Merriman, the lively Dorabella of the von Karajan and Jochum recordings of Così fan tutte, was a favorite of Toscanini’s. A quite-out-of-fashion rapid vibrato and, I surmise, some limitation at the top kept her from achieving star status. But the voice is a full, deep mezzo with quickness of movement and smooth access to a vibrant chest voice. She sings with passion in the scene with the Furies, with settled sustainment in “Che puro ciel,” and with a classically expressive use of the Italian language throughout. Reviewing a recording of Aïda, I once called the Robert Shaw Chorale “the best darned glee club ever.” And there’s no mistaking that open American tone that doesn’t ever quite sound like that of an opera chorus. There is also no mistaking the unerring attack, rhythmic responsiveness, and balancing and tuning of choirs that Shaw elicited from his troops over several decades. They set up a handsome wall of sound at the Gates of Hades.

I am not sure where the tradition arose of assigning that beautiful opening solo of Euridice’s (here sung as  “Questo asilo di placide calme”) at the opening of the Elysium scene to “A Happy Shade.” Dramatically, it makes some sense—our first sighting of Euridice is then her supposedly entrancing entrance when she is returned to her husband near the end of the act. In any case, Toscanini introduced this use of a second soprano at the Met with the 1909 production, and since it endured there into the 1960s, Toscanini probably had it in mind for his broadcast concert. For it he chose Barbara Gibson. Her voice is somewhat lower-set than Féraldy’s, and so not quite as comfortable with the tricky top A-naturals. (Féraldy just sings them out, whereas Gibson holds them back—perhaps Toscanini still had Alma Gluck in his ear.) But Gibson’s tone is also a little richer in timbre, and she sings with flowing line.

Without prejudice toward any of the latterday recordings, most of which I have not heard, I would encourage curiosity about these two, particularly when in search of performance elements that might give Orpheus a fair hearing in the wide open spaces of our major venues.

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Further to my last post: I have had interesting responses to my essay on Porgy and Bess, from critical colleagues and working professionals familiar with the opera in practical terms, that seem to merit extension of the discussion. The most substantial is in published form, from Joseph Horowitz, who takes up several of my observations from the p.o.v. of an author on intimate terms with Porgy and favorably inclined toward the vision of original director Rouben Mamoulian, who saw Porgy as a highly stylized “miracle play,” and who strongly influenced the creation of the work in real time, not least in the case of the so-called “double ending” that leaves some of us not quite sure what we feel. His article is at artsjournal.com.—go to porgy-take-four.

From the other reactions, two things are clear: everyone (in this small sample) wants to like Porgy and Bess, and does in certain respects. And everyone has some trouble, an unsettlement, with it as a whole. “Entranced by the songs, but I have my problems with the opera;” “Excited” at the start, but finding it “overwrought” by the end; “What complicated reactions this piece brings about in us!” are typical comments. A few nuggets of information were conveyed, viz., that the obtrusive dancing to which I took strong exception had been added after the production’s run at ENO—a special treat just for us Metgoers; that the set had worked somewhat better on the London Coliseum stage than on the Met’s (this an opinion of course, but one I can readily credit); that Clara declined her lovely (if so rendered) descent from high B at the end of “Summertime” on orders from the forthcoming critical edition of the score; and that one verse of Crown’s “A Red-Headed Woman” was indeed sung at the Met, which means either that I had been pounded into utter neutrality by that time (in that case, apologies due), or that an additional little snip had been taken by the time my performance of October 16 rolled around. A couple of the correspondents lay blame on the conducting of David Robertson for overly quick tempi in some of the songs, for a stiffness or clunkiness of rhythm and an absence of jazz feel, or for poor balances between onstage utterance and accompanimental gesture. I did not address the orchestral component at all in my post, since I was preoccupied with the production and with the rendering of the central relationship. Without necessarily disagreeing with these observations (especially the last one, which also bothered me—but I think that at spots the writing is not easy to overcome in this regard), I felt the show had more musical life and point than it had in the earlier Met production, conducted by James Levine.