Luciano Pavarotti: Asshole



Today Reuters reports:

"A newly published memoir by Luciano Pavarotti's manager paints a less than flattering portrait of the great Italian tenor as a spoiled superstar whose ego was matched only by his girth.

"And while the 'The King and I' by Herbert Breslin focuses on his 35-year business relationship with Pavarotti, it also shoots some pointed arrows at the reputations of other members of the operatic pantheon.

"German soprano Elisabeth Schwarzkopf looked like 'a cleaning woman,' Australian diva Joan Sutherland was 'pretty dopey,' and German baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau 'gave the impression that his bodily emanations, shall we say, didn't smell.'"

Right off the bat I am not going to say that The Corsair is a fan of Opera as a species, per se, although the early operas of Monteverdi have moved me greatly, what with their odd sense of acceleration of pace and repetitions of phrase.

The Corsair has found myself caught in the funk, so to speak, on those occasions of "Monty," as I like to call Il Maestro, and, as a result, The Corsair has been known to move his midsection vigorously, to oscillate wildly, as they say, like Courtney Cox in that godawful Springsteen video. Whatever. Don't throw me ice, man.

Not that Luciano Pavarotti would ever include a crisp Early Music piece in his pre-processed Velveeta cheesy repertoire of overwrought "classics". A Little Donizetti, a dash of Puccini and some Verdi on the side and -- The Corsair yawns loudly -- that's Luciano. How original. Surely -- The Corsair coughs bruskly suggesting feigned detachment -- this man has the best pipes of this age.

So, as you can guess, my little puddings, that The Corsair does not see the need for his physical coming-to-be in Western Civilization, although we are vaguely aware that Pavarotti actually does exist. His sheer mass betrays him. He's big with bored housewives in the Midwest, isn't he?
That lusty, syrupy, self indulgent rendering of Donizetti's Aria's is about as intellectually sophisticated as Guiding Light.

And what about that fucking dye job? Although we don't know precisely how many years The Luce actually has been rocking in the free world, we do know, to be frank, that if he was touring with Joan Sutherland in 1965, then, well, his hair cannot still be chestnut brown, not naturally.

Anyhoo: The big man got all pimped out for his wedding to his 30-year old ex-secretary, Nicoletta Mantovani (ed note: this is post is originally from December 2003). How cliche is that, anyway?

And with The Corsair, the only sins are sins of cliche, and being a bore is the greatest sin of all ... and tackiness ... The Corsair doesn't fancy tackiness -- you know, like the interior of Donald Trump's apartment or Kim Jung Il's dictator chic (why is it you think that dictators always have the worst sense of style?)... and Pavarotti is the king of tackiness; his tack is full of ness.

We like to call him Louche-iano Pavarotti, hereabouts in The Corsair's cozy little media precinct of one. The dyed jet-black beard is highly implausible, my sweet readers -- highly! --and that fake ever-present pedophile-like smile (sotto voce) so fake, true believer, so very fake, creeps us out. *The Corsair rolls up into fetal position*

And then there's that cheesy Three Tenors event where Arnold Schwarzenegger (both bodybuilders and dictators are stylistically tone deaf) sits in the front row, fairly busting out his tuxedo, applauding, percussing his stubby cigar stained hands loudly, showing all the world that he has "class" (Averted Gaze) -- he buys front row seats to Luciano Pavarotti -- sweet, sweet sophisticated readers (The Corsair lights a Camel Filter and exhales violently): That Governator moment I just conjured up with the blackest of magicks was, tragically, the moment that Oswald Spengler predicted, rendered agonically in his masterwork Decline of the West.



Oswald Spengler would not be amused at the rise of Schwarzenegger or the valorization of Louch-iano, my friends.

Reuters reported (back in Dec 2003): "'Alice joyfully invites you to the wedding of daddy Luciano and mummy Nicoletta,' read the invitation from the couple's 11-month-old daughter."

Ababymommy and an invitation by an eleven month old. The Corsair knows that somewhere in time that is "cute," but The Corsair does not do cute nor does he go in for it on the subject of marriage. They continue:

"A host of stars, including Irish rocker Bono and Italian singer Zucchero, turned out for the wedding which was eagerly anticipated by Italian gossip magazines and television chat shows."

Well, if Zucchero was there, then it must indeed have been the thing to do on that particular evening. But seriously, folk, Zucchero eats ass. The true story -- and The Corsair is nothing if not a bloodhound on the search for scoop -- lies with Adua, jilted wifey number one. Somewhere the well-paid Adua is speaking of things Pavarotti from behind clenched teeth and making broad and fast arm movements in the manner of an Italian Lover Scorned. And boy would I like a fucking translator to decipher that scoop.

Because we all understand the language of jilt. What? You mean you've never excavated the archaeology of "dumped"? It's just me being bitter, you say? Okay (gets highly agitated) ... : whatever.