|
Si ascolti comunque l'aria della Traviata, unico esempio - insieme all'Ultima canzone di Tosti - delle incisioni elettriche effettuate tra il 1926 e il 1931 da Danise: a dieci anni da quelle acustiche del periodo 1921-1925, la voce, oltre che più presente grazie al nuovo sistema di registrazione, risulta intatta nella timbratura perfetta, che nelle frasi acute squilla con autorità assoluta e con un controllo sovrano dell'emissione. Una testimonianza che conta pochi paragoni - soprattutto per un cantante prossimo alla cinquantina e non lontano dal ritiro - e che impone ancor più Danise come un baritono da conoscere assolutamente oggi, dimenticando i tre quarti di secolo che ci separano da lui.
DAVIDE ANNACHINI
And now you find the english tranlation made by Candace Smith
This recording finally does justice to one of the greatest baritones of the twentieth century, a singer who has not been as adequately remembered by the recording industry as his artistic stature merits.
Giuseppe Danise (Naples, 11 January 1883 – New York, 9 January 1963) represents an emblematic example of a singer bridging the old and new schools. Already active in the generation immediately following Ancona,, Scotti, Sammarco and the like, such singers continued through the years leading up to the First World War as the last exponents of the old nineteenth-century style. The transition from the romantic bel canto to the more visceral verismo was, to tell the truth, less traumatic for baritones than for the other vocal ranges. And if Caruso and Burzio clearly represent for tenors and sopranos a watershed standing between the singers of the past and those of modern times, the effects of the equally dramatic example of Titta Ruffa would be felt only gradually and at a later time.
Danise, who studied with Colonnese and Petillo at the conservatory in his hometown, undoubtedly learned the fundamentals of the nineteenth-century school. But, like all of his colleagues of the time, he was immediately forced to take on verismo opera, and he debuted, not surprisingly, in 1906 at the Teatro Bellini in Naples in Cavalleria rusticana.
This was followed by his apprentice years both in the provinces and even in Russia. In 1913, he began to make himself known in such prestigious theaters as the Teatro Regio of Turin (Götterdämmerung, Isabeau, Don Carlo) and the Teatro Massimo in Palermo. Here he participated in the remake of Leoncavallo’s Bohème (entitled Mimì Pinson). He appeared before the audiences of Buenos Aires, San Paolo and, in Italy, at the Teatro Constanzi in Rome, performing a repertoire which ranged from Il Barbiere to the recent La Fanciulla del West. He made his debut at La Scala during the 1915-16 season singing the lead role of Prince Igor, and he triumphed in La Battaglia di Legnano alongside Rosa Raisa. He returned to the Milanese theater the following year in such very different operas as Spontini’s Fernando Cortez and Giordano’s Siberia, and he also appeared in the world premiere of Il Macigno by Victor De Sabata. His career seemed headed overseas, however, and indeed in 1920 he made his debut at the Metropolitan in New York in the role of Amonasro.
This was followed by thirty or so other roles sung over an uninterrupted period of twelve seasons. Here he participated in the American premieres of Giovanni Gallurese by Montemezzi (1925) and The Fair of Sorocinski by Mussorsgky (1930), in addition to local premieres of Lalo’s Le Roi d’Ys (1922, with Ponselle and Gigli), Andrea Chénier and Loreley (1921 and 1922, respectively, in both cases with Gigli and Muzio), and I Gioelli della Madonna by Wolf-Ferrari (1925, with Jeritza and Martinelli). His return to Italy for the 1932-33 season was marked by numerous remarkable successes, in particular Lohengrin in Turin and Tosca at La Scala, though his Trovatore there the following year strangely enough did not go well with the Milanese public. Not coincidentally, after a few more performances, including those at San Carlo in Naples and Carlo Felice in Genoa, Danise decided to give up the stage. In 1935, he moved to New York where he opened up a singing school, and his pupils included Regina Resnik, intent on perfecting her transition from soprano to mezzo-soprano. In 1946, at an advanced age, he married the celebrated Brazilian soprano Bidu Sayao, following her divorce from the impresario Walter Mocchi.
