Tag Archives: Improving Musical Performance

Improving Technique: Aiming Toward The Expressive Instead Of The Mechanical

A potential obstacle in improving technique for many musicians is the notion of “muscle memory”. Technically speaking, there is no such thing. Muscles don’t have the capacity to remember anything. But your brain does.

The thing most people call “muscle memory” is really about how the brain learns to communicates with the muscles, via the nerves, in a more efficient way.

When you practice a fine motor skill (like playing music) mindfully and diligently, the amount of conscious thought necessary for you to carry it out becomes significantly less.

In fact, it seems like you can do it with practically no thought at all, as if the muscles themselves are doing all the “thinking” for you (hence the term “muscle memory”). Kinesiologists sometimes call this “automaticity.”

But what has really happened as you learn a new skill is that the connections between the synapses (the little gaps between nerves that carry electrical impulses to send messages from the brain to the muscles) fire more readily.

The “synaptic chains” from brain to muscles have become (as a neuroscientist might describe it) more “highly potentiated”. There is an actual physical change in the groups of neurons that work together to produce the movement, specifically, they become wrapped up together in a fatty, insulating material known as myelin.

This is part of a biological process known in neuroscience as “plasticity”. As the saying goes, “Neurons that fire together, wire together.”

And it is crucial that this higher potentiation takes place, so that the necessity of conscious thought becomes lessened. You’d never be able to actually get very far in the music making process if all your conscious thought had to be spent on the motor/mechanical aspects of playing.

You’ve no doubt experienced how much more freely, expressively, skillfully and joyfully you play a particular piece of music, scale pattern, form, etc. (whether interpreted or improvised) when you don’t have to “think” too much to play it.

Yet there can be a downside to taking this “playing without thinking” idea too far into your practice process and routine.

Specifically, you can be tempted to reduce difficult technical movements to mindless mechanical repetition, as if you really were simply “training” your muscles. If this happens, there are three potential pitfalls:

1. You risk becoming less aware and mindful of what you are doing with your whole self as you play, inviting harmful, inefficient habits of movement to creep into your playing.

2. You hyper focus on the part of your body (e.g., your fingers) that is doing the work, which actually can interfere with your coordination as you play.

3. You put your musical/aural/expressive self in the back seat of the music making process.

All three of these things are interconnected, but I’d like to bring to your attention the particular connection between points 2 and 3.

When you over focus on the purely biomechanical process of “moving your fingers correctly”, for example, you are using your brain in a particular way that is not conducive to the holistic process of making music. Why? Because the aural/expressive component has been mostly removed.

When this aural/expressive context is absent, your brain coordinates the mechanical movement in a way that really has nothing to do with playing music.

It’s sort of like faking a smile. It seems like the same muscles are doing the same work in the same way, but your brain is organizing the movement (the smile) in a manner that has nothing to do with the natural responses that would elicit the smile (joy, pleasure, etc.) If you’ve ever had to “fake” a smile, you’ll probably remember that it feels forced, unnatural and full of excess effort.

Now, for sure, there is a time and a reason to take a challenging technical passage out of context, out of time, and into mechanical consideration. It gives you a chance to slow things down and observe. It can also give you chance to make better decisions (about fingering, breathing, articulation, etc.)

But once you’ve spent a bit of time in that analytic/mechanical mode, it’s time to put it back into the context of sincere musical expression.

It’s probably no mystery that many of the great classical virtuosi claimed not to have practiced mechanical, “un-musical” exercises (like running scales up and down their instruments for hours at a time). They instead, worked on practicing music.

This is perhaps one of the greatest values of playing an etude. Good technical etudes tend to turn mechanical challenges into meaningful music. They help to integrate the aural/expressive and the motor/mechanical seamlessly together in the brain.

Unfortunately, the “mindless motor repetition” practice can help to a certain degree, and that’s why (too) many musicians spend a good deal of time working this way. All this experience of repeated movement patterns can certainly help “potentiate” the movement itself more readily.

But it comes at a price:

Wasted time (there is definitely a point of diminishing returns here!)

Inconsistent performance (the good performances are always aural/expressive by nature)

Focal dystonias and other coordination issues (arguably caused, in part, from consciously attempting to micro-managing the motor activity in playing your instrument)

So take those few moments to deal with the mechanical. Then put it all promptly back into the context of making music. If you’re working on a difficult passage from a particular piece, bring it back into the context of the entire piece as soon as possible, even if it isn’t as clean as you’d like it to be.

If you’re an improvising musician working on a particularly difficult technical movement, find a way to turn it into meaningful music, rather than just repeating it over and over as a sort of calisthenic.

