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Leadership, Laugher & Loud Opinions on Music Education
AI IS RUINING EDUCATION — CAN MUSIC SAVE IT?
Note: This article discusses Artificial Intelligence (or A1, as some have referred to it). Before reading on, take a swig of coffee and embrace it for what it is—a thought exercise. Promise to keep an open mind?
In a recent piece in The Atlantic titled "I'm a High Schooler," AI Is Demolishing My Education, a student author vividly describes the adverse effects of AI in the classroom. Her point is clear: AI isn't just altering homework habits—it's undermining the very essence of the school system.
She argues that AI has denigrated the entire educational experience into a well-worded prompt followed by "command-C, command-V." What once required sweat, time, and maybe even a few tears now takes mere seconds.
As she put it: Why worry about actually learning anything when you can get an A for outsourcing your thinking to a machine? AI doesn't just enable cheating—it distorts the educational landscape. The product matters more than the process, the grade more than the growth, and the destination more than the journey. That's not education; that's a factory.
Her premise is as eloquent as it is correct. AI is corrupting the learning process and devaluing the students who put in the real time and effort.
It's another tool that enables the lazy and emboldens those who want to shortcut their way through school and life.
Or, maybe it's not.
(Remember, you promised me an open mind. So, take another sip of coffee and take a deep breath)
Let me ask you this: how would you feel if your students showed up one day able to play every technical passage, demonstrate good tone in every register, and understand the difference between just intonation and equal temperament? What if when asked, your students could answer any question and discuss the piece and composer history with complete confidence?
In short, what would happen if your students came in ready to dispense with the redundancy of drill and practice and be prepared to make real music?
Would you be upset or thrilled? Be honest! Of course, you would be thrilled. So would I.
No more teaching by wrote and banging every note into the third section of the clarinets. No more playing the same passage over and over hoping for improvement before contest. No more explaining fingerings or reminding students to sit up straight. Just you and your students, exploring tonalities, making musical decisions, and experiencing the joy of making art. It's a dream.
Now here's the twist: what if it was AI that helped to get them there? Would you care?
Consider how AI can currently help your students. AI can:
Help detect and correct a bad embouchure, complete with visuals
Teach students how to articulate better from experts on the instrument
Play better in tune - using real playing samples from the student's music
Offer alternate fingerings to help facilitate an All-State passage
Help students understand just intonation versus equal temperament
Remind students to change a reed or clean their instrument, providing clear instructions and visuals.
Artificial intelligence can do all of this right now, and so much more.
Before you discard it as futuristic or unrealistic, consider the intelligent tools you and your students already use, such as tuners, Harmony Directors, SmartMusic, Pyware, and tone visualizers. All of these are using some form of artificial intelligence to accelerate learning, remove barriers, and increase student and ensemble performance. AI merely extends that list of possible tools.
And it's not just good for students. It's good for you too!
Let's be honest—you are already likely using some form of augmented or smart technology to make your own job easier: online grade books, Grammarly, Canva, smart boards, iPads, apps, digital metronomes, digitized scores, etc.
If our teaching forefathers (think Fredrick Fennel) were to draw a hard line between "real teaching" and "tech-teaching," you and I crossed it years ago. However, as someone who was at the forefront of the band movement, I would like to believe the good ole' Frederick would have welcomed any tool that would enable us to break down barriers, accelerate learning, and create better ensembles.
Think of AI as just another tool. A pedagogical resource and personal assistant all wrapped up into one.
Got a question about oboe reeds and playing in tune (and who doesn't), ask AI.
Have your march and closer picked out, but need a Grade 3 ballad that doesn't require French horns? Type away.
Looking for a 6-week plan to teach a specific style to your vocal jazz ensemble, complete with audio examples? My buddy AI has got your back.
Does your principal need a formal proposal for funding for six new upright basses, complete with a depreciation schedule by the end of the day? You know what to do!
The value of artificial intelligence lies not in the technology itself, but in how—and when—we use it. Our responsibility as music educators is crucial. We must balance the product with the process, the polished performance with the messy, and the human journey that creates it. We are the ones who can guide students through the flawed humanity of music-making while pushing them to reach further than they thought possible. I, for one, am willing to consider any tool that will make me a better teacher, help me use my time more effectively to be student-focused, and optimize the learning environment for all ensembles.
But more than that - like all things on the interwebs, I want to use a computer to do the things that I can't do, so I can focus on the things it can't do.
AI can't facilitate a memory, create a safe space, or be a trusted mentor. It can't share an emotion, show joy in an accomplishment, or shed a tear in frustration. It cannot fear, feel, or be afraid of anything. It can't read the room and adjust the lesson plan in real time, because it is not real. It is not human. It is not YOU!
AI is a tool, nothing more, and nothing less. It can't augment the process or enhance the student's experience. These are the roles that only we, as educators, can fulfill. They are as unique as they are impossible to replicate. In a world in which AI can do a multitude of things and replace a multitude of people, it only serves to make you more valuable – not just because of what it can do for you, but more importantly, what it can't do for kids.
The student in The Atlantic may be right. AI is changing education. But she never stepped into a music room– a place that's alive, messy, profoundly human—a place where we don't live to teach kids, we teach kids how to live.
Ok, now take another sip of coffee before responding. Unlike AI, I am human and have feelings after all.
Have a great week!
