No doubt it depends on the degree of one’s commitment to these songs. Personally, I am theirs for life, having been introduced to them at a tender age by records of Gigli, Ruffo, Caruso, Martinelli, Schipa, De Lucia, Stracciari and so forth. With that background you listen to this recital at your peril as ecstasy wars with apoplexy in a veritable psychomachia. Here they are, these melodies of the impassioned South, sung by a voice which is excitingly within the tradition and with temperament to match. There is not a moment when you don’t listen to hear what he is going to do next – for, though within the tradition, there is much individuality. The arrangements also promise well (and how many times have glossy orchestras with inflated arrangements spoilt comparable programmes even before the singing has started?). Guitars are not mandolins, but they’ll do. Maria, mari comes first, approached with a difference, rhythmical, exact, neither lingering nor humorous (none of Gigli’s chuckles), almost fierce, yet viable, almost attractive. Then Carrettiere, with a soft, surprisingly deep-voiced start, eventually aflame with passion. Then ’A Vucchella again surprising in its intimacy and lightness.
But – and the ‘but’ has arisen long before this – where is it happening? In the bathroom, the swimming-pool, the church? An absurd imposition is created by the reverberance around the voice. Another cause of distraction can be the guitarists’ harmonies. Whether improvised or intentionally ‘wrong’ one cannot say, but when they diverge from the expected harmonies, cries of delight do not follow in their wake. Core ’ngrato for instance, as published has perfectly good harmonies, some of which are renounced here in favour of flavourless substitutes. It was a good idea to include Don Giovanni’s serenade but not for Alagna to refashion his voice and sing it like a baritone. It was also a good idea for Mrs Alagna to join the three brothers for a few exclamations (“Dieu! ... Ciel! C’est lui”) in the Pecheurs de perles extract, but by the same token she might have appeared at the balcony to oblige with Rosina’s answering phrases to her serenader in Il barbiere di Siviglia. As it is, the exclamations constitute Angela Gheorghiu’s sole contribution to the record, so her place in the heading may be misleading.
In sum: many are the incitements to miching malecho, but I’d buy it all the same.'