Let's suppose we've got a pair of hypothetical identical twins, Robert and Bobert. Both are creative lads: Robert is a painter, and Bobert is a guitarist, but in all other ways they are identical. Let's suppose further that the two 'berts go to an indoor climbing gym for the first time. Which do you think would be the better climber? If I had been asked this a week ago, I probably wouldn't have been able to come up with an answer. If one were more athletic, I would give him the advantage, but they're physically identical. Similarly, if one used his hands more than the other, I would give him the advantage, but they both have interests which require a high level of dexterity. So who takes this one?
----
When learning a new piece of music, there are essentially two different processes one must employ in order to master the challenging sections. The first is to determine an efficient path that can be used to hit each note accurately. This may not apply to instruments for which there is only one fingering or position that can be used to play a given pitch, but stringed instruments, brasses, and percussion all present some degree of choice to the musician: Should I hit the high E with my ring finger or my pinky? Would it be easier to change my lip position before or after this half note? Should I start this tom fill on my right hand or my left?
The second process is to drill the passage over and over again until it can be consistently played at full tempo, error-free, with rhythmic accuracy, and with all the dynamics and flavorings that the artist or composer desires. Sometimes it takes ten tries. Sometimes hundreds. Sometimes it makes you want to smash your instrument into tiny pieces, but (hopefully) you resist this urge and get the piece to sound exactly like what you think it should sound like.
Neither one of these processes is particularly useful without the other. A good plan is meaningless without having put in the effort to be able to execute it, and persistent drilling can go to waste if you're using a path that is impossible to play at full speed. I find that the fastest route to mastery is to alternate between the two phases: determine a basic plan, play through it a few times, make adjustments, play it some more, make more adjustments, and so on and so forth.
----
On Monday night, I tagged along with my brother and his chums to go to their favorite climbing gym. On one side of the room were the top rope courses, in which a rope runs from the climber's harness up to the ceiling, then back down to a belayer. On the other side of the room were the bouldering courses, which were shorter, steeper, and didn't use ropes at all. Both walls were covered with handholds and footholds of every shape and size, but the holds were color-coded to create specific courses of varying difficulty levels.
Upon swiftly conquering the first two courses I tried, I felt confident that my childhood days spent clambering around on trees had paid off. However, I quickly found myself getting completely stumped by a pink course with a difficult rating of zero (rather humbling, as you can imagine). I would start climbing, fall, then immediately try again with the same results. Within minutes, my arms were so tired that I could barely hold myself up, and my hands were covered with blisters. After a few embarrassing attempts at the pink course, one of my more experienced cohorts came over and showed me that it was better to grab a particular handhold with my left hand instead of my right. "Sometimes you really have to come up with a good sequence to be able to get to the top."
And then it suddenly clicked, and I knew exactly what to do. I chalked up my hands, implemented the change, and then fell shortly thereafter. I took a step back and looked up at the wall. "Alright, why didn't that work?" Climb. Fall. Rest, adjust. Climb. Fall. Rest, adjust. Climb. Succeed. Smile. I am Bobert, hear me roar!
----
Week 26 total: 18 hours
Grand total: 612.5 hours
Required pace: 500 hours (+112.5)
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The Curious Abundance of Time
Last night I asked Ninja Queen, a recent female addition to my life, what was the proudest moment of her dancing career. Without any hesitation she chose the piece that she had choreographed this past semester, not because of the number of compliments she received for her work, but for the fact that so many of them came from people she hardly knew. Oddly enough, strangers tend to be much more honest than those we know well.
Ninja Queen went on to explain that the success of her piece was one of the factors that influenced her decision to choreograph again next semester. She said that she was hesitant to make the time commitment since the semester to come is known to be particularly difficult for those in her major. I thought of explaining my somewhat counterintuitive understanding of time management: in high school, I would magically become more diligent about homework during those weeks in which I had to stay late after school to work on our theater productions. When I had nothing to do in the evenings, I would put off homework until the last minute, but when I only had a few hours between coming home and going to bed, I would just crank out everything I needed to do. It seemed reasonable to suggest that she might actually do better next semester if she made a point of filling up her free time with her choreography.
The only reason I didn't mention this was because I was still waiting to get my final grades for this semester. If they were good, that would support my ideas about time management, but if they were as atrocious as I expected them to be, that would leave my theory with more holes than Lamarckian inheritance.
Today came the moment of truth. I received my final grades, immediately after which I shouted "What!? How is that even possible? You've got to be fucking kidding me!" I could almost feel tears welling up in my eyes. These were not, however, tears of frustration. Quite the contrary: I was laughing my ass off. Somehow, despite having a difficult course load, a part-time job, the 1000-hour quest, and designing for the dance showcase, my GPA this semester was actually higher than my cumulative average.
What made this even more astonishing was the extent to which I blatantly, repeatedly, and intentionally disregarded my professors' instructions in favor of doing things the way I wanted to. I have always been of the opinion that grades should be reflective of how well the student understands the material, not their ability to complete assignments according to arbitrary guidelines. Perhaps, by some weird cosmic coincidence, all four of my professors shared this philosophy. Perhaps this was the first time I was able to balance my innate rebelliousness with the need to actually demonstrate my knowledge of the material. Maybe my efforts to contemplate, analyze, and connect to the world around me have put me so far ahead of the curve that even when I voluntarily cripple myself academically, I still fare better than my classmates. Maybe, just maybe, my ideas about time management are correct: we need to push ourselves in many different ways in order to realize our full potential in any one area.
----
Week 25 total: 22 hours
Grand total: 594.5 hours
Required pace: 481 hours (+113.5)
Ninja Queen went on to explain that the success of her piece was one of the factors that influenced her decision to choreograph again next semester. She said that she was hesitant to make the time commitment since the semester to come is known to be particularly difficult for those in her major. I thought of explaining my somewhat counterintuitive understanding of time management: in high school, I would magically become more diligent about homework during those weeks in which I had to stay late after school to work on our theater productions. When I had nothing to do in the evenings, I would put off homework until the last minute, but when I only had a few hours between coming home and going to bed, I would just crank out everything I needed to do. It seemed reasonable to suggest that she might actually do better next semester if she made a point of filling up her free time with her choreography.
The only reason I didn't mention this was because I was still waiting to get my final grades for this semester. If they were good, that would support my ideas about time management, but if they were as atrocious as I expected them to be, that would leave my theory with more holes than Lamarckian inheritance.
Today came the moment of truth. I received my final grades, immediately after which I shouted "What!? How is that even possible? You've got to be fucking kidding me!" I could almost feel tears welling up in my eyes. These were not, however, tears of frustration. Quite the contrary: I was laughing my ass off. Somehow, despite having a difficult course load, a part-time job, the 1000-hour quest, and designing for the dance showcase, my GPA this semester was actually higher than my cumulative average.
What made this even more astonishing was the extent to which I blatantly, repeatedly, and intentionally disregarded my professors' instructions in favor of doing things the way I wanted to. I have always been of the opinion that grades should be reflective of how well the student understands the material, not their ability to complete assignments according to arbitrary guidelines. Perhaps, by some weird cosmic coincidence, all four of my professors shared this philosophy. Perhaps this was the first time I was able to balance my innate rebelliousness with the need to actually demonstrate my knowledge of the material. Maybe my efforts to contemplate, analyze, and connect to the world around me have put me so far ahead of the curve that even when I voluntarily cripple myself academically, I still fare better than my classmates. Maybe, just maybe, my ideas about time management are correct: we need to push ourselves in many different ways in order to realize our full potential in any one area.
----
Week 25 total: 22 hours
Grand total: 594.5 hours
Required pace: 481 hours (+113.5)
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Beams of Light, Waves of Sound
"Whenever I'm working on something, I break it down into small pieces, and I make exercises out of every little piece... I see kids practicing, and really the way that they practice sometimes isn't going to give them the best results, because if you practice bad habits, you're gonna sound like you have bad habits. So what I recommend you do is that musical meditation, it's really focusing on something until it sounds great to you, until it sounds exactly what you're hoping for. And the way that you get it to sound that way is you imagine it sounding that way, because you can't work towards something that you don't know what the end result is. What you're looking for is every note has to have its own zip code. It has to have its own life, it has to be its own personality."
----
In Priorities, I made the bold claim that I would keep music at the very top of my priority list no matter what. As is apparent from this week's poor total (the lowest thus far, in fact), this just isn't always possible. My time was absolutely devoured by a dance show for which I volunteered to co-design the lighting. In theory, this was something I could have gotten paid for if I had jumped through all the right hoops ahead of time, but that was of no concern to me whatsoever. When asked by one of the choreographers why I would put so much time into something so close to final exams without getting paid, I responded, "I like putting effort into projects and seeing them come out well. I wasn't getting that excitement from classes."
There were, of course, some rough moments. When I first presented my lighting to Meryl, the choreographer who had gotten me involved in the first place, she told me that it was completely wrong and that I had to start over. Another piece had a nice warm stage wash against an orange cyc, which I thought would look great. Then the dancers came out in brown dresses, and the entire stage suddenly became one giant blob of indistinct earth tones. Timings were off, pieces weren't finished, and instruments had to be swapped out. Somehow we had to make it all work in just two days of rehearsal.
On Friday evening, at some point around midnight, I was 20 feet above the stage in a genie lift re-focusing instruments to fill in dark spots. My co-designer looked around and said "I remember someone telling me that no one little fix will make the show look noticeably better, but a lot of little fixes can make a huge difference." From my perch I called down to him "Absolutely! Even if the audience isn't aware of the individual decisions being made, the collective effect of all of the decisions can completely change the way the performance is perceived."
And then it all came together, and I smiled.
----
Week 24 total: 12.5 hours
Grand total: 572.5 hours
Required pace: 461.5 hours (+111)
-- Steve Vai
----
In Priorities, I made the bold claim that I would keep music at the very top of my priority list no matter what. As is apparent from this week's poor total (the lowest thus far, in fact), this just isn't always possible. My time was absolutely devoured by a dance show for which I volunteered to co-design the lighting. In theory, this was something I could have gotten paid for if I had jumped through all the right hoops ahead of time, but that was of no concern to me whatsoever. When asked by one of the choreographers why I would put so much time into something so close to final exams without getting paid, I responded, "I like putting effort into projects and seeing them come out well. I wasn't getting that excitement from classes."
There were, of course, some rough moments. When I first presented my lighting to Meryl, the choreographer who had gotten me involved in the first place, she told me that it was completely wrong and that I had to start over. Another piece had a nice warm stage wash against an orange cyc, which I thought would look great. Then the dancers came out in brown dresses, and the entire stage suddenly became one giant blob of indistinct earth tones. Timings were off, pieces weren't finished, and instruments had to be swapped out. Somehow we had to make it all work in just two days of rehearsal.
On Friday evening, at some point around midnight, I was 20 feet above the stage in a genie lift re-focusing instruments to fill in dark spots. My co-designer looked around and said "I remember someone telling me that no one little fix will make the show look noticeably better, but a lot of little fixes can make a huge difference." From my perch I called down to him "Absolutely! Even if the audience isn't aware of the individual decisions being made, the collective effect of all of the decisions can completely change the way the performance is perceived."
And then it all came together, and I smiled.
----
Week 24 total: 12.5 hours
Grand total: 572.5 hours
Required pace: 461.5 hours (+111)
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Conservation of Momentum
In high school, my herd of guy friends had an annual tradition of making a pilgrimage to White Castle, a grease-a-licious fast food chain that serves square hamburgers for great justice. There weren't any of these establishments in humble Connecticut, so our quest required us to either take a ferry to Long Island or ride a train into New York City. These trips don't seem nearly as epic now as they felt at the time, but when you've only been driving for a few months, everything qualifies as an adventure.
On one particular journey my buddy Sam came up with the idea of buying extra hamburgers to donate to a local homeless shelter. He brought his camera along, intending to make a documentary about the whole ordeal. The operation ran smoothly and we got plenty of good footage, but in the weeks that followed, Sam confessed that he was having a hard time putting it together into something that he was happy with. He explained that if he ever let the project sit for more than a day, he found it extremely difficult to get back into it once he picked it up again. In order to counter this, he would force himself to do something, anything, even the smallest of changes, every single day until it was finished.
As soon as he described this process to me, I realized that it closely matched the way that I went about all of my long-term projects -- learning songs on guitar, writing articles on Wikipedia, and putting together an online Rubik's Cube tutorial. I instinctively avoided long periods of inactivity, though it wasn't until my conversation with Sam that I put any thought into the matter. Once I became fully aware of it, this became my main strategy for avoiding demotivation, and I've stuck with it for years.
Last week, however, a brand new strategy mysteriously popped into my head, as though my brain had grown bored and wanted me to come up with a new way of doing things. I was writing out a tab for a song that I had been working on, and when I got close to the end of the song, I stopped and thought "Well, you've just finished an hour, why not leave the tab like it is and finish tomorrow?" followed shortly thereafter by "Golly, self, that's a great idea!" There are some days when I don't have a clear idea of what I want to work on, which causes practicing to descend into pointless noodling that quickly grows boring, but not this time! By leaving the tab unfinished, I gave myself something to be excited about completing the next time I practiced.
I quickly began applying this idea to other areas. On Friday night I was working on my final computer science project, a Java version of the Othello board game. I was working on the move validation code when I ran into a stupid little error that I knew I would be able to troubleshoot in a few minutes of tinkering. I knew that if I fixed the problem and finished that chunk of code, I would start the next day thinking "Ah, shit, now I have to start writing methods for enemy capture. I think I'll just procrastinate instead." Instead, I left the bug just as it was and went to bed. Sure enough, the next day I found myself excited to fix the issue, and with that momentum I went on to write all of the enemy capture code in under an hour.
Stopping at a natural stopping point may feel natural, but stopping just short of one is a much better way of preserving your constructive energy for later on. In fact, I'm such a firm believer of this idea that I'm not even going to finish writing this sente
----
Week 23 total: 23.5 hours
Grand total: 560 hours
Required pace: 442.5 hours (+117.5)
On one particular journey my buddy Sam came up with the idea of buying extra hamburgers to donate to a local homeless shelter. He brought his camera along, intending to make a documentary about the whole ordeal. The operation ran smoothly and we got plenty of good footage, but in the weeks that followed, Sam confessed that he was having a hard time putting it together into something that he was happy with. He explained that if he ever let the project sit for more than a day, he found it extremely difficult to get back into it once he picked it up again. In order to counter this, he would force himself to do something, anything, even the smallest of changes, every single day until it was finished.
As soon as he described this process to me, I realized that it closely matched the way that I went about all of my long-term projects -- learning songs on guitar, writing articles on Wikipedia, and putting together an online Rubik's Cube tutorial. I instinctively avoided long periods of inactivity, though it wasn't until my conversation with Sam that I put any thought into the matter. Once I became fully aware of it, this became my main strategy for avoiding demotivation, and I've stuck with it for years.
