In a brief chat yesterday a former student clarified my notions about what a sonata is (it sounded like a reprise of the review I gave Victor Rosenbaum on his reading of Beethoven Op. 2 #3). To wit, more or less: A sonata is not a matter of a selection of notes which constitute a theme or two, but rather an acoustical proposition that reveals the nature of the instrument(s) for which it is written.

It's not a bad definition, since it can be extended to cover the various instrumental combinations for which sonatas have been written, including piano trios and string quartets, among others.

It would be a fascinating study to detect the actual acoustical difference between a Mozart piano sonata and a Mozart string quartet in D major, for example. This is something I have long dreamed of doing.

Why not start today?

We think of tempo as affecting playing, not listening. It is equally important in both musical activities. Most of us think of listening as passive. It is anything but.

32,000 vibrating sensor-tipped hair cells in the inner ear represent an enormous amount of activity.

It would be interesting to play with your internal metronome in relation to your listening. Say you are about to hear a Minuet: Start by imagining how a minuet might go. Get in gear, so to speak. You will have a definite reaction immediately as the music starts--you will be engaged. Or imagine that you are hearing a chamber music performance in a small space and that you decide to pay attention to every entrance of the clarinet. You will probably notice events happening much more rapidly than can be accounted for by any normal sense of the beat -- so much goes into the production of a tone!

These decisions you can make about your active listening can be the basis for real listener empowerment. Every performer needs and appreciates active listeners!

I used to think metronomes were a bad idea. I found them tyrannical, impossibly mechanical, hateful little objects. I couldn't keep a steady beat when I was young--but I was blissfully unaware of that until that nasty little machine made me painfully aware of my inability to do anything about it.

Since then I have learned to play games with metronomes. Each of us has a kind of internal "ticker," some faster than others. I encourage young students to use the metronome to become aware of their internal ticker. Is their natural tempo fast? Then the metronome can help give them an alternative to slow down. The important thing is to have awareness; from awareness comes control.

This is increasingly important in an era of rapid everything. Nothing seems to be quick enough to satisfy our craving for speed.

How about trying on a vibration? See how long you can sustain interest in a single tone.

When Henry Purcell set the text "Music for a while shall all our cares beguile" the word "music" is sung on a single pitch. In fact it is sung twice: first time on G, second time a fifth higher. And very deliberately.

The auditory delight of a couple of evenings ago was so great and I carried it around with me so completely that I am surprised it failed to appear in the form of a post to this blog. Namely: An extraordinary group of dedicated young actors who call themselves The Fiasco Theatre hosted an absolutely hysterical Valentine's Day party for their audience. Half of this audience is types like myself, of a certain age, dressed the way we dress. The other half is young theatre types.

The company of 7 or 8 sat around in a semi-circle, taking turns doing little skits, reading Shakespeare sonnets, singing songs of various descriptions, playing instruments, each outdoing the others in style, in verve, having irresistible fun.

I laughed until I cried.

But the beauty of it penetrated every note of music I played yesterday and today: relishing every unexpected turn of a line, every magical harmonic juxtaposition, treating every syllable as an invitation to discovery of hidden possible meaning.

There is nothing more satisfying than a ten-year-old playing Haydn excellently well because she finds it funny.

I could count on one hand the number of articulation errors -- they were almost nonexistent. How unlike the usual mechanical corruption of the Classical style so often imposed upon young learners.

This was a spontaneous accomplishment, incidentally. Not required, not even recommended, no pressure, just desire.

"I like it."

"I don't like it."

Just how central these pronouncements are in developing a sense of musical structure was again affirmed yesterday when a student began her playing of a Mozart sonata movement not at its beginning, but at the place which she likes best. It put everything else in a meaningful perspective with shades of perceptible response in every note she played.

I am deeply convinced that the art of composition consists of strategically locating such moments so that the player discovers them as if surprised by their vividness.

A composer whose work I had recently reviewed commented on my having identified her obsession, which is harmony--not a particularly fashionable contemporary obsession. I say double bravo to her that her structures make that audible to me, the listener.

This promises to be the most unlikely post I will have ever produced: Yesterday I had an appointment with a dentist who had to accomplish some rather unpleasant though necessary work on my infrastructure (a good trendy word, no?). I took, as I always do, a CD player and a recording of Clifford Curzon playing Mozart concerti--his playing is so distinctive and so elegantly voiced. I take things I am studying, not for casual listening.

I notice that my hearing is very much more acute in that setting. I hear every slight deviation from equal temperament, though I do not have perfect pitch.

Apparently there is something to be said for being on edge.