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Lauri Volpi
The Heroic Tenor vs. the Verismo Tenor
Corelli understood Lauri Volpi's views, strengths and weaknesses better than those of
any singer (other than himself). Here is an edited sample from the interview:
Franco Corelli: Old-style, heroic tenors such as Giacomo Lauri Volpi sang the center
and bottom notes lightly and sweetly and let loose on top. Lauri Volpi's repertory was
vast, but the operas that suited him best were Guglielmo Tell, I puritani, Poliuto,
Turandot, Luisa Miller and Gli ugonotti, heroic works where he could neglect the
center notes and seek to display brilliance and high notes and where he could
emphasize classical style and purity of tone over passion. In contrast, verismo1
singers favor the center notes and sing with portamento2 and heart. In verismo the
theatrical effect of the phrase is more important than purity of tone. Words sometimes
are more important than music, and you have to use the center notes to interpret them.
Stefan Zucker: What are the characteristics of the verismo tenor?
FC: The verismo tenor has a round, strong middle voice and pushes the high notes
with his guts. Caruso gave us this manner of singing. As a verismo tenor you do try to
sing beautifully, lightly and sweetly, at moments. You must have this chiaroscuro, this
contrast. But you can't sing some notes in falsettone3 --no more of that!--you've got to
sing with your real voice even when you sing softly. You do your sensual singing in
the middle and only sing high notes on occasion. The risk for the heroic tenor who
sings verismo is abuse of the center: he won't be able to sing the high notes called for
by the heroic repertory. If you push your center you lose your high C. Heroic tenors
can sing verismo but verismo tenors generally cannot sing heroic repertory.
SZ: And Lauri Volpi?
FC: When he was studying, around 1915, the influence of the 19th century still was
felt strongly. He worked with people from the last century who were especially
conscious of style.
SZ: What was he like as an interpreter?
FC: He was romantic, far from verismo. His singing of verismo repertory wasn't
impulsive; it was too noble. He was like a priest. He wanted his voice to be dreamlike,
to express pathos and suffering. Otherwise, he wasn't preoccupied about emphasis,
color or expression.
SZ: And his voice?
FC: It pealed forth like a thunderclap. It was steely and alive, not dark, incisive but
not dramatic.
SZ: What's the difference?
FC: The voice was too bright to be dramatic; it didn't have the color of a cello. Every
note was silvery pure, at any rate in the octave between C in the middle and high C.
His emission was so perfect that even his low notes rang. His low C was silvery, not
heavy. He was able to have strong notes in the center, but he disliked muscular
singing.
SZ: What then did he make of Del Monaco's singing? Did he find it muscular?
FC: He thought exactly that -- that Del Monaco's singing was not only muscular but
also that he broke legato, had insufficient sweetness, an insufficient mezza voce and
didn't do enough diminuendos, that he couldn't observe composers' markings. [For
Corelli's own assessment of the strengths as well as the weaknesses of Del Monaco's
singing see the March 3, 1990 and May 12, 1990 (download or VHS audio)
interviews.]...
Why does Lauri Volpi's tone waver when he goes from full voice into mezza voce?
The evolution of Lauri Volpi's vibrato.
It's not easy to distinguish falsetto from mezza voce.
Corelli demonstrates the opening of "A te, o cara," to illustrate portamento.
Corelli was slated to record Puritani but canceled. His style in Puritani--or lack of it.
Why he didn't sing Tristan.
Recorded selections with Lauri Volpi include Puritani, Ugonotti, Manon Lescaut
(with Luigi Bongonovo), Luisa Miller (with Lucy Kelston), Otello (3), Forza (with
Bechi), Tosca, song.
Corelli's Terminology
1. Verismo: the style that came into vogue with Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana
(1890). Fernando De Lucia was among the first to sing verismo, but his style has far
more rubato (see below) and is far more delicate than Caruso's or others with whom
most today, Corelli included, associate verismo. Mascagni protОgО tenor Piero
Schiavazzi also was more imaginative in his treatment of rhythm and tempo and less
forceful than later veroists. (Rubato: robbing time by lengthening or shortening a note
or group of notes; some theorists hold that phrasing should be balanced--time taken
should be paid back.)
2. Portamento: a glissando or slide from one note to another. Toward the middle of the
19th century Rossini began to object to portamentos, which singers had begun to
introduce in ever greater quantities.
3. Falsettone: Corelli thinks of this as a mix of falsetto and chest resonance; some
others think of it as a mix of head and chest resonance, "falsetto" at one time typically
having been synonymous with "head voice."
Franco Corelli.
Richard Fawkes, reviewing in Opera Now
“Bel Canto Society produces a huge amount of often rare footage of singers. Richard
Fawkes focuses on their collection of Franco Corelli.
“Those who saw him on stage will tell you that Franco Corelli was not simply the best
tenor of his generation but, Caruso notwithstanding, the best of all time. Why, then,
isn't he a name on everyone's lips in the way that Caruso is, known to those who have
never been to an opera or bought an operatic recording? Largely because he had a
comparatively limited career due to a stage fright he could never overcome.
“One way for those who never saw Corelli to find out why he was so highly regarded
is to burrow through the offerings in the Bel Canto Society catalogue. This is the
organisation founded by the indefatigable Stefan Zucker (who features in the
Guinness Book of World Records as the world's highest tenor) to make available on
video performances of singers, from concerts to feature films, from opera productions
to TV appearances. Much of the material predates video recording, so the visual
quality is not always all one might wish. But generally speaking Bel Canto's cleaning
up of the sound is exemplary and makes all these tapes worth watching.
“First port of call has to be Corelli's 1956 appearance in the film Tosca. Corelli was
30 before he made his operatic debut in 1951. It had taken him six years to get a top to
his voice. In 1956, the director Carmine Gallone, who has the distinction of having
directed more opera films than anyone else, decided to film Tosca on the actual
locations in Rome, using actors miming to a prerecorded track. He planned to use
Ferruccio Tagliavini to sing Cavaradossi but was having difficulty finding an actor. It
was Aldo Relli, who had been cast as Sciarrone, who suggested he consider his
younger brother who looked good and could also sing (Relli was the stage name of
Ubaldo Corelli). Gallone duly auditioned Corelli and promptly offered him the role
both as singer and actor, making him the only singer in the film to be seen on screen.
Maria Caniglia sings Tosca (acted by Franca Duval), Giangiacomo Guelfi, Scarpia
(played by Afro Poli).
“Tosca made Corelli a star. He not only looks the part, his singing picks you up and
transports you. His cries of 'Vittoria! Vittoria!' make the hairs on the back of the neck
stand up, and this is perhaps the key to Corelli's popularity: he is a very visceral singer
with the power to seize the listener's emotions and not let go. This power can be heard
to great effect on a CD of Tosca (also available as a download or Webcast) recorded
in Parma in 1967. He really lets fly, holding on to his notes (it may be self-indulgent
but it is exciting) and demonstrating quite phenomenal breath control. But he also
sings when necessary with subtlety and shading. It is a virtuoso performance well
worth acquiring, even though the poor soprano singing Tosca manages to go off-key
in 'Vissi d'Arte'.
“Also on CD is a thrilling account of La Gioconda (also available as a download or
Webcast), recorded live in Philadelphia in 1964 with Mary Curtis-Verna in the title
role and Mignon Dunn as Laura. As a bonus, the set contains 70 minutes of his second
Philadelphia appearance in the role, opposite Tebaldi. The remastering captures all the
excitement and brilliance of the live performance, although being recorded at the
beginning of winter, the Tebaldi version has more than its share of audience coughs.
“Other Corelli CDs in the catalogue include a strongly cast Rome Opera production of
Il trovatore, now available as a download, recorded live off air in Berlin in 1961 when
Corelli was at the peak of his form, a Carmen (available as a download or Webcast)
with Freni and Simionato, and an Ernani (available as a download or Webcast).
“On tape again is a 1958 made-for-television film of Turandot (#544) with Lucille
Udovick impressive in the title role and Corelli singing with animal excitement, and
Corelli in Concert, a 1971 video of arias and Neapolitan songs which is an object
lesson in vocal artistry. The audience goes appropriately wild. And yet this tape,
perhaps more than any other, goes a long way towards explaining the Corelli enigma.
Between arias, between phrases even, he looks decidedly uncomfortable. He licks his
lips, his eyes do not communicate warmth or enjoyment, he rarely smiles. It is clear he
does not want to be there. It does seem amazing that a man with such enormous talent,
who gave so much pleasure to so many people and received such adulation, could not
overcome his fear of stepping onto a stage. We can only be thankful we have the
evidence of these recordings to remind us of what a truly great artist Franco Corelli
was
Francisco Araiza
by Stefan Zucker
After declining for 150 years, vocal virtuosity is on the upswing. In particular, 25
years ago few tenors sang roulades or high Cs. The number who do is steadily
burgeoning, though their singing sometimes lacks personality, passion and charm.
