Yet it is not exactly the feel-good opera advertised in Pentatone’s press release; rather, the eponymous Mr. Chips – “the teacher we all wish we’d had” – is a painfully grieving figure, an anachronism of sorts, happily projecting his nostalgia onto the devastating realities of the 20th century and its incumbent wars. A product of Old Europe, he does not belong in a world that has drastically outpaced his Victorianist ideals, let alone his antiquated sense for the Latin pronunciation of “Cicero.” Humor saves him from obliteration, but Mr. Chips is, in essence, of the same stripe as Korngold’s Paul in “Die tote Stadt” – someone who just can’t let go.

Not Letting Go

As his own librettist, Gordon Getty adjusts the plot to, essentially, operatic needs. The action is split into a frame story, and a metadiegetic level of Chips reliving his own memories. It oscillates between his 85-year-old self and episodes from his youth, most notably the tragically ending marriage to Kathie Bridges.

Evidently, the staging of embedded narratives is tricky. But on CD, the layering of storylines proves quite compelling, their friction, so to speak, adding to the main character’s psychological complexity. Kathie in particular is the driving force behind any of Chips’ actions. After her premature death, Chips projects the memory of her onto his very own idiosyncrasies, as when he reacts to his students’ pranks: “How Kathie would have laughed!”

“It was as if Kathie had become a part of him,” the ever so sympathetic Dr. Merrivale comments. Again, one distantly senses the echo of Paul’s pathological remembrance of Marie. Even the doppelgänger motif is of note, with the soprano being required to sing the double role of both Kathie and Linford. But overall, Getty does not draw the drastic consequences of Erich Wolfgang Korngold.

A Class Act

The music very much aligns with Getty’s professed self-assessment of being “two-thirds a 19th century composer.” It comfortably stays committed to the tonal language of the pre-avantgarde, though the deployment of chromaticism and an usual array of instruments make for a gently modernist touch to the score.

The piano, for instance, is something of a psychological barometer. It rises to prominence in the sombre keys played after Kathie’s death. At the same time, its syncopated rhythms, together with the strings, effectively cadence the flow of the narrative which, for the frame story especially, relies on the conversational, and relatively fast-paced nature of the libretto.

Getty thus sets the tone for a chamber-like intimacy, far from the grand gestures of full-scale Romanticism or the transitional styles of the early 1900s. Accordingly, the orchestra boasts a reduced brass section but, in a modern twist, expands on the percussion. The result is a somewhat theatrical, if not cinematographic feel casting the orchestra into an subtly devised mood-painting role.

Farewell, Mr. Chips

The Pentatone recording relies on the unmitigated enthusiasm of its principal singers.

First and foremost, Nathan Granner is a stunningly charismatic Mr. Chips, phrasing vividly yet coating every expressive nuance with his recognizably honeyed tenor sound. The absence of any self-contained arias may not do justice to his mere vocal skills; but his interpretive acuity asserts itself in many places, most notably perhaps in the extended lyrical solo of “I’m afraid that six Brookfeldians have died this week.” Standing in the chapel, Chips reads the names of Brookfield alumni killed on the Western front when an air raid siren suddenly goes off, and explosions are heard. The scene masterfully crescendoes into the boys’ choir chiming into the already cacophonous soundscape, and Nathan Granner’s solemnity is increasingly interspersed with quivering moments of anxiety.

Granner finds his equal in Lester Lynch’s wonderfully empathetic Dr. Merrivale who, in the novel, is a secondary character at best; yet with Gordon Getty, he assumes the primary function of being the narrator. Though the part does not call for vocal extravaganza, it requires sustained gravity, malleable diction, and a pitch-perfect sense for dramatic timing. Lynch provides all of the above, and his characteristically fast vibrato adds an air of venerability to the kind doctor.

Finally, Melody Moore’s interpretation is pivotal to the drama’s strong emotional impact. Her role, and especially the ariose “Chips, darling, it’s started,” are Getty’s most traditionally operatic creations per se, with her long monologue arching into ethereally sustained tones, and a resounding climax. The American soprano’s often diaphanous voice is also apt to suggest an otherworldly presence; after all, Kathie makes ghostly comebacks until the opera’s grandiose finale in Act two.

An All-American Affair

An all-American affair, “Goodbye, Mr. Chips” is further enlivened by the irreproachable performances of Kevin Short in the double role of Ralston and Rivers. But only thanks to the remarkably warm colors drawn from the Barbary Coast Orchestra does Gordon Getty’s quirky schoolteacher emerge whole from what could easily be perceived as a somewhat fragmented compilation of tangentially related episodes. Conductor Dennis Doubin is not to be rushed, and one readily appreciates every bit of patiently shaped melody, whether instrumental, vocal, or in conjunction with the stirringly glorious San Francisco Boys Chorus.

“Mr. Chips” escapes every attempt at conventional categorization. Despite its modern facture (with some limitations), its two-hour run betrays a deeply felt nostalgia for things well beyond the scope of opera. Chips’ death scene, in particular, is transcended by some life-long yearning for a world sadly gone by. Gordon Getty conjures the memory of it.

