Try Softer

If you asked random people on the street what "soft" means, they would probably describe things like pillows, stuffed animals, or fluffy kittens—anything that's the opposite of hard, firm, or sharp. If you asked musicians the same question, they might tell you it's the opposite of loud, thinking first of musical dynamics. Of course, both answers are correct. 

English being the funny language that it is, lots of words have multiple meanings when used in different contexts. The opposite of soft (as in "malleable" or "squishy") is hard. And the opposite of hard (as in "difficult") is easy. But we generally don't think of "soft" and "easy" as being synonyms. Maybe we should. 

For instance, if I ask you to sing softer in a lesson, I might be asking you to sing quieter. Or, I could be asking you to sing with less effort. Often, when we think about building vocal technique, our brains and bodies assume we have to do more of something, engage more muscles, or expend more energy. This can sometimes lead to hyperfunction, which can make our singing less efficient. We might get better results by a different version of singing softer, meaning using less effort, releasing unnecessary muscles, and allowing the voice to find more ease and balance. This version of soft singing has nothing to do with forte versus piano. It just means applying a softer effort to avoid overworking. 

This can also apply to the mental and emotional aspects of singing. My wife, Erika, has adopted the phrase "try softer" to remind her co-workers (and herself) to allow themselves some grace, remove the stress from a situation, and work with more intention and focus. We actually thought Erika had made up the phrase, but then we found out there is a book called Try Softer: A Fresh Approach to Move Us out of Anxiety, Stress, and Survival Mode—and into a Life of Connection and Joy. In that book, author Aundi Kolber writes, 

"In a world that preaches a 'try harder' gospel―just keep going, keep hustling, keep pretending we're all fine―we're left exhausted, overwhelmed, anxious, and numb to our lives...It doesn't have to be this way." 

In a Journal of Singing article I wrote, I examined some of the research that highlights how working too hard—like too many hours in a week or too many hours in a day—can negatively impact our health. Besides inducing feelings of fatigue, it can lead to “burnout,” which the World Health Organization (WHO) defines as “feelings of energy depletion or exhaustion; increased mental distance from one’s job, or feelings of negativism or cynicism related to one’s job; and reduced professional efficacy.” 

In addition to these symptoms, fatigue can also cause us to be inattentive and careless. We know that repeated exercise of a muscle can lead to physical fatigue, but one research study found that repeated use of “executive resources” (or cognitive resources that allow people to control their behaviors, desires, and emotions) resulted in a decline in "self-regulatory capacity." This resulted in diminished ability to resist temptation and control impulses, and

increased desire to avoid exerting further effort. In other words, fatigue makes us want to stop trying, so we start to cut corners and look for the easy way out. 

The end of the semester is a time when fatigue and burnout may start to take their toll. We may feel diminished capacity and want to just stop trying. That's certainly understandable. However, maybe we don't need to stop trying altogether. Maybe we can just try softer. 

Learning to sing at a professional level is difficult. There are many skills to develop, which require an investment of your time, effort, and resources. Life is also difficult. It requires resiliency, learning from mistakes, and being willing to just keep trying. But no one benefits from exhaustion or burnout. Finding ways to try softer may allow us opportunities to be gentle with ourselves while still being tenacious in the pursuit of our goals. 

The end of the semester is also a good time for self-reflection. I'd encourage you all to think about the ways you have grown over the course of the school year. My vantage point has allowed me to witness the many significant strides you all have made this year, which is deeply gratifying to me. It also helps me refine my ideas about the next steps we can continue to take. 

I certainly engage in self-reflection at this time of year, as well. I am always thinking about how I can be (or could have been) a better teacher to all of you, but especially so when looking back on a school year (or a college career—NATE!) that has wrapped up. One balance I am always trying to strike is knowing when and how much I can challenge each of you while still being a soft place to land when you just need encouragement or a cheerleader as you work toward your dreams. 

