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Leadership, Laugher & Loud Opinions on Music Education
MUSIC EDUCATION & THE MERE-EXPOSURE EFFECT
Back in the 1990's, researchers Richard Moreland and Scott Beach at the University of Pittsburgh conducted a fascinating experiment. They had four actors pose as students in a college class over a semester.
One actor attended the class zero times.
Another attended five times.
Another ten.
The final actor attended fifteen times.
They didn't participate in class. They didn't introduce themselves. They didn't make friends with their fellow students. They simply walked into the room, sat down, listened, and left. In other words, they did nothing more than show up.
At the end of the semester, researchers showed students photographs of the four actors and asked them to rate them. Something remarkable happened. The more frequently an actor had attended the class, the more positively the students felt about her. Students perceived the actor they had seen more often as friendlier and more likable. This (now) well-documented phenomenon is called the mere-exposure effect: repeated exposure can create affinity.
Contrary to the age-old saying, familiarity doesn't breed contempt; familiarity breeds connection.
The women weren't trying to be impressive. Unlike teachers who are trying to be memorable, the actors weren't trying to entertain anyone. In fact, they were trying to be unmemorable. They didn't say anything at all; however, they were remembered, fondly, for just showing up. So it begs the question:
How often did you show up for your students?
The study suggests that the consistency of your presence is more important than the quality of the instruction.
As a music educator, you show up. Again. And again. And again. Before school. After school. Tuesday night. Friday night. Saturday morning. Sunday afternoon. August band camp. December concerts. February festivals. April trips. May auditions. And just when everyone else thinks the year is over, we start planning for the next one.
Few people outside of our profession fully understand the depth of the commitment. They see the concert. They don't see the 6:30 a.m. sectional. They see the marching band at halftime. They don't see the director unlocking the band room before sunrise. They see the orchestra dressed beautifully on stage. They don't see the teacher who spent lunch helping one student learn four measures that everyone else mastered last week. The performance is the visible part of music education. Showing up is the invisible part.
But our students notice. Maybe not consciously. Maybe not today. Maybe they won't walk into rehearsal tomorrow and say, "Mr. Lang, I really appreciate your consistent presence in my life." Still, even in Costco this past weekend, I ran into a former student from 2003 - now married with three kids- and she had taught her 7-, 5-, and 3-year-old kids the band credos. I was amazed that she remembered the credos, but blown away that she taught them to her kids.
As a music educator, every interaction is another small investment into a relationship. Every trip. Every concert. Every bad rehearsal. Every great rehearsal. Every "Good morning." Every "Let's give that another rep." Every "We can do better."
You keep showing up.
That's particularly important for those of us who suffer from imposter syndrome (we meet Thursday evenings at Starbucks). We attend conferences and watch brilliant clinicians. We hear phenomenal ensembles. We scroll through social media and see someone else's incredible concert, enormous marching band, gorgeous facility, or latest award. It's easy to convince ourselves that everybody else has figured this out. They haven't.
You don't have to be the greatest conductor in your state. You don't have to have the biggest program. You don't have to win every festival or know the perfect thing to say every time a student walks into your office. You have to be there today. And then you have to be there the day after that.
Think about how extraordinary that is in the life of a young person.
Students change teachers every year. Coaches change. Classes change. Friends change. Interests change. Families sometimes change. But a music teacher remains in a student's life for years. That's hundreds—sometimes thousands—of moments of exposure, encouragement, correction, laughter, frustration, music, and life. You were there.
You don't just show up for students either. You show up for parents and families. You help foster family relationships, provide opportunities for shared experiences, and give fodder for post-performance car ride conversations. You attend birthdays, weddings, and even funerals.
There's an important distinction here. The Moreland and Beach study doesn't prove that simply being physically present automatically makes someone a great teacher. High-quality instruction and the pursuit of excellence are required and still add important value. It just means you don't have to have a world-class ensemble to make a world-class impact.
Perhaps that's the real lesson. Excellence is important, but consistency is transformational.
Someday, every one of us will put the baton down. Someone else will unlock the band room. Someone else will stand on the podium. The trophies will eventually gather dust, the marching shows will be forgotten, and even the performances we thought were unforgettable will become stories that fewer and fewer people remember. But scattered throughout the world will be former students who remember something. You! And you being there. Day after day. Night after night. Weekend after weekend, year after year. You didn't have to be the world's best teacher. You didn't have to be perfect.
You just had to care enough to keep coming back. And that's way more than mere exposure.
Have a great week,
Scott
KNOWING AND DOING ARE NOT THE SAME THING
In a recent article in The New York Times; What Do Students Lose When They Stop Writing? makes a compelling case about what is lost when students write in the age of artificial intelligence. The article explores a question much larger than whether students should or shouldn't use AI:
What happens when we separate the result from the work required to get there?
The author makes a compelling case that when AI does the actual writing, the learning isn't imprinted on the student because they didn't actually go through the task of writing.
READING doesn't equate to learning - WRITING equates to learning.
As someone who writes every week (and writing may be a generous definition of what I do), for me, writing is hard. Really hard. It requires me to process information, come up with an original observation, build it into an engaging narrative, and deliver it on a timeline. As I said, writing may be an overly elegant way to describe these weekly missives.
