For some time now it has become notable that as appreciation of this opera has grown so has a certain sense of unease. The laughter does not rise quite so obediently as it used to; the joke is not quite such a good one perhaps. It is, after all, a late essay in an age-old comic tradition in which bright young things trick silly old fools (who are meanies too), and it would be pure sentimentality to think that the heart is seriously involved one way or another. But the music of Don Pasquale is somewhat at odds with this, as the new recording makes particularly clear. It is not just the sad, minor-key accompaniment to ''E finita, Don Pasquale'' or Norina's half-sad reflection that it's rather a hard lesson they are teaching the old man: those have been observed and warmly treated in most recordings, as they are for instance in Muti's (EMI). Ferro, however, has a way from the start of seeking out what is thoughtful and compassionate in the score, and he finds a great deal.
It's there, I would say, from the start, where in the Overture he encourages the solo cello to play with a speaking voice: that is, with humanity. Contrast Muti, who begins with a hectic, and hectoring, rush in the opening tutti, and then has the cello play the serenade in a relatively impersonal style in the strict tempo which he generally (thought not invariably) favours. Ferro's speeds for the more reflective solos, ''Sogno soave'' and ''Quel guardo il cavaliere'', are slightly slower than Muti's, yet it is not so much that as the rather more affectionate approach that gives a sense of a more generous humanity here too. The cumulative effect of this then fills the quartet, ''E rimasto la impietrato'', with a rare compassion, and one realizes perhaps for the first time that musically many of the phrases speak the language of serious, potentially tragic opera. Over-seriousness is warded off by Pasquale's exclamations of ''bada bene'', but the comedy has found its heart, and one may well feel happier with it as a result.
Of course it would be too much to expect that a choice between the two recordings could be settled just like that. Muti's soloists characterize more vividly. Bacquier in the new version is less easy to focus in the mind's eye than Bruscantini. Quilico, who sings his ''Bella siccome un angelo'' with such beautiful tone and suave style, doesn't act up to the situation as Nucci does. Hendricks's pure delicate tone pales a little by comparison with the fuller-bodied, better projected sound of Freni. Canonici, with exactly the right kind of clear, bright-edged tone, sometimes has trouble in holding his voice absolutely steady. Then, if the EMI recording tends to be over-reverberant (as AB found it), the Erato is curiously balanced so that some of the solos are a pace or two distant, and the servants' chorus (''Che interminabile andirivieni'') sounds almost off-stage. Muti's is, I suppose, the safer buy when the various factors are taken into account; yet I find myself listening with more interest to the Ferro, and, I think, learning more from it.'