This morning I could hear Pavarotti's voice rising from the speakers of a car stuck in traffic outside my apartment. He had had pancreatic cancer, never a good diagnosis, but it was still sad to hear that he had died. Casa 3pennyjane was and is not big on opera, but I remember loving a recording of him singing the "Vesti la giubba" aria from "Pagliacci," and somehow his "Una furtiva lagrima" became part of the family repertoire of jokes and references. You could criticize his populism, his willingness to sing duets with Bono, but you couldn't deny his talent.
"Vanish, o night! Descend, o stars! At dawn, I shall conquer."
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This was the first thing I heard on NPR this morning and I shed a tear (which kitty promptly licked up in an effort to tell me how incredibly hungry he was because it had been hours, HOURS! since his last kibble injection). I'm sad, mostly because now my dream of hearing Pavarotti sing Adam Sandler's La Donna Mobile home for Tammy Faye Baker will never ever come true. Sigh.
He had an amazing voice; that can't be denied. My problem with Pavarotti, though, was that because of his considerable girth, he could never be a very good opera performer. He was always dripping in sweat, got out of breath after minor aerobic exertion (you'd think those lungs would never quit, wouldn't you?), and made it hard to create a true character.
Still, it's a huge loss (seriously, no pun intended) for the opera world, and a tragically unoperatic, miserable way to go. I'm sorry he had to suffer, and the world is a less beautiful place today without him in it.
I've never made it through an opera performance, largely because I have trouble with the unrealistic aspects so perfectly skewered in Pratchett's Masquerade, and, to a lesser extent, because live shows are so hideously expensive. Having said that, Pavarotti's build never bothered me.
I hope that his afterlife is as comfortable as shedding a huge itchy costume, wiping off the makeup, letting the stage door slam closed, and strolling out into the cool night in search of dinner with his loved ones. I am enough of a sentimentalist to think that it must be.
Okay, both a wonderful death scene and a completely unconvincingly cross-dressed soprano: the death of Boris Godunov, with Yevgeny Nesterenko in the title role. "I am still the tsar!" Oof. "Forgive me...forgive..."
A big loss (in more ways than one). As long as I can remember my Dad has played Pavarotti at full volume, even before his football/three tenors/mainstream popularity.
Certain classical pieces cry out for volume: "The Great Gate of Kiev," Holst's "Jupiter," of course the 1812 overture (especially the versions with the choir), maybe Aaron Copland's "Appalachian Spring." I can see wanting to have Pavarotti cranked up enough to scare the pets; the person whose car I heard yesterday was probably of the same opinion.
You should come with us to the Met Opera one day. We sit in Family Circle, aka nosebleed, so you'd only be out less than thirty dollars. If you have the right conductor, singers, and set, opera can be amazing.
I was lucky enough to once be in a production of La Bohème with Pavarotti because our music teacher was once a Met opera singer. Just a wee parpignol hanger-on me. At that time he was still with his first wife who treated us all very well and encouraged us to eat from the buffet, even though we had been told not to go there. I also learned what a prostitute was during this production.
Yay! for cheap opera. My aunt and uncle sometimes go for SRO at the Met, figuring that it's no hassle for anyone used to Orthodox services. Next time there's one of the big Russian productions, sign me up: Onegin or Godunov would be shweet.
So, what Seesterperson and I learned of the seamy side of life we got from the Ren Fest, while you got your intel through opera. What was that toy vendor telling you?!?
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