CD REVIEW: Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky – IOLANTA (A. Netrebko, S. Skorokhodov, V. Kowaljow, A. Markov, L. Meachem; DGG 479 3969)

PYOTR ILYICH TCHAIKOVSKY / Пётр Ильи́ч Чайко́вский (1840 – 1893): Iolanta (Иоланта), Op. 69—Anna Netrebko (Iolanta), Sergey Skorokhodov (Count Vaudémont), Alexey Markov (Robert), Vitalij Kowaljow (King René), Luka Debevec Mayer (Bertrand), Lucas Meachem (Ibn-Hakia), Junho You (Alméric), Monika Bohinec (Martha), Theresa Plut (Brigitta), Nuška Drašček Rojko (Laura); Slovenian Chamber Choir; Slovenian Philharmonic Orchestra; Emmanuel Villaume, conductor [Recorded ‘live’ during concert performances at the Philharmonie Essen, Germany, in November 2012; Deutsche Grammophon 479 3969; 2 CDs, 93:02; Available from Amazon, iTunes, jpc, Presto Classical, and major music retailers]

Premièred in St Petersburg on 18 December 1892, less than a year before its composer’s death, Iolanta was Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s final opera and, in many ways, one that summarized his career as a composer for the operatic stage. Setting a libretto by his brother Modest, Tchaikovsky peeled away the artifice of the aggrandized tale of Yolande de Lorraine, who almost certainly was not blind, and replaced it with an idealized but red-blooded humanity. As in Yevgeny Onegin and Pikovaya dama, the central theme of individual isolation lends Iolanta depth that heightens the sense of connection among the princess who does not know that she is blind, the man who loves her in spite of her trials, and the audience, and, as in Nutcracker and Swan Lake, even the happy ending is not without suggestions of ambivalence. To modern ears, some of the sentiments expressed in Iolanta seem quaint, perhaps even misogynistic, but to the extraordinarily sensitive Tchaikovsky, a genius perennially at odds with the society into which he was born, Iolanta must have seemed a kindred spirit. For her, blindness—the barrier to her complete acceptance by society, by which she is pitied and shielded—is not a disability, disease, or disorder: it is a reality of which she is aware despite not knowing that her blindness separates her from her physical and social surroundings. This surely resonated with Tchaikovsky, whose correspondence from the final year of his life discloses a despondent weariness with the necessity of false conformity. Recorded during concert presentations in the Philharmonie Essen with the sonic excellence for which Deutsche Grammophon titles have been renowned throughout the label’s history, this recording of Iolanta allows this wonderful score to resonate with a new generation of listeners. Perhaps much of the interest in this recording will be prompted by the famous name at the head of the cast. So be it. In this case, the bearer of that name justifies its prominence and must be thanked for giving Tchaikovsky’s endearing heroine an opportunity to transport listeners beyond what can be seen.

Conducted with persuasive Gallic refinement by Emmanuel Villaume, the Slovenian Chamber Choir and Slovenian Philharmonic Orchestra approach Tchaikovsky’s music with energy and sophistication. There is in Iolanta a pervasive kinship with the music of Jules Massenet, and Maestro Villaume instinctively responds to the melancholic Francophile undercurrents in the score, exercising a firm control on thematic development in ensembles. Massenet and Tchaikovsky shared a great affection for Mozart, and even in this final opera of his career there is a Mozartean grace in Tchaikovsky’s orchestrations. Maestro Villaume avoids inflating any phrase or scene to dimensions greater than the music can sustain. Starting with strongly-sung accounts of ‘Vot tebe lyutiki’ (‘Вот, тебе, лютики’) and ‘Spi, pust' angelï krïlami navevayut snï’ (‘Спи, пусть ангелы крылами навевают сны’), the choristers convincingly portray the differing rôles assigned to them, sounding comfortable with Tchaikovsky’s most stringent demands. The orchestral players leave no doubt that the musical glories of Slovenia’s past, when Ljubljana was a jewel in the diadem alongside Budapest, Prague, and Vienna, have been lovingly maintained. The strings produce formidably sure intonation that complements the earthy wind playing, combining Germanic rectitude with Mediterranean flexibility. This is an ideal formula for playing the music of Tchaikovsky, whose unmistakably Russian musicality was spiced with doses of French cosmopolitanism, Teutonic ruggedness, and Italianate rusticity. Those who assume that Iolanta is an inferior score because it is performed less frequently than Yevgeny Onegin or Pikovaya dama do Tchaikovsky a great disservice: Maestro Villaume and the Slovenian Philharmonic forces affirm that Iolanta is smaller in stature than her siblings but equally effective, musically and dramatically.

As Iolanta’s companions Brigitta and Laura, Canadian soprano Theresa Plut and ​Slovenian mezzo-soprano Nuška Drašček Rojko sing attractively, bringing delightfully unique touches to their performances and combining flawlessly with Slovenian mezzo-soprano Monika Bohinec’s Martha in their sumptuous little trio. Ms. Bohinec is an alert singer with a distinctive voice, and she aptly conveys affection and concern for Iolanta. Singing Bertrand with a robust timbre and apparent dramatic instincts, bass-baritone Luka Debevec Mayer is a suitable consort for Ms. Bohinec’s Martha. His slightly imperious demeanor is appropriate for the castle doorkeeper who, like Raimondo in Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, is the de facto guardian of King René and his family honor. South Korean tenor Junho You makes a similarly positive impression in his duties as Alméric, King René's armor-bearer. Few performances, whether on stage or on disc, enjoy such consistently fine work in supporting rôles: great indeed were the vocal riches of medieval Burgundy!

American baritone Lucas Meachem is here given a vehicle in which to display his virile, brusquely beautiful voice in music that enables this tremendously gifted young singer to show what he can do. There are in his interpretation of the Moorish physician Ibn-Hakia unexpectedly noble sentiments. Far too often, this rôle is enacted as an uncomfortable stereotype, but Mr. Meachem finds in his music sympathetic threads of sincerity and feeling. The celebrated monologue ‘Dva mira’ (‘Два мира: плотский и духовный’) is the cornerstone of the part, and Mr. Meachem manages its sixteenth-note triplets and sustained top F♯ with absolute freedom and panache. Hearing his performance, it is unusually obvious that Ibn-Hakia plays a crucial part in the emotional transition that accompanies the physical restoration of Iolanta’s sight. Frequently merely a conjurer, Ibn-Hakia is in Mr. Meachem’s hands a true healer. This brilliantly-sung performance raises hopes that, in time, recordings of his Onegin and Yeletsky will follow.

As Robert, the man torn between his duty to honor an arranged betrothal to Iolanta and his passionate love for another woman, Russian baritone Alexey Markov exudes chivalrous masculinity in singing of power and security. In Robert’s aria extolling the virtues of his true love, ‘Kto možet sravnit'sya’ (‘Кто может сравниться с Матильдой моей’), he negotiates the high tessitura—the second note of the aria is a sustained top E, leading quickly to a sustained top F♯—with refreshing ease, and his fortissimo top G is a thrilling tone. Like Mr. Meachem, Mr. Markov eschews all vestiges of conventional operatic preening and sings his rôle with compelling honesty. The scene in which Robert agrees to honor his commitment to Iolanta though his heart belongs to another is strangely moving thanks to Mr. Markov’s forthright performance. It is impossible not to think of Tchaikovsky himself feeling forced to wed, contrary to his desires, in order to keep up appearances. Vocally, Mr. Markov’s Robert is a marvel, and it is heartening to hear a young singer trusting a composer’s music so implicitly.

