By Mr. Dan Ogilvie
Francesco
Merli
In many paintings of the lamentation
of Christ, amongst the bowed heads of the mourners, you may find a solitary grief
stricken figure looking out at you, the viewer. The purpose of this solitary
viewer is to turn the scene from a simple recording of an event into something
the viewer can emphasise with. We can see the emotion on the face of this
figure, and therefore we also can share in his grief. The figure is a ‘way in’
to the painting.
I often feel that the aria Nessun
Dorma performs the same function in opera. How many of us, I wonder, have
started to explore opera because of hearing a rendition of that song, perhaps
by Luciano Pavarotti, Russell Watson, Al Martino or Mario Lanzo. I know, in my
case, it was hearing Jussi Bjorling sing it that introduced to me, firstly
further arias of his, but then full operas: he and his soaring version of that
aria, was my ‘way in’ to opera.
I have always maintained affection for
Turandot. In some ways I sort of collected Nessuns, from the plaintive but
underpowered Miguel Fleta to the ridiculously long-held last note of Xiaojun
Deng. But complete performances have always disappointed – I thought that this
was, perhaps, an opera that has to be heard live – you have to be there to be
wrapped up in its violent and rather unpleasant plot (the frustratingly brief
extracts of Giovanni Martinelli or Daniele Barioni, live, perhaps endorse
this). Even the complete recording of Jussi Bjorling failed to catch my
imagination, even though there is some glorious singing to be found there.
So it was more for completeness that I
bought the complete studio recording of Turandot with Francesco Merli, Gina Cigna
and Magda Olivero. Let me tell you, once you have bought this recording, there
is no need to buy any other. It is stunning, so much so (and I will honestly
admit this) I have repeatedly played the Ping, Pang and Pong act, so well
performed as it is, something I sometimes skip or use as an excuse to get a
glass of wine.
This recording was not my first
introduction to Francesco Merli, but it cemented for me what an astonishing
tenor he was.
Here is the Signor Ascolta… Non
Piangere Lui from that recording. Be prepared to have your breath taken
away.
Merli’s voice is dark, even sonorous,
but never unwieldy. Listen in the Non Piangere to him waiver his voice
at the end of ‘questo’. Are we now in any doubt that this apparently heartless
man loves Lui. And for such a dark baritonal voice the top notes ring out and
are generously held, but not just because of playing to the crowd. Turandot is
going to accept his challenge – he will make sure of that.
Perhaps Rosa Ponselle, slightly
indirectly, should introduce my next extract:
‘You know, I don’t even remember Merli
singing Gioconda at all… All I remember singing with him was L’amore
dei tre re: that was unforgettable, even the rehearsals… Whew! I forgot
myself around him, even in the rehearsals. I was a bad girl;…’
Unfortunately I cannot find that duet
on-line, but here is Cielo e Mar from Gioconda, lest the rest of
us should forget.
We are now in no doubt this voice is a
true tenor voice. We can hear that agility again, he caresses the words; the
phrasing is immaculate.
Why is Merli not mentioned in the same
pantheon as Lauri-Volpi or Martinelli or Gigli? Well, he was unlucky with his
roles at the Metropolitan (ill-health) and at Covent Garden (which is graveyard
for many singers who do not fit the British sensibilities of the particular time)
which restricted his fame to within Italy, with La Scala his base. But luckily
there are quite a few recordings of his to be found.
Stella Roman has hailed Merli as the
greatest Otello she ever appeared with, and as her partners included Vinay, Pertile
and Martinelli, we should take note. It would be remiss of me to not include
something from that work here.
Ms. Roman, you have a point. Tell me,
gentle reader, are you not breathing a little quicker after listening to that –
it is stunning piece of singing. And the words are sung, not shouted: the words
are deeply felt; this is truly the singing of a broken man. Even in the last
note of defiance do you hear him sharpen the note slightly, giving it an edge,
a little bit of extra ferocity.
I always think, with the demanding
repertoire that Merli sings, there has to be a sort of saving of resources for
that last note. How many tenors have you seen hang around the back of the stage
letting the chorus do all the work until running quickly to the front to
deliver the final note of Di Quella Pira (let alone reprise it!). Merli
has such surety in his voice and such technique he never feels the need to
‘save himself’. Listen to this aria from Guillaume Tell – those notes,
given so freely, would shatter rock, let alone the odd chandelier or two.
Let me finish with an aria from La
Forza del Destino that I believe encapsulates everything that is great about
this singer. It is so easy for a singer such as this, with such weight of voice
at his command, to go ‘over the top’, to ‘play to the gallery’. That can, of
course, be exciting, and don’t think there isn’t a place for it. But Merli
manages to be refined, yet at the same time exciting and emotional. He does not
abuse the words and music, he heightens them. He is, truly, a great singer.
