Story 5: Reluctant Songwriter, Amateur Professor, 2012-2013

I enthusiastically welcome Dr. John Kratus to take credit for anything positive that has resulted from the events in this next story. With a caring and humorous heart, I also blame him entirely. In Greensboro, North Carolina, Dr. Kratus presented the conference session, “Developing Students’ Vernacular Musicianship in a Music Methods Course” (2011) to a national audience of music teacher-educators, and I was pleased to attend. By this time, I was quite familiar with his work on vernacular musicianship. Kratus provided the following description of vernacular musicianship and how it relates to music teacher education:

The type of music-making that most people outside of formal school settings engage in is called vernacular musicianship, which can be defined as “native or indigenous musicianship.” Aspects of vernacular musicianship include, but are not limited to, arranging, learning by ear, improvising, and composing. None of these aspects is given serious and sustained attention in the collegiate education of music teachers. [Abstract]

It was exciting to learn about Kratus’s efforts to stretch the musicianship capabilities of the undergraduates enrolled in his secondary methods course when he added three small-group Musicianship Development Projects, as described below:

The three projects were: (1) learn by ear and perform a cover of a song, (2) arrange and perform a song in a style different from the original, and (3) compose (as a group) and perform an original song. Students were given one week to prepare each project. I offered no instruction in how to accomplish the projects, preferring to find what the students developed on their own. The performances were held in class during the regularly scheduled class time. [Abstract]

Upon learning of these projects, I was enthusiastic to incorporate them into my methods class as soon as possible. While still on a high from our Eminem performance, I decided to incorporate these projects into my fall 2012 methods class. Around this time, my students began to repeat back to me semi-philosophical phrases I would use in class, such as, “If you are uncomfortable, you are probably learning something.” While I was happy that they took these types of ideas to heart, I also felt the need to live by my own words in order to embrace authenticity. I felt strongly that I should not ask students to do anything in class that I had not previously attempted. The three projects that Kratus designed were new to me and to my students, and it seemed appropriate and helpful for me to demonstrate them prior to expecting the students to complete them, just as I had regularly done for years with elementary general music activities. Again, I thank and blame Dr. Kratus for what would become the most exhilarating and terrifying moments of my professional life.

Learning a country song by ear as a vocalist was something I had done regularly, so that aspect of the first project did not put me in a vulnerable position. In order to be authentic to my musical preferences, I chose The King of Broken Hearts, a traditional country song written by Jim Lauderdale. My undergraduate country band consisted of a combination of music education and music technology majors, and I initially felt confident in guiding them to learn the song by ear. The two music technology majors had each learned to play their major instruments (guitar and bass) primarily by ear in their basements, and they taught me more than I taught them about learning music by ear (more on that later). The music education majors in the newly-formed country band felt the need to write things down, but since I prohibited them from using standard notation on behalf of Dr. Kratus, they created charts for their own use. Although the arrangement developed nicely, the most vulnerable aspect of the first project for me was performing a country song in a classroom that typically served as the setting for applied classical lessons and chamber ensemble rehearsals. Nevertheless, I literally dusted off my cowboy boots and demonstrated the first Musicianship Development Project for my methods class. I shared the video with Dr. Kratus and in return received positive comments about my efforts. So far, so good.

For the second project, I enlisted undergraduate musicians from the Tamburitzans, a Pittsburgh-based multicultural song and dance company “dedicated to perpetuating international cultural heritage through entertaining performance” (Tamburitzans, n.d.). Many of the instrumentalists within the Tamburitzans work together in small groups regularly and have learned their instruments by ear from family members, so when I asked them to work with me on a bluegrass version of “Welcome to the Jungle,” they did not hesitate. I would like to think Axl Rose and Slash were proud of our efforts. The silliness of this endeavor created a very low level of vulnerability on my part, and the methods students were seeing more of my authentic musical self. After all, one must truly love Guns N’ Roses to do this sort of thing. My risk-taking, combined with the high level of vernacular musicianship on the part of the Tamburitzans and levity from the music itself, earned me credibility among my methods students while creating an environment of acceptance and mutual understanding. By this time, students were facing the reality that they would all soon be completing these projects, so they were hopeful that the acceptance and kindness they extended to me during my demonstrations would be reciprocated when it was their turn to perform. Things were still going well.

