When I was about 14 years old, and having only discovered classical music a year or so before that, I bought my first LP. What was it, you might ask? An RCA Vault reissue of operatic arias sung by Enrico Caruso. So my interest in historical recordings has apparently been there from the beginning. I am now old enough (76) that performances I saw in my tends and twenties can be classified as “historic,” which is somewhat disconcerting.

I have made my career in music. I operated a full-time classical music radio station from 1963-1978, became orchestra manager of the New York Philharmonic in 1978, Executive Director of the National Symphony (1981-1985) and President of the Chicago Symphony (1985-2003). After that I was President of the League of American Orchestras, and then Dean of the Chicago College of Performing Arts at Roosevelt University, from which I just retired and became Dean Emeritus. 

My belief is the value of having a knowledge of the history of performance practice is so strong that each year at Roosevelt I present a two-hour session featuring historic vocal recordings for voice students, do a similar listening session for the piano department, and orchestral recordings for students majoring in orchestral performance. In all cases, the students are surprised at the individuality of interpretive voices, the intensity of personality, in those performances. We then have a discussion of why the range of interpretive choice seems narrowed today. It is a question I cannot answer – but I think it is crucial for today’s audiences, musicians, and especially music critics to consider.

Exhibit A is Mahler’s 4 ^th Symphony, in Willem Mengelberg’s recording transferred so well by Pristine. We know that Mengelberg invited Mahler to conduct the Concertgebouw premiere of that piece in 1904, that Mengelberg sat with Mahler and discussed the score, that Mengelberg observed each rehearsal as well as the performance and marked his own score. His 1939 broadcast performance is therefore an invaluable document. Are we guaranteed that this is the way Mahler performed it (I am certain that any conductor today taking the kind of interpretive liberties demonstrated here would be destroyed by the critics)? But we cannot discount the possibility, or the likely probability that this performance has something in common with the way Mahler conducted it. In fact, we have recordings of Mahler symphonies by five conductors who worked directly with Mahler: Mengelberg, Klemperer, Walter, Oskar Fried, and F. Charles Adler. And we have one lone movement from Mahler’s 2 ^nd Symphony (the 2 ^nd movement) conducted with remarkable fluidity and flexibility by another associate of Mahler, none other than Arnold Schoenberg. What is notable is how different they are from each other – perhaps indicating that interpretive freedom was the norm.

There is considerable evidence that composers welcomed performers “adding” some interpretive choices to their performances. The recordings of the great tenor Fernando de Lucia show a singer who never stuck to the printed score (including one aria from Adriana Lecouvreur where he is accompanied by the composer, who echoes all of the singer’s “distortions”). And yet every composer alive when de Lucia was singing (Puccini, Mascagni, Giordano) wanted him to sing in the premieres and important performances of their operas. Because de Lucia had trouble with high notes, Puccini and Giordano offered to transpose parts for him.

VIVALDI Concerto for Two Violins

RACHMANINOV Three Preludes

CAILLIET The Birthday Fantasy

Works by J. S. Bach, Buxtehude, Debussy and Tchaikovsky

Studio and live recordings, 1935-52

Total duration: 69:12

Werner Janssen ∙ Janssen Symphony of Los Angeles

Charles O’Connell ∙ Victor Symphony Orchestra

Eugene Ormandy ∙ Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra

Eugene Ormandy ∙ The Philadelphia Orchestra

Arthur Fiedler ∙ Boston “Pops” Orchestra

Producer and Recording Engineer Mark Obert-Thorn assembles a second set of transcriptions by Lucien Caillet (1891-1985), clarinetist of the Philadelphia Orchestra during Leopold Stokowski’s tenure as music director. The performances, from a range of sympathetic conductors, embrace the years 1935-1952. Werner Janssen opens the program with the famous Toccata and Fugue in D minor, competing with the more renowned Stokowski transcription by injecting various brass riffs and swooping effects in the strings. The general impression evokes a kind of melodrama in music, similar to the use of the piece in the Fredric March version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Splashy and emotionally intense, the 1946 performance retains a colorful glamour that resounds with chills and thrills.

Charles O’Connell (1900-1962) served as an occasional conductor and arranger for RCA as well as one of the company’s executives. He leads the ubiquitous Air from the Orchestral Suite No. 3, a moderately paced, pious rendition that leans to intimacy rather than spectacle. Even before he assumed the helm of the Philadelphia Orchestra to succeed Stokowski, Eugene Ormandy felt impelled to lead Caillet versions of Bach in Minneapolis: here, he displays the power of winds and strings in the yearning 1611 Christoff Knoll chorale, Herlzlich tut mich verlangen, a devout testament of faith in a just afterlife.

