What is it? what exactly are we talking about here? A powerful baritone voice with a ringing top that is equally capable of thundering intimidation and finely characterized nuance. Think of the dark-rich velvety tone of a cello - on steroids. The roles sung by this baritone are usually leaders and generals, or fathers, or the bad guy - and sometimes more than one combined in the same character. So not only does the singer need to characterize with the voice, he must also be a skillful dramatic actor, able to command and hold the stage either during his solo aria or hold his own with others.

The name, of course, comes from the particular type or style (or sound) of voice most associated with certain roles written in the 19th century by Italian composer Giuseppe Verdi. He was primarily interested in writing music that made a significant dramatic impact, and unlike the previous generation of bel canto composers - Rossini, Bellini and Donizetti - he didn't really concern himself whether it was gentle on the voice. And indeed, it isn't. Comments like this from the acerbic critic George Bernard Shaw give a feel for this - but the following (more civilized one) is descriptive enough that it's worth quoting at length:

"The whole secret of healthy vocal writing lies in keeping the normal plane of the music, and therefore the bulk of the singer's work, in the middle of the voice. Unfortunately the middle of the voice is not the prettiest part of it; and in immature or badly and insufficiently trained voices it is often the weakest part. There is, therefore, a constant temptation to composers to use the upper fifth of the voice almost exclusively and this is exactly what Verdi did without remorse. He practically treated the upper fifth as the whole voice, and pitched his melodies in the middle of it instead of in the middle of the entire compass, the result being a frightful strain on the singer."

Because of the success this new type of sound had in the theatre, there was no going back to the older, gentler ways, resulting in a generation of baritones whose voices fell apart under the strain. In addition to needing the power in the voice, the ability to sing piano is just as important. The younger baritones (and the more gifted ones) began to learn how to support a thread of falsetto with the resonance of the chest voice. When properly controlled, it's a virile, manly sound - and its juxtaposition of delicacy and strength recalls the appeal (in a way) of the castrati.

Verdi redefined what a baritone should sound like, and composers who followed him continued to write for the "new" voice. The Verdi repertoire includes the title roles in Nabucco, Macbeth, and Rigoletto; Amonasro in Aida, Di Luna in Il Trovatore, Iago in Otello, Germont in La Traviata, Rodrigue in Don Carlos, Miller in Luisa Miller, Carlo in Forza, Renato in Un Ballo in Maschera; among the others are Barnaba in La Giaconda, Gérard in Andrea Chénier, Tonio in I Pagliacci, Scarpia in Tosca, Michele in Il Tabarro, the title role in Gianni Schicchi. The Verdi Baritone also often sings the four villains in Les Contes d'Hoffmann, Escamillo in Carmen, and Mozart's Don Giovanni, among others.

Simply because a role is written in a particular way doesn't mean every singer will be successful with it. The "Verdi Baritone" then, is one in whom all the characteristics and talents converge, one able to create thrilling and unforgettable memories for his audience. That doesn't usually happen more than once or twice in a generation... but the three baritones profiled here, Americans all, most assuredly fall into that category.

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In the 1970's, few stars shone as brightly as the comet that was Sherrill Milnes, blazing across the operatic universe. His powerful voice, fully integrated with the artistry of his dynamic stage presence and strong musical instincts, has a brilliant edge to it, especially in the upper register, which goes - full-voice - to an A natural.

Son of a dairy farmer from Downer's Grove, Illinois, the young Milnes was not only a singer, but played an array of musical instruments - and the story is that he sang to herds of cows, though that one may not actually be true. Headed for a career in medicine, he soon switched to music education and worked his way through school doing radio and television commercial jingles, playing in dance bands, and in 1960, he joined the Boris Goldovsky Opera company, which gave him the opportunity to sing while learning stagecraft. Milnes made significant debuts in 1964, at Teatro Nuovo in Milan (as Figaro), and at both New York City Opera and the Metropolitan Opera (both as Valentin in Faust).