From these biographical notes, certain unique characteristics of Danise are already evident. His great versatility, for example, allowed him to embrace an extremely vast and heterogeneous repertoire. This was not, perhaps, so unusual for the time, since the majority of baritones often managed both the romantic repertoire and that of the New School. Danise, however, was able to bring to veristic roles the carefully controlled line of the nineteenth-century school, a line which had been shed by the affectations of a Battistini, but at the same time was not even suggested by the vocal muscularity of a Ruffo. This was “bel canto” in the classic sense of the term. The perfect support of sound, the suppleness of vocal production, the ringing timbre throughout the range, the clarity of diction, the noble manner of putting forth the voice: these were legacies from the great school of the past. A careful look at these and other “natural” qualities (in large part the result of excellent technique)--the beauty of timbre, the large range, and the fullness of sound—and one grasps the exceptional stature of this baritone.
Danise was without a doubt a noteworthy interpreter, if one considers his careful sculpturing of the phrase and the dynamic flexibility of his chiaroscuro. His recordings (made on the Brunswick label when he was in America), however, might leave the listener with the feeling of partially unrealized potential. Indeed, beyond a flawless execution, a sense of true abandon is often missing, hindered by a certain uniformity of sound which tends to give way to vocal nuances less than it might. On the other hand, memorable flights of fancy are often lacking. One begins to suspect that, at least in the recording booth, this was a baritone who could not hold his own against the overwhelming histrionics of a Stracciari, the expressive depth of a Galeffi, or the moving intimacy of a De Luca.
The impression of an impeccable singer but lazy interpreter disappears, however, upon listening to the pieces from Rigoletto, which Danise recorded in Milan in 1917 for His Master’s Voice. On this occasion, Danise participated in the making of the complete edition of Verdi’s opera in which he sang the principal numbers, leaving the less important sections to his colleague, Ernesto Badini, himself known for comic roles. Here, Danise has absolutely superlative moments, which were once considered by the authoritative critic Rodolfo Celletti as those of “the most complete Rigoletto available on record”. In fact, the mournful tenderness of the mezzevoci in the duets with Gilda or the variety of colors in “Pari siamo” rival the cutting bite of the invectives in “Cortigiani” and the “Vendetta”. Vocally speaking, we hear precious pianissimos, a superb legato, and high notes which are so facile and brilliant that they sound like veritable darts in such phrases as “…se dei figli difende l’onor!” or “…te colpire il buffone saprà”. And let us not forget the breathtaking high Eb of “…un vindice avrai” which, contrary to the usual mezzoforte attack and gradual crescendo, is sung here in full voice and then miraculously diminished. Rising above all of these marvels, there emerges an unknown Rigoletto--unknown at least from those years and unknown after the deplorable traditions to which we have become accustomed. This is not a Grand Guignol fool but rather a man of great dignity and intimate suffering, a noble father who is strict but affectionate, a personage who is light years away from that vulgar and cackling caricature which has reigned as a stereotype for far too long. Heard today, Danise’s Rigoletto thus stands as an authentic revelation, in every way modern compared to the great majority of those Rigolettos heard on disc after him. It is incredibly illuminating in style, execution and interpretation.
This said, it is certainly not our intention to limit the interest of this CD solely to the numbers from Rigoletto. Each piece is a lesson in singing and the testimony of a lost art. It is enough to listen to the meticulously sculptured clarity in the recitative from Ernani, the wonderfully fluid legato in the cantabile passages from the arias by Verdi, the luminous mezzevoci of “Eri tu”, the incredible evenness of registers in “Urna fatal”, the brilliant high notes scattered here and there, and even the excellent trill which Danise brandishes in “Pietà Signore!”, There emerge as common denominators the creamy and dark timbre and the expansive and warm manner of singing. Above all, however, one is struck by the equanimity of vocal production which, even in the most passionate and veristic passages of Zazà, never stoops to compromise. Perhaps some of Danise’s recordings do not measure up to others made by his colleagues. A case in point is Battistini’s version of “Vision fugitive” or Valentine’s aria from Faust where, in comparison, Danise banally chooses a stentoreous reading over a more precious and intimate one. Or consider the historical interpretation by Galeffi of the prologue from I Pagliacci: here Danise’s performance is less varied and his Ab in “…al pari di voi” is sung with great ease but assisted by a useless portamento.
Listen, in any case, to the aria from La Traviata, the only example (together with Tosti’s Ultima canzone) of an electric recording made by Danise between 1927 and 1931. Ten years after the acoustic recordings of 1921-25, the voice is not only more present, thanks to the new recording techniques. Its flawless timbre is also completely intact, and in the high phrases, the voice rings with absolute authority and a masterful control of production. Such a testimony is comparable to few, especially in the case of a singer who was nearing fifty and would soon retire. It firmly establishes Danise as a baritone worth knowing today, despite the three-fourths of a century which divide him from us.
DAVIDE ANNACHINI
|
