I was diligent, that's all
Nicolai Gedda in conversation with Opernwelt
You were one of the most beloved tenors of your time. And that in spite of an immense competition at that time. There are people who claim that there is only one singer of your rank left today.
Yes, Jonas Kaufmann. I have heard of him. But I must admit, I don't know his voice.
During your active time, there were a few other star tenors. Was that an advantage?
Maybe. It meant that I didn't have to constantly sing the same repertoire as my colleagues. At the Metropolitan Opera, I was mainly responsible for the French repertoire - and for Mozart. Luciano Pavarotti, also Plácido Domingo and Franco Corelli sang the Italian fach. They thought I had a talent for comic roles, so they also had me sing Nemorino in "L'elisir d'amore". But by the way, it's true: the fact that there were so many first-rate tenors allowed me to specialize. And that prolonged my career. I didn't have to constantly ride the dangerous steeds.
Were there singers whose competition you feared?
Oh, that would have led to nothing. Karajan once told me directly: "You have no competition!" My good fortune was that I came at a time when people were beginning to make complete recordings on a grand scale. And that I auditioned Walter Legge right at the beginning, that was in the early 50s. It was about this "Boris Godunov" recording. And that worked out for me. He introduced himself to me with the words: "If you sing with me, you'll be famous." It was Legge who opened the doors for me.
Stylistically, you were considered a universalist. Did you have to become one - because you were born neither in Italy nor in France nor in Germany?
It didn't feel that way to me. My great passion was languages, even as a little boy. In Leipzig, where my Russian stepfather worked, I grew up speaking three languages: Swedish, German and Russian. I spent two years at a German school. After that, French was my great love. I worked bitterly on my pronunciation and always tried to improve. I was diligent, that's all.
You had a rock-solid height and an unmistakable timbre. All given - or made?
Given. I didn't have to work much on the high notes. I think I got the timbre from my Russian grandmother, Anastasia. And the admiration for Russian tenors. Leonid Sobinov was the greatest! Also Sergei Lemeshev and Ivan Kozlovsky, who even greeted me personally once after a concert. I also met the French tenor Georges Thill. Too many women's stories, I'm afraid ... But what a Werther!
You also had probably the best voix mixte of your time and a fantastic mezza voce. Who was your role model?
The Italians, for both. They were technically better than the French, who usually sang too openly. I was lucky with the voix mixte, that's true. Especially in the "Queen of Sheba" by Karl Goldmark, that's very difficult ... My role model in these things was Beniamino Gigli. And Tito Schipa. How to do it right with the mezza voce, I had already learned in Sweden.
As a Swede, did you have the feeling of being an outsider?
Only in Italy. In the first period with Karajan at La Scala, I was indeed unhappy. But mainly because I had to sing Tamino in Italian. It was not yet the time of original languages. That didn't come until I was at the Metropolitan Opera. There I even sang Lensky in "Eugene Onegin" in Russian. For me, a dream came true at that time. By the way, I was not the first Swede to sing everything in the original language in New York. Birgit Nilsson had already done that. Jussi Björling also sang everything in the original. A good role model, because his French was a wonder.
Your debut recording, the aforementioned "Boris Godunov" from 1952, is perhaps the best recording of this opera to date. Was it made with the intention of presenting the definitive recording?
I didn't think so. And I even had some difficulty with the recording because Boris Christoff sang all three bass roles; even though, of course, it was incredible how he did it. As far as I know, Fyodor Shalyapin had done the same. A stroke of luck for me was the conductor, Issay Dobrowen. He made the difference.
The five so-called champagne-operettas that Walter Legge produced with you in the 1950s are also marvels to this day. Did Legge simply tell you back then: "Have your fun"? Or, "Take this seriously!"?
He didn't have to tell us that at all. It was clear to me that I had to take at least Su-Chong in "Land of Smiles" seriously. Because in my eyes, that's actually an operatic role. I even sang it with a bit of Slavic timbre in my voice. I loved Lehar enormously at that time. And I knew that he must not sound corny under any circumstances. I had already learned that from predecessors like Helge Roswaenge, whom I used to listen to a lot on the radio. In short: We took these works so seriously on our own that it was quite easy to have fun with them.
Su-Chong is considered one of your best roles. Rightly so?
Yes, in the operetta. I was also very careful with the role and didn't sing it for long. Anyway, I have always been rather cautious about age. For Zurich, for example, Alexander Pereira still wanted to cast me as Lenski. But I was already over 50, it just didn't fit. In Paris, I could have sung Lohengrin when I was almost 60. But Lohengrin has to be young. Only Hoffmann doesn't need to be young; I sang it late in life at the Vienna Volksoper. But that I recorded Lenski so late - in 1988, under Emil Tchakarov and with dear Yuri Mazurok in the title role - ... I don't really know.