It was time for the third project, which was to compose an original song. I had written a number of developmentally appropriate children’s songs for elementary general music purposes, but this was something much different. In my regular communication with Dr. Kratus, he indicated that his expectations for this particular project had been clarified for his students over time and, in turn, for me. The song must be in a style that would be conducive to radio play now or in the past. He was basically telling me not to hide behind Orff or Kodaly, but to actually create a song that I might want to hear on a country station. As I thought about this last project, a few things were going on in my inner dialogue alongside the sheer terror I had experienced in past vulnerable moments. The bluegrass Guns N’ Roses situation had me leaning toward a rogue, country professor identity and I felt more comfortable in it than I had anticipated. Perhaps that comfort came from being on the tenure track at an institution where I could envision a long and enjoyable future. At the age of 40, staying employed at a place that did not embrace my creative sides no longer appealed to me. I believed that my colleagues at Duquesne University welcomed creativity and also expected rigor within my teaching and scholarly work as I continued on the road to tenure and promotion. It was now or never. The rule-follower part of my identity felt there was no choice in the matter because Dr. Kratus told me to do it. He put me in a position where I did not have the option not to be creative. See? Credit and blame.

Time was running out. In order for me to demonstrate an original song for my methods students, I had to write one far enough in advance that I could rehearse with a guitarist and perform it at least 10 days before the students’ performances would occur, giving them time to write and rehearse in their groups. My guitar skills were good enough for the writing process, but not quite at performance level. That would mean I would need to first share the song with the guitarist, which would be the first vulnerable moment of the third project. That moment was softened by the fact that I had become acquainted with the guitarist (Matt) from our The King of Broken Hearts performance and he was very kind and extremely patient. We had also had a humorous conversation about his recent dating experience, and I remember thinking about the differences between what he said and the ways my female students described dating.

As the third project swiftly approached, I was driving to a student teaching observation and decided that the best way to get started with the songwriting process without distraction was to avoid listening to music in my car. I thought about my students and myself. I thought about my favorite country songs and how most of them have to do with relationships. With that recent conversation I had with Matt in mind, I reflected on the relationships I had in college and wondered how I would describe who I was at that time to my current students. And then, as the clouds parted and sun burst through the car windows, I sang out, “Lonely, lonely, lonely girl” to an improvised melody. Not bad. In fact, good enough to take out my portable audio recorder (still no smartphone) and sing it again. I kept singing! I used no solfege. I had no visual representation because I was driving. I remembered that when I lived in Nashville, most of my rehearsals were in the car. I would improvise vocal ornamentations, revise them until I liked what I heard, and then repeat them over and over to work on technique.

The songwriting process turned out to be very similar, only I was creating much more than ornamentation. Even though I needed to get this song written quickly in terms of available days, I had lots of available driving time built into my schedule. With its many bridges and tunnels, Pittsburgh and its challenging traffic patterns added hours to my workweek, particularly because of the large number of student teachers I was observing at the time. I wrote the song by ear in multiple sessions while driving and eventually sat down at home with my guitar and laptop to confirm the chords and lyrics. I created my first chart and made an appointment with Matt for the day before the big methods class performance. Before he arrived, I was lying on the floor of my office short of breath with butterflies in my stomach, wondering (a) how bad my song really was, (b) why I decided to write about something so personal instead of choosing a horribly stereotypical country topic like trucks or whiskey, and (c) how Dr. Kratus could do this to me. I eventually managed to invite Matt in and summoned the courage to sing my first original country song, Lonely Girl, for him. I made no eye contact, and my voice was shaking during the first run- through. The song starts with the following lyrics:

Lonely, lonely, lonely girl
Trapped inside your hopeless world
No confidence, no self-esteem
You’re losing sight of all your dreams (Whitcomb, 2014)

The lyrics at the end are more uplifting:

Lonely, lonely, lonely girl
You have the strength to change your world
You’ll find your joy when you decide
To share the beauty that’s inside
So love yourself enough to see
The special girl you’re meant to be (Whitcomb, 2014)

Matt approached my first sing-through with his usual kindness and continued with positive reinforcement throughout the remainder of the rehearsal. We had a short discussion of the overall mood I wanted to convey with the song, but most of the rehearsal was a matter-of-fact give-and-take about chord choices, dynamics, and moments of schmaltzy rubato. Gradually, vulnerability gave way to authentic musical decision-making.

During the class session, I indicated that the song was dedicated to the female students in the class and was inspired by my own relationships in college. Before the performance, I told the students how nervous I was and while I procrastinated for what seemed like years, they good-naturedly laughed at me for not starting the song. The song begins with a strum of the tonic chord and then I have an a cappella vocal pickup, with the guitar coming back in on the downbeat. Matt must have played the first chord eight times before I had the nerve to start singing, but in a hesitant voice, I eventually did. In the middle of the performance, I vividly remember being shocked by the fact that I genuinely wanted it to last forever. I felt truly authentic for the first time in my professional life. It took 40 years, but my identities of rule-follower, country music fan, creator, musician, researcher, and teacher merged. I have a video recording of the performance and I can recognize that moment of merging identities when I watch it. The students were kind once again and I could tell from their facial expressions during the performance that they were listening to the lyrics. One female student came to my office later that day to tell me how much the lyrics touched her. In the weeks that followed, the students’ projects were memorable and I believe that the vulnerability and authenticity we experienced together through those projects is one of the reasons we are all still in touch with each other today.

