ROSA PONSELLE, SOPRANO, JANUARY 22, 1897

When Caruso tripped due to blacking out from pain below his left kidney on stage on 8 December 1920 at The Metropolitan Opera at the conclusion of a performance of Pagliacci, it was an indication of his declining health that would eventually take his life. As the pain grew worse and Caruso could not perform, on 16 February 1921, distressed colleagues at his sickbed could not restrain their tears. Among them were some of the greatest singers of the day, and perhaps the most famous of them was Rosa Ponselle.[1]

Born on the 22nd January 1897 in Meriden, Connecticut, Rosa Ponselle has assumed a legendary status. Indeed, the great conductor Tullio Serafin, named three “miracles of singing’ he had known in his lifetime.  These were Caruso, Titta Ruffo and Rosa Ponselle[ii]

Ponselle’s career was remarkable in a number of ways. Hailing from a family, with roots in Caserta in the Campania region near Naples, (the actual name being Ponzelle ) she began not as an opera singer but as vaudeville artist performing with her sister Carmella in 1912 at the age of 15. This precocious beginning was equally amazing upon the opera stage, which was to be her artistic home for the duration of her career when in November 1918 that she debuted at the Metropolitan Opera in the role of Leonora in Verdi’s La Forza del Destino.[iii] The legend of her discovery has different nuances depending upon the source, but what is indisputable is the role Caruso played in encouraging her to audition for the great director of the Met, Giulio Gatti-Casazza. Rosa would later recall about her singing before Caruso, “He sat down next to me—I was nervous as a kitten—and said, pointing to his throat, ‘You have it here.’ Then he pointed to his heart and said, ‘And you have it here.’ Then he raised his hand to his head and tapped his temple with his finger. ‘And whether you have it up here, only time will tell.’”[iv]

Her roles included Santuzza, Rachel in La Juive where she sang with Caruso, Elvira in Ernani, Leonora in Il Trovatore, Aida, Elisabetta in Don Carlo, Maddalena in Andrea Chenier, but her greatest role by all judges of the time was Norma.[v]

Despite her great vocal talent and artistry, Rosa Ponselle had a reputation of being a nervous performer and the all too short duration of her career – she ceased performing in 1937 – is perhaps a reflection of this. In her mere 19 years as an opera singer she created a legend that has never faded..

Martin Bernheimer, writing in The New Grove Dictionary of Opera, had this to say about Ponselle’s voice and recordings:

“Ponselle’s voice is generally regarded as one of the most beautiful of the century. She was universally lauded for opulence of tone, evenness of scale, breadth of range, perfection of technique and communicative warmth. Many of these attributes are convincingly documented on recordings. In 1954 she made a few private song recordings, later released commercially, revealing a still opulent voice of darkened timbre and more limited range”.[vi]

We have recordings of her voice from early in her career until private recordings made after she had left the stage. Some idea of her remarkable voice can be gleaned from these.

Ponselle died at the age of 84 in 1981, 44 years after her last performance with the Metropolitan Opera.

[1]

[ii] IBID p.345

[iii] THOMASON, P., THE QUEEN OF QUEENS IN ALL OF SINGING’ – A DEEP DIVE INTO THE GENIUS OF SOPRANO ROSA PONSELLE https://operawire.com/the-queen-of-queens-in-all-of-singing-a-deep-dive-into-the-genius-of-soprano-rosa-ponselle/

[iv] IBID. https://operawire.com/the-queen-of-queens-in-all-of-singing-a-deep-dive-into-the-genius-of-soprano-rosa-ponselle/

[v] IBID. https://operawire.com/the-queen-of-queens-in-all-of-singing-a-deep-dive-into-the-genius-of-soprano-rosa-ponselle/

[vi] BERNHEIMER, MARTIN. THE NEW GROVE DICTIONARY OF OPERA, ARTICLE ON ROSA PONSELLE, NEW YORK 2013

Jean de Reszke, Tenor, January 14, 1850

Jean de Reszke ‘inspired a degree of admiration among his followers, both on and off the stage, which hardly fell short of love – something that can be said of no other male singer.’ Born in Warsaw in 1850, Jean de Reszke also shared something few classical singers has had – siblings who also performed at the highest level. Less well known, there was also a cousin the soprano, Felia Litvinne. Jean actually debuted as a baritone in 1874 but soon withdrew from the stage as his voice was challenged by the demands of the vocal type. Interestingly, his name at his baritone debut was listed as Jan di Reschi. So it was his younger brother Edouard, one of the finest basses of the age, in fact who was the first to establish himself in major opera houses making his debut in Paris in 1876. The even younger Josephine, a soprano, made her Paris debut in 1875. But it was Jean who became the greatest star of the 1880s and 1890s surpassing both his precocious and extremely talented siblings.

