Great Opera Singers

Beverly Sills: A Great American Soprano

2012-02-12T11:01:00.004-05:00

Beverly Sills, (Belle Miriam Silverman) was born in 1929 in Brooklyn, New York. Her parents were Ukrainian immigrants, and as a child Sills was exposed to many languages at home, including French, Yiddish, and Russian, along with her native English. This exposure gave her a very natural facility with foreign languages, which was helpful in her later career.

Sills was precocious in the extreme as a child. Starting by winning a child beauty contest at the age of 3, she began performing on the radio at the age of 4 as "Bubbles" Silverman. She started taking lessons with Estelle Liebling, and by 1937, when she was 8 years old, she had appeared in a film, released the following year, which fortunately is preserved and viewable on Youtube. Because it tells us so very much about her, I think that here is a good place to see it. The film is called "Uncle Sol Solves It," and it is far more than a vaudeville shtick because of the difficulty of the piece, and the serious way Sills sings. Notice the extraordinary presence and charm of this little girl! Also, watch the video to the very end and notice Uncle Sol's final advice to her:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YAz2HgSZaDs

Now how adorable is that!? The amazing thing is that she handles the fioratura quite well! Also, she has been taught, or naturally understands, what the great bel canto tenor Fernando de Lucía once told his student Georges Thill: "...per cantare bene, bisogna aprire la bocca!!" Which little Bubbles did! It's not hard to see why they called her "Bubbles," is it:-) Also, one other thing needs to be noticed. Did you notice Uncle Sol's advice at the end? Stay right here and study in this country., no matter how hanxious your hancestors are to do otherwise:-) .....we have great teachers here. That was one of the first things I noticed. It is important, because this was the grateful and patriotic attitude of so many at that time. The culture these Jewish immigrants, largely from Russia and Eastern Europe, brought to this country was enormous, beyond measure. You can see it in Sill's life-long attitude and work, and also in the attitudes of Jan Peerce, Roberta Peters, and many others. What they went on to contribute—and still do—is a story in itself, one of which every American can be proud, and for which all should be grateful.

Liebling encouraged little Beverly to appear on radio talent shows, which she did, and won a series of them, bringing increasing attention to herself. By age 16, she had joined a Gilbert and Sullivan touring company and began accumulating practical stage experience. Two years later, at 18, she made her operatic stage debut as the Spanish gypsy Frasquita in Bizet's Carmen with the Philadelphia Civic Grand Opera Company. By 1953, when she was 24, she appeared with the San Francisco opera as Helen of Troy in Boito's Mefistofele, and also sang Elivra in Don Giovanni with them the same year. From this moment on, her career virtually exploded. She went on, over the course of her career, to sing very many roles, in virtually all the major houses. Although she sang a repertoire from Handel, Mozart and Puccini, to Massenet and Verdi, she was known for her performances in coloratura soprano roles. Favorite operas were Lucia, La Fille du Régiment, Manon, Les Contes d'Hoffmann, The Barber of Seville, Roberto Devereux, La Traviata, and I Puritani.

Sills' life was music, from beginning to end: it never stops. The honors and accolades were extraordinary, as was her public relations work on behalf of music and charity, her administrative work at New York City Opera, and The Metropolitan. It is a vast biography, much too long to discuss here, but very easily consulted. Also, she has written an autobiography She was, without question, one of the most famous and respected figures in mid-twentieth century American cultural life.

Let us turn to Sills the artist. Here she is in her preferred repertoire, singing "Come per me sereno" from Bellini's La Sonnambula. It is a real coloratura tour-de-force. The trills, fioratura, and (very) high notes are simply stunning. It is a video of a certain length (nine minutes). If you have not the time to listen to it all now, skip the recitative. You don't want to miss any fireworks:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuaGuKrq9fY

There simply can be no doubt about that technique. It is extraordinary, by any standard. The principles of bel canto singing have been thoroughly internalized, to the point where they simply come to define the singing. Few other sopranos of the twentieth century could match those trills. Sutherland could, but after that one starts to run down the list. Just amazing. And the speed of the coloratura is dazzling. This is a woman who was almost born singing, and was well taught from childhood. I would be so bold as to say that her technique was second to none.

Finally, from an American opera, the "Willow Song" from The Ballad of Baby Doe, by Douglas Moore. Sills distinguished herself in this opera, and was Moore's personal favorite in the title role (watch her, around 2:50, pick a D natural above high C out of the air!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNg8VGrIqls&feature=related

To a very great soprano, from a grateful American public—Thank you, Bubbles!

Gianfranco Cecchele: A Great and Under-Publicized Tenor

2012-02-05T12:19:00.002-05:00

Gianfranco Cecchele ws born in 1938 in Padua, Italy. Even as a child he showed a precocious interest in opera and operatic singing. His interest was steadfast, and by 1963, when he was 25 years old, he decided to give it a try, and took some voice lessons. His teachers were impressed with his vocal potential, and in the same year he won a singing contest organized by the Teatro Nuovo in Milan. His debut followed quickly, and in the following year he debuted at the Teatro Bellini in Catania, in a relatively obscure work, a one-act pastoral poem by Giuseppe Mulè entitled La Zolfara. However, possessed of a heroic voice, he quickly (within the same year, actually) moved on to La Scala to sing no less than the leading role in Wagner's Rienzi! Next—and this is all in 1964—on to Rome and Aida. Clearly, this young tenor with a stentorian voice was making a quick and powerful impression on audiences and critics alike. In rapid succession he accumulated a repertoire that included, in addition to Rienzi and Rhadames, Don Carlo, Turridu, Don Alvaro and Calaf. In the following year he appeared at the Paris Opera, with Maria Callas, in Norma. It is hard to imagine a more rapid rise in a very demanding repertoire, and that of course was a double-edged sword. He was, after all, only in his 20's! He reputation spread throughout Europe and he gave 241 performances between 1964 and 1969. Of course, the inevitable happened, and toward the end of the period, around '67 and '68, he seriously strained his voice, causing vocal inflammation. Too many big roles too quickly. He had to quit singing entirely at that point, at least for a while, to undergo a long and painful recuperation from swollen and seriously strained vocal musculature. He temporarily dropped off the map, so to speak, and not much was heard of him. After a few years, however, he was re-establishing himself, and adding some less demanding roles to his repertoire and singing less often, having learned the lesson that many tenors do. Had he displayed that wisdom earlier on, there would likely not have been an interruption in his career. Also, the fact that he sang very largely in Italy made him an opera singer who, while enormously popular there, was not much known in America. This is also the case with two other fine Italian tenors, Mario Filippeschi and Salvatore Fisichella. (Giuseppe Giacomini, also less well known here than he should have been, was nevertheless very active outside Italy.)

Listening to a bit of Cecchele erases all doubts about the greatness of the voice and his abilities as a singer and actor. One of his signature roles, from the beginning, had been Calaf, and here is a superb rendition of "Non Piangere, Liu"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRgDJvj9-go

Isn't that wonderful! The clarity of the voice, along with the richness and fullness, is positively thrilling. This is a great voice, no doubt about it. And, not coincidentally, Cecchele was a handsome man, and restrained in his acting. This is a 1968 TV video, when he would have been 30. I do not have sufficient information to know if this was during the period of recuperation from his vocal troubles or not; judging from the relative ease of the production, I would assume he was learning how to take it a little easier...there does not appear to be any stress in evidence here.

Here is an aria recorded in 1981, when he would have been 43, stable and in complete control of his voice: "La mia letizia infondere," from Verdi's I Lombardi:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7mkHrozXCI&feature=related

Absolutely superb! The quality of the voice is beautiful and well controlled; the top is entirely intact and completely in line with all the registers; that was a B natural near the end, and it was perfect and, most importantly, not overstressed or unduly elongated. In a word, it was exemplary, both vocally and stylistically.

Finally the big tenor aria from Turandot, "Nessun Dorma," from a 1981 filmed production:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jW-pdPhWPQ&feature=related

I find it impossible to fault this singing; this rendition of "Nessun Dorma" will stand with that of any other tenor, and seriously exceeds the efforts of many, some of them much more famous. Cecchele was, simply put, a superb tenor.

There are reasons, as I pointed out earlier, why Cecchele was not well known in the United States. Certainly the most important is that he was, it seems, perfectly happy to sing in Italy. Not everyone, after all, wants to spend half their career lives on airplanes. There is also the fact that there was something of a lock-out on some Italian tenors in the United States during the 70's and 80's. That is one of the reasons another great dramatic tenor, Giuseppe Giacomini, was seen so seldom here. But that, as they say, is a discussion for another time.

The Great Jacques Urlus

2012-01-22T11:45:00.008-05:00

Jacques Urlus was born in 1867 near Aachen, and grew up in Tilburg, in The Netherlands. As was—and is— so often the case with great artists, entertainers and sports figures, his family was poor, so much so that they could not afford to give him any musical training. The result of this is that Urlus was essentially self-taught, and a mighty job he did of it, for he was to become an extraordinary technician, with a near-flawless vocal technique that made it possible for him to sing Mozart, Wagner (with which he was particularly associated), and Lieder. In a word, like Franz Völker and Leo Slezak, he could sing anything he put his mind to. Essentially, it is always the same voice, and it always works well! More on this subject in a moment.

His debut was at the Amsterdam Opera House, in 1894, in a small part. After singing around Amsterdam for a while, he had the chance to go to Hannover, Germany, where he appeared in Lohengrin, to considerable acclaim. He sang for Cosima Wagner, but was not at that time given any opportunities at Bayreuth. So, it was back to The Netherlands, where he continued singing where he could. His next big move was in 1900, to Leipzig, which became his artistic base for many years. Debuts from farther afield soon came, and he went on to perform in Berlin, Vienna, Frankfurt and other houses in Germany and Austria. He also appeared at Covent Garden at this time. Finally, in 1911, he did get the chance to go to Bayreuth, where he sang Siegmund , which was well received.

It was on to the Met the next year, and Urlus was now established, having sung in all the major Northern opera houses. I do not know that he ever sang publicly in any language except German, or, I assume, Dutch in some of the performances in The Netherlands. After the Met engagement, it was back to Germany, where he essentially spent the rest of his career.

Urlus is a good example of what I talk about often in these pages, and that is the unsatisfying vagueness of our current terminology for voice types. He was a great tenor. To me that sums it up. We are so besotted with ever-finer vocal definitions, that they lose meaning after while: Heldentenor, heroic tenor (the same thing) dramatic tenor (the same thing), spinto tenor, leggiero tenor, lyric tenor, etc. ad infinitum. They are all in fact tenors, men with high singing voices. We burden our vocabulary with endless definitions, to almost no avail. Most of these definitions, when you stop and think about it, describe the color, size, intensity and flexibility of the voice. It does not invent a new category every time one tenor sounds different from another. Let's look more closely at Urlus, a good example of what I am talking about. Commonly called a "Heldentenor," a term I somewhat uneasy with in his case, here is his rendition of a popular Mozart aria, Tamino's "Dies Bildness ist bezaubernd Schön"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCou93le6zU&feature=related

It is beautiful, and reminds me of what a well-known New York opera coach once told me: "Everybody likes to hear these great Mozart arias, but they don't want to hear a church tenor singing them." Indeed. Urlus' voice sounds different here, of course, from that of Fritz Wunderlich, Jussi Björling, or Alfredo Kraus, but so what? They are different people, each with his own voice. If it resembles anyone else's rendition, it would be Franz Völker's. Both were eminently successful singing Mozart. And Wagner!

Let's hear Urlus move now to Verdi, and to what is commonly considered a "big" and "dramatic" aria, "Celeste Aida." Urlus sings it with exactly the same voice with which he sang the Tamino aria:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LB1gfEe1IlY

I would say this is exceptionally well done; that it is, in fact, great tenor singing, without question. The line, the purity of the vocal production, the style, and the dynamics, even with the "as written" ending. It is elegant and consummate singing, by any standard and in any historical period. What I am not sure I hear is "Heldentenor." If Lauritz Melchior is a "Heldentenor," then Jacques Urlus may not be. That is as simply as I can put it. They are both tenors, and they both sound very good in very different kinds of roles.

Finally, 2 short Wagner arias, from Lohengrin, recorded in 1907 and 1911. ("In Fernem Land," when Urlus was 40 years old, and "Mein lieber Schwan," four years later. I invite you to compare the voice, in all its aspects, to the two pieces we have already heard.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETGflvP5el8

And there you have it. Superb singing on all fronts: Mozart, Verdi and Wagner, and we have not even touched the lighter song repertoire, at which he also excelled. One voice, finely tuned and universally applicable. The fact that he always sang in German or Dutch, of course, helps make this happen. If he were to sing in Italian, Spanish, or French, it would be possible to talk about his particular aptitude for one or the other language, but that only adds another element to the real differences between tenor singing voices, and that is the aptness to the language of birth—another matter altogether, unrelated to voice types. Jacques Urlus was a great tenor; remarkably consistent and almost infinitely adaptable.*

__________________________________________
*For those who wish to listen to more of Urlus, please permit me to recommend strongly the Youtube channel of Mr. Tim Shu, at dantitustimshu, one of the very best sites currently available on the web, where you can find many Urlus videos, all with erudite and reliable commentary.

Léopold Simoneau: The Art of Elegant Lyricism

2012-01-08T13:46:00.000-05:00

Léopold Simoneau was born in St. Flavien, Québec. After beginning studies in Québec City and Montreal, he went to New York to study with the well-known American tenor and teacher Paul Althouse. His first important debut was in 1949 at the Opéra Comique in Paris, in Gounod's Mireille. His lovely, elegant singing was an instant hit with the French, and in the next two years he went on to debuts at the Paris Opera, Glyndebourne, Aix-en-Provence, Edinburgh, Salzburg, Vienna and Milan. He was quickly establishing a reputation not only as a brilliant Mozartean tenor, but as a near-perfect exponent of the elegant style of older opera in general, including Gluck's Orfeo, Delibes' Lakmé, and Rameau's Les Indes galantes. In the US, he sang at the Chicago Lyric from 1954 to 1961, and one season at the Met, as don Ottavio, in the 1960's. New York was not a fertile artistic field for elegant tenor singing in the Franch style at that time, being heavily invested in Italian verismo opera. Simoneau's superb lyric craftsmanship won him many honors in Canada, and he was, during his entire career, greatly respected for his musicianship and sense of high style.

His sense of style and finely tuned singing technique is something easily appreciated from hearing it, as opposed to someone talking about it! Here is the lovely "Un'aura amorosa," from Mozart's Così Fan Tutte:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=in7Nhn1H7Zs

Isn't that lovely! The legato line is perfect, and the smoothness of his singing is truly astonishing. This little aria is much trickier artistically that it might seem. The back and forth movement over the passagio can be treacherous, and it is not at all easy to maintain a smooth legato in the process. This is exemplary Mozart singing, and in fact Simoneau was praised throughout his career as one of the very greatest of Mozart singers.

It was not only in Mozart, of course, that he excelled. As a French-speaking tenor, the transition to operas such as Bizet's Pearl Fishers was natural. Here is the famous and beautiful aria "Je crois entendre encore:"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCl-Ib9FmTs

That is supremely beautiful, and vocally matches even the most famous tenors of all time (and I think every professional tenor has recorded it!) and is, I must say, far more convincing stylistically and linguistically that the versions of many well-known tenors. Simoneau is squarely within his favored repertoire!

Finally, an unusual piece. The music itself is very well known (Orpheus' heart-breakingly beautiful "che farò senza Euridice") but it is almost always sung by a contralto or mezzo-soprano. In France, however the piece was mounted as a French 18th-century style opera, with Orpheus sung by a tenor. This may sound a bit unusual to those who have heard only the contralto version, because dramatically the tenor best represents the role and the music as a male heart-broken lover who has lost his beloved, and the dramatic inflections which Simoneau makes place the piece slightly outside the more concert-like lilting, legato versions of female singers. I think it's a small matter, because the piece gains much in the (appropriate, I think) drama of its presentation. See what you think:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IYxgVjpZvrw

I find this very moving, and I think it works perfectly well.

Simoneau's career was one of very high musical and stylistic quality , and his recordings still bear eloquent testimony to that fact!

Ezio Pinza: One Of The Greatest Singing Basses

2012-01-01T11:31:00.002-05:00

Italian-American Bass Ezio Pinza was born in Rome in 1892, and grew up in Ravenna. Like so many famous artists, he was born in poverty. Such individuals often strive to succeed in sports or show business, largely because their poverty frees them from ordinary middle-class expectations, and, to put it simply, they can afford to take the chance. He showed musical promise early on, and was able to take some lessons at Bologna's Martini Conservatory. His operatic debut was in Norma in 1914.

His operatic career began in earnest after WWI, when he made his La Scala debut, in 1919, under Arturo Toscanini. From the very beginning, his voice was uncommonly smooth and beautiful, a great asset for a singing bass, especially one with matinee idol looks, which Pinza possessed in abundance. His lack of formal education meant that he was not a particularly well-schooled musician. He was not able to read music, for example, but he had a very sharp ear, and could memorize music accurately, even to the point of being able to hear—and absorb—stylistic nuances. His musical instincts were superb. The result of this was that he began his musical career to considerable acclaim, coming across to audiences and critics alike as a very good-looking and sophisticated singer and actor, with a brilliant and beautiful voice. His career soared as a result, and by 1926 he had been invited to sing at the Metropolitan Opera. Engagements at Covent Garden and Salzburg soon followed. He was particularly successful in the Italian repertoire, including Bellini, Verdi and Donizetti.

Like other Italians before him, he felt most at home in America, where he was an idol of the huge Italian-American audience that had so warmly embraced Caruso, Galli-Curci, Martinelli, and so many others. He was a favorite at the Met, where he sang for 22 years. In 1948 he switched gears, so to speak, and embarked upon a successful Broadway career, becoming a popular and well known matinee idol, largely through the success he enjoyed in South Pacific and, later, Fanny. It was in South Pacific, however, that he first became known by America's popular music audience, and it brought him great fame. He was frequently heard and seen on radio, TV and in the movies, and found acceptance as an essentially popular singer. His was one of the broader and more successful American singing careers.

Here is the quintessential Pinza in one of his most popular operas, Mozart's Marriage of Figaro, singing "Non Piu Andrai."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qk7NEnT1T1o

Notice the extreme smoothness of the voice. The wonderful thing about Pinza (inter alia!) is that he was first and foremost a singer. He put the "singing" in "singing bass." Many, less endowed vocally, will sometimes bark their way through even lyric arias like this. Pinza never did that. He was always the consummate singer and musician.

In the Italian repertoire, Pinza was very much at home, and the opportunity to display his elegant and musical singing was never greater than in operas such as Verdi's Simon Boccanegra. Here is the beautifully dramatic "Il Lacerato Spirito."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7cwjbO4zaM&feature=related

It is hard to imagine this aria better sung. It displays Pinza's operatic gifts perfectly. It is all there: the musicality, the stylistics, and—always—the flawless technique and beautiful, flowing voice.

Finally, we absolutely must conclude with the song that made Pinza a household name in America. Here is an old kinescope recording of Pinza and Mary Martin in "Some Enchanted Evening" from South Pacific. As will become apparent from the old video, he was in fact an excellent actor. The voice is wonderful, and the thick Italian accent is completely irrelevant, because it is a foreign character part. In fact, it adds to the charm. This is the Pinza most Americans knew and loved:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqBtME2kXUY&feature=related

There is nothing I can add to that!

Jonas Kaufmann: The All-Purpose Voice

2011-12-04T12:42:00.004-05:00

Jonas Kaufmann was born in Munich, in 1969. He started his musical studies as a piano student while still a small child. He began vocal training at the University of Music and Performing Arts in Munich when he was 20, singing small roles at the Bavarian State Opera at the same time. He ran into vocal problems as a young singer, but had the good fortune to make friends with an American baritone, Michael Rhodes, who showed him a proper way to sing, and Kaufmann responded quickly and successfully to Rhodes' suggestions. His professional debut was in 1994 in Saarbrüken, and he was very soon invited to sing throughout Germany. International debuts followed in quick succession, and a major career soon blossomed for him. Because he is so well known and actively singing, there is no need to speak much of his career, since such information is easily obtained. In this case, we may go directly to a discussion of the artistry.

The most amazing thing about this popular and successful tenor is that he sings an extraordinarily wide repertoire, from Mozart to Wagner, and all the bread and butter spinto roles in between! This is most unusual, and made possible to a large extent by his vocal technique, which is essentially Italian. In the past, German trained tenors were often accused of throaty and muscular singing, a phenomenon almost certainly related to the German language. Most operas performed in Germany are performed in German, and that has implications for vocal production. Kaufmann, on the other hand, sings in a dark and covered way reminiscent of Domingo, and—even more—Giuseppe Giacomini. Kaufmann is basically a spinto tenor, and this has opened the whole range of popular Italian operas to him. Other German singers have managed the Mozart/Wagner leap, but fewer have, in the process, shone in the Verdi/Puccini middle. Here is an example of Kaufmann in a very light and lyrical piece from Così Fan Tutte, a repertoire more characteristically inhabited by lyric and leggiero tenors:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXEjZqYhgQQ

This is absolutely impeccable singing! It is beautiful, the line is there, the Italian is perfect, and the performance, as I see and hear it, is flawless. Yes, the voice is darker than one usually expects in this aria, but so what? I have always contended that sub-categories of voice genres are ultimately a bit silly. How about "tenor." It works for me!

As I say, the Mozart singer who can also sing Wagner is a known phenomenon in Germany, but here is what is much more unusual, and the main thing that marks Kaufmann as almost unique; his ability to sing the Verdi repertoire in Italian. This video, of "La donna è mobile," is unfortunately somewhat out of synch, vocally, so bear with it please. It is worth it to hear the singing:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mjgo7c3IW4

I honestly think that is nothing short of spectacular. To me it sounds essentially like Domingo, Corelli, or Carreras in his youth. It is a quintessential Italian spinto sound, and a remarkably good one at that. It is solid, it is convincing, and it is consistent all the way up to the B natural. The best and simplest way I can describe the Kaufmann phenomenon is that he is a great German tenor who sings like an Italian! And boy, does that ever cover a mile of territory in terms of repertoire!

Finally, Wagner. Here is a sample of his Sigmund, against the mighty voice of Deborah Voight:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUI-3hAVYSU&feature=related

I feel Wagner would have been pleased to have tenors who could sing like this. He is known to have wanted his tenors trained in Italy when possible, and this is why. Domingo has successfully sung Sigmund, at the Met, not all that long ago, to great acclaim. This is first rate singing, and I do not believe it can be faulted.

Finally, I think a word needs to be said about all the silly criticism that seems to abound on Youtube about this great German tenor. Most of it has no meaning. There is one thing that I very much like about opera, and that is that it is a "bottom-line" art form. Opera audiences are not stupid or undiscriminating. Any person (who is not a millionaire) who lays down the money required to see a performance at the Met, La Scala, or Covent Garden, is in love with opera, and expects to see the best. If they don't, they will get very vocal about it, very quickly. A singer who can appear week after week on the stages of great houses, in different countries, and find acceptance, even acclaim, is—in this day and age—a great singer by definition. There is simply no way to survive otherwise. Kaufmann has done this. He sings all over the world, in the world's great houses, in the wide repertoire we have spoken about, and almost always to acclaim. For me, that says it all.

Bel Canto And Verismo: A Matter of Style and Vogue

2011-11-27T11:56:00.001-05:00

[I am pleased to present for a second time our guest writer Mr. Gioacchino Fiurezi Maragioglio, Italian industrialist from Naples, opera critic, and musical historian. His photograph appears to the left. Mr. Fiurezi Maragioglio was an intimate friend of the great Italian tenor Giacomo Lauri Volpi, and is a life-time subscriber to the Teatro San Carlo, one of the world's historically great opera houses. Mr. Fiurezi Maragioglio possesses that rarest of critical gifts; a vast knowledge of the subject matter and a straightforward and common-sense style of presentation. The following piece, on the vexed issue of bel canto vs. verismo, is one of the best and most convincing essays I have read on this subject.]

Because it was created in Italy, it is Italian opera that enjoys the greatest historical heritage of all the different and worthy national schools. Like all living art, Italian opera has continued to change and develop since the first works were premiered in the early seventeenth century. Perhaps the most notable are those composed between 1875 and 1920; the period when, following the overwhelming successes of Giuseppe Verdi, the giovane scuola, or new school of Italian composers tried to fill the enormous hole left by this god of Italian Romanticism.

Status as a pre-or post-Verdi composer is a very different thing. Rossini, Donizetti, Bellini, Pacini and others are widely recognized as belonging to the bel canto school. For post-Verdians it is not so easy. Many composers of the giovane scuola, such as Zandonai, are immediately classed as verismo composers and viewed in the same light as Mascagni, Leoncavallo and Giordano.

The grand, noble and elegant style of the bel canto composers had been in fashion for more than half a century when the music dramas of Wagner began to attract serious attention from Italian composers and critics. His ideas about tessitura, musical motifs, orchestration and libretti became influential across Italy, even if the length of his works did not!

Around the same time, (1875), Georges Bizet premiered Carmen, a work both popular and interesting which also came to influence the giovane scuola. The results are well known. In 1890, three years prior to Falstaff, Verdi’s final opera, Pietro Mascagni’s one- act opera Cavalleria Rusticana was premiered. Works by Giordano, Leoncavallo, Cileà, Alfano, Catalani and also Puccini followed over the next thirty years. This was the age of verismo.

This new style was very different from the bel canto style that Verdi had adapted and championed throughout his long career. The traditional virtues of clean attack, long legato lines, elegant and intelligent phrasing, coloratura passages, very high notes, and celebrated bravura pieces ceased to be fashionable.

The post-Verdian ( and specifically verismo) vocal line takes a much simpler path, generally with greater emphasis on declaiming the text than with executing florid music, and with emphasis moved away from the upper register to the upper-middle. Very few notes above high C, either tenor or soprano, were written post-1880. There were some, certainly, but few compared to the bel canto period, which favored the top.

Verismo composers generally provided thicker orchestration than was customary for the bel canto period, and thus singers tended to be trained to focus on projection and volume in the middle of the voice more than on agility and the upper register. The stories and characters found in verismo scores are typically passionate and viril; people in the grip of powerful and often violent emotions and circumstances. Some singers who appeared in verismo roles created superb and affecting characterizations alongside excellent vocalism. Others essentially let vocalism take over, giving their all in the performance. Some voices could sustain this treatment, while others could not.

In this interregnum, say between 1890 and 1910, some singers, such as Fernando de Lucia and Nellie Melba, continued to sing with their earlier vocal technique (which had permitted them to sing roles such as Almaviva and Lucia) while also singing roles such as Canio and Mimì. Others, including some that became extremely famous, rejected their bel canto training for the verismo approach, with varying degrees of success.

The older school of singing was never totally eclipsed by verismo, and singers such as Giovanni Malipiero and Toti dal Monte continued to sing with bel canto technique and teach this to their numerous students, who adapted it to suit their own vocal facilities. The verismo school produced many excellent artists, such as Licia Albanese, considered the greatest Violetta of the `40s and `50s, who, however, also sang Cio-Cio San so well that it was considered her signature role. She sang all roles to the best of her ability, even when that meant the transposition and adaptation of the coloratura in the Act I finale of La Traviata, for which her voice was untrained and unsuited.

Like all vogues, verismo faded and departed, having become thoroughly old-fashioned by the 1930's. As the new generation of singers such as Zinka Milanov and Jussi Björling began to train and then establish careers, their teachers essentially taught a technique that would be useful in singing a wide repertoire of congenial roles that had come to comprise the standard repertoire: in other words, the “middle” between bel canto and verismo: largely late Verdi and the most popular of Puccini's works.

Style had triumphed over vocalism. In 1954, when Zinka Milanov sang the title role of Norma at the Metropolitan Opera, the critics were cruel. Once again the fashion had changed, and now Norma had to be sung as Callas did it: lots of voice with lots of bel canto ability. Milanov, of course, did not pretend to be a bel canto stylist. She sang Norma as herself: the finest dramatic soprano of her time, and she sang it very well, transposing where necessary and lingering on few of her top Cs, but providing all the voice needed for this challenging role.

Indeed, singers like Milanov are often accused of taking a “hammer and tongs” approach to bel canto roles. Mirto Picchi, a great dramatic tenor and master vocalist, frequently partnered Callas in the challenging roles of bel canto, such as Pollione in Norma. Filippeschi was another. These singers were not concerned with missing some piani markings or taking fortissimo high notes or applying portamento or rubato differently than bel canto stylists might have. What they were concerned with was providing a vocally solid performance that met the challenges of these roles. Of course there are compromises, but that is the nature of performance. What good is a Pollione who follows the score faithfully and executes florid music easily but cannot be heard?

Bel canto and verismo represent two different styles and repertoires of Italian opera that must coexist. One is not better than the other. Everybody has favorites. All that we can ask for is understanding and education to flavor the appreciation and assessment of operas and their performers.

Franz Völker: A Great And Most Versatile Tenor

2011-11-13T11:28:00.001-05:00

Franz Völker was born in Neu-Isenburg in 1899, and began his vocal studies fairly early in life, in Frankfurt. He was only 27 when he made his debut in that city as Florestan in Beethoven's Fidelio. His vocal stamina, along with the particular quality of his voice, made him a natural, in the eyes of most, for dramatic work and most especially as a Wagnerian. It is perhaps not entirely certain that he would have made that immediate impression today, because Völker's voice, from the beginning, was a singularly adaptive instrument, usable and convincing over a very wide range of musical genres. It may well have been the color of his voice, more than anything else, that suggested the heroic tenor label. In any case, that was the initial impression he made, as a young man, and his rise was rapid. He was a superb singer, and engagements followed in quick succession, as is so often the case when a truly remarkable talent appears on the scene. He went on to Salzburg, Bayreuth (particularly) and Covent Garden. His most outstanding roles, for which he was instantly applauded, were Lohengrin, Freischutz, and Walküre.

He made many recordings, which is most fortunate, because his career was exclusively European, and seldom outside Germany. Having made his career during Germany's darkest hour was necessarily limiting, as far as travel was concerned. He did, however, have a major career in Germany, and his many recordings testify to his remarkable versatility; in grand opera, operetta, and Lieder. He excelled in all three fields.

His first great impression was made as a Wagnerian, and so it seems appropriate to begin with his superb rendition of "Walter's Prize Song," from Die Meistersinger Von Nürnberg, an opera so difficult for the tenor that Melchior, to take but one example, would not sing it. The "Prize Song" is hard enough in itself, but it is repeated in choral fashion, always featuring Walter, in seemingly endless iterations toward the end of the opera:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzK1hcubdiI&feature=player_embedded

This is a markedly common-sense presentation, and it is a joy to hear the studio orchestra minimalized. Would that most conductors would do the same in the opera house! The smoothness of Völker's voice, all the way up and down the scale, is a beautiful thing to hear. His top was good, and the high A, which climaxes a series of progressively ascending phrases— and has been the downfall of many heldentenors who make the fatal mistake of starting the aria too intensely and too loud—is not a problem at all for Völker, who manages it smoothly and in line. All in all, a magisterial rendition of a difficult aria.

Many famous German opera singers have historically crossed back and forth across the line separating opera from operetta, and Völker was no exception. Here is the famous and ever-popular "Dein ist mein ganzes Herz," from Lehár's "Land of Smiles":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4Zr7G4Z-dQ&feature=player_embedded

Isn't that just perfect! It is hard to imagine it sung better. A wonderful voice, excellently trained, with great dramatic operatic range and intensity, harnessed into submission for a classic show tune! I have always found Völker's extreme flexibility as a singer to be nothing short of astonishing. And admirable! For one thing, it is a sure sign of superbly trained voice. People often complain that German singing teachers just don't know how to train a tenor voice, but when the tenor is an intelligent man with strong artistic instincts, wonders can be done, especially if the tenor sings exclusively in German.

Finally, here is a beautiful example of yet a third category in which Völker excelled—German Lieder. This is much less common; many good German opera and operetta singers also try to sing Lieder or even popular music (which Völker also did) but the results are less predictable. Völker, however, like Leo Slezak, managed it very nicely indeed. Here is Schubert's lovely "Du bist die Ruh":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVnR6yDeFzo

What can I say. Absolutely beautiful! Opera, operetta, Lieder; all beautifully done. What on Broadway would be called a triple-threat performer. This was not only a great German tenor, but a German tenor for the ages!

Licia Albanese: Vocal Melodrama

2011-10-30T14:22:00.001-04:00

Italian-American soprano Licia Albanese was born in Bari, Italy, in 1913. An energetic and talented child, she had the good fortune to have as her teacher the great verismo soprano Giuseppina Baldassarre-Tedeschi. In 1934, when Albanese was only 21, she substituted for an ailing soprano, singing Cio-Cio-San, a part that would become her signature role over the years. The idea of a 21 year old taking on that part is somewhat daunting, but Albanese's vocal stamina (and longevity!) was legendary. I heard her sing at age 67 at a gala fundraiser, and she was extraordinary.

Like so many Italian singers of her day who were destined for a major career, progress came quickly. Italy's system of regional theaters has always presented wonderful opportunities for young singers to be heard fairly early on in their careers, and Albanese was no exception. By 1935 she had made her debut at La Scala (in Gianni Schicchi) and she was on her way. She was excellently suited, by voice, training, looks and temperament, for the Verdi/Puccini verismo roles, and she quickly became an international presence, especially in Bohème, Traviata, and Butterfly.

Albanese's Metropolitan opera debut was in 1940, somewhat predictably in Madama Butterfly. She was to perform this signature role at the Met over 70 times. It was a great success, and she was to make the Met her artistic home for the next 26 seasons, in a variety of roles. She also quickly made America her patriotic home, acquiring American citizenship in 1945. In 1946 she did a series of radio performances with Arturo Toscanini. Albanese did not limit herself exclusively to the Met, being an artistic presence also at San Francisco. She did, however, tend to limit herself to her adopted land, and while she sang overseas occasionally, she was essentially an American soprano from that point on. In later years she became very active as a fundraiser for the arts, and for her Licia Albanese Foundation, established to help aspiring singers. Like other great Italian American singers before her, most specifically Amelita Galli Curci and Enrico Caruso, she was enormously popular here, and made very significant contributions to the arts in America.

