Although we were told a few years ago that the EMI "Tristan", with Domingo (b. 1941) finally in the title role, opposite the excellent Nina Stemme (b. 1963), would be the last studio recording of a complete opera, now comes Antonio Pappano's exciting new "Madama Butterfly". Pappano has been Music Director of Covent Garden since 2002, and Music Director of the Accademia di Santa Cecilia since 2005. Recorded in Rome with the latter orchestra, this set brims with an exuberant sense of spontaneity and genuine Italianita, although the title role is taken very successfully by the Romanian Diva Angela Gheorghiu (b. 1965), and Pinkerton is sung by the rising German tenor star Jonas Kaufmann (b. 1969). The set feels, very pleasantly, like an echo from the heyday of the classical record industry, when singers trooped off to Italy (or London or Vienna) every summer to record, and collectors looked forward eagerly to stacks of new complete recordings in due course. It was another time, and it's useful to remember that a lot of those sets can seem generic, and many were assigned to inappropriate conductors. Erich Leinsdorf (1912-1993), for example, a fine conductor in the German repertoire, made a lot of recordings that give the distinct impression that he's embarrassed by the music ("Aida", "Turandot", "Il Tabarro") and rushing through the parts he dislikes—which are many.
Antonio Pappano (b. 1959) is an excellent conductor, and he guides this exciting performance with complete mastery, unembarrassed by Puccini's passion, while always supporting his singers and breathing with them. He draws playing of wonderful color and fire from his Italian orchestra, and the excellent recording team, also Italian, brings it very convincingly to disc. I have no idea how many of these orchestra musicians have played "Butterfly" before, but they obviously have this music in their blood. I find their playing preferable here to the more international style most opera orchestras, even the very best ones, provide. The supporting cast is generally fine. This is a very idiomatic "Butterfly" in nearly every respect.
And those respects are the soprano and tenor leads. Gheorghiu, whom I've heard twice in San Francisco in the last year or so, first as Magda in Puccini's "La Rondine", and more recently as Mimi in "La Boheme", would seem to be something of a Puccini specialist lately. The voice, although rather dark in color, is a little on the small side for Cio-Cio-san. The character demands great subtlety and reticence to be believable, but the role is very long, and she has a lot of music that requires a spinto. Once she makes her delayed entrance, singing an offstage aria capped by a high D, (a difficult note for most spintos) she rarely leaves the stage. A purely lyric soprano would find the love duet taxing, but possibly manageable, but that's just the beginning of the challenges. After "Un bel di", the letter scene in Act II turns quite dramatic. "Ah, mi scordata!" is very heavy musically and emotionally, and the orchestration is dense and loud. At the very end, the suicide scene is very demanding, over a heavy orchestra, and the singer has been working hard all evening. That can be overcome in a recording, but I don't expect Ms. Gheorghiu to sing this part onstage. Pappano, who has recorded often with Gheorghiu, supports her perfectly here, and she navigates the dangers unharmed. She colors her naturally beautiful instrument with great imagination and delicacy. She has some of the shimmering beauty of de los Angeles, some of the beautiful word-pointing of Scotto, a little of the depth of character of Callas, and an individuality of voice and utterance all her own. She sings a very fine Butterfly here.
Jonas Kaufmann is, I think, the most interesting tenor now singing, Villazon (b. 1972) and Florez (b.1973) included. Now 40, Kaufmann has arrived at his absolute prime, and he sings a daringly broad repertoire: it includes Des Grieux in Massenet's "Manon", Jose in Bizet's "Carmen", and he's singing "Lohengrin" at the Bavarian State Opera this season. The voice is an exciting one, baritonal and commanding, but he is also able to sing at any volume level throughout his range—and he caps the love duet with a high C that any tenor would be thrilled to have, and it is an easy, large, full note that thrills the listener as well. I have not heard him in the theater, so I can't say if the voice is as large as it sounds on records; sometimes tenors, especially German-speaking tenors, have smaller voices than their recordings lead one to hope. Mr. Kaufmann's voice does not sound like a small one. He is aslo an exceptionally fine actor. Pinkerton has little to sing after Act I, and with Kauffman in the role, that is a shame. In the love duet he constantly refines his tone to match Gheorghiu, never bellows, never croons, is always inside the character, and generally covers himself with glory. If he has any fault here at all, it might be that he seems a little too much the (vocal) gentleman. Kaufmann is that great rarity among tenors, an artist of immaculate taste. There is no trace of vulgarity in his singing--he reminds me of Nicolai Gedda in this respect, who partners both de los Angeles in this role under Beecham, and Callas under von Karajan, both by 1955. This is a tenor who has also reminded me in other recordings, with his baritonal, heroic vocal stance, a little of Vickers, without that great singer's idiosyncrasies. But when I hear this singer, I see his face. Jonas Kaufmann sounds like nobody but Jonas Kaufmann, and that, for me, is the mark of the great singer. I will be sure to collect every Jonas Kaufmann recording I can find, and I hope there are many, many more. I would love to hear him as Calaf or Dick Johnson. This is a tenor with a great career before him, in fact, a singer who can choose several different paths--Italian, French, and German Fachs--or Wagner. Jonas Kaufmann as Siegmund, Tristan, Siegfried...that might be a kind of heroic dream come true. But surely there would be no more Puccini or Massenet if he chose that path. I will follow his career with fascination and enthusiasm.
In short, an excellent new "Madama Butterfly". If you'd like to make comparisons, I'd suggest Scotto and Bergonzi under Barbarolli, Callas and Gedda under von Karajan, Tebaldi and Campora under Erede, dal Monte and Gigli under de Fabritiis.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Jon Vickers--or not?
Jon Vickers (b. 1926) is one of the great singers of the post-war period. He debuted as Don Jose in "Carmen" in 1956, and arrived at Covent garden the next year. I heard him in the theater only once, around '72 or so, as Otello at the Met; Sherrill Milnes was Iago. The title role in Verdi's "Otello" was one of the Canadian tenor's greatest achievements. He recorded it under Serafin in 1960 with Tito Gobbi and Leonie Rysanek, and again for Karajan a decade or so later. His other great parts included Peter Grimes in Britten's eponymous work, Parsifal, Tristan, Siegmund in "Die Walkure", Aeneas in Berlioz "Les Troyens", Samson, and, among several other roles, Florestan in Beethoven's only opera, "Fidelio."
Vickers was a unique artist. His temperament was often described as "volcanic", his interpretations were frequently idiosyncratic, and he was a famously difficult personality. He feuded famously with Solti, or there would be many more commercial recordings to follow the "Aida" he recorded opposite Price in 1960. His voice was very large, with plenty of squillo and a basically metallic quality. He was never less than thrilling, often less than lovely. In fact, "lovely" would have been a term he scorned. This is a singer who can be identified within a few seconds. Nobody sang like Vickers. Nobody sounded like Vickers.
Which brings us to Florestan in "Fidelio", one of his most celebrated roles. Vickers recorded the part commercially twice, first under Otto Klemperer in a 1963 EMI set with a great cast: Christa Ludwig as Leonore, Gottlob Frick as Rocco, Walter Berry as Pizarro, and later under Karajan, opposite Helga Dernesch (it's interesting to note that both Ludwig and Dernesch began their careers as mezzos, and both finished them as mezzos after singing the dramatic soprano repertoire for several years). There is no dearth of live performances of Fidelio with Vickers; I have three in my collection, and I'm sure there are several more. I've been listening to a very interesting live recording from the Vienna Staatsoper, under Karajan, DGG477 7364, released last year to considerable acclaim. It stars Ludwig in her role debut, with Berry (Ludwig's husband at the time) again as Pizarro, the magnificent Gundula Janowitz, who would later record Leonore in this opera under Bernstein, as Marzelline, and an excellent cast under Karajan. Who's the tenor? Well, Vickers is listed as Florestan. But it isn't Vickers on the discs.