But I do it every week, forty weeks a year.
But according to the researchers cited in the Times, that difficulty isn't simply an unfortunate side effect of writing. The difficulty is part of what makes writing valuable. According to author Dana Goldstein, "The process develops working memory, planning, metacognition, and the ability to evaluate and revise our own thinking."
But I already knew that. Not because I am a writer. Because I am a music teacher.
(I was literally talking about this in a workshop last week)
Because in music, knowing isn't enough.
You can know every note on the page. You can identify the key signature, explain the time signature, define every musical term, and tell me precisely what the crescendo means. Congratulations. Now pick up your instrument and do it. And then come back tomorrow and do it again. And if it pleases me, again the day after that.
You don't learn to play the clarinet by knowing about the clarinet. You don't read a book about it, memorize the fingerings, and pick it up and ne Eddie Daniels. You learn to play the clarinet by playing it. Usually badly at first. Occasionally loudly. And sometimes producing sounds that cause fear among your family members and pets.
Then you practice. You listen. You adjust. You fail. You improve. And you come back tomorrow. And it's not just the music.
Knowing your drill isn't the same as marching your drill. You can memorize every coordinate on the page, but eventually you have to put your feet on the field. Eight-to-five. Hit the form. Dress the line. Miss it. Fix it. Do it again. Eventually, what you knowbecomes something you can do.
And then there's responsibility.
Imagine if we knew the music and drill and only showed up on Friday nights. After all, why should we have to DO something when we already KNOW something?
What separates music from every other curriculum is the daily, repeated application of the knowledge.
We don't teach responsibility by giving students a book or a PowerPoint (although my books are pretty good). We teach it by asking them to be responsible every day. Bring your instrument. Have your music. Show up on time. Practice your part. Remember your uniform. Help load the truck. Put away a chair that isn't yours. And, in one of the highest expressions of personal responsibility known to humankind, remember to wear LONG black socks under your uniform.
But there's something even more important happening there. Music teaches a particular kind of responsibility because other people are depending on you to know AND do!
If you don't know your part, the entire band pays the price. If you miss your dot, somebody else has to fudge the form for you. If you're not there to play your part, we can't 3D print another second bassoon. Well, not the person, at least. Your preparation—or lack of it—affects people besides you.
The same is true of non-musical skills. You can define grit. You can read about teamwork. You can probably write a perfectly respectable five-paragraph essay about both things. But music requires you to practice it in real time, EVERY DAY! Music teaches you when to speak, when to listen, when to lead, and when your contribution matters precisely because nobody notices it.
And if you fail to learn these lessons?
There is no undo button. You don't get to stop the ensemble and explain that you actually knew the answer. You can't hit the delete button or erase the mistake. You recover. You count. You listen. You find your place and get back in. And maybe five minutes later, you get another chance. Music teaches students that making a mistake isn't nearly as important as what they do in the measure that follows it.
So yes, this activity is meant to be hard. Not just once, every day.
Not impossible. Not miserable. Not the hard that makes kids want to quit, like marching in 118-degree heat in July in Arizona. But hard enough that forces you to learn something to make it easier. Without the hard, there is no learning.
The music is supposed to require practice. The drill is supposed to require repetition. Playing together is supposed to require listening. Being an ensemble is supposed to require compromise. And being dependable is supposed to require showing up again tomorrow.
The difficulty isn't a flaw in the experience. It's part of the experience.
That's what I think is so important about music education right now. We live in a world increasingly capable of producing the product without requiring the process. And I'm not anti-technology or anti-AI, far from it. Technology can be an extraordinary tool. Even the experts in the Times article aren't advocating abandoning AI altogether; they're asking educators to think carefully about which parts of learning students still need to do themselves.
In music, we want kids to...
Know their music—and play it every day.
Know their drill—and march it every day.
Know to listen—and actually listen every day.
Know about responsibility—and be responsible every day.
AI may provide a shortcut to writing––but not one to learning.
And that is why music matters.
Have a great week,
Scott
I’M NOT OLD, I’M JUST A LATE BLOOMER
I'MMMM BAAAACK. Did you miss me? I missed you! No, really I did. Anyway...
Just so you know,
I am a runner. I'm just slower now.
I am a reader. I now need glasses to do it.
I am an active person. It just hurts more the next day.
I still travel a lot, but it's getting harder. (yesterday was BRUTAL)
Why? Because I'm getting old(er).
Yes, any semblance of color has left my hair years ago, and it sits above a forehead that appears to have accumulated several new topographical features. Somehow, the person in the mirror looks older than the person doing the looking.
You would think it's my glasses. But first, I need to remember where I left them. All six pairs of them. It's a constant game of hide and seek. A game I lose more than I win.
I do not THINK of myself as old. I do, however, notice a decline.
I run a little slower. Recovery takes a little longer. Things that once required a good night's sleep now seem to require a good night's sleep, stretching, ibuprofen, hydration, and possibly a consultation with a medical professional.
