October 2013 by Opera 21

opera21

Oc t obe r 2013

Opera21

Collaborative, submission based magazine for the 21st Century Opera Enthusiast

magazine Editor-in-chief Jennifer Choi www.operaswag.wordpress.com Editor Kim Feltkamp www.kimberlyfeltkamp.com Contact Opera21 www.opera21.tumblr.com Email: opera21mag@gmail.com

Announcement The theme for the upcoming issue is Britten. Guidelines for submissions can be found on our website.

O21 Table of Contents

Volume

1 No. 11

The Awkward Middle Child: Verdi’s Les vêpres siciliennes Holly Nicholas

Adapting Ernani: A brief history Ilana Walder-Biesanz

Was Gilda Legitimately Raped: Sexual Violence in Rigoletto Laura Petrarcha

The Year of Verdi Recordings Kevin Ng

The awkward middle child: Verdi’s Les vêpres siciliennes Holly Nicholas ‘Why can’t it just be normal?’ This was the implied complaint in an elderly gentleman’s question to Stefan Herheim, after his dramaturge; Alexander Meier-Dörzenbach had taken us through their concept for a new production of Verdi’s Les vêpres siciliennes at the Royal Opera House. This was ostensibly in response to Herheim and Meier-Dörzenbach’s ‘alternative’ setting for the piece: instead of thirteenth century Palermo, the plot unfolds within the Paris Opéra of Verdi’s time, thereby engaging the history of the piece itself as a dramatic force. This is especially relevant for Vêpres, considering the Draconian influence that the commissioning theater had on the shape on the piece, namely the requirement of a ballet in the third act, which was at odds with the Italian melodramme Verdi was accustomed to composing. But what is the effect of not ‘being normal’, and what advantage does it have in bringing one of Verdi's more obscure operas to light? The early history of the piece itself calls into question the validity of religiously conserving the setting in which the piece was performed at its premiere. The libretto, much to Verdi’s consternation, was originally written by Eugène Scribe under the title Le duc d’Albe, a subject only superficially similar to the plot of Vêpres, indicating a looser relationship between the music and the words, when compared with Verdi’s work with librettists such as Arrigo Boito in later operas. Furthermore, in fear of offending Italian sensibilities by setting a revolutionary opera in Sicily, the action was moved to Portugal and the libretto translated into Italian, under the title Giovanna di Guzman. In this way, the

emotional journey depicted by the music takes on much more importance, as the specifics of character identities and locations in the generally performed version of Vêpres were clearly not crucial enough to destroy the meaning of the opera when removed. At the very least, these circumstances allow for a more impressionistic mise-enscène of Vêpres, which instead emphasizes the interplay of abstract character traits to evoke sympathy. But Herheim’s production imposes a further reality on the piece: the milieu of the 1850s Paris Opéra, in which the characters become inhabitants of the theatre, and fight not against an oppressive political regime, but the constricting elements of the drama as a result of the piece’s conception and development. These elements take numerous forms: firstly, the abundance of dance music in the piece. For example, to add an authentic Southern Italian flavour to proceedings, Verdi writes a tarantella for the Sicilians coming together to celebrate a marriage in the second act, ostensibly to establish a sense of their cultural identity before the festivities are interrupted by the French forces. The opera, already notoriously long, also comprises a half-an-hour-long ballet entitled Les quatres saisons, which is now frequently cut, perhaps because of its awkwardness in the narrative flow, and the relative weakness of its music, compared to Verdi’s supreme vocal writing. The score is also littered with fleeting musical gestures reminiscent of dance music, consciously or not, and all this mirrors Verdi’s struggle with a new form that required even more suspension of disbelief than is required

when dealing solely with musical performance itself. Although dance is not entirely absent from operas preceding the dominance of the Paris Opéra, the emerging convention of a dance scene or extended ballet, largely nonfunctional in the immediate dramatic context, was antithetical to the way Verdi was accustomed to having his operas unfold. The three operas that preceded Vêpres were Rigoletto, La traviata, and Il trovatore, three operas that are now considered indestructible warhorses, and highly typical of Verdi’s style of composing in his middle period: the private relationships of marginalised characters, interspersed with public scenes but ultimately ending in an emotionally charged but intimate dialogue. Verdi attempts to reconcile this formula with the more public form of grand opera, and he is somewhat successful. However the template-like plot battling with the almost intrusive dance music affects the credibility of the characters, namely in the change of heart Helene has towards Henri after finding out he is the son of the man who ordered her brother’s murder, and the sudden enthusiasm Guy de Montfort acquires for the idea of having a son by a woman he abducted and tried to erase. Herheim and MeierDörzenbach address this directly; by giving us a view of both stage and a version of the audience Verdi would have faced, they imply the manner in which the stage distorts the passage of time and development of emotions, and allows us to feel comfortable with the way we can feel strong emotion from isolated

