Somewhere along the way, Melitone morphed from baritono brillante to basso buffo, at least in the U.S. It can work. In the ’40s, Salvatore Baccaloni made a meal of it (he’s on the Walter performance, his roomy, essentially cantante instrument still much as it was for his splendid Glyndebourne Leporello on the first complete recording of Don Giovanni), and in the ’50s and ’60s Fernando Corena’s big, biting voice and deft, specific comic playing carried his scenes through. But it’s a clumsy fit—the role lies well up in baritone tessitura, and compromises are necessary to avoid crash-and-burn ugliness. In the Met’s ’52 production (a bit late for Baccaloni, too soon for Corena), Gerhard Pechner, an excellent Alberich, Beckmesser, and Klingsor who on occasion slid sideways to a Bartolo or Sacristan, sang the premiere, and he brought his good energy, high professionalism, and substantial but dry, thick sound down to New Orleans. Very respectable, but rather laborious.

Renato Capecchi began his career as a leading baritone. He came to the Met in the early ’50s with Enricos and Marcellos. He’s Iago on a film with Del Monaco and Carteri. As late as 1959, he recorded Rigoletto. But it was as a character baritone and bass that he made his mark, and he pretty much staked claim to Melitone, which he sings on both these Italian performances as well as the studio recording with Callas. He was a superb actor, both of voice and of body—it’s a special pleasure to see his work on the video. But still: Now this scene! And right after that one! Honestly, if one is to cut anything in Forza (which I’d prefer not to advocate), make it the sermon! What’s supposed to be funny is Melitone’s belief that the ghastly wordplay taken over from the German source is actually clever—that he’s scoring rhetorical points—and the reactions of the battlecamp crowd to his haranguing. The former is almost impossible to convey while singing demanding stuff, and the latter registers as doofus or just mean. Capecchi surmounts the range, but there’s a surfeit of shaky tone to go with the nattering and spluttering. Even in these good hands, it’s wearying.

And so, for a brief glance at RCA Victor/1976 (year of release). With one’s ear conditioned to the sound of 1950s performances, live, mono, it’s of course a feeling of emergence en plein air to be hearing the score in studio stereo. And we’ve got the LSO, a superior orchestra though not an operatic one, and the very talented cast I listed above, and re-takes. So there is much to enjoy and admire. I’ll keep the album in my house. Still, to Richard Slade’s feeling of something gone wrong, or let’s say missing, which I share (and full disclosure: I didn’t listen to the whole thing. I hit the great spots, sampled the less-great ones. With the ’50s in my ear, it didn’t hold me tight):

I discuss Levine at such length in my book, and feel so disconsolate about him and his works at present, that I’m not up for much in the way of extended comment. His reading, in combination with his orchestra here and the studio ambience, leave me with a very familiar feeling—one of spiffy execution, clean textures, rational tempi, gestural choices that sound more aesthetic than dramatic despite having good energy. Nothing “wrong,” nothing you can pin blame on. Just the sense, as we go along, that not much is really landing. (For some interesting thoughts on Levine, and reactions thereto, you might take a look at Joseph Horowitz’s recent post on artsjournal.com., with some fallout at Norman Lebrecht’s slippeddisc.com.)