The last two decades or so classical music has seen a remarkable and added attention for baroque repertoire. This development went more or less alongside the appearance of a group of interesting young countertenor singers: men like Bejun Mehta, Lawrence Zazzo, Philippe Jarouskky, Max Emanuel Cencic, Valer Sabadus, Yuriy Mynenko, David Hansen, Xavier Sabata, Vince Yi, Maarten Engeltjens and, last but by no means least, Franco Fagioli.
Unlike the current upsurge of countertenors might suggest, the particular voice type has a venerable history, harking as far back as approximately 1450 AD, according to some even the Middle Ages. While it is true that Alfred Deller did much to reinstate the voice type, it is by no means the case that there has been a lack of very talented or even renowned countertenors between the 60s and say 10 years ago (see the exhaustive listing made by Eric Betthauser at the (Un)official list of countertenors).
Still, to me Franco Fagioli stands out as one of the most versatile and exhilarating young countertenor performers of our day-and-age. To see and hear him sing live for the first time was a true revelation to me. It happened during the last performance of the immensely popular opera Artaserse (Leonardo Vinci, 1730), in the Amsterdam Concertgebouw, May 10 of this year.
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| Artaserse Amsterdam curtain call. Franco Fagioli on the far left |
The illustrious Dutch magazine Luister, for more than 60 years a national authority in the rich tapestry of classical music, seized the opportunity of Fagioli's presence in the capital to interview him. From editor Joost Galema I learnt that he in fact spoke with Fagioli the day after the concert, May 11 2014. Galema found him a courteous, and very dedicated young professional on said occasion. The actual interview was published in 'Luister' in its September/October issue (see lemma below, reprint by kind courtesy of Luister magazine), concurrent with the release of Fagioli's latest album, of Porpora arias.
As very few people are conversant in Dutch, and fans of Franco Fagioli across the globe expressed a keen interest in its content, I took it upon myself to translate this interview into English. After a bit of editing and with a little help of my friends (thank you, Idle Woman and Fagiolista), the Dutch writer, Joost Galema, subsequently authorised the translation. Its copyright rests with the author of this blog.
As very few people are conversant in Dutch, and fans of Franco Fagioli across the globe expressed a keen interest in its content, I took it upon myself to translate this interview into English. After a bit of editing and with a little help of my friends (thank you, Idle Woman and Fagiolista), the Dutch writer, Joost Galema, subsequently authorised the translation. Its copyright rests with the author of this blog.
Franco Fagioli pays homage to
Nicola Porpora, the teacher of the castrati
‘Music is the
servant of the word’
Contemporaries write of their unearthly voices, but the true sound of the operatic castrati of the eighteenth century remains a mystery to our ears. However, it is no stretch of the imagination to suppose that Franco Fagioli comes close. For his newest CD release, the Argentinian countertenor has made a study of Nicola Porpora, the teacher and mastermind behind the careers of the most famous castrati in history.
Text: JOOST GALEMA, Translation: CHRIS DOKTER
‘In the beginning was the word’ is the first verse of the Gospel of John in the New Testament. This line could equally well form the nucleus of the musical creed of opera singer Franco Fagioli. In the Bible ‘the word has become man’: in opera, it becomes music.
‘Greek tragedy lies at the core of our art form’, says the Argentinian countertenor . ‘In the theatres of that era the actors declaimed their texts in order to be better heard. Music was used to reinforce the words. This principle holds true to this very day, as far as I am concerned. More often than not, singers worry about their sound or colour, but to me it is all about the meaning of the words you sing. If you truly understand the words, the right sound follows suit naturally. Words have a personality of their own. It is no coincidence that in many languages letters are called ‘characters’.
With that in mind, you can take it in all kinds of directions. Say, for instance, an exclamation which pops up in opera frequently, like abbraciami, embrace me. Fagioli sings it. The loving invitation with which he starts gradually changes into a desperate plea by a rejected lover and finally ends up in a harsh command from a father to his child: Abbraciami. Same word, different meanings and different sounds: from rounded and soft-spoken to so severe that it seems as if his voice chisels the letters out of solid rock.
In the 1950s, the conductor Tullio Serafin prepared the young soprano Maria Callas for her first Norma. For her, it turned into a search for the right tone. ‘Go home’, Serafin told her one day, ‘put the music away and speak the text, like an actress would – you will see that everything will fall into place.’
