AN (ALMOST) AUTHENTIC ‘DON CARLO<i> S</i> ‘

“What,” you may ask, “ another recording of Verdi’s ‘Don Carlo’ ”?

The question makes good surface sense.

Sir Georg Solti already recorded a persuasively turbulent performance of Verdi’s brooding, poignant masterpiece, with Carlo Bergonzi as a hero of model sensitivity (London OSA 1432). Carlo Maria Giulini offered a slower, richer, more mellow alternative that inspired stellar vocalism from Placido Domingo, Montserrat Caballe and Sherrill Milnes (Angel SDL-3774). Herbert von Karajan struck a fine blow for studied suavity and orchestral brilliance in a Salzburg performance dominated by Piero Cappuccilli and Agnes Baltsa (Angel SZCX-3875).

Those undaunted by antiquated sonics still have reason, moreover, to cherish the erstwhile Cetra “Don Carlo” that preserved the tarnished but still resplendent interpretations of such recent golden-agers as Maria Caniglia and Ebe Stignani (now available on Turnabout THS-65054/6). Even better, for monaural marketeers, was Gabriele Santini’s early-1950s version, which showcased Boris Christoff, Tito Gobbi and the then-ubiquitous Grand Inquisitor: Giulio Neri (Seraphim 6004).

No one claims the six crucial roles in the opera have always been perfectly cast. An unrealistic Verdian ideally might have wanted to match Solti’s tenor with Giulini’s soprano with Karajan’s mezzo with Santini’s baritone and basses. Each set has offered unique virtues, however, despite the inevitable yes-but s and what-if s.

It can be said that “Don Carlo” has fared well on recordings. “Don Carlo s “ has not.

“What,” you ask, “is in the s ?”

Everything.

Although it has long been fashionable to ignore the fact, “Don Carlo” really isn’t an Italian opera. It is a French opera--and a very grand French opera at that--written to a French text and first performed, as “Don Carlo s ,” at the Paris Opera in 1867.

The long-awaited premiere, attended by the Empress Eugenie during the Exposition Universelle celebrations, was only a moderate success. Verdi had dared invade foreign territory to compete with the mighty Meyerbeer in the production of a huge, sprawling, spectacular, star-studded, five-act extravaganza, complete with lengthy ballet, mystical overtones, distinguished literary associations and a suitably tragic if ambiguous ending.

Paris resisted throwing itself at the Italian invader’s feet. Even with drastic cuts made under duress before the premiere, the opera was deemed too long and too convoluted. It was also deemed too touchy in terms of the political implications of the libretto, and, in general, too damned serious. It stayed in the Paris repertory for a modest run of 43 performances, never to return in the same form or, for that matter, in the same language.

As was his realistic wont, Verdi revised the opera and then revised the revision. He accepted the necessity of an Italian translation. He made numerous internal cuts. He deleted the first act altogether, salvaging the tenor’s only aria for the second act. He reworked certain scenes and simplified vocal lines. Then he reinstated the first act.

Most modern performances have adhered to the relatively slim four-act structure the composer arranged for Milan in 1884. This is the version Karajan recorded. This is the version performed in San Francisco and San Diego. This is the version that will be staged, in a fascinating modern production, by Michael Milenski’s Long Beach Opera next month.

A few well-endowed, conscientious companies have ventured the “Don Carlo” Verdi fashioned for Modena in 1886. Essentially, it duplicates the 1884 Milan version, but it restores the original first act, in which the ardent hero encounters the troubled heroine in the forest of Fontainebleau.

For the new Deutsche Grammophon recording (415 316-1), Claudio Abbado--like Solti and Giulini before him--follows the generous structural outlines of the 1886 version. Abbado, however, takes some drastic additional steps in his quest for accuracy, historical authenticity and absolute completeness.

He reverts to the original French text, even though Verdi had reluctantly abandoned it by the time he came to Modena. Even more startling, Abbado appends, on the two final sides, six substantial episodes that Verdi had either cut prior to the Paris premiere or rewritten thereafter.

These original passages have never been recorded before. Some of them, in fact, were discovered only in 1969 and 1970, when musicologists David Rosen and Andrew Porter managed to unglue pages of actual 1867 manuscripts gathering dust in Paris.

The Abbado “Don Carlos,” therefore, must not be judged merely as a potentially interesting addition to the Verdi discography. It stands as an unprecedented historical document. As such, it is of inestimable value to genuine scholars as well as to curious garden-variety music lovers.

The French language makes an enormous difference here. Verdi, who was meticulous about word setting, made much of the inherent verbal legatos, just as he observed subtle nuances and not-so-subtle syllabic stresses. The familiar Italianization of “Don Carlo s ,” we now see, is often primitive and clumsy where the original is refined and elegant.

