My brother Toby and I have been involved in an ongoing discussion for well over a decade about the advantages and disadvantages of various approaches to and routines for weight training and other forms of exercising. One of the observations to come out of these discussions is highly pertinent (indeed, perhaps central) to bala practice. The bottom line for any exercise regimen is adherence. Boy, this seems almost important enough to repeat: The bottom line for any exercise regimen is adherence. Regardless of how "smart" the practicing is, if you don’t do the damn stuff, you just won’t get no fitter. Well, when the program is designed to emphasize the heavy-ass-ness of the weights, so-to-speak, and you start to dread your workouts, you’ll be far less likely to adhere to the regimen you’ve laid out. But when the program is put together in such a way that you’re not minding (or not noticing) that those weights are as heavy-ass as they are, adherence becomes something of a non-issue.
Now, it is of course important not to let the de-emphasizing of heavy-ass-ness become an excuse for laziness. The work does need to get done. It just need not feel so "work-like." (Remember the question “Does anyone you know play video games because they’ve been told that ‘practice makes perfect?'" Obviously, the answer is supposed to be no. But surely you could name scores [no pun intended] of people you know, who have at one time or other been "addicted" to video-game playing... Well, if I want to adhere to my regimen, I should be addicted to practicing—not cringing at the thought of it.)
For Toby and I, two important features of an exercise program in which work feels less "work-like" include: (a) small, manageable (as well as larger, longer-term) goals and (b) a means to measure incremental progress. (Toby blogs his thoughts on [and charted progress with] fitness, nutrition, and self-quantification here.) Another—and a biggie in the context of musicking—is having others to play/practice with. (I haven't practiced so much in weeks as I did these last few days with Trevor visiting from Montréal. Plus, I enjoyed the practicing immensely and felt that it was quite productive.)
Tom Chatfield touches on some of these ideas in his July, 2010 TED talk. Discussing video game design, he presents "7 lessons from games that can be used outside of games":
1. experience bars measuring progress
2. multiple long and short-term aims
3. rewards for effort
4. rapid, frequent, clear feedback
5. an element of uncertainty
6. windows of enhanced attention
7. other people
I'd like to learn more about the studies, observations, or findings that led Chatfield to these lessons. Has anyone put them to a test? Most of the seven lessons resonate with what we know to be behaviourally true, or with what we probably just sense intuitively, but how do we "know?"
Can anyone help me find scientific support (in the form of published, peer-reviewed studies, for example) for the validity of Chatfield's (or Toby and my) claims that manageable goals and measurement (as well as any of Chatfield's other "lessons") are indeed important features of an effective learning/development program?
"Dear Dr. Chatfield: We can offer the following behavioural explanations for lessons 2, 3, 4 and 7 (or whatever), but how do you account for lessons 5 and 6? (again, or whatever...)."
Showing posts with label play. Show all posts
Showing posts with label play. Show all posts
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A Self-Taught "Big Moussa?"
Take a look at this clip, and especially, at the information that the poster (xylophonist, Mamadou Diabate) has prepared.
Diabate describes that for the Sambla, practicing means “playing, making music and having fun together.” He explains that: “a goal of this exercise is that Small Moussa Diabate (here 5 years old) learns different ostinati so firmly that he, in spite of the rhythmically free-flying solo and the capricious beat-changes of Big Moussa Diabate [...], can't be thrown out of the beat any more.”
Well, a fundamental component to a more traditional apprenticeship is the presence of someone who would play the role of a “Big Moussa”—i.e. someone who already knows the accompaniment patterns quite well and who has a ready stock of embellishment possibilities in the hands, mind, and body. Without a Big Moussa accentuating and highlighting the various feels of given ostinati, and especially without the social interaction that makes the exercises “fun,” (see all the other children just hanging out, dancing, and clowning around?), practising becomes much more like work, and much less like play—or at the very least, like communication. Now granted, Little Moussa does have his fair share of work to do. He does have the accompaniment patterns to learn before he can even play the game with Big Moussa. And whenever one is learning new “vocabulary,” there’s a certain amount of struggle to undergo before appropriate application of that vocabulary becomes second nature.* But even still, when there is a Big Moussa involved, the rewards of the struggle are immediate. Patterns learned are applied directly to musical, communicative situations and learning becomes much more intrinsically rewarding. (My guess is that, unless the game were fun for both of the Moussas, they just wouldn't bother doing it. Does anyone you know play video games because they've been told that "practice makes perfect?")