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Needless to say, Bellini’s famously endless melody was embraced by conductors of every stripe. Bonynge may have laid claim to the repertory most lastingly; but its latest take, under bel canto specialist Riccardo Frizza, should not be dismissed lightly. Releasing on EuroArts, it proposes a novel, highly dramatized vision of the Bellinian swan song – supported, to its merit, by an astoundingly capable cast of predominantly American soloists.

Flowing Narrative

Frizza is on the fast side of recorded “Puritans.” It noticeably shows in the crispness of “A te, o cara’s” five minutes and 35 seconds; whereas most competitors clock in at well above six minutes, setting the tone for the aria’s dreaminess from the very first bars. Frizza may be accused of foregoing precious moments of music-turned-poetry. Yet within his overall conception of maintaining a maximum of inter-scenic continuity the toned down levels of leitmotivic sweetness seem rather justifiable.

The opera’s drama is also emphasized by the timbral homogeneity of, especially, Lisette Oropesa and Lawrence Brownlee. There is a peerless steeliness to Oropesa’s very corporeal portrayal of Elvira. Her coloraturas in “son vergin vezzosa” are spectacularly executed, though the overall feel of her interpretation appears to foreshadow the vocal aesthetics of Gilda and Violetta more than to hark back to the hardcore lyricism of Riccardo Muti’s Montserrat Caballé (in 1979; for EMI). Her top notes are rock solid, and dazzlingly incisive, allowing the soprano’s silvery timbre to penetrate even the deepest layers of human psychology. Elvira’s mad scene, for instance, strikes a perpetually sizzling balance between emotional frailty and dramatic introspection; each of her flourishes carries some nuance of expressivity.

A High Calibre Cast

In Lawrence Brownlee she finds a congenial partner, with a similarly metallic ring, and a propensity to stress the heroic impetuousness of the Royalist cavalier, Arturo Talbo. After all, his actions are the driving force behind the unfolding narration. Brownlee’s tone soars imperiously, and his “credeasi, misera” dauntingly boasts an air of nonchalance about the tessitura, and specifically about the aria’s notorious High F. Also, his voice effortlessly melds with the remaining singers among whom Anthony Clark Evans stands out for his glorious phrasing, and imposing gravity. His Riccardo aligns with the Golden Age tradition of Cappuccilli and Matteo Manuguerra. He spans indomitably sustained arks, though the flourishes arguably lack the contour of his great predecessors.

In the ever so popular “Suoni la tromba” Evans triumphantly finishes on the optional High G. His hefty sound is complemented by the velvety depths of the Italian bass Riccardo Zanellato, a most sympathetic incarnation of the benevolent Sir Giorgio Valton. His quasi-paternal instinct effectively transpires in the touching lines of “Cinta di fiori,” highlighted by Zanellato’s ability to vary dynamics and even descend into an unmediated parlato of sorts.

Naturally, the opera’s success rests on the choir’s capacity to be an integral part of the action. The MDR-Rundfunkchor, far from being static, becomes a dramatic persona of its own: Led by Frizza’s uncompromising thrust forward, it picks up every shade of expression, from grieving to the celebratory, and even the militant. Combined with its other assets, it makes Riccardo Frizza’s “Puritani” an excitingly competitive addition to a tearfully neglected segment of discographic history. It is doubtlessly one of the best operatic releases in all of 2024.

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While Benajmin and Crimp’s colleagues on the contemporary opera scene pander to audiences with trendy and timely topics, the British duo returns to truly universal sources—the archetypal myths that transcend time and culture. “Picture a day like this” is an hourlong chamber opera in the pattern of their first creation, “Into the Little Hill”—a dark retelling of “The Pied Piper.”

“Picture” adapts another, less familiar folktale that appears in various guises across the globe. Its plot is deceptively simple: a nameless Woman’s child dies, and the village crones tempt her with a magical solution. If she can track down a truly happy person by the end of the day and cut a button from their clothes, her son will live again.

Crimp’s libretto is reminiscent of “The Little Prince”—the possible candidates on the Woman’s list recall the string of self-deluded grown-ups that Saint-Exupéry’s pint-sized hero encounters. Initially, they seem happy. But as soon as the Woman scratches slightly beneath the surface, she discovers that their happiness is false.

The episodic format offers Benjamin the opportunity to develop a distinct sound world for each of the five contenders. Actually, two distinct sound worlds—one representing their supposed state of felicity and another once the Woman learns the reality of their situation. There’s a moment during each scene when this “switch” occurs, indicated by a drastic change in style and instrumentation.

She first meets two Lovers, a soprano and countertenor, who seem eternally suspended in erotic ecstasy. Their lines, supported by a rustic consort of recorders, intertwine like Poppea and Nerone’s. Benjamin has a way of staggering and overlapping voices that feels both conversational and lyrical—a stylized naturalism that is particularly effective in this duet.