With age, there is an unavoidable and unmistakable decline. Declining hearing, eyesight, and well, just about everywhere else I look and feel.
Despite all of this, apparently, my best work is yet to come. As author David Brooks says, I am not in decline; I am just a late bloomer.
In his recent article in The Atlantic, "You Might Be a Late Bloomer," Brooks argues that some people do not live their best lives until they are much older, after they have experienced life and made mistakes.
Brooks writes about people whose greatest contributions didn't happen early at all. Cézanne struggled for decades. Julia Child didn't even attend cooking school until she was 37. Harland Sanders was apparently in no particular hurry to become Colonel Sanders. Yet, we have somehow convinced ourselves that if our career hasn't achieved notoriety by 30, we may have missed our window for success.
Society looks for early success as evidence of a bright future (like all those 30 Under 30 lists), but early failures can lead to an onslaught of senior success.
I know plenty of music educators who felt that way. I know I did. You scroll through social media and see your peers conducting an all-state ensemble, presenting at a national conference, publishing a book, or winning Teacher of the Year. They post pictures on their socials bragging about their success, standing next to a pile of trophies and plaques, while you spent Tuesday afternoon explaining for the 147th time that forte does not mean "play like you're angry at the building."
It's common to wonder if you're falling behind, but I am learning that my path is unique. It's about growth, not speed, and the turtle teaches us that slow and steady wins the race. Some of my best ideas have come in more recent years, and I am beginning to see a sphere of possibility that does not include running for the next plane - which will inevitably be delayed.
Maybe you're a late bloomer, like me. Your years of experience are allowing you to see things you might not have seen when you had better eyesight, hear things you may not have heard when you were younger, and do difficult things with less effort than when you were more physically capable.
One of Brooks's most interesting points is that late bloomers often aren't simply early bloomers who got delayed. Their difficult experiences allowed them to develop differently. They wander. They experiment. They fail. They collect experiences that don't seem particularly connected at the time. Then, somewhere down the road, those experiences begin talking to each other. The strange collection of jobs, mistakes, interests, mentors, bad decisions, accidental opportunities, and spectacularly mediocre Tuesday rehearsals starts becoming something that looks suspiciously like wisdom.
Sound familiar? It does to me. In fact, it's the soundtrack of my life. I wander, experiment, and fail as good or better than anyone else I know.
Music educators should understand this effect better than most. We literally see kids bloom at different speeds. We've all had the sixth grader who picks up the clarinet and somehow sounds like they've been secretly practicing since birth. We've also had the kid who spends two years sounding like a goose arguing with a lawn mower—until one day something clicks.
Yes, we see future potential in our students, but we oftentimes don't see it in ourselves. We offer grace, space, and hope to those in front of us but fail to do the same for the person in front of the mirror.
Why are we so willing to extend that grace to our students but so reluctant to extend it to ourselves? Perhaps in our quest for (musical) excellence, we do not afford ourselves the luxury of failure - we won't tolerate a wrong note or rhythm from our students, so why would we be any more tolerant of mistakes that we ourselves make?
Brooks explains and names this as "diversive curiosity"—the tendency to explore broadly before settling deeply into something. I love that idea for music teachers. You taught elementary music when you thought you'd be a high-school band director. You started a jazz band/chamber group, sponsored a club, volunteered for a school committee, and ran a leadership retreat with no training or experience. Every concert you teach music you have never conducted, with kids who have never played the music, and attend a festival in front of judges who have never heard your group.
Early in my career, I cared a lot about whether the ensemble sounded good. Ratings mattered. Performances mattered. Recognition mattered. I'm not going to pretend they suddenly don't. I still like winning. I still like excellence. I still think B-flat should occasionally resemble B-flat. However, after more than three decades in music education, my definition of a successful rehearsal—and a successful career—has gotten considerably larger.
I think late bloomers eventually discover something early achievers sometimes have to learn the hard way: external validation is a short-term fuel source. There will always be another ensemble that sounds better. Another director getting more attention. Another program with better facilities, bigger budgets, newer uniforms, more private teachers, and apparently a brass section recruited directly from the Blue Coats. If your sense of worth depends on keeping up with all of that, you are signing up for a race with no finish line.
Late blooming means spending our younger years building our résumé. If we're fortunate, we spend our remaining years building ourselves.
Maybe that is what blooming actually looks like—becoming more fully the teacher—and person—you were capable of becoming all along.
Yes, I am older, so I...
Run slower. But I see more.
Need glasses to read. But I understand more.
Am less physically agile. But I'm more mentally flexible.
I guess I am a late bloomer. How about you?
Have a great week, friends. I am glad to be back.
Have a GREAT week,
Scott
SEMINAL MOMENTS AND WHAT WE REALLY REMEMBER
It's that time of year. You can see the finish line, and lesson planning has given way to vacation planning. You chide your students in rehearsal to stay focused and on task, while your mind wanders to all things not music education-related.
There are still seminal moments ahead, however, so you need to stay in the moment. End-of-year performances, banquets, and graduation look large - followed by music collection, instrument check-in, and the dreaded end-of-year inventory.
