"Ernani", Verdi's fifth opera (1844), is based on Victor Hugo's "Hernani", and it's a work that's been described as fustian, a kind of Robin Hood-esque farrago of unlikely situations and improbable characters. I wouldn't disagree with that view, but it doesn't prevent me from enjoying it hugely. This is because Verdi (1813-1901) pours out memorable melodies with a kind of hectic profligacy, creating non-stop opportunities for his four principals. They are Ernani, the disenfranchised nobleman Don Giovanni d'Arragona, masquerading as a bandit (a tenor of course); his would-be wife Elvira (soprano); Elvira's repeatedly spurned suitor, King Carlo V of Castille (baritone), and Elvira's guardian, the elderly nobleman Silva (basso), who being in charge of the lady is poised at the beginning of the opera to marry her and settle things before they get underway. But no.
This is an opera that was considered kind of old-fashioned within 20 years of its premiere, along with pretty much all of Verdi's works up to his break-through trilogy, "Rigoletto"(1851), "il Trovatore" (1853), and "la Traviata" ( 1853). These were Verdi's 16th, 17th and 18th operas. A quick look at the numbers yields the startling fact that between his first opera, "Oberto", premiered in 1839, and "Rigoletto" in 1851, Verdi composed, prepared and saw staged 16 full-length operas--in 15 years. He referred to that time as his "years in the galley", and he had in mind a trireme rowed by slaves, not a kitchen. Unlike Rossini (1792-1868), who produced operas at an even faster pace, Verdi re-used virtually no material. Verdi's early works are propulsive, energetic and often frankly crude. Every one is a completely sincere work of art, but they are not (with some arguable exceptions, especially "Macbeth", written in 1846-47 and revised extensively 1864-65) masterpieces, in the sense in which that term is usually understood. They are, like some of Shakespeare's lesser plays, often a bit of a mess. Many of these works are plagued by miserable libretti, but every one of them is stuffed full of tunes. If you like tunes (serious composers really weren't allowed to write tunes after a certain point in the 20th century) you may like these operas. If your idea of a good time is Arnold Schoenberg's (1874-1951) "Moses und Aaron" (1930-32, unfinished) you may not. An ability to enjoy Robin Hood is a big help, too.
These works were written for an audience that wanted, above all, to hear singing. They wanted to hear new works, not revivals. Paris was the undisputed capital of the opera world, and French works were enjoyed in translation, but the Italian audience would remain bewildered if not openly hostile to Wagner until the composer was dead. These works are very much of their time and place, and many of them are thinly-veiled calls to revolution, because the Italian Peninsula was largely under Austrian rule; in fact, there was no "Italy" yet, and there wouldn't be for decades. The rulers of fragmented Italy were very careful about what they allowed on the stage. Nationalism was sweeping across Europe, and censorship was an inescapable fact of operatic life. Venetians and Milanese, Neapolitans and Romans and everyone else were feeling passionate about the idea of "Italy," but this passion could not be openly expressed. But the audience was well aware that when Verdi set a magnificent ensemble for rebellious nobles in Act III, it wasn't only "the lion of Castille" that was aroused, it was their own nationalistic aspirations. Most of these early works include a chorus that became part of the rising tide that would become the Risorgimento; the most famous is "Va pensiero" from "Nabucco", Verdi's first great success. Verdi's name itself became a rallying cry: Patriots scrawled "Viva Verdi" across walls throughout the Peninsula. It was understood to mean "Viva Vittorio Emmanuele, Re d'Italia."
A modern audience may be aware of this background, and appreciate "Ernani" more for that, but there's no getting around the fact that the motivations of the characters are mostly unbelievable to us. Silva wants to marry Elvira, who wants to marry Ernani. The king wants to marry Elvira, but wants to be made Holy Roman Emperor more. The King and Silva want to kill Ernani because, well, he's supposedly a bandit. Ernamni wants to avenge his father's death and marry Elvira, but these objectives are mutually exclusive. When Ernani and Elvira finally overcome all these obstacles and get married, Silva blows a hunting horn and Ernani is obliged to kill himself, which, in front of the much put-upon Elvira, he does. OK, this is not an easy sell, depending as it does on our understanding and accepting the Code of Honor of a feudal civilization seen through the filter of some pretty pissed-off Italians. It seems frankly incredible to people today. So, why would anyone want to hear this work anymore? Unless you really like Robin Hood a lot, it's all for the singing.
