Il mio amico, Pavarotti (My Friend Pavarotti) Quiz

Answer: He's immediately very impressed

Just two side-notes, here, for anyone who plays this quiz. First, I make reference to photos of Pavarotti and me. FunTrivia's guidelines preclude me from *publicly* sharing them, but the senior editor has advised me that I MAY share the photo links if *privately* requested. So if you'd like to send a comment or note or a PM, you're welcome to do so. And second, the Interesting Info sections are quite lengthy. I've tried to keep the discussions thorough, relevant and enjoyable, but if they're too long for your liking, you can just skip over them.

Anyway, to the question. Luciano was 19 years old when his father approached Signore Pola, a friend of his, to find out what he thought of the young man and his vocal ability. The maestro was definitely amazed, and he immediately saw Luciano's star potential. Recalling their first meeting, Pola said, "From the start I never doubted Luciano would one day be a very great tenor. It wasn't only the voice, it was his approach to his work -- he was dedicated, mature, alert. He wasn't dabbling; he was totally serious about perfecting his voice."

As he knew the family was struggling financially, Maestro Pola graciously decided to give Luciano vocal lessons for free. When Pola accepted an overseas teaching job three years later, in 1957, he arranged for Ettore Campogalliani, a composer and teacher, to continue Pavarotti's training.

The quote from Maestro Arrigo Pola is from "Pavarotti: My Own Story," his autobiography, quoted on the "Pavarotti Official" website.

Before we move on, let's take a little time to talk about Luciano as a boy growing up in Modena, Italy. "In my teens I used to go to Mario Lanza [an actor and tenor] movies and then come home and imitate him," he recalled in an interview with "Time." But ultimately, it was really his father Fernando who most inspired him. Even when he was little, Luciano got to listen to and observe his father's singing in local choirs, and he very much looked up to his father. "My father was a very beautiful tenor," he once told "Gramophone" magazine. "He never sang professionally as a soloist on the stage, but he was in the chorus of our town and he gave me confidence because sometimes I went to sit by him on the stage, and this was such an incredible experience that I said to myself, 'Perhaps one day I will be able to come here and sing like the tenor is doing now.'"

Very poignant words! To be sure, in his teenage years he realized he liked to sing and that he was good at it -- and certainly there was an element of discovering he had talent -- but in the same kind of way as he looked up to his father, his father admired his son's voice and knew there was something special about it. Hence why Fernando approached Maestro Pola.

As for me -- well, there's a BIG difference between singing opera and listening to it! But one day, when I was 18 months old, I introduced *myself* to opera. My parents had a whole bunch of music tapes from various genres. While Dad was at work one day, Mom heard music coming from the adjacent room, and she came in and saw I'd figured out how to work our cassette-tape deck. And one by one, I would put a tape in the player -- if it was classical or operatic, it stayed in a pile near me. If it was anything else, I took it out and threw it over my shoulder! I imagine my folks were more than a little surprised that I "knew opera when I heard it" -- and had taken such a liking to it! Thus begun my story...

The "Time" magazine piece quoted, titled "Bravo Pavarotti! Opera's Golden Tenor," is from September 24, 1979.
The "Gramophone" interview is quoted on the "Pavarotti Official" website, though it doesn't specify the original article title or date.

Answer: "La Boheme" ("The Bohemians")

The Welsh festival, known as the Llangollen International Musical Eisteddfod, was -- and remains -- a prestigious annual music-and-singing competition. Fernando and Luciano Pavarotti came in 1955 as part of a male chorus from Modena. When the group from Modena won, it was very significant for the young Luciano. Later in life he referred to it as "the most important experience in his life and what inspired him to turn professional," explained Gwyn Williams, a former director of the Eisteddfod. "He once said if he could win the first prize with a small choir from Modena then he could do anything. And that what was his attitude to singing all his life."

The years in between 1955 and 1961, however, were sort of transitional years, because as much as Luciano had been inspired by the competition, he hadn't yet made the final decision about his career, and the path hadn't yet really opened up to him. To support himself and to pay for his voice lessons, he worked as a schoolteacher for a few years, then became an insurance salesman. He always kept his musical aspirations, but he and his parents knew full well that he might not land a professional career in music, so they encouraged him to be realistic but also not to give up on his passion for singing.

Luciano's first-ever operatic performance was in "La Boheme," as Rodolfo, an impoverished poet who falls in love with Mimi, a seamstress. The story is set in Paris in the 1830s. The title refers to what's called "the Bohemian lifestyle" (it's too complex to go into here). Anyway, by all accounts, Luciano's debut at the Teatro Municipale was a very auspicious one. The public and the theater critics alike praised the tenor, who was still relatively unknown. By the way, earlier that year, the tenor had won another prestigious singing contest, the Achille Peri Competition -- and the first-place prize included the role of Rodolfo at that opera house. So that's how he got his first official operatic role -- he won it!

Anyway, the "Pavarotti Official" website, reflecting on Luciano's breakout performance as Rodolfo, says the role served to showcase the tenor's vocal talent: "He beautifully blended the world of the innocent, carefree young poet with the heart-breaking discovery as the opera nears its close that his first true love will die in his arms. It is a role that embraces two extremes which both lie comfortably within Pavarotti's vocal and dramatic armoury."

On vinyl records, CDs and even YouTube, you can find and hear the aria "Che gelida manina" ("that frozen little hand") from this 1961 performance. It's believed to be the earliest recording of Pavarotti's voice.

