It is a pity not to be able to review the records with quite the pleasure that attended the writing of the notes for their booklet. There is pleasure—how could there not be, with this lovely voice pouring out the generous melodies with all the warmth of the Neapolitan sun under which so many of them were written. But perhaps expectations have run too high. For one thing, I think of Gigli as I remember him, a singer who seemed to be almost untouched by the years; and yet here, certainly in the 1940s, we are aware of a voice that has lost something in resonance and gained something in the way of bad habits. For the songs themselves, yes, there are many of the blissfully melodious kind, unsubtle but open-hearted and having an essential part of the Italian soul within them; but some are dull, too, and many seem more commonplace when the magic relationship is not working. And it doesn't work if something comes between oneself as listener and the rich fulfilment of that voice. I found myself in many instances held up by some feature of the recorded sound: sometimes rather hard, sometimes with a gritty underlay or a metallic patina, often with a deterioration towards the end.
Let me list some that I thought more or less free of these faults. They include the enchanting pre-electricals, Povera Pulcinella and O surdato 'nnammurato (a delight and notably unmarked by the uneven resonances of the Nimbus transfer— (CD) NI7807, 5/90). Some of the late recordings are fine, such as Cor'ingrato, Carrettieri, Cancion del carretero and Mattinata siciliana. From the middle period the thrilling (but short) Stornelli marini and Santa Lucia come out well, as do the first verses of many others. But on the whole the 1930s songs (why no Non ti scordar di me, incidentally?) yield only a somewhat grudging satisfaction when the whole glory of them should be that the sheer gorgeousness of sound cancels out misgivings about composers and singer, good taste or artistic responsibility, or any other bothersome matter under the Neapolitan sun.'