The decision to change from baritone to tenor may have been partly due to the fact that there were excellent many baritones in the early 1870s. It was in fact the baritone Antonio Cotogni who influenced young Jean to make the change, ‘it was on his [Cotogni’s] advice that Jean de Reszke re-studied voice production as a tenor.’ Some idea of the time taken may be gleaned by the fact that when his sister Josephine was singing in London in 1881, Jean although singing at house concerts, declared he was not yet ready to sing professionally. Nevertheless, it is also recorded that he sang as a tenor in Madrid as early as 1879 and that ‘his great fame as a singer dates from this time’

However, according to P.G. Hurst it was in 1887 in London that, ‘Jean de Reszke comes into his kingdom’, which was nothing less than an operatic revolution.

Part of the reason Jean delayed his tenor career is explained by the fact that he, ‘preferred to travel around with Josephine and Edouard, helping them with his advice, and hearing the finest singers. This he afterwards wrote, was the happiest time of his life, but finally he was run to earth in Paris by Massenet and Maurel, who practically compelled him to return to the stage…’ The most glowing description of Jean’s vocal achievement is given by Maurel, ‘I heard him very often in nearly all his greatest successes. It was no exaggeration to describe him as the ideal artist. It seemed impossible in him to find anything to criticise. His voice had a timbre so beautiful that the very listening to it filled the heart with emotion and the eyes with tears….his ringing high notes thrilled me a hundred times, although the voice had not the trumpet-like quality of the great Tamagno. But his control of it was just perfect,..’

In the 1891 season in London he sang 32 performances alongside the very greatest of the age. Jean excelled particularly in Italian and French repertoire. One of the greatest Carmen performances took place that year when ten performances were given with Jean, Melba, Zelie de Lussan, and Lassalle. The list of his roles is such that we need only know that these included the most demanding tenor roles – Radames, Faust, Lohengrin, Don José, Siegfried, Tristan, and Otello.

Due to ill health – especially frequent influenza – exacerbated by a heavy work schedule, and the demands of the Wagnerian roles he was encouraged to take on by admirers who were avid Wagnerites, a vocal decline had set in by 1900. At the same time, a new generation of singers were making their mark, including one Enrico Caruso. It is however noted that by 1900, if his singing was inferior ‘that the inferiority was only relative to his own best, and that even his worst performance would have been a triumph for any other tenor.’ He had retired from performing by 1904 but returned his knowledhe and wisdom with many students of singing including Maggie Teyte and Leo Slezak. He lived in France and died of influenza in 1925.

TITO SCHIPA, TENOR, JANUARY 02, 1888

‘Be warned! I am NOT a tenor! What I am is a man who sings in the tenor voice!’ ’Tito Schipa

Tito Schipa, born in Lecce on the 2 January 1888, is considered by most listeners, the finest tenore di grazia of his generation – and perhaps of any generation since recording began. His life, too, seems like something out of a show-business fairy tale. In the 1920s and 30s he graced the pages of popular newspapers and gossip columns for his singing and his personal life; a level of public fame that a classical singer of today cannot reach.

Born into poverty, and baptised as Rafaele Attilio Amedeo, as a baby he continually cried and yelled much to the consternation of the neighbours. The later stage name of ‘Tito’ was in fact derived from a nickname ‘Titu’ in the dialect of Lecce being a reflection of his short stature. His voice was first recognised by the choir-master at school. Giovanni Albani, who immediately singled the prodigy out and gave free singing lessons. Albani had him singing in churches and it was at one such performance that the newly installed Bishop of Lecce, Gennaro Trama heard him. Bishop Trama after discussing with his parents the boy’s exceptional gift decided at his own expense to have him educated at the seminary. And again here fate stepped in when the finest vocal teacher in Lecce, Alceste Gerunda, heard him and swept him out of the seminary. Gerunda worked the boy hard, teaching him composition, piano, harmony and counterpoint. Indeed composition was to figure later in his career, as Schipa, among other compositions, wrote an operetta, La Principessa Liana , which premiered in Rome on the June 22, 1929, to a ‘fairly positive reception’. Liana, incidentally was the name of his second daughter. Gerunda arranged a benefit concert for young Tito to enable him to travel to Milan for further study. In Milan his teacher Emilio Piccoli, whose methods were by contemporary standards unorthodox involving sharp pinches on his legs for correction, honed Tito’s talent. But in addition, to quote Tito Schipa’s son, ’The “pincher of geniuses” was not only a prestigious teacher; he was also a careful and accomplished manager. … he began showing off his pupils in the homes of the Campostellas, the Bentivoglios, the De Capitanis and Arzaghis.’

He made his début in La Traviata in Vercelli in 1910, this, after an apprenticeship that is reminiscent of the old master-student relationship of the eighteenth century, a slow maturation which surely contributed to his vocal longevity. In Milan, Tito was able to hide behind the scenes to learn as much as possible from colleagues. Success now followed upon success. He appeared at La scala from 1915, had many series of long and highly successful engagements in Latin America, and finally conquered North America starting in Chicago in 1919 where he was to sing until 1932, when he was engaged at New York’s Metropolitan Opera after the departure of Gigli. In these years, his fame and fortune reached its zenith. He was also an extremely hard worker singing annually over 200 performances. He had several operations on his throat. In 1932 his photograph appeared after an operation to remove his tonsils and the press reported that Tito was confident that ‘once out of hospital, to find a high-flying E-flat in his throat.’