Last week, however, a brand new strategy mysteriously popped into my head, as though my brain had grown bored and wanted me to come up with a new way of doing things. I was writing out a tab for a song that I had been working on, and when I got close to the end of the song, I stopped and thought "Well, you've just finished an hour, why not leave the tab like it is and finish tomorrow?" followed shortly thereafter by "Golly, self, that's a great idea!" There are some days when I don't have a clear idea of what I want to work on, which causes practicing to descend into pointless noodling that quickly grows boring, but not this time! By leaving the tab unfinished, I gave myself something to be excited about completing the next time I practiced.
I quickly began applying this idea to other areas. On Friday night I was working on my final computer science project, a Java version of the Othello board game. I was working on the move validation code when I ran into a stupid little error that I knew I would be able to troubleshoot in a few minutes of tinkering. I knew that if I fixed the problem and finished that chunk of code, I would start the next day thinking "Ah, shit, now I have to start writing methods for enemy capture. I think I'll just procrastinate instead." Instead, I left the bug just as it was and went to bed. Sure enough, the next day I found myself excited to fix the issue, and with that momentum I went on to write all of the enemy capture code in under an hour.
Stopping at a natural stopping point may feel natural, but stopping just short of one is a much better way of preserving your constructive energy for later on. In fact, I'm such a firm believer of this idea that I'm not even going to finish writing this sente
----
Week 23 total: 23.5 hours
Grand total: 560 hours
Required pace: 442.5 hours (+117.5)
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Priorities
In a previous post I discussed the profound influence that Sean "Day[9]" Plott has had on my way of thinking. Day[9] is a former professional gamer and current "shoutcaster" for StarCraft II, a real-time strategy game that has become the world's most popular e-sport. In addition to being a hilarious lad, Day[9] makes an effort to find universal life lessons in the world of gaming, much as I attempt to do with music.
It would be difficult to succinctly summarize StarCraft II in its entirety, but the most important aspect to understand is, arguably, the vital importance of multitasking. At any given moment, a player might need to produce units, purchase upgrades, construct buildings, attack his enemy's base, and defend his own base all at the same time. In order to make this happen seamlessly, high-level players must move their hands with incredible precision and speed, racking up hundreds upon hundreds of key presses and mouse clicks every minute.
When a lower-level player wants to improve his control over a particular action, such as building mineral harvesters, Day[9] suggests a fairly simple remedy: bring that action to the top of your priority list and keep it there. Even if there are much more important actions to deal with at any point in time, you are not allowed to attend to them until after you have completed the action at the top of the list. If done correctly, the player will experience two effects as a result of this exercise: one is a series of crushing defeats as a result of their skewed multitasking. The other is a rapid improvement in their handling of one gameplay element, to the point that they can consistently do it well without even having to think about it anymore.
----
Today at around noon, I got back to Boston after spending Thanksgiving weekend in Connecticut. With only a few weeks until finals start, I've got a lot to do in the next 72 hours: I've got the final draft of a paper and a real analysis problem set due tomorrow afternoon, lighting designs for six dance performances that need to be done by Tuesday night, a group theory quiz on Thursday morning, and a computer science project due on Thursday night. So what was the first thing I did when I got back to my apartment? I played guitar for two hours and wrote a blog post, of course. Why? Because music is at the top of my priority list, plain and simple.
----
Week 22 total: 18 hours
Grand total: 536.5 hours
Required pace: 423 hours (+113.5)
It would be difficult to succinctly summarize StarCraft II in its entirety, but the most important aspect to understand is, arguably, the vital importance of multitasking. At any given moment, a player might need to produce units, purchase upgrades, construct buildings, attack his enemy's base, and defend his own base all at the same time. In order to make this happen seamlessly, high-level players must move their hands with incredible precision and speed, racking up hundreds upon hundreds of key presses and mouse clicks every minute.
When a lower-level player wants to improve his control over a particular action, such as building mineral harvesters, Day[9] suggests a fairly simple remedy: bring that action to the top of your priority list and keep it there. Even if there are much more important actions to deal with at any point in time, you are not allowed to attend to them until after you have completed the action at the top of the list. If done correctly, the player will experience two effects as a result of this exercise: one is a series of crushing defeats as a result of their skewed multitasking. The other is a rapid improvement in their handling of one gameplay element, to the point that they can consistently do it well without even having to think about it anymore.
----
Today at around noon, I got back to Boston after spending Thanksgiving weekend in Connecticut. With only a few weeks until finals start, I've got a lot to do in the next 72 hours: I've got the final draft of a paper and a real analysis problem set due tomorrow afternoon, lighting designs for six dance performances that need to be done by Tuesday night, a group theory quiz on Thursday morning, and a computer science project due on Thursday night. So what was the first thing I did when I got back to my apartment? I played guitar for two hours and wrote a blog post, of course. Why? Because music is at the top of my priority list, plain and simple.
----
Week 22 total: 18 hours
Grand total: 536.5 hours
Required pace: 423 hours (+113.5)
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The Simplest Things
"What was it you wanted to talk to me about? Getting stuck with your research?" asked the professor. The graduate student shook his head. "No, I'm fairly confident that I'll be able to generalize Nishimura's work on singularities of one-parameter pedal unfoldings in R-3," he replied, the words gliding smoothly out of his mouth. The professor nodded slowly. "I assume you intend to analyze pedal unfoldings with more parameters?" he asked. "Actually," said the student, "I wanted to look at R-n." The professor cocked his head to one side and frowned. "That's... quite ambitious." He stared blankly at his whiteboard, as he often did whenever his seasoned gears began turning. After a few moments, he pulled himself back to reality. "So what are you having trouble with?"
The graduate student looked away, idly scratching his head. "Well, I'm grading homework problems in my calculus class, and there's this one exercise I can't figure out..."
----
At some point during the past few weeks I was lying awake at night, pondering the various things that one ponders, when a question suddenly popped into my head: "What is the simplest thing that I cannot do consistently?" Over the days that followed, I continued to think about that question while practicing guitar, searching for those exercises and patterns that were deceptive in their level of difficulty.
After a few days of noodling around, I devised a series of exercises designed to improve independence between the fingers on my left hand and those on my right. Using my roommate's bass, I would take a finger pattern on my left hand, such as index-pinky-middle, and play it at each position on the fretboard twice. The tricky part is that I would play the notes using an arbitrary pattern on my right hand, such as middle-ring-index. When the two finger patterns are similar, the exercise is easy. When they are completely different, as is often the case for the four-finger exercises, it becomes very tricky to coordinate both at the same time. Overall, there are 1296 exercises total, of which I have completed 816 in the past three weeks. Thrilling, as you can imagine.
In the past, I've discussed the philosophy of only working on one's strengths, which has been fervently advocated by the legendary Steve Vai in many of his interviews. It may seem that these two ideas are contradictory: if one is working on the simplest thing that one cannot do, then one must surely not be working on one's strengths, right? When I first realized this, I thought to myself, "Hmm, you're right, you rugged man-beast." But after thinking it through, I no longer agree that there is a contradiction. "Actually, you're wrong, you useless bag of cocks. Go back to the dumpster from whence you came."
It is true that many of the answers to the question "What is the simplest thing I cannot do?" lie within the realm of my weaknesses. My pinch harmonics are not consistent, I can't sweep upwards for shit, and I find rapid alternate picking to be much more difficult on the higher strings than on the low strings. But the exercises I described above are intended to improve independence, something I consider to be one of my greatest strengths as a musician.
I find it helpful to think of individual skills and techniques as vectors. Developing one's strengths often means extending the vectors that are already relatively long, but it's important to remember that the number of directions in which a vector can extend is infinite. This means that no matter how good you are at a particular set of skills, there will always be a very similar skill that is not as developed.
----
The graduate student finished writing out his work on the whiteboard. "So this is the answer I got, but it doesn't agree with the answer in the back of the book. At first I thought it was a typo, but almost all of the students got that answer, and none of them had the same answer as I did. I know I'm integrating correctly since my answer is only off by two, but I can't figure out what I did wrong."
The professor looked over the calculations for just a few moments, then slowly turned to face the student. "You do realize that cosine of pi is negative one, not positive one, right?" The graduate student blinked. "Oh. Yeah, I... that was... well, thanks for the help!"
----
Week 21 total: 25.5 hours
Grand total: 518 hours
Required pace: 404 hours (+114)
The graduate student looked away, idly scratching his head. "Well, I'm grading homework problems in my calculus class, and there's this one exercise I can't figure out..."
----
At some point during the past few weeks I was lying awake at night, pondering the various things that one ponders, when a question suddenly popped into my head: "What is the simplest thing that I cannot do consistently?" Over the days that followed, I continued to think about that question while practicing guitar, searching for those exercises and patterns that were deceptive in their level of difficulty.
After a few days of noodling around, I devised a series of exercises designed to improve independence between the fingers on my left hand and those on my right. Using my roommate's bass, I would take a finger pattern on my left hand, such as index-pinky-middle, and play it at each position on the fretboard twice. The tricky part is that I would play the notes using an arbitrary pattern on my right hand, such as middle-ring-index. When the two finger patterns are similar, the exercise is easy. When they are completely different, as is often the case for the four-finger exercises, it becomes very tricky to coordinate both at the same time. Overall, there are 1296 exercises total, of which I have completed 816 in the past three weeks. Thrilling, as you can imagine.
In the past, I've discussed the philosophy of only working on one's strengths, which has been fervently advocated by the legendary Steve Vai in many of his interviews. It may seem that these two ideas are contradictory: if one is working on the simplest thing that one cannot do, then one must surely not be working on one's strengths, right? When I first realized this, I thought to myself, "Hmm, you're right, you rugged man-beast." But after thinking it through, I no longer agree that there is a contradiction. "Actually, you're wrong, you useless bag of cocks. Go back to the dumpster from whence you came."
It is true that many of the answers to the question "What is the simplest thing I cannot do?" lie within the realm of my weaknesses. My pinch harmonics are not consistent, I can't sweep upwards for shit, and I find rapid alternate picking to be much more difficult on the higher strings than on the low strings. But the exercises I described above are intended to improve independence, something I consider to be one of my greatest strengths as a musician.
I find it helpful to think of individual skills and techniques as vectors. Developing one's strengths often means extending the vectors that are already relatively long, but it's important to remember that the number of directions in which a vector can extend is infinite. This means that no matter how good you are at a particular set of skills, there will always be a very similar skill that is not as developed.
The graduate student finished writing out his work on the whiteboard. "So this is the answer I got, but it doesn't agree with the answer in the back of the book. At first I thought it was a typo, but almost all of the students got that answer, and none of them had the same answer as I did. I know I'm integrating correctly since my answer is only off by two, but I can't figure out what I did wrong."
The professor looked over the calculations for just a few moments, then slowly turned to face the student. "You do realize that cosine of pi is negative one, not positive one, right?" The graduate student blinked. "Oh. Yeah, I... that was... well, thanks for the help!"
----
Week 21 total: 25.5 hours
Grand total: 518 hours
Required pace: 404 hours (+114)
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Identify
"Charlie, there are two kinds of thieves in this world: The ones who steal to enrich their lives, and those who steal to define their lives. Don't be the latter."
----
A few weeks ago, my good friend Tovah announced that she was planning to visit Boston this weekend. I freaked out with excitement for two reasons: the first was simply because I hadn't seen her in nearly a year, as she no longer goes to school here. The second was because she is one of a very small number of my friends who seem to effortlessly and fundamentally understand my ideals as a musician. None of this "Oh, that's nice, but it sure would be great if you played more big chords" bullshit that I occasionally have to deal with. And it's not "Holy dicks this is the most amazing thing I've ever heard in the history of forever I will worship the ground you walk on!!!!shiftone!!elevenfactorial" either. She just gets it.
Naturally, I assumed that at some point this weekend I would get to play some of my new music for her, as was the case the last time she visited. During my Group Theory class on Monday, I took a break from staring blankly at the wall and started making a list of songs I had finished that Tovah hadn't heard. Over the past week, I spent a good chunk of practice time going over those songs, refining difficult passages and, in some cases, relearning them altogether.
Earlier today, we wandered through Boston Commons and various other patches of green, something I would never think to do on my own, but which I always enjoy as long as I have some interesting creature to talk to. When we finally made our way back to campus, Tovah realized that there wasn't enough time for our traditional one-on-one concert, as she had to meet up with someone for dinner. And you know what? I was totally fine with that. In fact, I am glad of it. While I like being able to identify myself in terms of something that I am passionate about, it is nice to be reassured that I am capable of having conversations that serve a purpose other than to kill time until I get my hands on my guitar again. It's a wonderful thing when music can bring people together, but I would never want my music to be merely a gimmick upon which I construct one-dimensional friendships.
----
Week 20 total: 24.5 hours
Grand total: 492.5 hours
Required pace: 384.5 hours (+108)
----
A few weeks ago, my good friend Tovah announced that she was planning to visit Boston this weekend. I freaked out with excitement for two reasons: the first was simply because I hadn't seen her in nearly a year, as she no longer goes to school here. The second was because she is one of a very small number of my friends who seem to effortlessly and fundamentally understand my ideals as a musician. None of this "Oh, that's nice, but it sure would be great if you played more big chords" bullshit that I occasionally have to deal with. And it's not "Holy dicks this is the most amazing thing I've ever heard in the history of forever I will worship the ground you walk on!!!!shiftone!!elevenfactorial" either. She just gets it.
Naturally, I assumed that at some point this weekend I would get to play some of my new music for her, as was the case the last time she visited. During my Group Theory class on Monday, I took a break from staring blankly at the wall and started making a list of songs I had finished that Tovah hadn't heard. Over the past week, I spent a good chunk of practice time going over those songs, refining difficult passages and, in some cases, relearning them altogether.
Earlier today, we wandered through Boston Commons and various other patches of green, something I would never think to do on my own, but which I always enjoy as long as I have some interesting creature to talk to. When we finally made our way back to campus, Tovah realized that there wasn't enough time for our traditional one-on-one concert, as she had to meet up with someone for dinner. And you know what? I was totally fine with that. In fact, I am glad of it. While I like being able to identify myself in terms of something that I am passionate about, it is nice to be reassured that I am capable of having conversations that serve a purpose other than to kill time until I get my hands on my guitar again. It's a wonderful thing when music can bring people together, but I would never want my music to be merely a gimmick upon which I construct one-dimensional friendships.
----
Week 20 total: 24.5 hours
Grand total: 492.5 hours
Required pace: 384.5 hours (+108)
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Perspectives
At about 9:45 AM on Wednesday, the Northeastern University Health and Safety Inspector knocked on the door of room 303. Upon being let inside by the Lebanese tenant, he proceeded to examine the kitchen, bathroom, and one of the bedrooms. From the other bedroom came the sounds of electric guitar music, but nothing that the inspector recognized. After chastising the Lebanese tenant for hanging clothing from the sprinkler system, he knocked on the door to the second bedroom. "Health and safety inspection. Can I come in?" From within he heard the response "Yup, come on in. Actually, I should put on pants first... alright, we're good to go."
