Giacomo Puccini
Turandot

Toscanini and Puccini were sitting in a rehearsal room at La Scala. Puccini was in a deep melancholy and a conscious resignation. It was the sunset, the end. Toscanini sat next to the maestro and turned the pages. The greatest conductor of all time followed him with a tenderness that only someone who has felt a great friendship and admiration can give. He rearranged the sheets and dealt with any ornament that could hinder him. It was the embrace of the last meeting. A week later, on November 4, Puccini left for Brussels to undergo surgery and leave the world of mortals to rightfully enter that of the immortals.

On the evening of the first performance, reaching the exact point where Puccini had interrupted the score, Toscanini stopped the orchestra, turned to the audience, and gave the first and last public speech of his life: "Here, at this point, Giacomo Puccini stopped. This time death was stronger than art."

This edition of Turandot, to this day, is the best ever recorded. Zubin Mehta, perhaps, reaches the peak of his career by conducting with an expressiveness that is "one of a kind". The sclerosis, the banal tendency to cobble everything behind the shield of vocal power and ostentation for its own sake is swept away. A return to Toscanini's absolutism. Mehta dries everything up and makes a treasure chest shine that, upon opening, reveals a fan of hard diamonds that shine embedded, in a nervous dynamic that creates tears and rips for the listeners. The London Philharmonic Orchestra is in a state of grace that has few precedents in its history. Decca notices it and knows the determination of the conductor. It understands that it is the right opportunity to dive into an effort that will carve its name in the Olympus of recordings. The ensemble considered at the time as the greatest cast in the world is recruited: Joan Sutherland, Luciano Pavarotti, Monsterrat Caballé, Nicolai Ghiaurov, Peter Pears, Tom Krause, Pier Francesco Poli, Piero de Palma, Sabin Markov. All the effort will be repaid. 

Many had turned up their noses at the recruitment of Sutherland. Turandot is not a character very suitable for a singing virtuoso, but rather for an emotional and fragile interpreter. Sutherland sweeps away every prejudice, with a commitment that is astounding. The melody, from her lips, flows and spreads in a liquid, enchanting grace. A sweetness that bends every prejudicial resistance. In some passages, we are even at a vocal prodigy. During the "Principesa-Lo-u-Ling" and her "lunghe carovane", the atmosphere becomes of a compactness and homogeneity that lights up in a miraculous coloring that manages to split the surrounding air. The super-high C's are so expansive, wide, and enveloping that they stun in their formidable control. Callas held the scepter of the greatest Turandot ever existed. Sutherland snatches it away with force. Never was Turandot so fascinating, languid, mysterious, captivating, feminine and enveloping.

Pavarotti, oh Pavarotti, you have done some crazy things to discredit your great name, but when it comes to showing your skills so as not to look bad, you have always been there. This shows that motivation is everything for some artists. Talent is sometimes not enough. His Calaf has a fullness and a power that can knock down a Pyramid from a kilometer away. A very clear, silvery, and ringing voice, rich in vibration and intensity that makes love with the orchestra in a suspended idyll. The phrasing reaches a sensuality that Lucianone has rarely achieved in his career. Naturally, when the time comes for the high notes, it's best to step aside not to be overwhelmed by a force that has the same consistency as nature when it rebels. The "Nessun dorma," which Lucianone has made us almost hate for the use and abuse over time, here, at the origin, is splendid. It reconciles us definitively with the much "infamous." A singing of adamantine and emotional beauty, moving and thundering.

All the others, the so-called "side parts," are nothing "side" at all. Decca puts an end to the choice of facade singers who fill the gaps between one star and another, satisfying the conductor. A band of beasts ready to devour the listener. Krause, de Palma, and Poli, are and act like artists. They demonstrate that they are not in the project just to collect a substantial fee. Ghiaurov makes his "Timur" gigantic, powerful, almost barbaric, a solemnity that manages to dissolve into the threnody of Liù's death, culminating in a heartbreaking melody that shatters the innards. Monsterrat Caballé, thank you for existing. For her "Liù," the sound of her voice alone would suffice to make her immense. Among octave jumps and "pianissimo" that could make you tear out your hair, she flies enveloped by an orchestra that deforms the contours until her entrances become miraculous. Zubin Mehta controls and oversees everyone with a pulled and superb nerve.

Finally, let's talk about the recording: my goodness! Here we are at Olympic acoustic engineering. A sound peculiarity that nails you to the wall. A cleanliness and refinement that flashes in the cosmic void and ascends to the astral spheres to then crash to earth with a force that stuns.

Puccini would have been proud and exceedingly happy to hear it. I am sure of it.