Promoting Mental Health Through Teaching the Meaning of Our Work

   I have been meditating lately on the state of mental health for college students, particularly music students because this is my primary lens.  Students seem to searching for meaning in the things that they do, and at universities this also means the work that they are required to do, perhaps against their wishes.  There is a simultaneous hunger for purpose and a desire to only do what they already see as meaningful.  I don't mean this in a mean or sarcastic way.  Rather than some kind of "you kids get off my lawn!" I'm simply making an observation that I believe is important in understanding what is happening with students today, and we cannot even pretend to try and help them if we don't first try to understand their perspective.

A Transcendent Experience

My first transcendent experience making music was when I was a junior in high school, playing in the Massachusetts All-State concert band, under the direction of John Paynter.  We were rehearsing Fred Fennell's transcription of Elsa's Procession to the Cathedral.  I knew nothing of Wagner at the time, and my classical music experience was limited to school band and handful of records that I grew up with.  In this rehearsal, I had tears streaming down my cheeks for reasons that I could not understand.  It was like the music was pulling my heart up into my head.  It was somehow painful longing and healing catharsis, all in one.  I struggled to wipe my face without getting caught, when I noticed that others were also crying, including band directors that lined the walls of the rehearsal room to observe.  It opened a door inside of me that I would never be able to close.  I knew that this was the kind of experience that I wanted to have with music.  I have chased those experiences ever since, and not just with music.

Embracing Emotional Vulnerability

By the time that I arrived at music school, I had an agenda.  I wanted to open that door wider.  And wider.  I wanted to bring my friends with me, through the looking glass.  I wanted to feel the creative process as deeply as possible.  While my mental, and physical health was not always great, and sometimes it was pretty terrible, I never lost track of my internal compass for truth in music making.  When I got lost in the weeds, it was almost always about trying to play what I thought people wanted to hear.  It was about trying to impress or to qualify for the cool kids club.  That kind of performing is always hollow, and we sometimes pose for the audience in a completely subconscious way.  But when we play so that people will love us, or at least accept us, even when it works, we are left with a feeling of failure.

I had some incredible teachers that cared almost entirely about the process.  They taught me that failure is an inevitable part of getting out on the ledge, and that failure will be our best teacher.  They shared their own failings.  I slowly learned that true art, and good teaching, can only exist in that zone of uncomfortable honesty.  You can't walk through that door; you have to physically hurl yourself through it with your eyes closed and your limbs flailing.  You have to risk everything to tell your story in your own language.  It doesn't matter if that means howling like an animal or violently spraying paint on a canvas.  It has to be real.  Even if you are performing Bach (or Wagner for that matter), you have to take chances and listen to the stuff that makes your heart explode in your chest.  I am not being dramatic here.  You have to somehow appear to be effortless while being a hair's breadth away from crashing and burning in front of everyone.

I got this idea pretty early on, even though I didn't always live up to the challenge.  It is difficult to resist the urge to make an "easy kill" with cheap tricks and flashy technique.  I can still succumb to that pressure, although I always feel badly about it afterwards.  But by the time I was nineteen, I recognized that I was only going to crack myself open by accepting the wisdom of my teachers, even when their advice sounded like total bullshit.  Sometimes it turned out to be crap after all, but I had to figure that out for myself.  I knew that I couldn't teach myself the technique without submitting to the mastery of my mentors.  It was through acceptance of my own limitations, and embracing my own inability to immediately understand, that I found my way as an artist.  I released myself of my own opinions and preferences, so that I could steady myself on the path that leads forward, instead of the circular path of worshipping my own ego.

Earning Trust

Looking at contemporary students, I see that they have a lack of trust in their teachers.  Some of this is a direct result of "teaching to the test," where their teachers are forced to say things like, "I know that this is stupid, but you just have to do it on the test."  Our children are not idiots.  They recognize hypocrisy when they see it.  This makes it even harder for them to accept the seemingly contradictory realities that we face in high-level learning.  They have less trust in their teachers, but even less faith in the system itself.  The Zen master that speaks in riddles that are intended to shift us into meditation on the universe that is absolutely critical to finding meaning in whatever we do is becoming an impossible barrier for the student that has no belief in the long and winding road to begin with.  There is a large and important difference between "learning to pass the test," and learning the rules so that they can be artfully broken.  Young people have more difficulty believing in the struggle to learn difficult concepts because they have less reason to trust the test.  This lack of faith makes it nearly impossible to find meaning in the work, leaving them depressed, angry, or detached.

What can we do?

Firstly, we have to make sure that they have mystical experiences.  We have to invite them into a world where beauty expresses itself in ways that we cannot hope to understand.  That can mean performing with them, conducting research with them, or coaching them through work that is just slightly above their heads.  Next, we have to engage them in conversations about finding meaning in doing the work.  I'm talking about setting aside time, even if that means less time for other things that seem vital to the learning process that is already compromised by a dearth of resources, to directly talk about the deep, philosophical issues that surround our disciplines.  We have to show them why we do what we do, understanding that this might be a tough sell, at least at first.

