PERFORMANCE REVIEW: Gioachino Rossini – LA CENERENTOLA (T. Erraught, D. Portillo, S. Alberghini, V. Lanchas, Shenyang, D. Nansteel, J. Echols; Washington National Opera, 17 May 2015)

GIOACHINO ROSSINI (1792 – 1868): La Cenerentola, ossia La bontà in trionfo—Tara Erraught (Angelina), David Portillo (Don Ramiro), Simone Alberghini (Dandini), Valeriano Lanchas (Don Magnifico), Shenyang (Alidoro), Deborah Nansteel (Tisbe), Jacqueline Echols (Clorinda); Washington National Opera Chorus and Orchestra; Speranza Scappucci, conductor [Directed by Joan Font; Set and Costume Designs by Joan Guillén; Lighting Designs by Albert Faura; Choreography by Xevi Dorca; Washington National Opera, John F. Kennedy Memorial Center for the Performing Arts, Washington, DC; Sunday, 17 May 2015]

Who has not dreamed of being transformed by the unseen hand of fate into a beautiful princess or of being the magnanimous prince who values pulchritude of spirit above loveliness of face and form? These are the fantasies personified by Angelina and Ramiro, the protagonists of Gioachino Rossini’s 1817 comic masterpiece La Cenerentola, and their journeys from downtrodden housemaid and lonely bachelor to partners in marital serendipity can be some of the most enjoyable adventures in opera. The score is vintage Rossini, with whirling coloratura, manic ensembles, and frolicsome crescendi aplenty, but the true heart of La Cenerentola is the well of sadness that lurks beneath the brilliant patina of Rossini’s polished music. The most successful productions of the opera are those that draw from that well without bleeding it dry, and this is precisely what Washington National Opera’s production achieved in spades. Comedy is meaningless if the audience is given no reason to care about the characters whose antics inspire mirth: in this performance, the audience’s ebullient hilarity was an organic response to the exploits of an unusually lovable cast. For a few hours on a balmy Sunday afternoon, a congregation of people united by nothing more than holding tickets to the same performance laughed together without concern for race, religion, or social status. Equality, Rossini intimates, really can be that simple.

Conducted by Speranza Scappucci with the flexibility and genuine Italianate finesse missing from so many of today’s performances of Rossini’s operas and bel canto repertory in general, WNO’s Cenerentola—a production shared with Welsh National Opera, Houston Grand Opera, Gran Teatre del Liceu, and Grand Théâtre de Genève—was in a number of ways a feast for the senses. Visually, Joan Guillén’s sets and costumes placed the action in a fantastical fairytale dominion in which ladies were effortlessly prepossessing, men were heroically handsome, and even the shabbiest creatures had the good taste to adopt genteel manners. The rainbow-colored costumes, complemented by outrageous wigs in corresponding hues, were a vital component of the comedy: who else in opera but Don Magnifico could pull off donning a ripe-grape purple suit and periwig? Alidoro’s celestial robe was straight out of Harry Potter, and the choristers looked like a splendid hybrid of the Swiss Guard and courtiers of Carroll’s Queen of Hearts. Mr. Guillén’s designs shone in the glow of Albert Faura’s intelligently-managed lighting, which bathed the stage in glows both natural and appropriately magical.

One of the production’s strokes of genius was the team of mice that shadow Cenerentola throughout the opera: her gentle caressing of them was surprisingly touching, and their expertly-enacted choreography, devised by Xevi Dorca, was fabulously witty. The team of dancers beneath the mice’s cleverly-crafted masks—Nancy Flores-Tirado, Damon Foster, A. Maverick Lemons, Monica Malanga, Alvaro Palau, and Christopher Pennix—were lithe, winningly charming, and utterly believable as mice. They provided so many small details that enriched the production immeasurably: unobtrusively moving props, quietly watching the action, lovingly comforting the downtrodden Angelina, and, most critically, using a dose of mouse ingenuity to ensure that the Prince’s carriage wrecked conveniently in the vicinity of Villa Don Magnifico. In the interactions of cast members both human and murine, Joan Font’s and Tanya Kane-Parry’s direction was consistently shrewd. Tellingly, not one member of the cast ever looked uncomfortable with any component of the staging. The focus was on ordinary people finding themselves in near-impossible situations, having a few laughs at their own expense, sorting things out as best as they could, and singing great music all the while—in short, on performing Rossini’s Cenerentola, not some wrongheaded reimagining of it.

Una famiglia insolita: (from left to right) Mezzo-soprano Deborah Nansteel as Tisbe, bass-baritone Valeriano Lanchas as Don Magnifico, and soprano Jacqueline Echols as Clorinda in Gioachino Rossini’s La Cenerentola at Washington National Opera, 17 May 2015 [Photo by Scott Suchman, © by Washington National Opera]

La Cenerentola is a score that I have known and loved for nearly twenty years. I have attended performances by opera companies large and small, and each performance has educated me about previously-unnoticed aspects of Rossini’s effervescent music. Appreciating this music as much as I do, I can offer no greater praise for Maestra Scappucci’s pacing of the performance than stating that she conducted the opera precisely as I would do if an opera company were foolish enough to trust me with a baton. Refreshingly, she was never afraid of applying the brakes when the musical and emotional atmosphere warranted doing so. The madcap Rossini prestissimi were there, to be sure, but neither the music nor those performing it were rushed. Also proving an imaginative maestra di cembalo in Luca Agolini’s secco recitatives, she adopted tempi that enabled a rare level of appreciation for the bel in Rossini’s bel canto. Under Maestra Scappucci’s baton, the WNO Orchestra and Chorus performed with the vivacity and unfettered musicality that the score demands. The orchestra delivered an especially spirited account of the Sinfonia in which, as throughout the performance, the conductor heightened the emotional ‘messages’ of the music by observing Rossini’s markings and employing great flexibility in resolving cadences. The kinship among La Cenerentola and the two great ‘last stands’ of Italian comic opera, Verdi’s Falstaff and Puccini’s Gianni Schicchi, was unusually apparent. Rossini is not renowned for his aptitude as an orchestrator, but his writing for woodwinds in Cenerentola is often quite inventive: in this performance, the WNO woodwind players left no felicity of their parts undisclosed. The gentlemen of the chorus sang robustly, their performances of ‘O figlie amabili di Don Magnifico, Ramiro il principe or or verrà’ and ‘Scegli la sposa, affrettati’ in Act One bustling with enthusiasm and of ‘Della Fortuna instabile’ in Act Two filling the auditorium with finely-blended sound.

As Cenerentola’s delectably nasty stepsisters, mezzo-soprano Deborah Nansteel and soprano Jacqueline Echols were ideally paired vocally, comically, and temperamentally. Making enormous pink and yellow wigs look like the pinnacle of swanky ‘mean girl’ style, the ladies pranced and pouted like a spoiled Dorabella and Fiordiligi. [Note to WNO and other companies: a production of Così fan tutte with this twosome would be smashing!] An alumna of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program, Ms. Nansteel exhibited such naturalness in Tisbe’s tantrums that she hardly seemed to be acting at all, and the Nationals would do well to invite her to spring training next season: her aim when hurling slippers at poor Cenerentola was deadly. Ms. Echols, an unforgettable Violetta in North Carolina Opera’s La traviata earlier in the present season, equaled Ms. Nansteel’s every gesture and soared in Clorinda’s high lines in ensembles, displaying firm, attractive top As, B♭s, and Bs. The spiteful sisters were riotous in the Act Two Sextet, and their eventual resignation to Alidoro’s suggested reconciliation with Cenerentola, Tisbe coming to her senses rather more readily than Clorinda, was managed humorously but with real feeling. Though it is the work of Angelini rather than Rossini, it was unfortunate that Clorinda’s aria was suppressed: Ms. Echols deserved the additional opportunity to shine.

Winner of the 2007 Cardiff Singer of the World competition, Chinese bass Shenyang was an imposing Alidoro who vocal power matched his towering physique. WNO’s production preferred the aria that Rossini composed for Alidoro in the 1820 revival of Cenerentola, ‘La, del ciel nell’arcano profondo,’ and the performance that it received from this talented young bass fully justified its inclusion. His dark tones were occasionally lost in ensembles, but he was an implacable voice for integrity whose expertly-sung utterances could not be ignored.

Il padre riluttante: Bass-baritone Valeriano Lanchas as Don Magnifico (center) in Gioachino Rossini’s La Cenerentola at Washington National Opera, 17 May 2015 [Photo by Scott Suchman, © Washington National Opera]

Colombian bass-baritone Valeriano Lanchas, also a veteran of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artists Program, portrayed Don Magnifico as a foolish man but not a fool. Possessing a large sound, a lively stage presence, and an easy command of the stage, total mastery of Rossini's idiom is not yet a weapon in his impressive operatic arsenal. In Act One, Mr. Lanchas gave an account of Magnifico's cavatina ‘Miei rampolli femminini’ that was dramatically captivating but musically rough around the edges. He sang ‘Mi sognai fra il fosco e il chiaro’ and ‘Per pietà quelle ciglia abbassate’ excitingly, and he combined with Dandini with spitfire exasperation in their duet in Act Two. Mr. Lanchas was at his best in ensembles, in which he dedicated himself to the task of maintaining Magnifico’s central part in the drama. Even when his bravura technique was slightly overwhelmed by Rossini’s patter writing, Mr. Lanchas created a larger-than-life character, and it was a legitimate pleasure to hear such a big, bold voice in Magnifico’s music.

