Collectors’ Corner (MP3) • Some January Cylinder Finds
Edison Two-Minute Cylinders (1901 – 1909)
Cylinder fans — If you’re a serious collector or conscientious dealer, you need Edison Two-Minute and Concert Cylinders, compiled from the original Edison documentation. This is the only fully detailed guide to Edison cylinders, identifying and dating all of the numerous remakes. Remakes often employed different artists (see, for example, the note to the first selection below), who generally are not identified in earlier cylinder guides. Supplies are very limited, and we will not be reprinting once they are sold out — order soon!
Some of these recordings contain racially derogatory language that is typical of the period. It does not reflect the views of Mainspring Press; however, we see no value in censoring history. This was America (and, sadly, still is, in some jerkwater communities).
ARTHUR COLLINS: Little Alabama Coon
Edison Gold Moulded 1523
New York – Master plated July 19, 1901 National Phonograph began plating masters for the new Gold Moulded cylinders on January 21, 1901, in advance of an early 1902 launch. #1523 was originally allocated to George J. Gaskin’s 1897 recording of this title, which was subsequently replaced by a brown-wax version by Collins (deleted in July 1902 and replaced by this version in Gold Moulded format). The number was recycled yet again in July 1905, for a more common remake by Ada Jones with orchestra.
BOB ROBERTS: Somebody Lied
Edison Gold Moulded 9936
New York – Listed July 1908
WILL F. DENNY: My Word! What a Lot of It
Edison Gold Moulded 9620
New York – Listed June 1907
JACK PLEASANTS: I Said “Hooray”
Edison Gold Moulded 10293
London – Listed November 1909 (U.S.) British issue on 13898 – Listed c. July 1909
MURRY K. HILL: In the Good Old Steamboat Days
Edison Gold Moulded 9619
New York – Listed June 1907
BILLY MURRAY & EDISON MALE QUARTET: San Antonio
Edison Gold Moulded 9547
New York – Listed March 1907
EDWARD M. FAVOR & CHORUS: Almost (from The Fair Co-Ed)
Edison Gold Moulded 10147
New York – Listed April 1909
ANTONIO SCOTTI: Falstaff – Quand ero paggio
Edison Grand Opera Record B-57
New York – Listed November 1907
Do you recall when you made your very first recording?
Don’t ask me about dates because I’m terrible at them, but I remember being given a contract by the Columbia company around the time I made my Met debut. No, it was before my debut—I’m pretty sure it was before it because I made the recording in the spring, and my debut with Caruso in Forza del destino was in the fall, in November .
So you were still in vaudeville with [your sister] Carmela when you made the recording?
No, we were “on strike” from the Keith Circuit in 1917, or that’s what we told [Keith Circuit booker] Eddie Darling at the time. But Romano Romani, whom I credit with “discovering” me, was an arranger and conductor for Columbia, and he and my so-called manager, [William] Thorner, convinced me to accept a contract from Columbia rather than Victor. What I didn’t know until a few years later, when I did go with Victor, was that they had wanted me from the time I made my Met debut. After my debut was a sensation, as the critics called it, Victor wanted to offer me a big contract and have me record arias and duets from Forza with Caruso.
Before the name change: Rosa and Carmela Ponzillo in vaudeville
(New York Clipper, August 8, 1917).
Carmela (left) and Rosa Ponselle (center) with Rosa’s secretary, Edith Prilik.
(G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
Were you at all aware of Victor’s interest when Columbia wanted you to sign with them?
No, but I should’ve been because [Columbia] really rushed the contract through, and then had me make this test record. Some of my friends said I should have Thorner try to see if Victor would take me, but he gave me this song and dance about how if I went with Victor I would just be a “beginner” and wouldn’t get much to record, but that at Columbia I would be “the queen” and would be their big star.
Do you remember the title of your test recording for Columbia?
Sure. “Pace, pace mio Dio,” with Romani accompanying me at the piano. That would have been in the spring of 1918, maybe March or April.
Where were the Columbia studios in New York City, where you made your recordings?
It was on the top floor of a new building, the Gotham, near Central Park. It was a beautiful new building, and the studios obviously were brand-new, too. I think there were four studios that took up that whole top floor. I know it was at least twenty-four stories, that building, and the studios were on the top floor.
Describe the process that making those recordings involved.
Well, there was just a small orchestra for accompaniment—mainly brasses and reeds, and these special [Stroh] violins that had a nickeled horn, like a curved megaphone, instead of a wooden body. Those odd-looking violins were made just for recording purposes because their horns were fastened to a metal bridge, which made them very loud compared to a real violin—but they sounded awful!
How many were in the accompanying band, if you recall?
Maybe ten or a dozen players at most for vocal recordings. They were on bleachers, I guess you could call them, a few feet above the floor. The bleachers were shaped like a half-moon, so that the instruments were pointing toward the horn. I remember that there was no player right behind me when I was singing. The players were at my left and right, but with no one behind me because the sound of their instrument would have been right in back of my head.
When you were making a recording, could you see the recording machinery and the person who was running the equipment?
No. All of that was behind a wall. There was a little window in the wall so that the man directing the recording where the singer and the orchestra was could communicate with the people running the equipment.
Ponselle with Romano Romani (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
Was there a signal that someone gave to start the recording?
At Columbia, that was Romani’s job. He would get a hand signal through the little window that I was just describing, and he would raise his baton and the recording would begin. Now at Victor, I remember a buzzer that was used as a signal to start the recording. That was before the microphone came in, of course. After that, there was a system of lights, kind of like traffic lights. The red light meant “stand by,” and the green one meant that the recording machine was already going.
Do you remember any directions you were given about how to sing into the recording horn?
Oh, that damned horn! It was a real ordeal having to make a record with that horn, especially if you had a good-sized voice like mine. You had to sing every note at almost the same volume—so if the score called for a pianissimo, you couldn’t sing it because the recording machine would barely pick it up. You couldn’t sing too loud, either. If you did, they [i.e., the recording engineers] said that it would “blast” the groove and ruin the record. So anything forte, especially fortissimo, had to be sung by looking upward so that some of the sound wouldn’t do directly into the middle of the horn. Or they would tell you to take a step back from the horn right before you would sing a note fortissimo.
“[Thorner] gave me this song and dance about how…at Columbia I would be ‘the queen’ and would be their big star.”
Both you and your sister Carmela were offered Columbia contracts, correct?
Yes, they wanted to capitalize on our reputation in vaudeville. We were one of the top acts on the Keith Circuit before I went to the Met, and our act consisted of fifteen minutes of mainly duets that I had done the arrangements for. Three that always got us huge ovations were our duets of the Barcarolle from Tales of Hoffmann, “’O sole mio,” and “Comin’ thro’ the Rye.” We recorded those for Columbia, and they sold well.
What is your opinion of your Columbia recordings? Are there any that you remember especially well?
Well, those duets with Carmela, and another one from our vaudeville act, “Kiss Me Again,” which was my solo. That record turned out pretty well. One that didn’t like was the “Casta diva,” which I had to sing at a horrible tempo and with none of the dynamics that I used in the opera house. I just thought of another duet recording that I liked: the Trovatore “Mira d’acerbe lagrime” and “Vivrà! contende il giubilo!” which I made with Riccardo Stracciari. My God, what a voice he had—just like a shower of diamonds! Now, of all of the solo opera arias I made for Columbia, I consider the “Selva opaca” from William Tell to be the best one.
The Ponselle sisters’ early Columbia output included selections they had featured in their vaudeville and concert performances.
Was it hard for you to leave Columbia after being so successful with them, and go to Victor?
It was bittersweet, I would say. The men at Columbia were so nice to me—they really did treat me like “the queen,” just as Romani and Thorner said they would. And it was bittersweet because although I made a lot more money at Victor, Caruso had died two or three years earlier, so I never got to record with him.
Did Carmela audition for Victor with you?
No, she stayed with Columbia. And by the way, I didn’t “audition” for Victor. I was at the Met by then, and Victor did everything they could to get me to sign with them.
What do you remember about your first Victor recording sessions?
Well, the ones that were done with the horn and the small orchestra for accompaniment were made in their Manhattan studios. When the microphone came along and everything was electrical, I made a lot of my records at this church that Victor had converted into a recording studio in Camden, New Jersey. The acoustics of that church were ideal.
From the “1930” Victor catalog (published November 1, 1929). Of Ponselle’s acoustically recorded issues, all but #6437 had been deleted by the time this catalog appeared.
When the electrical-recording process was introduced in 1925, do you recall how different it felt to make a recording with the new technology?
Oh, yes! It was like night and day. The orchestra was much, much larger, and they used regular instruments—real violins, in other words—and you could have a good-sized chorus and a pipe organ if the music you were recording called for them.
You made a number of recordings with a chorus, and one of your fan’s favorites is “La vergine degli angeli” with [Ezio] Pinza. Do you consider that one of your best electrical Victor records?
No—it’s one of my least favorites. My part, that is, not Pinza’s. He sings beautifully on that record. What I don’t like about it is that somebody in the control room turned up the volume on my microphone. It’s a prayer, so it’s supposed to be sung piano—but because of the way they turned up the volume on the microphone when I was singing my part, it’s way too loud, nothing like a prayer would be sung.
Ponselle made her radio debut on the first Victor Hour broadcast of the 1927 season. (Radio Digest Illustrated, January 1927)
How about your Forza trio recordings with Martinelli and Pinza? Do you like those Victors?
Yes, they’re all right. The blend of the voices turned out well.
Of all the duet recordings you made for Victor, the “Tomb Scene” discs from Aida with Giovanni Martinelli are prized by everyone who has heard them. Is it true that you didn’t like them and that Martinelli had to convince you to allow them to be released?
That’s true, yes. There again, the balance between our voices was wrong. We recorded those duets twice, you know. The first time was with the horn, and I wouldn’t let those be released because we were both too loud and the pace was too fast. It’s like one of the Columbias that I made with that damned horn, the “Vergine degli angeli” with Charles Hackett. He was an excellent singer—not the most beautiful voice, but a real artist—yet the recording was just awful. It was all too loud, no subtlety at all. The same with those first “Tomb Scene” recordings that I made with Martinelli and that damned horn.
