Carlo Scibelli was one of the star-gazing guttersnipes with whom I cavorted in Central Park, all of us smoking big cigars and telling bigger lies. Except unlike the rest of us, Carlo’s lies often had the ring of verisimilitude, especially on the topic of vocal prowess. Every now and then (usually when you least wanted him to) he would let rip with a blues shout or a bit of an aria and you would be reminded that, oh yeah, this outsized knucklehead had a prized instrument and he knew what to do with it. That field holler of his had taken him to opera houses from New York to Berlin to Buenos Aires.
And Carlo could be every bit as comic and as tragic and as impassioned as any of the parts he sang. His appetites were immense. You had to tuck into a meal with him to really appreciate it but you had better make sure you had a fine smoke to follow it or there would be no peace.
And please don’t utter anything for him to latch onto for he will skewer you with it like you were so much marinated lamb. The man’s wit could be savage.
So Jon Rosen just called me to tell me that Carlo slipped away a few minutes ago at St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital here in Manhattan. He walked in there on Friday, feeling a little off his game, and now he’s gone. I believe Sunday was his 50th birthday.
This is not my first time losing a friend too soon (or the second or the third…) but this feeling of empty loss is unquenchable. Carlo, where are you to tell me about the opera that perfectly expresses this hideous sensation?
Late one winter night a few years ago, I shot this video of Carlo singing in the empty band shell in the park. This aria, from Puccini’s Manon Lescaut, is Des Grieux’s proclamation of his love for the title character. I leave it here to represent the love that Carlo felt for this city, for music, for the many pursuits that enjoyed with overabundant zeal and, especially, for the many friends and family who peeped his divinity. You know who you are.