If anyone could be said to have succeeded Enrico Caruso at the Met, it would be Beniamino Gigli, the self-proclaimed "People's Singer." Other tenors - Pertile, Martinelli, Schipa, Lauri-Volpi - were equally admired, but Gigli, with this best-selling records and concert appearances, made his name known among those who had never been to the opera, and often with the same kind of emotional display that was given to motion picture idols and crooners. And how appropriate, for that is much of what Gigli was.

Born in Recanati into a very poor family, Gigli was educated at the local monastery. When his father became sacristan of the cathedral, the young Gigli sang in the choir, and received musical instruction from the monks as well. He had a contralto voice rather than the soprano voice of most little boys, and at age 15 he made his debut with plaits in his hair, a flowery hat and a little Japanese blue-silk umbrella in the role of Angelina, in a forgotten opera by Billi. It's unfortunate that no photograph survives!

A study grant enabled Gigli to enter the Santa Cecilia music school in Rome, and in 1914 he won the International Parma Competition. The jury, headed by tenor Alessandro Bonci, announced: "At last we have found the tenor: Beniamino Gigli!" He sang across Italy, all over Europe and South America, and made his way to The Met at the end of the Caruso years in 1919-20 where reviews were decidedly mixed, as seen in the two excerpts that follow:

"While Gigli's voice is in itself one of the most beautiful of its kind ever heard by a New York audience since the advent of Caruso, the dramatic intensity, the range of emotions and the expressivity which shape his song are even more extraordinary." - Max Smith, The New York American

Gigli left the Metropolitan Opera in 1932. When the Depression hit, the Met asked all the artists to take pay cuts, up to 50 percent. Gigli was then the Met's highest-paid singer, and chose to decline management's offer and return to Italy. While he still sang opera, with the growth of opera towards the more intellectual realm, and the simultaneous impact of jazz influencing popular music, the type of vocal style required for opera versus popular singing began, for the first time, to differ. Recording techniques changed, too. And as Gigli pursued his career in the concert halls as a popular singer, he acquired more of a vulgarity to the voice - which was certainly not displeasing to his audiences - it's emotional, it can be thrilling, and there are dozens of pop singers in today's world doing exactly the same thing, whether they sing "opera" or pop.

So as the middle of the 20th century approached, the opera house was less a theatre for entertainment and more a temple of enlightenment - Gigli "playing to the galleries," as it was called, seemed out of place, at best. [Michael Scott, in The Record of Singing]  But Gigli cared little about critics, and preferred to entertain the audiences instead. His voice stayed in good condition until he was past 60 years of age. In November 1957, Beniamino Gigli died in Rome.

What a wonderful voice he had, though - it seems to just float, gracefully, without apparent effort. That sort of "laziness" is the aspect of the voice that later degenerated (operatically speaking) into crooning. And look at who else was singing - or crooning - popular music around the same time: Rudy Vallee with his megaphone, then Bing Crosby, and later, Frank Sinatra. The change from acoustical to electrical recording techniques meant that singers no longer had to "shout" (or sing full-voice) into a megaphone-shaped apparatus, but could sing much more softly as a "microphone" picked up the sound, a much more intimate sound. (This also means that we don't get the true sound, either, but that's a whole 'nother chapter. If you find this idea intriguing, explore F.W. Gaisberg's biography, Sound Revolutions.)

Beniamino Gigli was truly Caruso's successor, if such a thing could be, and he never regretted any part of his career. He loved singing for the people and entertaining them with his voice. The scoops and sobs apart (which were appropriate verismo additions, in fact, in the early days of his career), the recordings he made show us what a wonderful communicator he was. And perhaps he also knew a bit more about singing than he's sometimes given credit for. His comments about "singing on the interest" have been much quoted by voice teachers for almost a century:

"If you want to sing not only for one evening, but for your whole life, think of singing with 'interest' and not with your 'capital'  - 'interest' means the technique, the intelligence, the musicality and the faculty of knowing how to economize yourself in such a way as to be able to sing professionally and to ensure a long career; while 'capital' means health in general, and especially the health of the vocal cords."

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Giovanni Martinelli, son of an Italian cabinet maker, was born in Montangana in October 1885, only two weeks before Aureliano Pertile, in the same town. Martinelli learned to play the clarinet as a child, but his singing voice was discovered by the military band director, an officer in Martinelli's required national service, and the young man was sent for vocal studies.

