Jan Peerce: An American Original And A Sentimental Favorite

The saga of Jan Peerce’s career must leave a European singer wide-eyed with astonishment. Possessed of a great tenor voice, Peerce was a success story that happened not “because of,” but "in spite of.” I knew Peerce slightly, having had a long and pleasant conversation with him at a social event in North Carolina some years ago, and having been involved with him on several other professional matters. I always had the highest possible regard for him. He was an amazing man; one of the most hard working, serious and dedicated musicians you can imagine. He was both a popular and  ethnic triumph here in the United States, and an international singer of great reputation. His beginnings were certainly not auspicious, especially for a public performer. He was born Jacob Pinkus Perelmuth, in Brooklyn, in 1904, the poor immigrant son of Russian Jews. He was a short, stocky, plain man with very poor eyesight. He had no professional connections, and no money. As a boy, his mother saved pennies so that he could study the violin, and he became good enough to perform popular Jewish music in public. It was soon discovered, however, that he had an extraordinary tenor voice, and he abandoned his violin for vocal studies and was finally heard by enough people so that he was able to find a job, in 1932, at Radio City Music Hall, largely singing popular music and sentimental favorites. His story from there is easily consulted. There is a particularly good video biography on the web, nearly an hour long, narrated by his good friend Isaac Stern. It is in six videos, easy to follow. I strongly recommend it to anyone interested in this extraordinary tenor. His met debut was in 1941. He became particularly associated with Arturo Toscanini. It has been said by many that he was Toscanini’s favorite tenor, and it is not hard to see why.

He, like Lawrence Tibbett, Mario Lanza, Gigli, and others, made films, and Peerce also made popular recordings, many of them songs for the Yiddish audience. To fully understand Jan Peerce, it is necessary to view him both within the traditions of Yiddish vaudeville and cantorial singing. He was on TV and Radio a great deal during the 40’s and 50’s, and was very widely known and admired in America, and this in a time when it was not always easy to be an ethnic and publicly proud Jew. His cantorial work was extensive and excellent. I think it is important to hear him first singing a well known Italian song, to gauge the extraordinary quality of the voice. Here is the old warhorse "O sole mio," which every tenor, I suppose, feels compelled to sing from time to time:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qm1-mT4Sju0


Can anyone deny that this is a great tenor voice? I think not. I would go so far as to call it one of the outstanding voices of the 20th century. Peerce was remarkably consistent. I don’t believe I ever heard him when he was not in good voice. But this is only one side of this many-sided man. His recording of “The Bluebird of Happiness,” hopelessly corny as it would be today, was in fact the number one song on the hit parade in 1943. It is at this point that the listener coming to Peerce for the first time really must bear the traditions of Yiddish vaudeville in mind. ( If you don’t know it, just listen first to Sophie Tucker singing “A Yiddishe Mama.” It is on Youtube.) In “The Bluebird of Happiness,” the fractured English phrase “So be like I,” The long rolled R’s, The highly over-dramatic 19th century recitation is perhaps an acquired taste outside Yiddish theater:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmAVX2vdyc0


His recordings of cantorial music are excellent. His recording of the popular and stirring “A din toire mit Gott,” [A plea to God] is the best I have ever heard. An old rabbi challenges God, asking him what he has against the Jews, why he berates and abuses his people. “The English and the Italians say a king is a king, but I say that only God is king, etc..” This song is short…do please hear it to the end, which is extremely dramatic and shows the intensity and richness of the voice to an exceptional degree. The ending of this prayer will send chills up your spine:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3I-_ZzdFw4


Finally, to end, here is the international Peerce, under Arturo Toscanini, singing a passage from Verdi’s “Hymn of the Nations.” To save a little time here, you can move the cursor forward to 3:05, (as soon as that much has downloaded), which is where Peerce starts to sing. Prior to that is Toscanini looking most forbidding, and an orchestra and chorus looking most petrified:) Peerce was an exceptionally good musician and stylist, however, and Toscanini, whose violent temper was legendary, never, in his 17 year association with Peerce, said a single cross word to him. This tells us something.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9B70Ku5qSg


A man for all seasons, and a true American original!

