| From
TheSquare.com, July 2002
With
the Three Tenors preparing to totter off into the sunset (and
not a moment too soon, at least in the case of the unhappy
Mr. Pavarotti), Argentinian hunk José Cura seems poised
to assume the mantle of opera's preeminent leading man. There
are other young tenors with equally remarkable voices and
plenty of star power—the wonderful Juan Diego Flórez,
for example, quite the cutie himself, who from a technical
point of view can sing circles around Cura and pretty much
everyone else. But with his light, fleet instrument, Flórez
could never dream of taking on such meat-and-potatoes roles
as Verdi's Otello, Giordano's Andrea Chénier, or Saint-Saën's
Samson—all of which Cura, not yet 40, has sung to frantic
acclaim from fans.
Critics,
however, has been less impressed, and to some extent they
have a point. Cura's technique sometimes seems cobbled together
(the high notes in particular are worrisome), and his success
can seem as much a triumph of image as of solid artistic achievement.
Given his arresting stage presence, it was easy to overlook
that his Met début (in Mascagni's Cavalleria
rusticana, not the most exacting assignment) was
iffy in terms of basic musicianship. Still, I think his detractors'
carping reflects a certain amount of snobbery and prejudice.
With his athlete's build and stunning good looks (think one
of Caravaggio's bad boys), Cura is an easy target. He also
happens to be comically self-important and given to such "stunts"
as conducting his own concerts, mixing opera arias, popular
songs, and his own compositions—lo and behold, much
as legendary singers of the past were wont to do.
Besides,
Cura has a lot more than foxiness going for him: a dark, distinctive
timbre ("baritonale," as Italians say), real dramatic
flair, and the ability to connect with a song or role with
gut-wrenching directness. His "E lucevan le stelle"
(from Tosca, on his all-Puccini CD) may not
be the last word in vocal beauty, but no one I've heard conveys
the excruciating intimacy of Cavaradossi's final thoughts
more keenly than Cura. And at his best—in "Anhelo,"
a collection of Argentinian songs that belongs in the collection
of everyone who loves poetry or music—Cura makes you
practically taste the words he's singing, and can trace a
melody with such captivating sensuousness that you want to
reach out and glide your fingers along its contours. (Check
out Carlo Guastavino's lovely "Soneto IV" or any
of the Pablo Neruda settings.)
The
Latin love songs on "Boleros" don't draw from Cura
quite the same level of involvement, and there is a canned
quality to some of the arrangements that you never find in
the sublime "Anhelo." Still, this is a gorgeous
disc, whose stingy 45 minutes leave you longing for more.
To be perfectly clear: "Boleros" is a pop album.
The orchestration of Armando Manzanero's "Esta tarde
vi llover," for example, swells and swirls with the shamelessness
of a John Williams soundtrack, though Cura's utter sincerity
carries the day. He brings to this song (and to the final
cut, Manzanero's "Voy a apagar la luz") an irresistible
tenderness and vulnerability, and a stylistic assurance truly
remarkable in a classically-trained singer. Less grand in
scale are Portillo de la Luz's "Contigo aprendí"
(beautifully accompanied by pianist Jorge Calandrelli) and
Paul Miraski's jazzy "Una mujer," while the soaring
"Como yo te amé" (also by Manzanero) allows
Cura to show off the full operatic range of his voice to thrilling
effect.
Give "Boleros" a chance: the dreamy, danceable tunes,
and Cura's sexy Argentinian accent, may just heat up your
steamy summer nights in a very agreeable manner.
© 2002-04
Marion Lignana Rosenberg.
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