Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Volume 1
Musicians in the Making: Pathways to Creative Performance
Edited by John Rink, Helena Gaunt and Aaron Williamon
Volume 2
Distributed Creativity: Collaboration and Improvisation in
Contemporary Music
Edited by Eric F. Clarke and Mark Doffman
Volume 3
Music and Shape
Edited by Daniel Leech-Wilkinson and Helen M. Prior
Volume 4
Global Perspectives on Orchestras: Collective Creativity and Social Agency
Edited by Tina K. Ramnarine
Volume 5
Music as Creative Practice
Nicholas Cook
STUDIES IN MUSICAL PERFORMANCE AS CREATIVE PRACTICE
Until recently, the notion of musical creativity was tied to composers and the works
they produced, which later generations were taught to revere and to reproduce in
performance. But the last few decades have witnessed a fundamental reassessment
of the assumptions and values underlying musical and musicological thought and
practice, thanks in part to the rise of musical performance studies. The five volumes in
the series Studies in Musical Performance as Creative Practice embrace and expand
the new understanding that has emerged. Internationally prominent researchers,
performers, composers, music teachers and others explore a broad spectrum of
topics including the creativity embodied in and projected through performance,
how performances take shape over time, and how the understanding of musical
performance as a creative practice varies across different global contexts, idioms
and performance conditions. The series celebrates the diversity of musical perfor-
mance studies, which has led to a rich and increasingly important literature while
also providing the potential for further engagement and exploration in the future.
These books have their origins in the work of the AHRC Research Centre
for Musical Performance as Creative Practice (www.cmpcp.ac.uk), which con-
ducted an ambitious research programme from 2009 to 2014 focused on live
musical performance and creative music-making. The Centre’s close inter-
actions with musicians across a range of traditions and at varying levels of
expertise ensured the musical vitality and viability of its activities and outputs.
Studies in Musical Performance as Creative Practice was itself broadly con-
ceived, and the five volumes encompass a wealth of highly topical material.
Musicians in the Making explores the creative development of musicians in
formal and informal learning contexts, and it argues that creative learning is
a complex, lifelong process. Distributed Creativity explores the ways in which
collaboration and improvisation enable and constrain creative processes in
contemporary music, focusing on the activities of composers, performers and
improvisers. Music and Shape reveals why a spatial, gestural construct is so
invaluable to work in sound, helping musicians in many genres to rehearse,
teach and think about what they do. Global Perspectives on Orchestras consid-
ers large orchestral ensembles in diverse historical, intercultural and postcolo-
nial contexts; in doing so, it generates enhanced appreciation of their creative,
political and social dimensions. Finally, Music as Creative Practice describes
music as a culture of the imagination and a real-time practice, and it reveals the
critical insights that music affords into contemporary thinking about creativity.
Musicians in the Making
PATHWAYS TO CREATIVE PERFORMANCE
Edited by
John Rink
Helena Gaunt
Aaron Williamon
1
1
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and certain other countries.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America
CONTENTS
List of contributors ix
List of illustrations xvii
Preface xxi
JOHN RINK, HELENA GAUNT AND AARON WILLIAMON
vii
viii Contents
Notes 351
Index 361
LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS
Ingrid Maria Hanken received her PhD in pedagogy from the University of
Oslo. She is Emerita Professor at the Norwegian Academy of Music, where
she served as Vice Principal from 2006 to 2013. Her research interests are in
higher music education with a special focus on quality enhancement, and she
has given many presentations and published extensively on this subject.
Scott Harrison is currently Director of Queensland Conservatorium Griffith
University. He has over twenty years of experience in the performance of opera
and music theatre as both singer and musical director. He is a recipient of
the Australian Award for University Teaching and a fellow of the Australian
Government Office for Learning and Teaching. His recent grants and publica-
tions have focused on assessment in music, one-to-one pedagogy, higher degree
education and musicians’ careers.
Joe Harrop was among the first to graduate with a PhD from a British conser-
vatoire. He has worked as a violinist and lecturer in the UK and New Zealand.
With research specialisms in ensemble pedagogy and contemporary applica-
tions of rhetorical theory in music performance, he is the founding director
of Sistema Aotearoa, a government-funded social development programme
teaching over 300 children from low-income communities.
Juniper Hill is an ethnomusicologist with interests in performance prac-
tice studies and music education. A recipient of Fulbright, Marie Curie
and Alexander von Humboldt Fellowships, she is Professor and Chair in
Ethnomusicology at the Julius Maximilian University of Würzburg. Her spe-
cializations include improvisation, creativity, pedagogy, revival and intercul-
tural exchange, on which topics she has conducted fieldwork in Finland, South
Africa, the USA and Ecuador. Her books include The Oxford Handbook of
Music Revival (2014) and Becoming Creative: Insights from Musicians in a
Diverse World (in press).
Mary Hunter is A. Leroy Greason Professor of Music at Bowdoin College in
Brunswick, Maine. She is the author of The Culture of Opera Buffa in Mozart’s
Vienna (1999), and Mozart’s Operas: A Companion (2008), as well as two edited
collections and many articles on eighteenth-century music. She is currently
working on a project on the discourse of classical music performance.
Mirjam James studied musicology, psychology and politics at the Technical
University Berlin. After an MSc in music psychology at Keele University, she
was awarded a PhD on audio-visual perception at TU Berlin. She has worked
as an acting professor in Systematic Musicology at Bremen University and as
a research associate in the AHRC Research Centre for Musical Performance as
Creative Practice, based at the University of Cambridge. She also founded the
charity Music for Open Ears and is a cellist and a singer.
List of contributors xiii
Boxes
Figures
Tables
This book has been in the making for over ten years. The volume was first
conceived in December 2005, when John Rink designed a research project that
would eventually take place under the aegis of the AHRC Research Centre
for Musical Performance as Creative Practice (CMPCP). The project—entitled
‘Creative learning and “original” music performance’—ran from 2011 to
2014, and its main aim was to investigate how the ‘creative voice’ of individ-
ual musicians develops over time, especially during late adolescence and early
adulthood. Musicians in the Making was intended to be one of the principal
outcomes of this study.
Accordingly, several of the research questions at the heart of the project also
informed the commissioning of this volume:
• How can the knowledge and skill acquired in the teaching studio,
practice room and classroom be used to maximum benefit in
performance?
• What learning and teaching techniques are most conducive to
transmitting the musical skills and knowledge required to surpass the
routine and predictable in musical performance?
• Should ‘creative performance’ necessarily be considered the main
artistic goal for each and every performer?
Although such questions are both fascinating and important, it is far from
easy to answer them. That is one reason we have produced this volume, which
attempts to shed new light on musicians’ creative development. The constituent
essays draw from and build upon past work on this topic, but the end result is
unprecedented partly because of the distinctive aims of the volume and also
because of the unusually collaborative approach that was taken during com-
missioning and as the material evolved. As the brief literature review that fol-
lows indicates, there are also differences from previous publications in terms of
authorial perspective and the ‘tone’ of the material. Although richly informed
by theory of various kinds, Musicians in the Making is not a predominantly
theoretical study, nor, for that matter, is it a practical handbook, even though
we hope that performers, music teachers and others will find it rewarding and
enlightening in respect of practice, rehearsal and performance contexts alike.
The three editors engaged a diverse authorship to investigate the manifold
issues surrounding what we refer to as pathways to creative performance. To
that end, twenty-nine contributors all told produced the book’s sixteen chapters, xxi
xxii Preface
eleven of which are the result of collaboration between two or three people. In
addition to the main chapters, the volume contains ten shorter ‘Insights’ writ-
ten by practitioners, among them internationally prominent performers and
performance teachers. Their articles, which are based on personal experiences
across a broad musical spectrum and which tend to be more informal in char-
acter, are interspersed between the chapters, thereby generating not only an
internal rhythm within the structure of the volume but also a dialogue between
respective contributors. Such dialogue was started at the book development
workshops in which the editorial team and many of the authors participated
in April 2013 and January 2014. These sessions enabled contributors to outline
initial responses to the briefs assigned to them by the editors, to compare notes
with other authors and to define a set of common goals. The ensuing process
involved unusually close interaction between the editors and individual authors
or groups thereof.
It is worth considering what the pathways to creative performance referred
to in the book’s subtitle might entail. Musicians generally do not follow rigidly
prescribed routes in developing as either amateur or professional performers,
and even if they do so there is considerable scope for idiosyncrasy. In fact,
the developmental ‘journey’ undertaken by each and every musician tends to
be individually determined in respect of the location, nature and timing of
the activities that contribute to it. Such journeys are usually anything but lin-
ear, and often they do not have fixed endpoints or even predetermined goals.
Indeed, most if not all musicians are continually ‘in the making’: learning is
an ongoing, lifelong process which involves not only oneself but the teach-
ers, friends, family members and listeners with whom one comes into contact
along the way. It should be remembered, of course, that the voices of these
‘others’ are often strong and pervasive, and while they can be instrumental in
determining pathways to designated goals, musicians must also find sources of
innovation from within, a challenge that can be daunting as well as inspiring,
depending where one is along an individual developmental trajectory. In any
case, the imperative to assess and reassess one’s musical insights and aspira-
tions is a central feature of life as a performer, whether one is preparing a piece
for the first time or performing it many times over, forging new partnerships
or maintaining established ones, or addressing new challenges or persevering
in familiar roles.
Similar discussion of what ‘creative performance’ and creativity in general
mean is also warranted here. The mystique of the artist as an intrinsically cre-
ative being has a long history, and even now a sense of awe can surround the
work of performers among others. Seen from that (rather outmoded) perspec-
tive, creativity functions as an attribute within an individual, who may then
transmit it into an artistic product. In recent years, however, this understanding
of creativity has changed significantly, with a growing emphasis on its location
within processes rather than understanding it as an innate quality. It follows
Preface xxiii
that creative processes may be learned and refined, and furthermore that col-
laboration and interaction within group contexts carry significant potential to
inform and catalyse creative experiences and outcomes.
A significant body of work from a practitioner perspective reflects on
creativity and creative processes, including Green and Gallowey (1987) and
Werner (1996). Such publications offer insights from experience and personal
experiment, and many are compelling. Because they are framed in terms of
self-help and based largely on anecdote, however, they often lack a systematic
evidence base. Nevertheless, they share a focus on several important issues,
among them the significance of enabling a musician’s creativity to inform and
flow through processes of practising, rehearsing and performing; the holistic
approach needed to achieve creative processes of this kind, ones which con-
nect mind and body; the detrimental effects of an approach dominated by
cerebral rather than embodied thinking; and/or the risk of overly self-critical
inner dialogue and obsession with perfection resulting in the body seizing up,
with a concomitant loss of flow and constraints on the musician’s ability to be
present in the moment.
With the exception of jazz improvisation, processes of creativity in musi-
cal performance have been little explored by researchers.1 From a research
standpoint, the performance of western classical music seems to be viewed
less in terms of the performer’s creative input and more as a matter of repro-
duction (see Cook 2001), whether of composers’ intentions or the dictates of
given scores or performing traditions. Such constraints have the potential not
to enhance but to hinder creative outcomes (Hennessey and Amabile 1988).
Arguably, however, performers’ success also depends on their ability to pro-
duce something beyond the routine and predictable, at least in some contexts.
As Lehmann, Sloboda and Woody have noted (2007b: 85), ‘it can become a
matter of huge personal significance, even financial survival, that one way of
playing a well-known repertoire piece is unique and recognisable as quite differ-
ent from another way of playing it’. The development of an individual artistic
voice in students is identified as a valued aim by some conservatoire teachers,
although teachers sometimes believe that power imbalances in the one-to-one
teaching relationship inhibit this development (Gaunt 2008). Furthermore, the
pathways that students may take towards creative and original performance,
however these may be defined, are not well understood.
To date, when creativity has been considered in a musical context, it is
mainly connected with improvisation or composition (e.g. see Deliège and
Wiggins 2006, and Lehmann, Sloboda and Woody 2007a; cf. however Burnard
2012) and thus is defined in terms of fundamentally new musical material. Even
though new material might not be generated within a performance from a pre-
existing score, however, the interpretation of the notated music in a way that
is perceived as different, fresh or ‘inspired’ will reflect the creative skills of a
performer (Lehmann et al. 2007b). In any case, the degree to which a product
xxiv Preface
of any kind is recognized and evaluated as ‘creative’ depends on the values and
judgements of the social and cultural system in which it was produced or is
assessed (Boden 1994; Hennessey and Amabile 2010; Williamon et al. 2006).
The problem for researchers is to define the broad term ‘creativity’ in a way
that makes it amenable to investigation. One approach has been to delineate
different components and determinants of creativity. A commonly used frame-
work features the four categories of person, product, process and press (see
e.g. Runco 2004), where ‘press’ concerns external influences such as cultural
or social constraints (Glück, Ernst and Unger 2002; Hennessey and Amabile
1988), while ‘person’ refers to intra-individual factors such as self-efficacy
(Beghetto and Kaufman 2007; Beghetto, Kaufman and Baxter 2011; Tierney
and Farmer 2002, 2011) and intrinsic motivation (Amabile et al. 1994).
With regard to product, researchers have delineated many types of cre-
ativity, depending on the level of novelty that a product or idea may have
within a given culture. Boden (1992) distinguishes between historical creativity
(‘h-creativity’), an idea that is totally new to a culture, and psychological crea-
tivity (‘p-creativity’), an idea which is new to the person in that moment. From
a slightly different angle, Kaufmann (2003) distinguishes between ideas or
products that are fundamentally new to a culture on the one hand (Big-C cre-
ativity) and those that are recognized as solving an everyday problem on the
other (little-c creativity). With regard to the material presented in this volume,
the ideas of p- and little-c creativity are clearly the more appropriate frames
of reference for students, who by definition are still learning the cultural rules
of their field and cannot be expected to produce outputs of culture-defining
magnitude, which in any case could be identified only through a historical lens.
However, less helpfully in respect of educational contexts, the focus of these
varying definitions of creativity lies on the creative endpoint rather than on
the means of achieving it. Recognizing this, Beghetto and Kaufman (2007)
extended the notion of Big-C and little-c creativity by incorporating a develop-
mental aspect. Their own concept refers to a creative process by which a person
achieves new insights (see also Burnard 2012).
Creative processes are by no means restricted to individuals: in recent years,
research has also taken into account the types of creativity achieved in collab-
oration with others. With regard to music, the main focus has been on improv-
isation in ensembles, but group creativity is also recognized as essential when
interpreting notated music (Sawyer 2003, 2006). This reflects a more general
approach in the wider literature that views creativity as a socially emergent
phenomenon (Sawyer and DeZutter 2009). Teacher–student collaboration
and the quality of interpersonal interactions in one-to-one lessons influence
the achievements of young pupils (Creech and Hallam 2011) and must also be
taken into account for music students’ creative development.
One arena which is essential to the evolution of pathways to creative
performance in the development of professional practitioners is specialist
Preface xxv
education and training in music. Research in the field of higher music edu-
cation has grown considerably in recent years, but, perhaps surprisingly,
here too creativity itself has been meagrely represented. Jørgensen’s (2009)
comprehensive overview from a quality enhancement perspective devotes
detailed discussion to the developmental processes offered in conservatoire-
type contexts. It covers aspects of motivation; learning styles (including
within the context of individual practising); reflective and metacognitive
skills; teaching–learning relationships in one-to-one teaching and mentoring,
group work and ensemble coaching; and assessment and feedback processes.
Creativity is barely mentioned, however, and when it is, the emphasis tends to
be on issues of programming and selecting innovative repertoire to perform
(see e.g. ibid.: 93).
The Reflective Conservatoire (Odam and Bannan 2005)—an edited vol-
ume emerging from research studies and development projects in one special-
ist institution—tackles a creativity agenda more directly, considering ways in
which specialist education embraces the potential of and tension between con-
serving musical traditions on the one hand and creating new work and perfor-
mance practices on the other. In this context, improvisation becomes a central
mechanism through which musical traditions may be explored by ‘playing’
with them, purposefully connecting individual performers’ musical instincts
and imagination to the discipline of stylistic features of particular genres (see
Dolan 2005 as well as Chapter 11 in this volume). Equally, interdisciplinary
collaboration is shown to offer fruitful ground for innovation and the devel-
opment of new work and insights (see Irwin, King and Parry 2005; Marwood,
Boonham and Garland 2005).
The social and interactive nature of the learning process in music is fore-
grounded in Gaunt and Westerlund’s (2013) edited volume, Collaborative
Learning in Higher Music Education. This is evidenced in terms of empirical
research in relation to theoretical frameworks and through case studies of prac-
tice demonstrating ways in which teachers are evolving their work with students.
In one of the constituent chapters, for example, Hakkarainen (2013) investi-
gates the relationships between expertise development, collective creativity and
shared knowledge practices in a range of discipline contexts, with considera-
tion of the ways in which these may be applicable to music. The characteristics
and possibilities for collaborative approaches in contexts ranging from inter-
disciplinary and intercultural projects to masterclasses, aural skills classes and
one-to-one tuition are then explored. Overall, the potential of peer learning,
communities of practice and a range of pedagogical strategies is more explic-
itly connected to creativity here than in Jørgensen’s (2009) book. Nevertheless,
although creativity is broached in relation to innovation and generating new
knowledge, including how this may be nurtured within the intersubjectivity of
a one-to-one student–teacher relationship, as well as within networks dedicated
to expertise development, the focus of Gaunt and Westerlund’s (2013) volume
xxvi Preface
Despite the breadth of material on offer and the expertise and world-class
excellence of the authorship, this volume ends up only scratching the surface
of what the ‘making’ of musicians involves and of the creative pathways that
they follow. This is by no means a shortcoming, however: it serves to indicate
just how rich and complex the topic in question is. We nevertheless hope that
the twenty-six essays here will add to the debate, shedding light on the theory
and practice of music-making as well as on the art and science of performance
more generally.
Andrew Maillet, Jessen O’Brien and Jamie Kim. Further credit is due to
Cheryl Merritt and Thomas Finnegan for their expertise and input as the vol-
ume made its way through production. We also appreciate the contributions of
Karen Wise and Mirjam James to the planning of the book, of the anonymous
readers who made valuable comments on the proposal and the first draft alike,
and of a number of colleagues at our respective institutions who offered sug-
gestions as the material was taking shape or who assisted in the production of
illustrative material. Finally, we gratefully acknowledge the support that the
Arts and Humanities Research Council provided both directly and indirectly
to CMPCP in general and to the ‘Creative learning’ project more specifically.
References
Hakkarainen, K., 2013: ‘Mapping the research ground: expertise, collective creativity
and shared knowledge practices’, in H. Gaunt and H. Westerlund, eds., Collaborative
Learning in Higher Music Education (Farnham: Ashgate), pp. 13–26.
Hennessey, B. A. and T. M. Amabile, 1988: ‘The conditions of creativity’, in R. J.
Sternberg, ed., The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives
(New York: Cambridge University Press), pp. 11–38.
Hennessey, B. A. and T. M. Amabile, 2010: ‘Creativity’, Annual Review of Psychology
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Irwin, M., M. King and N. Parry, 2005: ‘Isambard Kingdom Brunel: toward an industrial
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Education (Aldershot: Ashgate), pp. 151–76.
James, M., K. Wise and J. Rink, 2010: ‘Exploring creativity in musical performance through
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xxx Preface
I am still a musician in the making. I remember the day learning musical perfor-
mance started for me, when I was seven. Dad brought me home a cornet from
the band. Pete Michie the ragman used to come round the housing scheme on
his pony and trap, blowing his bugle to attract trade. I imitated him: toot-e-root-
e-root! Aural transmission in the raw. But when my dad came home from work,
informal clashed with formal. He soon set me straight, showing me there was
a right way as well as a wrong way. I then joined the Tullis Russell Mills Junior
Band and, along with forty other kids, played music like the Balfegar March
in big group lessons. The solo cornetist, Geordie Baxter, took the Juniors and
used to go red in the face with his passion for music. We loved him, but he
scared us too. Later on I went to the Band at the TR paper mill in Cadham two
nights a week. I played rugby and football and hockey, ran the mile, threw the
discus and did cross-country; even these activities were like music to me—all
part of the big performance. Pulsating Weber threw me through the finishing
tape. Music creates pulse, pulse creates tempo, and tempo motivates time. At
that age, my time seemed limitless and brimmed over with school, sport and
musical performance.
There were 1,600 kids in our school. In my first year we did Gluck’s Orfeo.
Then we did Brecht’s Caucasian Chalk Circle, Smetana’s Bartered Bride and
Bizet’s Carmen. This was an ordinary Fife state school where Mr Ritchie,
the woodwork teacher, played the fiddle and made the sets with his classes;
Mr Brown, the art teacher, led the orchestra, and his students designed and
painted the sets; and Mr McGillvray, the commercial teacher, designed and
constructed the costumes with his classes. It was an underground arts factory
filled with a powerhouse of inspired individuals who were catalysed by the
music teacher Albert Cochrane, who is himself still a musician in the making at
the age of ninety. Most schools are full of people like this to this day—if only
you can unlock their collective potentials through the unifying purpose of a
passion for the arts, or indeed a passion for anything.
1
2 Musicians in the Making
My only regret was that by my secondary school years I’d become typecast
as a trumpet player and had to play in the orchestra instead of singing a main
part or being in the chorus on stage. When I was eight back at the mill, I’d grad-
uated from the Juniors to the Senior Band. I performed in my first brass band
contest in the Usher Hall that year, playing Wuthering Heights in short pants
on third cornet sitting next to Jock Campbell, who was sixty-five. In a band you
learn by osmosis. You play music like you play sport. Brass bands stimulate a
child’s natural competitiveness. I started on bottom third cornet, and by the
age of ten I had graduated to top cornet, sitting next to John Miller, almost
the same age as me and now Head of Brass at the Royal Northern College of
Music. My two uncles, Dave and Charlie, played bass in the band, and my dad
the horn. My mum kept her made-in-Czechoslovakia Stradivarius under the
bed and played Scots songs on it. My granddad sang 104 ballads with all the
verses. Music suffused everything: it was part of our family, it pulsated through
the veins of our community. It wasn’t a polite, civilising add-on: it was the glue
of society. It held us together.
That’s where I came from, and that’s what made me who I am. This musician
is a product of an instinctive, informal learning community of closely inter-
acting humans with asymmetric age groupings. My early experiences of the
effectiveness of multiplicity—playing the piano, the viola and the cello, and
composing and conducting the choir and orchestra at school as well as play-
ing the trumpet—added to the kaleidoscope of subjects that were thrown at
me. This showed that, for me at least, diversity wins over convergence. Think
of all those hundreds of millions of neurons languishing for lack of stimulus.
Humans are essentially multitrack: it takes more than one furrow to plough the
field of your life. And to be self-reliant, you cannot be a one-trick pony.
I needed that self-reliance later in life. I went on to become a self-employed
trumpet player working all over as a jobbing musician and doing everything
under the sun. Eventually I gained a full-time salaried position in Glasgow at
the age of fifty-two—and I learned that it is more challenging for a musician to
work for an institution than it is to work for oneself. Salaries suck self-invention
dry. Self-employment can give you better personal rewards and the consequent
self-determination, as well as much more personally satisfying music-making.
Now my job is to work for everybody else—and I make work and play-
make in one of the most amazing working environments in the UK—that of
one of our conservatoires.1 Making work and play-making in a conservatoire
like Scotland’s means being surrounded by musicians, actors, dancers, techni-
cal designers, scenic artists and film makers every day, at every age and stage.
Immersion in a conservatoire reminds me of the society I grew up in. We weave
an artistic web that helps form the essential fabric of the UK and helps to dif-
ferentiate us from the other seven billion people on the planet.
I suppose you could say that my life in music—developing and refining
my individual voice over time, and learning musical performance through
Insight: John Wallace 3
Learning to perform
FROM ‘GIFTS’ AND ‘TALENTS’ TO SKILLS
AND CREATIVE ENGAGEMENT
Jane W. Davidson and Gary E. McPherson
This chapter focuses on the catalysts evident in learners who pass from a
casual or partial interaction with music, through to the highly commit-
ted and intensely focused engagement stereotypically associated with the
highly successful young classical musician. These catalysts include material
provisions, milieu and key individuals; also intrapersonal factors such as
traits, personal awareness, motivation and volition. In order to contextual-
ize the discussion, an initial exploration of terms such as ‘gifts’ and ‘talents’
highlights the way in which blanket concepts have tended to be overempha-
sized to account for the acquisition of musical abilities, especially those
that are achieved quickly and that lead to high-level accomplishment. This
analysis reveals that many of the ideas generally held about musical abil-
ity have, in part, been entwined in our western social and cultural opera-
tional and belief systems, with ‘gifts’ and ‘talents’ being at best vague and
often poorly defined concepts adopted to overcome shortcomings in theo-
retical and reflective insights. With these social and cultural preconceptions
highlighted, case-study examples are used to outline some of the complex
and detailed ways in which learners progress to high-level competency by
acquiring and refining performance skills.
7
8 Musicians in the Making
CATALYSTS
PROVISIONS (EP)
INTELLECTUAL (GI) Enrichment: curriculum, pedagogy (pacing)
General intelligence (’g’ factor) Administrative: grouping, acceleration
Fluid, crystallized reasoning
Verbal, numerical, spatial INTRAPERSONAL (I)
(RADEX) Performing
TRAITS
Memory: procedural, PHYSICAL (IF)
declarative Appearance, handicaps, health
MENTAL
Improvising
CREATIVE (GC) MENTAL (IP)
Inventiveness (problem-solving) Temperament, personality, resilience
MANAGEMENT
Imagination, originality (arts) Composing
Carroll’s ‘retrieval fluency’ AWARENESS (IW)
GOAL
Self and others; strengths and weaknesses
SOCIAL (GS) MOTIVATION (IM) Arranging
Perceptiveness (manipulation) Values, needs, interests, passions
Interacting: social ease, tact
Influence: persuasion,
VOLITION (IV)
Autonomy, effort, perseverance Analysing
eloquence, leadership, courting,
parenting
PERCEPTUAL (GP) Appraising
Vision, hearing, smell, taste,
touch, proprioception
DEVELOPMENTAL PROCESS (D) Conducting
PHYSICAL
FIGURE 1.1 Differentiated model of musical giftedness and talent (adapted from Gagné 2009: 64; see also McPherson
and Williamon 2016)
Learning to perform 11
A key point in the discussion so far is that the acquisition of musical talent,
particularly in western learning contexts, results from a great deal of hard work
by successful musicians who have practised for significant amounts of time
using broadly similar, systematic strategies that encourage learning. Growing
research in neurology shows that all humans have the capacity to perceive and
generate musical information, with a hard-wired impulse for music-like inter-
action apparent in infancy (see Hodges 2016; Malloch and Trevarthen 2009).
Also, evidence abounds in many other social contexts that high achievement
in music is the norm. Making a cultural shift from the western classical music
context, there are myriad cultures in which children are encouraged from birth
to engage with music. Often, if the cultural conditions permit, expectations can
be created that result in high levels of achievement being acquired. The Venda
of Limpopo Province in South Africa present a useful example of a cultural
group for whom daily life involves creative musical experience and practice,
and with musical performance skills being represented in all members of soci-
ety at a high level of competency (Emberly and Davidson 2011). In this specific
context, some people are regarded as possessing more or less individual skill,
and this perception is recognized as being based as much on their investment
and specialization as it is on any natural ‘gifts’ which might have shaped their
potential to achieve. For example, from a very young age, children can be seen
imitating adults and experimenting with music and dance outside the typical
adult ‘circle’ of activity, and it is when these efforts have generated enough
focus and basic familiarity with the artistic form that children are then moved
inside the ‘circle’. While all will learn and perform as a matter of course, some
will experiment more and for longer, creating their own variants on songs and
dances; thus their creative effort distinguishes them from their colleagues.
Other examples of the complexity of this issue pervading western social
contexts include cases where public conceptions of ‘gifted’ and ‘talented’ result
in self-fulfilling prophecies of both success and failure. For instance, Borthwick
and Davidson (2002) investigated a family within which there were very strong
‘scripts’ about resemblances in physical appearance, temperament and abilities
between children, parents and grandparents. These ‘family scripts’ have been
shown to have powerful influences over the ways in which families treat one
another and also how individuals within those families progress (Byng-Hall
1996). In the case study presented by Borthwick and Davidson, one child was
strongly identified as the musician and given a script that linked him at many
levels to his professional musician father—same physique, temperament, facil-
ity to make music and intellectual connection to music—while another child
said to resemble the maternal grandmother was given her ‘visual artist’ identity.
In this case, the script worked negatively against the second child in his efforts
to learn a musical instrument, for ‘it just was not in his make-up’. In other
12 Musicians in the Making
words, he was perceived by his parents as possessing no natural gift for music
and certainly no musical talent.
To take further the discussion above, we need to understand how musical
competency is attained, focusing on the evidence that embraces mental and
physical abilities, environmental and personal catalysts, and developmental
processes that stimulate the acquisition of musical skills. Such a detailed and
argued case must account, of course, for what stimulus pushes the individual
beyond the threshold of competency towards eventual high-level attainment—
that special 10 per cent to which Gagné (2013) alludes.
During the early 1990s, the current authors conducted separate research proj-
ects that focused specifically on the biographical factors contributing to the
emergence of musical skills. Davidson and her colleagues worked in the UK
with young learners of different backgrounds, ranging from those with min-
imum and unsuccessful learning experiences to those who were considered to
display prodigious abilities (see Davidson, Howe and Sloboda 1997 for a sum-
mary). The study revealed that children who became highly successful musi-
cians had extremely similar biographical profiles that were very different from
those whose engagement with music either was casual or ended in a failure
to learn. The biographical ‘musical success’ factors included reports of early
spontaneous singing activity occurring six months before the rest of the child-
ren studied; four times the amount of practice accumulated compared with
other groups of children in the study; rapid progress through examinations
(music grades); highly distinctive and stimulating family dynamics, with sib-
ling support in the form of either role models or forms of rivalry that were
positively framed by the learner; distinctive and very high levels of parental/
caregiver involvement in lessons and practice; and inspirational role models,
especially teachers.
Several interpretations of these conclusions require discussion. First, the
finding that parents reported their musical children as singing a good six
months earlier than their counterparts could be explained in a number of ways.
One account is that these infants were truly self-engaging in their early music-
related creative activities and did sing sooner than their peers and siblings.
Alternatively, the parents consciously engaged with these specific children ear-
lier through music than they did with other children. Another possibility is that
since the interviews undertaken were inevitably retrospective, the parents—in
the light of their children’s current musical successes—reconstructed their
memories of early musical engagement, recalling these high-achieving musi-
cian children as being more precocious in singing than their siblings. This last
explanation, though possible, was controlled for when collecting data by asking
Learning to perform 13
one successful family studied, the children had been given instruments so that
classical piano trio and string quartet repertoire could be played between them.
Support was also garnered from other people such as teachers, who were
seen as major inspirations for what could be achieved. The most successful stu-
dents had on average 2.5 teachers over the period between eight and eighteen
years of age, whereas those who ceased playing often had a rapid succession
of teachers. Those who persisted with their music learning typically reported
their first teacher as being warm and supportive, seeing their parental qualities
of care and nurturance to be much more important and relevant than musical
expertise. As the child’s skill and interest persisted, however, personal qual-
ities were superseded by a need for musical expertise and for the teacher to
stretch the student. In addition to teachers, famous musicians also presented
role models, their masterclasses and summer schools having a huge influence
on the learner’s motivation to continue.
Overall, the work by Davidson et al. highlighted the importance of the
establishment of specific quantities of practice, and the role of other people
and environmental catalysts to stimulate and sustain engagement. These find-
ings account to some degree for the role of physical and mental skills in the
development of control of the musical work; for the role of milieu, individuals
and provisions; and for the activities and investments required to achieve the
skills. But the picture remains incomplete, for the research did not deal with the
considerable variation in individual attainment, which was generally attributed
to categories such as ‘chance’, ‘gift’ or ‘talent’ as described in Figure 1.1. The
work also concentrated on student responses rather than educational inputs,
and it did not engage in any depth with the opportunities afforded by the envi-
ronments in which the children developed.
McPherson’s work in Australia focused on how children developed musical
skill efficacy, and this helped to demystify the study of the educational con-
tent required for musical competencies to develop. McPherson noted that all
children receiving instruction developed better music skills when their lessons
included a balance between visual, aural and creative forms of performance,
and that this served as a foundation for successful learners who were more
ready to understand notation, cope with memorizing music, play by ear or impro-
vise (McPherson 1995a, 1995b). From his analysis, McPherson was able to
model young instrumentalists’ ability to perform music creatively (improvise),
aurally (play from memory and by ear) and visually (perform rehearsed music,
sight-read). Using path analysis, he demonstrated that the ability to improvise
was strongly related to the skill of playing by ear, and sight-reading related to
the ability to perform rehearsed music. In other words, it was being allowed
to trial and develop skills that encouraged inventiveness, thus stirring the musi-
cal imagination and in turn contributing to the development of skills relevant
to the performance of notated music. As shown in the simplified version of
the path relationships depicted in Figure 1.2, the ability to play by ear was
Learning to perform 15
Enriching
Length of study Quality of study Early exposure
activities
Play from
memory
Perform Improvise
rehearsed music
FIGURE 1.2 McPherson’s (1993) model of relationships between musical skills and conditions of
study (with simplified arrows to demonstrate the strength of paths between the variables)
by ear, with specific kinds of detailed work within the practice assisting in
these musical capacities. Like Davidson and her colleagues, McPherson also
found that the length of study had a direct impact on the capacity to per-
form rehearsed music and an indirect effect on the other four skills, thus dem-
onstrating that enhanced performance resulted from a balance between the
development of creative, aural and visual skills. McPherson’s work revealed
a series of interlocking subskills necessary for the development of musical
knowledge and that these were most likely to impact positively on the acquisi-
tion of various music performance skills if learned in a specific order.
In addition to the technical aspects of music-making such as the capacity
to sight-read or play by ear, musical performance expression—long regarded
as a matter of individual artistry and as the defining ‘natural gift’ at the
heart of the overarching ‘talent’ myth—is also a systematic skill. To play
with expression, musicians require clear knowledge based on the rules of
expressivity (which relates to specific musical structures). These rules need to
be systematically applied by the student in order to communicate structural
features. And while the rules are stable and can be systematically reproduced
over time, some flexibility is required in the case of expertise whereby experts
are able to hold back or exaggerate the expressive profile of a work to high-
light different features. Indeed, data from informal learners rather than for-
mally taught musicians revealed that several biographical and environmental
conditions led to expressive skill development. For instance, Sloboda and
Davidson (1996) saw in the biographies of a range of musicians the virtually
limitless opportunities afforded to these individuals for trial and error and
for positive reinforcement, used in order to develop their musico-emotional
links. Their own studies of children coupled with detail from the biographies
of high-achieving musicians revealed that had these individuals not strongly
engaged with these musico-emotional aspects of playing, their efforts to
practise might well have diminished. Those who succeeded in their musical
learning found it engaging, motivating and personally rewarding. They com-
mented that basic practice was often tedious and boring, but that ‘messing
around’ and ‘having fun with the rules of music’ through imaginative play
gave them access to very positive experiences.
Further to experiencing music’s emotional affect as a positive motivation
for learning, those students in the study by Davidson et al. who gave up
music often found the routine and the hard work of practice overwhelming,
especially as for them it offered no personal rewards. It seems that they had
not developed a connection to the emotional features of musical structures
and had not learned how to manipulate these to self-rewarding ends. Indeed,
these students did not engage in the sort of playful music-making where
trial and error were permissible and motivating to learning. Over the last
fifteen years, music educators have begun to realize the value in these sorts
of informal learning spaces for musical development (see Green 2002, 2008;
Learning to perform 17
Detailed insight into the threshold necessary to engage in and develop musical
competencies was achieved by undertaking a fourteen-year study of students
from their very first school experience of learning a musical instrument through
to achievement as young adults (McPherson, Davidson and Faulkner 2012).
Of the 157 participants interviewed as seven-year-olds, 88 per cent were still
learning at the age of twelve and 82 per cent at the age of thirteen, with a dra-
matic reduction to 37 per cent by the age of sixteen and 23 per cent by the age
of eighteen (see Evans 2009). Of the 23 per cent still playing, only one went on
to study music at tertiary level, whereas another who studied graphic design
also worked on developing musical performance, eventually winning a highly
esteemed national classical music solo competition and achieving a casual con-
tract in the brass section of a symphony orchestra. The remaining seventeen
players were actively engaged in performance, ranging from casual playing of
a keyboard for personal reasons through community bands and choirs to uni-
versity orchestras. Inevitably, the authors lost contact with a proportion of the
participants over the years, and although this left a gap in the data it is interest-
ing that after eleven years of study, contact was retained with 66 per cent of the
original sample, which is a good statistic for longitudinal work. Of those who
had given up playing, all were highly engaged music listeners, making up live
music audiences and being active music consumers; their general regrets about
giving up tended to focus on not having sufficient motivation to prioritize music
in their lives, even those who had persisted to significant levels of competence.
Self-determination theory was a powerful framework drawn upon by the
researchers in analysing the motivation of this cohort to persist and engage
with music (see McPherson et al. 2012 for an overview; see also Evans 2009).
By applying this theory, which focuses on the fulfilment of psychological needs
18 Musicians in the Making
and thus accounts for motivation to continue learning (see Deci and Ryan
2002), the researchers found that of those who played musical instruments and
performed during their high school years and beyond, some were involved in
as many as fourteen categories of musical engagement, clearly demonstrating
that music occupied the bulk of the time spent by these learners in school and
out-of-school activities, and that it provided significant opportunity for artis-
tic expression. Importantly, all of these activities were closely associated with
strong peer ties. These activities also ranked highly in terms of personal enjoy-
ment, which relates strongly to the musico-emotional link proposed by Sloboda
and Davidson. In fact, it became apparent that for those who were progressing
well in their learning, the musical activity was used as a self-regulating mechan-
ism as well as for external connection.
Along with self-enjoyment and social focus, there was an emergent picture
of increasing independence as learners persisted and progressed in terms of
works selected to play and approaches to practice. The students engaged in
learning also received tuition from teachers who might be described as less
authoritarian and more facilitative, thus encouraging students to be more crea-
tive and increasingly independent and reflective in their learning. Overall, these
emergent data offered a more finely grained view of how learning was being
motivated and developed than in previous work (see Evans, McPherson and
Davidson 2013). The close relationship to positive opportunity, self-concept
and strong connection to others fitted well with Deci and Ryan’s (2002) notion
of self-determination as a crucial element in learning. According to this theory,
in order for learning to be motivating and sustaining, three main psychological
needs must be met: competence, i.e. a need to be effective in one’s efforts; relat-
edness, i.e. a need to be integrated into a social group; and autonomy, i.e. a need
to feel that activities are self-governed and of one’s own free will. The logic of
this approach for music learning is evident: if the learner feels in personal con-
trol of the learning environment, then engagement, enjoyment, progress and
satisfaction are likely outcomes.
Data from the fourteen-year study confirmed that the fulfilment of psycho-
logical needs was critical, for when it did not occur, the students were most
likely to give up their music learning, even when they had as much as eight
to ten years of successful experience behind them. For example, students felt
least competent, ‘related’ and autonomous at the point at which they quit their
instrumental playing. This is supported by qualitative material collected from
the participants, including the following statement: ‘I quit the trombone in year
8 because the music we were playing was not challenging and crap, along with
the fact that I wasn’t noticed for my skill, didn’t have many friends doing it, and
the instrument wasn’t used in the music I listened to at my leisure’ (McPherson
et al. 2012: 88). This single example reveals that music-making was considered
by the participant not only to be socially irrelevant but to have impeded his
social life; furthermore, his ability was not valued. In the light of this negative
Learning to perform 19
Methods of
coping
FIGURE 1.3 The Tripartite Model of Success (adapted from Burland and Davidson 2004: 241)
20 Musicians in the Making
some great successes’ (2004: 237). The theories in general and the specific data
here indicate that high-achieving musicians typically result from nurturance
that satisfies their psychological needs by building self-confidence, autonomy
and relatedness. Such motivation supports and encourages the development of
psychological resources that enable a musician to invest in the long hours of
practice required to attain technical skill and that provide a foundation for the
musico-emotional resources required to engage with musical expression.
Further to these ideas, Davidson and Faulkner (2013) have adopted the
concept of ‘syzygies’—a construct from astronomy—to develop a model of
how the components of abilities (including physical characteristics, personality
traits, general intelligence and domain-specific abilities), catalysts, developmen-
tal phases and competencies align. As shown above, Gagné (2009) has used
the concept of chance as a means of accounting for differences in experience
and outcome. Syzygies is a more complex concept, exploring and accounting
for permutations of personal, social, cultural and other environmental factors
that lead to the emergence of achievements. Davidson and Faulkner’s theory
postulates how multiple features become interrelated products of the worlds
we inhabit. They propose that these products create gravitational systems that
pull individuals towards motivated and positive achievement, not just in a par-
ticular discipline on the whole but in a particular area within that discipline.
Referring to the biographies of significant musical achievers, they demonstrate
how key life events align to help these artists first acquire skills in childhood
and then attain exceptional levels of achievement across the lifespan. Like self-
determination theory, syzygies acknowledge the key role of autonomy as well
as relatedness.
Let us pursue the case for syzygies more fully by drawing on the examples
cited by Davidson and Faulkner. One of them was the jazz trumpeter, band
leader, singer, composer and arranger Louis Armstrong, who moved the
boundaries of what was possible in his day. Despite his humble beginnings,
a remarkable series of pathways opened up to him, thanks to alignments,
competencies and opportunities that enmeshed. In brief, Louis accompanied
a junk cart on its round as a very young child, using a cheap tin horn to call
for rags and bones. He also had ample musical opportunity during his very
early childhood, singing at street corners in a vocal quartet while begging for
money. In this milieu he was exposed to the gatekeepers of New Orleans jazz.
Another aligning factor was that at seven years of age, Louis was taken into
the home of a Jewish family who gave him money to buy his first real instru-
ment, and although this arrangement did not work out and he ended up in
the Waifs’ Home for Boys, he was then nurtured by the institution’s music
instructor. In early teenage years, after hanging out with various bands and
experienced musicians in the back streets of New Orleans, Armstrong was
taken into the Kid Ory Band, where he learned the fundamentals of his craft,
trialling and experimenting. A next key marker of his performance and
Learning to perform 21
The discussion throughout this chapter has highlighted the positive environ-
mental and intrapersonal factors to support the engagement and discipline
required to achieve musical competencies while also reflecting the theoretical
Learning to perform 23
ideas offered in self-determination theory and syzygies. Work from sports psy-
chology has characterized the key phases through which the learner’s behaviour
and beliefs pass in the progression towards high achievement. Because many
of the findings in sports literature are similar to those in music learning, the
framework shown in Figure 1.4 was adapted for music to depict the pathway
along which many students proceed in order to attain and sustain high levels of
musical engagement and achievement (McPherson et al. 2012).
Consonant with both the findings of Davidson et al. (1997) and Louis
Armstrong’s early biography, the representation in Figure 1.4 reveals that sam-
pling in the earliest years is vital to aligning intrapersonal with environmental
factors. This creative opportunity present in all our data is not perhaps suffi-
ciently emphasized in this model. Also, although the model refers to a posi-
tive family, we know from the case of Armstrong that this ‘family’ might be
an assumed one, such as the Jewish people who fostered him. Additionally, in
some instances it could be that the family need not use direct encouragement
but simply must not impede the young learner’s progress. It seems, however,
that encouragement in a nonthreatening and supportive environment is crucial
for subsequent engagement; this is borne out by the overarching research find-
ings and is consistent with our brief case study of Tristram.
Once this musical identity is formed, it seems that a specialization focus
is required, where more and more specific, musically focused activities are
encouraged within a context in which the music learning is positively endorsed.
These focused activities include understanding and engaging music’s expressive
structures and functions in an ongoing manner. With all of these alignments
in place, the learner is able to proceed to a transitional stage where music starts
to be prioritized. Recall, for example, that in the fourteen-year study, those
individuals who persisted across the entire study period were often engaging in
as many as fourteen musical activities a week. In other words, for these indi-
viduals music was the highest priority in their lives. Once these sampling and
specialization stages are attained, it seems that the learner then moves into an
investment stage. Data from our fourteen-year study reveal that this investment
is not just for the learner, in that parents often make significant adjustments in
their own lives to accommodate and support the child’s growing interest and
specialization. The most extreme case that we have reported is of a musical
prodigy whose mother moved with her from Hong Kong to New York so that
she could study at a prestigious music school (McPherson and Lehmann 2012).
It was also commonly reported by Davidson et al. (1997) that the parents in
the study joined the school band committee or took on other significant, life-
changing routines in order to accommodate their child’s learning. In the case of
Armstrong, who did not have this specific parental support, many role-model
teachers were nevertheless active, and his own early life changed so rapidly
that music-making offered the single mechanism through which his identity
was expressed, enabling him to work with highly supportive teacher/role-model
Consistent level of musical performance
Musical expertise at professional level
Sampling Stage Specialization Stage Investment Stage Maintenance Stage
Macro Transition:
Macro Transition:
Macro Transition:
Macro Transition:
Musical identity formation
Participation Technical and musical Parents make lifestyle Maintains best
Musical prioritization
opportunities development changes to support performance focus
Positive family Family support learning Develops an
support and Recognition of talent High-quality effective system for
encouragement and achievement experiences and dealing with
Caring music Increasing music- training increasing demand
teacher specific experience Collaborative (e.g. performance
Emphasis on fun Involved with similarly (student–teacher) stress, public
leading to skill minded peers decision-making performances)
development Forming identity as a
musician
FIGURE 1.4 Stages for musical development (adapted from sports-related model by Abbott and Collins 2004)
Learning to perform 25
figures. The learners themselves certainly reap the benefits of high-quality expe-
riences, such as attending music camps or specialized masterclasses, touring
with their regional youth orchestras, or, again, as Armstrong’s case reveals,
working with professional musicians from early on in contexts where high-level
investment in music is achieved. For us, this is the most critical of the tran-
sitions, given that the vast majority of children who learn instruments cease
instruction before reaching this investment stage.
Figure 1.4 also accounts for Tristram and other cases in the research data of
students who despite every positive early and midstage experience and compe-
tency in performance give up after only a short period in the more elevated area of
expert performance, where the desire to maintain skill seems to diminish rapidly.
In Tristram’s case, the requisite singularity of focus seemed to elicit concern, rob-
bing him of the enjoyment associated with improvisation. According to the model
of Abbott and Collins (2004), it appears that a mechanism needs to be in place
to sustain and develop the increasing demands brought by professional life, and
if this is not present, the learner will cease, sometimes in a rather dramatic way.
