Herbert Janssen’s recording career began, fortuitously, with the arrival of the electrical process. Regrettably, it included little of the nonWagnerian repertory he sang so extensively in his early singing years. At least two-thirds of the space on Marston’s six CDs— as always sonically fine given the origins, handsomely produced and knowledgeably annotated—are devoted to Janssen’s Lieder recordings (the Hugo Wolf Society sides and many Gramophone Company sides from the 1930s, and more from Columbia, plus some broadcast items, from the ’40s). I’ll be commenting here only on the operatic selections, and hoping to return to the rest in a more general discussion of German song when it was sung mostly by opera singers, as opposed to opera sung mostly by Lieder singers.

The opening six items of this set are all from Berlin, 1927-29, and two are from his Italian roles: a “Tutte le feste” (Rigoletto), in Italian, with the always endearing Lotte Schöne, and a Letter Scene from Madama Butterfly, in German, with Margherita Perras. In the Rigoletto scene he sings most beautifully, the long line and shaded dynamics of “Piangi, fanciulla” perfectly poised and the tone tenderly inflected. ^(I) This was one of Janssen’s favorite roles, but on records it was Heinrich Schlusnus who became the German Verdi baritone of choice, and once in the Americas, Janssen had no opportunities to sing his Italian roles. His Sharpless is sensitively and easily sung, with a tonal gravity the part seldom receives; Perras is solid, but verges on a straightness that creates a cold impression. And that’s it for Herbert Janssen, Italian baritone, in his youthful prime.

There follow two German-language items from Gounod’s Faust, each interesting for following a tradition not much observed outside Germany. The “Avant de quitter” is sung a full step down, making of it much less of a heroic showpiece and more of a quiet prayer. (Much later, Fischer-Dieskau recorded it this way, too, though in French.) And the Death Scene (solo only) restores the cut of six bars (“Oses-tu bien,” etc.) almost universally taken. Janssen sings the aria with ample tone (the now-climactic Fs on the open side) and reverent spirit. The Death Scene is fully realized musically and vocally, and without melodramatics—though we could also say that it’s a little short on the dramatics themselves. There follow two of the Lortzing chestnuts so beloved in that time and place, “Du lässt mich kalt” from Der Waffenschmied and the inescapable “Sonst spielt’ ich mit Zepter und Krone” from Zar und Zimmermann. Unless we go to Joseph Schwarz on the latter, we won’t find them more blandishingly sung.

Next come six tracks devoted to Janssen’s Wolfram. They include the only two acousticals on this set, “Als du in kühnem Sange” and “Wohl wusst ich hier” (Berlin, Odeon,1923); then two excerpts (another “Als du” and “Blick ich umher“) from the 1929 Bayreuth “complete” set on English Columbia; then back to the Berlin studio, now on Ultraphone, for a second “Wohl wusst ich hier” and, at last, the “O du mein holder Abendstern.” Let’s not say Janssen’s is the perfect voice for this role (I could cite those of Schlusnus, Berglund, and Tibbett, and others have nominated Hüsch’s), but it’s a perfect voice for the role’s salient qualities. We hear it here in freshest estate, and while all these solos are more or less irreproachable (his voice’s weakness at the bottom crops up once or twice), it is the “Blick ich umher” that I prize the most. We will return to Janssen’s Wolfram below. Following these extracts, we’re given the concluding trio scene of Götterdämmerung, Act 2, with Larsén-Todsen and Ivar Andrésen. Gunther was another excellent fit for Janssen’s voice and temperament. He caught the character’s vacillation and humiliation without losing a sense of his standing; of those I have seen, only Hermann Uhde was comparable from a dramatic standpoint, and he did not sing it as well. This recording was not released by Gramophone, I presume because of the huge, clumsy yawps emitted by Larsén-Todsen. On the other hand, there is the incomparably deep, adamantine Hagen of Andrésen, and Janssen is in representative form. This early series of Janssen’s stage roles ends with two excerpts from Benatzky’s Die drei Musketiere, in which Janssen, sounding almost like a strong operetta baritenor, sings with relish, charm, a bright ring, and, again, some overly opened Fs. In the second, he is partnered by Göta Ljungberg, who sounds wonderful until she’s obliged to cling to the underside of two B-naturals at the close.