The formerly pants-free occupant had returned to playing guitar. He appeared as though he hadn't shaven in days, and hadn't gotten a haircut in months. He looked up as the inspector entered and, grinning, chirped: "I accidentally slept late, so instead of running to class, I decided to play guitar. I'm a productive college student." The inspector rolled his eyes and began his duties. He immediately noticed a massive pile of clothing partially covering a surge protector. "Is this yours?" he asked. "Uh, no, that's my roommate's." The inspector made a note of the blatant fire code violation on his sheet, which he then tore off and handed to the occupant. As he left the apartment, he called over his shoulder "Go to class!"
Just another lazy, messy, irresponsible college student who thinks life is a joke.
----
On 9:34 AM on Wednesday, I woke up. I blankly stared at my phone, my thoughts alternating between "Why didn't my alarm clock go off?" and "Balls, my Group Theory class is already halfway over." This was the first time all semester I had slept in late and, if I didn't go, the second time I had missed a class for any reason (the first time was because I was invited to give a presentation about Wikipedia to a group of psychology PhD's; no big deal). I thought I had set my alarm extra early so I would have time to squeeze in a half hour of practice before class. Wednesdays are frequently my busiest day of the week in terms of classes and homework, so as much as I would like to sleep as late as possible, I force myself to practice in the morning in order to reach my bare minimum of two hours per day. After a bit of mental self-debating, I decided that I should just skip Group Theory. It would hardly even be worth it to scurry over there for the last twenty minutes of class, and I still needed to get a head start on my practicing.
After a few minutes of left hand exercises, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. "Health and safety inspection. Can I come in?" I instinctively called out "Yup, come on in" before realizing that he probably didn't want to see me sitting there in my boxers. "Actually, I should put on pants first... alright, we're good to go." As he entered, I decided to break the ice by cheerfully exclaiming "I accidentally slept late, so instead of running to class, I decided to play guitar. I'm a productive college student." He asked about the pile of dirty clothes sitting on top of a surge protector, which, in fact, belongs to my roommate. I mean really, would I ever wear a purple shirt? The inspector handed me his evaluation sheet and, as he left the apartment, called over his shoulder "Go to class!"
He probably assumed I was just another lazy, messy, irresponsible college student who thinks life is a joke.
----
Week 19 total: 29 hours
Grand total: 468 hours
Required pace: 365.5 hours (+102.5)
The formerly pants-free occupant had returned to playing guitar. He appeared as though he hadn't shaven in days, and hadn't gotten a haircut in months. He looked up as the inspector entered and, grinning, chirped: "I accidentally slept late, so instead of running to class, I decided to play guitar. I'm a productive college student." The inspector rolled his eyes and began his duties. He immediately noticed a massive pile of clothing partially covering a surge protector. "Is this yours?" he asked. "Uh, no, that's my roommate's." The inspector made a note of the blatant fire code violation on his sheet, which he then tore off and handed to the occupant. As he left the apartment, he called over his shoulder "Go to class!"
Just another lazy, messy, irresponsible college student who thinks life is a joke.
----
On 9:34 AM on Wednesday, I woke up. I blankly stared at my phone, my thoughts alternating between "Why didn't my alarm clock go off?" and "Balls, my Group Theory class is already halfway over." This was the first time all semester I had slept in late and, if I didn't go, the second time I had missed a class for any reason (the first time was because I was invited to give a presentation about Wikipedia to a group of psychology PhD's; no big deal). I thought I had set my alarm extra early so I would have time to squeeze in a half hour of practice before class. Wednesdays are frequently my busiest day of the week in terms of classes and homework, so as much as I would like to sleep as late as possible, I force myself to practice in the morning in order to reach my bare minimum of two hours per day. After a bit of mental self-debating, I decided that I should just skip Group Theory. It would hardly even be worth it to scurry over there for the last twenty minutes of class, and I still needed to get a head start on my practicing.
After a few minutes of left hand exercises, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. "Health and safety inspection. Can I come in?" I instinctively called out "Yup, come on in" before realizing that he probably didn't want to see me sitting there in my boxers. "Actually, I should put on pants first... alright, we're good to go." As he entered, I decided to break the ice by cheerfully exclaiming "I accidentally slept late, so instead of running to class, I decided to play guitar. I'm a productive college student." He asked about the pile of dirty clothes sitting on top of a surge protector, which, in fact, belongs to my roommate. I mean really, would I ever wear a purple shirt? The inspector handed me his evaluation sheet and, as he left the apartment, called over his shoulder "Go to class!"
He probably assumed I was just another lazy, messy, irresponsible college student who thinks life is a joke.
----
Week 19 total: 29 hours
Grand total: 468 hours
Required pace: 365.5 hours (+102.5)
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Enough
"Derice, a gold medal is a wonderful thing. But if you're not enough without one, you'll never be enough with one."
"Hey coach, how will I know if I'm enough?"
"When you cross that finish line tomorrow, you'll know."
----
On Friday night at approximately 6:50 PM, I received a package from my school's mail room. Inside it were 51 copies (not 50, oddly enough) of "Ready or Not". This was the very first shipment of my very first album! A momentous occasion indeed, and a highly emotional one as well. It is a rather unusual feeling to see one's efforts so suddenly manifested in physical form. Shortly thereafter, I went out for Pad Thai with a female human who edits Wikipedia (yes, those do exist). She was understandably confused about why I was waiting at the rendezvous point holding a large box, smiling like I had just munched on a magic mushroom.
Other than the act of retrieving the albums and the delicious dinner that followed, there was nothing about the evening that was in any way out of the ordinary. As joyous as it was to hold the fruits of my labor for the first time, I felt no urge to celebrate. The somewhat anticipated sense of "I just won the game of life, so I don't have to give a fuck any more!" was entirely absent. So I proceeded to do what came naturally to me, what I have done every night for months: I sat on my chair and played guitar. I drilled technique, I learned songs written by my favorite progressive metal bands, and I continued to work on new material of my own.
Perhaps this instinct was caused by my somewhat reclusive nature; particularly of late, I have found that solitude is often a more natural environment for me than being with others. Perhaps it was caused by the feeling that, after all these hundreds of hours of practicing, "Ready or Not" is no longer representative of my best possible work. What I like to think is that I share a key characteristic with those at the top: the belief that the process of moving forward is more important than the milestones we pass along the way.
I feel I am enough of a man, and enough of a musician, now that "Ready or Not" has found its way into my hands, but only because I was enough before that happened.
----
Week 18 total: 19 hours
Grand total: 439 hours
Required pace: 346 hours (+93)
"Hey coach, how will I know if I'm enough?"
"When you cross that finish line tomorrow, you'll know."
----
On Friday night at approximately 6:50 PM, I received a package from my school's mail room. Inside it were 51 copies (not 50, oddly enough) of "Ready or Not". This was the very first shipment of my very first album! A momentous occasion indeed, and a highly emotional one as well. It is a rather unusual feeling to see one's efforts so suddenly manifested in physical form. Shortly thereafter, I went out for Pad Thai with a female human who edits Wikipedia (yes, those do exist). She was understandably confused about why I was waiting at the rendezvous point holding a large box, smiling like I had just munched on a magic mushroom.
Other than the act of retrieving the albums and the delicious dinner that followed, there was nothing about the evening that was in any way out of the ordinary. As joyous as it was to hold the fruits of my labor for the first time, I felt no urge to celebrate. The somewhat anticipated sense of "I just won the game of life, so I don't have to give a fuck any more!" was entirely absent. So I proceeded to do what came naturally to me, what I have done every night for months: I sat on my chair and played guitar. I drilled technique, I learned songs written by my favorite progressive metal bands, and I continued to work on new material of my own.
Perhaps this instinct was caused by my somewhat reclusive nature; particularly of late, I have found that solitude is often a more natural environment for me than being with others. Perhaps it was caused by the feeling that, after all these hundreds of hours of practicing, "Ready or Not" is no longer representative of my best possible work. What I like to think is that I share a key characteristic with those at the top: the belief that the process of moving forward is more important than the milestones we pass along the way.
I feel I am enough of a man, and enough of a musician, now that "Ready or Not" has found its way into my hands, but only because I was enough before that happened.
----
Week 18 total: 19 hours
Grand total: 439 hours
Required pace: 346 hours (+93)
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Restrictions
Amid controversy of his true name
There is another question unanswered:
Wherefore did our Shakespeare choose to employ
Iambic pentameter for his work?
"Such a burden," the novices exclaim,
"Shackled with this meter unnatural."
They seem convinced his greatness came in spite
Of the restrictions he placed on his words
But I contend his greatness came because
Of the aforementionéd rules so strict
That pulled from him the very best of what
Swam 'round inside that mental sea so deep
'Tis true necessity is the mother
Of all man hath yet seen fit to invent
It follows then that greater need should yield
Still greater fruits of creativity
And when such need does not itself take root
Creation must grow under stones we set.
Beauty in chess does not arise from the
Pieces themselves, black and white ivory
Nor from artistic arrangements thereof
Instead, beauty comes from the minds of those
Who masterfully shift their brave soldiers
Without defying the game's ancient rules
And this is why I do not advocate
Compositions music'ly profligate
The man who seeketh not to deviate:
Who knows what worlds he shall in time create?
----
Week 17 total: 21 hours
Grand total: 420 hours
Required pace: 327 hours (+93)
There is another question unanswered:
Wherefore did our Shakespeare choose to employ
Iambic pentameter for his work?
"Such a burden," the novices exclaim,
"Shackled with this meter unnatural."
They seem convinced his greatness came in spite
Of the restrictions he placed on his words
But I contend his greatness came because
Of the aforementionéd rules so strict
That pulled from him the very best of what
Swam 'round inside that mental sea so deep
'Tis true necessity is the mother
Of all man hath yet seen fit to invent
It follows then that greater need should yield
Still greater fruits of creativity
And when such need does not itself take root
Creation must grow under stones we set.
Beauty in chess does not arise from the
Pieces themselves, black and white ivory
Nor from artistic arrangements thereof
Instead, beauty comes from the minds of those
Who masterfully shift their brave soldiers
Without defying the game's ancient rules
And this is why I do not advocate
Compositions music'ly profligate
The man who seeketh not to deviate:
Who knows what worlds he shall in time create?
----
Week 17 total: 21 hours
Grand total: 420 hours
Required pace: 327 hours (+93)
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Music and Love
In 2009, hip-hop duo Insane Clown Posse released "Miracles", a song about all the things in life that are "fuckin’ amazing and incredible", such as giraffes, magnets, and pyramids. The song presents a handful of metaphors about music, such as the following:
"And music is magic, pure and clean
You can feel it and hear it but it can't be seen"
However, the song also compares music with love, claiming that they both "fill the room from the floor to the ceiling". The same can be said of nerve gas, body odor, and termites, but I think Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope may have come up with something worth analyzing here. I, for one, wholeheartedly agree that music is a lot like love.
----
On Monday night, I ventured to the Orpheum Theater in Boston for my very first Dream Theater concert. In fact, this was the first time I had ever purchased a ticket to a legitimate concert. I decided to splurge and get the tour package, which included a seat in the first 10 rows, a tee shirt, a poster, a set of "autographed" (ie, photocopied) guitar picks, and a mysterious "gift item". While standing in line to pick up my package, I realized that I hadn't printed out a confirmation slip or anything, and I entered a moment of sheer terror. "Am I going to get turned away? Am I really that irresponsible? Does anyone love me?" Luckily, the sign-in process only required a photo ID, so I got my package without any problems.
I started digging through my bag of trinkets, squealing with pure fanboy delight at each fun item. Tee shirt -- yeah! I love shirts! I wrote my college essay about wearing shirts (seriously), and now I have another shirt! Poster -- yeah! I don't like posters, but I'll probably give it away and feel really good about myself! Guitar picks -- yeah! I don't use guitar picks, but I can stare at them and try to hide my erection! Gift item -- err... where is it? I kept pawing through the tote bag trying to find the elusive gift item until I eventually realized that the tote bag was the gift item. I was quite impressed with the ingenuity of this marketing scheme.
While waiting in line (again) to get into the venue, I struck up a conversation with the family of DT lovers in front of me. They claimed that both John Petrucci and Jordan Rudess had tweeted about there being a special guest at tonight's performance. Speculation abounded -- could it be Derek Sherinian, former keyboardist? Perhaps Charlie Dominici, former vocalist? Or maybe some unrelated but equally awesome musician, such as Steve Vai? Such anticipation!
When I got to my seat, I saw that there was one dude sitting by himself directly to the left of me. We could have easily slipped into "avoid eye contact and fiddle around with your phone" mode, but I refused to let anything about this evening be awkward. I looked right at him and said, "I thought I was going to be the only person who came here by myself." He laughed, introduced himself as "Nutty" (apparently a nickname for some unpronounceable Hebrew word), and we chatted about everything that two prog nerds could ever care about: our favorite albums, guitar techniques, Jordan Rudess's bizarre keyboard tones, the yet-unknown special guest, and the opening band's propensity for spraying bodily fluids in all directions. By the time Dream Theater came on, we were rocking out together like we had known each other for years; harmonizing over the vocals, headbanging in perfect unison, doing the same stupid hand gestures and pantomimes to go along with the lyrics. We both spent the majority of the concert stomping our feet. All of them at the same time, actually, an activity that bears a striking resemblance to jumping up and down like a boss.
After a few songs, DT front man James LaBrie introduced the band's new drummer, Mike Mangini. A huge roar erupted from the audience that lasted a good 20 to 30 seconds, which is a long time to be roaring. Mufasa himself would have been impressed. To an outsider, it may have seemed odd that we would give such an ovation for a man who had only been with the band for a few months, but it didn't matter to any of us. Dream Theater is like a family, and we signed the adoption papers without even reading the fine print.
Later on, they set up some chairs onstage for an acoustic set, at which point LaBrie introduced the special guest: "Here he is, Eugene Friesen!" This time, the introduction was met with a sea of confused silence as an old man marched onstage with an electric cello. You could hear the same thought going through everyone's mind: "Who the heck is this guy?". Eventually, I delved deep into my memory banks and recalled that he had collaborated on "Vacant", a track from one of DT's earlier albums. I don't know if anyone else figured it out, but by the time he was done, he had also been adopted into the family, and received an appreciative round of applause in turn.
Sadly, the evening came to a close after 2 hours of delicious rock. As we all scurried out to the nearby subway station, I offered my poster to Nutty. He claimed that he didn't want it either, but some random dudebro wandered up and said "I'll take it!". I smiled and handed it over; I felt good about myself. Nutty and I parted ways, our final words being "Nice rocking out with you, bro!" and "Totes McGotes!", along with a hearty handshake.
