Antonio DRAGHI (c1634-1700)
El Prometeo (1669)
Prometeo – Fabio Trümpy (tenor)
Peleo – Scott Conner (bass)
Tetis – Mariana Flores (soprano)
Nisea – Giusepping Bridelli (mezzo-soprano)
Satyro – Borja Quiza (baritone)
Mercurio – Zachary Wilder (tenor)
Minerva – Ana Quintans (soprano)
Hercules – Kamil Ben Hsaïn Lachiri (baritone)
Nereo – Victor Torrès (baritone)
Pandora – Anna Reinhold (mezzo-soprano)
Jupiter – Alejandro Meerapfel (baritone)
Aragne – Lucía Martín-Cartón (soprano)
Choeur de Chambre de Namur, Cappella Mediterranea/Leonardo García Alarcón
rec. June 2018, Auditorium de l’Opéra de Dijon, France
Booklet notes and synopsis in English, French, and German
Spanish libretto with English and French translations
ALPHA CLASSICS 582 [61:34 + 66:55]
Those familiar with the Guinness Book of Records may recall that Antonio Draghi holds the notorious accolade of having written the greatest number of operas. Ironically it seems that none of these have been recorded, even though a considerable number survive, so here is a valuable chance to assess whether quantity in any way compromises quality. The matter is somewhat skewed in this case, though, by the fact that conductor Leonardo García Alarcón has unearthed an opera whose third and final act is missing and so has completed that himself. Furthermore, the work is not in the composer’s native Italian but was written in Spanish because it was presented at the Viennese Habsburg court for the birthday of the Queen of Spain in 1669. In fact the ultimate source of the libretto was a recent play by Calderón no less, and that seems to account for its witty and succinct dramatic character.
As one of Draghi’s earliest operas his style still conforms to that of such prominent exponents of the genre during the mid-17th century as Cavalli and Cesti, before he would go on to develop longer structures in his arias, like Alessandro Scarlatti at around the same time, eventually leading to the format of full-blown opera seria. Like its forbears all the way back to Monteverdi and the beginnings of opera as a form, El Prometeo is full of dramatic spectacle, peopled by humans and gods – and even a statue brought to life – interacting in lively dialogue which encompasses comic, lyrical, elegiac, and philosophical discourse, all set to vivid and engaging music which responds deftly to the situation at each moment.
Although this recording was made in the studio, it followed straight after a run of live staged performances at Dijon Opera, pictures from which are contained in the booklet. That comes across strongly in this well characterised and immediate recording, in which the singers, in general, audibly adopt a particular persona, but without the distraction of audience or stage noise. Nor does it seem as though the listener is merely eavesdropping on an event intended for the presence of a live audience, but the pacing and temper of the whole recording keeps one engaged.
Prometheus suffers doubly in this drama, not only on account of his famous, heroic theft of fire from the gods, but also because his infatuation with Thetis is ignored by her in favour of his more handsome brother, Peleus. Fabio Trümpy brings a suitable ardour to his singing as he yearns for Thetis, a lyrical charm to his noble suffering, and a quiver of awe or fear as he contemplates the statue which he has made to console himself after Thetis’s rejection and transforms into a living form briefly with the fire he has stolen. It is Scott Conner as his brother who sounds more conventionally heroic, even swaggering, as he eyes up Thetis more successfully.
Mariana Flores is by turns haughty and ingratiating as she goads the brothers on, and expresses a certain disingenuous regret, perhaps, when she tries to turn down the god Jupiter’s overtures to her, as he also wishes to marry her. Flores’s delivery borders on the shrill at times, but that is just about commensurate with the diva-like character of the role. In contrast, Giuseppina Bridelli takes a more crisply innocent and charming approach as Nisea, the nymph who loves Prometheus – hopelessly as she thinks at first, but eventually to a happy outcome once Prometheus recognises that her fidelity makes her an ideal partner. As Thetis’s father, Nereus, Victor Torrès is commanding when addressing her, but tellingly obsequious as he contemplates the possibility of his daughter becoming wed to Jupiter.
The Satyr is a character which follows the precedent of the amusing, rough-spoken servant in the Venetian operas of Cavalli, but there is no counterpart here to the more outrageous figure of the randy old woman played in drag which was a feature of those works. Borja Quiza plays the comedy well without hamming it up needlessly, as there is no lewd humour as such. The cast of human characters is rounded off by the figure of Arachne, whose story is included here in counterpoint to that of Prometheus’s, both suffering the wrath of the gods for transgressions. Lucia Martín-Cartón takes the part, whose punishment is to be turned into a spider, with a suitable dignity.
The gods are also vividly realised: Alejandro Meerapfel is an authoritative Jupiter, if somewhat dry in tone elsewhere; Anna Reinhold’s Pandora is quietly persuasive one moment, and passionately expressive the next in her outrage at Prometheus’s theft; Zachary Wilder makes an arresting first appearance as Mercury, if somewhat nasal. Kamil Ben Hsaïn Lachiri and Ana Quintans make decent contributions as Hercules and Minerva.
With no more than two to a part, the Cappella Mediterranea’s support is full of colour and verve, from the striking dissonances which open the brief instrumental introduction, with castanets added to evoke a Spanish flavour, to the voluptuously tender final duet for Prometheus and Nisea. As the last number in Alarcón’s contribution to the score, he seems to hark back to the famous ‘Pur ti miro’ which concludes The Coronation of Poppea and may or may not have been composed by Monteverdi. Elsewhere Alarcón’s writing in the third act raises the tension and vigour of the music by a notch, though it is otherwise still consistent with Draghi’s style. The Choeur de Chambre de Namur make a creditable appearance, notably in the Handelian chorus of Nereids at the end of the first act, which is Draghi’s work.
Even on the basis of only two acts of Draghi’s own score, this performance reveals a musician with an accomplished compositional voice, whose word-setting is direct and efficient, but whose ear for melody finds winning expression in the more extended solo vocal sections, clearly pointing ahead to the greater possibilities afforded by formal arias in the structure of opera. Knowledge of this historical background is not essential, however, as this release is a generally enjoyable realisation of a lively piece of musical theatre which will repay the attention of listeners with any interest in early opera and maybe more besides. Perhaps it will also provoke other performers to start mining Draghi’s output for more gems.
Curtis Rogers
