But of course, you're right that, ultimately, the authenticity of the
Toscanini quote is neither here nor there. There is so much testimony
regarding Lanza from great singers and conductors that's been
*reliably* documented that, with or without Toscanini's endorsement,
nothing can alter the fact that he possessed a phenomenal gift.
"My post prior to this is preceded by a note saying that the discussion subject was changed to "Herbert von Karajan" by Lou. How did I do that? "Herbert von Karajan/ Toscanini" was and still is fine by me."
To explain: I changed the subject heading from "Herbert Von Karajan" to "Herbert Von Karajan/Toscanini" a few posts back when the discussion veered away from Karajan and on to Toscanini. That meant that anyone replying to posts made after that subject heading change would see their messages come under the Karajan/Toscanini "banner". What you did, however, was reply to one of the *earlier* posts when the subject was only Von Karajan -- hence the change in the thread title.
With this post, the thread title is now reverting to "Herbert von Karajan/ Toscanini", so if you reply to this message, it'll stay that way :-)
Now to your earlier question:
"Armando and Derek, you both think Karajan shouldn't have used Carreras in this opera. Is that because you believe Radames was bad for his voice, the lyrical approach notwithstanding?"
In his autobiography, Carreras acknowledges that singing the role of Radames in the recording studio was quite a different kettle of fish from performing it on the stage. He also acknowledges the heavy orchestration in the trial scene and the dangerous tessitura of the role. Now I'm going by memory here, but the one time I heard the Carreras/Von Karajan recording (around 1980), I thought that José was struggling with the role. An essentially lyric tenor like him might get away with Celeste Aida (though the recitative alone is difficult, and really requires a most robust spinto sound), but elsewhere in the opera he needs true vocal heft. I remember thinking that Carreras was pushing his voice to its limit on the recording. Now if that's how he sounded in the studio with this role, then I'm sure he must have struggled even more on the stage.
It's the same thing with the role of Don José in Carmen. It's a spinto part, and although I found Carreras thrilling in this opera when I attended his two performances at the Rome Opera in 1987, I was very much aware that he was pushing his voice to its absolute limit. It was dangerous singing! (Incidentally, unlike his performance at the Met that same month, he didn't dare take the B-Flat in the Flower Song in mezza voce for the Italians; he sang it in full voice.)
Here's a link to his 1982 recording with Von Karajan (the interpretation that Herb waited his whole life to hear):
http://www.4shared.com/file/44097593/ff38da4c/La_fleur_que_tu_mavais_jete.html
Von Karajan certainly brings out qualities in the orchestration that one seldom hears in other versions. Carreras's voice sounds decidedly worn here and there, but he phrases beautifully and the soft ending is just exquisite. I didn't mean to sound "perfunctory" when I described this recording as merely "interesting" earlier!
We may have to wait a while for Mr. Grossman's reply, though, as I
understand that he was recently in hospital. (In fact, he may still be
there.)
So fingers crossed....
First, the disappointment. Toscanini wasn't present at the session in which Lanza, Yeend and London (and two other singers) sang Act IV of La Bohème with Grossman at the piano. Toscanini was present only at one of the *later* sessions a year or so after this initial try-out, and by that stage both Lanza and London were no longer available. To the best of Grossman's knowledge, Mario and Toscanini never actually met. Toscanini definitely *heard* Lanza's singing, however, Grossman recalled: "especially through takes from The Great Caruso, and reputedly said that his was one
of the most beautiful voices he'd ever heard. [...] As I recall, he heard some takes on disc (sans picture) which were brought to him in Riverdale, specifically for him to consider for possible casting purposes."
Now I presume these takes from The Great Caruso were acetates that Peter Herman Adler (who knew Toscanini) had sent him. This is intriguing, since it establishes that Toscanini was certainly interested in casting Lanza in an opera. As for the story (perpetuated by Bessette & co) that Mario supposedly backed out of singing the Verdi Requiem for Toscanini a few years earlier, this was certainly news to Grossman.
Grossman's memories of Lanza, both as a man and as an artist, were delightful:
"There can be no question [...]: The voice had power and beauty, and except for the fact that he indulged in certain unfortunate vocal mannerisms that he doubtless learned from listening to others less talented than he, would have been a boon to any cast lucky enough to have him. It's also occurred to me that those mannerisms surely would have been shot down had he had the opportunity to work with Toscanini.
"I liked Lanza a lot. I'd met him earlier in Tanglewood when he came to visit an old pal, David Poleri [a tenor of some renown, exactly the same age as Mario, who later sang at Covent Garden and portrayed Cavaradossi to Leontyne Price's breakout debut in the NBC TV 1955 Tosca] for the day. The two of them were a riot and that sense of humor followed him right into our Boheme adventure. In the midst of all the fun, I, like everyone else, found that, along with a voice that only could have been a gift from God, he was, indeed, serious about his art."
