Regina Pacini

Regina Pacini

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIIoo0Zvfvo

 

Regina Pacini de Alvear was born in Lisbon, Portugal in 1871, and died in 1965, at 94 years of age, in Buenos Aires, Argentina.   With the exception of some performances at Covent Garden, her  life and career took place almost entirely within the Latin world, where she was celebrated both  as a gifted lyric bel canto soprano, and also as First Lady of Argentina for many years, as the wife of Don Marcelo Torcuato de Alvear, president of Argentina from 1922 to 1928.  She was additonally known in later life as a great benefactor the arts. As a result, her name is not well known in the United States today, as she never, to the best of my knowledge, sang here.

She was born into a musical family, as daughter of the Italian baritone Pietro Andrea Giorgi-Pacini.  Regina was born in Lisbon during one of her father’s periods of residency at the Teatro San Carlos, in 1871.

Regina studied in Paris, with Mathilde Marchesi, and made her debut there in 1888, at 17 years of age.  Her debut role was Amina in Bellini’s La Sonnambula.   Lucia was part of her early repertoire, and I am always fascinated to think of bel canto sopranos who sang that role when they were still children.  Adelina Patti sang it at 16, as her debut at the New York Academy of Music in 1859.  Two years later, Patti sang Sonnambula at Covent Garden, age 18, just a year older than Pacini’s debut age in the same opera.  Oh, to have heard them!  It has always seemed to me so very appropriate to have sopranos of that age in roles like Lucia. I see no reason whatsoever why we could not find  child singers today—or at least teen-aged singers—perfectly capable of turning in excellent performances of both Lucia and Cho-Cho-San.  It would be a very moving experience.  All we need are conductors not determined to blow them off the stage!

Also part of her standard repertoire was Bohème, Rigoletto, Puritani, Manon, and Il Barbiere.  Theaters in which she commonly sang were the San Carlos in Lisbon, Covent Garden (where she did an Elisir with Caruso in 1902), the Paris Opéra, La Scala, the Teatro Solís in Montevideo, and the Teatro Politeama in Buenos Aires.

In 1907, Regina Pacini married Dr. Marcelo Torcuato de Alvear, who was to become President of Argentina in 1922.  She retired from the stage, and during the First World War, the couple resided in Paris, where their patriotic efforts earned for them the Legion of Honor from the French government.

As a distinguished First Lady of Argentina, Pacini dedicated herself to cultural efforts, and in 1938 founded the Casa del Teatro in Buenos Aires, which was a retirement home for actors, similar to the CASA VERDI in Milan.  Widowed in 1942,  Regina Pacini lived on, until the great age of 94, distributing her fortune on worthy causes to the point where, at the time of her death, she was living simply, on a modest government pension.  There is  town in Argentina, Villa Regina, which was named after her.

Here, from 1906, when Pacini was 35 and at the height of her career, is an aria of a different kind, far from the florid vocalizing of “Una Voce,” and fully into the world of tragedy, and the long, languid, legato lines of Elvira’s tragic and delusional “Ah, vieni al tempio,” from Bellini’s I Puritani:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U10vMdkrzPA

Now that is bel canto singing of a particularly high quality; there are no aesthetic breaks in the line, either vocally or stylistically; it is the kind of singing that has traditionally elicited critical terms like “transporting.”  It does indeed carry one away to another world, another sensual experience.

Finally, Violetta’s aria “Ah, Forse è Lui”.  This is not done, 108 years ago, as we have come to expect to hear it today.  She is a bel canto soprano, and a more vigorous, near-verismo sentiment and vocal style have come to dominate this opera, largely because of its subject matter.  This is a world removed from that of Rosina and Elvira.  I think it helps to remember that Verdi had only died 4 years before this recording was made, and Pacini was 34 years old.  She would have been 30 when the maestro died.  I mention these dates to drive home the point that Pacini would have had ample time to hear, sing, and prepare this opera while Verdi was still alive, and while many singers were singing Traviata, some of whom might  have prepared it under Verdi’s watchful eye.  Pacini is likely to have seen many others sing the role.  In other words, she can be counted upon to have a pretty decent idea of what other circa 1900 Violettas sounded like.  We always have to be careful not to forcibly impose 21st century standards on what is effectively still 19th century style:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jfGHGLmt3uY

JACQUES URLUS


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.

Edmond Clément

Edmond Clément was born in Paris in 1867.  As a young man, Clément entered the Conservatoire de Paris, where it quickly became apparent that he was possessed of a very beautiful high lyric tenor voice.  At the relatively young age of 22, Clément made his stage debut, as did so many artists, at the Opéra Comique, in Massenet’s Mireille.  He very quickly began to earn a reputation as a superbly elegant and polished singer.  He remained a leading tenor at the Opéra Comique for the next twenty years, until 1909.

