San Francisco Classical Voice

The next was a cello solo by G. B. Degli Antonii, a ricercata winsomely performed by Skeen. His phrasing and rubato emphasized the quasi-improvisational character of the piece. His minimal vibrato reminded us that it is possible to play expressively without the sort of standard-issue wobblery which dulls every edge.

A sonata by Marco Uccellini showed why and how Martin is so esteemed in this repertoire. The work was declamatory and virtuosic in turn, and so was he. In the pitch-bending single notes which climaxed several key phrases, he was fearless. Most valuably, his command of tempo change was by turns daring and inexorable. To my eye, he held the bow even higher than usual above the frog (a standard early music practice), and obtained an exceptionally bright sound. It succeeded. In all of this, he was ably endorsed by Davis on a rich two-rank harpsichord.

In the second half of the concert, Cunningham stepped forward to give a dazzling account of Schmelzer's fourth sonata of 1664. The work opens with a sweetness bordering on cliché, sailing above a ground whose first four notes are the same made famous by Pachelbel. Thereafter, a wonderful transformation occurred. It revealed a series of variations and dances, each thoughtfully conceived and powerfully stated. A lilting sarabande was followed by a jolting jig, crackling arpeggiation connected to a graceful lyric, and so it went. A rising set of virtuosic episodes led to a finale of speedy string-crossing which brought cheers from the audience. It nearly stole the show.

However, it was a single composer who did that. His name was Purcell. His first publication came at age eight. Together with Mozart and Schubert, he may have been the greatest composer who died impossibly young. His vocal and dramatic music was written for the Court he served. Purcell's instrumental fantasies were written for himself. In them we find his most original signature. (In fact, he once wrote a Fantasia Upon One Note, setting and solving impossible problems.) These free inventions were the high ground of this concert.

Two fantasias from 1680 opened the door into Purcell's world of ambiguous harmony, odd suspensions, and masterful counterpoint. Fiddlers Three enjoyed these uncertainties, played with them, and made them modern again.

It was in Fantazia — 3 Parts Upon a Ground, that his genius was made inarguable. Although Purcell himself declared that composing over a ground is "a very easie thing to do, and requires but little Judgment," it is the embroidery above and canon within that makes this work so astonishing. Its innovations are both rational and unexpected. Every instrument enjoys a rich vocalism, and takes in turn a leading contrapuntal presence. The ground itself is transferred to treble voices, reduced to its simplest parts, fractured and augmented, and reassembled in completely novel ways. It is riddled with bold half-step dissonances, and propelled by an infinite variety of rhythmic adjustments, especially of the dotted sort.

The genius is this: every innovation sounds at once both completely unexpected and wholly right. The gift of these three fiddlers, and their two accompanists, was that they understood this paradox and reveled in it.