The last week or so I've spent in Heaven (at least during the Prologo), listening to some of the complete recordings of this fascinating work. Some operas have been really lucky on disc, and this is certainly one of them. Because I'd been remembering Norman Treigle so vividly, I started with his EMI set. He was a newcomer to international opera, but his conductor was Julius Rudel, who'd led many performances of this work with Treigle at NYCO; they breathe together, and the music breathes a unique atmosphere with them. The young Domingo, who spent some of his early career at NYCO, with Caballe as Margarita--and Thomas Allen as the only baritone Wagner I can find in any of these sets (many of the rest feature "the prince of comprimarios", Piero de Palma, in that role) provide excellent support. No disrespect to de Palma--Allen's the best, although the score clearly calls for a tenor Wagner.
I listened to several others: Siepi, a suave and very well-mannered Devil for Decca, with Mario del Monaco (not so well-mannered) and Renata Tebaldi, under Tulio Serafin; Ghiaurov, a little past his prime but still very impressive, supported by Pavarotti and Freni, with Caballe again, as Helen of Troy this time. A strangely cut version (EMI again, with no Helen of Troy at all, but many other inexplicable cuts as well--were these traditional theatrical cuts, or imposed on this recording for cost-saving reasons?)under the venerable Vittorio Gui, starring Boris Christoff; and one of the strongest sets, the 1932 La Scala recording under Lorenzo Molajoli. Starring the prodigious Nazareno de Angelis in the title role, the wonderfully intense Mafalda Favero, chest tones amply displayed, as Margarita, and the almost-forgotten Antonio Melandri as one of the finest interpreters of Faust. What a star he'd be today, but in the 30's, his competition--Gigli, Pertile, Martinelli--was overwhelming, and their recordings have almost erased his memory. He's an excellent Alvaro in a complete "Forza", too. From the early 50's comes a Cetra recording, remastered badly, squelching the overtones and draining excitement, with the "black bass" voice of Giulio Neri taunting Marcella Pobbe and Ferruccio Tagliavini. This set is an unfortunate example of an old recording "improved" very nearly to death.
I'll return to these sets soon for a closer look at a work that's provoked a very wide range of critical reactions. But for now, I'd like to point listeners to about 15 minutes of *live* recordings from Covent Garden, made in 1928, just after the invention of the microphone made such things possible (Col. Mapleson's much earlier experiments aside): Fyodor Chaliapin's "Ave Signor," and the climax of the Walpurgisnacht scene, featuring the bass interpolating cries of "Saboe, Saboe!" It's difficult to imagine any conductor, or stage director(!) today allowing a star such liberties; but Chaliapin was a law unto himself, and in these ancient echoes we can really hear what he was about. It's outrageous--and very, very exciting.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A Wonderful New Recording of Bellini's "La Sonnambula"
Today I listened to the new complete recording--the first peformed on period instruments and at 19th Century pitch--of Bellini's wonderful opera, "La Sonnambula," starring Cecila Bartoli, Juan Diego Florez and Ildebrando Arcangelo, magnificently conducted by Allesandro de Marchi. This is an opera that's fared very well on record, but even with very strong competition (Callas in multiple celebrated recordings, Sutherland, the wonderful Mariella Devia, Scotto, and others including, just last year, Natalie Dessay) this new recording is a vocal and musical feast. It's also beautifully produced, with an excellent essay and lots of beautiful (shopped) photographs. I'll write at greater length about the glories of this set, but if you've been considering buying it, don't wait: it's great. I thought I knew this fascinating work very well, but I learned a lot from this thoroughly enjoyable, meticulously prepared recording, and I'm sure it has much more to teach me.
It reinforces my strong belief that Bellini is the equal of any opera composer (a view shared by Richard Wagner, among many others, who wrote an additional aria for Oroveso for a production he conducted of "Norma" in his young years).
It's saddening that the state of the classical recording business in our troubled times makes it unlikely that many more recordings of this quality will emerge--but that's another story. Here's a set for the ages.
It reinforces my strong belief that Bellini is the equal of any opera composer (a view shared by Richard Wagner, among many others, who wrote an additional aria for Oroveso for a production he conducted of "Norma" in his young years).
