.::DICEMBRE 2008::.

When I graduated from Catholic elementary school in New York City, my parents gave me my own portable radio. How astonishing to discover that music was being broadcast daily over the airwaves in English. For years I had been listening to the Italian stations, which introduced me to famous operas.
My Neapolitan grandparents grew up with opera onstage as a living visual stimulation that the bella gente supported by regular attendance — — like Sunday Mass but with heavier breathing. In sunny Naples, opera was where red roses flew from the balcony to the feet of the dead heroine, and the lyrical fires of hell could be extinguished by the flick of a switch. (Heck, even a Brooklyn priest couldn't do that.) When grandma had company, she and her visitors relived memorable performances they had enjoyed in person by Enrico Caruso, Giacomo Lauri-Volpi, Tito Schipa, Celestina Boninsegna, Rosa Ponselle, Amelita Galli-Curci, and others. One Saturday a cousin regaled us with juicy details about Beniamino Gigli's farewell tour in 1955, which he had experienced first-hand in Washington, DC. Thereupon my grandmother broke into a rousing rendition of "Mattinata," a sunny piece by Leoncavallo that Gigli often sang. But even in paradise, a betrayal can fill the atmosphere with darkness. And so it happened that, while fiddling with my grandparents' record collection, I chanced upon a curious midnight blue disk so unlike the heavy black platters that revolved on a turntable at 78 rpm. This lightweight transparent blue record, jacket-less and carelessly thrown aside, held the substantial voice of mezzo-soprano Rise Stevens. Her arias, in a foreign language, introduced me to an opera set in Seville, Spain — — "Carmen" — — a work written by French composer Georges Bizet [1838-1875].
In a household where music was prized, and during an era when opera recordings were expensive, it was quite uncharacteristic to find an orphan stripped of any context like liner notes or a protective cardboard sleeve. So I rescued the blue creature, abandoned in the empty heart of a house, and adopted her. Though my family dismissed her as merely "one of those Americans," patient librarians built a better foundation for me. Born on June 11, 1913 in New York City, and trained at Juilliard School of Music, Rise Stevens captured a wide popular audience at the height of her career (1940-1960). Her beauty and talent led to several roles on TV and in screen gems such as "Going My Way" [1944] with Bing Crosby, which won seven Oscars including "Best Picture" and "Best Music." From 1938 to 1961, Rise Stevens was the Met’s leading mezzo-soprano and the only mezzo to command the top billing and the high fees normally awarded only to star sopranos and tenors. Her most successful roles there included Cherubino, Octavian, Dalila, Laura, Hänsel, and Marina. Especially celebrated for her Carmen, Rise Stevens virtually owned the role during her tenure at the Metropolitan Opera. Though Rise never knew I "adopted" her, she would not be the only stray pet I sheltered in my soul.
The aura of the forbidden that hovers around opera and its excesses took on a wider meaning. The ready supply of unrequited adoration my family had for Italian achievements did not extend to French or German composers even though many beauties waited to be explored. And like Maria Callas, the American soprano educated in Greece, who did not bother to hide the breaks between registers, my relatives made no attempt to make the smooth transition to any diva whose name did not end with a vowel. Like a bridge that got washed away in a storm, when it came to opera, no admiration would get from the Mediterranean side to the other. The journey would be mine alone. Secretly, I began building my own constellation of "forbidden" stars such as Spain's Victoria de los Ángeles [1923 — 2005], Maria Callas [1923 — 1977], Canadian Irwin Dillon [1906 — 2003], and most especially Sweden's handsome Jussi Björling [1911 — 1960], considered by many the greatest tenor since Enrico Caruso. When I heard the news of Jussi's death at 49 years old, it was terrible to realize that splendid voice would sing inside an opera house no more. Meanwhile, my father had developed a fascination for Licia Albanese and worshipped everything she recorded. Born in Bari on July 22, 1913, 21-year-old Licia made her debut in Milan in 1934. Following widespread acclaim in Italy, France, England, and Malta, Licia Albanese made her Metropolitan Opera debut on Friday, February 9, 1940. In New York City, she was an overnight success; La Albanese remained at the Met for 26 seasons, performing a total of 427 performances of 17 roles in 16 operas until 1966. In 1946, Arturo Toscanini invited Licia Albanese to join his broadcast concert performances of "La Bohème" and "La Traviata" with the NBC Symphony Orchestra. When these sessions were issued on LP by RCA Victor, my father and his friends bought copies immediately. My father declared her interpretation of Mimi to be sublime — — the only version of "La Bohème" worth listening to. Praised for nearly every role she undertook, Licia Albanese (who now heads the Puccini Foundation in NYC) possesses a remarkable voice with a distinctive character — — a lirico spinto, marked by its incisive diction, quick vibrato, intensity, and emotional impact. Critic Schuyler Chapin described her as "a splendid former prima donna of the Italian repertoire, remembered by old-timers as the frailest Mimi, the tenderest Butterfly, and the most haunting of modern Violettas."
Though I enjoyed her in the role of the doomed seamstress (on a record my father played hundreds of times), I was never transported by the romance of Mimi and Rodolfo, when sung by tenor Jan Peerce [1904-1984]. Even Licia wasn't sold on him. Years later, she told an interviewer: "Yes, [Jan Peerce] was a very great companion and colleague, really kind. We sang a lot. And with Richard Tucker [1913-1975]. I thought Tucker's quality of voice was more beautiful than Peerce, but Peerce was fine, but the quality and beauty was Tucker for me."
My father's veneration of Toscanini's NBC recording of "La Bohème" sparked my own quest to find an unparalled production. After careful research, I decided the truly peerless version of "La Bohème" was conducted by Sir Thomas Beecham, who had known Puccini personally and had discussed La Bohème in great detail with him in London during the 1920s. Featuring Victoria de Los Angeles and Jussi Björling in glorious form, the 1956 set has been called one of the greatest studio recordings of an opera ever made. When it was first released in the UK, The Gramophone reviewer remarked that “Beecham’s power of reviving music is indescribable…. One goes head over heels in love with the opera all over again.”
"La Bohème" has brought many excellent singers together for our listening pleasure but only this recording leaves me breathless, sweeping me toward heaven with that easy urgency. Which recording is your favorite?