As pointed out by Burland and Davidson (2004), the extremely talented young
professionals in their study were acutely aware of this and developed personal
strategies to cope with a range of factors affecting their lives. In the framework of
self-determination theory, as mentioned earlier, this might be regarded as being
able to keep a focus on competency and be ever flexible to deal with new and emer-
gent circumstances demanded by the context of professional engagement.
Our musical lives
always be highly personalized in any domain, it is evident from the data encoun-
tered in this chapter that several fundamental psychological and developmental
needs must be satisfied and underpin macro-level music learning and progres-
sion. Increasingly, we realize through our research that the key to an enjoyable
and fulfilling musical life lies in the degree to which an individual’s psychological
needs are fulfilled at every stage of his or her learning. The fact that much can
be done to meet these needs has significant implications for the refinement and
updating of educational systems that could be employed to support musical
development.
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Office of Standards in Education, Children’s Services and Skills (Ofsted), 2009: Gifted and
Talented Pupils in Schools (Manchester: Ofsted).
Ross, P. O. et al., 1993: National Excellence: A Case for Developing America’s Talent
(Washington, DC: US Department of Education).
Sloboda, J. A. and J. W. Davidson, 1996: ‘The young performing musician’, in I. Deliège
and J. A. Sloboda, eds., Musical Beginnings: Origins and Development of Musical
Competence (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 171–90.
Stoeger, H., 2009: ‘The history of giftedness research’, in L. V. Shavinina, ed., International
Handbook of Giftedness (New York: Springer), pp. 17–38.
Suzuki, S., 1983: Nurtured by Love (New York: Smithtown).
2
Ronan O’Hora, pianist and pedagogue, has drawn attention to the impor-
tance of ‘inner suggestion and imagination’ for performers, and of creative
performance being released through ‘essential humanity’, connecting ‘what is
genuinely true and authentic with what is true and authentic in an audience’
(O’Hora 2013). These perspectives unanimously locate dimensions of creative
performance at the heart of what it is to be a performer, and go further to iden-
tify striking qualities required to achieve success: energy, sharp faculties, intense
emotions and readiness to become immersed in transformative experiences.
In contemporary contexts, an important counterpart to musicians’ per-
sonal motivations in developing creative performance lies in prevailing trends
where some conventions of performance are being challenged by falling audi-
ence numbers, and diversifying tastes in experiencing music are foregrounding
concepts of reciprocal exchange and co-creation between artists and audiences
(Kenyon 2012). These issues are inevitably having a significant impact on how
performers develop their practice (see Chapter 16 in this volume). While per-
formers in western classical cultures have tended to think about creative per-
formance in terms of the relationship between musician and score, with more
marginal attention given to the performance context itself (for example, manag-
ing particular characteristics of venues or audiences), contemporary practices
increasingly invite more balanced relationships between performer, score, con-
text and audience. Such developments offer the potential to strengthen connec-
tions between artists and audiences, not least, perhaps, between their respective
creative processes as performers and listeners, in ways that may enhance their
experience as active or even collaborative participants in performance.
What kinds of role, then, do one-to-one lessons play in developing path-
ways to creative performance for emerging musicians? Pianist and pedagogue
Boris Berman suggests that with advanced students ‘the teacher’s main role is
to help them find their own musical voice’ (2000: 198). He goes on to distin-
guish between young artists’ performances ‘containing faithfully memorized
Apprenticeship and empowerment 31
directives from the teacher’, and those where an artist has been able to ‘digest
and absorb those suggestions and make them his own’ (ibid.: 200). In the devel-
opmental process Berman is adamantly against students adopting a passive
approach to their teacher, desiring to be spoon-fed; instead, he advocates that
‘the student needs to offer the result of his creative work, thoughts, and ideas
for me to be able to respond’ (ibid.: 200).
From a historical perspective, Quantz was equally at pains to highlight the
importance of curiosity and imagination driving development rather than sim-
ple mimicry and repetition, concluding: ‘Anyone who only cares to devote him-
self to music haphazardly, as to a trade rather than an art, will remain a lifelong
bungler’ ([1752] 1966: 19). In a contemporary context, O’Hora emphasizes that
his own creative process demands acute attention to the discovery of musical
detail as well as to the broad sweep of a score:
I was a good sight-reader. I was very good at covering my tracks and cov-
ering up, sort of faking. And I went to a teacher, a serious Russian teacher
when I was about 14. And finally I sort of encountered someone who’d
say, ‘Again, I can’t hear what you’re doing, it’s not clear, that rhythm is
not even.’ And at first it was a real year or 18 months of going nowhere
because I didn’t bother practising. I would try to frantically get something
in order the night before. Of course he would know and that would be bad
luck for me. And then … at some moment I perceived the beauty of the
details… The thing is that even though I was scared of him that wasn’t
enough to make me… [T]he lure of reading through operas was still big-
ger than actually sitting down… [I]t was only when I got a sense of the
absolute beauty of inner detail and the sort of beauty of detail that can’t
even be heard except in relation to something else… (2013)
Bach and W. A. Mozart, developed through long apprenticeships across both
social and religious contexts, in some cases within their own family and with
musical training integrated with other subjects. Such apprenticeship provided
an environment for instruction, personal practice and performance in which
the requisite attention could be paid to the subtle detail of the craft. It also
created an environment in which the whole approach to being a musician
could be absorbed, including underlying principles and values, habits of
mind, and elements of daily practice. Polanyi (1962) has noted the many tacit
dimensions of craft transmission, some not even explicitly known by the mas-
ter, and the dynamics of students imitating the master and seeking approval
that underpin apprenticeship. More recently, Berman has also highlighted
complexity in the relationship, emphasizing the commitment required and
noting that ‘a teacher is much more than a provider of useful tips. To learn
what a teacher can give, a student must be ready to subscribe to the teacher’s
Weltanschauung [i.e. world view], his general musical and aesthetic principles’
(2000: 199).
Within contemporary theories of education, apprenticeship has tended
to be perceived as a process close to direct transmission of knowledge, with
less concern for and engagement in empowering personal agency. For exam-
ple, in the field of instrumental tuition, Hallam (1998) proposed a series of
possible models of one-to-one teaching, derived from Pratt (1992): engi-
neering (delivering content), apprenticeship (modelling ways of being),
developmental (cultivating the intellect), nurturing (facilitating personal
agency) and social reform (seeking a better society). Hallam emphasized
that these models represented stages along a continuum from a teacher-
dominated (engineering) approach to a much more student-centred or
socially transformative approach. She suggested, however, that apprentice-
ship reflected the most common practices of instrumental teaching. This
positioning crystallizes potential tension between notions of apprenticeship
and personal agency, as well as signalling the possibility for student–teacher
interactions to extend right across the continuum rather than being limited
to a particular area.
Furthermore, in the last decades, higher education in particular has
increasingly emphasized the importance of personal agency, creativity and
resilience for all graduating students in order to meet new challenges and
rapidly changing professional landscapes. Key dimensions involved in devel-
oping these qualities include critical reflection, collaboration and self-regu-
lation (Bologna Employability Working Group 2009; QAA 2013; Butcher et
al. 2011). In the field of music performance, this has led to a broader under-
standing of education and the ways in which students may be adequately pre-
pared for professional life. Such understanding has often been accompanied
by the addition of professional skills courses alongside the main instrumental
or vocal discipline (dominated by one-to-one lessons), usually involving a
Apprenticeship and empowerment 33
One-to-one lessons: developing theory
Summarizing what
Giving advice and
you’ve heard and
telling
sharing meaning
Asking questions to
Making suggestions prompt new ideas
and insights
FIGURE 2.1 The mentoring and coaching continuum (adapted from the School of Coaching and
Linden Learning)
38 Musicians in the Making
Various studies have sought to quantify aspects of playing and talking in one-
to-one lessons, and the results largely indicate that students tend to do the
playing while teachers do the talking (Karlsson and Juslin 2008; Duke, Pricket
and Jellison 1998; Hepler 1986). A few studies have gone further by specifically
analysing the degree of focus in verbal interactions on technique and musical
expression; whereas two studies found that c. 50 per cent of the time was ded-
icated to technique (Laukka 2004; Young, Burwell and Pickup 2003), an even
greater focus on technique was observed in three others (Karlsson and Juslin
2008; Zhukov 2008b; Koopman et al. 2007).
Apprenticeship and empowerment 39
LEARNING THROUGH RELATIONSHIPS
A number of studies have looked at the nature of the relationship between stu-
dents and teachers in one-to-one tuition and at its impact on learning. Several
40 Musicians in the Making
types of relationship have been observed, all of them having a profound impact
on how learning takes place (Koopman et al. 2007; Gaunt 2011). Collens and
Creech (2013: 151) suggest that ‘The “meeting of minds” (Aron 1996) between
teacher and student can be experienced as creative, collaborative, inspiring and
filled with possibility for both participants. Equally, one-to-one tuition can
develop into a site of interpersonal conflict and high anxiety where the rela-
tionship itself can become an obstruction to learning.’ A critical element con-
cerns the degree of trust that builds between student and teacher, providing the
foundation for a learning space in which a student is able to take risks (Presland
2005; Gaunt 2006; Perkins 2010).
In a study of 263 UK violin teachers and their pupils aged eight to eighteen,
Creech and Hallam (2010) measured the impact on learning of grade results
in examinations alongside self-reports of degrees of self-efficacy, satisfaction,
enjoyment, motivation and self-esteem. They found that across all these ages,
students’ relationships with their teachers had a significant impact, as did rela-
tionships between students, teachers and parents. They proposed a model of
six interaction types between the latter three groups. The findings from their
study showed that no single type of interaction consistently produced the
best outcomes for teachers, pupils and parents alike; ‘harmonious trios’, how-
ever, appeared to produce some of the most effective learning. These relation-
ships were underpinned by mutual respect, with participants demonstrating a
sense of common purpose and reciprocity in their communication. They con-
trasted strongly with situations characterized by psychological remoteness in
the student–teacher relationship, where detrimental effects on learning were
observed (Creech 2009). This evidence has some clear connections to the frame-
work of mentoring and coaching outlined earlier in the chapter, in particular
the foundation of listening and empathy required by the teacher in establishing
trust and mutuality in the relationship.
An important issue that arises within the intimate context of one-to-one tuition
concerns the relationship between a teacher’s responsibility to offer expertise
and direct learning on the one hand and, on the other, students’ ability to make
their own creative decisions, develop autonomy as learners and explore an indi-
vidual or collective artistic voice (Carey, Lebler and Gall 2010). Berman quotes
the Chinese proverb ‘Give a man a fish, that is dinner for the night. Teach the
man how to fish, that is dinner for life’ (Berman 2000: 210). The issue relates
both to discovering creative pathways to performance and to sustaining these
practices over time. Koopman et al. (2007) found that while teachers often
stated that one of their aims was for students to develop artistic independence,
Apprenticeship and empowerment 41
students were not aware of this. In another conservatoire study, Gaunt (2008,
2010) observed that while teachers typically aspired to supporting students in
taking responsibility for learning, students showed less concern for this. As sug-
gested earlier, several other studies have indicated that, perhaps unwittingly,
teachers either dominated the activity in lessons, leaving little space for the stu-
dents’ own emerging ideas and expression (James et al. 2010), or encouraged a
passive approach to learning and overdependency on them as teachers, making
it difficult for students to nurture their abilities to work creatively and autono-
mously (Jørgensen 2000; Persson 1994; Wirtanen and Littleton 2004).
Burwell (2005) analysed video recordings of nine instrumental lessons in a
university in the UK. She predominantly observed high proportions of teacher
talk devoted to technique (thus echoing the results of other studies referred to
above), and when teachers asked students questions, these were largely rhetor-
ical, apparently used as an alternative form of instruction or to check agree-
ment. There seemed to be little motivation to promote students’ own critical
thinking. In addition, the most talented students in particular seemed to be
engaged in a process of transmission from teacher to student rather than learn-
ing to take responsibility for their own interpretation.
In contrast, James et al. (2010) found that students who appeared passive
during parts of lessons were nevertheless proactive in building on what they
had learned in the lessons and in taking responsibility by further developing
their newly acquired insights in their own practice. This resonates with the
findings of Koopman et al. (2007), who discovered that student participants
in their study believed they had taken more initiative in their learning proc-
ess than the researchers had observed from lesson interactions (ibid.). Creech
and Hallam, however, demonstrated evidence of a small but positive impact on
learning where students had some influence over setting objectives in lessons
(2010). The different perspectives emerging from these studies confirm the need
for further research in this area, and they also underline a critical relationship
between one-to-one lessons and individual practice (see also, e.g., Nielsen 2009,
2010) and how the transition between them may serve or impede the develop-
ment of pathways to creative performance (discussed further in Chapter 7 in
this volume).
A last consideration to do with these issues relates to students’ stage of
development and learning, and perhaps even their personality preferences.
The nature of responsibility that younger musicians are able to take in their
learning changes over time, evolving along with their musical accomplishment.
Musical identities are also fluid and may go through several transition periods
(Juuti and Littleton 2010). It is clear, therefore, that individual responses are
demanded according to the situation, and teachers need to be able to flex their
approach accordingly and to prepare students carefully if they are to encounter
new teaching methods. This point was reinforced by Brändström (1998), who
researched the impact of giving conservatoire students considerable freedom
42 Musicians in the Making
in determining the timing and content of their one-to-one lessons. While the
intervention had many positive outcomes, it also showed that some students
felt uncomfortable and disempowered by the extent of responsibility suddenly
offered to them. It was unclear, however, how the students had been prepared
for this radically different approach.
In addition, as indicated in the discussion of mentoring and coaching,
ownership of the learning process and artistic development also relates to a
longer-term perspective and career trajectory. When Mills (2002) analysed stu-
dent responses to one-to-one tuition, three types of interaction were identi-
fied: transmission, collaboration and induction (the last of these relating to
the process of learning how to be a musician). However, the frame of reference
evidenced in the studies above was relatively narrow, focusing on the specific
music in hand and apparently tending to ignore or take for granted an indi-
vidual’s longer-term aims and engagement in society. This particular issue is
increasingly important in contemporary contexts, given that what it is to be a
classical musician and to sustain a career as such is changing rapidly and, in
itself, is likely to require greater adaptability and ingenuity than previously. For
example, Lebler (2007) has noted the importance of being able to engage with
emergent creative and business practices that may well differ from current prac-
tices. In the context of one-to-one lessons, this depends in part on the nature
of the reflective processes used, the degree to which they combine reflection-in-
action and reflection-on-action (Schön 1987), and whether reflection-on-action
over a longer time frame is also included (Gaunt 2006).
That students admire and are even in awe of their teachers has been well docu-
mented (Maidlow 1998; Hanken 2011). There is also plenty of anecdotal evi-
dence of this. Vengerov, for example, talking about Rostropovich, reported:
He would say, ‘Drink with me’, as if we were buddies with no boundaries.
I felt ashamed—I always addressed him as ‘maestro’. In Russian, as in
German, there is a difference between the formal ‘you’ and the familiar
‘you’. Where I come from, the teacher is somewhere between a saint and
a holy statue. (Clark 2012)
Abeles (1975) saw this in terms of a ‘halo’ effect: students idealizing their teach-
ers and therefore exaggerating the gap between them, or even becoming unable
to discriminate about their teachers’ abilities as performers. Something of a halo
effect was corroborated by Gaunt (2010). In this study, conservatoire students
tended to be in awe of their current teacher while being more willing to be critical
of previous teachers. Motivation to ‘do the right thing’ in relation to a teacher
was also shown to be amplified in some cases when a teacher was either in a
position to offer the student professional work or involved in formally assessing
Apprenticeship and empowerment 43
A related issue concerns the nature of feedback in one-to-one lessons and how
this affects students. Musicians inevitably need to be deeply attentive to and
critical of all the details of their playing. There is a danger, however, that a
highly critical stance can become paralysing, entrenched to a point where it
overwhelms basic self-efficacy and self-esteem, and limits individuals’ ability
to imagine themselves playing well or to allow their creative energies to flow.
O’Hora mentions the potentially negative power of self-criticism and therefore
the importance of being able to accept oneself within the developmental process:
accepting yourself actually makes it, paradoxically, easier to demand
more of yourself. Because it comes back to this point …, how do you
44 Musicians in the Making
between different demands, the multiple dimensions that may affect pathways
to creative performance, and the need to work towards a more sophisticated
conceptualization of this learning environment than that afforded by appren-
ticeship. Further research will be required to develop this systematically. As
a starting point, however, a dynamic framework is provisionally proposed in
Figure 2.2.
This framework situates the context of a one-to-one lesson within the wider
ecology of musical development experienced by student and teacher. It imme-
diately acknowledges that the learning environment of one-to-one lessons
connects, for example, to the individual practice that a student undertakes,
rehearsal contexts and broader communities of practice. Within the one-to-one
lesson itself, the framework proposes four domains: vision and purpose; artistic
materials, focus and outputs; leadership roles and approaches to interactions;
and interpersonal dynamics. Each of these domains contains several dimen-
sions, articulated as continua, with a nuanced range of choices available along
each continuum. An indicative sample of how the dimensions of the frame-
work draw on the literature reviewed in the chapter is provided in the Appendix
to the chapter. As shown in Figure 2.2, the student and the teacher may share
some goals and perceptions of their work within a continuum, but equally they
may hold some goals independently. These may not all be aligned: for example,
the student and the teacher may have differing perspectives on the degree to
which they are focusing on a developmental process or a specific performance
outcome.
An essential point is that neither end of a continuum provides a definitively
more effective approach to interactions in lessons. Rather, varying positions
within each one may be appropriate at different times, depending on an individ-
ual student’s stage of development, prior experience and learning preferences.
Thus, there is potential for the significance of goals within any continuum
to change over time, either within a single lesson or as part of a longer-term
approach to lessons. This is shown in Figure 2.3.
Teachers and students are constantly making choices (explicitly or implic-
itly) in how they approach a lesson, which in turn may have an impact on the
process of enabling pathways to creative performance. For example, as sug-
gested in Figure 2.3, over a period of time (either within a single lesson or over
a series of lessons) a student’s preoccupation with a particular performance
product may overtake a shared focus on development process. In ‘Lesson A’ in
the figure, the student perceives product and process to be equally significant.
Later, as shown in ‘Lesson B’, the student perceives product to be more sig-
nificant than process. The shift from Lesson A to Lesson B also indicates that
during this period short-term goals become foregrounded and long-term goals
lose impetus. Thus, the significance of either end of a continuum (or any posi-
tion within it) may change over time.
FIGURE 2.2 The dimensions of one-to-one lessons
FIGURE 2.3 Change in the significance of continua over time
48 Musicians in the Making
The way in which goals within each continuum change over time may not
always be the same for both the student and the teacher. This divergence is
shown in Figure 2.4. Here, for example, in ‘Lesson A’ student and teacher begin
by not being well aligned on either short- or long-term goals. The student has
a stronger focus on short-term goals but has not really shared these with the
teacher. The teacher is wanting to focus on long-term goals, but these are rather
different from the student’s long-term goals, although the student perceives his
or her long-term goals to be shared at least in part with the teacher. At a later
stage (‘Lesson B’ in Figure 2.4), however, they have come to a position where
their long-term goals are closely aligned and their short-term goals have been
shared, even though not all of them are the same.
Lastly, there may also be interconnections between the continua, such
that shifting choices along any one continuum affect others. This may be
the case with continua from different domains. For example, as shown in
Figure 2.5, moving from realizing notated music to composing and play-
ing one’s own music may stimulate greater collaborative discovery between
the student and the teacher, or it may encourage greater risk-taking and
exploration of new territories. Equally, progressing to open questions and
a mentoring/coaching approach may invite a student to take more owner-
ship of the learning environment and to be proactive in bringing his or her
agenda to the lesson.
Taking these elements of the framework together, a key issue that becomes
evident is that the success of lessons depends on the teacher’s agility to respond
appropriately to the context and the individual. It depends equally on both the
student’s and the teacher’s awareness of where they are and are not aligned in
their approach, and also on their ability to navigate the dynamic movement of
the continua while working together.
This framework—which is provisional in the sense that it results from previ-
ous research and has not yet been empirically tested—reflects ongoing attempts
to enhance approaches to one-to-one lessons, and to enable curriculum devel-
opment that promotes greater integration for students between their different
learning experiences. It is hoped, therefore, that it can be tested in practice by
teachers and their students and used as a stimulus for reflection in develop-
ing skills both as learners and as teachers, and also in developing approaches
to one-to-one lessons. In particular, it is also hoped that the framework may
enhance awareness of a range of pathways to creative performance.
In addition, the framework immediately raises many questions that call
for further research. Much remains to be discovered about each continuum,
the part it can play in individual artistic development, and the impact that
various approaches to learning and teaching along a continuum may have
on the overall development process. Promising lines of enquiry have already
been identified in the literature, for example exploring the interaction and
FIGURE 2.4 Differing approaches of student and teacher to each continuum
FIGURE 2.5 Interactions between continua
Apprenticeship and empowerment 51
Appendix
TABLE 2.1 Indicative sample of literature reviewed in the chapter relevant to specific dimensions
of the framework
Short-term goals ↔ Long-term goals Gaunt 2008; Nerland and Hanken 2002; QAA
2013; Smilde 2009
Focus on musical/performance values ↔ Cooper 2013; Hallam 1998; Jørgensen 2000
Focus on learning and human interaction
values
Developing technique ↔ Exploring expression, James et al. 2010; Laukka 2004; Koopman et al.
interpretation and style 2007; Quantz [1752] 1966
Working from notation ↔ Exploring new terri- Burnard 2012; Lebler 2007; MacDonald and
tories, materials, contexts Wilson 2005; Sawyer 2003; Woody 2000
Transmission of knowledge/skills ↔ Barrett and Gromko 2007; Hallam 1998;
Collaborative discovery/student-led enquiry Jones 2005; John-Steiner 2000; Jørgensen 2000;
Mills 2002; Zhukov 2008a
Playing solo ↔ Playing together Burwell 2006, 2011; Gaunt 2006; Heikinheimo
2009; O’Hora 2013
Instructing, closed questions ↔ Mentoring/ Garvey et al. 2009; Hallam 1998; Megginson
coaching, open questions and Clutterbuck 2009; Presland 2005;
Purser 2005
Corrective feedback ↔ Generative feedback Berman 2000; Duke and Simmons 2006;
Gibbs 2006; Karlsson and Juslin 2008
Separation, distance, surface listening ↔ Collens and Creech 2013; Gaunt 2006
Embodied exchange, intimacy, mutuality,
deep listening, interpersonal creative flow
Routine/predetermined expectations ↔ Presland 2005; Gaunt 2006; Perkins 2010
Encouragement to take risks, embrace the
unexpected and learn from this
Power imbalance (‘power over’) ↔ Shared Collens and Creech 2013; Hanken 2011;
power (empowerment) Smilde 2009
Student dependent on teacher in Burwell 2005; Brändström 1998; Carey et al.
decision-making ↔ Student autonomous 2010; Creech and Hallam 2010; Jørgensen 2000;
in decision-making Wirtanen and Littleton 2004
Avoiding conflict ↔ Embracing conflict and Collens and Creech 2013; Creech and
its creative possibilities Hallam 2010
52 Musicians in the Making
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3
In recent years there has been an increasing recognition that group work of var-
ious kinds provides a powerful context for learning and creativity in music with
numerous benefits (Creech and Long 2012; Kamin, Richards and Collins 2007;
Kokotsaki and Hallam 2007; Patrick et al. 1999). Collaborative group working,
in particular, can lead to empathetic creativity where musicians take risks and
develop novel musical interpretations challenging previously rehearsed ones
(Sawyer 2006b; Seddon and Biasutti 2009). Although musical performance is
an inherently social activity, groups nevertheless require support in develop-
ing negotiation and collaboration skills, which are key aspects of a creative
process that generates cohesive and convincing musical performances. Those
facilitating group work need to understand the perceptual and social skills that
underpin group music-making, the roles found in ensembles of varying types
and sizes, and the ways in which essential skills, such as knowing when to lead
and when to be led, are developed. This chapter considers how group work
offers the potential for deep, creative engagement; peer learning; and social and
emotional development. In particular, we focus on the role of the facilitator,
looking at some principles and strategies for meeting the challenges associated
with learning and creating in groups.
Our definition of ‘group’ is wide-ranging. We draw upon guidance from
Jaques and Salmon (2007: 6), who propose that clusters of people may be
conceptualized as groups when they are ‘collectively conscious of their exist-
ence as a group’, and when they have shared needs and aims. Within this def-
inition, groups are also characterized by shared and accepted perceptions of
within-group social norms relating to roles and power relationships, as well as
by interdependent and interactive within-group relationships. It is this inter-
dependence, interaction and mutuality that undergird the creative potential of
groups. Creative ensemble performance, according to Seddon (2012), involves 57
58 Musicians in the Making
Groups, and in particular small groups, have the potential to be a rich context
for learning (Biggs 2003; Moore 2000) and for development through creative
activity (Seddon and Biasutti 2009). They offer a space where group mem-
bers can explore new ideas and build upon each other’s insights, developing
teamwork, leadership, confidence and social skills. According to Biggs (2003),
formally structured and/or spontaneous interactions can enrich learning out-
comes. When people learn together, working cooperatively and in dialogue with
others, they can achieve elaborate and deeper understanding of the activities
that they undertake.
The words ‘collaborative’ and ‘cooperative’ are sometimes used interchange-
ably to describe the way in which groups function (Dolmans et al. 2003).
Adams and Hamm (1996) used the term ‘cooperative learning’ to describe
learning situations where individuals take personal responsibility for reaching
group goals. From their perspective, cooperative learning occurs within a con-
text of positive interdependence, requiring attention to the interpersonal proc-
ess, time for reflection and a focus on developing interpersonal skills. Dolmans
et al. (2003) referred to similar principles, describing ‘collaborative’ learning
as involving mutuality in working towards a shared goal. They added that in
collaborative learning, individuals articulate their own views but also take on
the perspectives of other group members, leading to new understandings and
reframing of ideas. Other researchers (e.g. Springer, Stanne and Donovan 1999)
distinguish between collaborative and cooperative learning, the key difference
lying in the role of the teacher. From this perspective, cooperative learning is
structured with goals set by teachers, while collaborative learning is relatively
unstructured and characterized by groups negotiating their own goals and pro-
cesses. Adopting a similar perspective for musical ensemble work, Seddon and
Biasutti (2009) defined cooperation in terms of the structure of the interaction,
involving discussion and planning of the organisation of rehearsal to achieve a
cohesive performance, while collaboration involved the ongoing evaluation of
performance to develop interpretation, the latter sometimes resulting in new
Facilitating learning in small groups 59
Interaction in small groups can be focused on the content, the task itself,
or the interpersonal processes and maintenance of the social aspect of the
group. In music, group cohesiveness is predominantly task-focused in that it
centres around creative processes and performance. However, theories of group
dynamics (e.g. Jaques and Salmon 2007) and learning (Illeris 2003) would sug-
gest that musical processes and outcomes, even in the short term, may be inte-
grally bound up with the interpersonal, social context, while in the long term
musical ensembles must be based on strong social frameworks if they are to
continue to work together (for a review see Davidson and King 2004).
Broadly, group processes and interpersonal dynamics may be understood
within psychodynamic or systems frameworks. Awareness of these perspectives
can help group facilitators or coaches to understand and address problematic
issues relating to group dynamics and to support collaborative learning. The
psychodynamic perspective is concerned with what has occurred in individual
lives beforehand (Jaques and Salmon 2007). From this perspective, the earliest
experiences within family groups are believed to have a profound effect on sub-
sequent functioning in groups. For example, through a process of transference,
whereby feelings are unconsciously redirected from one person to another,
unresolved conflict with parents may be redirected to other group members or
facilitators. Angry or antagonistic feelings, for example, can be projected onto
another group member or the facilitator and interpreted as emanating from
those individuals. In music, where groups work together over long periods of
time, such dynamics may lead to dysfunctionality and the breaking-up of the
group, even when this may have spectacularly negative artistic and financial
consequences for group members.
In contrast, systems theory explains group processes in terms of the here
and now (Tubbs 2011). Groups are conceptualized as a fluid system, character-
ized by reciprocity. Circular communication processes develop which not only
consist of behaviour but also influence behaviour (van Tartwijk et al. 1998).
An individual’s interpersonal style within a small group can cause and result
from a web of complex interaction. Systems theorists place emphasis on under-
standing the constituent parts of a system in relation to the dynamic properties
of the whole unit (Pianta and Walsh 1996). This suggests that entrenched or
unproductive patterns of group behaviour can be changed if one constituent
in the system—a group member or facilitator—chooses to consciously reframe
his or her own strategies or interpersonal responses.
Group processes
contexts groups may shift from one phase to another in a nonlinear fashion
(Light, Cox and Calkin 2009; see also Chapter 7 in this volume).
During the forming stage, group members may be cautious, establishing
ground rules, testing norms of behaviour and establishing a foundation for
working together. This is a crucial stage, where the foundations of the group
dynamic are defined (Cartney and Rouse 2006). Some participants may be anx-
ious about whether they will be able to do what is asked of them and whether
their input will be valued. Others may search for acceptance and approval.
Fostering group cohesion is important at this initial stage, as this will influence
the extent to which the group will be able to persevere and, in particular, will
form the interpersonal climate where it can engage in creative processes that
require divergent thinking and risk-taking.
The storming phase may reveal interpersonal conflict more explicitly than at
the forming stage. Participants may jostle for leadership roles within the group.
There may be individual disagreements over the direction that the group should
take, how tasks should be approached, and values that should be privileged.
There may also be resistance to the task and to the structure, directed at other
group members or the facilitator.
Commonly noted problems associated with the storming stage include
‘social loafing’, distraction from the task and dominance by one participant.
Social loafing describes a group dynamic that lacks cohesion, where some par-
ticipants stay unengaged and allow their peers to take the initiative and do
all the work (Maiden and Perry 2009). Typically, when confronted with ‘free-
riding peers’, other group members lose motivation and the whole group loses
a sense of purpose and shared commitment (ibid.).
Distraction from the task occurs when group members or the facilitator
are side-tracked, engaging in dialogue that is not relevant to the task at hand.
This can happen when the task is misunderstood or not clear, or when there
is anxiety about the task, leading members to engage in avoidance strategies.
Similarly, dominance by one group member can be related to anxiety or to a
lack of clear roles and shared purpose among the group. It may also be related
to other group members feeling intimidated, reinforcing beliefs about unequal
ability or status differences (Micari and Drane 2011).
While it is tempting to avoid conflict, avoidance is not generally an effective
strategy in responding to these issues, as opportunities will be missed for collab-
orative problem-solving. Facilitators can support groups during the storming
stage by ensuring that everyone is heard, validating individual contributions,
checking that there is clarity over objectives, framing any conflict as an opportu-
nity for creative problem-solving, and at all times adhering to ground rules that
should include trust and respect (Stetson 2003). Creative resolutions to conflict
can be generated through dialogue that is characterized by listening together,
respecting differing perspectives, suspending judgements and giving voice to
individual messages (O’Neill and Peluso 2014). These four principles of dialogue,
62 Musicians in the Making
according to O’Neill and Peluso (ibid.: 117), serve as the basis of a ‘shared lan-
guage for collaborative creativity and expansive learning opportunities’.
At the norming phase of a group’s life cycle, the group will demonstrate
some cohesiveness, working together towards shared goals and united by a
common purpose. Implicit and explicit norms of behaviour are established. If a
facilitator is working with a group, he or she can act as a resource when needed
while allowing learners space in which they may take ownership of the learn-
ing process. Facilitators reflect back ideas and provide summaries of emerging
themes or approaches to the task. Stetson (2003) suggests that facilitators can
support groups in the norming stage by modelling active listening, fostering
an atmosphere of trust and facilitating groups in functioning as teams and in
reaching consensus rather than compromise.
Finally, at the performing stage the group flourishes. Morale is generally high,
and groups work creatively and productively. Attention is focused on achieving
goals and group performance. Individual members take responsibility for the
success of the group as a whole, and there is a sense of strong interdependence.
Where temporary setbacks occur, the facilitator can offer support by provid-
ing feedback as well as interpersonal support where needed (Stetson 2003). At
this stage, the facilitator’s role might also include promoting and representing
the group. Groups will have established clear, shared goals and a sense of pur-
pose. Working towards these goals, they will, within an informal yet trusting
atmosphere, engage in dialogue and active listening, taking on each other’s per-
spectives and respecting differences. Group members will have reached some
consensus with regard to norms and shared values, and there will be a sense of
commitment and accountability on the part of individual members.
Some researchers in group dynamics have added a final stage to Tuckman’s
model of the life cycle of a group. This has been variously referred to as ‘mourn-
ing’ (Heron 1999) and ‘adjourning’ (Stetson 2003). As groups approach the end
of their time together, individuals begin to think about how they will feel when
they are no longer part of that group, typically experiencing sadness at the
prospect of separation. Facilitators can support their groups by signposting
progression routes and allowing time for planning how group members may
take forward their learning from the group into new contexts.
Facilitator style
Effective facilitators have a range of leadership strategies that they may adopt
when appropriate, ranging on a continuum between facilitation (learner-
centred) and transmission (directive, top-down, teacher-centred).
One useful framework identifies three overarching styles: ‘gatekeeper’, ‘mid-
wife’ and ‘fellow traveller’ (Jones 2005), with expert facilitators moving between
these styles during sessions with a given group.
Facilitating learning in small groups 63
GATEKEEPER
When adopting this transmission style, the teacher delivers content to learners.
The leader is the gatekeeper to the material being learned. The participant, or
learner, is expected to absorb this material and then be able to reproduce it.
Although participation in music involves practical skills and active engage-
ment, research has shown that ensemble leaders frequently adopt a gatekeeper
approach, dictating the curriculum, selecting repertoire and making decisions
as to how it will be played both technically and musically (Creech 2012). Music
sessions led by gatekeepers tend to be dominated by teacher talk or model-
ling interspersed with group performance, with little variety. Essentially, the
participants play and the facilitator talks or models the desired performance,
with little evidence of fostering the shared language of collaborative creativity
advocated by O’Neill and Peluso (2014).
MIDWIFE
FELLOW TRAVELLER
The ‘fellow traveller’ style sits within a conception of teaching as being the
facilitation of learning. In this approach, teachers and students focus their
energies on discovering new material together. The fellow traveller encourages
egalitarian relationships between leader and participants. As a result, the latter
may feel more able to contribute their own ideas and sometimes will take on
leadership roles within the group. The group may become a learning commun-
ity, characterized by collective exploration. The life experience and insights that
64 Musicians in the Making
all participants bring to the group are acknowledged and valued by the fellow
traveller.
Jones’s three facilitator styles resonate in some respects with another model
proposed by Heron (1999). According to Heron, facilitators interact with their
groups in either hierarchical, cooperative or autonomous modes. In hierarchi-
cal mode, the facilitator directs the learning process, doing things for the group
such as setting objectives and providing structures for learning. The cooperative
mode differs in that the facilitator guides the group but shares ownership of deci-
sions relating to the learning process. Here, the facilitator prompts, demonstrates,
models and provides scaffolds for learning. Finally, in the autonomous mode, the
facilitator’s role is to create the conditions within which group participants can
take full ownership and responsibility for self-directed learning. Group members
negotiate their own path, with minimum intervention from the facilitator. What
people learn and how they learn it are influenced to a great extent by whether the
facilitator adopts a hierarchical, cooperative or autonomous stance.
Effective facilitators, according to Heron (1999), move from mode to mode
in response to the changing characteristics, dynamics and stages of the group
experience. Box 3.1, describing the facilitator’s perspective of leading a jazz
group comprising conservatoire students working alongside professional musi-
cians, demonstrates how the facilitator style moved from gatekeeper (choosing
the repertoire, modelling specific musical points) through midwife (support-
ing students in developing their own musical ideas) to fellow traveller (co-
constructing musical interpretation and performance).
BOX 3.1 A facilitator’s perspective, leading jazz students and professionals working together
written passages. I suggested ways of approaching the piano parts, which were
not written—I mainly brought lead sheets, so that we could develop our own
interpretations and also suggested bass lines. At times I asked for suggestions
of backing riffs from the ‘front line’, who were both young musicians, and gave
them encouragement and advice on how to approach ‘soloing’, in terms of what
scales could be used, and stylistic suggestions, when necessary. I also played
cajon, which was the only percussion instrument in the group, which enabled
me to lay down a foundation groove, and influence tempo and dynamics
physically.
After the group learned the basic tunes, we turned our attention to deciding
forms, including who would solo where, and how ‘feels’ would change among the
sections. To support the students in getting used to playing the different patterns
and chord sequences, I sang individual lines and demonstrated voicings on the
keyboard. Apart from this instruction, I ran the rehearsals just like any rehearsals
I might run with professionals, for example, playing patterns on the cajon and
deciding together with the others how specific passages would be played.
The young musicians didn’t yet have a great ability to follow the forms and
play the right sections or get into the right ‘feels’ at the correct moment. That
needed lots of repetition going through the transitions. At some points students
participated with simple and low-risk tasks, for example playing backing riffs
to a solo, playing an obbligato pattern behind a melody, or ‘comping’ behind a
solo. However, the young musicians also took lead roles during their individual
improvised solos. In fact, during the early stages of the rehearsals, they were
immediately thrown in at the deep end, and were learning the music along with
the rest of us.
With a festival gig to prepare, this was a task-oriented group, but the social
element was quickly present. We got straight down to rehearsing and getting to
know each other’s sound and musical personality. Over time, all of the musicians
became more comfortable with the music and with one another. In the final
stages of rehearsal everyone (young and older) had internalized the music,
playing the melodies, ‘soloing’ and getting around the forms. This happened (as it
always seems to) just in time for the performance!
Interpersonal climate
interpersonal contexts are fostered when facilitators are honest with learners
about who they are and what they know; when they listen carefully to learners,
noting both verbal and nonverbal signals; when they empathize with learners;
and when they believe in the possibility that all learners have the capacity to
progress and to contribute to shared group goals (Cartney and Rouse 2006).
An example from a community opera context demonstrates the importance
of interpersonal style (Box 3.2). Here, the facilitator (chorus master) adopts a
‘gatekeeper’ approach, yet fosters an interpersonal climate where the group and
their leader are united in overcoming the musical challenges.
As the chorus master, my remit is to make sure that the chorus sings all the right
notes in the right style, being sympathetic to everything that’s going on around
them. So that’s what I was trying to achieve, in sort of cold calculated terms, for
them to be singing it correctly. That’s the role of the chorus master. But, I’m the
person that they’ve spent the most time with, so I knew that I also kind of had to set
the tone for the way that the rehearsals would feel, for the project as a whole.
CHALLENGES
It has been an enormous challenge for me, to work out a way of delivering to
people, some of whom have never held a music score in their lives, who’ve got no
idea of what the notation means, trying to deliver this very rhythmically complex
music, and harmonies that don’t seem intuitive when you first sing them, and
you think ‘no I’ve got to be doing this wrong’, and actually it’s right. It’s to get
them singing accurately when the music is so far beyond what most people will
have ever encountered before.
OVERCOMING CHALLENGES
Working out a way of putting it into language that everybody will understand.
So, you can’t use some terms, you can’t talk about legato or anything to do with
technique in any jargon at all, you have to boil it right down to very straightforward,
simple English instructions. And try and work at a speed which doesn’t go straight
over the heads of the least experienced ones but doesn’t patronize the most
experienced. Finding that balance is something that I hope I managed to do, and
finding ever more creative ways of trying to do that, to engage everybody, regardless
of how much assumed knowledge they already bring to the process.
Almost everybody in the chorus … [has] just got such a deeply rooted wish
for it to be right and to not rest until it is right, no matter how hard it is. And it just
makes the job really easy, when you’re working with people who have that approach.
You don’t have to settle, as I never settle, for ‘oh that will do—that’s probably good
enough’. It’s really nice to have people who share that. It felt like ‘everybody versus
the piece’, rather than ‘them versus me’. It was everybody all pushing in the same
direction—‘us versus the music’. Everyone is united by the music.
Facilitating learning in small groups 67
Light et al. (2009) highlight the important role that the facilitator plays
with regard to influencing how learners engage with their learning. In some
instances, the approach adopted by the facilitator is more important than the
content itself. Light et al. suggest that expert facilitators have a well-developed
repertoire of strategies and approaches and are able to reflect in the moment,
in action (Schön 1983), adapting flexibly to the needs of individual groups in
order to offer support through phases of their development. A range of strate-
gies relating to the task as well as the interpersonal dynamics may be required.
These strategies might, for example, include validating individual input, reflect-
ing back to the group, summarizing, using questioning to promote deep think-
ing, allocating roles to specific group members, refining or adjusting the task,
and setting appropriate assessment strategies that require involvement from all
participants.
According to Stetson (2003), facilitators can support effective learning and
creativity in small groups when they structure activities that include:
• a clear mission
• an informal atmosphere
• lots of discussion
• active listening
• trust and openness
• an understanding that disagreement is acceptable
• criticism that is issue-oriented, never personal
• consensus as a norm
• effective leadership
• clarity of task assignments
• shared values and norms of behaviour
• commitment
• Teach the group as a whole and not focus on one player. For example, I have
had many experiences when bringing a piano group to a piano teacher where
they just talk to the pianist the whole time, and it is a complete waste of time
for the string players.
• … Talk about musical points and not offer any technical advice, except
maybe in how to achieve a particular musical idea. I mean, they don’t take
over the job of your personal teacher in the coaching. In one coaching session,
the coach started giving me tips on bow posture which was completely
irrelevant to the Beethoven quartet we were playing, completely irrelevant to
the other players, and completely irrelevant to me as she was not my teacher
and after the session was over I was going to disregard what she had to say.
• that they are HAPPY and EXCITED and WILLING to coach us! I hate the
feeling that we have cornered them into doing the coaching and they are
checking their watch every two minutes.
• that they more or less treat us as equals. Especially at conservatoire level.
I can’t stand teacher superiority. Of course we have to respect them, and there
is a certain code of politeness, but they shouldn’t make us feel like ‘stupid
Facilitating learning in small groups 69
students’. We are all musicians here, and definitely the best coaching I have
had is where there is a whole mix of ideas coming from everyone and the
teacher listens to us as much as we listen to them. Then it is fun for everybody.
I love it when a teacher asks me what I think! Generally lots of questions from
the teacher are great—loads of questions so lots of discussion, lots of sharing
ideas, coming up with different things…
ICMuS, the bands had timetabled rehearsal slots when tutors might visit. Some
groups asked for coaching when they were approaching a performance, some
asked for help earlier in the process, and others took advantage of opportuni-
ties for coaching when they arose. There was a sense that within the coaching
sessions a gatekeeper approach may have prevailed. The groups commented that
the coaches provided specific guidance relating to the music being prepared; the
students perceived advantages and disadvantages of having the same coach con-
sistently (which may have reinforced a teacher-directed approach) or having a
variety of coaches with different perspectives (which may have required students
to take a higher degree of responsibility for their own creative decisions).
own practices and to reflect upon group processes as they work together. Similarly,
within the lifetime of any group, there may be times when either hierarchical or,
alternatively, cooperative or collaborative approaches are more effective.
Small groups provide a forum where learners can together lessen depend-
ency on the facilitator, take ownership of learning and develop metacognitive
skills. This is particularly so when learners have the opportunity to assume dif-
ferent roles within the group, recognizing the challenges that other group mem-
bers may be experiencing and collectively taking responsibility for overcoming
those challenges (Light et al. 2009).
Table 3.1 sets out some practical strategies that can be adopted by facilita-
tors of small musical groups to scaffold deep learning and creativity. There is
also a role for musical modelling which may be adopted in conjunction with
any of the strategies set out below.
Task-based strategies
Support • Encourage
• Approve, agree with ideas
• Praise
Encourage • Provide the guidance and structure for dialogue
inclusive • Ensure that all group members have the opportunity to contribute to discussions
participation • Value all contributions
• Describe individual contributions
Release tension • Use humour to defuse tense situations
Facilitating learning in small groups 71
REFLECTION
Learning how to monitor progress, reflect on and draw conclusions from expe-
rience is essential for musical ensemble members and facilitators. Two key
elements have been identified in relation to reflecting on learning: reflection-
in-action and reflection-on-action. Reflection-in-action can be described as
‘thinking on your feet’. It relates to situations that are unfolding, connecting
with feelings and building new understandings of situations to inform actions
(Schön 1983). Reflection-on-action is carried out after the event and enables
exploration of particular actions that were undertaken, what was happening
in the situation and how things might be changed for the future. Musicians
typically use both types of reflection as a matter of course in their work. Such
reflective processes are especially important in ensemble playing, where indi-
viduals need to respond to one another in the moment, adjusting their own
actions in relation to what they hear, see and feel. There may also be discussion
during rehearsals or post-performance to evaluate what has happened and to
consider how to develop further. The facilitator of small groups can provide a
stimulus for this in order to develop these skills.
What are referred to as ‘critical incidents’ (i.e. significant events) can pro-
vide an important focus for reflection (Tripp 2012). These are events that raise
questions and can lead to change in beliefs, values, attitudes or behaviours.
For musicians working in small groups, critical incidents might be related to
aspects of performance that went particularly well or badly, or to incidents
within the group involving conflict or criticism. To learn from a critical inci-
dent requires asking questions about it; examining perceptions, assump-
tions and feelings; considering whether events could have been interpreted in
another way or behaviours changed; and evaluating what might be changed
for the future.
For reflection to be effective, it has to change behaviour. Kolb (1984) devel-
oped the Experiential Learning Cycle, which can be used as a model for acquir-
ing evaluative skills. The cycle comprises four stages and can be accessed
through any of them, although the stages must be followed in sequence for suc-
cessful learning to take place. It is not sufficient to have an experience in order
to learn: instead, it is necessary to reflect on the experience, to make generaliza-
tions from this, and to formulate ideas which can then be applied in the future.
Such learning must then be tested out in new situations. The key elements of
the cycle are ‘concrete musical experience’, ‘reflective observation’, ‘abstract
conceptualization’ and ‘active musical experimentation’. For musicians, ‘con-
crete experience’ might include practising, rehearsing with others, perform-
ing, teaching and so on. ‘Reflective observation’ (reviewing or reflecting on the
experience) involves analysing and making judgements about the experience;
these reflections need to be sufficiently systematic so that what has been learned
is remembered for future use. ‘Abstract conceptualization’ (concluding or learn-
ing from the experience) involves drawing some general conclusions about what
72 Musicians in the Making
has been learned. Finally, ‘active experimentation’ (planning and trying out
what one has learned) involves acting on the conclusions that have been drawn,
and planning and implementing strategies, techniques or approaches that will
change and improve on previous practice. This active experimentation then
feeds into new experiences, and the whole cycle begins again.
