Which brings us to the question undoubtedly on everyone's mind: How well are they singing these days? Especially in Flicka’s case, they're performing with a generous helping of good spirits, humor, and shtick. The camaraderie is real, but at times it seems compensatory and over-rehearsed. On Thursday, it was as though they were saying, “We’re going to have a good time, no matter what.”

The audience ate it up at the start of the evening, if for no reason other than genuine love, appreciation, and gratitude for Kiri's and Flicka's wonderful artistry and generous nature. But as the night wore on, the applause became less generous. I doubt anyone regrets attending the performance — I certainly don’t — but it's fair to surmise that the experience was bittersweet for those who knew Kiri's and Flicka’s voices in their prime.

Kiri and Flicka

The first set was devoted to Mozart. The opening duet, “Via resti servitar” from Le nozze di Figaro, was followed by Kiri’s “Porgi amor” (Nozze), and Flicka’s “Vedrai, carino” (Don Giovanni) — all of which gave a good sense of their vocal estates. Kiri retains an uncommon vocal radiance when she sings softly, but her admirable evenness of tone is now disturbed by a wavering vibrato. Her lower range has greatly eroded in volume, and works best when the repertoire suits her still exquisite piano and pianissimo singing lower on the stave.

In an aria as defining as “Porgi amor” — which in her prime she could sing with such luster, ease, and regal grace as to, in her own way, rival Schwarzkopf — there was weakness on bottom, irrepressible wavering, and a sense that the voice is on the edge. You could still hear elements of her greatness — far more, for example, than can be heard in the scattered remains of Adelina Patti’s former supremacy, in recordings she made at about the same age. But the passage of time was in evidence.

Flicka is at her best when singing slower and lower in her range. The break between her still hauntingly hollow and solid lower range and her midrange, which has grown pronounced, can be covered with care when phrasing allows. But ask her to sing fast, and the voice shifts between registers with an audible jerk.

During the opening Mozart, and even more so when they joined together after intermission on “L’aïo dè rotso” from Canteloube’s arrangements of Chants d’Auvergne, the problems intensified. Kiri’s need to carefully manage her low range by singing softly, combined with Flicka’s pronounced range breaks and greater volume, did not make for a happy combination. It was impossible to ignore the fact that, to produce her still solid and impressive sound higher in the register, Flicka’s former bel canto fineness of line has become thicker and less focused, which diminishes its emotional impact.

Despite it all, there were many wonderful moments. One was Flicka’s I Bought Me a Cat (Copland), which was filled with humor and a hilarious memory lapse. There was an almost effortless and radiant “Barcarolle” from Les Contes d’Hoffmann — best savored without the rowing shtick — and the duet True Love (Porter), which was dedicated to their respective daughters’ marriages. Taken alone, Flicka’s “Connais-tu le pays” from Thomas’ Mignon could substantiate her reputation. She remains a consummate artist; she knows how to bend legato phrasing to make music sigh, ache, and tug at the heart. In this sense, her artistry remains undiminished, despite the advance of years.

Kiri’s soft singing in parts of Berlioz’s Le spectre de la rose was touching and deeply communicative. The end of her otherwise shallow and carefully negotiated Scarborough Faire was lovely. Most of all, an exceedingly soft Hôtel by Poulenc was exquisite, as it made high art out of smoking. (I could have done without the slapstick finish as Flicka came onstage to stamp out Kiri’s imaginary cigarette.)

As a singer, Kiri has always impressed. She has a relatively placid presence, a gorgeous voice, and when she's in the right repertory, a divinely poised presentation and demeanor. Yet, even when she was in her prime, it is doubtful she could have communicated the depth of pathos necessary for a truly great Adieu, notre petite table. (Those familiar with recordings by Sills and the young de los Angeles know what greatness means in this context.) If her performance of Massenet’s gem succeeded most in her strong and beautiful (if wavering) high range, her uncommon mastery in the Poulenc came not only as a surprise, but as a reminder of gifts that have too often been overlooked in the critical rush to judge.

For me, the saddest moments came during a duet version of Baïlèro, a song that both artists have recorded with breathtaking results. Canteloube’s arrangement now sits in the weak part of Kiri’s voice, which left her no match for Flicka when the two sang in unison. When performing some verses solo, neither artist could summon up the ethereal, almost otherwordly mixture of emotional transport and earthbound sorrow — the sounds of young lovers serenading from afar — that they brought to this masterpiece in their prime.

In 1951, when Lotte Lehmann was midway through her recital at New York’s Town Hall, she announced that it was her farewell appearance. Many in the audience gasped. To paraphrase, she continued: "Just as the Marschallin looked in the mirror and saw that it was time, so too have I looked in the mirror and seen that it is time." When some audience members cried out, "No! No!," she replied, "Oh yes, yes."

As a critic and not a footman, it is not my place to hold up the mirror. Every mature artist must make their own decision as to when declining resources signal the appropriate time to depart from the stage. What becomes a legend most is to do so with dignity and grace.

(Jason Victor Serinus writes about music for such publications as San Francisco Classical Voice, Opera News, Stereophile, San Francisco Magazine, East Bay Express, and Bay Area Reporter.)

©2006 Jason Victor Serinus, all rights reserved