I suppose even bad recordings deserve a second chance. The trouble is they inspire treacherous thoughts, such as ''What a noisy score it is!''. It occurred to me that the only moment of peace in it is also the moment of death: and this, I fear, is the utmost gained this time round by way of insights. But no, that is not fair to Renata Scotto. One might almost say there are two performances here, Scotto's and everybody else's. Here is a most lovely and distinctive Mimi: the note of illness latent in her tone from the start, her ''Quando vien lo sgelo'' warming all to life, her account to Marcello in Act 3 desolating in its sadness, her ''Sono andati?'' (with ''Ho tante cose'' sincere and moving in its accentuation) a blessedly quiet and heartfelt piece of singing. On her account the reissue may be justified.
But there is precious little else. Even Gobbi's presence in the cast brings small gain, for he sounds a cross Marcello; mild colloquial remarks such as ''Che fai?'', ''E freddo, entrate'' and ''Perche?'' have a Scarpia-like severity about them. His Musetta, Jolanda Meneguzzer, is charmless. The Bohemians go through the motions of high-jinks in their attic without any evident enjoyment. To say that Poggi, the Rodolfo, is indescribably bad would not be strictly accurate but would nevertheless be kinder than any accurate description. At rare moments Votto's conducting brings out something of beauty or of unusual intensity, as with the violins' urgent cry of tragedy at Mimi's entrance in Act 4. The recorded sound is somewhat oppressive, wanting in refinement. Yet, as I say, there are moments when the art of the young Scotto makes it worthwhile. Her almost fierce affirmation of ''Si rinasce'', for instance, remains tinglingly potent in recollection.'