Make Uncomfortable Music
Actively seeking out discomfort as a musician is not an attractive endeavor, but I believe it is necessary for artistic growth.
No one wants to feel like they’re back at square one fighting to get out. I understand the draw to fall into the comfort of routine and familiarity. We like feeling at home on our instruments. We know where everything is and how it works to our advantage. Why would we intentionally unbalance our musical homeostasis?
We should love where we are but with a desire to move forward. If your music or musicianship is plateauing, the problem is likely not your influences, your instrument, your work space, your sleep schedule, your neighbor’s dog barking, or the burrito you ate at 1 a.m. The problem may be you.
Complacency is the worst plague a musician can come into contact with. It eases its way into your playing and makes sure you remain as comfortable as possible. It sits in your writing as if it is an old friend reminiscing of former greatness. You get used to it being around and even start to enjoy its company, but don’t be surprised when it becomes an integral part of your musical life. When we stop challenging our brains to think differently, they’re not going to be more creative by osmosis. That’s how we make our creativity die a slow death.
Don’t be lazy.
Sometimes we need to apply the techniques we already know to a new context. We can’t copy/paste every facet, but there can be considerable overlap. What is familiar will be forced into unfamiliarity. Take the safety blanket away and remove the training wheels from that bike you’ve been riding since you were a kid. Don’t let the ambiguity of a new venture hold you back from learning. There’s no losing in music.
One mark of an exceptional musician is versatility. If you’re going to one trick pony your way through music, then don’t bother. The world has enough cover bands. Learning new genres won’t put a dead stop to your musicianship, it will only improve it. When you add new styles to your prior knowledge base, that’s how innovation is cultivated. Give yourself room to be terrible for a season. In due course, you’ll reap something far greater than what you know presently.
Push yourself into discomfort.
One thing I did over the past year or so was swing in an entirely different direction. I began writing ambient and experimental music with a friend of mine instead of playing my native genre of bluegrass. It was a massive adjustment for me not because of what I had to play but what I didn’t have to play. I had to learn to accommodate another person and leave space. Mistakes were made. Many awkward voice memo recordings were made. It was tough knowing that I had the means to play more but consciously holding myself back for the sake of the music. I couldn’t be self-indulgent because there was no room to be.
Music isn’t always about what we want. It’s often a practice in selflessness. You don’t come before the song — you play what the song needs and then stop. Your silence means much more than the notes you could potentially play. Learn to embrace the silences. Don’t obsess over communicating what an amazing musician you think you are in every song. Music is often a conversation. If you’re the only one talking, people will stop listening.
Change your practice routine.
Not the most riveting concept in the world, but necessary. My practice became stale. I was doing the same cross-picking exercises, scales, arpeggios, and key signatures without learning new ones. I noticed my brain could practically turn off while I was practicing instead of being engaged. My hands were on auto-pilot, allowing my mind to drift elsewhere. That’s a dangerous place to be.
I found myself looking back on old notes I had taken while in lessons. Dynamics. Learn tune in two octaves. Hybrid picking. I was sitting on so many techniques and exercises that were literally in my pocket. Don’t assume your practice has peaked. There’s always something new to integrate. It was humbling to see everything I hadn’t worked on or dedicated little time to. If you want to find new things to practice, they’ll always be there.
Listen back to yourself.
If I’m being honest, I loath this exercise. I find it extremely uncomfortable to the point where it causes me to have a physiological response. It’s just awkward. The sonic bliss I thought was occurring quickly disintegrates with each imperfection crossing my eardrums. I’ve learned to be (slightly) less hard on myself over time, but nothing drives me to practice more than listening to myself play. It lifts the inflated facade we can have about ourselves and presents us with who we really are as musicians. I don’t think we should be self-deprecating, but the only way we can know how to improve is to know what to work on.
There is no extraordinary way to become a better musician. It involves focusing on a number of small, ordinary things about your playing. So practice. Get uncomfortable. Play without a net. Take that turn of phrase you love and abandon it. Leave that fallback tune for dead. Lock yourself in a room with unfamiliarity because, after a while, you’ll get to know it.
