Scenes and arias from Fidelio, Lohengrin, Parsifal, Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, Die Frau ohne Schatten, and Otello (review)

When James King died in November 2005 at the age of eighty, I consulted several reference works to remind myself of what they had to say about his long and distinguished career. He was, of course, included in the books devoted strictly to opera, but to my amazement and chagrin he had no entry in the more all-purpose Concise Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians.¹ This authoritative resource casts its net wide enough to discuss jazz musicians and even circus bandmasters, but it makes no mention of one of America's—and the world's—greatest tenors. There are, however, entries for two contemporaries who sang many of his parts, perhaps because Jess Thomas (1927–1993) was one of the always scarce heldentenors who braved the most punishing Wagner roles (Tannhäuser, Tristan, Siegfried), which King avoided, and because Jon Vickers (born 1926) was . . . well, Jon Vickers. But it is a wrongheaded concision that fails to recognize a singer of King's outstanding ability, dependability (in his later years he frequently "covered" much younger and more touted but less reliable tenors), and vocal longevity. The legendary and seemingly indestructible Lauritz Melchior celebrated his seventieth birthday by singing the role of Siegmund in the first act of Die Walküre in his native Copenhagen, while the Kansas-born King made his final appearance in a complete performance of Walküre at Indiana University, where he taught voice from 1984 to 2002, at the even more advanced age of seventy-five.²

As much as I admire King's durability, though, I am even more impressed by his vocal mastery. He began as a baritone before launching his professional tenor career at the uncommonly late age of thirty-five, but (as with the underappreciated Barry Morell but few other erstwhile baritones) his ease at high altitude belied his bass-clef beginnings. Indeed, his low register is surprisingly weak in this album of radio performances recorded between 1968 and 1979, while his top notes ring out with marvelous fullness and freedom. Some of the roles that he performed most frequently or are most indelibly associated with him are cruelly high-lying or require relatively easy access to notes approaching high C (Walther von Stolzing, Florestan, the Frau ohne Schatten Emperor, Apollo in Daphne, and the notoriously tenor-strangling Bacchus in Ariadne auf Naxos, which, with more than three hundred performances, was King's most frequent assignment). In this regard, he resembles friend and tutor Max Lorenz (1901–1975), who was a leading Tristan and Siegfried but also essayed the more lyrical Walther von Stolzing, made a thrilling Bacchus and Otello, and depended on Tannhäuser's high tessitura to keep his voice from becoming too bottom-heavy.

Orfeo released this collection of scenes and arias before King's death, but it is a welcome souvenir of his art. His interpretations, like the conducting of Kurt Eichhorn and Heinz Wallberg, may lack the last word in personality or visceral excitement, but they are always handsomely and solidly sung. Unlike many tenors, for instance, he doesn't underscore Florestan's anguish by swelling or tapering the "Gott!" that launches the big Fidelio aria. King makes it a healthy, bracing fortissimo, but he follows it with a quiet, desolate "Welch Dunkel hier," and the poignant scene's agitated, high-flying close is negotiated with a security and clarion confidence that recalls Helge Rosvaenge's classic recording. These live performances of Florestan's aria, Lohengrin's Grail Narrative, Walther's Prize Song, and Parsifal's second-act soliloquy are virtually identical with King's work in his complete studio or pirate recordings, but closer miking makes his 1968 rendition of the Emperor's monologue even more impressive than the same passage in the classic live 1977 Wiener Staatsoper recording issued by Deutsche Grammophon.³ Here he climbs with colossal power to the high B that caps the sweeping climactic phrase...