Intensity is something that cannot be pasted onto music, either in composition or in performance. Phony baloney is not hard to spot. (Real baloney--Liberace, for instance--is altogether different: my sophisticated piano teacher from Prague admired his pianism and could laugh more easily than I could when it turned into schlock.)

Many library copies of chamber works at Mannes where I have taught for over 30 years, used to be marked with pencil: "More! More!" What did those coaches want if not pasted on intensity? I would have marked: "Less! Less!" which is to say, do less and listen harder. The tones themselves, if composed with real intensity (a fair enough assumption when the composer is Beethoven or Mozart) inform all the passion required.

Usually people don't think of Rachmaninoff as an ironic composer, but the Waltz my students are playing, piano four hands, is definitely ironic. Purposeful wrong notes, hiccuping rhythms, it can't be serious. Maybe the trouble is that we tend to take music seriously just because it is written down. Then it comes as such a shock when someone brings it to life and we realize that it is amusing.

Among the most powerful images we carry around with us are those we learn early on, when first beginning to study music. Among these are quarter notes, associated with beats, and the musical staff with five alphabet-named lines. All of these images affect the way we process written music and very often they distract from our perception of musical sounds and rhythms.

Since about 1963 people have been seriously studying the effect of writing on thought: what a huge difference an alphabet makes! It's about time we were more aware of the effect of notation on music perception.

As important as reading music is--and I believe it is very important--it must refer primarily to what is heard, not what is seen.

Never underestimate the power of an image. I am thinking a lot these days about the image of the major scale: Unfortunately it is imprinted on our brains both visually (as a ladder, primarily for ascending) and in sound (as an auditory symbol of utter stability). The fact is that the scale is, in a definition I read somewhere long ago and unfortunately did not write down the attribution, a combination of melodic fragments.

My work with Tonal Refraction permits musicians to depict the relationships between scale tones as they hear them, not according to the "correct" visual imprint. The results are surprising and have released seemingly intractable blocks to reading and to physical coordination. For me it has provided insight into the nature of musical themes, many of which express just such repositionings of the tones of the scale: Brahms Piano Trio in C, Op. 87, for instance, or many piano sonatas from all periods.

Many people hear the 6th degree of the scale as lower than the tonic. This re-formulation of the scale is frequently encountered in classical music.

Some serious and even interesting people have begun asking "What is music?" It becomes an urgent question these days when so much that passes for music bombards us: on "hold," in the elevator, in stores, not to mention the venues in which musicians dutifully plod through the classics.

I think often of Leonard Bernstein's wonderful song: I Hate Music but I Love to Sing!

Hilarity is one of my favorite topics partly, I think, because it seems to be a forbidden aspect of music. It doesn't occur to most serious musicians that Rachmaninoff deliberately plants a wrong note throughout most of a piece of music so that when he finally gets it right it will sound wrong. Similarly, it doesn't occur to most musicians that Beethoven is actually writing 5's plus 3's in duple meter, boring you to tears trying to get 2's or 4's to work until you discover the hidden clue and then delighting you to pieces every time.

Funny how closely allied they are: boredom and hilarity.

A couple of weeks ago I told my two young duo students that they were in a terrific position to do a bang-up job on the Rachmaninoff Waltz they are studying. They thought I was crazy.

Today I let them rehearse on their own. I kept hearing laughter, not complaints or groans. There were errors, but there was laughter.

That is the point: this maddening work, full of on-purpose wrong notes and very difficult rests (!) is hilarious. If it isn't, well....