Leoncavallo’s “Signore! Signori! Scusatemi” may well be the most famous captatio benevolentiae in all of opera. A grand theatrical gesture, it also serves as the title of Anthony Clark Evans’ debut recital for EuroArts. By all appearances, one might expect a veristic—or at least Italo-Romantic—show of force. “Pagliacci” is indeed followed by arias from Giordano and Puccini; yet it {…}
New Yorkers might remember tenor Petr Nekoranec from his participation in the Met’s Summer Recital Series. That was in 2017, when he performed repertoire staples (think “La donna è mobile”) across all five boroughs—just a few months before making his proper house debut in “Cendrillon.” Since then, his career has largely evolved overseas, and U.S. audiences must rely on his {…}
“Puccini Heroines,” “Puccini’s Heroines,” “Heroines”—or “Eroine”—of Puccini. This myriad of near-identical album titles reflects the indiscriminately amorous fascination the composer’s female protagonists have exerted upon a century of operatic singers and spectators alike (after all, 2026 marks the centennial of “Turandot”). Therefore, another “Puccini Heroines”—this time from Pentatone—comes as little surprise. It features Sondra Radvanovsky, whose career has followed the {…}
Rarely has a single performance so cornered the discographic record of an opera as Claudio Abbado’s “Simon Boccanegra” from 1977. And my use of the possessive is, in this case, far from aleatory: Abbado lays claim to the score with an authority scarcely less than Verdi’s own—or would Hugo Shirley otherwise have spoken in superlatives so unsparingly when Gramophone revisited {…}
Historiography operates through superlatives. All too easily, it compresses organic development into the quasi-religious advent of the monstre sacré. This antiquarianism of sorts keeps a particularly tight grip on the development of Italian opera: There’s Monteverdi at one end, Puccini at the other—no ante, no post. But what about Ottorino Respighi, born some twenty years after the composer of {…}
Is it mere coincidence that Nadia Boulanger’s “La ville morte” and Korngold’s “Die tote Stadt” fixate so obsessively on the past? In both works, the “dead city” is less a place than a psychological condition. Yet whereas Korngold’s necrophilia is filtered through Freudian “psychologie pathologique,” Boulanger’s figures inhabit a Symbolist world of ancestral trauma and fatality. “La ville morte” reads {…}
Taken literally, a “Sonata for Broken Fingers” is—if anything—something of a paradox. On second thought, one might even find it cynical rather than merely facetious; yet on a political—or more broadly moral—level, the phrase suddenly acquires a dystopian quality: music, or art, under oppression. That is the starting point of Joe Cutler’s eponymous music theater piece, released on CD and {…}
If ever as crepuscular an author as Edgar Allan Poe were seasonally appropriate, November—or certainly around Halloween—would be the time. Shrouded in mystery, his life (and death) echoes the tragedy of “Ligeia” (1838), “The Black Cat” (1843), and “Annabel Lee” (1849). That is just to name a random few which, a literary legacy, have stood the test of time. Fittingly, {…}
Madame de Pompadour meets the brush of Joshua Reynolds: thus, or in a similar vein, one might describe the pastel-toned cover of Megan Kahts’ “Dopo notte.” In rococo drapery, the South African mezzo is bathed in a pervasive, yet sensuous, chiaroscuro. Famously, one should not judge a book by its cover; yet here, what you see is exactly what you {…}