It would be an impossible task to say of any one person that he or she possessed, in their prime, the most beautiful voice in the world, but if such a thing were possible, I for one would put my money on the great Italian tenor Ferruccio Tagliavini. I will not even pretend to be objective about Tagliavini, such is my love of his voice, so brace yourself for an onslaught of hyperbole.
Born in 1913, he made his debut in 1938, at the age of 25, as Rodolfo, in La Bohème. He very quickly rose to prominence, and sang in all the major opera houses of Europe and the United States. His voice was a wonder; exceptionally beautiful and hailed by all, especially in the lighter repertoire in which he excelled. Within this repertoire he had few rivals, except of course the great Gigli, another prime candidate for the "most beautiful voice award," or perhaps Tito Schipa, a brilliant lyric tenor. This is one of those cases where a little bit of sound is worth many, many words. The following aria is real tenor warhorse, and you have doubtless heard it sung by many tenors, but I ask you to consider for a moment if you have ever heard it more beautifully sung:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Py_d5hRFCiI&feature=related
It is simply wonderful. Every aspiring young lyric tenor should be made to listen to this. The legato is amazing—the music flows in one long stream from the beginning of the aria to the end. His mastery of swelling a note starting from a gentle piano is one of the great secrets of his vocal style, and it is one to which the Italians are particularly sensitive, and to which they always respond with enthusiasm.
The next selection is a real treasure. I had the misfortune, in my youth, to hear this aria for the first time sung by Mario del Monaco. Talk about a bull in a china shop! For those who are used to hearing "E la solita storia del pastore" sung by huge tenor voices determined to blow windows out of the theater, I daresay this could be a real eye-opener, primarily because it shows what this aria—one of the loveliest ever written—can sound like in the hands of a musical master who understands what "beautiful singing" is all about:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8d1tJXMvMeQ
I do not believe that I have ever heard it done better, or more convincingly. He naturally refuses to sing the interpolated high B natural at the end which many tenors feel they have to do to get a big hand. It's an atrocious interpolation, and a sign of artistic and stylistic insensitivity on the part of singer who feels he "has to do it." He doesn't.
The thing about Tagliavini's kind of singing is that it does in fact carry. I heard him in concert back in the 70's, in New York, in a large hall filled with people. His Italian diction was excellent—as was Gigli's and Schipa's—and I could not only hear every word, but understand it. Even his dialect songs were understandable. Schipa once said that all you have to do is to get the words up to the lips, and if the sound is properly produced, they will fall off the lips right into the ears of the listeners. And he was right. Would that many singers today could learn this valuable lesson! A great deal was lost when verismo, with its attendant vulgarities, became the "tónica del momento." Really good dramatic tenors, like Giuseppe Giacomini, could manage it, and turn in exceptional performances in the theater, but few tenors, as I have pointed out recently, were in Giacomini's class as far as musicianship and absolute mastery of a tricky technique are concerned.
Here is Tagliavini in what may have been his signature role, Nemorino, singing the very famous and much loved aria "Una furtiva lagrima."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eVvz4gZ0CMk&feature=related
What can I possibly say? It is perfection. No one ever did it better. Take the three arias presented above, distill them into one session, intelligently commented upon, and you have the ultimate master class in tenor singing, which could be presented anywhere in the world.
I know that no one is perfect, and some balance is needed. I cannot think of any reasonable criticism that can be made of Tagliavini in his appropriate repertoire. Unfortunately, however, for reasons I do not know, he started, later in his career, to take on some bigger roles, and the inevitable happened—he strained and thickened his voice. Bel canto was in decline, as far as public popularity was concerned, and perhaps he was seduced by the rise of the spinto tenor and the dramatic tenor, and the great public acclaim laid upon them. If so, it is sad, because his voice, musicianship, and style all worked together to make his singing some of the most beautiful ever heard on the operatic stage.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Dame Nellie Melba: The Enigma
There is no early opera singer I can think of who deserves a clear-headed and objective study more than Dame Nellie Melba, but it seems impossible The mere mention of her name can even today, 148 years after her birth, create unpleasant arguments among opera lovers. The animus toward her remains colossal. However, before embarking on any kind of discussion of this problematic singer, I think it is important to hear at least two of her recordings. They are all short, because of the primitive state of the technology then. Some are even done on cylinders. Melba was renowned for her Gilda, so it makes sense to start with a 1904 recording of "Caro Nome" You'll need to turn up the volume on this recording:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPL4IOQYPYU
Here we come face to face with the first of the difficulties of evaluating the art of a singer on the basis of a 108 year old recording. What comes through, tonally, is a mixture. There are moments of genuine beauty, especially when she trills. She necessarily covers just a bit (you cannot trill on a wide-open sound), and that additional cover places the tiniest cupola on the voice which erases the edge that such open phonation often produces. In those moments, one can sense what may have been—ten years earlier—a lovely floating sound in the opera house; angelic and pure. In fact, she was commonly praised in her day for that very kind of pure, sweet, angelic sound. The record also revels, if we are going to be honest, a sometimes wide open production above the passagio that starts to resemble a blaring horn, or worse, a screech. It pops up out of the vocal line like a jack-in-the-box, and can ruin the musical phrase within which it is contained. Here is her very first recording, also in 1904. It is a portion of the "Mad Scene" from Lucia. Again, turn the volume up:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66p4XCc7UQo
You will of course have noticed the lack of a very high note at the end, which is by now obligatory. Once someone does it, it becomes tradition; sadly, for some sopranos. In any case, Melba, free from almost any traditions, owing to the earliness of her career, did not sing it. This aria, it must be said, is much better sung than "Caro Nome." Within this ancient recording, the sound that seems to possess some of the qualities for which she was famous is more in evidence. This singing,however, at least as evidenced in these old recordings, does not in my judgment rise to the level of singing attained by Galli-Curci, but then Melba comes from an earlier period. Melba is actually from the generation prior to Caruso! I think this is important to remember. We are really dealing with a historical artifact here. Whence, therefore, the undying animus?
When controversy surrounds an opera singer, it usually revolves around technique (Giuseppe Giacomini), eccentric acting (Anna Netrebko), erratic behavior (Franco Bonisolli) or selling out to popular stereotype (Luciano Pavarotti). In the case of Nellie Melba, I have to admit that I have always wondered at the visceral dislike that still exists among many opera fans for a singer born in 1861, (shortly after the beginning of the American Civil War!) who spent a great part of her career in the Victorian world of the late 19th century. The "Caro Nome" and "Mad Scene" fragments were recorded when she was already 43 years old. One would think that it would be possible by now to view so ancient a career with a kind of disinterested objectivity. Not so. A casual glance at the Youtube video postings of Melba's old records is a clear indication of the fact that there are very few civil disagreements about Dame Nellie Melba. This has been going on for years. I remember it clearly fifty years ago, when, if anything, it was worse.