When Yusef Lateef told me that I should listen to Lester Young, and I told him that I was dubious of what seemed to me to be old and simplistic playing, he took most of a lesson to share with me stories of him repeatedly sneaking into clubs to hear Prez, and getting thrown out because he was underage, and then crouching in the window well to even catch a glimpse of the master.  He had tears in his eyes.  His honesty and passion caused me to question my own opinion of Lester Young, and that internal cross-examination made way for the door to open.  To this day, Prez is a major source of inspiration to me.  I needed to be told that my opinion was wrong, and to be told in a way that raised doubt in my stubborn, youthful mind.  I trusted my teacher because he invited me into his transcendent experience.

I have always found solace in my work, not because it is a distraction from our hopelessly imperfect world, but because it keeps me organized with my eyes on the impossible goal.  I like to use the analogy of Herrigel's Zen in the Art of Archery, where we must forget about hitting the bullseye and focus on perfectly drawing the bow and loosing the shot.  The endless quest for perfecting technique makes the target irrelevant.  In the end, the dignity of sincere labor that leads to a meaningful life is food for a healthy mind.  Practice, teach, and be well!

Saxophone Gear and the True Source of the Sound

As an established professional musician and professor, I have the luxury of trying many different products, including some interesting prototypes.  I am committed to being the best musician that I can possibly be, and I have always enjoyed tinkering, so all the different tools and toys that have passed through my studio have helped me to learn a great deal about how things work, and something about human nature.

When I started my career, things were much simpler.  A serious saxophonist could choose a vintage horn, or a new model, but there were really only a few brands that were any good.  The same was true for mouthpieces and reeds. You had a few options for ligatures, and even fewer for neck straps. Saxophones were mostly made of brass and you used the neck that came with it, and the screws were generic.  Nobody had carbon fiber or cocobolo anything.

This is not to say that we didn’t mess around with gear.  Some folks were always chasing a Mark VI with a certain serial number, spending big bucks on the “Michael Brecker” mouthpiece, or discovering a boutique brand of reeds that they would briefly romance before moving on.  But that was usually just one or two people in a whole class of saxophonists, and they had to have the money to blow on risky, and often expensive experiments.

The 21st century ushered in a new age of affordable manufacturing and a democratized market for reaching customers.  We have so many choices, even within a certain brand. Selmer alone offers the Series II, Series III, and Reference horns, and more models of mouthpieces than I can remember.  I endorse RS Berkeley, a brand that I had never heard of until around ten years ago. I have several of their after-market necks, music medic pads and resonators, and boutique neck screws.  I have more mouthpieces and ligatures than I could ever use. I also have numerous tools to adjust reeds and to measure and reface mouthpieces. My “neck strap” doesn’t even touch my neck, thus the name “back strap.”

Some of this madness was self-induced by curiosity.  A number of products were given to me for testing, and I use quite a few of them with regularity.  I try to be as objective as possible by making recordings, taking measurements, and giving blind demonstrations to my peers.  I admit that sometimes a product makes me feel good, or it just looks cool. It is dangerous to go too far down that path, but I do believe in the “Dumbo’s feather” effect.  I am also willing to admit that not every cool product works, no matter how much I want to believe. So, what have I learned?

Music comes from the person.  Everything else is a tool, and you need the correct tool for the job at hand.  You don’t want to use a sledgehammer when the job calls for a soft mallet. For that reason, I tend to change mouthpieces and ligatures to best suit the musical situation.  There are very few tools that are universally useful. The only exception that I make is that I chose horns that will allow me to do everything, given the necessary modifications with mouthpieces and reeds.  The sound is always the most important thing, with ease of use coming in a close second. There are also many modifications that can be done DIY for very little cost. I have done some fine tuning on certain notes with cork crescents, and several of my students use “doughnut” mutes and have done the panty hose trick on their octave vents.

Although I tend to be pretty steady in the equipment that I use over time, there have been experiments that put new sounds in my mind.  I have carried those colors with me, regardless of the equipment that I use. There have also been a few eye-opening experiences with gear that brought permanent change.  (For example, I will never use a stretchy neck strap again, and I only use a conventional strap on soprano.) As long as the experimentation doesn’t get in the way of actual practice, the only real harm will be on your wallet.  Just remember that long tones and deep listening will do more for your musicianship than any fancy accessory. The music comes from you and it only passes through the machinery after you have created it in your mind!

My Lessons with Colgrass

   Michael Colgrass, the Pulitzer-winning composer, came into my life at a critical moment.  I was a young professor, desperately trying to prove myself while managing family life (I had a toddler at home and a baby on the way).  I was practicing myself into physical and mental injury on a regular basis, and those injuries had slowly leaked into my personal life at an alarming amount.

After performing Colgrass' "Urban Requiem" with extensive rehearsals under his supervision, he reached out to me when I was at an all-time low.  He recognized that I was sourcing my value as a human being entirely from my musicianship.  He introduced me to the following life-changing idea:

"Who you are" is separate from "what you do."

By self-identifying as "saxophonist," "teacher," or even "husband and father," I was failing to allow for the possibility that the self is transcendent from the roles that we play in our lives.  A good performance, a career accolade . . . none of these things make you a better person.  Even more critically, no amount of failure can reduce your worth as a person.  None.  Ever.

