The conductor was Daniele Rustioni, who led a sufficiently energetic performance that had no serious letdowns or eccentricities, if no special insights or surges of passion. As he and Beczala jounced through their unobjectionable but uneventful “Questa o quella,” I wondered how and when we’d grown accustomed to a more or less metronomic recitation at a tempo just a shade too fast for the one-speed-fits-all tenor to have his pleasure with articulations and effects of dynamic and color beyond a few of those diminuendos, now apparently the default marker of technical aplomb. I also asked myself if this introductory song, marked con eleganza but with ample leeway for whatever bravura gestures a particular voice and technique might command, is not the place—and intended as such—for us to be given strong hints about what sort of guy we have on our hands, as both character and singer. After all, although the Rigoletto/Gilda relationship is the one we will care most deeply about, the drama starts right here.

I knew well that the straight-ahead jog had been in place from the time of my earliest Rigoletto outings, when world-class tenors like Bjoerling, Tucker, and Peerce (and even Italians, e.g., Tagliavini and di Stefano) pushed on through under a selection of conductors of greater or lesser reputation. I even recalled that, in the early years of this century, I had heard Rolando Villazon, a singer who had certainly shown both an awareness of oral tradition and interpretive ambition, given no room for either (indeed, lashed along to the point of impending vocal cramp) under the baton of Placido Domingo, who had himself sung the role. But just when, I wondered, had this anonymity, this lack of “face” in all respects except vocal format and timbre, become acceptable? So I listened to a baker’s dozen recorded versions of the piece, some live, some studio, none of them unknown to me but none recently refreshed, covering roughly the first half of the last century. Not an exhaustive exploration, but a fair sampling, and the answer is that there is no definable “when.” Some of the earliest recordings are quite straightforward, while some later ones offer easements. The two most distinct from each other are those of Enrico Caruso (1908) and Sergei Lemeshev (1940).^(I) They are also—not coincidentally, I think—the slowest. Caruso uses the time to wrap his already lusty tenor (somewhere between spinto and di forza) around all the turns and graces, creating an image of a man whose warmth, enthusiasm, and masculine drive would be overpowering in themselves, yet who possesses a full arsenal of aristocratic niceties—an irresistible combination. Lemeshev, pronouncedly lyrical, with a more filled-out lower octave than his compatriot Ivan Kozlovsky but the same kind of clear ring above the passaggio, inflects the Russian text with the utmost refinement, a delicacy that at moments approaches effeminacy. Yet, with his long, tingling B-flat in the standard mini-cadenza, followed by a balletic final flourish, he leaves the impression of a hypersensitive man, a sophisticated connoisseur and appreciator of feminine aesthetics, who has a sudden, dominant move in reserve when that is needed. Both Caruso and Lemeshev, in their vastly different ways, leave no doubt as to their divo credentials. At approximately the midpoint between them is Dino Borgioli, the Duke of Columbia’s c. 1930 complete recording, conducted by the resident maestro of that series, Lorenzo Molajoli. Less extravagant than Lemeshev’s, less robust than Caruso’s, his full, supple lyric tenor can expand beautifully into the top, then drop back to a soft, subtle touch without losing the line. He and Molajoli take a tempo somewhat quicker that the other two, but with ample elasticity for comings and goings always derived from a controlled messa di voce. The sense of elegant dalliance is never intruded upon, but also never kills the momentum. Fortunately, both Borgioli and Lemeshev recorded the role complete (though with a few cuts now customarily restored), and while Caruso didn’t do that, he left versions of “Parmi veder,” “Bella figlia dell’amore,” and “La donna è mobile,” in addition to the “Questa o quella,” giving us a pretty fair idea of the impression he must have made.