The House isn’t closing till the great man sings
Half an hour before Pavarotti appeared, a scream pierced the Covent Garden foyer. A middle-aged woman, evidently determined to get in despite having no ticket, was fighting with ushers and crying to be admitted. Mad, of course; a part in Lucia Di Lammermoor a distinct possibility. Yet you could not help but sympathise with her: this was a Great Event, a rare chance to see the great man without getting soaked. His first recital at Covent Garden for 18 years; his last before the House closes for redevelopment; perhaps – because he is now 61 – his last ever substantial performance on the stage where he established his career in the early 1960s.
This wasn’t a typical Covent Garden audience; it was a Pavarotti audience, come to worship. There were lots of ladies with severe spectacles, immaculate hairdos and lapel badges pinpointing their allegiance to the Pavarotti Appreciation Society. Pavarotti is now such an iconic figure that he could turn up, beat out a few bars from Puccini on the spoons and win a tumultuous ovation. The audience adores him – that thrilling voice, the joyous smile, the odd combination of power and vulnerability. During one of his encores, Che gelida manina from La Boheme (Rodolfo was his first role here in 1963), an elderly man in front of me cried.
His voice remains a magnificent instrument. The choice of numbers was careful – he may not now be capable of the pyrotechnics of old – but his attack, the beauty of his phrasing and his sheer musicality are undimmed. As a singer and performer who commands and engages, he has no equal. Pavarotti’s superstar status means he is now more likely to appear in a stadium than on a stage. So the austerity of this performance, with only the pianist Leone Magiera and a rather tatty red screen for company, was a welcome relief. The programme was artfully constructed – secular and sacred, Neapolitan popular songs and operatic showstoppers, and four encores delivered to a rapturous audience.
Just occasionally the voice became strained and husky in the lower register, but for the most part his performances were masterly. He sang Schubert’s Ave Maria movingly, gave a glorious account of Bizet’s Agnus Dei, and concluded the first half with two showpieces from Tosca, Recondita armonia and E lucevan le stelle. To sing these arias – the joyful beginning and the impossibly painful end of the opera – back to back could be ludicrous, but Pavarotti, moving from ecstasy to despair, made it work.
After the interval he gave witty accounts of two groups of songs by Tosti – he could probably sing these lilting songs of love and loss in his sleep – with, in between, the inevitable Una furtiva lagrima from Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’Amore. The performance was flawless; and the House almost floorless, so emphatic was the stamping that greeted the aria. But will he return after the re-opening? Some patrons were taking no chances and had small children perched on their knees. In 70 years, as old men now talk of Caruso, they will be able to say “I saw Pavarotti”.
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