It is necessary, at the very beginning to address Licia Albanese's voice and singing style, in order to avoid instant analysis or judgments. I do not believe it is possible to describe her singing by comparison to any other soprano, except possibly her teacher, Baldassarre-Tedeschi. (I recently posted two Baldassare-Tedeschi videos on my Youtube channel. You can find a link in the righthand sidebar of this page.) I find it more helpful to compare her to male singers, specifically Giuseppe Di Stefano and (brace yourself!) Feodor Chaliapin. Quirky as that may sound, there is a reason: all are extraordinary singing actors, and they place their voices in the service of the melodrama which characterizes their repertoire. It is fruitless to compare Licia Albanese to great lyric sopranos whose fine and flute-like voices soar with abandon; she will seem thick and over-heavy in the middle of her voice and short on top. The darkness in her voice will at times seem like a bark. No, she uses her voice to serve the part she sings. Like Di Stefano, she enunciates extremely clearly; it sometimes seems as though she is speaking to you. Most importantly, she uses her voice as Chaliapin used his, to vocally portray a character, usually in the grip of great emotion, distress or outright despair. People in those situations do not trill prettily. In terms of style, Albanese, like Callas, shows great conviction in her portrayals, and conviction is the absolute bedrock of great style. Here is the "Un bel dì" from her signature role, Cio-Cio-San:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZINNVrgXec

Do you see what I mean? What strikes me immediately is the characterization in the voice. Like Giuseppe Di Stefano, she sang, to a large extent, as she spoke. The enunciation is extraordinary. I sometimes forget she is singing, and think she is speaking to me. The voice is dark and highly dramatic. She is a singing actress, and this is not an exercise in pure vocalism—it is simply a part of the whole picture. One thing she had was power in abundance. I can testify from having heard her in person that it was an astonishingly big voice for so tiny a person. Yes, the voice is showing signs of wear here, at 40, but one must remember that she started singing at 21, and almost the entirely of her repertoire was verismo, with all the attendant demands made on the voice. You will hear "prettier" Bb's than she manages here, more cleanly produced, but you will seldom hear a more moving, better articulated or more realistically convincing version of this famous aria.

Here is Albanese in another Puccini aria, "In Quelle Trine Morbide," from Manon Lescaut:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TIuMJ3Wg9zo

This is a much more traditional bit of singing, and excellent in every way. The dramatic intensity is there, as it always is, and the vocal line is clear and well connected stylistically to the music. It is perhaps more lyrical than the Butterfly selection, and soars where "Un bel dì" cries. That, however, derives from characterization more than anything else.

Here, finally, is Licia Albanese at her absolute best; as Violetta in La Traviata. This great scene, "Addio del Passato," shows all her strengths. The recitation at the beginning is so clear and painfully felt that it easily brings tears. The articulation is so precise that it almost seems possible to understand even if one doesn't speak Italian! Finally, the singing soars, and Albanese's dramatic voice is displayed to full advantage:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_emuMugahgE

Say what one will, I personally would lay down my hard-earned money any place, any time, to hear something like that!

The Great Ben Heppner, Pride of Canada

2011-10-16T14:10:00.004-04:00

Ben Heppner has been respected and applauded world-wide as one of the greatest heroic tenors to be seen and heard in many years. Born in British Columbia (Murrayville) in 1956, Heppner studied voice at the University of British Columbia and began to attract national attention primarily through contests, beginning with the Canadian Broadcasting Talent Festival in 1979. He went on to do a great deal of concertizing over the course of the next several years, and in 1988 won the Metropolitan Opera Auditions, and also the Birgit Nilsson Prize. From that moment on, Heppner went quickly to an international career, largely in the Wagnerian repertoire. He rapidly became, in the opinion of many critics and his increasingly large audience, one of the world's greatest Heldentenors. He now performs frequently at the Metropolitan Opera and throughout all the major houses of Europe, not only in Wagner, but also in the heavier Italian repertoire, such as Andrea Chenier and Otello. He has made a rather astonishingly large number of recordings, in French, Italian, and German. His recordings include leading parts and title roles in Fidelio, Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, Tristan und Isolde, Lohengrin, Otello and Berlioz's Aeneas.

To his credit, Heppner never slights the French repertoire, and in fact the first recording he produced after signing an exclusive contract with Deutsche Grammaphon was "Airs Français," which won a Juno Award. He has additionally, over the course of the last several years, been a marked presence at sporting events, including the Olympics. He was frequently heard singing the Canadian National Anthem, in which he always includes verses in French, and he has also recorded the Marseillaise. His attention to French music has not gone unnoticed or unappreciated in France.

First, the German repertoire, in which Heppner is everywhere accorded the status of a master. Here is Richard Strauss' very popular "Zueignung:"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCrxjwfzUFs

There are very few within this repertoire who can match the power, color and even beauty of this extraordinary voice. It is easy enough, on Youtube, to hear Heppner sing many of the classics of the Wagnerian repertoire, such as "In Fernem Land," or Walter's "Prize Song." They are a bit too long to include here.

It is not only the Wagnerian repertoire, however, where Heppner shines. For a Heldentenor, he sings Italian quite well, and is vocally convincing in roles such as Andrea Chenier or Otello. Here is a very stirring rendition of the Italian Singer's aria from Der Rosenkavalier, "Di Rigori Armato il Seno." Strauss did not particularly like tenors, and he also had some feelings about Italian opera in general. This aria was intended to mock the excesses of Italian singing, but that kind of thing tends generally to backfire, because to a very large extent opera IS Italian music! It certainly backfired here, since this aria turned out to be one of the most popular pieces from Rosenkavalier, and just about every famous tenor in the world has recorded it! Although short, it is most difficult to sing, because it is has very high notes and florid phrases. It also, perhaps in spite of Strauss' intentions, happens to be extremely beautiful!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfvqBLtbfCk

Now isn't that something! I think it safe to say that there are few Heldentenors now or ever who could do that. Heppner is unafraid of heights. He has even recorded "Di Quella Pira" in the original key. I have it on my channel if anyone would care to hear it. [You can click on to my Youtube channel in the right sidebar.]

Something else Heppner does amazingly well is sing in English, his native language, with absolutely none of the stress and strain, rolled "r" s, or muffled cover that for too many years marked (or marred) the attempts of English speakers trying to sing with trained voices in a comprehensible way. Here is the old and lovely "Roses of Picardy:"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_NwLh1xUzo

Absolutely lovely! Sung in the modern manner, with enunciation as clear as that of any popular singer. Ben Heppner is a great tenor and a formidable artist, and richly deserves the fame he has come to enjoy over the course of the last twenty years. Of late, he has begun to restrict the Wagnerian work in deference to his age (he is now 55), but he continues to concertize and appear in those operas in which he is still comfortable. It has been an excellent career, and one of which he can deservedly be very proud.

José Carreras: A Voice of Extraordinary Beauty

2011-10-02T13:30:00.006-04:00

José Carreras was born in Barcelona in 1946. Like so many before him, he came from a family of very modest means, and showed marked musical talent from the beginning. He seemed naturally inclined to sing as a child, and started even then trying to sound like great singers he had heard, most especially Mario Lanza. I know so many singers who have told me that Lanza, primarily through his movies, had been their first inspiration to try to sing opera. This was one of Lanza's less well known—but very important— contributions to opera and operatic singing. Even though he himself largely portrayed an opera singer, he inspired many who went on to actually become opera singers. Carreras was singing in public, most specifically on Spanish radio, as early as 8 years of age, which made it abundantly clear to his family that he was both serious and talented. His family at this point saw to it that he started to receive music lessons at Barcelona's Municipal Conservatory.

In 1970 he appeared as Flavio in Norma; a very small first role, but one which caught the attention of the great Monserrat Caballé, who heard gold in the young voice. In the same year, under her patronage, he sang opposite her as Gennaro in Donizetti's Lucrezia Borgia. Carreras proved his patroness to have been right! He was a great hit from the beginning, and his career skyrocketed. The golden voice was unmistakable, and international debuts followed in rapid succession: London, Italy, New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Vienna; all within a period of 4 years. He was on his way to greatness, in operas such as Bohème, Butterfly, Traviata, Rigoletto, and Tosca. He also did Ballo—possibly a questionable choice, because it is a very big role for the tenor, well into the spinto repertoire, and at this stage Carreras' voice was what might be called a robust lyric. By his own admission, the very top of the tenor range was not at all easy for him, while the middle was especially beautiful. This may have led many to believe that he was really a spinto verging on dramatic, but that of course would only exacerbate the difficult top, since so much more energy was being put into the middle and upper-middle registers. In a word, it's a short path to becoming a Bb tenor. However, that was not in evidence at the beginning of the career, when there seemed to be plenty of range to sing at least a good B natural, enough for virtually all the bread and butter Italian and French repertoire, where the arias containing a high C are often sung down a half tone. (Except perhaps in Italy, where a tenor can on occasion be booed for transposing a famous aria.) Recording contracts followed, and by the late 70's, José Carreras was internationally famous, and enjoying one of the great careers of the 20th century.

Here is the young Carreras, in 1973, singing one of his most popular early roles, the Duke of Mantua. The aria is beautifully sung generally, and the extraordinary beauty of Carreras' voice is very winning, and immediately makes his character sympathetic, even in the case of very flawed and unpleasant characters such as the Duke. Also, and importantly, the high B at the end is solid at this point in his career, and is clearly a bit hit with the audience.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7LRo_ZpVIpE

That is truly superb! It is a world-class rendition, and a clear announcement to one and all that a new great tenor has arrived on the scene. This is what I would call the true Carreras voice. I am not alone in wishing that he had restricted himself to this kind of lyric repertoire as long as possible. But that was not the case. Like many, many tenors before, the lure of the big tragic, dramatic roles was calling, and Manrico, Chenier, Rhadames and Canio were on the way. By the late 70's and early 80's, the problem with the top of the voice was becoming self-evident. The attractive beauty of the voice, however, was such that his fame was still intact. Here is a Rhadames from 1979, six years later:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3V4Lp8nZVSQ

The coming trouble, as I say, is evident. The top notes in this aria are only Bb's. This is hardly more than the top of the range of many good baritones, yet notice the effort, and the change in quality from the middle to the top notes. They are not quite in line. He hops off the final Bb so quickly that the audience is confused and starts to applaud too early and has to clap again after the orchestra finishes. Almost all spinto and dramatic tenors take a big breath and hold on to that note as long as possible, ending with the orchestra if possible for the big applause cue, which seldom fails to bring a huge hand from the audience. Many conductors will help them by speeding up the tempo at the end. That just doesn't happen here—it is a weak and disappointing ending to the aria. Yes, I know that Verdi wrote a pianissimo note here, to end in a wistful, dreamy way as Rhadames dreams of his beloved Aida. But realistically that doesn't happen in performance. The triumphal chord progression in the orchestra begs for triumphalism in the voice as well.

Toward the latter part of his career, Carreras began to shift his emphasis from opera to the concert stage, where he could choose songs and arias that favored the strongest part of his beautiful voice—the middle—and avoided the highest notes, which had become too difficult. He recorded West Side Story and South Pacific, and was fond of singing "Tonight," from West Side Story, with different sopranos, but I feel this was largely a failed effort. Simply the wrong choice. It is almost impossible for the classically trained foreign operatic tenor to transition to any kind of Broadway tunes, even one where the character being portrayed is a dialect character. The over-blown cover and vowel formation always make the young lover character sound too old to be taken seriously. And also, the best Broadway tenors—John Raitt is a good example—simply do not cover. It just isn't an acceptable English language sound in music any longer. That day (Victorian fin-de-siècle) is long gone. It sounds too foreign. Where Carreras did excel was in Neapolitan songs, something squarely within the Latin tenor fach. Here is an interesting video, introduced by considerable pre-song applause and an introduction by Carreras himself, in English, of "Core 'ngrato." Very beautiful, and well received, even though the Bb at the end, while acceptable, is strained and seems to be nearly out of his range at this point.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=be2ourqC09U&feature=related

I think it is important to end by reiterating that Carreras was a great tenor. There just isn't any doubt about that. I don't mean to overplay the vocal problems. He knew from the beginning—and was honest about it—that the top was not easily produced. But just consider for a moment what he actually did during his career in spite of that! The voice was extraordinarily beautiful, and won him much attention and affection from his vast audience. He was a handsome man who acted well and convincingly, and he sang with great passion. His repertoire was huge, and he became very famous. He even struggled with—and conquered—leukemia and its debilitating effects and never—ever—lost the affection of his fans. To fuss unduely about the odd Bb or B natural is ultimately over-pedantic. This was a great singer, a great performer, and an admirable individual. He deserves all the attention he has received!

Giuseppe Di Stefano: The Complex Dynamics of Talent And Discipline

2011-09-04T12:12:00.006-04:00

[It is a real pleasure —and distinct honor—for me to present another in our series of guest writers, Mr. Gioacchino Fiurezi Maragioglio, Italian industrialist from Naples, opera critic and historian. His photograph appears to the left. Mr. Fiurezi Maragioglio was an intimate friend of the great Italian tenor Giacomo Lauri Volpi, and is a life-time subscriber to the Teatro San Carlo, one of the world's historically great opera houses. Mr. Fiurezi Maragioglio's knowledge of Italian opera and opera singers —past and present—is simply vast. I do not believe that there is anyone among my acquaintances whose knowledge exceeds his own, and there are precious few who could match it. It is a rare pleasure to be able to feature his piece on Giuseppe Di Stefano today.]

Giuseppe Di Stefano is the one singer whose artistry and eventual vocal decline has been—and not only for me—one of opera's greatest and saddest mysteries. Naturally enough, of course, his voice by the early 1970's was not that of the late 1940's and the Swiss recordings of that period. Nor was it that of the famous high C diminuendo on "Salut, demeure..." at the Metropolitan Opera. No voice is eternally young. Those, however, who contend that his voice was ruined as early as 1955 need to listen to his 1967 recordings from Land of Smiles. Here, Di Stefano sings with discipline, and he is in very good voice. The sound is golden and flowing. Even in German, his famous diction is characteristically clear. It is true that Land of Smiles was written for Richard Tauber, so the tessitura was not challenging. I adore Tauber, but his upper register was very limited. This was his only shortcoming. The point is simply that in 1967, Giuseppe Di Stefano could, when he wished, sing with the genius of earlier years; witness his 97 performances of Land of Smiles! That being said, his upper register was no longer that of years gone by. This was his greatest loss. Here is a recording—"Una parola sola," from Girl of The Golden West—made in 1955, that shows the great tenor in full possession of his powers. The diction, passion and natural production are classic Di Stefano:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptLQ-U7ObbQ

It has always saddened me that Di Stefano was not disciplined over the course of his career and did not use the technique which he knew. The irony is that the lyrical beauty of his voice flowed naturally from an instrument that could easily have evolved into a lyric-dramatic capable of singing challenging roles such as Canio, Calaf, Dick Johnson and Radamès. Björling did it, as did Richard Tucker and Beniamino Gigli, and certainly, even if his voice was not as large as Tucker's, Di Stefano's was no smaller than Björling's and was actually bigger than Gigli's. Had he done this, I can say with full confidence that he would have had a busy career into the 1980s. Here, for example, is what he was capable of doing well into the 1970's:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9H9TiBYvVI&feature=related

It is not as beautiful as the recordings of 30 years earlier; the tone is thicker, but still beautiful. Only compared to his own earlier recordings is it diminished. Against other tenors it compares very well indeed. More and more, I am convinced that Giuseppe Di Stefano was the voice of the century.

But caro Pippo did not wish for this. For him, opera was MUCH more than pure singing—he became the character he portrayed. He was in the truest sense of the word a singing actor. My dear friend Giacomo Lauri-Volpi always told me (and of course famously wrote) that Di Stefano was THE tenor, for his complete, thrilling characterizations. I feel compelled to say, however, that this is not likely to be the best path toward vocal longevity. And it can also be somewhat unmusical. While Di Stefano's style and phrasing are always immaculate, his voice cannot readily be compared to any kind of musical instrument: Aureliano Pertile's voice could be likened to a well-tuned cello. Galliano Masini's voice could be compared to a trumpet, as could the voice of Giacomo Lauri-Volpi. Gianni Raimondi's voice rang like a struck bell. This was not the case with Giuseppe Di Stefano. He could, for example, not read music, and his sense of pitch was often inaccurate. Simply put, he sang words, not notes.

Let us put aside for the moment the vexed question of open, closed or covered phonation. All can be used successfully, depending on which is more appropriate for the specific voice. In Di Stefano's case, I would speculate that the phonation best for longevity in the heavier repertoire was not the one that he habitually used. But this is mere speculation. He loved to sing those roles in which he could bring the libretto to life, to make the character live! That was his single greatest motivation in taking on roles such as Canio, Calaf, Pinkerton, Turridu, Cavaradossi, Duca di Mantova, Manrico, des Grieux or Faust. On the subject of the upper register, Di Stefano would later claim that his passaggio began at around B-flat in the fourth octave, so assuming this is correct, his critics could not have accused him of singing too open above the passaggio. Whether this is true or not, who can know?

What I can say confidently is that considering Giuseppe Di Stefano's voice and the repertoire he sang from about 1954 onwards he probably should, at least for the sake of maximum vocal longevity, have added these heavier dramatic roles slowly, one by one, continually studying and yes, using some covered or closed tones simply for the sake of protecting his voice as much as possible. As we can readily see, he did not do this, and his voice suffered as a result. The genius of 1946-1956 still lived, however, in his clarity of diction, his occasional diminuendo, and his supreme histrionic abilities, even if reckless and negligent use of the voice had all but compromised its homogeneity, especially in the upper register. Covered or closed tones will help to protect lighter voices as they develop into heavier repertoire, but then singers like Giovanni Martinelli always sang open, from the very start. Certainly, in Di Stefano's case, critics seem to take issue with his open As and Bs, but that is in fact more a stylistic than a technical matter. Study could have sustained him longer — studying the roles, the music, all these things. But then, Di Stefano would not have been Di Stefano: he would have been an Italian Björling. Here is Di Stefano in all his natural glory:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cOktnGD8G_0

The distressing nature of Di Stefano's later vocal decline owes not so much to overtaxing his voice in unsuitable parts, but rather more to his sometimes casual approach to musical discipline, which in turn led to a damaged once-golden voice. This damage manifested itself primarily in the destruction of what had at one time been a brilliant upper register. It is sad to think that in the 1960's he might have sung Calaf to Nilsson's Turandot with a fully intact and beautiful voice.

But that is not the Di Stefano who was, but rather the Di Stefano I wanted him to be.
_______________________

Giannina Arangi-Lombardi: A Great Dramatic Soprano

2011-08-07T15:41:00.001-04:00

I am aware that Giannina Arangi-Lombardi is not exactly a name that rolls trippingly off the tongue of the average American opera lover, but this owes simply to the fact that she did not sing in America. Her life and career was centered largely in Europe, with some excursions to Latin America and Australia. All that to one side notwithstanding, I feel no hesitancy whatsoever in saying that hers was one of the greatest soprano voices of the 20th century, and her stature among dramatic sopranos can only honestly be described as outstanding.

Arangi-Lombardi was born in 1891 in Marigliano, and she studied at the Conservatorio San Pietro a Majella in Naples.

(I am indebted for the information that follows to Mr. Tim Shu, at dantitustimshu Tim is among the very best musical historians writing on Youtube, and his biographies are exemplary. If you do not know his channel, I urge you to become acquainted with it, as it is a treasure trove of great opera videos.)

"Arangi-Lombardi began her career as a mezzo-soprano in the early 1920s. With growing awareness of her brilliant middle-upper vocal capabilities, she made an important transition to become a dramatic soprano in the mid 1920s and enjoyed great success as Gioconda, Santuzza, Elena in Mefistofele, the Trovatore and Forza Leonoras and in particular Aida. In fact, she became the most famous Aida of her day in Italy. Such was her prominence in the role that the Teatro alla Scala mounted several performances of Aida with her leading the cast in the late 1920s. On top of that, she undertook a prestigious central European trip with the La Scala Ensemble and Toscanini in January 1929 and performed the role in Berlin and Vienna. Together with Giuseppina Cobelli and Bianca Scacciati, she ruled Teatro alla Scala as its co-prima donna in the mid to late 1920s. She also went on a five-week tour to perform in various cities in Australia in 1928, in the company of other distinguished colleagues including Toti Dal Monte, Hina Spani, Francesco Merli and Apollo Granforte.

With the departure of Toscanini from La Scala in early 1929, she ended her career at Milan's "Temple," but continued to sing in Rome and elsewhere in Italy. She retired in 1937 after growing vocal difficulties from the mid 1930s. From 1939 onwards, she assumed a teaching career in Milan. In 1947, she accepted a lucrative offer by the Turkish government to become the director of the Music Conservatory in Ankara. It was during her stint in Turkey that Arangi-Lombardi discovered a budding young soprano named Leyla Gencer and took great interest in her training and development as an artist. Gencer was to remember her teacher with great fondness. In an interview with OPERA NEWS (published in the November 2003 issue), Gencer recalled: "Every morning at ten, she would put on her most elegant dress, with pearls, and her diamonds on her fingers, sat at the piano, and we studied. I learned my first opera arias, from Ballo, Aida, Forza del destino, and when I sang them my whole life, I sang them just as she taught them to me." For reasons of health, Arangi-Lombardi returned to Milan in 1951 and passed away in July of the same year."

I think there is no better place to start than with Aida's big aria "O Patria Mia." Aida was the signature role for Arangi-Lombardi, and this is why:

Or, if the author should remove the embed code in the future, see:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJLZMgPYI20

Isn't that simply stunning! I think that is one of the most extraordinary renditions of this very famous and often-recorded aria that I have ever heard. The reason I say this is that it displays a vocal technique and a presentation that is bel canto derived. The drama in her voice—and I would even say her very designation as "dramatic"—is as much a question of color as it is of heft. Some sopranos simple power their way through the aria. While that can work, it can make the more discriminating listener frown. I call particular attention to the high C near the end, taken piano and then taken out on a long crescendo, a tutta forza! The effect is overwhelming, as is that of the other big moment at the end when she soars up to the final note on a long portamento. This is grand artistry and vocalism of the old school, and for many, even in the 1930's, it came as a revelation, as verismo had done its job by that time, and this was singing of a different order.

For something more nearly on the "dramatic" side as we understand it today, I offer her rendition of "Suicidio!" from La Gioconda:

-or-

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCfcoArMRQk

This is great singing, by any measure. It is hard to compare it to other versions, except possibly that of Zinka Milanov. It is "darker" than the Aida aria, but is attained purely through control of color. It's the same voice, same technique.

Finally, an aria in the category of "Only Great Singers Need Apply: Amelia's aria from Un Ballo in Maschera:

-or-

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtGOhcl1v-g

Great voice, great artist, great lady of the theater—dramatic opera singing at its best!

Joseph Schmidt: A Great Tenor And A Terrible Tragedy

2011-07-24T11:20:00.000-04:00

Joseph Schmidt was born in 1904, in Davydivka, a small town in Austria-Hungary, now a part of Ukraine. Born into a musical family, he showed promise very early, as is so often the case with those who go on to achieve musical greatness. From living in a multi-cultural geographical area, he soon began to acquire more languages than his native German. He was Jewish, and quickly became acquainted with Yiddish and Hebrew. It was natural, therefore, that his first training was in the synagogue. He was presented as a very young man of 20 in his first concert, in Czernowitz, singing a wide variety of Jewish and operatic music. His talent was so evident by that point that he was sent to Berlin to study piano and voice. He was shortly thereafter appointed cantor of the Czernowitz Synagogue.

In 1929 he went back to Berlin, where he was given the opportunity to sing the role, on the radio, of Vasco da Gama in L'Africaine. Normally, this would mark the beginning of an operatic career for most, but Schmidt was an extremely small man, only 4 feet 11 inches tall, hardly bigger than a young boy. This of course made a stage career impossible. For that reason, his world of opportunity was to be found in radio, recordings (of which he made a significant number), the concert stage, and movies, where clever photography made it possible for him to appear more normal in appearance. (Similar, in modern times, to the career adjustments forced upon Alan Ladd and Dudley Moore, for the same reason.)

The tragedy in the Joseph Schmidt story derives from the time and place of his birth. His artistic rise was during Germany's darkest hour, the rise of the Nazis. Even though extremely popular in Germany, the rise of the barbarians soon made it impossible for him to work there. His popularity in other countries seemed, I suppose, to be sufficient compensation for the German turn of events, and he stayed in Europe longer than he should have. He was touring in the United States as late as 1937, and had he stayed here, the horror of his last days would have been prevented. It is so easy in hindsight to see these things, but it is unfair. I know many Jews who lived through that era, and the stories I have heard always point up the fact that most just didn't know how bad it was going to get. Most thought it to be probably for a limited period, something like the pogroms that had historically erupted in Europe. We cannot impose upon them a foresight that few possessed. Also, not everyone had the money or the opportunity to get out. The end of the Schmidt story is painful to recount, and easily consulted, if one has the stomach for it. To be brief: in 1939, he was caught in France by the German invasion, tried to escape to the US but didn't get any further than just across the Swiss border. Interned in a refugee camp near Zurich, he was extremely poorly cared for and died in 1942. He was 38 years old. As in the case of Mario Lanza and Fritz Wunderlich, one wants to cry.

To really appreciated the astonishing technical virtuosity of Schmidt's voice, one needs to hear what is unfortunately a poor recording, privately made in 1934. I have done some audio work on this recording, in an attempt to bring out some of the sounds of the lower register, which are all but lost in the original. I believe it is at least a little better for the effort. Here is the Aramaic prayer Ano Avdoh. "I am thy servant, Oh Holy One, and I ever bow before thee and the glory of the Torah."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ciVxjj7PMCM

An absolutely astonishing instrument! Schmidt's voice soared easily to the very top of the tenor range. He could, like Lauri Volpi and a few other great bel canto tenors, sing—in line— all the way to the high D natural, something remarkably few tenors can legitimately do. Also note the extreme flexibility, owing almost certainly to his early cantorial training. The plaintive nature of the piece is very moving indeed.

Schmidt had an enormous operatic repertoire, and recorded a large number of the best known tenor arias, something that was easy for him, as he had "no fear of heights," so to speak! It was the more popular repertoire, however, that won him his biggest audience. Here is a good example, the English version of "Ein Stern fällt vom Himmel," the title song of a 1934 movie:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-HHlabgMAqE

A lovely rendition of a pretty, lilting melody. His English was quite good, and the song is easy enough to understand. That cannot always be said, as legitimate voices often slur over consonants, especially if English is not the singer's native language. But Schmidt handles English diction quite well. (The greatest exception to this tendency was Mario Lanza, whose enunciation was crystal clear, like that of a popular singer, even in his stratospheric upper register.)

Finally, we must include one operatic piece, even though it is in an arranged concert version, Here is a special Schmidt version of the old war-horse "Di Quella Pira," where he manages to interpolate yet a THIRD high C in the middle of the aria:) You will never hear an easier high C. It sounds like the middle of his register. His voice lay extremely high.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dxMyV6MOjjA&feature=related

A great voice, by any measure. It is at least some consolation that he made so many recordings. In this way, his artistry and extreme vocal endowments live on, for new generations to enjoy and admire.

Set Svanholm: The Many Sides of a Great Musician

2011-06-19T13:57:00.000-04:00

Today it is my great pleasure to present another in our series of guest commentators, Dr.Marie-Louise Rodén, whose photo appears to the left. Professor Rodén is Swedish but grew up in the United States and received a Ph.D. in History from Princeton University. She is currently Professor of History at Kristianstad University in Sweden, and her research specialty has been the political development of the Roman Papacy in the Early Modern Period. She also has a background in classical music and is currently, together with Daniele D. Godor, preparing a biography of Set Svanholm, which will be published in 2014.

_________________________________________

No one living in Sweden can have failed to notice that 2011 marks the centenary of the popular Swedish tenor Johan Jonatan “Jussi” Björling (1911-1960). Jussi fan clubs across the country have had a field day. Radio programs, television documentaries and biographical works have literally rained on his compatriots this past spring. I thought it might be time to redress the balance by introducing readers to another renowned Swedish tenor, Set Svanholm (1904-64.)

Early Years

Set Svanholm was born in Västerås as the second of three sons to Viktor Svanholm and his wife Beda. Viktor Svanholm came from a poor family in Västergötland and signed on as kitchen boy on a cargo boat at the age of 13. An accident with firearms cost him his sight, and two years later he was enrolled at the Manilla school for the blind in Stockholm. When he returned home after completing his education, a sermon by a visiting preacher made such a deep impression on him that he decided to become a clergyman himself. Viktor Svanholm thus became a preacher in a free-church movement, the “Evangelical Foundation for the Fatherland (EFS)”. In an essay about his father from 1963, Set Svanholm recalled that it was his task, even as a schoolboy, to play the organ in religious services. The hymns sung at these services, “with tones from Zion” made an indelible impression on him and shaped his musical sensibilities.

Set Svanholm graduated from gymnasium in 1922 and almost immediately obtained his first position as organist and choir director in Tillberga. In the following years, he completed both elementary and advanced degrees in organ and church music, as well as a general teacher’s certificate and one in music education. In 1929 he obtained the prestigious post of cantor in St. Jakob’s Church in Stockholm, which he retained until 1950. Here is his earliest known recording, (1934) where he is featured as conductor, leading the St. Jakob's choir in the Bach chorale “Jesu, nådens källa (Jesus, Font of Grace.)” It is a brief selection, but provides a good introduction to his musical sophistication and mastery of classical form. He was, from the beginning, a formidable musician:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXUvGq6rsxc&feature=email

St. Jakob’s Church was conveniently located right opposite the Royal Opera, and during his first years as conductor Svanholm had a promising tenor among his choristers – Jussi Björling. As Björling’s operatic career prospered, he started skipping rehearsals or just “marking” notes instead of singing with full voice. When Svanholm reprimanded him, Björling quit abruptly by stomping out of the church, slamming the door behind him, only to open it again. He stuck his head in to say: “Get yourself a better tenor – if you can!”

From Church Musician to Opera Singer

Both Svanholm and Björling were voice students of the well-known baritone John Forsell (1868-1941), as was the soprano Nini Högstedt (1909-98) who became Svanholm’s wife in 1934 and gave up her singing career. She then bore him six children, as Anna Russell would have put it.

Svanholm made his debut in 1930 as a baritone, as Silvio in Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci, and became a member of the Royal Opera’s ensemble in 1932. All on his own, he began reworking his vocal technique to make the transition from baritone to tenor roles. He was a lyrical Italian baritone, known as “Kavalierbariton” in German, and had always had an easy high register. One day he telephoned his old teacher and announced that he had a promising new tenor that he would like to present – and surprised Forsell by coming to the appointed meeting all on his own!

Svanholm made his debut as a tenor in February of 1936, as soloist in Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. His operatic debut followed on September 22 of the same year with Radames in Verdi’s Aida. In the fall of 1937 he began to sing Wagner, with Lohengrin as his first role. In a short time he added Siegmund in Die Walküre, Tannhäuser, Stolzing in Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, and both Siegfrieds to his Wagnerian repertoire. Here is Svanholm as Siegmund, in an exceptionally good live recording from 1954:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jucxGMxoJNQ&feature=email

Kirsten Flagstad (1895-1962), the greatest Wagnerian soprano of the age, remarked in her memoirs: “For me there was only one Siegmund . . . that was Set.” It is hard to disagree with her. The baritonal, metallic quality of Svanholm’s voice was a perfect match for this role. A commercial recording from 1957 (Decca) of Die Walküre, Act I, also presents Svanholm at his very best and Flagstad as a surprisingly youthful and convincing Sieglinde – at the age of 62!

Swedish Heldentenor in the Third Reich

Svanholm’s career outside Sweden began in 1938, on the eve of World War II. Bruno Walter had heard him in Stockholm, and invited him to Vienna where he made his debut in Lohengrin. Performances in Germany, Austria, Zürich, Budapest and Prague soon followed. In 1942 he became the first Swede ever to sing at La Scala in Milan (Tannhäuser) and, in the same year, became the only Swede to appear in a major role at the Kriegsfestspiele in Bayreuth. Many vocal artists from politically “neutral” Sweden sang in Germany during the war years: Jussi Björling, Sigurd Björling, Torsten Ralf, Sven Olof Sandberg, and Zarah Leander are names that come to mind. But apart from Leander, who was criticized severely after the war for her activities, Svanholm was probably the Swedish artist most active in the Third Reich during these years. He was a member of the ensemble of the Deutsche Staatsoper in Berlin and did not leave the German stages until 1944.

There is no real indication that Svanholm was sympathetic to the political policies of the Nazi regime. One plausible explanation for his desire to remain in Germany was the opportunity of developing his interpretations of the great Wagnerian roles in collaboration with Heinz Tietjen (1881-1967), artistic director of the Bayreuther Festspiele from 1931 to 1944.

But Svanholm also had firm invitations from the Metropolitan, Chicago Lyric and San Francisco operas and in 1946 finally crossed the Atlantic for a glorious decade as the foremost Wagnerian tenor of the post-war era.

International Acclaim

Svanholm’s trans-Atlantic career began in South America, where he sang Siegmund and Tristan in Rio de Janeiro. His debut at the Met was on November 15, 1946 in the title role in Wagner’s Siegfried. Svanholm was to remain under contract to the Met until 1956.

The American critics and audiences saw Svanholm as the self-evident successor to Lauritz Melchior (1890-1973), who was nearing the end of his career. Svanholm was unanimously appreciated for his athletic physique (he was only 5 feet 8 inches tall and quite trim at around 136 lbs), but above all for his intelligence, sophisticated musicianship and scrupulous adherence to the score: all of which stood in sharp contrast to the interpretations of “the Great Dane!"

