The Pavarotti phenomenon was a triumph of marketing. In his 50s, thanks to records and the increasing refinement of public address systems in the enormous, sometimes open-air venues where he performed, he became probably the richest opera singer in the history of music.īut his thriving career, in fact, coincided with the steady decline of Italian opera. Nature equipped him with one of the most individual, unmistakable and beautiful voices there has been. He modelled himself on what he heard, and used recordings to take account of the competition, dead or alive, throughout his career. His family were enthusiastically musical, and aged four he was apparently singing the Duke of Mantua's La Donna È Mobile from Rigoletto as a party trick, standing on the kitchen table. So the presence of the past underpinned his own recorded achievement as a singer. Luciano Pavarotti, who has died aged 71, grew up in the 1940s listening to the previous golden generation of tenor stars on record and radio.

Since the mechanisation of memory, we need no longer rely on the pallid words of critics or historians. Modern recording technology ensures that the spell-binding, heroic expressiveness of great tenors can work its magic anywhere.

The names of Caruso, Gigli and Pavarotti are code for operatic achievement, while the legendary divas whom they partnered only register with opera fans. T he Italian tenor in full cry is what we mean when we say opera, which remains, in that sense, a man's world.

Der rosenkavalier royal opera house