ULTIMATELY, OPERA IS about the singers. Shakespeare’s words have power on the printed page, no matter what delirious heights can be reached by interpreters. Opera is different. Opera is uniquely capable of expressing the most abstract ideas, but those ideas are black dots on paper until they are brought to life by artists. This is the Great Fact for all opera composers, whether they are the type who appeal to academicians (Ferruccio Busoni springs to mind) or the guy on the street (Puccini springs to mind). It’s what people who love the form will discuss (and argue, and discuss some more). And, it will be admitted, this is especially true for Puccini’s style of opera. He lived in the theater, knew the singers for whom he wrote (in most cases), and belonged to a tradition where he expected them to include their own personalities in their interpretations in the roles. It is all very well for commentators (like me) to ramble on about the inherent issues at stake in, say, Butterfly’s cry of “he loves me!” But then a great diva will come along, hit the note in a certain way with a certain tone and a certain manner of diction and a certain gesture of her hand, and all philosophical inquiry must remain silent. In short, it is the singer who keeps Puccini’s art alive.
Before discussing recordings or videos of recommended performances, it is necessary to list a few dozen of the singers who have made a mark specifically in the operas of Puccini. This list is not complete by any means. The connoisseur will find cherished names missing from the list, and I have some personal favorites who are absent. The point is to give the reader a familiarity with the names most often encountered in recordings, in discussions of Puccini’s art, and, in a few cases, of legendary names we come across in articles and books. My list is intended to give an idea of what particular singers were and are cherished (or vilified) for rather than to tell you (yawn) how moved I myself was when I heard so-and-so sing such and such. Please go to the Internet for that—there is no shortage of opinion and personal testimony there. Granted, it is impossible not to let personal preference seep through. The reader must get accustomed to that if he or she is intending to enter this most opinionated of worlds. Before jumping into the hobby (or addiction) of collecting recordings, the fan will perhaps find some key words that pique interest. Some people prefer dramatic intensity. Others melt over the tone of a particular voice. There is no right or wrong in preferring one artist to another. It’s what keeps opera interesting.
Alagna, Roberto (1963—): One of the most notable international tenors of recent times, Alagna combines a robust stage presence with a beautiful, passionate voice and a refreshing style. Alagna did not follow the usual path for a singer, and has met with some opposition from those who prefer the standard conservatory training. He was born outside Paris of Sicilian parents and sang cabaret (specializing in the songs of Jacques Brel) before turning to opera. (He wasn’t, as some journalists would have it, a singing waiter.) Alagna declared he would never use rubato in his singing, and a minimum of portamento, and his recordings are evidence of his aversion to these techniques. Ironically, he has chosen many of the roles where a heavy dose of such singing gimmicks are expected, such as Rodolfo in Bohème and Cavaradossi in Tosca. The passion in his tone has made the addition of vocal effects unnecessary. Alagna’s interpretation of the role of Ruggero in Rondine has been especially revelatory.
Albanese, Licia (1913-): A cherished fixture of the New York opera scene since anyone can remember, Albanese was born in Bari in 1913 where she debuted as Butterfly in 1934. She settled in New York after the war and was chosen by Toscanini for an important Bohème recording shortly after. Essentially a lyric voice, she managed to be a success in the weightier role of Manon Lescaut as well. For decades, opening-night Met audiences have cocked their ears during the group-sing of the National Anthem to hear Albanese’s high C at the end, a sign that all is right with the world.
Amato, Pasquale (1878-1942): This famous baritone was part of the Met’s unparalleled roster of the pre-World War I years. He created the role of Rance in Fanciulla in 1910. Interestingly, he had previously been noted for his interpretation of the role of Pelléas in Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande, which he had sung at that diaphanous opera’s Scala premiere in 1908.
Bergonzi, Carlo (1924-): Bergonzi is synonymous with Verdi—he hails from Verdi country and, in his retirement, opened a hotel in Verdi’s hometown of Busseto named I due Foscari, for heaven’s sake. However, he must be included in this list for his marvelous Pinkerton in Butterfly as well as several fascinating assays at Cavaradossi in Tosca. Bergonzi had a pleasant, basically lyric voice and a ton of style. One can’t always be sure what he is doing, but one is always convinced by the end.
Bjoerling, Jussi (1911-60): A beloved Swedish tenor with a ravishing voice and an abbreviated career, Bjoerling brought a fine focus to his vocal projection without sacrificing any richness of tone. He was celebrated in his day for his Rodolfo in Bohème, although I feel his interpretation of Des Grieux in Manon Lescaut holds up even better.
Caballé, Montserrat (1933—): A statuesque lady with the loveliest voice imaginable in a human being. Her long legato line is a revelation, and her rendition of the role of Liù in Turandot is almost unbearably beautiful. Conversely, some find her cold, although this is incomprehensible to me, and many have criticized her interpretation of the title roles in Turandot and Tosca for this reason. Admittedly, Caballé did not engage in diva histrionics on the stage—she hardly moved, preferring to “act” entirely with her voice (and a little bit with her hands). She raised eyebrows in New York in the ’80s when she merely walked off the stage at the end of Tosca. Her voice records particularly well.
Callas, Maria (1923-77): A judicious discussion of Callas’s voice and place in vocal history is quite impossible: she is a legend, the ur-diva, and nearly three decades after her premature (and mysterious) death she still commands fanatical loyalty among fans. On the other hand, she is often abused for a stridency of voice (especially in later years), and her presence in the opera world has been conflated with her persona as an international glamour figure and real-life tragic heroine. This much can be said: Callas’s musical intelligence and dramatic genius remain unique, and she rethought everything she did from the ground up. Fans adore her intense interpretations of Manon Lescaut, Butterfly, and Turandot, although in general she was not a Puccini specialist and avoided most of the roles onstage. The one Puccini role that was central to her career was Tosca, and at this point all other Toscas must be compared to hers.
Carreras, José (1946-): One of the most truly beautiful voices of all time and a striking stage presence made the Barcelona native one of the star singers of his generation. His career was interrupted by a near-fatal bout with leukemia beginning in 1987. He cited Rodolfo in Bohème as his favorite role, and was also a magnificent Cavaradossi in Tosca.
Caruso, Enrico (1873-1921): Legendary tenor whose impact on the opera world (and on music in general) can hardly be overestimated. Caruso arrived just as the art of recording voices was coalescing, and his clarion tenor tones made him the first superstar of the recording industry. Despite the technical limitations, Caruso still sounds good on recordings (transferred to newer technology with varying levels of success. Do a little homework to find out what the critics have to say about specific recordings before laying out the cash). Art and technology merged well for Caruso: the short, intense arias of the verismo genre were perfect for the wax cylinders and then for the 78s he made. Puccini’s arias were well represented in Caruso’s catalog from the start. Beyond the recording arts, Caruso reigned at the Met and London’s Covent Garden (he avoided Italy after his youth, and positively refused to sing in his native Naples) before his premature death in 1921. Caruso had a rather dumpy figure, and never attempted any level of “acting,” yet such was the power of his voice that audiences went wild over him all the same. He even managed to outshine the Butterfly when he sang Pinkerton at the London and Met premieres of the opera, which is no easy task. He created the role of Dick Johnson in Fanciulla in 1910, and was also celebrated as Des Grieux in Manon Lescaut (hard to picture, but he was a sensation), Rodolfo in Bohème, and Cavaradossi in Tosca. He was an affable man who loved practical jokes and was often less serious about his art than colleagues would have liked. For his first assay in the role of Des Grieux, he had not completely learned the music for the final act, and demanded the soprano lie on her side for the entire act while he sight-read the music he propped up against her behind. Caruso acted as Puccini’s tour guide around New York during his visits, and the two shared addictions to flirting with women and smoking tobacco (both died of complications from throat cancer).
Cavalieri, Lina (1874-1944): Called “the most beautiful woman in the world,” Cavalieri’s face graced souvenir postcards (many of which can still be found in antique shops and online) during her reign at the Met and elsewhere in the early years of the twentieth century. Legends and notoriety attached themselves to Cavalieri from the start: she was reputed to have bestowed her favors on any number of the crowned heads of Europe before sailing to the New World. Puccini was reputed to have shared this trophy on his trip to New York in 1907, but then again, she was also said to be Mussolini’s mistress in much later years, so perhaps all the tales need to be taken with a grain of salt. When could the woman have found time to sing? Her lighter, lyric voice had its critics, yet she was a sensation in the heavier role of Manon Lescaut at the Met premiere in 1907. Cavalieri was killed in an air raid outside Florence in 1944.
