CONCLUSIONS: A summary of HOW

Writing a concluding summary to a blog seems counterintuitive to the dynamic nature of blogs. Likewise, writing a concluding summary to a blog on memorization seems counterintuitive to the dynamic nature of memorization.

Throughout the entire process of writing this blog, I kept coming back to some very basic concepts. Going forward, I can't imagine working without these fundamental elements:

• practice log
• timer
• metronome
• landmarks.

As I continued to write, I found that, while I had been using these elements consistently, my application of them was in constant need of refinement. I also found that, at times, I was sorely lacking in one of the most discipline-challenging parts of any memorization practice:

• mental work away from the instrument.

In the coming days, months, and years, I am sure that I will continue to refine my approach to memorization. I don't every think it will get easier, but I do think that I'll get better at it. Will I memorize faster? I hope so, although another main concept of my approach is:

• patience.

It's not about speed; it's about quality. This becomes especially apparent when returning to pieces that have been put aside for some time.

Above all, it's important to know that you and I will continue to find new memorization techniques along the way. These will be applied to what we're working on at the moment, and they will be applied to works that we're bringing back to life. Just as I improved from my early lapse experiences, we can continue to improve further down the path.

There is always more to learn.

Dr. Liu makes a point

My colleague, baritone James Liu (who also happens to be an MD), made the following point after an earlier post:

It is also interesting, how the process is so similar, and yet so different, for those poor schmoes like me who are trying to memorize operas. On the one hand, the process is structured to provide a framework for gradually memorizing more and digging deeper, and you do get coaches and people who can try to help/cue/rescue you. But on the other hand, you have to master all the dynamics, shadings, texts, and cutoffs. You have to be able to listen for your fellow singers and be flexible enough to be ready to inflect your performance based on what they just did. You have to be able to move on a stage, act and react in a vaguely consistent character. And somewhere along the way, you have to tell a very specific story. Memory lapse stories in the opera world are legion, and just as colon-evacuating as those in the instrumentalist world (though with enough repetition, sometimes you dive into the void and muscle memory takes over ...).

 (James wasn't the only one who picked up on my "restless colons" comment in that post.)

James reminds me of my conversation with violinist Rachel Barton Pine, in which she talked about conductors who memorize. She said that, when the performance came around, it was common for those conductors to forget what was discussed in rehearsal. She also said, rightfully so, that in chamber music performance there are so many interpretive changes from ensemble to ensemble that there's really no point in attempting to memorize the music. In both cases, memorization gets in the way of the performance.

From my perspective as an instrumentalist, I would think that operatic staging would make the process somewhat easier. Does the physical stage movement becomes a type of mnemonic? In my limited opera conducting experiences, I came to feel that the stage direction took away from the music. James' comments seem to confirm my feeling, although eliminating opera in the name of better music-making is not a solution!

Singers, I'd appreciate your comments about your either staged or unstaged experiences with memorization. Do the words make the process easier or harder? Does the language make a difference? What are some of your lapse anecdotes? Do you have any singer-specific advice on memorization techniques?

Hands apart

Who needs metaphors when you have reality?

Much earlier in this blog, I commented on the practice of "learning" a piece before committing it to memory. This practice creates a foundation of tactile memory while also confusing the fact that "learned" should also mean "memorized."

In this blog post, the author discusses a technique that I'd forgotten about since my piano years: memorizing hands separately. That, to me, is even more unmusical than memorizing individual voices in a fugue. 

I'll ask again as I've asked numerous times in this blog: What is the ultimate goal of your memorization work? For many memorizing musicians, there is a strong degree of impatience with the process, especially with a conservatory mentality that's not always working in the best interest of the music.

If one is memorizing hands separately, one is truly establishing tactile memory. It can't really be aural memory, because one isn't actually hearing how the piece will sound. It can't be visual memory, because one is presumably not working with the score away from the instrument. Ultimately, this type of memory will fail, if not in performance then in the amount of time it takes to bring a piece back to memory.

As the parable says, a house built on sand will fall under stress. If you're going to make the effort to memorize your music, you really should do it in a way that ensures lasting quality.

Memorizing Bach and his fugues

Along with some music of the 20th and 21st centuries, there's not much music more difficult to memorize than that of J.S. Bach. As a keyboardist, I write from experience, and I know that other instrumentalists and singers also find Bach to be among the most difficult music to memorize. I don't want to speculate too much on why this is, but, as a case in point, I can honestly write that it takes me about twice as long to memorize a Bach movement than it takes me to memorize, say, Handel or Couperin. And it easily takes me about four times as long to memorize a Bach fugue.

In conservatory, I was taught to memorize Bach fugues by memorizing each voice separately. I remember doing this. It was absolutely nuts. I also vaguely remember bringing two voices together, then three, in all manners of possibilities. This was a long and arduous process, and, today, I really question the musicality and practicality of this approach.