----
Yesterday I woke up at 7:30 AM, determined to push myself farther and harder than ever before. I ate cereal, then played guitar from 8:00 to 12:00. I ate lunch, then played guitar from 1:00 to 3:00. I went to the gym, then played guitar from 4:00 to 6:00. I ate pasta, had a nice life chat over the phone with a friend from high school, and then sat down to play guitar once more. I knew that if I stayed focused for just two short hours, I would set a new personal record: 10 hours in one day. Often when I'm getting close to the end of my allotted practice time, my brain and fingers are so fried that all I can do is noodle around or drill patterns mindlessly. This time, something incredible happened: in the last 45 minutes of my 10-hour day, I tapped into a pocket of energy and creativity, jamming all around my room and coming up with dozens of new riffs. I even stumbled upon a new technique that I had never even thought of, for which I produced a tutorial video earlier today.
The unexpected burst of sheer musical joy showed me that music is a very curious commodity: the more of it you give freely, the more of it you'll have. Upon further reflection, I realized from my experiences at the concert how potent music is as a means of bringing people together. I can think of only one other substance that possesses both of these characteristics: love. Or, in the words of Insane Clown Posse, "Pure motherfucking magic, right? This shit'll blow your fucking mind." Well said, evil clowns. Well fucking said.
----
Week 16 total: 27.5 hours
Grand total: 399 hours
Required pace: 307.5 hours (+91.5)
"And music is magic, pure and clean
You can feel it and hear it but it can't be seen"
However, the song also compares music with love, claiming that they both "fill the room from the floor to the ceiling". The same can be said of nerve gas, body odor, and termites, but I think Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope may have come up with something worth analyzing here. I, for one, wholeheartedly agree that music is a lot like love.
----
On Monday night, I ventured to the Orpheum Theater in Boston for my very first Dream Theater concert. In fact, this was the first time I had ever purchased a ticket to a legitimate concert. I decided to splurge and get the tour package, which included a seat in the first 10 rows, a tee shirt, a poster, a set of "autographed" (ie, photocopied) guitar picks, and a mysterious "gift item". While standing in line to pick up my package, I realized that I hadn't printed out a confirmation slip or anything, and I entered a moment of sheer terror. "Am I going to get turned away? Am I really that irresponsible? Does anyone love me?" Luckily, the sign-in process only required a photo ID, so I got my package without any problems.
I started digging through my bag of trinkets, squealing with pure fanboy delight at each fun item. Tee shirt -- yeah! I love shirts! I wrote my college essay about wearing shirts (seriously), and now I have another shirt! Poster -- yeah! I don't like posters, but I'll probably give it away and feel really good about myself! Guitar picks -- yeah! I don't use guitar picks, but I can stare at them and try to hide my erection! Gift item -- err... where is it? I kept pawing through the tote bag trying to find the elusive gift item until I eventually realized that the tote bag was the gift item. I was quite impressed with the ingenuity of this marketing scheme.
While waiting in line (again) to get into the venue, I struck up a conversation with the family of DT lovers in front of me. They claimed that both John Petrucci and Jordan Rudess had tweeted about there being a special guest at tonight's performance. Speculation abounded -- could it be Derek Sherinian, former keyboardist? Perhaps Charlie Dominici, former vocalist? Or maybe some unrelated but equally awesome musician, such as Steve Vai? Such anticipation!
When I got to my seat, I saw that there was one dude sitting by himself directly to the left of me. We could have easily slipped into "avoid eye contact and fiddle around with your phone" mode, but I refused to let anything about this evening be awkward. I looked right at him and said, "I thought I was going to be the only person who came here by myself." He laughed, introduced himself as "Nutty" (apparently a nickname for some unpronounceable Hebrew word), and we chatted about everything that two prog nerds could ever care about: our favorite albums, guitar techniques, Jordan Rudess's bizarre keyboard tones, the yet-unknown special guest, and the opening band's propensity for spraying bodily fluids in all directions. By the time Dream Theater came on, we were rocking out together like we had known each other for years; harmonizing over the vocals, headbanging in perfect unison, doing the same stupid hand gestures and pantomimes to go along with the lyrics. We both spent the majority of the concert stomping our feet. All of them at the same time, actually, an activity that bears a striking resemblance to jumping up and down like a boss.
After a few songs, DT front man James LaBrie introduced the band's new drummer, Mike Mangini. A huge roar erupted from the audience that lasted a good 20 to 30 seconds, which is a long time to be roaring. Mufasa himself would have been impressed. To an outsider, it may have seemed odd that we would give such an ovation for a man who had only been with the band for a few months, but it didn't matter to any of us. Dream Theater is like a family, and we signed the adoption papers without even reading the fine print.
Later on, they set up some chairs onstage for an acoustic set, at which point LaBrie introduced the special guest: "Here he is, Eugene Friesen!" This time, the introduction was met with a sea of confused silence as an old man marched onstage with an electric cello. You could hear the same thought going through everyone's mind: "Who the heck is this guy?". Eventually, I delved deep into my memory banks and recalled that he had collaborated on "Vacant", a track from one of DT's earlier albums. I don't know if anyone else figured it out, but by the time he was done, he had also been adopted into the family, and received an appreciative round of applause in turn.
Sadly, the evening came to a close after 2 hours of delicious rock. As we all scurried out to the nearby subway station, I offered my poster to Nutty. He claimed that he didn't want it either, but some random dudebro wandered up and said "I'll take it!". I smiled and handed it over; I felt good about myself. Nutty and I parted ways, our final words being "Nice rocking out with you, bro!" and "Totes McGotes!", along with a hearty handshake.
----
Yesterday I woke up at 7:30 AM, determined to push myself farther and harder than ever before. I ate cereal, then played guitar from 8:00 to 12:00. I ate lunch, then played guitar from 1:00 to 3:00. I went to the gym, then played guitar from 4:00 to 6:00. I ate pasta, had a nice life chat over the phone with a friend from high school, and then sat down to play guitar once more. I knew that if I stayed focused for just two short hours, I would set a new personal record: 10 hours in one day. Often when I'm getting close to the end of my allotted practice time, my brain and fingers are so fried that all I can do is noodle around or drill patterns mindlessly. This time, something incredible happened: in the last 45 minutes of my 10-hour day, I tapped into a pocket of energy and creativity, jamming all around my room and coming up with dozens of new riffs. I even stumbled upon a new technique that I had never even thought of, for which I produced a tutorial video earlier today.
The unexpected burst of sheer musical joy showed me that music is a very curious commodity: the more of it you give freely, the more of it you'll have. Upon further reflection, I realized from my experiences at the concert how potent music is as a means of bringing people together. I can think of only one other substance that possesses both of these characteristics: love. Or, in the words of Insane Clown Posse, "Pure motherfucking magic, right? This shit'll blow your fucking mind." Well said, evil clowns. Well fucking said.
----
Week 16 total: 27.5 hours
Grand total: 399 hours
Required pace: 307.5 hours (+91.5)
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Arrogance
There are some situations and environments in which I consider myself to a fairly balanced, open-minded, logical person. There are times when I am consistently able to view things from other perspectives, assume good faith in people's behavior, or understand how the formative events in someone's life can lead them to have preferences and beliefs that are very different from mine. The fact that I don't drink alcohol, for example, has never been something that I try to impress upon people as being a "better" lifestyle. I have simply come to believe that it's the right choice for me; if other people choose differently and make it work, that's just fine in my book.
But I don't claim to be some hyper-aware Zen master. At times, it's quite the opposite. There are some things that I am consistently an arrogant prick about. Every course I've taken that involves writing finds itself in this category. How are you still confused about the meanings of "journal", "issue", and "article" after we've already gone over the distinction in class? Why, when I am peer reviewing your work, are you not using commas correctly? Why does the skills section of your résumé say "Can type 35+ words per minute"? There is only one conclusion that my massive omni-perspective brain can come to: these people are just fucking stupid.
For a long time, my music was something that existed just for me. I had no interest in playing for or with anyone else. If there was a guitar in the room, I would immediately begin playing on it, but I would pay absolutely no attention to whether people were listening or enjoying it. I suppose there are two main reasons why this was the case: first, it didn't dawn on me until college that it is unusual for a person to sit on a chair for hours and hours trying to do something that was unrelated to schoolwork or a job.
Me: "So what do you do in your spare time?"
Idiot: "Nothing."
Me: "...what do you mean? Isn't there something you try to get better at?"
Idiot: "Nope, I pretty much just do homework and then stare at Facebook for hours."
Me: "Erm..."
The extent to which my habits were unusual became pretty clear after that conversation had happened a few dozen times. The other reason that I kept my music mostly to myself was that the person who heard it most often, my girlfriend at the time, was decidedly disinterested in the noises I generated. After hearing "It would be nicer if you just played chords," for the hundredth time, I guess I just decided that no one would ever be interested, and that was fine.
There were two events that helped to propel my music into the arrogance realm. The first was when I encountered those rare, wonderful people who immediately understood and admired what I was trying to do with my guitar -- Special K in Orlando and Pseudovah in Boston. Their appreciation convinced me that my efforts have been worthwhile, and the fact that there are two of them suggest that they are not experimental errors or a glitch in the Matrix. The other event was when I began performing at open mic nights, which are dominated by acoustic guitarists. I very quickly developed a bitter resentment towards anyone who dared to waste my time with their uncomplicated singer-songwriter bullshit. They should be lining up to kiss my pale, talent-laden buttcheeks.
The toxicity of this attitude didn't become apparent until just a few days ago. I went to an open mic on Thursday having prepared "The Temple," easily the most difficult song I have ever attempted to perform in public, along with a brief introductory speech about sprinkles (seriously). After six and a half minutes of grueling overhand tapping work running all over the fretboard through ridiculous time signatures, polyrhythms, and metric modulation, I struck the final note. Even before the wave of applause washed over me, I felt a surge of adrenaline that came from two distinct places. The first was pride of the self: "I can't believe I just pulled that off!" The second was the validation of my arrogance: "I'm so much better than all of these fuckers!"
After discussing the nature of comparisons and arrogance with the internets and a close friend, I came to see how badly I was hurting myself by always viewing non-technical musicians as worthless. I will always be a bit of an arrogant sumbitch, I will always be obsessed with improving, and I will always prefer playing bizarre demonstrations of technique rather than crowd pleasers. However, from here on out, I will try to keep in mind that some people just like to noodle around for fun, and that my pursuit of perfection does not somehow make me a better person.
It sucks to be knocked off of one's high horse. It's easier to climb down while you have the chance.
----
Week 15 total: 25 hours
Grand total: 371.5 hours
Required pace: 288.5 hours (+83)
But I don't claim to be some hyper-aware Zen master. At times, it's quite the opposite. There are some things that I am consistently an arrogant prick about. Every course I've taken that involves writing finds itself in this category. How are you still confused about the meanings of "journal", "issue", and "article" after we've already gone over the distinction in class? Why, when I am peer reviewing your work, are you not using commas correctly? Why does the skills section of your résumé say "Can type 35+ words per minute"? There is only one conclusion that my massive omni-perspective brain can come to: these people are just fucking stupid.
For a long time, my music was something that existed just for me. I had no interest in playing for or with anyone else. If there was a guitar in the room, I would immediately begin playing on it, but I would pay absolutely no attention to whether people were listening or enjoying it. I suppose there are two main reasons why this was the case: first, it didn't dawn on me until college that it is unusual for a person to sit on a chair for hours and hours trying to do something that was unrelated to schoolwork or a job.
Me: "So what do you do in your spare time?"
Idiot: "Nothing."
Me: "...what do you mean? Isn't there something you try to get better at?"
Idiot: "Nope, I pretty much just do homework and then stare at Facebook for hours."
Me: "Erm..."
The extent to which my habits were unusual became pretty clear after that conversation had happened a few dozen times. The other reason that I kept my music mostly to myself was that the person who heard it most often, my girlfriend at the time, was decidedly disinterested in the noises I generated. After hearing "It would be nicer if you just played chords," for the hundredth time, I guess I just decided that no one would ever be interested, and that was fine.
There were two events that helped to propel my music into the arrogance realm. The first was when I encountered those rare, wonderful people who immediately understood and admired what I was trying to do with my guitar -- Special K in Orlando and Pseudovah in Boston. Their appreciation convinced me that my efforts have been worthwhile, and the fact that there are two of them suggest that they are not experimental errors or a glitch in the Matrix. The other event was when I began performing at open mic nights, which are dominated by acoustic guitarists. I very quickly developed a bitter resentment towards anyone who dared to waste my time with their uncomplicated singer-songwriter bullshit. They should be lining up to kiss my pale, talent-laden buttcheeks.
The toxicity of this attitude didn't become apparent until just a few days ago. I went to an open mic on Thursday having prepared "The Temple," easily the most difficult song I have ever attempted to perform in public, along with a brief introductory speech about sprinkles (seriously). After six and a half minutes of grueling overhand tapping work running all over the fretboard through ridiculous time signatures, polyrhythms, and metric modulation, I struck the final note. Even before the wave of applause washed over me, I felt a surge of adrenaline that came from two distinct places. The first was pride of the self: "I can't believe I just pulled that off!" The second was the validation of my arrogance: "I'm so much better than all of these fuckers!"
After discussing the nature of comparisons and arrogance with the internets and a close friend, I came to see how badly I was hurting myself by always viewing non-technical musicians as worthless. I will always be a bit of an arrogant sumbitch, I will always be obsessed with improving, and I will always prefer playing bizarre demonstrations of technique rather than crowd pleasers. However, from here on out, I will try to keep in mind that some people just like to noodle around for fun, and that my pursuit of perfection does not somehow make me a better person.
It sucks to be knocked off of one's high horse. It's easier to climb down while you have the chance.
----
Week 15 total: 25 hours
Grand total: 371.5 hours
Required pace: 288.5 hours (+83)
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Functional songwriting
He took a long gulp of coffee, then went back to staring at the résumé on his desk. His lips parted again, just wide enough that a monotonous "So, you're in college" could slip out. "Yes," the young man replied, uncertain if it had been a question or a declarative statement. From the waist up, he was calm and collected, though his foot bounced up and down nervously. "And you'll be graduating in a few months," droned the hiring manager. "Yes," chirped the young man. "Listen, I know you think you know what's what, but you don't. None of the stuff that they taught you in school has anything to do with the stuff that goes on around here." A brief pause. The hiring manager made eye contact with the young man for the first time. "With that in mind," he continued, "how do you think your experiences have prepared you for this job?"
The young man's foot stopped bouncing.
----
In a recent interview, legendary guitarist John Petrucci discussed the connections that he had observed between musicianship and athletics:
"I enjoy weightlifting, and I've been doing it for several years now, and I've always noticed a total parallel between athletics -- anything that requires a mindset and a conditioning mentality -- and guitar playing, or drumming, or whatever. Total parallel. Everything that you need to do to become a great athlete, you need to do that to become a great guitar player. You can really transfer those things. Weightlifting, it's about technique, and form, and how you build, and it's a progression, and you have to be strict, and you have to be consistent. Same thing on guitar. If you're a gymnast, and you're working on routines, those routines are performances and you have to get them perfect and you have to break them down to the smallest elements, and if there's one element you can't do, you have to figure out why you can't do it. Well, maybe my shoulders aren't strong enough, so I'll do presses. Well, it's the same thing on guitar. Why can't I do that? Well maybe because this pinky stinks, so I'll work on that."
