Tag Archives: Improving Musical Performance

Tempo, Perception And Tension

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Some months ago I wrote an article about how coordination was inextricably linked to the perception of time and rhythm. But just recently, I realized another aspect of this connection while giving an Alexander Technique lesson to a bassist.

This student could not seem to play a particular technical passage beyond a specific tempo without the entire passage falling completely apart. I began to suspect that he was thinking about the tempo in such a way as to create problems for himself as he played.

As it turned out, his self-imposed obstacle wasn’t a lack of clarity of tempo (he wasn’t dragging or slowing), nor of rhythmic conception (he demonstrated to me that he could sing the rhythms of this passage quite accurately).

Instead, it was his subjective reaction to what he defined as a “fast” tempo.

I discovered this after asking him a few things about how he was thinking:

“Why does it always seem to fall apart there?”, I asked.

“I’m not sure. It’s actually quite easy to play at a slower tempo. It just seems to get tricky when I try to play it at a fast tempo.”, he replied.

“What is a fast tempo?” I further enquired.

“When I’m practicing at home, it seems like it gets fast at about quarter note equals 138.”, he responded.

So I broke out the metronome. And sure enough, he was fine until that “breaking point” of 138. Then I had him play it at 132 and everything was fine: accurate, beautiful, lively, clear.  I asked him his perception.

“No problems. Like I said, it’s not difficult to play at slower tempos. And I thought to myself, “132 isn’t that much slower than 138.” But what I observed as he played at this slightly slower tempo helped shed light on the real problem.

The most significant thing I noticed as he played it at this “easier” tempo was how differently he was using himself as he played. His eyes looked calm, yet lively. His neck and shoulders looked more spacious and elastic. He looked more mobile and fluid, less “planted” and rigid. In Alexander Techique slang, we’d say that he was using his primary control (head/neck/back) in a more constructive, helpful way.

I had him notice how free and easy he was as he played. (Being a good Alexander student, he could notice this quite readily.)

Then we brought the tempo back up to 138. And everything changed.

His eyes became fixed, almost fierce looking as he knitted his brow. His shoulders began to narrow as his neck stiffened slightly. I asked him to notice this. (Again, being the good Alexander student that he was, he could do so readily.)

“Why do you think you change how you’re using yourself so noticeably?”, I asked.

His reply: “Because now I think I’m playing fast. And the thought of playing fast seems to tempt me to do certain things.” He just solved the mystery.

So we began to work toward getting him to react differently to the thought of playing “fast” in this particular passage.

The first thing he did was to redirect his thinking as he played in such a way as to prevent himself from physically responding in his “fast tempo” habitual way (no tense neck and shoulders; no glaring eyes and knitted brow).

In the Alexander Technique, we call this ability to consciously prevent unwanted tension  inhibition. It is a skill that is cultivated over time by studying and applying the Technique, and this particular student has developed his ability to “inhibit” quite well.

This redirected thinking made a noticeable difference in the outcome. Much less tension, better precision in execution of the passage.

But then we did something else. We started playing some games with the metronome to “trick” him about his perception of the tempo.

For example, I had him play the passage (continous sixteenth notes in 4/4 meter) as if they were eight note triplets. We started at quarter note equals 130 and gradually moved the metronome tempo upwards. The passage felt to him very easy and clear when approached as triplets. Before long he was playing the passage at quarter note equals 180 with considerable accuracy.

He didn’t have time to do the math to realize that he was actually moving the notes faster than he was able to do before.

I immediately had him go to quarter note equals 138 and play the passage as it was originally (in sixteenth notes). He was able to play easily and consistently at this tempo. Laughing, he said, “The tempo feels slow now. If feels like I have time to think.”  (He laughed because he realized that he just tricked himself in a good way).

This change in his perception of the tempo helped him to get out of his habitual thinking, and helped support his wish to keep the excess tension in check as he played.

In truth, there is no “fast” or “slow” when it comes to tempo. “Fast” is just an opinion (an adjective of judgement, if you will), as is “slow”. There is no absolute measurement for either. All there is is the objective measurement of beats per minute. There is just relativity between tempos.

So when you’re practicing or performing, don’t think, “Here comes the fast part.” All you’ll probably do is tense up unnecissarily and create unhelpful conditions in yourself to play the passage.

Think instead, “I have time.” That will help (if even a little bit) to keep you from going into tense anticipation of the music. It’s this tense anticipation that not only creates mechanical disadvantages in your body as you play, but also, puts your brain into an unclear state of a mild “panic”.