The differences between Nicola Monti on a Melodram recording of a Naples
performance of La cenerentola in 1958 and Francisco Araiza on a CBS studio
recording of the opera from 1980 are representative of the typical differences among
tenors-I'm tempted to say singers-then and now. Monti is sunny and ingratiating, his
mezza voce caressing. But he omits the trills, smudges the coloratura at conductor
Mario Rossi's fast clip and sounds uncomfortable upstairs. The technical demands are
beyond him and his range is simply too short: had the more difficult and high-flying
passages not been cut, he probably would have been unable to sing the part.
Araiza sings it uncut, hitting all the notes-except the trills, which he too avoids. He
has marvelous agility and velocity, and the high Cs hold no terrors. But, however
proficient, he is charmless and mechanical. I have found no evidence that anyone in
Rossini's day produced his tone like Araiza, with the locus of resonation far forward
in the face.
Compared to such turn-of-the-century interpreters of Almaviva in Il barbiere di
Siviglia as Fernando De Lucia and Alessandro Bonci, Araiza is uninspired in his
treatment of rhythm. Their singing abounds in rubato; his is comparatively four
square.
Until recently, the music of every composer was interpreted in accordance with the
performance practices not of the composer's time but of the interpreter's. De Lucia
came of age musically around 1880, at the height of the Romantic era. His liberal use
of rubato suggests Barbiere or, even more, La sonnambula had been composed then.
His recordings, "Son geloso" in particular, challenge us to decide how literal one
should be in construing Bellini's tempos and rhythms. Did Bellini assume that a singer
would use rubato so extensively? Did Bellini intend him to? Is De Lucia simply
emphasizing romantic tendencies in Bellini's music or is he adding something
extraneous? Does the music benefit from his approach? Is he inspired or wayward?
Where are the boundaries? De Lucia is inquiry stimulating. Bonci, no less sensitive to
the music, is less extreme in his liberties-as is his successor Dino Borgioli.
Araiza is probably the best recent Belmonte, in Die EntfЯhrung aus dem Serail. At a
1984 performance at The Metropolitan Opera, he hit most of the notes dead on, with
big, bright tones so well focused as to make intonation lapses more noticeable. In the
notoriously florid "Ich baue ganz," he was accurate in the stepwise passages, less so in
the arpeggiated ones. He interpolated both a small cadenza before the repeat of the
main theme and some ornamentation in the repeat itself-as well as a few extra breaths.
He pronounced German well (unusual in an Hispanic singer) and acted energetically.
But his singing was more impressive than beautiful. And he wasn't very interesting:
His dynamics were sometimes random, sometimes inert. He failed to emphasize
melodic climaxes and to distinguish melody from ornamentation through volume or
accentuations. He sang with little tenderness and was boring in tender passages. He
hardly ever shaded his tone and managed to be vigorous yet dull.
To obtain precise articulation of florid passages Araiza aspirated. Many listeners-and
some reviewers-find aspiration unendurable, yet musicologists and performers point
to period writings suggesting that in the 17th and 18th centuries aspiration, or at least
"detached" singing, was accepted practice. My own experience is that the clarity of
articulation achievable with aspiration can prove useful in certain contexts. In special
cases aspiration is highly desirable. For example, in the quartet in La scala di seta the
tenor has triplets against the other singers' duplets. I aspirated the triplets so as to
differentiate the rhythm of my part from that of the others (Aspiration can be a crutch,
and I am not advocating it be used promiscuously.) In EntfЯhrung, Araiza, for my
taste, aspirated too heavily. [Araiza and I discuss aspiration in our radio interview on
the Bel Canto Society Web site; see below. The interview took place subsequent to
the writing of this article.]
Singers sustain interest in many ways, interpretation and temperament among them.
Luciano Pavarotti does so through charisma; Tito Schipa, through charisma, charm
and musical sensitivity; Giuseppe Di Stefano, through passion and feeling for words;
Enrico Caruso, through warmth and emotion. Araiza isn't endowed with an
extraordinary supply of these qualities. On a recording of lirico-spinto warhorses
made in 1986, he relies instead on musical effects, such as contrasting soft singing
with loud. His interpretations of the album's two Puccini pieces, "Che gelida manina"
and "E lucevan le stelle," are satisfying, for in addition to alternating dynamics, he
does sing with some tenderness and fervor. But in the aria from Eugene Onegin, one
misses Dmitri Smirnoff's plaintive quality, his wistful yearning. In the Arlesiana aria,
Araiza lacks both bitter melancholy for the opening and desperation and slancio
(surge, oomph) for the end-as well as vocal punch and core on the high As, where the
voice is unassertive and veiled, particularly on dark vowels (ah, oh, oo). Perhaps the
recording's most underinterpreted selection is "Ah! fuyez, douce image" (Manon),
where he sings as if he hadn't considered the importance of the notes in relation to
each other or thought about which leads ahead to which. In the middle voice he
produces a strong round tone, but he doesn't imbue the high B-flats with longing,
pleading or desperation, nor is he able, in the alternative, to trumpet them forth;
however, on higher notes, such as the BohПme aria's C or the interpolated high D at
the end of "Possente amor," the voice takes on brilliance. Stylistically he is an
anomaly: a latin singer with a German sound who achieves legato in the German
manner since the 30s-almost without portamento. The music on the record, mostly
from the late 19th century, was first performed by singers who used portamento
generously.
Araiza is never tasteless. At his worst he is earthbound, offering conscientious
observance of interpretation markings in the score without going beyond them. At his
best he is an excellent singer who just misses striking sparks.
Since 1983 he gradually has undertaken more dramatic repertory although he has said
it may force him to abandon high parts. Having already performed Rodolfo, Faust and
Lohengrin, he is scheduled for ChОnier and wants to do Alvaro, Carlo, Manrico and
Max. He succeeded in florid repertory by virtue of technical prowess. In dramatic
parts, however, his relatively bland vocal personality probably will tell against him.
Further, he might produce a more heroic sound at the expense of vocal gleam. On a
recent recording of Maria Stuarda, his tone is brassier but also thicker and coarser-the
classic tradeoff.
Araiza has said that Neil Shicoff and Luis Lima are at the same point in their careers
as he and are performing much of the same repertory. Of the three Shicoff has the
prettiest middle voice but is the least expressive and musically secure, Lima has the
greatest emotional intensity and Araiza the most proficiency. (Update: in La Juive at
The Met, in 2003, Shicoff's voice was untrue in pitch and coarse-but he finally found
his soul. The tradeoff was worth it.)
This article , written in 1990, is reprinted from The International Dictionary of Opera
and The St. James Opera Encyclopedia, with additions and minor changes.
Bel Canto Society offers three programs with Araiza, a Don Giovanni (#695), a recital
(#609) and a Webcast interview. If this isn't an oxymoron about a tenor, he is
exceptionally intelligent, articulate and insightful.
Carlo Bergonzi
THE FOLLOWING INTERVIEW took place on “Opera Fanatic,” on WKCR,
October 12, 1985. Carlo Bergonzi spoke in Italian (I translated). Also present in the
studio were Dr. Umberto Boeri, pediatrician, a close friend of Bergonzi; Robert
Connolly, writer, a frequent collaborator on the show; Kenneth Rapp, accompanist;
Annamarie Verde, Bergonzi's New York concert producer; and other friends of
Bergonzi. Throughout the evening, we interspersed records of Bergonzi in songs and
arias.
SZ: With whom did you study?
CB: I first began to study as a baritone, beginning at the Parma Conservatory with
Maestro Ettore Campogalliani.
SZ: Campogalliani is still active. Americans sometimes go over to study with him.
Even at an advanced age, he chases sopranos around the piano.
Did he think of you as a baritone?
CB: That was not the maestro's mistake but perhaps mine. At 15, I was too young. I
had a strong will to sing, to study, to go on stage: that had always been my aspiration.
My voice hadn't changed yet. Since boyhood I had always had a rather dark voice, so
the maestri were misled. I continued to study as a baritone and made my debut in '48,
in Barbiere, as Figaro. I continued to sing as a baritone, until October 12, 1950. I
performed Figaro, Germont, Don Pasquale, Belcore, Enrico in Lucia, and one
performance of Rigoletto-a turning point. We were on tour in Puglia (Bari, Molfetta,
Barletta). Tito Gobbi was to have sung the performance. But as suddenly happens to
singers, owing to a banal draft, my late, dear friend's voice deserted him. This was at
eight in the evening, with the performance scheduled to start at nine. The maestro
asked me if I knew Rigoletto and wanted to sing it. I had studied it to the point that I
was musically secure and, carried away by enthusiasm, said yes. During that
performance I began to understand that I was no baritone, for I didn't succeed in
finding the power, also the velvet voice for the pathetic moments, that the part
demands, particularly in Act III. Still, I saw the performance through. I was very
happy to have worn the costume, but the experience gave me the first suggestion that I
should change repertory.
Kenneth Rapp: Who were the Duke and the Gilda?
