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AN INTERVIEW WITH LEONARDO CIAMPA
By Christian
Dalzon, ConcertoNet.com
16 February 2005
Leonardo Ciampa has been kind enough to answer ConcertoNet.com questions. Here is his interview:
Christian Dalzon: Bonjour, Leonardo. Before we talk about your book The
Twilight of Belcanto, do you mind
telling us about your musical background?
Leonardo Ciampa: Sure. Thank you for asking. Let’s see, I started playing
the piano at age 7. It was a very random decision; there are no musicians, per
se, in my family. It was just a case
of: my grandmother had an ancient upright piano in her basement, with a
pool table nearby. My brothers were drawn to the pool table, and I was
drawn to the piano.
CD: [Laughter]
LC: But it really was simple as that. One day I asked my mother, “Can I
take piano lessons?” and she said, “Sure.”
CD: That’s all it was.
LC: Nothing more than that. But almost instantaneously, music was my life.
Within a year I was studying at the conservatory, they called me a Wunderkind, and they were grooming me for the piano
competition route.
CD: Evidently they saw great pianistic potential in you. But I take it you
chose to detour from that route.
LC: Yes. I was an immature and naïve kid, but I had very good instincts,
and I could feel something wasn’t right. I’m very proud of that; that’s why
I mention it. My teacher thought I was talented, but she didn’t consider me
or my family to be “cultured,” a fact that she intimated constantly. Yet
despite that lack of what to her was “culture,” I had enough sense of self
and, I guess, strength, to say, “Something isn’t right here. I’m not loving
the piano like I used to.” But in the meantime I was starting to fall in
love with the organ.
CD: The King of Instruments. How did that come about?
LC: Well, I have to say, that was almost as random as my decision to take
piano lessons. There were no good organs or organists within a large radius
of my house. I just by chance attended an organ recital in Boston in September
of ’85. I liked it, I bought my first organ record — “E. Power Biggs
Greatest Hits” — and then I was hooked. My love for the organ grew, my love
for the piano diminished, and at age 15 — this was 1986, one year after
[attending] the organ recital — I decided to switch instruments.
CD: To the shock of your piano-competition-grooming teacher, I’m sure.
LC: Definitely! [Laughter]
CD: Is it true that you didn’t touch a piano for three years?
LC : It’s true that I didn’t practice the piano for three years. But I certainly touched it. I was
accompanying the chorus at my high school, so I still touched the
instrument. But my technique was in wretched condition.
CD : But they say that by age 18, one’s piano technique should be already “
formed ; ” after that it’s “ too late. ”
LC : Yes, that’s precisely what my teacher had predicted. Well, she was
wrong. At age 18 I entered the conservatory — this time time at the college
level — as an organ major, but I started practicing the piano again. For a
few years my piano technique was pretty rocky. And I had no teacher ; my
only teacher was the concert stage. I was 18, still in high school, when I
became Music Director of the First Baptist Church in Jamaica Plain, a
section of Boston. I immediately started a monthly recital series, on both
organ and piano. For two years I continued the series, rarely repeating a
work.
CD : So you played the whole series yourself?
LC : Yes, every concert! Sometimes there were guest instrumentalists and
singers, but it was always me at the keyboard. It was a long, slow process.
But it was a very honest way of learning both how to perform and how to
play the organ and the piano.
CD : That’s an impressive undertaking, especially considering that you
didn’t have a teacher during this time.
LC : No teacher would have let
me play all those recitals.
CD : [Laughter] That is true !
LC : I forged ahead on my own. Later I did take a couple of piano lessons
from Jacob Maxin, and slowly, slowly, over the next decade, I perfected my
technique on both instruments.
CD : Again, without teachers.
LC : Without teachers. I stayed at that church in Jamaica Plain for 12
years. 12 years of concerts and learning. And you know what happened, not
even one month ago ? The church burned down !
CD : Yes, I heard about that sad story . . .
