Let the weeping cease: great string quartets don't live only in the domain
of Nostalgia.  New, *young* musicians are busting out all over, every bit
as good as the hallowed names from the 'Forties.

Take four Germans in their mid-thirties, call 'em the Petersen Quartet --
even though whoever Petersen was is no longer with them -- and set them
lose in Hertz Hall on a stormy Sunday afternoon in a long-awaited return
engagement.

Close your eyes and you will hear performances of the Beethoven Op. 18,
No. 2; Op. 29, No. 2; and the Shostakovich No. 4 that you had expected
only from remastered vinyl.

First violinist Conrad Muck and cellist Hans-Jakob Eschenburg could (and
probably should) have major solo careers in the world's concert halls;
violinist Gernot Suessmuth and violist Friedemann Weigle are spectacular.

They sustain and sustain incredibly well, singing lines from the beginning
of movements to the last note, and even bridging the cough-filled pauses
for the full length of the work.  Playing correctly or playing "well" are
not at issue here: there is greatness in what they do.

The Petersen is on a North American tour, with stops in Chicago, New
Orleans, and Toronto, plus a joint appearance with the Emerson Quartet in
Tucson; tear yourself away from the CD player, and hear the greatness of
*today*.

It seems to be Shostakovich Days in the Bay Area, with the Piano Concerto
at the San Francisco Ballet, MTT conducting hell out of the Symphony No.
11, and now the sorrowful, sad, "depressed" String Quartet No. 4.  It is
beautiful music, but makes one wonder if Stalin was right about the need
for music that promotes better output in the factories; I couldn't put a
single tractor together for weeks after hearing this work.

And, the real problem is that I can see no hint of catharsis in it.  It's
possible for Strauss to say farewell to life (in the Four Last Songs) and
you can come out of the experience "purified." This Shostakovich (which
he, wisely, didn't publish until Stalin was dead) says goodbye to hope,
embracing, being stuck in deep melancholy.  Considering the excellence and
power of the Petersen's performance, the No. 4 could act as a kind of
classical "Gloomy Sunday." Thank heaven that the thrilling, energy-filled
sorrow of the "Razumovsky" piped us out into the deluge!

Janos Gereben/SF
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