Prima la musica, poi le parole: New toys

One of my semi regular secondhand haunts has laid its hands on what I suspect is part of a deceased estate — almost an entire bookshelf full of CDs, most of them vocal recital discs and most of those by mezzos and sopranos. Yes. You can imagine my glee; and now you can wonder at my superhuman self restraint. I only bought six. They are —

La traviata. Joan Sutherland, Carlo Bergonzi, Robert Merrill; conducted by John Pritchard. This one of the series which Decca re-released last year in their midprice range to celebrate Joanie's 80th. I, however, was too stingy even for that. Ten dollars, on the other hand, I can definitely cope with. Of course it's worth far more. Everything I can say about Joan's Violetta is just stating the obvious. I mean, we're not expecting the kind of shattering credibility of, say, Anna Moffo (still my One True Violetta) or, if she's your cup of tea, Maria Callas. But as a sheer sonic experience this must be unparalleled. It just cannot be possible for one human being to produce so much beauty from within herself; where in the world (or outside of it) does that sound come from? This is bliss. No, it's not hugely involving as drama; but as a transcendent musical experience she's beyond compare. And even when Joanie's not around, it ain't half bad. Bergonzi? Yes, please. And I love Robert Merrill.

Handel Opera Arias — Nathalie Stutzmann. Handel arias + contralto + Hanover Band = combination I can't resist. I read the tracklisting on the back and figured, there's just no way this can fail. And I was right. She's not someone you'd sell your firstborn to hear, like Ewa Podles, but it's still a thoroughly excellent CD. The programme is suitably varied, a few well known arias alongside slightly more unusual choices and (I always give bonus points for this) no "Ombra mai fu". Interestingly, the second track is "Qui l'augel di pianta in pianta", from Aci, Galatea e Polifermo, which Natalie-without-an-H takes on in her Delirio — but the difference between the two is so vast you'd hardly recognise them as the same aria. All in all, the whole thing's an object lesson in repertoire choice, an interesting and well chosen programme which showcases her perfectly.

Rossini — Marilyn Horne. Well, what more is there to say? Peerless.

Bellini & Verdi Opera Arias — Montserrat Caballé. This is actually the second time I've bought this CD. I picked it up at the Dunedin Public Library sale but years of borrowing had damaged it beyond repair and it played no further than the third track. Like Joanie, a flood of impossibly gorgeous sound to just get lost in. I love Montserrat; I always forget how much until I hear her again. Those inevitably cited pianissimi — there's a reason nobody can mention her without bringing them up, they're heaven. And do you think Desdemona's Willow Song and Ave Maria might just be among the most distressingly beautiful pieces of music ever composed? That scene makes me feel much as the Four Last Songs do — thank god it occured to somebody to tangibly compose what, in some celestial sense, must always have existed. And I don't often feel like that in Italian opera but that scene is something else.

Chant d'amour — Cecilia Bartoli. Another one I already owned, except I didn't really and I've lost it anyway. About time I owned it properly, since I've suggested it may just be my favourite of all Cecilia's solo recordings. Not that I could ever choose just one. This is an amazing CD though, so unlike anything else she's done before or since — and yet, she's so well suited to it. No, perhaps not the most idiomatically French singer in the world but who cares? I don't think anyone conveys sincerity, simplicity and total joy in the way Cecilia can. The three Viardot songs are each of them absolute treasures. Maybe it is my definitive favourite after all; it comes close. She looks gorgeous on the cover too, very serious and française; of course on the back she's wearing one of those huge bows in her hair.

Viennese Operetta Arias — Lucia Popp. I grew up with this CD. To what extent, however, I didn't realise until it began playing. At which point it dawned on me — this CD was my introduction to, and definition of, opera. My beginning. When I was still very small, years before I could have put a name to it, this CD made me aware of the concept of opera. So I find I know this recording in the way one knows a first language; it's just there, too deeply ingrained and essential to recall or even conceive of a beginning. About Lucia herself, I find it hard to say much of any use; she's my operatic mother and you can't listen to family members critically. Still, filial obligation aside, has anyone ever sung anything so perfectly ever in the world ever? Ever?