We’ve still got music

I should remind myself not to look at social media right after an appalling tragedy, because reading the same meaningless platitudes (“thoughts and prayers”) again and again makes me feel so hopeless and powerless and enraged. But for me, a day without social media is like a day without oxygen, so of course I looked. @carnegiehall had this to say:

And I thought, OK, we can do that. It’s what we’re trained to do.

My next thought: who’s listening? Most people don’t like or listen to classical music, so who is this really for?

I scrolled further, and there was @stevenisserlis with this quote from “On Music” by Thomas Moore:

Which says it all, really.  What we do, classical music, might not speak to everyone, but in times of distress, we who make it have the privilege of being able to take comfort in it. Music is our life’s work, the soundtrack and very fabric of our lives. It’s there when words fail. I can’t find solace in “thoughts and prayers” because I do not and cannot believe. But we have music, we’ve still got music.

And once more I turn to Bach’s cello suites…

 

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The next chapter: Bach on five strings

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My first Luis & Clark cello, which my puppy loves almost as much as I do.

Bach’s six suites for solo cello have been a major research area of mine for a long time now. After much reflection, I’ve decided to play my first ever marathon concert of all six suites in the upcoming Idaho Bach Festival (January 16-20, 2018).

Six years ago, when I did my first Bach 36 project, I was frustrated by the poor tone quality I was producing in Suite No. 6. It’s written for a cello that has five strings, as opposed to the usual four, and while you can play it on a standard cello, it’s fiendishly hard and you really miss that high E-string Bach had in mind. A five-string cello is basically like a hybrid of a cello and a violin, and lets you play much more easily in the upper register.

Well, to cut a long story short, I fell head over heels in love with my Luis & Clark carbon fiber cello when I bought it two years ago, and I knew it was possible to custom-order a five-string version from this brilliant company. With the generous support of the University of Idaho College of Arts, Letters & Social Sciences-Office for Research and Economic Development Partnership, plus further research funds from the Dean of the College of Arts, Letters & Social Sciences, I was able to do this, and I’ve fallen in love all over again.

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I never want to play the Sixth Suite on four strings ever again — and what’s more, I’m also inspired to re-learn some other high-tessitura repertoire, such as the Franck sonata, Schubert’s arpeggione sonata, and Haydn’s D major concerto on five strings.

This is what I did when I first lifted my new treasure out of its shipping carton:

(By the way, I’ve become addicted to Instagram. I know, I know, I’m a late adopter. I started after I read a piece online about musicians who’ve exponentially grown their careers through this media. I took a look, and my first thought was that it was the most narcissistic thing I had ever seen in my life. My second thought was “I could totally do that!” and I’ve been obsessed with it ever since. The filters are fun to play with, and the video uploading feature is a breath of fresh air after trying to deal with YouTube and basically giving up because its interface is so clunky.)

Playing the five-string cello turned out to be harder than I’d anticipated. The strings were rather closer together than on a four-string cello, and I kept bumping into the adjacent string to the one I was playing on. The hardest string to play was the D, which is right in the middle of the fingerboard where I’m not used to having a string. But I’m sufficiently convinced by my experiment with playing eighteenth-century music on space-age materials that I don’t think I’ll go back to a four-string cello for the Sixth Suite, that’s for sure. It kind of feels like cheating after all those years I spent practising the high bits and the hard chords!

Here’s an excerpt from the Allemande from this morning’s practice session.

More #practice on the #fivestringcello. This thing is so much fun! #bachcellosuites #bachcellosuite6 #allemande

A post shared by Miranda Wilson (@mirandacello) on

To smile, or not to smile?

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Many years ago, I attended a summer chamber music school whose faculty were top international artists. During one of the daily masterclasses, a young piano trio performed the Brahms C major op. 87. The piece has its difficulties, and every time the players got through one of the tricky spots, they would look up from their scores and grin broadly at each other.

After they’d finished, a couple of the faculty yelled at them. They said it was not appropriate to pull those wild grinning faces, that it was unprofessional, that it detracted from the music.

Everyone knows that you shouldn’t pull a face or shake your head when you make a mistake in performance. My first teacher once advised me “Don’t, for goodness’ sake, let the audience know you’ve made a mistake, because most of them won’t know the piece. If you pull a face, they’ll know instantly that you did something wrong and it will lessen their enjoyment.” Wise words — and in a thought-provoking post at The Bulletproof Musician, Dr. Noa Kageyama backs up the need to keep a “poker face” with psychology research into audience reactions to a performer’s demeanour.

