San Francisco Classical Voice

However, poor balances saw the cello muted, distant and removed. Important harmonic content went missing, especially in the opening Allegro. Compensation in the viola made the problem more obvious. In the Menuetto, care was taken to match note lengths, and here they sounded as one in the best sense. In up-bow portato (two or more notes taken in the same direction) they effected a pulsing unity. Nicely judged silences allowed notes to live — and dissolve — in the air. However, the second violin was sonically displaced. Chords which should shimmer merely trembled. Equilibrium was absent.

The third movement, Andante, was the most troubled and the most inspired. Steinberg's solo violin made a luminous line, a lover whispering to one person. His intimate audacity was breathtaking. It was not matched by his colleagues. Instead of leaning closer, they submerged him without purpose. The six variations which followed were, paradoxically, some of the best playing of the day. As Mozart intended, every player took a turn in the spotlight. It was clear that each is a superb musician, individually. Lee was particularly articulate in her drum tattoo, and the richochet in second and viola a witty rejoinder. The final movement, Allegro non troppo, enjoyed a bouncing conversation throughout. At the end, all voices were unified in a warm tenderness, a lovely apparition of what might have been.

Mario Davidovsky's Quartet No. 5 is also an homage. Rising from premonitory intervals in the first measures of Beethoven Op. 132, these fragments generated a one-movement gift to string quartets everywhere. It is a bipolar work alternating between the noble and the garish. Antsy ornamentation concludes pale and simple lines. Frantic firecrackers give way to languid contemplation. Special effects abound. Sul ponticello ghosts ring hoarse and true. Sudden changes in tempo and dynamic were handled without flaw. And the Brentano gave it a gloriously committed performance.

Everything seemed to change in the second half. Perhaps Brentano had ears listening in the house, and good advice was offered. When it came time to play Schubert's masterpiece, Death and the Maiden, D810, their sound was reborn. So was their aim.

The Schubert opens with a bullet, a powerful and startling attack, symphonic in ambition. Years ago Carlos Kleiber led the Berlin Philharmonic in a performance of the overture to Coriolanus, and sought the same impact. He described it as "like driving fifty miles an hour into a brick wall — in a Rolls Royce." So it was here, and these players never looked back.

Echoes had tremendous vitality, and cross-connections were etched clean and compelling. Their remarkable gift for uniform entry rang true and added to the cumulative drama of the work. The first movement, Allegro, has a famous false ending. I don't know that I have ever heard its deceptions controlled so well, and its reply so convincing.

Brentano was at its finest in the second movement, the variation set drawn from Schubert's eponymous song. Death, fearsome in its consolations, has seized a young girl. These players made a wonderful choice, new to my ears. In its opening measures they played like a Renaissance band — without vibrato, cold and severe, uninflected, hurdy-gurdy in a weary drone. It was frightening and magical. When the tune turned to the major it became warm and embracing, identifiably human. This was the finest playing of the day.

The weird Scherzo offered its own mania, an opening syncopation rendered gauzy, its central trio a place of surrender and retreat. The final movement, Presto, summarizes everything Schubert had to say. Dotted rhythms were relentless and compulsive, and drove everything from the path. When calamitous final chords dropped from the sky, everyone ran for cover.