To an international public, Svanholm is primarily recognized as a great Wagnerian, but in fact, his repertoire, both in terms of art song and opera, was broad and diversified. As a last excerpt, here is his interpretation of Schubert’s Der Erlkönig. This recording comes from a Liederabend in 1949 at the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. Svanholm is accompanied by the fantastic Arne Sunnergårdh:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fc0G-ozV_vo&feature=email

During his decade in the Americas Svanholm continued to sing at home and performed many roles from Italian and French repertoire, as well as Swedish rarities such as De Frumerie’s Singoalla and Atterberg’s Fanal. By 1956 he was weary of traveling, wanted to spend more time with his family, and thus accepted the position as General Manager of the Royal Opera in Stockholm. Svanholm’s years as manager, too large a subject to discuss here, can be summarized as follows: New music, Swedish music, Niche music. Many works from the modern (Britten, Berg) and older operatic repertoire (Lully, Händel, Mozart’s Idomeneo) were performed in Stockholm for the first time and the most significant premiere of a new Swedish opera was Karl Birger Blomdahl’s Aniara.

There are several reasons why “Set Svanholm” is not a household word, even in Sweden, in the sense that “Jussi Björling” is. Björling’s repertoire was more accessible to a large number of casual opera listeners than the more specialized and demanding roles that Svanholm performed. Above all, Björling made over 240 commercial recordings while Svanholm only made 15. In the aftermath of World War II Svanholm’s main repertoire was, with a few exceptions, ignored by the major record companies. A Wagner “Renaissance” eventually occurred partly thanks to the commercial success of the Solti Ring, where Svanholm only participated as Loge in Das Rheingold. However, many live recordings of this important musician have been preserved, and a number of them are available on labels such as Music & Arts, Gebhardt, Golden Melodram, Bluebell, Preiser, and Caprice.

With thanks to Edmund for inviting me to “blog” and in the hope that some of his readers will either discover or re-visit this glorious voice.

Salvatore Baccaloni: The Best of The Buffos

2011-06-12T14:04:00.000-04:00

Not all famous opera singers are tragic heroes or heroines, or archetypal gods and goddesses. Neither are they matinee-idol heartthrobs or possessed of great voices which have to be heard to be believed. No; enter the 300-pound, ludicrously attired Salvatore Baccaloni, who first waddled onto the stage of the Metropolitan Opera in December of 1940, as Dr. Bartolo, in Mozart's Marriage of Figaro. He was to remain at the Met for the next 22 years, making both a great career for himself, and a great deal of money.

The man who would go on to become generally acclaimed as the greatest of the basso buffos was born in Rome, in 1900, where as a child he attended the Sistine Chapel choir school, and later went on to private vocal studies. He studied architecture in school, but music was his true love and he took the first chance that presented itself to try to make a musical career. His first appearance was as Bartolo, at only 22 years of age, at the Teatro Adriano, in Rome. He seems to have done quite well from the beginning, because a mere four years later, at age 26, he was singing at La Scala, in a virtually unknown opera, Pizzetti's Debora e Jaele. Baccaloni demonstrated a willingness, even as a very young man, to take small parts, or appear in obscure operas, because he loved acting and singing, and wherever there was a job, he was up front and ready to do it. This tendency remained with him for his entire life, and it was this willingness to take small parts, with any respectable company, even when he was famous, that made him one of the highest paid singers in opera. He was at the time of his death a very well-to-do man.

Like many, he owed his early success, at least in part, to having been heard and given advice by Arturo Toscanini, who was conducting at La Scala when Baccaloni was singing there. Toscanini's advice was simple: forget the serious roles—stick to character roles and supporting roles, where your comedic acting can shine. Baccaloni was very intelligent; smart enough to know, even as a very young man, that it was the better part of prudence always to follow the advice of a successful man if you want to be successful. In other words, never invest your money on the advice of a poor man. Do the opposite. And it paid off: Don Giovanni, Elisir d'amore, Don Pasquale, Falstaff, Gianni Schicci, the Sacristan in Tosca, Benoit in Bohème, Alfonso in Cosi Fan Tutte, Leporello in Don Giovanni, and on and on. His repertoire is reported to have exceeded 160 roles! He was, when he chose to be, an excellent musician. He could also be outlandish and musically careless on stage, when moved by the comedy of the moment. It should be added that he was, additionally, quite a scene-stealer! But who cares, basically. It goes with the turf. Prima donnas can be demanding, tenors can be maddening, and so on—a great comedian has the right to be silly de temps en temps!

One of Baccaloni's great roles was Dr. Dulcamara, in L'Elisir d'Amore: Here is the huckster selling his snake oil medicine in "Udite, o Rustici!" (You might want to read the comments I put under this video when I posted it...I was having a little fun with it. Comedy is infectious:)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-foyxrpZjZ8

That has to be one of the best versions of this famous comic aria ever recorded. Baccaloni's enunciation is so perfect that it almost seems anyone can understand it, even if they don't know Italian! Coupled with his remarkable acting skills, it must have been a real joy to watch.

It is very important, I think, to realize that one of the things that made Baccaloni more than so many other buffos was that he could actually sing. His genius may have been comedic, but it was based on solid musical and vocal ability, witness Leporello's famous aria from Don Giovanni:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YP_n2-mRNCc

That is not only musically solid as a rock, it is fine singing by any measure.

Finally, something that fascinates me very much, and that is the quintessential understanding Baccaloni had of his own artistic historical roots, which is commedia dell'arte. I have been deeply interested in this artistic tradition from the time I saw my first Punch and Judy show when I was a small child, nearly 70 years ago. I am far from the only one—Agatha Christie was so intensely interested in commedia dell'arte (also from earliest childhood) that it was close to an obsession for her. Her entire series of Harley Quinn stories—which are both mysterious and mythical in nature, reflect this near obsession. The theater of Europe was influenced for nearly 400 years by the commedia dell'arte characters and plots, and it is likely that in their earliest incarnation, which is to say Italian street theater, they go back in part well over a thousand years, perhaps even to the days of ancient Rome. Italian opera composers were certainly well aware of the tradition, and it is very evident in Don Pasquale, which is classic commedia dell'arte. Notice the pathos in Baccaoni's rendition of "Vediamo, a la modista cento scudi....," the duet in which the silly old Pasquale (Pantalone), stupidly obsessed with the idea of marrying the very much younger Norina (Columbina), reacts with horror at the way she is treating him and squandering his money after having been falsely "married" by the devious notary (another stock figure, Scapino). The marriage is obviously unconsummated (she's too busy shopping:) and will soon dissolve, so that she can marry the young Ernesto (Pierrot). While we laugh at Pasquale, it is a bittersweet awakening on his part, and we can actually feel sorry for him. Baccaloni understands this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20-dFs30t0M

Laughter and tears: the buffo's ancient art!

Sara Scuderi: I Lived For Art!

2011-06-05T10:28:00.000-04:00

Sara Scuderi was born in Sicily in 1906. Her debut was in 1925, at the tender age of 19, in Novara, playing no less a part than Leonora, in Il Trovatore! It is inconceivable today that a 19-year old girl would sing such a role, but it was a different operatic world in 1925, especially in regional theaters, and, to judge from her subsequent success, she can be assumed to have done a pretty good job. She was later signed to a 7-year contract at La Scala, where she attained fame, especially for her interpretation of Tosca, which was, by all accounts, quite spectacular. She went on to sing in all the important theaters in Italy, and throughout Europe. She was particularly well received in the Netherlands, where she was engaged for a long period. She is perhaps not so well known in the United States, as most of her career was in Europe, with some occasional forays abroad, most notably in South America.

She enjoyed a fine career, largely in the 1930's and 40's. She retired at the end of the 40's. Toward the end of her life she lived at the famous retirement home founded by Giuseppe Verdi, the Casa di Riposo per Musicisti, where a rather extraordinary film was made of her in 1984, part of which we will see in a moment.

First, her signature role, for which she won widespread recognition:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2fcYNvANCg

Isn't that just wonderful!? All the elements are in place; the voice is well suited by color for the part, and the vocalism is excellent, but that is far from being the whole story. Notice the immaculate enunciation. Every single word can be clearly understood, and this leads to stylistic perfection; every important word is stressed, and no shade of emotion or meaning is sacrificed to pure vocalism (something that cannot always be said of sopranos in this role!) What comes through most clearly is fine artistry imbued with intense emotion and, let it be said admiringly, a dash of strong melodrama. This is Italian opera, after all! It is hard to see how this presentation could be improved upon.

It was in Scuderi's portrayal of tragic heroines that she excelled, and a second fine example would be this poignantly tragic rendition of "La Mamma Morta" from Andrea Chenier:

http://www.youtube.com/user/EdmundStAustell#p/search/1/r9qBqT6DkE0

Much the same can be said for this presentation as was said for her "Vissi d'Arte": admirable vocalism and stylistic excellence, blended with what might be called a dignified melodrama (yes, there really is such a thing, at least in opera.)

And now, speaking of melodrama, a real treat. I would like to offer you, as a final testament both to Scuderi and the melodrama of Italian theater, this very moving film clip, made in 1984, when Scuderi was resident at the Verdi Rest Home For Musicians. To me at least, it speaks most eloquently about the very essence of Italian opera, and exactly how Italian singing actors are able to feel about their music, their theater, and their art. I urge you to watch it all—it's just 9 minutes long. Starting around 333, it is all about Scuderi. The entire clip, however, is most interesting:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgSabTmPL7I&feature=related

Vissi d'Arte! I lived for art!

Alessandro Bonci: A Bel Canto Master

2011-05-22T10:27:00.000-04:00

Alessandro Bonci was born in Cesena, in the Italian historical district of Romagna, in 1870. Apprenticed in youth to a shoemaker, he showed musical interest and talent, and was able to secure a music scholarship at the Rossini Conservatory in Pesaro. His first studies were with Carlo Pedrotti, with whom the great Francesco Tamagno had also studied. Bonci's training was traditional bel canto, and it was this style of singing that characterized his artistic work throughout his career. He was part of the last generation of bel canto singers, and his career overlapped the verismo school of singing most notably represented by Caruso, who was rising as an international star during the latter part of Bonci's career.

Bonci's debut was in Parma in 1896, as Fenton in Falstaff. By he end of his first professional year, he had already been engaged by La Scala, where he debuted in I Puritani, an opera with which he quickly became identified. His rise was near meteoric. He went on very quickly to the major houses of Europe, including Covent Garden in 1900. His American debut was with the Manhattan Opera Company, where he found himself in a kind of direct competition with Enrico Caruso, who was singing at the Met. He went on to enjoy a major career in all the important houses, both here and abroad, until he retired in 1925, at the age of 55, dedicating himself to teaching and concertizing.

Without question, Bonci was an elegant and well schooled bel canto tenor. His early career was in the 19th century, and his singing exemplified the tastes of that period. As mentioned, he was particularly identified with the bel canto repertoire, especially the works of Bellini, Donizetti and Rossini. Here is the great tenor aria "A te, o cara, " from Bellini's I Puritani:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V8n_mE54Nm0

An absolutely elegant and lovely example of bel canto tenor singing! The purity of the voice, the stylistic finesse, the easy top—where he picks a high C right out of the air, on a diminished tone, and pulls it out in a long crescendo! Not many tenors can do that! Everything about this rendition has authenticity stamped upon it. There is no doubt in my mind that Bellini would have been very pleased, and would have been likely to say "Yes! That is exactly what I had in mind."

There is a most interesting video on Youtube that has an old piece of video footage; a short conversation by some New York Italian-Americans, in a Mr. Luigi Rossi's grocery store, talking at one point about Bonci, and how he compared—in their minds, at least—with Caruso. This speaks tomes about bel canto versus verismo in the "popular" mind. The conversation begins at 2:40 on the following video; it should be possible, if you have a fairly fast download, to move the radio button forward to that point:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeqMyVInD2E

Isn't that interesting? The audience for opera is clearly changing, and the refinements of the previous century are not much appreciated by these gentlemen, obviously, compared to the more "real" and down-to-earth presentation by Caruso. Granted, Caruso was a very great tenor, and enthusiasm for him is entirely understandable, but the important thing here is that to these men, Bonci seems to sound effete. Never mind that he was portraying the Duke of Mantua, a foppish nobleman of the Renaissance. Those considerations seem not to be important to them. In other words, opera is becoming a purely vocal art.

It would be interesting to put these observations to the test. It so happens that Bonci recorded "La Donna è Mobile":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SiJVwZmEJMM&feature=related

Bellini in Verdi-land? Perhaps. In any case, it is an unusual opportunity to see and reflect upon the passing of bel canto in favor of verismo. The Caruso recording is easily found, and can be compared. Probably most know it. It is very much more declamatory (and loud) and the famous cadenza at the end is included, including the roof-raising B natural. It is not really possible—or prudent—to pronounce on the superiority or inferiority of one versus the other. They are just two different worlds. They don't blend, and one has very little to say to the other. Apples and oranges.

In any case, we should not judge Bonci by the standards of verismo any more than we should judge Caruso by the standards of bel canto. Here, finally, is Bonci in a piece that is absolutely appropriate, squarely in the bel canto repertoire, "Spirto gentil," from Donizetti's La Favorita:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8J3mVAOgoOA

A lovely and elegant rendition of a beautiful piece of music! There is so much about 19th century opera and its fashions that was right. I for one think it is well worth preserving. Bel canto is certainly not dead...it is still there, and we can name a long list of singers who adhere even today to its essential principles. The sensible thing to say, I suppose, is let's have both. There is plenty of room. Let's just not swamp the repertoire of one with singers who clearly belong to the other. That would solve a myriad of problems!

Emma Calvé: Opera's First Femme Fatale

2011-05-08T12:32:00.003-04:00

Emma Calvé was born in 1858, in Aveyron. She spent her childhood in Spain, but moved to Paris with her mother after her parents separated. She began her vocal studies at this point. Her debut was in Brussels in 1881, in Faust, but she did not find much if any success at the beginning, and small roles over the next year or so were not much of a showcase. She returned to Paris and began to study with Mathilde Marchesi, a well-known mezzo soprano of the day who had herself studied with Manuel García, the famous teacher and codifier of bel canto singing techniques. She did not now have to wait long for success. After a tour of Italy, where she watched and studied famous and successful singers, she returned to Paris in 1891 to create the part of Suzel in Mascagni's L'Amico Fritz. She scored a success, and was asked to create the role of Santuzza in Cavalleria Rusticana. That turned out to be the magic moment. Italian melodrama, the staple of the newly emerging verismo, perfectly suited her intense temperament, renowned acting abilities, and artistic instincts. Her success was huge and she went on to repeat it in London. Santuzza was ever after considered one of her signature roles, another being Carmen. Both these roles presented Calvé with an opportunity to display all her skills, which were everywhere celebrated. She was, in fact, so fiery and melodramatic in her stage portrayals that some newspaper critics were offended by such earthy and passionate emotional displays from a woman on the pubic stage. It did not conform at all—especially in Victorian London—to upper middle class notions of female propriety, even (or perhaps particularly) in the theater.

Here is a recording made in 1907 of "Voi lo sapete, o mamma." It needs to be remembered that we are dealing here with a soprano from so long ago (she was born two years before the American Civil War began!) that even her earliest recordings capture only the voice of a middle aged woman. She was, for example, nearly 50 years old when this record was made:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6wt_8ljrEqg&feature=related

An absolutely fascinating recording from one hundred and four years ago! It is immediately apparent that the intensity and melodrama, if you will, of her presentation is strictly musical and stylistic in its nature. There is no shouting, no grating, gasping sobs, or any other kind of artistic indiscretion that some sopranos (especially mezzo sopranos) allow to infiltrate this piece. Her vocal instincts were always musical; it was the dramatic conception of the music and—from virtually all accounts—her acting that was so special. Indeed, she uses a vocal technique (the famously dark and intense chest voice so common in Belle Époque singing), to make her dramatic points. Its discreet use turns out to be all that is necessary to convey the emotional intensity of the music here. She leaves the essentially soprano part of her voice free from such affectation.

Let us turn to the other role for which she was so famous—Carmen. So powerful, according to contemporary accounts, was her portrayal of Carmen that it was many years before any other soprano or mezzo soprano could claim to equal it. Some record collectors claim that CD re-recordings do not do justice to the subtlety or intensity of her voice and pronunciation because record companies have "muffled" the sound in an attempt to get rid of the scratches on the old records. To put that idea to the test, here is a 1908 recording, directly from the old record, of the "Seguidilla" from Carmen. I ask you to tolerate the scratches in favor of the "live" feeling of the recording, and again, I stress the musicality of the vocal drama:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KwZ8sEJ29CI

I think the old recording does give a better idea of the vocal drama being played out here.

A word is in order about the classification of her voice. The term "mezzo-soprano" was not much used in Calve's era. She was most commonly called simply "soprano." The floods of classifications were to come later, largely invented by critics. I have written elsewhere on this subject, and I do not hesitate to reiterate my feeling that much of this is simply unnecessary. There are other ways to describe voices than to create a new category every time some singer sounds a bit different from another singing the same parts. I daresay the old SATB choral designations would work remarkably well if we talked more about color, flexibility and tone, and less about mezzo, lyric, dramatic, coloratura, spinto, leggiero, profundo, etc. etc. etc. But I digress:) Let's settle for soprano with an strong chest register in Calve's case.

Actually, there is, in addition to all the drama, a lot of traditional bel canto soprano to be tapped here, as can be amply demonstrated by this lovely recording of "Charmant oiseau," from Félicien David's La Perle du Brésil, 1908:

http://www.youtube.com/user/dantitustimshu#p/search/8/EwfbH7--_JE

Emma Calvé was important in her day because she led the way for women as passionate, real flesh and blood characters on the stage. That she could do so within the aesthetic framework of traditionally beautiful singing makes her all the more remarkable.

Giovanni Martinelli: Personality In Vocalization

2011-04-17T11:31:00.002-04:00

Giovanni Martinelli was certainly one of the best known and most admired Italian tenors of the 20th Century. He was very popular in America, and was a mainstay at the Metropolitan Opera for a remarkable 32 years, never easing off on his hard-core, bread and butter repertoire, which among other operas, included Aida, Trovatore, Otello, Turandot, La Juive, and Pagliacci. I would call his voice unique among great tenors. He sang with an open, white phonation that was very rare in the verismo world of dark-voiced, low-larynx singing so characteristic of post bel canto opera. That he did so successfully—especially considering the repertoire—is little short of miraculous. He never screamed, he never shouted. He sang the big dramatic roles with the same voice with which he sang lyric roles, and for him it worked. In a word, he always sounded like a tenor, no matter what he sang.

But if a picture tells a thousand words, a few Martinelli recordings tell the entire story of the Martinelli voice. I have tried to choose as many filmed excerpts as I could find, because he was a statuesque man of striking features, and one needs the entire impression: First, a famous Neapolitan song known to everyone:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NF9OCkevzUU&feature=related

Beautifully sung, without question: This is the essential Martinelli voice. Now, with that impression still in mind, let us look at an early Vitaphone recording of "Vesti la Giubba." Canio was one of his most successful roles, with which he, like Caruso, was often associated" :

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ad3fWkTJU_E&feature=related

It is fascinating to reflect upon the fact that he uses exactly the same voice—his voice, always recognizable—to sing two such different kinds of music. And it works! It works even though it is counter-intuitive, considering the different repertoire. Caruso, ever associated with this role, has become imprinted on the mind as the essential Canio, but that need not be the case. The tenors who have sung Canio are countless, and Martinelli's works perfectly well. The essential thing about Martinelli's voice, always to be remembered, is that it is essentially sui generis: Always the same sound, always the same color, always Martinelli. That is one of the characteristics of "open" singing: The characteristics of the speaking voice are always more present than they are in the heavily covered voices of the big dramatic tenors. It is not always easy—at least initially—to distinguish the voices of, let us say, Vinay, Del Monaco, Giacomini, Corelli, or Domingo. Certainly there are differences, but one has to stop and listen for a moment. That never happens with Martinelli. He is always immediately recognizable, because the personal characteristics of his voice, of Mister Giovanni Martinelli's voice, are always up-front and eternally his. This can be a big advantage in opera, because the audience recognizes the voice of the artist, as well as the character, and it is somehow more intimate. The voices of some singers are like instruments, and often have only that much "personality" about them. Some prefer that, especially in grander, more archetypal operas, such as those of Wagner. Wagner's characters are often aspects of the unconscious, and "personality" is already determined by archetype. Not so, as a rule, in Latin opera.

Finally, here is a recording of his "Questa o Quella," from Rigoletto, which is very interesting, for several reasons:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14ixy7i0IXc&feature=related

Did you notice how sympathetic the Duke sounds? He has a very distinct personality in this recording, and it is much more elegant than usual, because it is sung in a recognizable voice that has the characteristics of a more conversational speaking voice, presenting a view of women that, while it remains cynical, is nonetheless expressed in a curiously human way that is more reflective and world-weary than it is foppish, thereby adding another quality to the Duke's character that actually makes him a more interesting person.

There is much to be said for personality in vocalization!

An Opposing Guest Commentary On Modern Operatic Stage Direction: Are Directors The New Prima Donnas?

2011-04-10T13:42:00.002-04:00

It is a pleasure for me to welcome Natalie to these pages, for a second time. (Photo on left). Many readers will remember Natalie (known to many by her Youtube channel name "younglemeshevist") for her piece on Sergei Lemeshev. Natalie was among the very earliest to present videos and recordings of both the great Russian tenor and the equally brilliant Antonina Nezhdanova, who are starting to become favored fixtures for serious opera lovers in the United States, again thanks to Youtube. Natalie here presents a very different view of Modern European stage direction from that presented last week by Chloe Hannah.

............................................................

I read the last installment of Great Opera Singers, by Chloe Hannah, with considerable interest. (A Guest Commentary On Modern Opera Stage Direction: Why The Hump, Rigoletto?) The article was well written and made its points clearly, which I appreciate. While I agree on some, however, I do not agree with other points which Chloe Hannah made. She writes, for example, that :

" As a designer, the visual presentation is just as important to me as the musical one, and even with my musicological background, I tire of people contesting that music is the most important of the elements opera consists of. If so, what sets opera apart from a symphony? Is it not a Gesamtkunstwerk where story, music and imagery are equals? Presenting opera in a fresh manner will call forth more enthusiasm in a young crowd than a stuffy presentation of a – let’s face it – rather obscure form of art."

This touches on the essential issue – what is opera? To me it’s a powerful art, dominated by sound and the human voice. Powerful because the human voice itself is an emotionally powerful instrument and means of communication. If one person says something important in a loud voice, it makes a significant effect on others. If the person sings something important at the top of their lungs the effect is greater. If that singing person is accompanied by a big orchestra, their voice and words possess huge emotional power. So opera at its best is a combination of beautiful, expressive, powerful sound, coupled with meaningful words. It’s neither pure vocalization nor a symphony, even if it is performed in concert, without sets or direction.

As for its visual side, everyone would like to see great acting, extraordinary sets, costumes and direction, but this side of operatic performance has its limits, largely because artists are selected for their musical and vocal abilities, not for their acting skills or beauty. The genre is so demanding vocally that it never enters anyone’s mind to teach a voiceless actor instead of a talented vocalist. If a talented vocalist doesn’t have acting abilities they nevertheless will be permitted to perform on the stage and perhaps will improve their acting. Similarly, no one dares to make ballet dancers sing during their performances. We know that Broadway musical artists can sing and dance very well, but ballet is too demanding to have artists do anything except dance. Such are laws of the genre. Opera has its own laws. No one ever banned Caballe , Gigli , Caruso, Tagliavini or many other great singers from the stage because all they could believably do was stand there and sing! They acted with their voices and it was easy enough to imagine them as beautiful heroes.

And then there is a purely technical matter—opera is so demanding vocally that most artists can’t move too fast, because they must control their breathing and voice. True, we can now see very athletic singers (Netrebko, for example) who can perform standing on their head, but I would suggest that it is at the very least questionable if their voices compare one hundred percent to those of the greatest singers of the previous generations.

It needs to be remembered that there have been—historically—many composers who were also good directors, especially Verdi, Puccini, Massenet, Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, and Rimsky-Korsakov. They had already directed their operas by debut time, and it was sufficient, generally speaking, to just listen to their music to imagine the emotional state and actions of the characters. There simply is no absolute freedom for directors there.

Libretto, I feel, is as important as music in many operas because composers took it seriously when they wrote the music. They imagined characters and their relationships— otherwise the music would have been different. So it seems to me that the modern habit of neglecting libretto only creates a "schizophrenic" effect. The recent Bolshoi production of “Onegin” is a great example. Its director is obsessed by the idea of confrontation between individual and society. He shoves this idea into every production of his, even if an opera doesn’t need it. In his version, Lensky became a creepy, nervous character; he insults Tatyana and shoots himself accidentally. The Larins became a bunch of stupid "pigs," always eating, shouting, drinking, and falling under the table. Olga became an aggressive bitch. The result was very interesting—a second set of characters suddenly appeared: musical ghosts. While artists performed something outrageous on the stage, the music and the lyrics created "ghosts" of real and absolutely different characters –the ones Tchaikovsky and Pushkin had written! These two parallel worlds (scenic and musical) created a schizophrenic effect, which the director didn’t plan. It was fun, even if unintentional! I think one of the reasons many modern directors are booed by audiences is because of their often egregious self-indulgence. These might be classified generally as a kind of lack of professionalism—laziness, ego, logical inconsistencies, and general ignorance of tradition(s). Even if they intend to depart from them, they should be aware of what they are departing from. Otherwise, we are treated to trendy outrageousness, which can easily degenerate into a tiresome kind of inverse snobbery.

Traditionally trained Russian singers were shocked when they went to Europe and saw what they were being asked to do by some directors. The directors had no notion at all about Russian operas, and shoved politics, Stalin, vodka, Rasputin and other vulgar stereotypes at them from the very beginning. Basically, they were insulted: "My idea is the main thing!" "Russian classics should be staged like that—inside out!"

Yevgeny Nesterenko explained it by the term "directors’ mafia.". No matter how the audience reacts , critics will call it a "success" or a "thought-provoking production" as though directors are real "kings" of opera, even though many singers and musicians understand their parts better than directors. A couple of examples: The Queen of Spades in a Latvian National Opera production. The production is visually ugly, though "inventive." The Countess decides to open a bottle of champagne and is killed by its cork( at 3:50):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iXPaggzdA3E

Then there is the so-called “Brokeback Onegin”—a Polish production. Lensky and Onegin are gay. A scene which replaces Gremin’s ball:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryA499dELqI

There is a strange system at work in opera theaters. Singers and musicians have their duties. Singers must sing their part beautifully and precisely, just like the composer wrote it. Otherwise they would be booed , criticized or fired. The same is true of musicians and conductors. Directors seem to be the only ones who feel they do not have duties—they have only “absolute creative freedom” which, if it fails, won’t be seriously criticized, at least in theatrical circles. As for timelessness – it seems to me that some operas are timeless, others are not. It’s impossible to replace Tsar Boris by a modern President, even though riots, wars and revolutions still happen and problems of power are the same. Perhaps La Boheme is timeless, but La Traviata is not so timeless. It’s hard to imagine now a modern man can endanger his sister’s reputation by his relationship with a woman like Violetta. It’s not a contemporary problem.

I do agree with ChloeHannah about comic operas, however – they give MUCH more latitude to directors.

A Guest Commentary On Modern Opera Stage Direction: Why the hump, Rigoletto?

2011-04-03T13:35:00.002-04:00

[I am pleased to present, for the second time in these pages, a commentary by "ChloeHannah." It was she, you may well recall, who did the piece some time ago on Anne Sofie von Otter, which was so well received by our many readers. Today "ChloeHanna," whose self-portrait appears to the left, speaks about a subject which has arisen many times in the Comments section of this blog—modern stage direction. "Chloe" is well qualified to speak on this subject, not only because of her university degrees (including a Ph.D.) in musicology and interactive media, but because she is still quite young, and offers our readers a point of view from a significantly younger generation than most of us belong to (speaking only for myself, of course:)

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

My gratitude goes to our favourite blogger for offering me the opportunity to write about modern opera performances. He asked me to do this a while ago and I was reluctant because of the lack of video examples. But taking into consideration the kind curiosity of one of Edmund’s readers, I decided to give it a go.

I favour the modern production to such an extent that it has become an integral part of the opera experience to me. If I see that an opera is performed in traditional attire I am likely to skip it altogether. I would rather see it performed concertante than have to sit through yet another evening of hoop skirts and fake candles. I have visited the opera around 500 times, and a good chunk of the performances were traditional. If an opera follows every word of the libretto literally, the evening will either annoy or bore me.

Musicologists and opera lovers can be very protective of this form of art, and in the past I have had some aggressive responses to my point of view, so I would like to say that I do not want to press my opinion upon others, nor am I attempting to provoke the reader. Anyone is entitled to their own view.

With this disclaimer I hand you my thoughts on opera as I see it performed in central Europe. The few photos I was able to gather, and all examples mentioned are taken from my local theatre in Basel, Switzerland. It acts as a typical example of what a medium-sized, open-minded opera house presents today.

1. Innovation

First off, a modern production is new. Whether I personally love the performance or hate it, whether it be intellectually stimulating or just fun without any deeper meaning, it always guarantees the viewer something to ponder, a new interpretation of a well-known story. Part of the challenge is trying to crack the director’s thought process, much like attempting differential equations. What fun!

2. Visual Experience

A new interpretation can lead to visually enticing stage and costume designs. By no means is it all graffitied brick walls and miniskirts. This side of rococo furniture, the visual world of a modern designer is limitless and thus unpredictable: I have seen Macbeth take place in an airport terminal; La Bohème at a ski resort:

I have also see Lohengrin in a giant’s kitchen. Other performances are abstract in nature but nevertheless stunning. The sheer size of an opera stage offers so many architectural possibilities, from Maria Stuarda’s world jutting out dangerously across the orchestra to the many atmospheric facets of stage lighting upon a simple white background in Ballo in Maschera.

As a designer, the visual presentation is just as important to me as the musical one, and even with my musicological background I tire of people contesting that music is the most important of the elements opera consists of. If so, what sets opera apart from a symphony? Is it not a Gesamtkunstwerk where story, music and imagery are equals?

3. Humour

A new interpretation can lead to hilarious situations on stage. Certain operas call for humour, and what better way to entertain an audience than by redefining the libretto in an unpredictable manner? We all know the witch lives in a gingerbread house, but I have rarely heard as much laughter as when she appeared in a fridge, her high heels sticking out from below the appliance as she walked on stage and beckoned Hansel and Gretel through the fridge door.

If someone asks me which operas I like to see most, I always reply Rossini. I’m not even that crazy about his music; my preference lies closer to Stravinsky. But when it comes to modern stage performances of Rossini’s operas, I know the evening will be memorable. Barbiere’s Figaro as a dragonfly with a large ego, the rotund tenor as a bumblebee, and Rosina’s butterfly entangled in the mean-spirited spider’s web was a production I returned to see over and over.

4. Political and Social Issues

A modern interpretation of opera can be uncomfortably true to the spirit of the opera. Operas are not always fun. Some are downright tragic. I recently saw an incredibly difficult Aida. I can’t say I enjoyed the evening in a feel-good-There’s-something-about-Mary kind of way, but it has indelibly changed my view on the opera. Aida is about war, and war was what was shown on stage. How utterly out of place are Verdi’s enchanting, exotic dances in such a horrifying piece? It is something I had never before considered, and I am grateful for the questions the director provided me with.

Modern opera directors are often labeled the enfant terrible, the provocateur. Their operas are booed at, the singers are interrupted by angry outcries in the audience. But the ideas are nearly always rooted in the original piece. (As a side note, I feel compelled to say that if an opera speaks of sex, which frankly occurs a lot, do we really have the grounds to protest against some steamy action on stage?)

5. Timelessness

Every single opera libretto is timeless, I am convinced of this. Must Rigoletto have a hump to manifest his social marginalisation? He may blame his misery on his physical deformity, but we all know that his moral bankruptcy and habit of throwing married ladies into the arms of a ruthless womaniser are greater issues. What could the deeper reason for Rigoletto’s behaviour be? I have seen six different productions of the opera, and the answer was never the same twice.

6. History

In an historical context I usually point out that ‘back in the day’, opera was a very different type of entertainment. Singers carried a suitcase with their favourite arias, and the stage director would simply mix and match. It was not a strict, by-the-book form of art. The auditorium was not dimmed, talking and drinking was allowed, and prostitutes lured in the boxes. Barring public prostitution, I do wish we could regain some of this lax attitude, because it might also help with my final thought:

7. Attracting a younger audience

Opera has so many facets! Let us colour and animate it to draw a younger audience to the theatres. This tends to be the only argument conservatives will agree with. Presenting opera in a fresh manner will call forth more enthusiasm in a young crowd than a stuffy presentation of a – let’s face it – rather obscure form of art.

These are my thoughts on modern opera. I am only sorry that I don’t have any videos to show just how fantastic, beautiful, hilarious and fascinating some of my visits to the opera have been. But for all the modern efforts made by this central European city, the theatre has yet to embrace the technologies the world wide web offers.

Luciano Pavarotti: The Artist And The Persona

2011-03-27T12:05:00.006-04:00

For reasons I am not quite sure of, there are three tenors I find it hard to write about: Caruso, Pavarotti and Domingo. I am not sure why. I did finally write about Caruso last year, when I finally found the key for the discussion, and that turned out to be the fact that he was the first media triumph in the history of American classical singers. I know he was Italian, by birth, but he quickly became Amerca's tenor, lived here, married here, and had his great career at the Met while under contract to RCA Victor. Many singers of Italian background were to follow, in all kinds of music, from Galli-Curci right up through Mario Lanza, Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. But what about the modern tenors Domingo and Pavarotti? My instincts tell me there is something other than music at work in both cases, and it's just plain tough to get one's head around the voice and artistry per se, without taking many other things into consideration.