Lawrence Tibbett: Almost Great

Some opera singers are called great, and one is never quite sure why. Others perform extraordinarily and are not singled out for great praise. One of the reasons many are called “great” is that hyperbole abounds in fine arts criticism, simply because music and dance directly engage the emotions, and a positive affective reaction to something is usually strongly defended. It is hard to say why we fall in love, and even harder to say with whom or with what. Lawrence Tibbett is an American original. Blessed with a magnificent voce—lyric, powerful, wide-ranging and remarkably flexible— he quickly rose to the top of the operatic world. At the time of his Met debut in 1923, he was a mere 26 years old. He sang an astonishingly wide range of roles, from the French, German and Italian repertoire, all to general acclaim. His ability to pronounce foreign languages was extraordinary. By the early 30’s he was appearing in movies, lighter operettas, and was commonly heard on the radio. I think one does not have to look much further than the wide degree of exposure in the popular media to answer the vexing question of why he is not called “the Great Tibbett.” When we look at other famous American baritones and basses—Merrill, Milnes, Warren, London—we do not associate them with musical comedy or film. In fact, I know from personal experience that Merrill went to the opposite extreme. Gordon MacRae once told me that Robert Merrill was constantly after him to have a go at opera, but MacRae said that he just never felt he could deal with the foreign languages. And, not coincidentally, he did not need the money. Robert Weede was in a similar situation. He did a Rigoletto, in his youth, that was widely praised, but one long stint in Most Happy Fella was sufficient for him to abandon opera altogether. Money is usually the reason. Opera is demanding and requires great discipline, a lot of travel, a decided gift for languages, and great physical stamina. After the proliferation of the popular media, especially the movies, it was just so much easier to make money, doing much less, that the temptation was enormous. But it can come at a terrible price, Mario Lanza being one of the most prominent tragic examples. But that is another story for another time.

There are a large number of videos of Tibbett on the Web, and it is easy to consult them. Figaro was one of his most acclaimed roles, and it is not hard to see why. The following video features both Tibbett and Milnes doing Largo al Factotum, and fortunately Tibbett is first. His section is only 4:20 long, and well worth listening to, because it is the essential Tibbett: many shades of color, comedy in the voice, excellent Italian (listen to the closed ‘e‘ on “verita.” Only someone who has studied Italian stage diction seriously will do this.) As for high notes, we hear an A natural and a final G. But it is the extraordinary flexibility that stands out. At 3:50 he does the very high-speed “Ah, bravo Figaro, bravo bravissimo….” faster than anyone I have ever heard, including Italians. An amazing recording:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v1cIIUPPUUw


Just a few lines from “Il Balen” will tell the story of Tibbett the singer of dark and heavy roles:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bteoTBV5AM



Some problems are beginning to show up here. It’s a wonderful rendition, but he is uncovering the voice and starting to belt some notes around f# and g natural.  Bad habit, and almost certainly related to all the singing in English he was doing. Covered vowels in English annoy the musical comedy audience. They sound foreign. I’m willing to bet that it was taking its toll on his opera singing. As was alcohol. Sadly, Tibbett was a two-fisted drinker of near legendary proportion. That does not conduce to longevity in opera. The Tibbett that most Americans knew, from the radio, can be heard here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I9ChiBPJqmg

That is simply beautiful. Such vocal talent! I wonder if anyone noticed the open F natural at 1:29. That’s what you have to do in English. It will destroy an opera voice eventually, but there is no choice if you are going to make a serious career of singing to a popular English speaking audience. You will lose them altogether if you don’t open up and belt the notes out at that level.

There are examples of Tibbett in movies on the web also. They are perhaps best avoided. His movie acting, like that of most American and Italian opera singers, ranged from the unimpressive downward to the execrable. Opera singing is simply too expansive an art; film is merciless to the degree it narrows in on the smallest gestures. Movie actors act mainly with their eyes….anything else quickly becomes too broad. Tibbett was hardly the only one to embarrass himself on film. Lanza’s acting was laughable, as was Gigli’s. Today we have the dread example of Anna Netrebko, a lovely woman with a lovely voice, and next to no discretion as far as presenting herself in public.

No one questions Lawrence Tibbett’s talent or natural endowments—they were extraordinary—but sometimes even a great voice and stellar musicianship aren’t quite enough. There is an ineffable quality most often called “star quality” that has to be there for the reputation to endure, and it very often revolves around the issue of discretion.

Enrico Caruso: The Greatest Tenor or The First Media Triumph?

