LUCIANO PAVAROTTI 1935 – 2007

The Great Luciano is dead.
So is Beverly Sills.

Funny thing about kids.  Did you ever run up against an “Eddie Haskell” type?  I did.  Her name was Bonnie.  She was a year older, much taller, far more mature, gorgeous, and her mother was the ultimate stage mother, vocal coach. She forced Bonnie down our throats every summer.  Every year, several times a year in our little summer mountain community would be forced to trek down to the community church to hear Bonnie do a recital.  She would promenade in, clad in glamorous pink hoop skirts.  Everyone would ooh and aah.  I developed what I thought would be a life-long dislike for opera.  All I wanted to do was get out of the blasted mountains there (which I still detest) and go to Atlanta to see Don Drysdale when the Dodgers were in town.  It never happened.

I was destined for opera.  My grandfather’s sister had an exquisite voice.  She never made it to the “Majors” (the Met), but she was in great demand in the Palm Beach area in her day.  I inherited “The Voice”.  All I wanted to do was sing.  I did it everywhere, when-ever.  Then when I was in the 3rd grade and molested by my elementary school principal, the voice was silenced.  All I wanted to do was hide from his constant stalking.  Aside from church choir and a limited stint at voice lessons that  had nothing to do with voice (I had a crush on the teacher’s son) that’s it.  The human voice is a funny thing.  You use it or you lose it.  I had a voice like Leontyne Price.  It’s probably still there, but would require Olympic style training to get it to come out again.

But – I hated opera.  

My mother absolutely adored opera.  She loved classical music.  All I wanted to do was listen to the Beatles or Mark Lindsey, etc.  She was terrified I would forever have a ‘vile taste in music’.

Fast forward to 1978.  My sister, my best friend Kay, and I were sharing an apartment in Atlanta. Every year for half a century at least, the Metropolitan Opera had this glorious tour where they would cross the country, bringing their magic to those cursed to live in the ‘outback’ and unable to make the pilgrimage to Atlanta.

My mother and Kay’s mother (Effie) were best friends.  Among the things they shared was a love of Christ, prayer, and a passionate love of opera.  They had no allies.  Once in awhile they would get tickets when the Met was in Atlanta and force their husbands to take them down and spend the night. Their operatic dreams came true when Kay, Cathy, and I moved to Atlanta.  Cathy caught a break because she was in nursing school and had no time for such things.  Kay and I were their sacrificial victims.

That fateful day in May, 1978, my mother and I fought the entire day.  I was not going to the opera with her. The threatened.  We fought.  I slammed doors.  Visions of Bonnie danced in my head.  “If you don’t…you will regret it.”  Visions of canceled credit cards replaced the vision of Bonnie.  I gave in and went with her, kicking and pouting.

Fortunately the program was Cav and Pag. Cavalleria Rusticana and Pagliacci done by Zeffirelli (my favorite production designer, movies, stage, opera).  It took a few minutes with Pag, but by the time Tonio’s introduction was over and I quit pouting, I was in love.  My mother was so smug.  Our family has come to detest and dread her favorite phrase, “I told you so.”  By opening bars of Cav, my love affair of opera had begun.

I wanted more.  I couldn’t get enough.

“Miss Ef” as I called her, had two tickets for the following night, La Favorita (not the opera I would take a novice to see).  My mother couldn’t go.  There was this increasingly popular tenor in it that they both wanted to see.  I ended up with the ticket.  I had no earthly idea the importance of the tenor.  He was good.  The opera was long and boring, but I loved every moment of it.  So much so that I scraped together every last cent I owned to purchase a $50 ticked for a Saturday matinee performance of Don Giovanni.

Thus was my first experience with The Great Luciano.

I swear, as God as my witness, one day, when I can afford it, or become famous enough, I am going to do a staging of Don Giovanni the way I want it!  I fell in love with Don Giovanni and baritones in general.  I became a Sherrill Milnes fanatic.  He became “My Baritone” to differentiate him from “My Man” Johnny Bench.  A few days later I put on dark glasses and stalked into Peaches to buy one of his albums.  I felt so ‘dirty’ for purchasing an opera album that I hid it.  

Later that day my sister and I experienced the first of what has been an ongoing fight.  “Turn that horrible noise off.”  My retort, “Don’t you dare force me to watch those horrid little freaks in tutus.”  You see, our mother had a tragic flaw in her children.  She loves both opera and ballet.  I love opera and detest ballet.  My sister loves ballet and detests opera.  It is not pretty.

For many years my opera going was limited to the Met’s May tour in Atlanta.  One year I scrimped and saved enough money to make a pilgrimage to the Met in New York.  I went to a good half-dozen performances including a delightful little ditty called The Elixir of Love with – yep – The Great Luciano.

Then came the trust fund that paid for a Patron’s level membership in the MOG and 2nd row seating season tickets.  We’re talking Pavarotti in Aida, another Elixir, and Boheme. My mother would opt for performances with Pavarotti, I was into Sherrill Milnes. Once in awhile the two would be in the same production.

My mother is a tenor person.  I am a baritone person.  She adored Richard Tucker and is a big Neil Schoff fan.  She is also a Pavarotti fan.  Me, well, where there is Sherrill Milnes, there is Placido Domingo.  Where there are two opera fans who disagree on who is the greatest tenor, there is an ongoing argument.  We have been arguing about who is the greater – Domingo or Pavarotti since 1978!  Naturally this is a good natured argument augmented by the purchase of numerous albums and CD’s.

Today my mother is in tears.  Me, the tears were for Beverly Sills.  The opera world will never be the same.  At least we still have Placi.

Miss Ef loved Pavarotti.  I have a feeling she's going to be listening to him quite a bit now as they get together in that Heavenly Chorus.

P. S.  Everyone has wondered about the identity of the person who had the nerve to fire Pavarotti from the Chicago Lyric?  The Glittering Eye discusses that infamous feud. FYI – it was a cousin of mine.

Outside the Beltway
Memorandum
Faustina
The Anchoress