Kozlovsky and Britten

I have lots of odd CDs in my collection, but this 1960s Russian-language recording of Britten’s Serenade for Tenor, Horn, and Strings with Ivan Kozlovsky may just be one of the most unusual things I own. Gennady Rozhdestvensky is the conductor, Valery Polekh the horn soloist.

Kozlovsky’s voice is an acquired taste. If you’re accustomed to the sound of Peter Pears, Robert Tear, or Ian Bostridge you may very well agree with Michael Kennedy, who once called this performance “grotesque,” but I still think it’s worth a listen, if for no other reason than to hear a non-Anglophone take on the music.

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Prologue

Pastoral

Nocturne

Elegy

Dirge

Hymn

Sonnet

Epilogue

A round of applause

The pianist Emanuel Ax has posed the following question on his blog: Why is it alright for audiences to applaud after an aria, duet, or ensemble number in an live opera performance, but not after individual movements of a symphony or concerto? “In many opera performances,” Ax writes, “the music that follows a ‘big’ aria, such as Don Jose’s declaration of love in Act 2 of Carmen, is not even heard by the audience because applause is still going on,” and yet “we sit silently by as Evgeny Kissin or Yefim Bronfman finish a movement of Rachmaninoff or Tchaikovsky which should bring us to our feet.”

Here’s what I’d like to know: Why do audiences at MET HD simulcasts tend to be so timid about showing their approval for what they’re seeing and hearing on screen? You’d think that a well-sung aria would deserve some sort of acknowledgment from those in attendance, but for whatever reason, this is rarely the case at these broadcasts. Is it that by watching the event projected on a screen, people actually feel less involved in the “event-ness” of it, or is it simply that we don’t clap in movie theaters much any more?

Working with Verdi

Marianna Barbieri-Nini

On March 14, 1847, Giuseppe Verdi’s Macbeth opened at the Teatro La Pergola, Florence. Some forty years later, Marianna Barbieri-Nini, who created the role of Lady Macbeth, was asked to recall her experiences. While she occasionally embellishes the facts, her account offers an intriguing glimpse into Verdi’s distinctive working habits. The version I’m using here, which first appeared in Eugenio Checchi’s 1887 biography, Giuseppe Verdi: il genio e le opere, has been reprinted in Encounters with Verdi, edited, introduced, and annotated by Marcello Conati, and translated by Richard Stokes.

Checchi dispatched an anonymous friend to interview Barbieri-Nini, and it is through this individual that we initially gain access to the soprano’s memories.

“It was a peculiar characteristic of Verdi during rehearsals almost never to utter a word. This by no means signified the Maestro was pleased; quite the opposite. But when a piece was finished, he would make a sign to [the concertatore, Pietro] Romani…; and at Verdi’s sign, Romani would approach him, they would walk upstage, and, notebook in hand, the composer would indicate with his finger the place where the execution had not been according to his wishes.

“‘Well, then, tell me how I’m to do it,’ Romani would reply with the greatest patience.

“But Verdi rarely explained that blessed ‘how.’ He made use of gestures, banging on the book, slowing down or urging on the tempos with his hand, and then, as if there had taken place between them a lengthy, persuasive explanation, Verdi would come back, saying, ‘Now you’ve got it: that’s how.'”

In addition to being inscrutable, Verdi, it turns out, was also not very popular.

“[He] did not care if he wearied the artists and tormented them for hours on end with the same piece: and until that interpretation was obtained which, to his mind, approximated as closely as possible the ideal he had envisioned, he did not proceed to the next scene. He was not too well liked by the [chorus and orchestra], because a word of encouragement never escaped from his lips: never a wholehearted bravo, not even [the musicians] thought they had done their best to please him. And the rather uninhibited temper of those witty Florentines, who were somewhat hurt, found vent in epithets, one of which bore a striking resemblance to that part of the violin which serves to tighten and slacken the strings.”

At this point, Checchi’s unnamed associate finally turned the proceedings over to Barbieri-Nini, who was more than happy to continue.

“The whole score came under the Maestro’s solicitous care throughout the [rehearsal period], and I remember that, morning and evening, in the foyer of the theater or on stage…we looked at [him] with trepidation as he made his appearance, trying to guess by his eyes, or from the way he greeted the artists, whether that day there would be something new. If he came towards me almost smiling, and said something that might seem a compliment, I was sure that on that day he had some big addition in store for me at the rehearsal. I bowed my head in resignation, but gradually I, too, became enamored of this Macbeth, which differed in such a singular way from anything that had ever been written and performed until that time.

In the next few paragraphs, Barbieri-Nini inflates the amount of time she spent on the sleepwalking scene and on the number of rehearsals needed to whip the duet into shape, but her observation about the significance these two moments had for Verdi is borne out by the composer’s own correspondence.

“…[F]or Verdi there were two climactic points in the opera: the sleepwalking scene [in Act Four] and my duet with the baritone [in Act One]. You won’t believe this, but the sleepwalking scene cost me three months’ study: for three months, morning and evening, I tried to imitate those who talk in their sleep, uttering words (as Verdi would say to me) while hardly moving their lips, leaving the rest of the face immobile, including the eyes. It was enough to drive one crazy.

“As for the duet with the baritone…you may think I’m exaggerating, but it was rehearsed more than a hundred and fifty times so that it might be closer to speech than to singing, the Maestro would say….On the evening of the final rehearsal, with the theater full, Verdi insisted that even the soloists should be in costume, and when he set his mind on something, woe if you opposed him! And so we were dressed and ready, the orchestra in place, the chorus on stage, when Verdi made a sign to me and [the baritone, Felice] Varesi, and called us backstage: he asked us–as a favor to him–to go with him into the foyer and rehearse that damned duet again at the piano.

