Alfredo Kraus, 1927-1999: In Memoriam

His tenor was made for Bellini, Donizetti, lighter Verdi, Gounod, and Massenet. Wise artist, he never abused it with heavier fare, content to make a living, a healthy one, out of his chosen repertory.

—Alan Blyth, Opera

Robert Baxter

ALFREDO KRAUS was a throwback—in his vocal schooling as well as in his physical bearing—to a time when the Tenor was king. He was a courtly singer—fastidiously schooled, immaculately mannered, as aristocratic in song as he was dignified in appearance. "Grand Seigneur" identifies Kraus as indelibly as "La Divina" characterizes Maria Callas. The rigorous bel canto training he received in Milan from Mercedes Llopart provided his artistic passport. Firm tone, ample breath, and artful phrasing were the hallmarks of the patrician vocal style that insures his place in operatic history.

When Kraus died in 1999, Teresa Berganza noted that although her friend was dead, the artist she admired lived on. Kraus does indeed live on—in recordings and videos as well as in the memories of those who heard his voice and valued his artistry. The records capture the keen sound and thrusting attack that characterized his singing, but they do not document the impact of his stage appearances. Among many, I recall two, both in Hartford. In 1972 Kraus sang in Lucia di Lammermoor with the Connecticut Opera. His Edgardo was a revelation—a Romantic figure brought to life, a noble outcast garbed in black, a dark cape thrown around his body. And how he sang! Kraus charged Edgardo's Curse with an urgency that electrified the audience. The high notes pierced the air with the shining thrust of a steel blade. Two years later, Kraus returned to Bushnell Auditorium for a concert performance of Favorita with Shirley Verrett . Another unforgettable portrayal. I will never forget Kraus standing on stage like a vocal aristocrat, his body free and natural—feet slightly apart, shoulders thrown back, chest thrust up and out. He attacked and released high notes, up to C and C-sharp, without a sign of physical strain or effort. It was a textbook lesson in how to sing.

In a 1991 interview he shared with me some of the knowledge he had acquired through assiduous study and thirty-five years of experience on stage: "I have devoted my life to mastering the technique of singing. I don't believe in miracles. I believe in study," he told me. Every time he sang, Kraus conducted a vocal master class for anyone who could listen and learn. He centered the voice in the mask; in a master class in Rome he asked students to imagine the vocal cords as "located between the eyes." This concept allowed him to produce a bright, intently focused tone throughout his range, from a full, intent middle down to a firm lower range and upward to a top that opened like a silvery trumpet. The voice was limber, too, capable of ticking off scale passages and voicing turns and divisions neatly and flexibly, without aspiration. Kraus could mold an elegant phrase and sing with unfailing taste, but he could not summon the melting tone or the ingratiating grace of, say, Tito Schipa, an artist he esteemed.

"I admire Schipa very much," explained Kraus. "With very limited material, he could make fantastic art. He was one of the greatest singers in the whole history of opera. Schipa had a limited voice but a great technique. Many of my colleagues criticize me because I always emphasize the importance of technique. 'Ah,' they say, 'all Kraus thinks about is technique.' Now that is wrong. Technique permits me to be the owner of my voice, to command my voice, make it bigger or sing a diminuendo, to change the color of my voice for expression or interpretation. Everybody wants a beautiful voice, but it doesn't mean anything to me. What is important is to use your instrument to make art. If you...