Okay, let's dive in. Let's do it. We are talking
today about a figure whose voice... i mean it
wasn't just about filling the grand opera houses
of the world oh not at all it went so far beyond
that it conquered stadiums it completely redefined
what a classical celebrity could be and it somehow
managed to be you know high art and global pop
culture at the exact same time and you can only
be talking about one person the one and only
luciano pavarotti absolutely i mean he reached
a level of fame that Well, it's rare for any
artist, let alone a classical one. Right. He
really transcended the whole genre in a way that
I don't think we've seen since. And when you
look at the numbers, it's just staggering. It
is. The stats are profound. He sold well over
100 million records. 100 million. And that first
three tenors album, it's still the best selling
classical album of all time, period. So. Our
mission today in this deep dive is to really
trace that journey. How does the son of a baker
from, you know, a pretty humble background in
Modena, Italy, how does he become this universally
recognized figure, someone known just as the
maestro? It's about understanding the mechanics
of it, right? Yeah. The talent, of course. Yeah.
But also the partnerships, the timing. The decisions
he made along the way. All of it. Yeah. And that
journey. It really has to start with the voice
itself. Okay. When you think of Pavarotti, you
think of that sound. It's huge. It's generous.
It feels effortless, especially up in that top
register. Which is where the nickname comes from.
Exactly. The king of the high Cs. He earned that
because he could just nail those top notes with
this incredible clarity and warmth over and over
again. And this vocal talent, it wasn't just
random, was it? It was focused on a very specific
and very demanding type of opera. Precisely.
His whole core repertoire required just exceptional
technique. We're talking mainly about bel canto
operas. Which means beautiful singing. Beautiful
singing, yeah. Yeah. It's an Italian style from
the late 18th, early 19th centuries that's all
about purity of tone, agility, flexibility. It
demands almost superhuman control. So it's not
just about being loud. Not at all. It's about
control and hitting those incredibly high notes
without any sense of strain. And then you have
the early Verdi rolls, and of course Puccini,
La Boheme, Tosca, and Turando. Those were his
signatures. They all demand this blend of intense
emotion and sheer vocal brilliance. And then
there's the one aria, the one that took him from
the opera world and launched him into the global
stratosphere. Nessun Dorma. From Turandot. Yeah.
That one Puccini aria became more synonymous
with Pavarotti than with any other singer in
history. It just became his song. So to really
appreciate that global icon, you have to go right
back to the beginning. You do. to the reality
of his start he was born in 1935 not into some
high culture wealthy family but on the outskirts
of modena in northern italy and it was a profoundly
humble italian upbringing i mean his family context
says so much his father fernando was a baker
a baker by trade working long, hard hours. But,
and this is crucial, he was also an amateur tenor.
With a good voice. A very fine, natural voice,
apparently. But he backed away from a professional
career because he had crippling stage fright.
Wow. So that had to have been in the back of
Luciano's mind. You have to think so. And his
mother, Adele, she was working in a cigar factory.
And the family was crowded into a tiny two -room
apartment. Right. So this wasn't just modest.
It was... Yeah. It was a struggle. It creates
a very grounded, probably very resilient kid.
And you can't forget the backdrop to all this,
World War II. Absolute chaos. In 1943, the family
had to flee the city because of the bombing.
They rented a single room out in the countryside.
And that's where he got interested in farming,
of all things. Yeah, for a year, that was his
world. It was just one of these incredible what
-ifs in his story. Imagine that alternate history.
Farmer Pavarotti. It almost happened. And it
wasn't the only alternate path. His childhood
dream wasn't even singing. No. It was sports.
He wanted to be a professional football goalkeeper.
A goalkeeper. I know. But you can almost see
it, can't you? That commanding presence, the
high -stakes moments. It's not so different from
being on stage, in a way. But his mother stepped
in. She did. After he graduated, she convinced
him to train as a teacher. And he actually did
it. For two full years. He's an elementary school
teacher. This was a stable, respectable career
he already had before music really took over.
So when he finally decides, okay, I'm going to
do this singing thing. His father was very reluctant.
He knew the risks, the instability. For a family
that came from hard, reliable labor, gambling
on an arts career was, well, it was a huge ask.
That hesitation really underlines how risky it
was, and the start was not easy. No, not at all.
He started serious study pretty late, at 19,
in 1954, with a tenor in Modena named Erigo Pola.
