Pavarotti never lost his firm grip on the spotlight

With his powerful voice and charismatic personality, Luciano Pavarotti introduced legions of listeners to the art of opera. (Vic DeLucia/the new york times/file 1984)

The opera world lost one of its most widely loved tenors yesterday with the death of Luciano Pavarotti at age 71 from pancreatic cancer. In his prime in the 1970s, Pavarotti had a voice as unique as a fingerprint, with the strength to sail through any orchestra and enough sheer electricity to power a small town. Behind it stood a man of great charm and charisma who, through the success of ventures like the Three Tenors, his years of solo arena tours, and his collaborations with pop stars, built a massive following the likes of which has never been seen in the modern history of opera.

But popularity came at a price. Most critics stopped taking Pavarotti seriously as a performing artist years ago. It was not just snobbery. The consensus was that Pavarotti pushed his voice well beyond its natural life span, driven perhaps by his love of the spotlight, his commercial success, the pressure from his handlers, or the unyielding adoration of his fans. When his voice began to fade, he turned to amplification. In a darkened arena, with his signature handkerchief flowing, he could still create that experience of vocal soaring, and extend it through the years.

There is no doubting that, thanks to his arena tours and the phenomenal success of the Three Tenors, Pavarotti reached legions of listeners who had little exposure to opera. He became a gateway to the entire genre, unlocking some of its pleasures by cherry-picking the expressive pinnacles and serving them up without all the fuss. But as his cult of personality grew, Pavarotti began to stand in for the entire genre itself in the eyes of many fans. Bono of U2, no stranger to working a crowd, captured this attitude toward the tenor: "Some can sing opera," he said yesterday, according to press reports. "Luciano Pavarotti was an opera."

That was the problem. Pavarotti and his supporters always claimed that the stadium tours brought more people to love the art of opera. I think they brought more people to love Pavarotti and to pay high prices to see him. The souvenirs and memorabilia hawked at these events, the stratospheric hype, all telegraphed the message that this was your one chance to hear a legend in his own time. Who cared about the critics or all those snooty opera buffs? This was Pavarotti.

People turned out in droves, bringing with them a desire to witness history being made, to be touched by the sound of pure emotion ringing out through the rafters, to marvel at the super-human phenomenon of that giant voice (never mind the amplification). There was no staging, no translations, no dramatic context, of course. All that would have been beside the point; people were there for him. Meanwhile, the tenor was struggling with his health and his weight. His voice was flagging. When I heard him at Madison Square Garden in 2000, you could feel him guarding his strength through an entire aria, so that he could spend everything he had on the one brilliant high C. But the hardest thing to watch was Pavarotti's shameful level of preparation as he appeared before the sea of adoring fans. At times that night he gave the impression of practically sight-reading, and he seemed insecure even in the arias for which he is most acclaimed.

It may seem pointless or even churlish to wonder about the choices Pavarotti made late in his career, or how he might have stepped away from the spotlight with a bit more dignity. More in keeping with the moment is to put on an old recording or pay a visit to YouTube, where some patient sorting through search results yields stunning footage of Pavarotti at his early best. And he was extraordinary: the sense of beautifully effortless delivery, his utter mastery of bel-canto phrasing, and his sheer vocal splendor all the way up the scale.

Taking a step back, the good news is the overall state of the art. There is no shortage of vocal talent on the international stages today. Local companies this season are presenting both classic and contemporary fare. And the next generation of operatic populism is taking off with the Metropolitan Opera's simulcasting of operas in high-definition to movie theaters around the world. If the goal is to spread the word about opera, this technology, by keeping its theatrical dimensions alive, is infinitely more persuasive than an arena tour. Let's hope Pavarotti's many stadium fans check out these broadcasts. The ticket is a lot cheaper, and the opera is the real thing.

Jeremy Eichler can be reached at jeichler@globe.com.