The parodies of swelling Wagnerian climaxes evaporate as soon as the male Lover offhandedly explains that their relationship is open—something the female Lover didn’t entirely agree to. Sputtering brass and side-drum motives intrude, taken up by countertenor Cameron Shahbazi as he stutters out the word “polyamory.” Shahbazi comes off as a smarmy narcissist, yet simultaneously smooth-talking and seductive.

Following the Lovers, the Woman comes across an Artisan—a button-maker, in fact, whose button-covered suit is sonically simulated with a cabasa rattle. Backed by piccolo birdsong, baritone John Brancy ascends into his falsetto, scaling what resembles a natural overtone series.

It’s a delirious and almost giddy happiness that turns out to be, in his words, “dose-related.” To prevent himself from self-harm, the Artisan is dependent on anti-psychotic drugs, which Brancy bellows for with sinister desperation. The strings’ pricking pizzicato and cut-like col legno strokes are uncomfortably suggestive of razor nicks. Brancy offers a performance that is equal parts terrifying and affecting. He reaches a near-shouted A-flat when he exposes the rope-burn around his neck, the ensemble bursting into a fff chord of suffocating intensity.

Crimp wisely follows this with a comic intermezzo featuring an egotistical young composer. Soprano Beate Mordal’s endless self-aggrandizing is accompanied by flashy Vivaldian string figuration. Her execution is hilariously cocky and braggadocious, especially the cartoonish repetitions of “happy, happy, happy” that mask her character’s inner doubt.

The sequence of contrasting musical moments in Benjamin’s score calls to mind “Bluebeard’s Castle,” with its separate sonic palettes for each of the rooms. And as in Bartók’s opera, the scenes are unified by a kind of ritualistic repetition indebted to the structure of fairytales. The beginning of every scene, for instance, is marked by a muted trio of two trumpets and trombone. Its function is akin to the “Promenade” theme between the movements of Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition.” But the little contrapuntal fanfares the trio plays are stylistically closer to medieval music, establishing an archaic atmosphere.

At the close of every scene is a series of clock chimes played on the tubular bells—a reminder that the Woman has until nightfall to carry out her mission. They always toll on the same two pitches, E-flat and D, which emerge as an idée fixe in Benjamin’s score. This descending half-step is first heard in the Woman’s opening line on the phrase “had died” when she relates the passing of her child. The motive’s association with these words, along with it’s keening, downward motion, would seem to connect it to mourning.

But this isn’t a Wagnerian-style leitmotif tied down to a single concept. Benjamin’s approach to musical meaning is closer to the Symbolist movement. It’s why Crimp is such an ideal match for the composer—both artists deal in the inscrutable and the ambiguous, only gradually revealing the half-lit shapes that hover at the edges of our consciousness.

Benjamin’s sonic symbol, though confined to just a pair of pitches, accumulates a vast constellation of associations as the opera progresses. It’s not simply an emblem of sorrow. Rather, it comes to represent the Woman’s obsessive belief that the resurrection of her child will bring her happiness—a notion that we slowly begin to realize is an impossibility, since no happy person exists in her world.

The opera’s cyclicality is momentarily broken halfway through by a solo passage for the Woman—a number that Benjamin explicitly labels “Aria.” Crimp’s ABA-form text would seem to call for a corresponding da capo setting. Yet Benjamin resists this urge. Instead, he traces a wide-ranging emotional trajectory. Mezzo Marianne Crebassa audibly passes through all five stages of grief. Backed by searing quadruple-stop harmonies, she rails against fate, cursing her lot in bitter, sobbing phrases.

Crebassa’s cathartic wail on “I wanted miracles” marks a complete shift in the aria. Her hushed delivery conveys that hollow numbness one feels after weeping. The vocal writing takes on a folksy quality, reminiscent of an Eastern European funeral lament. It closes with a passage of unexpected and unaffected melodic beauty, enveloped in a dewy cloud of harp and celesta. This finely crafted aria is the highlight of a role that is exquisitely tailored to Crebassa’s instrument. Benjamin takes ample advantage of her earthy bottommost register—her groaning low notes are positively gut-wrenching.

Following a Berg-like orchestral interlude on the E-flat/D motive, the Woman finds herself at the twilit home of Zabelle—finally, a truly happy person who dwells in domestic bliss with her family. Benjamin evokes her Edenic garden in lush textures that teem with instrumental activity. As Zabelle, soprano Anna Prohaska describes her paradisiac life in soaring flights of avian coloratura tinged with folk inflections. It’s a performance of such effortless, inhuman perfection that it borders on the impossible.

Indeed, the side drum ricochets that punctuate the scene—which seem to imitate the shimmer of a mirage—hint that all is not what it seems. Zabelle explains that the tableau is merely an illusion, a kind of frozen vision of times long gone. At some point in the past, a group of men invaded her home, seized her possessions, and kidnapped or murdered her husband and children. The details are left purposefully hazy. But considering the Armenian origins of Zabelle’s name, as well as the genocidal allegory of Crimp and Benjamin’s earlier “Into the Little Hill,” it’s likely that she was the victim of an ethnic cleansing. “I’m happy only because I don’t exist,” Zabelle explains before fading away. Meanwhile, the E-flat/D chimes signal that the Woman has failed her task.

