MUSIC REVIEW : Hvorostovsky Makes Big Debut

Will success spoil Dmitri Hvorostovsky? One worries.

Southern California first encountered the Siberian baritone in April, 1989. He spelled his name Khvorostovsky then. In company with four obscure Soviet colleagues plus Irina Arkhipova, a materfamilias from the Bolshoi, he gave a stunning performance at a virtually empty Wilshire Ebell Theatre.

One observer--this one--predicted that the unheralded visitor would soon have the world at his feet. The prediction has come true very quickly. Perhaps too quickly.

This 28-year-old novice has collected gold medals at numerous international contests. Although most of his stage experience has taken place in distant Krasnoyarsk, major opera companies everywhere are vying for his services. He has become a recording star. He sells out huge concert halls in New York, Washington and London.

Monday night, sponsored by the San Diego Opera, he sold out a tiny concert hall in La Jolla: Sherwood Auditorium at the Museum of Contemporary Art.

It seats 500. Hvorostovsky sang as if it seated 5,000. That was just the first of several miscalculations.

His program, apparently a warm-up for a Carnegie Hall date on Nov. 4, concentrated on Italian art songs and arias. Apart from one glorious encore, Hvorostovsky turned his back on the Russian music he sings and knows best. He disdained the intimate revelations of the romantic lied. He had decided--or been persuaded--to court the image of a low-voiced Pavarotti.

For nearly two hours, he blasted away at the bel-canto repertory, with an occasional detour in the direction of verismo. He blasted magnificently, much of the time. Once in a while, for a fleeting moment, he even proved that he can sing softly. Essentially, however, he used his prodigious gifts to flex vocal muscles.

They are undeniably mighty muscles. Still, it was a waste.

Hvorostovsky’s dark-hued baritone--somewhat reminiscent of the young Ettore Bastianini--is generous in size and warm in timbre. He may occasionally strain for the highest climaxes or growl out the lowest phrases, but he can sing with rare technical finesse. His breath control is staggering. So is his command of legato.

He sounds like a brooding matinee idol and looks like one. Tall, slender and deceptively boyish, he knows the secret of demanding attention by standing still.

In La Jolla, unfortunately, he refused to make the most of his phenomenal resources. He used his voice, not his head. He performed as if the production of big, beautiful sounds were a valid end in itself. He used the intimate ambience as a showcase for extrovert gestures that bordered on vulgarity.

He devoted the first half of his program to charming baroque canzone of Caldara, Giordani, Pergolesi, Stradella and Carissimi. He sang them stodgily, with heavy, monotonous accents. He sang them as if they were long-lost masterpieces by Rachmaninoff.

He showed no understanding of such stylistic niceties as dynamic contrast and embellishment--a rudimentary, sparsely applied trill notwithstanding. Whatever the text, he sang with generalized fervor. He mistook the tender sighs of “Caro mio ben” for thumping slow-motion tragedy.

After intermission, Hvorostovsky offered a catalogue of strenuous arias. He piled climax upon audience-pleasing climax. He roared mellifluous excerpts from “La Favorita,” “Don Pasquale,” “I Puritani,” “Luisa Miller” and, best of all, “Don Carlo.”

In response to the de rigueur standing ovation, he enlisted his ever-intense accompanist, Mikhail Arkadiev, in staging a hokey encore. First, Arkadiev appeared alone and began to pound out what threatened to be a long and convoluted keyboard solo. The teaser was a transcription of the “Pagliacci” prelude--the whole infernal thing. Then--surprise--Hvorostovsky popped out of the wings just in the nick of time to ham up the beloved Prologue aria.

He sang with splendid ardor, despite some signs of tiring. Still, this was a curiously provincial indulgence for a presumably sophisticated artist.

As an antidote to the misplaced gimmickry, he returned to sing a little Russian folk song, unaccompanied. Suddenly, his voice throbbed with the pain of muted passion.

Hvorostovsky reinforced the poignant rhetoric with resonant simplicity. He floated ravishing pianissimo tones. He capped the the valedictory cadence with an ethereal head tone that slowly vanished in air.

It was a magical ending. It could have been a magical beginning.