The time has mercifully passed when Russian pianists looked askance at Bach, seeing him as little more than academic fodder. Gavrilov has already recorded a sizeable amount of Bach for EMI and has often declared his awe and affection for, arguably, the greatest of all composers. His 'afterword' in DG's accompanying booklet quotes aptly from Ecclesiastes before finding the Goldberg Variations a ''gigantic masterpiece'' transcending particular ideologies and religions. Certainly Gavrilov's actual performance demonstrates, intermittently, that virtuosity and warmth of feeling are cause for celebration rather than apology. He can also be temperate and finely controlled. So, given such quality, it is distressing to report many niggling doubts and reservations.
What I miss most of all is some equivalent (if such a thing is possible) of Gould's mercurial wit and verve. Gavrilov's sonority is surely too thick and ample, too lacking in transparency or delicacy in, say, Vars. Nos. 3, 7 and 8. No. 10 seems sober indeed after Gould's eclat, while No. 17 is skittish rather than thoughtful or interior, with more losses than gains in the race of events. And while one is grateful for the repeats shorn from Gould's recordings, they are hardly used as an excuse for further exploration or new perspectives. Again, everything about Var. No. 24 is shipshape and Bristol fashion yet Gavrilov's rhythm lacks joyfulness and resilience, and the final leave-taking is oddly diffident and without that sense of benediction inseparable from the music's close. As piano playing much of this is remarkable; as music-making it is less convincing.
The recording is rather close and airless. In the circumstances this version offers little competition to Gould (both his early 1955 and late versions), Tureck (her old HMV set, 2/58—nla) and Andras Schiff.'