As I am a great admirer of Anderszewski's playing I hope you will understand that I refer to him from time to time. He is the kind of player who gives one courage to listen for oneself. When he plays it is as if he is hearing for the first time.

I find that less true of his Bach performances but then, Bach did not compose for the piano; the relative cool may reflect Anderszewski's instinctual response to that music's detachment from the sensual sound of his native instrument. The same music played on the instrument for which it was written--a harpsichord or clavichord not tuned in equal temperament--is deeply and exquisitely sensual. When I was too young to know anything about temperaments the distinction caused me nightmares. This is why I do not play Bach on the piano except on rare private occasions.

I saw the film Unquiet Traveler, available on DVD, about Anderszewski, in which he is heard playing, singing all the roles in The Magic Flute and commenting on quite a range of music.

He is not a sentimentalist. His use of the word "drunken" describing Chopin's Barcarolle is absolutely brilliant. I often characterize difficult pieces with melodies in thirds as drunken: two guys out on a toot after a bit too much to drink sing just like that, at least they do in Eastern Europe. I've heard it.

There is a loose fearlessness, recklessness, that comes with inebriation. Try it.

Yesterday my youthful four-hand duo were sight-reading two of the Variations in G by Mozart, K. 591. They are not expert, in the way that the word is usually defined. But their grasp of the content of what they were reading was right on target. After each variation I asked what was the main point of the variation and their answers were not only accurate but insightful.

At their age I would have been able to play every note up to tempo - I would have scored 100 on a sight-reading test, but I would not have been capable of that other level of precision.

It is like the difference between pronunciation and comprehension.

Last night I had a concert experience that shows how hard it is for us modern mortals to trust that sound conveys meaning beyond technical perfection.

Piotr Anderszewski played Mozart's Piano Concerto in B-flat K. 456. It is conspicuously written so that when the piano's entrances follow wind sections the piano sounds out of tune. One can only conclude that this must be intentional since the piano sounds perfectly in tune the rest of the time.

A colleague in the audience (not a pianist) was, however, shocked. "The piano was so out of tune!"

Could there be a more convincing demonstration of the rich complexity of the piano sound?

Ironically, playing the piano can be a tremendous distraction from making music at the piano.

Can you imagine how that might be true?

Consider grace and elegance. For most mortals they exist in a fantasy world where there is no physical limitation -- no heaviness or awkwardness, everything functioning effortlessly without error or doubt.

I think I am describing what I call ear-pure listening, that is, listening ideally, as one imagines music.

Imagined music is music.

The keys of the piano are not what make the music. The music is made by the strings. Listening to the infinite wealth of complex vibration they release is what releases the grace and elegance of even the most awkward child. (Is there a child who doesn't believe her or himself to be that most awkward child?)

Someone asked me the other day to define what I teach. This is what I teach.

The critical part of yesterday's post is the imagined/remembered question: "Can't they see how clumsy I am?"--a question worthy of some spinning out.

A child honestly believes that adults can discern their every need: after all, don't they feed you when you are hungry and comfort you when you cry?

No matter how intelligent the child there are needs that only a specialist can detect because they know how to pay attention to the whole inarticulate being.

It does not require extraordinary sensitivity for a child to know "how clumsy" he or she is: being consistently the last one chosen for the team is a pretty clear indication of that. But musical talent may be for just such a child the sign that something else is going on--an alternative source of grace and elegance.

Talent does not make the need go away, however. Despite the praise (perhaps overly lavish by way of compensation for the more obvious clumsiness) the child may still feel clumsy, even while being applauded for playing the piano.

What makes your playing convincing is that you can respond quickly and effectively to your own musical insights, conscious or unconscious. A triumphant moment in one student's lesson last week occurred when she purposefully changed an articulation; I heard it and commented on it because it was so clear and so interesting. I pointed it out to her thinking that perhaps she had done it unconsciously, as often happens. Lo and behold! She had done it on purpose. The idea was her own, and it was a good idea. What pleased us both was that it had been clearly audible.

First steps to mastery.