These are all among the later singers of the thirty-one, benefiting aesthetically from more advanced recording technology, but also from a general migration away from the baritenor model I described above. As for the earlier generation, I should first note that when McCormack’s three songs come up, we are in a more elevated realm of tonal beauty and virtuosity of technique, as well as a quite different structure of voice, than we are with the rest. Without intending any slight toward the others, several of whom are very accomplished, I’d like to pick two who were previously unknown to me, and two more who illustrate extremes of vibrato, for some attention. The first, evidently obscure even among aficionados of the practice, is Herbert Teale, who delivers a “Thou shalt break them” of strong tone, convincing dramatic accent, and impressive impetus and accuracy in the florid divisions. The second is Frank Titterton, who brings to what is barely more than a novelty ballad (Davy’s The Bay of Biscay, which like Braham’s own two contributions is a souvenir of maritime Empire) a manly tone, command of range and dynamic shading, and story-telling enthusiasm that’s lots of fun to listen to. Vibrato: while as I stated at the outset, most of these singers show an admirable consistency in this regard, when there are deviations it is usually in the direction of a deficiency, the blue ribbon for which goes to Charles Saunders, who bashes his way through “The enemy said” (Israel in Egypt) in all blunt security (except for a nip-and-tuck scramble for the A at the close) with nary a flicker of life in his substantial tone. On the opposite end of the spectrum is Frank Mullings, an Otello, Canio, etc. whom Shaw might have dismissed as a “goatbleater.” And though it does take a tolerance for a continuous narrow quiver in the tone to hear him out, he sings a sentimental strain of Clutsam’s (“I know of two bright eyes”) with deep yet unweighted tone, finish of phrase and ease with modest graces, and a high mezza-voce “produced apparently in the chest”—an interesting voice and artist.

Apart from the oratorio and related concert-work extracts (I don’t quite know where to place such creations as Coleridge-Taylor’s Hiawatha’s Wedding Feast or the Elgar King Olaf) and the few from English opera, the set proffers two versions each of two old favorites—Liza Lehmann’s fragrant “Ah, moon of my delight” (from In a Persian Garden, which might qualify as song cycle or as cantata), of which I prefer Hubert Eisdell’s to Sidney Coltham’s, and the Berceuse from Godard’s Jocelyn, with Hirwen Jones’ both more able-bodied and better reproduced than Gregory Hast’s. And I am always intrigued by Ruby Helder, “The Lady Tenor,” represented here by a rather compelling song of Ciro Pinsutti’s, The Last Watch, which she sings with her customary centered, steady, cleanly pitched tone (convincingly “gathered” above the passaggio) and admirable finish of phrase.

There are other singers, other songs, and while I’m familiar with only a minority of them on 78  or in other transfers, all are presented in the well-restored sound and with the highly knowledgeable documentation that we have come to expect from the Marston label. The set will, I’m sure, long remain the definitive resource for devotees with an interest in this portion of our vocal and musical legacy.

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Two things attracted me to the recent release of a pair of volumes in a Richard Tauber series from Truesound Transfers, a Berlin-based company specializing in acoustical-era restorations. One was their previous issue of the recordings of Margarethe Siems, the Dresden assoluta so associated with Richard Strauss premieres, in sound markedly better than I’d previously heard from her “difficult” records. The other was the realization that I hadn’t listened to Tauber, or to much of the repertory in which he most excelled, for all too long. So when Volumes 2 and 3 of Truesound’s Tauber project (TT-4012 and 4013) came on the scene, I put in an order. (I have not heard Vol. 1, and don’t know if the series is extending further.) These are two-CD albums, covering all of Tauber’s sessions from March, 1923 through May, 1926—84 tracks in all, including a few retakes—thus proceeding methodically through his output from these early-prime years. All are from Odeon originals, some recorded in Vienna, but the majority at the Lindström studios in Berlin-Kreuzberg, and despite the relatively late date of the final sessions, all are acoustical process.