Late Swedish Tenor's 'Vocal Velvet' Remains Indescribable in Words
By HAROLD C. SCHONBERG
How does one describe a voice? Music begins where words leave off, and our poor language is a leaden vehicle to describe the rainbow of sound. One can say about Jussi Bjoerling, who died a week ago Friday, that his voice was the greatest lyric instrument since Gigli's. But putting a finger on what constitutes that greatness is a difficult matter.
One can talk about technique, about breath control and smoothness of register, about range and evenness of scale. That done, nobody can begin to get an idea of this great tenor's vocal velvet. He was called by some the Swedish Caruso, and in his early recording of "Come un bel dì di Maggio" some of his attacks are reminiscent of those of the Italian.
Another point of similarity would be the fact that as both tenors grew older their voices deepened. Bjoerling never did have the baritonal timbre that Caruso displayed toward the end. Nevertheless, Bjoerling's voice did get a darker, heavier quality -- and that without losing any of the brilliance of the notes above the staff. He retained a lusty high C, and if called upon he probably could have duplicated the electrifying D in his recording of the "Cujus animam" from Rossini's "Stabat Mater."
Of course, he was not an old man, and at his death at the age of 49 he was in his prime, even with about three decades of operatic work since his debut in 1930. There was a short period, a few years ago, when he was out of voice. One wondered if constant work had finally caught up with him. But in the last three seasons he was singing as well as ever. No; better than ever.
FRESH AND APPEALING
His was not a flamboyant voice, as was Lauri-Volpi's, nor did it have the incredible sweetness of Gigli's. It lay somewhere between those two. Its texture was fresh and appealing, it was of good size, and it was without a flaw from top to bottom. As a technician he was unparalleled. He never slid into a note like a cow on a polished floor; his attacks were clear and precise, and there was no perceptible shift from register to register. And what breath control he had! He could, in one breath, take a phrase from here to there, with enough reserve for an unforced crescendo at the end. Solidity and stability always marked his work.
Stability also marked his interpretations. He specialized in the Italian repertory. In his working repertory of about twenty-five operas the great majority of them were Italian. These roles he sang with more taste that any comparable singer of this writer's experience.
Most tenors rely on sheer voice to make their effect. Phrase marks, dynamic indications, a smooth legato -- these mean, apparently, nothing to them. Bjoerling, who could match any of them in sheer voice, seldom pushed his phrases out of shape. His singing was never disfigured by the sobs, gulps, groans and yelps so beloved of many tenors who work the Italian fields.
EMOTIONAL MEANING
In short, he was a musician. And thus his interpretations were always interesting. Well he knew the emotional meaning of the words he was singing. In his youth he must have spent hours and hours on diction and enunciation. The work paid a handsome royalty. He knew more about shaping vowels than most living tenors, and on the stage his enunciation was a model of clarity. Goodness knows he was not the most skillful of actors, though his work was perfectly adequate; but he conveyed more through purely vocal means than most of the so-called singing actors before the public today.
His phrasing was peculiarly his own. Phrasing is the art of binding notes together into meaningful sequences roughly comparable to sentences of speech. Bjoerling's phrasing had an elegance and grace that no amount of applied musicianship could have given. As with any great artist, much of it was instinctive, a reflection of inner taste that cannot be taught. When he sang things like "Questa o quella," it was with a rakish, indescribable flexibility that not only illustrated the Duke in "Rigoletto" but also made the old aria an exercise in subtle musicianship.
In this Bjoerling was almost unique, and he should be a model to all singers. How few realize that there is more to the art of singing than lung power! We have had many brilliantly gifted tenors come to the stage with but a vestigial notion of what interpretation is all about. These are the tenors who, in the closing duet of the first act of "Otello," will bawl out "Un bacio! Un bacio!" without giving any thought to the notion that a lover does not demand a kiss in stentorian bellows (much less giving thought to the fact that Verdi wrote a triple pianissimo under the phrase).
Or we have sopranos who will swell and scoop on a quiet phrase like "Numi, pietà" in "Aida." "Noooooo-mi, pietahahahAHAH," they sing. How simple and touching the phrase is as written, and how indescribably vulgar it so often turns out! No wonder that many musicians flatly refuse to consider sopranos and tenors rational creatures; and hence the old saying that the higher the voice, the lower the intelligence.
And, only too often, the better the voice, the worse the musicianship. Singers tend to learn early that, as far as the public is concerned, a ringing high C, securely produced and firm on pitch, can make a fine career without any such nonsense as refinement and taste. The Metropolitan Opera can show several tenors who have gone along for years on about three high notes and precious little else.
EXCEPTION
Bjoerling was one of the exceptions. Coupled to his phenomenal voice were that refinement and taste so sadly lacking in many of the singers who specialize in his repertory. He had those qualities from the beginning. Like many artists he was saturated in music from childhood. At the age of 8 he was singing, with his father and two brothers, in the Bjoerling Quartette. As a member of this group he traveled all over America and Europe. Later he studied at the Royal Opera School in Stockholm, and he made his debut with the Royal Opera there in 1930 as Don Ottavio in Mozart's "Don Giovanni."
He never sang in that opera at the Metropolitan, but "Il mio tesoro" often turned up in his concert programs. Probably not since John McCormack has a tenor disposed of the florid coloratura in that aria with such ease. He sang it in one of his last New York recital appearances.
And then came his series of heart attacks. In August, 1959, he was temporarily disabled. Last March 15 he had an attack at Covent Garden just before the curtain of "La Bohème." He insisted on singing because British royalty was present, and after a half-hour delay the curtain went up. Bjoerling was reputed to be a man of immense physical strength, and like many strong men he hated to give in to illness. He went through the performance, but it cannot have done him any good. He kept on pushing himself, and now he is dead. At least we have his recordings. They will show future generations that the owner of a great voice does not necessarily have to operate like a steam engine; that style and taste are not incompatible with vocal splendor.
The New York Times
September 18, 1960