Corelli, Franco (1921-2003): The Ancona, Italy, native’s confidence and vocal swagger added a unique dimension to his roles and thrilled audiences. His Cavaradossi in Tosca was a force of nature—without having to intellectualize the issue (which he never did), Corelli conveyed all the inherent archetypal issues in the opera. This is even more apparent, and more important, in Turandot, where Corelli reigned supreme. They simply don’t make them like this anymore.
dalla Rizza, Gilda (1892-1975): Puccini heard this soprano in Fanciulla and was impressed. He gave her the Rondine premiere (after Raisa turned it down), and the important Rome premiere Il trittico in 1919. Dalla Rizza starred in the legendary Scala production of Manon Lescaut in 1923. In 1924, she was singing in Santiago, Chile, when news arrived of Puccini’s premature death. The schedule was altered, and dalla Rizza sang Suor Angelica as a tribute. The performance had to be interrupted twice because of emotion on both sides of the footlights. Dalla Rizza quit the lyric stage while still in command of her voice, and taught at the Venice Conservatory. Anna Moffo became one of her students.
de los Angeles, Victoria (1923-2005): A Catalan soprano with a gorgeous voice and a complete command of her own abilities and limitations. De los Angeles surprised audiences with her choices of roles, switching from Mozart to Verdi to new works and back to the baroque with great ease, and always, in retrospect, with wisdom. Her Mimì in Bohème still sounds great on recording, as does her recording of Suor Angelica, which did much to rehabilitate that opera with the public.
del Monaco, Mario (1915-82): A heroic tenor primarily known for the dramatic roles of Verdi, the clarion del Monaco delved into the heavier Puccini repertory in Turandot (appearing with Callas at the Colón in 1949), as Des Grieux in Manon Lescaut at the Met in 1950, and especially as Dick Johnson in Fanciulla with Eleanor Steber at the Florence Maggio Musicale in 1954 that is still discussed today among fans.
Destinn, Emmy (1878-1930): A great Czech soprano who introduced Butterfly to London, and who was the creator of Minnie in Fanciulla in New York in 1910. Puccini thought her voice a bit light for Minnie, but, excuse me, whose voice isn’t? Destinn returned to Prague after the creation of Czechoslovakia in 1919 and dedicated herself to the development of music in her country. She is still revered in Prague.
Di Stefano, Giuseppe (1921-): A Sicilian tenor who, in his brief prime, had arguably the single most beautiful tenor voice of the century. It was damaged early on, some say by overexposure, others fault some riotous living habits, and one will want to do a little research before buying his recordings. The good ones are without equal, the bad ones are painful. He is most noted for his rendition of Cavaradossi in Tosca, particularly in a number of legendary performances with Callas. His singing of “E lucevan le stelle” from Act III might change your life. It’s been known to happen.
Domingo, Plácido (1941-): The Madrid-born, Mexican-raised tenor superstar’s contributions to the world of opera are so numerous and outstanding that they cannot be listed here. Conductor James Levine put it best when he called Domingo a “one-man Golden Age of opera.” He has sung everything, recorded everything (several times over), runs not one but two opera companies (Washington, D.C. and Los Angeles, both of which were considered provincial backwaters in the opera world before he stepped in), and has expanded the opera world with his innumerable “crossover” appearances. Still, on nights when he isn’t singing, conducting, or running the opera world, Domingo is often seen in the audience, throwing his support to younger singers. As difficult to appraise with a level head as Callas and Caruso (the only singers of the century with whom he can be reasonably compared), it can be said that Domingo’s assays into the Puccini repertory have been uniformly successful and often awesome. He has sung all the lead tenor roles, including, believe it or not, the bouncy leggiero Rinuccio in Gianni Schicchi. Domingo is a great actor by any standards, and perhaps the only great tenor one could name who could have had a career in film had he so chosen. This has helped him in numerous television productions of operas (Manon Lescaut in the 1980 Live from the Met, for example) and filmed versions of operas Qean-Pierre Ponelle’s Madama Butterfly of 1974, where he actually walks like an American sailor). Somehow, the role of Dick Johnson in Fanciulla must have been written for him. His assays into conducting have taken a beating from critics, and yet, whatever his shortcomings as a conductor, it is curious how the singers on the stage always seem to give better-than-usual performances when Domingo is in the pit (particularly with Tosca). Hmmmm…. It is impossible to conceive opera in the world today without him.
Farrar, Geraldine 1882-1967): A huge star in her day, Farrar was also a great actress and a marvelous stage presence with her own legions of fans, especially among the young ladies known as “Gerryflappers.” Born in Melrose, Massachusetts, she transferred to Berlin and made a sensational debut there in 1901. She was also said to have had a flagrant liaison with the Crown Prince of Prussia, but of course such tales are always indispensable to the development of a soprano’s career. She moved to Monte Carlo in 1904 and debuted there in La bohème with Caruso. A member of the Met roster from 1907 to 1922, she introduced the role of Butterfly there with Puccini present, although he was quite unimpressed with her and remained so throughout his life. It became her signature role, despite his complaints that her voice was too small for it. Farrar’s relationship with Toscanini was well documented and a bit tempestuous, as one might imagine. At one dinner party later in their relationship, she served caviar. Toscanini grumbled to his table companions, “I slept with that woman for seven years. You’d think she’d remember that I hate fish.” Charming. After a hiatus (aided by World War I), the two ex-lovers did manage to maintain a warm friendship throughout their old age. Farrar had a second career in silent films, including a filmed version of Carmen (1915). She did not make the silent movie version of La bohème: that was left to the younger Lillian Gish in 1926, and was a great success. (The viperish film columnist Louella O. Parsons memorably commented that Bohème was “woefully bereft of sunshine and smiles.” And we wonder why arts marketing is such a challenging field in America….) Farrar retired to Connecticut and supported local charities until her death.
Favero, Mafalda (1903-81): The lovely Favero was known as a light lyric soprano in her youth, yet was chosen by Toscanini to debut at La Scala as Eva in Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg in 1929. She had a success, but then wisely retreated to roles more congenial to her voice. She rarely left Italy but did venture forth successfully in 1937. She made her Met debut that year as Mimì in Bohème opposite Bjoerling, who was making his Met debut in the same opera. She took Mimì to Covent Garden that same year, and also sang Liù in the legendary Turner/Martinelli performances of Turandot there. Favero then took on the role of Butterfly, against advice, and her voice was severely compromised by the demands of the role. Attention sopranos and coaches: she survived Wagner but not Butterfly. You have been warned. Favero was given the honor of appearing in the famous concert that reopened La Scala after the war with Toscanini returning home in triumph. Favero was assigned Act III of Manon Lescaut (in which, indeed, the soprano has relatively little to sing).
Fleta, Miguel (1897-1938): This Spanish tenor made a sensational debut when he was chosen by Zandonai to take the grueling role of Paolo in Francesca da Rimini in 1920. Fleta continued with the role and also met Puccini during the busy 1920 Vienna season. Fleta was noted for his interpretations of Rodolfo in Bohème and Cavaradossi in Tosca. Fans determined him to be the greatest tenor in the world, surpassing even the late Caruso. We must take their word on this, since Fleta recorded very little and the few snippets that do exist are said to be compromised and giving no hint of his real sound. Fleta traveled much, was popular throughout Europe and North America, but absolutely idolized in Spain and Latin America. (He easily sold out a concert at a 10,000-seat bullring in Mexico City.) He had the temerity to fight with Toscanini over the correct interpretation of passages in Verdi’s Rigoletto, and yet he was chosen by Toscanini for the all-important posthumous premiere of Turandot in 1926 (over Beniamino Gigli, who was reputed to have been Puccini’s preferred tenor for the role). No recording of that night or that era exists. Fleta’s voice showed signs of wearing out shortly afterward, and his only recordings date from this troubled period. He returned to Spain hoping to play a role in his country’s musical establishment after the declaration of the republic in 1930. Disillusioned with the republicans’ failures in the arts, Fleta got very cozy with the Fascists and enthusiastically supported their cause during the civil war. He died of renal failure in 1938.
Freni, Mirella (1935-): Is there anything not to love about La Freni? Rich tones, idiomatic phrasing, sense of style, and basically one of the most honest and complete singers in opera. Critics still manage to complain of her detachment, and indeed she never indulges in “effects.” She exacerbated the perception by her self-deprecating good nature, calling herself pigrone (“lazy”) as the key to her long-lasting success. (She claimed she disliked learning new roles, and this helped her voice, yet the facts belie this.) A native of Modena, Italy, she even shared a wet nurse as an infant with her fellow Modenese Luciano Pavarotti. (“You can see who got all the milk,” she never tires of joking.) Triumphant in Manon Lescaut, Bohème, and Butterfly, audiences have been less impressed by her subdued interpretation of Tosca (which is a mistake—there is much more to Tosca than chewing up the furniture). A great artist whose recordings should be welcome in any collection.