Or has she? In the final scene, as the village crones gleefully mock her for trying the undo death itself, the Woman stretches out her hand to reveal a button. Whose? It couldn’t belong to any of the pseudo-felicitous individuals on her list. Nor to Zabelle, who was merely a memory projected into the present. Could it be the Woman’s, cut from her own sleeve? Perhaps she has attained, not happiness—which is dependent entirely on luck and circumstance—but a form of contentment. Or perhaps she’s achieved some Buddhist transcendence of worldly attachment. Benjamin’s closing music again conjures a verdant garden—a personal Eden or Nirvana where the falling half-step motive is transformed into a pastoral cuckoo call on clarinet.

While the libretto of “Picture a day like this” resembles a fable, there’s no pre-packed Aesopian moral at the end. It’s closer to a Zen koan—a paradoxical aphorism or anecdote that isn’t “solvable” in the sense of a riddle, but is meant to inspire meditation. In an age when sanctimonious creators of opera feel compelled to beat listeners over the head with political platitudes, Crimp and Benjamin show genuine respect for their audiences. Their musical myths challenge and provoke, but ultimately allow spectators to glean their own, deeply personal interpretations.

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First, Schubert’s famously melancholy cycle was originally written for tenor, and though frequently transcribed for baritonal depths or even bass, its interpretation history remains confined largely to male voices.

Secondly, Fenlon achieves a high degree of German Innerlichkeit, that somewhat obscure, culturally rooted feeling of inward expressiveness which so pervaded the recordings of Lotte Lehmann (the first woman to perform all of “Winterreise”), and – in a different context – Elisabeth Schwarzkopf. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the UK-born soprano is the first to my knowledge to publicly accompany herself on the piano. Schubert has done so himself, as told by, among others, Joseph von Spaun.

But on CD Fenlon makes for an astonishing premiere.

A Musical Polyglot

Granted, this is not your usual “Winterreise,” and Fenlon’s approach sonically departs from the intricately cultivated dialogue between pianist and singer. Traditionalists may object that by combining two constitutive roles into one this back-and-forth of reciprocal inspiration gets lost in translation, so to speak – not to mention that a single interpreter can hardly be expected to master two instruments at similarly high levels of accomplishment. Fenlon is, after all, not the synthesis of a Gerald Moore and Brigitte Fassbaender, nor does she pretend to be.

Rather, through her brazenly dual art she proposes a modern twist on a repertory staple. Most noticeably, each song’s tempi vary considerably when compared to the canon. The opening song “Gute Nacht” is on the fast side, only Brendel (with Fischer-Dieskau) and the radically pacing Eric Schneider (with Christine Schäfer) beat Fenlon’s five minutes and 36 seconds. Yet overall, the album clocks in at one hour and 14 minutes, situating our pianist-soprano well within the middle ground of the recording tradition. It shows the interpretive freedom she gains from being her own accompanist.

On the flipside, it seems to who presently writes that the downward trajectory of “Gute Nacht” lacks some of the proverbial weight on the narrator’s shoulders. It does not have the genteel lightness of touch or, for that matter, the slightly dissociative rhythm that would, from the very outset, define the whole cycle’s savoringly mournful tone. This lack, if anything, may count as a cosmetic flaw, and Fenlon’s vocals easily prove to offset some of my initial fears. Her sympathetic phrasing is a strength she can unfailingly rely on, especially in the touching line of “an dich hab’ ich gedacht.” Similarly, her voice type shows an undeniable affinity with more pointedly dramatic passages, such as the captivatingly rendered “Auf dem Flusse.” Fenlon’s tender vibrato effectively pairs with the score’s shimmering series of arpeggios, delineating the prevailing sense of anguish and emotional instability.

A Modern “Winter Journey”

Still, her modernity consists in a directness that seemingly avoids grand vocal gestures. In “Die Nebensonnen,” for instance, the voice only hesitatingly follows the dying motion initiated by poet Wilhelm Müller’s image of the sinking suns. There is no attempt at recreating the resoundingly solemn quiet of, among others, Fischer-Dieskau, Florian Boesch, and to some extent Brigitte Fassbaender. Fenlon’s interpretive milieu does not necessarily coincide with 19th century sentimentalism; one suspects the influence of contemporary art songs instead.

Purists, again, may have every reason to disagree. Does Rachel Fenlon’s “Winterreise” supplant any of its famous predecessors? No; but despite its rather limited shortcomings, it stands without real competition in its own right.

