CD REVIEW: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart – DIE ENTFÜHRUNG AUS DEM SERAIL (D. Damrau, R. Villazón, A. Prohaska, P. Schweinester, F.-J. Selig, T. Quasthoff; DGG 479 4064)

WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART (1756 – 1791): Die Entführung aus dem Serail, K. 384—Diana Damrau (Konstanze), Rolando Villazón (Belmonte), Anna Prohaska (Blonde), Paul Schweinester (Pedrillo), Franz-Josef Selig (Osmin), Thomas Quasthoff (Bassa Selim); Vocalensemble Rastatt; Chamber Orchestra of Europe; Jory Vinikour, pianoforte continuo; Yannick Nézet-Séguin, conductor [Recorded ‘live’ during concert performances in Festspielhaus Baden-Baden, Germany, July 2014; Deutsche Grammophon 479 4064; 2 CDs, 138:38; Available from Amazon, iTunes, jpc, Presto Classical, and major music retailers]

When Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Singspiel Die Entführung aus dem Serail was first performed at Vienna's Burgtheater in 1782, the first-night audience may not have fully sensed the magnitude of the occasion they were witnessing. Composed in response to Emperor Joseph II's Nationalsingspiel initiative, a concerted effort to counteract the expanding influence of Italian opera by encouraging the creation of new, innovative works in the German-language Singspiel genre, Die Entführung aus dem Serail was a sure-fire hit that pandered to the Viennese fascination with all things Turkish. By 1782, Hapsburg Vienna had for centuries been looking over her shoulder, gazing to the southeast in anticipation of Ottoman invaders. A century before Entführung's première, the Holy League expelled the besieging Turks from the walls of Vienna, the Janissaries' hasty retreat allegedly responsible for abandonment of the cymbals and timpani that were found by the conquerors and quickly assimilated into European musical traditions. When Mozart arrived in Vienna, he found a city in which westernized vestiges of Turkish culture remained very much in vogue. The marvel of Mozart's achievement in Entführung is that he produced a score in which the German Singspiel and Italian opera join hands, Osmin, Blonde, and Pedrillo emerging from Teutonic vaudeville, Konstanze a refugee from Händelian opera seria, and Belmonte an early representative of pure bel canto. Whether or not the score contains 'too many notes,' as Joseph II may or may not have observed, the intoxicating musical spirits of Entführung, diluted with splashes of strong Turkish coffee, were a concoction certain to please Viennese tastes in 1782. In a persuasive performance like this one, assembled in excellent, studio-quality sound [only Jory Vinikour's hypnotically inventive pianoforte continuo could have benefited from increased prominence within the soundscape] from recordings of concert performances in Baden-Baden's enormous Festspielhaus, Die Entführung aus dem Serail is confirmed to be not just a raucously fun ‘period piece’ but a work of genius with sensibilities as relevant in 2015 as in 1782.

Following Don Giovanni (reviewed here) and Così fan tutte (reviewed here), Die Entführung aus dem Serail is the third release in Deutsche Grammophon's cycle of recordings of Mozart's mature operas conducted by Québécois dynamo Yannick Nézet-Séguin. [Le nozze di Figaro was recently recorded in conjunction with Baden-Baden concert performances for release as the next installment in the series, with a cast including Thomas Hampson and Sonya Yoncheva as Conte and Contessa d'Almaviva, Luca Pisaroni and Christiane Karg as Figaro and Susanna, and Angela Brower as Cherubino.] The young conductor's pacing of Don Giovanni and Così fan tutte was lithe and often very impressive, but this performance of Die Entführung aus dem Serail is his finest recorded outing as a Mozartean to date. In repertory spanning more than two centuries, Nézet-Séguin has shown himself to be a master of both grand gestures and finely-wrought filigree, but not even his justly-acclaimed performances of Verdi operas have displayed the command of the requisite style, artful management of orchestral and choral forces, and intuitive support of soloists as readily as this Entführung. Moreover, Nézet-Séguin here spotlights very real emotions that many conductors are content to merrily bury beneath batteries of faux-Turkish dins. A vital component of Mozart's genius from the start of his career as a composer of opera was an uncanny, virtually unrivaled ability to deal with incredibly difficult subjects—public duty and private loyalty in Idomeneo, infidelity in Figaro and Così, every imaginable vice in Don Giovanni, faith and self-reliance in Die Zauberflöte—in a manner that places the listener at the heart of the story. Similarly, Nézet-Séguin's conducting, rhythmically alert and informed by understanding of 1780s performance practices but unafraid of Romantic sweep when the score justifies it, draws the listener into this performance. Playing with effervescence that flows from the start of the Overture to the opera's last bar, the musicians of the Chamber Orchestra of Europe are participants in the performance rather than accompanists of it. When the oboe, violin, flute, cello, and clarinet introduce Konstanze in her fiendishly difficult aria 'Martern aller Arten,' they are not faceless obbligati: they are friends who seem to say to Konstanze, 'Come on, girl, you can do it!' This camaraderie emanates from the singing of the Vocalensemble Rastatt, as well, their performance of the Chor der Janitscharen in Act One, 'Singt dem grossen Bassa Lieder,' wonderfully animated. Much of the credit for this collegiate cooperation is owed to Nézet-Séguin. For singers, secondary in importance only to technique and health as a factor in the quality of performance is the knowledge that there is a supportive presence on the podium. From Mozart to the musician charged with the least-significant orchestral part, every participant in this Entführung knows that Nézet-Séguin is dedicated to facilitating everyone's success and performs accordingly.

Returning to the stage despite his retirement from singing staged opera, Thomas Quasthoff speaks one of the finest accounts of​ Bassa Selim on disc. Many productions of Entführung make the good-intentioned mistake of casting acclaimed actors who are not familiar with opera as Selim. With a speaking voice nearly as mellifluous as his hazelnut-hued bass-baritone, Quasthoff delivers his lines perfectly, complementing rather than upstaging his vocal colleagues, all of whom tastefully speak their own dialogue. Quasthoff is a Bassa Selim who is an enlightened despot without being a ham-fisted yeller. His singing is greatly missed, but he serves Mozart splendidly in this performance.

Singing the bumbling but boisterously nasty ​Osmin, Franz-Josef Selig lacks the sonorous tones in the lower octave of Gottlob Frick and the bottled-thunder timbre and spot-on comedic antics of Kurt Moll, but he voices Osmin's music handsomely and effectively, his singing more attractive than Josef Greindl's and more recognizably Mozartean than Martti Talvela's. In his Act One Lied, 'Wer ein Liebchen hat gefunden,' and the subsequent duet with Belmonte, Selig sings strongly, and he copes manfully with the trills and low Fs in his aria 'Solche hergelauf'ne Laffen.' He bellows rippingly in the trio with Belmonte and Pedrillo, 'Marsch! marsch! marsch! Trollt euch fort!' and is the mean-spirited but ultimately hilariously inept henchman to the life. In Act Two, Selig duets with Blonde with gusto in 'Ich gehe, doch rate ich dir,' his articulation of the Andante 'O Engländer! seid ihr nicht Toren' exuding exasperation and flummoxing ignorance and matching his inebriated blubbering in the duet with Pedrillo. Osmin's best music is the aria 'O! wie will ich triumphieren' in Act Three, and Selig rises to the occasion with vocal power and technical acumen that encompasses good execution of his triplets and an honorable attempt at the trill. His low Ds lack the full-bodied support of the balance of his range. Selig's commitment to accurately producing the notes of his part contributes to an effective, uncaricatured portrayal of Osmin. Why do so many singers fail to realize that singing what the composer wrote is the surest method of bringing a character to life, whether comic or tragic?

Truly singing Pedrillo, a rôle far too often barked and blustered, Sachertorte-toned Austrian tenor Paul Schweinester​ is the rare exponent of this rôle who does not inspire the wish that the part were shorter. Beginning with wide-eyed, charismatic singing in the Act One trio with Belmonte and Osmin, 'Marsch! marsch! marsch! Trollt euch fort,' he is a vivacious personality throughout the opera—precisely the sort of friend for whom a leading man under duress longs. Schweinester makes Pedrillo's Act Two aria 'Frisch zum Kampfe! frisch zum Streite!' a joy, his trill and long-held top A heard with great pleasure. Then, he vigorously pairs with Selig in the hysterical duet with Osmin, 'Vivat Bacchus! Bacchus lebe!' The young tenor more than holds his own opposite his celebrated colleagues in the quartet with Konstanze, Blonde, and Belmonte. Pedrillo's Romanze 'Im Mohrenland gefangen war​' is often a trial for listeners, but Schweinester's performance gives the piece the brilliance that Mozart intended it to display. This is emblematic of Schweinester's performance as a whole: he is, as few tenors on recordings of Entführung have been, a Pedrillo who could as easily be a Belmonte.

