Guest
Boris Timofeevich Shtokolov (1930-2005) is a name unfamiliar to most music aficionados in the West. Although he was an extremely popular singer in the former Soviet Union (and my personal favorite bass), his exposure to audiences beyond the Iron Curtain was limited- his tours abroad were not frequent, and recordings are relatively sparse for an artist of his stature. A graduate of the Ural State Conservatory in Ekaterinburg, he was THE leading bass at the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg for much of his 30 year tenure there (1959-89) and is still considered the finest interpreter of old Russian romances and folk songs. His voice was a genuine basso profondo-very dark, rotund, and powerful, but at the same time perfectly controlled, even, and flexible throughout its entire range, with an effortless top. The timbre is smooth as velvet, never harsh, and instantly recognizable (a characteristic of many great singers, it seems), and Shtokolov's trademark diminuendos and floated pianissimos are nothing short of miraculous, unmatched by any other bass in my listening experience. In the early 1970's, Shtokolov made a number of aria recordings with conductor Fuat Mansurov and the Bolshoi Theater Orchestra. One of these was an absolutely superlative version of “Ves' tabor spit“ (“The whole camp sleeps“), from Rachmaninoff's one-act opera “Aleko“ (1892), written by the teenage composer as an exercise for graduation from the Moscow Conservatory. Based on a narrative poem by Aleksandr Pushkin, the opera tells of a “Byronic“ wanderer who rejects the conventions and strictures of society in favor of the liberated life of nomadic gypsies. Yet, paradoxically, Aleko finds himself unable to cope with the gypsies' philosophy of free love, and he kills his unfaithful wife and her young lover. Aleko's Cavatina, which precedes the murder, is his anguished realization of love no longer reciprocated and forever lost. As with Shtokolov's version of Prince Gremin's aria, this is easily the best recording I know. While I'm also very fond of Nicola Ghiuselev's old Balkanton recording, the Bulgarian bass doesn't quite manage to convey the sense of urgency with which Shtokolov suffuses the aria. Nor does Ghiuselev command the latter's tonal plushness. And I've yet to hear anyone that could quite match Shtokolov's crescendo on the final phrase, “moia Zemfira okhladela“ (“My Zemfira has grown cold to me“). This is artistry that simply defies criticism, and I hope that the recording proves to be a wonderful discovery for those unfamiliar with his singing.