These moments are important. The performances, graduation speeches, and last day good-byes. They matter. They provide closure for you and the students. You think that these are the moments your students will remember.
But there's something about this job that doesn't get talked about enough.
But they won't. And neither will you.
Or at least—not in the way you think you will.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love me a big moment. In fact, I have made a career and a lifetime reveling in them. But they are rarely as important as the moments leading up to them.
You see, the big moments are just evidence of the little moments that led up to it.
I have always said, "If I never go to a concert or contest again for the rest of my life, I will be just fine." Rehearsals? Now, that's another story.
Recently, I had the opportunity to conduct my son's band in a world premiere at Carnegie Hall. I don't know about you, but as far as "moments" go, that is about as big as it gets. It was magical. Fantastical. And something I will cherish for the rest of my life.
But it wasn't the part that brings a smile to my face. It was the rehearsals. Honestly, if you offered me another chance to conduct on that venerable stage or one more rehearsal, I would most assuredly choose the latter.
I could probably write several paragraphs as to why, but I will save you the trouble of reading all that - you're welcome.
Because somewhere along the way, I discovered that for me, the performance wasn't the purpose. It was a part of the process.
I was not always this way. And I love me a good contest.
Contests are measurable. Ratings are measurable. Trophies fit nicely into display cases. Administrators love programs with visible outcomes because they photograph well on district Facebook pages. Nobody posts, "Today, a sophomore trumpet player tried to recover gracefully after massively missing an entrance. And, if you look closely, you can see the percussion section starting a bonfire with their copy of Pomp and Circumstance.
These are not the moments your admin will remember, but they are the moments you students will remember.
They will remember the Tuesday in October when the clarinet section finally mailed page 47 of the drill. The day you lost your marbles because the trumpet section wouldn't shut up. Or the day you spilled your third cup of coffee on your shirt. Or is that just me?
That's the curriculum. Those are their memories. We're not producing performances. We are producing people.
And the strange beauty of music education is that students rarely realize what they're actually learning while they're learning it. And they're not learning it when they think they are.
They think they're learning dotted eighth-sixteenth note patterns. You're teaching delayed gratification.
They think they're learning breath support. You're teaching self-regulation.
They think they're learning how to tune a chord. You're teaching them how to exist inside a community without insisting on being the loudest person in the room—which, frankly, is a lesson half the adults on the internet still haven't mastered.
The final concert matters, of course. It should matter. Milestones deserve celebration. There is something sacred about the last cutoff of the year hanging in the air half a second longer than usual while everyone collectively realizes: Oh. We won't all be in this room together again.
But the emotional weight of that moment comes from accumulation.
Nobody is sad because the concert ended. They cry because a year's worth of rehearsals has ended.
Your success as an educator is not measured by whether the final chord was perfectly in tune. Honestly, most audiences can't tell the difference.
Your success is built upon 186 days of striving for excellence, creating art, and pushing kids to be something they aren't just yet. That's what they will remember. And as long as we're at it, that's the point of education.
As you close out the year, remember, the performance was never the destination. It was simply the proof that the journey happened.
Have a great week!
Scott
THE BEE & THE IMPACT OF YOUR WORDS
This one is a bit long - but I hope is worth reading for Teacher Appreciation Week!
It's Teacher Appreciation Week, which means people are saying thank you (including me). There are kind emails, handwritten notes, and maybe donuts, but they somehow show up after you have already been to the teacher workroom at zero-dark-thirty, and disappear before you get back there at lunch time.
All of it is good. All of it is appreciated.
But there's something about this job that doesn't get talked about enough.
The impact you have, but might never know about.
I was thinking about that recently, and it brought me back to one of the most important teachers in my life, Bob Larabell.
You won't know the name, but you may know the story. The movie Akeelah and the Bee was based on him (written by a classmate of mine, Doug Atchison - worth watching). He was that guy. Brilliant, demanding, intense, and absolutely unwilling to let you get away with anything less than your best.
I barely survived his class. BARELY!
It was required to graduate, so there was no escaping it. I did what I could, which at the time felt like a lot. Looking back, it was probably just enough not to fall apart completely. I scraped through with a C-. Not exactly the kind of performance that makes you think, "This is going to be a defining relationship in my life.
Then came the final assessment, a thirty-page paper and a presentation.
The paper? I think I got a C+, but the presentation? I nailed it. I created a Monopoly-style game in which each participant was an arts organization. I structured it so that, much like in real life, each player struggled to survive and eventually folded.
On the very last day of class, we got our final assessments: pages and pages of typed, personalized feedback for every student. I honestly don't know where he found the time.
His final sentence, handwritten in red ink, said:
"Dare as I might to insult you, Mr. Lang, but there might just be a teacher in there somewhere.
That was it—one sentence.
It was delivered in the most Bob Larabell way possible—equal parts compliment and challenge, wrapped in just enough edge to keep you from getting comfortable.
And here's the thing.
I don't think he had any idea what that sentence would mean to me. For him, it was probably just feedback. A moment at the end of a long day. One more student, one more presentation, one more comment.
For me? It stuck, and it planted something.
Up until that point, I hadn't thought of myself that way. Not seriously. Not as something real. Once I read it, I couldn't unthink it.
