Poor Philip Rosner. What’s a nice young Viennese bridegroom to do when his fiancée’s former beloved (vanished, presumed drowned) reappears on the eve of his wedding in the capacity of a piano tuner with a dangerously seductive line in waltz melodies? As if that’s not enough, Philip’s house has also been invaded by an eccentric Bohemian music teacher and his three unmarried but far from inhibited daughters. The result: well, let’s just say that three years before The Merry Widow Lehár already had a knack for a hit. ‘This is the coming man!’ exclaimed one eminent critic on the opening night of Wiener Frauen (November 1902), and never was a truer word spoken.

By any standards, Wiener Frauen is a sparkling debut, and if you’re unfamiliar with the piece as a whole, aficionados of Viennese repertoire will certainly know Act 2’s impossibly catchy Nechledil March (it opened Gustavo Dudamel’s 2017 New Year’s Day concert). In the original production, the March was a vehicle for the comedian Alexander Girardi, playing the buffoonish music-master Nechledil – probably the main reason for the show’s success. Today: well, while Wiener Frauen is never likely to eclipse the Widow (or even Der Graf von Luxemburg), it’s remarkable how much vintage Lehár is present in this particular champagne cocktail. There’s a languor to the melodies, a harmonic richness, and a glamour about the orchestration that’s wholly characteristic – and at this point, marvellously fresh.

This live recording from CPO continues the label’s long relationship with the Lehár Festival Bad Ischl, with many of the strengths and weaknesses associated with previous releases from the same source. It’s not CPO’s first encounter with Wiener Frauen but it’s the most comprehensive, and includes the spoken dialogue (the earlier, single-disc set recorded in Cologne in 2000 is effectively a ‘highlights’ selection – 6/08). You get the sense of an ensemble cast giving a real theatrical performance, but there are occasional balance issues between orchestra and some of the less prominent soloists. And if you don’t speak German, you’re a bit scuppered plot-wise. CPO, as usual, provides neither text nor adequate synopsis (although there is a useful essay by the operetta historian Stefan Frey).

Musically, though, its heart is very much in the right place. Marius Burkert, conducting, is an old hand in this repertoire and the whole score benefits from his unforced, dancelike rhythmic bounce and his ability to caress a tender moment (and there are some rather lush ones in Wiener Frauen) without letting things wallow or sag. The cast, pretty much uniformly, give bright, musicianly performances: ardent and sweet when required (Thomas Blondelle as Philip and Sieglinde Feldhofer as his beloved Claire make a particularly engaging romantic pairing), but never overcooking their parts vocally. The virtuosity here is lightly worn and well characterised. Josef Forstner is especially agile and droll as Nechledil, a role that was not originally written for an operatic voice.

This certainly isn’t a period performance: the singing throughout (barring occasional smudges from the chorus) is warm, shapely and accurate. But compared to many ‘full fat’ stereo-era operetta recordings (including that earlier CPO release) it leans gently in the direction of a style that Lehár and his contemporaries might (as far as we can know) have recognised, while containing nothing to disconcert modern opera-goers. Operetta, as a living art form, has always adapted to its time and its audience. Lehár might not be the coming man any more but this recording deserves to make new friends for this delightfully assured first outing in a genre that he was destined to transform.