When Victor persuaded us to re-record those duets after the microphone came in, the sound was much better, of course, but I thought the balance between our voices was still off, so I said I wouldn’t go along with putting them out. Finally, Martinelli persuaded me to okay them. He said, “Look, Rosa, the public will understand. You sing so beautifully and your voice sounds just like it does on the stage.” I could never say no to Martinelli, so I went along with him and let them be released. When I hear them now, I’m glad I did.
What is your opinion of your Norma recordings, both the “Casta diva” and the “Mira, o Norma” with Marion Telva?
I’m fine with them, especially the “Mira, o Norma.” Telva and I were in synch on every note. We did that in the studio the way we did it onstage. We held hands, and I would squeeze her hand gently a fraction of a second before I would begin a note. Every time we did that duet, we were completely in synch because of the way we held hands.
Were any of your Victor Red Seals of older ballads like “Carry Me Back to Old Virginny” conducted by Nathaniel Shilkret, who conducted most of Victor’s popular-music recordings?
No, never. I don’t remember him—I mean, I must have been introduced to him, but I wouldn’t know him if he walked into this room right now. Rosario Bourdon conducted my Victor recordings.
An early 1950s promotional photo for RCA’s Treasury of Immortal Performances reissues.
As you hardly need me to tell you, you are one of the very few opera stars who made acoustical recordings, electrical recordings, and modern long-playing recordings. You’ve talked about the day-and-night difference between making acoustical and electrical recordings, but what was it like by comparison to make high-fidelity long-playing recordings for your old company, RCA Victor?
What I wouldn’t have given to have had that recording system when I was in the prime of my career! It was so easy making recordings that way!
Those LPs were made right here at Villa Pace, correct?
Yes, in the foyer, where the high ceiling and the walls and tile floor give the voice such resonance. They set up the microphones there. They brought in a seven-foot piano for [accompanist] Igor Chichagov, because it would have been too much trouble to move my concert Baldwin piano into the foyer. And do you know that the man who oversaw those recordings was one of the men I worked with at Victor in Camden? His name was Mr. Maitsch. It was such a happy moment when he came here and we got to work together again.
The master recordings for those LPs were made on magnetic tape. You had had some experience with having your singing tape-recorded by Lloyd Garrison, who recorded private albums that you sent to friends. How different was it working the RCA’s technicians and their state-of-the-art equipment?
Well, the sound quality of the RCA equipment was leagues ahead of what Lloyd had used. He had an ordinary [Webcor] tape recorder, but he did have a very good microphone that he bought for our private recordings. But the RCA microphones were the ones they used in their studios, so of course they were the top microphones.
Ponselle records at home (July 4, 1954)
How many “takes” did you do of each of the songs you recorded for your LPs?
Well, if I liked the way it sounded, I just sang a song once. Sometimes, they would ask me to do a second “take” just as a back-up—and sometimes I didn’t like the way I did a number, so I recorded it a second or maybe even a third time. Now, that I didn’t realize until later, when I heard them on the discs for the first time, was that they [i.e., the sound engineers] had spliced different portions from different “takes.” Now, that was something else I wish we’d have had in the old days. I have a good ear, though, and when I listen closely I can sometimes tell where they did the splicing. I can tell because the resonance changes just enough for my ear to detect it.
Did you rehearse a lot before you began recording the selections for those LPs each afternoon and evening?
Oh, hardly at all. I just picked what I wanted to sing, and I handed the score to Igor [Chichagov] to play it while I sang it. Now, he will tell you that he’s not happy with some of his playing because I didn’t want to rehearse. I just wanted to keep going, and record as many songs as I could in one long day. On a couple of the songs, I played my own accompaniment because it was easier for me to pace my phrasing.
Is there any one of the songs on which you played your own accompaniment that you remember especially well?
Yes, yes—“Amuri, amuri,” which is a Sicilian folk song. It’s such an emotional song! It was all I could do to keep my emotions in check while we were recording it. Afterward, I was a wreck and we had to stop for quite a while until I could get my heart out of my throat and back where it belonged.
One of the more famous Met broadcasts was the performance of Aida on February 26, 1938, in which Martinelli became ill and had to be replaced. What are your recollections of that broadcast?
They’re not very pleasant, for several reasons. I had no idea that backstage before the performance, Martinelli had told [general manager] Edward Johnson that he was not feeling well, and was worried that he would become ill in the midst of the performance. Which is exactly what happened. All of a sudden, almost at the end of “Celeste Aida,” Martinelli seemed to cough, or so I thought—but actually, he vomited, and turned away from the audience as best he could.
As I remember it, the orchestra completed the rest of “Celeste Aida,” when suddenly the curtain was rung down. This was all happening “live” on the air, of course, and I had no idea what was happening backstage. What I did was what announcers do when something goes awry: they keep talking while trying to give the impression of composure, of business as usual, hoping all the while that whatever has gone wrong will be fixed and that the show will go on.
So I kept on talking—and talking, and talking, and more talking. I always kept a copy of the Victor Book of the Opera with me in the box that we used as our broadcasting booth. Over the years, there were several editions of that book. Although it was written for sales purposes, the Victor Book of the Opera contained summaries of all of the great Italian, French and German operas. That afternoon, while all the hubbub was going on backstage and I was stuck with an open microphone and time to fill, I read aloud several pages of the Victor Book of the Opera.
Then someone slipped me a handwritten note that said, “G. M. sick, canned crabmeat and too much beer last p.m.” Stupidly, at least in retrospect, I said on the air, “I have just been handed a note saying that Mr. Martinelli owes his indisposition to a night of eating canned crabmeat and drinking beer.” In the meantime, as I recall, Mr. [Edward] Johnson managed to track down Frederick Jagel, who arrived in a cab and was quickly put into costume, and the broadcast was underway again.
By the end of that performance, as I was told afterward, lawyers from several breweries and distilleries, and also from an organization that represented the seafood business, had telephoned or had sent telegrams to the Met, threatening to file suit on the basis of what I had said on the air. Somehow or other, the threats never turned into actual lawsuits. I learned the hard way to weigh my words very carefully if a broadcast is interrupted for any reason.
There was another interruption in a broadcast—in this case, it was a 1953 broadcast of Tristan und Isolde in 1953. What led to that interruption?
Yes, that one was planned, as opposed to the interruption in the Aida broadcast. At the beginning of the second act of a Tristan und Isolde broadcast, while the orchestra was playing, I read a script that had been handed to me before we went on the air. The script was an appeal for donations to the Metropolitan Opera Guild. It was a rather standard appeal, asking listeners to send in contributions.
Although I read the script as fast as I could without overly rushing it, the audience in the theater grew very impatient, and they began booing loudly. Although some listeners did send in donations, they were outweighed by nasty telephone calls, letters, and telegrams from other listeners. The on-the-air appeal was well intentioned, but turned out to be a fiasco.
(Radio Annual, 1949)
A few weeks after that fiasco, there was another fundraising appeal that became very successful. This was the “Jamboree” broadcast from the Ritz Theater in Manhattan. It was the first telecast of a Metropolitan Opera event, if I recall correctly.
It was mainly broadcast on radio, although the network [ABC] did televise part of the performance through several stations along the East Coast. This wasn’t a Met broadcast per se, but rather a special fundraising event. It was a ninety-minute program, and was meant to be “lighter fare” in order to attract more donations.
Among the many “firsts” you are credited with is the Metropolitan Auditions of the Air, which you were chosen to oversee as well as to announce. Do you have lingering memories about those “Auditions of the Air”?
Yes—I think all of us who were associated were the “Auditions of the Air” will remember Leonard Warren’s audition. Under Edward Johnson’s management, [conductor] Wilfrid Pelletier was more or less in charge of the “Auditions of the Air.” Almost always, Pelletier had already heard the singers who were going to perform in the “Auditions”—but he had never heard Warren until we did what we call a “level check,” which is when the audio engineers test the volume of the sound coming from the stage.
I was in the booth with Pelletier and a couple of the audio men when Warren’s voice came through the speaker that was mounted next to the control board. Warren was singing the “Pari siamo” from Rigoletto. The sound of that voice was just unbelievable! In my mind’s eye I can still see Pelletier looking through the glass window in the booth while Warren was singing on the stage. Pelletier would look at Warren, then look at the audio fellows and me, and then look down at the stage again.
After a few moments, he said to us, “Who put that record on?” He thought that the audio boys had played a prank on him by having the fellow on the stage—Leonard Warren—pretend to be singing while mouthing the words to a recording by Riccardo Stracciari. That’s how refined Warren’s singing was when he auditioned on the air.
Were you in the opera house when he died?
No, thankfully, I wasn’t there. I believe that happened on a Friday evening [March 4, 1960], in the second act of Forza del destino. From what I heard about it, Warren and Tucker had sung “Solenne in quest’ora,” then Warren sang the recitative and aria, “Urna fatale,” and suddenly he collapsed onto the floor of the stage. I was at home that evening, preparing for the broadcast the next afternoon, which was Der Fliegende Holländer with Leonie Rysanek and George London. [Thomas] Schippers, who had conducted that fatal Forza performance, also conducted the Holländer performance. When we went on the air, I relayed to the radio audience what had happened the previous evening, and the tragic news about Leonard Warren, and that in his memory the orchestra would perform the prelude to the third act of La Traviata. I believe that [Rudolf] Bing and Schippers had chosen that prelude because Germont was one of Warren’s many great roles.
Warren had sung the role of Paolo Albiani to the Simon Boccanegra of Lawrence Tibbett in a number of performances. Do you recall those performances?
Yes, there were several with Tibbett in the title role, Elisabeth Rethberg as Amelia, Martinelli as Gabriele Adorno, and Warren as Albiani—but I don’t remember much about Warren in them. Yet I remember very clearly the first time I heard Tibbett.
That was at his debut?