It's saddening that the state of the classical recording business in our troubled times makes it unlikely that many more recordings of this quality will emerge--but that's another story. Here's a set for the ages.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Baltimore Opera, the House that Rosa Ponselle Built, Goes Dark
Having just relived my first opera performance, at Baltimore's Lyric Theater, I learned with deep sadness that the Baltimore Opera is bankrupt. After a run of performances of Bellini's "Norma", with the distinguished Armenian soprano Hasmik Papian (b. 1961) in the title role and Ruth Ann Swenson (b. 1960) singing her first Adalgisa, the company has canceled the rest of the season; Rossini's "The Barber of Seville" and Gershwin's "Porgy and Bess" had been scheduled. Originally known as the Baltimore Civic Opera, the company was founded in 1950 under the aegis of the American soprano Rosa Ponselle (1897 - 1981), one of opera's legendary figures.
An Italian-American from New Jersey, Ponselle (originally Ponzillo) was discovered by Enrico Caruso (1873-1921). The most celebrated singer of his time, Caruso had heard about Rosa, who was headlining in the vaudeville circuit with her sister Carmela as "Those Tailored Girls". The Met was mounting Verdi's "La Forza del Destino" for the tenor, an opera with a prodigiously difficult soprano part, and they didn't have a Leonora. (In the deeply superstitious world of Italian opera, "Forza" is feared much as Shakepeare's "Macbeth" is feared on the English-speaking stage.) Caruso talked his nervous friend Giulio Gatti-Casazza, the general manager of the Met, into taking a very big chance on a totally green, 21-year-old girl. After several auditions, Gatti finally said yes: they were desperate. After intensive coaching, she made her triumphant operatic debut (1918) opposite Caruso, singing the very demanding role of Leonora in the Met's first staging of that dark, sprawling, and possibly cursed work. This young American girl from vaudeville, who'd never been to Europe, was hailed as "a Caruso in petticoats". She rose quickly, against the most formidable rivals, to become Prima Donna Assoluta of the Met, and she reigned until she walked away at the pinnacle of her career 19 years later. Caruso, who was dead at 48 just three years later, had discovered the greatest "Italian" dramatic soprano of the 20th century, and, by common consent, the greatest on records.
She sang rarely in Europe: a handful of performances in London, where she was greeted with the kind of enthusiasm British audiences rarely exhibit, a few in Italy where she aroused frank delirium. She conquered the world, made uneasy peace with her terrible stage fright, and returned home to the Met. Her most important role was "Norma", the final work performed in Baltimore this month by the company she helped found. Norma is considered the most taxing role in the Italian repertoire; Lilli Lehmann (1848-1929), one of the most important singers of the late 19th century and later a distinguished teacher -- her pupils included Geraldine Farrar (1882 -1967) and Olive Fremstad (1871-1951) -- declared that it was harder to sing one "Norma" performance than the entire role of Brunnehilde, who sings, at enormous length and over far heavier orchestration, in "Die Walkure", "Siegfried", and "Die Gotterdammerung", about 13 hours in performance over three nights. Lehmann was world famous in both roles. I'm inclined to accept her judgment.
Ponselle's repertoire included Rachel in "La Juive", opposite the doomed Caruso, in his last new role; Santuzza in "Cavalleria Rusticana"; the title role in her friend Romano Romani's "Fedra", which she created; and Spontini's "La Vestale". She triumphed in Verdi's "Ernani", "Aida", "Don Carlo", "La Traviata", and "Il Trovatore"; Montemezzi's "L'Amore dei tre re"; Meyerbeer's "L'Africaine"; Giordano's "Andrea Chenier"; Ponchielli's "La Gioconda"; Spontini's "La Vestale"; and as Rezia in Weber's "Oberon". In her debut season she also sang Carmelita in "The Legend", by one Joseph Carl Breil. She held this work in such contempt that she later incinerated the score, noting tartly that the opera "would stink up a cat box". She was opera's greatest prima donna, but she was a tough girl from vaudeville, too. Her last performances were on tour as Carmen in Bizet's masterpiece (two live performances exist in sound) but when Olin Downes, critic of the New York Times, heaped scorn on her interpretation, Ponselle was enraged -- and hurt. Then Edward Johnson, Gatti's successor as head of the Met, refused to stage Cilea's "Adriana Lecouvreur" for her, and she walked away from the Met. Her career in opera, at its peak in 1937, was over.
