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I'm not talking about their genuine Brotherly Love, affection, and respect for each other -- despite the media's patently false reports at one time that they were bitter rivals in the Brutal World of OperaDom.
I'm talking about how all three men fought valiantly against Cancer.
Each adopted different approaches in their battles, tactics which speaks volumes about their artistic personas and their personalities.
Pavarotti, who suffered from the most pernicious form, chose a Path of Initial Denial.
Domingo went into his treatment with pragmatism -- laced with a sobering dose of reality.
Carreras took the "Damn The Torpedoes" Approach, caring less about his outcomes than what researchers could learn to help other cancer victims.
These distinct approaches frame the "Back Story" which I am just about to share with you.
Let us start with Luciano...
I'll always remember him as a barrel-chested, vastly-overweight, satyr-bearded Giant of a man who possessed the voice of an Archangel. Many who love Opera consider Pavarotti the Greatest Voice of his Generation.
I, for one, consider him to have been the greatest tenor of Italian Opera. He struggled with the French language in masterpieces such as Carmen, and was absolutely comical when it came to his massacre of the Mother Tongue of the great Wagnerian works.
That was the probable reason why he restricted his repertoires to Puccini (more about Jiacomo later), and other Italian composers, when he attained the summit of his career.
As most people know, Luciano lost his battle against Cancer a few years ago. He passed several months after he dropped out of public view: reason given -- standard, flacky "health reasons."
What we didn't know then, but what we know now, is that Pavarotti fought a valiant battle against the Mother Of All Cancers -- that which destroyed his pancreas.
Pavarotti's cancer manifested itself initially as a throbbing back ache. He also began to lose his appetite. He finally got around to paying a visit to his doctor ( I recall this occurred during his "World Farewell Tour.")
Within months, pancreatic cancer had reduced this Giant of a Man a frail, hollow skeleton wracked with constant, agonizing pain.
Other than his health caregivers, and members of his immediate family, few really knew what was really going on with him. Pavarotti had insulated himself well, from any and all visitors, right up to the end.
Placido Domingo's battle against cancer, happily, yielded a much different outcome.
As it always does, his cancer manifested itself through a series of symptoms: abdominal pain, loss of appetite, weight loss, night sweats, and an overpowering fatigue. Domingo knew these were not the signs of "Aging Gracefully" and he scheduled his medical appointment when his calendar cleared from his duties as Artistic Director of a couple of Big Opera Companies, his Maestro ship with a few Well-Known Symphonies, and his Operatic Performance Schedule: about ten months later.
He found out that he had an advanced stage of Colon Cancer. Wisely, he placed his career on hold and asked the doctors to use all of the arts and skills to help him live.
Months removed from an operation to rid his body of colon cancer last year, Domingo strode onto the Met Stage in late February to render Tristan -- a performance that was carried, live, by NPR.
(The same NPR the Waskily Wabbit Neo-Cons in Congress had in their Cross Hairs for Big Budget Cuts. I couldn't resist the dig!)
Domingo has resumed performing -- conducting, composing and singing -- years after most Opera Greats have packed it in for the Sands of The Riviera; and audiences and critics alike assert that his voice and his other talents have improved, like a fine Cognac, with age.
He's just a leaner version now with hair of pure silver color.
If Pavarotti was the finest Italian Red Wine, and if Domingo was the Best Aged Cognac, then Jose Carreras has to be compared with, metaphorically-speaking, the World's Best Chocolate.
What he lacked in "Presence," he made up for with his ability to physically "Deliver" a role on-stage -- with an incredible blend of voice, energy and body language that amazed audiences worldwide.
But it wasn't always that way.
Back in the 1980s, Jose checked in with his doctors after he detected there was something wrong with stamina. Medical tests revealed that he had suffered from the onset of a particularly nasty strain of Leukemia, the kind that seemed to defy treatment, the one which claimed the lives of over 90% of its victims within a year of the initial diagnosis.
So he decided to become the Operatic Equivalent of a Lab Rat. He enrolled in a clinical trial here in the US in which he was administered all kinds of emerging chemistry designed to wipe out the cancer-causing factors embedded within his bone marrow.
By the time the medical scientists were through with him, Carreras' red-and-white blood counts were lower than those of a terminal AIDS patient. In a last-ditch effort to save him, the doctors gave Jose a high-risk bone marrow transplant -- and a 6% chance of making it.
Feeling worse than ever, Carreras decided to return to his home in Spain, to wait and see if the marrow transplant would work: if not, to die.
He made no effort to conceal his plight: in many respects, Jose Carreras became, with much public Bravery, the Poster Boy for advancements in the treatment of Leukemia.
As fortune would have it, and at precisely the time at which Carreras's despair sank to its lowest, an Opera was in-performance near his Hacienda. Domingo was the headliner.
Carreras' business manager called the Opera House and secured Box Seat tickets, just above the stage. He arrived in a nondescript sedan, incognito. In an effort to maintain the secrecy of his presence, he was wheel-chaired to his Box Seat, down a dimmed and now-empty corridor, right about the time the Overture was coming to its end.
Carreras revelled in the performance throughout first two acts of this particular production, viewed from within the anonymity and seclusion of his darkened box ... that is, until Domingo happened to look upward from center stage halfway through Act III.
Placido later said that he wasn't 100% certain, but the man he saw sitting in the Box Seat bore a striking resemblance to his good friend and sometime rival. He stopped the performance dead in its tracks, and at precisely at the moment when the audience starting wondering what had happened, Domingo strode to Stage Left, pointed to the box, and acknowledged Carrera's presence in the theatre.
Russians love their poets and Spaniards are just as rabid about their own Opera Stars. On this particular night of performance, with two legends in the House -- one near Death's Door -- the unexpected happened.
Domingo spoke from his heart, offering a prayer that Carreras would win his battle against Leukemia.
The orchestra, female lead, the entire cast, the stage hands, and audience joined Domingo in a 20-minute long standing ovation.
Infused with such passionata, Jose Carreras went on to full remission.
There is one aria which will forever bind Pavarotti, Domingo and Carreras together: "Nessun Dorma" from the Opera Turnadot by Puccini. I won't bore you with setting the scene because I'm dead-on certain that you know about this opera.
What you might not know is this.
Puccini died from Throat Cancer.
He never got to finish the Opera.
Nessun Dorma was the last piece he wrote.
Anyway, the last lines of Nessun Dorma are: "All'alba vincerò! vincerò, vincerò!"
Translation: "At dawn, I will win! I will win! I will win!"
Three Tenors Indeed!
Three cancers... three battles ... three outcomes.
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