When the set was released a common caveat in reviews was that Vickers was "out of voice" but rallied to give an impassioned performance. The liner notes say Vickers "was evidently indisposed...thereby lessening the impact of his aria at the start of Act Two...in the rest of the Dungeon Scene he too achieves moments of great expressivity, inspired—like the other singers—by the excitement of the evening...". It's amazing to me that EMI, and the Vienna State Opera, have allowed this glaring error to occur. Not only does this not sound like Vicker's voice—which is immediately recognizable—this tenor doesn't phrase like Vickers, has a very different vibrato from Vickers, and is obviously (unlike Vickers) a native German speaker. There have been plenty of live "pirate" performances in general circulation with incorrect cast lists; a starry live "Otello" from the Met (de los Angeles, del Monaco and Warren)claimed that the conductor was Melik-Pechayev because they didn't want to be sued, which the Met used to do to keep control of the broadcast material. But this is DG, releasing an offcially sanctioned performance from the Vienna State Opera. This is a real scandal.
So, who is the tenor? First of all, he doesn't sound indisposed to me, he sounds a little rusty and no longer young. Beethoven's vcal writing is notoriously awkward, and the part is very difficult, but he gives a perfectly adequate performance (that sounds not at all like Jon Vickers). Comparing several tenors from contemporaneous live performances, I believe it's the Heldentenor Hans Beirer. Beirer made few if any commercial recordings (he sings Herod in Bohm's film of "Elektra") but a number of live performances have been issued. There is a "Parsifal" under Knappertsbusch from Bayreuth, with Crespin as Kundry, available on the Gala label, and he sounds a lot like our Vienna Florestan. Beirer (1911-1993) was a valuable singer, if without much of the vocal grandeur and glamour of Jon Vickers. He would have been a little over 50 when this performance was recorded, and this tenor sounds around that age. If, indeed, this is Hans Beirer as Florestan, he deserves to be credited. It's an excellent example of a worthy singer saving a performance, since Vickers must have been announced and forced to cancel because of indisposition. And because we have relatively few recordings of Herr Beirer, this performance is of some little historical interest. Baldelli left another "Parsifal", a fascinating one, because the Kundry is Maria Callas (she also sang Isolde and the "Walkure" Brunnehilde). Beirer seems to be one of the unluckiest tenors, because in most releases of that set, sung in Italian, with Rolando Panerai is Amfortas and Boris Christoff as Gurnemanz, the tenor is identifed as "Africo Baldelli." Adding insult to injury, a famous, and possibly true, anecdote has Callas refusing to kiss him because of, um, olfactory issues. Being a tenor can be tough.
Vickers was a unique artist. His temperament was often described as "volcanic", his interpretations were frequently idiosyncratic, and he was a famously difficult personality. He feuded famously with Solti, or there would be many more commercial recordings to follow the "Aida" he recorded opposite Price in 1960. His voice was very large, with plenty of squillo and a basically metallic quality. He was never less than thrilling, often less than lovely. In fact, "lovely" would have been a term he scorned. This is a singer who can be identified within a few seconds. Nobody sang like Vickers. Nobody sounded like Vickers.
Which brings us to Florestan in "Fidelio", one of his most celebrated roles. Vickers recorded the part commercially twice, first under Otto Klemperer in a 1963 EMI set with a great cast: Christa Ludwig as Leonore, Gottlob Frick as Rocco, Walter Berry as Pizarro, and later under Karajan, opposite Helga Dernesch (it's interesting to note that both Ludwig and Dernesch began their careers as mezzos, and both finished them as mezzos after singing the dramatic soprano repertoire for several years). There is no dearth of live performances of Fidelio with Vickers; I have three in my collection, and I'm sure there are several more. I've been listening to a very interesting live recording from the Vienna Staatsoper, under Karajan, DGG477 7364, released last year to considerable acclaim. It stars Ludwig in her role debut, with Berry (Ludwig's husband at the time) again as Pizarro, the magnificent Gundula Janowitz, who would later record Leonore in this opera under Bernstein, as Marzelline, and an excellent cast under Karajan. Who's the tenor? Well, Vickers is listed as Florestan. But it isn't Vickers on the discs.
When the set was released a common caveat in reviews was that Vickers was "out of voice" but rallied to give an impassioned performance. The liner notes say Vickers "was evidently indisposed...thereby lessening the impact of his aria at the start of Act Two...in the rest of the Dungeon Scene he too achieves moments of great expressivity, inspired—like the other singers—by the excitement of the evening...". It's amazing to me that EMI, and the Vienna State Opera, have allowed this glaring error to occur. Not only does this not sound like Vicker's voice—which is immediately recognizable—this tenor doesn't phrase like Vickers, has a very different vibrato from Vickers, and is obviously (unlike Vickers) a native German speaker. There have been plenty of live "pirate" performances in general circulation with incorrect cast lists; a starry live "Otello" from the Met (de los Angeles, del Monaco and Warren)claimed that the conductor was Melik-Pechayev because they didn't want to be sued, which the Met used to do to keep control of the broadcast material. But this is DG, releasing an offcially sanctioned performance from the Vienna State Opera. This is a real scandal.
So, who is the tenor? First of all, he doesn't sound indisposed to me, he sounds a little rusty and no longer young. Beethoven's vcal writing is notoriously awkward, and the part is very difficult, but he gives a perfectly adequate performance (that sounds not at all like Jon Vickers). Comparing several tenors from contemporaneous live performances, I believe it's the Heldentenor Hans Beirer. Beirer made few if any commercial recordings (he sings Herod in Bohm's film of "Elektra") but a number of live performances have been issued. There is a "Parsifal" under Knappertsbusch from Bayreuth, with Crespin as Kundry, available on the Gala label, and he sounds a lot like our Vienna Florestan. Beirer (1911-1993) was a valuable singer, if without much of the vocal grandeur and glamour of Jon Vickers. He would have been a little over 50 when this performance was recorded, and this tenor sounds around that age. If, indeed, this is Hans Beirer as Florestan, he deserves to be credited. It's an excellent example of a worthy singer saving a performance, since Vickers must have been announced and forced to cancel because of indisposition. And because we have relatively few recordings of Herr Beirer, this performance is of some little historical interest. Baldelli left another "Parsifal", a fascinating one, because the Kundry is Maria Callas (she also sang Isolde and the "Walkure" Brunnehilde). Beirer seems to be one of the unluckiest tenors, because in most releases of that set, sung in Italian, with Rolando Panerai is Amfortas and Boris Christoff as Gurnemanz, the tenor is identifed as "Africo Baldelli." Adding insult to injury, a famous, and possibly true, anecdote has Callas refusing to kiss him because of, um, olfactory issues. Being a tenor can be tough.
Friday, March 20, 2009
The Golden Age
Were singers really better in some long-lost Golden Age?
To refresh my memory, I turned to the Romophone "Complete recordings of Battistini (1856-1928), Volume One", intending to sample a few tracks. 70-odd minutes later, my face hurting from repeated and sustained jaw-dropping, I had rediscovered the most technically faultless vocalism on record, and perhaps the greatest baritone voice. Battistini is the oldest indisputedly great singer to make records while still in his prime. He made a sensational debut at 22 and continued to sing, unimpaired, until his death. He was lionized by the public and the proverbial Crowned Heads of Europe (the Tsar welcomed him back to Russia for decades, until there was no more Tsar). He was called "the King of Baritones" and "The Glory of Italy". To listen to him in these recordings made in the first decade of the 20th century, when he was around 50, is to hear the bel canto technique as he perfected it 25 years or so earlier. He did not invent the technique, he inhabited it as it had been practiced for decades before, so listening to him allows us to infer with a high degree of confidence how singers used their voices at least from the middle of the 19th century. For some context, I followed Battistini by listening to the tenor Fernando de Lucia (1860-1925) for another hour. My jaw will probably never be the same. These singers can do anything, anything at all, with their voices. I've "known" these recordings for decades, but it had been a long time since I'd really listened to them.
When I was a (very odd) teenager, the stereo boom was in full flood. Although complete recordings of operas had been made from the first decade of the 20th century on, they were very unwieldy—78's were heavy and easily broken—and they were quite expensive. For all these reasons, they were rare. Things got easier with the invention of the microphone around 1925. Before that, performers sang with their faces in a horn; assistant conductors pushed them forward for lower, quieter passages, and backward when they got higher and louder. Only about 4 minutes could be recorded at a time. Across the room a pianist, or sometimes a handful of instrumentalists, made noises that it was hoped would register on the matrix as well. Since the recording device was operated by a hand crank, speed--and therefore pitch--was variable. Few "78's" actually play at exactly that speed. The microphone changed all that; "acoustic" recordings now gave way to "electrical" ones. When the Germans invented magnetic tape during World War II, things became even easier, but the 78 rpm record could still hold only about 4 minutes per side. A complete "Aida" might run close to 40 heavy, easily broken records.