Today, I memorize Bach fugues just as I memorize other works. I use my landmarks, metronome, practice log, mental work away from the instrument--you know, all those good habits. This entire process is intensified by the fact that Bach, unlike so many contrapuntal composers, accounts for every single fugal voice with striking regularity. (Handel's fugues, in contrast, are much more informal, with dropped lines and voices that don't follow through from their starting points.) In this memorization process, one doesn't just memorize notes or chords. For Bach, each note is part of a line that is carried throughout the entire composition; each line is a living entity that is co-dependent upon the other voices in the fugue. That, my friends, is the highest level of contrapuntal writing!

When I performed Bach fugues from score, the learning process did not require me to know what each voice was doing. I intellectually understood that I should be aware of the voice leading, but, since I wasn't memorizing the music, really understanding and committing to the counterpoint wasn't essential. At that time, I played fugues with a certain level of indifference to the compositional process.

Memorization has forced a new respect for Bach's fugues. The number of voices has become paramount to the learning process, something that wasn't so much the case when working from score. Once memorized, there are always new discoveries in the relationships between the voices. This can be a distraction on stage, especially when hearing something differently for the first time...in front of a live audience! For this and for so many other reasons, I consider Bach fugues to be the hardest things to memorize and, once memorized, perform.

Aside from the techniques already described, there's not much advice I can give to learning fugues any quicker than the very slow route. I do advise, however, thinking of the appearance of fugue subjects and answers as landmarks and mnemonics. Along with larger phrases, fugal entrances can make good landmarks. At the very least, the performer should know the placement of each and every one. 

Fugue subjects and answers can also be thought of as mnemonics behind the foreground of other material that's developing. In my earlier Wikipedia quote, mnemonics are used when "the human mind more easily remembers spatial, personal, surprising, physical, sexual, humorous, or otherwise 'relatable' information, rather than more abstract or impersonal forms of information." If we think of a fugue subject or answer as a spatial or physical element, we can concentrate more on the activity around it, thus aiding the memorization process.

I know, these are tough thoughts to consider. But, I assure you, memorizing Bach fugues is much harder! Good luck.

Dr. Bell asks a question

All around nice-guy composer Larry Bell left this comment on this blog some time ago:

There is something that I would like to see you explore in a future post: how do we keep pieces alive (and memorized) that we have played from memory in concert. Most conservatory musicians learn to play the same pieces again and again and then the few who become professional are encouraged, I believe, to play that same safe set of pieces repeatedly. (Management assumes that the public wishes to hear the music that they already know.) In addition, there is a common complaint among music teachers that playing in competitions where one is expected to play it safe is not a good thing for music; technique being valued over substance, etc. Any thoughts about keeping pieces in one's memory for months or years would be most interesting to hear.

I already addressed part of Larry's question in my previous post, but I'll expand on it a little bit. If you've memorized well, then it shouldn't take much effort at all to bring back pieces. If you've memorized impatiently, then it's going to be a longer road. (Remember my story about the colleague who worked so fast that he memorized wrong notes?) Obviously, it's hard to memorize patiently when under the gun of the conservatory. 

With proper documentation of landmarks, metronome markings, and more in your practice log, it shouldn't take too long to bring back a program. More to the point, if you've been documenting well, then you already have a strong foundation. To that end, I don't think one has to keep pieces in memory for months or years. Besides, why would one want to? I'd be more concerned with getting bored with the repertoire. For that reason, I always recommend time away. Even if management is asking for the same pieces over and over again, you'd be better off letting them sleep for a bit and then bringing them out when needed, as detailed in my previous post.

Larry's comment makes me think of the great pianist Shura Cherkassky. I had the pleasure of meeting him several times in the years before his death in 1995. (One encounter involved a rather strange weekend in New York, where I spent the night with a friend at Stephen Hough's apartment after attending Shura's Carnegie Hall recital with, among others, composer Lowell Liebermann. Somewhere along the way, I teased Shura too much about something or other, and he punched me in the leg so hard that I can still feel it. Don't ask. It was a strange weekend.)

Shura Cherkassky, long before he punched me in the leg.

The first time I met Shura, my friends and I drove him back to his hotel after he played at Ravinia. On his hotel room practice piano was a score for some just-published Ligeti Études. Shura continued to learn new music well into his final years. Not only did this keep him young, I'm sure, but it also contributed to his extensive repertoire. 

That all said, we can chose to be musicians who only know a limited repertoire, or we can be lifelong learners. What will make you a more interesting person and musician?

SOME FOOTNOTES: Resuscitating a program

You've now performed your recital several times, and you've put the program to sleep for months or even years. Now you can get back to learning new music! But the day will come when you'll want to resuscitate your pieces, most likely for a performance. How should you go about this?

While I think it's a good idea to always have a piece or two ready to play for people, I don't feel that it's necessary to keep an entire program ready to go at all times. Not only does this make for tedious work (and, hence, tedious performances), there also isn't enough time in the day to keep all of those balls in the air. 