When it comes to the discipline required to execute particular techniques correctly, I definitely agree that there is a solid connection between athletics and musicianship. Martial artistry is the only thing I've ever done voluntarily that even vaguely resembled athletic activity, and the parallel is readily apparent there: drill the techniques until you can do them without thinking so that when it comes time to execute them in an actual [concert / jiu-jitsu match / fight to the death against lizard demons], there's no chance that you'll make a (fatal) mistake.
However, when it comes to the songwriting process, I see a much stronger connection with computer science. During my junior year of high school, I taught myself how to write programs on my TI-83 calculator. My magnum opus was a rudimentary turn-based combat game called "Fight a Nug-Nug!". I approached the coding process linearly: I would think "What is the first screen that the user will see?", write that code, test it, and then move on to the next screen. I just assumed that this was the way that all programs were written: code is written sequentially in the order that it will be relevant to the user.
Last year I took my first computer programming course with the curiously-named Olin Shivers (not an eskimo, I promise). In addition to touching upon a wide variety of programming concepts, the course emphasized a method of writing code that was referred to as "the design recipe": First, make a wishlist of all the functions that you think the program will need. For each function, write a "contract", which lists the types of data that the function will take in and put out, and a "purpose statement", which explains in words what the function will do in the context of the program as a whole. Next, we would write specific examples of how the function should behave when given particular pieces of data. Only after all of these steps had been completed would we move on to writing the actual code. Our final project was to design a Tetris program; here's one snippet of code from my submission:
;; tetra-shift : tetra string -> tetra
;; moves a tetra left or right
(check-expect
(tetra-shift (make-tetra (make-posn 20 20)
(cons (make-block 20 20 "fuschia") empty)) "left")
(make-tetra (make-posn 10 20)
(cons (make-block 10 20 "fuschia") empty)))
(define (tetra-shift t wurr)
(make-tetra (make-posn (cond [(string=? wurr "left")
(- (posn-x (tetra-center t)) cell-size)]
[(string=? wurr "right")
(+ (posn-x (tetra-center t)) cell-size)])
(posn-y (tetra-center t)))
(bset-shift (tetra-blocks t) wurr)))
While this may look like gibberish to most people, one important thing to point out is that this piece of code calls the functions "bset-shift" and "tetra-blocks". Whether or not these functions had actually been written yet was often irrelevant; by strictly adhering to the design recipe, we could insure that our code would work correctly once we were done with everything. This made writing long programs much easier: instead of stressing out about everything all at once, we would just make an outline, assume that we would eventually be able to get each component to work correctly, and then fill in the code one function at a time.
So where's the connection with songwriting? In the past, I would always write a riff, perfect it, make sure that I could smoothly transition to it from the previous riff, and then move onto the next section. Now I often find myself viewing riffs as functions to which I can apply the design recipe: when I write a particularly challenging passage, I'll just assume that I will eventually be able to play the passage and the transitions perfectly, then move on to writing the next section. This allows me to sustain the momentum of the songwriting while the creativity is flowing strong rather than getting caught up in all of the tiny details right away. Once I've got the entire piece laid out, I'll go back through and smooth out the rough patches using the gymnast mentality that John Petrucci mentioned.
----
After taking just a fraction of a moment to gather his thoughts, the young man launched into his answer: "Well, sir, I would agree that in many cases, what I was taught to do and how I was taught to do it will be largely irrelevant. However, the ways that I was taught to think about problems affect everything I do. Will I ever need to prove that a subgroup is cyclic in the real world? No, but I will need to apply rigorous logic to supply my arguments with irrefutable evidence. Will I ever need to write another polymorphic accumulator function in Java? Probably not, but I will need to break problems down into manageable chunks and keep track of how they all relate to each other. My abilities to analyze new situations and efficiently formulate solutions are directly related to the thought processes that I was exposed to at school, even when the skills that I'm using are completely unrelated to my degree." The hiring manager, who had gone back to staring blankly at the résumé, blinked.
"So, when can you start?"
----
Week 14 total: 26 hours
Grand total: 346.5 hours
Required pace: 269 hours (+77.5)
The young man's foot stopped bouncing.
----
In a recent interview, legendary guitarist John Petrucci discussed the connections that he had observed between musicianship and athletics:
"I enjoy weightlifting, and I've been doing it for several years now, and I've always noticed a total parallel between athletics -- anything that requires a mindset and a conditioning mentality -- and guitar playing, or drumming, or whatever. Total parallel. Everything that you need to do to become a great athlete, you need to do that to become a great guitar player. You can really transfer those things. Weightlifting, it's about technique, and form, and how you build, and it's a progression, and you have to be strict, and you have to be consistent. Same thing on guitar. If you're a gymnast, and you're working on routines, those routines are performances and you have to get them perfect and you have to break them down to the smallest elements, and if there's one element you can't do, you have to figure out why you can't do it. Well, maybe my shoulders aren't strong enough, so I'll do presses. Well, it's the same thing on guitar. Why can't I do that? Well maybe because this pinky stinks, so I'll work on that."
When it comes to the discipline required to execute particular techniques correctly, I definitely agree that there is a solid connection between athletics and musicianship. Martial artistry is the only thing I've ever done voluntarily that even vaguely resembled athletic activity, and the parallel is readily apparent there: drill the techniques until you can do them without thinking so that when it comes time to execute them in an actual [concert / jiu-jitsu match / fight to the death against lizard demons], there's no chance that you'll make a (fatal) mistake.
However, when it comes to the songwriting process, I see a much stronger connection with computer science. During my junior year of high school, I taught myself how to write programs on my TI-83 calculator. My magnum opus was a rudimentary turn-based combat game called "Fight a Nug-Nug!". I approached the coding process linearly: I would think "What is the first screen that the user will see?", write that code, test it, and then move on to the next screen. I just assumed that this was the way that all programs were written: code is written sequentially in the order that it will be relevant to the user.
Last year I took my first computer programming course with the curiously-named Olin Shivers (not an eskimo, I promise). In addition to touching upon a wide variety of programming concepts, the course emphasized a method of writing code that was referred to as "the design recipe": First, make a wishlist of all the functions that you think the program will need. For each function, write a "contract", which lists the types of data that the function will take in and put out, and a "purpose statement", which explains in words what the function will do in the context of the program as a whole. Next, we would write specific examples of how the function should behave when given particular pieces of data. Only after all of these steps had been completed would we move on to writing the actual code. Our final project was to design a Tetris program; here's one snippet of code from my submission:
;; tetra-shift : tetra string -> tetra
;; moves a tetra left or right
(check-expect
(tetra-shift (make-tetra (make-posn 20 20)
(cons (make-block 20 20 "fuschia") empty)) "left")
(make-tetra (make-posn 10 20)
(cons (make-block 10 20 "fuschia") empty)))
(define (tetra-shift t wurr)
(make-tetra (make-posn (cond [(string=? wurr "left")
(- (posn-x (tetra-center t)) cell-size)]
[(string=? wurr "right")
(+ (posn-x (tetra-center t)) cell-size)])
(posn-y (tetra-center t)))
(bset-shift (tetra-blocks t) wurr)))
While this may look like gibberish to most people, one important thing to point out is that this piece of code calls the functions "bset-shift" and "tetra-blocks". Whether or not these functions had actually been written yet was often irrelevant; by strictly adhering to the design recipe, we could insure that our code would work correctly once we were done with everything. This made writing long programs much easier: instead of stressing out about everything all at once, we would just make an outline, assume that we would eventually be able to get each component to work correctly, and then fill in the code one function at a time.
So where's the connection with songwriting? In the past, I would always write a riff, perfect it, make sure that I could smoothly transition to it from the previous riff, and then move onto the next section. Now I often find myself viewing riffs as functions to which I can apply the design recipe: when I write a particularly challenging passage, I'll just assume that I will eventually be able to play the passage and the transitions perfectly, then move on to writing the next section. This allows me to sustain the momentum of the songwriting while the creativity is flowing strong rather than getting caught up in all of the tiny details right away. Once I've got the entire piece laid out, I'll go back through and smooth out the rough patches using the gymnast mentality that John Petrucci mentioned.
----
After taking just a fraction of a moment to gather his thoughts, the young man launched into his answer: "Well, sir, I would agree that in many cases, what I was taught to do and how I was taught to do it will be largely irrelevant. However, the ways that I was taught to think about problems affect everything I do. Will I ever need to prove that a subgroup is cyclic in the real world? No, but I will need to apply rigorous logic to supply my arguments with irrefutable evidence. Will I ever need to write another polymorphic accumulator function in Java? Probably not, but I will need to break problems down into manageable chunks and keep track of how they all relate to each other. My abilities to analyze new situations and efficiently formulate solutions are directly related to the thought processes that I was exposed to at school, even when the skills that I'm using are completely unrelated to my degree." The hiring manager, who had gone back to staring blankly at the résumé, blinked.
"So, when can you start?"
----
Week 14 total: 26 hours
Grand total: 346.5 hours
Required pace: 269 hours (+77.5)
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Walking with Giants
I'm not a psychologist, but if I had to identify one key difference between the way I think and the way that most humans think, it's that I feel an insatiable need to improve at whatever thing I happen to be doing. At the most basic, fundamental level, I do not understand how a person can be satisfied with their abilities. The reverse is also true: at the most basic, fundamental level, most people do not understand why I feel this need. This disconnect is perhaps best encapsulated by a conversation I had on Friday night:
Me: "Alright, I gotta go home and get some sleep, I've got a long day tomorrow."
Person: "What do you got going on?"
Me: "I'm going to try to practice guitar for 10 hours."
Person: "Why?"
Me: "I'm in the middle of a quest to practice guitar for 1000 hours in one year."
*Person stares blankly*
Person: "Uh, okay, cool."
It's easy enough to paint others as being useless meatbags, but the reality is that those meatbags are generally happier people than I am. When you don't view every single action as a challenge, you don't have to deal with failure as often. Some people call this inexplicable itch "motivation". I don't really know what to call it, though I do wish that I could turn it off from time to time. It has been an aspect of my being for about as long I can remember, even back when all I wanted to do was eat cookies and play video games -- not exactly what I would call a "motivated" person.
I think it's important to note that this urge to improve one's own abilities is, at least in my eyes, distinct from the urge to win and be better than other people. When I was obsessed with Halo 2, a first-person shooter on the XBox, I played through the single-player campaign over and over again, each time adding arbitrary restrictions to try to make the game harder. Eventually it got to the point where I was trying to make it through the game on its hardest difficulty setting without firing a shot. Multiplayer matches, on the other hand, were of no interest to me whatsoever. Even when I developed an interest in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, which is necessarily a competitive activity, I never found myself feeling frustrated after a loss, nor did I ever feel the need to gloat after a win. In fact, I enjoy losing a hard-fought battle against a more experienced opponent far more than quickly submitting a novice.
Regardless of whether the activity is solitary or competitive, I find that I semi-consciously judge myself by the highest possible standard. If a professional gymnast can consistently land an aerial cartwheel, then I should be able to also! I'll disregard the fact that they've received specialized training and just throw myself at the problem -- quite literally, in this case -- until I've got it. Same thing with chess, same thing with speed solving a Rubik's cube, same thing with guitar. Some people look at the elite and say "Wow, I would never be able to do that," and then scamper off to do whatever it is they do with their spare time. I watch for a bit longer and think "How do they do that?", then scamper off to try to figure it out for myself.
----
A few weeks ago, I was watching Youtube videos of Steve Vai, who is without question one of the most technically proficient guitarists in the world, when I noticed a thumbnail of him playing an overhand tapping riff in a song called "Building the Church". As this is one of my favorite techniques, I got very excited as I waited for the video to load. When I saw and heard the riff, a most curious thing happened. I was expecting the usual rush of "I should be able to do that!" followed by hours of tedious practice as I sought to bring my abilities up to his level. Instead, for the very first time, I was disappointed with what I saw. It was fast and it sounded cool, but there was nothing intricate or complex about it at all. It was just the same finger pattern played over and over again with different chords. I quickly forgot about the riff.
Last week's blog post focused on my efforts to master a particular John Petrucci solo using overhand tapping. I posted the videos on the John Petrucci forum to see what the other guitar nerds thought. Much to my surprise, the very first comment was "I'm betting Vai's tapping in Building the Church poses NO problem for you at all! Crazy stuff!". I was astounded to find that I was not the only one who thought my overhand abilities had surpassed Vai's. However, I was not going to let this matter be decided by random dudebros on the internets. I had to prove to myself and to "CaressOfSteel@2112" that I was truly up to the task. I focused my efforts on learning the Vai riff, as well as writing some tapping material of my own.
Here, after exactly one week of practice, is what I was able to do with Building the Church by Steve Vai. Notice how each finger is assigned to one string and how the same rhythmic pattern is used over and over again. One other aspect of the solo that makes it easier than it looks is that no two consecutive notes are ever played by the same hand -- the entire solo alternates between a finger on the left hand and a finger on the right hand.
Not perfect, but not too shabby considering it has only been a week since I began learning the piece. The following two videos are my attempts to write more complex melodic ideas with overhand tapping. Both incorporate unusual time signatures, polyrhythms, changing string assignments, and consecutive notes played on one hand:
None of this is meant to disparage Vai or imply that I'm a better musician than he is. This would simply be untrue, and as I described earlier, my urge to improve has never been about winning some stupid dick-measuring contest. The point of all this is to illustrate that if you consistently judge yourself by the highest possible standards, and if you put in the time to make it happen, you will eventually get to where you want to be. Better yet: you'll go farther.
----
Week 13 total: 24 hours
Grand total: 320.5 hours
Required pace: 250 hours (+70.5)
Me: "Alright, I gotta go home and get some sleep, I've got a long day tomorrow."
Person: "What do you got going on?"
Me: "I'm going to try to practice guitar for 10 hours."
Person: "Why?"
Me: "I'm in the middle of a quest to practice guitar for 1000 hours in one year."
*Person stares blankly*
Person: "Uh, okay, cool."
It's easy enough to paint others as being useless meatbags, but the reality is that those meatbags are generally happier people than I am. When you don't view every single action as a challenge, you don't have to deal with failure as often. Some people call this inexplicable itch "motivation". I don't really know what to call it, though I do wish that I could turn it off from time to time. It has been an aspect of my being for about as long I can remember, even back when all I wanted to do was eat cookies and play video games -- not exactly what I would call a "motivated" person.
