Building A Better Right Hand

Everything Matters

2012-03-03T20:15:00.001-05:00

This was an intense week of practice. I’m doing fewer repetitions during each practice session, but I’m far more explicit in what I think about with each repetition. My reasoning is thus: there’s little point in running repetitions if I’m not precise about my goals. Remember, I’m trying to do something I’ve never done before. So if I run on auto-pilot during repetitions, I’m merely doing what I already can’t do. That’s counterproductive. Instead, I want to reinforce things that will bring me closer to my goal.

The more I do this, the more I realize that every little thing matters. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can be left unexamined. I must cast a suspicious eye on everything I do as a player.

Consider the compressed Galliard I’ve been working with:

Here’s what I think about on each repetition. On this part:

...I strive to be exquisitely precise as I cross from one string to the next. As I finish the last note on one string, my finger must line up perfectly for the first note of the next string. It can’t be halfway between one string and the next. Rather, it should be perfectly set for the new string. There’s a feel to this that’s hard to describe—I think of it as being “into the string” on each note. I know that’s a vague description for someone trying to understand what I mean, but it means something specific to me. I strive for that feeling on every repetition. On the quarter note at the end of the measure I consciously relax my hand.

On this part:

...immediately after playing the bass note, my thumb sits down between the fifth and sixth strings. I do this for two reasons: it damps the fifth string (and any sympathetic vibration of the sixth string), and it steadies my hand for the following sixteenth notes. On the dotted eighth I consciously relax my hand. For the sixteenth notes I dig in a bit for both musical and technical reasons. I want this scale to sound aggressive, and again I want to get that “into the string” feel. As in the previous measure, I consciously relax my hand on the quarter note at the end of the measure.

On this part:

...I consciously relax my hand at each eighth note. I also consciously relax during the upward shift, being careful to not allow any residual nervousness about a long shift to make me tense. (I’ve found that even a simple long shift can dredge up an unconscious, almost atavistic tension.) Throughout this entire part, my right hand thumb is carefully choreographed:
• Immediately after playing the half note D, my thumb prepares on the fifth string.
• Immediately after playing the tied quarter notes A, my thumb prepares on the sixth string.
• Immediately after playing the G, my thumb prepares on the fifth string.
• Immediately after playing the last quarter note A, my thumb prepares on the fourth string.
• After playing the tied dotted half D, my thumb sits between the fifth and sixth string. As before, this damps both strings and steadies my hand.
• As my fingers approach the third string note, my thumb comes off the strings and stays off for the remainder of this passage. This allows my hand an unimpeded crossing on the lower strings.

Throughout this long passage, I’m alert to whatever tension creeps in as I play. Do my shoulders tense? Do I clench my jaw? Does my a finger become rigid? Does my breathing become irregular? If any of these things creep in, I try to dissipate them as I play.

• • •

Let me be clear about what I’m trying to accomplish through this nit-picking. By no means do I want to think like this for the rest of my life every time I play a fast scale. Rather, my goal is think this way on every repetition until this level of detail becomes a reflex. At some point, all this will become automatic. But for it to become automatic, I must for now concentrate on thinking about these things on every repetition. Merely repeating a scale passage absent-mindedly does no good. Doing that, I’ll merely reinforce what’s never worked for me. To ingrain a better way of playing, I must hold a specific ideal in mind until it becomes my normal playing.

I’m sometimes told that I think too much—just let go and play. I don’t buy it. If I can’t play the way I want to play, then I can’t wait for the Good Technique Fairy to sprinkle magic dust on my head. I have to painstakingly rebuild my technique bit by bit.

This reminds me of an old philosophical paradox:

“What if nothing matters? Or worse, what if everything matters?”

To a nihilist, perhaps, nothing matters. But to a good musician, everything matters. It’s not easy, which may explain why, in a world full of guitarists, relatively few of us are virtuosos.

——[My next update will be March 11, 2012]——

February 25 Video Update

2012-02-25T18:46:00.007-05:00

This was the week I decided to get something above 90 on video. Monday was a day off from work, and I decided to make a video of the Mudarra Galliard. That morning during my right hand practice session, I’d hit the Galliard at 92. So that afternoon I set up the camera and warmed up on the guitar. Then I’d run a few takes, pick the best one, and upload it. Piece of cake.

I turned on the camera and played for about ten minutes. When I thought I had some good takes, I got up to turn off the camera. It was then that I noticed it wasn’t recording. Dammit! Examining the camera, I found it had recorded for a few minutes, then shut itself off. Did I have too many old files cluttering up the memory disk? Thinking this was the problem, I deleted every old file I could find. Then I started again. Looking up at the camera between takes, I found it again had shut itself off after a few minutes.

Great. Now I apparently had a defective camera that would run for only a few minutes. I again deleted the recording I’d made—there was nothing good enough to keep—and started over. I began running through the Galliard knowing that the camera would stay on for only two or three takes. This made me edgy. My playing devolved as my anger increased. Finally I gave up. It wasn’t going to happen on this particular day. I broke down the camera gear and put away my guitar. To cool down, I took a walk.

Mulling this fiasco as I walked, I saw that I’d let my emotions sabotage my playing. I couldn’t allow this to continue. To develop a consistent technique, I needed to better control my reactions to bad circumstances. After all, concert artists constantly have to deal with less than perfect situations: bad halls, noisy audiences, broken nails, strings that refuse to stay in tune, et cetera. The best artists make the best of it and play well. The bad ones pitch a fit and play badly. While I’m no concert artist, I’d like to model myself on what the best concert artists do. And I don’t want the quality of my technique to depend on however I happen to feel at the moment.

Tuesday, I took another crack at making a video. Knowing the camera would give me only a short window of opportunity, I decided to run takes of the scale section of the Galliard. I wasn’t yet ready to hold my emotions in check for the entire Galliard, so I’d leave that for another day.

The result of this session is on the video below. The first take on the video is at a metronome setting of 92—the second take is at 94. I did five takes at 92, which explains why you’ll see me say “that was five” on the video. The fifth take wasn’t the best, but it was right before the good take at 94, and that’s why I used it.

My next goal is obvious: get the entire Galliard on video, preferably at my target tempo of 100. I’m working on it.

By the way, there’s nothing wrong with my camera. Turns out it had a lot of old files that didn’t show up on the camera display, but did show when I hooked it up to my computer. I deleted the old files. So the next time I try to get a good performance on video, I’ll have more than a few minutes to get it. That should improve both the quality of my playing and my blood pressure.

——[My next update will be March 4, 2012]——

In Praise of the Metronome

2012-02-19T14:44:00.000-05:00

My alternation in the 80’s seems well established, so I’m gunning for the 90’s, with an occasional foray into the 100’s. At the end of this month I’d like to have a video of the Mudarra Galliard at 92. But getting this on camera will be like trying to catch a glimpse of the Lock Ness Monster. To get it on video, I’ll likely need to do many takes. I’ve considered doing some of my morning practice sessions in front of the camera. Then if lightning strikes, it’ll be on camera.

Technical progress is a shape-shifting thing. It often comes in stages. First, I can’t do it at all. Then I begin work, barely knowing exactly what I’m doing, but trying things I’ve been told by others. If I’m lucky, there comes a brief flash when I almost do it—of course it flits away immediately, but now I’ve the tiniest window into the correct feel of what I’m trying to do. That encourages me, and I soldier on. Next, I get to where I can do it, but not consistently, and certainly not in front of an audience. Again, I soldier on. In time and with a lot of hard work, I have in hand something that moves me forward as a player.

None of these stages are clearly discrete from one another. In fact, there’s seldom an “eureka” moment when I obviously cross from can’t to can. Rather, it’s more like one day I stop and say: “Wait a minute, didn’t this used to be impossible for me?”

As I run repetitions above 80, I’m more and more trying to simulate a performance mindset. Rather than endlessly running repetitions one after the other, I’m treating each repetition as an individual performance. I’m trying to recreate the “one and done” reality of guitar playing. A technique that crumbles under pressure is worthless. So it’s time to ratchet up the pressure.

I’ve also begun adding a modest collection of right hand studies at the end of each session. Brouwer’s Nos. 6 and 7 from Estudios Sencillos make an appearance, 6 for arpeggios, and 7 for string crossing. (I also like 7 for its weirdness—it sounds like music from another planet.) A couple of Giuliani studies are in there, and also Carcassi’s Op. 60 No. 7. And sometimes I top it off with Villa-Lobos Etude 1 and the Carulli Fandango.

I’d like to close with a defense of the much maligned metronome. From time to time during my project I’ve been advised to ditch the metronome. I find such advice odd, particularly coming from musicians, and especially coming from guitarists. There often appears a fundamental misunderstanding of what the real value of a metronome is for a practicing musician.

First, I’d like to dispense with an argument I’ve seen repeatedly. It’s illustrated by the following exchange, where I wrote:

“Really, there’s no fundamental difference between keeping up with an orchestra and keeping up with a metronome.”

...which prompted this reply:

“There is a fundamental difference, otherwise we would be happy with computers playing everything without those annoying mistakes humans make in live performances. The metronome may have a pulse but it doesn’t breathe.”

Try as I might, I can’t understand why someone thinks any musician needs to be told this. Yes, the metronome is inflexible. That’s not a secret—everyone who uses a metronome knows it. To tell a musician that a metronome is inflexible is tantamount to saying that you’re talking to an idiot who can’t tell the difference between a tempo set by a living orchestra and a tempo tapped out by a machine. That may be so. But isn’t it more charitable to assume that the musician you’re talking to perhaps has something less idiotic in mind?

Which brings me to my main defense of the metronome. I don’t see the metronome as something that teaches me how to keep a steady tempo. It may, but that’s not its real value. Its real value is that it trains me to be objective about my playing. Rather than relying on my internal and subjective sense of tempo, the metronome forces me to attend to something outside myself. I must match my playing to something that cares not a whit for my problems in executing a particular passage or technique. Either I can do it, or I can’t. The metronome immediately tells me. There’s no negotiating, begging, or wheedling with it. And that’s what I mean when I say there’s no fundamental difference between keeping up with an orchestra and keeping up with a metronome.

Speaking of the metronome, I once attended a performance of György Ligeti’s Poème Symphonique. For those unfamiliar with it, this is a piece in which 100 wind-up metronomes are set a-going. The piece ends when the last metronome stops. While I might quibble with its definition as a musical work, I must admit it was an oddly mesmeric spectacle. I also recall that some in the audience were taking bets on which metronome would be the last to run down. In my opinion, Ligeti missed a potentially lucrative opportunity to exploit this aspect of his composition.

——[My next update will be February 26, 2012]——

Believing Is Halfway to Doing

2012-02-11T18:32:00.000-05:00

This has been another good week. On the Mudarra Galliard, I’ve been hitting 80 pretty reliably. On Thursday I hit it cleanly at 92, something I’ve never done before. Whether I can hit it under pressure is debatable. I’ll try to get it on camera at 92 by the beginning of March. So 2012 is being good to me so far. Maybe even numbered years are my friends.

I wouldn’t say that 2011 was a total washout. If nothing else, it’s made me intimately familiar with the tension that inhibits my right hand speed. Indeed, on any given day I can pinpoint exactly where the cutoff is that delineates my relaxed hand from my tense hand. This week, for example, 80 was no problem for my right hand rest stroke alternation. I felt relaxed, and my playing was clean and accurate. At 84, I could still manage it, but I could feel the tension beginning to brew along my shoulders and creeping up my arm. At 88, the tension hit the tipping point to where I could no more reliably do alternation. On any given day, these numbers can vary. But this is now how precisely I can gauge what I can do.

Counter-intuitive as it may be, this is a good thing. I can’t change what I don’t know. If this tension went unnoticed, I’d be hard-pressed to work at eliminating it. But now I know it well. And knowing it, I’m well on the road to resolving it.

With a foothold on 80 well in hand, I’m now aiming for the 90’s. I’ve noticed that when I try alternation at 92, the 80’s seem easier, even if my try at 92 didn’t go well. It’s all part of my determination to expect success. Call it the Tinkerbell Theory: to fly, I must believe. Certainly there’s nothing gained by pessimism. If I don’t believe I can do something, then I’m already halfway to not doing it.

This week I got a telling demonstration of how attitude influences technique. While running the Galliard at 92, I had a brief lapse of concentration and botched the left hand fingering halfway through an extended scale passage. While the botch was brief, it triggered a flash of anger—with that anger my hand, which until then had felt reasonably relaxed, suddenly tensed up and butchered the rest of the passage. Stopping for a moment, I made a mental note to heed the lesson my body was trying to teach me. Overreacting to mistakes inhibits technique.

So grow up and stop pitching a fit whenever something goes wrong.

——[My next update will be February 19, 2012]——

Practicing Under the Drill

2012-02-04T18:37:00.000-05:00

This was a surprisingly good week. First, I was able to pretty consistently hit the Mudarra Galliard scales in the 80’s. More importantly, I cracked 90 with a few good performances.

Part of the reason, I think, is that I’ve started to attack my lengthy warmup problem. As I’ve reported in the past, it takes far too long to get my right hand up to speed. So I’ve begun each session this week by trying to get my alternation speed up to 80 within ten minutes. I’ve long suspected that much of what we attribute to a need to warm up is actually more psychological than physical. In other words, instead of a physical warm up, I need to be quicker and more deliberate about snapping my concentration into focus.

Some years ago I got a glimpse into how quickly a concert artist can shift into performance mode. Before Jason Vieaux became as busy as he is now, I sometimes played duet gigs with him. One of these gigs was a summer outdoor party. Because we were background music and no one was paying close attention to us, Vieaux would occasionally cut loose and improvise rather than follow what was written in his part. Doing so, he’d sometimes flub a note or two—nothing horrible, but flubs nonetheless. After finishing one piece, he’d apparently flubbed one note too many. I heard him mutter to himself “okay, stop fooling around.” As we began the next piece, it was like he’d flipped a switch and gone into full-bore concert artist mode. Every note was clean, and every rhythm was crystalline. I recall thinking that this is what it’s like to play alongside a world class concert artist. (I also recall thinking that I’d damned well better keep up.)

Clearly, attitude is half the battle. So part of my practice sessions are now devoted to improving my attitude toward speed. Rather than viewing speed as a far-off goal, I’m instead cultivating the mindset that I fully expect to do this, and also that it shouldn’t take long to warm up my right hand. This by itself seems to be paying off right away. I’ll keep at it.

In keeping with my goal to change myself, I’m now experimenting with relaxation in situations other than guitar playing. This week I had two visits to the dentist. When the drill is bearing down into my back molar, my tendency is to white-knuckle my way through the experience. What better time, I thought, to practice consciously relaxing myself. While my success in doing this varied—I’m not intrinsically stoic—it’s in keeping with my gradually increasing certainty that all is one. What I do without the guitar influences what I do with it.

Yes, one can improve one’s guitar playing even while cowering in a dentist chair.

——[My next update will be February 12, 2012]——

Stuck At 80

2012-01-29T20:28:00.002-05:00

Today was a busy day, so this entry will be brief. I’m now pretty consistent with i and m alternation at any tempo below 80. Past 80, things get dicey. On various days, the Mudarra Galliard has gone okay at 84, and sometimes even 88. But I wouldn’t trust it in a performance situation. And above 90, it just ain’t there.

All of this is only after a warmup of about ten or fifteen minutes. Starting cold first thing in the morning, I begin at 50 and rapidly increase the tempo. I dislike that I must begin so slowly, but my hand just isn’t there from a cold start. So it is what it is. It may be that I’ll never be the player who can pull the guitar out of its box, tune up, and then immediately rip a scale at 160.

Running open position scales across six strings, I’ve found that I can hit 100 on occasion. That’s nothing to throw confetti over. But it’s something.

The more I work on this, the more obvious it becomes that a good part of the barrier between me and speed is psychological. Whenever I try the Galliard at 90 or above, my hand, arm, and both shoulders tighten up. This ingrained tension, I’m convinced, is deeply rooted in my personality.

This reminds me of something I’ve noticed about profession auto racers. Back in the 1970’s, I was assigned by my college newspaper to get a photo of Janet Guthrie, the first woman to compete in the Indianapolis 500. To get a good action shot, I sat in the passenger seat as she drove through a slalom course. As the car was heaving from side to side, Guthrie was very cool and economical with her steering. Being relaxed behind the wheel is obviously a job requirement for a professional driver. Contrast this to a poor driver who freezes in a sudden emergency and careens off the road into a ditch.

People who freak out in dangerous situations make bad drivers. People who tense up when playing fast make bad guitar players. There’s no way around it. To become a better player, I must become a different person.

I’m Back

2012-01-21T18:54:00.002-05:00

Sorry for the delay. A family medical emergency came up. But things are taking a turn for the better, so I’m able to get back to my self-improvement project.

The first year of this project seems a blur of experimentation and unfulfilled expectations. Nonetheless, I’m optimistic for the new year. I can’t help it—I’m an incurable optimist. Which reminds me of the joke about the optimist who fell off a 100 story building. As he passed the 37th floor, he said to himself: “Well, so far, so good.”

Picking up where I left off, I’ve been running slowly increasing reps of the scale passages in the Mudarra Galliard. I start at a metronome setting of 50. I then creep up the metronome until I hit a wall. At the moment, that wall is in the area of 80. Encouragingly, however, on Friday I played the Galliard cleanly at 88, and did a passable performance at 92. Whether I could do that before an audience—or even for a video—is questionable. But progress is progress, so I’ll take it.

I should explain why I’m sticking doggedly to a single piece for so long. To me, it makes sense to have a piece so thoroughly familiar that the only problem with it is the problem on which I’m focused: right hand alternation speed. Nothing else about the Galliard is problematic, so it makes it easier to tease out whatever subtle things are preventing my right hand from gaining the speed I’m aiming for.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve decided to zero in on the following things during right hand alternation:

• Fingers should move very directly, both as they drive through the string and as they return for the next stroke. Under no circumstances should I allow the tension of the string to deflect my fingers from this direct flexion and extension. That means no sidepulls, and no riding along the length of the string.

• Take advantage of every opportunity for micro-breaks. Consciously release tension in my right hand at every opportunity, however brief.

• Be extremely precise with right hand string crossing. When crossing from one string to the next, be sure the finger is snug to the string on the very first note after the cross.

• Control anxiety as speed increases. I’ve noticed that when the speed goes up, so does my anxiety. I need to consciously break this vicious cycle. Tension caused by anxiety is just as real and debilitating as tension caused by bad technique.

• Don’t neglect left hand accuracy. When a left finger isn’t snug to the fret, it squeezes harder to avoid a buzzed note. That excess force can easily spill over to the right hand.

During every minute of practice, I want to work at deeply ingraining these things into my playing. If the first year has taught me anything, it’s that I must become a different person from what I’ve been in the past when playing the guitar. More of the same won’t get me where I want to go. I have to rewire myself both physically and psychologically.

I believe most people vastly underestimate how important and difficult this is. Imagine an emotionally unstable child trying to learn how to fly an airplane. You can teach him all you can, but in the end, you still have an emotionally unstable child flying an airplane. That won’t end well. The only way to improve the odds that the airplane won’t crash is to put someone else in the cockpit—someone older and more emotionally stable.

The old me has reached his ceiling on the guitar. So here’s to the new me, better than the old me. The only way to build a better right hand is to build a better man. And may he arrive soon.

——[My next update will be January 29, 2012]——

Notice

2012-01-16T13:10:00.001-05:00

For those who are wondering why I haven’t posted anything this month, a family emergency has come up. But things should settle down by the end of this month. So I hope to be back on track soon, and am looking forward to making more progress on my project.

I apologize for the delay. By the way, I’m aware of the irony that my one year project is entering its second year.

Hiatus

2011-12-18T20:26:00.004-05:00

‘Tis the week before Christmas, and I’m goldbricking. My right hand practice sessions have been sporadic. Frankly, I think I’m suffering a temporary burnout. So I’m shutting down this blog for two weeks. I’ll come back to the task with a renewed spirit in January. Perhaps the new year will bring better things.

But lest you think I’m down, allow me to review the last week or so. A week ago Saturday, I performed with two of my young students in a recital—one of them did his first performance in front of an audience. On Monday, a thirteen year old student of mine played for a masterclass at the Cleveland Institute of Music run by graduate students of Jason Vieaux. She performed Villa-Lobos Etude 8, and I’m told she did very well. (I couldn’t be there, as I was working that evening.) On the same day, I learned that one of my adult students was selected to perform for a Vieaux masterclass in January. (I sent him and e-mail saying that if he played well, he might get a full ride to the Curtis Institute of Music. He wrote back that he always appreciated my sense of humor.) Tuesday I had a group of six beginners perform for an audience of over 1000 people at a Catholic School where I teach. In a delightful coincidence, I found afterward that at the same moment I was onstage with my students, a former student of mine was doing her Master’s recital at the Peabody Conservatory. Saturday I went to Guitars International to help my thirteen year old student select her first handmade guitar. With her new Vazquez-Rubio spruce top in tow, she, her father and I then had dinner at a nearby restaurant and discussed her future, as she’s recently decided that she wants to pursue music as a career. This morning one of my students and I performed for a Christmas program at his Baptist Church. (If you want to get your blood going on a cold Sunday morning, a Baptist service will do nicely.) And tomorrow morning I’ll visit the school of a first grade student of mine, where he and I will play for his music class.

All in all, it’s been a good week and a half. Times like this remind me of why I love my job. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, though I might trade my paycheck for that of a hedge fund manager.

Merry Christmas to all, and I’ll see you in 2012.

——[My next update will be January 2, 2012]——

The Nitty-Gritty

2011-12-11T18:18:00.002-05:00

During my student years at the Cleveland Institute of Music, I recall a class in which a student had just played. In this performance, there was a passage that recurred several times. Each time the player flubbed it. The teacher then asked the player about that passage. “Yeah, I have trouble with that part,” said the student. The teacher asked him what was the problem. “I just keep missing it,” replied the student. The teacher asked him again what was the problem. “I don’t know, it’s just always been a problem,” replied the student. This went on for a few more rounds, the teacher asking what the problem was, and the student giving vague replies.

Finally the teacher explained that the student needed to be far more specific. It wasn’t enough to merely acknowledge a problem. To solve it, the student first needed clearly define it. Was it a right hand fingering problem? Was it a left hand fingering problem? Was it a memorization problem? Until he did this, he was likely to keep repeating the problem. Short of clearly defining the problem, it wasn’t going to solve itself.

So this last week, where I tried to tweak the Mudarra Galliard up to 80, I also tried to drill deeper into the mystery of why anything at 80 or above wasn’t working. What I found was that I had to pay attention to more nit-picky things.