CB: Gilda was Signora Baruffi, a singer with a beautiful voice, of whom I heard
nothing further. The Duke was Sinimberghi, who made a good career, including
several films. I went on to further performances as a baritone and, since the maestri
said I was very musical, they signed me for parts for baritono brillante. Indeed, as a
baritone I sang with some great maestri: Serafin, De Sabata, Votto, Gavazzeni. No
one ever said I was a tenor instead of a baritone. I am much indebted to my wife,
Adele, for my career. One evening she was present at a Butterfly performance. The
tenor was Galliano Masini, the soprano was one of the first Japanese to come to Italy,
Tosiko Segava. In the dressing room that evening I sang C natural-the famous C from
the chest (I don't know what “C from the chest” means)-at the end of Act I. Masini
had sung it badly, so I did it in the dressing room. Perhaps it was a stroke of fortune or
because I didn't know what it really meant to sing high C: to me came perhaps the
most beautiful C of my career. From that point, I really began to think of changing
register. Three months later-January 12, 1951-when my eldest son, Maurizio, was
born, I made my tenor debut as Andrea ChОnier at the Petruzzelli in Bari. From then
on, I sang as a tenor. Nineteen fifty-one fortunately was the 50th anniversary of
Verdi's death, and RAI signed me to sing the tenor leads in I due Foscari, Giovanna
d'Arco, Oberto, conte di San Bonifaccio, Aroldo, La forza del destino and Simon
Boccanegra.
SZ: Are there any tapes of you as a baritone?
CB: Unfortunately not. If they existed, they'd be something to laugh about, but at least
we'd spend some happy moments.
SZ: Did you experience problems in switching to tenor?
CB: Since my voice really wasn't a baritone, in the three years I sang as one I had to
force my voice, in order to fatten it. For my first 15 days as a tenor, I had some
difficulty in lightening the sound, especially on low notes. But I quickly found the
right way, vocalizing on the breath, lightening the voice and concentrating on legato.
SZ: As a baritone, what was your range?
CB: Not very high. I went up to F-sharp or G, but on G I was forcing, because I
wanted to fatten it, to make myself a baritone by strength.
SZ: When you began to retrain as a tenor, did your range change quickly?
CB: Over three months. When I was studying, I listened to records-not to imitate
them-of four great tenors of the past: Caruso, Gigli, Schipa and Pertile. Caruso, for the
inimitable purity of the sound. Gigli, for a vocal technique that sang on the piano and
carried the note, linking it to the forte. Schipa, for his inimitable technique, achieved
by no one else, that allowed him, without having a beautiful vocal quality, to become
a great tenor. Pertile, for vocal technique and technique of interpretation. I tried to
steal a little of this technique. Imitation is never good and in the end is impossible. But
I tried to understand the vocal position and the way in which they emitted sound. I
sang Belcore in Elisir and Marcello in BohПme with Gigli and a tour of Elisir with
Schipa, and I learned a great deal.
SZ: As a baritone, what was your lowest note?
CB: My voice really wasn't made for low notes. The lowest you could truly call a
note-not a half noise-was B-flat.
SZ: After you switched to tenor, what was your lowest note?
CB: For a tenor, as you well know-for I know that you are one and they tell me you
sing quite well-the lowest note is a C. They say you are an artist, and therefore you
must know that a tenor must never force the low notes but sing them lightly. They are
called for, but there's no need to exaggerate them. Today is October 12. At this hour
35 years ago my elder son was born, and it was a pleasure to receive the telegram
announcing that, right after Act I and the “Improvviso.” That night a career also was
born that-with some sacrifices on my part and on the part of my wife, who has
participated in my career-we have carried on for 35 long years of successes, and that
is the greatest merit that we can honor.
SZ: What sacrifices?
CB: We sacrificed everything. My wife and I have travelled around the world perhaps
three times. The satisfactions have been few. We have gotten to know New York a
little in recent years, but in the other cities we have known only two things: hotel and
theater. And my wife has prepared the luggage many, many times.
SZ: What happened after your emergence as a tenor and those first Verdi
performances?
CB: Radio was then the most effective system of propaganda and today is still very
effective. Impresarios and agents took an interest in me, and I was able to begin my
career.
SZ: When did you make your Scala debut?
CB: In 1954, with a modern opera by Jacopo Napoli, Masaniello. I have 71 operas in
my repertory, including works by unknowns: Bianchi, Napoli, Rocca, Pizzetti, Rota
and Franchetti. That was before I began my great career with repertory operas.
SZ: Did you study music as a boy?
CB: No, I went to elementary school, and then I worked with my father, making
parmesan cheese. At 14, I entered the conservatory, studying piano for five years. In
making the switch from baritone to tenor, I was self taught. I also learned the 71
operas entirely by myself.
SZ: You have no coach or repetiteur?
CB: No. But I'm not suggesting to young singers not to have a maestro, for they are
needed. Since no maestro told me I was a tenor, I studied on my own and went ahead
on my own.
Listener calls
Bill DiPeter: Was it a help or a hindrance to begin your career as a baritone?
CB: Without doubt, it was an advantage. Singing as a baritone gave me the
fundamentals, helping me to gather together the sounds, and to have a base from
which to build that which I built as a tenor.
Rosina Wolf: What's the Due Foscari-I'm not speaking of the opera?
CB: You're speaking of my restaurant and hotel in Busseto at the Piazza Verdi.
Travelling around the world, I found restaurants named after every other Verdi opera,
from Oberto to Falstaff, but no I due Foscari; hence I chose the name.
Bill Masterson: You and Di Stefano caress phrases. But Raffanti, Pavarotti, Raimondi
and Ciannella don't phrase well. Is that because of their voices or because of their
techniques?
CB: The question's a little mischievous. Mr. Masterson's is a personal opinion of the
sort made by all opera fans. Pavarotti has his personal singing that reaches the
summit, and he is the most famous tenor in the world today; thus I don't believe that
he doesn't even know how to phrase. In the time of Caruso, Schipa and Gigli, some
liked the way one phrased but not the others, and today nothing is changed. Someone
may like Bergonzi, someone else may prefer Pavarotti, someone else, Domingo. Each
one of these great tenors at the apex of tenors-I don't think you can find defects. He
who doesn't have one thing has another. They are all worthy of the names that they
have.
Michele Simone: The name of Bergonzi has joined those of the century's greatest
tenors: Pertile, Gigli, etc. Will you ever again sing at the Met?
CB: It's up to the Met's administration to sign Bergonzi. I can't intervene in these
things, first of all because I've never asked anything of any theater. In 35 years of
career, I've never forced a maestro or a theater to hire me. I've always been signed for
my natural gifts, and that's my great satisfaction. For a season or two, a theater can do
without a particular tenor, because they haven't appropriate repertory and thus have no
need of him.
Irwin Petri: Why is your upcoming concert a tribute to Gigli?
CB: That was my thought that I transmitted to my dear friend Eclesia Cestone [who
put up the money]. Having sung with Gigli and being a great fan, I wanted to have the
satisfaction of transmitting to the Carnegie Hall public the songs and arias that he sang
in his films. Gigli is the tenor who gave me the greatest satisfaction.
Michael Tortora: What about Wagner, Lohengrin, in particular?
CB: I've only sung Lohengrin's arias.
Howard Hart: Are there roles you'd like to sing?
CB: By now I'm on the threshold of a long road. I still have the pleasure of singing
and of diverting myself, and I am happy that the public that comes to hear me diverts
itself. But there's no point in speaking of new parts.
Peter Wilson: Who are the great sopranos and mezzos with whom you've sung, and
what made them great?
CB: I have the misfortune that the years have passed and now we are heading into old
age; but I have the good fortune to have taken part in the period of great sopranos. I'll
tell you some names but may not remember them all: Callas, Tebaldi, Milanov,
Albanese, Kirsten, Scotto, Freni, Sutherland-with whom I sang Lucia at Covent
Garden in April, where I had the great satisfaction, still, at my age, of having an
optimal success.
CORELLI: TENORE DEL MONDO
“I don't miss the pressures, but I do miss the joy of singing and performing.” -Franco
Corelli
IN RECENT YEARS, the legendary tenor Franco Corelli participated in a series of
interviews with Stefan Zucker, host of “Opera Fanatic,” the popular (now defunct)
late-night program on New York radio station WKCR-FM. They also collaborated on
a theater series, An Evening with Franco Corelli and Stefan Zucker. The following
comments are excerpted from these programs. (For information about the 7 Corelli
interview tapes, see our full catalog).
Stefan Zucker: It's said that before you began your career you lost your high notes and
became a baritone. What happened?
Franco Corelli: I was young and didn't know how to use my voice. My vocal cords
were unable to sustain the pressure to which I subjected them. Since I was very
athletic, with a strong diaphragm, my voice's birthright was great volume of breath
and breath span. After three months of lessons with soprano Rita Pavoni, I lost my
voice, and then for a period of three or four months I studied as a baritone.
When I was a boy, Tito Gobbi gave a concert in my hometown, Ancona. He said
that singing is like sport. In sport if you get tired, you still keep on pushing, and
without proper training I drove my voice. After a page of music, my voice would get
lower. I thought that to get through an entire aria, I'd have to make the switch to
baritone. I did have a big enough middle register to enable me to pass for one.
SZ: Were you successful as a baritone?
FC: No. The technique I was studying wasn't a good one and led me to close my
throat. I used the throat muscles so much that the voice didn't pass through freely.
SZ: What technique did you adopt ultimately?
FC: A friend, Carlo Scaravelli, who was studying with Arturo Melocchi, taught me his
approach, involving singing with the larynx held low. After a few months, I regained
my freedom in singing and my high notes.