Like similar rôles in a number of operas of all eras, the pert, perky ​Blonde​ can be a tremendous annoyance. Her music is written so that anything less than complete technical assurance amounts to failure. It almost seems too much to ask that a Blonde sing her high-wire act of a part beautifully, but that, on the whole, is what Anna Prohaska does on this recording. Though a lauded interpreter of Bach and other Baroque repertory, she possesses a more substantial voice than has often been heard in Blonde's music, and this is all to the good: there is no reason why the part must be sung by a Galli-Curci-esque chirper. Vocally, Blonde must hit the ground running, so to speak, her Act Two aria 'Durch Zärtlichkeit und Schmeicheln' laden with coloratura leading her to E6. Prohaska ascends into the stratosphere with little evidence of effort and a heartening avoidance of shrillness. In the duet with Osmin, 'Ich gehe, doch rate ich dir,' the fearless soprano is equally comfortable when Blonde's line descends to A♭ below the staff. Prohaska tosses off the aria 'Welche Wonne, welche Lust' charmingly, her sustained top A a memorable tone, and, like her Pedrillo, she makes her mark in the quartet with Konstanze Belmonte and Pedrillo. There are a few patches of unevenness in the voice that suggest that her technique remains a work in progress, but she is as capable and captivating a Blonde as has been heard on records since Rita Streich.

Since devoting himself to the study and performance of Mozart repertory, Mexican tenor Rolando Villazón has not only sung and recorded Don Ottavio in Don Giovanni and Ferrando in Così fan tutte with Nézet-Séguin and recorded fine accounts of the composer's concert arias for tenor (also on DGG; reviewed here) but also conquered Salzburg in the title rôle of Lucio Silla. [He also sings Don Basilio on the forthcoming recording of Le nozze di Figaro.] From a historical perspective, it is frustrating to observe that the relatively recent notion persists that a tenor acclaimed for singing Verdi and Puccini rôles taking on Mozart parts is tantamount to a demotion in importance. Gone are the days when tenors like Richard Tucker and George Shirley regularly sang Ferrando amidst outings as Gabriele Adorno and Pinkerton without being thought to be retrograding into ‘beginners' repertory.' Villazón's voice here sounds healthy and secure, and his enunciation of German, though audibly not native, is fluent: Belmonte is a Spaniard, after all, and it should not be forgotten that one of the tenor's earliest appearances on disc was as the Steuermann in Daniel Barenboim's Teldec recording of Wagner's Der fliegende Holländer. In Act One, Villazón sets the high standard for the performance with a lovely, lively reading of Belmonte's aria 'Hier soll ich dich denn sehen,' the preponderance of top Gs and As​—typical of the part's passaggio-hugging tessitura—disclosing no fissures in Villazón's voice. After duetting rousingly with Selig, he voices the recitative 'Konstanze! Konstanze! Dich wiederzusehen' ardently. He devotes considerably more passion to the aria 'O wie ängstlich, o wie feurig' than many tenors are willing to venture, and the roulades hold no terrors for him. Drawing inspiration from Nézet-Séguin's perfectly-judged tempo, Villazón leads his colleagues in a bumptious but genuinely witty account of the trio with Pedrillo and Osmin, 'Marsch! marsch! marsch! Trollt euch fort!' In both 'Wenn der Freude Trä​​nen fließen' and the superb quartet, 'Ach Belmonte, ach mein Leben,' he graces Act Two with warm, Mediterranean vocalism. As might be hoped, he is at his best in Act Three, in which he offers a performance of the demanding aria 'Ich baue ganz auf deine Stä​rke' which has few peers, the aria often having been cut even from studio traversals of Entführung. Villazón crowns the aria with easy​ top B♭​s approached, as they should be, merely as notes resolving the upward mobility of the vocal lines. In the duet with Konstanze, 'Ha! Du solltest fü​r mich sterben,' he is the epitome of the golden-voiced Latin lover. Compared with the work of Mozarteans like Ernst Haefliger and Fritz Wunderlich, Villazón's is neither conventional nor conventionally beautiful Mozart singing. It is significant, sensitive, stimulating singing, however. Belmonte is not a Catechism-quoting schoolboy: he surely need not sound like one in order to be 'stylish.'​

In Nézet-Séguin's Don Giovanni for DGG, German soprano Diana Damrau​ was a Donna Anna who ruled the rôle and dominated the performance, even alongside Joyce DiDonato's no-holds-barred Donna Elvira. As Konstanze in this recording of Die Entführung aus dem Serail, there is unmistakable evidence of the toll that a frenetically-paced international career has taken on the exceptional beauty and flexibility of her voice. Still, she remains an extraordinary singer, and there are glimpses in this performance of her finest work. In Konstanze's Adagio aria in Act One, 'Ach ich liebte, war so glü​cklick' the bravura passagework extending to top D and the trills tax her, the voice sounding sluggish and under-rehearsed. In Act Two, she gives secure, insightfully-phrased performances of the recitative 'Welcher Kummer herrscht in meiner Seele' and the sublime aria 'Traurigkeit ward mir zum Lose,' the repeated top B♭​s prompting no concerns, but the scale of the vocalism—and, in truth, of the voice itself—seems small for the music. The indubitably great Damrau emerges in the much-feared aria 'Martern aller Arten,' her technical aplomb in the runs  frequently cresting on top C dizzying, and she here rises to top D without a care in the world. This burst of prodigality continues in the quartet with ​Belmonte, ​Blonde, and Pedrillo, 'Ach Belmonte, ach mein Leben!' Taking the top line with distinction, she is finally every inch the performance's prima donna. She partners Villazón in their​ Act Three duet 'Ha! Du solltest fü​​r mich sterben' with temperament befitting a put-upon Spanish lady, firing her top C as a final salvo affirming her moral superiority. If the Damrau heard from 'Martern aller Arten' to the end of the opera were the Damrau of the opera's first half, this would be as near-definitive a Konstanze as is likely ever to be heard. It is interesting to consider that, when Don Giovanni was first performed in Vienna in 1788, the rôle sung by Salieri's pupil Caterina Cavalieri, for whose abilities Mozart devised Konstanze's music in Entführung, was Donna Elvira, not Donna Anna. It was for Cavalieri that the composer wrote Elvira's aria 'Mi tradì quell’alma ingrata,' the tessitura of which is, in general, higher than that of Donna Anna's music. Perhaps the models of Schwarzkopf and Steber (whose Donna Elvira is confirmed by existing MET broadcasts to have been markedly superior to her Donna Anna) are the benchmarks for Konstanze not merely because these ladies were fantastic singers but because their voices were centered in the tessitura as Mozart intended. By right of natural vocal talent, Damrau should have been their peer. In the event, she is a competent, sometimes superlative Konstanze rather than a legendary one.

Much is made in the annals of operatic history of the première of Auber's La muette de Portici having played a part in inciting the rebellion that led to Belgian independence. The first performance of Die Entführung aus dem Serail may have precipitated no riots, but in those same annals of operatic history it is by a broad margin the more revolutionary work. It is not unreasonable to hypothesize that, without Entführung, there may have been no Die Zauberflöte, Fidelio, Der Freischütz, Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, Ariadne auf Naxos, or Wozzeck. As in Italian opera, in which vein the importance of Josef Mysliveček's work is increasingly assuming its rightful place beside that of Mozart's operas, the Wunderkind of Salzburg shares influence on the development of German opera with contemporaries like Ignaz Holzbauer and Peter von Winter. Under Yannick Nézet-Séguin's baton, though, the significance of Die Entführung aus dem Serail has never seemed more vast. In this valuable recording, Nézet-Séguin and an ensemble of artists who trust him and one another present a Die Entführung aus dem Serail from the musical pinnacle of which the perceptive listener with an appetite for the saga of opera's evolution can, as The Who’s song puts it, 'see for miles and miles.’