In Waitress, Jenna sings, "A dream needs believing to taste like the real thing...But dreams are elusive...Dreams come and they go...But hold them and keep them, and know that you need them. When your breaking point's all that you have, a dream is a soft place to land." 

It's one of the great honors of my life to be your teacher and to, hopefully, help make your dreams a bit less elusive. As you continue to "hold them and keep them," give yourself permission to try a bit softer sometimes. 

Much love,

-brian

How Does Feedback Make You Feel?

A key component of developing singing skills is receiving and implementing useful feedback. As I have blogged about previously, there are two primary forms of feedback: augmented and inherent. Augmented feedback comes from an external source, like the instructions your voice teacher gives you. Inherent feedback is the feedback you provide yourself based on the things you notice when you're singing—what you see, hear, and feel. 

In our voice lessons, you receive both kinds of feedback. When I ask questions like, "How was that?" or "What did you notice?" I am asking you to self-assess and provide yourself with some inherent feedback. When I offer my own suggestions, adjustments, or tactics to try, that is augmented feedback. 

When you are by yourself in the practice room, the only feedback you have to rely on is inherent. Obviously, while you have 24/7 access to your own voice, you only have access to a teacher's augmented feedback for the limited amount of class or lesson time you have each week. Therefore, a primary goal of voice training is to help you develop the ability to give yourself quality inherent feedback. 

There is a lot written about feedback in the motor learning literature (which we discuss at length in vocal pedagogy class). Research studies have examined different aspects of feedback and how they impact our ability to learn, including how much feedback to give, when to give it, and whether feedback should focus on negative or positive results. 

I recently read about a different aspect of feedback in a Journal of Singing article by Professor Lynn Helding. Citing a 2015 article by Telio, Ajjawi, and Regehr, she notes an increasing amount of evidence that points to how our satisfaction with any feedback we receive is often linked to the emotional impact that feedback has on us. As Helding states, "The receiver may care more about the way the feedback makes them feel rather than the quality of the feedback's content." Therefore, if an effective suggestion makes us feel bad, we may rate it as less valid feedback than a less-effective suggestion that makes us feel good. 

Have you ever experienced that? Maybe someone made a valid suggestion but did it in a way that shamed you, embarrassed you, or made you feel "less than." Or maybe someone gave you a suggestion you didn't ask for, sharing an opinion that wasn't welcome. As a result, we usually reject these forms of augmented feedback and look for other solutions instead. I've certainly discarded potentially good advice in my life because I didn't like how (or from whom) it was given. 

As your teacher, I try to be mindful about how I'm delivering my augmented feedback, anticipating how my comments might land with each of you. Admittedly, since I'm a perpetual work in progress, I'm better about that in some instances than I am in others. But I'm always aware that my choice of words or my tone of voice can significantly impact whether or not a suggestion is well received. I would hate for any of you to reject potentially helpful instruction because I was clumsy or insensitive in the way I stated it. 

Now think about the inherent feedback you give yourself. How mindful are you about how you give it? Do you correct yourself gently, offering adjustments with kindness? Do you encourage yourself to keep trying with confidence that you can improve? Or are you "your own worst critic," giving yourself feedback laced with judgment and cruelty? Do you blame yourself for not already being better and discourage yourself from further exploring and enjoying your own voice? 

If the feedback you give yourself was coming from someone else, would you accept it or reject it because of how it made you feel? 

How might you adjust your inherent feedback as you prepare for your final performances of the semester?

Now go practice. 

Sing the Process, Part III

OK, one more installment on this theme... 

As I mentioned in Sing the Process, Part I, performances are snapshots in time, reflecting all we have to give in a specific moment, which eventually will grow, evolve, and change. Because of this, our performances will always be different, making a single "perfect" performance unachievable. So, we should focus more on the process of providing audiences unique experiences rather than perfect performances that will be locked away in a museum for all time. 

The one exception, as I described in Sing the Process, Part II, is when a performance is recorded. In that case, audiences across generations can view the same piece exactly as it was. With different viewings, however, audiences may still have different takeaways from the same piece, as I experienced when I watched the same version of Sunday in the Park with George years apart. 