​A native of Bologna, bass-baritone Simone Alberghini is to the Rossinian manner born, and his impersonation of the wily Dandini was the work of both a very capable singer and a comedic mastermind. The dryness of his timbre lent his characterization an unexpected sophistication that in no way inhibited his instincts for comedy.​ Seizing his opportunity to experience the master’s perspective on giving and taking orders, this Dandini let no chance to exercise his temporary authority pass him by. Many singers might have overplayed Dandini’s dropping his hat so that the disguised Prince must retrieve it, but Mr. Alberghini made it funnier each time he did it. His singing of the cavatina ‘Come un’ape ne’ giorni d’aprile va volando leggiera e scherzosa’ was more forced than forceful, the top Fs secure and ringing if tightly-muscled, but he rousingly met every demand of the duet with Ramiro, ‘Zitto, zitto; piano, piano.’ The Act Two duet with Magnifico, ‘Un segreto d’importanza,’ was all the more effective for being understated: when the scene is written so perfectly, there is no need for a plethora of slapstick shenanigans. The most treasurable moment of the afternoon was when, after a bit of particularly funny stage business between Dandini and Magnifico, a small child’s laughter rang out. Dandini’s next lines were delivered through the singer’s own laughter. It was the kind of moment that cannot be rehearsed and makes an enjoyable performance an unforgettable one for artists and audience. Mr. Alberghini dispatched the mercurial writing of ‘Questo è un nodo avviluppato’ in the Sextet with astounding technical acumen, and he contributed a high level of accuracy in florid music to all ensembles. So impressive was his dancing that it seemed that he was preparing for the Royal Ballet’s visit to Kennedy Center in June. Mr. Alberghini sang impressively throughout the performance, but the hallmark of this Dandini was unalloyed, good-natured fun.

Il servo ed il principe: Bass-baritone Simone Alberghini as Dandini (left, in disguise as the Prince) and tenor David Portillo as Ramiro (right) in Gioachino Rossini’s La Cenerentola at Washington National Opera, 17 May 2015 [Photo by Scott Suchman, © by Washington National Opera]

With recent triumphs as Tamino in Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte with Houston Grand Opera, Tonio in Donizetti’s La fille du régiment with Arizona Opera, and Tebaldo in Bellini’s I Capuleti ed i Montecchi with Washington Concert Opera to his credit, Texas-born tenor David Portillo brought to his portrayal of Ramiro in WNO’sCenerentola an estimable bel canto curriculum vitae that belies his youth. Singing his first part with WNO, he dominated the stage with his mischievously handsome presence, disarming smile, and natural flair for Rossinian comedy.​ Aside from his Puckish characterization, the principal glory of Mr. Portillo’s Ramiro was the elegance with which his ravishing tenore di grazia rendered Rossini’s vocal lines. From the first notes of ‘Tutto è deserto,’ his singing combined near-perfect diction with undeviating assurance in coloratura passages. In the duet with Angelina, ‘Una soave non so che in quegl’occhi scintillò,’ his wide-eyed wonder was outstanding, and the cute detail of the Prince chivalrously offering to sweep up the remnants of the cup broken by Cenerentola but having no clue about what to do with a broom was endearingly managed. Mr. Portillo was a source of poised, skillfully-projected singing in the sensational Quintet and the duet with Dandini, in which he and Mr. Alberghini interacted with the conspiratorial conviviality of Conte d’Almaviva—in which rôle Mr. Portillo will be heard at the Metropolitan Opera in December and January, reuniting with Mr. Lanchas, who will make his MET début as Bartolo—and Figaro in Il barbiere di Siviglia. In Act Two, the four top Cs in Ramiro’s aria ‘Sì, ritrovarla io giuro’ were launched effortlessly, and the tonal sheen of Mr. Portillo’s singing of the Andantino section of the aria, ‘Pegno adorato e caro,’ was arresting. His performance of the cabaletta ‘Dolce speranza, freddo timore dentro al mio core stanno a pugnar’ was galvanizing, the pair of written top Cs supplemented by an interpolated third, as well as a breathtaking top D. Like Elvino in Bellini’s La sonnambula, Ramiro has little to do after he and his true love are reunited, but Mr. Portillo’s amorously benevolent part in the drama continued to the opera’s final chord: his new bride seemed almost to float upon his affectionate gaze.

I primi sorrisi d’amore: Tenor David Portillo (left) as Ramiro and mezzo-soprano Tara Erraught in the title rôle (right) of Gioachino Rossini's La Cenerentola at Washington National Opera, 17 May 2015 [Photo by Scott Suchman, © by Washington National Opera]

The much-discussed interpreter of the title rôle in Glyndebourne’s 2014 production of Richard Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier, Irish mezzo-soprano Tara Erraught also made her WNO début, as well as her American staged opera début, in the current production of La Cenerentola. Sadly, the principal focus of last summer’s furor in the British press was not this lovely young singer’s voice, which is a well-controlled, amber-hued instrument of excellent quality, but the kind of inexcusable stupidity that makes not only opera itself but also those who love it seem shallow, outmoded, and no longer significant. WNO's Cenerentola was an ideal setting for​ the unpretentiously beautiful Ms. Erraught to display her capabilities as a singer and an actress, and what a display she gave! She looked as pretty as a fairytale princess even in Cenerentola’s ‘rags’—which, in truth, were rather smarter than in many productions of the opera—and acted the rôle with simplicity and sweetly feminine grace, ashamed at first of her burgeoning feelings of love for the disguised Prince and gradually blossoming into a bonafide romantic leading lady. Especially in Act One, in which Ms. Erraught phrased the delicate ‘Una volta c’era un re’ with excellent breath control, the voice was not ideally projected and was sometimes difficult to hear, especially in phrases in the lower octave of the part. In the duet with Ramiro, ‘Io vorrei saper perchè il mio cor mi palpitò,’ she sang dulcetly, and the expansiveness of her account of ‘Una grazia, un certo incanto par che brilli su quel viso’ was absorbing. The entreaties of ‘Signor, una parola’ were harrowing, and the seeming spontaneity of her enunciation of ‘Ah! sempre fra la cenere, sempre dovrò restar?’ deepened the poignancy of the scene. Ms. Erraught conveyed all of Cenerentola’s hope for a happier future in her sun-drenched singing of 'Sprezzo quei don che versa fortuna capricciosa,' and she made Cenerentola’s giving Ramiro the bracelet and charging him with searching for its mate a task no man could refuse. Every reappearance of 'Una volta c'era un re' grew lovelier, and the special intensity of the singer’s statement of 'Sposa...Signore, perdona la tenera incertezza che mi confonde ancor,' bolstered by Maestra Scappucci’s genial support, magnified the character’s altruistic spirit. Ms. Erraught approached the opera’s final scene as a musical and sentimental tour de force, singing the andante 'Nacqui all'affanno e al pianto’ with unaffected silkiness that she carried from the bottom of the range to her top B. Fittingly, Ms. Erraught’s finest singing of the afternoon was done in the rondò finale, 'Non più mesta accanto al fuoco starò sola a gorgheggiar.’ Here, the voice soared into the auditorium, the coloratura dispatched with complete adroitness, her trill invigorating, and her top Bs lustrous and secure. Her confidence flourished as the performance progressed, and she was ultimately a Cenerentola who proved equally adept at expressing the rôle’s joviality and profundity.

La Cenerentola is not a complicated opera, but far too many productions complicate it unnecessarily. It is unlikely that Rossini and his librettist, Jacopo Ferretti, ever intended for audiences who attend performances of Cenerentola to embrace the opera as anything but entertainment: perhaps they never envisioned that their opera would continue to be performed two centuries after its première. By approaching the opera with both creativity and fidelity to Rossini’s score, Washington National Opera affirmed that La Cenerentola deserves its place in the international repertory in the Twenty-First Century. Indeed, furnishing surroundings for singing such as that done by Tara Erraught and David Portillo on Sunday afternoon is reason enough to perform La Cenerentola anytime, anywhere.