And the source material says Pola taught him
for free. For free? Which tells you something
about the raw talent Pola must have heard right
away. And this is where another key figure comes
in. Right. When Pola moved to Japan, Pavarotti
started studying with Ettore Campogalliani. And
that's where he reconnected with his childhood
friend, Mirella Frenney. The cigar factory connection.
Exactly. Their mothers worked together in the
factory. They had this shared local background,
this history. And they would go on to become
maybe the most famous Rodolfo and Mimi in La
Boheme of their time. That's the one. It's an
incredible story of continuity starting right
there in Modena. But even with that talent, even
with those connections, the early years were
just a grind. A whole grind. He was still teaching
part -time. He was selling insurance just to
make ends meet while he was studying. And for
six years, he did a handful of recitals in small
towns, all unpaid. Six years of work for... Basically,
zero professional reward. The pressure must have
been immense. And that pressure led to a crisis.
A huge one. A physical and psychological turning
point. A nodule developed on his vocal cords.
Oh, no. And it led to what he called a disastrous
concert in Ferrara. He hit rock bottom. After
all that sacrifice, his body betrayed him and
he decided to quit. Just give it all up. That's
it. He was done. But here's this almost mystical
part of his story. That he told for the rest
of his life. Okay. He claimed that the psychological
release, just the act of deciding to surrender,
to quit it, caused the nodule to just disappear.
You're kidding. That's what he said. He said
when his voice came back, it was completely transformed.
All the technique he'd been learning suddenly
clicked with his natural voice. The moment he
stopped trying to force it, it just happened.
Exactly. It's an incredible narrative. But before
that breakdown, there was one early success that
must have kept him going. Yes. Back in 1955.
He was in the Corral Rossini Male Voice Choir.
With his father. With his father, which is so
important. They went to Wales for the International
Ice Tidfod and won first prize. Wow. And Pavarotti
later said that winning that competition with
his dad was the single most important experience
of his life. It was just enough validation to
get him through the next few brutal years. And
right as his career is about to take off, he
builds some personal stability. He does. In 1961,
the same year as his debut, he marries Aydua
Varoni. That marriage lasted nearly 40 years,
and they had three daughters. So he had a home
base right as his public life was about to explode.
So the career officially begins, 1961, Rodolfo
in La Boheme. In Reggio Emilia, yeah. It was
the perfect role for his voice, a role that would
be his calling card for his entire career. And
from there, things moved fast. This wasn't just...
A regional talent. Not at all. International
debuts came quickly. He's in Belgrade doing La
Traviata, then the Vienna State Opera in 63.
And also in 63, the big one, his debut at the
Royal Opera House in London. Right. And he was
stepping in for the famous tenor Giuseppe Di
Stefano. As Rodolfo, of course. As Rodolfo. It's
that classic story. The replacement gets his
big break. But the truly game -changing relationship,
the one that really set him up for a global career,
was with the soprano Joan Sutherland. Absolutely.
Joan Sutherland and her husband, the conductor
Richard Boning, that connection started in 1963.
And it started for a surprisingly practical reason.
It did. She was planning a huge Australian tour
for 1965, and she specifically needed a tenor
who was taller than her. And Pavarotti fit the
bill. He did. But it quickly became about so
much more than his height. Their professional
synergy was immediate. Which led to his U .S.
debut. February 1965. Yeah. In Miami. He was
singing Lucia di Lammermoor with Sutherland.
He was actually the understudy. And the main
tenor got sick. Exactly. Sutherland recommended
him without hesitation, and he stepped in and
was a huge success. That must have opened every
door. Straight to the top. Just a couple months
later, April 65, he's making his debut at La
Scala in Milan. In La Boheme with Mirella Farini.
And conducted by the great Herbert von Karajan,
who had specifically asked for him. But what's
so fascinating about the Sutherland relationship
is not just the opportunities. It was the training.
It's a technical boot camp. Pavarotti himself
credited her with teaching him the breathing
technique that sustained his entire career. And
he learned this on that grueling Australian tour.
An astonishing 40 performances in just two months.
That's where he really learned how to sing, night
after night. And that technique is what allowed
him to earn that famous nickname. The king of
the high seas. And it didn't come from La Boheme.
