Did I Hear Him Right?

Opera is high art. A lot of what happens behind the scenes … well, not so much. Negotiating with artists, for example, is often a rather undignified business. Pimps, thugs, and mobsters would feel right at home. Not illogically, the greater the artist, the greater the prospects for chicanery. The prime example from my personal experience was Luciano Pavarotti. Now make no mistake about it: I loved Luciano. He was quite a lovely colleague, especially when he was first making a name for himself. But as he got more and more famous, things got more complicated. By the time he was doing huge arena concerts he was surrounded by some pretty unscrupulous handlers. For them, brand identity and big paydays were more important than high art.

When it comes to negotiating with a major artist, money is only part of the equation. Fees are actually fairly fixed. But then there are the perks — those countless, often quite pricey “extras” that can really add up. Think of it as a kind of behind-the-scenes system of bribery. Common perks include housing allowances, learning fees, and on-call car service. But in truth, the sky is the limit.

In the 1980s Luciano agreed to give a concert with the Toronto Symphony. His fee was $40,000 — an astronomical sum, though that was the going rate at the time. But there was more. Luciano was a serious hippophile, and the contract included one thoroughbred horse. Apparently he had heard that a member of the symphony’s board of directors bred a particularly fine specimen and, unbiblically, Luciano coveted his neighbour’s goods. The animal was duly shipped to Luciano’s stables in Modena — at the symphony’s expense, no less. As for the concert itself, Luciano was reportedly not feeling well. He did an abbreviated program, cancelling all the difficult arias and sticking mostly to undemanding art songs. The crowd still adored him, but he really didn’t break a sweat. I attended with my daughter, and she calculated that he made over $100 per bar of sung music — excluding the considerable value of the horse.

In 1988 I worked with Luciano on a production of La Bohème at San Francisco Opera, which was telecast and recorded for commercial release. The excellent cast also included Mirella Freni as Mimì, Nicolai Ghiaurov as Colline, and Gino Quilico as Marcello. For the smaller but plum role of Schaunard I had engaged Steve Dickson, an up-and-coming young artist. Almost immediately, Luciano demanded that I replace Dickson with the first-place winner from his recent competition. I should mention that his competitions were notorious for having dozens of “first-place winners.” I had no reason to do this to Steve, and no room in the budget besides. Still, Luciano was on my back every day. He tried to convince me that not doing so would “ruin the production.” Over and over I declined cordially. On the day of the dress rehearsal, an assistant brought word that Luciano urgently needed to see me in his dressing room. I had an inkling that he was going to make one last demand to have Dickson replaced, and sure enough that was the case. “This is your last chance,” he said dramatically, though I wasn’t clear on what he was threatening. When I stood my ground he looked at me with a combination of contempt and pity. “Anyway,” he said dismissively, turning his back to me, “you have no taste.”

Exiting, I replied, “You’re right. Look who I’m working with.”

The matter didn’t end there. His agent, Herbert Breslin, got involved. Breslin was famous for earning Luciano a lot of money. Some called him a tough negotiator, others a slippery character. I knew it was best to have a witness when dealing with him, so I arranged for a senior staff member to join us. At the appointed time I welcomed Breslin into my office. He got right down to business. “Luciano is very upset,” he said gravely. “He feels you don’t love him.” I thought I was ready for anything, but I was taken aback by these words. By this point, I had been working with Luciano for more than twenty years. I had even directed the opera scenes for his one and only movie, Yes, Giorgio, which proved terribly popular as an in-flight movie. We had had our quibbles, but I both liked and respected him — and I went out of my way to show it. Feeling teenaged-girl-like concern, I proposed sending flowers to him at his hotel. “Flowers?” Breslin scoffed. “That won’t mean anything. If you really want to show that you love him, put $50,000 in an envelope.” Whatever personal concern I had instantly vanished. Breslin’s meaning was clear: contract or no, “hidden fees” applied to engaging his client. I told him that I didn’t have $50,000. With a casual wave of the hand, he replied, “You can get one of your rich board members to give it to you.”

I swallowed. “Well, Herbert, that’s a suggestion,” I said finally. “I’ll think about it.” Giving me a crooked smile, he breezed out. I turned to my colleague and asked if we had both heard the same thing. We had.

Pedigreed animals. Stacks of off-the-books cash. Costly perks. Such are a few of the things that fuel our high art.