LC : Both piano and organ were completely destroyed. The organ was
absolutely irreplaceable, an 1859 organ by E. & G. G. Hook, the
greatest organbuilders of their time. Three keyboards. One of the most
beautiful organs in the United States. Completely destroyed. And the piano
was nothing to sneeze at, either : an 1897 Chickering concert grand,
rosewood !
CD : Remarkable ! What a loss !
LC : Especially considering that those twelve years were my twelve formative
years. When I started at the church I was 18 and still in high school. When
I left I was 30 and dating my current wife. Those instruments, the
19th-century sounds that came from those instruments, are woven into the
fabric of who I am today as a musician.
CD : An incredible story. You are also a composer — a rather prolific one.
LC : Yes, I’m up to Opus 170-something.
CD : Your best known work is Suite Siciliana, Op. 145. What can you tell us about this work ?
LC : Well, my dear friend Kristina Nilsson, one of the best-known freelance
violinists in Boston, said to me one day, “ I want you to write a piece for
me and Arturo. ” Arturo is Arturo Delmoni, who is Kristina’s and my
favorite violinist. He really plays in the old style — it’s as if you’re
listening to Kreisler or Elman. So Kristina got the Pro Arte Chamber
Orchestra of Boston to commission me to write Suite Siciliana, for two violins and chamber orchestra. Now,
this orchestra contains some of the finest players in Boston, so it’s safe to
say it’s one of the finest orchestras in Boston. However, it is a “
cooperative orchestra. ” The musicians themselves are the board. They hire
and fire the conductors and soloists. It’s an unusual arrangement. And
consequently, their budget is not unlimited. For instance, they wanted me
to eliminate the bass clarinet part, because they didn’t want to pay the
clarinettist a “ doubling fee. ” Can you imagine ? And when I wanted a
harp, they said absolutely, “ No, ” even though they had a harpist playing another
piece on that same program ! So I thought it over and said, “ OK, I’m
writing in a piano part instead, and I’ll play it myself for free. ” They
couldn’t say no to that. So
it became a piece for two violins, piano, and chamber orchestra.
CD : Sort of a “ triple concerto. ”
LC : Yes, a “ concerto grosso ” type of piece. And I’m very proud to say
that I am the first composer, in this country or in Italy, or even in
Sicily, to write a piece of Sicilian classical music that was commissioned
and performed at a major musical institution. The premiere took place at
Sanders Theatre, at Harvard University. So it was a big coup for the cause
of Sicilian culture.
CD : Sicily has a rich history. It’s much more than just the Mafia.
LC : Exactly. I am very active in the movement to promote Sicilian culture
and to dispel these terrible prejudices. But I’ve babbled enough about
myself. Maybe you want to talk more about my book and singers.
CD: Sure. The Twilight of Belcanto. What, would you say, is the main theme of the book?
LC: That’s a question that
I’m glad that you asked. There was a lot of misunderstanding about my
criticism of certain popular singers. However, the book has one and only
one main theme: the Belcanto technique and its, well, twilight.
CD: Meaning that it’s waning, but it’s not quite extinguished yet.
LC: Exactly. It’s actually less extinguished that I thought when I started
the book. There is hope out there.
CD: You mentioned “misunderstandings.” Right off the bat, the term
“Belcanto” is apt to cause all sorts of misunderstandings.
LC: Yes, especially because there are two very distinct things: the
Belcanto TECHNIQUE and the Belcanto REPERTOIRE. Marilyn Horne, for
instance, is one of the undisputed, and undisputable, queens of the Belcanto
repertoire. As far as her technique, it is very idiosyncratic.
CD: But when you speak of this “Belcanto technique,” is that not virtually
impossible to define? That is, are there any two people who would give it
the same definition?
LC: I actually do give a definition of it rather early on in the book. I’m
not arrogant enough to call it the definition. However, I stand by it as a pretty damn accurate
description of the technique, which you’ll notice I use in the singular. I
believe there is one correct voice technique, and there are many who agree
with that.
