The first time Luciano Pavarotti spoke to me, I did not actually meet him. I had gone to the Beacon Theater in New York City to sing for the Pavarotti Competition. When I had finished, a pleasant, soft-spoken, and slightly shy Italian-sounding voice spoke from the darkness, saying, “I never hear this aria before, but it is very beautiful. Thank you.” With a shock I recognized the voice. I had just sung for Pavarotti himself!
When I returned back stage and prepared to leave, the stage manager received a phone call and asked me to wait a few minutes. An assistant then came from the auditorium to tell me that Mr. Pavarotti was indeed unexpectedly listening that day and had decided to advance me past the preliminaries and semifinals directly to the final competition in the spring! It was the start of the many miracles that would happen to me as a result of knowing Luciano.
The finals in Philadelphia were wonderful, exciting, nerve-wracking, sometimes disorganized, and always interesting. I finally met Luciano in person. He was just as charismatic as everyone had said. He was an amazing combination of strength, humility, enormous ego, stubbornness, spontaneity, humor, and sometimes, stern impatience. Everyone had to go through their paces for the final concert, often without much warning, and then, after the concert, Pavarotti came out and announced not just a few names, but that all 52 of us were winners. Everyone was shocked, the press felt cheated, and we were all confused. But Pavarotti had a plan. He had not wanted to pick the people to sing “Ballo” or the Verdi Requiem based on the singing of one aria. He wanted to have callbacks.
So all 52 of us met in New York or in Europe to compete once more for the few coveted roles that would be double cast and presented by the Opera Company of Philadelphia, with one performance also being a telecast by PBS.
We met again at the Beacon Theater and Luciano was there the whole week. He heard all of us over and over, often stopping and working on a phrase. There was no schedule. We just had to show up each day ready to sing if Luciano wanted to hear us. After a while, it got to be fun.
One day, as I was saying goodbye for the day, he had me sit down next to him and asked two strange questions: “Tell me, are you happy? Are you in love?” When I smiled and told him yes to both questions, he replied, “You are lucky, and it shows. This is good!”
I took this as a sign that perhaps I had a chance to win the role of Amelia in “Ballo,” and sure enough, while I was visiting my parents in Phoenix during the Christmas holidays, we received a phone call from the opera company asking to speak to “Amelia Pierson.” It was the best Christmas present I had ever received!
The following fall we all convened in Philadelphia to begin rehearsals. General knowledge was that one cast would get opening night, and the other the telecast. However, after the final dress rehearsal (which was our cast), Pavarotti suddenly decided that it was winner take all. Opening night would also be the telecast, and we were chosen. It was a bit of a scandal, but Luciano was the boss and it was his choice. I saw the direct, brutally honest, and decisive aspects of his personality that day.
After the magical performance, which went nearly perfectly, Luciano told me that I had sung better than him. He wasn’t jealous or upset at all. In fact, when he made his entrance for our duet after the ovation for my first big aria, instead of looking worried and desperate as the stage direction required, he had a big smile of pride and happiness on his face. By then I was used to the bear hugs while singing high notes and hugged him right back.
The weeks after the performance were some of the most fun and interesting with Luciano. We sat day after day going over the video and choosing which of the four camera shots to use. He would poke fun at me and himself: “Ah, here come the high C. Look at the scared look on the tenor’s face!” or, “Ah, I did not know you wear such a low-cut dress for this act. Ooh-la-la.”
While they edited and advanced to the next scene we would talk. “Why do you sing?” he asked once. “Because I love it, but it doesn’t own me.” I said. “Ah, I think my voice owns me sometimes,” he replied. I realized this was terribly true. I had looked at all the performances listed in the book celebrating his first 25 years in opera and it was astounding, the extreme lack of time to himself. He truly gave himself to the world and was often lonely, worn out, and exhausted.
Years later, after making my debut at La Scala in “Ballo” with Luciano, and singing it again with him in Bologna, I saw him back stage at the Met after a performance of La bohème, looking fit and full of himself. Luciano had achieved a life-long goal: he had lost more than 150 pounds. His reception at his first entrance had been astounding and people were thrilled with his new slimmer figure and glorious voice.
Sadly, this new figure only lasted a few years—but then, one day he met Nicoletta, and for the first time in his life, fell head over heels in love. He introduced her to me back stage at the Met, and I suddenly remembered the questions he had asked me about love and happiness all those years ago. I reminded him of them as I hugged him, and said how happy I was for them both. He got tears in his eyes and swallowed hard before replying, “Yes, I have this beautiful gift now in my lifetime that comes so easy and early to everybody else. Now I am really happy. Do you think it shows?” It certainly did!
I was sorry not to sing with him again, but my voice developed into a German dramatic and I began to sing mostly Wagner and Strauss. After I had sung my first Ring Cycle, Luciano teased me, saying he was completely horrified by those roles and asking, “How is it possible to sing for so-o-o long and so-o-o loud, and remember all those German words?” I reminded him that after all, he himself had told me singing was only controlled screaming, and that I just crammed three performances a week into one night. He seemed to think this was terribly funny.
I remember him laughing at that. I remember us sitting together back stage at Alice Tully Hall after some performance, him patting my knee with one enormous paw and demanding to know what I was doing, how was life, then taking my chin and looking sternly into my eyes, asking if I was still happy too. I remember reminding him to please, please make time for himself, and him promising he was trying to start doing that more and more. I tried to believe him, but I knew his life never really gave him enough time to rest.
Luciano Pavarotti did more for opera than any other singer of all time, though a few other singers have come close. He was an icon, a star, and he made opera a household word. It was a miracle how he endured the schedule of his difficult and demanding career as long as he did, and he deserved every luxury hotel, stretch limo, private jet, and penny for what was really a rather meager return for such a life of self-sacrifice. I loved him dearly and admired him greatly.
I will bless my memory of him always. May he rest in peace in the hand of God and in the memories of all of us who loved him.