Gheorghiu, Angela (1965—): A Romanian soprano with beautiful looks and a supple, intense voice that seems to convey emotion even when relaxed, Gheorghiu has made many important appearances and recordings with Alagna, whom she married in 1996. Mimì in Bohème and Tosca are among her favorite roles, but her rethinking of Magda in La rondine for a production and recording in London in 1997 is perhaps her greatest contribution to the Puccini world.
Gigli, Beniamino 1890-1957): One of the foremost tenors of the post-Caruso generation, Gigli’s young voice was said to be a revelation, combining strength and lyricism in perfect proportions. Some insisted Puccini had written the role of Calaf in Turandot with Gigli in mind, although the honor of the premiere went to Fleta. Celebrated in New York for Manon Lescaut, Bohème, Tosca, and even Rondine (which he introduced there in 1928), Gigli spent a good deal of time in Italy as well. He became the official darling of the country in the 1930s—too much so for many people, since his involvement with the government struck many as exceeding patriotism and bordering on enthusiastic Fascism. Gigli even continued to appear in official functions during the troubled time of the German occupation and the Republic of Salò. At the war’s end, he was banned from appearing in the city of Rome, but he pleaded his case well and was allowed to appear there in Tosca (significantly) in 1945. London also forgave him early on, and he appeared in Bohème opposite his daughter Rina as Mimì, sure evidence that Gigli’s lapses in tact were not confined to the political realm. America, perhaps feeling instructed by Toscanini, wanted none of him, and he did not sing here again until a series of concerts in 1953. Gigli wrote several pamphlets arguing his case before the public, and his autobiography is said by critics to be the last word in deep denial, if not outright lying. In any case, he left us with several recordings: the earlier ones clearly demonstrating the power of the voice. The later recordings are naturally more compromised vocally, and quite full of the sobs and other effects so prized by verismo traditionalists and abhorred by others. Gigli’s existing recordings are always instructive, often quite pleasing, and occasionally demented.
Gobbi, Tito (1913-84): This great baritone sang over 100 different roles, but would be remembered by history if only for his interpretation of Scarpia in Tosca, which he sang onstage almost 1,000 times. His incisive delivery of text through the music remains astounding: people who do not understand any Italian can feel as if they are following every word. He was a natural foil for Callas, and his performances of Tosca with her are legendary. In his autobiography, he even concocted a background bio for Scarpia, since he felt he “knew this guy pretty well.” In later years, critics can rightly complain that he became somewhat breathy and perhaps a bit mannered in his delivery, but this cannot change the fact that one must always start with Gobbi when discussing the great Italian baritone tradition.
Homer, Louise (1871-1947): A true contralto voice who held her own, and then some, among the mighty Met roster in the early twentieth century. Born in Pittsburgh, Homer studied abroad, sang at Covent Garden and elsewhere, and returned to New York. She took lead roles and even managed to get the Met to resurrect some long-forgotten baroque masterpieces to show her off to best advantage. Melba called her voice the most beautiful she had ever heard. She is included here solely because she created the role of Suzuki at the Met premiere of Butterfly in 1907, which demonstrates either how much the Met was willing to spend on the production or how important people used to think this role was. The very opposite of the temperamental “diva,” Homer had six children and would think nothing of leaving a rehearsal early to return to the suburbs and observe her housewifely duties. This sometimes annoyed other singers, notably Farrar, who did not have the same priorities. Quite incidentally, Homer was the aunt of the great American composer Samuel Barber.
Jeruza, Maria (1887-1982): Glamorous, elegant, and undeniably beautiful, the Austrian soprano was Puccini’s favorite Tosca. (It was Jeritza, as we have seen, who “invented” the “fall-to-the-floor-and-sing” shtick with the aria “Vissi d’arte.” Was it an accident, or great artistry? God alone knows.) Jeritza also created a sensation with her Met premiere of the role of Turandot in 1926 Less well known was her role in horse breeding: Jeritza brought the first Lipizzaner horses to the United States, setting them to breed at her California ranch in 1937.
Kirsten, Dorothy (1910-92): This all-American soprano from Montclair, New Jersey, had a lyric voice that was so focused and clear that she could succeed where more dramatically equipped sopranos failed. Her Met debut in 1945 was in La bohème, but she soon added a still-discussed Manon Lescaut, Butterfly, and Tosca to her repertory. More surprisingly, she succeeded in the role of Minnie in Fanciulla, to the delight of audiences. Sadly, she did not record the role, although snippets exist of one performance in New Orleans in 1960. Kirsten remained a particular favorite in San Francisco.
Malfitano, Catherine 1948-): This native New Yorker studied dance in her youth and brings complete dramatic portrayals to all her work. (She even nabbed an Emmy Award for her Tosca broadcast of 1992.) Besides the inevitable Toscas, Malfitano has been thrilling as Butterfly and has recently been singing Minnie in Fanciulla around the world. Always exciting and committed, Malfitano is one of the rare breed of opera singers who will take any risk rather than give a “boring” performance. She has been key in the propagation of new operas by American composers, and indeed approaches even standard repertory roles as if they were world premieres.
Martinelli, Giovanni (1885-1969): This heroic tenor made a great name for himself in the heaviest dramatic roles of the romantic (that is, pre-Puccini) repertory. He is included in this list for the impression he made as Calaf in Turandot, especially in London in 1937 with Eva Turner. Recordings of segments of these performances exist. Martinelli’s voice is quite unusual by today’s standards—there is a beat in the voice that earlier audiences took in stride but grate on our contemporary ears. Yet the power of the voice is undeniable, and any tenor who could stand up to Turner in the Act II “face-off” is to be admired if not worshipped.
Melba, Dame Nellie (1861-1931): The great Australian soprano, born Helen Porter Mitchell, devised her operatic last name as an Italianate tribute to her hometown of Melbourne. She sang internationally, and managed to sing at both the Met (1893-1910) and the rival Manhattan Opera Company (1907). Her true artistic home, however, was London, and she sang at Covent Garden from 1888 to 1926. She absolutely owned the role of Mimì in Bohème in London, refusing to allow any other soprano near it and causing Puccini much distress and a little embarrassment. When the sixty-year-old Melba finally stepped down for a few performances of Bohème, Puccini wrote privately that Mimì would be thrilled to be “un-sung” by Melba. The famous peaches to which her name has been eternally attached, incidentally, were an invention of the famous chef Escoffier, who was in charge of the kitchens of the Savoy Hotel (Melba’s preferred residence in London). The dessert was the result of an argument over the menu for a dinner party the diva was hosting. She wanted flamed peaches to finish off the night: he, quaintly, wanted to serve ice cream. La pêche Melba was the compromise, and peace was gloriously maintained.
Merrill, Robert (1917-2004): This agreeable American baritone retains such a degree of popular affection that we are still treated to his (recorded) rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” during the seventh-inning stretch at Yankee Stadium. Besides this bit of vocal glory, Merrill is still remembered for his many exciting performances in the ’50s and ’60s, especially those with his good friend Richard Tucker. Merrill’s rendition of Marcello in Bohème is masterful in its sly humor and vocal blending.
Milanov, Zinka (1906-84): As if Callas and Tebaldi duking it out for the public’s affection weren’t enough in the 1950s, let us not forget that the semiofficial prima donna of the Met was this Croatian soprano, born Zinka Kunc. Milanov specialized in Verdi roles, and her major contribution to the Puccini repertory was a series of Toscas, where she made a great impression with her powerful and instantly recognizable voice.
Milnes, Sherill (1935-): This great American baritone from Downer’s Grove, Illinois, was a fine, snarling Scarpia in Tosca and a superb, snarling Rance in Fanciulla. Milnes appeared and recorded with Domingo frequently, and their ability to blend their voices created some marvelous effects. (The shared upward line toward the end of the duet in Act IV of Bohème was positively demented with these two, and they never failed to include that “bit of fluff” in their many recitals together.)
Moffo, Anna (1932-): A beautiful lyric voice and fine acting abilities made this Wayne, Pennsylvania, native popular in the 1960s. The new medium of television was a boon to Moffo’s particular gifts, although audiences tended to take her for granted after a while. This is a shame, because her recordings hold up well, and she was a superb Liù in Turandot and Mimì in Bohème and even mastered Butterfly at one point. Most significantly, she resurrected Rondine for some successful performances in Philadelphia in 1960. We could use an Anna Moffo today.