As for me ... by age two, I could identify an opera -- and who wrote it -- by just listening to a couple minutes of the music. I could differentiate between the composers' distinct styles. I was pretty much hooked on opera music from the first time I ever heard it. And it wasn't long before I discovered a few voices I particularly liked. As you probably guessed, the one singer I was most affected by was Luciano Pavarotti. I STILL can't entirely explain it, but something about his voice had a profound effect on me. So whenever I heard him on one of my tapes, I was absolutely mesmerized. Mom and Dad tell me that I would start spinning about the room, as if delirious -- and then collapse shortly after Pavarotti's voice ended.

By the way, this entire quiz was chiefly inspired by my story of "how I came to love classical music, opera, and how I got to meet Pavarotti," and I hope I convey throughout why it's special to me. I'm not here to "beat people over the head with opera" -- I fully realize and respect that it's NOT everyone's cup of tea! All I know is that classical and operatic music deeply resonated with me somehow, even in my earliest years. I suppose there's just a certain beautiful quality to it that I felt even as a baby. Music just has that magic to it, I suppose!

The quote about the Welsh festival is from the "BBC News" article "Pavarotti Eisteddfod Career Start," from September 6, 2007.

Answer: Joan Sutherland

A little side comment, here: This tragically beautiful opera, "Lucia di Lammermoor", is, by all accounts, one of the best in the entire opera repertoire. It's REALLY worth seeing, and it's a "starter opera" for those who have never been -- it's a perfect example of just how emotionally powerful and moving opera can be. It's absolutely heart-wrenching, to be sure, but that's not a bad thing; the magnificent music and singing really surround the intense story and make it that much more poignant.

As for the question at hand... Dame Joan Sutherland, the magnificent Australian soprano, had known of Pavarotti since 1963 -- her husband, Richard Boynge, heard him at a staging of "La Boheme" at Covent Garden. Boynge was the conductor. During that year, she was planning a performance tour in her home country, but at six-foot-two, she was tired of constantly towering over tenors she performed with. Knowing Pavarotti's stature both vocally and physically, she asked him to accompany her for her upcoming Australian tour. He agreed, and thus he joined the Sutherland / Williamson Grand Opera Company. Thus they would both be going to Australia in the summer of 1965.

However, Sutherland and Pavarotti decided to also appear onstage together in earlier performances that same year. So Pavarotti made his first-ever appearance in the United States, in February 1965, alongside the coloratura soprano. The opera was Donizetti's "Lucia di Lammermoor" ("Lucy of Lammermoor"). Set in 17th-century Scotland, this story tells of young Lucia Ashton, who is in love with Edgardo of Ravenswood -- and how, because of the two families' bitter feud, young love is doomed to a premature, bittersweet fate.

Now anyway, to be clear, Pavarotti's 1965 North American debut was well-received, but the spotlight was really more on Sutherland. Her operatic debut predated his by about a decade (and she was nine years older than he), so she was just better-known. Actually, though they had both risen to prominence in their native countries, neither of the singers had yet "shot to stardom" in the States. That would change a few years down the road, though!

As for Pavarotti's debut Down Under, he first appeared on at Her Majesty's Theatre in Melbourne, on August 3, in Bellini's opera "La Sonnambula" ("The Sleepwalker"), playing Elvino to Sutherland's Amina.

All in all, 1965 was the beginning of a lifelong friendship and legendary operatic partnership between the two -- the likes of which have perhaps never been rivaled. "The young Pavarotti was a revelation to the opera world," Sutherland recalled in an interview with "The Guardian." In Australia, she added, "he sang three times a week for 14 weeks, and we went on to make countless recordings together."

To briefly continue with my own narrative... initially, Mom got me a series called "Who's Afraid of Opera?". In these shows, Joan Sutherland appeared with three puppets, told them the gist of the story, and then performed portions of the opera -- mainly little "vignettes" of some of the main arias and scenes. The series was a way for parents to introduce kids to opera without overwhelming them. Anyway, my folks decided to graduate me to videotaped recordings of ACTUAL, full-length performances. For me, those new tapes allowed me to finally put a face to the tenor who I had thus far only known by his voice. And when I saw him on the screen -- this great big man with the wonderful smile -- I loved him that much more.

Again, there's always been "something special" for me about opera, and a number of its singers, both male and female, have always delighted me. I'm not sure I'll ever know exactly why opera, and Luciano Pavarotti particularly, had and have so profound an effect on me, but actually, I kind of don't care why. As of this writing, I'm thirty-eight, and it's all is still just as enchanting for me as it was when I was two-and-a-half.

The article from "The Guardian," titled "'It was all about the voice," is from September 7, 2007.

Answer: He's crowned "King of the High C's" for "The Daughter of the Regiment"

Pavarotti was, indeed, the "King of the High C's." We'll get to that in a moment. He actually was once referred to as "Lucky Luciano" years prior, but mercifully that moniker didn't stick. He did sing all of the operas listed (and pretty much every other one ever composed), but only "The Daughter of the Regiment" earned him a nickname. If you've ever seen an opera, you likely knew right away that "Madama Butterfly" and "Lucia di Lammermoor" were wrong answers -- I said a "FUNNY opera." Those two are as depressing as they come!

Anyway, let's talk "La fille du regiment," by Gaetano Donizetti. In the story, Marie is an orphan who was found and adopted by the French army's 21st Regiment. She loves Tonio, who once saved her life -- but he's from Tyrol, the nation the French are at war with. But the unwritten rule of romantic-comedy operas is that "love is complicated, but in the end, triumphant," and it kind of doesn't matter what all the plot twists are, as long as everyone ends up happy!