In 1937 the first of his thirteen feature films was made. The two most notable are, I sing for you alone, the Italian title being “Tre uomini in frac,” or “Three Men in Tails”. The general opinion is that Tre uomini in frac is the best film of Tito’s career, together with the more famous – and triumphantly successful – Vivere!

So, what of the voice? What of the singer? His contemporaries and colleagues were in no doubt as to his unique genius. Gianna Pederzini, who sang many times with him said, ‘I could go on and on about Schipa. Never did a man receive from the muse of song so few means and yet manage, every time, to achieve miracles with them. He was a blessed artist and human being.’ So too, Gilda dalla Rizza, another significant singing partner ‘Goodness knows how many wonderful tenors I sang with! … And Schipetta – Tito Schipa – his voice was pure gold.’ ‘Another Pinkerton of a very different nature, I had the luck to sing with was Tito Schipa at the San Carlo in Naples. His was the true art of bel canto, and I remember how he spun the notes in the love duet in such a manner as I’ve never heard since.’ enthused Bianco Stagno Bellincioni; and as a final quote from leading colleagues, ‘I appeared with all the leading tenors, Gigli and Pertile included, but the one from whom I learned the most artistically was Schipa, for he chiseled phrases like a goldsmith. He lowered many of his roles one tone, but no one noticed it, so consummate was his art.’

The conductor Leopoldo Mugnone, who was renowned for disapproving of breaks in the dramatic continuity, such as encores, once in the San Carlo, after the audience had finished the applause at an encore for ‘E lucevan le stelle’, gestured to Schipa and said, ‘‘Little Schipa, sing it again – but this time,’ with a movement of his thumb to the auditorium, ‘not for that lot, but for me!’

And were his stage performances convincing? One can take the witness of Schipa’s own mother, who after witnessing a performance of Tosca in Palermo ran backstage to see if her son had not been terribly injured or worse! Indeed she then paid the extras tips before each performance to ensure ‘that they don’t shoot for real.’

As mentioned earlier, Tito Schipa was also a composer, but his interest extended to other genres of music and singing as well. In America, under one of his contracts, he also worked as a conductor of a jazz orchestra whilst at the on other nights performing one of his most famous roles, Werther. He declared that Carlo Buti, who was a singer of popular Italian songs and folksongs, ‘the greatest singer who ever existed, that this was the finest voice which he had ever heard, and that if he had had that voice he would have performed prodigies which would have wiped out the whole history of bel canto in one note’ Perhaps his most financially generous act was in 1926 when he financed the extension and restoration of the Teatro Politeama in his native Lecce, in order to bring the Leccese first class opera. ‘The project went smoothly but cost a fortune. All the money came out of Tito Schipa’s pocket, and the returns were minimal. His willingness to spend money is understandable if we remember his constant desire to impress the people of his own city, as if to compensate a fear that they would take no notice of him without a showy display of his successes. Thus, to the straightforward financing of the season were added the princely expenses of refurbishing the whole [theatre] which was brought up to international standards: an orchestra pit was created, the stalls raked, the stage equipment and ceiling improved, a gallery added, dressing rooms built for the extras, along with a hundred other modifications. New seating was even brought from Milan, as were some skilled workers and technicians.’

He gradually restricted his roles to those that he was most comfortable with, in the French canon, Lakmé, Mignon, Manon and Werther; and in the Italian the parts of Nemorino, Alfredo, Cavaradossi, Rodolfo, and the operas of Bellini and Donizetti. When asked how he prepared for a role he noted these steps: first, learn the background to the story and read the source material until you can identify intimately with the character; second, have a pianist play the whole opera through whilst following the score (for about three days); third, study the words and learn the rhythm of the part to be sung; fourth, once the rhythm is firmly set in the brain it comes to the music of the role itself and the pianist returns for this. Schipa thought it important to know every role in an opera. He said that ‘Mastering a role is not a difficult task, therefore, for me; two or three weeks’ study generally is sufficient.’

Schipa continued working to almost the end of his life. After a fall in a nightspot in Rome, he was forced to retire from the opera stage but continued to give concert performances. These took the form of a series of Farewell Concerts. His last appearance in Italy was in 1963 when he gave a spontaneous concert in the Gran Caffè Margherita in Viareggio. He died in New York on 16 December 1965.

His voice and talent were truly memorable for all the best reasons. JB Steane perhaps sums this up most poetically, ‘That voice, from the whitish mists of its lower notes up into the Elysian air and light of its high register, proved once-heard never-forgotten. … It was rather as though he sent out his tone on a thread fine as a spider’s, perhaps to glow in the sunlight or glimmer in the shade, hang there wondrously poised or glide on to join another thread and reach a still more distant breathing-space.’ Tito Schipa – you were that man who sang with the voice of a tenor.