Muzio, Claudia (1889-193 6): This great soprano had a most unusual voice: a wide range but afflicted throughout with a curious beat in it. Many complained of it, yet her live performances were always thrilling. She had a natural flair for the stage, perhaps aided by her father, who was for a time the stage manager at Covent Garden. In her still photographs, she looks very much like Sarah Bernhardt, and it will come as no surprise that her signature role was Tosca. She also, however, sang Turandot, of all things, and created the role of Giorgetta in the Met world premiere of II tabarro. One of her great admirers was the poet Eugenio Montale, who dubbed her “La divina.” This is a title that later generations would bestow on Callas, and indeed Muzio might be understood as a sort of proto-Callas in many ways. She has left us with some recordings that are sometimes bizarre but always compelling.
Neblett, Carol (1946-): This thoroughly agreeable personality from Modesto, California, has graced us with over 400 performances of Tosca, no two of which have been quite the same. (That’s a good thing in live theater.) Neblett’s choices in roles have been curious, switching, as she does, from Mozart to verismo to everything in between, but you can actually tell that she always feels a connection to her role on some level or she does not sing it. Neblett has made Musetta in Bohème one of her signature roles, and woe to the Mimì who goes up against her! Most notable for Puccini fans were Neblett’s wonderful portrayals of Minnie in Fanciulla in the early 1980s in San Francisco, London, and elsewhere. San Franciscans know their Gold Country gals, and Neblett convinced everyone in the prickly audience. Her natural personality made her one of the few divas who could do the talk show circuit without appearing like a total freak. (Favorite moment: Johnny Carson asks, “So what’s new, Carol?” She answers, “Oh, I’m getting another divorce!” bursting into tears as if on cue. What audience could fail to fall in love?)
Nilsson, Birgit (1918-): The great Swedish soprano wowed the world with her interpretations of the heaviest Wagner and Strauss roles from the ’50s through the ’80s, convincing everyone that she could blow off the roof of the opera house without exerting too much effort. This one-of-a-kind voice then turned her attention to the then-neglected role of Turandot. A series of legendary performances with tenor Franco Corelli ensued in New York, London, Buenos Aires, and elsewhere. They simply have to be heard to be believed. Nilsson recorded Minnie in Fanciulla, but avoided the role onstage. She also sang Tosca, because, well, who can resist? Her most notable performance of Tosca was in Los Angeles in 1974, back when the New York City Opera used to do a fall season there every year. Reigning City Opera diva Beverly Sills had arranged a gala performance of one of her specialty roles for the opening night, and then suddenly came down with the flu. Sills was irreplaceable in many of these roles, but the next night’s repertory selection was Tosca. Hmmm, what to do …? Sills, from her bed, called Nilsson, who happened to be in Los Angeles (doing what, God only knows). “How would you like to make your City Opera debut… tonight?” she asked. And the gala audience was treated to a nice surprise. The emergency, on-call Cavaradossi that night, incidentally, was José Carreras. Sigh.
Olivero, Magda (1910–): Often called “the last verismo soprano,” Olivero is known for being the opposite of the general trend in modern opera singing. She threw everything but the kitchen sink into her portrayals, using rubato and portamento by the ton and not disdaining gasps, parlato, and the occasional shriek for effect. Yet—and this is an important yet—she was always convincing and her involvement in her roles was beyond question. Olivero has maniacal fans (you know who you are), and not without reason. She must be heard in order to understand what it is that so many people complain about in today’s “boring” singers. Her roles included Manon Lescaut, Mimì in Bohème, Tosca, Minnie in Fanciulla, and a remarkable Suor Angelica. Olivero made her belated Met debut in Tosca in 1975 (do the math). There can be no discussion of the optimum interpretation of Puccini without reference to Olivero.
Pavarotti, Luciano (1935-): Pavarotti has captured the imagination of the general public better than any tenor since Caruso, and opera fans likewise thrilled for years to his uniquely gorgeous, instantly recognizable voice and instinctive phrasing. Although the large man never “acted” in any sense of the word and hardly looked like any of the heroic parts, his singing was enough to convince anyone. He may have also had the salutary effect of forcing modern audiences (which are addicted to visual imagery but not accustomed to listening with the same intensity as our predecessors) to hear opera in a new way His Rodolfo in Bohème remains unequaled. His early renditions of Cavaradossi in Tosca, also, were magnificent, although it must be admitted that his insistence on singing this role too long did not help his reputation. Pavarotti also made recordings of Des Grieux in Manon Lescaut later in his career, which hard-core fans appreciate but which do not display him to his best (and Pavarotti’s best is as good as it gets).
Pertile, Aureliano (1885-1952): A tenor with a huge if not precisely beautiful voice but who nevertheless thrilled audiences and was a particular favorite of Toscanini. Pertile sang several Puccini roles, including Pinkerton in Butterfly (Naples, 1914), an important Fanciulla (Bologna, 1915), Cavaradossi in Tosca (Madrid, 1917), and—difficult to imagine—Ruggero in Rondine (Bologna, 1917). He was popular in South America, where he scored a great success with Des Grieux in Manon Lescaut (Santiago, 1923). His North American ventures were less successful: his Met debut in Tosca coincided with Jeritza’s in the title role. Ignored in the press, Pertile sang a couple of performances in Philadelphia and Brooklyn and then left the United States for good. He returned to La Scala and was rewarded with the title role in the famous premiere of Nerone in 1924.
Price, Leontyne (1927-): One of the greatest American singers of all time (which is to say one of the greatest singers, period), Price combined a rich tone with a dramatic delivery to make every performance memorable. You couldn’t always understand every word she said, but you could always believe it. Her Tosca is imbued with passion and conviction, and she also sang Minnie in 19 61 (and famously walked away from the role several years later), Manon Lescaut in the 1970s, and Butterfly.
Raisa, Rosa (1893—1963): Born Rose Burchstein in Bialystock, she fled to Italy in 1908 after a violent pogrom. After several different variations, she settled on Rosa Raisa as her stage name. Her powerful voice and intense delivery attracted attention almost immediately Puccini offered her the premiere of Rondine in 1917, which Raisa had the temerity (or foresight) to refuse. Raisa’s career after the war centered mostly in Chicago, where she was the reigning prima donna during the 1920s. Raisa did return to La Scala for three notable seasons in the 1920s, participating in the famous premiere of Boito’s Nerone in 1924 and, most impressively, creating the role of Turandot in 1926. Raisa was underrecorded in her prime, believing that her focus on Chicago prejudiced the New York companies against her.
Sayao, Bidu (1902-99): Born in Rio de Janeiro, the great, beautiful soprano with the supple lyric voice made a specialty of French and Mozart roles. She wisely kept her forays into the Puccini repertory to Mimì in Bohème, but she positively owned the role at the Met from the 1930s to the 1950s.
Scotti, Antonio (1866-1936): Officially known as the “best Scarpia ever,” Scotti was known for his smooth yet incisive delivery and his great dramatic skills. The brief recordings we have of him reveal his vocal and dramatic power.
Scotto, Renata (1933-): A controversial Italian soprano whose musical and dramatic intelligence remain undisputed. Scotto’s beautiful, if hard-edged and sometimes wild, voice was often pushed to the limits. Audiences became jaded on her unpredictable sound in later years, and she became the butt of much carping. This much must be said about Scotto: she gave some great performances, and she gave some bad ones, but she never gave a single boring performance in her life. Many other sopranos should only be able to say the same thing. For Puccini, Scotto had a knack for finding the significance in the tiniest phrases and delivering her discoveries to the audience with a vehemence appropriate to the verismo genre. Her Tosca set your nerves on edge, but isn’t that the point of Tosca Her early portrayals of Butterfly remain monumental, her Mimì in Bohème should be studied by everyone, and her Manon Lescaut is one of the high points of (operatically speaking) recent memory. Her love for opera continues in master classes where she shares her considerable genius with young singers and audiences alike. (Favorite line to a young singer in a master class: “I prefer the legato here rather than there, because [pointing to the score], well, here it is written…”) Why do I not see everyone from the opera world at these events? This includes audiences. I guarantee no one would be able to use the words “boring” and “Bohème” in the same sentence again after ten minutes under Scotto’s tutelage.
