The reference to Vanessa Williams made me smile with the memory of her duet with Pavarotti on a "Saturday Night Live" holiday special. She sang the English words to "O Come All Ye Faithful," he sang the original Latin, and it remains one of the high points of that series' frequently-tarnished later years.

Also from SNL: "Superfan #1" - "OK, who do ya like in opera, Paverotti or Da Bears?"

"Superfan #2" - (after a pause) "I guess I have to go with Da Bears."

Hail and farewell, Luciano!

That was a beautiful essay about a great singer I will not forget either. Pavarotti died just this morning; to have concocted an essay of this quality in such a short period of time is an accomplishment.

Unless, of course, you had the obit in the drawer, waiting for the inevitable?

Nonetheless, fine work and a fitting tribute.

I loved Luciano Pavarotti for his musicality above all, for the ability to always be singing music, not just notes. (This is described very well in a documentary that I loved, Pavarotti and the Italian Tenor, I think you can order the DVD these days online).

I was another non-opera fan whose "gateway drug" was Luciano, and it's a perfect description. I was a musician, not of opera however, and I had never quite gotten opera. Then I heard the first three tenors concert and remember thinking "well, that tall guy does have a nice voice" It all just sort of snowballed from there.

As I got more and more familiar with opera, I always sort of expected to find him too "pop" or something, as I learned more, however this never happened.

My favorite story was that his family was deciding whether he should pursue singing as a career, since it was well-known that there was almost zero chance of really making it as an opera singer, statistically. His mother said "Yes but when you sing, I feel something" or something like that. And so, he decided to go for it. Good for Mom.

It's the musicality. This means something beyond whether you can hit this note or that note or whether the voice mellows or cracks or etc. Another great example of it is here, my second favorite Italian tenor (who I learned of through that documentary) who was known for not having the most huge voice, but as someone in the video said "even with a little, small voice, he became great, like Caruso". And, I suppose my point is that Pavarotti was the same for me no matter whether he could still do it in the same key as when he was younger, he was transmitting that thing beyond the notes, the emotion, the musicality, always.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJamVHJh7N4

I, too, fell in love with opera and Luciano, though not in that order. He was on the BBC singing "Nessun Dorma" when I first saw him and was overwhelmed by the beauty of the aria and his voice, again not in that order, but close. One aria led to another, one tape to another, and so forth, expanding into other voices, whole operas and season tickets. I was so moved at the beauty that poured forth from the man's throat, the amazing ability of a human being to produce that glorious sound. I was brought back to the days of my childhood when my grandparents listened to Sunday morning opera on the radio back in the early '40s. So what that he may have gone on longer than he should have? So what that he sang popular songs with rock stars and read cue cards? He gave thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, their first dose of what an aria sung by a voice of power and beauty could do - bring tears to the eyes, envy to the heart, and gratitude to whatever spirit gave him voice and us ears. Ave, Luciano.

I was 12 years old in 1990, the year of the first Three Tenors concert in Rome, and I remember watching the PBS broadcast of the concert, rapt, on the 8" television in my grandparents' kitchen. It was the first chance I'd ever had to watch and listen to professional singers working, up close, and I was completely fascinated at the sounds pouring out of these bodies (especially, it has to be said, Domingo's - his technique seemed rock-solid). I sang in school choirs and such, but I never realized singing could be so physically and emotionally all-encompassing.

Every chance I got, I would tune into re-broadcasts, and the Rome concert disc was one of the first I bought for my new CD player. Growing up a first-generation Italian-American, I had some understanding of the language, and Pavarotti's exquisite musicality when singing in his native tongue worked a profound spell on me.

I'm not sure I consciously decided that early on that I wanted to be a professional singer, but I doubt I would have even conceived of the possibility without the strong impressions Pavarotti, Domingo and Carreras made on me that day. I don't make my living singing opera (oratorio and early music suit my voice better), and I've never sung a Neapolitan song in public, but once in a while at the piano I'll rip into "O sole mio", for the pleasure of feeling the music and the words pour through me and of remembering what it was like the first time I heard a truly great singer.

Throughout the history of music, those who have loved the human voice have ever longed for the arrival of a singer who personifies that glorious Italianate sound that awakens indescribable joy while breaking your heart. It's the sound. My love of Bjoerling always prompted me to say that he taught the angels how to sing. It was that sound that could express the deepest passion and the brightest joy whether singing a great aria or merely a laundry list. It's the sound that, like Cupid's arrow, pierces your heart and produces feelings you rarely if ever experienced before. Few singers in history have been able to produce that magical sound. And when Pavarotti was in his prime, he gave us that incredible, indescribable sound, and thus we experienced the music as never before.

I don't care about the frivolous foolishness, or the commercial forays, or the disappointing moments. What matters is that in our lifetime we were blessed with a singer who gave us that glorious sound, and with his special gift lifted the music he sang to new heights. Pavarotti was a unique artist who gave us the gift of something we will not likely experience again in our lifetime. We were blessed because he sang. And that is all that matters.