There are two reactions a foreign singer can have when he or she lands in America and determines to make their career here. One is to retain an old-world elegance and artistic seriousness, and the other is to discover American show business, and the enormous money to be made there. A good example of a great tenor who retained his artistic seriousness and personal dignity was Giuseppe Giacomini. And he paid the price for it in America. He was basically elbowed out of the country's opera scene, back to Italy and Austria, where he was greatly respected. He did not, you see, play the celebrity game. Tony Curtis once said that fame is a separate career, and if you want to be a famous artist, you must dedicate as much or more time to the cultivation of fame as to your art per se. I imagine you can see where I am going with this: I respect the great voice of Luciano Pavarotti, the near-manic energy he poured into his career in America, and the magnificent effort on his behalf to restore bel canto (for which I, for one, remain eternally grateful!). He did all these things. He was a wonderful tenor, with an uncommonly good voice, with a top range matched only by some of the greatest tenors of all time, such as Lauri-Volpi. All this I grant. He also strove relentlessly to make himself famous, and could, on occasion, play to the gallery in a way that some serious opera lovers found annoying. He was very big, extremely fat and projected a jovial, near-riotous ebullience at times. In a word, he played to the American stereotype of opera tenors.

I believe that Pavarotti's greatest contribution to opera seria was his dedication, along with that of Dame Joan Sutherland, to the badly needed revitalization of bel canto. Here is a 4 minute segment from a BBC documentary on La Fille du Regiment. (As a bonus, we get a brief glimpse of Juan Diego Florez at the end:

Of course, great bel canto artists of the 19th century would seldom if ever sing those high notes full voice. The voix mixte was the approved French method of singing notes above the staff. In this clip, the music critic's remarks and obvious enthusiasm were typical of the way the young Pavarotti was received. To be able to sing so high, with such force! I still remember the New York Times article that followed his premiere performance of La Fille du Regiment in New York. The full page article, with large-point headlines at the top, declared "MAMMA MIA, WHAT A TENOR!" It was shortly afterwards that we were treated to an album, with a picture of a sea pirate on the cover, with the title "King Of The High C's" (To be read, obviously, as" King of the High Seas.")

From the very beginning, then, there was this aura of excess, ebullience, physical strength, and enormous physical presence (of the 350-pound variety!) Everything about Luciano Pavarotti was big, big, big. Part of the artistic price paid for this was that he, like his predecessor Enrico Caruso, sang monochromatically. There were very few colors in the voice, the singing was hardly elegant, and it was sometimes unmusical. Many in the audience were coming to hear the fat man sing very high, as loud as he could. That was how it all began, with the nearly unsingable "Pour mon âme," with its many notorious high C sharps, almost always sung down a half tone. Not that Pavarotti couldn't sing above C. He did, often, especially in the great bel canto favorite "A te, o cara," from I Puritani."

By 1972, it had been a long time since audiences had been treated to this kind of voice in I Puritani! This kind of full-throated singing, up to such an altitude, harkens back to the days of Giacomo Lauri-Volpi. Bravo, Luciano! How much he gave, how much he did, to restore bel canto opera to its appropriate place in the repertoire! For this, every lover of great and beautiful singing should be eternally grateful! I know that I am!

As the career went on, the voice of course began to darken somewhat, and Pavarotti began to make what I consider the classic mistake. He took on heavier roles. There is a kind of confused thinking that seems to take over a tenor's mind when his voice begins to decline, and that is to think that because the voice has darkened in color, and the luster has gone off the top notes, and the uppermost top notes are no longer there, that it is time to start singing Manrico, Rhadames, Calaf, and Chenier! Whoa! That is to miss the main point, is it not? The voice has begun to lose its color, sheen, squillo and range in the first place because of all the demands that have been placed upon it! Hardly the time to start thinking that somehow this makes it appropriate to sing Andrea Chenier! All that does is hasten the decline of the voice. But, be that as it may, that is what Pavarotti began to do, in the 1970's, with predictable results. He was hardly the first, and I'm sure he will not be the last, unfortunately.

One ambition that never abandoned him was the lust for fame, however. The TV talk shows were still there. I once saw him on Johnny Carson, trading jibes with Loretta Lynn, probably the greatest female country music singer of all time. Great exposure for her, maybe not so great for him. I can remember her saying, "You know, y'all are FUN!" Yes. I'm sure he was. Then there were the "Three Tenors," about which I will say nothing, and of course the famous "Nessun Dorma," which became the theme song of the Italian national soccer team in their quest for 1st in the world championships. This got picked up later in the movie Bend it Like Beckham when the Pakistani-British girl soccer player, toward the end of the movie, made her big penalty kick to the accompaniment of "Nessun Dorma," and of course made the winning goal. More recently, we have been treated to a female food-fight in Drew Barrymore's premier directorial effort, "Whip It," when two opposing girls' roller derby teams start beating each other up to the accompaniment of "Di Quella Pira." This kind of thing can spread. In any case, Pavarotti began marching straight into show business. He and Frank Sinatra became friends, and it seemed, toward the end, that he had begun to wish he were Andrea Bocelli, doing duets with Italian rock stars like Zucchero. The end was near.

I want to stress, finally, that which was best, which is to say that which rose to heights sufficient to match the extraordinary fame. That would be the first half of the very long career, when the Great Pavarotti (and he WAS a great singer!) took himself and his art seriously, and when he brought a huge amount of attention to opera in this country, in the same way Mario Lanza and Caruso did. What he and Joan Sutherland did for bel canto simply cannot be over-estimated. Two of the greatest voices of the twentieth century, given to singing, brilliantly, some of the greatest 19th century operas ever written! Think of it! Yes, for this he deserves our undying admiration. As to the rest, who cares? As the great American poet Ezra Pound once said, "What thou lovest best remains; the rest is dross."

Great Singers Unrecognized: Eric Cedergren

2011-03-06T15:11:00.004-05:00

This edition of Great Opera Singers is a personal dedication to a fine gentleman and excellent singer you are not likely to have heard if you live outside the Chicago area. His name is Eric Cedergren, and I have known him off and on since a very long time ago, somewhere around 1962. Eric is now 87 years old.

[UPDATE: (September 3, 2011) In Memoriam. I wrote this article and posted it on March 6, 2011. I learned a week ago that Eric passed away on June 6. I was sad, of course, but so very glad that he had been able to see this piece, and to have read the many comments that came in from viewers. I spoke to him, and he made it very clear that this meant so very much to him and his family. It is most gratifying to be able to give flowers to living when possible. E. StAustell]

Not every person who has all the qualifications for a great musical career ever gets the chance to have one. In fact, this happens more often than not. Other things get in the way. We saw a particularly tragic instance of it a while back when we discussed Florence Quartararo. With all the voice and talent in the world, she made a decision, after her marriage to Italo Tajo, to be a mother and housewife. The loss to great singing was unavoidable.

Eric Cedergren, even in his youth, had what I would call an exceptional voice. A bass-baritone with an immensely rich and powerful voice, he was always applauded when he sang, and was simply better than many who went on to major careers. Eric did the traditional round of auditions, and was heard by important people, who showed interest. City Opera offered him work at one point, but Eric was married, with 4 children. He had a decision to make, not just regarding the City Opera offer, but regarding others as well. He was not the kind of man to make a selfish decision, and he returned to Chicago, to his family, and has sung in and around Chicago ever since, essentially. He now has a large family of children and grandchildren, and they are well settled. All decisions have not only their costs, but also their rewards.

Eric's family gathered tapes of his singing and have posted them on Youtube to honor their father and grandfather,a good-hearted and appreciative gesture I would like to participate in. I think you will understand what I am doing here when you hear Eric sing "Old Man River."

See what I mean?! This was quite a voice in its day, no doubt about it! The unrelenting intensity of the singing is in the best tradition of this highly dramatic music, and serves it very well indeed. This is more power, intensity and color than many voices can muster in service of any kind of music!
Here is the lovely "All the things you are":

Finally, an ancient operatic favorite certainly not conceived of for a bass-baritone, but which nevertheless works perfectly well as such:

Just beautiful!

Eric, I want you to know you have not been forgotten by those who knew you, heard you, and care about you. You were a wonderful singer, with a great voice, and I hope you read this some day. You made the right decisions when it mattered and when others were concerned.

Fernando de Lucia: A Unique Window Onto 19th Century Vocalism

2011-02-27T14:11:00.003-05:00

Fernando De Lucia's generally accepted date of birth is 1860, in Naples. He studied voice at the Naples Music Conservatory and made his operatic debut at the Teatro de San Carlo, as Faust, at the age of 25. His climb through the small houses in Italy and early engagements abroad (Spain and South America) follow the by-now familiar path of so many Italian singers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. At the beginning, he sang the lyric tenor repertoire for which his voice seemed particularly suited; operas such La Sonnambula, The Barber of Seville, and La Traviata. He sang in the tradition of bel canto tenors before him, and his vocalism per se was not all that different from the vocalism of other bel canto tenors of the time They all sang in a way that incorporates, virtually in their totality, the principles of singing laid down by Manuel García in his famous study, L'Art du Chant.

De Lucia's career straddled the cusp of a major divide in operatic history. Clearly trained in bel canto, he found, mid-career, that new operas, of the so-called verismo school, were starting to attract a lot of public attention. De Lucia had already, by his early thirties, become a famous tenor in Italy, and was sought out by composers. He created the role of Fritz in Mascagni's L'Amico Fritz in 1891, and, the following year, was part of the original cast of Mascagni's I Rantzau, an opera that never really got off the ground. He soon got on board with Leoncavallo's I Pagliacci, and his Canio was much applauded. He went on, in coming years, to do Rigoletto, Tosca , and Cavallería. I mention these because it is clear that, even though trained in bel canto singing, and with a very flexible voice capable of near-coloratura singing, he managed to take advantage of the new verismo , and make quite a good impression in those roles. I seriously doubt if he changed his singing style one bit to do the bigger operas, relying almost certainly on a new set of mannerisms, more melodramatic in nature.

Happily for us today, De Lucia made a huge number of recordings at a very early time, and, whatever roles he may have sung in public, and whatever "school" of operatic theater was uppermost at any given time, the fact is that it is by his recordings he is known, and they reveal a singing style that is fascinating, and provides a nearly unique window on a lost era of singing; lost because even though much of bel canto has survived, and is still appreciated, this cannot be said of its highly individualized excesses. That much is gone forever.

So,to the core of the matter. Here is 1904 recording of "Ecco ridente in cielo." Almaviva was one of the roles for which De Lucia was famous, and the following is one of the most extraordinary recordings of tenor singing ever made. The fioratura is so remarkable that it almost defies belief. Be sure to listen to the video until the very end, as it is toward the end that De Lucia presents his amazing vocal display:

Isn't that amazing? It is made possible by a vocal production that creates an extremely rapid vibrato. A very good coloratura soprano once explained to me that the trick, with that kind of fioratura, is to synchronize the notes of the coloratura passage with the vibrato of the voice, so that the voice rides on the crest of the cadenza, as it were, through the agency of the vibrato. It certainly works here. I know of no contemporary tenor who could do this, although there probably are some. As pure vocal display, which was much prized in the 19th century, (as it still is by many today) this was both acceptable and praiseworthy. It must be remembered that De Lucia's reputation was great in his day. It was an honest gesture on his part to make these recordings. I for one greatly enjoy listening to them, and I know from my correspondence that I am far from alone.

Here is De Lucia singing the very difficult "Siciliana," from Cavalleria Rusticana, in a 1902 recording:

What I find interesting here is that Cavalleria is one of the warhorses of the verismo reprtoire, along with I Pagliacci, and De Lucia, based on the clear evidence of these recordings, approached the arias in vocally consistent ways. The rapid-fire vibrato is there, the elongated phrases, the diminuendos, the portamenti, and so on. It would seem that he relied on acting ability, and a dark shading of the voice, which he seemed able to do effectively, to carry off these intense dramatic roles. It was art, and not barrel-chested belting, that did the job. Most interesting.

Finally, a Neapolitan song. He was a lifelong son of Naples, and was greatly admired there. He knew many of the composers around Naples in his day, and it is very likely that at least some of the songs were written either for De Lucia, or at least with him in mind. I choose the following, the famous "Fenesta ca lucive," because it is a very dark, sad and brooding song, and I think reinforces the idea that his mastery of color and mood may be the major factor in his ability to have been so successful in verismo operas. To help understand, here is the first verse, in essence:

No light in the window?
Is my love sick.?
I asked her sister, and no!
My girl is dead! And Buried!
She slept alone too long...and cried so much.
Now she sleeps with the dead!

Not much I can add to that!

I cannot think of another tenor quite like Fernando de Lucia. Everything about his singing bespeaks a bygone era. He was unique, and his vocalism was extraordinary; very much sui generis, to be sure, but clearly founded in very early bel canto. Through his many recordings, all of very early date, we have the opportunity to visit 19th century Italian singing as if we were actually there! This is a very rare privilege!

Roberta Peters: The American Nightingale

2011-02-13T17:17:00.004-05:00

When she retired from opera in 1985, the great American coloratura soprano Roberta Peters had been a leading principal female singer at the Metropolitan Opera longer than anyone in the company's long history. Peters was born in New York in 1930, and was discovered by her life-long mentor, patron and friend Jan Peerce when she was still a teen-ager. Rudolf Bing was convinced to listen to her when she was scarcely more than a girl, and made her sing "Der Hölle Rache" 7 times (!) from the stage of the Met, while he went from place to place in the house to make sure he could hear her from any location! Only Bing. He need not have worried. Her voice, like that of Amelita Galli-Curci and Lily Pons, her artistic predecessors, sailed right over the top of the orchestra in true, traditional coloratura fashion.

Impressed, Bing gave her a contract to sing the Queen of the Night in Magic Flute, in early 1951. However, as sometimes happens in live theater, she was called upon to replace Nadine Conner as Zerlina in a Don Giovanni scheduled almost immediately. She was 20 years old and, I am quite certain, terrified, since she had never performed the role. Worse, the conductor was Fritz Reiner, before whom mere mortals trembled. I cannot image a more frightening prospect for a girl barely 20 years old. However, showing the stuff she was made of, and winning Reiner over, to the amazement of all, she did it. Her unscheduled debut as Zerlina in November of 1950 was a huge success, with Reiner carefully guiding her through the performance. That night, in storybook fashion, a star was born.

Roberta Peters went on to sing nearly 500 performances at the Met, in 24 roles, including Queen of the Night, Rosina, Gilda (her most often performed role), Despina, Sophie, Adele, Lucia and Norina. She knew her repertoire, and she mastered it. More importantly, she stayed within it. Like her friend Jan Peerce, she was extremely sensible and knew how to take care of her gift so that it would last and last.

I have to admit to being an unabashed admirer of Roberta Peters, and I always have been. I was privileged to meet her and work with her at one time (in a fund-raising capacity) and I was very, very much impressed with her dignity, grace, and willingness to promote the fine arts in America. She and Peerce shared this love of art and willingness to support and propagate it. She was a very busy concert singer, and—again like Peerce—made it a point to go out into the country in places that were far from major cultural centers. It was always possible to hear her, either on television, or in concert venue. This is one of the many reasons that she and Peerce were two of the most popular and beloved classical singers of all time in this country.

Here is the famous aria that Mr. Bing had her sing repeatedly at her audition, and which she went on to sing many times in her life, "Der Hölle Rache":

Now THAT is coloratura singing of an extraordinarily high order! The seeming ease with which she sings the F above high C is simply astonishing. This is a true coloratura in the grand tradition. The voice is clear as it can be, the notes are precisely articulated, squarely on pitch, with no scooping or unauthorized portamentos, up or down, and—perhaps most importantly—no sense whatsoever of strain or pushing in a piece that requires such very high singing. It is immaculately pure and natural vocalism.

One of the problems Peters had to confront during her career was the fact that Joan Sutherland, admittedly one of the great voices of all time, seemed dedicated to singing this repertoire with a voice that was markedly dramatic and heavy for such roles. Peters should never have been compared to Sutherland. It's apples and oranges—the voices are in no way similar, and, Sutherland admirer that I am, I nonetheless must say that tradition is on the side of Peters. She naturally follows Pons, who naturally followed Galli-Curci. There is an unbroken string of coloratura tradition in which Peters fits perfectly. The aberration is Sutherland, whose astonishing voice made it possible to forgive all that was out of place—her size, looks, singing technique that made it impossible to say what language she was singing in; all these things were forgiven, and seen as nothing. Opera at that period had become a purely vocal art. I do not criticize the Great Sutherland in the least, I just point out the obvious.

Here is Peters in the charming aria "Je veux vivre," from Romeo and Juliet

To the words "immaculate," "elegant," "musical," and "traditional," add "perky" and just plain "cute." She looks like a coloratura, which is nice, considering the roles written for such voices.

Finally, the great test for all coloraturas, and a show-stopper if ever there was one, the Mad Scene from Lucia di Lammermoor:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PLYbuquZ0A8

I have seldom heard it done better. Even more words of praise enter the discussion at this point, and I am inspired to say "dignity of conceptualization." This particular scene has inspired a considerable amount of carpet chewing among singers of less innate dignity and restraint than Peters. It is this quality, with which she imbues all her work, that elevates it above merely "good work." It is inspired work; art that looks inward and can embrace dramatic situations of the most heart-rending kind and make them something larger, something that moves in the direction of tragic rather than simply sad or heart-breaking. In a word, toward greatness in art.

She was an amazingly good singer, and remains a great lady of opera.

Galina Vishnevskaya: The Ultimate Survivor

2011-01-30T13:24:00.007-05:00

Galina Pavlovna Vishnevskaya was born in 1926 in Leningrad. This was certainly not an auspicious time to be born in Russia, for a singer or anyone else. The first half of the twentieth century was nothing less than an endless nightmare of revolution, civil war, foreign invasion, poverty and socio-political chaos. Vishnevskay's own biography, Galina, is a primary first-person historical source of information about the siege of Leningrad by the Nazis. What she suffered at that time can scarcely be talked about, much less comprehended by anyone who did not have to go through it.

She began singing in opera reviews, or more nearly operetta reviews, during the last year of the siege. Where she and her fellow musicians found the strength to take their little show around I cannot imagine. They were surviving on 7 ounces of bread a day, if I recall correctly, along with a spoon of lard and a spoon of sugar. One night, one of the performers dropped dead on stage, from malnutrition and exhaustion, and they buried her outside the theater in her costume. Galina (who was a member of the Pioneer Corps) fell in love with a young officer around this time, who was killed in action. When the news got back to where she was stationed, some of the other women laughed at her and made fun of her for her loss, dreadful as that may sound. I mention these heart-breaking details for the same reason I chose the unusual picture that appears above, taken from her recent film. She was young and beautiful once, as you will see in the excerpts, but this photo shows her on the inside more than on the outside, in old age. It helps me keep ever in mind what the reality of her life was. To anyone interested in Russia in the early through mid-20th century, and what it meant to live there at that time, I strongly recommend her biography. Having read it (twice) I determined never to say a harsh word about her, because many of the things she did could be criticized (and have been). She was a hard woman, to be sure, ("hardened" would be a better word) who would do whatever she had to do to survive, and who would do exactly what she wanted to do for reasons of her own. Enough said, on to the artistic facts:

She won a competition in Moscow in 1952, and in 1953 joined the Bolshoi Theater. For the next seven or eight years, she worked her way up, and her voice developed into a powerful instrument that made the bigger roles accessible to her. She had made important contacts in the artistic and government circles (which were tightly interwoven at that time) and she was given permission to sing abroad in 1961, which was the year of her debut at the Metropolitan Opera, in Aida, one of her most popular roles. Covent Garden followed in 1962. The La Scala debut was two years later. She sang many roles from the Russian repertoire (her Tatiana was noteworthy) but she also did Italian operatic roles, both in Russian and Italian. Principle among them were Aida, Violetta, Tosca, and Cio-cio-san. Benjamin Britten wrote his War Requiem with her in mind for the soprano lead. In 1966 she was named People's Artist of the Soviet Union, and her fame and reputation were solidly established. She made many recordings, and was, in general, celebrated as a great artist.

Eventually, difficulties arose. Her friendship with some artists who were critics of the Soviet Union was making her life there increasingly problematical. Realizing that she was in danger, she, along with her recently-acquired husband Mstislav Rostropivich, left the Soviet Union in 1974, purportedly for singing engagements abroad, but with no real intention to return. Clearly in de-facto exile, she was denounced by the Soviet government and all her recordings and videos were destroyed, a terrible artistic loss.

After many years abroad, she finally returned to Moscow in 2002 as an elderly woman, and established the "Galina Vishnevskaya Opera Center." In 2007, she starred in Alexander Sokurov's film Aleksandra, in a straight acting role, and received excellent reviews worldwide. She was 81 at the time.

First, a very rare surviving video-clip of a fragment of "Ritorna Vincitor:" (You will have to click on the link for this one—it cannot be embedded.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RGrbaxJRGXo&feature=related

This is Vishnevskaya in her prime. The power of the voice is apparent, and the top—never all that easy in so large and powerful a voice, is nonetheless rock-solid at this period in her life. The finesse is also there, and the firm control of the voice makes possible the crescendos and diminuendos necessary to accommodate the musical and stylistic demands of the piece. This was a signature role for Vishnevskaya, for all these reasons, but—as is characteristic of Russian singers—she sang a wide variety of roles, some much lighter. Here, for example is a lovely rendition of "Un bel di," from Madame Butterfly:

This is very interesting to the degree that it shows how she could lighten the tone of the voice to more nearly approximate the color of a girl's voice, while at the same time relinquishing none of the power-potential or intense edge to the big passages where she must soar because of the dramatic demands of the text at that point. It shows how artistically she could hold her vocal powers in check when required to do so.

Finally, the darker, heavier demands of Tosca:

This is right up there with the interpretations of great Italian singers. It is all there—the power, the dramatic intensity, the color, and always the grand style of Italian opera seria. She was of course a prima donna; the fact that she was able to endure, to work, to ascend to that status, and survive there—for decades—is little short of a miracle.

The Great Fritz Wunderlich: Gone But Not Forgotten!

2011-01-23T11:31:00.005-05:00

"Fritz"(Friedrich) Wunderlich was born in Kusel, in 1930, into a musical family. His mother was a violinist and his father a choirmaster. Wunderlich's youth was not at all a happy one, owing to the terrible times in Germany, which was suffering extreme economic depression and the rise of the Nazis. His father, wounded in battle during World War I, and beset by many problems, took his own life when Fritz was a small child. Fritz worked in a bakery as a boy and, as the years passed, began to be noticed by others for his obvious musicality. He took music lessons and finally obtained a music scholarship that made it possible for him to study at the Freiburg Musical Academy. It was there that his voice attracted serious attention, and he was soon spotted as a very promising young tenor.

He first attracted attention for his singing of Mozart, but soon expanded his repertoire to include popular Italian operas, which he sang in German, as that was the tradition in Germany.

Wunderlich's career, because he died very young, was largely limited to singing opera in Germany and making (thank God!) a very significant number of recordings. It is almost exclusively through these recordings that Wunderlich is known and remembered today outside Germany. His recordings include famous operatic arias (usually in German), lieder, at which he excelled (he was very widely praised for his recording of Schumann's Dichterliebe, for example), religious music, and popular operetta pieces.

Wunderlich's voice was flawlessly produced, and very beautiful; it was, however, his extraordinary musicality and sense of style that won him such fame. The voice, spectacular as it was, would not have brought him the great reputation he enjoyed among musicians had he not been so brilliant a musician. By age 35, his future, both as a man and as a musician, seemed assured. He had married in 1956 and had three children. His reputation had begun to spread outside Germany, and he was starting to make foreign appearances (France, England, Argentina, Italy) and had been signed to appear at the Metropolitan Opera. Then, just short of his 36th birthday, he suffered an accident—falling down a flight of stairs at a friend's home—and died from the injuries he received. It was unquestionably one of the greatest musical tragedies of the twentieth century.

First, here is the aptly-named Wunderlich in one of opera's best known pieces, the lovely aria from Von Flotow's Martha, "Ach! so fromm," known to most by its foreign Italian title "M'appari."

This is musical and vocal perfection. Where to start! First, the very beautiful quality of the voice. We are in the non-Italian world of opera now—this is a much more open and "white" sound than the heavily covered and dark sounds so characteristic of Italian singing. This is not to say one is better than the other, only to say that the tonal qualities of open vs. covered singing are distinct. I believe the more open phonation of the German singers results in more distinctly individualistic sounds. The darker sounds of most (not all) Italian singers can sometimes lead to one voice not sounding all that different from another. In German, however, I believe it is immediately apparent to a music lover that Tauber's voice is distinct from Slezak's and both are distinct from Wunderlich's. The quality of each voice tends to be individual as opposed to universal "tenor." In English, we notice this more in musical comedy. Did Ethel Merman ever sound like anyone else?) Apart from the sound, which is lovely, there is the range. Wunderlich was solid all the way to his spectacular high C, and this is very rare for German tenors. Both the language and the training in Germany have historically tended toward high voices that are much heaver in the lower and middle registers than their Italian counterparts. This, in turn, can result in a short top. Tauber is a good example. He almost never sang above a Bb, (and there is nothing wrong with that), but it tends to narrow the singable repertoire. The big opera arias can only be transposed so far.

Here is a perfect example of what I mean. Wunderlich's recording of "Che Gelida Manina" is as vocally perfect as it can be. Be sure to wait for the big high C. I know of no other German tenor, living or dead, who could match it. Here I must ask you to click on the link, for technical reasons. I have the only version of the aria up on youtube, and I don't want to embed my own video in my blog because it can jam my hit counter on Youtube. Here is the link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZkP2Qu5-9TI

How about that! This is so uncommon for a German tenor! I cannot imagine it done any better. Yes, we can all name Björling, and a host of Italians, but they are not German speaking singers. The range is extraordinary, and the most extraordinary thing of all is that the top is entirely in line with the other registers of the voice. It is a seamless ascent to the top, with no sacrifice in beauty of tone. Musically, it is perfect.

The near disappearance of Otto Nicolai's Merry Wives of Windsor from the operatic repertory has robbed modern music lovers of some very beautiful music. It contains, among other things, one of the loveliest tenor arias ever written, "Horch! Die Lerche singt im Hain!" ["Listen, the lark is singing in the Grove!"]
Again, I seem to have the only copy up on Youtube, so please click the link again:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Ovy7P805R4

I honestly believe that this is one of the most beautiful arias I have ever heard.
What it all comes down to at the end is that it is almost impossible to fault Wunderlich on any aspect of his singing. The voice is lovely to the point of being glorious, the range is very high, and tonally it is a solid column of sound from top to bottom. The musicality was immaculate, and was said to be so by virtually everyone at the time. It's just perfect singing. As his friend and colleague Dietrich Fischer-Deiskau said when Wunderlich died at 35 years of age, there is no way to calculate the irreparable loss suffered by the world of music. We are unlikely to see another tenor who was so nearly perfect for a very long time indeed!

A Reflection On The Many Classifications of Operatic Voices

2011-01-16T11:17:00.002-05:00

One of the curiosities of operatic musical nomenclature is the huge number of classifications created for the singing voice, compared to the relatively few such classifications for choral singing. A male singer of classical music, in the most extreme classification, can be said to fall within one of at least fourteen (purported) ranges. From bottom to top: basso profundo, basso cantante, basso buffo, bass-baritone, baritone, lyric baritone, dramatic tenor, Heldentenor, spinto tenor, lyric tenor, leggiero tenor, tenore di grazia, countertenor, male soprano. Women, on the other hand, are commonly classified as falling into one of five: contralto, mezzo-soprano, dramatic soprano, lyric soprano or coloratura, along with predictable sub-categories, such as "dramatic coloratua," etc. I would call the female ranges a more nearly reasonable sample of the kinds of voices one can hear in opera. The many male ranges are not informative. Most often, they reflect color of voice or flexibility of voice more than range of voice. Sometimes they overlap, or the nomenclature overlaps with that of female ranges. (It seems reasonable, for example, to call Philippe Jaroussky an alto, but one would never call Schumann Heink a tenor.) The reasons for all this are linked to aesthetics, repertoire, sociology, gender, history, theatrical convention, the science of harmonics, and, not infrequently, silliness. In fact, all voices—absent the drama of the stage, or of being Yma Sumac or Ivan Rebroff—break down reasonably to the very ordinary and unglamorous SATB scheme of choir music.

And that, in my judgment, is where the problem lies—choral singing versus that of individual singing actors. A nomenclature appropriate to anonymous individuals forming a global sound-cluster cannot be identified by so many fine distinctions. Some sub-groups within the choir sing high, some sing low, and all are capable of shifting, shading or coloring the sounds upward or downward, as required to cover the needed range of sound. In operatic singing, I would contend that range of voice is not so crucial as is commonly thought. Marilyn Horne is properly called a mezzo-soprano, by convention, but her upper register was extraordinary, and, repertoire permitting, she could equally legitimately be called a dramatic soprano, or, in some instances simply soprano, if one is to judge by singable note range. But that is not the issue. It is color of voice that matters. Darker ranges have serious or somber overtones, and thus lend themselves to certain roles and repertoire. So we enter the realm of theatrical representation. Darker versus lighter voices have sexual connotations. Voices suggest age. Higher male voices speak of youth, darker or lower voices speak of age or sometimes malevolence. ("Credo in un dio crudel!") would not be very convincing falling from the lips of Tito Schipa.)

If all this is granted, then we must consider the case of individual personalities—something that co-resonates with "star power." Some personalities, in combination with certain personality types, can be most attractive. The perfect "little girl" sound of Galli-Curci's voice, in combination with her small, almost fragile body and her refined manner, all came together to produce one of the most popular and beloved sopranos of all time. A very high male voice, coupled with an extroverted, even bombastic personality can give rise to the famous (or infamous!) tenor stars of opera. A gentle and tender tenor voice, however, in combination with an elegant, modest or somewhat withdrawn personality (Tito Schipa, Ferruccio Tagliavini, Alfredo Kraus) can produce a star who, while usually not enjoying the extreme popular success of the bombastic type, can nonetheless win a very large audience of aesthetes, who are delighted by refinement and delicacy. (The Great Couperin, in his treatise on the art of playing the harpsichord, said that he, in matters of style, would much rather be pleased than surprised!) At the lower end of the vocal spectrum, a big, booming bass voice, coupled with an extremely comic figure (Salvatore Baccaloni) can redefine bass singing in the direction of comic, or "buffo" singing. Pol Plançon, on the other hand, was the exemplar of the famous French tradition of basso cantante singing, an uncommonly elegant art. The vocal classifications applied to any of these individuals usually reflects, in some degree at least, their appropriate repertoire, in combination with their public persona and the degree of acceptance their particular kind of singing and acting has earned them. Finally, men who sing extremely and artificially high, and who portray females on stage, or females who sing low enough to be taken as a boy, characteristically inherit from the audience a kind of fascination with the trans-gendered that can be reflected in the names given their particular kind of singing—there are, for example, subtle differences of perception that arise from being called a "countertenor" as opposed to being called an alto, yet from a purely musicological point of view there would not be any difference. A good male alto, if one cannot see him, can—and often does—sound identical to a female alto.

One could go on, but the essential point is that in operatic voice classifications, one is never dealing with voice alone, and while the many vocal classifications might not survive the cold and objective eye of the musicologist, they nonetheless speak in a direct and important way to the many fans of opera who actually care about why their favorite soprano, alto, tenor, or bass is different from (and usually superior to) all the other sopranos, altos, tenors or basses offering their artistic and aesthetic wares for sale. And of course, the classifications also matter to music critics ever bent on demonstrating that they are capable of making ever so much finer distinctions in such matters than anyone else. Present company excluded, of course! That goes without saying:D

Helen Traubel: A Great Wagnerian Voice

2011-01-09T13:47:00.004-05:00

Helen Traubel (1899-1972) was born in St. Louis. She studied singing and made her first appearances in St. Louis as a concert singer with the Saint Louis Symphony Orchestra, at the relatively young age of 24. By the time she was 27, she had received an offer to join the Metropolitan Opera, owing primarily to one of her concert performances of the "Liebestod," under conductor Rudolph Ganz. She turned it down—perhaps a questionable decision—in favor of continuing to study and continuing with her concert career. She was not to appear in opera until she was 38 years old, more than a decade later. She demonstrated at an early age that she was capable of making difficult decisions which she felt were right. It also—perhaps—shows that at an early age, opera was not the end-all and be-all of her life, something that would come back to haunt her in later years.

Her Met debut was in 1937, when she was asked by Walter Damrosch to portray Mary Rutledge in the world premiere of The Man Without a Country. Her actual Met debut as a Wagnerian, however, was as Sieglinde, in 1939. Because the Met had Flagstad engaged at the time as their principal Wagnerian soprano, Traubel was not able to sing Wagner there very often. However, Flagstad went to Norway in 1941 and was unable, because of the war, to return. This provided an opening for Traubel, who had come increasingly to public attention, largely from having appeared with Melchior on an NBC Symphony radio performance in that same year. She would go on, over the course of the next 12 years, to sing 176 performances with the Met, in 10 roles, most often Isolde. She quickly established herself as a first-class Wagnerian soprano, and was a hit with both public and press. Traubel stayed with the Met until 1953, at which time Rudolf Bing, who did not approve of the night club and TV work that she had begun to do, rather bluntly told her that she might do well to think about taking some time off before signing any more contracts with the Met, in order to decide if she was really all that interested in opera. Traubel was understandably offended —she was by then a star—and replied publicly that it was rank snobbery to think that only what went on in the opera house was music. That, of course, was the end for Traubel at the Met. She went on to a very successful further career on Broadway, in night clubs, and on TV. Lauritz Melchior had, a few years earlier, suffered a similar fate, for similar reasons. Traubel's biography, including her troubles and triumphs, is easily consulted. It is her talent, which was prodigious, and her extraordinary Wagnerian singing, that merits our attention.