A fusion of Verdi’s Rigoletto and Simon Boccanegra, Wagner’s Wotan, and Tchaikovsky’s own Kochubey in Mazeppa, King René in Iolanta is a flawed but earnestly protective father whose actions are inspired by recognition of even a king’s inability to thwart social stigmas. As sung by Swiss-Ukrainian bass Vitalij Kowaljow, he is a warmly sonorous presence whose good nature does not prevent a streak of iron from showing when his daughter’s wellbeing seems jeopardized. Though his vibrato occasionally loosens slightly, Mr. Kowaljow’s command of the range required by René music is appreciable. In the king’s arioso, ‘Gospod' moy, esli grešen ya’ (‘Господь мой, если грешен я’), the singer unperturbedly traverses the two octaves from F2 to F4 and exhibits no fear in the repeated ascents to top E♭. The gruffness of his threats of execution does not fully disguise a basic geniality, and he enhances the dignity of his performance with his clear, unaffected enunciation of text. It is a pity that Russian is notoriously difficult for non-native speakers because it is a gorgeous language for singing, something that Mr. Kowaljow makes particularly noticeable in this performance. King René launches the opera’s finale with ‘Prosti menya, ya obmanul tebya’ (‘Прости меня, я обманул тебя’), and Mr. Kowaljow sings it confidently. His well-supported, dark-hued sound brings to mind the voices of Feodor Chaliapin and Mark Reizen, and even when René’s decisions are misguided this singer’s deliveries of them are assured and appealing.

For excitement, intensity, and golden tone, the performance of Russian tenor Sergey Skorokhodov as Count Vaudémont is astounding. To date, this young singer’s repertory at the Mariinsky ranges from Donizetti's Edgardo in Lucia di Lammermoor and Nemorino in L'elisir d'amore to Wagner's Lohengrin and the Shepherd in Szymanowski's Król Roger, and his experience with these rôles prepared him to impersonate a Vaudémont of ringing ardor. He begins his romance, ‘Net! Čarï lask krasï myatežnoy’ (‘Нет! Чары ласк красы мятежной’), with an endearing aura of lovesick wonder, and he is little bothered by the high tessitura of the aria proper, which opens on top A♭. He rises to the long-held top B♭ with total security. In the wonderful duet with Iolanta, ‘Čudnïy pervenec tvoren'ya’ (‘Чудный первенец творенья’), the outpouring of firm, youthful tone is encouraging. Throughout his performance, Mr. Skorokhodov sings with a very welcome lack of traditional tenor posturing, credibly portraying a young man near to bursting with new love. This sometimes leads to a sameness of approach and bluntness of phrasing, but the lyric splendor of the voice disarms complaint. Mr. Skorokhodov is clearly an invaluable treasure of the Mariinsky, one whose 2010 Metropolitan Opera début in Shostakovich’s The Nose continued the legacy of great Russian tenor singing in New York exemplified in the 1990s by Vladimir Atlantov, and this performance confirms the legitimacy of his place in the tradition of the legendary Ivan Kozlovsky.

In her performance of the title rôle in Iolanta, a portrayal that she brings to the Metropolitan Opera in the current season, soprano Anna Netrebko displays the full panoply of the qualities that elevated her to the top of her profession. One of the most acclaimed sopranos of her generation, Ms. Netrebko is an important singer who has not always sounded like one. In her—or her management’s—quest for stardom on the world’s stages, she has appropriated bel canto and Verdi rôles to which the voice is not ideally suited by nature, and her musical success has been sporadic. Even in her native Russian, her diction is imperfect, but as Iolanta she offers an example of the Anna Netrebko of worldwide adulation. In Iolanta’s arioso, ‘Otčego ėto prežde ne znala’ (‘Отчего это прежде не знала’), its tessitura centered in the lower octave of the voice, Ms. Netrebko sings lusciously, the tone focused and caressing the line cresting on top A♭. The duet with Vaudémont, ‘Čudnïy pervenec tvoren'ya’ (‘Чудный первенец творенья’), finds her interacting with Mr. Skorokhodov with unforced chemistry, and she takes the profusion of top As and the exhilarating top B♭ at the duet’s end in stride, the voice remaining secure and capably-projected. Her phrasing of ‘Gde ya? Kuda vedyoš' menya tï, vrač!’ (‘Где я? Куда ведешь меня ты, врач!’) and ‘Blagoy, velikiy, neizmennïy’ (‘Благой, великий, неизменный’) in the opera’s final scene is masterful, and the immediacy of the dramatic profile that she creates for Iolanta is specific but nuanced. In every scene in which she appears, she matches an insightful understanding of her rôle with an authoritative grasp of the music. The intermittent blowsiness of her tone here seems to result from the increased weight and amplitude of the voice rather than from hard use, and the solidity of her intonation throughout the range is wonderful. Iolanta is a near-perfect fit for Ms. Netrebko, and it is a joy to hear her sing the part so meaningfully and with such uncompromising musicality.

With Ms. Netrebko and Mr. Markov reprising their rôles in this season’s Metropolitan Opera première of Iolanta, opening on 26 January, the opera’s familiarity will hopefully expand exponentially. An eloquent, strangely bewitching product of Tchaikovsky’s mature genius, the score is worthy of the respect and recognition devoted to Yevgeny Onegin and Pikovaya dama. In this recording, Iolanta is superbly performed by an ensemble of musicians who understand its worth and potential, and in the company of dedicated colleagues the leading lady proves that she is a significant artist, not just a cleverly-managed approximation of one. Iolanta is an opera that reminds the listener that each of us is blind to some aspect of life, and Deutsche Grammophon’s recording provides an eye-opening experience.

SINGER SPOTLIGHT: Opera Carolina’s Turandot, soprano OTHALIE GRAHAM

Coming soon to a Forbidden City near you: soprano Othalie Graham, leading lady of Opera Carolina’s 2015 production of Giacomo Puccini’s Turandot [Photo © Othalie Graham; used with permission]

The individual fortunate enough to have heard any of the very few truly great interpreters—Dame Eva Turner, Gina Cigna, Gertrude Grob-Prandl, Birgit Nilsson, Dame Gwyneth Jones—or, to an even greater extent, unfortunate enough to have experienced the legions of under-prepared, undernourished, and simply bewildered exponents cannot possibly dispute the assertion that Puccini’s Turandot is one of the most demanding, destructive, and mistreated rôles in the soprano repertory. Perhaps the most damning mistake a potential Turandot can make is thinking that the foremost challenge of the part is the tessitura. Few things in opera are more terrifying than the pair of top Cs that Turandot must fire over the chorus in Act Two, and the profusion of top Bs and Cs is throat-numbing, but the Turandot who primarily focuses on the exposed high notes—something that she should not have to do in that musical utopia in which singers only sing rôles for which their voices are suited and reliably possess the required notes with being forced to rob Tosca to pay Turandot—deprives both herself and the audience of the true glories of the part. These glories—the insecurity masquerading as cruelty, the blissful discombobulation of true love, the gritty self-preservation and marvels of self-discovery—are indelible traits in the Turandot of soprano Othalie Graham. In a production opening on 24 January 2015, she brings her acclaimed portrayal of Puccini’s most granitic heroine to Charlotte’s Opera Carolina opposite the Calàf of Carl Tanner and the Liù of Dina Kuznetsova: courtesy of Opera Carolina, a bona fide princess will be enthroned in the Queen City.