I bought my first Caruso record when I was about 17 years old, lo these many years ago. I still remember it: Celeste Aida. It was a very large double-sided 78. I pretty much played the grooves off it. In the intervening time, I have, to the best of my knowledge, heard every available Caruso recording, and there are hundreds. Additionally, I personally knew two people who heard him at his zenith, around 1918. After all that, and uncountable discussions on the subject, I cannot answer the question I pose in this piece. I can raise it; possibly even suggest an answer, but I cannot answer it. As in the case of Chaliapin, those who are called great in the world of operatic singing usually escape analysis, by virtue of the title “great,” bestowed upon them by generations of opera lovers. Caruso is commonly known as the “Great Caruso.” And for most people, that is enough said. Disagreement is neither encouraged nor appreciated. He became a generic brand name for “Opera Singer,” so that easy and common praise for an aspiring young male singer became “a little Caruso,” “another Caruso,” “the new Caruso,” and so on. Additionally, Vesti la Giubba became his calling card, associated with him by almost everyone in America at the time. Ordinary individuals, with little sophistication or knowledge of classical music at all, nevertheless came to know the name of Caruso, and imagined him portraying the tragic clown. It was a name they could drop with confidence, if the occasion arose, being assured of no more challenging a response than an acquiescent nod of agreement. Here is the Caruso calling card:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_M6DcqRjfCI


Certainly a great dramatic voice; heavy, intense and driven. A voice for the theater. He had conviction, and that equals style, and the style is verismo, writ large. From the very beginning days of his general fame, to challenge this in any way was heresy, and this has to do with the audience. Here is a magnificent video that, for me, tells the story of Caruso very directly. I urge you to listen to it all the way through; it is only 5 minutes. It is largely commentary on Caruso, the most interesting being the comments of the elderly gentlemen in Luigi Rossi’s Grocery store, explaining Caruso’s success in their own words and from their own point of view, which I will not characterize:

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


Whatever else one may say about this, it does catch the mood of what verismo meant to these men in Luigi’s Grocery store, and how it put paid to the whole style that preceded it, (bel canto). It is interesting that they mention Bonci and Di Lucia. This is the popular audience I have spoken of on other occasions. The earlier singing did not appeal to them so much as the new verismo did. For these men, Caruso was a hero, the Italian boy made good, one of them, man of the people, who gave highly dramatic and easily understandable presentations on the stage, and so on. The enthusiasm spread to a large American audience coming to opera perhaps for the first time, and the imprint—via New York—of the Caruso phenomenon was a lasting one, and it was characterized by the kind of immigrant enthusiasm evidenced in the video. In a way, this is a shame, because it contributed in part to the stereotyping of the Italian operatic tenor in America that survives to this day (and was exploited rather calculatingly by Luciano Pavarotti.) We all know the stereotype: extrovert, (or sextrovert), a fat man with huge appetites, eccentric, with an extremely high voice that is so powerful it shatters glass—etc. ad nauseam. One must be fair. This silly image is not an Italian creation; this is an American reaction to something that had not previously been part of the American experience, and was not well understood by many. Further, it was a reaction made at the most superficial level possible. For Italians, these singers were just part of their theater and their music. Caruso did not ask for this, nor did he consciously cultivate it or deserve it. He was in fact a simple, decent, very hard working man with a great commercial voice who earned his reputation on the stage, giving a truly huge number of performances in his life (hundreds at the Met alone.) He was exhausted by 1920, when he was only 47 years old, and had made plans with his wife Dorothy to retire. The problem for Caruso was that he rose to fame at a time when there was something like a planetary conjunction of technological and societal forces. He almost single-handedly established the fortunes of the RCA Victor Red Seal division. People in Kansas who knew nothing about opera knew his name and very probably had a record of his, along with one of John McCormack and Amelita Galli-Curci. He appeared in a film (his acting wasn’t all that bad, actually); he came along as verismo was becoming a serious aesthetic school of opera performance, and, perhaps most importantly, he came along not only at the time of the big Italian immigration to America, but also the rise of an upper middle class in America, which wanted to participate in the classical arts, and was willing to embrace opera as an exotic plant imported into America from Italy. So powerful and long lasting was this influence that New York opera is only recently beginning to disengage itself from it.