The Galliard has four separate passages with sixteenth notes. Each is different from the others. The first passage is thus:

For me, the main problem is a smooth and easy cross from the second string to the fourth string. Pivoting from the elbow alone doesn’t work for me. I find I must float my right forearm so that it barely touches the guitar, moving from both the elbow and shoulder. I also must coordinate the crossings so that my right hand fingers are precisely set for each string. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve swung and missed a note on the fourth string.

The second sixteenth note passage is thus:

This is the only passage on which I don’t use rest stroke. While the right hand fingering is a tad tricky, it usually causes me no problems. That’s not surprising, as I’m more comfortable with free stroke, and there are no big string crossing issues.

The third sixteenth note passage is thus:

Here all the notes of the scale passage are on the first two strings. I can post my right hand thumb on the fifth string, and everything goes fine. This is the passage I can hit must consistently.

Here’s the last sixteenth note passage:

This, of course, is the longest scale passage. And it’s the one that, more than the previous three, keeps me from comfortably playing the Galliard at anything above 80. As I wrote in my December 4 post, I need to be precise about where I place my right hand thumb during this passage. But drilling deeper, I found more. In a fast passage of some length, I must constantly be aware of a build-up of tension in my hand. Practicing this passage slower, I decided to take advantage of the natural breaks. At each eighth note, I relaxed my right hand before going on to the sixteenth notes, consciously letting my hand “go dead” in the instant before playing the following sixteenths.

This is an application of something I’ve learned to preach to my students over the years. I call this idea “micro breaks.” In it, the guitarist constantly tries to find moments within a difficult piece in which he or she can relax either hand. Rather than unthinkingly allowing tension to grow during a long performance, the player instead pins down every little place where either hand can release tension, however fleeting that instant of relaxation might be.

This is hardly a secret among good players. Some years ago I attended a recital by Raphaëlla Smits. During a particularly difficult piece, she came to a passage where she briefly played an E minor arpeggio on open strings. During this moment, she let her left hand fall away from the fingerboard and briefly stretched her fingers, as though relaxing her hand. The gesture was short and unobtrusive, so as not to distract the audience from the music. But to a player, the purpose of this movement was obvious: it allowed Smits an instantaneous break to relax her left hand. I’m willing to bet this was something she’d consciously practiced when learning the piece. I’d also bet that this was merely the most obvious example of something she does many times within a long and difficult piece.

During this project, I’ve occasionally been told that I think too much. “Let go,” I’m told, and just let let my natural instincts take over. But for one involved in remaking oneself, this is bad advice. When it comes to my playing as it is, my instincts are wrong. My instincts must be torn down and rebuilt.

Renovation is harder and more time-consuming than building from scratch. Boy, can I tell you a thing or two about that.

——[My next update will be December 19, 2011]——

December 4 Video Update

2011-12-04T15:22:00.002-05:00

As promised, below is a performance of the Mudarra Galliard for my monthly video report. As you’ll see, it’s at a fairly slow tempo. But for now, I don’t feel comfortable with right hand alternation at anything above 80. My goal for the Galliard is 100. I’ve tried that a few times during my morning practice sessions. It’s just not there yet.

On the plus side, I’m pleased that I made this video in one take. I did a ten minute warmup session, and then turned on the camera, fully expecting my first take would be a disaster. Instead, I got what you’ll see. That’s encouraging, because throughout this project I’ve found that what I work on during my morning practice sessions seldom translates into something I can reliably do in normal playing. Mind you, I’m not dancing in the street over this—it’s a slow performance, only three-quarter speed of what I want this piece to be. Nonetheless, it’s nice to see all this work starting to yield some improvement when the pressure is on.

During my morning sessions, I’m starting to notice that string crossing is becoming more of an issue. For example, I now find that if I don’t precisely plan where my right hand thumb is during certain passages, then my alternation isn’t smooth and easy. For example:

At point A, my thumb rests on the fifth string, and this keeps my hand stable and relaxed as the scale stays on the first and second strings. At point B, however, my thumb between bass notes must float freely above the strings—if it doesn’t, my hand tightens up as I come to the one third string note in the scale.

Further, in this passage:

...I must cross from both the shoulder and elbow rather than the elbow alone. If not, my hand tightens as I cross to the third and fourth strings. So in any right hand alternation on more than one string, I’m being very careful to monitor anything that increases right hand tension.

• • •

Friday night I had the pleasure of hearing Matt Palmer in recital. He’s a young guitarist who’s been making a splash lately with the three finger approach to right hand alternation. He’s also written a method book on this, which I’ve mentioned in my blog. Unfortunately I had a gig that night, so I was only able to catch half of Palmer’s recital. But what I heard confirmed my favorable impression from his videos. He’s a very fine player, and his scale work is impeccable. Indeed, I think the right hand three finger approach to scales will become standard technique within the next generation of players. And I think Palmer’s example will do much to push this along. His scales are so clean and supple that any reservations about the three finger technique will melt away upon hearing him.

Palmer’s bio and interviews always seem to dwell on his early years as an electric guitar shredder. I find this unfortunate. It suggests that one should expect machine-gun scales and bad tone from Palmer. But this isn’t at all how Palmer sounds. Rather, he’s a tasteful player with an excellent ear for tone and color. I spoke to him briefly during the reception, and found him to be a thoughtful and down to earth person. If you have a chance to hear him, do so.

Palmer is a tough act to follow, but here’s my video anyway. Enjoy.

——[My next update will be December 12, 2011]——

Mother Nature Didn’t Kill Me—Yet

2011-11-27T18:24:00.000-05:00

The cold is gone, and I’m back on my feet. That which did not kill me made me stronger, or at least restored my ability to type. So let’s pick up some loose ends.

First, I want to point out something that I keep forgetting to mention in my posts. For the last two months I’ve been doing the kind of practice that, in years past, forced me to stop because of right shoulder pain. Yet this time around the pain, though slightly noticeable, is nowhere near what it was in the past. In fact, the reason I kept forgetting to mention it is that it’s so slight that I barely notice it. This encourages me. At the outset of this project I said I’d use this pain as a barometer of how well I was doing. More pain means I’m on the wrong track—less pain means I’m on the right track. I believe the approach I described in my October 30 post is mostly responsible for my freedom from pain.

Second, I’ve been mulling over a comment I received on my February 12 post. The more I think of it, the more I agree with the advice that I should rebuild my right hand slowly and patiently. Next week, for my end of the month video, I plan to perform the Mudarra Galliard. It won’t be at what I regard as a good performance tempo. Rather, it’ll be a baseline for my (I hope) future progress.

Short report this time, as I need to put the finishing touches to a letter of recommendation for one of my former students. Since Christmas is approaching, I thought I’d end this post with a video this former student and I made a few years back. She was sixteen at the time. Today she’s working toward her master’s degree in guitar performance. Geez, time flies. Anyway, enjoy. (And please, no comments about my old right hand position, as I’ve improved it since then.)

On Sick Leave

2011-11-20T17:12:00.001-05:00

Been down with a cold the last few days. Assuming I recover, I’ll be back up and typing away on November 27.

Gold and Dross

2011-11-13T19:24:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it’s illuminating to put my posts out there and then stand aside to watch the responses. Here, for example, is one response to my November 6 post:

I totally agree with your view that vague advice about attaining speed such as just “play slow” won’t help the student. But I think you had bad luck or [little] experience with guitar teachers, because none of the teachers I’ve had would say only those simple vague words. All of them were very specific on what to work on during slow practice that would improve my technique when playing faster. Including breathing and several other things about body and mind attitude, besides obvious guitar technique such as good hand positioning, nail shape, and so on.

I’d like to think the teaching described here is true everywhere. But my November 6 post also brought this reply:

One of the best unknown guitarists I have ever heard used to breathe so loud, but that guy could play like nobody’s business. He had a very relaxed, virtuoso technique. Does it really matter that he was a loud breather? I never cared. Perhaps some people are loud and can’t do anything about it? I have had my nose broken multiple times. I can’t deeply breathe without being loud.

As for your blog, you mentioned it being pointed out that your fingers are more extended when alternating on a string. Your hand position was one of the 1st things many of us mentioned to you here. Your RH fingers weren’t curbed and didn’t move in a fist like motion among many other things.

These questions are straight forward.

How slow is slow? As slow as it takes to think about the next note. Thinking one note ahead.

How long should one practice slow? Until you can play the piece at a tempo where you don’t make any mistakes and can think at least one note ahead.

How gradually should one increase the practice tempo? See above and Slow/Fast practice. One measure/phrase, etc played perfectly slow, then immediately practiced at tempo.

So on the one hand, the first reply says the things I mentioned in my November 6 post—among them, labored breathing as a sign of excess tension—are common knowledge. On the other hand, the second reply dismisses labored breathing as a sign of an underlying problem. It also encapsulates my argument that not enough is being said to those of us who lack right hand speed. There’s not a word suggesting that one should look for an underlying cause that might hinder right hand speed. In essence, one plays slow until one can play fast.

And over four decades of playing, that’s not yet worked for me. Nor has it worked for many others.

Okay, I don’t wish to read too much into what may be an off-the-cuff response on an internet forum. I’ve no doubt that the guitarist who wrote the above quote knows physical and psychological impediments can hinder speed. (The guitarist who wrote this is both a teacher and an accomplished player.) But I wonder why he chose to refute my contention that labored breathing is a sign of excess tension. Is there really any argument about this? All things being equal, isn’t it obvious that one who’s breathing heavily is less relaxed than one who’s breathing normally?

Indeed, throughout my project and the discussions it has prompted, I’ve been surprised at some of the arguments against things I thought were common sense. It seems among some there’s a philosophic distaste for proscribing anything if a seemingly good argument, however tenuous, can be made for it. It’s much the same mindset that permeates American politics, in which it’s hard to argue against something if it’s portrayed in a positive light. “Pro-life” for example—who could be against that? Or “pro-choice”—who could be against that? Well, this isn’t so surprising, since everyone wants to cast their argument in the strongest possible way.

More subtle, however, is the notion that in proscribing a thing, one is necessarily less open-minded than one who defends it. Obviously every case must be judged on its own merits. But I reject the idea that because a thing is minimally defensible, it’s thus not to be proscribed. An open mind doesn’t mean one must accept every idea that washes up on the beach.

I’m sorry, but I can’t accept advice that’s never worked for me. Nor can I be satisfied with advice that’s good as far as it goes, but doesn’t go far enough. Something more is needed. That’s what I’m looking for.

——[My next update will be November 21, 2011]——

Catcher in the Rye

2011-11-06T19:46:00.001-05:00

First, let’s clear up a minor mystery. Remember how, in my October 30 video, my little finger splayed out when I did the drumming on the soundboard? And recall that it didn’t do this when I began alternating on a string? The reason, I found, was that when drumming, my fingers are more extended than when they’re alternating on a string. If my fingers are a bit more curved, the little finger is more relaxed and more apt to move with its neighboring fingers. Duly noted, and I’ll work that tidbit of information into my right hand work.

This week I exchanged e-mails with a very fine guitarist who’s been following my project. While very encouraging overall, he did respectfully disagree with me on a particular point. I’d written the following:

“In my experience, much of the advice about attaining speed is too vague. Some players will get it, but most don't. I suspect that many of the players who do get it have the physical knack, or they have the mental knack for figuring things out for themselves and the discipline to apply what they've figured out. In short, I believe many who get it do so through their own effort, and not necessarily because of specific and effective advice.”

The guitarist I corresponded with disagreed, replying that all the high level players he’s talked to are consistent in what they say: one must begin with patient and slow practice. During this slow and deliberate practice, one must emphasize relaxation, combined with lots of successful repetitions.

All true. And some players who are told little more than this will do very well. But I still think that, for most players, this isn’t enough. We need something more. It’s not enough to be told to practice slow. It’s not enough to be told to emphasize relaxation. The vast majority of serious guitar students do precisely that and get nowhere in regard to right hand speed. Why? Because, I believe, they aren’t told specifically enough what it is they’re supposed to be working toward.

Let’s take slow practice as an example. As any experienced teacher knows, “slow down” is probably the single most frequent advice we give to students. (I’ve joked to my students that I could save myself a lot of breath if I just had “slow down” tattooed on my forehead.) But what do we really mean by this? How slow is slow? How long should one practice slow? How gradually should one increase the practice tempo?

Instead of telling a student to practice slowly, we should instead focus on something more tangible. Consider, for example, saying this to a student: “Can you play this passage without labored breathing?” If your breathing is labored, then you’re more tense than you should be. So slow down. How slow? Until your breathing is no longer labored.

There’s a subtle but important difference between this and merely telling a student to practice a passage slowly until he masters it. If I tell a student to practice slowly, then slow practice becomes an end in itself. The student simply does it until he improves by sheer chance, or fools himself into thinking he’s improved, or gives up in frustration. But if I tell the student to focus on his labored breathing, he becomes more aware of a tell-tale symptom of excess tension. He slows down until the labored breathing ceases, which neatly answers the question of how slow he must go. How long should he practice slowly? Until he can accurately and consistently play the passage while breathing normally. How gradually should he increase the tempo? Exactly as fast as he can increase the tempo without a return of the labored breathing.

Here are some specific things we should be telling students repeatedly:

Good technique should be easy. If you can’t do a particular technique easily, accurately, and consistently, then you don’t have good technique. Assuming you’re practicing consistently and intelligently, technical excellence should be something that’s always there, not something that comes and goes.
Labored breathing is a sign of excess tension. It’s not a sign of interpretive excellence, nor is it a sign that you’re more musically committed than other musicians. It only means you’re working harder than you should to put across your musical ideas.
In all aspects of playing, be alert to those little shots of nervousness—they feel like tiny jolts of electricity. If you consistently feel this in a particular passage or technique, then you’re too tense.
If you’re trying to change deeply ingrained bad technique, there are no quantum leaps. You must proceed in tiny steps. If you try to overreach, you’ll slide right back into the deficient playing you’re trying to overcome.

Some might object that I’m saying nothing new here. Perhaps. But look around. Is the kind of specificity I’m advocating really the norm? Are teachers really insisting on these things, so that excess tension is something every well-trained and ambitious student understands in all its ramifications? Consider the following video:

Skip ahead to the 4:50 mark, where these two players trade fast scales during a cadenza. If you listen closely, you’ll hear which player has the easier technique—it’s obvious. It’s also obvious that the player who’s working harder has never understood that excess tension is something to take seriously.

If you think I’m picking on someone whose playing I don’t care for, then consider Julian Bream. I regard Bream as the greatest guitarist of the 20th century. I yield to no one in my admiration for him when he was at his best. Indeed, whenever I have a young player who begins to show potential, I always make sure he or she hears recordings of Bream in his prime. To my mind, one can’t fully know what the guitar can do without hearing Bream.

That being said, I’d never use Bream as a model for good technique. Bream, I think, is an example of how artistic genius can overcome flawed technique—for a while. He’s also an example of how even the greatest artist inevitably can be felled by flawed technique.

• • •

What is a teacher if not a catcher in the rye? One might find solace in an “I’m okay, you’re okay” attitude, thus sparing one from the danger of weighing one’s own ideas and finding them wanting. But if we’re to be something more, then we must know the value of what we teach. And we must insist on it in the face of ignorance or apathy. If we know with sufficient clarity what should be emphasized, and we pass it on with conviction and imagination, then we might spare others the sad fate of diminished potential.

Who knows, Holden Caulfield might’ve made a good guitar teacher.

——[My next update will be November 14, 2011]——

Training the Musical Pooch

2011-10-30T21:51:00.002-04:00

Throughout this project, I’ve operated on the assumption that if something isn’t producing results within two or three months, then I’m doing something wrong. I don’t expect to get from here to there in one grand leap. But I do expect progress, however slight it may be. Thus far progress has been wanting.

Over the last few weeks, a somewhat different approach has been brewing in my brain. It’s a bit hard to explain. Nonetheless, I’ll try.

Consider training a dog. Let’s say you want to train a dog to do the following in this order: sit, bark, roll over, sit, beg. That’s a long sequence, one the dog isn’t likely to do correctly on his own. You could try training the dog through negative reinforcement, punishing it every time it doesn’t do what you want. But the dog doesn’t understand what you’re trying to get him to do, nor does he know why you’re punishing him. You may eventually train the dog to do the sequence correctly, but at a high price. The dog will be confused and fearful, and will always perform the sequence for no other reason than to avoid punishment. In essence, the dog’s natural behavior has been forcibly twisted into something he doesn’t like doing. No permanent behavior change is accomplished. Take away the punishment, and the dog will drop the new behavior you’ve painfully forced him to learn. Not only that, but you’ll likely have created a dog who’s confused and fearful around you and perhaps every other human he encounters.

As professional animal trainers know, there’s a better way to train the dog, and it goes something like this. Put the dog and yourself in an enclosed space—one that’s large enough that the dog doesn’t feel confined, but small enough to keep you and the dog in close proximity. Have a generous supply of dog treats with you. Watch the dog carefully. If he runs about in all directions, say and do nothing. But if he trots up to you, praise him and give him a treat. Soon the dog associates going to you with getting a treat. When he does this consistently, now reward him only if he comes to you and sits. If he does anything else, do nothing, but the instant he sits, praise him and give him a treat. Soon the dog learns that sitting is rewarded and starts doing it consistently. Then you add another behavior. And another, and another, until the dog has learned the entire sequence.

Notice that you’re never forcing the dog to do anything. The dog is doing all the things a dog naturally does—most of them aren’t what you want him to do. You’re merely selecting and rewarding specific behaviors. Everyone is happy: the dog is getting praise and treats, and you’re teaching the dog the sequence of behaviors you want him to perform.

This analogy only goes so far in a guitarist’s right hand training. Obviously my right hand isn’t wagging a tail and excitedly trying to figure out what I want it to do. But there’s an illuminating parallel here. When training my right hand, I first need to be very specific about what I want it to learn. Once I define precisely what I’m trying to accomplish, I then begin at whatever point my hand easily and automatically does what I’m trying to accomplish. I don’t force it to do anything. Rather, I try to find a situation in which my hand naturally does the specific thing I’m trying to ingrain. That situation might be far from real guitar playing, but that’s not important. What’s important is that I find a place where my right hand already does the right thing. That’s my starting point, and I can go forward from there.

For my hand, the goal is specific. The a finger should move easily with m whenever doing i and m alternation. Further, the feel should be free and easy. In fact, a moving with m is a byproduct of this all-important feel. In previous posts I’ve questioned whether this was necessary. No longer. I’m convinced that a (and to a lesser extent, the little finger) must move with m during alternation. I don’t care that some guitarists—very good ones, in fact—do otherwise. John Williams, for example, often extends his little finger when doing i and m alternation. But his hand isn’t my hand. I’ve worked at this long enough to know there’s no way around it.

So here are the basic steps I’m following.

Step 1: I begin with what my hand can do. For me, that’s extremely basic. Away from the guitar, holding my hand in front of me, I can easily move m-a-c together. The movement is simple and natural. I don’t have to force a and c to move with m. They simply do it. In fact, it’s harder to not do it then to do it. So that’s where I start, and I move in tiny steps from there.

Step 2: I drum my fingers on the guitar soundboard. This isn’t as easy as merely waving my fingers in the air. But it’s sufficiently close to Step 1 that the difficulty isn’t excessive. It doesn’t take much effort to maintain the easy movement I’m aiming for.

Step 3: Play very lightly on a string. This is a crucial leap, and it’s very hard to maintain the same feel and movement I had in Step 2. I choose the easiest string—for me, it’s the sixth string—and I do it very lightly and not very fast. I start at four notes per click at 72, and try to maintain as closely as possible the feel and movement I had in the first two steps.

Crucial to this approach is that each step should be only incrementally more difficult than the last. Once I’ve established the movement and feel in Step 1, at no subsequent step should I lose them. Quantum leaps are strictly avoided.

I’m now convinced that much of the work I’ve done so far has been wasted. Instead of cultivating what my hand can already do, I’ve instead tried to force it to do what it’s not yet ready to do. As an extreme example, you might recall I mentioned that several years ago I tried taping my m and a fingers together, to see if this would train them to move together in alternation. It didn’t work, and now I know why. Like the dog who’s punished into doing something he doesn’t understand or want to do, I wasn’t really training my hand to do anything useful. Rather, I was training my fingers to move together only when forcibly restrained. Absent the restraint, my fingers would simply revert to their old subpar movement and feel.

Even the less drastic things I’ve tried—remember the Rockettes exercise?—were still missing the point. The key, I now believe, isn’t to force my fingers to do the right thing. The key is to begin with the right thing and then very gradually increase the difficulty under which the right thing is done. So I start with finger-flapping in thin air. Then on to drumming on the soundboard. Then so on. On through single string alternation. On through gradually more extended alternation. On through string crossing. On through gradually increasing volume. On through varying tone color. And on until it’s a reliable musical technique.

At every step, my success depends on how well I evaluate where I am, and how creatively I design and practice each incremental step. If I don’t accurately recognize each new level of difficulty as it crops up, then I’ll overreach and ultimately fail. But the advantage to this approach lies in its immediacy. Remember, each next step should be only a bit harder than the last. If I try a next step and the correct movement and feel fall apart, then I’m overreaching. So in a practical way, this approach is self-correcting: if at any point I loose the correct movement and feel, then I’m doing it wrong. Step back, rethink, and try again. This strikes me as as much better than simply pounding away and hoping for the best.

This is a rough sketch of what I’m now doing. But Saturday morning I got an intriguing glimpse of its potential. I have a young student who has an ongoing problem with her little finger extending whenever she does an arpeggio with the other fingers. So during our last lesson, I briefly described the approach. I then had her begin with Step 1, as described above. She did this easily. Then she tried Step 2, which again she managed quickly and easily. Then she moved to Step 3, doing i and m alternation on a single string. She told me that for her the first string was easier, so I agreed that this was the string she should begin with. In a matter of seconds, her i and m alternation was perfect, with a and c faithfully moving with m. It was beautiful to watch. In one brief session, her hand looked like that of an excellent concert artist. Obviously she has much work ahead to consolidate this into a reliable technique. But she has the movement and, far more importantly, she has the feel.

I’m as cautiously excited about this as I’ve ever been throughout this project. I really believe I’m on to something good. Time, as always, will tell.

• • •

Below is my end of the month video update. Watching it, I notice that when drumming my fingers on the soundboard, my little finger locked up. I also notice that this problem disappeared when I went on to single string alternation. Obviously I’m more concerned with what happens during actual playing. Be that as it may, I’ll work on improving what happens during the drumming.

——[My next update will be November 7, 2011]——

Another Week, Another Infinitesimal Sliver of Progress

2011-10-23T19:21:00.001-04:00

The longer I do this, the more clear it becomes what I’m up against. The excess tension that steps in whenever I try right hand speed is a familiar enemy now, down to the finest detail. I can, for example, say at what speed it first appears when I try extended i and m alternation. (Up to 84, everything is okay—after 84, things fall apart.) When doing a six string descending scale, I can say exactly where it feels bad, and exactly where it feels good. (On the second and third strings, my fingers hang up—on the fourth through sixth strings, my hand feels much freer.)