Let go of the idea of “fast” or “slow” and replace it with the more objective and measureable “clicks per minute” on the metronome (or whatever source you’re using to establish tempo).

And by all means, start using the metronome in such a way as to keep you thinking differently in how you perceive tempo and rhythm every day. Using your body well as you play and being flexible in your perception will reward you with measurable benefits.

Your Equipment: Keeping Things In Perspective

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Musicians and their gear. The topic itself brings up endless stories (not to mention debates), no matter what instrument you play.

As a saxophonist, I’m not immune to sometimes misunderstanding the role of my equipment with respect to my musical ability. (Many of us saxophonists love going on endlessly about instruments, neck pipes, mouthpieces, ligatures, reeds….)

But I always come back to this simple, truthful mantra (I’ve heard declared by some of the wiser saxophonists I’ve come to know here in Los Angeles):

“Your equipment either gets in your way, or gets out of your way. “

And it is as simple as that. You make the music. Your equipment doesn’t. It either interferes with your musical imagination and inspiration, or it doesn’t.

(To be clear, I’m not talking here about metronomes, apps, music stands, microphones, cases and such. I’m talking about the music making part of your gear, e.g., instrument, mouthpiece, strings, sticks, etc.)

Here are two extreme points of view about equipment that can lead to problems:

1. “My equipment is primarily responsible for my musical results (therefore, I’m not).” Musicians who think this way tend to always be looking for some new miracle piece of gear that will solve their problems. They’re always changing things (mouthpieces, instruments, etc.) in an eternal quest to find something (skill) that  can only be attained through intelligent, mindful and disciplined musical study.

They’re also quick to run to the repair tech the moment they’re having a bad day practicing. (It can’t be something I’m doing! It must be the horn.) The problem with this attitude is that it takes the responsibility for successful results off the shoulders of the player. By doing so it stifles the development of skills, and leads to endless frustration (not to mention expense!)

If you find you’re always looking for the “next best thing”, do yourself a favor and stay with one thing for a good while. Learn to really play on what you have before you venture off to find something new. Come to know exactly how this particular bit of gear is holding you back. Try to understand as clearly as possible the role of your equipment in relationship to your role as the player.

2. “If I’m having difficulty playing my instrument, it must be entirely my fault.” The other extreme is to blame yourself exclusively for everything that you don’t like about your playing. Sometimes it really is and equipment issue. Maybe the mouthpiece you’re using actually is unsuitable for your instrument (and/or your anatomical make up, and/or your musical conception).

People with this attitude don’t visit the repair tech enough. (I’ve been guilty of this myself sometimes.) If they’re struggling to play it must be them. As admirable as that attitude is (taking full responsibility for results), the truth of the matter is that sometimes you just need to get your instrument repaired. Not doing so leads to frustration, stunted development (not to mention what it does to your self confidence!)

Whether an ill-suited piece of gear, or an instrument in need of repair, in both cases the equipment is “getting in your way.” If you lean towards always blaming yourself, make it a habit to try different instruments, mouthpieces, etc., from time to time on a timely basis. And try to see a tech regularly, even if things seem fine. (I make it a point to visit mine every 2 months. I’m so glad that I do).

And if you are even reasonably sure that some bit of your equipment is defective, worn or has in some other way gone wrong, don’t take it personally. For example, if you know you’re playing on a dying saxophone reed, don’t morph that fact into the absurd notion that your sound has mysteriously changed for the worse because of something you’re doing wrong all of the sudden. Just find a better reed. Then get on with it.

As a final thought, regardless of your relationship to your equipment, the most important thing of all to remember is that you are the primary instrument. As I stated above, you make the music. So in this respect, take care that you are operating at an optimum level when playing.

As a teacher of the Alexander Technique, my job is to help musicians improve the quality of how they use themselves as they use their instruments to make music. If , when you play, your neck and shoulders are overly tense, your breathing forced and noisy, your legs are stiff and unyielding,  then you’re never going to get your best results.

Take responsibility for yourself first, find equipment that gets out of your way (and take care of it, too!), practice mindfully, and get on with the business of improving as a musician (and enjoy playing that much more!)

The Positive Power Of Saying “No”

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The word “no” often gets a bad rap, especially in the realm of self-improvement. Saying “yes” opens and expands the possibilities goes the conventional wisdom, whereas saying “no” closes or limits them.

I’d say that’s mostly true.

Except sometimes saying saying “no” opens up unexpectedly wonderful possibilities.

As a teacher of the Alexander Technique (and as a musician who applies the Technique to my practice and performance) the ability to effectively say “no” is the most powerful tool I  know of to make profound and lasting changes.

