The French playwright Ernest Legouve met one of his closest friends at a concert one evening. "One of my neighbors rises from his seat," he recalled, "and bending toward the orchestra shouts in a voice of thunder: 'You don't want two flutes there, you brutes! You want two piccolos! Two piccolos, do you hear? Oh, the brutes!' Having said this, he simply sits down again, scowling indignantly. Amidst the general tumult produced by this outburst, I turn around and see a young man trembling with passion, his hands clenched, his eyes flashing, and a head of hair -- such a head of hair. It looked like an enourmous umbrella of hair, projecting something like a moveable awning over a beak of a bird of prey."
It was Hector Berlioz.