During this crucially important period, Clément perfected what was going to become the core of his essential repertoire, including Ottavio, Roméo, Werther, Hoffmann, Almaviva, Tamino,and, perhaps most importantly, des Grieux.  Also, given the era in which he sang, he had the opportunity to take part in première performances, including Falstaff, Butterfly and Saint-Saëns’ Hèléne.

By this time, when Clément was in his early 40’s, he began to spread his wings, as it were, and appear outside Paris.  While today we assume that it is natural to move abroad as opportunities present themselves, this was not always the case in the early years of the 20^th century.  For one thing, travel was expensive and difficult then, and there is nothing like a transatlantic trip by steamer to wear one out.  Not everyone is constituted to be able to tolerate long trips by boat and rail.  It was common enough for artists who lived in Paris to have their entire careers and never leave Paris, even then considered by many, if not most, to be the world’s greatest city.

However, for Clément it was off to Madrid, Monte Carlo and Brussels.  He did not sing at Covent Garden, but he did manage the big transatlantic trip to New York, to perform in the 1909-10 season at the Metropolitan Opera. This was, however, the heyday of Enrico Caruso, the star tenor of the Met’s roster, and verismo singers such as Enrico Caruso were all the rage at the time, and were basically polar opposites to elegant bel canto tenors such as Edmond Clément.  Clément and others certainly had their audience also, but it was not, shall we say, that of the Italophile Met and its New York Italian immigrant fan base.

He found a very much more appreciative audience in Boston, at the Boston Opera House, where his extremely elegant and polished singing, coupled with his equally refined stage presence,  were greatly applauded. He was a natural Roméo, and a good Don José.  It should be mentioned at this point that  Clément was a superb musician, and a very handsome man, with considerable acting skills.

The year following his Boston triumph saw the outbreak of WWI and Clément, a patriotic Frenchman,  returned to his homeland and joined the Army.  While he did survive, he was  wounded, and was never quite the same after the war.  While he did sing a little, it was nonetheless a period of decline.  He gave a recital at age sixty and died in 1927,the following year, in Nice.  He is remembered, even today, thanks to his records, as one of the most precious and elegant of tenors, the very exemplar of French elegance.

To begin, here is Clément in what may be his signature role, des Grieux in Massenet’s Manon:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dssGTDt7VuA

 

Talk about elegance!  That is certainly one of the finest recordings of “Le Rêve” to be found.  Clément scores at every important point in the aria: style, legato, precise enunciation, and simplicity, something often overlooked, which should not be, because it is the bed-rock foundation of elegance!  It is too easy to be excessive, but the true test of an artist’s ability to demonstrate with perfection the intentions of the author is to adhere to a clean, precise simplicity, and at this Clément excels.

Here is a piece that shows an uncommon breath control and command of legato singing, the tenor aria from Boieldieu’s La Dame Blanche, “Viens, gentile dame:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dlkOBQokYLk

If we can imagine a very long string, or piece of thread, wrapped into a ball, unwinding from the first note of the aria to the last, we have a very reasonable visual image of the legato line extending from the beginning to the end of the aria.  It reminds me a bit of McCormack, but even finer.  This is an elegance that can only be called remarkable.

Finally, here is a song, and while it is not an operatic aria, it is what I always refer to as the oldest continually sung love song of them all, Martini’s “Plaisir d’amour.” Written in 1780 by Jean Paul E. Martini, “Plaisir d'amour” is a very good candidate for being the greatest love song ever written. It has been sung constantly from the moment of its creation until the present day, which is now over 230 years.  It has been sung by folk singers, great opera singers, pop singers, including Elvis Presley, and countless thousands of amateurs.  The song is an absolute classic of beauty, elegance, structural perfection, and essential text: “I loved her, she said she loved me, but she ran off with someone else, now I'm miserable.  The joy of love lasts only a minute, its pain is life-long.”  It doesn't get much more basic than that.  In a word, it is a song tailor-made for Edmond Clément:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juFNBovgSeI

 

 

French Tenor Paul Franz

PAUL FRANZ

French tenor Paul Franz was born François Gautier in Paris in 1876.  He took the name Paul Franz and was always known  by that name.  He did not begin to study voice until he was 30 years old.  He won a major vocal competition in 1908 and made his debut at the Grand Opera in Paris that same year, in Lohengrin.  The Paris Opera remained his artistic home for 30 years. He retired in 1938.  His voice was brilliant and powerful and his stage  presence most impressive, all of which made him a great favorite with audiences.  He was able to sing big roles, such as Rhadames, Otello, Samson, Don José, Le Cid, and Wagnerian roles such as Sigmund, Siegfried and Tristan.  Paul Franz died, in Paris,


in 1950.


