Brahms: Anne-Sophie Mutter (violin), Lambert Orkis (piano), Davies Symphony Hall, San Francisco. 7.4.2008 (HS0


As stylish as her form-fitting mermaid-style gowns can be, Anne-Sophie Mutter seems less interesting in surface glamour these days than in digging deep into the music to find its essence. Monday evening at Davies Hall, her traversal of Brahms' three sonatas consistently aimed for simplicity and direct communication, both with pianist Lambert Orkis, her long-time collaborator, and with the audience. The results were revelatory, Brahms without the clutter, the Brahms of long, arching melodies, the Brahms of musical dialogue.

The first sounds of the opening measures of the Sonata No. 2 in A major, which opened the program, a soft flutter from the piano, an answering wisp of a phrase from the violin, announced (quietly) that this was not going to be a program about technical pyrotechnics, of which she is certainly capable. Instead, she invited the audience of nearly 3,000 into a quiet salon, where we could overhear a couple of old friends searching for meaning in the music.

That quest, remarkably enough, made the three sonatas into something of an organic whole, the tender serenity of the Sonata No. 1 in G major acting as a sort of slow movement and, after intermission, the energy of the Sonata No. 3 in D minor bringing things to a thrilling close.

In the A major sonata, Mutter and Orkis created a sense of genial conversation. As Mutter picked up the themes Orkis had just played, she built on his phrasing, somehow echoing it but adding another layer or two. When Orkis responded in kind with the next iteration, it not only delivered to us Brahms' form and structure but an extra dimension from their interpretations.

They did this with subtle shifts in dynamics, and without losing the pulse of fairly quick tempos. Orkis' phrasing had a gleam to it, but Mutter seemed consciously willing to forgo her usual tonal beauty, often reaching for the highest notes on lower strings for a more gutty sound. If this compromised pitch accuracy on occasion, it paid off in drama. A listener had to pay attention.

As Mutter and Orkis focused on phrasing, one result was that the density of Brahms' writing fell away and the musical line emerged clearly. This was especially apparent in the generally hushed performance of the G major sonata, which often hovered on the edge of audibility. Sitting in the 12th row, I can't be sure whether the folks farther back heard every nuance, but the ghostly sounds coming from Mutter's violin made me sit up and realize I was listening to true chamber music in a big hall. The long sigh of the final pages was especially magical.

The more extroverted D minor sonata, which demands more technique from both the violinist and pianist, delivered all the frissons that Brahms wedged into it, but the most riveting were the unbearably sweet double stops in the final paragraphs of the slow second movement, like adding the subtlest brocade trim to the sumptuous velvet of the sound. That is technique in service of the music.

The Presto finale whipped by, yet without undue haste. Orkis and Mutter seemed always in control as the rapid-fire 6/8 winged along. They ratcheted up the tension, then let the music coast awhile before bringing it to ever-sharper climaxes, finally reaching the finish line with exhilaration.

As carefully wrought as the sonatas were, the encores in response to a loud standing ovation found the musicians letting their hair down for carefree romps through Brahms' Hungarian Dances  No. 7, 1 and 2, in that order. For a final encore, they played the famous Waltz-Lullaby with tender simplicity, a graceful way to say good night. (Half the audience laughed nervously through the first several measures. Why? They didn't know that "Brahms' Lullaby" was actually a lullaby by that Brahms?)

Harvey Steiman


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