself is rarely encountered in the concert hall, outside the Czech Republic, at least. But these three discs have more than their fair share of masterworks. If I were coming to Kalabis’s music with innocent ears, it would take only the opening of the Second Symphony of 1959–61 to convince me that I was listening to a major symphonist. The opening Andante moderato generates a sense of powerful foreboding which is released with terrific force in the Allegro molto e drammatico that follows in what one is beginning to recognize as one of Kalabis’s typical manically striding marches. The brooding slow movement, an Andante marked molto quieto (the work was composed at the height of the Cold War) again builds up the tension, dispersed this time in a gloriously long-legged fugue which gradually expands into a gloriously dignified Finale. The First Violin Concerto (1958–59) lies somewhere between Martin? and Shostakovich, perhaps closer to the latter, and is hardly inferior to either, with a bristlingly energetic opening movement, a dark and troubled slow movement (marked angoscioso ) with spiky and assertive central section, and a buoyant but sober Finale. The first disc closes with the 13-minute Symphonic Variations for Large Orchestra (1964). If the Dvorak Symphonic Variations were more often performed, I would recommend resting that score for an occasional hearing of Kalabis’s tightly argued and absolutely unsentimental score—but even the Dvorak rarely gets a look-in these days, so I fear there’s little hope of hearing the Kalabis live, more’s the pity.



The second disc opens with the Concerto for Large Orchestra, commissioned by Karel An?erl for the Czech Philharmonic and composed in 1965–66, which begins with one of Kalabis’s fiercest dissonances, but it’s one of those dense agglomerates which suggests resolution and, sure enough, an arching violin line emerges and purifies the air and, almost before we know it, we’re off on another of Kalabis’s white-knuckle allegro s; Kalabis described the middle movement as a “tragic meditation”; and the freewheeling Finale has something of the ferocious energy of the last movement of Karl Amadeus Hartmann’s Sixth Symphony, though Kalabis pauses for air rather more often. In contrast to the four-movement Second, the Third Symphony is in three movements, another of Kabalis’s galloping allegro s bookended by two uneasy essays, predominantly but not always slow and, as ever, with Kalabis, powered even at moderate tempos by the sense that there’s energy in plenty waiting to be given its head. Volume 2 ends with Kalabis’s Trumpet Concerto of 1973. R?ži?ková, who provides the booklet notes for the set, explains that, exceptionally, Kalabis was allowed to accompany her on a tour of France that year and, in a little town in Provence, he was given a statuette of the town crier, whose adventures the music depicts (hence the title, “Le Tambour de Villevieille”). Cast in two movements and 18 minutes long, it moves as easily as the other works here from knockabout vigor to anxious inaction. The drums that are occasionally heard in the first movement are, briefly, more prominent in the second and sound as if they are about to set up a tattoo but the music then sets off in a different direction. I find this work slightly less personal than the other pieces on offer here, but Kalabis’s craftsmanship is as evident here as elsewhere, and there aren’t so many good trumpet concertos in the world that trumpeters can afford to ignore this one.


Kalabis’s Harpsichord Concerto, composed in 1974–75 (no prizes for guessing who the dedicatee and first performer was), has something of the buoyancy of the Poulenc Concert champêtre and the angularity of neo-Classical Stravinsky—but far more of a sense of onward drive than either composer; indeed, it’s in the driving rhythms of the Finale that Kalabis comes closest to Martin? though, unsettlingly, it then subsides into anguished silence. R?ži?ková complained to her husband, only half-joking, that “You have let me die”; but the times in which it was written, he responded, did not permit another ending. Martin? was tangentially involved in the birth of the work, as R?ži?ková relates in her notes. She was performing the Martin? Concerto in Switzerland and the conductor asked if by chance she had heard of a Czech composer called Viktor Kalabis; much laughter ensued, and a commission soon after that. But don’t expect some maudlin love-letter: Kalabis obviously wanted to show the world what she could do, and the solo part is a demanding one; the piece is almost half-an-hour in length, too, which must make it one of the world’s longer harpsichord concertos. The second work on the third, all-concerto, disc is the Second Violin Concerto of 1977–78, performed by the much-missed Josef Suk, with whom R?ži?ková formed a duo in 1963, so it is good to see him represented here and find him in stellar form. Just over a quarter-hour in length, it’s in a single movement, as are the 22-minute Concerto for Piano and Winds (1985) and the 12-and-a-half-minute Concertino for Bassoon and Winds (1983)—the most explicitly Stravinskian works in this collection. All three are tightly argued, the first two earnest and generally grave in manner, with the Concertino exploiting the capacity of the bassoon to suggest boisterous and slightly preposterous good humor, though there are also a number of passages of almost hieratic starkness.


The performances throughout make the case for the music as convincingly as you could ask. The recordings were made between 1968 and 1991 and have come up well. A few slips from the soloist in the Trumpet Concerto suggested it might be a live recording, a suspicion confirmed by the subsequent applause; a cough and the occasional noise serve the same function in the Bassoon Concertino.


