Ya-Fei Chuang's charming intimacy

By Richard Storm
For the Register-Guard

When pianist Ya-Fei Chuang began to play a selection of Felix Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words" Saturday evening, a comfortable hush pervaded Beall Hall.

Her flexible phrasing and sensitive touch, applied to this masterfully simple music, created the illusion that we were seated in a family parlor during the after-dinner music-making that used to be common in this country and Europe. That tradition and the communal unity it encouraged are sorely missed in this time of fractured, multitasked family life.

Mendelssohn's genius, still mysteriously undervalued, lay in his ability to create music that seemed effortless, inevitable. At his best (which is most of the time), his compositions are outstanding examples of this, of art concealing art.

Chuang's performance emphasized that aspect beautifully in its elegant ebb and flow. Her liberal use of rubato, bending the rhythm, as well as her ability to let the main theme sing out independently of the accompaniment, recalled the relaxed skill of the great virtuoso pianists of the past. Each of these miniatures was a treasure of intimate communication.

Robert Schumann's "Carnaval" is not effortless music and was not effortlessly performed on this occasion. The tortured composer, while capable of glorious melodic outpouring, seemed unable to leave any beautiful moment untouched by agitation and tragedy.

This suite of "little scenes" is centered on a musical motif derived from the letters of the composer's name. The resulting thematic unity is impressive, if sometimes arbitrary, and can be exhilarating in heroic hands. Chuang does not yet possess that kind of power, but her traversal of this enormous and demanding score was never less than intelligent and musical.

"Carnaval" depends on violent outbursts, torrents of notes, to create dramatic tension and to highlight the lyrical moments that lie at the core of the piece. In that respect, it is quite "modern" in concept, asking the listener to make the philosophical connections, rather than always working them out in the music.

In this performance, lyricism was beautifully served but the outbursts seemed to push Chuang's admirable technique to its limits, creating a curious, loud monotony, rather than the shaded heroism the piece demands. The resulting strain rendered the performance somewhat insecure.

Intimacy and confidence returned with an agile and charming rendition of Johann Sebastian Bach's Italian Concerto. Although conceived for a two-keyboard harpsichord, this piece can be made to work well on the modern piano if the performer has the skill to re-create the dynamic contrasts the older instrument provided.

Chuang is so endowed, and also possesses both the dexterity required for the elaborate decorative coloratura and the control needed to realize the melting lyricism of the second movement.

To pick a nit or two: The music could have been allowed to breathe more and the final notes of some phrases should not have been thrown away. There are no unnecessary notes in Bach.

It would be difficult to imagine anyone playing Sergei Rachmaninoff's horrifically challenging Sonata No. 2 in B-flat minor in a living room. In fact, it is difficult to imagine anyone playing it anywhere, given its chaotic structure and technical demands. Throughout its substantial length, avalanches of notes are hurled at the listener. This is tough going for both the performer and the audience, which may account for the relative infrequency of its performance.

In this, the final item on her program, Chuang gave every ounce of skill and energy she could muster and came very close to conquering the piece. No matter; the struggle was exciting, and her stage presence very beautiful indeed.

Richard Storm is a classical music reviewer for the Sarasota (Fla.) Herald-Tribune.