Rosa moved to Green Spring Valley just outside of Baltimore, where she built a grand house, Villa Pace, the name inspired by the aria "Pace, pace mio Dio", (Peace, peace, my God") Leonora's climactic aria in the last act of "Forza". She remained active for many years as a radio artist. Rosa Ponselle is commonly considered one of the greatest voices on records. Many of her recordings (she recorded steadily throughout the 20's and 30's) have never been out of print. Her finest sides are among the undisputed glories of the phonograph. As late as 1954, Ponselle recorded songs and arias after RCA brought their equipment to Villa Pace; these recordings reveal a magnificent, dark, ruby-colored voice, still intact.
Ponselle's presence lured many famous singers to the Baltimore Opera, more for the chance to be coached by her than for their modest fees. Budgets were always tight, and many Baltimore Opera productions were graced by furniture from Villa Pace. James Morris (b. 1947), a Baltimore-born protege of Ponselle, and for many years the world's most important interpreter of the role of Wotan in Wagner's Ring Cycle, made his debut as Angelotti in Puccini's "Tosca". A little later I heard his role debut as Sparafucile in Verdi's "Rigoletto". Another young singer was making his role debut in the title part in that production: the splendid American baritone Sherrill Milnes (b. 1935), who prepared the role with Ponselle. Among many other famous singers, Rosa coached the Bulgarian soprano Raina Kaibaivanska (b. 1934) for Lyric Theater performances in the role of Puccini's Manon Lescaut. Kaibaivanska, a very good actress, had an important European career; she made few commercial recordings, but she can be heard in a number of exciting live performances.
Until shortly before her death, Rosa took a curtain call after every Baltimore Opera performance. Wearing a black floor-length brocaded caftan, looking every inch the Diva, she was helped to center stage, a strapping young usher on either side holding the grand old lady up. With a still-dazzling smile, she blew kisses to the audience, as love and devotion washed over her. "Applause is the most wonderful sound, just like rain on the roof." The Lyric Theater, built in 1894, was visited by countless great opera singers. None was greater than Rosa Ponselle, who built a company there that nourished many more greats ones. This week, after 58 years, the Baltimore Opera went dark. It's my heartfelt wish that someday, the lights will come back up.
An Italian-American from New Jersey, Ponselle (originally Ponzillo) was discovered by Enrico Caruso (1873-1921). The most celebrated singer of his time, Caruso had heard about Rosa, who was headlining in the vaudeville circuit with her sister Carmela as "Those Tailored Girls". The Met was mounting Verdi's "La Forza del Destino" for the tenor, an opera with a prodigiously difficult soprano part, and they didn't have a Leonora. (In the deeply superstitious world of Italian opera, "Forza" is feared much as Shakepeare's "Macbeth" is feared on the English-speaking stage.) Caruso talked his nervous friend Giulio Gatti-Casazza, the general manager of the Met, into taking a very big chance on a totally green, 21-year-old girl. After several auditions, Gatti finally said yes: they were desperate. After intensive coaching, she made her triumphant operatic debut (1918) opposite Caruso, singing the very demanding role of Leonora in the Met's first staging of that dark, sprawling, and possibly cursed work. This young American girl from vaudeville, who'd never been to Europe, was hailed as "a Caruso in petticoats". She rose quickly, against the most formidable rivals, to become Prima Donna Assoluta of the Met, and she reigned until she walked away at the pinnacle of her career 19 years later. Caruso, who was dead at 48 just three years later, had discovered the greatest "Italian" dramatic soprano of the 20th century, and, by common consent, the greatest on records.
She sang rarely in Europe: a handful of performances in London, where she was greeted with the kind of enthusiasm British audiences rarely exhibit, a few in Italy where she aroused frank delirium. She conquered the world, made uneasy peace with her terrible stage fright, and returned home to the Met. Her most important role was "Norma", the final work performed in Baltimore this month by the company she helped found. Norma is considered the most taxing role in the Italian repertoire; Lilli Lehmann (1848-1929), one of the most important singers of the late 19th century and later a distinguished teacher -- her pupils included Geraldine Farrar (1882 -1967) and Olive Fremstad (1871-1951) -- declared that it was harder to sing one "Norma" performance than the entire role of Brunnehilde, who sings, at enormous length and over far heavier orchestration, in "Die Walkure", "Siegfried", and "Die Gotterdammerung", about 13 hours in performance over three nights. Lehmann was world famous in both roles. I'm inclined to accept her judgment.