CD: I was impressed that after you defined “Belcanto,” the first person you
named as an archetype of the technique was Melchior.
LC: Whose name doesn’t even end in a vowel.
Both: [Laughter]
LC: But that should establish, once and for all, that I believe there is
one healthy technique for all voice types of all countries. I never once —
not once — use the term
“Italian technique” or “Italian method” in my book.
CD: I was also impressed that you very humbly included a chapter, early on,
in which you yourself posed the question, “Who am I to be talking about
singing?” So who are you to
be talking about it? What qualifies you to be the definer of “the
technique”?
LC: Well, you know that I’m very proud of how opera came to me. My
[maternal] grandmother gave me her opera records. Her father had a
graphophone and listened to opera ’ and he was born in 1882, so he knew
something about it. My father’s father also was an opera appreciator. He
was born in 1890, and HIS father was born in 1843! So I genuinely have
opera “in my blood.”
CD: Mostly Italian opera?
LC: Yes, alas. My grandmother didn’t give me any Strauss or Wagner.
However, I mention in my book that I’ve accompanied a four-digit number of
voice students, and their teachers had all different approaches — German,
American, Italian, what have you. Also, playing for entire studios of the
same teacher, I learned about a lot of approaches, sometimes from the very
same teacher.
CD: You yourself don’t sing.
LC: No. But sports commentators aren’t on the field sacking quarterbacks. I
can’t imagine Howard Cosell ever played a sport. I’m simply a commentator
who, I hope, has an ear for what is good in singing. From all those voice
teachers that I worked intensely with, some of them true masters of the art
of singing, I — how do I say it? — I picked up something. I noticed things, things that even the students didn’t
get. Newton wasn’t the first person to notice an apple falling from a tree.
But he was the first person to realize what it meant. For reasons that even I don’t know, I have
always had a healthy obsession with those ringing tones that make my ears
ring a certain way. It’s not volume; it’s the spin or squillo. My ear reacts when it hears that. And so I
guess my definition of the technique is that which makes my ear ring in
that way.
CD: Why did you choose to go back in time?
LC : You mean, why did I start from the singers of the present day and work
backwards ? Because I was so sick and tired of people saying they couldn’t
really hear what the old-time singers sounded like, because there was too
much surface noise [on the records]. So I started, right off the bat, with
singers who, in beautiful modern stereo, give you the technique, the
authentic, ancient technique of Belcanto.
CD : Not to interrupt your train of thought, but can I play the devil’s
advocate for just one moment ?
LC : Sure.
CD : How can you or anyone really compare the voice on a digital recording
with the voice on a scratchy 78 ? I mean, how can you really make a comparison ?
LC : Here’s what I’d LOVE to do, Christian. And this would dispel all the
myths in about two seconds. Find a recording apparatus from 1910. Record
Bocelli on a shellac disk identical to what Caruso would have made. Then
play those two disks, on the
same Victrola, back-to-back. You’d find out real fast that to mention the singers of today in the
same breath as those of yesteryear is nothing less than a sacrilege. That
Pavarotti sounds quote-unquote ’ good ’ on a modern CD says little. That
Caruso sounded good on those primitive 78s says volumes. Encyclopedias !
But your original question was why I chose to go back in time in my book.
It is an absolutely legitimate statement to say, “ It’s hard to hear the
voices on those old, scratchy disks. ” Even for a musician with a good ear,
this takes training, absolutely it does. But by starting with new
recordings and gradually
working backwards, you start to ignore the surface noise altogether and
really get a picture of the voice.
Once you do that, there really is no argument that singing has declined
badly. In my book I mention the example of Fuggiam gli ardori
inospiti with Celestina Boninsegna and
Giovanni Valls, recorded in 1904. If singing hasn’t declined, you find me
two singers today who can sing half that well ! I heard another example recently that gave me a
similar reaction. It was the love duet from Boris — sung in Italian, of course ! — sung by Paul
Althouse and Margarete Ober, recorded in 1915. I just was floored. Where is
singing that is even one fifth that good today ?