SZ: Did you yourself study with Melocchi?
FC: I went to him sometimes, although some advised me he was a throat-wrecker. His
method was based on opening the throat. When you yawn, the throat is open. A truly
open throat remains that open.
Melocchi taught [Mario] Del Monaco for a number of years. Because he began to
perform a few years before I did, I used him as my example, scrutinizing everything
he did throughout his career. He sang with the larynx lowered as far as it would go.
Melocchi's tenors all came to resemble Del Monaco in tone color, range and style.
This means that, for better or worse, Melocchi taught a real technique.
SZ: What are its pros and cons?
FC: The lowered larynx permits you to have a vibrant, strong, brilliant voice, like
steel, but it does tend to prevent you from singing sweetly. It also can cause problems
with mezza-voce and legato.
SZ: According to Del Monaco's autobiography, La Mia Vita e i Miei Successi, at the
beginning of his career he appeared as Ernesto and Alfredo-and couldn't be heard.
Then he became among the first to study with Melocchi, who had learned the
lowered-larynx technique in China from a Russian-the technique previously was
unknown in Italy. To sing Verdi with a lowered larynx is as anachronistic as playing
Bach on a concert grand-although the result can be thrilling.
FC: In today's theaters, with today's louder and more brilliant orchestras, singers need
the power and steel that come from the lowered larynx.
SZ: With some other methods, the larynx may lower as a by-product, but with
Melocchi's method, lowering the larynx is the beginning of everything. Carried to an
extreme, this road leads to Luigi Ottolini, a tenor who was unable to change vocal
color, although he had a concentrated, focused sound with immense ring. [He is the
RadamПs on an Aida highlights recording with Nilsson.] Like Del Monaco, he had
difficulty modulating dynamics, with soft singing in particular. He had a strong voice
that was not particularly useful for musical or dramatic purposes. According to La
Mia Vita, Melocchi recommended that Del Monaco not try to sing with nuance or real
dynamic modulation.
FC: With the laryngeal method you must know your vocal organ very well, what you
can do and how far you can go. For example, I heard some who pushed their larynxes
down to the point that they sounded as if they had bronchitis. [He imitates them.]
With this technique, you can make your vocal cords suffer. Many who teach it cause
their pupils to force their voices to the point of ruination. I ultimately modified the
method so that my larynx “floats”-I do not keep it lowered to the maximum at all
times.
SZ: Tell us about the history of your voice. How was it when you began to sing?
FC: When I began, my natural voice was not beautiful. I had a strong voice, and
people told me that was my best quality. Still, no one believed in me. I began to sing
as a joke. A friend and I listened to records and sang for hours and hours, and that's
when I fell in love with singing. Before entering a competition, I had seen only two or
three operas. I lost that competition because I screamed too much but won the next
one because I was in wonderful voice and my screaming excited the judges. The prize
was to be my debut, in Spoleto in September 1951, as RadamПs.
I studied the part for three months with the conductor, Giuseppe Bertelli, but I
didn't have enough technique for RadamПs. Little by little I began to lose my voice,
while singing the third and fourth acts. They had me change to Don JosО. In AХda
you need legato, bel canto and style. Carmen is an opera of explosive impulse, and
you can succeed in it if you have enough temperament. Carmen also is congenial to
me because it isn't very high. It does have high notes, but they are well situated and
not extremely difficult. And it stays in one tessitura.
Three months after my debut I went to the Rome Opera, where I remained for four
years. My first opera there was Zandonai's Giulietta e Romeo, a very difficult work.
The next month came Adriana Lecouvreur, the following month Carmen at Caracalla.
After that, my life was easy. I was very lucky. But I was humble and studied for hours
and hours, asking people what they thought about my voice and what were my
mistakes, what were my worst notes, and if I could change them. I asked if I could
change my vocal color, which I didn't like.
For three or four years I didn't believe my career could continue, because, unlike
today, the theater was full of wonderful voices. I began with a voice that wasn't so
interesting, but I tried to make it beautiful by infusing it with some sentiments,
genuine and simple sentiments.
SZ: Francesco Tamagno and Aureliano Pertile were nearly the last dramatic tenors to
have made diminuendos-until you. How did you learn to sing pianissimo?
FC: I first sang pianissimo in 1954, in Rome, in Don Carlo. The conductor was
Gabriele Santini, one of the greatest. He taught me well, but I was singing too
strongly. I arrived at the last act a little tired-my throat and breathing were tired. The
A-flat on the word “mancherШ” was difficult for me, and I made what I thought was
a bad effect on it. People said, “You had a remarkable moment there, attacking the
note strongly and making a diminuendo.” I learned to sing pianissimo from that.
SZ: Within three years of your debut, you went on to La Scala in La Vestale.
FC: For me it was important to sing an opening night at La Scala that early in my
career. The engagement was prestigious because of all the famous tenors around.
SZ: What is the story of your vibrato?
FC: When I began to record, I was horrified and stopped right away, because I heard
that my voice trembled. I was pushing too much because of lack of adequate breath
control. [He caricatures himself.] Although I didn't study so much before my debut, I
certainly did afterward, little by little refining the sound, learning to control my breath
and to push less. My legato improved, and my vibrato subsided.
SZ: You of course did conquer RadamПs.
FC: RadamПs represented my arrival in the high repertory. I tried it out for one
performance in 1953 but only started to sing it with some frequency in '55.
SZ: In the next few years you were offered still higher repertory, including Poliuto
and Ugonotti.
FC I had no choice but to study and refine my technique further.
SZ: What was your highest note at the beginning of your career?
FC: At the beginning I had problems with top notes, so at my first audition I sang
“Giunto sul passo estremo” [Mefistofele], because it goes up only to A-flat. I was
afraid to attempt anything higher. My topmost note was about B-flat.
SZ: What was the highest note you ever sang in performance?
FC: I sang Poliuto five times with Callas and three times with [Leyla] Gencer. In each
of the performances with Gencer I interpolated high D-natural.
SZ: In 1962 you were hailed at La Scala for your performances of Gli Ugonotti. Was
that tenor part the most athletic you sang?
FC: Yes. Carmen, Norma and Forza were easy for my voice, which was, however, a
little too heavy and low for Poliuto and Ugonotti. Before the Ugonotti rehearsals
began, the conductor, Gianandrea Gavazzeni, said, “I don't know if Corelli is able to
handle it.” He came to my apartment, and I sang the part for him. On leaving, he
remarked, “I never dreamt you could sing an opera such as this.” It was, however,
very difficult for me.
SZ: Considering how tenor careers often progressed, one would have expected you to
continue in either of two directions-with heroic high roles, such as Arnoldo in
Guglielmo Tell, or with dramatic low ones, such as Otello.
FC: Mine was a strange career, for I began with heavy repertory and then went to the
lyric French repertory.
SZ: Why did you do that?
FC: I had made my Met debut in 1961, in Il Trovatore. The Met had not done RomОo
for many years. In 1964, two years before singing it at the Met, I performed it in
Philadelphia. The performance was good-the public liked it. Mr. Bing wanted to
produce the opera and paid me well to sing it. I also sang Werther at his urging and
made a recording of Faust. The roles were very difficult for me, especially Faust. I
was apprehensive, thinking I couldn't sing sweetly enough. I feel I did succeed in the
end-you hear a tenor different from the one in Andrea ChОnier, Ernani, AiХa,
Trovatore. In “Salut! demeure” I sound like a true romantic tenor. I threw away some
recitatives, though, because I didn't know them well enough.
SZ: Looking back, do you feel this repertory was a good choice?
FC: I ended up not singing operas better suited to me, Manon Lescaut and Otello in
particular.
SZ: In 1958, in Rome, you sang Pollione opposite the Norma of Callas when she
walked out of the performance. What really happened?
FC: She was a little sick, and that didn't permit her to sing at her best. Some in the
audience heckled her. When she came offstage after Act I, she was completely calm,
but then she began to stew and announced she was cancelling. The management went
to her, to push her to continue the performance. She became a lioness and began to
scream. She threw some vases and a chair. Little by little she lost her voice. When she
left the theater, however, she looked elegant, as if nothing had happened.
SZ: Are you suggesting that she could have continued the performance had she not
started to scream?
FC: Absolutely. She was in possession of a fabulous voice and an excellent technique.
As late as 1958 she was always able to sing. She could have continued.
SZ: People think of you as having been nervous, but in general they do not say you
were temperamental. There are, however, some exceptions. You had a run-in with
conductor Fabien Sevitzky during Carmen rehearsals at Verona. What took place?
FC: We had a big problem, and I wasn't the only one. The beginning of the fight was
between [Giulietta] Simionato and this maestro. Then [Ettore] Bastianini fought with
him. They were upset because of his strange tempos. He was more interested in the
design of the accompaniment than in the vocal lines and highlighted the orchestration
at the expense of the singers. Some of his tempos were extremely fast, others unduly
broad. My turn to fight with him came when I was singing “La fleur.” Ordinarily I
sang the aria in three minutes, but with him it took more than five. Finishing on my
knees in front of Simionato, I stood up and declared, “Maestro, for me it's impossible
to sing with you. You are really great, but my voice isn't good for your tempo.” We
had some back and forth, and I left the stage. The sovrintendente came. Maestro
Sevitzky said, “I'm really sorry, but mine is the correct tempo, not the one you hear on
records. The people who made them didn't know what they were doing.” The
sovrintendente rejoined, “Maestro, you are really great, as Mr. Corelli said, but under
these circumstances it is impossible for me to keep you.” Sevitzky left.
