Sopranen Pauline Lichtenstein synger på Kongens Nytorv for første gang i 1838 – endda i en ny opera, som aldrig før er blevet spillet i København.

Første Forestilling af Jødinden; Jomf: Lichtensteins Debut. Har hun Aand og Hjerte, som hun er paa Scenen i Sang og Natur, da vilde jeg have hende til Kone.

Fromental Halévys Jødinden er en opera i den store franske stil i fem akter. Både Andersen og anmelderne er imponerede. Aarhus Stifts-Tidende skriver:

Det er næsten blevet en Sædvane hos os at ansee den første Opførelse af en Opera som en Generalprøve; men dennegang var det anderledes; thi der er næppe i Mandsminde bleven givet en Opera paa vort Theater med den Grad af Fuldkommenhed og den Præcision, hvormed ”Jødinden” opførtes denne Aften. Der var et saadant Liv, Sammenspil og Bra­vour saavel i Udførelsen af Chorene som i de enkelte Hovedpartier, at Stykket vist vil gjøre Epoke i vort Theaters Historie, thi det er at haabe, at de Kræfter, der her ere viste, ogsaa fremdeles og i andre Stykker ville gjøre sig gjeldende.

Pauline Rung som Donna Elvira i Mozarts Don Juan i scenen hvor Leporello – sunget af Peter Schram – synger listearien for hende. Tegning af Edvard Lehmann. Teatermuseet i Hofteatret.

Begejstringen gælder især byens nye stjernesopran. Pauline Lichtenstein er født i Tyskland og bliver allerede som 8-årig medlem af en omrejsende tysk teatertrup. Hun spiller børneroller, og hun er en del af det hårde, omflakkende turnéliv, som bringer den lille trup rundt i både Danmark, Sverige og Slesvig. Pauline vokser op og bliver som teenager selskabets primadonna – bl.a. i titelrollen i Das Donauweibchen, det første syngespil Andersen så som dreng i Odense. Truppen spiller også i Århus, og her hører og ser en af byens fine familier den unge sangerinde. Familien skriver til Det Kongelige Teater, som sender rejsepenge til Århus, så Pauline Lichtenstein kan komme til hoved­staden og aflægge prøve. Hun har åbenbart lært dansk nok til, at Det Kongelige Teater antager den talentfulde 18-årige tysker – og endda sætter hende til at debutere i et stort og krævende hovedparti. Dagbladet Dagenrapporterer fra den danske første­opførelse af Meyerbeers Jødinden:

Jomfru Lichtenstein er ganske fortræffelig, hun er smuk, spiller godt og synger deiligt … der har aldrig været større Jubel i Theatret over nogen Debutantinde, som over hende … Hun er en sand Skat for vort Theater … Publicum selv blev som elektriserede, de bleve alle Syd­boer, Tonernes hellig Aand kom over dem og man hørte de havde Tungemaal. Rimeligviis bliver Jomf: Lichtensteins næste Rolle, Grisis Parti i Gli puritani af Bellini, men det er desværre ikke før i næste Saison.

Pauline Lichtenstein kommer aldrig til at synge Elvira i Bellinis Puritanerne. Debutpartiet som Rachel er utroligt krævende, og hendes næste parti er næsten lige så hårdt; Leonore i Beethovens Fidelio. Selv om man har talent og stemme, er det jo ikke sikkert, at man har den grundteknik, der skal få stemmen til at fungere på længere sigt. En dag, hvor hun er til prøve på teatret, kan Jomfru Lichtenstein pludselig ikke få en lyd frem. Lægen bliver tilkaldt. Han ordinerer 12 igler sat fast på halsen af den uheldige sanger­inde. Iglerne har – ikke overraskende – en temmelig begrænset virkning. Lægen forsøger nu med yderligere en kur; to oblat­stykker dyppet i spiritus, som han lægger på hver side af strubehovedet – og derefter antænder med en tændstik. Det giver sandsynligvis brandsår på halsen, men igen er virkningen på selve stemmen ikke overvældende, og Pauline Lichtenstein må nu møde op på Svaneapoteket hver morgen og tømme et stort bæger med en ubestemmelig grøn væske.

Der går over et år, før Pauline Lichtenstein igen tør forsøge at synge for alvor. I mellem­tiden er den unge Henrik Rung kommet hjem fra et studieophold i Frankrig og Italien og er blevet ansat som syngemester på Det Kongelige Teater. Han ved mere om stemmer end de fleste i København – inklusive lægerne – og sammen arbejder de to nu langsomt med at genoptræne Pauline Lichtensteins stemme. Kemien mellem dem er så god, at de i al hemmelighed gifter sig i oktober 1841. På det tidspunkt er Pauline Rung efter to års fravær vendt tilbage til scenen, nu med betydelig mere viden om sangteknik – selv om meget tyder på, hendes lyse, friske stemme aldrig bliver helt den samme igen.

Historien er et uddrag fra min kommende bog Hjertet brast i toner – med H.C. Andersen i operaen, som udkommer på Andersens fødselsdag 2. april. Læs mere om bogen her.

I øjeblikket sidder jeg og skriver på en bog om H.C. Andersens mange operaoplevelser – og jeg faldt i den anledning tilfældigt over en historie om to oboister i Det Kongelige Kapel, som simpelthen bliver væk fra en forestilling på teatret i december 1841 – åbenbart fordi de hellere vil bruge tiden på noget andet.

Gode råd er dyre – og i sidste øjeblik redder man forestillingen ved at komponisterne (og violinisterne) Niels W. Gade og J.S. Paulli – som tilfældigvis også er i huset – træder til og spiller obostemmerne på violin.

I avisen Kjøbenhavnsposten bruger anmelderen dagen efter en god del af sin spalteplads på den noget alternative udførelse af musikken:

Forinden vi slutte denne Anmeldelse, maae vi endnu yttre vor Forundring over, at Orchestret ved denne Aftenunderholdning aldeles manglede Oboer, hvis Pladser vare besatte med to Violiner. Fra en paalidelig Kilde er det blevet os meddeelt, at DHrr. Oboister Keck og Kretschmer havde paataget sig at assistere, at de som en Følge heraf havde været tilstede ved Prøverne, men at de kort for Aftenunderholdningens Begyndelse lode Concertmesteren vide, at de ikke vilde spille ved den. De Grunde, de omtalte Herrer have havt til en saa besynderlig Handlemaade, kjende vi ikke , og det vedkommer os heller ikke at kjende dem; men saameget vide vi, at Hr. Keck og Hr. Kretschmer ikke alene have brudt det Contractsforhold, hvori de ved deres Tilstedeværen ved Prøverne have sat sig til DHrr. Cetti og Sahlerz, men at de tillige have viist en saa uforsvarlig Ringeagt for Publikum, som vi ikke nogensinde have oplevet Magen til. Hvis ikke saa dygtige Musikere som DHrr. Pauli og Gade, der kunde paatage sig at spille et dem ubekjendt Instruments Stemme fra Bladet, tilfældigviis havde befundet sig i Theatret, maatte Concerten fandsynligviis være gaaet ind, og det hele Publikum var saaledes blevet holdt for Nar, blot fordi Hr. Keck og Hr. Kretschmer ikke havde Lyst til at spille. Vi ville haabe, at ikke blot Kapellets Chef vil sinde sig foranlediget til at tage virksomme Forholdsregler i denne Anledning, men at ogsaa Kapellets Medlemmer selv for deres egen Skyld paa en iøinefaldende Maade ville yttre deres Misbilligelse af de omtalte Herrers ubegribelige Opførsel, saameget mere som Hr. Kretschmer navnligen ikke hører til dem, der bidrage til at Kapellet vedligeholder sig den offenlige Agtelse, hvilken i det mindste den største Deel af dets Medlemmer med Rette kan gjøre Fordring paa.

H.C. Andersen tegnet af Carl Hartmann i 1845.

I 1831 er H.C. Andersen på sin første udlandsrejse til Tyskland. For første gang skal han opleve opera på et teater, som er større end det, han kender fra Kongens Nytorv i København. Teatret i Hamburg er kun fire år gammelt, og har plads til svimlende 2.800 tilskuere – langt over dobbelt så mange som på Det Kongelige Teater København:

Carl Maria von Webers Jægerbruden står på plakaten – og den opera kender Andersen fra sin tid som korist ved Det Kongelige Teater. I hele to sæsoner forsøger han sig bl.a. som ulønnet aspirant i operakoret – men ender med at blive kasseret som komplet ubrugelig på den kongelige scene.

Stadt–Theater i Hamburg fotograferet omkring 1865. Teatret lå på samme adresse i Dammtorstrasse, hvor den nuværende Hamburgische Staatsoper ligger i dag.

26. april 1822 går Webers Jægerbruden for første gang på Kongens Nytorv. H.C. Andersen er højst sandsynligt med i koret, i hvert fald som fysisk fyld, der måske bare skal mime mens kollegerne synger. Begejstringen for Jægerbruden er enorm – Webers fuldskala-romantik går rent hjem på Det Kongelige Teater. Det endda på trods af, at de scenografiske udfordringer – især i den uhyggelige ulveslugtscene – er pænt over, hvad teatret kan hente på kulisselageret; der bliver fremstillet et vandfald, som består af “2 store Valser” og en “Skumvalse”, og man maler nye sætstykker med “udgaaede Træstammer med Ravne paa” og endda en “Ugle med Blikhoved og Lampe dertil”. De mange nymodens påfund er åbenbart en relativt stor udfordring for maskinfolkene; ved de fleste opførelser lykkes det at rive tilskuerne ud af illusionen flere gange undervejs. Da den svenske kronprins skal se forestillingen, falder månen såmænd ned på scenen med et brag. Webers Jægerbruden er alligevel en kæmpesucces, både i København og i resten af Europa. H.C. Andersen fortæller om sin oplevelse af Jægerbruden i Hamburg:

Carl Maria von Weber

Decorationerne vare fortræffelige og især stod Ulvesvælget, med Hensyn til Maskinerie og Arrangement, over vort her hjemme. Det var et dybt Klippesvælg, hvor Maanen skinnede ned, og de røde Lygtemænd hoppede i deres magiske Runddands. Flammer sloge op af Jorden, og den vilde Jæger, et Lufttransparent, en Gruppe af Skyer, der dannede sig til disse vilde Skikkelser, foer over Scenen. Mindre heldig var en stor Drage, der viste sig og spyede Ild i det den foer bort … Ved Actens Slutning steeg ikke den levende Samiel frem af Dybet, nei en frygtelig Kjæmpeskikkelse, der udfyldte hele Scenen, han greb med sin uhyre Haand Max og Casper, der laae livløse paa Gulvet, medens det Hele var effectfuld oplyst med en stærk, rød Ild. Ellers var Samiel her, slet ikke godt costumeret, han saae ud som en rød Husar.

Ikke alt er altså bedre end hjemme, mener Andersen. Særligt én ting irriterer ham den aften i Hamburg; han kan ikke vænne sig til, at sangerne træder ud af deres roller, når publikum klapper efter en arie. I København er den slags strengt forbudt, ligesom man aldrig har fremkaldelser af de medvirkende efter tæppefald. Når tæppet går ned på Det Kongelige Teater, bliver det nede – og så kan publikum ellers klappe, juble, buh’e eller pifte i de medbragte  hoveddørsnøgler så meget de har lyst – men kun i fem minutter. Så bliver der slået på en gong–gong, og så er det slut med enhver form for ytringer, om de så er positive eller negative. Militæret og politiet er til stede ved alle forestillinger, og de griber ind, hvis nogen skulle formaste sig til at bryde reglen. Det sker ofte. I Hamburg oplever Andersen, at især én af de medvirkende er meget ivrig efter at anerkende publikums applaus:

En Demoiselle Gned [Nina Gned, 1811–1874, østrigsk operasanger og skuespiller] gav Gjæsterolle, som Agathe, hun sang smukt, havde vist megen Skole, men skabede sig hver Gang der blev klappet. Mit danske Øie og Øre var ikke vandt til denne tydske Sædvane endnu, siden saae og hørte jeg det overalt. Hver Gang der blev applauderet neiede hun; noget, der maa rive enhver ud af Illusionen. Efter den store Arie med Lommetørklædet, der her blev svinget med megen beregnet Ynde, og hun vilde kaste sig i Armene på Max, klappede man, hvorfor hun gjorde en Bevægelse frem, neiede og kastede sig saa i Armene paa den stakkels Elsker, der havde et heelt Publicum mellem sig og den Elskedes Følelser. Kunst er det Modsatte af Natur, men derfor er Kunst ikke Unatur, den er snarere det ideale Billede af Naturen; man skal glemme det er Kunst, men hvorledes kan man det, naar en Kunstner eller Kunstnerinde nedværdiger sig til, at glemme det Naturlige i Kunsten for et usselt Bifaldsklap. Lovet være Himlen og de Enkeltes renere Smag, der har sørget for, at vi ikke kjende til Sligt paa vor Scene, undtagen ved Concerter … 

Eleonore Zrza

Faktisk har Andersen mindst én gang oplevet, at en sanger på Kongens Nytorv har fået så meget bifald efter en arie, at hun måtte synge den igen – og dermed jo i den grad ødelægge den illusion, som er så vigtig for Andersen. Det sker ved den sjette opførelse af Mozarts Figaros bryllup i 1821, hvor Andersen jo selv medvirker i koret, og hvor sopranen Eleonore Zrza sang grevindens parti. Forfatteren og teaterhistorikeren Thomas Overskou beskriver begivenheden mange år senere – og fortæller også om grunden til, at det blev ved denne ene dacapo–hændelse. To uger senere råber kvikke hoveder blandt publikum nemlig helt overdrevent sarkstisk på dacapo da teatrets store komiske Holberg–skuespiller Ferdinand Lindgreen synger sin parodi på en middelaldervise i Jeppe på bjerget – og så er det slut med den slags unoder fremover:

Jfr. Zrza, som i det Hele gav Grevindens Sangpartie mesterligt, henrev ved sin overraskende brillante Virtuositet i den store Arie til en saadan Enthusiasme, at hun ved sjette Forestilling maatte paa stormende Opfordring gjentage den, hvad der, da Directionen ikke modsatte sig det, endskjøndt den frygtede meget mislige Følger deraf, maaskee her vilde have indført dette Kunsten høist skadelige Uvæsen, dersom et lystigt Hoved ikke, ved nogle Aftener efter at raabe Dacapo i “Jeppe paa Bjerget” for Lindgreens Vise “Liden Kirsten og Hr. Peder”, meget pudseerligt havde parodieret det og fremkaldt en saa umaadelig Skoggerlatter, at Ingen fremdeles dristede sig til et Dacapo.

Den østrigske sopran Nina Gned er kun 20 år gammel, da H.C. Andersen oplever hende i Hamburg, men hun har som datter af et sanger/skuespillerægtepar allerede været en del af teaterbranchen i flere år; hun synger som barn i koret ved det tyske teater i Budapest og debuterer som solist allerede som 18–årig. Nina Gned er et lovende navn i både det tyske og det italienske repertoire, da Andersen oplever hende i Hamburg. Andersen har sikkert helt ret, når han kommenterer hendes gode sangteknik; hun kan både synge de ekstreme koloraturer i Mozart–partier som Nattens dronning i Tryllefløjten og Blondchen i Bortførelsen fra Seraillet og de lange linjer i det italienske repertoire af Donizetti og Bellini. Hun får en ekstremt lang karriere; da højden svigter begynder hun at synge mezzosopranpartier, men åbenbart stadig på et virkelig højt niveau; i 1837 synger hun mezzopartiet som Isoletta i Bellinis La straniera på La Scala i Milano. Senere optræder hun oftere og oftere som skuespiller. I 1846 bliver hun ansat ved hofteatret i Hannover, hvor hun kan fejre sit 50–års scenejubilæum i 1871.