You knew exactly what your predecessors did with the voice. Does it have to be like that?
Yes, I think so. Of course, you always end up with Caruso. He was also the best as a stylist. But I was still not allowed to imitate him. That was just as true for Beniamino Gigli. Although: I even imitated him a bit for a while, until I realized: that really doesn't work, I can't do that. I wasn't the first. That was important for me.
They say you weren't a fan of Jussi Björling?
That's a misunderstanding. Björling was the role model par excellence for all of us back then. We were deeply shocked when he went downhill so rapidly. As you know, Björling had an alcohol problem. He drank hard stuff, in large quantities. In the course of time, he became very overweight in the process. He didn't like himself in that condition, did a radical cure and lost it all in one fell swoop. We were amazed. But his body couldn't take it. He had several heart attacks.
How many performances did you sing per week?
Less than others, on average two and a half a week, I would say. I needed two or three days in between each time. My engagement in Bayreuth failed because of this condition. Wolfgang Wagner wanted to engage me as Lohengrin. But he only wanted to allow me two, not three days between performances. So I canceled.
You only sang Lohengrin in one single, short series of performances in Stockholm.
And that in itself was a mistake! Lohengrin appealed to me, and I could easily record the arias on records. So I thought: My God, Stockholm is not a great theater. And the conductor Silvio Varviso was a good friend of mine. I had studied the part early on. And conceived it as a bel canto role. I wanted to acquire the role through the text and make up for what I lacked in voice with more consonants. Because, as I always say, I didn't have the right "artillery" for the part. So I made it a little more biting. I then sang the opera three times and realized: this is not my way.
Why not?
It wasn't that the role felt unpleasant. But I wanted to sing Des Grieux afterwards. And not put my Mozart at risk. I felt that these things didn't go together - and instead preferred to sing more Don Ottavio.
You once said that not only "Lohengrin" but also your roles in "I vespri siciliani" or Hermann in "Pique Dame" were errors. But on record, wouldn't that have appealed to you?
I just didn't think from the records. Although I have made so many. With Hermann, the phrases would have been okay, but not the outbursts. But shall I tell you something: Rostropovich wanted me as Hermann for his complete recording of the "Queen of Spades" - on Deutsche Grammophon. Only I insisted that the contract be issued not on the basis of a fee, but of royalties. Because I thought that with Rostropovich it would certainly be a great commercial success. With Legge, we had always worked on that basis. With Elektrola, too. Only Deutsche Grammophon was against it.
Were there roles you would have liked to sing but categorically refused?
Of course! Walther von Stolzing, for example. I also didn't dare to do verismo. I sang Cavaradossi less than I might have done. But a singer must have the right timbre for a role. And mine was ideal for Lenski or Nemorino. But not for Don Carlo, who is agitated all the time. I missed him too. I had a great love for Radames, which I also never thought I could do. What a pity! I regret that very much. But it was the right thing to do.
You have admitted several times that you were too shy at the beginning and had to work on this problem persistently. How do you fight your own shyness?
Let me think about that for a moment. Martin Öhmann, my teacher in Sweden, used to tell me, "You have to have the attitude: Here I come!" Mirella Freni, for example, handled it that way. When she walked across the stage, you could feel her attitude, "I am Freni." She just walked and was already somebody. I've actually only been able to get over my shyness through practice, and for many years. You kind of work it away.
Renata Scotto recently declared in "Opernwelt" that you were her best stage partner - especially as a performer. Did you misjudge yourself in the end?
(thinks about it) No! I had a hard time as a performer. To be able to sing Lenski, I studied especially with a Russian actress. That's how inhibited I was. And that's something that doesn't turn into strength overnight. I had to be patient with myself. And I was able to do that. Because I didn't really want to be a star.
But you were a star?
No. At least I didn't want to be, I wanted to be an artist.
What is the difference?
Look, I was close friends with Callas. Towards the end of her career, as Carmen in Paris, she no longer had a very beautiful voice. But she was absolutely believable as a character. She always told me, "Think of the situation. And sing the consonants!" And she was right about that. Go to Bayreuth sometime! You'll only hear vowels on stage there. At least in my day. In America, even then, there was a star system, and it consisted of not thinking in terms of the situation and the character. If Manon was cast with a big star, then it didn't matter if Des Grieux was shorter than her - or taller. I didn't think that was a good thing.
Both aesthetically and in terms of the length of your career, you were actually an antitype to Callas. Why did you nevertheless fit together so well?