Unfortunately, apart from my month in New York, I’ve never really had a “Big Moussa” to accompany, with whom to simply “play music,” nor from whom to learn about how to generate variation in the patterns acquired. The fact is, save for my month with Famoro, I’ve simply never been in the same city as a teacher for more than a few days at a time, and so, have had to video-mediate nearly all of my bala lessons. Even in New York (much to my dismay), I rarely played together with Famoro. (I alluded to this in an earlier post.) Instead of playing with me (letting me accompany him), Famoro would spend most of our lesson time just showing me some new accompaniment pattern or variation. Then he would leave me alone to figure out (usually via transcription of the video I had taken) the patterns shown and to practice them by myself.
Well . . . a new semester has begun at school and I find myself taking on the role of bala teacher. (Several people have expressed interest and I’ve finally decided to accept, and indeed, am excited to have a few students.) Naturally, I want the students to enjoy their studies. I’d rather that they had the opportunity to learn like Little Moussa, which is to say, communicatively, and high surrender. But I’ve had very little opportunity to learn with a Big Moussa myself, and so, it is difficult for me to “draw different feels out of the time” in just that way that would expand the students’ understanding of how they can learn the instrument without having to simply memorize a lot of lengthy phrases and then cut and paste them together—which, again unfortunately is how I’ve had to learn to play.
Now the purpose of this post is not to complain, but rather to try to articulate the dilemma (and perhaps even consider a solution.) I feel that if I had gone through (or could go through at some point during the course of my PhD program) a traditional-type apprenticeship, learning with a Big Moussa, then assuming the role of Big Moussa myself when I have students of my own would not only be easier for me, but would, I bet, also make learning more enjoyable for them.
*One hallmark of a good teacher is, of course, the ability to make the acquisition of new material as quick and as painless as possible, given the particular characteristics of the individual learner. With a good teacher, and perhaps a certain amount of focus, Little Moussa could no doubt learn the parts very quickly, but would still need at least some amount of time to memorize and allow patterns to sink in.
Diabate describes that for the Sambla, practicing means “playing, making music and having fun together.” He explains that: “a goal of this exercise is that Small Moussa Diabate (here 5 years old) learns different ostinati so firmly that he, in spite of the rhythmically free-flying solo and the capricious beat-changes of Big Moussa Diabate [...], can't be thrown out of the beat any more.”
Well, a fundamental component to a more traditional apprenticeship is the presence of someone who would play the role of a “Big Moussa”—i.e. someone who already knows the accompaniment patterns quite well and who has a ready stock of embellishment possibilities in the hands, mind, and body. Without a Big Moussa accentuating and highlighting the various feels of given ostinati, and especially without the social interaction that makes the exercises “fun,” (see all the other children just hanging out, dancing, and clowning around?), practising becomes much more like work, and much less like play—or at the very least, like communication. Now granted, Little Moussa does have his fair share of work to do. He does have the accompaniment patterns to learn before he can even play the game with Big Moussa. And whenever one is learning new “vocabulary,” there’s a certain amount of struggle to undergo before appropriate application of that vocabulary becomes second nature.* But even still, when there is a Big Moussa involved, the rewards of the struggle are immediate. Patterns learned are applied directly to musical, communicative situations and learning becomes much more intrinsically rewarding. (My guess is that, unless the game were fun for both of the Moussas, they just wouldn't bother doing it. Does anyone you know play video games because they've been told that "practice makes perfect?")
Unfortunately, apart from my month in New York, I’ve never really had a “Big Moussa” to accompany, with whom to simply “play music,” nor from whom to learn about how to generate variation in the patterns acquired. The fact is, save for my month with Famoro, I’ve simply never been in the same city as a teacher for more than a few days at a time, and so, have had to video-mediate nearly all of my bala lessons. Even in New York (much to my dismay), I rarely played together with Famoro. (I alluded to this in an earlier post.) Instead of playing with me (letting me accompany him), Famoro would spend most of our lesson time just showing me some new accompaniment pattern or variation. Then he would leave me alone to figure out (usually via transcription of the video I had taken) the patterns shown and to practice them by myself.