Now then. This February 1972 performance of "Regiment" was legendary. Within two days, "The New York Times" published TWO articles -- one about the tenor and one about the show. "Luciano Pavarotti, who burst into opera superstardom Thursday night with the spectacularity and force of a supernova, was so ecstatic yesterday that he could scarcely sit still for an interview," wrote Alden Whitman about speaking with the tenor. "'You can't imagine the thrill,'" Pavarotti told the journalist, referring to "the showstopping bravos and huzzahs [...] as well as to the 12 prolonged curtain calls that he was accorded by 3,788 persons."

And Harold Schonberg, a music critic for the "Times," raved about the show, noting that Sutherland and Pavarotti BOTH "stopped the show" repeatedly. Of the tenor, he remarked, "God has kissed his vocal cords. [...] The voice has an absolutely unbroken scale." The music critic described a Sutherland-Pavarotti duet as "two virtuosos, two gorgeously matched voices."

Let's see just why one song earned Pavarotti the "King of the High C's" nickname. The aria in question is "Ah! mes amis, quel jour de fete" -- "Ah, my friends, what a day for celebrating!" Here's the thing. For a tenor to hit even one "high C" is very hard, as it's the highest note in the male vocal range. This note is up in the stratosphere. Many tenors simply cannot reach a high C, so they often just fake it (that is, sing falsetto) or don't even attempt it at all.

There's a reason the "Ah! mes amis" is referred to as the "'Mount Everest' for tenors." It requires not two, not three, not four, but NINE high C's in a row. The very idea is just preposterous! And the few singers who were foolhardy enough to attempt it -- well, to the listeners, it usually ended up sounding like a hyena was being tortured somewhere offstage.

And then came Pavarotti. By every account, he didn't just SING the aria -- he *mastered* it as none had done before. It wasn't about his volume level; it was about his vocal *purity* -- how perfectly, beautifully, smoothly he sang. And he made it seem absolutely *effortless*. Nobody had ever heard a voice like this. The "King of the High C's" he was, and that sobriquet has endured ever since.

Before we move on, I'll switch over to the continuation of my own timeline. My father was friends with an artist named Gerrit Greve, and when the two were talking one day in late 1983, Dad talked about his son becoming an opera buff at age 18 months -- and that I especially loved Luciano Pavarotti. As fate would have it, Gerrit actually knew him; the artist was working on posters for various opera-houses where Pavarotti was slated to perform in the upcoming performance season. So my father asked Gerrit if he might be willing to help get a letter to the tenor to tell him, in some detail, about his unique -- and no doubt littlest -- fan. Gerrit agreed, and in due time it was sent...

I tend to wonder what it might have been like for a world-renown singer to find out that his biggest fan was his smallest one: a little three-year-old. Regardless what kind of work a person is in, this is very much NOT the kind of letter you'd receives every day -- fan mail from a toddler, more or less! Sure, it's delightful that someone so little enjoys whatever it is they see you do, but it's probably a little baffling, how someone so young could even comprehend or appreciate it! I wish I had a copy of the letter my father wrote, because I'm curious how HE described ME to the great tenor...!

The two articles from "The New York Times" are "Pavarotti 'Thrilled' by Bravos For His Singing in Met's 'Fille'" and "Show-Stopping at Met," both from February 19, 1972.

Answer: They're childhood friends, and they're going to record an opera together

The name of the building in question translates to "Sophie Hall"; it was named in honor of Emperor Franz Josef's mother, Princess Sophie, and it's a concert hall. The lady in question is Mirella Freni -- a very dear friend of Pavarotti's and a well-known soprano. The Sofiensaal doubles as a recording space, and in 1974, Luciano and Mirella went there to record a performance of Puccini's very-famous opera "Madame Butterfly."

Remember Pavarotti's second singing-teacher, Ettore Campogalliani? Well, when he was teaching young Luciano, the maestro was also giving voice lessons to Mirella. She too made a name for herself in opera, as a very well-regarded soprano. So both of Campogalliani's students would go on to become renowned operatic singers! In fact, they occasionally "paired up" to perform; for example, in April of 1965, Pavarotti's first-ever performance at La Scala in Milan, Italy was alongside -- that's right -- none other than his childhood friend Mirella!

In fact, before we talk a little more about the opera recording, let's look at Mirella and Luciano. She was born in early 1935, just seven months before him. Both of their mothers worked in the same cigar factory, and Mirella and Luciano even had the same wet-nurse! In a 1976 "New York Times" article about Freni, she provided a funny anecdote about her friendship with the robust tenor. Regarding their wet-nurse, she quipped, "Today sometimes I look at Luciano and say to him it is easy to see who got all the milk!"

The two grew up together in Modena and remained lifelong friends. "Luciano was like a brother to me," she recalled to "The Guardian," adding, "We both went into opera just because we loved to sing, not for the big career and the fame." He was similarly fond of her and her talent, once describing her as "a colossal, beautiful artist and person."

As for the 1974 recording of "Madame Butterfly," it's rather interesting -- as this is the only time Pavarotti ever did that opera, and it was audio-only (not videotaped). He never appeared in a live production of "Butterfly." Anyway, for those perhaps not familiar with the story, it's set in Nagasaki, and a handsome U.S. Navy officer, Pinkerton, marries the delicate geisha Cio-Cio-san (whose name means "butterfly" in Japanese), and for three years, she faithfully awaits his promised return.