Scott
FINDING MY NUMBER - WHAT'S YOURS?
As a self-employed person, I am responsible for a lot of numbers. Beyond the obvious digits associated with a P&L (profit and loss) statement and the metrics required for running a business, I am also responsible for all the logistics that come with traveling 140,000 miles a year. As I said, there are a lot of numbers, but I kind of enjoy it.
It's not the numbers that interest me, although they do; it's the story they tell. Numbers speak to me, and if you listen, they will speak to you as well. Numbers have hidden patterns and stories that they want to tell. Some answers are easier to find than others. For twenty-plus years, I have been looking at these numbers:
How many days away from home is too many?
How can I make 140,000 miles easier?
How am I broadening my audience and deepening my impact?
The most challenging number to solve for is the final number. The number (age or date) of when to hang it all up and high-five a flight attendant for the final time. As you know, retirement is a hard number to quantify.
According to Mr. Google and the inter-webs, there is a way to figure it all out. I need to solve the following formula.
R=E×(1+i)Y
---------
(S+(A×Y))
R = Retirement Readiness Score (if ≥ 1, you’re on track)
E = Expected annual retirement expenses
i = Inflation rate (as a decimal, e.g., 0.03 for 3%)
Y = Years until retirement
S = Current savings/investments
A = Annual contributions (what you're adding per year)
There it is: MY NUMBER! Well, if I could find it.
I don't fully (or even remotely) understand the formula above, and even if I did, I lack the confidence to follow it because it doesn't account for the human aspect of retirement. Things like:
How will I fill my time?
Will I still feel useful and valuable?
Will I be happy?
Who will teach me to play pickleball?
Does my wife want me around that much?
In case you are curious, my number won't be arriving anytime soon. I have a ton of work to do and two boys to put through college. However, it is a puzzle I am trying to solve – and a number I am searching for.
Have you been searching for your number?
I am confident most of you have been there—lying awake at 3 AM, replaying the same question over and over: Should I stay in this job? Can I really keep doing this for another decade? Why does the sight of a yellow school bus make my stomach hurt?
You think about it, not because you don't love your students, but because the uncertainty of "when" hangs over everything else.
As music teachers, we're generally not wired to live life in the moment. We are planners, doers, and thinkers. We build rehearsal schedules, manage inventory, and plan trips with precision and detail that leave other educators in awe. As a teacher, I took pride in preparing not just for the present, but also for the long-term future.
However, according to well-known blogger Scott Clary, it is essential to know your end, to be at your best. He states, "When we act like our time is infinite, indecision thrives. And here's the truth: it isn't."
He believes that when you don't know your end date, every choice feels overwhelming. Consider it from the perspective of a music teacher.
Should you start that new ensemble? Take students on a trip? Advocate for new uniforms? If your career stretches endlessly in your mind, every decision carries infinite weight. What if it's wrong? What if it sets me back forever.
So, instead of acting, you overanalyze—and nothing changes: analysis – paralysis.
But here's the radical shift: once you decide when you're going to retire, you can work backward. You know how many more concerts you have left, the number of festivals you will attend, how many uniform replacements you'll see, and how many classes you'll recruit before you hang up the baton. It fixes everything because the horizon line is finally clear. Instead of chasing every opportunity, you'll focus on the ones that align with your timeline.
That's not limiting—it's liberating. We all thrive on deadlines, and this is the ultimate deadline. Clarity breeds peace.
Knowing your work horizon doesn't box you in; it gives you a defined space and time, removing the "X" or unknown factor that is so daunting. You no longer have to carry the weight of endless "what ifs."
Most importantly, knowing when it all will end allows you to be present in the here and now. Something I struggle with. You will appreciate each concert, each senior class, and each rehearsal filled with laughter and wrong notes more fully. You stop putting off the joy of teaching because you know it is not perpetual. This realization will inspire you to be more present and engaged in your teaching.
So here's the challenge: pick a date. No matter how far away it might be. It doesn't have to be exact down to the day, and yes, you can change your mind. Five years. Ten years. Whatever it is. Once you decide, you'll stop being paralyzed and start making intentional decisions, feeling empowered and in control.
I have my number.
As I said, numbers tell a story. My story. The math is straightforward on this one thing – I have more work to do, more kids to teach, and more impact to make before I hit that number.
How about you?
Have a great week!
Scott
FORTIFYING BUILDINGS vs. FORTIFYING KIDS
Disclaimer: I am sending this to my entire list. This article is not about guns. It is about the value proposition of music, and how our school investment says as much about our priorities as it does about our fears.
In 1999, tragedy struck Columbine High School, a suburban community outside Denver, when two students armed with automatic weapons opened fire, killing 13 of their classmates. It was a moment that changed not only our profession, but our entire nation—forever altering how we view safety in our schools.
On the first anniversary, I was an assistant principal when my school received a bomb threat. We evacuated to the students to the football stadium, and along with our local police, completed a building-by-building sweep in search of the explosive device. I was in the boys' locker room when 12:00 pm struck (the supposed detonation time), and I remember thinking, "I can't believe I am here, doing this right now."
It was a hoax. But these hoaxes have become all to real.
In the years since, the United States has endured more than 400 school shootings, with 11 such events having occurred in the past eight months—the most recent events taking place in Evergreen, Colorado, and Minneapolis, Minnesota. (I am choosing to view the event in Orem, Utah, as a politically motivated attack and not a school shooting.)