No, it was in a special program in 1924. I don’t think it was called a “gala,” but it was a special program in which scenes from three or maybe four different operas were presented. I went because Maria Jeritza was scheduled to sing a scene from Thaїs. I had been fortunate enough to be in the audience at the Met premiere of Thaїs, with Farrar and Amato [as Athanaёl] in 1917, and I was eager to hear Jeritza in a scene from Thaїs. One of the other operas from which a scene was performed was Carmen, and Lawrence Tibbett was the Escamillo.
Are there other “Auditions of the Air” that stand out in your memory?
Yes, Richard Tucker’s audition was another memorable one. Pelletier had “discovered” Tucker through Paul Althouse, whom Tucker was studying with. Pelletier told all of us that Tucker, who was a cantor at the time, would win the “Auditions of the Air” just as easily Leonard Warren had won two or three years earlier. During the audition, Tucker sang well—but he didn’t win. He lost to another tenor, Elwood Gary, who sang the Italian tenor aria from Rosenkavalier in the audition, and sang it in several performances that season. But Tucker made up for lost time, didn’t he!
Perhaps because they’re related by marriage, Richard Tucker and Jan Peerce are often linked in discussions about American tenors at the Met. What are your assessment of them?
Well, I’ll always remember Jan Peerce’s debut not only because it was a broadcast [performance], but also because of the circumstances under which it took place that day. As was always my habit, I arrived at the opera house at 11:00 a.m., so that I could relax a little while getting ready to go on the air. The broadcast that day was Traviata, and Peerce was to make his debut as Alfredo with Tibbett as the elder Germont and Jarmila Novotna as Violetta. Gennaro Papi was to conduct the performance.
About fifteen minutes or so before the curtain was to go up, Papi had a seizure of some type—a heart attack, or maybe a stroke—and he was rushed to the hospital. Either he died in the ambulance, or was already gone when the ambulance came—I don’t remember which it was, but Mr. [Edward] Johnson was there, of course, and he had to make a decision on the spot about what to do.
He managed to locate [conductor Ettore] Panizza at his home, and Panizza said he would rush to the Met immediately. But the curtain was ready to go up, and we were ready to go on the air, so Mr. Johnson had Frank St. Leger conduct the orchestra until Panizza arrived. In the meantime, [Johnson] told the cast members what had happened—I think he told them that Papi had been taken ill, not that he had died—and he reassured them that the performance would be fine.
What instructions did Edward Johnson give you about what to say to the radio audience as regards Papi’s condition and Panizza stepping in to conduct the performance?
He told me to proceed as if nothing had happened, but to say “Ettore Panizza” instead of “Gennaro Papi” when I mentioned the conductor during the broadcast. A few minutes before the curtain went up and we went on the air, Mr. Johnson walked onto the stage in front of the curtain and told the audience that Panizza would be conducting the performance. He didn’t give any explanation, just that brief announcement.
Did you detect any nervousness or uncertainty on Jan Peerce’s part, given those extraordinary circumstances?
None at all. He was extraordinarily composed, and he sang the entire performance beautifully. I’m sure that the suddenness of what had happened was in the back of his mind, but Peerce was a trouper and, as the saying goes, “the show must go on.” Looking back, I was probably more rattled in the broadcast booth than Jan Peerce was on the stage.
Was the offstage animosity between Peerce and Tucker generally known among their colleagues and also within the Met administration?
There was a general awareness of it, yes—but neither of them ever showed it publicly, at least not that I can recall. When the Met went on tour every year, they and their wives were always on the train with us, and there was no evident strain between the two men professionally. And both men were very well liked by the other singers in the company.
They were also very generous. I remember a broadcast during which Tucker had a handwritten note delivered to me from his dressing room. He had received a number of letters from the mother or father of a young girl who was blind, who never missed a Metropolitan Opera broadcast. Evidently, the young girl was quite a Richard Tucker fan. Shortly before the curtain went up, as he was waiting in his dressing room, he wrote me a note asking me to please mention that he was dedicating the performance to this young girl.
You have heard approximately three generations of great singers during your tenure at the microphone for the Metropolitan Opera broadcasts. In your opinion, how have American singers fared during those many years?
Well, there have always been great opera singers who were American-born. One of the first great Wagnerian bass-baritones was an American, Putnam Griswold. Another was David Bispham—those were the days of Jean and Edouard de Reszke, which was before my time. Then there were the American tenors we spoke about—and I want to mention others such as Eugene Conley, Barry Morell, and John Alexander, who were excellent tenors in the roles that they sang.
Although Peerce is retired now, Tucker seems to get better with age. He has also become a credible actor, especially in Pagliacci. Last year , they [i.e., the Metropolitan Opera and the Public Broadcasting System] filmed a double-bill “Cav and Pag” for television, with Franco Corelli as Turiddu and Tucker as Canio. Teresa Stratas was Nedda, and MacNeil sang Tonio. Tucker was on fire in Pagliacci! I know that he hopes to sing Eléazar in La Juive, which is like singing Otello. And speaking of American singers, James McCracken is superb in Otello. His timbre is not to everyone’s liking, but he has put a firm stamp on the role of Otello.
The same with baritones—Tibbett, Warren, Richard Bonelli, Robert Merrill, Cornell MacNeil, Sherill Milnes—and bass-baritones like James Morris and Spiro Malas, and bassos like Jerome Hines or, in an earlier time, Herbert Witherspoon and Clarence Whitehill, whom I was very fortunate to hear.
Among mezzo-sopranos, in my opinion, Louise Homer was the equal of the best European mezzos, just as Margaret Harshaw and Nan Merriman were, and Rosalind Elias and Marilyn Horne are today. With sopranos, the list is very long, from Clara Louise Kellogg during the era of Jenny Lind, and a bit later Lillian Blauvelt and Farrar, and Helen Jepson and Grace Moore, just to name a few from the past. After the [Second World] War, we had Eleanor Steber and Dorothy Kirsten, and Patrice Munsel and Roberta Peters among the coloraturas. And we are so fortunate to have Leontyne Price! She is a real “national treasure.”
Do you recall Marian Anderson’s Met debut?
I don’t recall her debut, which was in Ballo in maschera, but I remember the broadcast of Ballo in 1955, which was just a short time after her actual debut. Incidentally, both Peerce and Tucker were cast in that production of Ballo. The cast included Zinka Milanov as Amelia, Merrill as Renato, Marian Anderson as Ulrica, Roberta Peters as Oscar, and with Peerce and Tucker alternating in the role of Riccardo. I think it’s fair to point out that Marian Anderson was past her prime when she came to the Met. Although I met her, I can’t say that I knew her personally.
On the topic of fairness, It would be quite unfair, but also quite irresistible, to ask you to name your favorites among those American singers.
Well, I’m not supposed to have “favorites” as an announcer. But as an opera lover and an American citizen, I have the right to have my favorites among those of my countrymen—and countrywomen—who are professional opera singers. Among the women, my all-time favorites are, were, and always will be Rosa Ponselle and Geraldine Farrar.
What about Maria Callas, since she is American-born?
She was born here, yes—but I don’t think she is regarded as an “American” in the sense that, say, Rosa Ponselle is. My recollection is that [Callas’s] parents had emigrated from Greece, and that she was only in her teens when her mother took her back there to live. I remember her first broadcast performance, which was a Lucia with Giuseppe Campora as Edgardo in 1956.
And I remember when she came back to the Met [in March 1965] two sing two performances of Tosca. They were just a few days apart—one was with Corelli, and the other with Tucker as Cavaradossi—but neither performance was a broadcast. I don’t know why she was engaged only for two performances of one role. She was a “superstar” by then. Incidentally, I find “superstar” an amusing word. Today, it isn’t enough to be a star. You have to be a “superstar”!
Who is on your personal list of favorite American male singers?
The finest all-around American tenor, in my judgment, was [Richard] Crooks. He was unsurpassed in the lyric repertoire, especially the French roles. I had the privilege of broadcasting his debut, as Des Grieux in Manon, in 1933. He was the epitome of elegance, onstage and offstage. In the heavier tenor roles, I would pick Tucker, especially in Fanciulla, Manon Lescaut, and Pagliacci.
Among baritones, although I admired Warren very much, and I admire Sherill Milnes today, it was Lawrence Tibbett whom I thought was the finest baritone we [Americans] have ever produced. Tibbett could—and did—sing everything. His Iago, with Martinelli as Otello and Rethberg as Desdemona, was amazing. To me, he was on a par with Ponselle—and there is no peak higher than that.
There are four American singers who are primarily thought of as “light-opera singers”: Nelson Eddy, Jeanette MacDonald, John Charles Thomas, and Mario Lanza. Did you hear any of them in person?
Yes, three of them—John Charles Thomas, Nelson Eddy, and Jeanette MacDonald—were guest artists on the RCA Magic Key radio program, which I hosted on NBC. I had heard John Charles Thomas in operetta in the early days of his career. I remember him in Maytime and Naughty Marietta—and I remember his first Metropolitan Opera broadcast, which was as Amonasro in Aida with Rethberg and Martinelli. 
It is now fashionable to label John Charles Thomas and the other singers you mentioned as “movie singers,” as opposed to “real” singers. But all of them had sung in opera, and had done so very credibly even though they went on to radio, recordings, and the movies. Nelson Eddy, for example, had been a fine Silvio in Pagliacci. John Charles Thomas was an excellent Germont—and vocally [he was] every bit as good as Tibbett. He was not the artist that Tibbett was, but he had a big, bold, absolutely natural sound that was thoroughly American.
Jeanette MacDonald, in the later years of her career, sang several roles with opera companies. The same is true of Mario Lanza. He sang a couple of [operatic] roles, as I recall, and he coached with Sergei Koussevitsy during the time that Leonard Bernstein, George London, and Frances Yeend were with Koussevitsy. I met Lanza when I was in Los Angeles, as I mentioned earlier, and he was at the RCA Victor studios recording the selections that were used in the film “The Great Caruso.” Very generously, he asked me if I’d like to sit in on one of the recording sessions.
Take my word for it, Mario Lanza had a first-rate tenor voice! As with Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald, the fact that Mario Lanza became a movie star shouldn’t be used against him. It works the other way around, too. Tibbett sang popular music quite frequently, just as Robert Merrill and Jan Peerce have. So it’s all a matter of circumstances.