It came from the role of Tonio in Donizetti's
opera, La Fille du Régiment. He first did that
role in London in 66. But the seismic event,
the moment that cemented the name forever, was
six years later in New York. At the Met, February
1972. That's the one. The aria in that opera
has nine consecutive high Cs. Nine. And Pavarotti
didn't just hit them. He delivered them with
this ringing, effortless power that just... It
stunned the New York audience. And the reaction.
Pandemonium. 17 curtain calls. 17. That was the
breakthrough. That was the moment he went from
being a star to being a phenomenon. And as his
fame grows through the 70s, he starts to develop
these little signatures that made him so accessible.
Let's talk about the handkerchief. The iconic
white handkerchief. He started using it at a
recital in Missouri in 1973. And the story behind
it is actually really endearing. It is. Initially,
the story was he had a cold. But he later admitted
he just, he didn't know what to do with his hands
on stage. That's so relatable. Exactly. It was
this little touch of human awkwardness that people
loved. It became his signature prop. That kind
of accessibility made him perfect for television.
Absolutely. In 1977, he was Rodolfo in the very
first Alcation, live for the Met Telecast. And
it drew one of the biggest audiences ever for
televised opera. It proved this music could be
a mass market thing. And the rest of the media
followed. He's on the cover of Time magazine.
He's winning Grammys, getting gold records. By
the end of the 70s, he's a full -blown global
superstar. But the 90s, the 90s were about to
take it to a whole other dimension. Before we
get to that massive explosion in the 90s, though,
you can see the shift starting in the 80s. You
can. He starts to move from being just a performer
to being, well, a cultural entrepreneur. Yeah.
A mentor. With the Pavarotti International Voice
Competition. Exactly. And this wasn't just a
name only thing. He was actively involved. He
would perform with the winners in operas like
La Boheme. He was using his platform to lift
up the next generation. For sure. And that commitment
led to this really amazing cultural moment in
1986. It was the 25th anniversary of his career.
And he went to China. He did. This was a huge
deal at the time. He took the winners of his
competition to Beijing. But the main event was
his own concert. The inaugural concert in the
Great Hall of the People in front of 10 ,000
people. And what did he give them? He gave them
the goods. A standing ovation for hitting those
nine high Cs. It proved he could connect with
these massive, non -traditional audiences. He
was warming up. For the main event, the 1990
FIFA World Cup. This is where it all just goes
into the stratosphere. Thanks to a single area.
It's legendary. His recording of Nessun Dorma.
was chosen by the BBC as the theme for their
coverage of the World Cup, which was being held
in Italy. The timing was just perfect. The timing,
the song, the drama of the tournament, it just
connected instantly. That area achieved pop status
overnight. It became the soundtrack to the summer.
And it gave them the launchpad for the three
tenors. The highest possible launchpad. The first
concert was on the eve of the World Cup final
at the Baths of Caracalla in Rome. Pavarotti,
Blasio Domingo, And Jose Carreras. And that one
concert changed the classical music industry.
Forever. The recording became the biggest selling
classical album of all time. It showed there
was this massive, untapped audience for this
music. And there's that one moment on the recording.
With O Sole Mio. Yeah. Pavarotti sings these
incredibly long, virtuosic vocal runs, and then
Domingo and Carreras just repeat them perfectly,
night for note. It's this moment of friendly
competition and pure joy. It was designed to
thrill, and it absolutely did. And of course,
it was so huge, they did it again. At the next
three World Cups, 94, 98, 2002, for 12 years,
the three tenors were part of this global sporting
event. And that fame allowed him to play venues
that were just... unheard of for a classical
singer. We're talking massive outdoor concerts.
Colossal. 150 ,000 people in Hyde Park in London.
And New York. Over half a million people in Central
Park. Half a million people. For an opera singer,
that's just unbelievable. It is. The scale is
hard to comprehend. Then 300 ,000 at the Eiffel
Tower. He was a rock star. And that level of
fame let him do some really interesting crossover
work in the 90s. He was everywhere. He recorded
Miss Sarajevo with U2. Sang with Dolores O 'Riordan
from The Cranberries. In front of Princess Diana,
who was apparently moved to tears. And then the
ultimate American crossover moment. Saturday
Night Live in 1998. He sang with Vanessa L. Williams.
He is still the only opera singer to have ever
performed on that show. It just shows you he
had bridged every gap. By the end of the 90s,
he was without a doubt the most famous classical
musician who had ever lived. So he has this enormous
global platform, bigger than any classical artist
had ever dreamed of. Right. And he didn't just
use it to sell records. He leveraged it almost
immediately for humanitarian work. This really
defined the second half of his career. The cornerstone
was the Pavarotti and Friends concert series.