CD REVIEW: Giacomo Puccini – TURANDOT (J. Wilson, A. Bocelli, J. Nuccio, A. Tsymbalyuk, G. Olvera, V. Buzza, P. García López, J. Agulló, V. Anastasov; DECCA 478 8293)

GIACOMO PUCCINI (1858 – 1924): Turandot [Completion by Franco Alfano]—Jennifer Wilson (Turandot), Andrea Bocelli (Calàf), Jessica Nuccio (Liù), Alexander Tsymbalyuk (Timur), Germán Olvera (Ping), Valentino Buzza (Pang), Pablo García López (Pong), Javier Agulló (L’imperatore Altoum, il Principe di Persia), Ventselav Anastasov (Un mandarino), Carmen Avivar (Ancella di Turandot), Jacqueline Squarcia (Ancella di Turandot); Escolania de la Mare de Déu dels Desemparats, Coro de la Generalitat Valenciana; Orquestra de la Comunitat Valenciana; Zubin Mehta, conductor [Recorded in Palau de les Arts Reina Sofia, Valencia, Spain, in 2014; DECCA 478 8293; 2 CDs, 116:50; Available from DECCA Classics, Amazon (USA), iTunes, jpc, Presto Classical, and major music retailers]

It is discouraging and often deeply disheartening to note that the open-mindedness that is an indelible element of opera is absent from the points of view of many of those who claim to love and safeguard it. Opera is an art form that asks the observer to hear and see with the heart, not with the ears and eyes, and the listener unable or unwilling to set aside preconceptions and prejudices when taking his seat in the theatre or pressing 'play' in his own living room is doomed to frequent disappointment. By some exalted assessments, the foremost function of Art is to reflect the workings of humanity in such a way that the most clandestine failures and foibles are revealed, not in hostility but with humility and sincere hope for positive change. Such is the hypocrisy of opera that people who purport to love it complain of a dearth of important, influential singing with one breath and with the next dismiss today's finest singers because they are not the equals of favored singers of past generations. To be more drawn to and moved by certain singers than others is natural, and there are biases that are perhaps impossible to overcome. The listener who heard Flagstad as Isolde is unlikely to prefer or even accept any other singer's portrayal, but Flagstad is regrettably no longer among us. Opera should be an equalizer, its only partiality being for singers, conductors, and musicians who work hard and give of their best. Much of what has been written—by parties who are unlikely to have actually heard it, in many cases—about this Turandot is as stupid as it is insensitive and offensive. Conducting the score before studio microphones forty-two years after first recording it for DECCA, Zubin Mehta unfurls an affection for Puccini's music unfaded by time. For that reason alone, this recording earns respect. As it turns out, however, there is much in this Turandot to confound naysayers and remind listeners that, no matter how mightily it struggles to disarm misunderstanding, opera is an art of acceptance.

Mehta's approach to Turandot is documented in several recordings of radio broadcasts and audio and video preservations of live performances, in addition to the much-discussed 1972 DECCA studio recording with Dame Joan Sutherland, Luciano Pavarotti, and Montserrat Caballé. In the four decades since last recording the opera in studio, Mehta's basic management of the score has changed little, but there are appreciable differences in the nuances of his interpretation that are indicative of a subtle but substantial evolution in the conductor's understanding of the music. His earlier reading has as its tonal center of gravity a focus on the sumptuous Romanticism of the quintessentially Puccinian melodic fecundity of the score. Now, the opera's tunefulness is still central to Mehta's conducting, but the atmospheric context of thematic development is decidedly that of the Twentieth rather than the Nineteenth Century. Interestingly, the principal soloists in the present recording possess voices of dimensions similar to those of Mehta's first DECCA cast: a lushly powerful Turandot confronts a straightforwardly lyrical Calàf and a silken-voiced Liù with a lean streak of steel at her command. This vocal configuration produces vastly different results in the more modern sound world of the newer recording. In Act One, the influence of Puccini's acquaintance with the music of Debussy permeates the score, and the distinctive voices of Bartók and Ravel are clearly heard amidst the cacophonies of Acts Two and Three. Under Mehta's direction, the singers of the Coro de la Generalitat Valenciana and, especially, the children of the Escolania de la Mare de Déu dels Desemparats sing idiomatically, credible as a populace first inflamed by Turandot's thirst for blood and ultimately crushed by the weight of their own zealotry when it claims Liù as an innocent victim. Their invocation to the moon in Act One is stirringly done, and the youngsters' voicing of 'Là, sui monti dell'Est la cicogna cantò’ is touching. There are subtle indications of true regret in 'O giovinetto,' the perverse funeral march that accompanies the courageous Principe di Persia—sung winningly by Spanish tenor Javier Agulló—to the scaffold. The massive walls of sound constructed by Puccini in Act Two, epitomized by 'Diecimila anni al nostro Imperatore,' are recreated by the choristers with confidence that increases with every bar. The high-water mark of the choral singing on these discs is 'Ombra dolente, non farci del male! Perdona, perdona!' in Act Three, the choristers meaningfully limning the crowd's sudden recognition of its collective complicity in the relentless pursuit of Turandot's cold agenda that takes Liù's life. Like their choral colleagues, the players of the Orquestra de la Comunitat Valenciana face no demands from composer or conductor that they are incapable of meeting. The crucial xylophone and harp parts are performed particularly well, but the overall level of playing among the instrumentalists is commendably high. Musical standards are sufficient for both the incredible originality and beauty of the composer's score and the many thoughtful details of the conductor's interpretation of it to be apparent throughout the performance.

Singing the small rôles of the Ancelle di Turandot, sopranos Carmen Avivar and Jacqueline Squarcia perform their tasks with lovely, well-schooled voices that promise future successes. [Avivar is already an accomplished heroine in Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor, in fact.] Agulló returns as L'Imperatore Altoum, Turandot's well-meaning father, and it is fantastic to hear a fresh, steady sound in the part rather than the typical superannuated singers' wheezing and whining. Agulló phrases 'Un giuramento atroce mi costringe a tener fede al fosco patto' with tenderness, and this 'figlio del cielo' seems genuinely thrilled when Calàf solves the three riddles. The Mandarino of Bulgarian baritone Ventseslav Anastasov is also a vocally youthful impersonation, the top C♯s in his declamations of 'Popolo di Pekino! La legge è questa!' projected with penetrating focus. The singer's distinctive vibrato adds an element of urgency to his resonant delivery of Puccini's music: he is an aptly engaging representative of an uncommonly energetic emperor.

As the chameleonic Maschere Ping, Pang, and Pong, Mexican baritone Germán Olvera, Italian tenor Valentino Buzza, and Spanish tenor Pablo García López sing athletically separately and in ensemble. From the first bars of their ‘Fermo! che fai? T'arresta!' in Act One, the gentlemen seem to be having a grand time, Olvera's fun not even slightly inhibited by Ping's frequent top E♭s and Fs. He laces Ping’s ‘Lascia le donne! O prendi cento spose’ with biting irony, and his singing of ‘Olà, Pang! Olà, Pong!’ in the Maschere's scene at the beginning of Act Two is the aural equivalent of rolled eyes and shrugged shoulders. The uncomplicated beauty of the trio's paean to their native country, ‘O China, o China, che or sussulti e trasecoli in quieta,’ is ravishing. The tenors' upper registers are alluringly bright in ‘Tu che guardi le stelle, abbassa gli occhi' in Act Three: many a weak-willed Calàf might readily surrender to their dulcet-toned entreaties. Apart from a few pinched tones, Olvera, Buzza, and García López are a near-ideal triumvirate. These young singers cause one to wonder why opera houses (and record labels) tolerate Ping, Pang, and Pong being so often poorly sung.

Timur is a study in contrasts. Still brave and proud, the deposed king is bent by age and disability, his blindness symbolic of his destroyed concentration on the common good of his people. Young Ukrainian bass Alexander Tsymbalyuk injects his portrayal of the noble old man with vestiges of his former glory that render him unusually sympathetic. Suddenly reunited with his son, this Timur imparts a sense of destiny fulfilled, a sense that is upset first by Calàf's determination to win Turandot's hand and later, irreversibly, by Liù's death. Tsymbalyuk sings ‘O figlio, vuoi dunque ch'io solo, ch'io solo trascini pel mondo la mia torturata vecchiezza' in Act One harrowingly, tacitly mourning what Timur perceives as the second loss of his son. In Act Three, the security of his tone in ‘Liù! Liù! sorgi! sorgi! È l'ora chiara d'ogni risveglio!’ makes his pain all the more moving, and he voices ‘Ah! delitto orrendo!’ with profound grief, his ringing top E♭ and F wrenchingly angry and desperate. Supported by Mehta's tempo and management of the orchestra, Tsymbalyuk's expansive phrasing of ‘Liù! bontà! Liù! dolcezza!’ expresses in a few bars the enormity of Timur's love for Liù. Timur has rarely sounded as three-dimensional on records as Tsymbalyuk makes him in this performance. Furthermore, his music has seldom been sung so handsomely even by legendary basses in their primes.

