When Tenors Were Gods ,

By Michael Walsh

One of Enrico Caruso's sons was once asked whether his father sang for pleasure. "No," the young Caruso replied, "my father sang for money." Anyone who believes that the big payday looming for Carreras, Domingo and Pavarotti this week in Los Angeles is unprecedented ought to think again. The Three Tenors don't approach in earning power or popularity such predecessors as Caruso and John McCormack. Both earned millions while singing everything from Vesti la giubba to Come into the Garden, Maud at a time when the income tax was either nonexistent or in its infancy and when a dollar was worth 15 times what it is today. From its very beginnings, the profession of opera singing has probably been marked as much by acquisitiveness as by great artistry and deathless vocalism.

Under the management of impresario Charles L. Wagner, the elegant stylist McCormack grossed $5 million in performance fees from 1908 to 1920. McCormack was an Irish-born naturalized American, and in Ireland he went by the title of Count John McCormack, which was conferred on him in 1928 by Pope Pius XI. He was so popular that in 1938, the year of his teary farewell recital in London's Albert Hall, he was touted as a candidate for the Irish presidency.

Caruso, meanwhile, was probably the highest-paid performer in the world during his heyday from 1903 to his death in 1921. Beginning in 1914, when the average weekly salary in the U.S. was about $12, Caruso was paid at least $2,500 (almost $37,000 in today's dollars) for each appearance at the Metropolitan Opera; today the Met's top fee is only $12,000. In Central and South America, where he was a god, Caruso received as much as $15,000 for a single engagement, payable in gold. His appearances in two silent movies in 1918, My Cousin and A Splendid Romance, brought him $100,000 per film.

Caruso and McCormack also benefited enormously from the nascent recording industry, which Caruso in particular legitimized as an artistic medium. His 1904 contract with the Victor Talking Machine Co. called for a royalty of 50 cents a record along with a hefty royalty advance. When asked by a friend how much he earned from recordings, Caruso told the man to guess. Ten thousand dollars was the estimate. "Right," said Caruso, "only I make that monthly."