Sonics: Both performances are derived from AM mono radio sources, and so show the limitations in frequency and dynamic range (particularly on the lower and quieter ends, respectively, and affecting the orchestral and choral contributions more than the solo voices), as well as the variations in positioning relative to the mike, of all such material. That will not deter collectors of historical broadcasts, especially inasmuch as both releases rate average or above in these respects for the time and place. The ’39 transmission is somewhat fuller and more present most of the time, and at moments cleaner, and this clearly has to do with the quality of the source material, not its processing. Richard Caniell was in charge of restoration in both cases, in ’39 for Naxos (following, I would gather, a somewhat standardized format for that label’s historical series), and in ’43 for his own label, Immortal Performances. As he explains in the accompanying booklet, some of the deterioration in the ’43 American network broadcast (over ABC; the ’39 was carried by NBC and the recording taken from that network’s transcription discs) was so serious that it was necessary to patch in passages from a separate Spanish-language recording intended for South American airing. This has been done neatly, and the proceedings are eminently listenable throughout.

Conducting: ’39: The Argentinian Ettore Panizza, assistant to Toscanini at La Scala decades earlier and de facto head of the Met’s Italian wing after the departure of Tullio Serafin, was, as all hearers of his performances of Otello, Simon Boccanegra, Aïda, Rigoletto, and La Traviata will recognize, a wonderful Verdi conductor and firm but empathetic collaborator with singers; his presence was no doubt a source of comfort and security to Pinza and several of his colleagues, who sang under him so often. There is ample thrust and alacrity in his reading, and both orchestra and chorus are musically and dramatically responsive; it’s a much-better-than-routine traversal. Yet this doesn’t feel like quite his métier. There isn’t the sense of span and weight to completely fulfill the work’s epic stature, even as we allow for the sonic limitations.

’43: Those limitations are if anything a mite more stringent here, yet George Szell cuts through them with a stronger sense of structure and portent. It’s a graver, more sharply delineated reading, with a stronger sense of dramatic suspense and accent—for an example of the former, listen to the pulse under the Varlaam/Dimitri/Hostess dialogue, then the weaving strings and low-woodwind comment under Varlaam’s little drunk-to-passing-out song as the tense developments of the Inn Scene proceed; of the latter, the heavy pizzicatos over the descending line, swelling with import, that leads into the Monologue. I’ve never before cared for Szell as an opera conductor, for all his mastery. But this is good.

And so to the singers, those of 1939 to the left of the slash marks, those of 1943 to the right, and in approximate descending order of stage time:

Pimen: Nicola Moscona/Nicola Moscona. A leaning toward tonal mushiness and looseness, more pronounced as the 1940s gave way to the ’50s and beyond, is all that kept this fine voice, of ample size and splendid quality, from attaining the leading basso status of a Pinza or Pasero. He was a musical interpreter of dignity and sensitivity, with a strong sense of verbal expression and shading, and knew how to take the stage when his turn came. So he was a splendid choice for this role in his early prime, as here. His back-of-throat way with certain vowel/consonant combinations, presumably owed to his linguistic background, even adds a Russified touch to his formation of Italian. Both the chronicle recitation of the Cell Scene and the slowly building narration of the Uglitch miracle are authoritatively shaped. There is little to choose between the two performances, but the whole voice/language package seems to settled a little deeper into mind and body in the later one.