|
In the world of opera, the tenor Juan Diego Flórez is celebrated for his portrayal of Ramiro, the Prince Charming of Rossini’s La Cenerentola (Cinderella). With his dark good looks and regal bearing, Flórez is every inch the prince even in the opera’s opening scenes, when Ramiro is disguised as a valet, seeking a bride who will love him without regard for rank or fortune. Later, Ramiro throws off his servant’s livery and sings one of opera’s most exacting arias, studded with high C’s and demanding the kind of immaculately polished vocalism with which Flórez has triumphed in theatres from Buenos Aires to Moscow.
So the question arises: How does this fastidious and disciplined artist get into the proper frame of mind for José Alfredo Jiménez’s “Ella” (“Her”), whose heartbroken singer tries to drown his amorous sorrows in mariachi music and tequila?
“Well, I try to be disciplined, but I am not so much!” Flórez laughs. “Jiménez was from the pueblo, from Mexico. He was able to combine the popular with the celestial. If you hear him sing his own songs—speak them, really—he doesn’t do them justice. But when you really sing these songs, it’s another universe. The melodies, the class… You have to let your guts out, forget a bit about your voice, and mean what you’re saying.”
Flórez brings a connoisseur’s discernment to this program of Latin American songs. He draws parallels between the elaborate musical language of opera’s bel canto and the stylistic niceties of ranchero music—for example, that dreamy swoon in “Ella” on the words “de pena muero” (“I’ll die of grief”). “That’s the quality of Mexican singing. There is something virtuosic about it. When you slide down, it can give a sense of tiredness. In other songs, it gives a sense of being proud. You can also hold notes for a very long time—like in Chucho Monge’s ‘México lindo y querido’ (‘Fair and beloved Mexico’).”
Make no mistake: This most elegant of operatic artists lavishes upon these canciones the passion and authenticity of one who was, literally, to the manner born. His father, Rubén Flórez, had a fine career in Lima as an interpreter of popular songs, notably those of Chabuca Granda, the singer-songwriter known as “the soul of Peru.” And Flórez’s earliest musical memories are of family songfests that went on into the wee hours of the night.
“We children were sent to sleep, but I remember peeking and seeing my family playing guitar, percussion… Everybody sang, and my mother and aunt danced.” In his teens, Flórez began to frequent the pub where his mother worked. “There was a singer with a guitar and a mike. I didn’t have money to go out, so I would ask my mother, ‘Can I come with my girlfriend?’ ‘No—This is a place for grown-ups!’ But in the end I would go.”
Eventually, the pub regulars encouraged Flórez to go up to the mike and sing. Today, it boggles the mind to imagine this refined artist letting rip with such throat-shredding numbers as Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog” and the Beatles’ “She Loves You.” But Flórez’s early performing career also encompassed many of the songs heard on this disc.
“I would sing a bolero that I learned from one of my father’s cassettes or that I heard my mother sing, or Peruvian music.” Called upon unexpectedly to substitute for the pub’s singer, Flórez began delving deeper into Latin America’s rich heritage of song. “You were expected to offer something from Mexico, something from Venezuela—from all over Latin America.” Smiling, he adds, “Of course, you’d better not mess up the words!”
Asked whether, as a Peruvian, he felt some trepidation singing the tangos and boleros of the Argentine Carlos Gardel, who even now inspires near-religious devotion among fans, Flórez gives a forthright answer: “Of course.” Gardel’s “El día que me quieras” (“The day you love me”) is not only operatic but altogether cosmic in scale, telling of a passion so exalted that the stars in heaven are moved to jealousy. “That’s a beautiful song,” Flórez sighs, “like a Schumann or Schubert lied, no less.” He recalls that one of his idols, the Spanish tenor Alfredo Kraus, once broke down while singing Gardel’s sublime bolero and sat weeping on stage. “He felt the pull of that melody that really haunts you.”
Another extravagantly romantic song is “Júrame” (“Swear to me”), a bolero by the Mexican composer María Grever. In its soaring climax, the singer begs his sweetheart to love him hasta la locura, “to the point of madness.” Reflecting on the song’s vocal and emotional challenges, Flórez shakes his head. “If you try to sing ‘Júrame’ without a trained voice, you’re going to die.”
In the past, he explains, “the way popular music and opera were sung was more linked. Maybe pop musicians used more falsetto, but they had educated voices. Just listen to our Latin American singers like Carlos Gardel or Jorge Negrete,” Mexico’s immortal charro cantor (“singing rancher”). “Negrete auditioned for the Metropolitan Opera!”