How could that be?

Let’s start with what it is I’m saying “no” to.  With saxophone in hand, the moment I think about playing a single note, my brain readies me for the task. It does so by “pre-firing” the muscles involved in playing the saxophone. I’ll call that my habitual response. (And yes, we do need habit to play music or to do just about anything else, for that matter.)

In the past my habitual response would be to tighten my neck, pull down into myself, stiffen my shoulders and suck air in noisily to inhale. I would also narrow my focus and shift my attitude into an almost warrior-like fashion, cutting myself of completely from anything except the thought of playing.

Much of that “pre-fired” pattern of muscular response was not only unnecessary to playing my instrument, but also, inefficient and harmful. 

What also came along with this habitual response was trouble. Besides the neck, shoulder and back pain I was getting, I was also developing some serious coordination issues that threatened my playing career.

Then I discovered the Alexander Technique. I immediately realized that for me to change these now debilitating habits, I had to learn to effectively say “no” to my habitual response to playing the saxophone. To make a very long story short, I have learned, and my playing has not only dramatically improved, but I continue to be edified and continue to cultivate my artistic expression by going deeper into the power of no.

You see, when you say “no” to your habit, you say “yes” to the possibility that something different will happen. You actually expand the possibilities.

When I learned to say “no” to all the tension and struggle I was bringing upon myself, I became free to play more in accordance with my imagination and intentions (and I continue to cultivate this freedom).

I teach classes in the Alexander Technique at the American Musical and Dramatic Academy in Los Angeles (part of a BFA and conservatory program for singers, actors and dancers). In one of the first class sessions, I have the students explore the power of no by playing a simple children’s game, called Simon Says.

As you probably know, Simon Says is a game in which “Simon” (in this case, me) gives various commands that you must carry out (like raising a hand, for example). But you can only carry out Simon’s command if he precedes it by saying “Simon Says”. If you carry out the command without Simon saying “Simon Says” you lose.

I’ve become very good at being Simon, and can usually stump an entire class of 12 students in no time. Then we talk about why the lost and we begin again. After playing two or three more times, I can’t stump anybody. They’ve all mastered the winning principle of the game.

And this winning principle is to stay in a constant state of saying “no” to oneself until the time is right, until Simon says. (In Alexander Technique jargon, we call this  conscious state of “no” inhibition.)

The most interesting thing to me as I play this game is how the students appear differently from start to finish. In the first round, their eyes are focused and narrow. Their shoulders and necks are tense. Lots of breath holding, too. They’re all in what I call a “hyper-reactive” frame of mind.

By the time we get to the third round (mind you, I stop between each round and give them some guidance) they look completely different. Soft faces, calm eyes, easy breathing, freer necks and shoulders. They look poised.

I tell them, “Now you are in a state of true readiness. You’re calm but alert. This is a great state to be in when you perform.” For many of them that’s a revelation. Performance mode has always been a hectic, tense scramble. Now it is anything but.

I usually have one or two of them perform right after this. The results are often stunningly different. Easy, powerful, authentic performances. This becomes the door that we use to explore performance for the rest of the semester. Saying “no” begins to have a powerfully positive meaning to these students.

As a jazz artist, I can usually hear (and see, if it’s a live performance) when an improviser is in this “no” state of mind. Certainly Miles Davis was in this state most of the time when he played, as was Lester Young.

To be clear, it’s not a dead and passive state of mind. It is an active state of mind that allows you to say “yes” to good things that might happen. Yes to joyful surprise. And that’s good for both artist and listener.

I’d say that when I’m in finding good flow as I’m playing (when I’m in the zone) that I’m in a perpetual state of no. It’s as if I’m waiting patiently for the music to come through me. It’s a beautiful thing.

So notice how you react as you go to play your instrument. Do you prepare to play that first note by tensing up and narrowing your focus? What happens to your shoulders and neck? Do you stiffen your legs? Your arms? Does your attention narrow or expand? What happens to your breathing?

If you find that your starting with too much tension, practice saying “no” to yourself as you begin again. See if you can reduce that tense response even a little bit. If you’re persistent in this endeavor, you’ll be delighted in how you can improve.

Bringing Things Within Reach

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“A journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step.”

-Lao Tsu

My conception of what makes effective musical practice continues to evolve. I keep the ideas and principles that help me, and shed those that don’t. The one principle that I never lose sight of (because it always helps!) can be stated in the form of a question:

What is the main aim of my practice?

The answer:

I want to give myself constructive experiences as I play my instrument.

Yes, for me, it’s as simple as that. I want to give myself constructive experiences...