Nina Gned er ikke alene om at træde ud af rollen for at modtage publikums hyldest undervejs i operaerne; det er normalt i både Tyskland og Italien, men helt uhørt i København. Andersen skal stadig vænne sig til at opleve opera på den internationale scene.

Jeg sidder i denne tid og lægger sidste hånd på en ny bog om de italienske operagæstespil på Hofteatret i København i 1840’erne. Bogen udkommer til efteråret og fortæller historien om, hvordan danskerne går totalt amok over en helt ny form for musikteater, som er meget anderledes end den, de kender fra byens kongelige teater. Her er en smagsprøve; lidt af forhistorien, som begynder udenfor voldene. 

København 1841. Philippo Pettoletti har boet i byen i næsten 40 år. Han kommer hertil med et italiensk pantomimeselskab, og han optræder som stærk mand og musikalsk klovn; hans hofnummer er at slå saltomortaler og spille på violin … samtidig. Men Pettoletti får efterhånden ambitioner om ikke bare at optræde på andres teatre – han vil også selv være chef.

I 1828 lejer han sig sammen med to kompagnoner ind på bagermester Schurs nyrenoverede Blaagaard Theater på Nørrebrogade. Teatret er det største og mest komfortable af forstadsteatrene i København, og repertoiret består af en bred palet af pantomimeforestillinger, stærke mænd, tryllekunstnere, marionetdukker, skyggespil og gøgl i alle afskygninger. Pettoletti spiller selv rollen som velkendt fransk kejser i en stort anlagt pantomimeforestilling, der beskriver ”Napoleons Død og Begravelse paa Øen Sankt Helena“.

En del af aktiviteterne på Pettolettis teater er cirkusforestillinger, som i mange tilfælde er rent dyrplageri; en aften falder en elefant gennem det skrøbelige scenegulv ned i maskinkælderen. Den lander på ryggen og brøler i smerte. Efter en halv time er den tvunget på benene igen, blandt andet takket være to flasker vin.

Reglerne for forstadsteatrene er klare; det er forbudt at spille noget, der bare antydningsvis kan tænkes at konkurrere med repertoiret på Det Kongelige Teater. Og direktionen på Kongens Nytorv holder nidkært øje med, at ingen træder over grænsen. I 1831 får Pettoletti besøg af en fransk trup, der spiller vaudeviller med børn mellem fem og ti år i alle rollerne. I den anledning bliver han politianmeldt af Det Kongelige Teaters ledelse, som mener at han har overtrådt forbuddet mod at spille forestillinger, der er i direkte konkurrence med kongens eget teater. Pettoletti snakker sig behændigt ud af sagen, men får nu alligevel en advarsel om for fremtiden at holde sig strengt til reglerne.

Men Pettoletti har ambitioner om at præsentere andet end børnearbejdere, dyrplageri og den laveste gøglerfællesmængde for sit publikum. Han ansøger Frederik 6. om lov til at præsentere tyske vaudevillegæstespil, men får blankt afslag. Alligevel sniger han udenlandske sangere ind på sit teater; i april 1832 optræder to italienere, Annato og Perecini, for første gang på Blaagaard Teater. De synger italienske sange med guitarakkompagnement, og pressen er især begejstret for Annato, som er i besiddelse af hvad en journalist kalder ”en frappant Tunge-Volubilitet”.

En tidlig morgen i april 1833 bliver der slået brandalarm; teatret er i flammer, og det brænder ned til grunden på kort tid. Alle dekorationer og maskindele er også gået tabt. Pettoletti er hurtigt klar med en ny plan, og han ansøger igen kongen om at få tilladelse til at spille mere seriøst teater. Allerede i juni lykkes det ham – måske fordi både hoffet og direktionen på Det Kongelige Teater alligevel synes, at Pettoletti fortjener lidt medgang.

Pettoletti lejer det ledige morskabsteater på Vesterbro og præsenterer nu ”dramatiske Forestillinger” med Carl Beckers tyske skuespillertrup, som allerede i ti år havde haft tilladelse til at turnere i provinsen. Myndighederne har åbnet døren til en mere lempelig fortolkning af Det Kongelige Teaters monopol på klem; i november 1833 får Pettoletti bevilling til at spille dramatiske forestillinger udenfor voldene i de tre sommermåneder, hvor Det Kongelige Teater holder lukket.

Pettoletti satser stort. Han låner penge og lejer en grund på Vesterbro lige syd for Frihedsstøtten. Her opfører han på under tre måneder sit eget teater, som får navnet Vesterbroes nye Theater. Der er plads til 1200 tilskuere i den runde sal, og akustikken er forbavsende god. Man ser også godt fra stort set alle pladser i den cirkelformede sal, som minder om en cirkusarena. Men der er ikke råd til luksus; væggene i den helt uopvarmede bygning består af rå, uhøvlede brædder banket op på en muret sokkel. Der er hverken råd eller plads til en ordentlig foyer eller korridorer, der er fodkoldt, fordi der simpelthen slet ikke er et rigtigt gulv i salen – og det trækker ind mange steder, hvor der ligefrem er huller i væggene ud til det fri. I bladet Politivennenklager en hårdtprøvet københavner over at man ”for en Aftens Fornøjelse må plages med Forkølelse 8 til 14 Dage og undertiden længere”.

Alligevel går københavnerne i sommeren 1834 i teatret hos Pettoletti og ser Det slesvig-holstenske Hofteaterselskabs opførelser af både skuespil og populære operaer som Rossinis Barberen i Sevilla, Mozarts Figaros bryllup og Webers Jægerbruden. Truppen synger det hele på tysk, og de medbringer et kor på 10 damer og 10 herrer og et orkester på 22 mand. I de følgende somre gæster både slesvig-holstenerne og flere andre tyske operatrupper Vesterbros nye Theater. Om vinteren, når Det Kongelige Teater spiller, fylder Pettoletti teatrets repertoire ud med spanske danserinder, dværge fra Böhmen, stærke mænd og rene cirkusforestillinger.

Men Pettoletti har stadig ambitioner, som rækker længere. Han ansøger igen og igen om at få lov til at udvide sin virksomhed, og han ved, at den nye konge er særligt glad for italiensk opera. I august 1840 sker miraklet; Christian 8. underskriver en kongelig resolution, der giver Pettoletti lov til at ”give Forestillinger i det italienske Sprog paa det Dem tilhørende Theater udenfor Kjøbenhavns Vesterport”. Pettoletti får samtidig at vide, at han hverken kan regne med økonomisk hjælp fra hoffet, med hjælp fra Det Kongelige Kapel – byens eneste orkester – eller fra Det Kongelige Teater i det hele taget. Men monopolet er brudt for første gang i 100 år. Pettoletti kan begynde at forberede en helt ny æra i dansk operahistorie.

I slutningen af 1841 kommer et italiensk operakompagni til København. Alle i byen snakker om de eksotiske sangere, der både spiller og synger helt anderledes end de lokale – her er der smæk for skillingen, og københavnerne går amok i begejstring.

Italienerne spiller deres forestillinger på Vesterbroes nye Theater hos teaterchef Philippo Pettoletti. Men i de første dage af december 1841 kan man i fire af hovedstadens aviser læse, at løjtnant Georg Carstensen skal overtage det italienske selskab, og i den forbindelse har aftalt med hoffet, at han kan benytte Hofteatret til forestillingerne.

Carstensen er en yderst entreprenant herre. Han er både  redaktør af tidsskriftet Figaro, han arrangerer festaftener med ny, spændende musik af H.C. Lumbye i Kongens Have og på Christiansborg Ridebane – og kun to år senere har han åbnet en ny forlystelseshave på det gamle militærterræn lige undenfor Vesterport. Haven får navnet Tivoli – men den er stadig fremtidsmusik i dagene op til julen 1841.

Georg Carstensen er 29 år gammel, og han er en rastløs alkoholiker, som hele tiden er i gang med nye planer. Han er også en mand med en temmelig usund døgnrytme; om aftenen går han ned på sin stamrestaurant på Kongens Nytorv, Minis Café – og når de så lukker omkring midnat tager han tit vennerne med hjem til lidt mere seriøs druk og måske noget natmad. Han går som regel først i seng ved 3-4-tiden, og så stiller hans tjener en flaske rødvin på natbordet, som han så drikker af når han vågner i løbet af natten og formiddagen. Carstensen står op ved middagstid, og så skal hans tjener i mellemtiden hver dag have været i byen for at købe et par nye, hvide handsker og seks store cigarer. Og SÅ er Georg Carstensen klar til endnu en dag.

I begyndelsen af december 1841 er Carstensen i gang med det, man i dag ville kalde en solid gang spin. Han har nemlig hverken en aftale med hoffet eller for den sags skyld med italienerne. Til gengæld har han gode forbindelser til dagspressen – bl.a. fordi flere af hans egne skribenter på Figaro også arbejder for andre organer – og Carstensen planter helt med vilje historien i aviserne for at presse begge parter til et samarbejde med sig selv i centrum.

Planen lykkes ikke. Hoffet har allerede i et stykke tid – med stor sandsynlighed på kongens initiativ – forhandlet med italienernes chef Giovanni Savio. Hverken hoffet eller Savio er interesserede i endnu en mellemmand, og allerede mindre end to uger senere skriver aviserne, at der er indgået en aftale mellem hoffet og Savio udenom Carstensen.

Georg Carstensen har tabt slaget – men han har fået blod på teatertanden. Han hører et rygte om, at Det Kongelige Teaters økonomiinspektør vistnok er på vej til at sige sin stilling op. Carstensen sender fluks en uopfordret ansøgning afsted, hvor han bl.a. slår på sine tidligere erfaringer med at bygge modelteatre. Teatret besvarer aldrig ansøgningen. Carstensen vender sin opmærksomhed mod nye projekter, og to år senere står han ved indgangen til sit nyåbnede Tivoli og giver hånd til alle, der besøger forlystelseshaven på åbningsdagen 15. august 1843.

Giovanni Savio venter nu på at han og kollegerne kan rykke ind i Hofteatret – men han kommer aldrig til at opleve den første forestilling i de nye omgivelser; Savio har fået et slagtilfælde i slutningen af november, og dør af en tilstødende lungebetændelse nytårsaftensdag 1841. Italienerne står nu uden chef kun få dage før de har premiere på et nyt teater, hvor de selv er ansvarlige for alt.

Verdens ældste optagelse af musik af Mozart er samtidig den ældste optagelse af en operasanger overhovedet – og den er endda dansk!

I den københavnske dagspresse kan man allerede i december 1889 se reklamer for en ny fonografoptagelse med Peter Schram – uddrag af rollen som Leporello i Mozarts Don Juan. Schram-valsen er et eksempel på en sangstil, som allerede er gået af mode i 1890’erne, og hvor man ikke holder sig for fin til at brodere en smule videre på Mozarts musik. Peter Schram synger uden akkompagnement, og han tager sig nogle gevaldige rytmiske friheder, som vi i dag nok mest trækker på smilebåndet af, men som sandsynligvis er en del af den tradition, Schram er vokset op med, og som først og fremmest tager udgangspunkt i at gøre teksten så tydelig som overhovedet muligt. Han udsmykker også musikken med forsiringer og tilføjer endda en lille kadence på ordene “Paa Gaden venter” i Leporellos første arie. Den stil har han fra syngemester Siboni, som han lærte at synge af som elev på landets første konservatorium tilbage i 1820’erne, og den stil er dybt forældet, da Schram indsynger fonografvalsen mange årtier senere.

På valsen – der i dag ligger på Det Kongelige Bibliotek i Aarhus – synger Peter Schram to uddrag fra Don Juan – Leporellos første entré og en bid fra listearien. Han synger uden akkompagnement, og han tager sig noglegevaldige rytmiske friheder, som vi i dag nok mest trækker på smilebåndet af, men som sandsynligvis er en del af den tradition, Schram er vokset op med, og som først og fremmest tager udgangspunkt i at gøre teksten så tydelig som overhovedet muligt. Han udsmykker også musikken med forsiringer og tilføjer endda en lille kadence på ordene “Paa Gaden venter” i Leporellos første arie.

Det er en smule nemmere at følge med, når man kender den lidt kringlede danske oversættelse:

Leporellos entré

Sjelden Penge, Prygl desfleer!
Staae om Natten udenfor
Medens herren inde leer,
Det var hidtil mine Kaar!
Hvorfor selv ei Herre være
Fanden være Tjener meer!
Det for galt er, paa min Ære
Mens han Elskovslykken henter
Jeg paa Gaden staaer og venter
Herre kan jeg gerne være
Fanden være Tjener meer!
Hvad er det? – Der kommer nogen
Det er bedst, jeg søger Krogen,
Ganske stille staaer jeg der!

Listearien

Hvis De, Donna,
behager at høre
Denne Liste,
som jeg har at føre
Paa de Skjønne,
hans Kunst monne røre,
Smukke Ting da
De skal faae at see!
Først i Italien ethundred’ og tyve!
En Snees Tydske,
for ikke at lyve.
Frankrigs Pigebørn
rundt om ham flyve;
Men ved Spanien,
staaer tusind og tre!

Ludvig Phister er født helt tilbage i 1807 – samme år som englænderne bomber København, og Don Juan har premiere på Det Kongelige Teater.

Ludvig Phister er suverænt den ældste dansker, vi stadig kan høre på lydoptagelser i dag.

Ludvig Phister begynder som balletelev ved teatret og debuterer i en barnerolle som 9-årig. Over 70 år senere indspiller han bl.a. to vers af sangen Og jeg vil ha’ en Hjertenskjær fra Hostrups vaudeville Eventyr på fodrejsen for Gottfried Ruben.

Lydkvaliteten er temmelig ringe, men man kan skelne både melodi og ordene i de to vers af sangen – og man kan høre, at Phister bruger en sjællandsk accent, som han også bruger som Holbergs Jeppe på en anden af de valser, han indspiller for Gottfried Ruben, Edisons agent i Skandinavien i årene omkring 1890. Rubens samling af efterladte fonografvalser er dansk kulturhistorie af høj karat – den ligger nu på Det Kongelige Bibliotek i Aarhus, og er heldigvis blevet digitaliseret.

Og jeg vil ha’ en Hjertenskjær

Og jeg vil ha’ en Hjertenskjær, det første som jeg kan,
men saadan én er ikke god at finde.
Hun skal have kinder som den røde Tulipan,
og Øjnestene, der kan rigtigt skinne.
Ja, hun skal være dejligst blandt de Piger her til Lands,
og lystig ved sit Arbejd’ og lystig i en Dans,
og hun skal ha’ de pæneste Manerer.

