Parts I and II of this essay are here:
UPDATE: Thursday night we performed George Lewis’s Deformation of Mastery. Covert in-show video achieved, see below. It “went great,” and it was also “a disaster.” You’ll see what I mean.
What really matters here is that working with George was a revelation. He’s wonderful: brilliant, thought-provoking, accepting, and encouraging. I’m incredibly grateful for the experience.
… the fog does lift
Oohhhhh yes. THIS is the feeling. This is “day after the show” feeling — the profound sense of well-being that comes from the pressure being lifted. It’s new-car smell. Everything is in color again. Did the performance go as I hoped? Maybe, who knows… If yes, it’s even sweeter, but even if it didn’t… the feeling is basically the same, and I’ve observed this moment in the cycle of preparation and performance dozens of times: after weeks of living in a darkened theatre of my own creation, drawn further and further into the fantasy of a fictional film my brain has directed, it’s suddenly over. The credits roll and light pours in from the exits.
I rub my eyes and reenter the real world. Everything is new again. What next? Life is full of possibilities. I wish I could a) always feel this way and b) always think this way… every day of my life. The former isn’t possible. The latter might be, with practice.
I saw the same shrink for 21 years. The first time I ever walked into his office was 4 weeks after I moved to New York… September 11th had just happened and I didn’t know how to deal with it. “I really need to talk to someone about this,” I told myself.
The first time I ever confided in another human being that I’m gay was 27 minutes later.
“Well. That was unexpected,” I heard myself say. For the next 2 hours I drifted aimlessly up Broadway with the greatest psychological weight of my life suddenly removed from my shoulders. I experienced the sensation of physically floating. Like walking on the moon. The fog had lifted.
He supported me through this and every significant event of my personal and professional life through my entire adulthood. He never judged, and rarely offered specific advice. The process revolved around insights I could achieve on my own, purely by way of having an expert listener in the room, skillfully asking questions and then letting me answer them.
I solved so many of my most vexing personal problems through that process. But by the time he retired on December 31st, 2022, I started to suspect that this technique (traditional insight-oriented psychotherapy) could be both a benefit and a liability. I realized that indulging every single thought that enters my consciousness isn’t constructive 100% of the time, because some of those thoughts are simply meaningless or worse, harmful — sabotaging. I suddenly noticed that the line between healthy processing and maladaptive spiraling is real slippery.
There were certain mental health challenges — anxiety and panic attacks, in particular — that resolved more effectively through other means. Piece by piece, on my own, I picked up what I would later recognize as cognitive behavioral techniques: by learning to be mindful of “cognitive distortions,” accepting them as such, and actively challenging them, I could slowly and steadily get relief from anxiety and depression.
I moved on to a new therapist who practiced Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) and discovered a whole new outlook, directly applicable to the performer challenges I’m cataloging in this essay. I used to think therapy was magic. That was useful for me at the time. Today I love it because there’s no magic — there are clear goals and strategies. It’s research-backed. There’s homework!
Cognitive Behavioral Therapy in a nutshell, by Chris P. Thompson:
Just because my brain serves me the meal doesn’t mean I have to eat it. I can enjoy what’s nourishing, throw out what’s rotten, and send back everything I didn’t order.
… there are things that really do help
Disclaimer: throughout these posts, even when I’ve occasionally spoken in generalities (as above), I’m still only sharing my own experience. I’m not a licensed mental health professional. I’m not even a YouTube fauxpert with “5 simple ways to get over your gig anxiety (the last one will shock you).”
I’m just telling stories.
I would love it if you found them helpful or thought-provoking. But the point is simply to self-reflect (for me) and hopefully put my work into context (for you) . This is a snapshot of where I’m at today — maybe you can hear it in my music, or see it on my face if you come to the show. Please come to the show! (also please listen to my music 🙂 — here’s one about the anxious stomach robot creatures:)
Disputation
Like almost everything in life that presents itself as a challenge to be overcome, making a practical plan of action (i.e. a “practice” plan) is essential, but ends up being only one part of coping. For me, the bigger challenge is mental: to become consciously aware of my brain’s automatic commentary on the situation, and to dispute the parts that are maladaptive.
Once I started catching this kind of talk… call it “brain voice,” I realized I have the choice to endorse it or not. Forty five years living with this particular brain in my own skull and I never even realized that disputation is an option.
“It showed up in my head, so on some deep level it must be my truth,” I assumed.
