From Around the World: CONCERTS AND RECITALS.

NEW YORK CITY

The Metropolitan Opera celebrated Placido Domingo's sixtieth birthday (Jan. 21) with a gala afternoon of splendid singing, often appropriately Spanish-themed but weirdly death-obsessed. James Levine and the Met Orchestra set the tone with the overture to La Forza del Destino, but Frederica von Stade soon arrived with the afternoons only truly festive contribution: "Tu n'es pas beau" from La Perichole. She teased the birthday boy (in French) before bursting out (in English), "We adore you, Placido." Looking and sounding terrific, she capitalized on her winsome charm. Later, the mezzo delivered a spellbinding air by Montsalvatge, with cello solo by Rafael Figueroa.

Luciano Pavarotti's presence was a generous collegial gesture but an artistic disappointment. He set aside the announced "Quando le sere al placido" from Luisa Miller in favor of "La donna e mobile," a shorter aria he used to perform with unforgettable ease. But his voice is nasal, labored and not always reliable now, and he knows we know it. He got through the aria unscathed -- this time.

Apart from von Stade and Pavarotti, everybody else sang about betrayal and death, mostly Verdi-style. Deborah Voigt sang an irrepressibly sexy "Vieni, t'affretta" from Macbeth; this Thane's wife couldn't wait to start killing. Later, she and Domingo joined mezzo Elena Zaremba for the last scene from Trovatore. Zaremba's "Ai nostri monti" couldn't have been more caressing, and Voigt combined vocal power with limpid sweetness, impeccably varying dynamics to suit the dramatic moment. Likewise, Domingo entered fully into Manrico's character. Without sets or costumes, this was an eloquent rebuttal to Graham Vick's misguided Met production this winter.

In the evening's other Verdi scena, Don Carlo, Act IV, Scene 1, Sondra Radvanovsky's Elisabetta offered a full-throated, chocolaty soprano but strayed off pitch on high notes. Sergei Koptchak was appropriately sonorous as the Grand Inquisitor, Thomas Hampson impassioned but underemployed as Posa. As Filippo, Samuel Ramey quickly cleared up some foggy intonation, and his "Ella giammai non m'amo" became a marvel of introspective psychology. Olga Borodina's Eboli brimmed over with flamboyant gestures and melodramatic outpourings. More rehearsal would have helped everybody: Borodina missed a cue; Koptchak was on book the whole time.

Domingo offered two solos. At precisely the hour of his birth, Madrid-time (he said), he sang the romanzas of a jilted lover from Torroba's zarzuela Maravilla and later returned with Otello's "Niun mi tema." In radiant voice all evening, he nevertheless seemed ill at ease in the Torroba, pacing the stage as if to work himself into character; no such effort was required for the Verdi aria. Here Domingo's Moor recognized his tragic reversal. In remorse he found dignity; in sorrow, nobility. His final request -- for kisses from the wife he has killed -- attained heartbreaking tenderness. It was a pleasure to hear anybody, of any age, who sounded so good.

Throughout, Levine offered the singers sympathetic support. In a second symphonic interlude, the Guillaume Tell overture, Levine luxuriated in the opening sections but sped unconscionably through the Lone Ranger part.