I talk a great deal about the archetypal, because in opera especially, the themes—both musical and dramatic—are so very broad. Sometimes this infects the singers, whose melodramatic portrayals, emotionally felt and presented, are fortified by the approving applause and shouts of the audiences, year after year. Some people begin to act, in their everyday lives, in the same kind of way. This quickly conduces to what might be called the "prima donna" syndrome. For some reason that I can recognize but not explain, the Latin and even middle-European "prima donna," as a type, can often elicit the occasional smile—there is something vaguely amusing about it all, and in a strange kind of way, the "prima donnas" themselves seem to know it. There is a kind of Latin grandiosity, for example, that is understood by both audience and performer to be a bit of a schtick, by turns annoying or funny, but entirely tolerable. But curiously, this does not work at all well in the Anglo-Saxon world, where mistrust and dislike of such behavior is intense. Melba is a case in point. There was a crudeness to her prima donna antics that was not in any way funny; on the contrary, it was mean-spirited and self-obsessed; a dead-eyed and humorless arrogance coupled with a chilling disregard for others. There was no misty-eyed love of the art that carried her to silly but somehow grand Olympian heights of rapture and artistic ecstasy. No "Vissi d'arte " here—more like "d'amour propre." She came from humble beginnings in Australia, whose level of culture at the time was not what it would one day be. The same could be said of the United States at the time. In fact, Melba's humorless grandiosity reminds me of some notable Americans born in the 19th century who also fell prey to this strange, unsophisticated, grand sense of self importance. I think of Frank Lloyd Wright and Douglas MacArthur; two extraordinarily self important and unpleasant individuals who treated others badly and asserted their superiority to one and all. Both, to be fair, were prodigiously talented men. And Melba was a world-class singing phenomenon. Perhaps there is a New-World naïveté in all these individuals, who became fatally entranced by the increasingly tawdry glamour of a rapidly decaying European aristocracy. Melba, who gave command performances before crowned heads of Europe, who had an early and scandalous affair with Philippe, the Duke of Orleans, and who paraded herself endlessly in aristocratic gatherings, had in fact fallen in love with all the mannered affectations of European aristocracy, which she wore like an ill-fitting dress. On her, the gold turned quickly to brass.
I know this is a one-sided picture so far. No one can be so simply and negatively described. To her credit, she did admirable work entertaining soldiers and raising money during the First World War. She endowed conservatories and supported and encouraged some younger singers (although usually younger sopranos who showed promise of becoming "the new Melba.") Also, it was not the public who disliked her—quite the contrary: she had a tremendous following, and praise and adulation was showered on her, especially in Australia. The animus of which I have spoken turns out, upon reflection, to be held largely by other performers, both those who worked with her and had to suffer her (perceived) insults and slights, and the generations of performers who followed, and saw in her—as an archetype—all the forces arrayed against them and their own hopes. That being the case, perhaps we should not take the negativism all that seriously.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPL4IOQYPYU
Here we come face to face with the first of the difficulties of evaluating the art of a singer on the basis of a 108 year old recording. What comes through, tonally, is a mixture. There are moments of genuine beauty, especially when she trills. She necessarily covers just a bit (you cannot trill on a wide-open sound), and that additional cover places the tiniest cupola on the voice which erases the edge that such open phonation often produces. In those moments, one can sense what may have been—ten years earlier—a lovely floating sound in the opera house; angelic and pure. In fact, she was commonly praised in her day for that very kind of pure, sweet, angelic sound. The record also revels, if we are going to be honest, a sometimes wide open production above the passagio that starts to resemble a blaring horn, or worse, a screech. It pops up out of the vocal line like a jack-in-the-box, and can ruin the musical phrase within which it is contained. Here is her very first recording, also in 1904. It is a portion of the "Mad Scene" from Lucia. Again, turn the volume up:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66p4XCc7UQo
You will of course have noticed the lack of a very high note at the end, which is by now obligatory. Once someone does it, it becomes tradition; sadly, for some sopranos. In any case, Melba, free from almost any traditions, owing to the earliness of her career, did not sing it. This aria, it must be said, is much better sung than "Caro Nome." Within this ancient recording, the sound that seems to possess some of the qualities for which she was famous is more in evidence. This singing,however, at least as evidenced in these old recordings, does not in my judgment rise to the level of singing attained by Galli-Curci, but then Melba comes from an earlier period. Melba is actually from the generation prior to Caruso! I think this is important to remember. We are really dealing with a historical artifact here. Whence, therefore, the undying animus?
When controversy surrounds an opera singer, it usually revolves around technique (Giuseppe Giacomini), eccentric acting (Anna Netrebko), erratic behavior (Franco Bonisolli) or selling out to popular stereotype (Luciano Pavarotti). In the case of Nellie Melba, I have to admit that I have always wondered at the visceral dislike that still exists among many opera fans for a singer born in 1861, (shortly after the beginning of the American Civil War!) who spent a great part of her career in the Victorian world of the late 19th century. The "Caro Nome" and "Mad Scene" fragments were recorded when she was already 43 years old. One would think that it would be possible by now to view so ancient a career with a kind of disinterested objectivity. Not so. A casual glance at the Youtube video postings of Melba's old records is a clear indication of the fact that there are very few civil disagreements about Dame Nellie Melba. This has been going on for years. I remember it clearly fifty years ago, when, if anything, it was worse.
I talk a great deal about the archetypal, because in opera especially, the themes—both musical and dramatic—are so very broad. Sometimes this infects the singers, whose melodramatic portrayals, emotionally felt and presented, are fortified by the approving applause and shouts of the audiences, year after year. Some people begin to act, in their everyday lives, in the same kind of way. This quickly conduces to what might be called the "prima donna" syndrome. For some reason that I can recognize but not explain, the Latin and even middle-European "prima donna," as a type, can often elicit the occasional smile—there is something vaguely amusing about it all, and in a strange kind of way, the "prima donnas" themselves seem to know it. There is a kind of Latin grandiosity, for example, that is understood by both audience and performer to be a bit of a schtick, by turns annoying or funny, but entirely tolerable. But curiously, this does not work at all well in the Anglo-Saxon world, where mistrust and dislike of such behavior is intense. Melba is a case in point. There was a crudeness to her prima donna antics that was not in any way funny; on the contrary, it was mean-spirited and self-obsessed; a dead-eyed and humorless arrogance coupled with a chilling disregard for others. There was no misty-eyed love of the art that carried her to silly but somehow grand Olympian heights of rapture and artistic ecstasy. No "Vissi d'arte " here—more like "d'amour propre." She came from humble beginnings in Australia, whose level of culture at the time was not what it would one day be. The same could be said of the United States at the time. In fact, Melba's humorless grandiosity reminds me of some notable Americans born in the 19th century who also fell prey to this strange, unsophisticated, grand sense of self importance. I think of Frank Lloyd Wright and Douglas MacArthur; two extraordinarily self important and unpleasant individuals who treated others badly and asserted their superiority to one and all. Both, to be fair, were prodigiously talented men. And Melba was a world-class singing phenomenon. Perhaps there is a New-World naïveté in all these individuals, who became fatally entranced by the increasingly tawdry glamour of a rapidly decaying European aristocracy. Melba, who gave command performances before crowned heads of Europe, who had an early and scandalous affair with Philippe, the Duke of Orleans, and who paraded herself endlessly in aristocratic gatherings, had in fact fallen in love with all the mannered affectations of European aristocracy, which she wore like an ill-fitting dress. On her, the gold turned quickly to brass.
