November 17,
1898
Teatro Lirico, Milano
world premiere of Fedora |
| "The applause was not
mere hand clapping, but it seemed to be explosions of passion. The cheers became
overwhelming. Caruso gave an encore, as soon as I, surprised by that insistent,
intoxicating storm, was able to calm down and start conducting again. The delirium was
ecstatic and then there was a second encore and then another. The third act was a
crescendo of enthusiasm... Fedora had been consecrated with the new star.
Caruso's voice had conquered everyone's heart." |
Umberto Giordano,
composer of Fedora
the performance was conducted
by the composer, who recalls the
response to Amor ti vieta |
| “What does it take? A big chest, a big mouth, 90%
memory, 10% intelligence, and something in the heart.” - Enrico Caruso |
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ENRICO
CARUSO
1873 - 1921 The Tenor of the Century - indeed, for many music lovers, Enrico
Caruso is the quintessential Italian tenor of all time.
A perfect reflection of the age of verismo in
opera, Caruso was the embodiment of the modern tenor sound, that big, passionate,
macho-masculine voice. Until Caruso, most tenors inhabited a universe all their own (and
admittedly, they still do). But before Caruso, it was with an elegant but effete,
somewhat-removed sound; Jean de Reszke, toast of the town until Caruso arrived on the
scene, was the le beau idéal.
Born in Naples in 1873 to a working class family, young
Errico was involved in music from his childhood, singing in church. His first voice
teacher told him he would never amount to anything as a singer. But he made his
professional debut at age 21 in two performances - probably the only two, says Michael Scott - of Morelli's Amico Francesco, performances
that lacked not only refinement but accurate top notes. By training and hard work,
Caruso blended a superb natural voice with his passionate, headstrong personality, and
three years later, stunned the opera world singing the lead in the world premiere of
Giordano's Fedora. [review, at left] Here was a tenor who could
thrill an audience beyond anything they'd experienced before.
For his first engagement as Rodolfo in La Bohème,
the condition of his contract was that the young tenor must get approval from the
composer. After Caruso had sung a few phrases, Puccini leapt up from the piano crying "Who
sent you to me? God himself?!" He got the job.
Enrico Caruso occupied the top of the opera world for the
next 23 years, performing in London, Milan, Russia and South America. When he made his
debut at New York's Metropolitan Opera in 1903, he found his artistic home. He sang there
every winter in a total of 37 different operas, establishing new guidelines for fees paid
to opera singers, earning huge amounts of money... and giving it away. He spent almsot
$9,000 each season at the Met, buying advance tickets, handing them out to friends old and
new. And each Christmas, a truck would draw up at the stage door of the Met bearing a
present for every single employee in the house. After Caruso's death it was found that
more than 120 people were on his informal payroll, people he supported.
| He was a popular, likeable fellow, making it easy for those outside of
opera circles to embrace him, too - and through his records, he was known all over the
world, to regular opera-goers as well as the man in the street. In some views, it was Caruso
who made the recording
industry. |
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The recordings were made throughout his
entire career and include arias, popular Italian songs, and during World War I, a
rally-round-the-flag rendition (in charmingly broken English) of Over There -
which was yet another best seller. He also frequently sang for war charities with tenor
John McCormack and popular artists Al Jolson and George M. Cohan.
While Caruso's emotional intensity created magical
performances, he was much more than loud bluster and razzle-dazzle. Contributing to his
long productive career was his solid vocal technique, grounded, though not locked, in the
"old-style" singing principles of bel canto, which enabled him to spin
out delicate phrases, contrasting with the big masculine sound of his voice - he knew when
to use what - and he retained this ability as he got older. He was the perfect bridge
between generations of operatic style - many of his direct contemporaries were able to
forge new audiences too, but none so effectively as Caruso. Those who came after him
tended to imitate his mannerisms without mastering the technical control.