Well . . . a new semester has begun at school and I find myself taking on the role of bala teacher. (Several people have expressed interest and I’ve finally decided to accept, and indeed, am excited to have a few students.) Naturally, I want the students to enjoy their studies. I’d rather that they had the opportunity to learn like Little Moussa, which is to say, communicatively, and high surrender. But I’ve had very little opportunity to learn with a Big Moussa myself, and so, it is difficult for me to “draw different feels out of the time” in just that way that would expand the students’ understanding of how they can learn the instrument without having to simply memorize a lot of lengthy phrases and then cut and paste them together—which, again unfortunately is how I’ve had to learn to play.
Now the purpose of this post is not to complain, but rather to try to articulate the dilemma (and perhaps even consider a solution.) I feel that if I had gone through (or could go through at some point during the course of my PhD program) a traditional-type apprenticeship, learning with a Big Moussa, then assuming the role of Big Moussa myself when I have students of my own would not only be easier for me, but would, I bet, also make learning more enjoyable for them.
*One hallmark of a good teacher is, of course, the ability to make the acquisition of new material as quick and as painless as possible, given the particular characteristics of the individual learner. With a good teacher, and perhaps a certain amount of focus, Little Moussa could no doubt learn the parts very quickly, but would still need at least some amount of time to memorize and allow patterns to sink in.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Hanging Out at the Magic Room
Consider the following list of activities:
The performing of a Haydn piano Sonata
The execution of a cup-stacking sequence
The performing of a Maori haka
A Cirque de Soleil-style five ball juggling performance
The execution of a country line-dance
The public recitation of a memorized speech
The performing of an Indonesian gamelan piece
A freestyle skateboard jam on a half-pipe
A one-on-one basketball game
An improvisatory jazz performance
A b-boy jam to unfamiliar music
A bala performance at a wedding or a child-naming ceremony
A conversation in a second or acquired language
A capoeira jogo
How do the people who perform these activities learn to do them? And (assuming they all have criteria for distinguishing the quality of one performance over another), how do they each “improve” their performances? What things do they have to practise in order to improve?
When Jay Rahn (a York faculty member) and I were discussing some of the differences between Mande music and some other of the world’s musics, we made frequent use of the term “scored.” For the purposes of that conversation, if something was “scored” (regardless of whether it was written down or otherwise visually represented) it was, by and large, conceived of and performed the same way every time from beginning to end with little or no improvisation. Given this definition, it seems to me that the first seven activities in the list above are scored activities, whereas the latter seven, are non-scored. And my sense is that the way one learns to perform in the context of a scored activity is rather different from the way one learns to perform in the context of a non-scored activity—or at least, learning non-scored performance seems to involve an extra step.
With half-pipe skate boarding, capoeira jogos, or bala performance, you never really know what will come next at any given moment. Performance involves the creation of a context (the back and forth traversing of the tube, the jenga, an ostinato groove or chord structure) and then, at any time, the performer can decide to generate or react to changes in that context (usually within particular style parameters). The learning process thus consists of the acquisition of “riffs” or “tricks” that open up possibilities for the performer, without necessarily binding them to a strict recreation of a memorized sequence (as might be the case in a country line dance, for example.) In practising non-scored activities, individuals must develop not only the ability to execute the discrete pattern “chunks” but also to reorder those chunks in reaction to various (often new and sometimes unexpected) stimuli in the environment.
