SUTHERLAND CANCELS : PAVAROTTI AND FRIENDS IN A GALA BOWL BENEFIT

“Promise them anything,” quoth the resident churl, “but give them Madelyn Renee.”

The quotation may need a little elucidation.

“Them” refers to the 17,629 music lovers who paid up to $250 per ducat for the privilege of spending a night at Hollywood Bowl.

“Anything” refers to Dame Joan Sutherland, the beloved Australian soprano who was to have shared the shell with Luciano Pavarotti at this pension-fund benefit for the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra but fell victim to an ear infection.

Madelyn Renee is a little-known, little-celebrated, very attractive American soprano and, not incidentally, a certain tenorissimo’s favorita -protegee cum aide de camp.

On this rather odd occasion, she was enlisted by Herbert Breslin’s Prepackaged Pavarotti Productions to serve, after a fashion, as the tenorissimo’s vocal Girl Saturday in place of the ailing Dame. Although the possibly-cynical powers-that-be had six days to engage a more suitable substitute for one of the world’s most illustrious singers, no one seems to have deemed the effort worthwhile.

Strike an evening of high-class Verdi and Donizetti with a well-matched pair of operatic superstars under the direction of a bel-canto specialist named Richard Bonynge (Sutherland’s husband and mentor). Add an evening devoted to haute musical cuisine mixed with junk food, served by a superdivo and his friends.

The superdivo’s other friend turned out to be his amiable and ubiquitous orchestral accompanist, Emerson Buckley. He tends to conduct these days as if on automatic pilot.

Under the circumstances, music-lovers--as opposed to a Pavarotti-lovers--had good reason to approach Cahuenga Pass with a degree or two of trepidation. A potentially great night for singing threatened to become a great night for cult indulgence.

At least it was a great night for something.

Pavarotti was in glorious voice. Any careful listener could discern that, even under electronic acoustical conditions that transformed Hollywood Bowl into the world’s largest echo chamber.

At similar events in the recent past, he has seemed intent on blasting big, pearly tones at the masses. Never mind finesse. Forget the text. Introspection be damned.

On Saturday, he proved that he is still a master of the whisper. Although he rose to the stentorian climaxes with wonted freedom and fervor, he also savored the contrasting expressive possibilities of the mezza-voce reverie, the subtle diminuendo accent, the pianissimo caress. It was lovely, and reassuring.

During the formal part of the concert--I think that is the correct adjective--Pavarotti repeatedly blew kisses, closed his eyes as he held his push-button adulators in the symbolic embrace of a frozen bear hug, assumed prayerful postures that telegraphed oh-so-humble gratitude, and sang like a artist equally inspired by masterpieces and bonbons.

He oozed sweetness and charm in both arias from “L’Elisir d’Amore,” the only holdovers from what would have been the Sutherland agenda. He conveyed romantic ardor, and elegance, too, in “Quando le sere al placido” from “Luisa Miller.” He exulted in the lyricism of Cilea’s “Lamento di Federico,” and, despite the now-customary transpositions, reminded us why Rodolfo in “La Boheme” has been his signature role for a quarter-century.

When it came to the sugarcoated sentiment of ditties by Bixio (that infernal “Mamma”), De Cresenzo, Buzzi, Di Lazzaro and De Curtis (“Non ti scordar di me,” of course), Pavarotti pretended he was dealing with deathless masterpieces. It was a heroic and useful effort.

Madelyn Renee looked racy in a slinky black dress that gave way to flaring purple bows and frills at the knee. She looked so racy, in fact, that she had trouble evoking the simple-peasant allure of Zerlina (“Vedrai carino”), to say nothing of the poignant serenity required of Desdemona (“Ave Maria”).

After a rather tremulous start, her singing suggested solid if bland competence. Later, she brought interchangeable, all-purpose prettiness to both Musetta and Mimi, but suggested that Puccini may be more her metier than Mozart and Verdi.

Buckley and the Philharmonic provided pleasant padding with the overtures to “Les Vepres Siciliennes,” “Nabucco” and, perhaps most appealing, “Semiramide.”

Encore time brought a small tenorial marathon: “Tra voi, belle” plus “Donna non vidi mai” from “Manon Lescaut,” “O Sole Mio” (complete with a spectacular trill that elicited a mid-phrase ovation), “Torna a Surriento” and--what else?--”Nessun dorma.”

The ever-helpful fans shouted lots of additional suggestions, assuming, no doubt, that the Philharmonic could improvise the accompaniments.