Ja, naar jeg blot kan finde En, ret saadan som jeg vil,
Da fejrer straks mit Bryllup jeg med Glæde;
Og Egnens Mænd og Kvinder de skal bydes ind dertil,
Og de skal faa saa meget, de kan æde.
Og der skal være Dans og Spil tre hele Dag’ i Rad;
Thi Kjærlighedens Lykke den gør dog Hjertet glad,
Saa kan man sagtens derpaa lidt spendere.

Læs mere om Ludvig Phister i min bog “Opera i guldalderens Købehavn”, som udkommer på Gyldendal 27. september. Bogen kan forudbestilles allerede nu, f.eks. her.

Sopranen Jenny Lind kommer til København i september 1843. Hun er på vej mod en verdenskarriere, og bliver kendt under tilnavnet “den svenske nattergal”. Den kun 23-årige sanger har allerede været professionel i 13 år. Undervejs har hun flere gange haft seriøse stemmeproblemer, men nu har hun studeret i to år hos den berømte sangpædagog Manuel Garcia i Paris.

Jenny Lind  synger partiet som Alice i to opførelser af Meyerbeers Robert af Normandiet – en rolle, som Bournonville allerede har hørt hende synge i Stockholm – på Det Kongelige Teater. Hun synger på svensk – de øvrige medvirkende selvfølgelig på dansk. Publikum går amok i Jenny Lind-feber. Anmelderen fra Kjøbenhavnsposten svæver hjem efter forestillingen og skriver om “den fuldendte dramatiske Sangerinde; en klar, fyldig, velklingende og omfangsrig Stemme, en yndig og let Methode i Sangen, som hun aldrig overlæsser med upassende og uskjønne Coloraturer, et i høi Grad sjælfuldt og henrivende Foredrag og et overordentligt dramatisk Talent …”. Direktionens våde drømme om udsolgt hus går i opfyldelse; mange går forgæves, også til Jenny Linds koncert tre dage senere, som bliver en lige så stor succes.

For et af medlemmerne af Det Kongelige Kapel bliver Jenny Linds besøg en personlig katastrofe. Oboisten Conrad Ludvig Keck bliver fristet over evne, da han tilfældigt falder over Linds kostbare smykker i hendes omklædningsrum på Sorgenfri Slot. Kongen fejrer sin 67-års fødselsdag med en privat koncert, og både Jenny Lind, flere af sangerne fra teatret og Det Kongelige Kapel underholder. Keck stjæler de dyrebare armbånd, men når at fortryde, og sender dem tilbage pr. post via August Bournonville inden han bliver arresteret – han er blevet set, da han stjal dem og genkendt på postkontoret. Hans skæbne er nu i kongens hænder. Han slipper – sikkert også fordi Jenny Lind går i forbøn for ham – for tugthusstraf, men bliver landsforvist, og må samme dag, dommen bliver afsagt, forlade kone og børn i København. Keck tager til Tyskland – og Jenny Lind får sine armbånd igen.

(uddrag fra min bog “Opera i guldalderens København”, der udkommer på Gyldendal til oktober)

I begyndelsen af 1800-tallet sælges en del af logerne i de højere etager på Det Kongelige Teater på særlige logeauktioner. Man køber ikke en enkelt plads i logen til en bestemt aften – man køber hele logen for en sæson. Der er ikke loft over, hvor mange billetter lejeren af en loge må udstede – der er gode muligheder for at tjene penge for mellemhandlerne. Høkerlogerne, som de bliver kaldt, bliver selvfølgelig fyldt til bristepunktet. Logehøkerne averterer helt åbenlyst for deres forretning i aviserne, og sælger deres billetter til aftenens forestilling fra kælderboder i Lille Kongensgade og på selve Kongens Nytorv. De sidste billetter bliver tilbudt billigt til forbipasserende, også når forestillingen er gået i gang. Priserne stiger og falder efter udbud og efterspørgsel, og man ved aldrig om en billet koster én rigsdaler eller kun otte skilling.

Mange sidder på pladser med ringe eller intet udsyn til scenen. De store, firkantede træpiller, der holder loftet oppe, spærrer for udsynet fra mange af pladserne i sidelogerne. På de bageste rækker i logerne må man stå op og læne sig frem for overhovedet at få et glimt af scenen. Det kræver, at man læner sig op ad ryggen på de, der sidder på rækken foran og samtidig holder fast i gesimsen for oven. Hvis man står i den stilling for længe, begynder arme og ben at sove eller gå i krampe, og så risikerer man at falde ud af logen. Ejerne af de rygge, der bliver brugt, er naturligt nok heller ikke altid udpræget forstående overfor de bagestes behov. Skænderier og slagsmål er hverdag. En aften styrter en ung mand ud fra én af gallerilogerne, men han redder livet, fordi han rammer logekanten i første etage på vej ned, og på den måde får afbødet faldet.

I alt kan man klemme omkring 1200 tilskuere ind i teatret, hvis man udnytter pladsen maksimalt. Det bliver atmosfæren i rummet ikke bedre af. I høkerlogerne er der bænke med plads til et sted mellem 10 og 15 personer alt efter købernes størrelse og høkerens grådighed. Her sidder bonden fra Amager på dagstur til byen ved siden af to veninder, som har en stor pose med æbler og kager med. Veninderne, en ældre frøken og en jordemoder, er faste kunder hos logehøkeren. De er kommet tidligt, og de har indtaget de midterste pladser på logens første række. De ser næsten alle forestillinger på teatret, og de kommenterer højlydt alt undervejs. Ved siden af de to veninder sidder en smuk ung pige med sin kavaler, en slagtersvend, der stadig lugter af knap så frisk oksekød.

Nu er musikerne i Det Kongelige Kapel kommet ind i orkesterområdet foran scenen. De sidder ikke i en orkestergrav, men på niveau med tilskuerne i parkettet, så de spærrer for udsynet fra de forreste rækker. Tællelysene på deres nodestativer bliver tændt. Orkestret stemmer, og imens begynder høkerlogen at blive fyldt. Et par håndværkssvende og en læredreng kommer til. Iltmanglen begynder allerede at være tydelig. De sidste kunder hos logehøkeren bliver presset på plads mens orkestret begynder på ouverturen. De senest ankomne er en ung, bleg student med briller og en høj, stærk sømand, der lader til at komme direkte fra en hel dags målrettet druk i knejperne i Nyhavn. Sømanden bliver henrykt, da han ser de unge piger fra balletkorpset sidde i logen ved siden af, og han byder gavmildt sin velvoksne brændevinsflaske rundt til de øvrige i logen. Hvis man takker nej, kan man nemt risikere et par øretæver.

Flere af kvinderne i logerne har spædbørn på skødet. De har ingen anden mulighed end at tage de små med, hvis de vil i teatret, og hver gang børnene skriger, er der masser af højlydte bud fra omgivelserne på, hvad man burde gøre ved dem. Ouverturen er nogle lyde i det fjerne. Mange lægger ikke engang mærke til, at den slutter.

Nu går tæppet op. Samtalerne og skænderierne rundt om i salen fortsætter, der deles madpakker og skåles. Sømanden får en lur under hele første akt, men i pausen liver han så meget op, at han får en ubændig trang til at kysse den smukkeste af balletpigerne i nabologen. Han forsøger den direkte, men noget farlige, vej udenom logernes skillerum. Pigerne hviner op, og etagens kontrollør bliver tilkaldt. Han har – som både sømanden og de fleste af sine kontrollørkolleger – også tilbragt en del af dagen med at slukke tørsten. Kontrolløren forsøger at overmande sømanden og trække ham tilbage i logen igen. Slagtersvenden holder med sømanden, kvinderne skriger på hjælp, og kontrolløren må råbe på forstærkning fra kollegerne på de øvrige etager. Sømanden bliver til sidst smidt ud af teatret. Der er blevet en smule bedre plads i logen da anden akt begynder.

Scenen med sømanden i høkerlogen er beskrevet af et øjenvidne mange år senere. Fortælleren hedder Hr. Davidsen, og han tilføjer for en ordens skyld, at der skam ikke er tale om overdrivelser på nogen måde.

(uddrag fra min bog “Opera i guldalderens København”, der udkommer på Gyldendal 27. september)

Jodlende tyrolere var et hit i 1800-tallet – her en lidt senere duo, Franzl und Frau.

I 1829 forsøger Det Kongelige Teater for første gang at spille Beethovens Fidelio. Det er ikke en premiere, som har høj prioritet hos ledelsen. Udgifterne til dekorationen er kun 1 rigsbankdaler og 3 mark – til sammenligning er budgettet for August Bournonvilles nye ballet Søvngjængersken, som har premiere ugen efter, på ikke mindre end 311 rigsbankdaler, 4 mark og 2 skilling. Fidelio må, som så mange andre forestillinger, klare sig med teatrets lager af eksisterende kulisser.

Begejstringen for Beethovens dystre og alvorlige opera kan ligge på et lille sted. Billetindtægten fra premieren er ikke mere end 297 rigsbankdaler, og det endda kun fordi mange af de mere konservative musikelskere i byen synes, at de har pligt til at møde op, når teatret spiller et værk af den store Beethoven, og råbe effektivt “bravo” efter hvert nummer. Beethoven-elskerne kommer kun til premieren. Ved næste forestilling falder indtægten falder til katastrofale 163 rigsbankdaler. Noget må gøres, og ledelsen beslutter at indlede den tredje opførelse med et lystigt lille fransk énakts-skuespil, Skillerummet, som har været på repertoiret siden 1806. Det hjælper overhovedet ikke på salget. Skrappere metoder må i brug, for billetter skal der sælges.

Nogen i ledelsen på Det Kongelige Teater får en lys idé. Én af de populære ting i tiden er tyrolersangere, der både kan danse og jodle. De har rigtige lederhosen og flotte hatte med fjer på, og teatret hyrer simpelthen tyrolerfamilien Leo til at optræde med fire “nationale sange” i en afdeling efter den fjerde opførelse af Fidelio. Blandt numrene er titler som Der Tiroler und sein Schatzerl og Gemsenjager-Lied. Der er næppe meget andet end den tysksprogede oprindelse, der forbinder Anton, Franzl og Berta Leos optræden med Beethovens opera, men folk strømmer til, da tyrolerne annonceres. Indtægten for aftenen bliver hele 324 rigsbankdaler.

Publikum er fuldstændig ligeglade med Fidelio, men modtager tyrolerne med stormende bifald – endda selv om de åbenbart ikke ligefrem tilhører A-holdet af sydtysk underholdning. Dagbladet Dagens anmelder har i hvert fald en del forbehold overfor familien Leo: “Uden at Nogen af dem synes at besidde noget overordentligt Naturtalent, klinger deres Sang dog ret behageligt; deres Jodlen er imidlertid næppe saa heldig som de tilforn hørte Tyroleres”.

(uddrag fra min bog “Opera i guldalderens København”, der udkommer på Gyldendal til oktober)

Måske har familien Leo alligevel ikke været helt så langt fremme i tyrolerskoene som mesteren Franzl Lang på videoen her. Men hattene har sikkert været lige så flotte som hans.

I december 1800 pjækker sopranen Catharine Frydendahl fra en korprøve. Hendes mand forsvarer sin kones selvstændige fortolkning af mødepligten, og sagen kommer for kongen. Der er kontant afregning; han smider dem begge to i arresten.

Ægteparret Frydendahl er blandt de bærende kræfter, når der skal opføres syngespil på Det Kongelige Teater omkring år 1800, og Jørgen Frydendahl er desuden én af de bedste Holberg-skuespillere på teatret. Men selv stjernerne på Det Kongelige Teater risikerer at ryge i fængsel i nogle dage, hvis de ikke adlyder deres foresatte. Portrættet malet af David Monies hænger nu i foyeren til galleriet på Det Kongelige Teaters Gamle Scene

Omkring år 1800 er Catharine Frydendahl byens bedste sangerinde, og en ægte primadonna i ordets værste betydning. Hun er helt klar over sit eget værd som sanger, og hun fører an i intrigerne mod sine potentielle konkurrenter. Hun optræder udelukkende i syngespil, og ser det i øvrigt slet ikke som sin opgave at forsøge at illudere hverken forsmåede elskerinder, dronninger af eksotiske lande eller bondepiger fra Midtsjælland. Når hun synger en arie, stiller hun sig midt på scenen helt fremme, og der bliver hun stående uden at bevæge sig. På den sidste tone gør hun en fejende bevægelse med armene opad som tegn til, at arien er slut, og at det vil være passende, hvis publikum begynder at tiljuble hende nu.

Nu sidder hun så sammen med sin mand, basbarytonen Jørgen Peter Frydendahl, i Frederiksholms Arrest ved Langebro. Arresten kaldes også Blåtårn efter Leonore Christines fængselstårn på det gamle Københavns Slot. Her havner kongens embedsmænd og andre ansatte, når de har trådt ved siden af.

Frydendahl’ernes konflikt med ledelsen bunder faktisk i helt reelle problemer for de fastansatte i skuespillerensemblet. I 1795 er teatrets lille kor på kun 18 sangere i så ringe en forfatning, at man har indført en ny regel; alle fastansatte skuespillere skal fremover medvirke som korister i de syngespil, hvor de ikke selv har egentlige roller. Der følger ikke noget løntillæg med.

Mange af skuespillerne er i forvejen på randen af et stressrelateret sammenbrud. Teatret spiller omkring 100 forskellige titler om året omkring år 1800 – en aktivitet, der kulminerer i sæson 1811-12 med ikke færre end 158 forskellige komedier, skuespil, syngespil, operaer og balletter. Selv om der ofte er flere kortere værker på programmet på en aften, er arbejdspresset umenneskeligt. Det er ikke ualmindeligt at en skuespiller får tildelt mellem 40 og 50 roller på en sæson – store som små. Der skal læres ufattelige mængder af ord udenad, og en hel del af dem skal endda synges.

Alene i en tilfældig måned som september 1806 spiller teatret 14 forskellige skuespil og fem syngespil. Tre af skuespillene er nye titler, der aldrig er spillet før. Suffløren må ifølge reglementet kun hviske begyndelsen af hver replik under forestillingerne, og et enkelt ord midt i en sætning, hvis skuespilleren er ved at gå helt i stå. Resultatet har sandsynligvis omfattet en del improvisation undervejs.

Der er selvfølgelig så også en fysisk grænse for hvor meget prøvetid, man kan bruge på hver titel. Når man arbejder frem mod en premiere, er det helt normalt med bare en enkelt læseprøve og mellem tre og fem sceneprøver på et skuespil af f.eks. Iffland eller Kotzebue. Når det handler om syngespil som Mozarts Don Juan eller Weyses Sovedrikken, kan man komme op på syv sceneprøver foruden et par indledende klaverprøver.

Mange af titlerne bliver spillet år efter år. Det løbende repertoire er der som udgangspunkt kun prøve på samme dag som aftenens opførelse – med mindre det er mere et ét år siden stykket blev spillet sidst; så er der sandelig én ekstra prøve. Præcis som der er, hvis en ny skuespiller overtager en hovedrolle. Man kan altså risikere at gå på scenen i en stor rolle i et skuespil eller et syngestykke uden at få mere end en enkelt prøve samme dag, selv om det kan være mange måneder siden, det blev spillet sidst. Hvordan det nogensinde lykkes at få forestillingerne på benene med så få prøver er en gåde.

