There he is. Paul Potts. A 37-year-old broke ass Englishman with shitty teeth who performed in unpaid opera productions for four years until he and his mediocre voice won the hearts of Britons across the island and somebody gave him a million pesos or whatever they use as money over there. Here he is fucking around with the beautiful Nessun Dorma.
There is a difference between tossing out high notes whilst shaking your head and delivering operatic bliss that can impregnate women. Would you like an example? Gladly.
That's how the fuck you get it done. It boomed. Did you notice anything? Like how he enunciated perfectly and sang the whole thing like it was easier than eating a sandwich? And how he never so much as tilted his head until after the last note, which he only did because he knew he had just kicked its ass? Me too. In fact, I'm pretty sure Luciano wasn't even trying hard. Oh, wait. You're not supposed to strain when you sing. That's probably why his face was totally serene and the only thing on his body that moved was his mouth. He was in control, baby. Meanwhile, Paulie seems to think that good opera comes from a combination of correct notes and ASSLOADS OF VIBRATO. Falsehood, Paul.
What Paul did not and cannot hope to achieve is timbre. He hits the right notes, and his range is somewhat commendable, but it's all for shit if the resultant voice is thinner than a blade of grass. That's the key difference. When Pavarotti sings, it hits the back of the theater and bounces triumphantly throughout the audience. Potts' voice just sort of...reaches. If Luciano's voice is a meatball sub, Paul's is a perfectly edible BLT. Nothing wrong, necessarily; but not nearly as meaty.
The moral of the story is Don't Piss on Pavarotti for two reasons: one, you will lose, and two, I will beat you mercilessly.
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