This set is based on the much-criticized staging, by Luca Ronconi, at La Scala, first seen in December 1985–January 1986 (and televised live here). The recording was made concurrently, though not with precisely the stage cast. It has taken more than four years for it to appear. I am not entirely surprised by the delay for the performance is something of a curate's egg. The advantages of rewarding interpretations from the three Italian principals hardly offsets the disadvantages in the rest of the singing, the conducting and—in some respects—the recording.
As always with Lorin Maazel, there is a degree of textural clarity, heard immediately in the Prelude, that few other conductors achieve, but that Prelude announces what is the set's chief drawback: Maazel's stodgy and undramatic interpretation. It isn't that his tempos are that much slower than those of other conductors, only that they seem so rhythmically static. You could try the Aida/Amneris duet as an example, or almost any section of the Triumphal Scene. By contrast, Maazel sometimes seems intent on showing how fast and fleet he can be, as in the slaves' dance in Amneris's boudoir, and how blatant he can make the percussion sound (or is that the fault of the recording?). Thus the conducting tends to draw attention to itself, self-consciously. As it happens I had just been playing, in another connection, the set conducted by Serafin in Rome in 1946, just out from EMI to celebrate Gigli's centenary (reviewed on page 2070): there the pacing is unobtrusive and right, as is his later recording made, like that under review, using La Scala forces, with Callas (also EMI).
Throughout the first two acts—as so often happens with this work—the reading obstinately refuses to take fire. Then, in Act 3, when the personal conflicts come to the fore, it begins to ignite. Not, though, in the opening scene, hampered by another dreary tempo, but at Aida's entrance. Chiara, who has up to this point, been an adequate Aida, begins to phrase with the sensitivity and feeling of which we know she's capable (though I do wonder why Decca never used her in a complete set 15 years ago when her voice was that much fresher). ''O patria mia'' is given with burnished tone and finely sculpted, long-breathed phrasing. The duet with Amonasro is even better. Nucci here sounds in much more settled voice than in more recent recordings and is, as always, a convincing actor with his voice. He and Chiara set each other alight, and the flame continues in the duet with Pavarotti's Radames, which combines elegance with fire. As he admitted in an interview during an interval in the Scala performance on TV, his isn't a natural voice for the part but—in the style of Bjorling (without hoping to be compared with him)—he thought he managed it successfully. The comparison is in fact apt. Here, and throughout the role, he matches the Swedish tenor (on the Perlea/RCA set) and also Bergonzi in the Karajan version (Decca), in line and in control of dynamics. Also, when he's present Maazel is persuaded to give the score a forward-moving pulse to suit the tenor's wishes.
Dimitrova sings the first two acts as though she were reading a laundry list, suggesting not an ounce of emotional involvement. She awakens somewhat for her big scene in Act 4, but even there her feeling for the words is feeble as compared with that of Cossotto for Muti (EMI), Barbieri for Perlea and Serafin (on EMI full-price) or Simionato for Karajan. Her tone takes on an uncomfortable edge under pressure but her singing does at times exhibit a kind of raw power that others may find more agreeable than I do. Burchuladze (Ramfis) is as wayward over pitch as ever and his Italian is peculiar. Listen to Pasero on the Serafin/Gigli version or Christoff on the Perlea and you will see how standards have fallen over the years. The other bass, Luigi Roni, makes a more solid impression as the King. In general, there's nothing so special, vocally speaking, in this set to shake allegiance to any of those listed above.
The recording is a bit problematic. As if they were expecting criticism, Decca have printed a note in the booklet by James Lock explaining why the recording was made in a disused cinema in Milan, and how little time there had been to convert it into a studio. The photos of the sessions confirm the implication in Lock's article of a low-ceilinged venue, which may explain the dryish, unreverberant sound, the very reverse of what we are used to from Decca. That bothered me less than the absence of any sense of a live occasion. This is very much a studio performance, a point emphasized by the overlong pauses between numbers in several places.
No doubt the many admirers of Pavarotti will want this set—and they will not be disappointed in his contribution. It has all his customary elan, allied to care for words and line. These gifts should not be taken too much for granted. But for a more satisfying realization of the opera as a whole, look elsewhere, preferably to Muti, Serafin or Perlea, all classic sets in their different ways.'