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Puccini’s “Messa di Gloria” is not the unjustly belittled opera in disguise which musicologists, for decades, have made it to be. They objected to the unbefittingly ariose “Gratias agimus,” as well as the mass’ compilatory structure. For a “Mass of Glory,” strictly speaking, only contains the Kyrie and Gloria sections; Puccini, however, adopts all five movements of mass, and intersperses them with some of his nascent genius’ finest melodic inventions. For instance, his “Agnus Dei” would be recycled in the Act two madrigal of “Manon Lescaut.”

Understandably, the “Messa di Gloria” (the title actually seems apocryphal) sparked unease. Yet critics’ relative failure of appreciation stands in sharp contrast with its discographic faring. There is no shortage of good recordings, and only last year did the ever so colorful Gustavo Gimeno (for Harmonia Mundi) add to the growing catalog. Now it is the turn of conductor Ivan Repušić on BR Klassik. The Croatian demonstratively purges the score of the operatic, turning out a surprisingly refined, and lyrical interpretation of this almost-renegade in the Puccini repertory.

“In genere sinfonico”

The album’s main asset is the interpretive malleability of the Münchner Rundfunkorchester who treat each segment as its own, symphonic Satz. The colors are invariably changing, and while the tempi are nearly identical to Pappano’s rather boldly fashioned reading from 2001, Repušić relinquishes any too melodramatic edge in favor of a remarkably homogeneous, and – for want of a better word – Germanic orchestral facture. For instance, the strings transitioning into the majestic “Quoniam tu solus sanctus” have never had more lyrical agency than here. The choir also does not erupt like in Verdi’s “Requiem;” it softly builds instead of grafting itself on the playing of the orchestra.

Puccini’s affinities therefore clearly point towards a transalpine way of composing music, even though this juvenile predilection – if such it is – only persists until the creation of “Le Villi;” after 1884, his self-proclaimed “genere sinfonico” (symphonic genre) is gradually being displaced.

Condensed Lyricism

The soloists occupy a strangely ambivalent position in the “Messa.” Yet in keeping with his holistic approach, Repušić embeds them in a firmly set vision in which there is little to no room for digressions into the overly operatic. For example, he imparts a crisp time on the notorious “Gratias agimus,” situating the tenor part of Tomislav Mužek at opposite ends of the pompous 1984 recording by Claudio Scimone. Even the “Agnus Dei” (with the excellent George Petean) feels like a genuinely spirited coda rather than the somewhat disjunct appendage from earlier releases.

As is customary, the program is rounded off by the threnodial “Crisantemi” (arranged by the distinguished Lucas Drew), and Puccini’s very imposing, if eclectic “Preludio sinfonico.” The latter knowingly borrows from Wagner, and is interpreted with some unexpected symphonic roundness. I personally prefer the bold sweeps from Pappano; but for the mass itself, Repušić’s unrelentingly soft lyricism stands without competition. It is the most harmonious version yet, and for its radical novelty deserves every attention.

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After his 2022 debut on Warner Classics, he takes on a heavily eclectic repertory which he navigates with remarkably executed showpiece notes, and an unerring feel for both language and style.

Vocal Fireworks

The album opens with the title-giving “Nessun Dorma” which by making it into the 1990 UK Singles Chart, has become the unofficial operatic anthem per se. It is a bit of a concession to consumer expectations that Pati would give it such prominence; after all, even brightly colored tenors like Juan Diego Flórez have recently taken to the Puccinian war horse. Yet it is not where Pene Pati’s wonderfully clear voice excels the most. Though his unfailingly reliable breath enables him to manage the score’s uneasy tessitura, and even cut through the orchestral texture with apparent ease, one cannot help thinking that his forte really lies someplace else. In Gounod, Massenet, Donizetti, and – to some extent – Verdi he comes into his own.

Surprisingly perhaps, he adapts to the French style and diction seamlessly. The color of the vowels changes accordingly, and the phrasing has all the rhythmic sprezzatura of the repertoire’s most prominent interpreters. In “Salut! Demeure chaste et pure” he additionally treats us to a near-impossible diminuendo on the often dreaded C executed, so to speak, en passant. For Massenet’s “Manon” and “Werther” the prevailing expression becomes both dreamy and hauntingly tortured – yet without overstepping the boundaries of unprescribed decorum.

Dom Sébastien’s “Seul sur la terre” is a triumphantly rendered tour de force for which he departs from the syllabic preponderance of the French operatic tradition to a typically Belcantist legato. The aria has received something of a discographic revival, as it noticeably featured on recent studio recordings by Benjamin Bernheim (“Boulevard des Italiens,” 2022), Michael Spyres (“Espoir,” 2017), and Lawrence Brownlee (“Allegro io son,” 2016). Pati manages a fully supported top D-flat, garnishing the Donizetti piece with radiating clarion sounds. Criticism, if pertinent at all, would solely touch on his handling of the melismas which here and in “Tombe degli avi miei,” lack the bite of similarly placed tenor voices, incl. Pavarotti’s.