Canadian by birth and American by adoption, Ms. Graham is Italian by nature—musical nature, at least. She is an artist with a rare gift not just for singing Puccini heroines but for inhabiting them, for finding within the pages of the composer’s scores fully-formed women whose emotions she feels, not feigns. As Minnie in La fanciulla del West, a rôle in which many sopranos seem to focus almost obsessively on the climactic exposed top C in ‘Laggiù nel Soledad’ while the nuances of the part are neglected, Ms. Graham surrenders herself completely to the golden-hearted girl’s predicament, shaping the narrative with attention to dramatic verisimilitude rather than individual notes. Of course, this is an easier task when, as in her case, the notes are in the voice and the singer knows it. Similar insightfulness is at the core of her interpretation of Turandot. Complete cognizance of one’s own voice is rare enough, but the ability to translate one’s vocal capabilities into a lushly-realized spectrum of emotional colors is even more precious. These traits define Ms. Graham’s singing in any repertory, but in Puccini’s music for Turandot they initiate her into the exalted company of the handful of sopranos whose portrayals of the ‘principessa di gelo’ melted the frosty separation between the character and audiences.

Principessa altera: soprano Othalie Graham in the title rôle of Giacomo Puccini’s Turandot [Photo used with permission]

In practical terms, Turandot is a rôle without precedent in the Italian repertory, and Ms. Graham views her as both one of the greatest challenges and an uncommonly rewarding opportunity for a soprano. ‘I love to play a character that has such an incredible arc,’ she says. ‘For Turandot to start off so icy and imperious while having a continually-running undercurrent of vulnerability makes it a lot more fun!’ More than many Turandots, for whom trumpeting out the notes is the paramount concern, Ms. Graham is particularly attentive to the subtler nuances of the part. ‘I think that she has to have that soft underbelly that she continually covers with her rhinoceros hide! It makes Act Three much more believable,’ she suggests. This philosophy is evident in her approach to the opera, which combines indefatigable musicality with an exceptional degree of sensitivity. It is a philosophy that extends to many aspects of life and Art, Ms. Graham feels. If she could give Turandot advice, she muses, ‘I would tell her that it’s okay to be such a strong woman but that she has to allow herself to open enough to let love in. I think that’s true of many women.’

The relationship between Turandot and her father, Emperor Altoum, is of great but often overlooked significance to the plot of Turandot. Because of her own life experience, Ms. Graham is uniquely responsive to this element of the drama. ‘Before I head to makeup,’ she confides, ‘when I arrive at the theater, I always walk out to the stage and kneel down and ask God to help my father hear me sing. I lost my father, the great love of my life, when I was twenty-five years old and he was forty-eight. There is nothing more important to me than knowing that he hears me.’ As she faces Turandot’s father on stage, her thoughts fly to her own father, and love for him soars in her voice as she sings ‘In questa reggia.’ ‘Right before I sing that fiendishly difficult aria, I always look up, knowing that he’s there and that he hears me,’ she shares. The intensity of her connection with her father is paralleled by the bond between Turandot and her imperial sire, and it is indicative of Ms. Graham’s commitment to her artistry that, even from behind the curtain, she shares such an intimate aspect of herself with audiences via song.

For many sopranos bold enough to sing Turandot, the foremost goal of a performance is survival. For Ms. Graham, the goal is and must always be beauty. Her abiding objectives are to honor Puccini’s requests and to do so in ways that draw audiences into the innermost depths of Turandot’s heart. ‘I always want them to remember the beauty of my voice and the beauty of my portrayal of a woman who is incredibly strong yet beautifully vulnerable,’ she states. That she achieves these objectives so exquisitely is the hallmark of a great artist. What Ms. Graham brings to Turandot is precisely what the character lacks in so many performances: humanity.

Here, at last, is a Turandot worth losing one’s head for!

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To learn more about Othalie Graham, visit her Official Website. She is represented in the United States by Uzan International Artists.

Opera Carolina’s production of Puccini’s Turandot opens on Saturday, 24 January. Additional performances are scheduled for 29 January and 1 February. For more information and to book tickets, visit Opera Carolina’s website.

Sincerest thanks to Ms. Graham for her kindness, candor, and time in responding to questions during rehearsals for Opera Carolina’s Turandot. Photos are reproduced with Ms. Graham’s permission.

CD REVIEW: Francesco Maria Veracini – ADRIANO IN SIRIA (S. Prina, A. Hallenberg, R. Invernizzi, R. Basso, L. Cirillo, U. Guagliardo; Fra Bernardo fb 1409491)

FRANCESCO MARIA VERACINI (1690 – 1768): Adriano in Siria—Sonia Prina (Adriano), Ann Hallenberg (Farnaspe), Roberta Invernizzi (Emirena), Romina Basso (Sabina), Lucia Cirillo (Idalma), Ugo Guagliardo (Osroa); Europa Galante; Fabio Biondi, conductor [Recorded in conjunction with a concert performance in the Grosser Saal of the Wiener Konzerthaus, Vienna, Austria, 17 – 19 January 2014; Fra Bernardo fb 1409491; 3 CD, 172:00; Available from Amazon (USA), Amazon (UK), jpc, Presto Classical, and major music retailers]

Thanks to the efforts of artists as diverse as Luisa Tetrazzini, Richard Tucker, Maurice André, and Frans Brüggen, the name and music of Francesco Maria Veracini have never fully disappeared as have those of many composers of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries. Accounts of Veracini’s life are almost certainly blends of fact, fiction, and the ridiculously fanciful: different sources suggest that, based upon their chronologies of the composer’s life in the public eye, he possessed the admirable ability to be in two distant parts of Europe simultaneously. The son of an affluent family of musicians and artists, Veracini was one of the most admired violinists of his generation, one whose bowing technique allegedly shamed even the great Tartini. As a composer, his reputation among his contemporaries seems to have been more variable: Charles Burney, who was never more prolific or imaginative than when being nasty, thought Veracini’s music unimpressive and his temperament even less attractive. What he lacked in charm he surely had in artistic merit, however, and the enduring presence of his work, albeit a minute fraction of his output, is suggestive of musical craftsmanship of the first order. In this performance of his opera Adriano in Siria, recorded by Fra Bernardo with clarity that combines the precision of recording in studio with the verve of live performance, the neglected brilliance of Veracini is polished to diamond-brightness by the efforts of a team of extraordinary musicians. In truth, the cast assembled for this performance could make the most banal music seem important, but in Adriano in Siria they find music worthy of their best efforts.

