Tipping the Scale

There are two buckets.

The first bucket collects the sumptuous, brilliant "correct" notes you play. Even some of the notes you wish to play differently may be technically correct. They go into the first bucket as well. One at a time the correct notes collect, tipping the scale away from the empty bucket.

On occasion, we tend to play "wrong" notes. Physics, physiology, and psychology rear their ugly heads* during performance to prove their worth. As a result, rogue notes happen. In the second bucket are a handful of these musical malfunctions.

Think back to your last live performance.

You surely had the first bucket overflowing with good notes, the second with a few others.

However, we tend to give so much more weight to the wrong notes and ultimately create a psychological impairment that spirals into chaos.

To be clear, 95% right notes, or an A does not make for a good performance. A greater percentage is generally required, as demonstrated around 2:25 here. This is a bit of an extreme example.

Think back to the last live performance you attended. It's incredibly likely you heard wrong notes. At the same time, I hope you heard a well prepared, passionate performance.

Remember, your goal is to keep an overall perspective and prevent the dangerous cycle of focusing on the occasional clammed note.

To accomplish this, two separate personalities are required- one for the practice room and one for the stage.

The first analyzes, the second demonstrates without passing judgment. Learning versus sharing. As you exit the learning phase, practice the performance phase. When it becomes time to take the stage, you are focused on what matters. (More on this in future blog posts).

Sharpen your awareness on what you're trying to say musically and the number of notes in each bucket will cease to be relevant.

The scale is already tilting in your favor. Trust the process.


Inspired by William Allaudin Mathieu and his wonderful books.


*Much love to my colleagues in the ugly-headed disciplines

Visit my website at www.jameswdoyle.com

Don't Do This!

With an upcoming gig of smashing* (see below) cymbals together for a couple of performances of Orff's Carmina Burana, I am reminded of the time I was fired for doing such a thing. To be clear, it wasn't my musicianship that got me in to trouble but something much more hideous... my egregious attitude.


Here's the story:

(The ensemble, conductor, city, and time period in my life shall remain anonymous)

I'm killing it in the final rehearsal of a very gratifying concert run, playing enjoyable repertoire with a very good anonymous ensemble. We are reading everything down and I'm nailing my timbre choices with impeccable timing, tasteful balance and blend, and feeling, shall I say, utterly confident about my abilities, my career choice, and my art. There's nothing I'd rather do than play music, and the fact I was getting financially compensated meant I'm obviously a fully accredited professional. Life simply couldn't be better.

Then the moment which shall forever live in my mind, in the deepest, darkest recesses where pride and shame reside to do battle with one another for eternity. Okay, perhaps I'm slightly overstating the psychological effects of the incident, but here I am, an anonymous amount of time later recounting the incident with perfect mental clarity. I'd say the moment was quasi-defining. I'll leave it at that and get on with the story....

As the anonymous ensemble reaches a climactic moment in this anonymous composition, the typical anonymous composer from the typical anonymous time period wrote a dramatic cymbal crash at the pinnacle of the work. On this gig, it's my job to punctuate it with a dynamic cymbal crash, perfectly blended with the ensemble, timed to perfection, and with ridiculous, perhaps unfathomable amounts of tone color. In my hands are the perfect pair of cymbals for this very crash and in my soul are years of technique for this very refined instant.

I make it happen.

I look over at my anonymous colleagues in the percussion section and they nod with approval... perhaps even envy.

I selfishly look throughout the ensemble to see if anyone else was impressed by the artistry I just dropped on the rehearsal. Perhaps an eye from an anonymous violinist.

I smile to myself, let the drama sink in, and begin to plan my entire future playing more crashes in ensembles the entire world over. This is my gig. My calling.



Then for some inexplicable reason, the conductor stops the ensemble and says, "Mr. Cymbals, I need you to hold the cymbals up in the air after you hit them like this so everyone can see them."

Confusion sets in. A sense of panic. First of all, I kept my family name at birth and "Cymbals" isn't very Irish sounding. Then I think, is he really talking to me? Considering what just took place, the only words he should be uttering to me are "bravissimi" or "give the man a raise." What is going on? I immediately second-guess the sound I created and whether or not it was sufficient for "Mr. Baton's" taste. However, that's not consistent with his statement.

So I ask, "Is there a different sound you are looking for?"

He responds, "just hold the cymbals up in the air after you make the crash so we can see them."

I coldly reply, "I am certain the audience will see the cymbals just fine. If you want a different sound, tell me, but if you want me to look different, I'm not going to alter my technique."

A staring contest ensues....

He finally summons the response, "Do as I say."

I retort, "No."

Tension wafts throughout the ensemble, and then with the diplomacy of a U.N. Peacekeeper, the personnel manager announces our break.

