None of this will matter to the singing buffs who are this series’ natural audience. For them it is pure gain to see these artists—all of legitimate prominence, some of true stature, and most in or near prime singing condition—in some sort of live performance situation, even this sort. Video Artists has arranged access to the archive of well-preserved kinescope masters housed at the New England Conservatory, and considering the dates of the material, both audio and video quality is good. Each tape presents a series of musical numbers (in most cases drawn from several telecasts featuring the same soloist), together with the program’s commercial introduction, a bit of continuity from the announcer (usually Hugh James), the opening and closing signature tunes (sentimental little nosegays by Idabelle Firestone that will elicit a soft sigh from any older listener), and the occasional instrumental interlude from Howard Barlow and his solid studio orchestra.

Big, healthy American voices dominate The Voice of Firestone. But the foreigners are in many respects more interesting. Their grounding is in their native art, not in American showbiz, and they are secure enough in it to perform with a minimum of distraction, even when the presentation is in out-and-out Silly Mode. There is something bizarrely riveting in the spectacle of Mr. Tagliavini standing before a painted autumnal-pastoral backcloth, wearing a hat that would gladden Tom Wolfe and rendering None But the Lonely Heart in his strangely detached but pretty half-voice, carefully Italo-purified English, and rather elegant Tostified phrasing. Licia Albanese has an almost Magnani an-esque presence for Idabelle’s If I could Tell You and Rogers’ Star, and a nice down-and-dirty feel for Nedda’s Ballatella. And when Bidú Sayao, still vocally together despite the late date, addresses Hahn’s Si mes vers avaient des ailes or the Manon Gavotte, the listener is aware of being in touch with something authentic and important in the tradition.  

The two Scandinavian tenors, Melchior and Bjoerling, are probably the foremost singers in the series, though it can’t be said they are seen altogether to advantage. Melchior is in his 60s, in full Beloved Old Plumpwurst cry. Some of his top notes are pinched, he’s compelled to sing the Preislied a tone low, and Vive l’amour is not deathless stuff. For the voice’s ring and steadiness to have survived all those Tristans and Siegfrieds, however, is remarkable, and when, on Volume 2, he settles in for straight, serious renditions (in key) of “In fernem Land” and “Vesti la giubba” (yes, dreadful Italian), a powerful hint is dropped of history’s greatest Heldentenor. Bjoerling, with his usual diffidence toward anything resembling acting (it would never have occurred to him that his singing wasn’t enough—he had a point), simply declines to play more than the token fool. He is in close-to-peak vocal estate.

Outta muh way with them snooty Euros, pard, here come the ‘Muhricans. Technically and stylistically, they are not to be compared with the great Continental singers of earlier generations. Despite their eternal, infernal smiles, they aren’t really charming. They won’t win you over with the delicate point, the subtle nuance. They mug. They plant haymakers on all the key words to show you they think they know what they mean. But in between, they are apt to blow you away with their rich, sinewy, full-throated voices. For the reasons just suggested, these performers often do their most eloquent work with a simple song in their native tongue. Though strong-voiced, George London is  not fluent with “Non più andrai,” but to hear his dark, rolling tones peal easily through “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'” is pure pleasure. Mr. Merrill, after versions of the Carmen and Barbiere arias that are almost unadulterated nonsense, lets his rich, nappy voice do its unaffected best in Oley Speaks’ “Sylvia,” and the result is magical. Helen Traubel transposes Brünnhilde’s Battle Cry (it’s still magisterial), but in “Deep River” or “Were You There,” her simple legato and organlike lower octave are like nothing heard since. These voices keep coming, and they keep coming live, without retakes, editing, or spliced-in high notes. There are some false entrances, garbled lyrics, and nervous glances, but at least these are actual performance events. A few of the singers rise above it all with some consistency. Jan Peerce, in a straight concert format, performs with no-nonsense professionalism. Leonard Warren, the only one of these American males to master the mezza-voce, sings beautifully and purposively on his Volume 1. Richard Tucker, in representative voice throughout, embraces each fresh presentational horror with unflagging vitality, emotional generosity, and an unshakable belief in his own bad acting.