As with our sopranos, the issue lies in the structuring of the voice. We have no example of Rubini’s singing, or that of any other tenor of the type that preceded the modern “dramatic” one in the change exemplified by such singers as Duprez, Donzelli, Tamberlik and Tichatschek, et al. We have a few descriptions, and plenty of speculations, on the changes in treatment of the passaggio, the shift into a co-ordinated falsetto mix of some sort, the positioning of the larynx, and so on—but not a single sound. Over the past sixty-some years we have had a number of tenors who have adapted, with differing degrees of success, to what we infer is called for by these Romantic roles. But the only ones who have done that with what I conceive to be convincing tone are Alfredo Kraus and Nicolai Gedda, postwar exceptions to the darker/plumper/looser regime, who served the later Romantic repertory well and could embrace without exaggerated effort the highest notes of the Puritani score, the C-sharp in “A te, o cara” (which, as Muti points out, was not meant to be prolonged—it’s a thirty-second passing note, to be taken with ease, and with the lingering blandishment, marked stentato, coming after it) and the legitimately sustained D in “Vieni, vieni fra queste braccia.”

It happens that Bonci, Pinkert’s Arturo at the Manhattan Opera, recorded “A te, o cara.” Of course it’s an acoustical disc, with piano accompaniment—and of his solo verses only, so we don’t know how closely it resembles what he did in performance. But it is the most romantically fulfilled rendition of the aria I know. For many listeners, it may take some getting-used-to. Bonci’s voice was a head-dominated yet full-throated one of a kind we haven’t had the likes of for over a century now, and its vibration was of the sort that some called (inaccurately, I think) a tremolo; it’s not to everyone’s taste, especially with non-Italian listeners. In the long-drawn out legato phrases, toyed with for louder/softer effect; the turns so delicately teased together and drawn back; the dallying  portamenti; and, to my ear, the extraordinary beauty of timbre, we hear a complete mastery of a bygone technique. When the voice rises through the passaggio, it takes on the tenorial ring that is a satisfying part of any technical approach, and the D-flat, prolonged but not overly so, is incorporated with an almost arrogant ease. Similar virtues can be found in Fernando de Lucia’s rendition, where the essentially dark timbre is also interesting. But he sings it so far below score pitch (a minor third, if the pitching is correct), and obtains the effects partly by means of such frequent breaks for breath, that although we can luxuriate in the phrases, we can consider the overall interpretation only as a lovely idea, not a fulfillment.

Over at the Met a dozen years later, Barrientos had for her partner her compatriot Lázaro. And here’s a switch! Lázaro had high notes to burn, and burned them often and long. The C-sharp and D go down for the count, and are still being treated for cuts and inflammation. And I do not mean that they are just crudely bellowed—they are fine, exciting singing notes. The lower octave of the voice can sound raw at times, but it’s not uncontrolled, and Lazaro  carves a good line, even around those upper-middle turns (“furtivo e in pia-a-a-anto,” and, just following the fully exploited D-flat, “il mio torme-e-e-ento.” It’s all really no more exhibitionistic than Bonci’s languishings, and must have made folks perk up there at the old Met. But it misses the elegance, the feeling that the Cavalier is coming to his lady both heroically and submissively. We’ve definitively moved into the 20th Century.