The FBI’s report, School Shooter: A Threat Assessment Perspective, found that the typical attacker is a young white male, enrolled or connected to the school, that has experienced bullying, isolated, struggling socially, and is likely showing signs of depression or anger.
Do you know what else they have in common that WASN'T in the report?
None of the shooters were a part of their high school music program.
How did the FBI miss that little nugget?
Remember what the report said – "experienced bullying, isolated, struggling socially, and is likely showing signs of depression or anger." Could tragedies like these possibly be averted by enrolling kids in inclusive, welcoming, supportive, and non-judgemental places?
“Instead of working toward real solutions, we’ve settled for resolutions. As a society, we keep asking, ‘What should we do during an active shooter situation?’when the better question is, ‘How do we keep these situations from happening in the first place?’”
As a result of events such as these, a new industry has grown at a staggering pace: the business of school safety. According to market research firm Omdia, the "school security industry" is now worth as much as $4 billion and continues to grow yearly.
FOUR BILLION DOLLARS!
What does that money buy? Surveillance cameras, drones, advanced threat-detection systems, bullet-resistant doors, wound packing kits, bullet-proof glass, and training on how to thwart and survive such an attack.
But, I think it should buy more.
It should be buying sousaphones, cellos, choir risers, drama sets, and dance bars? I'm not kidding. These items aren't reactive - they're proactive, would be used every day - and might also help save lives.
How can I say that?
Because music IS violence prevention. PERIOD. FULL STOP.
And while we're at it, music is also a program for:
Drug/alcohol/substance abuse prevention
Suicide/self-harm prevention
Vaping prevention
Attendance enhancement
Academic achievement
Dropout prevention
Bullying reduction
Parent involvement
School culture/tone setter
Scholarship generation
Inclusivity and diversity
College readiness
and so much more...
In fact, music helps mitigate just about everything wrong with our schools and enhances everything right.
In short: music doesn't just make kids better—it makes them safer.
Band, choir, and orchestra (and other inclusive collaborative activities) are often treated as "extras" and remain unfunded or underfunded in most school budgets. Ask any music teacher, and they will tell you: their classroom is one of the safest spaces on campus, not because of locks or cameras, but because of culture.
Students in music programs are seen, valued, and connected to their peers and the broader community. They belong to something larger than themselves. Beyond that, they are exposed to a caring group of peers and adults who will stay with them for four continuous years.
This sense of belonging is not trivial. Research consistently shows that students involved in music are less likely to feel isolated and more likely to develop strong social networks. Those networks, in turn, provide the kind of peer support that can prevent minor problems from becoming crises.
Imagine if we invested in music with the same urgency as we invested in security hardware. What if, alongside bulletproof doors and wound packing kits, we funded new instruments, improved rehearsal spaces, and more opportunities for kids to participate in ensembles? The return on that investment wouldn't just be measured in concerts performed, but in lives shaped and crises averted.
As I said, music is violence prevention.
This does not dismiss the need for safety measures—schools must be secure, but we cannot stop the conversation at hardware. Proper prevention is about building communities where students feel they belong, are supported, and can grow. Few places achieve that better than the music rehearsal room.
I have a son in high school, and he must be safe. To that end, his school just spent tens of thousands of dollars wrapping the campus in dark green and gold mesh fence wrap. Most will think it is for school spirit, but I know better. It's so that a potential shooter can't see inside the courtyard.
The problem is, 9 out of 10 school shooters are enrolled students who belong inside the school.
So my question is - did the fence wrap make anyone safer?
Perhaps (I kindly offer this as a suggestion for your consideration), in addition to investing in protecting students from the outside, we also invest in preventing violence from the inside – let's not make schools more challenging to break into, let's make them harder to fall out of or getting lost in. We do this by investing in the people, programs, and communities that keep kids connected.
Programs like music.
Yes, we need to fortify our buildings, but more importantly, we need to fortify our students.
And that's what music does.
Share this with someone who might be interested - parents, colleagues, administrators, or district personnel.
Have a great week!
Scott
P.S. The most recent episode of the Band Dads Podcast talks about this very issue. Click below if you would like to listen.
P.P.S. I’ve written, read, and rewritten this post more than five times to make sure it comes across with the respect I intend. I truly hope it reads that way to you.
* The individual who shot Congresswoman Gabby Giffords did play saxophone in high school, but former classmates noted that his behavior changed dramatically after he began using drugs following graduation. He was 23 at the time, and this was not a school shooting, but a politically motivated attack.
NERD IS THE WORD
For nearly three-quarters of a century, the word "nerd" has been part of our social lexicon and teen vernacular. Depending on your age, hearing the word may conjure up a vision of Fonzie talking to Ralph and Potsie, Steve Urkel saying "Did I do that?!", or Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory. Each generation has had its "nerd" mascot – someone who embodies what others think to be uncool.
An article on NPR.org states that "The exact time and place of the word "nerd"origin remain somewhat murky, but the leading theory is that it likely first appeared in print in a 1950 children's book written by Dr. Seuss.
In his book, Seuss's young narrator says:
And then, just to show them, I'll sail to Ka-Troo
And bring back an It-kutch, a Preep, and a Proo,
A Nerkle, a Nerd, and a Seersucker, too!