Una donna ed il suo topo: Mezzo-soprano Tara Erraught in the title rôle of Gioachino Rossini’s La Cenerentola at Washington National Opera, 17 March 2015 [Photo by Scott Suchman, © Washington National Opera]

ARTS IN ACTION: Spoleto Festival USA and a world-class cast resurrect Pier Francesco Cavalli’s 1652 epic VEREMONDA, L’AMAZZONE DI ARAGONA

 

When Don Luis Méndoz de Haro and Cardinal Mazarin met in 1659 on the Isla de los Faisanes in the middle of the Bidasoa River as the proxies of the Hapsburg Spanish and Bourbon French crowns, the Treaty of the Pyrenees that arose from their diplomacy ended a quarter-century of conflict between Spain and France that paralleled the broader Thirty Years' War that devastated much of northern Europe in the first half of the Seventeenth Century. The foundations of the regional politics that upset the balance of daily life in Spain even now, sometimes in tragic eruptions of violence that echo the 1640 Corpus de Sang, were already strongly fortified when, angered by Spanish abuses of Catalan troops and citizens during the Thirty Years’ War, the people of Catalonia rebelled against their Hapsburg oppressors, capitalizing on the differing agendas and distractions of the French and Spanish. This revolt perpetuated war between the neighbors across the Pyrenees that persisted after the Peace of Westphalia ended the hostilities of the Thirty Years’ War in 1648. Though this clash of imperial ambitions would persist for another seven years, destiny deserted the proud Catalan when the Spanish captured Barcelona in 1652, capitulating Catalonia to Hapsburg dominion and solidifying Spain’s border with France. It was into this tempestuous environment that Pier Francesco Cavalli’s Veremonda, l'amazzone di Aragona was born. Premièred at the Nuovo Teatro del Palazzo Reale in Naples—another sparkling but problematic jewel in the Spanish Hapsburg crown—on 21 December 1652, the opera was an obvious paean to the Spanish conquest of Barcelona and expulsion of the Moors, its depiction of the 1462 conquest and annexation of Gibraltar by Enrique IV of Castile and the subsequent 1492 victory of his daughter Isabella I of Castile and her consort Ferdinand II of Aragon—Spain’s lionized reyes católicos, restyled by Cavalli and his librettists as Veremonda and Alfonso—over the Moorish Emirate of Granada [sailing the ocean blue was not all the royal couple had on their minds in that fateful year] standing in handily for the Spanish suppression of the Catalan revolt. Both the propagandizing and Cavalli’s music evidently proved palatable: scarcely more than a month passed before Veremonda was performed in Venice’s Teatro SS Giovanni e Paolo on 28 January 1653. It is baffling to observe that a plot as startlingly modern as that of Veremonda has been so long overlooked by conductors, directors, and singers whilst the ancient and mythological denizens of Cavalli operas such as La Calisto, Ercole amante, Giasone, and Xerse—characters who Sir Peter Shaffer’s Mozart might accuse of defecating marble—have regained footholds along the sidelines of today’s operatic playing field. Histories musical and anthropological reveal that a woman like Veremonda will not be silenced forever, but where she will be heard depends upon a fortuitous arrangement of circumstances. Fortuitous indeed are the circumstances that bring Cavalli’s Veremonda, l’amazzone di Aragona to the 2015 Spoleto Festival USA in Charleston, South Carolina: 362 years after maiden voyages, Veremonda will trade the Golfo di Napoli and Canałasso for the Ashley and Cooper and drop anchor at the Dock Street Theatre in a production poised not only to resurrect but also to revitalize this mesmerizing collision of art and politics.

A queen regnant with both tremendous political power and the intelligence and wherewithal to wield it effectively, Isabella I was an anomaly in the predominantly primogenital social order of her time. That the Seventeenth-Century librettists who retrieved her from the recesses of history and repurposed her for the operatic stage with a symbolic Amazon slant seem somewhat chauvinistic from a Twenty-First-Century perspective is perhaps inevitable, but removing the operatic Veremonda from her singular historical context diminishes the impact of her histrionic power. She will be sung in Charleston by Fairbanks-born mezzo-soprano—and Spoleto USA débutante—Vivica Genaux, one of the few singers in the world whose dynamic dramatic instincts are equaled by her astounding bravura technique. Having in the recent past sung Händel’s Giulio Cesare and Ruggiero (Alcina), Purcell’s Dido, and Veracini’s Farnaspe (Adriano in Siria), Ms. Genaux is adept at portraying characters in extremis on both sides of the gender divide. As a woman of irrefutable power tested by the mores of a patriarchal society, Veremonda is not unlike Purcell’s long-suffering Queen of Carthage: more than a few Didos would surely have welcomed the notion of gathering an army of sympathetic ladies to punish Aeneas’s betrayal! Ms. Genaux excels at bringing nuanced characters to life without overdoing their emotions, and she is an ideal musical conduit for the dramatic electricity of Cavalli’s score, her inimitable vocal technique mirroring Veremonda’s no-holds-barred manner of taking charge of every situation in which she finds herself.

Una bella amazzone: Mezzo-soprano Vivica Genaux (center), who will sing the title rôle in Spoleto Festival USA’s production of Veremonda, l’amazzone di Aragona, in rehearsal; May 2015 [Photo by Aaron Carpenè; used with permission]

Aaron Carpenè, the Perth native and renowned Early Music specialist who prepared the score of Veremonda, l’amazzone di Aragona for the Spoleto USA production and will conduct the performances, cites the team of exceptional musicians assembled for the production as one of the greatest pleasures encountered in the initiative to breathe new life into Cavalli’s score. ‘We are proud to be working with a wonderful international cast led by Vivica Genaux and accompanied by the period instrument ensemble New York Baroque Inc.,’ he said recently. ‘We are [also] fortunate to have the prize-winning photographer Michel Juvet and author Allison Zurfluh, who will be publishing a book on the Veremonda production. It will include chapters on Cavalli, his life in Venice and the manuscript still conserved there today, the pre-production preparation with fascinating peeks into Ugo Nespolo’s art studio in Turin and the Oscar®-winning costume atelier Farani in Rome, as well as the backstage rehearsal work and première performance in Charleston. The book will be a fine souvenir of this extraordinary event.’

The wonderful international cast mentioned by Maestro Carpenè brings together a group of young singers already celebrated for musical and stylistic excellence. A like-minded partner for Ms. Genaux both on stage and on disc [their critically-lauded deutsche harmonia mundi studio recording of Johann Adolf Hasse’s Marc’Antonio e Cleopatra will be followed in autumn 2015 by fra bernardo’s release of a recording of their 2014 concert performance of Ferdinando Bertoni’s L’Orfeo], golden-throated Italian soprano Francesca Lombardi Mazzulli will portray Zelemina in Veremonda, bringing a wealth of experience in Baroque repertory to her reunion with Ms. Genaux. One of the finest young representatives of his Fach, handsome Italian countertenor Raffaele Pè will make his American operatic début in the rôle of Delio—a part so critical to the plot that his name serves as the alternate title for Cavalli’s opera. Another pair of gifted countertenors will lend further period-appropriate singing to the production, the impersonations of Zaida by high-voiced Michael Maniaci and of Don Alfonso and il Sole in the opera’s prologue by Andrey Nemzer, a youthful veteran of the 2013 revival of the much-discussed Herbert Wernicke production of Richard Strauss’s Die Frau ohne Schatten at the Metropolitan Opera, sure to be highlights of Spoleto USA’s Veremonda. Bass-baritone Joseph Barron’s Roldano, baritone Jason Budd’s Giacutte, tenor Steven Cole’s Don Buscone, and tenor Brian Downen’s Zeriffo and il Crepuscolo also promise musical flair. As the guiding force behind San Francisco-based Ars Minerva and the sagacious director and leading lady in that organization’s March 2015 modern-première performances of Daniele da Castrovillari’s 1662 opera La Cleopatra, coloratura mezzo-soprano Céline Ricci brings to her performances as Vespina in Veremonda vital experience with recreating a neglected operatic gem with complementary historically-informed practices and modern sensibilities. Completing the cast as the Sergente maggiore, a rôle that, as Maestro Carpenè notes, presents challenges to modern musicologists as the part’s tessitura shifts from bass to soprano halfway through the manuscript score, soprano Danielle Talamantes comes to Charleston for her first travesti rôle after an acclaimed turn as Frasquita in Bizet’s Carmen at the MET.

An authority on music of Veremonda’s vintage, Maestro Carpenè is uncommonly attentive to the daunting task that reviving forgotten scores poses to even the most insightful artists. ‘There are many challenges in preparing a score from a manuscript,’ he states, ‘but, in particular for Veremonda, one of the great challenges was dealing with what is known as Cavalli’s messiest manuscript. There are evidently the hands of at least two copyists; Cavalli’s own hand in corrections, cancellations, and additions; and lastly [that of] Cavalli’s wife Maria, who also helped out in both copying and composing. Cavalli’s handwriting appears hasty and untidy, while the copyists—who presumably replaced Maria since she died in the same year as the production of the opera, 1652—have neat handwriting but present numerous musical errors which have to be corrected.’ Solving these problems, the Maestro muses, is only one facet of the endeavor of restoring an opera like Veremonda to its original glory. ‘A further challenge in bringing this opera back to life for a contemporary audience is the decision related to the style of production,’ he intimates. ‘Should a world première in modern times seek to propose a philological reinterpretation that reflects what Cavalli’s audiences would have seen and heard in 1652, or should there be a reinterpretation that reflects modern day tastes?’

