Interview: Leone Magiera – Pavarotti and me, by the man who conducted his first and last performances
In a recent interview with Corriere della Sera, Leone Magiera, the pianist and conductor, now 92, reflects on life with his dearest friend, Luciano Pavarotti.
Magiera was born in Modena, Italy, as were the singers Mirella Freni and Luciano Pavarotti. Modena’s opera house is now named after both of them. In a long interview with Chiara Maffioletti, Magiera talks about the bombs over Modena during the war:
Once, whilst I was on my way to my piano lesson, I was even caught up in machine-gun fire. There were British planes flying low, shooting at people in the streets.
His first concert:
It was with Mirella Freni, who would later become my first wife. She had won a singing competition when she was nine. She lived near me, and I could hear her singing, so we became friends as children. Beniamino Gigli had encouraged her to study, and later I became her teacher.
And working with Herbert von Karajan:
He told me that there’s no real school for conductors; you have to have the music inside you and convey it through your movements, your face and your eyes. Karajan was calm and collected, but he had a deadly gaze: he intimidated me a little.
But the lion’s share of the interview is dedicated to his great friend, Luciano Pavarotti.
LUCIANO and ME
Pavarotti and I were both from Modena. When he first came to me as a young man, he couldn’t read music. He was 18, and I taught him ninety per cent of his repertoire. I can say that I moulded him, musically speaking. I was on the podium the first time he performed, and also the last, at the Turin Olympics. He was already unwell, and he knew it. But he was a fighter.
We were always together, even outside work – in New York, I lived at his flat on the 35th floor, with a splendid view of Central Park. His last ever opera performance was Tosca at the Met in New York.
We performed in the most prestigious theatres. We gave thousands of concerts – at La Scala, in Paris under the Eiffel Tower, and live on television when, before we started, they told us that millions of people were watching, and so we shook hands before going on stage and said to each other: “Forza Modena!” [Come on, Modena!]
Afterwards, we’d always go out for a meal – Luciano would eat far too much. Over the last twenty years, we almost always had to go to his house because he’d become so famous that he was recognised everywhere, so he couldn’t go anywhere.
Once, after a performance of La Bohème in Hamburg, there was an hour and three-quarters of applause – a world record. After that, they brought a small piano onto the stage and we had to do several encores. Towards the end, Luciano whispered to me in the Modena dialect: “Are they never going to bed?”
Luciano never showed off. We didn’t get big-headed. We were always laid back.
For the first [Pavarotti and Friends concert], I put make-up on so I wouldn’t be recognised on TV. I was forced to take part, as a friend, but Luciano was the one who struggled most with that repertoire.
I stayed by his side, giving him cues. I also gave advice to many artists who performed duets with him, such as Michael Jackson. Of all of them, I particularly remember Bono, who struggled to keep in time with Schubert’s Ave Maria. He just couldn’t manage it, so I played it on the piano, on stage, to help him. And Liza Minelli I remember well, maybe because she fancied me? She hinted as much, but I was a bit intimidated.
I’m not keen on [pop music]. The songs lack development. Though I used to like Amy Winehouse – she was less formulaic.
[Luciano] was the greatest tenor of all time, but many people still remember him today for those pop songs. He came in for a lot of criticism over those concerts, and as a friend, I protected him – I didn’t agree with it, but I backed him.
We met some remarkable people. There was Mikhail Gorbachev – we had a meal together after a concert at the Bolshoi. And then there was royalty, including Charles and Diana. She was a woman of great modesty, and she once waited a quarter of an hour in line after a performance just to meet Luciano. In Japan, on the other hand, we had lunch with Emperor Hirohito’s brother and, after the Japanese lunch, Luciano ate again.
He always had these enormous, ridiculously long sandwiches made. When he was on a diet, he’d keep telling whoever was at the table, “Have a sandwich.” He’d take pleasure in watching others eat.
I remember a date at a hotel in Atlantic City. Luciano wasn’t feeling well, and barely managed to finish the concert, so didn’t sing any encores. Then the organiser turned up, absolutely furious, telling him that he’d have to do a second concert for free. It was a real scene, with him shouting at us harshly. Luciano said to me, “But who is this?!” I didn’t know either. It was only later that I found out it was Trump. We had to reschedule the concert. But that was a one-off. Otherwise, Luciano was loved and recognised everywhere, even in the Amazon rainforest – when we sailed past, the indigenous people sang Oh sole mio.
I miss him, more than anything, I miss feeling his hand on my shoulder, patting me to encourage me. He was my best friend.
Graham Spicer, aka ‘Gramilano’, is a writer, director and photographer based in Milan. He was a regular columnist for Opera Now magazine and wrote for the BBC until transferring to Italy. His articles have appeared in various publications from Woman’s Weekly to Gay Times, and he wrote the Danza in Italia column for Dancing Times magazine. Graham was the historical advisor on Codice Carla, the 2023 documentary on Italian ballerina Carla Fracci.
Graham also works as a dance photographer, and his photos have appeared in many books, theatre programmes, and magazines, including Dancing Times, Dance Spirit and Ballet2000, as well as all the major Italian newspapers.
He is a member of the Dance Section of The Critics’ Circle.