Here is the tenor aria "La fleur," from Carmen:


www.youtube.com/watch?=jpnYjpRTNes


Ignore the address above and go to Youtube and look up the aria "La Fleur" under Paul Franz

Eula Beal

Eula Beal

                                                                                      

Eula Beal (January 25, 1919 – July 29, 2008) was an American contralto. During her relatively short touring career, she performed with distinguished collaborators not only in concert on the US West Coast but also in Concert Magic, a 1947 film billed as "the first motion picture concert." [1]

Beal was born in Riverside, California. Touring the United States as a concert contralto in the 1940s, she appeared with orchestras including the Phoenix Symphony[2] and the Los Angeles Philharmonic. With the latter ensemble, she performed in two works by Gustav Mahler: his Eighth Symphony, under Eugene Ormandy at the Hollywood Bowl,[3] and Kindertotenlieder.[4] Beal's operatic appearances included interpretations of Erda in Wagner's Siegfried and the innkeeper in Boris Godunov with the San Francisco Opera during the 1948 season. She also sang at Radio City Music Hall and the Tanglewood Festival with the Boston Pops.[5]


Here is a wonderful rendition of Schubert's lied, Der Erlkonig:


www.youtube.com/watch?v=6PwdmwpWkjg

Francesco Merli

By Mr. Dan Ogilvie

 

 

Francesco Merli

 

 

 

In many paintings of the lamentation of Christ, amongst the bowed heads of the mourners, you may find a solitary grief stricken figure looking out at you, the viewer. The purpose of this solitary viewer is to turn the scene from a simple recording of an event into something the viewer can emphasise with. We can see the emotion on the face of this figure, and therefore we also can share in his grief. The figure is a ‘way in’ to the painting.

 

I often feel that the aria Nessun Dorma performs the same function in opera. How many of us, I wonder, have started to explore opera because of hearing a rendition of that song, perhaps by Luciano Pavarotti, Russell Watson, Al Martino or Mario Lanzo. I know, in my case, it was hearing Jussi Bjorling sing it that introduced to me, firstly further arias of his, but then full operas: he and his soaring version of that aria, was my ‘way in’ to opera.

 

I have always maintained affection for Turandot. In some ways I sort of collected Nessuns, from the plaintive but underpowered Miguel Fleta to the ridiculously long-held last note of Xiaojun Deng. But complete performances have always disappointed – I thought that this was, perhaps, an opera that has to be heard live – you have to be there to be wrapped up in its violent and rather unpleasant plot (the frustratingly brief extracts of Giovanni Martinelli or Daniele Barioni, live, perhaps endorse this). Even the complete recording of Jussi Bjorling failed to catch my imagination, even though there is some glorious singing to be found there.

 

So it was more for completeness that I bought the complete studio recording of Turandot with Francesco Merli, Gina Cigna and Magda Olivero. Let me tell you, once you have bought this recording, there is no need to buy any other. It is stunning, so much so (and I will honestly admit this) I have repeatedly played the Ping, Pang and Pong act, so well performed as it is, something I sometimes skip or use as an excuse to get a glass of wine.

 

This recording was not my first introduction to Francesco Merli, but it cemented for me what an astonishing tenor he was.

 

Here is the Signor Ascolta… Non Piangere Lui from that recording. Be prepared to have your breath taken away.

 

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

 

Merli’s voice is dark, even sonorous, but never unwieldy. Listen in the Non Piangere to him waiver his voice at the end of ‘questo’. Are we now in any doubt that this apparently heartless man loves Lui. And for such a dark baritonal voice the top notes ring out and are generously held, but not just because of playing to the crowd. Turandot is going to accept his challenge – he will make sure of that.

 

Perhaps Rosa Ponselle, slightly indirectly, should introduce my next extract:

 

‘You know, I don’t even remember Merli singing Gioconda at all… All I remember singing with him was L’amore dei tre re: that was unforgettable, even the rehearsals… Whew! I forgot myself around him, even in the rehearsals. I was a bad girl;…’

 

Unfortunately I cannot find that duet on-line, but here is Cielo e Mar from Gioconda, lest the rest of us should forget.

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkp2CnDJ-Lk

 

We are now in no doubt this voice is a true tenor voice. We can hear that agility again, he caresses the words; the phrasing is immaculate.