The other interesting thing is that the five-minute extract we have of Act IV of La Bohème with Lanza, London and Yeend was only a portion of what was sung that day. Bearing in mind that the purpose of the rehearsal was to convince a highly sceptical David Sarnoff of RCA that these singers had the talent to make a televised performance of La Bohème (in English) a viable proposition, here is Maestro Grossman's touching account of that memorable occasion:
It took place somewhere late in '47 [actually, it was 1948], shortly after I'd met Peter Herman Adler. [...] The cast wouldn't be much of a problem since Adler had been working, without fee, with four young men who lived together in a cold water flat on 9th Ave. (and ate only when one or the other
had a job). He was certain they'd invest some time in a project like this. (The boys, incidentally, were Ed Steffe, who had a modest career thereafter, mostly doing commercials; Johnny Silver, soon to become the original Benny South street in "Guys And Dolls"; George London, about whom little need be said and Mario Lanza, about whom even less need be reported here. Two young
women, similarly in debt to Adler needed little or no persuasion to join the group. When Adler mentioned to Forrai that he was looking for a young pianist who would be willing to work on the come, she told him to come to her studio where she had a new, young graduate of Queens College who might very well fit the bill.
Needless to say, hardly 10 words were out of his mouth before I said, "Yes!!!"
The project was explained to the team. We were to do a semi-staged version of the Boheme last act in the large living room of Constance Hope (if you are too young to remember, the leading
artists' representative of the middle of the l20th c.) The audience would consist of one man, David
Sarnoff (not Toscanini - he was the object of the second part), who, though Chotzinoff's dearest friend, scoffed at the idea of opera on this virtually new [television] medium. After considerable
persuasion, he agreed to come to Hope's, but said flat out that he'd be checking his watch and could be expected to get up and leave at the fifteen minute mark, after we'd proved to him just how right he was.
I was 21 years old and completely in awe of this icon of the communication world. I never uttered a word, just sat at the piano and began this performance for one. Adler had coached and
staged the event (wisely sung in English, though not by any means in a particularly good translation - no matter) to a fare-the-well well and the brilliant talents on hand went for broke. When Mimi died and the final chords were played, we all slid our eyes towards our guest, only to see, much to
our complete astonishment, Sarnoff rising from his chair, tears cascading down his face, his left hand slowly being removed from his trouser pocket. He stretched it out towards Chotzinoff and said, "Here, my dear Chotzie, this symbolic gesture is by way of saying, you shall have whatever you need."
WHEW!
It took a year to get the logistics in place for a program which had no precedent. By the time we were ready to go, Lanza and London had begun to experience success in their budding careers and
were no longer available. Rodolfo And Marcello subsequently were played by Glenn Burris and Norman Young, two highly gifted young singing actors (though not quite at the altitude of Lanza and London - but then who is?).
**************
Fascinating, fly-on-the-wall stuff! What a wonderful raconteur Maestro Grossman is!
I was interested to learn that Mario knew the tenor David Poleri, and
that he actually travelled to Tanglewood to see him. Poleri, who died
in a plane crash in 1964 at the age of 43, was very talented according
to Grossman. Like Mario, he was a handsome fellow of Italian
extraction from the state of Pennsylvania -- and "crazy as a loon",
apparently (in a good way). In his short career he sang at both Covent
Garden and La Scala, but recorded very little. He's been briefly
mentioned at grandi-tenori, where I learned that he'd recorded
Berlioz' The Damnation of Faust for RCA. I've just heard a snippet
from this recording at Amazon, but it was hard to make much of an
assessment of his voice from the few bars they provided.
Yes, you're so right, Muriella, about the near misses (operatically
speaking) in Lanza's career: Bohème, La Traviata, Andrea Chenier, etc.
The Bohème would have been a fantastic opportunity for him with such a
supportive group around him. I think he would have had a ball, and the
experience he'd have gained from working with the likes of Adler would
have done wonders for his confidence.
Incidentally, Grossman's description of the four young men (Lanza
included) living together in a cold water flat on 9th Ave -- and
eating only when one or the other had a job -- sounds like something
straight out of La Bohème! (But it does beg the question: where was
Betty during all of this?)
I assumed they sang most, if not all, of the 4th act of Bohème because
of Sarnoff's reaction when Mimi died. Now whether they actually
recorded more than what we have is something that I will definitely
ask Mr. Grossman!
You know, it's still entirely plausible that Toscanini made the
"greatest natural tenor of the 20th century" statement; it's just that
Herb Grossman couldn't verify it. In some ways, the fact that we now
know that Toscanini made a point of listening to (among other things)
various recordings from The Great Caruso soundtrack increases the
likelihood that he uttered his supposed declaration. After all, he
would have had less evidence on which to go on (in terms of
determining Lanza's full potential) if he'd simply listened to five or
ten minutes from the last act of Boheme, during which Rodolfo doesn't
really have all that much to sing. (Now compare *that* experience with
hearing various recordings from The Great Caruso.)