Traubel's voice was a magnificent and immensely powerful instrument. It had a brilliance, or shimmer that was positively thrilling, and perfect for Wagner. I can think of no finer examples than the following two brief excerpts, which I ask you to listen to together. It is not easy to find set pieces in Wagner to present, so we are often constrained to excerpted passages, such as Brünhilde's War Cry and "Fort Denn Eile", both from Die Walküre:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMwvUmQmknk

This is absolutely stunning singing! It is hard not to feel chills up the spine when she soars on the extended melodic passages in "Fort Denn Eile." This is virtuoso Wagnerian singing, without question. The power and steely sheen of the voice are clarion, rivaled by some (Flagstad, Nilsson) but surpassed by almost none. This is a voice made for Wagner; it is consistent from top to bottom, like a shining tower of sound. It is true that it was a bit short on top. She did not sing a high C, to the best of my knowledge, with the result that the War Cry is transposed one half tone. But that is a matter of little or no consequence. If no one could transpose, we would not have many tenors doing Manrico, Faust or Rodolfo! No, she has all she needs, and then some.

It was especially Wagner, but not exclusively Wagner, in which Traubel was brilliant. Here is "Divinités du Styx." From Gluck's Alceste:

The same brilliance, the same shimmer...all are there in force. Ancient arias are brought to life in a particular kind of way when great voices lend themselves to them, without stinting. As a well known New York opera coach once told me: "Everybody loves great Mozart arias, they just don't want to hear them sung by a church tenor." I believe that is true, and also holds in the case of Traubel and Gluck.

Finally, a song. Traubel had a very notable concert career, and this rendition of Tchaikovsky's "None but the lonely heart" is a fine memory of her concert career. For technical reasons,you need to click on this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXCNapvQ8-E

Very beautiful, and very musically sung. Perhaps it was singing songs that was her true heart's desire. Who can say? Certainly the fact that she put the Met off for a decade, while she concertized, is a clue. Perhaps the night club and TV work (she was, by a way, a good Jazz singer) tell the tale. As for the famous flap with Bing, why bother? A strong woman and a difficult man, by all accounts...it has the quality of inevitability about it. Bing went on to found a world-class Italian Met, which was where his interests lay, and she went on to a very multi-faceted career of opera, concert, jazz singing, comedy, film work, two detective stories which she wrote, and part ownership of a baseball team!—quite a character, all in all. No, she was fine. Like her friend Melchior, she had a fun-loving and down-to-earth side to her personality that endeared her to most. She laughed at pretense, snobbery and affectation and was pretty happy inside her own skin. If anybody lost out it was the lovers of Wagnerian singing, because Helen Traubel was about as good as that gets!

Leo Slezak: The Giant With An Angel's Voice

2011-01-02T11:00:00.003-05:00

Leo Slezak was born in Schönberg (now Šumperk), Moravia, in 1873. Today, given all the geographical jumble of the intervening years, he is considered by many to be simply German. His father was a miller, who fell upon hard times. The family moved to Brünn (Brno) where, after finishing school, Leo became a gardener, and then a locksmith. He began to sing as an amateur in the choir of the local theater in Brünn, and, as so often happens, began to attract attention from people able to help him, in this case baritone Adolf Robinson. In 1896 Slezak made his stage debut in Brünn as Lohengrin. This led to a guest appearance in Berlin, further study, and a rapidly expanding repertoire, which quickly came to include roles such as Jean in Le Prophète, Manrico, Canio, Lohengrin, Florestan, Stolzing, Turriddu, Radames, Des Grieux, Tamino, Froh and Siegfried. In Slezak's time, the (often annoying) specializations of role and singer type did not exist. Essentially, a man was a tenor, baritone or bass, who sang opera, among other things. This was certainly Slezak's case, and he sang Mozart next to Wagner without giving it a thought.

Success followed upon success: in 1900, he debuted at Covent Garden, then on to the Vienna State Opera (then known as the Vienna Court Opera House),where he would spend many years. He went on to sing at the Met, and to tour America, Austria, Germany and the Netherlands. It was the Vienna State Opera, however, that he adopted as his artistic home, and he basically sang there for the rest of his operatic career.

During WWI, he lost almost all his wealth, and so began to branch out into lighter entertainment. He was popular in operetta and films (he made 43!) and concerts. From 1932 on, he was essentially an entertainer, and quite a popular one. He was a gifted comic and character actor, and he always found excuses (common in films of the 1930's) to sing light-hearted tunes. (This was a model later adhered to by Lauritz Melchior and Helen Traubel.)

He was in addition (and very notably) an accomplished lieder singer, and this is, for many, his greatest musical accomplishment. His mezza voce and mixed voice were extraordinarily beautiful, and he could—like Gigli—sing in a voice that was very close to falsetto, and was ravishingly beautiful. In my own opinion, this is Slezak at his best. I do not believe his recording of Schumann's "Der Nussbaum," to take but one tiny example, has ever been equaled. [I refer the interested reader to a recent Youtube post of mine, "A Special Presentation: Leo Slezak Lieder Recital]

In 1943 he settled at Rottach-Egern, where died in 1946.

Slezak, as mentioned, could and did sing almost anything, with the possible exception of the most demanding Wagnerian roles. Here he is early in his career, singing Rodolfo's famous aria "Che Gelida Manina."

This is extraordinary singing. The voice is very smooth, and very consistent, all the way up to the high C, which seems to be no problem for him at all, something that cannot be said of many German tenors. In addition to a lyric and highly placed voice, he was extraordinary in his physical appearance. He was very tall—I do not know exactly how tall, but I have never, even once, seen a photograph or a movie clip where he did not tower over every other person in the scene. Also, in later life, he became quite heavy, with the result that he was a giant figure, one of the largest people ever to sing opera (and that is saying something!) Many called him the "gentle giant," or the "genial giant." He certainly was an impressive figure.
Here is a good chance to see many pictures of Slezak in a single posting; one which also provides a good example of his lighter voice, which he used to great advantage in popular songs:

As one goes through the photographs, in ascending order of age, it is possible to see how he directed his career as he grew older. His son Walter Slezak, known to my generation from his TV work, acted in much the same way, in similar character roles. A giant man can be a good Lohengrin or Otello, but he doesn't make a good leading man in the movies!

Because movies were such a big part of his later life, I provide a clip here that shows his comic acting ability very well. No need to watch much of it, because it is of course in German, but if you watch it until the point where he stands up to greet the two ladies who have come for an interview, you can see how huge he was, and also get a very good idea of his comic acting ability which was very notable, and at which he was very successful, in a Jackie Gleason kind of way:

Quite a comic!

To end on a more serious note, of which Slezak is more than worthy, here is one of my favorite recordings of his, from the presentation I recently posted. This is Schumann's "Der Nussbaum." I believe you will see what I mean when I say that I do not believe it has ever been surpassed. He sings of the sighing of the wind through the leaves of the trees, and how, to the young maiden who hears it, it whispers of love and her coming wedding. It is indescribably beautiful, and a perfect place to end our presentation of this truly remarkable and versatile artist. [For technical reasons, you need to click the link on this one]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZWLJtfG6o4

What else can I say!

Anni Frind: The Beauty of Elegance

2010-12-05T12:22:00.010-05:00

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,-that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Had Keats been eulogizing singers, and not Grecian urns, I feel he would have to have found a place for elegance in his formula. It is an aesthetic problem of the first order: what exactly is the relationship between elegance and beauty? Can something be elegant and not beautiful? Or vice versa? Anything but easy! I do know that the very first time I heard Anni Frind sing, the first thought that entered my mind was, "this is absolute elegance!" And a moment later, "and very beautiful!" Whether the relationship be causal or parallel, I simply cannot say, but listening to Anni Frind may suggest an answer.

Anni Frind was born in Nixdorf, Bohemia, presently the Czech Republic, in 1900.* A musically precocious child, she was trained at an early age, in Dresden, studying with Eleanor Kahler-Riese, Grete Merrem-Nikish, and Luise Willer. She made her professional debut at the Berlin Volksoper in 1922, at first in a minor role. As so often happens in Europe, the big roles soon came along, as she gained in experience and public exposure. She was soon singing at the Munich Staatsoper, the Salzburg Festival (1926), and in Berlin, Dresden, and other major European cities. She was noted not only for her operatic singing (Mélisande, Papagena, Cio-Cio-San, Musetta, others) but also for her operetta singing and concert work, which was extensive. Like so many other European singers of her approximate age, her career was seriously interrupted by WWII, and she emigrated in 1951, along with her husband, to the United States, where she settled in New Orleans and began a teaching career at Tulane University. Her singing, throughout her career, was characterized by an extraordinary elegance, along with attention to minute musical and stylistic detail.

Anni Frind died in New Orleans, in 1987. However, as the great Caruso once observed, a singer's life should be told in song, not words. If you do not know her, please permit me to introduce you to Anni Frind!

I think a good place to start would be with an aria that will be known to most, and that is the lovely and wistful "Vilja," (Which we generally know as "The Witch of The Woods") from Lehar's eternally popular Merry Widow: (turn up volume)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIkBfkbWHM8

So lovely! This is one of the best versions of this piece that I have heard. It is characterized from the first notes to the end by a curious but fascinating wistfulness and sentimentality that is somehow contained with the bounds of stylistic and aesthetic propriety. Sentimentality for its own sake often fails, and turns the listener away at precisely the moment he or she should be most emotionally engaged. I'm sure we can all think of moments when this happens. (Puccini, whom I admire greatly, can nevertheless have his share of faux pas in this area!) This is different. Wistful? Yes. Sentimental and retrospective? Yes. Schmaltz? NO! That is the secret, and that is the aesthetic conundrum. How does this happen? Extreme musicality, stylistic excellence, infinite attention to small detail, and a near worshipful regard for the author's intentions. It may not be the complete answer, but I believe all these elements are at the very least present.

With these notable gifts, it should not be a surprise that lieder singing was one of Anni Frind's greatest gifts. This area of musical art gave full scope to her abilities. She was particularly fond of the music of Max Reger, (and here is the respect for composer element manifesting itself again) and her rendition of "Waldeinsamkeit" is certainly one of the best ever:

That is simply exquisite. The attention to phrase and the near-infinite stylistic inflections she bestows upon the song make this a model of elegant singing. This cannot be faulted in any way—it can only be praised.

Finally, a Reger piece which I think illustrates another of the qualities that I mentioned above. If "Waldeinsamkeit" reflects the most exquisite regard for authorial intention and stylistic excellence, "Des Kindes Gebet" ("The Child's Prayer") reflects her equally refined (and almost mysterious) ability to refract sentimentality and contain it within the bounds of stylistic beauty. This is as hard, musically, as anything I can think of. Even to sing a song called "A Child's Prayer" is to immediately put the discriminating audience on alert. How does one soar above the sentimental aspect of THAT theme? Here is how:

Very, very touching, but the sentimentality is constrained. In fact, I think "constraint" may be the word I have been looking for, or perhaps "understatement." Frind is wise enough to know that the subject matter per se is all the sentiment that is needed. What she can add is musicality. Perhaps that is the secret: musicality (and this includes respect for authorial intention, something now so out of style in literature and increasingly in music ) coupled with a superior vision, which includes aesthetic purity and a restraint more Olympian than visceral. However it is that elegance becomes beauty, it would be hard to find a better exemplar than Anni Frind.

I would like to take this opportunity to advise readers that Anni Frind recorded a lieder recital in November,1954, which has been issued on Centaur Lp CRC-1002, featuring works by Schumann, Schubert, Hans Pfitzner, and Joseph Marx. It also contains comments by Frind and her pianist Peter Hansen, added in 1977. Plans are now being made for this recording to be released as a download by Centaur Records, Inc. When I hear of this release, I will advise readers.
_______________

*I am most grateful to Mr. George Weaver, at "Opertutto," who provided me both with photographs and important information relating to Anni Frind's biography.

Florence Quartararo: A Great Singer Forgotten

2010-11-28T10:57:00.007-05:00

It was not fully a month ago when I heard my first recording of Florence Quartararo. It was Handel's "Care Selve." It was as though someone had touched me with a live electrical wire. It was one of the most thrilling things I have heard in a long time. I was not the only one: that recording, posted on Youtube by "addiobelpassato," set off an instant flurry of activity, and I believe every song she ever recorded (sadly, not many) is now up on Youtube. I had to know more about this lady with the glorious voice. Her story turns out to be a rather sad one, although not tragic.

For this article, I asked the help of Mr. Tim Shu (dantitustimshu), one of the very best musical scholars posting on Youtube. What follows is his capsule summary of her life and (short) career, for which I am most grateful. Tim credits his own source, record producer/archivist Richard Caniell, a friend of Quartararo's, and the man responsible for getting her recordings out to the public. Tim goes on:

[Florence Quartararo] was born to music loving Italian parents living in the San Francisco Bay area. Gaetano Merola, head and chief conductor of the San Francisco Opera, was present at her baptism (Merola was a friend of her mother's brother.) She developed an interest in singing in her childhood, her idol being Claudia Muzio, whom she saw in Traviata at the SF opera. She went to the opera as a standee whenever Muzio sang. She also admired Ponselle, Rethberg, Gigli, Schipa, Bergioli and Martinelli, all of whom also sang in San Francisco. Through friends, she eventually met Bing Crosby, who auditioned her and put her on his Kraft Music Hall program, under the stage name of Florence Alba, where she appeared four times in 1945.

In that same year, she was called upon to replace Helen Traubel in a concert conducted by Otto Klemperer. Earle Lewis, Treasurer of the box office at the Met, happened to be in the audience, and he arranged for her to have an audition with the great conductor Bruno Walter. The session impressed Walter so much that he recommended her to the Met's General Manager Edward Johnson, who saw to it that she received the Caruso Award to fund her studies, as well as a Met contract. She made her Met debut in the role of Micaela in Carmen, in 1946.

She went on to sing 37 performances at the Met in 9 roles—Elvira in Don Giovanni, Violetta, Micaela, the Flower Maiden in Parsifal, Lauretta in Gianni Schicchi, the Countess in Figaro, Nedda in Pagliacci, Pamina in the Magic Flute, and Desdemona in Otello. She sang with great conductors, including Bruno Walter and Fritz Busch, both of whom admired her greatly. Her performance as Desdemona brought her to the attention of Arturo Toscanini, who telephoned her personally and invited her to sing the role in his NBC broadcast of Otello. She auditioned for Toscanini and the maestro was greatly impressed, but the Met was unable to release her from its performance schedule to attend Toscanini's intensive rehearsals.

Her marriage to Italian bass Italo Tajo, whom she met during a performance of Gianni Schicchi, and the birth of a daughter, led to the end of her three year career.

I would only add to Tim's summary that she and Tajo seemed to agree that one opera singer in the family was enough, a personal decision unfortunately common enough in the day, but sad by today's standards, and a great loss to the world of music.

Here is the recording that started the recent flurry, and impressed me so greatly: "Care Selve," from Handel's Atalanta:

I still get chills every time I hear this aria! What a voice! There is an immediacy, a passionate intensity, and a vibrancy in the voice that is just amazing. Her top is wonderful, but there is, in addition, a near mezzo-like, or perhaps more accurately a dramatic Ponselle-like cover and "chest register" richness of tone that just goes through one like an arrow. An absolutely magnificent voice. I realize that arias of this genre—and age—are commonly sung in an ethereal way that comes close to hypnotic crooning, but there is no reason at all to think that they must be sung that way. A great voice is a law unto itself. Even if that were not the case, however, there is no denying her instinctive musicality that takes her directly to the core of the song.

Here is a more nearly modern classic, an aria widely performed and known, and generally well loved, "Un bel dì," from Madama Butterfly [This selection is a radio transcription, of uneven quality, but listenable. You might need to turn the volume up a bit. Also, you will need to click the following link to play it...I cannot embed this particular aria]:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KIvNeCIspqE

Absolutely beautiful! Once again, the emotional intensity, the vibrancy, the sure musical instincts, all take her to the very heart of this tragic aria. This is a piece where the ending must triumph, because it carries the double burden, emotionally, of being a child's hopes for love coupled with an extreme vulnerability; two things that in combination set the stage for a horrible and heart-rending tragedy. Quartararo understands this, and she brings out in no uncertain terms the aria's full power.

Finally, another very famous aria that shows just how great Quartararo's potential for the big Verdi operas was, "Tacea la notte," from Il Trovatore.":

Despite her relative youth, this ranks among the top renditions of this aria! It is all there: the color, the Italianate richness of the voice, the flexibility, and once again the sure musical and stylistic instincts that go to the very core of this Verdi classic. A great singer. Period. Perhaps now, after all these years, at least some recognition will be forthcoming for a wonderful Italian American talent sadly destined to be so briefly before the public.

Anna Netrebko: Brilliance, Beauty, And Controversy.

2010-11-21T10:03:00.010-05:00

I have been a long time coming around to a doing a piece on Anna Netrebko, for one very simple reason: I could not determine exactly what I felt about this very popular soprano. The pluses are obvious—a great voice and extraordinary physical beauty. The cons, if one is inclined to find them, are a carpet-chewing acting impulse and a sometimes woeful lack of discretion in how she permits herself to be presented, presumably by directors and management. What to do!

Anna Yuryevna Netrebko (Анна Юрьевна Нетребко) was born in Russia in 1971. She is a citizen of both Russia and Austria. She says her Austrian citizenship is to facilitate endless visa applications resulting from strictly Russian citizenship, but the move angered many Russians. However, that seems to be abating somewhat following Russia's prominent recognition of her made two years ago, when she was named People's Artist of Russia. No biography is really necessary for so prominent a figure still in her 30's, and everywhere recognized as a star. In addition to People's Artist, she was called "a genuine superstar for the 21st century" by Musical America, and additionally (and here comes part of the problem) she made Playboy's "sexiest babes of classical music" list.

It may seem strange that physical beauty can be a problem, but in the archetype-driven world of grand opera, it can. Hers is a visceral (read sexual) beauty that has an immediate appeal that is worlds apart from the kind of attraction often heaped on divas. There is what might be called a "statuesque regal" beauty, most often found in prima donnas of the past, who project a psychologically complex kind of attraction that really requires a foray into Freudian theory, something I personally am not inclined to do. Suffice it to say that "sexuality" in opera and ballet is not really real, it is usually symbolic and archetypal and has to do with the female in her eternal battle with the feminine—two entirely different things. The point is, it is not realistic sexuality—that is the kind taken over by the cinema, and presented very well there. When cinema invades opera and ballet, however, trouble usually follows in its wake. This is what Sir Kenneth MacMillan discovered when he tried introducing cinematic realism into ballet. He was nearly tarred and feathered and driven out of the ballet world altogether. In the case of opera, European stage directors (and, increasingly, American) are introducing cinematic elements into opera, in an attempt to make a largely 19th century art form "modern," offering new chances for discovery of new elements in old shows. Or so the rationalizing goes. I have some problems with that, but that's too long a story for here. I will only say that a few videos of Netrebko and Alagna, let us say, cavorting in their underwear and pawing each other, is not advised immediately after having eaten, as New York opera goers usually have. BUT—on to some videos, chosen to celebrate, not criticize:

Here is what may qualify as one of the ten most beautiful arias ever written, Dvorak's almost painfully lovely "Song to The Moon," one of Netrebko's signature pieces:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MwuNqcKUxto

What can one say? An exceptionally beautiful aria, sung by an equally beautiful young woman. I do not think this can be faulted in any way. The richness of her voice can be almost mezzo-like in certain places, and it adds a thrilling depth to the sound which is most attractive. The vocal production is flawless; smooth and consistent all the way to the top. Not a bit of harshness or strain anywhere. It really seems to be beneficial for a singer to have been born in either an Italian or Russian speaking culture. Something about speaking either of those languages seems to predispose the musculature of the throat and larynx for classical singing.

Here is a traditional soprano showpiece aria that has for a very long time been a favorite with audiences and sopranos alike, the great "Casta Diva":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ekuB8KMd2tU

As in the case of the Dvorak, the singing is impeccable, and she demonstrates here that she can project a traditional elegance and near heroic sensibility, as well as visceral emotion. There is no question that she can communicate directly with an audience, in one way or another.

Now to the controversy. I have no wish to present the most problematical of her videos, which are only too easily found, (the discretion problem) but rather one that is entirely legitimate, in the eyes of most, and that is Netrebko in a modern setting of Traviata. I invite the reader to form his or her own opinion:

Here, the problem (if you consider it a problem) is, again, the superimposition of cinema on a 19th century work of art. Is it legitimate? Is it helpful to opera? Can it be aesthetically justified? I don't know. I notice certain things—one is that the video we have just seen has over half a million hits. Is this significant? You can see the problem...It is just damned hard to judge! My opinion, for what it is worth, is that there are serious problems here. Not with Netrebko—she's stunningly beautiful, she sings exceptionally well, and is passionate in a realistic, cinematic way....no, it isn't her, it's the stage director's concept. I find it flawed from an aesthetic point of view. La Traviata is most definitely not 20th century theater, let alone 21st century. I have the same problem here that I have with opera in translation. In the same way it is difficult to force the musical syntax of a Latin language to conform to the blocky syntax of English or German, it is hard to force cinematic conventions onto the lyric stage. It just doesn't work.

But that is not Netrebko's fault. So, where did I finally come down on the issue of Netrebko? She is a great soprano, with an exceptionally beautiful voice. She also has great beauty which she is, I believe, starting to project in more traditional ways as she grows older and more experienced.

Leontyne Price: An Aida For All Time

2010-11-07T11:40:00.008-05:00

Leontyne Price was born in 1927, in Laurel, Misissippi. She came of age, and rose to fame, during a period of racial change in America, and she broke barriers that had long existed, becoming the first African American to sing leading roles at the Metropolitan Opera, and among the first to sing such roles at the great opera houses of the world, including La Scala.

Like many before her, she showed musical promise as a child. She studied piano and also sang in choirs. It was her voice, of course, that first attracted attention. Her goals at the beginning were modest, and she first aimed at a teaching career, attending Wilberforce College in Ohio. Her first stage performance was as Mistress Ford in a 1952 student production of Verdi's Falstaff. From there on, her career begins to follow a fairly recognizable path. She moved, in reasonably short order, to Four Saints in Three Acts, Porgy and Bess, and then, unusually for the times, a TV production of Tosca. That marked the real beginning of an opera career. Her splendid vocal gifts attracted the attention of important musicians and impresarios, and success upon success soon followed: Poulenc's Dialogues des Carmélites, in San Francisco, followed immediately by Aida, (an opera with which she would always be associated), Don Giovanni, and Il trovatore. It was as a heroic romantic lead in Verdi and Puccini roles that she would particularly come to be identified, and she did indeed excel in such roles.

Perhaps the first great moment for her in America came in 1961, in a famous production of Aida at the Metropolitan in which Price appeared opposite the great Franco Corelli. Her success was so astonishing that her final curtain call is reliably reported to have lasted over half an hour! From there on, her success is a well known story, easily consulted. Hers was, simply, one of the great careers in opera, and her voice, at its best, was a thrilling instrument of extraordinary power and beauty that one critic once said stirred feelings similar to those that can be occasioned by watching a waving flag.

Why not start with the aria with which she was most closely identified. It tells the story very well:

A simply stunning rendition! Perhaps it is the quality of the voice per se that most attracts. She sings within a very wide vocal range; like Corelli, the spinto qualities are evident, but the extra weight does not detract from the upper register. She could, and often did, sing beyond C natural. It was this particular aria, however, with which nearly everyone, critics and public alike, were riveted from the very beginning. Its particular tessitura lies squarely within the very best area of her voice, with all its thrilling resonances.

It was in the same year as her spectacular Aida debut, with Corelli, that she made another historic debut, this time in Il Trovatore, also with Corelli. This is an actual transcription of that event, and the audience, at the end, seems close to hysteria. So much so, in fact, that Corelli is reputed to have politely suggested to Rudolf Bing that he would appreciate not being cast with Price henceforth! He is said to have repented, however, but one can understand his nervousness—Aida and Trovatore are also big operas for the tenor!

Anything I could add to the invariable accolades heaped upon this performance would be somewhere between superfluous and just plain silly. In fact, it is brilliant in all ways, with perhaps one little exception that perhaps I may make bold to point out, and that is something for which she was taken to task by Von Karajan and others, and that her notorious tendency to "slide and glide." The portamenti up and down really stand out and are not, perhaps, in the truest vocal or dramatic traditions of these operas. But....good heavens, who cares!?

Finally, some attention needs to be paid to Porgy and Bess. She did not shun these roles—quite the contrary. She could easily have gone to Italy to live (she loved Italy) and played the real-life role of the great prima donna, but she was very grounded in her essential American character. (She disliked the term "African-American," incidentally; she to this day considers herself "American"—period.) Here is the big aria from Porgy. [This video is old, and not in very good shape, but hearing Price during this period of her life is illustrative]

Now here it has to be said that the portamenti up and down work just fine! This is the kind of opera where "gospel" singing characteristics work perfectly well.

A great singer, a great voice, a great lady; by virtually any set of criteria one of the great opera singers of the 20th century.

The Legendary Giacomo Lauri Volpi, Featured In Some Of His Rare Recordings

2010-10-24T10:13:00.009-04:00

There is no question that Giacomo Lauri Volpi (1892-1979) was one of the greatest tenors of all time. Trained in the classic bel canto technique, he quickly became one of its greatest exemplars, possessing a voice of extraordinary range and clarity. In a career extending over 40 years, he was everywhere known and applauded, and became a legend in his own lifetime. His biography is so well known, and so easy to consult, that I wish, in this special edition of Great Opera Singers, to dwell on Lauri Volpi as seen in four of his rarest recordings, provided by Dr. Gian Paolo Nardoianni, to whom I am most grateful. These recordings, most of them in live performance, speak volumes.

I had the singular good fortune, several weeks ago, to make the acquaintance of Dr. Nardoianni, who was a personal acquaintance of Lauri Volpi and who possesses an uncommonly good musical library of the great tenor's recordings. This is quite important, because Lauri Volpi in fact did not like to record. Like Giuseppe Giacomini, he was more a creature of the theater, where his extraordinary voice could be heard in all its glory. Any Lauri Volpi recording, therefore, is valuable, and if they are rare, they are even more so.

Because Dr. Nardoianni knew Lauri Volpi personally, his observations on the tenor's life and work are privileged, and I am pleased to be able to reproduce them as a prelude. Characterizing in general the personality of Lauri Volpi, Dr. Nardoianni wrote that:

"Lauri Volpi was a highly cultivated, deeply religious man. He studied law at the University of Rome and took part in World War One, fighting bravely. He shunned publicity in every form and—unfortunately for us—hated making records. He was fundamentally a timid man, but had to be aggressive in order to survive in the cynical operatic environment. On stage, but only when pushed, he could be diffident, touchy, even unruly. In his private life he was sensitive, refined, courteous and chivalrous. His generosity towards the needy was legendary and he had a very happy married life."

Let us go now to the first recording to be featured, and this is a unique live recording made in Barcelona in 1972:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGXy6fYwe7U

An absolutely thrilling performance! The audience is simply beside itself. It is very hard, verging on impossible, to believe that the great tenor was only a few months short of his 80th birthday when this was recorded! Dr. Nardoianni added this historical comment:

"Lauri Volpi and Maria Jeritza premiered Turandot at the Met on 16th November 1926. On the opening night, Lauri-Volpi noticed that the public remained unresponsive to the aria "Nessun Dorma," such as Puccini had written it; that is, without the "corona" on the final high B. So, after getting Serafin's approval, the night of the second performance, Lauri-Volpi, for the first time in the history of Turandot, topped off the aria with a sustained high B which [made] the audience delirious. He can rightly be called the creator of the "Nessun Dorma" such as it is sung today."

Now, here is a real rarity that I did not know existed, and yet it is a beautiful bit of singing that shows Lauri Volpi as a young man in full control of his extraordinary gifts:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYICYzPDRi0

On this recording, Dr. Nardoianni added:

"Sparkling top notes produced with stunning ease and exquisite "piani." Lauri-Volpi's singing was always wonderfully nuanced." I absolutely concur!
It was in Milan, in 1954, that the following recording was made, and Lauri Volpi, now 62 years of age, sings with all the clarity, beauty of sound, stylistic excellence, and immaculate pronunciation that characterized his singing from the beginning to the end of his career. The words are so clear that it sometimes seems that it would not even be necessary to understand Italian in order to understand him! Here is "Donna non vidi mai," from Puccini's Manon Lescaut.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UaEu5rtk1fo

An absolutely beautiful rendition of a very well known aria. This is singing that cannot be faulted in any way; a true master at work!

Finally, another rarity: Lauri Volpi sings Werther's "O nature, pleine du grace!" Dr. Nardoianni has a fascinating piece of historical information on Lauri Volpi and this particular opera:

After Lauri-Volpi had sung Werther [ in French] in 1935 at the Opéra Comique in Paris, Massenet's daughter was so enthusiastic about [his] conception of the character that she presented him with a portrait of her father Jules, on which she had written that Lauri-Volpi was an admirable Werther. Lauri-Volpi was a man of great learning and his Werther was in perfect keeping with Goethe's character. In this [example, we see his Werther as] a lusty young man brimming with life, who feels exhilarated, almost intoxicated by the beauty of the nature which surrounds him. He sings with radiant voice his hymn of love to Nature as if Nature were his beloved mother and, at the same time, his lover. In Lauri-Volpi's singing, there is almost a Panic feeling which makes his rendition of this aria truly unique:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qxISimKqgY

And on that lovely note, we bring our special issue to its conclusion. I do hope you have enjoyed this presentation of rare recordings of the nonpareil Giacomo Larui Volpi, a monumental artist whose greatness will only become more remarkable and more commented upon with the passage of time. Most importantly, I here express my most sincere gratitude to Dr. Gian Paolo Nardoianni for the treasures he has made available to us. I am happy to say that all these recordings, and several more, can be heard on my channel, where I invite you to drop by and hear even more of these historical testaments to one of the greatest tenors of all time.

DAME JOAN SUTHERLAND, 1926-2010: IN MEMORIAM

2010-10-17T10:18:00.007-04:00

Dame Joan Sutherland died on October 10, just a week ago, bringing to a close one of the most spectacular operatic careers of the 20th century. There is no doubt that she was one of the greatest sopranos of the twentieth century, and probably of all time, with a voice and a technique that set her apart from the beginning, and made everyone take notice that true greatness had dawned in the world of grand opera. Her contribution to the renaissance of bel canto, from the late 1950's to the 1980's, simply cannot be over-estimated.

Dame Joan was born in Sydney, in 1926. She began studying voice at 18, and made her concert debut in Sydney in 1947. The talent was obvious from the beginning, and after winning an important competition she went to London to study at the Royal College of Music, and was engaged shortly thereafter by Covent Garden to sing small parts.

She made her debut in a leading role in 1952, when she sang Amelia in The Masked Ball. The power of her voice must have been apparent to all, even at that stage in her career, for her to have landed a debut role like Amelia! Curiously, perhaps because of the size of her voice, she was at first interested in Wagner, and greatly admired Kirsten Flagstad. Big roles followed Masked Ball, along with much lighter roles such as Gilda and Pamina. Dame Joan was fortunate to have come along at a time when specialization was not what it is today, and young singers—assuming the ability was there--had an opportunity to vary their repertoire considerably.

Sutherland married Australian conductor and pianist Richard Bonyage in 1954, and it was largely he who convinced her to concentrate on the bel canto roles that would bring her great fame. She had, from the outset, a spectacular technique that made it possible for her to sing very high notes. Eb above high C was never a problem for her, and she could on occasion sing even higher. Coupled with this extreme range was a great flexibility and a flawless trill. These characteristically coloratura attributes, joined to a naturally powerful voice, made her one of the most exceptionally endowed sopranos of all time. In 1959, she sang Lucia at the Royal Opera House in a production conducted by Tullio Serafin and staged by Franco Zeffirelli. The rest, as they say, is history. 1960 and 1961 were important years for Sutherland, as she made debuts in Paris, New York and Milan at that time. From then on, her fame was universal and her extraordinary career established. Lucia had already become something of a signature role for her, and it attracted attention everywhere.

There is no reason to belabor a biography so readily consulted and so well known. Let us, rather, look at the art of this extraordinary woman. The following video is from her first telecast, either 1959 or 60, some 50 years ago. It appears to be a kinescope recording, and the video quality is poor. There is also an annoying time counter plastered across her face part of the time, and the video slips momentarily at the end, causing an audio growl, but, mercifully, the audio quality in general is good, and it is a rare opportunity to see the great lady at the time she burst forth onto the operatic scene world-wide:

Isn't that astonishing! Those rapid cadenzas have every single note articulated accurately and clearly! No glide here! The trill is perfect and the Eb at the end has the same quality as the rest of the voice. There is generally a purity and consistency to the voice, which is like a column of sound, solid from top to bottom, a characteristic most commonly found in Germanic singers, Wagnerians in particular. The more characteristic ebb and flow of the Latin singing style is replaced here by something else, which still works perfectly well in the bel canto repertoire, perhaps contrary to expectation. It is, I would venture, an instance of the total triumph of traditional technique that makes this possible. Vocally speaking, it simply does not get any better than this.

While Lucia, because of the opportunity it affords to display this superb technique, was perhaps Dame Joan's signature role, it certainly was not her only big part. She in fact sang a fairly wide range of roles, albeit largely within the bel canto repertoire. I personally think it was a brilliant move on Bonyage's part to urge her into what was at that time a neglected area, simply because it gave her the chance to foreground her astonishing voice and technique, and also because it helped re-establish the bel canto repertoire, a great repository of beautiful music.

Here is a live recording of Sempre Libera from 1965. It is amazing. There is some background noise and what sounds like a prompter, but it is very light and easy to ignore. She comes through loud and clear, to say the least!