Ponselle's repertoire included Rachel in "La Juive", opposite the doomed Caruso, in his last new role; Santuzza in "Cavalleria Rusticana"; the title role in her friend Romano Romani's "Fedra", which she created; and Spontini's "La Vestale". She triumphed in Verdi's "Ernani", "Aida", "Don Carlo", "La Traviata", and "Il Trovatore"; Montemezzi's "L'Amore dei tre re"; Meyerbeer's "L'Africaine"; Giordano's "Andrea Chenier"; Ponchielli's "La Gioconda"; Spontini's "La Vestale"; and as Rezia in Weber's "Oberon". In her debut season she also sang Carmelita in "The Legend", by one Joseph Carl Breil. She held this work in such contempt that she later incinerated the score, noting tartly that the opera "would stink up a cat box". She was opera's greatest prima donna, but she was a tough girl from vaudeville, too. Her last performances were on tour as Carmen in Bizet's masterpiece (two live performances exist in sound) but when Olin Downes, critic of the New York Times, heaped scorn on her interpretation, Ponselle was enraged -- and hurt. Then Edward Johnson, Gatti's successor as head of the Met, refused to stage Cilea's "Adriana Lecouvreur" for her, and she walked away from the Met. Her career in opera, at its peak in 1937, was over.
Rosa moved to Green Spring Valley just outside of Baltimore, where she built a grand house, Villa Pace, the name inspired by the aria "Pace, pace mio Dio", (Peace, peace, my God") Leonora's climactic aria in the last act of "Forza". She remained active for many years as a radio artist. Rosa Ponselle is commonly considered one of the greatest voices on records. Many of her recordings (she recorded steadily throughout the 20's and 30's) have never been out of print. Her finest sides are among the undisputed glories of the phonograph. As late as 1954, Ponselle recorded songs and arias after RCA brought their equipment to Villa Pace; these recordings reveal a magnificent, dark, ruby-colored voice, still intact.
Ponselle's presence lured many famous singers to the Baltimore Opera, more for the chance to be coached by her than for their modest fees. Budgets were always tight, and many Baltimore Opera productions were graced by furniture from Villa Pace. James Morris (b. 1947), a Baltimore-born protege of Ponselle, and for many years the world's most important interpreter of the role of Wotan in Wagner's Ring Cycle, made his debut as Angelotti in Puccini's "Tosca". A little later I heard his role debut as Sparafucile in Verdi's "Rigoletto". Another young singer was making his role debut in the title part in that production: the splendid American baritone Sherrill Milnes (b. 1935), who prepared the role with Ponselle. Among many other famous singers, Rosa coached the Bulgarian soprano Raina Kaibaivanska (b. 1934) for Lyric Theater performances in the role of Puccini's Manon Lescaut. Kaibaivanska, a very good actress, had an important European career; she made few commercial recordings, but she can be heard in a number of exciting live performances.
Until shortly before her death, Rosa took a curtain call after every Baltimore Opera performance. Wearing a black floor-length brocaded caftan, looking every inch the Diva, she was helped to center stage, a strapping young usher on either side holding the grand old lady up. With a still-dazzling smile, she blew kisses to the audience, as love and devotion washed over her. "Applause is the most wonderful sound, just like rain on the roof." The Lyric Theater, built in 1894, was visited by countless great opera singers. None was greater than Rosa Ponselle, who built a company there that nourished many more greats ones. This week, after 58 years, the Baltimore Opera went dark. It's my heartfelt wish that someday, the lights will come back up.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Remembering Norman Treigle
The first opera I saw in the theater, in 1967, was Mussorgsky's “Boris Godunov”, in English, performed by the Baltimore Lyric Opera. This was the Rimsky-Korsakov “orchestration” – actually Rimsky's changes to his dead friend's opera go a lot further than that word suggests – since Mussorgsky's original was considered too crude and amateurish to perform until quite recently. The sets, stark, stylized and very effective, were by Ming Cho Lee, and Leo Mueller conducted. My friend Tristan Rhodes, who later worked with Herbert von Karajan at the Salzburg Festival, was the assistant conductor. The stage director was Tito Cappobianco. Helen Vanni, who Like Mueller, taught at the Peabody Conservatory, sang Marina. The distinguished American tenor Brian Sullivan, then near the end of his career, was Grigori; Raymond Wolanski sang Pimen, and Spiro Malas, Varlaam. I don't have a very clear memory of their performances, although they were all fine singers and competent actors, but I will never forget the Boris: the New Orleans-born Norman Treigle (1927-1975).
