Carmen…its a name that can only conjure one thing: Bizet’s masterpiece and the story of opera’s most fascinating heroines, the Spanish gypsy Carmen. I have had the opportunity of playing her on three separate occasions, and my own experience in trying to find her essence and personal truth has always raised interesting questions for me.
In my search for Carmen throughout the years, I became a huge fan of the Carlos Saura film “Carmen”, which portrays Spanish dancer and choreographer Antonio Gades’ search for an elusive muse/dancer to incarnate his new ballet. I was also attracted to Agnes Baltsa’s atavistic and precocious teenager version for the MET Opera. Other sources of inspiration have included the Maria Callas recording, as well as the Teresa Berganza’s recording, which I admire for her preciseness and direct approach, as well as Abbados’ beautiful conducting, making almost chamber music of many of the musical details of Bizet’s score.
Tenor Antonio Magno and myself in a production of Carmen in Madrid a few years back.Both Lulu and Bizet’s Carmen love to dance, one the Charleston and the other the Seguidille, both know how to have a good time…
My main inspiration this time around I can definitely say is Wedekind’s Lulu, as portrayed by Louise Brookes in Pabst’s silent film “Pandora’s Box”. I started pouring over this film several years ago on Youtube. Lulu seems to be on the whole unaware of the power and fascination she exerts over others (but not quite, at points when she makes a decision to turn things her way). She exudes innocence that on a drop of a dime can becomes fierce and animalistic; she’s like a child, playing games, dancing at a drop of a hat; purely operating on an instinctive level and with no premeditation, she puts into motion actions that brings about mayhem and death to everyone around her. She causes destruction on instinct and feels no remorse…never mental, she is stream of consciousness in action. She is charming as hell, but unaware of her deadly narcissism; you almost don’t mind it, as she sits on men’s laps, perching like a cute dog or a praying mantis…
You swap whiskey for “manzanilla” and voila! Carmen in 1920’s Berlin…
My big question this time around, now that I’m comparing Carmen to Lulu, is the following: Are we attracted to these two characters because they both somehow escaped society’s instructions to be “good”? Not mothers nor wives, and not really providing companionship to the men in their lives (the sexual obsession the men exhibit for their respective female characters is painful to observe, it certainly doesn’t feel like a pleasant state for them), both characters live outside of societies mores. They are simultaneously both good AND bad. I was offended once when someone called “Carmen” a bad woman. I felt Carmen had a heart; I’m not so sure anymore.
What I can say at this moment is that maybe….she is “natural” in a way that could be hard for me as person to accept. But…my job is not to judge, but to play and sing her. Lets see what I do with her this time around…
As a young singer in New York City, I received the opportunity to act in a small concert at the Thalia Theater in the borough of Queens, in New York City. The concert consisted of pieces from Spain’s operetta genre, called “zarzuela“. Not knowing anything about zarzuela, I began researching and more than anything, listening to singers from Spain that sang zarzuela. I found discs by Teresa Berganza (Zarzuela castiza released by Ensayo label being one of my all time favorites), Placido Domingo, Alfredo Krauss and Pilar Lorengar. But the album that I listened to most was the Victoria de los Angeles EMI release disc of zarzuela arias, containing all the principle pieces for female voice in the zarzuela genre, introduced to me by the pianist Pablo Zinger.
It was around this time that I became fascinated with the great Catalan mezzo soprano, Conchita Supervia. Thank goodness for the compact disc label “Pearl” with all her Odeon cylinder releases! Conchita had done a prodigious amount of recordings, including versions of Strauss’ Der Rosenkavalier in Italian, Samson and Delilah, all the major scenes from Bizet’s Carmen. She is credited as one of the first interpreters of the 20th century Rossini revival, in that she sang the role of Rosina in Il barbiere di Siviglia in the original mezzo soprano key.
Conchita Supervia, an opera diva of the Art Deco era
Conchita was an active recitalist, and her archive of recordings documents the public’s taste (as well as her own) in programming in the 1920’s and 1930’s. There were many “pop” pieces that peppered her recordings recitals, detailing for me her love of pleasing her public. Curiously enough there are “song versions” of Granados’ Danza No. 5 and an Albéniz piano solo, which although dated, I think have a place and can please listeners nowadays. She also exposed songs in English in her charming accent, “Bring to me your coloured toys” by American composers John Carpenter.
I began singing zarzuela concerts in NYC with Los amigos de la Zarzuela at NYC Cami Hall in the 90’s, and started acquiring Conchita’s repertoire; the UME anthologies by voice type of zarzuela “romances” was still years away from editing. I relied on Classical Vocal reprints to acquire “Fué mi mare la gitana” from La chavala by Moreno Torroba, “Lagarteranas” from El Huesped del Sevillano, “Canción de la gitana” from El mal de amores. All pretty obscure stuff (I don’t know any singers in Spain that program these pieces!), and I really didn’t know any better. Conchita sang it, and that was good enough for me. I also got help finding these scores from Music Sales Ltd., they printed on demand old scores from the Union Musical Española catalog.