In 1967 he created Adam Brant in Levy's Mourning Becomes Electra, but the following year in a production of Verdi's Luisa Miller at the Met, sharing the stage with Richard Tucker and Montserrat Caballé, Milnes unleashed the high-voltage trademark kind of performance that made him the Verdi baritone of his generation and shot him to international fame. Perhaps it is the unexpectedness of the high A-flat at the end of Miller's Act I cabaletta, Ah fu giusto, that ignited the audience. Maybe it's the clarity of the note (there are tenors who envy that sound) or the theatricality of his delivery (that he's tall, dark and handsome works in his favor too)... or maybe it's a combination of all those factors.

He sang all the roles typically associated with the "Verdi baritone" sound, of course, as well as the Puccini baritones - Jack Rance, Michele, and an extremely sensual Scarpia; others too, notably Thomas' Hamlet and Leoncavallo's Tonio. Had health problems not detoured his career, many fans who play the what-if games speculate that Milnes would have one day made a fine Otello. He was the finest of Iagos, and brought a nobility of bearing to all his Verdi roles.

Milnes was often paired with Plácido Domingo - though both pursued international careers, they were of the same generation and both their temperaments and their voices blended extremely well on stage and in the recording studio. Outstanding in many operas in their shared repertoire, their Otello inhabited a plane all its own. Milnes' Iago is near-
definitive, seductively spinning his web, taunting Otello, in Era la notte, when in a viper's whisper, he spits out the final knife-twist of the name: "Quel fazzoletto ieri (certo ne son) lo vidi in man di... Cassio!"  I've seen and heard Iagos I like almost as well, for different reasons, but I've never felt the visceral pull that Milnes gave the character. Appearing together often enough at the Met especially, to make them a real tenor-baritone "partnership," they were like a sexier Richard Tucker and Robert Merrill. With schedules and careers fragmented the way they are now, we're not likely to see this again.

In 1980, a series of vocal crises began when Milnes lost his voice in the middle of a performance. Singers, justifiably, tend to be skittish when it comes to medical treatment of the vocal cords, and it took a long time for an accurate assessment of Milnes' condition to be confirmed as a hemmorhage on one of the cords. By the time it could be properly repaired, there had been too much conflicting treatment to be undone, too late to restore the voice to what it had been. In the meantime, rumors rushed through the small community of the opera world, and even more damage was done to his reputation. The Met, somewhat passively, dropped him from their roster, leaving Milnes frustrated and bitter about his former artistic home. He returned to sing on other stages, though the voice was much altered.

Along with the impact of his acting, some of the vocal indiosyncracies that made Milnes' sound so entirely individual became, later in his career, mannerisms that distracted rather than enhanced (as is true of most singers). And, as with any singer who leaves such an individual stamp on every role he sings [Jon Vickers, Maria Callas], there are those in the audience who didn't care for him, either vocally or onstage - but I'm not among that minority.

Milnes always had a striking command of the stage. While his acting was detailed and nuanced, it was also often more theatrical, especially in the arias - standing center stage, feet together and arms outstretched, he would present the aria in a way that projected, both vocally and visually, all the way to the top of the balcony. But there were lovely small moments, too, moments that came from a profound understanding of the character combined with an incisive musical instinct.

For instance... the Met televised Verdi's Don Carlo twice, with completely different casts. Only the second version was released on video, but the first one was, in many respects, a better performance, with Scotto, Troyanos, Moldoveanu, Plishka, and Milnes. At the end of the Garden Scene, Milnes and the wonderful Paul Plishka as King Philip create a world of tension and passion and power as they state positions and unburden their souls. As Philip exits, having warned Rodrigo about the Grand Inquisitor, Milnes sings "Sire!" and falls to one knee, his head bowed, all admiration for his mighty yet vulnerable ruler... a tiny gesture, rich with meaning. And in the Auto-da-Fe scene, when Rodrigo disarms his friend Carlo, Milnes' Rodrigo kneels and presents the sword to King Philip, who touches it to Rodrigo's shoulders, making him the Duke of Posa. Milnes, startled, tries to rise, shaking his head as if to say "No, no, I don't want this!" but the King's sword keeps him on his knees. Both convey worlds about Rodrigo's selfless personality, and I've never seen anyone else come close.