If you've done your memorization work well, bringing back repertoire shouldn't be much trouble at all. In my case, I started my return-to-memory only a few years ago, so when I revisit some of my early pieces, I find that I didn't memorize them that well. This makes for extra work that I'd rather not be doing just before a recital. But, in your case, you've been following this blog, so I'm sure that you're only working with good habits!

All kidding aside, I find that no matter what I bring back requires new work. Interpretation is not a fixed thing, and your interpretation will change from the time you put a piece to sleep till when you wake it up again. Memorization-wise, your own memorization techniques and abilities will always be improving, so you might find that your process from just a few years ago is very different from what it is now. 

Because of this, I tend to wake up a previously played program about five or six weeks before a performance. This allows time to apply any new interpretive ideas while also giving me enough time to bring the program back to memory. At this point, I'm not practicing the program at full capacity; that won't happen till about two or three weeks before the performance. But some light practice is a good way to assess what has changed in my conception of the program and if any memory and technical issues are appearing.

In the run-up to a revisted recital program, I go back to the places in my practice log from when I originally worked on the program. This reminds me of landmarks, metronome and optimal tempo markings, and practice skills for each piece. If I've documented everything well, the resuscitation process is surprisingly fast, and it can be quite fun.

All in all, good memorization practice should result in easy resuscitation down the road. And that's why I've been preaching patient learning!

Stage presence

Once I returned to playing from memory, my on-stage needs changed just as my backstage activities changed. When I performed with music, I was much more concerned with non-musical things, such as lighting, page turns, and bench height. Bench height is still important to me, but now my bench position is not forced by my need to see the music, and, therefore, it's not as important as it used to be. 

When performing from score, I did what I could to focus before playing, but, because playing from score didn't force all of the good habits I've been writing about, I wasn't as concerned with some very basic issues. Believe it or not, those basic issues included optimal tempo, listening to the room, and hearing a piece before playing it. Indeed, I had gotten quite used to just diving into a piece. After all, I had the score to save me from any major accidents.

For me, the score was a barrier to the music. I don't just mean this metaphysically; I mean it in the most concrete terms. I couldn't hear the instrument as well, and in turn, I wasn't listening to the way the music was sounding in the room. Ultimately, this meant that I wasn't listening to the music. 

Imagine: week after week of practice with a score in front of my nose, regularly not hearing the instrument at its best. No matter what you think about memorizing music, you certainly must agree that this is an aural impediment!

(Obviously, I'm writing here specifically to keyboardists, whose scores block direct sound from the vibrating strings. But doesn't a baffle (i.e., a score) in front of other instruments affect the way the sound enters the room? A 'cello, a flute, a violin, a voice? I think so.)

Today, I think before I play. I settle down before the keyboard, and I envision the opening measures of what I'm about to play. I breathe, I calm myself. I pay close attention to finding my starting tempo. I recall my meditation practice in order to be totally present.

For this reason, I think twice before agreeing to a lecture recital. It's very hard to settle into a state of total presence when I'm wondering, "What did I just say?" or "What should I say?" A lot of presenters ask if I would talk about pieces before I play them. I only do this if I'm really comfortable with a program, and I strongly discourage it for anyone who's just becoming comfortable with playing by heart. 

Don't forget: presenters don't often have your best interest in mind. You can easily talk them down by saying that, as a memorizing musician, you need to stay focused. If they don't like it, they can hire the guy who needs a page turner.

Hanging out backstage

I already wrote a bit about what and what not to do just before a performance. Among my suggestions are:

• Don't play entire pieces before a performance. The distraction of nerves can make for lapses, and then those lapses will haunt you when you're playing the actual program. 
• Don't review your entire program backstage. This practice invites self-doubt.
• I also don't advocate creating ritual to your backstage experience. What happens if you don't have enough time for your ritual? Does it mean that things won't go well?

So, don't play, and don't review. What are you supposed to do? Those green rooms can be dark and lonely places!

• I don't think it hurts to check a few things, such as tempi (with a metronome) and landmarks. Just don't become obsessive about it.
• Meditation has a centering effect. Breathe and relax while focusing positively on your upcoming performance. Visualize success.

If you're not an advanced meditator, you can only do so much--and backstage time can be fairly lengthy. With that in mind, it's not a bad idea to get your mind off of the performance itself. Try to read. Play a game on your smartphone. Of course, always be aware of time so that you're not caught off guard when it's time to go. 

I've often found that backstage crew can be very, very poor people to talk to before a performance. They're often not that interested in the concert, and they can be quite silly. Your backstage time should be used to clear your mind and your nerves, so even if you're trying to take your mind off of the performance, be careful with how you do it.

I always bring snacks and water for my time backstage, and I always make sure to have something to eat at intermission. My sense is that digestion takes away some of my nervous energy. At intermission, I usually need some energy, and food helps in that way, too. Bananas are known for their stress-reducing properties, so I tend to bring a couple with me as well. Because the stress of playing seems to dry out my throat, I always make sure that I have plenty of water on hand.