With the introduction of the LP (long playing) record in the early 50's, it suddenly became much more feasible to record complete operas. Sets poured out in profusion, and they found buyers. With the introduction of stereo a few years later, the major labels raced to replace their still-recent mono sets with new, stereo versions, sometimes with nearly-identical casts. When I went to my first record stores, the browsers were full of big, beautiful boxes with large, easy-to-read, illustrated books inside. If you wanted to save some money (or, like me, buy more recordings with the money you had) the monaural versions were still available, so record shops stocked both. RCA's "Soria Series" sported slip-case boxes with 100+ page, color-illustrated books on good stock, memorably lavish productions. In those incarnations I got to know some of my first complete recordings: The Serafin "Otello" with Vickers, Gobbi and Rysanek; "Die Walkure" under Leinsdorf, with Nilsson, Brouwenstijn, Vickers and London, Karajan's "Carmen" with Price and Corelli. They were gorgeous objects, and I coveted them fiercely. But I was advised not to be dazzled by superficialities. Although these sets were certainly beautifully produced (and even at premium price, cost a fraction of those gritty, fragile old piles of 78's, in real dollars) they lacked something those old artifacts had: really great singers. Today's singers—Birgit Nilsson apart--didn't compare to the Great Old Ones (apologies to H.P. Lovecraft). Price? Well, she's not bad, but really she shouldn't be singing Verdi, her lower voice isn't strong enough, especially for Elvira in "Ernani". Vickers is an interesting tenor, but you should have heard Melchior and Martinelli in this repertoire. I was learning the Golden Rule of opera devotees: "it was a lot better 30 years ago, but not as good as it was 60 years ago".
I was somewhat skeptical, but I listened to ancient recordings from the start, so I had some inkling of what they were talking about. (Looking back to the 60's, I was closer in time to some of those "ancient recordings" than I am today to those fancy Soria Series sets.) One of the fascinating things about opera is that you can hear successive generations of singers perform the same music over a hundred years or more, and then go to the opera tonight and hear that same music performed by a young singer whose career is just beginning. This is what I think I've learned: in terms of individual vocal quality, and certainly in terms of vocal technique (as opposed to musical accuracy) it's been going downhill more or less since recordings were first made. No reasonable person could dispute that singers, as a group, are better musicians today than ever--so are violinists or bassoon players--but vocal technique, the ability to control the voice, has declined. Why should this be so? Is Battistini really that prodigious a singer? Or Plancon, or De Lucia?
The thing that's most gratifying about these singers—-among the very greatest from a technical point of view, but by no means unique in their time---is their ability to make the music entirely their own. Their techniques are so completely dependable that they can do exactly what they want expressively; they have an apparently limitless range of interpretive choices. This sent me to John Steane's wonderful book "The Grand Tradition", where I found a quote that needs sharing (such quotes are abundant in Steane's writing). Speaking of Battistini, de Lucia, and the French basso Paul Plancon (1851-1914), he writes "It was a school that exercised a singer til he had a technique that made him feel lord of creation and then allowed him the freedom to exploit his good or bad taste to the full". That, singers are no longer schooled to do—and if they could be, if techniques like this could miraculously again be taught, they would not be permitted to do. Whether this is the improvement most conductors would claim it to be, is another question.
In the Golden Age, the singer was "lord of creation". In the post World War II period, and really since at least the time of Toscanini (1867-1957), the crown was no longer the singer's, but the conductor's. Toscanini, famous for his volcanic temper, changed forever performance practice in opera. Now the performance would be given "come scritto", "as written." There is no denying that wonderful gains have resulted from Toscanini's iron will and the revolution in performance practice that has followed. And Toscanini would say, probably, that he'd restored the crown to the composer, not usurped it for himself and his musical heirs. But listening to these ancient recordings, I would suggest that more than a little has been lost as well.
To refresh my memory, I turned to the Romophone "Complete recordings of Battistini (1856-1928), Volume One", intending to sample a few tracks. 70-odd minutes later, my face hurting from repeated and sustained jaw-dropping, I had rediscovered the most technically faultless vocalism on record, and perhaps the greatest baritone voice. Battistini is the oldest indisputedly great singer to make records while still in his prime. He made a sensational debut at 22 and continued to sing, unimpaired, until his death. He was lionized by the public and the proverbial Crowned Heads of Europe (the Tsar welcomed him back to Russia for decades, until there was no more Tsar). He was called "the King of Baritones" and "The Glory of Italy". To listen to him in these recordings made in the first decade of the 20th century, when he was around 50, is to hear the bel canto technique as he perfected it 25 years or so earlier. He did not invent the technique, he inhabited it as it had been practiced for decades before, so listening to him allows us to infer with a high degree of confidence how singers used their voices at least from the middle of the 19th century. For some context, I followed Battistini by listening to the tenor Fernando de Lucia (1860-1925) for another hour. My jaw will probably never be the same. These singers can do anything, anything at all, with their voices. I've "known" these recordings for decades, but it had been a long time since I'd really listened to them.
When I was a (very odd) teenager, the stereo boom was in full flood. Although complete recordings of operas had been made from the first decade of the 20th century on, they were very unwieldy—78's were heavy and easily broken—and they were quite expensive. For all these reasons, they were rare. Things got easier with the invention of the microphone around 1925. Before that, performers sang with their faces in a horn; assistant conductors pushed them forward for lower, quieter passages, and backward when they got higher and louder. Only about 4 minutes could be recorded at a time. Across the room a pianist, or sometimes a handful of instrumentalists, made noises that it was hoped would register on the matrix as well. Since the recording device was operated by a hand crank, speed--and therefore pitch--was variable. Few "78's" actually play at exactly that speed. The microphone changed all that; "acoustic" recordings now gave way to "electrical" ones. When the Germans invented magnetic tape during World War II, things became even easier, but the 78 rpm record could still hold only about 4 minutes per side. A complete "Aida" might run close to 40 heavy, easily broken records.
With the introduction of the LP (long playing) record in the early 50's, it suddenly became much more feasible to record complete operas. Sets poured out in profusion, and they found buyers. With the introduction of stereo a few years later, the major labels raced to replace their still-recent mono sets with new, stereo versions, sometimes with nearly-identical casts. When I went to my first record stores, the browsers were full of big, beautiful boxes with large, easy-to-read, illustrated books inside. If you wanted to save some money (or, like me, buy more recordings with the money you had) the monaural versions were still available, so record shops stocked both. RCA's "Soria Series" sported slip-case boxes with 100+ page, color-illustrated books on good stock, memorably lavish productions. In those incarnations I got to know some of my first complete recordings: The Serafin "Otello" with Vickers, Gobbi and Rysanek; "Die Walkure" under Leinsdorf, with Nilsson, Brouwenstijn, Vickers and London, Karajan's "Carmen" with Price and Corelli. They were gorgeous objects, and I coveted them fiercely. But I was advised not to be dazzled by superficialities. Although these sets were certainly beautifully produced (and even at premium price, cost a fraction of those gritty, fragile old piles of 78's, in real dollars) they lacked something those old artifacts had: really great singers. Today's singers—Birgit Nilsson apart--didn't compare to the Great Old Ones (apologies to H.P. Lovecraft). Price? Well, she's not bad, but really she shouldn't be singing Verdi, her lower voice isn't strong enough, especially for Elvira in "Ernani". Vickers is an interesting tenor, but you should have heard Melchior and Martinelli in this repertoire. I was learning the Golden Rule of opera devotees: "it was a lot better 30 years ago, but not as good as it was 60 years ago".
I was somewhat skeptical, but I listened to ancient recordings from the start, so I had some inkling of what they were talking about. (Looking back to the 60's, I was closer in time to some of those "ancient recordings" than I am today to those fancy Soria Series sets.) One of the fascinating things about opera is that you can hear successive generations of singers perform the same music over a hundred years or more, and then go to the opera tonight and hear that same music performed by a young singer whose career is just beginning. This is what I think I've learned: in terms of individual vocal quality, and certainly in terms of vocal technique (as opposed to musical accuracy) it's been going downhill more or less since recordings were first made. No reasonable person could dispute that singers, as a group, are better musicians today than ever--so are violinists or bassoon players--but vocal technique, the ability to control the voice, has declined. Why should this be so? Is Battistini really that prodigious a singer? Or Plancon, or De Lucia?