Nerd? Nerkle? Seersucker? I don't know what those are, but they are being collected for a zoo, so it paints a picture more of a circus oddity than an animal to be admired.
As a high school music devotee during the 1980s, I often heard the phrase "band nerd," and while the small-minded word slingers who used it intended for it to be embarrassing, I wore it as a badge of honor. However, my feelings are unlikely to be shared by many. Regardless of your generation or place of origin, the word "nerd" has always carried a pejorative undertone, implying a socially awkward teenager fixated on an unpopular activity.
Until now.
Merriam-Webster defines a nerd as "a person devoted to intellectual, academic, or technical pursuits or interests" or "a person preoccupied with or devoted to a particular activity or field of interest."
However, the more modern Wikipedia definition states: Originally viewed as derogatory, the term "nerd" was a negative stereotype; however, as with other pejoratives, it has been reclaimed and redefined (by some) as a term of pride and group identity.
Intellectual, academic, devoted, and technically skilled. Sounds about right. That's a music kid. And that's a kid you can be proud of.
Our music students are dedicated individuals passionately pursuing technical, intellectual, emotional, and musical achievement at extraordinary levels. Their accolades and accomplishments, both within and outside the music building, are not going unnoticed. People outside of our activity, including their peers, are beginning to recognize and appreciate their efforts.
A 2025 New Yorker article highlighted how competitive high school bands are now regarded as both elite athletic and artistic endeavors—with choreography, physical intensity, and team culture that mirrors that of sports. Students described it as "one huge community" rather than something niche or nerdy.
Indeed, it's a community—a progressive, inclusive, and forward-thinking community that is redefining the perception of 'nerd' culture.
What changed that caused the perception to shift from pariah to popular? Let's start with education and tolerance. Unlike some of their older counterparts, today's teens are more educated on issues of tolerance and acceptance.
Second is the rise in achievement. Success begets respect. When students commit to high levels of performance, regardless of whether it is in academics, athletics, or the arts, they are appreciated and respected for it.
Another component is the rise of TikTok and other social media platforms. These venues enable students to connect with and be exposed to similar peer groups throughout our nation and the world. They see like-minded peers, are emboldened by the sheer size of the activity, and are inspired to a higher level of achievement and acceptance.
Being in music isn't just cool—it comes with academic clout, social recognition, cultural pride, and visible presence. It's no longer the quirky side activity—it's mainstream, respected, and thriving. More than anything, it no longer requires the approval of others as it has elevated itself to be respected as something difficult, laudable, and worthy of respect. Dr. Seuss reminds us that it's cool to be hard-working, dedicated, committed, and passionate about something that'simportant to you.
"Today you are you! That is truer than true! There is no one alive who is you-er than you!"
So, it's cool to be YOU!
Have a great week.
Your fellow and cool band nerd,
Scott
The Merchant of Death is Dead! Or, Is He?
In 1888, a local French newspaper changed the course of history for centuries to come.
Following the death of Ludvig Nobel, a small-town French newspaper mistakenly published an obituary for the still living brother, Alfred Nobel. The obituary was titled The Merchant of Death is Dead. Still reeling from his brother's passing, Alfred had to endure the additional agony and embarrassment of seeing his own passing through the lens of his community, as a greedy, immoral, and destructive man driven solely by profit.
His response was nothing short of transformative.
Nobel decided to make a change – establishing The Nobel Prize, an award celebrating significant advances in physics, chemistry, physiology or medicine, literature, and peace.
In The Power of Regret, Daniel Pink (I love me some Daniel Pink) tells his story — and explains the power of remorse and how you, too, can use it to turn your life around.
As a part of his writing, Pink compiled a list of over 126,000 regrets from people worldwide. He found that, despite location, time, and content, almost all regrets could be broken up into four main categories.
Foundational Regrets - Missed opportunities earlier in life, usually brought on by a lack of work or other poor decision-making, such as: I should have saved. I should have studied harder.
Boldness Regrets - Not taking the chance, as in: I should have started a business. I should have asked that person out.
Moral Regrets - Poor/selfish decisions like: I shouldn't have lied. I shouldn't have cheated on that test.
Connection Regrets - Failure to reach out, for example: I should have told Mom I loved her. I should have been kinder to my partner/spouse.
What is we looked at the same four categories through the lens of a music educator?
Foundational Regrets - I should have studied harder and practiced more. My pedagogy or instructional skills are lacking because of decisions I made at 19.
Boldness Regrets - I should have applied for that job, or performed at that conference, but I let self-doubt and fear keep me from taking a risk.
Moral Regrets - I shouldn't have lied to my students or administrator. I tell my students to own their mistakes, and I didn't own mine.
Connection Regrets - I let the performance demands get in the way of the people demands. I missed opportunities to make a meaningful impact on my students because I was focused on a concert or contest.
Pink goes on to analyze the two different responses people typically have when dealing with regret - it either paralyzes you, or it spurs you into action. He further breaks them down into:
Unproductive regret, one that paralyzes us. All we do is wallow in our misery and imagine how things could have been different.
Productive regret, one that catalyzes us. This happens when we accept our regret, reflect on it, and use it as a springboard for change.
No doubt that as you read this, you are inventorying your own regrets and trying to decide if they are productive or unproductive. I imagine, if you are like most people, there are some of both – times in which you seized the opportunity to grow, and other times when you shrugged it off, and buried it deep inside.