Conclusion
Small groups have been shown to be a powerful context for learning and crea-
tivity. Within this context, the role of the facilitator is vital in ensuring that the
potential for deep learning and creative intersubjective engagement is realized
within groups. In order to meet the challenges of group work, teachers need
a wide repertoire of strategies in order to support students in truly collabo-
rative and cooperative practices. At various stages in group work, effective
facilitators will need to position themselves on the continuum from hierarchi-
cal to collaborative, although this is always likely to be most effective within
a student-centred rather than teacher-centred paradigm. Awareness of group
dynamics and interpersonal processes can empower facilitators, offering val-
uable ways of fostering an interdependent and collective commitment to
shared goals.
Much of the research drawn on in this chapter has not been directly con-
cerned with facilitation in developing creativity in small musical groups. There
is a dearth of research about how best to facilitate small musical ensembles,
and even less is focused on promoting creativity and collaborative approaches
in such groups. Issues such as how to support interdependent peer learning
in creative music-making remain underresearched. There is clearly a need for
research which explores the perspectives of facilitators and learners on what
approaches are most effective for enhancing performance, creativity and the
skills required for working in small musical groups.
References
75
76 Musicians in the Making
What is a masterclass?
The term ‘masterclass’ is used rather broadly and is traditionally employed both
to describe public events at which a renowned musician coaches advanced-level
students in front of a (paying) audience, and regular classes at a conserva-
toire where invited musicians and/or members of staff teach students in front
of other students. The term is also commonly used to describe performance
classes where a principal study teacher’s students play and are taught in front
of the other students. Masterclasses may be instrument-specific or style-spe-
cific. In a research study by Long and colleagues (2011), a typological mapping
of masterclasses revealed that they may also vary in terms of content, rang-
ing from what the authors call artistic-based classes, where the focus is prima-
rily on the realization of the music, to work-based ones, which concentrate on
developing work skills, such as mastering auditions or orchestral excerpts. The
study also revealed some new approaches to masterclasses, such as when two
master teachers with different specialisms co-teach. This mapping study shows
that while the term ‘masterclass’ is used to describe many forms and formats
of learning and teaching, there is a common denominator in that it involves
teaching a student or an ensemble in front of an audience, large or small. The
presence of an audience will in itself offer learning opportunities both for the
student performing and for the audience, but it also poses some challenges
which are not present in one-to-one tuition.
Styles of interaction
also learns concepts and rules for what behaviour suits which aims and circum-
stances. One also learns standards for assessment and problem-solving strate-
gies. The model’s informative function therefore extends much further than the
specific example, and the knowledge can be applied to new situations and for
new aims. Bandura (ibid.: 104ff.) emphasizes that imitation must not be seen as
the antithesis of innovation. Rather, imitation can aid in the development of the
cognitive and behavioural tools needed to become innovative. He also points to
the potential for creative synthesis and development when combining observa-
tions and modelling from different models, such as various master teachers in
this case. From these discussions, it is clear that traditional, master-dominant
masterclasses can themselves contribute greatly to developing the student’s cre-
ativity, although this might not be obvious at the time.
NEW PERSPECTIVES
The masterclass implies that the students performing are being taught by some-
one other than their regular instrumental or singing teacher. This might be
beneficial in itself. First, the master teacher can assess the student’s potential
with a fresh and unbiased eye and ear, and for that reason several of the mas-
ter teachers in Hanken’s (2010) study stated that they prefer not to know very
much about the student in advance. Some of them compared their role in giving
masterclasses to the one that they have when teaching their regular students in
one-to-one lessons, commenting on how refreshing and motivating it can be for
both master teacher and student to be able to focus on the performance and the
situation in that moment, and not be influenced by a shared history.
Secondly, a different teacher can provide new perspectives and ideas on
interpretation or technical solutions. Judging by the responses to the survey
among students at the Guildhall School of Music & Drama (Creech et al.
2009), this is an explicit expectation from students: when asked what they
wanted to learn from masterclasses, twenty-one of the thirty-seven students
responded that they hoped to gain new ideas and ways of thinking about
Masterclasses in creative learning 79
the piece. However, new ideas need not be restricted to the specific piece
of music studied in the class. Long et al. (2011) found that master teachers
also modelled new ideas as to how the students could think when practis-
ing, planning and improving their performances. Especially collaborative,
student-centred masterclasses appeared to be associated with broader learn-
ing outcomes, whereas master-dominant masterclasses primarily contrib-
uted to the performance of the specific piece of music studied in the class.
Because the relationship between the principal study teacher and the stu-
dent tends to be long-term in nature, it could be beneficial to students to be
confronted with alternative perspectives during their studies, as this would
stimulate their curiosity and enable them to become reflective practitioners,
making independent, deliberate and well-informed choices. One of the stu-
dents in Stabell’s study (2010: 42) expresses this view:
one thing that I think is very good with masterclasses is that you get to
play for other teachers and have the experience that there are other ways
to play than just what your principal instrument teacher says. It is very
good for us to get different views on things, and I think you learn a lot by
trying out different ways of playing.
PREPARING FOR CONCERTS
Another benefit of masterclasses is that they serve as an arena for gradually initi-
ating students into the profession. Drawing on Lave and Wenger (1991), one can
view the music profession as a community of practice. From this perspective, the
education of a musician can be understood as a gradual initiation into the com-
munity of professional music practice. To become a member of the community,
one has to take part in the social practices of that community, such as con-
certs, rehearsals and individual practice. Through participation in these prac-
tices, the apprentice musician gradually learns what is needed to become a full
Masterclasses in creative learning 81
member of the community (Hanken 2008; Long et al. 2012a; see also Chapter
2 in this volume). The masterclass is an arena where the apprentice musician,
through a concert-like performance, is confronted with the standards of the
community. These standards are personalized through the master teacher, an
acknowledged member of the profession, with high legitimacy. One of the mas-
ter teachers in Hanken’s study (2010: 155) was very clear that she sees her role
as being a representative of the profession: ‘you have to be all right as a human
being, but you also have the right to be demanding in your role as a guardian
of the standards that are there’. Aspiring musicians need to understand what it
takes to be acknowledged as a professional musician. In the masterclass, these
standards are demonstrated through the demands and expectations the master
teachers communicate when assessing and coaching the students. It is therefore
the master teacher’s position as a highly respected musician that gives legiti-
macy, rather than his or her role and ability as a teacher. As Nerland (2004)
points out, principal study teachers in conservatoires teach by virtue of their
positions as musicians and artists; how good they are as teachers is secondary
in this context. Their authority and legitimacy stem from their central position
within the profession; they can give the student access to the traditions and stan-
dards of the profession. The same can be said about masterclass teachers.
Arenas such as masterclasses also offer students the opportunity to par-
ticipate in the community of practice with differing degrees of responsibil-
ity and exposure. Lave and Wenger (1991) demonstrate how newcomers and
apprentices first participate in the periphery. Gradually apprentices are given
more demanding tasks, such as, in our case, performing in masterclasses of
increasing status and importance. Lave and Wenger (ibid.) underline that even
a peripheral position is a legitimate position in the community; it is where all
members start. It is also a protected position: the students are protected from
the demands placed on full members. This saves the apprentice musician, the
audience and the community of practice from embarrassment caused by lack
of proficiency. At the same time, a peripheral position also gives vital access to
the learning resources in the practice; masterclasses offer the student a possibil-
ity to observe and listen to those who know more.
Viewing the masterclass as an arena for initiation might also shed light on a
phenomenon that is sometimes observed in masterclasses, i.e. the rather rough
treatment that some students receive. From this perspective, the masterclass
is a way of testing whether the student is on his or her way to becoming a
worthy member of the community of practice. Upholding the standards of
the profession is vital, and this can necessitate some ‘brutality’. Long et al.
(2011: 136) claim that ‘Many musicians regard this ruthless form of cul-
tural selection to be entirely justified’. This is also supported by Kingsbury
(1988: 105), who comments on his observations of life at a conservatory: ‘The
fact is that the culling of students perceived as less talented, less accomplished, or
less “musical” is generally accepted as necessary and inevitable in conservatory
82 Musicians in the Making
renowned singer and master teacher Håkan Hagegård stressed how establish-
ing a trusting relationship with the student is fundamental in his approach to
masterclass teaching: ‘The technique is to make the student safe, of course, not
putting myself in the centre, but [indicating that] I am here, I’m your friend’
(ibid.: 13). During the demonstration masterclasses, the master teachers and
student performers endeavoured to appraise each other initially, relying on a
heightened awareness of body language, tone of voice and facial expression.
The trust between them was established in these first few moments but was also
strengthened by the integrity of the master teacher’s professional judgement
and intuition. As highly experienced and successful master teachers, they were
able to ‘read’ the student performers’ levels of composure, competence, respon-
siveness and self-confidence, and tailor their approach to the needs of individ-
ual students. When such trust was established, the students also became more
willing and able to move out of their ‘comfort zones’ and be challenged. As one
of the students performing in Hagegård’s class expressed her experience: ‘He
shows you very early on that you can trust him. So you don’t have to be afraid.
And he sees you, so you have to be honest. You cannot hide. And then it is
okay that he pushes you’ (ibid.: 15). Unfortunately, as indicated by anecdotal
evidence as well as a survey among students at a UK conservatoire reported by
Long et al. (2014), not all master teachers manage to establish such a trusting
and safe environment.
If one has a reputation as a respected ‘master’, a masterclass is obviously
a very challenging teaching arena, and the stakes are high. It can be argued
that teaching masterclasses is an especially complex and demanding task, much
more so than one-to-one tuition. The master teachers interviewed in Hanken’s
study (2010) stated that it had taken them a long time to learn the skills they
needed to become adept in the masterclass format and that they had learned
these the hard way.
LEARNING BY OBSERVATION
It is not only the master teacher who can serve as a model: in some ways
the student performing can potentially be a more effective model than the
86 Musicians in the Making
master teacher, because he or she has more in common with the students in the
audience. According to Bandura (1997), such student models will have an even
greater influence on fellow students’ perceived self-efficacy. Bandura (ibid.: 95)
claims that perceived self-efficacy is ‘uniformly a good predictor of subsequent
performance attainments. The higher the perceived self-efficacy, the greater are
the performance accomplishments.’ It is therefore vital that students develop
not only their musical skills, but also their sense of self-efficacy. Comparisons
of one’s own attainments with those of others play an important role in this
process, but according to Bandura (ibid.: 87), beliefs of personal self-efficacy
will not be much influenced if the model is perceived as very different from
oneself. In that respect, observing a fellow student might be more effective than
observing a master teacher, who is presumably on a much higher level. This is
also supported by Latukefu’s study (2009) on group teaching of voice students.
The students taking part reported that listening to others being taught gave
them a sense of their own level within the group.
Bandura (1997: 90) warns, however, that simply exposing people to models
does not necessarily improve their beliefs in their own efficacy. It is important
to structure modelling in ways that enhance a sense of personal efficacy while
avoiding negative and unfavourable effects of comparisons with the model.
This can be achieved by focusing on the instructive function of the model and
minimizing the comparative evaluative function. Translated to the context of
a masterclass, this means that the class should be framed as a learning oppor-
tunity for the students in the audience, where the focus is on developing their
knowledge and skills through observing proficient models, rather than on
comparative evaluation. This way of understanding masterclasses is expressed
clearly by one of the master teachers interviewed by Hanken (2010: 155): ‘I
wish to maintain the aspect of competition among the students, but I differen-
tiate between what I consider competition as a positive challenge (“Oh, I want
to be able to do that too”) and the negative aspect which involves envy… So
I definitely try to maintain the positive aspect.’
Framing the masterclass as a learning opportunity in which students in
the audience can be inspired and motivated by their more proficient peers
enables students to interpret their present level of proficiency as ‘work in prog-
ress’ rather than as an indication of their basic capability or ‘talent’ (Bandura
1997: 92). This effect can be enhanced if the modelling being observed is what
Bandura (ibid.: 99) labels ‘coping modelling’. This means that the student can
observe the model while working his or her way through difficulties, gradu-
ally overcoming them through determined effort. Observing how perseverance
and focused effort can lead to improvement in musical performance during
the course of the masterclass can demonstrate to the students in the audience
that hard work is the key to success. Drawing on Bandura’s theory, we can
conclude that masterclasses have the potential to enhance students’ perceived
self-efficacy when they observe their fellow students’ coping efforts.
Masterclasses in creative learning 87
opinions. They also need to acquire collaborative skills and learn to engage
in a critical dialogue (ibid.). Giving musicians the opportunity to communi-
cate and provide constructive feedback to their fellow students during mas-
terclasses could help to build these necessary lifelong skills. Blom and Poole
(2004: 123) also point out that being engaged in peer assessment will prepare
students for other roles in musical life, such as those of examiner or music
critic.
Students in the audiences of many masterclasses are not explicitly asked to
give feedback to those who are performing. Consequently some of the skills
described above might not be fostered. However, one should not underesti-
mate the potential of masterclasses for developing peer and self-assessment
skills in students who are physically somewhat detached but who neverthe-
less might be quietly observing the proceedings. The learning potential of
masterclasses for the students in the audience is pointedly summarized by
one of the master teachers interviewed in Hanken’s study (2010: 154), who
is responsible for arranging weekly masterclasses for all the string players in
his institution:
I see them [masterclasses] as an arena for creating a learning environ-
ment, for developing a spirit of cooperation, for learning what kind of
feedback you don’t give, absolutely! … The fundamental realisation [is]
that you learn from each other, that you are all in the same boat, that
everyone is struggling with something.
address in the performance that can be of more general interest, and presenting
them in terms that are more broadly relevant. There is reason to believe that
the full potential of peer learning and peer assessment is not always realized in
masterclasses. Involving audience members by asking them for comments and
feedback can benefit both the audience and the student who is performing in
many ways. The masterclass teacher, therefore, needs to have the requisite skills
for conducting and monitoring such processes to ensure that they are positive
and constructive.
A majority of the masterclasses offered in conservatoires can be catego-
rized as master-dominant and artistic in nature. The mapping study by Long
et al. (2011) illustrates that other types, formats and styles offer further learn-
ing opportunities compared with this more traditional approach and that each
approach has its own merits. This should be taken into consideration when pro-
gramming masterclasses in conservatoires, or indeed elsewhere. Further explo-
ration and documentation of such innovative approaches could help realize the
full range of benefits that the masterclass can offer musicians in the making.
References
McPherson, G. E. and G. F. Welch, 2012: The Oxford Handbook of Music Education, 2 vols.
(Oxford: Oxford University Press).
Nerland, M., 2004: ‘Instrumentalundervisning som kulturell praksis. En diskursorientert
studie av hovedinstrumentundervisning i høyere musikkutdanning’ (PhD dissertation,
University of Oslo).
Nerland, M., 2007: ‘One-to-one teaching as cultural practice: two case studies from an
academy of music’, Music Education Research 9/3: 399–416.
Nielsen, K., 1998: ‘Musical apprenticeship: learning at the academy of music as socially
situated’ (PhD dissertation, Aarhus University).
Persson, R., 1994: ‘Concert musicians as teachers: on good intentions coming short’,
European Journal for High Ability 5/1: 79–91.
Raeder, K., 2000: ‘Faglig selvoppfatning som motivasjonsfaktor. En intervjuundersøkelse
av utøverstudenters faglige selvoppfatning i forhold til det å delta i utøvende aktiviteter’
(Master’s thesis, Norwegian Academy of Music).
Ruhleder, K. and F. Stoltzfus, 2000: ‘The etiquette of the master class: improvisation on a
theme by Howard Becker’, Mind, Culture, and Activity 7/3: 186–96.
Schön, D. A., 1987: Educating the Reflective Practitioner (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass).
Stabell, E. M., 2010: ‘Mesterklassen. Læringspotensiale og funksjon i musikkutdanningen
(Master’s thesis, Norwegian Academy of Music).
Wöllner, C. and J. Ginsborg, 2011: ‘Team teaching in the conservatoire: the views of music
performance staff and students’, British Journal of Music Education 28/3: 301–23.
5
Harrison et al. (2013a; see also Harrison, O’Bryan and Lebler 2013b) draw
attention to the complexities of assessing ensemble work, particularly the issues
around the degree to which the process should be assessed along with the prod-
uct. In these studies, students and teachers shared a range of views about such
assessment activities as self- and peer assessment, and the degree to which peer
feedback processes should be formalized. A sense of tension was evident between
assessing for compliance with institutional regulations and assessing as prepa-
ration for future professional music-making. Nevertheless, there was a strong
affirmation by both students and teachers of the value of ensemble participation
in the making of musicians. Many undergraduate performers will be active as
ensemble performers outside their programmes of study, and ensemble work will
be a common outcome for graduates, so ensemble performance is an important
aspect of students’ progression along the pathway to creative performance.
Indicative practices
ASSESSMENT OF INDIVIDUAL PERFORMANCE
colleagues is not at all unusual. While this process had considerable value in
terms of offering authoritative feedback in a manner that emulates the infor-
mal feedback common in jazz ensembles, it was unsustainably expensive and
has been discontinued.
CONSEQUENCES OF ASSESSMENT
have proven particularly helpful in inducting students into the act of giving
feedback to their peers. In turn, this will enable graduates to interact with their
colleagues constructively because much music-making is done collaboratively,
and providing constructive feedback to colleagues is an important aspect of
developing creative skills as a musician.
Assessment narratives
ASSESSMENT IN POPULAR MUSIC AND FINNISH
FOLK MUSIC PROGRAMMES
As noted above, there are convincing arguments for the development of self-
assessment abilities in students as a means of enhancing continuing progres-
sion towards creative performance outcomes. While such developments are not
exclusive to these examples, it is instructive to compare the approaches to par-
ticipatory assessment in two particular contexts: the Bachelor of Popular Music
(BPM) programme at the Queensland Conservatorium Griffith University, and
the Folk Music programme at the Sibelius Academy at the University of the
Arts Helsinki in Finland. In both cases, the assessment processes are intended
to involve the students as active participants, thereby adding learning value
to what might otherwise be purely summative assessments. There are differ-
ences in the methods employed, however. For instance, BPM students conduct
a criteria-referenced self-assessment of their recorded creative works, which
they submit online at the same time as the recordings. Although each student
submits a portfolio of recordings as an individual, the work in question is often
created collaboratively, with students contributing in multiple ways including
songwriting, performance, and audio engineering and production. The self-
assessment informs discussions that take place in assessment panel meetings,
where seven or eight students and a teacher meet to discuss their responses to
the submissions they have each been assigned and have provisionally assessed
through an online system in advance of the panel meetings. In this instance, the
process uses online technologies at all stages of the assessment process, accom-
modated in a sophisticated bespoke online application called the Bachelor of
Popular Music Assessment Tool (BoPMAT);4 this is especially appropriate in
the popular music context, where technology is prevalent.
In the case of the Sibelius Folk Music programme, the assessment occurs
in authentic public concert situations before an audience including fellow stu-
dents, teachers and others from the Academy as well as members of the general
public. Students explain their musical choices in a written statement that is
provided to the jury charged with conducting the assessment. The statement
is the result of a semester-long process during which students reflect on their
learning as they work towards achieving the goals that they have set in consul-
tation with their teachers. Following each performance, the student’s teacher
Examination and assessment 103
provides his or her perspective on how the learning process has unfolded during
the semester, and the student also has an opportunity to talk about the perfor-
mance. Finally, the jury ask questions of the student to encourage further self-
reflection, without pre-empting what the student might say by expressing his or
her opinions first (Partti et al. 2015).
Despite the differences in musical genre and procedures, both of these
assessment processes are intended to serve the making of musicians by devel-
oping students’ abilities to monitor their own work while it is in production,
which is vital for their future and continuing development (Sadler 2007, 2010b).
In neither case are the responsibilities of teachers abandoned: instead, their
actions are focused more on the development of assessment abilities in students
than on the expression of their own evaluative judgements.
holistic assessment, and therefore the model was not adopted. This preference is
still current at the site of Wrigley’s research, and there are no predetermined cri-
teria sheets in use for performance assessment at the time of writing. The absence
of predetermined criteria aligns with Sadler’s most recent thinking (2015), which
supports the forming of a holistic judgement and then expressing that judgement
using criteria that are derived from the strengths and weaknesses of the assess-
ment item as it was presented, commenting on the noteworthy aspects of the per-
formance. The approach advocated by Sadler is not uncommon in the assessment
of performance, and provided that assessments are referenced to appropriate pre-
determined standards, it appears to be unproblematic in practice.
It is known that assessment not only directs students’ learning to what it is that
will be assessed, but also shapes the way in which students undertake and cus-
tomize their learning to be effective in the context of the assessments they will
experience (Biggs 1999, 2016). Consequently, assessments should be designed
so that they are capable of measuring the achievement of the learning objectives
of the course of study, and assessment tasks should be sufficiently authentic to
encourage the attributes and abilities that we intend our students to develop.
In the instance of higher music education, a primary consideration should be
the efficacy of assessment processes for the preparation of students to progress
effectively and efficiently along the various pathways to creative performance
that they will encounter on their musical journeys. Many would argue that the
ability to be self-monitoring after graduation should be one of these abilities
(see e.g. Sadler 2009b, 2010b, 2013).
The current international context provides teachers with an opportunity to
review assessment practices to ensure that they are likely to produce the out-
comes they intend for their students, in ways that are academically defensible
and able to achieve the goals of their educational programmes as well as sat-
isfying external regulations. For example, the importance of assessment and
standards in the European context is demonstrated by the Polifonia Assessment
and Standards project. Generic learning outcomes are also mandated in the
Australian context, as is the obligation to ensure that assessment processes are
rigorous. Comparability between various higher music education institutions
and consistency of standards within and between courses and programmes of
study are no longer optional.
As noted above, the making of musicians is a lifelong process: good results
in a training institution might enhance the audition capabilities of a performer,
but with the laws of supply and demand heavily weighted to the former, many
other factors come into play. This is not to imply that assessment and exam-
ination are unimportant or that assessing for compliance and assessing as
Examination and assessment 105
References
Introduction: the formal-nonformal-informal continuum
Briefly and in general terms, ‘formal’ learning tends to be defined as the kind
of learning that takes place in institutions such as schools and universities, as a
direct result of teaching. It is largely intentional, and learners are consciously
aware of learning or attempting to learn. It occurs under the tutelage of a rec-
ognized and usually accredited teacher and is often guided by an approved and
structured curriculum or syllabus. In music, this would also encompass private
or institutionally provided instrumental or vocal tuition, especially when linked
to graded examinations or other accredited assessment (Green 2002: 3–5;
Finnegan 1989: 133ff.; Smilde 2009: 74).
‘Nonformal’ learning is a staple term in the wider educational literature.
It usually refers to learning that happens as a result of intentional and struc-
tured provision taking place outside institutions offering accredited qualifica-
tions (Schugurensky 2000). In the music literature, the term refers to a range of
community and youth music programmes as well as some practices that occur
in school classrooms (see e.g. Green 2002; Renshaw 2005; Mak et al. 2007;
Higgins 2012; Smilde 2012; Veblen 2012). Some instrumental tuition, partic-
ularly where it is not linked to a syllabus or exam accreditation, and possibly
where the teacher has no related qualifications, may in this sense be regarded
as nonformal.
‘Informal’ learning finds its fullest expression outside both of these contexts,
although it may take place within them. Most especially, informal learning refers
to learning that occurs at an individual or group level in contexts unrelated to
institutional provision, such as the proverbial bedroom or garage of the young
rock musician. It also includes many aspects of the unsupervised practice of
a young classical learner. Informal learning is usually defined as spanning the
conscious, intentional and structured, as well as the nonconscious, uninten-
tional and unstructured (see e.g. Finnegan 1989; Green 2002, 2008a; Folkestad
2006; Smilde 2012). By ‘conscious’, we mean here the extent to which learners
intend to learn, structure their learning or are aware of their learning; by ‘non-
conscious’, we mean the extent to which they either learn without intending to
learn or without realizing at the time that they are learning, or learn in a cha-
otic or haphazard manner rather than a planned route. The former, conscious
type of informal learning would include various self-teaching methods such
as playing along with a recording, studying online media, inventing technical
exercises, or going to a music library and sifting through scores. The latter,
nonconscious type would include learning by ‘osmosis’ or enculturation, by
listening to music and by watching other musicians, as an ongoing process that
informs the ‘rhythms, tonal patterns and combinations, preferred timbres and
performance modes’ of a culture (Mans 2009: 84).
Despite these broad definitions, there is little general agreement about how
the terms ‘formal’, ‘nonformal’ and ‘informal’ are differentiated at a more
detailed level, or about the nature of the interactions and overlaps between
them. However, as Werquin (2010: 24) suggests, defining terms too rigidly is
110 Musicians in the Making
song consciously and intentionally, she may have also unconsciously and unin-
tentionally developed her aural discrimination, aural memory, output transfer
from the sound she hears to the sound that she plays, and knowledge and feel
of style and form, along with myriad other developments that may be difficult
to articulate, even if she was aware of them at the time. After engaging in such
activities, it is possible that progress may become retrospectively apparent, for
example with the realization that she has developed skills and abilities that are
valued by her friends, audiences or fellow musicians.
Overall, usage and conceptualization of the terms ‘formal’, ‘nonformal’ and
‘informal’ require that they reflect awareness of the complex nature of the dif-
ferentials relating to learning; how, where and why learning is taking place; the
people and institutions involved; and how all of these factors are perceived by
the individuals who are learning.
We have briefly considered how increased attention to the range of factors
that differentiate learning types may be helpful; how informal learning—our
focus in this chapter—can be broadly and flexibly defined; and how it may take
place across a range of musical styles and contexts. We have also considered
how the level of conscious intention cuts across the formal-nonformal-informal
continuum. In a nutshell, by informal learning we largely mean learning that
can be either conscious or nonconscious, but that takes place autonomously
from any intended effect or context of formal provision as outlined above, and
with the provisos that we have suggested.
The literature on informal learning in music has, as in other subject areas,
highlighted and recognized a range of learning outcomes, as well as environ-
ments and learning practices that have led to these outcomes. This has also
raised the visibility of learning in these ways, as well as the value systems
attached to them. As noted earlier, informal learning in music has been asso-
ciated mainly with the practices of popular and other vernacular musicians.
This is indeed a highly relevant population to study, since their learning has
tended, at least until very recently, to fall entirely or almost entirely within the
clearly informal arena, and to some extent the nonformal one. Many important
insights have come from the area, including issues related to outcomes, learning
practices and motivational aspects (for some early examples, see Becker 1963;
A. Bennett 1997; H. S. Bennett 1980; Berkaak 1999; Berliner 1994; Björnberg
1993; Cohen 1991; Finnegan 1989; Green 2002; Lilliestam 1996; McCarthy
1999). The value systems associated with informal learning in music also mir-
ror wider issues in the field, in that knowledge, skills and abilities learned in the
informal realm by popular musicians across many substyles have often been
undervalued relative to those associated with formal learning.
However, this is not to presuppose that the impact of informal learning ends
with this population or these musical styles. The concept of lifelong learning is
strongly linked with the impact of informal learning, through ‘living and learn-
ing’, and as such it seems that informal learning serves as the basis of much
112 Musicians in the Making
learning in music over the lifespan, irrespective of context or musical style (see
Veblen 2012; Smilde 2012), even if it is not necessarily universally valued by
stakeholders and the public (Werquin 2010: 18).
An inclusive grasp of the range of skills relevant for musicians is crucial for
the visibility and recognition of the environments and the learning practices that
support their development. Thus, we present below a brief overview of the range
of musical skills that are required and most highly valued in the eyes of musi-
cians themselves, with regard to both their own abilities and those of others, as
individuals and as a sociomusical group working across various musical styles.
What, in musicians’ eyes, makes a ‘good’ musician? That is the anchor of our
discussion in the next section. This is followed by a consideration of the extent to
which these highly valued skills seem to have been acquired informally, including
both conscious and nonconscious learning in various contexts. In this process, we
also note the links and support that this skill set provides, or is seen to provide, in
proceeding along one or more pathways towards creative performance.
There is an increasing body of research into musicians’ self-perceived
approaches to informal learning. Here we review a small selection of the lit-
erature and also add new data from interviews with twenty-eight professional
musicians in London.2 Among the musicians cited, both from previous studies
and from new data, most are professional freelancers who regularly work in a
number of musical contexts, styles and genres, in many cases fluidly moving
between major symphony orchestras, chamber ensembles, the recording studio,
the theatre pit, the big band stage, the small jazz ensemble and other settings.
We have also at times added the perspectives of younger or amateur musicians
which have many synergies with those of their more experienced counter-
parts. Thus, our discussion ranges across musicians involved in diverse styles
of music, across amateur and professional arenas, and across experienced and
novice players, although with most emphasis on professionals.3
If I can sum it up, it’s about striving for musical awareness; a profound
awareness of the room and an ingrained connection with the people
around you; the people you are making music with, those who are lead-
ing, those you are leading; constantly listening to, and feeling the presence
of, their contributions. There is an eye on the material at the same time
as an ear on all these elements, and at any point in time an ability and
willingness to react and adapt your own contribution in order to create
something articulate, perhaps beautiful, and if you’re lucky, maybe even
discover a new and wonderful musical experience. (Conductor/orchestra-
tor/arranger, cited in Smart n.d.)
I don’t know what it is but [with] certain players, when they do things,
you get that—all I can call it is a tingle factor. And there are certain peo-
ple who’ve got that, and other people who are brilliant musicians, have a
great sound, but, we could say, no soul. There’s no tingle factor, there’s no
magic there. (Professional musician, cited in Cottrell 2004: 37)
114 Musicians in the Making
beyond the actual skills of what you need to do, if you are going to be
working you have to have all the social stuff right as well, and that is a
huge part of it now. There’s not enough work around, and even if you are
completely brilliant there are so many completely brilliant people around
that they are going to choose the completely brilliant person who is nice.
(Oboist, cited in Smart n.d.)
to play or sing ‘musically’, above and beyond getting all the notes right, can be
seen as an important aspect of creative output; the ability to express oneself
emotionally through music and to engage an audience also transcends ‘mere’
skill and necessitates a more creative approach; bringing something new and
original to a performance connects with the concept of creativity as original-
ity; and the ability to respond appropriately to the demands of the context is
one that will rest on fine judgement demanding a spontaneous response and
in that sense requiring creativity on the spot. Yet, many of these skills are not
addressed explicitly in formal educational settings, nor do they appear in the
syllabuses or assessment criteria of music exams. Despite this, they may have
a crucial implicit influence (see in particular Kingsbury 1988 and Nettl 1995).
Other studies of professional musicians and of music education provision have
also found that the range of knowledge, abilities and skills required is inad-
equately addressed by formal education (see e.g. Green 2002; Rogers 2002;
Odam and Bannan 2005; Bennett 2008; Smilde 2012). How, then, are such
skills developed? We now turn to that question.
had ever taken me by the hand, because there was no conservatoire where
I could study. I had to teach myself what I needed…’ (jazz singer and teacher,
cited in Smilde 2012: 183).
Other aspects of informal learning that takes place alongside formal stud-
ies highlight that the environment and the influence of the people within it are
more important than the formal learning of skills and knowledge itself:
Doing a degree to me was pretty much worthless. It was more the envi-
ronment that you were in, and you were exposed to people and different
types of music and different people’s opinions on music. (Guitarist/com-
poser/producer, cited in Smart n.d.)
My formal training meant training my ear, [my] eyes, or my hands to do
what you had to do to get by when jumping through hoops. I am pleased
that I did it. It has been a gateway into other things. … [But] the impor-
tant framework for me was that I could be creative and was encouraged.
There were always one or two people who were good for me and who
were pushing me in the right direction… (Professional musician, cited in
Smilde 2009: 196)
It is worth noting in the citation just above how the musician casts ‘jumping
through hoops’ as different from ‘being creative’.
After leaving formal education, musicians adopt a range of conscious,
focused practices which largely lie beyond the realm of formal education. One
of these concerns the maintenance of technique. It falls upon the individual to
do this through conscious self-teaching and self-evaluation, which can happen
in various informal environments:
What most people do as a warm-up I do when I get home from my gig,
because it’s the sort of stuff I can do unconsciously while I watch TV, and
do the chops stuff, and it makes sense. I’m nice and loose, I don’t really
have to concentrate, I have a metronome going and I can spend an hour
watching something and doing the chops thing, technique development.
(Guitarist, cited in Smart n.d.)
It is well known that popular, jazz and, nowadays, other vernacular musicians
habitually use recordings as the main means of ‘getting notes’ (Bennett 1980;
Finnegan 1989; Green 2002). However, as we mentioned earlier, increasing
numbers of classical musicians also report playing along with and copying
recordings (Smart n.d.). This can be a considerable learning experience in the
formative years, but it is also used as a strategy for ongoing musical develop-
ment informing musicians’ current work base. It seems realistic to surmise that
such practices provide a strong basis for skill development in relation not only
to pitch, rhythm and harmony but also to other more ephemeral aspects of
music-making. Through these practices, musicians play better by being able
118 Musicians in the Making
to ‘feel’ where the notes sit on the instrument, not necessarily through ‘know-
ing’ in the sense of having propositional or analytic knowledge or being able
to name the notes. Yet, as expressed below, engaging in this practice while at
school can be accompanied by a feeling that it is ‘not approved of’ by formal
education: ‘Well, I did a fair bit of [playing along with CDs], as I used to like
mucking about with the instrument. I think I tended to conceptualize it as
“mucking about” because of the educational crap in the background’ (flautist,
cited in Smart n.d.).
This notion that ‘playing along’ is a type of ‘mucking about’ stems from
longstanding educational attitudes (for discussions see Green 2002: 187ff.,
Mills 2007 and Hallam 1998; see also the teachers’ attitudes reported in Green
2008a and Vulliamy 1977). As Green points out (2002: 187), many classical
instrumental teachers even at the end of the twentieth century argued that lis-
tening to recordings or even live performances can spoil individuality in inter-
pretation and should be avoided—and such attitudes may still be prevalent.
Yet for many musicians, copying others in the first instance is the very path to
developing their ‘own voice’ and, through that, to creativity and individual-
ity. Many feel that listening to music and playing along with it can provide an
essential bank of knowledge needed to make musical decisions regarding stylis-
tic performance, for example. This body of knowledge is then used not merely
to ‘slavishly’ copy other musicians, but as the basis for internalizing the music,
‘making it your own’ and then using it in the process of creative performance.
(See Chapter 7 in this volume.) For example: ‘There is listening and [copying]
it and there is listening and genuinely understanding why that person has done
that in a phrase, by feeling it, and it’s the feeling of it that separates people who
can genuinely play from people who simply copy’ (trumpeter/arranger, cited in
Smart n.d.).
Many musicians also further this practice by transcribing from recorded
performances, developing a close and internalized connection with the musi-
cal material, as well as informing creative output, particularly in relation to
improvisation: ‘So hearing a solo that I am really enthusiastic about, and
then transcribing it and learning it and being able to take a little bit and put-
ting it through the keys, and then hopefully in the process it becomes part
of you and you find it coming out in your solos’ (violinist/pianist, cited in
Smart n.d.).
Additionally, simply listening to a range of music is valued as having a pos-
itive effect; as one guitarist put it (Smart n.d.), it is a way of ‘widening your
experiences, like travelling to a different country’.
At an amateur level, one large area of activity where recordings are increas-
ingly being used as learning resources is choral singing. A number of websites6
provide audio learning materials for standard choral works, usually played
electronically rather than sung. They highlight individual parts within the
Informal learning and musical performance 119
texture by making them louder, so singers can hear their part clearly while sing-
ing along in the comfort of their home. Many conductors of such choirs now
habitually send out links to such internet sites for their members to use. Some
companies also provide a service of creating vocal parts for singers to learn,
and in the amateur field these are used by soloists too.
It is generally agreed in the literature (e.g. Bennett 2008; Burnard 2012;
Smilde 2012; Cottrell 2004) that most musicians have a strong, shared dedi-
cation to ongoing improvement as musicians. For professionals, this is not an
option since there are always others waiting to get work if one’s own technical
or musical standards decline. But it is about more than just staying in work, for
it involves conceptualizing progress as a lifelong process and often describing
this drive as the basis of their love and appreciation of music, not only further-
ing their career. Here again, the desire to constantly improve is shared by many
amateur musicians.
Learning by experience is a major part of any musician’s development. Some
experiential learning is forged in the musical environment of the professional
workplace or in amateur activities in which individuals ‘learn on the job’, as it
were. However, experiential learning in this way also requires that musicians
are aware enough to take advantage of the learning on offer in these situations,
for experience can also lead to learning not just specifically musical skills and
knowledge, but such attitudes and attributes as how to be confident and how
to handle a range of situations. Much of this can come from interaction with
other musicians, as this trombonist describes:
I remember doing this very high-profile gig a few years ago and sitting
next to this fantastic trumpet player, and I can remember going to the gig
thinking that ‘Oh my God I have to sit next to this guy’, and he came and
didn’t play that well at all, and it didn’t bother him in the slightest. And
then we did the same thing the next night and he was absolutely fantas-
tic. And it made me realize that those players aren’t perfect, they make
mistakes, and that gives you confidence, the confidence that if you make
a mistake, it’s not the end of the world. (Trombonist, cited in Smart n.d.)
Although we have noted that musicians value conscious practices and learn-
ing environments that fall predominantly within the realm of music-making
itself, many of them—including professionals above all—also recognize and
highly value learning that takes place away from music altogether, through
‘life in general’. This may be termed ‘learning by experience’, but experience
that goes beyond that of ‘the musician’ to embrace more general experience
as a ‘human being’. Sometimes it is difficult to articulate exactly what it is that
can improve musically along such paths or how it improves, yet many musi-
cians strongly believe that improvement can happen simply as a consequence
of ongoing engagement, experience and maturation as a person, without any
120 Musicians in the Making
I got to music college and I just found that I actually couldn’t get any fur-
ther without stopping, putting the cello away, ignoring music and going
around London drinking coffee, as part of a learning process. But it was
that whole wider experience and how does it all fit in with everything,
which is still going on. That’s a good thing and I’m really glad that I do
that. (Cellist/bass player, cited in Smart n.d.)
Conclusions
In line with the general interest in raising the visibility and profile of informal
as well as nonformal practices, this chapter has considered musical knowledge,
skills and abilities that have been described as important by musicians. The
range of these is potentially huge, as shown through the examples reported here,
going beyond what is normally conceived as part of formal musical education.
The knowledge, skill and ability base is developed partly with the aid of formal
education, but musicians also highlight a range of environments and ways in
which these are learned in the informal realm. Jaffurs (2006: 2) wonders whether
the two systems of formal and informal may one day consolidate into one. Our
discussion here suggests that the interface may be more closely aligned than
is sometimes suggested in the literature, and this situation is rapidly changing
even as we write. Many of the informal practices commonly associated with
vernacular musicians, such as playing along with recordings and thereby copy-
ing and making musical material ‘their own’, may be seen as informing practice
across a range of formal educational contexts and musical styles. Professional
and amateur musicians accept and highly value these informal and nonformal
learning practices, including unintentional and nonconscious practices along-
side those that are intentional and conscious, and they actively recognize and
seek out situations in which these processes can occur. Listening to music and
transcribing it are both seen as important practices in the process of ‘making
music your own’ to be drawn upon in process of creative performance. There is
also an acceptance that merely by ‘doing it lots’, improvement of some sort will
follow, and that by growing as a person one grows as a musician. The recogni-
tion of the importance of creativity for musicians in performance, interpretation
and improvisation is supported through informal learning in a number of ways.
A crucial element concerns the value systems associated with the learning
that takes place in the informal arena—not only the values of the individuals
and the sociomusical groups involved themselves, but also through the media,
the education system and audiences. That there is now extensive research on
both informal learning in music and the adaptation of a variety of informal
Informal learning and musical performance 121
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Insight
The creative voice in artistic performance
Jane Manning
Singers, uniquely, carry their instrument with them wherever they go. The clas-
sical singer, trained to refine and amplify the sound without artificial means,
has to be constantly aware of both the dangers of wear and tear caused by
overuse of the voice in everyday situations, and the physical and psychological
dilemmas arising from this.
It is the voice, of all instruments, that undergoes the most spectacular
transformation in the course of training. A sound that in teenage years seems
unpromising can develop out of all recognition under expert tutelage. The
vocal teacher helps the singer to utilize the frame of the body for maximum
resonance, and to activate and strengthen support muscles in order to cope
with long phrases. Smaller muscles of the tongue and palate, even the lar-
ynx itself, can be trained to react quickly and flexibly. As technical hurdles
are surmounted, the physical sensations change, and these must be recog-
nized. The ultimate goal is to acquire habits that are so deeply ingrained that
they become automatic and can be applied to all musical styles and gestures,
including use of the speaking voice. A reliable technique breeds confidence;
without it, hoped-for interpretative subtleties are destined to remain in the
imagination.
The singer’s special task is to articulate a text while simultaneously produc-
ing a musical sound. Fifty years of performing Schoenberg’s Sprechstimme
masterpiece Pierrot lunaire (1912) has given me heightened awareness of the
micro rhythms and inflections of syllables, and how these influence a musical
line. If one were to notate exactly the trajectories of ‘normal’ speech, the result
would be extremely complex. This is reflected in singing, where for example
‘liquid’ consonants (‘mm’, ‘nn’, ‘ll’, ‘zz’ and so on) can be vocalized to achieve
a seamless legato, whereas percussive syllables (‘p’, ‘t’, ‘k’ and ‘ch’) can have
the opposite effect. Control of these minute details within the vocal flow is a
feat for which credit is rarely given, although it makes a crucial contribution to
rhythmic accuracy, precision of intonation and expressive potential.
126
Insight: Jane Manning 127
The voice responds well to being used to full capacity, and stamina can be
built up by spanning long phrases. Pierrot lunaire contains many strenuous
examples. It was some while before my voice had developed sufficiently to sur-
mount the instrumental texture, and this was frustrating. But cutting my teeth
on such a multilayered work was invaluable. I was entirely on my own as far
as the vocal aspect was concerned (the experienced instrumentalists lacked the
relevant expertise), and I therefore had to adopt a detailed analytical approach
myself. Even now, the piece yields new insights every time I perform it: the
music takes on fresh life according to the individual circumstances of each
occasion. The audience’s response is an integral part of the experience.
An analytical approach, engendered initially by the challenges of Pierrot,
has proved vital in tackling a vast array of contemporary works over my career.
Plunging into the uncharted waters of a brand new piece, rather than an estab-
lished classic, can be daunting and stimulating by turn. I have found that the
freedom of being a pioneer is liberating, but also that responsibility to a liv-
ing composer can weigh heavily. It may lead to rewarding future collabora-
tions, however: composers, especially those who have no experience of singing
themselves, may welcome some inside knowledge of the voice’s capabilities. The
relationship that develops between the living composer and the singer is often
highly sensitive, not least where the vocal demands are unusual. In the 1960s,
some influential works featured the female voice in extremes of ecstasy or suf-
fering, and there is still a fondness for writing very high soprano parts. This
approach can render a text inaudible, and the singer may unfairly be blamed.
I have occasionally asked for a passage to be transposed down: Edward Harper,
for example, had set the phrase ‘With all the policemen in the world’ as a series
of high Cs. This was for the premiere of an orchestral setting of an e e cum-
mings cycle. Once he heard how shrill it sounded, he immediately agreed to
put it down a perfect fourth. Less sympathetic composers have occasionally
asserted that a ‘strained’ quality was what they had in mind.
Faced with an unfamiliar score, I have discovered that a great deal of valua-
ble work can be done in advance without using full voice. Matters of ambigu-
ous notation, misleading glossaries and badly aligned syllabic underlay must all
be identified and addressed as soon as possible. At the start, I mark in beats and
highlight special expressive nuances. I also isolate problem passages to work on
in detail: there is no point in continually running through without stopping if
the same stumbles occur every time. And I take the opportunity to plan phras-
ing at an early stage. It is not necessary to take a breath at every rest or punctua-
tion mark. Too many short breaths encourage gustiness, and indeed one poorly
chosen intake can result in a whole sequence of phrases collapsing in turn like
a pack of cards.
When I was asked to perform Peter Maxwell Davies’ large-scale monodrama
The Medium (1981), I knew that this would be something of a marathon. Vocal
capacity, musicianship, dramatic ability and staying power would all be put
128 Musicians in the Making
under the closest scrutiny. The work lasts almost an hour, and the singer is given
virtually no props. Despite obvious theatrical elements, it is the music that car-
ries the work. Only a few movements distract the audience from the extremes of
vocal display required, which range from low growling (including the Ds and Es
below middle C) to high screaming, alongside many variants of Sprechstimme
as well as ‘normal’ lyrical singing, religious chanting and coloratura. The singer
impersonates a prodigious parade of characters, from deranged clairvoyant,
genteel lady and Cockney maid, to rabid dog and poisonous crab, as well as a
menacing male priest. These roles alternate with dizzying rapidity, yet vocal and
musical discipline have to be kept throughout. When singing unaccompanied,
I found that it was critical to preserve a sense of pulse and momentum, and that
the gaps between bouts of frenzied activity had to be timed carefully. Too much
freedom would create an amorphous, formless impression, and a constant bar-
rage of crazed expressionism would have diminishing returns.
Written for the late, deeply admired Mary Thomas, the piece had not been
heard for a number of years. For this new production I was to work with the
director Robert Shaw, happily a trained musician, with whom I enjoyed an
excellent rapport. The composer, tactful and of long experience, left us to it.
Perhaps there was a little more movement than he had originally envisaged, but
he seemed well pleased by the result.
First, I set to work on the score. I divided it into small sections, gradually
expanding them into larger chunks, recording myself all the time, to avoid
becoming fatigued by repetition. It swiftly became clear that some passages
were likely to be especially troublesome and elusive, and I marked these in
coloured ink. Very gradually, over a period of several weeks, I was able to con-
centrate more acutely on the few sequences that still felt insecure. I realized that
I needed to be extremely well prepared and to give myself a large safety net.
Everything would have to be so deeply embedded in my physical as well as my
musical and verbal memory that it would all spring into mind in performance,
in spite of nerves, tiredness or untoward distractions. The rigorous technical
work that I have always made a priority stood me in good stead for the excep-
tional vocal and dramatic demands of the piece.
I did not attempt to rehearse from memory until all details had been thor-
oughly absorbed. After such intensive study, it was good to have time to stand
back and let the piece seep into my unconscious. One should be wary of teasing
out so many details that the overall essence is lost. Leaving it for a while, and
then returning to it afresh, was often revelatory. I realized that I had begun to
identify with the protagonist in her many guises, sensing her touching vulner-
ability. (It was helpful to have performed Maxwell Davies’ Miss Donnithorne’s
Maggot, which displays many similarities on a smaller scale.) It would have
been all too easy to project a cruel caricature, based around twin poles of
nun or harlot. As a female performer, however, I sought to promote a more
Insight: Jane Manning 129
The profession of the classical performer is one of the most demanding cul-
tural practices. Born of a passion for making music and a love for the artistic
possibilities, challenges and pleasures of one’s instrument, a lifetime commit-
ment to it involves a rigorous routine to maintain high-level technical expertise;
continuous emotional engagement with the music and with audiences when
one is performing; a meticulous discipline to widen one’s repertoire; and social
skills to be able to forge a career within the confines of a highly competitive
professional environment. More recently, the sustainability of the profession
itself has become an issue of concern as audience numbers for classical music
continue to shrink within an ever-diversifying multiplicity of musical genres
and practices. In no other period have musicians seeking to establish them-
selves faced such a variety of challenges and pressures; overcoming these will
no doubt require new institutional, pedagogical and even individual visions
and approaches.
