For many years I have taught rhythm not by counting but by two different but complementary methods: 1) as a function of bodily gesture as expressed in geometric figures drawn two-handed with colored pencils while singing several verses of a song in different tempi and with varying emotional intent; 2) as a function of ratios.

The ratio concept clarifies a lot about how rhythm actually feels: why, for example, two hands at the piano are so difficult to coordinate. It also explains why more than one person may be necessary to express the underlying energy of a piece of music.

In a Beethoven symphony it is not unusual to have a ratio of 1:128, the single unit being a tone sustained by the French horn in a tie over 4 bars in 4/4 time, the 128 parts corresponding to 32nd notes in, say, the flute. In between one might find
1:2, the 2 corresponding to a two-bar tie in the double basses; 1:4 the 4 being whole notes in the bassoon; 1:8 = half notes in the cello; 1:16 = quarter notes in the clarinets and oboes; 1:32 = eighth notes in the viola and second violin; 1:64 = sixteenths in the violins.

With all these layers of energy--all these different gears, so to speak, it is perfectly sensible that a symphony requires many people for adequate realization.

One difficulty posed by easy-access-flattened-out music reproduction is that it all sounds so simple, so easily reduced to 1 - 2 - 3 - 4.

For the past several months I have immersed myself in the study of Mozart from the standpoint of his instrumentation, on the theory that one of the outstanding characteristics of the piano from the very outset was its ability to imitate other instrumental colors: it could talk; it could sing; it could substitute for orchestral strings; it could be a bassoon, an oboe, a flute, a horn.

To my surprise, this important instrumental attribute does not come up in discussions of his music.

Pedagogical questions: Is it necessary to become like everyone else before you can become yourself?

Is it even possible to become like everyone else?

What's wrong with becoming yourself?

Hearing more and more generic singers, pianists, etc. raises these questions with some urgency.

In today's New York Times several arts critics weigh in on the topic of Lincoln Center's recent White Nights Festival, purportedly about the spiritual in music.

When I received the festival's slick, expensive flier I could see immediately that it was a marketing ploy. Isn't all music spiritual? Does the hype insure greater likelihood of a profound experience? Do expensive graphics and heavy paper equal anything more meaningful than money?

So what's the real problem? It's that we are so bombarded with glitz and noise that we (some generalized, non-existent we) do not trust ourselves to find something beautiful on its own terms, whether it be our child playing in the next room or a lesser-known performer in a club downtown.

Stick your neck out: The next time you hear something beautiful tell the player that you enjoyed it: Don't assume it's a frequently conveyed message. It is not.

Yesterday I attended a memorial service for a person who was known as an extremely powerful, brilliant leader and organizer who almost always had the last say-so. I knew a different aspect of this person: I knew the tears that accompanied her reaction to beautiful sounds--tears that gave away how much she wanted music in her life--something she could not simply commandeer.

She proved willing to do the hard work of learning to feel the music without dissolving; learning to channel the feeling into generous participation together with others in a chamber music setting.

It was almost the exact opposite of what constituted her professional personality and accomplishments. How I admire anyone who will take such a risk.

What is so amazing about the voice -- about everyone's voice, whether trained or not -- is its uniqueness. One cannot help but respond to the intrinsically vocal: is the note high for me or low? is it comfortable or not in relation to the other sounds around me? These are the essence of vocalism.

Post-Baroque instrumentalists get that trained out of them. I think that's why so many good ones are going into early music. In Baroque music the voice comes first; instrumentalists are assumed to take their cues from the voice.

I guess that's the basis of my feeling that the instruments and the voices on the harmonia mundi Idomeneo recording are not united in their art. The instrumentalists play as though they understand the harmonies, not the words. I have always found this to be the real difficulty of getting singers and instrumentalists to make music together. In superbly crafted opera or lieder the words reinforce the vocalism of the singer, not the other way around. Instrumentalists, trained to treat all notes as interchangeable, often don't get it.

The singing on the harmonia mundi release of Idomeneo is outstanding: fearless, stylish, convincingly alive. It is unusual that vocal coloration was not sacrificed to the recording process. I recommend it highly.

We would all do well to pay attention to singers, particularly to how they make us feel what they sing. There is no truer instrument.