If I am being honest, in my past, I see it as a mixed bag. I can clearly identify where I succeeded and failed in all areas.
Foundation – Yes, I should have studied harder and practiced more; however, I also overcame many obstacles and was one of the few who persevered to graduate.
Boldness – I am nothing if not bold, and can point to many a chance I took. I can also point to some risks that were foolish and unproductive.
Moral - Along the way, there were shortcuts taken - and a lack of judgment shown, but I grew and learned and stand taller today because of them.
Connections – I would like to believe that my impact on my students was significant, but I know that there were some that I missed.
Regret is a universal emotion. It's a part of the human experience, and it's something we all grapple with. The depth and breadth of it vary from person to person, but you can't do this job without regret. There are too many decisions to be made, situations to be addressed, and people to impact not to have both regrets and reasons to celebrate.
Regardless of whether they are regrets or reasons, it's how we use them as fuel and rationale for better decision-making moving forward.
Alfred Nobel proved that regret can be a powerful motivator for change. His legacy will forever be cemented in the things he did right more than the things he did wrong.
I am not perfect. None of us is. Like you, I have plenty of regrets, but after much analysis, I refuse to be stuck with paralysis. So, I will use it as fuel to be better.
BOOM GOES THE DYNAMITE! (See what I did there?)
Hope you enjoyed this. Have a great week.
Scott
WELCOME CLASS OF 2032
This past week, I had the opportunity to do something that I had never done in my thirty-two years as a music educator.
Conduct at Carnegie Hall? Nope, I've never even been inside it, much less stood on the stage. Seriously, they're always closed when I am in town. Coincidence? Maybe not.
Win a Grammy for Music Education? Not even close. But, if they had a category for best Band Camp Pep Talk, Dr. Tim would be the Taylor Swift of the Grammys, and I would be Kenny G (he actually won one in 1994!).
Work with John Williams? Fell short again. I did meet him once, and according to the subsequent restraining order, once was more than enough. Apparently, camping in his front yard qualifies as stalking."
What did I do that was so monumental that I had to write about it?
I handed a bunch of kids their very first instrument.
It's unbelievable to think that in my thirty-two years in music education, I've never actually handed a child an instrument for the very first time.
No real nights. No petting zoos. No first day of elementary school. Nada, zip, squat, zilch. The joy of handing a young person their very first instrument had eluded me.
Mind you, I've taught thousands of kids, done 2,000+ workshops, conducted more concerts than I can count, but that moment—that very first handoff—had somehow escaped me.
Until now. And let me tell you, I wasn't prepared.
First of all, I was asked to demo instruments. What?
Sure, I took woodwind pedagogy (a bazillion years ago), but playing clarinet in public? Hard pass. The flute? Well, just about anybody can make a beginning sound. Thank goodness the saxophone practically demoes itself; otherwise, there would be a LOT of percussion and brass-only beginning bands in Chandler, Arizona right now
So, there I was, squeaking my way through instrument demonstrations when bad turned to worse. Someone asked, Can you measure someone for a viola?(Spoiler: I cannot - can't we just use t-shirt size and go with that?) It turns out, my solution of small, medium, and large was too obvious. Violas come in incremental inches. And riddle me this, Batman: Why do violins come in quarter sizes but violas are measured in inches? This makes no sense.
The moments kept coming:
One kid put the flute together backwards and told me I was the one who did it. (He may have been right.)
A future trumpet parent asked me, Is it supposed to sound like this? To which I responded: Only for four or five years.
A student picked up a trombone, extended the slide, and immediately smacked the kid in front of him: first notes and first lawsuit. (I teared up just a bit.)
Even amidst the chaos, awkwardness, squeaks, and squeals, it was a joy-filled evening.
As the kids played all of the instruments, I would show parents pictures of my boys making their first snds and say, Make sure you record this, you're going to want to remember this moment when they are older.
They would all tear up and immediately reach for their phones
Handing a child an instrument for the first time is like giving them a key—not just to music, but to a whole new world. If only they or their parents knew
I have written about firsts in past newsletters. First time on a school bus, under the lights, marching in a section, performing on a stage, etc. But those were about firsts associated with being in high school.
They were "firsts," but they weren't "FIRSTS." First time assembling an instrument, making a sound, and watching your friends and classmates do the same thing. THOSE ARE TRUE FIRSTS.
The older I get, the more I realize that firsts are sacred. Firsts are what anchor our memories and shape our stories. Think about it:
Your first car ('76 Chevy Vega).
Your first concert (Rush).
Your first crush (Charlotte Matthews).
Your first time conducting a group (middle school second band).
These kids? The first time they hold an instrument isn't just a fun moment—it's a life-changing event. The very first time they hear themselves make a sound—as bad as it is—they smile from ear to ear. That's the beauty of it. We're not just handing out instruments—we're handing out better futures.
I'll tell you what—after 32 years, even I felt the weight of that first. I thought I'd seen it all (and heard it all), but I was wrong - because I had never been there for the first.
So let me officially say it: Welcome to the Music Class of 2032! I'm so excited you're here. Congratulations on your first and thank you for being a part of my first.
After 32 years, your first reminds me why I did this in the first place.
Have a great week,
Scott
WHOLLY GUACAMOLLY & STEM RUNNING OUT OF STEAM
Do you remember your first day as a teacher?
