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I am not necessarily the biggest participant in Halloween. I don’t really enjoy candy–which is amazing, because I remember thinking when I was a kid, “why don’t grown-ups like candy?”–and I especially do not enjoy pretending to be anything other than myself. Ever since I was eight I refused to pretend.

But I do appreciate the concept of Halloween. Think about it - one day a year anyone can put on a silly outfit, knock on a total stranger’s door and demand candy. And this is something we all accept as part of American society; we know we need to have candy to give away on October 31. Any other day of the year and you would be considered deranged, but on Halloween, the crazier the better.

And that’s why I love my wife. She awoke before dawn and put on a lavish costume with elaborate makeup and a wig and diamond eyelashes, and she went to work like that. Mrs. Hill is what I would be like if I were fun.

If you’ve been wracking your brain lately trying to determine just what is the stupidest idea ever, wrack no more, for I have found it. It it summarized in Daniel Levitin’s October 26 New York Times op-ed entitled “Dancing in the Seats”.

Music can be a more satisfying cerebral experience if we let it move us physically. When we hear a chord we like in works by Sibelius or Mahler, our brains want to shout out “Yeah!” When an orchestra builds the timbral mass in Ravel’s Bolero, we want to break out of our seats and dance and show how good it feels. Stand up, sit down, shout, let it all out. As the managers of Lincoln Center contemplate renovations, I say rip out some of the seats and give us room to move.

Yes, Mr. Levitin’s thesis is that music, since the dawn of time has been inextricably linked with dance and jubilation, ergo, it seems unnatural to sit quietly with our hands crossed while listening to classical music in concert. “Most of us would be shocked if audience members at a symphony concert got out of their chairs and clapped their hands, whooped, hollered and danced — as people would at a Ludacris concert. But the reaction we have to Ludacris or U2 is closer to our true nature”, writes Mr. Levitin, seemingly with surprise. Defecation is closer to my true nature, so would that make it okay at a concert?

Mr. Levitin’s op-ed is littered with so many illogical statements it is astonishing that it was published in a major newspaper. His entire irrational argument, however, seems to be rooted in one faulty premise:

Music and dance have also always been a communal activity, something that everyone participated in. The thought of a musical concert in which a class of professionals performed for a quiet audience was virtually unknown throughout our species’ history.

That may be so, but novels and chess and open-heart surgery were virtually unknown throughout our species’ history. That doesn’t mean that the societal conventions that we have established vis à vis those activities are invalid. Cavemen painted pictures at Lascaux in the Paleolithic era, 16,000 years ago. It wasn’t until relatively recently that we hung paintings in public museums. Does that mean we should allow children to take crayons to the walls of the Uffizi? Of course not.

The facts are these: there are some activities for which our culture has prescribed standards of acceptable behavior; classical music is an inherently cerebral art which often requires considered attention be paid in order to appreciate its subtleties.

There is an overwhelming body of music that has been written with the expressed intent of inspiring dance. Enjoy it in whatever way makes you happy. But Sibelius and Mahler–just to cite Mr. Levitin’s examples–didn’t write dance music. Even Ravel’s Bolero–even Ravel’s La Valse–were composed as concert music, to be listened to by an audience seated quietly in chairs, tapping a foot, perhaps. Those gentlemen never imagined that people would one day be able to enjoy recordings in their own homes. For you dancing, hooting-types, shout your hearts out in privacy. But when you’re at a concert, keep still and shut the hell up.

I don’t generally harbor notions of myself as any sort of adventurer. I don’t suppose I’ll ever sail solo around Cape Horn, or kayak on the Futaleufú. I have no interest in BASE jumping from the CN Tower, nor do I desire to climb K2 or Everest, or even Stone Mountain, Georgia.

I am, however, fascinated by Kilimanjaro. This is a mountain that rises over 15,000 feet from the Maasai steppe, practically on the Equator, to a summit of 19,340 feet. An astonishing diversity of flora and fauna is found in the vicinity and along the route to the peak, from open plain to rainforest to a virtual desert to a glacier.

One day I’d love to climb Kilimanjaro. In spite of the fact that it is Africa’s highest mountain, it is also relatively feasible for a mere mortal to make the trek. I’m mortal; that could be me!