A performance under Riccardo Muti (b. 1941) is available on DVD. The production, by Luca Ronconi (b. 1933) opened the 1982/83 La Scala season; it stars Placido Domingo (b. 1941), Mirella Freni (b. 1935), Renato Bruson (b. 1936) and Nicolai Ghiaurov 1929-2004). The production is traditional, if not realistic, and Ronconi is at pains to tell the story. Contemporary Regietheater often is not concerned with that, so this is a production that many will consider old-fashioned. The first scene places Ernani on a plinth to sing his entirely conventional first aria and cabaletta. Choristers and supers dressed as audience members watch the action from upstage in several scenes. This puts us at a distance from the work from the start, and for me this works well: we're invited to see "Ernani" as a theatrical object, and relieved of the need to engage the plot directly, which, as I've indicated, is close to impossible. Let's just go to the opera, shall we?
The costumes, in the main, appear to be from about Verdi's own time, or at least what people in his era would have expected "accurate" historical costumes to look like. None of the singers is required to appear in a costume or wig that's intentionally unflattering, which is refreshing (a recent "Ring" production has Brunnehilde wearing what appears to be a picket fence). Muti is among the outstanding Verdi conductors of the post-war period, and everything is scrupulously "come scritto" (as written). Because Silva's cabaletta following "Infelice, e tu credevi" was not part of Verdi's original (he added it for a subsequent production to please the basso) he omits it here. Ghiaurov (who married Freni in 1978), was one of the greatest bass singers of his time, but he is a little rusty here, so losing the cabaletta is not so bad. He suffers only in comparison to his own earlier recordings, though, and he is a commanding presence throughout. Nobody is a match for Christoff, that lion, and Siepi, in both the Del Monaco performances (see below) is close to ideal, in his absolute prime and singing in his native language. And nobody was taking that cabaletta away from either of those artists. For old Silva on records, then, an embarrassment of riches.
Domingo, still singing principal parts at 68, long ago earned a place among the greatest tenors in the history of opera. I believe he is unique in the breadth of his repertoire and in his vocal longevity, leaving aside his great accomplishments as a conductor and administrator. The man is a giant. He sings a very fine Ernani, marred only slightly by the relative tightness of his highest notes and the fact that his committed, imaginative acting can feel a little generalized. These are small quibbles. The finest Ernani's on disc (both in live performances) are Franco Corelli in a 1965 Met broadcast with Leontyne Price (b.1927), Mario Sereni (b. 1928) and Cesare Siepi (b. 1923) under Thomas Schippers (1930-1977) ; and Mario del Monaco (1915-1982) in one from the 1957 Maggio Musicale Fiorentino with Anita Cerquetti (b. 1931), Ettore Bastianini (1922-1967) and Boris Christoff (1914-1993) under Dimitri Mitropoulos (1896-1960). Both are dramatic tenors, with headlong, impassioned singing styles that suit this volatile, larger-than-life character. A friend of mine used to call del Monaco "Mario del Maniac". Another Mitropoulos performance, from the Met, in '56, teams the tenor with Zinka Milanov (1906-1989), Leonard Warren (1911-1960), and Siepi. Carlo Bergonzi is a fine Ernani in the RCA set with Price; Pavarotti sang the part late in his career; the commercial set with Sutherland (b. 1926) was not released for several years after it was recorded, and it's not hard to see why: it is a dull affair, with Sutherland in particularly unsteady voice, and Pavarotti sounding his by-then advanced age. "Ernani" is a lot of things, but dull should never be one of them.
