Andrew Davis has clearly thought long and hard about this enigmatic and powerful symphony before finally committing it to disc—at least that's the feeling I take away from this invigorating and revelatory performance. In many ways Davis drives this symphony harder than any other conductor on disc, and he certainly doesn't pussy-foot about—he knows exactly what he wants and how to achieve it. From the very opening he throws himself headlong into Vaughan Williams's terrifying maelstrom and there's a sense of urgency here that I haven't previously heard in other performances. The 12/8 second subject no longer seems out of place when played with the over-confident and 'all-puffed-up-with-pride' swagger that it has here. Perhaps the biggest jolt though is the way in which Davis underplays the emotion when the second subject returns gloriously in E major towards the end of the movement—compare Davis with either Thomson or Previn here (Chandos and RCA respectively), who opt for the more heart-on-sleeve approach replete with beautifully sheened violins and lump-in-the-throat. Davis has a more remote approach—more Paradise Lost than Descent of the Dove and ultimately more nostalgic for being so.
The second movement has a marvellously bleached-out atmosphere, devoid of any hope as it traverses its desolate and hostile terrain, whilst the feverish third movement (again one of the most urgent and compulsive accounts I have heard) builds to a truly terrifying and wonderful climax. Davis coaxes an extremely wide dynamic range from an inspired BBC Symphony Orchestra and this is heard to extreme effect in the pianissimo playing of what Christopher Palmer describes as ''the wreckage-strewn landscape of the finale''.
The remaining two works, the Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis and The Lark Ascending, are no less impressive. Davis's account of the Fantasia reminded me of Barbirolli and his classic 1963 recording for EMI; it has the same searching intensity and beautifully poised countenance and a climax so sublimely passionate as to be almost unbearable. I shall always cherish the Barbirolli, but Davis makes strong claims on being my first choice for a modern alternative. Tasmin Little's Lark sings with much exultation and poetry, and there is more than a hint of sadness and resignation, too, in her serene and gently introspective performance. The recorded sound is very natural and well balanced with superb clarity for inner details and textures. Christopher Palmer's sleeve-notes are an inspiration.'