 

Why is Merli not mentioned in the same pantheon as Lauri-Volpi or Martinelli or Gigli? Well, he was unlucky with his roles at the Metropolitan (ill-health) and at Covent Garden (which is graveyard for many singers who do not fit the British sensibilities of the particular time) which restricted his fame to within Italy, with La Scala his base. But luckily there are quite a few recordings of his to be found.

 

Stella Roman has hailed Merli as the greatest Otello she ever appeared with, and as her partners included Vinay, Pertile and Martinelli, we should take note. It would be remiss of me to not include something from that work here.

 

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

 

Ms. Roman, you have a point. Tell me, gentle reader, are you not breathing a little quicker after listening to that – it is stunning piece of singing. And the words are sung, not shouted: the words are deeply felt; this is truly the singing of a broken man. Even in the last note of defiance do you hear him sharpen the note slightly, giving it an edge, a little bit of extra ferocity.

 

I always think, with the demanding repertoire that Merli sings, there has to be a sort of saving of resources for that last note. How many tenors have you seen hang around the back of the stage letting the chorus do all the work until running quickly to the front to deliver the final note of Di Quella Pira (let alone reprise it!). Merli has such surety in his voice and such technique he never feels the need to ‘save himself’. Listen to this aria from Guillaume Tell – those notes, given so freely, would shatter rock, let alone the odd chandelier or two.

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fR4T159YkR4

 

Let me finish with an aria from La Forza del Destino that I believe encapsulates everything that is great about this singer. It is so easy for a singer such as this, with such weight of voice at his command, to go ‘over the top’, to ‘play to the gallery’. That can, of course, be exciting, and don’t think there isn’t a place for it. But Merli manages to be refined, yet at the same time exciting and emotional. He does not abuse the words and music, he heightens them. He is, truly, a great singer.

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2F_QWT4wY0

The Great Jan Kiepura

 

Jan Kiepura was born on the 16th of May 1902 in Sosnowiec, a quite small industrial town in Poland.

Kiepura discovered his singing voice in his youth and started singing in a school choir. His parents did not encourage him, however, and sent him to Warsaw to study law at the University of Warsaw, to which he was admitted in 1921. He continued studying voice in private, however, determined to become a solo singer in any theater that would give him the chance.  He finally got a chance, in 1924, to perform in a comic operetta called “Halka”

Word began to spread about the law student with the extraordinary voice, and in only one year he was given the chance to sing Faust at the Wielki Theater in Warsaw, when the tenor Dobosz, who was scheduled to sing, did not appear.  Kiepura was a spectacular success that night, receiving a standing ovation for his performance.  Thus began a brilliant career.

Kiepura gained popularity singing in Rigoletto (Verdi), Halka (Moniuszko) and Cavalleria Rusticana (Mascagni) at the Warsawian Wielki Theater.

In 1926 Puccini's Tosca and Gianni Schicchi were added to his repertoire. Then came Tosca and Turandot as well as Straszny dwór by Moniuszko. Kiepura was becoming famous in Poland, but he very quickly determined to move on to Aivnna and Paris.  He also learned Italian and German, preparing himself for an international career.  He could sing convincingly in Italian, but he sang much more often in German, the language in which he gained his greatest popularity.

Here is a brilliant Nessun Dorma  (Sung in German)


www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYwzFKy2lXA

 

By 1937 Kiepura had married Martha Eggerth, a singer and actress, with whom he appeared in many movies as well as in a production of 'The merry widow' on Broadway. The merry widow was such a success that the production toured throughout the U.S.A. as well as Western Europe, and was sung in four different languages. Kiepura acquired great fame in the '30s, shifting the emphasis from opera to the big screen. On January the 10th 1938 he debuted at the Metropolitan in New York as Rodolfo in Puccini's La Boheme. Kiepura also sang in Tosca, Bizet's Carmen, and Verdi's Rigoletto at the Metropolitan until 1942. The duke of Mantua (Rigoletto) was regarded as his best role.

Kiepura's voice was an outpouring of a rich, warm tone: powerful and generous singing forte, sweet and honeyed when singing piano. Equipped with such an instrument he managed to sing roles throughout virtually the entire tenor fach. He did, however, stay away from the most taxing and heavy roles such as Otello. Besides being successful as an operatic singer he was also a prolific singing movie star richness and spontaneity in his voice.His technique allowed him to sing concerts well into his sixties. Unfortunately a heart attack ended his life prematurely when he was still active as a singer. Jan Kiepura died on August 15th, 1966.