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Leadership, Laugher & Loud Opinions on Music Education
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.
DYING WITH ZERO & SPENDING IT WHILE YOU CAN
I've been on a reading junket lately. That usually means I'm toggling between two different types of books: self development and personal finance/investing.
But I have never read a single book that is a hybrid of both genres, until now.
Die With Zero by Bill Perkins, is a step-by-step plan for LIVING a full life, by DYING with nothing.
It's equal parts excel spreadsheet and personal manifesto.
Now, I've read more than my fair share of books on investing, and I can read a balance sheet as well as the next person; however, this was a first for me—a book that makes a compelling case not to save, not prepare for the future, and not worry about what you leave behind - but how you live before you go.
Ok, I'm listening...
The central idea is simple, but wonderfully disruptive: don't spend your entire life stockpiling resources only to run out of time—or health—to actually enjoy them.
Despite the title, Perkins isn't advocating recklessness. He's not suggesting you torch your 401(k) and book a one-way ticket to somewhere tropical, although that sounds pretty good to me right now.
He says there is a causational relationship between saving and spending that impacts a life in ways that can't always be measured with a calculator or a formula.
He suggests balancing the two – saving your money for the future, but also investing some of it the now, meaningful experiences that will leave a lasting impact on you and your world. He calls the lifelong benefit "memory dividend."
That's the part that got me. A memory dividend. I understood the power of dividends in money, but had not thought about it in memories. But, he actually uses money, to justify spending money to help grow your "memory dividends."
Perkins says memories and experiences accrue life-long dividends that benefit you more the longer you have them. A trip at 35 isn't just a trip at 35. It's a fifty years of remembering it. The people you met, the places you traveled and the way it shaped you as a person. These experiences impact the way you think, the ways you live, and the way you parent. As you spend more time benefitting from that trip investment, the value of the dividend grows.
Now here's the sobering part.
Perkins believes the optimal window for many peak life experiences is between ages 25 and 45. Statistically speaking, that's when you have enough resources to do interesting things and enough vitality to truly enjoy them. After that, he argues, the curve starts to bend and bend quickly.
Money and health must be in alignment.
He further states that data suggests the most precipitous decline in life (for most people) occurs between 58 and 68 years old. Given that I am currently 58, that was a sobering wake-up call.
So… ummm. This just got uncomfortable.
But that's the point. BE UNCOMFORTABLE.
The book forces you to confront a reality most of us politely ignore: there are seasons for certain experiences. Some adventures are better tackled when your knees still cooperate. Some risks are more fun when you're not calculating recovery time. Some challenges are meant for a version of you that exists right now—not "someday."
So why am I talking about this?
Next week, I will travel to New York City to watch my son's band perform at Carnegie Hall. More than just a concert, I will be leading the band in a work I commissioned my friend Robert Sheldon to write on behalf of my twin brother Todd. Conducting a world-premier, at Carnegie Hall, is a moment every conductor dreams of.
This is something I have wanted to do for decades, but failed to.
I have always "wanted" to do this, but I suppose I lacked the "will" to get it done. I long ago developed a working title/theme. I had a motif in mind, and thought of it often during long plane flights and drives to workshops. I even knew who I wanted as the composer, and had shared the idea over coffee, but failed to make the commitment.
Something always got in the way – time, money, logistics, life, etc.
When my son's band director announced the trip, it served not only as an opportunity, but a wake-up call.
What was I waiting for?
Why did I let this project linger so long?
How much longer would I have waited had Carnegie Hall not come along?
This concert served as a moment of clarity - an opportunity to create a "memory dividend" for myself, my family and the student performers.
That's a dividend that will grow in importance, not just for me, but for my family, and the performers as well.
Not all moments are so clear. Not every opportunity comes with a historic venue, a world-class composer, and a chance to experience it all with family. AND TO BE CLEARI alone did not do this.
I owe a debt of gratitude to my son's Band Director, Miles Denny. His generosity in allowing me this opportunity is something I will never forget. And without my dear friend Robert Sheldon - this project would have never seen the light of day.
