MUSIC REVIEW : Greatest Tenor Show on Earth : Pavarotti, Domingo, Carreras Stir Spectacle

If bigger really is better, the megatenor show--some called it a concert--at Dodger Stadium Saturday night must have been one of the best. Perhaps the best.

There they were on the stage in center field, beaming: a trio of contenders for the universal Golden-Larynx award. The three bases were loaded. And, thanks to massive microphone distortion, the three tenors were louded.

A few churls might dispute their status as the world’s greatest exponents of high-wire and high-tessitura acts in opera and beyond. But everyone must agree that Luciano Pavarotti, Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras are the most popular. Also the best paid.

It was hard to find them on the distant, sprawling stage, where they resembled ants in formal attire. No matter. They loomed nice and large on the massive DiamondVision screen beneath the Coca-Cola sign and above what used to be the left-field pavilion.

Used to be? The pavilions, dear reader, were transformed for this festive occasion into a glowing-chartreuse rainforest, complete with mock-exotic flora and 20--count ‘em, 20--quasi-Grecian pillars imported strictly from Hungary.

Oh, dear. I almost forgot to mention the matching pair of waterfalls. These picturesque forces of towering nature were considerately simulated by silent lights during the singing, and activated by noisy water at intermission time.

And the famous fauna?

Pavarotti, 58, looked svelte (by his standards) and just a smidge smug as he stoutly defended his de facto position of primo uomo . The tenorissimo may have sounded a bit rough, especially at the top, over the tinny over-amplification system, but his dreamy ardor remained undimmed.

Domingo, 53, looked urgently debonair--the cameras revealed a lot of fancy eyebrow-work--and he sounded urgently, heroically mellifluous as always. Contrary to predictions, he refrained from picking up the baton at any time, and no one seemed to object.

Carreras, at 47 the baby in the group and the fellow with the lightest vocal resources, seemed almost self-effacing. He took over most of the finesse work. While his friendly rivals offered a lot of belting, he floated gentle pianissimo phrases onto the nocturnal breezes, and flirted with danger only when he pushed the relatively fragile tone at his command beyond the comfort zone.

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All three protagonists had to contend with a little time warp. Their televised visages lagged disconcertingly behind their ever-echoing voices. So much for the technological miracles of synchronization.

The Los Angeles Philharmonic played everything with stoic bravura--from soupy “Because” to a nutty “Traviata” drinking song in which three grown men took turns portraying the courtesan heroine. Players and singers responded with unflagging energy to the energetic urgings of Zubin Mehta. The supermaestro, who seems to like to commute from the sublime to the ridiculous, arrived on loan from the Munich Opera, where he is buried chest-deep in the zonking Wagnerism of “Tannhauser.”

The Dodger Stadium audience, it must be noted, responded with energy of its own. The throng of incipient aficionados, estimated at 53,000, roared its unison approval at every Luftpause , and often between Luftpausen .

The fans had paid dearly for the privilege. A good (and in many cases not-so-good) seat cost $1,012. The average expenditure for the “Encore! The Three Tenors” may have further included $20 for parking, $40 for a souvenir polo shirt, and Verdi-knows-what for liquid refreshment.

The stargazers at this convocation of greatest high-voiced hits, runs and errors were especially happy, and especially demonstrative, when they recognized a tune--the sacred strains of “Ave Maria,” for instance. Those out front who came equipped with leather lungs and boundless optimism also yelled helpful programming suggestions. “Nessun dorma” seemed to be high on everybody’s wish-list. I swear I also heard requests for “Melancholy Baby” and “Shortnin’ Bread.”

This certainly was an Event. Note the uppercase E. It certainly was Grand. Cap G. But was it a grand night for singing?

You don’t want to know.

In the final analysis, the singing seemed virtually irrelevant. This was a night for celebrating personalities and personality-cults. This was a night for self-congratulation en masse, and a night for making--as well as spending--a lot of money.

Perhaps it was just a night for fun. Chacun a son degout . Contrary to promises of an overworked hype-machine, it certainly wasn’t a night for serious art.