 The Metropolitan Opera Annals indicate that Frederick Jagel, rather than Giovanni Martinelli, sang the role of Radamès in the performance to which Cross is referring, which took place on Saturday, January 25, 1936.
Memorabilia from Milton Cross’ time as a kiddie-show host on radio (see Part 1).
Nina Morgana, c. 1920 (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
On the subject of broadcasts, you sang with Gigli in one of the earliest Saturday matinee broadcasts, am I correct?
Yes. Radio became more and more important in the early and middle-1930s. I remember singing Inès in of one of the first radio broadcasts from the Met [on March 19, 1933], with Gigli as Vasco and Rethberg as Selika. But the most memorable broadcast I can recall was the silver-anniversary gala for Gatti-Casazza [on February 26, 1933]. Lily Pons sang the Lucia Sextet with Lauri-Volpi, Tancredi Pasero—what a voice!—and Armando Borgioli, and dear old Angelo Badà. The broadcast was quite special because Alma Gluck spoke on the air, and [Marcella] Sembrich and [Ernestine] Schumann-Heink were present for the gala.
Gigli also had a very memorable appearance in a broadcast that was billed as a “surprise party” in 1932. Certain parts of the playbill were titled after dishes that one would find on a restaurant menu—one scene was called “Russian Caviar,” another was “Wiener Schnitzel,” and “French Champaign.” I sang in the one called “Italian Minestrone” on the playbill. In the “French Champaign” segment, Gigli came onstage in the costume of Carmen and sang the “Habanera.” Not in falsetto, but in his real voice.
You mentioned Lily Pons singing in the Lucia Sextet at Gatti-Casazza’s silver-anniversary gala. I believe you sang in the Sextet at his farewell gala in March 1935.
The Lucia Sextet was the opening selection of the farewell for Gatti, but the most talked-about performance of that Gala was Melchior singing the last act of Otello with Elisabeth Rethberg.  Five days after that farewell gala, I sang my last performance at the Met. It was in Bohème—I sang Musetta, and Rethberg sang Mimì. It was a Saturday matinee broadcast, and a fragment of it was recorded. I have heard it, but the sound quality is so poor that I can barely make out my own voice. So the only sound recordings I have of my voice are the tests I made for Victor, which Caruso had made possible.
Were you present for any of Caruso’s recording sessions?
Just once, when he recorded “Rachel! Quand du Seigneur,” in September 1920. He invited me to come to the Victor studios with Bruno. [Caruso] recorded something else that day—a song, but I can’t recall its title now. Of course, Bruno was at all of Caruso’s recording sessions from 1917 until 1920. The first one he was present for was the recording of the Rigoletto Quartet and the Lucia Sextet in January 1917.
Do you recall seeing a test recording of the opening tenor measures of “Bella figlia dell’amore,” which Caruso sang? The test recording was cut off when the others in the ensemble began to sing.
Yes, we had a copy of it. Caruso inscribed the label to himself—either “To Enrico from Enrico,” or “To Caruso from Caruso,” something of that sort.
Do you still have that test pressing?
No. My husband managed not only to lose that one, but he also misplaced the private recording Caruso made of the “Coat Song” from Bohème.
When did you make your test recordings for Victor?
In 1920. On Thursday afternoon, April 29, 1920.
Were you intimidated at all by the conical recording “horn”?
Well, it wasn’t “conical,” it was octagonal. It was suspended by an adjustable chain, and there were two large mahogany doors below it. I wasn’t intimidated by it not only because I had watched Caruso make the Juive recording, but also because the director at Victor, Mr. [Josef] Pasternack, who accompanied me at the piano, explained the recording process to me in detail.
How many test recordings did you make that day?
Just two. I sang Chadwick’s “He Loves Me,” and then “Come per me sereno” from Sonnambula.
Were you able to hear the test recordings played back to you soon after you finished making the recordings?
No. I was invited to the Victor studios in Manhattan to hear the recordings played, and was given both of the discs after they were played for me.
Were you pleased with what you heard?
With “Come per me sereno,” yes. But my voice sounded too distant in “He Loves Me.”
Do you recall what type of piano, a grand or an upright, was used in your recordings, and where the piano was located?
It was a grand piano with the lid raised to its maximum, pointed toward the horn. I stood on a stool in front of the horn, with the bend of the piano immediately behind me. .
NINA MORGANA (Josef Pasternack, piano): Come per me sereno
Victor test: April 29, 1920
(A busy day at Victor; others who cut tests on this date, ahead of Nina Morgana, included Lew Brown, William Robyn, Fred Whitehouse, and the Finnish Mixed Quartette. Data from the Discography of American Historical Recordings.) .
Do you know why your recordings were never released commercially?
There were two reasons, really. The first was that Caruso died unexpectedly. As soon as he recovered from his illness, he was to have recorded “É il sol dell’anima” with me. After he died, of course, that became a moot point. The other reason had to do with my husband. Bruno wanted only one “star” in our home, and being a traditional Italian man, he had to be the center of attention.
You were a classically-trained soprano who was taught through the solfeggio method by a legendary soprano. Mr. Zirato had no musical education at all, and yet he spent his career in the operatic and symphonic worlds. To what extent did he really “know” music?
He knew [opera] libretti as well as any conductor or coach. He knew them so thoroughly that he had an annoying habit of speaking the lines while a singer was singing them. He did that throughout every performance I attended with him, and no matter how many times I stuck my elbow into his arm to shut him up, he couldn’t stop reciting the lines. It annoyed everyone around us because his voice was so deep. I felt that he did it [i.e., reciting lines in his box seat while they were being sung onstage] to show off, to impress everyone around us with his vast knowledge of the repertoire.
But he could not read music, correct?
No, not at all. Nor did he have a very good sense of pitch. Unless a singer or an instrumental soloist was flat or sharp by at least a half-tone, his ear couldn’t detect it.
Did you sing at home, and did he give you any opinions about your singing?
Occasionally, I would go to the piano and accompany myself in arias that I loved but which were not a part of my repertoire. As I said earlier, I loved singing tenor arias such as “M’appari,” “Che gelida manina,” and “Come un bel dí di Maggio.” Once, I remember accompanying myself and seeing Bruno come to the piano, put his hands on the raised lid, and listen to me singing—or so I thought. As soon as I finished, he said to me, “My podiatrist says I have beautiful feet.”
Would you have continued to sing under the Johnson administration if you had been given more performances and more opportunities to sing the major coloratura roles?
It wouldn’t have been possible under the circumstances, for several reasons. Caruso had been my entré to the Met, and when he died I knew that my chances for the major coloratura roles would be limited. Galli-Curci came [to the Met], and then Lily Pons. They were Gatti-Cassazza’s and then Johnson’s coloraturas, and I was limited mainly to Amina in Sonnambula, an occasional Gilda, and more often than not, Musetta in Bohème. And as I said, my husband wanted to be the only celebrity in our home. So that was that.
Some twenty-five years after Caruso’s passing, you and your husband became very close to Arturo Toscanini. From some interviews that Toscanini gave, we know that although he admired and respected both Caruso and Gigli, he was not at all shy about criticizing them for taking on roles that were inappropriate for their young voices.
He repeated to Bruno and me many times his exclamation upon hearing Caruso in Italy for the first time: “Per Dio! If this young Neapolitan tenor keeps singing like this, he will have the whole word talking about him!” When Caruso began to take on gradually heavier roles, Toscanini was prone to lecture him—and later Gigli, and all of the rest of us—about the danger of impairing the voice by imposing the requirements of dramatic parts upon an essentially lyrical voice and technique.
Toscanini thought that Gigli was superb in Bohème, Elisir d’amore, and Rigoletto, but that Africana, Trovatore, and Aida were too weighty for his voice. Just as Toscanini had been critical of Caruso for taking on heavier roles too early in his career, he was critical of all of the other tenors who came after Caruso. But Toscanini, musical genius that he was, could be susceptible to irresistible personalities.
Two that come to mind were Giovanni Martinelli, who could do no wrong in Maestro’s eyes, and Geraldine Farrar, with whom he [Toscanini] had a prolonged love affair. Perhaps you know the story of the clashes between Toscanini and Farrar—especially his remark that she was not a “star” because the only stars are in the night sky, and her retort that audiences came to see her on the stage, not to stare at the back of Toscanini’s head in the orchestra pit.
Geraldine Farrar selling Liberty Bonds, 1918 (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
Because of my husband’s close association with Toscanini through the New York Philharmonic, Bruno and I were often invited to the relatively few social events that Toscanini would attend. One of the most memorable of these events was a dinner that Farrar gave for Toscanini at her home in Connecticut in the early 1950s.
We rode there with Toscanini in his chauffeured car, and unlike other invitations that he initially accepted and almost immediately regretted, the invitation from Farrar put him in a very good mood. That mood changed abruptly when the main course was served. From then until we left, which was as soon as we politely could, Toscanini sat at her dinner table, glaring at his plate.
When we got into the car, he exploded! “I slept with that woman for seven years,” he shouted, “and she knows I hate fish!”
You sang under Toscanini. Do you recall how many times?
The only performance I remember distinctly was a Beethoven Ninth Symphony with Richard Crooks, Sophie Braslau, and Ezio Pinza, and the Schola Cantorum in 1928.
How was the Maestro’s temperament during the rehearsals?
“Vesuvian” is the word that comes to my mind. He broke at least one, maybe two batons, and he threw his pocket watch on the floor and crushed it with his heel! He pointed out poor Crooks and told him that he sang like a sick pig. Then he used a very crude Italian expression for Pinza. It would embarrass me to repeat it [but] he told Pinza that his singing had the same worth that the pig’s food has after the pig has digested and eliminated it.
Were you spared his wrath, since you knew him personally?
Definitely not! He told me that Madame Arkel, whom he had known very well in Italy, should have forbade me ever to mention her name in public because my singing was a disgrace to her name!
Did he finish the rehearsal?