But what about the happy faces?

Another one of my teachers told me that smiling during performance was a “provincial habit.” I was so eager to please him that I never asked what he meant. So I was interested to watch this video from TheStrad.com of a masterclass with the cellist Leonard Elschenbroich, where he instructs a group of students performing Beethoven’s trio op. 1 no. 3 “If you’re kind of stone-faced all the time, it’s very difficult to really have the…it just informs the rest of your body… The body believes what the face is doing. You have to convince yourself that this is real, that… the teacher said that it has to be bright, but there is brightness here.” Later, when the students start to play more energetically, Elschenbroich comments “I can hear it when you smile!”

The photographer for the Red Lodge Music Festival, where I play and teach every summer, took this snapshot of me during a performance of the Prokofiev sonata.

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I didn’t actually realize that I was smiling as I played. All I remember is how happy I was to make great music with a great colleague, in front of a nice audience, and getting paid for it. (What a privilege it is to be a musician—to be allowed to be a musician!) I honestly don’t even think about my face that much when I play, other than making a conscious effort to keep it relaxed, since facial tension can cause tension in other parts of the body, inhibiting efficient technique.

And yet, I know myself to be one of those people who is incapable of disguising their feelings, and the photo did give me cause to wonder whether I was becoming the kind of face-pulling clown my mentors would have scorned. So Elschenbroich’s comments made me feel better.

Maybe the “mistake face” is the one that we should definitely avoid, but the “happy face” isn’t necessarily bad?

“Canon-Splaining”: Harvard’s Curriculum Change and the Formerly Sacred Cows of Academic Music

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Harvard University’s music department recently caused some controversy in academic music circles with a plan to change their undergraduate curriculum in a way that eliminated certain core theory requirements and included some previously neglected topics such as world musics and pop.

Now, I love the canon as much as anyone, but I actually think this is kind of a cool idea. Harvard is by its very nature an elite institution that attracts lots of the sort of students who’ve had 10+ years of pre-college private music education, so to expand their offerings to students without that background is surely not driven by a need to recruit. Even though I teach at a university at the opposite end of the privilege spectrum, I can imagine that Harvard’s ideas might enrich any music curriculum.

You only need to scroll down to the comments section to hear about the outrage of many academics. (Summary: “BUT WHAT ABOUT THE FOUR-PART CHORALES?????”) I agree with them that academic rigour and advanced understanding of music are important. I disagree with their view that Harvard is “dumbing down.” Nowhere in the explanations of the new curriculum does it say that they’re making it easier. Nowhere does it say that they won’t be studying any traditional Western music fundamentals. What it does say is that they’ll be taking  classes called “Thinking About Music” and “Critical Listening.”

Which are surely concepts we could all get behind. Aren’t critical thinking and listening what we’re trying to accomplish anyway?

I’ve thought for some time that certain aspects of traditional college curricula have been given more importance than they perhaps deserve. Being incurably nerdy, I relish the geeky pleasures of four-part writing, species counterpoint, and all the rest of it, but I don’t see why our theory and history textbooks focus so much on, say, serialism, an episode in Western art music that I consider rather overstated in the academy and much less important to the long view of twentieth-century Western music history than octatonicism. And I say this as an enthusiast of the Second Viennese School. Sure, let’s study Berg’s Lyric Suite and so forth, but I admit I have very little interest in the post-Webern serialists, and if we’re talking post-WW2, I’d rather listen to what the composers in the politically constrained Soviet Union were doing because I find that their music speaks more meaningfully to me.

And to audiences, who will typically only give a “modern” piece of music one chance. No wonder music lovers feel so alienated from the Western “art” music of the past fifty years when the academy insists on feeding it to them as if it’s some kind of yucky vegetable that you have to chew through virtuously before you can have ice cream (Tchaikovsky). And when the academy insists that pop and rock music aren’t as valid as “art” music, and confines anything non-Western to non-compulsory electives within the music degree.

(BUT WHAT ABOUT THE FOUR-PART CHORALES?????)

I don’t think anyone’s suggesting that students oughtn’t to learn the fundamentals of what make Western music work. But I do wonder if music educators everywhere, myself included, couldn’t do a better job of explaining why we do these things. In addition to teaching cello, I get to teach a two-semester course in aural skills, and I’ve started presenting the material as a class both in professional-level musicianship (i.e. “you gotta count, people, it’s what gets you gigs”) and in the nuts and bolts of what makes great music great. That is, why we cite Mozart so much when we’re talking about phrase structure. Why we base the rules about parallel perfect consonances around what Bach was doing. Bach and Mozart didn’t know they were obeying the “rules”; those rules were written by nineteenth-century music theorists. Mozart and Bach just thought they were writing some good music.

