San Francisco Classical Voice

Monday's recital at the San Francisco Conservatory's Hellman Hall saw two of the faculty stars in their firmament, cellist Jean-Michel Fonteneau in Debussy, and violinist Ian Swensen in Bartók. The program opened with Fonteneau and Zivian in Debussy's cello sonata. I've described Fonteneau's playing before as suave, mellifluous, liquid — and it was all those things here. But this was not an "easy" rendition, one where seductive sound painlessly bled away all the sheer strangeness of the music. Quite the contrary. This was an unusually vivid, even grotesque, performance, teeming with obscure and bizarre impulses. The central "Serenade," especially, emphasized the music's weirdness, every gesture sharp and distinct, every isolated note from the piano dropping like a miniature bomb.

It has to be said that Fonteneau has his limitations; the soaring lines of the end of the first movement and (especially) of the main theme of the finale demand an effortless high-register singing tone that he doesn't quite have. But for intelligence and atmosphere and sheer imagination, this was probably the best San Francisco performance of the Debussy cello sonata in several years. And Zivian (who unaccountably was not accorded a bio in the program) deserves as much credit as his partner.

Then it was Ian Swensen's turn. Swensen has evidently been working his way through Bartók's violin music, having presented the solo Sonata and the Sonata No. 1 for violin and piano in previous Conservatory recitals. In the Sonata No. 2, Swensen seemed for once to have tamed his impulsive body language, for this performance was all concentration, from the incantatory opening through the moto perpetuo finale. There is ordinarily an appealing warmth to Swensen's tone, but for Bartók he adopted a lean and even menacing sound, and in the finale the spiccato went from gossamer to spitfire with bewildering rapidity.

But more remarkable, in some ways, was the piece Swensen chose to follow the Bartók — Biber's G Minor Passacaglia for solo violin. Were anyone seeking proof that Ian Swensen belongs among the relatively few really interesting violinists living in the Bay Area, this performance should have provided it. That he took up the piece at all is something in itself. That he played it the way he did — with such freedom and such a grasp of the stylistic paths open to him — was a marvel.

Insofar as the Passacaglia has a performance tradition, it's split between old-style players like Max Rostal (who was, I think, the first 20th century champion of the piece) and modern "early-instrument" players like Andrew Manze. Swensen's performance touchingly drew on both traditions. He was not afraid to use vibrato in the "modern" manner. On the other hand, he was equally ready not to use it. It was not exactly the "period" use of vibrato (sparingly, as an ornament), but also not the "modern" style (all the time, as an essential component of the sound) — it drew on both. And Swensen was free in the same way with time and with technique — bending the tempo drastically for expressive purpose, rushing through scales, with a bow scarcely brushing the strings, so as to create an effect of sudden motion.

I don't know whether it would have annoyed the "modern" or the "period" purists more (yes, there are some in each camp). But for me Swensen's Biber was that rare bird, a genuine, intelligent synthesis of apparently opposed approaches. And it was vibrantly, individually alive as very few performances of anything are.

The program ended with the three players together in Brahms' Third Piano Trio, Op 101. From past experience I wouldn't have pegged Zivian as a Brahms pianist. But in fact he was splendid, sonorous without banging, delicate without that slightly pastel tinge that can afflict pianists with impeccable technique. Not that Op. 101 affords many opportunities for delicacy anyway. This is the most forceful of the Brahms trios, with little respite even in the nervous scherzo or the slow movement (with its shifting meter). But the performance was full of color and of imaginative detail.

Much of it came (as always) from Fonteneau, whose attentive musicality — constantly receiving musical gestures and constantly throwing them back again in even more vivid form — is an unalloyed pleasure to behold. Chamber playing of this caliber ought to be better known. (I hope we will not have to wait for him to leave San Francisco, as we did for his predecessor, Clive Greensmith, for the quality of his playing to be recognized here.)

(Michelle Dulak is a violinist and violist who has written about music for "Strings," "Stagebill," "Early Music America" and The New York Times.)

©2000 Michelle Dulak, all rights reserved