Yes, but he rushed through it. He was still enraged at the end [of the rehearsal], and shouted at us to get out of his sight and not come back until we were prepared to give our very best. At the next rehearsal, I can assure you that Morgana, Braslau, Crooks, and Pinza and everyone else associated with the performance sang better than we ever knew we could!
Arturo Toscanini, c. 1921 (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
Returning to Enrico Caruso, you sang a number of concerts with him. Do you recall how many you sang with him?
In all, there were eleven. The first one was in the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria in February 1919, and the last was in New Orleans on June 26, 1920. He had asked me to sing some upcoming concerts that fall , two in Canada and three in the Midwest, but I was already scheduled to make my debut at the Metropolitan, so I had rehearsals and other obligations to attend to.
Did you sing most of the joint concerts that Caruso gave during World War One?
No, but I attended most of the ones he gave with other singers. He did concerts with Louise Homer, Claudia Muzio, Frances Alda, and Galli-Curci. I think he did one with Mary Garden, too. One concert I remember particularly well was with De Luca, Alda, and Martinelli. Can you imagine one of these tenors today inviting another famous tenor to appear with him? But Caruso invited Martinelli to sing with him. He was very fond of Martinelli, as I’ve told you.
Before Caruso invited me to appear with him, Carolina White and Mabel Garrison had sung [concerts] with him. And Ganna Walska sang at least one [concert] with him. But those were not really “joint concerts,” because Carolina White, Garrison, Ganna Walska and I were billed as “assisting artists” to Caruso. The [concerts] he did with Mary Garden, Galli-Curci, Alda, Muzio, and Homer were truly joint concerts because they were first-rank artists.
This program from October 1918 appears to contradict Morgana’s recollection that she toured with Caruso only during 1919–1920; however, another copy, in the Ann Arbor District Library, has the notation, “Postponed to Spring.” (William R. Bryant papers, Mainspring Press)
What did Caruso typically sing, and what did you sing—not only on the printed program, but as encores?
The violinist Elias Breeskin toured with us, so he would open the program. He had his own accompanist—ours was Salvatore Fucito—and [Breeskin] would usually play [the Dvorak] “Humoresque” or something similar. Then I would sing either “Come per me sereno” from Sonnambula or “Ombra leggiera” from Dinorah, Those were the two arias I sang in all of our concerts.
Caruso would then sing “Celeste Aida,” which was always his first aria on the program. Breeskin would then return to the platform and play two, sometimes three selections. After that, I would sing an aria—again, either the Sonnambula or Dinorah aria, whichever one I hadn’t opened with—and Caruso would sing “Vesti la giubba,” which would always earn him a standing ovation.
After the ovation, he would motion for me to join him at the center of the stage, and we would sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” together. Always—always—at the end of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” he would take me by the hands, and swing me around him. That delighted him to no end, and the audience loved it! Then he would motion for Breeskin and his accompanist, and also Fucito, to stand with us and take our bows.
After all of us left the stage, the applause would go on and on, and in the midst of it Caruso would walk back onto the stage from the wings—just two or three feet from the wings—and he would arch his eyebrows and turn the palms of his hands upward with a big smile, as if to say, “Would you like to hear more?” That’s when the fun would begin!
He would point to me, and then point to himself, as if to say, “Go ahead and sing something of mine!” This was all rehearsed, of course, and I would proceed to sing “M’appari” from Marta, Next, he would motion for Breeskin to join him for the Massenet “Elégie.” Then Caruso would sing three Tosti songs—and always the final one would be “’A vucchella.”
You also sang a joint concert with Gigli, am I correct?
Yes, it was in Boston during a two-concert appearance in which his assisting artist was scheduled to be Anna Fitziu, but she was indisposed and he asked me to take her place. I had sung a number of times in Philadelphia—in fact, I was in one of Gigli’s last performances there, a performance of L’Africana with Rethberg as Sélika [on April 12, 1932]. When I replaced Anna Fitziu as his assisting artist, Gigli told me to sing whatever I wanted to sing, so I chose my two tried-and-true arias, the Dinorah and Sonnambula, and both were well received.
Gigli opened that concert, as he did many others that he gave, with the two Elisir arias: he sang “Quanto è bella” and followed it with “Una furtiva lagrima.” After I sang “Come per me sereno,” he sang three Italian songs. He sang “Amarilli,” then “Primavera,” and before he sang the third one—“Tre giorni son che Nina”—he extended his hand to me, and he sang it to me. Then I sang “Ombra leggiera,” after which he sang “O paradiso,” which earned him another standing ovation.
After “O paradiso,” he left the stage for a few minutes, and when he returned he sang three French selections—two songs whose titles I don’t recall at the moment, and then the Aubade from Le Roi d’Ys. That was the last selection on the printed program. As the applause continued, I came onstage and sang “Caro nome” as an encore. Then Gigli sang five encores, mind you! He began with “Santa Lucia,” then he sang three Tosti songs—“L’alba separa dalla luce l’ombra,” “Serenata,” and “Marechiare”—and he ended with “’O sole mio.”
If that isn’t a tour de force, what is? I can assure you that his voice was just as fresh, just as dolcissima, in “’O sole mio” as it was in “Quanto è bella” and “Una furtiva lagrima” at the start of the concert. Gigli’s entire career was that way: fresh and sweet and beautiful from beginning to end.
Nina Morgana with the author (Ithaca, New York, 1980)
 Lawrence Gilman in the Herald Tribune: “After a spirited curtain-raiser extracted from the immortal opus of Donizetti with Mme. Nina Morgana lending her gifts and skill and feeling and intensity as the unhappy heroine, the novelty of the evening was disclosed to us. This was a performance of the last Act of Verdi’s Otello with Mr. Melchior embodying the Moor of Venice for the first time in New York and Mme. Rethberg playing Desdemona. It is twenty-two years since the music of Otello was heard at the Metropolitan.”
Nina Morgana, c. 1920 (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
Returning to Elisir d’amore when you sang it with Gigli, what do you recall of those performances?
My first Elisir with Gigli was in March 1930. I sang Adina with Gigli, De Luca, and Pinza, with Serafin conducting. I wasn’t cast for that performance—Editha Fleischer was supposed to sing it—but I got the last-minute call from Gatti-Casazza, and I went on in her place. I did it well enough that he kept me with the same cast for several more performances. I also sang Elisir with Tito Schipa as Nemorino.
How did Gigli and Schipa compare in Elisir?
Both of them were excellent as Nemorino, and both received ample applause for “Quanto è bella,” which is a better indicator than “Una furtiva lagrima” of the fit between the voice and the characterization of Nemorino. In that role, Beniamino Gigli was the perfect Nemorino.
Even more so than Caruso, whom you saw and heard in Elisir?
I saw five performances of Elisir with Caruso as Nemorino, and I heard him sing “Una furtiva lagrima,” either as a published selection or as an encore, during the concerts I did with him. As my late husband, Bruno Zirato, wrote in his book and said in radio interviews, Caruso never received more than cursory applause after “Quanto è bella.” As soon as he made his exit, he would exclaim to Bruno, “Pigs! They are pigs, these people in the audience! I give everything I have to ‘Quanto è bella,’ and they do not applaud!” Yet every time Gigli sang “Quanto è bella,” the audience would erupt in applause.
To what do you attribute the difference in the audiences’ reactions to Caruso and Gigli in that aria?
There were two factors, in my opinion, and I will try to explain them as precisely as I can. The main factor of the two was Caruso’s splendid recordings of “Una furtiva lagrima,” of which he made two versions for the Victor Talking Machine Company—the first one with piano accompaniment [in 1904], and a subsequent one with an orchestra [in 1908]. Both versions were staples of the Victor Company catalogs in their day, and those recordings sold by the thousands.
Consequently, Metropolitan Opera audiences came to Elisir d’amore to hear Caruso sing “Una furtiva lagrima.” Had he recorded “Quanto è bella,” the audiences probably would have applauded him as ardently as they did after he sang “Una furtiva lagrima.” But other than that aria and “Venti scudi,” which he made with De Luca, Caruso never recorded anything else from Elisir d’amore.
.Benimino Gigli (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
You were present at the ill-fated performance of Elisir d’amore at the Brooklyn Academy, when the performance had to be halted at the end of the first act because a blood vessel burst in Caruso’s throat. Weren’t you to have sung Adina in that performance?
That happened on Saturday, December 11, 1920, and yes, I was to have sung Adina. The day before the performance, however, Gatti-Casazza told me that for a variety of reasons—none of which he explained—he would have to give that performance to Evelyn Scotney. I didn’t object, nor could I have objected to “the boss,” and I assumed that there would be many future performances in which I could sing with Caruso.
What do you remember about the trauma of that event?
Early in the first act, before “Quanto è bella,” a small vein hemorrhaged in Caruso’s throat. He was still able to sing, but a trickle of blood formed on his lower lip, and in order to wipe it away, he used the neckerchief of his costume. Between phrases, he would dab his lips on the kerchief to blot the blood. In the wings, when Gatti realized what was happening, he motioned to Bruno to rush to get more kerchiefs. One by one, those were passed from the wings to Caruso, and as each became saturated with his blood, he put it in the circular well that was part of the scenery.
At the close of the act, Caruso was examined by a doctor. Before the performance began, Gatti-Casazza had called for a doctor after Caruso noticed a small amount of blood when he was gargling in his dressing room. I don’t know what the doctor did—I was not near him when he was treating Caruso—but there was an air of gloom backstage.
As I was standing near an elevator, Gatti-Casazza saw me, and he pointed to his nose and said to me, “Che naso!”—in other words, in English, “What a nose I have,” meaning that he had had a sort of premonition, and for that reason had not wanted me to sing Adina that day. I didn’t believe him, although I nodded politely when he said it. I think that when he saw me, he just felt that he should say something because he knew that I was disappointed by his decision to replace me with Evelyn Scotney.
On the topic of Caruso and Gigli, you mentioned that there were two factors in the difference in audiences’ receptions of Gigli and Caruso as Nemorino. The first, as you explained, was attributable to Caruso’s recordings of “Una furtiva lagrima.” What was the second factor?
