A Redeemer Redeemed

Wagner-PARSIFAL: Kirsten Flagstad; Lauritz Melchior, Friedrich Schorr, Emanuel List, Arnold Gabor, Norman Cordon/Metropolitan Opera Chorus & Orchestra/Artur Bodanzky & Erich Leinsdorf, cond. (April 15, 1938) Marston Records 54008-2 (4 CDs)

Hands down, this Parsifal is the most important operatic release of 2025. It doesn't even qualify as a reissue, for the simple fact that this 1938 Metropolitan Opera broadcast has never been heard in its entirety since that illustrious Good Friday in 1938. Although Act II has been discretely available in full, for Acts I and III you had to turn to a fragmentary pirate recording. It was made from a single-acetate machine, with gaping gaps in the music every time the discs were changed. In this infuriatingly noisy form, many generations down, opera lovers strove to hear and appreciate a performance that seemed a hopeless introuvable.

To our great good fortune, recording restorer par excellence Ward Marston came into a complete set of professionally made sides of the 4/15/38 Parsifal broadcast and, after years of toil, they are now available. It will set you back $66 and it's worth every penny. Beautifully packaged and replete with background material, this is a model of how a historic recording should be introduced to the public.

One of the foremost aims of Marston's project is to help rehabilitate the reputation of Artur Bodanzky (1877-1939) who led the Met's German wing from 1915 to his death. A former assistant to Gustav Mahler, Bodanzky was a pupil of Alexander von Zemlinsky and protégé of Ferruccio Busoni. Quite a pedigree.

Bodanzky had the mixed blessing at the Met of a talented, ambitious ensign in Erich Leinsdorf, (1912-1993). It might be exaggeration to say the upwardly mobile Leinsdorf played Iago to Bodanzky's Othello. However, his harsh evaluation of Bodanzky as lazy, indifferent and unmusical became received wisdom, parroted by Paul Jackson in his weighty tomes chronicling the early history of Met broadcasts.

Erich Leinsdorf

One reissue of Bodanzky's 1937 Siegfried broadcast displays how the Leinsdorf/Jackson verdict became codified into Holy Writ. Pseudononymous annotator "Alberich von Fafner" sneers that Bodanzky's performances were "dramatic, fast-paced, and often cut." Dramatic, yes. But Bodanzky's tempi were generally of the golden mean, as careful listening shows, and his cuts hardly draconian ... nor unusual for the time. For instance, a surviving Die Walküre (12/18/27, Acts II and III only) withstands comparison with Karl Bohm's 1960 Met broadcast of the same opera. Not only is Bodanzky quite measured in his approach but his cuts are not nearly as deep as Bohm's, which are tantamount to vandalism.

Leinsdorf would get his own crack at Parsifal at the Met, in 1960. While it has its merits, it does sound at times like a stereotype of a Bodanzky performance: Brisk, businesslike and heavily cut.

The present Parsifal is note-complete, rest assured. Conductorial duties were divided: Bodanzky leads the outer acts and, for reasons of health, cedes the baton to Leinsdorf for the more energetic second act. This produces a bifurcation of style, of which more anon. Amazingly, Bodanzky and most of his principals would reconvene in 48 hours for a broadcast of Tristan und Isolde, a not-undemanding work itself.

A digression: Consideration of the present recording (or Marston I) must be bracketed with allusions to a pair of other Parsifals of comparable historical import. From 1936 comes a Buenos Aires broadcast, heavily cut and led by Fritz Busch. Aka Marston II, it has sold out of its press run and is available now in CD-R form, sans documentation. The other, more-familiar performance is Hans Knappertsbusch's 1951 traversal at the first post-World War II Bayreuth Festival. Recorded by Decca, it still available from them as a digital download and from Naxos on good, old-fashioned CDs. It has been a benchmark Parsifal for over 70 years.

