Luciano Pavarotti, 1935-2007.(Appreciation)(Obituary)

Byline: Andrew Moravcsik

The fat man sings no more. The great bearded figure with outstretched arms, holding a flag-size silk handkerchief at the front of the stadium. The global superstar whose rendition of "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini's "Turandot" topped the charts and became the theme song of the 1990 World Cup in Italy. The man whose "Three Tenors" concert with Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras became the best-selling classical recording of all time, heard by one fourth of humanity. The celebrity who bantered on TV and crooned his way through pop duets with Bono, Sting and Elton John. Luciano Pavarotti is dead.

In the final decades of his career, Pavarotti achieved the goal he had set as the son of a Modena baker in the 1950s: to become the most famous opera singer since Enrico Caruso. At his death, he was the only opera singer instantly recognizable by millions across the globe, even those who would never see an opera.

He was the most unlikely of superstars. Weighing 160 kilos and frequently on a diet, he lacked a handsome physique or memorable features. He dyed his hair black and covered his bald spot the way Italian men did a half century ago: with burnt cork. He sweated profusely on stage. He cheated on his wife and his taxes. He traveled with an enormous entourage, once asking them to ship home to Italy all the furniture in his Caesars Palace hotel suite. He skipped rehearsals and canceled performances until top opera houses banned him. Bono said of him: "Some can sing opera; Luciano was an opera."

To be sure, a smart media man got him the American Express ads, the "Tonight Show" invitations, the stadium shows -- and the big money. Carreras says: "We have Luciano to thank for big fees." Purists responded with predictable scorn. "The very incarnation of hype," sniffed German highbrow Jurgen Kesting.

None of it mattered. Pavarotti possessed one of the great natural voices in living memory: brilliant, vital and pure, even-toned from top to bottom, with a distinctive metallic ring (squillo, Italians call it) that projected each note to the back row of the largest hall.

And those high notes. Tenors live and die by their high notes. In his prime, Pavarotti's were effortless and powerful. His breakthrough into international celebrity came in 1972 at New York's Metropolitan Opera, when he reeled off nine spectacular high C's in less than a minute in Donizetti's "Daughter of the Regiment." It was done, as critic John Steane wrote, "with the joy of a youngster doing cartwheels." The crowds went wild. ...