I found a fascinating song that she recorded called “Loa al fandanguillo”. It wasn’t from a zarzuela that I could tell. Very andalusian, Conchita interpreted the song with much “desgarro”, and it was loads of fun to listen to; I replayed it many times. I started corresponding with María Luz Gonzalez at Archivo la SGAE in Madrid, and she popped a copy for me via regular post.
CD Album where you can listen to “De la serrania: Loa al fandanguillo”
Dated 1933, it said:
De la serranía; Loa al fandanguillo: canción para contralto; versos de Manuel Machado; música de Modesto Romero. It also said: “Creación de Conchita Supervía”. This leads me to believe that the song was a co creation between Supervia, M. Machado and Modesto Romero. Too bad we couldn’t be a fly on the wall during those sessions, in which she coaxed out of those two, this fun vocal vehicle for her gifts and vocalism!
The LP says “Fandanguillo de concierto”, a title that does not appear on the printed score I have.
The recording has a section with castanets, but it first starts with a “llamada”, a calling to the artist (or flamenco dancer”) to come to the stage, followed by a syncopated 3/4 section. There are dramatic but fun chromatic transitions that lead into the “fandanguillo” section. Fandango is the flamenco “palo” of Huelva, a province in the south of Spain. The text is about “love gone wrong”. There are sections of stylized flamenco vocalises that use the whole range of the voice. The recording is with orchestra, with Modesto Romero at the podium. There is more information about this piece in this blog:
The entire piece is a stylized “lyric” version of a “cante jondo” song. There was great interest in Spanish folklore, flamenco and “cante jondo” from the composers, authors and painters at the turn of the 20th century, this piece I feel is a product of this aesthetic and interest. I was told that this song enjoyed a vogue on Spanish radio by a zarzuela fan by the name of Mrs. Fuertes in NYC, a charming lady that later became my friend, who told me she had heard the song on the radio as a child. Again, the piece might feel dated to a Spaniard, or at the very least nostalgic. I don’t know of other singers that have taken up this piece in modern days. I actually see it as good vehicle for collaboration with a classical Spanish dancer.
I have not sung many opera scenes with true basses. The last I did that comes to memory is the duet between Laura and Alvise in Ponchielli’s La Gioconda. There are more common encounters in baroque opera between these two voice types, as well as also in a couple of Bach cantatas that I have sung. There are occasions in which the mezzo interacts with the bass in recitative passages, but not often in large presentational duet like the one in Semiramide.
The scene with Arsace and Assur in Act I of Semiramide begins with Arsace’s recit “…e questo Assur chi’io già detesto”. It would be a mistake to sum this scene as a big testosterone sable rattling scene. Its divided in four sections sections, and contains bridge section to mirror the power struggle and conflict (with what I call “emotional close ups”) between the two characters: a young dashing somewhat lovelorn general and a mature general that has been working many years to attain absolute power in ancient Babylon.
American bass Samuel Ramey as Assur in Rossini’s Semiramide
No. 5 Scena and duetto Arsace and Assur
Recitative “…e questo Assur chio gia detesto” “E dunque vero? audace”
Maestoso allegretto giusto: “Bella imago degli Dei”
Andante: “D’un tenero amore”
Allegro vivace: “Io tremar?”
A tempo: “Va superbo, in quella Reggia”
A cut version could last 7 plus minutes. The uncut performance of the duet from the 80’s with Horne and Ramey in London clocked in at 11’30, its truly a superb version:
The recit exposes the power struggle and rivalry between the two characters; Arsace ends his statement with scale with possible cadenza and begins the A section (Maestoso allegreto giusto) which then returns at the A tempo at the end of the scena. The Decca London 1965 recording cuts out the Andante section, which gives a great platform to show almost a soft side for Assur, wonderful expressive singing for Arsace, as well as beautiful cadenza in which both characters sing together, its a great moment. The “io tremar” of the Allegro vivace changes the mood in an aggressive way to bring us back to the A section, which in the uncut version repeats; its in this section that the ornaments are done. Musically and dramatically the scena is a mini opera, except that the conflict remains to be resolved (with deadly force) later on in the opera.
Its a big chunk of music. In the Kalmus score its 18 pages for this scena…for now I will learn the return of the A section come scritto (Horne re writes the passages leading to the end of this first exposition). It definitely needs a high note, as indicated by Rossini by the two fermatas. Not too worried getting this A section in my voice, as well as the gorgeous introspective cantilena section. The grouping of the figures in the last part of the duet are super trumpet like in character. I sung thru it a couple of times today. Tomorrow I will work on the possible ornaments and cadenzas for the duet. None are indicated in the Ricci cadenza book. After that, I’m moving on to the Act II cavatina of “In si barbara”. I’m skipping over the Act I finale quintet for now.
I will sing thru a big chunk of this role in a small concert on September 6th in NYC so I can try all this out for size. Still working on that August 19th deadline to learn every note and every word! Maybe not every ornament and cadenza, but yes to be able to read the score from top to bottom.