I know this is a one-sided picture so far. No one can be so simply and negatively described. To her credit, she did admirable work entertaining soldiers and raising money during the First World War. She endowed conservatories and supported and encouraged some younger singers (although usually younger sopranos who showed promise of becoming "the new Melba.") Also, it was not the public who disliked her—quite the contrary: she had a tremendous following, and praise and adulation was showered on her, especially in Australia. The animus of which I have spoken turns out, upon reflection, to be held largely by other performers, both those who worked with her and had to suffer her (perceived) insults and slights, and the generations of performers who followed, and saw in her—as an archetype—all the forces arrayed against them and their own hopes. That being the case, perhaps we should not take the negativism all that seriously.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Giuseppe Giacomini: Defining Dramatic Tenor
Bringing up Giuseppe Giacomini (1940-) is a good way to start an argument among opera buffs. Giacomini is possibly the ultimate example of what I so often complain about in these pages—a dramatic tenor whose vocal method is the furthest extreme of the dark, greatly covered, larynx-in-the-boots school of Italian singing—voices perfect for verismo, which is to say melodramatic opera. So, I'm about to indulge myself in inconsistency, do a complete 180, at least in this single instance, and say that Giuseppe Giacomini is a brilliant tenor, and to my taste the greatest of all the dramatic tenors. (Let me say only that I do not consider the nonpareil Franco Corelli a dramatic tenor.)
I think that in the case of Giacomini, if he is unknown to anyone, the first thing to offer is a sample. If you are fond of "Ch'ella mi creda," from La Fanciulla del West, but do not know Giacomini, prepare yourself:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1M1NDY5s0cg
Isn't that amazing? I nearly fell out of my chair the first time I heard it. I do not believe I have ever heard Bb's like that from any tenor before. The power, the richness, the ring; it's positively thrilling. He sounds here almost like Leonard Warren with a tenor range. Absolutely unbelievable, and the style and musicianship are impeccable, as they always are with Giacomini, an intellectual and very well educated musician.
Giuseppe Giacomini is possibly an epicure's taste in the somewhat giddy and show business obsessed world of American opera during the last 30 years. He was not nearly as popular here, sadly, as those tenors who obsessively and instinctively played to the gallery. He was and remains a very strong-minded man; a serious musician with absolutely no time for silliness or show business glitz. He was not a beautiful heart-throb like great Franco Corelli; he was plain: short, half bald, and very near-sighted. He appeared in concert looking exactly like he really does, often right down to the coke-bottle-lens glasses. He was there to sing, not to compete in a glamour contest. Here is a perfect example. Listen to this "Si pel ciel..." with Sherrill Milnes. What you see is what you get. And what you get is brilliant stylistics, musicianship and, of course, voice:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVir140saiY&feature=related
This is dramatic singing at its best. It is very hard to imagine the tenor part sung better, and in fact Otello was his signature role, along with Andrea Chenier.
His career was very largely in Europe, where he was quite popular. He was, for example, a staple at the Vienna Staastsoper, certainly a discriminating house if ever there was one, for fifteen consecutive years. He was enormously popular in Italy, and sang in all the major houses: La Scala, Teatro San Carlo, Teatro Reggio, Opera de Roma, Mantua, Parma, Modena. He sang in major houses outside Italy, not only in Vienna, but in Barcelona, Berlin, Lisbon, many others. It was only in America that he did not fare so well, even though he sang at the Met, The Chicago Lyric, San Francisco and so on. America, at least at that time, was not as susceptible to his studied approach. American audiences were still somewhat dazzled by stereotype and showiness. Also, he did not record much. His kind of voice is much better in the theater than on record, because the high resonances from the fine, thinner edges of the cords have been sacrificed to the thicker vocal folds, resulting in the darker sound that carries well enough in the theater (on most nights) but does not record very well. And of course he never went on TV talk shows or participated in any publicity stunts of any kind. His "outreach," so to speak, was limited to the theater, exactly where he thought it should be. He was what the Spanish call "un hombre serio y formal."
Here is a wonderful rendition, in performance, of "Non Piangere, Liu," from Turandot:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5M3qSyvjY34
I do not see how this can be faulted in any way.
Such extreme low-larynx singing, spectacular as it can sometimes be, as in the case of Giacomini, does not come without a price. He sang well for a good 25 years, (no small accomplishment!) but eventually he developed a wide wobble in his voice, from the strain to which it had been subjected. He did continue to sing, but the wobble can be disconcerting.
But never mind. At his best, he was wonderful. He is also an admirable human being: gentle, serious, intellectual and reflective. If you can understand Italian, do not miss the four-part interview posted on Youtube, in which he talks at great length about theater, music, and especially opera. He has little competition among tenors for intelligence and musicality, except for Placido Domingo, of course, who is unique and certainly one of the world's great musicians.
Giacomini deserved much more in this country, but his fame is actually growing with time (much of it thanks to Youtube) as more and more people—especially in the U.S.—seem, at last, to be getting it.
_________________________
I think that in the case of Giacomini, if he is unknown to anyone, the first thing to offer is a sample. If you are fond of "Ch'ella mi creda," from La Fanciulla del West, but do not know Giacomini, prepare yourself:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1M1NDY5s0cg
Isn't that amazing? I nearly fell out of my chair the first time I heard it. I do not believe I have ever heard Bb's like that from any tenor before. The power, the richness, the ring; it's positively thrilling. He sounds here almost like Leonard Warren with a tenor range. Absolutely unbelievable, and the style and musicianship are impeccable, as they always are with Giacomini, an intellectual and very well educated musician.