Although Caruso could portray a bumpkin onstage, and even in a movie , his persona was inherently unlike the character of Nemorino. Gigli, who was sweet, kind, and generous, was basically a simple man who had an extraordinarily beautiful voice. Caruso, by contrast, was a complex man who, over the years, had acquired a level of sophistication which was reflected in every aspect of his daily life.
Would you give us some examples of how that sophistication was manifested in Caruso’s lifestyle?
With his extraordinary success came, of course, an ever-expanding personal wealth, which enabled him to acquire the finest of everything—the finest clothing, the finest automobiles, the finest homes, the finest objets d’art, and even the finest cigarettes, which were made exclusively for him from a special Egyptian tobacco. Every fabric, whether it was the material of his shirts, ties, and handkerchiefs, or the sheets and pillowcases on his bed, was the most luxurious that money could buy, or else he would not have acquired them.
I cannot think of another artist who appreciated luxury more than Caruso. Well, let me amend that because I can think of one: Feodor Chaliapin. But I can’t think of another tenor who appreciated luxury more than Caruso did. He had risen from near-poverty in Naples, and when he became famous and wealthy, he indulged in luxury—almost boyishly so, in certain ways.
.Caruso with Bruno Zirato (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
For instance, when he retired to bed at night, Caruso wanted to be surrounded by goose-down pillows from head to foot. So at his bedtime, my husband Bruno, who was his secretary, would delicately place one large pillow under Caruso’s head, and would systematically place six identical pillows around his body—two on each side for his arms and legs, and two at his feet. Bruno said that the expression on Caruso’s face, as he closed his eyes and then spread his fingers on the pillows, was as tender and serene as a little boy’s.
Did Caruso ever speak of Gigli in your presence?
Indeed! Not only did he speak of Gigli, he discreetly attended a performance of Cavalleria rusticana in which Gigli sang Turiddu. Caruso didn’t attend the performance expressly to hear Gigli, but rather to be present for a triple bill that included the American premiere of a ballet called Il carillon magico. The star of the ballet was Rosina Galli, who was Gatti-Casazza’s paramour at the time.
Caruso also came to see L’Oracolo with his old friend Antonio Scotti. L’Oracolo was part of the triple bill, as was Cavalleria with Gigli and Emmy Destinn. Backstage afterward, Caruso not only congratulated Gigli but embraced him as well. A day or so later, he drew a wonderful caricature of Gigli, which he had Bruno hand-deliver to the Ansonia Hotel, where Gigli was living.
Caruso is quoted as having said, “He could have waited until I died,” or words to that effect. Did he say that in your presence?
To the best of my knowledge, he never made any such comment. First of all, it was entirely out of character for Caruso to make any negative remark about another singer. Being a public figure, a “celebrity” as we would say today, Caruso was acutely aware that anything he said would be repeated, if not quoted, in one of the newspapers. So he weighed his words very carefully when he was in the presence of others—which was most of the time.
What Caruso said in my presence after the triple-bill with Gigli in Cavalleria was, “I used to sound like that when I was young.” He said that matter-of-factly, not ruefully, and certainly not enviously. The way he said it was not that Gigli literally had the same voice that Caruso did when he was young. Rather, he meant that one would expect a young, very gifted tenor to have the lyric sound that Gigli had.
Caruso would have had no reason to envy Gigli’s success in Chénier, in other words?
Of course not! And that alleged comment about “waiting until I died” implies that Caruso was somehow preoccupied with death. But the fact was that he had a new wife and a new daughter, and he seemed to us, and certainly to his doctors, to be recovering from the illness he had suffered. He had empyema, which as my doctor-brother Dante explained to me, was an abscess that had formed in Caruso’s pleural cavity. When he and Dorothy and their daughter Gloria sailed for Italy, where he could relax and regain his stamina, he looked well, although he had lost twenty pounds or more.
To be clear, then, you place no stock in the often-repeated statement, “At least they could have waited until I died,” which Caruso is alleged to have said when Gigli was given the Met premiere of Andrea Chénier?
I don’t put any stock in it because it is contradicted by Caruso’s regard for Gigli when he heard him as Turiddu—and the caricature he drew of Gigli is the evidence I would point to. Caruso never caricatured anyone he didn’t like or didn’t admire.  But suppose, for the sake of the allegation, that Caruso did say it. If so, he would have been referring to Gatti-Casazza, not Gigli, because it was Gatti who assigned and approved every cast. Beniamino Gigli didn’t cast Beniamino Gigli, Giulio Gatti-Casazza was the one who cast Beniamino Gigli—and every other artist at the Metropolitan Opera.
.Giulio Gatti-Casazza and his wife, Frances Alda, October 19, 1915 (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
Would you describe your relationship with Gigli as friendly, or merely collegial?
We weren’t social friends by any means—he was a shy man offstage—but I had a lot of affection for him, and I think he felt the same way toward me. There are two special memories I have of him, and both occurred in connection with Elisir d’amore. There was one passage that I had a slight problem with—and Gigli sensed it during our first performance together. In every Elisir after that, when that passage was coming, he would turn toward me and say, “Andiam’, Cara, andiam’”—in English, “Go ahead, my dear, come on, you can do it!” His encouragement made such a difference to me!
The second memory I have of Gigli was at the end of Act One of Elisir d’amore. I was so taken by his singing of “Quanto è bella” that I said to him in the wings, “I have never heard that aria sung more beautifully than you have just sung it!” I couldn’t come right out and say, “You sang just ‘Quanto è bella’ more beautifully than even Caruso sang it.” That would have been improper. But he knew what I meant, what I was actually saying, without making any mention of Caruso.
When I said it, his eyes told me that he wanted to be sure that he had heard me correctly. An instant or two later, the look in his eyes showed that he realized what I had said. He answered by saying, “Thank you—oh, thank you!” Many years later, when he gave a farewell concert at Carnegie Hall, I went to see him after the performance. Bruno and I told him that the beauty of his tones were the same as they had been when we first heard him. He said to me, “You were not only my Adina, but you lifted the weight”—meaning the weight of Caruso’s legacy—“from my little shoulders.”
Do you remember the Met premiere of Andrea Chénier?
Yes, very clearly. I was in the Caruso box with Dorothy [Caruso] for the first in-house performance of Andrea Chénier on March 7, 1921. The premiere was supposed to be on February 26, but Gigli was ill and it had to be postponed. He sang a performance in Philadelphia a few days before the in-house premiere [March 1], but I wasn’t there [in Philadelphia] so I can’t speak about it. But the first in-house performance of Chénier was superb!
When Gigli sang “Un dì all’azzurro spazio,” it almost had to be repeated because of the prolonged applause. I have heard many performances of Andrea Chénier since then, but no tenor I have ever heard could match Gigli for vocal beauty in that role. But he was not the only “star of the show”: Claudia Muzio was Maddalena, and she too was unmatched in that role. That’s not just my opinion, but the opinion of Rosa Raisa and Rosa Ponselle. Both of them said in my presence, at different times, that Muzio had no equal as Maddalena.
What was Caruso’s reaction, if you know, to the premiere of Andrea Chénier with Gigli?
A few days after the premiere, Bruno and I were having supper with Caruso in his apartment, and he asked me how Gigli had done. I said that I thought he had done very well, and that the audience had reacted very favorably. I was never less than honest with Caruso—even at his expense. One time, I asked him why he sang two and three phrases in one breath when it would be more artistic to take breaths in the appropriate spots. Although Bruno probably wanted to strangle me for being so brazen, Caruso answered me by saying, “That’s emotion”—meaning, that’s how he felt when he was singing, and that’s how he conveyed in his voice what he felt emotionally.
As far as Andrea Chénier is concerned, keep in mind that Caruso had sung it in London at an earlier point in his career. He was more than familiar with [the opera], and he was pleased that Gigli had done well at the premiere. As I said before, Caruso liked Gigli, and had no reason whatsoever to envy him.
Do you have any idea how Gigli regarded Caruso?
Yes, he regarded Caruso as we all did—as the King. In deference to him, we addressed him as “The Master” [Maestro] when conversing with him.
What do you recall of Gigli’s Met debut?
What I remember the most was how exciting it was to hear such an exquisite tenor voice! The beauty of Gigli’s voice was almost beyond description. I have heard most of the great tenors, the tenor “stars,” for nearly seventy years, and not one of them had a voice more beautiful than Beniamino Gigli’s. Now, at that time he had a tendency to turn toward the audience in “Dai campi, dai prati” and other solo moments, which was acceptable in many Italian [opera] houses. But Gigli’s voice was so inherently beautiful that his tendency to sing to the audience was not that objectionable, at least not to me.
Was Faust inMefistofele his best role during his debut season?
No, not compared to his Nemorino, nor to his Turiddu in Cavalleria rusticana. His Turiddu was better than his Faust, in my opinion. It wasn’t the “Siciliana” [in Cavalleria] so much as the “Brindisi” and “Mamma! quel vino,” which he sang with complete abandon, yet without ever forcing his voice.
In what other roles do you recall hearing Gigli during the early years of his Met career?
I heard him in Tosca with Emmy Destinn [on December 10, 1920] but I would have to say that he was not up to her standards as an actor-singer. He sang the music beautifully, of course—but unlike, say, Turiddu, he couldn’t convey the proper emotion for Cavaradossi during that early part of his Met career. It wasn’t just that he was not an actor, and was not conventionally handsome. I don’t know how to say it except that the role was “above” Gigli at that point in his career. He didn’t have the demeanor of a painter, an artist, in that role. By comparison, Lauri-Volpi had it in abundance.
I remember Gigli’s first Edgardo in Lucia during his debut season, and it was excellent in every way. Edgardo is a vocal role, not really a dramatic role, although the last act requires at least a modicum of acting. But one listens to Lucia, not watches it, because the roles are static and most of the music, especially the Sextet and the Mad Scene, is so familiar to audiences through recordings and radio broadcasts.