Rediscovered and meticulously prepared for performance by insightful musicologist Holger Schmitt-Hallenberg, Adriano in Siria is a fascinating score, this recording of which is a considerable milestone in the appreciation of Veracini’s artistry. Premièred by the Opera of the Nobility at the Haymarket Theatre in London in 1735 by a cast that included Farinelli, Senesino, and Francesca Cuzzoni, the opera enjoyed acclaim that, like that of many celebrated operas in the first half of the Eighteenth Century, was short-lived. Even superb scores were shelved as tastes changed, and this was particularly true in London, where, by the time of the first performance of Adriano in Siria, interest in Italian opera was already waning. In the case of Veracini’s opera, this was perhaps fortuitous: it is difficult to fathom a cast in subsequent generations matching the musical prowess attributed to Farinelli, Senesino, and Cuzzoni. Mr. Schmitt-Hallenberg has produced a performing edition of the opera that reveals the splendor that it surely possessed when it was first heard in 1735. His thoughtful management of the surviving musical material provides a score with impressive consistency of inspiration and dramatic impetus that, in the hands of alert singers, generates excitement and organic continuity even in the contexts of concert performances and a recording. Vitally, Mr. Schmitt-Hallenberg has given Veracini the gift of a performing edition of Adriano in Siria in which not one note seems superfluous.

A rejuvenated Baroque opera could not hope for better handling than Adriano in Siria receives from Fabio Biondi and Europa Galante. Many of Maestro Biondi’s baton-wielding colleagues have intriguing ideas about infusing Baroque scores with historically-informed practices, but Maestro Biondi has confirmed in a progression of lauded performances and recordings that his guiding philosophy as a conductor is that, whether a score was composed by Bononcini or Bellini, the fundamental element of any piece is rhythm. In this performance, the commitment to following the lead of the composer’s rhythmic patterns is especially apparent, and Maestro Biondi and the Europa Galante musicians follow Veracini’s blueprints expertly, constructing a compelling musical edifice. Giangiacomo Pinardi’s playing of the theorbo and the harpsichord playing of Paola Poncet give the continuo variety and unflagging momentum, and the Europa Galante string and wind players produce sounds of stylish beauty that complement the kaleidoscopic emotional colorations of the music. As ever, Maestro Biondi and Europa Galante collaborate to create a musical environment in which the composer’s requirements and the singers’ needs, both musical and dramatic, are fused in a way that preserves the integrity of historically-informed performance values without jeopardizing the vitality of the performance or the freshness of the dramatic feast prepared by the cast.

Unfortunately, many singers seemingly still believe that successful performances of music of the vintage of Adriano in Siria require special vocal modifications. While it is a gross oversimplification to suggest that a singer either can or cannot sing music like Veracini’s, there is a measure of truth in the assertion that a singer either has or has not the technical acumen needed for Baroque opera. The mistaken assumption made by a number of singers is that artificially altering the inherent qualities of voices trained to sing other repertories constitutes approaching Baroque music informedly. Whitening the tone and gingerly pecking at notes do not render a performance stylistically appropriate: rather, these devices make a performance dull and unfocused for both artists and audience. In terms of fostering a successful international career with aspirations to longevity, specialization is dangerous in today’s opera environment, but the unnaturally broad versatility forced on young singers is even more perilous for vocal health. The singers engaged for Adriano in Siria offer examples of the most intelligent blends of specialization and versatility. Just as Maestro Biondi understands that the bones that support musical flesh are rhythms, these artists truly understand that successfully singing Baroque music does not depend upon singing nothing else. The key is technique, which until the last performance of a singer’s career should be a work in progress. What these singers comprehend is that building the technical foundation needed to sing Baroque music is not restricting: wrapping the voice around music like Veracini’s unlocks artistic doors that singers with less cognizance of their own voices can only force open with great risk.

Bass Ugo Guagliardo brings to his portrayal of the Parthian king Osroa a sturdy voice with an imposing presence that does not inhibit flexibility in coloratura. In Osroa’s aria in Act One, ‘Sprezza il furor del vento,’ he sonorously imparts the majestic power of the elements described by the text. The regal authority of the character is grandly served by Mr. Guagliardo’s singing of Osroa’s aria in Act Two, ‘Se mai piagato a morte.’ The vigor of his singing of ‘Non ritrova un'alma forte’ in Act Three is very effective, the singer clearly almost tasting the words. It is often dismaying to observe how lazy singers are when singing in their own languages, but Mr. Guagliardo enunciates the Italian text with brio. He shares with all of the singers in this cast a flair for animating secco recitative. Rousingly as he sings his arias, Mr. Guagliardo’s most valuable contribution to this recording is perhaps his leadership of the cast in their creation of a credible drama in which characters interact and respond to one another.

The captive Parthian princess Idalma receives from mezzo-soprano Lucia Cirillo one of this excellent singer’s most enjoyable recorded performances. She, too, makes much of the text, coloring her native Italian vowels to reflect the moods of the words. ‘Per punir l'ingrato amante,’ Idalma’s aria in Act One, is sung with great depth of feeling, and her aria in Act Two, ‘Saggio guerriero antico,’ inspires Ms. Cirillo to particularly effective singing, her technique making light of the difficulty of the music. In Act Three, the power of her singing of the aria ‘Più bella al tempo usato’ is startling. Ms. Cirillo shepherds her resources very shrewdly, saving the most arresting hues of her vocalism for moments of greatest dramatic significance. This singer has graced a number of valuable recordings with her singing, but in this performance she achieves new heights of technical and histrionic excellence.

In Veracini’s music for Sabina, Italian mezzo-soprano Romina Basso uses her smoky timbre like a dagger, penetrating the heart of the drama with her every utterance. The fire that she ignites in her accompagnato in Act One, ‘Io piango? Ah, no,’ and the aria that follows, ‘Numi, se giusti siete,’ blazes until the last note that she sings in this performance, and she exploits every facet of her remarkable musicianship to portray the wronged woman with depth and dignity. Sabina’s aria in Act Two, ‘Ah, ingrato m'inganni nel darmi speranza,’ receives from Ms. Basso a performance of tremendous musicality and spine-tingling intensity. In Act Three, her account of ‘Digli ch'è un infedele digli che mi tradì’ boils with justified indignation, and she resplendently blends her voice with that of her Adriano in their duetto ‘Prendi, o caro, mio sostegno.’ Ms. Basso is the kind of singer whose performances reveal unexplored aspects of familiar music. In performance of a rediscovered score like Adriano in Siria, she makes new magic with each subsequent phrase. She is a busy singer but one who could never be heard often enough.

In the part created by Francesca Cuzzoni, Emirena, soprano Roberta Invernizzi provides singing of a quality that furthers her reputation as one of today’s preeminent leading ladies of Baroque opera. Hers is singing that is unfailingly stylish without being a pretentious display of exaltedly artful vocalism. Rather, she sings what the composer has given her—sings at all levels, musical, emotional, and psychological. She is unafraid of occasionally producing an unlovely sound if the drama of her rôle demands it, but this only increases the beauty of her performances. In Emirena’s music, she provides a glorious exhibition of appropriately-scaled singing that highlights the intelligence of Veracini’s vocal writing. The wrenching ‘Prigioniera abbandonata’ in Act One is sung with the sort of vehemence that leads many singers to destroy their voices: Ms. Invernizzi tears the passion from the words, not from her throat. Emirena ends Act One with ‘Un lampo di speranza,’ one of the finest numbers in the score and one that Ms. Invernizzi sings movingly. Both of Emirena’s arias in Act 2, ‘Per te d'eterni allori’ and the stirring ‘Quell'amplesso e quel perdono,’ are given traversals worthy of comparison with Renata Scotto’s singing of Puccini heroines. The concentration of her singing of ‘Quel cor che mi donasti’ in Act Three is unflappable, and her performance of this aria crowns a subtle but sparkling characterization of a rôle in which Cuzzoni herself could hardly have been more memorable.