Again, we notice the extreme consistency. Another Eb, seemingly effortlessly produced, carrying a prodigious amount of weight for a note so high! This was one of the many astonishing things about Sutherland's voice—the absolute consistency of the upper register, which actually seems, tonally, of a piece with every other register. I know of no other soprano where this is so obviously the case. Simply amazing!

I suppose that now is as good a time as any to mention the one "flaw" in Sutherland's production that was most commonly mentioned, and that is what some critics called a "mushy" pronunciation that sometimes made it unclear exactly what language she was singing in. Call it "operatic scat," but whatever the reason, it was pretty obvious. I can only say that for me it made no difference. The works in which she shone were well over 100 years old, and the libretti are hardly unknown! Does it really matter? Let us be honest—by the time of the mid-twentieth century the plots and stories are so well known that most listen now only to the music and essential vocalism. This was not the case back in the teens and twenties, when singers such as Battistini or Chaliapin could augment their vocal prowess with their acting ability—in which attention to words was crucial. We are in a different world now.

Finally, here is another role in which the great soprano was brilliant—Elvira in I Puritani. Here is the charming "Son Vergin Vezzosa." (Do notice, please, the trill at 23-25, near the beginning of the piece.)

Absolutely brilliant, is it not? Did you notice the trill very near the beginning of the aria? Possibly the greatest trill ever recorded. I can only think of one other soprano who can compete with this rendition, and that would be the divine Galli-Curci, who brought perhaps more girlish charm and ease of execution to the aria, but much less voice (which was, to be fair, the lot of every coloratura soprano who was not Joan Sutherland!)

There is no need to go on. I know I am running to superlatives, but how is it possible to discuss this goddess among sopranos and not do so? Rest in well deserved peace, Dame Joan. We shall not soon see your equal!

Titta Ruffo: "The Voice of a Lion"

2010-10-03T11:34:00.006-04:00

Titta Ruffo (1877-1953—his actual birth name was Ruffo Titta) was born in Pisa. He had some vocal training, but he was essentially self-taught, something that would become a problem for him later in his career. His debut was in 1898 at the Teatro Constanzi in Rome as the Herald in Wagner's Lohengrin. Like so many other Italian singers, he made a slow climb up through the smaller houses, until an international reputation was finally achieved. His American debut was in Philadelphia in 1912, and he went on to sing both in Chicago—where he sang extensively—and at the Met, where he first sang in 1922, as Figaro.

Ruffo's repertoire was large: Rigoletto, (perhaps his signature role) Di Luna, Amonasro, Germont, Iago, Don Giovanni, and others. In many ways, Ruffo heralded the beginning of the robust and highly dramatic versimo baritone, contrasting sharply with his contemporary Mattia Battistini, of whom we wrote earlier (q.v. Sept. 12. 2010). Ruffo was sometimes compared unfavorably to the elegant, bel canto trained Basttistini, whose refinements were much appreciated at the time, in the same way that the early Caruso was sometimes compared unfavorably to the more elegant tenors that preceded him, such as Alessandro Bonci. However, verismo was in fact "la tónica del momento," and both Caruso and Ruffo would go on to world-wide acclaim and even spectacular success. They were more nearly rivals than friends, and they seldom sang together. They both had star status and were wary of each other. They did, however, at least record one duet together, and it is quite spectacular. It is particularly interesting because it shows how powerful Ruffo's voice was. Few could compete with Caruso, whose voice was notoriously big. (In fact, singing "a tutta forza" was pretty much his sole mode. He tended heavily to the monochromatic.) As you will see in "Si, pel ciel," the big duet from Otello, The Lion holds his own perfectly well:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMySAq_tiVs&feature=related

Two mighty voices, to be sure! The bite and intensity of Ruffo's voice is quite remarkable. It must be said that, self-taught or not, he handled his voice with great intelligence, and made it do what he wanted. The measured vibrato in the upper register is a good indication of the exact control he had over the voice. He also holds it down on the bottom and in the middle, which is intelligent, because a voice of that size could exhaust itself quickly if he did not tone it down in the middle, and lie in wait, as it were, for the big notes, which are, especially in verismo opera, "the sound that pays the rent." All this, while perhaps typical, was not exclusive. Given a chance, and solo exposure, there were more shades in the voice than we hear in this explosive duet with Caruso. A more tender a reflective side of Ruffo is apparent in the famous aria from La Traviata, "Di Provenza il mar, il suol..."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7cm_IhImRM&feature=related

This really aligns Ruffo and his sensibility with what Italian opera was largely to become in the first half of the 20th century: verismo at its core, but with plenty of room for expressivity and just plain beautiful singing, even if largely unadorned. Many refinements from the 19th century were abandoned, to be sure, but much remained that was both exciting and beautiful. To exclusively value one approach to music, which could, in a simplified way, be called "bel canto," to another, equally simplistically named "verismo," is not productive. There is much to value in each.

Finally, here is the great Ruffo in a baritone showpiece that is a sure way to state one's credentials: the prolog to I Pagliacci. I would call your attention especially to the high Ab at the end of the aria, followed by the G natural in the exit line after the aria: two stellar high notes which show just how well placed, powerful and resonant his voice was:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0GMVWAMnPU&feature=related

"The voice of a lion" indeed!

The Great Sergei Lemeshev: The View From Russia

2010-09-19T11:41:00.003-04:00

It is a great pleasure for me to present the third in our series of guest writers. Natalie, known to many of you by her Youtube Channel name "younglemeshevist," is especially qualified to write on Sergei Lemeshev. Natalie was among the very first to begin to spread his recordings on Youtube, along with those of Antonina Nezhdanova. All lovers of great singing owe her a debt of gratitude for this effort, as these two superb Soviet artists were unknown to many opera lovers in the United States. She is also to be praised for composing this piece in English—I can only wish that my Russian were as good! Edmund St. Austell

First, I would like to thank Edmund St. Austell for inviting me to write this piece on my favorite tenor.

In Russia, Sergei Yakovlevich Lemeshev (1902-1977) is—along with Feodor Chaliapin— perhaps the most beloved opera singer in recent history. He was born into a very poor peasant family, in a small village, and sang from his early childhood. He was always surrounded by good singers, including his parents and other villagers, as peasant Russia was a “singing country” in those days. His father died when Sergei was 10, and after four years in a parish school he started to learn shoemaking, since there was no other chance for the family to escape from poverty. In 1918 he became acquainted with architect and opera lover Nikolai Kvashnin, who, along with the rest of his family, persuaded Sergei to study voice seriously. Those were the years of the Bolshevik revolution and the Civil war, and Lemeshev was required to become a cadet in the Red Army Cavalry School. However, it was actually the Revolution that helped him make his dream of an operatic career come true, since the Bolsheviks gave the poorest peasants and proletarians a preferential right to free education. Sergei was assigned to study at the Moscow Conservatory where, after surviving a rigorous competition, he was accepted. (This determined his political views, for as he said many times, “the Soviets gave me everything".)

His teachers were tenor N. Raisky (a pupil of G. Nuvelli), N. Kardyan, and L. Zvyagina (a leading contralto of the Bolshoi.) In 1926, Lemeshev made his debut as Lensky in K. Stanislavsky’s Opera Studio, and beginning in 1927, he performed at theaters in Sverdlovsk, Harbin (Manchuria) and Tbilisi. In 1931, he became a leading tenor of the Bolshoi, where he sang for the next 34 years, winning great acclaim. His audience grew, along with his fame, and he soon gained a veritable army of fans, called "lemeshevists. His repertoire included the Duke of Mantua, Lensky, Alfredo, Tsar Berendei (from The Snowmaiden), the Indian Guest (Sadko), Faust, Ziebel, Almaviva, The Simpleton (Boris Godunov ), Rodolfo (La Bohème) The Astrologer (The Golden Cockerel), Nadir, Des Greiux (Manon), Gerald (Lakme), Romeo (Gounod’s (Romeo and Juliette), Fra Diavolo, and Werther.

His vocal and artistic qualities, evident to every listener, are beauty of timbre, musicality, effortlessness of vocal production, expressiveness, and very clear diction, qualities perhaps most commonly found in bel canto singers. These qualities can be seen is his 1940 recording of “Parmi veder le Lagrime" (in Russian). I would call attention to the extraordinarily high note at the end, a Db above high C:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ZCzH6EqLHc

An interesting comment on Lemeshev’s singing was made by the Bolshoi tenor A. Orfenov: "He developed a mixed voice of incomparable beauty, which made it possible for him to take the highest notes with such beautiful richness that even specialists could not explain how it was done technically….His high C’s … sounded virile and full…His manner of lowering his larynx a bit on high notes allowed him to perform the parts which we ordinary lyric tenors did not sing, [roles such as] Rodolfo in La Bohème, Levko in May Night, Dubrovsky, Fra Diavolo…”

Lemeshev’s emotionality, acting skills and handsomeness very quickly made him a public idol. Aside from the Duke of Mantua, which was his signature role before the war, he brilliantly performed romantic, melancholy and tragic roles such as Werther, Romeo, and Lensky. Here is his 1938 recording of " Pourquoi me reveiller":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GadMqw5M9A

Unfortunately, like every Soviet star in the 1930’s, he had problems securing permission to make recordings of complete operas. Several parts in which he was very successful were not recorded at all. His best early recordings of songs and arias, made on shellac, are now available on Youtube. You may consult my channel—"younglemeshevist," or that of petrof4056.

Lensky finally became his most famous role, which he refined throughout his life. His 1955 recording of Eugene Onegin, with the renowned Galina Vishnevskaya , became quite well known in the West. Here is a very good 1937 recording of Lensky’s aria:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0q69JvLqag

The best years of his operatic career were 1931-1942. He was also an outstanding concert singer and a brilliant performer of folk songs. In 1938, he became the first artist to sing all 100 romances by Tchaikovsky in 5 concerts. Folk songs broadcast on the radio made him a truly “national’ singer. Additionally, the film “A Musical Story,” 1941, in which he played the main role, brought him the Stalin prize and caused Lemeshev-mania all over the USSR. It must be said that his personality was a significant part of his success. He is remembered as a very friendly and cheerful person who was also a congenial colleague. He was also quite a lady's man! Six marriages and numerous affairs focused the attention of his fans on his personal life. Their day-and-night stalking and scuffles with fans of other tenors are legendary.

The beginning of the Great Patriotic War (WWII) was crucial for Lemeshev; during one evacuation he caught a very bad cold which resulted in two attacks of pneumonia, complicated by pleurisy and tuberculosis of the right lung. He was treated with artificial pneumothorax, which is to say an induced therapeutic collapse of one lung. Although singing was forbidden, he in fact continued to sing with one lung from 1942 to 1948, when the other lung was also artificially collapsed and re-inflated. During that period he recorded Lakme, The Snowmaiden, “Pearlfishers," and Mozart and Salieri. In addition to health problems, he started to drink heavily after a divorce from his fifth wife, the soprano Irina Maslennikova. By 1953, however, he had overcome his drinking problem and was given the prestigious title "People’s Artist of the USSR." He was also appointed Assistant Manager of the Bolshoi from 1957 to 1959. Toward the end of his career, he mainly gave concerts of Russian classic romances and folk songs, taught in the Moscow conservatory, and performed on the radio. Old fans of his, who stalked him in the 1940's and 50's, are still faithful to him even now, 33 years after his death. They collect his recordings and place flowers on his grave every week.

Mattia Battistini: King of The Bel Canto Baritones

2010-09-12T12:31:00.009-04:00

Mattia Battistini (1856-1928) was born in Rome and brought up in Contigliano, a village near Rome. His father was a professor of anatomy at Rome University. Mattia showed great talent for music even as a very young man, and was soon sent to study with Venceslao Persichini, who was also the teacher of Francesco Marconi, Titta Ruffo and Giuseppe de Luca. While still a student, he sang in public, and debuted in Donizetti's La Favorita in 1878, where he enjoyed an immediate success. In the next three years he toured Italy and appeared in La Forza del Destino, Il Trovatore, Rigoletto, Il Guarany, Gli Ugonotti, Dinorah, L'Africaine, I Puritani, Lucia di Lammermoor, Aida, and Ernani. To say that he got off to a quick and brilliant start is classic understatement! He enjoyed success wherever he toured, and in 1883 he made his Covent Garden debut. To the best of my knowledge, he never sang in America, which was still, in the European view, a bit on the provincial side of things, as was Australia. He oriented his career in the direction of Eastern Europe; most particularly Imperial Russia, where he was a great favorite, and a friend of the Tsar's family. He returned to Russia regularly for 23 seasons, and made his first recordings there in 1902. The Russian aristocracy acclaimed him above all other singers. His career spanned 50 years, and he was commonly called "The King of Baritones." His reputation was enormous, and his career extraordinarily successful. *

Battistini did not sound like the baritones of today, who are, virtually without exception, verismo singers, with dark, powerful voices that are often not very flexible and tend to a rather monochromatic intensity of volume, well suited to the Verdi and Puccini roles, but perhaps less so to the kinds of romantic operas that were popular in the 19th century. Battistini can sound like a tenor on occasion, but it is simply the open sound and the lightened volume. Because he was a bel canto trained singer, his voice evidences great flexibility and range, and his pronunciation, like that of the bel canto tenors, is extremely clear. Battistini was an intelligent singer, extremely musical by nature, and he took the dramatic end of opera very seriously. He was by all accounts a superb actor, with innumerable costumes that were historically accurate. His Italian is very refined, and the open and closed e's and o's are everywhere observed, and are capable of creating the effect of cultured gentility (if the role is heroic) or explosive vulgarity, if demanded by the role. So great was the esteem in which he was held that Massenet actually re-wrote Werther so that the title role could be sung by Battistini. Here is Werther's famous aria "Pourquoi me reveiller:" Prepare yourselves: first, for a different sounding baritone voice, and secondarily for a re-written aria that only occasionally sounds like the one we all know:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZmmRTPPTcE&feature=PlayList&p=52895B2BF7544626&index=24

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto:) This is another world. All the signs of bel canto training are there, right down to the rapid-fire vibrato. One can, however, very quickly get used to it, and that is when the advantages of this kind of singing become apparent—the elegance, the drama, the pronunciation, the style, the musicality. Here is a famous baritone aria that makes for good comparison with today's singing style: Valentine's "Avant de quitter ses lieux:" (Please notice his costumes, for which he was renowned)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBdhbi77DRg&p=52895B2BF7544626&index=17

I find this rendition to be particularly engaging. The singing, from a musical and stylistic point of view, is absolutely perfect, and his voice is most communicative. This is singing of great authenticity and elegance.

Good as his rendition of music from this period is, it becomes even better when we move back to Mozart's time. Here is Don Giovanni's serenade, which is a perfect showcase for Battistini's particular talents. This recording is from 1902, and is one of his very first:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GK4gKgK8HJQ&feature=PlayList&p=52895B2BF7544626&index=5

Simply delightful! And I always feel obliged to point out that Mozart died in 1791, only 65 years before Battistini was born. This means that at least some of the teachers he would have had at the conservatory would have been born very close to Mozart's day, and would themselves have been trained by people absolutely from that period. It makes sense to think that the styles of Mozart's time were still well known. After all, we are very much aware of the musical comedy styles and practices of Richard Rogers' work from the 1940's.

Traditionally, styles and vogues come, and displace former ones, which can easily be forgotten. Happily, however, photos and phonograph recordings, now representing a considerable history themselves, are here to remind us that today's styles are not eternal, and in the case of opera, historical material shows that musical and vocal styles near or at the time of the opera's composition—which were certainly in the minds of the composers as they wrote—tell us another story.
__________________________________________________________

• I would like to acknowledge the diligent work of Tim, at dantitustimshu, who provided the material that made this essay possible. Tim is one of the most serious musical historians and collectors on Youtube, and I am greatly indebted to him for the biographical references and pictures, and the playlist from which the musical selections were taken. I refer readers to his channel, which is a brilliant collection of historical material. I also alert the interested reader to a classic reference site for biographical material: "Cantabile-Subito: A Site for Collectors of Great Singers of the Past" (www.cantabile-subito.de)

"Antonina Nezhdanova [Антонина Васильевна Нежданова] People's Artist of the Soviet Union

2010-08-28T11:20:00.005-04:00

"Antonina Nezhdanova(1873-1950),was born near Odessa,to parents who were school teachers. Both were themselves amateur singers, and her father had formed a local choir in which young Antonina sang, even as a small child. She was a good and diligent student, and after studying at Odessa, attended and graduated from Umberto Masetti's famous class at the Moscow conservatory in 1902. (She was to continue studying with Masetti until his death in 1919.) She was immediately engaged at the Bolshoi, where she remained for nearly 40 years, singing leading roles in Russian and West European operas, most frequently opposite the great tenor Leonid Sobinov. In 1912 she was Gilda at the Monte Carlo Opéra, with Tita Ruffo as Rigoletto and Enrico Caruso as the Duke. Some outstanding roles of her huge repertoire were: Ludmilla in Glinka's Ruslan and Ludmilla, Tatyana, Lakmé, the Snow Maiden, Volkhova, Elsa, and Rosina.

She embraced the Communist era with enthusiasm, having been taught by her parents that it was the duty of middle and upper class Russians to help the less fortunate, and support their legitimate claims to a decent life. So strong was this belief in her that she would often sing in provincial theaters for food, or even for nothing at all. This earned her the great and ever-lasting affection of the Russian people. Beginning in 1922, she became a cultural ambassador for the Soviet government, and appeared in Berlin, Prague, Warsaw, Baltic capitals, and cities in Germany and Poland. In the USSR she was among the most honored singers and teachers. The government bestowed upon her the prestigious titles "People's Artist of the Soviet Union," for her great artistry, and "Hero of Labor" for her life-long efforts on behalf of socialist reform. From 1936 on, she taught at the Stanislavsky Opera Studio, later at the Bolshoi Opera Studio, and finally at the Moscow Conservatory, from 1943 until 1950." *

Nezhdanova is particularly noteworthy for the absolute perfection of her singing technique. It could be called Russian, or it could be called bel canto; I suppose it could be both: there is a premium on ease of attack and fexibility. The “color” of Russian voices, especially high voices, is “whiter” than the dark and ponderous Italian voices that have come to dominate most opera singing today. Some of this owes to the language, and some owes to the bel canto school of singing. As a general rule, as we have discussed in some detail before, bel canto singing tends to produce whiter, open phonation that reveals the more characteristic tones of the speaking voice of the singer. Chaliapin is a particularly striking example of this kind of singing, so much so that some refer to him as a singing actor because of the extremely clear enunciation that is part of bel canto training. Nezhdanova, however, does not go to that extreme. Her singing style was pure bel canto, with an emphasis on lyricism and beauty, reflecting her lifelong study with Masetti. Here is a superb example of the great soprano singing a classic Italian aria, "Una Voce Poco Fa." I call your attention to the extraordinary flexibility of the voice, and the immaculate, almost understated style, which is actually more respectful of the tradition of great singing—and Rossini’s intentions—than the often self-indulgent bombast that can accompany this particular showpiece aria. Her coloratura is perfection itself:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aM7Y5mYFQPU

An absolutely astonishing piece of vocalism! It is hard to imagine it done better; both the musicianship and style are admirable.

Also of great musical interest is a recording that Nezhdanova made of Elsa’s aria from Lohengrin, and it demonstrates very well that it did not,nearer Wagner’s time, require a monster soprano voice to sing Wagner, who was in fact very impressed with some Italian composers, especially Rossini and Bellini. He is reported to have spoken very highly of Rossini after a personal meeting with him that completely dispelled for Wagner some of the silly stereotypes of Italian music and composers that were current at the time. He is also said to have expressed a wish that his tenors be trained in Italy. It is also worth noting that the pit at Bayreuth is covered, both to avoid any sight-line interruptions between stage and viewer, and also to help keep the volume of the sound down:

http://www.youtube.com/user/EdmundStAustell#p/u/172/vXDk1PE3bIw

I strongly feel that this is exactly what would have pleased Wagner. It is clear, musically and stylistically excellent, and simply beautiful. The lyricism and plaintive nature of the piece come through in the voice in a way that is often not captured by huge and heroic voices.

Finally, another soprano showpiece, "Sempre Libera", from La Traviata, featuring a high D natural at the end. Extremely high notes were not so common in Nezhdanova's day, especially if the voice carried much weight into the extreme top register:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vq1S34TBYEo

A wonderful soprano indeed, and a great personality! She deserves her accolades and reputation, and it is both just and gratifying that she is finally becoming known to opera lovers in the United States.
__________________________________________________________
*I wish to express my gratitude both to Natalia at younglemeshevist, a good friend and connoisseur of fine arts with a prodigious knowledge of great Russian art and singing, and to Tim at dantitustimshu, a superb collector and scholar, for information which has informed my biographical sketch of Nezhdanova, and to Tim for the photos of Nezhdanova.

Giuseppe Di Stefano: A Tenor For All Seasons

2010-08-15T13:44:00.005-04:00

Giuseppe di Stefano was born in Motta Sant'Anastasia, a village near Catania, Sicily,in 1921. He came from a family of very modest means and was educated at a Jesuit seminary. His operatic debut was in 1946 in Reggio Emilia as Des Grieux in Massenet's Manon. His La Scala debut was the next year, in 1947, in the same role. From his early youth, Di Stefano's voice was remarkable for its great beauty. After the La Scala debut, his rise was unusually rapid. His Met debut followed, in 1948, in Rigoletto. He was to be a Met mainstay for many years. From this moment on, he sprang to international fame, and sang in all the major opera houses and in many festivals. His biography is very easily consulted, owing to his great popularity.

I will say at the outset that I am, and have always been, an ardent Di Stefano fan. I can't promise too much objectivity on this one. We are accustomed to speaking of tenors in many categories: leggiero, lyric, spinto, dramatic, and heroic. Di Stefano, however, was molded in the old-fashioned way. He was essentially a tenor—period—and he sang an extremely wide range of roles, each requiring different vocal abilities, or "kinds" of voices, at least according to current mythologies. This did not concern Di Stefano. His essential training was bel canto, and he adhered absolutely to the advice of Fernando De Lucia: "Per cantare bene, bisogna aprire la bocca!" (This was reported by his most famous student, Georges Thill, in a filmed interview that can be seen on Youtube.) Di Stefano did "aprire la bocca," very wide indeed, and very consistently, and that is how he sang. His pronunciation, as a result, is impeccable. You can understand every single word, in Standard Italian, Neapolitan, or Sicilian. It was very open phonation, and while some criticized him for this, I think it served him beautifully, because it gave him an enormous range, superb control in the extreme upper register (he could diminuendo on a high C natural!) and it made it possible for him to sing roles from Nemorino to Calaf. Here is the very young Di Stefano, little more than a boy, is the popular "Una furtiva lagrima.":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8EqJjDM-nA

A beautiful rendition for a 23 year old! Already the main qualities are in place—the open phonation, the beautiful voice, the superb enunciation, and a remarkable ability to diminuendo down to a lovely mezza-voce that is almost choir-boy-like. It was clear he was headed for the big time!

Let's progress by repertoire and age, and the "tenor for all seasons" ability will become apparent. Here he is in a very demanding role, the Duke of Mantua, which is a serious step up from Nemorino in terms of vocal demands, singing the extremely well known "La Donna è Mobile." Notice the open phonation, and the easy access right up the scale to the final B natural:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qhVgUFiCJnQ&feature=related

Wonderful! Did you notice that in addition to the immaculate pronunciation, that there is a distinctive, recognizable personality to his voice? It often happens that when opera singers in a given vocal fach cover their sounds heavily, it is almost impossible to tell one from another. When the phonation is open, however, the individual personality of the speaking voice is revealed. Among basses, the most striking example is Chaliapin, who was a wide-open singer if ever there was one, as tenor Giovanni Martinelli was also.

Like Giacomo Lauri Volpi, Di Stefano (whose vocal production was similar) could sing very high. Here is an extraordinary piece of singing featuring Di Stefano and Callas, his frequent collaborator (theirs was a bit of a mutual admiration society). This short finale to a longer duet features a high Db from both of them, and a B natural at the end. This, as I indicated in the description accompanying the video, is virtuoso singing of a very high order indeed:

http://www.youtube.com/user/EdmundStAustell#p/u/3/q6PPPLXvAnM

That is simply spectacular! There is no other word for it. That is the kind of singing that makes people happy to lay down their hard earned money for expensive opera tickets, and then stand up and shout to demonstrate their satisfaction at having heard great singing.

Finally, in our progression, a very heavy role, Calaf in Turandot, in the by-now famous "Nessun Dorma:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yvyWpLZalE8&feature=related

Magnificent. Same vocal production as for Nemorino. Nothing has changed. This is the repertoire critics say he should not have sung, yet I challenge anyone to fault this rendition of "Nessun Dorma" in any way. Perhaps it did shorten his career a bit, but that turns out—considering how long his career was—to be a matter of small concern. He had a spectacular career, was greatly respected, sang all over the world in all the important opera houses and made a very large number of recordings and no small amount of money. There's a problem here? I don't think so. Also, he was certainly not the only tenor to sing with an open phonation on top. One thinks of Giacomo Lauri Volpi, Fernando de Lucia, and Georges Thill, for starters, three of the most famous tenors of all time. No, this is great tenor singing, plain and simple.

Sadly, he died a tragic but heroic death. Attacked by unknown assailants in his summer home in Kenya, he fought bravely—at age 84!—to defend his wife from the thieves. He saved her, but he paid for his heroic actions by being so badly beaten that he slipped into a coma and basically lay, in pain and semi-consciousness, for the last three years of his life, dying at 87 in Milan. This was as great a man as he was an artist!

Franco Bonisolli: Opera's Wild Man

2010-08-11T16:33:00.004-04:00

I should start by saying that I respect the voice, the talent, and the raw energy that was Franco Bonisolli. He was a great tenor, whose eccentric behavior ultimately undercut his career and his reputation. There are elements of tragedy here, because the talent was very great, and it is that man that I wish to celebrate, not the one cruelly called "il pazzo," a nickname that unfortunately stuck.

Franco Bonisolli was born in Rovereto in 1937, and began his career at the Spoleto Festival in 1961, in Puccini's La Rondine. He sang in unusual and seldom performed operas for several years, but by so doing began his inevitable climb through the web of Italian houses until, 8 years later, in 1969, he was ready for a La Scala debut, performing in Rigoletto, L'Elisir d'Amore, and La Bohème. After La Scala, the rise was rapid. He was a handsome young man, with a spectacular voice, brilliant at the top, all the way to a high D natural. He had everything he needed for a wonderful career. He went on to sing in San Francisco, New York, Vienna, and the career quickly went world-wide.

He developed early-on the maturity required to sing the big roles, and parts such as Andrea Chenier, Calaf, and—especially—Manrico became audience favorites. Here he is in the famous "Nessun Dorma," from Turandot, a live performance from 1987, in Covent Garden:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGOf2d5yieo&feature=related

This is beautiful and powerful singing, and the strength of the upper register is in ample evidence. This is the kind of singing and performing that won Bonisolli his international reputation. The quality of the voice is ringing and virile and absolutely consistent up and down the scale. He is an attractive man and looks very good on stage. At the beginning, he sometimes tended to under-act, rather in the tradition of the older "stand there and sing" stars, such as Zinka Milanov, who once famously asked "what good is acting if you can't sing?"

Here is another clip from 1984, a live performance on TV. This is possibly the best Bonisolli video on Youtube, and shows the tenor in full command of his great abilities, confident and in spectacular voice:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDUHPKfFdGA&feature=related

This is impossible to fault in any way! I have seldom heard this famous aria sung better. And the high notes! The high C is spectacular. Notes that high just don't get any better than this. It was this spectacular higher register that was responsible for much of Bonisolli's reputation. This is no squeezed-out high C, there is plenty of heft in that sound, and it rings like a bell. One thinks of the great Franco Corelli, one of the few spinto tenors with whom Bonisolli can be compared. He voice extended even higher. Here is a short cabaletta from Rigoletto, recorded in 1969 (early in the international career) with a high D natural at the end. The lip-synch is not very good, but he is in good voice at least, and you can see that he was a very handsome man at that time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0pRAY07k_GE&feature=related

This is rarified singing; there is not a great deal of competition at this level.

And now, I feel that I must post the following video, if I am going to make an honest evaluation. It shows the sad degeneration toward the latter part of the career. Bonisolli's behavior had become so erratic that he was unreliable in performance and very hard to work with. This video, made at an annual Gigli memorial festival, shows him singing his signature piece, "Di Quella Pira," with a very large orchestra in front of a huge audience. He sings the piece, and basically refuses to leave the stage, infuriating the conductor. The audience gets into the game (opera can still be blood sport in Italy!) until the conductor has no choice but to play it over again. After the second rendition, watch the end of the video carefully, and you will see Bonisolli hopping, skipping and leaping off stage. A sorry spectacle, to be sure. But, to be honest, this was the problem. Great talent and intolerable antics. I suppose some think it funny. I can't, because we are witnessing a great talent deconstructing itself in front of our eyes. Sorry....maybe I should laugh, but I can't:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xzg86rNphrI

And there you have it. I have heard, but cannot prove, that toward the end of his life (he only lived to be 66) there were very serious health problems that were possibly neurological in nature. It may well be that that was the problem. If so, then his having had a major career was more of a triumph over illness than a failure of personality. That is certainly what I would like to think.

Salomea Krusceniski [Соломія Крушельницька]

2010-08-01T11:02:00.003-04:00

Salomea Krusceniski was born in what is today Lvov, Poland, in 1872. At that time, this was Western Ukraine, part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. She studied at the Lviv Conservatory and made her debut in 1892, as Leonora in Donizetti's La Favorita, at the opera house of Lemberg. Further engagements followed quickly in Odessa, Warsaw, and St Petersburg. In 1898 she sang in Italy for the first time, as Leonora in La Forza del Destino. She enjoyed great success and was invited to sing in Rome, Naples, and at La Scala in Milan. In 1903 she settled in Milan because of political disturbances involving Poland and Ukraine. At La Scala, her Aida was a triumph, and a triumph in Madama Butterfly followed quickly. Her career soon took her abroad; to Spain, Portugal, and South America. Her repertoire eventually came to include 60 roles. She went on to have a very successful concert career, and from 1944 until 1952 she taught singing at the Lviv Conservatory. She died in 1952.* There are good biographies on the web, easily consulted.

Krusceniski's name is known to many opera lovers, especially in Italy and Eastern Europe, but she remains, for many Americans, a discovery yet to be made. I know that my acquaintance with her, via a recording of "Ritorna Vincitor," was a revelation, to say the least. More of a shock. I have seldom heard a more effective encapsulation of dramatic emotion in a piece of music. I can think of no better introduction. This is a 1907 recording, and you will need to adjust the volume for best listening. Be patient with the loading of the recording. It take over 20 seconds for it to engage:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TxI7YgexvpU

I find that absolutely thrilling! It is not easy to explain. We enter here into the mystery of style, conviction, emotion, and musical art, in exactly the same way we do with Maria Callas. The style is perfect, and the musicality exemplary; she always sings, she never shouts. Her approach is always lyrical and musical, but the effect is more striking by far than if someone declaimed without consideration for the music. In that regard she is, like Callas, a great tragedian. That so much emotion can survive, intact, for 103 years, after having been recorded on laughably primitive equipment, is proof positive of her perfection of technique, musicality and style. I still struggle today to describe the effect this ancient recording had on me the first time I heard it.

A good way to judge the quality of Krusceniski's voice comes, curiously, from an even older recording. This recording of "Solveig's Song," from Grieg's Peer Gynt, was, amazingly, made in 1902! Yet, because of the piano accompaniment, and, apparently, the horn placement, her voice comes through as clearly as if it had been recorded electrically. This recording contains two versions of the song. Just listen to the first, the 1902 version, as it makes the point convincingly. Again, be patient with the loading of the video...it takes 30 seconds to engage:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3WSTkKXSxyM&feature=email

Amazing recording, isn't it? The quality of the voice, in 1902, when she was 30 years of age, is truly superb—a solid column of sound, from top to bottom, well modulated and flawlessly produced.

Finally, a very popular aria—"Un bel di, from Madama Butterfly. Krusceniski was one of the first interpreters of this role, and she was much admired by Puccini for her portrayal. Notice the extremely smooth musicality of her presentation, the intense emotion (of the non-screaming kind!) and a shorter high Bb at the end than current tradition would have it. Like famous high notes of all kinds—"Celeste Aida," "Di Quella Pira," "Salut, demure...," "Che Gelida Manina," and any coloratura soprano aria ending on or above C natural—one singer's triumph quickly becomes another singer's challenge. Before the days of "tradition," however, we tend to hear music as it was written and, often, as coached by the conductor himself. Puccini actually went to these performances, after all, and it is bound to be the case that he spoke to the singers about their roles. "Un bel di" is written in 3/4 time, and the final Bb is written for only one measure. Now audiences feel cheated if it does not extend for another 8 measures into the 2/4 time of the next scene!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2aSl4IijV08&feature=related

A musically immaculate and thrilling piece of singing! Some things have been gained since 1912, but much has been lost.

*If you find yourself fascinated by this extraordinary singer—as I was—please permit me to refer you to the Youtube Channel of Tim at"dantitustimshu" (Better write it down, it's not easy to remember). Tim—a brilliant musical scholar and record collector—has the best collection of Krusceniski records to be found, and has thoughtfully collected them into a playlist, where they may be consulted. I am further indebted to him for the historical and biographical notes that appear at the beginning of the article. Also, for general reference, I refer the reader to: "subito - cantabile: A site for collectors of Great Singers of the Past" (http://www.cantabile-subito.de)

Alfredo Kraus: The Personification of Elegance

2010-07-25T13:07:00.004-04:00

Alfredo Kraus was born in 1927 in Spain's Canary Islands, and began his musical studies as a child, beginning piano at 4 years of age. He was a good and highly intelligent student of music, and developed disciplined habits at a young age which stayed with him throughout his life. He would, during his long career, be consistently praised for his extremely refined musicianship. A handsome man, in the debonair 1930's matinee-idol mold, he had an aristocratic bearing that bespoke the refinements of earlier centuries. All these qualities made it possible for him to have a superb career, and he did.

