Or which were secretly recorded. Recorded sound has always interested me. And when I was a piano performance major at Oberlin the history of recorded sound and the earliest cylinder recordings of Johannes Brahms, though completely unlistenable, had a mystique unlike any other recordings I have since found. Back when I knew people who were both knowledgeable and excited about these doctrinaire matters, a friend said he found it interesting that when I talked about the great performances I've seen or experienced they were all recorded performances, whereas his most memorable experiences were from live events. And it is true for me that while some live performances have inspired me intellectually or driven me to pursue some previously unexplored strand of scholarship I can not think of a single live performance of classical music which I attended which thrilled me or moved me or did anything to me on something besides an intellectual level.
Music is a social phenomenon.
I remember Horowitz's CBS Scriabin CD for the way it filled my nights while living at the transient hotel at 166 West 75th Street, Room 317, in 1990 and 1991. But most of what I remember about classical concert halls and symphony concerts and opera houses is quite different. The terror of having to sneeze or cough during a quiet part of an endless Brahms Concerto. The constant critical analysis of every note played, of every note missed, of every note that should have been, and then the follow-up critical analysis of everyone else's critical analysis. This is Molly.