Italian mezzo soprano Lucia Valentini-Terrani as Arsace in Rossini’s Semiramide
During a recent coaching with a pianist, we got to talking about repertoire, and my pianist friend gave me his candid opinion about the lack of art of Rossini’s music. He cited the few times that James Levine conducted Rossini’s operas at the MET as clear proof of his views; the pianist went on for a full 15 minutes about this topic. He certainly did not know of my own personal investment in this composer; I thought it a waste of time of energy to try to persuade my friend to a different view point, as he was resolute. He had obviously never tried singing the roulades in La Cenerentola; I don’t know of another role that take as much gumption and courage as this one; and I doubt if my pianist friend ever heard the Italian mezzo Lucia Valentini Terrani sing Rossini.
I first learned of Lucia when I was making my way through my first years in NYC as budding young singer doing the audition rounds. Recently out of The Mannes College of Music, I answered an ad in the magazine The Classical Singer for an audition of Rossini’s L’Italiana in Algeri. It was for a now defunct opera company called OperaSpectives; they were to do an adaptation of the above mentioned opera called “Italian Girl in …Astoria?” I went to an apartment in the Village and auditioned in a crowded, tiny room with a single light bulb hanging down, and sang Cruda sorte. I was casted in what was to be my unofficial New York City debut, singing the role of Isabella in a church basement in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Wearing an orange mini skirt, open toed high heeled sandals and dark sun glasses, I was suppose to act (besides very bossy) like an Italian starlet from the 60’s. Even with my limited experience and vocalism, I was able to navigate the coloratura and found the part and music congenial to my nature.
Me as Isabella from L’italiana in Algeri”, my first Rossini opera role
I started to look for recordings of L’italiana and of course I found the commercial one with Valentini Terrani on Sony Classic, and promptly bought the live recording of Valentini Terrani and tenor Ugo Benelli. I fell in love with Lucia’s dark sensuous color, which weaved its spell on me. These were the days before Youtube and Spotify, so in order to continue to get my Valentini Terrani dosage, I bought her commercial Cenerentola recording with Araiza (also on SONY Classic). I recorded L’italiana from LPs borrowed from the Lincoln Center Library to audio cassette so I could listen on my Walkman (dear readers, I know I’m dating myself!). Her high notes were not spectacular, but her coloratura and phrasing and voice color where, well, like drugs to me; I couldn’t get enough; it was just about the sexiest sound I had ever heard (to rival the Anna Moffo’s Debussy album with her song “Le balcon”, which is practically x-rated!). I learned the role of Isabella with this recording, and at that point had not bothered to obtain the Berganza recordings. Lucia knew “how it went” and I trusted her completely.
Years later I auditioned for the Spanish agent Pere Porta, and somehow her name came up. He mentioned she had recently passed away of leukemia. Shocked, I did a web search and found a beautiful website, constructed lovingly by her husband the Italian actor Alberto Terrani in her tribute: http://www.luciavalentiniterrani.it/index_en.htm
I had never really seen these pictures before, and printed several of them out for myself.
Around the time of my first Cenerentola with Taconic Opera, I used one of her photos for my Cenerentola hall of fame notebook; you see, I believe in opera ancestor worship…I guess its some sort of opera shamanism…am I the only one? I somehow do not think so…
Unlike the general thought here in the US that this composer is “light music” to be done by young singers, in Italy Rossini is serious stuff. Valentini Terrani sings this music like it was holy and sacred; she approaches it like some sort fabulous vestal priestess; check out her “Amici in ogni evento…cual piacer”, Isabella’s final Rondo in L’italiana. She is dressed in a white Greek-like robe, accompanied by a men’s chorus, and enacts the whole scena with intense solemnity of a religious rite; it is a Rossinian “Casta Diva” moment:
The total vocal perfection and almost antiseptic aesthetic we are now so used to hearing with commercial recordings here is completely absent; what we get instead is fervor, urgency and a torrent of emotions. I don’t think that emotion wise, she gives Rossini any less weight than singing Verdi.
What I love about singing singing Rossini is the light/dark contrast, feminine/male thing that is CONSTANTLY happening in this music. Besides the travesti roles, within the female characters themselves, the music switches between aggressive and soft, virtuosity and expressiveness; I get to be some sort of fabulous “macho girl”…never a static expression. Its a music that mirrors the constant state of flux of my mind and emotions; like some sort of early 19th century Proustian stream of consciousness, always changing.
The book Diva by Helena Matheopoulus has one of the few interviews in English I have found of Valentini Terrani, and I close this entry with Lucia’s own words taken from this book, regarding her thoughts on the music of Rossini:
“It is better to do something less than perfect every now and then rather than something boring. Rossini’s genius is very modern, yet difficult to penetrate because it is so marked by duality and contradiction. He is both easy and difficult; introverted and cerebral in one sense, extroverted manic, mad in another; indeed he is all those things, often at the same time…like a clown, he is a comic with a deep melancholy and ironic streak”.
Spanish Song Slinger 