The remaining selections of Bach, Buxtehude, Debussy, and Rachmaninov all derive from Philadelphia Orchestra collaborations with Eugene Ormandy. Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in B minor assumes a pastoral character in the streamlined sonorities of the Philadelphia winds and strings. Along with the Organ Chorale, the Buxtehude, and the Vivaldi transcription, this Prelude and Fugue went unissued on 78 rpm, and the Buxtehude work had been previously unpublished broadcast recording. The Buxtehude Passacaglia begins low enough in the strings and winds, over a pedal, that we at first believe we listen to an alternative first few measures of Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony. Having acceded to Buxtehude, we then become swamped in the huge bass sonority against the aspiring high strings and flute, though the ostinato bass pattern never relents.

Caillet to a degree championed the music of Vivaldi, basically unknown except for a performance by Koussevitzky or Ormandy of the Concerto grosso in D minor. The concerto for two violins from L’Estro armonico becomes via Caillet a dramatic assortment of contrasting colors, especially in the brass and strings. The woodwinds, too, receive opportunities to thin out the textures over a hearty bass line. The coda to the opening Allegro proves particularly splashy. The haunting  Larghetto e spiritoso allows oboe Marcel Tabuteau a moment in the sun, as well Caillet himself. The layered string effects of the final Allegro find their foil in the wind section. At one point Caillet retains the 2-violin-concerto sonority before unleashing his grand tutti. The persistent use of pulsating arpeggios might become hyper-romantic for some tastes, but the color effect strikes our virtuoso chord.

Debussy and Rachmaninov occupy the last set of Caillet transcriptions from Philadelphia. Ormandy led the orchestration of Clair de Lune three times, and here we have the first. With lush strings and harp, we are ready to sit once more through a screening of Ben Hecht’s fantasy Portrait of Jennie, with Jennifer Jones and Joseph Cotten. Ormandy recorded the three Rachmaninov preludes but once for 10” LP, and the long-play LP transfer omitted the C-sharp minor. The huge sonority and dark color of this transcription, given the lugubrious tempo—excepting the manically convulsive middle part—align the piece with a complete rendition of Boris Gudonov! The diaphanous Prelude in G Major finds orchestral representation in harp and solo violin; then the upper strings and flute intone the aerial capacities of Russian soul, though there are moments when I might ascribe the effects to Delius. The militant G minor Prelude struts and parades forward, a shimmering display for the Philadelphia brass and battery. Solo violin and harp, flute and horn and oboe invoke the more tender middle section prior to the da capo, which resolutely regains its aggressive tenor.

Arthur Fiedler with his Boston “Pops” holds pride of last place, rendering first the Tchaikovsky song None but the Lonely Heart, perhaps in recollection of the Cary Grant/Ethel Barrymore 1944 classic film. In Volume One of the Caillet restorations, Obert-Thorn had included the “Pop! Goes the Weasel Variations.” This tour concludes with “Happy Birthday to You,” which at first opens in brass and winds. Then a string pedal underlines the evolving melodic grit of the piece, although I can’t help seeing in mind’s eye Marilyn Monroe croon this one for President Kennedy, despite the orchestral flourishes. Fielder ends the piece with Wha-Wha riffs from his brass that launch a jazz-fantasy worthy of Cab Colloway and Paul Whiteman, combined.

—Gary Lemco

This article originally appeared at Audiophile Audition in June 2018

VERDI Aïda

Live broadcast recording, 1953

Total duration: 2hr 24:33

Aida - Zinka Milanov

Radamès - Mario Del Monaco

Amneris - Blanche Thebom

Amonasro - George London

Ramfis - Jerome Hines

King - Luben Vichey

Orchestra and Chorus of the Metropolitan Opera

conducted by Fausto Cleva

One of the first CDs I reviewed for Musicweb-International almost fourteen years ago, was Naxos’s reissue of Cavalleria rusticana in the RCA recording with Jussi Björling and Zinka Milanov. I called attention to then how old she sounded and she was still not fifty. As I put it “the Santuzza–Turiddu duet … sounds more like a mother–son duet than a dialogue between two young lovers.” She was born in 1906 and the recording was made at several sessions between 2 January and 8 March 1953. The present Aïda performance was broadcast on 24 January the same year and is consequently exactly contemporaneous with the Cavalleria. Aïda is also a young woman but sounds here decidedly middle-aged, which spoils the illusion. The same thing happens in her studio recording of the opera from two years later, again opposite Björling, and in fact she also recorded Aïda’s two arias in studio in May 1953. I made the same comments when reviewing a Nimbus disc with these and other Verdi arias a decade ago: “What can be seen as a drawback is the fact that her voice sounds elderly, which must not be interpreted as aged. She was a mature singer at the time, in her late 40s, and she sounds her age, which jars with the characters, who are supposed to be much younger women. I shouldn’t make too much of this and of course in the absurd world of opera we seldom get opportunities to hear singers of the leading roles who really are their age.”