When I interviewed Sherrill Milnes for The Tenor Book - we were talking about acting on the opera stage - I mentioned to him the impact these moments made on me, and he grew very quiet. Then he smiled a little, finally saying it was why he did things like that: "You hope that one person will notice."

If "Comet Milnes" faded somewhat as he moved towards retirement and made a transition into teaching, that in no way diminishes the glory of his brightest days. And now his students at Northwestern University, as well as those in Master Classes around the country, benefit from his onstage experience and the deep intelligence he brings to learning the roles. We who cherish the memories of his performances are fortunate to have many options available in both audio and video forms.

Sutherland, Pavarotti / Bonynge

My all-time favorite recording of Rigoletto - talk about a dream cast! Milnes taking the high note at the end of the Vendetta duet will send chills up your spine.

Milnes, Domingo, Caballé, Blegen, Raimondi, Castel / Solti

So many Bohèmes!  This one's a favorite, especially if you like a baritonal kind of Rodolfo - lots of testosterone. Lots of legato.

Cotrubas, Domingo / Kleiber

Not necessarily what you'd think of as the perfect cast - but how typical of Carlos Kleiber, he makes you feel as if you're hearing this work for the first time.

Caballé, Domingo, Raimondi / Guilini

Price, Domingo / Mehta

Caballe, Pavarotti, Milnes, / Maag

Nemico della patria, lots of songs, art to pop, several languages.

House of Opera specializes in hard-to-find private / pirate live recordings -  they have a lot of Sherrill Milnes performances on tape.

GREAT ARTISTS AT THE MET: Sherrill Milnes - has some of the debut album material on it, but even this one's hard to find (The Met gift shop doesn't carry it)

MILNES CONDUCTS DOMINGO! DOMINGO CONDUCTS MILNES!
GREAT OPERATIC DUETS - with Domingo
UP IN CENTRAL PARK - with Beverly Sills

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This is the great American story, from his rise as the first American-born, American-trained male opera singer to achieve fame without first being "seasoned" in Europe... to his conquest of audiences in opera, Broadway and Hollywood... to his fall into alcoholism and obscurity.

Lawrence Tibbett (originally Tibbet until a misspelling appeared in a program) was a California boy, the son of the Kern County sheriff. After his father was killed by an outlaw, his mother moved 7-year-old Larry and her other children to Los Angeles, where Larry appeared in high school plays and musicals. He auditioned for the Metropolitan Opera, and in 1923, signed a $60/week contract. His debut was a small role in Boris Godunov, and his second performance was Valentin in Faust - he'd told the Met he knew the part, when all he knew was the aria, and had to learn it in 48 hours. With sympathetic chorus members hidden above and behind scenery feeding him lines, and under the skeptical gaze of Feodor Chaliapin as Méphistofélès, he managed to get through it.

For the next two years, he sang a string of comprimario baritone parts, until in a performance of Falstaff, Tibbett sang Ford's monologue. Or rather he snarled it, he stormed, raved, smashed props, while singing magnificently. He later said "... I tore my heart out." The 16-minute ovation from the audience quite literally stopped the show until the conductor (Tulio Serafin) and the Falstaff (Antonio Scotti) urged him to take a solo bow. "Magnetic ... he took the audience completely capitve," wrote Lawrence Gilman in the next day's New York Herald Tribune. That audience, driven to a frenzy as they witnessed a remarkable star performance, made Tibbett a news item around the country, and he was an overnight celebrity.

The baritone went on to sing leading roles for 27 years at the Met, with a memorable Simon Boccanegra from the 1939 radio broadcast being preserved on record, and several world premieres, including the title role in Gruenberg's The Emperor Jones. He sang with the Chicago and San Francisco opera companies, and across Europe, both in opera and in concert. While Tibbett was known for the richness of his operatic voice, he was equally regarded for his ability to identify with a character and project it, with both the nuance of his vocal control and his acting skill, combined with his astute showmanship.