I think it's important to note that this urge to improve one's own abilities is, at least in my eyes, distinct from the urge to win and be better than other people. When I was obsessed with Halo 2, a first-person shooter on the XBox, I played through the single-player campaign over and over again, each time adding arbitrary restrictions to try to make the game harder. Eventually it got to the point where I was trying to make it through the game on its hardest difficulty setting without firing a shot. Multiplayer matches, on the other hand, were of no interest to me whatsoever. Even when I developed an interest in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, which is necessarily a competitive activity, I never found myself feeling frustrated after a loss, nor did I ever feel the need to gloat after a win. In fact, I enjoy losing a hard-fought battle against a more experienced opponent far more than quickly submitting a novice.
Regardless of whether the activity is solitary or competitive, I find that I semi-consciously judge myself by the highest possible standard. If a professional gymnast can consistently land an aerial cartwheel, then I should be able to also! I'll disregard the fact that they've received specialized training and just throw myself at the problem -- quite literally, in this case -- until I've got it. Same thing with chess, same thing with speed solving a Rubik's cube, same thing with guitar. Some people look at the elite and say "Wow, I would never be able to do that," and then scamper off to do whatever it is they do with their spare time. I watch for a bit longer and think "How do they do that?", then scamper off to try to figure it out for myself.
----
A few weeks ago, I was watching Youtube videos of Steve Vai, who is without question one of the most technically proficient guitarists in the world, when I noticed a thumbnail of him playing an overhand tapping riff in a song called "Building the Church". As this is one of my favorite techniques, I got very excited as I waited for the video to load. When I saw and heard the riff, a most curious thing happened. I was expecting the usual rush of "I should be able to do that!" followed by hours of tedious practice as I sought to bring my abilities up to his level. Instead, for the very first time, I was disappointed with what I saw. It was fast and it sounded cool, but there was nothing intricate or complex about it at all. It was just the same finger pattern played over and over again with different chords. I quickly forgot about the riff.
Last week's blog post focused on my efforts to master a particular John Petrucci solo using overhand tapping. I posted the videos on the John Petrucci forum to see what the other guitar nerds thought. Much to my surprise, the very first comment was "I'm betting Vai's tapping in Building the Church poses NO problem for you at all! Crazy stuff!". I was astounded to find that I was not the only one who thought my overhand abilities had surpassed Vai's. However, I was not going to let this matter be decided by random dudebros on the internets. I had to prove to myself and to "CaressOfSteel@2112" that I was truly up to the task. I focused my efforts on learning the Vai riff, as well as writing some tapping material of my own.
Here, after exactly one week of practice, is what I was able to do with Building the Church by Steve Vai. Notice how each finger is assigned to one string and how the same rhythmic pattern is used over and over again. One other aspect of the solo that makes it easier than it looks is that no two consecutive notes are ever played by the same hand -- the entire solo alternates between a finger on the left hand and a finger on the right hand.
Not perfect, but not too shabby considering it has only been a week since I began learning the piece. The following two videos are my attempts to write more complex melodic ideas with overhand tapping. Both incorporate unusual time signatures, polyrhythms, changing string assignments, and consecutive notes played on one hand:
None of this is meant to disparage Vai or imply that I'm a better musician than he is. This would simply be untrue, and as I described earlier, my urge to improve has never been about winning some stupid dick-measuring contest. The point of all this is to illustrate that if you consistently judge yourself by the highest possible standards, and if you put in the time to make it happen, you will eventually get to where you want to be. Better yet: you'll go farther.
----
Week 13 total: 24 hours
Grand total: 320.5 hours
Required pace: 250 hours (+70.5)
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Back to Square One
When I was in middle school, I played the double bass to fulfill my music requirements -- or at least I pretended to. Orchestra members were required to practice 100 minutes per week (gasp!) and have their parents sign their practice sheets. I would typically play half-assed, or perhaps even quarter-assed, for around 15 minutes, bullshit the rest of the practice log, and then forge my dad's signature. The fact that I had shown some natural ability on the instrument was entirely irrelevant to me. I simply gave zero fucks about the instrument. However, buried deep in my massive brain, there is one particular memory from that time that continues to be helpful to this very day.
----
One of my latest musical challenges is to relearn "Beyond this Life", yet another progressive masterpiece by Dream Theater (who I will be seeing live in a few weeks!). "But wait," you might find yourself saying, "what happened to that whole notion of playing for the win? Why are you still trying to imitate John Petrucci?" A fair question, and my answer is twofold: first, I've converted most of the passages from alternate picking to other techniques, particularly slapping, finger picking, and overhand tapping. Second, I'm trying to learn to perform the vocals and the guitar parts simultaneously, which is no small feat by any means. Singing a series of G#4s while playing chromatic eighth note patterns at 210 beats per minute in a passage that alternates time signatures between 4/4 and 6/4 -- not easy, and also not something that most guitarists would even bother trying to do.
I've been working on this somewhat casually for a while, but this past week I decided to make it one of my primary objectives. I dedicated yesterday to mastering one particular solo, and having that one concrete goal helped me push myself to play for 9 hours in one day -- my new personal best. So, what do I have to show for this fanaticism? Let's take a look! This morning I recorded a few videos to examine the progress that I've made thus far. I present them here unedited and uncensored to give you an honest, complete view of my practicing experience.
This first video contains a few attempts to get through the whole solo, as well as a few corrections to some of the trickier parts. The cleanest run is probably the last one, which starts at around 3:50.
You may have noticed that, in the above video, there's one section near the middle of the solo that I skip over. I have learned the solo in its entirety, but that passage is so much faster than anything else that I haven't gotten it up to speed yet. The following video is me running speed drills of that section. For this particular drill, I started at a tempo that I was comfortable with, and I increased the tempo by 2% whenever I got through two consecutive runs without a mistake. The end speed is about 70% of the target tempo.
Finally, I recorded a full run of the entire song. There are lots of rough patches to work on, but there are also some sections that I'm totally happy with. I leave it to you to decide which is which. The solo that I worked on yesterday starts at the 7:20 mark.
----
I suspect that the author of whatever practice book I had been using in middle school was aware that his students were filling out / forging practice sheets. I distinctly remember reading a note near the beginning of the book that advised students not to set arbitrary time goals, such as "Practice for 20 minutes today", but instead to have particular musical goals, such as "Play this passage at concert tempo." This manner of practicing, according to the author, would not only help the student improve faster, but also make it easier for them to practice for long periods of time without getting bored. My apathetic, arrogant, 13-year-old self decided that this did not apply to me, but I may have changed my mind about that idea.
----
Week 12 total: 27.5 hours
Grand total: 296.5 hours
Required pace: 231 hours (+65.5)
----
One of my latest musical challenges is to relearn "Beyond this Life", yet another progressive masterpiece by Dream Theater (who I will be seeing live in a few weeks!). "But wait," you might find yourself saying, "what happened to that whole notion of playing for the win? Why are you still trying to imitate John Petrucci?" A fair question, and my answer is twofold: first, I've converted most of the passages from alternate picking to other techniques, particularly slapping, finger picking, and overhand tapping. Second, I'm trying to learn to perform the vocals and the guitar parts simultaneously, which is no small feat by any means. Singing a series of G#4s while playing chromatic eighth note patterns at 210 beats per minute in a passage that alternates time signatures between 4/4 and 6/4 -- not easy, and also not something that most guitarists would even bother trying to do.
I've been working on this somewhat casually for a while, but this past week I decided to make it one of my primary objectives. I dedicated yesterday to mastering one particular solo, and having that one concrete goal helped me push myself to play for 9 hours in one day -- my new personal best. So, what do I have to show for this fanaticism? Let's take a look! This morning I recorded a few videos to examine the progress that I've made thus far. I present them here unedited and uncensored to give you an honest, complete view of my practicing experience.
This first video contains a few attempts to get through the whole solo, as well as a few corrections to some of the trickier parts. The cleanest run is probably the last one, which starts at around 3:50.
You may have noticed that, in the above video, there's one section near the middle of the solo that I skip over. I have learned the solo in its entirety, but that passage is so much faster than anything else that I haven't gotten it up to speed yet. The following video is me running speed drills of that section. For this particular drill, I started at a tempo that I was comfortable with, and I increased the tempo by 2% whenever I got through two consecutive runs without a mistake. The end speed is about 70% of the target tempo.
Finally, I recorded a full run of the entire song. There are lots of rough patches to work on, but there are also some sections that I'm totally happy with. I leave it to you to decide which is which. The solo that I worked on yesterday starts at the 7:20 mark.
----
I suspect that the author of whatever practice book I had been using in middle school was aware that his students were filling out / forging practice sheets. I distinctly remember reading a note near the beginning of the book that advised students not to set arbitrary time goals, such as "Practice for 20 minutes today", but instead to have particular musical goals, such as "Play this passage at concert tempo." This manner of practicing, according to the author, would not only help the student improve faster, but also make it easier for them to practice for long periods of time without getting bored. My apathetic, arrogant, 13-year-old self decided that this did not apply to me, but I may have changed my mind about that idea.
----
Week 12 total: 27.5 hours
Grand total: 296.5 hours
Required pace: 231 hours (+65.5)
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Reflections and Ramblings
I feel that it would be inappropriate for me to write this post without mentioning the September 11th attacks. Today, after all, is the 10th anniversary of that day for which there is no adequate adjective. I was sitting at a desk in sixth grade when the planes hit. Shortly afterward, the entire student body was brought into the gym where we were told of what had happened. So quickly had the teachers gathered information that they were not even sure if the destruction was accidental or intentional. How blissfully naive we were then.
Some students' faces were quickly overcome with tears as the awful questions started to appear in their heads. I would imagine that the only thing worse than knowing a parent had died that day would be not knowing anything at all. The school was located a mere 47 miles from ground zero, and many of the residents of our affluent suburban town commuted into the city each day for work. Our proximity to the attacks almost guaranteed that the answer to at least one person's awful question would be "No."
It seems as though it would go without saying that such an event had an enormous impact on my development as a person, but in all honesty, I don't know that that's true. I was certainly old enough then to still have clear memories of the time but too young, perhaps, to fully understand the magnitude of what was happening. Moreover, I was spared the worst of it: neither of my parents worked in New York, and none my close friends lost a mother or a father that day either. My interest in playing guitar didn't develop until a few years later, and my passion for writing a few years after that. I had neither melodies nor words to encapsulate whatever emotions coursed through me that day, and by the time I was capable of expressing myself in any meaningful way, all I had left was distant memories.
Contrast this with a particular Los Angeles resident by the name of Sean Plott, better known by his pseudonym Day[9], who makes his living providing expert commentary on StarCraft, a popular real-time strategy game. It seems silly to imagine that such a person, more than 2500 miles away from me, could possibly have any effect on my life, particularly since I have never even played StarCraft. And yet, somehow, he has.
I was first exposed to Day[9]'s broadcasts when I was linked to a video by a friend who is absolutely obsessed with StarCraft. I watched out of mild curiosity, and was pleasantly surprised to find it to be highly amusing despite me not knowing anything about the game. I found myself wanting to know more about how StarCraft works, which is about a trillion times nerdier than wanting to actually play the game, but I didn't care. I thought it was a fun challenge to try to decode the action as well as the bizarre jargon used to describe it. I kept hearing such deliciously enticing phrases as "scoot and shoot", "banshee harass", and "chrono boost", and I desperately wanted to know what they meant.
After some time, I succeeded in developing a fairly thorough understanding of the mechanics and language of StarCraft. I continue to watch Day[9]'s videos because of the potent life lessons that he extracts from his experiences as a professional gamer. It may not be apparent that playing video games can provide life lessons until one considers that Day[9] used to practice 14 hours a day before tournaments, a level of dedication matched only by Olympic athletes. A while back I wrote about my habit of changing up every element of my practice environment (temperature, amount of light, whether or not I am wearing clothes) so as to be mentally prepared to perform in any sort of unfamiliar setting. This, in fact, was directly inspired by one of Day[9]'s videos -- specifically this one. This is only one of many ideas and concepts that I have incorporated into my life as a result of watching his broadcasts.
The most recent of these little connections was, perhaps, the most meaningful thus far. Last week, Day[9] was asked what advice he would give to anyone who wanted to become a professional gamer. His response felt so sagacious and so relevant to what I do that it is worth transcribing here in full:
"My advice is kind of similar to my advice that I would give anyone pursuing any task, which is: make sure that you really enjoy it at the most basic level. For instance, there are many people who want to be amazing authors, who want to have New York Times bestselling books all the way at the top every year. But that's the end goal. If you want to be a really good author, you need to enjoy writing sentences, not enjoy having your book as the #1 on the New York Times bestseller list. You need to enjoy the most basic fundamental act of participating in it. There's a lot of people out there who want to become a full-time pro gamer because they like the idea of being of good, they like the idea of winning a tournament, but the individual act of splitting your workers or macroing or even just playing a game of StarCraft 2, they don't like as much. So find what makes you really really happy and do it relentlessly."
When I heard that answer, I immediately felt an enormous sense of pride and relief and sheer joy in knowing that I had made the right decision by making music a bigger part in my life, because I absolutely enjoy every basic fundamental act of participating in it. Yes, I enjoy the idea of performing in front of thousands of people. Yes, I enjoy the idea of being interviewed. Yes, I enjoy the idea of seeing my music influence other musicians. I will not pretend for even a moment that I do not fantasize about these things. But at the same time, I absolutely love every little part of being a musician. I enjoy changing strings and tuning them. I enjoy undoing each clasp on my guitar case, opening it up, and pulling out this beautiful organism that has been a part of my life for so many years. I enjoy transcribing my music into Guitar Pro. I enjoy opening up my iPad spreadsheet and typing "1" after I've finished my first practice hour for the day. I love all of these tiny moments, and I had never really understood the importance of that joy until I heard Day[9]'s words.
----
I don't know how it is possible that I feel such an imperceptibly small connection with such an era-defining moment as the 9/11 attacks. I don't know how it is possible that I find the thoughts of some random nerd on the other side of the country to be so compelling. I don't even know what inspired me to bring these two seemingly unrelated things together here. I suppose that if you'd like to, you could draw some conclusion about what it means to grow and mature, or about the connectedness that the Internet offers that geographical proximity never could. I like the challenge of trying to infuse all of my posts with some sort of overarching message, but somehow I don't feel that anything I could add here would do justice to 9/11 or to Sean Plott. Make of it what you will. I'm going to go spend a few hours doing what I love.
----
Week 11 total: 28.5 hours
Grand total: 269 hours
Required pace: 211.5 hours (+57.5)
Some students' faces were quickly overcome with tears as the awful questions started to appear in their heads. I would imagine that the only thing worse than knowing a parent had died that day would be not knowing anything at all. The school was located a mere 47 miles from ground zero, and many of the residents of our affluent suburban town commuted into the city each day for work. Our proximity to the attacks almost guaranteed that the answer to at least one person's awful question would be "No."
It seems as though it would go without saying that such an event had an enormous impact on my development as a person, but in all honesty, I don't know that that's true. I was certainly old enough then to still have clear memories of the time but too young, perhaps, to fully understand the magnitude of what was happening. Moreover, I was spared the worst of it: neither of my parents worked in New York, and none my close friends lost a mother or a father that day either. My interest in playing guitar didn't develop until a few years later, and my passion for writing a few years after that. I had neither melodies nor words to encapsulate whatever emotions coursed through me that day, and by the time I was capable of expressing myself in any meaningful way, all I had left was distant memories.
