As I’ll always remember him.

Time out for politics, rants and raves.

Another another light of beauty has gone out. Much will be written about him in the weeks following his death and there is little I can add except to express my own personal feelings about a voice we will never hear in person again.

In truth, that voice left him about fifteen years ago, but there was plenty left to sustain him, and us, during that time. Mostly with the Three Tenors and his scattered appearances in opera houses.

As a lifelong opera lover inspired by Mario Lanza, for whom my father tailored suits in South Philadelphia to Luciano, few singers achieved the purity of voice and sound that he possessed.

Luciano had a quality that he described as “particularity,” that vocal attribute that causes the listener to know from the first few notes exactly who the tenor is. Pavaroti had it, Lanza had it, Bjoerling had it, as did DiStefano, Corelli, Gigli and my boyhood hero, Mario Del Monaco had it in spades.. Caruso certainly had it.

Of sopranos, Renata Tebaldi and Maria Callas had particularity. It doesn’t take much to be able to recognize their unique voices from the opening bars of one of their arias.

While not a necessary ingredient for vocal greatness, “particularity” is certainly an important aspect of it. Even a “lesser” tenor like Adrea Bocelli has it. Two or three notes from him and you know it’s him.

By contrast, excellent tenors like Placido Domingo, Carreras, Alfredo Kraus and many other don’t have it — at least not without intensive listening on the part of the audience.

An element of particularity is an Italian expression called “squillo” — which means “brilliance” of sound, a “ring” if you will, that further defines a tenor’s particularity. You can hear this “squillo” on recordings but the big payoff comes when attending an opera in person. For example, I’ve heard Mario Del Monaco in over forty performances and, in those days, his co-stars were all greats, but not all had “squillo.” From the balcony of the old Met Mario sounded like he was singing from three rows in front of you while the others sounded like they were on Ninth Avenue.

Here’s what “squillo” sounds like. Mario del Monaco singing a live Otello in Japan.

It’s a shame that Pavarotti’s weight got in the way of his health and career. Even though he became popularly famous through The Three Tenors, his greatness was in the opera house and his girth prevented him from playing a number of roles a spinto voice like this would usually grow into. I saw him in many roles when he was younger and his size, while large, had not yet reached the proportions we remember from Orson Welles and Marlon Brando. He was impish on stage, even in serious roles, his sense of fun evident throughout.

I last saw him in person in 2001 at the Metropolitan Opera with Deborah Voight in Aida. If you don’t know Ms. Voight, she is a premiere dramatic soprano perfectly suited for the demanding title role sung by the likes of the great Leontyne Price and Renata Tebaldi. At the time her heft equalled that of Pavarotti’s and in this day and age it was harder to accept these two behemoths as lovers. We are in a new era where even dedicated opera lovers expect some degree of physical believability.

The much younger Voight sang beautifully but Luciano, sadly, was a pale replica of the voice he had thrilled us with to that point. First, the role of Rhadames is very demanding vocally and is usually sung by a dramatic tenor, which Pavarotti was not. He had the kind of voice that certainly would grow into the role, but his size must have hampered the strength needed to nurse the voice properly over the years to arrive at a point where he could handle the part. Also, at the time, he was about sixty-four years old, at an age where a tough role like this is a challenge to any tenor.

But that was then and this is now, darker and sadder for us all.

The great aria Nessun Dorma will always be associated with him, as Somewhere Over the Rainbow belonged to Judy Garland and as Kate Smith owned God Bless America. But this was a publicity aria, one that was demanded of him everywhere he sang. While he always sang it beautifully I wouldn’t want his vocal memory wrapped up only in this one piece. He was responsible for so much else, so much great singing over the years. Let’s leave this post with his simple, understated yet passionate Una furtiva lagrima from L’Esire d’Amore. The younger Pavarotti in the perfect voice to remember him by.

Thank you, Luciano. Rest in peace.