Giuseppe Giacomini is possibly an epicure's taste in the somewhat giddy and show business obsessed world of American opera during the last 30 years. He was not nearly as popular here, sadly, as those tenors who obsessively and instinctively played to the gallery. He was and remains a very strong-minded man; a serious musician with absolutely no time for silliness or show business glitz. He was not a beautiful heart-throb like great Franco Corelli; he was plain: short, half bald, and very near-sighted. He appeared in concert looking exactly like he really does, often right down to the coke-bottle-lens glasses. He was there to sing, not to compete in a glamour contest. Here is a perfect example. Listen to this "Si pel ciel..." with Sherrill Milnes. What you see is what you get. And what you get is brilliant stylistics, musicianship and, of course, voice:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVir140saiY&feature=related
This is dramatic singing at its best. It is very hard to imagine the tenor part sung better, and in fact Otello was his signature role, along with Andrea Chenier.
His career was very largely in Europe, where he was quite popular. He was, for example, a staple at the Vienna Staastsoper, certainly a discriminating house if ever there was one, for fifteen consecutive years. He was enormously popular in Italy, and sang in all the major houses: La Scala, Teatro San Carlo, Teatro Reggio, Opera de Roma, Mantua, Parma, Modena. He sang in major houses outside Italy, not only in Vienna, but in Barcelona, Berlin, Lisbon, many others. It was only in America that he did not fare so well, even though he sang at the Met, The Chicago Lyric, San Francisco and so on. America, at least at that time, was not as susceptible to his studied approach. American audiences were still somewhat dazzled by stereotype and showiness. Also, he did not record much. His kind of voice is much better in the theater than on record, because the high resonances from the fine, thinner edges of the cords have been sacrificed to the thicker vocal folds, resulting in the darker sound that carries well enough in the theater (on most nights) but does not record very well. And of course he never went on TV talk shows or participated in any publicity stunts of any kind. His "outreach," so to speak, was limited to the theater, exactly where he thought it should be. He was what the Spanish call "un hombre serio y formal."
Here is a wonderful rendition, in performance, of "Non Piangere, Liu," from Turandot:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5M3qSyvjY34
I do not see how this can be faulted in any way.
Such extreme low-larynx singing, spectacular as it can sometimes be, as in the case of Giacomini, does not come without a price. He sang well for a good 25 years, (no small accomplishment!) but eventually he developed a wide wobble in his voice, from the strain to which it had been subjected. He did continue to sing, but the wobble can be disconcerting.
But never mind. At his best, he was wonderful. He is also an admirable human being: gentle, serious, intellectual and reflective. If you can understand Italian, do not miss the four-part interview posted on Youtube, in which he talks at great length about theater, music, and especially opera. He has little competition among tenors for intelligence and musicality, except for Placido Domingo, of course, who is unique and certainly one of the world's great musicians.
Giacomini deserved much more in this country, but his fame is actually growing with time (much of it thanks to Youtube) as more and more people—especially in the U.S.—seem, at last, to be getting it.
_________________________
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Amelita Galli-Curci: Queen of the Coloraturas
Born in 1882, in Milan, into a prominent and well to do family, Amelita Galli (the Curci is from a later disastrous marriage) seemed destined from youth for a musical career, but at first as a pianist. After the typical lessons at home, she began her conservatory study of piano in Milan in 1895, when she was thirteen. Her brilliance at the piano eventually resulted in a gold medal in competition, which in turn resulted in her being offered a professorship at the age of 23. She accepted, and seemed content with the prospect of settling into a life of concertizing and teaching piano. However, Pietro Mascagni, a family friend, heard her singing at the piano, and strongly urged her to pursue a career as a singer. After some self-training, she auditioned, and the famous charm of that voice instantly attracted attention, and in 1906, at the age of 24, she made her debut as Gilda in Rigoletto. The rest, as they say, is history. After extensively touring South America, she arrived in the United States and made her Chicago debut in 1916, to great acclaim. Shortly thereafter, she signed with RCA Victor, and her fame exploded across America, where she became very popular. She and America fell in love, and, fully adopted by the United States, she became an American citizen in 1920, after divorcing a petty Italian nobleman come to less (Curci) who was shamelessly squandering her money. She made her Met debut in 1921, and remained a permanent member of both the Chicago Lyric and the Met until her retirement in 1930. (An excellent biography can be found at http://craton.chez.com/musique/galli-curci/agcbio.htm)
The extraordinary beauty and grace of Amelita Galli-Curci's singing, even today as captured on old recordings, is such that devotees of great singing often fall instantly in love. I count myself in that happy group. There is something in that sound that stirs images of the fresh and charming innocence of a young girl whose beauty and joie de vivre have just begun to bloom. It was incredibly attractive, and made her one of the most popular singers ever, and among the most highly paid of her day. Many, including myself, consider her the greatest of the coloraturas.
The life of a singer, however, as Enrico Caruso once remarked, should be told in song, not words, and he was right. Here is the first recording I ever heard of Galli-Curci, years ago, and I have never forgotten the effect that it had. This is the essence of the youthful innocence of which I spoke:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vecSKi8B9k
I have listened to this recording many, many times, and it never loses its charm. The coloratura is brilliant: ever gentle, ever graceful, ever sparkling. The articulation is brilliant, and the musicality riveting. She was self taught, and she read many old bel canto treatises, such as Garcia's famous L'Art du Chant, that most famous of all bel canto methods. With her innate musical ability, and her brilliance as a painist, she quickly internalized the great principles of 19th century bel canto singing, and took it from there. Purists may raise eyebrows at the lack of method on the very bottom of the voice, which she simply lets fall away, rather than trying to cover with a "chest voice" as is commonly done today, but I think she was right. Nobody lays down their hard earned money to listen to such a high, pure and flute-like voice sing low notes. Also, her breathing attack is largely clavicular as opposed to diaphragmatic, but this in fact largely accounts for the light and girl-like quality of the voice that so many found so attractive. We are very, very far here from the covered and strongly supported tones that are the norm today. This was another era, and reflected distinct tastes. (And in my opinion, often superior tastes.)
She recorded arias that a coloratura would never dare record today, such as the famous Tacea la notte from Il Trovatore. While she never performed the role in public, to the best of my knowledge, her recording of this aria shows new interpretive possibilities, and the musical execution in general—in particular the phrasing—are extraordinary and revealing. Those who grew up listening to Leontyne Price singing such roles as Leonora might scoff outright at the idea of so gentle and child-like a voice doing such a piece, but I invite you to listen to the result:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btjM-ghmZN4&feature=related
It is beautiful and haunting, and the characteristic youthfulness of the voice is ever so slightly tinged here with foreboding. If the voice is not "heroic," the musical, stylistic and tonal sophistication more than compensate.