In this Insight, I wish to emphasize the importance of one aspect of being
a classical musician that has become particularly challenging in our contem-
porary culture: this is the development of a personal artistic voice, the most
vital aspect of which is the cultivation of expressive freedom. As suggested
elsewhere in this volume, a personal artistic voice is the highest aspiration for
any performer who desires to express and communicate an artistic experience,
understanding, vision or truth through music-making. In what follows, I high-
light some of the pathways leading to expressive freedom and artistic voice
that I have encountered through the various twists and turns of my musical
journey, both as a pianist and as an artist–researcher. If I have attained any
wisdom during this journey, it is that there is no quick and easy formula for
achieving a personal artistic voice, and that, on the contrary, this is a gradual
process, a long-term pursuit requiring curiosity, patience and passion.
131
132 Musicians in the Making
There is, consequently, a real danger that the cultivation of a personal artistic
voice could be given lower priority in institutional agendas. Within such a cli-
mate, further reinforced in our daily lives by the increasing influence of digital
communication technologies that impel and accustom us to a hasty and often
mechanized style of social interaction, it becomes difficult, if not impossible,
to sustain a willingness to engage in a long-term, patient cultivation of an artis-
tic voice through attentive engagement with the rich diversity of cultural and
artistic phenomena.
During my pianistic career over several decades, I have constantly turned
to two resources in trying to deepen my understanding of possibilities for
artistic expression and motivating expressive freedom. One of these concerns
nurturing aesthetic sensibility; the other is related to advancing critical think-
ing. I was very fortunate to grow up in a family environment in which par-
ticipation in the arts was highly valued, giving me the opportunity to engage
with and develop an enthusiasm for a number of art forms from an early age
onwards. My intense interest in the arts continued to receive support during
my studies at the Juilliard School, where I had the privilege of experiencing
old-school Russian piano pedagogy which emphasized not only pianistic devel-
opment but also an all-round artistic approach by drawing from other art
forms in interpreting music. I recall a conversation that I had with my piano
teacher during one lesson about the poetic images of the snow-covered, des-
olate Russian landscapes in Andrei Tarkovsky’s films, which I came to know
while I was learning Rachmaninoff’s Moment Musical Op. 16 No. 3 and which
became an inspirational source for my developing interpretation of the piece.
Engaging perceptively and attentively with the sensuous and formal aspects of
nonmusical works of art provides an invaluable wealth of ideas, images and
new perspectives on the infinite variety of human experience and values, wid-
ening the aesthetic sensibility of the classical musician. A sense of wonder and
awe in the face of the marvellous diversity of the expressive means that artists
have employed throughout the ages in communicating their personal vision of
human experience can become a powerful motivation to move beyond what has
been learned through imitation and repetition, and to play creatively with the
learned rules and traditions of the art of musical performance.
During my musical journey, a second resource that has been just as vital as
my continuing fascination with the arts in nurturing expressive freedom and
a personal artistic voice has been critical thinking, driven by a deep curiosity
about why and how things are the way they are in nature and culture—and a
love for ‘the questions themselves’, as the poet and novelist Rainer Maria Rilke
wrote in his Letters to a Young Poet. Critical thinking concerns the connection
between the perceptual, sensual content of experience and the more abstract
understanding of the relationship between the constituents of that experience,
achieved through interpretation and conceptualization. In our daily lives, we
constantly engage in this kind of movement between the perceptual and the
134 Musicians in the Making
personal artistic voice is not something that develops in isolation from one’s
‘voice’ in other areas of life: to be able to attain a personal artistic voice, one
first needs to have something personal to say and the means to say it with
conviction. This requires, in my experience, developing personal stances in
relation to a wide variety of cultural phenomena, and involves a process of
growing self-awareness of one’s place and role in our contemporary culture
and society as a classical performer. Music education institutions can greatly
aid this process by making their priority the training of widely cultured clas-
sical musicians with the critical skills and broader awareness and curios-
ity that they will need to sustain them throughout both their professional
careers and their personal lives.
Insight
Transformation through music
Ricardo Castro (with Helena Gaunt)
artistic attitude. The problem is that if you decide not to be generous as a per-
son in general, without knowing it you begin to do this on stage too.
Consequently, one of the basic principles in my class is that we rely on peer-
to-peer exchange, on genuine collaboration. I want the students to learn that
the flow of information is utterly essential when you are an artist—flow between
you, the other musicians and the audience; flow between you and the music.
It all goes together. You cannot build your personality on the basis of hold-
ing information locked away, hiding the secrets that you heard from teachers.
Keeping things to yourself means that you make no room for creativity. So I try
to change the way my students behave in their environment as professional—or
pre-professional—musicians. My experience is that in doing so, I have much
happier people in my class, whether or not they succeed as musicians. It creates
a different feeling about what it means to succeed. You learn that you can help
as well as be helped yourself.
I do not believe in theories without practice. First and foremost, I have to
be an example of what I am talking about. For instance, I show the students
that I am not working with them simply to earn money. As a first-prize win-
ner of the Leeds Piano Competition, I do not need to teach: I could invest
all my energy in performing and earning my living that way. But the truth is
that I started to teach before winning this competition, and I haven’t stopped
since. I am happier working in this way. I don’t need to say anything explicit
about this to my students. The facts speak for themselves and young people
pick this up. The students are constantly watching, seeing their teacher set
an example.
A second issue relates to helping students develop independence and entre-
preneurship as musicians, provoking them to take charge of what comes next.
The fact that I am not there all the time is part of this: it shows the students that
you have to be the owner of your life. I also give students more freedom around
repertoire; I guide them, but they have to choose their specific pieces. This is
very important, because essentially it obliges them to carry out some research.
They cannot just come and say ‘I would like to play the Liszt piano sonata’
without having explored the difficulty of the piece. They have to research and
be able to make the case to me about why they should play the piece. This proc-
ess opens their minds, not only in how they approach repertoire and perform-
ing, but also in the way they organize their agenda and their future.
Planning your life as a musician requires research. We need to show young
musicians that they must take the initiative to do this. On a daily basis, research
becomes a starting point: Why are you practising today? What for? It is impor-
tant that musicians never take a musical instrument and start practising with-
out having an idea about what they are looking for. Nobody ever told me
about this; I don’t know why. The message was to just practise eight hours a
day and prepare a piece. This is not enough, because you have to have more
direction.
138 Musicians in the Making
opposite. They may have no discipline, but they also have no fear: their attitude
is, ‘Let’s go! Play in London, perform in the Festival Hall? Okay, let’s do it!’
When you mix these two attitudes, you get a really creative soup and you can do
some great cooking. You establish a discipline of communicating without fear
and with trust between people, and then creativity can really spark.
PART 2
Creative processes
7
In fact, creativity has rarely been the explicit focus of either research studies or
pedagogical advice, and the insights that do emerge are largely tangential. We
argue furthermore that the way in which practice has often been represented and
understood gives limited scope for creative dimensions to emerge.
At the same time, the solitary nature of classical musicians’ practice means
that the processes involved can remain opaque. In order to illuminate the crea-
tive dimensions of solitary practice, this chapter goes on to describe a research
project which investigated advanced student musicians in the practice room as
they prepared a piece for public performance. A key feature of the project was
that it engaged the musicians themselves in identifying aspects of their prac-
tice that they considered important to the creative development of their per-
formance.2 The project therefore explored creativity in classical music practice
through the lens of musicians’ experiences, mental processes and the meaning
that they attach to their activities, rather than imposing a predefined set of cri-
teria for what counts as creative. Drawing on primary data from this project, we
describe the creative processes that are in operation on a local level (moment-
by-moment practice strategies) and on a broader level (creative development of
an interpretation and a sense of ownership). We then explore a set of further
key insights, which have implications for our understanding not only of the
nature of creativity in classical music practice, but also of what practice itself
entails. These insights relate to:
often boring and repetitive, so it is important that you remain mindful of your
actions’.3 A passage from the blog of Noa Kageyama4—taken from just one of
many thought-provoking and well-informed articles on the site—typifies much
of the prevalent discourse around practice: ‘It doesn’t matter if we are talking
about perfecting technique, or experimenting with different musical ideas. Any
model which encourages smarter, more systematic, active thought and clearly
articulated goals will help cut down on wasted, ineffective practice time. After
all, who wants to spend all day in the practice room? Get in, get stuff done, and
get out!’
While it cannot be denied that an essential function of practice is to develop
the core technical and musical skills necessary for performance, it is striking
that many of these descriptions of practice do not move much beyond the
notion that its primary purpose is to give musicians the building blocks. That
is, the focus is generally on strategies to improve technical skills and fluency and
to increase the reliability of one’s musical output, with the relevance and appli-
cation of such strategies to creative aspects more or less tacitly implied rather
than explicitly articulated.
In the sources described so far, there is little explicit information about how one
might go about practising in order to become a more creative musician or to
maximize one’s chance of producing a performance perceived by audiences as
exciting and novel. It is therefore far from clear which practice strategies might
enable more creative aspects of performance, such as developing one’s own
interpretation of a piece, or how strategies in the practice phase might relate
to creative processes during performance, such as risk-taking and adjusting to
unforeseen circumstances.
In order to better understand the link between practice and creativity, we
need a broader conception of what practice entails and how that feeds into the
development of the ‘creative musician’. Some authors have explored practice
along these lines, and examples can be found in practical pedagogical litera-
ture as well as empirical research (e.g. Klickstein 2009; Sloboda 1985; Hallam
1995; Prior and Ginsborg 2011; Jørgensen 2004). What all of these contribu-
tions share is a view of practice as the process of preparing for a performance.
On the one hand, this seems unremarkable, given that one of the main activities
of musicians in the western classical tradition is to perform pieces they have
practised to an audience, and practice strategies are therefore used to improve
the next performance. On the other hand, research and general practice advice
often isolate the two.
Sloboda (1985) distinguishes between the acquisition of instrument-specific
skills and performance skills. With regard to the former, he refers to the three
Performers in the practice room 147
Second-level themes
Developing
a concept
Making it Establishing
‘feel right’ intentions
First-level themes
FIGURE 7.1 Processes in forming one’s own interpretation and making it ‘your own’. The first-level
themes represent reported practice strategies that operate as micro processes in support of the macro
processes expressed in the second-level themes, which in turn are incorporated in the overarching
concept of ‘making it “your own” ’.
Looking for and/or nam- … then you’ve got other things you can work on in the bottom line,
ing different characters in and kind of giving them characters like ‘I’m not in a rush’, ‘cheeky’…
a piece (Vibraphonist)
The need to emphasize or I started working on … how to make it more interesting by
to find contrast and variety emphasizing the accents and the difference, because the music, as it’s
in the piece written[,] … actually does have different accents… (Horn player)
Experimenting with and … experimenting with different contact points and attacks of the
exploring ideas bow to achieve different characters… (Violinist)
Clarifying one’s own ideas … the way I viewed it was … I thought that’s the melody and this
and opinions right-hand thing is just something that’s kind of going along like a
machine… (Vibraphonist)
Revising ideas and deci- I had kind of a very focused sound which I ended up changing later
sions over time on… (Violinist)
Identifying and solving I started to realize that the arpeggios were very cool but … there
problems needed to be an emphasis on some, and, whether the beginning or
the end, there needed to be an emphasis on one of the points of each
one in order for it to make a musical phrase. I was thinking … how
you can link from one, I could link from that to the next with the
next one with the repeated notes, so that then the arpeggio … [is]
no longer … vertical but horizontal… (Horn player)
152 Musicians in the Making
The vibraphonist also talked about developing a concept of the piece in terms
of the relationship between small structural details and the whole: ‘It’s just like
these panels of music that go on for quite a long time and then they just [clicks
fingers] change, and within those there are certain micro details that are quite
important but … it feels like there’s a big picture which is the most important
thing not to mess up’.
Participants whose predominant way of working was ‘emotion/narrative-led’
expressed their intentions in terms of seeking emotional meaning or effect. They
devised stories and conjured up expressive images to characterize a number of
musical elements as well as the whole piece, and their aim in doing so was to
heighten the emotional impact of the piece. The violinist, the double bassist and
the horn player typified this way of working. For example, this comment of the
horn player refers to a passage in his rehearsal footage where he is experiment-
ing with types of singing while conducting himself, using a specific cultural refer-
ence: ‘I thought, this was the kind of singing that you would do … in, um, like a
night time with a guitar—very … Spanish …, guitar and the moon’. Similarly,
the double bass player describes her evolving concept of the piece as an emo-
tional narrative: ‘What’s going on now [is] something incredibly weird and mad,
and then it starts slowly, slowly picking up a lot of tension growing somewhere,
somewhere really … intensively, but … with this steady pulse … it’s a scary piece.
The whole piece I felt was … very … scary and mad and … mentally not stable’.
These two ways of working reflect the participants’ tendencies rather than
mutually exclusive approaches. For example, emotional or narrative ideas were
sometimes used as part of a learning process primarily characterized by a musi-
cal parameters-led way of working; this can be seen in the explanation of the
organist in our study as to why he plays the opening of the piece as he does:
‘It is a happy piece!’ Equally, analytical work sometimes formed an important
part of an otherwise emotion/narrative-led way of working. For instance, the
double bass player was able to engage with her challenging contemporary piece
only after she had discovered a key feature of the piece’s melodic structure:
She then gradually developed her concept of the piece as an emotional narra-
tive, drawing on some powerfully resonant aspects of her personal history.
These two ways of working recall the styles—analytical and intuitive—to
which Hallam (1995) referred in her study of musicians’ approaches to interpre-
tation. They are also reminiscent of Bahle’s (1939) analysis of creative develop-
ments and principles in respect of composers. Bahle described two approaches to
recognizing and resolving musical problems, which he regarded as a key means
of generating new musical material. He referred to these in terms of ‘work-
ing’ (Arbeitstypus, literally ‘working-type’) and ‘inspiration’ (Inspirationstypus,
154 Musicians in the Making
However, his detailed diary entries and his interview commentary on creative
episodes tell another story, much like the expert performer in Chaffin et al.’s
studies, who was concerned with interpretational decisions from the start but
was not aware of the extent of this while concentrating on (as she thought)
more technical issues. Right from the first session, according to his diary,
156 Musicians in the Making
the horn player in our study was aware of, and was exploring, the ‘contrast
of lyricism vs. percussive music’ in the piece, and this had interpretative and
technical ramifications. At the start of the first practice session, he was work-
ing on the twenty-nine-bar opening section of the piece. His diary entry for
this section of the work refers to aiming for ‘a clear beginning that impacts
the listener’ and wanting the whole opening section to ‘make sense as a unity’.
He also wanted to attain a rhythm precisely as it was notated and to portray
the bell-like nature of the opening. There is no direction in the score that the
opening should be ‘bell-like’, however, and it is not clear whether the horn
player formed that image from his own interpretation of the score, from other
written or recorded sources, or from previously hearing others’ ideas about
the piece. But his diary states: ‘Bells from a church in my mind. I try to sing
first to get an idea of what I may strive to sing with my instrument. I try to
bring my inner Spanish musical feelings into the piece’. At the same time, he
reports working on technical execution in terms of breath support and trills.
His first creative episode emerged approximately five minutes into this sec-
tion of his practice, and it involved carrying out a breathing exercise without
the horn. The significance of this was that he had realized he was not joining
notes musically but instead was thinking of them as too separate, and this was
causing fatigue which in turn resulted in a technical problem towards the end
of the section (‘I know how to play trills, but every time when I will get to
here, I wasn’t capable of doing it’). He also realized that his visualization of
the expressive image (‘it’s supposed to be someone hitting the bells of a church
in Spain’) was contributing to this lack of phrasing. So the task became one
of determining how to achieve this expressive element (‘pgong, pgong, very
percussive’) without wearing himself out—and the solution was support and
connected phrasing between notes.
As with many of the creative episodes that we identified, it is clear that
the process described here involved problem-solving in which the goal is the
balancing and integration of technical and expressive aspects. Furthermore,
closer examination reveals that this process of balancing and integration
often encompassed psychological dimensions too: attentional focus, emo-
tions, self-efficacy, confidence and integrity are all important in find-
ing one’s own way to play a piece. The horn player’s reports of the local
problem-solving exhibited in his first creative episode—how to produce a
percussive sound without losing the line and getting tired—contained the
seeds of his eventual conceptualization of his ‘own’ piece. First, it was
the start of an ongoing concern with managing the expenditure of energy
through the piece for the sake of stamina. This meant that issues of breath-
ing, pacing and articulation had to be connected and integrated with the
horn player’s navigation through the whole piece, which is to say, his mental
representation of the piece’s structure and how its sections were related to
Performers in the practice room 157
each other. Secondly, his ‘inner Spanish musical feelings’ were expanded
from the initial bells into a range of expressive images, such as a bullfighter
(a suggestion from his teacher) and a lover singing a serenade with a guitar
by the light of the moon. These enabled him both to feel a strong sense of
personal ownership and to find ways of uniting the percussive and lyrical
aspects of the piece that he identified in the diary record of his first practice
session.
Throughout the period of practising given works, individual ideas are influ-
enced by a musician’s environment. One important influence that our partici-
pants mentioned during their interviews and in their diaries was other people
who had directly or indirectly shaped their decisions about how to develop an
interpretation of a piece. Given that we were working with conservatoire stu-
dents in our research, it is not surprising that ‘teachers’ were cited most often
in this respect, and indeed by all participants. Three of them referred to the
‘composer’ at various times of the recorded practice period, whereas only two
students described the influence of a ‘friend’, although these references were
nevertheless interesting.
Teachers were described as someone who either had given advice (e.g. ‘my
teacher’s few suggestions have definitely helped me to unfold the piece in my
head’) or could be approached for guidance (e.g. ‘I will ask my professor what
he thinks about the role of the grace notes’). They were seen as trustworthy
authorities, and when teachers suggested a particular solution students tended
to change their way of playing accordingly (e.g. ‘[I took a] consciously slower
performance speed, based on what my teacher had said to me in my lesson’).
The rejection of teachers’ suggestions was rare and in one case was even
described as ‘betraying the teacher’.
The second group of people referred to by participants as giving guidelines
was composers. Although they were really referring to the score, participants’
comments indicate that they invoke a sense of the composer’s presence and inten-
tionality when making interpretative decisions. For example, one participant
talked about ‘making a decision as to what the composer meant by lento’, and
another commented, ‘I am trying to reconcile the way [the composer] intended
this part with my own feeling’. In this respect, one participant’s decision to ‘fol-
low my own musicality’ in interpreting a passage in a manner different from its
appearance on the page felt to him like a violation of the composer’s wishes.
This chimes with our observation in previous research (James and Wise n.d.) that
there is a tension between, on the one hand, the respect that performers often feel
they must have for performance traditions and the score—as somehow enshrin-
ing the composer’s intentions—and, on the other hand, their own personality
and individuality, factors which can be seen as essential to creative performing.
Friends were mentioned in a working relationship, as pianist or as a con-
sultant, and they served as what might be called a ‘mirror’ or ‘witness’ (James
and Wise n.d.) to these students’ artistic communication. In that way, the other
person acts as a substitute audience and is used to test ideas. A similar func-
tion was described by Gabriela Imreh when playing passages to a friend dur-
ing her own practice period (Chaffin et al. 2002). Despite the fact that most
decisions are made by musicians during solitary practice, whether or not their
solutions work might be easier to establish when someone else is present, which
Performers in the practice room 159
makes the practice session more like playing in front of an audience than play-
ing in isolation. Only one student in our project reported that he had actively
looked for someone other than his teacher to play to in order to gain feedback
on an interpretational idea. Seeking multiple performance opportunities in
order to build confidence for performances is suggested by Hallam and Gaunt
(2012: 66); however, playing to friends or in other informal situations was not a
practice tool effectively used by the students in our study. The benefits of such
a tool can only be surmised, as there is no current research indicating the extent
to which regular, informal performances help musicians form interpretational
ideas and learn to respond to performance situations.11
The last part of this chapter looks at specific types of practice or practice activ-
ities that are considered important for establishing an individual interpretation
and to prepare for creative performances.
The practice diaries and video-recall interviews used in our study shed light
on specific practice activities undertaken by participants to develop an individ-
ual interpretation. The most telling example is again the horn player. During
his video-recall interview, he discussed thirty-five creative episodes in total, of
which only twelve involved playing the instrument. Otherwise, he engaged in a
range of activities but without actually playing: most of these episodes featured
singing either the piece or other material, including improvising words to the
music. Other activities included playing the piano, conducting, tapping, snap-
ping fingers and self-talk. When comparing these creative episodes as revealed
in the video-recall interviews with the entries in the student’s practice diaries,
it is noticeable that singing is mentioned in only six out of forty diary entries,
whether as an image (six occasions) or as a practice activity (three occasions).
In three other passages, the student uses the phrase ‘singing on the instrument’.
The prevalence of practice ‘away from the instrument’ in the horn player’s
creative episodes suggests that this was very important in developing his own
interpretation. He recorded more of these nonplaying activities than any other
participant, yet it is interesting that he himself was apologetic about work that
might not be seen as ‘proper practice’. This suggests that time spent away from
the instrument is not a common or accepted practice feature. However, experi-
menting with ideas away from the instrument was also seen in the case of the
two string players, albeit to a lesser extent.
The double bassist, who recorded the fewest creative episodes, reported
undertaking much of her creative work outside the practice room altogether:
I’m not incredibly creative when I practise… I feel more creative when
I’m not playing … like actually thinking of the piece and then thinking,
160 Musicians in the Making
oh what I would like to achieve here, walking home and thinking, think-
ing of the melody and then trying … by just singing it in my head …
what might work … or at home before going to sleep or coming before
my practice for example before going to the practice room. … [N]ow I do
it more in my playing as well…
She realized that her practice had the potential to be more interesting and valu-
able if she brought that kind of work into the practice room instead of regard-
ing practice as necessarily dull and routine.
Whereas most participants chose an unaccompanied piece for the study, the
violinist worked with an accompanist,12 and some of her most significant activ-
ities ‘away from the instrument’ occurred through this collaboration:
we decided to come up with a story to help make it more fluid and give
each section kind of a very specific character, and all of a sudden it was
so much more fun to play and even though it was still hard and challeng-
ing and frightening to play some of those double stop bits, it didn’t really
matter because I’d kind of given them the character being really angry
and crazy, so if I messed something up or didn’t quite play it the way
I wanted, it didn’t seem to matter as much.
Practising away from the instrument is not a new idea: for example,
Jørgenson (2004: 88) recommends that ‘playing practice’ should be balanced
with ‘nonplaying practice’ ‘in a single session or over a period of time’. He con-
tinues: ‘Focused, nonplaying practice will give more time for mental rehearsal
and reflection and prevent overuse of muscles’ (ibid.). Hallam et al. (2012) also
include in their inventory of practice strategies activities that can be carried
out away from the instrument, although most involve reading the score (with
no particular aims being specified). Hallam and Gaunt (2012: 50) do mention
‘improvisation’ as one route to enhancing aural skills, but in their ‘musical
practice checklist’—the focus of which is on setting goals, planning, mental
rehearsal and thinking about the interpretation of a piece (ibid.: 55)—there
is no mention of trying things out or of experimenting with different ideas or
ways of playing, either with or without the instrument.
The idea of practising away from the instrument raises the question of how
our findings fit with prevailing concepts of mental practice. In so far as men-
tal practice has been defined as ‘cognitive or imaginary rehearsal of a physical
skill without overt muscular movement’ (Connolly and Williamon 2004: 224),
mental practice might easily be seen as just mentally rehearsing aspects of
technique and execution. However, many researchers agree that mental prac-
tice involves several types of imagery (Clark, Williamon and Aksentijevic
2012; Lehmann 1997; Holmes 2005), including auditory imagery, visualiza-
tion (of the score or performance situation) and emotional imagery (of the
expressive aspects of performance), as well as motor and kinaesthetic imagery.
Performers in the practice room 161
Conclusions
This chapter has explored evidence for the ways in which creative processes are
manifested in musicians’ solitary practice, revealing insights that can challenge
some of the more restrictive received notions about practice and its purpose. We
suggest that practice—at least, practice that musicians identify as in some sense
serving creative aspects of their work—involves the dynamic and purposeful
integration of technical, musical, expressive, interpretative and psychological
dimensions, all of which are part and parcel of achieving a personal concept
of a piece and a sense of ownership. Performers, researchers and teachers alike
might benefit from thinking outside current dominant notions of practice to
include this broader notion.
There are some practical implications in adopting this view. Musicians
might want to experiment with various issues raised in this chapter while prac-
tising: these include integrating an analytical approach as suggested by Hallam
(1995), allowing time for experimenting with the piece in various ways away
from instrument, and using friends and colleagues as a ‘witness’ or practice
audience during the preparation period to test and reflect ideas. Teachers might
find that when helping students to access new pieces, different approaches and
a change of language would enable them to connect with a student’s preferred
way of working for a specific piece or at a particular time in their musical
development. Given students’ tendency to defer to their teachers, they might
need active encouragement to experiment with and develop their musical ideas
through a range of strategies and to explore new ideas when coming back to a
piece at a later stage.
In order to gain a better understanding of how these activities are linked
to performances that are individual and engaging, collaboration between per-
formers, teachers and researchers needs to be intensified so that the process of
practising—the mainstay of classical musicians’ development—is not primarily
162 Musicians in the Making
References
years, whereas others had only just met each other; and some were observed
on a single occasion, while others agreed to the observation of their rehearsals
over extended periods of time.
Rehearsal goals
Not all practice and rehearsal leads to public performance: many people learn
to play instruments, practise regularly and make music for their own pleasure,
whether alone or in groups. Music offers the opportunity for social interaction
and a sense of ‘togetherness’ (Rabinowitch, Cross and Burnard 2012)—hence
the use of the French word ensemble for small groups of musicians. It has even
been shown to promote empathy (Cross, Laurence and Rabinowitch 2012). In
her research on amateurs’ experiences of music-making throughout the lifes-
pan, Lamont quotes informants for whom rehearsals are clearly more impor-
tant than performance: ‘I sing with my family for fun’; ‘I’ve met some brilliant
people. I think I needed the break from it in my late teens and early twenties
to come back to it purely for the love of it’; ‘Now I’m in four different choirs,
I’ve got some good friends and I’m very busy’ (2011: 379–80). Similarly, music
performance students may form groups not because chamber music is a com-
pulsory part of their studies but for the experience of playing together and
learning new repertoire. One student wind quintet enjoyed ‘learning to think
creatively and critically about the music that they are playing, and to express
these opinions to other musicians’ (Burt-Perkins and Mills 2008: 30). Once it
was decided that their performance should be assessed, however, and espe-
cially as the examination date approached, their goals and identities—initially
shared—began to diverge, and the group split up at the end of the academic
year. A similar rise and fall occurred in a study of school pop groups, one
respondent commenting: ‘the first three times it was excellent, it was just really
good cos it was just a major jamming session … and we sort of got together
through fun, like having a laugh… [G]radually now more people come, that’s
[the trust between us] sort of gone’ (MacDonald, Miell and Wilson 2005: 328).
Some professional musicians, too, describe their goals in terms of rehearsal
rather than performance. Two respondents to a survey of twenty professional
wind quintets said that they wanted to ‘work with friends who have honest
exacting standards’ and to ‘improve my ensemble playing by working with
other excellent musicians’ (Ford and Davidson 2003: 58). Musicians may hope
to improve not only their ensemble playing in the context of group perfor-
mance but also their individual expertise, which has the potential to enhance
creative performance. As one member of a regular jazz workshop explained,
When I first started and I, I wasn’t into it, I knew that it was a way for me
to become better on my instrument. So I thought ‘well I’ll stick with it
166 Musicians in the Making
because I could see that I can grow from this’. So I stayed with jazz, I was
a reluctant jazzer at the beginning, but I knew was a useful tool for me.
(MacDonald and Wilson 2006: 10)
While the goal of rehearsal is not necessarily performance, most rehearsals will
culminate in performances of some kind, even those involving only a complete
run-through of a piece of music before agreement is reached that it needs no
further rehearsal and the decision is taken to start working on a new piece.
Nevertheless, the goals of preparation for performance differ, from one individ-
ual to another, and between and even within groups of musicians. Sometimes
these differences are problematic and lead to the break-up of the group, but
in other cases they are inherent to the nature of the group and simply require
appropriate strategies to be adopted in rehearsal.
The smallest group possible is the duo.2 At one extreme, a duo may consist of
two musicians committed to a long-term musical relationship. This does not
have to exclude musical partnerships with other performers, although it often
does: Paul Simon performed and recorded only with Art Garfunkel between
1965 and 1970; Peter Pears performed works for tenor and piano only with
Benjamin Britten, and for voice and lute only with Julian Bream; and despite
recording duets in 1986 with the guitarist John McLaughlin, her partner at
the time, Katia Labèque performs piano-duo repertoire only with her sister
Marielle. Such partnerships are informed by familiarity. Sometimes this happens
literally, i.e. through kinship, as in the many examples of sibling partnerships
besides the Labèques (e.g. the pianist Peter and the singer Meriel Dickinson,
and other piano duos such as Rosina and Josef Lhévinne and the Pekinel sis-
ters) and, more rarely, parent–child duos (such as the violinists David and Igor
Oistrakh, pianists Helen and Harvey Davies, or folk singers Norma Waterson
and Eliza Carthy). In other cases, familiarity develops through shared expe-
riences of music-making over many years. At the other extreme, a duo may
consist of two musicians who come together for a single performance such as
an audition. Such a short-lived partnership might be conceptualized as that of
soloist and accompanist, the former having done the bulk of their preparation
for performance alone or (more likely) with the support of other musicians
such as teachers and coaches, the latter perhaps being employed solely for the
purpose of playing ‘for’ a succession of applicants for a particular position,
role or prize. They might have quite different goals: the soloist to pass the audi-
tion, the accompanist to facilitate the soloist’s performance and, perhaps just as
importantly, to ensure future employment in the same capacity. Nevertheless,
during the actual performance, they are playing with each other as well as for
Small ensembles in rehearsal 167
each other and attempting to create the impression, for the benefit of the audi-
tion panel, of unanimous agreement as to style, tempo, timing, intonation and
so on.
Preparation time
Rehearsal activities
What do musicians actually do when they rehearse together? They play and/or
sing, of course, but their music-making serves a variety of purposes such as
warming-up, developing familiarity with the repertoire, making decisions as
to the way it should be performed and then communicating those decisions
to other members of the group, and developing a unanimity of approach that
could be described as cohesion or ‘attunement’ (Seddon 2005: 65). If they use a
joint warm-up routine, it might resemble that of the string quartet described by
Vikram Seth in his novel An Equal Music (1999).3 This fictional account reflects
what has been described as the ‘mutual tuning-in’ (Schutz 1951, 1976) that takes
place not only in the short term at the start of a rehearsal but also, ideally, over
168 Musicians in the Making
NONVERBAL COMMUNICATION: THE DEVELOPMENT
OF FAMILIARITY
Evidence from observational research has shown that musicians playing together
move their bodies with increasing synchronicity (Goebl and Palmer 2009). For
example, two professional pianists with extensive experience of both accom-
panying and solo performance took part in research exploring co-performer
communication (Williamon and Davidson 2002: 63). Four rehearsals and the
ensuing performance were observed. The interaction between the musicians
was primarily nonverbal—they spent less than 10 per cent of their rehearsal
time actually talking—and the researchers noted that their ‘eye-contact and
gestural cues became gradually more synchronous over the rehearsal period,
with the performance itself reflecting the refinements that the rehearsal proc-
ess had brought’. Although the musicians who took part in this study were
acquainted with each other, they had not played together previously. A similar
observational study was undertaken with the participation of a student string
quartet, one member of which described the importance of being ‘conversa-
tional with the eyes’ (Davidson and Good 2002: 196)—the idea of ‘conversa-
tion’ emphasizing both the creative quality of their interaction, in that it was
unplanned, and the direction of gaze or glance. In addition, the researchers
noted not only the ways in which the performers used gesture to indicate exits,
entrances and dynamic changes, but also the use of circular body sway ‘to help
in establishing a wholeness in the music which was written in a manner that
Small ensembles in rehearsal 169
could have been very fragmented’ (ibid.: 198). The use of nonverbal communi-
cation is likely to develop over time, of course: echoing the student in Davidson
and Good’s study, quoted above, one piano duo interviewed by Marilyn Blank
reported that ‘early on in their career together they would discuss where they
were going to give [nonverbal] cues. As time went by and familiarity with their
musical repertory grew, the cues often did not occur as they had done origi-
nally, and new ones emerged’ (quoted from Davidson and King 2004: 114; see
also Blank 2013).
Prior to undertaking our 2011 study, Elaine King and I wondered whether
members of singer–pianist duos with long experience of working together
would look at each other more or less than the members of newly formed part-
nerships, and whether social familiarity and expertise would also affect the
use of gesture. We recruited two established professional duos and two estab-
lished student duos, and we asked them to rehearse two songs that were new
to them—the first song in their regular duo, the second one with a new partner
from the other same-expertise duo. Finally, we asked the members of one pro-
fessional and one student duo to rehearse a third song with a new partner who
not only was unfamiliar but also had a different level of expertise.
The gestures made by the singers and pianists who took part in the study
clearly fulfilled a range of functions that illustrate some of the general pur-
poses of rehearsal. First, they did not warm up together in the way that
Seth describes, although other ensembles may well do so. Their main con-
cern, since they were classical musicians working from notated scores, was
developing familiarity with the repertoire, and this is perhaps the most
obvious purpose of rehearsal, at least in the early stages of preparation for
performance. In each single rehearsal of a new song all the duos began by
sight-reading, attempting a complete run-through without stopping. As they
rehearsed, the pianists made gestures such as nodding their heads just before
the singers were due to sing a new phrase, lifting their hands—sometimes
exaggeratedly—to indicate the end of one section and the start of the next,
and leaning forward to emphasize a climax in the music. These gestures com-
municated the compositional structure of the song and its expressive content
both to the singer and to the putative audience. The singers also used their
hands for underlining both the semantic meaning of the lyrics of the song,
as most people do when they talk, and the emotional charge provided by the
setting of the words to music. They made ‘pulsing’ movements too, to ensure
that they maintained a regular beat, and gestures that seemed to support the
physical process of singing, in the absence of an external instrument. Such
gestures included pointing downwards to show that they were aware of the
need to lower the pitch of the note they were singing, and moving their hands
upwards as though to mirror the production of a high note. Observation of
the nonverbal communication of the two performers as they familiarized
themselves with the songs in this first rehearsal together suggested that they
170 Musicians in the Making
King (2012) revisited the impact of social familiarity on preparation for per-
formance by comparing verbal as well as nonverbal interactions within single
rehearsals undertaken by seven newly formed, ‘temporary’ cellist–pianist duos
(first studied by Goodman in 2000) and the four established singer–pianist duos
who had participated in the study outlined above (King and Ginsborg 2011;
Ginsborg and King 2012). The comparison confirmed the findings of previous
researchers on small-group behaviour: typically, when small groups develop
working relationships, they form, storm, norm, perform and adjourn (Tuckman
1965; Tuckman and Jensen 1977; see also Chapter 3 in this volume). As they
formed their new partnerships, the cellists and pianists were likely to make
polite suggestions to each other; no ‘storming’ was observed, but ‘norming’
and ‘performing’ were exemplified by lack of disagreement and by what might
be described as recapitulative and permeable discourse (Fogel 2009) through
the sharing of ‘preconceived “familiar” tactics about rehearsal as they worked
together for the first time’ (King 2012: 262). In the early stages of each session,
once each duo had run through the music to be performed all the way through
without stopping, both talk and playing took place in short bursts character-
ized by the author as ‘hesitant’; gradually, these became more ‘flowing’. The
content of the talk was mostly related to the task at hand, focusing on the inter-
pretation of the score—tempo, dynamics, rubato—as the two players recon-
ciled their individual insights with the composer’s expressive intentions. There
seemed to be more talking at the beginning, when the musicians were least
familiar, and therefore least comfortable, with each other; progress was not
necessarily smooth, and the duos who seemed the most content to adjourn at
the end of the session were those whose rehearsal remained hesitant for longest.
By contrast, the members of the established duos did not need to ‘form’, since
they were already bonded; they moved straight to norming and performing,
frequently expressing solidarity by offering each other praise. Their sessions
were flowing from the start as well as recapitulative, as the musicians drew on
their long, shared experience of rehearsing together.
REHEARSAL TALK
The work performed was Stravinsky’s Cantata for soprano, tenor, women’s
choir and instrumental ensemble. The musicians’ preparation for performance
was investigated, however, for just one movement: the first Ricercar for soprano
and ensemble. The conductor also fulfilled the role of rehearsal accompanist
for the singer, playing from the vocal score arranged by Stravinsky for soprano
and piano.
Both the singer and the pianist provided verbal commentaries as they prac-
tised alone; each of their first practice sessions was observed, on the first and
fifth days of the rehearsal period for the singer and the pianist respectively.
Their discussions during two rehearsals were also observed, the first being their
first joint rehearsal, which took place on the thirteenth day, midway through
the preparation period, and the second being their final joint rehearsal on the
day of the performance itself. Content analyses were made of the musicians’
verbal utterances. These were coded using a framework derived from the find-
ings of research undertaken by Chaffin and colleagues (e.g. Chaffin, Imreh and
Crawford 2002) which suggested that the decisions taken during practice inform
a musician’s thoughts during performance (see Table 8.1).5 Furthermore, a sub-
set of these decisions—namely, those that are not implemented automatically,
without conscious awareness—serve as retrieval or ‘performance’ cues when the
musician plays from memory. In this study of the development of shared per-
formance cues, the singer and the pianist annotated multiple copies of the score
after they had given the public performance of the Cantata to indicate what
they were thinking while they were performing, and at which specific beat(s)
in the piece each thought occurred. This permitted a subsequent analysis to
Code Topic
Basic (references to Dynamics, tempo, pauses, commas, phrases and phrasing, errors in score,
score, printed and duration of notes and rests, entries; word underlay, stress, pronunciation and
annotated) meaning; (singer’s) pitch, intonation, technical difficulties and location of
breaths; instrumentation, awareness of harmony and counterpoint,
maintenance of steady pulse (conductor only)
Structural Section boundaries and ‘switches’: repetitions or near-repetitions of musical
phrases at boundaries that might cause confusion such that the singer was
in danger of jumping, erroneously, from one location in the work to another
Interpretive Interpretation of the composer’s intentions, particularly sound quality (often
in relation to the poetic meaning of the words) and phrasing; relative lengths
of specific pauses and commas; shaping of rubato, and changes in tempo and
dynamics
Expressive How to convey interpretation to audience, e.g. making the music ‘dance’ or
sound ‘yearning’
Memory Memorizing strategies; remembering and forgetting
Metacognitive Evaluations, requests for evaluation, goals, plans, reflections on rehearsal and
research process
Shared Need for and ways of achieving unanimity in performance
Small ensembles in rehearsal 173
TABLE 8.2 Utterances in each practice and rehearsal session (by number and percentage)
Having looked at how a performance takes shape over time in terms of the chang-
ing importance of the various aspects of music-making as revealed by rehearsal
talk, I now turn to practice behaviour: the way music is segmented for rehearsal.
This will inevitably depend on the piece, performer and purpose of preparation.
As a follow-up to the study discussed above, Ginsborg (2011) investigated the rela-
tionship of practice behaviour to performance cues and the sequencing of work on
different parts of the music by observing the singer’s individual practice sessions
1–3, 5 and 8, and her joint rehearsals with the pianist in sessions 6, 9, 12 and 15.6
The Ricercar is in three main sections: two verses with three refrains, a mid-
dle section that could be characterized as a fanfare, and a coda. In the first ses-
sion, the singer began with the first phrase and then worked her way through
174 Musicians in the Making
the piece phrase by phrase without much evident movement until she reached
the beginning of the fanfare. The second half of the first session was largely
devoted to work on the coda, broken into yet smaller segments, and the session
ended with a run-through of both fanfare and coda without a break. After
a brief attempt on the verse sections of the opening of the piece, the bulk of
the second session was again spent to a large extent on the fanfare; the coda
was once more practised in shorter sections, and the session ended with a final
attempt on the coda only.
The purpose of the third session was memorization: the singer started from
the beginning of the fanfare, then worked on the coda before singing from the
beginning of the fanfare to the end of the piece. Then she worked on the section
of verse before the fanfare and ‘backward-chained’, singing forward from the
beginning of each previous section as she gained confidence. It was not until
the very end of the session that she tried to sing the whole Ricercar from begin-
ning to end, and she did not succeed in doing so continuously.
Session 5 was a short individual practice session in which the singer checked
that she had memorized the whole Ricercar securely; after singing it through
once from beginning to end, she worked systematically on the first verse. When
the pianist joined her, they started at the beginning and worked through to the
end, phrase by phrase. They repeated both the beginning of the fanfare and
the beginning of the coda several times. Towards the end of the session they
attempted two run-throughs of the whole Ricercar, but the longest uninter-
rupted run lasted only until the beginning of the fanfare.
Session 8 was another individual practice session undertaken for the pur-
pose of solving technical challenges that had emerged in the joint rehearsal
and while rememorizing. Again, the singer worked on small segments, focusing
for most of the first half of the rehearsal on the end and the beginning of the
fanfare, combining them before starting work on the first half of the coda and
then the second half. Midway through the session, she returned to the begin-
ning of the piece, working systematically on the verses and singing through
the refrains. Session 9 began with more detailed work on the fanfare and coda,
but the second half was devoted to an attempt to sing the first long phrase of
the Ricercar in one breath, before working through the whole piece with fewer
and fewer interruptions. Session 12 began with an almost uninterrupted run-
through followed by a number of repetitions of the first part of the fanfare as
the musicians discussed the words that the singer would emphasize and why;
it ended with another—again, almost uninterrupted—run of the whole piece.
The final session was intended as a single run-through, but trouble-shooting
was required to solve an unexpected problem that arose midway; once this had
been addressed, a complete ‘practice performance’ could be given—and indeed
both musicians reported being satisfied with the final, hitch-free performance
in public that evening, in which they were both able to make unexpected dis-
coveries about the music. For example, reflecting on the performance of the
Small ensembles in rehearsal 175
final bars of the Ricercar that he had just conducted, the pianist remarked, ‘I
found that this rit[ardando] happens because of the weight of “eternally”, the
fact that [Stravinsky] placed the octave jump in the voice at that point, “eter-
nal-ly”, the “ly” goes down, and the upbeat “eternal” goes to the two cello open
strings at the bottom of the instruments—there’s a real point of emphasis on
the barline.’ ‘It’s binding it down into the earth’, replied the singer, ‘it becomes
earth-bound.’
In this study of a performance taking shape over the course of four weeks,
I have combined information from a range of sources—talk, musical behav-
iour, self-reports by the musicians obtained after the performance, and anal-
yses of the relationships between them—to provide a sketch of the process.
It would be unwise to try to generalize from this observation of one duo
to the approaches of all small ensembles to the task of preparing for per-
formance, but it nevertheless has the potential for outlining some possible
approaches that may or may not be adopted by other performers. In this
instance, the musicians’ priorities shifted from basic learning to interpre-
tation and expression within their individual practice; all of these needed
to be rethought when they came together in their first joint rehearsal, and
although interpretive decisions and their implementation in performance
became more important in the last rehearsals, opportunities were still taken
to improve even the smallest details. The analysis of practice behaviour
revealed two strategies that the performers clearly found useful: the identi-
fication of compositional sections and subsections, and working backwards
when appropriate. In other words, the strategies involved not always starting
from the beginning of the piece, and focusing on passages requiring partic-
ular attention. These underpinned both effective coordination between the
musicians and the freedom to respond creatively to what they heard and felt
during the public performance.
I now turn from the analysis of one duo’s performance taking shape over time
to a comparison of the approaches to rehearsal and performance used by
groups of students at a conservatoire (Ginsborg 2010): two string quartets (one
newly formed by first-year students, the other made up of third-year students
who had been working together since the beginning of their first year) and a
newly formed wind quintet (comprising four students in the first year of their
course, and one in the second year). The students agreed to keep diaries for
two terms in the form of templates to be completed with brief entries after
each individual practice session and group rehearsal, although the first-year
string quartet actually kept them for all three terms of the academic year. The
members of the established quartet were clearly much more familiar with each
176 Musicians in the Making
other socially than the two newly formed ensembles were. They were also more
experienced not only as performers but also as ensemble musicians.
Retrospectively, it is possible to gauge the effectiveness (or otherwise) of
some of their strategies. The established quartet and the newly formed quintet
can be described as ‘successful’ groups, in that they won many prizes and gave
numerous concerts together during their years at the conservatoire. Although
the established quartet subsequently split up, all of the players are making
careers in new chamber ensembles. At the time of writing, the wind quintet
was still together, performing professionally and still winning prizes; we may
assume, therefore, that their approaches to rehearsal and performance worked
well for them. By contrast, the approaches of the newly formed string quartet
worked less well for its members: they became increasingly dissatisfied with
their own and each other’s contributions to the group and agreed to disband at
the end of the academic year.
One factor that might well be associated with both social familiarity and
level of success is time spent on individual practice and group rehearsal. The
members of the established quartet reported, in total, more than 14 hours of
individual practice on the six works that they rehearsed as a group over the
course of twenty-two rehearsals including one coaching session (38 hours in
all). Although the newly formed quartet and quintet were rehearsing only
two and three works respectively, the quartet reported individual practice
time of just over 9 hours—more than the quintet’s 6.5 hours—but only eight
rehearsals including two coaching sessions with tutors (around 11 hours),
in comparison with the eight rehearsals plus nine coaching sessions (around
23 hours) undertaken by the quintet. This may of course be attributable to
the nature of the works that were to be performed (respectively, a Mozart
quartet and a piece of music written by a student composer to accompany
a dance project, versus quintets by Nielsen, Reicha and Verdi), or indeed
the relative difficulty of the music for string and wind players. Nevertheless,
evidence from the ratings that the students were asked to make of their own
and the other players’ focus, effort and enjoyment in practice sessions and
rehearsals suggests that the members of the quartet found rehearsals less
rewarding than individual practice, while the reverse was the case for the
quintet.