To my surprise and delight, as I practiced disputation again and again, over weeks and months, that negative internal talk got quieter and quieter. I chipped away at the suffering. This has been really exciting to observe. Here’s a simple one:
Brain Voice: “I’m such an idiot. Everyone heard me hack that, and they’re judging me.”
Identified: Labeling. Mind-reading.
Disputation: “I can’t ever know what someone is really thinking. Even if I could, it’s none of my business. Also, I don’t endorse a label like ‘idiot’ — it would be more accurate to label myself a ‘human being.’ But thanks for sharing, brain!”
The first time I do this exercise, nothing happens. It feels empty - like corny “daily affirmation” mumbo-jumbo. But as the rational gatekeeper of my own beliefs, do I believe it intellectually? Honestly… yeah I do. I’m happy to give it a shot. Also giving it a shot is my therapy homework.
And then… how interesting … after practicing this disputation for a few weeks, my brain stops trying to convince me I’m “an idiot” quite so frequently. “Thanks for sharing, appreciate your concern” I tell it, every time.
Eventually it doesn’t even bother trying.
Agreement
The flip side of disputation: if I’m going to accept that my brain could be lying to me, wouldn’t I have to throw out everything it says? Even the encouragement and praise? I’ve decided it can’t be trusted, after all.
I recently told the shrink that I played something well and got a really meaningful compliment from a respected colleague. “…but I know better than to put too much weight on external validation” I said, thinking I was predicting what he was about to say. He responded so fast I barely finished my sentence:
“Ok fine… more importantly: do you agree?”
“Um… yeah I think I do”
“Then I’m so happy he agrees with what you already knew.”
Commentary that bubbles up from my brain can be dealt with the same way… just like it’s coming in from the outside. I have a choice to agree or not, in line with (or in spite of) how it “feels.”
Zero Expectations
I mean this far more literally than it sounds… I mean literally zero.
Hopes, dreams, and aspirations? YES. They drive action. This music festival I’m at comes with 10 different composers I deeply aspire to do right by. I dream of giving them their music exactly as they intended, and I hope I can. But do I “have to?” Absolutely not. This could be controversial. But “have to” is an expectation, and expectations are pressure-builders. I don’t have to accept them. For me, the rigidity of self-applied pressure negatively impacts performance.
I tend to tell myself that the expectations are coming from the outside, but they rarely are. No one is threatening to fire me, and no one is going to die if I miscount the bars (I actually tested and proved this. Can confirm: nobody died). It’s me who is writing these stories:
Choose your own adventure, brain-voice expectations edition!
“I need to be able to:”
[play it perfectly every time / convincingly fake it / hit 80% of tempo by July 7th / never have a memory slip / do a thing I don’t normally do / get to the vibraphone from the marimba in 5 beats … ]
“because:”
it’s a recording / it’s getting reviewed / the piece is “important” / John Adams is in the audience / I don’t have a choice / I blew it last time … ]
“or else:”
I’ll be humiliated / the composer will hate me for ruining their piece / I’ll hate myself for ruining the composer’s piece / it will be excruciatingly awkward to face my colleagues at intermission / the audience will demand their money back and burn down the theatre … ]
Disputation:
This festival was a case-study: 13 pieces, 11 that were new to me. I felt the pressure build over the preceding weeks as my expectations grew. I made a practical plan of how I was going to learn the notes. And for the first time, I made a mental plan as well:
I don’t “need to” do anything.
I made a choice to follow through with my intended plan, hoping for and believing in my intended result. The thing about expectations is that they make the standard a moving target. Let them in, and they become a carrot on a stick.
My colleague Matt and I arrived the first day with a mental plan — the first note we play in the right place is a win that deserves to be celebrated. Followed by every other note. The benchmarks continually rise, from zero to … ? By noticing the successes not the failures, I loosen up, surprisingly causing me to end up reaching a higher level of performance anyway. It’s also way more fun.
Focus on the Process
1) …by getting outside myself:
Wednesday April 26, 2017 — Zankel Hall Green room #3. Nadia is trying to warm up and I’m in my usual state, being a total nuisance: “I’m so uptight. How can I possibly play this music right now? I never enjoy this in the way I thought I would. How do you do it?”
Nadia: “This music is great and I’m just really excited to share it with the audience.”
Truth bomb. It’s not about me, and it’s not about what I can or can’t do. It’s about bringing something to life. I practice reminding myself this before, during, and after.
2) …by laughing at it:
Playing music is ridiculous. I have a whole bunch of wooden rectangles attached to a metal frame and people sit in little padded seats in a fantastically decorated 19th century room with curtains and pillars and moldings to listen to me hit them. I rub drums with superballs. There are people buzzing their lips into metal tubes in front of me. Have you ever like, really looked at musical notation? Alien code. Objective observation of the act of music-making is pure absurdity. Is this Taoism?
