MUSIC REVIEW : Burchuladze Debut: Low but Not Profound

Paata Burchuladze--the Georgian opera singer who made his West Coast debut Saturday night before an enthusiastic, non-capacity audience at Ambassador Auditorium--is a basso profondo. He is the rare, real thing.

He can make a mighty noise, darkly. It roars and rumbles. It soars and grumbles.

It is a rich voice, a pungent voice, an instantly imposing voice. Evenly scaled, it resonates in the balcony, bounces off the walls downstairs. It is fresh--the man would seem to be still in his early 30s--and, when it isn’t pushed for climactic impact, it is well focused and easily produced.

Although Burchuladze made his first major mark on the international scene only five years ago, he already is a very busy basso. Saint Herbert of Karajan fostered his talent in Salzburg. He ventured his first appearance at the Met on opening night this year. Recording studios demand much of his time. He is more likely to be found in Vienna or Milan or London these days than in his hometown, Tbilisi.

He obviously commands the resources of a big-time singer. An unaffected, sympathetic, rugged presence on the stage, he is, as they say, a hot property.

But is he an artist? That remains to be heard.

Pleasantly yet fuzzily accompanied by Ludmilla Ivanova of Odessa (making her U.S. debut), he demonstrated a lot of vocal exhibitionism for its own sake in Pasadena. He devoted the first half of his rather skimpy recital to obligatory Russian songs. After intermission, he turned to Italian arias. For a single encore, he ventured the Chaliapinesque cackles, gratefully muted, of Mussorgsky’s “Song of the Flea.”

Contrary to the expectations based on some of his recent efforts elsewhere, Burchuladze did muster sporadic efforts to sing softly. Give him credit for that.

But his agenda seemed more concerned with deep tones than with deep meanings. He did little to point the words or color the emotions. He dealt, primarily and monotonously, in generalities.

Moreover, he did not--could not?--sustain a gleaming, sensuous mezza-voce line. He found no bridge between a booming fortissimo and a breathy pianissimo.

Songs of Tchaikovsky, Glinka, Dargomizhsky and Rachmaninoff sounded as if they were all written by the same soulful composer. In four Verdi arias, he hardly distinguished between the misery of Fiesco, the terror of Banquo, the agony of Philip II and the triumphant evil of Attila the Hun. Beethoven’s “In Questa Tomba Oscura,” which was substituted for the Zaccaria’s priestly invocation, proved notable for urgency rather than for legato breadth.

Under the circumstances, it was best to sit back, relax and enjoy the sonorous ride.