The diary templates required the students to state the work or works prac-
tised, coached or rehearsed in each session and to specify up to five goals (on
the whole, no more than three or four were reported per session) along with cor-
responding strategies for achieving them and plans for the next session. They
were asked to rate each goal and strategy for ‘effectiveness’ on a scale of 1 to
10, and to reflect, when appropriate, on both ‘one thing that I was really happy
about in our performance today’ and ‘one thing I would like us to do better in
our next performance’. The members of the three ensembles submitted a total
of 1,044 goals, strategies, plans and comments on their performances in mas-
terclasses and concerts. A preliminary analysis suggested differences between
Small ensembles in rehearsal 177
the kinds of goals, strategies and plans reported and the relationships between
them that could be attributable to the experience and familiarity of the group
(newly formed versus established) and to the stage of practice and rehearsal
(early versus late). As shown in Table 8.3, the students’ goals, strategies and
plans were similar, but it is clear from the sample entries presented in Table
8.4 that the goals of the individual members of the ‘successful’ ensembles were
more specific in terms of both the sections of the work to be practised (quintet
and established quartet) and the issues to be addressed in practice (established
quartet). Furthermore, they noted appropriate strategies for achieving their
goals and plans for their next practice session.
Differences between the ensembles’ approach to preparation were also evi-
dent in their diary entries for the first and last group rehearsals (see Tables 8.5
and 8.6). The goals, strategies and plans noted by one member of the newly
formed quartet for the first rehearsal revealed her approach to creative devel-
opment during the process of preparation (‘introduce some interest into work’
by ‘discussing different musical options’). She acknowledged, however, that
coaching the following day would be likely to influence the quartet members’
ideas. The diary entries of one of her fellow performers following their final
rehearsal are poignant (‘there will not be [a] next time’): although they did ‘per-
form well’, according to the examiners’ report, they knew by this stage that they
would be disbanding. By contrast, the goals, strategies and plans of the newly
formed quintet and the established quartet, reported after their first rehearsal
178 Musicians in the Making
Newly formed Introduce some interest Played through whole thing Consolidate the
quartet into work—discussion first, all decided it was ideas we discussed
boring and loud, so broke although we will
it down into sections and probably have
discussed different musical changed them as we
options will have a lesson
tomorrow and that
will bring new ideas
Newly formed Play through the first Sectionalised the music [Work] on it more,
quintet movement of Nielsen and worked on each section get fast sections
together and then put them together
together to play through
Established Intonation, articulation Slowing the tempo— The 4th movement
quartet and flow of 4th movement working in groups of twos— should be rehearsed
of Schumann Quartet No. turning off the light to focus up to speed, focusing
1 and read-through of more on the sound on flow, articulation
Mozart quartet and intonation
Newly formed Perform well and enjoy it Rehearsed before the assess- There will not be [a]
quartet ment and just went in and next time
played
Newly formed Practise the 2nd We worked on linking up To play through the
quintet movement just in case the sections smoothly and movement with no
we have to play it in matching the articulation mistakes
the chamber music and tuning
competition
Established Work on intonation, pulse We worked mostly in pairs Next time we per-
quartet and sound quality of open- without vibrato and dis- form this work we
ing two-part section cussed ideas about tone should take more
care over this
together, were once again more explicit in terms of what was to be rehearsed and
how; the entries of the established quartet member indicate clear focus on creative
outcomes (‘articulation and flow’) and strategies (‘turning off the light to focus
more on the sound’). Similar comparisons can be made between the ensemble
members’ diary entries following their last rehearsals. For example, the comment
‘we should take more care over this’ (i.e. ‘intonation, pulse and sound quality of
opening two-part section’) can be seen as representing a more sophisticated aspi-
ration for a quartet than ‘play through the movement with no mistakes’.
In general, goals, strategies and plans are important because they underpin
effective practice and rehearsal (Ginsborg 2003), and the ones reported here
Small ensembles in rehearsal 179
are no exception. More detailed investigation was made of the three groups’
approaches to one representative work each, as follows. First, relevant diary
entries were selected. The members of the newly formed quartet made 248
entries in all, of which 160 related to goals, strategies and plans for practis-
ing or rehearsing the Mozart quartet that they performed for their chamber
music assessment; the newly formed quintet made 247 entries in all, of which
148 related to their preparation and performance of the Nielsen Quintet; and
the established quartet made 549 entries, of which 187 related to the Quartet
by David Matthews. Thus, a total of 495 entries for all three ensembles, com-
prising nearly 4,000 words, related to respective goals, strategies and plans.
Second, the 495 entries were analysed to find out which terms—either nouns or
verbs—were most commonly used in relation to practice, coaching, rehearsal
and performance. There were 189 such terms that could be clustered to form
seven categories. Three of the categories were novel, representing references
to location in the piece of music (e.g. rehearsal letters and bar and beat num-
bers), generic and conceptual activities. The other four derived from those
used in previous research (Chaffin et al. 2002; Ginsborg et al. 2006a; Ginsborg
and King 2009), representing attention to basic, interpretive, expressive and
ensemble dimensions of the music or performance. Third, the 495 entries were
divided into a total of 590 ‘idea units’ (Brown and Smiley 1977) because—as
is evident from the examples given in Tables 8.3 to 8.6—a sizeable proportion
of entries referred to more than one goal, strategy or plan. Each idea unit was
then assigned to one of the seven categories (see Tables 8.7 to 8.9 for examples).
Fourth, the numbers of goals, strategies and plans identified in the cat-
egories of idea units by the members of each of the ensembles for practising,
coaching and rehearsing were compared. Generally, goals for individual practice
reflected attention to basic dimensions; after all, the purpose of practice, in the
present context, was effective preparation for playing in a group coaching ses-
sion or rehearsal. Goals for rehearsals were more likely to concern ‘ensemble’
issues such as role-playing or unanimity of sound. The same was the case for
Category Statement
Category Statement
TABLE 8.9 Idea units by category: plans (WQ1 = wind quintet; SQ1 = newly formed first-year
string quartet; SQ3 = established third-year string quartet)
Category Statement
Location [To do the same but] with the last variation (WQ1 coaching)
Generic Spend more time on sorting it out (SQ1 coaching)
Conceptual Making a decision about this (SQ3 rehearsal)
Basic [To play through the same theme] and be in tune (WQ1 rehearsal)
Interpretive Faster tempo? (SQ3 rehearsal)
Expressive Focused again on sound world (SQ1 rehearsal)
Ensemble To take this approach successfully into the quartet rehearsal (SQ3 practice)
Fifth, an analysis was made of the practice and rehearsal strategies rated
by the students themselves as most and least effective. Arguably, the extent to
which the students were creative is illustrated by the highest-rated rehearsal
strategies, a sample of which is provided in Table 8.10.
Finally, each set of goals with its corresponding strategy and plan was evalu-
ated for ‘congruence’, that is, the extent to which the researcher considered the
strategy to be appropriate to its goal, the plan to its strategy, and the plan to its
goal. The strategies of the established quartet were found to be wholly appropriate
for all of their stated goals. This was the case to a lesser extent for the quintet, and
even less so for the newly formed quartet, more than a fifth of whose strategies and
goals were incongruent. Similarly, analysis of the congruence between plans and
strategies showed that while 90 per cent of the plans of the quintet and the estab-
lished quartet were wholly appropriate for all their reported strategies, this was the
case for only around 65 per cent of the newly formed quartet’s plans.
To summarize, the more experienced of the successful ensembles—the
established string quartet—reported the most sophisticated goals and strate-
gies for practice, focusing, for example, on expression. By contrast, the less
experienced but nevertheless successful newly formed wind quintet reported
relatively unsophisticated goals for strategies for practice and rehearsal (e.g.
those classified as generic and/or relating to location) while reserving inter-
pretive, expressive and ensemble goals for coaching sessions. The newly
formed string quartet’s use of conceptual goals, plans and strategies, mean-
while, suggests that they spent a great deal of time ‘discussing’ and ‘deciding’
Practice
Basic Metronome
Tried different fingerings
Slow practice of solo passage for intonation
Right arm/wrist/hand for string crossing and building up tempo to play up to speed
Conceptual Listened to a few different recordings while reading the score
Reading the score away from the violin
Work slowly, remembering everything we discussed in rehearsal
Rehearsal
issues that they neither practised nor rehearsed as effectively as they might,
with predictably disappointing results. On the one hand, it could be argued
that they failed to make use of opportunities that the other newly formed
ensemble found valuable: to receive encouragement as well as advice from
tutors, not only on playing together but also on interpretation, expression
and managing the process of becoming an ensemble. On the other hand,
it might be that the quartet’s end-of-year performance—however unsatis-
factory the musicians felt it to be—was the product of their joint creative
imaginations to an even greater extent than that of the quintet, who relied
on suggestions from their tutors.
This chapter has looked at how performances by ensembles take shape over
time and how this not only predicts their creativity in performance but also
reflects their creativity in practice and rehearsal. Performances take place in
different settings and contexts, but all are prepared in one way or another: in a
single rehearsal that might last anywhere from a few minutes to several hours;
during a series of individual practice sessions and joint rehearsals; or, in the
case of groups with extended lifespans, over many years. The goals of rehearsal
vary too, depending on the nature of the group as well as the kind of perfor-
mance to be prepared, the time available for practice and rehearsal, and the
particular point reached within the available timeframe. I have discussed the
activities undertaken by musicians when they rehearse together, involving non-
verbal and verbal communication, and considered how their form and content
are influenced not only by the musical expertise of the performers but also by
their familiarity with each other as they learn and develop a shared under-
standing of the music to be performed; the more comfortable they are with
each other, the freer they are likely to feel to experiment in performance as well
as rehearsal.
Research with duos and small ensembles—both student and professional—
suggests that practice and rehearsal strategies are likely to change over time,
and the members of every small group will have to negotiate those that ‘feel
right’ at each stage of the preparation process. This negotiation may well
form as important a part of the creative process as the decision-making
that musicians must also undertake, particularly in the rehearsal of notated,
western classical chamber music. As they explore different ways of under-
standing and playing the music in order to reach what they consider to be
a mutually satisfactory interpretation of the composer’s intentions, they are
likely to deploy talk, bodily movement such as gesture, and/or use of the
eyes. Creativity in performance that is communicated convincingly to listen-
ers depends, arguably, on creativity in rehearsal, which in turn arises from
Small ensembles in rehearsal 183
effective communication within the group. This can be achieved just as much
by experienced musicians who have worked together for many years, and for
whom that communication is more implicit than explicit, as by performers
coming together for the first time to share their discovery of the music with
each other and their audience.
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sertation, University of Sheffield).
Blank, M. and J. W. Davidson, 2007: ‘An exploration of the effects of musical and social
factors in piano duo collaborations’, Psychology of Music 35/2: 213–30.
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passages: a problem of metacognitive development’, Child Development 48/1: 1–8.
Burt-Perkins, R. and J. Mills, 2008: ‘The role of chamber music in learning to perform: a
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Chaffin, R., G. Imreh and M. Crawford, 2002: Practicing Perfection: Memory and Piano
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Davidson, J. W. and E. C. King, 2004: ‘Strategies for ensemble practice’, in A. Williamon, ed.,
Musical Excellence: Strategies and Techniques to Enhance Performance (Oxford: Oxford
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in A. Gritten and E. King, eds., New Perspectives on Music and Gesture (Aldershot:
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their collaborative musical practice’, Musicae Scientiae 10/1: 59–83.
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Small ensembles in rehearsal 185
the factory floor, directing and constraining the actions of the other workers so
that a finished product emerged to his (rarely her) satisfaction.
The greater complexity of orchestral music also made it financially advan-
tageous to employ a conductor to rehearse large ensembles. While in theory
it is possible for such groups to work on complex pieces unaided, this usu-
ally requires many more rehearsals, since individual musicians need a deeper
understanding of both the score and the various contributions of those around
them. As musicians moved from being eighteenth-century craftsmen to union-
ized twentieth-century professionals, with concomitant increases in pay and
conditions, orchestral performance became an ever more expensive operation.
Employing a conductor was a way of reducing rehearsal time and thus costs,
at least until the very significant fees demanded by many conductors became
more commonplace from the mid-twentieth century, which once again chal-
lenged orchestral music-making as an economic practice.
The professionalization of musicians’ work was in part undergirded in the
nineteenth century by the creation of music conservatoires and other training
establishments along with an attendant infrastructure of performance exami-
nations and certification, all of which sought to legitimate performance stan-
dards. However, these establishments tended to focus on the performance and
interpretative skills at the heart of solo performance. Indeed, the development
of ensemble skills—specifically, orchestral performance skills—has often been
seen by educators as of subsidiary interest. In the past, this led to the somewhat
paradoxical situation that, although many people rightly or wrongly regarded
the symphony orchestra as the apotheosis of musical excellence, the music edu-
cation infrastructure supporting it was not focused on producing musicians
properly equipped to sustain it. As many of the contributors to this volume
argue, conservatoires today endeavour to develop more rounded musicians who
have a broader skill base and are therefore better equipped for a wider variety
of employment opportunities.
The performance standards expected of musicians in large ensembles have
risen over the past century or so, and this can be demonstrated empirically by
comparing recordings from different periods. Much greater emphasis is now
placed on ensemble precision, e.g. in relation to rhythmic coordination and tun-
ing. The ubiquity of near-flawless performances heard on recordings today has
brought additional pressures on musicians and conductors in both rehearsal
and performance. Errors seem to take on additional significance precisely
because of their rarity, yet fear of making mistakes can be a major inhibitor
of both individual and collective creativity. If left unchecked, such inhibition
can undermine the flexibility and suppleness in ensemble performance that are
now usually taken as indicators of aesthetic quality. The same holds for the
increased emphasis on ensemble precision.
It could be argued that the rise of conservatoires and examination systems
represents, as Foucault might have it, the promotion of orthodoxy and a form
190 Musicians in the Making
FIGURE 9.1 Modelling Gunther Schuller’s implied relationships between musical score, conductor,
ensemble and performance
The creative work of large ensembles 193
Ensemble
Performance
Conductor Score
FIGURE 9.2 A more equitable model of the relationship between musical score, conductor, ensemble
and performance
This is not to imply that these elements are necessarily balanced or that the con-
tributions they make are always equally proportioned. But it does suggest that
there are dynamic relationships at play which need to be understood by those
taking part in orchestral performance and which, if harnessed appropriately,
can lead to increased satisfaction on all sides as well as more successful musical
and creative outcomes.
From this perspective, the leadership demands made of conductors are perhaps
more complex than those conventionally allocated to the traditional authoritarian
figure. Certainly conductors must fulfil the role of a strong leader, giving direc-
tion to the ensemble both in rehearsal and in performance. But they additionally
need to be skilled negotiators, mediating between competing demands while ensur-
ing that their own musical personality is communicated in terms which are both
understood and acceptable. As Christopher Warren-Green, erstwhile leader of the
Philharmonia Orchestra, observes, ‘What [the conductor] should really be is an
enabler. He should allow all those musicians to give of their best. There are very few
who can do that.’5 The next section considers leadership strategies that conductors
might employ to ‘enable’ the orchestra in the manner suggested by Warren-Green.
Leadership in orchestras
Leadership research has increased significantly over the past few decades. This
has resulted in the identification of a number of leadership styles, of which four
appear to be most relevant in considering the conductor–musician relationship:
The most frequently employed styles are those of transactional and trans-
formational leadership. Transactional leadership is in some ways the more
utilitarian of the two. Burns (1979: 4) notes that this is the most common
form of interaction: a mutually acceptable set of expectations is established
in order to reach a commonly agreed goal. Specific transactions might include
clear and direct indications and gestures from the conductor, leading to agreed
responses from the musicians, a shared understanding of the effective use of
rehearsal time, etc. Transactional leadership appears to be less common and
less efficacious in professional orchestras (Bertsch 2009) but is more enthusi-
astically received in amateur ensembles (Rowald and Rohmann 2009). This
is perhaps understandable, but there are circumstances in all cases where the
relationship between conductor and musicians is likely to be more transac-
tional, that is, where the musicians will rely more directly on the conductor
for directions and cues; examples include performances of complex modern
music and of obscure and unfamiliar repertoire for which rehearsal time has
been limited.
Transformational leadership is the least easily defined of these categories,
both in relation to orchestras and elsewhere, but it is often the most highly
valued. Here conductors are assumed to demonstrate a capacity to lead the
orchestra beyond conventional expectations, to engender musical outcomes
that transcend quotidian concert experience. Quite how, as Simon Rattle
puts it, this ‘weird thing … that happens between conductors and orches-
tras’7 actually arises is a matter for debate. Most conductors believe that they
achieve transformational leadership, although research suggests that, at least
in professional orchestras, the musicians they oversee are less persuaded that
this is the case (Bertsch 2009). One of Atik’s respondents observed that ‘the
very best conductors that I’ve worked with become part of the orchestra.
I don’t mean that they lose their identity but in fact the whole orchestra plays
with him rather than follows him’. Another noted that the musicians devel-
oped ‘an energetic field, a psychological energy field which is very strong and
has an existence of its own. And the conductor has to be forming that field
and be part of it’ (1994: 26). That both of these respondents felt the need to
resort to such metaphorical statements is indicative of the fact that, while all
parties may believe that something special is happening on the concert stage,
it is difficult to verbalize what this is. Nevertheless, it is clear that the idea
of transformational leadership, in which a highly visible and charismatic
conductor motivates and inspires musicians for the purpose of producing
the best possible performance, is powerfully attractive. The extent to which
this ideal actually informs orchestral practices is moot, however, and as Bass
observes, ‘leaders will exhibit a variety of patterns of transformational and
transactional leadership. Most leaders do both in different amounts’ (1985: 22;
italics in original).
196 Musicians in the Making
creative best when they are given as much latitude as is reasonable to express
themselves within this rule-bound framework. Atik draws attention to a
‘testing phase’ in the relationship between musicians and conductor. This is a
short period at the beginning of a rehearsal which occurs when an orchestra
is working with a conductor for the first time (and it is perhaps more char-
acteristic of professional ensembles than amateur ones). Atik notes that in
this period of perhaps ten to fifteen minutes, ‘players explore the boundaries
of the superior–subordinate relationship and the professional competence
of the conductor, while, simultaneously, the conductor tests out how much
he can demand of his players and the musical capabilities of the “band” ’
(1994: 25). It might be argued that this testing phase reflects the conductor
and the orchestra establishing a shared understanding of the prevailing rules
and their boundaries, as a necessary prerequisite for musical creativity to
flourish in the orchestral context.
In addition to these sociomusical issues, there are fundamental logisti-
cal requirements that (ideally) must be met in rehearsals and performance
if large ensembles are to function effectively. Many of these are relatively
obvious. Musicians need stable seating and music stands, with enough light
to read the score and parts but not so much direct light shining onto the
stage that they are blinded. As noted earlier, sightlines between conductor
and performers, and between key musicians such as principal players, are
especially important so that they may recognize, however peripherally, those
bodily gestures required for orchestral synchrony. Thought must therefore
be given to the stage layout, particularly in contexts such as theatre pits
or halls not specifically designed for orchestral performance, where space
may be cramped and/or inconveniently distributed. Acoustics are especially
important. Halls which are too dry can leave an ensemble sounding flat and
lifeless, and individuals can become uncomfortable with their own sound.
Spaces with very resonant acoustics—e.g. cathedrals—pose a different prob-
lem, since the long decay times of the musical sound may make it difficult for
performers to hear important aural cues. Hall temperature is also important;
spaces that are too warm or too cold make tuning more difficult in addi-
tion to the personal discomfort experienced by musicians. Studio work can
feel very different for all performers, with screens sometimes placed between
musicians to help the recording engineers balance the ensemble sound, or
the conductor closely watching a screen and accompanying time code if
recording a film score. Outdoor performances too can be challenging since
the acoustic will be entirely different, and gusts of wind may blow scores or
clothing in a disconcerting fashion. Notwithstanding the apparent triviality
of some of these logistical details, they are important in providing a secure
platform for conductors and musicians so that they may focus on their cre-
ative endeavours.
198 Musicians in the Making
Some of the qualities of, and constraints upon, musical performance in large
choral groups are similar to those found in instrumental ensembles, even though
the relationship between choirs and conductors, and indeed between the singers
themselves, is rather different from those characteristic of instrumental ensem-
bles.8 The physical proximity of singers in smaller groups again often obviates
the need for a separate conductor since, as with instrumentalists, one of the
singers can adequately fulfil this role. But larger vocal ensembles clearly require
a director of some kind, for many of the reasons outlined previously: to com-
pensate for the distances between performers, to reduce the time-consuming
nature of a fully democratic approach to decision-making, to economize on
rehearsal time, etc.
Nevertheless, there are important operational differences between these two
types of ensemble, particularly in relation to the creative aspirations and expec-
tations of the participants. Perhaps the most obvious is that in major orchestras
the musicians are usually professionals, and they will have obtained their pos-
ition in the orchestra only after an extensive period of training which hones
not only their technical skills but also their musical personality. In contrast,
members of choirs are typically amateurs, in the sense that they are likely to
earn their living away from the choir. Some may have received a musical educa-
tion (the capacity to read staff notation is usually a prerequisite, for example),
and a few may be trained singers. But many will view the choir as an enjoyable
addition to their working lives, notwithstanding the considerable commitment
they may make to it, and thus the basis of their participation is qualitatively dif-
ferent from that of orchestral musicians (see Louhivuori, Salminen and Lebaka
2005). Choral singers may rehearse only once or perhaps twice a week, whereas
a professional orchestra will often work together every day.
All of this has an impact on the nature of their creative contributions and
their perceptions of the role of individual creativity in their work. The ten-
sions already noted between instrumentalists’ highly developed sense of musi-
cal self and the constraints inevitably imposed by the needs of the orchestra
or the demands of the conductor do not apply in the same way to choral sing-
ers. Indeed, these amateur singers are operationally much more dependent on
the conductor figure than are orchestral musicians. Research evidences the
significant reliance on and impact of conducting gestures on choral singers,
whether in relation to tone quality or intonation (Brunkan 2013; Mann 2014),
or the mirroring of the conductor’s facial gestures by singers (Garnett 2009;
Manternach 2012). Transactional leadership thus plays a greater role in choirs
than it does in instrumental ensembles.
This implies that musical creativity is construed rather differently in these
large vocal ensembles, particularly since the compositional nature of most
choral works also reduces opportunities for individual musical expression.
The creative work of large ensembles 199
Choral scores are often divided into just four parts (soprano, alto, tenor, bass),
although further subdivisions may occasionally occur. Normally many singers
share a given part, and thus the capacity of the individual to influence the deliv-
ery of that part may be limited. Just as a rank-and-file violinist needs to align
his or her performance with the rest of the section—unlike, perhaps, the first
clarinet or the harpist—so too is musical individuality moderated in the choir
by the collective requirements of a particular subgroup. Nevertheless, a sense of
musical individuality remains. For example, Ternström (2003: 7) draws atten-
tion to what he describes as the ‘self to other ratio’ (see also Keller 2014). This
is a measure of the relationship between the perceived strength of a singer’s
own voice (which arises from a combination of airborne and bone-conducted
sounds) to that of the choir in which he or she is immersed (the sound of which
is heard both directly and via reverberations in the hall). While the preferred
ratio varies widely between individuals—that is, different singers prefer to hear
different balances between their own sound and that of the ensemble—these
ratios appear to be accurately and consistently reproduced.
Notwithstanding this psychoacoustic expression of the musical self, the
collective practice of choral performance means that choir singers are often
unused to having their individual voice highlighted. To counteract this, Freer
has argued for the introduction of improvisation exercises in choir rehears-
als, noting that these would dilute singers’ reliance on musical notation, ena-
ble musical material to reflect individual vocal capability more closely, and,
most importantly in the present context, ‘influence musical self-esteem’ (Freer
2010: 19). Brewer and Garnett (2012: 264) have suggested that singers might
adopt a cognitive strategy of putting themselves ‘in the position of actors, put-
ting on a character for the purpose. It is helpful to think of that character …
communicating to the audience as if one to one. So an individual in a choir
contributes something very specific and important to the whole.’
Finally, choirs in the western classical tradition usually work from a full vocal
score, allowing each individual to see how the contribution of his or her section
(soprano, tenor, etc.) is meant to fit into the larger whole; moreover, the vocal
score used by each singer may well be identical to that used by the conductor.
In contrast, orchestral players normally work from an isolated part, albeit one
which may have occasional cues that indicate the contributions of others; only
the conductor works from a full score which shows all the musical interactions.
These varying relationships with both the conductor and the musical script
that guides individual contributions inevitably inflect the working practices of
performers and their perceptions of themselves as creative individuals.
In her study of choral conducting, Garnett (2009: 172–3) draws attention
to the different vocal blends achieved by two choirs, which might be taken as
proxies for the contrasting approaches to collective creativity that they repre-
sent. She notes that the singers in a lesbian/gay/bisexual amateur choir with
a strong commitment to social and political solidarity not only demonstrated
200 Musicians in the Making
a strongly shared body language but were also encouraged to sound ‘like one
voice, like one choir without any individuals’. Conversely, a chamber choir of
trained singers showed significant variances between individual postures and
less overall concern with the ultimate blend of the ensemble; as with instru-
mentalists, their professional training had encouraged a more developed
sense of musical self-identity, which was retained in the ensemble context.
In general, however, the individualistic creativity that underlies instrumental
training in the western classical tradition is subsumed in large vocal ensembles
by the overarching sense of communal enterprise. Ultimately, the singer’s use
of a complete vocal score rather than the instrumentalist’s single part, while
arising as a matter of practical expediency because singers can turn pages more
easily, can be read as indexical of the choir’s collective and often homogene-
ous creative musical endeavour, as opposed to the aggregation of musical indi-
viduals represented by the more differentiated, and frequently heterogeneous,
orchestral score.
Alternative models
To enhance their sense of collective musical creativity and assert more musical
control in rehearsal and performance, some large ensembles have developed
alternative organizational models. Certain chamber orchestras have begun to
dispense with the conductor and to work instead on an unconducted basis or,
occasionally, with a guest conductor of their choosing. The Prague Chamber
Orchestra, founded in 1951, may be the longest-running ensemble of this kind,
while the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra, established in New York in 1972, is per-
haps the most widely recognized. The UK’s Britten Sinfonia provides another
example. The fact that the trend has increased over the past two decades means
that such ensembles are now widespread. They offer a middle path between the
musical egalitarianism of the small chamber ensemble and the more obvious
hierarchies found in larger symphony orchestras. They also demonstrate partic-
ularly advanced forms of distributed leadership, to the extent that the Orpheus
Chamber Orchestra, for example, has been used as the basis of a textbook on
management leadership.9
These conductorless ensembles may be distinguished from their symphonic
counterparts in a number of ways. They tend to demonstrate more flexibility
in their size and will modify their instrumentation according to the particular
project at hand, sometimes appearing as a small chamber group while at other
times nearing the size of a symphony orchestra. They can be economically
more efficient, in part because of this flexibility but also because of the obvious
financial savings that arise through not paying costly conductor fees. They tend
to be popular with their audience base, with whom they generate close ties. And
The creative work of large ensembles 201
their musicians derive more satisfaction because of the greater musical control
afforded in rehearsal and performance by the absence of a conductor.
On the other hand, one of the risks of these highly participatory, democratic
ensemble structures is that the rehearsal process is significantly lengthened
because everybody can contribute his or her views about how the music should
be performed. Indeed, for their first major performance the Orpheus Orchestra
required ‘between seventeen and twenty rehearsals’ before they arrived at a
shared understanding of the approach they would take (Khodyakov 2007: 10).
Professional orchestras would usually find such a lengthy rehearsal schedule
uneconomic, and the Orpheus Orchestra was no exception. Although the musi-
cians were not paid for their first set of rehearsals, they did need remuneration
for later rehearsals in order to survive; this caused the orchestra to develop a sys-
tem of rehearsing with a smaller number of ten to thirteen core group members,
who would agree on the approach to be taken before adopting it in rehearsals
involving the full ensemble. Participatory leadership has been further ensured
through the rotation of principal players, such that the leader of each string
section rotates, with individuals having oversight at different times. In the case
of the Orpheus Orchestra, the lack of a conductor has both required and facili-
tated much greater trust between the musicians, even though they have also had
to implement a number of control mechanisms—such as the degree to which an
individual musician might object to the decisions made by the core group for a
given performance—in order to ensure the smooth running of the ensemble.10
Notwithstanding these challenges, the success and longevity of these con-
ductorless orchestras has demonstrated that creative performance can be mani-
fested in large ensembles without the need for a supervisory figure, however
unlikely that may appear to those who believe such a figure to be essential for
orchestral performance.
Conclusions
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Hackman, J. R., 2005: ‘Rethinking team leadership or Team leaders are not music direc-
tors’, in D. M. Messick and R. M. Kramer, eds., The Psychology of Leadership: New
Perspectives and Research (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum), pp. 115–42.
Herndon, M., 1988: ‘Cultural engagement: the case of the Oakland Symphony Orchestra’,
Yearbook for Traditional Music 20: 134–45.
Keller, P. E., 2014: ‘Ensemble performance: interpersonal alignment of musical expression’,
in D. Fabian, R. Timmers and E. Schubert, eds., Expressiveness in Music Performance:
Empirical Approaches across Styles and Cultures (Oxford: Oxford University Press),
pp. 260–82.
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zations: insights from a qualitative analysis of a conductorless orchestra’, Social Forces
86: 1–22.
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(Philadelphia: Temple University Press).
Koivunen, N., 2003: ‘Leadership in symphony orchestras: discursive and aesthetic prac-
tices’ (PhD dissertation, University of Tampere).
Leech-Wilkinson, D., 2006: ‘Portamento and musical meaning’, Journal of Musicological
Research 25: 233–61.
Lewis, L. A., 2012: ‘The incompleat conductor: theorizing the conductor’s role in orchestral
interpretation in the light of shared leadership practices’ (PhD dissertation, University
of London).
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University).
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(Bloomington: Indiana University Press).
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R. Stowell, eds., The Cambridge History of Musical Performance (Cambridge: Cambridge
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expressive timing and dynamics’, Music Perception 18: 173–211.
The creative work of large ensembles 205
The stage (broadly defined) is a contextually rich setting with particular and
sometimes challenging acoustic and environmental features that can have an
impact on musicians’ perceptions of their performances.1 It is an inherently risky
place too, watched closely by audiences and with the presence of co-performers
placing further pressures on individual musicians to ‘get it right’. Numerous
studies have shown that the physical (Williamon et al. 2013; Fancourt, Aufegger
and Williamon 2015), psychological (Kenny 2011) and environmental con-
ditions (Williamon, Aufegger and Eiholzer 2014; Alessandri, Schuchert and
Lasauskaite Schüpbach 2015) under which musicians perform are radically dif-
ferent from those under which they practise and rehearse.
Studies with classical musicians show consistently heightened physiological
states when performing under high-stress conditions, with predictable increases
in heart rate and decreases in heart rate variability (see Williamon et al. 2013).
Similarly, the level of cortisol, a steroid hormone related to stress reactivity,
has been shown to increase significantly for orchestral musicians and singers
on the days of performance compared with nonperformance days (Fredrikson
and Gunnarsson 1992; Gill, Murphy and Rickard 2006; Halleland et al. 2009;
Pilger et al. 2014; Fancourt et al. 2015). Such heightened physiological states
are, at least in part, linked to the level of anxiety experienced by musicians
when they perform in public. Kenny (2009: 433) defines Music Performance
Anxiety (MPA) as:
the experience of marked and persistent anxious apprehension related to
musical performance that has arisen through specific anxiety-conditioning
experiences. It is manifested through combinations of affective, cogni-
tive, somatic and behavioural symptoms and may occur in a range of
206
Learning in the spotlight 207
Contextual richness
FIGURE 10.1 A schematic diagram of the level of risk and contextual richness typically experienced
in practice, rehearsal and performance, illustrating the experiential gap between those situations in
which musicians learn and where they perform (adapted from Kneebone 2011; © Roger Kneebone,
used by permission)
Learning in the spotlight 209
Self-regulated learning
(2002) argue that musicians’ learning is a result of the interplay between three
factors: their personality traits, their behaviours and their environment. They
suggest that the productivity with which ‘learners monitor these three sources
of self-control influences both the effectiveness of their strategic adjustments
and the nature of their beliefs in themselves’ (ibid.: 328).
To assist musicians in applying principles of self-regulation to their own
learning, Jørgensen (2004: 86) proposes four broad types of practice strategies,
three of which correspond to the three central processes of self-regulation, plus
a fourth for organizing one’s practice strategies:
1. Planning and preparation strategies (i.e. ‘forethought’ in the
self-regulated learning framework): for activity selection and
organization, setting goals and objectives, and time management;
2. Executive strategies (i.e. ‘performance and volition control’): for
rehearsal, distribution of practice over time, and preparing for a
public performance;
3. Evaluation strategies (i.e. ‘self-reflection’): for process and product
evaluation;
4. Metastrategies: knowledge of strategies, and control and regulation
of strategies.
section, we extend these ideas from the practice room to the concert platform
and highlight how self-regulation is relevant not only to instances of daily prac-
tising but also to preparing for and learning from performance itself. Indeed,
rather than simply setting the (unattainable) goal of producing note-perfect
performances, musicians should employ planning, executive and evaluation
strategies to identify and develop their performance skills.
Self-regulated performing
PERFORMANCE PROFILING
They could also think of other musicians whom they regard as outstand-
ing and then list the salient qualities that make those people so distinct. In
addition, they could be prompted by descriptions of performance qualities
given by other musicians in method books, treatises and interviews (Weston
et al. 2013). Once identified, the skills and attributes are compiled into a
chart, such as the circular diagrams shown in Figure 10.2. The performer
then rates his or her own level for each of the chosen skills (i.e. the ‘now’
state) in order to identify personal strengths and weaknesses, with the rating
usually made on a numerical scale of 1–10 where 1 indicates very poor and
10 indicates skill mastery. After this, each skill is rated at the level where the
performer would ideally wish to be (i.e. the ‘ideal’ state), taking into account
time scales, personal ambitions and any other factors relevant to the prevail-
ing context.
Visually depicting and scoring each of the skills and attributes allows a
quick review of the performer’s skill levels. Rather than trying to include all
possible relevant skills or attributes within a single performance profile, musi-
cians can generate multiple profiles (see Figure 10.2b). These may address any
number of individually relevant qualities, including sets of artistic and tech-
nical skills, presentational and communicative skills, and career and life skills.
Although music teachers may pre-populate performance profiles with specific
skill sets to facilitate the reflection process when working with their students, it
is important that each musician ultimately identifies skills that he or she consid-
ers essential for success in order to maximize the effectiveness of performance
profiling’s intentionally individualized approach. This fosters ownership of the
performance profiling process, ultimately enhancing motivation and engage-
ment (Weston et al. 2011).
Artistic
Presentation Ensemble skill 4
skills skills
Practice
skills
FIGURE 10.2 Example of a performance profile of (a) general musical skills and (b) specific artistic subskills. In each profile, black
lines show the performer’s current skill levels (the ‘now’ state), and grey lines represent the performer’s ideal levels (the ‘ideal’ state),
where 1 = very poor and 10 = skill mastery. Ultimately, each musician should identify general and specific skill sets that he or she
considers essential for success in order to maximize the effectiveness of the individual performance profiling.
214 Musicians in the Making
more persistent in the face of challenges or setbacks and put more effort into
achieving goals (Ryan and Deci 2000).
Performance profiling is also a valuable tool to enhance task involvement
and goal-directed thinking in performers (Weston, Greenlees and Thelwell
2010). Task-oriented performers assess their abilities on the basis of self-
referenced mastery of a skill, rather than comparing themselves to others
(Nicholls 1984; Nicholls et al. 1989). Performers exhibiting a task orientation
have been found to practise more during their free time and exert more effort
in enhancing their performance (Duda 2001; Duda and Nicholls 1992). The
identification of intrinsic goals, conceived of as achievement goals that focus
on enjoyment, has been found to predict self-rated performance quality among
musicians, actors and dancers, as well as being positively associated with well-
being and negatively associated with the intention to quit (Lacaille, Koestner
and Gaudreau 2007). Given that goal-setting has also been found to increase
motivation (Vidic and Burton 2010), the combined employment of perfor-
mance profiling and goal-setting strategies could enhance intrinsic motivation.
Although typically carried out as an individual activity, performance pro-
filing can also be employed in team settings, and research has shown that this
leads to increased team cohesion among athletes (Butler and Hardy 1992) and
between teams and their coaches (Dale and Wrisberg 1996). In a similar vein,
the sharing of common performance goals, underpinned by a unified concept
of an ideal sound, has been found to facilitate coordination of chamber musi-
cians’ actions and movements (Keller 2008).
Finally, performance profiling has been found useful for monitoring prog-
ress in a variety of settings and contexts, including pre-competition periods
(Butler and Hardy 1992), during ‘training camps’ (Butler, Smith and Irwin
1993) and across a whole competitive season (Dale and Wrisberg 1996), and for
psychological skills intervention (Jones 1993). It has also been shown to be a
useful strategy for facilitating post-performance evaluation (Butler and Hardy
1992; Butler et al. 1993; Weston et al. 2010).
Although empirical research in music is still lacking, all of the features listed
earlier as being enhanced by performance profiling—self-awareness, intrinsic
motivation, task involvement, goal setting, ensemble performance, monitoring
progress and evaluating performance—are skills and qualities central to pro-
gressing towards musical excellence (Chaffin and Lemieux 2004). Given this, it
is plausible to argue that employing performance profiles for multiple sets of
skills can facilitate pathways to expert performance in music.
Two key points about musicians’ skill development over time are worth
considering when applying performance profiling to one’s personal learning.
First, the identified attributes of each musician’s sets of skills (and hence
Learning in the spotlight 215
those represented on the performance profile) are likely to vary across his or
her career. The attributes of a first-year music performance student—with
a predominant focus on technical skills to be developed or repertoire to be
played, for instance—may differ considerably from those of a recent con-
servatoire graduate or an established professional. This change in skill pre-
occupation (i.e. those skills that are considered to be of utmost importance
at a particular point in time) is linked to talent and career development in
numerous domains of performance, including teaching. Outside the field of
music, for instance, a seminal work by Fuller and Brown (1975) observed
that school teachers progress through a series of stages regarding their pri-
mary concerns related to teaching. In this context, concerns refer to areas
of preoccupation or fixation. In the first stage, teachers’ concerns are often
vague, with correspondingly low involvement in teaching. In the second
stage, their concerns are more linked to survival; these include classroom
control, mastery of content and their own adequacy as teachers. By the third
stage, teachers’ concerns are more focused on the task, namely their teaching
performance. Finally, teachers ultimately reach a fourth stage in which their
primary concern is the impact of their teaching on their students. In this
stage, teachers demonstrate concern for their pupils’ social, academic and
emotional needs.
Relating this to music teaching, Yourn (2000) explored the concerns of
beginning music teachers and noted that the latter did report progressions
of concerns similar to those proposed by Fuller and Brown. Yourn also
pointed out that not all of the beginning music teachers in the study pro-
gressed steadily from one stage to the next; instead, they would often move
back and forth within the sequence. On this basis, Yourn proposed that those
in charge of music teachers’ training should both consider the concerns of
beginning teachers and, by doing so, encourage increased self-awareness in
order to facilitate effective progression through the stages. Although teach-
ing music and performing music are different activities, it would seem evi-
dent that performers also progress through a series of different primary
concerns as they develop proficiency and confidence as professionals. In a
recent study comparing comments from experienced and less experienced
classical musicians regarding optimal and suboptimal performance percep-
tions, a distinction between areas of primary concern also emerged (Clark
et al. 2014a). Most commonly, the less experienced musicians voiced con-
cern for audience evaluation, considering a ‘perfect’ performance to be of
utmost importance when performing. The more experienced musicians,
meanwhile, expressed concerns regarding the development of audience–per-
former connections and enjoyment of the performance event as a whole,
while still being conscious of the quality of their performance. When musi-
cians of different ages and abilities create personalized performance profiles,
they must consider their level of proficiency to ensure that the skills included
216 Musicians in the Making
Conclusions
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220 Musicians in the Making
Why improvise?
pieces. Within our broad definition we can also include the improvisation of
expressive devices that usually fall under the rubric of interpretation—e.g.
tempo fluctuations, articulation, dynamics, agogic accents, vibrato, timbre and
so on—because these too may be determined by the artist in the moment of
performance, if they are not fixed in advance by composers, editors, teachers
and convention. One of the main factors inhibiting improvisation in today’s
classical music communities is an underlying attitude that the creative potential
of performers is somehow inferior. To encourage the incorporation of more
improvisation into western art music is inherently to advocate for performers
to be allowed—and to allow themselves—to exercise greater authority in the
creative process.
There are some myths about improvisation that ought to be debunked. First,
just because a decision is spontaneous does not mean that it is unprepared or
that it comes out of nowhere. Improvisation may be greatly facilitated through
general training to improve skill sets and specific practice sessions to prepare
material and explore ideas. In my research, I identified six valuable skill sets
for improvising: the aural skills to play by ear, the memory facility to store
and access musical vocabulary, the ability to negotiate musical structures (e.g.
a practical understanding of music theory), technique, decision-making skills
and self-assessment skills. The preparation of material, ideas and skills may
make it easier to enter into the flow state that many improvisers find so produc-
tive and inspiring.
A second myth is that a creative work must be entirely original. Improvisation
often benefits from the recycling of preexisting materials and the support of
preexisting structures and models. However, conforming entirely to preexisting
models is not, I would argue, a creative act for the performer because it entails
no artistic decision-making by the performer. The creative process entails an
interweaving of recycling, transforming and innovating.2
A third myth sometimes encountered is that improvisation belongs in jazz
and various world music or vernacular traditions but not in serious western
art music, especially not in classical and romantic music. In actuality, a broad
variety of improvisational practices have flourished throughout many centuries
of western art music practice. It is generally acknowledged that improvisation
was an intrinsic part of performance practice during the medieval, renaissance
and baroque eras. Common types of improvisation in various periods of early
music included, for example, inventing polyphonic lines to accompany preex-
isting chants, hymns or popular songs; improvising chords over a fixed bass
line (basso continuo); floridly ornamenting pre-composed melodies (e.g. dimi-
nutions on a ground); creating sets of variations of familiar themes; varying a
section of a piece upon its repetition or reprise; inserting freer sections between
composed sections (e.g. passaggi, cadenzas); and extemporizing whole pieces
(e.g. fantasies, preludes, toccatas and fugues).3 Furthermore, when musicians
lived in a predominantly oral culture, learning pieces by ear and storing them
224 Musicians in the Making
in their aural memories instead of in notation, they typically would have per-
formed preexisting pieces through a process of oral composition. The theory of
oral composition proposes that instead of memorizing a piece note by note and
performing it by rote, bards and musicians had a mental storehouse of skeletal
structures and themes that they filled out with stock phrases and formulae in
the moment of performance (Lord 1960). Thanks to the early music revival and
historically informed performance movements, many of these older improvisa-
tional practices are more widely known and employed nowadays.
The practice of improvisation during the classical and romantic eras is
less widely acknowledged by musicians. In my interviews, I encountered a
few who felt that it was historically inauthentic and morally wrong to impro-
vise when playing material from these periods. However, as the interest of
music researchers in historical performance practices has grown, awareness
has been heightened of the multiple forms of improvisation that flourished
in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. For example, entire pieces in
the form of fantasies and preludes were widely improvised, especially by
keyboardists (see e.g. Hamilton 2008). Vocalists and solo instrumental-
ists were expected to add their own elaborate embellishments to pre-com-
posed pieces, to vary melodies upon repetitions and reprises, and to display
their virtuosity through extended improvisations at fermatas and cadenzas.
Furthermore, notation in many cases was considered to be a guideline, with
composers often writing out ornamentation to help novices and amateurs
but not necessarily expecting professional virtuosos to follow the sugges-
tions. Notwithstanding the push by certain romantic composers (especially
Germans) for performers to follow their scores more literally, the music that
audiences heard at the time would have borne a much stronger stamp of
the performer than today’s performances of the same repertoire (see Brown
1999). Brown argues that ‘whether ornamentation … was enjoyed, merely
tolerated, or even detested by the composer, however, does not alter the fact
that it was a pervasive aspect of nineteenth-century musical life’ (ibid.: 420).
Even into the early twentieth century, recordings demonstrate that perform-
ers often took considerably greater artistic liberties in improvising their
interpretations of scores than musicians today do (see Leech-Wilkinson
2009a, 2009b; Philip 1992).
The paucity of improvisation in western art music performance practice
over the last century is therefore an anomaly.4 Aside from the early music
scene and certain contemporary music circles that embrace free improvisa-
tion and indeterminate compositions, mainstream approaches to the perfor-
mance of classical- and romantic-style repertoire tend to excessively restrict
the creative liberties of the performer. In small pockets and circles around
the world, however, improvisation has been making a comeback, some-
times practised more or less in its traditional forms and sometimes finding
new roles and new meaning in the lives of classical musicians today. Some
Incorporating improvisation into classical music performance 225
By breaking down and playing with the components that characterize sev-
eral composers’ stylistic languages, Junttu gains technical versatility as well as
a deeper aural and intellectual understanding of the material from the inside
out. After such playful deconstruction and reconstruction in the practice room,
Junttu finds that she is able to create a feeling of spontaneity, freshness and
energy on stage even when performing traditional work from a score:
Always when you play a classical piece on stage you should somehow
create it anew, so it feels like it’s the first time… You can’t do that if you
don’t know the piece… To keep the music very alive and flexible, even
when reading … you have to allow yourself to do something that you
never even tried when you were practising. Maybe it’s not that obvious
for the listener. It can be different phrasing or articulation or ornamen-
tation. The improvisation is not that big in terms of what it actually
sounds like… But you know when you go to a concert and you’re mes-
merised? Then you know that something is happening here and now and
it’s so present.6
I try to keep myself open and not have too criticizing an attitude toward
myself. That’s hard because that criticizing attitude is something that I
learned from a very young age and it’s destructive, it does not help me
play well at all. Improvising when you’re practising, even when you’re
learning a new piece, is helpful to avoid that … to not be too serious and
to have a playful way of playing with the piano and with pieces… Then
you are able to achieve more of what your ability actually is. When I can
keep that attitude on stage I play so much better. It’s like a flow… I am
more open to whatever happens and able to react really fast or do things
that are completely new… But you have to rehearse that way; otherwise
it’s not possible on the stage.
Junttu’s experiences here are representative of many musicians who found that
overly critical and perfectionist attitudes towards the execution of the score
impeded technique and heightened performance anxiety, whereas maintaining
a more playful attitude can help musicians better perform to the full extent of
their abilities.