In the New York Times Magazine today, Tom Bissell has a fascinating description of his Tanzanian adventure, and in an accompanying multimedia presentation, his route is charted, as are his vital signs. His associated commentary is dissuading, but I will not be deterred. Such is my desire to climb Kilimanjaro–hopefully while the Furtwängler Glacier remains–that I even find myself enjoying Toto’s “Africa” - a weak song by all practical standards.

This has been quite a week for me musically. After all the Sherrill Milnes excitement last weekend, I nearly matched it last night when I attended a recital by piano superstar Murray Perahia at the Phillips Center.

I had not expected to be able to attend, but at the last minute realized I could. So, after dinner at The Top, I dropped off Mrs. Hill at home and made my way to campus, and barely had time to park and buy my ticket. But what a ticket! In the past, when Miriam regularly received complimentary tickets to classical music performances through her work, we’d find ourselves in the very front row. It was from front row-center that we watched performances by Sir James Galway, Gil Shaham, Joshua Bell, Lang Lang, Charles Dutoit, Leonard Slatkin, the Tokyo String Quartet, the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, the National Philharmonic, and so on. But all things must pass, and once Miriam left her old job the free ride was over.

Last night, however, a mix of public apathy and good luck scored me seat AA 102 (the very seat from which I once listened to Garrison Keillor make up fantastic tales about life in Minnesota). I was only six feet from a Steinway played by Murray Perahia. He began with the Partita No. 4 in D Major, BWV 828 by Bach, which he played brilliantly. The tempos were swift, but always with a pulse, and though he used a fairly wide dynamic range, he mostly eschewed the sustain pedal. Next was Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 15 in D Major, Op. 28 “Pastoral”. He made it sound easy, even the extremely technical playing of the Rondo movement. After intermission was Brahms’ gorgeous Six Piano Pieces, Op. 118, two Chopin Études, and the “Heroic” Polonaise in A Flat Major, Op. 53, all of which he played with breathtaking virtuosity. Without exaggeration, Perahia’s pianism was nothing short of astonishing - technically impeccable and stylish beyond reproach. The crowd–depressingly small–erupted into a frenzy of applause at the conclusion, and we were treated to some Schumann and Schubert as encores. I couldn’t help but smile at the incomparable bargain that was my $10 front row ticket.

Occasionally, following concerts at the Phillips Center, artists will sign autographs. At intermission, however, the absence of a table in the lobby selling CDs made it fairly clear that there would be no such meet-and-greet with Murray Perahia. But, after the concert I approached the general manager, Michael Blachly, and asked if I could thank Mr. Perahia for his wonderful performance. He asked me to wait near the door to the Black Box Theater. Shortly after, Mr. Perahia entered, still in his tuxedo. We shook hands, and before I could even ask him to sign my program, he apologized to me and a few other piano students behind me, saying that his recent surgeries make it uncomfortable for him to write. I completely understood. His graciousness was refreshing after Yefim Bronfmann’s odd refusal to autograph a concert program while willingly signing his CDs. In any case, I told Mr. Perahia how glad I was he played Bach, since I have been enjoying his English Suites and Goldberg Variations tremendously. Indeed, his Goldbergs are easily my favorite now. He told me it was very kind of me to say so, and we shook hands again. Then I was on my way home to enjoy The Office.

So, a fabulous Thursday evening.

UPDATE: The Chicago Tribune published a review of Perahia’s identical recital there, and it squares pretty well with what I heard.

My position as the Sherrill Milnes authority at home and at work is unchallenged. I had been invited to conduct an interview with the great baritone on Sunday morning at 11:30. So, I arrived a bit before then and went downstairs to the studio where Mr. Milnes arrived shortly with Dr. Offerle, and we quickly got down to the interview.

I asked Milnes about his master classes and we talked about his position as artistic director of Opera Tampa. We chatted about his early days in Downers Grove, Illinois, and how the simple good fortune of geography probably made the difference between international superstardom and agricultural obscurity. Of course, I would have loved to spend the entire interview on technical vocal matters–like how does one sing Rigoletto bent over with a prosthetic hunchback?–or detailed discographical analysis. But that interview would have taken more than the half-hour I had, and nobody but me would have been interested in listening to it.

I did allow myself one question related to specific baritone repertoire:

We will probably broadcast this interview during our spring membership campaign, but I will try to post more of it here before then as time and server space allow.

All in all, it was an experience that seven years ago I never would have expected to get, and it makes me appreciate my job all the more: on an average day I just listen music that I like; some days I get to interact with my musical heroes.