That's the part about teaching that's so hard to see when you're in it.
Most of the moments that change students' lives don't feel like big moments at all.
They're not planned. They're not scripted. They're not part of the lesson plan.
They're just throwaway lines as a part of a rehearsal or conversation.
A quick comment. A reaction. A sentence you don't even remember saying five minutes later
But they land. And they stay.
As music teachers, we say thousands of things in a single day. We're correcting notes, adjusting posture, managing behavior, trying to get through a rehearsal while also wondering why the trumpets are doing whatever it is they're doing that day.
We're not thinking, "This might be the sentence that changes how this student sees themself."
But sometimes it is.
When we're early in our careers, we think our impact will come from the big things. The performances. The ratings. The moments where everything clicks, and we walk off stage thinking, "That's what this is all about."
And those moments matter. They're just not the whole story.
Most of our students are not going to become musicians or music educators; they're not going to spend their lives thinking about tone quality, articulation, or whether the low brass was too heavy in measure 42.
But they will remember how they were seen. They will remember how they were spoken to.
They will remember the moments when someone they respected said something that made them reconsider themselves.
We get to be that person more often than we realize. That's the responsibility. And honestly, it's also the gift.
Long after the performances fade and long after the scores don't matter anymore, those words are still out there doing work.
Bob Larabell probably doesn't remember saying that to me, but I remember it clearly. In fact, I still have that paper saved in my safe.
If I'm being honest, there's a pretty direct line from that moment to where I ended up.
So, during Teacher Appreciation Week, while people are thanking you for the visible things—the concerts, the performances, the long hours—know this:
Your real impact is happening in the invisible moments.
The ones you don't plan.
The ones you don't remember.
The ones that feel small at the time.
Somewhere down the line, one of your students will make a decision. To try something. To stick with something. To believe something about themselves that they didn't believe before.
And part of that decision will trace back to something you said.
You won't be there.
You might never hear about it.
But it will be there.
That's the job. And it's bigger than any performance, any rating, or any score.
So here's to teachers like Bob Larabell—the ones who demand more, see more, and say just enough at the right moment to change a life.
And here's to you. Keep saying the things that matter. Even when you don't realize they do.
Thank you for all you do - Happy Teacher Appreciation Week! I APPRECIATE YOU!
Scott
p.s In my first book, I wrote a chapter about Bob. I shared it with him when I escorted him to the premiere of his movie. He sent the chapter back two weeks later, with corrections and a handwritten note that said, "You cabetter kiddo."
I treasure that note as his words still matter to me.
THE PERFORMANCE I THOUGHT WOULD MEAN "I MADE IT!"
If you had asked me early in my career when I would know I had "made it" as a music educator, I would not have hesitated.
I had it all mapped out.
A superior rating at contest. A standing ovation performance. That one concert where everything clicks—intonation, balance, musicality—and you walk off stage thinking: That's it! That's what I've been chasing.
That was the finish line. I was sure of it.
When you're young in this profession, fresh out of college, that's what it looks like from the outside. You see great programs, great performances, trophy cases, and ratings sheets, and you think: If I can get there, I'll know I've arrived.
Eventually, if you stay in it long enough, you do get there.
I have been fortunate to have more than one of these such events, but one really sticks out in my mind.
You know the kind. The kids were locked in. The sound was inspiring. Musical moments actually felt… musical. I didn't conduct as much as I sort of just steered. It was one of those rare experiences where I was in it and watching it happen at the same time.
We finished. Applause. That glance from the kids where everyone knows: Yeah, that was good.
And for a moment—maybe even a few days—I felt it.
I'm here. This is it.
Then something strange happened. We went back to rehearsal.
The performance I had built up in my mind over the years faded faster than I expected. Not because it wasn't meaningful, but because it became normal.
I am sure I had similar aspirations when I started speaking. Dreams of a packed house, at a prestigious convention where every anecdote lands, every story sings, and every joke has people in tears.
These are the things I thought would define my career - and they did. But, as soon as you do it, it becomes "done." A memory and a stepping stone on a journey. And once you've done it, your brain does this very helpful and very annoying thing: it immediately shows you the next version of it.
A better performance. A harder piece. A stronger group. A higher score.
A bigger crowd, a more prestigious event, a louder ovation.
The line moves.
I am sure I'm not alone in thinking...
Shouldn't I be more satisfied? Shouldn't that moment hold more weight? I mean… we got the rating. We had the performance. We did the thing. Isn't that what I wanted?
Then, after you stay in the profession long enough, you start to notice something. The best teachers you know—the ones with the strongest programs, the most consistent results—they don't act like they've "made it."
You realize it's not because they're never satisfied. It's because they've grown to need the affirmations no longer. They are self-aware enough to know when they have done something of note and when they haven't. The external validations are nice, but not needed.
I wanted perfect performances, top ratings, and external validation.
Don't get me wrong—those things still matter. They're part of the process. They reflect real work.
But they're not the finish line.
Because now, the moments that stay with me look different. They're quieter—they're mine and mine alone. I don't need to share them. I don't need them to be public. I want them to be authentic.
