Everyone seemed to know we were on the verge of something magical. Mrs. Beverly, the stern SFO head usher, had generously assigned me, a high school volunteer, to a coveted Orchestra post. So that’s where I heard Leontyne Price sing an electrifying Trovatore. James King was indisposed, so they had flown in Domingo from a concert gig in El Paso. He wasn’t bad, either, and I recall the vivid Ulrica of Margarita Lilova, too.

But it was Leontyne’s night, and she brought the house down. I’ve seen a lot of Verdi since Tuesday, October 26, 1971–including, the following week, an exciting Ballo with Arroyo and Pavarotti. But that Trovatore came at the perfect moment–for angsty, teen-age moi, prone to the Gothic, and, far more important, for L. Price, who was at the height of her extraordinary powers.