My opinion? Given my personal attraction to refinement and elegance in the fine arts, my love of bel canto opera and classical ballet, it has never been easy to be very enthusiastic about Caruso’s musicianship or performance style. Yes, I know….a long time ago, bad recordings, and so on. But they aren’t that bad. Caruso had almost no education, musical or otherwise. His vocal refinements were close to non-existent, and, as a result, his singing is monochromatic. His single mode is forte singing, in spite of several Italian songs such as Vaghissima Sembianza, which he sang mezza voce. One of the people I knew, who had heard Caruso about the time of the First World War, commented simply on the power of the voice. This was a common reaction, often found in reviews of the time. Now, on the positive side, it cannot be denied that he possessed a great voice; largely untutored, but great. He was essentially a Bb tenor, who could occasionally come up with a very powerful B. Whether he ever attempted a high C cannot be demonstrated because, sadly, many of the recordings were doctored to make the voice seem higher, “Studenti udite’ from Giordano’s Germania being one of the most notorious examples, recently corrected, thank God. Another was Di Quella Pira, which, once adjusted downward until the characteristic sound of his voice is in evidence, proves to be possibly a B, and probably a Bb, which would be a full tone and a half down. There are those who question whether Caruso was in fact a real tenor, or a high baritone. I think the truth is that he was simply the progenitor of the dramatic tenor; essentially a Bb tenor with an enormously powerful voice and a very convincing melodramatic style of singing, quite popular at the time.

Mainly, he was the Great Caruso.

Vocal Curiosities: Yma Sumac and Ivan Rebroff

It is very hard to say what the most ancient expressive activities are. Whether dance preceded song, or whether they grew up together (the most likely thing) is hard to say. One thing is certain—there is a very wide and interesting range of human vocal activity, whether it be song, speech, or the imitation of sounds. Opera buffs are of course interested in the most refined and perhaps extreme forms of singing, and therefore tend to have a natural kind of curiosity about truly exotic voices, those which far exceed the normal usable ranges of even virtuoso singers. Two such individuals, who excited a lively interest in the last century because of the extraordinary range of their voices, were Yma Sumac and Ivan Rebroff. Most will know of Yma Sumac, who attained a rather extraordinary level of fame for her truly exotic singing and characterizations. Her voice covered an unheard of range of 5 octaves. She could sing from male baritone to a level of sound that was no longer truly human, and can only be compared to the characteristic sounds of birds. In her case, “songbird” was more a literal than a symbolic description. She was in fact a Peruvian soprano with a unique voice. What added to her fame—perhaps notoriety would be a better word—was a possibly ill-considered cultivation of the exotic, to the point of permitting herself to be depicted as descended from Inca royalty, or being a “girl of the jungle,” etc. It gave her an initial kind of fame, but it also raised eyebrows a bit. The following video shows her at her most characteristic, and the power to startle is certainly evident. I would call your attention especially to 2:50, when she is leaning against a tree. That sound is HER! I had to play it twice before I would believe it. Be sure to listen to the video all the way through. It is not long, but it is amazing:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KprLT-JxPY&NR=1


I do not know of another like her. Less well known, at least in America, is the voice of Ivan Rebroff. In spite of his Russian name, he was born Hans Rolf Rippert,in Germany, and was what I would call a "stage" Russian, or a “professional” Russian. He claimed Russian ancestry, but his Russian is thickly accented and not very cultivated. He was, however, a fine folk entertainer and quite popular. He sang into his 70's and made a great deal of money. He was a very big man, and dressed in (again) exotic clothing, to accentuate his size, perhaps making him seem more “Russian.” It was a show business act, and a good one. Like Sumac, he approached the 5 octave spread also. He could sing a legitimate basso profundo, and I have heard his recording (I’m not kidding about this) of the Mad Scene from Lucia di Lammermoor! In the following video, you will hear his range, as he sings from deep bass to coloratura soprano. Again, be sure to listen to the very end, because that’s where the vocal fireworks are:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOK9LusxZCc&feature=related


Certainly a startling effect, verging on cognitive dissonance; in this case, because of the size and virility of the singer.

It may not be high art, but there is no law that says it has to be! It's musical entertainment, and very engaging. Both he and Sumac were very popular singers—their effect was mainly to startle and amaze, and in that they were successful. They both had good careers. While they both surprise with their astonishing voices, it may be that Yma Sumac’s voice was the more astonishing of the two. What detracted a bit from Sumac, at least in my opinion, was the somewhat bizarre persona cultivated for her by her husband, who had a band of his own, and toured with her. In a word, he overdid it, and she was sometimes ridiculed, which is sad because I sense a lot of talent there that was never developed. In Rebroff’s case, he simply imitated opera and choral traditions, to flesh out his persona, which was a bit of all things for all people. He was German, imitating a Russian, and lived in Greece. But with him it was all an act, and a remarkably good one. He and his audience were fond of each other, and he played it to the hilt, and more power to him! He was a fine entertainer. Yma Sumac’s case is more complicated. She evokes, at least in me, a kind of sadness, a kind of regret, tinged with emotion. I feel there was much more there than we were permitted to know about.