Held every year in his hometown, Modena. And
these were not your typical benefit concerts.
These were genre -bending extravaganzas. The
guest list is just a who's who of music. Sting,
Bono, Elton John, Mariah Carey, James Brown,
Eric Clapton. Even the Spice Girls. Even the
Spice Girls. Yeah. It showed the kind of gravitational
pull he had. And all the money went to critical
UN causes. Specifically helping victims of war.
Yes. War Child and victims in Bosnia, Guatemala,
Kosovo, Iraq. Yeah. And his impact was very real.
Very tangible. Can you give us an example? After
the Bosnian War. His funds helped establish the
Pavarotti Music Center in Mostar, a place for
artists to rebuild the culture there. And the
city of Sarajevo made him an honorary citizen
for his work. They did. His legacy there is permanent.
And it went beyond the Balkans. Oh, yeah. He
worked with his friend Princess Diana on eliminating
landmines. He performed for victims of the earthquake
in Armenia. He helped build a school for war
orphans in Guatemala. And this work was recognized
at the highest levels. The UN made him a messenger
of peace in 1998. And in 2001, he got the Nansen
Medal from the UN High Commission for Refugees.
And the citation for that award is incredible.
It is. It notes that he had raised more money
for refugees than any other single individual
in the world. That is a monumental achievement.
A phenomenal record. But we have to talk about
the other side of the story. The contrast. Right.
For all this goodwill, he had this other very
negative reputation in the professional opera
world. The king of cancellations. That's the
one. And he earned it, unfortunately. He backed
out of performances frequently, sometimes right
at the last minute. Which created huge problems
for the opera house. Massive problems. Yes. And
really strained relationships. So what's the
tension there? Is it the immense physical pressure
of singing those roles or is it something else?
It's probably a bit of both. The demands of that
repertoire are insane, especially as you get
older. But for the opera companies, it felt like
a lack of professional respect. And the most
famous example of this came to a head in Chicago.
1989, the Lyric Opera of Chicago. They had a
15 -year relationship with him, and they just,
they severed it. What led to such a drastic step?
Over the previous eight years, he had canceled
26 out of 41 scheduled appearances. Wow. That's
more than half. Almost two -thirds, yeah. The
final straw was him pulling out of a big season
premiere, citing sciatic nerve pain. And the
Lyric Opera had had enough. The general manager,
Artis Kranich, she took the incredible step of
banning him for life from their stage. For life!
It sends a message through the entire opera world.
So you have this incredible duality, the global
humanitarian and the unreliable professional.
It's a huge part of his story. And that tension
also showed up in his finances. The tax dispute.
The very public tax dispute with the Italian
government. He claimed his official residence
was in Monaco. The famous tax haven. A classic
move. But the Italian court rejected it. And
the reason they gave was kind of amazing. It
was. The judge basically ruled that his apartment
in Monaco was too small to be his real home.
It couldn't fit his whole family, so his center
of life was clearly still in Modena. So what
was the outcome? He had to pay up. He settled
for about $7 .6 million in back taxes and penalties.
But he was cleared of the criminal charges. That's
a key distinction. He was acquitted of filing
false tax returns. The court found he owed the
money, but his intent wasn't criminal. And the
criticism didn't stop there. It even extended
to his actual musicianship. Yeah, after his former
manager, Herbert Breslin, published a very critical
memoir in 2004. The King and I. Breslin was harsh
about his acting, and he made this very damaging
claim that Pavarotti struggled to read music
well. That's a huge allegation against one of
the world's greatest singers. It is, and Pavarotti
did address it. He denugged that he couldn't
read music, but he made an important admission.
What was that? He admitted he didn't read full
orchestral scores. Which is different. It's very
different. A singer usually works from a simplified
piano version. It suggests he relied heavily
on his coaches. Which isn't that unusual, but
for his critics, it was a big deal. And this
mix of incredible talent, but maybe some technical
gaps? Yeah. It showed up in his other media work,
too. Absolutely. His big Hollywood movie, The
Romantic Comedy. Yes, Giorgio. It was a flop.
A huge critical and commercial failure. Funnily
enough, it did get an Oscar nomination for Best
Original Song. A weird little footnote in his
career. But when he was filmed doing what he
did, Best Singing Opera, It was always a massive
success. He won two Emmy Awards for his PBS specials.