Here's one more thing to consider. When a theatrical production is filmed, you could argue that it is no longer theatre. Since it can only be viewed on a screen, it's as if it becomes film instead of theatre. And the differences between the genres are significant. 

When I'm watching theatre, I get to decide where to look and where to place my focus. Where my attention is drawn is impacted by where I am sitting in the theatre. When I'm closer to the stage, I'm more likely to focus on the action that is happening directly in front of me. When I'm sitting farther back, I'm more likely to take in the full stage. 

But when a performance is filmed, the director and editor choose which camera shot to use at each particular moment. During ensemble numbers, they are more likely to use a wide frame where more of the stage is in the screen. During solo numbers or duets, they are more likely to zoom in on just the actors who are singing. So, instead of getting to choose where to place my attention, the film director and editor are deciding where they think I should be placing my attention. That's why you could argue that a filmed theatrical production is more of a film than it is a theatrical work. 

The actors also give different performances in film than in theatre. Speech, inflection, and gesture are all much bigger in theatre so that the people sitting in the back of the house can understand each actor's expressive choices. On film, the acting is more conversational since there is no need to project for a larger space. Zoomed-in camera angles mean that gestures and facial expressions can be much smaller, more like they are in real life. In theatre productions, some of those subtleties would never be detected by audiences—even by those sitting in the front row. 

I did some reading about the video of Sunday in the Park with George that I watched and it turns out it was filmed over five days. That means that pieces of multiple performances were edited together to create the version that I watched. So, in reality, no one in the audience saw the start-to-finish show that ultimately became the recorded product because it was spliced together from multiple performances. 

Essentially, then, recorded theatre isn't really film (because the actors are making "theatrical" choices) and it isn't really theatre (because there is a film editor deciding where you can place your focus). It suddenly becomes a strange hybrid of genres—not really enough of one or the other. Something like the Wicked movie is clearly film, which allows the creators to do lots of different things with the material than audiences would experience when attending a staged version of Wicked. But the Sunday in the Park with George that I watched is sort of caught in between—it's both and neither. 

So, what does all this have to do with "Sing the Process"? In film, you get multiple takes that a director will choose from and splice together to tell the story. In theatre, you get one shot to create a unique experience—once again, a snapshot in time—that everyone in the room will only experience in that way one time. Therefore, we don't need to be perfect. We need to be committed and engaging. We get to tell a complete, unique story each night. All we can do is sing the process. 

Lastly, I heard an NPR story earlier this year that included interviews with people who had attended Taylor Swift concerts. These fans had recorded videos on their phones during the concert so they could relive certain moments after the fact. Oddly enough, though, when they went back to watch those videos, they had no specific recollections of those moments. They knew that they had a great time at the concert, and they remember what they felt, but they didn't remember any specific details from the times when they were recording. 

Now, you could respond to this and say, "I guess the details of my performance don't really matter all that much, then, since no one will remember them." I would argue the opposite: It is the details of your performance that create the product that instills the feelings that are remembered. Audiences may not remember (or may misremember) the specifics of your performance, but they will remember the way your detailed work made them feel. 

How might it change your approach to performances if your overriding goal was to tell a story that inspires great feeling, rather than trying to nail every high note or perfectly execute every difficult passage? 

Do you need to make any adjustments to your practice routine so you can make the most of this last half of the semester (and last quarter of the school year)? 

Now go practice. 

Sing the Process, Part II

In Part I of the "Sing the Process" blog, I discussed differences between the performing arts and other forms of visual art. Specifically, I talked about how statues and paintings don't change much over time, meaning everyone sees the exact same work of art over the years. This is in contrast to the performing arts, where no two performances of the same piece are ever exactly the same, even if we're trying our best to make them that way. 