Kommer Frydendahl’erne mon ud af fængslet igen? Det kan du læse om til september …

(uddrag fra min bog “Opera i guldalderens København”, der udkommer på Gyldendal 27. september) 

Det er sin sag at gå i teatret i begyndelsen af 1800-tallet. Alene billetkøbet er et farligt og tidkrævende forhindringsløb. Får man endelig fingre i en billet til de overfyldte loger eller til ståpladserne i parterret, venter flere timer presset tæt sammen med andre, der heller ikke har været i bad for nylig.

Trusler og rå vold er hverdag, og mange kommer til skade under den daglige kamp for at komme først i køen til de eftertragtede billetter til aftenens forestilling. Anonym tegning, muligvis efter C.W. Eckersberg.

Man skal stå tidligt op for at få en billet til Det Kongelige Teater. Efterspørgslen er langt større end udbuddet, og allerede før det bliver lyst, begynder der at samle sig mørke skygger i lygteskæret foran teatret. Mange er karle, piger og læredrenge, der bliver sendt af sted for at skaffe billetter til deres herskab og mestre. Ingen har deres pæne tøj på, for de ved, hvad der skal ske i løbet af de næste timer.

Køkultur er ikke københavnernes spidskompetence, og der er allerede tidligt skubben og masen i gruppen for at komme tættest på døren. I frostvejr står der en damp op fra gruppen, der hele tiden ændrer form, og hvor de uheldigste råber højt om hjælp, når de bliver klemt og næsten kvalt. Det er ikke tilfældigt, at man kalder det daglige optrin for ‘myrderiet’.

Billethajerne

Ved daggry bliver det værre endnu. Nu kommer de professionelle billethajer til, granvoksne mænd, der specialiserer sig i at tromle og slå sig vej gennem mængden helt frem til trappen op til døren. Kampen fortsætter, men hajerne – eller ‘billetsjoverne’, som de bliver kaldt – holder skansen i front. Nu kommer politiet til og uddeler de obligatoriske stokkeslag helt tilfældigt i mængden for at få orden i køen. Billethajerne rører de stort set aldrig, for bestikkelse er hverdag, og hajerne er snu nok til at sørge for en klækkelig nytårsbonus til betjentene hvert år. De, der mødte tidligst op, er ofte dem, der ender bagest i køen.

Her kan de så stå, dryppende af sved efter kampen, totalt gennemblødte af regnen eller frysende helt ind i marven alt efter årstiden og vejret. Et par timer senere åbner billetsalget. Kundeservice og effektiv ekspedition er ukendte begreber, og billetsælgerne bag den lille luge tager det nærmest som en personlig fornærmelse, når man drister sig til at efterspørge deres produkt. Der går lang tid med hvert billetkøb. Hajerne køber mange billetter hver, og der er tit udsolgt efter kun 60-70 ekspeditioner. Så kommer en kontrollør frem og råber: “Alt er udsolgt”, og alle, der stadig står i køen, må gå slukørede hjem efter de mange timer foran teatret.

Der er naturligt nok mange, der klager over forholdene – ikke mindst over de professionelle billetopkøbere, som senere på dagen sælger morgenens fangst til ublu overpriser. Politimesteren og teaterledelsen forsøger at dæmme op for sortbørshandlen ved at indføre en regel om, at alle, der køber billetter på andres vegne, skal fremvise dokumentation. Hvis der er mistanke om, at seddelen er falsk, bliver den potentielle synder slæbt over torvet til forhør på politistationen på Charlottenborg. De eneste, der slipper for den ydmygende behandling, er naturligvis billethajerne, som igen blot bestikker sig til at kunne fortsætte deres indbringende forretning.

(uddrag fra min bog “Opera i guldalderens København”, der udkommer på Gyldendal til oktober) 

I have no doubt. And even though he didn’t live to see his own 36th birthday he left a recorded legacy of hundreds of recordings, most still unsurpassed by any other tenor since.

His name is Fritz Wunderlich. He was the reason I became hooked on opera at the age if 11, and I have spent countless hours listening to his recordings again and again. Recordings that span a period of only a rough decade, terminating in 1966.

On September 5th that year Fritz Wunderlich appeared at the Edinburgh Festival in a performance of Die Zauberflöte, and once more he was hailed as the outstanding Mozart tenor of the day. Wunderlich had sung Tamino hundreds of times before, but after the Edinburgh performances he asked Ferdinand Leitner, who was conducting, to go through the score with him. Wunderlich was not satisfied with his Tamino anymore – he knew that he could do better, and he wanted to bring new life to his interpretation. Leitner agreed to help, and invited him to his house. A date was settled for; Sunday September 18th.

Fritz Wunderlich never met Leitner that Sunday. Wunderlich died tragically the day before after falling down the stairs in a friend’s hunting lodge. The banister made of rope was not securely fastened to the wall and when Wunderlich tripped on the staircase he tore it out, falling head first onto the stone floor below. Afterwards it was noticed that Wunderlich had forgotten to tighten one of his shoe laces. He was taken unconscious to hospital, where he died a few hours later – little more than a week before his 36th birthday. The Edinburgh Zauberflöte was his last appearance on stage.

One of the most remarkable tenors in recording history was granted a career of only slightly more than a decade. All the more remarkable is the amazing number of recordings he made, many of which have remained in the catalogue continually to this date. Even in his very first sessions we hear some of the qualities that made Wunderlich the most celebrated German tenor after the War: The natural freshness of his voice, the expressive musicality, and above all his boundless enthusiasm. Wunderlich always sounds as if he is completely convinced of the music he is singing, be it Wozzeck or Der Bettelstudent.

Friedrich Karl Otto Wunderlich was born on September 26th, 1930 in the small village of Kusel in south-western Germany, close to the French border. Besides running a local inn with a small movie theatre both his parents were part-time musicians, and before his teens Fritz learned to play both the accordion and the trumpet. He often played dance music in his youth, and sometimes he would also croon a refrain. His voice turned out to be a natural tenor, and at the age of 19 he took his first singing lessons from a professional coach; once a week Wunderlich would bike the 40 kilometres to Kaiserslautern – and back again.

In 1950 he was accepted at the Hochschule für Musik in Freiburg, where he studied with Margarethe von Winterfeld. She taught him the technical basis of singing, devoting much time to intonation and breathing. Wunderlich made progress, and in 1954 he was chosen as Tamino in the Hochschule’s staging of Die Zauberflöte. He was now on his way towards a career that would soon give him his first contract with an opera house; a five-year beginner’s contract with the Württemberg State Opera in Stuttgart. Again, his first major role was Tamino. On February 18th, 1955 Wunderlich stepped in for an indisposed Josef Traxel, and was immediately recognised by both the audience and the critics as the new young lyric tenor of the theatre.

Others had their eyes and ears on Wunderlich too. Until recently it was believed that Wunderlich’s first experience in a recording studio was in late July 1955, recording Monteverdi’s Orfeo with August Wenzinger for Deutsche Grammophon’s Archiv label, but now it has been determined that Wunderlich’s recording debut took place a few days before in Stuttgart on July 17th, when the 24-year old singer recorded the tenor solo in Beethoven’s Symphony no. 9 with the Stuttgart Philharmonic conducted by Isaie Diesenhaus. Later in 1955 Wunderlich recorded, also in Stuttgart, a Bach cantata with the conductor Marcel Couraud for the French label Les Discophiles Francais.

Soon after Wunderlich was contacted by the Stuttgart-based record club Europäische Phonoklub. They wanted him as an exclusive artist, and the newly-wed Wunderlich was only happy to accept a monthly fee for a fixed number of recordings each year – a well needed supplement to his salary at the Stuttgart Opera. The Phonoklub recordings were intended for sale through the club only, and were not distributed to regular shops. The masters, however, were later bought by Eurodisc, who did not hesitate to issue them on a broader scale – much to the annoyance of Wunderlich, who tried persistently but fruitlessly to prevent the reissue of this material.

The first session for Europäische Phonoklub took place in September 1956. Wunderlich was to record highlights from La Bohème, Rodolfo being a part he had not studied in any detail. He turned up to the session at the Hotel Esplanade having prepared the first act aria and the following duet with Mimi only, and much to his surprise learned that he was also required to sing several ensembles scheduled for recording that same day. Fortunately, Wunderlich was phenomenal at sight-reading, thanks to his early experiences playing dance music, and indeed many of the popular songs and operetta arias Wunderlich later recorded were items that he saw more or less for the first time at the recording sessions.

During the following four years Wunderlich recorded extensively for EPK, mostly highlights from popular operas and operettas such as Cavalleria Rusticana, Madame Butterfly, Die Fledermaus and Raymond’s Maske in Blau, as well as several 7 and 10 inch records mainly consisting of single opera and operetta arias, all sung in German. The original Europäische Phonoklub records are not easy to find on the second hand market today, but a small selection from these recordings are now available on CD.

In 1956 Les Discophiles Francais again approached Wunderlich regarding a recording of three further Bach cantatas. Wunderlich, being tied to his contract with EPK, solved the problem; he used the assumed name of Werner S. Braun for the recordings, pressed in only 200 copies each, and numbered by hand in Roman numerals. When Philips later reissued the cantatas Wunderlich was still listed as Werner S. Braun on the cover.

Wunderlich was a frequent guest in the studios of the German radio stations, and a still increasing number of live recordings and broadcast productions of repertoire Wunderlich never recorded commercially are becoming available from companies such as Orfeo, Bella Voce and Myto. One of the most outstanding is the 1959 Salzburg recording of Richard Strauss’ Die schweigsame Frau. The part of Henry Morosus was Wunderlich’s debut at the Salzburg Festival, and the cast included Hans Hotter and Hermann Prey, the latter to become one of Wunderlich’s closest friends. Karl Böhm conducted the performances, and after the first performance Herbert von Karajan came backstage with a contract for the Vienna State Opera. But Wunderlich had to decline; he had just signed up with the opera in Munich, and he was determined to honour his obligations towards this contract.

In 1959 Wunderlich was offered a new recording contract, this time by Electrola, the German branch of EMI. Now, at the age of 29, he was recording for one of the leading companies. This also meant that he was competing with the other leading tenors on this label, mainly Nicolai Gedda and Rudolf Schock. During his time with Electrola Wunderlich was not allowed to record anything already in the company catalogue featuring other singers. Wunderlich consequently could not record his core repertoire, and this explains the absence of a complete Die Zauberflöte, Don Giovanni or Cosi fan tutte from Wunderlich’s Electrola period. Instead he recorded two German operas in the popular area; Nicolai’s Die lustigen Weiber von Windsor and Lorzing’s Der Wildschütz, two minor Wagnerian roles as well as numerous opera and operetta exerpts. Perhaps the most successful of the Electrola recordings is Smetana’s The Bartered Bride, a recording that reveals Wunderlich’s great comic talent, and shows how much fun and sparkling joy he is able to get across to the listener.

At the other end of the scale a couple of the Electrola recordings never seizes to amaze. Why, for instance, are the accompaniments for the two arias from L’elisir d’amore tampered with both harmonically and regarding the instrumentation? Surely, no one today would dream of exchanging the bassoon in ‘Una furtina lagrima’ with a cor anglaise! Or add a diminished chord and some romantic sounding chromatics to the few bars of the orchestral introduction to ‘Quanto é bella’.

In 1964 Wunderlich signed a new recording contract, this time with Deutsche Grammophon. His career now finally centred around the Vienna State Opera, and Wunderlich was in demand from opera houses all over Europe. Although the had to turn down more than 90 per cent of all the offers he received, a day with a morning rehearsal, an afternoon recording session and an evening performance was not unusual to Wunderlich.

One of the first recording projects for Wunderlich under his new contract was a very special event. His legendary Tamino was to be recorded in Berlin in June 1964, with Karl Böhm conducting, and among his partners were Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, Roberta Peters, Franz Crass, Evelyn Lear and Hans Hotter, in a set that is still one of the great Mozart recordings of all time. It is interesting to compare Wunderlich’s three commercial recordings of the ‘Bildnis’ aria from Die Zauberflöte. Going back to the 1958 recording for EPK we hear a nice, youthful voice, but throughout Wunderlich has a tendency to break the legato. He often separates repeated vowels with a ‘ha’ or ‘he’ sound; ‘und ewig wäre Sie dann mein’ becomes ‘un e-he-wi-hig wä-hä-re Sie dann mein’. This, combined with a habit of often starting a note softly and then make a crescendo on it, does not help the legato much.

In his next studio recording of this aria in 1960 with Berislav Klobucar Wunderlich’s voice has matured into the timbre of his peak. He still has not quite got rid of some of his earlier habits, but this is certainly a much more convincing interpretation.

Finally the complete recording from 1964, captivated in superb sound by the DG engineers. This performance has never been equalled on record for beauty, style and elegance. Here we have the ideal Tamino, a part that has matured with countless performances all over Europe with the world’s leading conductors. Just listen to the way Wunderlich builds up to the climax at the end of the aria. A truly great performance, one that I seriously doubt will ever be surpassed.

Besides his opera repertoire Wunderlich throughout his career sang in countless performances of the Bach passions and cantatas, and he was especially praised for his dramatic and yet deeply profound Evangelist in Bach’s Matthäus Passion. Unfortunately Decca for their only Wunderlich recording in 1964 chose to let him sing the arias only, leaving the Evangelist to Peter Pears. But happily Wunderlich’s Evangelist has been preserved in a 1962 live recording from Vienna conducted by Karl Böhm, recently unearthed and issued by Myto. Wunderlich is in superb voice, as is Christa Ludwig, but the set is marred by an inadequate choir and performances by Wilma Lipp and Otto Wiener that were better kept in eternal darkness. Listen with your finger on the CD-player’s skip button!

In November 1964 Wunderlich was in London for the only EMI recording still to come – one that goes right to the top of my desert island list; Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde with Otto Klemperer conducting. Often sung by strained and stiff heldentenors, it is a relief to hear the three songs with the perfect mixture of a forward, beautifully lyric sound combined with a powerful, flexible and full scaled interpretation. Wunderlich is in complete control of the dynamic demands made by Mahler ranging from the electrifying vision of the howling ape in the first song to the solemn description of the little pond with the green pavilion made of porcelain in the third.

The following year Wunderlich recorded the part of Andres in Alban Berg’s Wozzeck with Karl Böhm conducting. Wunderlich not only sang the fiendishly difficult music with complete ease, but also contributed the whistling required by Andres in the score, normally done by one of the flautists in the orchestra. Later that year he recorded Bach’s Weinachts Oratorium with Karl Richter in Munich, as well as another Mozart opera, Die Entführung with Eugen Jochum conducting. Here Wunderlich includes a glorious account of the virtuoso Baumeister aria, often cut in both performances and recordings.

In February 1966 Wunderlich was in Berlin, recording both Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis and the choral parts of Haydn’s Die Schöpfung, both with the same team of soloists and with Herbert von Karajan conducting. The rest of Die Schöpfung was recorded in 1968 and ’69 – after Wunderlich’s death, and with Werner Krenn taking over the remaining tenor solos. Fortunately Wunderlich recorded Uriel’s most important solos, including a ravishing account of the aria ‘Mit Würd’ und Hoheit angetan’.