But it took a big ole' bucket of opportunity for me to wake up and bring this project home. Unfortunately, most decisions don't have such obvious go signals.
It made me wonder: what other projects had I missed, signs I had not seen, and memories I had failed to make? If I'm being honest, more than I would like – but perhaps less than you might think. I have a pretty high tolerance for risk and can compartmentalize failure, thus allowing me to endure defeat without the associated humiliation. I can list my failures – there's plenty of them.
But that's me. What about you? Are you harboring a secret dream or hidden passion?
Remember - regardless of where you are in your career, every season, year, and career it is a ticking clock with a finite window of opportunity. And while you may be physically able, the law of time and experience will do its best to dampen your inner dreamer.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
I say you should take the leap.
Commission the piece. Start the ensemble. Write the book. Launch your podcast. Start your side hustle. Run for a state position. Learn the new technology. Apply for the grant. Say yes to something that makes your heart beat a little faster.
Because in the end, your career won't be measured by how carefully you conserved your energy or how cautiously you protected your calendar. It will be measured in moments—standing ovations, shared laughter in rehearsal, and exceptional moments that required you to dare to dream.
We teach students to make sound boldly and beautifully. Let's show them how it's done!
Spend it while you can!
Have a great week!
Scott
SHARK REPELLANT, CHALETS, & FUTURE SUCCEES!
On November 3, 1948, a 36-year-old woman walked into a restaurant in Rouen, France, unaware that her life was about to change dramatically. Her name was Julia McWilliams; she was 6'2" and a former spy for the Office of Strategic Services (the precursor to the CIA and Special Forces). She spent the previous years doing things like helping develop shark repellent for the military and typing up classified documents. At this point, she'd never cooked a real meal in her life; the fanciest thing she'd eaten growing up in Pasadena was broiled mackerel.
Her husband, Paul, had picked the restaurant. He ordered for both of them because Julia couldn't read or speak French. When the first smell hit her, something oniony sizzling in butter, she leaned over and whispered, "What's a shallot?" She called it the most exciting meal of her life. Shortly thereafter, quit the OSS, enrolled in the world-renowned Cordon Bleu Cooking School, and became the culinary and cultural icon Julia Child.
Julia didn't become the "Julia Child" we know today until her late thirties and forties.
The spy became the chef. The intelligence officer became the teacher. Her most recognizable identity was not her first, and her first recipe was never published in a cookbook.
More than most teachers, music educators are so deeply invested in our programs that we often feel defined by our current role—band, choir, orchestra, or general music teacher. The schedule is demanding, and the cadence is almost ritualistic as the rhythm of rehearsals, performances, and assessments creates the illusion of a destination - only to restart the same cycle afterwards.
Julia Child's life reminds us that a career can pivot significantly, sometimes unexpectedly, and sometimes intentionally.
Regardless of where life takes you, your skills, such as managing rehearsals, motivating students, and building ensemble culture, are highly transferable and adaptable to many fields, hopefully helping you see your role in a new light.
You manage complex logistics. You motivate large groups. You communicate vision. You build culture. You teach discipline, collaboration, and resilience. These are not narrow skills. They are leadership skills. They are entrepreneurial skills. They are organizational skills. In a different setting, they might take on a completely new expression.
Look at me - same skill set as a teacher - different job.
Julia Child did not abandon discipline when she left intelligence work—she repurposed it. She applied structure, curiosity, and fearlessness to a new domain, focus, and passion. This isn't starting over; it's evolving.
Your years in the classroom may not be your final chapter, but they are shaping you in ways that will matter later.
None of this means that you must leave music education.
My hope is that you will remain in the classroom for decades and thrive there, but it also means you are not boxed in. If your path shifts—by choice or circumstance—it is not failure. It is adaptation. It is possibility.
Perhaps years from now, someone will know you for something entirely different than what you are doing today. They may not even realize the full story of where you began. That's okay. Like Julia Child, your earlier chapters may quietly power your later ones. The music you teach today may be the foundation for a life that unfolds in ways you haven't yet dreamed.
After all, Julia published her first cookbook at 49. Got her first TV show at 51. Was still launching a new series at 87.