CD : Let’s take the reverse approach. Singing technique has gradually
declined in the course of the past century ; no one is arguing with that.
From the early 20th century to now, the proportion of Belcanto singers has
dwindled.
LC : The proportion of singers who sing with “ the technique ” has
dwindled, yes.
CD : We start with Caruso, your idol, I believe.
LC : Well, he was the King. And I love him very much. Gigli is probably my
favorite, which is a very personal thing. But sure, let’s start with
Caruso, whom Pavarotti called “ the foundation. ”
CD : Do you feel that singing was irreproachable then ?
LC : Absolutely not. And Caruso’s singing was not irreproachable, either.
Rossini in 1820 was saying that singing was already in decline ! What we do know is that repertoire
got heavier, so vocal requirements changed, and singers with more belt and
less line came into being. But I want to say something about Caruso. Much
has been exaggerated about him, and I want to set the record straight.
First, he was not a tenorino at the beginning, and he was not a baritone at
the end. The smoking didn’t lower or darken his voice that much. And although his voice certainly got more
powerful, more “ dramatic ” if you will, I want to say very emphatically —
I really want to make this point crystal clear — despite the emotions and,
let’s say, individualisms that he allowed to creep into his singing, the
sort of things that drove conductors and critics crazy, despite all that,
Caruso’s 19th-century, Belcanto, seamless legato was UN-IM-PAIRED [said
slowly and with great emphasis] in 1920, in his last recordings. You might
not like his Vaghissima sembianza, but that legato, or the legato of Bartlett’s Dream, sung in English — THIS is what is missing
today. People say, “ Ha ha, listen to all those portamentos. ” Sure, but
let’s hear you do one as
perfectly. Caruso absolutely positively never abandoned his Belcanto
technique. Fame, riches, cigarettes, time — not one of these things took
his eye away from the ball.
DC : Tell us about the 2000 Vienna experiment.
LC : Well, I talk about it in the book. It’s very interesting, really. They
took a computer, isolated Caruso’s voice from the orchestral accompaniment
— how, I have no idea — and had a modern orchestra accompany this
computer-enhanced voice. It’s interesting really for one reason : it gives
you a sense of how Caruso’s voice must have soared over the strings. That is what the old 78s don’t paint for us : the
sound of the Caruso voice, and all those great voices, soaring over the
orchestra in the beautiful acoustics of the theatre.
But I have to tell you, Christian : ultimately, Caruso sounds better on the
old Victrolas.
CD : You really feel that way ?
LC : Yes, I do. You can’t believe how smart those original engineers were.
On modern CDs [remastered from the 78s] the orchestras sound so strange.
But on a Victrola, the voice is in the foreground, and the orchestra is in the
background, in perfect balance. The modified orchestrations, with reduced
violins, tubas, etc. — the sound coming out of the horn isn’t strange at
all. So in one sense, yes the three disks from the Vienna experiment give a
vantage point of what Caruso really sounded like. But in another sense, the
best vantage point are the original disks themselves, played on a good
Victrola.
CD : If singing was so great, what do you suppose caused the situation to
deteriorate over time ? Agents ? The recording industry ? Voice teachers ?
Stardom ?
LC : I blame the microphone, pure and simple. Before microphones, halls
couldn’t have acoustic tiling and heavy carpeting. They had to have live
acoustics. Consequently, a singer had to have technique in order to be
heard. A manager might have had a tin ear, but he could hear volume. Either
he could hear the singer, or he couldn’t. And only the technique makes a
voice heard in the far reaches of a hall.
CD : What about the schism between classical and popular music ?
LC : Well it’s really interesting that you mention that. Al Jolson was the
last popular singer — “ popular ” meaning “ non-classical ” — to sing with
“technique ”, that is, a technique that enabled one to be heard in a hall
without a microphone. In fact, I will go so far as to say that he sang with
the technique — legato, round vowels, the cords together — certain
hallmarks of the Belcanto. But I mean, otherwise, you wouldn’t be heard in
the hall ! It was just a question of decibels. Jolson wasn’t trying to be a
Belcantist.