My blood pressure is through the roof, but I held my ground. How dare this clueless conductor tell me how I should look when I play. Would he question how the clarinets sit? If he felt the urge, would he tell the bassists to use a German grip versus French? I don't think so. Me, 1, conductor, 0.

As I'm collecting my thoughts and wondering where the rest of the percussion section disappeared to, I see the personnel manager bee-lining in my direction.

We'll say the conversation was less than cordial.

To make an already long and painful story a few paragraphs shorter, I was allowed to play the two concerts and would never be rehired. Conductor, 1, Me, 0.

No, I didn't change how I played the crashes for the concert.

Would I change how I handled the situation?

Emphatically, YES. How arrogant I was. How humbled I quickly became.

Did the conductor handle himself well? Probably not. But it really doesn't matter.

We strike some sort of artistic or technical compromise all of the time.

The bottom line is to be mature, professional, and realistic. Play the gig, serve the music, and if the artistic and professional expectations are unreasonable, courteously bow out of the next opportunity.

There are countless ways this episode should have been addressed.

Simply put, don't do what I did!



*smashing with great artistry, finesse, and countless hours of practice and performance. However it's still just hitting two plates of metal together. At least it's not making flatulent sounds with your lips into plumbing (i.e. brass players).


Visit my website at www.jameswdoyle.com

5 Ways to Survive a Painful Performance (as an audience member)

Surely you've sat through an excruciating performance with no hope of escape. Our modern day distraction, the smartphone, isn't socially acceptable in the concert hall (although, that rarely stops audience members) so we're forced to either:
a. Suffer in silence
b. Have a game plan

Here are my top five lifesaving distractions:

1. The Toe Rudiment Challenge
Practice all 40 PAS Rudiments... with your toes. Go in order and see how quickly you can burn them. Caution: Loosen shoes before beginning as swelling may occur. Also works with gluteus muscles. Proceed with caution.

2. Death by Polyrhythms
Perhaps you've seen a woodwind player in an unconscious moment air-fingering through a difficult passage during conversation. Their fingers wiggle quietly and no one seems to notice. The same can be done with polyrhythms. If you're lucky enough for the performer(s) on stage to be keeping time, you can lock into some good practice of 3 against 4 against 5 (your toes are already warmed up so get them involved).

3. Meditation
Nothing but upside. Breath control, stress management, focus, and energy conservation are all part of musician's daily lives. It takes practice to go to your happy place. Do you really carve out an hour or two of your day to practice meditation? As an audience member in a cruel and unusually punishing recital, launch your meditation practice. For a "how to," I'm a fan of Thich Nhat Hanh but there are hundreds of other Zen masters with a book to sell you.

4. Create Poetry
Limericks are the best. Use your fellow audience members for inspiration. "There once was a man with bad odor..." What rhymes with odor?
If you want to be a little classier, try Haiku. If you need help, this link should do it. Immediately notate your gifts to humanity on the back side of the program once the concert has concluded. Celebrate with a tasty beverage.

5. It Could Be Worse
I just finished reading Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption and clearly, a bad concert isn't torture. However, some survival tactics may apply:

a. Try and determine why the performer(s) have chosen to torture you. There are countless reasons that may or may not include sadism. Chances are, they aren't prepared for the performance. Try and diagnose their performance maladies and develop a treatment plan.

b. Plan your escape. An exit through the same doors you entered lacks creativity. Could you cause a distraction? Low crawl? Chisel through the floor beneath your seat? The more bizarre, the better. At least 5 minutes of the performance can be expended planning the great breakout.

c. Maintain physical activity... in your chair (see number one and two). The same applies to flights during that awful period where you are forced to stow away all portable electronic devices. Here are some seated exercises. Bring a towel.

d. Stay positive. There's still much to live for after the concert. There may be punch and cookies.

What are your tried and true survival techniques?

Visit my website at www.jameswdoyle.com

Perseverance. Use it.

The answer to a successful career in music is perseverance. An obvious prerequisite is musical proficiency, but seriously... we've all heard and seen performers/composers/educators/etc who lead us to think, "I can do that...and better."

Persevere five years after school and you've probably outlasted many of your peers*. A few years of hard work and you'll realize you can do it.

Your gigs get better, your reputation grows, your music and business skills evolve, and you're making a living as a musician. There's nothing more rewarding.

The challenge is, the work never ends. If you're driven, you'll never feel as though you've arrived. You're always looking for the next gig, recording project, commission, connection, or new opportunity.

Embrace it. Enjoy the challenge. Make career planning and development part of your routine and enjoy the ride.

Thanks to composer Jenni Brandon for inspiring this post. Check out Jenni's great music at www.jennibrandon.com


*As a side note, this statement isn't passing judgement on those who leave the music business. Life and career changes happen. Ask around... how many sociology, psychology, education, etc graduates are working in their field?