For certain of their qualities Samuel Ramey's already stand among the best bass recordings of the century. The Handel and rossini arias in the present recital show this clearly enough. Some of the other items suggest his limitations, most notable among them being a stiffness of expression that particularly affects the success of the sonnambula and Don giovanni solos. Compare Nicolo zaccaria in ''Vi ravviso'' (he sings in the Callas La Sonnambula—EMI EX290043-3, 6/86; CD CDS7 47378-8, 9/86). Without sentimentalizing, he brings an affectionate touch to this song of homecoming; the caress of judicious portamento gives meaning to the legato style, where Ramey's remains curiously formal. Similarly, in the Mozart. Ramey is not one of nature's Leporellos, but it is hard to think of a more straight-faced, uncharacterized performance of the Catalogue song. It's quite true that this is preferable to the leering and nudging that can make such an embarrassing thing out of this witty, elegant piece. To prove it, I took down Corena from the old 1955 Krips LP set (Decca GOS604/06, 3/71): but no, that was a great injustice. Corena sings well here, does not clown, and without sacrificing good tone or good manners still makes us believe he is Leporello. When we come to the excerpt from L'amore dei tre re, it is Cesare Siepi in the complete recording of the opera (RCA RL01945/2, 10/77—nla) who provides the comparison. Granted his natural advantage over Ramey in being so much older and so better able to characterize the blind old king convincingly, one may still feel that Ramey has not aged his voice even in imagination; nor does he enter into the old man's fervour as Siepi does in the rapturous final section.
So much, then, for what Ramey does not accomplish in this recital. Some may think that the Mefistofele solos should have been included under that heading, and certainly they sound tame if we have Chaliapin and Christoff in mind. Still, there is a formidable dignity, an implacable authority about this Mephistopheles, whose negations acquire a weirdly sardonic quietness, and who rejoices in the vocal heights as in the moral depths. Of the Verdi passages, the Attila suits him admirable: fine consistency of tone, powerful in its concentration. Best of all are the arias from Rinaldo and Semiramide. Handel's runs and high tessitura provide him with the kind of challenge he can accept fearlessly, and it is worth noting that he obtains evenness and distinctness without any aspirates, 'hammer'-technique or other makeshifts. The character of the energetic King of Jerusalem comes to life through his music, as does that of the ruthless Prince in Semiramide. Fine, masterful singing here too, with cadenzas that are a joy to hear, one of them sailing easily over a two-octave range from high to low E flat (and sceptics and cynics about modern recording and modern singing should be told that this was exactly how he did it, live, at Covent Garden). A notable recital then, finely accompanied, well recorded, and an issue of particular importance to those with a special interest in singing.'