The moment of merging identities was instantly addictive, and I immediately threw myself into performing country and bluegrass music as often as possible on campus. The bass player (Keith) from The King of Broken Hearts performance was an accomplished student in our music technology program and was the first student in that program with whom I worked. I asked Keith about his musical journey leading up to college and most of what he told me was reminiscent of the informal music learning principles I read about in Music, Informal Learning, and the School: A New Classroom Pedagogy by Lucy Green (2008, pp. 9-10). For example, Keith learned to play bass by listening to and copying recordings of songs that he enjoyed. He shared a song with me that he had written while alone over Thanksgiving break. In addition to his music school responsibilities, he played in a band with his friends. When we worked together on our arrangement of The King of Broken Hearts, he went to and from listening, playing, and improvising with such speed that, try as I might with all of my prior formal music education, I could not keep up. I recognized that I needed to continue to learn from him, so I asked him to be the musical director for the very first full-length country concert on campus.

The dean of the music school was extremely supportive of the concert and my colleagues encouraged me with positivity. The preparations created culture shock at times, such as how the performance was consistently referred to as a faculty recital, evoking visions of me standing in the crook of the piano singing an aria. I decided to go all in, despite familiar moments of fear and vulnerability. I watched and learned as Keith directed the many accomplished classical musicians who were learning how to play in a country music style for the very first time. It was evident and embarrassing that the rehearsals would have run much more smoothly if I had not been a part of them. Two of my new original songs were on the program, and during rehearsals, Keith would ask me my thoughts on the arrangements and I became paralyzed, unable to make musical decisions about songs I wrote because I was convinced that the mostly 20-years-younger-than-me musicians in the room must know better than me. Imposter syndrome at its finest. After one particularly brutal rehearsal, Keith sent me an email of encouragement that contained the following:

When I left today, I was reminded of when we first started working together, in that you were nervous as hell about your performance as a singer. . . . If you can . . . back up the things that you do, why would you or anyone have the authority or the gall to question that I’m tired of you questioning yourself because it reminds me of me. Confidence, belief, joy, timidness, nerves, stress, intimidation. Pick which ones you want people to leave with. This will be an experience where you are allowed to do what you want. Own it. (personal communication, January 10, 2013)

In one email, this 21-year-old called me out on my vulnerability, admitted that he suffered from it as well, alluded to the fact that this is nothing new for those pursuing creative endeavors, and gave me an authenticity directive.

For the remaining rehearsals, I listened to Keith and shut out the voices in my head telling me that I was an imposter. The only time I wavered was the night of the performance when the band began the first song and I was just about to go on stage. I stood alone in a red dress thinking that I was seconds away from committing career suicide. This was not the type of music or performance practice that had any type of credibility in higher education. In fact, I had never heard of any music education faculty colleague in any institution citing performances or compositions as scholarly or creative output. Articles, chapters, presentations, and books were scholarly. Singing country songs was not. In that moment, I knew there was something wrong with that. What did I want my students to know and be able to do? My fear of not going through with this performance and having to answer to myself was worse than any repercussions I might face within the profession. I took a deep breath and walked out on stage.

Earlier that day as I drove to campus, I left my beloved CDs (still no smartphone) on the front passenger seat of my car as a symbol of victory over my former self from 1995. The program consisted mostly of country song covers from the 1990s. Lonely Girl had its world premiere, and the female student who had previously shared her admiration of my lyrics sang background vocals. The red dress was one of three outfits for the performance. Months later, after my husband had complimented me on many aspects of my musical efforts, he suggested that I probably only needed one outfit for the next concert because, contrary to what I might think, I was not Reba McEntire. Apparently, I did not suffer from vulnerability when it came to my wardrobe. Little victories.

A little over one year later, I performed a second on-campus concert that included two new original country songs mixed in with a collection of classic country and blue- grass covers (and only two outfits this time). Shortly after that performance, as I was preparing for class with my back turned to my open office doorway, I heard an unfamiliar voice: “Excuse me, are you the country songwriter?” I turned around, a bit confused and delightfully surprised. I thought about it for a moment. “Well,” I said with a surprised laugh, “I suppose I am!” This polite stranger introduced himself as a junior jazz guitar performance major who had always wanted to develop his mandolin playing so he could become more involved in country and folk music. He gave me his newly printed business card and courageously told me that he still considered himself a beginner on the mandolin but hoped we could work together in the future. As I assured him I would include him in our next gig, I hoped he had room on the front passenger seat of his car for his mandolin.

Lesson 5: Tell your story and others will follow. Questions to Ponder:
- What story have you been reluctant to share about your personal relationship with music?
- What stories from your own life might inspire your students during their songwriting process?
- What story do you want to tell in the future about your musical journey?
- What can we learn from our students about vulnerability and authenticity? What can they learn from us?