A Family Affair

Pati is aptly supported by his wife Amina Edris and brother Amitai Pati whose faultless performances significantly contribute to the album’s lasting appeal. Edris invests the part of Mascagni’s Suzel with extraordinary tenderness, if not frailty; yet her soprano’s metallic ring also points to interpretive avenues well beyond the type-cast soubrette in turn-of-the century opera. Similarly, Amitai Pati is a generously equipped tenor whose warm timbre effortlessly matches his brother’s Macduff and, in Halévy’s “La Juive,” the fatherly Éléazar.

The trio is sensibly supported by the unpretentious conducting of Emmanuel Villaume. He does not seek to be adventurous, or to depart from the repertory’s well-trodden paths in any shape or form. Instead, his Orchestre National leaves enough breathing room for the protagonist’s exceptionally rounded voice to unfold – and in the process establish itself among the standard bearers of a new generation.

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Jonas Kaufmann – its titular singer – represents the main selling point. The German tenor is his usual self, both suave and nonchalant, albeit constrained vocally to some unusual huskiness, and a propensity to use the voix mixte instead of his signature muscular sound. Unfortunately, his prolonged efforts do not hold their own, as his multiple partners fail to raise the proverbial heat above lukewarm temperatures at the very best. His “Love Affairs,” if anything, are a tepid postlude, rather than an eruptive celebration of Puccini’s romantic genius.

An Affair à Six

The title alludes to Puccini’s many infidelities which have repeatedly put his marital relationship to the test: from the uncovered liaison with the mysterious Cori – nicknamed “La Torinese” – to his tragically, and unjustly presumed affair with the young housekeeper, Doria Manfredi. Each has, to some extent, reverberated in his operas, and the relationships between tenor and soprano in particular.

More prosaically, the album reprises the template of Roberto Alagna and Aleksandra Kurzak’s “Puccini in Love” (2018; also on Sony Classical). But Kaufmann, not content with just one duetting partner, took it upon himself to engage six of the world’s leading sopranos for a different role each. The results, far from being fortuitous, appear mixed: Netrebko is a very matronly Manon Lescaut whose frivolity barely translates to anything more than a pastosely layered emission, particularly in the lower register. Similarly, Sonya Yoncheva’s Tosca remains strangely nondescript, and Maria Agresta – as Butterfly – does not nearly display the urgency Angela Gheorghiu so eloquently conjured in EMI’s 2008 recording of the complete opera (opposite Kaufmann, as well). By far the most idiosyncratic are both excerpts from “La Fanciulla del West,” brought to life by Malin Byström’s intrinsic vulnerability, and endless compassion clad in a steely timbre (not unlike Mara Zampieri), and intelligent phrasing.

“The Boy of the Golden West”

Johnson is also Kaufmann’s best role, as it significantly deviates from the Puccinian youthfulness ascribed to the composer’s earlier operas. He relies on a certain playfulness, liberties perhaps in phrasing the lines which one would not typically expect from an Italianate tenor. The distribution of accents, for instance, in the ariose “Quello che tacete”, or the performative and suave “Avrei voluto salire… nella vostra capanna” are discretionary concessions to a more logocentric, if not Wagnerian, approach.

For obvious reasons, this proves less effective in the triad of “La Bohème,” “Tosca,” and “Madama Butterfly,” where the vocal limits are less easily camouflaged. In “O soave fanciulla” (with the alluring Pretty Yende) Kaufmann resorts to a slightly odd voix mixte on the culminating “amore;” conversely, the high C in “Che gelida manina” rings freely, albeit with considerably less luminosity than in “Romantic arias” from 2008.

As Cavaradossi, he generously spins the legato from “s’affisa intero” to the beautifully transitioned “occhio all’amor soave.” Yet the vocal profile does not match the painter’s hot-blooded exuberance, and while flawless otherwise the singing’s gently toned-down character feels suspiciously disengaged. Part of the malaise stems from the recording conditions: Asher Fish’s orchestra was taped separately from the singers, making every attempt to achieve deeper levels of dramatic syntony a painfully taxing enterprise. It is best in the quasi-symphonic backdrop of “Madama Butterfly,” where the Israeli conductor effectively dwells on chromatic variability.

A Marketing Affair

Not unexpectedly perhaps, Kaufmann’s compilatory love affairs do not match the artistic craftsmanship of his earlier publications, notably his 2015 monograph (with Antonio Pappano). Gone is the seductiveness with which Kristine Opolais appeased his intemperate Des Grieux; gone is also the roundness, let alone the spontaneity of his Rodolfo. Instead, there is a tendency away from the mellifluous towards the slightly choppier, if not mannered, enunciatory style of the dramatic heavyweights, Johnson and “Il Tabarro’s” Luigi in particular.

It suits him well, and despite Kaufmann’s recent health concerns, “Puccini: Love Affairs” is a powerful reminder of his enduring vocal charisma, and ability to draw its very limited set of antiheroes in finely shaded chiaroscuro. But overall, it is not enough to evince the lingering suspicion that market conditions have yet again taken precedence over the quality of execution – after all, the centenary does not just represent a cultural opportunity, but also a monetary one.