And of course, any time you struggle to play a particular thing, make sure you sing it. This will help you crystalize the sound in your imagination, and will aid your brain in organizing the coordination necessary to play it.

Strive towards making even the most challenging passages part of your self-expression. Your technique will improve, and you’ll make your most authentic music.

A Simple Idea That Fundamentally Improved How I Approach Ear Training

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From the beginning of my experience as an improvising musician, I have kept in mind the importance of cultivating a good ear. But for the longest period of time, my conception of what this meant was actually interfering with my progress.

In short, I used to define “having a good ear” in a rather rigid, intimidating way.

To my mind, having a good ear meant that I could easily, and immediately identify and play back absolutely anything I heard or imagined, no matter how complex or unfamiliar it was. It was a finite, “all-or-nothing” skill that I needed to obtain. (For the record, I don’t yet have skills at this level.)

The problem with this absolutist attitude was that it was overwhelming me. It seemed like such an arduous, daunting task, that I often procrastinated approaching it. And even when I had my periods of dedicated work, I never really developed a regular, systematic, disciplined way of studying.

Then I stumbled upon a book on ear training that had one sentence in it that completely changed my attitude, perception and, perhaps most important, my motivation. The book is called “Modus Novus: Studies in Reading Atonal Melodies”, by Lars Edlund, and was (and perhaps still is?) one of the standard ear training texts in many music schools for learning to hear and sing “modern” music.

The material in the book is challenging, and working through it has done a great deal to improve my ears. But, knowing myself as I was back then, I would never have had the perseverance to get through this seemingly daunting work had it not been for a simple idea expressed in this book. It was, in fact, stated in the very first sentence of the introduction:

“The main object of aural training should be to develop musical sensitivity.”

Yes, as simple as that.

“To develop musical sensitivity” seemed like such an open-ended, user-friendly, logical and completely non-intimidating idea. It sounded to me as being more an invitation than a demand. It was a direction to head toward, not a destination.

You see, as obvious as this may seem, I never thought of ear training in this way. To me it was an obtuse entanglement of difficulty, an abstract idea of sorts.

In my previous attitude, ear training was a plane to be reached by navigating through perilous waters. It meant learning not only to be able to identify and sing back every interval, but also, every chord in any inversion, every harmonic substitution or extension on any chord, any inversion of any chord, any melodic pattern (again, no matter how complex or unfamiliar), the sound of every note relative to any chord, not to mention being able to recognize and sing any scalar fragment, whether tonal or symmetrical.

All this and more. (I haven’t even mentioned transcribing any improvised solo I came across.)

Now don’t get me wrong. All the things I mention above are vital, useful skills to develop. But is was this simple idea of the deeper goal of ear training that put everything into perspective. It made me realize that I could work on my ear much more steadily and frequently, simply by changing my intention in what I practice.

Ear training transformed from the abstract into the concrete instantaneously. The beautifully empowering idea of developing musical sensitivity broadened my definition of what having a good ear was. It wasn’t just about identifying pitches and harmonies. It was about hearing and imagining music on a much deeper (and detailed) level:

It meant listening more closely to the color of the sound of my own instrument, to my articulations and dynamics.

It meant listening more mindfully to other musicians, hearing their nuances of expression.

It meant perceiving, understanding and hearing form and structure in all music I heard or played.

It meant being more open to the “non-musical” sounds around me, realizing that I can hear pitch and intervals in the sound a car engine makes, or of a barking dog.

It meant becoming more aware of how much rhythm there is in everything I hear: from music, to speech, to objects in nature… world itself.

It meant that I was singing more than I’d ever done before. I began singing every solo I listened to, every melodic pattern I practiced, every chord progression I practiced. Anything that moved me or interested me, I sang (and continue to do so).

What made all this so easy now was that I realized that I could aim toward getting “better ears”, instead of a “perfect ear”. I could accomplish a tangible goal every day. In every practice session I could say with great confidence that I had mindfully increased my musical sensitivity.

As my awareness and reception of sound began to expand, my desire (and the discipline that followed) to methodically improve my ear in regards to the “traditional” ear training skills mentioned above, took on a life of its own.

I shifted from a sense of obligation, to a sense of genuine curiosity and wonder. Passion to become even more sensitive to sound began to transform my musical practice in general. The more I could hear, the more I wanted to hear. I became hungry to find more and more ways to challenge my ears.

And so it is nowadays, as I continue to follow my love and curiosity.

So If you’d like to get on a lifelong path of improvement, embrace this simple wish of always improving your musical sensitivity. Begin today.

