For lovers of singing, this is a happy time. There seems to be no end of fine singers, and two of the best are Deborah Voigt and Susan Graham. Voigt is a soprano from Illinois; Graham is a mezzo-soprano from Texas. Each is about forty years old and in superb form. Each is a favorite of James Levine, music director of the Metropolitan Opera and a powerful patron. Each also does extensive concert and recital work, and has a fruitful recording career. Again, a happy time.

I have written of Deborah Voigt that she boasts “the most refulgent voice before the public today.” An oddly specific piece of praise, that. But refulgent her voice is, and opulent, and astounding, and a number of other things. She won the gold medal at the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow and has been particularly triumphant in Wagner and Strauss roles. She is an historic—no less than historic—Sieglinde in Die Walküre, and an historic Chrysothemis in Elektra. On her nights in this latter opera, audiences scream almost to the point of collapse. They do so justly. She was Aida at the Met earlier this year and did not especially distinguish herself; but on the whole, she is as reliable and gratifying as anyone.

In the middle of April, she appeared at Lincoln Center with the New York Philharmonic under its music director, Kurt Masur. To begin was a concert aria of Barber, Andromache’s Farewell, made famous in a 1963 recording with Martina Arroyo and the conductor Thomas Schippers. The first thing that hits you about Voigt—and probably the second and the third—is the voice. It comes as something of a shock, even if you have heard it before. Quite simply, it is hard to fathom that such a sound is coming from a human being. It is an enormous sound—about as big as voices get—but a beautiful, luxuriant one, not a battle-hardened, rough-and-ready one. Usually, you can have a huge voice or a beautiful one, but not both. Voigt stints on neither quality. There are elements of other singers in her—Ljuba Welitsch, Inghe Borkh, Birgit Nilsson, and Leontyne Price, just to make a short list—but this instrument is entirely her own. While it is a big voice, it is not a heavy one: a critical distinction. There is plenty of light and activity in it. It is also a rather wet or juicy voice, à la Elisabeth Söderström. It can fairly drip with opulence. The saddest thing about Voigt’s voice is that it does not record especially well; nothing matches the experience of hearing it in the opera house or concert hall—which is not true of every singer.

In the Barber, Voigt was in total command. There was little effort in her singing; her breathing was easy, her power unforced. Every onset, or beginning of a note, was clean. Her loud singing, of course, was formidable, and her soft singing was excellent, too. In the middle dynamic, she was rather indifferent. I should not forget to add that Voigt succeeded in conveying the character and drama of Barber’s subject, Andromache. If Voigt did nothing but pour forth sound, she would be valuable; but she is a worthy musician, to boot.

To end the program was the final scene from Strauss’s Salome, a kind of mad “Liebestod.” A little ugliness, believe it or not, is not a bad thing in this music, and at times Voigt was almost too beautiful. As Salome spits out her words, she must be aspish; as she sinks further into madness, she must be disembodied, bleak. Where the score requires bloom—“Nichts in der Welt war so schwarz wie dein Haar”—Voigt was superb; where it requires fragility—“hörte ich geheimnisvolle Musik”—she was unconvincing. The entire scene could have used a dash more dementia. But then, Strauss was in love with the female voice, and he would have swooned for Voigt’s. It is very hard for a critic to hail the living—far safer to wait until a musician is dead, or at least retired. But it ought to be said that Voigt has one of the most extraordinary instruments in memory.

It comes as a surprise, not to mention a disappointment, that Voigt’s most recent recording is less than satisfying. It should have been a magnificent one: Strauss’s Four Last Songs, also with Masur and the New York forces (Teldec 25990). The performance is jarringly blunt, lacking in introspection and transport. Voigt was not in particularly good voice on this occasion; some of her middle notes are hard and metallic. There is not enough give, or pliancy, in her singing, or enough variation of color and mood. When she lands juicily on a note, the effect is wonderful; but these songs call for more than voice. Interpretatively, everything is straight-ahead and unreflective. To her credit, Voigt is not a wallower, like Jessye Norman; she has more of the no-nonsense impulse of Eleanor Steber. But a balance should be struck.