When it comes to choosing between the various editions, some debate is inevitable. Nearly two decades lapsed between Verdi’s first and last thoughts on the opera. One can argue for the freshness and bravado of 1867, just as one can argue for the tightness and sophistication of 1886. The one represents the maturing man of the theater who wrote “Les Vepres Siciliennes,” “Un Ballo in Maschera” and “La Forza del Destino.” The other points the way to “Otello.”

Abbado strikes an awkward compromise when he confronts the inherent language problem. He gives us the best of both worlds, however, as regards editions.

One doesn’t have to be French to sing French in a telling, expressive, idiomatic manner. Nicolai Gedda and Jussi Bjoerling, both Swedes, happened to be splendid French tenors. Lucrezia Bori and Victoria de los Angeles, both Spaniards, were, for successive generations, French sopranos par excellence.

Abbado’s cast, unfortunately, sounds like a collection of Berlitz dropouts. There isn’t an authentic Gallic accent within earshot.

Ruggero Raimondi, as Philippe II, musters a half-decent approximation of the appropriate light, faintly nasal inflections. His Italian colleagues--Katia Ricciarelli as Elizabeth de Valois and Lucia Valentini-Terrani as La Princesse Eboli--evade the language barrier with mushy and fuzzy nonsense syllables. On the other hand, Leo Nucci, the Italian Rodrigue, articulates his mispronunciations all too clearly. Placido Domingo, the brash hero, sounds as if he just got off the plane from Madrid. Nicolai Ghiaurov, Le Grand Inquisiteur, favors Slavic distortions.

One can, of course, get a sense of the way Verdi meant the text to sound, even under these difficult conditions. Still, one cannot but suspect that each of these estimable singers would have conveyed more character, more individuality, if allowed to mouth the customary Italian generalities.

Ironically, the standard of French singers, and of French singing, today is woefully unimpressive. If this recording had been made about 20 years ago, however, it might

have enlisted the likes of Regine Crespin, Rita Gorr, Gedda or Albert Lance (a French-trained Australian), Gabriel Bacquier or Robert Massard, Cesare Siepi (one Italian who knows his way around the Gallic graces) or Roger Soyer, Xavier Depraz. . . . More what-if s.

Abbado is asked, in an interview included in the libretto booklet, why he opted primarily for the 1886 version now that the 1867 original has been completely restored. His answer reflects a concern for aesthetic practicality as well as for historical integrity:

“I considered it a duty to record any pieces Verdi was obliged to remove from the score of the first version and in themselves worthy of becoming better known. As far as the rest goes, it is right to perform the music in its latest version. . . . There is no sense in ignoring a whole series of solid improvements.”

The unprejudiced listener may, of course, question the degree of these “improvements.” They deprive us of some musico-dramatic masterstrokes.

Amid the 46 minutes of rediscovered music on the DGG set, one finds a hauntingly beautiful, expansive opening to the Fontainebleau scene; an enlightening little Leitmotivic duet in which Elizabeth and Eboli exchange clothes in the Garden scene; a poignant dialogue between the women that should precede “O don fatal”; a powerful confrontation between the King and Carlos after Rodrigue’s death, which allows Philippe to betray some human compassion and which literally foreshadows the Lacrymosa of Verdi’s Requiem; and a finale that intensifies the wrenching agonies of the central characters and permits a mystical pianissimo conclusion. Only the well-crafted, conventional ballet music seems irrelevant.

One must be grateful to Abbado for allowing the listener to make the choices. One also must be grateful for his conducting, which, in its own fervent way, offers an affecting compromise between Solti’s fire and Giulini’s poetry. He draws magnificent playing from the Scala orchestra (which the engineers sometimes favor at the expense of the voices), and elicits lush, unintelligible tones from the Scala chorus.

His cast is not only patently un-Gallic but also frustratingly uneven. Domingo provides many thrilling climaxes, a few ravishing whispers, not much in between. Ricciarelli exults in exquisite, pinpoint pianissimo phrases, but crumbles at the threat of passion. Raimondi, though artful, sounds like a baritone sent out to do a bass’ work. Valentini-Terrani emerges as a good Rossini mezzo-soprano drafted for heavy-duty Verdi. Nucci reduces the selfless Rodrigue to a lyrical wimp. Ghiaurov seems rough and old, which is acceptable; dramatically unfocused, which isn’t.

Some of the best singing comes in minor roles. Ann Murray offers a sparkly Thibault, Arleen Auger a really ethereal Voix d’en Haut, Tibere Raffalli a deft Lerme.

This may not be the “Don Carlo” of our dreams, but--more important--it is our first and only “Don Carlo s .” For all its vocal flaws, it sets a noble standard.