Kraus' debut was in 1956, at 29 years of age, in Cairo, portraying the Duke in Rigoletto, which was to become one of his signature roles, along with Werther, Nemorino, Arturo, and Faust. (His French was good, and he was very popular in the French repertoire.] In 1958 he debuted in Lisbon, and then, in quick succession, London, Milan, Chicago and New York, and then to world wide fame. There were no scandals in his life, no self-indulgent behavior, and no health crises. He was a model of stability, professionalism and artistic consistency, an extraordinary model for serious artists.

Kraus' voice was highly pitched. The territory around high C and even beyond, held no fears for him. Here he is (at age 59!) singing "Mes Amis," from La Fille du Regiment, a notorious aria whic contains—if you listen to it from the beginning—one B natural, two Bb's and an unbelievable five high C#'s! This aria is long. I recommend you move the radio button forward to 5:10 as soon as you can, and listen from there to the end, which is where the high C# fireworks take place.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrD6JJuUJ0E&feature=related

Isn't that something! And at 59 years of age, almost unbelievable. He never lost that brilliant top. And the wildly enthusiastic reaction of the audience is a clear indication of the esteem in which he was held. The clarity, consistency and seeming ease of production of those extremely high notes are sure signs of a brilliant singer, very disciplined and in complete control of his voice.

The Duke in Rigoletto was a natural for a distinguished looking man with a high-pitched voice. It was his debut opera and remained a favorite with audiences:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJJHZ2_onlw

Absolutely perfect bel canto technique, smooth as silk. This vocal production cannot be faulted in any way. It is very traditional, and perfectly adapted to singing tenor in opera. Curiously, given the eternal insistence from most voice teachers about low larynx and extreme diaphragmatic support, watching Kraus makes it clear that his larynx is often high, and much of his breathing is clavicular. It requires a very straight posture, which Kraus had. This may seem like heresy, in the era of belting, but in fact it is for some voices and styles of singing a time honored technique which Gigli also employed. Essentially, it is the way boy sopranos or coloratura sopranos sing. This is not to say he does not support, only that it is selective and integrated into a narrower, higher sound, less dependent on deep resonances.

Finally, the role which most consider Kraus to have owned: Werther. Here is one of the earlier arias in the opera, "O nature, pleine de grâce!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CQoH723vYpg&feature=related

It is very, very nice to reflect upon the fact that bel canto singing, with its elegance, beauty, and stylistic refinements, did not in fact die. It lived in Kraus,and lives in others and—given the very large number of aficionados who considered his art to be perfection itself—it is not going to leave us. It will come back, because the thirst is there.

John McCormack: The One and Only

2010-07-04T17:26:00.003-04:00

I think it is fairly safe to say that John McCormack is the one great tenor who had a brilliant career singing almost exclusively in the English language. That simply does not happen. There have been excellent tenors who sang occasionally in English (Alfred Piccaver, Richard Crooks) and some whose English language work was extensive and in the great opera tenor mode (Mario Lanza), but McCormack is a special case. I can visualize the hands going up, saying "Wait a minute....McCormack sang huge numbers of sentimental Irish ballads, and operetta songs....that doesn't count!" And that is where I disagree. It does count, because McCormack never let down his vocal and stylistic seriousness for any song or arietta. He always approached anything he did with all the classical vocal training and artistic seriousness at his disposal—and that was a very considerable amount!

McCormack was born in Athlone, Ireland, the fourth of eleven children, in 1884. He received his early education from the Marist Brothers in Athlone. Certainly one of the formative events of his youth was winning the gold medal in the 1903 singing contest in Dublin, when he would have been a mere 19 years of age. This brought much attention his way, and friends saw to it that he got the money necessary to study in Italy, where he studied with Vincenzo Sabatini. He married Lily Foley in 1906 and the couple had two children, Cyril and Gwen. He debuted at Covent Garden (Cavalleria Rusticana) in 1907. Shortly thereafter, he went to America, where in 1911 he sang the tenor lead in Victor Herbert's Natoma, opposite Mary Garden, at the Met. His singing was noted, but the opera itself failed. His next move was to Australia, where Nellie Melba had engaged him as lead tenor for the Melba Grand Opera Season. Melba was notorious for not getting along with colleagues, but McCormack seems to have been a special case. Their professional relationship, at least, went reasonably well. McCormack's opera career was short, and tended to peak fairly early, probably when was in his late 20's. It was when he turned his attention to concertizing and making recordings that his fame skyrocketed. His detailed biography is everywhere available, and easy to consult.

One of the most engaging features of McCormack's early recording was the silvery tone of his voice, which was accentuated by the acoustical recording horn then in use. Here is a good example from 1915, which I posted several weeks ago—the American Civil War Song, "The Vacant Chair." This song also contains what I believe is the highest note McCormack ever recorded—a D natural above high C, at the very end of the piece:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-0ZNMpmWps

Such an emotional song, and so well sung! This is the essential McCormack. The tone is bright and silvery, without ever becoming shrill, and the enunciation is absolutely perfect, and I mean every –single- word! This is not only excellent vocal technique in action, it is a mark of true respect and consideration for his audience, a lesson many other singers could profitably learn! (Another of whom this can be said is Mario Lanza. It is no accident he and McCormack were among the most successful of all classical singers singing in English.) This is also a fine example of something I mentioned at the very beginning, and that is the serious vocal technique and artistry that he brought to every song he sang. It elevates what could have been a sentimental pot-boiler into a beautiful song of real and painful regard for the dreadful cost of war, one delivered at the very most intimate and personal setting—the family dinner table.

It was in the area of Celtic music however—most specifically Irish—that his singing was simply nonpareil. There has never been, and there is unlikely ever to be, a better salesman for the sentimental beauty of Irish Music than John McCormack. Here is "The Barefoot Trail," from 1920:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juxhlVxCusY

Again, the sentiment, the beautiful singing and enunciation, and a certain magic that is very hard to define, but has something to do with "soul," to use a currently popular critical word. He had it all.

Some attention needs to be given to the operatic part of McCormack's life, which, even if secondary, was still significant. He was essentially, in his youth, an opera singer in the Italian mode. Here is his recording, in Italian, of Faust's big aria, "Salut, demeure...":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnmL7GP7SP4

If you wish, you can read my comments below the picture on this particular post. I do note that, while he takes the aria down half a tone, he is not the only one to do so, and his singing of it is, in the main, quite admirable.

But it is the McCormack of the wonderful Irish and English repertoire than finds a permanent place in the hearts of so many. There have been many great Italian tenors, but there was only one John McCormack.

Richard Tucker: A Great American Tenor

2010-06-05T15:47:00.004-04:00

[A special note of thanks to Mr. J.D. Hobbes, a frequent contributor to our comments section, for sending this photo of Tucker.]

America has produced many first rate singers, perhaps owing to its multi-ethnic population. Richard Tucker, with Mario Lanza, is certainly at the very top of that group. It is hardly news to say that Richard Tucker, born in 1913 in Brooklyn, N.Y. was a possessor of one of the greatest tenor voices of all time. In addition to being an absolutely brilliant operatic tenor, he was acclaimed as a world-class cantor. So much so, in fact, that some know and appreciate him primarily in that capacity. For us here, however, it is Tucker the operatic tenor that we celebrate.

Having begun cantorial studies at a young age, Tucker and those close to him were certainly aware of his extraordinary voice from early on. Against the advice of some, but very self-confident in his own abilities—as he had every right to be—he auditioned for the Metropolitan Opera Auditions of the Air in 1941, but did not win a prize. Later on, however, Met General Manager Edward Johnson (another very fine tenor) came to listen to Tucker sing at the Brooklyn Jewish Center, and offered him a chance to audition again. Tucker did, and this time was given a contract. His Met debut was in 1945, as Enzo in La Gioconda. The rest, as they say, is history, and easily consulted.

All of the musical examples I have chosen to illustrate this great singer are live recordings. I do this for a reason: It is too easy, in this age, to make a recording sound any way you want it to sound. Engineers turn all kinds of knobs, and push buttons, and what comes out may or may not sound very much like what you hear in the theater. More than one singer has fallen afoul of this particular phenomenon. Tucker's voice was characterized by an exceptional squillo that made him sound very Italianate. The voice was highly placed and beautifully produced. His only teacher was Paul Althouse, himself a very good tenor, who trained him perfectly. Tucker's remarkable technique never let him down—he was among the most reliable of tenors, who could be counted upon to turn in a vocally stellar performance, as was his brother-in-law Jan Peerce. Both he and Peerce were exceptionally disciplined individuals, who took their careers and their gifts very seriously. Both were also supremely self-confident individuals, and that contributes to the discipline and the likelihood of success.

Each recording I have chosen represents a particular aspect of Tucker's art. First the remarkable solidity of both voice and technique. Here he is on the Ed Sullivan show in 1961, singing the famous "Nessun Dorma" from Turandot:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPkb24cQCM8&feature=related

This is rock-solid vocalism of a very high order. The high B at the end is in perfect line with the rest of the voice. It is not musically elegant singing—there are some breaks in the line which seem to be gasps for breath. TV, with lights and camera in your face, is brutal, and so is live performance at such close range. He seems decidedly nervous. On stage, there is a character, a costume, and a huge orchestra to put distance between actor and audience. Tucker's melodramatic acting works better in the theater, where distance burns down the breadth of the gestures. Up close and standing still, the stage fright is apparent. However, the voice is simply spectacular.

Our second example is Tucker's rendering of "Cielo e mar." Gioconda had been his debut opera at the Met many years before, in which he scored a spectacular success. This is a radio broadcast from 1959, and there is some blurring and static, but I call your attention to the end of the aria, where he nails two consecutive Bb's that make it perfectly clear to everyone that a great tenor is singing. No studio recording here—this is what Tucker actually sounded like in performance:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UtnD37DDERw&feature=related

How about that! The New York reviews on the day after his 1945 debut simply raved about his singing of this aria. A star was born that night.

Finally, a more somber note. Tucker, great tenor that he was, also had some flaws, as every human being on the planet also has. One was a marked tendency to overact. Critics sometimes complained about his "glycerin tears" and sobs which could exceed even those of Gigli, who was similarly criticized. This final selection is from Cavalleria Rusticana, an opera that has some of the characteristics of verismo gone wild. Tucker had suffered a rather serious heart attack just prior to this broadcast. His sense of duty and responsibility being what they were, he went ahead and did it. Doctors had warned him to take it a bit easy—he got terribly wrought up sometimes—but he did not. He survived this broadcast but the exaggerations in this aria, especially at the end, are a sign, I suspect, that something is wrong. This is acting and singing that even in opera is over the top, and it is worrying. The piece starts off reasonably enough, given the highly emotional situation on stage, but it starts to fall apart toward the end, into something like shouting:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lol_6htD200&feature=related

However, such distractions aside, the essential facts remain. This was one of the greatest tenors America ever produced, and indeed one of the greatest tenors in the world. His career was spectacular, and the number of roles he did—in a wide repertoire—was very large. He was universally praised, and his gifts were so great that he fully deserves to be called The Great Tucker, and that is how he is in fact remembered.

Tito Schipa: Ultimate Tenore di Grazia

2010-05-31T11:02:00.003-04:00

Tito Schipa (1888-1965) is perhaps unique in opera: he was a very popular operatic tenor, sang in all the major houses (with the exception of Covent Garden), had—and still has—legions of fans, and yet he seems at first glance to possess almost none of the characteristics generally associated with operatic tenors. He was basically a Bb tenor (and barely that), and his voice was quite small, and even bit husky. He sometimes reminds me more of Tony Bennett (also a great singer, incidentally) than he does the great opera singers of his day: Lauri Volpi, Caruso, Gigli, Martinelli, etc. What then was the secret of his great success?

The answers are not hard to find, and they are a great lesson to all who aspire to sing: first, he was a superb musician. No endless fermatas, no invented notes. Even more importantly, he was a master of style: the precise reason for any song or aria he sang was always clear to the audience, and, more importantly, to him. His enunciation was crystal clear, and one can understand every single word he sings. He possessed, in abundance, a musical and stylistic understanding sufficient to make him an absolute master of musical line. Line is perhaps the greatest of all the artistic attributes necessary to sing beautifully, and—all too often—one of the rarest. By linking notes (legato),the singer can create a flow of sound that swells and diminishes, according to the composer's intentions, and when this ebb and flow is connected to a corresponding linguistic syntax that accompanies the music, the total effect is stunning; the kind of thing that brings audiences to their feet shouting. The public responds much more to beauty than it does to anything else, even pyrotechnic displays of fioratura, trills, and ear-splitting volume. All have their place, but beauty is always first. (In this regard, I would venture that small opera houses are the greatest boon there is to beautiful singing. Six-thousand seat houses always necessarily put a premium on volume.)

The proof of all this is in the listening, so let us move to a good example: Here is the famous tenor aria from Von Flotow's Marta:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HB_bv3LKiWA

Isn't that lovely? No big sounds, no particularly high notes (did anyone else notice that even this modest aria is transposed down one-half tone?) Somehow it doesn't matter. It works, and it's lovely; that does matter.

There are of course limitations to this kind of singing as far as repertoire is concerned. He would simply have been woefully out of place in things like Aida, Otello, Andrea Chenier, and so on, even if he could have sung them. The big operas cannot be part of what a singer like Schipa does. But there is nothing wrong with that—there are plenty of operas left where his style of singing does work. A principal instance would be The Elixir of Love, and here is one of the best known and best loved tenor arias in the entire repertoire. Turn your speakers way down, this was recorded by the poster at a very high volume:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LgQw_AYddg&feature=related

Now, isn't THAT something! It is hard to imagine it sung better. The only competition he has as far as this aria is concerned is Ferruccio Tagliavini, another superb tenore di grazia. I think it is worth saying that the limitations of which I spoke work in the opposite direction also. Big tenors often think that because they have huge voices, they can sing anything in the repertoire. Not so. They can sound ridiculous singing music like this. It soon becomes the proverbial "bull in a china shop," and the dramatic and aesthetic qualities of the piece are just blown to pieces. Let them leave this music alone—they can make plenty of money doing Aida and Otello.

Finally, here is a fascinating clip someone has posted, taken from an old movie, apparently now lost, in which Schipa sings to his own guitar accompaniment. I call your attention to the extreme purity and clarity of his enunciation. It's so pure that I swear you could understand it even if you don't speak Italian!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHHY_JlXu_o&feature=related

A great and unlikely opera singer whose career and whose success contain so very many lessons. Any singer anywhere, singing any kind of music, can benefit from studying the artistic legacy of Tito Schipa.

The Great Fedora Barbieri

2010-05-22T15:05:00.002-04:00

Fedora Barbieri was born in Trieste, Italy, in 1920. Encouraged by friends and family to develop the vocal talent she displayed as a child, she began her formal study and was able to make her professional debut in Florence, in 1940, as Fidalma in Cimarosa's Matrimonio Segreto. She sang her first Azucena the next night and repeated Fidalma the night after that, displaying the kind of hard work and determination that Ernestine Schumann Heink also displayed at an even younger age. She was a mezzo soprano with a dramatic, powerful voice that was capable of displaying many colors, and was perfect for the Verdi roles, in which she excelled. She made a La Scala debut in 1942 in a performance of Beethoven's 9th Symphony. It was on to the Met in 1950, where she appeared as Princess Eboli in Verdi's Don Carlo. She was to go on to perform 96 operas at the Met. A favorite with both European and American audiences from the 1940's on, she was particularly admired for her appearances as Azucena in Il Trovatore, Amneris in Aida, Adalgisa in Bellini's Norma, and in the Verdi Requiem.

Here she is in one of her signature roles, Azucena in Il Trovatore, singing the bloodcurdling "Stride La Vampa":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6YMuAiUd4U&feature=related

The drama in the voice is more than evident in this exciting recording. This is vintage Barbieri. The depth of the voice is impressive, almost contralto-like, and the top is very powerful, capable of ringing and dramatic tones for the big climaxes that are so characteristic of Verdi operas, especially the ones in which she excelled. Someone once said that there were hundreds of colors in her voice, and I can believe it. It was a wonderful, rich instrument, capable of startling effects, very much in the style of Maria Callas, whose voice was similarly colored. Here she is, in a filmed 1955 version of an aria from Cilea's Adriana Lecourveur. Note the complete change of vocalism toward the end:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tM6ReoAL2I

This is a perfect example of the many colors of the voice, and her ability to switch from dramatic to lyric mode instantly. The lovely, lyric passages at the end of the aria sound very much like a lyric soprano. She can float the long, legato lines of that part of the aria very convincingly, and it is hard at that moment to think of the bone-chilling dark drama of, let us say, "Stride la Vampa." This is a very impressive flexibility, and one that won her much praise.

Barbieri never really retired. She continued to sing even into old age, although she sang much less as she aged. She was always a great favorite, not only because of her voice, but because she had a personality, and a certain near-melodramatic sense of acting, that served her very well. It is often common to talk of Callas and Barbieri together, not only because they were friends and often sang together, but because their dramatic sensibilities were also quite similar.

Finally, here is the great mezzo in a stirring dramatic piece, "O don fatale," from Verdi's Don Carlo. We are now back in dramatic mode, to be sure:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3OUd4e6czBM

Absolutely wonderful! This was Fedora Barbieri. She was much beloved, and these excerpts show why. Like Zinka Milnov and Maria Callas, she knew how to put the "grand" in "grand opera"!

Roberto Alagna: A Popular (And Controversial) French Tenor

2010-05-15T15:45:00.003-04:00

Roberto Alagna is still a relatively young, and certainly very popular French tenor, born in 1963 in Clichy-sous-Bois, France. His parents were Sicilian immigrants into France (hence the Italian name) but he is thoroughly French: born, raised and educated in France. As a young man, he was largely a café singer, without much in the way of formal training. Clearly possessing a first class voice, of considerable range and power, he moved fairly easily and obviously to opera, and made his debut as Alfredo in 1988, with the Glyndebourne touring opera company. His rise to fame was fast. There have not been many first rate tenors from France since the days of Georges Thill. He was soon in demand everywhere. His biography is easily consulted, and Youtube is fairly alive with his videos. We can move directly to a discussion.

There is no more typical or well known role for a French tenor than Faust. This has always been the case, and it is a good place to start. Faust's big aria, "Salut demeure, chaste et pure," is one of the best known in opera, and it has been a near career-wrecker since it was written. The exposed high C, at the aria's climax, was actually written by Gounod, as opposed to being interpolated by singers. French tenors in the late 19th and early 20th centuries took the big note in head voice, which had long been a French tradition. Even Thill, in the 20's took the note in head voice, something that is seldom if ever done today. Here is Alagna, in 2004 at Covent Garden, in this famous aria. You will note the crowd's reaction at the end, in a house known for its ability to turn to ice at the least slip by even the greatest of singers (most notably Maria Callas):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dpiBI1wOavI

There have been few French tenors, historically, who can produce a climactic high C in that particular aria as successfully as Alagna does. The range is rock-solid, from top to bottom. He is also a very handsome man, and his stage presence is striking, at least in this formalized setting, where Alagna, in my opinion, is at his best and least controversial. When he sticks within the French repertoire, in traditionally produced operas, which is where he belongs in my opinion, he is virtually without serious competition.

Here he is with Bryn Terfel, the great Welsh bass-baritone, in one of the most beautiful arias ever written, known by all opera lovers, the duet from the Pearl Fishers:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tLrPVkfCIQ

It is very beautiful, very authentic, and, as in the case of the Faust aria, vociferously applauded by the audience. I think it is important to observe that these videos are, respectively, from Covent Garden and the Met. These are important opera audiences. I say this because I want to stress the degree of his success and the level at which he sings. And this brings us naturally to the other side of Alagna. He is disliked by a significant number of people. Most will remember the fiasco as La Scala a few years ago, when, in a production of Aida, the notorious loggionisti decided to give him a hard time after his rendering of "Celeste Aida," for reasons that have never been entirely clear but which may have been as politically as musically motivated. Most singers who run afoul of these ill-mannered boors simply ignore them. Alagna, however, is rather temperamental and thin-skinned, and made the devastating mistake of walking off stage, pretty much bringing the opera to a halt until some understudy, score in hand, in his Levis, moved on stage to somehow get the show through the first act. Alagna was banned for life from La Scala as a result of this outburst. It must also be said that a few months later he did Aida at the Met, and was received with a standing ovation at the end of the opera. Music as blood sport.

The controversy runs deeper, however. This final video, from Romeo and Juliet, is very long and I do not expect anyone to watch it all the way through. In fact, if you have just eaten, it might be a good idea not to. The first couple of minutes tell the story:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4QAH_IpEG6o&feature=related

Well, I'm sure you get the idea.

La Rochefoucauld once observed that "Some people have more intelligence than taste, others more taste than intelligence; but there are more quirks and variations in taste than in intelligence." And so it would seem. When I was growing up, in the 1950's, opera, at least in New York, was a pretty standard and largely predictable business: Traviata, Cavalleria, Pagliacci, Carmen, Rigoletto, Tosca, Andrea Chenier, Turandot, La Boheme, Masked Ball, Rigoletto, Trovatore; all the heavy-duty verismo-tending standard repertoire. Now, something like atomic fission has taken place—the atom that was opera is split. Much energy has been released, and some it is taking curious forms. We see world-wide performances of Orfeo ed Euridice, Julius Caesar, Rodelinda, Europa Riconosciuta, Mitridate, and many, many other 18th century operas, which are finding an increasingly large audience. Male altos abound again, as they once did. On the other hand, we have extremely "modern" stage settings of formerly standard repertoire favorites. I think of this as a post-verismo phenomenon, trying now not only to be "realistic" in the standard sense of the word, but avant-garde, often to the extent of trying to outdo popular culture and its quasi-pornographic obsessions. This seems to me like a Rococo flash of convoluted confusion, spelling danger for "realistic" opera in general. God, was there ever anything "real" about opera!?

These tasteless stage settings do not do opera any good, and they bring a dubious kind of attention to Alagna. This is a shame, because he is a good and popular opera star, fulfilling a long-felt need for another great French tenor. With so much going for him, why settle for what is clearly second-rate, transitory trendiness?

Madame Ernestine Schumann-Heink, Beloved Contralto

2010-05-08T15:19:00.002-04:00

Madame Ernestine Schumann-Heink, Beloved Contralto

The great contralto Ernestine Schumann-Heink was born Tina Rössler in the German- speaking town of Liben, near Prague. Her father was a shoemaker, and the family moved many times in her youth: Chezkoslovakia, Austria, Italy, Germany and Poland, finally to Graz, in Austria, where she had her first voice lessons as a girl in her early teens. In 1877, when was only 16 years old, she made her debut in Graz, singing in a performance of Beethoven's 9th. The following year, she made her opera debut at Dresden's Royal Opera House, singing Azucena in Trovatore. (at 17!) It was during this period that her first big break came, in Hamburg, when she substituted for another singer who had fought with the management and refused to sing. She performed Carmen with one day's notice and no rehearsal! It was a success, spurring the angry (and perhaps jealous) prima donna to walk out altogether, with the result that young Tina sang La Prophete the next night, again with no rehearsal, and Lohengrin the following night, again with no rehearsal! This was an amazing feat for the young woman, and what it means, in essence, is that she knew the roles already, and had them in her head. She was a very hard working woman, and remained so for the rest of her life. Her biography is easily consulted. It is a tale of endless toil and many troubles.

By 1898, she had sung all over Europe and was appearing regularly at both Bayreuth and the Metropolitan. She was very active in the Wagnerian repertoire. Schuman-Heink, as she was by then known, had one of the rarest of voices—a real contralto. There have always been a fair few mezzo-sopranos parading as contraltos, but there have in fact not been that many genuine contraltos. Schuman-Heink was possibly the greatest of them all. The lower register of her voice was very deep, and yet curiously she possessed so solid a technique that the upper register was amazingly flexible, and she commanded an excellent trill and even the ability to sing coloratura passages when required. Here she is in a 1909 recording, when she was already 48 years of age, singing the lovely "Parto, parto," from Mozart's The Clemency of Titus:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVYI6KvtNsA

Isn't that just wonderful! I call your attention especially to the trills and coloratura passages at the very end. This was a voice that had it all...range, timbre, color and flexibility, all handled with a great musical and stylistic sense born of a near lifetime in the theater.

Here is a recording I posted on Youtube just a few days ago—and I believe it may be the only example of it currently up, in which Madame Schumann Heink sings what is easily one of the best known and most loved melodies of the 18th century, Gluck's "Che farò senza Euridice," from Opheus and Euridice. This recording is in German, and dates to 1907:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4fxprN6ANF4

This is what might be called tragic lyricism—not easily comprehended or controlled. It is stylistically excellent, exactly in the 18th century tradition. She was not, however, without the extreme dramatic sense that characterized much classical singing in her day, and to a large extent still does now. When she needed it, it was there. Here is a particularly spine-tingling interpretation of Der Erlkönig, a famous poem by Goethe, set to music by Schubert:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxJzBOWNxv0

She seems almost on the point of losing control of herself toward the end, but such are the (melo)dramatic requirements of the song, which depicts the horror of child attacked by a supernatural being, and finally killed.

Schumann Heink established herself in America eventually, and lived in California, on a 500 acre ranch. She was, like Alma Gluck and Louise Homer, very much a musical presence in America in the 20's and early 30's, thanks to her many recordings and regular appearances on the radio. By the mid to late 20s, she was especially known for her Christmas/New Year's appearances, when she commonly sang Brhams' "Lullaby," and—on Christmas Eve—"Silent Night":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ocq6QSofUiw&feature=related

A larger than life figure, Madame Ernestine Schumann-Heink elicited extreme affection from her audience, one that resonates even now, some 74 years after her death. One of the true giants of classical music; of that there is no question.

Nicholas Spanos: A Brilliant New Greek Alto.

2010-05-01T10:39:00.005-04:00

It is always a pleasure to be able to note the rise of brilliant young singers, and Nicholas Spanos is a case in point. It is the rise, or revival of certain genres that almost instantly creates new artists responding to new opportunities. The rise of Baroque and Ancient Music in general over the course of the last 25 years has been a thrilling and inspiring artistic experience for those of us who esteem the music of the past so highly. Over half the operas ever written were written before 1800, and those earlier operas are a wonderful field, ripe for mining. Opera is returning, slowly but surely, to its pre-verismo roots. Thank God. Don't misunderstand—there are wonderful late romantic and even a few "verismo" operas that are just plain good listening any day. One must be sensible. However, the slow return to a period of greater elegance and refinement, of art for its own sake, is most welcome. Like literary "naturalism," "verismo" is a misnomer to begin with. What exactly is "real" or "true" about Commedia dell'arte clowns having an emotional meltdown and murdering a rival in the audience in a fit of wild-eyed rage? Not a typical daily newspaper item, certainly.

Nicholas Spanos was born in Greece and began his studies as a young man in his early twenties. Studying first in Greece, he came to the U.S. in 2000 to study at the University of Maryland, where two years later he graduated with an M.A. in Voice/Opera Performance. Since then he has sung widely in Greece, and additionally with the Bach Sinfonia in the United States. In 2002, he was named "Best Young Artist of The Year" by the Theater and Music Critics' Association of Greece for his interpretation of Arsamene in Handel's Xerxes with the National Opera of Greece. His exposure and recognition have, since then, grown apace. From an occasional presence on Youtube a year ago, the numbers of videos showcasing him have increased exponetially. He clearly is a young artist on the rise. Here is his rendering of "He Shall Feed His Flock," from Handel's Messiah. His English is excellent:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ix8YHj2LTQM

That is simply beautiful, and very artistically rendered! I immediately notice that while a few of his low notes, coupled with the piece chosen, clearly spell "alto," in point of fact he is not far from a soprano. This augers well for the future, because there is altitude to spare in his voice. His stylistic and musical sensitivity are also immediately apparent. He has been extremely well trained, and has an absolute grip on the music he is singing. This is inspiring.

Here is a classic warhorse that one must approach with great care, because it has been sung and recorded by some of the greatest singers in the world, including the nonpareil Marilyn Horne:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTsko2Rafr0&feature=related

Beautifully done, I think you will agree! Notice the floating line, the beautiful legato, and the extremely controlled nature of the vocalization. One has the feeling that there is much more there in reserve, and this lends an air of assurance and controlled calm to the presentation. Very, very well done!

Finally, we hear Spanos in what is possibly the best known piece of opera music from the 18th century, "Ombra mai fu," from Handel's Xerxes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwab3C3jIeo&feature=related

Smooth as silk, and absolutely correct in style and intonation. Here we see evidence of what I mentioned earlier about Spanos' voice. There is an F natural in this piece, which he handles very intelligently. That is high for a male alto, but he knows what to do. He does NOT try to over-support the tone. This kind of male singing is the one instance I can think of in classical music where support is not a good idea, because the tensing, the opening up of the laryngeal passages generally, and the increased volume that will result, all invariably thicken the voice at the top. Far better to sing as a choir boy does, and approach it gently and clavicularly—that kind of approach has a vocal future, witness Gigli!

This is a young man to keep an eye on. From all appearances, he has it all: a beautiful, pure, and uncommonly high alto voice, superb musicianship and innate musicality, and he is a very good looking young man—not an inconsiderable factor for public performance. We wish him well!

A Reflection: What Is The Magic Called Style? Two Cases In Point.

2010-04-25T10:58:00.002-04:00

Some words are used so much, and so predictably, when describing artistic phenomena, that they can become little more than imprecise buzzwords. In the case of music, the word "style" is ubiquitous and commonly used either to condemn or to praise someone's singing, primarily, I suppose, in an attempt to describe its affective impact upon the listener. An opera singer with an astonishing and athletic voice can sometimes elicit only yawns, or a smattering of polite applause, and another singer, possibly old and vocally well past his or her prime, can bring an audience to its feet. Why? How does this work? I once heard a speaker at a literary conference describe style simply as "conviction." I have never forgotten it, because it rings true, and would apply to writing, the singing art, musical composition, dance, acting, and even the fashion industry. The great French essayist La Rochefoucauld, a sagacious observer of the human condition if every there was one, once wrote that “Les passions sont les seuls orateurs que persuadent toujours. Elles sont comme un art de la nature dont les règles son infaillibles; et l’homme le plus simple que a de la passion persuade mieux que le plus éloquent qui n’en a point.” Perhaps this is what Stanislavsky was after, and what method acting claims to be able to reproduce. I have my doubts, frankly. The very fact that someone is trying to make a "method" out of it is the fatal flaw. The magic I'm sensing defies method. It's too easy to do an imitation of Marlon Brando snarling and mumbling, if you know what I mean. The general definition of style as "conviction," however, certainly goes a long way toward explaining it.
I was spurred to these thoughts by watching a most unusual video last week. I first heard of the great Egyptian diva Oum Kalthoum over 30 years go. She was widely acclaimed as the greatest singer in the Middle East, and people would journey from other countries just to see and hear her. Now, thanks to Youtube, there are quite a few posted videos of this extraordinary singer. The exact nature of the music and the singing style eludes me, because it is so very different from anything we have in the West, but the relation to the audience strikes a very familiar chord. Please look at this rather astonishing video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eavlX3fkHco

Isn't that something! What is happening between her and her audience? There are musical explanations for the three outbursts of enthusiasm and applause, but at the end, the long silence is an illusion—something is happening between her and the audience that is wordless. The audience seems to be participating. Some people are on their feet shouting and declaiming things that cannot be distinctly heard, but to which she appears to be listening—and reacting to. The love songs she would sing were very long, and some lasted as long as three hours. Audiences would sit, enraptured, listening to every word, for long, long stretches, not unlike the Turkish coffee-house customers who will sit for hours listening to a minstrel as he recites, and sings, with guitar, very long epic tales. This might offer a glimpse into our own Middle Ages and the traditions of minstrelsy.

Watching her reminded me of something I had seen but forgotten, and then suddenly I remembered: A video of Ferruccio Tagliavini I had seen several years ago. Watch this, bearing in mind the video of Oum Kalthoum, and also noting that Tagliavini here is 70 years old and his voice is basically gone. None of that will matter:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vYcVS4QvcE&feature=related

It seems to be all about the relationship between the singer, his or her conviction, his or her passion, and a shared cultural and linguistic connection with the audience which makes every single nuance both understood and appreciated. At least some of the musical technique reveals itself: a long phrase culminating in a sustained high note on an emotional climax, followed by a quick dénouement, coming down hard on a tonic resolution. But there is much, much more, and that's where the magic starts, and the analysis grows tepid, if not downright useless. The great ones have it, while others can try as hard as they will to analyze it, copy it, repeat it, all to no avail. We can see the results, but it is very hard to say, finally, how those who have it got it. Bottle that, and sell it, and your fortune is made!

Swiss Tenor Hugues Cuénod: The Ageless Wonder

2010-04-10T13:29:00.003-04:00

Swiss tenor Hugues Cuénod really deserves mention here because of the great range of music he has sung, his extremely elegant singing, his dedication to ancient music, and his superb musicianship and sense of style. And, perhaps not coincidentally, for his unbelievable longevity. The picture to the left was taken on the occasion of the tenor's 107th birthday. In June, now merely a matter of weeks away, he will be 108!