The thing that's most gratifying about these singers—-among the very greatest from a technical point of view, but by no means unique in their time---is their ability to make the music entirely their own. Their techniques are so completely dependable that they can do exactly what they want expressively; they have an apparently limitless range of interpretive choices. This sent me to John Steane's wonderful book "The Grand Tradition", where I found a quote that needs sharing (such quotes are abundant in Steane's writing). Speaking of Battistini, de Lucia, and the French basso Paul Plancon (1851-1914), he writes "It was a school that exercised a singer til he had a technique that made him feel lord of creation and then allowed him the freedom to exploit his good or bad taste to the full". That, singers are no longer schooled to do—and if they could be, if techniques like this could miraculously again be taught, they would not be permitted to do. Whether this is the improvement most conductors would claim it to be, is another question.
In the Golden Age, the singer was "lord of creation". In the post World War II period, and really since at least the time of Toscanini (1867-1957), the crown was no longer the singer's, but the conductor's. Toscanini, famous for his volcanic temper, changed forever performance practice in opera. Now the performance would be given "come scritto", "as written." There is no denying that wonderful gains have resulted from Toscanini's iron will and the revolution in performance practice that has followed. And Toscanini would say, probably, that he'd restored the crown to the composer, not usurped it for himself and his musical heirs. But listening to these ancient recordings, I would suggest that more than a little has been lost as well.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Jess Thomas Says Farewell
Remembering the young Jess Thomas, one of the most consistently interesting American singers of the 60's, is a much more rewarding experience than regretting his Rhine Journey.
Jess Thomas made his professional debut at 30, in 1957, singing small roles in "Der Rosenkavalier" and Verdi's "Macbeth" at San Franciso Opera. By 1961 he had arrived at Bayreuth, where he sang Lohengrin ('62, '67), Tannhauser ('66, '67), Walther ('63,'69) in "Die Meistersinger", and Siegfried ('69,'76). His Parsifal ('61-'63,'65) was particularly celebrated—he was awarded the Bayreuth Prize in 1963—and one of the most consistently praised recordings of that work, under Knappertsbusch, captures him in the title role in 1962, opposite the Kundry of Irene Dalis. George London, caught at his peak only shortly before a vocal crisis prematurely ended his career, is a mesmerizing, huge-voiced Amfortas. Hans Hotter, one of the two or three most important Wagner bass-baritones of the century, sings Gurnemanz; and Marti Talvela, at the beginning of a great careeer, is Titurel. The magnificent Gustav Neidlinger, who owned the role of Alberich and sang it hundred of times, is a near-definitive Klingsor. The radiant young Gundula Janowitz, and Anja Silja, lead the Flower Maidens. This is an irreplaceable recording, in very fine sound.
In the studio, he recorded "Lohengrin" under Kempe, with Elisabeth Grummer, Christa Ludwig, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau and Gottlob Frick. "Lohengrin" has fared well on records, and this is one of the very best, with a perfectly balanced cast of great singers, all of whom (apart from Thomas) are native German speakers. They are all completely inside the tradition, and Thomas is the glowing center of a recording of great power and authority. It is also a very beautifully sung performance, with no weak links--Fritz Wunderlich sings a small supporting role--which immediately sets it apart.
From the tenor's early years are German language studio recordings of "Forza" and "Ballo". I have heard only selections from those recordings, but I'd like to hear the rest. From 1962 on, twenty or more live performances have been available, and I have yet to hear one in which he sings with anything less than faultless musicianship, committed, intelligent characterization, immaculate diction, and often thrilling vocal prowess. He is a particularly fine Emperor in "Die Frau Ohne Schatten" by Richard Strauss, and his Bacchus in "Ariadne auf Naxos", opposite Janowitz, is really splendid. New York Philharmonic concerts under Bernstein capture him with Eileen Farrell in extended excerpts from "Tristan" and "Die Gotterdammerung"; they are spectacular. Not only is the huge-voiced Farrell in wonderful voice, Thomas is her peer, and Bernstein supports them both with a deeply expressive subtlety of dynamics and line that allow them to sing quietly more often than is usual in these super-charged scenes. Both of these heroic American singers benefit. These are legendary recordings, rare, but well worth hunting for. The sound is very good, considering the source: a tape recorder on somebody's lap. There is an additional part, "Man who Coughs"; he is evidently an experienced performer, but he wants to hear the concert, so he doesn't interject very often. When he does, he creates a pretty vivid sense of being present in a theatre, which makes the singing that much more immediate and thrilling. There's also a complete Act I of "Die Walkure" with Farrell and Bernstein, unfortunately not with Thomas. His rival James King, himself a worthy artist, is Siegmund. This is a role not much associated with Thomas, although I have read that a performance exists in sound; I would be very interested in hearing it.
Thomas was invited to open the new Met in 1966, in Samuel Barber's "Antony and Cleopatra", a sumptuous, old-fashioned piece that could fairly be called Grand Opera. (Sam Barber's Aunt was the American contralto Louise Homer, one of the most famous and important singers of the first decades of the 20th century). Franco Zeffirelli directed an all-American cast, headed by Leontyne Price and featuring the very handsome young Puerto Rican bass, Justino Diaz. The production was intended to show off the new stage, a couple of blocks deep, with flies large enough to keep 3 or 4 full productions hanging while another played on stage. It was equipped with several elevators, computerized lighting, and, significantly, a gigantic turntable. On opening night, as Price sat atop a huge pyramid, just like Elizabeth Taylor in the then recently-released film "Cleopatra", the turntable started rotating, then stopped, lurched, and failed. The opera went down in flames. (Samuel Barber also wrote "Vanessa", a highly successful Met premiere in the previous decade, with Eleanor Steber, Rosalind Elias, Nocolai Gedda and Georgio Tozzi. RCA made a commercial recording soon after, and a live performance from Vienna has recently been issued.) Barber was so traumatized by the cruel reviews that he said later that it had finished his career, and he wrote little afterwards.
Thomas opened the Met again after the disastrous strike that crippled the 1969 season, as Radames (again opposite Price). It can be admitted that the voice is not Italianate without denying that it is a very well-sung characterization, and what is undeniable is that this voice has "face", it's immediately recognizable, it is always deployed with taste and imagination, and it has plenty of power. Like both his American dramatic tenor rivals, James King and James McCraken, Jess Thomas spent his career in the shadow of the eccentric, temperamental and deeply thrilling Jon Vickers. I would not have said this when I was listening to his attempts at the very heaviest roles in the Wagner canon, but 40 years on it's clear to me that Jess Thomas deserves a place among the Great Tenors.
Putting this important artist in his historical context brings us back to 1982 and Jess Thomas' farewell. He sang powerfully, with all his customary taste, imagination and conviction, and it seemed clear that he wasn't stopping because he had to. In Act III he was made up, in the pre-war tradition, as Jesus, a disconcerting, even risible effect, but probably not Thomas' decision. Parsifal is not usually considered funny, but I have to say I found the spectacle of Jess Thomas, disguised as Jesus Christ, singing powerfully in German while Tatiana Troyanos, disguised as Mary Magdalen, washed his feet and dried them with her long black hair---well, it was a Monty Python moment for me. Nobody laughed. I'm sure more than a few people were deeply puzzled and looking around a little nervously. After all, this is what caused all that unpleasantness between Wagner and Nitezsche, right?