What I hope is that understanding the problem in finer detail will mean coming up with better solutions. Take, for example, the hang up on the second and third strings during a descending scale. I noticed I was blending two different string crossing techniques during a descending six string scale: at the beginning of the scale, I’d pivot from the elbow alone, but as my fingers came through the second and third strings, I’d then cross from the elbow and shoulder. Maybe, I reasoned, this is unnecessarily complex. So now I’m simplifying the crossing by moving from the elbow and shoulder throughout a six string scale. We’ll see if this pays off.

My progress, as always, is glacially incremental. I’m trying to extend the length of my bursts. I’ve found I can fairly consistently play the last three strings of a descending scale cleanly at 120. This, for example, is getting pretty reliable:

So that’s something. Above 120 is still a problem. But remember that my interim goal is reliable scales at 120. If I can establish a foothold there, then maybe higher speed will be within my grasp.

I begin each session with five minutes of finger push-ups. Then I set the metronome at 84 and do extended alternation on each string individually. After that, it’s on to this at 84:

If this goes okay, I bump up the tempo one notch at a time. (For the week, I found I could hit it in the mid 90’s before my hand tensed up.) After that, it’s on to the exercises I described in the beginning of last week’s post. Sometimes I stay with this until it’s time for sweeps, rasgueados, and stretches. Other times I’ll do five or ten minutes of arpeggios, tremolo, and cross-string trills.

• • •

One interesting tidbit came up during the week. On Tuesday, my right hand session was awful. Indeed, it was so bad that I quit early in disgust, omitting the fifteen minutes of sweeps, rasgueados, and finger stretches with which I normally end a session. Thinking about it afterward, I realized I was unconsciously reacting to an unpleasant phone call I had to make later that day. It was one of those things I had to do but would rather not. It became clear that this impending unpleasantness infected my attitude toward practice. In fact, after this bad practice session the problem unexpectedly resolved itself in a way far better than I’d hoped. And sure enough, the next morning my practice session was more productive and pleasant.

This reminded me once again that a positive attitude is vital to practice. I can’t let myself get thrown off by the inevitable problems of day to day life.

• • •

In my October 9 post, I referred to some left hand positioning advice that I found indefensible. As I mentioned last week, this caused a surprising discussion. If you wish to follow this discussion, you can find it here.

——[My next update will be October 31, 2011]——

Busting On Bursts

2011-10-16T19:22:00.003-04:00

Over the last week I’ve focused on trying to smooth the transition from short bursts to a continuous scale. First I warmed up with continuous alternation at 84. After this, I began with the following at 100:

When that felt comfortable, I then tried this at the same tempo:

Then finally I moved to a continuous scale, also at 100:

Obviously the idea is to gradually shorten and then remove the pauses between each one-string burst. My goal is to reduce the tension in short bursts, so that I can lengthen them into longer passages. On some days, I was able to lightly play the continuous scale at 112—one day I managed to barely hit 120. My goal, however, is to hit this cleanly and consistently, not hit or miss. So there’s much yet to be done.

As I did these exercises, I listened closely to my rhythm. I wanted each burst to snap sharply and cleanly. But more important, I was also very alert to these signs of excess tension:

a tight feel in a and c
a and c become rigidly extended or flexed
clenching teeth
tensing or hunching right shoulder
labored breathing

Working this way, I’ve noticed my descending six string scale tends to hang up on the second and third strings. Once I get to the fourth string, it’s smooth sailing the rest of the way. In fact, right now I can pretty consistently hit 120 on the three bass strings. At first I suspected that since the third string is the only one that has two notes, this might be the reason for my awkwardness. But I’ve no problem slurring the full six string scale at a high speed with the left hand alone. So I’m guessing this is a right hand crossing problem. Obviously I’ll spend more time working to smooth out this part of the scale.

• • •

On an unrelated note, I was surprised by some of the reactions to my last post. In this post, I drew attention to a left hand positioning suggestion that was, I thought, so obviously bad that there should be little debate over it. Oy, what a can of worms that opened! More on this in next week’s post.

——[My next update will be October 24, 2011]——

120 or Bust

2011-10-09T12:27:00.002-04:00

First things first. I soon realized I was playing part of the Mozart excerpt wrong and corrected it. After relearning it, I finally checked the score. My revised version is correct—hey, I even got the key right. Though to be honest, if asked to write it out, I’d have written in common time, so I’d have gotten the time signature wrong. Anyway, here’s the corrected excerpt:

My apologies to Mozart and his fans (of whom I’m one) for playing it wrong on my October 2 video.

This last week I stayed with the two exercises shown on the video. In the scale with the three string burst, I occasionally managed a tempo of 120. Anything above 120 invariably fell apart. The Mozart excerpt crept up to 84.

It occurred to me that, temporarily, I should lower my sights a bit and try a more attainable goal. I’ve decided to shoot for 120—first with a three string burst, then longer until I can do a continuous six string scale cleanly and reliably. So my specific goal is this at 120:

The repeat is an important part of my goal. I want to be able to do an extended scale at 120, not just a burst. If I can, then it’ll mean I’m well on my way to reducing my right hand tension during speed. I’ve also found over the years that descending scales feel easier to me than ascending scales. So my target scale must include extended ascending passages.

Why lower my goal to 120? I’m taking to heart something I’ve heard concert artist Jason Vieaux tell his students. He strongly advocates when learning a difficult passage that one should start slow and gradually work up the tempo one metronome notch at a time. One shouldn’t leapfrog over intermediate tempos. His reasoning is thus: At slower tempos, a particular problem might not be apparent. If you increase tempo gradually, you’ll eventually hit a tempo at which the problem just begins to be apparent. Here you can define the problem and work out a solution, all at a tempo in which you’re not going like a bat out of hell. So you carefully solve the problem and then continue your deliberate climb up the tempos. If, however, you jump over intermediate tempos, you may jump far past the tempo where the problem was easier to notice, isolate, and understand. So now you’re puzzling over something that’s gumming up the passage while playing lickety-split, something you would understand better had you first encountered it at a slower speed.

Makes sense to me. In fact, I suspect I haven’t yet attacked my right hand project with sufficient care. (Nine months of piddling progress has a way of making one rethink.) Rather than lobbing artillery shells over the horizon and hoping to hit something I can’t see, maybe I should try pistol shots at a closer target that I can see. I can hit 120 now, but I need to make it more reliable and easy. If I can do this, then perhaps I can more successfully tackle higher goals.

• • •

From time to time my project spurs discussion on various classical guitar internet forums. While I sometimes participate in these discussions, time constraints often dictate that I merely observe. Indeed, some of these discussions seem to happily thrive in my absence. A particular point, however, has come up more than once. So I’ll address it here.

On October 2, someone made this post. I replied thus. My reply brought forth the following:

Philip Hii understands something important about teaching—you cannot move your student’s hands for them. You must use whatever means you can to try to transmit your experience to them, to teach the unteachable. The feel is more important than anatomy and leverage and muscle type. We cannot control our bodies by verbal/analytical micro-instruction; we must use feel, which is kinaesthetic sense that we all have, but often suppress.

The proper approach for one who does not know, such as yourself, to learn from someone who does know—from them—is not to criticize or question them but to try to break your mind open and try again to understand. It is the parable of the full tea cup. They are trying to help you. So don't resist. Try again... This is how you can achieve your goals. Add it to your admirable work ethic and you will succeed.

This strikes me as a thoughtful argument, and it merits a response in some detail.

I don’t have an infinite amount of time to practice. I can’t try everything, so I have to decide what to try and what to ignore. By the way, this isn’t unique to me. No player has the time to try everything. All of us discriminate between what we take to heart and what we ignore. The question, then, is how one decides.

One criterion I use is that I try to see how careful someone is in giving advice. If a person offers advice that seems well considered, then I take this person seriously. But if the advice is peppered with things that are obscure, contradictory, or just wrong, then I approach this person’s advice with some suspicion.

For my taste, Philip Hii’s “Art of Virtuosity for Guitar” falls in the latter category. I’ll offer three excerpts from the book—each in turn illustrates something I find obscure, contradictory, or wrong. Here’s the first example (if the examples below are unreadable, click on them for a larger display):

This is Hii’s first description of this stroke. Yet it’s hard to understand what he’s saying. “You play from the hand” is an unfortunate phrase—it implies that the player should pluck a string by moving the entire hand. Is this really what Hii means to say? “Pull it slightly toward you” is also vague—does Hii mean toward one’s head, toward one’s waist, or toward one’s feet?

Example 2:

Yet further in the book, Hii says this:

So here are two contradictory statements. It may be that Hii intended his earlier recommendation only for a specific exercise, and not as a general right hand technique. But he doesn’t make this clear. Thus, we’re left with two conflicting statements, both of them apparently about general right hand technique.

Example 3:

I’ve no idea why Hii recommends that the base of one’s index finger should touch the neck, nor does he offer a convincing explanation. In fact, this is something I tell students to avoid. The reasons are obvious: it cramps the fingers, and runs the risk of inadvertently muting the first string. It’s just bad advice.

I could offer other examples, but three should suffice to explain my wariness regarding Hii’s advice. That’s not to say that I dismiss everything in “Art of Virtuosity for Guitar.” But there are enough things that bother me, so I’ll look elsewhere for advice.

Doubtless some will dismiss my critique as mean-spirited nit-picking. I don’t see it that way. For me, a guitar method stands or falls on the quality of its information. Everyone decides for themselves how to evaluate this quality, and everyone has their own standards for doing so. Yours may be different from mine. So be it.

Further, whatever its merits, Hii’s book doesn’t address in detail the problems I’m encountering. I hasten to add that there’s no reason to single out Hii’s book in this regard—no guitar method I’ve seen addresses my circumstance in sufficient detail. (And that includes a method I had a hand in writing.) So for the moment, I’m pretty much on my own.

Of course, if anyone can suggest a method I’ve not yet seen, I’ll be happy to look into it.

——[My next update will be October 17, 2011]——

October 2, 2011 Video Update

2011-10-02T16:16:00.001-04:00

Short video this time. In it, I show two things I’ve been working with recently. The first is an attempt to ease my way into a longer burst:

As you’ll hear, I’m still working with light strokes, as my hand works better when I don’t try to play loud. By the way, this is similar to a speed burst exercise I tried some years ago:

The idea here was to break down a six string scale into short one string bursts. At the time, I found it fun to do, but it has the same defect of all burst exercises: it doesn’t acclimate my hand to a good feel for longer passages. So the first exercise you’ll see on the video is something I hope will ween me off short bursts and into longer scale passages.

The second thing you’ll see is a fragment of Mozart. One day during practice it struck me as a nice thing to use for my extended lite work. Since I’m doing it from memory, I may not remember it exactly as Mozart wrote it. One day I’ll dig up my CD of this music to see if I’m playing it right.

I know I promised earlier to show I could do a short burst at 200. But it wasn’t happening this morning, and I saw no point in documenting the failure. Further, I’d lost interest in the short burst approach over the last week. For now, I prefer to try slightly longer bursts, to see if I can make them work.

As an aside, I bought Matt Palmer’s “A New Approach to Fast Scales” method book. In it, he explains his right hand three finger approach to fast scales. Those knowledgeable about guitar technique will quibble with the title—Palmer isn’t the first to do this. But the book is a detailed explanation of how to apply this technique in many musical circumstances. Personally, I think this should be used and taught far more than it is. I suspect over the next few decades we’ll see more young guitarists doing fast scales with a, m, i rather than i and m. To be sure, two finger alternation will retain its usefulness—it offers a particular force that three finger alternation might not be able to match. But the three finger approach just makes sense. It enables high speed without pushing to the limit one’s speed with any given finger.

Interestingly, Palmer’s book is of almost no help to the likes of me. It says virtually nothing about how to develop finger speed. Rather, it’s written from the perspective of someone who already has speed, and wants to increase it further. Nonetheless, I did find some glimmers of information applicable to my own situation. Here’s one bit of text I found illuminating:

My preference for playing fast scales is to use a stroke somewhere between a free stroke and a rest stroke (a “frest” stroke?)

This intrigued me, as I’ve previously posted that, when switching from rest to free stroke, I couldn’t always tell exactly which stroke I was doing. So it was encouraging to see a good player say something similar.

And here’s another bit of text that jumped out at me:

I do not commit the weight of the follow-through of the attack to produce the rest stroke sound. In contrast, I commit the weight to the plant and to the attack itself. This method seems to allow my fingers to recuperate and return to their starting positions faster. Try both methods of attack to achieve a level of comfort that suits you, and the sound quality you desire. I suggest starting with a relatively light attack as you get used to the motions required to play evenly. Once you have achieved evenness, gradually increase the power of your stroke.

This seems in keeping with my extended lite approach. In my opinion, good players like Palmer don’t always realize the importance of what they say to players like me. I think the last two sentences in the above quote should be far more emphatic—indeed, they should be expanded into a chapter of their own. Instead, they’re practically throwaway lines that the average guitarist will overlook.

In Palmer’s defense, he’s probably not writing for the likes of me. But in the real world, most of those reading his book will be more like me than Palmer. It may well be that those like Palmer can’t adequately understand and explain what those like me need to hear. Perhaps it takes the likes of me to get to where Palmer is, and then explain how I did it to those who aren’t.

That at least is part of my motivation to keep on trucking.

——[My next update will be October 10, 2011]—

If the Crux Is True, All Else Will Follow

2011-09-25T17:59:00.000-04:00

If you’ve been following this blog since the beginning, you might recall my Rockette exercise. You also might have noticed its current and conspicuous absence. This exercise has fallen from my favor, and it’s taken time to puzzle out why I found it so unproductive. Slowly I’ve come to believe that it missed the point of what I’m trying to accomplish. The reason is subtle and requires explanation.

I now believe that good i and m alternation is a movement my hand can already do. To see what I mean, hold your hand in front of you, wrist aligned and fingers loosely curled. Now begin alternating i with m-a-c. I can do this easily, with all the speed I would need for a fast scale up to 160. My fingers move effortlessly and correctly, a-c easily moving with m. Further, I believe almost anyone with a normal right hand can learn to do this basic movement.

But woe unto me and anyone like me when this simple movement is done on a guitar string. For most of us, the string resistance gums up the movement horribly. This is where so many guitarists like me go off the tracks. We work on right hand alternation and arpeggios long before a good movement and feel are securely ingrained. The string resistance deflects our right hand into excessively tense movements. Unfortunately, we little note this at first. We’re not yet trying fast scales or arpeggios, so the excess tension isn’t obvious, particularly to inexperienced players. So we’re blissfully unaware that we’re setting the stage for future disaster. Unaware of what’s happening, we ingrain these excessively tense movements. This becomes our normal feel, long before we move on to more challenging things. What makes this especially pernicious is that we don’t encounter the full effect of the problem until we’re well past the time during which we ingrained the excessively tense movement. The bug in the system lies dormant for so long that when it finally becomes apparent, we’re at a loss to understand what it is and why it’s there.

Sadly, the blame often falls elsewhere. Usually, it’s written off as a matter of talent. Some people have it, some don’t. If you have it, hooray for you, and book Carnegie Hall. If you don’t have it, oh well, at least you can buy a ticket to Carnegie Hall.

Getting back to my Rockette exercise, I now think it slightly but crucially misses the mark. It forces the fingers into an unnatural movement that doesn’t closely mimic the all important feel of good alternation. It favors an intellectual abstraction—more movement ingrains relaxation—over the feel of relaxation itself. Mind you, this abstraction isn’t wrong. Greater movement does tend to avoid the bugaboo of excessively restricting movement. (Advocates of “economy of movement” sometimes misinterpret it to mean that smaller movements are always better than large movements. This is simply wrong, as anyone who’s seen a good golf swing can attest.) But remember the easy feel of doing right hand alternation in thin air, away from the resistance of a guitar string? That’s the thing itself, the hint to how good right hand technique really feels. The Rockette exercise distracts from the crucial thing itself. If we’re deflected from the crux, we might never get where we’re trying to go.

The Rockette exercise is gone. In its place is extended lite, gradually sped up as a good feel takes hold. Let’s see how the new kid does.

——[My next update will be October 4, 2011]——

Intermission

2011-09-18T21:05:00.000-04:00

Busy weekend. No time for a long post. Went to a recital this evening. Met a couple of guitar graduate students from the Cleveland Institute of Music. One of them asked me: “Are you the guy doing the right hand blog?” When I replied that I was, he turned to the other guitarist and said, “I thought it was him.”

Thinking about it afterward, I couldn’t decide whether he found my blog worthwhile or that he just wanted to see what kind of damned fool was writing it. I hope it was the former.

More next week.

——[My next update will be September 26, 2011]——

Extended Lite & Speed Bursts

2011-09-11T18:02:00.002-04:00

Slow and careful practice is fine to a point, but I can’t learn speed slowly. To get speed, I have to do speed. So speed bursts, in which I’d lost faith months ago, have nosed their way back into my practice sessions.

I begin each right hand session with five minutes of finger push-ups. I still believe finger strength is a necessary part of improving my right hand. That means finger push-ups—along with sweeps and rasgueado—will stay in my right hand sessions. Then I begin what I call my “extended lite” work. In this, I lightly play i and m rest stroke alternation on one string for extended passages. (You can see samples of this on my September 3 video.) The light playing ensures that my fingers move correctly, without my a and c fingers locking up as they would if I played harder. It also ensures that i and m snap smartly through the string, with no sideways deflection caused by pushing hard against the string’s tension. As I’ve explained before, I’m ambivalent about this light playing. I eventually want to be able to alternate quickly at any dynamic level. But for now, it’s essential that I ingrain good and relaxed movement of my fingers.

I do extended lite for about twenty minutes, frequently stopping to rest my right arm. After this, I move on to very short speed bursts, beginning at 120. Here I play at a more normal dynamic level. But I’ve added a wrinkle that I hope will better sensitize me to excess tension. I’ve noticed that when I do speed bursts, they almost always sound like this:

...getting louder through the burst. This, of course, means my hand tenses up through the burst, something I want to avoid. Thus, I try to maintain an even volume through the burst, or even decrescendo—then my hand won’t tighten up. So this is what I’m shooting for each time I work on short bursts. If I can gradually eliminate this tight sensation, then I hope eventually I’ll be able to double or triple the length of these bursts. This would bring me closer to extended alternation up to 184 with a relaxed hand.

When I first began doing extended lite work followed by speed bursts, there was always a clear distinction between the two—one felt completely different from the other. That’s not good. But over the last week, I’m feeling more of a segue between them. It helps that I’ve lately been able to begin my extended lite work at 92. By the end of it, I’m at 112, which isn’t far from the 120 tempo at which I begin speed bursts. More and more, the feel I have at the end of my extended lite work is similar to the feel when I begin my speed bursts at 120. This is exactly what I’m aiming for. As much as possible, I want my hand to feel pretty much the same at a wide range of speeds. Only at the extreme limit of speed would my hand begin to feel tight.

I’m still better at speed on basses rather than trebles. But the third string is starting to feel a bit more hospitable. I’ll keep at it.

On the bright side, I’ve breached several more barriers during the week. On Monday morning at 8:39 I hit a short burst at 192. (Yes, I really did write down the time. Humor me.) Five minutes later I hit a short burst at 200. By the way, 200 is so damned fast that after I hit the burst, I sat quietly wondering if I’d really done it. It took me a minute to convince myself that I’d actually done a burst at 200. Maybe I need what they have at hockey games: a light and klaxon that go off whenever I accurately hit a high speed burst.

And on Thursday morning at 7:58, I hit a short burst at 208. Hey, since my metronome only goes up to 208, maybe I can declare victory and close down my project.

On the bad side, I may have to delay my promised end of September video performance of the Mudarra Galliard. The problem right now is that there’s almost no spillover from my technique work to my normal playing. What I can do in the laboratory doesn’t work in the rough and tumble world of real playing. For the moment, I’m okay with that. This new approach seems to be getting somewhere, and I’m willing to change the game plan and ride it wherever it may go.

But I’m determined to prove I can hit a short burst at 200. So that will be my new end-of-the-month video goal.

——[My next update will be September 19, 2011]——

September 3 Video Update

2011-09-03T17:58:00.001-04:00

When the Philological Society of London decided in 1857 that a new English dictionary was needed, it was estimated that it would take about ten years to complete. This was a tad optimistic. The work that culminated in the Oxford English Dictionary took over seven decades to complete.

Closer to home, I probably underestimated the immensity of my project.

Here’s a sobering line of thought. Reading a book about neuroplasticity, I encountered the assertion that mastering a physical skill might take some 100,000 repetitions. Such assertions necessarily are approximate, of course, and beg the question of how anyone knows this to be so. But let’s take it as a given. Doing some quick ciphering, I can do 2400 reps in an hour—that accounts for non-rep time devoted to strength and conditioning, taking rest breaks, tuning the odd recalcitrant string, and stopping to investigate a mysterious crash caused by a curious cat. This works out to 100,000 reps in, according to my calculator, 41.666667 hours. (Love those irrational numbers.) So working an hour a day five days a week, it would take roughly two months to master a given skill. That in itself is daunting.

On top of that, however, my quick cipher ignores limiting factors. For example, those repetitions can’t be mindless—rather, they must be purposeful and carefully controlled. And I can concentrate only for so long in one sitting. That in itself limits the number of reps I can do in any one session. Further, my right hand project isn’t merely one skill. It’s actually a constellation of interlocking skills, each of which needs its own time and attention to master. Thinking this through realistically, it’s easy to see how my little project balloons exponentially.

On the bright side, when a man’s reach exceeds his grasp, he’ll at least be everlastingly engaged in interesting work. So I’ll always have a reason to get up in the morning.

My end of August (or beginning of September) video report is up and running. Rather than jabber endlessly on camera, I’ve opted for a Marcel Marceau document of how I’m currently working on rest stroke alternation. Though there are other things I do during my morning sessions, the video concentrates on the bulk of what I’m currently doing. Enjoy.

——[My next update will be September 12, 2011]——

Shades of Gray

2011-08-28T13:55:00.000-04:00

As I delve deeper into rest stroke, I find some of the arguments surrounding it less and less illuminating. Simplistic statements are made about issues that, on closer examination, are too complex to be resolved simplistically. Perhaps some of the teacup tempests we see in the classical guitar world might cool into more reasoned debate if the issues were more carefully defined.