It's the rehearsal where something clicks—not just musically, but personally. It's watching a group become something more than a group.
And here's the part that younger me would not have understood:
Those moments don't come with trophies.
There's a line I wish I had heard earlier in my career: the line moved because you moved.
What I actually want now is something harder to measure and impossible to judge at a contest: a classroom (workshop) where students grow as people, a lasting message with real impact, and experiences that students and teachers remember long after they forget the repertoire.
The strange thing is, I don't think the moving finish line is a problem anymore.
I think it's the point.
I am comfortable with the movement. Not intimidated by the lack of permanence. I embrace the anonymity of the chance and the achievement.
Because if you ever truly felt like you had "arrived" in this profession, you'd probably stop growing.
And this job—on its best days—is about growth.
Not just for students.
For us.
So yes, I still want great performances. I still want those moments where everything comes together, and I walk off stage knowing it mattered.
However, I don't expect that moment to define anything anymore.
Because I know what happens next.
I get back on a plane and start over again in a new city, with new students, new obstacles, and new opportunities.
Progress. And that is enough now.
Have a great week friends...
Scott
BEING HARD ON YOURSELF IS NOT HELPING
Let me start with a confession.
Like many of you, I am exceptional at being hard on myself.
Not casually hard. Not "Ah shucks, I missed that piece of content" hard, I'm talking full-on, post-mordem, internal TED Talk titled: "Top 47 Reasons You Should Probably Quit Speaking and Take Up Landscaping."
Honestly, I would have loved to be a landscape architect. But, I digress.
After every workshop, I dissect the entire experience. It's not very productive, but I do it. I think about the segues, the bridges, the stories, the jokes. I think through it all – every time. You may have seen and experienced a GREAT event - all I can see are the missed moments and flawed delivery.
I genuinely thought this was a good thing. I thought it meant I cared. I thought it made me better.
Turns out… it doesn't.
There's this idea floating around in education (and especially music education) that if you're not hard on yourself, you're not serious. If you don't replay every mistake, you're not dedicated. If you're not analyzing every flaw, you're letting standards slip.
But here's what I've learned and resisted learning for years: being hard on yourself doesn't make you better. It just makes you tired.
When I mess something up—a bad phone call, a missed opportunity, a wrong call—I don't just note it and move on. I replay it. I overanalyze it. I add dramatic music to it. Then I mentally fire myself.
Instead of improving, I get stuck in a loop where I'm drained, doubting myself, and less present the next day. Which, ironically, makes me worse.
Here's the uncomfortable truth: self-criticism doesn't improve performance. Self-compassion does.
I know. I didn't like it either.
"Self-compassion" sounds like lowering the bar or letting yourself off the hook. It sounds soft. It sounds like the opposite of excellence.
It's not.
Self-compassion doesn't mean ignoring mistakes. It means responding in balance, not beating yourself up.
Same awareness, different response. Completely different result.
This really hit me when I realized something obvious: I would never talk to my students the way I talk to myself.
Seriously. Would you?
When a student struggles, I don't say, "Wow, you're a disaster. You're just not cut out for this. Hand over that instrument, son." (Although I may have thought it a few times).
If I wouldn't do that to someone else, why would I do that to myself? Why is it okay for me to go full drill sergeant on myself?
Whether we realize it or not, students are watching how we handle mistakes. Not just theirs—ours.
If they see a teacher who spirals, gets frustrated, and beats themselves up, they learn that mistakes equal failure. However, if they see a teacher who reflects, adjusts, and moves forward, they learn that mistakes are part of the growth process.
Now, let's be clear, I didn't read one article and suddenly become a calm, enlightened, self-compassionate expert. I still overthink. I still ruminate. I still occasionally convince myself I should be in landscaping.
But I have been working on accepting my humanity and embracing the fact that I will never be perfect, while trying to be better. Being hard on yourself doesn't make you a better teacher; it just makes the job heavier than it needs to be.
And, I think this job is heavy enough as it is.
If you're still being hard on yourself after reading this, don't worry. I'll be right there with you, rewriting this blog in my head for the next three days.
Have a great week.
MY JUDGEY LAPTOP & PRODUCTIVE HIDING
Last Tuesday, I blocked off some time for writing. My calendar was clear. No meetings. The boys were at school. Leah was out of the house, so there were no chances to distract myself with, "Can I talk to you for a second?"
Just me, a document, and a blank screen - which I am relatively sure was laughing at me.
So naturally… I checked my email. Not because anything was urgent. It wasn't. Email is doable. It feels good. People want to talk to me. I should listen to them. A question comes in, you answer it, and boom—tiny victory. The endorphin rush is real, and I FEEL productive.
At least that is the conversation going on in my head.
Meanwhile, the real work—the thinking work, the creating work, the "this might not be very good" work—sits there, quietly judging me. (My work is very judgey!)
For fourteen minutes, I was being a responsible, hard-working adult. The kind where if someone walked by, they'd say, "Wow, Scott is really on top of things today."
According to Scott Clary, this is called Productive Hiding. And I am very good at this.
And so are some of you!
