It was arguably one of the best Christmas gifts I had ever received: a single ticket to Luciano Pavarotti’s concert (with full orchestra) at the Cincinnati Gardens. The asking price was $100 and the year was 1991, the height of his prowess. I suppose it goes without saying that my familial background did not typically support such extravagant gifts; nevertheless, there it was in my stocking: I was about to see the greatest tenor of all time in concert. Having said as much, I understand the arguments for Caruso, Domingo, possibly Carreras, et al for primacy (obviously I will countenance no arguments for Bocelli…the first time he can complete an aria without going sharp halfway through, I will reconsider my position), but let me try to communicate the magic that occurred that evening.
It started simply enough, the great showpiece arias, a smattering of Italian love songs, a few “popular” works, and then the intermission. Obviously, I sat on the edge of my seat the entire time- what else could I do; here was a man whose voice is instantly recognizable to millions of people, and I was listening to it live. By the time the intermission rolled around, I was completely emotionally drained…I thought he must be as well.
How wrong I was.
When he returned, he sang for no longer than three minutes before the great white handkerchief came out of his pocket. I began to notice, for the first time, his stage presence: with out-stretched arms he tried to draw the thousands into his world of passion for beautiful music. Each work stood on its own, yet I found myself asking “what will he do next?” The answer, as I found out, was simple: something even more amazing than that which preceded it. The projection screen recorded his every facial expression, every internal sigh at the ephemeral quality of the music he sang, and every imploring look at the audience to experience one fraction of the joy he felt at reproducing, in the most earnest and faithful way, the music that will outlive the current obsession with flavor-of-the-month “artists.” I think it is safe to say that I have never seen an artist so in touch with the eternal quality of the medium with which he or she communicates.
The concert ended on a high note, if one will pardon the pun, featuring Nessun Dorma by Puccini. To say the least, the performance was breathtaking. Something happened after the final chord faded away, though: the audience, in its entirety, was on its feet; social position, occupation, income, or education had no sway over the aesthetic response of the crowd- to a person, we yelled, clapped, stamped our feet, and carried on in a general welter until he reappeared. For the encores, a curious thing happened: we stayed on our feet. Concert etiquette typically dictates that one should retake one’s seat during encores- this did not happen. In point of fact, we found ourselves leaning forward and glancing at each other as if to confirm we were actually experiencing that which we perceived to be occurring. It was the supreme irony: I would typically rather eat broken glass than to have to acknowledge the existence of another person, but there we were, clasping hands, locking eyes and shaking our heads at each other in disbelief. It was a hedonistic display if ever there was one- and I still correspond with two people I met that evening, nearly twenty years hence.
I confess that I had been mildly disappointed that he had not performed “Vesti La Guibba” during the performance. As he reappeared for a final curtain call (12 at this point, if my recollection is correct, though he holds the absolute record at 100- I suppose we were all getting tired at that point), I heard the first strains of the work, and I knew that I was about to be changed: the out-stretched arms returned, the handkerchief imploring, the eyes filled with tears, the sad expression requisite to the work, and the sheer effrontery of the amount of emotional content in the deliverance.
I have rarely witnessed its equal in my life; there have been comparable moments, but they will have to wait for another posting. Suffice it to say, I was blessed that evening: I had heard the greatest voice of all time, at its prime, singing the works that will live forever. I thank my parents for making the concert possible, I thank myself for being so infatuated with great music that I could appreciate it when I heard it, but most of all: I thank Luciano Pavarotti for being what he was- the greatest contributor to vocal music in history.
R.I.P.
The Unrepentant Elitist 