CD : He was trying to be audible.
LC : Exactly.
CD : And then they invented microphones.
LC : Exactly. Now all of a sudden you didn’t have to be audible. Someone with a puny voice can
give a concert, or make records. In the case of Al Jolson, he died in 1950.
But his voice in 1950 was, well, unique. It was a peculiar voice — one that
I happen to love but I would understand perfectly if others didn’t. So
unfortunately, Jolson didn’t open anyone’s eyes or ears. People didn’t wake
up and say, “ Hey, I want to sing with a technique like that ! ” So after
1950 the schism only widened. Popular singers got worse and worse, to the
point that — God, I don’t even want to finish that sentence.
CD : Yes, the popular music of today . . .
LC : Parliamo delle patate,
as we say in Italian. Let’s change the topic.
CD : The last singers who sang with the Belcanto technique were Jussi
Björling, Carlo Bergonzi, Fiorenza Cossotto, Maria Chiara, Virginia Zeani,
maybe a couple of others?
LC : Well, Bergonzi for sure. Björling for sure. Certainly I would add
Araiza to that list — a tremendous artist. Virginia Zeani, absolutely her
work from the ’50s and ’60s represents a quality of singing that has long
vanished from the face of the earth. I hope that her best singing becomes
commercially available soon. Her best singing is on “ pirates ” that I have
heard but that have not yet made it to the stores. Most of the commercial
recordings of her that are out there do not do her justice, like those
cheap Rumanian disks.
CD : In your book you are, of course, kind to these upholders of the
Belcanto tradition. You are less kind to huge singers like Maria Callas,
Renata Tebaldi, Joan Sutherland — after all, what we have here is a divina, an angelo, and a stupenda —
not to mention Marilyn Horne, Plácido Domingo, and Luciano Pavarotti whom
you trash pretty mercilessly. You can’t deny that they all had a wonderful
instrument. What did the first ones do right that the others did not ?
LC : Well, each case is very different. Did every one of those people you
mention have wonderful instruments ? Initially, yes. But that’s not what my
book is about. Giacomini and Martinucci had two of the greatest — I mean
THE greatest — tenor instruments that the world has ever heard. Put
together those two don’t have half a brain between them. A wonderful
instrument in itself is just that. But what good is a wonderful Bösendorfer
Imperial Grand if you don’t have someone who knows how to play it ?
Now, in the case of Callas and Tebaldi, you have two of the greatest
soprani who ever set foot on a palcoscenico. I am only beginning to learn how much greater
Tebaldi was live than on her recordings. I recently heard some live Met
broadcasts of her and was astonished. Not only was her high range much
freer, but she was warmer and more communicative. So Tebaldi I will have to
reassess slightly. But that doesn’t negate the fact that Callas and Tebaldi
both had flaws in their technique, punto e basta. Callas especially — this is not breaking news.
There are reams of literature out there on Callas’ technical flaws. I think
bad repertoire choices, especially in her youth, contributed to her vocal
demise. Not only singing the wrong things, but singing things in the wrong
succession. A tenor can’t sing Otello on Monday and Nemorino on Tuesday.
Callas was doing things like that. And as far as Horne, her repertoire
choices have at times bordered on the absurd. She should have stuck with
the Belcanto repertoire and sung it with a simple, Belcanto technique.
Being American, she wanted to “ do it all. ” But I can bash her all I want
— I recently did a poll, and Marilyn Horne came up as one of the most
beloved opera singers in America today. I conducted the same poll on an
Italian message group. She won there, too ! That is not an accident. It
means that she got up on stage and wowed her public. But my book is not
about wow. For instance, I knew people would get mad at me that I didn’t
rave more about Corelli, especially since he died shortly before the book went
to press. But the question of Corelli as a supreme artist and the question
of his technique — these are two completely different questions. This is
what many people didn’t understand about my book. My book is not a
popularity contest. Pavarotti is world-famous. Again, this is no accident.