The more I adhere to this principle, the more skill I gain as a musician (and the greater my sense of self efficacy becomes).

So what are “constructive” experiences?  They’re when I’m practicing with clear intention, and not doing these two things:

1. I’m not creating unnecessary tension/misdirected effort in myself as I play (in the most basic sense, not stiffening my body or letting my mind race ahead).

2. I’m not playing something that is too far outside of my reach (I’ll clarify what I mean by this this in a bit).

Now, both of these things are clearly related: As I play with less misdirected effort I’m able to bring more things within my reach. As I bring things within my reach, I’m able to play with less misdirected effort, and with a clearer, quieter mind (a more constructive quality of attention).

When I’m using myself well (that’s an Alexander Technique term meaning I’m working most efficiently in my body and with my attention, relative to the task at hand), and I keep what I’m working on within reach, I’m having a constructive experience, and very productive practice session.

And that’s how I continue to improve.

Let me clarify  here what I mean by “bringing things within reach”. To improve my playing skills I have to reach beyond what I can already do. (That’s obvious.)

But I must be very mindful about how far I reach. If I don’t reach far enough (or at all) I’m just maintaining the status quo. Not much chance for growth (nor for real satisfaction).

On the other hand, if I reach too far, I actually minimize my learning because I’m not able to give myself the necessary affirming psycho-physical experiences that can produce positive change.

If I keep doing things the “wrong” (unwanted, unhelpful) way, I just strengthen this pattern of “wrong” in my brain and body. This can lead to frustration (and is why a considerable percentage of my clients seek my help).

So in a practical sense, I could also say that the aim of my practice is to bring the “unreachable” gradually into my reach. To do this, I convert all the things I work on into bite-sized pieces of things I can handle. (And I suggest you do, too.) Here’s how:

  • Learn how to stop- Get comfortable with not trying to push past (over and over and over…) what you can’t do. Not only is it okay to stop, it’s fundamental to your growth. Stopping is a gift, not an obstacle.
  • Notice yourself-Are you unnecessarily tensing up as you try to push past what you can do? Check your neck, shoulders and back. Check your legs and feet. Notice your breathing (or breath holding, as the case may be). Ask yourself to let go of some of that misdirected effort.
  • Assess just how far out of reach the task is in the moment-Is the tempo way too fast (or slow)? Is the range impossibly difficult? Is the key (7 flats!) seem like an impenetrable jungle? To all these (and more), ask yourself, “How much so?” “What would I need to do to make this playable right now?”
  • Learn the art of regression. (This is necessary in order to address the two questions above.) Go to specifics: Tempo change? Stopping more frequently? Turn off the metronome? Easier key? Singing (or speaking) the passage instead of playing it? Strive to be creative in helping yourself.
  • Bring the challenge down. Way down-For example, if the tempo is impossibly fast, cut it drastically, far slower than you think you need to. Let yourself have a few successful experiences with the material. Cultivate the desire to increase tempo based upon your growing self-confidence, not on your sense of obligation. (“I feel like I can play this faster” instead of, “I should be able to play this faster”.)
  • Move it to the outer edge of your reach-Gradually. Make sure you’re keeping the aim in mind of creating good experiences as you practice. This is where learning how to stop is crucial (see above).
  • Bring it back within your reach-When you step too far, gently step back. Reaffirm your skills.

By bringing things within your reach (as you reach beyond what you can do), you’ll continue to improve.  I”ll leave you with this cautionary definition of “insanity”, often attributed to Albert Einstein:

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.”

I would modify that definition to say that, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again in the same way expecting a different result“. And to do things differently you have to start by thinking differently.

Improvising: Why You Need To Be Comfortable Taking Risks

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The phrase, “comfortable taking risks”, sounds a bit like an oxymoron. After all, if you feel comfortable doing something, are you actually taking risks?

The answer is:  “it depends”.

One the one hand, I think of my dearest friend, Mark, who for many years risked life and limb (literally!) as a lineman for an electrical power company. He was quite used to this work, and felt reasonably comfortable doing it, in even the most precarious conditions.

On the other hand, there are folks who do things that seem quite risky (not necessarily physically dangerous) to the uninitiated, when in reality they are taking almost no risks in carrying out the activity. Improvising music can fall into that category.

Ask most classical musicians about the process of improvising, and 9 out of 10 will probably tell you how scary the concept seems. Without a doubt these folks would be uncomfortable attempting to make music without the “script” of notation. Too risky.

Yet the world is full of improvising musicians who have consciously worked toward minimizing the risk of stepping into the unknown. They predominantly strive to “sound right” in a consistent way.

