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11 of 12 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
A Powerhouse Recording that Deserves All Praise, June 30, 2007
Solti's Elektra was the very first recording to remove all cuts from the score (as with all the Maestro's recorded work). For many listeners such as myself, it is perhaps the definitive Elektra on disc, not only for the high voltage intensity of the singing, but also for Solti's energetic conducting of the score and the magnificent detail at which the entire sound picture of Elektra is revealed in this recording. Although I love Karajan's 1965 Elektra at Salzburg with Astrid Varnay and Jeffrey Tate's 1990 recording from Geneva with Gwyneth Jones and Leonie Rysanek, this recording captures what is perhaps one of the most compelling performances of the opera on record. There is first of all Birgit Nilsson's command performance in the title role. There has never been a soprano who had Nilsson's uncanny ability to sing what is perhaps Strauss' most difficult role for soprano with the kind of ease and power that we can hear in this recording. Perhaps one would wish that a darker timbre and a more "agonized" sound would have taken the role, but Strauss' vocal writing simply poses no hurdles for the soprano as she hurls the high notes that made her famous. It is also note complete, so we get to hear whatever notes and texts we don't hear in the theatre. A brilliant performance, and perhaps one of Nilsson's greatest achievements in the studio. She is partnered by the Klytämnestra of Regina Resnik, who offers a grotesque interpretation that rightly contrasts well with Leonie Rysanek's erotic, theatrical assumption many years later. Resnik makes a caricature out of the role that may either satisfy the listener of displease him depending one whether one wants something more realistic or more extreme. Marie Collier, likewise, sings Chrysothemis with all the theatrical effects that would have been avoided by Leonie Rysanek many years earlier in the theater. I find that this great artist (who we lost when she was so tragically young) imbues her character with the right kind of psychological madness that all the more tips the already tipsy boat in the opera. Gerhard Stolze makes the already grotesque Aegisthus more grotesque than he already is. Tom Krause sings Orest with conviction, although one could wish for someone like Hans Hotter to sing the role in order to convey the nobility and grandeur of the character.
Solti leads the Vienna Philharmonic in the frenzy that this score truly typifies. I still wish that they had asked Karajan to do this opera in the studio since he was able to bring so much out of Strauss' score, but we at least have these gargantuan forces to contend with in the absence of a Karajan studio recording.
A truly mad and demented performance if there ever was one, but you should look at Gwyneth Jones' 1990 performance from Claves records to hear what a theatrical Elektra should sound like.
Richard Strauss: Elektra
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5 of 5 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
This is the most recent release of Solti's famous recording of Elektra, June 18, 2007
This review will eventually be replaced by more informed, informative reviews. I just wanted to offer a placeholder to tell opera neophytes and curious listeners that this is the latest and surely greatest (sonically) incarnation of Solti's recording of this opera. Gramophone has called it, "undoubtedly one of the greatest performances ever on record."
Amazon is still selling the first CD release at a much higher price. This is the one to get. The same is true with Solti's equally estimable recording of Salome.
Happy Listening,
G.
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12 of 16 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
A harrowing and shocking musical journey, July 11, 2007
If Richard Strauss's Salomé was a horrid tale of insanity and (peripherally) necrophilia created through unbridled lust and jealousy, Elektra is a grisly story of madness sparked by cold, dissonant revenge. Both of the operas, composed within a few years of each other, retain similar musical formulas: both take a Freudian plunge into the deepest, unknowable crevices of the human psyche with alarming and disturbing results. (Salomé's overwhelming love aria to Jochanaan's severed head ["Ah! Du wolltest mich nicht deinen Mund küssen lassen"] is a perfect example from the former opera.)