When he does finally arrive, the truth is revealed: He wed her simply as a "marriage of convenience," and has since taken a "real" wife. Cio-Cio-san's initially joyful preparations of her husband's return turn to profound grief when Pinkerton admits what he has done. He soon realizes the wickedness of what he has done and is wracked with guilt, but as he rushes in, it's too late: Madame Butterfly takes her father's seppuku knife and plunges it into her heart, killing herself.

Needless to say, Puccini's opera is absolutely heartbreaking. In the 1974 recording, Pavarotti sang Pinkerton, and Freni sang Cio-Cio-san. Accompanied by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra and the Vienna State Opera Chorus, and with the music masterfully handled by the famous conductor Herbert von Karajan, this recording was one for the ages, and the childhood friends from Modena both received stellar reviews. It's not easy to sing opera; it's even harder to sing it WELL; and "Butterfly" is ... well, a vocal challenge for all involved, mainly because the characters are so intense and impassioned. But for those singers who are masters of their craft, they can take this opera and sing it with the full intensity Puccini intended!

And as for my own tale -- well, it's less exciting by comparison, but the story continues. My family and I were living in the San Francisco Bay Area at the time, and Dad got in touch with the general director of the San Francisco Opera. Would it be okay to bring an almost-three-year-old to a performance? The unique request was granted, and I became the youngest attendee they'd ever had. My first-ever opera was Verdi's heart-rending "La Traviata" ("The Fallen Woman"). Too bad Pavarotti wasn't in the cast. But whenever I was listening to him at home, my love of Pavarotti only grew every time I saw or heard him. Oh, I LOVED his wonderful voice and his expressive face...

I loved a few others, too. My parents tell me that as one of my birthdays approached, they asked which friends I wanted at my party. My response: "PAVAROTTI, Placido Domingo, Marilyn Horne, Joan Sutherland, and Leontyne Price." Dad says that he asked, "Are we [Mom and I] invited to the party too?" And I shook my head and sternly replied, "I SAID, PAVAROTTI, Placido Domingo, Marilyn Horne, Joan Sutherland, and Leontyne Price!" I was an indignant little boy! Well, at least I knew talent, right?!

The article from "The New York Times" is titled "Mirella Freni-Karajan and Solti Compete for Her Voice," and is dated September 12, 1976.
The article from "The Guardian" is the same one referenced above, "'It was all about the voice."

Answer: He sings "La donna e mobile" on Johnny Carson's show

The date: May 6, 1975. The program: "The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson." Was the audience ever in for a treat that night! Toward the end of the program, Carson introduced the night's musical performer: "My next guest, Luciano Pavarotti, is already on-stage, one of the most famous tenors of the Metropolitan Opera. He'll be singing at Carnegie Hall on May 10, and then he goes to Montreal and Ottawa, Canada, for one week of his grand tour. And on the 23rd of August he will give a concert at the Hollywood Bowl. Would you welcome, please, Luciano Pavarotti."

And with that, most of the television studio's stage lights went dark. The camera cut to stage right, and the lone spotlight brightened to reveal a man at a piano, a simple night-sky backdrop, and in front of it all, the great tenor. Singing as only he could, he regaled the crowd with "La donna e mobile" ("Woman is fickle") from Verdi's "Rigoletto." In the opera, this aria is sung by the Duke of Mantua, a vile womanizer, who's voicing his cynical, offensive view of women -- namely, that they're flighty, they're liars, and that men who trust them will end up brokenhearted ... and that even so, a man can't be happy without a woman.

Now, this aria is famous. Verdi -- I mean very -- famous. In TV shows, movies, commercials and more, the first few bars of the melody have been used thousands of times in pop culture. Even if you've never watched a single opera in your life, odds are you've heard the opening notes and thought, "I've heard that before." Most folks probably haven't heard the song in its entirety, and unless you know the synopsis of "Rigoletto," you'd never know this comical-sounding ditty is actually there to make the story that much more tragic. Within the opera, the aria's melody is ironically jaunty -- a stark contrast to the the lyrics, which recall just how vile the Duke really is.

So why did I explain all of that? Well, if you're actually watching the opera when you hear the aria, you immediately know the seemingly jovial melody really isn't a happy thing at all. But taken as a standalone piece, removed from the tragic story surrounding it, the aria IS great fun to listen to. It also takes a lot of skill to sing well, so tenors love to sing it as sort of a "showcase" piece, and audiences eat it up.

And that's just what Pavarotti did, on Carson's show -- he sang "La donna e mobile," knowing the piece would reach a very-large audience. For him, this May 1975 guest episode was a milestone -- save for an obscure Italian TV show, this was his first appearance on live television. Johnny Carson's popularity is legendary, so to make one's television debut on a program like that was quite fortuitous. For the many folks who didn't yet know who Pavarotti was, this was quite the introduction. Not only did they get to hear his incredible voice, they also got a glimpse of his charismatic personality. On the opera stage, the roles often required him to be a tragic character -- but anywhere and everywhere else he went, he always had a big, warm smile, and it was obvious he loved to sing for people. See, this is part of why I talked about the famous aria within the context of the opera -- when the song isn't surrounded by the tragic story, both the singer and the audience can actually SMILE and have FUN with the tune.

And by the way, Pavarotti's first appearance on Johnny Carson was so popular, the tenor became a recurring guest -- he appeared again that year, on September 26, and he was invited back almost every single year through 1986, with '83 and '84 being the only times he couldn't make it. But to be on "The Tonight Show" eleven times? That should tell you right there just how well-loved he was!