He made his official debut in 1910 at Milan’s Teatro dal Verme in Rossini’s Stabat Mater. Martinelli's success led to an appearance as Ernani at the same theatre only three weeks later. Soon afterward, Puccini and Toscanini heard him audition, and cast him in the European premiere of La Fanciulla del West.

Martinelli's trail of successes at Naples, La Scala, Monte Carlo, London and Budapest led inevitably to the Metropolitan in New York in 1913, where he sang for thirty seasons: 926 performances in a total of 38 operas - a record unequaled by any leading tenor. At first he was second to Caruso, then equally with Gigli, then alone. At the Met he befriended the great Caruso, who was widely impressed with Martinelli and at one point passed on his own costume for Canio in Pagliacci to Martinelli. After Caruso's death in 1921, Martinelli assumed many of his dramatic roles, and he developed into a specialist of the Verdian repertoire; 2,000 of his 4,500 performances were in Verdi roles.

Although primarily known for his performance of the dramatic tenor roles such as Manrico, Chénier, Canio, Calaf and Radames, Martinelli also excelled in the French roles from Carmen, Faust, La Juive, Le Prophete, Lakmé and Samson et Dalila. He had a naturally big voice, perfect for the lirico-spinto roles he sang, and had he stayed within the voice rather than trying to force the sound by using too much breath, he would have been remarkable. If an ideal way of singing is imagined as the voice flowing or balancing on top of a column of breath, then what Martinelli did was more like squeezing a tube of toothpaste. His voice was not particularly stylish or flexible and had little grace or charm, his diction was exaggerated. But it was a powerful, ringing voice, and he sang with great sincerity and intensity - there is a lush richness to his sound. And he was tall, dark and handsome, and then as now, those qualities go a long way towards making a stage career. It is by no means an unpleasant voice and can be quite thrilling to listen to. One can't help but wonder what might have been, had Martinelli not been so consciously trying to imitate Caruso - as did all other tenors of that time - the shadow cast by The Tenor of the Century was very long indeed.

Giovanni Martinelli gave his last performance as the Emperor Altoum in Turandot at the age of 82. He passed away in New York in 1969 at the age of 84.

To the audiences of Covent Garden during 1937 he was the epitome of Otello, receiving inhibited acclaim for his interpretations after an 18-year absence with the company. It was a fitting farewell to the audiences in London, and he was remembered there with great affection. "The score asks that when Otello utters his first word 'Esultate' we should be at once dominated by a man of elemental force. Martinelli has not this to give. But in compensation there is so much in the way of pure singing and sensitive art and tone and phrasing equally beautiful that his Otello earns a place in the history of opera."

“Di quella pira,” songs + excerpts from Rigoletto, Africana, Mignon, Favorita, Marta and Elisir.
Dialog filmed in English (not dubbed). DVD Region 0.

Pagliacci - 1934

Cavalleria - 1940
conducted by Pietro Mascagni

Martinelli, Pertile, Gigli,
Lauri-Volpi
the more dramatic, spinto repertoire of the first two, through to the more lyric selections for the latter two.

From his classic llyric repertoire: Bohème, Faust, Pêcheurs des Perles, Carmen, Cavalleria, Tosca, Lucia, Manon, Ombra mai fu, more (all in Italian).

Caruso, Gigli, McCormack

Neopolitan songs, from the tenor's roots.

w/ Caniglia

TENORS OF THE 78 ERA
4VHS tapes

Originally made in 1995-96 for German TV, in this series critics, family and colleagues present and analyze the art of 11 tenors. They are heard in recordings. Above all, they are shown in rare footage taken from films and newsreels, much of it never before released on video.

In this version, the discussion is in English or subtitled in English.

TEN TENORS

Gigli sings Ombra mai fu; Vesti la giubba and the finale from Pagliacci; two more selections.

“Fascinating mementoes of the great.”
- Alan Blyth, Gramophone

Forza, Aida, Trovatore, Chénier, Onegin, Siciliana from Cavalleria

all the classics

w/ Met/Wilfred Pelletier - SB: Tibbett, Bampton, Martinelli, Warren Otello: Helen Jepson, Lawrence Tibbett

Caruso, Fleta, Martinelli, Pertile, Thill, Melchior, Gigli, Roswaenge, Bjorling, others all singing the same aria. This is a very intriguing exercise. Similar albums exist for Che gelida manina, etc. ...or make your own from your collection at home!

by Jerrold Northrop Moore

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