About three and a half years ago, I was preparing for my first doctoral degree recital at Shenandoah University. I was still getting used to being back in school after several years as an adjunct instructor and freelancer. During those years, my job was to teach lessons and classes, and to be ready and available as a player for any gig that might come along. I played in brass quintets, large brass ensembles, bands, orchestras, and even an ensemble that included accordion, violin, mandolin, drums, and a vocalist/belly dancer. Solo playing was not a main focus for me, even during the faculty recitals I programmed here and there. I have always preferred collaborating.
So I found myself immersed in the intense preparation necessary for a degree recital that was intended to show my skill as a solo performer. At the same time, I was also adjusting to some physical changes in my playing setup that improved my sound, but decreased my endurance. I was making up for the lack of endurance by planning and overthinking my program to an extraordinary degree. In short, I was a mess.
One week, my teacher, Mike, picked up on this during my lesson. I would play a five-minute excerpt for him, then spend ten minutes describing my practice approach, my frustrations, my mental processes, etc. Mike is calm to the point that one might even use the word ‘zen.’ As a tuba player he’s incredibly natural, relying mainly on his killer ear to create a beautiful, resonant sound. He told me, though, that he had experienced some of the same frustrations in his younger years, saying he had learned that “you need to be able to put your brain in a jar.”
Mike’s view, which I have come to share, is that the brain can be both a blessing and a curse for musicians. In the practice room (and the classroom), our brain is an asset, allowing us to analyze, deconstruct, and reconstruct music. We regularly deploy dozens of tools and methods in order to first understand a piece, then to develop our technical skills to the point that we can make an individual musical statement with it. But throughout this process, and especially on stage, the brain can also work against us. The habit of constant self-evaluation that develops in the practice room can take us out of the moment when we’re performing, hindering our capacity for musical expression.
I began to use the “brain in a jar” idea as a sort of mantra, especially in high-pressure performance situations. My husband made me an illustration (see below), which hangs on the wall in my office, and sometimes accompanies me onstage, sitting on my stand next to my music. It is a reminder that I need the freedom that comes with being only in the present moment (one-mindfulness). Playing music while the brain is on practice-room overdrive is like trying to tell a story with a mouth full of peanut butter. The experience will be better for everyone (musician and audience) if it is unencumbered.
How do I put my brain in a jar? Sometimes successfully, sometimes not. We know that we cannot un-think thoughts, or prevent ourselves from thinking thoughts. What we can control is our attention. My most successful musical performances happen when I am vigilant about maintaining my attention on the musical thought at hand, and on simply playing with the sound I hear in my head. Hours of work and thought in the practice room have crafted that sound, which allows me to unplug from practice mode, put my brain in a jar, and tether myself to it in the moment.