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Met audiences will cheerfully remember last season’s run of “Un Ballo in Maschera” when Charles Castronovo’s signature chiaroscuro repeatedly proved the very backbone of his vocal physiognomy. “Noble Renegades,” for Delos Productions, purportedly builds on established strengths; but by dwelling mostly on (quasi-)stock characters from Verdi’s early to mid-career, the New York tenor outfits the recording’s 19 tracks with a seemingly unsophisticated allure bearing the hallmarks of some gently pervading lack of distinction, if not uniformity, between roles.

Risking Sameness

The album does not proceed chronologically; and although it opens with Don Carlos’s “Fontainebleau… Je l’ai vue” (1867; in French) the majority of arias stem from Verdi’s self-coined “years in the galley.” Conversely, “Rigoletto,” and – somewhat surprisingly – “Il Trovatore” are not part of “Noble Renegades.” Instead, it encompasses Jacopo Foscari’s “Dal più remoto esilio,” Oronte’s “La mia letizia infondere,” “Ah sì, ben dite” from “Il Corsaro,” and the more widely established “Quando le sere al placido.”

From the very outset, Castronovo demonstrates an uncanny ability to mold his voice into the honeyed diminuendos. The arioso of “Fontainebleau” is a case in point. Sadly, this variability does not mitigate the prevailing forte with which his characteristically virile timbre is expanded otherwise. The top notes, while impressive, come at the risk of feeling unsteady, especially outside of a gradually building line, and the emission tends to be audibly strained.

Still, his legato is generously spun, and commensurate with avoiding the pitfalls of trying to imbue Romantic opera with a proto-veristic expressiveness. On the flipside, the phrasing only barely delineates the context and personality of his characters, leaving Castronovo’s own profile surprisingly blank. Only Macduff’s “Ah, la paterna mano,” and Rodolfo’s Act two soliloquy escape this pattern by their more personalized phrasing. “Quando le sere al placido,” with its widely arched lines, induces a welcome range of dynamic variation; and Macduff’s pledge from the final act of “Macbeth” conveys his vengefulness through the tenor’s uncompromisingly muscular tone.

Constantine Orbelian, at the head of the Kaunas City Symphony Orchestra, is fairly engaging, though not equipped with nearly enough ductility for this kind of repertoire. For instance, in “La mia letizia infondere” (cut short on Spotify) he does not pick up on the playfulness of the tempi, putting Castronovo at a potential disadvantage. How much is lost can be gleaned from comparison with Tagliavini’s 1940 Cetra recordings, reproduced on “Lebendige Vergangenheit.”

Predating “Un Ballo”

“Noble Renegades” predates his Met performance by over one year during which Castronovo’s artistry has conceivably evolved. It reaches occasional highs, and his “Se m’e forza perderti” already displays full command over his instrument’s capabilities, including the proverbial tear (in “del nostro amor”).

Yet altogether his latest monograph does not do the singer justice, and having expanded the repertory into the period of Verdi’s full compositional maturity might have proven beneficial. Even an excursion into Boito (Castronovo sang a sensational Faust in 2016) would have been a very valid, and tested alternative.

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Few operas have so inextricably been linked with the name of Maria Callas as “Norma.” The first perhaps in a line of 20th century Neoclassicists, she dusted off every inch of (pseudo-)Romantic mannerism and histrionics, restituting to the playbills an uncompromisingly sympathetic interpretation of tragic grandeur, as if sprung from the pen of Jean Racine himself.

Callas’s following has been eclectic, for the most part, though Bel canto specialists like Joan Sutherland have memorably impersonated the Druid priestess. Most recently, the Latvian Marina Rebeka has laid claim to the role, incl. at the Met’s 2017 run of the Bellinian favorite. For Prima Classic, she turns the notoriously formidable score into a triumphant vision of forward thrust and vocal incandescence.

Supremely Norma

Let us be clear: Rebeka’s Norma is quite simply glorious. In exceptional voice, she sails through the part’s innumerable pitfalls with near unmatched intensity, making her character less of an introspective heroine than the dramatic precursor to Verdian protagonists the likes of Odabella, and possibly even Abigaille.

Editorial changes, though minor, reinforce the impression of Rebeka’s forward impetus. For instance, “Casta Diva” is sung in G major instead of the customary F major (as Roger Parker, in the booklet, ever so eloquently explains). This adaptation is a concession of sorts, as Rebeka’s vocal phenotype thrives on the part’s many jumps into the sonic stratosphere; but it does not naturally lend itself to the trenchant coloraturas of virtuoso performers.

The shading, consequently, is not nearly as sophisticated as Callas’s, and her preghiera’s appeal mainly derives from the sculptural elegance of her line rather than the prismatic colors of the syllables taken individually. Still, dynamic variations are subtly transitioned, and the caressingly sustained diminuendo in the cadenza’s repetition is nothing short of a godsent!