‘Greek tragedy lies at the core of our art form’, says the Argentinian countertenor . ‘In the theatres of that era the actors declaimed their texts in order to be better heard. Music was used to reinforce the words. This principle holds true to this very day, as far as I am concerned. More often than not, singers worry about their sound or colour, but to me it is all about the meaning of the words you sing. If you truly understand the words, the right sound follows suit naturally. Words have a personality of their own. It is no coincidence that in many languages letters are called ‘characters’.
With that in mind, you can take it in all kinds of directions. Say, for instance, an exclamation which pops up in opera frequently, like abbraciami, embrace me. Fagioli sings it. The loving invitation with which he starts gradually changes into a desperate plea by a rejected lover and finally ends up in a harsh command from a father to his child: Abbraciami. Same word, different meanings and different sounds: from rounded and soft-spoken to so severe that it seems as if his voice chisels the letters out of solid rock.
In the 1950s, the conductor Tullio Serafin prepared the young soprano Maria Callas for her first Norma. For her, it turned into a search for the right tone. ‘Go home’, Serafin told her one day, ‘put the music away and speak the text, like an actress would – you will see that everything will fall into place.’
Fagioli nods. ‘Say it!’ he shouts. Say it.
The insight that music is the servant of the word became clear to Fagioli during his first private singing lessons. ‘I entered as an eighteen year old pianist’, he explains. ‘Being an instrumentalist, for me the notes were the alpha and omega of music. Then I performed my first aria. My teacher raised her eyebrows. “You sing but you are saying nothing”, was her harsh analysis. It took me a while to get to grips with her philosophy, until I realized how empty my rendition sounded, how devoid of meaning my words were. I had to go back to the origins of opera. Greek antiquity. Only then did I start to understand that, yes, my voice is a musical instrument, but its purpose is to clarify words and emotions. Whoever understands that also becomes a better pianist, violinist or cellist. I firmly believe that in a Mozart piano concerto, you can replace the notes by words. Great pianists sing with their fingers: through the instrument, they tell a story.’
Imitating sopranos
Fagioli’s musical journey of discovery began in the North-Argentinian town of San Miguel de Tucumán, founded by the Spanish conquistadores in the sixteenth century. The city was the birthplace of Argentina as a nation: it was here that the United Provinces of South America declared their independence from Spain in 1816.
Tucumán’s most important musical legacy to the world was the folk singer Mercedes Sosa. She was such a giant that the Argentine government issued a three-day national mourning period when she died five years ago. Tucumán also was the home town of the concert pianist Miguel Angel Estrella, who disappeared behind bars during the military junta, but was released following a worldwide media campaign headed by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin.
It is the most important city in Northern Argentina, yet it is still nearly six hundred miles away from the capital, Buenos Aires. ‘It’s about the same distance as Paris to Madrid’, Fagioli explains. There are music schools, orchestras and theatres. ‘No comparison to Europe, of course, but enough going on. During the war, some excellent musicians came to Tucumán, seeking a safe haven from the violence in Europe. They imparted classical traditions to local talents in our town.’
His grandmother was a music teacher at an elementary school. At home, the sounds of folk music dominated. When he was eleven, Fagioli became a boy soprano in a local choir, which opened up the doors of classical music. Quite soon, he was chosen to sing one of the three boys’ roles in Mozart’s Zauberflöte. ‘To be surrounded by the Queen of the Night, Pamina, Tamino, the orchestra, the podium, the stage lights’, Fagioli reminisces. ‘It was as if someone injected it all straight into my veins. The experience was so moving and powerful that from that moment on, I was consumed by the desire to become a part of that world.’
In the meantime, Fagioli studied the piano, until at the age of fifteen his voice broke. A year later, he started his own choir of youngsters. The voice as an instrument had not lost its fascination for him. ‘I didn’t stop singing all of a sudden. I liked imitating sopranos, just for fun.’
One fine day, Fagioli discovered that he needed a recording of Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater. The local record store had only one. Without looking at the cover, he bought the CD. ‘Once I got home, I put it on. My ears caught the familiar sound of a soprano, but the second voice bewildered me. I opened the CD-booklet, and read that Emma Kirkby was the soprano, and then, an alto was listed, by the name of James Bowman. James? I thought. A man’s name? Yet he sounded like an alto… Suddenly I was taken aback. His singing was similar to what I did when imitating sopranos. That’s how I discovered the existence of countertenors.’