The Carol loved him in his natural habitat. Just
not so much in a scripted comedy. So we come
to the final chapter of his career, The Long
Farewell. Yeah. He started his farewell tour
in 2004. He was 69 years old, planning to hit
40 cities. And his last performance in a full
opera was pretty early in that tour. It was.
March 2004 at the Met in New York, he sang Cavaradossi
and Tosca. And the ovation was? Just legendary.
It went on and on. It was this huge emotional
farewell to the art form that made him. His last
actual full concert was in Taiwan in late 2005.
But the last time the world saw him perform,
that was a different story. A very different
story. It was the 2006 Winter Olympics opening
ceremony in Turin, Italy. A huge moment of national
pride. It was magnificent. He sang Nessun Dorma,
of course. He got the longest, loudest ovation
of the night. It felt like this perfect, final,
powerful statement. But it wasn't what it seemed.
No. The truth came out two years later, in a
memoir by his director, Leona Magira. What was
the revelation? The performance was pre -recorded.
He had mimed the whole thing. Wow. It was purely
about his health. He was already very ill. And
the idea of him singing live late at night in
the freezing cold February air in Turin, it was
just too dangerous. So it was a piece of stagecraft
to protect him. And to give the world that one
last iconic moment. Yeah. As Majira said, the
orchestra pretended to play. I pretended to conduct.
And Luciano pretended to sing. The effect was
wonderful. And after that final appearance, his
health went downhill quickly. He was diagnosed
with pancreatic cancer just a few months later
in July 2006. He had major surgery, but the illness
was too aggressive. He passed away in September
2007. At his home in Modena, age 71. His manager
said he fought a long, tough battle and stayed
positive right to the end. And his funeral was
a reflection of his status. It really was. It
was like a state funeral. The prime minister
was there, Kofi Annan, and the Italian Air Force
aerobatic team flew overhead. The fray, Tricolore.
Leaving trails of green, white, and red smoke.
A final tribute from his country. After his death,
there was some complication with his estate.
There was. He was survived by his second wife,
Nicoletta Mantovani, and four daughters, three
from his first marriage. One with Nicoletta.
And there were two different wills. Which is
always a recipe for conflict. One will divide
assets by Italian law, but a second gave all
his U .S. holdings to Nicoletta. But they managed
to avoid a long legal fight. They did. To their
credit, the family reached an amicable settlement
in 2008. They respected his wishes and kept it
private. His list of honors is long, but there
are a couple of Guinness World Records that really
stand out. They do. One is for the most curtain
calls, 165. Incredible. And the other, of course,
is for the best -selling classical album with
the three tenors. He got the Kennedy Center Honors,
a Grammy Legend Award, and a posthumous star
on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in 2022. He's cemented
in history. So when you look back at his whole
career, his legacy is really defined by this
unbelievable tension between tradition and transformation.
How do you mean? Well, he kept this core repertoire
that demanded absolute vocal purity. The Belcanto
stuff, the Puccini. But at the same time, he
just completely embraced pop culture with the
Three Tenors and the Pavarotti and Friends concerts.
He created the template for a global classical
star. He really did. And very few people have
been able to replicate it since. What's so striking
to me is that dissonance in his professional
life. You have this pursuit of artistic perfection
on one hand. Right. The technique that Joan Sutherland
helped him build. Which led to the stress and
the unreliability, the king of cancellations
nickname. He burned some serious bridges in the
opera world. He did. But that exact same fame
and charisma, it powered this massive humanitarian
machine that raised millions and earned him recognition
from the U .N. It's really hard to recognize.
And that raises a really important final thought
for you, the listener, to consider. Yeah. We
talked about how conductor Richard Bonegain praised
his mastery of breathing technique, the absolute
physical foundation of his gift. Right. But then
you have the criticism from his manager. that
he couldn't read complex orchestral scores, suggesting
maybe a gap in his technical literacy. So when
you think about his massive undeniable success,
his influence on millions of people, a fame built
on the sheer beauty of his sound and his personality.
What is the ultimate measure of a musical master?
Is it the technical literacy, the ability to
analyze every note in the score? Or is it the
ability to transcend that score and connect directly,
instantly and emotionally with a global audience,
making high art feel like it belongs to everyone?
Something to chew on.