Lucien Fugère,
who made his debut back in 1874 after
a tough ascent, was one of the most
stylish and notable of all French baritones.
Once a position of eminence had been
reached he retained it for the rest
of his astonishingly long-lasting career.
He retired in 1932 singing Don Bartolo
in the Barber of Seville at the age
of eighty-two. For much of his career,
which was centred on his native soil
(though he did make a visit to Covent
Garden in 1897 to sing Leporello) he
performed buffo or character roles –
Papageno, Leporello, Bartolo, Don Pasquale,
des Grieux amongst them. He was sufficiently
prestigious to record for Zonophone
in Paris at the turn of the century
and then for the less well-known Pantophone
label around 1904-05. But the bulk of
his discs were made for French Columbia
from 1928-30 when he was a trifling
eighty years old.
These are the discs
that Malibran has collated – as Symposium
did on their tribute to him (Symposium
1125). The preservation of the voice
is remarkable in and of itself, of course.
The idea that this was the voice that
launched so many operatic premieres
in the French repertoire is frisson
enough – or should be. But the lessons
that can be learned – not didactically
but as a consequence of listening to
his style – are equally pressing. It’s
a typically light, open French baritone,
irrespective of age. There are some
passing instances of imperfect breath
control but entirely understandable
one would have thought in a man of eighty,
in some demanding repertoire. The lightness
and effortless élan of his Massenet
is unignorable and whilst his Chaminade
Ronde d’amour is hardly a model of steadiness
of line what stylish and atmospheric
singing this is – and good piano playing
as well from the unnamed accompanist.
The so-called Rameau Tambourin sounds
to me as if it’s Leclair’s – and sung
to words by Pagans, which is an unusual
experience but not uncomfortably so.
In the song from Victor Massé’s
Les Saisons one can appreciate Fugère’s
buffo past - brio is definitely the
mot juste.
His voice sounds rather
heavier and more emphatically centred
in the Gluck, one of his most impressive
recordings. The legato is perfectly
sustained. One of his most amazing discs
is Paër’s Le Maître de
chapelle where he assumes all the
roles in a kind of one-man vocal band
of an interpretation as well as indulging
in some instrumental impersonation –
a scena of great brilliance, considerable
technique and unquenchable wit and artistry.
And fun. Let’s not forget that Fugère
was a witty stage animal to the last.
His Mozart is elegant in true late nineteenth
century style with Fugère faithfully
mirroring orchestral rallentandi and
employing some magical full and half
voice in the extracts from the Magic
Flute – though he has what we’d now
consider a very light voice for Leporello
in his Don Giovanni disc. Interpretatively
he’s not at all insidious or insinuating
here – preferring instead elegance to
character study. Another facet of his
musical vocabulary can be encountered
in his Flotow where his floated head
voice becomes almost a falsetto – a
very French characteristic and excellently
deployed.
The lessons to be learned
from such a voice as this are incalculable.
Whether we do listen and learn is another
matter but Fugère’s recordings
should always be pressed into service
whenever the thorny question of French
vocalism is at stake. The preservation
of his voice is one thing – though Cuénod
is a similar example of longevity into
old age – but the imperishable question
of style is another. No apologies need
be made for the voice – and none for
the excellent transfers.
Jonathan Woolf
Lucien Fugère (baritone) 