Open Writing

Dmitri SHOSTAKOVICH (1906 – 1975)

Symphony No. 6 op. 54 (1939)

Following the bilateral success of the Fifth, it looks like Shostakovich warmed to his two-faced task. In 1938, he went so far as to announce in print his intention to “set in sound the immortal images of Lenin” in a symphony on the same lines as Beethoven’s Ninth. Yet, when the Sixth Symphony hit the streets, there were no vocal soloists and no massed choirs. Instead of the expected Beethovenian monument to the founding father of the Soviet State there was just this lop-sided, three movement curiosity which sets out making all the right preparatory noises but then “comes off the rails” in a big way. People were puzzled. Quite frankly, so am I. In all the writings about what’s come to light in recent years I haven’t yet come across anything remotely like a convincing explanation of just what Shostakovich thought he was playing at.

Dr. David Doughty sounds as puzzled as I am. He finds the huge opening largo “tragic, solemn and lyrical by turns, something of an extension of the slow movement of the Fifth Symphony and claimed by early critics to be a portrait of Lenin” (I presume that these were “critics for the defence”!). However, he gives vent to what I imagine is a frustration similar to mine by dismissing the two short scherzi that make up the balance (or “imbalance”) of the work as throwbacks to Shostakovich’s earlier “vaudeville” style, even (and this strikes me as moderately bizarre!) measuring the finale against Prokofiev’s Classical Symphony. Maybe I’m influenced by the interpretation I know best, that of Paavo Berglund with the estimable Bournemouth SO (EMI), but I find these two movements more than anything put me in mind of a “bum’s rush”. So, maybe this is Shostakovich making a macabre joke: tell them you’re building a monument to Lenin, build up their expectations with an imposing veil of a first movement, and when the veil is pulled off they are confronted by a statue which, thumb to round red nose, blows them a razzberry, and moreover a razzberry with meaning?

The very beginning is often described as “pastoral” in mood. Well, it was nothing of the sort with Berglund, and it most certainly isn’t in Barshai’s hands. Sure, the opening phrases are aspiring and the unison strings and woodwind sound mellow, but the belly-lifting drop at the end of the second phrase and the subsequent contrast of acrid high frequencies soon knock any such cosy “pastoral” notions on the head. In fact, Barshai seems to drill right into the heart of this music. For the first third or so of its running time it is massively miserable, and Barshai’s engineering of the climaxes is blood-curdling in its intensity. The WDRSO’s sonic response is fully up to it, which is more than can be said for the poor, beleaguered microphones at a couple of particularly stressful points in an otherwise exemplary recording. Amongst numerous superlatives, I really must single out the horns who sail majestically over a couple of heaving climaxes.

Gradually, the fire dies down, and it is here that Barshai is most impressive, gripping our attention through every second of the music’s long, sleepless night. This is haunted by the ghost of Mahler, whose Wunderhorn-inspired funereal world Shostakovich almost literally copies, especially in the hollow clang of harp and tamtam. But Shostakovich adds something of his very own, a monotonously whirring eternity of string trilling that chills the blood every bit as much as it had formerly been curdled. Then the bright-eyed tinkling of celeste and glockenspiel ushers in a chorale of mellow horns and woodwind: could this be the sun rising, bring a new day and new hope? No, even the glitter becomes oppressive. The music’s blooming into semi-optimism is defeated by a sour horn chord, and the music subsides into deathly stillness. This “pastoralism” is a bit short on buttercups and daisies.

After this, I can’t imagine taking the two short, quick movements as simply “Shostakovich having fun”. By the sounds of it, neither can Barshai. He whips the whirling woodwind and pizzicato strings remorselessly, whisking the frolicsome materials into a fearsome climax of unbridled aggression. The WDRSO is brimming with vitality and urgency, trumpets and percussion crisp and with crackling articulation of the stammering rhythms. If we are reminded of Shostakovich’s comment to the effect that “smiling at everyone in the street was compulsory”, then the course of the movement following the ominous tamtam wallop and hammering tympani is logical: the same cheery music continues, only now somehow “dimmer”, with even the piccolo sounding “muted”. The dissolution into puppet-like disfigurement is finely crafted, and the sheer sound of the tapping of the tympani at the tail-end is a moment of magic.

Barshai’s grip doesn’t slip even for a moment: he launches the finale at a seemingly carefree gallop, all apparently pinky and perky. There are maybe occasional awkward moments in the tricky phrasing, but the all-important momentum is spot-on. Equally spot-on is the way the music is made to falter following the relentless central climax. Woodwind and strings grope blindly, a solo violin casting around for the way back to the reprise. Barshai may lack the out-and-out manic aggression of Berglund, but his gradual conversion of the cheerful chuntering into that “bum’s rush”, propelled against its wishes and with increasing insistence towards the door marked “exit”, nevertheless captures the essential and unnerving feeling of being forcibly detached from one’s hinges. But, if you prefer to regard this as simply a Keystone Kops-style romp, then go right ahead: the playing and recording are rumbustious and brilliant enough for just about anybody’s taste.