Opera
Backing Britten
Rupert Christiansen chooses his opera recordings of the year here is absolutely no doubt as to the outstanding operatic recording of the year: Britten's Gloriana (Argo). This magnificent work was notoriously commissioned for the 1953 Coronation celebrations and has been reeling from the misfortune ever since. Only now, I think, has it broken free of its initial sticky occasion, and I have high hopes that Opera North's forthcoming pro- duction (which I shall review here in the New Year) will vindicate it as one of the composer's masterpieces.
Meanwhile, what talent Argo has prodi- gally lavished on it: Sir Charles Mackerras at his most electrically committed, the Orchestra and Chorus of WNO his flawless servants, alongside a cast drawn from the cream of our singers — in which Yvonne Kenny and Philip Langridge surpass them- selves — and impeccable engineering from the backroom boys. My only slight reserva- tion relates to the performance of that admirable soprano, Josephine Barstow, in the title role. She captures the brisk, headmistressy-handbaggy aspect of the librettist's version of Elizabeth I all too well, but she doesn't make me believe in the lonely dying woman beneath the hollow crown, and the spitting D'Oyly Carte preci- sion of her diction does rather hit you in the eye.
Comparison with Leontyne Price's ver- sion of the Act I monologue — to be found on the re-released Leontyne Price: The Prima Donna Collection (RCA Victor) — is revealing. Barstow sounds as though she is addressing her gels at morning assembly. Price, on the other hand, is smouldering in her bedroom, a dangerous glow of power- hungry sexuality. Needless to say, I am drawn irresistibly thither. The Price recital discs, incidentally, are altogether unmiss- able, all four of them stuffed with X-rated, G-spot pleasure (what she does with Thais's mirror song is beyond Madonna's most fevered imaginings), and a welcome reminder of a great post-war diva sadly unappreciated in this country. No soprano today sings the High Romantic repertory with such wild, free and generous warmth and imagination.
Back to Britten and business: I enjoyed the new Peter Grimes, conducted by Haitink (EMI), but can't see it replacing the original Pears recording in my affec- tions: Anthony Rolfe Johnson is too civilised a Grimes, for one thing. The reis- sued Owen Wingrave (Decca) is riveting. A minor part of the canon, undeniably (all that gamelan clanging is ill-suited to the country-house ambience), but how tautly the drama is realised by the composer's chosen cast. Less happy is the new A Mid- summer Night's Dream (Virgin), beautifully conducted by Richard Hickox but marred by some creaky, over-the-top singing in roles which should coruscate with youthful brilliance. Not a word against James Bow- man's Oberon or Lilian Watson's Titania, however — both are every bit as spooky and glittery as they were live. Elsewhere, the best overall recording, I thought, was Tchaikovsky's Pique Dame (Philips). The all-Russian cast does an excellent job — without throwing up any single outstanding performance — and Valet), Cergiev, the conductor, brings out all the orchestral and melodic richness of the score, as well as its undercurrent of restless, neurotic tension. This is one of the great operas of the 19th century in my view — the apotheosis of melodrama, as thrilling as it is chilling. Which could not be said of Rossini's Cenerentola, given an attractive performance on Decca's new recording, fizzily conducted by Riccardo Chailly. In the title role is Cecilia Bartoli. To date, I have been disappointed by her showing in the opera house, but in recital and on record she has emerged as one of the indubitably significant singers of our age. She's not just a pretty voice. Did Marilyn Horne or Teresa Berganza sing Rossini with such character and colour? Could Conchita Supervia command half of her technical armoury? Did any of them articulate Italian with such clarity? As Cenerentola, Bartoli is both touching and dazzling. I have never heard Non piu mesto taken at such headlong speed: yet in Bar- toli's throat this is no empty athletic feat more an exhilarating whoop of joy. Won- derful, wonderful stuff. And I should also recommend la Bartoli's two recital records, also on Decca, Se to m'ami and Italian Songs (with Andras Schiff the responsive pianist). The Haydn cantata on the latter is ravishing.
Another favourite of mine, the American soprano Cheryl Studer, is seraphic on an otherwise so-so Verdi Requiem, conducted by Abbado, but embarrassingly miscast in Lucia di Lammermoor (both on DG). Another big disappointment is Waltrud Meier's Dalila on EMI's Samson et Dalila, passionately conducted by Myung-Whun Chung, with Domingo her seasoned Sam- son. Meier is so erotically potent as Kundry in Parsifal that I thought that this biblical siren would be a natural for her — but in the big arias she sounds hectoring rather than seductive, the vampish silk and satin of Saint-Saens' gorgeous melodies kept locked in an iron grip, the wispy French vowels rasped.
Of the four new recordings of La Travia- ta, I listened only to Philips's version star- ring Kiri Te Kanawa and conducted by Zubin Mehta: it is a pleasant surprise. Kiri is never less than effective, and in the last scene performs with an abandon that she doesn't often display on stage. Dmitri Hvorostovsky makes a strong Germont what an impeccable Verdian legato he can spin — and Mehta goes less hell-for- leather than usual. The blot on the set is Alfredo Kraus's Alfredo. For someone of 65 or so, his tenor may be in good nick, but you can hear that he's had a face-lift and wears a corset, if you see what I mean.
Two other veterans, Mirella Freni and Luciano Pavarotti, do rather better on Decca's Manon Lescaut, conducted by James Levine with the forces of the Metropolitan Opera in support. Both principals are in their late fifties and the leaves are falling. Some of the sexual rap- ture is an arthritic effort, but their sheer craft (in both senses of the word) dis- arms criticism. Listen to what Freni makes of one word, `orribilmente', at the beginning of Act IV, and you will hear what we old fogeys think of as the grand style dead now, alas, except in the art of such as her.
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