The Story of Giuliano Bernardi: Brilliance And Tragedy

I received an email early last week from Mr. Paolo Bernardi, who sent me some links to videos of his father, Giuliano Bernardi, a brilliant singer. He told me the story of his father’s short and tragic life, which I relay to you in its essence, and in Paolo’s own words, slightly edited:

“Thanks, Edmund, for your kind words. I’m glad you appreciated my father’s voice. As you can see, I posted both baritone and tenor arias because my father, after graduation from the Conservatory of Pesaro, made his debut in 1968 [as a baritone] in the role of Rigoletto, in Mantova. He sang baritone in the most important Italian theaters, in operas such as Un Ballo in Maschera, I Pagliacci, La Boheme, La Traviata, [and] Rigoletto, always with great success, until the end of 1973, when he decided to become a dramatic tenor, [owing to the fact that] some people—and in particular his friend Pavarotti—had advised him to change because the potential as tenor was really high. With the help of Maestro Pola he made his debut as a tenor in 1975, in Macbeth. After that, he sang only two operas in Italy and Spain—Il Trovatore and La Traviata. He was preparing Otello for a performance in Spain, and was getting ready for his American debut [Chicago in 1977, and the Met in 1978/79] when an automobile accident ended his career and his life at age 37.”

This is a very sad story indeed, as I am sure you will agree when you hear this extraordinary but ill-fated singer. First as a baritone:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0KtZNswcFo&feature=email


I honestly believe that this is one of the most beautiful renditions of Di Provenza that I have ever heard. The phrasing, the musicianship, the brilliant top—the presentation in general—is just wonderful. [Yes, I know…arms and gestures, but he is young here. In time, and in America especially, he would have learned what to do with his arms in a concert.) And witness the reaction of the audience. They are well aware of the quality of what they have just heard. Whether Italian, Spanish, Portuguese or French, you cannot fool the Latins when it comes to opera. It’s their music, ultimately, and they only applaud what they know is good. [And God help you if it isn’t!]

Several years later, Bernardi had studied tenor singing, and I offer this example:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fb7mHirJmCI&feature=related


I also listened to the Di Quella Pira, which, if the recording is running at the right speed, was sung down one half tone. It was very, very good. I cannot tell from a few clips, but I assume that he was a B natural tenor. There is nothing wrong with that; many tenors take Di Quella Pira down a half tone, as they do the Boheme aria and also the Faust aria. Now the big question: was Mr. Bernardi a true tenor, or a true baritone, or both? The few arias posted show him as brilliant in all the pieces he sings. At least two of the comments by viewers suggest that he was a TRUE lyric baritone—that he sang the way a baritone should sing. Of course, Pavarotti’s advice was also true—there is more economic potential as a dramatic tenor. I do not pretend to have an answer based on a few examples. I suppose the question I would ask would be whether it is better—and potentially healthier—to be a baritone with a high top or a dramatic tenor with a reliable top of Bb or B. I think it is important to remember that Mr. Bernardi was just 37 at the time of his death. Could he have sustained that top through his forties and into his fifties? I must admit I am not 100% sure that he could. Perhaps he could, but singing the big heavy tenor roles (Calaf, Otello, Chenier, Don Alvaro, Rhadames) can take a brutal toll on a tenor voice over time. And there was of course some mighty competition at the time, largely in the person of Giuseppe Giacomini and Plácido Domingo. Given the tendency of the voice to darken over time, a lyric baritone with a high top has a greater longevity potential than a dramatic tenor putting ever more stress on an already slightly short top.

This is of course all a moot point in this case. What the future might have been is a guessing game. As it is, it can only be said with certainty that here was brilliance and tragedy.

Thank you, Paolo, for sharing this story with us.

