Here is a recital that begins in enchantment and ends in something a little less. That might be taken to mean that Grigoriu’s “Muzica” is not the equal of Verdi’s Falstaff – which would be true enough, but is not the point. Somewhere along the way, Gheorghiu herself forfeits a degree or two of the delighted total acceptance she commanded at the start.
If any two items are individually responsible they are the arias from Mefistofele and La Wally. Perhaps Gheorghiu is telling us to refine our ideas of these things: that the chesty Italian manner of Burzio and Muzio, Callas and Scotto, should have ‘gone out’ with the actresses of the silent screen. Even so, what she gives us in its place is surely incomplete. When Wally sings of the place where hope is pain and sorrow (“e rimpianto, e dolor”) we must sense that there’s a fire burning in this soul; even with Margherita’s more explicit distresses Gheorghiu remains only gently sad. Then, having observed limitations of expressiveness in these, one becomes aware that something of the kind is (less insistently) present in Mimi’s solos too. There are heartfelt beauties in both, especially the “Addio”, but it is the narrative (“Mi chiamano Mimi”) that guides the critical finger to a specific point – which is the almost total absence of portamento. Doubtless, much could be written, pro and con, but wondering why I was not being more deeply moved by this utterly lovely singing, I found myself mentally ‘singing along’, and what the mind’s voice was doing again and again was supplying those curves and caresses of line, the vocal endearments which elicit from these phrases their tenderness and indeed their soul.
So it is that the most satisfying performances here are those of a less overtly passionate nature. That, I would say, does not include the Jewel song from Faust, where the rather lazy tempo and lack of excitement in the style fail to catch the passionate impulses of laughter, coquettishness, desire and even vanity in this naturally modest and simple girl. Massenet’s Salome and Bellini’s Giulietta are more aptly suited; the Aubade from Cherubin is delightful; and we are back to the beginning with Nannetta in Windsor Forest which, as I say, is utter enchantment.
The voice of course is a feast in itself, the loveliest lyric soprano heard since Dame Kiri first came to us in the 1970s. The reticence, which can be a limitation, has its positive side, and repeatedly one has to admire the way in which fullness of volume and emotion is held in reserve for effective use at a climax. A very slight disappointment has to be admitted, and yet in its way that too is a compliment, for without such very high expectations in view we would simply have been counting our blessings and finding them manifold.'