Old School Ties.(opera singer Aprile Millo)(Interview)

Five minutes early for a diva interview. What was I thinking? The concierge suggests I take a seat. I'd rather pace, but why argue? Five minutes later, I am standing in front of a door, with a large oval proclaiming the name of the inhabitant, Aprile Millo, spelled out in a graceful script. I press the doorbell and hear what sounds like the chimes of Big Ben, or, more aptly, La Boheme, Act III. Unmistakable velvet tones make "Just a minute" and "Be right there" sound strangely like early-middle Verdi. The door opens, revealing the year 2000 model Millo: somewhat smaller, elegant in black, and -- blond!

Throughout her career, Aprile Millo has looked to the past for vocal inspiration. IRA SIFF talks with the controversial soprano who doesn't buy CDs of singers past 1972

After a moment of scrutiny and discussion, we agree that the hair looks great, and I take a look around. Millo's sitting room reflects the chronological conflict that haunts her. Painted a deep, warm "dusty rose," the room is filled to the brim with ornate objects, overstuffed furniture, the requisite diva photos, other shots shared with idolized divas of the past, and posters of some of her La Scala triumphs. But then there's the giant TV and, lurking in an adjacent room, a computer -- on which our diva is rather skilled. Double glass doors lead to what the soprano, in her endearing self-parody calls "my verrrrranda," where potted plants struggle vainly against the impending frost, and a spectacular view of New York City provides an appropriately uncaring backdrop.

The old and the new, the colliding worlds of Aprile Millo have been in evidence from the moment she stepped onstage at the Met in 1984, making an unexpected debut in Simon Boccanegra, replacing an ailing Anna Tomowa-Sintow. Newly discovered, she was decidedly old-school. First, her voice evoked the past -- beautiful and Italianate, it reminded one immediately of Renata Tebaldi, Antonietta Stella, the young Maria Caniglia, with a touch of Rosa Ponselle. Then there was her stage deportment: sincere, energetic, assertive, a tad clunky -- pure Zinka Milanov! Occasionally, when she cut loose, sparks flew, and there were gutsy vocal stunts as well, such as the interpolated high E-flat capping the triumph scene in Aida.

There was also a dynamic more difficult to describe: this singer seemed to have materialized magically from another era. Some early interviews, structured to accent Millo's grandeur, quickly created a diva mystique usually reserved for opera stars of the past. Immediate skepticism arose in some camps, while adoration blossomed in others. Like the Peruvian recording and film star Yma Sumac, who was reputed to be Amy Camus from New Jersey (not true), Millo, it was rumored, was really April Miller from New Jersey (also not true). Perhaps the diva herself unintentionally fed the rumor mill, with interviews short on biographical detail, expressing lofty ideals about being the servant of art -- the sort of stuff that hadn't been heard since the days of Callas, and which certainly stood out from the copy circulated about other contemporary American singers, eager to be seen by the public as "just plain folks" who happen to trot all over the globe singing grand opera. Next to them, Millo seemed like something out of Marcia Davenport's diva tome, Of Lena Geyer, in which the heroine lives a life of saintly devotion to her art. Who could really be this mythical prima-donna, who could mean it? Millo could and does.

"I always have this dream that I wake up in the 1950s, and I go into a studio where people actually talk about the art form as if it were God ... spiritual. They arrive in suits and ties; there's nothing Lycra near an opera house. No gym suits, sneakers. Everybody arrives, and there's a very handsome maestro, who actually knows the score and understands that the voice is an integral part of opera, and certainly not something additional for his career cachet."

Is this purely a dream? "It is sometimes met by the productions I've been in -- very rarely, usually with the old school. Singing for yon Karajan, I had that feeling. On occasion, singing with Jimmy [Levine] I've had that feeling. Jimmy's the last of the old school. He can quote -- just like you and I [as a fan] -- about great performances, which means that although he's a great conductor, in the upper echelon, the Valhalla of conductors, he actually loves opera. He's a young [Tullio] Serafin. If he were judged by proper standards, and not by this mindless pursuit of well-blown hair, which most of the maestros love, they'd know him for what he is. He's one of the few who have an absolutely correct knowledge of the voice and what to do to make you sing well. He knew it from an early age, and he also did work with some of the great, great people. [With many conductors,] anything that takes light away from themselves, they're not interested in. Serafin, Mitropoulos, De Sabata -- old-school conductors realized that if they wanted to get their jollies in a piece without the voice, [they should] do symphony! All the light's on you, and what you do with the orchestra is your very own unique voice. But when you get voices [involved], you have to realize that there are so many souls you're bringing together.