But a few dozen people had laughed a couple or three hours earlier, during Act II. I was one of them, but I tried to laugh quietly. I cannot forget the entrance of the Flower Maidens. The designer, Robert O'Hearn, had followed Wagner's explicit (and very often ignored) instructions, and costumed 16 of them, eight singers and eight dancers, as literal flowers. They're wearing flimsy, diaphanous costumes in very lovely colors. They are very pretty, in the way things could be prettty in 1971 or so, when the production was new. Parsifal is standing up right center on the steeply raked stage as eight svelte and sexy dancers make their entrances, one after another, leaping lithely, landing lightly, pastel draperies flying. If a raked stage might be a problem for them, you couldn't tell from looking. Thomas stands rooted to the spot, only his head moving slightly as he appears to count the entrance of each beautiful young thing. He doesn't move an inch, until the "real" Flower Maidens--the ones who sing--begin to enter. Alas, these beautiful-voiced flowers do not much resemble their dancing companions, except in their identical wardrobe: these are Some Big Flowers. But as these hefty Blumenmadchen make their comparatively thunderous entrance, Parsifal is suddenly transfixed, his body language tells us that it's all he can do to get control and not throw himself on them. Indeed, once all eight singers have arrived down left center, he trots gamely after them, visibly impassioned,singing enthusiastically, studiously ignoring all those tall, nubile, (silent) young dancers just a little bit upstage of them. Jess Thomas: an actor to the last. Or maybe, after all those years singing Wagner with big women with big voices, Jess Thomas had become a Chubby Chaser. And that night in 1982, for the very last time, he was going to sing, gloriously, until the Fat Lady shut up.
Jess Thomas made his professional debut at 30, in 1957, singing small roles in "Der Rosenkavalier" and Verdi's "Macbeth" at San Franciso Opera. By 1961 he had arrived at Bayreuth, where he sang Lohengrin ('62, '67), Tannhauser ('66, '67), Walther ('63,'69) in "Die Meistersinger", and Siegfried ('69,'76). His Parsifal ('61-'63,'65) was particularly celebrated—he was awarded the Bayreuth Prize in 1963—and one of the most consistently praised recordings of that work, under Knappertsbusch, captures him in the title role in 1962, opposite the Kundry of Irene Dalis. George London, caught at his peak only shortly before a vocal crisis prematurely ended his career, is a mesmerizing, huge-voiced Amfortas. Hans Hotter, one of the two or three most important Wagner bass-baritones of the century, sings Gurnemanz; and Marti Talvela, at the beginning of a great careeer, is Titurel. The magnificent Gustav Neidlinger, who owned the role of Alberich and sang it hundred of times, is a near-definitive Klingsor. The radiant young Gundula Janowitz, and Anja Silja, lead the Flower Maidens. This is an irreplaceable recording, in very fine sound.
In the studio, he recorded "Lohengrin" under Kempe, with Elisabeth Grummer, Christa Ludwig, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau and Gottlob Frick. "Lohengrin" has fared well on records, and this is one of the very best, with a perfectly balanced cast of great singers, all of whom (apart from Thomas) are native German speakers. They are all completely inside the tradition, and Thomas is the glowing center of a recording of great power and authority. It is also a very beautifully sung performance, with no weak links--Fritz Wunderlich sings a small supporting role--which immediately sets it apart.
From the tenor's early years are German language studio recordings of "Forza" and "Ballo". I have heard only selections from those recordings, but I'd like to hear the rest. From 1962 on, twenty or more live performances have been available, and I have yet to hear one in which he sings with anything less than faultless musicianship, committed, intelligent characterization, immaculate diction, and often thrilling vocal prowess. He is a particularly fine Emperor in "Die Frau Ohne Schatten" by Richard Strauss, and his Bacchus in "Ariadne auf Naxos", opposite Janowitz, is really splendid. New York Philharmonic concerts under Bernstein capture him with Eileen Farrell in extended excerpts from "Tristan" and "Die Gotterdammerung"; they are spectacular. Not only is the huge-voiced Farrell in wonderful voice, Thomas is her peer, and Bernstein supports them both with a deeply expressive subtlety of dynamics and line that allow them to sing quietly more often than is usual in these super-charged scenes. Both of these heroic American singers benefit. These are legendary recordings, rare, but well worth hunting for. The sound is very good, considering the source: a tape recorder on somebody's lap. There is an additional part, "Man who Coughs"; he is evidently an experienced performer, but he wants to hear the concert, so he doesn't interject very often. When he does, he creates a pretty vivid sense of being present in a theatre, which makes the singing that much more immediate and thrilling. There's also a complete Act I of "Die Walkure" with Farrell and Bernstein, unfortunately not with Thomas. His rival James King, himself a worthy artist, is Siegmund. This is a role not much associated with Thomas, although I have read that a performance exists in sound; I would be very interested in hearing it.
Thomas was invited to open the new Met in 1966, in Samuel Barber's "Antony and Cleopatra", a sumptuous, old-fashioned piece that could fairly be called Grand Opera. (Sam Barber's Aunt was the American contralto Louise Homer, one of the most famous and important singers of the first decades of the 20th century). Franco Zeffirelli directed an all-American cast, headed by Leontyne Price and featuring the very handsome young Puerto Rican bass, Justino Diaz. The production was intended to show off the new stage, a couple of blocks deep, with flies large enough to keep 3 or 4 full productions hanging while another played on stage. It was equipped with several elevators, computerized lighting, and, significantly, a gigantic turntable. On opening night, as Price sat atop a huge pyramid, just like Elizabeth Taylor in the then recently-released film "Cleopatra", the turntable started rotating, then stopped, lurched, and failed. The opera went down in flames. (Samuel Barber also wrote "Vanessa", a highly successful Met premiere in the previous decade, with Eleanor Steber, Rosalind Elias, Nocolai Gedda and Georgio Tozzi. RCA made a commercial recording soon after, and a live performance from Vienna has recently been issued.) Barber was so traumatized by the cruel reviews that he said later that it had finished his career, and he wrote little afterwards.
Thomas opened the Met again after the disastrous strike that crippled the 1969 season, as Radames (again opposite Price). It can be admitted that the voice is not Italianate without denying that it is a very well-sung characterization, and what is undeniable is that this voice has "face", it's immediately recognizable, it is always deployed with taste and imagination, and it has plenty of power. Like both his American dramatic tenor rivals, James King and James McCraken, Jess Thomas spent his career in the shadow of the eccentric, temperamental and deeply thrilling Jon Vickers. I would not have said this when I was listening to his attempts at the very heaviest roles in the Wagner canon, but 40 years on it's clear to me that Jess Thomas deserves a place among the Great Tenors.
Putting this important artist in his historical context brings us back to 1982 and Jess Thomas' farewell. He sang powerfully, with all his customary taste, imagination and conviction, and it seemed clear that he wasn't stopping because he had to. In Act III he was made up, in the pre-war tradition, as Jesus, a disconcerting, even risible effect, but probably not Thomas' decision. Parsifal is not usually considered funny, but I have to say I found the spectacle of Jess Thomas, disguised as Jesus Christ, singing powerfully in German while Tatiana Troyanos, disguised as Mary Magdalen, washed his feet and dried them with her long black hair---well, it was a Monty Python moment for me. Nobody laughed. I'm sure more than a few people were deeply puzzled and looking around a little nervously. After all, this is what caused all that unpleasantness between Wagner and Nitezsche, right?