Similar exercises can also be valuable in teaching, as Junttu illustrates:
I started to play games with some simple songs, for example ‘Happy
Birthday’ in a Liszt style… We just take some children’s songs, play them
by ear and then add the chords. Then we do it in different keys and with
different accompaniments… It’s very pianistic, so like ornamentation,
doing broken chords for the accompaniment, or using loads of octaves,
Incorporating improvisation into classical music performance 227
Improvisational games can help students develop aural skills, technique, confi-
dence and stage presence, as Junttu has observed:
They are more flexible with their instrument. They can pick up tunes
[by ear] and play them with left-hand accompaniment… They know the
basic structures better—things like chords, inversions, progressions and
keys are easier for them… It develops both their ear and their physical
technique. It’s so much easier to get to that kind of level where you can
just think and your fingers know… The way they are with the piano is
more free and they are not that scared of making mistakes… They are
confident with the instrument and confident playing to others, and they
find that comfortable way of doing music.
Contrary to the popular myth that one must master technique before becoming
creative, Junttu reveals how improvisation can develop technique:
I have one amazing student who came to me when she was six. She was so
keen on music, but her fingers didn’t move at all. She was really behind in
development of motor ability. So I had to start her with all these improv-
isation exercises. We improvised pieces, we did exercises with hands and
fingers, and now she’s eleven, and her way of playing the piano is so com-
pletely free that she’s amazing… Her way of playing the instrument is so
rewarding to listen to, it’s easy and so natural.
I think the way you practise is very important. Practising isn’t about find-
ing the way you’re going to play this piece, rather it’s about finding lots
of ways you could play this piece, taking it apart and throwing it around
and not deciding. Maybe you can decide something, but then in perfor-
mance something else might happen because after discovering all of these
options you might find something new in the performance that you had-
n’t tried before. If, however, it’s just ‘I choose this then I go here’, it means
228 Musicians in the Making
that I can’t go there. So ideally it gives you more room in the performing
situation instead of having to balance on a tight rope where if something
happens you fall.
Practising for Järviö is thus a key exploratory stage in which she discovers and
investigates a great range of interpretative possibilities. A deeper understanding
of these possibilities then allows her to approach her interpretation of tradi-
tional music (in her current project, eighteenth-century French baroque reper-
toire) with spontaneity and flexibility. An added benefit of not being locked into
one way of performing is that it makes failure in performance much less likely.
Having this flexibility to spontaneously pursue multiple possible options is,
for Järviö, mandatory for making music art. Otherwise it becomes, in her words,
‘a crossword puzzle where you have just one right answer’. She laments that even
in early music circles ‘the crossword puzzle model is beginning to be there; the
fans of early music go to the concert to see if you filled in [the boxes] correctly’.
When she sang modern music with a professional chamber choir, she similarly
found the attitude that everyone was ‘so proud that we could learn everything so
fast, sight-read anything and sing all these different things in the concert… The
ideal is a person who can produce the right notes with the minimum amount of
work and then they’re happy with it.’ The downside of this attitude is that ‘if you
have this situation where you have two rehearsals and a full concert, you don’t
have the time to go to the uncomfortable area… It’s important to feel uncom-
fortable and not always just stick to what feels nice or natural, because it doesn’t
mean that it’s necessarily the right answer for you or for anybody.’ For her, such
a lack of exploration and discovery is when music stops being art. She pro-
claims, ‘I don’t want to perform anymore if I don’t have that space. I don’t see
any point in doing a gig to do something correctly. I don’t feel good afterwards,
I feel like a prostitute, that I’m selling something that is not the real thing, that
I’m cheating the audience. They believe that we are doing art.’
Järviö has also encountered the ‘crossword puzzle model’ while giving les-
sons and demonstrations for conservatoire students. For example, in a master-
class, students became confused by conflicting instructions regarding how to
interpret a passage. Järviö told them, ‘isn’t it wonderful that there are so many
different alternatives! It’s you who are playing and there is no right answer to
this. There are different answers and many of them can work and some of
them don’t and that’s the risk that you take, but you decide.’ These advanced
students were intimidated: ‘they had never done this. They were really scared
of making decisions.’ Järviö encourages students to overcome such inhibitions
by role modelling:
I give them so many alternatives that they start to realize that actually it
is not this or this but it’s like eight different alternatives… So they under-
stand that it’s an unending field of possibilities. Because they want to do
things right, it’s very scary to launch into something like that, so I also
Incorporating improvisation into classical music performance 229
give bad examples and make fun of myself so that they can hear that this
is not so serious, it’s just music.
embarrassing herself by improvising on the violin, but might not care so much
if her musical peers see that she is a terrible actor), as well as for equalizing the
playing field (none of the musicians in the class may be good actors) and build-
ing supportive group dynamics (they can all make fools of themselves together
and still respect one another as musicians). Many exercises are also approached
as games, which is important for instilling a sense of playfulness so that partici-
pants feel free to explore possibilities and so that they get the feeling that it is
acceptable to make mistakes. Overcoming fear of mistakes is a crucial compo-
nent of developing the courage to take risks, which is entailed in any creative
work that challenges conventions.
Improvisation in performance
musics that they have experienced in their lifetime, then it is likely that the
resulting improvisation would not remain within stylistic boundaries. This is a
matter of aesthetic choice and values. For some, transcending such boundaries
is inappropriate while for others it represents the peak of creativity. As flautist
Ellen Burr avows: ‘creativity, to me, is listening and being open to the moment,
and allowing yourself to pull in disparate images and ideas and sensations …
like a whirlpool coming in to synthesize all these things to this one place, like a
centrifugal force, and from that centre is what you speak’.
One of the biggest challenges that Kriikku reports is not repeating himself,
which is important to him so that his cadenzas always sound new and fresh.
He explains that if you allow yourself to simply come up with something on
the spot,
maybe something nice happens, but the danger is that you start to do
things that you are sure about. [You think,] ‘this is what I have always
done, I know people enjoy this special thing on the clarinet, and I’ll do
it again’. But that’s not really interesting. So I have to make a plan, and
then once the plan is clear in my mind I can improvise with the plan when
I see the reactions from the audience. Then I can leave off big parts of the
plan, take off, and eventually come back to the plan. I can even leave it
open as to whether I finish the cadenza loudly or really quietly, which is a
big deal in classical music.
The reception that Kriikku has received from modern composers is an impor-
tant reminder that many composers in the past and the present have appreci-
ated the creative input of performers:
Composers started to write pieces for me and some included big moments
for improvising, like the first and second concertos by Jukka Tiensuu…
In the first Tiensuu concerto the cadenza … is a big part of the piece…
Incorporating improvisation into classical music performance 233
It’s quite clear that it should be an improvised cadenza and I always try
to create something new. Tiensuu did write out his own cadenza, but
he only wrote it if someone were to play it who can’t improvise… The
Magnus Lindberg Concerto only has a place for a cadenza; you can play
a cadenza if you want or you can leave it off, the composition is built like
that. But I started to play quite a big cadenza and we were at the BBC
Proms Festival and Magnus was saying ‘now go for it and play a long
cadenza’. Then I went to the LA Hollywood Bowl to play this piece and
then Carnegie Hall with the New York Phil, and he said ‘no, play a bigger
cadenza’. So he started to like the idea.
Even though ‘their language is more modern’, Kriikku considers ‘the music of
[contemporary composers] Tiensuu and Lindberg classical as well, because it’s
clearly part of the classical music history’—and together these composers and
performers are continuing a historical performance practice into the present.
During the classical era, composers would often write concertos with specific
performers in mind and provide room for performers to contribute their own
creative work (with cadenzas being notated as an optional aid for those not
skilled or confident enough to improvise their own).
Improvising can have an impact on a performer’s relationship with the audi-
ence. Performing well-known concertos from the classical canon can often be
nerve-wracking, confesses Kriikku:
There is kind of a pressure because they are such great pieces. There are
at least four that are running all the time wherever I go… The tension is
not because you have something new and the audience is listening to the
music, rather what it is is [that] they are listening to its execution, ‘oh, I’ve
heard this concerto before, let’s see how this is now’. If we could solve this
problem about tension we could make much more interesting interpreta-
tions of classical pieces… But at the moment when my cadenza comes
in the concert, I’m not tense. It’s my big moment. It’s interesting and it
includes the element of improvisation.
Shifting the listener’s focus from how well a familiar piece is executed to dis-
covering and enjoying new musical experiences can lessen musicians’ potential
performance anxiety, thereby freeing them to be more creative.
Next I present examples from the work of organist Christoph Bull, a German
musician now based in Los Angeles. When playing in church services Bull
engages in more functional types of improvised performance, while in concerts
he embarks on boundary-challenging improvisations.
234 Musicians in the Making
In contrast with many of the other musicians in this study who came to
improvisation relatively late in their musical development, Bull received formal
tuition in improvisation from an early age. Though he describes this early train-
ing as ‘conservative’, it provided an important foundation of skill sets:
Once equipped with such training, the church environment provided tremen-
dous freedom and support for improvisation, as indeed it has for generations
of musicians:
A lot of what I learned I don’t do any more because I find that in real life
most of the time it’s actually best to keep it simple. I learned all of these
fancy things … but it doesn’t necessarily help them to follow it… When I
was still in Germany I would put these methods to the test. For example, I
would do a reharmonization of the hymn with those fourths and seconds
Incorporating improvisation into classical music performance 235
and I did notice that some people didn’t really like that. To be quite honest I
think they might’ve had a point, because those were traditional hymns and
I’m not sure that they really sound better with those modern harmonies. It’s
interesting, but I’m not really sure if it helps. It could be a little bit distract-
ing. So I found myself going back to being more conservative with it.
These diverse artistic choices are of course guided by Bull’s own dynamic
personality and aesthetic values. It is also likely that his experiences as a devel-
oping and working functional musician—in which improvisation was an inte-
grated and integral component—played a key role in fostering self-confidence
and enabling attitudes. Bull exhibits a particularly positive attitude towards
potential criticism:
I don’t care so much about what’s allowed and what’s not. I also accept
that if some people are against that, then maybe that’s ok if there’s a
236 Musicians in the Making
little controversy… Sometimes I might play the original piece and then
I’ll continue with the improvisation on it. So I’m not too concerned that
I desecrated the old Bach, you know? … Sometimes the fans are more
concerned about that. Even in rock music some people have violent reac-
tions to a cover version of a song: ‘how can you do that?’ And I’m like,
‘hey, if you don’t like it, don’t buy it. Listen to the original, it’s still there,
nobody took away the original piece.’
put down what they wanted you to play’, and ‘because if you’re not [being
completely faithful to the score], then you’re giving the listener a different piece
of musical information than they should have, and I think that that’s actually
wrong… They should hear it like it was done in the day.’ These are the ideals
of remaining faithful to a composer’s intentions and recreating a historically
authentic sound, but such attitudes have a specific twentieth-century history
(see Goehr 1992). Recent research in performance studies has demonstrated
that performers took much greater creative liberties in the eighteenth and nine-
teenth centuries than was previously believed to be the case when many of the
teachers of our current generations of performers were taught music history.
Regardless of whether or not the creative liberties of performers would have
been tolerated or appreciated by historical composers and heard by historical
audiences, perhaps it might be worthwhile to challenge these values. Leech-
Wilkinson and Doğantan-Dack (2013) question why we are bent on ‘obeying
the every collectively imagined whim of a man who, as often as not, has been
dead for several hundred years’. They propose that ‘we have no ethical obliga-
tions to dead composers’.
This contemporary value system restricts the creative authority of perform-
ers in favour not only of composers but also of teachers and editors. Underlying
this ideological system is an assumption that performers’ creative capacity is
inferior—an unspoken aspect of the entrenched hierarchies of classical music
culture. Setting low expectations can be a self-fulfilling prophecy:11 when per-
formers are not given the opportunity to develop enabling skill sets, they are
crippled from realizing much of their creative potential. In this respect, it is
telling that many of the improvising classical musicians whom I interviewed
were self-taught or followed pathways alternative to mainstream music educa-
tion. Until pedagogical goals and curricula change, aspiring creative perform-
ers will need to take some of their training into their own hands in similar ways.
Surely it is time for classical performers to assert their right for greater artistic
autonomy.
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240 Musicians in the Making
PERSONAL INTERVIEWS
As I began putting together this Insight, one of the hardest tasks was finding
the right opening sentence. I wanted to contextualize the essay to give readers
both a frame of reference and, in particular, a sense of who I am in relation to
‘creative performance’. This inevitably led to familiar dilemmas about how best
to capture the slippery sense of professional identity. This is common to many
with a so-called portfolio career, among whose ranks I count myself. I initially
tried ‘I’m a musician working primarily within the field of small-group contem-
porary jazz’, having already dismissed ‘I’m a saxophonist …’ as too narrow.
Such pithy ‘elevator pitches’ have their place, and I use different versions all the
time, depending on the situation. However, when considering my own pathway
in more holistic terms, there is something central and essential about slipperi-
ness of identity, about constantly evolving practice, about the shifting focus of
my own artistic journey, and about uncertainty. So let me try again.
I play the saxophone. I love playing it and I enjoy the sounds I make. I con-
fess to initially being drawn to it by the look just as much as the sound, although
these days it’s the physical sense of togetherness, and a certain ‘release’ through
playing, that are the prime attractions of the instrument. I wish that I played it
more, but mostly only in the sense that I always wish there were more hours in
the day. In general, when I choose not to play it for a period, it’s because of that
slippery sense of professional identity and my artistic focus being elsewhere,
such as composing, curating, teaching or collaborating in other ways.
There are many key relationships—symbiotic ones—which are integral to
my own pathway to creative performance. Many of these feel like two sides
of the same coin. I’m an improviser and a composer. I’m a performer and an
educator. I have an individual artistic voice and an artistic voice embedded
within a collective of musicians, a community of practice. These are some of
the ‘big picture’ relationships, but there are many significant micro relation-
ships too. For example, I perform in intimate settings for a handful of people,
and I perform at festivals for tens of thousands; I perform live for audiences
241
242 Musicians in the Making
and I ‘perform’ in the recording studio. I could go on, but instead I will try to
unpack some of the ‘big picture’ relationships.
For me, improvising and composing are mutually beneficial processes to
engage in. Let me take improvisation first. The core of my ‘craft’ throughout
my career to date has been playing jazz, and improvisation has always been
a central element of that. The jazz styles I’ve worked in have varied hugely,
from early twentieth-century recreations such as the Pasadena Roof Orchestra,
through small-group bop styles of the 1940s–60s, to all manner of contempo-
rary styles to which the casual observer would hardly ascribe the label ‘jazz’.
Away from jazz, I’ve also worked with improvisation in other styles. These
include Indian classical music and many variants of popular western music
such as salsa, samba, funk, etc.
Added to this has been considerable experience of improvising in so-
called ‘free’ contexts, ostensibly without a predefined style, and usually with-
out predefined structures to contain the improvisation. In practice, however,
there are just as many subgenres of ‘free’ music as there are in any other
realm; it tends to be more about certain stylistic preferences (often atonal
and arhythmic), and a clear ‘language’ usually emerges. In cross-arts con-
texts, I’ve improvised and composed music in collaboration with dancers
and filmmakers.
All of this experience has given me a much deeper understanding of the
nature of musical improvisation than I would have had if I’d been playing pri-
marily in one style. Importantly, it has helped me to untangle processes that
were essentially genre-neutral, versus ones that were to do with ‘language’.
Improvisational skills and processes which I came to see as universal include
aural imagination; memory; creation of narrative and awareness of overall
shape; emotion; ability to play different ‘roles’ within the improvising ensem-
ble; motivic development; knowledge of chords, scales and modes; and control
of space, phrase shape, pitch range, dynamics, articulation, tone, phrase length,
phrase density, pulse, metre, internal pacing, time feel and intervallic structure.
All of these ‘tools’ can then be deployed to communicate meaningfully with
other musicians, using a shared stylistic language. The knowledge of the subtle-
ties and details of each musical language is just as important for good commu-
nication as the universal tools themselves.
These lessons, learned through my varied musical experiences, have simulta-
neously been unpacked, explored, tested and developed through my teaching.
My roles as educator and performer have mutually reinforced one another. In
particular, it was with my ‘educator hat’ on that I refined my concepts of the
nature of musical language within specific styles, and how best to learn that
language as an improvising musician. I came to view the importance of equilib-
rium between yet another pair of processes. A ‘top-down’ method of language
acquisition involves listening, transcription and the imitate-assimilate-innovate
cycle; a ‘bottom-up’ tool kit of resources, strengthening the ‘building blocks’
Insight: Carlos Lopez-Real 243
of the music, supports this. There are parallels between genre-neutral skills and
those primarily concerned with style, idiom and language.
This awareness in turn helped me to understand the direct correspondence
to composition, as all of these are skills, processes and considerations central
to my work as a composer. The main difference, of course, is that they occur
in disparate time frames. It’s too simplistic to say that the improviser deploys
these skills ‘in the moment’ and more intuitively, while the composer has time
to more consciously manipulate them and ponder the outcomes. Both the
improviser and the composer are working with a vast repository of tacit knowl-
edge, often in an intuitive, direct and aural way. Correspondingly, both bring
to bear conscious strategies, problem-solving and decision-making processes.
Nonetheless, the disparate time frames do result in outputs which themselves
are distinct. As a composer, I can craft form and structure that often would be
difficult for an improviser to achieve. As an improviser, I can effect a subtlety of
phrasing almost impossible to notate or even conceive as a composer. For me,
however, improvisation is at its best in group situations where a deep, shared
musical language can facilitate real musical conversation.
This leads me to consider the third of my ‘big picture’ relationships, namely
my individual artistic voice within a wider community of musicians. Jazz is a
highly collaborative art. The key developments in the history of jazz music have
happened on the bandstand, night after night, as musicians improvise together,
using their current favourite materials and devices. The language evolves quite
literally before one’s eyes and ears. Someone may improvise a new melodic
‘solution’ to a particular harmonic ‘problem’, and, if it resonates with the other
musicians, this will be picked up on and developed. It may stick and be further
developed during subsequent performances, eventually bedding down as a new
part of the collective language. It’s very common for the musicians I work with
to record their performances and then listen to them for new ideas, and this
speeds up the evolutionary process of language development.
My generation looks back enviously at a time when jazz musicians could
hold a nightly residency at a club for months on end, for the very reason that
this was the creative cauldron in which the music developed so rapidly. The dig-
ital age offers us different opportunities, however, including almost unlimited
access to recordings of the past. Our listening, and what we can absorb in terms
of musical language through transcription, is broader than past generations
could ever have dreamed of. In one way, this fast-tracks young players to having
a very complete mastery of the improvisational ‘canon’. On the other hand, the
process is essentially one-way, rather than collaborative.
One of the means by which this collaborative gap has been filled has been
the formation of numerous semiformal networks or collectives of musicians,
coalescing around common musical or social ideas. In 2007 I brought together
several musicians to form the E17 Jazz Collective. This harnessed the poten-
tial of the high density of top jazz musicians in Walthamstow in East London,
244 Musicians in the Making
many of whom already knew each other socially and professionally. Over the
years we’ve curated hundreds of gigs, plus several festivals and collaborations
with other groups. Aside from more external recognition, such as funding and
awards, the benefits to the musicians have been primarily artistic. Existing musi-
cal connections have been strengthened and new ones developed, often resulting
in the formation of new bands where the personnel overlap. This context has
facilitated the refinement of our own improvisational ‘dialect’ in the manner
described above. My personal musical voice has been tangibly influenced by
regularly collaborating with my local peers. In turn, I’ve made a distinct con-
tribution to the collective artistic identity, through my playing, composing and
band-leading.
For me, a collective means a way of working together which goes beyond
simply playing music together. It means having a mutual understanding of
our place as musicians within society, and specifically within our own imme-
diate cultural and social contexts. Just as there is fluidity to the jazz scene as
a whole, so there can be fluidity to the nature and makeup of collectives. E17
Jazz itself has changed, for example, and in fact is in a process of constant
evolution. Just as people come together to form natural networks, collectives
and collaborations, so too (on a more macro level) can collectives. Currently
several collectives collaborate on larger creative projects, and some London
ones are joining forces to make a more unified presentation to European
funding bodies.
This balance of looking inwards versus outwards seems entirely in keep-
ing with the other elements of my professional identity: improviser/composer,
performer/educator, individual/member of collective. As I consider these rela-
tionships, it becomes clearer to me that I’m essentially dealing with creative
expression generally, rather than creative ‘performance’ in particular. On the
other hand, there are innumerable connections between the two which them-
selves undergo constant evolution as one develops as a musician. The fact that
artistic journeys can progress along several pathways at one and the same time
may encourage the slipperiness of identity and the sense of uncertainty that
I’ve discussed, yet these in turn can be sources of creative inspiration to be
tapped as one wishes at any given stage.
Insight
Ensemble music in the making: a matter
of shared leadership
Margaret Faultless
however. Even from the back of an orchestra pit in an opera house, it is still
possible to know and feel whether the performance is exceptional rather than
merely adequate.
The role of complex social encounters within a large ensemble playing reper-
toire composed during the decades before the era of silent conducting is worthy
of special consideration. This music was not composed with the necessity of
a conductor in mind. All of Haydn’s and Mozart’s symphonies and most of
Beethoven’s fall into this category. These works have become core repertoire for
period instrument orchestras. It is within such ensembles that I have had the
privilege of participating and observing the minutiae of social interactions and
their profound effect on performances. For many reasons, a conductor is often
in charge of this earlier repertoire, bringing an individual artistic interpretation
into the rehearsal process and the concert performance. But the conductor’s
presence also entails a distinctive hierarchy, which inevitably redefines the inter-
nal social dynamics of the ensemble.
When musicians work together, they develop an understanding of the whole
score, not only of their own individual line. Within this social network (when
the group is functioning well), the control of the flow and drama of the music
passes between instruments, and each player takes on a remarkable variety of
roles. These roles involve leading and following, switching between one and the
other, and exploring the middle ground in a complex world of exchanges, where
(unlike spoken conversation) more than one musical debate can happen simul-
taneously and intelligibly. To offer just a few examples, the role of an individual
line in an ensemble can, at any one moment, be melodic, structural, soloistic or
accompanimental; it can influence rhythmic ebb and flow, or underpin the har-
monic foundation. In my experience, through understanding the function of
these various elements, a good chamber orchestra knows—sometimes instinc-
tively, sometimes assisted by direction—how to apportion responsibility and to
define the role of individual lines in order to enable the music to ‘speak’.
These musical interactions, which are implicit in the language of the classi-
cal period, mirror the Enlightenment itself. The classical style of the late eight-
eenth century appears to play out new social conventions through sonata form.
Certain typical patterns of reciprocal phrases, contrasting material, small-scale
gestures, harmonic events and the arch of the tonic–dominant polarity of
sonata form itself all contribute to a world of musical social encounters played
out in and through music. In both rehearsal and performance, individual musi-
cians and sections thereof express these aspects of classical form as social acts.
An audience goes to a concert to see as well as to hear these encounters take
place on stage, and it can appreciate the role of the social both in the perfor-
mance and potentially in the music itself.
In some rehearsal formats, the social dynamic of the ensemble can be
such that each player feels empowered to contribute by making suggestions
about how to shape the interpretation. However, it is crucial to know when it
Insight: Margaret Faultless 247
When I think about experiences which have shaped my life as a musician and
as a pianist, I inevitably come back to an injury that I suffered which nearly
ended my career before it had begun. I was fifteen and had just started to study
at a music school. I was diligent and enthusiastic, practising for up to four or
five hours a day. Eventually I started to feel pain in my right arm, and this
developed into tendonitis. Over the next four years, I continued to play, inter-
spersed with periods of rest and trips to various specialists, but the injury grew
worse rather than better. The irony was that I had begun to excel as a pianist.
During the time when my injury was at its worst, I won concerto competitions,
performing Ravel’s Piano Concerto with the Hallé Orchestra and my school
orchestra; I was also a keyboard finalist in the BBC Young Musician of the
Year competition. On the outside I seemed to be flying, but in private I was
suffering both physically and mentally from the strain of the injury. I couldn’t
write, I could barely lift anything, and all my strength was poured into being
able to continue to play. Secretly, I despaired of my pianistic future, feeling that
I was living on borrowed time with my playing.
Many stories of injuries do not have happy endings, but my story does. I was
extremely fortunate to meet wonderful piano teachers who analysed my physical
approach to the instrument, as a result of which I started to alter the way I was play-
ing. At the same time, I met a very skilful osteopath who treated the physical injury.
I realize now that this two-pronged approach was the only thing that possibly could
have cured the injury. One would not have worked without the other. Now, some
twenty years later, I no longer view this period as entirely negative: instead, I see it
as a positive experience that enabled me to grow as a person, musician and teacher.
As less was known about musicians’ injuries at the time I was suffering, I
had to explore many avenues to learn more about how to improve the phys-
ical symptoms. In addition to receiving treatment from various practitioners,
I began to closely examine my physical relationship with the piano. I started
to realize that I was playing pieces without enough regard for my physical
248
Insight: Helen Reid 249
depth, and I felt that I began to develop a stronger connection with the works
I was playing.
I entitled this essay ‘Making connections’ because, reflecting on the last
twenty years, I realize that this is what now characterizes my playing and teach-
ing. If a musical journey through a piece is to be most convincing at least for
the individual performer, then I believe that physical gesture needs to connect
with musical intention. Making physical and emotional connections in this way
means that playing the instrument is a constant journey as well as a joy, and it
may also allow audiences to connect more deeply with my performances. Such
connections are also an excellent way to avoid subjecting oneself to the kinds
of injury that I suffered from and that afflict so many musicians in the making.
PART 3
Creative dialogue
and reflection
12
The musician who has surrendered his will to tradition has lost all
hope of keeping the tradition alive.
—Rosen (2002: 18)
The notion of reflective practice is implicit in all of the chapters of this book, to
the extent that they are describing or calling for critical thinking about the core
elements of (mostly) classical music in different learning contexts—lessons,
practice, ensemble rehearsals, performances and assessments. In this chapter,
we want to put certain kinds of reflection into a slightly broader historical and
philosophical context. In particular, we wish to consider how the ideologies of
classical music, which have been the underpinning of western musical train-
ing since the nineteenth century, might or might not be present in the kind of
reflection in which classical performers engage, and might distinguish reflective
practice in classical music from that in other genres. We hope that by identifying
some elements of these musicians’ mental and imaginative habits and practices
as socially constructed or culturally determined, we might help to encourage a
sort of meta-reflection which could broaden the seemingly ‘natural’ assump-
tions that underlie many classical musicians’ approaches to practice and inter-
pretation, and which could have a liberating effect as a consequence. Indeed, if
critical thinking in and through musical practice is closely connected to the idea
of an artist’s constantly evolving frames of reference, the cultural and ideologi-
cal frame of the kind of music that he or she plays is as important as any other.
We operate under the assumption that to take the core values of classical music
explicitly and critically into account in reflective practice is essential to the way
practising musicians understand and respond to the changing world.
This chapter, then, is partially ethnographic, to the extent that it is based
on the observations and comments of performers as they reflect on what they
do. These observations and comments come both from student practice diaries
at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland (hereafter RCS) and from a series of
253
254 Musicians in the Making
Clearly much reflective practice in classical music is not, and has no reason
to be, very different from that in any other genre where the performers have
significant professional ambitions. All serious musicians in all traditions
reflect on questions such as whether a performance speaks to those listening
to it, whether it is emotionally satisfying to the performer(s), whether it is
adequately rehearsed, how to prepare an effective performance efficiently,
whether nerves get in the way, whether the ensemble (if there is one) works
well together, whether the performer(s) are in the right physical shape for the
performance, whether the performance represents the overall style of music
adequately, how a given performance might fit into a career trajectory, and
so forth. For none of these questions does the ideology of the canon or the
discourse of classical music impinge in any obviously distinct way on how
classical musicians think about music-making, and perhaps that is why a fair
proportion of the performance studies literature makes no, or few, distinc-
tions between classical music and other kinds of music taught in relatively
formal situations like conservatoires.3
Reflection and the classical musician 255
Similarly, the comments about nerves by her colleague Sophia could come from
a young (or not so young) musician in any tradition:
which aim to recreate the performances of their heroes in every sonic and visual
detail, raise comparable questions about original intent. However, because the
aim of a tribute performance is typically reproduction rather than interpreta-
tion, and because the sources for the performances are audio and video record-
ings rather than printed scores, the performers are not usually caught on the
horns of the same dilemmas as classical performers.
Secondly, concern about the propriety of the overt intrusion of ‘ego’ in
performance and interpretation is especially acute in classical music.6 One
professional classical musician who took part in the interview study noted
that part of his maturation involved getting his ‘ego in the right place’, by
which he meant not on display during his performances, and not his primary
concern. As classical musicians, we figure ourselves as being engaged in the
‘realization of … elements’ sometimes evident, sometimes hidden within a
musical composition,7 rather than in the creation of a ‘cover version’ of a
work, in which the point is precisely not to render the performance trans-
parent to an imagined original, but to change the original in ways that bla-
tantly identify it as now the possession of the current performer. The need to
moderate the overt intervention of one’s personality as a performer is both
explicit and implicit in many kinds of discourse about classical performance.
For example, in a philosophical essay on the ethics of (classical) musical per-
formance, Urmson (1995) describes the problematics of being ‘faithful’ to
dead composers whose written indications are radically incomplete, yet he
goes on to reinforce both the authority of the composer and the subordinate
position of the performer:
I think it is deplorable that there should be arrogant performers who
believe that the satisfactions of their individualities, their artistic visions,
or what you will, are of such central importance that all other consid-
erations can be legitimately ignored by them… We should be glad that,
on the whole, we live in a time when performers, unlike operatic and the-
atrical directors[,] … do in general take their responsibilities seriously.
(Urmson 1995: 163–4)
Finally, using the score rather than other media or oral tradition as the primary
repository of truth is also particularly characteristic of classical music. Rosen
writes, ‘The eminent value of the score—the theoretical structure of pitch and
rhythm with some of the other aspects of music indicated generally in a some-
what cursory fashion—is, I think, unique to Western music’ (2012: 34). He gives
further weight to the score, stating that ‘there are many different ways of real-
izing the score, but they are all realizations of the same work, which in fact
remains invariant—remains, we might say, visible but inaudible behind all these
realizations’ (ibid.: 28). Professional musicians who participated in the semi-
structured interviews8 reported here often referred to score study as a primary
source of interpretative conviction and artistic bona fides. For example, a violist
Reflection and the classical musician 257
These editions are fantastic. They are not definitive; he’s taken the most
direct sources he could… He cites all the different sources. And then it
gives you this wonderful freedom of choice … and that’s really fun…
And, I mean, you start to gain authority… It comes from really really
really doing as much as you can to research and expose yourself to dif-
ferent things.
It’s taken me fifteen years to deal on the one hand with my ego, which was
inflated… My values shifted … towards ‘oh, what’s the music doing’…
Partly that happened because of people I came into contact with… One
in particular pointed me back to the music, she pointed me back to the
score, and basically told me … ‘look at how these things connect, look at
where this phrase goes…’
Recordings, live performances by other artists, and the lore of teachers and
other authority figures—the oral traditions of this genre—are often described
as important, even indispensable. However, despite (or, some would say, because
of) its relative paucity of detailed information about performance, the score is
felt to be the ultimate arbiter of interpretative limits in ways that are unique to
this genre. Rosen, for example, writes, ‘it is the basic antagonism of score and
performance, of concept and realization, that is the glory of Western music’
(2012: 27).
Underlying all discussions of the ontological status of the score is not only
the idea that there are such constant entities as works, which exist to be ‘recre-
ated’, ‘brought to life’ or even ‘reproduced’ in performance,9 but also the notion
that performances advertised as being of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony have an
obligation to fall within a penumbra of possibilities limited by the score.10 Most
important for everyday practice is the notion embedded in this discourse that
works are hierarchically above performances—that is, works (however defined)
are both more important and more capacious than performances of them
(Levinson 1996). In other words, ‘the work’ embodies intentions (what kinds
and at what level is a point of discussion), at least some of which need to be
made evident for the performance to be ‘of’ that work; therefore, the performer
has relatively limited freedom to display his or her ‘personality’. A review of
the Academy of St Martin in the Fields, for example, notes: ‘The Academy
found every nuance in the music’ (Furones 2013; italics added), again implying
that performers tease meanings out of something preexisting and with a finite
range of implication, rather than adding personally or culturally meaningful
elements to an incomplete and malleable set of suggestions.
258 Musicians in the Making
A violinist who took part in the interview study similarly described the need to
strip one’s work of ‘mannerisms’, a term also used pejoratively by the pianist
Susan Tomes when she writes, ‘We always believe we’re sincerely free of man-
nerisms and passing fancies’ (Tomes 2010: 261). By describing certain kinds of
personal musical choices or behaviours as ‘mannerisms’, both the violinist and
Tomes speak to the ideology of restraining what are believed to be purely per-
sonal (and perhaps even selfish) interventions in the work-text, because what
Reflection and the classical musician 259
the performer is perceived as doing ostensibly should not draw attention away
from whatever is understood as ‘the work itself’.
In the heat of musical practice, teachers, coaches and other musicians in instruc-
tional or explanatory positions tend to be less explicit about the discourse of
Werktreue (fidelity to the work) and self-denial. We tend to address interpreta-
tive problems in terms of what will project to an audience, or what lends suffi-
cient contrast or character to a passage, without ever explaining the criteria for
‘sufficient’ or why we think the music ‘demands’ this or that expressive nuance
from the performer. In addition, and perhaps not surprisingly in this context,
the reflective practices of young and developing musicians quite often seem to
skirt or short-change the questions of expression and interpretation that might
invoke this ideology. Hultberg, for example, notes:
In a study on Danish piano students, Nielsen (1996) found that, to a large
extent, they direct their attention towards mastering technical problems
in order to play correctly, rather than towards expressivity. This con-
cerned their reflections on both performances of their own and those of
fellow-students. Case studies of the self-regulated learning strategies of
two Norwegian organ students showed that these concentrated mainly
on solving instrumental-technical problems and paid little attention to
musical expression… (2008: 8)
Nor is this weighting of practice and reflection towards the practical and
technical confined to younger musicians. Chaffin and Logan (2006), studying a
seasoned professional pianist’s rehearsal strategies in learning, performing and
recording the last movement of Bach’s Italian Concerto, noted that consider-
ations of interpretation and expression came very late in the process, and their
article (admittedly focused on questions of long- and short-term memorization
and performance cues) suggests no explicit concern about Werktreue or the rel-
ative importance of the performer’s own expressive/interpretative ideas in the
process of developing the performance. Another of Chaffin’s studies using the
same data notes the difficulty of a demand for explicit acknowledgement of
the ideology: ‘practice behaviour almost certainly contains theoretically impor-
tant information about practice that the musician does not or cannot provide
in self-reports’ (Chaffin and Imreh 2001: 66; italics added). The authors (one of
whom, Gabriela Imreh, was the pianist in the study) observe that the subject’s
practice behaviour included little time working over her dynamics and phras-
ing—key elements of interpretation, particularly when playing Bach on the
modern piano. This suggests that decisions about the allowable and appropri-
ate range and placement of dynamics and the quality of the phrasing had been
made according to some set of cultural and musical conventions either before
260 Musicians in the Making
the practice had even begun or in the course of learning the piece, as a result of
well-sedimented and unexamined assumptions. The relative lack of time spent
on developing the approach to dynamics and phrasing as such does not mean
that the performer did not think about them at some point, but rather that such
interpretative questions and the larger historical and ideological issues they raise
may not be easily accessible, interesting or urgent to the performer in the process
of practising. Hultberg notes further:
The close connection between musical expression and tradition-based
knowledge taken for granted may be one reason why many of the students
participating in [Hultberg’s study of students’ practice techniques] paid
little attention to their own strategies for developing musical expressivity.
Another reason may be the emotional character of musical expression.
Because of this, it belongs to a very personal domain of the individual
musicians, and it is difficult to verbalize. (2008: 10; italics added)
In other words, what we seem to have is a situation where classical music prac-
titioners, if asked, will refer to the default ideology embedded in classical music
discourse, but where, in actual practice, that ideology is experienced as sec-
ondary to, or hidden behind, the more urgent and ‘pan-generic’ concerns of
presenting a performance for a given audience in a given situation. There is,
nonetheless, some evidence that, although the core notions of deified compos-
ers and reified works are not often explicitly acknowledged by musicians in the
course of their activities, they are guiding principles. Most empirical studies
of how professional or proto-professional musicians learn and prepare clas-
sical music tend to focus on questions of memory, practice segmentation and
the distribution of time in practice sessions.11 However, some such studies do
acknowledge—if briefly—the importance of the cultural and institutional con-
text in which the practice and preparation take place. Sloboda, for example,
notes: ‘expert performance is the result of the interaction of specific knowledge
of [a] piece alone with general knowledge acquired over a wide range of musi-
cal experience’ (1985: 94; italics added). Miklaszewski, in a classic and semi-
nal study of practice (1989), is more specific about the role of the underlying
ideological premises: ‘The starting situation was therefore that of a musician
receiving the message from the composer in the form of the musical score … and
possessing enough cultural and professional experience to transform it into a
musically intelligible acoustical message’ (ibid.: 98; italics added). These arti-
cles, however, quite conspicuously omit any consideration of the nature of the
‘cultural and professional experience’ that informs the interpretative aspect of
the practice.
Some digging is therefore necessary to reveal these values. An unusually
detailed and reflective passage by Gerald Moore exemplifies how, even when
completely implicit, the threefold ideology of divining the composer’s inten-
tion, minimizing the overt presence of the self, and working with abstract ideas
Reflection and the classical musician 261
profoundly informs the way he thought about the brief piano introduction to
Schubert’s ‘Wandrers Nachtlied’ D. 768:
Dynamically this little Vorspiel is all pianissimo but within the bounds
of that pianissimo there must be a slight increase or swelling of tone and
a subsequent reduction of tone. It is a curve—rising then falling; the
smoothest of curves with one chord joined to the next. So restricted in
range is it, so narrow the margin between your softest chord and your
least soft chord that if you go one fraction over the limit at the top of your
curve all is ruined. Each chord though related and joined to its neighbour
is a different weight, differing by no more than a feather. You listen self-
critically as you practise it. You experiment. You play it giving each chord
a uniform and gentle pressure so that there is no rise and fall of tone—all
pianissimo. You then try to give it that infinitesimal crescendo and dimin-
uendo that is really wanted to give shape and meaning to the phrase: but
it is out of proportion—you have overdone it—so you start again. Now
you find that your chords are muddy, your pedalling is faulty, one chord
trespasses on another’s preserves instead of gently merging into it with-
out blurring. You work at this. (Moore 1966: 179–80; English-language
italics and underlining added)
The segments that we have underlined clearly figure the phrase as having objec-
tive qualities ‘put there’ by Schubert, and thus requiring Moore to ‘realize’ what
the composer obviously intended, rather than choosing or inventing devices
pleasing to the pianist himself. His phraseology is, tellingly, not, ‘one way to
make sense of this is to extend the marked crescendo–decrescendo in bar 1 to
cover the whole two-bar phrase’, but rather, ‘it is a curve’ and ‘there must be’
such a swell. This phraseology immediately figures the performer as serving the
music rather than creating it. The majority of Moore’s work, then, comes in
realizing a sound-image that he attributes to Schubert’s authorship, or at least
to stylistic habits native to that repertoire; there is no evidence in this passage
of his making a decision about how the phrase goes, or (of course) about how
he might have come to that decision. The erasure, or at least eliding, of his
own authorship of the phrase is entirely characteristic of classical music cul-
ture. Indeed, according to Clarke (2011), elements of performance that could
be considered interpretative sometimes seem to be added more or less uncon-
sciously by performers.
The bulk of Moore’s reflection involves how to get the effect that he attri-
butes to ‘the music’. His lovely image of the chords differing by the weight
of a feather (italicized above) demonstrates the abstract quality of work-
ing from a score in a manner that is characteristic of classical music. It is
common for performers to use striking physical descriptions with no literal
relation to anything evident on the page to help them embody and thus per-
sonalize both this otherwise disembodied sound-image and the otherwise
262 Musicians in the Making
What about younger musicians today? Do they seem to make the same assump-
tions as Moore? If Moore belonged to the ‘it goes like this’ school, rather than
the ‘I have made a conscious choice to do it this way’ school, how do musicians
in the making deal with the questions of agency and authority highlighted in
our reading of Moore’s reflections? Moore lived at a time when classical music
was still uncritically taken as the ne plus ultra of music, at least in formal and
academic settings, and when classical musicians typically did not play other
kinds of music and were certainly not expected to.13 Today’s young musicians
live in a world where classical music has a very slender share of the market and
declining cultural capital, and is almost certainly not the only music on their
phones or other devices. Thus the fundamental and ‘default’ values of the genre
are at least potentially open to question by them in ways that may not be so
easily accessed by their teachers or, indeed, through the disciplines of philos-
ophy and music criticism; in other words, the special qualities and underlying
ideologies of classical music may, in some ways, be more readily perceived by
them than by performers of Moore’s generation.
Before looking at further examples of student reflection, it should be noted
that when our small sample of RCS students engaged in free journal-writing,
the majority of their observations echoed the bias towards technical issues
noted above. However, in cases where students were asked to focus more closely
on questions of interpretation or to document the preparation of a single piece,
their relation to these values came to the surface more clearly. Cynthia, for
example, recorded her thoughts about what sort of cadenza to play in a Mozart
violin concerto, comparing the cadenzas of James Ehnes and Leopold Auer:
I believe it all comes to down to a matter of taste and I can see the pros
and cons for both cadenzas. Personally, I find the James Ehnes cadenza
Reflection and the classical musician 263
fits the simple and modest character of the rest of the music and devel-
ops the themes in the concerto without over-exaggerating in a way that
seems distasteful and overdone. The Auer, however, I find contains too
much technical difficulty and bravado that does not seem fitting with the
character of the rest of the music. I think the important words here are
the ‘character’ of the music rather than ‘style’ of the music. I believe the
quality of the music should come first, and not the issue of ‘authenticity’
and what Mozart would have wanted.
This passage clearly documents some struggle with what Cynthia feels to be
her rightful place in relation to the music. On the one hand, she understands
the music to have an inherently ‘simple and modest’ character, and her deter-
mination that the Auer cadenza is essentially too flashy to be commensurate
with that character would probably find broad agreement. In other words, she
is working within the well-understood norms of current classical music culture
in determining both the character of the music and the commensurability of
the Auer cadenza. Although she does not say so explicitly, Cynthia might in
principle be thought to agree that it would not serve the ‘composer’s intentions’
well to include a cadenza that by general agreement did not fit the body of the
movement. On the other hand, she quite consciously does not make this leap,
because she seems to be struggling with the distinction between ‘character’ and
‘style’, the former being something that she identifies with and perhaps feels
some control over, and the latter apparently being something that through her
musical formation in the ‘classical’ world she has come to see as related to the
composer’s intentions, and that she cannot or will not ‘make her own’ as she
ponders a suitable cadenza. Book-learned ‘authenticity’ seems to be rejected as
a criterion for choosing a prewritten cadenza. At the same time, it also seems to
become a spur for thinking about writing her own:
Like much on-the-fly thinking, Cynthia’s ideas are not completely consistent
or coherent, but what very clearly comes out of this passage is a desire to make
sense of the music on what feels like her own terms, even if that means rejecting
what she perceives as an institutionally powerful concern with historical truth.
However, when historical truth supports a more creative personal involve-
ment with the music, in the form of writing her own cadenza, she invokes it.
In other words, she is aware (at least to a certain extent) of the default ideolo-
gies of classical music, particularly concerning a respect for history and the
264 Musicians in the Making
supposed intentions of the composer, but she feels free to use them only on an
‘as-needed’ basis.
Another student, referred to here as Pedro, also struggles with his role as an
interpreter:
It is essential to me that the performer understands and makes sense of
the music on their own. The aim should be to translate the composer’s
intentions into their own understanding. It is completely unrealistic to
think that as soon as you open a Beethoven score, all of his thoughts and
intentions will be transferred to you and you will understand their mean-
ing just as he did through some sort of osmosis! We need to make sure as
performers that we make sense of his writing in our own way. My expe-
rience suggests that the best approach to this is to try and work out what
you think before beginning reading and potentially being swayed with
too many diverse opinions on how others have understood Beethoven’s
intentions. Certainly it is important to learn from others but playing the
piano is a very personal thing and I know that if an idea comes from me
the sincerity will translate itself into the performance. This does not mean
that we should disregard how Beethoven wanted his sonatas to be played,
not at all. Brendel encapsulates this well:
‘Free elements—fire, water and air—will not carry us unless we have
first practised our steps on firm ground. We follow rules in order to make
new exceptions more impressive’.14
This student lays out with quite touching specificity both the tension between
his own sense of the music and what he takes to be Beethoven’s intentions,
and the need to try to make ‘Beethoven’s intentions’ his own, so that he can
be in some sense authentic to himself and also true to Beethoven. The Brendel
quote suggests that the way in which this student conceptualizes his relation to
Beethoven is as a movement from more literal ‘obedience’ to a more creative
approach, or at least one integrated with his own ideas. The comment about
working things out by oneself before reading the critical literature (and perhaps
also listening to recordings) indicates that he is acutely aware of the limits on
‘plausible’ or ‘acceptable’ interpretation in this world, and wants to stake out
a bit of territory that feels ‘sincere’ before having that territory reshaped by
received opinion about the music. What we do not know from this, of course, is
how these generalizations about finding one’s place in a confined interpretative
space actually play out in his moment-to-moment decisions about a specific
work, to be performed under specific circumstances; this would be an interest-
ing topic for further enquiry.
Another student, Angus, confronted with the vexed question of changing
timpani parts in music written before the widespread use of pedal timpani,
also described dealing with the tension between his understanding of what
the composer actually wrote and his own sense of how the music ‘should’ go.
Reflection and the classical musician 265
His discussion centres on the question of which changes are ‘necessary’ to the
music, and how he determined this supposed necessity for change:
When performing this piece, I try to change as few notes as possible. This
is to keep it as close to [the] composer’s original part as possible… The
goal is to make changes that are almost unnoticeable but are changed to
benefit the music. However, different timpanists have their own view on
this. There are the purists, who change absolutely nothing in the parts
as playing exactly what the composer has asked. An example of this is
in [the] Chicago Symphony Orchestra recording with Riccardo Muti.
There are the conservative timpanists, where I would class myself, who
only change notes that are absolutely necessary. But making an informed
change based on what is necessary to the music. And there are the extrem-
ists, who change any and every note possible and actually begin to com-
pose their own parts, disregarding the composer’s intentions. I studied the
score long before the first rehearsal, and listened to the piece until it was
part of me, so I could make an artistically informed decision whether or
not a note change was necessary. After this, at the first rehearsal, I had a
brief word with the conductor to ask if I could implement some of the
changes. It is important to be on the same terms as the conductor as, like
timpanists, every conductor has their own view. If they do permit it, I
must be 100% sure that the changes I am making are correct or risk losing
the trust of the conductor, and also the orchestra.