Michael gave me a copy of his book "My Lessons with Kumi."  I read it,  and I faithfully did the exercises in the first few chapters.  This completely changed the thoughts and behaviors that surround my work.  I began to rewrite the neural circuitry that was causing me to be unhealthy in my practice and performance.  I teach these methods to my students on a regular basis, with the understanding that they require regular, disciplined practice to take effect.

I stayed in touch with Michael over the years, letting him know how my practice was going, and telling him how grateful I was for his mentorship, even if it was long-distance and mostly through the book.  I wrote him once to tell him that I had used "squeeze fingers - bzzzzt" to center myself when my garage was flooding into my house during a torrential storm.  He congratulated me for finally mastering the technique to the point of being able to use it under severe stress.  It felt like I had completed my Jedi training, if only for a few moments.

My first experience with Michael's music was when I played bass clarinet on his "Winds of Nagual" at the University of Massachusetts, under Bill Rowell.  I had never even played bass before, and I struggled to play the part, but the music was transformative.  A decade later, I found myself working directly with the composer.  Michael Colgrass is now a part of my musical and teaching DNA.  He is also singularly responsible for teaching me to protect my true self from the ups and downs of my career.

In the 16 years since my first dance with his "Urban Requiem," I have meditated extensively on the lessons of that experience.  The biggest realization for me is that we must enjoy the process of preparation, and prepare as vigorously as possible.  Only then can we fearlessly throw ourselves into a performance.  By knowing myself as a person, and insulating my value from "what I do," I am able to safely risk everything in the concert.  The gift is that we can make ourselves vulnerable on the stage, to be completely open to our fellow musicians and to the audience.  "What we do" can reveal "who we are."

It is an honor to perform "Urban Requiem" once more, and this time with my incredible students.  It is my personal farewell to a man that gave me an immeasurable gift in my work, and in my life.  Rest well, Michael.  On Wednesday October 23, 2019, we will ring the bells for you.

https://jmuforbescenter.com/events/2019/10/21-cmf.shtml

Teaching Creative Interpretations of Baroque Repertoire

A number of years ago, I wrote a social media post seeking anyone that was teaching baroque style and making improvisation an integral part of the process.  The responses were varied and interesting, but fell short of finding any evidence that this is happening very often, if at all.

I took some time to approach the idea with my students, but I discovered that they lacked the background in harmonic-melodic theory to make good stylistic choices, but more importantly, they simply weren't familiar enough with the style to actually improvise in a meaningful way.  Much in the way that young musicians have difficulty making their improvisations sound like authentic jazz, it is impossible to be creative in the baroque style without having a deep knowledge that can only come from extensive critical listening and analysis.  With a little work, I was able to get a student to add a couple of his own ornaments on a Telemann sonata, but it wasn't exactly the level of creativity that I was aiming for.

Realizing that they key is listening, which should have been obvious to me from the beginning, I set out to find creative recordings of baroque flutists.  I became quite smitten with Mario Folena's virtuosic work with Festina Lente, so I decided to carefully study his recordings.  Their work on Giovani Platti's sonatas is particular creative.  You can find it here:

https://www.amazon.com/Platti-Sonate-flauto-traversiere-continuo/dp/B00DI653V4

In the same way that I have studied jazz recordings, I spent many hours listening and transcribing.  I also listened to many other recordings of Platti and made notes on different interpretations, ornamentations, etc.  After several years, I felt ready to work up a new piece and apply some of things that I had learned.  I decided to learn the famous A minor Sonata for Unaccompanied Flute by C.P.E. Bach.  Of course, he is really associated with the Classical period, but I felt like this was a good vehicle for a creative interpretation, and I have always enjoyed hearing the piece performed by student flutists at James Madison University, where I teach.

Undoubtedly, so-called purists will criticize what I have done here, but I am pleased with this performance.  From an interpretative perspective, I purposely took some risks and threw caution to the wind.  For my purposes, this would only work if I allowed myself to be a little reckless, so I went for it.  Playing music that predates the invention of an instrument essentially negates an "authentic" performance anyway, so I tried to say something that relates to my musical experiences as a saxophonist. Rather than to drone on, you can listen to the third movement here:

Performing this in public gave me the confidence to begin teaching my students to approach this kind of repertoire with much greater responsibility in listening to authentic recordings on period instruments.  Student saxophonists have a tendency to only listen to other saxophone recordings, and the pitch differences in period instruments make the process even more challenging than with more modern music.  Nonetheless, I strongly believe that this is the only way to unlock a personal approach to any style:  developing a deep knowledge from extensive listening and analysis.

Although I am only in the very earliest stages of this new approach to teaching, the results from even a single semester were dramatic.  My excellent student Tim DeSimone performed a Platti sonata on his recent jury.  He made his own decisions about ornamentations, and he even improvised a few.  What made his performance so compelling, from my viewpoint as his teacher, is that it was never obvious that he was improvising.  He played very well within the style.

I plan to continue this experiment and will post again with updates.  I am hopeful that this will grow into a regular part of my teaching, which will also require that I continue performing works of this nature.  Practice well!