John McCormack (1884–1945)
was one of the most popular tenors of
the acoustic era and that popularity
continued long afterwards. His only
serious contender was Enrico Caruso
and in some years McCormack surpassed
even him in popularity and record sales.
But there was really no competition
between them. There can hardly have
been two singers as diametrically opposed
as these two. Caruso was a man of the
opera house while McCormack retired
from opera quite early - he regarded
himself as a lousy actor - and concentrated
on the concert stage. Caruso’s was a
powerful, dark-hued, baritonal tenor
voice while McCormack’s was light, lyrical,
silvery. Neither of them fought shy
of popular music but Caruso sang the
Neapolitan songs of his home country
while the Irish-born McCormack excelled
in Victorian ballads, old Irish folksongs
and popular ditties, a fair amount of
which are found on this disc. Both were
prolific recording artists, McCormack’s
recorded legacy amounting to around
750 songs.
By some strange coincidence,
just a couple of days after I had received
this disc for review, I was able to
hear a lecture about McCormack, held
at The Jussi Björling Museum in
Borlänge, Björling’s birth
place. The lecturer, among other things,
also showed excerpts from a 1929 movie
featuring John McCormack. It was fascinating
to see his shy stage manners - the little
black book which he never looked in
but held like a preacher’s bible, the
lack of eye contact with the audience.
As soon as he started singing he captivated
the listeners completely, his plangent
voice penetrating the background noise
surprisingly well; even his exquisite
pianissimos, which of course were his
hallmark. The similarities with Björling
were obvious: the same silvery sound,
the lightness, the musicality, the extraordinary
breath-control and the lack of bad manners
– no sobs or other extra-musical interpolations.
As Harald Henrysson, the curator of
the museum said after the lecture: "The
only difference between the singers
was their choice of cars: while McCormack
preferred Rolls Royce, Björling
choose a Volvo PV 444."
McCormack started his
singing career early and even before
he went to Italy to complete his voice
training he made his first recordings
in 1904 at the age of 20, when he recorded
some Edison cylinders. On the present
disc, which is volume two of the McCormack
edition (not encompassing the
early cylinders and not the 1906
– 1909 Odeons), we get, in chronological
order, all the HMV and Victor titles
recorded between April 8, 1910 and July
18, 1911. As already mentioned quite
a lot of the material consists of songs
that might be labelled second-rate,
but McCormack’s treatment of them refines
them in the same way a Billie Holiday
or a Frank Sinatra could make gold out
of trash. Some songs are also quite
endearing, not least McCormack’s "calling
card", I hear you calling me,
a song he recorded six times. The present
version is not the first; he did it
with the composer as accompanist in
1908 for Odeon.
And this track is as
good a starting point as any for the
newcomer. I can’t believe that anyone
will not be stunned by his absolutely
marvellous piano pianissimo ending,
the voice, so to speak, disengaging
itself from the body of the singer and
hanging in the air as a thin, thin silver
thread, absolutely steady. Listen also
to the wonderful diminuendos on tracks
13 and 14. Few singers in recorded history
have ever attained anything near this
perfection of voice control. Liza Lehmann’s
Ah! Moon of my delight is also
one of the gems, both as a song and
as an interpretation, as is Victor Herbert’s
I’m falling in love with someone.
Parelli’s The happy morning waits
should also be mentioned, since with
its lively rhythms, accentuated by the
castanets, it stands out from the prevailing
slow tempos and sorrowful moods.
The opera excerpts
are, unfortunately, a mixed blessing.
The Rigoletto quartet has McCormack
placed very much in the background and
he is swamped by the ladies, of whom
Nellie Melba constantly sounds like
a fog-horn in the Channel. The Faust
trio is no better with Melba again hooting
her way through the proceedings. Melba
and McCormack were obviously not on
very friendly terms during this session
and Melba was clearly very successful
at manipulating the recording staff,
with disastrous results. The Pearl Fishers’
duet shows McCormack on good form but,
to my ears at least, sounding only mildly
interested in what he is singing. He
is partnered here by Mario Sammarco,
who was regarded as one of the truly
great baritones of this era and also
held in high esteem by McCormack. But
on this showing, and on every other
recording by him that I have heard,
he sounds like a third-rate provincial
singer. The Barber of Seville duet,
with McCormack an ideal, vivid and aristocratic
Almaviva, offers some of the most unlovable
singing of the baritone part ever to
be heard, Sammarco barking, coarse,
ill-tuned ... I wish there was a way
of deleting this Figaro. In the concluding
duet from La Gioconda he is better,
or rather better suited to a part where
he should sound unlovable and evil.
The great surprise here is McCormack
in a part more suitable to a Caruso
voice. It is difficult to know from
recordings how big a voice really is,
but here McCormack actually has a great
deal of power and although retaining
the light silvery quality the voice
can still sail above the orchestra just
as Björling’s did. McCormack actually
sang several "heavy" parts,
making his stage debut as Turiddu in
Cavalleria rusticana and even singing
Radames’ Celeste Aida in concert.
Ward Marston’s usual
good restoration work has not eliminated
all the pops and clicks on the original
shellacs. This is in the interest of
preserving more of McCormack’s unique
voice. This disc can be safely recommended
to everybody with an interest in masterly
singing.
Göran Forsling
Volume
1
John McCormack (tenor), Victor Orchestra (tracks
1, 5 – 19), New Symphony Orchestra/Landon Ronald
(tracks 2 – 4), Studio Orchestra/Percy Pitt (tracks
20 – 22) 