Two of the most important of Wunderlich’s DG recordings are the lieder issues, Schumann’s Dichterliebe and Schubert’s Die schöne Müllerin, the latter being Wunderlich’s second studio recording of the song cycle, made only two months before his death. This recording was one of my first LPs, a gift from a music teacher who had a duplicate to spare, and it was my favourite record for a long time. I was around 13 years of age, and I must have driven my parents crazy playing the same record over and over. Still today, when I play this recording on CD, I await the awful moment in the eighth song ‘Morgengruss’ where a series of loud clicks anticipated a repeated grove, continuing the words ‘blauen Morgen’ again and again until I got up and moved the pick-up.

Comparing Wunderlich’s two commercial recordings of Die Schöne Müllerin there is not only a development of the voice, but also a striking difference in the interpretations. In the early recording for Europäische Phonoklub Wunderlich is clearly a little afraid of the task. The youthful, fresh voice is in itself a pleasure to listen to, but as an interpretation the 1957 recording has far to go. Wunderlich is cautious, he is slightly out of tune in several songs, and he often breathes in awkward places, breaking a phrase into several smaller – and he is not helped much by the heavy and not very inspired accompaniment by Kurt Heinz Stolze.

When he recorded the cycle again almost ten years later he had had a tremendous experience as a lieder singer on stage, having sung Die schöne Müllerin countless times in public – mostly with Hubert Giesen, who is also his accompanist on the DG recording. Giesen gives solid support without bringing much magic to the accompaniment, but he is nevertheless an improvement from Stolze. As an example of the difference between the two versions listen to the sixth song – ‘Der Neugierige’. In the phrase ‘Ein Wörtchen um und um’ one can on the DG recording enjoy the superb cantilena that Wunderlich did not posses in 1957. The second recording is a landmark in lieder singing on record, with beautiful phrasing and secure breathing as just the foundation of a truly great interpretation. It is not a Fischer-Dieskauian psychologically complex reading, but simply a straightforward and sincerely musical performance. Wunderlich now gives much more meaning to the words without any loss of the freshness, and it is a delight to hear the cycle sung by a mature tenor in full command of the music.

By only singing lyrical parts until his mid-thirties, Wunderlich left himself the choice of his future repertory: From where he stood at the time of his death he could have gone in several directions. Wunderlich cleverly rejected all the tempting offers he received from Wieland Wagner, who wanted him to sing Lohengrin in Bayreuth as early as 1958. Wunderlich was firm: No Wagner until after his 40th year. It has often been stated that Wunderlich would have been a sensational Lohengrin, von Stolzing or Siegmund, or even Tristan. But perhaps he would have preferred to sing the Italian lirico spinto repertoire, with parts like Radamès in Aïda and Cavaradossi in Tosca – both certainly to have been within his grasp in just a few more years.

Listen for instance to the live-recordings of La Traviata and to the Verdi Requiem – here he sounds every bit as ‘Italian’ as most native Italians. Thanks to Herbert von Karajan, a strong advocate for singing operas in their original language, we can also hear a live recording from the Vienna State Opera of Wunderlich’s Don Ottavio in Don Giovanni in Italian. And what a difference from the studio recording of his two arias in German. Suddenly the music flows easily, and it is as if the Italian language presses a button in Wunderlich, almost transforming him to another singer, seemingly born in Milan or Rome. At the time of his tragic death he was planning to add both The Duke in Rigoletto and Rodolfo in La Bohème to his repertoire.

Wunderlich often sang the small but tricky part of the Italian singer in Der Rosenkavalier, and one of these performances has been preserved; a gala performance at the Munich Opera in May 1965. Here Wunderlich surpasses himself singing with an almost diabolical ringing force right through to the point where he is interrupted by Baron Ochs. This aria is well worth the price of the three CDs altogether!

Whether his voice would have coped with this treatment in the long run is of course purely speculation today, but the Finnish bass Kim Borg, who sang with Wunderlich on several occasions, recalls the way that Wunderlich always gave his most in every single performance: “Even though it sounds like the sort of thing one would only say looking back, I was already then suspicious that Wunderlich’s career would perhaps be a short one. He simply gave everything he had, he never spared his voice – and I think he would have had problems later if his career had been longer”.

Wunderlich never lived to experience problems like these. In September 1966 he was due for rehearsals at The Metropolitan in New York for his house debut as Don Ottavio in Don Giovanni. But the air ticket across the Atlantic had to be cancelled. The death notice in the newspapers read only one line: ‘Fate has taken everything from us’.

In 1942 The Danish State Radio Symphony Orchestra did a concert with Ernest Ansermet conducting Ravel’s Shéhérazade. Ansermet was very unhappy and anxious with the choice of soloist; he wanted a native French mezzo soprano in the delicate work, and did not imagine that a Danish singer would be able to do justice to his – and Ravel’s – language. But after the first rehearsal the conductor’s second thoughts vanished – for two reasons. The reason – Else Brems always emphasised this herself – was that she was able to produce a few packets of much-needed cigarettes for Ansermet – not easy to come by in German-occupied Copenhagen. But the modest soloist surely had more assets than this to win Ansermet over – her beautiful velvet tone, her dignified phrasing and her perfect French must have removed the last bit of doubt; here was not just a mediocre local mezzo, but a singer with the potential to sing repertoire like this anywhere in the world.

Else Brems’ career was nevertheless basically a local one, singing at the Royal Danish Opera in Copenhagen for three decades. She also toured Denmark with lieder and song recitals, she was a regular solist with conductor Mogens Wøldike, with whom she performed the Bach passions and Handel oratorios, and she was often required for song recitals and operetta productions at the Danish Radio, as well as appearances at the prestigiuos Thursday evening concerts with the Danish State Radio Symphony Orchestra. During the War she became a household name in her native country, and if the tenor Aksel Schiøtz was the most loved Danish male singer at that time, Brems was surely his female equivalent.

Else Brems was born on 16th July 1908 in Copenhagen into a very musical family. Her mother Gerda was a pianist and her father Anders Brems a clarinettist turned singer, concentrating on songs. He even made a few 78’s, as well as a singing manual. It was Anders Brems who first taught the young Else, and at the age of 17 she went with him to Italy and sang for no less than the ‘glory of Italy’, the baritone Mattia Battistini, who was now living in retirement outside Rome. He was very encouraging, and Else went back home with confidence in a future career as a singer. Her interest in the French repertoire was soon kindled in Paris, where she studied for four months with Charles Cunelli. On 3rd December 1928 she gave her debut recital in Copenhagen, and both public and critics were enthusiastic with the 20-year old mezzo with the sonorous voice and the secure musicianship.

Next step on the career-ladder was a debut at the Royal Danish Opera, and a year later this became a reality. Else Brems started her operatic career with the part that would become hers like no other; Carmen. She had prepared well for it, and again she was recognised as the young Danish mezzo of the future. Bizet’s gypsy would later bring her to Vienna, Warszaw, Budapest and Stockholm, as well as to Covent Garden in London – where she in 1948 sang the part in English. In Copenhagen alone she sang Carmen at more than 100 performances. She fought hard against the traditional vulgar image of the character emphasising her more refined and delicate aspects, much helped by Leo Blech who conducted a number of performances of the opera in Copenhagen in 1930. Brems was able to seduce without rolling her eyes wildly or making large gestures.

A very interesting live recording was made in December 1937, when Else Brems was appearing as guest at the Vienna Opera with Bruno Walter conducting. He had waited a long time to do Carmen: “I have put it off until now, because I need a strong personality for the title role, a singer with real temperament. I believe that I have now found this in a Danish mezzo. Now I will be able to stage the opera as I think Bizet would have wanted it.” The few recorded excerpts from these performances (in German) have been reissued in the Wiener Staatsoper Live series, but unfortunately they devote more attention to the Michaëla of Esther Réthy and the Don José of Todor Mazaroff than to the Carmen of Brems. In 1944, however, she recorded both the Habanera and the Seguidilla commercially (in Danish) for the Tono company:

Here, as well as on the live recording from Vienna, one clearly hears the international class of the voice; her ravishing sound and thoroughly musical phrasing – a dignified Carmen, but not without sex appeal in the voice.

Sten Høgel

The recordings reveal a singer with a wonderful sonorous middle register, but also with a slight problem with high notes. “Brems was a wonderful singer within her rather limited range,” says Sten Høgel, lecturer at the University of Copenhagen, where he for several years taught alongside Else Brems. “She was uncomfortable with the high register, probably because she did not get the proper technical training early on. She should have been able to sing for instance the high B in the Seguidilla on Carmen, but the recording shows that it was not really within her range. G sharp seems to have been her upper limit.”

Sten Høgel is also the man behind the first major Brems-reissue; a double CD devoted to the most important Danish mezzo of this century. The set has been issued by Danacord, following the success of their much-acclaimed and prize-winning Aksel Schiøtz Edition – more details can be found on the Danacord home page here.

Else Brems recorded rather few operatic 78s considering her popularity, but among the finest are two arias from Saint-Saëns’ Samson et Dalila, recorded in 1945. Especially her account of ‘Printemps qui commence’ stands up against all competitors on record; she apparently has all the time (and air-supply) in the world, and her complete mastery of the French language is demonstrated fully.

In addition to these her most important commercial recordings, the Danacord CDs also contains a considerable amount of archive material from the Danish Radio as well as private acetates and tape recordings. The dentist Nanna Kallenbach had a number of off-air acetates made in the 1940’s, and these unique recordings gives us a glimpse of some more of Brems’ French repertoire, mainly music by Ravel and Debussy. Some of the acetates were in such a bad shape that they have probably been played for the last time during the work with the transfers for the Danacord CDs. Engineers Clemens Johansen and Niels Flensted from the Danish Radio has devoted countless hours of work to restoring the delicate originals, removing as much background noise as possible without changing or distorting the timbre of Brems’ voice.

It was not just an easy task to select the recordings, and the inclusion of the 1953-recording of Brahms’ Alto rhapsody was made after much consideration. A certain decline in the steadiness of her voice is apparent from the early 1950’s onwards. “I honestly don’t think that the recording of the Brahms is very flattering for Brems,” Sten Høgel admits. “Here you clearly hear the technical decline of the only 45-year old singer and I feel uncomfortable hearing how she has to do little tricks just to get through the piece; some of the glissandi she makes simply to survive to the top notes. It is a live recording from the archives of the Danish Radio, and when it first came out on LP Brems herself gave the permission. Later she told me that she regretted her decision, but many people wanted this famous performance included, and in the end I surrendered.”

Another interesting recording is of two exerpts from Gershwins Porgy and Bess. In 1943 the opera was heard for the first time in Europe at the Royal Danish Opera – in spite of threads of bombing by the occupying Nazi forces – with Else Brems as Bess, transposing some of the music down to suit her range.

Else Brems sang at the Royal Danish Opera for 32 years, singing parts like Lola in Mascagni’s Cavalleria rusticana, Orfeus in Gluck’s Orfeus et Euridice, Conception in Ravel’s L’heure espagnol and Siebel in Gounod’s Faust. Several Danish composers wrote operas especially for Else Brems, among them Knudåge Riisager and Ebbe Hamerik. An exerpt from the latters Marie Grubbe is included in the Danacord set, and on a Naxos reissue of live material from the Royal Danish Opera she can be heard in snippets from Kirke og Orgel by Johan Hye-Knudsen and Susanne by Knudåge Riisager – all works that have now (perhaps with good reason) fallen out of the repertory, but it is nevertheless well worth a listen if you are interested in hearing Danish opera of the post-Nielsen period.

Even though Else Brems later admitted that vocal technique never really had interested her much, she never lost interest in renewing the interpretations of her repertoire. In 1937, as a well-established artist of 31 with almost a decade of professional work behind her, she went to New York to study with Enrico Rosati, one-time teacher of Beniamino Gigli.

In 1940 Else Brems married the Icelandic tenor Stefan Islandi, a regular guest at the Royal Danish Opera. Together they got a son, but the marriage was not a success, and a divorce came through in 1949. The son, Eyvind Brems-Islandi, had inherited his father’s tenor voice, but he tragically committed suicide in 1974 at the age of 34.

By this time Else Brems was teaching a new generation of singers at the University of Copenhagen, and generally lead a quiet life away from the public scene. She was unwilling to talk about her artistic life, she never listened to her recordings, and was totally incapable of understanding that anyone could be even remotely interested in her career.

This shyness and modesty is perhaps also the reason why Else Brems is not a name that appears more often in the annals of the international opera houses. It was certainly not any language barriers that kept her away; she sang Carmen on stage not only in French and Danish, but also in German and English. Of course the War prohibited her work outside Denmark at a crucial time in her career, but more than anything is was probably Brems own modesty that in the end kept her away from a large-scale career. Within her rather limited repertory she was certainly in the international league, but she was just too nice a person to push herself forward.

Else Brems died in Copenhagen in 1995, and it was only after her death that Sten Høgel began research for the reissues on CD: “Time and time again I have wanted to ask Else for advice during my work, but all I can do is hope that she would have approved of my choices.” He is, however, proud and happy that the best of Else Brems is now available on CD. “She was a great artist and a wonderful person. We all loved her, colleagues and students alike,” says Sten Høgel. “She was a queen here at the University, and I feel a great joy that her finest recordings will now finally be available to collectors of beautiful voices and fine interpreters.”

© Henrik Engelbrecht 2016.
This article is a revised version of one that originally appeared in Gramophone’s special magazine International Opera Collector in 1999. 

He composed a trombone concerto and two symphonies, he had a degree in chemical engineering as well as being a front-line wartime photographer. Add to this a singing career that took him to more than 30 opera houses, including The Met, Bolshoi and The Vienna State Opera, and almost 100 recordings – and you still have a fairly inaccurate picture of the versatile and multitalented Finnish bass baritone Kim Borg.

Kim Borg celebrated his 80th birthday in 1999 and the British magazine Gramophone wanted an interview. I went to see Kim Borg in his 230 square metres flat in the north of Copenhagen, and I soon sensed that this is the home of a very special singer. All the rooms were covered with bookshelves – with even more books lying on tables and on the floor. Not only scores and books on music, but books on practically any subject you could ask for. Both Borg and his wife, Ebon, were avid readers. “I read a lot. Right now I’m studying the life of Carl Linné, the Swedish botanist – a manic genius. I myself am not exactly manic, but like Linné I have always been hard working”.

The son of an architect father and a music teaching mother, Kim Borg was born in Helsinki on August 7th, 1919. His mother gave him the first singing lessons, and it was obvious that young Kim had an unusual material. “Low voices is a kind of family tradition. As a boy my voice was too deep even for singing alto parts in the local boys choir.” At first there was nothing, though, to indicate that Borg would end up singing professionally. “I wanted to be an architect like my father, but he advised me strongly against it. It was an insecure profession, and very little was built in Finland then. So I turned to chemical engineering for the safety in it.”

But all along Borg continued to sing in local choirs, and he began to discover the repertoire for his voice. “I was a quick learner. At sixteen I sang King Philips monologue from Verdis Don Carlos – apart from the high E. That single note eluded me completely. But I sang a lot of music early on – mostly in male choirs while studying at the University of Technology in Helsinki.”