Of course, people can be moved by paintings and sculptures in different ways depending on who they are, what their perspectives are, and what mood or frame of mind they're in when they see the art. In this way, the same person can have a myriad of experiences taking in a piece of art if they see it on multiple occasions since they will have evolving perspectives and will likely be in different moods and frames of mind each time they see it. 

The same can be said of performances. As I mentioned to some of you last semester, I have seen four different productions of Spring Awakening and had different experiences and different takeaways each time, partly because they all had different actors and creative teams. They all had the same songs and the same dialogue, but each production was unique and engaging in its own way. 

I mentioned in the last blog that one exception to the "every performance is different" idea is when a performance is recorded. Unlike live performance, this is a situation where the same performance can be viewed multiple times without it ever changing. In this case, it falls more into the same category as other forms of visual art. Everyone who sees or listens to that recording will be seeing exactly the same performance. Even so, the same person can have different experiences with multiple viewings. 

This semester, I brought up in a lesson how I think Sunday in the Park with George is just OK. I know lots of people who think it's one of Sondheim's best works (if not the best), but I've never been a big fan of it. I'll take Sweeney Todd or A Little Night Music any day of the week over Sunday (see what I did there?). I formed this opinion primarily from watching the 1986 PBS Great Performances broadcast of the original Broadway production, starring Mandy Patinkin and Bernadette Peters. When I first saw it (I don't even remember how many years ago that was), I remember thinking that it was clever but that the musical language was strange and hard to get into. I didn't find George a very sympathetic character and I personally find some of Patinkin's odd vocal choices difficult to see past. (Clearly this is a minority opinion, given his success.) 

I recently went back and watched that same recorded performance again. It's still not my favorite Sondheim piece, but this time I found it much more compelling. The musical language that seemed so strange to me before felt ideally suited to the story, to George's compulsive mindset, and to his obsessive devotion to his work. While I still don't adore Patinkin's vocal choices, I was better able to see the communicative intent behind them. My reaction to the production was significantly different this time around, not because the piece had changed but because I have changed—I have different perspectives, opinions, and expectations for the piece than I used to. 

So, how does this relate to "sing the process"? I said in the last blog, knowing that no two of our performances of a piece will ever be the same (and, therefore, can never be "perfect" more than once), we can instead focus on singing—and reveling in—the process rather than obsessing over creating a perfect product. 

This even holds true for "museum pieces" like recorded performances. Even if we are able to record what we feel is a perfect performance, we may change our minds over time as to what we feel makes that piece most effective. I remember hearing a radio interview with a classical pianist who was about to re-record the same work that he had recorded decades earlier, even though the first recording was still well-loved by audiences. He said in the interview that listening to the old recording just exposed to him how naive he was as a younger performer, so he felt compelled to record a more mature interpretation. 

Just as we might change our perspectives about our own recorded performances, audiences will also receive our recordings differently over the years—as evidenced by my changing views on Sunday in the Park with George. 

All the more reason to consider process paramount to product—so we can bring the best of who we are and what we know to each performance, with no expectation that we will ever create a definitive version. 

How has your practicing been this week? What adjustments can you make to be the most productive in the last couple of weeks before spring break? 

Now go practice. 

Sing the Process

Barbara Honn was my teacher's teacher. She was on the faculty at the Cincinnati Conservatory, where she taught Bill Lavonis when he was a doctoral student. Bill was my voice teacher as I worked toward my master's degree at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Honn was widely revered as one of the great teachers of her generation right up until her death in 2023 at age 79. 

The latest Journal of Singing published an article of remembrance, including statements about Honn from her students and colleagues. One of the comments that caught my attention was by Alison Acord, one of Honn's former students who is now a professor of voice at Miami University in Ohio: 

"Another favored expression of Barbara's was 'sing the process, not the product.' She understood that most singers try to create an 'impressive' sound that is not possible because the sound in the room is so different from the sound inside the singer, even for experienced professionals. The phrase has now taken on another meaning. It's a lot like hearing 'enjoy the journey of life rather than the destination.'" 