Another thing that’s hilarious is first rehearsals — that’s where I discover all the dumb mistakes that are possible. It’s also where I learn about things I never thought I could do! Matt and I have a code: bicep curls for unexpected feats of skill. Admire percussion setups as works of art: “dude look at those lines...” Pretend I didn’t miss 95% of the part on the first go and instead celebrate getting to the tam-tam in the first measure. Curse the existence of rototoms. “Have fun with it.” (I know… barf)
Giving License
To say “I give this license to exist” is one of the most effective little strategies I’ve ever discovered for making substantive change to my mood in the face of a challenge that’s not worth trying to control.
License: Environmental Variability (this is the easier one)
As a 20+ year resident of New York City, I have learned how to give license for approximately twenty seven million different environmental variabilities to exist. Noise (in hundreds of different flavors). Smells (in hundreds of different colors). Tourists who “don’t know the rules.” NYC lifers who ignore the rules. Human suffering exacerbated by politics I don’t endorse. Being sold to, literally non-stop, from anywhere I lay my eyes. Selfies 🤳.
I used to walk the streets with a list of rules and regulations. I was the law. This is allowed, that is not. This is appropriate, that is rude. “👉Should, 👆should, 👇should, 👈should, SHOULD🖕.”
… you’re cool, you suck.1
As hip as it can feel to be a cynical New Yorker, not everyone can be Fran Lebowitz. For her it’s a state of centeredness. For me it’s maladaptive. The disputation is simple: “I’m gonna give that license to exist.” If there’s a good reason — empathy, a story I make up to explain it — that’s great. But even without one I have a choice to hand it a license and move on with my life. First time I do this, it has no effect. By the tenth time, I feel palpable relief. Eventually I barely notice the offending thing exists.
As a performer, I am only beginning to learn how to give license for environmental variability. I used to “expect” myself to be “Prepared” for anything and everything that could get thrown at me. But could I have Prepared for (this actually happened) a mysterious bluetooth foot pedal my iPad has never met to start randomly turning my pages during rehearsal of Andrew Norman’s Try?? I mean… maybe? Would my life contain less suffering if I could let myself off the hook for that one? God, yes!
Sometimes the hall is cold. That light is shining in my eyes. The miscounting disease is going around, and I caught it. I do what I can, give permission, and move on. I make so many existence licenses these days I bought my own lamination machine.
License: Human Variability (this is the harder one)
This is the crux of coping during the Preparation. There’s a point where I’ve done what I planned, see the results I hoped for, and yet my brain still says it’s not enough… what if I have an off day, what if my brain fogs up, what if I get nervous and start shaking? What if it feels different than I expect it to (it almost always does). What if. What if. What if!
Giving license for human variability means listening for when my brain spews catastrophic future-forecasts and actively disputing them. It means accepting that I’m one of those “human beings” and my variabilities are to be expected, not feared.
“Bring it,” I reply. Let’s see what I can do.
If you made it all the way here, I sincerely thank you for coming with me on this journey. In conclusion, the concert report I promised back at the beginning of Part I:
My vibraphone excerpt came together in the nick of time. I finally hacked through it up to tempo Sunday afternoon at 3:30pm CDT. We met George Monday night. We did an audio recording and a music video2 on Tuesday. And we performed it Thursday night. Here’s the excerpt, as it actually went:
My preparation worked — I had my best run ever in the concert. But… I miscounted the section leading up to it and played the whole thing two bars early. I’m cool with it.
Thanks so much for reading. You can subscribe for free:
If you upgrade to a paid subscription I’ll mail you a vinyl record or compact disc of your choice from my catalog. And just like that, you’re kindly giving license for independent music and writing to exist.
You can also buy me a coffee if you enjoyed this one.
Even as I typed this very paragraph, the man sitting at the next table took his phone out of his pocket, placed it down in front of himself and pressed play on some kind of podcast, full volume through the speaker. A perfect opportunity to practice giving an unwelcome distraction license to exist! It will fade into the background, the same way ambient music and conversations do. Watch how skillfully I navigate this moment...
jkjkjk what do you think I’m perfect or something I picked up all my stuff and passive-aggressively moved all the way to the other end of the starbucks some battles are not worth fighting
A bunch of notes and a bunch of mallets and a bunch of cameras:
You can call it "two bars off" if you like. I prefer to see it as two bars ahead of your time.