But a few dozen people had laughed a couple or three hours earlier, during Act II. I was one of them, but I tried to laugh quietly. I cannot forget the entrance of the Flower Maidens. The designer, Robert O'Hearn, had followed Wagner's explicit (and very often ignored) instructions, and costumed 16 of them, eight singers and eight dancers, as literal flowers. They're wearing flimsy, diaphanous costumes in very lovely colors. They are very pretty, in the way things could be prettty in 1971 or so, when the production was new. Parsifal is standing up right center on the steeply raked stage as eight svelte and sexy dancers make their entrances, one after another, leaping lithely, landing lightly, pastel draperies flying. If a raked stage might be a problem for them, you couldn't tell from looking. Thomas stands rooted to the spot, only his head moving slightly as he appears to count the entrance of each beautiful young thing. He doesn't move an inch, until the "real" Flower Maidens--the ones who sing--begin to enter. Alas, these beautiful-voiced flowers do not much resemble their dancing companions, except in their identical wardrobe: these are Some Big Flowers. But as these hefty Blumenmadchen make their comparatively thunderous entrance, Parsifal is suddenly transfixed, his body language tells us that it's all he can do to get control and not throw himself on them. Indeed, once all eight singers have arrived down left center, he trots gamely after them, visibly impassioned,singing enthusiastically, studiously ignoring all those tall, nubile, (silent) young dancers just a little bit upstage of them. Jess Thomas: an actor to the last. Or maybe, after all those years singing Wagner with big women with big voices, Jess Thomas had become a Chubby Chaser. And that night in 1982, for the very last time, he was going to sing, gloriously, until the Fat Lady shut up.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Jess Thomas vs. Siegfried
I heard the American Heldentenor Thomas three times in the opera house, as Tristan opposite Birgit Nilsson in '72, a year or two later as Siegfried, and finally at his farewell as Parsifal in 1982. As Tristan and Siegfried I had found Thomas vocally unsatisfying, very rough and with a badly compromised upper voice. In fact, I thought he was in such trouble that he might not make it through the first act. Obviously I was wrong--he sang for another ten years--but it was widely believed at the time that this great Parsifal and Lohengrin had done himself irreparable damage moving into the heaviest Wagner repertoire. Since he'd been singing the young Siegfried at Salzburg and recording the part under Karajan, the latter received much of the blame for destroying yet another voice by luring a hapless singer into a role beyond his ability. Karajan had a preference for lighter voices in traditionally dramatic roles, and the title role of "Siegfried" (as well as the role of Tristan) is a notorious voice-killer. Siegfried is onstage for the entire first act except for the 20 minutes or so during which Wotan, disguised as "the Wanderer", interrogates Mime; it ends with the very long, heavy scene in which the title character forges the broken shards of his father's sword, Nothung. He has plenty to do in Act 2 besides just kill a dragon; and in Act 3 he has a very strenuous duet with Wotan (his grandfather). Then he plunges, still singing, through the wall of Magic Fire to wake up Brunnhilde, who's had nothing to do all night except wait for their final, roof-raising duet. She's fresh and rested, he's been working as hard as a tenor can work for four hours; seems almost unfair in a way. A tenor needs amazing strength and stamina just to get through the role, never mind sounding like a young Ubermensch, and most Wagner tenors leave it alone. If a tenor does sing it, he gets to come back a couple of nights later to throw himself against the "other" Siegfried, in the even-longer "Die Gotterdammerung". Casting this part is almost impossible. Jess Thomas had chosen to enter the lists and become the world's leading exponent of the role, but like many before him, he found himself in over his head. Like more than a few other Wagner roles, Siegfried is at the very edge of what's humanly possible.
After recording "Siegfried" under Karajan, Thomas had withdrawn from the "Gotterdammerung" recording, replaced by Helge Brilioth, whose own Heldentenor career was a very brief one. (I heard Brilioth at the Met as Parsifal in 1970, opposite Christa Ludwig, in an interesting cast that included Cesare Siepi as Gurnemanz and Ezio Flagello as Klingsor. Wagner wrecked Brilioth in no time, and he was back in Sweden singing comprimario parts after just a few memorable years. He sounded fine the night I heard his Parsifal, an interesting, resinous-sounding tenor, and not small.) Although Thomas sang until 1982—another decade—he made only one other commercial recording, singing Duke Waldemar in Schoenberg's "Gurre-Lieder" under Boulez, recorded in December, 1974. But he made several in the 60's that are justly famous, especially a complete "Lohengrin", and until that cynical siren Herbert von Karajan lured him deep into the Rhine, the voice was a very good one. Even after his vocal crisis, he was an intelligent artist who acted effectively, and his physical presence suited heroic roles well. He was musical, his intonation was very dependable, the voice was large enough to be heard over the heaviest orchestration, and he was a trooper. Without Jess Thomas, many performances of Wagner would just not have been possible. Somebody has to sing Siegfried, and it's often a thankless task. In retrospect he was much better than I thought at the time. Only a few tenors have sung the role as well since, and many have sung it much worse.
After recording "Siegfried" under Karajan, Thomas had withdrawn from the "Gotterdammerung" recording, replaced by Helge Brilioth, whose own Heldentenor career was a very brief one. (I heard Brilioth at the Met as Parsifal in 1970, opposite Christa Ludwig, in an interesting cast that included Cesare Siepi as Gurnemanz and Ezio Flagello as Klingsor. Wagner wrecked Brilioth in no time, and he was back in Sweden singing comprimario parts after just a few memorable years. He sounded fine the night I heard his Parsifal, an interesting, resinous-sounding tenor, and not small.) Although Thomas sang until 1982—another decade—he made only one other commercial recording, singing Duke Waldemar in Schoenberg's "Gurre-Lieder" under Boulez, recorded in December, 1974. But he made several in the 60's that are justly famous, especially a complete "Lohengrin", and until that cynical siren Herbert von Karajan lured him deep into the Rhine, the voice was a very good one. Even after his vocal crisis, he was an intelligent artist who acted effectively, and his physical presence suited heroic roles well. He was musical, his intonation was very dependable, the voice was large enough to be heard over the heaviest orchestration, and he was a trooper. Without Jess Thomas, many performances of Wagner would just not have been possible. Somebody has to sing Siegfried, and it's often a thankless task. In retrospect he was much better than I thought at the time. Only a few tenors have sung the role as well since, and many have sung it much worse.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Eva Marton Communicates
Back in the Ancient Times, less-than-knowledgeable young opera buffs, like myself, were strongly admonished to "prepare" for an opera performance. Reading the libretto while listening to a complete recording—no cheating, listen to every bit of it, and then do that again a couple of times—was an absolute minimum. Since there is no such thing as a "definitive"recording, listen to two. Three would be better. Studying the original source material of the libretto was strongly recommended. In fact, the first issue of the EMI Callas recording of "Carmen" included not one but three booklets, "Bizet's Carmen", "The Callas Carmen", and "Merimee's Carmen", the full text of Merimee's story.
That could begin to seem time-consuming. Life got busier, and eventually an alternative was invented: super titles ("titles above"). You didn't need to know anything, just sit down and read the translation projected above the proscenium. You'll understand everything, no problem. James Levine refused to allow titles at the Met for many years, but even he finally gave in when a new system was invented and installed on the back of every seat in the house, not over the proscenium. You're supposed to look at the stage, not the words flashing above it. And that's just about ideal. But with super titles a lot hinges on the quality of the writing—because you're reading the libretto, right?--and even more, on the timing.
This was made abundantly clear to a full house at the San Francisco Opera sometime in the 90's. The opera was "La Gioconda", and the star was the Hungarian Diva Eva Marton, a no-nonsense, take-charge singer who had been a protege of Birgit Nilsson. In Act III, Gioconda's been deserted by her lover, she's just rescued her rival, Laura, from certain death, her blind old mother's been missing for a couple of days, and she's had it. In the gloom of a dead Venetian canal she sings the aria "Suicidio", which I think speaks for itself. The audience is hanging on every word as it unscrolls above the stage, and really feeling for Marton, who has a big, warm, interesting voice, plenty of stage presence, and palpable guts. Unfortunately, as she sings "Io piomba esausta fra le tenebre"--"I fall down exhausted in the darkness", something goes wrong with the titles: they speed up, get out of synch with the stage action, and go on to something that doesn't have anything to do with the suicidal Marton. Which raises something you don't want to hear in a performance of "La Gioconda", especially if you're a soprano lying on the floor in Act III. A laugh. A large, spreading, prolonged laugh.
Marton stops singing, for a second she just looks amazed. Then she gets up angrily, shakes her fist, and shouts into the auditorium, "Hey! I'm working here!". The orchestra peters out, the audience breaks into a disbelieving buzz, and a pause ensues. Marton stands there staring at the audience for a beat, and then exits briskly stage right. The buzz grows, and nobody's laughing. After what feels like a long time, Marton abruptly re-enters, glares into the house, returns to center stage, lies down on the floor. She gestures imperiously to the conductor, "La Gioconda" by Amilcare Ponchielli, first performed in 1876, starts up again, and Eva Marton sings "Suicidio." She sings it very, very well.
And when she finished, about 4,000 people in the War Memorial Opera House, reminded suddenly of how this sensational, extravagant, bastard art form can create a moment nobody present will ever forget, screamed "Brava" for a Hungarian with a hot temper and a lot of guts, who could really sing. Super titles be damned, she communicated with her audience.
That could begin to seem time-consuming. Life got busier, and eventually an alternative was invented: super titles ("titles above"). You didn't need to know anything, just sit down and read the translation projected above the proscenium. You'll understand everything, no problem. James Levine refused to allow titles at the Met for many years, but even he finally gave in when a new system was invented and installed on the back of every seat in the house, not over the proscenium. You're supposed to look at the stage, not the words flashing above it. And that's just about ideal. But with super titles a lot hinges on the quality of the writing—because you're reading the libretto, right?--and even more, on the timing.