SZ: Why did you stop your career in 1976?
FC: I was a little tired, I felt that my voice was a little tired, a little opaque, less
brilliant than before. The singer's life cost me a great deal. I was full of apprehension
and mad at everyone. I was a bundle of nerves, I wasn't eating or sleeping.
At first I thought I would simply relax for a time and then return, but after three
months I still had no desire to sing. I felt so comfortable that I said to myself, “Why
go back? The public demands more and more of you, and if one night you're unable to
deliver, they ask why.” I don't miss the pressures, but I do miss the joy of singing and
performing. My voice did regain its bloom. When I'm in good voice, I ask myself,
“What if...?”
SZ: When you sing for me today, your singing has more warmth, heart and caress
than it did twenty-five years ago. You sing with more gradations of volume, and your
voice has become more adolescent in timbre, more suitable to the poetry of ChОnier.
You sing ?Che gelida manina? with more sweetness and tenderness now.
FC: It's true. I do look deeper today, because, before, I thought about voice before
everything else.
SZ: Besides concentrating more on dramatic tenor parts, is there anything you would
do differently if you had your career to do over again?
FC: Well, on some days I feel I'd sing with less force and with more variety of
dynamics and more passion, with more heart-like [Beniamino] Gigli. On other days I
still prefer my old approach, because it was more vigorous. Nowadays I change back
and forth.
In 1989-90 listeners to “Opera Fanatic” voted for Favorite Tenor of the Century. With
forty-seven singers receiving a grand total of 600 votes, Corelli placed first, with 185
votes, Jussi Bjoerling second, with 177 votes, Enrico Caruso third, with sixty-nine
votes, and Gigli fourth, with fifty votes. For a detailed list, click on link.
Listeners expressed a longing for Corelli's animal excitement and maintained that
no one since measures up.
FERNANDO CORENA
by Stefan Zucker
The basso buffo tradition began in Naples in the early 18th century with the Casaccia
family, who dominated buffo singing there for four generations, generally performing
in dialect. Some members went in for broad comedy. Stendahl had this to say of Carlo
Casaccia in connection with his appearance at the city's Teatro dei Fiorentini in Pietro
Carlo Guglielmi's Paolo e Virginia in 1817:
[T]he famous Casaccia . . . is enormous, a fact that gives him opportunity for
considerable pleasant buffoonery. When seated, he undertakes to give himself an
appearance of ease by crossing his legs; impossible; the effort that he goes through
topples him onto his neighbor; a general collapse. This actor, commonly called
Casacciello, is adored by the public; he has the nasal voice of a Capuchin. At this
theater everyone sings through his nose.
During the 18th century two types of buffo emerged: the “buffo nobile,” or noble
comic, and the “buffo caricato,” or exaggerated comic. The same singers who
undertook “basso cantante” or non-comic lyric bass roles also frequently sang those
for buffo nobile, for they are similar in vocal demands, often requiring virtuosity.
Buffo caricato parts, on the other hand, were a specialty, calling for falsetto singing in
imitation of women and, above all, patter singing or chatter. Beauty of tone is of small
consequence for a buffo caricato, mastery of comic effect essential. The part of Don
Basilio in Il barbiere di Siviglia is for buffo nobile, that for Don Bartolo in the same
opera for buffo caricato. The florid passages for MustafИ in L'Italiana in Algeri are
not very different from those for Assur in Semiramide, and in fact both roles were
written for Filippo Galli, who moved comfortably between the nobile and cantante
genres. On the other hand Taddeo in L'Italiana is a patter part.
Fernando Corena had wonderful flair as a buffo caricato, his best role: Bartolo-at first
grand and expansive, exuding self-importance and pomposity, then sputtering with
outrage. He invariably stole the show. But when he crossed over into parts for basso
cantante, such as Il conte Rodolfo in La sonnambula or those for buffo nobile, such as
MustafИ, he sounded ungainly-labored in coloratura and spread in pitch. Still, his
voice was truer than that of Salvatore Baccaloni, his immediate predecessor. Corena
was able to swat out MustafИ's Gs, beyond the range of many basses; however,
particularly in later years he sounded effortful in the high tessitura of the L'elisir
d'amore entrance aria, with its many Es. His voice retained substance no matter how
quickly he chattered. And he was masterful at caricaturing women in falsetto, for
example, at the interpolated words “sul tamburo” in Barbiere. In recordings of arias
from Le CaХd and Philemon et Baucis, although he lacks the coloratura facility,
impeccable legato and pinpoint accuracy of intonation of the legendary Pol PlanНon,
he sings with more personality, exuberance and variety of tonal inflection. PlanНon
dazzles, but Corena's more fun.
On stage, Baccaloni, a comedian, was never out of character. He claimed to have
prepared five ways to play each moment, once remarking, “I choose. Only a fool
improvises.” Corena, a clown, often improvised-and frequently amused himself by
playing pranks on other singers. He was better at expressing extroverted feelings than
deep dark emotions. Portraying Falstaff as a clown, he failed to capture the character's
reflective side. As Leporello he was a delight in the “Catalogue” aria, somewhat of a
disappointment toward the opera's end. As Don Pasquale he was a triumph-except in
those passages calling for pathos. Above all, Corena excelled at detailing foibles and
pomposity. He was pre-eminent in his repertoire from the mid-50s until the late 70s.
This article, written in 1991, is reprinted from The International Dictionary of Opera
and The St. James Opera Encyclopedia, with additions and minor changes.
ROBERT MERRILL
by Stefan Zucker
Gifted with a powerful, resonant and biting voice, Robert Merrill is supposed to have
quipped, “When in doubt, sing loud.” In fact, he almost never sang any way but loud.
He had a plangent sound but frequently sang as if by rote, failing to communicate
rhythmic pulse, much less musical ebb and flow or feeling for drama in music. For
him the basic unit of utterance was the note, not the phrase. The notes themselves
stayed more or less at the same volume and thus lacked dynamic direction. As a result
he couldn't prepare emphases with crescendos. This, combined with his tendency to
treat legato passages as if they were declamation and to substitute bluster and cliched
snarls for emotional substance, caused much of the music he sang to sound jagged.
Nevertheless, his legato was excellent, for he was able to join notes together
seamlessly (unlike many Americans who habitually disrupt legato passages with
sudden, quick diminuendos before the consonants d and t).
Merrill seemingly was without conscience regarding preparation and seldom lived up
to his artistic best. Once, after he sang “Di Provenza” on television, the host
unexpectedly asked him to repeat the piece. Merrill kept shouting “Words! Words!”until the teleprompter was turned back on. At a Met Trovatore a member of the
audience sarcastically yelled the words to him. Merrill was particularly inaccurate in
rests, often shortening them, so that the music couldn't breathe properly. In an Otello
performance, whenever he had to enter over an orchestral tremolo, he came in any old
time-he simply didn't bother to count. More often than not he was unprepared, gluing
himself to the prompter. Even so, he may have sung more wrong notes and words than
any other leading post-war singer.
On records from the 40s and early 50s he often is marginally under pitch and, in
Italian arias, plain boring. In “Cortigiani,” whenever he musters some feeling, as at
the words “Marullo, signore,” he fails to sustain it. Elsewhere, he has episodes where
he interprets or is animated-but they usually don't last. A notable exception is ThaХs's
death scene, with Dorothy Kirsten, recorded in 1947, where he sings with passion.
Merrill's most successful early recordings are of light songs in English, in which he
sounds fully at home with words and music. His best, “The Green Eyed Dragon,” was
made around 1949 (but it pales in comparison with John Charles Thomas's rendition).
When Merrill does vary his sound here, as in another song, “Shadrack,” it is with
inflections seemingly borrowed from Lawrence Tibbett. Merrill recorded a number of
duets with Jussi BjЪrling-and it is to him that you end up paying attention.
By 1963, when Merrill recorded Ford's monolog from Falstaff, the voice had become
bass tinged to the point that it was a dramatic baritone, suitable for heavy Verdi roles.
By then, too, he had stopped sounding like an outsider to Italian opera and was not
only vocally but also emotionally powerful throughout such selections as “Urna
fatale.” By the late 60s, however, his musicianship had become even more slipshod,
his performance in a 1972 Met Don Carlo being particularly egregious. Still, he
remained memorable in the highly declamatory part of Amonasro.
As an actor on stage Merrill was wooden and without the appearance of spontaneity.
As the Toreador he had no pizzazz. As an actor with the voice, even at his best he
didn't have Leonard Warren's or Giuseppe De Luca's ability to underscore the
meaning of words, while as a vocal personality he lacked the latter's warmth and
humanity. Merrill's diction was better than Warren's, who, however, had a beautiful
pianissimo.