This, as opposed to “Write a four-part chorale and don’t you dare have any parallel perfect consonances OR ELSE” without explanation or rationale. (Should we get in a time machine, travel to medieval France, and explain–canon-splain?–to the polyphonists of the Notre Dame School that they were “doing it wrong”?)

And you know what? I think we could all stand to know what makes great Indian music and Balinese music and Ghanaian music great too. What makes a well-written pop song work? What is it that differentiates the good from the mediocre in any genre? What does this music mean to the people who make it? Mightn’t studying a more diverse range of musics help us all learn something about what it is to be human?

But when you talk about dispensing with a sacred cow or two (Schubert seems to come up a lot in this discussion, for some reason), this drives some folks crazy.

And in a way this un-diverse mindset reminds me of some episodes in the history of, say, race relations, where certain sectors of white society were very reluctant to give up white privilege because they saw this as favouritism towards people of colour. To them, requests for them to give up their white privilege were an outrage, a prejudicial attack on white people, because it disrupted a hierarchy that they assumed to be innate, to be the natural order of things.

No one likes to give up their particular position in the academic musical firmament. (I should know: I’m a cellist who performs mostly canonical works and whose current major research interest is Bach.) I too have devoted my life to studying and performing Western “art” music, and I love it passionately. But this current controversy goes to show that we should think very, very hard about why academics are getting so mad about what Harvard is doing.

And by the way, Schubert isn’t going to go away. I just Googled him and in less than half a second I got 40.6 million results, so I will make the assumption that if he gets skimped on in the new Music History 101 class, people can, if they wish, learn something about Die schöne Müllerin.

Masterclasses: personal vs. musical?

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Pietro Longhi (1701-1785), The Music Lesson. Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons

This morning I read Strad interview with the violist Kim Kashkashian about things she’d like to tell her younger self, and was very taken with her assertion that we should “remove the personal and concentrate on the music.” She illustrated this with an anecdote:

I once saw the composer György Kurtág teach a masterclass during which he reduced one student to a puddle of tears. His wife Márta, who was sitting in the audience, came up to him and said ‘György! György! Stop now!’ Only then did he see that the student was upset. ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked. ‘We’re just working on the music – we’re one musical family. Why are you crying?’

I liked Kashkashian’s advice to take the personal out of it. It’s good to remember that most criticism is a gift. It may hurt at the time, but it’s rarely meant personally and almost always intended to help us get better. But I was taken aback that Kurtág hadn’t even noticed the effect he was having on a student (though to his credit, his response to his wife’s warning was kind). Surely most of us would recognize that a student couldn’t handle what we were saying, and back off?

That made me start thinking about the whole tricky phenomenon of the masterclass. Now that I’m on the giving rather than receiving end of them, I wonder more and more what they’re actually for.

Clearly, they’re a chance for a student to have a lesson they otherwise wouldn’t get to have–but how much is truly accomplished under the pressure of performing in front of one’s peers, and possibly one’s own regular teacher?

Is it so the visiting maestro can posture and grandstand in front of a captive audience?

Is it to give some amazing life-changing revelation to the student so that she will now be able to play far better (in the moment, at least, under the influence of a jolt of adrenaline), while her regular teacher sits in the corner feeling sad that he’s never been able to get her to play half so well?

Is it one of those chores that touring musicians just have to do when they visit a conservatory, but find a bit boring and annoying?

When I was a student, I hated masterclasses. I always felt awkward and embarrassed, but it was impressed upon me that I ought to take every chance I could to be in one. There were good ones and bad ones. I never had a truly awful one myself, but I remember being in the audience for several where the student on the stage was fighting off tears, or lost the fight altogether.

Maybe the teachers thought they were toughening the students up? But were they oblivious to the fact that they were having exactly the opposite effect? What good came of this?

Once, at an international competition, I watched a member of the jury well known for her terrifying personality reduce a student to jelly by shouting at her to take her woolen hat off. It was an icy winter day and the hall was far from warm, and I didn’t see what a big deal it was for the girl to keep her hat on. The jury member wasn’t having it, though, and delivered a five-minute monologue on how incredibly rude it was not to take one’s hat off in a masterclass, even after the girl had removed it and was sitting there in tears, her head bowed over her cello in shame.