    Alison Acord in "Remembering Barbara Honn: Reflections from Her Students and                 Colleagues," ed. Matthew Hoch, Journal of Singing 81, No. 3 (Jan/Feb 2025): 296.

I've blogged before about process vs. product, so I appreciate Prof. Acord's perspective. 

The performing arts are unique among the creative arts. For those who write novels, paint pictures, or create sculptures, their finished works can live on and be observed in exactly the same way as when they were created. A statue can be placed on a shelf or in a museum where observers today can see essentially the same piece that other people saw generations earlier. We can change the way it is displayed, but the piece itself remains pretty much the same. 

The performing arts don't work that way. A script, a score, or choreography, once written, all need interpreters to bring them to audiences. Since every interpreter has different skills and capabilities, all performances of that work will be different. So, even though something like Beethoven's 5th Symphony has been performed thousands of times over the centuries, no two performances have ever been (or will ever be) exactly alike. 

As performers, that means we should think differently about our "product" than sculptors or painters do. Our products don't go into museums. They occur in time, happening once before they're gone forever. They are, as I sometimes say, snapshots in time, reflecting all we have to give in a specific moment, which (we hope) will grow, evolve, and change over time. Our later performances of certain works will certainly differ from earlier performances of those same works as we gain skill and experience and a deeper sense of how our skills and experiences inform our artistry. 

Besides that, we are all imperfect human beings (AI hasn't replaced us...yet). Therefore, even when we lock in our choices when preparing for a performance, each performance will always be a bit different. Try as we might, we can never give exactly the same performance two nights in a row. So, if we're being honest, even our product is a process. It never goes on a shelf, unaltered for the rest of time. It is always something just a bit different and new. 

The one exception, I suppose, would be when a performance is recorded. That's the only case I can think of where a performance can be viewed multiple times without ever changing. More on that in the next blog. 

What does all this mean for us? First, we should acknowledge that our performances are experiences, not objects. Therefore, as artists, we are in the business of providing audiences something to feel in a moment rather than something they can hang on the wall and look at for years to come. This understanding can hopefully relieve some of the pressure we might feel to create perfect performances. Even if we get it completely "right" once, we'll never be able to recreate it in exactly the same way. Maybe, instead, we can focus on the process of creating something that will still feel new each time, even if it is really familiar.

For now, consider how your performing might change if you sing the process. In other words, how would your singing be different if, instead of trying to make a perfect product, you focused on sharing a meaningful, unique experience with your audience? 

How might that change your performing? How might that impact your practicing? 

How has your practicing been this week? 

Now go practice. 

Everything old is new again

One of the trends that's been around for a few years now is for younger people to wear band shirts from their parents' eras. I'll admit to being a little shocked when my students started wearing the same Metallica, Def Leppard, and Poison shirts that I owned in high school. I have an 11-year-old private student who came to her last lesson with a Bon Jovi shirt on. I said, somewhat excitedly, "Oh, you're a fan of Bon Jovi?" And she said, "A fan of what?" Her mother chimed in, saying, "She doesn't know who that is." Too bad. Even if this trend is only a retro fashion statement, it still shows that everything that goes around comes around again. And that's not at all a bad thing. 

I find that, sometimes, we can be so focused on what's new and exciting that we ignore what is more traditional, tried, and true. Like the '80s band shirts, rediscovering something can help us re-appreciate its value. Think about Broadway revivals. Sunset Boulevard is suddenly one of the hot tickets in New York, even though it first opened on Broadway more than 30 years ago. 

These trends happen in voice pedagogy, as well. Last semester, I blogged about the benefit of 10-minute practice sessions. Current research highlights the benefits of "distributed practice" or "spaced learning" over "massed practice" or "massed learning." The research indicates that we tend to get more out of our practice if we do it in multiple short sessions spread throughout the day rather than in one session of an hour or longer. It turns out, even though these recommendations are based on research studies from the 21st century, this isn't a new idea, either. 