"Tibbett had an outgoing personality and a unique knack of greeting an audience when he came out - with great self-assurance, a friendly smile. He occasionally said a few words about his songs to ease an audience.... Intimacy was not in Tibbett's nature. He was too exuberant, too dramatic in everything he did."

- Kurt Weinhold

Tibbett's film and radio career began in 1930 and with successful movies - Rogue Song, New Moon, Under Your Spell, among them - he was known to audiences outside the opera world. He also appeared on Broadway, and in 1936 became the first president of American Guild of Musical Artists (AGMA), the performers' union he battled to help create.

A child of the Roaring 20's, Tibbet was always the life of the party. He was also emotionally distant and rather selfish, and ambitious for success and for the entry into high society it gave him - and his wit and talent, his willingness to sing anywhere, any time, guaranteed that he was much sought after by that society. This manic, driven behavior masked a basic insecurity, hidden further beneath his alcohol consumption.

In 1940, in what should have been his prime vocal years, Tibbett's voice began to deteriorate due to an "undisclosed illness," a sudden and dramatic change. Theories abounded, rumors flew. The truth most likely has to do with a combination of his constant performing schedule and his singing at an outdoor concert in poor weather with a throat infection or inflammation - and then continuing his breakneck schedule rather than taking the time to rest. His drinking didn't help, and once he started having trouble with his voice, his insecurities grew, and he drank more. He soon stopped singing altogether and became a near-recluse as his alcoholism spiraled out of control.

In March 1960, he was in the audience at the Met to hear Leonard Warren, the reigning Verdi baritone, as Simon Boccanegra - a role that Tibbett once owned - the last complete opera Warren would ever sing. Shortly afterwards, Tibbett fell and suffered a head injury; three months after that, he fell and hit his head again, slipping into a coma from which he never recovered. We remember him for the glory of his performing life - the dynamic stage presence, and his splendid voice - no question about his being
a baritone, but his range sometimes makes you wonder. There's a rumbling, warm, dark, almost basso quality overall - and like Warren and Milnes after him, he had that glorious "ringing top." You can hear all of this in a film clip of Lawrence Tibbett singing The Toreador Song from Carmen - not to mention all that charm and charisma. The recording was made for the golden-age television series Producer's Showcase and can be seen and heard on a wonderful DVD called The Art of Singing.

Escamillo, Figaro, Tonio, Valentin... Rigoletto, Ballo, Otello, Simon Boccanegra (Plebe! Patrizi! Popolo... with Leonard Warren, among others).

Lots from Porgy & Bess, to Old Black Joe (Stephen Foster) and Goin' Home (Antonin Dvorák), more.

with the Metropolitan Opera / Wilfred Pelletier
Simon Boccanegra: Tibbett, Bampton, Martinelli, Warren
Otello: Helen Jepson, Lawrence Tibbett

Everything from the Star Spangled Banner to famous opera roles, with some spirituals and Victorian songs along the way - interesting historical compilation.

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4 March 1960. New York City.
Through a terrible blizzard, the audience crowded into the Metropolitan Opera house for a dream-cast performance of La Forza del Destino: Thomas Schippers conducting Renata Tebaldi, Richard Tucker, Jerome Hines, and Leonard Warren, the velvet-voiced Verdi baritone then at the peak of his career.

Warren, as Don Carlo, commanded the stage for the great Act II aria in praise of death: "Morrir! Tremenda cosa!" (To die! A terrible thing!)  Ending with the ringing climax and the words "O gioia!" (Joy!) he took a couple of slow steps, then pitched forward, face down. As the curtain quickly fell, Tucker rushed onstage from the wings to cradle Warren in his arms. The house doctor was summoned. Last rites were administered. But a short time later, Rudolph Bing, general manager of the Met, stepped in front of the curtain to address the hushed and stunned audience. "It is one of the saddest nights in the history of this great theater….  I ask you to honor the memory of one of our greatest artists, who died in the midst of one of his greatest performances."   The audience, silently weeping, filed out of the theatre into the dark night.