None of these suggestions are, of course, germane to the memorized performance, but, as memorization takes more focus than playing from score, it doesn't hurt to remind yourself of these good habits. In an ideal world, backstage time would be fun and exhilarating. But more often than not, it isn't...so be prepared!

Practicing for performance

I've already established that a piece and, in turn, a recital is never truly ready. There will always be room for improvement. The more we work at what we do, the more we are critical with what we do. 

This is not to say that we shouldn't be working towards a goal of "ready to go." There is a point at which you have to decide that your interpretation and knowledge of a piece must crystallize for the sake of your performance. You don't want to go on stage with lingering doubts about your interpretation.

I tend to reach this crystallization stage about three or four weeks before a recital. Even if I'm in doubt about the interpretation of a particular piece, I must stop trying to make it work, and I have to set my mind to making a convincing performance. Of course, at this stage, I already have a pretty solid interpretation, but sometimes I find that a tempo just hasn't settled or that I still have some questions about rubato. Whatever the case, the experimentation must stop at this stage, because I need to be working on the performance--not the interpretation.

As I write this, I'm preparing a performance that's about three weeks away. Since I already played the program before, I started a light review two weeks ago. Last week, I began seriously revisiting the program. Due to its length and complexity (and in spite of already having played the program), I've put all other repertoire on hold. 

In returning to the program, I noticed some issues with tempi and interpretation. (Thankfully, the memory retention has been quite solid.) In order to address those issues, I spent all of last week and this week focusing on the program in that capacity. But next week, I need to start reigning in that corrective work and settle into a state of assuredness about my interpretations. I'm sure that the next time I prepare this particular recital, I'll find new issues to address. It's always an uphill battle!

As I approach the recital (and the same could be said for practice recitals), I know that there isn't enough time in the day for me to go over every single piece with the same amount of detail. I like to touch on every piece every day, so I'll develop a pattern of alternating types of work. A day might look like this:

• Pieces A, C, E, G, I: do mental work from landmarks with metronome.
• Pieces B, D, F, H, J: play slowly from landmarks with metronome; play at tempo with metronome; play without metronome.

I'll alternate this pattern the following day so that I cover everything equally. As the recital approaches, I'll try to stay off of the metronome for the at-tempo work, just so that I become more reliant upon my inner metronome. Likewise, I'll keep up with the slow metronome work for the sake of technique. Most important throughout this entire process is the mental work. I never stop doing this. The mental practice isn't just about memorization. It's also about confidence in interpretation.

As ever, it's really important to keep reassessing your daily practice goals. If you establish a pattern such as the one above, it's far too easy to let it become a habit instead of intelligent, thoughtful practice. To that end, don't forget to list your daily goals in your practice log while working towards total presence in your own practice. Your practice habits, including total presence, will manifest themselves on stage, so be wise!

Practice performances redux

I've already discussed practice performances in the context of playing a newly-learned piece or two. But now, with a recital on the horizon, you should be planning one or two practice performances of the entire recital. In the case of a few pieces, it's relatively easy to find a moment when you can play for someone or a small group. But a full recital takes commitment, not just for you but for your practice audience as well.

A tough crowd

Just as I wrote before, you want to make sure that your audience makes you nervous. To that end, your practice recital should not be too casual, and it should strive to replicate the emotions that will be present for the public recital. You can have a lot of fun with this, and you can turn it into a nice event, as opposed to an academic exercise.

I'm a very lucky guy in that I can use my home as a practice venue. I'm even more lucky in that my girlfriend is really into this. Not only can I tap into her guest list as well as my own, she also likes to plan a really great cocktail party for afterwards. What's nice about her guest list is that, inevitably, there are audience members I've never met before, and this keeps me on my toes. Even more so, it's nice to have someone to act as host so that I can focus on what I'm there to do. For my own house recitals, I print programs, set up formal seating (as formal as I can be), and plan an intermission. In other words, I try to make it as real as possible.

If you don't have a home venue, you can always rely on some old standbys: churches, other people's homes, or even nursing homes. Whatever venue you choose, however, it's important to let the audience know that you're playing a practice recital. This isn't to take the edge off of your nerves, but it is to let the audience know exactly why they're there. I mention this because, especially if you're playing in a church or nursing home, it's very easy for some venues to appropriate your practice event into something bigger than what you intend it to be. Just be careful.

It may go without saying, but you need to be thoughtful about your audience. If you're performing locally, be careful that you don't siphon off your local audience by inviting them to your practice recital. In local cases, I tend to invite people whom I know are unable to attend the "real" recital. In addition, develop a rotating list of guests so that you're not always inviting the same people every time. Otherwise, they might get bored with you, and you'll cease to be nervous with them.

Just as I recommended for playing a few pieces, you can always use Google+ or another resource to stream your practice recital to the internet. You might not get a nice cocktail hour out of it, but it is an option when you have trouble coming up with an audience. And who knows? You might even build an internet following!