Any singer with Baroque or bel canto inclinations, no matter the progress of the career, should adopt as a critical component of her (or his) training regimen frequently listening to Swedish mezzo-soprano Ann Hallenberg. In Farinelli’s rôle of the Parthian prince Farnaspe, she demonstrates in this recording of Adriano in Siria what a great voice in its prime allied with a technique continually subjected to refining can achieve in Baroque music. Her rôle’s association with Farinelli raises expectations of feats of bravura gallantry, and Ms. Hallenberg does not disappoint. Not even her most extravagant bursts of coloratura are mere displays of her formidable technique, however: she manages to find the dramatic significance of every run, roulade, and trill. Farnaspe’s arias in Act One, ‘Già presso al termine de' suoi martiri,’ ‘Parto, sì, bella tiranna,’ and ‘Ascolta idolo mio dell'alma il bel desio,’ make daunting but widely varying demands upon the singer’s vocal resources, and Ms. Hallenberg responds with uncompromising expertise, differentiating her negotiations of the vocal lines according to Veracini’s requirements but always maintaining dedication to upholding the nobility of the character. After giving a beguiling recital of her abilities in ‘Quel ruscelletto va mormorando,’ she closes Act Two with a heart-stopping performance of ‘Amor, dover, rispetto, nell'agitato petto.’ She, too, soars to the summit of her artistry in Act Three with her singing of ‘Son sventurato ma pure, o stelle,’ in which she paints melodic landscapes with the shimmering emerald and sapphire tones of her voice. Sadly, it is impossible to know how Farinelli might have sounded in this part, but it is possible to imagine that he might have preferred to listen to Ms. Hallenberg sing Farnaspe rather than singing the rôle himself.

It was to Senesino that Veracini entrusted the title rôle of the opportunistic Roman emperor Adriano in 1735, and the part receives from contralto Sonia Prina an interpretation in this performance that honors the great castrato’s legacy. In a pair of arias in Act One, ‘Dal labbro che t'accende’ and ‘E' vero che oppresso,’ the singer throws herself into the part with febrile energy and dexterity, conveying the emperor’s masculinity without resorting to unmusical growling. The darkness of the voice’s timbre gives Adriano an immediately-identifiable persona, and Ms. Prina’s technical acumen enables her to bring laudable authority to the sometimes awkward vocal lines customized by the composer for Senesino’s singular capabilities. ‘La ragion, gli affetti ascolta,’ the first of Adriano’s arias in Act Two, is sung with intriguing simplicity, and the bracing sentiments of ‘Tutti nemici e rei’ are expressed in an explosion of bravado. The emotions of the aria ‘Va', superbo, e del tuo fato’ in Act Three are also resolutely communicated through song, but the apogee of Ms. Prina’s realization of Adriano is the duetto with Sabina, ‘Prendi, o cara, in questo amplesso,’ in which she and Ms. Basso—ladies possessing voices so alike yet so different—unite in absolute stylistic and expressive synchronicity. Like her colleagues in this performance, Ms. Prina is not exclusively a Baroque-specialist singer, but her endeavors in Veracini’s music are exclusively adroit.

It is rare that a recording of an opera composed in any era in the genre’s history can boast of a cast with no weak links, but Fra Bernardo’s world-première recording of Francesco Maria Veracini’s Adriano in Siria can do just that. The cast of singers for whom the composer created the six rôles in his opera brought together on the stage of the Haymarket a sextet of the most celebrated singers of the Eighteenth Century: the Twenty-First-Century equivalent electrified the storied environs of Vienna’s Konzerthaus with a magnificent performance of Adriano in Siria. The singing preserved on this recording warrants many words of praise, but the two words that are ultimately the most precious are those that this performance inspires for Veracini and Adriano in Siria—welcome back.

PERFORMANCE REVIEW: Gaetano Donizetti – LA FILLE DU RÉGIMENT (A. Emerson, R. Barbera, S. Nicely, D. Hartmann; Greensboro Opera – 9 January 2015)

GAETANO DONIZETTI (1797 – 1848): La fille du régiment—Ashley Emerson (Marie), René Barbera (Tonio), Susan Nicely (la Marquise de Berkenfield), Donald Hartmann (Sulpice), Scott MacLeod (Hortensius), Derek Gracey (un Caporal), Jacob Kato (un Paysan), Linda Carlisle (la Duchesse de Krakenthorp); Jesse Herndon (le Duc de Krakenthorp); Chorus and Orchestra of Greensboro Opera; Joel Revzen, conductor [Directed by David Holley; Lighting by Jeff Neubauer; Greensboro Opera, Aycock Auditorium, University of North Carolina at Greensboro; Friday, 9 January 2015]

In the years since her first march upon the stage of Paris’s Opéra-Comique on 11 February 1840, Gaetano Donizetti’s eponymous daughter of the regiment has laid siege to many of the world’s opera houses when her sisters—even the regal ones like Anna Bolena and Maria Stuarda—were far shyer. First heard at the Metropolitan Opera in 1902, when—remarkably—it was partnered with Mascagni’s Cavalleria rusticana as a double bill [later performances paired Donizetti’s work with either Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci or Ethel Smyth’s Der Wald], La fille du régiment has managed to maintain an ageless attractiveness to audiences that has eluded many gems of bel canto. An element of that allure is surely the thrill of hearing tenors attempt the infamous nonet of top Cs in ‘Pour mon âme,’ but this alone is not sufficient to explain the opera’s endurance. There is something very poignant in the story of Marie, Donizetti’s rugged-as-cannonballs but tender-as-edelweiss vivandière, that resonates with audiences; something, in fact, that may be different for every listener and in every performance. In the hands of Marcella Sembrich and Frieda Hempel, the MET’s early Maries, the opera was a vehicle for joviality expressed in vocal pyrotechnics. For Lily Pons, a daughter her regimental ‘fathers’ might have carried in their pockets, Marie offered an ideal forum for celebrating her innate vivacity and paying homage to her native France. Beverly Sills’s Marie was a good-humored, gun-toting cousin of Minnie in Puccini’s La fanciulla del West, and Dame Joan Sutherland portrayed an innocent but endearingly mischievous tomboy. Amidst the flurries of top notes (both written and interpolated) and the comic high jinks, it is all too possible to overlook the quality of Donizetti’s score. Set pieces are fewer in La fille du régiment than in the composer’s Italian operas, but the level of melodic distinction is very high. One of the most notable successes of Greensboro Opera’s past was a beautifully-sung production of Lucia di Lammermoor with an eight-months-pregnant Jennifer Welch-Babidge as a stylish and wonderfully moving heroine. The company’s excellence in Donizetti repertory was renewed in this performance of La fille du régiment. It was an evening of laughter and exalted spirits, but there was no doubting that the impediments to the love of this Marie and Tonio were deadly serious. Above all, it was a grand evening for the art of bel canto and a very welcome return to staged performances for Greensboro Opera.