Delio divino: Countertenor Raffaele Pè in rehearsal for his portrayal of Delio in Spoleto Festival USA’s production of Cavalli’s Veremonda, l’amazzone di Aragona; May 2015 [Photo by Aaron Carpenè; used with permission]

At this point, Maestro Carpenè’s thoughts turn to the inception of Spoleto USA’s production of Veremonda—a groundbreaking project typical of the Festival’s enterprising spirit. ‘It was the Spoleto Festival’s director, Nigel Redden, who proposed [Veremonda] to stage director Stefano Vizioli and myself,’ he recollects. ‘Having accepted the offer, the principal attraction of the project was the challenge of preparing a production score from the manuscript and then working in an organic way with Vizioli in the development of the staging concept that determines aspects such as sets and costumes based on our perception of what the music and the libretto were trying to express. We decided, for example, to work with one of Italy’s most famous contemporary artists, Ugo Nespolo. His colorful and vibrant style evokes a striking Mediterranean zest, and the sets themselves, perfectly suited to the Baroque dimensions of the USA’s oldest theatre—the Dock Street Theatre in Charleston, built in 1736 [the present structure was constructed in 1809, following a devastating fire],—actually follow closely the Baroque grammar of stagecraft. To create a philological production of what Cavalli’s audience might have seen would have been an interesting exercise, but we felt that some of the themes of the opera—the conflict between Christians and Muslims, the questions of gender and rôles in society—were just as relevant today as they were to those audiences and that the argument for a more ‘contemporary’ staging seemed to be more pressing. For me personally, an historically-informed approach is the starting point, not the finishing line. So while I am being very attentive to the Cavalli singing style of recitar cantando, the employment of period instruments, the appropriate pitch and tuning, and so forth, I feel that the message of the opera has to speak in the most accessible way possible to an audience of today.’

Spoleto USA and Charleston are ideal venues for the rediscovery of Veremonda, Maestro Carpenè feels. ‘The Spoleto Festival in Charleston prides itself on presenting little- or unknown works and artists to their audiences,’ he reflects. ‘Only recently, the festival director, Nigel Redden, proudly spoke of his policy of not presenting the familiar to his audiences but, rather, cultivating them and their curiosity in embracing the unfamiliar. Yet another Tosca or Traviata can be easily seen in any major opera theatre throughout the world: Veremonda has the privilege of [a] world première in modern times, just over 360 years since its original performance, at this festival.’ Moreover, the conductor suggests, both recent events and the annals of Charleston’s storied past as a cradle of the American Civil War make the city a fitting backdrop for the angst of Veremonda. ‘With respect to the [original] performance date, it is a story based on relatively recent history, in contrast to the mythical subjects found in Ercole amante, La Didone or La Calisto or more ancient historical references in Muzio Scevola or Il Xerse,’ he explains. ‘Veremonda is also unique because of the way the libretto was composed. Giulio Strozzi, writing under the pseudonym Luigi Zorzisto, took an earlier Florentine libretto entitled Celio by his colleague Giacinto Andrea Cicognini and literally copied and pasted much of the material to form a new libretto designed to entertain Venetian audiences. In many other ways, in style and form, Veremonda is quite close to the other masterpieces such as Giasone and La Calisto, and it is a great honor and privilege to be able to present this glorious music to a modern audience.’

Veremonda is an experience that will linger in the minds of Spoleto USA audiences for years to come, Maestro Carpenè believes. ‘There will be many things to remember: the fine singing, the skillful orchestral accompaniment, the enthralling staging, the artwork of the sets,’ he says with pride. ‘But besides all of this,’ he continues, ‘I would like the Spoleto audience to remember an unique and historical event; the resurrection of a long-forgotten opera by the most important opera composer of the day, whose operas helped shape the destiny of musical theatre performance that we know today.’ This, he suggests, is the greatest reward of the exhausting process of bringing Veremonda to Charleston. ‘To follow the growth and development of the project through all its phases, from the viewing of the old manuscript in the Marciana Library of Venice, to the transcription of the music and text, the elaboration of the staging, and finally the rehearsals with cast and orchestra with the mounting of the staging leading up to the première—to see and experience the final product is a great source of satisfaction.’

That satisfaction seems certain to be shared by cast, production team, and audiences alike. In advance of opening night, Spoleto Festival USA will offer a ‘Salon Series’ preview on Wednesday, 20 May. Veremonda, l’amazzone di Aragona opens at the Dock Street Theatre on Saturday, 23 May. Additional performances are scheduled for 26 and 30 May and 2 and 5 June.

Prima la musica: Pier Francesco Cavalli (1602 – 1676), composer of Veremonda, l’amazzone di Aragona, returning to the stage after 362 years at the 2015 Spoleto Festival USA [17th-Century engraving from private collection]

CD REVIEW: L. Boccherini, J.-P. Duport, G.A. Paganelli, D. Porretti, F.P. Supriano, P. Vidal, & J. Zayas – THE CELLO IN SPAIN (La Ritirata; Josetxu Obregón, cello & direction; Glossa GCD 923103)

LUIGI BOCCHERINI (1743 – 1805), JEAN-PIERRE DUPORT (1741 – 1818), GIUSEPPE ANTONIO PAGANELLI (1710 – circa 1763), DOMINGO PORRETTI (1709 – 1783), FRANCESCO PAOLO SUPRIANO (1678 – 1753), PABLO VIDAL (died 1807), and JOSÉ ZAYAS (died 1804): The Cello in Spain – Music by Eighteenth-Century Virtuosi—Josetxu Obregón, cello and direction; La Ritirata [Recorded in Sala Tomás Luis de Victoria, Real Conservatorio de Música, Madrid, Spain, in December 2014; Glossa GCD 923103; 1 CD, 57:05; Available from La Ritirata, La Quinta de Mahler, Amazon (USA), Presto Classical, and major music retailers]

I begin with an egregious but unmalicious act of heresy; or, from the perspective of my fellow violinists, perhaps treason. I have long thought that, if circumstances somehow permitted me to start my musical education anew, I should abandon the violin in favor of the cello. Hearing The Cello in Spain, the new Glossa disc featuring cellist Josetxu Obregón and La Ritirata, has both intensified my love for the cello and reassured me that I was right to have studied the violin: profaning the cello with my poor playing should have been criminal in comparison with what Mr. Obregón and his colleagues achieve on this disc, which Federico Prieto’s engineering gives the holding-one’s-breath ambiance of a live performance rather than that of an antiseptic recording studio. This music, much of which is undeservedly unfamiliar, demands this sort of vitality, and the advocacy that it receives on this disc is extraordinary. Even an imperceptive listener is seldom fooled by empty virtuosity, and there is no ignoring the tremendous dose of corazón that makes this disc so enjoyable. There are technical fireworks aplenty, but the defining quality of The Cello in Spain is passion.

Like so much in the glorious history of music, the lineage of the modern violoncello is open to interpretation. Likely first developed by luthiers working in and near Bologna in the 1660s, the cello was a gradual adaptation of the bass viol and viola da gamba—in short, a product of musical evolution that arose in response to the creation of metal strings that enabled reliable intonation on low pitches on instruments with smaller, more manageable bodies. Standardizations of size and design did not follow until the middle of the Eighteenth Century, after the efforts of makers such as Stradivarius elevated the cello to the level of importance at which it rendered earlier incarnations of the bass violin obsolete. The history of the cello in Spain travelled a course that can be most reliably documented via the music composed for the instrument by artists resident in the country and visiting the Hapsburg and Borbón courts of Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Spain. In the selections on The Cello in Spain, Mr. Obregón and his expert colleagues—Daniel Oyarzabal on harpsichord and organ, cellist Diana Vinagre, Enrike Solinís on Baroque guitar and archlute, Daniel Zapico on theorbo, harpist Sara Águeda, violinists Lina Tur Bonet and Miren Zeberio, violinist and violist Daniel Lorenzo, double bass player Michel Frechina, and master of the castanets David Chupete—recreate with compelling musical narrative the formation of a tradition of composition for the cello that became as central to the artistic life of Spain as writing for the baryton—a bizarre relative of the cello and bass viol—was to Haydn’s composition of instrumental music during his tenure at Esterháza. Informed but never restricted by historically-informed performance practice scholarship, Mr. Obregón and his La Ritirata colleagues transport the listener to the alternately reverent and playful halls of el Escorial with sounds that engage and enthrall as viscerally now as when the composers represented on The Cello in Spain peddled their music to princes and popes.

Born into a musical family in Lucca, Italy, Luigi Boccherini was for much of his creative career in service to Spanish patrons, and his ‘transplanted’ music is now as widely—and more justifiably—associated with Spain as Bizet’s Carmen and Lalo’s Symphonie espagnole. Collaborating with Ms. Vinagre, Mr. Solinís, and Mr. Oyarzabal, Mr. Obregón offers a standard-setting performance of Boccherini’s Cello Sonata in C Major (G.6), his enthusiasm for the music emanating from the energetic reading of the opening Allegro movement. Italianate melodic fecundity and Spanish soulfulness are combined in the lovely Largo assai, and Mr. Obregón revels in the expressivity of the music without diminishing the rhythmic crispness that gives his playing its stimulating power. The Allegro moderato movement also receives from Mr. Obregón a rousing performance of unflagging stylishness. His is the sort of virtuosity that is always secondary to emotional connection with the music: by exploring the sentiments around which the music was woven, Mr. Obregón discloses to the attentive listener the impetus for every musical gesture.