Not even thirty years old when this Turandot was recorded, Palermo-born soprano Jessica Nuccio depicts a fragile but surprisingly mature Liù. It has rarely been more obvious in a recorded performance of Turandot that Liù's servitude is a choice, not a compulsion. First heard in Act One begging for assistance in lifting the fallen Timur, clearly as much a father to her as to Calàf, the girlish honesty of Nuccio's phrasing of ‘Il mio vecchio è vaduto’ is like a ray of sunlight forcing its way through the tempestuous orchestration. She enunciates ‘Chi m'aiuta, chi m'aiuta a sorreggerlo’ with understated ardor, and there is a heartbreaking blend of pride and shame in her statement of ‘Nulla sono...una schiava.' She rises to the top B♭ on ‘mi hai sorriso’ with innocent passion that even the most dim-witted Calàf should not fail to comprehend. Nuccio's performance of ‘Signore, ascolta!’ is a highlight of the recording, her top A♭s and B♭projected with purity and spot-on intonation. In Act Three, this Liù's death recalls the ritualistic suicide of Puccini's Cio-Cio San. Nuccio spins the top As and B in ‘Tanto amore segreto, e inconfessato' with the glimmer of golden threads. Throughout the performance, she is very cautious in the lower octave, giving an impression of reserving her resources for excursions above the stave, but such self-cognizance is laudable, especially in a young singer. Another highlight of the recording is Nuccio's account of ‘Tu, che di gel sei cinta,’ her top B♭ lofted heavenward as a final gesture of devotion to the man she hopelessly loves. With informed stewardship of her beautiful, evenly-produced lyric instrument, Nuccio seems on the path to wonderful things in the footsteps of the incomparable Mirella Freni.

Andrea Bocelli is of course the raison d'être for this recording, musically and commercially. If there are listeners who hear this Turandot solely because of Bocelli's participation, what harm is there in that? If there are listeners who do not hear this Turandot solely because of Bocelli's participation, however, foolish prejudice offends composer, conductor, and cast. In truth, the tenor embarrasses neither himself nor his colleagues. The voice is a somewhat colorless, sometimes strenuously-produced instrument, but Bocelli is an imaginative, ardent singer whose excellent diction and authentic Italianate temperament lift his Calàf above the level of a number of today's tenors who sing the rôle. When Bocelli's Calàf encounters Timur in the opening pages of Act One, his ‘Padre! Mio padre!’ complements Tsymbalyuk's expressions of elation. Bocelli discloses no fear of the top B♭ on ‘O padre, sì, ti ritrovo!’ or the B♭♭ on ‘T'ho pianto, padre...e bacio queste ma ni sante!’ His voices grows steadier and more impactful as the range extends upward, in fact. Trumpeting Calàf's decision to challenge Turandot's wrath, his repetitions of her name tremble with erotic tension as they ascend to his ecstatic top B♭. Kinder to Liù from the start than many Calàfs, his voicing of ‘Non piangere, Liù!’ is comforting and shaped with silvery, elastic tone. In Act Two, this Calàf declares his intentions to the emperor with exclamations of ‘Figlio del cielo, io chiedo d'affrontar la prova!’ that become more impassioned with each repetition. The unison top C with Turandot on ‘Gli enigmi sono tre, una è la vita!’ taxes Bocelli, but once past this challenge his upper register never fails him. His vocalism in the Riddle Scene is marvelously masculine, the top B♭s on ‘Il mio fuoco ti sgela: Turandot!’ fired like missiles. The interpolated top C on ‘No, no, Principessa altera! Ti voglio tutta ardente d'amor!' is a tone worthy of Bocelli's teacher, Franco Corelli. Bocelli's performance of the ubiquitous ‘Nessun dorma’ is slightly disappointing, the bland phrasing suggesting that he is distracted by the expectation of producing a clarion noise on the most abused top B in opera. His imagination again takes flight in ‘Ah! Tu sei morta, tu sei morta, o mia piccola Liù,’ though, and the spitfire ‘Principessa di morte! Principessa di gelo!’ Scaling the heights of the opera's final scene, in which Franco Alfano's completion of the score is utilized, Bocelli sings more expressively than many tenors find it possible to do when battling such punishing tessitura. This performance is not a stunt or the indulgence of a talented amateur. Calàf is a rôle that Bocelli likely could not manage credibly in a large opera house like the MET [it should be noted, however, that he has sung the part to acclaim in the open-air Teatro di Silenzio in his Tuscan hometown, Lajatico], and there are subtle indications in this recording of electronic assistance, but judged on his own terms—not those of Merli, Martinelli, del Monaco, Corelli, Bonisolli, or whichever Calàf is the darling of the listener's heart—he is a satisfying, unimpeachably musical Calàf.

In the title rôle, American soprano Jennifer Wilson continues the tradition of Gertrude Grob-Prandl, Birgit Nilsson, and Dame Gwyneth Jones by coming to Turandot with extensive experience as a Wagnerian to her credit. In recent years, good Brünnhildes have infrequently proved good Turandots, but Wilson defies that trend with a performance of prodigious and, above all, wobble-free tone. The start of ‘In questa reggia' announces that this is a Turandot whose high notes need not be dreaded. Wilson's singing of ‘Principessa Lou-Ling, ava dolce e serena’ boils with generations of accumulated ire, and her top B on ‘Quel grido e quella morte!’ is heart-stopping. The pedal-to-the-floor top C on ‘No! No! Gli enigmi sono tre, la morte è una' is galvanizing. Wilson's reserved traversal of the Riddle Scene is ignited by her piercing ‘Su, straniero, il gelo che dà foco, che cos'è?’ and ultimately tempered by the dramatic uncertainty of her ‘Figlio del cielo! Padre augusto!’ The engineers might have made detonating the pair of top Cs over the chorus on 'Mi vuoi nelle tue braccia a forza riluttante, fremente!' easier on her, but she dispatches the notes fabulously. Turandot’s capitulation to the liberating power of love courses through Wilson's voicing of ‘Che mai osi, straniero,’ and she conveys an intriguing tranquility with ‘La mia gloria è finita!' The soprano's top As and B in ‘Del primo pianto’ are as evocative of burgeoning sensuality as her top Cs in Brünnhilde's duets with Siegfried in Siegfried and Götterdämmerung, but the apotheosis of Wilson's performance is the top B♭ on ‘Il suo nome è Amor!’ Here, in a single phrase, she summarizes her still-underestimated artistry: there is no power—vocal, dramatic, or metaphysical—except through dedication and understanding of oneself.

Though it is an exceptionally well-crafted score that extols its composer's genius on every page, Turandot is not an opera like La bohème that can withstand poor singing. Poor singing having become debilitatingly commonplace in performances of the opera, however, what accounts for the enduring popularity of the opera after its slow start, complicated by Puccini's death before completing the score? On the surface, Turandot is essentially a clash of archetypes, but few composers were more skilled at disguising archetypes as people about whom audiences care. Beneath the surface, then, Turandot is a love story, and, whether or not they are willing to admit it, almost all opera lovers respond to plots that explore love among characters who win audiences’ affection. Insightfully conducted, enthusiastically and often superbly sung, and expertly recorded, this is a Turandot with much to love.

CD REVIEW: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart – DON GIOVANNI (W. Dooley, D. Gramm, B. Sills, M. Sénéchal, B. Lewis, L. Hurley, R. Trehy, E. Triplett, M. Boatwright; St-Laurent Studio Opera Vol. 7 YSL T-270)

WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART (1756 – 1791): Don Giovanni, K. 527—William Dooley (Don Giovanni), Donald Gramm (Leporello), Beverly Sills (Donna Anna), Michel Sénéchal (Don Ottavio), Brenda Lewis (Donna Elvira), Laurel Hurley (Zerlina), Robert Trehy (Masetto), Ernest Triplett (Il Commendatore), McHenry Boatwright (la Statua); Chorus and Orchestra of the Opera Company of Boston; Sarah Caldwell, conductor [Recorded ‘live’ in performance in the Boston Opera House on 21 February 1966; St-Laurent Studio Opera Volume 7 YSL T-270; 3 CDs, 155:51; Available from St-Laurent Studio and Norpete.com]