What exactly was accomplished here? Did it help the student improve? What would she take away from this class? Probably nothing, besides an anecdote that might one day become funny about that time she met Mme. So-and-So and got screamed at.

On another occasion, at the Manchester Cello Festival, I observed a leading international soloist ridicule a way the student played the chords in the opening solo of the Dvorak concerto by comparing him to a duck. “Da-dee-da-dee-da, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK!” he bellowed. “That is how you sound!” The audience tittered sycophantically. I don’t think the student found it all that funny.

There are times, I think, when it is personal.

When I’m teaching a masterclass, I’m mindful of the fact that the student is probably nervous, both because she doesn’t know me well and because she’s having to perform both for a stranger and for an audience of her fellow students and possibly also her teacher. There’s a lot at stake for her.

The balance of honour and loyalties is a fine one. I’m always careful to set students at their ease by making a joke, usually at my own expense, and to precede my advice with “Now, I’m sure you’re already working with your teacher on this concept…” so that the regular teacher isn’t embarrassed. (Not “Has your teacher ever talked to you about playing closer to the bridge?” The nervous student, put on the spot, looks mystified and mutters”No!” even though the teacher has, in fact, told her repeatedly to play close to the bridge. Meanwhile, the teacher goes hot and cold with mortification in the audience.)

Sometimes you get a student who really is hopeless, like the poor Dvorak-player in Manchester, but what’s the point in ridiculing? Under the right conditions, anyone can improve their playing, even if they aren’t going to be the next Yo Yo Ma. It’s my job to help people get better. If I’m being paid to do something, I need to do my job.

Sometimes I wonder if masterclass-givers ought to sign some kind of equivalent to the Hippocratic oath before they’re allowed to teach one. “First, do no harm.” Second, really don’t make it personal. Hold people to strict standards of musicianship, but be gentle with them. If we expect a student to focus on the music, so too should the teacher.

Show up, look at the camera, face the music

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A student and I were discussing stage fright, one of my favourite subjects. “This might sound like a silly question,” she said, “but where are you supposed to look when you perform?”

No such thing as a silly question.

I’ve written about this quandary before in the epilogue to my book, Cello Practice, Cello Performance Several years ago, I had a moment of revelation when I realized that one of my top technical problems–bowing my head and hunching over while playing the cello–was caused by my introvert’s fear of other people.

“Even after what I’d learned about my habit of looking down while playing, it was incredibly hard to stop doing this. My natural shyness made me incredibly reluctant to look at the audience while I played, for fear of accidentally making eye contact.” (1)

I found a solution to my problem by taking inspiration from the way that television newsreaders appear to gaze steadily and naturally at the “audience” (even if it’s only the camera). What would happen if a newsreader delivered the news with her head down? Her message would be lost.

And it’s not that different for us, the performers of music, and the messages we want to share.

I asked my student “What would happen if you looked at the audience while you were performing?”

She looked taken aback.

I continued: “What’s the worst thing that could happen? That they might look back at you?”

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But seriously, would that be so terrible? Why does a musical performance have to be this hallowed thing where the person on the stage seems so remote that they might as well be on TV?

News flash, they can already see you and you can already see them. Why do we pretend that we can’t see each other for what we truly are? 

I’m reminded of another student who came into my office a couple of years ago with an end-of-semester gift for my assistant. “But if I can ask you for a favour,” she said, “don’t tell him it was from me.”

“But why?” I asked, and then “Oh.

The student squirmed. “Please just don’t tell him.”

“If that’s how you feel about him,” I said, “why don’t you ask him for a date? The class is over, you’re graduating, he’s graduating, and he’s no longer your teacher in any capacity.”

She was shocked. “I couldn’t!” she exclaimed. “He might…he might see me.”

I repeat: would that be so terrible? To make ourselves vulnerable, to give ourselves a chance to share our true feelings in the hopes that love may be reciprocated?

Why do we hide our innermost and most beautiful feelings? Why do we worry so much about what “they” might think when in reality, chances are that “they” are so wrapped up in their own pain and their own anxieties that they aren’t thinking anything negative about us at all?

The answer is that sometimes our displays of vulnerability don’t end well at all. The question is whether or not we take the chance to do this at all. I’m here to say that I think we should. As Alfred, Lord Tennyson reminds us in section 27 of In Memoriam, “‘Tis better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all.”