TENOR INSIGHTS WITH BOGDAN VOLKOV, LYRIC TENOR

Bogdan Volkov is no stranger to all the leading international opera houses. His fine tenor voice reminiscent of the greats in line and tonal beauty has assured him his place as one of the of the most sought after tenors of his generation.

After graduating from the Glier Kyiv Institute of Music and the Ukrainian National Tchaikovsky Academy of Music, Bogdan joined the Young Artists Program of the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow later becoming a member of it ensemble.
Before becoming part of the ensemble of the Berlin State Opera in 2022 and 2023, Bogdan had made his debut at the Berlin State Opera as Don Antonio in Prokofiev’s Betrothal in a Monastery under Daniel Barenboim in 2019.

The Salzburg Festival in 2024 saw his portrayal of Prince Myshkin highly acclaimed in Weinberg’s multi-award winning premiere of The Idiot. For this role he was nominated for the Austrian Music Theatre Prize, named Discovery of the Year and awarded the Best Vocal Performance in a leading role by the German magazine Der Opernfreund and recognized as Singer of the Year by Opernwelt.

Recent seasons have brought him major acclaim as Don Ottavio in Don Giovanni and Ferrando in Cosi fan tutte at the Vienna State Opera where he recently celebrated his 50th performance in a variety of leading roles.

Successes as Tamino in Die Zauberflöte, Alfredo in La Traviata at the State Opera of Berlin, as Lensky in Eugene Onegin at the Teatro Real in Madrid and the State Opera of Hamburg, Ferrando in Christof’s Loy’s new staging of Cosi fan tutte, presented at the the centenary edition of the Salzburg Festival have put Bogdan firmly on the vocal map and consolidated his position as a singer actor of recent times not to be missed.

A VERY MELA CHRISTMAS!

-The Voice Detective aka myself, Gyaan Lyon, has got something special for you to unbox for Christmas. Check it out!

GEORGES THILL TENOR, DECEMBER 18, 1897

Georges Thill is arguably the greatest French operatic star of the twentieth century. It must be indisputable that in the 1920s and 30s he was the leading French classical and operatic singer.

He was born on 18 December 1897, the son of a Parisian publisher. Although he liked to sing from an early age, and gave private and impromptu demonstrations Georges did not initially consider a career as a professional singer. He later noted that, he had memorised two arias by Enrico Caruso from Tosca and I Pagliacci using a musical automaton, even though the arias were played at the wrong speed, making his voice sound too high. It wasn’t until November 1918 as the First World War ended that he undertook seriously studying music; first at the Paris Conservatoire under the bass Andre Gressé, (who incidentally sang the role of Sancho Panza to Chaliapin’s Don Quichotte at the world premieres of Massenet’s opera of that name in Monte Carlo in 1910) and then, most importantly, from 1921 in Naples under the great bel canto tenor, Fernando de Luca. It was de Luca who recognised Thill’s talent and developed it. Thill always acknowledged his great debt as an artist to de Luca, imparting breath control, remarkable clarity of diction, exceptional legato, and strengthening his lower range, which lacked stability. Indeed it was to be the rare combination of French diction combined with a flawless bel canto technique that distinguished him from other singers.

Returning from Naples, Thill was engaged immediately to sing Don José in Carmen, and other French roles at the Opera- Comique in Paris before making his debut at the Opera Garnier in 1924 as Nicias in Massenet’s Thäis. He remained at the Opera Garnier for 16 years, singing more than 50 roles. He also appeared at the Metropolitan Opera in New York in 1931 and 1932, as well as at the Royal Opera, Covent Garden in London and at the Vienna State Opera. Needless to say, it was in French roles that he is most remembered, his Sanson, Don José, and Romeo. However, his vocal ease, stability, and colour meant that he was an acclaimed performer of heavier Italian and German repertoire; not least the roles of Canio, don Carlo, Calaf, Lohengrin and Parsifal – which may give an idea of his range, power, and versatility.
In June 1934 he was involved in a serious motor accident which resulted in an enforced break from his Herculean schedule until December of that same year. By the time he retired in 1956 he had performed nearly all the standard repertory roles of French and Italian opera in addition to some of the Wagnerian operas that he loved so much. His repertory was simply amazing. He was equally at ease in the works of Bach and Gluck as well as in the contemporary works of Rabaud, Canteloube and Guinsbourg which he helped create.
His voice has been described as possessing a, ‘brilliant sound… heroic, smooth, and elegant…, (with) impeccable taste, perfect phrasing, and precise diction. In a video interview with a much younger colleague, she recounted that even though Thill expounded the credo of ‘sing as you speak’, Thill’s natural speech delivery was not typical of the usual French articulation. His was by nature a lot more Italian in its production.
Less well known is his film career, which included Louise in 1939 based on Gustave Charpentier’s eponymous opera.
After the Second World War he sang solely in his native France. His last operatic performance was as Canio at the Opera Comique where his stage career had all started. There was a final concert appearance in 1956 at the Théâtre du Châtelet. Thill spoke very candidly about the rigours of his career and it seemed with relish that he left it to become a farmer and vintner. After retiring to southeast France he remained in the public eye but never was tempted to perform.
We are fortunate to possess many recordings of GeorgesThill. He was an exclusive Columbia label artist and much of his repertoire has been preserved including French language versions of Italian roles.
In his personal life, Thill has been described as friendly, elegant, and exceptionally handsome with a great physique.

