Catch the Rave - sound recordings

National Review, Sept 25, 2000 by Jay Nordlinger

No one attracts hoopla like singers, over whom critics and music-lovers tend to go a little nuts. Pianists, violinists, and conductors all have their day, but it is the singers who give the world fever. Sometimes the excitement is entirely justified; other times, less so. At the moment, there is an astonishing number of young or youngish singers who are creating waves of enthusiasm. It pays to look in on a few of them, to see what all the fuss is about.

Countertenors have been in vogue lately (you failed to notice?), and leading the pack is David Daniels, a 34-year-old South Carolinian. Unknown only a few years ago, he is a full-fledged superstar-the first in his vocal range to be so. Season before last, Daniels sang the part of Sesto in Handel's Giulio Cesare at the Metropolitan Opera. In a cast studded with worthies, he stood out. Particularly riveting was the (sublime) duet that ends Act I, which Daniels sang with the mezzo-soprano Stephanie Blythe. It was one of those moments that make time stop. Never have I heard an opera house so quiet, so rapt.

Handel, of course, is bread and butter for a countertenor, and Daniels has duly come out with a collection of arias from that composer, on the Virgin Veritas label. He begins with "Ombra mai fu" from Serse, a sturdy test for any singer-almost an anthem for those who traffic in the Baroque. Daniels handles it superbly. He is both tight and expansive; that is, he adheres strictly to the score while allowing for bloom where appropriate. This is a most unusual voice, up in a stratum we seldom hear. Once we get over the shock of the sound, we realize that Daniels is a very fine singer, with an extraordinary instrument; once this fact has settled in, we go on to realize that he is also a very fine musician-a smart, elegant Handelian. That is even more.

As the disc progresses, Daniels exhibits any number of admirable traits. His phrasing is lovely, his intonation secure, his dynamics shrewd. He has just the right amount of breath coming through his sound-it is not too lush, not too dry or "pipey" (a countertenor can sound like a recorder, as Daniels, indeed, in off moments, does). In the quicker arias, he is crisp and sharp; something like "Venti, turbini" (from Rinaldo), he snaps off. In the more plangent arias-"Dove sei" (Rodelinda), for example-he is relatively plain, matter-of-fact, eschewing sentimentality or opulence.

Of the hundreds and hundreds of Handel compilations that have been made, this must be counted among the more satisfying ones. We have no choice: The Daniels bandwagon has to be hopped on.

Coming down a step or two, to the range of tenor proper, we find Ian Bostridge, a 35-year-old Englishman who is fairly the toast of the critics. A doctor of history from Oxford, Bostridge is known for his literary and cerebral approach to the song repertory. In the last year or so, he has been the subject of some of the most rapturous reviews I have ever seen. His rise from young don, fooling around with singing for his friends and colleagues, to titan of the vocal world has been-to use a word that is predictably applied to such phenoms-meteoric.

Celebrated primarily as an exponent of German lieder, Bostridge has just gone native with an anthology of English songs (available from that faithful purveyor of English music, EMI Classics). Not often do tenors work as song recitalists. In the annals of history, we have had Fritz Wunderlich, and Nicolai Gedda, and . . . but the trail quickly runs cold. Placido Domingo-at the age of 59, in the autumn of a glorious career, when he is venturing ever deeper into Wagner-made his New York recital debut only last January. He might have delayed it even longer.

Bostridge is persuasive in the repertory of his home soil-Stanford, Warlock, Finzi, Quilter, and the boys. His singing is direct, intimate, and classically English (a quality recognized when heard). It is also rather polite, just a bit too careful, a little too self-conscious. The instrument is smallish and delicate, though not wispy or inconsequential. It has a hint of the chorister in it, but that is part of its nature, and of its appeal. Bostridge is somewhat reminiscent of an older tenor from his country, the splendid Ian Partridge. Ian Bostridge and Ian Partridge should be confused for years to come-a condition that ought to flatter them both.

At his best, Bostridge is natural, alert, and winning. Yet his technique is far from perfect. He strains at the top, a problem that grows worse when the music is forte. Nor does he have any real lower register to speak of. Then too, his intonation can be inexact; he tends to flat on certain vowels, when the note is sustained. Moreover, he is occasionally-just occasionally-dull, interpretively. The Britten-arranged "Salley Gardens," for example, should be an absolute heartbreaker; it is one of the most beguiling, haunting items in the entire English songbook. Here, however, it lies pretty much inert on the page, deprived of its power.

Nevertheless, Bostridge is an artist to acclaim, just as the critics say. And for those of us who would like to hear this sterling repertory sung by a tenor other than the deeply problematic Peter Pears (rest his soul)-he is a relief as well.