Now, maybe the differences are of degree, rather than kind. As Casey Sokol (also a faculty member at York) was describing yesterday, there is after all a certain amount of improvisation (moment to moment decision-making undertaken by the performer) in all of the above activities. What’s more, the extent to which high-level bala players are actually undertaking random, never before sequenced orderings of the chunks that they piece together (instead of simply returning to sequences that they’d previously mapped out at some point) is not totally clear. Indeed, although above I described that half-pipe skaters, capoeiristas, and balafolaw “never really know what will come next at any given moment” this is true only up to a point. (They don’t likely have to be prepared to jump out of the way of falling safes or defend themselves against wolf attacks.) As well, to be sure, bala playing, as with other improvised music performance involves (or may involve) rather a lot more than simply reordering memorized chunks.*
Nonetheless, my impression is that when the skateboarders I knew in high-school used to hang out at the Magic Room learning and sharing and performing tricks for one another, or when my drum kit buddies would express their excitement at having learned a new rudiment and being in the process of teaching themselves how to articulate it across the toms and snare drum, the practising that they were doing is somehow different from the kind one would have to undertake in order to learn to perform (and then perfect performance of) a Hayden sonata or a cup-stacking sequence. Am I barking up the wrong tree?
*Remind me to write about this some time, citing some of what both Casey and Rob have discussed with me . . .
The performing of a Haydn piano Sonata
The execution of a cup-stacking sequence
The performing of a Maori haka
A Cirque de Soleil-style five ball juggling performance
The execution of a country line-dance
The public recitation of a memorized speech
The performing of an Indonesian gamelan piece
A freestyle skateboard jam on a half-pipe
A one-on-one basketball game
An improvisatory jazz performance
A b-boy jam to unfamiliar music
A bala performance at a wedding or a child-naming ceremony
A conversation in a second or acquired language
A capoeira jogo
How do the people who perform these activities learn to do them? And (assuming they all have criteria for distinguishing the quality of one performance over another), how do they each “improve” their performances? What things do they have to practise in order to improve?
When Jay Rahn (a York faculty member) and I were discussing some of the differences between Mande music and some other of the world’s musics, we made frequent use of the term “scored.” For the purposes of that conversation, if something was “scored” (regardless of whether it was written down or otherwise visually represented) it was, by and large, conceived of and performed the same way every time from beginning to end with little or no improvisation. Given this definition, it seems to me that the first seven activities in the list above are scored activities, whereas the latter seven, are non-scored. And my sense is that the way one learns to perform in the context of a scored activity is rather different from the way one learns to perform in the context of a non-scored activity—or at least, learning non-scored performance seems to involve an extra step.
With half-pipe skate boarding, capoeira jogos, or bala performance, you never really know what will come next at any given moment. Performance involves the creation of a context (the back and forth traversing of the tube, the jenga, an ostinato groove or chord structure) and then, at any time, the performer can decide to generate or react to changes in that context (usually within particular style parameters). The learning process thus consists of the acquisition of “riffs” or “tricks” that open up possibilities for the performer, without necessarily binding them to a strict recreation of a memorized sequence (as might be the case in a country line dance, for example.) In practising non-scored activities, individuals must develop not only the ability to execute the discrete pattern “chunks” but also to reorder those chunks in reaction to various (often new and sometimes unexpected) stimuli in the environment.
Now, maybe the differences are of degree, rather than kind. As Casey Sokol (also a faculty member at York) was describing yesterday, there is after all a certain amount of improvisation (moment to moment decision-making undertaken by the performer) in all of the above activities. What’s more, the extent to which high-level bala players are actually undertaking random, never before sequenced orderings of the chunks that they piece together (instead of simply returning to sequences that they’d previously mapped out at some point) is not totally clear. Indeed, although above I described that half-pipe skaters, capoeiristas, and balafolaw “never really know what will come next at any given moment” this is true only up to a point. (They don’t likely have to be prepared to jump out of the way of falling safes or defend themselves against wolf attacks.) As well, to be sure, bala playing, as with other improvised music performance involves (or may involve) rather a lot more than simply reordering memorized chunks.*
Nonetheless, my impression is that when the skateboarders I knew in high-school used to hang out at the Magic Room learning and sharing and performing tricks for one another, or when my drum kit buddies would express their excitement at having learned a new rudiment and being in the process of teaching themselves how to articulate it across the toms and snare drum, the practising that they were doing is somehow different from the kind one would have to undertake in order to learn to perform (and then perfect performance of) a Hayden sonata or a cup-stacking sequence. Am I barking up the wrong tree?
*Remind me to write about this some time, citing some of what both Casey and Rob have discussed with me . . .