GIACOMO LAURI-VOLPI, TENOR, DECEMBER 11, 1892

‘Lauri-Volpi was Dick Johnson, and his ‘Ch’ella mi creda’ was sung as a lament that tore me apart. I had never heard it done that way, and I suppose I never shall again. There will never be a tenor like him; he was a law unto himself, but blessed with flashes of magic.’ Maria Carbone

A law unto himself aptly describes the tenor Giacomo Lauri-Volpi; a human being in the fullest sense of knowing his own mind and never afraid to rattle feathers. But this is only half the story. His exceptional vocal talent and gifts made him, along with Martinelli and Gigli, one of the true heirs to Caruso. As Henry Pleasants once wrote: ‘…had there never been a Caruso, [each of these three] would have been a candidate for recognition as the greatest tenor of the century thus far. They had strikingly distinctive voices: … Lauri-Volpi’s less beautiful than Gigli’s, but with a persuasive sensual quality and an exultant top that made the Turandot arias and the last act of Andrea Chénier unforgettable.’

Born in Rome on the 11 December 1892, after studies at the Accademia di Santa Cecilia in Rome with baritone Antonio Cotogni who had also taught Jean de Reszke, Giacomo Lauri-Volpi debuted in 1919 in Viterbo as Arturo in I Puritani. At his debut he appeared under the name of Giacomo Rubini, an act of homage to one of his great tenorino forbears, Giovanni Battista Rubini, who had specialised in early bel canto and especially the works of Bellini. As a sign of Lauri-Volpi’s intellectual originality it should be borne in mind that Rubini had been dead for 65 years. If not for the First World War, his debut may have come sooner, as he joined up and became a ‘much-decorated infantry captain, at one point stunning the Austrian enemy into silence by singing while the Italian army replenished its ammunition.’ He seems to be the exception as an Italian tenor in that his army career came before his singing!

After appearing as Rubini, he next sang under his own name in Rome in 1920 as Des Grieux in Manon.Two years later he was already singing at La scala, and one year after that in 1923, he became a regular at New York’s Metropolitan Opera until 1933 where he was to sing 26 roles in 232 performances. Lauri-Volpi was the first American Calaf in Turandot, Other major roles he undertook with great success were Manrico, Radames, Cavaradossi, Duca and most surprising of all for a lyric-spinto tenor, Otello. ‘His 1942 La scala performance [of Otello] was criticised by those who would have preferred a conventional robusto interpretation, but his supremely confident and characterful vocal intelligence brought a unique dramatic sensitivity to the part.’ Despite his open support of, and patronage by, the Mussolini government, and his joining up to fight in the Second World War where he achieved the rank of Colonel, his career flourished post-war. To his great credit he was an early supporter of Maria Callas recognising in her a great artist and he sang I Puritani with her in 1952, a full ten years after the Otello.

His idiosyncrasies are legend. John Potter noted that, ‘Lauri-Volpi was one of the truly original singers of the first half of the twentieth century. Apart from his year of study with Cotogni he was to all intents and purposes self-taught…. He took a similarly unfashionable attitude to composers’ scores, having no qualms about interpolating ornaments and cadenzas, especially if it gave him opportunities to demonstrate his effortless soprano E. This was not something that endeared him to Toscanini, whose adherence to the written notes would always be an unacceptable constraint to singers brought up in the old tradition.’ He could be an annoying colleague, especially when he held on to his effortless high notes. Added to this he appears to have been irritated by Gigli’s beautiful voice, but then again, not without a sense of humour. Stella Roman relates that in La Bohème ‘once in Rome gave me a good laugh when he suggested I sing ‘lauri e fiori’ instead of ‘gigli e fiori.’ I changed the text to satisfy him, and he was as pleased as a child.’

And how do we assess his five volumes of thoughtful and intelligent commentaries on singing? He ‘listened to his colleagues both attentively and sympathetically, and in the book(s) he always finds something interesting to say.‘ He continued singing and performing into old age, with barely diminished vocal powers. ‘At the age of seventy-nine he sang the Love Duet from Madama Butterfly with Montserrat Caballé, and in Barcelona crowned ‘Nessun dorma’ with a top B that stunned all hearers. At the age of eighty-four he offered the second verse of ‘La donna é mobile’, cadenza and all, to a wildly cheering crowd, both of these latter events being preserved on record…’

This great, unique, supremely intelligent and annoying, individual – how can his long, distinguished career and life be evaluated? He was without doubt one of the very greatest performers. Iva Pacetti nicely sums up this man of many seasons, ‘If Lauri-Volpi had a good evening, he topped everyone. I remember an Aida we sang together in Barcelona as one of the most nerve-racking experiences of my life. He ended ’Celeste Aida’ in falsetto, and the hissing that went on was frightening. This put the fear of God in all of us, as it meant it was one of those bloodthirsty audiences. Then in the great concertato of the second act he was astonishing, and in the third act he was so inspired he made me cry, which is never good while one is singing.’