moments that would be trite and shallow in real life situations. The fifth act soprano aria “Merci, jeunes amis,” better known in its Italian form as “Merce, dilette amiche,” is a key example of the pervasive dance music of Vêpres: it is a bolero, a form of Spanish dance, which might seem more at home in Il Trovatore, but is congruent with the tentative and patchwork nature of Verdi’s style in Vêpres. Furthermore, it exemplifies another trend that belies Verdi’s experimentation with form in Vêpres: that of performance. The bolero is not Helene’s only ostentatious and self-consciously performative aria; her cavatina is a gothic and atmospheric narrative, with dangerous vocal leaps and hysteric rallies to courage and revolution. This use of public performance as a character trait throws into relief Helene’s transformation from bitter mourner to joyful bride all the more sharply, and Verdi and Scribe’s need to manipulate her for the Sicilian revenge to be enacted. When staging a piece like Les vêpres siciliennes, an opera which constantly displays the marks of its difficult birth in the unification of its music and words, it is to do the piece a disservice to treat it simply as the dramatisation of the Sicilian Vespers. Its emotional potential lies in its uniqueness as a hybrid of grand opera and Italian melodramma, and thus an important step in Verdi’s journey to writing some of his most influential and sophisticated works, and it reminds us that opera is ever in dialogue with the environment that creates it, historical or modern. Holly Nicholas is a Verdi fanatic and Classics student living in London. She blogs informally about opera at tornamiadir.tumblr.com, and is currently working on her undergraduate thesis about Roman history in opera. 4

Adapting Ernani: A Brief History Ilana Walder-Biesanz In 1843, after the success of three operas Verdi wrote for Teatro alla Scala, Teatro La Fenice asked the young composer to write for them. The contract included one condition: contralto Caterina Vietti must be given a major part. Despite not having a subject or librettist in mind, Verdi agreed (for the high price of 12,000 lire) and began the search for a collaborator. He didn’t meet with much success until the president of La Fenice, Count Nani Mocenigo, recommended he hire Francesco Maria Piave (then unknown). The three (Verdi, Piave, and Mocenigo) jointly looked for a fitting subject. They suggested Shakespeare, Byron, and even Bulwer-Lytton, but finally settled on Victor Hugo’s successful historical drama Cromwell. With only occasional suggestions from Verdi, Piave soon finished the first draft of a libretto for Cromvello (which had by then been re-titled Allan Cameron). Count Mocenigo looked at the libretto, disapproved, and suggested Piave start over with a different Hugo play—the successful and controversial melodrama Hernani. Verdi readily agreed—so readily, in fact, that some scholars suspect that Verdi and Mocenigo had intended to switch the opera’s subject all along and were only testing Piave with the Cromwell assignment. Piave was predictably frustrated, especially because he very much liked Hugo’s Hernani and felt that the reduction of the text required for an operatic adaptation would cheapen it. Remember Caterina Vietti? Because Verdi’s contract with the theatre stipulated that there be a major role for her, the title role of Ernani was to be written for a contralto voice. (An interesting side note: Bellini had

drafted an Ernani with the eponymous bandit to be sung by a soprano.) Verdi had already started composing when he decided to make Ernani a tenor role—he had previously expressed distaste for en travesti roles anyway. He apparently (perhaps jokingly) suggested that Vietti sing the role of Carlo, but, as it would have been highly unbelievable for the young contralto to play an older, dignified king, the theatre allowed him to leave Vietti out entirely. Verdi also had to fight with the theatre’s prima donna Sophie Löwe to make her understand that, dramatically, she could not reasonably end the opera with a solo (as was traditional); she eventually consented to his terzetto. Ernani received its premiere on 9 March 1844 at Teatro La Fenice. Although the initial reception was lukewarm and Verdi complained about the performers’ voices, the piece quickly became tremendously successful. In subsequent years, it was performed at opera houses in at least 43 countries, though sometimes under a different title. (Remembering the scandal caused by Hugo’s Hernani, impresarios were wary of highlighting the connection between the two pieces.) Ernani reached the United States fairly quickly too, premiering in New York in 1847. In 1903, it became the first full opera ever to be recorded. The Italian Gramophone Company (part of the British company HMV) made and distributed the recording on 40 single-sided discs. Verdi’s later masterpieces—Aida, Rigoletto, La Traviata, etc.—have surpassed Ernani in popularity now, but Ernani is still frequently performed. Operabase lists thirtytwo performances in four major productions 5