And so the mystery continues...
I've just heard back from Herb Grossman (the man's amazing in his
promptness), and I'm sorry to say that what we have of Mario & co
singing Act IV of Boheme is *everything* that was recorded that day:
"The five or so minutes of tape that we each have was the product of
some afterthought. Perhaps
Constance made a signal to her husband indicating that this was too
good to lose. Obviously, by the time he got his equipment (whoever
the "he" was) we were partly along in the act. Somebody,
perhaps Chotzie (we'll never know) must have signaled him to stop,
perhaps because the noise was interfering with the effect. What I was
sent, I was assured, was everything that existed."
First of all, I asked him how well Lanza knew tenor David Poleri. This
was particularly interesting to me, since Poleri's name had never come
up before in association with Mario. (Poleri, by all accounts, was a
most interesting character. He won raves for his Don Alvaro in La
Forza del Destino at the Edinburgh Festival in 1951, and scored other
notable successes as well, but his professional behaviour was
unorthodox, to put it mildly. Herb Grossman recalls that Poleri once
stormed off the stage at the end of a performance of Carmen without
having killed the title character, leaving the wretched mezzo to stab
herself instead! The first Carmen suicide in operatic history!)
Here's what Herb told me about Lanza and Poleri:
"I know little of the friendship between Lanza and Poleri, other than
at the one time the three of us were together (in Tanglewood, you'll
remember), I could see that they were bosom buddies (after all, Mario
did come up to Lennox specifically to see David - he definitely had no
professional gig in the area) from the way they interacted. Since I,
myself, had only recently met Poleri, and this was my first meeting
with Lanza, I was in no position (nor would I have cared) to make a
seasoned judgment about either the depth or the longevity of their
friendship."
I then asked him whether he ever detected in Lanza's personality any
of the "dark clouds" that the likes of Bessette have "diagnosed"
(bipolar disorder, etc):
"As to the state of Lanza's mental health, I can tell you that in our
encounters, including the rather extensive period preparing for what
turned into the Sarnoff audition, I saw no signs of anything other
than the characteristics you mention: an easy going, fun loving
nature, complete confidence in his ability (and why in God's name,
wouldn't he have had that in abundance?) and an excellent rapport with
colleagues (from Adler's point of view, had he been a problem child in
any way, he
wouldn't have nurtured, one might even say, adopted him)."
Very interesting! This underlines many of the points made in Armando's
book, and makes a mockery of Bessette's claims that Lanza could never
have had a serious operatic career.
And finally I asked him to elaborate on Toscanini the man, as well as
the artist:
"Ah, Toscanini. Perhaps you've asked the question of the wrong person
since I worshipped him from the start, and now, more than fifty years
after his death, remember him with what easily could be called
idolatry. We all know of his legendary temper, and, I confess, I have
seen it in action (including in ways you can't imagine) through the
years -- but never, never once, in the almost ten year relationship
that only ended with his '57 death, did I experience anything but
friendship and affection (just see the dedication written to me under
a grand picture of him) I received from him. Nevertheless, I fully
admit that he didn't take kindly to what he considered stupidity or
lack of dedication on the part of his colleagues. I'll never forget
one speech I was privy to after a Boheme rehearsal, where he was
furious with the horns and said (and I paraphrase), "You ignorantes,
you will go to sleep tonight with your wives after a lusty, fun-filled
evening, while I, povero Toscanini, will toss and turn, sleepless,
from the knowledge of what misery you have brought to poor Puccini."
If you've ever seen a picture of 100 or so dumb-struck individuals
(the cream of the crop of the instrumental world) like the one I
witnessed, you'll know what pure terror looks like. But this
discussion of his personality, which I assure you can be endless, is
for another time.
And what of him as a conductor, you ask.
Whether it was opera, symphony or grand choral works, for me there has
never been anyone to come close to him. Because he was virtually
blind, he conducted everything from memory (as is sometimes said, have
the score in your head, not your head in the score). But it was his
feel for the over all architecture of the works he was conducting,
combined with his superman knowledge of the score and his ability,
with minimal but impassioned body movement (which didn't require his
dancing all over the podium) that made him so electrifying (remind me
one day to tell you the tale of the first Toscanini telecasts which I
did with Kirk Browning in
the late '40s). There weren't many laughs during these sessions, but I
never met one musician who played under his baton who didn't worship
the ground he walked on.
And I was at the forefront of the pack.
Best,
Herb
This is just beautiful. I can see I'm going to have to re-examine my
prejudices and listen to some more Toscanini!
What a wonderful person Herb Grossman must be.
Loved those anecdotes Derek! I can picture the Carmen /David Poleri incident in my mind's eye. What a hoot!
The Toscanini retort is very reminiscent of the famous"put down's" by Winston Churchill and George Bernard Shaw.
Thanks for sharing them.
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