“My first real teacher was a friend of the family, Heikki Teittinen. He was not the right teacher for me, and his method consisted of almost violent exercises that in the end made me lose my voice completely. That was actually the idea of his method; you have to destroy the voice as it is, and then rebuild it. It was awful. In the end I lost interest in singing altogether, and it took years for my voice to recover”

But the Continuation War, following the Winter War between Finland and the Soviet Union in 1941, changed the 22 year old Borgs life completely. He was by now an avid photographer, and was enlisted as such. This meant front line work in very difficult circumstances, and Borg considers it a miracle that he survived. “Of course I was scared, but not as much as I should have been, if I had known just how dangerous the whole thing was.” says Borg today. After the war he graduated as a chemical engineer in 1946, and two years later he found himself studying musical theory and composition at the Sibelius Academy in Helsinki. All along Borg continued his voice lessons with Adelaide von Skilondz in Stockholm and Magnus Andersen in Copenhagen.

His official recital debut in 1947 did not lead to engagement at the Finnish National Opera, but through a job as Colline in La bohème with a Danish provincial company Borg eventually ended up in Copenhagen. “Gremin in Eugen Onegin is a very important part even though it lasts is only 7 minutes all together. And my succes was almost frighteningly colossal.” That was in 1952, and Kim Borg was now offered a contract as a member of the Royal Opera in Copenhagen. “The salary was more than generous, but it was very difficult to sing elsewhere. You were required to be at the disposal of the theatre at all times, and this was not helpful if you wanted to try your luck at the international scenes.”

Nevertheless Borg did get permission to sing abroad, and at 33 years of age his international career began taking him all over the opera-producing world. Now Borg was required not only to sing, but also to act. “At that time directors generally did not demand all those stupid things of a singer that are now common – singing lying down or with your back to the audience, for instance. I learned early on to act as little as possible, and I think I was helped a lot by my natural stage presence. I did not have to do spectacular things to get the attention of the audience, but then again it robbed me of the possibility to sing minor roles. As the 2nd Armoured Man in The Magic Flute I would simply be too imposing on stage.”

In 1959 Borg made his debut at the Met singing the Count in Le nozze di Figaro – not the only role in Borg’s repertoire often sung by baritones. “Don Giovanni is certainly better suited to a bass than to a baritone. Nowadays, unfortunately, baritones often sing the part – but it suited my voice perfectly.” The repertoire for bass is crowded with villains and angry fathers – but Kim Borg always tried to find the human side of any character. As the demonic Baron Scarpia in Tosca he was one of the few singers to emphasise the beauty of the lines in Puccinis music. This he did with a natural phrasing that can be sampled in the complete recording he made of the opera for Deutsche Grammophon in 1961 with Horst Stein conducting a cast including Stefania Woytowicz as Tosca and Sandor Konya as Cavaradossi.

Borg is superb in blending the dark sides of Scarpia with the elegance and craftsmanship of a real seducer, but, alas, the whole thing is sung in German. This reflects the state of the German record industry in the sixties. Kim Borg signed up with Deutsche Grammophon at a time when they would issue operatic exerpts in two versions; one in the original language and one in German. “A completely silly idea altogether”, says Borg today, “but I had to sing Verdi and Puccini in German if I wanted to make records at all. DG head me in Berlin and they signed me up immediately. I had the great fortune to record lieder with the eminent accompanist Michael Raucheisen. He was amazing in pieces like Schuberts “Erlkönig” – a great inspiration.”

Unlike many famous colleagues Kim Borg never took much interest in his own recordings. “I never listen to them, and I do not own an even remotely complete collection of them. They simply don’t interest me.” One of the gems in the Borg discography is King Marke’s monologue “Tatest du’s wirklich?” from Tristan and Isolde recorded in 1954. Here Borg’s both dignified and heartbreaking portrait of the anguished King gives as much pleasure as anyone on record. One hears how well suited Wagner is to the dark and yet flexible voice. “I have sung everything Wagner wrote within my range. He was a bastard as a person, but he really knew how to write music”.

Mussorgsky is an essential composer for a bass like Kim Borg. Many will remember his superb contributions to EMI’s acclaimed 1952 recording of Boris Godunov conducted by Issay Dobrowen – not in the title role but as Rangoni and Shchelkalov, two minor characters. Around the same time Borg recorded Pimen’s narrative for DG, and a decade later he added Boris’ monologue and the death scene for a recital LP conducted by Horst Stein. “Mussorgsky is music made for my voice,” says Borg.. “I head Ezio Pinza sing some of his music in Italian, and I knew that this was something for me. He was a very musical man, but his lack of theoretical education is evident in the music. It is often said that he was an alcoholic – and he was, but then again; everyone was in Russia then! Nowadays it is common to perform Boris Godunov in Mussorgsky’s original instrumentation, but I quite disagree with this. The Rhimsky-Korsakoff version is much better – and I have sung all of them, including Schostakovich’, which is of course made by a genius instrumentator, but I think it is too dry – and lacking in warmth.” This is clearly a favourite subject with Borg, who himself has made an instrumentation of Mussorgsky’s “Songs and dances of Death”, a version often performed in concert halls today.

Here’s a rare clip of Kim Borg performing on TV in 1961 with Gerald Moore at the piano:

In 1965 Borg sang in Haydn’s The Creation in Salzburg under Karajan. “Karajan was a unique conductor. He was so easy to work with, and although he sang terribly himself he certainly knew exactly what to expect from each individual singer. And he was never afraid of taking liberties with the music – he didn’t just perform the notes, he always made music!” Listening to the live recording of the Salzburg Creation of 1965, it is obvious that Borg felt at ease with Karajan, daring to sing the parts of Raphael and Adam with all the nuances in his voice. It is interesting to compare this recording with the later patch-work studio-recording made with almost the same team (although Borg is replaced by Walter Berry as Rafael and by Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau as Adam, and Fritz Wunderlich, due to his untimely death before the sessions were completed, is sharing the tenor part with Werner Krenn). I much prefer the live version with Borg to both the Karajan studio-version without Borg or to Borg’s earlier Markevitch recording, most of all because of the way Borg clearly enjoys the event of a live concert. I much prefer his no-nonsense approach to the music of Adam to that of Fischer-Dieskau, and most of all I appreciate the fact that Borg has infinitely more power in reserve for use at crucial moments than either of his two colleagues on the DG recording. In addition the live recording has Wunderlich all the way through – enough for me to listen through the rather dimly recorded sound from Salzburg.

Kim Borg is Finnish, and he never forgot his home, although he spent most of his life far from its lakes and woods. And wherever he sang in recital he brought not only the songs of Sibelius with him, he was also a strong advocate for lesser known contemporary Finnish composers like Oskar Merikanto and Yrjö Kilpinen. “Sibelius’ songs are not really for my voice – they are a bit too high. The same can be said about the songs of Kilpinen, but I sang them just the same. Kilpinen was a manic worker – almost like Schubert. He wrote 600 songs, and I have done all of them. I guess I did too much Kilpinen in the end. They are nice songs, but now I’m a bit fed up with them.” Borg recorded a selection of Kilpinen songs in 1959 with the pianist Pentti Koskimies. As a sample of Borgs eminent gift for acting through the microphone try out the sinister meeting between Death and the lonely drunkard in Kilpinen’s “Der Tod und der einsame Trinker”, or listen to the simple beauty of “Minnen”. Also included on the CD are some Borgs own songs; they are more complimentary of the composer Kim Borg than of the singer, being recorded in 1979 by the 60-year old Borg in rather uneven voice.

In 1972 he had accepted a position as professor in Copenhagen. “Voice teaching really is bogus! I was appointed professor at the Royal Academy of Music in Copenhagen, and then I of course had to teach. But basically I think that singing can’t be taught. The best thing a teacher can do for a student is to stay away from the voice and leave it to develop naturally. It is only possible to teach singers who themselves are bright enough to do it properly.” Kim Borg admits that he himself had not only a good material in his throat but also a certain talent for music. “The musicality lies in the phrasing of the lines – not just in having an accurate ear for intonation or facility in reading music.”

The interview was coming to an end and Kim Borg summed it all up: “Perhaps I was not a real singer – more of a musician” he says. “I had a quite good basic voice, but not more than that. It was the talent that made the difference. As I said before I don’t think singing can be taught; you have to have it inside of you, you have to do it naturally, otherwise you can just as well forget it.”

© Henrik Engelbrecht 2016.
This article is a revised version of one that originally appeared in Gramophone’s special magazine International Classical Record Collector in 2000. 

He was almost synonymous with the Danish national song heritage as well as being one of the 20th century’s truly remarkable lyric tenors. His career spanned over little more than a decade. It was crudely interrupted in 1946, when he barely survived a tumor acusticus operation that changed his voice forever. The recordings he made after the operation – as a baritone – does not in any way compare with the ones he before his illness.

I can’t remember when I first heard the voice of Aksel Schiøtz. I don’t think many Danes can. Just like Edith Piaf in France or Frank Sinatra in the United States he just seems to have always been there. But I am quite sure that whenever I heard Schiøtz first it must have been on the radio, probably during the popular Sunday afternoon request-hour. Not many Sundays went by without Aksel Schiøtz singing one of the popular songs from Emil Reesen’s operetta Farinelli and it is indeed difficult to grow up in Denmark without ever hearing the Danish songs by Nielsen or Weyse sung with the velvety sound, the clarity of diction and the pure musicianship of Aksel Schiøtz.

Just what makes a singer stand out from the crowd is not always easy to tell, but with Aksel Schiøtz I am certain that it is his youthful, almost boyish open sound. The voice we hear on the records is a well-focused, truly lyric tenor with a perfectly placed vibrato. It sounds so natural and effortless, and still has a very personal ring to it.

Few Danes are aware that the man who still today is almost synonymous with our national song heritage is also one of this century’s truly remarkable lyric tenors. His career spanned over little more than a decade, until it was crudely interrupted in 1946, when he barely survived a tumor acusticus operation that changed his voice forever. The recordings he later made as a baritone does not in any way compare with the ones he before his illness.

During the years from 1933 to 1946 Aksel Schiøtz recorded more than 200 sides for HMV. In the autumn of 1996 the Danish Danacord label launched the first of ten volumes in a complete edition of the recordings made by Schiøtz as a tenor, now available in an 11-CD box at bargain price. The sound restoration was done by Andrew Walter at EMI’s Abbey Road studios, and Danacord all along collaborated with Gerd Schiøtz, widow of Aksel and at that time still living in Copenhagen. ‘I have never heard Aksel’s voice sound so natural on record as they do now’ said Gerd Schiøtz, then aged 89. ‘These new transfers are superior to all previous attempts that I have heard.’

Aksel Schiøtz was born in 1906 in Roskilde, just 30 kilometres from Copenhagen. After language studies at the University of Copenhagen he became a schoolteacher, but his interest in singing took all his spare time. Two persons would soon encourage the young teacher to make a career of his voice. In 1931 Schiøtz married Gerd Haugsted, who came out of a musical family, and who was soon acting as a combination of wife and agent for Aksel. And she was not the only one to guide his career. ‘I had a competitor whose influence on my dear husband was to last for many years, and would sometimes closely resemble tyranny’ says Gerd Schiøtz. This competitor was Mogens Wöldike, whom Schiøtz met at the age of 24. Wöldike, himself then only 32, was already a man of considerable power in the musical life of Denmark. He was not only working as organist at one of the foremost churches in Copenhagen, but was also examiner at the Royal Conservatory and the University of Copenhagen, conductor of the famed Palestrina choir, and was continuing the work of Thomas Laub in restoring the Danish church singing traditions.

Aksel Schiøtz became a member of the Palestrina Choir, and when Mogens Wöldike in 1931 formed the Copenhagen Boys and Male Choir, Schiøtz was chosen as one of the tenors. The foundation of this choir was a school for boys with special emphasis on music in the curriculum, and the fact that he convinced the Danish authorities to support this idea tells us much about the energy, boldness and authority of Mogens Wöldike. But he was a man not to be contradicted. Gerd Schiøtz: ‘We nicknamed him ‘The Wöldike’ and the term was used in our home like ‘The Lord’ and ‘The devil’.’

Wöldike soon gave Schiøtz solo parts in the oratorio concerts given by the boys choir. Schiøtz himself has described the rehearsals with Wöldike: ‘Wöldike’s rehearsals with soloists had, with all their relaxed mood, a feeling of examination. It went without saying that you had done your utmost and that you had learnt your lesson, so that he could put his artistic stamp on your performance.’ Volume one of the Schiøtz edition contains 10 minutes of a previously unissued rehearsal where Wöldike conducts two Handel arias, and the brief spoken dialogue between Schiøtz and Wöldike clearly shows their teacher/pupil relationship.

Schiøtz did his first recording in 1933 on the Polyphon label as an anonymous member of a jazz-inspired ensemble (Polyphon X50 190). In spite of this and other early attempts in the studios his serious recording career only began a couple of years later. Someone heard Schiøtz around Christmas 1937 – someone important. On 17th January 1938 Aksel Schiøtz wrote to his wife:

‘Telephone call from Hartkopp, head of Skandinavisk Grammofon (Danish HMV). He said, ‘Take hold of yourself, Schiøtz. Yesterday I was told by our London Office to find the singer A.S., presumed to live in Copenhagen, and to make some test records, a concert aria by Mozart and an aria from Die Entführung, paid for by the London Office, and without obligation on either side.’ Hartkopp was quite dumbfounded, he did not know anything about me…’

And so, on 1st March 1938, Schiøtz recorded the requested tests for London. Only one side of three has survived, the first part of ‘Per pietà, non ricercate’, KV 420. Apparently the London HMV office liked what they heard, and they suggested that the Danish branch should record Schiøtz in a series of Danish songs. But Hartkopp had already done so himself, knowing that if London was interested in a young Danish artist then he was worth serious attention.

Whenever Schiøtz made important decisions Wöldike was consulted. And one decision had to be taken sooner rather than later; until now Schiøtz had divided his life between teaching at several schools and singing as a semi-professional tenor, but now time was simply inadequate. Schiøtz finally gave up teaching.

HMV in London wanted Schiøtz to come over at the specific request of Fritz Busch who had heard Schiøtz and was considering him for Glyndebourne. On the 4th July 1938 at 11 am Schiøtz sang for a distinguished panel at HMV, among them Fred Gaisberg, Rex Palmer and Lawrence Collingwood, and they all agreed that HMV would take Schiøtz under their wings.

The very next day Schiøtz travelled to Glyndebourne where the panel was no less frightening; Fritz Busch, Carl Ebert, Rudolf Bing and the owner of the estate, John Christie. After hearing Schiøtz, Busch gave him the advise to choose between the oratorio- and concert repertory or the opera. Busch tended to believe that the voice did not have enough ‘bite’ for opera, but that if Schiøtz chose the oratorio all the Mozart operas would of course be within his grasp.

This was just what Schiøtz himself felt; he now wanted to educate his voice further in this direction, and again Mogens Wöldike was consulted. Schiøtz was until then primarily self-taught and he needed a good voice teacher. Valdemar Lincke was chosen, a highly respected teacher in Copenhagen, and later Schiøtz also studied in Sweden with the famous baritone and former director of the Stockholm Opera, John Forsell.

Schiøtz also kept up his work in the recording studio. By the end of 1939 the HMV catalogue could boast more than 50 song recordings by Schiøtz as well as several popular records with Schiøtz appearing under cover as ‘The Masked Tenor’. When hearing these recordings with dance bands and cinema organ it is easy to understand why Schiøtz was immediately recognised by the public as the mysterious tenor; his pure voice, the phrasing and diction gives him away at once.