This was made abundantly clear to a full house at the San Francisco Opera sometime in the 90's. The opera was "La Gioconda", and the star was the Hungarian Diva Eva Marton, a no-nonsense, take-charge singer who had been a protege of Birgit Nilsson. In Act III, Gioconda's been deserted by her lover, she's just rescued her rival, Laura, from certain death, her blind old mother's been missing for a couple of days, and she's had it. In the gloom of a dead Venetian canal she sings the aria "Suicidio", which I think speaks for itself. The audience is hanging on every word as it unscrolls above the stage, and really feeling for Marton, who has a big, warm, interesting voice, plenty of stage presence, and palpable guts. Unfortunately, as she sings "Io piomba esausta fra le tenebre"--"I fall down exhausted in the darkness", something goes wrong with the titles: they speed up, get out of synch with the stage action, and go on to something that doesn't have anything to do with the suicidal Marton. Which raises something you don't want to hear in a performance of "La Gioconda", especially if you're a soprano lying on the floor in Act III. A laugh. A large, spreading, prolonged laugh.
Marton stops singing, for a second she just looks amazed. Then she gets up angrily, shakes her fist, and shouts into the auditorium, "Hey! I'm working here!". The orchestra peters out, the audience breaks into a disbelieving buzz, and a pause ensues. Marton stands there staring at the audience for a beat, and then exits briskly stage right. The buzz grows, and nobody's laughing. After what feels like a long time, Marton abruptly re-enters, glares into the house, returns to center stage, lies down on the floor. She gestures imperiously to the conductor, "La Gioconda" by Amilcare Ponchielli, first performed in 1876, starts up again, and Eva Marton sings "Suicidio." She sings it very, very well.
And when she finished, about 4,000 people in the War Memorial Opera House, reminded suddenly of how this sensational, extravagant, bastard art form can create a moment nobody present will ever forget, screamed "Brava" for a Hungarian with a hot temper and a lot of guts, who could really sing. Super titles be damned, she communicated with her audience.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Salad Days in Naples
In my continuing hunt for Corelli's vanishing caprino, I watched a DVD of a 1958 "Forza" performance from Naples. Tebaldi, Corelli, Bastianini, Christoff, and the fine Mexican mezzo soprano Oralia Dominguez. I'd seen it before, but on a much smaller screen. In the first scene or two, I thought I noticed some objects falling diagonally to the stage floor, but I figured it might just be distortion. This is a kinoscope of an ancient black and white Italian TV transmission, and although it's clear enough given all that, you couldn't call it pristine. Then later, when Corelli's finished his big aria in Act II, I noticed them again. And after he and Bastianini finish their first duet, here come several more. I finally recognized what I was looking at: vegetables. People in the audience, high up in the theater, are throwing vegetables at the stage. The singers just ignore them. The vegetables don't actually hit anybody, but I can't tell if that's a courtesy or just bad aim.
This is a great cast and they're singing brilliantly. But in 1958, in Naples at least, opera fans took rivalries between singers seriously. Stories of fist fights breaking out in Italian opera houses continue to circulate; Corelli was famous for rushing into a box and drawing his stage sword on a guy who'd booed him, and these flying verdure put that in perspective. A lot of live recordings feature drawn out battles between fans screaming "bravo" and others not only booing, but shouting invective. Sometimes the whole audience gets in an uproar while the singers stand around and wait.
I have never seen anyone throw anything at the stage--except flowers--in my 40 years of opera-going. I remember old actors in my youth saying things like "that looks like a good throwing tomato", but I never actually saw any in use. These looked more like bunches of carrots, anyway. Which reminds me of a funny story. Singers are quite accustomed to flowers being thrown at them, and many become adept at catching them in mid-air. Maria Callas was quite near-sighted, but at a curtain call at La Scala she demonstrated her fielding technique with a clean, easy catch, pretty impressive for a half-blind woman staring across a bank of footlights. Unhappily, what she'd caught so gracefully turned out to be a bunch of turnips.
This is a great cast and they're singing brilliantly. But in 1958, in Naples at least, opera fans took rivalries between singers seriously. Stories of fist fights breaking out in Italian opera houses continue to circulate; Corelli was famous for rushing into a box and drawing his stage sword on a guy who'd booed him, and these flying verdure put that in perspective. A lot of live recordings feature drawn out battles between fans screaming "bravo" and others not only booing, but shouting invective. Sometimes the whole audience gets in an uproar while the singers stand around and wait.
I have never seen anyone throw anything at the stage--except flowers--in my 40 years of opera-going. I remember old actors in my youth saying things like "that looks like a good throwing tomato", but I never actually saw any in use. These looked more like bunches of carrots, anyway. Which reminds me of a funny story. Singers are quite accustomed to flowers being thrown at them, and many become adept at catching them in mid-air. Maria Callas was quite near-sighted, but at a curtain call at La Scala she demonstrated her fielding technique with a clean, easy catch, pretty impressive for a half-blind woman staring across a bank of footlights. Unhappily, what she'd caught so gracefully turned out to be a bunch of turnips.
Franco Corelli Begins
Corelli was largely self-taught. There are conflicting accounts of formal training, but it was brief and unsuccessful. His friend Carlo Scaravelli was studying with a voice teacher, Arturo Melocchi, whose unconventional method was based on lowering the larynx. After each lesson he'd demonstrate for Corelli what he'd just been taught. (Melocchi was also the teacher of Mario del Monaco and Luigi Ottolini). It is a dangerous way to sing, in part because it requires great athleticism and stamina, "and vocal cords of steel". Many voices have been ruined in this way. Corelli had been an athlete, and his powerful physique was the very instrument this challenging technique might reward. (As Corelli neared 50, I believe he was simply no longer strong enough to sing like this.) Apart from these second-hand lessons, Corelli taught himself, but he never abandoned Melocchi's raised larynx. At first Corelli didn't have a very strong upper voice, but he worked obsessively with a tape recorder, and his upper register improved. He won an important competition, and soon after made his debut, in 1951, as Don Jose.
Radames was his originally scheduled debut, but he was unable to sustain the high tessitura of that role—one of the most difficult Verdi tenor parts—and he made his debut instead as Don Jose in Bizet's "Carmen", which he later called his favorite role. Besides the RCA 1963 commercial recording, with Price, Freni and Merrill under Von Karajan, there are at least 4 complete live recordings of Corelli in his youthful prime in this role, more or less readily available. (He recorded the role again in the early 70's, with Anna Moffo as Carmen, for Eurodisc. I think this may have been Franco's last commercial recording.)
By 1956, Corelli had tamed his recalcitrant upper range enough to record Radames commercially for Cetra, with Mary Curtis-Verna, Miriam Pirazzini, Gian-Giacomo Guelphi and Giulio Neri. This is a strong, visceral performance, and a good example of Corelli's singing in the studio in the middle-fifties. (By happy coincidence, Curtis-Verna's last performances before her retirement were as Desdemona in Verdi's "Otello", at Baltimore Opera. She was happy to leave the stage under the wing of Rosa Ponselle, and I was fortunate to hear what an aging diva could accomplish in a nurturing environment. The Met comprimario Robert Nagy was Otello, and I can report that he sang the hell out of it. I saw all three peformances, and I learned a lot. Richard Fredericks was Iago.) A radio broadcast of one of his Naples "Aida" performances exists, and, like the Cetra set, it shows a quite pronounced caprino. Caprino is an Italian cheese made from goat's milk. Applied to a singer—especially to a tenor-- it means that he displays a quick vibrato reminiscent of a bleating goat. This problem is caused by imperfect breath control and support. Corelli's sound is already big, beautiful and exciting, but he has not yet perfected his technique:"contents under pressure".
Radames was his originally scheduled debut, but he was unable to sustain the high tessitura of that role—one of the most difficult Verdi tenor parts—and he made his debut instead as Don Jose in Bizet's "Carmen", which he later called his favorite role. Besides the RCA 1963 commercial recording, with Price, Freni and Merrill under Von Karajan, there are at least 4 complete live recordings of Corelli in his youthful prime in this role, more or less readily available. (He recorded the role again in the early 70's, with Anna Moffo as Carmen, for Eurodisc. I think this may have been Franco's last commercial recording.)
