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.)
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
On Sick Leave
Been down with a cold the last few days. Assuming I recover, I’ll be back up and typing away on November 27.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Gold and Dross
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.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.
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.
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]——
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Catcher in the Rye
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:
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:
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.
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]——
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Training the Musical Pooch
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.
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]——
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Another Week, Another Infinitesimal Sliver of Progress
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.
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:
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:
• • •
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]——
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Busting On Bursts
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:
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.
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]——
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