With these liabilities what enabled Merrill to become-and remain-a star? Particularly
in the middle voice he had an imposing sound uncharacteristic of American baritones.
Performing light music in concert and on radio, television and film made him famous
throughout the U.S. (although he never achieved international stardom).
Merrill's opera career was based at the Met, where loudness counts for a lot. In the 50s
he was in Warren's shadow. By the early 70s Sherrill Milnes got most of the plum
assignments. Merrill was, however, the leading American baritone of the 60s.
Merrill did sing with a wide variety of inflections in “largo al factotum,” on Great
Moments in Opera.
This article, written in 1991, is reprinted from The International Dictionary of Opera
and The St. James Opera Encyclopedia, with additions and minor changes.
JOSГ SOLER
Among the Last Heroic Tenors
by Stefan Zucker
Heard on the DVD and VHS of #657 (Pagliacci plus Guglielmo Tell Highlights) in
the prototypical heroic-tenor role of Arnoldo, in Tell, JosО Soler was one of the last
of the breed. Heroic-tenor roles have more high notes than parts written for dramatic
tenor and call for a leaner, more focused sound. Since Caruso and Del Monaco the
world has thought of dramatic tenors as having thick, heavy voices and sounding like
baritones. But baritonal tenors typically cannot undertake parts such as Arnoldo, with
its 19 high Cs and two C-sharps, not to mention interpolated high notes mandated by
the style. (In the trio “O libertade o morte” Soler sings a high C-sharp, without
apparent effort.) In the 19th century and the early part of the 20th, such roles were
sung by heroic tenors. Meyerbeer and his contemporaries wrote a number of roles for
this voice type. Along with the works themselves, tenors suited to them have become
extinct. They sounded like lyric tenors but with ultra-brilliant, penetrating high notes
and sometimes, as is the case with Soler, weak lower-middle and bottom ones. Such
tenors are ill suited to verismo repertory, where it's the middle that counts, as well as
to most Verdi. Although Soler sang Manrico, it's hard to imagine he was successful in
Acts II and IV, which lie in the middle.
By Soler's time the heroic-tenor repertory wasn't performed, with the exception of an
occasional Tell or Gli Ugonotti, so he had no choice but to appear in AХda and other
operas associated with dramatic rather than heroic tenors. He wasn't the only one with
a foot in each camp, however. Francesco Tamagno, who genuinely seems to have
fallen between the categories, in addition to creating Verdi's Otello, sang Tell and
Ugonotti. Jean De Reszke and Caruso, who also sang lyric and dramatic parts, assayed
Ugonotti. Leo Slezak and Helge Rosvaenge sang wide-ranging repertories that
encompassed Otello and Tell. Giovanni Martinelli, who sang lyric and dramatic parts,
also performed Tell and Ugonotti. Giacomo Lauri Volpi, more suited to Tell and
Ugonotti, each of which he performed, also sang some performances of Otello.
Corelli, who started out in the dramatic repertory, for a time aspired to the heroic; he
sang Ugonotti but abandoned the idea of performing Tell, which has more high notes.
De Reszke, Caruso, Corelli and possibly Martinelli transposed, simplified or omitted
some of the higher-flying sections in Ugonotti. Still, these singers are reminders that
the demarcation lines of all vocal categories are elastic.
Some Wagner tenors are heroic; others are dramatic. Melchior, who began as a
baritone, became a dramatic tenor. He maintained that:
A baritone quality points the way to the dramatic or heroic Wagnerian tenor, the socalled Schwererheld [sic] [a heavy hero]-Siegfried, Tristan, TannhКuser. [I]f you
begin as a high baritone.you have only to make the middle high of the voice a little
lighter. . . . [that is to say] the baritone's three top notes, E, F, and G, must be filed
down to match his lower notes. . . .Then he must add three top notes, A, B, and C.
[See Shirlee Emmons's Tristanissimo: The Authorized Biography of Heroic Tenor
Lauritz Melchior, Schirmer Books, 1990, pp. 51, 14 and 43.]
So great was Melchior's influence that for more than a generation Wagner tenors were
measured against him. But some of his predecessors and contemporaries were heroic
tenors. Some examples are Giuseppe Borgatti, Karl Burrian, Ivan Ershov, Nikander
Khanaev, Ernst Kraus, Ettore Parmeggiani, Johannes Sembach, Jacques Urlus
(sometimes) and Walter Widdop.
Melchior spoke of himself as a heroic tenor and Emmons calls him that, no doubt
translating from the German Heldentenor. But in fact he was a dramatic tenor who
sang the Heldentenor repertory. Whether Wagner's original tenors were dramatic
tenors or heroic tenors, no one today can say.
Soler's vowels are bright. Like others in the heroic-tenor category, his voice has ring
or ping-what Italians call "squillo." Some dramatic tenors have squillo, Del Monaco
for example. Squillo gives a tone elemental excitement. Most singers merely have
resonance, which in and of itself is never exciting. Tones without squillo cannot
pierce or punch. They may exude sorrow but not violent rage. For me, singers lacking
squillo never can be entirely satisfying as, say, Verdi's Otello, a dramatic-tenor part,
or as Arnoldo. The full-bodied tones of Carreras and Domingo may please, but they
cannot thrill. To thrill, such singers have to rely on the use to which they put their
tones, on musical interpretation or vocal acting.
Sung tones come in three categories: closed, open and covered. In spoken French, for
example, there are two “ah” sounds: the “ah” in “jamais” is closed, that in “thОЙtre”
open. Covering involves darkening the tone and modifying vowels almost as if some
were schwas, like the “uh” sounds in “America.” Open speaking and covered
speaking sound artificial. But used judiciously open singing and covered singing can
enhance expression.
Unlike LОonce-Antoine EscalaХs, a turn-of-the-century heroic tenor, Soler doesn't
cover his tones. Instead he uses closed tones. (For more on the subject of closed, open
and covered tones see the booklet to #D504, Non ti scordar di me. In that DVD Gigli
demonstrates all three kinds.)
Like many singers from early in the 20th century, Soler sings the vowel “oo” with an
umlaut, as “Я.” This practice more or less died out before W.W. II.
He sings with a vocal technique that came into vogue in the second half of the 19th
century, involving placing the voice far forward in the face, in the area singers refer to
as the “masque.” Unlike Del Monaco and Corelli, neither of whom used masque
placement, he doesn't obtain squillo by singing with his larynx kept low.
Soler, born in Catalonia, in 1904, appeared in Spain in the late 30s and early 40s and
in Italy after the war. His records are extremely rare apart from a 1953 Andrea
ChОnier, with Tebaldi. He died in 1999.
Opera Fanatic: Stefan and the Divas
I. Chest Voice: Some History
II. Chest Voice: the Divas' Dispute
III. Vocal Technique
IV. Musical Line vs. Dramatic Expression
Two Kinds of Diva
V. Intuition vs. Analysis
I. Chest Voice: Some History
Since W.W. I women for the most part have been afraid of chest resonance, fearing it
would ruin their voices. But in the 19th century women used it as a matter of course, a
practice they inherited from the castratos. Most women on early recordings sing all
notes from F at the bottom of the treble staff on down in chest voice. But they do not
sing higher than that in chest voice. Voice teacher Giovanni Battista Lamperti
dissuaded his pupil Marcella Sembrich from undertaking AХda on the grounds that
she lacked the requisite chest resonance. (Records attest to Sembrich's having used
chest resonance below G-flat, so presumably Lamperti must have felt her chest voice
was too light for the part.) Lamperti did maintain it was unhealthy for the voice for
women to carry chest resonance higher than F.
Nineteenth-century Italian opera composers seemingly took for granted that women
would employ chest voice. (Consider Mascagni's preference for Lina Bruna Rasa's
chest-voice-heavy Santuzza.) The majority of roles cannot be communicated
adequately without chest color at one point or another. Women often find that unless
they abstain from chest resonance, the music at certain moments causes them to use it.
A challenge for women with modern vocal techniques is how to fulfill the chest
requirement without hurting themselves.
In the last 160 years, while women have used chest voice less and less, men have used
it more and more. For discussions of men, chest voice and head voice, see my “Last of
a Breed: Giovanni Battista Rubini Ruled as the Paragon of Virtuoso Tenors, King of
the High F's” (Opera News, February 13, 1982) and “Seismic Shocker: Gilbert-Louis
Duprez's History-Making High C” (Opera News, January 1, 1983), also my “Different
Kinds of High Notes and the Seismic Shock: Nineteenth-Century Tenors and the
Meaning of 'Falsetto'” (American Record Guide, March 1982). The Rubini and
Duprez articles are reprinted in my The Origins of Modern Tenor Singing; see our full
catalog.
II. Chest Voice: The Divas' Dispute
Gavazzi and Gencer claim that not only did they themselves employ chest resonance
but that the other divas-in particular, Olivero, Cigna, Adami Corradetti, Simionato and
Barbieri-did as well. (Frazzoni made some seemingly inconsistent statements about
whether or not she herself used it.) These latter deny having resonated in their chests.
I asked Gavazzi to explain this. She claimed they employed chest unknowingly.