However, few similarities exist between their moods. From the first bar of Salomé, the listener is submerged in the moonlit, perfumed, Arabian night of Judea, with erotic bacchanals and limitless orgies; the opening of Elektra is an oppressive death motif and sets a stage of decay, filth, pain, and malice. The two title characters are strikingly different, through they are both princesses. Salomé is an oversexed teenager, a flighty, precocious nymph driven to her sanity's limits by jealousy and rejection; Elektra is not insane (at least, not in the same capacity). Elektra suffered no trauma when her father, Agamemnon, was slaughtered in his bath by his wife, Klytämnestra, and her lover, Aegisth; she is fully aware of what occurred. Her apparent insanity is vested in the fact that she is determined to avenge her father, with the assistance of her long-abandoned brother, Orest, in a decidedly homicidal manner.
Sir Georg Solti was, of course, the master of both of these wondrous operas, and no finer orchestra could have suited him than the mighty Wiener Philharmoniker. The entire score is much like the tone poems (Also sprach Zarathustra, Don Juan, Don Quixote, Ein Heldenleben) which garnished Strauss so much early fame. However, there are certain non-vocal points in which Solti truly excels, notably the opening Agamemnon motif, a poignant, jarring death-wail of misery and woe; the appearance of Klytämnestra, set to the rhythm of a brutal, inhuman march; the brief, tense span after the exit of the two bickering servants; Elektra digging up the axe; Orest's entrance into the castle, followed by Elektra realizing that she forgot to give him the axe; the brief span (accentuated by a harp, no less) before Aegisth enters the castle; and the strange waltz symbolizing Elektra's victorious dance, a motion unseemly and unnatural to onlookers. All of this combines to create an image of this gloomy, ramshackle palace in Mycenae. Every note details the blood-spattered walls, the moldy air, the cramped hallways, and subterranean labyrinths. Hofmannsthal's words also paint grisly images of perpetual births and murders and dwellers reclining on piles of contorted corpses.
Birgit Nilsson did not perform the role of Elektra. She injected the blood of Elektra into her own veins, just as she became the wounded Valkyrie Brünnhilde, the icy Princess Turandot, and the benevolent, self-sacrificing wife Leonore. Nilsson lives through Elektra to hate, to scorn, to seethe, to compile all her passions and energies into the single goal of avenging Agamemnon. This paradoxically level-headed hysteria is heard in her first monologue ("Allein! Weh, ganz allein"), in which she invokes like a priestess the name "Agamemnon" and recounts to the listener, in the most squalid and wretched detail, the manner in which her father's head was split with an axe and his body was dragged, headfirst, from the foaming, scarlet bath. She reaches a fever pitch at its conclusion, insisting that she will slice the throats of his enemies, his horses, and his hunting dogs, and pour the barrels of collected blood around his tomb; then he, she, and Orest will dance in the ecstasy of victory. Her wild, outraged monologue to her mother ("Was bluten muß? Dein eigenes Genick") is no less daunting. Elektra is merciless as she describes how Orest will enter Klytämnestra's bed chamber, chase her from it, back her into a corner, and then, in a brief eternity of villainy and contempt, make the queen wait for the fatal blow; Nilsson rips through the terrible aria like a viper, with venom and spittle pouring across the vile words.
The crowning achievement of Elektra's musical persona is the recognition monologue ("Orest!"), the equivalent of the aforementioned aria in Salomé. It is a massive outpouring of characteristically Straussian melody, richness, and sound. It is also the most delicate moment, a miniscule ounce of humanity within the demented façade of Elektra. Nilsson is too sumptuous and moving to be adequately described; she conveys this moment as the triumph of her entire existence. It is her one happy experience, her first joyful utterance. The monologue is also a look into the pitiful woman's sexuality; it is undoubtedly erotic, with Hofmannsthal's poetic description of Elektra's naked, creamy, nubile body, bathed in the milky light of the moon.
Ultimately conversely, Regina Resnik's Klytämnestra is a suppurating, bloated gorgon. She is a knotted mass of offal, guilt, and spitefulness. Her entrance ("Was willst du?...O Götter, warum liegt ihr so auf mir?") is so violent and callous, one might take it for an outburst of blasphemy. One cannot help but smirk at her horridness as she invokes the gods, wondering why she is forced to suffer "like a wasteland" with nettle growing out of her. Each utterance of "warum" is more unnerving, and strikes the listener in the pit of his or her stomach. She is unendingly foul as she berates her confidante [Margareta Sjöstedt] and the train-bearer [Margarita Lilowa] ("Ich will nichts hören!"), churlishly mocking them for telling her that horrendous "demons with long pointed beaks" suck her blood as she sleeps and insisting that she slaughter sacrificial victim after victim.