Reconsideration of Bodanzky begins with the Prelude to the opera. The alleged speed-demon's 15:48 is nearly identical to James Levine's breadth in the legendary 1985 Metropolitan broadcast (OOP). Busch zips through in 14:05 and the famously slow "Kna" is nearly as fleet in 1951. Bodanzky's opening is languorous indeed, with the solo trumpet more sweet than searing. The conductor's vast time scale lacks only the sense of destination, of one giant and inevitable arc, to be found in Levine's many broadcasts. The older maestro's approach, though, is plentifully meditative. Wagner's markings are painstakingly observed and the lovely orchestral playing (although the brass can be a mite unruly) is imbued with generous portamento.

Act I, Scene 1 at the Metropolitan

Up goes and curtain and down go our hearts ... for the first voice heard is the unresonant thud of Emanuel List's Gurnemanz, vigorous in recitative but strained in his upper register. This singer has obtained a certain greatness-by-association patina, thanks to ubiquity at the Met during the otherwise golden era of the Thirties and early Forties. List could be downright awful, as in a 12/21/35 Lohengrin broadcast or a 1946 Die Meistersinger from Buenos Aires.

Here List is as good as can be hoped, which means relentlessly mediocre, offering a sort of cultivated moaning—and Gurnemanz's is the longest role in the opera. His Act I monologues are taken phrase by phrase, not shaped in grand paragraphs, with a frequent recourse to lachrymosity—and a bad habit of thwacking the most obvious points of emphasis. He's not a patch on the magnificent Alexander Kipnis (Marston II), nor as coloristically resourceful and warm as Ludwig Weber (Naxos). Indeed, when one considers that ensuing Met Gurnemanzes would include Jerome Hines, Hans Hotter, Cesare Siepi, Martti Talvela, Kurt Moll, Hans Sotin, Robert Lloyd and René Pape, then List is closer to the bottom of the pile than the top.

Fortunately, Bodanzky prods him along with a firm forward impulse, escalating to a furious fugato at Kundry's entrance. The latter is impersonated by Kirsten Flagstad, who makes an understated first impression, steady and gorgeous of tone, which unfortunately tends to taper out below the stave. Her taunting of Parsifal will sometimes sting, but Flagstad is more statuesque than tormented. The schizoid mood shifts of Kundry do not flow naturally from her.

Friedrich Schorr arrives shortly thereafter, regal in his suffering. When he upbraids the absent Gawain, it is a majestic command. Lyrical and expressive in his phrasing, Schorr provides a damning contrast to List in their lakeside give and take. One oddity here involves the credit of the Esquires. Announcer Milton Cross and a Met broadsheet reproduced by Marston say it's Karl Laufkoetter, the Met's resident Mime and David. Marston's box, however, attributes to Laufkoetter the role of the Fourth Equire, going along with both the Met's online annals and William H. Seltsam's prewar, printed ones. My (fallible) ear concurs with Cross. (George Cehanovsky, as always, makes his presence felt in the brief part of the First Knight.)

The overall framework set by Bodanzky is slowish, offset—as in the score itself—by bursts of vitality. One such brings on Lauritz Melchior. He sounds convincingly naive in his Q&A with Gurnemanz and delivers his reminiscences of Herzeleide with alacrity. I must pause to confess that I am laboring under a visceral handicap: I have never been able to stand the sound of Melchior's voice, nor the way it was produced, let alone his frequent resort to larmes de la voix. (His commercial rendition of Lohengrin's farewell, conducted by Eugene Ormandy, is an unpardonable wallow in self-pity.) That being confessed, this is Melchior for people who don't like Melchior, with his sobbier instincts kept in check.

Act I, Scene 2, as designed by Joseph Urban

List summons Melchior to the Hall of the Grail with authority and Bodanzky seconds the motion with a majestic tread, crowned by tremendous timpani rolls at the climax. (Neither Busch's South American orchestra nor Knappertsbusch's frequently raucous one can measure up to the Met band.) The offstage choruses are muffled, which dampens the grandiose effect but Norman Cordon proffers a clarion Titurel—albeit one who sounds younger than his stage heir, Schorr.

