The airwaves are full of Pavoratti today. He was a force of nature and he is something to remember, although I confess I was never quite as entranced with him as the world at large: probably sheer cussedness on my part, determined not to like anybody who was so much of a phenom. I don't suppose I ever listened to the notorious "Three Tenors" disk, start to finish. On the other hand, I must say I am a huge fan of his tenoring companion, Placido Domingo (José Carreras, it seems to me, has the unhappy role of being "the other one"--in the sense that Ringo Starr is "the only living Beatle who isn't Paul McCartney"--but I grant you, Carreras had the defense of illness).
I'm sure there is a lot of clucking about Pavoratti's notorious appetite, or appetites. I wouldn't get carried away with that. He lived to a decent age and God knows he had more meals than most of us. He survived his self-indulgence better than, say Enrico Caruso or Jussi Björling.
And I have to admit, I could still watch--tonight, if I weren't otherwise engaged--the DVDs of his early performances with Joan Sutherland--Daughter of the Regiment, say, or Elixir of Love--both grotesquely implausible bodies for their roles, but each a voice that no sensible person will ever forget. I gather Sutherland, 10 years his senior, is still alive and, for all I know, going strong.
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