Spani, Hina (189 6-19 69): A favorite in her native Argentina and elsewhere, Spani had a most curious career. As a teenager, she went to Italy to study and made notable debuts with the greatest stars, including Caruso and Pertile. She then stepped back from performing for several years, rejecting tons of cash to restudy her technique. When she reemerged, she felt capable of singing a wide variety of roles, from Wagner, to national operas, to (then) new and experimental works. Her favorite role of all, she confessed in later interviews, was Butterfly, however. Her second favorite was the title role in Catalani’s La Wally. Perhaps this ability to juggle Puccini and so many others, and her fond affection for Catalani’s music, endeared her to Toscanini, who chose her as one of two soloists at Puccini’s state funeral. She is still remembered as something of a national hero in Argentina.
Steber, Eleanor (1914-90): This Wheeling, West Virginia, native sang noted Butterflies and other roles at the Met in the 1950s but felt she was being passed up in favor of C alias and Tebaldi. Beyond New York, Steber sang a notable Minnie in a legendary Fanciulla with del Monaco at the Florence Maggio Musicale in 1954. She also famously stepped into the role in 1966 when Leontyne Price backed out, although this was considered well past her prime and the appearances did not help her career. A great talent who should not be forgotten despite her abbreviated and uneven career.
Stratas, Teresa (1938-): One of the most intense sopranos ever to fill the stage, the Canadian Stratas always brings something unexpected (and usually quite disturbing) to her roles. Her Liù in Turandot was something of a crazed stalker, while her Suor Angelica was compelling, slightly revolting, and thoroughly unforgettable.
Sutherland, Joan (1926-): The Australian powerhouse with the astounding dramatic voice puzzled and thrilled audiences for years concentrating primarily on the bel canto repertory. One of her notable forays outside that genre was her legendary recording of the title role of Turandot.
Tagliavini, Ferruccio (1913-95): There once was a breed of singer, now quite extinct, called the tenore di grazia, or a “grace tenor.” A small voice with an elegant sound, and a vocal production so refined it hardly classified as human, let alone as tenorial. (The closest surviving tradition may well be that of the so-called “Irish tenors” who are making themselves heard these days.) Tagliavini was the tenore di grazia par excellence. He made his debut in Florence in Bohème, whose poetry suited his particular voice-type superbly. More surprisingly, Tagliavini was also successful in Tosca, Butterfly, and even (gasp) Manon Lescaut. While a tenor of Tagliavini’s type would come as a shock to audiences today, there is no doubt that many young singers could benefit from familiarity with his style.
Tassinari, Pia (1909-95): A graceful lyric soprano who transferred to the mezzo-soprano repertory in later years. In 1941, she married the tenor Ferruccio Tagliavini, appearing with him internationally. Her most cherished Puccini role was Mimì in Bohème, in which she appeared with Tagliavini in memorable performances in London, Paris, and New York as well as throughout Italy after the Second World War.
Tebaldi, Renata (1922-2004): One of the great sopranos of the century, a perennial favorite in New York, La Scala, and elsewhere. A voice of gorgeous tone (particularly in the middle of the register, where so much of verismo “happens”) combined with a feel for the legato line to make Tebaldi unforgettable. There was a great rivalry between Tebaldi and Callas, partly imaginary on the part of journalists and fans, and partly inevitable because of their conflicting personalities and artistic approaches, yet it is not accurate to say that Callas was “all art” while Tebaldi was “all voice and only voice.” Obviously Callas had a voice to be reckoned with and Tebaldi was not lacking in artistry in any way. Her Tosca is as intense as anybody’s, although it is not always as extroverted as some. The same is true of her other Puccini roles: Manon Lescaut, Mimì in Bohème, and Butterfly, which may have been her best role. A beloved figure who, thank God, left us many memorable recordings.
Tucker, Richard (1913-75): The popular tenor who remained mostly in his native New York because “he liked to eat lunch at home,” Tucker was the favorite tenor at the Met in the ’50s and early ’60s. Onstage, Tucker had a rather stiff presence (and a tendency to look as if he were smirking, which of course he couldn’t help), but his clear voice recorded well. No one thought of him as an especially poetic soul, yet his Rodolfo in Bohème holds up marvelously on several good recordings. His Des Grieux in Manon Lescaut sounds especially suited to his clear tone and vocal style.
Turner, Eva (1892-1992): This dramatic soprano, born in Lancashire, sang Musetta in Bohème at Covent Garden before taking on Butterfly there in 1920. Her large voice made an impression, although some critics found her “cold and strong” for the role. She fell in love with Italy and moved there in 1927. “Cold and strong” may have been a problem for Butterfly, but they were a perfect recipe for Turandot. She sang the role to enthusiastic receptions in Italy and a couple of “tease” performances in London. The critics disliked her at La Scala in 1929, however, accusing her Turandot of having too much force and lacking in the lyricism that was central to all of Puccini’s characters, including this one. Taken aback, Turner looked beyond the Alps, and had a big season in Caracas in 1930. Her biggest triumph was in London in 1937, in a series of legendary Turandots with Giovanni Martinelli and Mafalda Favero. Cold and strong, perhaps, but unforgettably so. She devoted herself to charities and war work during the war, and sang some more Turandots in English after the war.
Rating favorite recordings is not a pleasant pastime among opera fans—it’s a blood sport. One can never recommend. One must arbitrate and simultaneously assassinate the characters of any who disagree. If you think this is overstating the case, post an innocent question on any Internet group relating to this subject. Something along the lines of “Which Butterfly recording should I buy?” Check in a week later and be amazed at the hostility generated by your apparently innocent question.
Appreciation of voices is as subjective as appreciation of faces, and arguing with someone who finds a given voice attractive is as futile as arguing that person’s taste in looks. The extremely brief (trust me) outline of recommended recordings here is meant as the roughest guide to what you might find in a particular choice, and why people rave about particular ones. One last disclaimer: Be prepared to collect multiple recordings of Puccini operas. You will be amazed at how different each one is. I have not included “highlights” recordings—don’t even think of buying a highlights recording of a Puccini opera. It’s a waste of time. The list is skewed toward the newer recordings, since they are more readily available and represent current trends (for better and for worse) in interpreting Puccini’s art. It is all very good for people like me to insist that Eva Turner is really the ONLY Turandot, but this would not be of much help for the reader who is wondering which is the best first recording to buy.
There’s no definitive recording of this opera: each one has high points and missed opportunities. Mirella Freni toured this role around for a few years, and she succeeds with musical intelligence and focus rather than the wild passion of traditional verismo singers. Her recording with the late conductor Giuseppe Sinopoli is a good choice. His reading of the score is solid and remarkably free of the quirks of tempo that often made him so frustrating. Domingo is one of the all-time greats as Des Grieux, and baritone Renato Bruson turns the enigmatic role of Lescaut into an intellectual exercise. Pavarotti is the Des Grieux on Freni’s other major recording with James Levine and the Met forces. This is one of those roles that mysteriously eluded The Great One—more on a temperamental level than anything else, I would imagine (he avoided it onstage). Even though the Met recording has an almost ostentatious casting of the minor parts (Giuseppe Taddei, Ramón Vargas, and even Cecilia Bartoli as the Madrigal Singer, for God’s sake), go with the Sinopoli recording if you choose Freni. Dame KM TeKanawa also sang this role onstage whenever she could, and her gorgeous face and creamy vocals were well suited for the elegant, lacy parts of the score. The womanly passion, however, does not come through on the recording with Carreras, who is not at his best either in their recording with conductor Riccardo Chailly For those who want to know what people are talking about when they discuss the histrionics of the grand Italian style, you might want to check out Magda Olivero’s recording. She was at the end of her great career and is paired with Domingo, who was just at the beginning of his, so this is more of an operatic Harold and Maude than Manon Lescaut, but her sobs, shrieks, and bellows are quite instructive. Many fans of Maria Callas treasure her recording of this opera and go into raptures over her cri de coeur in the line “Non voglio morir!” in Act IV Amazing as this moment is, this is not a good choice of a recording for the casual fan and is best reserved for the hard-core Callas people (who already own it anyway). For historic, midcentury recordings, Albanese/Bjoerling is excellent. She is warm and committed, while his clarion voice cuts through the thick orchestration marvelously.
There may not be a definitive recording of Manon Lescaut, but there is a video that every fan has to have: the Live from the Met 19 81 performance with Renata Scotto, Domingo, and Pablo Elvira, Levine conducting. If you haven’t seen this yet, put down this book and run to get it. Scotto was loved and hated, but even with a few high notes that get away like runaway trains, this is full-blooded Italian opera. The Act II duet borders on the pornographic (if one can hear eroticism instead of just seeing it). Domingo’s rendition of “No! pazzo son! guardate!” in Act III elevated him from merely one of the greatest tenors in the world to a living legend. Pablo Elvira alternates between being cuddly and slimy as Lescaut, which is perfect. The extraordinary mezzo-soprano Isola Jones (who once stole the show in Porgy and Bess as the Strawberry Woman, merely walking across the stage while hurling forth a chesty vocal line) is the Madrigal Singer. Watch it—now!