Cuénod received his training largely at the Ribaupierre Institute in Lausanne. He did considerable work as a concert singer, finally making his operatic debut in 1928 in Paris, in Ernst Krenek's Jonny spielt auf. He toured extensively in North America, in the late 30's, and beginning in the mid 40's, began to sing in major houses, including La Scala, Covent Garden, and at the Glyndebourne Festival. His Metropolitan Opera debut was in 1987, at 84 years of age, in the role of the Emperor Altoum in Turandot. (These age numbers are mind-numbing!) He often sang Basilio in the Marriage of Figaro and Sellem in The Rakes's Progress. He began to flourish during the post-WWII early music boom, when he began to record French melodies, ancient troubadour songs, Bach, and Elizabethan song. He worked with many modern composers. Here is an anonymous troubadour song from the early 14th century, entitled "Angelica Belta":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=16UgVXOz9ow

The first thing one notices is that he has a very beautiful voice. There is a freshness and purity of tone to the voice that comes from never having been pushed. His was a relatively small voice, but brilliantly focused and very simply and elegantly produced. In some ways, his voice reminds me of that of a boy soprano whose voice simply aged, and grew darker, from soprano to tenor, but did not change in any major way as far as production is concerned. The same could be said of Gigli, but Gigli's voice was more highly placed, with an uncommonly lovely and usable falsetto. Cuénod's musicianship and sense of style are simply wonderful. He is absolutely convincing in this ancient song.

Here is another piece, from the early 1600's, in which the same qualities are again present, again utterly convincing, featuring a vocal production of remarkable purity of tone and simplicity of technique: The song is Giovanni Pietro Berti's "Dove Sei Gita.":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VrXepearfHg

An absolutely beautiful rendition of an ancient song! In an age before the return of the male alto, and before the return of many 18th century pieces to the operatic repertoire, much is owed to this unusual man, who was far ahead of his time.

To see videos of other great artists, many dating back to the early 1900's, check out my Youtube Channel, where, in addition to these two pieces by Hugues Cuénod, I have posted 84 other videos, many of which feature singers celebrated in these pages during the past year:

http://www.youtube.com/user/EdmundStAustell

Leonard Warren: "Morir! Tremenda Cosa!"

2010-03-20T09:37:00.003-04:00

There is a tendency among opera buffs to speak of a "golden age" of opera singing, and most refer to the latter part of the 19th century and the early part of the twentieth. I seriously doubt it. I believe those who say that are speaking, perhaps without realizing it, of costumes, grand manners, prima donna behavior, a high public regard for opera, and an aristocratic vogue generally during the Victorian era. In strict terms of the singing art, recorded evidence does not support the idea of a golden age of singing per se. Extant recordings of famous opera singers made from 1900 to 1920 (and there are many) often reveal a rather primitive technique: open phonation, insufficiently supported top notes, unblended registers, (especially annoying in sopranos) and a tendency to stridency, even in the greatest voices. If there were any period of great opera singing that deserves to be referred to in locus amoenus terms, I would suggest that it would most likely be somewhere around 1950 through 1970, with much of it centered at the Metropolitan Opera. To run down a list of names is subject matter for another discussion, but it is precisely within this era that baritone Leonard Warren should be placed. Many consider him the greatest of all the Verdi baritones—a mighty claim, to be sure—but I think one that may be justified. He certainly possessed one of the greatest voices of the 20th century.

Born Leonard Warrenoff in New York City, in 1911, he was the son of poor Russian Jewish immigrants. He began singing in the chorus of Radio City Music Hall in 1938, and decided to audition for the Metropolitan Opera Auditions of the Air in that same year. He made a big impression. He was taken on by the Met, who sent him to Italy to study, as he had little formal training at that time. His Met audition was the following year, in Simon Boccanegra, and the rest is well documented history. Possessed of one of the great voices of all time, his rise in the opera world was meteoric, and he soon distinguished himself in all the major opera houses of the world, winning particular praise for his work in Verdi and Puccini operas. His voice was exceptionally mellow, and he had a very high top, able to sing notes in the extreme tenor range when he wished.

Although valued most as a Verdi singer, Warren certainly had a much broader repertoire, as the famous rollicking "Largo al Factotum" shows very well:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYameVeiRWQ&feature=related

Isn't that simply magnificent! Did anyone else notice the two high A naturals in that piece!? The mellowness of the voice is very much like the effect created by the low-larynx school of verismo tenor singing, Giuseppe Giacomini and Mario Del Monaco being prime examples. In Warren's case, as a baritone, I do not get the impression that this kind of vocal production was as forced or as studied as it is in the case of the tenors. Some complained that his voice was actually too soft, that it would have benefitted from more intense focus, more like the voices of Sherrill Milnes or Robert Merrill. I find that questionable, to say the least. Warren's mellifluous voice had not only the added benefit of an extreme top, but it also gave him to ability to sing softly when he wished, with an absolutely beautiful half-voice. Here is a piece I posted on Youtube just a day ago; a recording made from a live performance made in Russia in 1958 of Tosti's "L'ultima canzone:"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WwE9XVclK2k

This intelligent use of a great voice on a gentle Italian song like "L'ultima canzone" is a sure sign of a master at work.
This same set of abilities also worked well for him on the stage. Not all baritone roles are blood-curdling drama. Valentin's touching aria to his sister Marguerite, in Faust, is a classic that has tended historically to be over-sung, defying the tender filial emotions of the piece. Here is the great Warren in what I have to call a bel canto moment:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dhJPLh7xE_s&feature=related

Absolutely perfect. Gounod would have been thrilled. I believe that if one wants to put the "he should have sung with more focused tonal intensity" idea to the test, it would only be necessary to listen to Warren sing this aria, and then listen to it again, featuring one of the baritones with exactly the described quality of "focused" voice, to see how this lovely and elegant song can be shattered like a dropped piece of Sevres porcelain.

Warren's untimely death is highly dramatic and remembered to this day. It was in the third act of Verdi's La Forza del Destino, at the Metropolitan Opera, on March 4, 1960. He had just finished singing Don Carlo's stirring aria which begins with the words "Morir! Tremenda Cosa!" ("To Die! A Momentous Thing!) when he fell face forward onto the stage, dead. He was 48 years old.

Even though his life was too short, his legacy far surpasses what some other artists leave after a long lifetime of effort. Warren was one of the great opera singers of the twentieth century—perhaps of all time—and his recorded legacy is more than sufficient to support that reputation far into the future.

I

Mario del Monaco: Greatness and Controversy

2010-02-27T13:52:00.005-05:00

"Il y a des personnes qui ont plus d'esprit que de goût, et d'autres qui on plus de goût que d'esprit; mais il y a plus de variété et de caprice dans le goût que dans l'esprit." La Rochefoucauld

Mario del Monaco was born in Florence in 1915, to a cultivated and affluent family who fostered his early musical education, seeing to it that he studied the violin as a youth. He loved singing, however, and quickly turned to voice as his principal musical enthusiasm. He had a good musical education, graduating from the Rossini Conservatory in Pesaro. He made good early musical contacts there, including Renata Tebaldi, who was to become a good friend and future collaborator. Among his voice teachers was Arturo Melocchi, the famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) teacher of the lowered larynx school of singing that produced some notable dramatic singers, such as del Monaco himself and the excellent Giuseppe Giacomini, about whom I have written previously. The method is particularly designed to produce powerful, steely and dramatic voices, often with extended range, especially in the singer's youth. The problem that sometimes arises is that voices thus trained can begin to show severe signs of strain fairly early on, sometimes resulting in a wide wobble in the voice. This is what eventually happened to Giacomini, although he had many good years on stage before it started.

Del Monaco had a lot going for him. He was very handsome, and remarkably virile in his appearance. He was made for the dramatic Italian repertoire, especially Verdi. He made an early debut in Milan, as Pinkerton, in 1940, and began paying his dues, singing primarily around Italy and also in London. He came to the Met in 1951 and had an enormous success there for the next 8 years, doing the big Italian roles for which he became famous: Otello, Andrea Chenier, Rhadames, Canio,and Manrico, among others. His voice was very powerful and dark, and very thrilling. He could incite near hysteria in an audience. He was a melodramatic actor, not at all subtle, but then this is opera we are talking about. It hardly mattered. His adoring and loving fans will declare to this day that he was the greatest dramatic tenor ever, and one of the greatest tenors of any vocal classification. He also has detractors. Their claim is that he was histrionic to a mid-19th century degree, that he was monochromatic, and could only sing a tutta forza, and that he was quirky to the point of being outright eccentric in the lack of discretion he showed in recording completely inappropriate material: bass arias, baritone arias, or silly popular songs like "Ghost riders in the sky." He had a significant presence in film and TV, and this material can be consulted fairly easily on Youtube. I will also say that his videos on Youtube tend to occasion comments that seem to have been previously loaded onto a bathysphere in an attempt to plumb a new low. He can still, in a word, produce near-hysterical reactions in some.

I prefer always to look on the bright and positive side. Considering how many people would like to be great singers, and how many give it their all, and how few make it, a certain amount of respect is due those who actually do make it, and in addition have spectacular careers. They must be doing something right. He was in point of fact a great dramatic tenor capable of producing a visceral excitement which has become pretty rare these days. He was a giant among singers, and should be remembered as such. The eccentricities (and they are there, to be sure) are incidental. Yes, he was more than a bit of a character. But who cares, basically.

Here is a recording of a brilliant "Di Quella Pira," which he lip-synched (for reasons I will never figure out) to one of his own recordings playing over loud speakers in what seems to be an outdoor arena of some kind. One always needs to concentrate on the voice and the looks with Del Monaco, and overlook the bizarre:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=veTWqkltGLA

You've got to love the Italians! It looks like something out of a Fellini film. But isn't that an incredible voice! What a tenor! A king-sized personality, possibly with less than a typical amount of discretion. However, what matters is that the voice was simply great. No reasonable person can deny that.

Here is particularly well sung and acted "E lucevan le stelle."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXjNwyJO5qY

The voice, the looks, the broad but perfectly acceptable acting, the excitement. It's all there. This is a very high level of professional performance.

Del Monaco was involved in a very bad automobile accident in the early 60's, and many claim that his voice began to suffer after the accident. This is hard to demonstrate, because those who sing as dramatically and as full-out as he did will see some natural decline in vocal powers with time. It cannot be determined. However, whether natural or caused by misfortune and injury, the voice darkened considerably later on. Here, finally, is a recording I posted on Youtube a week ago which shows the near-heldentenor stentorian singing of the later years. This is "M'hai salvato," from Catalani's La Wally, which, while technically Italian music, is much influenced by German Romanticism, which Catalani admired. The opera contains a tenor aria, near the end, which is heldentenor-like in its vocal demands.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vlu8cTg4qVA

Let us all agree: This was a great voice, and a great tenor. When that is said, nothing else need be said.

Mario Lanza: An American Tragedy

2010-02-14T13:47:00.009-05:00

Peter Hermann Adler told me once that there was no doubt at all in his mind that Mario Lanza was the greatest voice America ever produced. That is a mighty claim, but it may be the case. Born Alfredo Cocozza, in 1921, in Phildelphia, Mario Lanza, as he called himself, had a whirlwind career of the kind that can only happen in America, as a rule, and he became such a presence in the popular media that he was known by virtually everyone by the early 1950's. For my generation, who grew up in the fifties, he was the biggest "classical" vocal presence since Caruso. Many singers have told me that he was their main inspiration for wanting to become opera singers. It was not so much that he WAS primarily an opera singer, because in point of fact he was essentially a movie star and radio, TV and recording artist. He only performed in two full length operas. What he did was portray an opera singer, and represent operatic singing. This gave him an enormous audience. And he did have a great voice. No reasonable person can deny that.

Contrary to much popular opinion, he took his studies seriously at the beginning of his career. He had good voice teachers and coaches, and quickly made friends with some very successful singers, including George London, Robert Weede and Francis Yeend. In fact, he went on tour with these singers in 1947, throughout North America, and was successful. In many ways, 1947-48 were years of destiny for Lanza. He had choices to make. Many things were developing at once, and to the degree that he remained East Coast based, he was on solid ground and making progress toward an operatic career. He had been heard by both Eugene Ormandy and Serge Koussevitzky, and both were impressed. In 1947, he sang at the Hollywood Bowl, and was heard by Louis B. Mayer, head of MGM Studios. He also appeared the next year in New Orleans as Pinkerton in Butterfly, one of only two full operas he was ever to perform on stage, the other having been a Tanglewood production of Niccolai's Merry Wives of Windsor in 1942. Mayer came up with a typically Hollywood sized offer, and the son of poor and struggling Italian immigrants from Philadelphia was overwhelmed. He made, at that crucial junction, what is in my opinion, and the opinion of many, a tragic mistake that would determine his destiny.

He opted for the glamorous, but relatively undisciplined glitz of the movie world, and began to make some pretty mediocre movies. He was handsome when he was young, but his acting was unschooled, and just not very good, to be honest. The first movie was The Midnight Kiss, done during this early period of 47-48, followed by an RCA Victor recording contract in 1949, and then, in 1950, the movie The Toast of New Orleans. It was in this movie that the song "Be my love" was introduced, and it went on to become his biggest pop hit, selling over a million copies. People still associate him with it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8o8SZng55T0&feature=related

Incredibly, that is a high C natural at the end! An absolutely perfectly seamless voice, with spectacularly clean, clear, understandable, colloquial English, like any pop singer might deliver. Those who contend that English cannot be sung in an operatic way without distorting vowels beyond recognition should be forced to listen to this recording. It is a great voice, plain and simple. In 1952 he recorded the Student Prince, and operetta in English was an excellent vehicle for his voice. Here is the famous "Serenade," with somewhat updated lyrics.The voice, as always, is almost beyond belief in its naturalness, and seeming ease of production. No pop star ever had clearer pronunciation than Lanza. That is one of the real miracles of his singing:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fcdkJeTBxaQ

Following The Toast of New Orleans, Lanza had made—in 1951—his biggest and most popular movie, with which he is still associated, The Great Caruso. He put all his interest and emotion in this film, because Caruso was his boyhood idol, as the great Neapolitan tenor had been for many Italian immigrants. His voice was in superb condition:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VaJAa6Tjhik

This is clearly pre-recorded with movie lip-synch, but then all movies are. It does not detract from the voice. The C's are splendid. The problem is that by this point Lanza has become a portrayer of opera singers, as opposed to being an opera singer himself. Also, movies require much less musical and intellectual discipline. Songs can be re-recorded, sounds can be electronically enhanced, and so on. The money is big, the fame is big, the acclaim is heady, but to a large extent it just isn't the same thing. And not much respect, if any, is garnered from the world of classical music and its artists. This can eat away at a person who wants to take his gifts seriously, but has chosen a tricky venue in which to display them.

The quality of the movies began to decline after The Great Caruso, and Lanza began to show the tell-tale signs of Hollywood stress. He could in fact deliver fine concerts in public when given the chance. He sang with great success in London, for example, at a Royal Command Performance in 1957, to considerable acclaim. He had the goods, but he had made a Faustian bargain early on, and was never to escape from it. He was only going to live one more year, his struggle with weight gain out of control, and his personal habits deteriorating to a disastrous degree. Nowhere on earth is the road down more precipitous than it is in Hollywood. Overnight stars go hand in hand with overnight disaster. He was quickly abandoned by the fair-weather friends who abound in Hollywood, and found himself in deep trouble. He made one last decision to go to Italy and study, with an eye toward a legitimate Italian debut, a decision which, had it been made a decade earlier, might have led him to a great operatic career. But it was too late. He died in Italy, in 1959, at 38 years of age. The details surrounding his death were never clear. I have heard many stories, including some from a man who worked as his publicity agent, but I will not repeat them. They are sordid and unpleasant and cannot be proven. His heart gave out, and he died, still a young man. That is enough to say. He seemed to have it all at the beginning: a truly great voice, very handsome features, good friends and connections. It is impossible, and finally silly, to try to gainsay history and the decisions of other people, or to go on about what might have been, but it seems pretty clear that it was largely Hollywood, with its infamous life-style and all that goes with it, that destroyed Mario Lanza. It was a tragedy; a particularly American tragedy and an unspeakable loss to the world of great singing.
_________________________

The Great Mark Reizen, People's Artist of the USSR

2010-01-30T13:44:00.004-05:00

It is safe to say that Mark Reizen was one of the great singing basses of all time. Until recently, he has not been so well known outside Russia and the other countries of the former Soviet Union. Thanks to Youtube, and the web generally, the work of this magnificent singer is becoming much better known in the West.
Mark Reizen was born into a family of miners in Zaitsevo, in present-day Ukraine, in 1895. He was drafted into the Tsarist army at the outbreak of World War I, and greatly distinguished himself in battle. He was a very big man; strong, severe and courageous. He was twice decorated with the St. George Cross for Bravery, 4th class—the highest honor with which a regular soldier could be honored.

Encouraged by friends to try and develop his abilities as a singer, he began his studies after the war and made his operatic debut in 1921 as Pimen in Boris Godunov. At six foot three, and possessed of a very serious and dignified manner, he was a commanding presence on the stage. One success led quickly to another, and at the age of 35 he became a member of the Bolshoi, where he remained until his retirement in 1954. He had by that time received the Stalin Prize three times (1930, 1941, 1949) and had been named People's Artist of the USSR in 1937. These are extraordinary honors, especially considering the fact that Reizen was Jewish, and Stalin was known not to like Jews in general, and particularly on the stage portraying Slavic heroes. However, even with this prejudice, he could not resist honoring Reizen, whom he greatly admired as an artist. Reizen bore the honors with great and almost severe dignity. He was a private person, very formal and taciturn. He was certainly aware of the potential handicap of being Jewish, but his retreat into aloofness worked very well for him. (And of course it did not hurt that he was prodigiously gifted.) He continued to teach after retiring from the Bolshoi, and embarked on a long career of concertizing, singing brilliantly until he was very old. His last public appearance was at a gala at the Bolshoi in honor of his 90th birthday, at which occasion he sang Gremin's aria from Eugene Onegin. We will see that video shortly. It defies belief.

Reizen's voice was big, and he handled it well. He never barked or growled (a failing of some basses), but invariably bestowed grace, elegance and control—as well as drama—on the music he sang. He sang all the great bass parts, and sang them all well. The comparison with Chaliapin always arises, and I believe the simplest way to differentiate them is with the observation that where Chaliapin was a singing actor, Reizen was an acting singer. You will see what I mean.

Here is the great bass as Boris Godunov, singing the well known monologue:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JfTTj3nGLXM

The acting is wonderful, restrained and dignified, and the large voice, as always, is under perfect control. One has the impression that there is always much more available, in reserve, for use at moments of high drama. It is impossible to fault this interpretation, in any way.

Here is Reizen, at 85 years of age, singing Rachmaninov's "Do Not Depart," a song typical of those he sang in concert during this period of his life:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6mUYXX4hj4&feature=related

Such singing at any age is admirable, and at 85 it is truly astonishing.

This is not, however, the most amazing of his performances. That would surely have to be his appearance in the Bolshoi gala production of Eugene Onegin. Reizen here is 90 years of age. I call your attention in advance to the reaction of the audience, and, even more telling, that of the other singers on the stage and in the wings, who realize they are seeing something absolutely unique: This video is well worth watching to the very end, (the aria is only 5 minutes) because it is one in a million. It is, for example, at the very end, when friends and family help him to a platform to accept applause, that one realizes just what it means to be singing an operatic aria at 90 years of age!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0hVOpCGAD4

The great, and unique, Mark Reizen.

Anne Sofie von Otter

2010-01-17T08:22:00.002-05:00

[Dear Readers: This is the second in our series of guest essays, and I am very pleased indeed to be able to present a prodigiously talented young woman from Switzerland whom I have known for over five years now, and who never ceases to amaze me with her knowledge and abilities. I am honored to have her as a faithful reader of this blog. A brilliant artist (witness her rendering of Anne Sofie von Otter on this page), a stunning linguist (German, Swiss German, French, Italian and—very much to the point today—English. She possesses a graduate degree in musicology and is currently finishing her Ph.D. in interactive computer program design, with a view toward creating software for classical music education targeting a young adult audience. She also, not coincidentally, knows more about modern opera and modern classical music than anyone I know. Her knowledge greatly exceeds my own in this area, and I am delighted that she has chosen to do the following piece for us. I will respect her privacy, as we all do with each other, and call her by her website name Chloe Hannah (www.chloehannah.com) ]

Anne Sofie von Otter

Anne Sofie von Otter was born in 1955 in Stockholm and at the age of 28 made her professional debut in Haydn’s Orlando Paladino In Basel. Basel is also the city where I was born and raised; the city where I was introduced to opera. Basel has a long tradition of nabbing brilliant young singers who later go on to enjoy highly successful careers. Examples include Montserrat Caballé, Angela Gheorghiu and Nina Stemme, whom I am old enough to have worked with myself in my days as a student volunteer (one of my school friends actually looked after Stemme’s baby during rehearsals).

As the Basel Theatre claimed the prestigious (German-speaking) Opera House of the Year award a few months ago, Anne Sofie von Otter’s return to Basel was announced. Since the early eighties she has sung just about everything from Bach to Zemlinsky at opera houses around the world, including performances at La Scala and the Met. I was particularly excited to relive von Otter at the Basel Theatre, because I had seen her sing Octavian in Vienna 15 years earlier in a rather traditional production, where she excelled at her boyish performance thanks to her physical height, her vibrant personality and, of course, the warmth of her deep, mezzo voice.

My friend Waltraud, an alto in the Basel choir who used to perform as a soloist, fondly told me about how she had been singing the Mother to von Otter’s Hänsel all those years ago; about how Waltraud’s unborn child would kick during her performance (not surprising if you know the crazy melodic lines Humperdinck wrote for the role), and how von Otter grinned at her and said, "Your third child." "My third?" "Well, you’ve already got Gretel and me. Though, if you don’t mind my saying, I hope you do a better job with this one!"

It appears that von Otter was the one to get back in touch with the Basel Theatre. Naturally, the director said, "Whatever you want to sing, we will make it happen." Not only did von Otter choose her piece, Offenbach’s little-known Grande-Duchesse de Gérolstein, but she also expressed her desire to work with Swiss stage director Christoph Marthaler, who had brought forth a few productions in Basel some fifteen years prior. "For him," she stated, "I would play a cleaning lady!"

Before going on the Grande-Duchesse de Gérolstein, however, I think it would be good to hear the magnificent von Otter voice, shown off to great advantage in a this recording of Alban Berg's song "Nachtigall" I personally think this is stunningly beautiful and hope you get as much enjoyment out of her singing as I do!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hBK_rCqJioc

If you’re a big opera fan, operettas are often something you merely tolerate, a by-product of a greater art form, the cheddar sandwich you settle for when they are out of smoked salmon. An Offenbach operetta is never going to have quite the pull of a Strauss opera. And then there is Marthaler, the director who painfully probes your patience.

Gérolstein is no exception here. The first twenty minutes pass without any music being played. The singers and choir walk aimlessly around the stage until one of them turns towards the audience and calls out loudly "Is there a stage director in the audience?" Gradually the orchestra pit fills up as the instrumentalists, dressed in military gear, dribble in, initially playing the Tannhäuser overture before the conductor realizes he picked up the score for the wrong evening (this of course results in huge laughter from the audience).

Von Otter, in the meantime, is tantalizingly drifting around the stage, but only starts singing 40 minutes into the performance. She plays the title role, a duchess who, out of boredom, begins a war. And boy, does she exude majesty! A head taller than some of the men sharing the stage with her, she sings, completely in control of her every move and her voice. Her pronunciation, both in the sung French and in the spoken German dialogues, is perfect (possibly the happy result of growing up as the daughter of a diplomat).

Then, more important than the music in the case of a mediocre operetta, there is the acting. Von Otter has to perform some strange moves. As she sings, an actor gives her face a massage. When she sees her love interest for the first time, she groans to the audience, "I am so… hot!" We watch her bob her head to loud techno music, wear ridiculously large sunglasses, bury a man’s head in her chest, and then, after the orchestra has left to join the battle offstage, those remaining start drinking and von Otter gurgles a melody in her whisky glass. It is actually at this point – the break with Offenbach’s operetta – that we are treated to von Otter’s most beautiful singing. To the notes of a piano and a lone baroque cello, von Otter lies down and sings the gorgeous Händel duet "Son nato a lagrimar" from Giulio Cesare. Her voice catches all the subtleties that were not required by Offenbach’s deft score. This moment, along with the aria "Piangerò la mia sorte" that follows, marks the highlight of the evening before von Otter joins the rest of the ensemble in their drinking binge, gets married while a woman in the background throws up, stumbles down the steps, purposely singing off-tune, to finally fall asleep clutching one of her beloved rifles.

Just for a moment one wonders how Marthaler could treat a great opera star in such a grotesque way. But the enthusiasm in von Otter’s face dispels any skepticism, so evident is her dedication to the performance. At the premiere she threw her arms around Marthaler during the applause. It also speaks volumes about her character; that cheeky Hänsel from 1983 is just as easy-going and unpretentious nearly 30 years into her career. And just one week into 2010 all January performances of Gérolstein were sold out.

Here is a video, accompanied by a very few short interviews with those involved in the production, speaking of how von Otter got back in touch with the theatre; of Offenbach’s operetta; of the changes made to the original score; of the stage design; and of Marthaler’s style of directing. The performed piece really needs these explanations because the original score is not well known, nor does one really understand many of the choices made by the stage director. Von Otter is the real pull here:

http://www.arttv.ch/5067-0-basel--grande-duchesse-de-groldstein.html

Franco Corelli: Prince of Tenors

2010-01-03T11:38:00.004-05:00

It is safe to say that Franco Corelli was one of the great tenors of the 20th century, and almost certainly of all time. Born in Ancona, in 1921, Corelli was encouraged as a young man in college to sing in a music competition, where he impressed the judges sufficiently to win their encouragement to study further. He did so, at least briefly, and then through self study and application was able to develop his voice to such an extent that he was hired by the Rome Opera in 1951 to sing Manrico. The Rome Opera became his base for the next several years, during which time he also started singing in regional theaters throughout Italy. He was a hard working and highly disciplined young singer, memorizing many roles, not only the standard bread and butter repertoire, but also roles seldom done. His voice was a natural spinto tenor, with a lovely and somewhat dark color. It was a thrilling voice, with a brilliant and ringing top that extended all the way up to and beyond the high C. This places him in a category distinct from that of the typical dramatic tenors of his day whose voices characteristically did not possess the range or the velvet-like color of Corelli's, and were essentially baritonal in nature. There was always something of a lyric smoothness and line to his singing that was not characteristic of the dramatic tenors who often tended to bark and shout, and who did not have much usable range beyond Bb. Corelli always sang (even if loudly) and never condescended to shouting or barking for dramatic effect. He was a consummate vocalist (if not always the greatest stylist) whose essential technique—and this will sound strange to some—was not that far from traditional bel canto singing. It is possible to sing in such a way and still have a big, darkish, powerful voice. One does not exclude the other. Lauri Volpi, the greatest of the bel canto tenors, considered him a great tenor and went so far as to say that Corelli was his natural heir. Taking into account the more than considerable opinion that Lauri Volpi had of his own reputation (deservedly so, I am forced to concede), this was a kind of ultimate compliment from one great tenor to another. Because Corelli never had much formal study of music, his style and musicianship can be faulted in some instances, but his natural musical instincts, coupled with what an intelligent and hard working young man can learn from great conductors world-wide, were more than sufficient to make him a perfectly acceptable musician. Also, importantly, he was extraordinarily handsome; so much so that had he not had a great voice, or an inclination to sing, he would have been a natural for the movies, a real matinee idol. Because of all these qualities, he found adoring audiences all over the world, especially at the Met, where he began singing in 1961, and where he remained a great favorite for the next 14 years.

One of the roles with which Corelli is particularly associated is Manrico, the ill-fated troubadour. Here is a relatively young Corelli (36) in the famous "Di Quella Pira:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNpy6Eoejbw&feature=player_embedded

This is the essential Corelli; the coloration of the voice is whiter than that of many dramatic tenors, and the top is simply magnificent. Those high C's take no prisoners! Very, very few tenors have ever had such splendid vocal endowments.

One of Corelli's truly noteworthy qualities is his ability to sing bel canto showpieces such as "A Te, o Cara," from Bellini's I Puritani. This was also a favorite showpiece for Lauri Volpi:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQbCMnonioA

The high C is of course spectacular—it always is with Corelli, but that is not what I most notice in this piece; rather, it is the musical line. The length of Bellini's musical line is notorious, and everywhere commented upon, and it is precisely this stylistic quality which characterizes this famous aria. One cannot rely on high notes alone (Corelli actually sings it down one half tone); the aria will not work if the line is broken at any point. And he does not break it; it is one long, unbroken flow of sound, always coming to rest on the appropriate word, so that the grammatical period of the lyrics coincides exactly with the resolution of the musical phrase. I will say again that this is something few if any dramatic tenors can do properly. It is for that reason that I have never considered Corelli a dramatic tenor. He could sing all those roles, certainly, and he did—very well—but he never compromised musical line.

Here, finally, is a role with which the great tenor was also associated, Andrea Chenier. This recording was made from a 1958 broadcast. I find it as thrilling today as I did then. I do not believe I have ever heard the "Improviso" sung more intensely or beautifully:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3j6zgJqJK4M

Simply stunning!

Corelli does of course have his detractors; those who claim he was monochromatic (on the loud side), or who fault his musicianship and style, saying that he exaggerated the high notes and the big moments in an "old fashioned" way, like the divas of past ages; that he sang poorly in any language other than Italian (as if anyone cared) and so on. Rubbish. He was extremely popular because he was a great singer, physically beautiful, and an intense dramatic presence on the stage, and, hardly coincidentally, because he possessed a lovely voice with a wide range and an almost uniquely thrilling top. There have been few tenors like him, and there are no more in the works, at least not at the moment. In many ways, the day of that kind of grand singing has passed. Perhaps that is as it must be, evolutionarily, but it is missed by many.

The Great Tetrazzini

2009-12-20T14:56:00.003-05:00

BEST WISHES For A HAPPY HOLIDAY SEASON AND A WONDERFUL 2010!

[Please note some new features on the blog! At the bottom of the right side-bar, you will find a section called "Noted With Pleasure," where I have placed some interesting videos that people have sent me. And below that is a small insert that says "See All My Videos," where you can go directly to my Youtube channel, where I currently have 21 videos listed that I have put up over the last 3 weeks. I also have a "Favorites" section on my channel, featuring some videos that I find most interesting, including some ballet videos. You can simply copy and paste any video you might like to see. Be sure to omit the descriptive part; i.e., start cutting starting at the "http://"]

Luisa Tetrazzini was born in 1871, in Florence. She began to sing as a small child, and was trained at the Instituto Musicale in Florence. By the age of 19 she was ready to make her debut as Inez in Meyerbeer's L'Africaine. She sang around Italy, and then went to Russia, where she scored a big success in St. Petersburg. She was kept busy as a young lady, learning her craft and drawing increasing attention to herself by virtue of her superb voice. She was not beautiful, as was Patti, but was rather fat from early on. Her divine voice, however, spared her from any undue or cruel criticism for her appearance. From the earliest days, she displayed a flexible and high coloratura, of the kind that was very much in vogue in the lyric theater of the day. She commanded an extraordinary trill, easily produced, and was comfortable with extensive fioratura. There was a thrilling sound to her voice that won her acclaim early on in her career. Her American debut was in San Francisco in 1905. By this time, she was well known for her lyric coloratura roles, especially Violetta, Gilda and Lucia; roles in which her great vocal endowments could be shown to advantage. She auditioned at the Met, but they seemingly were not impressed, which is somewhat curious, as she was already famous. One suspects that something unknown outside the Met may have been in play. It makes no sense otherwise. She did sing for the Manhattan Opera in 1908, but never warmed to the Met, because of their inexplicable attitude, and only sang one season there, in 1911-12. She was in such demand world-wide that the Met was inconsequential in any case. She is reputed to have made a very large amount of money. Unwise associations over time, however, led to a sad end, characterized by poverty. Most scandalous was her victimization at the hands of a dreadful male gold-digger, thirty years her junior, who married her late in her career, and stole most of her money. In spite of such reckless errors of judgment, however, she was by all accounts a lovely person, outgoing and friendly, even to the extent of letting aspiring singers live in her home, at her expense, at least during the good years. Her last days in poverty and sickness anger and bewilder many people even today. It is so wretchedly unfair. One wonders where the charity of fellow performers was. Yes, times were hard in late 30's, but Gigli, to take but one example, managed to raise a huge amount of money during this period by the many charity concerts he gave. Were people wary of her because of her poor judgment in getting involved with such a vile (although doubtless "charming") man as the one who wrecked her life? Why did no one come to her aid at the end when she was so obviously in need? The State of Italy, at least, provided her with an appropriate funeral. It's just all too sad.

Here is the great soprano in "Caro nome":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CVkMCH8zCU&feature=related

As the recording shows, the top part of her voice was quite extraordinary. Like virtually all sopranos of her age, she will scoop down into the lower registers, and that sound jolts us somewhat today, when all sopranos simply sing low notes very softly. It is possible that in Tetrazzini's time, when people actually paid more attention to the words, sopranos felt they needed the additional heft in the lower register, so that their voice, and the words they were singing, did not get lost in the orchestra. Another thing that is immediately apparent is the exceptional and easy nature of her trill. I don't think I have ever heard that many trills in "Caro nome" before. But she was just showing off one of her greatest natural endowments. Here is the famous "Ah non giunge," from La Sonnambula:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jtSO5e8qJRM&feature=related

Certainly an attractive rendition, although one must be honest and point out certain tendencies that are perhaps not up to today's standard: There is sometimes a lack of adequate articulation on the cadenzas that comes dangerously close to a glide, although she was not alone in that during her day. She also sacrifices the lower parts of her voice to the top, which is certainly common (and smart) because that is what people are paying to hear. From an aesthetic point of view, however, she lays herself open to criticism for making the bottom and(especially) middle register of the voice rather open, white, and somewhat blaring. The top is excellent.
Here is a sentimental view of Tetrazzini—the only moving pictures I am aware of—listening to a Caruso recording late in life, and bursting into song along with it. Her girly and giggly abandon at the end is most charming, and just makes one upset yet again that she was treated so badly by others, and did not have the dignified and comfortable retirement she deserved.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yBCwVCocENo&feature=related

Isn't that delightful? She seems a lovely person, and the fact that people speak of her so fondly even today, nearly 70 years after her death in 1940, is a fitting memorial to a magnificent artist, who literally gave it all.