Contrast this with a particular Los Angeles resident by the name of Sean Plott, better known by his pseudonym Day[9], who makes his living providing expert commentary on StarCraft, a popular real-time strategy game. It seems silly to imagine that such a person, more than 2500 miles away from me, could possibly have any effect on my life, particularly since I have never even played StarCraft. And yet, somehow, he has.
I was first exposed to Day[9]'s broadcasts when I was linked to a video by a friend who is absolutely obsessed with StarCraft. I watched out of mild curiosity, and was pleasantly surprised to find it to be highly amusing despite me not knowing anything about the game. I found myself wanting to know more about how StarCraft works, which is about a trillion times nerdier than wanting to actually play the game, but I didn't care. I thought it was a fun challenge to try to decode the action as well as the bizarre jargon used to describe it. I kept hearing such deliciously enticing phrases as "scoot and shoot", "banshee harass", and "chrono boost", and I desperately wanted to know what they meant.
After some time, I succeeded in developing a fairly thorough understanding of the mechanics and language of StarCraft. I continue to watch Day[9]'s videos because of the potent life lessons that he extracts from his experiences as a professional gamer. It may not be apparent that playing video games can provide life lessons until one considers that Day[9] used to practice 14 hours a day before tournaments, a level of dedication matched only by Olympic athletes. A while back I wrote about my habit of changing up every element of my practice environment (temperature, amount of light, whether or not I am wearing clothes) so as to be mentally prepared to perform in any sort of unfamiliar setting. This, in fact, was directly inspired by one of Day[9]'s videos -- specifically this one. This is only one of many ideas and concepts that I have incorporated into my life as a result of watching his broadcasts.
The most recent of these little connections was, perhaps, the most meaningful thus far. Last week, Day[9] was asked what advice he would give to anyone who wanted to become a professional gamer. His response felt so sagacious and so relevant to what I do that it is worth transcribing here in full:
"My advice is kind of similar to my advice that I would give anyone pursuing any task, which is: make sure that you really enjoy it at the most basic level. For instance, there are many people who want to be amazing authors, who want to have New York Times bestselling books all the way at the top every year. But that's the end goal. If you want to be a really good author, you need to enjoy writing sentences, not enjoy having your book as the #1 on the New York Times bestseller list. You need to enjoy the most basic fundamental act of participating in it. There's a lot of people out there who want to become a full-time pro gamer because they like the idea of being of good, they like the idea of winning a tournament, but the individual act of splitting your workers or macroing or even just playing a game of StarCraft 2, they don't like as much. So find what makes you really really happy and do it relentlessly."
When I heard that answer, I immediately felt an enormous sense of pride and relief and sheer joy in knowing that I had made the right decision by making music a bigger part in my life, because I absolutely enjoy every basic fundamental act of participating in it. Yes, I enjoy the idea of performing in front of thousands of people. Yes, I enjoy the idea of being interviewed. Yes, I enjoy the idea of seeing my music influence other musicians. I will not pretend for even a moment that I do not fantasize about these things. But at the same time, I absolutely love every little part of being a musician. I enjoy changing strings and tuning them. I enjoy undoing each clasp on my guitar case, opening it up, and pulling out this beautiful organism that has been a part of my life for so many years. I enjoy transcribing my music into Guitar Pro. I enjoy opening up my iPad spreadsheet and typing "1" after I've finished my first practice hour for the day. I love all of these tiny moments, and I had never really understood the importance of that joy until I heard Day[9]'s words.
----
I don't know how it is possible that I feel such an imperceptibly small connection with such an era-defining moment as the 9/11 attacks. I don't know how it is possible that I find the thoughts of some random nerd on the other side of the country to be so compelling. I don't even know what inspired me to bring these two seemingly unrelated things together here. I suppose that if you'd like to, you could draw some conclusion about what it means to grow and mature, or about the connectedness that the Internet offers that geographical proximity never could. I like the challenge of trying to infuse all of my posts with some sort of overarching message, but somehow I don't feel that anything I could add here would do justice to 9/11 or to Sean Plott. Make of it what you will. I'm going to go spend a few hours doing what I love.
----
Week 11 total: 28.5 hours
Grand total: 269 hours
Required pace: 211.5 hours (+57.5)
Monday, September 5, 2011
Playing for the Win
At the beginning of a chess game, there are 20 legal opening moves, of which there are only 4 or 5 which are considered viable for competitive play. The most popular of these is to push the E pawn forward two spaces. The utility of such a move is obvious: it opens up diagonals for the nearby bishop and queen, and it claims space in the center of the board. The two most popular responses for Black are shown below. On the left, Black also pushes his E pawn forward for the same reasons that White did. This is known as the Open Game. On the right, Black pushes the C pawn forward instead. This is known as the Sicilian Defense.
----
The exact statistics will vary depending on which chess database you use, but you'll typically find that Master-level games which begin with the Open Game are about 5% more likely to end in a draw than those that begin with the Sicilian Defense. The first two moves themselves may not directly affect the final outcome of the game, but observe what happens when we step a bit farther into the game tree:
On the left, we have a particular variation of the Open Game that is known as the Giuoco Piano, or "Quiet Game" in English. The board is almost entirely symmetrical, as Black has sought to minimize White's attacking chances by mimicking them. On the right, we have the Najdorf Variation of the Sicilian Defense. The two sides have developed their pieces in wildly different ways, as Black has sought to minimize White's attacking chances by creating distinct threats and advantages of his own. Both of these positions are very popular, having been played hundreds of times by chess Masters all over the world. The key difference is that, in the left position, Black is trying to not lose, while in the right position, Black is trying to win.
In both chess and music, the importance of an early decision may not always be apparent until you have fully explored the path to which you have committed yourself. Many will follow the path taken by their peers, content to walk just a few steps behind the one in front. I choose to take a different path, as I am playing for the win.
----
Week 10 total: 27 hours
Grand total: 240.5 hours
Required pace: 192.5 hours (+48)
----
Those who are familiar with my music but who have never seen it played live might be surprised to learn that I don't use a pick. When I first began playing, I just used my right index finger for everything. As I began learning and writing more difficult music, I gradually learned to incorporate more of the fingers on my right hand for passages on multiple strings, but single-string melodies were always in the domain of my triumphant index finger.
Eventually I realized that I would need to learn some form of alternate picking in order to make any progress. Rather than use an actual pick, I just pinched my thumb and index finger together as if I were holding a pick and continued to play all of my single-string melodies with just one finger. Sometimes I call this "pseudopicking." Sometimes I call it the "hands-on technique". Usually I don't call it anything, as there's really no need to explain oneself when one's audience consists of a water bottle and a graphing calculator.
I wish I could say that my decision to pseudopick was borne of my inherent desire to do things differently, but that wasn't really the case. In fact, it was hardly a decision at all: I just started doing it without putting any thought into the matter. Regardless, I stuck with it even when I began to learn songs that would have clearly been easier with a pick.
The result of this stubbornness soon began to manifest itself in the form of specialized techniques. Overhand tapping came quite naturally for me. Tapping Frenzy, for example, was developed out of the very first overhand tapping riff that I ever came up with. Pinch harmonics never made much sense to me, but since I wasn't holding a pick, tapping harmonics and right-hand harmonics were right up my alley. The weird techniques continued to pile up over the years: slapping, dual pseudopicking, tap sliding, right-hand fretting, and on and on. The ease with which I found myself incorporating these rather unorthodox techniques into my music was a direct consequence of my refusal to ever use a pick. I never had to ask myself "Should I write this song with or without a pick? Do I have time to drop the pick here and then grab another one later? Or should I hold it in my mouth like a chimp?"
As the breadth of my bizarre techniques increased, the depth did as well. I continued to push the speed and accuracy of my pseudopicking, eventually even working to incorporate economy picking and pinch harmonics. My desire to do everything well seemed to be working just fine for me until very recently. It became apparent that if I ever wanted to match the abilities of John Petrucci, Steve Vai, or Guthrie Govan, I would have to dedicate literally all of my time to honing my pseudopicking technique. Even then it would still be unlikely for me to ever play at their level: as much as I like pretending that pseudopicking can achieve everything that regular picking can, the fact is that there are some serious limitations that I don't know how to overcome. Sweeping and pinch harmonics, two classic techniques of all the great shredders and rock gods, are very very very difficult to do consistently without a pick.
At the same time, it became apparent that there was a whole world of extraordinarily difficult ideas that I could develop using only the more unorthodox techniques in my bag of tricks. I want to be able to tap a complex melody with one hand while tapping a harmony with the other. I want to be able to execute a 5/4/3 polyrhythm using my two hands and my voice. I want to be able to be able to change tunings in the middle of a song without anyone noticing. I want to be able to play music that makes even the very best musicians wonder "How the hell is he doing that?"
While I would never think of abandoning my coveted pseudopicking technique, it became clear to me last week that if I want to be recognized as a top-level virtuoso musician, I won't get there by attempting to match the abilities of the other guys. Instead, I should focus my efforts on expanding and perfecting those quirky methods that most people don't even think about. Why should I try to do what other people have succeeded at when I can instead succeed at things that few people have even tried?
The exact statistics will vary depending on which chess database you use, but you'll typically find that Master-level games which begin with the Open Game are about 5% more likely to end in a draw than those that begin with the Sicilian Defense. The first two moves themselves may not directly affect the final outcome of the game, but observe what happens when we step a bit farther into the game tree:
On the left, we have a particular variation of the Open Game that is known as the Giuoco Piano, or "Quiet Game" in English. The board is almost entirely symmetrical, as Black has sought to minimize White's attacking chances by mimicking them. On the right, we have the Najdorf Variation of the Sicilian Defense. The two sides have developed their pieces in wildly different ways, as Black has sought to minimize White's attacking chances by creating distinct threats and advantages of his own. Both of these positions are very popular, having been played hundreds of times by chess Masters all over the world. The key difference is that, in the left position, Black is trying to not lose, while in the right position, Black is trying to win.
In both chess and music, the importance of an early decision may not always be apparent until you have fully explored the path to which you have committed yourself. Many will follow the path taken by their peers, content to walk just a few steps behind the one in front. I choose to take a different path, as I am playing for the win.
----
Week 10 total: 27 hours
Grand total: 240.5 hours
Required pace: 192.5 hours (+48)
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Outside the Comfort Zone
After I left Orlando, the vast majority of the friendships that I had developed there slowly began to fade away. It was sad to see this happen, of course, but it wasn't particularly surprising. Maintaining meaningful relationships with people who are far away is not an easy task. However, there was one female human (who shall herein be referred to as Special K) for whom the trend was reversed entirely: We were not particularly close friends during the program, but something clicked on the very last day that I was there, and so I made an effort to get to know her better in the subsequent months.
Special K, as the nickname would suggest, has since become a very important person in my life. A good number of my songs are about her, and at one point I was even so bold as to purchase a plane ticket to go visit her. Alas, not all was wonderful in the world: over time I began to realize that the friendship was largely one-sided. Many of our conversations took the form of "Hey, can I call you back a little later?" followed by several days of me wondering why I had even bothered. As deeply as I cared about Special K, it simply became too painful to be left to my own devices, wondering whether or not my affections were truly mutual. Having always preferred to let problems sort themselves out rather than resorting to direct confrontation, I was tempted to simply do nothing about the ever-increasing doubts regarding this friendship. A few weeks back, I pushed myself to do something different: I deleted her number from my phone.
----
While working on a production of Jesus Christ Superstar, I happened to find a long quarter-inch instrument cable tucked away under a pile of crud in the lighting booth. Since instrument cables are of absolutely no use in the world of theatrical lighting, I reasoned that it did not belong to the theater but to some nincompoop who had left it there. Since it was located under a pile of crud, I reasoned further that the aforementioned nincompoop had forgotten about its existence. From these two conclusions, I determined that the cable now belonged to me.
The problem was that the cable did not work. One of the ends was crooked and loose, giving the appearance that some rotund humanoid had stepped on it vigorously. Although I am quite confident in the ways of wiring and repairing theatrical cables, I am sadly deficient in knowledge relating to instrument cables. I suspected that the non-functionality of the cable was caused by a loose or severed connection, but I had no idea what tools would even be necessary to fix such a problem. And so the cable lay in a heap for several weeks, collecting metaphorical dust. I didn't want to pay to have the cable repaired, but I didn't want to throw it away either. Eventually it dawned on me that even if I completely ruined the cable by trying to repair it myself, I would at the very least learn a thing or two in the process. As the item had not been paid for and was utterly useless in its current state, I had everything to gain and nothing to lose by trying to fix it. On the night before Hurricane Irene hit, armed only with a Leatherman and a roll of electrical tape, I decided to try to repair the cable.
----
When I deleted Special K's number from my phone, I knew that this inherently emotion-charged decision would eventually find itself becoming the subject of a song. After all, the other important moments in my relationship with this woman had already found themselves similarly immortalized: "Never Before", the fifth chapter of Formation and Evolution, is about my last night in Orlando and the weeks that followed, and Coming Back for You is about my trip to visit Special K. Without putting any serious thought into the matter, I started jotting down potential lyrics on a piece of paper in my room. Sometimes I would put together complete verses with vocal melodies, other times I would just scribble down a sentence or two and hope for the best.
I'm not really sure why I decided to do this, as this style of songwriting is completely alien to me. In the past, I have always started with the guitar melodies, with vocals only added if and when they seemed appropriate. This is even true for pieces that I know will be about a very specific topic. The concept behind the aforementioned "Formation and Evolution" was planned out well before I began writing anything, but even so, I never collected scraps of lyrics on the off chance that they would be used later. I just focused on the guitar and let the vocals develop naturally. So while the scrapbook writing style may work wonders for Anthony Kiedis, it never made sense to me. This unfinished song about Special K, tentatively titled "The Silent Ultimatum", was no exception: after a while I completely forgot about the lyric sheet. Looking back, everything I had written seemed totally forced and melodramatic.
Last week, I was noodling around with a Steve Vai-inspired melody when, without any authority from my neural command center, I opened my mouth and sang "How far away do you think I am?". Clearly this song was going to be about Special K, whether I wanted it to be or not. Within a few hours, I had crafted all of the lyrics for the not-yet-recorded "One Last Lullaby", only one line of which is any way similar to the garbage that I had poured onto my bedside notepad. Writing lyrics in a way that was so obviously unfamiliar was an interesting experiment, and it certainly had the potential to open up new avenues of self-expression, but in the end it failed completely.
The cable repair, on the other hand, turned out to be an enormous success. The wiring configuration was not in any way similar to that found in theatrical lighting cables, but after a bit of tinkering, I was able to disassemble the casing and jury-rig a secure connection with the electrical tape. Heart pounding from sheer nerd excitement, I reassembled the casing and plugged the cable into my amp. It worked! Nothing exploded! And best of all, by some weird miracle, my amp was actually buzzing less than when it was hooked up with the cable I had been using before.