This kind of explanation is common among singers. Corelli and Hines cannot
conceive of any tenor singing above the staff without routinely covering his tone. Yet
Alfredo Kraus and I claim we do exactly that. Speaking on the radio program “Opera
Fanatic,” Corelli and Hines insisted we cover automatically, without being aware of
it-a view we reject.
Also speaking on “Opera Fanatic,” Kraus asserted that Chris Merritt sings his high
notes in falsetto-a view he rejects.
Usually I favor giving the singer the benefit of the doubt: if he says he's not covering,
then he's not.
The dispute over chest voice may be a special case, however. The anti-chest divas
were raised in the belief that chest resonance is vocally unhealthy. They also were told
it fractures continuity of musical line. Still, certain powerful emotions and coloristic
demands sometimes flushed chest out of them. But they hate to admit it. Each diva
views her vocal technique as having the sanctity of religion. Each is mortified if the
world knows she sinned. Barbieri insisted she wouldn't attend The Bavarian State
Opera's showing of Opera Fanatic if Gencer were there, on the grounds that Gencer
had insulted her by saying in the film that she-Barbieri-used chest voice.
Why should opera lovers care about whether or not someone sings with chest voice?
Because the affective consequences are very great. My viscera aren't satisfied if chest
isn't used in certain passages, the phrase “un gel mi prende” (Norma), for example.
III. Vocal Technique
With the exception of Adami Corradetti, who at least from the 50s onward didn't have
a placement-based method, the divas in the film used a technique of resonation called
“masque placement” (“placement” of the tone at the front of the face, anywhere
between the forehead and the lower teeth). Masque placement prevailed in the period
in which they sang.
For much of the19th century many singers placed their voices at the top of the head, at
a point between but above the ears. Gemma Bellincioni, the first Santuzza, used this
placement.
Today masque placement is being edged aside by mechanistic approaches, which do
not involve placement at all. Instead, they require manipulation of the lips, mouth,
tongue, soft palate, nostrils, jaw, position of the head or of the larynx.
With the exception of Adami Corradetti, who did not think about breathing, the divas
used a breathing method involving pressing in at the diaphragm. Before, during and
after the divas' period a variety of other breathing techniques have been in use.
The divas all subscribe to the view that there is one god, one country and one singing
technique-their own. (Olivero concurs that this is her stand.)
For more detailed information about these and six other fundamentally different kinds
of vocal technique, see Opera Fanatic magazine, issue 2. (See our full catalog)
Musical Line vs. Dramatic Expression
Two Kinds of Diva
The divas divide into two groups. The first group strove not to vary tone color for
dramatic expression but to maintain consistency of tone color for the sake of musical
line. Half the divas in the film-Barbieri, Cerquetti, Cigna, Pobbe and Simionatobelong to this group (as do virtually all singers today). From their point of view, a
change in tone color compromised musical line as much as a break in legato. That
they didn't vary tone color didn't prevent them from being emotionally intense. They
relied on good diction and musicianship to serve librettists and composers.
For the second group, varying tone color for dramatic expression was paramount.
Adami Corradetti (as a performer but not as a teacher), Frazzoni, Gavazzi, Gencer and
Olivero are in this group. To my ears, these performers succeeded in changing tone
color without damaging the musical line and thereby heightened emotional impact.
The singers in the first group acted with their faces and bodies. The singers in the
second group also acted with their voices.
One can find counterexamples. Frazzoni and Gencer didn't always come alive
interpretively. Cerquetti sometimes inflected her tone, most notably on a live
recording of Ballo. Cigna on some occasions colored hers as well.
IV. Intuition vs. Analysis
During the interviews it became clear that the divas respond to words and to the
music's emotions but don't analyze its structure. They never think about clarifying a
vocal line by showing through emphasis which notes are melody, which mere
ornamentation. The notion of each piece containing a hierarchy of notes is foreign to
them.
Unlike the majority of singers (Italians in particular), most of the divas in the film
turned out to have studied instruments. Perhaps that contributed to their musical
intuitions. Simionato had no such background, yet her musicianship was no less
expressive.
Anita Cerquetti
“Singers should stay motionless when they sing. Otherwise the voice shifts. The
singer has to be an actor through gestures, face, arms and hands. Through the voice.“
Demonstration: Norma
Born in 1931, Cerquetti first studied violin and sang for her own pleasure. At 16 she
performed the Bach-Gounod “Ave Maria” at a friend's wedding and was persuaded to
audition for the Perugia conservatory, where she was accepted. She performed
Leonora (Trovatore) at Modena but her official debut was in 1951, as AХda, at
Spoleto. She appeared throughout Italy, France, Switzerland and in Chicago, and she
sang Abigaille with Serafin at Verona in 1956. In 1957, in her only New York
appearance (at The Town Hall), she sang Paride ed Elena (Gluck). Among her
recordings are Gioconda, Oberon, Norma, Forza, Vespri, Tell, Ernani and
Abencerages (Cherubini). She retired abruptly. We discussed this:
AC: I sacrificed my career for my family.
SZ: How?
AC: By leaving my career so early.
SZ: There are various explanations regarding why you stopped. For example, RAI
[Italian radio] told me you had a brain disease.
AC: Uff! [Sound of disgust] What?
SZ: And that you could no longer remember your parts.
AC: They told you that at RAI? What dears! How nice of them! No, thank God, no!
Do you know why this rumor got started? I was studying Il pirata, which I was
scheduled to sing in Palermo. At the same time I was singing Norma at the Rome
Opera, substituting for Callas and going back and forth between Rome and Naples,
where I was also performing Norma. Naturally, traveling back and forth like that, and
singing in both cities, there was little time to study. When I arrived in Palermo,
knowing they had a cover ready, I said, “Because I haven't prepared this opera well, I
don't feel I should sing it.” From that point people began to say I had lost my memory.
The Milan paper wrote, “Anita Cerquetti has suddenly lost her memory.” It wasn't that
I'd lost my memory; it was simply that I hadn't studied. This is the truth.
SZ: Let me read this quote of Franco Corelli [the Pollione of the Rome performances]:
“Cerquetti strained her voice by singing too much.”
AC: Yes [sardonically].
SZ: “She substituted for Callas in Rome while performing Norma at the San Carlo in
Naples at the same time, and after three months she developed nodes on her vocal
cords.”
AC: This is another lie, because, thank God, I have never had nodes. Instead I was
overcome by stress because I was tired, very tired.
SZ: When did you have the stress?
AC: I was very tired because I couldn't sleep at night and during the day I sang. It got
to the point where I had absolute need of physical rest. Above all I needed to sleep.
This was from stress. But, thank God, my vocal cords remained intact and have
remained so until today. This is the truth. And other things were said as well, not just
that. They said my husband left me, didn't they? [Her husband, Edo, grunts
affirmatively.] They also said I had lost my mind, that I had had a heart operation (this
news arrived from America). So many things were said-understandably-because I had
left my career at its most beautiful moment. It's only natural that people asked why.
And since everyone needed a reason, each one invented his own.
SZ: Did you commit acts of divismo?
AC: When I canceled the Pirata, all kinds of things were said about me-that I did
scandalous things, that I turned a hotel upside down because I couldn't find a room to
my liking. They called me hysterical, a crazy woman-everything. And no one-no onespoke up for me. No one said, it's not true, that's not the way it is. Apparently it was
convenient at that moment for some people that I disappear. Since I needed my family
and affection-in this life you need more than just success-I said “Basta: I'm closing the
door, and that's the end of it.”
SZ: Do you have the desire to sing, to perform?
AC: Not today. The first years, yes, but no longer.
SZ: And the first years?
AC: In the first years it was hard, because I withdrew abruptly, no longer seeing
people or listening to music. I wanted to erase those memories even though they can
never really be erased. But at least I wanted to keep them at a distance, put them in the
back of my mind.
SZ: Why didn't you attempt a return to the stage?
AC: I received many offers to return. There were moments when I almost accepted.
But then I thought, what's the point? I've already found my peace, my serenity. To
return under the gun! Basta! And so I closed the door.
Today one tends to think of dramatic soprano voices as heavy, in the manner of
Marton's, but Cerquetti's instead was brilliant and penetrating, with soaring top notes.
Her breath span was a trifle short. She was expert at such elusive subtleties as the
grace notes in “O patria mia.” Her temperament sometimes seems a little cool, lacking
in pathos, her sound Nordic. (In Opera Fanatic she warmly interprets words in
demonstrating an excerpt from Norma.) Gioconda inspired her to sizzle. She sang the
part with a heavier tone.
SZ: What is your opinion about chest voice?
AC: I hate it.
SZ: To me you sound as if you used pinches of it as Gioconda.
AC: Well, I used chest notes despite myself-but lightly. The part brought them out of
me. I couldn't sing with heavy chest resonance if I wanted to because I've always tried
to avoid it.
SZ: Are chest notes harmful to the voice?
AC: Yes. They ruin the middle voice, and they are ugly. I prefer a note that is less
forte but more beautiful. If you throw a note into the chest you hear the difference
when the sound rises and passes the first passaggio [change of register]. You hear that
it's no longer the same voice, that something has happened. It's as if you open a door
and find a narrower hallway because the notes in the middle voice are comparatively
thinner and weaker.