Freni sings a lovely performance in a role that requires, ideally, a larger voice than hers. Always a fine singer and a resourceful artist, she gives an extended lesson in safely negotiating an assignment too heavy for an essentially lyric voice, much as she does in complete recordings of "Aida" and "Don Carlos", among others. Italian dramatic sopranos have vanished, and if the works are to be performed, lighter voices must serve. The many low-lying passages are deftly handled and her singing is never less than lovely. Price is preferable, although her lower register is obviously produced differently from the rest of the voice, and it turns husky and "smoky," an effect which grew more pronounced over time. Cerquetti, a unique artist whose meteoric career left only a few commercial recordings, is very fine, and her vocal weight is appropriate to Elvira's demanding music.
The role of Carlo, the King of Castille, is one of Verdi's long line of great baritone roles, beginning with Nabucco and following through all the way to Falstaff. Carlo has several demanding arias, and Bruson meets the challenge with something like complete success. The voice is in excellent condition, and barring an occasional gruff high note, he commands the long line and the myriad expressive markings with real authority and considerable grandeur. He is worthy to stand next to the great Leonard Warren, which is about as high a compliment as a baritone can be paid, and since he's singing his own language, in that respect his Carlo might even be thought preferable. He has not so long a line as Cappucilli (in a live '72 performance from Verona, in rather poor sound), but his voice has much more character and individuality. All Bruson's singing in this role is magisterial, and it's his performance that most ideally serves the composer's demands.
All in all, creaky old "Ernani" is well-served by this DVD, and even better by some of the CD versions available. If you like Robin Hood, you may have fun with "Ernani".
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
"Les Urnes de l'Opera" A Time Capsule
This is an overview of the opera world of a century ago, and a fascinating one. The set includes a very interesting booklet, but no English translations. My French is not adequate to translate the essay, so much of the mystery of these ancient urns waiting through the whole of the 20th century in the dark cellars beneath the Paris Opera still clings to them. Among the mysteries: there are 60 tracks, not the expected 48. Here's part of the press release:
On 24th December 1907, 48 gramophone records were buried in the basement of the Paris Opéra. The instructions were to leave them there for 100 years.
The project was the brainchild of Alfred Clark, founder and president of EMI’s ancestor, the International Gramophone Company. His aim was to enlighten the citizens of the 21st century as to “the voices of the principal singers of our time and the interpretations they gave of some of the most famous pieces from the lyric and dramatic repertoire.”
The 48 records, released by the Compagnie du Gramophone in the first years of the 20th century, were unearthed in December 2007 and then restored with enormous care by the technicians of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, in collaboration with EMI Classics.
Now the contents of the so-called ‘Urnes de l’Opéra’ are being released by EMI Classics in partnership with the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, the Opéra National de Paris and the Association pour le Rayonnement de l’Opéra national de Paris.
These musical treasures from the early days of the record label are introduced with a visionary speech from Firmin Gémier, the celebrated actor and director who founded France’s Théâtre National Populaire in 1920.
All in all, this is a beautifully produced issue with dozens of great singers, Italians, Germans, Russians as well as French. These recordings are what Mr. Alfred Clark and the management of the Paris Opera considered most representative of the best of their time, and that gives the collection more than usual stylistic coherence and historical relevance; these recordings were intended to be heard together. On a brilliantly sunny, cool, perfect San Francisco day I'm having a lot of fun listening to these gloriously restored treasures.
On 24th December 1907, 48 gramophone records were buried in the basement of the Paris Opéra. The instructions were to leave them there for 100 years.
The project was the brainchild of Alfred Clark, founder and president of EMI’s ancestor, the International Gramophone Company. His aim was to enlighten the citizens of the 21st century as to “the voices of the principal singers of our time and the interpretations they gave of some of the most famous pieces from the lyric and dramatic repertoire.”
The 48 records, released by the Compagnie du Gramophone in the first years of the 20th century, were unearthed in December 2007 and then restored with enormous care by the technicians of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, in collaboration with EMI Classics.
Now the contents of the so-called ‘Urnes de l’Opéra’ are being released by EMI Classics in partnership with the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, the Opéra National de Paris and the Association pour le Rayonnement de l’Opéra national de Paris.