For sure, work on hearing and singing intervals, identifying harmonies, scales, etc., in a logical, progressive, methodical way. Definitely consider transcribing a solo that moves you deeply, or even just a simple melody. Just begin somewhere.

Make sure you are singing everything. Even in the practice room, sing more and play less. Make what you hear truly yours. Let it flourish and enrich your imagination.

Light your fire, and follow your heart. The music making experience will be so much richer for you if you do so.

Practicing Music: Understanding The Difference Between Routine And Process

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There is a topic that seems to be finding its way into the books and blogs of several well-respected musicians and music teachers these days. It is about the importance of paying attention to the quality of process as you practice your instrument.

I’m pleased with this trend, and am in complete agreement with it.

In the Alexander Technique, we have a jargon term that we use, called “the means-whereby”. In essence, this is a principle which asserts, that, if you pay attention to the quality of how you do something (the “means”, i.e., your process), you’ll get the best results (to paraphrase F.M. Alexander, “the end will take care of itself”).

My experience, both as Alexander Technique teacher/student, and as a musician, has shown this to be true. Without fail.

Now, mind you, I’m not talking about your practice “routine” here. I’m talking about what you do with yourself as you implement your routine.

Many musicians who come to me for help do so, in part, because they’ve developed a process within their carefully planned practice routine that is counterproductive (if not downright harmful!) As they work with their instrument, they’re so focused on gaining the desired result (sound, technical demand, reading, etc.) that they’ve lost sight of what they’re doing with themselves as they strive to achieve these results. This often leads to a variety of troubles: from inconsistent and unpredictable results, to worsening technique (and coordination), to chronic pain and injury.

Yet, most of these musicians, after experiencing these negative outcomes, still think they need to find some kind of new, magical routine to solve their problems.

Your routine is a series of prescribed activities (exercises, etudes, etc.) that you carry out (in single or multiple practice sessions) aimed at improving your playing skills: tone production, scales, arpeggios, articulation, ear-training, repertoire, technical etudes, sight-reading, etc.

Your process is how you think as you work on these components of your routine (and how that thinking impacts what you do).

Truth be told, virtually everyone (including you, most likely) has a process that they adhere to as they practice and play music. The question is: Is your process constructive or not?

Counterproductive Thinking Habits

It’s not unusual for me to encounter a student whose carefully calculated, and faithfully executed practice routine (though once a reliable source of improvement) has seemed to become mysteriously ineffective. Whenever this is the case, I ask lots of questions. Not about routine and pedagogy, so much, but about thinking.

What I usually discover is a thinking process, gradually developed over the years, which has been making the routine inefficient (at best) and counterproductive (at worst).

In the simplest sense, it is a type of thinking that has become rigid, narrow, and over-focused on the mechanical details of playing, at the expense of the auditory/expressive component. The bigger picture, as it were.

The student is trying to hit his/her target (the desired result) with an ever-increasing sense of fear, tension, and over-efforting. I can easily see this manifested into bodily gestures as I observe them engage in their routine: stiff necks, narrowed shoulders, fluttering eyes, noisy breathing, etc.

What I’m seeing is their thinking.

When I ask them about what they think of whenever they play a particular exercise, the answer is never vague. They have a very specific “focus” in mind, a very specific intention. (This is part of their process.)

But it is this “focus” that has divided their attention, cutting themselves off from what they sense in their bodies, the feel of the sound inside their instrument, as well as to what they hear. And this divided attention is what’s rendering their practice routine ineffective.

As I ask more questions, I typically find that there was once a time when their thinking wasn’t so rigid and contractile as they practiced. There was once a time when their thinking was more flexible and responsive, and less anticipatory and anxious.

My job is to help them get their thinking back on track. I start doing this by helping them to become more self-aware, and then to help them soften and expand their attention as they play. In short, I help them to improve their process.

Improve Your Process

Here are a few things to keep in mind as you practice that will help you establish a more constructive process:

Notice how you react-What do you do as you prepare to play an exercise? Where do your thoughts go? What happens in your body? Do you contract? Tighten your neck and shoulders? Lock your knees? What happens to your breathing? Where do your eyes go? See if you can play with even a bit less of this unnecessary tension, and you’ll likely be surprised by the results.

Give yourself permission to stop-Get comfortable with stopping, whether in the middle of an exercise or the middle of a phrase. In fact, make it a point to stop more than you normally do. Not only can you use the pause to redirect your thinking, but also, by having an active willingness to stop, you’ll keep some of your excess tension in check.