Monday, June 21, 2010
Sylvain's Lessons
I first wrote to Sylvain Leroux in October of 2009. It was through Sylvain (and through Jumbie Records’ Raul Rothblatt) that I first made contact with Famoro. Sylvain, a Quebecois now based in New York, is a highly accomplished player of the Tambin (or Serdu), the traditional flute of the Fulani people of Guinea’s Fouta Djallon highlands. Sylvain is greatly respected in the New York Mande music scene and his Fula Flute is a much decorated (and wonderful!) ensemble of musicans from the US, Canada, Guinea, and Mali. Although he would downplay his accomplishments, as an "outsider" who has learned to play so well, the music of an "other," Sylvain has long been an inspiration to me.
In the last post, I mentioned that one of the events that Famoro had me attend was an outdoor festival where his afro-fusion group, Kakande gave a few performances. Sylvain is also a part of the Kakande project and so, naturally, was at that festival. After the group’s first performance, while some of us were having a bite to eat, I had the chance to talk with Sylvain about his experiences, and to ask if he might have any advice for someone who is at the beginning of his own musical apprenticeship.
One thing that he mentioned that was very encouraging: He only began his pursuit of tambin performance at the age of 38! (He had studied music and was already an excellent flautist in a Western Art context, but at 38, beginning to study the tambin? That’s astounding!)
Beyond this, he offered that while for now, my priority should be on learning to play perfectly and verbatim, the things that Famoro teaches me, I should also spend at least some of my practice time just playing around, improvising, and experimenting.
This confirms both what John Castellano of New York’s The Drummers Collective has suggested: "Leave some time to be creative . . . being creative is an excellent way to end each practice session" and what Famoro is reiterating time and time again: that Guinean music and the bala are ALL about inspiration and improvised expression. When he teaches me patterns, he'll also give examples (without committing me to them) of the myriad (virtually infinite) directions they could be explored.
Sylvain told me that I shouldn’t worry about "finding my own voice" just yet--especially if I really am just beginning. I should practice the things that Famoro teaches (patterns and variations alike) until I can play them without needing to think about them. When I can do that, my voice and the ability to express myself will just come.
In the article cited above, "How To Improve" (a long-time shaper of my own practicing approach), Castellano describes an excellent teacher thus: "Although the teacher has personal experience, he or she has the ability and confidence to allow students to find their own way." But he adds: "You must become your own primary teacher. Be objective about your strengths and weaknesses, and recognize what is required in order to improve. Never depend solely on the advice of others, no matter how much you may admire them."
In the last post, I mentioned that one of the events that Famoro had me attend was an outdoor festival where his afro-fusion group, Kakande gave a few performances. Sylvain is also a part of the Kakande project and so, naturally, was at that festival. After the group’s first performance, while some of us were having a bite to eat, I had the chance to talk with Sylvain about his experiences, and to ask if he might have any advice for someone who is at the beginning of his own musical apprenticeship.
One thing that he mentioned that was very encouraging: He only began his pursuit of tambin performance at the age of 38! (He had studied music and was already an excellent flautist in a Western Art context, but at 38, beginning to study the tambin? That’s astounding!)
Beyond this, he offered that while for now, my priority should be on learning to play perfectly and verbatim, the things that Famoro teaches me, I should also spend at least some of my practice time just playing around, improvising, and experimenting.
This confirms both what John Castellano of New York’s The Drummers Collective has suggested: "Leave some time to be creative . . . being creative is an excellent way to end each practice session" and what Famoro is reiterating time and time again: that Guinean music and the bala are ALL about inspiration and improvised expression. When he teaches me patterns, he'll also give examples (without committing me to them) of the myriad (virtually infinite) directions they could be explored.
Sylvain told me that I shouldn’t worry about "finding my own voice" just yet--especially if I really am just beginning. I should practice the things that Famoro teaches (patterns and variations alike) until I can play them without needing to think about them. When I can do that, my voice and the ability to express myself will just come.
In the article cited above, "How To Improve" (a long-time shaper of my own practicing approach), Castellano describes an excellent teacher thus: "Although the teacher has personal experience, he or she has the ability and confidence to allow students to find their own way." But he adds: "You must become your own primary teacher. Be objective about your strengths and weaknesses, and recognize what is required in order to improve. Never depend solely on the advice of others, no matter how much you may admire them."
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