At baritone Dmitri Hvorostovsky's all-Russian recital in Davies Symphony Hall, only the blind could focus on voice and musicianship alone. The handsome lion, with his signature mane of shining, prematurely gray hair, balletic posture, weightlifter's neck, and countenance so striking that People magazine once ranked him as one of the 50 most beautiful people in the world, is quite a package.
Dressed all in black, save for one sparkling rhinestone (diamond?) in place of the top button on his slightly open collar, and a set of sparkling jewels on his silver belt buckle, Hvorostovsky was irresistible. Everything about him — including the way that his torso and voice rose up from his pelvis, the rear view on display when he frequently turned to acknowledge the folks seated behind him in Davies Symphony Hall's Terrace, and the occasionally curled, menacing lips — demanded attention.
Anyone with blood less frigid than the Siberian tundra from which Hvorostovsky emerged will admit to taking pleasure in the baritone's much-vaunted physicality. Nonetheless, as Hvorostovsky, Anna Netrebko, Renée Fleming, and other singers blessed with physical beauty know too well, you can't rise beyond mass media adoration if you can't deliver the vocal goods. Hence, in songs by Tchaikovsky, Medtner, and Rachmaninov, the 46-year-old baritone gave almost everything one could ask for.
Highs and Lows
One of the most striking features of Hvorostovsky's voice is its veiled, occluded midrange. Although CDs can be deceiving, especially since Hvorostovsky began recording when digital technology was still in its bright, hard-edged infancy, the voice seems to have grown more hooded, dark, and grand with the passage of time. As such, even though enunciation is more Callas-like than ideal, his musicianship is now as equally suited for Verdian royalty and menace as for songs in which sighing, pining, suffering, and angst serve as portals into the Russian soul. Hvorostovsky's voice is crowned by a rich, powerful, multicolored top that blooms magnificently in a large space. It's a glorious sound that has few equals. Indeed, the baritone's top, which seems to have opened and grown more colorful with the passage of time, is so compelling as to draw attention from the lack of volume and resonance at the bottom of the range.
If Hvorostovsky is able to sing softly while maintaining focus, he was not able to do so Saturday night in Davies, where he was presented by the San Francisco Symphony. In the one song by Tchaikovsky in which he attempted to soften the voice, an unfocused breathiness emerged. Might this be one of the reasons why, when he snatched first place from Bryn Terfel in the BBC Singer of the World competition in Cardiff 20 years ago, Terfel received the lieder prize? In a 1998 interview with Philip Anson — "Dmitri Hvorostovsky: Opera's Reluctant Hunk" here — Hvorostovsky may have claimed that the lieder prize is "one of several prizes to calm down the losers," but evidence suggests that Terfel may have indeed displayed greater mastery of the nuance and shading that are essential to a lieder singer's craft. Nor, as boyish and charming as Hvorostovsky's smiles may have been, was he able to sing playfully. In Tchaikovsky's Italian-language Pimpinella, one of the only songs of the evening that teased, flirted, and dispensed suffering tongue-in-cheek rather than heart-on-sleeve, Hvorostovsky was unable to match pianist Ivari Ilja's lighthearted accompaniment. The same held true in Tchaikovsky's Serenade O ditja (O child beneath the window), where the charm and lilt of caressing kisses and "tender sounds" were replaced by a voice that never broke through masculine reserve.
Yet a bull in a China shop Hvorostovsky is not. At the end of Tchaikovsky's Sred' shumnogo bala ("In the midst of the ball," sometimes translated as "At the ball"), he softened sufficiently to conclude with a most lovely "I love you." He also beautifully conveyed the romance at the heart of Skazhi o chem v teni vetvei (Tell me, what's in the shade of the branches). And in the second and final encore of the evening, an unaccompanied Russian folk song translated as Goodbye Happiness or Night, he delivered the most nuanced singing of the evening. Perhaps the reason the piano's lid was only open partway is that he felt constrained by his undeniably excellent, self-effacing accompanist.
Mastery of Legato
From the opening song, Tchaikovsky's Otchego? (Why?), Hvorostovsky displayed a consummate legato. Indeed, the uninterrupted flow of the vocal line was so compelling as to transcend the composer's repetitive phrases. Physical gestures, judiciously chosen, were equally arresting and often magnanimous. Most of all, voice and gesture were consistently noble. In Tchaikovsky's Na nivy zhjoltyje (On the golden cornfields), as Hvorostovsky opened his cover on words that translate as "My soul is filled with your absence ... and bitter regrets," his was not the suffering of some everyday chap, but of a man whose every feeling has global implications.
The final climax to Rachamaninov's Ne ver' mne drug (Believe me not, friend) was especially grand, and the high climax of Vesennie vody (Spring waters) strong and stunning. Yes, there was the occasional hard tone that suggested more evil than the music called for. But in light of extraordinary breath control — the final note in Medtner's Nochnaja pesn strannika (The wanderer's night song) was held long enough to leave virtually the entire audience gasping in amazement — the grand swell of phrases, and vocalism that can only be described as magnificent, it mattered little. It was a performance to cheer.