An oft-quoted axiom argues that repeating the same action with the expectation of different results is symptomatic of insanity. If there is any degree of diagnostic veracity in this assertion, opera is in its very essence a permanent state of mental defect. The real insanity of opera is that, with directorial prerogative guiding and misguiding the production of the art form, it is logical to expect different outcomes when scores are enacted upon the world's stages. Why not expect Rheintöchter who spelunk in one production and sport only bow ties and stilettos in another or Carmens who alternately have taurine fetishes or daddy issues? In Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's and Lorenzo da Ponte's Don Giovanni, there is enough craziness in the drama itself to render further doses of zaniness redundant. There is ample fodder for interpretive misconduct in the opera's plot of unrepentant philandering, vengeful statuary, and Providential retribution, but not even the cleverest or most shocking conceits can rescue a poorly-sung Don Giovanni. It is doubtful that even the colorful, innocuously irreverent Mozart knew people who actually conducted conversations in secco recitative: nevertheless, this fact did not discourage him from populating his Italian operas with folks whose sentences are punctuated by cadence chords, exacerbating the twisted reality of the genre. Existing in versions originating with the opera’s 1787 première in Prague and its first performance in Vienna in 1788, as well as countless bowdlerizations resulting from two centuries of editorial meddling, the particular insanity of Don Giovanni is that, details of specific productions notwithstanding, one can reasonably approach any production or recording of the opera with anticipation of variety. Which arias will be included? Will the original Epilogue be performed, or will the curtain fall with Giovanni’s presumed descent into hell? The only effective therapy for this mania is to sit back and allow the tide of Mozart’s music—whichever portions of it are offered—to carry away every irregularity and uncertainty, and Yves St-Laurent’s and Jean de la Durantaye’s expert restoration of a 1966 Opera Company of Boston performance gives the listener a gift of a Don Giovanni sung with brawn and beauty by a cast including some of America’s most significant artists. Perhaps Don Giovanni is a prime model of the inherent insanity of opera as an art form, but this Don Giovanni is a potent antidote to the dementia of many recent productions of Mozart’s masterful score.

A heartening aspect of this Don Giovanni, dating from 21 February 1966, is its celebration of diversity in America's regional opera companies. Except in contexts in which the art itself prompts dialogue, why race continues to be a matter of discussion in opera in 2015 is painfully unfathomable. Why in the 1950s and '60s talented singers like Gloria Davy and Lenora Lafayette, the former engaged by the Metropolitan Opera for only fifteen performances and the latter never singing there at all, struggled for acceptance in their native country is more easily explained but no more easily justified. Founded in 1958 as Boston Opera Group by conductor Sarah Caldwell, a pioneering advocate for equality of the sexes on the podium and the first woman to conduct at the MET, the three-decade existence of the Opera Company of Boston was marked by a dedication to nurturing native-born talent and transcending conventional boundaries. Thus, first-rate international talent of the caliber of Magda Olivero and Renata Tebaldi rubbed shoulders with American singers like Richard Cassilly and Marilyn Horne. Opera Company of Boston also gave opportunities that were often not forthcoming elsewhere to artists of color, not least mezzo-soprano Shirley Verrett, a singer whose voice alone should have obliterated every racial barrier and ridiculous prejudice in the Arts. The present performance of Don Giovanni featured, under Caldwell’s baton, African American singers as the flesh-and-blood Commendatore and his phantasmagoric effigy in an era in which singers of color were still excluded from many productions. The Opera Company of Boston’s chorus and orchestra, though thoroughly professional and often more involved than their counterparts in the pits of the world’s great opera houses, cannot be claimed to be the equals of the MET or Covent Garden choruses and orchestras, but the generally excellent sound achieved by St-Laurent and de la Durantaye places the choral singing, orchestral playing, and Caldwell’s conducting in a flattering acoustic in which the felicities of their collaboration are audible. On the whole, Caldwell’s tempi are satisfying, conveying the opera’s dramatic propulsion without trampling the singers. There are moments of sloppy ensemble, but this is a capably-conducted, viscerally exciting Don Giovanni.

It is unusual to split the duties of i Commendatori living and dead between two singers, but Opera Company of Boston's production engaged a pair of splendid artists to portray the intractable Don Pedro before and after his demise at the hand of Don Giovanni. In the opera's opening scene, the protective father is brought to life by baritone Ernest Triplett, a 1961 graduate of the New England Conservatory whose work in the Boston metro region was greatly admired. The nobility of his singing of the Commendatore in this performance confirms the legitimacy of the high regard that Massachusetts audiences had for him. The voice, deftly handled, makes a boldly heroic impression, this Commendatore's defense of his daughter's honor backed by the courage of his convictions: so sympathetic a character has Triplett created in a brief time that the daughter's sorrow and rage over the father's murder are shared by the listener. When the Commendatore returns in spectral form in Act Two, his crepuscular utterances are forcefully intoned by bass-baritone McHenry Boatwright. Though he sang in the 1956 première of Clarence Cameron White's Ouanga at the Metropolitan Opera House, presented by Pittsburgh-based National Negro Opera Company, Boatwright was never a member of the MET roster. Unfairly neglecting his superb singing in an extensive repertory, it is for his standard-setting Crown in Gershwin's Porgy and Bess that he is now best remembered. In the Commendatore's sepulchral music, his voice exhibits granitic strength. When Boatwright sings ‘Don Giovanni a cenar teco m’invitasti e son venuto,’ there is nothing to be done but to attend this Commendatore at table. As an instrument of divine justice, Boatwright’s Commendatore is an ideal complement to Triplett’s more sensitive reading: the character finds in death the victory and vindication that were denied him in life.

Though his brother John appeared often at the MET, baritone Robert Trehy never bowed on the MET stage. His singing as Masetto in this Boston performance makes this seem a glaring omission in MET casting. Admittedly, a poor Masetto seldom ruins a performance of Don Giovanni, but how greatly a good one can enrich a show. Trehy is here a very good Masetto, making much of his interactions with Zerlina, both in anger and in tenderness. He voices ‘Ho capito, signor, sì!’ manfully and is an atypically virile presence in every scene in which he appears, his voice more than equal to the requirements of Masetto’s music.

Describing a singer as utilitarian has a negative connotation suggesting that the voice was more hardy than handsome, but a sunny timbre bolstered by an indestructible technique rendered soprano Laurel Hurley an utilitarian singer in the best sense at the MET, where she impersonated Zerlina to critical acclaim twenty-nine times in a decade. Here, she exudes glamour and femininity, joining Giovanni in a sultry account of ‘Là ci darem la mano,’ but despite her roving eye there is no question that her heart belongs to Masetto. Hurley sings ‘Batti, batti, o bel Masetto’ vibrantly, and her ‘Vedrai, carino, se sei buonino’ is agreeably beguiling. Hurley’s voice shines in ensembles, and she projects Zerlina’s every giggle and pout winningly.

It was not until 1982, when he impersonated the servants in Offenbach's Les contes d'Hoffmann, that French tenor Michel Sénéchal enlivened the MET stage, where he was heard as recently as the opening night of the 2005 – 2006 Season as Don Basilio in Le nozze di Figaro. Principally known beyond the borders of his native country as a character tenor par excellence, Sénéchal was acclaimed in France as an accomplished exponent of high-flying parts such as Rameau's Platée, Rossini's Comte Ory, and Nicias in Massenet's Thaïs. In Boston's Don Giovanni, Sénéchal was regrettably deprived of Don Ottavio's 'Dalla sua pace la mia dipende,' the aria composed in Vienna for Francesco Morella, but he sings every note allotted to him with aristocratic grace, unerring stylishness, and a voice that sounds tailor-made for the music. Comforting Donna Anna and swearing to partner her in her quest for vengeance for her father’s death, the tenor summons his trademark honeyed tones followed by more robust vocal mettle than might have been expected from him. His and his Donna Anna's voices blend unusually well, and Sénéchal is among the few recorded Ottavios who actually sounds as though he is so hopelessly in love with Anna as to be willing to suffer any impediment to their union. His appalled reaction to Anna's description of her assault by the libidinous Giovanni is passionate, and the ease with which he scales the heights of Ottavio’s lines in ensembles is marvelous. Sénéchal’s performance of Ottavio’s aria in Act Two, ‘Il mio tesoro intanto andate a consolar,’ proves worth the wait (and makes the absence of ‘Dalla sua pace’ all the more lamentable), his breath control completely conquering music that defeats many tenors. In the opera’s final ensemble, Sénéchal depicts an Ottavio whose capitulation to Anna’s wishes is a token of his devotion rather than an indication of weakness. Vocally, Sénéchal is not the most opulent Ottavio on records, but he is among the most stylish and theatrically effective.

