No one dispenses musical decadence as exquisitely as Riccardo Chailly. In The Miraculous Mandarin‚ at the point where the hapless fille de joie first lures the Mandarin and Bartók paints her beckoning gestures with softly curled string phrases‚ the effect is so tender you could almost melt. The slowly accelerating waltz that leads us on to the Chase starts imploringly and grows more desperate by the second‚ while the three Decoy games – superbly characterised by the Royal Concertgebouw clarinettists – intensify with great subtlety. Chailly is at his inspired best towards the end of the ballet‚ music that falls outside the more familiar Suite‚ firstly where the Mandarin starts to glow‚ then in his short­lived but devastating death throes. Iván Fischer’s Budapest performance has a sharper (and harder) bite‚ but Chailly’s ear for texture‚ certainly in the score’s quieter and more sinister sections‚ reawakens dormant associations with the Second Viennese School. The generous Concertgebouw acoustic has a flattering ambience which allows the woodwinds to breathe but tends to cloud the climax of the opening allegro. I wouldn’t personally prefer this version to Fischer’s‚ but readers who hear Bartók as an ethnically tinted outgrowth of Debussy may feel differently. As for the Concerto for Orchestra‚ Chailly’s highly personalised reading is in marked contrast to his more centred Concertgebouw forebears Eduard van Beinum (1948)‚ Bernard Haitink (1960) and Antál Dorati (1983). To start at the end‚ Chailly makes a big feature of the Ritenuto molto that falls at around 9'29"‚ just before the ‘alternative ending’ (that is‚ the one we usually hear)‚ then broadens massively for the five­note fortissimo brass cry a few seconds later. An effective if theatrical idea‚ I thought‚ though not one I’d want to encounter too often. Again‚ there are numberless points of textural illumination. In the Introduction you really hear the violas’ sul ponticello and the acceleration into allegro vivace (from 3'29") is beautifully judged‚ though the sudden speeding at around 3'47" into the second movement – where clarinet‚ flute and oboe chuckle their way back to the opening section – is of Chailly’s own devising. There are other minor mannerisms‚ like the inserted pause at 1'07" into the ‘Intermezzo interrotto’‚ just before the calmo viola passage. Needless to say Chailly makes a beeline for the roaring trombones later on‚ and Decca responds with startlingly realistic focusing. And when did you last hear those glissando divided violins at 1'10" into the second movement (backing woodwinds) or the horn line sound more dramatically at the start of the finale? And if the sudden switch to forte at 3'11" into the finale pulls you up with a jolt (it did me)‚ rest assured: it’s there in the score‚ as clear as day. These and similar details make listening to Chailly’s sumptuously recorded Concerto a qualified joy. The Elegy and Finale are slower than prescribed and the overall impression is of a loving‚ colour­conscious and occasionally indulgent traversal‚ one that stresses the more symphonic elements of Bartók’s structure. I note the recordings date from as long ago as 1995 (Concerto) and 1997 (Mandarin). Why then the delay in releasing them? Perhaps because Blomstedt’s now deleted San Francisco Decca recording of the Concerto – a more tempered reading than Chailly’s though no less involving – came out in July 1995. Fischer is still a prime recommendation for both works‚ but Chailly’s three­dimensional approach is both instructive and stimulating. If you normally think of Bartók as acerbic‚ or aggressive‚ or dissonant‚ then this CD is the perfect antidote to your preconceptions.