Mine was August 13, 1990; thirty-five years ago today. The location? East Los Angeles. I was excited to be shaping musical phrases and young minds, finally! If I'm being honest, I wasn't particularly great at either.
My contract was for the princely sum of $22,800. Money was TIGHT, as my first paycheck did not arrive until the first week in October, a full seven weeks into the school year, so much for a signing bonus.
For the math nerds (or those without a calculator handy), that broke down to $2,533.33 per month (nine months), $125 a day (182 contract days), and a staggering sum of $20.83 per hour, or exactly what minimum wage in California is today.
And that was before taxes, Social Security, and benefits.
Like you, I didn't become a teacher for the paycheck, and I knew what I signed up for. I understood I would never experience the riches of being a lawyer, the prestige of being a doctor, or the security of being a coder.
Or would I?
For the past twenty(ish) years, policy makers have been singing the praises of STEM and the future it could promise for our young people. A world so resplendent and plentiful that graduates could expect six-figure salaries, lavish lunch rooms, and kombucha on tap. At the same time, teachers worked two jobs, ate bad cafeteria food, and battled the ancient school copier.
But not any more.
In an ironic twist of "be careful what you wish for," the same coders who built today's AI (artificial intelligence) tools are now watching those tools do their jobs—faster, cheaper, and without the benefits of caffeine, sleep, or a well-appointed break room.
In other words, coders coded themselves out of existence.
In an article in yesterday's New York Times,
Goodbye, $165,000 Tech Jobs. Student Coders Seek Work at Chipotle stated that "Among college graduates ages 22 to 27, computer science and computer engineering majors are facing some of the highest unemployment rates, 6.1 percent and 7.5 percent, respectively. That is more than double the unemployment rate of art history graduates, which is just 3 percent."
You read that right, ART HISTORY!
The article quoted one such graduate, Manasi Mishra, as saying, "I just graduated with a computer science degree, have applied to several thousand jobs, and the only company that has called me for an interview is Chipotle."
Wholly guacamole!
The irony of the situation is hard to miss, and frankly, makes me smirk a wee bit. They automated the very skill set that made them valuable. Now, the same résumés that once guaranteed a seat at the table are being scanned and rejected by the very algorithms they helped design. They succeeded a little toowell—leaving themselves on the wrong side of their own innovation.
Teachers, you ask? The U.S. Department of Labor reports an unemployment rate of 2.8%, which is less than half the unemployment rate for computer coders. Music teachers fall even lower with a reported rate of below 2.1%.
STEM is running out of STEAM, while music teachers live the DREAM!
Okay, maybe "dream" is a stretch, but I needed a rhyme.
Our days are messy and chaotic as we work through and with the hot mess that is un-matured humanity. It's also filled with magical moments, ones that can't be found in zeros and ones, and require us to be able to log in with kids who don't have two-factor identification or a manual. Coders will never see a "light bulb" go on, a student grow, or a group of individuals transform into an ensemble.
Their jobs are binary. There is an absolute right and wrong, and every problem they face has a set of definable parameters and a logical solution.
Our jobs have no such luxury. Music teaching is gloriously and stubbornly imperfect. It's messy and rarely has absolutes other than to be on time and no food in the rehearsal hall. Our job doesn't revolve around binary code, but around making connections, building confidence, and mentoring young people. You're not just teaching notes on a page—you're teaching persistence, leadership, and every other essential skill needed to navigate a successful life.
Unlike coders, we can't be replaced by AI.
AI can't spot the terrified student in the back row, AI can't encourage them to play that first note or make their first sound. It can't know when to push kids harder or when to ease off. It can't teach a saxophonist how to swing like Ellington or explain the beauty of Yo-Yo Ma to a budding cellist. More than anything, it can't mentor, model, or teach a child the value of hard work, discipline, and commitment. Because AI isn't human, it requires a human to teach someone else to be human.
While AI is busy debugging code, you're helping kids debug life. And that takes REAL intelligence and not an ARTIFICIAL one.
Enjoy that thought during your first week back.
Scott
SCHOOL MUSIC AND THE "S-CURVE" OF INNOVATION - PART 2
Hey friend,
Last week, I shared some thoughts around the "S-Curve" of innovation. It was a thought piece on the trajectory of our profession and where we would be in fifteen years. I ended the blog post with this:
While the activity may be approaching the top of the S–Curve, that doesn't mean you are. You may be taking over a program at the bottom of the curve or in the middle of explosive growth. You may achieve incredible things with your marching band (top of the curve) while starting a jazz program from scratch (bottom of the curve). So different parts of your program and the students participating might be in various places on the curve.
If you zoom out a bit, there's another S-Curve quietly playing out behind every rehearsal, sectional, and festival performance: your career as a music educator.
It would be hard to deny that I am at the top of the curve, not because I have mastered any particular skills or techniques, but because I am thirty-four years into this consonant curve, and I would be foolish to think I have another thirty-five left in me. I have many lessons to learn and students to teach, but as the S-Curve teaches us, the growth trajectory is elongated, and the lessons learned, while important, produce less yield than they would have three decades ago.
No one tells you this in college, but your first few years of teaching are mostly powered by caffeine, survival instinct, and enthusiasm. You don't know what you don't know. The climb begins immediately every day, and rehearsals are filled with opportunities to fail, learn, and grow. You find your rhythm. You wish you had paid more attention in your methods class as you attempt to remember how to re-string a French horn or replace a bridge on a violin.