Bohème suffers from the same malaise on recordings that it does live: it always works. This means everybody and their mother (literally, it seems, in some cases) has recorded it, and it’s hard to imagine an out-and-out bad recording of it. Still, some are more notable than others. An excellent standard choice for a first Bohème recording remains the Renata Tebaldi/Carlo Bergonzi from 1965. The tempi are generally slow, which would not be welcome in a live performance, but it makes for a good audio experience and one gets the sense that everyone was taking this opera seriously. Tebaldi was not famous for her “acting” skills (in the operatic, vocal sense), but this rendition shows how unfair that assessment of her was. She means every line she sings, and the sheer, legendary beauty of her voice brings much of the score to life by its own virtue. Bergonzi is a tad more adventurous and quite successfully so. The overall texture of sound is lush and rich. No fan would be ashamed to have this recording on their shelf. The Freni/Pavarotti recording from 1976 is likewise gorgeous and shows off the two protagonists at their best. Nobody ever accused Pavarotti of intellectual insight into his roles, but his command of the idiom of the role of Rodolfo is authoritative enough to win any listener. Karajan’s conducting is a revelation. It is probably the “standard” Bohème at this point, and it has not “aged” one iota in the last three decades. If beauty of the human voice is a primary concern, one cannot fail with the Montserrat Caballé/Domingo recording from 1979. Caballé’s ability to carry the listener’s soul into a better world is obvious from her entrance, while her rendition of “Donde lieta uscì” is transcendental. One of the great paradoxes of the opera world is the fact that Domingo, who can sing anything, was always famously stumped by “Che gelida manina,” which is considered appropriate repertory even for amateur tenors. His rendition of the aria here is no more convincing than it was in his many, many live performances of the role, so buyers who think the entire role of Rodolfo depends on that aria will want to opt for another choice. However, it would be a huge mistake to dismiss Domingo in this role and pass up this recording: his singing in Act III is phenomenal. He is not only ravishing in tone, but he is also thoroughly compelling in character. One of Domingo’s unique virtues is the ability to convey guilt in his voice, which has also put him ahead of the pack in many other roles as well (cf. Fanciulla, Mascagni’s Cavalleria rusticana, Wagner’s Lohengrin, etc.). He alone has found, or has been able to communicate, the dramatic issues at stake in Act III. There is an interesting recording from Rome in 1961, with Anna Moffo and Richard Tucker. Moffo became such a familiar face around the New York opera scene in the 1960s that audiences and critics became blasé about her talents, but in retrospect those talents are clearer and we’d be lucky to have a diva of her caliber on the scene today. Tucker recorded the role many times and most of them are very good, some excellent. Tucker was not in any way the romantic young tenor on the stage, and yet there was poetry in his voice and he acquits himself well in the role. Robert Merrill is the excellent Marcello. This recording was made according to the latest recording notions of 1961. Sir Georg Solti was in the process of making his famous first complete recording of Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelung with tremendous attention to the audio details of the drama. That is to say, effects such as sword fights and even setting cups down on tables were given their full due. It was what we used to call “Vinyl Theater” in an earlier age. The Rome Bohème applies the same ideas to Puccini’s masterpiece of commonplace details, and no doubt the recording was at least as difficult in its own way as Solti’s Ring. (Well, that’s exaggerating a bit, but still…) Uncorking of wine bottles, dropping of keys on a wooden floor, and so forth, can all be clearly discerned here. Conductor Erich Leinsdorf had even paraded a marching band through the studio at several different angles before getting the exact “marching by” effect that was wanted in Act IL A fascinating recording. More recently, conductor Antonio Pappano joined forces with Leontina Vaduva, Roberto Alagna, and an excellent supporting cast for an excellent addition to the existing Bohème?. Alagna famously declared that he would never use rubato or extra portamento in his singing, and he earned a lot of scorn for daring to go against the “great tradition.” This recording proves how good Rodolfo can sound without the extra dollops of “effects” that have become traditional for the role. “Che gelida manina” alone should convince all but the grumpiest that Alagna knows what he is doing. Vaduva is melting and convincing but likewise rejects many of the maudlin effects that have accrued around the role of Mimì over the years. Ruth Ann Swenson is a bit wholesome and cheery for Musetta, but this is a minor quibble. Baritone Thomas Hampson sometimes strikes people as mannered and affected in his delivery, but this is perfect for the self-conscious painter Marcello, and star baritone Simon Keenleyside is a nuanced (and funny) Schaunard. To complete the luxury casting, we get power-bass Samuel Ramey as Colline. The man who has won ovations in Boris Godunov’s death scene can be expected to make the most out of the single minute of the aria “Vecchia zimarra.” This is a fail-safe choice among the newer recordings.
For Bohème on video/DVD, the Stratas/Carreras Live from the Met in 1979 is a classic. Both protagonists look and feel the parts in a unique way—Stratas perhaps too much so, since critics complained that she seemed on the verge of death from the moment of her entrance. Stratas may have been the first Mimì in history to make her coughs sound like last gasps. Never one to underplay a role, Stratas is in total command of the role, and even those who thought they were jaded on Bohème sat up for this one. Carreras may have been the perfect all-around Rodolfo. He himself claimed it was his best role and the one he related to best on a personal level. (A potentially mind-boggling comment, but who are we to argue?) Like Tebaldi, the ravishing timbre of his voice itself is enough to expose new depths in the score at every turn. This is not to say he couldn’t act—far from it. No stage actor could have delivered the role more convincingly in a spoken drama than Carreras does here. (He was slated, in fact, to make an actual film of the opera with director Luigi Comencini but was prevented from doing so by his near-fatal bout with leukemia in the very prime of his career. The film was made with Luca Canonici filling in on very short notice. Canonici was handsome and ardent and lyrical but was not Carreras. The film is worth a rental, however. Barbara Daniels is the stunning Mimi, even though she was as hale and healthy as Stratas was moribund.) The Live from the Met Bohème also shows the power of the Zeffirelli production when it was new and attention was paid to the all-important details. And of course there was Renata Scotto as Musetta, who clearly had no intention of being upstaged by Stratas. She comes on like gangbusters and only pumps it up from there. This woman knows how to smash a plate! Her delivery of the single word “Rospo!” (“Toad!”) in the Act III quartet sounds like the most obscene word in the Italian language. (It isn’t.) Scotto has all the life-affirming energy of Anna Magnani in The Rose Tattoo in this role, and yet her brief prayer in Act TV is perfectly understated and nuanced. If there were ever one performance of Bohème that came close to showing everything this opera has to offer, this surely was it.
The numbers are unreliable, but it seems that Tosca has been recorded at least as much as Bohème, if not more. Every diva wants a recording of it, and they all want new ones every time they discover new aspects to the role (which seems to be about every third year). Maria C alias remains legendary in this role, even thirty years after her death and a half century since she last performed it. Listeners must familiarize themselves with her interpretation of the role even if they will want other, newer (and technologically better) recordings as well. There are many “pirated” editions of C alias in the role, and still other editions with questionable sound. It is also quite possible to find Callas performances that did not show her in prime form and are best left to Callas archivists. One excellent choice remains the 1953 recording produced by London Records boss Walter Legge, who was pioneering the art of opera on record at the time. Although in mono, the sound is rich and smooth. Callas was in excellent vocal shape at this stage of her career, and she is superbly joined by Giuseppe Di Stefano and Tito Gobbi. (This is important, since many other of her Toscas seem to go out of their way to utilize mediocre tenors.) Everyone is excellent here. You can actually see their facial expressions just by listening. Note the incidental details as well: the loud shots of the firing squad, and so forth. Di Stefano got wilder and less reliable later in his career, but he still has glorious moments in his 1962 recording with Leontyne Price and the venerable Giuseppe Taddei. Karajan conducts superbly: he was often accused of being too slow (“Wagnerian” was the meaningless term often applied), and indeed the Te Deum in Act I, for example, is excruciatingly slow. But what tension! Price is awesome in this early recording, with passion and artistry in equal proportions. The production sound is great. Price recorded the opera later with Domingo and Milnes: she is wilder but no less exciting in that recording, and the young Domingo sounds like the vocal embodiment of the French Revolution. Milnes’s Te Deum is not to be believed. Where did the guy breathe in those four minutes? Of the newer recordings, the Gheorghiu/Alagna is perhaps the most satisfying. Again, Alagna proves that passion can be attained without schmaltz. His “Recondita armonia” is one of the best there is. It’s just right there! This tenor actually trusts Puccini as a composer. It’s about time somebody did. Gheorghiu got complaints about pitch problems on this but her involvement in the role is exciting and occasionally harrowing, contrasting lyric singing with intensity.
