San Francisco Classical Voice

The Ravel group, in which Graham and Martineau were joined by two excellent instrumentalists, cellist Emil Miland and flutist Julie McKenzie, were not easy to absorb, as casually ushered in as they had been — and inadequately prepared as well, especially the first song, “Nahandove.” The singer used sheet music, which perhaps suits a chamber piece, but her eyes remained mostly there. Even with that aid she made note mistakes, and some of her entrances seemed uncertain. The narrator, a lover awaiting his beloved for a tryst in the outdoors, imagines her arrival with increasing excitement, pauses for breath when she appears, grows passionate again as he kisses her, then relaxes after their lovemaking — all of these shifts in action requiring the most carefully worked-out tempo changes, which must be dictated from within by the text, not imposed from without according to strict metronome markings. But these tempo changes, and the interrelationships among them, were rendered haphazardly and incoherently.

The second song, “Aoua!,” fared better, though once again the increase in tempo — the growing excitement of the native who sings a warning against the invading whites — was pushed from the keyboard, not generated by the singer as it should have been. Graham did, however, rise beautifully to the challenges of speed and volume — not an easy accomplishment — and the song was convincingly terrifying.

McKenzie's flute introduction to the third piece, “Il est doux” (It is sweet), and a cello interlude by Miland were wonderful, and the singer's approach was suitably sensual, though she missed opportunities to exploit the sinuous, dance-like rhythm of the phrase, “Que vos pas soient lents; qu'ils imitent les attitudes du plaisir et l'abandon de la volupté” (Tread slowly, and make your steps suggest the postures of pleasure and ecstatic abandonment).

The consensus on Graham's French diction is that it is excellent, and generally it is. But one exception, in particular, stood out; perhaps a French native speaker could correct it. In the second song, the open vowel of “soyez” in “Soyez justes, soyez bons,” should not sound — or look — like a wide-open “ah,” which doesn't capture exactly the flavor of the vowel. A slight lifting of the corners of the mouth will achieve not only correct enunciation, but also the ingratiating, insincere tone needed for the false promises, initially, of the invading white men to the natives: “Be good, be kind, and become our brothers.” Later will come the menacing forts, the belching cannon, the attempts at conversion: the inevitable betrayal. Graham sang the final echo of the native's cry, “Aoua! Méfiez-vous des Blancs, habitants du rivage” (Do not trust white men, dwellers of the shore) in a knowingly savage pianissimo.

Martineau matched the singer's charm and buoyancy in “Villanelle,” the first of three songs from Berlioz' Nuits d'été. Both performers, largely because of Martineau's assiduous attention to the singer's breathing, spun out a gorgeous “Spectre de la rose,” which was marred only by an unfortunate long pause for breath in the middle of the line, “Mon destin fût digne d'envie” (My fate was worthy of envy) and one or two portamentos too many. “L'île inconnue” (The Unknown Isle) was breezy and arch, but the admittedly strange ending, in which the girl seems to take the wind out of the sails of the confident would-be lover, fell flat. It's a difficult passage to bring off. A rendering on more than one level is needed, but subtle interpretation is not one of Graham's strengths.

Sister Helen Prejean, of “Dead Man Walking,” wrote several poems which Jake Heggie set to music under the title, The Deepest Desire: Four Meditations on Love. They are slight poems, and the settings do not enhance them. Only the final poem in the set, “Primary Colors,” has any real interest, but Heggie does not adequately explore its possibilities.

Charles Ives was a prolific composer of many affecting songs, some winsome, some jovial, some quite beautiful. Graham found the humor and sentimentality, respectively, of “1, 2, 3” and “The Things Our Fathers Loved.” Martineau brought out the interest in the piano part of “The Housatonic at Stockbridge,” a fine setting of a not altogether negligible poem by Robert Underwood Johnson, and Graham gave it a good reading.

Three songs by Mahler from the Knabenwunderhorn (Youth's Magic Horn) closed the program. The gently rollicking “Rheinlegendchen” (Rhine legend) was abundantly lilting in the Viennese manner in Martineau's piano but could have used more “Schlag” from the singer. “Wo die schönen Trompeten blasen” (Where the shining trumpets blow) was exquisite — heartfelt and beautifully modulated. Graham's excellent command of pianissimo, so trustworthy that she was tempted to use it too often, was perfectly, aptly deployed here.

For encores, Graham sang her “favorite song,” Reynaldo Hahn's sweetly affecting homage to Rameau's era, “À Cloris” (To Cloris), and Ben Moore's gift to Graham herself, “Sexy Lady,” to which any mezzo who has had to sing her share of pants roles can relate. The song voices the plaint of the singer whose feminine attributes must be bound and otherwise disguised so that she can convincingly portray a man onstage. Please remember, the song says, that I am a woman, and I only sing these roles because, well, they are beautiful and, yes, they do pay the rent. The song brought roars of approval from the adoring audience.