Our Amfortas inveighs with a kind of controlled anguish and admirable legato, a few sobs notwithstanding. Compared to contemporary interpreters (or Knappertsbusch's George London), he is quite restrained. Joseph Horowitz finds him "a somewhat stolid singer" and I am hard-put to disagree. His largely vibrato-less tone also falls oddly on latter-day ears. The repeated cries of "Erbarmen!" are mild but the quiet close to his Act I monologue is touching. The Grail ceremony, as presided over by Bodanzky, is moving, impressively sung by the chorus and very up-tempo at "Nehmet vom Brot." Doris Doe's uncredited Voice from Above brings the act to a balsamic close.

Melchior & Flagstad in Act II, Scene 2

Come Act II and Bodanzky cedes the baton to Leinsdorf, who seems eager to put his own, quite differing stamp on the opera. He begins like a bat out of Hell and scarcely lets any grass grow under his feet for the ensuing hour. The demonic aspects of Act II are well in hand but Leinsdorf is already applying his prophylactic touch to Wagner's sensuality, which is equally important. Referring to a 1940 Die Walküre, Horowitz describes Leinsdorf as "ever frigid and meticulous; it possessed nothing like the originality and passion of Bodanzky’s readings." Similar things might be said of his approach to Parsifal's fleshpots.

With 111 Melots under his belt during his Met career, Arnold Gabor (Klingsor) was no stranger to malice. He has scant problem with the role's frequent lunges across the passaggio, and his overall approach is calm and steady, with touches of nastiness breaking through. Flagstad's broken responses are perfectly placed in her slow-to-speak voice, though she comparatively placid. The disappearance of Klingsor's castle (rehearsal #152) is marked by an unscored gong stroke.

Flirting with a rather gerontic bunch of solo Flowermaidens, Melchior is unmannered and playful. Leinsdorf chivvies everyone along in a lickety-split scherzo movement, with the waltz section bringing needed relief. Melchior's wondrous reaction to seeing Kundry (#174) is perfect.

Flagstad as Kundry

Odalisque rather than wild hag, Flagstad makes a beguiling re-entrance, bending Leinsdorf to her temporal will. Not only is hers the best diction in the cast, each note is like the tolling of a very pleasing bell, paid out in caressing legato. "Ich sah das Kind" is half-lullaby and half-seduction, even if the plush-toned Flagstad is more grande horizontale than she-devil. The orchestra responds with a richer, gemütlich sound than the lean one Leinsdorf would soon impose.

Melchior is guilty of sobby responses to Kundry (#179) and—at "Amfortas! Die Wunde!"—he is hortatory, more loud than anguished. But "Es starrt der Blick" catches the right, awestruck tone and there is no sense of strain, even at the most demanding moments. Flagstad's "Gelobter Held!" is indescribably beautiful and Melchior really sinks his teeth into his wordy rebuff. Unfortunately, the downward vocal leap when Kundry recalls mocking Christ isn't comfortable at either end for Flagstad.

Even so, Melchior sometimes sounds stolid by contrast, especially when Leinsdorf passionately accompanies Kundry's wild fluctuations of mood. Flagstad is a Fury in the stretta of the act, throwing in an extra B-flat just for the heck of it. Melchior does bring the scene to an end with authority, both when he razes Klinsgor's fortress and as he commands Kundry to seek out the kingdom of the Grail.

Bodanzky reclaims the baton for Act III, which begins with palpable orchestral sadness, thanks to beautiful string counterpoint. Unfortunately, List is also back, doing his best but dreary just the same. His nicest moment is the quiet astonishment he voices when relating Titurel's death ("ein Mensch ... wie alle"). He's an unimaginative singer and maybe you just had to be there.

Act III, Scene 1 at the Metropolitan, circa 1938

The stabbing string figures at #222 really register (Flagstad barely murmurs her two words, whereas Marjorie Lawrence on Marston II really makes them tell) but the gait of Parsifal's entrance is less ominous than usual. Melchior is now dignified, even lofty, with affecting touches of uncertainty in his mission, upping the emotional stakes in salutary fashion. Bodanzky invests the coronation of Parsifal with solemnity and heft, while Melchior makes the baptism of Kundry uncommonly tender. The Good Friday Spell can seem like overload on Wagner's part but it is launched sweetly by the first oboist and Melchior takes up the thread in comparable fashion. List is again the fly in the ointment, with anything above the stave a trial for him—and us.