Tosca has been filmed several times, which makes sense. It practically is a movie anyway, so you can count on the various versions to be exciting. The Tosca/Scarpia confrontation in Act II is available with Callas and Gobbi from Covent Garden in 1964. This was late in Callas’s short career, but everything came together that night, and it is crucial viewing for anyone who wants to know what Callas-mania (not to mention Gobbi-mania) is all about. The full opera was filmed using the actual locations with Domingo and Raina Kabaivanska, who was an imposing Tosca. The idea sounded a tad better than the reality, but I, for one, appreciate that somebody out there realized the importance of the locations in the opera. There was a 1956 Italian film of Tosca directed by Carmine Gallone conducted by Oliviero de Fabritiis. The celebrated Maria Caniglia dubbed the title role, Gian Giacomo Guelfi dubbed Scarpia, and Franco Corelli was himself in the film (what actor could look better than Corelli?). An interesting effort, mostly for Corelli in action. You can’t exactly say he was a great actor, but he is mesmerizing, and he seems to transcend acting. Caniglia’s voice can be better appreciated in historic recordings. A recent (2002) film of Tosca was directed by Jacques Benoit featuring Gheorghiu, Alagna, and the always stupendous Ruggero Raimondi as Scarpia. The film opts for a sort of impressionistic style somewhere between “traditional” and “avant-garde.” The feeling (I don’t know if this is the case or not) is that some wonderful effects were achieved to meet a limited budget. Example: the Te Deum cuts between close-ups of Raimondi’s face and a chorus, wearing T-shirts and jeans and filmed in grainy black and white. Reading comments on Internet message boards, one would think this heralded the End of Civilization or, conversely, was the cutting edge of Radical Chic. It was neither. It was an interesting effect that paid homage to the staginess of Tosca (something that can be explored on many levels) and, not incidentally, saved a fortune on the rentals of half the ecclesiastical drag of Rome. The camera loves the Alagnas, and Raimondi always films well. You may love it or hate it, but most likely you will enjoy it on some level. It is definitely worth a rental.
My favorite Butterfly recording, and one that I can recommend without any hesitation, remains the 1965 Scotto/Bergonzi conducted by Sir John Barbirolli. Scotto’s voice was fresh enough to convey the youth and vulnerability without any stretch of the imagination, yet her intelligence and understanding of the dramatic issues at hand were in full flower. The sound is excellent, and Bergonzi and all the other roles are nearly flawless. Barbirolli conducted in the “old-school” style, and he is not afraid to lay on the schmaltz. Fortunately, Scotto and Bergonzi were too great to be swamped by the orchestra, and the result is an emotionally and musically satisfying Butterfly. If all this sounds a bit too extroverted for your tastes, you may want the newer Karajan recording with Freni, Pavarotti, Christa Ludwig, and the Vienna Philharmonic. Freni knew everything about the role that Scotto knew, and she projected every nuance, but in a subtler style. Pavarotti is particularly ravishing in the Act I duet. Karajan is amazing: the emotions are there in the orchestra, but they seem organic rather than stuck on as an afterthought. Either of these two recordings should be welcome in any collection. Renata Tebaldi was justly celebrated for her Butterfly: she made two recordings of it. The first was in 1951, the second in 1960. Opt for the later recording if you are a budding Tebaldi aficionado, and leave the first one for later in your addiction spiral. The 1960 recording also features Bergonzi as Pinkerton (charming, persuasive, eager), and Tebaldi’s full maturity is evident. I can’t imagine why the cliché persists about Tebaldi’s “coldness” compared to Callas. It simply isn’t true, as one hearing of this recording will prove. Perhaps what people are misunderstanding is the awesome economy of expression in Tebaldi’s art. When you have a voice like that, the tone can express much in itself. Of course, the listener must be able (and willing) to hear meaning in tone and phrasing. Here’s the test: are you not moved at the end? If you are not, then Tebaldi’s art will never be for you. All the recordings listed here are decades old at this point: sad but true. For this opera, it is necessary to go back a generation or two to get the best performances. The historically minded can go back yet further: the first full-length Butterfly recording, from 1939, is available on CD. It features Toti dal Monte and Beniamino Gigli. Both of these singers knew Puccini and performed before him, so we can learn much from their interpretations. Dal Monte will sound particularly unusual to the modern listener. Her voice is not the fully rounded, almost dramatic sound we tend to hear in the role. Instead, it is lighter and smaller yet laser-focused. This allows her to sound fifteen years old and yet to cut right through the molten-lava orchestration of much of the opera. Fascinating and quite worth hearing. But get Scotto, Freni, or Tebaldi for your first choice.
The Ponelle film of Butterfly, from 1974, features much the same cast with the exception of Domingo for Pavarotti. Snap it up. Freni’s acting and face are in perfect sync with her vocal delivery: she can say with a lifted eyebrow or tilt of the head what other sopranos would need a smashed vase to convey. I have already raved about Domingo in this role. Some of the directorial touches in the film are extraordinary without addressing the audience as if we were stupid, a common fault with so many directors with a “message” to convey. The small portrait of Jesus over that of Pinkerton on Butterfly’s cabinet is seen, just barely, over Butterfly’s head as she sings “Un bel di.” There are directors who say less with piles of corpses. The entrance of Butterfly and her relatives, emerging from a hillside fog, is stunning, and something that could not be achieved on a stage in quite the same way. It justifies the making of a film from an opera, without resorting to bombastic special effects. Ponelle’s film is thoroughly satisfying on all levels.
For years, the favorite studio recording of this much-neglected opera was with Franco Capuana conducting the Academia Santa Cecilia in 1958, with Birgit Nilsson, Mario del Monaco, and Cornell MacNeil. Finally, voices as big as all outdoors! It remains excellent, and there is no arguing with the voices of Nilsson and del Monaco. Still, the newer “standard” recording is Zubin Mehta’s 1978 recording with the Royal Opera House, featuring Carol Neblett, Domingo, and Milnes. Some quibble with Neblett, and I can’t imagine why. She channels Minnie brilliantly, in my opinion. No, she was not Tebaldi or this one or that one, but she is Minnie. She flies convincingly over the staff for Minnie’s “freak-out moment” at the end of Act II (sounding utterly insane, which I’m sure is the correct approach), yet every smaller phrase gets its full due as well. Her snarl of the single word “Rance!” in Act I is priceless Americana. Milnes gets to snarl in return: his Act II line “Non sono Jack Rance, son lo sceriffo” (“I’m not Jack Rance, I’m the sheriff!”) embodies the Bad Guy Dressed in Black in every Western movie ever made. But, moments later, his reaction to the drops of blood on his hand, “Guarda! c’è ancora sangue!” sounds like it’s coming from another world. Marvelous. Domingo, I insist, was put on earth by God to be Dick Johnson. The various miners are delightfully diversified in vocal color, which is one of the most important aspects of this difficult score. Mehta conducts the score with broad strokes. You can’t go wrong with this recording. The legendary Eleanor Steber/Mario del Monaco performance at the Florence Maggio Musicale in 1954 is available on a live recording, but the sound is severely compromised (especially when the singers turn around, as they seem to do a lot in this opera, what with cheating at poker and so forth). We only get a vague notion of the excitement that must have accompanied these performances.