Like Pedro, Angus prioritizes coming to his own understanding of the music
before making any final decisions, but he is less self-conscious than Pedro about
the unfixed and latent nature of the music before his own interventions; he
seems to think of ‘the music’ as something whole and complete that he can
internalize. Like the philosopher Urmson, he has nothing but scorn for tim-
panists who disregard the composer’s intentions by ‘compos[ing] their own
parts’. Interestingly, though, at the same time as he clearly needs to feel that
he is channelling the composer’s intentions in his own decisions, the politics of
the timpanist’s relation with the conductor seem to take priority over his own
interpretation of the composer’s intentions, however thoroughly considered.
In other words, although Angus’s sense of his place in the music is constrained
both by his intuiting of the composer’s intentions and by the predispositions
of the conductor, he nonetheless feels the need to be able to ‘own’, or identify
with, the choices he has made.
The pressure of circumstances is even clearer in the following reflection by a
violinist, Joanne, on playing Bach:
I need to work out exactly how I am going to perform this piece. Playing
to different audiences will affect this. If it is an exam on baroque, of
course I will mainly play with a baroque style, yet for a recital I am not
266 Musicians in the Making
sure exactly what I will do. Bach is confusing as each teacher teaches it
differently, each performer performs it differently, each scholar has differ-
ent opinions on authenticity. At this stage in my violin career, I am more
inclined to use both teachings from the modern and baroque schools on
my modern violin. I find playing Bach on a modern violin much more
exciting and the creation of colours is endless with the right technique
and knowledge.
On the one hand, Joanne exemplifies Small’s notion (1998: 17) that the mean-
ings made in a performance in one kind of venue for one kind of audience are
different from those created in other venues and for other audiences, but at the
same time she goes beyond Small in suggesting that her performance choices
may be quite different from one circumstance to another. What is interesting
about this from the perspective of the ideology of classical music is how she
shows an awareness of a way of playing (‘baroque’) that presumably invokes the
composer’s intentions—or at least his acoustic and interpretative horizons—as
essential criteria for interpretative choices, but she uses it only as an ingredient
in a more mixed, even discursive, approach. This approach to interpretation
seems, at least rhetorically, to assume more overt agency and authority over
her decisions than is evident in, for example, the passage from Gerald Moore
that we quoted above, and indeed this quite explicit shouldering of agency is
characteristic of all the student reflections that we have included here, though
they exhibit various degrees of tension about the relation of performer agency
to composer intention. Once again, it is not clear how this sense of agency
would play out in the details of a particular interpretation—that is, how much
felt difference there is between Moore’s implicit ‘this is how it goes’ and these
students’ ‘I make a conscious choice to play it this way’ when they work on the
details of an interpretation.
One of the interesting things about this passage is the way in which Sarah asso-
ciates a creative engagement with the music with a sense of control that has
to do with her own agency and decisions rather than the inarguable demands
of the music. Obviously, our sample size is too small to indicate whether these
comments are a generational matter or simply a case of individual attitudes,
but the question is clearly worth additional study. Further work might also
show to what extent (if at all) the structures of conservatoires and other for-
mal music-educational environments, with their emphasis on assessed perfor-
mances and, increasingly, on self-conscious reflection, bring a renewed critical
perspective on the ideological worlds of classical music.
If it is the case that there is a generational shift in performers’ assumption
of authority and agency (crudely speaking, from ‘it must be this way’ to ‘I take
it upon my own shoulders to play it this way’), it raises the interesting question
of where to place the boundaries of ‘classical music performance habits’, or
whether, indeed, there need to be generic boundaries in thinking about perfor-
mance. If the interpretation of classical music now has a looser relation to the
notion of ‘the composer’s intentions’ than it had in the past (and continues
to have in some circles), then it would be interesting to be able to chart the
changes in reflective practice. Perhaps if the generational shift that we perceive
in the examples we have quoted reflects a wider reality, young performers will
feel less tension about their place in the music, and older performers will use a
more authorial (and perhaps more honest) rhetoric about their interpretative
choices.
268 Musicians in the Making
Too much invention and you’re out of bounds, but too literal an under-
standing of historical obligation and you’re equally wrong; too little under-
standing of performance lineages and your approach will be impoverished,
but too much reliance on those essentially oral traditions and you won’t be
playing ‘classical music’. No wonder performers young and old concentrate
on technique and situation-dependent issues like nerves and ‘projection’!
Reflection and the classical musician 269
Rosen’s description of the values of the field is stern and has a moralistic
tinge, as well as implying a clear hierarchy between classical and ‘folk’ music.
Nonetheless, it is a salutary reminder that once such values are made explicit
in reflection, not only can they be put to use in an infinite variety of ways,
but they can also be challenged.
References
Nielsen, K., 1996: ‘Læring i praksis [Learning in practice]’, paper presented at the NNMPF
Conference, Aarhus, Denmark, April 1996.
Repp, B., 1997: ‘The aesthetic quality of a quantitatively average music performance: two
preliminary experiments’, Music Perception 14: 419–44.
Rosen, C., 2002: Piano Notes: The Hidden World of the Pianist (New York: Free Press).
Rosen, C., 2012: Freedom and the Arts (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).
Sloboda, J. A., 1985: Musical Mind: The Cognitive Psychology of Music (Oxford: Oxford
University Press).
Small, C., 1998: Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening (Middletown, CT:
Wesleyan University Press).
Tomes, S., 2010: Out of Silence: A Pianist’s Yearbook (Woodbridge: Boydell).
Urmson, J. O., 1995: ‘The ethics of musical performance’, in M. Krausz, ed., The
Interpretation of Music: Philosophical Essays (New York: Oxford University Press), pp.
157–64.
Woody, R. H., 2002: ‘Emotion, imagery and metaphor in the acquisition of musical perfor-
mance skill’, Music Education Research 4/4: 218–23.
13
Towards convergence
ACADEMIC STUDIES AND THE STUDENT PERFORMER
Celia Duffy and Joe Harrop
literature. Alongside this, the HIP movement has matured. In higher music
education in the UK, conservatoire and university courses have converged;
conservatoires now deal with ‘academic’ subjects in a far less perfunctory
manner, and most university courses offer an equal place to performance
options, rather than just practical additions to the serious business of musi-
cological scholarship. The official pronouncements of UK and other quality
assurance agencies, in their subject definitions and benchmarks, offer a view
of musical study as a deeply interconnected ecology. All of these contrib-
ute to building a picture of the relationship between performance and ‘aca-
demic subjects’; as noted above, separation is a recurring theme, but so is
convergence.
Our background as authors is as follows. One of us has lived through
these changes as a teacher and manager and has worked in both the uni-
versity and the conservatoire sectors, latterly being involved in the reform
of a conservatoire curriculum. The other has lived through them as a con-
servatoire student and is one of the early PhD graduates of a conservatoire,
combining performance with scholarship. So our orientation in this chapter
is both how it feels ‘on the ground’ as a young professional and (relatively)
recent student, and how it seems as an educational old hand. Both of us
come from the western classical tradition, and it is that tradition, largely
from the perspective of the UK higher education undergraduate degree
course, that we are writing about.
In this chapter we adopt the term ‘academic studies’ as shorthand for the
study of music history and analysis. We are aware, of course, that, in its broadest
sense, academic studies could embrace everything which is not directly related
to the technical development of the individual performer, including areas as
diverse as aesthetics, harmony and counterpoint, modern languages, and the
plethora of other topics subjects on offer in UK HE music (QAA 2008). We are
also aware how old-fashioned ‘academic studies’ sounds in today’s edu-speak.
We nevertheless ask whether and how academic studies might influence perfor-
mance, inform performers’ choices or even lead to more creative performances,
and we look at educational interventions which are attempting to promote such
a relationship between the two.
In the discussions below, we tend to skirt the issue of closely defining a cre-
ative performance (versus a routine or, in Furtwängler’s terms, an ‘adequate’
performance, as noted below); this is discussed elsewhere in the book (see for
example Chapter 7). For us, the working definition of a creative performance
would be, in various measures, one that is somehow independent, individual,
challenging, thoughtful, risky, enlightening and disturbing, offering new light
on the music. A creative performance will have elements of risk, with strategies
for engaging its listener in ways that may not be conventional. It will be consid-
ered, certainly; informed, maybe.
Towards convergence 273
a literal text’ (quoted from ibid.: 106).1 What is needed is proper understanding
of a work’s form and structure, a vision of the whole, and an emergent sense of
an artistic entity.
A look at writings and debates from the perspective of HIP reveals corre-
sponding views about the contribution that historical awareness can make to
creative performance. First of all, it is worth noting that many HIP scholars are
respected performers and vice versa; this reciprocity suggests potential links
between historical knowledge on the one hand and creative music-making on
the other. Furthermore, in reviewing debates about HIP over several decades,
Butt (2002: 42) comments that the ‘puritanical’ aspect of twenty years earlier is
often absent from the work of more recent scholar–performers, which is to say
that the ‘new’ HIP avoids the literalism of previous counterparts and is more
rooted in creative performance.
There is much of interest in the relationship between creative performance
and HIP in Butt’s discussion of the controversial views of Richard Taruskin.
For example, Butt (2002: 18) highlights Taruskin’s comparisons between
‘straight’ and ‘crooked’ HIP performances, which respectively are literalis-
tic and creatively inspired. Referring to the latter, Butt commends Taruskin’s
approach—‘his avocation of passionate commitment, risk and vision coupled
with self-awareness, a sense of choice in performance, and responsibility to
both the audience and the richest and deepest possible meanings of pieces of
music’ (ibid.: 23). All of this suggests that it is possible to take an informed and
ethical stance with regard to historical contexts while achieving creative and
inspiring performance.
Be that as it may, the separation of thinkers and doers has lingered in the
scholarly literature. As Butt also notes (2002: 14), this sharp delineation is
perhaps most obvious in the title of Taruskin’s important volume Text and
Act (1995). Attitudes of performers towards scholars, to use Kerman’s phrase
(1985: 196), range ‘from mild dilettantish curiosity to outright derision’; atti-
tudes from scholars towards performers are often patronising. Dunsby (1995:
46) calls for ‘the inevitability of the coexistence of music and discourse, not
shy[ing] away from it into the retreats of fragmentary subdisciplines, with mute
performers and arid commentators’.
We now turn to a very different type of literature, one focusing on quality assur-
ance in education. The ecologically balanced, interdependent state of affairs
described above, in which one branch of musical endeavour serves another, is
affirmed in the official pronouncements of quality assurance in higher music
education in the UK. It is easy to sneer at or dismiss the literature on qual-
ity assurance, but the UK Subject Benchmark for Music offers a sensible and
Towards convergence 275
sensitive view, put together not by faceless bureaucrats but by peers in higher
music education. Nevertheless, although it gives an even-handed and informed
picture of UK higher music education in all its many facets, it perhaps errs on
the idealistic side.
The purpose of the UK Subject Benchmark, originally devised in 2002 and
lightly revised in 2008, was to define the nature of undergraduate degrees in
music, ‘mapping out the subject territory and describing the range of skills and
attributes of graduates in the subject’ (QAA 2008: 5) and then articulating the
minimum requirements or expectations of achievement. It is the first part of
the benchmark document—the mapping of the discipline of music—that is of
most interest here.
The benchmark statement starts with an account of developments in the
UK as regards where and how music is studied, noting that, historically, certain
types of institutions concentrated on particular musical disciplines:
Conservatoires (the first British conservatoire opened in 1823) were
founded specifically for the education of composers and performers,
while university music departments from the 1890s both encouraged
students to develop an historical and critical understanding of a canon
of ‘masterworks’—a concept which has itself more recently become an
object of critique—and to engage with the practical processes of music,
most notably through the craft of musical composition. (2008: 7)
What was, up to the early 1990s, a clearly separate and distinctive provision is
now markedly less so, with conservatoires gaining degree-awarding powers and
practice emerging not only as research-worthy but also as research-degree-wor-
thy. The latter in itself has led to an enhanced status for practice and a new rela-
tionship with more academic approaches. University music departments now
offer not just additional performance options, but also credit-bearing pathways
and often named degrees in performance. Things have come a long way since
1973, when Wilfrid Mellers (then Professor of Music in one of the UK’s most
forward-looking music departments, at the University of York) wrote about
‘the division between music colleges (places that do) and universities (places
that know)’ (Mellers 1973: 246).
Along with this converging environment for higher education musical study,
a picture emerges through the benchmark statement of convergence and inter-
dependence at a deeper level, in the nature of the connectedness of the sub-
disciplines of music: ‘The three basic activities of composing, performing and
listening are seen to be interconnected in important and fundamental ways, so
that the study of music is always an holistic affair’ (QAA 2008: 7). This holistic
study should produce ‘well-informed, reflective, versatile, innovative and open-
minded musicians’ in which creative pursuits are complemented and nourished
by the so-called knowledge-based skills giving the student ‘the ability to under-
stand and theorise their art’ (ibid.: 10). There appears to be a good foundation
276 Musicians in the Making
Two exemplars
Stephen Broad, the designer of this module, also comments on the effect that
integrated assessment wrought on students’ attitudes: ‘The performance/viva
might not be seen as a significant innovation in its own right, but the joint assess-
ment of students’ articulation of their learning in speaking and performing—
the single grade assigned as a result of the performance/viva—has noticeably
changed the way they approach the subject material’ (2010: 14). This is a (not
very) veiled reference to the understandable tendency of conservatoire students
(sometimes egged on by their teachers) to prioritize performance above all else
in their portfolio of study; in an integrated assessment, however, this is not
possible.
The front page of the handbook of the module ‘Studies in Performance’ at
the University of Huddersfield sums up its content eloquently and succinctly: it
presents a formidably complicated Schenkerian sketch of an excerpt from one
of Beethoven’s piano sonatas alongside a picture of the composer’s 1803 Erard
piano. Huddersfield is an example of a university music department that has
always given performance an equal place alongside other elements of musical
study, and it currently offers a BMus pathway in performance, looking to attract
students who are high achievers in both performance and scholarly work. In
the compulsory honours-year module ‘Studies in Performance’, students are
presented with, and respond to, performance issues from a number of angles.
The module descriptor is clear in its orientation towards ‘thinking performers’,
Towards convergence 279
and it dives straight into the heart of performance practice debates, encour-
aging students to make links which they then apply to their own practice. It
starts with a series of keynote lectures that, typically for Huddersfield with its
emphasis on contemporary music, include ‘Authenticity and interpretation for
the 21st-century performer’ alongside topics such as intuition and investiga-
tion, understanding structure, and issues around editions.
One of the assessment methods is an ‘illustrated seminar’ in which students
discuss their approach to interpreting a chosen work, focusing on one of these
topics to focus their presentation:
These two examples are designed to help students make very explicit links
between distinct areas of musical study and, to use the QAA terminology,
understand more about the claims of one on the other. At the undergraduate
level, they stand as attempts in what is still a commonly compartmentalized HE
music curriculum to consider together the concerns and practices of academic
studies and performance (and, importantly, to assess them together too) and
also to give students a defined space in which to address them.
But what about the influence of academic studies on creativity in per-
formance? One of the informants who contributed to our research,2 Peter
Sheppard Skærved, made a forceful point about ‘the polarization of prac-
tice and enquiry which has endangered the spirit of discovery and inspiration
which underpins music’. Regarding such enquiry as itself a creative, research-
led undertaking is essential: because its goal is not just about being ‘informed’
as a performer but rather about gaining understanding, enquiry of the type
referred to by Sheppard Skærved is as much about asking ‘what if ?’ In trying
to investigate the chemistry between practice and enquiry, an essential tool is
that of reflective practice. The UK Subject Benchmark emphasizes the impor-
tance of being articulate about artistic practice. We have seen that an institution
can give students some guidance, e.g. with specific modules on performance
practice, that will help them to make informed decisions using more highly
developed critical skills, to become articulate and able to conceptualize through
language, to develop greater knowledge about history and context, and, at best,
to display a research-led, exploratory creative outlook. But what about those
students who, when asked about their decisions, might answer, ‘I just feel it
280 Musicians in the Making
this way’? A conscious and deliberate habit of reflective practice can assist in
teasing out answers, and partly for that reason reflective practice is now being
incorporated into most HE music curricula.
Guillaumier (2016) notes that reflection can be a useful and productive way
of enabling students to deal holistically with their creative, practical and aca-
demic practices. She has some advice for teachers:
One of the main difficulties that we can experience when we try to ‘teach’
reflection to conservatoire students is a deep misunderstanding and abid-
ing mistrust of what this might entail. Reflection is very often an activity
that students perceive to be quite separate from their day-to-day artistic
practice. From the outset, our main aim must, therefore, be to align and
integrate reflection with creativity, to establish it as a process, as a ‘doing’
activity rather than as a distant, albeit assessable add-on. (ibid.: 355)
As part of the research feeding into this chapter, we invited a range of infor-
mants to comment on the relationship of creative performance and academic
study from their perspectives as artists and educators. It should be noted that
we solicited information from these contacts in a nonsystematic, rather infor-
mal manner, and we are grateful for their generosity in allowing us to reproduce
their remarks here. The main question that we bluntly asked our informants
was whether academic studies make any difference to creative performance
and whether it is necessary for a creative musical performer to have academic
skills. We asked their opinion on the separation of academic studies and per-
formance, how any perceived gap might be bridged and whether any particular
approach might be helpful.
Our informants3 ranged from ‘early career’ professionals such as recent
Master’s or doctoral students at UK and US conservatoires, to professors of
academic and performance studies, independent music scholars, and leaders in
music education at HE level. Several institutions from the UK, New Zealand
and USA were represented. A list of broad questions was emailed in August
2015 and responses collected during the two months thereafter. The breadth of
comment reflected a spectrum of attitudes towards academic study and perfor-
mance, as well as discussion of the many challenges that come with training for
musical performance requiring physical rather than mental application.
Towards convergence 281
Several of our respondents saw academic studies as vital to the work of music
professionals. Jason Bae, one of our early-career informants, was adamant
about this:
I strongly believe that performing artists should never think that there is
a separation between their physical practising and performing with aca-
demic music study. They must have academic studies in music in order to
call themselves professional performing artists. Performing artists who
have no knowledge … will look like amateurs, perform like amateurs
and usually in the end, they accept themselves that they are doing music
as a hobby.
There are concrete, practical advantages too. Henry Wong Doe observed that
a strong music theory background is essential for memory in piano perfor-
mance: ‘Those who rely solely on muscular or visual memory suffer constantly.
In this respect, a solid music theory background is essential in the successful
performance from memory.’
For those pursuing a portfolio career, an informed, academic back-
ground may enhance their professional profile and encourage an entre-
preneurial approach (for example, in innovative programming). Sutcliffe
commented thus:
Apart from the intrinsic intellectual value of the academic study, from
a purely career point of view, wider and better knowledge enables per-
formers to make more informed choices about repertoire, enabling
them potentially to carve out a niche, and become able and engag-
ing introducers of their performances, for instance. This was also true
of my many years of teaching experience at Cambridge—the students
who made it as performers were almost all at the top end in terms of
academic achievement, and had ‘boxed clever’ in how they constructed
their careers.
questions about style and context without having really explored why
these things might matter.
Wong Doe, who teaches piano at an institution in the USA, also pointed to
these issues:
while there are exceptions of brilliant students, the majority of the stu-
dent population these days expect and feel entitled to receive informa-
tion without any active participation (e.g. follow-up questions, making
Towards convergence 285
A conclusion to the above discussion might lead to claims about the effective-
ness of uniting academic and practical approaches to the study of performance.
It goes without saying that convergence is not a simple process, and it is unlikely
to be found by following a rule book. One of our informants, W. Dean Sutcliffe,
sounded a note of caution as to whether integrated teaching strategies actually
make much difference, noting that ‘teaching philosophies and practices seem
to have moved decisively in the direction of “relevance” for many decades now
without maybe any evidence that this has led to greater engagement on the part
of students as a whole’.
On the other hand, the work of the professional performer–scholars referred
to above provides a potent demonstration of how this ‘bringing together’ can
have real creative results. Musicians who fit this description, or that of scholar–
performer, appear to be growing in number and in profile. Our informants
themselves are all, to a greater or lesser degree, both performers and academics,
and they too bear witness to what can happen when the ‘separation’ lamented
here is overcome.6
Furthermore, conservatoires and universities are increasingly offering a
blended approach of academic studies and performances studies, or at least are
offering both in parallel. There are now several Master’s and research degrees
where the convergence of academic studies and performance is the central
focus of the programme.7 In the arena of musicianship studies—for example,
286 Musicians in the Making
References
Munro, G., 2007: ‘Goodbye Academic Studies’, talk at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland,
Glasgow, UK, 29 November 2007, unpublished.
QAA [Quality Assurance Agency for Higher Education], 2008: The Subject Benchmark
Statement for Music at Honours Degree Level, http://www.qaa.ac.uk/en/Publications/
Documents/Subject-benchmark-statement-Music-.pdf (accessed 15 February 2017).
Sarath, E. et al., 2014: Transforming Music Study from Its Foundations: A Manifesto for
Progressive Change in the Undergraduate Preparation of Music Majors. Report of the
Task Force on the Undergraduate Music Major. Conference Version. (College Music
Society), http://www.music.org/pdf/tfumm_report.pdf (accessed 15 February 2017).
Steinitz, P. and S. Sterman, 1974: Harmony in Context: A New Approach to Understanding
Harmony Without Conventional Exercises (Croydon: Belwin-Mills).
Taruskin, R., 1995: Text and Act: Essays on Music and Performance (New York: Oxford
University Press).
14
On ‘expression’
Musical performers who reflect upon their practice are likely to recognize that
expression is an extremely important part of it. But what is musical expression?
Can music communicate specific ideas or emotions? Is expression encoded into
the musical materials, or does the performer have the licence to interject his or
her personality? Or, perhaps most intriguingly, is expression something that
emerges from the conjunction of the musical work and its incarnation in a
particular performance, thereby linking it to emotion, intention and represen-
tation in music?
The word ‘expression’ crops up abundantly in conversations between musi-
cians and is used with many connotations. When a performance is described
as ‘expressive’, this does not necessarily imply that it is expressing a thought,
an idea or even a specific emotion; it is more an indication that it belongs to
a certain category of performance (however paradoxical the alternative idea
of a ‘nonexpressive’ performance may seem). What, then, is the relationship
between expression and emotion in music? We believe that the two should
not be directly equated: although many convincing studies demonstrate that
music has the potential to arouse emotions in humans, musical expression goes
beyond music and emotion. For example, composers and performers might
carry out their artistic practice without any overtly emotional intention, yet
their compositions or performances may still arouse powerful, though unbid-
den, emotions in listeners. The ‘production chain’ of a score-based musical
work is complex, with many constructional, interpretative and receptive stages
in the respective practices of composer, performer and listener that problem-
atize the tasks of empirical studies on emotion and music (Gabrielsson and
288 Juslin 1996: 68).
Musical expression from conception to reception 289
MAPPING EXPRESSION
concentrated on these norms and their concomitant concert hall etiquette has
served only to widen the schism.
But emphasis upon fidelity to the score is by no means the only path open to
performers. Alongside this ideal, and roughly contemporaneous with it, there
emerged its apparent opposite: a performance that emphasizes the event itself
as a social phenomenon and, increasingly, as an act of transcendence linked
not to the perfect realization of the notated score, but to the realization of the
‘perfect musical performance’ (Goehr [1998] 2004), as in the right-hand side of
Figure 14.1. Perfection in musical performance emerges as the ‘squaring of the
circle’ of elements such as the evident attainment of a high level of virtuosity,
and of the charisma and the ability to engage the audience of the consummate
performer.2
It is noteworthy that the term ‘transcendence’ therefore becomes attribut-
able to both the formal self-renunciation of the Werktreue tradition and the
seemingly hypnotic appeal of practitioners of evident and exceptional skill.
However, the latter became enmeshed in a great deal of myth-making—some
of it self-perpetuated—concerning ‘devilish bargains’ made in exchange for
the ostensibly unearthly attainment of exceptional physical dexterity and per-
sonal magnetism. The expressive qualities emerging from this kind of empha-
sis upon transcendence foreground the theatrical and dramatic elements of
the act of music-making in the public sphere, along with a freer approach to
Musical expression from conception to reception 293
The kinds of separation that we have described between composers and per-
formers, works and performances, and musicians and audiences need to be
understood in the context of a further separation, one affecting performers
in particular. In past as well as current debates about authenticity, perfor-
mance practice and work reception, there has been relatively limited oppor-
tunity for performers to make an active contribution. At least in respect of
western art music, historical musicologists, music theorists and others such as
philosophers have tended to pay greater heed to the utterances of composers
as opposed to those of performers, likewise to the evidence of the score as
opposed to that of the performance event. This trend has been counteracted in
recent years, but a distinction is still often made between the work as artefact
(the score) and the work as event (the performance). So, it is perhaps not sur-
prising that the idea of expression as applied to performers and performances
has tended to be split into contradictory approaches involving either an intro-
verted yet self-abnegating focus upon the composer and the score, or an extro-
vert theatricality that may communicate excitement, transcendence and/or a
deliberate expression of the performative self through the medium of musical
performance.
294 Musicians in the Making
With the greater focus upon performance in various musical disciplines since 1990,
the complex history of ideas concerning musical expression has been interrogated
in increasingly sophisticated ways. But this sharpening focus, and the intensifica-
tion of research around it, is only beginning to influence day-to-day musical train-
ing within conservatoires and university music departments. In actuality, much of
the pedagogical language concerning musical expression perpetuates the idea that
music can convey an accurate expression of a composer’s biographical or psycho-
logical situation. We may ask: When people make statements about composers’
intentions, what is it that they are trying to say? After all, something in the score
must be worth being true to. And, if there is no interpretative truth in such devo-
tion to attempting a faithful score-realization, then where is it?
The search for an answer to such questions places a spotlight upon the
human, subjective aspects of musical performance and reception, and the
resilience of an idea far older than that of Werktreue—namely, the notion
that music has the power to express something that lies beyond the powers of
rational cognition, which is given voice when a performance comes into being.
Here, the score is an invitation to expression and a source of raw material for
it, rather than being the locus of all that must be expressed. It is no accident
that the rise of interest in understanding music through its performances and
reception, rather than through its identity-by-proxy as a notated artefact, has
gone hand in hand with an emphasis upon types of knowledge other than the
purely cognitive. ‘Tacit’, ‘embodied’ and ‘embedded’ knowledge have become
important concepts in trying to relate musical expression and musical meaning
in this new, performance-orientated environment.
Concrete Abstract
Intramusical:
Intramusical:
structural,
corporeal, Expression emanates from the
abstract but
Expression springs from the embodied in nature of the work itself—its
situated in the
human emotions and/or the the human proportions, processes and
work
physical, gestural experience cardinal points, and the spacing
of being human. and rhythm of these.
The connection between human emotion and music has been the subject of
empirical research for almost 100 years. Much of this history is discussed
by Eerola and Vuoskoski (2013), who review 251 studies, divided into seven
298 Musicians in the Making
Our previous discussions underline the increasing awareness that the musi-
cal work is not the stable object we tend to think in terms of. The traditional
view of the musical work as a fixed entity (reflecting the composer’s intentions)
that is produced in two phases—one productive and one reproductive—is
alarmingly misleading. We propose that it is more useful to consider the pro-
duction of a musical work as made up of multiple processes of interpretation
and construction—a field of action. The identity of the work is the result of
the relative impact of multiple agents that take part in a continual constructive
process, in a manner similar to how Stubley discusses the identity of the self
in the action of play as an identity in the making (1998: 98). This phrase also
captures the fluid identity of the musical work and shifts the perspective from
the abstract object, which is to say from the notion of an enduring work, to
the working, to the act of performing, and finally to the self and the other. The
identity of a musical work is therefore the result of the negotiations of multiple
agents; however, this identity is also affected by the processes in which the ‘text’
of the score is attuned to other ‘texts’ within the musical discourse. Such inter-
textuality is another side of this identity in the making. In a musical discourse,
not only scores, but also performances, function as ‘text’.
These points concerning identity bring us back to the need for a more holis-
tic way of considering musical expression. Until now we have described a his-
torically situated series of models that gives rise to a sense of a fractured field
and that uses many languages. But this array could be looked at in a more
unified manner through a revision of Figure 14.2 that exposes the idea of the
expressive field for the musical work (see Figure 14.3).
Reflecting on this model, we find that the heart of the matter is how the
performer’s voice, developed in prolonged explorations of the affordances and
resistances of the instrument, is confronted by or resonates with the agency of
a score. A key here is the ‘resistance’ of the instrument: ‘the instrument does
not just yield passively to the desire of the musician. It is not a blank slate
waiting for an inscription. Likewise, the musician does not just turn the instru-
ment to his own ends, bending it to his will against whatever resistance it offers.
Rather musician and instrument meet, each drawing the other out of its native
territory’ (Evens 2005: 161).
A performer can either be resonant with the affordances of the instrument
or develop ways of denying habit in order to achieve a critical approach in
shaping the music as sound (Östersjö 2013). Cumming discusses these micro-
structures of signification and how a perception of voice is produced through a
‘combination of nuance and timbral characteristics’ (2000: 167). The develop-
ment of this ‘voice’ is not merely a solitary affair but rather a complex interplay
between years of hard work under the guidance of various teachers, years of
listening to music in concerts and on recordings, and years of playing with oth-
ers—an interplay that also has a further impact on the personal development
of the individual. Cumming discusses the role of her violin teachers, claiming
Musical expression from conception to reception 301
Inferred expression
Enacted expression
that they ‘extended their role beyond the transmission of technical skills, or
even of formal and stylistic understanding, to include a challenge to emotional
life, and rationality, in the name of musical interpretation’ (ibid.: 8).
Claims such as this suggest a close connection between what we are describ-
ing as the performer’s voice and certain aspects of the concept of authenticity
in performance. Without delving too deeply into this much contested area, let
us recall the four types of authenticity proposed by Kivy, namely: authentic-
ity as intention, authenticity as sound, authenticity as historic practice, and
what he terms ‘The Other Authenticity’, or the personal authenticity of the
performer (1995: 108–42). Our concept of voice and Kivy’s Other Authenticity
are, we believe, very close to one another.
In the field of the musical work, the relative power given to opposed kinds
of authenticity represents one of many forces at play. The call for authentic-
ity turns attention in several directions: towards the composer’s intentions
for performance, towards the practice within the musical discourse, towards
‘sonic authenticity’ (achieved by employing the relevant instruments and the
302 Musicians in the Making
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15
Dialogue and beyond
COMMUNICATION AND INTERACTION
IN ENSEMBLE PERFORMANCE
Elaine King and Anthony Gritten
TABLE 15.1 Definitions of key terms applied in the context of ensemble rehearsal and performance
TERM DEFINITION
We argue that the idea of communication alone does not go far enough
in explaining ensemble performance because it is based upon a narrow
understanding of dialogue that prevails only during ensemble rehearsal. An
expanded conceptual model for ensemble performance is therefore proposed.
From a philosophical point of view, the model acknowledges the epistemic
difference between ensemble rehearsal and performance; that is, in these
two arenas of music-making we assume fundamentally different evalua-
tions and deployments of knowledge and beliefs about the processes taking
place. Moreover, this difference is characterized by a paradigm shift from
communication to interaction; in other words, while these terms may be used
interchangeably because they belong to the same paradigm of meaning, com-
munication has been used primarily to describe our thinking about ensemble
performance to date.
We suggest that a shift is required in the ways in which these words are
thought about and used in the context of ensemble playing. As such, communi-
cation, which is usually assumed to be a one-way process between two precon-
stituted subjects (turn-taking), is superseded by interaction in live performance.
The latter acknowledges that co-performers are mutually socially constructed
by their participation in the ensemble activity in terms of attunement, entrain-
ment, feedback and reciprocity, all of which become important in live per-
formance through what Kokotsaki (2007: 656–7) describes with Bakhtinian
vocabulary as ‘a kind of active listening’. Interaction draws upon an embod-
ied physical knowledge that is entirely gestural and corporeal, alongside which
(verbal) communication is one small contributory component. We argue that
it is more propitious to understand the central role of embodied knowledge
in ensemble performance in terms of interaction rather than communication.
The literature on ensemble rehearsal has grown rapidly in the last quarter cen-
tury or so, and many advances have been made in understanding both the roles
308 Musicians in the Making
research data in this area are becoming more robust. Many of the insights from
Kurkul’s (2007) study of nonverbal communication in one-to-one instrumental
lessons also hold for ensemble rehearsals, in which the ‘educational’ or ‘ped-
agogical’ imperative is normally absent, particularly the idea (ibid.: 328) that
certain nonverbal behaviours serve different functions, including (1) being the
primary way of expressing emotion, sometimes in contradiction to what the
verbal component of the utterance seems to be saying; (2) providing a language
for articulating personal relationships between performers; (3) regulating dia-
logue and fine-tuning it; and (4) offering ways of reading and responding to co-
performers’ evolving social identities that are more nuanced and flexible than
purely verbal means.
It is often unclear how ensemble rehearsal talk between members of an
ensemble relates to or informs their specifically musical relationships (Wilson
and MacDonald 2012: 564) beyond providing a basic focal point, a direction
of travel or sometimes a distraction: the extent to which the epistemological
link between talking about a problematic passage and then running it through
together is also far from firm and unequivocal. Indeed, for every ensemble there
is a different mode of communication between its co-performers, and modes of
communication often vary from one performance to the next, according to local
contexts and the evolving relationships between members of the ensemble and
with their audiences. It has been concluded in several studies of different types
of ensemble, however, that successful ensembles tend to do most of the impor-
tant ensemble rehearsal work by utilizing a variety of modes of playing together
rather than through spoken conversation (Murnighan and Conlon 1991;
Durrant 1994), from repetitive engagements with small fragments to longer run-
throughs and listening to passages without certain parts being played.
Communication in ensemble rehearsal takes many forms, from score-based
analytical exercises to loosely framed discussion about tempos, timing, inter-
pretative matters and intonation. With respect to physical action, researchers
over several decades have devoted a great deal of attention to the identification
and categorization of gesture types. One way of classifying gestures in terms
of their relation to performance preparation is to break them down into three
main types: kinesic, proxemic and paralinguistic. Kinesic gestures include eye
contact, facial expression, hand gestures and body orientation (Ekman and
Friesen 1969). Proxemic gestures concern physical distance and touching (Hall
1963). Paralinguistic gestures encompass features like silence, tone of voice and
noise. Other nonverbal behaviours are ‘steady eye contact, forward posture,
head nodding, smiles and laughter, appropriate touch, animated facial expres-
sions, varied vocal inflection, sensitive use of space and timing, and expressive
use of gestures’ (Kurkul 2007: 330–1; see p. 329 in ibid. for a table of major
behavioural categories). What this battery of tools and techniques affords
ensemble co-performers is a flexible mode of communicating with one another
through means that are not exclusively verbal, a pragmatic modus operandi
310 Musicians in the Making
that is intuitive (while also being rigorous), and a way of maintaining a sense
of continuity between music-making on the one hand and reflecting on and
enhancing the music-making on the other.
Interaction in performance
According to Blacking (1973: xi), ‘many, if not all, of music’s essential pro-
cesses can be found in the constitution of the human body and in patterns of
interaction of human bodies in society’. Cross (2008: 151) echoes this: ‘we find
music performing a multiplicity of roles, often in the form of dynamic inter-
action. Music is not simply something that is heard and consumed, it is some-
thing that is done in interaction with others’. For instance, the performance
of string quartets has often been described—more than metaphorically—as a
‘conversation between four friends’ (Hunter 2012). Mithen (2006: 12) depicts
the verbal interaction in human conversation as the ‘manner in which we syn-
chronise our utterances when having a conversation’, and he claims that this is
similar to communal music-making. It is interesting to note that Mithen uses
the term ‘interaction’ to describe verbal exchanges in human conversation, even
though the synchronization of utterances in this context might be considered
primarily to be about turn-taking. Ensemble performance requires the prelim-
inary synchronization of individual parts during concerted action such that
turn-taking is no more than a specific pattern of interaction embedded within
it. Nevertheless, Blacking’s allusion to ‘patterns of interaction’ and Mithen’s
reference to ‘conversation’ are important, and they support the conceptual
model of ensemble performance proposed later in this chapter.
The study of interaction in relation to ensemble performance in music is
by no means new: the term has been defined, used and explored in a range of
contexts and scenarios. The ‘facilitating effects of co-action on human perfor-
mance’ referred to by Davidson (1997: 215) have often been noted in research,
although less work has been done to tease apart what ‘facilitation’ means in
this context, especially since ‘the mere presence of others is not necessarily
facilitating’ (ibid.). The following discussion summarizes some of the research
on interaction that informs our conceptual model, and a number of patterns
of interaction are identified en route. Ensemble playing has been defined as
being about two types of dialogue, musical and social (Goodman 2002), where
the former concerns the coordination or synchronization of musical material
and the latter concerns the relationship between the players in the group. For
example, in her ethnomusicological account of jazz improvisation, Monson
(1996: 2) explores interaction in three ways: (1) via the creation of music
through the improvisational interaction of sounds; (2) via the shaping of social
networks and communities that accompany musical participation; and (3) via
the development of a range of culturally variable meanings and ideologies that
Communication and interaction in ensemble performance 311
another, rather than ‘push’ in the older sense of ‘transmission’ assumed in com-
munication: again referring to evidence from a rehearsal by the Boult Quartet,
McCaleb (2014: 102–3) observes that the violist leads the pacing of an expres-
sive melody while the other players attune to this shape, and that the cellist
signals the end of a musical line with a nod encoded by the other players as the
start of the ensuing passage.
McCaleb (2013) also argues that co-performers rely upon embodied knowl-
edge. Phenomenologically speaking, embodiment is a matter of the body being
capable of knowing how to do things without intellectual intervention; as van
Manen writes (2011: 21), ‘the body knows’. Leman’s (2008) approach to embod-
ied knowledge is strikingly congruent with McCaleb’s model of inter-reaction
(transmitting → inferring → attuning). Leman argues that the human body is a
‘mediator’ acting as a conduit between physical energy and human experiences,
transforming one form of energy into another, from biology to action and (in
another direction) from representation to materiality. This model of the musical
body emphasizes the processual nature of embodied knowledge: it results from
the body’s working on its environment and being worked on by that same envi-
ronment. McCaleb, referring to the socio-cultural level of ensemble dynamics,
terms this ‘inter-reaction’ (2011: 6) and, as noted above, offers a model of how
such energetic mediation plays out dialogically in an ensemble’s performance.
Thus, if embodied knowledge is acquired through experience, the mediation of
energy and inter-reaction, then ensemble rehearsal is a particularly vital way
to develop this nonexplicit information. The ensemble’s mode of learning is
interaction, and communication emerges later as a means of confirming and
debating what the interaction has already proposed, mediated and established
as the most musically productive way forward. The cyclical model proposed
by McCaleb, overlaying Leman’s model of embodied knowledge production,
challenges the way in which ensemble interaction is understood and explained,
providing an alternative platform on which to build a conceptual model.
also Davidson and King 2004). The musicians can start and stop run-throughs,
talk and play alternately or simultaneously, and communicate with one another
using gestures, movements and actions to convey and develop musical ideas.
Co-performers listen intently to one another, monitoring their own playing as
well as the outputs of fellow players (Keller 2008, 2010), and harnessing dialog-
ical skills of prediction and reaction via awareness and monitoring aural, visual
and kinetic cues. Most ensemble rehearsals involve the achievement of short- and
long-term goals of performance where the rehearsal affords the opportunity for
co-performers to assert individual interpretative ideas, to try out and negotiate
interpretative possibilities (Goodman 2000), and to formulate a performance
‘plan’ (as indicated by McCaleb 2011a: 7; see also McCaleb 2014), that is, a sense
of how they might perform a particular piece of music together. As Davidson
writes (1997: 220), ensemble ‘rehearsals are occasions to learn the score and plan
the coordination of timing, as well as to establish general expressive features
of the music’. The ensemble rehearsal also affords an equally important social
experience in which co-performers can forge, establish and develop friendships;
explore one another’s musicianship; gain knowledge about ensemble rehearsal
techniques; and obtain insight into how co-performers work and perform.
In live performance, an ensemble presents one complete version of the piece
without stopping to tweak or replay passages, a point that is both trivially true
and phenomenologically vital, since this fact of the performance’s temporal-
ity causes a shift in co-performer interrelationships. Gilboa and Tal-Shmotkin
(2010: 34), using the term ‘communication’ in broadly the way in which this
chapter proposes using the term ‘interaction’, write that live performance
requires different communication channels [compared to ensemble
rehearsal]. Participants must create an implicit communication strat-
egy to make time-critical decisions such as cueing, dynamic balance and
articulatory adjustments. Auditory communication and body language
prevail [over verbal utterance]. The performance phase combines anxi-
ety and artistry; performance remains mysterious even to the musicians
themselves. During a performance there are external factors that affect
the ensemble, including the audience along with such physical variables
as the acoustics, temperature, the stage and the hall.
ensemble rehearsal and performance, they are often difficult to achieve reliably
and consistently, and there are numerous distractions that can impede their
emergence in performance. There are also many case histories of breakdowns
or mishaps in live performance that document precisely where such qualities
are in short supply or have disappeared for whatever reasons (for example,
Weeks 1996; Myers and White 2012).
Given the status of qualitative transformations in live performance and the
need to acknowledge their potentially distracting and/or productive irruption
into the performers’ consciousness, this chapter has proposed that whereas com-
munication is paramount in ensemble rehearsal contexts, interaction becomes
foremost during performance events. This does not mean that the one is absent
from a given context or that the two are mutually exclusive: instead, it indicates
that one presides over the other according to the situation. This involves a shift
beyond call-and-response dialogue towards a broader, mutually co-constituting
dialogical activity. An epistemic difference is evident because the boundaries
of one activity (ensemble rehearsal) are distinct from those of the other (per-
formance). Arguably, the presence of the performers’ bodies changes meaning
as ensemble rehearsal is succeeded by performance, as interaction becomes the
principal mode of dialogue and co-performers rely more heavily upon their bod-
ies to develop coordinated action and enact meaningfully musical behaviours.
In other words, higher proportions of interaction in performance necessitate
increased reliance upon dialogue using the body. Even though the immediate skill
set required of co-performers when playing through a piece of music together
is essentially the same in ensemble rehearsal and performance—that is, as indi-
cated above, co-performers attend to their own part and monitor the outputs
from other players, listen attentively, predict and react to one another, and relay
aural, visual and kinetic cues—there are different bodily sensations involved in
performance compared with ensemble rehearsal, and these are related to the
phenomenology of performance temporality and to the co-constituted dialogi-
cal identities of co-performers as they emerge during the performance. This sen-
sation of dialogical identity—of the ensemble gelling, locking, getting into the
groove—can be articulated as the presiding of interaction over communication
through the increased reliance upon embodied knowledge in live performance.
In the light of existing research, and by way of summary, we suggest that
numerous patterns of interaction operate during an ensemble’s performance.
These include six characteristics:
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16
Responding to performers
LISTENERS AND AUDIENCES
Sinéad O’Neill and John Sloboda
The connection between performers and audiences is the subject of this chap-
ter. Some of these connections are explicit and overt; others are subtle and
intangible. There are certain assumptions about musical performance inherent
in the title, in which ‘performers’, on the one hand, are separated from ‘listen-
ers and audiences’, on the other. In some musical traditions, this separation is
not particularly marked. However, in this chapter, we focus mainly on classical
music, using examples from other genres for clarification, and in a concert or
recording of classical music, the listeners usually are not the performers, for
that specific event at least. Systematic thinking about how performers and audi-
ences relate is not yet part of mainstream pedagogy in classical music train-
ing; this chapter provides an overview of the field for emerging and established
musicians alike.
Greater awareness by performers of the modes of audience response is
a necessary step towards a clearer understanding of how such responses
might best inform their creative practice. We are primarily concerned with
listener or audience responses that are available to the performer and that
may inform the performer’s creative practice. Therefore, our predominant
focus is on events where performers and audience are both physically present,
simultaneously experiencing the music as it unfolds in time; while remaining
aware of the debates surrounding the vexed question of ‘liveness’, we nev-
ertheless employ the term as shorthand for this combination of co-presence
and simultaneity.1 However, we are also interested in how audiences respond
322
Responding to performers 323
During performance
PHENOMENOLOGY
The perception of organized sounds as music has been studied from a number
of vantage points. Eric Clarke has arrived at conclusions from a psychological
perspective that complement those of Nicholas Cook, examining the same ques-
tion from a musicological viewpoint. Both argue that the relationship between
listener and musical object is fundamental to the concept of musical meaning,
which is not inherent in a musical ‘text’, but rather is enacted in the process of
performance (Clarke 2003: 117; Cook 2003: 213). They also agree that music-
psychological and musicological models of what music-listeners hear have been
dominated to a great extent by text-focused music analysis. Cook argues that
324 Musicians in the Making
EMPIRICAL RESEARCH
In the last ten years or so, research in the field of music psychology has
shown that the act of attending a concert is a complex social phenomenon
requiring implicit and explicit knowledge of various kinds. The concept of
‘the familiar’ comes to the fore in much research into audience experience.
Similarly to the studies of popular musicians mentioned later in this chapter,
audience response to performers of classical music seems to be more positive
when audience members feel familiar with the performers, perhaps knowing
something about their private lives, for instance, or following their career for
a certain period of time. In some cases, ‘familiarity with the performers was
assumed as a consequence of hearing them play, listening to their spoken
introductions to concerts, and mingling with them in the foyer during inter-
vals’ (Pitts and Spencer 2008: 233). Furthermore, ‘this apparent intimacy
increased the sense of [audience] loyalty to the festival and to the players in
particular’ (ibid.). Familiarity with place was also found to be a factor in a
326 Musicians in the Making
MUSICAL COMMUNICATION
BASIC RESPONSE
context in a way that stretches, but does not rupture, the shared experi-
ence is an abiding practical preoccupation of those involved in the pro-
motion of new music (Lerdahl 1988). There is little empirical research to
date on this issue, although it was one of the motivations for the research
into audience response to Roger Reynolds’ The Angel of Death, discussed
below. The practice of performing an unfamiliar piece twice within a pro-
gramme, something that has commended itself to some performers of new
or unfamiliar music, is another area which could benefit from systematic
research and evaluation involving musicians and audiences. This practice
is a straightforward way in which performers can directly address issues of
familiarity through their programming.
respondents’ thinking about life and their place in the world. They are described
as elemental spiritual experiences.
The reported experiences often occurred with recorded music, making it dif-
ficult to establish the significance of the performer–audience relationship in
the experience. For the most part, the ‘content’ of the music—i.e. ‘the music
itself’—is what people report experiencing, rather than any conscious identifi-
cation with performers, composer or other listeners, although ‘[i]n many of the
accounts, it is apparent that the strong experience is primarily dependent on the
qualities of a particular artiste or ensemble’ (ibid.: 410).