(including three new productions) in the 2013–2014 season, and the Metropolitan Opera saw fit to include their 2012 revival in their Live in HD season, which was broadcast internationally. In historical hindsight, we can see that Ernani marked several important milestones for Verdi. In addition to being his largest success to date, it began the collaboration between Verdi and Piave that would last for ten operas—including Rigoletto, La traviata, and La forza del destino. Ernani was also the first title role Verdi wrote for a tenor and is generally considered his first full “Verdian tenor” role. Ernani would soon be joined in that category by such notable and difficult

characters as Manrico, Riccardo, Radames, and Otello. In addition, Ernani was the first adaptation of an existing work that Verdi had specially commissioned, and which he collaborated with a librettist to adapt. (He had formerly worked with existing librettos.) He apparently found the creative control this afforded him satisfying, as he went on to commission adaptations of many other famous plays by Hugo (Rigoletto), Schiller (Luisa Miller, I masnadieri), Shakespeare (Otello, Macbeth, Falstaff), Guiterrez (Il trovatore, Simon Boccanegra) and others. Not only was Ernani a success—it also laid the groundwork for Verdi’s later and even more popular operas.

Ilana Walder-Biesanz is an engineer, actress, and mezzo-soprano. She recently graduated from Olin College with a degree in systems engineering, and is currently pursuing a graduate degree in European Literature at the University of Cambridge on a Gates-Cambridge fellowship. She tweets about opera (and occasionally other topics) as @ilana_wb.

Was Gilda Legitimately Raped: Naming and Understanding Sexual Violence in Rigoletto and Beyond Laura Petrarcha In December 1850, a few months before Verdi's Rigoletto was set to premiere at La Fenice, Verdi received a letter from the Austrian censors. At the time, Venice was a part of the Austrian Empire, and the Austrian government censors plundered all public art (especially opera) for material that was politically or morally suspect. Rigoletto, which was then called La Maledizione, enraged them. They made several demands of Verdi and his librettist Francesco Maria Piave: they wanted to remove Rigoletto's hump, make the Duke more sympathetic, deemphasize the curse, and get rid of the sack in the final scene. An extremely angry Verdi wrote a letter to the president of La Fenice theater explaining why he couldn't make the revisions. Here is an excerpt: A singing humpback? Why not! . . . Will it be effective? I don’t know; but if I don’t know, neither does, I repeat, the person who suggested the change. As a matter of fact, I think it is a very fine thing to depict this extremely deformed and ridiculous character who is inwardly impassioned and full of love. I chose the subject expressly because of these qualities, and if these original traits are removed, I can no longer set it to music. If I’m told that my notes will suit the present drama just as well, I answer that I have no understanding for these arguments, and I frankly state that, good or bad, I never write music at random and I always manage to give it character. In short, what was an original, powerful play has been turned into something very common and cold. I very much regret that the Board of Directors has not answered my last letter. I can only repeat and request that what I wrote in it should be carried out, for upon my artist’s conscience I cannot set this libretto to music.1 By January 1851, the parties were able to make some compromises. Verdi moved the action from France to Italy, and the tenor who was originally the King of France became the Duke of Mantua. The switch from the French Royal Court to the defunct Duchy of Mantua was an important political change for the Austrian censors, but Verdi got to keep his hunchback, his mostly irredeemable nobleman, his sack, and his curse. It wasn't Verdi's first brush with the censors, and it wouldn't be his last; certainly history and operatic repertory have landed on Verdi's side. But if you think about it too much, it leaves you a bit awestruck: government representatives were so afraid of an opera that they tried to completely mutilate its libretto. What was opera capable of back then? What was this piece capable of? Overwhelmed with curiosity, I downloaded a copy of the score, queued up several Rigoletto recordings on Spotify, and starting listening. Gilda's 'Caro Nome' is such an engrained part of our collective operatic psyche that we sometimes lose sight of its expressive power. It's the only time in the opera that the soprano gets to really use her coloratura, but a successful Gilda will do much more

than show off here. Take a few minutes to (re)watch Diana Damrau's interpretation in the 2008 Dresden production. Damrau takes pronounced breaths at the beginning of the aria, and it's not because she needs the air. She wants to emphasize how excited "Gualtier Malde" has made Gilda. In this tableau, she's collapsed on her bed, and although it's not explicitly staged, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fairly clear what she's doing: she's masturbating. Gilda is turned on, and that's not much of an interpretive stretch. She has just had her first physical encounter with a boy ever, and she's just realizing that her body has a capacity for pleasure. Verdi demonstrates Gilda's arousal very deliberately:

