The Star of the County Down 
            The Garden where the Praties Grow 
            The Kerry Dance 
            Down by the Salley Gardens 
            Mother Machree 
            The Rose of Tralee 
            Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 
            The Green Isle of Erin 
            Off to Philadelphia 
            The Dawning of the Day 
            Oft in the Stilly Night 
            Kathleen Mavourneen 
            When Irish eyes are smiling 
            Bantry Bay 
            The Old House 
            By the short cut to the Rosses 
            The Irish Emigrant 
            Love Thee, Dearest, Love Thee 
            She Mov’d thro’ the Fair 
            Terence’s Farewell to Kathleen 
            The bard of Armagh 
            Molly Brannigan 
            Londonderry Air 
            I hear You Calling me 
          
        
        No one should be without a collection of McCormack’s 
          Irish songs and ballads. His legato phrasing, his breath control, unimpeachable 
          diction, the beauty of his tone, its range from floated head voice to 
          a plangent descent to the high baritonal were the mechanics of the tenor’s 
          singing, whether it was Mozart or Thomas Moore. Which is not to imply 
          a promiscuous use of his resources and their indiscriminate employment. 
          On the contrary the ballads were neither ennobled nor elevated by such 
          beauty – they were, rather, open to the inflections and sensitivities 
          of his voice, and their meaning explored from within, in an act of sublimation 
          and exploration. 
        
 
        
McCormack’s was truly the art that conceals art. The 
          supposed artlessness of his singing of these songs is in fact a supreme 
          artfulness. There are such metrical subtleties here, slightly lengthened 
          or shortened note values, such winning phrasing, that it is impossible 
          to resist and nor would one want to, whatever conceptions or misconceptions 
          one might hold of minstrelsy of this type. The level of identification 
          and sheer characterisation is pervasive. Listen to his singing of the 
          phrase the image of me in The Garden where the Praties grow with 
          its saucy half chuckle and onrushing breathlessness. These apparently 
          simple songs are usually accompanied by an interior life of their own. 
          In The Rose of Tralee the ardent head note is accompanied by an expressive 
          "cracked" note. Or in The Green Isle of Erin where McCormack 
          throbs passionately in a way not dissimilar to the operatic – a path 
          he spurned early in his career. Oft in the Stilly Night is one of my 
          favourites in this collection of familiar and imperishable records and 
          is significant for the colouristic use McCormack makes of the song, 
          the shading of the words sad memory and days and the sense 
          that the song’s meaning and the singer’s experience of it are coalescent. 
          In Terence’s Farewell to Kathleen, a forlorn tale of love and loss, 
          the dramatic interiority of the flummoxed, increasingly desperate, ultimate 
          resigned, youth is conveyed with theatrical and expressive intensity 
          in a way which lifts the song to the heights of lyrical monologue. Elsewhere 
          and everywhere attention to detail is accompanied by understanding of 
          text. The bulk of the recordings are accompanied by Edwin Schneider, 
          McCormack’s loyal pianist for many years and by Gerald Moore who took 
          over toward the end at a time when the tenor’s voice had begun somewhat 
          to fray (it’s also instructive to listen to the Moore-accompanied sides 
          to hear how diminishing vocal resources can be harnessed). Some of the 
          transfers leave rather a lot to be desired. When Irish Eyes are smiling 
          may be the earliest here, recorded in 1916, but is very swishy. On several 
          tracks there is also something reminiscent of our old friend Artificial 
          Stereo; a rather awful hollow echo is the result. Never mind, McCormack 
          vincit omnia. There are many McCormack compilations around and this 
          is a decent selection. 
        
 
         
        
Jonathan Woolf