Peter Lindroos (1944-2003)

The following article will appear, translated into Finnish, in a book by Torsten Brander about the great tenor Peter Lindroos.

PETER LINDROOS AND HIS PLACE AMONG THE GREAT TENORS

by Leonardo Ciampa

There is an important difference between publicity in the Caruso era and publicity in the Pavarotti era. Caruso did not have a manager. Caruso didn't “become” the greatest tenor in the world, because he already was the greatest tenor in the world. There were no dissenting opinions. No one in Caruso's day said, “Caruso wasn't that good; he was just OK.” Everyone agreed that he was the greatest – critics, colleagues, public.

Pavarotti had a manager named Breslin. Thanks to the hard work of Breslin, Pavarotti “became” the greatest tenor in the world. Unfortunately, no singer, no critic, no musician – no one who knew anything about singing – believed that he was the greatest. The public believed what they were told. However, they were not given the option of comparison. Had Breslin lined up Pavarotti, Aragall, Gedda, Kraus, and fifteen other tenors, would the public still have voted Pavarotti the greatest? In such a survey, probably Pavarotti would have come in last.

I needed hear only a few minutes of Lindroos's singing to know that he was one of the greatest tenors in the world. He had everything – great voice, great technique, great musicianship, great expression. He was great in every respect that a tenor ought be great.

So why didn't Lindroos become more famous?

Invariably, when one person becomes famous and another of equal talent does not, the reason has nothing to do with music. Events occur. Choices are made. I am not Lindroos's biographer; I am not equipped to explain why his life's path did not take him to the Metropolitan. If I were the director of the Metropolitan and I heard Lindroos sing for a few minutes, I would have said, “He is a very great singer; he shall sing here.” However, the fact that I have an ear does not, in itself, earn me the title, “Director of the Metropolitan.” In fact, having an ear counts for virtually nothing.

The other problem is that overall musicianship is not marketable. If you are a pianist who plays two piano concertos without wrong notes, you can get a New York manager and play 100 concerto performances a year, playing each concerto 50 times. If, instead, you are a composer and an organist and a pianist and a conductor and also a singer, what can a New York manager do with that? How does the manager market you? The better a musician you are, the worse (not better, worse) chance you have of being world-famous. J. S. Bach would not have been world-famous in the 20th century, because no manager in New York would have gone near him.

Rather than dwell on what the world did not recognize, let me dwell on what I do recognize. I recognize that Lindroos had everything. He was one of the most satisfying tenors in the world – satisfying because it was impossible to say, “Something is lacking.” The voice itself was remarkable in its beauty – a beauty that only a Scandinavian voice can have. His diction was formidable; he sang complete operas in eight languages. His technique was that of the great singers of previous generations. In fact, I don't think the Metropolitan would have appreciated his vocal production, which was more akin to the tenors of the 1920s than to those of the 1970s. However, the 1920s technique allows one to sing 1700 operatic performances (which Lindroos did); the 1970s technique does not. Lindroos's musicianship was very strong and imbued every note he sang. His humanity was very rich – he felt the highs, he felt the lows, and this depth of feeling created a wide palette of emotional colors with which he could paint his characters. All of these traits – voice, technique, diction, musicianship, humanity, and Scandinavian genes – combined to produce a tenor, next to whom the Pavarottis and Domingos seem to be utter charlatans.

It is of crucial importance that all of the recordings of Peter Lindroos be made available – so that musicians can study them, and so that music lovers can be blessed by them.

Habemus Tenorem!

Friends,

Opera, for me, has been one of the most bittersweet areas of my life. Some of my happiest moments have been spent listening to Caruso, Gigli, and the great singers of the 1950s – the "Second Golden Age."

Some of my life's unhappiest moments have been spent listening to singers of today.

I won't bore you with a long diatribe on the descent of singing technique – I got that out of my system in The Twilight of Belcanto. And I simply became resigned that great singing was like an old black-and-white photo on the wall: something beautiful and grand that you can look at anytime you want, but no matter what you do, you cannot enter into that photo – or make the people in the photo come out.

You'll forgive me, then, if I'm reluctant to hear new tenors. I won't name names of the tenors whom everyone said was "the next great tenor." One had less technique than the other. All I need to say is: if Andrea Bocelli is engaged to sing opera, that fact in itself depicts the short supply of good tenors.

Tonight, January 2, 2010, I heard for the first time a young Polish tenor named Piotr Beczala. The aria was Tu che a Dio spiegasti l'ali from Lucia, a live recording from the October 15, 2008, Met broadcast, posted on YouTube. I have to say, I was reluctant to hear it – not only because people say he is "the next great tenor," but because that aria – like Celeste Aïda, like Dai campi, dai prati, is an aria that exposes any and all defects in technique.

Well, I listened.

I was not prepared for what I heard.

As much as I detest comparisons like, "the Russian Caruso," or, "the Norwegian Gigli," or, "the Zimbabwean Schipa," I have to say that the first few notes reminded me of – dare I say it? – Jussi Björling. Before that first phrase was over, before Beczala even got to l'ali, I already knew that I had stumbled upon a great tenor. I looked again at the YouTube description, to make sure it really was a live recording. Part of me couldn't believe it.

For the first time in my entire life, the way I felt listening to this man sing was the same way I feel listening to recordings of the great tenors of the past. When you hear Gedda in his prime, for instance, you feel yourself almost being caressed, not by the instrument itself – because lots of people walking the street were given beautiful instruments – but by the seamless technique that only years of serious study with a great teacher can produce. The same when you hear Gigli in his prime, or Jan Peerce in his prime, or Björling or any of those greats. Nothing Pavarotti or Domingo ever recorded gives me that feeling. A few recordings of Carreras do. (If you don't believe me, listen to his La dolcissima effigie from Tokyo, 1976.) Shicoff has done it (hear his Pourquoi me réveiller from Aix-de-Provence, 1979). But here's a young man, in the prime of life and of voice at this very moment, singing the way the gods did in the 1950s!

I had to hear something else, just to make sure it wasn't a fluke. I went to Beczala.com and downloaded Che gelida manina. Now I could see him as well as hear him. (The Lucia was audio only, with a still photo.) Again, the first couple of phrases recalled Björling, while the face – the natural smile and radiance – reminded me of Wunderlich. The clarity of his tones, linked by a faultless legato, were remarkable, giving the eerie impression not only that does he not crack, but that he cannot crack.

So, so many tenors were great but for only a few seasons. (Di Stefano's prime was no more than eight seasons.) There is something in Beczala's singing that tells me he is going to last. How could anyone who went through the trouble of learning to sing that beautifully ever choose the other pathway? If he continues to resist the temptations of bigger sounds and heavier repertoire – and I believe he's going to – I think it's safe to say: We have found the tenor!

Habemus Tenorem!

Photo of Mr. Beczala © Kurt Pinter