“‘Maestro,’ said I, aghast, ‘we are already dressed in our Scottish costumes: how can we do it?’ ‘You’ll put on a cloak, [he answered.] And…Varesi, fed up with this extraordinary request, tried raising his voice a little, saying: ‘For God’s sake, we’ve already rehearsed it a hundred and fifty times!’ [To which Verdi replied] ‘You won’t be saying that in a half hour’s time: it will be one hundred and fifty-one by then.’ We were forced to obey the tyrant. I shall remember the threating looks Varesi shot at him on the way to the foyer; with his fist on the hilt of his sword, he seemed to be about to slaughter Verdi….However he yielded, resigning himself to; and the one hundred and fifty-first rehearsal took place, while the impatient audience made an uproar in the theater.

“And, as you probably know, anyone who says that duet was received enthusiastically is saying nothing; it was something unbelievable, something new, unprecedented. Wherever I sang Macbeth, and every evening during the season at La Pergola, that duet had to be repeated up to three even four times. Once we even had to undergo even a fifth performance of it.

She concludes by recounting the following interaction with Verdi.

“[He] prowled around me anxiously, without saying anything: it was very plain that the success, already great, would not seem definitive to him until after [the sleepwalking] scene. So I crossed myself…and went on….[T]he turmoil of applause had barely died down, and I had just returned to my dressing room, all trembling and distraught, when I saw the door fly open…and Verdi entered, gesturing with his hands and moving his lips, as if he wished to make a great speech: but he could not get out a single word. I was laughing and weeping, and I, too, said nothing: but looking at the Maestro’s face I noticed that his eyes were red, too. We clasped hands tightly, and then, without a word, he rushed out. That striking emotional scene rewarded me with interest for so many months of hard labor and ceaseless trepidation.”

In 1848, Barbieri-Nini worked with Verdi on yet another premiere, Il Corsaro, but for whatever reason, she did not choose to record her involvement with that production. She retired from the stage in 1856, and died in her native Florence in 1887.

Talking about La Calisto

The Portland Opera Studio Artist production of Francesco Cavalli’s La Calisto opens this Friday at the Newmark Theatre, and I’ll be doing all four of the pre-performance talks starting one hour before curtain in the first balcony.

I was at the first orchestra dress rehearsal on Monday and thought the show looked and sounded great.

La Sonnambula

Vincenzo Bellini’s sixth opera, La Sonnambula, received its triumphant premiere at the Teatro Carcano, Milan, on March 6, 1831. The cast for that first performance included Giuditta Pasta as Amina, Giovanni Battista Rubini as Elvino, and Luciano Mariani as Count Rodolfo. As was common practice at the time, the opera shared a double bill with the ballet Tutto al contrario, choreographed by Louis Henry to music by Giacomo Panizza.

On March 7, Bellini sent news of the debut to his friend, Alessandro Lamperi:

“Here you have the happy news of the uproarious success of my opera last evening at the Carcano. I say nothing about the music; you will see that in the press. I assure you that Rubini and Pasta are two angels who enraptured the whole audience to the verge of madness.”

The Russian composer Mikhail Glinka, who was in attendance that night, found the experience similarly moving:

“Finally, at the end of the Carnival, there came what everyone had been waiting for: Bellini’s La Sonnambula. Despite the fact that it was presented late and regardless of the envious ones and the ill-wishers, this opera did make a tremendous impression. In the few performances given before the theaters closed, Pasta and Rubini sang with the most evident enthusiasm to support their favorite [composer]; in the second act the singers themselves wept and carried their audience along with them, so that in the happy days of Carnival tears were continually being wiped away in boxes and parquet alike…I. too, shed tears of emotion and ecstasy.”

The critic for the Milanese tri-weekly L’Eco also joined in the chorus of praise:

“If we had the time that we do not have to prepare an article describing this performance, we would not begin it when coming from the theater still deafened by the flood of plaudits, shouts, outcries, and acclamations. Indeed, we, who make a profession of not allowing ourselves to be seduced easily, could not help joining in the general enthusiasm….Examples of like applause have been few. The Maestro [Bellini] and the singers were called out twelve, fifteen, or twenty times–we really do not know–onto the stage. Bellini has sustained his reputation, Rubini sang like an angel, and it was reserved for Madam Pasta to transform the majesty of [Rossini’s] Semiramide and profound sensibility of [Donizetti’s] Anna Bolena so admirably into the simple and ingenuous graces of a young country girl. After her duet with Rubini, it could truly be said ‘That is the way to sing.'”

In July, 1831, La Sonnambula opened at the King’s Theatre, London, with Pasta and Rubini reprising their roles, and on October 24th of that same year, they appeared once again as Amina and Elvino when the opera was presented at Paris’s Théâtre-Italien. Over the next decade, it would be performed in Florence, Palermo, Budapest, Rome, Bolgona, Madrid, Naples, Vienna, Prague, New York, Boston, Havana, Mexico City, Philadelphia, Berlin, Dublin, St. Petersburg, Algiers, St. Louis, Antwerp, Brussels, Amsterdam, New Orleans, Athens, Warsaw, Vera Cruz, and Constantinople.

In honor of the opera’s 178th anniversary–as well as its current run at the Met–here are a few of my favorite recorded excerpts.

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Amelita Galli-Curci – “A te, diletta, tenera madre…Come per me sereno” (1920)

Mirella Freni, Nicolai Gedda – “Son geloso del zeffiro errante” (1968)

Claudia Muzio – “Ah! non credea mirarti” (1935)

Joan Sutherland – “Ah! non giunge uman pensiero” (1962)

I won’t identify the singer in this last clip, but feel free to take a guess if you’d like. You may be very surprised to find out who it is.

Mystery Singer – “Come per me sereno”