Subsequently, he went to his piano teachers, to all the people he knew, but no one could tell him what a countertenor was. ‘Instead of looking for piano scores I searched for books on singing. How could I learn the craft of becoming a countertenor in Tucumán?’ Eventually, he found his way to an American soprano, Annelise Skovmand, who had married a Tucumán guitarist. ‘She is from far away and out of town’, I thought, ‘she knows the world. I packed my Stabat Mater in my bag, went to her house and let her hear the voice of James Bowman. “That’s how I want to sing too”, I said to her. She answered: “I have never taught a countertenor before, but I will teach you all I know about singing.” That is how it all started.’
Nicola Porpora
Nicola Porpora
In Europe, in the early 1950s, the Englishman Alfred Deller emerged as the ‘father’ of the modern countertenor. The growing popularity of baroque opera did the rest. It was on that foundation that others built. Tucumán, however, was way too far from the epicentre of this development. Thus, in the 1990s, Fagioli had to find his own way. In hindsight, that was not a bad thing. “I found out that whilst my singing resembled that of James Bowman or Andreas Scholl, my gut feeling was that I was different. I collected a wide array of recordings, and heard mezzos sing the same roles as countertenors. My heart and my musical ear leaned more towards the sound of those female voices. I started to study them. They became my point of reference. During those years in Tucumán, through their albums, I took lessons from Jennifer Larmore, Marilyn Horne and Cecilia Bartoli. Their belcanto style of singing suited me better, and my teacher, herself a soprano, taught me in just the same way.’
Fagioli possesses a very individual, virtually incomparable sound. Whereas most countertenors sound unmistakably male, the Argentinian raises doubts. In his voice the beauties of the two genders seem to melt together to perfection. It is only through hearsay and written testimonies that we can judge how the famous operatic castrati like Farinelli, Caffarelli and Senesino sounded. Yet, one way or the other, it is hard to shake the thought that, of all the modern countertenors, Fagioli might very well come closest to that unreal sound. The golden age of the castrati fascinates him. For his last album, he delved deep into a repertoire that was especially written for the capricious castrato Caffarelli. And now, he has turned his attention for an entire CD to arias composed by the teacher who brought forth these eighteenth-century opera stars: Nicola Porpora.
‘In his voice the beauties
of the two genders
of the two genders
seem to melt together
to perfection’
to perfection’
‘This album is also meant to show Porpora as a vocal coach. In Naples, his training was the basis of the successes of miraculous singers like Caffarelli and Farinelli. I find his methods intriguing. He received his pupils at a young age, some even before they were castrated. They learned in a mechanical manner, by using formulas that would be needed later on to help them sing an aria. Legend has it that he gave Caffarelli one sheet of paper with technical exercises, which he studied daily for six years. After that, Porpora said to him: “Now you know everything you need. I can teach you nothing more. Go out into the world and sing.” These boys were prepped for their careers in a very sportsmanlike manner, as vocal athletes.
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| Nicola Porpora |
All the techniques Porpora taught can also be heard back in his arias.’ The famous messa di voce for instance can be heard in Porpora’s most famous aria, ‘Alto Giove’. It is the technique whereby in one breath you produce a note that slowly builds from soft to loud and back again. ‘This typical long line’, Fagioli explains, ‘opens slowly like a door and then closes again. It is singing without breathing. On this album, I aim to make the listener hear the full spectrum of colours that Porpora as a teacher and vocal coach has to offer.’
As far as Porpora the man is concerned, little is known about the life of the Italian composer. ‘And we might well have totally forgotten him, were it not for the fact that the English nobility hired him to give Handel’s London opera business a run for his money. If you familiarize yourself with Handel, you cannot help but encounter the name of Porpora. Both lived in an era where composers were subservient to their singers. They wrote arias like tailors crafted costumes: in order to make them fit the operatic stars like a glove. Porpora was a hard worker, highly skilled, brilliant at times. He was not the genius that Handel was. Handel was out of this world: he tailored his arias to his singers, to be sure, but as an artist and composer he managed to surpass this level entirely. He towered above it. Porpora on the other hand often remains hidden behind the characteristics of Caffarelli or Farinelli. That is one reason why I wanted to record those arias in which the composer himself can be unveiled.’
