You see this man standing in one spot, his hat in hand, staring at a massive array of organ pipes, transfixed by their wondrous, awesome, glorious sound.
You may have never seen this person seated at a pipe organ before, you don't know who he is, you don't know anything about him, just that, right now, he's oblivious to anything else.
It's like you can't get through to him, like nobody can reach him, for now.
He's in another world.
He's listening as intently as if someone were giving him a brief glimpse of what lies on the other side of the Great Beyond.
You'd think it was sorcery.
In a sense, it is.
The glory of the instrument and its sheer, thrilling power has him in its spell, in this wonderful, wonderful way.
He'll behave like he loves it more than his life.
That's because he knows his love for anyone or anything was put there by a Higher Power and will outlast his lifetime.
He also knows that, without it, a part of him would die.
Its sound is as natural to him as the circulation of his blood.
He can't help but listen to it, he has to.
It's part of what he was put on the face of this earth to do.
And it has his mind caught in this bubbling cauldron of emotion.
It stirs his insides in a way that cannot be put into words.
Nothing else has this effect upon him.
And always this.
On its own scale, it's miraculous.
And it happens every time.
If he told the performer, "I would say that you don't know what you're doing to me, but I think you do," the performer would simply reply with a smile, after a pause, "Yes ... I do."
That's because the performer to whom he just spoke is made out of the same stuff.
Someone like this is the real deal.
It's how you can tell.
They're an organist.