I recently read the new edition of The Vocal Athlete by Wendy D. LeBorgne and Marci Rosenberg. They cite a vocal treatise by the famous Spanish voice teacher Manuel García II (1805-1906) that was written in 1841. Those of you who have taken my vocal pedagogy class may remember García as the inventor of the first laryngoscope—he used two dental mirrors to reflect sunlight in a way that allowed him to see his own vocal folds in motion. According to LeBorgne and Rosenberg: 

"García also advocated for a distributed practice schedule beginning with 5 minutes and slowly progressing to a consecutive 30 minutes over time as stamina increased. He encouraged his students to practice for no more than 30 minutes in one session up to four times daily." (p.179) 

It's worth noting that, even when García's students had developed significant vocal stamina, he still advocated only practicing for 30 minutes at a time. And he suggested engaging in multiple practice sessions that were spread throughout the day. So, maybe this research isn't as cutting-edge as some of us thought. It just confirms practices that have been around for a long time. 

Of course, none of us needs to wait around for a research study to tell us what to do. There are some things that we know work because our experience tells us so. Naturally, when we have better information, we can change our behavior accordingly. But, in the meantime, like putting on our favorite old shirt, we should keep following the practices that lead to the best results. This holds true whether they come from Manuel García II, from 21st-century research studies, or even from Bon Jovi. ("Take my hand and we'll make it. I swear.")

How has your practice been this week? Have you been able to find a routine and solidify your practice habits? 

Now go practice. 

 

Resolutions

Have you set your New Year's resolutions yet? Do you have any resolutions related to vocal practice this year? 

Actually, maybe it's OK if you haven't made any resolutions. According to a Columbia University study featured in an article from CBS News, half of Americans make New Year's resolutions, but only 25% of us stick with them past 30 days. So, really, they should probably be called "January Resolutions," since that's all the longer they tend to last. 

According to the article, there are a couple of reasons so many of us fail in our resolutions. When we dig into the details, these reasons can be turned into guidelines for how we can actually stay committed to our resolutions—perhaps especially so if they relate to vocal practice. 

First, we need to turn our resolutions into habits. According to author Justin Hale, "Research shows that 40% of what we do day in and day out are habits. Habits are things that you do without even thinking. You do those things like a routine, habitually, almost automatic." Our lives during the school year are often tightly dictated by routine: get up at a designated time, go to class at a designated time, do your homework in that short window between class and rehearsal or work, etc. If we want to make our practice resolutions successful, we have to make them habits by scheduling regular practice sessions and then sticking to those times the same way we do for all of the other important events on our schedules. We have to make those sessions part of our daily routines. 

A second reason people fail in keeping their resolutions is they are not specific enough. The article uses the example of "I want to run more in the new year" compared to "I'm going to run 30 minutes each day." As Hale says, "It's really specific and really clear—really measurable." 

I've talked about this before with many of you (and I blogged about it in 2019). If your resolution is "I want to sing higher," that's less specific than "I want to extend my range by two half steps beyond my current highest note." When a resolution is less measurable, it is harder to know if you are making progress, which demotivates you to keep practicing. As it turns out, the more specific your goals, the more likely you will be to keep working toward them. 

The last thing Hale says is something I don't entirely agree with: "Building new habits in the new year is less about grit and willpower, and it's more about having the right plan to make that new behavior habitual." Yes, the whole point of this blog is that we need to make resolutions habitual and we need to have specific plans for what we are working toward. But I also believe that grit and willpower are important. 

According to Vocabulary.com, the word "resolution" and the word "resolve" come from the same Latin word: resolvere. And, according to Dictionary.com, when resolve is used as a noun, its definitions include “firmness of purpose or intent; determination.” 

So, the first thing you might consider in setting a new resolution and working to make it a habit is to establish your resolve. Whether you call it grit, willpower, resolve, or something else, you can choose in each practice session to take on an attitude of determination. Combined with routine and specificity, resolve may also help you stick with your resolutions—long past 30 days. 

What are your goals/resolutions for this semester? 

Now go practice.