Alexander Kluge - Temple of the Scapegoat: Opera Stories

He was a singer who gave more than his all. Dramatic renunciation. He would forget to spare his own voice, with the result that during many performances he would become vocally bankrupt, only capable of still displaying technique. His voice was rough and gravelly, but possessed a solid and highly metallic core. It would, wrote the critic of the New York Times, be difficult to surpass his cri de coeur of Ah, la maledizione in Rigoletto. By contrast, the critic of the Washington Post, while acknowledging that the baritones singing possessed a certain aplomb, declared it to be without any stylistic delicacy. That wounded him deeply.

Leonard Warren, born Leonard Warenoff in New York in 1911, took over the role of the Doge in Simon Boccanegra from the legendary Lawrence Tibbett. The part put him among his generations leading baritones. He was UTTERLY UNSPARING of himself in defending the position hed so strenuously sought, while maintaining a reputation for being sensitive and refined. However, it was precisely this, the QUALITY OF FEELING in his singing, that was disputed. The critic at the Washington Post was willing to grant him only a certain NATURAL POWER .

March 4, 1960, was the opening night of Verdis La Forza del Destino at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. Leonard Warren sang the part of Don Carlos, brother to the unfortunate Leonora (Renata Trebaldi). Following the friendship duet between Alvaro and Don Carlos there was a pause. Warren seemed to be having difficulties beginning Don Carloss aria. The great man gave a sigh. He was about to come to the O gioia before the stretta. Suddenly he froze. Leonoras locket slipped from his hand, and he fell, according to the Washington Post, first with his chest, then with his head to the ground. The fall was only too real. The audience took fright. At his side, the singer playing Alvaro cried out: Lennie, Lennie! Stage hands ran in from the wings and saw blood dripping from his broken nose. Taking turns, the stage manager Osie Hawkins and the tenor Richard Tucker delivered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to the lifeless man. Dr. Adrian Zorgniotti, the Mets house doctor, could do nothing more than confirm the baritones death. A half hour passed in confusion. No one had dropped the curtain. At this point, Rudolf Bing, the director of the Met, came on stage and addressed the audience: This is one of the saddest moments in the history of the Metropolitan. May I ask you all to rise. In tribute to one of our greatest performers. I am sure you will agree with me that it would not be possible to continue with the performance. Only then was the colossus carried from the stage. The critic at the