An example of Voigt’s powers in Wagner can be heard in her 1994 recording of The Flying Dutchman with James Levine (Sony Classical 66342). As Senta, Voigt delivers an exemplary account of the “Ballad” controlled, affecting, and grand. Her opening cries of “Johohoe!” are perfectly executed, and her intonation throughout is rock-solid. She shows, in this performance, that she has cutting power as well as richness of tone; this voice is not merely a pillow; there are some razors within. She will no doubt end her career as Brünnhilde, and she will be impressive; it is a pity, though, that she ever has to abandon the more lyrical roles, for which she is hardly less than ideal.

Susan Graham is no Wagnerian, but she is certainly a Straussian, and a skilled exponent of many other composers as well. She has caused a sensation in two of the great trouser roles, Cherubino and Octavian, both of which she sang at the Met this season. Most pleasing, she is an able, indeed, an exquisite, recitalist, as she proved at Lincoln Center on April 16.

Graham sang from two repertories central to her career, the French and the American. She began with a set of Debussy, which showed off any number of her strengths. Her sound was warm and even, with a bit of mezzo dusk in it; pitch-wise, she was unerring. She sang with her usual dignity and restraint, not trying to paint too much of a picture, content to let Debussy do his work. These songs, properly sung, can have an hypnotic effect, which Graham achieved. She continued with a group both American and French, Barber’s Mélodies passagères, of which Poulenc was an enthusiast. Graham’s singing was beautifully expressive, with just the right emphasis on the text —not an overemphasis, which would have distracted from the music (the main show). In “Tombeau dans un parc,” she cast a rare spell. Elsewhere, she exhibited a shimmering upper register. Her breathing was a model for any student, or co-professional, for that matter.

Graham has a particular fondness for Reynaldo Hahn, from whom she sang a generous set, and to whom she has devoted an entire recording (Sony Classical 60168). Her recital Hahn, curiously enough, was superior, both musically and technically, to her recorded Hahn. The first offering was the sublime, neo-Baroque “A Chloris.” This she rendered with surpassing dignity and tenderness. She used a bit of portamento, or sliding, but nothing tasteless. On the final note, there was a wondrous rising and falling. In the last song of the group, the popular “Printemps,” you could have asked for more ecstasy, but Graham’s restraint is one of her assets and not to be scolded.

The problem with her disc? Going beyond restraint, it is a little bland, a little cautious, a little plodding. Graham’s singing in the recital hall was far more characterful and winsome. Not every musician records as successfully as he performs live and in the flesh, and vice versa. In the matter of French singing, there is a fine line between Gallic cool and outright dullness. At Lincoln Center, Graham was always on the happy side of that line; in her recording, she now and then strays. But these criticisms are directed at a woman whose very excellence asks for high standards. The Hahn disc, over all, is first-rate.

The second half of Graham’s program was all American, beginning with four songs of John Musto. Graham works terribly well in the American idiom. The words fit neatly in her mouth, and she has a thoroughly native sensibility. In one Musto song, she seemed a high-class lounge singer. In another, she employed a nice comedic touch, without being obtrusive or hammy. In the memorable “Recuerdo,” a setting of the Millay poem, she was insinuating and bluesy. Always, she found the correct expression for the music. She went on to two songs of Bernstein, which were effective, though they revealed one of her slightly annoying habits: she telegraphs her consonants. In “Music I Heard with You,” you could hear the initial m a mile away. This tendency seems doubly evident on her recordings. She also sang a pair of songs by Lowell Liebermann, a composer not yet forty, and did so with a poignancy that was close to heartbreaking.

Graham closed her recital with a set of Ned Rorem, another composer to whom she has a special attachment, and to whom she has devoted her latest recording (Teldec 80222). The Rorem songs are diverse, neatly crafted, and of consistently high quality. Graham sings them simply, sparely, and clearly—just as required. The encrustations of Europe have been scraped off these American beauties. Graham’s singing in this repertory is quintessentially American: scrubbed clean, but not passionless. She sings like the girl next door, if the girl next door could sing. As with her Hahn disc, her Rorem disc is somehow less satisfying than her recital performance—more careful, not as free or natural. Still, it is an undeniable achievement.

If we are lucky, and they look after themselves, we should have Deborah Voigt and Susan Graham with us for another twenty years, at least. They are key parts of what should be regarded as a golden age of singing. Aficionados enjoy complaining about the ones they missed—“Oh, to have heard Patti!”; “Oh, to have heard Ferrier!” etc. But they should not forget, too, to look about them.