Because she was such a fantastic artist. She was the first to arrive and the last to leave. She was there at rehearsals all the time. You could argue about the voice. Many were more in favor of Renata Tebaldi at the time. But when I experienced Callas at La Scala as Norma, I thought she must have gotten something genetically from ancient drama. There's a passage where she has only one word: "Io." But she said it in such a way that people went wild. I had moist eyes from one second to the next. It was not a question of tone with her, but of expression. Also in "La traviata" at the Met, where Rudolf Bing unfortunately gave her only a third-rate tenor as a partner. She sang, "Amami, Alfredo." And tears came to my eyes.
Were the singers who worked with Callas at that time aware that she was burning herself, not to say ruining herself?
Yes. Already in "Madama Butterfly" the high notes were shaky. The "Carmen" was then again very beautiful - I mean the recording made in the mid-60s - under Georges Prêtre, who always sweated like no other. When the orchestra couldn't do what Prêtre wanted, he sometimes got really angry. But so did Klemperer. I can still hear him shouting, "Lotte, my hat!". What a theater that was.
What do you think of "Madama Butterfly" under Herbert von Karajan, which you recorded with Callas in 1956?
I was too young at the time. And not quite in shape. I prefer - this will surprise you! - the German "Butterfly," which I did ten years later with Anneliese Rothenberger.
You were disappointed in Karajan as a human being because he treated the singers from above. Was that normal back then?
Only when I was very young. Not later. At the time when I was singing with Schwarzkopf, I once took a few steps to the wrong side. Karajan immediately shouted at me. I never forgot that. But the break came later. After some sacred work that was difficult to sing, he gave the ladies kisses, but he didn't even look at me or my male colleagues. Then I said to myself, "That's enough!" And I never sang under him again.
What did you learn from Karajan?
Not to always stare at the conductor. Although it is a mistake to say that Karajan was a good conductor for singers, that he followed the singers. He didn't. He was too good for that. He merely had a very good, elegant conducting technique that made it easy for the singers to follow.
Who were the three most important conductors in your life?
First, Karajan, without question. I had already sung with him in Bach's B minor Mass. Then there was André Cluytens and Otto Klemperer, whom I actually liked very much. If I had to name a fourth, it would be Carlo Maria Giulini.
Which would you say are your three best recordings?
The "Werther" under Georges Prêtre [1968] is really successful. And the "Manon" with Beverly Sills [1970]. Also "Benvenuto Cellini" [1972]; Colin Davis, the conductor, was a wonderful person on top of that. Once, when we were rehearsing "Idomeneo," he got coffee for us. I would have loved to have experienced that with Karajan! You know, it's so easy to make us singers happy ...
The real miracle of your career was not only the scope of your repertoire, but also the length of your career. Did that also come from having the right role models?
You know, Caruso's principle was, "Always work, always study." Nevertheless, his career basically didn't last very long. I think, like any good singer, I owe everything I can and have been able to achieve, in fact, to my teachers. That was first in Sweden Martin Öhmann, a very well-known Wagner tenor at the time. Technically great! He did not make the mistake of pushing me in the direction in which he himself had sung. And later I met Paola Novikova in New York, with whom George London and Irmgard Seefried also studied.
One problem of today's singers is sometimes the frequent move between continents. How many times a year did you fly to America back then?
Not very often, because I always stayed for some time. Each time I had a few weeks of rehearsals before the performances began. The first year with "Faust" I even added a tour. Some singers flew more often. They wanted to make as much money as possible. I didn't think that way, I had to be rested before I went on stage. I also, when I was back in Europe, never scheduled a recording immediately after arriving. It took me four or five days to adjust. Later, repertory performances sometimes occurred at the Met, for example of "La traviata." But I was dissatisfied with that, too - even though there were regular rehearsals. I always preferred to work with the original director.
After all, you have earned well enough in your life to be able to settle here in Tolochenaz in 1968.
Oh yes, but I didn't exhaust all the possibilities. Those who were successful in Bayreuth, for example, received higher fees at other houses. I left that out. It was similar at the Met, where the money was not as good as at other houses. I did receive the maximum fee. At that time it was "only" $4,000 an evening, which cannot be compared to today, but those who were successful at the Met received a higher fee in San Francisco or Chicago.
Was the secret of your career's success ultimately that you were always hypercritical of your own performance?
Yes, that's probably true. But I wasn't unhappy about it. I studied and studied. I basically never found the first recording successful. Neither did the second. I had to record everything three times before it turned out the way I wanted it to. And I have to say: I also pushed it through. It wouldn't have worked any other way.
You were the first tenor with a "globalized" repertoire. Why have you - in a globalized world - never found a successor?
Is that so? If you are right, then it has probably become very difficult to be a good singer.