Luciano Pavarotti undoubtedly had one of the finest natural voices of our times. Wonderfully burnished in timbre, yet (in its prime) superbly supple and agile, it was a honeyed instrument that could caress the luscious contours of some sentimental Neapolitan song as effectively as it could delineate the quicksilver coloratura of a showcase Bellini or Donizetti aria.

The young Pavarotti made singing seem as simple and as joyous as plucking apples off a tree. Even the thrilling high Cs that he regularly tossed into his recitals (whether the composers had written them or not) sounded utterly effortless.

But he was always much bigger, in every sense, than his vocal cords. Unlike Plácido Domingo and José Carreras Pavarotti exactly fitted the popular image of what an operatic tenor should look like, and how he should behave. The Falstaffian figure weighing in at 25 stone by the time he reached middle age; the giant white handkerchief, ostentatiously mopping sweat from the huge beaming face; the legendary tales of mountainous plates of pasta being consumed before and after performances – in all these respects Pavarotti was an archetype made flesh.

And what flesh! Sniffy critics and stuffy cognoscenti despaired of this vast and ungainly figure attempting to portray energetic warriors such as Radames in Aida, or ardent romantic lovers such as Cavaradossi in Tosca. And it is true that whole productions had to be designed around Pavarotti’s lack of mobility or his primitive acting (especially when compared with Domingo’s superb dramatic skills). Yet in an era when classical music struggled to make an impression on mass culture, Pavarotti became a huge household name, revered by countless fans who would never think of setting foot inside an opera house.

Part of that success was due to a ruthlessly exploitative marketing machine. The big man himself might have cultivated the impression (actually not so far from the truth) that he was a simple Italian peasant lad who had unwittingly stumbled on a pot of gold and couldn’t believe his luck. But gathered around him were some of the shrewdest marketing men in the business. Ten milllion records were sold on the back of the 1990 Three Tenors in Concert.

For me, however, it was his Hyde Park concert the following year that most clearly demonstrated Pavarotti’s unique quality: a platform charisma powerful enough to enthral thousands in the most unpropitious circumstances. On that night the heavens opened, and 100,000 people sitting in the open air (including Prince Charles and Diana) were drenched. The St John Ambulance even treated 193 concertgoers for hypothermia. Yet nobody dreamt of running for cover or leaving early.

As he did throughout his 40-year career, this golden voice held multitudes spellbound. And when he hit the top B in Nessun Dorma – which he held, in a stupendous display of lung power, for what seemed like 20 or 30 seconds – you could hear the cheer in Brighton. This was the image of Pavarotti that will stay forever ingrained in the memory of millions.

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