These musical treasures from the early days of the record label are introduced with a visionary speech from Firmin Gémier, the celebrated actor and director who founded France’s Théâtre National Populaire in 1920.
All in all, this is a beautifully produced issue with dozens of great singers, Italians, Germans, Russians as well as French. These recordings are what Mr. Alfred Clark and the management of the Paris Opera considered most representative of the best of their time, and that gives the collection more than usual stylistic coherence and historical relevance; these recordings were intended to be heard together. On a brilliantly sunny, cool, perfect San Francisco day I'm having a lot of fun listening to these gloriously restored treasures.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Studio Recordings vs. Live Recordings
Recordings of complete operas fall into two main categories: studio recordings and "live" ones. In recent years the cost of making studio recordings has risen dramatically, while the executives in charge of record companies have concentrated on turning a profit in a short time, so studio recordings have become very rare. Many famous recordings of the 50's and 60's have been in continuous release ever since they were first published, amortized their costs long ago, and have been profitably sliced and diced into dozens of compilation discs. But the industry—or what remains of it—has now adopted the business model of popular music, and if a recording doesn't sell a lot of copies very fast, it isn't considered viable. Complete operas do not sell enough copies quickly enough to fit this business model. By default, most recordings of complete operas are now live, most often filmed in performance in the opera house and sold on DVD. Films of operas are another matter. Lip-synching singers we'll leave for another time.
While it's sad that studio recordings have become so rare, the comparative abundance of live performances has created a vigorous new market for "real" performances. Whereas studio sets usually had an active intention to create an "ideal" or even "definitive" version of a given work, filmed opera performances are often "records" in another sense: records of specific productions. The contemporary contributions of set and costume designers are rarely directly derived from the composer's written instructions. And when the stage director gets busy, it's much more common for the composer's stated desires to be ignored, if not actively contradicted, then for them to be respected. What results is a film of a particular interpretation of a work. I would argue that that's a very good thing, although it's obvious that not every filmed production is a success.
Studio recordings began in the early years of the 20th century, and were limited in many ways. The singers voices were the main objects of attention, and because of the primitive conditions under which these sets were made, very little actual orchestral sound made its way onto the shellac sides eventually offered for sale. Because only a short amount of music could be recorded, sometimes as much as 4 minutes, but often as little as 2 or 3, musical continuity in playback was impossible. Apart from the technical difficulty of producing sides that accurately matched up, the listener had to stop the record after each side, carefully remove that disc (or cylinder) and replace it in its protective packaging, take out the next record and carefully place it on the turntable and start the music again. All of this took time, and the sense of a complete performance was difficult to obtain, at best.
All this changed by the early 50's, and with the flood of complete sets that poured forth came a new attitude. Producers now wanted to capture not just a performance, but something that summed up the composer's intentions. We weren't buying just another performance of "Carmen", we were being offered "Carmen" as an object that came as close as possible to what the composer had imagined in his head. And that quest for perfection and desire to define the work brought some new wrinkles. With the ability to seamlessly splice magnetic tape came the ability to correct mistakes, in both vocal and orchestral performances. When Wilhelm Furtwangler (1886-1953) conducted Kirsten Flagstad (1895-1962) in "Tristan und Isolde" in 1951, Flagstad could no longer reach some of the exposed high notes in the role; Elisabeth Schwarzkopf (1915-2006), the wife of the recording's producer, Walter Legge (1906-1979), was spliced in singing them for her. Once stereo arrived (in the shops by 1958) microphone technique had made great advances. At first only 2 microphones were used, but within a few years recording studios bristled with dozens, allowing orchestral details to be displayed as nobody but conductors and second violinists had ever heard them before, and manipulated with great virtuosity. Soon every section of the orchestra had its own microphone (or 3) and every soloist her own track, all of them fed by the dozens into huge mixing consoles. If the baritone was too loud in the quartet, the volume of his track could be lowered to please the tenor. If a singer couldn't hit that high C on the particular day the big aria was being recorded, it could be recorded again and again until she did hit it. And if she still couldn't hit it after many takes, her best effort could be speeded up very slightly to make up the difference. If she couldn't produce the diminuendo called for in the score, the engineers could lower the volume of her track to give the impression that she had. And eventually, if Mr. Domingo or Mr. Pavarotti couldn't be present in Paris during September to record his part of duets and ensembles, he could be recorded later—sometimes years later—and that track seamlessly integrated into the master tape. But is the result "a performance" at all? By the height of the digital era, when CD's were selling in large numbers and several dozen operas were being released every year, a typical "performance" might be assembled from literally thousands of very brief takes recorded over many months. Hearing was no longer believing.