But you survive. A freshman calls you their favorite teacher, and suddenly, all of the work you did to get your degree and get a job is affirmed. You start to build. Programs grow. Students return year after year, and you develop a quiet confidence about who they are and your role in their lives.
In years five through 10, you start to soar. Things that were once difficult, if not unthinkable, are now within your grasp and seem attainable. You build traditions. You see the fruits of your labor in the eyes of students who used to squeak out "Hot Cross Buns" and are now auditioning for all-region ensembles or teaching their own sectionals. You teach siblings. You see your first student become a music major. You begin to realize, this isn't just a job—it's legacy work.
Then, just as you're cruising up the S-Curve, real life taps you on the shoulder. Budget cuts. Burnout. Administrative changes. A global pandemic. (Too soon?) Suddenly, the upward momentum feels fragile. Your best-laid plans get rerouted by things beyond your control. This is the part of the curve no brochure warns you about—the curve within the curve. The exhaustion is real, as is the questioning whether this truly is meant to be your life's work.
But just like in your early years, something small keeps you going. A handwritten thank-you card. A senior who says you made them feel seen. A quiet kid who finally sings out. These moments remind you that while the curve may not always rise as fast as you'd like, you are moving. You are making an impact. You are changing lives.
The S-Curve teaches us that what they don't tell you about this profession: growth is rarely linear, but always meaningful. Some years, your ensembles win everything. Other years, you feel like you're teaching in a wind tunnel filled with angry parents and administrators who "just don't get it!"
Both kinds of years matter. Both are building something. Both are sacred. Both are a part of your journey.
Remember, as you move through your S-Curve, your students are riding their S-Curves too. You get to be there at the bottom—when they can't clap in time—and you're there at the top—when they lead their own rehearsals. You see the whole arc. You don't just teach music; you witness transformation.
As you grow, so does your empathy. You understand that your administrators are on their own S-curves. So are your colleagues, your boosters, even your own family. Suddenly, the dip in your day isn't a failure—it's just part of the process. The S-Curve becomes less of a performance chart and more of a life companion.
Which brings us to this week; it's graduation season. Across the country, students are putting on their caps and gowns and walking across stages. Many will shake your hand on their way to a diploma, not realizing they're standing on top of their musical S-Curve. They've made it—made region band, led warm-ups, performed their final concert. It feels like an ending.
But here's the truth: it's not an ending. It's the start of a brand-new S-Curve. One called adulthood. One called life.
While they may be at the end of their musical journey, they're standing at the very bottom of something much bigger—and they are about to ascend. Not just because of their GPA or test scores, but because of you.
You were there for them as they ascended. You taught, guided, and inspired them to continue climbing. You gave them discipline, confidence, resilience, and joy. Through your development, you modeled what growth looks like, how to lead with grace, and how to keep going even when the piece falls apart at measure 42. You didn't just teach them to play music—you taught them how to be.
So wherever you are on your S-Curve—as a brand-new teacher fighting the chaos or a seasoned veteran mentoring the next generation—know this: you are the reason that curve bends upward. As your students walk across that stage, diploma in hand, know that while your time with them may be ending, your impact is just beginning.
Your legacy is not what you taught them, but that YOU taught them.
Have a great week.
SCHOOL MUSIC AND THE "S-CURVE" OF INNOVATION - PART 1
Silicon Valley has many obsessions: beanbag chairs, slide decks, and nonsensical names, but none are as beloved—or as metaphorically overused-as the S-curve.
An S-curve is a graph that illustrates the progress of a project or process over time, typically showing slow initial growth, a period of rapid growth, and then a slowing down to a plateau or decline.
It's named for the shape it resembles, with a gradual upward slope initially, a steeper incline during the rapid growth phase, and then a leveling off or decline towards the end. (I would include a graphic, but to be respectful of the creative work of others, I do not include graphics in my emails anymore. You should Google it, though.)
Every major tech leap has followed this consonant-shaped pattern. Electricity. Telephones. The internet. Smartphones. And even TikTok dance challenges follow this same trajectory. Sadly, the TikTok reference might make the most sense to you the reader.
And now, we are neck-deep in the S-curve of artificial intelligence. AI crawled its way out of the lab with clunky chatbot responses and autocorrect that thought "duck" was the word we wanted. Then it sprinted—suddenly writing code, composing haikus, deepfaking Golden Retrievers dressed in tutus and playing the trombone (yes, I did that), and producing emails that make me sound more intelligent than I actually am.
So, where am I headed with this? (Spoiler alert)
As a part of the Band Dad Podcast, my co-host, Chris Flynn, and I interviewed our Band Director, Mr. Miles Denny. We played a game of "Now and Then," in which Miles and I worked through how I would handle something back then (when I was a teacher) versus how he would handle it now. It was really interesting, you can check it out on the bonus episode of the Band Dad's Podcast.
As a surprise, I flipped the script - and asked Chris and Denny (as he is affectionately known) an important question – would they prefer their kids were in band NOW (today), or THEN, in fifteen years (when Miles's son will be a freshman in high school).
What difference does a decade and a half make?
In a recent e-zine, I mentioned that three percent growth over 25 years means the marching band has grown by 109% in the last twenty-five years—more drill, music, and rehearsal, but also more achievement.