The timbre is flamboyantly lavish, and much more idiosyncratic than just a few years ago when, in Prima Classic’s recording of “La Traviata,” her positively unbridled temper would routinely manifest through a somewhat wobbly pitch. In “Norma,” by comparison, everything falls into place quite naturally. The vertiginous high notes are floated when needed (“Casta diva”), or abruptly attacked in the tercet of “Vanne, si, mi lascia, indegno.”

Dramatic Momentum

Rebeka is equally imposing in the duets. In tenor Luciano Ganci she finds a stentorian Pollione, brimmed with the excitement of a larger-than-life persona. He is indebted to a slightly epigonal fascination with del Monaco whose clarion sound puts at risk the elaboration of interpretive nuance.

More sophisticated perhaps, and akin to the example of Christa Ludwig (who never sang the part of Adalgisa!) Karine Deshayes provides a delightful counterpart to Rebeka’s enthralling priestess. She keeps a dramatic edge even at her most vulnerable (“Mira, o Norma”), while her magnetic timbre never fails to blend with the steely clarity of the remaining cast.

It falls in line with conductor John Fiore’s decidedly ingenuous verve. Fiore builds narrative momentum without having to compromise on either melody or chromatic lyricism. At worst, it feels like a slightly anticipated excursion into Verdian soundscapes (especially of the middle period); otherwise, it serves as the congenial baseline to Rebeka’s exceptionally voiced Norma, domineering, and transcending every component part of Prima Classic’s new release.

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She started sensibly with lighter Rossini and a selection of smaller roles, including Lola, Maddalena, Olga, Fenena. But now Carmen is her calling card – and in the last year Akhmetshina has led new productions of the opera at the Met, Covent Garden and Glyndebourne. So her solo album is timely and starts with the obvious – Carmen’s Habanera, Seguidilla and Card Scene. There is much to show why audiences are so excited by her.  The voice is an astounding instrument: rich of tone, knitted perfectly between registers, colored evenly from top to bottom unless she decides to vary its hue, and capable of impressively precise coloratura. It is a Rolls Royce of mezzos – opulent and luxurious.

And this is sometimes a problem. Everything cruises along with such perfection that the surface gloss can lead to a lack of verve or personality. Akhmetshina’s Habanera is smooth and elegant but there is little sense of Carmen’s mercurial moods or lightness of touch – listen to Callas, who says a lot more with some simple verbal effects, leaning into “prends garde à toi” with a mocking smile: Akhmetshina misses such opportunities. She also adds a clumsy aspiration each time she sings “si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime” adding an “H” before the “A”. And why is there a grace note on the first outing of that phrase? It shouldn’t appear until the second. Thankfully, Akhmetshina makes much more of the Seguidilla, relishing both music and text, and is musically scrupulous. She takes her head voice as low as she can but knows when a good fruity chest tone adds impact. Tenor Freddie De Tommaso makes little impression with his few words as Don José, going slightly sharp and with a catch on one note. Moving on, the Card Scene is impressive, perhaps the power of Akhmetshina’s voice best suiting the drama of the music, and the chest voice really booms on a D flat. She is aided by Elisabeth Boudreault and Kezia Bienek, who make the most of Mércèdes and Frasquita.

Charlotte in “Werther” is a great role for Akhmetshina, and she wiped an ailing Jonas Kaufmann off the stage at Covent Garden when she sang it there last year. Massenet’s dark orchestration suits the serious timbre of her voice, and the emotions smolder. There is much more of a sense of light and shade, though when she starts to read Werther’s letter, Charlotte’s emotional undoing, she doesn’t color the voice to reflect her development from reminiscence to distress but just gets louder.

Romeo, in Bellini’s “I Capuleti e i Montecchi”, is a role that Akhmetshina has sung just once in concert. Once over her opening “Ascolta” – which has no imperative punch but sounds as though she might be about to read a fairy story to the Bailli’s children in “Werther” – she is pretty perfect in “Se Romeo t’uccise un figlio”. The voice soars, particularly in the ascending phrases of the aria, and the cabaletta is excitingly decorated. She finishes with a thrilling top C, so it is a pity that she drops out of the few bars preceding it, (understandable onstage, less so in the studio). The Act two aria is equally convincing.

Rossini proves a great fit for Akhmetshina. Both Cenerentola and Rosina (“Barbiere”) display a different side to her personality – her lightness of touch with a smile to the tone – and she throws off some dazzling roulades and perfect runs. Variants are impressive, glancing up to a top C sharp at one point. Her Rosina is fun and manages to convey the spirit of a young woman who means business. A final offering is a traditional folk song in Russian from her homeland: a simple yearning for one’s roots, with a touch of homesickness. Akhmetshina gives it an earnest simplicity.

Daniele Rustioni conducts the Royal Philharmonic with due attention to his diva and some particularly light string playing, especially in “Carmen”. The recorded sound is excellent, with great balance between voice and orchestra. It is a really good album, but not quite a great one – that will come with more experience. It will be interesting to see where Akhmetshina goes next.

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