Joseph Schmidt: A Great Tenor And A Terrible Tragedy

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

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

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!

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

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

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=dBmPNjpfyic



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=x5LWakZv-w0


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/watch?v=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.

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

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.