Like Boccherini, Padua native Giuseppe Antonio Paganelli was also an Italian who devoted the last phase of his compositional career to Spain. His Sonata in A minor displays a certain indebtedness to the style of Giuseppe Tartini, with whom Paganelli may have studied, as well as a nod to French models. The dulcet Largo that opens the Sonata is phrased expansively by Mr. Obregón, and his efforts are eloquently seconded by the playing of Mr. Zapico, Ms. Águeda, and Mr. Oyarzabal. The cajoling harmonies of the subsequent Allegro movement are blended with the richness of a traditional paella, and the undiluted feelings of the Adagio are poignantly but unexaggeratedly conveyed by Mr. Obregón. He and his colleagues give a nimble account of the spirited Gigue, its character that of the Gran Vía rather than the Champs-Élysées.

Jean-Pierre Duport and his brother Jean-Louis were pupils of the celebrated French cellist Martin Berteau, credited by many musicologists as the godfather of French cello technique. Both Duport brothers were acquainted with Beethoven in the years after Jean-Pierre’s sojourn in Spain, and the young Beethoven dedicated his Opus 5 Cello Sonatas to Jean-Pierre, who was master of chamber music at the Potsdam court of Friedrich Wilhelm II. Duport’s own Cello Sonata No. 1 in D Major was dedicated to the Duque de Alba, presumably Fernando de Silva Mendoza y Toledo, grandfather of Goya’s muse Doña María del Pilar de Silva, duquesa de Alba. Partnered by Ms. Vinagre and Mr. Oyarzabal, Mr. Obregón whizzes through the Sonata’s opening Allegro movement in a fantastic exhibition of bowing technique, and his mastery of the expansive Adagio is no less thorough. The final Allegro is rendered with consummate skill and obvious exuberance by cellist and his amigos musicales.

Dating from the second half of the Eighteenth Century, the anonymous Adagio in E minor from the Manuscrito de Barcelona is a subdued piece that pulses with the veiled desolation that lurks beneath the surface of so much Spanish music. Mr. Obregón, Ms. Águeda, and Mr. Oyarzabal immerse themselves in the spirit of the music without aggrandizing its moods, playing with perfect intonation and flawless musical teamwork. Mr. Obregón provides a deeply-felt interpretation of the Toccata prima in G major for solo cello by Francesco Paolo Supriano (né Scipriani), a product of the Neapolitan school and the famed Conservatorio della Pietà dei Turchini. He is joined by Ms. Vinagre in a beautifully-conceived performance of Pablo Vidal’s brief but memorable Duetto-Andante from Arte y Escuela de violoncello. Mr. Oyarzabal adds his insightful playing to theirs in a similarly affectionate traversal of José Zayas’s Última lección in B-flat Major from Manuscrito de Barcelona.

Thought to be the only extant example from the set of twenty-four concerti composed circa 1755 by Domingo Porretti, the Cello Concerto in G Major is, in terms of instrumentation, the most substantial work on The Cello in Spain. Its four movements of near-equal duration engender an uncanny symmetry, and this is also reflected in the performance by Mr. Obregón and La Ritirata. The pair of Largo movements are rapturously delivered, the melodic lines caressed by Mr. Obregón with the aura of song. The contrast with the Allegro movements is realized with exemplary artistry, the musicians shining the light of their talent on the colorations in the composer’s score rather than painting the music with artificial hues. If this Concerto is indicative of the quality of its missing brethren, the loss to the concert repertory of the cello is considerable.

A more thrilling finale for The Cello in Spain than the Fandango from Boccherini’s Guitar Quintet in D Major (G.448) could not have been selected. Though he was born in Italy, a half-century’s residency in Spain surely injected a transfusion of the musical sangre de España into Boccherini’s veins, and the resulting metamorphosis of his artistic DNA yielded a piece as quintessentially Spanish as the Fandango. As performed here by Mr. Obregón, Ms. Solinís, Ms. Tur Bonet, Ms. Zeberio, and Mr. Lorenzo, with a brilliant contribution from Mr. Chupete’s castanets, the Fandango evokes the dual freedom and formality, the palmas and pitos, the grit and grandeur of Spanish music and culture.

There are as many ways of describing the unique sonorities of the cello as there are methods of coaxing them from the instrument. Mstislav Rostropovich, one of the preeminent cellists of the Twentieth Century, wrote that he was initially attracted to the cello because its sound was to his ears like that of a voice—a voice that he recognized as his own. The marvel of this disc is that the playing of Josetxu Obregón and La Ritirata empowers the listener to hear the cello as the voice of a nation. The selections on The Cello in Spain and the zeal with which they are played illustrate the urbane roots of Spanish repertory for this four-stringed vessel of the musical soul. Fellow violinists, forgive me: The Cello in Spain inspires me to long to be a cellist—in Spain, por favor.

CD REVIEW: Agostino Steffani – NIOBE, REGINA DI TEBE (K. Gauvin, P. Jaroussky, A. Forsythe, A. Sheehan, T. Wey, J. Blumberg, C. Balzer, C. Immler, J. Lemos; ERATO 0825646343546)

AGOSTINO STEFFANI (1653 – 1728): Niobe, regina di Tebe—Karina Gauvin (Niobe), Philippe Jaroussky (Anfione), Amanda Forsythe (Manto), Christian Immler (Tiresia), Aaron Sheehan (Clearte), Terry Wey (Creonte), Jesse Blumberg (Poliferno), Colin Balzer (Tiberino), José Lemos (Nerea); Boston Early Music Festival Orchestra; Paul O’Dette and Stephen Stubbs, Musical Directors [Recorded in the Sendesaal, Bremen, Germany, 1 – 14 November 2013; ERATO 0825646343546; 3 CDs, 223:44; Available from Amazon, fnac, jpc, Presto Classical, and major music retailers]

It is one of the great ironies of music in the new millennium that an opera like Agostino Steffani’s Niobe, regina di Tebe should languish in obscurity, not heard for centuries until produced in the late Twentieth and early Twenty-First Centuries by enterprising historically-informed institutions, and then, as if by the sort of magic so beloved by opera audiences in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, not one but two commercial recordings of the score should appear within only a few months. The rival to ERATO’s fantastic souvenir of the Boston Early Music Festival production, which in addition to its 2011 Festival outing has recently toured Europe in concert form, is a ‘live’ recording of the 2010 Royal Opera House production featuring the Balthasar-Neumann-Ensemble and Thomas Hengelbrock. Despite engineering superior to that heard on many recordings made during live performances at Covent Garden and the participation of an excellent cast including one of the world's finest sopranos, the divine Véronique Gens, the Opus Arte recording falls short of the benchmark set by ERATO’s impeccably-engineered, thoughtfully-presented recording. Indeed, by today’s standards Steffani’s score receives suitably royal treatment. The critical question that a production or recording of a forgotten work like Steffani’s Niobe, regina di Tebe ultimately must answer is whether the score is truly worthy of the effort and expense required to revive it. A little-remembered 1977 performance in New York’s Alice Tully Hall by Newell Jenkins and his Clarion Music Society hinted that Niobe deserved the attention. The Covent Garden and BEMF productions furthered the case for the opera’s renaissance, and this recording offers an opportunity for listeners to hear Steffani’s music performed with the flair and finesse so missed in performances of later repertory. Niobe, regina di Tebe cannot be claimed to be a rediscovered masterpiece of the lasting significance of Mozart’s Così fan tutte, Wagner’s Parsifal, or Verdi’s Falstaff, but when revisited in 2365 how many of today’s operas will have anything like the lasting enchantment of Steffani’s gem of a score?

First performed in Munich in 1688, Niobe is among the plethora of Baroque operas with subject matter drawn from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, in this case adapted by librettist Luigi Orlandini. Already a figure with a centuries-old tradition by the times of her mentions in texts by Homer, Sophocles, and Aeschylus, Niobe is reputed to have been the daughter of Tantalus. Her early chroniclers depict her as a proud woman whose boastful claims of superiority led to the slaying of her fourteen children by the twins Apollo and Artemis, acting on orders from their mother Leto. Both in the literary milieu of Antiquity and in a much later work like Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Niobe was an archetype of the grieving mother akin to Clytemnestra and Hecuba, and the character created by Steffani and Orlandini is in certain respects not unlike Händel’s Semele. In essence, this Niobe is the protagonist in a cautionary tale ideally summarized by the familiar words of Psalm 16:18: ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’ The destruction that Niobe’s actions inflict upon her family had as many parallels in the Seventeenth Century as there are in the Twenty-First. Only forty years before the première of Niobe, central Europe was devastated by the Thirty Years’ War, a conflict on a gargantuan scale propagated by clashes among empires, nationalistic ambitions, and Catholic and Protestant interests: it is not difficult to imagine that the symbolic relationships among the characters in Niobe resonated with composer, librettist, and contemporary audiences. From a Twenty-First-Century perspective, the aftermath of the events of 11 September 2001, a day that now seems almost mythological, lends an unique profundity to the conceit of the decisions of people in positions of power upending innocent lives. As recorded, this performance focuses on performing Steffani’s score as stylishly as possible and allowing the individual listener to form opinions about the opera’s topicality. At the very least, Niobe is a piece with a social conscience, but this recording rightly presents the opera as a musical journey, not a manifesto ripe for political interpretation.