Those lines have become a cliché, but they’re good words to live by. Performing is like that. Putting yourself out there and truthfully expressing the emotion of music to an audience who needs that music now more than ever.

We live in troubled times. In the face of this horror, it’s so tempting to withdraw into silence. When we are scared or we don’t know what to say, it’s all too tempting to fix our gaze on the floor, to hide behind the music stand, to go inwards.

Or we can be exceptionally brave, and speak the truth. There’s that expression “facing the music.” Even when there are a few things in music—and in life—that we don’t want to face, it’s the artist’s job to do so. We must show up. We must speak the truth. We must be grateful when others show up to hear and see us.

The world may be falling apart, but we still have music. And it’s in music that I find answers. When I’m at my saddest, I turn to one of my most beloved pieces of music, Bach’s Actus tragicus BWV 106 (“Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit”).

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The crossing recorder parts remind me of all the crossroads at which we find ourselves. The “footstepping” basso continuo line (my job!) reminds me that we are always walking towards the unknowable, and we mustn’t look away.

We still have music, and we still have each other. My answer to the student was that we must walk out onto the stage and look out at the audience, look at their faces, and think–or say!–“Thank you for showing up. I’m grateful for you.” 

And then do what we do best, in the hopes that it may, even in some tiny part, take some of their pain from them.

© Miranda Wilson, 2017. No part of this blog post may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

(1) Miranda Wilson, Cello Practice, Cello Performance (Lanham, Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield, 2015), 116.

When money can’t buy music

Under normal circumstances, musicians don’t have much political power.

We don’t like to admit this, because we want to be the “critic and conscience of society.” In the face of oppression, we want to speak the truth fearlessly, like Pete Seeger. Or fearfully, like Shostakovich.

In reality, our protest songs and our satires go unheard or misunderstood. We may stir the hearts of our audiences, but we don’t soften those of our leaders.

That’s under normal circumstances. But recently? Nothing’s been that normal. Nothing at all.

Case in point: the phenomenon that several top musicians have declined to perform at the upcoming American presidential inauguration. Elton John turned it down. Andrea Bocelli reportedly considered it, but also declined, possibly fearing a backlash from his fan base. A member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir quit because she “could never look myself in the mirror again with self-respect.”

All of this creates quite a big problem for America’s soon-to-be rulers, doesn’t it?

I’ve written before in this blog about music as political protest, and about the at-times uneasy relationship between musicians and the ruling class. (And in case anyone accuses me of liberal bias, I’d like to point out that in my experience, liberal elites can behave just as badly towards musicians as conservative ones.)

Ever since there has been such a thing as a ruling class and a music profession, each group has had something the other wants. Consider the troubadours, wandering around the south of France pretending to be in love with wealthy patronesses, who were presumably fond of showing off their pet troubadours to their wealthy girlfriends. Consider just about the entire career of Johann Sebastian Bach. This is how it goes: musicians provide the rich and powerful classes with status symbols. Music, being expensive, is “classy” in every sense of the word. By the same token, musicians are the perennially broke supplicants to the ruling class, whether we’re looking for sponsors or applying for government arts grants. That’s how the world has always worked.

Until now. Under normal circumstances, money could buy pretty much everything. Until now, it was always clear which one of us was singing for his supper and which one was paying the piper.

But just as so many things have been turned upside down recently, so has this. The only precedent I could think of where musicians have made their point by not performing is the famous story of Haydn’s Farewell Symphony–surely the most imaginative response to a labour dispute in music history.

Obviously, since I’m not an international superstar, no one’s going to ask me to play at the presidential inauguration. But I did ask myself what I would do if–by some wild leap of the imagination–I were offered a substantial sum to do so. I’ve never been averse to the idea of selling out, but in spite of my modest avarice for the largesse of rulers, I think my conscience would compel me to turn it down too.

What we did before AirTurn and PageFlip

I recently came across this ca. 1617 painting of St. Cecilia playing the viol by Domenico Zampieri (1581-1641), known as Domenichino for his small stature. The picture struck me for a number of reasons: the instrument (how many strings? The fierce lion’s head on the scroll! The large size–a precursor of the modern double bass? The shadowy suggestion of frets on the fingerboard); the most unrapturous expression on the face of the saint; the redness of her nose (was it cold in the artist’s studio?); and the cherub standing at her feet holding the score (which she isn’t looking at), presumably turning her pages.