Giacomo Lauri Volpi died in Barcelona in 1979 at the age of 87.

CONCHITA SUPERVIA, MEZZO-SOPRANO, DECEMBER 09, 1895

‘There was the adorable Conchita Supervia then, and she was perfection itself as Rosina, Isabella in L’italiana in Algeri, and Cenerentola. She had the charm and humour that went with these roles, along with a dazzling technique despite a small voice. I knew i could not possibly compete with her. ‘ Ebe Stignani

The bright, irrepressibly lively and comet-like career of Conchita Supervia was all too brief. Born in Barcelona on the 9 December 1895, her precocity in her teens meant Supervia started at age 14 in Buenos Aires in 1909 with a touring company and by 16 she was Octavian in the Rome premiere of Der Rosenkavalier. It was as if Supervia knew she had a limited time on earth and urgency was driving her. By 1915 she was already singing in the United States. Her artistry and vocal gifts are well described by J.B.Steane: ‘when Conchita Supervia sings, life quickens. She would challenge and cajole, charm and sigh, wheedle and scowl. The voice would rattle with alarming Southern stridency, yet none could sing a sweeter lullaby. She mixed the colours of her song with daring and intuitive skill: its scents and shades, flashes of scarlet amid pastel tints and delicate half-tones, were a florist shop in themselves, and rivals were soon out of business.’

Listening to her recordings always gives a sense of extreme liveliness. There is a character that can only be described as compelling sweetness combined with a temperament of fire. It was what charmed her contemporaries who were fortunate enough to experience her singing. It is also interesting to note that the recordings display a fast vibrato, which was not evident to those who did hear Conchita sing live.

Her great roles were the Rossini heroines; Rosina, Cenerentola, Isabella (L’italiana in algeri) and then Cherubino, Charlotte, Mignon, Carmen and Hansel It in this last role that Ines Alfani Tellini expressed the regret that the opera ‘has disappeared in Italy, and the current generation does not know of its existence. The most precious Hansel of all was Conchita Supervia, adorable in trouser roles.’

Supervia died in childbirth in 1936. Desmond Shawe-Taylor noted that; ’Supervia possessed exceptional gifts of musicianship and temperament. Her rich and vibrant mezzo attained a high degree of flexibility. Few singers conveyed so keen a pleasure in the sheer act of singing; and her enunciation, in several languages, was extremely vivid. These virtues, combined with a mischievous sense of humour and a delightful stage and platform personality, made her a superb interpreter of Rossini and Georges Bizet, as of Manuel de Falla, Enrique Granados and Spanish folksong.’

As for her personal life, it is known that she was a teetotaller, a non-smoker and looked after her health.

Conchita Supervia lives on because of that sheer infectious pleasure in singing that she brought into the world.

AURELIANO PERTILE, TENOR, NOVEMBER 09, 1885

‘I always had a very romantic concept of music. For me, it was something that came from the soul, something not contrived but spontaneous – lifting you, fulfilling you naturally’. Victoria de los Angeles

Born in Barcelona on this day in 1923 to poor but hard-working parents , Victoria de los Angeles was one of the most loved performers of her time. Her connection with audiences, whether on the opera stage or concert hall podium was the very essence of her art. In her own words, ‘With a good audience, I find that I can do things that I really never believed to be possible. When all you’ve got to sing to is a microphone, there’s none of that human warmth! When I sing in an opera house or a concert hall, I have an intuitive feeling about the audience’s response. That is very important. I gain confidence from them. I find that I can do things for them that I really didn’t believe would be possible. But in a recording studio you really have to forget about that altogether.’

Her beginnings were not auspicious, as by her own report, she was a shy child. It was music and singing that helped her overcome this shyness, and it was her elder sister Carmen that encouraged her to sing and when she was sixteen-years-old entered Victoria in a local vocal competition that nudged her in the direction of considering singing as a career rather than medicine or literature.

She began studies at the Barcelona Conservatorio with Dolores Frau, who was to remain her only singing teacher. To her great good fortune young Victoria came to the notice of a well-connected music-lover and semi-professional musician, José Maria Lamaña, whose father had been at one time President of the Conservatorio, and who performed regularly with Ars Musica. Ars Musica had been founded by Lamaña in 1935 as a seven-piece chamber ensemble with the goal of reviving older Spanish repertoire. Lamaña not only found financial backers from Catalan aristocrats and industrialists to support her studies, but managed Victoria’s burgeoning career, providing her with her style (under-stated with simple gold bracelet, pearl earrings, classical dress), from which she never deviated throughout her long career. Lamaña ‘had no intention of allowing Victoria to sing for money until she was ready. The preparation of a great voice is like the honing of a blade. If the initial work is well and patiently done, the blade will need only a little stropping for it to retain its keenness.’