Now stop practicing!

It's recital time! It's also time to stop practicing. 

Huh? Stop practicing?

I don't really mean that you should stop practicing for your recital. What I do mean is that you need to leave your other pieces behind. You need to stop working on the pieces that aren't going to be on the recital program. Set them aside, give them a break.

If you've been memorizing a pile of music over a long time, it's really hard to stop that momentum. But, at some point, you decided what is going to be on your recital program, and you need to focus only on that program. The program might include a couple of newly-memorized works, and it will most likely include pieces that you learned some time ago. Whatever the case, you need to let your in-process pieces take a break for a while.

You might find that you are practicing less each day. No worry! You need to retain your focus and drive. By minimizing your work, you will maintain your interest in the program. Leave the learning time for when you don't have any immediate performances.

This is very, very hard for me to do. Just last month, I had a chamber music program to prepare in the midst of all of my summer memorizing work. Since I'd played the program before, I knew I'd only need about two weeks to pull it together, including my own solo works. For a few days, I mapped out my usual practice and then tacked on the program. This added about an hour to my 2.5 hours of regular practice. When I had to meet with the violinist, I did my 2.5 plus my additional hour...plus 2.5 hours with her. By the end of the day I was exhausted. Worse, I really, really didn't feel like practicing the next day. And my back hurt from all of that playing!

After that, I realized that I needed to be more wise about how I was going to use my time. This meant that I had to drop my summer work in favor of preparing the recital. That was a hard thing to do, especially with all of my momentum. 

I've said it before: It's more fun to learn music than it is to perform it! This is a case in point. I had already prepared and performed the program with the same violinist, so there wasn't much learning to do. We just had to pull it together, and I, therefore, didn't want to drop my daily work. 

And here's the perversity of the situation. Everything I do in the practice room is to bring my music to a performing level. But when I get a chance to perform, it takes tremendous discipline to motivate myself to focus only on the performance. I know I'm not alone in this sentiment. 

I suppose that this is the very reason that, ever since I started playing from memory, I accept fewer and fewer "gigs." Gigs take up my valuable practice time, and I'm not in this for my own ubiquity. As I stated very early on in this blog, we owe it to our audiences to be the best that we can be. Taking gigs for the sake of taking gigs doesn't help our own situation if we want to be musicians of the highest quality!

(I do understand, too, that many musicians must accept gigs for the sake of the money. And this might be why the giggingmost musicians around don't play recitals. They gig. In spite of those circumstances, there continues to be a culture among musicians to take on more than they can handle, all for the sake of ubiquity or pole position on the call list. Ah, if only musicians practiced as much as they really should. Remember what I wrote about memorization forcing good habits?)

Whenever I find myself near a recital (or even a practice performance), I have to go through the pain of cutting out my other work. This, in the end, makes my recital preparation more engaging and fun, especially since I'm not cutting corners and trying to fit everything in. The end result is that I approach my recital time with a sense of confidence, relaxation, and the knowledge that I've given 100% to the preparation.

THE MEMORIZED RECITAL: Recital time!

So far, I've taken you from the early stages of memorization, when you were just learning to put a few notes together, to the middle stages of memorization, where you developed a real discipline for maintaining your memorized piece. Now we're fast-forwarding to that point when you've memorized enough repertoire to play a half or full recital. Congratulations!

This is a big leap. You've already played some practice performances of your individual pieces, but you now should schedule one or two practice performances of your entire recital. (I hope you have a lot of friends!)

From there, or even before then, you'll need to book the real deal: not practice performances, but a real, public recital. But before you book your recital, you need to think about how and where those performances are going to take place. If you're like I was, you haven't done a lot of playing from memory, and recital venue and format will be very important to your success.

Aside from those logistics, you need to think about the logistics of preparing a recital. Sure, you've already memorized and practice-performed each piece on the program, but how are you going to keep the ball in the air for an entire recital? And if you've let some pieces rest for a while, how are you going to bring them back? This is all a matter of pacing and, to some extent, endurance. 

We're almost at the end of this blog journey. Just as writing the final chapters of this blog may make me work a little less carefully than when I started the blog, the weeks before a recital can result in some of the worst, sloppiest practice. We get impatient when we see the finish line, and our minds may already be on other projects.

However, with careful planning, patience, and deliberate work, you can arrive at your recital knowing that you've made your best effort. Even more importantly, you'll arrive at your recital knowing that you'll be playing better than you ever have! This is the confidence that makes for remarkable music making.

Improvisation

What are your options if you have a lapse? You could stop playing. You could start all over from the beginning. You could become angry and repeat a passage over and over again, much to the general discomfort of your audience. 

These are all really bad ideas. How about this? You could improvise until you make your way forward or backward to a landmark.

It's easy for me to think about improvisation. After all, I make a significant portion of my income as a church organist, and improvisation is at the heart of any successful organist's career. But maybe you don't have any experience with improvisation--especially in front of an audience.