The transformation to the Grail hall is potent and baleful, even if the chorus is not of Bayreuth caliber. Espressivo markings in the orchestral parts draw a full-out response, though. Schorr makes his lament to his dead father a yielding entreaty, at one with Bodanzky in phrasing and emphasis. But the climax ("Nein! Nicht mehr!") is altogether too contained, marred by placidity and pinched high notes. Luckily, Melchior is there to take command (both as singer and character) in commanding fashion, with his "Nur eine Waffe" providing a firm and assured capstone. Bodanzky brings down the curtain in broad and grand fashion.

Ward Marston has, some patches of ineradicable surface noise aside, done a remarkable job remastering these ancient discs, almost as venerable as the Grail itself. The Marston Records presentation is a model of how a historical reissue should be done. Each disc comes in a discrete sleeve featuring a scene from the opera, and the booklet is distinguished by lengthy and erudite notes from Jeffery S. McMillan. However ...

Kipnis reigns supreme

The better can be the enemy of the good and Marston goes head to head with Marston here. The 1936 Parsifal from the Teatro Colon falls short of the 1938 Met broadcast in several respects (especially sound quality) but surpasses it in crucial ones, too. First and foremost, there is Alexander Kipnis, the greatest Gurnemanz on disc—and that's going some. It's a titanic portrayal, both majestic and vital. Martial Singher's Amfortas spans a wider emotional compass than Schorr's; he is ultimately more moving despite having an arguably lesser voice.

Then there is Marjorie Lawrence's Kundry, devil-woman and seductress by turns, and born to both roles. It is no mean compliment to say she even surpasses Flagstad. Her voice has more presence at the bottom of her range, freer phrasing and the virulent, wide-ranging "Lachte!" causes her no strain.

On the debit side of the ledger we have an inferior orchestra, a chorus that sings in Italian, seven cuts (reducing Klingsor's role to a cameo) and the self-absorbed bawling of René Maison's Parsifal. His voice has metal and heft, and he sounds like a feral youth—even when he shouldn't. At least he rises to the occasion for the finale, relieving a spent Singher. Fred Destal's Titurel conveys both age and stature, while Fritz Krenn is a pithy, preening Klingsor.

About Fritz Busch's conducting I have mixed feelings. After Bodanzky it sounds literal, in a "New Objectivity" sort of way that Wagner's score doesn't welcome. Busch tends to be a prisoner of the bar lines, happier in the music's action elements (especially Act II) than its contemplative one. Portamenti and expression are largely erased. There is much that is striking and perceptive in Busch's reading, but it comes to a less-than-overwhelming conclusion.

Powerful .... but better in 1962

Then there is postwar Bayreuth on Naxos. Unlike the orchestra, the chorus need make no apologies. Knappertsbuch's leadership sometimes aspires to stasis (as in Act I Amfortas/Gurnemanz colloquy) but 'static' with Kna is never inert or dead. Still, you'll probably prefer his more febrile 1962 recording (on Philips). Wagnerian singing has definitely undergone a wartime sea change by 1951, despite the outstanding presence of Weber, a pre-war holdover. Martha Moedl's Kundry is a big comedown from Lawrence and Flagstad, and Hermann Uhde's Klingsor is getting by more on attitude than sheer voice.

It is no disparagement of Wolfgang Windgassen to say that—next to Melchior and even Maison—his Parsifal sounds callow and tonally undernourished. However, one would never apply those adjectives to the clarion Amfortas of George London, filled with intensity and expatiated with phenomenal breath control. The Decca sonics are a hefty cut above even Marston's best efforts ... but then that was a recording made with posterity very much in mind.

I find it impossible to choose between the two Marston sets, so will have to have both. For a Parsifal in state-of-the-art sound and a moving interpretation, Kna/Philips remains the preeminent choice. Thanks to my nostalgic attachment to Kna/Naxos (not least for Weber and London), I never thought I'd say that. But miraculous things tend to happen in the Kingdom of the Grail. — David McKee