“National school” styles hung in there for a time after World War 2 in the major operatic cultures, but at the upper performance levels (which means the level preserved for us on recordings), with ever-decreasing purity. And as with so many cultural trends of our era, the dominant impurity has been American. That’s not all to the bad, since America has until recently produced an impressive proportion of the world’s best voices, and American singers have been studious in pursuit of European vocal and musical habituation. But the Mozart/Da Ponte operas are Italian. Any “purity” in their performance would be grounded in their Italianità, and would evince in the ease and spontaneity of interplay in the recitatives and ensembles more than in the arias, wherein fine vocalism can come from anywhere. (This is especially true of Figaro and Così; it’s somewhat less the case with Don Giovanni, for a number of reasons.)

The above observations will suggest the things I’ll have an ear (and in one case, an eye) out for as I scout the background of the present circumstances. My focus will be on the Met, so it will bypass dozens of examples that would be worthy of attention in a general Figaro survey, and there will be giant steps over intervening years. In short, it will fall far short of discographic stature^(I) —I’ll be using the artifacts I’ve had at hand, plus a couple more snatched from a bin on a recent foray. That was to the Met box office shortly before the February break, in search of tickets to upcoming performances. As usual this year, the lobby was occupied only by a smattering of Met personnel, and there was no box office line. Again as usual, I had the feeling of mixed delight and sadness at securing my choice of seats at somewhat reduced prices, and, having done so quickly, I took a turn around the depopulated gift shop to browse the CD and DVD holdings for Figaro specimens. One, not a Met item by venue, caught my attention. This is a concert performance of February 6, 1961^(II), from the Royal Albert Hall, London. Carlo Maria Giulini conducts the Philharmonia Orchestra and Chorus, with a gathering of then-prominent soloists, including Schwarzkopf as the Countess, so at first glance it looks like a tour date to promote an album, namely, the 1959 EMI recording with the same conductor and soprano. But the rest of the cast, save for the minor roles of Antonio and Barbarina, is different, and includes a couple of major singers in parts I would not have identified with them (bass Fernando Corena as Figaro, baritone Ernest Blanc as the Count), along with others I’m always happy to hear and who had solid Met credentials (the Susanna, Elisabeth Söderström, and the Cherubino, Teresa Berganza). This lineup seemed a promising one for my badly needed Figaro freshening-up, so for the marked-for-clearance price of ten bucks I picked it up, and a few nights later took a listen. And I nearly wept as Act 1 swept along and the performer of each character, within a few bars of his or her entrance, established that he or she knew exactly what he or she was doing with that character as mandated by the textual and interpretive categories mentioned earlier, and had at their disposal the means of vividly conveying it.