If you do have a lapse, it may be possible to jump directly to a landmark. I find that this can work well, depending on the situation. But, in many cases, you don't have that option, so you need to have a plan. To begin, don't think of improvisation as something that you have to bring to a high artistic level. Let's save that for the jazz musicians and the great French cathedral organists. Your improvisation is going to have a very practical purpose: to get from A to B--or maybe from B to A. It doesn't need to be anything more than that.

You now know what your improvisation needs to do. Let's consider what it needs to be. First, it needs to be in the key of what you're playing, and it will need to modulate if your next landmark is in another key. If you know your landmarks well, you have a pretty good idea of what keys they start out in. Second, your improvisation should maintain the rhythm of where you are and, if necessary, transform itself to the rhythm of where you are going. Third, your improvisation should maintain the texture of the passage and, again if necessary, develop into the texture of where you're going to end up.

In other words, your improvisation needs to be in the style of what it is you're playing. In some ways, that's the easy part, and there really isn't any right or wrong. It just needs to be convincing. The harder part might be trying to modulate to another key, but that's something you can practice both physically and mentally.

It's possible to practice your improvisation in a pedantic way, working your way through various modulations and making sure that you can get from landmark to landmark. Unfortunately (or fortunately), there's not really that much time in the day to practice like this. You can also force lapses by making yourself nervous, a technique I discussed earlier. 

The bottom line is that the vast majority of your audience (and, most likely, 100 percent of your audience) won't know that you're improvising. For you, the lapse moment may feel like an eternity, but you also know, quite rationally, that it's not that big of a moment. This is a game of outwitting the situation, and you have to learn to keep your cool.

This brings us back to fear. Don't forget this: Your audience is not there to hear you make mistakes. They give you the benefit of the doubt in what you are doing, and they will always assume that you are doing the right thing. They're not looking for mistakes, and they really wish you the best so that they can enjoy the performance as much as possible. All you have to do is uphold your end of the bargain by letting them think you've played a perfect performance--whether or not it's true. Keep your cool!

A meditation

Meditation for the purpose of focused, memorized playing doesn't just bring me closer to a state of total presence, and it doesn't just give me something to do backstage. Meditation teaches me a number of things, and it, in turn, informs my playing.

First, the act of meditation forces me to be more patient in my work. As you know, I've been preaching patience for some time. That's a very hard thing to be, especially when you get as excited about learning new music as I do. But you know by now that impatient memorization leads to poor and inconsistent memory. Because the sheer act of calming the mind is such a challenge, meditation gives a new respect to the patient learning process. Meditation, indeed, makes me more patient with myself and with my own limitations.

Second, meditation has a great affect on my ability to handle fear. I think that a lot of the fear we performers experience on stage is about our egos. I don't want to make a mistake...I want to appear flawless...I want to be better than everyone else. Meditation creates the ability to be humble, and in that humility, we are better at accepting our flaws, including those mistakes we make on stage.

Third, meditation helps us appreciate our audiences better. In my initial home meditation, I was simply focusing on calming my mind and trying to develop total presence. When I started to attend meditation sessions at my local Buddhist temple, the focus wasn't on me. It was on compassion for others. In doing so, I started to think of my audience not as critics, but instead as humans. For me, at least, it's all too easy to become hostile to an audience. They're too loud...They're not listening...Are they getting it?...Are they judging me? Meditation teaches me compassion and a better understanding of humanity.

I truly believe that when we perform, we play ourselves. We open up a window to the universe and expose our souls to our audiences. That's why playing can be so difficult, and it's certainly why playing is so personal. If I really do play myself, then isn't it in my best interest as a musician to be as good of a person as possible? What sort of audience would want to see into the soul of a bad person? Like any good, contemplative act, meditation has a way of making us better people. And this informs our playing.

Total presence

When I first returned to playing from memory, I became increasingly concerned with the Inner Game. I wasn't so much worried about its role in making me nervous--after all, I had been playing in public, albeit with music, for a long time, so I was quite used to dealing with the Inner Game. But I was concerned with a different type of inner game: daydreaming.

In the past, I'm sure that I had already been daydreaming while reading music. The act of memorization, however, made the symptoms of the problem more acute, and I would become very angry at myself because I had just played through a piece without much degree of consciousness. If the Inner Game is that overly self-conscious voice that gets in the way of playing, then I was experiencing the complete opposite through daydreamt practice!

I remembered the Buddhist concept of "total presence." This state, often achieved through meditation, puts one in the moment, without distraction or divided attention. Once I realized my problem, I knew that lack of total presence was affecting me either with Inner Game-type distraction or non-attention. Either way, I knew I needed to work on this if I was going to practice and perform effectively.