Leonard Warren was 48 and had just sung the last of his 600-plus performances at the Met. Few would have predicted his dramatic destiny from his early life. The son of Russian-Jewish immigrants, Warren was born in a Bronx tenement. His musical ability evident when he was a child, he got a job at Radio City Music Hall - as a dancer. He was fired when he asked for time off to prepare an audition for the Metropolitan Opera. At that audition, though, he attracted the attention of audition-master Wilfred Pelletier, who asked him back for a second hearing. Pelletier recalled,

"I wanted to confirm with one further trial the stability of his voice and convince myself that I had just heard a voice that was truly extraordinary. My ears had not deceived me! Once again I was absolutely amazed as I listened to him."

Pelletier championed Warren, arranging for voice lessons, study in Italy, recital opportunities. Up until then, at 24, Warren had seen only one opera in his life, but he made his Met debut in 1939, which put him in the right place at the right time to inherit the Verdi baritone mantle from Lawrence Tibbett - especially in the middle of the 20th century when Verdi operas dominated the calendar. Intensely dramatic on stage, with a sumptuously rich voice, flawless legato, and the requisite Verdian A-flat top, Warren was the walking-dictionary definition of a Verdi baritone.

"With its penetrating, ringing top and immaculate diction, Warren's big, velvet-encased voice was made for Verdi."

- Classics Today

With the initial gift of an amazingly rich and warm voice, Warren studied and trained to control it and worked to do more than simply stand on stage and allow a beautiful voice to roll out over the audience. He became a sensitive interpreter of the music he sang and gained an ability to portray the drama and anguish of his characters. Tireless in his own pursuit of perfection, he was relentless with his colleagues, too. Totally committed, stubborn, he generally needed to have things his own way - not an uncommon trait among singers of great talent.

Warren converted to Catholicism when he married, and continued his successful career. In addition to his preeminent position with the Met, he sang across the North and South Americas, in Europe, and in the Soviet Union. His life was rather like a fairy tale, his death as dramatic as any opera. Fortunately for us today, Leonard Warren's legacy endures on many levels.

Based on numerous interviews with family, colleagues, and friends. More than 100  photographs; discography; a chronology of Warren’s 833 opera performances, with principal artists listed.

Classic baritone arias: Il balen; Pietà, rispetto, amore; Scintille diamant, lots more Verdi... plus songs from Ideale to Danny Deever to Shenandoah to Battle Hymn of the Republic, more.

LEONARD WARREN - HIS FIRST RECORDINGS

All Verdi except the Toreador Song and the Prologue from Pagliacci - nice to hear a baritone in his formative years.

Warren, Callas, Baum,
Simionato / Picco
Live - less than ideal sound quality, but some great singing - young Callas.

Vol. I: Carmen, Faust, Ballo, Three Musketeers (Friml), songs;  Vol. 2: Barbiere, Tannhäuser, Maytime, Tosca, Chocolate Soldier, songs.

THE ART OF THE VERDI BARITONE

(also available from iclassics.com)

John Charles Thomas, Lawrence Tibbett, Leonard Warren, Robert Merrill

From the lyric to the dramatic, including DeLuca, Ruffo and Amato singing Verdi, and Tibbett with Largo al Factotum.

Nice compilation of arias / ensembles from the early part of the last century.

The authors are a theatre history scholar and a baritone, and they take an in-depth look at Giuseppe Verdi's contributions to the operatic world by recreating a voice type. Explored in detail are the big roles in Nabucco, Macbeth, Rigoletto, Simon Boccanegra, Ernani, La Traviata, and Otello.

"Singing actors delight when a well-written, practical, and carefully documented source for character development assists their research."  - Opera Journal

SHAW QUOTE

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