By 1956, Corelli had tamed his recalcitrant upper range enough to record Radames commercially for Cetra, with Mary Curtis-Verna, Miriam Pirazzini, Gian-Giacomo Guelphi and Giulio Neri. This is a strong, visceral performance, and a good example of Corelli's singing in the studio in the middle-fifties. (By happy coincidence, Curtis-Verna's last performances before her retirement were as Desdemona in Verdi's "Otello", at Baltimore Opera. She was happy to leave the stage under the wing of Rosa Ponselle, and I was fortunate to hear what an aging diva could accomplish in a nurturing environment. The Met comprimario Robert Nagy was Otello, and I can report that he sang the hell out of it. I saw all three peformances, and I learned a lot. Richard Fredericks was Iago.) A radio broadcast of one of his Naples "Aida" performances exists, and, like the Cetra set, it shows a quite pronounced caprino. Caprino is an Italian cheese made from goat's milk. Applied to a singer—especially to a tenor-- it means that he displays a quick vibrato reminiscent of a bleating goat. This problem is caused by imperfect breath control and support. Corelli's sound is already big, beautiful and exciting, but he has not yet perfected his technique:"contents under pressure".
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Franco Corelli at the Met
In 1968, Corelli was at the pinnacle of his fame and in the full flood tide of his vocal glory. Tall, handsome and so athletic, the Italians called him "Golden Thighs", and pictures of him as "Werther" (Massenet), "Andrea Chenier" (Giordano), or "Poliuto"(Donizetti) make it easy to see why. He was a real stage animal. There was a palpable thrill about him, an incandescent vibration. He had a thoroughly masculine stage presence, a sense of a very strong, young man (although in 1968 he was already 45), but he created also the impression of great sensitivity and sadness. He was, in fact, the living image of the Romantic Hero, right out of Byron. He wasn't an actor in the sense that Norman Treigle or Jon Vickers or Teresa Stratas were actors. The role became Corelli, not the other way around. There was something beyond acting about his electric stage presence. When Franco Corelli made an entrance, you knew that something important was about to happen. He would have had a career even if he'd had a mediocre voice, just on looks and presence alone. But he also happened to have a very large, dark, gorgeous voice and stunning high notes. (He produces what may be the single most exciting tenor High C on records at the end of Act III of Gounod's "Romeo et Juliette", recorded by EMI in June and July 1968, and co-starring Mirella Freni.) Many commentators believe his was the greatest tenor voice of his time--certainly that's my belief--and some consider it the greatest tenor voice since Caruso.
It has to be admitted that there is another school of thought. In his live Met performances, Corelli often seems unmusical: note values are ignored, and his rhythm is often slack. Once he settles into a high pianissimo, he might be there a long time, and when he throws a forte high note into the auditorium, it can seem as if there's no conductor present at all. There are exceptions, such as his Calaf opposite Nilsson's Turandot, under Stokowski, in his first Met season. After he conquered the Met, he largely abandoned performing in Europe. Rudolf Bing needed Corelli, protected Corelli, and in a way, I think, damaged Corelli. Bing's Met was not a conductor's house. Corelli, Bing's biggest star, worked with few strong conductors, and he learned to get his way with weak ones, to his detriment. In a way, Corelli's triumph at the Met halted his growth as a serious artist. He became The Greatest Tenor in the World, something more than a working musician, but perhaps something less. In his later seasons at the Met his musical habits became sloppy and inelegant, but I can tell you from my own experience, they often produced a very exciting performance. There was a real sense of danger, of risk-taking, every minute he was onstage. This was often opera not as high art, but as blood sport.
It has to be admitted that there is another school of thought. In his live Met performances, Corelli often seems unmusical: note values are ignored, and his rhythm is often slack. Once he settles into a high pianissimo, he might be there a long time, and when he throws a forte high note into the auditorium, it can seem as if there's no conductor present at all. There are exceptions, such as his Calaf opposite Nilsson's Turandot, under Stokowski, in his first Met season. After he conquered the Met, he largely abandoned performing in Europe. Rudolf Bing needed Corelli, protected Corelli, and in a way, I think, damaged Corelli. Bing's Met was not a conductor's house. Corelli, Bing's biggest star, worked with few strong conductors, and he learned to get his way with weak ones, to his detriment. In a way, Corelli's triumph at the Met halted his growth as a serious artist. He became The Greatest Tenor in the World, something more than a working musician, but perhaps something less. In his later seasons at the Met his musical habits became sloppy and inelegant, but I can tell you from my own experience, they often produced a very exciting performance. There was a real sense of danger, of risk-taking, every minute he was onstage. This was often opera not as high art, but as blood sport.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The Great Franco Corelli
The Great Franco Corelli
For me, Franco Corelli personifies Italian opera. The first time I went to the Met, in 1968, I heard Franco Corelli as Cavaradossi in "Tosca" opposite Birgit Nilsson. That's a cast that can't be bettered, especially with the fine singing actor Gabriel Bacquier as Scarpia, although a case could be made that only Corelli was appropriately cast. Certainly it was opera in the international style, with Italians beginning to thin out in the opera world, replaced by everyone else, especially former Soviets and Americans. Corelli is my favorite tenor. No apologies or excuses. Not the patrician Kraus, or the cool and elegant Bjoerling, the immaculate Bergonzi or the thrilling Vickers. Domingo will always be Corelli's understudy (unfair as that is to the endless achievements of one of history's greatest tenors), because the '69 Met strike robbed me of what would have been Corelli's last Manrico and gave me Domingo's in his place. Domingo is a sovereign artist, but he was never happy in "Di quella pira". Ask Schuyler Chapin. Pavarotti was a spectacularly gifted, heart-warming singer, but I'll let him speak for himself about Franco: "He was the greatest dramatic tenor who ever lived." But every great career moves in an arc, as the stupendous Italian baritone Titta Ruffo, rival of Caruso and Chaliapin in the early decades of the 20th century, expresses so poignantly in his autobiography, "My Parabola".
Corelli made his belated debut in 1951, the year before I was born, and arrived at the Met in 1961, with Leontyne Price in "Trovatore". Until his retirement in 1975, he was the Greatest Tenor in the World, apologies to Richard Tucker's many fans. He left too few commercial recordings, but still a dozen or so complete sets and a number of recitals, and a lot of live recordings, many of them thrilling. I heard him at his peak, in 1968, and 7 times more before he retired. In the next few posts, I'd like to examine his recorded legacy, and my experience of him in the theater.
For me, Franco Corelli personifies Italian opera. The first time I went to the Met, in 1968, I heard Franco Corelli as Cavaradossi in "Tosca" opposite Birgit Nilsson. That's a cast that can't be bettered, especially with the fine singing actor Gabriel Bacquier as Scarpia, although a case could be made that only Corelli was appropriately cast. Certainly it was opera in the international style, with Italians beginning to thin out in the opera world, replaced by everyone else, especially former Soviets and Americans. Corelli is my favorite tenor. No apologies or excuses. Not the patrician Kraus, or the cool and elegant Bjoerling, the immaculate Bergonzi or the thrilling Vickers. Domingo will always be Corelli's understudy (unfair as that is to the endless achievements of one of history's greatest tenors), because the '69 Met strike robbed me of what would have been Corelli's last Manrico and gave me Domingo's in his place. Domingo is a sovereign artist, but he was never happy in "Di quella pira". Ask Schuyler Chapin. Pavarotti was a spectacularly gifted, heart-warming singer, but I'll let him speak for himself about Franco: "He was the greatest dramatic tenor who ever lived." But every great career moves in an arc, as the stupendous Italian baritone Titta Ruffo, rival of Caruso and Chaliapin in the early decades of the 20th century, expresses so poignantly in his autobiography, "My Parabola".
Corelli made his belated debut in 1951, the year before I was born, and arrived at the Met in 1961, with Leontyne Price in "Trovatore". Until his retirement in 1975, he was the Greatest Tenor in the World, apologies to Richard Tucker's many fans. He left too few commercial recordings, but still a dozen or so complete sets and a number of recitals, and a lot of live recordings, many of them thrilling. I heard him at his peak, in 1968, and 7 times more before he retired. In the next few posts, I'd like to examine his recorded legacy, and my experience of him in the theater.
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