As music teachers, we don't call it hiding. We call it being busy.
You've seen it. You've lived it. You've probably done it this week. You sit down to plan a rehearsal or fix a real issue in your ensemble—tone, balance, pacing, culture, whatever it is—and somehow you end up organizing your Google Drive, answering emails, or looking at the program's social page, wondering if you should post.
All of these things matter. They're part of the job. But they're also… convenient.
Because they're solvable.
There's a researcher named Tim Pychyl who has spent years studying procrastination, and his big idea is this: it's not about time management—it's about mood management. When we're faced with something uncertain or difficult, our brain nudges us toward something easier, something that gives us a quick win.
For me, answering an email feels better than staring at a blank page. Reorganizing your music library feels better than addressing why your ensemble isn't listening to each other. Fixing small things feels better than confronting big ones.
Here's the tricky part—it works for a few minutes.
You feel productive. You feel in control. You feel like you're getting things done. And technically, you are. But underneath it, there's that quiet voice that knows this isn't the thing you really should be doing.
I do this all the time.
I'll tell myself I'm being efficient—knocking out emails, tightening up details, staying ahead of things. Meanwhile, the work that actually moves the needle—the writing, the thinking, the honest reflection about my own work—gets pushed just far enough down the list that I can pretend I'll get to it later.
Later is a magical place. Everything gets done there.
The problem is, the important work doesn't go away. It just waits. And the longer it waits, the bigger it feels. The bigger it feels, the easier it is to avoid, and suddenly you're in this loop where you are incredibly busy and somehow not moving forward.
Sound familiar?
I think a lot of what we call "overwhelm" in education is really just very well-disguised hiding. Full calendars. Long to-do lists. Constant motion. It looks like productivity—and, in many ways, it is—but it also provides the perfect cover for avoiding the uncomfortable work.
That's the hard part. That's the part we tend to circle.
When you finally stop and face it—whether it's a rehearsal issue, a program culture question, or even your own growth—you lose the safety of quick wins. You're back in that space where there are no guarantees, no instant feedback, and no tidy resolution.
Yet, that's where the real progress lives.
I know this is true for me. So, for the next week, I am going to ask myself, Am I working? Or am I hiding?
No judgment. I'll just be honest and let my laptop sit there in judgment. Maybe I can fool it - after all, I am pretty good at productive hiding.
And I have a feeling I'm not the only one.
Have a great week.
Scott
FINDING SUCCESS & CHASING HONESTLY
Happy April Fools Day! Let me spin you a story of when I was a fool. Trust me, there are lots of examples, but I will limit it to one for today.
If you were to travel back a few years and find me at 22 in Easy Los Angeles and ask me what success looked like, I might have said: playing great literature at a high level, a thriving program, and maybe leading a department. The kind of career that looked solid, impressive, and secure was one I could be proud of.
What would you have said at 22?
Fast-forward to 30 (eight years later) in Tempe, Arizona, and ask me the same question. I might have said: relevance, the ability to stand shoulder to shoulder with the very best, and learn what they know, so I can become what they are.
What would you have said at 30?
Jump back in your time machine and fast-forward another eight years to my home office (a desk in a spare bedroom and starting my own business), and ask me the same question once again. I might answer: perform at the country's premier marching, concert, and jazz events - learn from the country's best educators.
What would you have said at 38?
Over the 16 years, it seems that my definition of success was evolving and changing- shifting from survival to relevance - seemingly growing my aspirations in lock step with the development of my skills.
But that would be wrong.
Like many of you, I didn't know what I truly wanted or what I was capable of. So, instead of asking myself, I just regurgitated what I was told I wanted. Kind of a lie!
To be clear, I didn't lie about WHAT I wanted. I lied about KNOWING it, and believing I had what it took to get there.
At 22, I told myself what others told me I should want, based on my training - play good music, get good scores at contest. At 30, having found some of that (by accident, perhaps), I took the next logical step: relevance on a scale bigger than my classroom. At 38, not knowing what the leap outside would look like, I jumped into another part of the music education landscape - perhaps not because that was what I wanted - I just knew I wanted something different.
What about you? Do you know what YOU want? Do you ever feel like you want something different? Different position, school, age level, or location?
Scott Clary, an author, podcaster, and blogger says, "Chasing what you think you want is not evolution. It's chasing honesty."
Many of us have been there. We start fresh out of school, chasing the same things: Mahler, Grainger, and Holst. Superior ratings, all-state musicians, and standing ovations. We don't yet fully know what we want, so we borrow someone else's definition. It's safe. It's measurable. It makes sense and is tangible
As we mature, we build towards these seemingly self-evident objectives. We take on everything. We say yes to every concert, every extra responsibility, every expectation. We pack our schedule and tie our identity to the success of our ensembles.
But as we delve deeper into the search for success, we often fail to ask, "What does success look like FOR ME?"
Questioning our definition of success means questioning everything we've been taught and everything we have built. It means giving up proving ourselves in favor of questioning ourselves. Without an answer to this question, we are stuck in a never-ending loop of needing approval and asking, "What's next?"