The English under the text is not a translation but an alternative text, should a soprano want to sing the aria in English. A real translation for the first phrases of Caro Nome is probably: "Sweet name, you who made my heart throb for the first time." Verdi sets the really charged words, 'primo' (first) and 'palpitar' (throb) with eighth notes and eighth rests. If Gilda experienced the first palpitation in the previous scene, she builds on that excitement with these short bursts. And then the tie into the next phrase is her ascent to an even more ecstatic emotional and, yes, physical place. The pattern continues throughout the aria, and Verdi adds trills and sixteenth (and even thirtysecond!) notes to ramp up the intensity. Take a look:

This word comes up in opera often, but as a reminder: 'sospir' means 'to sigh.' I am not suggesting that every production of Rigoletto, or even any production of Rigoletto, has to portray Gilda masturbating. But I do think that the director, the conductor, and the soprano need to show off Verdi's unapologetic sensuality,2 so that, at the very least, the thought of self-pleasure occurs to us and is in our minds as the plot pushes on. The Duke's men, with the help of an unwitting Rigoletto, kidnap Gilda and take her to the Duke's chambers. According to the Met program, the Duke "deflowers" her. Most Rigoletto synopses shy away from calling the encounter "rape" or even "assault" even though Gilda did not give full consent. It's possible to argue here that we don't really know if the encounter qualifies as sexual assault: we never actually see Gilda resist the Duke. Verdi keeps the Duke's chamber offstage so we can fill in whatever lurid details we want. But we're not completely in the dark because Rigoletto's harrowing 'Cortigiani Vil Razza' serves two purposes. The first is the one that's obvious: to show Rigoletto's emotional reaction to the abduction of his daughter. The second is to give a musical accompaniment to the scene happening in the Duke's chamber. Cortigiani has a very clear structure: violent anger, followed by an impassioned plea for mercy. Can we imagine the scene in the bedroom as a physical tussle followed by a defeated Gilda begging her attacker for mercy? Verdi wrote Rigoletto's anger, but he wrote the Duke's conquest of Gilda, too. And when you're in the theater listening to Cortigiani, it's impossible not to glance backstage, picture Gilda, and think the very worst. But what happens in the Duke's chamber is sort of like Schrodinger's Cat: if we think of the cat as dead, we have to think of it as alive as well. So what if the encounter is not quite that violent? What if Gilda emerges and looks physically unharmed? I still think a sexual assault occurred, and here's why: Gilda gives full consent to everything that happens with "Gualtier Malde" during 'E Il Sol dell'anima' , but consent doesn't automatically renew. Every time you move to the next level of sexual intimacy, you must obtain consent either verbally or physically (if the other person is an active participant, meaning they are not resisting and not motionlessly receiving your actions, then you have consent). During fully consensual sex, either party reserves the right to stop at any time, no explanation necessary. As soon as someone says 'no', any further contact is sexual assault. Any penetrative contact is rape.3 So can we believe that Gilda, after being kidnapped and finding out her penniless sweetheart is really the Duke of Mantua, willingly and happily slept with him? Let's take a look at Gilda's second aria, 'Tutte le Feste.' Gilda doesn't tell Rigoletto, or us, exactly what happened to her. Instead, she tells the story of how she met her poor student and fell in love with him, placing the emphasis on her own wrongdoing. It appears to be a fairly common instance of a victim blaming herself for the assault, but with Gilda the shame goes a bit deeper than that.