One of America's most adventurous singers, the meteoric career of Pennsylvania-born soprano Brenda Lewis included creation of Birdie Hubbard—the soprano’s own birth name was Birdie, incidentally—in Marc Blitzstein's Regina and the title rôle in Jack Beeson's Lizzie Borden, as well launching the newly-established Houston Grand Opera in 1956 as Richard Strauss's Salome. Her assignments at the MET are evidence of her uncommon versatility: remarkably, her rôles there included Puccini’s Musetta, Johann Strauß II's Rosalinde, Wagner's Venus, Mussorgsky's Marina, Barber's Vanessa, Berg's Marie (perhaps her most prized portrayal), Salome, and even Bizet's Carmen. Her sole MET Donna Elvira was sung in a 1953 non-broadcast performance, so this recording of her Boston Donna Elvira is an especially welcome souvenir of an outing in the Mozart repertory in which she made her professional début and enjoyed notable successes at her artistic home, New York City Opera. Lewis charges into the performance like a hungry tigress on the trail of meat, her incendiary ‘Ah, chi mi dice mai quel barbaro dov’è?’ exploding like fireworks. The voice is shrill and the coloratura not entirely comfortable, but the impact of the aria is like that of a lightning strike. No less dynamic is her voicing of ‘Ah! fuggi il traditor!’ In the Act One finale, Lewis sings her lines in ‘Bisogna aver corraggio’ and ‘Protegga il giusto cielo’ with real distinction. In the Act Two trio with Giovanni and Leporello, her articulation of ‘Ah taci, ingiusto core!’ is surprisingly touching. Unfortunately, like Ottavio’s ‘Dalla sua pace,’ the Act Two aria that Mozart composed in Vienna for Caterina Cavalieri, ‘Mi tradì quell’alma ingrata,’ is omitted in this performance. Lewis’s vocalism in the opera’s penultimate scene and Epilogue is feisty. There are enough moments of stress and untidiness in Lewis’s singing to remind the listener of the difficulty of Elvira’s music, but this intelligent singer puts every exertion to use in her depiction of a woman scarred to the bone by love.

Milwaukee-born bass-baritone Donald Gramm sang Leporello, one of his most admired portrayals, twenty-four times at the MET between 1966 and 1981 and recorded the part for DECCA with colleagues including Dame Joan Sutherland, Pilar Lorengar, Marilyn Horne, and Gabriel Bacquier. From the first bar of his jocular ‘Notte e giorno faticar,’ Gramm provides a stream of comedic immediacy that flows through the performance. He interacts with Giovanni with the annoyance of a man tired of being ignored and abused. He seems legitimately horrified by the death of the Commendatore, and his broadly droll ‘Madamina, il catalogo è questo’ is not devoid of humanity and subtle empathy for Elvira. In the duet with Giovanni at the beginning of Act Two, ‘Eh via, buffone, non mi seccar,’ Gramm sings artfully, and he makes Leporello’s aria ‘Ah, pietà, signori miei’ far more memorable than many singers have done. His work in ‘O statua gentilissima del gran Commendatore’ and the Epilogue is treasurable: here, for once, is a Leporello who manages to be funny without compromising the quality of his singing.

It is not for her performances of Mozart rôles that Beverly Sills is most remembered, but she was no stranger to Don Giovanni. As early as 1953, she sang Donna Elvira at San Francisco Opera under Tullio Serafin's baton, a part that she reprised in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Later, in addition to the Opera Company of Boston performances that produced this recording, she sang Donna Anna for New York City Opera both in New York and on tour, including a 1966 revival in which her Ottavio was the young Plácido Domingo, with Baltimore Civic Opera, at Mexico City's Palacio de Bellas Artes, in Lausanne opposite Gérard Souzay's Giovanni, and in a 1966 concert performance in Manhattan's Lewisohn Stadium that was her first appearance with the Metropolitan Opera. At the start of this Boston performance, Sills’s singing imparts the full spectrum of Anna’s terror, grief, and indignation. Her voice stands out in every ensemble in Act One, her performance gaining momentum despite a few stretches of dullness in recitative until she unleashes a furious gale of histrionic intensity but aptly Mozartean singing in ‘Don Ottavio, son morta!’ and ‘Or sai chi l’onore.’ The luster of her top As is stunning, but the most sensational trait of her performance is the towering dramatic profile that she creates without overstretching the voice. The ascending lines of the masquers’ trio in the Act One finale are sung with tremendous poise. Sills is utterly in her element in ‘Non mi dir, bell’idol mio,’ singing the roulades better than almost any other soprano on records, the voice smaller than those of many Annas—of her generation, at least—but the characterization no less imposing. In the aria and in the opera’s final scene, Sills succeeds in making Anna the moral spine of the performance rather than an indecisive harridan who toys with Ottavio’s affections for her own amusement (or, as in many productions, for no apparent reason at all). That Sills sings well in this performance is hardly surprising: that she sings this well is phenomenal.

Native Californian baritone William Dooley débuted at the MET in 1964 as Tchaikovsky's Onegin opposite the Tatyana of Leontyne Price, and his Mozartean credentials at the MET encompassed a number of turns as Conte d'Almaviva in Le nozze di Figaro, both in New York and on national tours. A member of the generation of gifted American baritones who furthered the legacy of Lawrence Tibbett and Leonard Warren, Dooley was in Boston a Don Giovanni of technical solidity and vocal excellence. In many ways, his concept of the rôle combines elements of the much-appreciated interpretations of fellow Americans Sherrill Milnes and Samuel Ramey, amalgamating lecherous appetite with good-natured machismo. His Giovanni seems a reluctant murderer, but there is no doubt of the voracity of his amorous audacity. Dooley’s Giovanni sounds embarrassed by the near-hysterical Elvira’s sudden appearance, but his 'concern' for her, feigned to convince Zerlina of his nobility of spirit, is almost as sincere as the saccharine verse on a greeting card. The suavity of Dooley’s line in ‘Là ci darem la mano’ could charm a leopard out of its stripes—or a Zerlina out of her determined resistance. There is little menace in this Giovanni’s seducing, but Dooley’s performance of ‘Finch’han dal vino calda la testa’ simmers with testosterone-fueled fervor. He duets with Leporello arrestingly, and joins Leporello and Elvira in their trio with disquieting charisma. His traversal of ‘Metà di voi qua vadano’ is brilliantly conspiratorial. Dooley’s Giovanni meets his end unflinchingly: create hell on earth, he evinces, and the only possible destiny is infernal, and to struggle would be pusillanimous. In the course of the performance, Dooley encounters a few phrases that test his resources, but he clears every obstacle with the freedom of an Olympic pole vaulter.

That Don Giovanni is one of the greatest operas not only of the Eighteenth Century but in the whole history of the genre is an assessment that is unlikely to prompt dissent, but how many performances of the opera in the past quarter-century have unreservedly affirmed this? Opera Company of Boston’s 1966 production of Don Giovanni assembled a cast whose individual and collective efforts gave Mozart’s score the kind of treatment that it deserves. That treatment is the foremost triumph of St-Laurent Studio’s recording of the 21 February performance. In an age in which far more time is spent—wasted, really—debating how Mozart’s operas ought to be sung than preparing singers to sing them, how refreshing it is to hear a performance of Don Giovanni in which impeccably-trained singers simply let Mozart dictate how their voices should be deployed.

CD REVIEW: Henry & Daniel Purcell – THE PURCELLS: VOCAL WORKS WITH BASSO CONTINUO (Delia Agúndez, soprano; enchiriadis EN 2042)

HENRY PURCELL (1659 – 1695) and DANIEL PURCELL (1664 – 1717): The Purcells – Vocal Works with Basso continuo—Delia Agúndez, soprano; Manuel Minguillón, archlute and Baroque guitar; Laura Puerto, harpsichord and organ; Ruth Verona, cello [Recorded in el Aula de Música de la Universidad de Alcalá de Henares, Spain, in September 2014; enchiriadis EN 2042; 1 CD, 53:01; Available from ClassicsOnline HD, Amazon, and major music retailers]

Little as is known about England's greatest native-born composer of the Baroque era, Henry Purcell, even less can be cited as fact about his kinsman Daniel. Exasperatingly, it cannot be ascertained with absolute confidence whether these esteemed gentlemen were brothers or lesser relations. The conclusion that they were children of the same parents is logical, but anecdotal evidence also exists that suggests that they may actually have been cousins. Whatever the circumstances of their family ties may have been, what is undoubted is that, in the artistic milieu of late-Seventeenth-Century England, Henry and Daniel Purcell were brethren in music. Building upon the foundations laid by John Dowland, Thomas Campion, and John Blow, the Purcells furthered and refined the arts of the quintessentially English consort song and the cantata da camera. Perhaps no other tradition in Western music has proved more enduring than that honed by this pair, the basic tenets of part-writing and ground bass epitomized by the vocal music of Henry and Daniel Purcell influencing modern composers ranging from Britten, Tippett, and Adès to Howard Goodall and even Roger Daltrey. Looking across the Channel, The Purcells fascinatingly explores the reach of the Purcells' music beyond the British Isles with outstanding performances by a quartet of gifted musicians: soprano Delia Agúndez, lutenist and Baroque guitarist Manuel Minguillón, harpsichordist and organist Laura Puerto, and cellist Ruth Verona. When the music of Monteverdi, Charpentier, and Schütz is played throughout the world, why should performances of the Purcells' works be confined to locales where English is the native language? Shortchanging none of the peculiar inflections of the English texts, the charismatic, affectionate outings on The Purcells revel in the Continental accents of the music. They were perhaps as devoted a pair of denizens of their 'fairest Isle' as any artists who ever populated it, but what cosmopolitan chaps these Purcells also were!