Her professional debut, nevertheless, was at age 19 in Barcelona as Mimì in La bohème. The year was 1941. Her Madrid debut in 1947, was with non-other than Beniamino Gigli in Manon. It was decided that her Madrid debut needed to be with star quality given her growing reputation. On the back of winning the Geneva Singing Competition in 1947, she was invited to La scala, but in her shyness and desire to be back ‘home’ as soon as possible, she turned down the offer! In the words of her biography she received a phone call whilst in Geneva:

[Oldani] ’We heard the broadcast. Magnificent. We would very much like you to come and sing for us here.’
‘Oh, I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m going home today. I’ve got my ticket here.’
‘I quite understand, of course, but I am sure we can arrange something. It would only be a brief detour. You could change your ticket and fly back via Milan.’
‘No, thank you. I want to go home. They’re waiting for me.’
‘Um…I don’t think you understand. This is La Scala. We are asking that you come to sing for us at La Scala.’
An incredulous Oldani put down the telephone in Milan.

International success was not guaranteed and indeed her first recital in Scandinavia in a 2000-seat hall had only twenty-seven people in the audience. This was repeated in Latin America when in Brazil a mere twelve people attended. ‘I nearly invited the twelve people there to come up on stage,’ Victoria remembers. ‘It was a lovely concert – pure music-making with friends.’

By 1950 de los Angeles had been invited to Covent Garden, and in 1951 she made her Metropolitan Opera debut and she regularly sang at both houses until 1961.

Her most notable roles were Rosina, Violetta, Madama Butterfly, Mimì, Manon, and Desdemona in the Italian repertoire; Marguerite, Melisande and Carmen in the French and she appeared two years running in Bayreuth as Elisabeth. Her experience at Bayreuth seems to have been one of her happiest professional engagements and her appreciation of Wieland Wagner as a producer was immense as she later commented, ‘In many ways those are the best artistic conditions in which I ever worked.’

What of her voice though? How did those who heard her live react? J.B.Steane wrote, ‘For a start, the voice in its prime was so pure and so opulent. To song after song you could listen with uninterrupted pleasure to the sheer sound, with never a scrape nor a rattle, never a hint of surface wear or anything mean about the quality. But that of itself gives a poor idea, for it tells of what there was not….’ Her colleague, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf said of her, ‘She is quite astounding. She sings with miraculous ease and her legato is unsurpassed. Once in 1952 (or so) I heard her as Violetta and I decided not to sing it again.’ Shawe-Taylor noted that she, ‘possessed a warm, vibrant instrument of unusual clarity and flexibility, somewhat dark and southern in quality but capable of much tonal variety. In her best years the timbre of her voice was exceptionally sweet, and she was a most communicative artist in both song and opera.’

Her rapport with audiences was legendary, but she was also a consummate ‘singing obsessive’. She enjoyed talking about singing and was ever-ready to learn from others; she said of Marian
Anderson, for example, ’I have never discussed singing with anyone as much as with Marian. She was an almost mystic force. What Toscanini was to conducting, she was to singing. I admired her for the simplicity of her approach to singing. Like me, she sang from the heart or not at all. She was also an extraordinarily supportive and generous colleague.’

During the seventies she had almost confined herself to recitals, where she felt more fulfilled with the audience response. As an encore, it was noted that; ’Even then there could be another treat in store, for sometimes instead of bringing Gerald Moore back with her she would return alone but with guitar. ‘Adios Granada’ she would sing: the bold projected middle voice would fill the hall, the sensuous melisma told of dark faces and flickering shadows in a sunny land,…’ She performed the Catalan folk-song, ‘Song of the Birds’, for the closing ceremony of the Barcelona Olympic Games in 1992 and her last concert tour was to Australia in 1995. Victoria de los Angeles died in home town of Barcelona on the 15 January 2005.

VICTORIA DE LOS ANGELES, SOPRANO, NOVEMBER 01, 1923

‘I always had a very romantic concept of music. For me, it was something that came from the soul, something not contrived but spontaneous – lifting you, fulfilling you naturally’. Victoria de los Angeles

Born in Barcelona on this day in 1923 to poor but hard-working parents , Victoria de los Angeles was one of the most loved performers of her time. Her connection with audiences, whether on the opera stage or concert hall podium was the very essence of her art. In her own words, ‘With a good audience, I find that I can do things that I really never believed to be possible. When all you’ve got to sing to is a microphone, there’s none of that human warmth! When I sing in an opera house or a concert hall, I have an intuitive feeling about the audience’s response. That is very important. I gain confidence from them. I find that I can do things for them that I really didn’t believe would be possible. But in a recording studio you really have to forget about that altogether.’

