It’s not an evening you’ve been looking forward to. Guests are coming in from out of town, and they want to go to the Pavarotti blow-out at the sports arena. You are fraught with dread. The last thing you want is to hear the Pay Man like this. It will pain you to see him debase himself, tossing out schlock for a zillion dollars. A hustling impresario from Hungary organizes these events for him, in places like Madison Square Garden, Dodger Stadium, and Hyde Park. They aren’t musical experiences; they’re vulgar extravaganzas, with microphones, spotlights, and soupy arrangements. You have nothing against the wider dissemination of good music, or the broader popularity of worthy musicians. But this is sheer Barnumism, more corruptlug than elevating.

You arrive at the arena. The people are buying their hot dogs, pizzas, and popcorn, buzzing at the prospect of being entertained by the big, smiley guy they know from television. You make your way up to the rafters; hockey and basketball banners hang from them. The stage is a dot on the floor, bearing a pick-up orchestra, a provincial conductor, and cameras for the inhouse video screens, necessary because of the vastness of the “hall.” .h voice comes on over the p.a. There will be a delay due to “traffic congestion.” Peculiarly, the voice is British, and you wonder whether the organizers suppose that they are lending an air of class. he atmosphere might be that of a tractor pull, or of professional wrestling. People are eating, laughing, anti shouting to one another across the sections.