The radio as I drive is tuned to KUSC, so I can enter his world even before I arrive.
The music of the masters softens Los Angeles, bringing order to chaos. Lampposts are treble clefs; birds sit on power lines like the notes of an unfinished symphony.
I park on 17th Street in Santa Monica and push through the lobby of the assisted living center. I stroll the length of a long hall.
The last door on the left bears a gold nameplate.
I knock, and the maestro is in.
"It is a pleasure to meet you," he says.
The pleasure is mine.
Alvin Mills is 94. Two conductor's batons rest on the tray of his walker, within arm's...