Pretty good for a woman who didn't know what a shallot was at 36 and decided to follow what fascinated her.
Have a great week, my friends.
Scott
THE OLYMPICS, DEATH & OUR MUSICAL JOURNEY
Like many of you, I have been fixated on the Winter Olympics for the past 10 days. The beauty, the graduer, the sheer DANGER of it all. It's must-see TV on an international scale.
I don't understand how I didn't notice this before, but virtually EVERY sport in the Winter Olympics involves the significant possibility of death.
Skiing downhill at 70 m.p.h. = possibility of death
Throwing someone in the air over frozen concrete = possibility of death
Puck traveling at 110 m.p.h. = possibility of death
Luging headfirst down an ice tube on a small sled = definite death
Even in the benign and festidious sport of curling, there was an altercation this week. Sure, the possibility of death is low - but still there, IN CURLING!
Given all of the danger, you would think the most important people in Milan are the medics, but they're not. It's the timekeepers and judges.
In many of these competitions, the difference between winning and losing is often decided by fractions of a second. Since the 1932 Olympics, it's been a single company responsible for ensuring that it is correct, EVERY TIME. The company is Omega, and they are more than just a watchmaker. In fact, Omega's business of keeping results at the Olympics has grown so large and sophisticated that a delegation from the company is already in Los Angeles preparing for the Olympics' return in 2028.
And it's much more than timekeeping...
In Milan, Omega is using extraordinary technology to ensure accuracy. We're talking 40,000 images per second at the finish line. Cameras and clocks so precise that they can detect the difference between gold and silver by what is imperceptible to the human eye. It's dazzling. It's scientific. It's seemingly irrefutable.
What about things like ice-dancing and free-style snowboarding? Things that aren't binary or black-and-white? Things that require human judges to interpret not just the technique, but the art as well. Things are not so clear there, and certainly not as definitive.
(Hang tight for a hairpin turn here on curve #3)
As we speak, many of you are preparing for a contest or an assessment. A pressure-filled time in which, similar to the Olympics, you will be judged on your ensemble's technique and its art. Yes, we:
Sit in auditoriums instead of arenas
Have cut-offs instead of a finish lines
Deal with double bars and not double blades
Wear tuxes instead of skin-tight flying suits
But still, the pressure is real. (The danger, not so much.)
Similar to the Olympics, to the outside world (parents and administrators), contest results look clean and objective. Score sheets. Rankings. Captions. Numbers that appear to settle the matter once and for all. First place. Division I. Superior rating. Case closed. After all, I am no more qualified to question a ski-jump judge's score than my principal is to question a music judge's score.
But anyone who has ever sat at an adjudicator's table — or stood in front of an ensemble waiting for scores — knows the truth.
It's not that simple.
In this, skating and conducting have similar demons: human judges with human flaws and biases.
One judge hears expressive rubato. Another hears an unstable tempo. One calls it daring interpretation. Another calls it risky. One hears a resonant chord; another hears the third sitting a hair too high. The decision appears concrete, but it is layered with human interpretation.
Just like the Olympics.
Even with impartial judges, the performance does not always align with the preparation.
Look at "Quad God," the young man who can land quadruple jumps like most of us land in a chair. From what I understand, he nailed every jump in practice. He nailed them in prelims. He soared through combinations that defy gravity and common sense. Then — on the world stage, under lights bright enough to interrogate your soul — he missed the ones that mattered most.
Weeks, months, and years of preparation distilled into a single element. A detail. A millisecond. A fraction in time.
Sound familiar?
I have had ensembles that rehearsed for months only to have the trumpet crack in measure 47. Or the sound shell pushes the snare to be determined "too loud." Not because they weren't prepared. Not because they didn't care. But because performance lives in the fragile space between preparation and reality.
The missed jump or missed note does not erase the mastery it took to get there.
The imperfect performance does not diminish the discipline, resilience, and growth that happened along the way. The Olympic clock may freeze a moment in time, but it cannot measure the journey.
And neither can a contest score.
From the outside, Olympic timing feels absolute. From the outside, contest scoring feels definitive. But when you lean in close, both are shaped by human beings interpreting tiny details in high-pressure moments.