Milanov was a great favourite at the Metropolitan for almost 30 years, and her first entrance is greeted with a round of applause before she has even opened her mouth, and ovations after each aria. And there is a lot that is well done, not least her characteristic floated pianissimos. Truth to tell, however, she doesn’t begin too well, the tone rather fluttery at first and she even sounds a bit uneasy. By Ritorna vincitor she is up to the mark, in particular from 3:59 to the end of the aria, where she sings truly beautifully. As usually at the Met in those days the applause starts before the orchestra postlude is over. That’s a general feature throughout the performance that the audience is very undisciplined. In act II at the end of the first scene, which is followed directly by the triumph scene, the applause drowns the orchestra and again when, I presume, the curtain opening reveals the sets. Milanov’s O patria mia in the Nile scene is regally sung and the pianissimo end is magical. The dramatic scenes with first Amonasro and then with Radamès go well and there is a great deal of sensitive singing in the tomb scene. Though I still have some reservations against the actual sound of Milanov’s voice, there is no doubt that she is deeply involved and is better here than on the studio recording.

What struck me from the beginning was the quality of the recording. Firstly the original tapes must have been extraordinary good and well-preserved, but Andrew Rose’s XL remastering is also very successful and there is a very realistic balance between pit and stage and there is space around both orchestra and singers, giving a clear sense of being there. The string tone is excellently reproduced and orchestral fortes are impressive. The Aïda trumpets ring out mightily and the atmospheric scoring of the ballet music is well caught. Considering the age of the recording this is quite stunning and fully comparable with the best studio recordings of the period, even surpassing many of them. No one needs to hesitate a purchase on sonic grounds, unless one is allergic to the intense audience participation.

Another positive factor is the conducting. Fausto Cleva was a regular at Met for many years, but I have always, from the recordings with him I’ve heard, regarded him more as a reliable also-ran than a thrilling and creative maestro. Here he turns out to be exactly that. There is a vividness about his conducting, not least of the ballet sequences, which seems to suggest that he was uncommonly inspired and this is also carried over to the musicians and the singers. There is indeed a taut atmosphere that is truly infectious.

I have already mentioned Zinka Milanov who, after ten successful years at the Met, married for the third time in 1947 and returned to Yugoslavia with her husband. When Rudolf Bing became general manager in 1950 he pretty soon managed to convince her that the Metropolitan was the right place for her and she returned in early 1951 and remained until 1966. Her comeback was in a new production of the double-bill Cav and Pag and she sang Santuzza opposite Richard Tucker and the critics were boiled over by the vocal splendour and the dramatic intensity. Her next new production was in November the same year and was the Aïda that was recorded a little more than a year later. The critics again were enthusiastic about her and were deeply impressed by Mario Del Monaco who by all means sang mostly forte but also proved that he could scale down his voice. Del Monaco was a relative newcomer, having made his house debut a year earlier in a sole performance of Manon Lescaut. He was positively received and a reviewer found similarities with Giovanni Martinelli for his “dynamic and powerful accentuation”. I can agree that there is a lot of this in his opening recitative Se quell guerriero lo fossi!, where his clarion fortes ring out gloriously, but he softens his voice for the opening of the aria proper. When he approaches the final bars he, naturally, completely ignores Verdi’s dynamic instructions and delivers a final fortissimo, held forever and, naturally, draws ovations from the audience. But later on during the performance he shows a willingness to soften the tone from time to time, for instance at the end of the third act duet with Aïda, even though earlier in the scene he scores dramatic points with his limitless power and brilliance. And when we reach the opera’s final scene, he sings La fatal pietra sovra me si chiuse softly and inwardly, really movingly sung, and throughout the scene there is a lot of sensitive singing from both artists.

Blanche Thebom’s Amneris initially seems a little tired – no wonder maybe since she had been singing Dorabella in Così fan tutte the evening before – but she makes amends in the scene with Radamès that opens the fourth act. From L’aborita rivale a me sfuggia and to the end she is at her very best – a formidable reading!

And vocal glories were also delivered by the deeper male voices. The young George London had made his Met debut at the premiere of this Aïda production and was hailed for his convincing acting as well as his singing. He is certainly majestic in his solo in the triumph scene, surpassing most other Amonasros for both beauty of tone and nobility, and again in the Nile scene, where his violence is hair-raising – but he also shows some paternal warmth towards Aïda. This is possibly the best thing he ever did. The even younger Jerome Hines’s Ramfis is also magnificent – as was most things he did at the Met during a career encompassing forty-five roles in thirty-nine operas, totalling 876 performances between 1946 and 1987. The King is sung by Luben Vichey, originally Lubomir Vichegonov. His bass voice isn’t as sonorous as Hines’s – not many are – but he is a worthy exponent of the role and he sang around 200 performances in the house between 1948 and 1965. In the cameo role of a priestess we hear Lucine Amara, another mainstay who appeared in 750 performances between 1950 and 1991.

Readers who don’t appreciate audience participation to such a degree as here should, strictly speaking, be discouraged from buying this set, but there is so much good singing and such electricity in the conducting that it could be worth a try.

Göran Forsling

This article originally appeared at MusicWeb International in June 2018