Finally, to end with an aria in which she demonstrates her absolute brilliance as a coloaratura soprano, we join her for the ever popular Una voce poco fa from Rossini's Barber of Seville:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Th3cmTNxCYI
What more can I say?
Galli-Curci also recorded, for her American audience, popular sentimental tunes of the day that many people would know from the piano anthologies on the music rack of the parlor uprights that were common then is so many homes. The interested listener can find recordings of Home, Sweet Home, The Last Rose of Summer, and so on, but it is necessary to know the lyrics in advance. The beloved soprano was what might be called an early graduate of the Joan Sutherland School of Stage Diction. It is, as a result, not always easy to determine what language she is singing in:-)
But that is a matter of little consequence; she was hardly in the business of introducing new music, but was rather a singer of music that was everywhere known. What she did bring to her performance was charm, musicality, freshness, and, if there is such a thing, sheer lovability. That's quite enough for one tiny Italian-American girl!
The extraordinary beauty and grace of Amelita Galli-Curci's singing, even today as captured on old recordings, is such that devotees of great singing often fall instantly in love. I count myself in that happy group. There is something in that sound that stirs images of the fresh and charming innocence of a young girl whose beauty and joie de vivre have just begun to bloom. It was incredibly attractive, and made her one of the most popular singers ever, and among the most highly paid of her day. Many, including myself, consider her the greatest of the coloraturas.
The life of a singer, however, as Enrico Caruso once remarked, should be told in song, not words, and he was right. Here is the first recording I ever heard of Galli-Curci, years ago, and I have never forgotten the effect that it had. This is the essence of the youthful innocence of which I spoke:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vecSKi8B9k
I have listened to this recording many, many times, and it never loses its charm. The coloratura is brilliant: ever gentle, ever graceful, ever sparkling. The articulation is brilliant, and the musicality riveting. She was self taught, and she read many old bel canto treatises, such as Garcia's famous L'Art du Chant, that most famous of all bel canto methods. With her innate musical ability, and her brilliance as a painist, she quickly internalized the great principles of 19th century bel canto singing, and took it from there. Purists may raise eyebrows at the lack of method on the very bottom of the voice, which she simply lets fall away, rather than trying to cover with a "chest voice" as is commonly done today, but I think she was right. Nobody lays down their hard earned money to listen to such a high, pure and flute-like voice sing low notes. Also, her breathing attack is largely clavicular as opposed to diaphragmatic, but this in fact largely accounts for the light and girl-like quality of the voice that so many found so attractive. We are very, very far here from the covered and strongly supported tones that are the norm today. This was another era, and reflected distinct tastes. (And in my opinion, often superior tastes.)
She recorded arias that a coloratura would never dare record today, such as the famous Tacea la notte from Il Trovatore. While she never performed the role in public, to the best of my knowledge, her recording of this aria shows new interpretive possibilities, and the musical execution in general—in particular the phrasing—are extraordinary and revealing. Those who grew up listening to Leontyne Price singing such roles as Leonora might scoff outright at the idea of so gentle and child-like a voice doing such a piece, but I invite you to listen to the result:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btjM-ghmZN4&feature=related
It is beautiful and haunting, and the characteristic youthfulness of the voice is ever so slightly tinged here with foreboding. If the voice is not "heroic," the musical, stylistic and tonal sophistication more than compensate.
Finally, to end with an aria in which she demonstrates her absolute brilliance as a coloaratura soprano, we join her for the ever popular Una voce poco fa from Rossini's Barber of Seville:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Th3cmTNxCYI
What more can I say?
Galli-Curci also recorded, for her American audience, popular sentimental tunes of the day that many people would know from the piano anthologies on the music rack of the parlor uprights that were common then is so many homes. The interested listener can find recordings of Home, Sweet Home, The Last Rose of Summer, and so on, but it is necessary to know the lyrics in advance. The beloved soprano was what might be called an early graduate of the Joan Sutherland School of Stage Diction. It is, as a result, not always easy to determine what language she is singing in:-)
But that is a matter of little consequence; she was hardly in the business of introducing new music, but was rather a singer of music that was everywhere known. What she did bring to her performance was charm, musicality, freshness, and, if there is such a thing, sheer lovability. That's quite enough for one tiny Italian-American girl!
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Lauritz Melchior: Defining Heldentenor
It is by now a commonplace to refer to Lauritz Melchior as opera's greatest heldentenor. The term simply means "heroic tenor," but one thing that is never talked about is what exactly is meant by "heroic." Does it refer to the roles themselves, to Wagnerian characterizations in general, to some particularly Nordic voice or style, or all of the above? After all, if it is the role that is referred to, usually Tristan, Sigmund, Siegfried, Lohengrin or Florestan, yes, they are all heroic characters, in one way or another, but then so is Andrea Chenier, along with countless other operatic main characters. As to nationality, James King and Jess Thomas certainly managed very well, as Americans, and Alfred Piccaver or Walter Widdop, great British tenors, acquitted themselves beautifully, as does the Spaniard Plácido Domingo even today. In fact, Piccaver's Florestan was considered classic, as is Domingo's Sigmund. Even Gigli recorded "Winterstürme wichen dem Wonnemond" from Die Walküre (although to be honest, it was dreadful.) When looked at from all possible angles, "heldentenor," at least as the term is used today, comes down to some particular quality of the voice, and that quality in turn basically derives from the sound of Lauritz Melchior's voice. That is why he is always considered the quintessential heldentenor; because the very definition of the term squarely defines his voice, and vice versa.
Melchior was born in 1890. He begain to study, in Copenhagen, in 1908, when he was only 18. He trained as a baritone, and began singing the commercial repertoire of the time; Pagliacci, Traviata, Trovatore, and so on. It soon became apparent, especially to others, that he was probably a tenor. In 1917 he took time off and retrained as a tenor, and in 1918 made his debut as Tanhäuser. He climb was slow but sure, and by 1929 he was an international success. I remember hearing him once say that he learned a very crucial lesson from Jean de Reske, and that was to save the voice. He used the old axiom about considering the voice as capital in the bank--the smart person lives off the interest, not the principal. A shop-worn old saw, but illustrative and to the point. What Melchior did in fact was to sing as the bel canto singers did, strange as that may sound. People think of his voice as being giant, because the roles are heoic, and the orchestration is thick and can be very loud (often excessively so.) He could be heard through this thick orchestration, and he was a very big man. All those things taken together seem to fulfill the expectation of a huge voice. But it was not; it was a finely focused voice, and that made all the difference. His voice cut in the same way that the voices of tiny little creatures like Galli-Curci and Lily Pons did. Additionally, Melchior, like Caruso, very early on attached himself to any kind of emerging media that promised to spread his voice and name: recordings, movies, radio, and even—at the beginning of his career--a very early concert broadcast by Marconi, which resulted in his being heard by Wagner enthusiast Hugh Walpole, who was so impressed that he gave the young tenor financial support. So Melchior realized, in the most direct way, how important the media were. This is crucial, because his particular voice, finely focused and steely to an almost biting degree, recorded very well. It sounded enormous, even though the super size was an illusion. The intensity of the vocal focus was so great that Melchior's voice is immediately recognizable by any opera enthusiast who hears it. There are very few opera singers of whom this can be said.