Altogether, this is an excellent survey of some of the major works of one of the major voices of recent times. Taken together with the MSR box (if you do not know the Fourth Symphony, you should not let yourself live in ignorance of it much longer), it should help Kalabis’s name before a Western public, even if it’s largely the small part of it that buys recordings. Bit by bit, one hopes, some of Kalabis’s oeuvre might begin to appear in concert, where audiences will cheer it to the rafters. In the meantime, I urge you to acquire this box and do some hollering at home."


FANFARE: Martin Anderson

Collectors and admirers of Dvorak’s music bearing the hallmark of the Czech performance tradition can now add another comprehensive album to put alongside the previous complete Supraphon CDs mapping his chamber, piano, and symphonic works. The acclaimed recording of the symphonies, conducted by Vaclav Neumann, is now followed by Supraphon’s 8-CD box set featuring Dvorak’s orchestral pieces and concertos. In addition to the celebrated Slavonic Dances, it contains a number of rarely recorded symphonic works (the Hussite Overture, My Home, A Hero’s Song), as well as splendid compositions for chamber and string orchestras. Besides recordings made under the baton of Neumann, it provides scope to other great Dvorak conductors – Mackerras, Belohlavek and the rising star Jakub Hruša. The set of orchestral works is rounded off by recordings of concertos, ranging from the virtually unknown Cello Concerto in A major, written by the young Dvorak, to the most frequently performed, the Cello Concerto in B minor. Supraphon has again carefully put together top-quality and time-honoured recordings of works performed by world-renowned soloists.

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Previously unreleased recordings by one of the great conductors of the 20th century.

Karel Ančerl. One of the most important conductors of post-war Europe. A man who survived the Nazi concentration camps and the avowed anti-Semitism of communist Czechoslovakia. An artist who, through enormous patience and dedication, built the Czech Philharmonic into a world-class orchestra and introduced it successfully at the most important concert halls.

From 2002 to 2008, Supraphon issued the highly acclaimed Ančerl Gold Edition with the bulk of his artistic legacy, containing nearly his complete studio recordings with the Czech Philharmonic on 48 albums. But that was far from everything. Hidden in the archive of Czech Radio, there is a wealth of concert recordings that gives us a more complete picture of this conductor. From that treasury, on 15 albums, Supraphon has selected repertoire of which studio recordings were not made; that repertoire covers a broad range from Mozart to works by Ančerl’s contemporaries.

The recordings include masterpieces by Dvořák (Symphonies Nos. 7 and 8, Biblical Songs) and Suk (Asrael, Ripening), music by composers admired and promoted by Ančerl (Martinu Symphony No. 1 and Kabelác Symphony No. 5), and major works of the worldwide 20th-century repertoire (Debussy, Ravel, Strauss, Prokofiev, etc.). The only exception of a “duplication” of a studio recording is Smetana’s Má vlast. This taping of a Prague Spring Festival concert in May 1968 was one of the last recordings Ančerl made before his definitive departure for Toronto. The concert recordings from the years 1949-1968 document the maturing of this remarkable artist perhaps even more clearly than his studio legacy.

REVIEW:

-- Gramophone (Rob Cowan)

Josef Suk began writing the funeral symphony Asrael to commemorate his teacher and father-in-law Antonín Dvořák. During the course of work, however, Fate dealt him another crushing blow: Asrael, the Angel of Death, took away Suk’s wife and Dvořák’s daughter Otilie. The symphony is a story of a suffering whose strength seems simply unendurable, yet also a story of its overcoming, seeking solace and hope. Sir Charles Mackerras’s live recording of Asrael originated on a Good Friday, 6 April 2007, one hundred years after the symphony’s premiere. The young Australian conductor had first heard about Asrael some sixty years previously from Suk’s close friend, Václav Talich. In later years, Mackerras confessed that he perceived the work in a completely different light after his daughter had died. Sir Charles conducted Suk’s Asrael during one of his last performances with the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra. It is also his last previously unreleased recording with this orchestra.

All tracks have been digitally mastered using 24-bit technology.

martinu sym. no. 4 martin turnovsky; a. navarra, cello;ladislav cery, viola; Pavel Stepan, Ilja Hurnik-piano; L. jasek, violin; Czech Phil. Orch.Prague Chamber sym. Orch. ; Martin Turnovsky great czech conductors martin turnovksy

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MOZART: SYMPHONIES NOS 38, 39,

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Antonin Dvorak (1841-1904) Gabriela Benackova, soprano; Josef Suk, violin & violaJaroslav Soucek, baritone; Josef Hala, pianoCzech Philharmonic Chorus; Prague Philharmonia;Czech Philharmonic Orchestra; Panocha Quartet; Smetana Quartet Symphony no 9 in E minor, Op. 95/B 178; Te Deum, Op. 103;String Quartet no 12 in F major, Op. 96/B 179Sonatina in G major for Violin & Piano, Op. 100/B 183String Quartet no 3 in E flat major, Op. 97/B 180Silent Woods for Cello & Orchestra, Op. 68 no 5/B 182Rondo in G minor for Cello & Orchestra, Op. 94 /B 181Humoresque, Op 101 no 7/B 187; Suite in A major, Op. 98b/B 190Cello Concerto no 2 in B minor, Op. 104/B 191

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