(The fact of the matter is that most of us lack total presence in general. Think about how we use smartphones. We're in the middle of a conversation, and we look at our phones. Or think about taking a phone call when you're at the computer. How often are you browsing while you're on the phone? I'm reminded of a couple I observed while on a Caribbean vacation. They were both out for a romantic dinner, but each kept checking their smartphones throughout the meal. Even though I've used technology examples, our lack of total presence reaches back to a time before microchips. If it didn't, the Buddha would have been out of a job!)

I began working on my problem by going through some basic meditation techniques I had learned over the years. I downloaded a meditation timer app for my phone, and I eventually worked my way up to about 15 minutes of pre-practice meditation each day. At one point, I felt that my meditation skills weren't good enough, so I attended a few open meditation sessions at a local Buddhist temple. 

Not only does meditation have a direct impact on my practice attention, it also gives me something really good to do backstage. Instead of reviewing my scores or nervously pacing, I am now able to calm myself and focus my mind before going onstage. What a wonderful gift!

I haven't been actively meditating for some time now, but I do call upon my basic meditation skills every time I have a recital to pull together and, especially, when I'm backstage. I don't think I'll ever be a great meditator, and I don't think I'll ever achieve total presence in every aspect of my life. But if I can achieve even a fraction of it in my performing life, then I and, hopefully, my audience will be all the better for it.

The Inner Game

What about the Inner Game? (Maybe you're asking, "What is the Inner Game?")

I mentioned the Inner Game very early in this blog, but I didn't address it at that time. The "Inner Game" comes from a book on tennis playing in which author Timothy Gallwey discussed "that which takes place in the mind, played against such elusive opponents as nervousness, self doubt, and fear of failure." Gallwey's approach to tennis playing eventually led to a collaboration with musician Barry Greene and the creation of The Inner Game of Music.

My interpretation of the Inner Game is that it's the little voice running in your head when you're performing. It happens when there's music in front of you, and it happens when you're playing by heart. With music, it can be a big distraction; without music, it can be deadly. Sometimes, it's a negative voice reminding you of how nervous you are. Other times, it's a positive voice telling you that things are going really well--after which you invariably make a mistake. The Inner Game will never really go away, so you must learn how to manage it and, if possible, have it work for you. Giving practice performances is an excellent way to find out exactly how your Inner Game is affecting your ability to play from memory. Just like memorization, you need not be afraid of it. You just have to harness it.

In the practice room, the Inner Game is an entirely different problem. Normally, you're not nervous in the practice room--unless you're using one of the practice techniques I discussed in an earlier post. For this reason, the practice room Inner Game is more about the wandering mind. I'm an expert at the wandering mind in the practice room! This is another reason I use a practice log. Should something important come to mind while I'm practicing, I'll jot it down in the log as soon as possible. This has the dual effect of getting it out of my mind while also helping me to remember it later on. My use of landmarks also helps to keep my wandering mind at bay. By working in small sections, I don't have to have a long attention span, and my wandering opportunities are minimized.

All in all, it's of utmost importance to recognize the Inner Game when it's occurring, both on stage and off stage. Because what goes on in the practice room invariably influences what happens on stage, it's imperative that you are not feeding the Inner Game by allowing your mind to wander without any sort of discipline or awareness. And aside from the distracting factor of the Inner Game, you also want to be totally present when you're playing. After all, that's what you've been working so hard to do!

Tales of fear

What's the next note?!

You've probably already read some of my lapse anecdotes. Those are scary stories in their own right, but this post is more about the fear that precedes a performance. Even though this blog is about memorization, there really aren't any differences between the fearful feeling of a memorized performance and that of a non-memorized performance. 

I think we all know the fear feelings of upset stomachs, restless colons, pounding heart, clammy palms, sweaty pits, and shaky hands. To some extent, all of this goes away when one becomes a more seasoned performer. As a memorizing musician, you probably have a greater degree of fear than one who doesn't memorize--or, at least in my humble opinion, your fear is much more greatly justified. 

The most fear-inducing thing that happens to me is when, just before a performance, I'm playing through a piece and I have a lapse. This is quite common! For this reason, I always carry my scores with me. I know that I'm very well-prepared before a performance, but this is such an irrational occurrence that I, at times, have a very hard time visualizing or hearing the correct notes. One solution is to look at the score; another is to start at the previous landmark, after which I have no trouble getting back on track. Ultimately, these aren't true lapses (even though they are lapses) in that they're based in a degree of anxiety that, fortunately, doesn't really produce itself in the focused moments of a performance. My analysis is that, in playing just before a recital, one opens oneself up to a certain amount of nervous distraction, and the results are these irrational lapses. 

I noticed these types of lapses early on in my return-to-memory performances, so I got into the habit of a backstage ritual. Because backstage time can build anxiety, I would review all of my landmarks in reverse order, just as I do in my practice. The reviewing had the effect of calming my anxiety, and it put me into a good mental state.

However...one time I had a very long wait backstage before a concerto appearance. I had done all of my mental reviewing, and I was pacing a bit backstage. A stage hand came up to me and asked why I had a score in my hand. I said that I was reviewing the music. He, a theater guy, said, "Don't you know the rule about theater?" Of course I didn't: I'm a musician. "You never go over your lines before going on stage. That's a sure way to have a mishap."