Treigle was the epitome of the “singing actor,” a mesmerizing stage animal. Tall and thin, gaunt almost, Treigle made the guilt-stricken Tsar, one of the greatest roles in opera, absolutely believable. Majestic in the Coronation scene, he inspired true pity and terror in the Clock Scene; when the hallucinating Boris saw the murdered Tsarevitch's ghost appear upstage left, the whole audience shifted audibly, staring upstage trying to see the child's ghost that Treigle made you believe must really be there. By the time Treigle collapsed and fell head first down the flight of stairs from the throne in the Death Scene, as 3,000 people gasped out loud, not only was the fate of Boris Godunov sealed, mine was too. I've been to the opera hundreds of times since that great performance, but I never saw Norman Treigle again.
After the performance I wrote him a fan letter, and Mr. Treigle sent me a signed photograph of himself in the role. He also wrote me a very kind letter. Over the next several years we corresponded a few times; he sent me a great photo of his terrifying makeup for “Mefistofele,” in which he made a huge sensation at NYCO, with Carol Neblett wearing nothing as Helen of Troy, and Treigle wearing a body stocking that was more scandalous than nothing.
Treigle was often compared to the great Russian bass Fyodor Chaliapin (1873-1938), whose acting was one of the artistic wonders of the world. Stanislavsky wrote that Chaliapin's acting helped inspire him to develop his famous Method. Like Chaliapin, Treigle was willing to sacrifice musical values for theatrical effect, using rubato and parlando very freely, and like Chaliapin tall, physically commanding and extremely lithe, nearly balletic. That fall down the stairs was business devised by Chaliapin. In the theater, even great actors “borrow.”
Treigle's voice was dark, very large and powerful, capable of many colors, even throughout the whole range, with a secure top and commanding low notes. This was a voice with “face,” unique as the man's own face, and like it, somewhat gaunt. Some critics considered the voice less than beautiful, and although the question of vocal beauty is always subjective, I would agree that there have been more beautiful bass voices. It was, however, a voice of the highest quality, instantly recognizable (for me, the essential ingredient of vocal greatness), and it was always deployed with the finest musicianship and taste.
Treigle made his debut in 1947 in New Orleans in the small role of the Duke in Gounod's “Romeo et Juliette”. In 1953 he reached what was to become his artistic home,the New York City Opera. For twenty years he was the most important bass in the Americas. He never sang at the Met, and he died, tragically, as he was reaching international fame, especially in the title role of Boito's “Mefistofele”. Because his voice was dark, powerful and saturnine, he specialized in villainous roles. He was Boito's Devil, a role he also took in the works of Gounod (“Faust”) and Berlioz (“The Damnation of Faust”). He made few commercial recordings, but some very fine ones. His Mefistofele (EMI) menaces Montserrat Caballe and the young Placido Domingo; With Sills, he recorded “The Tales of Hoffmann,” (Westminster) playing all three villains; and Handel's “Giuilo Cesare” (RCA), a performance that launched the Handel vogue in the US, although in a version that sounds strange to today's Handelians. Two recital records appeared on the Westminster label, but to my knowledge they have never been released on CD. Live recordings exist of “Giulio Cesare”, “The Tales of Hoffmann”, Rimsky-Korsakov's “Le Coq D'Or” (all with Sills), Carlyle Floyd's “Susannah”, “Markheim”, and “The Sojourner and Mollie Sinclair”, and a few others. More may well exist, as yet unknown.
As with many great singers, there is a tantalizing "lost recording" that should have happened, but never did. He was scheduled to record Henry the Eighth in Donizetti's “Anna Bolena” with Sills, but died too soon. (Paul Plishka sang instead.) I know this because he told me he was planning to record it in London “if all goes well,” in the last letter I received from him. Only recently, in Brian Morgan's biography of him, “Strange Child of Chaos: Norman Treigle”, I learned that he suffered from chronic insomnia, and died of an accidental overdose of sleeping pills, probably not long after he wrote that last letter to me. He was a great musician, a great actor, and a good man who treated a young fan he never met with kindness and respect. He was my first great singer, and it was my good fortune to hear him in one of his most important roles on my very first night at the opera.