Georges Thill: Exemplar of French Bel Canto

The French are deservedly famous for their aggressive cultivation of high culture and high style, and I for one lament the fact that we do not hear more French opera today, and especially that we do not hear great French tenors such as Georges Thill. (Alagna deserves his own review, later.) Many myths exist about the difficulties of singing in French, and they are just that--myths. They come largely from Italian singers who cannot make the sounds properly ("le" always seems to come out "lay," etc.) or English-speaking singers who try too hard to make the sounds, and nearly choke in the process. In general, for some reason, English-speaking sopranos (e.g. Renée Fleming) do much better than the men. Listening to Georges Thill provides proof positive that French can be sung very beautifully indeed. Thill's training, like that of so many great tenors of the early 20th century, was founded upon bel canto techniques, in his case in the person of the great Italian tenor Fernando de Lucia, whom Thill greatly admired. Thill recalled, in an interview that can be seen on Youtube, that de Lucía insisted that “in order to sing well, one must open the mouth and PRO-NOUN-CE CLEAR-LY! Which he certainly did. The result was pure, easy, open phonation, only slightly covered across the passagio and into the upper register. He soared with consummate ease into the stratospheric reaches of the high Db, often (but not invariably) using mixed voice in the extreme upper register, when he felt that the tradition and the style not only permitted but required it. The following clip features him in rehearsal, and you have a chance to hear his high Db, an amazing, nearly open sound, very different from the heavily covered and dark Italian sounds so prevalent today. In the interview that follows, in French, he talks about his study with De Lucia, and the latter’s insistence on opening the mouth widely and pronouncing clearly. The section after that shows him singing----can you believe?—Wagner! Bel canto only refers to a vocal production technique—its application can be as universal as taste permits.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qyZm-I-M7gY


Thill’s voice is very much a French phenomenon.  Some, accustomed only to Italian singing, will sometimes say that the color is too “white,” or that the voice is “shrill.” I do not accept these judgments. Singing styles and vocal coloration are, in the last analysis, national—in exactly the same way that balletic style or the determination of female beauty is national. Comparisons become odious. The style must fit the language, as well as the national taste and aesthetic tradition.

The Great Chaliapin

Fyodor Chaliapin’s fame is world-wide and unquestioned. Curiously, as sometimes happens in the case of the great names, analysis of the greatness is sometimes scant. A clue, in the case of Chaliapin, is that the one thing everyone agrees upon is that he was a very great actor. A vocal coach, whom I knew many years ago, had seen Chaliapin in Paris in the twenties, and told me that he was the greatest actor he had ever seen, before or since. If you think about it a moment, that is something not too commonly said about opera singers! I think it is truer in the case of the Russians, however, than of almost any other nation. The Russians, at least since the beginning of the 20th century, have tended, following Hellenists, to view the theater as the poetic activity most suited to the restoration of aesthetic life’s unified wholeness, as was the case, it was thought, in ancient Greece. Perhaps as a result of this intellectual prodding, the essential qualities of theatrical drama came to dominate both opera and ballet. Lyricism and great tragic acting come together, for example, in Russian historical operas such as Boris Godunov, in which Chaliapin was simply nonpareil. I have not been able to find a film version of Chaliapin as Boris Godunov, but there is a good recording, and there are good films of other theatrical pieces, so perhaps by putting the two together, we can get an idea. In the famous death scene that follows, there are several things to listen for, one of them a curiosity. At one point, Boris’ son comes forward, and you can hear him singing “padre mio…,” from which I take it that this was a recording made at the Met! Chaliapin’s remarkable exclamatory singing—or simple exclamation—can be heard around 3:00 into the clip, as he says “Ya Tsar!,” (I am the Tsar!) then “Bozhe!” (God!) and finally “Cmyert!” (Death!”) It’s bone-chilling. At the very end, as you hear him falling down on the floor, he says “Bozhe! Prosteetye! Prosteetye! Proste---t-----“ (“God! Forgive me….forgive me, for-give…….”) You can leave the video at 3:20 (He’s dead by then :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EICjuiPJzZI&eurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww%2Evideospider%2Etv%2FVideos%2FDetail%2F40821147%2Easpx&feature=player_embedded


It does not take great imagination to see what the power of that presentation must have been. We can get a very good idea indeed from the filmed version of the end of Don Quixote. In this clip, Don Quixote, exhausted and out of his mind, having chased phantoms around the land, lost in his reverie of reborn chivalry, is brought home to “begin a new life,” but of course it is to die, his dreams shattered, his books burned, and his despair total. When he begins to talk, and especially when he begins to sing, in this clip, you will need to turn the sound up. The words he says, before he sings, are: “I deceived you, Sancho…there is no island for you.” There are English subtitles, mercifully, because he is singing in English, but very thickly accented. He only sang Russian and French well. Here you can actually see the great tragedian in action (and the line between tragedy and melodrama was almost non-existent in the performing arts at this time):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6NGCpGD_EQ&feature=related


It’s almost unbearable to watch. Can anyone deny that this was a very great tragedian?

As to the voice per se, I can only end by saying that it was a perfect instrument for projecting his acting. He was, in the truest and best sense of the word, a singing actor.