They manage this risk through particular techniques in practice coupled with a certain attitude in performance.  To me, these improvisers sound polished, clean, and to be honest… somewhat lifeless and uninteresting.

Lot’s of packaged ideas (licks, patterns, inflections, etc.) that fit neatly together, forged through lots of practice.

Yet the greatest jazz improvisers (the ones that the above mentioned folks admire most) were (and are) all about taking risks.

In jazz, if you listen to Lester Young, to Miles Davis, to Sonny Rollins, to Thelonious Monk, to Jim Hall, to Sal Mosca, to Ethan Iverson, to Chris Potter, to Mark Turner, to….you’re hearing musicians who are comfortable with risk. You are hearing musicians who gave (give) self-expression higher priority than a polished sounding performance. Their music is full of life and (to me) consistently exciting.

Yes, even a “polished” sounding improviser like Jim Hall was risking it all the time. Why do I think this? Well, it’s because he was always finding new, unchartered territory in his solos. Endless development of beautiful, melodic ideas. You can’t simply fall back on a bunch of heavily practiced licks and improvise like Jim Hall.

And Sonny Rollins is always on the verge of getting into trouble as he plays. The other night I was listening to his classic recording, The Bridge, and I could here that tightrope-walking edge in his creativity.

But I would venture to guess that Mr. Rollins was as comfortable as could be playing that music. He sure sounds like it. His time, tone, melodic sense, rhythmic imagination….all there, all the time. And all being delivered with discovery, spontaneity and surprise (to both the artist and the listener).

I would say that the great improvisers all have this in common: They trust that their muse will take them where they need to go, and they don’t need to know where that is, moment to moment.

Like a cat, the greats always know they’ll land on their feet. And they always do.

And therein lies the conundrum: to improvise authentically, deeply and creatively, you have to take lots of risks; yet you’ll not be inclined to take risks if you’re not comfortable doing so.

If you’re not willing to risk, you’re not letting yourself fully emerge as an artist (as a creative human being). And then you do risk (no pun intended) sounding polished and clear, yet lifeless.

So how do you get comfortable taking risks as you improvise?

First, change your perception of risk by changing your aim.

If your main goal when you improvise is to “sound good” (whatever that might mean) you’re probably not going to be too inclined to stray too far from what you already know all too well. (There’s nothing wrong with wanting to sound good, by the way. It’s just that over-emphasizing this wish can put you into a fearful frame of being, and rob you of the opportunity to make some wonderful discoveries.)

But if you change your aim from, “I want to be right”, to, “let’s see what happens”, you open yourself up to possibility and playfulness (the quality of playfulness is of HUGE importance, no matter how serious you may be about your music; just listen to Sonny Rollins!) You’ll be less inclined to judge yourself harshly, and will even be more open to moving the music to places you never imagined.

Second, take care of yourself as you play.

As a teacher of the Alexander Technique, much of what I help my students understand is how thought affects bodily tension, and how this bodily tension in turn influences thought. It’s like a loop:

To play freely you need to be free in your body. To be free in your body you need to address the various kinds of unconscious habits of tension you have as you play (this is where the Alexander Technique is so helpful). Here are a few questions to ask yourself in order to check your own unnecessary tension:

“Is my neck free? Or am I scrunching my head downward into my spine as I play?”

“Is my breathing noisy and forced?” 

“Are my shoulders free? Or am I stiffening and narrowing them?” (Remember that your hands are connected to your arms and your arms are very much conditioned by how your using your neck and shoulders.)

“Are my knees locked?”

“Are my feet taking the weight of my body as I play? Or am I stiffening my feet ankles and toes, perhaps rolling my feet to the sides?” (If your sitting as you play, make sure you’re sitting in balance, with your head lightly poised at the top of your spine and directly over your pelvis.)

In particular, notice how you react when playing or practicing as you step into the unknown (unfamiliar key, sight reading, new chord changes, etc.) Do you react by tensing in the areas I mentioned above? If you notice you do, you can work toward consciously preventing that (again, this is where an Alexander Technique teacher can really help).

So as you explore your improvisational art, I encourage you not only to take risks, but also, to smile and release tension as you do so. Welcome and enjoy. If you practice this concept, you’ll be happy with what you discover.

I’ll leave you with this thought (paraphrased here) by the great pianist, Lennie Tritano: “When you’re improvising, the music is already there inside of you. You just need to listen for it and allow it to come through your hands.”

The music really is already there inside of you. And that’s ultimately why taking risks is really not risky at all.