However, it is her nightmare monologue ("Ich habe keine guten Nächte"..."Ja, du! denn du bist klug") that is truly dreadful. Here, Strauss could be mistaken for elemental Berg, with brittle, globular dissonance accentuating Resnik's horrified words. The "Etwas" (a nameless "something") which crawls over her at night could only be something indescribably terrifying, some dingy mass of guilt characterized with a leering face and piercing eyes. The monologue descends into further horror. Could Klytämnestra be dead while living, an animated carcass, a breathing pile of rotting sinew and bone? Resnik would have no trouble convincing one that she was.
She also proves her status as a remarkable vocal actress. Her mocking laughter, brought on by the false news that Orest has been killed, is frightfully credible; as she exits the scene, surrounded by torch-bearers, her cruel giggles seem to descend into a churning whirlpool. Later, when Orest murders her offstage, she utters two screams, both of which are inherently different. The first strikes the listener unexpectedly, just as the shadowy figure of the adult Orest, saber in hand, startled the squalid queen into consciousness. The second scream, however, is an animalistic grunt, an attempted repudiation of death by the queen. It is horrible to hear and will haunt the listener perpetually.
Marie Collier's Chrysothemis is the antithesis of Elektra. Chrysothemis is a feminine character who longs for the sexual affections of men and the timeless, natural joys of motherhood ("Ich kann nicht sitzen und ins Dunkel starren"..."Der bist es, die mit Eisenklammern"); Elektra has scarified her sexuality (and, thus, any maternal instincts) unto the memory of her father (as she explained to Orest in the recognition monologue). Collier is particularly potent when she attempts to convince Elektra that her hatred is in vain; Agamemnon is dead and will never be avenged, for Orest will never come back ("Der Vater, der ist tot"). She is infectious in her ecstasy in the finale ("Elektra! Schwester! komm' mit uns!"), as she gleefully tells Elektra that Orest has murdered Aegisth and that the faithful servants have revolted in his honor; her words soar into oblivion, supported by harmonizing praises from the interior chorus.
Tom Krause's Orest is the personified voice of destiny; his is a drawl of terrible and wonderful meaning. His vocal entrance, set against a bleak orchestral backdrop of doom, stands in stark contrast to the frenzied labor of Elektra as she digs up the battle axe. Gerhard Stolze proves his unparalleled genius as a charaktertenor through his performance as Aegisth. He does more with this five-minute role than most singers could throughout an entire recording. His entrance ("He! Lichter! Lichter!") is appropriately condescending and pompous; Strauss' macabre humor is audible in his conversation with Nilsson, who is deviously charming and submissive ("Darf ich nicht leuchten?"). His death-cry ("Helft! Mörder! helft dem Herren!") is not the faux, B-class acting of most operatic singers but rather a believable, hair-curling squeal of horror. Nilsson's cry of "Agamemnon hears you!" ("Agamemnon hört dich!") is as frightening as his following wail of anguish. Tugomir Franc is appropriately domineering as Orest's tutor. Gerhard Unger makes a brief appearance as the fussy young servant who delivers the news of Orest's supposed death to Aegisth. Helen Watts, Maureen Lehane, Yvonne Minton, Jane Cook, Felicia Weathers, and Pauline Tinsley are each singularly defined as the cruel, gossiping maids and their vindictive overseer.
Innovative producer John Culshaw deserves applause for this recording as much as Solti. The slamming of the servants' quarter door during the maids' bickering and gossiping, the pitter-pattering footsteps of Klytämnestra's torch-bearers, and the grimy crunching of Aegisth's steps into the seemingly gaping, hollow citadel are three examples of the master...
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