Tenors

"They needed a songbird in Heaven, so God took Caruso away" --so runs the catch line of a onetime popular song--a ditty which was scratched from every phonograph, mewed through the sinus cavities of every cabaret tenor who could boast a nose, caroled by housewives at their tubs and business men at their shaving. Before the echoes of the blatant dirge had been quite relegated to that mortuary of all songs -- the monkey-organ -- certain tenors were beginning to thud their chests in the press. To compare many with Caruso is, of course, absurd. But there are, in Manhattan, two Italian gentlemen striving for the place of "leading tenor of the Metropolitan." For several seasons, these two have vied with each other; and still some operagoers will emphatically murmur: "Giovanni Martinelli," others vulgarly shout: "Beniamino Gigli." Last week, in an advertisement for a concert, appeared Beniamino Gigli's name with the caption: "The World's Greatest Tenor." To such lengths had the chest-thudding come. More shouts, more murmurs followed. "With what right," asked many operagoers, "does he say that?"

Giovanni Martinelli, tall, straight-featured, with long locks thrust back in waves from his forehead, is the six-foot incarnation of all Latin gallantry. He, many declare, is the only tenor who can play Mario Cavaradossi in Tosca without bringing angry tears to the eyes of disillusioned debutantes. He is now 39 and weight--well-distributed, fortunately --has come to him with his many honors. His repertoire includes virtually the entire operatic works of Verdi, Puccini and the leading modern French composers. His English, unlike that of many of the Italian singers in the U. S., is excellent, his French admirable. When he recently returned to the Metropolitan after a long illness (TIME, Mar. 16) the musicians found a pause in the score, laid down their instruments, stood applauding with the audience. A brilliant singer whose voice is still exquisite, an accomplished actor, he is beloved by his fellow singers and worshiped by the bravo-yelling denizens of the Metropolitan's crow's nest.

Beniamino Gigli is large of abdomen, has an amiable face, less histrionic ability and a voice. Gigli opens his mouth: the moon rides the sky over Venice, slides on, past the windows of the Procuratie Nuove, into the sea; a thousand nightingales awake in cold orchards, anguished with woe and desire for the rose, the white rose of the moon, that the dawn has taken; under a black balcony rises, from unseen lips, a whisper Juliet heard, and Heloise--which tired, tired ladies in upholstered boxes hear again, not daring to open their eyes. Gigli is a friend of Toscanini, who boosted his talents at La Scala, Milan. He has had successes in Spain, Berlin, was once the chief drawing card of the Teatro Colon, Buenos Aires. This winter, he, in excess of drama, accidentally hurled athletic Soprano Maria Jeritza into the footlights (TIME, Feb. 9)--an unfortunate accident which did not help his popularity. He makes his chief successes in the old, melodious, florid type of Italian opera. When all has been said, cultured Martinelli, Singer Gigli are both able, both popular, both have, it is said, like Caruso,-- large paid claques. There is another tenor at the Metropolitan, Edward Johnson, Canadian, who sings well, has a good figure, acts excellently. His prestige is rapidly growing, but he has not yet attained the popularity of Gigli, of Martinelli. Who is the leading tenor of the Metropolitan?

Chaliapin

Did Feodor Chaliapin, famed basso, roar irritation, last week, as he summoned his concert manager, S. Hurok, instructing him to announce to the world that he, Chaliapin, would not sing with the Chicago Civic Opera Company next season? Perhaps not. But whatever Mr. Chaliapin's feelings, the announcement was made. He will appear in the usual limited number of performances at the Metropolitan Opera House, Manhattan, and tour from coast to coast in a new series of concerts. What caused Chaliapin's decision may have been anything. It may have been Director Samuel Insull, whose alleged mismanagements have been loudly decried (TIME, Feb. 9). Last year, Amelita Galli-Curci, with a thin treble indication of wrath, similarly left the Chicago Company,

Tetrazzini

Luisa Tetrazzini--she for whom cannon have been fired, roses thrown, dress-suited cavaliers hitched in place of horses to glistening carriages--appeared in Albert Hall, London, before some Britishers. The Hall was more than half empty. The buxom woman trilled her best but Oh! the stolid faces, Ah! the gaping stalls. Afterwards, downcast, she assailed her agents, saying that they had charged too ninth, advertised too little. The agents politely replied that a singer of Tetrazzini's fame did not need much advertising, that she could command tall rates, but that she should not cheapen her voice by distributing its silver tones over the radio as she did recently (TIME, Mar. 23). Said Tetrazzini: "I don't agree that broadcasting ruins an artist's con cert value or affects her popularity."

*It is said that Caruso paid hundreds of dollars annually to a band of "enthusiastic" supporters, who distributed themselves about the opera house, yelled noisy approbation at certain well-defined places in the opera.