Curious: at this distance in time it should be perfectly possible to stand back from the controversies and comparisons of the years in which these recordings were made, yet the first impulse is to recall them. In so many ways Decca led the field. They welcomed and promoted the long-playing record when HMV and Columbia held on to their 78s; they seemed to be the progressive company technically; they had many of the best and most interesting artists. In German opera they produced undisputed winners; but in Italian opera they nearly always came off second-best.
They had Tebaldi: that was their strength. All that was best in the singing to be heard in post-war Italy seemed to be represented by her. She was that essential centre-piece of an opera company, the well-tutored lyric-dramatic soprano with a beautiful voice and a gracious stage presence, having the power and stamina to make an effective Tosca and the serenity and elegance of a fine Desdemona. There were things she could not do, or at least things that were accepted as being not part of her equipment (trills, thrills on the very highest notes, flashes of unexpected colouring or temperament). Still, she was sound: firm, even, ample, sensitive, well-controlled. Indeed, there was more to her than that, as a return to these records shows.
But of course then came Callas and, with her, the excitements of danger in the singing and the personality, the compulsiveness of listening and watching because you never quite knew what the next moment would bring; and the operatic recordings of which she was the centre had a certain class, a quality which made even the most distinguished rivals look second-elevenish: which is largely how these present sets appeared when they were current in the 1950s and early 1960s.
So what of them now, when the heady rivalries and partisanships of those days are past? Tebaldi herself: does she survive with estimation enhanced or does she perhaps emerge as one of those singers whose style and production seem dated, the freshness lost through familiarity, the vocal manner quaint, like the style of speech in some old film? Those last questions can have an immediate answer. To hear Tebaldi in (say) Desdemona's Willow song, or Butterfly's ''Un bel di'', Adriana's ''Io son l'umile ancella'' is to be reminded that hers are the classic virtues (that is, the values we generally accept as permanent): those of beautiful tone, musical feeling, sincere utterance. And if for these qualities she was supreme among her contemporary Italian sopranos, she surely stands head and shoulders above any of the present generation.
Her limitations are clear too, and these naturally affect the success of the complete operas. She is not, for example, one of those who may at any moment illuminate a phrase or recitative; nor, except in the broadest way, does she infuse the emotion into the fabric of the voice itself: I would not say, for instance, that her ''Vissi d'arte'' here is sung with the voice of a suffering woman, or that the ''Sempre libera'' has laughter in the voice despite the mirthless cackle that introduces it. Moreover, the 'classic' virtues also seem in some way to diminish idiosyncrasy and individuality, so that the first sound of her voice in La traviata (or Tosca for that matter) does not in my experience rouse that little involuntary thrill that often accompanies the recognition of a great singer.
All of this, of course, brings Callas back to mind (the comparison is inevitable, I'm afraid). Still, certainly as far as the Traviata is concerned, it is not any comparative weakness on Tebaldi's part that spoils the recording; it is the Alfredo and Germont pere who do this, for they are not merely ''so-so'' and ''not more than adequate'', as I see Alan Jefferson says of them in Opera on Record (Hutchinson: 1979) but downright intolerable. Poggi's Alfredo is a wooden stick of a character and graceless in his singing; like son, almost like father, for Protti, if not absolutely expressionless, is conventional through and through, making unerring selection of all the worst conventions in his ''Di Provenza''. Tebaldi gives a fine account of her role throughout (except in ''Sempre libera'') and a moving one in the last act; in the Second, her outburst ''Amami, Alfredo'' has a generous fullness about it. But otherwise I would say this is a reissue we could well do without.
Manon Lescaut fares better. It gets off to a splendid start with all that youthful excitement and lyrical passion well caught, and with Piero De Palma as Edmondo setting a standard for all who come after. But prominent among these is Mario del Monaco, whose first solo should be light and playful and whose second should be tender and poetic whereas they are nothing of the kind. At first it seems that this massive volume and rocklike steadiness might produce at least a primitive kind of thrill, but it is self-defeating: his loudness is so habitual that when he really needs to sing loudly the effect is merely more of the same. We don't look for subtlety, but often the simplest call for expressiveness defeats him: in the love duet, for instance, the passion of ''O tentatrice'' is blank (is there love in it? bitterness? agony of spirit? apparently none). Tebaldi, too, gives a very straight up-and-down performance until left alone to sing her two principal solos, and even then ''In quelle trine morbide'' is so successfully 'integrated' into the opera and takes so short a time (1'53'' compared with 2'42'' in recital) that one hardly notices it has come and gone. There is still enough about the recording to provide an enjoyable experience to the opera, but it's not one that I would choose either among available versions of Manon Lescaut or among the batch now under review.
Of the two remaining complete operas, Adriana Lecouvreur is the first recommendation, though for Tebaldi herself the last act of Tosca contains some of the most affecting passages in her whole recorded output: the tenderness of her words to Cavaradossi (''Gli occhi ti chiudero con mille baci'') remain particularly vivid and precious in the memory. The Tosca is a well-produced recording, and Molinari-Pradelli handles the score with a sure sense of what is right for it. George London's Scarpia has character and impressive power; del Monaco's Cavaradossi has its predictably great moment in ''Vittoria'' and confounds the prophets by almost softly caressing ''O dolci mani''. But the Adriana Lecouvreur is the most impregnable of these sets. Simionato as the Princess is a great strength, and so is the singing of Giulio Fioravanti as Michonnet (though neither of them has the way of making sung words come to life). Maurizio is a part that suits del Monaco relatively well (once he has done his ungainliest with the start of ''La dolcissima effigie''). Tebaldi too is well-suited, and in the last act sings her ''Poveri fiori'' movingly and with some touches that are exquisite. The recording is vivid, the performance coheres and the reissue is well-deserved.
For concentrated Tebaldi, the recitals are first choice, and particularly the single disc, for it has some of the loveliest of the early recordings, followed by the Nile scene from Aida given complete. Especially lovely are Mimi's arias: the first has a melting tenderness and a youthful freedom about the high As, and the Farewell has everything cared for and an unusual warmth of feeling. The ''Un bel di'' must be among the best on records; beautifully phrased, responsive to every development of the imagination, and sung with this exceptionally fine lyric voice in its best condition. Despite the lack of a trill and a few other graces, the Faust is an endearing performance, too: there is more personality in it than in many of the roles which Tebaldi came to do over and over again. One of these is Aida, and I can't say that the character projected in this recording of Act 3 strikes me as lovable (she gives Radames such a bad time that it's a wonder he stays for more); but everything is so very ably sung, and while there are no more than moments of emotional depth (''non imprecarmi'' for instance) she provides a regular and thoroughly reliable supply of exceptionally good singing.
In the two-disc set, the Otello scene remains finest of all, but it is also fascinating to hear the later Tebaldi, whose intensified grandeur of style marked her 1964 album reviewed the following year. The Turandot solo stands out among the titles, but best are Gioconda's ''Suicidio'' and the dark, Muzio-like singing of the L'arlesiana aria. This is kept till last, and wisely too, for it sends us back for more, and with heightened awareness of la Tebaldi as an artist of rich endowment and noble means.'