Oh, and as for me, here, back in California? The outside of the envelope was hand-addressed to my father, and the two canceled stamps read "Modena, Italia." So yes, it was indeed mail from Pavarotti! He enclosed two things: One, a publicity photo of himself, signed, "A Giorgio, cordialmente, Luciano Pavarotti" ("To George, cordially, Luciano Pavarotti").

And the other thing in the envelope: A letter, dated February 20, 1984. From his home in Modena, and with his own typewriter, Pavarotti hand-typed a note on his personal stationery. The note reads:

"Dear Mr. Koch,
Thank you very much for your interesting [letter]. I was surprised in discovering that there is a baby like yours. For this reason, I am very happy to send you a photo of mine so he can think of me when he listens to music in his video-tapes. Hoping to see little George soon at a theater, a big kiss to him and greetings to you and your wife,
Luciano Pavarotti."

And the story doesn't even end there!

(By the way, we still have that letter, the envelope, the photo -- everything. Someone remarked recently, "You should have it appraised!" I said, "Why? It's priceless!" What a unique treasure. It's actually really, really humbling to think the great Luciano -- who was super-busy and had fans the world over -- thought so kindly of me, he actually sat down and hand-typed the letter, hand-addressed the envelope, and mailed it off from Italy's postal service. I like to close my eyes and imagine him sitting down, putting a paper in an old-fashioned typewriter, and thinking to himself, "Now, what shall I say to the father of this most-unique little fan of mine who loves me so?" I'm glad, frankly, that as an adult I've gained that sort of childlike wonder -- the willingness to make believe, in my mind's eye, what something might have been like to witness.)

"The New York Times" article quoted is "Mirella Freni-Karajan and Solti Compete for Her Voice," which was referenced previously.
"The Guardian" article is also the same 2007 one I referred to before.

Answer: A plane he was on has just crash-landed; he's helping the victims

The tenor and many other passengers were in a plane crash that day at Milan's Malpensa Airport. When "The New York Times" reported the story the next day, the paper reported that a Boeing 707 jetliner, with 122 passengers on board, got into serious trouble after the pilot "had tried to land under his own responsibility" despite very-thick fog. After hitting part of the runway, the article continues, "[the aircraft] zigzagged onto an asphalt strip used for helicopters, [and] the impact sheared off part of a wing and engine, scarred the underbelly and caused a break in the fuselage."

The tenor later recounted the experience in the "Conclusion" of his 1982 autobiography, "Pavarotti: My Own Story." He starts the chapter by explaining that in the mid-'70s, he found himself struggling with depression. Reflecting on it, he says that at one point, "I saw that I had conquered all my goals. There were no more obstacles, only the chance of failure. [...] The problem, I'm sure, had something to do with having finally arrived and wondering what I had arrived at."

However, he said, there was a catalyst that brought about a profound change and immediately shattered his depression ... the plane crash.

For a little while here, I'll let Pavarotti's own words do the talking...

"It was dark and quite foggy that night when the plane landed at the Milan airport. It was still going very fast, almost flying speed, as we hit the ground. I knew something was very wrong. Then it veered off the runway and broke in two pieces. It was horrible -- people were screaming and fighting to get out
of their seats. We got out but were all in shock and expected the plane to explode or burst into flames at any moment.

"[Hours later,] when I arrived [at my Modena] home, safe, with my family all around me, I realized what an idiot I had been in the past months. I saw how lucky I was; how much love I had, what a privilege it was to have a gift that made others happy. I also saw how good life was and how much there was about it that I enjoyed. I saw that I had allowed myself to drown in self-pity over things that didn't matter. I knew that all my talk about not caring whether I lived or died was just talk. I was nowhere near ready to die.

"The shock of having come that close to death cured me completely of my disinterest in life. [...] The entire airplane crash experience was as though God had grabbed me by the neck and said, 'You are so indifferent about life? Here, take a look at death and tell me how you like that!' If that was His plan, it worked.

"I suppose it is too bad that we have to have a terrible calamity jolt our lives, something as grim as a plane accident, illness, or war, to make us appreciate the countless good things we otherwise take for granted. We humans have a terrible tendency to stop feeling or seeing the positive things very soon after experiencing them. Not only do we stop appreciating them, we stop seeing them altogether."

Even if that were the entirety of the story, it would still be quite a remarkable one -- a very-famous man who, by grace, was both spared from death and humbled by his survival. But that's NOT where the tale ends. In another chapter of Pavarotti's book, a man named Mario Buzzolini contributed his account of the same event; he and the tenor had met while on the flight and became friends. What's particularly special about his recollection is how Luciano, in the midst of the panic and chaos, rose to the occasion to help...

"[Even after everyone was] safely away from the plane, the ordeal was not over. The accident had happened at the far end of the runway. We were a great distance from the control tower and, because of the fog, out of sight of it. The tower had lost radio contact with the plane as well. They figured something had happened but they didn't know what -- or where.

"Finally a jeep arrived -- one jeep. Luciano [...] had herded all the children that had been on the plane into one group. Now Luciano loaded them onto the jeep, carrying some on his shoulders, hoisting others into the jeep. He went
off with them.

"Very shortly, enough buses and trucks arrived to take twice our number away from that spot. We were all deposited at the TWA offices. It was an incredible scene. [...] Luciano was in a great state of excitement, almost frantic. He was running around getting people's names and home phone numbers; then he would phone the numbers to tell people not to worry if they heard about the crash on the news, their relatives were all right."

