ROSA PONSELLE ON HER RECORDINGS
An Interview by James A. Drake
(G. G. Bain Collection, Library of Congress)
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.
Watch Ponselle and Romani recording in the Columbia studio
(from the Library of Congress):
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.
© James A. Drake. All rights are reserved. Short excerpts may be quoted without permission, provided the source and a link to this posting are cited. All other use requires prior written consent of the copyright holder. Please e-mail Mainspring Press with questions, comments, or reproduction requests for the author.
The Bain Collection (Library of Congress) photographs are in the public domain and may be reproduced without permission.