Apart from June 26th, 1993 there is another date for which the listener will fidget, so here it is now: October 12th, 1935. In other words, the tenor singing here with the ring of youth in his voice and an audience of an estimated half-million before him is in his fifty-eighth year. It is quite astonishing. In a programme of seven arias and nine songs (and there may have been more that are not on the disc), Pavarotti sings with unblemished purity of tone and evenness of production, his high notes retain their natural resonance and the lower part of his voice is still full-bodied. He remains powerful without forcing, can soften without crooning; the centre of a huge and wildly enthusiastic gathering he indulges in no exaggerated emotionalism (no sobs in ''E lucevan le stelle'') that might win a cheap ovation. Occasionally, as in the ''Ma il mio mistero'' tune of ''Nessun dorma!'', he presses the pace a little more than he would once have done. That seems to be his single concession to age: it is hard to think of any comparable singer who has made less.
He is of course very skilled in the handling of such events. Martin Meyer, in his booklet-notes, says that the source of the popular enthusiasm Pavarotti arouses lies in ''his immense capacity for enjoying himself '. One ventures to think that that would not have got him far on its own, but certainly there is, as there was with Gigli, a sense that here is a man who loves singing and is generous with his voice. Behind it is calculation: the sort that comes with experience of what aria will act both as a voice-warmer and an effective introduction (Luisa Miller), then what will exercise the upper register and firm-up the legato singing-line (Lucia di Lammermoor). Similarly, there is the fine, instinctive yet professional calculation of just how long and how loud, how approached and how released a note shall be. The finely adjusted mechanism of breath-control is something which might well become less than completely reliable by one's fifty-eighth year; yet here the process is so sure in its working, that, listening, one scarcely thinks of technical problems at all.
In addition to Pavarotti's solos, the orchestra plays an overture Andrea Griminelli fulfils the promise of his title (Fantasia brillante sur ''Carmen'') and the Boys' Choir of Harlem bring a good raw vitality to Duke Ellington's It don't mean a thing (if it ain't got that swing). I'm not sure I am sorry not to have been one of the 500,000, but I would certainly not willingly be without this memento of the occasion.'