Her beginnings were not auspicious, as by her own report, she was a shy child. It was music and singing that helped her overcome this shyness, and it was her elder sister Carmen that encouraged her to sing and when she was sixteen-years-old entered Victoria in a local vocal competition that nudged her in the direction of considering singing as a career rather than medicine or literature.

She began studies at the Barcelona Conservatorio with Dolores Frau, who was to remain her only singing teacher. To her great good fortune young Victoria came to the notice of a well-connected music-lover and semi-professional musician, José Maria Lamaña, whose father had been at one time President of the Conservatorio, and who performed regularly with Ars Musica. Ars Musica had been founded by Lamaña in 1935 as a seven-piece chamber ensemble with the goal of reviving older Spanish repertoire. Lamaña not only found financial backers from Catalan aristocrats and industrialists to support her studies, but managed Victoria’s burgeoning career, providing her with her style (under-stated with simple gold bracelet, pearl earrings, classical dress), from which she never deviated throughout her long career. Lamaña ‘had no intention of allowing Victoria to sing for money until she was ready. The preparation of a great voice is like the honing of a blade. If the initial work is well and patiently done, the blade will need only a little stropping for it to retain its keenness.’

Her professional debut, nevertheless, was at age 19 in Barcelona as Mimì in La bohème. The year was 1941. Her Madrid debut in 1947, was with non-other than Beniamino Gigli in Manon. It was decided that her Madrid debut needed to be with star quality given her growing reputation. On the back of winning the Geneva Singing Competition in 1947, she was invited to La scala, but in her shyness and desire to be back ‘home’ as soon as possible, she turned down the offer! In the words of her biography she received a phone call whilst in Geneva:

[Oldani] ’We heard the broadcast. Magnificent. We would very much like you to come and sing for us here.’
‘Oh, I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m going home today. I’ve got my ticket here.’
‘I quite understand, of course, but I am sure we can arrange something. It would only be a brief detour. You could change your ticket and fly back via Milan.’
‘No, thank you. I want to go home. They’re waiting for me.’
‘Um…I don’t think you understand. This is La Scala. We are asking that you come to sing for us at La Scala.’
An incredulous Oldani put down the telephone in Milan.

International success was not guaranteed and indeed her first recital in Scandinavia in a 2000-seat hall had only twenty-seven people in the audience. This was repeated in Latin America when in Brazil a mere twelve people attended. ‘I nearly invited the twelve people there to come up on stage,’ Victoria remembers. ‘It was a lovely concert – pure music-making with friends.’

By 1950 de los Angeles had been invited to Covent Garden, and in 1951 she made her Metropolitan Opera debut and she regularly sang at both houses until 1961.

Her most notable roles were Rosina, Violetta, Madama Butterfly, Mimì, Manon, and Desdemona in the Italian repertoire; Marguerite, Melisande and Carmen in the French and she appeared two years running in Bayreuth as Elisabeth. Her experience at Bayreuth seems to have been one of her happiest professional engagements and her appreciation of Wieland Wagner as a producer was immense as she later commented, ‘In many ways those are the best artistic conditions in which I ever worked.’

What of her voice though? How did those who heard her live react? J.B.Steane wrote, ‘For a start, the voice in its prime was so pure and so opulent. To song after song you could listen with uninterrupted pleasure to the sheer sound, with never a scrape nor a rattle, never a hint of surface wear or anything mean about the quality. But that of itself gives a poor idea, for it tells of what there was not….’ Her colleague, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf said of her, ‘She is quite astounding. She sings with miraculous ease and her legato is unsurpassed. Once in 1952 (or so) I heard her as Violetta and I decided not to sing it again.’ Shawe-Taylor noted that she, ‘possessed a warm, vibrant instrument of unusual clarity and flexibility, somewhat dark and southern in quality but capable of much tonal variety. In her best years the timbre of her voice was exceptionally sweet, and she was a most communicative artist in both song and opera.’

Her rapport with audiences was legendary, but she was also a consummate ‘singing obsessive’. She enjoyed talking about singing and was ever-ready to learn from others; she said of Marian
Anderson, for example, ’I have never discussed singing with anyone as much as with Marian. She was an almost mystic force. What Toscanini was to conducting, she was to singing. I admired her for the simplicity of her approach to singing. Like me, she sang from the heart or not at all. She was also an extraordinarily supportive and generous colleague.’

During the seventies she had almost confined herself to recitals, where she felt more fulfilled with the audience response. As an encore, it was noted that; ’Even then there could be another treat in store, for sometimes instead of bringing Gerald Moore back with her she would return alone but with guitar. ‘Adios Granada’ she would sing: the bold projected middle voice would fill the hall, the sensuous melisma told of dark faces and flickering shadows in a sunny land,…’ She performed the Catalan folk-song, ‘Song of the Birds’, for the closing ceremony of the Barcelona Olympic Games in 1992 and her last concert tour was to Australia in 1995. Victoria de los Angeles died in home town of Barcelona on the 15 January 2005.