Lamberto Gardelli's two readings of Attila, for Hungaroton/Conifer and Philips respectively, have such strongly contrasted basses in the title-role that they seem to state two different views of the opera, consistent though Gardelli's own way with it has remained. Philips's Attila is the young Ruggero Raimondi, a nobly Italianate basso cantante, with at that stage of his career not quite the authority or the weight of tone that the role ideally demands, but a fine control of its great arches of melody. Evgeni Nesterenko, for Hungaroton, brings Slavonic blackness and vehemence to the part: he is the scourge of God to the life and hugely impressive, but his profoundly un-Italian voice leaves at least one listener (and may leave others, if they have heard Raimondi) with the slight feeling that for him Attila is spelled 'Genghis'; Verdi's Attila is at least an honorary Italian, and much the most sympathetic character in the opera.
Ramey is in many respects the ideal third alternative: weightier and darker than Raimondi, the incisiveness of his diction not impeding a fine sense of line. His is truly an Attila-size voice, used with impressively commanding authority, but it is a pity that he so seldom sings quietly. Finely controlled mezza voce, allowing great beauty of tone as well as an impressive opening out to grander or denunciatory passages, is one of Raimondi's great virtues, and Ramey cannot quite match him in it.
The recording is partly responsible for this impression. The orchestra has bloom to it and space around it but the singers seem to be more closely microphoned and in a different and much crueller acoustic. They are not as absurdly close as in some opera recordings, but the perspective strips their voices raw. I have enjoyed Shicoff's singing in the theatre; his is a useful rather than a robust tenor, but he has a beautiful half-voice and a good sense of Verdian style: he was a sensible choice for Foresto. But a sense of strain, a certain nasality, the rather terrier-like doggedness of a voice being stretched a little too far, these are all emphasized by the recording; in a word, he sounds puny. Zancanaro's voice is forwardly placed and vehement anyway, and this too is exaggerated into a rather gritty barking. Even Studer, better equipped for the role of Odabella than any other soprano who has recorded it (save for the incisive low notes which, like most exponents of the part, she lacks), sounds bright and oddly substanceless in her fiercely demanding entrance music, and a single awkwardly approached high note in Act 3 is mercilessly exposed. But she phrases beautifully, has a floatingly free upper register and the clarity to dominate an ensemble. Since the sopranos in the other two sets are inadequate (Sylvia Sass, her voice worn, pinched and insecure, for Hungaroton; Philips has the fundamentally miscast Cristina Deutekom, uncomfortably shrill and with no lower register at all) the new EMI would seem to have moved into first place, despite my reservations, on Studer's account and on Ramey's.
The Philips version, however, has Carlo Bergonzi bringing a real sense of character as well as impeccably stylish vocalism to the role of Foresto (Hungaroton's tenor, Janos B. Nagy, is no more than serviceable) and Sherrill Milnes doing much the same for Ezio (he has a finer, indeed a more Italianate sense of line than Zancanaro; the Hungaroton baritone, again, is adequate but no more). It also has Gardelli. I may be shot for saying this, but I find him both a more subtle and a more characterful Verdian than Muti, and his account of this strange, flawed but disquieting opera is a good riposte to those who might smile at my applying the adjective 'subtle' to it. Finally and crucially, the Philips is much more sympathetically recorded than the new EMI, the voices more naturally integrated with the orchestra and in a kinder perspective.'