Of course, singers really don't sound in the theater just as they do on recordings. Many smallish voices carry surprisingly well, but some get lost altogether; on records it's very hard to tell. Dramatic voices are harder to record than lyrics, so some artists get ignored by record companies; Leonie Rysanek (1926-1998), one of the most important sopranos of the post war period, made few commercial recordings; she was nearly impossible to record because her top sounded as loud as the whole orchestra. Birgit Nilsson (1918-2005) recorded frequently, but few of those recordings really capture the visceral excitement of her amazing high notes. The recordings Kirsten Flagstad made in her prime are impressive, but not quite like what an old timer told me about her: in the house, he claimed, her high notes were "like getting hit in the face with a baseball bat." Boris Christoff (1914-1993) is reputed to have had a rather small voice; on records he sounds enormous. And in general, almost all voices sound larger on records than the actual experience of hearing them in the theater. They tend to be miked more closely, so many record collectors (myself occasionally included) prefer to hear opera on records instead of in the opera house.
Of course, many live performances, largely airchecks, have survived from the time the microphone was introduced around 1925. Dozens of singers who made few or no commercial recordings have been preserved, Leyla Gencer (1928-2008) for example, an important artist who had a major career but whose legacy would be lost entirely were it not for her dozens of complete broadcast performances. Without the many great live performances of Maria Callas (1923-1977), we would hardly know what magic she made in live performance, no matter how wonderful her earlier studio recordings unquestionably are. Gertrude Grob-Prandl (1917-1995), an important post-war Wagnerian comes to mind, as does Astrid Varnay (1918-2006), who made more than a few commercial recordings, but whose live performances, especially from Bayreuth, are revelatory.
What we hear in these live recordings is not an abstraction or a musical mosaic, but, for better or worse, an evening in the theater. Stage noises, mistakes, hoarseness, flat high notes (or sharp ones), all manner of blunders abound. With DVD's we get absurd sets, unflattering costumes, directorial conceits, a good look at dental work, and often the rueful awareness that Madame X looks nothing at all like Mimi or Tosca, or Herr Z is much too old and stout to make anything like a passable (visual) Siegfried. But we get a real performance. With studio recordings, we get something more, and less.
While it's sad that studio recordings have become so rare, the comparative abundance of live performances has created a vigorous new market for "real" performances. Whereas studio sets usually had an active intention to create an "ideal" or even "definitive" version of a given work, filmed opera performances are often "records" in another sense: records of specific productions. The contemporary contributions of set and costume designers are rarely directly derived from the composer's written instructions. And when the stage director gets busy, it's much more common for the composer's stated desires to be ignored, if not actively contradicted, then for them to be respected. What results is a film of a particular interpretation of a work. I would argue that that's a very good thing, although it's obvious that not every filmed production is a success.
Studio recordings began in the early years of the 20th century, and were limited in many ways. The singers voices were the main objects of attention, and because of the primitive conditions under which these sets were made, very little actual orchestral sound made its way onto the shellac sides eventually offered for sale. Because only a short amount of music could be recorded, sometimes as much as 4 minutes, but often as little as 2 or 3, musical continuity in playback was impossible. Apart from the technical difficulty of producing sides that accurately matched up, the listener had to stop the record after each side, carefully remove that disc (or cylinder) and replace it in its protective packaging, take out the next record and carefully place it on the turntable and start the music again. All of this took time, and the sense of a complete performance was difficult to obtain, at best.
