Singers must sometimes feel that they can't win. When they adhere scrupulously to the score they are accused of literalism, and if they use their imagination and deviate they are labelled self-indulgent. Whatever other faults she may have, Sylvia Sass has never been a mere literalist. Pale-face critics are known to turn purple even now at the memory of her performance, several years ago, of Frauenliebe und -leben, and on this present record there are several deviations that, indulgent as this particular critic is towards the self-indulgent, make him tut-tut. Mostly it's a matter of tempo. Tatiana gets on with her letter to Onegin well enough till the ''Art thou an angel'' melody sends her into slow-motion, Adriana's song of devotion to art is as slow and dreamlike as her Act 4 solo is slow and loath to cease (''Tutto e finito'' she cries about halfway through, but not a bit of it). In ''L'altra notte'' she decides to invest the triplets towards the end of the verses with a long-drawn melancholy, which is probably no worse than the febrile speeding-up (and showing-off) indulged in by some of the old 'uns such as Gemma Bellincioni. At least it saves us from dullness, one might argue; but there again, perhaps not, when the imagination so repeatedly exercises itself by slowing things down. The aria from La Wally seems to be going well until the ''mai piu''s (favourite phrase of nostalgic lingerers) signal a further rallentando, and again the impetus is weakened.
All this might possibly be acceptable, even enjoyable, if the singing itself were more reliable and steady. Some of it has indeed a special beauty. The quieter passages in the Letter Scene are pure in tone and lovely in their wistful tenderness. But too much comes in squalls; gusts of wobbly passion, usually with acidic high notes in them, spoil all these performances at some point or other. Occasionally the Callas-imitation (or 'unconscious reminiscence' perhaps) comes into play. Occasionally the pronunciation turns from exotic to grotesque, as when the poor old King of Thule enters at what sounds very like ''une roi de Thule''. For this Faust solo she really has no aptitude: accurate scale-work does not impart a smile or a sparkle, the excerpt never comes to life, and an artist who is rarely dull becomes just that.'