In the works for voice and basso continuo selected for this disc, the four musicians truly cooperate as equals rather than assuming the traditional arrangement of soloist and accompanists. Playing archlute and Baroque guitar, Minguillón strums bewitching sounds from his strings, recalling both the lute-song tradition of Britain and Spain's extravagantly ritualized troubadour culture. Puerto contributes a thoughtfully-differentiated panoply of tones, the organic blending of her phrasing with the singer's conjuring thoughts of how it must have sounded when Farinelli accompanied his own singing at the Spanish court in the 1750s. Few tasks in Early Music can be more thankless than that of playing continuo violoncello, but the forthright immediacy of Verona's playing discloses that, in truth, the endeavors of many of her colleagues do not earn thanks: she, however, is a participant in the music, not a cipher merely supplying anchoring bass notes in cadence chords. Soprano included, these musicians constitute a true consort of a type now all but extinct.

Daniel Purcell is represented on The Purcells by four superbly-crafted Arcadian cantatas that display inspiration and craftsmanship not markedly inferior to those familiar from the work of his more-famous relative. Precisely when or for whom these cantatas were written is not known, but these scores hint at a familiarity with the music of Italian composers like Frescobaldi, Merula, and Barbara Strozzi—and with the mature style of the more familiar Purcell, naturally. Agúndez sails into the first of the cantatas with a brightly-hued voicing of the recitative 'Within a verdant grove poor Strephon lay.' She follows this with a gorgeously understated account of the despondent aria 'Who can bear the pangs of despair,' each sustained tone purred like a sigh from the lovesick swain. Singing of the relief of the poor lad's distress in the recitative 'The god of Love ove'heard the shepherd's sigh' and aria 'Lovely shepherd sigh no more,' the soprano's timbre glistens with the golden light of a sylvan sunset. Her musical partners surround her voice with a halo of sound that convincingly places her in Strephon's bucolic environs.

The recitative with which the cantata 'She whom above myself I prize' begins is sung—and played—with an air of ambivalence that heightens the irony of the subsequent aria 'Why was she made so fair?' Both the aria and the recitative 'Ye gods, must I for ever love?' are sung with compelling emotional directness, the laser-like focus of Agúndez’s voice reflected by the sympathetic support of her colleagues. The purity of the soprano’s line in the aria ‘See there she walks’ beguilingly buoys the images conjured by the text and gives great pleasure in a purely musical sense. Likewise, the childlike delight that ripples through her voicing of the recitative ‘The god of Love around the temple flies’ is utterly charming—fittingly so when the aria that follows demands, ‘Charmer, turn those eyes on me.’ In this music, it is Agúndez herself who is the charmer, her voice illuminating Purcell’s melodies with tones as clear as midwinter moonlight.

The pair of cantatas imparting the amorous travails of first Apollo and Daphne and then Septimius and Acme are, like their companions on this disc, coolly seductive pieces that impress both with their sophistication and the consistent level of accomplishment. Singer and musicians unite in an articulation of the recitative ‘Wild as despair the tim'rous Daphne flew’ that bristles with the stinging essence of the words, and the desperation in which Agúndez shrouds her voice in the aria ‘Dearest Daphne do not fly me’ is indicative of the soprano’s insightful, thorough comprehension not only of the text but also of the composer’s method of translating verbal sentiments into unique sonic moods. In the recitative ‘Thus said he rudely seiz'd the trembling maid’ and the concluding aria, ‘Phoebus while you're such a rover,’ Agúndez sonorously proves the depth of her acquaintance with the specific anatomies of Purcell’s musical figures. Singing of Catullus’s Septimius and Acme, Agúndez’s voice takes on a degree of grandeur that, belying the compactness of the tone, ideally heralds the lovers’ idealism. Gaining strength from her colleagues’ alert playing, she proclaims the recitative ‘Whilst on Septimius panting breast’ with energy that propels her voicing of the aria ‘My dearest Acme’ from the merely lovely to the profoundly beautiful. The urgency of her ‘Acme inflam'd with what he said’ gives way to a measured, understatedly ecstatic performance of the aria ‘My little life.’ The curiously modern sensibilities of the soprano’s sculpting of the vocal line in this celebration of Acme’s ‘little life’ transcends the conventions of Purcell’s time, admitting Agúndez’s delicate but whole-hearted characterization into the company of Puccini’s piccole donne Mimì and Liù.

In comparison with his elder relative's music in a similar vein, the foremost limitation of Daniel Purcell’s style is a sameness that undermines the individuality of these cantatas, with Strephon, Phoebus, Septimius, and their ladies ultimately sounding as though they are interchangeable. The performances on this disc make it clear that the composer is at fault for this: Agúndez, Minguillón, Puerto, and Verona laudably endeavor to differentiate each cantata from its companions, musically and histrionically, but, being too intelligent to betray the precepts of their artistry, their sterling efforts are only partially successful. Still, the opportunity to hear these cantatas—indeed, any music by Daniel Purcell—so masterfully performed would mitigate flaws far more debilitating than this.

None of the pieces by Henry Purcell on this disc is unknown, but it is rare even for performances by the same artists in the context of a single disc to be of a quality as uniformly high as is achieved here. The musicians establish an atmosphere of stylistic lucidity with a first-rate playing of the Almand de la Suite No. 2 in G minor (Z661). Enshrining lines from the unjustly-neglected Abraham Cowley’s The Mistress, the composer's 1680 setting of 'She loves and she confesses too' (Z413) was among the most popular of Purcell’s compositions during the last two decades of the Seventeenth Century, and the performance on this disc fully divulges the music’s appeal. Of an altogether different but no less attractive disposition is 'Incassum Lesbia, incassum rogas' (Z383), a sublimely heartfelt C-minor elegy from Purcell's music of mourning for Queen Mary. Agúndez sings the piece with sincerity that wholly avoids even the faintest insinuation of lugubriousness, presenting it as a very personal statement of grief. The simple, strophic construction of ‘Ah! How pleasant 'tis to love’ (Z353), so reminiscent of ‘Fear no danger to ensue’ from Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas, frees Agúndez’s imagination to take wing in contemplation of the untainted joy of love. Here performed in its second version, dating from 1693, 'If music be the food of love' (Z379B) is often mistaken for a setting of a text by Shakespeare, but, apart from its opening line from Twelfth Night, the text is actually by Henry Heveningham. Were the text written by an anonymous schoolboy, this performance could not be more stirring. Agúndez caresses the top B♭ with an untroubled elegance that should be studied by young Toscas facing the same note in ‘Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore.’ The intimate tone of Bishop William Fuller’s text for the glorious G-major ‘An Evening Hymn’ (Z193) inspires Agúndez and friends to a performance of disarming straightforwardness, the intelligibility of the soprano’s diction permitting the listener to bask in the warmth of Purcell’s potent word-setting. The moving C-minor chaconne ‘O solitude, my sweetest choice’ (Z406), employing verses from Katherine Philips’s lyrical translation of a French text, can justifiably be cited as the zenith of Purcell’s career as a composer of song and in this performance sounds it. The sense of wonder that floods Agúndez’s singing as the shifting harmonies decry ‘their hard fate’ is as satisfying an instance of the comforting power of music as has ever been recorded.

The Purcells is a disc that perfectly illustrates that in today’s Classical Music industry—and, for better or [mostly] worse, it emphatically is an industry and not solely an artistic entity—possessing a beautiful voice and a well-integrated technique is insufficient to lay siege to an hour of a modern listener’s time. Delia Agúndez certainly has a beautiful voice, and she and Manuel Minguillón, Laura Puerto, and Ruth Verona exhibit techniques that find in these selections by Daniel and Henry Purcell a natural habitat. These are performances, however, that, while underscoring the failings of other musicians’ exertions, also bring to mind Auden’s words in ‘Funeral Blues’: ‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, / Prevent the dog from barking.’ The Purcells demands that every device be switched off, every noise silenced, every distraction cast aside: brothers or cousins, the Purcells relate through the music-making preserved on this disc as pointedly and as memorably to Twenty-First-Century listeners as to those fortunate souls who first heard these ‘sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.’