One need only consider for a moment those other singers to whom he might be compared. The list, to judge from fansites, would likely include Jacques Urlus, Heinrich Knote, Siegfried Jerusalem, Max Lorenz, Set Svanholm, Jess Thomas, Franz Völker, Ludwig Suthaus, Ramon Vinay, Jon Vickers, Hans Hopf, Ludwig Suthaus, Wolfgang Windgassen, Walter Widdop, Rudolf Laubenthal, and perhaps a few others. Some of these names are well known, many are not. Listening to as many of these tenors as can be consulted on recordings, it is always apparent that Melchior's voice is unique. The first 2 minutes and 45 seconds of the following clip demonstrate very well the quintessential Melchior, singing Siegfried's stentorian "Notung! Notung!" which invariably sends chills up the spine of the listener. It is the essence of Icelandic Saga, heroic to the point of the archetypal, which it in fact is:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKKKjiWBZ9w
Absolutely stunning! I feel safe in saying that no one has ever done it better, but I always caution that this is a recording. His voice cut like a knife on recordings. This is not to say that it did not also cut and soar in the theater. Not much is available in the way of actual performance clips, but there is at least this 45 second clip from Bayreuth, 1934. The opera is Götterdämerung:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xfv7POg6deE&feature=related
This is certainly very convincing, although it is worth noting that the soprano's voice comes close at certain moments to overwhelming his. (They are in different positions on the stage, however,and this may have to do with microphone placement.) His characteristically steely sound is in evidence in this fragment.
Melchior sang his last performance at the Met in 1950, when he would have been 60 years old. He was getting on in years, and Rudolph Bing was about to usher in a new Italian age at the Met which effectively squeezed out the Wagnerian wing. He also disliked Melchior, as many people did. Melchior could be annoyingly diffident, in the same way Lawrence Tibbett could, and was also somewhat prone to silly behavior and publicity stunts, including appearing in grade B movies (Two Sisters From Boston, etc.) and on early television. Like Russia's Ivan Kozlovsky, he was a bit of a clown, and that did not go down well with some of the more earnest Wagner enthusiasts. Most people of my age, who grew up in the early 50's, are likely to remember him doing a lighter repertoire, such as the old sentimental favorite "Because":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMoXf9DR52g
A magnificent sound and singing technique, even on this old warhorse!
Weaknesses and quirks to one side notwithstanding, one thing is certain. He was, and will always remain, in the eyes of almost all opera lovers, THE heldentenor.
Melchior was born in 1890. He begain to study, in Copenhagen, in 1908, when he was only 18. He trained as a baritone, and began singing the commercial repertoire of the time; Pagliacci, Traviata, Trovatore, and so on. It soon became apparent, especially to others, that he was probably a tenor. In 1917 he took time off and retrained as a tenor, and in 1918 made his debut as Tanhäuser. He climb was slow but sure, and by 1929 he was an international success. I remember hearing him once say that he learned a very crucial lesson from Jean de Reske, and that was to save the voice. He used the old axiom about considering the voice as capital in the bank--the smart person lives off the interest, not the principal. A shop-worn old saw, but illustrative and to the point. What Melchior did in fact was to sing as the bel canto singers did, strange as that may sound. People think of his voice as being giant, because the roles are heoic, and the orchestration is thick and can be very loud (often excessively so.) He could be heard through this thick orchestration, and he was a very big man. All those things taken together seem to fulfill the expectation of a huge voice. But it was not; it was a finely focused voice, and that made all the difference. His voice cut in the same way that the voices of tiny little creatures like Galli-Curci and Lily Pons did. Additionally, Melchior, like Caruso, very early on attached himself to any kind of emerging media that promised to spread his voice and name: recordings, movies, radio, and even—at the beginning of his career--a very early concert broadcast by Marconi, which resulted in his being heard by Wagner enthusiast Hugh Walpole, who was so impressed that he gave the young tenor financial support. So Melchior realized, in the most direct way, how important the media were. This is crucial, because his particular voice, finely focused and steely to an almost biting degree, recorded very well. It sounded enormous, even though the super size was an illusion. The intensity of the vocal focus was so great that Melchior's voice is immediately recognizable by any opera enthusiast who hears it. There are very few opera singers of whom this can be said.
One need only consider for a moment those other singers to whom he might be compared. The list, to judge from fansites, would likely include Jacques Urlus, Heinrich Knote, Siegfried Jerusalem, Max Lorenz, Set Svanholm, Jess Thomas, Franz Völker, Ludwig Suthaus, Ramon Vinay, Jon Vickers, Hans Hopf, Ludwig Suthaus, Wolfgang Windgassen, Walter Widdop, Rudolf Laubenthal, and perhaps a few others. Some of these names are well known, many are not. Listening to as many of these tenors as can be consulted on recordings, it is always apparent that Melchior's voice is unique. The first 2 minutes and 45 seconds of the following clip demonstrate very well the quintessential Melchior, singing Siegfried's stentorian "Notung! Notung!" which invariably sends chills up the spine of the listener. It is the essence of Icelandic Saga, heroic to the point of the archetypal, which it in fact is:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKKKjiWBZ9w
Absolutely stunning! I feel safe in saying that no one has ever done it better, but I always caution that this is a recording. His voice cut like a knife on recordings. This is not to say that it did not also cut and soar in the theater. Not much is available in the way of actual performance clips, but there is at least this 45 second clip from Bayreuth, 1934. The opera is Götterdämerung:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xfv7POg6deE&feature=related
This is certainly very convincing, although it is worth noting that the soprano's voice comes close at certain moments to overwhelming his. (They are in different positions on the stage, however,and this may have to do with microphone placement.) His characteristically steely sound is in evidence in this fragment.
