When I saw Victoria de los Angeles do this role, I was somewhat disappointed. It seemed that between the set of the Mozart line and an aspiration to dignity and refinement in the character, the part constrained her, and neither her voice nor her personality had the freedom and release of her wonderful Manon or Marguerite. I can hear that problem here, and Reiner—and it’s odd, coming from him—gets her off to a poor start with a draggy, lugubrious introduction and accompaniment to “Porgi amor.” Her laid-back approach sometimes goes along with a slight flatness of pitch, too. But it’s a superior voice, in basically healthy condition, and she rouses herself for a well-sung allegro to the “Dove sono.” The remainder of the female side of the cast is American, headed by Nadine Connor as Susanna. She was a lyric soprano of high competence, the middle octave of her range strong and the upper one pretty, though at times detached-sounding, and she had absorbed all the role’s standard interpretive moves, which she projects energetically. Mildred Miller, just then assuming her deserved place as the house’s go-to “pants-role” mezzo (excepting Octavian, on which Stevens had fastened a lock) sings a strong, smooth, true-to-pitch Cherubino. The booming contralto Jean Madeira is a Marcellina of the fearsome-dowager variety, her vocal command volatile.

Aware that I would be taking leave of performances strongly under Italian influence, at least on the male side, I sneaked a peek at fragments of the all-Italian 1951 Cetra performance, with  the RAI Rome orchestra under Fernando Previtali. First fragment: the opening scene, up through Bartolo’s aria. Figaro: Italo Tajo. His full, lovely bass and relaxed, witty treatment of song and recitative are sources of high enjoyment. Susanna: Alda Noni. She’s my primary reason for checking in on this Figaro, because I recalled her Susanna as one unafflicted by the cutes, though spirited. Memory correct. Test line: her exit with “Tu sei pazzo,” sung on the button, with clear intent, matter-of-factly, like a practical young woman mature for her age, and thus without the squealy accent adopted by so many Susannas of all schools, styles, and nationalities, because they think they “know what kind of play they’re in.” Bartolo: Corena, in the first of several recordings of the role, everything already in place, though not yet quite with the “star cameo” air they soon took on. (Reminder: these Cetra RAI recordings are radio studio performances. That always changes things.) Second fragment: late in the Act 2 finale, beginning with Figaro’s entrance at “Signori, di fuori,” etc. Reason: recollection of the Antonio of Christiano Dalamangas, the most seriously characterized, and thus the funniest, Antonio of my listening experience. Correct again—the scene kicks right in. (He’s also hilarious as Bartolo’s narcoleptic servant on the well-cast Fasano recording of Paisiello’s Barbiere.) Further observation: Previtali’s slower-than-average tempi may drag on the performance as a whole, but in this sequence they have the virtue of allowing  these singers, who do know what they mean, to fully register their exchanges. And that’s Sesto Bruscantini as the Count. I am tempted to re-acquaint myself more thoroughly. Finally: this is the earliest of these recordings to employ the harpsichord, which plays it straight but is nicely present.

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Despite its venue (Vienna, the Sofiensaal) and orchestra (the VPO), I’m calling the ’59 Victor studio effort for the New York team because, except for the smallest roles (Antonio, Barbarina, and the two Peasant Girls, taken by Staatsoper singers), the entire cast and the conductor are Met regulars of that time. Of the main singers, only the Countess (della Casa), the Bartolo (Corena) and the Basilio/Curzio tenor (Gabor Carelli) are not American. And it’s a lineup of heavy hitters, top to bottom. But we are drifting in a void, in the style of no style, the school of no school, passing through a cafeteria line of identities. In RCA’s bright, one-dimensional sound (horizontal, like a pair of grinning teeth with the lower set missing), and under Leinsdorf’s faceless leadership, the VPO is unrecognizable, however highly skilled. Leinsdorf, in fact, made a better impression back in ’40, number-ending ritards and all, tidying up the Italian-school theatre orchestra of the San Francisco company. We do have the harpsichord, but despite one or two widely spaced collaborations with a cello in accompanied recitative (leading into “Bravo, signor padrone!“) and equally uncommon playful flourishes (at the end of the “Sua madre!” sextette), in this context it accomplishes nothing the piano couldn’t, except weaker support. The secco recitatives are under-recorded relative to the arias and ensembles, further undermining its use.