Honing the Craft

Finding joy in the work, and discovering what's possible along the way.

A Different Kind of Surprise

A few days into learning guitar, I reached a lesson featuring a riff from John Mayer's I Don't Trust Myself (With Loving You).

I looked at the music on the screen, considered all the different techniques involved, and wondered how on earth I was supposed to make my fingers do all of that.

I'd picked up guitar primarily to complement my bass playing. I expected most of my playing would be rhythm guitar—punk, hard rock, a little metal.

Lead guitar hadn't really entered the picture.

And after seeing this lesson, I was pretty sure it wasn't going to. LOL

But I worked through it anyway.

As the lesson progressed, the movements became more comfortable, the transitions started making sense, and gradually I was able to put the entire passage together.

Then I played it cleanly, at full tempo.

I was pretty tickled with myself. LOL

Suddenly, lead guitar was something I could imagine learning.

I'd already spent well over a year playing bass, working through uptempo songs and melodic bass lines that demanded plenty from my fretting hand. I'd developed coordination and muscle memory without appreciating how much of that experience might transfer to another instrument.

Apparently, my fingers knew a few things I hadn't given them credit for.

And the bends and vibrato I was learning on guitar gave me some new things to explore on bass, too.

I'd gone into that lesson wondering how I was supposed to play the passage. I came out wondering what else I might be able to play.

The Coach Inside My Head

Most practice sessions don't come with that kind of surprise.

I enjoy those sessions, too. There's something satisfying about getting absorbed in a song and working out how to play it a little better.

I call it honing the craft.

I'm a patient person, but I'm also demanding. I'm essentially my own coach: I want to get the most out of my abilities, and I know that takes time.

I've had plenty of practice sessions where I worked on something and couldn't tell that I'd gotten any better.

Several, actually. LOL

Sometimes I'll change direction. Maybe I'll work on scales, clean up my technique, practice timing, or move to another song. Other times I'll just play something familiar or noodle along with whatever happens to be on the radio.

And you know what? I still enjoy myself.

When I put the bass away, I'm already looking forward to playing again.

When I'm learning a song for recording, knowing the notes is just the beginning. I want the phrasing to feel natural at full tempo, so I can listen to the drums and feel the groove without worrying about where my fingers need to go next.

And I've become pretty particular about that.

So particular, in fact, that I developed Practice Studio to help me learn, rehearse, and analyze my playing.

Apparently, being my own coach wasn't enough. I needed to build him some software, too. LOL

I can recognize an imperfection, decide a performance is good enough to release, and still know what I want to work on next.

Learning to recognize those things has taken some practice, too.

Learning to Listen

Earlier in my recording journey, someone commented on my timing in an online music forum.

I went back and listened to the recording. Then I listened again.

I was trying to hear what they'd heard.

And I couldn't.

That stuck with me. I wanted to understand it. I wanted to be able to listen to my own playing and recognize what needed attention.

So I started paying much closer attention to timing. I worked with a metronome, experimented with placing notes differently against the beat, and developed tools to help me evaluate my performances.

It was a process of retraining both my ears and my fingers.

And I'm still working on it.

When I recorded Michael Jackson's Billie Jean, I'd been rehearsing the song and felt comfortable with the performance. I recorded my first take and sat down to listen to the full mix.

Within a few bars, I could hear that the timing wasn't quite where I wanted it.

I checked my playing against a metronome, made an adjustment to my recording setup, and recorded another take.

This time, I liked what I heard.

I listened to the full mix, then played the isolated bass and drums together so I could concentrate on the groove. I was satisfied with the performance.

And then I thought about that earlier forum comment.

I was pleased with the second take. Looking back, the first one had given me something to be pleased about, too.

Months earlier, I'd listened repeatedly, trying to recognize something someone else had pointed out. This time, I heard it myself. I knew how to investigate it, and I could decide when I was happy with the result.

I'd spent months working toward that. Now I could hear the difference.

No Finish Line

Billie Jean was song number forty in the 50-song challenge I’ve been working through, and my first song rated Hard.

I’ve taken this challenge seriously, and I’ll be delighted when I finally reach number fifty. I’m enjoying getting there, too.

By the time I recorded Billie Jean, I’d already started learning another song. I was curious to see where that one might take me.

There are still difficult songs to tackle and different techniques to explore. Then there's recording, video production, and whatever ideas my son and I come up with next.

I doubt we'll have much trouble keeping ourselves entertained. LOL

I'm looking forward to finding out what else I can play.