For example, one argument I often see is that we should cultivate a hand position that allows us to freely mix rest and free stroke, with no change of hand position. Most of the time I see this idea argued as though it’s an obvious good, and thus only a damned fool would think otherwise. Implicit in the argument is the idea that having to change hand position is awkward and expressively limiting. Further implicit is that there’s no disadvantage in playing free and rest stroke from the same hand position, so why not do it? If these two implications are accepted without question, then indeed the argument seems irrefutable. But look closer, and the argument becomes more nuanced.

To begin, is there really no disadvantage to playing free and rest stroke from the same hand position? Before leaping to a conclusion, one must be precise in what one is talking about, as different cases give different answers. Consider, for example, playing free stroke and rest stroke on the same string, with the same finger, from the same hand position. There are three ways to do this:

1) Do both strokes from a free stroke hand position. But doing rest stroke from a free stroke hand position means you must flex the base joint while extending the middle joint. This is an awkward movement.

2) Do both strokes from a rest stroke hand position. But doing free stroke from a rest stroke hand position means you must extend the base joint while flexing the middle joint. This is also an awkward movement.

3) Find a middle ground between free stroke and rest stroke hand positions. But this means adopting a hand position that’s ideal for neither stroke.

By the way, I hasten to add that I’m not saying one should never do any of these three possibilities. Rather, I’m saying there are negative consequences to doing so, and one should know them.

Yet there are other cases in which there’s no downside to playing free and rest stroke from the same hand position. Consider the following:

Using the indicated fingering, it’s easy to play the G, B, and E eighth notes with free stroke, followed by a rest stroke on the half note G. No change in hand position is needed. I often do this, as can any competent player.

So here are two cases in which one can do free and rest stroke from the same hand position, and yet the consequences are entirely different—in the first case there are negative consequences that should be considered, in the second case there are no negative consequences at all. Clearly, a simplistic answer that glosses over real world differences won’t do.

Indeed, I’m finding the line between free and rest stroke is more ambiguous than I thought before beginning this project. A year ago, I could say with confidence that, in any given musical passage, I knew exactly where I was using free or rest stroke. Today, however, I’m not so sure. For example, there’s a scale passage in Guardame las vacas in which I start with rest stroke but end with free stroke. Yet as I recorded this passage for my July 30th video, I honestly couldn’t say exactly where I changed from free to rest stroke. In fact, sometimes there were notes in which I couldn’t say whether I was doing rest or free stroke—it felt like neither and both.

There’s nothing wrong with this ambiguity. Artistry isn’t always an “either/or” proposition. In the end, excellence is its own justification. Sometimes one can carefully listen to opposing sides of a debate, and when the two camps demand to know which side one supports, the only sensible answer is thus: “It depends.”

——[My next update will be September 4, 2011]——

The Featherbed of Routine

2011-08-21T11:50:00.004-04:00

Since I haven’t precisely described my one hour right hand sessions in a while, here’s a breakdown of what I’m currently doing.

• 5 minutes: String push-ups. Finger strength, I suspect, is one component of speed. I do finger push-ups thus:

Rather than playing the notes, I push each string as though doing a rest stroke, and then release the pressure without releasing the string. This uses the resistance of the string to help build finger strength. It’s also a quiet way to begin my session.

• 25 minutes: Condensed Mudarra (see August 13 post). I begin at a tempo of 60, four notes per click. When that goes well, I gradually increase the tempo until my hand begins to tense up—nowadays, that’s at a tempo somewhere in the 70’s. Occasionally I get to 80. All of this is done quietly. As noted in my August 13 post, louder playing increases my hand tension. So for now I’m sticking with my plan to ingrain a less tense movement, hoping that as it takes hold I’ll be able to play increasingly louder.

• 10 minutes: Speed bursts. Though I’m still suspicious of their ultimate value, I’ve decided I need more familiarity with the sensations of speed. Now, however, I’m examining these sensations with a more critical eye. For example, I’ve noticed that during high speed bursts, I very lightly clench my jaw. I’m working to stop doing that.

• 5 minutes: Right hand arpeggios. I’m particularly interested in improving the independence between m and a. Depending on my mood and how things are going, I might run through the Carulli Fandango.

• 5 minutes: Right hand sweeps and rasgueado.

• 10 minutes: Finger stretches.

I’m aware that the condensed Mudarra and speed bursts are opposite solutions to the same problem. But I rather like the idea of tossing two solutions into the ring and letting them fight it out. (Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself.) Of course, this runs the risk of a bad solution working against a good solution. All I can say is that I’m aware of the danger, and choose to try it anyway. I’m becoming more confident in my ability to evaluate what I’m doing. If I’m doing something unproductive, I’ll find out soon enough.

It recently occurred to me that my situation is similar to that of a stroke victim who’s lost the ability to walk and through therapy is trying to regain it. There’s some difference: the stroke victim has completely lost the ability and must teach another part of the brain to relearn it—I have the ability, but not on a high level, and thus must retrain myself to improve it. For both of us, however, success or failure hinges on neuroplasticity.

For a musician, neuroplasticity should be a given. After all, musicians are tireless tinkerers with neural wiring—we can’t learn anything new without it. But we’re also human, and it’s human nature to fall into a comfortable routine, especially if it’s gotten us to a reasonable level of accomplishment. It’s the rare individual who can set aside a comfortable routine in search of something better. I encounter this self-defeating inertia often as a teacher. It’s more disconcerting to find it lurking within myself. But having roused myself from this inertia, I find it changes me in subtle ways.

Some of these changes are disquieting. We tend to see ourselves as conscious entities, freely choosing our actions and beliefs. But is this is really so? Most of what we do is unconscious reflex. Indeed, it takes little effort to see ourselves as mindless automatons, going through the motions of thought without the substance. Much of what passes for consciousness is perhaps illusory. It may be that most of the time we’re no more conscious than the simulated citizens in a computer game of SimCity.

If nothing else, my right hand project has the virtue of waking me from the slumber of routine. That’s something. Perhaps it’s more valuable than any technical goal I’m trying to attain.

——[My next update will be August 29, 2011]——

A Quiet Week With Joe Friday

2011-08-13T18:58:00.004-04:00

Over the past month or so I’ve come to accept that progress will be much slower than I’d hoped when I set out on this project. But now I wonder if progress is happening right before my eyes and I’m too jaded to see it. In my May 1 video I could play rest stroke alternation no faster than a crawl. Yet two and a half months later, I can reliably do this roughly three times faster. So fixated am I on my goal—still frustratingly far off—that I’ve overlooked the fact that my rest stroke alternation speed has tripled in less than three months. Geez, Moore’s Law has nothing on me. The obvious explanation for my failure to notice this progress is that since I started from a crawl, three times faster than a crawl isn’t all that noticeable.

But progress is progress. Henceforth I shall revel in my victories, however small they may be.

I spent much of my one hour right hand sessions working on a condensed version Mudarra’s Galliard:

As Joe Friday might have said, “just the scales, ma’am.” By the way, in the above example I left out the cadenza I’m doing at the end. Let’s just say that, until I post a video, it’s my little secret. But I’m sure you’ll find it deeply moving.

Although I don’t like doing it, I played rest stroke alternation very quietly this week. My reason for this is thus. When my fingers meet no resistance, they move perfectly, with no excess tension at all. Only when meeting the resistance of the string do my fingers begin moving badly. The higher the volume I try to play, the greater the tension in my hand—the greater the tension in my hand, the more my inactive fingers tend to lock up during i and m alternation. So my approach this week was to play at a volume where my fingers move easily, and see if that easy movement becomes ingrained enough that I’ll later be able to increase the volume with no ill effects.

As I said, I don’t like doing this. I’ve heard guitarists who do speed by playing lightly. To my ears, it yields a dinky little sound that I find tentative. But I’m hoping that as an easy movement becomes ingrained, I’ll gradually be able to ramp up the volume and keep the easy movement.

T’was a strange week. I began it with little hope that I was getting anywhere, but determined to soldier on. Early in the week I would start each i and m alternation session at about 60, and then nudge up the tempo until I hit a wall. By Friday I found myself hitting 80 with a fair degree of confidence, although my right hand tension felt dangerously close to locking up. But I did hit a few clean reps at 80. Nothing comfortable and reliable yet, but the fact that I could do it at all was encouraging. Curious, I then tried to play Carulli’s Fandango, which I’ve had on the back burner. At a tempo of 100, it went better than I expected. I was so pleased that at the end of the week I contemplated rewarding my right hand with a doggie treat.

I still think it won’t be until the end of September before I’m ready to play Mudarra’s Galliard at a performance tempo. (And I’d prefer a tempo of 104, rather than the 92 I mentioned last week.) But after a summer of discontent, I’m beginning to feel some of my old optimism creeping back.

Maybe I can pull this off.

——[My next update will be August 21, 2011]——

New Month, New Piece

2011-08-07T09:40:00.011-04:00

Last week’s video was instructive, if not musically inspired. What encourages me is the first run through the first variation. The tempo is pretty much what I want, and the execution is better than anything I’ve done with rest stroke alternation before I began this project. The rough spots in other parts of the video don’t worry me. I know their causes, and I know how to overcome them. Progress is there—it’s damn slow, but it’s there.

I’m putting Guardame on the back burner. Next up is Alonso de Mudarra’s Galliard, which has three short scale bursts and one longer passage. I’m also tagging on the end a brief flourish, serving the dual purpose of creating more scale work and bringing the piece to a flashy close. My target tempo for Galliard is 92. I doubt if I’ll get there by the end of August. But I certainly hope to have it up to tempo by the end of September. So that’s my target date for a video performance at tempo.

Over the past two weeks interesting comments have come in. I’d like to address some of them:

After viewing your recent video, I wonder if you've read Hector Quine’s ‘Guitar Technique’, esp pp 10-11. A useful little book.
—CW

from Quine’s “Guitar Technique”

I read this some years ago. Parts I like, other parts I don’t. I don’t agree with Quine’s proscription on relaxing the tip joint when plucking a string. His opinion contradicts Pepe Romero, who I believe has credibility on this particular issue because he can play, to put it mildly. I also think Quine’s warning against looking at the left hand is overdone. (I suspect this is what you’re referring to in pages 10-11.) Curiously, his illustration of correct right hand position is pretty much how I play. I find this amusing, as I’ve been criticized a number of times for my right hand position. One man’s model is another’s faux pas, I suppose.

Hey, have you considered getting yourself some private lessons? I know you already have a degree and all, but I don't see anything written about you consulting with another guitarist at or above your level to see if he can diagnose you better than you can diagnose yourself.

Also, have you considered a comprehensive strength training program which includes hand strength training on Captains of Crush (or similar high-quality grippers)?

I think the role of domain-specific physical strength is often overlooked for musicians.
—Anonymous

Actually, I have consulted another guitarist considerably more skilled than me. Nonetheless, I have another iron in the fire regarding this. More anon. Regarding strength training: finger sweeps, rasgueado, and finger push-ups are still part of my daily regimen. I’m on it.

On the point about a seamless transition between two states, you may find benefit in thinking about overlap between two distinct modes of operation instead of a fixed point of transition. For example, a man can sing a melody in his normal or in falsetto, but in practice chooses one or the other depending on the musical line that is to be taken. The same idea could apply to the right hand across a range of tempi: choose the mode that fits the line.
—PH

You may be right, but for my own playing I hope not. I’d like to develop a seamless transition—it would seem that a gradual accelerando requires it.

One doesn't accelerate the growth of a tree by tugging at its branches. I think the speed bursts are not helping you at this point. They may later, but for now I think you need weeks away from speed work, and rather just concentrate on ease and mechanical fluency.

While my scale speed is not in the GFA winner category, when I work at it, I can play 16ths in the 140-150 range. I had a hard ceiling of 120 for years, and it only went away when I stopped working for speed, and concentrated instead on simplicity in movement and proprioception, eliminating all extra tension. ALSO, when I first found I had speed I didn't have before, I could only play things fast that musically required it. Scale runs in Invocation and Dance and the Aranjuez come to mind. This being said, I wonder if your very analytic approach needs some tempering with some meter, agogic and musical inflection. Perhaps some of the Tarrega single line studies?
—Steve Bondy

More or less, we’re in agreement. I’ve soured a bit on speed bursts, though I think they still have value for testing the limits of speed. Over the last week, I’ve pinned down at what speed the trouble starts for my right hand. Up to 60 (four notes per click), my i and m rest stroke alternation works fine. Toward the mid-60s, my inactive fingers (a and c) begin to tense. Past the mid-70s, forget it. So I begin a tad below 60 and work my way up. If my inactive fingers begin to lock up, I back off the tempo and emphasize an easy movement. Then I tweak the tempo up again. I view the mid-60s as a sort of no-man’s land, across which is the enemy territory I’m trying to conquer. Occasionally I’ll lob in a faster tempo, playing very lightly with an almost wispy sound to see if I can stake a flag, however tentatively, in enemy territory. But for the most part it’s a gradual process of de-tensification—I’m not sure that’s a word, but it’s what I’m doing.

By the way, Steve, out of curiousity I googled your name. Enjoyed your web site. I also enjoyed hearing the sound samples of your young students. Teachers who showcase their students strike a chord with me. It’s one mark of a good teacher.

——[My next update will be August 14, 2011]——

On the Hotseat: Guárdame las vacas

2011-07-31T08:41:00.006-04:00

Author Dorothy Parker once said: “I hate writing; I love having written.” I feel the same about recording a video. Were I an editing wizz, I’d stitch together a perfect performance. (Before anyone fumes in righteous indignation, concert artists routinely edit their recordings. For example, there’s a well-known pianist who makes recordings by endlessly repeating passages, then edits together the best takes.) Unfortunately, I can only trim both ends of a take and nothing more. So whatever happens between start and finish, I have to live with it.

I made a fallback video first, intending then to do a series of takes in search of the perfect performance. After much cursing, a vestige of which you’ll see at the beginning, I said the hell with it and went with my fallback video. As it happens, this is a better idea, since the rough spots in my performance make for illuminating discussion, if not great listening.

In the week of practice before making this video, I at first despaired of getting Guardame to performance tempo. The problem was this: the tempo I wanted to play was just beyond where my right hand felt comfortable during rest stroke alternation. It seemed inevitable that I’d have to record the video below tempo. But as I got closer to recording day, I found my hand sometimes could almost handle the tempo I want for this piece. By Saturday morning—recording day—I decided to go for it and let the chips fall where they may.

What you’ll hear are very precise indices of where I am and how I practiced. For example, the initial run through the first variation goes well. On the repeat, however, I brighten the color by moving my hand closer to the bridge. Here the strings are a bit stiffer, and that requires a little more pressure from my fingers. That extra pressure pushes my hand beyond its current comfort zone. So in the brighter section beginning at the 1:15 mark, you’ll hear mistakes that were absent in the first run through the same section. Oddly, the mistakes happened not during the bright passage, but just after it. What happened is that my hand tightened up in the bright section, and I paid the price in the passage that followed.

Regarding how I practiced, I put much more work in the first variation, with its extended scales, than I put in the subsequent variations. That came back to bite me in the video. In the second variation there’s an extended scale (at the 1:44 mark) that still doesn’t feel good during rest stroke alternation. So not only was it scruffy in the video, but worrying about it also screwed up a non-scalar passage. On the bright side, this is strong evidence that more practice actually makes me better. Who knew?

And just so you’ll know: I use only free stroke in the theme section. Rest stroke doesn’t begin until the first variation.

Overall, this video is an object lesson on how unreliable technique steals competence, even in places where the technique is more reliable. Right now, I’m still in no man’s land. My right hand is creeping forward—compare this video to the one I made on May 1—but it still takes much concentration to hold it together when fast rest stroke alternation looms on the horizon. My goal is an easy rest stroke technique, one where I can push a button and simply play. My conscious thoughts while playing should be musical, not technical. Until I’m there, much work remains.

By the way, in the last week I’ve really started to enjoy the sound of rest stroke. On those rare occasions when a fast passage goes well, I’m approaching a creamy smoothness that I’ve long admired in other players. (It also reminds me of why I love my Fischer.) As any good player knows, rest stroke isn’t just a matter of loudness. It’s also a quality of sound. There are some who natter on about how rest stroke is unnecessary. Not for me. I want that color on my palette.

——[My next update will be August 8, 2011]——

Impasse?

2011-07-24T17:54:00.002-04:00

New York City Mayor Ed Koch had a habit of asking his constituents “how am I doing?” It’s a good question for anyone trying to improve. And it’s a very good question for musicians trying to improve their playing. Trouble is, I’ve no idea how to answer it right now. Part of the problem is that I’m not even sure I’m at an impasse. Maybe I’m progressing at about the right rate for someone of my age, physical makeup, and background. My glacial progress might be the nature of the beast I’m trying to tame. In which case I just need to stay on task and be patient.

Then again, lemmings stay on task.

For the upcoming week, I’ll continue preparing for a video performance of Guardame. After that, I need to reexamine what I’m doing and make sure it’s getting me somewhere other than over a cliff edge.

In my last post I described my “sonic boom syndrome.” That brought forth the following comment:

“I know what you mean about that sonic boom. I compare it to walking vs. running. You can attain a maximum walking speed, but if you need to go faster, you have to run. In a run, both feet are off the ground at the same time. A fast walk can actually be faster than a slow run, but a slow run can feel awkward. Maybe that explains why your hand felt better when you increased the speed.”

I hadn’t thought of it in exactly the way you describe, but it’s close. Rather, I’ve thought of it as analogous to a singer transitioning between chest voice and head voice. Your analogy might be more apt. But the problem is essentially the same: learning to do a seamless transition between two physical states. Or maybe I’m using two states—a good one and a bad one—where only the good one is needed.

As I said, I’m at an impasse. Or not.

On a more positive note, I’m currently reading a book on cosmology. It’s “The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos” by Brian Greene. Usually this stuff goes way over my head. But the author explains things well, to where I almost understand what he’s talking about. In one chapter he explains how, in an infinitely large universe, everything inevitably repeats itself. So somewhere out there are identical copies of everyone here. Not only that, but these identical copies may well play out alternate realities. So in one place, you’re huddling in a cardboard box cooking a rat—in another place, you’re in the wine cellar of your mansion mulling between the Château d’Argadens Bordeaux Superieur 2006 or the Lacrimus Crianza Rioja 2006

I’ve heard this theory before and always thought it a bit tetched. But after reading Greene’s lucid explanation, it seems plausible. So it’s possible that somewhere out there another me is ripping through a rest stroke scale at 184.

That’s nice to know.

——[My next update will be August 1, 2011]——

Practicing with a Cigarette and Blindfold

2011-07-17T17:14:00.002-04:00

I must admit that, with over half a year invested in this project and not much audible progress to show for it, boredom is an ever-present danger. My last few posts on this blog reflect this—I detect in them little of the excitement that animates my earlier posts. But when all seems dark, I take comfort in this little couplet:

“When in danger or in doubt,
run in circles, scream and shout.”

The source for this is obscure, but it’s often credited to the United States Navy, circa WWII. That wouldn’t surprise me, as I first heard it from my father, who served in the navy during WWII. Whatever its true source, I’ve found it a useful response in many situations.

My scheduled video of Guardame at the end of this month is such a response. The reasoning harks back to my student days. When I was working toward my bachelor’s degree, I would sometimes find myself at an impasse where progress ground to a halt. I soon found that when this happened, a good strategy was to schedule a performance. The foreboding terror of stepping unready before an audience had a way of sharpening my practice sessions. Or as Samuel Johnson put it: “Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”

So with my mind thus concentrated, Guardame las vacas dominates my one hour right hand sessions. No herd of cows was ever tended so faithfully as my right hand is now. After beginning with five minutes of finger push-ups, I go directly to every extended scale passage in Guardame, starting at a metronome setting where my hand feels comfortable. (Lately, that’s at about 60.) Then I tweak the tempo up and try again. When I hit a tempo where my hand starts to tighten, I slow down a tad and run repetitions there.

The “swing and miss syndrome” mentioned in my last post is still alive and well. It tends to happen as I move in to the third and fourth strings. All I can say is that I’m working on it. You’ll hear the result soon enough.

While arpeggios are more toward the back burner, I’m still giving them some time during my sessions. Here’s something that interests me. Doing the p, i, m, a, m, i arpeggio slowly, my hand feels just fine. As I slowly increase the tempo, however, my hand gradually tenses up. Eventually I hit a tempo of maximum tension, where my hand feels awful. That in itself isn’t surprising. but what follows is. If I further increase the tempo, suddenly my hand feels better—the tension dramatically decreases. Mind you, the control isn’t what it should be, and the rhythm gallops a bit. But the feel is good, and it seems just a matter of greater diligence to improve my control. I call it the “sonic boom syndrome.” I don’t really understand it fully, so I’ll keep tinkering with it.

Those of you who squinted at the dark gloom of my last video will be pleased to know that I just ordered a set of video lights. I guess I’ll now have to clean myself up before shooting a video. Sheesh, the things we do for art.

——[My next update will be July 25, 2011]——

Burning the Candle at Both Ends

2011-07-10T16:54:00.003-04:00

Most of my right hand practice is on Guardame. I’m still planning on a complete performance for my next video update. Since I want to stick with a “warts and all” approach, I’ll do an unedited performance. So I’m practicing a lot, as I don’t want to slog through an endless sequence of takes to get one acceptable performance.

During my right hand alternation practice, I’ve repeatedly encountered the same problem: the swing and miss syndrome. In this syndrome, one of my right hand fingers—usually m—either barely glances the string or misses entirely. I can overcome this by playing louder, digging into the string with more pressure. But this slows me down and ramps up the tension in my hand.

Further, I’ve found I can no longer do speed bursts. Remember the 184 burst from my February 12 post? It’s gone. Obviously it’s gone because I haven’t practiced it. I’d become suspicious of speed bursts, thinking they might be reinforcing a movement I can’t sustain for anything longer than a burst. But now I’m reconsidering. To paraphrase Sir Winston Churchill, speed bursts may be the worst kind speed practice, except for everything else I’ve tried.

What I’ll try now are sessions of loud playing alternating with sessions of lighter speed bursts. My hope is that, driving from the two extremes, I can gradually meet in the middle, integrating forceful control with the lightness of speed. I doubt that either approach by itself will work without the other. So it’s both ends to the middle, and the devil take the hindmost.

Gradually a crucial question has coalesced. In an experienced player, what does it take to ingrain a new way of playing? Ironically, when trying to ingrain a new movement beginners have an advantage over those who’ve played a long time. Beginners are a blank slate, starting from zero. As an experienced player, however, I’m starting from less than zero. I have a wrong movement deeply ingrained by decades of playing. My right hand is like the teenager who already knows everything, and woe to anyone who tries to tell it something different.