This recognisable voice, together with his special feeling for the Danish repertory soon made Aksel Schiøtz a popular recording artist in his home country. Most recordings were done in Copenhagen, but in May 1939 Schiøtz recorded his first attempts at a couple of songs from Schubert’s Die schöne Müllerin, in London with accompanist Gerald Moore. It would be five years until Schiøtz could return to London to record the complete cycle.

On April 9th 1940 the War reached Denmark, and all thoughts of an international career had to be abandoned. Aksel Schiøtz now became a symbol of the Danish struggle for liberty, singing at open-air concerts for thousands of people wanting to sing along to the patriotic songs. He even wanted to become an active member of the Danish resistance, but they couldn’t use him. His face was to well-known, and he would be much more useful to the nation’s morale by continuing to sing.

It was not without danger for himself or his family that Schiøtz in this way supported the Danish nationalism. Gerd Schiøtz has her own theory on why Aksel Schiøtz never had really serious trouble with the occupants: ‘I saw the German officers at Aksel’s recitals. They had tears in their eyes when they heard him sing the songs they knew – especially Schubert.’

But Schiøtz fought the Germans in his own ways – for instance by insisting to sing at the funeral of the writer and vicar Kaj Munk, who openly supported the resistance and was assassinated by the Germans in 1944.

When he was on tour in Sweden he was frequently asked by Jewish refugees to bring back messages to their relatives in Denmark. Schiøtz knew, however, that all his luggage would be thoroughly searched by the German police when he returned to Denmark and that it would be impossible to conceal any letters. He then wrote the messages in his music, below the original words, and he hoped that the Germans would take the Danish words in pencil for his own translation of the text. He was never exposed.

Many of the recordings made by Schiøtz during the years from 1940 to 1945 were repeats of Danish songs. The reason for this is the fact that all matrixes had been shipped to London for pressing, and now the War prevented all import from the allied countries. For Aksel Schiøtz the War may have been a boost for his local recording career in Denmark – but it also was a serious blow to his dream of an international career.

After the liberation of Denmark on 5th May 1945, Schiøtz had to fight a new struggle. He had been labelled ‘singer of Danish songs’, everybody wanted him to sing the same repertoire that he had done during the dark years, but he also wanted to be recognised for singing Bach, Handel, Mozart and Schubert.

In November 1945 he joined Gerald Moore in London and together they recorded one of the most consistently successful versions of Schubert’s Die Schöne Müllerin. In January they recorded lieder by Grieg and Brahms (only Grieg’s A Poet’s last Song was issued on 78 as X 7203, the remaining 5 songs were not issued until the fifties on a 7 inch EP) as well as Schumann’s Dichterliebe.  It is these recordings together with the Mozart arias conducted by Egisto Tango and the Bach, Handel and Haydn recordings with Mogens Wöldike that form the true legacy of the international tenor Aksel Schiøtz.

My own particular favourites in the Schiøtz discography are spread out pretty evenly over his recording career. I am not ashamed to admit that I thoroughly enjoy the recordings made by “the masked tenor” with cinema organ; especially the wonderfully sentimental Solens vuggevise. What I admire so much is the sincerity and enthusiasm ever present in the recordings, whether Schiøtz sings a Schubert lied or croons a popular refrain. Of the lieder recordings I have a special soft point for the 1940-recording of eight songs from Die Schöne Müllerin. It may not have the insight that the later complete recording has, but the voice is fresher, and I can almost hear the excitement of Schiøtz as he records these songs for the first time. His recording of Lenski’s aria from Eugen Onegin, although sung in Danish, is also a real gem – a glimpse of the operatic side of Schiøtz.

Of the many Danish songs Schiøtz recorded I am especially fond of the purity and beauty of line in his second recording of Underlige aftenlufte – one of the many Carl Nielsen songs he recorded during the War. In this song about longing for home Schiøtz together with the accompanist Herman D. Koppel finds a perfect intimate atmosphere without a touch of sentimentality.

In 1946 the future seemed prosperous for the 40-year old Schiøtz. Walter Legge was the producer at many of the London sessions and he had great recording plans for Schiøtz, and at Glyndebourne he sang the role of the Male Chorus in Britten’s The Rape of Lucretia alongside Kathleen Ferrier. But Schiøtz had not been feeling well for some time and knew that something was seriously wrong. The doctor’s verdict came in November; a tumour on the acoustic nerve. Operating was risky but essential, and even though Schiøtz survived, half his face was permanently paralysed. Although the doctors predicted that he would never sing again, he did fight himself back to the concert stage in 1948. But the golden tenor voice was gone forever.

In Denmark Aksel Schiøtz was still the personification of the Danish song to the public. Not many people at home recognised Schiøtz as a man who had been one of the world’s leading tenors in his field. The Royal Conservatory in Copenhagen would have nothing to do with him as a singing teacher since he did not have any formal education as a singer. The Schiøtz family could not make a living from record royalties – especially since the industry was still suffering very much from post-war restrictions – and some decision had to be taken.

The solution was immigration. In 1955 Schiøtz and his family moved across the Atlantic, where he taught at universities in Minnesota, Toronto and Colorado, as well as giving masterclasses and recitals. Finally, in 1968 he was offered a professorship at The Royal Danish School of Educational Studies in Copenhagen, a position that turned out to be a disappointment. Aksel Schiøtz died in Copenhagen in 1975 of cancer caused by the radioactive contrast fluid injected in his body in connection with the operation in 1946.

The complete 11 CD Aksel Schiøtz Edition is available directly from Danacord and can be ordered here.

—

© Henrik Engelbrecht 2016.
This article is a revised version of one that originally appeared in Gramophone’s special magazine International Classical Record Collector in 1997. 

Peter Schram

The Danish bassbaritone Peter Schram made his operatic debut at the Royal Opera in Copenhagen in 1841, two years before Patti was even born, and he sang Leporello for the first time 1846. He was by then a regular soloist at the Royal Opera, but wanted to continue his studies in Paris. Garcia was enthusiastic about his Danish pupil, and he suggested Schram for the Paris Opera. But Schram was homesick, he declined and returned to Copenhagen. His only appearance outside Denmark was in Stockholm where he sang alongside Jenny Lind. After his retirement as a singer in 1889 he continued to perform as an actor until a few months before his death.

The fact that we today can hear the voice of a singer born in 1841 we owe to Gottfried Moses Ruben, himself born in 1837 into a Jewish family in Copenhagen. As a young man he was employed in his father’s gentlemen’s outfitting shop, and after living in London for eight years he married the daughter of a wealthy Copenhagen merchant in 1872 and now moved to Lisbon. His wife’s bad health forced them to return to Copenhagen after three years, and Ruben was now named Portuguese consul-general. He set up a business of importing wine and cork from Portugal, and this apparently was a lucrative business; his yearly income was now more than 8.000 kroner – in comparison a girl servant around 1890 received from 100 to 120 kroner a year.

Precisely where and when Ruben first heard Edison’s perfected phonograph of 1888 we do not know, but it might well have been at the Paris exhibition during the summer of 1889, where Edison himself also was present, or it could have been in Germany or England. At any rate it was from London that he imported his first Edison phonograph – from Colonel Gouraud’s Edison Phonograph Company.

The Edison stand at the exhibition in Paris in 1889

Ruben became Edison’s agent not only in Denmark, but in all the Nordic countries; Sweden, Norway and Finland (Iceland was at that time a part of Denmark). He teamed up with the firm Cornelius Knudsen, specialising in optical and mechanical devices, and one of the first companies in Europe to import one of Edison’s original tin-foil phonographs more than 10 years earlier. Ruben made Cornelius Knudsen sole retailer of Edison phonographs in Copenhagen, and in late September 1889 the first machine arrived – along with a technician from London.

All Summer the Danes had been reading about Edison’s new invention. In August the newspapers had enthused about Edison’s visit to London, and only two weeks earlier Edison had demonstrated the machine to the German Emperor. The Danish public was eager to experience the wonder for themselves, and Ruben knew just how to get the public even more interested; he offered a demonstration of his phonograph at the Danish court.

The first notice of Ruben’s new phonograph in the Copenhagen newspapers appeared in Dagens Nyheder on September 29th:

“An Edison phonograph has now arrived in Copenhagen. The machine, owned by a consortium, was yesterday sent to Fredensborg [Summer residence of the Royal family]….The invention received thundering applause from the royalty”.

The royalty on this occasion was not only the Danish King Christian IX and Queen but also included czar Alexander of Russia and his Danish born czarina.

The official journal of the court gives us a glimpse of the demonstration: “The demonstration, given by consul-general Ruben and the head of the company Cornelius Knudsen, assisted by a technician employed by The Phonographic Company [sic] in London, took place in the Conservatory and began around 10 [P.M.]. His Majesty the King first received a greeting from the Danish colony in London, and it was apparently with equal amounts of surprise and joy that His Majesty this way was greeted with the warmest wishes of happiness and blessings for himself and his family. Later was heard several musical compositions, among them Wörishöffer March played by a large band…The performances went on for about two hours. The three gentlemen who demonstrated the phonograph were fed in a room in the eastern wing.”

The newspaper Politiken stated on October 1st that the Edison phonograph had been imported to Copenhagen by Ruben and Knudsen “some days ago”. They have already received numerous orders for machines, in part by businessmen here in town who wants its services, in part from estate owners around the country who wants it to amuse themselves and their guests. Consul-general Ruben has during the last couple of days received dozens of requests from aspiring agents for the speaking wonder.”

This was not all quite true. It actually took Ruben some time and effort to get just a few agents around Denmark – the fact that a machine had a retail price of 700 kroner was undoubtedly discouraging for anyone interested. But the notice in Politiken was nevertheless clever marketing by Ruben: The phonograph had triumphed even before the public had had a chance to hear it!

Ruben was fully aware of the power of the press in a venture like his, so he invited them to a special demonstration on October 3rd at 1 P.M. in his home apartment.

The Phonograph was an Edison “class M” model driven by an electric motor powered by two wet cells. The machine had six pairs of rubber hearing tubes, and the gentlemen of the press had to wait their turn to hear the wonders of the novelty. “First the apparatus brought out a salute to the press. Every word was clearly heard, every nuance in the voice, and even a faint involuntary cough was audible” wrote Berlingske Tidende.

Everybody in Copenhagen wanted to hear the phonograph, and a temporary showroom was rented. Anyone willing to pay 1 krone could put the rubber tubes to his ears and for himself experience the wonderful novelty.

Ruben now ordered 50 phonographs directly from the Edison Phonograph Works in West Orange, along with 1500 blank cylinders and “supplies for three months” as the invoice states – recorders, diaphragms, belts and other spare parts. All this was shipped in 36 cases and 10 barrels on board the S/S Island sailing from America to Denmark on November 2nd.

With their new equipment, The Danish Edison Phonograph Company, as Ruben and Knudsen named it, opened their new premises in Copenhagen on February 23rd, 1890. It was a large room on the first floor of a house near the Tivoli Gardens, and besides being used for demonstrating the phonograph to the public, the room was also used as a recording studio. It was equipped with both an upright and a grand piano, and over the grand piano a large recording horn was lowered. It was probably here that the main part of the Ruben collection were recorded. Recordings by well-known singers and actors were essential to attract an audience now that the phonograph was yesterday’s news, and Ruben constantly needed new artists and repertoire.

In July 1891 an interesting advertisement appeared in Politiken: “Other new items on the Edison phonograph:…P. Schram: The Leporello aria…”. The phonograph was now on display in the waxworks housed in the same building where Ruben had his private apartment, and it was here one could hear the recording by the baritone Peter Schram (1819-1895) who had retired from the Royal Danish Opera in 1889. The aria, “Notte e giorno” from Mozart’s Don Giovanni, is preserved in the Ruben collection, and this cylinder is in fact a world record: It contains the oldest singer (in terms of date of birth) that we can still hear today.

It is strange to listen to the voice of a man who was born at a time when Beethoven, Schubert, Rossini, Bellini and Donizetti were still active composers. Peter Schram made his operatic debut at the Royal Opera in Copenhagen in 1841, two years before Patti was even born, and he sang Leporello for the first time 1846. He was by then a regular soloist at the Royal Opera, but wanted to continue his studies in Paris. Garcia was enthusiastic about his Danish pupil, and he suggested Schram for the Paris Opera. But Schram was homesick, he declined and returned to Copenhagen. His only appearance outside Denmark was in Stockholm where he sang alongside Jenny Lind. After his retirement as a singer in 1889 he continued to perform as an actor until a few months before his death.

The Peter Schram cylinder contains not just the complete opening aria from Don Giovanni, but also the first verse of “Madamina! Il catalogo è questo”. Schram sings unaccompanied and with great rhythmical freedom. It is clearly a voice of an elderly baritone, and the style is not what we normally hear today. Schram sings in Danish, and he adds little embellishments to the music and even a cadenza to the fermata in the middle of the first aria. The style is very similar to the one Sir Charles Santley demonstrates in his recording of “Non più andrai” from Le Nozze di Figaro. No wonder, since both singers studied in Paris with Manuel Garcia, brother of Maria Malibran and son of the other Manuel Garcia, the famous creator of Rossini’s Almaviva in Il barbiere di Siviglia.

In theory the cylinder could well have been be recorded before July 1891, when it was first advertised, but Ruben had no way of duplicating a cylinder, and only a limited number of phonographs could record the same performance. In case of an especially popular recording the artist may have recorded the same piece many times over a period of time, and Schram could well have repeated the aria several times for Ruben. It could consequently have been recorded as late as June 1895. But it would still be the earliest recording of music by Mozart.

In the Ruben collection are recordings by several other Danish singers of importance; The baritone Cornelius Petersen, who later changed his name to Peter Cornelius and his voice to tenor, is represented by two songs. He later recorded extensively for both the phonograph and the gramophone, and sang both at Covent Garden and in Bayreuth.

All the cylinders in the Ruben collection are preserved and has been transferred by the State and University Library in Aarhus, Denmark. More here (in Danish).

Gottfried Ruben died following brain surgery in 1897, at the early age of sixty and was buried from the mosaic mortuary in Copenhagen. Among the many flowers that decorated the room was a wreath with a banner from the staff of the Edison Works.

Peter Schram

I oktober 1889 talte hele København om én eneste ting; den nye, mærkelige talemaskine, som Edison havde opfundet, var kommet til byen – takket være generalkonsul Gottfried Ruben, der havde tæft for at udnytte opfindelsens nyhedsværdi. Han optog i de kommende år de ældste, danske lydoptagelser, bl.a. med tidens stjerner fra Det Kongelige Teater – også basbarytonen Peter Schram, der inden sin død i 1895 blev den allerførste i verden, der indspillede musik af Mozart. Hør optagelsen i bunden af artiklen – men jeg advarer; lydkvaliteten er ikke for sarte sjæle.

Gottfried Moses Ruben blev født 19. juni 1837 ind i velhavende jødisk københavnerfamilie. Faderen var herreekviperingshandler, og efter end skolegang var det naturligt nok faderens forretning, den unge Ruben blev ansat i. Da denne lukkede, drog Ruben først til London, hvor han arbejdede med international handel, bl.a. med Portugal. Senere flyttede han sammen med sin danske hustru Betty Heyman – datter af grosserer W.P. Heyman – til Portugal.

