Two Knights of the Opera

By Martha Duffy

It was a night to remember last May at the Italian restaurant Bice in downtown Tokyo. The room was agog because among the diners were two middle-aged men, one burly, the other downright fat. They sat around jawing about sports -- soccer, tennis, Formula 1 auto racing. At one point they turned to chat about fashion with a neighboring party of awed Italians. The cause of the stir was that the two amiable gents were the world's most famous opera singers and among the richest and best-known entertainers in any field: Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti.

Much ink has been spilled in the press about a supposed enmity between the two superstars. It isn't so. As Domingo puts it, "We are friends -- and rivals." The astonishing thing is that two such careers should blossom at the same time. This is the Golden Age of the tenors' art -- to be savored because both men are in their 50s and no successors close to their caliber are in sight.

They had met before the Tokyo schmooze session -- notably during the 1990 World Cup soccer finals in Rome, where they were joined by Jose Carreras in what might be called the tenor superbowl. The CD of that event has been on the charts for three years, selling an unheard of 8.1 million copies. On Sept. 27, onstage at New York City's Metropolitan Opera, Pavarotti and Domingo will meet again: for a gala opening night, celebrating their common 25th anniversary at the Met. (In 1968 Domingo made his debut in Adriana Lecouvreur, Pavarotti in La Boheme.) The Met's jubilee sounds like an inspired negotiation. Domingo, who lately has been turning to the German repertory, will lead off singing the first act of Die Walkure. Then comes Pavarotti in the first act of Otello, new for him, though it is Domingo's signature role. The finale will feature both men in the third act of Il Trovatore, with its famous double-barreled tenor aria.

The event, to be on the radio internationally, will be a colossal one even by Met standards. The tenors have no firmer fan than their maestro for the evening, Met music director James Levine. He bridles when critics chant the over-the-hill blues -- that Domingo has lost his top notes or that Pavarotti phones in the arias. Says Levine: "When Pavarotti sings L'Elisir d'Amore with such youth and spontaneity or Domingo explores the depths of Parsifal, now that is artistry."

In addition to consistent quality, the Spaniard Domingo and the Italian Pavarotti have some other things in common -- among them sound technique and astute judgment in knowing what to sing and, more important, what to avoid. Technically, both are masters of breath control; both know how to "mark," that is, rehearse at half-voice and still give the conductor an exact idea of how their performance will sound at full volume. Singers who can't do that wear themselves out in preparation. Just as important, both have a personality that draws crowds, and both command a larger-than-life persona that turns fans into true believers. Finally, both are rich; each man's wealth is conservatively estimated at more than $25 million. Pavarotti's commercial success is probably unparalleled by any classical artist in history. His fee for a single outdoor gig is several hundred thousand dollars. (By comparison, for a night at the Met each gets a mere $12,000.)

The differences between the two are equally striking. It would be as hard to confuse their voices as to mistake red wine for white. Domingo's has a dark quality (he began as a baritone); Pavarotti's is higher, light and lyrical. Domingo is a nonstop go-getter. He has a needlework pillow that says, IF I REST, I RUST. He has sung about 70 roles, and he will not be satisfied until he has attacked Tristan (Vienna, 1996), probably the greatest voice killer of all. It could be a rare and costly lapse in judgment, but he is insouciant: "I can resist everything but temptation. Anyway, you carry the load for which you have the shoulders." Singing is the heart of his career, but he is expanding his schedule as a conductor; he was in Los Angeles last week, conducting La Boheme as well as singing in Un Ballo in Maschera. Also on his shoulders are two administrative jobs, as artistic adviser to the L.A. Music Center Opera and Teatro de la Maestranza in Seville.

Pavarotti has no wish to run an opera house or to lead its orchestra. Or to tackle the heavy German roles. He is the hedgehog to Domingo's fox: he wants to do only one thing, and that is sing, especially the Italian repertory. His schedule is less crowded -- about 45 performances a year, and he avoids Domingo's transcontinental marathons. In fact, he boasts, "I have just completed six weeks of doing nothing at all -- except vocalizing, of course. Always, always."

For Domingo, singing remains something of a worry. "I am aware of every nuance, every legato, every staccato, every crescendo," he says. "I know so well, in my mind, how well I should sing." Sir Georg Solti, who at 80 is the ) world's premier maestro, burbles at the result of all that fretting about crescendos: "I love musical singers. Placido has a gift for phrasing that borders on the miraculous." Solti remembers conducting Domingo's second Otello in 1976. "It was an amazing experience," he says. "It was already so wonderfully perceived -- almost as good as it is today." And that was 200 Otellos ago.

Maestro Solti goes way back with Pavarotti too, and his simple statement may get to the heart of the matter. In a 1967 Verdi Requiem, Solti remembers "a slim young man with a beautiful voice, one that is still unsurpassable." Unlike Domingo, Pavarotti is a slow learner. Though he does not admit it, he probably can't even read a score. But as an artist he is keenly intelligent, with flawless theatrical flair. And he produces silken sounds with utter naturalness and innate musicality. Gildo Di Nunzio, an assistant conductor at the Met, recalls how Pavarotti warms up before a performance: "I usually arrive at his apartment around 5:45, as he is awakening from a nap. After a while he says, 'Proviamo' -- let's try. At first there is some roughness, but within 10 minutes I hear gravel turn into gold." To music lovers, that is the alchemy that has burnished the past 25 years.

If Domingo's strength lies in his actor's skill at portraying a great range of parts, Pavarotti is always Pavarotti. His secret is perhaps not even his sublime voice but his extraordinary contact with a listener. In even the simplest and most hackneyed Italian street song, he grips the audience like a benign bear.

Both men have well-oiled promo machines, with Pavarotti's the more unbridled. His white handkerchief is as familiar as Michael Jackson's glove. But as Beverly Sills, an acute observer of the opera scene, says, "Forget the hype. Once they get out there, they have to produce, or the hype will just vanish."

It may be a dog's life, out there beyond the hype with only two little vocal cords to depend on. But the sporting life, which both men cherish, is their release. Nobody, for example, dared approach Pavarotti last week, because he was directing a horse-jumping competition in his hometown of Modena. He wasn't riding -- what horse save Bucephalus could carry him? He doesn't care: "I have always loved being around horses, and now I'm crazy about them."

As for Domingo, he will shut down his professional life for a month or so next May while he follows the World Cup soccer competition with a manic intensity. Later, at the Los Angeles finals, both men will participate in another spectacular supertenor superbowl. At a million a man, it's a sweet way to sing for your supper. And get breakfast too.

With reporting by Jordan Bonfante/Los Angeles