In a bit of serendipity, I’ve just started reading a book that lightly touches on this very question. The subject—memorization—is a bit different from what I’m working at. But in essence the author, Joshua Foer, asks the same question that I’m wrestling with. Can an average person, with the right practice, develop a skill far beyond what he might at first consider possible? The book is entitled “Moonwalking with Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything.” In it, Foer chronicles his journey from an average guy who can’t remember where he put his car keys to becoming the United States Memory Champion.

Hey, maybe someday I’ll win the GFA competition!

And there you go again with the giggling.

——[My next update will be July 18, 2011]——

What Remains Is the Work

2011-07-03T17:11:00.006-04:00

My latest video is up. I apologize for the film noir lighting—I’ll not try that set-up again. I also apologize for the sour unison notes in Guardame. For some reason, I decided to change my strings shortly before I made the video. (What was I thinking?)

You’ll see and hear the three scale excerpts I use during my right hand alternation session. Something you’ll notice during the Drewries excerpt are the occasional dropped notes. This is when a finger swings and misses, particularly on the third and fourth strings. Perhaps you recall this from my May 1 post:

“By the way, string crossing is often portrayed as a big deal in learning fast right hand alternation. I suspect, however, that it’s not nearly the hassle it’s made out to be.”

Well, apparently string crossing is an issue, at least for me. I’m making a greater effort to snap my fingers more directly and sharply, and to ensure my hand is correctly placed as I cross from string to string.

Next week I’ll take stock of where I am. Now entering my seventh month, I’m disappointed with my progress so far. I can only say that my right hand feels better. But the playing is the thing, and it’s not impressive. It seems that all I have to say has been said, and what remains is the work. The work, however, should be productive. If it isn’t, then maybe I should be saying—and doing—something else.

——[My next update will be July 11, 2011]——

An Old Nemesis Returns, Then Politely Leaves

2011-06-26T20:55:00.001-04:00

In my last post, I meant to mention that my right shoulder felt great. In fact, it felt so good that I was ready to declare myself out of the woods regarding shoulder pain. Toss the confetti and strike up the band.

Then Sunday afternoon my shoulder starting hurting.

By Monday morning, it hurt enough that I cut short my morning right hand practice hour by thirty minutes. What particularly concerned me is that I had a two and a half hour wedding gig coming up on the 26th. When a gig is on the line, I don’t fool around. I cancelled my morning practice session on Tuesday, and cut short my morning sessions on Wednesday and Thursday. The only other practicing I did was for the wedding music, which didn’t stress my shoulder. I also had a last minute gig come through on Friday, so I didn’t do my morning practice session that day.

Strangely, the pain just fizzled away. My shoulder now feels fine. Why it started hurting is a mystery to me. I wasn’t doing anything that should have brought it on. I’m encouraged that it went away so quickly. But I’ll hold off on declaring a permanent victory. After all, the 1918 Armistice turned out to be a false hope, and those who don’t remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

Who knew that George Santayana would come in handy for guitar practice?

Anyway, I got to run the Carulli Fandango in a couple of performance situations. During the wedding gig today, I ran it twice while playing background music in a noisy room. My hand felt good, but I couldn’t tell you how it sounded in all the hubbub.

So for the upcoming week, it’s back to resolving the questions I posted last week, and also suspiciously monitoring my right shoulder. At the beginning of July I hope to post a video of the scale excerpts I’ve been practicing. And I’m still working toward posting a full performance of Guardame the first week of August. By the way, the student I mentioned in my last two posts did her first public performance of Guardame.

And if you’re wondering, today’s wedding gig went well. I am tired though, thus the short post.

——[My next update will be July 3, 2011]——

A Little Specificity, Please

2011-06-19T12:49:00.002-04:00

Until I began this right hand project, I’d never before kept a practice journal. One reason is that it too easily becomes an end in itself. As in “my playing didn’t improve today, but I got some really good material for my journal—hey, maybe I can turn it into a screen play!” Further, even though I’m now keeping a written journal, I almost never read it. In fact, the only time I read what I’ve written during the week is when I’m writing a blog post, as I’m doing now. Otherwise, I’ve little idea what I wrote, say, three months ago. And really, why bother? After all, every time I begin a practice session, my playing emphatically tells me what needs work.

Nonetheless, occasionally I can learn something from going back to read what I’ve written. Sometimes it’s not what I’ve said, but rather what I haven’t said. Consider, for example, the entries for the first week of May:

May 2: Finger push-up 2 minutes.
May 3: Hold hand into the string. Play hard!
May 4: (blank)
May 5: (blank)
May 6: Fandango at 50.

These aren’t the entries of an engaged mind. They suggest a lot of finger wiggling with nary a thought behind it. This won’t do. So from this day hence, I’ll either formulate new and precise questions about my playing, or be busy trying to answer them. Toward the end of this week I decided to set a quota of three good questions per week. I then wrote down some questions. After writing them down, I realized I had four questions instead of three. I then wondered if I should set a quota of four questions. When I realized this was a fifth question, I ditched the idea of a quota.

This is how progress happens.

To be serious, all practice is problem-solving. And the problem should be specifically defined. "I want to get better" is nice, but ultimately worthless. Hey, who doesn’t want to get better? But as a practice goal it’s too vague, offering nothing in particular to work on. Specificity is the soul of good practice.

So here are two questions I wish to answer:

• When I begin playing at the beginning of my morning session, my right hand feels awful. My rest stroke couldn’t accurately hit the side of a mountain, much less a guitar string. After about five or ten minutes of playing, things improve. But I don’t believe my right hand technique should start from zero every time I begin a practice session. So I need to experiment with how to get my hand working well as quickly as possible at the beginning of a session.

• Lately I’ve noticed noise from the string below the one I’m playing during rest stroke alternation. For example, during a passage on the second string, I hear faint but clearly audible sounds from the third string. I don’t think it’s from my a finger accidentally hitting the string. (In fact, a is slowly getting its act together.) Rather, I suspect it’s from i and m bouncing off the adjacent string as they return to the string they’re playing. Curiously, I’ve never had this problem before, and I thought I’d had them all. Oh well, a new problem gives me another reason to get up in the morning.

This week should be a bit of a hassle. I broke a good portion of my i nail. Of course, this happened right before a wedding gig, and I spent most of the gig working around the broken nail. By the way, it wasn’t a priest who presided over the wedding, but rather an actor playing a priest. The wife of the actor told me this—I replied: “what, Rowan Atkinson wasn’t available?”

I’m shooting for a full performance of Guardame las vacas at the end of July. It’s coming along nicely. During the week, I played it alongside the student I mentioned in last week’s post. Right now, we’re about even on the first variation. But I know the subsequent variations better than she does, so I’m ahead there. Give her a bit more time, and the competition will be closer. I’ve warned her that I’m not giving up without a fight. I’m working hard at this, and she’ll have to work at it to surpass me. It’s the wisdom of age pitted against the potential of youth.

Oh for heaven’s sake, stop giggling.

——[My next update will be June 27, 2011]——

Summer of the Right Hand

2011-06-12T09:52:00.009-04:00

For years I hated summer. Perhaps it’s because of where I’ve lived. Five years in Florida (where it’s hot and buggy), five years in Texas (where it’s hot and dry), and eight years in North Carolina (where it’s hot and muggy). I’m one of the few people in northeast Ohio who actually likes the weather here. But even after I got here, I spent many years living in top floor apartments, where heat rises and settles in for the summer. So I’d crank up the air-conditioner and envy the TV dinner sitting in my freezer.

Lately, however, I’ve lived in a house with a finished basement. For most of the year I use my upstairs bedroom. But from June through August I move to the basement to escape the heat. (Another reason I moved is that there’s a bird’s nest in my bedroom air conditioner, and I don’t want to disturb the baby birds chirping away there.) In my basement is a bed, a ratty old couch, an end table, and a lamp. The television sits idle upstairs. Instead, I raid my local library for books that catch my eye. Then, at night, I recline with a book and luxuriate in the cool basement air. So summer has become a more pleasant, relaxed, and contemplative time for me.

Which sets me to regarding my project in a better, more optimistic light. At almost the halfway point of my one year experiment, I now see that I expected too much too soon. Instead, sneaking up on speed with gradually increasing tempos seems the way to go. And the progress is there, albeit slow. Remember my May 1 video, where I ponderously played the first variation of Guardame? It’s getting better. I’m now hoping to post a video of the complete Guardame at a good performance tempo—probably not at the end of June, but certainly at the end of July. When I can do that well, it’ll be time to turn to another scale excerpt to practice, one that needs a faster tempo than Guardame. I’m now turning an envious eye to Joaquín Turina’s Fandanguillo. I’ve always liked that piece, but never had the chops to play the fast scale at the climax:

Maybe it’s edging into the realm of possibility for me. That would be so cool.

Now to discuss a question I received regarding how I teach. At one point during a discussion I wrote:

There’s ideal, then there’s “I’ll take what I can get.” With students, particularly young ones, I teach the ideal.

Which brought the following reply:

But that was my point Tom—what is the “ideal”? In your own writing I believe you said you’re not sure whether, for example, your a finger should move with the m finger in i/m alternation. I’m quite sure that mine shouldn’t and can both demonstrate and explain my reasoning and the logic behind it, as I see it. Other teachers believe and explain the opposite. How do you approach it with your students?—Paul Croft, England

A fair question. As it happens, I have a young student who’s just beginning to get her right hand into shape. She has time to practice this summer, so I’ve told her this is going to be her summer of the right hand. Among other things, she’s working with Guardame, as am I. But what a difference! Unlike mine, her right hand is wonderful to behold. In alternation, her fingers move easily and directly, with no extraneous motion. Her inactive fingers move with m, exactly as they should. Her tone is smooth and warm—it’s easy to forget she’s playing a $150 Yamaha. She has only to increase her speed and volume, and that, I suspect, will happen soon enough.

To answer Mr. Croft’s question, the ideal is something I seldom need to natter on about with my more ambitious young students. For whatever reason, they seem to achieve the ideal without much trouble. By the time they’re ready to buckle down with rest stroke alternation, the basic movement is already there. Typically, they can almost immediately outrun me in rest stroke scales, or if they can’t, it isn’t long before they can. So with my more accomplished students, the question of whether they should continue chipping away at technical flaws seldom arises. For them, unlike me, the ideal happens so naturally that they don't have to agonize over whether to settle for less.

Damn them.

Which raises an aside. Among guitar teachers there’s some difference of opinion on whether beginning students should concentrate more on rest stroke or free stroke. For me, there’s no question. Start with rest stroke as early as possible. Young students who’ve mastered rest stroke early usually have no trouble with it later. And they’ll get a good free stroke soon enough. I’ve seen this so often that there’s no doubt in my mind.

By the way, when my student starts playing well enough, I’ll see if she’s willing to post a video. After all, why should I be the only on the hot seat?

——[My next update will be June 20, 2011]——

Of Bugs and Magnifying Glasses

2011-06-04T19:51:00.000-04:00

It’s been a while since I’ve described how my one hour sessions go. So here’s a synopsis. I begin with five minutes of finger pushups with i, m, and a. For less string resistance, I do this over the soundhole—for more string resistance, nearer the bridge. After this, I set the metronome to 40 and begin playing the first variation of Guardame, four notes per click. (Toward the end of the week, I found I could begin comfortably at 60.) If things go well at that tempo, I increase the metronome setting one click. I continue doing this for thirty minutes. The last couple of days, I found I could get to a metronome setting of 80 before the end of the half hour. It didn’t always feel good at this tempo. But lately—well, more on this anon.

I’ve also added other musical excerpts to my alternation session. There’s this bit from Alonso Mudarra’s Galliard:

(Yes, I know the last two measures aren’t in the original. Cut me some slack here.) I’ve also added this excerpt from Drewrie’s Accordes:

(See, I can stick to the script on occasion.) The idea is to add a little real world playing to the mix. All these excerpts toss in some string crossing, and all offer something more than a short burst. Also, they’re from pieces I use with students. So what I learn while playing them becomes fodder for my students.

Then it’s on to arpeggios. For the moment I’m sticking with the Giuliani E minor and the Carulli Fandango. But I might soon add more work between m and a. For this, I like to tweak Fernando Sor’s Op. 6, No. 1:

For the moment, my arpeggios are working better than my rest stroke alternation. Indeed, at the beginning of the week my alternation felt awful. On Thursday and Friday, however, things took a turn for the better. There were moments where my alternation felt pretty good at 80. For Guardame, that’s approaching a reasonable performance tempo. A further bit of good news: my right shoulder feels good.

The rest of my hour is rounded out with sweeps, rasgueados, and stretches.

As an aside, sometimes I suspect a malevolent god is toying with me. Every time I’m about to collapse in despair, a sudden tiny improvement appears like a puddle in the desert. So I sip gratefully and trudge on. All I can say is that there better be one hell of a Starbucks at the end of all this. But I can't shake the feeling that I’m just a bug under the watchful eye of a kid with a magnifying glass.

Theology always makes me nervous.

——[My next update will be June 13, 2011]——

May 30 Video Update

2011-05-30T18:49:00.006-04:00

During the last week there were times when I played the Carulli Fandango and then thought to myself “I wish I had the camera running.” Sometimes it went very well. You should’ve heard me last Thursday morning. Don’t believe me? That’s okay, I probably wouldn’t believe your story about the one that got away either.

Of course, for the video included with this post, the Fandango went so-so. I’ve little patience with video equipment, and I wanted to do a “one and done” shoot. The first take went okay, and included a shot of my cat Fiona, who was indifferent to the whole process. But viewing the video, I found the sound level to be terribly off. I tried different camera locations and settings, all for naught. By the time I shot the video you’ll see below, I was disgusted with the process and wanted to be done with it. So don’t expect a cheerful rendering. Maybe I should experiment with the camera a bit more, so next time I’ll be able to set up and shot much faster. But don’t count on it. Néstor Almendros I’m not.

At the moment, I’m ambivalent about where I am. On the bright side, my right hand feels strong, much stronger than it’s ever felt before. You know how players like John Williams or Pepe Romero can fill a hall with a big sound? My hand is starting to feel like that. If your right hand is lying on the beach, my right hand will kick sand in its face. On the bad side, my rest stroke alternation is still very slow. How slow? Sunday I played a gig, and had to do all alternation with i and a. My i and m alternation just wasn’t working.

So a mixed bag. Today’s a holiday, and I don’t feel like writing. On top of that, “Blogger” was a real headache to work with today—for some reason, it wouldn’t let me embed my video directly to this post the way I have in the past. (I finally figured out another way.) So I’ll let my video tell the story.

Sorry you couldn’t meet Fiona.

——[My next update will be June 6, 2011]——

The Long Slow Trek to Speed

2011-05-22T12:22:00.009-04:00

One might assume from some of my posts that I’m ready to pull the plug on my project and stick my head in a microwave. Certainly rest stroke alternation continues its maddening elusiveness. But a new optimism, albeit tempered, is creeping to the fore, and it’s coming from the part of my project that I’ve tended to downplay. With all my attention to alternation, it’s easy to forget that I’m also working on right hand arpeggios. And when it comes to noticeable progress, arpeggios are now where the action is.

To be sure, the progress is more a matter of feel rather than measurable results. But ever so gradually my hand is beginning to feel stronger and more controlled. I’m now convinced that at least part of my quest for speed is a quest for more finger strength. This wasn’t what I thought when I began. Indeed, if you’ve followed my project from the beginning, you’ll recall me vilifying the brute force approach to technique. But my work to this point has slowly brought into focus a barrier that won’t yield solely to finesse. And the deeper I go into this project, the more inclined I am to explore ideas that initially repelled me.

I don’t want to imply that I now believe brute force is the answer. Finesse still has pride of place in right hand technique, if for no other reason than it’s music that I’m trying to make. Nonetheless, there’s an athletic aspect to making music, and there’s no point in pretending my right hand can meet my goals without building more coordinated strength.

For the last week, I’ve begun each session with a few minutes of finger push-ups. I then begin at a slow metronome setting—for the last few days, 80—and play forte the first variation of Guardame, two eighth notes per click. If I hit every note cleanly, I then up the tempo one click. On Friday, I worked from 80 to 138 in my thirty minute alternation session. That upper metronome mark is pretty much my limit right now. (Translating this to four notes per click, my current rest stroke alternation speed is roughly 60—remember, my goal is 184.) In deference to my right shoulder, after every repetition I relax my right arm for about five or ten seconds. So far my shoulder hasn’t felt any worse. I find this encouraging.

Why the slow practice? I’m taking to heart something that concert guitarist Jason Vieaux does when learning a difficult passage. At some point, he’ll do what he calls “running the tempos.” He’ll begin the passage at a tempo where he can easily hit every note accurately and confidently. Then, one click at a time, he’ll increase the tempo one click at a time. He’ll resist the temptation to jump over a handful of clicks to get to his target tempo. His reasoning is thus: at some point along the way, he may encounter a problem that didn’t appear at a slower tempo. By upping the tempo gradually, he can meet this problem at a speed where he can readily identify it, work out a solution, and apply it. If, however, he skipped over tempos in a rush to get the passage up to speed, he’d skip past the point where he might have more easily found the problem and solved it.

To be clear, I’ve never heard Vieaux recommend this as a way to develop right hand speed. That’s my spin on his approach. But just yesterday I met with a former student who’s now studying at the Peabody Institute in Baltimore. We’d just heard a concert by the Beijing Guitar Duo. Both Meng Su and Yameng Wang are very formidable players, and both are also studying at Peabody. My student mentioned that Meng Su, who can easily rip through fast scales, spends a lot of practice time playing at the very slowest metronome setting. For me, the evidence is growing that, if I want to increase my right hand speed, it’s best to sneak up on it from below.

By the way, it hasn’t gone unnoticed that this is very much what the anonymous commentator recommended on my February 12 post. I’m now inclined to think that, whoever he or she is, this commentator speaks wisely.

My arpeggio practice goes very much in the same way, where I begin at a slow tempo and work up notch by notch. All my arpeggio practice is with prepared stroke (or planting). Not everyone agrees with prepared stroke. One criticism is that players who learn arpeggios through prepared stroke often develop erratic rhythm. Guitarists usually describe this as a “galloping” rhythm. Here’s a visual illustration:

In the second example, notice how the second and third notes are bunched together. Interestingly, it’s usually the more independent i and m fingers that produce the gallop.

The critics of prepared stroke have a point. I often hear this galloping rhythm among guitarists—indeed, it plagues my own playing. But I have a ready reply to this criticism. (You might want to write this down.) Don’t gallop. That’s it. Sounds easy, but in practice one must be vigilant. As I practice this arpeggio, I listen carefully for any rhythmic flaws. If I can do the above example with a consistently even rhythm, then I’m ready to bump up the tempo. If I can’t, then I stay with it until the gallop is gone.

For my end of May video report, I’m still planning to include a performance of the Carulli Fandango. Currently, it comes and goes. I hope I’ll be able to post a worthy performance.

I’d like to close with a response to the following comment:

“We come to the guitar to play music, not just to play the guitar.” What you are doing now has nothing to do with music.—KM, Alabama, USA

Last night I attended a recital by Zoran Dukic. This was my first time hearing him live, and I was thoroughly taken with his playing. Even tuning up, he sounded musical. By no means would I peg him as the finest technician I’ve ever heard. He’s no slouch, but I’ve heard better finger wigglers. But his performance reminded me of why I play the guitar. In the right hands, the guitar has a poetic voice no other instrument can match.

Through all the minutiae of finger mechanics, I’m mindful of the higher goal. Dukic and a few others I admire are there. Much as I’d like to be there with them, I’ve more earthbound problems to solve before I can set foot in their realm.

——[My next post will be on May 30, 2011.]——

Lifting the Cow

2011-05-14T17:34:00.004-04:00

There’s an adage: if you lift a baby cow every day as it grows, you’ll eventually be able to lift it when it’s an adult. The idea is that from one day to the next, the cow doesn’t gain much weight. So if you can lift it one day, then you should be able to lift it the next day. And the next, and the next, until it’s full grown. This idea harks back to Milo of Croton, an ancient Greek wrestler who supposedly did this with an ox. He’s also said to have tried to tear apart a tree with his bare hands, got his hand stuck, and was devoured by wolves. A painter happened by—at first he wanted to help, but his artistic sense got the better of him and he instead documented the scene:

...which leaves us with two lessons: 1) If you’re being killed in a visually spectacular way, don’t expect a painter to help you. 2) Wrestlers are questionable role models.

Nonetheless, I’m taking a tip from Milo. This last week I began my right hand alternation sessions with two minutes of finger push-ups. Then, with the metronome at 40, I played the first variation of Guardame, two eighth notes per click. At this tempo, my hand feels wonderful, for the obvious reason that it’s too damn slow for anything bad to happen. Then I moved the metronome speed up one notch and played again. Within the thirty minute alternation part of my right hand session, I usually ended at a metronome setting of 100, two notes per click. This works out to a right hand alternation speed of four notes per click at 50—remember, my goal is 184. So clearly I’ve got a bit of explaining to do.

First, remember that my shoulder began kicking up earlier this month. I’m trying to edge away from practice that could put me out of commission. Second, however, is something I’ve noticed when practicing arpeggios. When I begin arpeggios slowly, my hand feels fine. Even as I inch up the tempo, my hand continues to feel okay. But as the tempo increases some more, the good feeling evaporates, replaced with a tightness that grows as the tempo rises. Finally, at a kind of tipping point, my fingers abruptly switch to an easy sympathetic movement, the same feel you get when quickly rolling a chord with successive fingers.

What intrigues me is the awkward transition between the slow and the fast movements. Can I gradually dissipate this tense transition, so that at every point of a gradual accelerando, my hand moves easily? It seems a worthwhile idea, and since my balky shoulder is forcing me to try something different, I’ll give it a go.

I’m aware there’s a school of thought that says if you want to learn to play fast, then you must practice fast. I tend to agree. Fast playing isn’t simply slow playing done faster. There’s a feel to speed that can’t be duplicated in slow practice. But here I’m doing something very deliberate and specific. I’m beginning with the easy feel of slow playing, and trying to move that easy feel up the hill so I can maintain it at a gradually faster tempo. I believe a good right hand feels easy across the entire tempo spectrum. I’m also taking to heart what Colin Davin told me: he never worked on speed—rather, he worked on good technique, and speed was the by-product. (I’ve seen this kind of advice in other areas of musicianship. For example, concert artist Jason Vieaux says that if you learn a piece correctly, you get the memorization for free.) Guitar playing isn’t a hodgepodge of disconnected skills. Ultimately, everything affects everything else. So while there’s a place for practicing fast to get fast, there’s also a place for practicing slow to lay the foundation for fast.

On the bright side, my shoulder feels no worse now then it did last week. Further, my arpeggios, though they come and go, seem better than when I began this project. I’m still shooting for a video performance of the Carulli Fandango at the end of May.

