Given the relative success of recent instalments in Mstislav Rostropovich's Shostakovich cycle – the First and Ninth made in Washington, the Second and Third in London (both 10/94) – it is disappointing to find him resting on his laurels in the ubiquitous Fifth. The lack of rhythmic incisiveness is evident in the opening measures, and the attempt to chill the blood by having the violins launch their contemplative theme without much vibrato succeeds only in drawing attention to itself. The long-limbed second subject does not lack individuality – there is some characteristic, would-be emotive swelling – but where is the inner intensity? The development isn't slow but it lacks inexorability and threat, only partly a consequence of employing an orchestra which sounds underpowered in this repertoire. The climax is strangely un-rhetorical, with the big gestures none too carefully 'placed'. The coda has little chill and solo lines are too closely miked.
In the second movement Rostropovich favours heavy articulation and again introduces some unusual bowing. I found the results laboured rather than fresh. With the balance of the Largo undermined by inconsistent tempos, obtrusive nuancing and rhythmically unstable climaxes, the stage is set for a curiously low-voltage finale. The officious launch is by no means inappropriate, big and crude, but again the playing seems insufficiently drilled to bring off the intended effect. The drum strokes from 3'08'' (always exaggerated by Rostropovich for plainly ideological reasons) are ludicrously slow now – and limp too, which surely defeats their minatory purpose. The return of the opening material is painful, albeit not quite in the way you feel the composer intends. Rostropovich drags things out as never before, transforming that active Soviet symphonic archetype into an arthritic, heavy-footed dirge of dissent. When the sunlight breaks through as it must, shortly before the close, the fraudulent nature of Stalin's new dawn could not be more glaring. Unfortunately the lack of tension in the playing makes the effect more boring than terrifying.
If you want this kind of subjective interpretation and don't mind a marginally less than first-rate orchestral response, Kurt Sanderling is hard to beat. Alternatively, since Rostropovich himself made a better recording some years ago, now generously coupled with his definitive account of the Second Cello Concerto, you could invest in that and still have change enough for the differently motivated, smoother sort of reading exemplified by Andre Previn or, more recently, Sir Charles Mackerras. The Teldec issue is uncompetitive.'