CD REVIEW: Ludwig van Beethoven – A BEETHOVEN ODYSSEY, Volume 4: Piano Sonatas Nos. 9, 15, 24, 25, & 27 (James Brawn, piano; MSR Classics MS 1468)

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN (1770 – 1827): A Beethoven Odyssey, Volume 4 – Piano Sonatas Nos. 9 in E major (Op. 14, No. 1), 15 in D major (Op. 28), 24 in F-sharp major (Op. 78), 25 in G major (Op. 79), and 27 in E minor (Op. 90)—James Brawn, piano [Recorded in Potton Hall, Suffolk, UK, on 22 July 2013 (Op. 78), 18 – 20 August 2014 (Opp. 79 & 90), and 27 – 28 November 2014 (Opp. 14, No. 1 & 15); MSR Classics MS 1468; 1 CD, 72:24; Available from MSR Classics, Amazon (USA), and major music retailers]

Henry James wrote in The Portrait of a Lady that ‘there are moments in life when even Beethoven has nothing to say to us. We must admit, however, that they are our worst moments.’ For all his sagacity in insightfully describing the human condition in all of its social manifestations, James cannot have been right in this. No, it is especially in the worst moments of life that Beethoven speaks most profoundly. So it must have been for the composer himself, the starkest moments of his worsening deafness enlivened by the discourse of some of his most poignant and torturously-written music. In that regard, Beethoven’s thirty-two piano sonatas, composed between 1795 and 1822, constitute a near-comprehensive conversation among this creative genius, generations of interpreters, and listeners with every imaginable prejudice. Both in recital and in recording studios, many pianists have essayed traversals of the complete cycle of sonatas, but few of them have exhibited connection with the music to rival James Brawn's submersion in the music over the course of his Beethoven Odyssey. Like Ulysses's epic journey of Antiquity recounted by Homer, Brawn's odyssey through Beethoven's sonatas is not a trek from a clearly-defined start to a distinct terminus but a microcosmic exploration of the intricacies of individual and collective humanities. Playing a splendidly even-toned Steinway and Sons instrument prepared by Ulrich Gerhartz and tuned by Graham Cooke and Peter Law, Brawn delights in the unique character of each of the five sonatas on this disc while also securing the ties of stylistic kinship that unite them. Just as even the greatest journey begins with a single step, Beethoven's most extravagant sonic landscapes are painted with simple notes. In the performances on this disc, Brawn gives every note its due: in these vistas, the pebbles are rightly as significant as the peaks.

Composed in 1798 – 99, Sonata No. 9 in E major is a work in which the Viennese Classicism of Haydn and Mozart is fused with the proto-Romanticism of Beethoven's early mature style. Haydn's formality and Mozart's playfulness can still be heard, but the young Beethoven, not quite thirty years old, infused the Classical poise of his predecessors with the vehemence and volatility of his own artistic temperament in order to fashion a style both steeped in tradition and wholly original. In the opening Allegro movement, played by Brawn with rhythmic bounce that makes the magnificent instrument beneath his touch sound like an impeccably-preserved period fortepiano, the taut flesh of the music is becomingly attired in jewels of sound. Throughout the performances on this disc, Brawn's fingering and phrasing are exemplary, his articulations of Beethoven's ornaments wholly natural, but it is the unbridled joviality of his playing of the Allegretto and Maggiore second movement that captures the imagination. Here and in the Rondo (Allegro comodo) that ends the sonata, Beethoven and Brawn smile delightfully, the uncomplicated joy of the composer's creativity dancing from the tips of the pianist's fingers.

The vernal zephyr that flutters through the pages of the 1801 Sonata No.15 in D major, nicknamed the 'Pastorale,' perfumes the music with fragrances of dew-kissed blossoms and new grass. Brawn evokes scenes of bucolic freedom in his handsomely-conceived playing of the introductory Allegro, complemented by the Arcadian freshness of his delivery of the wistful Andante. It is unusual for the links among movements to be as apparent without exaggeration as Brawn makes them on this disc. Not only thematic material but also emotional links are examined and explicated, the voices of one movement found within the countersubjects of its brethren. The Scherzo (Allegro vivace) and Trio are joyously handled by Brawn, rhythmic contrasts put to subtle dramatic use. In the sonata's final movement, the Rondo (Allegro ma non troppo) – Più allegro quasi Presto, the pianist interprets Beethoven's tempi very faithfully, finding the impetus for the exuberant transitions within the music itself. As in Sonata No. 9, Brawn discerns and communicates both the unique qualities of the music at hand as well as the elements of the place that the sonata occupies within the context of the progress of Beethoven's artistic evolution. This, of course, can only be achieved when a pianist is as masterful a technician as Brawn unfailingly proves to be.

Sonata No. 24 in F-sharp major, a product of 1809 known as 'À Thérèse' owing to its dedication to Countess Thérèse von Brunswick, is a concentrated font of expressivity as remarkable in its smaller-scaled way as Fidelio, the Missa solemnis, and the late string quartets. Here, the poet in Brawn finds an eloquent outlet. The singing quality of his rendering of the Adagio cantabile - Allegro ma non troppo is exquisite, his shaping of the melodic line as alluringly expansive as Callas's singing of Norma's 'Casta diva.' It is apparent when hearing the fluidity of Brawn's playing that he has absorbed the lessons of great interpreters of the past, pianists such as Schnabel, Brendel, and the recently-departed Moravec, but has come to Beethoven's sonatas without prejudices or preconceptions. Indeed, compared with a century of recorded Beethoven interpretations, Brawn's readings on this disc synthesize qualities that recall the most noble performances of past generations but are very much his own. The scintillating individuality of his execution of the vibrant melodic figurations of the Allegro vivace engenders a marriage of tempo and technique that, like Karl Böhm's conducting of Fidelio, defies easy explanation: it simply sounds right for the music.

The untroubled—which, from the perspective of the prospective performer, is not to say undemanding!—brilliance of Sonata No. 25 in G major, dating from 1809, coruscates in the glow of Brawn's playing. The pseudo-Teutonic strains of the Presto alla tedesca benefit terrifically from the sprightliness of the pianist's bass line, his left hand providing the solid foundation upon which an opulent edifice is built. The difficult divisions are dispatched with unassailable virtuosity, Brawn's fingers and wrists equal to every challenge the wily Beethoven devised. The subtleties of the Andante are highlighted by the nuanced treatment that they prompt from Brawn, and his skill at optimizing the piano's resonance with thoughtful use of the pedals should be studied by all pianists who aspire to performing this repertory. Only in the Vivace is there a momentary lapse in Brawn's cumulative excellence: the ambiguities of the music are muted by an avoidance of extremes. The musicality is predictably admirable, but the music's cutting edge is blunted by the middle-of-the-road approach.

Dating from 1814, the two-movement Sonata No. 27 in E minor is the most progressive of the sonatas on this disc: indeed, in certain passages the piano music of Schumann and Brahms seems very close at hand. Brawn follows Beethoven's meticulous instructions to the letter but, like the most imaginative artists, derives interpretive liberation from the composer's parameters. His scrutiny of the first movement, prefaced by Beethoven with the stipulations 'Mit Lebhaftigkeit und durchaus mit Empfindung und Ausdruck,' imparts a notion of restlessness in the music, the perfect coordination between his hands permitting the listener to appreciate how greatly Beethoven utilized the interplay of melody and harmony to enhance the sentiments he sought to elucidate. The second movement, marked 'Nicht zu geschwind und sehr singbar vorzutragen​,' pulses with life in Brawn's hands. The cascades of melody flow over the keys and saturate the charged atmosphere conjured by the music. The small details of Brawn's playing never threaten to shift focus away from the broad structure of the sonata as a whole, but he succeeds as few pianists have managed to do on records at making every bar an intriguing world of its own.

There are more recordings of Beethoven's piano sonatas than most listeners will ever have time to hear. Nearly two centuries after the publication of the master's final effort in the genre, the sonatas individually and en masse appeal to pianists of all ages, breadths of insight, and levels of ability. To the earnest young pianist, there is an euphoria in successfully performing a Beethoven sonata that is surely something like summiting Everest or hiking the Appalachian Trail end to end. More than almost any others known to this listener, the performances on this installment in James Brawn's Beethoven Odyssey exude this elation. There are numerous recordings of artfully-played, intuitively-interpreted accounts of Beethoven's sonatas, but few discs invite the listener into the processes of discovery and discussion as palpably as does this one. The odyssey is not solely shared between Beethoven and Brawn: every listener, too, is invited to learn, luxuriate, and love.