All this changed by the early 50's, and with the flood of complete sets that poured forth came a new attitude. Producers now wanted to capture not just a performance, but something that summed up the composer's intentions. We weren't buying just another performance of "Carmen", we were being offered "Carmen" as an object that came as close as possible to what the composer had imagined in his head. And that quest for perfection and desire to define the work brought some new wrinkles. With the ability to seamlessly splice magnetic tape came the ability to correct mistakes, in both vocal and orchestral performances. When Wilhelm Furtwangler (1886-1953) conducted Kirsten Flagstad (1895-1962) in "Tristan und Isolde" in 1951, Flagstad could no longer reach some of the exposed high notes in the role; Elisabeth Schwarzkopf (1915-2006), the wife of the recording's producer, Walter Legge (1906-1979), was spliced in singing them for her. Once stereo arrived (in the shops by 1958) microphone technique had made great advances. At first only 2 microphones were used, but within a few years recording studios bristled with dozens, allowing orchestral details to be displayed as nobody but conductors and second violinists had ever heard them before, and manipulated with great virtuosity. Soon every section of the orchestra had its own microphone (or 3) and every soloist her own track, all of them fed by the dozens into huge mixing consoles. If the baritone was too loud in the quartet, the volume of his track could be lowered to please the tenor. If a singer couldn't hit that high C on the particular day the big aria was being recorded, it could be recorded again and again until she did hit it. And if she still couldn't hit it after many takes, her best effort could be speeded up very slightly to make up the difference. If she couldn't produce the diminuendo called for in the score, the engineers could lower the volume of her track to give the impression that she had. And eventually, if Mr. Domingo or Mr. Pavarotti couldn't be present in Paris during September to record his part of duets and ensembles, he could be recorded later—sometimes years later—and that track seamlessly integrated into the master tape. But is the result "a performance" at all? By the height of the digital era, when CD's were selling in large numbers and several dozen operas were being released every year, a typical "performance" might be assembled from literally thousands of very brief takes recorded over many months. Hearing was no longer believing.
Of course, singers really don't sound in the theater just as they do on recordings. Many smallish voices carry surprisingly well, but some get lost altogether; on records it's very hard to tell. Dramatic voices are harder to record than lyrics, so some artists get ignored by record companies; Leonie Rysanek (1926-1998), one of the most important sopranos of the post war period, made few commercial recordings; she was nearly impossible to record because her top sounded as loud as the whole orchestra. Birgit Nilsson (1918-2005) recorded frequently, but few of those recordings really capture the visceral excitement of her amazing high notes. The recordings Kirsten Flagstad made in her prime are impressive, but not quite like what an old timer told me about her: in the house, he claimed, her high notes were "like getting hit in the face with a baseball bat." Boris Christoff (1914-1993) is reputed to have had a rather small voice; on records he sounds enormous. And in general, almost all voices sound larger on records than the actual experience of hearing them in the theater. They tend to be miked more closely, so many record collectors (myself occasionally included) prefer to hear opera on records instead of in the opera house.
Of course, many live performances, largely airchecks, have survived from the time the microphone was introduced around 1925. Dozens of singers who made few or no commercial recordings have been preserved, Leyla Gencer (1928-2008) for example, an important artist who had a major career but whose legacy would be lost entirely were it not for her dozens of complete broadcast performances. Without the many great live performances of Maria Callas (1923-1977), we would hardly know what magic she made in live performance, no matter how wonderful her earlier studio recordings unquestionably are. Gertrude Grob-Prandl (1917-1995), an important post-war Wagnerian comes to mind, as does Astrid Varnay (1918-2006), who made more than a few commercial recordings, but whose live performances, especially from Bayreuth, are revelatory.
What we hear in these live recordings is not an abstraction or a musical mosaic, but, for better or worse, an evening in the theater. Stage noises, mistakes, hoarseness, flat high notes (or sharp ones), all manner of blunders abound. With DVD's we get absurd sets, unflattering costumes, directorial conceits, a good look at dental work, and often the rueful awareness that Madame X looks nothing at all like Mimi or Tosca, or Herr Z is much too old and stout to make anything like a passable (visual) Siegfried. But we get a real performance. With studio recordings, we get something more, and less.
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