But then, Caruso never sang safely. He survived two early-twentieth-century operations for vocal-cord nodes or polyps and, after short recovery periods, came right back at it with full animal force. The surest safety is in structural strength and elasticity, and throughout his singing life the same ligamentous webbing that took the brunt of his fiercest fortes could in the next moment spin off the tenderest of intimate inflections. In exploring the legacy, its important to listen to good copies — prime-condition originals, judiciously processed by a musical ear alert to the always-troublesome matter of recording speeds and possible transpositions. I like best the complete series on Naxos, in restorations by Ward Marston. Here are notes on a couple of things to listen for that happened to strike me this time through a selection of the recordings: Impertinence: try the aforementioned Questa o quella, or Rossinis La Danza, or the 1905 brindisi from Cavalleria, with its astonishing wide-open, long-held wraparound lead-in to the Gs on VI-va at the launch and return of the main tune, then an interpolated C that cant decide between falsetto and full voice — an almost Koslovskyesque moment. Speaking of the high C and falsetto: by and large, Caruso was a B-natural tenor. Incorporating the C into a voice of this depth and prismatic span is asking a bit much, and Caruso sometimes transposed a half-step, either for the note itself (such as the bone-crushing Bs in Di quella pira) or for the tessitura. However, theres a superbly balanced C in Salut, demeure — almost a voix-mixte, but certainly connected — and a fine, full-throated one in Spirto gentil. He commanded an exemplary half-voice (not the detached fakery or radio mezza-voce of many another) that he could carry up through the B-flat when necessary (the Aida tomb scene or the end of Je crois entendre encore), but he would occasionally deploy falsetto for delicate effects at the top. Apart from the Cujus animam D-flat (not delicate), hear the perfectly graduated final ascent in Magiche note (Goldmarks Regina di Saba), sung in an exquisitely controlled mezza-voce and held-in full voice until the penultimate pianissimo B (still a touch of vibrato), then the concluding C (pure falsetto, no vibrato). Other facets of Carusos singing would well merit discussion, but these will have to do here. As for the eye, you can read the biographies (there are several now), study the many photographs and view the film My Cousin (packaged with a nice A&E documentary), wherein Caruso plays two contrasting roles not noticeably worse than many run-of-the-mill silent-movie actors and displays an effusive emotionality in a staged Pagliacci sequence. Or you can go for memorabilia. On a quiet residential street in Brooklyn theres a neat, modest house with a plaque beside the door that reads Enrico Caruso Museum. Up the stairs are three rooms of collectibles, nearly all Carusiana, and a little screening room. There are photos (one, the very last taken and never published, showing Carusos true condition a few days before his death), letters, caricatures and paintings and busts, programs, costume items and personal effects. Its an extraordinary collection, the lifelong passion of Cav. Uff. Aldo Mancusi, who takes small groups through it by appointment and on many Sundays conducts programs and lectures. Aldo will share his extensive knowledge with you and perhaps play something on one of the several early cylinder or disc machines in the collection. You will leave with a warm feeling of having touched the life and times of a gargantuan artist and personality, but also with the realization that legacies are fragile: Aldo is getting along now, and the future of his collection is undecided. spacer
Posted on: Mon, 24 Mar 2014 09:38:28 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015