 The film to which Morgana is referring is My Cousin, a 1918 comedy produced by Jesse Lasky, of Famous Players—Lasky, in which Caruso portrayed a world-renowned opera singer as well as a simple, peasant-like cousin. Although the film was not as commercially successful as Lasky and his partners had hoped, its special effects (in particular, a scene in which Caruso shakes hands with himself as the “cousin”) were commended in the press at the time, and in subsequent histories of silent film. See Kevin Brownlow, The Parade’s Gone By (Secker & Warburg, 1968), an oral history of the silent era, and Martin M. Marks, Music and the Silent Film: Contexts and Case Studies, 1895-1924 (Oxford University Press, 1997).
 Letter from Enrico Caruso to Leo Slezak, 1910: “You should know that I make caricatures of great men or friends….”
Born of Italian parents who had emigrated from Palermo, Sicily, to Buffalo, New York in 1890, Nina Morgana (1891-1984) first sang in public performances in her native city’s Italian district in 1900.  After studying in Italy with Teresa Arkel from 1909-1913, she made well-received debuts in Alessandria and in Milan. When she returned to America, she was chosen by Enrico Caruso as one of his assisting artists in a highly-publicized series of concerts in the United States. Morgana made her Metropolitan Opera debut in the 1920-21 season, having previously sung with the Chicago Opera Association under the management of Mary Garden.
In June 1921, scarcely two months before Caruso’s sudden death, Morgana married the tenor’s full-time secretary, Bruno Zirato (1886-1972), who later became the general manager of the New York Philharmonic and also served as Arturo Toscanini’s representative in North and South America. Essentially self-educated and invariably self-assured, Morgana was well-acquainted with Beniamino Gigli, as she discussed in a number of interviews conducted by the author from 1973-1979.
Bruno Zirato with Dorothy and Enrico Caruso on their wedding day, August 20, 1918. The location is the roof of the Knickerbocker Hotel, New York.
(G.G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
You and Beniamino Gigli made your Metropolitan Opera debuts during the same season, is that correct?
In the same season, yes, and less than twenty-four hours apart: Gigli made his as Faust in Boito’s Mefistofele on November 26, 1920, and I made mine as Gilda in Rigoletto on Saturday, November 27. But strictly speaking, my debut was not my first performance at the Met. Several months earlier, on March 28, I sang three arias at a Sunday Night Concert, with Pasquale Amato and [violinist] Albert Spalding also on the program.
Was Caruso [was] to have sung the Duke in your debut in Rigoletto?
Yes, but he was ill, so Mario Chamlee sang the Duke at my debut.  Giuseppe De Luca sang Rigoletto. Chamlee and De Luca were also my partners in Barber of Seville during that same season. I also sang Nedda in Pagliacci with Edward Johnson as Canio and Antonio Scotti as Tonio in my debut season. I was to have sung Pagliacci with Caruso originally.
In operatic circles, it is widely known that you were “discovered” by Caruso. When and where did this “discovery” take place?
I can tell you precisely: it was on Saturday, May 9, 1908, at 3:00 p.m., in Buffalo, New York, in one of the four suites on the top floor of the Iroquois Hotel. I can be more specific by telling you that Caruso’s suite was the one atop the front of the hotel, which faced Eagle Street. The hotel, which had one-thousand rooms, was still new at that time; it had opened for business in conjunction with the Pan-American Exposition, which was held in Buffalo in 1901.
You performed at the Pan-American Exposition, correct?
Yes, I sang there in an exhibition called Venice in America, on the midway. I was nine years old, and was billed as “Baby Patti” or “Child Patti” in the [Buffalo] newspapers.
It was at the Pan-American Exposition, on June 13, 1901, that President William McKinley was assassinated. Do you recall anything about that tragic day?
The only memory I have is hearing adults around me saying very agitatedly, “The President has been shot! The President has been shot!” I was too young to know what “being shot” meant—and I also didn’t know what “president” meant, much less who the president was. When I asked my parents about it, they tried to explain to me that in the United States, the president was “the king.” Well, I didn’t know what a “king” was, so I just accepted the fact that someone important had been hurt in some way.
When you auditioned for Caruso, do you recall what you sang?
Yes, I sang “Caro nome.” Just the “Caro nome,” without the recitative. When I finished, Caruso patted me on the cheek and told my father, who came with me, that I had a very promising voice. He told us that I would have to study in Italy, and he said he would write a letter on my behalf to the great Teresa Arkel, asking her to accept me as a pupil. He did so, and about a year later, my father and I sailed to Italy. During the day, while I was at Mme. Arkel’s having my lessons, my father worked as a laborer.
Obviously, Caruso detected the youthful promise in your voice, just as he did several years later with the young Rosa Ponselle. Looking back, what do you think he heard in your voice that prompted him to refer you to Teresa Arkel?
Well, whatever he heard was not what Mme. Arkel heard! In his letter to her, Caruso had written that he believed my voice would become a mezzo-sopranone, or in English, “a great big mezzo-soprano.” When I sang for Mme. Arkel, however, she said that my voice would be fine for roles like Lucia, Amina in Sonnambula, and Adina in Elisir d’amore, which require an exceptional top. And I had one, too. By the time I left Mme. Arkel, I could sing the G above high-C effortlessly. But vocally, I was certainly not going to be singing Mamma Lucia in Cavalleria rusticana.
When you were studying in Italy, was Caruso as famous there as he was in the U.S.?
Actually, no. His recordings were well-known, of course, and hence his name was well-known, but since 1903 he had been at the Metropolitan Opera, not La Scala or one of the other houses in Italy. The tenor who was admired when I was studying in Italy—not just admired, but adored—was Giuseppe Anselmi. He was as famous there as Caruso was in the United States.
Anselmi, whom I heard several times, had a gorgeous voice and a perfect technique, and was also extraordinarily handsome. Anselmi was “all the rage,” so to say, as was Maria Galvany among sopranos. It was Galvany, not Melba, who was adored in Italy, yet in America she was almost unknown other than on recordings.
A great tenor who sang during Anselmi’s time, and whom some historians claim was the equal of Caruso in certain roles, was Alessandro Bonci. Did you see Bonci, and if so, what was your assessment of him?
The distance between Caruso and Bonci as tenors was about the size of the Grand Canyon. They had nothing at all in common, either vocally or as men. In Italy, it was rumored that Bonci was an unethical person. He had played some part in obtaining a forged letter from Verdi, giving Bonci supposed permission to sing the “È scherzo od è follia” in a unique way. I heard a recording of it, and Bonci’s performance was different yet acceptable. But he was still in disrepute because he had paid someone to forge the letter from Verdi.
Personally, I saw Bonci as Faust in Boito’s Mefistofele, in which he was wearing an over-stated costume topped by a large hat with an even larger feather protruding from it. Frankly, he looked silly on the stage. Vocally, his singing was pleasant enough, and it reminded me somewhat of Lauri-Volpi because both of them had exceptional high ranges. But Lauri-Volpi was handsome onstage, whereas Bonci was a feather-bearing little man in an overdone costume with high-heeled boots.
Alessandro Bonci, 1910
Earlier, you mentioned having sung with Edward Johnson in Pagliacci at the Met. When Johnson’s name is mentioned in connection with the Metropolitan Opera, it is usually in reference to his tenure as General Manager, not as one of its significant tenors. Do you recall the first time you heard him sing?
Yes, in Italy in 1910. I sang with him there in Elisir d’amore. At the time, he was singing under the Italianized name “Edoardo di Giovanni.”
Where in Italy did you make your debut?
My very first performance on an opera stage was as the hidden “forest bird” in Siegfried, at the Teatro Dal Verme. Tullio Serafin, who was young and handsome—his hair was brown and thick in those days—had come to Mme. Arkel to ask if she had a pupil who could sing the part. She told him that I could do it, and I did—I sang it hidden in a papier-maché “tree.” Giuseppe Borgatti was the star of the performance.
At the Met, Lucrezia Bori and Edward Johnson were famously paired as Romeo and Juliet. But you knew both singers in Italy a decade before you made your Met debut?
Bori and Johnson were perfect for each other in Roméo et Juliette. And, yes, I sang a number of performances with Johnson at the Met. But his best partner among sopranos was Lucrezia Bori, not Nina Morgana. I’m sure you have heard recordings of Bori, but have you seen photographs of her?
Yes, mostly studio portraits but a few candid ones, in various books about the history of the Met.
Most of her publicity photos were taken [of her] in profile, or else at an angle, rather than facing the camera lens. She had an ocular condition called strabismus, which lay people refer to as having a “lazy eye” or, less kindly, as “cross-eyed.” When she was relaxed, Bori’s right eye would tend to drift toward her nose. My brother, Dante Morgana, a premiere ophthalmologist and surgeon, gave her exercises to train the muscles of her right eye to keep the eyeball centered.
Lucrezia Bori (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
Although fate deprived you of the opportunity to sing Pagliacci with Caruso, you sang not only Nedda but other major roles with almost all of the legendary tenors who inherited Caruso’s repertoire.
My best roles were Nedda in Pagliacci, Micaela in Carmen, and Musetta in Bohème. Although I also sang Mimì in Bohème, [General Manager Giulio] Gatti-Casazza said that I was not only better as Musetta, but that I was the best Musetta of the several sopranos who sang the role under his management.
Do you recall some of the casts in your performances of those operas?
I sang my first Micaela in Carmen with Giovanni Martinelli and Miguel Fleta alternating as Don José, and with José Mardones as Escamillo. I know of no other basso profondo who could sing Escamillo—later, Pinza sang it, but his voice was a less powerful lyric sound compared to José Mardones. But Mardones’ range was so marvelous that he could sing Escamillo easily and convincingly. In some of my performance in Pagliacci, Antonio Scotti sang Tonio and the “new boy,” Lawrence Tibbett, was Silvio.
In the 1924-1925 season, in a new production of Tales of Hoffmann, I sang the part of the mechanical doll Olympia, with Miguel Fleta as Hoffmann. In that production, Bori sang the roles of Giulietta and Antonia, and she did them with great distinction. Later, Queena Mario sang Antonia, but with no distinction at all.
Perhaps you know that Queena Mario’s birth name was Helen Tillotson, a perfectly fine name. She claimed that [conductor and coach Wilfrid] Pelletier, to whom she was married, had suggested the ridiculous name “Queena,” but I think she made it up herself. I used to make her mad by asking, “If you have a brother, is his name Kinga?”