——[My next post will be on May 23, 2011.]——

The Elusive Ineffable

2011-05-08T11:44:00.001-04:00

That didn’t take long. After one week of my new approach, my right shoulder is starting to hurt. Oh well, game over. I’m closing down my right hand project and sleeping in an extra hour every weekday morning. Sorry to have wasted your time.

Okay, not to worry. I’m not giving up yet. In fact, I’ve been down this road before. The last time I tried reworking my right hand, I had put in the same amount of time when my shoulder gave out. And I was doing roughly the same thing I’m trying now: playing loud rest strokes to gain strength in my fingers. Back then, however, I was playing continuous alternation for sometimes ten or fifteen minutes at a stretch. This time I know better. So the soreness I’m feeling now isn’t enough to make me stop. But it is enough to make me reconsider.

Again. (Sigh.)

For the upcoming week, I’ll ease off speed and do alternation and arpeggios slowly. And I’ll try to turn the slow work to my advantage. I’ve long sensed there’s a delicate balance between tension and relaxation. When I play lightly, my hand feels great, but my rhythmic accuracy suffers. Conversely when I play harder, my rhythmic accuracy snaps into focus, but my tension shoots up and my speed grinds to a crawl. None of this is a revelation. But perhaps I’ve been going too far in one direction or the other, and need to find a middle ground that thus far has escaped my notice. It’s a theory anyway. Since speed is temporarily off limits, I might as well look into something else, however tenuous it may be.

Throughout this project, I’m struck by how often the things I’m doing and pursuing are so hard to describe. (It reminds me of the old philosophical conundrum: can you prove to someone else that you’re conscious?) The problem lies in describing what is, now and always, an internal state. I can assume what I feel is hardly unique, and thus familiar to anyone. But in the end, I’m always guessing and can never know if I’m getting across to anyone what I’m experiencing.

Some of the responses to my project, in fact, suggest I’m not doing a good job of describing why I can’t do right hand speed. For example, I’m still getting advice about how I’m holding the guitar. This is a matter I thought I’d adequately explained—certainly I know it’s not a factor in solving my problem. And yet the guitar position advice keeps coming. I’m particularly mystified by one who asserted that my shoulders aren’t correctly positioned. Try as I might, when I look at the videos I’ve posted, I can’t see how anyone would draw this conclusion.

If my project accomplishes anything, I hope it suggests how careful a teacher has to be when taking on the problems of another person. People vary in their ability to pin down and describe a problem. A student struggling to describe something unfamiliar and ineffable might draw a blank. Teachers must take care to really understand what the student is struggling to say. We tend to be enamored with our favorite insights. It’s all too easy to fall into a rut of time-hardened bromides that have nothing to do with a particular student’s problem.

I don’t slight the difficulty of describing the ineffable. Obviously I haven’t entirely succeeded at it myself. But I rather like mixing the grand with the hum-drum. I’ve a philosophical conundrum to ponder as I tackle the more prosaic matter of building a better right hand.

——[My next post will be on May 16, 2011.]——

Reboot

2011-05-01T12:17:00.002-04:00

I’ve been at this project four months, and my rest stroke alternation is no better than it was when I started. I suppose I could keep plugging away at what I’ve been doing. But at some point one has to make a concession to the shortness of human life. What I’ve done so far hasn’t worked, so it’s time to try something else.

Here’s a radical thought. Why not practice right hand alternation with music? You know, that pretty melodic stuff we hum as we go about our day? Wouldn’t that be a pleasant change of pace? And if I actually improve my right hand alternation, I’ll be doing it with, you know, real music. How nice that would be.

With that in mind, I’ve dusted off this old warhorse:

Guardame las vacas has several things to recommend it. It’s a standard right hand student piece, so anything I learn while practicing it becomes something I can use to help my students. Further, the scale passages are longer than a speed burst (remember, I’m increasingly skeptical of speed bursts), but have just enough breaks to avoid overworking my right shoulder. I also like that it has a bit of string crossing, but not enough to be a huge problem. Finally, I really enjoy playing it.

By the way, string crossing is often portrayed as a big deal in learning fast right hand alternation. I suspect, however, that it’s not nearly the hassle it’s made out to be. But since I don’t yet have good right hand alternation speed, it’s a bit presumptuous to say what is and isn’t an issue. So I’ll defer making any assertions for now.

Speaking of Guardame, here’s something intriguing. Some years ago one of my students played it in a student recital at the Cleveland Institute of Music. After the recital, someone from the audience—not a guitarist—told me how much she enjoyed my student’s performance of “Greensleeves.” Taken aback, I politely corrected her and told her the actual title of the piece. "Really?" she replied, "it sounds just like Greensleeves." I thought for a moment, and to my surprise she was right. The harmonic progressions of both Greensleeves and Guardame are virtually identical. Maybe musical historians are already aware of this, but I wasn’t.

I intend to begin each practice session with very slow playing of the first variation of Guardame. And by slow, I mean glacially slow—anything faster feels awful right now. Further, I’m going to focus on the feel rather than the appearance. If it feels good, do it. (I’m harking back to my “child of the 60’s” roots.) My goal is to find a good feel while playing real music, then ingrain it through repetition. I also suspect my raw finger strength might be a problem. So I’m going to revisit the “finger push-ups” described in an earlier post. Perhaps I now better understand their purpose.

An aside to those who wag their finger at me for using rest stroke in a renaissance piece. Yes, I know I’ll burn in hell. Now go away and leave me alone.

On a more general note, it still mystifies me that rest stroke alternation is such an elusive thing. But it does help explain at least some of the controversy surrounding rest stroke. From time to time, there are claims that free stroke can do everything that rest stroke can do, and thus rest stroke is unnecessary. Such claims are false, and there’s nothing quite so contentious as a debate between those who claim it’s so and those who claim it’s not. But if one can’t do rest stroke well, one might fool oneself into believing it’s unnecessary. Mind you, I make no charge of bad faith. I’ve no doubt these people honestly believe they’re on to something. Nonetheless, wrong is wrong, however honest it might be.

It’s time for another end of the month video report. I wish I had better things to show, but it is what it is. This video is very short: I play the Guardame variation very slow, and then it’s done. Also, I shot this video Sunday morning, and on Sunday mornings I refuse to do anything to make myself presentable. So if you have a weak stomach, consider yourself warned.

——[My next post will be on May 9, 2011.]——

Here Be Dragons

2011-04-24T09:23:00.000-04:00

Though I’ve splashed about in the kiddie pool, I fear the real work lurks in the deeper water. To date, I’ve avoided pushing my right hand too hard. I don’t want a repeat of the soreness that ended my two previous tries at improving my right hand. The result thus far isn’t encouraging. My right hand alternation is no better today than it was at the beginning of January. I’ve learned some things along the way. But learning, however laudable, isn’t my main goal. My real goal is to do something I haven’t been able to do. Short of that is failure.

In one area I’m optimistic. My right hand arpeggios feel better than when I began this project. Whether that translates into a reliable and clean arpeggio technique remains to be seen. As I said in my last report, I hope to have something worth posting at the end of May. At that time, I’d like to offer a video of the Carulli Fandango, performed at a reasonable tempo. So I think I’m on the right track for my right hand arpeggios.

Rest stroke alternation, however, remains elusive. I’m now convinced that I need to work at sustained speed rather than bursts. In fact, I’m becoming a skeptic on the value of speed bursts. Certainly they’re useful to get an idea of what fast alternation feels like. And they certainly encourage me that my fingers really can play at a high speed. But the deeper I get into this project, the more I suspect that speed bursts are a dead end. They tend to ingrain a tense movement that can’t be sustained in an extended scale. Sustained speed requires a movement and feel that I can maintain for more than a fraction of a second.

With this in mind, I’m now working along the lines of this:

The repeated m strokes are play and release, then I try to maintain that feel during the sixteenth note alternation. I begin at a slow tempo, no faster than a quarter note at 80. As soon as my hand feels good, I increase the tempo. Currently, I go no faster than 100—above this, things fall apart during the alternation. I take frequent breaks. Sometimes during a break I’ll do this same rhythm tapping my fingers on the bridge. As I mentioned in last week’s post, when tapping my hand moves perfectly. So it seems sensible to revisit this feel during a break. I then try to maintain this feel when I go back to playing on a string.

This work has raised two questions that I haven’t yet answered:

1) Does play and release really work? I feel a release when moving slowly. But above a certain alternation speed, I feel no release at all. Should I? My suspicion is that no one will feel a release above a certain speed, because there’s just not time for it. Rather, play and release can only set the table for alternation speed. Actually doing high speed alternation requires something more than play and release alone can provide. Of course, since I don’t have speed, I can only guess at whether this is so.

2) Should I practice loud or soft? Soft playing offers an easy feel, but also yields rhythmic tentativeness. Loud playing sharpens up the rhythm, but also raises the tension. My guess is that speed is a delicate balance between tension and ease. I also guess—there’s that word again—that fast rest stroke alternation requires a particular conditioning of the fingers that I haven’t yet got. So I’ve a lot of work ahead of me.

Almost four months into this project, it now occurs to me that I might fail. Oddly, I never really believed this until now. While I certainly thought this would be a difficult project, I never harbored any serious doubt that I’d eventually succeed. But almost a third of the way into my yearlong project, it’s discouraging to have so little progress, at least for rest stroke alternation. I can see why some guitarists abandon rest stroke almost entirely. For now, I can only rely on something I sometimes say to students: “If playing the guitar was easy, then everyone would be a virtuoso.” There’s a reason “virtuoso” is derived from “virtue”—the virtue of being a virtuoso is that one has learned to do what not everyone can do.

Now, however, I’m venturing into the kind of practice that in the past has caused me right shoulder pain. So far, my shoulder feels fine. But ominously, I received the following comment:

I stumbled upon your site quite by accident and I am compelled by your comments. So much so that I am going to print off every post and read the hard copy, making notes as I go.

Compelled because I have been going through the exact same experience as you. I spent years trying to fix my right hand only to find that it was getting not better but worse and worse until I could not play even the most basic of pieces. Things got so bad that I witnessed the “m” finger of my right hand curling in even as I picked up my guitar. I could barely play a single note.

Eventually I was diagnosed with task specific focal dystonia (TSFD) and I thought that the world had ended. I went for seminars in Seville, Spain and since then I have been working to retrain my hand, posture and approach to playing.—Miguel Bengoa

Receiving this comment just as I’m beginning more sustained practice of rest stroke alternation is spooky. It’s a stark reminder that this isn’t something to take lightly. As ancient mariners headed into the unknown, they imagined dragons awaited them. As I head into deeper water, I have the advantage of living in more a more rational age. But I’m disquieted in the knowledge that guitar playing, like a dragon, has scales.

——[My next post, with video update, will be on May 1, 2011.]——

Are We There Yet?

2011-04-17T11:01:00.002-04:00

I’ve been at this project now for three and a half months. The results thus far are ambiguous. On the one hand, my arpeggios feel better than when I began in January. By the end of May, I hope to post a video that shows this improvement. On the other hand, my right hand alternation, the core of what I’ve been working on, is stuck in the mud.

I’m not really sure why this is so. In normal playing position, I can easily tap my fingers on the bridge at 180, four notes per click. Everything works perfectly—the movement is free and easy, and the inactive fingers do exactly what they should. (Inactive fingers are fingers that aren’t sounding a string during a particular movement.) Yet when I alternate on a string, this free and easy movement disappears entirely. Yes, I know that tapping my fingers is very different from alternating on a string. But the question neither I nor anyone else has answered to my satisfaction is this: why are tapping and alternation so utterly different?

There are two answers I can think of. One is that in alternation, the fingers must make a complex movement. If after a stroke, a finger simply releases back to the string, the back of the nail will bump into the string on the way back. To clear the string on the return movement, the finger must lift over the string. (One guitarist likens it to how one’s legs move when pedaling a bicycle, which seems an apt description.) Merely tapping the fingers avoids this more complex movement.

The other possible answer is simply the resistance of the string against the finger. Certainly this is entirely absent when tapping the fingers—you can think of hitting the hard surface as analogous to coming to rest against the adjacent string, but there’s nothing analogous to actually plucking a string during a simple tapping movement.

So both these differences could explain the increased tension I feel when I try right hand alternation, a tension I don’t feel when merely tapping on a hard surface. But still I wonder. Is the difference between tapping and alternating so great that I can easily do one, and the other not at all? I can’t shake the conviction that if I can tap my fingers at 180, then I should be able to gradually work up an easy alternation to a similar speed. It doesn’t make sense to me that, in the same hand, tapping is easily possible yet alternation is completely impossible. There’s a correct feel that’s so far eluded me. I’m determined to find it.

With this in mind, I’ve tweaked my 30 minute alternation practice. Now I begin by tapping i and m on the bridge, with my hand in normal playing position. I do this for a moment to ingrain the light and easy feel. Then I move my hand to the first string and try to maintain this light and easy feel during alternation. This raises a problem. If I try to maintain a light and easy feel while alternating on a string, I must play very lightly with an almost wispy sound. Any attempt to raise the volume also raises my hand tension. The question is whether very light playing is the right way to go. On the one hand, maybe I should start with the light and wispy sound, ingrain the easy feel, then increase the volume gradually from there. On the other hand, maybe an increase in hand tension is integral to good alternation, and by avoiding it, I’m delaying progress. (“On the one hand, on the other hand”—if I add any more hands to my deliberations, I’ll have to buy gloves in bulk.)

Faced with this conundrum, I’m splitting the difference. Sometimes I alternate lightly, other times I alternate more vigorously. In time, I hope to discover which approach yields better results.

Now to answer a couple of questions:

“I noticed that in the Fandango you were flexing a and c in past i and m—is this a conscious strategy?”

I would prefer that a and c stay with m. But I may have to take what I can get.

“I was wondering what is you exact goal? Is it possible that your goal is too vague?”

As I’ve said in a previous post, my goal with i and m alternation is to hit a metronome setting of 180, four notes per click. That’s pretty specific. In fact, I’ll be more specific. I want to be able to play an E major scale with i and m rest stroke across six strings, up and down twice, at 180. Further, I want to play the Carulli Fandango at 100. Finally, I want to be able to execute alternation and arpeggios with good tone, accurately, and reliably.

Seems specific enough. Is it realistic? We’ll see.

——[My next post will be on April 25, 2011.]——

Rearranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic

2011-04-09T20:59:00.000-04:00

Putting up a video brought forth some blistering critiques of my playing position. Reading them, one might think I was plucking the strings with my elbow. Such criticism, I think, misses the mark. Too often any playing deficiency is reflexively blamed on deficiencies in position, even when the position in question is only a minor departure from a perfect archetype. (The archetype varies depending on who’s defining it, but let’s not go there.) To explain what I mean, consider the following. I just watched a player who holds the guitar head too low, making it hard to reach upper left hand positions easily. His right hand wrist isn’t properly aligned. Further, every time he plays rest stroke alternation, his right hand little finger extends, suggesting unnecessary tension. Clearly this guitarist’s basic technique is a disaster, and it’s unlikely he’ll ever play well. To see a video of this unfortunate guitarist, click here.

Okay, bad example. Yet everything I said about his technique is true—if one views technique as a credo of absolutes from which one ought not deviate. But in the rough and tumble world of real guitar playing, technique doesn’t fall apart when it’s off by a jot or tittle. So while the player in this video doesn’t have perfect technique, it’s close enough. He could, I suppose, take time to iron out his deficiencies. But absent musical deficiencies, why bother?

“But Tom,” someone replies, “you have musical deficiencies, so you need to adjust your position.” I agree with the musical deficiencies. Where I disagree is that the cause of my musical deficiencies lies in my playing position. I could tinker endlessly with it, yet never resolve my problem. The problem isn’t the outward appearance of my technique. Rather, it’s the inward effort.

To better understand, try this. Begin drumming your right hand fingers on a desktop, lightly and easily. Piece of cake, right? Now stop. Without altering in any way the outward appearance of your hand, tense your hand and arm muscles until they feel uncomfortably, almost painfully rigid. In this rigid state, try to drum your fingers on the desktop. Much harder, right? Now ask yourself, would changing the outward appearance of your hand make this difficulty go away? Of course not. The problem is the internal muscular tension. If you don’t relax the internal tension, then tinkering with your hand position is a waste of time—it misses the real cause of your difficulty.

It would be nice if the problem with my playing were as obvious as the above experiment. But it’s far more subtle, else I’d have resolved it long ago. Further, because it’s so subtle, it defies detection by even the best of teachers. Faced with musical deficiencies in a student, teachers tend to fixate on what they can see. And as the above video shows, minor but visible deficiencies can be found in even the best players. So why seek invisible problems when a visible problem is easy to find—and blame?

For those following my project, I ask you to take seriously my assessment of what’s causing my problem. Fixating on what you see will distract you from what I feel when I try any kind of right hand speed. This is something you must take on trust, since you can’t feel it for yourself. Students aren’t always right in their assessment of a problem. But they’re not always wrong either. Too often, I believe, students have much to tell us about why they’re having trouble, but are ignored. They’re students—what do they know? Sadly, they might know more than their teachers are able to grasp.

I do suspect, however, there are those who know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m not unique, so it’s likely my problem isn’t unique. In finding a solution, I hope to solve a problem not uniquely mine, but one that others have and overlook. To paraphrase Ralph Waldo Emerson, in every solution we recognize our own rejected problems—they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.

——[My next post will be on April 17, 2011.]——

April 2 Video Update

2011-04-02T18:02:00.002-04:00

Bowing to repeated requests that I should post videos with my blog, I finally stuck a crowbar in my wallet and bought a camera. After a day of cursing and head-scratching, I more or less figured out how to use it. So all my future monthly updates will be in video.

First let me explain that I’ve little experience in front of a camera. Watching this video, I was struck by how twitchy and shifty-eyed I look. If there’s ever a remake of “The Caine Mutiny” I’ll be a natural to play Captain Queeg. But that’s not a look I want to cultivate. I’ll work on appearing more warm and fuzzy.

Since the video shows what I’m doing, I’ll use this post merely to expand a bit on what you’ll see and hear. Classical guitarists might immediately notice that my right hand pinkie is often not moving with my other fingers during i and m alternation. Some guitarists regard this as a serious technical faux pas. I tend to be one of them. Certainly in any right hand movement involving a, I want my pinkie to move with it. But I’m not sure this is so important for alternation. Many very accomplished guitarists don’t move the pinkie while doing alternation. (John Williams is a notable example.) For the moment, I’m agnostic on this matter. I don’t particularly like not moving it, but if it doesn’t slow me down, then I’ll let it be.

You’ll also notice that some of what I do sounds hit or miss. For example, when I begin alternating four notes per click at 100, the results are a bit ragged at first. I’ve found that when I begin my right hand practice sessions, it takes a about ten or fifteen minutes before my hand feels loose. That’s reflected in the video, since I only warmed up about five minutes before shooting. One goal I’m working toward is to reduce the warmup time needed before my hand is ready to roll. Five minutes should be enough. Indeed, concert artists occasionally have to make do with less.

By the way, whenever I do a video update, I intend to set up, briefly warm up, and then shoot in one take. I want each update to show my true capability, not a pristine and heavily edited version. So expect a few blemishes. Speaking of which, there’s a mistake in my narration. At the 7:41 mark I say this: “The extensor stretches would be like so.” I should have said “flexor stretches.”

For those interested, the camera I used for this video is a Zoom Q3HD. Despite my chronic ineptitude with all things mechanical, it’s pretty easy to use. I wouldn’t use it to make a Hollywood epic. But for Youtube videos, it gets the job done with a minimum of fuss.

With no further ado, here’s the video. Get yourself some soda and popcorn, and enjoy the show.

——[My next post will be on April 11, 2011.]——

I Have Met the Enemy, and He Is Me

2011-03-26T17:59:00.006-04:00

It’s all boiled down to this:

...which is pretty basic stuff. But i and m alternation is pretty basic stuff, so it’s not surprising that I’m now down to brass tacks. Why the repeated m strokes? Two reasons: they ensure that a is comfortably moving with m, and they help my hand relax between the bits of i and m alternation. The tempo indicated isn’t where I started this week. I began at 50, still not alternation, but more a series of separate strokes. From there I slowly worked my way up the metronome. By Thursday my hand was relaxed enough that it still felt comfortable at 80. This tempo is also where, for me, it starts to feel like alternation rather than separate strokes. So for now, this will be the tempo from which I tip-toe into higher speeds. No problems with my right shoulder to report.

A benefit of this project is that I’m becoming far more aware of why my right hand has so much trouble with alternation. For example, I now know beyond any doubt that my hand has all the raw speed it needs to do alternation well at a high speed. Here’s what I mean. My middle finger can easily do two notes per click at 180, and so can my index finger. Further, when m by itself does two notes per click at 180, a easily moves with it. No effort required, it just does it. But if I try to do alternation at even half that speed, suddenly my hand tightens up. Part of the reason, I believe, is that a responds to the opposite movement of i. I’ve noticed that as m extends away from the string, it’s little affected by i moving in the opposite direction. But a, in mid-flight and following m, slightly pulls up short as i pushes into the string. What’s curious to me is that, apparently, a is more influenced by i than is m. Seems odd, since m is right next to i, I’d assume it’s more influenced by i. But for me at least, m seems happy to ignore the opposite direction of i during alternation, whereas a doesn’t.

Also, the tension of a guitar string plays a crucial role. I’ve no problem drumming my fingers on a desk top at 180, and a easily moves with m as I do it. But try the same movement on any guitar string, where the tension pushes against the fingers, then that ease vanishes.

The problem isn’t raw speed—rather, it’s coordination.

I sense experienced guitarists around the world slapping their foreheads and crying: “Sheesh, you’re just figuring this out after almost three months of work?” Bear with me a moment as I explain further. It’s one thing to say that any deficiency of technique is in essence a coordination problem. That’s hardly a revelation. But it’s quite another thing to pin down exactly what that means. And I believe this is a far more elusive thing than most players and teachers know.

Consider the following scenario. Imagine someone who aspires to be a world class sprinter. He’s lean and athletic, by all appearances likely to excel with proper training. So he’s taken on by a knowledgeable coach. Now imagine this aspiring sprinter has invisible weights strapped to his feet. These weights have been there all his life. He’s unaware of them, and since they’re invisible, no one else can see them. Throughout his training, he never can match the performance of other sprinters who aren’t hampered with these weights. His coach tries every type of exercise he knows, but our aspiring sprinter never improves enough to become a world class athlete. Eventually both the coach and the aspiring sprinter give up. Neither ever knows the true cause of the failure. The coach never knows because he can’t see the weights, nor can he feel what the aspiring sprinter feels. The aspiring sprinter never knows because this excess weight is all he’s ever known, and thus feels perfectly normal to him. He’s unaware that other sprinters aren’t similarly encumbered.