‘Tutte Le Feste’ requires a completely different vocal and emotional approach than ‘Caro Nome’, but the word 'palpito' is familiar. Again, ignore the translation in this score: 'e con ardente palpito amor mi protesto' translates literally to 'and with ardent throbbing, he offered me love.' And then as Gilda's vocal line gets higher and louder, she is probably recalling the feeling of being turned on and anticipating release. But it climaxes on "amor", and since the "amor" was the Duke's false promise, then this is a false moment of climax for Gilda. Instead of a cry of pleasure, it is a cry for help. Because she has absolutely no social model for sex outside of church, she likely thinks that her earlier pleasures somehow justified the Duke's actions. She must have, at some point, resisted the Duke, but she erroneously assumes that her refusal wasn't valid. But it was. And if she had known that, maybe she would have thought twice about knocking on that door later in the opera. But Rigoletto was set way before our time. We know better now, right? We should, but we don't. We consider Gilda to be a wilting soprano ingénue, not a rape survivor. Critics often laud sopranos for finding depth in a character who "simpers, sighs, sacrifices, and dies", to quote Justin Davidson from New York Magazine.4 And while many sopranos are taking Gilda's characterization to new places, it's irresponsible to dismiss Verdi's music for Gilda in such a way. As Verdi said in his letter lambasting the censors: " I never write music at random and I always manage to give it character." So Verdi did want his audience to think critically about Gilda's sexuality, and that idea got me thinking once more about why the censors found Rigoletto so dangerous. It wasn't just the content; it was how the content could affect the audience. What if the audience members started talking amongst themselves about actual government corruption and incompetence? What if, God forbid, that talk became action? Those fears aren't, and shouldn't be, limited to 1851. This September, the Metropolitan Opera had to respond to a petition asking the institution to dedicate its opening gala to the LGBTQ population,

specifically those suffering under Putin’s anti-LGBTQ laws. The issue was especially significant, considering the Met was putting on Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin and featuring two Putin supporters (Valery Ghergiev and Anna Netrebko). In response to the petition, Met General Manager Peter Gelb wrote an Op-Ed in Bloomberg News and represented the Met’s position thusly: We stand against the significant human rights abuses that take place every day in many countries. But as an arts institution, the Met is not the appropriate vehicle for waging nightly battles against the social injustices of the world.5 Perhaps waging battles is the wrong strategy, but the Met cannot sustain an arbitrary line between itself and the political landscape. Can we imagine a new paradigm for music education that connects operatic plots and themes to newsworthy issues? Let’s use Rigoletto as an example; here is a very abbreviated list of recent issues involving sexual consent and assault: •

•

Texas State Senator and now gubernatorial candidate Wendy Davis is best known for her epic (practically operatic!) filibuster of Texas’s anti-women legislation. During the debate, Representative Jodie Lautenberg erroneously claimed that rape kits “clean women out” and prevent conception. That is biologically incorrect: rape kits collect evidence for a victim to use against her assailant and DO NOT work as contraception. The Democrats fought to include a rape/incest exception to the anti-abortion bill, but they were unsuccessful. (source) Anthony Weiner torpedoed his New York City mayoral campaign with sexually explicit internet chat, but it was former San Diego Mayor Bob Filner who managed to collectively gross out the country this summer. His sexual assault of his staff included unwanted sexual touching (kissing, groping) and one incident in which he asked his chief of staff to work without underwear. In defense of his behavior, Filner said, “I’m a friendly guy.” Filner resigned, and earlier this month he pleaded guilty to false imprisonment and sexual battery. (source) Meanwhile, the “song of the summer” was Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines.” The lyrics suggest you don’t need to ask for consent if you “know” your partner wants it. This article calls attention to the parallels between the song’s lyrics and things sexual assailants have said to their victims. United States Senator Kirsten Gillibrand has proposed an amendment to the annual defense spending bill that will reform the prosecution of sexual assault in the military. If her amendment passes (it currently has bipartisan support), the military would have to use a separate prosecutor for sexual assault cases. In the current system, the military brass tries these cases within the chain of command. A recent case in the Naval Academy, in which the victim was asked what she wearing, how much she drank, and how she performed oral sex, reveals that the current military environment is inhospitable to sexual assault survivors. (source)

If the Metropolitan Opera remains on the sidelines, then it will miss crucial educational opportunities. The Met brings high school students to dress rehearsals regularly, but it could bring

the students even deeper into these stories by asking tough questions in the context of issues that matter. Can you imagine the Met hosting a forum or discussion about sexual assault for high school students, maybe after a dress rehearsal for Rigoletto? I can’t yet, but I want to. Verdi knew that his audiences would leave the opera house singing his melodies, but he clearly hoped for more than that. He wanted us to be talking about his operas, and their political implications, long after the curtain went down.