You sang several times with Giovanni Martinelli, who, perhaps with the sole exception of Caruso, seems to have been beloved by everyone, even by the other great tenors of that era.
I sang Eudoxie in the revival of La Juive with Martinelli as Eléazar, Leon Rothier as the Cardinal, and Rosa Ponselle as Rachel, the role she had created [at the Met] with Caruso in 1919. In fact, other than Martinelli singing Eléazar in place of Caruso, the revival had almost the same cast as the [Met] premiere. Ponselle sang most of the performances, but not all of them. Florence Easton sang several Rachels, as did Elisabeth Rethberg later.
Among the other great tenors of that period, I sang with Giacomo Lauri-Volpi for the first time in Rigoletto in 1926, with De Luca and Mardones. For that performance, with Gatti-Casazza’s consent, I made a change in Gilda’s costume: I wore a pink gown in the first scene. I also sang with Lauri-Volpi in Africana, with Ponselle as Selika, and I sang with him again in Pagliacci in the 1929-1930 season. In Africana, Gigli was cast instead of Lauri-Volpi in several of the performances I was in, and Florence Easton replaced Ponselle in some of them. Most were conducted by Serafin.
Do you recall the tenors with whom you sang in Bohème?
As I said earlier, Musetta was one of my best and most frequent roles, and I was especially fortunate to sing several performances with Lauri-Volpi as Rodolfo [in 1932]. A few times, Rodolfo was sung by Martinelli. It’s not a role that one would immediately associate with him, but the color of Martinelli’s voice was light enough for it, and he restrained the volume of his clarion voice. I also sang some performances with Armand Tokatyan, who was a very fine tenor and deserves to be remembered better today.
I was also fortunate to be in the opera house on the opening night of the 1921-22 season, when Gigli sang Alfredo to Galli-Curci’s Violetta at her debut. I knew Galli-Curci before then. Both of us had sung in Chicago when Mary Garden was the general manager.
Mary Garden (G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
If one-half of the stories that have been told and written about Mary Garden are true, she must have been a formidable person.
Indeed, she was, but probably no more so than Melba or Patti before her. They ruled their kingdoms—and they made those kingdoms. No woman who achieved what Patti, or Melba, or Geraldine Farrar, or Mary Garden achieved, could have done so without enormous self-confidence. Mary Garden, at least as I knew her, was not imperious at all, but she knew very well what her value was.
She could talk about herself in a way that may sound conceited in the retelling, but from her standpoint it was simply a matter of fact. I remember walking to the Chicago Opera house with my sister Angie, who traveled with me, and seeing Mary Garden coming toward us. She stopped us and said, “Did you see my Carmen last night?” Not “How are you,” or “Wonderful to see you today,” but “Did you see my Carmen last night?”
We hadn’t seen it, so we said so. “You must see my next one,” she replied. “There is nothing like it, and there never will be.” She said that without a trace of haughtiness. It was as if she had said, “You should carry an umbrella tomorrow because it’s likely to rain.”
 The family of Nina Morgana, which comprised seven children, is remarkable not only for her success, but also her siblings’ successes. In addition to her brother Dante Morgana (who, as she mentions in the interview, became a nationally-known eye surgeon), her brother Emilio Morgana entered the priesthood and became a close friend of the friar-author Thomas Merton. Another brother, Charles Morgana (né Giuseppe Carlo Morgana), was an automotive inventor and a close associate of Henry Ford. His older sister, Angelina Morgana, followed their brother Dante into medical school, where she became the only female in her class in the Medical Department (as it was then known) of the University of Buffalo. She withdrew because of the harassment she experienced from the all-male faculty.
 Here Morgana’s normally precise memory has failed her: on the day of her Metropolitan Opera debut (Saturday, November 27, 1920) Caruso sang a matinee performance of La forza del destino, and hence was not “ill.” .
From the Bill Bryant papers at Mainspring Press. Note the issue by Rector’s New York Dance Orchestra (Leopold Kohls, director), which is missing from American Dance Bands on Records and Film. A bit of trivia for the organ fans out there, from a page not pictured: Pathé’s “exclusive” studio organ was a Mason & Hamlin (a popular line of reed organs), model not mentioned.
Our thanks to John Bolig for the first fully detailed discography of the RCA-produced “World’s Greatest Operas” records. Data are from original RCA documentation at the Sony archives in New York. All issues were anonymous, but as you’ll see, some first-rate talent was employed.
John’s complete listing of RCA’s “World’s Greatest Music” records (a substantially revised and expanded version of our very basic listing that was posted a few weeks ago) has also been posted.
Note that this listing is only for the original RCA-produced series. Other producers took over the “World’s Greatest…” series after the RCA Victor connection was severed in 1940.
Our thanks to Victor expert John Bolig for revising and greatly expanding the very basic “World’s Greatest Music” listing that we posted a few weeks ago. The data are from RCA’s original documentation at the Sony archives in New York. A complete listing of RCA’s “World’s Greatest Operas” series is also being posted later today.
(By the way, several of John’s landmark Victor Discography titles have sold out recently. The remaining volumes are still available on the Mainspring Press website, but supplies are very limited. The listing below will give you a good idea of the high-quality data and attention to detail you’ll find in all of John’s books.)
Note that this listing is only for the original RCA-produced series of 1938-1940. Other producers took over the series after the RCA Victor connection was severed, and later pressings are not RCA products. .
The Gramophone Company began producing “complete” operatic recordings in Italy in 1906. The earliest attempts were rag-tag productions, sometimes with different singers substituted if those originally scheduled couldn’t make a session; and in at least one case, a domestic Red Seal recording had to be substituted for a missing side in the U.S. There were no Carusos or Farrars or other Red Seal–class celebrities to be heard — even had their Victor contracts allowed them to record for The Gramophone Company, their astronomical royalty rates would have driven the price of these sets beyond the means of most customers — but the recordings caused a sensation nonetheless. There are reports of record stores staging “Victrola Opera Nights” using these records, with costumed locals lip-synching their parts. You can find much more about them in A Phonograph in Every Home, available from Mainspring Press.
Here are some highlights from a later, better-organized attempt, recorded in Milan in 1915 but not released in the U.S. until March 1919, on the lowly black-label series. These sets pre-date the “album” concept — i.e., the records were sold individually, and the big arias handily outsold the less-juicy portions — so assembling complete sets can be a daunting task. Our Cavalleria Rusticana set is growing steadily, but still has a ways to go.
CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA (Mascagni)
FRANCO TUMINELLO, GEORGINA ERMOLLI, LENA REVELLI and E. PERNA, with LA SCALA CHORUS & ORCHESTRA (CARLO SABAJNO, conductor)
Recorded in Milan by The Gramophone Company (F. W. Gaisberg, engineer)
PARTS 1–4 (Victor 35680 / 35681)
Cavalleria Rusticana: Preludio e Siciliana (mx. 3022c; April 8, 1915) Cavalleria Rusticana: Preludio – Part 2 (mx. 3021c; April 8, 1915) Cavalleria Rusticana: Gli aranci (mx. 3017c; April 5, 1915) Cavalleria Rusticana: Tempo e si mormori (mx. 3018c; April 6, 1915)
PARTS 17–18 (Victor 35688)
Cavalleria Rusticana: A casa, a casa (mx. 3020c; April 7, 1915) Cavalleria Rusticana: Brindisi (mx. 3019c; April 7, 1915)
Discographic data from the Gramophone Company files, courtesy of the late Dr. Alan Kelly.
Didur in New York, 1915 (Bain News Service Collection,
Library of Congress).
ADAMO DIDUR: Roberto il Diavolo — Suore che riposate
Milan: October 10, 1907
Fonotipia 92002 (mx. Xph 2670)
ADAMO DIDUR: Gli Ugonotti — Signor, difesa e scudo
Milan: October 11, 1907
Fonotipia 92003 (mx. Xph 2671)
ADAMO DIDUR: Mefistofele — Son il spirito che nega
Milan: April 23, 1908
Fonotipia 92226 (mx. Xph 3176)
Quote of the Week:
The metaphor of the moment is that Donald Trump is the dog that caught up with the car… A more apt reference, especially after Trump’s inauguration, might be the Pottery Barn Rule: “You break it, you own it.”
Trump and the congressional Republicans who have chosen to make their bed with him are responsible for what happens from now on. There is now no one to blame if they can’t pass budgets, avoid shutdowns, deal with sequestration, replace Obamacare, destroy ISIS, or reverse the continuing loss of manufacturing jobs. If climate change gets worse, it’s on them. If Syria continues its downward spiral, it’s on them. If more countries acquire nuclear weapons, it’s on them.
An incredible find from the Library of Congress — Bray Studios’ 1923 silent film, The Immortal Voice. Now posted on YouTube, it takes the viewer through Columbia’s entire recording and production process.
Filmed in Columbia’s New York studio and Bridgeport, Connecticut factory, it begins with an acoustical recording session by Rosa Ponselle and orchestra — staged for the camera, of course, but giving a good idea of how a real session might have looked, and how closely the musicians had to huddle (look for the horned Stroh violins, a necessary evil in the acoustic days).
From there the film traces the path of the wax master, from auditioning and plating to the pressing of a finished disc. At the end is a surprise tribute to Victor’s Enrico Caruso, with footage purporting to be him onstage at the Met — making it pretty unlikely that the film was commissioned by Columbia.
Our thanks to the ever-vigilant John Bolig for passing along the link.
Many of the records in Gramophone & Typewriter’s February 1904 catalog were also issued in the U.S. as Victor Imported Red Seal Records. Details of those issues (many of which are now quite rare, and correspondingly expensive) can be found in John Bolig’s Victor Red Seal Discography, Vol. I .
Victor soon adopted a policy of replacing imported recordings like these with their own domestically recorded versions whenever possible, as happened with many of the Caruso and Plancon offerings.
You can find more on the early history of the Red Seal in A Phonograph in Every Home:The Evolution of the American Recording Industry, 1909-1919, also available from Mainspring Press.