In the end, while there were numerous injuries, miraculously, all 133 people who had been on the plane survived. As I looked through the "Times" article I quoted and other accounts, not one mentioned what the great tenor had done. He took the initiative to gather many people's phone numbers and personally called their families to assure them their loved ones were safe. He helped guide and even carried some of the children to safety away from the plane.

A deeply Catholic man with both a voice and a heart of gold -- a man who became an unsung hero (shameless pun intended). And by his own account, though his fame and success caused him to lose his way for a time, the loving God he believed in reminded him of all there was in life to be grateful for.

Returning to my own story, I'll keep this bit brief: As I said, Dad managed to get a second note to Luciano and told him more about me. From the first note, Pavarotti already knew I was enamored with him (and opera in general), but this time, my father went into more detail, and he mentioned that I'd since attended some live productions at the San Francisco Opera. To be honest, I don't know whether Dad actually asked outright whether Pavarotti might be willing to meet me sometime (when he was back at the San Francisco Opera), or if Dad just alluded to the fact that meeting him would be a dream come true.

"The New York Times" article quoted, "30 Hurt as a T.W.A. Jet Crashes at Milan Airport," is from December 23, 1975.
The quoted excerpts from the tenor's autobiography, "Pavarotti: My Own Story," are from pages 263-266 and 275-279.

Answer: Primetime Emmy Award for a televised concert with the New York Philharmonic

The '70s and '80s were really when Pavarotti's career was at its peak -- and the fact that he picked up a slew of awards helps show just how uniquely popular he was. Traditional thought said, "Classical-music albums, operatic singers ... they don't win awards. That's just how it goes. They're not famous enough." But try telling that to Pavarotti! He KNEW he was a big name. In fact, in 1976, he made history when his album "O Holy Night" topped one million sales -- in the history of the recording industry, no classical artist had ever gone platinum before.

Pavarotti was pretty much always popular at live venues, but he REALLY gained fame after he began to do performances that were telecast. The medium of television introduced tens of millions of folks to Luciano Pavarotti, and that was just in the United States. When beamed all over the world, some of those international broadcasts reached *hundreds* of millions. It took time to gain that kind of momentum -- nobody "begins in the stratosphere" -- but he was groundbreaking even in early TV broadcasts. Take, for example, PBS's "Live From the Metropolitan Opera," which debuted in 1977 with a telecast of "La Boheme." The female lead was a soprano named Renata Scotto, who starred alongside Pavarotti in the series' first live broadcast. It earned him his first Grammy nomination, too.

The year prior, 1976, was the premiere of a similar series called "Live From Lincoln Center," also a PBS production. Here Pavarotti made the first of many appearances on February 12, 1978, and it was all him: "Luciano Pavarotti in Recital at the Metropolitan Opera House." The album of the night's songs won him his first Grammy Award, and in '79, he earned another Grammy for the album "O Holy Night." And a "Lincoln Center" telecast from March 1981 treated people to a trio of opera's biggest stars -- Pavarotti, Marilyn Horne, and Joan Sutherland -- in a joint concert. The three would end up sharing a Grammy for that.

Grammy Awards and platinum albums are exceptional achievements, but Pavarotti also won a few Emmy Awards -- both the Daytime and the Primetime "varieties." First let's have a look at the latter. Pavarotti was nominated for multiple Primetime Emmys, and he won two times: once for a 1983 broadcast of "La Boheme," and again for a 1985 production of "Rigoletto." He WAS nominated for a Primetime Emmy -- twice, in fact -- for concert performances with the New York Philharmonic (in 1980 and 1983), though he didn't end up winning for those.

Now let's move on to the Daytime Emmy Awards, because he only won once, but what an odd story it was. In September 1979, PBS decided to air a live broadcast of the San Francisco Opera's "La Gioconda" ("The Joyful Woman"). Set in the 17th century, in the midst of the Roman Inquisition, the story is too complex to summarize -- suffice it to say, it doesn't end happily for anyone. For our purposes, the actors of interest are Pavarotti and Renata Scotto, who we mentioned before. They shared a Daytime Emmy for their roles in this televised special -- but as two opera stars who'd known each other for years, they didn't get along at all.

The opera's live broadcast included some behind-the-scenes glances and backstage banter during the intermissions. Hector Berlioz, who wrote the "Time" magazine article (referenced in question 1) about Pavarotti, was present for the goings-on at the opera, and he (and everyone else!) got to witness a bizarre spectacle: An argument between the tenor and the soprano spilled right onto the stage! By all accounts, "a night at the opera" was more like "a FIGHT at the opera." As Berlioz reported of the two stars, "They even stopped in mid-aria to exchange words not found in the libretto." (It makes the opera's title, "The Joyful Woman," rather ironic, doesn't it!)

And switching gears, shifting to my own storyline once more: As an aside, first let me just say, I've seen an awful lot of odd things happen at the opera, but two stars getting into a real-life, on-stage spat is definitely not one of them! (And in the middle of an aria, no less!) Ah, yes, back to the second letter from George's favorite tenor. There's no exact date on it, but it reads:

"Dear Mr. Koch,
It was an enormous pleasure to receive your delightful letter about your son, George. He is, of course, more than a little unusual, and I would be pleased to meet him and his parents after a performance backstage. Grazie for taking the time to write.
Best wishes,
Luciano Pavarotti"

Yeah, he definitely got the part about me being "more than a little unusual" right. (I still am, albeit for different reasons!) I'm sure Mom and Dad had long since figured out that I wasn't exactly a typical child. Anyhow, it was another lovely letter from a lovely man -- the note was hand-typed and signed, just like the first one. Oh, and enclosed with it? Three tickets to a special event in late summer -- more about that soon.