In the early and mid-twentieth century, when many of these songs were written, the line between classical and pop music was less sharply drawn than today. “If you look back at the major tenors—Caruso, Tito Schipa, Jussi Björling—they all sang music from their roots. There was probably more ‘crossover’ than now,” Flórez points out. What’s more, one of his program’s “oldies” or “greatest hits” (as he calls them) is a full-fledged aria: “Alma llanera” (“Soul of the plains”), the unofficial national anthem of Venezuela, from the zarzuela of the same name by Pedro Elías Gutiérrez.
Past opera stars, including Alfredo Kraus and Flórez’s fellow Peruvian Luigi Alva, sang this program’s songs with immense distinction. Flórez mentions Beverly Sills’ rendition of “Estrellita,” by the Mexican Manuel Ponce, as a special favorite. Back in the days of 78 rpm recordings, Tito Schipa had transatlantic hits with two songs by Spanish composers, Joseph LaCalle’s “Amapola” (“Poppy”) and José Padilla’s “Princesita” (“Little princess”). And “Granada,” the Mexican Augustin Lara’s rousing tribute to Andalucía’s sunshine and dark-eyed beauties, has been a mainstay of great singers from Frank Sinatra to Fritz Wunderlich.
Flórez bristles at the notion that songs like “Granada” might seem kitschy, citing the example of Noel Estrada’s “En mi viejo San Juan” (“In my old San Juan”). A song that can sound “picturesque” to outsiders, it cuts deep for diaspora Puerto Ricans.
“When I was studying at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia, I went to a Puerto Rican girl’s house,” he recalls, “and I sang ‘En mi viejo San Juan’ with guitar.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I had no idea the impact it would have. Everyone was crying, because they missed the paradise they had left. And when I sang it in Puerto Rico several years ago, people were weeping, grabbing handkerchiefs and taking off their glasses—people who hadn’t left Puerto Rico!”
Talk of “En mi viejo San Juan” turns to the “amazingly refined” work of its arranger, Puerto Rico’s Angel “Cucco” Peña. The celebrated producer’s other arrangements for Flórez include songs by the Cuban-born Hollywood composer Ernesto Lecuona, “Siboney” and “Aquellos ojos verdes” (“Green eyes”), whose lush sound Flórez praises as “cinematic.” The stylish and traditional arrangements of the Catalan Alberto Guinovart range from the gossamer romance of “Estrellita” to the sweet mariachi tang of “Ella” and “México lindo y querido.” “I admire people who can create things with an orchestra,” Flórez says.
Count Flórez himself among those gifted souls. He personally arranged the four songs closest to his heart, those from his native Peru: the traditional “La jarra de oro” (“The golden jug”), along with Chabuca Granda’s “La flor de la canela” (“Cinnamon flower”), “Fina estampa” (“Fine style”), and “El bello durmiente” (“The sleeping beauty”). Flórez plays bongos on “Fina estampa”; the chaste setting of “El bello durmiente” is for voice and solo guitar.
Among the three Chabuca Granda songs, “El bello durmiente” is something of a rarity. “The title implies that Peru has so much, is rich and beautiful, but doesn’t move forward because it’s asleep. But the song itself speaks about the beauty of the regions—the jungle, the Andes, the coast—and says that they are Peru’s lovers. The song is about Chabuca’s love for her country.”
Flórez speaks with awe of this passionate poet and musician. “Chabuca cared so much for people, for her Lima. She cried out in many of her songs that Lima was being neglected, that traditions were being lost. She was a very strong and emotional woman.” Flórez himself shows considerable passion when evoking his country’s struggles with poverty and unemployment, and considerable joy when telling of being acknowledged on Lima’s streets as Peru’s musical ambassador to the world. “We need to feel proud. With a nation like ours, in an economic crisis—for us, the achievements of our fellow Peruvians represent hope.”
Deep as his love is for his homeland and its songs, Flórez ends the conversation with reflections on the importance of all Latin American music. For Flórez, the songs on this program are much more than a lighthearted detour for a great opera star. In his view, they have enriched and, to a considerable extent, molded his art and that of such admired colleagues as Plácido Domingo, Marcelo Álvarez, and Rolando Villazón.
“In opera, you have to be in control of the melody, of your voice. But if you can really let it flow, phrase it and shade it like a bolero, a tango… Latin American singers, they all have something of this. You can call it class, you can call it taste—it comes from our music, from Latin American music.”
|
