Rossini, il mio primo amore.

I was nearly seventeen when I began listening to opera and enjoying it. As fate decreed, it was at the public library in downtown Marietta, Georgia, on a summer afternoon not unlike this one, that I stumbled on Alceo Galliera's 1957 recording of Il barbiere di Siviglia, and it left the lasting impression that music could make me truly happy. There's something about those Seville operas that is so supremely summer -- so warm, so amorous, like dusty terracotta or syrupy hibiscus. Few can resist; but is it monotonous? Today the Barber is far from neglected: stellar productions abound, especially here in New York. On disc, Jesús López-Cobos's vibrant 1993 recording featuring Jennifer Larmore, Raul Giménez and Håkan Hagegård, among others, quickly became a top recommendation, and introduced a new standard for modern opera performance. One might argue that Galliera's, despite producer Walter Legge's idiosyncratic cuts and casting, was a dominant influence; its subtle, insightful humor is what makes it unique, and worth writing about now.

For better or worse, Maria Callas is the major attraction to the set, as she is on countless other mediocre recordings. It is mentioned frequently that her best roles were Violetta, Norma, Anna Bolena, and Lady Macbeth, followed then by Lucia, Medea, and Amina, et al., according to one's own taste. I tend to agree. Rosina, however, may be the most like Callas -- or the idea of "La Callas" -- than any other heroine, if only for her cunning and intelligence. It doesn't surprise me, though, that she made a mess of it on stage. Compare it to the La Scala production of La traviata from the 1955 season: Visconti made bold, daring choices in design and staging, and he doted on Callas's Violetta, the star part; the Barber revival was run-of-the-mill, with no one to nurture Callas's comic skills. What we have on records is a singular vision of the character Rosina, but it's only a sketch. In his brilliant biography Maria Meneghini Callas, Michael Scott suggests that the diva had no sense of humor at all, which may or may not be true. But even Mr. Scott would admit that many people fail to understand why Rosina or the entire opera is precisely funny in the first place. Situations are funny, not a performer's act of "being funny"; in fact, Beaumarchais's characters, like Seinfeld & Co., find themselves in humorous situations based on their own penchant for exasperation. That said, many will dismiss the recording based on Callas's rapid vocal decline. It may be true that her voice was not as impressive in 1957 as it was in 1954 for her Coloratura Lyric session with Serafin, featuring an inspired "Una voce poco fa," perhaps her best singing ever in the studio. Even so, 1957 was not a bad year for Callas: she sang magnificently in revivals of Anna Bolena at La Scala and La Sonnambula at Cologne and Edinburgh. As with her Amina, she gives Rosina three dimensions, a journey with an arch: in the first act, her "Ecco qua! Sempre un'istoria" is genuinely sorrowful, and her "Ah, qual colpo inaspettato" is, as the words describe, delirious with nervous happiness. I must clarify that it is the specificity with which she approaches these general emotions (sadness, elation, apprehension) that makes her a great actress. Lots of silly people think they need more video footage to see what her acting must have been like. Just listen! Specificity, timing, musicality, sense of self within the text -- that's what acting is, and you can hear it on records.

Callas is joined by the young Luigi Alva and fellow thespian Tito Gobbi -- still one of the most insightful Barber trios. Alva sounded incredibly charming and sexy (despite nasality) in juvenile roles, particularly Fenton in Falstaff. He was also the Almaviva of his generation (even if he never sang "Cessa di più resistere"). Later on, I've noticed how Alva's singing became increasingly "ROSSINIAN!" -- that is, playing the idea of the Rossini style rather than singing it with conviction. It happens a lot with interpretations of classical material: conveying "style" (i.e. attitude) becomes the overall goal, which is ultimately untruthful or, in the case of Rossini, unfunny. Sometimes it's unnoticeable except by comparison. In Alva's case, he wasted a lot of time tweaking a portrayal that, in 1957, had all the impetuousness the young nobleman requires. I can only hope that fellow Peruvian Juan Diego Flórez will keep Almaviva's torch burning ardently; his interpretation, though, which is simultaneously vivid and flavorless, is the subject of another blog entry. Betchacan'twait.

Tito Gobbi is, as always, terrific; no one portrays Figaro's propensity for mischief and adventure better than he. A singer-actor who found lightness in every character, he negotiated the sometimes gray territory between tragedy and comedy with ease. In doing so, he made those around him -- including the humorless Callas(?) -- even better. A delightful example of this is the duet "Dunque io son," which is an all-time favorite of mine: it is heartwarming, funny, and gorgeous to listen to all at once. Perhaps Gobbi should be remembered as an actor-singer instead of the other way around; it is for this reason that his Figaro and his Rigoletto, in particular, are so completely absorbing. One might argue that he and Callas represent the last of the "singing actors" à la Chaliapin. These artists lived and worked during a time when good singing and good acting weren't separate ideas, but were intertwined. To say a singer acts with "feeling" or "emotion" probably means they perform with spontaneity, thus communicating the real joy of the drama in the music. All the same, neither Gobbi nor Callas was ever noted for purity or mellifluousness; their power of the will far exceeded the power of the voice.

Subsequent recordings such as the 1993 López-Cobos boast stronger supporting players, but Legge's crew offer more than a few surprises. Zaccaria's Basilio holds its own among a small and exceptional group of peers; Ollendorf's Bartolo, though a tad crass and "Teutonic," is occasionally very funny and even a little sardonic (I happen to love his "Che noia!" in the "Pace e gioia" scene). The rest of the cast is fine. Galliera is a terribly obscure figure but his conducting of the Philharmonia is brilliantly exciting and never ever forced. I'm sure there's more, but I must rush to a close and say : one mustn't neglect other Rossini -- L'italiana, La Cenerentola, Armida and Semiramide, to name a few -- but Il barbiere is a gem -- a marvel -- a bright, sunny Spanish afternoon. The Met is reviving Sher's production this season, and I look forward to attending.