Since then, I try not to review my music just before a performance. If I do any playing on stage before a concert, it's minimal, and I try not to play entire pieces. Backstage, I might review my tempi, especially as an accelerated heart rate can make for some hair-raising virtuosity. But now I rest in the confidence of what I knew when I left the house the morning of the performance: I can do this!

A FEW STICKING POINTS: Fear factor

I left off congratulating you on graduating from the middle stages of memorization, but, before going on to the very final stage, I need to address a few items that have gotten swept under the rug. The first one is fear.

Without a doubt, you will experience memory-related fear at some point in your performing life. As a performer, you've already experienced fear and nervousness before going on stage, and you already know not to let that fear take over. You certainly don't want fear to be come so much of an issue that you are unable to perform at all.

Memory-related fear is, for me, a whole different level of performance anxiety. What if I have a lapse--will I come to a complete stop? What if I get caught in a loop and I can't find my way to the end? What if I go completely blank? At this point, I can't even imagine being nervous for a performance from score. (Here's another reason why working towards memory is such a good thing. It raises the bar so that everything but playing from memory seems so much easier. And once you get rid of the memory-related fear, everything is that much easier!)

This admission is not to make anyone too scared to try playing from memory. Think back to the early parts of this blog. Aside from teaching how to memorize, I've been teaching how to create a strong foundation. Think of your landmarks and mnemonics, and think about how you've developed your three memory types so that they work together. You must have confidence in the process, and you must have confidence in your ability to call upon your foundation. 

For this reason, I advocate practice performances. I've already covered them with regard to individual pieces, and I'll return to them when I discuss recital preparation. Your practice performances are a part of the confidence-building process. Even if you are an advanced memorizing performer, you still need to rely on practice performances to work out potential issues that can not be felt alone in the practice room. One of those issues is fear.

So, dim the lights and get ready for some scary stories as I share some of my own fear anecdotes in the next post.

Practice performances: You're good to go!

You're almost there. It's time to schedule some practice performances! 

If you've just got one or two pieces, you should begin by playing them for a close friend. It's important that the friend makes you nervous, so be careful about whom you ask. Chances are that you won't be happy with that one performance, so think about playing the same pieces for that friend a week later. Whatever you do, try to replicate the performance experience as much as possible. Be formal, and make sure that your friend is an attentive listener. Value the criticism that the friend gives you, but don't be too hard on yourself.

When you're more confident with your piece or pieces, see if you can schedule them for a relatively low-impact event. Perhaps you could play for friends at a small party, or at a church service, or within the context of a larger chamber music recital. Be careful about some of these choices, however. 

Parties may not be the best place, especially if people don't really want to listen or (gasp!) you've been drinking. If you're playing for a church service--especially with a newly memorized piece--, make sure that it's scheduled as a prelude or early in the service. All of the church service downtime (hymns, readings, sermon, prayers) will build up a whole lot of anxiety, and by the time it's your turn to play, you might be in a very bad place. Be careful as well about playing a solo piece on a chamber music program. It's sometimes very hard to change from reading-music-mind to playing-from-memory-mind. In short, think hard about where and when you're going to perform.

At times, I've used Google+ to create live streams of my practice performances. I've done this for individual works and also for full concerts. With Google+, I don't even need to invite an audience. They just show up when I create a public stream! A few years ago, one of my recitals was cancelled due to snow, so I broadcast the recital via a live stream on blogTV. A local newspaper picked this up, and I had 50 viewers at one point. You can be assured that the pressures of a live stream are about the same as for a performance in front of an audience. (I only missed having audience feedback, but I did hold up applause signs!)

And now what you've been waiting for: Yes, you can put your piece to rest! Congratulations! You've now graduated from the Middle Stages of Memory.

Are we there yet?

You think you've done all you can, but you keep asking the question, "Is it ready yet?"

How much time have you actually put into your piece? How much more time do you need to put into your piece? (You can see why repertoire selection is so important: you've devoted so much time to this process that you probably don't want to play anything but A-list music.)

Some pianists I know will boldly claim that it takes them a week or two to memorize a piece. Pay no attention to these music jocks! You know by now that this isn't about speed. It's about devotion. The fact is that your piece is never really ready. You can always do more with it, not just interpretively, but also in the manner in which you hold it in your heart.

What you're really trying to find out is if there is an empirical way to determine that a memorized piece is "ready to go." Some musicians avoid the question almost entirely by putting a piece to sleep for a certain length of time before bringing it out again and preparing it for performance. I feel that this is a valuable approach--although it only changes the question from "When is it ready to perform?" to "When is it ready to be put to sleep?"

As we are about to leave the middle stages of memory, there's one last step I take before feeling ready for a recital: practice performances. There are different ways to do this, so I'll expand on this in my next post.