The proceedings probably made better sense, and better sound, at home on television. Unlike the rest of the universe, the host city had to wait for a delayed broadcast on Sunday.

Those who opted for the comfort of their living rooms enjoyed at least one indisputable advantage. They avoided the traffic marmalade that found at least one chagrined reporter--this one--stalled, along with thousands of fellow non-travelers, in a car cemetery masquerading as a freeway while Mehta and the Philharmonic dashed through the “Candide” overture. Also while Carreras mustered an aria from “Le Cid.” Also while Domingo introduced an aria from “Luisa Miller.”

Upon arrival, it wasn’t exactly easy, or speedy, for your befuddled scribe to wend his circuitous way from an assigned parking spot atop the stadium to a seat miles away at the far side of row 18 on the field. Still, all was not lost. It was possible to do some acoustical testing in transit. The testing suggested that the customers in the stands were noisy, and the low-fidelity sound-system was even noisier.

Who sang what? It was hard to tell, even with a $10 souvenir program.

All three tenors changed their minds about solo repertory choices, but no one deemed it worthwhile to inform the patrons about what was added, subtracted or moved.

The trio medleys arranged by Lalo Schifrin closed both halves of the rather skimpy program under vague umbrella-titles. The first was a misleading “Tribute to Hollywood” that included such strangers to the cinematic paradise as “Because” (1902) and “My Way”; the second was a multipurpose melange called “Around the World.” In both cases, the individual songs, composers and lyricists remained unidentified.

Pavarotti was blasting Werther’s “Pourquoi me reveiller” in a language curiously akin to French as we made our way to our folding chairs. The Massenet aria replaced the scheduled “Boheme” narrative. Later the divo delivered the intimate sentiments of “Non ti scordar di me” (De Curtis) rather robustly, “Ave Maria” rather operatically, and--surprise--”Nessun dorma” rather tightly. This wasn’t his finest night.

Carreras’ solos included “With a Song in My Heart,” “Tu, ca non chiagne” (De Curtis again), and, in place of the scheduled Tomb Scene from “Lucia,” “E lucevan le stelle” from “Tosca.” He sang all three sweetly, some pitch and pressure problems notwithstanding.

Domingo, in remarkably vibrant voice, exulted in the extrovert passions of “Granada,” an aria from Moreno Torroba’s zarzuela “Maravilla,” and “Vesti la giubba.”

The innocuous “Hollywood” medley found the Big Three serenading Frank Sinatra in “My Way” and Gene Kelly in “Singin’ in the Rain.” Both, seated in the audience, waved their appreciation on DiamondVision. The song list also included “America” from “West Side Story,” and something that sounded like “Moona Reevair,” from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

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While bouncing in their “Around the World” grab bag, our heroes took turns with “America” again, followed by “All I Ask of You,” “Funiculi, Funicula,” “Sous les ponts de Paris,” “Brasil,” “Be My Love,” “Marechiare,” the “Merry Widow” waltz, “Santa Lucia Luntana,” something that may have been “Te quiero dijiste” and “Torna a Surriento.”

Encore time--a very generous, very repetitive time--brought two separated performances of Verdi’s “La donna e mobile” with a competitive triple-cadence added, “O sole mio” with its now-famous trill lesson (Pavarotti trying, in vain, to show his emulators how to do it), the “Traviata” “brindisi” with Violetta in vocal drag, an all-too complete rerun of the “Hollywood” medley, and, finalmente , “Nessun dorma” in the beloved anything-you-can-sing-I-can-sing-too version.

The Puccini aria was preceded by the usual “ you -do-it-no- you -do-it” pantomime routine. So much for mock spontaneity.

Incidental intelligence:

* The encores were sampled from relatively cheap seats (only $150!) in the low stands behind home plate. The sound here certainly wasn’t realistic. It was cleaner, however, better focused and better balanced than in the presumably posh surroundings up front. The distant sightlines seemed more advantageous too.

* The vaunted pirates of the high Cs ventured nothing higher than a B.