From the first “O Lola, pretty one” to the last “They have killed neighbour Turiddu” we used to relish Cav in that special language known as opera-in-English. There was “Mother, you know the story” and “So thou see’st what thou hast done me”, “My heart, my heart is broken; his doom, his doom is spoken”, “Now homeward returning sing we a merry lay” and “Mother, the red wine”. It went with the heroic make-do-and-mend scenery, with Pag to follow and perhaps three more nights of the great week in the year when Carl Rosa came to town in wartime. Later the act was spruced up but there was never anything again like those nights of delight and absurdity. Sensible translations have long replaced the loved fustian, singers (by and large) no longer resort to the system of pronunciation the first rule of which was to roll every ‘r’ in sight, and the orchestras have improved out of recognition. But it all comes back now as dawn breaks yet again over the Sicilian village on that fateful Easter Sunday of long ago.
It is one of the most magical beginnings in opera, beautifully played here, and at this early stage one is not getting restive over the slow speeds. Dennis O’Neill sings his siciliana like a lover, with touches of an imaginative tenderness that are rare if not unique in this music. His voice distances effectively, and very effective too is the mingling of the church bells with the singing of the off-stage chorus. Santuzza, Nelly Miricioiu, must have been born in another village, but that doesn’t matter; her voice has some raw patches but that also troubles less than it might as she brings such concentrated feeling to the part. On the other hand, when the Alfio arrives one can’t go on saying it doesn’t matter: it does. We want a vibrant Italianate voice if possible, and a firm one at least. Elizabeth Bainbridge is a vivid Mamma Lucia, but Diana Montague, immensely welcome as a singer, has quite the wrong voice-character for Lola, who should be either the local Carmen or a shallow, pert flirt. But it is also by about the time of her entry that one is consciously willing it to go faster. The speeds are consistent, and we know from his recording that Mascagni liked it slow, but frankly … I don’t.
Still, for those collecting Chandos’s Opera in English series this is certainly not one to miss. The drama keeps its hold, the grand old melodies surge, the score reveals more of its inspired detail, and the English language (in Edmund Tracey’s translation) does itself credit.'