Somewhere along the journey, you've likely felt it. That quiet voice underneath everything: this isn't it. It's not completely me. I want something different and unique to me. I want to achieve what I want, where I want, and how I want.
That's not chasing success, that's chasing honesty.
This job is hard, not just because of the physical, mental, emotional, and musical requirements, but because it is all lived in the public eye.
In some way, admitting that you want something different than musical and competitive success is akin to the head football coach saying that their win/loss record is not what's most important. True? Absolutely.
Unpopular, DOUBLE absolutely!
Scott Clary would say that when you have that feeling of not knowing what you want, "We're just finally being honest about what was always there, but didn't feel like we're allowed to choose yet."
So we pay the tax. Years of chasing something we think we want, to prove we can chase what we REALLY want – as if we need permission to chase our dreams.
We don't need to prove ourselves to others to be worthy.
We don't need adjudicators to validate us as music educators.
We don't need administrators to explain our worth to the community.
We don't need parents to tell us we have made a difference.
We just need permission.
Permission to believe in ourselves fully.
Permission to break the mold unapologetically.
Permission to shape the program based on our individual kids.
Permission to be the educator WE want to be.
So, what do you actually want?
Not what looks good. Not what everyone else is chasing. Not what makes sense on paper. What do you want your days to feel like when you walk into your classroom? What gets you excited and puts a smile on your face?
According to Scott Clary, that answer has probably been there longer than you think. Quiet, clear, easy to ignore. So I say, let's stop ignoring and start asking.
What do I want in my fifties? Space from judgment. Time to think. And the freedom to say yes and no when I want.
I think I have been chasing that all my life. I just didn't know it.
What are you chasing? I would love to know.
Have a great week.
Scott
p.s. Don't get fooled today!
DEWORSTIFICATION AND (MUSIC) EDUCATION
As of late, I have been on a bit of a reading bender. I finished a book on military leadership last night and started another one today on investing. Maybe it's the time on planes. Maybe it's being closer to the end of my career than the beginning. Or, maybe I outgrew my impatience and can finally sit down to digest something more than See Spot Run. Whatever the reason, I almost always have a book cracked open nearby.
Last night, I was blown away by this quote from Warren Buffett in the investing book: "Diversification is protection against ignorance. It makes little sense if you know what you are doing."
Say what?
Every other expert I have read has cautioned against being un-diverse, and here the Oracle of Omaha is calling them out as uninformed and ignorant.
Now, I love me some Warren Buffett – and I think we can all agree that he has done pretty well for himself - so it got me thinking.
Is diversification counter-productive? Financially and academically?
For some, high school and middle school have become a game of diversification. Join three clubs, play a sport, pad the GPA, sprinkle in some volunteering, and voilà—you've built a well-diversified teenage portfolio. It seems responsible. It looks impressive. But according to our pal Warren, it might be completely wrong.
Because the people who actually build wealth—real, meaningful, compounding wealth—don't start by diversifying. They start by concentrating. And Mr. Buffett reminds us that it makes little sense if you know what you are doing.
That's not just an investing philosophy, it's a life strategy.
Buffett's entire approach is built on conviction. He doesn't believe in owning a little bit of everything; he believes in owning a few things he understands deeply. Ten to fifteen high-quality bets. Not fifty mediocre ones. In fact, he once suggested you should live your life like you have a punch card with only 20 total investments—ever. Every decision matters. Every "yes" has weight.
Now compare that to how students and parents build their school schedules.
Instead of a punch card, they're handed a buffet. And they take everything. A little athletics, a little student government, a little volunteering, a little this, a little that. It feels productive—but it's really just "diworsification," Buffett's tongue-in-cheek term for spreading yourself so thin that nothing actually performs.
I definitely am stealing the term "diworsification."
Here's the truth: most parents and students aren't diversifying because they're strategic. They're diversifying because they're unsure. And diversification, as Buffett says, is what you do when you don't know what you're doing.
But not music.
Music is the opposite of dabble. You can't fake it. You can't dabble your way into excellence. It demands focus, repetition, and long-term commitment. It forces you to make an educated and high-conviction bet on something—exactly the kind of bet Buffett builds his fortune on.
That's why it's so powerful.
When a student commits to music, they're not just learning an instrument—they're building a concentrated portfolio of skills. Discipline. Pattern recognition. Creativity. Emotional intelligence. The ability to perform under pressure. These are not "extracurriculars." These are assets that compound.
Meanwhile, the over-diversified student often ends up like an over-diversified investor: busy, but underperforming. Plenty of activity, very little mastery. Lots of inputs, minimal returns. It looks safe, but it rarely leads to anything exceptional.
Buffett also makes an important distinction: diversification isn't bad—it's just misplaced early on. He recommends index funds for people who don't have the time or expertise to go deep. In other words, diversification is a great fallback, but it's not how greatness is built.
In the long run, the students who win—financially and otherwise—aren't the ones who did a little bit of everything.
They're the ones who found something worth betting on and went all in.
Music.
Have a great week, friend.
Scott
p.s. Thank you for the nice notes about my brother and for letting me take last week off from writing. Carnegie was AMAZING - and the premiere of Autumn Elegy was magical.