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.
Friday, March 13, 2009
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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