However, if you want to have a conversation about the lineage of Belcanto
singing, going back to Battistini and before, post-1970 Pavarotti does not
enter into the conversation. He was a diligent student with a glorious
voice but a small artistic and musical conscience. What he had was Herbert
Breslin, the greatest manager in the business. So Pavarotti became famous —
not by his conscience, but by Breslin’s hard work. And then Pavarotti went
and fired him, causing him to write a tell-all book. So it cannot be said
that Pavarotti is known for his intelligent decision-making.
CD : Be that as it may : people love Pavarotti.
LC : Because thanks to Breslin, Pavarotti’s was the name and face that you
saw everywhere you went. But notice that my book was not entitled The
Most Loved, Famous, and Richest Opera Singers. There Pavarotti would receive a very thick chapter, as would
Bocelli and half a dozen others who, shall we say, are not archetypes of
technique.
CD : How, in your opinion, would singers such as Renée Fleming, Angela
Gheorghiu, Roberto Alagna, and Rolando Villazón have fared in the Golden
Age of Belcanto?
LC : I heard Villazón’s début album recently. I told my wife, “ Honey, this
guy has a voice on the level of a Caruso or a Gigli — really one of the
great tenor voices of all time. ” Now, this is just his début album ; where
he goes from here is impossible to say. But Villazón has stunning
potential. Renée Fleming — look, only an idiot would deny that her voice is
one of the great ones of all time. During the Golden Age or any age, her
instrument would have been one of the great ones. But again, an instrument
is just an instrument. Rethberg had a great voice. But as a singer/artist,
Fleming next to Rethberg is Lilliputian, she’s microscopic. What she does —
or, more accurately, doesn’t do — with her voice, season after season, is
an increasing disappointment. She had the potential to be a Rethberg or a
Milanov — maybe she still does. But she isn’t tapping into very much of
that technique. She’s pandering to the masses — which Caruso and Gigli also
did. But Caruso and Gigli pandered AND used the full resources of their Old
World technique. Fleming doesn’t. I’m not alone in that opinion. Bartoli is
another one. One of the great instruments ever. There’s no era that would
not have praised her instrument. But her technique ? God, help us !
CD : Your book mentions French baritone Ludovic Tézier. He belongs to the
new generation.
LC : Yes. And he has technique to burn. I heard him sing Hamlet in Torino
in January of 2001. It’s a terrible role for the baritone — he has to sing
non-stop the whole opera. His voice was still fresh at the end of the
opera. I felt as though he could have sung the whole opera as an encore. That
is technique !
CD : Your book also includes an interview with soprano Virginia Zeani. I
knew she was an exceptional singer, but she also sounds like a wonderful
person, and so knowledgeable.
LC : Well, there are two kinds of “ knowledgeable. ” People used to quiz
Artur Rubinstein on the royal families of various countries — who was
married to whom, who succeeded whom, etc. People were always so impressed
that he would always pass this quiz with flying colors. Rubinstein couldn’t
understand the fuss. “ You don’t understand : I knew these royals. I played for them. ” So there is the “ knowledgeable ”
that comes from reading a book. Then there is the “ knowledgeable ” of a
Virginia Zeani, who sang with everybody. Plus her husband, Nicola
Rossi-Lemeni, was one of the most famous bassi of his time. So between the
two of them, there probably wasn’t one singer whom one or the other didn’t
either sing with or know socially. For instance, you mentioned Callas and
Tebaldi as being two of the greatest of the greats. Well, Callas probably
owes her American career to Rossi-Lemeni. And Tebaldi ? She was in love
with Rossi-Lemeni, but he broke her heart and married Zeani instead ! So
yes, Ms. Zeani is “ knowledgeable, ” but don’t you see, she lived with
these people ! I mean, I know about Gigli from his records and his memoirs.
Zeani sang with Gigli !
