Pavarotti Remembered

(CBS)  The music world lost one of its greats this past week. Luciano Pavarotti's extraordinary talent, coupled with a larger-than-life persona, transcended the opera stage. His voice and smile were a fixture in soccer stadiums, concert halls and Olympic ceremonies for a generation.

Mike Wallace looks back at two 60 Minutes conversations with the great tenor. Wallace first interviewed him in 1993, when some said Pavarotti was already in the twilight of his career. But nine years later, in 2002, Pavarotti still wasn't ready for that final curtain when Wallace visited him again, this time on the Caribbean island of Barbados.

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"It's 40 days I'm staying here in this house, yes, with my friend, the beach, the sun and nobody else. A lot of company," the tenor told Wallace.

In 1993, Pavarotti said he was spending 10 months of the year on the road; nine years later he was talking to Wallace during a six-week beach vacation. "I am 10 years older, and in this 10 years, I realize that taking time for yourself is not bad, not bad at all," he said.

How was the tenor feeling?

"I feel here, with all my friends, with you, what can I feel? Sensational?" Pavarotti said.

And one big reason he was feeling sensational was Nicoletta Mantovani, the young woman he met in the summer of 1993, the same summer Wallace first sat down with Pavarotti.

In 1993, there were already whispers in the opera world that the twilight of this superstar's career was upon him. Back then, when Wallace and Pavarotti sat down together, the tenor acknowledged that he was feeling the pressure of the critics and the doubters.

Asked how bad the pressure is, truthfully, Pavarotti said, "I think it's an enjoyment; I don't think it's a job. It's not a profession; it is an enjoyment. I'm telling you the truth."

"Otherwise, I would not do now at my age, when everybody is trying to kill me. Every newspaper is there ready to say when I'm going to die, and I do that," Pavarotti added.

And then there were the fans. "If you do something wrong they can protest; they can boo you," the tenor said.

And at La Scala in Milan, that's exactly what happened. Pavarotti failed to hit the high notes in the second act of "Don Carlos." His voice cracked.

The applause one heard didn't come from the loggionisti -- those temperamental fans who sat in the upper balconies booed. It's a reaction Pavarotti almost never received. The occasion was the opening of the opera season before the president of Italy. It was a miserable humiliation.

Who are among the loggionisti?

"I think they are people that, they live to go to the opera every night," Pavarotti told Wallace. "They give all their love to the opera. They think that they are the ultimate judge of what is going to happen there. And they think to have the right to applause or to boo. And if you want to know my opinion, they are right."

Asked if he was hurt about the speculation that he is entering the twilight of his career or that he is lazy, Pavarotti admitted, "You want to know something? I am lazy."

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[evasch3]

I am sorry that you have only the marriages and a failed high C as a remembrance of Pavarotti
Eva

[jozielee]

What beauty Pavarotti brought into the world. The look of him, his sound will long be remembered. May he rest in blissful peace knowing he left the world a more beautiful place simply by following his heart in doing what he enjoyed most . . . singing.

[soulfulady]

Yesterday a friend read a story by Hans Christian Andersen at a gathering dedicated to the memory of Pavarotti. It seems to sum up his precious legacy in this world. Its called "A Rose From Homer''s Grave". Here it is:

"All the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster serenades the fragrant flowers.

Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said, %u201CHere rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale.%u201D Then the nightingale sung himself to death.

(continued...)

[soulfulady]

A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind.

(continued....)

[soulfulady]

(continued from "A Rose From Homer''s Grave"...)The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.

It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in a book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, %u201CHere is a rose from the grave of Homer.%u201D

Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer%u2019s grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was hot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose, pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower now rests in his %u201CIliad,%u201D and, as in her dream, she hears him say, as he opens the book, %u201CHere is a rose from the grave of Homer.%u201D

[soulfulady]

Its always fascinating to me how each of us perceives the same situation or person differently. One begins to wonder what is ''real''. Truth is in the eye of the beholder perhaps. The way I see it, these personal glimpses of Pavarotti were precious. They provided intimate insights into the man behind the music, a man who was as large in spirit as he was in body. A giant whose life itself seemed to be the living embodiment of the operas he sang. I see more of his greatness now than I have ever seen before. Sometimes that is what happens: the fullness of one''s life is only revealed after it has been released from its cage.

[mpeterson124]

What a sad and pathetic remembrance - focusing on the folly of an old man and his airhead mistress. I could have done without that. It would have been nice if we could have seen some clips of the arias that made him great - his amazing talent - and not the evidence of his addled brain in his old age. The whole thing just made me sad and depressed.

[mpeterson124]

What a sad and pathetic remembrance - focusing on the folly of an old man and his airhead mistress. I could have done without that. It would have been nice if we could have seen some clips of the arias that made him great - his amazing talent - and not the evidence of his addled brain in his old age. The whole thing just made me sad and depressed.