In the quest for lost innocence, we listened to Caruso's records as reproduced throughout the age of LP, and longed for the wind-up gramophones of childhood. The voice which had been Nature's gift to 'the fabulous phonograph' seemed reluctant to oblige modern times with an encore. Aiming at brilliance and definition, the typical LP transfer forfeited something of the luscious, full-bodied tone which so far from being an invention of the old machines was part of the very essence of Caruso's greatness. Generally, a modest simple dubbing, of the kind exemplified by the Olympus series, did best; the company in question sought out the best copy available to them and used their ears rather than any a priori theory. EMI, limited to their own territory, which comprised the early recordings made before Caruso became an exclusive Victor contract artist, produced an excellent 'young Caruso' recital on LP (mono HL 7030, 12/73—nla) which now appears on CD in their References series edited by Keith Hardwick. RCA with the rich Victor heritage in their vaults, backed a process pioneered by Thomas Stockham, involving computers and a lot of expense: its gains included the restoration of sweetness and an enhanced separation of voice from accompaniment, but otherwise the most obvious feature was a persistent rumble, which one might have thought was the very thing a computer could have managed to eliminate. Transfer to CD leaves this unchanged, and to go from the RCA record listed here to the recital on Pearl is like moving out of a hothouse into the open air. There we hear more of the 78rpm surfaces, though less than in the earlier productions of that company. The Pearl and RCA programmes have a number of items in common, and if we reverse the process, returning to RCA and the computer, we realize that the more sophisticated method is performing at least one notable service—the voice is rather more as we remember it from the primitive days of the spring motor, the winding handle and the steel needle.
As to repertoire, each of these three CDs has its attractions. Among the early recordings on EMI are the glorious first ''Cielo e mar'' and ''Vesti la giubba'', the never-repeated Fedora and Adriana Lecouvreur solos, the Mefistofele arias, imperfectly magnificent, and the lyrical passion, subtle and simple, of Un bacio an ora. It's unfortunate that the sole representative of this historic series in the Pearl collection should be ''E lucevan le stelle?'' which begins with the most spectacular blunder. Otherwise some of the finest operatic recordings are there, with a couple of those sunny Italian songs that were homeground to the Neapolitan and for which his voice was the perfect instrument. There are also a few duets so that we hear some of the other great artists of Caruso's time, including the mighty Ruffo and the maternal (also exquisitely stylish) Ernestine Schumann-Heink. Both the Pearl and RCA discs correctly pitch ''Che gelida manina'' down a semitone RCA doing the same for ''Di quella pira'' while leaving ''Spirto gentil'' and ''Salut! demeure'' at score-pitch, complete with top Cs, all recorded on the same day in 1906.
Fourteen years later, at the end of the great career, we hear a more effortful production, some unhealthy breathing and the triumph of voice and spirit over both in La juive. ''The best thing he has ever done'', said one of the New York critics about his performance of that aria in his last season at the Metropolitan. This is quoted by Michael Scott in his new book (Hamish Hamilton—see December 1988, page 938), readers of which will quickly recognize that all of these CDs contain items essential to any representative collection of Caruso's records. One further caveat may be needed, harking back again to the old days. These recordings were not made as forming a recital: with Caruso each item had a certain epic quality of its own, which was one reason why buying a Caruso recording was an event. They were issued singly, and even today singly is how they are best heard.'