CD : You reserve a special place in this book to Iride Pilla and Vittorio
Marciano —
LC : — and Mary Davenport, and several others who, in different ways,
showed me the pathway towards the Belcanto technique. Davenport actually
studied with a Garcia — isn’t that wild ? She studied with the last Garcia,
in London. They pronounced his name ‘ Garsha. ” Miss Pilla had a
respectable career, though it was shortened due to illness and other
factors beyond her control. Her diminutive height . . . the fact that
Gatti-Casazza died a year or two too early . . .
CD : Bad luck.
LC : Unfortunately, yes. But she had genuine successes in what I call “
Opera Country, ” the region of Parma, Piacenza, and Reggio-Emilia. Anyone
who had even a modest success there [in the 1930s], you know was great.
Then it turns out she sang between 100 and 150 Santuzzas for Salmaggi’s
opera company in New York.
CD : Really ?
LC : Yes. I didn’t mention that in my book because I didn’t know Salmaggi
was anyone special. Well, turns out Richard Tucker, Herva Nelli, and other
greats got their start with Salmaggi.
CD : So Miss Pilla had what you would call the “ Belcanto technique. ”
LC : But see everyone did at that time. If you were Italian and born in
1904, what other way was there for you to sing ? If you sang another way,
you would not have been hired.
CD : But the tenor Vittorio Marciano, with whom you’ve had a close personal
association, was born much later, in 1942.
LC : He is a very special case. It is said that a person’s best trait is
also their worst trait. For instance, a woman says, “ I married him because
he was gentle. I divorced him because he was a wimp. ” Or, “ I married him
because he had financial means. I divorced him because all he did was work
and make money. ” Vittorio was a provincial. He grew up in an orphanage and
then was adopted — not even adopted, “ affiliated ” — by an illiterate
family of farmers. But because
of this provincial upbringing, he found this voice teacher, a practical
unknown, whose gods were Caruso and Gigli and, most especially, Pertile.
CD : I assume this was the 1960s. Those three singers were already dead and
démodé in the ’60s. So this
teacher was obviously démodé
himself.
LC : Ah, you’re catching my drift. That’s exactly my point. Marciano
learned an outmoded technique from an outmoded teacher. Imagine how
outmoded this technique is today ! So I got to work with a man,
face-to-face, who — live, right into my own ears — sang the technique that
I had only previously heard on the old, scratchy 78 records. This was what
changed my life and, eventually, caused me to write The Twilight of
Belcanto. This orphan from Naples —
look at the world he opened up to me.
CD : A truly amazing story. So what’s next for Leonardo Ciampa ? Recitals ?
Any new compositions in the making ?
LC : Yes, all of that. At the moment I’m working hard at starting my own
chorus, which is called “ Coro Polifonico of Boston. ” I adore working with
choirs.
CD : And of course you vocalize them with the Belcanto technique !
LC : Come no ? But the reason
I adore choruses, I think, is because with orchestras it’s different ;
they’re all paid. In choruses, you have amateurs in the literal French meaning of the word.
Doctors, lawyers, engineers, and real-estate salesmen — all of whom would
DIE without that weekly fix of music. My wife was just such a person. She
is a lawyer, and singing in a particular chorus on Tuesday nights was her raison
d’être.
CD : Her ragion di essere.
LC : Ah, we’re trading languages ! [Hearty laughter] In any case, that is
how I met my wife. I happened to be accompanying that chorus, and so the
rest is history. I just love choruses. I love being around amateurs, lovers of music. I spent a brief time at the
conservatory, and I met very few true amateurs there — few among the students, even fewer among
the teachers, and none at all among the administrators.
CD : But you’ve found love in your chorus, the chorus of your own
formation. It’s clear that you’re someone who doesn’t wait for a hospitable
environment to appear — you create it.
LC : If I’m anything, I’m a creator.
CD : Leonardo Ciampa, thank you. It has truly been a pleasure chatting with
you.
LC : The pleasure was 100% mine. From my heart I wish you all the success
in the world.
CD : Également.
Christian Dalzon
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