We can all agree on that. More is better, especially when it comes to achievement.
It begs the question - in the grand scheme of modern marching band (let's say the mid 1970's when drum corps became a thing), where are the marching arts on the "S curve?" Are we in the rapid growth phase from straight lines and flip folders to body movement and amplification, or are we towards the top of the "S" where innovation is slowing as widespread adoption of modern techniques materializes?
Perhaps most important – is how much more growth do we want? How much more growth can we sustain in a healthy manner? What is realistic?
In answering the question, my Mr. Flynn shared a remarkable insight as a parent:
"I don't know that it (marching band) needs to be that much harder - it is sufficiently difficult enough to teach the lessons it NEEDS to teach. Making it much more difficult would not necessarily improve the lessons we learn from it."
"Sufficiently difficult to teach the lessons it needs to teach."
That quote hit me like a ton of bricks when I heard it.
In reflecting on it as I write this article, it also struck me that this might be an indicator that we have left the curly part of the S and are closer to the top.
Keep in mind, the top doesn't mean we stop getting better, just that we do so in a more sustainable and achievable pace.
I believe that innovation will continue and the activity will continue to grow, but do I think that in the next twenty-five years we will see the same growth we have seen in the past twenty-five? Will we double the average number of drill pages, add another 1.5 grades of musical difficulty, and achieve at twice the level that we are today? Will the activity be 109% more difficult in 2050 than in 2025?
Probably not. But I could be wrong – I often am.
But does it need to be harder? If more demand does not equally equate to more learning, then what is the value proposition. Is difficulty, just for the sake of being difficult, a worthy endeavor? Should we add 50% more rehearsal time to get 10% better?
The answer to that question depends on where your program is on the "S curve."
While the activity may be approaching the top of the S Curve, that does not mean you are. You may be taking over a program at the bottom of the curve or in the middle of explosive growth. You may achieve incredible things with your marching band (top of the curve) while starting a jazz program from scratch (bottom of the curve). So it's possible that different parts of your program and the students who participate might be in different places on the curve.
But that's a conversation for next week's e-zine.
So let me ask you a question. Would you rather have your own child in band then (fifteen years from now), or now? Miles (my son's band director), never did answer. Hhhhhmmmmmm.
What's your answer? When would you place your child in band? When would you want to teach?
Have a great week.
Scott
CLASSICAL MUSIC, WHAT'S THE POINT?
Yesterday, I received a call from Blake Duty. You don't know Blake, but then again, you kinda do.
For those of you unaware, Blake is the student trombone-playing star of the Be Part of the Music series. He is now finishing his college degree and is a MONSTER trombone player. Even thirteen years later, we still connect regularly.
He had a question for me. He said:
Scott,
Most students, and even one of my professors admitted they don't actually listen to classical music. They spend years mastering excerpts, etudes, concertos, and whatever else, but outside of rehearsal, they listen to anything but the music they're studying. So, we teach our students to play
It's like being a priest who doesn't believe in God but still leads mass because it's something to do.
There are no gigs, audiences, or sustainable career paths, just academic inertia trying to keep itself alive. If you don't get one of the two symphony jobs that opened up that decade, then what? Get your DMA and keep teaching the same music you never even cared about in the first place? Music that no one listens to, creating an endless cycle of disconnection.
Blake's insights are always enlightening. He's a bright individual, and I always enjoy our conversations.
My response?
Blake:
Great questions. Don't forget the "classical music" you hear in TV shows, movies, and commercials. Start listening critically to all music, and you will hear all sorts of instruments in the backing tracks.
Remember, although YOU don't listen to classical music, many people do. There are concert halls filled with (old) people who pay lots of money to hear it. Like scotch, classical music is something you grow into and appreciate more as you age.
And consider the likes of Lindsey Stirling, Simply 3, Black Violin, and other genre-bending artists who play classical instruments in a decidedly non-traditional way. And just this past weekend, the LA Philharmonic and conductor Gustav Dudemel played with Icelandic musician Laufey, country star Maren Morris, and rap artist LL Cool J.
Attendees rocked out to John Williams' Imperial March from Star Wars, Raiders of the Lost Arc, and Beethoven's 5th, to name a few. The multihyphenate Becky G made an appearance, and electro-trap duo CA7RIEL & Paco Amoroso, while seemingly a little nervous at first, settled into a mesmeric groove with the orchestra, getting people dancing as hard as they might at a techno gig.
But it's more than that.
Your training is not just about learning to play classical music. It's about mastering the instrument, allowing you to play any music with skill and understanding. Think of it like learning Latin, a language no one speaks but is the foundation of all languages. Your training is the foundation of your musical journey, enabling you to explore and excel in any genre.
My classical training was designed to build technical proficiency and physical dexterity. It was meant to aid with music literacy and help me understand musical stylings. It provided the base from which not just all music, but all learning was built upon. It challenged me mentally, emotionally, and physically, and helped me grow as a musician and person. It shaped me to be the person I am today.
Blake has a point - not just about classical music, but the commercial viability of band music. It's not the MAIN point. We teach kids to sing and play all sorts of music, not in hopes that it will make them a consumer of that genre, but in hopes it makes them a consumer of life.
Blake, your questions are thought-provoking and challenge us to think critically.
Keep them coming.
Tag, you're it.
Have a great week!
Scott