That cherub. Who among us couldn’t use one of those? I guess the page-turning problem has existed for a long time. How many times have I been playing some composition with few or no rests in which one might rapidly turn a page, necessitating a moment of panic where you think you might get lost or not come in at the right time? The creative photocopying-taping combinations I’ve had to make, the binders I’ve had to augment with pieces of cardboard secured with duct tape! And all along all I needed was a cherub to do it for me.

I’ve thought of another use for him: he could put St. Cecilia’s mute on and off too.

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Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons

A different three Rs

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A sign I saw on a school visit

There exist a number of websites for complaining professors. OK, everyone needs to vent sometimes: goodness knows professors have the right to be a bit peeved about low pay, budget cuts, departmental skulduggery and so on. Whether the internet is an appropriate forum for such complaints is another matter; I figure they’re grown-ups and if they want to put themselves out there for public scrutiny and possible damage to their careers, that’s their business.

But then there’s one type of whiny-professor website that really gets on my nerves: the ones where they complain about their students.

The complaints fall into four broad categories. (a) “Students are lazy, whiny, immature, and entitled.” (b) “Students don’t do what professors tell them, but if they just did these very simple things we recommended, all would be well.” (c) “Students pretend their grandmothers have died during Finals Week and this is always a lie.”* (d) “Students don’t know anything, don’t read, can’t write, are hopelessly unprepared for college, and generally dumber than a rock. We were never like this. What’s wrong with millennials?”

(d) is followed by “What are their high school teachers actually doing? Are they teaching them anything?”

This, I think, crosses a line.

When I become the emperor, I’m going to make it illegal for professors to grouch about the shortcomings of high school teachers. Teachers have a lot to do, and they’re doing their best. Chances are they’re already trying to teach students all the things professors wish they knew, but they’re stymied at every turn by bureaucrats who expect them to be fundraisers and therapists and moral exemplars and get their class to score highly on standardized tests. It’s no fun.

Here’s another thing. It’s OK with me, as a professor, if students begin university not knowing anything. Because there’s a presumption, isn’t there, that it’s my job to teach them things. If they leave university still not knowing anything, then shame on me.

I sat down to write a list of things I wished students would learn before university–a perfectly shaped, flexible bow hold? a natural sense of intonation? knowledge of how melody and chord progressions work? some idea of how to practise? Well, of course those would be nice. But the more I’m in this business, the more I think character has more of an influence over how someone does at college than prior knowledge. In fact, I think the predictors of success could be reduced to just two character qualities.

  1. Curiosity.
  2. The ability to deal with frustration.

Curiosity, passionate curiosity, about music is a driving motivator. Human beings are motivated by curiosity and desire. The desire to be good at it and do whatever it takes to improve in the practice room. The desire to take it to bits and figure out how it works in the theory class, and to understand its historical-philosophical context in the musicology class. The desire to know everything, understand everything, find out more. The curiosity that motivates you to practise ambitiously, listen voraciously, read widely, argue passionately, work obsessively.

The other thing is that music is hard. It’s hard to get good at it, it’s hard to break into the profession. If you crumple at the first sign of adversity, that’s a big problem. I see so many music students who have never been told anything other than how smart and special they are who, the first time they run into something they aren’t good at, dissolve into tears and/or decide they don’t want to or can’t do it any more.

And then you see a certain type of student who comes to college maybe a little less prepared than you’d like, with some technical problems, or limited musicianship skills, but something about her makes you take a chance on her, and she ends up being your best player. Because she genuinely loves music enough to want to be good, and patient enough to hang in there long enough to get that way.

Further to the same kind of idea, I recently read The Triple Package by Amy Chua and Jed Rubenfeld, a book that seeks to quantify the personal qualities that produce success. It got panned by the critics (justifiably, I think) for certain racist and poorly-researched aspects, which is a pity because there’s a lot of persuasive arguments for character in there. Chua and Rubenfeld came up with three success traits: (1) a superiority complex, (2) a sense of insecurity, and (3) good impulse control.  That’ll work too: the contradictions of a high-achieving personality combining to motivate you, and the self-control to make things work. I wish Chua and Rosenfeld hadn’t tied their thesis to certain ethnic and religious groups (including their own), however. Might it not have been better to frame it as a set of universals that people of any race or social group could cultivate?

___________________________

*I give a free pass for dead grandmothers. Mine died at the beginning of an exam week during my second year at university, and my teachers were all very kind about it.