Bear in mind that, in this scenario, the basic solution is simple: remove the invisible weights. But how would anyone hit on this solution? The coach can’t help the athlete because he can’t see the weights, nor can he feel what the athlete is feeling. The athlete can’t help the coach because he’s unaware that he’s fighting a handicap that others don’t have. It would take an leap of imagination for anyone to understand the true cause of the failure. Sadly, it’s unlikely that either the coach or the athlete could make this leap.

Most of us are imprisoned by our own experience. Whenever we encounter something novel, our instinct is to relate it to what we already know. If the novelty is far outside our experience, we’re unlikely to see it for what it is. Rather, we relate it to whatever previous experience seems to fit, however inapt it might be. Indeed, much of human progress is a slow and fitful crawl, where long held misunderstandings are chipped away by an accretion of tiny insights, painstakingly assembled into a new and better understanding. Quantum leaps are rare.

When it comes to progress, we are each our own worst enemy.

——[My next post will be on April 4, 2011.]——

Waiting for the Water to Boil

2011-03-19T18:22:00.000-04:00

Writing about practice, the Russian piano teacher Heinrich Neuhaus described the following scenario. You want to boil a pot of potatoes. So you set a pot of water on a fire. Before the water heats up, you remove the pot from the fire and do something else. Later, you put the pot of water back on the fire. Then, again, you remove the pot before the water heats up and do something else. You repeat this many times. Obviously the water never heats to a boil, and your potatoes never get cooked. Neuhaus’ point was that, when practicing, you have to stay with something long enough for the water to boil. Only then can you get something done.

So for the rest of this month the pot will sit on the fire. My 30 minute alternation sessions have boiled down to this:

You can’t get much more basic than this. But there’s a lot going on in this deceptively simple exercise. Every moment, I’m trying to keep the feel light and easy. On each stroke, my finger plays and immediately releases back to its starting point near the string. I’m aware that at this speed I’m not doing alternation—it’s more like separate strokes for each finger. In fact, I’m purposely trying to avoid alternation for now. I’ve found that when I try to bump the speed up to where it starts to feel like alternation, the easy and light feel vanishes. Instead, it’s replaced by my old familiar tense and clunky feel. That feel is no longer acceptable to me. Instead, I begin with a tempo of 100. When it feels free and easy, I up the tempo a bit. If it feels good, I stay there a moment and then up it a bit more. If it starts to feel bad, I retreat to a tempo where the bad feeling disappears. Rinse and repeat.

Having worked on my right hand project for two and a half months, I’m amazed at how bad my alternation now feels. Individual rest strokes feel quite good to me. But the instant i and m move simultaneously in opposite directions—a defining characteristic of alternation—my hand feels very different, and the difference isn’t a good one. Yet I see this as an encouraging sign. An early stage of ingraining a new good feel is that the old feel to which I was once inured is now intolerable. To be sure, this isn’t a fun place to be. Indeed, it’s a kind of no man’s land: I’m not where I want to be, and I refuse go back to where I was. Well, sometimes life is unbearably tragic.

I need to be careful of long and uninterrupted practice sessions. While I’m not doing speed work, it’s very easy for me to fall into a zone of continuous play for 30 minutes at a stretch. That’s the kind of thing that caused trouble in the past. I keep reminding myself to take frequent breaks to relax my right shoulder. So far, no trouble to report on that front.

Compelling to me is the fact that, done right, play and release apparently bypasses questions I earlier puzzled over. For example, I earlier wondered if I needed to tinker with my hand position to equalize the different lengths of i and m. With play and release, this question melts away to irrelevancy. My fingers fall into a comfortable groove, and their different lengths just seem to sort themselves out with no real effort. This, I hope, is the hallmark of a good approach. When problems seem to sort themselves out, one might be on the right track.

Lest we forget, my right hand arpeggio work is proceeding apace. Until this week, I’d kept the speed of my arpeggios very slow. But now I’m inching up the tempo a bit. (For you non-Americans, that would be centimetering up the tempo.) I’ve no great improvement to report, but my arpeggios do feel a tad better than before I began this project. But it’s a small improvement, possibly a product of wishful thinking rather than real accomplishment.

So I’ll continue with my practice sessions and staring at the water pot.

Apropos of nothing, I’d like to close this post with a brief conversation I had with one of my students, an eleven year old girl. She was trying to play her assigned piece and making a botch of it, repeatedly starting and stopping. It prompted this exchange:

Me: “I’d like to hear this once before I die.”

Student: “You’re not gonna die.”

Me: “Well, thank you!”

Student: “Wait, how old are you?”

——[My next post will be on March 28, 2011.]——

Simplicity Begins as a Very Complex Thing

2011-03-13T11:42:00.010-04:00

Play and release is my new mantra. This week I spent most of my 30 minute i and m alternation work on this:

On each m stroke, my middle finger immediately releases back to its relaxed position, poised near the string and ready for another stroke. Why so many m stokes compared to i? Because m is the problem finger, not i. All week I did this no faster than a metronome setting of 80. No speed bursts. Okay, I tried a few on Friday, but the horrid results sent me scurrying back to the slower speed. My goal is to deeply ingrain this new and relaxed feel, so that when I speed up, the relaxed feel becomes my natural response.

Judging from my previous posts, you might assume that alternation is all I’m working on. But I’m still doing 15 minutes of arpeggio studies. One of the pieces I play is very familiar to classical guitarists, Mauro Giuliani’s Op. 48, no. 5:

Another is Ferdinando Carulli’s Fandango, Op. 72, No. 3:

...which I like because it offers a variety of basic right hand movements and is fun to play. I also add a little more concentrated work on alternating between i and m-a:

I do all this very slowly, with a lot of prepared stroke. About a month ago, I noticed that when I do an arpeggio in which a plays after m, a tenses as m plays, probably because it wants to go with m. So during arpeggio practice, I’m paying close attention to keeping a very relaxed as m plays. By the way, the irony that a wants very badly to move with m during arpeggios but not during i and m alternation isn’t lost on me. On my hand at least, the ring finger is one very mixed up dude.

I’m still doing 5 minutes of right hand sweeps and rasgueados. And I’m also still ending with 10 minutes of stretches for both hands. Since I’m doing very little speed work this month, my right shoulder feels great.

Now to address some comments and questions:

“I don’t know your entire history so maybe this question has already been answered: since the a finger follows naturally with m, what did you do in the past to get away from that?”—Rick

...and:

“I’m most definitely missing something. You are saying that, for you, when m plucked, a did not follow? Really? The m & a fingers are tied together by tendons.”—ES, Pennsylvania, USA

...and:

“Someday you are going to listen me and get it in few days. It’s just
a matter of time. Independence of fingers is not moving one finger with or against another finger, it is the ability to move one finger while the other is completely (whatever that means) relaxed. If you learn to relax the a finger while m is flexing, it will naturally move along with m.”—KM, Alabama, USA

I sense a whiff of edginess in these comments and questions. There seems an honest incredulity that what I’m trying to accomplish should be so difficult and takes so long. After all, doesn’t a naturally want to move with m during alternation? So what’s the problem?

As a prelude to a reply, let’s try a thought experiment. Assume that 200 classical guitarists are following my little project. And imagine that, instead of sitting at our computers scattered about the world, we’re all sitting in a recital hall, with me on stage fielding questions about what I’m doing. (Okay, to make it worth your while, I’ll treat everyone to dinner at Olive Garden afterward.)

After hearing me expound at length, someone in exasperation asks: “Geez, Tom, how hard can this be? Just move a with m and be done with it.”

Miffed, I reply: “Okay, everyone come on stage and play a two octave scale cleanly with i and m alternation at 180, moving a with m. I’ll give $100 to each person who can do it. Those who can’t will give me $25.”

Can we all agree that I’m likely to come out ahead on this bet? (Don’t worry, I’ll spend my winnings on the dinner at Olive Garden.) So if what I’m trying to do is so apparently simple, then why can’t most of us do it?

The answer, in short, is that speed complicates what should be a simple thing. If I slowly play a few notes with m, a will easily and naturally follow. But i and m alternation isn’t a series of slowly played notes. What happens easily and naturally at a slower speed doesn’t necessarily happen at a high speed. For many guitarists, high speed alternation becomes very problematic. The easy and natural movement of a with m goes right out the window.

Virtuosos make the destination look easy. That doesn’t mean it’s easy to get there.

——[My next post will be on March 21, 2011.]——

Zen and the Art of Guitar Playing

2011-03-05T19:18:00.006-05:00

There are times in my life when I spend day after day pounding against a locked door. Then one day, taking a break to rest my aching fists before another round of fruitless pounding, I look to the left or right. And there, just a few paces away, is another door. I walk over and try it. The door is unlocked. Sheepishly, I go through and continue on my way, hoping no one noticed my days of pounding on the locked door.

After my meeting with Colin Davin last Saturday, I revamped my 30 minute session of i and m alternation. Gone is the Rockette exercise, and gone are the speed bursts. Instead, I begin with five minutes of the finger pushups described in my last post. Then I continue with 25 minutes of the play and release exercise. Right away I found something tantalizing. When my middle finger plays and then quickly and lightly releases back to its ready position, my ring finger goes right with it. More compelling, I don’t have to make my ring finger move with m. It just does it, naturally and effortlessly.

Okay, let’s get this straight. I spent years trying to get my a finger to move with m during alternation, to no avail. I even tried taping them together. (Tried that for about a week two years ago. Didn’t work.) Since the beginning of January I’ve redoubled my efforts. I’ve compelled, coaxed, cajoled, wheedled, begged, and pleaded with a to move with m. In darker moments, I’ve threatened it with a steak knife. Nothing worked.

And now the old play and release exercise—something I’ve done many times before with no good results—suddenly works with almost no effort. I succeed by barely trying. So rather than forcing my ring finger to do what I want, I beguile it to do what I want through its own free will. How very Zen. What’s also very Zen is that it’s taken so long to arrive at this revelation, which tempts me to indulge in some very un-Zen swearing.

So for now I’m not trying for speed in any way. In fact, I’m not even trying alternation. Instead, I’m doing little more than this:

As each finger plays, it immediately releases back to its ready position. I do this no faster than a metronome setting of 80. Since each finger plays separately, this isn’t alternation. I do this on all six strings. But other than that, it’s just 25 minutes of very light play and release. When I do it right, this exercise entirely bypasses the effort of making my a finger move with m. Instead, my a finger just does it, following m like a faithful little dog. It looks exactly like Colin’s right hand when he does alternation. Unlike Colin, I can’t yet do this during alternation. I suspect I’ve at least a solid month of play and release practice before I can even think of trying alternation again—much less speed bursts. So be it.

By the way, I want to retract something I wrote in my February 27th post. I described the play and release exercise as though my finger was “hopping on a trampoline.” I now believe that, done well, play and release is nothing like a trampoline effect. In fact, when my finger contacts the adjacent string, it barely drives into the string at all. The release begins so quickly that I feel no pressure from the adjacent string. My finger isn’t pushed away by the tension of the adjacent string—rather, it hops off the string after barely touching it.

This week was a reminder of something essential. In playing a musical instrument, how it feels is more important than how it looks. To be sure, visual cues are important. We need them when groping toward a fluency we don’t yet have. But visual cues can only hint at a direction. The ultimate goal of technical practice is the feel of an easy and fluid movement. Indeed, technique reflects the sound it produces: ugly technique produces ugly sound—beautiful technique produces beautiful sound.

Beauty is a noble goal, worthy of my time and effort.

——[My next post will be on March 14, 2011.]——

A Lesson from Romero Land

2011-02-27T20:17:00.003-05:00

Good things, I fear, won’t happen quickly. After the initial encouragement of a successful burst, I’m now in the doldrums, where noticeable gains are hard to come by. My first conundrum is my ring finger. It hasn’t yet gotten the memo that it’s supposed to move with m. So I began to wonder if I should stop trying to train it and just let it do its own thing. Unfortunately, what it really wants to do during i and m alternation is curl in and bump into a string. So I wondered if I should tilt my hand more toward the thumb—this lifts my ring finger far enough from the strings that it no longer blunders into them. But I really hate the feel, and I dislike having to significantly change my hand position for rest stroke alternation. Which brought me, rondo-like, back to training a to move with m, and overcoming its tendency to bump into strings. So round and round I went.

As has been suggested by some who are following my project, I wanted to extend the length of my speed bursts. With that in mind, I tried the following exercise at a metronome setting of 80:

The 32nd note burst at the end is still a short one, but the sixteenth notes are my way of building up to a longer burst. But I’m beginning to wonder if speed bursts are a mirage. Perhaps they give the illusion of progress without the substance. My sense is that an extended fast scale doesn’t feel like a short speed burst. Indeed, when I try to extend a speed burst to eight notes rather than four, it simply falls apart. The approach that works in a four note burst becomes a problem in a longer burst. Thus, another conundrum.

Click here to find my monthly audio progress report. It’s a short one, for reasons that’ll become more clear as you read the rest of this post.

This weekend I had the pleasure of meeting with a former student of mine, Colin Davin. Unlike me, he has an excellent right hand. (His left hand is also pretty good—to hear a sample of his playing, click here.) More to the point of my project, he did his bachelor’s degree at the University of Southern California, studying with William Kanengiser. The USC guitar program is heavily influenced by Pepe Romero, who has one of the best right hands in the business. So I asked Colin if he’d be willing to look at what I’m doing and offer suggestions based on what he learned in the Romero school of playing. He agreed, and we met on Saturday evening.

At first Colin felt a bit strange teaching his old teacher—at one point, after making a technical suggestion, he quipped: “Said the non-pedagogue to the pedagogue.” To which I corrected: “Said the one who can to the one who can’t.” But we soon settled into a comfortable give and take. After all, when I’m sitting across from one who can play circles around me, it’s time to ditch the ego and learn.

Oddly, this was my first opportunity in years to observe at close range Colin’s right hand. His rest stroke alternation is a joy to behold. The movement is precise and fluid. What particularly interested me was that his a finger easily moved along with m, exactly as I’m trying to train mine to do. This heartened me. Maybe my own hand isn’t a lost cause.

I asked him to suggest some Romero-inspired things I might work on. First, Colin demonstrated what he called a “finger push-up” exercise. It goes thus. Prepare any finger on a string, as though I’m about to play a free stroke. Then gently press into the string, as though starting the stroke, but don’t allow the string to leave my finger. Then gently let the string tension push my finger back to its starting position. When I press the string, I should use only enough pressure to displace the string a short distance. I’m not trying to manhandle the string—rather, it should be a light and easy pressure. As I understand Colin’s explanation, the goal here is to cultivate a refined awareness of the finger exertion I use to begin a stroke.

Next, Colin suggested that I should do rest stroke with each finger. As my finger plays a string and comes to rest on the next string, I should allow the tension of the next string to bounce my finger back to its starting position. Think of it almost as though my finger is hopping on a trampoline. This exercise, by the way, is more familiar to me. I’ve seen it described before as a “play and release” exercise. Hearing it from a player who recently went through the Romero school of technique convinces me that I should be more aware of it in my own right hand work.

Colin and I also discussed some questions I had. I asked him if he thought speed bursts were useful. He said he didn’t see anything wrong with them. Sensing a lukewarm response, I asked him if he’d ever done speed bursts. “No,” he replied. That somewhat let the air out of my balloon. Discussing this further, Colin didn’t reject them. It just wasn’t something he’d done, so he had no particular opinion pro or con.

He did, however, suggest I should focus more on an easy and fluid movement, and that I should set aside for now any attempts at speed. (Interestingly, some who are following my project have offered the same suggestion.) He went on to say that he’d never really worked on speed itself. Rather, he’d worked on good technique, and speed was almost a byproduct of good technique. Makes sense to me. So beginning Monday, I’ll rework my routine to incorporate Colin’s suggestions.

Some good news. I now believe the shoulder pain I mentioned in last week’s post was a false alarm. Rather than a guitar-related injury, it’s probably just a pulled muscle I sustained while chipping ice off my front door steps. So I’m still good to go with my right hand project. In fact, I want to reassure everyone who expressed concern that I might sustain a guitar-related injury. The way this winter is going, I’m far more likely to suffer a heart attack while shoveling snow.

——[My next post will be on March 7, 2011.]——

Make a New Plan, Stan

2011-02-19T19:47:00.008-05:00

A flicker of success is nice, but it won’t boil the broth. I’m looking for something more sustained and durable. So this week I stepped back to reevaluate how I’m working toward my goal. First, the jury is still out on my Rockette exercise. I can’t decide whether it’s building a useful reflex or just frittering away valuable time. Thinking about it, I sense it should work. But maybe this is something that looks better on paper than it works in reality. For the moment, I’ll hang on to it, though I’d like to see some results.

One thing has become clear. My ring finger is perhaps the biggest impediment to my i and m alternation speed. It still tends to curl in, and often bumps into a bass string as i and m play. I’ve decided to be far more vigilant in keeping it moving with m. Admittedly, I get mixed signals when I do this—my speed doesn’t improve when my ring and middle fingers move together, yet the movement does feel easier. I’m also aware that many excellent guitarists let their ring finger curl in as they do i and m alternation. For now, however, I’m betting this won’t work for me. Maybe I’m pig-headed, but all my experience tells me that, for my hand, moving m and a together will ultimately pay off. Possibly I’m wasting time pursuing a pristine archetype when something a tad more squalid would do. So call me pig-headed. Besides, the older I get, the less I’m enamored of shortcuts.

I’ve made a few changes in my 30 minute routine. Instead of beginning on trebles and working toward the bass strings, I’m now doing the opposite. My thinking here is that since I play better on the basses, I want my warmup time to be on the basses rather than the trebles. I also want to firmly ingrain the feel of good alternation before moving to the trebles. By the way, it’s still a mystery to me why alternation should be easier on the basses than on the trebles. I don’t think it’s because of the relative tension of the strings. In fact, when I press my finger against a string, I don’t feel all that much difference between basses and trebles—there may be a difference, but it doesn’t feel like much to me. Further, there doesn’t seem any real difference in the position of my hand and arm. Certainly going from the fourth to the third string doesn’t cause any big change. So it’s an enigma wrapped in a riddle and shrouded in mystery. (Gosh, I’m deep.)

Another change is that I’m trying to extend the length of my speed bursts. To that end, I’ve started working with the following:

Doing this means I can no longer hit the burst at 184. So for now, I’m doing this exercise at a metronome setting of 80. I’m keeping the middle and ring finger Rockette kick in the staccato first measure, and allowing my hand to relax during the fermata.

Speaking of relaxation, I’m sorry to say that my right shoulder is beginning to kick up a fuss. Sorry, but not surprised. February is when I began doing speed bursts during my one hour right hand sessions. And speed work is what put me out of action when I tried to improve my right hand twice before in the last ten years. So I saw this coming. This time around, I’m taking many more relaxation breaks as I work. Further, the last time I tried this two years ago, I foolishly did a lot of continuous right hand alternation, sometimes 10 or 15 minutes without stopping. My thought then was that I could learn to relax my arm on the fly, without stopping to rest. Okay, bad idea, at least for me. It’s not a mistake I want to repeat. If my shoulder gets worse, I’ll begin alternating days of speed bursts with days of less rigorous exercises.

And while we’re on the subject of relaxation, it’s amazing what a tightrope walk good right hand alternation really is. We’re often told it should feel relaxed and easy, and that’s good advice. But carry this advice too far, and trouble ensues. The finger must exert sufficient force as it drives through the string. If not, then the string’s tension gums up the smooth and precise finger movement needed for good alternation. And exactly what should that amount of force be? Well, I guess that’s what practice is supposed to teach me.

All in all, it astonishes me that anyone masters a musical instrument.

I’d like to end this post with a comment I received on my February 12 post. I found the comment interesting. Since the writer chose to remain anonymous, I don’t know who he or she is. But my sense is that he or she is an experienced teacher or player. Or it might be a middle-aged speed metal guitarist typing in his basement while his mother yells at him to take out the garbage. But on the assumption it’s the former, I’ll quote the comment point by point and respond to each.

“If you are doing this as a long-term one-year project, I think trying for 184 is premature. In fact, I would say it’s counter-productive. By your own admission, you say you are actually not able to do it on certain strings and/or start with certain fingers. Therefore, your technique is not really improving. You are just playing faster.”

Well, playing faster is what I’m after. Since I’ve never before hit a burst at 184, I’m encouraged. But of course I want it to be reliable and controlled speed. There’s obviously much more work to be done.

“The clarity of your playing at this speed is not very good.”

I suppose it depends on who’s doing the listening. To my ears, the bursts I recorded for my February 12 post sound pretty good. I’ll admit that the second burst started a little ahead of the beat. And the eighth note staccato lead-ins to the bursts are uneven. But I’m happy with the bursts themselves. The notes are clean and I like the tone. I’ll take it.

“I admire your dedication but don’t lose sight of your goal—If you want to improve your technique, you have to do it in smaller increments in order for your brain to start receiving signals and start learning the new processes.”

The problem, of course, is defining how small those increments should be. I’m pretty much ignoring string crossing. I’m starting speed bursts only with i, not m. I’m generally not adding left hand notes into my bursts. I’m almost always practicing bursts with slower lead-in notes—almost never from a standing start. One might argue that if my increments get any smaller, I won’t be working on anything at all. Nonetheless, your point is well taken. One baby step at a time.

“If you don’t, you may be very well be on your way to a detrimental hand-injury.”

Honestly, hand injury is the least of my worries. What does worry me is my right shoulder, which has been a problem in the past. The closer I get to practicing at high speeds, the more likely I am to have problems with my shoulder. Believe me, I’m watching this very carefully.

“My advice, finally: I think the speed bursts are good. But, it may be better for you to look for sustained periods of speed instead. Again, we are trying to improve our technique and not how many notes we can cram in one beat, right? So, now that you’ve done one month of preliminary assessment of your technique and know that there is an evenness issue with your strokes, let us now then start by playing eighth-notes at 80 (slower if you need to) evenly for 5-10 minutes at a time. Do that for a week, then move up slowly to 85, 90, 95, 100 etc...you’ll find different results with this, imho. Maybe then you can start with 16th notes at 40 and follow the same process.”

As mentioned earlier in this post, this is pretty much what I’m now doing. So we’re of like minds on this point.

“Never play faster than you can think.—Manuel Barrueco.”

Geez, if I followed that advice, I’d have to use a calendar rather than a metronome.

“No, I’m not Barrueco. :)”

Perhaps not, but I’ve already decided you’re the one I’ll blame if I follow your advice and it doesn’t pan out. For that, and also for your thoughtful comments, I thank you.

And now to answer one other comment:

“Perhaps you’re not familiar with English weather Tom?”—Paul Croft, England

Well, I’ve never been there, so I guess I’m not familiar with English weather. Is it anything like this?