Notes: 1. Letters of Composers through Six Centuries, ed. Piero Weiss (Philadelphia: Chilton, 1967), pp. 217–8. 2. For a truly sensual Caro Nome, check out Anna Moffo's interpretation. 3. I like this resource about consent. 4. Read the quote in context here. 5. Read the quote in context here. All translations from The Aria Database with some help from my local Italian-English Dictionary, although if you sing, you should do your own! The score is from IMSLP. This particular vocal score was edited by Richard Aldrich in 1902.

Laura is a first year master’s student at Fordham University. She works in digital marketing and studies English literature. She spends her spare time running up and down the velvet steps at the Met. You can find her at fyeahoperasingers.tumblr.com and on Twitter as petrarchian.

The Year of the Verdi Recordings Kevin Ng • • • • •

Verdi – Anna Netrebko/Gianandrea Noseda/Orchestra del Teatro Regio di Torino The Verdi Album – Jonas Kaufmann/Pier Giorgio Morandi/Orchestra dell’Opera di Parma Verdi: Arias – Piotr Beczala/Lukasz Borowicz/Polish Radio Symphony Orchestra Verdi – Placido Domingo/Pablo Heras-Casado/Orquesta de la Comunitat Valenciana Verdi: Messa di Requiem – Anja Harteros/Elina Garanca/Jonas Kaufmann/Rene Pape/Daniel Barenboim/Orchestra e Coro del Teatro alla Scala

Everyone knew it was coming. Just as it had happened with Mozart in 2006 and Mahler in 2010, record companies would release a whole slew of Verdi recordings in 2013. They certainly didn’t disappoint, with no fewer than 4 solo albums (3 featuring tenors) from major labels. It’s often said that we have no great Verdians today – based on the evidence from these recordings, I would say that we’re doing fine. The most hotly anticipated release was perhaps Anna Netrebko’s first solo album in 5 years. Having made her career on Violetta and Gilda, Netrebko goes to the other end of the Verdi soprano spectrum. Overall, it’s an exciting if frustrating album that is consistent with much of Netrebko’s singing today. To start off with the bad news: all of her usual issues, including sloppy coloratura, odd diction, and suspect intonation are still there. The middle of the recording features a leaden, out-of-breath Bolero from I Vespri Siciliani. She does work hard to articulate every turn and trill and she doesn’t transpose the lower notes, but it comes across as embarrassing rather than joyful. Elena’s other aria and Elisabetta’s famous act 5 aria from Don Carlo suit her much better and are beautifully phrased, but somehow seem anonymous. The best singing on the recording comes from the

Giovanna D’Arco and Trovatore excerpts – they suit her voice beautifully at this point, and it’s obvious that her controversial bel canto efforts have paid off quite nicely. It’s a shame that the recording acoustics of Rolando Villazon’s contributions to the scene make it sound like Ruiz, rather than Manrico, has been trapped in the tower. However, the most controversial and exciting tracks on the recording are the three big scenes from Macbeth. The killer role of Lady Macbeth pushes her voice to its limits, both in terms of volume and agility, but she throws herself into the character in a way that’s absolutely riveting. Some of her musical choices may be controversial, but overall it’s a thrilling, sexy, carefully thought through character that bodes well for her further explorations of Verdi’s many soprano heroines. Similarly exciting is Jonas Kaufmann’s debut recording on the Sony label. Like Netrebko, certain roles and arias simply don’t work for him, but others promise much for the future. Perhaps it made sense from a marketing standpoint to include the everpopular “La Donna e Mobile”, but Kaufmann makes it sound like Werther in a less broody mood. Similarly, Riccardo’s first aria from Un Ballo in Maschera lacks the lightness needed, but the act 3 aria is beautifully sung. Some of

