Michael William BALFE (1808-1870)
Songs and Ballads Rediscovered
Ah! Would that I could love thee less [2:58]
O smile as thou wert wont to smile [2:58]
Dids’t thou but know [3:16]
Hopeful heart should banish care [4:48]
A home in the heart [3:18]
Those we love [2:54]
Old friends [2:47]
I’m a merry Zingara [3:36]
Le Crépuscule [4:06]
A merry little Savoyard [2:28]
Killarney [3:18]
Falling river [2:53]
Don’t let the roses listen [2:55]
The blighted flower [3:11]
The green trees whispered [3:39]
The lonely rose [2:46]
I’d rather be a village maid [3:09]
O take me to thy heart again [2:55]
Sally Silver (soprano), Richard Bonynge (piano)
rec. Phoenix Sound Limited, Pinewood Studios, London UK, 6-8 October 2009
Notes in English and German, texts in original language (one in French, others
in English)
GUILD GMCD 7359 [57:57]
The phenomenal popularity, well into the 20th century, of Balfe’s opera “The
Bohemian Girl” ensured that his music was well to the fore in musical drawing-rooms
and parlours throughout the British Dominions. Pride of place went to numerous
arias from the celebrated opera itself, plus “The Light of Other Days” from
“The Maid of Artois”. But immensely successful, too, were many of his 250-odd
songs and ballads. The most famous of all, “Come into the garden, Maud”, was
not obviously not suitable for a soprano programme. Of the songs here, “Killarney”,
was not far behind it in popularity.
Balfe did not generally seek literary merit in the texts he set. Several here
are by unidentified poets. If their names are not on the score they are probably
untraceable at this distance of time. Others are by habitual opera librettists
of the day such as Bunn and Fitzball. One poet of a certain stature who attracted
him was Longfellow. Just one example is given here –“The green trees whispered
low and mild”. This angle might profitably have been explored further.
Like his Italian contemporaries Donizetti and Bellini, Balfe did not generally
seek to make a ballad sound anything other than a spare operatic aria. The
piano parts frequently sound as though transcribed from an orchestral source
and the melodic lines suggest elegiac cavatinas with the odd lively cabaletta
here and there. While it has yet to be proved that Balfe, as an operatic composer,
had the range and dramatic flair of Donizetti and Bellini at their best, as
a melodist he found his niche. If Donizetti and Bellini tend to sing of love
and its complications, the abiding tone of Balfe is that of nostalgia. A famous
passage in Joyce’s “Dubliners” tells of a domestic rendering of “I dreamt
that I dwelt”, sung “in a tiny quavering voice”:
“…when she had ended her song Joe was much moved. He said that there was no
time like the long ago and no music for him like poor old Balfe, whatever
other people might say; and his eyes filled up so much with tears that he
could not find what he was looking for and in the end he had to ask his wife
to tell him where the corkscrew was.” (James Joyce: Dubliners, Clay).
If Joyce was taking issue with his countrymen’s more sentimental side, he
was also grudgingly admitting that Balfe had mined a seam that ran deep in
the Irish character. A seam that had been sung very sweetly by Thomas Moore,
was largely sidestepped by Stanford and was ennobled by Yeats into a yearning
for a legendary Celtic past. A seam that is not confined to Irishmen, of course.
Given a voice that can charge the long, languorous lines with the right pathos,
Balfe will perhaps never strike our profounder emotions, but he can nevertheless
be infinitely touching. And there’s the rub. If the performances are not such
as to have you reaching for your glass, wiping a misty eye and reflecting
that the best times were the past times and no one sang them like Balfe, then
the only place for the record is the bin.
So I’m afraid the only place for this record is the bin. It’s not, I’m inclined
to think, the fault of the singer. Sally Silver actually has a lovely voice,
light but even and easily produced, more gold than silver. The words are reasonably
clear. But there is no attempt to charge the line with emotion, to involve
the listener, to give meaning to the music. I see that Silver has sung a wide
range of operatic roles including Donizetti’s Lucia and Verdi’s Gilda and
Violetta. Quite frankly, I can’t believe that she sings an aria such as “Addio
del passato” with such a light side-stepping of the emotions as she does these
pieces. I don’t suggest that Balfe can ever be made to bear the emotional
weight of Verdi at his most inspired, but at least give him what he’s got!
But, if Silver had any doubts, would she have tried to argue the toss with
the great Richard Bonynge? For the superficial approach stems, I fear, from
him. The introduction to each song sets the tone, and he invariably sets no
tone at all, just sliding unconcernedly over the notes. His phrasing is all
too often bumpy and uneven, moreover – hear the beginning of “Killarney” –
so the performances are not even good according to their own lights. Scores
are hard to come by, but Boosey’s “Royal Edition” of “O smile as thou wert
wont to smile” (aka “We may be happy yet”) is marked “Larghetto cantabile”
and the tempo here sounds like an “Allegretto” to me. It jogs along happily,
apparently unaware of the sorrows of which it speaks. “The green trees whispered”
tells a similar tale. So, I am sure, do all the other nostalgic ones – the
ones you really go to Balfe for – even if I haven’t scores with which to quote
chapter and verse. Of course, there are lighter songs, about gypsies and merry
little Savoyards, that come off better, but even these might have been characterized
more fully. In any case, these are the makeweights in a Balfe programme, put
there not so much for their own sake but because an hour of unremitting nostalgia
would be too much.
A chapter of missed opportunities, then. And if you must get it whatever I
say, keep the corkscrew well out of reach, or you’ll be in for a nasty bout
of lonely drinking as the expected friend fails to turn up.
Christopher Howell
A chapter of missed opportunities. Balfe’s voice just isn’t here.