I've said it before once or twice, I don't fully understand how I was so strongly drawn to classical and operatic music at such an exceptionally young age. I'm definitely not saying I was some kind of prodigy or "special" child; I think it instead shows that people are able to "notice," identify, and react to something beautiful even before their mind is yet fully able to understand it. In other words, I think that like many other people, I simply discovered something that was I connected with, very deeply. I'm reminded of Blaise Pascal: "The heart has its reasons that reason does not know."

Answer: He's referring to the plot of a movie he's starring in

Back in the fall of '82, David Letterman one night welcomed Luciano Pavarotti, and the two of them had quite a fascinating chat. The host dispensed with his usual habit of interjecting little jokes into the dialogue; perhaps he realized he was in the presence of a living legend. (Perhaps he also didn't want to accidentally embarrass the man with jokes that might not have been completely clear to the tenor -- after all, while fairly fluent in English, Italian was still his native tongue.)

During the interview, Letterman asked about the movie's raison d'etre: "You hope to attract more people to opera through that film?" Pavarotti confirmed that this was correct, and he later added, "I'm making this movie [...] to give to everybody, to more people than is [otherwise] possible, the opportunity to know the world of the opera."

The film's title -- rather amusingly to me -- is "Yes, Giorgio." In the story, Giorgio Fini is a famous Italian opera singer, and he's planning a concert tour in the States, but during a rehearsal, he finds his voice is all but gone. A female doctor named Pamela Taylor is summoned to figure out what's wrong. She learns that a few years ago, he made an embarrassing blunder while singing at the Metropolitan Opera. Giorgio is convinced that his present vocal trouble is due to some mystery illness, but she deduces that the problem is not physical but psychological: He's so haunted by his bad memories that he's effectively gotten a really bad case of stage fright.

With a little clever psychology of her own, Pamela cures the singer, and his voice returns. Though he's a married man, he can't help but find himself attracted to the doctor, and he asks her if they can have a romantic fling. Initially she resists the idea of even going on a date with him, adding, "Opera puts me to sleep." He replies: "That is because you have never heard me sing. I challenge you to come tomorrow. If you don't fall asleep during the concert, you must have supper with me. And in the concert, I will sing an aria just for you."

The doctor gradually warms to the singer, and over the course of many outings and excursions and travels and tender moments, Giorgio and Pamela have a good old time. True to what he had said early on, the tenor never has any intention of leaving his wife, though it's kind of hard to know if he realizes (or much cares) that he's nevertheless having an affair -- he seems to feel that his popularity and fame somehow "justify," or at least excuse, his behavior. In due time, though, both individuals come to feel that they are actually in love with the other; but in the end, Pamela realizes this relationship should not, cannot, be, and one night at the opera, as the tenor is in mid-aria, she simply gets up and exits the theater.

As a movie, "Yes, Giorgio" was ... slightly less than successful. It cost $20 million to make and earned about one-tenth that at the box office. Critics gave the lion's share of the blame to the writers, who were absolutely mauled by reviewers. The upshot was basically that while Pavarotti wasn't a great actor, it was ultimately the atrocious script that sank the ship. Still, they admitted, his sheer vocal power gave the film some musically gorgeous moments -- he has a number of very-famous arias throughout -- and for that matter, it was hard to deny his naturally wonderful, "childlike charm" (Roger Ebert's words).

Recall what I said earlier about how Pavarotti wrote (in his autobiography) that surviving a plane crash changed his life, snapped him out of his depression, brought back the joy he thought he'd lost? Well, in this movie, you might say Luciano was just being himself -- more than anything else, his character is just having fun and enjoying his life. The film was made first and foremost as a vehicle to show off his incredible vocal ability -- and besides, he wanted to give a taste of opera to the uninitiated. The fact that it was important to him is what counts, not how much money the movie lost or how dorky the dialogue was.

Okay, moving the dial back over to the Pavarotti-and-George story... boy, wouldn't it be something if I could say that the title of Luciano's one movie, "Yes, Giorgio," has something to do with my name? ... It doesn't, though. Anyhow, as mentioned before, the tenor had included three tickets along with his second letter. See, in late August '84, he was to give a concert at the San Francisco Opera. The orchestra and he would be performing opera overtures, arias and more. And afterward, there'd be a special reception for the opera house's big-money donors. And we held three "golden tickets" to this exclusive affair. On each ticket was printed: "Champagne Reception in Honor of Luciano Pavarotti, Following Mr. Pavarotti's Concert, August 22, 1984, [at the] Civic Auditorium, Fourth Floor." And to top it all off, this was just four days before my birthday.

The only problem, though, was that the concert was at 8 p.m., so by the time it ended, I -- being all of three years old -- would be really tired. No way I would make it another hour-plus at some fancy reception! So Dad explained the conundrum to the opera-house manager, and as it happened, Pavarotti had already planned a little post-concert downtime to rest and greet a few people before the champagne reception.

So in the end, after the performance ended, Mom and Dad took me backstage, and sure enough, there was the maestro himself, greeting people here-and-there, signing some autographs. My father recalls that when Pavarotti saw me, he immediately knew who this was -- George, his uniquely young fan -- and motioned to us. Dad again: "When we got into Pavarotti's presence, you were so 'blissed-out' [that is, enraptured and ecstatic] that you couldn't even talk." So Mom and Dad brought me over, and Pavarotti picked me up and kissed me right on the forehead. Talk about a gentle giant!