The musical language of Niobe is a cosmopolitan idiom that combines elements of the Italian traditions inherited from Monteverdi and Cavalli with north-of-the-Alps trends guiding musical discourse in German-speaking Europe. The assertion that Steffani’s work in general represents a crucial step in the transition from the early opera of Monteverdi to the mature Baroque of Händel is justifiable, but Niobe inhabits a singular sound world. Händel was a toddler when Niobe was first performed, but Steffani’s score sounds as though it could have been a suitable nursemaid during the younger composer’s operatic infancy. Building upon Cavalli’s development of contrasting recitative, arioso, aria, and ensemble, Steffani engendered a style that resembles the young Händel’s Venetian opera Agrippina with its succession of plot-advancing recitative and brief, emotionally-specific arias. In Niobe, at least, Steffani’s gifts as a musical dramatist do not equal those of Monteverdi, Cavalli, or Händel at their best, but a considerable talent for tailoring music to particular situations and moods is readily apparent. The brevity of individual numbers notwithstanding, Niobe is a sprawling work, and without visual cues and the benefit of watching singers interact not even the peerless cast assembled for this recording can wholly overcome the burden of having to sustain the listener’s interest over what is, particularly by modern, post-Puccini criteria, a long haul. That this recording succeeds so capitally is a testament to the exceptional work of everyone involved with it.

Led by Paul O'Dette and Stephen Stubbs with the stylistic affinity that their names have come to represent, the musicians of the Boston Early Music Festival Orchestra give an account of Steffani’s score that is nothing short of authoritative in terms of virtuosity, understanding of the inner and outer structures of each scene, and teamwork, not only among their own ranks but also with the vocal cast. In music such as this, the continuo is of vital importance—nothing short of the central nervous system of a performance. Vital to the continuity and histrionic effectiveness of the performance on these discs is the outstanding playing of Luca Guglielmi on harpsichord and organ, Maxine Eilander on Baroque harp, and Erin Headley on viola da gamba: their endeavors, spurred by Maestri O'Dette’s and Stubbs’s predictably inventive playing of theorbo and Baroque guitar, propel the performance forward, giving consistently organic impetus to the characters’ exchanges and inviting the listener into the drama as a silent participant rather than a distant observer. Likewise, the gorgeous sounds made by the viol consort in Act One, Scene 13—Christel Thielmann, Hille Perle, Frauke Hess, and Ms. Headley—add a dimension of musical variety to the performance. Interestingly, some of the finest playing on this recording is done in the ballet music by Melchior d'Ardespin. Throughout the performance, the musicians play masterfully, however, and Maestri O'Dette and Stubbs pace an account of the opera that provides the singers with ideal support of their collective efforts at bringing Steffani’s music and Orlandini’s words to life for the listener.

Among a large cast of reliably stylish, engaging singers, the astounding voice of countertenor José Lemos is unforgettable. His singing of the rôle of Nerea, the sort of part that can quickly annoy the listener when entrusted to a careless singer, is remarkable for its integration of an endearingly vibrant personality with a natural instrument of extraordinary beauty. Nerea’s trio of arias in Act One—'Quasi tutte,' 'Che agli assalti degli amanti,' and the delightful 'Assistetemi'—provide Mr. Lemos with fodder for exhibiting both his vocal eloquence and his unerring dramatic instincts. The nobility with which he shapes ‘Quasi tutte’ grants the duplicitous nurse greater depth of character than she deserves, but the dignity of Mr. Lemos’s singing is most welcome. His arias in Acts Two and Three, 'Questi giovani moderni' and 'Che alla fè di donne amanti,' are oases in a landscape drained of humor, and Mr. Lemos rises to the occasions with vocalism of focus and panache. A few notes at the top of line strain him, but as a singer and an actor he finds in Nerea’s meddling opportunities to uplift Steffani’s music with the best of his artistry.

The Tiresia of bass Christian Immler is a stern, vocally granitic presence whose oracular tidings are proclaimed with solid, bronze-hued tone in the Act One arias 'Amor t'attese al varco' and 'Di strali, e fulmini.’ In Act Two, Mr. Immler sings 'Confuse potenze' and 'De numi la legge' with grandiloquence befitting a seer. Mr. Immler’s voice is stronger at the upper extreme of Tiresia’s range than at the bottom, but his impersonation is forceful throughout the character’s musical and dramatic compasses.

As Tiberino, Canadian tenor Colin Balzer sings powerfully, his flexible voice and complete security in the lower octave of the part contributing to a vivid portrayal that radiates strength and sensuality. His sings Tiberino’s Act One aria 'Alba essulti, e il Lazio goda' with insurmountable technical acumen, and the subsequent arias 'Tu non sai che sia diletto' and 'Quanto sospirerai' inspire him to singing of stirring immediacy. 'Il tuo sguardo o bella mia' and 'Ci sei colto mio cor' in Act Two are delivered with similar impact, the unstilted refinement of his elocution all the more impressive because of the magnetism of the timbre. In Act Three, Mr. Balzer voices the aria 'Hor ch'è mio quel vago labro' with delicious sophistication. His burnished, burly tone distinguishes him from his male colleagues in this performance, and the adroitness of his singing identifies him as one of the most gifted exponents of repertory of Niobe’s vintage.

Young baritone Jesse Blumberg is a singer of astonishing versatility who seems capable of singing virtually any repertory authoritatively. A Lieder singer of a high order, his performance as Poliferno in Niobe confirms that he is also a potent presence in Baroque music. The imagination with which he sings the very different 'Nuovo soglio, e nuova bella' and 'Fiera Aletto' in Act One makes a potent impression, the alacrity with which he differentiates the arias indicative of expert musicality and dramatic intelligence. The swagger with which he executes the difficulties of 'Numi tartarei' in Act Two harmonizes with his rousing performance of the aria 'Gioite, godete' in Act Three. His vocal lines sometimes take him just below the lower boundary of his comfort zone, but the only real disappointment is that Steffani did not allocate more music to the malicious Poliferno: perhaps he never envisioned an artist as talented as Mr. Blumberg singing the rôle.

Swiss countertenor Terry Wey portrays the hapless Creonte with dignity and an unaffected display of technique and tonal allure. A gifted artist still too little represented on disc, his performance in Niobe is evidence of the fine singing of which he is capable. In the Act One arias 'Dove sciolti à volo i vanni' and 'Anderei fin nell'Inferno,' his command of the idiom and warm tone are obvious in every phrase that he sings. Likewise, Creonte’s arias in Act Two, 'Del mio ben occhi adorati' and 'Lascio l'armi, e cedo il campo,' receive from Mr. Wey traversals of glistening charm. His duetting with Niobe in 'T'abbraccio mia diva' is wonderfully evocative, and his lustrous account of 'Luci belle' in Act Three is one of the highlights of the recording. Indeed, Mr. Wey’s every appearance in the course of the opera prompts gratitude, both for his polishing singing and for his thoughtful vocal acting.

In the rôle of Clearte, this performance benefits from the work of one of America’s finest singers in any repertory, tenor Aaron Sheehan. With a voice and dramatic demeanor as piercingly lovely as his glacial blue eyes, he creates a three-dimensional character even in the context of a studio recording. In Act One, his singing of the aria 'Son amante, e sempre peno' is unutterably beautiful, his enunciation of the text touched by a throbbing melancholy. He complements this with a performance of 'C'hò da morir tacendo' that embodies the elusive art of bel canto. The phenomenal effectiveness of his portrayal of Clearte is heightened in Act Two by his singing of 'Voglio servir fedel' and 'Non mi far pianger sempre,' both of which he sculpts with the strokes of a master craftsman. There is an exuberance in his enunciation of 'Tutta gioia, e tutta riso' in Act Three that increases the emotional temperature of the performance, and the intensity of expression in his intoning of the accompagnato 'Ma lasso' is electrifying. The faculty with which Mr. Sheehan scales the heights of Clearte’s haute-contre tessitura is awe-inspiring, but the foremost pleasure of his singing is its unforced comeliness.

Here singing the rôle of Manto, the radiant soprano Amanda Forsythe sang the title rôle in the 2011 BEMF staging of Niobe. She is a singer for whom Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century repertory is completely natural territory, and her polished-silver voice possesses reserves of power that enable her to sustain fastidiously-nuanced characterizations throughout the course of a performance of a score as demanding as Steffani’s. Her technique enables her to toss off the Act One aria 'Se la vita à me donasti' with aplomb, followed by an account of the aria 'Vuoi ch'io parli, parlerò' that is notable for its singularity of dramatic purpose. The simplicity of her enunciation in 'Nel mio seno à poco à poco' transforms her portrayal from one of a delicate, naïve girl into a study of a sensitive but strong-willed young woman. In Act Two, she shapes her accounts of the arias 'Tu ci pensasti poco' and 'Hò troppo parlato' with unfettered ingenuity, her upper register pealing with the freshness of youth. Like several of her colleagues in this performance, Ms. Forsythe is at her best in Act Three, in which she sings 'Chiudetevi miei lumi' lusciously. She must have been a very moving Niobe, but she cannot have been more convincing than she is as Manto in this performance.