Cerquetti on Cigna: Cigna, by the way, used chest resonance.
On Olivero: Few singers have pathos. Olivero did. Almost all others are scholastic.
Her voice by itself serves for nothing.
On Barbieri and Simionato: [They] always hated one another.
-Stefan Zucker
Gina Cigna
“If you don't know how to breathe, you don't know how to sing....Opera has lost
spontaneity, beauty and freedom.”
Born in 1900 in Paris to a well-to-do family, Cigna studied music theory, also piano
with Cortot and voice with CalvО. She was a painter and ceramist. In 1927 she
debuted under her married name, Ginette Sens, at La Scala, as Freia. After studies
with Storchio and Russ and performances in the Italian provinces, she reemerged
under her own name at La Scala as Donna Elvira and went on to appear in Florence,
Verona, London, Paris, Cologne, Buenos Aires, Berlin, Vienna, Amsterdam, Brussels,
Munich, Hanover, Dusseldorf, Berlin, New York, Chicago, San Francisco and
Toronto. In 1947 on her way to perform Tosca in Vicenza she was in an auto accident.
She crawled out the window of the car, arrived at and sang the performance but at
some point suffered a heart attack. This caused her retirement.
Her repertoire included 50 roles, from Poppea to Kostelnicka. Her principal parts were
Turandot (which she performed 493 times), Norma, Gioconda and Violetta. She also
sang a prodigious number of recitals. Her recordings include Norma, Trovatore,
Turandot and AХda.
Cossotto coached repertory with Cigna and Pobbe coached AХda with her. Her voice
students included Casapietra, Mauti Nunziata, Dimitrova and Luis Lima.
Cigna's voice often had a touch of omnipresent conspicuous fast vibrato, seldom heard
since her day. Throughout a wide range her voice was plangent. Sometimes, though, it
sounded unsupported at ends of phrases, and her breathing sounded labored. In her
recordings from 1930-32, she used chest resonance sparingly, but in those from the
late 30s she didn't stint. She claims not to have employed chest resonance. However,
her pupil FranНoise Detchenique (seen with her in the film) says Cigna advised her to
use it with restraint.
Her singing communicated understanding of musical structure: harmonically
unimportant notes subordinated, notes of harmonic tension emphasized, those of
harmonic relaxation deemphasized. She built crescendos note by note, propelling
melodies toward their points of greatest dissonance. Sometimes, however, her
treatment of dynamics was a little too understated (perhaps because of her French
background).
She was a singer of many aspects. In Gioconda her voice was dark like a mezzo's, but
in Faust it was bright. In dramatic repertory she could sound like a mature woman, yet
in Faust she was girlish. Although Cigna is remembered principally for Turandot, she
often sang with Innigkeit (with inward or interior feeling), like a Lotte Lehmann of
the Italian repertory. (Cigna's vocal personality wasn't quite as warm.) Her singing
created an atmosphere, her characters oozed mystery, so that in listening to her one
believes they felt even more than they expressed.-Stefan Zucker
Gigliola Frazzoni
Born in 1927, she debuted in Bologna, as MimУ, in 1948, and appeared in Rome,
Venice, Turin, Palermo, Parma, Verona, Munich, Stuttgart, Wiesbaden, Zurich,
Geneva, Bordeaux, Cairo, Dublin and Vienna. She made her Scala debut in 1955,
replacing Callas in ChОnier. There she also sang Cavalleria, Fanciulla, Butterfly and
Pagliacci. Her recordings include Tosca, Fanciulla and the world premiere, at La
Scala, of I dialoghi delle Carmelitane. Her Minnie was filmed.
An uneven singer with an ample, round, dark sound, at her best she had a warm vocal
personality-tender, endearing, adorable, sensuous, feminine, passionate, cuddly. She
was a Minnie who laughed, loved, raged, suffered and exulted-electrifying. She was
wild at “Vieni fuori! Vieni fuori!” in Act II. She sometimes sang slightly flat. She was
insecure on high B and C.
Frazzoni tells her story:
My teacher took me from Bologna to Milan to audition for the agent Liduino. In
another part of the office Serafin was making up the cast for Francesca da Rimini. He
said, “This voice interests me. Don't send her away.” He signed me for a small part,
Samaritana. Thus I made my debut.
Later Liduino blocked my career because I represented a threat to someone he was
protecting. Once Del Monaco and Gobbi were in Chicago for Fanciulla. Steber was
supposed to sing Minnie but was sick-in reality she was on a bender-and they
recommended me. Liduino called me and asked me how much I wanted. I wasn't
accustomed to big fees. To make my American debut, in my opera, I would have gone
if they had covered my expenses. I told Liduino I left the money up to him. I was
afraid of flying but for that occasion was prepared to. I bought a valise. When nothing
happened my husband called Liduino's office and was given a runaround.
A week later I received a letter from Del Monaco saying he was ashamed to know
me because I'd asked for so much money-Liduino had demanded $3,000 a
performance although I would have gone for $300. He didn't want me to go to
America because he managed Stella and a number of other sopranos. Steber mimed
the performance with someone singing from behind the curtain. Bing flew from New
York to Chicago to hear me, in vain.
As a result my good friend Tebaldi ended up performing Fanciulla at the Met and
recording it for Decca. She wanted to do everything. She was one of the greatest
singers, with a sweet voice, an exquisite legato. She was wonderful in Lohengrin,
Otello, above all, and was even a good Maddelena, but she was unsuitable for
verismo. (I would have been a bad Desdemona because I needed to run around
onstage.) Her temperament was too controlled for Minnie and she was too static
onstage. Minnie has to be violent at moments. She was too sweet for that.
The Fanciulla recording was to have been done at La Scala with Votto conducting
but Decca moved it to Rome because he said, “I want to record Fanciulla with the cast
we had at La Scala.” [At La Scala Frazzoni was the Minnie, Del Monaco and Corelli
the Johnsons. The recording was conducted by Capuana and starred Del Monaco and
Tebaldi.]
In 1958 I was scheduled to do seven performances of Butterfly at La Scala. They
were so successful that the theater added 10 additional performances, whereas Callas
only got to do 14 of Traviata.
In the first act of Butterfly you must seem fifteen. Butterfly and Violetta each
require two voices. I try to adapt my sound to the situation. I had the discipline to
decline engagements, to prepare myself for certain roles. When I performed Butterfly
I only did that part that year because I had to make my voice smaller and childlike for
the first act. But in the second act I became a spinto and threw out all the voice I had.
I used chest voice when the drama called for it, for example, at the end of “Voi lo
sapete”-the way Bruna Rasa did. The word “piango” calls for it. I reconciled chest
voice with my masque placement. You shouldn't really dig into those notes. They
should sound natural, not forced. [She demonstrated the phrase with great passion and
a sob at the tied note on “piango” but used chest very lightly if at all, I thought.] Bruna
Rasa once came backstage to congratulate me after a performance. Incidentally, the
poor thing went crazy because of syphilis.
The first requirement in singing is to have temperament and sensibility. You must
be happy, joyful, full of love. In Puccini every phrase teaches you to sing with
happiness and humility.
There are no more Giocondas. Today BohПme-type voices sing heavy repertory
and they lack impact as Santuzza. Voices that would have sung MicaСla or LiЭ end
up doing Gioconda and Fedora.
What I regret most of all is not having any children-I would have liked to have had
six.
Frazzoni on Adami Corradetti: She made me feel a lot of tenderness.
On Simionato: In Cenerentola she sounded like a soprano leggero. She had great
facility with high notes.
On Stignani: She was a mezzo but she sang the high C in Norma. Callas told her,
“But why do you put in the C? Only I do it.”
On Gavazzi: She was one of the last with great temperament. She also had a
beautiful voice.
On Olivero: Her recording of “Ah! fors'П lui. . . . Sempre libera” is unsurpassable
and was an inspiration to me. Those who do Adriana today are ridiculous compared to
her. But unfortunately she was one of those singers who had to do everything, and so
she even performed Fanciulla. Her Minnie is of no interest to me.
SZ: Why is that?
GF: No comment!
On Corelli vs. Del Monaco:
SZ: You sang Fanciulla with both Del Monaco and Corelli. Please compare them.
GF: Del Monaco was a normal person. He didn't create problems for others. With
Corelli you never knew if he'd sing or not. Offstage he was unbearable. “I don't feel
well-this bothers me, that hurts me.” After performances he disappeared. Del Monaco
instead was a tranquil man. He was very serious about his singing. He listened to
himself while he sang. Offstage he was like a brother. He was happy, he gave joy.
After the performance he was able to sing through the entire opera again in full voice
in the hotel, after he had eaten. His wife, Rina, was a dear, good person. Del Monaco
had a beautiful voice, but his singing was more calculated.
Corelli was the Callas of tenors. His voice was not beautiful but it had an allure that
excited the public. Callas had a pathos, something great inside her, that Franco also
had. His voice gave me goosebumps. He threw himself into the performance. He was
Johnson-he was more true to the drama.
He sang, “Minnie, Minnie” with such tenderness! Onstage I was in love with him,
offstage less so because he was impossible.
After performances with Corelli women said to me, “He touched you! That must
have been so thrilling!”
-Stefan Zucker