Caruso's signature roles were those of the romantic married
to the verismo - Cavaradossi in Tosca and Canio in Pagliacci. The
verismo opera style was at its peak during Caruso's prime, and he created many roles for
living composers, since opera - and new opera - was a vibrant, breathing art form during
the first half of Caruso's career. As opera changed and adapted (as it has for 400 years)
the second half of his career was spent primarily with revivals. Since the disappearance
of the castrati more than a
century before Caruso's time, the superstars of the opera world were women - the sopranos,
prime donne - and all the men were bystanders, no matter how admired they might
be. Caruso changed all that, his name known far beyond the small circle of the opera
world.
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Enrico Caruso took on his final role in 1920: Eléazar in La Juive for opening
night at the Met. His portrayal was a carefully studied portrait that would have been
inconceivable in the young tenor at his debut in 1903. To capture the halting steps
described in the orchestra when the terrified Eléazar appears before the Inquisition,
Caruso deliberately wore a pair of shoes that fit badly, forcing him into an awkward and
clumsy walk appropriate for the old man.
Caruso was at the height of his fame - and he was already seriously ill with pleurisy. |
On 11 December, while singing in L'Elisir d'Amore, he was spitting blood with
every phrase - management finally stepped in and suspended the performance. Two days
later, he sang a "brilliant" Forza; three weeks after that, an
effortful Eléazar, his 863rd performance at the Met. Photographer Herman Mishkin went to Caruso's dressing room at
intermission and made the portraits of the great tenor on the last night he would ever
sing. He sailed home to Naples to rest and recover - but there would be no recovery. Nine
months later he died at the age of 48. Caruso had achieved such fame and honour throughout
the world that the King of Italy ordered the Basilica di San Francesco di Paola, normally
reserved for royal occasions, to be used for the funeral service. His passing was seen as
monumental, a grievous loss to music... but in so many ways, he lives on. |
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Tenor John McCormack heard Caruso in La
Bohème at Covent Garden in 1904. Thirty years later, he wrote: "...that
voice still rings in my ears, the memory of it will never die." Caruso's sound was completely unique - audiences had never
experienced anything like it before, nor has anyone since. No tenor (and as a group,
they're not exactly known for their modesty) has ever claimed to be his equal. He sang
hundreds of performances, dozens of different roles, and recorded more than 260 titles,
showing the range of his expressive voice from the lyrical quality of Donizetti to the
dramatic weight of the later Verdi operas.
While nearly every tenor's voice takes on differing
characteristics as he ages, especially in timbre, Caruso always had a baritonal
underpinning to his voice, giving it darkness and power. But a favorite story goes like
this: during a performance of La Bohème, the basso, Andreas DeSegurola, lost his
voice just before his Act IV aria. Standing close by but facing upstage, Caruso sang Vecchia
zimarra for him, while DeSegurola mouthed the words and acted through the aria.
Caruso enjoyed it so much, he made a recording of it shortly afterwards.
Fellow tenor (and some say, successor) Beniamino Gigli wrote:
"I wonder what would have become of me if, like
him, I had been born in a city slum; for I did not have the gifts of personality that
enabled Caruso to create life and warmth around him wherever he went."
Enrico Caruso leaves us his recordings, the written
accounts of his performances, and the memory of an unparalleled career, one that altered
the history of opera. He remains the ultimate model for every aspiring opera singer,
and his "something in the heart" keeps him forever in ours. |
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"He sang Celeste Aida so brilliantly that the applause stopped the
show... his Radames reached such heights that those lucky enough to have been present will
remember the occasion for the rest of their lives. ... What happened at the end of this
[final] duet [with Emmy Destinn] was not merely applause, but an uproar, a cry of
jubilation. The audience clapped, yelled and stamped their feet... In the course of many
years I witnessed many triumphant Caruso nights but none quite like that Aida."
- Emil Ledner, Caruso's German manager,
Berlin, October 25, 1907 |
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