And that's okay. For the Olympics, but not for your group. There is no time clock at contest. There are no absolute winners. There is no photo finish or judges' review. There are just three judges who know very little about you, but have lots of opinions and advice.
We are not training children to win. We are teaching them how to prepare, how to persist, how to handle disappointment, and how to stand back up after a missed landing.
When the numbers are posted, and the applause fades, what they carry with them is not the score. It's the discipline. The friendships. The courage to step into the light and risk falling.
The journey is the goal.
The months of preparation are the prize.
No high-speed camera can measure that.
Have a great week, my friends.
Scott
THE BILLS, THE BOWL, & YOUR TREE
It's Super Bowl week - and whether you're a football fan or not, we can all agree that it would be an egregious oversight of mine if I did not make some feeble attempt to turn this worldwide juggernaut into a blog post for music educators. I am nothing if not an opportunist.
Black Monday is the term given to the first Monday after the NFL regular season concludes - because it's traditionally the day when coaching changes are made. And, as Bob Dylan says, "these times, they are a' changin." In the past three weeks, a record-setting 30% of the NFL's coaches were let go, including the coach of my beloved Buffalo Bills.
Spoiler alert - I didn't get the job.
Nearly ten new head coaches were hired this cycle, and many of them trace their roots back to just a few influential leaders. It's a reminder that in professional football, your ability to win and succeed can be traced back to who shaped you (and where). The Xs and Os are the same regardless of where you were mentored, but the leadership, culture, and communication style are just as critical to not falling victim to Black Monday.
As teams vet, interview, and hire new and often younger coaches, you will hear one phrase over and over: "coaching tree."
The phraseology has nothing to do with their skills as an arborist, but where they are from, who their mentor was, and what that relationship was like. The term "tree" implies that out of a single trunk (coach) grow many branches (coaches who were mentored). Beyond a coach's win/loss record, the next most important factor in building a coaching legacy is their "tree." As the tree grows, so does their legacy in the annals of football history.
In recent years, the two redwoods among saplings are Sean Payton (Denver Broncos) and Sean McVay (Los Angeles Rams). Both coaches lost their offensive and defensive coordinators to head coaching jobs, meaning 40% of the vacancies were filled from their "tree."
Being an avid football fan (and victim of a wandering mind), watching this unfold made me wonder: Does the same thing exist in music education? Is there a director tree? Does the next generation of great teachers come from a small group of elite programs, legendary mentors, or well-known pedagogical lineages?
It's tempting to say yes, but that would invalidate and minimize many educators, myself included.
While incredibly formative, my musical experiences as a student were unremarkable. I went to a smaller school that didn't compete beyond our town, and received modest scores while playing grade 3-4 literature.
That is not a critique of my teachers or programs - just a statement of fact.
Teachers from powerhouse programs might have more refined rehearsal habits or better instructional language, but the most significant advantage comes from being in a culture of excellence – a system that works. They've seen excellence modeled daily, and that experience undeniably shapes how they teach.
There is something to be said for the pinecone that becomes a tree - one without the shade of a mentor - foraging their way into adulthood (metaphor gone too far).
I am that pinecone. And so are many of you.
I didn't come from a renowned program. I wasn't trained under a household name in the profession. Instead, I learned in spaces where excellence had to be built, not inherited. I knew by adapting, questioning, and figuring things out in real time — not by replicating a system someone else handed me.
That experience taught me something invaluable: some of the strongest teachers grow because they didn't have a template. Without a preset model, you learn to listen more closely to students, respond to the room, and teach with intention rather than tradition. In the NFL, the most interesting coaches often aren't pure products of one tree — they're hybrids, shaped by many influences.
None of this dismisses the power of mentorship. In fact, the best coaching trees in football succeed because their leaders don't create clones — they develop thinkers. Payton and McVay empower assistants to adapt, innovate, and eventually outgrow them. That's not control; that's confidence.
Whether you came from a celebrated lineage or built your career from the ground up, you are already part of a tree. Every student teacher you mentor, every young colleague you encourage, every student who watches how you lead — they are absorbing more than notes and rhythms. They're learning how to be a teacher by watching you.
