Over my lifetime, I have attended hundreds of concerts and shows—and I can still remember the exact years for roughly 95% of them! From seeing Santana open for Eric Clapton in 1975 to watching KISS at the Jacksonville Coliseum in 1976 and attending around 140 Broadway shows, live performances have always nourished my soul.

One memory that stands out above almost all others took place in the early 1980s in Massachusetts, where I attended a concert by composer Philip Glass. His music was hypnotic, powerful, and completely revolutionary. After the performance, I found myself standing next to him in the parking lot and struck up a brief conversation about his Juilliard teacher, Vincent Persichetti.

I expected a musical icon of his caliber to be whisked away in a grand limousine. Instead, a standard yellow taxi pulled up, and he quietly stepped inside and drove off into the night. That moment taught me that true artistic greatness walks very quietly through the world.

Another unforgettable encounter happened at a Broadway show in New York. I was buying a ticket alone and met a woman doing the same. We spent the afternoon chatting, but when the show began, I found myself stuck in terrible nosebleed seats, hating the first act. At intermission, she looked at me and handed me her ticket: “Here—take my seat.” It was a fifth-row seat she had purchased for herself. From that vantage point, the second act was magnificent. Afterward, she simply said goodbye, caught her train back to Long Island, and went home—asking for nothing in return.

Moments like those remind me that performance art isn’t just about what happens on stage; it’s about the quiet humility, generosity, and human connections that surround