San Francisco Classical Voice

The program opened with four sections of Bach's Art of Fugue — Contrapuncti 1, 5, and 9 and the flashy “Canon all'ottavo.” Jumping to the twentieth century, Vonsattel then tackled the breathtaking Mists of Xenakis and Prokofiev's Sonata No. 7, Op. 83 to close the first half. As though that were not enough, the second half featured Schumann's massive Fantasy in C Major, Op. 17 and Ravel's La Valse, as transcribed by the composer. Vonsattel offered one rather short encore, which he did not announce. (I vaguely suspect it was one of the Frank Martin Preludes.)

Most amazing was Vonsattel's ability to weave in and out of such different styles with ease and authority. His Bach was flawlessly controlled and unexaggerated; the mad gushes of Xenakis' toccata, the pounding of Prokofiev's wartime sonata, Schumann's lyrical nobility, all came across as if coached by fanatic musicological specialists.

That he could convey both the almost-blinding violence of the Xenakis and such elegant warmth in the Schumann defies the odds. It was simply that Vonsattel played the Fantasy romantically, touching the essence of Schumann, the slightly edgy bits of folk humor and a tenderness individual unto itself. It was right on the mark — neither the perfumed lyricism of Chopin nor the fawning lyricism of Liszt, but a secure Schumann sensitivity free of exaggeration — a very subtle distinction.

And so it went through the entire recital. It was as though one heard five different works played by five different pianists; Vonsattel has that complete a mastery of himself as well as the instrument. I cannot say that I've ever heard a pianist so totally void of ego in his playing.

One expects such variety, if at all, only from mature musicians. But Vonsattel is only 22, and in fact still working on his master's degree at the Juilliard School. He already has a drawer full of awards from Boston, Cleveland — you name it. But as if to hedge his bet on a career, he has also studied political science (aka “Back-Stabbing 101") and economics at Columbia University. He needn't have bothered. This Lausanne native can already out-perform 95 percent of today's pianists, with the dexterity of a Horowitz and the intellectual propriety of a Gilels in his arsenal. He's ready to be seated at the head of the table.

Xenakis, who died last February, was always something of an outsider. He neither followed nor led, but rather served as a kind of fifth column within the late twentieth-century avant-garde. The catch to approaching a Xenakis work lies in being able to suppress expectation. It's going to be strange in some way or other — not necessarily “original,” just strange.

His Mists, a large virtuoso piece in the Liszt tradition, was written for pianist Roger Woodward, who premiered it at the 1981 Edinburgh Festival. It's hard to imagine what the composer had in mind in choosing this title, other than to produce a denial of Impressionist connotations. The music alternates between loud outbursts, roaming the full keyboard at light speed, and relatively brief moments of quiet repose. For a composer who tended to avoid lyricism, the quiet episodes were all the more startling. Vonsattel's performance was sensational, the fireworks something like staring into a strobe light.

Flaws? Of course, a few carps are in order. The famous toccata finale of the Prokofiev Seventh was also taken at breakneck speed. That's flashy, but the music lost some of its power when taken so quickly. And why bother to play orchestral music on the piano? There's no way any solo piano can come close to matching the color or power that Ravel disgorged in the orchestral La Valse. It's silly to try, and indeed, one sensed a bit of struggle in the performance. Besides, there's no shortage of virtuoso Ravel piano music — the five-movement Miroirs for example.

This is a pianist with immense potential for a major career. If there's any hope for American record companies, they should be grabbing at him.