A pair of unaccompanied violins, like a pair of coloratura sopranos, can sound shrill, even harsh under the wrong conditions. An unwise choice of strident material can exacerbate this situation, making music actually painful, not emotionally, but physically. To put it another way, Sunday afternoon’s concert by the Marcolivia Duo gave me a headache.

The venue for the concert, originally planned for Norumbega Hall in Bangor, was moved to Minsky Recital Hall at the Maine Center for the Arts in Orono for logistical reasons. Minsky may have been just too resonant for the first half of this program, which featured music for two violins, performed by husband and wife Marc Ramirez and Olivia Hajioff.

While the duo demonstrated virtuosity and musicianship throughout the entire concert, the performance of Jacques Aubert’s Suite in E minor for Two Violins was marred by acoustic problems. The first movement, an adagio in the Italian style, seemed shrill and acidic, with any extraneous bow noise all too evident. The three remaining movements, quick and rhythmic in nature, tried to be lively but succeeded only in being noisy. The last movement in particular had the thunderous clash of so many bow attacks that it sounded like a war zone.

The next piece, a selection of 12 of the 44 “Duos for Violins” by Bela Bartok, was more satisfying, especially when Hajioff was in the forefront, wringing vibrato-rich gypsy pathos from this series of short sketches.

The final piece of the first half of the concert, Mordecai Seter’s Sonata for Two Violins, was again tarnished by painful, although intermittent brashness. The andante moderato was harsh, dissonant and sad; a reflection of a deranged world. The presto agitato was exactly that; a fast and agitated infernal dance. And while the last movement began with a slow, meltingly sweet, hymnlike melody, it, too, devolved into agitation and dissonance.

During intermission, I was tempted to skip out the side door and leave the rest of the concert to those with less sensitive ears. Instead, wishing for earplugs and aspirin, I returned to my seat in the recital hall, and to a much more refined and enjoyable performance.

While still dissonant, “Rocking Mirror Daybreak” by Japanese composer Toru Takemitsu was hauntingly poetic, like a slightly distorted origami crane. Of course, the Japanese traditionally have elevated harshness to heights of exquisite, if seemingly paradoxical, refinement. Consider the twisted forms of bonsai trees or the rough and imperfect surfaces of raku pottery. Marcolivia played this piece with heartbreaking directness and sensitivity.

Next on the program was a goofy spoof of the music of Mozart called “Moz-Art for Two Violins” written by Alfred Schnittke in 1978. Rather like “Looney Tunes” meets Spike Jones, this comic relief featured whistling, the manual tuning of a violin down and back up again, Moebius-strip fugues and a lot of messing around in general.

For the final piece of the program, Ramirez put down the violin and picked up the viola, its larger and deeper-voiced cousin, for a performance of Johan Halvorsen’s “Passacaglia.” Based on a theme of Handel, this work is very demanding since the violin and viola must simulate the sound of a string quartet by the virtuoso use of double stops, in which two or more tones are bowed simultaneously.

With Ramirez playing the richly voiced viola, and with Hajioff’s more mellow violin tone, this piece was sheer pleasure, even in the acoustically charged atmosphere of Minsky Hall. A standing ovation followed, and then a brief encore of a Bartok pizzicato was played.

In summary, the Marcolivia Duo was lively, loud, bold, brash, sometimes charming. The program may have been an unfortunate choice for the hall, an acoustically unsuitable venue. Few of the seats were filled, and confusion over where the concert was going to be held may have contributed to the low attendance. I’d love to hear the Marcolivia Duo again in a better hall, but I’d bring some aspirin, just in case.

Helen York may be reached for comment at heyork@hotmail.com.