Melchior sang his last performance at the Met in 1950, when he would have been 60 years old. He was getting on in years, and Rudolph Bing was about to usher in a new Italian age at the Met which effectively squeezed out the Wagnerian wing. He also disliked Melchior, as many people did. Melchior could be annoyingly diffident, in the same way Lawrence Tibbett could, and was also somewhat prone to silly behavior and publicity stunts, including appearing in grade B movies (Two Sisters From Boston, etc.) and on early television. Like Russia's Ivan Kozlovsky, he was a bit of a clown, and that did not go down well with some of the more earnest Wagner enthusiasts. Most people of my age, who grew up in the early 50's, are likely to remember him doing a lighter repertoire, such as the old sentimental favorite "Because":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMoXf9DR52g
A magnificent sound and singing technique, even on this old warhorse!
Weaknesses and quirks to one side notwithstanding, one thing is certain. He was, and will always remain, in the eyes of almost all opera lovers, THE heldentenor.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Locus Amoenus: Idle Summer Thoughts on Opera Singing's "Golden Age"
I spend a lot of time these days listening to the oldest recordings I can find, either in original condition or digitally remastered. I have for many years been in search of just what it was that characterized the singing of the late 19th and early 20th century. I always look for the earliest date of birth of the singer, not necessarily the earliest recording. The earliest recordings of anything are useless; simple curiosities such as Brahms hammering away at the piano (it could have been a xylophone) in 1889, or the recently unearthed "Au Clair de la Lune" (l860) which is basically noise. One of the most fascinating things I have found on the web is a 1933 film clip of Charlie Coborn singing his best known song, "The man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo." Coborn was born in 1852, eight years before the American Civil War, which means that at the time of this film he was 81 years old. He had only two songs in his repertoire, this one and a piece called "Two lovely black eyes." Since there were no recording media of any kind back then you could take the same song from town to town and few would already have heard it. The reason this is so fascinating is that with so small a repertoire, he must have started singing this song at an early age, since he was on the stage by the 1870's. Now add to that the fact that this film is a good electric sound recording. We therefore have an excellent opportunity to observe the dress, the acting (or at least comic song posturing), the voice and the English language as it was on the music hall stage of England in the 1870's, because it is unlikely that he changed much, if anything, between 1875 and 1933.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IyUJcDeGX-I&feature=related
I find this clip endlessly fascinating. It takes us farther back than one might at first think, because it is a safe bet that to a large extent he spoke as his parents spoke, if we allow for the "dramatic" changes necessary for a stage presentation. His recitation in the middle is perhaps a good indication of how he normally spoke. If he speaks as his parents spoke, then that takes us back nearly to the 18th century.
I wish it were that easy in opera. It isn't, because of the human age factor. It would mean very little to hear an 81 year old opera singer in 1933, because their voice would only be a shadow of its peak performing quality. Enter digital remastering, which is fine but remains largely guesswork. What would in my judgment be better would be to restore, faithfully and exactly, an ancient recording machine, such as those used in 1910 (there are some still around) and ask a famous opera singer, at the height of his or her powers, to record an aria exactly as they were recorded in 1910. Comparing the playback to a modern recording made by the same singer should show how much difference there actually is between the clear,"live" voice and the shadowy version that appeared on the old machine, with the same tiny orchestra typical of early recordings; i.e., heavy on the brass because it recorded better. This would tell us a lot. It should then be possible to retro-engineer the old recordings digitally, so that they closed the same perceptual gap evidenced in the modern singer's old recording and his or her new one. Once the difference is clearly understood, and reduced to a formula, it should be possible to digitally remaster almost exactly. I say almost because it is now impossible to tell what kind of shape the old machines were in at the time they were used, or how fast they actually ran. Still, it would be close. It is possible this has already been done, and that I simply don't know about it. I don't think that is the case, however. For one thing, it would be hard to find a famous singer willing to have his or her voice, in antique shadowy mode, at large among the public. (Possibly someone like Netrebko, whose penchant pour la nouveauté seems to know no bounds.)
For the time being, however, we need to make an intelligent compromise, and try to find the oldest singer we can, recording on a fairly decent piece of machinery, while still in the bloom of his or her career, and, in addition, someone classically trained. (Caruso made some recordings while very young, but he was always a belter, even from youth, and he had very little training.) A good candidate would be Antonina Nezhdanova, the Grande Dame of Russian opera, born in 1873, and recording as early as 1910, when she would have been only 37 years old. Happily, there is a such a recording of her, and it is good to the point of adding some real substance to the idea of a golden age of classical vocalism. However, you have to wait until next time to hear it:) Stay tuned, and we can take a good look at the amazing woman most Russians consider to be their greatest soprano, and in a country of such great opera voices, that is saying something!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IyUJcDeGX-I&feature=related
I find this clip endlessly fascinating. It takes us farther back than one might at first think, because it is a safe bet that to a large extent he spoke as his parents spoke, if we allow for the "dramatic" changes necessary for a stage presentation. His recitation in the middle is perhaps a good indication of how he normally spoke. If he speaks as his parents spoke, then that takes us back nearly to the 18th century.
I wish it were that easy in opera. It isn't, because of the human age factor. It would mean very little to hear an 81 year old opera singer in 1933, because their voice would only be a shadow of its peak performing quality. Enter digital remastering, which is fine but remains largely guesswork. What would in my judgment be better would be to restore, faithfully and exactly, an ancient recording machine, such as those used in 1910 (there are some still around) and ask a famous opera singer, at the height of his or her powers, to record an aria exactly as they were recorded in 1910. Comparing the playback to a modern recording made by the same singer should show how much difference there actually is between the clear,"live" voice and the shadowy version that appeared on the old machine, with the same tiny orchestra typical of early recordings; i.e., heavy on the brass because it recorded better. This would tell us a lot. It should then be possible to retro-engineer the old recordings digitally, so that they closed the same perceptual gap evidenced in the modern singer's old recording and his or her new one. Once the difference is clearly understood, and reduced to a formula, it should be possible to digitally remaster almost exactly. I say almost because it is now impossible to tell what kind of shape the old machines were in at the time they were used, or how fast they actually ran. Still, it would be close. It is possible this has already been done, and that I simply don't know about it. I don't think that is the case, however. For one thing, it would be hard to find a famous singer willing to have his or her voice, in antique shadowy mode, at large among the public. (Possibly someone like Netrebko, whose penchant pour la nouveauté seems to know no bounds.)
For the time being, however, we need to make an intelligent compromise, and try to find the oldest singer we can, recording on a fairly decent piece of machinery, while still in the bloom of his or her career, and, in addition, someone classically trained. (Caruso made some recordings while very young, but he was always a belter, even from youth, and he had very little training.) A good candidate would be Antonina Nezhdanova, the Grande Dame of Russian opera, born in 1873, and recording as early as 1910, when she would have been only 37 years old. Happily, there is a such a recording of her, and it is good to the point of adding some real substance to the idea of a golden age of classical vocalism. However, you have to wait until next time to hear it:) Stay tuned, and we can take a good look at the amazing woman most Russians consider to be their greatest soprano, and in a country of such great opera voices, that is saying something!