Directed by the company’s Artistic Director David Holley, Greensboro Opera’s production of La fille du régiment was, on the whole, a triumph. Presenting an opéra comique with spoken dialogue in the audience’s vernacular and the musical numbers in the librettists’ original language is a tricky affair, but Greensboro Opera managed alternating the dialogue in La fille du régiment in English with singing in French with aplomb. The lovely Alpine backdrops ably evoked Tonio’s native Tyrol, and the Château de Berkenfield was cleverly represented in Act Two by the gilded traces of a grand house, the backdrops from Act One serving as the vistas visible from the château’s windows. The costumes, especially those for the Marquise and Duchesse, were colorful and delightfully fanciful, and the lighting was simple—and all the better for it. Focus was always on whichever character was singing at any given moment, as it should be. The blocking, too, was effective, though the singers’ movements sometimes placed them so that the auditorium’s strange acoustics made projection difficult. The sense of fun that permeated the production was infectious, and it was fantastic to hear from the audience both waves of laughter and, in moments of dramatic seriousness, attentive silence.

Musically, the performance got off to a shaky start, with a handful of misfires from the wind instruments making the playing of the Ouverture somewhat sloppy. Thereafter, the orchestra’s performance improved markedly, and conductor Joel Revzen mostly maintained dramatic momentum, displaying obvious knowledge and appreciation of the score. The cor anglais obbligato in Marie’s aria ‘Il faut partir,’ played by Hannah Senft, was handsomely and movingly phrased without the line being distorted for saccharine effects. Led by Chorus Master Welborn E. Young, the chorus sang sonorously, launching Act One with a strong account of ‘L'ennemi s'avance.’ The ladies made a good showing in their Prière, ‘Sainte Madone! Douce patronne!’ Impersonating Marie’s regimental fathers, the gentlemen of the chorus enjoyed themselves immensely, thundering out their ‘Allons, allons, march', march', marche à l'instant!’ and ‘Rataplan, rataplan, rataplan’ with glee. Though their regiment was small in numbers, it was large in heart, and their sadness at the loss of Marie in the Act One finale was convincing without seeming silly or overwrought. When they stormed the Château de Berkenfield in Act Two in order to ‘rescue’ Marie from an arranged marriage, the robustness of their singing was imposing. Emerging from the ranks of the chorus, baritones Jacob Kato and Derek Gracey were effective as the Paysan and Caporal, and Jesse Herndon was a suitably unnerved Duc de Krakenthorp, as shocked by the details of his parentage as his mother was by its public revelation.

​​Linda Carlisle brought to her portrayal of the Duchesse de Krakenthorp in the opera’s finale a hearty dose of the deadpan hauteur of the Dowager Countess of Grantham on Downton Abbey. Her entrance was as self-consciously pompous as that of the most glamorous Musetta in Act Two of Puccini’s La bohème, and there was clearly a suggestion of sadistic pleasure in her ultimate repudiation of the House of Berkenfield. This was Ms. Carlisle’s first appearance in opera, and though her voice lacked the richness that her part demands her final exclamation of ‘Scandalous!’ was unanswerably authoritarian. Her Duchesse was less of a harridan than the character often becomes in performance, but hers was the comically magisterial attitude of a grande dame who expected to be both revered and obeyed.

Baritone Scott MacLeod was a joy as Hortensius, the Marquise’s long-suffering servant: indeed, he could have been more charming only if Donizetti had given him more to do. In his Act One entrance with the Marquise, he was atremble with barely-concealed trepidation and a healthy hint of scorn for his employer’s condescension, and his voicing of ‘Allons, madame la marquise, remettez-vous et faites un effort!’ was appealing. Dr. MacLeod’s announcement of the interestingly-named guests at what was intended to be Marie’s wedding was hilarious, and he was a consistently engaging presence in ensembles. His skills as a raconteur were confirmed by his recounting of his unfortunate mistake after being charged with the upbringing of the roving Captain Robert’s children. Only an accomplished singing actor could have so amusingly summarized the sub-plot of La fille du régiment with a single, well-timed ‘Oops!’

Mezzo-soprano Susan Nicely was a dramatic force of nature as the Marquise de Berkenfield. She swept into Act One like an avalanche hurtling down one of the distant mountains. Vocally, her work was less consistent. She sang ‘Par l'ennemi se voir ainsi surprise!’ winningly, but the voice sounded far stronger in its lower reaches than at the top of the range in her couplets, ‘Pour une femme de mon nom.’ She whizzed through the difficult triplets with the chorus, however. In Act Two, she was a riot, her euphoria at the notion of a socially-advantageous match for Marie complemented by her unmistakably amorous designs on Sulpice. [The pianist in me was enchanted by her reaction to the plonking wrong notes in her pantomimed accompaniment to Marie’s singing lesson: naturally, these were misprints in her score rather than mistakes!] Ms. Nicely’s best singing of the evening was in the trio with Marie and Sulpice, ‘C'est bon, c'est bon recommençons.’ Throughout the performance, even when her vocalism was imperfect, she legitimately earned her laughs, and she proved a spirited mother for a boisterous daughter.

As Sulpice, UNCG faculty member Donald Hartmann enhanced the very positive impression he made with his singing of the Gamekeeper in North Carolina Opera’s 2014 performance of Dvořák’s Rusalka. Possessing a ruggedly attractive timbre, the bass-baritone evaded the lure of mindless tomfoolery without shortchanging the comedy of his rôle. In Sulpice’s Act One duet with Marie, ‘La voilà! la voilà! mordieu qu'elle est gentille,’ he interacted with the adopted daughter of his regiment with the awkwardness of a father with a daughter on the brink of womanhood, and his hostility towards Tonio was brusque but born of sincere concern. In his scene with Marie and the Marquise at the start of Act Two, he was the very embodiment of ennui, and his singing of ‘Rataplan, rataplan, rataplan’ in their trio was vividly droll. In the subsequent trio with Marie and Tonio, ‘Tous les trois réunis, quel plaisir, mes amis,’ Dr. Hartmann made easy going of his long-held D at the top of the staff, and his outburst of ‘C'est bien morbleu! j'crois qu'si j'osais’ in the final ensemble was terrific. In terms of militaristic prowess, Dr. Hartmann’s was a Sulpice who may not have been on the fast track for promotion, but he took command of every scene in which he appeared with firm singing and well-judged acting.

