San Francisco Classical Voice

RECITAL REVIEW More Sinew Than Heart

January 23, 2002

By Paul & Melanie Hersh

A stunning display of technical virtuosity took center stage in Herbst Theater last Wednesday evening. It was all the more remarkable, since the program presented by Leif Ove Andsnes, piano and Christian Tetzlaff, violin included three of the most serious, uncompromising works in the sonata repertoire. Even the billing of the performers — the pianist listed first — suggested that the music would be served with priest-like devotion.

The opening motive, a falling triad, of the Beethoven Sonata in C minor, Op. 30, No. 2, offered in microcosm the flavor of the entire evening. Here, the quick notes at the end of the sighing gesture were given the greater emphasis. Their brilliant execution and abrupt energy dominated what should have been a musical statement of great emotional complexity and mystery. The whole first movement was in fact a marvel of execution, which at the same time failed to capture the deeper significance of the music. There was not a single wrong note or unclear passage in the fiercely demanding piano part. There was not a single out-of-tune note or unplanned bow stroke from the violin. The rhythm was superb, and the tempo hair-raising.

But consider this: the opening motif was played disregarding the intent of the indicated slur, a slur which is broken later in the movement, but not until measure 125 in the piano, and measure 218 in the violin. This may seem a trivial matter, but in Beethoven's compositional style, the drama is consistently heightened by the device of motivic fragmentation. This performance, by beginning with the fragmented version, interrupted Beethoven's dramatic progression from the longer to the shorter unit. In short we were told "whodunit" in the opening phrase.

The notes but not the song

The Adagio Cantabile is the most extended slow movement of the Beethoven violin sonatas. It moves from a lyrical meditative opening through fragmented questioning phrases, to fortissimo outbursts, before subsiding into delicacy, highlighted by poignant pizzicati in the upper register of the violin. All of this was presented faultlessly, every gesture perfectly planned, a scripted speech given without hesitation, in which the words are clear, but the emotional narrative is strangely missing. The Scherzo was given a brisk reading, and the Finale Allegro was performed at a somewhat deliberate pace. While it was perfectly rendered, this resulted in a conclusion more ponderous than terrifying.

The Violin Sonata No. 2 of Robert Schumann is a late work which, like the Violin Concerto, is a problematic piece in concert. The violin register is low, the piano writing dense and often turgid, creating manifold balance problems, especially in a large hall with a modern piano. From its dramatic chordal opening on, I cannot imagine a clearer, more-perfectly-integrated reading. Interestingly, in the violin pizzicati at the beginning of the slow movement, Mr Tetzlaff assumed a guitar grip, undoubtedly to suggest a casual, intimate, improvisatory approach to this tender echo of the sonata's opening.

The great challenge of this work, however is to find and develop the narrative thread in the music. Its vast outer movements are a web built from a few repeating motivic statements. In this performance the energy and clarity of each single motivic statement shone forth, obscuring the drama of the larger action. It was difficult to keep alert since every narrative episode was heard individually, rather than as part of a larger plot.

Robotic perfection

In an amusing letter from Bela Bartok to Jelly d'Aranyi, Hungarian violinist who premiered his Sonata No.1 for Violin and Piano in London in 1922, the composer expresses bafflement that Ms. d'Aranyi's pianist finds the work so fiendishly difficult. Anyone who has attempted its formidable leaps and chord clusters must wonder if even Bartok himself, who was a virtuoso pianist, could have rendered this part as perfectly as Mr. Andsnes did on this occasion. Mr. Tetzlaff as well was in impeccable technical form. It was a carefully planned performance, more deliberate than it was whimsical or fun.

The only technical flaw in an otherwise unerring recital was the players' mutual lack of a truly beautiful tone. While the dynamic range was large, the violin never seemed to sing deeply, or the piano to glow with resonance. More troubling was the lack of spontaneous, joyful music-making. In the end these were not eye-opening adventurous journeys. Instead, they were meticulously scripted virtuoso events, showcasing the brilliance of the performers.

(Paul Hersh is a pianist and violist, and, since 1972, the James D. Robertson Professor of Piano at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. Melanie Hersh is the editor of Soundpost Online)