One of several striking features of listening to this
pre-war disc is the impeccable diction of the singing. Il Trovatore,
with its convoluted plot the unravelling of which will not be attempted
here, gets to the heart of the matter with barely a prelude from the
(slightly distant) orchestra followed by Ferrando’s narrative to the
chorus laying out the scenario. Listening to his r’s is a lesson to
all singers in the art of single clipped and doubled rolled examples
of this idiosyncratic and vital consonant in the Italian language. No
place for Woy Jenkins or his ilk here. It is slightly overmannered,
rather like the British black and white films of the 30s and 40s in
which heroines pronounced ‘Daddy’ as ‘Deddy’, but enjoy Zambelli’s diction;
it is quite astonishing.
Another feature is the wonderful unanimity of ensemble,
either within the orchestra (which has a rather dead timbre in the strings,
lacking bloom) or between orchestra and singers. We tend to take a rather
snobbish view of the past and assume with all our technological aids
that music-making of a high standard is something of our own age alone.
When it comes to style, now that is another matter. Mannarini as Leonora’s
companion, Ines, sounds as if there’s not a great deal of shelf-life
in the voice, with a bleat when under pressure; but as for Scacciati
as the heroine Leonora, the voice is notable for its range of drama.
Occasionally the line of the music comes apart without sufficient portamento,
but she has the agility to carry off such moments as the cabaletta ‘Di
taleamor’ with brilliance and fervour. That eminent Verdian baritone
Molinari acts the role of Di Luna with his voice, either when describing
the light of Leonora’s smile when he sings ‘Il balen’, or when he trembles
(‘Io fremo’) at the offstage voice of Manrico (Act one , Scene two).
You feel the shudder of his jealous rage. The ensuing trio, with its
‘illegal’ top D flat from Scacciati, is an early delight on this excellent
transfer from the original 78s by the indefatigable Ward Marston for
Naxos. In the pit Lorenzo Molajoli is an old hand with a firm grip on
the whole performance, accompanying even the trickiest florid arias
with consummate skill and spot-on precision.
The Anvil Chorus gets the full treatment, accomplished
choral singing as well as timely and tuneful anvil playing. Then in
‘Stride le vampa’ the distinguished Zinetti goes for vocal colour at
the expense of clarity of diction, the almost Butt-like chest voice
in full cry (sometimes ‘shout’ would be a more appropriate word). She
only just manages to get her voice around the ornaments and turns in
this famous tune. More famous of course is the tenor’s aria ‘Di quella
pira’ with another ‘illegal’ but conventional top note (C) in its second
verse, which Merli holds for a full six seconds. Woe betide any tenor
who dares to sing what Verdi wrote (G) changing nothing from the first
verse. The voice is thrilling even if you are aware of the effort it
takes. Now to Scacciati, best judged by the fourth act scena beginning
with ‘D’amor sull’ali rosee’ and its beautifully crafted cadenzas through
which she glides effortlessly. This is followed by the Miserere (intonation
pretty good from the unaccompanied chorus but the bell somewhat sharp).
There is a terrific build-up by the two principal soloists (Manrico
offstage in his tower cell - is he really playing that harp under such
dreadful conditions?), but regrettably no cabaletta ‘Tu vedrai che amore
in terra’ from Leonora. She and Molinari excel in their duet at the
end of the first scene in this final act. This is just before the gruesome
conclusion to this convoluted plot of unintentional fratricide (and
that’s only the half of it)!
As a filler, there is an appendix of selected recordings
by Bianca Scacciati (a favourite of Toscanini), many of them with Francesco
Merli as her tenor partner, from 1929 and 1931. This is a glorious feast
of singing from a golden age. An apt addition to Naxos's Historical
series.
Christopher Fifield
Chorus and Orchestra of
La Scala, Milan