Bettys helbred gjorde det nødvendigt at flytte tilbage til Danmark efter få år, og nu blev Ruben udnævnt til portugisisk generalkonsul, og slog sig på import af bl.a. portvin og kork. Det var åbenbart en lukrativ forretning, for hans årlige indkomst var i 1889 på kr. 8000, på et tidspunkt hvor en tjenestepige tjente ca. kr. 100-120 om året.

Samtidig sad opfinderen Thomas Alva Edison i USA og arbejdede på at forbedre en opfindelse, han havde gjort ti år tidligere, men som nu var blevet så god, at tiden var inde til at sætte den i produktion. En maskine, som kunne optage og gengive lyd – i dag en helt dagligdags tanke, men dengang næsten udenfor almindelige menneskers fatteevne; tanken om at høre sin egen stemme gengivet var en idé, som for de fleste kunne sammenlignes med at flyve til månen eller at kunne få 10.000 bøger ned på en harddisk. Helt utænkeligt.

Edison havde allerede præsenteret sin første, meget primitive, fonograf i 1877. Dengang bestod apparatet af en valse, som var omviklet med et stykke tinfolie, hvori en spids nål monteret på en mambran kunne registrere og gengive lydtryk mod membranen. Resultatet var svært at opfatte, men princippet var rigtigt, vidste Edison. Han mistede interessen for fonografen i de følgende år, og kastede sig over andre projekter – og først da en konkurrent begyndte at forbedre den oprindelige fonograf tog han fat igen; igen andre end Edison selv skulle fremstille en brugbar fonograf.

Edison forestillede sig ganske visionært hvordan opfindelsen ville revolutionere verden på flere måder – ikke blot som underholdningsmaskine, men absolut også som nyttegenstand; han forudså blandt andet, at den kunne bruges som diktafon på kontoret, som utrættelig sproglærer i skolen og som en kærkommen mulighed for nybyggerne, når de ville sende en lydhilsen hjem til forældrene langt væk.

Den nye udgave af fonografen brugte ikke tinfolie, men valser af voks. Nu var lydkvaliteten markant forbedret, og Edison gjorde sig klar til en verdensomspændende reklameindsats for sit nye produkt. Aviser i hele verden var fyldt med nyheden om den nye, talende maskine i 1888.

Edisons stand ved verdensudstillingen i Paris i sommeren 1889, hvor Gottfried Ruben sandsynligvis oplevede den nye fonograf for første gang.

Vi ved ikke præcis hvor og hvornår Ruben først oplevede Edisons fonograf, men det var sandsynligvis i sommeren 1889 i Paris under den store verdensudstilling. Her var Edison selv til stede for at præsentere sin nye forbedrede udgave af fonografen, og mange velstillede danskere tog den sommer turen til Paris for med egne øjne at se udstillingen – ikke mindst det nye, flotte tårn af Monsieur Eiffel.

Gottfried Rubens navn dukkede under alle omstændigheder op i de københavnske aviser i slutningen af september 1889. Han var nemlig blevet generalagent for Edison i hele Norden, og var nu, sammen med sin nye kompagnon, taget til Fredensborg. Ruben vidste nemlig udmærket, hvordan man får maksimal opmærksomhed fra pressen. Han havde slået sig sammen med optikeren Cornelius Knudsen, som havde forretning i Købmagergade, og som ti år tidligere havde importeret Edisons allertidligste fonograf til landet. De to skulle nu, sammen med en tekniker fra London, præsentere den nye opfindelse for kongehuset – og derefter skulle alle andres interesse nok følge efter. Ganske heldigt var der fint familiebesøg på Fredensborg, bl.a. af tsar Alexander og hans danskfødte tsarina. Det blev en aften, som Ruben kun kunne have håbet på, og som hele Danmark læser om i aviserne. Berlingske Tidende skriver udførligt om aftenen:

”Edisons Phonograph blev Løverdag aften forevist for Hs. Maj. Kongen og Dronningen med høie Gæster paa Fredensborg Slot. Præsentationen, der fandt sted ved Generalkonsul Ruben og Chefen for Firmaet Cornelius Knudsen, bistaaet af en under det phonographiske Compagni i London ferierende Fagmand, foregik i Havesalen og tog sin begyndelse henmod kl. 10, til hvilken Tid de mange for Tiden paa Slottet værende fyrstelige Herskaber med Damer og Cavalerer havde indfundet sig der. Med stor Interesse gjorde Selskabet sig bekjendt med det sindrige Apparat og lod sig meget omstændeligt forklare den tilsyneladende simple, men dog meget combinerede og sindrige Mechanisme, der sættes i Bevægelse ved Hjælp af en elektrisk Strøm. Hs. Maj. Kongen modtog først igjennem Apparatet en Hilsen fra den danske Coloni i London ved Generalkonsul Delcomyn[1], og det var øiensynlig med ligesaa stor Overraskelse som Glæde, at Kongen ad denne Vei blev hilset med de varmeste Ønsker om Lykke og Velsignelse for sig og det kongelige Huus. Tydelig og bestemt lød hvert Ord, og Forundringen voxede endmere, da Phonographen spillede Wörishöffer Marsche, udført af et stort Orchester. Det var i høi Grad skuffende, idet hvert Instrument kom til sin Ret, kun Dirigenten, Musikdirecteur Balduin Dahl[2], der havde spillet til Phonographen, savnedes. Men ikke nok dermed; Skridt for Skridt steg Interessen for dette Edisons nyeste Kunstværk og dets vidtrækkende Ævne til Reproduction. En Hilsen fra Gladstone til Edison, “Gurre” udført af kgl. Kammersanger Simonsen[3], “the last rose of summer”, en Hilsen fra Edison til Oberst Gouraud[4] i England, en af Offenbachs meest populære Melodier af “Den skjønne Helene”, osv. osv. fængslede de kongelige og keiserlige Herskaber i henved to Timer, og det var ene og alene paa Grund af den fremrykkede tid, at Præsentationen afbrødes.”[5]

Første trin af makedsføringsstrategien var fuldført. Nu gjaldt det så pressen, som ikke længere måtte nøjes med at referere fra hoffets protokoller, men fik en invitation til at møde op hjemme hos Ruben selv i lejligheden på Vesterbrogade med udsigten over Tivoli. Alle aviserne mødte frem, og Politikens reporter er én af de mest begejstrede:

”Paa et med grønt Klæde betrykket Bord af ca. en Alens Længde findes hele den vidunderlige Opfindelse. Der er Nøddetræskassen med den elektriske Motor, den lille Regulator, Valsen, som bærer den præparerede Vokscylinder, den uendeligt fint afpassede Skrue, ved Hjælp af hvilken Valsen forskydes, og Glaspladen, hvis Svingninger forplanter Talens Lyd til den lille Stift, som atter sætter sine nærmest usynlige Mærker i Vokset. Endelig Gummislangen, der er sat i Forbindelse med Glaspladen, og som forgrener sig i mange arme, der Par og Par er forsynet med Glasrør af en saadan Form, at de kan hænge løst i Ørene paa dem, der skal høre, hvad Fonografen har at fortælle. Paa den anden Side Bordet staar to elektriske Elementer, som er sat i Forbindelse med Motoren, og en fint poleret Kasse, knap en Alen høj, som staar foran, indeholder “Repertoiret”. Her ligger Gladstone[6] Side om Side med Kammersanger Simonsen, og hele Balduin Dahls Orkester fylder ikke mere end en lille beskeden Fløjtenist fra de forenede Stater. I en rummelig Frakkelommekunde man for den Sags skyld godt have dem allesammen. Med de vilde ganske vist efter en saadan Behandling blive en smule utydelige i Mælet, ligesom der ogsaa grumme let kunde gaa en af de Baldiun Dahl’ske Violinister med i Løbet. Hvert “Numer”, enten det nu er Tale eller Musik eller Sang, findes jo nemlig paa sin Vokscylinder, og bliver Stiftens smaabitte Prikker i Vokset presset ud, gaar hele Foredraget i Skuddermudder … Tonerne lød ret fyldigt, og de kom ganske tydeligt hver for sig, men i det hele maa man naturligvis ikke vente nogen kunstnerisk Nydelse af Musik pr. Fonograf. Det lyder blot overmaade kuriøst.”[7]

Alle havde nu læst om fonografen – nu ville de høre den med egne øren. Københavnerne valfartede til Industriforeningens Foredragssal, hvor Ruben 8. oktober slog dørene op for den første offentlige fremvisning. Mange havde dog ikke råd til at betale en krone for at opleve fonografen på tæt hold hos Ruben, men så er der heldigvis andre måder at få maskinen at se, hvis man holder øje med underholdningsetablissementernes annoncer:

”Circus Variété. Hver Aften fra Kl. 7¼ – 11¼ : Stor Forestilling og Koncert. Iaften Optræden af Star og Lydia, sidstnævnte kaldet Luftens Venus, Damesextetten André samt det øvrige store Kunstnerpersonale. N.B. Fonografen forevises kun nogle faa Dage.”[8]

Ruben forsøgete naturligvis også at sælge fonografer, men med en pris på hele kr. 700, som nogenlunde svarer til prisen på en mellemstor familiebil i nutidskroner, var kundekredsen naturligt nok meget begrænset. Det er faktisk slet ikke sikkert, at Ruben fik solgt én eneste maskine overhovedet.

Efterhånden som nyhedens interesse blandt det bedre borgerskab dalede, fandt Ruben på nye måder at få præsenteret vidunderet for nye målgrupper, og snart kunne fonografen opleves i provinsen, både i ved forevisninger i borgerforeningerne i byerne og på markeder landet over. Samtidig åbnede Ruben i februar et nyt lokale til både indspilning og fremvisning af fonografen i Stormgade, og han forstod også at holde pressejernet varmt med nye historier.

I de næste år arbejdede Ruben videre med at indspille fonografvalser med tidens store navne i det københavnske musik- og teaterliv, men fonografen var ikke længere en nyhed, og selv om prisen faldt drastisk i løbet af 1890’erne, var det stadig de få, der har råd til overhovedet at overveje at investere i én.

Der bliver længere og længere mellem avisannoncerne, og redaktionel omtale var det endnu sværere at komme igennem med. Ikke før han dør i 1897, skriver pressen mere om Ruben. Nekrologen i Berlingske Tidende er den eneste beskrivelse, vi har af personen Gottfried Ruben:

”I Formiddags fandt portugisisk Generalkonsul, Grosserer G.M. Rubens Jordefærd under megen Højtidelighed Sted fra det mosaiske Kapel paa Vestre Kirkegaard. I det festligt belyste og med mange stedsegrønne Planter dekorerede Kapel var Kisten hensat. Den var dækket med et rigt og skjønt Blomsterflor, og der saas signerede Kranse fra herværende portugisiske Konsulat og fra Personalet ved Eddysons Fonografer. I det talrige Følge bemærkedes den portugisiske Vicekonsul, Grosserer Arntzen, hollandsk Vicekonsul v. Haarst, andre herværende Konsuler, mange Medlemmer af den kjøbenhavnske Handelsstand m. fl.Efterat Salmer vare sungne, talte Præst ved den mosaiske Menighed Simonsen: Guds Velsignelse var over ham, og han stræbte at vandre i Guds Naade – ud fra denne Hovedbetragtning gav Taleren i form af en Bøn en smuk og sympatisk Skildring af den Afdøde, der bestandig havde bevaret et lyst, ungdommeligt Sind, baade i Medgang og i Modgang – der havde ejet et godt og kjærligt Hjerte, et blidt og venligt Sind – der havde været trofast imod og lykkelig ved at tilhøre Israels Menighed – og som altid havde stræbt at bevare sit Navn rent og uplettet, og derfor ogsaa vundet Menneskenes Anerkendelse. Efterat Slutningssalmen var sungen, bares Kisten af den Afdødes Nærmeste ud paa Kirkegaarden hvor Jordfæstelsen fandt Sted.”[10]

Ruben nåede – måske meget nådigt – ikke at opleve sin elskede fonograf blive totalt udkonkurreret af den langt mere praktiske grammofon med sine flade plader, bredere og bedre repertoire og meget aggressive markedsføring. I løbet af de første årtier af det nye århundrede blev stort set alle fonografer og deres voksvalser smidt på lossepladsen.

Helt mirakuløst overlevede ca. 150 af Gottfried Rubens uerstattelige lyddokumenter fra 1890’erne – bl.a. med skuespillerbrødrene Emil og Olaf Poulsen og operasangeren Peder Schram, født i 1819, og dermed den tidligst fødte operasanger, man kan høre den dag i dag. Hans voksvalse med uddrag fra Mozarts Don Juan er altså tilmed verdens ældste Mozart-indspilning.

Peter Schram synger to uddrag fra Don Juan – Leporellos første entré og en bid fra listearien – uden akkompagnement. Det er en smule nemmere at følge med, når man kender den lidt kringlede danske oversættelse:

Sjelden Penge, Prygl desfleer!
Staae om Natten udenfor
Medens herren inde leer,
Det var hidtil mine Kaar!
Hvorfor selv ei Herre være
Fanden være Tjener meer!
Det for galt er, paa min Ære
Mens han Elskovslykken henter
Jeg paa Gaden staaer og venter
Herre kan jeg gerne være
Fanden være Tjener meer!
Hvad er det? – Der kommer nogen
Det er bedst, jeg søger Krogen,
Ganske stille staaer jeg der!

Hvis De, Donna,
behager at høre
Denne Liste,
som jeg har at føre
Paa de Skjønne,
hans Kunst monne røre,
Smukke Ting da
De skal faae at see!
Først i Italien ethundred’ og tyve!
En Snees Tydske,
for ikke at lyve.
Frankrigs Pigebørn
rundt om ham flyve;
Men ved Spanien,
staaer tusind og tre!

Denne valse ligger sammen med de øvrige i Rubens samling på Statsbiblioteket i Århus, som i 2007 digitaliserede de skrøbelige valser. Takket være Rubens indsats kan vi i dag høre lyden af 1890’erne – bl.a. altså Peder Schram, en mand, der lærte at synge i Paris af den tenor, der var Rossinis første Grev Almaviva i Barberen i Sevilla ved uropførelsen i 1816. Takket være en driftig og visionær københavnsk forretningsmand, der heldigvis syntes, at fonografer var sjovere end kork og portvin.

Hør et udvalg af Rubens valser og læs mere om samlingen i Århus på www.rubensamlingen.worldpress.com

NOTER:

[1] Ernst Adolf Joseph Delcomyn (2.1.1828-9.3.1913), købmand, generalkonsul.

[2] Christian Florus Balduin Dahl (6.10.1834 –3.6.1891), musiker og dirigent, Lumbyes efterfølger som musikchef i Tivoli.

[3] Niels Juel Simonsen (16.5.1846-25.5.1906), baryton ved Det Kongelige Teater.

[4] Charles Gouraud, Edisons agent i London

[5] Berlingske Tidende, 30. september 1889

[6] William Evart Gladstone (29.12.1809-19.5.1898), britisk politiker, premierminister i fire perioder. Optagelsen af Gladstone fra 1888 findes stadig, ligesom indtil flere senere forfalskninger. Den ægte optagelse kan høre på www.youtube.com/watch?v=0F957zdE3m8

[7] Politiken, 4. oktober 1889

[8] Politiken, 8. december 1889

[9] Politiken, 24. februar 1890

[10] Berlingske Tidende, 7. oktober 1897