It is no exaggeration to state that French countertenor Philippe Jaroussky has not only achieved the pinnacle of success for a modern singer of his Fach but has also contributed indelibly to the expansion of the reach, reception, and sheer appeal of countertenor singing. His assumption of the title rôle in Stefano Landi’s Il Sant'Alessio with Les Arts Florissants restored to that opera the authenticity of its original casting, and he has brought to a wide array of parts composed for legendary castrati both the appropriate gender identity and historically-informed instincts bolstered by the training and preparation of a modern singer. It is also no exaggeration to suggest that, with a discography containing many valuable recordings, Mr. Jaroussky has done nothing finer on disc than this portrayal of Steffani’s Anfione. In the proud monarch’s Act One duet with his obdurate consort, 'Sollievo del mio seno,' the countertenor’s voice gleams, and his singing of the aria 'Miratemi begl'occhi' is exquisite. Then, the concentrated emotion that he evinces in the accompagnato 'Dell'alma stanca' is contrasted with the subtlety of his performance of the aria 'Sfere amiche.' The grandeur that courses through Mr. Jaroussky’s account of 'Come padre, e come dio' recurs in his ardent singing in the duettino with Niobe, 'Mia fiamma, mio ardore.' In Act Two, self-righteousness emanates from his assured navigation of the vocal lines in the aria ‘Ascendo alle stelle,' and he phrases 'Dal mio petto o pianti uscite' with tremendous feeling. In terms of unadulterated virtuosity, the summit of Anfione’s musical Everest is the aria 'Trà bellici carmi.' The almost insouciant ease with which Mr. Jaroussky dispatches the frenzied coloratura is dazzling, as well as appropriate to the character’s psychological profile, but it is the pair of arias in Act Three—‘Hò perduta la speranza' and 'Spira già nel proprio sangue' with Niobe—that reveal the full spectrum of his gifts. The bright patina of Mr. Jaroussky’s voice is ideally suited to Anfione’s incandescent music: other singers might sing the part as well as he does on this recording, but it is impossible to imagine the rôle being sung better.

Québécoise soprano Karina Gauvin is one of the brightest stars shining in the Early Music firmament, and her performance of the title rôle in Niobe is often celestial. There are fleeting moments in which the voice sounds slightly heavy for the music, the singer’s deft handling of even the most fleet passagework notwithstanding. The prevailing sensibilities of her portrayal seem borrowed from the Nineteenth Century rather than the Seventeenth, but as the performance progresses it becomes ever clearer that this is a dramatic advantage. Instead of an over-complicated but ultimately one-dimensional heroine in the fashion of the ladies who populate Seventeenth-Century operas, Ms. Gauvin creates within the confines of Steffani’s music and Orlandini’s words a nuanced character who would not be out of place in a masterpiece of Donizetti’s maturity. This is not to imply that there is anything anachronistic in Ms. Gauvin’s singing: she consistently matches her colleagues’ stylishness but on a somewhat larger scale. In the Act One duet with Anfione, ‘Sollievo del mio seno,’ Ms. Gauvin and Mr. Jaroussky spar with legitimate regality, and the soprano’s assured singing of Niobe’s arias 'È felice il tuo cor' and 'Vorrei sempre vagheggiarti' sets the stage for the understated, self-serving eroticism of her voicing of her lines in the duettino with Anfione, 'Mia fiamma, mio ardore.' The stream of contempt that flows through the Act Two aria 'Qui la dea cieca volante' floods Ms. Gauvin’s singing without disturbing the tonal quality, and she soars through 'Stringo al seno un nume amante' with the words thrown like knives into the listener’s ears. The duetto with Creonte, 'T'abbraccio mia diva,' finds her at her most demure, the text wafted on a gentle zephyr of song. Niobe’s formidable dramatic challenges are in Act Three, and Ms. Gauvin proves a shrewd artist with untold stylistic resources at the ready. She produces a golden river of tone in the aria 'Amami, e vederai' before unleashing tempests of sentiment in 'Contro il Ciel' and 'In mezzo al armi.' She again unites with Mr. Jaroussky in 'Spira già nel proprio sangue,' their very different voices conveying conflicting emotions that in turn both bring Niobe and Anfione together and drive them apart. Ms. Gauvin assumes the dramatic weight of a Gluckian doomed heroine in her pained but controlled reading of 'Funeste imagini.' On the page, Orlandini’s Niobe is a woman who warrants only slightly more sympathy than Ovid’s, but in Ms. Gauvin’s performance she earns the mien of tragedy.

It must sometimes seem strange, especially to those observers whose primary musical interests are centered in later repertory, that such wealths of time, talent, and funding are devoted to the rediscovery and resurrection of operas like Agostino Steffani’s 1688 Niobe, regina di Tebe. Like any other aspect of life on earth, opera is cyclical: in terms of interest in a particular niche of operatic repertory, what goes around comes around. There are very practical factors contributing to the rebirths of forgotten operatic progeny of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, however. Foremost among those factors is the presence of singers like those heard on this recording, singers not only capable of singing music like Steffani’s but committed to singing it as Flagstad and Melchior sang Wagner and Tebaldi and Bergonzi sang Verdi. When recordings of standard repertory so often disappoint [perhaps Warner Classics’ forthcoming Aida with Anja Harteros and Jonas Kaufmann will defy this trend!], it is a recording like this superb encounter with Niobe, regina di Tebe that reminds Twenty-First-Century listeners that we do not dwell in a musical dessert parched of great singing. The watering holes are now perhaps a bit farther from the established trails and, rather than being named Elisabeth and Tannhäuser on the operatic map, are called Niobe and Anfione.

CD REVIEW: Giuseppe Verdi – IL TROVATORE (F. Labò, A. de Cavalieri, M. Morquio, J. Botto, J. Carbonnell; Bongiovanni HOC 085/86

GIUSEPPE VERDI (1813 – 1901): Il trovatore—Flaviano Labò (Manrico), Anna de Cavalieri (Leonora), María Mercedes Morquio (Azucena), Jorge Botto (Il Conte di Luna), Juan Carbonnell (Ferrando), Marita Perdomo (Ines), César Vicciconte (Un vecchio zingaro), José Luis Parma (Ruiz); Coro y Orquesta del Teatro Solís; Nino Stinco, conductor [Recorded ‘live’ in performance at the Teatro Solís, Montevideo, Uruguay, on 13 September 1964; Bongiovanni HOC 085/86; 2 CDs, 126:10; Available from Bongiovanni, ClassicsOnlineHD, Amazon, iTunes, jpc, Presto Classical, and major music retailers]

Once upon a time, composers composed, conductors conducted, singers sang, and musicians made music. These personages did these things in inevitable pursuits of livelihoods, but Verdi composed Falstaff, Mascheroni conducted it, Victor Maurel sang it, and the La Scala orchestra played it for reasons more noble than the necessity of earning paychecks. Also once upon a time, when the gorgeous Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires was an inevitable port of call on virtually every great singer’s grand tour, artistic merit frequently drifted across the Río de la Plata from Argentina to the less-pretentious Uruguayan capital, Montevideo, where many of the great performers that made the Teatro Colón an operatic Mecca also shared their gifts with Montevideo audiences. This 1964 performance of Giuseppe Verdi’s Il trovatore assembled in Montevideo’s Teatro Solís an international cast that in the 1960s might have seemed unexceptional to Londoners or New Yorkers but today epitomizes the clichéd suggestion that a performance with such a cast would now be the gold standard. Listening to this performance, it is obvious that this cast’s goal was providing the Montevideo audience with a memorable encounter with Verdi’s swashbuckling score. Can these dedicated performers have suspected that their goal would be achieved anew fifty-one years later?

Some sources indicate that this performance was conducted by Carlo Maria Giulini, whereas other sources state that Maestro Giulini was likely already in London for rehearsals of the watershed Covent Garden production of Il trovatore with Bruno Prevedi, Dame Gwyneth Jones, and Gulietta Simionato at the time of this performance in Montevideo. This release names Nino Stinco as the conductor of this Trovatore, and, contemporary documentation being elusive [the sole authoritative tome on musical life in the Uruguayan capital does not offer details about the 1964 Trovatore production], this is a credible attribution. In any event, the performance preserved on these discs sounds little like extant Giulini-led performances. Fortunately, the sound quality, while not high-fidelity, is good enough to permit appreciation of the vigor with which the performance is conducted. Neither the orchestral playing nor the choral singing is world-class, but Il trovatore does not need absolute perfection to make its points. The orchestra musicians play energetically, and the choristers sing the familiar Anvil Chorus, 'Vedi! le fosche notturne spoglie ​de' cieli sveste l'immensa vôlta,’ with gusto. No one attends a performance of Il trovatore solely to hear the orchestra or chorus, but the Montevideo forces do their national musical tradition proud.