Though still in the early years of an international career that promises to take him to all of the world’s foremost opera houses, tenor René Barbera has already established himself as a paragon of bel canto singing. His acclaimed performances in Rossini’s La Cenerentola with Palm Beach Opera and La donna del lago with Santa Fe Opera revealed an emerging artist with a lyric voice of tremendous quality and burgeoning technical flair. Hearing his performance of Donizetti’s music in Greensboro, it seemed only natural that he celebrated his victory in the 2008 Metropolitan Opera National Council Auditions by singing Tonio’s Act One aria and Nemorino’s ‘Una furtiva lagrima’ from L'elisir d'amore in the finalists’ concert. At Tonio’s entrance in Act One, Mr. Barbera made it clear that being a country boy is not the same as being an unsophisticated yokel. His singing of ‘Je le veux bien!’ sparkled with boyish wonder, and his phrasing of ‘Le beau pays de mon enfance’ in the duet with Marie was poetic, the unison top A♭s produced with ease. It is Tonio’s cavatine ‘Ah! mes amis, quel jour de fête’ that audiences eagerly anticipate in any performance of La fille du régiment, and Mr. Barbera’s singing of it justified the expectations. He rose to the aria’s top B♭ with panache. There was apparent affection in his shaping of ‘Messieurs son père, écoutez-moi, but the real fireworks were reserved for the famed ‘Pour mon âme quel destin,’ in which he sailed through the infamous nine top Cs as comfortably as though he were singing his solfège exercises. This paved the way for a predictably rousing performance of ‘Oh! mes amis je vous en prie,’ but the ringing top D in unison with Marie with which he brought down the curtain on Act One was a fine surprise. The Act Two trio with Marie and Sulpice, ‘Tous les trois réunis, quel plaisir, mes amis,’ drew from Mr. Barbera singing of musical and dramatic acumen, but the pinnacle of his performance was his singing of the gorgeous romance ‘Pour me rapprocher de Marie,’ crowned by a superb interpolated top C♯. How is it possible that this piece has so often been omitted from performances of La fille du régiment? In the final ensemble, Mr. Barbera sang ‘Ils viennent la sauver... car on la sacrifice’ with gushing jubilation. Though he rarely sang at dynamic levels quieter than mezzo forte, Mr. Barbera’s tone was unfailingly focused and beautiful, and his was a portrayal of Tonio that would have been a credit to any of the world’s greatest stages.

Part Elly May Clampett, part young Dolly Parton, Ashley Emerson depicted a spitfire Marie who bounded about the stage with unflagging energy. Though she looked as if the recoil from the rifle she brandished would have knocked her over, she gesticulated in the martial manner with gusto. In Marie’s Act One duet with Sulpice, ‘Mon régiment... j'en suis fière vraiment,’ Ms. Emerson sang with zest, but the top B and C in ‘Au bruit de la guerre j'ai reçu le jour​’ proved problematic. She gamely attempted the trills, but the results of her efforts were variable. In the larghetto ‘Un soir, au fond d'un précipice’ and couplets ‘Chacun le sait, chacun le dit,’ she sang securely, but the top C in the marziale, ‘Il a gagné tant de combats,’ was brittle. She gained strength in the duet with Tonio, the top B♭ and unison top A♭ in ‘De cet aveu si tendre’ steady and more potently-projected. The romance ‘Il faut partir mes bons compagnons d'armes’ inspired Ms. Emerson to her finest singing of the night. She sustained the prolonged top A well, and her breath control was admirable. In the Act Two trio with the Marquise and Sulpice, she proved her comedic savoir faire with hysterical antics in her singing lesson. She handled the repeated trills on F♯ and frenzied coloratura in ‘Le jour naissait dans le bocage’ deftly, and the air ‘Par le rang et par l'opulence’ was beautifully sung. The elation of her ‘Salut à la France!’ was rather muted, but her happiness and relief in the trio with Tonio and Sulpice, ‘Tou les trois réunis, quel plaisir, mes amis,’ were palpable. ‘Mais, ô ciel! quel bruit et quel éclat!’ and ‘Quand le destin, au milieu de la guerre’ in the final ensemble challenged her technique, but she coped admirably, and the reprise of ‘Salut à la France!’ was appropriately exuberant. At this point in her career, which has already taken her to the Metropolitan Opera for a number of performances, Marie does not seem to be Ms. Emerson’s natural vocal territory, but she possesses a lyric voice of considerable quality. Still, she faced the challenges of Donizetti’s music courageously, and she created an adorable character who had the audience in the palms of her hands from start to finish.

The assertion, attributed to Enrico Caruso, that a successful performance of Verdi’s Il trovatore requires the participation of the four greatest singers in the world might also be applied to several of Donizetti’s scores. If the musical demands of La fille du régiment as a whole are more modest, the rôles of Marie and Tonio are two of the most daunting in the bel canto repertory. A poor Marie or Tonio can ruin a performance of La fille du régiment, but it is truly an ensemble piece. Greensboro Opera’s production assembled an ensemble of artists who seemed to genuinely enjoy working with one another. More importantly, they seemed to honestly enjoy bringing Donizetti’s score to life. Musical perfection is swell, but the occasionally flawed joie de vivre that coursed through Greensboro Opera’s performance was so much better; but, years from now, will our children and grandchildren believe us when we tell them that we heard René Barbera’s Tonio in Greensboro in 2015?

CD REVIEW: Alun Hoddinott – LANDSCAPES: SONG CYCLES & FOLK SONGS (C. Booth, N. Spence, J. Huw Williams; A. Matthews-Owen, M. Pollock; NAXOS 8.571360)

ALUN HODDINOTT (1929 – 2008): Landscapes: Song Cycles and Folk Songs—Claire Booth, soprano; Nicky Spence, tenor; Jeremy Huw Williams, baritone; Andrew Matthews-Owen and Michael Pollock, piano [Recorded at the Menuhin Hall, Yehudi Menuhin School, Cobham, Surrey, England, on 14 October 2009 (One Must Always Have Love and Towy Landscape), 29 October 2009 (Landscapes, The Silver Hound, and Six Welsh Folksongs), and 18 February 2010 (Two Songs from Glamorgan); NAXOS 8.571360; 1 CD, 60:09; Available from ClassicsOnline, Amazon, jpc, Presto Classical, and major music retailers]

When Alun Hoddinott died in 2008, the loss not only deprived Wales of her most gifted native-born composer but likewise diminished the global music community in ways that perhaps even now are only vaguely appreciated and understood. Like the great composers of the past, Hoddinott was a master of forms great and small, a melodist of sublime talent, and a brilliant but humble inheritor of the legacy of composition in the British Isles that extends from William Byrd and his contemporaries into the Twenty-First Century. Like Elgar and Vaughan Williams, he was the musical Everyman of his native land, communing with the collective musical psyche of Wales with unique insights, and like Percy Grainger he was the champion of folksong traditions scorned by many ‘serious’ composers. As a composer of songs, Hoddinott did not shrink from melody, a sin for which many advocates of contemporary Classical Music permit no absolution. Recorded in 2009 and 2010 by the British Music Society and now reissued by NAXOS, Landscapes is a disc that explores some of Hoddinott’s most fastidiously-crafted songs for voice and piano. Songs such as these are like musical prisms: when lyric voices wielded by intelligent singers shine upon them, the patterns of their interpretive reflections are virtually limitless. The colors and shapes that flash through the performances on Landscapes are invigorating. If the magnificent landscapes of Wales sang, these would surely be their songs.

Nearly two hundred years ago, many of the finest works of Johann Sebastian Bach had been forgotten until Felix Mendelssohn rediscovered and revitalized them. Though Hoddinott’s legacy is far fresher in audiences’ minds now than Bach’s was in the first half of the Nineteenth Century, there is no question that Welsh pianist Andrew Matthews-Owen is Hoddinott’s Mendelssohn. An indefatigable advocate for Hoddinott’s music, Mr. Matthews-Owen here offers the composer, who was aware of the initiative that produced Landscapes but sadly did not see it come to fruition, an extraordinary tribute with warm-toned, imaginative, and heartfelt playing. An insightful musician who displays great sensitivity to both the nuances of each song and the individual interpretations of the singers he accompanies, Mr. Matthews-Owen proves at least as thoughtful a champion of Hoddinott’s music as Mendelssohn was of Bach’s. His understanding of the inner structures of the music is obvious, but it is his unmistakable affection for these songs that makes hearing Landscapes such a gratifying experience, just as it clearly made his collaborations with the dedicated singers featured on the disc so rewarding.