Treigle was the epitome of the “singing actor,” a mesmerizing stage animal. Tall and thin, gaunt almost, Treigle made the guilt-stricken Tsar, one of the greatest roles in opera, absolutely believable. Majestic in the Coronation scene, he inspired true pity and terror in the Clock Scene; when the hallucinating Boris saw the murdered Tsarevitch's ghost appear upstage left, the whole audience shifted audibly, staring upstage trying to see the child's ghost that Treigle made you believe must really be there. By the time Treigle collapsed and fell head first down the flight of stairs from the throne in the Death Scene, as 3,000 people gasped out loud, not only was the fate of Boris Godunov sealed, mine was too. I've been to the opera hundreds of times since that great performance, but I never saw Norman Treigle again.
After the performance I wrote him a fan letter, and Mr. Treigle sent me a signed photograph of himself in the role. He also wrote me a very kind letter. Over the next several years we corresponded a few times; he sent me a great photo of his terrifying makeup for “Mefistofele,” in which he made a huge sensation at NYCO, with Carol Neblett wearing nothing as Helen of Troy, and Treigle wearing a body stocking that was more scandalous than nothing.
Treigle was often compared to the great Russian bass Fyodor Chaliapin (1873-1938), whose acting was one of the artistic wonders of the world. Stanislavsky wrote that Chaliapin's acting helped inspire him to develop his famous Method. Like Chaliapin, Treigle was willing to sacrifice musical values for theatrical effect, using rubato and parlando very freely, and like Chaliapin tall, physically commanding and extremely lithe, nearly balletic. That fall down the stairs was business devised by Chaliapin. In the theater, even great actors “borrow.”
Treigle's voice was dark, very large and powerful, capable of many colors, even throughout the whole range, with a secure top and commanding low notes. This was a voice with “face,” unique as the man's own face, and like it, somewhat gaunt. Some critics considered the voice less than beautiful, and although the question of vocal beauty is always subjective, I would agree that there have been more beautiful bass voices. It was, however, a voice of the highest quality, instantly recognizable (for me, the essential ingredient of vocal greatness), and it was always deployed with the finest musicianship and taste.
Treigle made his debut in 1947 in New Orleans in the small role of the Duke in Gounod's “Romeo et Juliette”. In 1953 he reached what was to become his artistic home,the New York City Opera. For twenty years he was the most important bass in the Americas. He never sang at the Met, and he died, tragically, as he was reaching international fame, especially in the title role of Boito's “Mefistofele”. Because his voice was dark, powerful and saturnine, he specialized in villainous roles. He was Boito's Devil, a role he also took in the works of Gounod (“Faust”) and Berlioz (“The Damnation of Faust”). He made few commercial recordings, but some very fine ones. His Mefistofele (EMI) menaces Montserrat Caballe and the young Placido Domingo; With Sills, he recorded “The Tales of Hoffmann,” (Westminster) playing all three villains; and Handel's “Giuilo Cesare” (RCA), a performance that launched the Handel vogue in the US, although in a version that sounds strange to today's Handelians. Two recital records appeared on the Westminster label, but to my knowledge they have never been released on CD. Live recordings exist of “Giulio Cesare”, “The Tales of Hoffmann”, Rimsky-Korsakov's “Le Coq D'Or” (all with Sills), Carlyle Floyd's “Susannah”, “Markheim”, and “The Sojourner and Mollie Sinclair”, and a few others. More may well exist, as yet unknown.
As with many great singers, there is a tantalizing "lost recording" that should have happened, but never did. He was scheduled to record Henry the Eighth in Donizetti's “Anna Bolena” with Sills, but died too soon. (Paul Plishka sang instead.) I know this because he told me he was planning to record it in London “if all goes well,” in the last letter I received from him. Only recently, in Brian Morgan's biography of him, “Strange Child of Chaos: Norman Treigle”, I learned that he suffered from chronic insomnia, and died of an accidental overdose of sleeping pills, probably not long after he wrote that last letter to me. He was a great musician, a great actor, and a good man who treated a young fan he never met with kindness and respect. He was my first great singer, and it was my good fortune to hear him in one of his most important roles on my very first night at the opera.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Welcome to VOCAL
I went to my first opera performance around 1965. It was Boris, in English, with Norman Treigle. His performance remains the best acting performance I've seen on any stage. I've heard most of the important singers who've performed in the United States since then. I've been collecting opera recordings since before I went to my first opera. This blog will be about my experiences in the opera house, and comparing and appreciating these recordings (e.g., 35 complete recordings of Aida, 22 of Tristan, 15 of Werther, plus countless arias from these works, some ancient).
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