——[My next post will be on February 28, 2011.]——

A Flicker of Success

2011-02-12T17:55:00.005-05:00

On Thursday morning, I was doing my 30 minutes of speed bursts as described in my last post. While doing this, my right hand felt very good about 15 minutes into the routine. I didn’t have a metronome handy—since I was still laying the foundation, I didn’t expect to have anything worth measuring. So I didn’t know exactly how fast my bursts were. But they felt pretty darned fast. Certainly faster than anything I’d ever done before. That afternoon, I had some time to kill between students. Curious, and now having a metronome at hand, I decided to see just how fast I could do a burst. Let it be written and proclaimed throughout the land that at 4:10 pm on February 10, 2011, my right hand hit a rest stroke alternation burst at 184. To share the news, I made an audio sample this afternoon. To hear it, click here.

Before we break out the balloons and party hats, here are the caveats. I can only do this after about ten minutes of warmup. Even then, it’s hit or miss. I tried to show one of my students that I could hit a burst at 184, but couldn’t do it. Now I know how it feels to hit a hole-in-one when no one’s around to see it. There’s more. I can only do the burst starting with my index finger. For some reason, starting with my middle finger doesn’t work as well. I can’t do the burst on treble strings. Apparently the different feel of the trebles increases the difficulty just enough that my hand can’t yet do on trebles what it can do on basses. (Weird.) And crossing from one string to another? Forget it. Finally, I can’t maintain this speed for anything more than a short burst.

So my 184 burst is like those particles that flicker in and out of existence at CERN. It’s all very neat to observe in the lab, but it’s too evanescent to use in real guitar playing.

Nonetheless, let’s step back a moment. Never in almost 40 years of playing has my right hand done this. Four notes per click at 184 with rest stroke? Never happened before. So things are looking up. In spite of all the caveats, no one’s gonna rain on my parade. Today I’m a happy guy.

So what’s next? I need to tinker with this burst to make it something I can produce on demand. Good technique should be reliable. Further, I need to be able to do it on any string, starting with either i or m. I don’t want a finicky technique that only works under narrow circumstances.

But damn, this is so cool to hear my old, slow right hand hit a burst at 184. I might spend the rest of the evening listening to that audio sample over and over again. Practice? I’ll start that again on Monday. By the way, during an internet conversation about my right hand project, I wrote that if I hit 144, I’d celebrate by running naked through the streets. This prompted the following reply from across the pond:

“I think a nice cup of tea and a large slice of battenburg cake is much more sensible.”—Paul Croft, England

If you ask me, the English just don’t know how to celebrate.

——[My next post will be on February 21, 2011.]——

Confidence Is the Horse That Pulls the Cart

2011-02-06T18:26:00.003-05:00

Progress works in mysterious ways. January seemed no more than a lot of finger-wiggling signifying nothing. Indeed, I was on the verge of scrapping my Rockette exercise, as it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Then the first practice day of February offered a sliver of hope. About fifteen minutes into my Rockette exercise, my hand felt good. Curious, I tried a few speed bursts. To my surprise, the good feeling persisted. My hand didn’t lock up during the bursts. In fact—and this astonished me—my rest stroke alternation felt as good as if I were doing free stroke.

A bit of back story. When I first began playing guitar, I was self-taught. (You know the old saying that someone who represents himself in a court case has a fool for a client? There should be a similar saying for self-taught musicians.) I first drifted through folk guitar, learning stalwarts like Sligo River Blues, My Creole Belle, and Freight Train. I also wrote songs that, today, I couldn’t be flogged into performing. Count it as one of life’s small mercies that you’ll never have to endure them. Somewhere along the line, however, I chanced upon a library LP of classical guitar playing. It was 400 Years of the Classical Guitar, performed by Alirio Diaz. To a fledgling who regarded Travis picking as the non plus ultra of guitar playing, this was a revelation. I was hooked.

Of course, one can love sincerely but not well. In my early struggles with the basics of classical guitar technique, rest stroke just never caught my attention. I was aware of it, in the way a cat might be dimly aware of quantum mechanics. But for whatever reason, in the long list of things I needed to master, rest stroke never moved to the front of the line. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I took rest stroke seriously. And like people who learn a new language late in life, it’s never come easy for me.

Now maybe you can understand that when rest stroke alternation begins to feel no worse to me than free stroke, my attention perks up. Something’s afoot. I don’t yet know what it is, and I’m not dancing in the streets over it. (If I did that this week, I’d have been hit by a snow plow.) Nonetheless, I’m encouraged.

So my Rockette exercise has earned a reprieve. I’ve morphed it into the following:

As you can see, speed bursts are inching their way into my practice sessions. Everything else—30 minutes of alternation, 15 of glacially slow arpeggios, 5 of sweeps and rasgueado, and 10 of stretches—is pretty much the same. No problems with shoulder pain to report.

It’s now time to answer a question that no one has asked: how do I know I can reach the speed I’m aiming for? First, I’d like to thank everyone for not asking that question. It implies a faith in my prospects that so far has little evidence to back it. Or maybe it implies massive indifference. But I’m a glass-half-full guy, so I’m going with the former.

To answer my own question, I reply that I really don’t know. And yet I’ve confidence that I can reach my goal. The reason, to my delight, popped up in one of the comments to my January 16th post:

“How fast and loosely can you do that finger alternation without the guitar? Kevin Gallagher had me try that in a lesson and I was amazed by how fast I could do it and how easy it felt. Since then, I’ve been able to increase my speed and reduce my tension a lot by getting familiar with that feeling.”——William Bajzek (Washington, USA)

I smiled when I read this comment, so aptly did it describe the reason for my confidence. If I can alternate i and m at 160 away from the guitar, then why shouldn’t I be able to do it on a guitar string? Yes, I know it’s not that simple. There’s a big difference between tapping your fingers on a table top and alternating i and m on a guitar string. In fact, the vast majority of classical guitarists can’t do it exceptionally well. But do we really know why? Most of us try once or twice and fail, never to try again. But how many of us try again and again? And how many of us rethink after each failure, to come at the problem from another angle?

Which leads to another comment that made me smile:

“It has often been bandied about that the good rest-stroke players are evident from the very start. That’s an aggressively depressing thought to any non-good rest-stroke player. But it might also indicate that it is an element in the fundamental approach, rather than raw volume of work, that is the difference.”——Miguel de Maria, Arizona, USA

Indeed. So why not sally forth with confidence that I can figure it out as I go? In time I may learn that my confidence was misplaced. But there are worse things than misplaced confidence. Unquestioned defeatism is one. Given the choice, I opt for the former.

——[My next post will be on February 14, 2011.]——

End of January Progress Report

2011-01-29T21:06:00.009-05:00

Three weeks of work are now in the can. As time goes on, I’m trying to define things that could be important to my progress. One thing I’m focusing on is to allow the tip joint of m to give a little as it plucks the string. This is advice I’ve encountered a number of times from players who have good right hand speed—most notably Pepe Romero. The point of a flexible tip, I believe, is to cultivate a feel for minimal tension as the finger plucks a string.

(By the way, I’ll be delighted to hear from anyone who’s had direct contact with the Romero school of playing and teaching.)

I’m also focusing on the placement of each fingertip as it contacts the string. There’s a sweet spot where the string contacts flesh and nail almost simultaneously, and that’s the spot I want to hit precisely and consistently. If I contact the string with the flesh only, then too much of the fingertip has to force itself through the string to complete the stroke. Conversely, If I contact the string with nail only, then there’s too much clattering as the nail contacts the string.

There’s sometimes a misunderstanding about the best contact point as the fingertip touches the string. At the last instant of a normal stroke, the nail is the last bit of the fingertip to be in contact with the string. Most guitarists know this. Some, however, conclude from this that contacting a string with both flesh and nail is unnecessary, and we should contact the string with nail only. This is a bad idea. If only the nail contacts a vibrating string, it gives a slight buzz. No matter how quickly or carefully you do it, nail-only contact always has this buzz. So flesh and nail contact is better. The initial contact of a vibrating string with flesh makes the buzz much less noticeable.

A couple of things intrigue me. One is that my index finger, when it comes to rest on the adjacent string, displaces the string a bit less than does my middle finger. (Remember, all my right hand alternation practice is with rest stroke.) Is my middle finger, I wonder, using too much effort compared to my index finger? For the moment I’m assuming it does, and I’m trying to dial back my middle finger as it drives through the string. I want it to displace the adjacent string no farther than does my index finger. Maybe it’s not really crucial. But since I don’t have good right hand speed, I’m assuming I don’t yet know which fine points are or aren’t crucial. So it’s prudent to err on the side of caution.

The other intriguing thing is how different it feels to do i and m alternation on the sixth string compared to the other strings. When I get to the sixth string, suddenly everything is grand. My ring and little fingers move along with m, as they’re supposed to. My hand feels free and easy. Mind you, it’s still not fast. But it looks and feels better than when I’m playing the other strings. Why exactly this should be is a mystery. I suspect my fingers release tension better when they don’t come into contact with an adjacent string. I’ll have to ponder this further.

Speaking of the sixth string, here’s a tip I gleaned from a William Kanengiser video. Playing i and m alternation on the sixth string, one might assume we can’t do rest stroke because there’s no adjacent string to come to rest against. Kanengiser showed a neat trick: rest your thumb just below where your fingers are playing, and the fingers can come to rest against it. Voilà, you’re now doing rest stroke on the sixth string. Pretty spiffy. But trying it myself, I found I could soon dispense with the thumb, yet keep almost the same rest stroke movement of the fingers. I just had to be careful not to let my fingers thwack into the soundboard. With a little practice, this was fairly easy to do. So it’s possible to get very close to a rest stroke with the fingers on the sixth string.

My right shoulder is hanging in there. The minor soreness is no worse than last week.

Although it’s not yet the end of the month, it’s close enough. So here’s my first audio progress report. In it, I briefly describe what I’ve been doing. Then I do a few speed bursts, to show where I am.

—click here for end of January audio report—

The fruit of my labor thus far is a tad underwhelming.

My reaction to this depends on which Tom you ask. There’s Professional Teacher Tom. He’s serene and stoic. He purrs in soothing tones: “We’re laying the foundation for progress. Be patient and trust the process.” This Tom will say we shouldn’t be surprised that there’s no apparent progress yet. After all, we’re rebuilding from scratch. There are decades of bad reflexes ingrained into that hand. We can’t replace these reflexes in three weeks. And he’s right. Professional Teacher Tom is experienced and wise.

Then there’s the real Tom. He’s sitting in a high chair, banging his little fists on the tray, and screaming: “Argh! I’ve been working for three weeks and this is all I get? I want progress and I want it now!”

For the next month, I’ll defer to Professional Teacher Tom. But the real Tom makes a lot of noise when I lock him in the basement. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep him down there before the neighbors notice the screaming.

——[My next post will be on February 7, 2011.]——

I See It Feelingly

2011-01-22T19:47:00.011-05:00

My second week settled into a routine. For the first 30 minutes of each one hour session, I did this...

...starting at a tempo of about quarter note=80. I did 5 minutes on each string. If my hand felt good and loose, I increased the tempo a bit, but never enough for my hand to tense up. On each i stroke, m-a kicked far past the string and then immediately returned for the m stroke—m prepared on the string precisely at the dotted eighth rest. I did this kick and return as lightly as possible, to have m alight on the string rather than grab it. My thought here is that my right hand tends to use far more effort than it needs when alternating i and m. Speed requires a light touch, and a light touch is something I don’t have enough of.

A few years ago, I had a minor epiphany about this. Almost every workday, I eat lunch at Subway. (If you look at my photo, a significant part of what you see was once a chicken teriyaki sandwich.) One day, while drawing my coke at the soda machine, I noticed I was pushing the button harder than seemed necessary. Curious, I gradually let up the pressure until the soda stopped flowing. Doing this confirmed that I was indeed pushing the dispenser button much harder than necessary. It occurred to me that I’d probably done this all my life in a myriad of ways. And that doubtless affects how I play the guitar—unfortunately, not for the better.

I believe some people are wired to be physically tense, and others are wired to be more physically relaxed. Of course, this varies from person to person. No individual is all one thing or all another. But on the whole, some people seem better wired to do physical activities in an optimal way. They have an advantage in sports, dance, and playing a musical instrument. This, by the way, was the core insight of F. M. Alexander, at least before the Alexander Technique sank beneath a slagheap of pseudoscientific mysticism. (In a better world, innovators would be protected from their followers.)

I’m one, sadly, who’s wired to do things the hard way. Faced with a physical activity requiring finesse, I instead attack with brute force. I don’t do this intentionally or consciously. It’s just the way I’m wired.

And that’s what I’m trying to change. My 30 minute routine of m-a kick/return will, I hope, gradually ingrain a more relaxed feel in my right hand. So I’m willing to stick with it for the rest of this month. At the end of January, I’ll evaluate where I am, and whether this Rockette exercise is getting me any closer to my goal.

Experienced guitarists will notice that my Rockette exercise is close to something often recommended to players who want to increase their i and m alternation speed: play i and m alternation with a sharp staccato:

The exercise I’m doing, however, keeps the staccato after i and omits it after m. Why? The answer is that I’m very concerned about the quick return of m, and less so about i. Quite simply, my index finger moves far better than my middle finger. My index finger is the good soldier who, when I say “charge,” salutes smartly and rushes up the hill. Conversely, my middle finger lies on the couch with a beer in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. When I say “charge,” my middle finger gives me itself as a salute and belches. So I’ve tailored my exercise to whip m into fighting trim.

By the way, during the 15 minutes of music with right hand arpeggios, my hand didn’t feel any more chipper than when I began this project. In fact, on Tuesday it felt downright geriatric. I’m writing this off as a price one pays for progress. One step forward, two steps back, et cetera. But I’ll continue to monitor this with trepidation. On the bright side, my right shoulder isn’t hurting any more than it did last week.

Now to address some of you who’ve begun to follow my project. Questions and comments have come up, and I’ll try to respond to them:

“As a matter of interest, what do you define as ‘fast’ for i and m scale passages?”—Barnard Castle, United Kingdom

I’m shooting for at least four notes per click at a metronome setting of 160. I’ll be thrilled if I can hit something faster, but 160 will satisfy me. In fact, I’ve got my eye on Etude 7 of Villa-Lobos—always wanted to get that up to an impressive tempo.

“On the 30 minutes of IM, is that all rest stroke, free stroke, or mixed?”—Georgia, USA

Rest stroke only. Being self-taught early on, I came late to rest stroke scales, and so they’ve always been a bit dicey for me. But I love the sound, and I’m determined to get it. (Explanation for non-guitarists: To see a video that demonstrates rest stroke and free stroke, click here. And no, the guitarist in the video isn’t me.)

“Just in case you might not be familiar with it, Leo Brouwer/Paolo Paolini’s ‘Scales for Guitar’ (Ricordi) contains many interesting observations on RH technique.”—Adelaide, Australia

I’ve seen this book. (Those interested can find it here.) It isn’t quite the thing for the stage I’m at. I’m trying to increase the raw speed of my i and m alternation. “Scales for Guitar” doesn’t really address this in any detail. It has one intriguing thing I haven’t seen elsewhere: it seems to say that one should try switching between free stroke and rest stroke, apparently on successive strokes. (I say “seems to” because the English translation isn’t clear.) This strikes me as odd. If anyone can explain it in more detail, I’m curious to hear about it.

“Little suggestion on the right hand. When most guitarists practice their speed, they tense up before they play the burst. Example, mm at 140 play this:
What I’ve noticed is that most guitarists tense up and play the first sixteenth note slightly off beat. My suggestion is to play the first note of the sixteenth notes (on time), then think about the burst.”—Maryland, USA

What you’re suggesting might come in handy for me at a later stage. But I’m not there yet.

My sincere thanks to those who are following this little adventure. It helps to know that others find it of interest. But dauntingly, it adds a bit of pressure. When a year of work is done, I’d like something more than piddling results to show for it. So I’ll soldier on and hope I don’t disappoint.

——[My next post will be on January 31, 2011.]——

Off We Go! Why Is My Hat Floating?

2011-01-16T08:02:00.008-05:00

To set the scene, here’s how my first week went. At 8:00 am each weekday morning, after my morning walk and exercise, I settle into my right hand renovation project. I have a mirror propped in front of my chair, to give a good view of my hand as I work. My hour is arranged thus:

• 30 minutes of i and m alternation. (Explanation to non-guitarists. Classical guitarists identify the fingers of the right hand by the first letter of their Spanish names—starting with the thumb: pulgar, índice, medio, anular, chico. Further, although there are other ways to play scales, i and m alternation is commonly used.)

• 15 minutes of music with right hand arpeggios, done slowly and precisely. I’m not concerned with speed or volume at this point. I’m more concerned with absolute accuracy with minimal effort.

• 5 minutes of right hand sweeps and rasgueado. (Explanation to non-guitarists. Right hand sweeps are a conditioning and coordination exercise. In various combinations, you sweep your right hand fingers against the strings while muting the strings with your left hand. The result is an unmusical “scritch, scritch, scritch” that’s annoying to anyone unfortunate enough to be within earshot. Rasgueados are a type of finger strumming associated with flamenco guitar. As an exercise, they’re popular with classical guitarists who want right hand finger independence, even if they never play a note of flamenco.)

• 10 minutes of finger stretches. Why stretch at the end of a session rather than the beginning? Some years ago, I read an article in the journal Medical Problems of Performing Artists—it warned that one should never stretch until well warmed up. It went on to explain that stretching cold muscles can create micro-tears in the muscle tissue. These tears then heal as scar tissue, which is less flexible than normal tissue. So stretching cold muscles can be counterproductive.

The 30 minutes of i and m alternation are the laboratory in which I experiment with what I should be doing. I want to ingrain a movement of i and m that’s as effortless as possible. I’ve often noticed a fundamental flaw in my right hand: whenever I try to play fast, my hand tenses up. Tension kills speed and accuracy. While there are many things that can cause this tension, I’ve isolated the flaw that seems most likely in my hand. When I try to do fast alternation of i and m, my other fingers (a and c) tend to lock up. Thus, i and m are fighting against the tightness in my other fingers—they’re like a man trying to sprint with a sack of concrete tied to each ankle.

Over the years, I’ve talked to guitarists who have good right hand speed. Many of them agree that if you want good i and m alternation, pay attention to what the other fingers are doing. At first glance, this seems to make no sense. After all, a and c aren’t even playing during i and m alternation. But a simple experiment can clarify things. Hold up your right hand and begin waving your fingers, flexing and extending them together from the largest knuckle. Easy, right? Now try flexing and extending your index and middle fingers together, while holding your ring and little fingers motionless. Much harder, right? There’s a lot of interconnection between the fingers, and what one does tends to affect the others.

So my main activity for this week was alternating i and m, while suspiciously watching my ring finger, making sure it always moved along with m. In fact, at this early stage, I exaggerated the movement. Before each return of m to the string, I kicked out m and a far past the string, like a tiny Radio City Rockette dancer. This overdone movement helps me feel that m and a are moving together in all kinds of weather. Obviously this exaggeration won’t be in the finished product. But for now, it’ll help me ingrain the correct movement that I want.

Or so I’m guessing.

In fact, I’ve no idea if this is the right thing to do. But it’s something I’ve not tried before. My mantra this time around is to think things through anew. As I wrote in my January 9 post, I’ve tried improving my right hand twice before. Both tries fell short. So rather than bang my head against the same old wall, I’m looking for new walls to bang against. What’s the sense of redoing things that didn’t work before?

Here’s another bit of info. At the end of one week, an old nemesis is back. My right shoulder is a bit sore. While this worries me, I’ve decided to turn it to my advantage. In the past when I tried to improve my right hand, I suspect I relied too much on brute force and not enough on finesse. So now, rather than seeing shoulder pain as a warning to stop, I’ll instead use it as a barometer to suggest whether or not I’m heading in the right direction. More pain means wrong direction, less pain means right direction.

Or so I hope.

Really, everything at this stage is provisional. I may be like a man who sets out to walk from New York to Chicago by heading east. He might have interesting things to report—for example, there’s a lot more swimming than he expected. But his reports are tainted by the fact that, after all, he’s just a damn fool going in the wrong direction.

——[My next post will be on January 24, 2011.]——

A Journey of 1,000 Miles Begins with a Single Stumble

2011-01-09T10:34:00.025-05:00

I’m a 54 year old classical guitar teacher. I’ve long been fascinated by guitarists who have what I’ve never had: great right hand technique. Adequate, I’ve had, but never great. Mind you, this is no fault of anyone but me. I’ve had excellent teachers, and have had many chances to hear, meet, and talk to great players. Some of my own students, former and current, have a right hand technique far better than mine. (Dammit.) Good examples are all around me, and the information on how to get good technique is, so to speak, right at hand.

Not getting any younger, I’ve decided that now is the time go for it. So here’s my plan. Every weekday morning I’ll spend one hour on my right hand technique. At the end of each week, I’ll write a report on what I’m doing and how I’m progressing. Then I’ll post this report Monday morning. At the end of each month, I’ll record a sound sample of what I’m working on and post it the first Monday after the month ended. At the end of one year, we’ll see where I stand.

Why do this publicly? Two reasons:

1) There may be others who find this project interesting. I hope in time that those who have good suggestions will chime in. I realize this is also an invitation for every nut who can type with two fingers to bloviate endlessly. As a veteran of many internet tiffs, I’m willing to ignore the nuts and attend to the more thoughtful and informed responses.

2) I’m lazy. Setting out on a project with no fanfare makes it easy to quit. But if I stand on a soapbox and announce that I’m going to do something, it’ll look silly if I come back several weeks later and say “never mind.” I like being lazy, but I don’t like advertising it. So doing this with an audience, however small, will keep my nose to the grindstone.

To begin my right hand renovation, I’ve chosen to start with rest-stroke alternation of my index and middle fingers. For classical guitarists, this is a basic technique for fast scales. Here’s a video sample by guitarist Grisha Goryachev: click here. Never have I been able to do what Goryachev does. The closest I’ve ever gotten is this: click here. The difference between Goryachev’s playing and my own speaks for itself.

Bear in mind that Goryachev’s sample is a bright, percussive flamenco sound—not exactly what I’m going for. But Goryachev is a good example of the fluency I want. If I can achieve his fluency, I can tweak the sound to suit my taste. (As I’m sure Goryachev himself can do.)

One final and ominous note. I’ve tried this experiment twice before in the last ten years. Both times I had to stop because of pain in my right shoulder. So as I embark on this project, my right shoulder is the sword of Damocles hanging overhead, waiting to skewer my latest foray. But for the moment I’m undaunted. With a bit of caution, I hope to keep at bay my middle-aged aches and pains long enough to reach my goal.

——[My next post will be on January 17, 2011.]——