Composed in 1975 to texts by Emyr Humphreys​, Landscapes (Ynys Môn, Op. 87) is a deeply personal cycle examining themes of love reflected in nature, the recurring imagery of rough-hewn paths, mirrors, and flowers solidifying the continuity of the songs. In Landscapes and all of his performances on this disc, tenor Nicky Spence has the sound of Gower​ sunrises in his voice, the timbre as fresh as the dew-kissed blossoms of spring. There is an almost unsettling quality in the immediacy of his response to text: when he sings piano and pianissimo in the higher reaches of the music, his resonant shaping of Hoddinott’s melodic phrases is like thought upon which the listener is somehow intruding. In the opening ‘Mynydd Bodafon,’ the elasticity of Mr. Spence’s timbre as he sings the lines ‘This is a complex mountain’ and ‘We must show it respect / Take off our shoes / And use the path like a carpet’ is splendidly expressive, and he devotes equal resources of focused, flexible tone to the lovely ‘Someone has planted daffodils among you / And in springtime / They are flowers on all your graves’ in ‘Din Lligwy,’ in which he and Mr. Matthews-Owen trade phrases with the subtlety of violinists playing Bach’s D-minor Double Concerto. The emotional significance of the lines ‘The minstrel gallery / She had built with love is broken’ in ‘Llys Dulas’ is palpable, and tenor and pianist shape a starkly emotional performance of ‘Traeth Bychan.’ There is a subdued melancholy in the lines ‘We have counted the stones / And measured them / But nothing can teach them to sing’ in ‘Hen Gapel,’ and Mr. Spence descends into the meaningful depths of both music and text without artificially darkening or distorting his tone. He also sings the Two Songs from Glamorgan, composed in 1990, with languid sensuality that perfectly suits the sentiments of the texts, the English translations of which are by Geraint Lewis. The contrasting but strangely similar sentiments of ‘In Pontypridd dwells my true love’ and ‘Oh Llangyfelach fare thee well’ are given sagacious treatment by both Mr. Spence and Mr. Matthews-Owen.

The expansiveness of their musical cooperation finds a perfect outlet in Hoddinott’s 1985 settings of texts by Ursula Vaughan Williams, The Silver Hound (Op. 121). The sparseness of the sound world conjured in ‘Prologue’ ideally conveys the mood of the crucial line ‘Memory is my silver hound stalking days that time has hidden,’ and here and in ‘Lullaby’ and ‘The Schoolboy’ Mr. Spence infuses an element of mystery into his tone. In ‘The Soldier,’ he and Mr. Matthews-Owen unleash the operatic power of ‘My shadow, / My brother, / My youth, / My loss, / All history’ without exaggerating either the vocal line or the accompaniment. Mr. Spence delves directly into the heart of ‘Do you understand this, / Beauty, / As I speak to you in the words of other lovers?’ in ‘The Lover,’ and the aura of learned sincerity that he and Mr. Matthews-Owen impart as the text examines the benefits of experience in ‘The Statesman’ is potently understated. The bleakness of the line ‘I am my own ghost now’ in ‘The Old Man’ sets the tone for this song and ‘Epitaph,’ both of which are delivered by Mr. Spence with intellectual probity that never inhibits his mellifluous vocalism.

The 1994 cycle One Must Always Have Love (Op. 152, No. 3) is one of the most solemnly beautiful marriages of words and music conceived in the Twentieth Century, and soprano Claire Booth and Mr. Matthews-Owen devote to it an outpouring of restrained romantic cogency. The opening song, ‘Sonnet,’ is a setting of a text by Christina Rossetti, and Ms. Booth exhibits a dreamy ambivalence in the line ‘I wish I could remember that first day.’ She and Mr. Matthews-Owen build to a stirring climax in ‘Daisy,’ giving Emily Dickinson’s words a light but impactful reading, cresting on the rousing ‘We are the flower, Thou the sun!’ Alice Bliss’s ‘Tasmanian Poem’ possesses an enigmatic literary profile that Hoddinott deciphered in music of exotic colorations. The soprano weights every syllable of the line ‘And I cling to the thought of you’ with heartbreaking simplicity. The shading of her tone in ‘The Ragged Wood’ lends W. B. Yeats’s text a chilling directness that grows more pointed with each stanza. Both she and Mr. Matthews-Owen recognize the importance of Yeats’s conceit of mining the increasing isolation of the lines ‘Would none had ever loved but you and I,’ ‘O that none ever loved but you and I,’ and ‘No one has ever loved but you and ​I​.’ Unlike many song cycles composed in the past forty years, One Must Always Have Love is a true cycle in its depiction of an emotional journey, and Ms. Booth and Mr. Matthews-Owen provide the listener with a panoramic account of this superb music.

Towy Landscape (Op. 190), composed in 2006, transforms a text by Eighteenth-Century poet John Dyer into a fascinating scena for soprano, baritone, and two pianos. Mr. Matthews-Owen is joined by Michael Pollock, whose playing of the piano secondo part matches the level of his colleague’s performance. Ms. Booth sings astoundingly, maintaining absolute control and the rounded beauty of her tone throughout the wide range of the music. Baritone Jeremy Huw Williams makes valiant efforts at being an equal partner for Ms. Booth, but though he sings capably on the whole there is a plainness to his performance that is all the more apparent alongside Ms. Booth. In unison passages, he occasionally loses focus in terms of phrasing and breath control. Ms. Booth’s musicality carries the day, however, and the electricity of the music is sonorously discharged.

Hoddinott’s 1982 settings of Six Welsh Folksongs in translations by his wife Rhiannon receive from Mr. Spence performances of wide-eyed wonder, his boyish tones giving the songs an alluring air of spontaneity. Both ‘Two Hearts Remain’ and ‘O Gentle Dove’ sparkle with uncomplicated feelings in which Mr. Spence revels. His singing of ‘If She Were Mine’ is movingly wistful, and ‘Ap Shenkin’ and ‘The Golden Wheat’ draw from both singer and pianist performances of compelling tenderness. Mr. Spence brings the picturesque spirit of a troubadour to his singing of ‘Fairest Gwen.’ He and Mr. Matthews-Owen reveal the astuteness of Hoddinott’s folksong settings, their performances confirming that these gems of Welsh lore deserve inclusion in the canon of the composer’s Art Songs.

A man of integrity and generosity, Alun Hoddinott was unstinting in his support of fellow composers and artists. That his own work deserves equal promotion is affirmed by the quality of the songs on Landscapes. From Mozart to Wolf, any composer of Lieder might dream of hearing his or her songs performed with the endearment that Hoddinott’s receive on this disc. The sole disappointment of Landscapes is that the composer who inspired such fondness, both personal and musical, was taken before he could hear a disc that is as much a paean to his importance to the music and musicians of Wales as a recording of twenty-six of the most graceful songs of the past forty years.