One day, they'll walk into their own classroom or podium carrying pieces of your influence — maybe without even realizing it. They'll replicate the phrases you used, the way you handled mistakes, and the standards you refused to lower. Long after your last concert program fades, those choices will still be alive.
That's the real legacy. Not the program name on your résumé, but the people who grew, musically and otherwise, because of you. You are creating a tree that will outlive you — one student, one rehearsal, one act of mentorship at a time.
Have a great week, all - stay warm.
Scott
24 NOTES
I have mentioned in the past how I "sit" on articles and let them ruminate until they find their way to the light of day - or front of mind. This article has been in my mental queue for about 8 weeks - but it took last week's unexpected travel plans to bring it full circle, and to your inbox. I hope you enjoy
This will be the February free edition of my e-zine
Last week, a last-minute work trip to Maryland popped up. The closest flight had me landing in Washington, D.C. at 4:00 p.m. Not wanting to fight rush hour, I decided to spend some time in the area before heading north.
I have been lucky enough to visit our nation's capital for work and pleasure, alone and with family, many times. I have checked off all the "must-see" items, and it was unlikely I would find anything new in such a short visit.
This would likely be a "re-visit" for me. What should I do? A quick Google inquiry led me to my answer.
The final Changing of the Guards Ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was at 5:00. I was not to be denied.
If you've never been, it's hard to describe, not just the Ceremony, but the setting - Arlington National Cemetery. Hundreds and hundreds of acres of stark white headstones, all in perfect alignment, standing at attention, performing a silent roll-call from wars gone by.
That is, except for the call of a single bugle - singing TAPS.
"Taps" is not an acronym but a 24-note bugle call originating from the Civil War (1862) to signal "lights out" and the end of day. Since 2012, it has served as the official solemn tune for U.S. military funerals to honor the fallen. It signifies a final farewell, peace, and rest, and is required by law for the final services of all service members.
It's hard to imagine twenty-four notes that carry more weight, meaning, and honor, and virtually any adult American would recognize it in its first three notes.
Its power doesn't come from complexity or technical virtuosity. It comes from context. Those notes mark loss, gratitude, honor, and finality. They prove something music educators sometimes struggle to articulate to our students: that meaning is not proportional to difficulty.
But those sounds are being silenced.
A recent article in the New York Times, titled "The Volunteer Buglers Giving 24-Note Salutes," states that a lack of trained military musicians has led the military to use embedded speakers in bugles, enabling anyone to stand there and pretend during this final goodbye.
Pretend.
But the article also highlights a growing group of volunteer buglers — civilians, veterans, retirees, and teenagers — who travel around the U.S. to play the bugle call Taps at military funerals and veterans' ceremonies. Yes, teenagers from high school music groups, paying tribute to the fallen.
As our country struggles with its identity and associated priorities, music programs are producing what our country can't - teenagers who are selfless, responsible, and caring.
For me, that is the very definition of patriotism. No glory, no recognition, and no fanfare - except for the fanfare that celebrates someone else.
In an era when music programs are often asked to justify their value, people forget that the meaning of music extends far beyond the time and place of the actual class and extends deep into people's lives and our communities. Music teaches our students about meaning, how to show up with intention, and how to honor moments without words.
These twenty-four-notes carry weight because of what they represents. Music is never abstract to the creator. It is tied to memory, place, and emotion. Whether it's a single pitch played alone or a whole ensemble chord, the note becomes something more once it leaves the instrument.
As music educators, we understand that we are not just teaching accuracy; we are teaching responsibility. We are not learning rhythms; we are teaching discipline and attention to detail. And, we're teaching balance and blend, not just in our ensembles, but in our lives.
Twenty-four notes remind us that music's power has never been about quantity. It has always been about purpose. And every time a student lifts an instrument or opens their mouth to sing, they are learning — whether we say it aloud or not — that what they play matters.
Now, more than ever, music matters. Now more than ever YOU matter.
And I'm not pretending.
Have a great week, all - stay warm.
Scott