Death Wishes and Improvisation

Bill Cosby has famously associated teen boys with brain damage.

Living proof of this statement walked into my studio this afternoon when George arrived at his lesson with a sprained wrist.

A failed skateboard rail grind down a fourteen-stair had caused this wannabe Tony Hawk to Superman right into the sidewalk. Only Cosby’s maxim can explain the phenomenon that causes adolescent male humans to willfully defy well-established laws of physics over hard concrete.

In the best of times, it’s still like yanking the proverbial fingernails to motivate George to practice. Now that he’d crippled himself, what was I supposed to do for his lesson?

I tried everything: flashcards, music theory, right hand sight reading. Finally, I was just about to break out the “Music Symbol Bingo” game that I keep in reserve for those desperate moments with six-year-olds, when it occurred to me to show him some chord cadences. George seemed to find it interesting.

So interesting in fact, that right there, before my very eyes, he began to religiously repeat the improvised patterns over and over to get it just right. It looked dangerously close to (egad!) actual practice.

If, in fact, George wises up and stops trying to maim himself on a flying, wheeled platform over cement steps, we may have stumbled (so to speak) on a solution for his habitual lack of motivation. Perhaps spending some time in improv is the key to piquing his interest. If, however, he insists on pursuing self-destruction, I can only work with those limbs and digits that still function.

Rusty

After more than four years of piano study, Megan decided to take a year off.

Ok, that’s a lie: I took a year off.

A couple of months ago, however, I suddenly realized to my utter horror that my Starbucks vanilla bean frap fund had run dry. I urgently needed to supplement my government warehouse pittance.

“Ok, Megan, when do we to start classes again?” I asked her in passing one day.

A week later we were sitting at her piano, and I watched in shock as my former wunderkind hunched over her keyboard like Quasimodo, twisted fingers pounding the keys in hideous cacophony. She had gotten—oh, dare I say it?—rusty.

I panicked.

Immediately, I put her on an emergency prescription of all the major and minor scales, arpeggios, and cadences, supplemented with a heavy dose of Hanon’s Le Piano Virtuose. She was not even to look at the piano without using the metronome. And if she could convince a doctor to surgically implant it in her brain, even better.

For sight reading, we reverted to the beginning of her adult method book, burning through six or seven short pieces a week. She wasn’t to bother getting them to performance spec—just get the notes under her fingers and move on. I had her hand-copy Bach’s Minuet in G for theory review, identifying terms and chord sequences (more on this subject in a future installment), and then start preparing it as a potential performance number.

A month and a half later, Megan’s command of the keyboard in all the keys is much smoother, and in Hanon we’re starting to crank up the metronome as her control allows. She has recovered proper posture, thanks to my frequent ruler brandishing. We’re slowing down through her method book and spending a little more time on interpretation. Megan has been released from the ER. Rustiness is in clinical regression. Recuperation is nearly complete.

Note: Megan is not her real name.

What I expect from you...

1. Feedback. How would you teach it?
2. Resources. Which sites do you find most helpful? I'll add it to the links gadget.
3. Answers. If I get stuck on a theory issue, I expect help! I'm not going to pretend I know stuff I don't.
4. Questions. Find yourself in that same position? Throw it into the mix! I'm going to market this blog fairly aggressively, so we'll soon accrue a good body of knowledge.

Hacks Like Me

Let's face it.

Few of us have an M.A. in music ed or an expansive penthouse studio that caters to future Carnegie Hall divas.

We banged away at the piano for a few years and somehow learned to read notes--as long as they stayed out of the ledger lines. We went onto jobs at Navy warehouses, print shops, or accounting offices. Maybe we still sat down to play every once in a while.

One day, we got nostalgic and walked into a music store. We tried out some of the instruments--bashful at how rusty our playing had become. We realized we kind of missed it.

Then someone asked if you knew a piano teacher.

You said, "Uh, not really."

One thing led to another, and next thing you knew you were showing junior middle C. You were embarrassed to charge them.

Now you're on first-name basis with the local music store sales guys, you have several students, and you have no compunction asking them to pay you a month's lessons up front. And you still hold down a day job that has little to do with music.

If this is you (more or less), then you're at the right place. This is a forum for sharing our real-life experiences and tips. If you're an Eastman grad, you're welcome, too. Just don't get cocky, 'cause we're a rough, working-class crowd.

I'll be posting regular blogs based on real-life teaching situations. I'll tell you what I did. You can either tell me what an incredibly wise music educator I am and how you wish you were me, or what a dunce I am and how I should have done it.

I'm really excited about this blog. See you around!