I believe it was a former Gramophone reviewer, John Freestone, who would tell of Maggie Teyte’s impatience with people who asked her about her colleagues in ‘the old days’ and immediately specified Caruso. ‘Oh, Caruso, Caruso,’ she used to say, meaning, ‘Isn’t there anybody else? Do you imagine he was the only great singer around in those times?’ It must be admitted that the thought crossed my mind too, with the inauguration of a new Caruso edition on Naxos when there already exists a very good one on Pearl. Moreover, both sets of transfers are the work of the same man, Ward Marston, so it is not likely that some radically different approach will be brought to the job. One listens, therefore, for fine tunings, marginal differences which might collectively support a clear preference. In all honesty, I have to say that this has eluded me. The first track of all, the Germania ‘Studenti’, did seem to promise something of the kind: the Naxos is brighter both in voice and surface – there’s a less comfortable, rather more aggressive edge to the sound at a forte. The opening bars of some others in the 1902 series seemed to strengthen a general conclusion that an advantage in clarity lay with the new issue, but then in one of the comparisons I found that the version I had thought to be the clearer – and therefore the Naxos – turned out to be the Pearl. Throughout the various hither-and-thitherings between discs there were times when one of them appeared marginally preferable, a verdict which then failed to be confirmed on a second playing. On the whole, I decided it was time that could have been better spent.
It could, of course, be spent just listening. Either edition brings rich rewards, though a newcomer to Caruso’s records and to the sound of early recordings in general might be wise to await Volume 3 of the new series where, by 1906-08, the recorded sound is likely to be more readily acceptable. Those from the Milan series in Volume 1 do, I think, present difficulties in the small but recurrent oddities of pitch, for which the exuberant singer may sometimes be responsible, but which probably have more to do with the primitive equipment (as, for instance, one hears on sustained notes in the piano accompaniments). Even so, no one can miss the glory of this young voice and the loving, creative passion of his style. Always one comes upon newly felt delights, the vibrancy of certain notes, the vividness of a phrase (‘Tu vuoi morir’ in the Iris serenade leapt out on this occasion), and the magnificence of phrasing, as in the 1906 ‘M’appari’. All warm the heart, which of course is never cold for long when Caruso sings, whatever the edition.'