Was Leo Slezak the best of all 20th-Century Lohengrins? Impossible to assert on the basis of 120-year-old studio recordings and commentary—the connection to what transpired in the opera house is far too tenuous. But he sang it for his debut (Brunn, 1896), and many times with notable success during his long (25 years) sojourn at the Vienna Court Opera (later State Opera), and with many other important companies. At the Met (for only three seasons, 1910-13,) he actually sang more performances of Verdi (Otello, Radames, Manrico) than of Wagner (Lohengrin, Tannhäuser, Walther), and added such roles as Hermann in Queen of Spades (in German, with Destinn as Lisa and Mahler conducting!) and Tamino—to great acclaim in all.^(I) Contemporaneous references to him emphasize an imposing presence both physically and vocally, a vibrant personality, an eloquent delivery, and an unusual acting talent that embraced a real sense of character (one critic compared him with Tommaso Salvini as Otello, and he later had considerable success in films). He was also compared  without disadvantage to his predecessors Albert Niemann and Jean de Reszke, with the latter of whom he had studied for a time. He made an extraordinary number of recordings, and we can say that among them they exhibit all the attributes that together constitute vocal mastery: a complete range of pitch and dynamics, an unusual variety of timbre, an easy emission and fluency of movement. All true. Yet in listing such assets of efficiency and execution (what we think of as “technique”), we sometimes overlook the more primal qualities that set great singers above very good ones (crudely stated, power and beauty), to which we should add the kind of instinctual musicality that embraces an eagerness for the exploitation of effect. Thus, a “complete range of pitch” must embrace both extremes and everything in between in an undisrupted continuity; “complete range of dynamics” must run from quite loud to quite soft, again without interruption; “unusual variety of timbre” must incorporate a wide spectrum, a chiaroscuro that flashes kaleidoscopic changes of captivating color; “easy emission and fluency of movement” must add up to a sense of unrestricted freedom; and all these must (and always do, if present at the same time) add up to an individuality of timbre that is not merely attractive, but irresistible (to all who are susceptible, of course).

An early disc of Slezak’s (1903, if I have the correct attribution) that embraces all these qualities is “Komm o holde Dame” (“Viens, gentille dame” in the original) from Boieldieu’s La Dame Blanche. I cannot think of another recording of a heroic tenor voice that displays such evidently effortless command of a heady mezza-voce in the upper range, and the bonding of that to the full voice, demonstrated by perfect portamenti over the intervals from midrange and by the containment of mezzo-forte tone that keeps the whole in logical balance, the voice meanwhile purling over little scale passages and some modest ornaments in a fashion suggestive of a good Bellini or Rossini tenor. And it is all beautiful, and is flaunted with an awareness of its musicotheatrical effect that reinforces our willingness to submit. This wingspan in all dimensions of the voice also enables a richness and sense of something always in reserve in music that calls on only parts of it, as in Wolf’s Verschwiegene Liebe or Strauss’ Ständchen, both given exemplary readings in these early acoustical years. And to bring it round to Lohengrin: also in 1903, Slezak and the Court Opera soprano Berta Förster-Lauterer recorded the opening section of the Bridal Chamber Scene, “Das süsse Lied verhallt,” which comes up with remarkable presence and clarity on Marston’s “Mahler’s Decade in Vienna.” It is piano-accompanied, quite slow (4:05 to reach the end of the opening movement at “Die nur Gott verleiht!“—you may deduct the :05 to allow for the announcement), and as close to perfect as singing can be. In this brief passage of unblemished togetherness, the voices (his a heroic one under lyrical guidance, hers an essentially lyric one that is firmly seated on a filled-in line, and both beautiful) are exactly calibrated to each other, the words are crystal-clear, and the sense of precise agreement as to attack and balance are constant. Slezak takes rhetorical breath commas where many tenors would be inclined to seek continuity, and though Elsa’s responses are somewhat more animated and so invite fewer of these, so does Förster-Lauterer. In no instance does this create any interruption of thought or intent. What it does musically is sharpen outlines and shape phrases, while dramatically it establishes a sense of formality, a following of protocol, within which a fullness of emotion is permitted. To hear these two artists carve their way lingeringly through the little duettino at the close of the section is a rare pleasure. On this valuable collection is a second version of the same sequence, from 1914 and now with orchestra, sung by Berta Kiurina and her then-husband, Hubert Leuer. They take only 3:14 to cover the same ground as Slezak and Förster-Lauterer, and are correspondingly less poetic—Leuer, especially, sounds plain after Slezak, and the Marston biographical notes, by Christopher Norton-Welsh, tell us that at this period he was singing parts like David, Froh, and other truly minor ones. What’s informative about the record, though, is that it is one of many examples of the era’s presumed level of competence, for Leuer sings with steady, clear tone and well-supported line, and the more prominent Kiurina shows a good measure of the same quality of tone, evenness of strength, and sure steering of the music as does Förster-Lauterer. That was the expected standard at the higher professional levels.