All these are, of course, rewarding to hear (Ilosfalvy is actually my favorite among them when it comes to operetta—and if this seems a loner’s choice, sample those Hungarian recordings). But when we harken back to Tauber, we realize that they are, to greater or lesser extent, on the outside looking in. This is especially true where Lehár is concerned. There cannot have been a more mutually beneficial tenor/composer collaboration in the history of such than the Lehár/Tauber one, the singer immediately eclipsing all other advocates of the composer’s music, and the composer assessing with precision the nature of the singer’s voice, technique, and temperament, and writing directly to those. (Pears and Britten come to mind, but with nothing like the same penetration into the culture at large.) This is evident the moment we encounter the two takes of the beguiling “Schatz, ich bitt’ dich, komm noch heut’” from Frasquita, with its melting-into-air ascending line (Disc 1 of TT-4012, second take slightly the better). Creator and interpreter are in each other’s hands, and none this twain shall sever. Co-conspiring is the conductor, Erich Wolfgang Korngold, who knew from Schmalz himself. On TT-4013 is a series of five excerpts from Paganini (two of them given second takes), including the hit Tauberlied “Gern hab’ ich die Frau’n geküsst.” In three of these, Tauber is joined by Carlotta Vanconti, whose full operetta-soprano voice (probably somewhat limited at both extremes, but lovely) and idiomatic manner make for a good match with the Tauber voice and style—there’s much charm in their exchanges, both in the songs of the romantic leads and one of the “second couple.” Vanconti is also Tauber’s partner in two duet scenes from Kalmán’s Gräfin Maritza, so similar in overall mode to Lehár’s language, and there are two freestanding songs of Lehár’s, Erste Liebe and Wenn eine schöne Frau befiehlt.
The world of these songs, and in particular its view of romance, has no doubt lost its appeal for many. The notion of the roaming seductive male greeting us with his “I’m here, you lucky people!” and his teasingly resistant, then succumbing partner, is easily pegged as predatory, and the atmosphere of aristocratic Continental sophistication in which all these doings are enfolded can be seen as naught but the fripperies of unearned privilege. In that light, the verse of “Als flötter Geist” (Barinkay’s big entrance song in J. Strauss’ Zigeunerbaron, here along with a pair of songs from Eine Nacht in Venedig) might seem hectoring. And that Frasquita number’s usual English title is “Girls were made to love and kiss.” Women of the hashtag, how does that strike you? If you have even a smidgen of susceptibility, though, Tauber will take you back there, and it might feel surprisingly nice.
To be clear: Truesound offers no Marston-style bells and whistles, no biographical or analytic materials. There are just neatly printed folded sheets of recording info, down to date and place and exact speeds of originals, tucked into the sleeves of the blue gatefold albums. But the sequencing is all-inclusive, and these are high-quality transfers.
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Our Tenor No. 33 is none other than Jussi Björling. He comes to us (or to me, rather—the disc was issued in 2016) on a CD from JSP Records, released in cooperation with the Jussi Björling Society. It comprises Björling’s recital of Oct. 15, 1959 in the then-recently opened Falkoner Centret Concert Hall in Copenhagen, which places it nine months before he recorded (incomparably, vocally speaking) the best-known Tauberlied of all, “Dein ist mein ganzes Herz,” for the gala sequence in the Victor/Karajan Fledermaus, and less than a year before his death. This is an event that had had no prior release, from a tape restored by Seth B. Winner, and has as a bonus a previously unreleased Voice of Firestone broadcast (Mar. 10, 1952), restored by John C. Haley.
Björling did not vary his recital programming much over the years of his international career, though when he sang for Scandinavian audiences, songs of Scandinavian composers would figure a little more strongly in the mix. Nor did he fuss much with an interpretation once arrived at, or adapt his technique (there was hardly any need), except for acceding to the very gradual diminution at the top—by 1959, with health growing ever more precarious, he was in effect another B-flat tenor. So on a recording of a typical Björling event (of which there are many), one listens primarily to fill out the historico/biographical record of one of the pre-eminent tenors of the 20th Century, apart from the pleasure of once again hearing the unique timbre and (awful expression, I know) skill set. Here, though, grouped near the beginning of the program, are several selections which, though known to Jussi specialists as occasional recital choices, I don’t believe I’ve heard from him before. He leads with Tamino’s aria (in Swedish), of which he is in full command, taking us at least partway back to the time when dramatic or Jugendlich tenors (Slezak, Urlus, Jörn, Rosvaenge) sang this role, and giving the character some spine along with lyric tenderness. There are also thoughtfully laid-out traversals of Liszt’s Es muss ein Wunderbares sein and Wolf’s Verborgenheit, a mere flick sending the voice cleanly from phrase to phrase, as well as a matured singing of Brahms’ Die Mainacht, followed by Schubert’s Die Forelle (overly fast, and in need of more of the storytelling instinct) and Die böse Farbe—these last two songs always seemed perfunctory to me in Bjōrling’s voicings, though never poorly sung. Then there’s a Scandinavian group (standard Sibelius and Grieg items), of which Alfvén’s Skogen sover stands out, its opening and closing first emerging, then vanishing magically, from and to silence. Of the two operatic arias scheduled, the Carmen Flower Song is the closer to Björling’s earlier form, one or two abrupt releases and a rather muscled climb to the B-flat being the only symptoms of any loss of freshness. The other, “Come un bel dì di Maggio” from Andrea Chénier, was never a terribly sensible idea for him, though he sang it often.