Friday, June 12, 2009
Alfred Piccaver: A Great English Tenor Fom Long Ago
The phrase "Great English Tenor" is close to being a contradiction in terms—like "Jumbo Shrimp" or "Government Intelligence," but in fact Alfred Piccaver was a superb operatic tenor. There is no other English-born tenor I can think of who even comes close. The reason his name is not much known now is largely that he was born 126 years ago, in 1883. He was born in Northern England, and emigrated at a young age, with his parents, to America. I believe the family name was Peckover, a fairly common northern English name. He spent his early youth in the US, and studied in New York. He never felt at home in America, however, and later became an English citizen. Another reason he is not well known now is that his career was almost exclusively in Vienna, where he made his debut in 1910 and was an instant success with the opera-loving Viennese. He would go on to sing over 25 years at the Staatsoper, enjoying an enormous success there. He was so fond of Vienna, and the Viennese way of life, that he essentially became a permanent resident. Gatti-Casazza, general manager of the Metropolotan Opera, reportedly offered him a very lucrative contract in the 1920's to sing at the Met, but he declined, simply because he was so happy in Vienna. The result of this snub was that he was never again offered an opportunity to sing at the Met. This might sound like a head-strong and foolish move on Piccaver's part (today it certainly would be) but one needs to remember that the Met was not the international house then that it is today. On the contrary, Vienna, a major European cultural center, would have out-ranked it.
Puccini had the opportunity to hear Piccaver sing, and was greatly impressed. He said that Piccaver was his "ideal Rodolfo." Extraordinary praise indeed for an English tenor from an Italian composer! Piccaver of course had to leave Vienna eventually, when the war clouds began to gather. He went back to England, and did a fair bit of singing and some teaching there. He returned to Vienna after the war, and died there in 1958. He was given a state funeral, so permanently had his memory been etched upon the Viennese.
One of the best recordings of Piccaver on the web is Floristan's beautiful and poignant aria from Beethoven's Fidelio, "Gott, welch dunkel hier!" In this selection you can hear vintage Piccaver: the style, musicianship, vocal fluidity and impeccable diction all combine to make it a real listening treat. This aria is exceptionally beautiful to begin with, and then declamatory at the end, when Floristan, in prison, sees a vision of Leonora beckoning him to Heaven. Many tenors ruin it by screaming at the end, as though they were singing Wagner instead of Beethoven. Not Piccaver. I consider this an almost perfect execution of this touching, superb piece of music. Notice the transition at 4:10 into the dramatic part of the piece. He never breaks the style, he never shouts, he simply sings, as though he were singing Mozart, which is a much better mode for singing Beethoven than any Italian dramatic kind of singing would be. The video has English subtitles, so it is easy to follow:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFiGtZEt2EM
Isn't that beautiful! He was already 45 years old in 1928, when this recording was made! The velvety smoothness of the singing (and he sang Wagner the same way) was a hallmark of the era and one of the things we have lost today. Piccaver dated to an era when people actually listened to lyrics, because much opera (Puccini, for example)just wasn't that old. Halls were smaller, orchestras were smaller, and the darker Italian singing, with its low-larynx, heavily covered, roaring sound, was not yet developed, and not much in vogue generally, and certainly not in Vienna. Piccaver's voice, like almost all the voices trained at that time, is "white," and employs an open kind of phonation which greatly facilitates pronunciation. It is not as easy to sing very high with this kind of voice, but Piccaver could, in his youth. He had a high C, which he used in Bohème. His recording of "O paradiso!" has two stellar B naturals in it.
Here is Piccaver as a man of about 61, singing a popular patriotic English song of World War II:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-7o4xEQCWs
Finally, here he is singing for wounded war veterans, in l932, in an ancient film. Here you can actually watch him as he sings "For You Alone."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhvbV-B58oQ
Yes, Virginia, there really is such a thing as an English opera tenor—very few, to be sure—but at least one great one!
Puccini had the opportunity to hear Piccaver sing, and was greatly impressed. He said that Piccaver was his "ideal Rodolfo." Extraordinary praise indeed for an English tenor from an Italian composer! Piccaver of course had to leave Vienna eventually, when the war clouds began to gather. He went back to England, and did a fair bit of singing and some teaching there. He returned to Vienna after the war, and died there in 1958. He was given a state funeral, so permanently had his memory been etched upon the Viennese.
One of the best recordings of Piccaver on the web is Floristan's beautiful and poignant aria from Beethoven's Fidelio, "Gott, welch dunkel hier!" In this selection you can hear vintage Piccaver: the style, musicianship, vocal fluidity and impeccable diction all combine to make it a real listening treat. This aria is exceptionally beautiful to begin with, and then declamatory at the end, when Floristan, in prison, sees a vision of Leonora beckoning him to Heaven. Many tenors ruin it by screaming at the end, as though they were singing Wagner instead of Beethoven. Not Piccaver. I consider this an almost perfect execution of this touching, superb piece of music. Notice the transition at 4:10 into the dramatic part of the piece. He never breaks the style, he never shouts, he simply sings, as though he were singing Mozart, which is a much better mode for singing Beethoven than any Italian dramatic kind of singing would be. The video has English subtitles, so it is easy to follow:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFiGtZEt2EM
Isn't that beautiful! He was already 45 years old in 1928, when this recording was made! The velvety smoothness of the singing (and he sang Wagner the same way) was a hallmark of the era and one of the things we have lost today. Piccaver dated to an era when people actually listened to lyrics, because much opera (Puccini, for example)just wasn't that old. Halls were smaller, orchestras were smaller, and the darker Italian singing, with its low-larynx, heavily covered, roaring sound, was not yet developed, and not much in vogue generally, and certainly not in Vienna. Piccaver's voice, like almost all the voices trained at that time, is "white," and employs an open kind of phonation which greatly facilitates pronunciation. It is not as easy to sing very high with this kind of voice, but Piccaver could, in his youth. He had a high C, which he used in Bohème. His recording of "O paradiso!" has two stellar B naturals in it.
Here is Piccaver as a man of about 61, singing a popular patriotic English song of World War II:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-7o4xEQCWs
Finally, here he is singing for wounded war veterans, in l932, in an ancient film. Here you can actually watch him as he sings "For You Alone."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhvbV-B58oQ
Yes, Virginia, there really is such a thing as an English opera tenor—very few, to be sure—but at least one great one!
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