Since everyone seems to agree that Fanciulla has a protocinematic quality to it, it works well on videos of live performances. The main videos of Fanciulla all feature Domingo as Johnson. He can be seen with Neblett in a tape of performances at Covent Garden from 1982. The production is dreary and the leads get lost frequently in the darkness, but Neblett and Domingo remain terrific. They are well supported by the underrated and gorgeously lyrical baritone Silvano Carroli. Nello Santi conducted. This affable man got a lot of flak for his “dull” conducting, but he was one of those conductors for whom singers always magically seemed to give their best performances. You won’t hear every amazing aspect of the orchestral score, but on the other hand, you can hear the singers, which is not always the case with this opera. Jonathan Miller directed a notable production of Fanciulla at La Scala in 1992, which is available on video, featuring Domingo, Mara Zampieri as Minnie, and Juan Pons as Rance. The production is better than Covent Garden’s and at least you can see everyone, but Zampieri is not entirely convincing, vocally or otherwise, in the lead role. Lorin Maazel conducts, and seems quite pleased with himself at the curtain calls. One is not entirely sure why. Pons is wonderful. There is also a fascinating Live from the Met Fanciulla, also from 1992. Domingo and a rather tired Milnes team again with Barbara Daniels as Minnie. Daniels’s Minnie is a very interesting case in point. A pure lyric soprano, Daniels dominated the role of Mimì in Bohème at the Met throughout the 1980s. When she was announced as Minnie, tongues wagged. “She must be nuts!” was among the kinder comments. And yet, she did it! No, not the Minnie of the ages, but honest and valid performances all the same. Previously, Dorothy Kirsten, also a lyric soprano, had succeeded splendidly as Minnie, using focus and phrasing where she lacked the traditional volume. Daniels did the same, and her gorgeous stage presence and fine acting aided her. Paradoxes like these keep opera interesting. Birgit Nilsson, who could belt out Wagner’s Brünnhilde without breaking a sweat, walked away from Minnie because she was intimidated by the vocal demands, yet a certain kind of lyric voice, with the right approach, can succeed in the role. Rent this video, and also enjoy the excellent supporting cast and the insightful conducting of Leonard Slatkin.
For years, one had basically a single choice when buying a recording of La rondine: Anna Moffo’s excellent portrayal of the role from 1966. It remains a good choice—the best, for many tastes. Daniele Barioni is excellent as Ruggero, hitting that youthful, eager sound that is crucial to the role. The conductor is Francesco Molinari-Pradelli, who made a specialty of recording the lesser-known operas of the Italian repertory. Critics still praise his touch on this Rondine, and I am always grateful for Molinari-Pradelli’s work, yet I can’t help the feeling that he is working just a bit too hard to “sell” us on the neglected opera. Still, a recording well worth owning. Moffo is quite beguiling.
The recent recording with Antonio Pappano conducting the London Symphony Orchestra features Gheorghiu, Alagna, Inva Mula-Tchako, and William Matteuzzi. Pappano strikes just the right note with his interpretation, merging equal doses of schmaltz and subtlety for this sentimental yet elegant score. The overall sound of the recording, and in particular the “crowd scenes” in Act II, is wonderfully engineered. Gheorghiu is ravishing, with just enough “edge” on her voice to make Magda seem substantial (and this is no small accomplishment). Some found her interpretation “petulant,” yet this is a Parisian courtesan we are looking at here. A subjective issue, I would imagine. Alagna nails this difficult-to-love role, projecting the unflinching youthful ardor and idealism that turn it into something. Mula-Tchako is much less grating than the usual Lisette, while Matteuzzi is sly and intriguing as Prunier. This recording will do more to convince you of Rondine’s value than most stagings. It includes the “extra” aria in Act I for Ruggero, which balances the opera much better than leaving it out. An added bonus is some selections from Le villi to fill out the second CD. How often do you get that?
There is a monaural recording from 1958 of Il trittico treasured by aficionados. Tabarro is conducted by Vincenzo Bellezza featuring Tito Gobbi, Margaret Mas, and Giacinto Prandelli. Gobbi, predictably, dominates the entire recording. In fact he is the entire point of it. His rendition of Michele’s monologue is astounding. That, however, is about all one can say about it. The Suor Angelica is more successful. Victoria de los Angeles is demented (remember, that’s the highest accolade) in her portrayal of the role. Fedora Barbieri is the evil Zia Principessa. Barbieri made a specialty of bitches in opera, and her interpretation here is positively ghoulish. Tullio Serafin conducts, bringing out the essence of the score. It’s the best part of this Trittico recording and not to be missed. Gianni Schicchi brings Gobbi back to the spotlight, with de los Angeles as a delicate Lauretta. Gobbi’s phrasing is marvelous and his interpretation beyond reproach. It is a relief to hear this man who portrayed Scarpia almost 1,000 times onstage revel in a bit of comedy. Gabriele Santini is the conductor.
With all the merits of the 1958 Trittico, the 1997 recording under Antonio Pappano remains a better first choice. Pappano conducts all three operas, and finds both the unity and diversity of the works. The overall sound production is superb and subtle: offstage effects like the car horn in Tabarro are organic parts of the score rather than “special effects.” For Tabarro, Carlo Guelfi acquits himself well as Michele. He’s not Gobbi, but then he doesn’t have Gobbi’s mannerisms and problems (yes, they existed) either. Russian sensation Maria Guleghina is the soul of desperation as Giorgetta, while nobody has ever conveyed angst quite like tenor Neil Shicoff. And, speaking of luxury casting run amok, Pappano’s pals the Alagnas sing the pair of lovers who walk by on the quay. Suor Angelica fares well in the hands of Cristina Gallardo-Domas, who has been singing the role all over the world in recent years. Gallardo-Domas trusts every note of the score and her portrayal is touching. The luxury casting continues in this opera as well. Dorothea Röschmann, who has been making a name for herself around Europe, especially in Mozart and early-opera roles, is Suor Genoveffa. She sounds young, but substantially so, not like the naive victim we often hear in this role. In Gianni Schicchi, there is no arguing with the monumental artistry of José van Dam. He is funny, yet not cloying, as so many Schicchis get when they attempt comedy. This man actually sounds smart, which is the core of the opera. Gheorghiu has some lovely moments as his daughter, although some hard-edged ones as well. When she says she will throw herself in the Arno in “O mio babbino caro,” we get the feeling that she means it at face value. Alagna sings Rinuccio without being a bumptious minitenor trying to get a contract for bigger roles. This is, I tell you, a relief. More depth of casting appears in veteran Felicity Palmer as Zita and Patrizia Ciofi as Nella. The women’s trio has never sounded better. This is a formidable recording, rendering Trittico the respect this wide-scoped opera deserves.
The “desert island selection” for Turandot is without a doubt the 1972 Zubin Mehta/London Philharmonic recording with Joan Sutherland, Pavarotti, Caballé, and remarkable casting depth for the balance of the roles: Nicolai Ghiaurov’s Timur almost steals the show in its regal presence. And one mustn’t forget the otherworldly Sir Peter Pears sounding positively whacked as the aged emperor. Sutherland summons all the volume and power necessary to make this role come alive, but there is nuance as well. This is the Eternal Feminine as Goethe must have imagined it—powerful, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. Conversely, Caballé is the lyric Liù, a performance of such stunning command that Liù finally becomes something more than a victim and perhaps the real person that Puccini had in mind. If you wonder why some people carry on so much at the mention of the name of Caballé (people like me), listen to her rendition of “Tanto amore segreto” in Act III. Is she breathing through her ears? This is legato singing at its best, without any false “effects” or pushed sentimentality. Pavarotti is at his best in this recording as well, and Pavarotti at his best was something to hear. While he doesn’t have the sheer ferocity to compete with Sutherland in the famous confrontation at the end of “In questa reggia,” he acquits himself well enough. His legato singing in the Act I ensembles, however, is priceless. Snap up this recording. How have you managed without it this long?
Walter Legge produced a Turandot in 1957 with Callas in the title role, Eugenio Fernandi, and the great German soprano Elisabeth Schwarzkopf (who was, not incidentally, Mrs. Legge) as Liù. It is an interesting recording, of course. Callas had sung some reputedly sensational Turandots early in her career (e.g., Buenos Ares, 1949), and one can hear her power and dramatic sincerity in this recording. I think that for general tastes, however, it reveals more about Callas the Artist than Turandot the Pure. Just my opinion. Schwarzkopf is quite unusual as Liù. It is as if the two sopranos did a role reversal, with Turandot as the Slave of Love and Liù as the One Who is Girt in Ice.
For the Nilsson/Corelli experience, there is the 1965 studio recording, featuring a young Renata Scotto as an affecting Liù. The conductor is Molinari-Pradelli. The sound has been well remastered digitally, and you will hear all the fire and thunder of the two lead powerhouses. Here’s my quibble: there are several live recordings of Nilsson and Corelli in Turandot, and I think their real energy was more clearly evident in those recordings, even considering the technological limitations. In the studio recording, Nilsson remains awesome of course, but there is a roughness on the top notes that is hard to ignore. Corelli’s mannerisms (swoops, etc.) seem perfectly natural in live performance but a bit, well, mannered here. Of course, whether you buy this recording or the Sutherland/Pavarotti, there will always be some know-it-all who will tell you that you made the wrong choice. Perhaps it’s better just to accept at the outset that you will need to buy both. (Of course, then you will be told you need the Callas recording. This game has virtually no end.)