the best singing on the recording comes from the expressive, long-lined aria from Luisa Miller and a gorgeous reading of Alvaro’s aria from La Forza del Destino. Also exciting is Radames’ aria, which benefits from a subtler interpretation than usual ending with a perfect diminuendo on the notorious B flat. Best of all, though, are the two scenes from Otello. His dark tone suits the role perfectly, and is absolutely devastating in a dramatic, unfussy reading of the act 4 aria. So no more Ducas for Kaufmann then, but hopefully many Otellos to come. It’s fascinating to compare Kaufmann’s Verdi with Piotr Beczala’s – both tenors started out with Ducas and Alfredos, but have developed in very different ways. Beczala is at his best in the excerpts from Ballo and the Requiem, which are stylishly sung. Strangely enough, the Rigoletto aria sounds pushed and somewhat strident, an issue that reappears periodically throughout the recording. The Lombardi and Aida arias are blasted through, the latter featuring a loud but unsubtle B flat. Radames isn’t the subtlest character, perhaps, but it’s a disappointment from a singer usually known for elegant, unforced singing. Overall, the most memorable singing comes from the two duets, featuring Beczala in much more relaxed form. His voice blends beautifully with Mariusz Kwiecien in the Don Carlo duet, capped with a stunning high C, but it’s Ewa Podles as an absolutely demented Azucena that provides the most memorable singing on the recording. Overall it’s an enjoyable disc, but I can’t help thinking that it would have been more effective had he not fallen into the trap of trying to sound like Corelli or del Monaco. It’s not really a celebration in the opera world unless Placido Domingo makes an appearance, and it’s not a surprise that one of

the greatest Otellos and Alfredos of the 20th century has made his contribution to the Verdi bicentennial. Having recorded nearly all of Verdi’s tenor roles, he’s turned to some of the big baritone roles in the repertoire. His stage attempts at Simon Boccanegra, Rigoletto, and Germont have been controversial, but there’s no doubt that he’s still a great Verdian. Once you get over the fact that his low notes are rather weak and he doesn’t have the typical Verdi baritone sound, his artistry and passion for the music come through brilliantly. The council scene from Simon Boccanegra is the highlight, clearly benefitting from Domingo’s now-extensive stage experience in the role. The two arias from Rigoletto come off less well, though his enunciation of the text remains impressive. The Il trovatore and La traviata arias sound choppy, serving as a reminder of Domingo’s age. The other surprising highlight of the recording is Posa’s death scene, which features the endless long phrases that Domingo was famous for. Domingo may not compare to the great Verdi baritones of the past, but this recording proves that he still has a lot to offer. However, the crowning achievement of the bicentenary must be Barenboim’s recording of Verdi’s Requiem, featuring the orchestra and chorus of La Scala and possibly the best soloists that could be assembled today. It’s more somber than flamboyantly operatic, and the sound is less rich than de Sabata or Toscanini’s recordings, for instance. However, the orchestral playing and choral singing are remarkably clear and accurate, and few other versions can compare in terms of rhythmic precision. This is particularly evident in the treacherous contrapuntal writing in the Offertorio and Sanctus, as well as the rousing Dies Irae. The four soloists are perhaps not the

ideal Aida cast that Verdi had in mind, perhaps more of a Clemenza di Tito cast all grown up (with a rather luxurious Publio?). However, none of them leave anything to be desired in terms of volume or Verdian line, and their voices blend uncommonly well. The Hostias is a particular highlight, with the four voices seemingly moving as one. Rene Pape has spent much of his recent career singing Wagner, but this recording reminds us that he started out as a Mozart singer, amply demonstrated in his skill for soft singing, legato, and a very good trill. Kaufmann’s Verdi is a known quantity at this point, but none of those roles suit him as well as the Requiem – his Ingemisco is expressive, powerful, and sensitive all at once. Saying that Elina Garanca is the weakest of the soloists is by no means an insult – her singing is always elegant, and her intonation is absolutely perfect in the very exposed Agnus Dei. If her singing seems a little anonymous compared to the other three, that will surely change after

singing the big Verdi mezzo roles that she is fully capable of moving into. The concluding Libera Me could have been written for Anja Harteros, who handles the wide range of dramatic and dynamic demands with ease. Her pianissimo B flat is absolutely glorious, and she handles the heavier portions of her part without any difficulties. So what of the elusive Verdian, apparently missing since the glory days of Leontyne Price and Franco Corelli? As these recordings demonstrate, sometimes, experienced Verdians take missteps, and singers not usually associated with Verdi can be brilliant in certain roles. None of these recordings are perfect, of course, but with Kaufmann’s Otello, Netrebko’s Leonora, Beczala’s Riccardo, and Domingo’s Boccanegra, I would say that we’re doing alright. There’s a Verdi role for every voice type, a testament to Verdi’s creativity and a guarantee that his music will be performed for at least another 200 years.

Kevin is a second year university student who dreams of a career in the opera world, which is why he is currently studying cell biology and doing chemistry labs. You can find him at nonpiudifiori.wordpress.com.

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