We didn't stay very long because a line was forming, and we didn't stay for the reception, but once we'd left the room to go to the car, I evidently lamented, "I didn't say anything to him! I wanted to talk to him!" Dad explains that in Pavarotti's presence, I'd simply been so mesmerized, it took me that long (that is, until we were headed to our car) to realize that all I could do was sort of stare, and he greeted me and very sweetly kissed me on the forehead. Wow!

By the way, I actually have a photo (my father took it) of Pavarotti (the forehead kiss). As said earlier, I can't include the photo in the quiz, but if you'd like to see it for yourself, just send me a message or leave a comment, and I'll be happy to share it with you.

Answer: He's marking the 25th anniversary of his and Joan Sutherland's debuts

For Pavarotti, 1986 was definitely a landmark year -- a quarter-century prior, in 1961, he performed in an opera for the very first time. And look how amazingly far he had come! In fact, throughout much of '86, he traveled all over the world -- literally! -- because he was so in-demand, especially given it was his 25th anniversary. In late June and July, he had a two-week-long engagement in China. While there, he gave a concert, reprising his role of Rodolfo ("La Boheme") from the Great Hall of the People in Beijing. That performance, which was televised across the country, was seen by roughly 250 MILLION people. Absolutely mind-blowing.

For the purposes of our discussion here, however, we'll focus on September, because that month was actually a DOUBLE celebration -- in addition to being part of Luciano's quarter-century milestone, it was also the 25th anniversary of his great friend and famous collaborator Joan Sutherland's debut -- in the United States, to be precise. So the two singers had planned what they and their publicists called the "Sutherland / Pavarotti Silver Jubilee," and they were to be giving four galas that month. The first two were in Oakland and Los Angeles, on September 2 and 6, respectively; the third was at the Rosemont Horizon in Chicago on the 12th; and the last stop was at the very-famous Madison Square Garden in New York City, on the 16th. In fact, I was actually supposed to meet her, when my parents and I went to the concert in Oakland -- but much to my dismay, she wasn't there. She'd suffered a perforated eardrum and had to cancel. In fact, it was bad enough that she bowed out of all four of the galas. A different soprano, named Madelyn Renee, substituted for her, and Pavarotti said that he was dedicating the concerts to Sutherland.

Nevertheless, it was a magnificent time by any account -- including mine! As I said, my folks and I were all there at the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum Arena (quite a mouthful -- now it's just called the Oakland Arena!). Boy, was it PACKED, I'll tell you -- it was sold-out, and that place has a capacity of more than 19,000! According to my copy of the night's program, which titled the evening the "Sutherland & Pavarotti Gala Concert," these are the five arias Pavarotti sang:

From "L'Elisir d'Amore" ["The Elixir of Love"]: "Quanto e bella, quanto a cara" ["How beautiful she is, how dear she is"] and "Una furtiva lagrima" ["A furtive tear"].
From "Luisa Miller": "Quando le sere al placido" ["When the evening is calm"].
From "L'Arlesiana" ["The Woman From Arles"]: "Lamento di Federico" ["Federico's Lament"].
From "La Boheme": "Che gelida manina" ["That frozen little hand"].

He and Renee also sang the duet "O soave fanciulla" ["Oh lovely girl"] from "La Boheme."

In truth, of course, we could talk at great length about Pavarotti's many worldwide, whirlwind travels throughout his 25th-year anniversary, but focusing on the four-city concert tour of September seemed apropos, as it really was the one time when both he and Joan Sutherland joined up that year -- well, had intended to, anyway -- to celebrate not one but TWO silver jubilees. They were pretty much the biggest names in the world, as far as opera was concerned, at the time.

Speaking of my own experience, it was of course a very-special occasion that I was fortunate enough to be there for, even if Joan wasn't able to be there in person. On that date, September 2, 1986, I'd just had my 5th birthday a week ago, and here's what happened: After the concert, which was at an indoor arena, a whole bunch of people were invited to stay for a dinner. This was another after-show shindig mostly for VIPs and major donors, but Dad had seen to it that the appropriate people knew that Pavarotti wanted to see me, so we got into that dinner. At our table was a woman who was the head of the Oakland Arts Council, and Dad told her my story and about how Pavarotti and I had come to know each other.

And so this woman said, "Okay, stay here just a minute," and she got up. Like everyone else, Pavarotti was at a table, eating dinner. People had been explicitly asked to leave him to eat in peace, but nobody paid any heed, so he was being absolutely swarmed by people. We'd never have gotten even close if not for that one woman -- but because she had rank, she just bypassed the mass of people and went around to the back of his table and whispered something in his ear.

So Mom and Dad brought me a little closer, and after a moment, he finally spotted me, amidst the enormous crowd -- and as my parents tell me, "as soon as he saw you, he went like this -- he made a big 'come, come' wave with his hand -- and we brought you up to him." And he literally leaned down, picked me up, put me right on his lap. For a good fifteen-or-so minutes, he signed autographs with one hand, and with the other hand he held me there on his lap.

I didn't know it at the time, but that would be the last time he and I would get to meet in person. But he was just the single sweetest man you could imagine, and I consider myself unfathomably fortunate to have had all the experiences I did with him.

Some info about the four-city anniversary galas is from "The New York Times" article "Joan Sutherland Cancels Concert at the Garden," from September 10, 1986.
Some of the info about Pavarotti's performance in China came from the "Fondazione Luciano Pavarotti" ("Luciano Pavarotti Foundation") website.