Gabrielsson’s 2011 study enables us to identify some common factors in
strong musical experiences among performers: (1) a feeling of connectedness
between performers; (2) a feeling that the audience understands what is hap-
pening, is excited by it and is transmitting that excitement back to the per-
formers; (3) a feeling of relinquishing control, technique and work; and (4) a
feeling of complete immersion in the music to the extent of not thinking at all.
Gabrielsson comments that
Communication with the audience is an important factor [in SEM for
performers]. On the one hand, the visual impressions of the musicians’
playing and commitment mean a lot for the listeners’ experience; on the
other, the musicians are affected by what they see and notice of the lis-
teners’ reactions. Positive reactions by the listeners inspire the musicians
to (even) greater commitment, which in turn spurs the listeners to (even)
greater response, and so on. One narrator expressed it as being like ‘play-
ing ping-pong with the audience, you get the ball back all the time; if they
really get going, we get going even more’. (ibid.: 249)
Similar remarks were made by respondents in Brand et al.’s (2013) study of the
reciprocal relationship between jazz performers and their audiences (research-
ers asked musicians and audience members to respond to the question ‘What
makes a successful jazz gig?’), as exemplified in the opening quotation of this
chapter. The conclusions to be drawn from Gabrielsson’s research on strong
experience also chime with the characteristics that musicians report when they
have an optimal live performance experience (Minassian, Gayford and Sloboda
2003): namely, audience response is a key factor. There is little evidence that
performers are a focus of SEMs for audience members in the same way; how-
ever, that may be because many of the reported SEMs involve recorded music.
Future research could examine the extent to which the engaged audience at a
live event feels that a direct connection with the performers is a key part of the
experience.
More directly supportive corroboration of the potential for shared peak
experiences comes from studies of various nonclassical musical contexts, such
as the music in Sufi religious ceremonies explicitly designed to inculcate a shared
experience of ecstasy, or the use of music in Pentecostal religious services, where
332 Musicians in the Making
a high level of emotional and physical arousal is generated among a large pro-
portion of worshippers (see Becker 2001). Becker observes that western classi-
cal music may be a particularly inimical context for the generation and mutual
acknowledgement of shared peak experience. She identifies the predominant
subjectivity of the western classical audience as ‘an individual with a strong
sense of separateness, of uniqueness from all other persons, whose emotions
and feelings are felt to be known in their entirety and complexity only to him or
herself, whose physical and psychic privacy is treasured’ (2001: 141). Cultures
where emotion is perceived in a more collective and public framing may be
the ones where shared experience can be more easily generated, claimed and
noticed. The ‘separateness’ of many people’s experience of classical music is
encouraged by a culture of non-interaction between performers and audience
before or after the performance. Thus, it is interesting to speculate whether
performers might be able to increase the conditions for peak experience by
interacting with audience members more intensively between performances,
creating more of a sense of community. Some of the ways in which this might
happen are explored in the next section.
After the performance
FORMAL FEEDBACK
Much of the work combining formal audience feedback with research has
been informed by choreographer and writer Liz Lerman. Lerman’s Critical
Response Process (CRP) is designed to enable a feedback conversation that
is artist-led and that leads the artist back to his or her work in order to
continue its development (Lerman and Borstel 2003). The CRP takes the
performance itself as a starting point, with its meaning, and the motivation
for its creation, as the basis on which feedback is given. The CRP and deriv-
ative processes are increasingly used as tools to enable artists to draw on
audience response in the development of creative performance, but as yet, to
our knowledge, they have not been subject to evaluative research.5 It is to be
hoped that future research will examine the potential of the CRP to develop
creative practice.
Recent research in music (Sloboda 2013) has explored formal feedback
relating to the audience experience of musical performance, with an initial
focus on jazz and classical music. Putting the artist’s concerns at the centre
of the feedback process is a key feature of the research, which resonates with
Lerman’s philosophy: ‘the Critical Response Process begins with the philoso-
phy that meaning is at the heart of an artist’s work, and to start with meaning
is to begin with the essence of the artistic act’ (Lerman and Borstel 2003: 19).
Sloboda’s research uses a similar starting point for the design and evaluation
of guided feedback sessions, exploring how curated feedback from live audi-
ences can be of value to the creative process. In particular, the work focuses
on the potential of processes whereby ‘musicians themselves take a lead in the
formulation of the research questions that are posed to the audience, and are
centrally involved in the review of the data so obtained’ (Sloboda 2013: 2).
Reviewing outcomes from five distinct projects, Dobson and Sloboda (2014)
suggest that the key value of this research lies in discovering the impact that
audience feedback can have on the artistic team. They found, for instance,
that having the research questions in mind during rehearsal could help to
sharpen the focus of the rehearsal process itself. It also became clear that
musicians sensed a different (and enhanced) attention from an audience that
was expecting to offer comments afterwards, and that they experienced a sig-
nificant ‘power shift’ in favour of the audience, which was both welcomed
and experienced as unfamiliar and challenging. Finally, several participants
mentioned how they valued the raw, unmediated comments of non-experts,
which contrasted positively with the more technical and professional language
of commentary from peers and teachers. It is also clear that poor experiences
of post-concert sessions in the past have made some musicians wary of being
involved in such processes, and that the design, preparation and curation of
these events need to be as careful and detailed as the artistic performance itself
if all parties are to derive maximum benefit from them. We propose that post-
performance feedback sessions, if contemplated, should be developed as an
integral part of the performance event.
334 Musicians in the Making
The research project devised around Roger Reynolds’ 2001 composition The
Angel of Death is a major psychological study of the relationship between what
listeners hear in a live performance and what the composer intended them to
hear. Reynolds worked closely with a group of musicologists and psychologists
to create a musical work that would be the subject of psychological experi-
ments regarding listeners’ perception of musical structures. While Reynolds
notes that ‘the essential ethic of the creative process will not allow one to act
in violation of one’s own aesthetic sensibility’, he nevertheless acknowledges
the importance of the learning gained during this project for his creative prac-
tice: ‘I would prefer to face these questions [of audience understanding of musi-
cal materials] armed with more than informal, and in all probability strongly
predisposed, positions to guide me’ (2004: 355). Reynolds goes on to note that
future work could usefully build on the ‘Angel Project’: ‘perhaps, then, a suf-
ficient weight of evidence could be accumulated so that some influence on the
course of musical practice and thought might be exerted’ (ibid.).
INFORMAL FEEDBACK
than an eagerness to continue creative work. We might suggest that control over
the feedback process and the structure of the process itself are determining fac-
tors in whether the feedback is viewed constructively.
Although classical musicians are increasingly active in social media, many of
the processes of online feedback are more developed in the rock/pop world, and
some research has already been conducted in this area. Nancy K. Baym (2012),
who interviewed thirty-six musicians between 2010 and 2011, explores the blur-
ring lines between ‘fans’ and ‘friends’ for musicians with an online presence. She
reports that while musicians have always befriended audience members through
fan letters and post-show conversation, social media has made the process of
feedback far more personal than before. Audience members who use social
media to communicate with musicians have high expectations that the musician
will respond quickly and that the response will be on the basis of a level playing
field, rather than an artist-to-audience hierarchy. The expectation of a relatively
intimate response from an artist can lead to real friendship, as well as to valida-
tion for artists. For musicians, Baym found that ‘social media interactions …
with audience members online also offer memorably high points that can be
profoundly validating’ (ibid.: 296). One band manager noted:
When I first started working with them, Eddie would say, ‘Yeah, you
know, I’ll be at home writing songs and does anybody care? … But then
I post on Twitter and Facebook and all these people respond immedi-
ately. And I’m like, ‘Wow, people really care.’ You know, so I think it can
be really wonderful instant gratification, especially for a songwriter who
is at home. (ibid.: 296)
The musicians to whom Baym spoke told stories about discovering that their
music had helped people deal with difficult emotional situations; ‘[t]he story
musicians told me most often was of hearing that their music helped someone
deal with death’ (ibid.: 297). Baym posits that it is particularly important and
useful for musicians to hear of their work helping audience members deal with
emotional trauma because ‘their creative output is so often cast as “entertain-
ment”… [T]hese stories can thus be seen as affirming for musicians that they
do more than provide surface pleasure’ (ibid.: 298). In these instances, one can
imagine a positive circle similar to that outlined by Lerman, in which the artist
is impelled to further creative practice as a result of audience feedback.
Baym does not deal with the question of negative or aggressive feedback
coming through social media; it is to be hoped that future research will provide
musicians with tools for managing negative or even abusive online feedback.
In the cases mentioned above, the audiences in question were not previously
known to the performers, but it is also evident that significant and influential
feedback often comes from personal friends or acquaintances of performers.
Future research could usefully explore the influence of this sort of informal
feedback on musicians’ creative practice.
336 Musicians in the Making
Conclusion
Our survey of the existing research has revealed that while much is known
about listener and audience response to music, the issue of how this response
may affect creative performance has been less extensively studied. However,
we feel it important to conclude with some tentative suggestions for how the
research reviewed above can best assist musicians and those who teach them
to enhance and enrich creative performance. These conclusions are necessarily
provisional, but they may enhance the reflective practice of those performing
musicians who want to deepen their relationship with their audiences, as well
as providing some pointers to where further research effort may usefully be
expended.
A sense of involvement and a feeling of connection are essential parts of a
successful performance for both performers and audience, and these feelings
can be enabled or facilitated by factors such as the architecture of the perfor-
mance space, the choice of repertoire and the behaviour of performers dur-
ing a performance. We propose that audience-focused decisions could usefully
inform a performer’s creative practice in each of these areas. For example, to
the extent that it is possible and in the performers’ power, we suggest making
audience-focused decisions about the layout of the performance space, accord-
ing to the type of audience engagement that is sought. Performers should
reflect on the effect of their physical movements, gestures and facial expressions
338 Musicians in the Making
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340 Musicians in the Making
composed piece: of course as a performer you already know the piece through
all the practice you have done, and as a musician you know whether you like it
and think it is a good piece, but when you perform it for the first time and hear
it through the ears of the audience, you finally hear and understand the piece,
what it’s like, and what it means. Secondly, having done this project, I found that
my self-confidence had grown, not just as a practical producer but as a creative
musician. I could then give myself permission to go on and develop ideas for
further CDs.
A second solo CD followed Waterworks. For a Christmas CD I arranged
Bach and Chopin and edited all of the recordings myself. This also contained a
compilation of Christmas songs sung by children and mixed in the studio with
multiple viola tracks, and I commissioned a Polish grandmother to sing a tra-
ditional lullaby, combining her voice with Claron McFadden’s soprano voice.
Another CD, Sonata, included Shostakovich’s swan song, his viola sonata.
Here I was accompanied by Reinbert de Leeuw, and we combined the music
with the Dutch Poet Laureate Ramsey Nasr reciting his long poem based on
the Shostakovich sonata; I prepared the montage of poetry and music myself.
A fifth CD took its inspiration from an era in which women started to leave
their private domain and develop a public voice; it placed Milhaud’s viola con-
certo between sonatas by Hindemith and Ysaÿe, flanked by Milhaud’s portraits
of women, Quatre Visages, as a mirror.
Looking back, I feel proud of the personal inspirations behind this series
of CDs, which sit alongside my prize-winning recording of the Ligeti viola
sonata. As well as demonstrating my capacities as a viola player, I see them
clearly as products of my whole musical outlook, of the desire to collaborate
with other creative artists and makers, and of the need to reach out to new
audiences.
As head of the classical music department, previously at the Royal
Conservatoire in The Hague and now at Conservatorium Maastricht, I tell our
students that they are responsible for everything that is required and possible
in presenting the scores that they perform to the audiences who are listening.
This goes beyond mere ‘function’, in the sense that composers need musicians
to convey their compositions to listeners, whereas writers can sell their books
directly. Rather, I believe that by taking responsibility in this manner the stu-
dents become better musicians. Using their instruments and voices to recreate
the notes of the score in the most informed and inspired ways becomes the
starting point for all kinds of artistic adventures, allowing them to make cre-
ative statements of their own that will also underpin a satisfying career as a
professional.
Insight
Beyond convention: listening to one’s
inner voice
Frances-Marie Uitti
I’ve always been fascinated with the bow. When I was very young I used to
climb onto my father’s desk, open the violin case and bask in the scent of rosin.
I loved the bow’s magical gestures, the powdery whiteness and graininess of
the hairs on the strings. I begged to play the violin like my father and sister, but
to begin with my parents started me on piano lessons. Only later was I given a
cello, and although it was too big and the strings too high, I somehow managed
to bow the strings. Heaven!
My father used to help me with practising and, in particular, with reading
music. But I preferred playing by ear, and so I tricked him into playing a pas-
sage on the violin that I needed to learn. Still, the day of reckoning soon came
and I was forced to open my eyes and learn to read music.
I had a classical training, working through the sonata and concerto reper-
toire with core teachers Leslie Parnas and George Neikrug. I won a scholar-
ship to Meadowmount (Juilliard’s summer school), and towards the end of
my studies I worked on the Kodály solo sonata with André Navarra in Siena.
During this time in Italy I was asked to play Anton Webern’s Op. 11 miniatures.
Giacinto Scelsi attended the performance and soon invited me to play his first
solo cello piece Triphon, a seventeen-minute monster of a work both musi-
cally and technically, filled with quarter tones, obsessive rhythms, thundering
dynamic contrasts and a metallic resonator that divided the instrument into
two voices, one gruff, the other classical. Out of this experience came a ten-year
collaboration on the forty-five-minute Trilogia which in turn led to us improvis-
ing together to create new pieces for cello. I was hooked…
A world had opened up that offered me new expressive possibilities and myr-
iad sounds. My teachers had warned me against playing microtones, saying
I would lose my ear, and that the rougher sound world of contemporary music
would ruin my ‘tone’. But I guess saying that to someone who was already
344 addicted to this musical language was useless, and before long I found myself
Insight: Frances-Marie Uitti 345
premiering many new works from the Italian scene, collaborating with such
composers as Sylvano Bussotti and Domenico Guaccero. The transparent
sound palette of Salvatore Sciarrino’s harmonics was a magical discovery,
working with Paolo Renosto’s powerful electronics was exciting, and collabo-
rating in Scelsi’s improvisatory and mystical world was a revelation. What more
could a cellist want? Little could I anticipate the adventure that followed. While
in Rome I met Frederic Rzewski and Alvin Curran, both supreme improvisers.
I began to collaborate with them as well as Giancarlo Cardini and Fernando
Grillo, masters of absurdist music theatre and gestural expression. Through all
this work I returned to solo improvisation, where chordal playing and explicit
harmony gradually took on more importance.
Because of this I found myself longing for a way to sustain more than two
strings simultaneously. I commissioned a radically curved bow from a Roman
luthier so that I could access all the strings at once. For several months it seemed
the perfect solution, but gradually I realized that it was too limited: I could play
four adjacent strings together, but only adjacent strings. The attacks on all four
strings were simultaneous, and the tone colours achievable between the bridge
and fingerboard were homogeneous. Accessing the outer strings meant putting
more pressure on the middle strings, which limited the dynamic freedom of my
voicing. Musically I wanted to have the polyphonic possibility of playing any
string of my choice in any combination with the others, to be able to control the
timbre of each voice, and to change dynamics and articulations for each string
independently. One bow would not suffice.
In this situation I proceeded to experiment, and finally I developed a way of
using two bows in the right hand, leaving the left hand free to play chordally as
well as melodically. Using this technique, I discovered that two bows can enable
you to bow the strings in any combination, and to play with a large and inde-
pendent gamut of dynamic and expressive possibilities. I premiered my own
two-bow pieces at the Palais des Beaux Arts, Brussels, and at the Westdeutscher
Rundfunk in Cologne. Later, I demonstrated this approach to Luigi Nono, who
featured it in his Diario polacco n. 2. Soon after, György Kurtág took interest
and wrote a perfect jewel of a piece, Message to Frances-Marie. Giacinto Scelsi
went on to adapt Sauh in a transcription on which we worked collaboratively.
Many other composers then explored the versatile possibilities of the two bows,
including Jonathan Harvey, Guus Jansen, Lisa Bielawa, Jay Alan Yim, Richard
Barrett and Vinko Globokar. Rodney Sharman wrote wonderful works inter-
weaving two-bowed cello with the spoken and singing voice.
While exploring the cello with two bows, I also had the chance to work at
STEIM, the electronic music centre in Amsterdam. There I investigated the
world of microphones, sensors and computer programs. I designed a con-
troller to fit onto the cello so that I would not have to look at the computer
during performance. This then led me to co-design a six-string eCello with Eric
Jensen in Seattle that enabled independent voicing between the strings, with
346 Musicians in the Making
a high bridge that could accommodate two bows. Later, with support from a
Regent's Fellowship at CNMAT at the University of California, I explored a
setup of sensors on the eCello with Adrian Freed that allowed me to change and
modify preset programs on the computer in real time, and seamlessly to inter-
face with acoustic cello technique. Getting rid of computer screens and being
able to play by ear was essential to my way of deeply engaging with the sounds
of the moment.
The CNMAT collaboration was so interesting that we decided to go fur-
ther by building a totally new instrument. My idea was to create an instrument
that would have no sound of its own, that would function only as a trigger for
synthesized and pre-recorded sounds, and that could be played (in terms of
the left hand) ergonomically like a cello and with one or more normal bows.
We extended the principle of a bowed rotating spindle sensor (already tested
in 2005) to an array of virtual strings, using their endless spinning to meas-
ure speed and direction. I realized during our brainstorming session that we
could more than double the ‘strings’ intersected by my two-bow technique by
constructing a mirror bridge directly underneath the original high one. This
created an oval shape that allowed me to intersect three sets of four-string
groupings, plus all the non-adjacent combinations of three- and two-string
groupings. The wide, flat fingerboard was covered in six long linear-position
and pressure-sensor strips on the front and six on the back, giving me twelve
virtual strings. The lower bout is equipped with an infrared sensor to measure
bout width as an alternative to a foot pedal controller. To make it properly
usable, I decided to get my hands dirty, and I subsequently rebuilt the instru-
ment myself from scratch at FabLab in Amsterdam with electronic assistance
from the Royal Conservatoire in The Hague, Lex van den Broek and Johan van
Kreij.1 All of this yielded musical possibilities far beyond the conventional,
allowing me to realize a quite personal artistic vision through sound, gesture
and focus of mind.
While teaching at Oberlin Conservatory, I was particularly proud that none
of my cello students sounded either like me or like one another; each student
developed his or her own sound. Even in classical music, with a more codified
sound world, there is a vast canvas for musical expression and exploration—
which is to say, for finding one’s own voice. Were I to emphasize one thing
for young talents, it would be to underscore the importance of exploring that
wordless realm that we all have if we allow ourselves to become really quiet so
that the inner voice can speak. This in turn means allowing ourselves to expe-
rience and nurture our differences rather than our similarities; to celebrate the
edges and corners, the extremes; and not to waste time by imitating others.
My personal inner voice tells me, ‘If you’ve heard it, don’t repeat it.’ Let the
adventure begin!
Insight
Learning to take time
Melvyn Tan (with John Rink)
Learning is a lifelong thing, and when you start, you don’t realize what you’re
letting yourself in for.1 I began to play the piano when I was four, but I had no
idea what it would entail. I had no idea where it would take me. I just went from
week to week, learning my daily exercises, and it wasn’t until my adolescence
that I knew I wanted to continue more seriously with my studies.
Being a musician means hours of dedicated practising, but a lot of time is
wasted by unnecessary practice. Even students of Grade 8 standard or similar
have no real idea how to practise. It is always important to have an aim, a goal,
a light at the end of the tunnel whenever one practises so that one can con-
centrate on technical issues, articulation or the other musical aspects that one
would like to improve on in that particular piece. A concentrated three hours
can achieve much more than six hours of unfocused effort.
Practising when I was a student at the Royal College of Music was extremely
problematic. There was a severe shortage of practice rooms, and booking these
rooms was almost always impossible. The only time when rooms seemed to
be free was from 7:00 to 9:00 am, so I would go every morning to try and
get some work done. Learning new repertoire was something I managed to do
quite well when I was at the College, however. I had not managed to learn many
of the pieces before at school, including those of classical and early romantic
composers.
Learning does not stop once one ceases to be a student: in fact, quite the
reverse. As a novice professional performer, one starts to really learn and gauge
one’s performances. Every time it is different, and every time one learns. This is
very difficult to explain in a masterclass or even in a lesson. A teacher should
steer the pupil in the right direction and in my opinion not impose his or her
ideas. This also implies a respect for the pupil as a person, something certain
teachers tend to ignore.
As with many students, I was happy to go with the flow during my studies.
In my case, a chance introduction to the world of the early piano led me to
347
348 Musicians in the Making
pursue further my fascination for these instruments. Later this led to numer-
ous recordings which revealed the wonderful sound world of the classical and
early romantic composers, a sound which was still relatively strange to many
ears. The pianos from that era are radically different from the modern piano
in sound and touch. Beethoven as a young man wrote for a keyboard with
only five octaves. As one of the first real virtuoso pianists, he began demanding
much more from the instruments he played on, and in a way he accelerated the
development of the piano from a five- to a six-octave instrument in the early
1800s and later to six-and-a-half octaves in the 1820s, thereby paving the way
for composers like Czerny and Liszt to take the instrument even further, to
what we now know as a modern piano.
As a student I had no inkling that these wonderful earlier instruments
existed. A piano was a piano, a violin a violin. So working with these instru-
ments led me to relearn a lot of the classical and early romantic repertoire and
to unlearn many of the technical aspects of modern piano playing which I had
been taught as a student. This was a long process as the lightness of the earlier
instruments, both in sound and in touch, meant that one could phrase, articu-
late and even pedal differently, not to mention the issue of tempo! Occasionally
I would stray back into ‘old’ habits, particularly when nervous, but one can
learn to overcome such tendencies.
As students, we studied the history of music as a history of composers and
compositions, learning why the great works are great but nothing about the
historical instruments the composers wrote for, particularly the keyboard. So
discovering this whole new world was a complete revelation for me. I had found
my own voice.
After many years of performing exclusively on old pianos, I decided to
return to the modern piano, largely because I realized that I missed certain
repertoire and felt ready to come back to it. I had been taught that repertoire
as a young student by some teachers who actually knew the composers in
question—including Debussy, Ravel and Messiaen, to name but a few. It was
a gradual process, but like anything with age, one returns to these things (one
hopes) with more sagacity and more experience to help.
When you’re a student, or when you’ve just graduated, you’re young and
optimistic and it doesn’t really matter what you’re playing, but when you get
older, your attitude is different; your whole psyche is different; the whole phys-
ical thing of how you present yourself, how you play, is different, because it
evolves all the time. The older you get, the more sensitive you become at picking
up the different vibes that an audience gives you. That sort of radar becomes
much more acute when you get older.
I have always told students that they have to learn to take failure. When
you’re embarking on a musical career, it’s not all about success. You have to
take the rough with the smooth. You have to learn to take bad criticism; you
have to learn to accept second prize in a competition. And if somebody keeps
Insight: Melvyn Tan (with John Rink) 349
telling you when you’re learning that it’s lovely and that’s wonderful, then, when
something bad happens, it really is a shock, whereas if somebody prepares you
a little bit more, it’s still a disappointment, it’s still awful, but you just leave it
and go on to the next thing, which you have to do.
I always say when I’m teaching a masterclass, ‘Just take more time: if you
can’t play it, it doesn’t matter—just take time!’ And then, of course, when they
do take time, it starts to sound right. I think that as you get older as a player,
you realize there is a lot of time that you can take, particularly in a perfor-
mance. One always has to remember that music needs to breathe to come alive.
Time is of the essence in making music—and in sustaining a professional career
in music too.
NOTES
Preface
1. The ensuing six paragraphs are adapted from James, Wise and Rink (2010).
Chapter 2
1. The framework was developed by Linden Learning, a specialist provider of con-
sultancy, training and coaching across the education sector. Jane Cook, chief executive of
Linden Learning, leads a mentoring–coaching skills development initiative at the Guildhall
School of Music & Drama in London.
Chapter 3
1. See Chapter 2 for a critical discussion of ‘apprenticeship’ as understood within the
context of one-to-one instrumental and vocal teaching.
Chapter 5
1. For example, such concerns have been expressed by performance teachers at the
authors’ institution, resulting in performance courses now being two semesters in duration,
with a 25 per cent technical assessment at the end of the first semester and a 60 per cent
recital assessment at the end of the second semester. The remaining 15 per cent is allocated
to a Performance Studies Portfolio (7.5 per cent each semester) containing students’ critical
reflections on their learning.
2. The Critical Response Process includes a dialogue between responders (or assessors)
and the artist which relies heavily on the asking of open-ended neutral questions.
3. See for example http://assessmentinmusic.com.au (accessed 15 February 2017) and
Polifonia (2014).
4. More details on this process can be found on the Assessment in Music website at
http://assessmentinmusic.com.au (accessed 15 February 2017) and in Lebler (2007, 2008,
2012, 2013b).
351
352 Notes
Chapter 6
1. See for example work by Bennett (1980), Finnegan (1989), Cohen (1991), Berliner
(1994), Lilliestam (1996), Monson (1996), Berkaak (1999), McCarthy (1999), Green (2002)
and O’Flynn (2009), among many others.
2. The new data come from Tim Smart’s current PhD research (identified in what follows
as ‘Smart n.d.’), in which essential issues concerning ethical procedures, research methods
and methodologies are explored in much more detail. Here the names of the musicians have
been anonymized. Other sources discussing a variety of musicians’ views of what is valued,
and how they learn, include those in note 1 above, as well as, for example, Becker (1963),
Nettl (1995), Kingsbury (1988), Cottrell (2004), Bennett (2008), Karlsen (2010) and Creech
et al. (2013a, 2013b).
3. We recognize of course that the amateur–professional divide in music is a vexed and
highly complex issue (see e.g. Keene 2015 for an interesting examination of this). Discussion
of exactly what it means would be the topic of another chapter, however, and here we use
the terms loosely in an ‘everyday’ sense.
4. Musicians use this term flexibly to describe knowledge, skill or ability relevant to a
certain situation or context.
5. See e.g. Green (2002), Smilde (2012) and Smart (n.d.). The literature in the psychol-
ogy of music on early childhood musical development is extensive; for overviews see e.g.
Chen-Hafteck (1997) and Welch (2002).
6. These include http://www.learnchoralmusic.co.uk, https://www.choraline.com and
many others (accessed 15 February 2017).
7. See, among many more examples, Green (2002, 2008a, 2008c, 2014), Rodriguez (2004,
2009), Jaffurs (2004), Davis (2005), Nielsen (2006), O’Flynn (2006), Seifried (2006), Väkevä
(2006, 2009, 2010), Westerlund (2006), Lebler (2007, 2008), Hallam et al. (2008), Lines
(2009), Mans (2009), Feichas (2010), Finney and Philpott (2010), Karlsen (2010), Woody
and Lehmann (2010), Wright and Kanellopoulos (2010), Abrahams et al. (2011), Andrews
(2013), D’Amore (2011), Jeanneret, McLennan and Stevens-Ballenger (2011), Vitale (2011),
Wright (2011), Cayari (2013), Chua and Ho (2013), and McPhail (2013).
Chapter 7
1. The relative balance between solitary and group practice varies with the type of musi-
cian, including both singers and instrumentalists, and also the predominant genres of musi-
cal activity (including professional work) in which they are involved. For example, a pianist
is likely to spend far more time in solitary practice than, say, a violinist primarily engaged
in orchestral work.
2. As described later in the chapter, musicians in our study retrospectively identified
important aspects of their practising when they reviewed video recordings of practice ses-
sions in the wake of the public performance of a designated piece. Their reflections of the
spontaneous decisions that they had made during the performance pointed to the same
types of interactive process as the ones they identified for the practice period leading up to
the performance (see the discussion below). These significant commonalities between the
practice phase and the performance led us to conclude that the latter should not be under-
stood only as an endpoint or a final outcome of practice: rather, the musicians operated on
a continuum from practice to performance, with the performance itself and their reflections
on it in effect becoming part of the preparation for the next performance. This perceived
relationship between practice and performance chimes with Sloboda’s (1985) notion of a
continuum as described in the section below on creativity in existing practice literature.
3. J. Williams, 2008: How to practise, http://www.jenevorawilliams.com/wp-content/
uploads/2012/10/How-to-practise.pdf (accessed 15 February 2017).
4. http://www.bulletproofmusician.com/how-many-hours-a-day-should-you-practice
(accessed 15 February 2017).
5. The study was part of a three-year project entitled ‘Creative learning and “original”
music performance’, which was conducted under the auspices of the AHRC Research Centre
for Musical Performance as Creative Practice (see http://www.cmpcp.ac.uk/research/proj-
ects/creative-learning-and-original-musicperformance for further information; accessed 15
February 2017). The project as a whole had several phases and constituent work packages,
including student questionnaires, focus groups with teachers and an observational study of
one-to-one lessons involving video-recall interviews.
6. See James, Wise and Rink (2010) for details of the video-recall method used in these
interviews.
7. ‘Creative episodes’ are defined as ‘chunks of meaning or units which are comparable
to nodes in the analysis of learning environments, and which are “judged to be a signifi-
cant happening in the learning context” (Barab, Hay, and Yamagata-Lynch 2001: 74). An
episode can refer to a state of mind or to actions of different lengths’ (James et al. 2010: 9).
8. Following analytical processes described by Braun and Clarke (2006), first-level
themes represent a reading of the data that stays close to the semantic content of par-
ticipants’ accounts. Second-level themes move to a deeper level of interpretation, and in
our analysis they represent a different reading and not a simple aggregation of first-level
themes.
9. The notion of ‘ownership’ of an interpretation derives from our study of one-to-
one teaching (James et al. 2010), in which participants described a process whereby the
suggestions of their teachers and the solutions that they proposed were taken into the prac-
tice room by the students, who then reflected upon and internalized them as they devel-
oped interpretative approaches that in effect made their teachers’ ideas ‘their own’. (See
Chapter 6 in this volume.)
354 Notes
10. Although expressivity is not the same as creativity, it is arguably central to a perform-
ing musician’s creative practice. In our study, there was much slippage between the concepts
of creativity, expression and interpretation in teachers’ talk. (See Chapter 14 in this volume.)
11. See however Chapter 6 in this volume.
12. This study deliberately concentrated on soloists, and it should be noted that per-
formers who work with other musicians to prepare a performance do not proceed directly
from solitary practice to the stage.
Chapter 8
1. For example, nearly two decades elapsed between the Lindsay Quartet’s first and
second recordings of the complete Beethoven String Quartets, while at the other end of the
spectrum some performances (although perhaps not of Beethoven quartets) are given after
just one rehearsal.
2. Some may claim that two people do not constitute a group, but I would argue that
the duo exhibits all the characteristics of a group as defined by Hartley (1993): interaction
between performers, perception of each other, leader-and-follower relationships, feelings
about each other, and norms and goals—shared or otherwise.
3. Davidson and King (2004: 109) quoted a passage from the novel in their chapter on
strategies for ensemble practice, and it is worth repeating here:
Every rehearsal of the Maggiore [String] Quartet begins with a very plain, very
slow three-octave scale on all four instruments in unison: sometimes major, as in
our name, sometimes minor, depending on the key of the first piece we are to play.
No matter how fraught our lives have been over the last couple of days, no matter
how abrasive our disputes about people or politics, or how visceral our differences
about what we are to play and how we are to play it, it reminds us that we are, when
it comes to it, one. We try not to look at each other when we play this scale; no one
appears to lead… When I play this I release myself into the spirit of the quartet.
I become the music of the scale. I mute my will, I free my self. (Seth 1999: 10)
4. Cf. Chapter 15 in this volume.
5. For the purposes of this chapter, the coding framework reported by Ginsborg et
al. (2006a) has been simplified in Table 8.1 so as to combine decisions and performance
cues, since it is the musicians’ changing focus on various aspects of the work that is under
consideration.
6. The other sessions involved the pianist alone, a session in which the singer wrote
out as much as she could remember of the piece from memory, and rehearsals and run-
throughs with the instrumental ensemble.
Chapter 9
1. For example, see Cook (2007), Leech-Wilkinson (2006) and Repp (2000), among
many others.
2. The work of Sawyer (2003, 2006) is one exception to this general rule.
3. See Pace (2012) for a list of the developing sizes of nineteenth-century European
orchestras.
Notes 355
4. For more discussion of the importance of gestures and glances in ensemble perfor-
mance, see Chapters 8 and 15 in this volume, as well as Margaret Faultless’ ‘Insight’.
5. Broadcast as part of a Channel 4 documentary titled The Phil in 1999, cited in
Cottrell (2004: 108).
6. For more on styles of leadership in relation to orchestras, see Lewis (2012: 18–34)
and Logie (2012: 7–33).
7. Simon Rattle, The South Bank Show, London Weekend Television, 25 June 2000.
8. I am grateful to Tim Hooper for discussions which helped inform this section.
9. Seifter and Economy (2001).
10. For more on the trust relationships that exist within the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra,
see Khodyakov (2007).
Chapter 10
1. The work reported in this chapter was supported in part by the Peter Sowerby
Foundation.
2. Imreh’s practising behaviours are also discussed in Chapters 7 and 12 in this volume.
Chapter 11
1. This chapter is based on ethnographic participant observation and in-depth inter-
views that were conducted with professional musicians in 2012–13 and funded by the
European Research Council (see Hill, in press). I chose Helsinki as the primary case study
because of its flourishing artistic innovation, which has been fostered by progressive atti-
tudes and pedagogies, artistic research, and significant state funding for the arts and arts
education. I chose my hometown of Los Angeles as a comparative case study. Details of
the dates and locations of the interviews are given after the list of references at the end of
the chapter.
2. Interviews revealed that musicians experience creativity as comprising six compo-
nents: agency, nonconformity, generativity, interaction, recycling and flow. See Hill (in
press).
3. For a general overview, see Nettl et al. (2014). For more details, see, for example,
Sanguinetti (2012) on partimento and Treitler (2003) on medieval plainchant.
4. For theories on why improvisation declined from the mid-nineteenth century through
the twentieth century, see Moore (1992) and Sancho-Velasquez (2001).
5. For online audio examples, listen to ‘Improvisation with Robert Levin’, NPR’s
Performance Today, http://www.npr.org/programs/specials/milestones/991124.motm.
improv.html (accessed 15 February 2017); Robert Levin, ‘Improvising Mozart’, Lecture-
recital, University of Cambridge, 29 October 2012, http://www.crassh.cam.ac.uk/events/
24560 (accessed 15 February 2017); and the recordings posted on http://www.david-dolan.
com (accessed 15 February 2017). See also Dolan (1996–97, 2005) and Levin (1992, 1997).
6. Watch examples of Junttu’s performances by entering the search phrase ‘Kristiina
Junttu piano’ at http://www.youtube.com.
7. Listen to examples from the KUULE! (Listen!) Helsinki Music Centre education
project at http://www.musiikkitalo.fi/en/article/kuule-listen-helsinki-music-centre-education-
project (accessed 15 February 2017) and the Kuule, Minä Sävellän (Listen, I’m Composing)
356 Notes
project at http://www.siba.fi/art-and-research/audience-participation/kuule-mina-savellan/
sheet-music (accessed 15 February 2017).
8. For examples, visit http://www.karikriikku.com (accessed 15 February 2017).
9. For examples, visit http://www.christophbull.com/christophbull.com/Welcome.html
and https://www.youtube.com/user/orgue99 (accessed 15 February 2017).
10. To protect their anonymity, many of the musicians quoted in this section have been
given pseudonyms.
11. The impact of teacher expectations on student outcomes has been well demonstrated
in education research (see Rosenthal and Jacobson 1968 and Rosenthal 1994).
Chapter 12
1. Stephen Broad collected the student data from his courses at RCS in academic years
2011–12 and 2012–13, and Mary Hunter did the relevant portion of the interview study in
Maine in 2012–13.
2. See Kerman’s (1983: 113ff.) distinction between the idea of a ‘standard repertory’,
which is a list, and a ‘canon’, which is a more broadly construed discourse.
3. See Creech et al. (2008) for comparisons between students studying classical, jazz,
‘rock’ (by which the authors mean a variety of popular styles) and Scottish traditional
music. The differences are quite minimal and, where they exist, fairly predictable (classical
students worry more about exactness, and they spend more time alone in the practice room
and less time with ensembles), but the questions that the authors ask mostly involve the
immediacies and practicalities of practising, rehearsing and performing, rather than the
ideologies of interpretation.
4. We have changed the names of all students and other respondents.
5. Although in casual usage we may talk about a performer’s own interpretation of
a given popular song, interpretation as a subject of serious and extended consideration,
especially in the academic world, concerns classical music almost exclusively. For example,
Krausz’s (1995) collection of philosophical essays entitled The Interpretation of Music is
devoted entirely to classical music.
6. The quasi-moral concerns about too much of the performer’s self in classical music
ideology map nicely onto psychological research by Repp (1997) and Clarke (2011), which
suggests that listeners like best the performances which are closest to what is perceived as
the ‘average’ in terms of ‘expressive’ deviations from a norm.
7. Stravinsky, from the Poetics of Music, quoted by Dunsby (1995: 88).
8. See note 1 above.
9. For example, Adorno’s unfinished treatise on performance was published with the
title Towards a Theory of Musical Reproduction (Adorno 2006).
10. Goodman’s famous assertion that one wrong note or dynamic disqualifies a perfor-
mance from representing the work, but that a vast latitude in areas not specified by the score
is permissible, is a purely philosophical exercise of no interest or importance in the musical
world (Goodman 1976: 186). However, Urmson (1995: 160–1) takes a more practical if also
philosophically stern line in suggesting that performers have an ethical obligation to proffer
the audience something as true as possible to what they believe is (e.g.) Handel’s Messiah if
that is what is promised on the programme.
11. For further discussion, see Chapter 7 in this volume.
Notes 357
Chapter 13
1. This is what Brendel calls ‘the kind of music-making that fancies itself in the garb of
a penitential hair shirt’ (1976: 25).
2. See discussion below of the informants and their contribution to the research for this
chapter.
3. Our informants were Allan Badley (University of Auckland), Jason Bae (Young
Steinway Artist), Laurence Dreyfus (Phantasm), Amanda Glauert (Royal College of
Music), John Harris (Red Note Ensemble), Neil Heyde (Royal Academy of Music), Graham
McPhail (University of Auckland), Ian Pace (City, University of London), Edith Salzmann
(Pettman National Junior Academy of Music, Auckland), Peter Sheppard Skærved (Royal
Academy of Music), W. Dean Sutcliffe (University of Auckland), and Henry Wong Doe
(Indiana University of Pennsylvania).
4. For further discussion, see Chapter 7 in this volume.
5. McPhail (2010) has developed performance and practice modes as conceptual ways
of working.
6. Two further figures—Ian Pace and Laurence Dreyfus—serve as examples of how
different kinds of ‘academic’ and ‘performance’ study can yield the creative solutions that
are central to their output. Pace—who is a pianist, author, and lecturer at City, University
of London—displays interesting elements of convergence across contrasting types of out-
put. His writing, lectures and approach to programming works by contemporary compos-
ers (arguably) share certain common themes or attitudes, that is, to challenge established
hierarchies, promote new outlooks in academic enquiry, and support or foster innovative
approaches in creative practice. And in his teaching at City, Pace encourages a broad view
and an integrated approach to study in the musically eclectic student body.
Not only are Dreyfus’ publications on music well-known, but so too is the viol consort,
Phantasm, that he founded in 1994. Winning awards for his scholarly outputs and record-
ings, Dreyfus has also had a significant impact on the conservatoire and university sectors
in the UK by establishing environments where students deliver high-level musicological
research and equally high-level performances. For example, in the early 1990s, Dreyfus
played a leading role in establishing the BMus and MMus courses at the Royal Academy
of Music (RAM). In these programmes students took academic modules at King’s College
London while pursuing performance training leading towards the conservatoire’s high-
est postgraduate qualification, the DipRAM. Dreyfus commented: ‘In teaching for over
twenty years in Britain, I was struck by how well students fared when they could be chal-
lenged to approach both academic study and performance with a genuine curiosity regard-
ing traditional authorities and received ideas so as to develop innovative views of music
and its praxis.’
7. For example, the PhD thesis of one of the authors—which was among the first to be
written within a conservatoire environment—invoked ancient and modern approaches to
358 Notes
Chapter 14
1. The argument about whether music communicates specific ideas or is, in fact, con-
fined to a nondiscursive, decorative function is centuries old, but it has a contemporary
articulation in Kivy’s assertion that
we must stop seeing [the musical artwork] as a linguistic entity and start seeing it,
horribile dictu, for what it really is: a product of the arts of decoration. Then the per-
former is not, by consequence, the slave to the composer’s message but one in whose
hands lies the task of presenting, for his or her generation and in the best possible
version, this decorative structure. (1995: 284–5)
2. The play between these various positions can be observed in musics around the world.
For example, personal authenticity is a key issue in popular music in the west, where the
singer/songwriter has become the rule. Tracing its root back to the early 1930s, Barker and
Taylor, in their book Faking It, identify Jimmy Rodgers’ 1931 recording of his T.B. Blues
as a starting point (Barker and Taylor 2007: 119–22). This was the first time that an auto-
biographical song was recorded by a celebrity singer. Since then, personal authenticity has
worked itself into the aesthetics of popular music, up to the waves of punk and grunge
music, when it emerged either as a moral and aesthetic value or as a requirement.
3. The idea of historically informed performance can be traced back to the late nine-
teenth century and the work of Arnold Dolmetsch. In the 1950s, a wave of ensembles
specializing in performance on period instruments and attempting to revive historical per-
formance practice also became embroiled in a debate on the notion of historical authen-
ticity that was to rage for forty years. After a culmination in 1995 with the publication of
Taruskin’s collection of essays Text and Act (Taruskin 1995) and Kivy’s Authenticities (Kivy
1995), terminologies have shifted from ‘authentic’ to ‘historically informed’, and present-
day early music ensembles have adopted a more pragmatic and practice-oriented approach
to historical evidence.
4. The AHRC Research Centre for the History and Analysis of Recorded Music
(CHARM; http://www.charm.rhul.ac.uk) was established in 2004 and completed its work
in 2009. Specific tools and practices for audio analysis came into common use during the
project, among them Sonic Visualiser (http://www.sonicvisualiser.org; accessed 15 February
2017).
5. ‘Shaping in musical performance’, led by Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, was one of
five research projects hosted by the AHRC Research Centre for Musical Performance
as Creative Practice (http://www.cmpcp.ac.uk; accessed 15 February 2017). For further
information, see the volume Music and Shape in this series.
6. In 2002, Juslin, Friberg and Bresin published an initial paper on the same model,
though discussing only four of the five dimensions.
Notes 359
Chapter 15
1. See Mithen (2006) for a theory of communication as mimetic and holistic.
2. Whereas a signal arises before the event, markers delineate an event as it occurs, such
as a conductor’s baton movement.
3. The terms ‘reaction’ and ‘inter-reaction’ should not be confused with the references
in the previous discussion to predictive and reactive behaviour in ensemble performance.
4. See Schwab (2013) for descriptions of representative approaches.
Chapter 16
1. See, for example, Auslander (1999), Phelan (1993), Reason (2004) and Barker (2013).
2. See Sloboda (2010) for an extended discussion of the comparison between the ‘every-
day’ and the ‘special’ in music experience.
3. In Chapter 15 of this volume, King and Gritten explore issues of co-performer attun-
ement, entrainment, feedback and reciprocity in the context of ensemble performance.
4. A future research project might analyse them in more depth.
5. For example, in January 2014, the London-based opera company The Opera Group
collaborated with King’s College London in using the CRP as part of a three-week festival
of creative work-in-development.
6. Chapter 5 in this volume considers the question of assessment of performance in
more detail.
7. Future research could investigate the effects of online reviews on the creative persona
of classical musicians.
361
362 Index
Clarke, E., 261, 323, 324 and live performance, interaction during, 307
classical music. See also classical musicians in performance, stages in, 313–14
canon of, 254, 275, 290–1 reciprocal, 308
entrainment and, 328 transmission in, 314
first-time concertgoers and, 326 communities of practice, xxv, xxvii, 34, 35, 45,
ideologies of, 253, 260–1, 263–4, 266 59, 80–2, 190, 241
improvisation, incorporated into, 222–5 competence
interpretation and, 356n5 coping and, 19
musicians’ egos and, 256, 257, 258 as psychological need, 18
oral traditions of, 257 competitiveness, 2
reflective practice in, 254–7, 259–61 Compleat Conductor, The (Schuller), 191–2
separateness and, 332 complementarity, in artistic partnerships, 34
verbal discourse of, 255 composers
vitality of, 268 appreciating performers’ creative
young musicians’ approach to, 262–8 input, 232–3
classical musicians. See also musicians authority of, 256
aesthetic limits on, 132 characteristics of, 29
artistic voice of, 131–5 faithfulness to, 132, 237–8, 255, 256
challenges for, in improvising, 236–8 intention of, 158, 294
creativity of, 223 composition
critical thinking and, 133–4 improvisation and, 242, 243. See also
expressive freedom of, 131–5 improvisation
performance perceptions of, 215 performance and, 29–30
practice experiences of, 143 computer-generated expressive performance, 297
profession of, 131 Computer Systems for Expressive Music
rehearsal activities of, 164 Performance (CSEMP), 297
socioeconomic challenges for, 132 concert attendance, as social phenomenon, 325
stress on, 206–7 concert halls
CMPCP. See AHRC Research Centre for culture of, 291–2, 293
Musical Performance as Creative Practice development of, 324–5
CNMAT, 346 concerts
coaching, 36–7, 40, 180 preparing for, 80. See also practice; rehearsals
Cochrane, A., 1 as shared experiences, 338
co-creation, 31, 302 concrete musical experience, 71
coherence, 311 conductors
collaboration. See also ensembles; groups as arbiters of musical interpretation, 191
creative process and, 33, 34, 35 choirs and, 198
creativity and, xxiv, xxv, xxvii, 62, 63, 69 expectations of, 195
integrative, 34 function of, 245–6
interdisciplinary, xxv leadership and, 191, 193, 195
internal, 34–5 musicians’ relationship with, 186–7, 194, 197
collaborative group working, 57 necessity of, 202
collaborative learning, 33, 35–7, 58–9 rise of, 188–9
Collaborative Learning in Higher Music roles of, 191–3
Education (ed. Gaunt and Westerlund), silent, 245–6
xxv–xxvi skills of, 202
collaborative outreach work, 230 Connaughton, D., 207
collective engagement, 35–6 conscious learning, 109
College Music Society (USA), 276 consensus moderation, 98, 100
Collens, P., 40, 43 conservatoires
Collins, D., 25 convergence of, with university courses, 272, 285
communication, 307, 327. See also musical creation of, 189, 275
communication; nonverbal communication; curriculum in, 100, 132
verbal communication defining characteristic of, 99, 278
assessment and, 94 development in, students’ perception of, 39, 68–9
in ensembles, 167–73, 182–3, 306–14 groups in, 69–70
364 Index