I first met Franco Corelli at the San
Francisco Opera, in 1965. He was supposed to
sing Andrea Chenier for the four
performances but a double hernia operation
took precedence. That set Kurt Adler
scrambling for a new Leading Tenor when most
of them had already been booked for at least
two to three years in advance.
Maestro Adler finally zeroed in on Richard
Tucker who had not been singing for some
months due to a mild heart attack. Maestro
was desperate so, when Richard deferred
telling him he was still “convalescing,”
Maestro offered him a large fee. As Richard
again deferred-as he told me-Adler asked him
to name his fee. Richard said, “I thought of
a number that I knew he would never pay ...
and Maestro said, “Done.” On the way to
dropping Richard off at his digs, he told me
that when he arrived at the Sir Francis
Drake, where was accustomed to having a huge
bouquet of flowers on the table, there was a
solitary red rose with note that read, “I am
paying you so much money, this is all I
could afford. Kurt.”
Richard sang magnificently! As always, he
was always physically a little bouncy when
he arrived on stage, I suspect to give the
suggestion of the “youthful manner” usually
associated with the characters he played. I
suspect he was playing it a bit cautious and
the result was his best singing in my
memory.
Franco came in the following week and was
delightful, warm and friendly. I was singing
the role of his friend, Roucher and it was
an easy rehearsal period, with a lot of good
humour and beautiful singing. On one
occasion, he failed to show up for a big
rehearsal and, because were we getting on so
well together, I was asked to call him. His
apparently overly protective wife, Loretta,
hadn’t told him about it, I suspect because
she thought he was being over-worked given
his recent operation. I heard him bark at
her and then said he would be right over ...
and he was.
On opening night, Franco was very nervous
and he took to strolling forth and back
across stage … holding my hand. That’s a
very natural thing for Italians to do, but
it made this California boy feel a bit
strange. Then … he sang “Ch’elle me creda …”
collapsing with his arms around my
shoulders, complaining about the pain in his
lower abdomen … while I tried to “look
butch!” He sang gloriously!
The Chenier was a great success as were his
four performances as Johnson, in La
Fanciulla del West. (I sang Sonora in that
production and made one of the biggest
splashes on stage in the history of the San
Francisco Opera; I rode on stage at a full
gallop, on a big Palomino quarter- horse,
hauling back on the reins at the tormentor
and doing a flying dismount for my last act
“Ho la, ho la …” on cue.! (I had done a bit
of riding over the years, on my
brother-in-law Dee’s ranch.) I was with some
of my Bohemian Club members a few years ago
… and they are still talking about it. I did
the same at the Dorothy Chandler when we
visited L. A. as well … but that’s another
story.)
Franco’s voice was a brilliant and a
magnificent instrument. I have had years of
singing on the big stages with the big
voices and can say with some authority that
he almost never rotated a high note, all of
the way into the honk except sometimes,
almost by accident on a high B or C where it
is a lot easier to sing them . It would have
added 15/20 percent more overtones. That, in
my opinion, was one of the things that led
to the early end of his career. There’s more
but that will be covered in my book.
Later on, when I had the occasion of singing
a Marcello to his Rodolfo, there were
serious signs of attrition and he had been
cancelling a lot. Anecdotally, Rudolf Bing,
former G M of The Met, once took to the
stage as Sir Edgar-usually a Supernumerary
roll-with me as the Secretary in The New
York City Opera production of The Young
Lord, under its director, the brilliant
conductor, Julius Rudel (my personal hero,
having given me my first job as an opera
singer). Since the “director,” Sarah
Caldwell essentially ignored him, I took him
under my wing, directing him in all of our
bits together. I suspect he had looked at
his “part” and had realized that I would be
in the pivotal position of helping him … or
not. (I had sung two auditions previously
for him at the Met!) I further suspect that
is why, when I asked him how I should
address him-his having been recently
“Knighted,”-he said … “Why don’t you call
me, Rudy!” On our first session-in secret,
so as not to embarrass him-I asked him if he
had ever before performed on stage. His
response was priceless; “The only time I
appear on stage is to announce … “Mr Corelli
will not be singing this evening!”
(On opening night, he gave me a Grecian
Wreath and wrote on the lid of the box … “It
should have been a halo! Rudy” He also gave
me a lovely mention in his book, A Knight at
the Opera.
The last performance I sang with Franco was
at the Lyric Opera, in Philadelphia. He was
in incredible “technique” ... HE ROTATED
EVERY HIGH NOTE! However, he told me he had
never before sung a live performance of the
opera in French, only on his recordings, I
presume with the score on the stand. That
explained why he was glued to the prompter’s
box for the bulk of the performance,
sometimes getting a page at a time. His
insecurity with the text made his voice
slightly unsteady … but his high notes were
electric!
During the duet with Nancy Stokes as Micaela,
they sang an interpolated high Bflat that
Franco held… and held… until Nancy-who
wasn’t prepared to stay that long-came
crashing down in flames. In the next act, he
did the same thing to Regina Resnik, whose
big mezzo suffered the same defeat.
And then came our duet ... I was busy being
Escamillio and Franco was busy with the
prompter. It was distracting but also
slightly amusing because I really respected
and liked him … so I just went about doing
my job. Then came our simultaneous high
notes. I did what I always do with my
partner … I simply sing my high note and
defer … until he/she comes down and I do so
with a crescendo.
Well, Franco was obviously “feeling his
oats” and sang the biggest, beautiful high
Bflat you could imagine.
He held the Bflat … and held the Bflat … Let
me sum it up by relating what I was thinking
at the time … I remember it vividly:
Wow Franco … what a great note!
OK Franco that’s long enough, let’s get off
it now!
Oooohhh, you rascal, you’re trying to make
me crack, too! Well, good luck!
(He had hit the Bflat full bore, pouring the
coal to it and I was just singing a high G.
I forgot to time it off the tape but I
suspect it was 10/12 seconds.)
Eventually, he realized I wasn’t gonna
crack, so he had to take a quick breath to
sing the low note. I soared down with my
customary crescendo.
Regina and the chorus broke up our “knife
fight” after I “stumbled” … we sang our
small duet and I departed stage left 2. I
was walking behind the cyclorama when Nat
Merrill-the director-and his pianist wife
Louise Sherman laughingly caught me mid
stage, with Nat grabbing me by the shoulders
and whispering loudly, banging me on the
back,
“You got him you SOB, you got him!”
Franco hadn’t done anything wrong … he was
just “a tenor” doing what tenors do. One of
the nicest guys you would have been lucky to
meet … ever!
Oh yeah … what was my topic again; ROTATING
EVERY HIGH NOTE?
I don’t care whether it is a half tone or a
ninth … always lift and grow through every
high note and carry that ENERGY through to
the end of the phrase; a shot of
breath-pressure, get tall-raise your chest-
the arch of the tongue up and forward to
keep the vowel placement as high In the honk
as it will ring and … “pookie," mouth
relatively long, but always, always narrow
if you don’t want to fall out of the place
where it generates the most and best
resonance …
This was a bit long because I owed you one
for May … ;-)
