When was music assumed to exist without someone playing it? How much have we bought into a culture where it doesn't matter that music has become dehumanized?

A few days ago I heard an improvised performance on the piano. The playing was breath-taking: fresh, specific to the sensibility of the player, unlike anything I have ever heard.

How refreshing!

While on vacation I heard a performance by an "almost eleven-year-old" clarinetist in upstate New York. He played for an audience of about 150 people--almost a full house--a transcription of To a Wild Rose by Edward MacDowell, with piano accompaniment.

It was interesting to see how scared he was, though extremely well-prepared. As I listened to the piece I couldn't help but imagine what he must be hearing. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for the impact of that rich chromaticism as he played his fragile, delicate melody. It would frighten anyone, unless it had been pointed out exactly how his sound fit into such strangeness.

I'm always a bit surprised when I skip a day inadvertently: This blog has come to feel like a daily chat with friends. I must have been talking to myself yesterday.

If so, it concerned a very specific moment in my life with Mozart. It has not been an easy life starting as it did with complex reactions to music that was supposed to be easy. It might have been easy enough to play but I never found it easy to hear.

Now I find myself on the trail of what is behind that. I had no intention of working on this problem--I was, in fact, avoiding it as best I could.

But now I find it completely fascinating.

So much so that I am going off to the woods for a week with scores of his symphonies and sonatas. There won't be any blog posts as there is no electricity where I will be. See you in a week.

My suggestion to anyone struggling with rhythm is to work on Bartok's For Children, of which there are two volumes. In these pieces he indicates all types of rhythmic order, some metric, some not. Learning the meaning of the various signs can do a lot to make the student aware of the difference between metronomic regularity and other ways of getting from one bar to the next, or from one beat to the next. Becoming aware of one's power to control this element is the key to fixing the problem.

This morning a young woman felt and identified her rhythmic idiosyncrasy not as a flaw but as an expressive tool that she can integrate into all of her musical life, especially into her composition. We had previously had occasion to discuss her basic rhythm, which is anxiety-driven, so today's observation didn't come out of nothing. Still it was wonderful to observe her reading a Bartok composition, noting the discrepancies between metered motion and that other specific source of impulse.

I know from personal experience that it is an area of extreme difficulty.

To be a musician is to be a linguist. Every acoustical setup is a different language root--strings, brass, wooden flutes, voice. The piano, while its own acoustical setup, is also an excellent ventriloquist's dummy, admirably suited to imitate attributes of other sound sources.

I have noticed that string players who play exceptionally well in tune with other instruments have invariably studied other instruments: their ears are open to the differences, therefore they can meet.

It was remarkable at one moment to hear an adult student's touch suddenly improve in subtlety. It turned out he had been working with singers on a daily basis.

In the first and last analysis music is a deeply personal experience. This was made clear in recent one-on-one exchange with a very great musician to whom I was a complete stranger until we began talking about specific tones. The look of recognition was instant and profound.