Balance the internal and the external-It is easy to become too focused on what something feels like at the expense of what it sounds like and vice versa. There is a dance between what you imagine (your aural impression), what you sense in your body, and what you hear. Let that dance be flexible, dynamic and responsive.

Aim toward easy-Don’t make the exercise itself your target. Make playing it with efficiency be your goal. Think of reducing effort wherever and whenever possible. (This ties into my first bullet point, above.)

Aim toward flexible-In body and in thought. Rather than narrowing your focus, see if you can gradually expand your consciousness to integrate what you sense, think, and hear.

Always play with clear intentions-Never practice anything mindlessly. There is never any benefit in doing so, but can be some harm. If you find your thinking slipping away as you start and exercise, STOP. Reaffirm your aim and intention with whatever you’re working on, then continue when you’re clear and ready.

Reassess regularly-Not only your process, but each detail of your routine. Be willing to question, modify, or even throw out completely a particular exercise if it doesn’t seem to be fruitful.

So if you’d like to take your practicing to a new level, it might not be that you need a new routine. Maybe just an improved process.

Improvising: What To Play When You Can’t Think Of Anything To Play

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Nothing.

That’s the short answer to the question posed in the title of this post.

Seriously. If you’re improvising a solo, and can’t think of what to play next, play nothing.

You’ll notice I said, when you “can’t think of what to play next…”

Can’t think. So what to do instead?

You wait.

If you wait, the music will come to you.

Now, to be clear, you won’t need to wait long. You won’t have to. But by waiting, instead of calculating and planning, you’ll shift your consciousness from the mechanical and mundane, to the creative and mystical. This shift in thinking makes all the difference. You move from a place of effort and anticipation, to one of receptiveness and responsiveness. You call upon your intuition.

Of course, if you’re a novice improviser, you certainly need to work through lots of the mechanical, self-conscious, “this note on this chord” stuff. That’s part of the learning curve. But you’ll do best if you aspire toward being guided by your intuition, impulse, sense of movement, rhythm, imagination…

It’s not uncommon to find jazz musicians who learn a plethora of licks and patterns for the express purpose of “having something to fall back on” in case they’re not being “kissed by the muse” and “can’t think of what to play next.”

I, too, practice and study scale and arpeggio patterns, interval patterns, as well as transcribe and study other improviser’s solos (all with the aim of becoming a better improviser).

But I don’t do any of it to give me something to fall back upon if I can’t think of what to play, if I get “stuck”. Rather, I work on these things to feed my ear and imagination. To give me an experience of feeling, hearing and moving sound in a particular way.

But when I’m improvising, I never think of the things I’ve practiced. To do so would sound obvious and predictable (at best) and would sound stammering and disconnected (at worst). I’ve learned this over the years through direct experience.

It’s important to understand, and to cultivate, the very thing that really drives your muse when you play: Movement.

Time, feel, rhythm. These are the elements that fuel, that provide impetus to, your tonal imagination when you improvise (if you let them). It’s like you’re dancing inside, pulsating, and just letting the pitches (from all the studying, practicing, and listening you’ve done) fall into your dance. It’s an intuitive process, and a beautiful expreience.

Now, to some degree, this involves a leap of faith, and a bit of practice. But if you give it a go, you might be surprised to discover four important things:

1. You don’t have to fill every second within a solo with your sound.

2. When you learn to wait, you also learn to listen better.

3. When you listen better, you respond more naturally and creatively within the context of the group making the music.

4. When you hear yourself more clearly within this group context, you’re also able to hear (and appreciate) what you’re actually playing (instead of what you’re thinking).

All good things, for sure.

You can start practicing this today with any kind of play along backing track, or even a metronome. See what it’s like when you wait for your muse (give yourself time to understand what this even means!) See what it’s like to let time pass in an improvisational form (tune, chord changes, etc.) without your sound. Notice how differently you can respond (how spaciously!), moment to moment, as you improvise.

The great improvising saxophonist Lee Konitz said that he once let an entire chorus of the tune on which he was improvising go by because he couldn’t think of what to play. He next said, very sincerely, “It was the best chorus I’ve ever played.” (He went on to say how that “empty chorus” fit into the larger context of improvising his entire solo.)

And to quote another great improviser, saxophonist Sonny Rollins (from a recent interview about practicing solo, unaccompanied saxophone improvising) the aim in his practice is, “moving toward the subconscious.”

Indeed. It is this subconsciousness that is the true home of our creativity, because it exists without the filter of the calculating and judging mind. So rather than thinking of what to play, next, wait. Listen to and follow your inner impulse, your inner voice. And enjoy being surprised by what comes to you.