In supporting rôles, Marita Perdomo, César Vicciconte, and José Luis Parma are reliably musical presences as Ines, the Old Gypsy, and Ruiz. [Mr. Parma is credited by Bongiovanni with having sung the part of the Messenger, while no singer is listed for Ruiz. Mr. Parma’s usual part in Il trovatore across the river in Buenos Aires was Ruiz, so it is more plausible that sources that allot him that rôle in the Montevideo performance are correct.] Bass Juan Carbonnell is an occasionally unsteady ​Ferrando who sometimes sounds like a refugee from a performance of a Rossini opera buffa. His singing of 'Di due figli vivea, padre beato, il buon conte di Luna' and 'Abbietta zingara, fosca vegliarda!'​ in Act One is spirited, and his and the choristers’ reaction to the tolling of midnight during his spooky storytelling is hilarious. A few imperfections notwithstanding, Mr. Carbonnell’s Ferrando is amusing and menacing in turn—just as Verdi surely intended him to be.

As the Conte di Luna, Uruguayan baritone Jorge Botto has nothing to fear from comparisons with the finest recorded interpreters of the rôle. As recorded here, the voice seems slightly small for the core Verdi baritone repertory, but Mr. Botto was an acclaimed Boccanegra in both Buenos Aires and Montevideo in an era in which audiences knew how an authentic Verdi baritone voice should sound. From his first entrance in Act One, he never emits an unattractive sound: in that regard, he is the rare Conte di Luna who is a suitor not unworthy of Leonora’s attention. He is also among the few recorded Conti who manage to successfully balance bluster and nobility in the Act One finale. Mr. Botto voices the impactful 'Di geloso amor sprezzato arde in me tremendo il fuoco!' with ideal stamina and style, making easy going of the high tessitura. Few—if any—audiences who hear performances of Il trovatore in 2015 will hear 'Il balen del suo sorriso d'una stella vince il raggio,' the Conte’s celebrated aria in Act Two, sung as well as Mr. Botto sings it here. The top Fs and Gs are produced with ease, and the bel canto melodic line is sculpted with unaffected artistry. Likewise, few baritones succeed as Mr. Botto does in making the de facto cabaletta 'Per me ora fatale, i tuoi momenti affretta, affretta' as effective in performance as ‘Il balen del suo sorriso.’ Act Three makes no demands of this fine singer that he fails to meet with charisma to spare, but, despite his superb rendition of his aria, Mr. Botto is at his best in Act Four. In the duets with Leonora, his handsome voice moves through the music with complete confidence, and in the opera’s final scene the suggestions of desperation and regret that his singing reveals indicate that this Conte truly loves Leonora rather than merely loving the notion of possessing her. Mr. Botto proves not only one of the most sympathetic Conti di Luna on disc but also one of the most musical.

Listeners who are acquainted with the much-discussed Azucena of Sylvia Sawyer, the elusive benefactress of complete recordings of Il trovatore, Aida, and Un ballo in maschera in which she sang the lead mezzo-soprano rôles, will know what to expect, at least to some extent, of the Azucena of María Mercedes Morquio. In this performance, Ms. Morquio’s vocalism is rarely poised or polished, but as the unhinged Azucena—as Pedro Almodóvar might put it, a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown—she is undeniably effective. There are no trills in her singing of ‘Stride la vampa,’ but she unleashes some exciting sounds above the stave; sounds, it must be admitted, that do not always reach Verdi’s indicated pitches. Still, the unforced power that she brings to ‘Condotta ell' era in ceppi al suo destin tremendo'​ is undeniably exhilarating. She ducks the written top C in 'Perigliarti ancor languente per cammin selvaggio ed ermo!' but veritably erupts with love and fear for her adopted son. In Act Three, the mounting agitation that Ms. Morquio evinces in her singing of 'Giorni poveri vivea, pur contenta del mio stato' and 'Deh! rallentate, o barbari, le acerbe mie ritorte' foreshadows the opera’s tragic conclusion. Her duet with Manrico in Act Four is crowned with an understated but evocative account of 'Ai nostri monti ritorneremo.' Few performances of Il trovatore seem to build to Azucena’s piercing cry of 'Sei vendicata, o madre!' in the opera’s final moments as inexorably as this one, and Ms. Morquio’s ferocious top B♭ ends the performance heartstoppingly.

​​Anna de Cavalieri (1924 – 2012)​, née Anne McKnight in Aurora, Illinois, is a steely, persuasive, and surprisingly moving Leonora. Introduced to the public by her brassy Musetta in the famed 1946 NBC performance of La bohème in which Arturo Toscanini paced Licia Albanese’s Mimì and Jan Peerce’s Rodolfo, she was a bonafide prima donna in Italian parts at New York City Opera before making her career in Italy, where her large repertory included rôles as dissimilar as Imogene in Bellini’s Il pirata and Puccini’s Turandot. Despite her near-native diction, she makes little of Leonora’s introductory recitative in Act One of this performance of Il trovatore, but when she sings ‘ascolta’ to Ines before launching her aria there is no question that she is to be obeyed. That aria, ‘Tacea la notte placida e bella in ciel sereno​,’ is sung ardently, the singer’s comfort with Verdi’s style growing with every successive phrase. ​She rushes the cadenza to avoid lingering at the top of the range, but the Allegro giusto cabaletta 'Di tale amor, che dirsi mal può dalla parola'​ finds her on confident, risk-taking form. When she reaches the Act One finale, Ms. de Cavalieri is soaring through Leonora’s music, and she and her colleagues bring the curtain down on Act One with singing that thrillingly combines virility with elegance. In the last minutes of Act Two, her voicing of 'E deggio e posso crederlo?' and the fine-spun 'Sei tu dal ciel disceso, o in ciel son io con te!' radiates femininity and the contrasting sensuality and religiosity that land Leonora in such a quandary. The performing edition used for this performance reduces Leonora to a stander-by in Act Three, but she opens Act Four with the aria 'D'amor sull'ali rosee vanne, sospir dolente,' one of the most demanding pieces in the Verdi canon. Ms. de Cavalieri gives a powerful account of the aria, making credible efforts at the trills and rising to a gritty but solid top C. Like many Leonoras, she opts out of the top D♭, cruelly approached from an interval of a tenth, but she delivers the cadenza ably. Her singing is filled with trepidation and fervor in the inventive ‘Miserere,’ making the excision of the cabaletta 'Tu vedrai che amore in terra mai del mio non fu più​ forte' particularly regrettable. Duetting with Mr. Botto’s lustful Conte in 'Mira, di acerbe lagrime spargo al tuo piede un rio!' and 'Vivrà​​! Contende il giubilo,'​ Ms. de Cavalieri wields spot-on staccati and white-out emotions. She is a Leonora for whom, like Ponchielli’s Gioconda (another part in which Ms. de Cavalieri excelled, incidentally), death is an act of defiance rather than defeat. In the haunting andante 'Prima che d'altri vivere io volli tua morir!' in the finale, nothing more than a fascinatingly-manipulated ascending scale, Ms. de Cavalieri completes Leonora’s transformation from haughty Spanish noblewoman to tragic heroine. Like Mr. Botto, she fosters a portrayal of her rôle that succeeds musically and dramatically more memorably than many more famous singers have managed to create.

A few months before traveling to Montevideo for this performance, Italian tenor Flaviano Labò (1927 – 1991) alternated with Richard Tucker, James McCracken, and Franco Corelli as Manrico at the Metropolitan Opera. Possessing a lean, sinewy voice with compelling squillo and technical prowess that allowed him to sing both lyric and spinto rôles without abusing the natural instrument, Mr. Labò was equally capable of sweetly wooing Mimì in La bohème, rejoicing at revolutionary victories in Tosca, and melting the title heroine’s icy heart in Turandot. As Montevideo’s Manrico, he combines the ringing masculinity of Pertile and Lauri-Volpi with the chivalry of Björling and Bergonzi. His clear, Italianate tone glistens even from afar in the romanza in Act One, 'Deserto sulla terra, sul rio destino in guerra,' which he caps with a sterling interpolated top B♭. He complements Ms. de Cavalieri’s and Mr. Botto’s mercurial singing in the the trio that ends the act. His marmoreal performance of 'Mal reggendo all'aspro assalto' in Act Two is searing, the top A hurled out with the brilliance of a meteor entering the earth’s atmosphere, and his lines in the Act Two finale are voiced with velvet-clad iron. The Mozartean aria in Act Three, 'Ah sì, ben mio, coll'essere io tuo, tu mia consorte,' is handled with manly finesse by Mr. Labò, who even bothers to approximate the trills for which Verdi asked. He also sings the ubiquitous cabaletta 'Di quella pira l'orrendo foco' at Verdi’s pitch, interpolating secure, pulse-quickening top Cs. Though the quality of his singing is very high throughout the performance, the tenor is on especially impressive form in Act Four. His despondent lines heard from offstage during the ‘Miserere’ are beguiling, and his interactions with Ms. Morquio’s Azucena are tender and resigned. It is apparent that this Manrico’s burst of anger when he believes that Leonora has betrayed him is born of love rather than pride and petulance. Mr. Labò ends the performance in the same fashion in which he started it: his Manrico faces execution as courageously as he first came to Leonora’s defense and sings spectacularly all the while.

It seems unfathomable that this thoroughly satisfying Trovatore would likely have been deemed provincial a half-century ago: as Mary Hopkin sang in 1968, those were the days, my friends. Perhaps along the banks of the Río de la Plata in 1964 it was thought that they would never end. Now, hearing a performance as quenching as this Montevideo Il trovatore, how distant they seem!