It is a great excitement to come, unsuspectingly, across an unknown masterpiece; and these discs have electrified me and left me quivering. I had only vaguely known the name of Francisco Antonio de Almeida as having composed, in 1733, what is reputedly the first Portuguese opera (La pazienza di Socrate, now lost); but as well as that and two other comic operas (of which only La Spinalba survives) he also wrote a couple of oratorios, one of which, dated 1726, is the present treatment of the Biblical story of Judith and Holofernes. Like his contemporary Teixeira (whose Te Deum created a stir at the Proms recently and has been recorded on Collins Classics—see page 174), Almeida was sent by King Joao V to study music in Rome, and returned to enrich the artistic life of his native Portugal.
The insert-note of this set says, modestly, that ''On listening to this Giuditta it is difficult not to think of Handel (whose music Almeida probably never heard)'': what it does not say is that, in inventiveness, technique and effect it is a match for Handel at his very best—and written before any of Handel's oratorios except La Resurrezione. With only four characters and no chorus it does not, of course, have any of Handel's massive ensembles or contrapuntal mastery: each of its two parts consists of about a dozen recitatives (several accompagnato) and arias, with a duet to close each part. But the instrumental writing, for horns, oboes, flutes, strings and continuo, is spectacular and richly varied, and as one brilliant aria follows another, with never a lapse of standard, one can but wonder that so splendid a work should have remained unrecognized for so long. The arias, besides demanding, with their often elaborate fioriture, virtuoso singing, reveal Almeida as an outstanding melodist: he had a developed harmonic sense, and his scoring throughout is boldly imaginative. I need instance only the simple but effective means by which he depicts Judith's stealthy advance upon the sleeping Holofernes, or the striking opening of the Overture, which grabs the attention with its busy strings and solo horns (which are frequently called upon in the course of the work for exposed passages).
Rene Jacobs directs a performance full of vitality that does justice to the score. He has, along with the accomplished Cologne Concerto, four admirable soloists, all of whom ornament their da capos freely and stylishly. In the title-role Lena Lootens is initially light- and bright-voiced, with attractively clean coloratura, but later shows greater power and depths of colour, especially in the passionate aria (which speaks of the Lord's wrath, lightning flashes and slaughter) that begins Part 2. Martyn Hill makes a blustering Holofernes (his recorded level occasionally slightly higher in arias than in recitatives—were they done separately?) who handles his ornate arias—two accompanied by warlike horns—with great skill; but in the Assyrian's lecherous ''Cara, non paventar'' he sounds too gently tender. An alto new to me, Axel Kohler, make an excellent impression as the commander of besieged Bethulia: his big aria, ''Giusto Dio'', in which he appeals for divine aid, is particularly fine, with affecting Handelian harmony. The role of Achior, the reluctant ally of Holofernes and commandant of the Ammonites, is difficult to make convincing to a modern audience, being written for a soprano: Francesca Congiu brings to it something of a castrato's penetrating quality, and it is scarcely her fault that to the ear she sounds inescapably feminine. One of her arias, ''Pallida e scolorata'', has a faintly Pergolesian resonance to it.
I find it hard to convey the impact this oratorio has had on me: if I say that I would class it among the most memorable works of its kind and its period, those are but poor words. Hear it for yourselves: it is a stunning discovery.'