----
Three recent efforts to push myself outside my comfort zone reached their conclusion during Week 9. I learned that my tried-and-true non-method of lyricwriting is, in fact, the best method for me. I successfully repaired a piece of equipment that I knew nothing about. Last, and certainly not least, one final pleasant surprise: Special K called.
----
Week 9 total: 28 hours
Grand total: 213.5 hours
Required pace: 173 hours (+40.5)
Special K, as the nickname would suggest, has since become a very important person in my life. A good number of my songs are about her, and at one point I was even so bold as to purchase a plane ticket to go visit her. Alas, not all was wonderful in the world: over time I began to realize that the friendship was largely one-sided. Many of our conversations took the form of "Hey, can I call you back a little later?" followed by several days of me wondering why I had even bothered. As deeply as I cared about Special K, it simply became too painful to be left to my own devices, wondering whether or not my affections were truly mutual. Having always preferred to let problems sort themselves out rather than resorting to direct confrontation, I was tempted to simply do nothing about the ever-increasing doubts regarding this friendship. A few weeks back, I pushed myself to do something different: I deleted her number from my phone.
----
While working on a production of Jesus Christ Superstar, I happened to find a long quarter-inch instrument cable tucked away under a pile of crud in the lighting booth. Since instrument cables are of absolutely no use in the world of theatrical lighting, I reasoned that it did not belong to the theater but to some nincompoop who had left it there. Since it was located under a pile of crud, I reasoned further that the aforementioned nincompoop had forgotten about its existence. From these two conclusions, I determined that the cable now belonged to me.
The problem was that the cable did not work. One of the ends was crooked and loose, giving the appearance that some rotund humanoid had stepped on it vigorously. Although I am quite confident in the ways of wiring and repairing theatrical cables, I am sadly deficient in knowledge relating to instrument cables. I suspected that the non-functionality of the cable was caused by a loose or severed connection, but I had no idea what tools would even be necessary to fix such a problem. And so the cable lay in a heap for several weeks, collecting metaphorical dust. I didn't want to pay to have the cable repaired, but I didn't want to throw it away either. Eventually it dawned on me that even if I completely ruined the cable by trying to repair it myself, I would at the very least learn a thing or two in the process. As the item had not been paid for and was utterly useless in its current state, I had everything to gain and nothing to lose by trying to fix it. On the night before Hurricane Irene hit, armed only with a Leatherman and a roll of electrical tape, I decided to try to repair the cable.
----
When I deleted Special K's number from my phone, I knew that this inherently emotion-charged decision would eventually find itself becoming the subject of a song. After all, the other important moments in my relationship with this woman had already found themselves similarly immortalized: "Never Before", the fifth chapter of Formation and Evolution, is about my last night in Orlando and the weeks that followed, and Coming Back for You is about my trip to visit Special K. Without putting any serious thought into the matter, I started jotting down potential lyrics on a piece of paper in my room. Sometimes I would put together complete verses with vocal melodies, other times I would just scribble down a sentence or two and hope for the best.
I'm not really sure why I decided to do this, as this style of songwriting is completely alien to me. In the past, I have always started with the guitar melodies, with vocals only added if and when they seemed appropriate. This is even true for pieces that I know will be about a very specific topic. The concept behind the aforementioned "Formation and Evolution" was planned out well before I began writing anything, but even so, I never collected scraps of lyrics on the off chance that they would be used later. I just focused on the guitar and let the vocals develop naturally. So while the scrapbook writing style may work wonders for Anthony Kiedis, it never made sense to me. This unfinished song about Special K, tentatively titled "The Silent Ultimatum", was no exception: after a while I completely forgot about the lyric sheet. Looking back, everything I had written seemed totally forced and melodramatic.
Last week, I was noodling around with a Steve Vai-inspired melody when, without any authority from my neural command center, I opened my mouth and sang "How far away do you think I am?". Clearly this song was going to be about Special K, whether I wanted it to be or not. Within a few hours, I had crafted all of the lyrics for the not-yet-recorded "One Last Lullaby", only one line of which is any way similar to the garbage that I had poured onto my bedside notepad. Writing lyrics in a way that was so obviously unfamiliar was an interesting experiment, and it certainly had the potential to open up new avenues of self-expression, but in the end it failed completely.
The cable repair, on the other hand, turned out to be an enormous success. The wiring configuration was not in any way similar to that found in theatrical lighting cables, but after a bit of tinkering, I was able to disassemble the casing and jury-rig a secure connection with the electrical tape. Heart pounding from sheer nerd excitement, I reassembled the casing and plugged the cable into my amp. It worked! Nothing exploded! And best of all, by some weird miracle, my amp was actually buzzing less than when it was hooked up with the cable I had been using before.
----
Three recent efforts to push myself outside my comfort zone reached their conclusion during Week 9. I learned that my tried-and-true non-method of lyricwriting is, in fact, the best method for me. I successfully repaired a piece of equipment that I knew nothing about. Last, and certainly not least, one final pleasant surprise: Special K called.
----
Week 9 total: 28 hours
Grand total: 213.5 hours
Required pace: 173 hours (+40.5)
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Excellence is Contagious
I have been paid to sit on a bucket while shining a flashlight at a piece of glass. I have been paid to hand-deliver a cylindrical green lampshade to an empty building in Manhattan. I have been paid to clean chalkboard erasers, fetch high-quality printer paper for a pregnant woman, and track the movements of a 3 foot tall puppet with a spotlight. As intensely satisfying as all of these tasks were, the greatest honor I have even been bestowed was the privilege to serve as a costumed character performer at Walt Disney World.
When I wasn't bouncing on one foot, trying to avoid the screaming 5-year-olds barreling towards me from all sides, or handing out my phone number to female co-workers, I spent a lot of my free time playing chess. I had known how to play chess for as I long as I could remember, but I had never taken it seriously before working at WDW. One day I noticed a chess program on my computer, played a few games, and was instantly hooked. I did everything I could to improve my game: practice problems, tutorial videos, articles, games against the computer, games against my roommates, day after day after day. None of this seemed particularly unusual to me -- by this point in my life, I was already well aware of my obsessive need to master random nerdy skills.
A few months into my employment, I was cast as a Toy Soldier in the Christmas parade. There was often a lot of downtime between shows, so, naturally, I would bring my Walmart chess set to the break room and challenge my fellow parade performers. There was only one person who could consistently match my abilities, a man by the name of Jimez. When I first met him, I could barely understand a word he said due to his thick New Orleans accent. So we didn't talk much at first. Just chess.
One day, Jimez decided to open up to me about his life, and there was a lot to tell. This guy had been through literally every horrible thing that can possibly happen to a person, despite the fact that he was only 23 years old when I met him. He was born into a gang of satanists, he had been shot, stabbed, knocked unconscious, and at one point he was addicted to heroin pills, something I had never even heard of. As an added bonus, he was in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina hit. Somewhere along the line, despite (or perhaps because of) all of these vicious events in his life, Jimez found faith in God and renounced all of his old ways. He didn't drink or do drugs anymore, and the last vice that he was trying to kick was cigarettes.
After he told me all of this, Jimez looked me straight in the eye and said "The only thing that keeps my mind off of the cigarettes is playing chess with you." This was the first time that I felt an overpowering sense of purpose in my life.
----
There is a bar in Cambridge, Massachusetts, called the Cantab Lounge. Every Monday they host an open mic night. The host, Geoff Bartley, is an extremely talented acoustic guitarist who would play very difficult folk songs and make them look effortless. All of the other guitar-toting weirdos who showed up were the exact opposite: clueless morons who would choose easy folk songs and make them look very difficult.
It was clear to me from the very instant I set foot in that bar that I was not going to fit in. Everyone else had acoustic guitars and seemed happy to play folk songs. I brought my hollowbody electric, fully intent on showing off my highly technical repertoire of original music. I also wanted to get some experience performing solo in front of a crowd, something I had only done once before. After a humdrum first performance, I came back to the Cantab nearly every Monday for several months. For whatever reason, the open mic night would fluctuate wildly between the-only-person-listening-is-an-83-year-old-drunk-guy and so-crowded-that-the-only-available-time-slot-is-never-so-come-back-next-week. Frustrating? Yes.
On the very last Monday before moving back home to Connecticut, I showed up early and signed up for a good spot. As I was waiting to go on, a female human went to the stage with an electric guitar. My first thought was obviously "Holy shit, I may just have to marry this woman." Sadly, she was absolutely terrible. She stitched together seemingly arbitrary notes that vaguely resembled melodies. She couldn't remember her own lyrics, and when she did sing, it sounded like a drunk apatosaurus scraping its head against the ground. It was embarrassing to watch, and by this point in the evening, there were quite a few people watching. Nevertheless, she finished out her set, thanked the audience for their benevolent support, and quietly took her seat.
Before I began my set, I felt compelled to dedicate my performance to her. "This one goes out to Dana, because she had the courage to come up here and show us what she's got, and that takes some serious fucking balls." I launched into I'll Do it by Myself, followed by Multifaceted. It was, without any doubt, the best set I had performed there. I even got a round of applause for a guitar solo, something I had never seen happen at the Cantab.
After I was done, Dana came up to me, looked me straight in the eye and said, "I'm a better person for having seen you play." This was the second time that I felt an overpowering sense of purpose in my life.
----
As warm and wonderful as both of these memories are, I had never made any connection between the two until yesterday afternoon. Some might think of them as the workings of fate or some higher power. Some might think of them as two series of interesting but insignificant coincidences. I think of them as a reminder that, besides helping me to grow as a musician and as a person, my 1000-hour quest may just have the power to inspire others. Excellence, after all, is contagious.
When I wasn't bouncing on one foot, trying to avoid the screaming 5-year-olds barreling towards me from all sides, or handing out my phone number to female co-workers, I spent a lot of my free time playing chess. I had known how to play chess for as I long as I could remember, but I had never taken it seriously before working at WDW. One day I noticed a chess program on my computer, played a few games, and was instantly hooked. I did everything I could to improve my game: practice problems, tutorial videos, articles, games against the computer, games against my roommates, day after day after day. None of this seemed particularly unusual to me -- by this point in my life, I was already well aware of my obsessive need to master random nerdy skills.
A few months into my employment, I was cast as a Toy Soldier in the Christmas parade. There was often a lot of downtime between shows, so, naturally, I would bring my Walmart chess set to the break room and challenge my fellow parade performers. There was only one person who could consistently match my abilities, a man by the name of Jimez. When I first met him, I could barely understand a word he said due to his thick New Orleans accent. So we didn't talk much at first. Just chess.
One day, Jimez decided to open up to me about his life, and there was a lot to tell. This guy had been through literally every horrible thing that can possibly happen to a person, despite the fact that he was only 23 years old when I met him. He was born into a gang of satanists, he had been shot, stabbed, knocked unconscious, and at one point he was addicted to heroin pills, something I had never even heard of. As an added bonus, he was in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina hit. Somewhere along the line, despite (or perhaps because of) all of these vicious events in his life, Jimez found faith in God and renounced all of his old ways. He didn't drink or do drugs anymore, and the last vice that he was trying to kick was cigarettes.
After he told me all of this, Jimez looked me straight in the eye and said "The only thing that keeps my mind off of the cigarettes is playing chess with you." This was the first time that I felt an overpowering sense of purpose in my life.
----
There is a bar in Cambridge, Massachusetts, called the Cantab Lounge. Every Monday they host an open mic night. The host, Geoff Bartley, is an extremely talented acoustic guitarist who would play very difficult folk songs and make them look effortless. All of the other guitar-toting weirdos who showed up were the exact opposite: clueless morons who would choose easy folk songs and make them look very difficult.
It was clear to me from the very instant I set foot in that bar that I was not going to fit in. Everyone else had acoustic guitars and seemed happy to play folk songs. I brought my hollowbody electric, fully intent on showing off my highly technical repertoire of original music. I also wanted to get some experience performing solo in front of a crowd, something I had only done once before. After a humdrum first performance, I came back to the Cantab nearly every Monday for several months. For whatever reason, the open mic night would fluctuate wildly between the-only-person-listening-is-an-83-year-old-drunk-guy and so-crowded-that-the-only-available-time-slot-is-never-so-come-back-next-week. Frustrating? Yes.
On the very last Monday before moving back home to Connecticut, I showed up early and signed up for a good spot. As I was waiting to go on, a female human went to the stage with an electric guitar. My first thought was obviously "Holy shit, I may just have to marry this woman." Sadly, she was absolutely terrible. She stitched together seemingly arbitrary notes that vaguely resembled melodies. She couldn't remember her own lyrics, and when she did sing, it sounded like a drunk apatosaurus scraping its head against the ground. It was embarrassing to watch, and by this point in the evening, there were quite a few people watching. Nevertheless, she finished out her set, thanked the audience for their benevolent support, and quietly took her seat.
Before I began my set, I felt compelled to dedicate my performance to her. "This one goes out to Dana, because she had the courage to come up here and show us what she's got, and that takes some serious fucking balls." I launched into I'll Do it by Myself, followed by Multifaceted. It was, without any doubt, the best set I had performed there. I even got a round of applause for a guitar solo, something I had never seen happen at the Cantab.
After I was done, Dana came up to me, looked me straight in the eye and said, "I'm a better person for having seen you play." This was the second time that I felt an overpowering sense of purpose in my life.
----
As warm and wonderful as both of these memories are, I had never made any connection between the two until yesterday afternoon. Some might think of them as the workings of fate or some higher power. Some might think of them as two series of interesting but insignificant coincidences. I think of them as a reminder that, besides helping me to grow as a musician and as a person, my 1000-hour quest may just have the power to inspire others. Excellence, after all, is contagious.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The Oil and the Spoon
A curious young boy asked a wise man to explain the meaning of life. The wise man handed the boy a spoon and poured three drops of oil into it. "I will gladly explain the meaning of life if you are able to complete this challenge: You must explore my entire estate without losing a single drop of oil from the spoon." Step by careful step, eyes fixed on the spoon, the boy slowly made his way through the entire castle and its gardens. Hours later, he returned to the wise man and, still staring at the spoon, exclaimed, "I've done it! I've done it! I didn't spill any oil at all!" The wise man smiled and softly asked, "And what did you see along the way?" Puzzled, the young boy thought back on his journey and realized that he couldn't remember anything except staring at the spoon. The wise man spoke once more, "You must try again, but this time, I want you to take in everything around you. Don't simply walk through my estate, explore it!" The young boy walked away once more.
----
When I first began my 1000-hour quest, I thought that success or failure would be determined by how much I would be willing to sacrifice. How early would I be willing to wake up to start my daily routine? How many nights would I be willing to spend alone? What other interests would I have to put on hold in order to make time for guitar? It is true that I have made some of those sacrifices in order to insure the successful completion of my journey. I almost always have at least 2 hours of practice time completed before I eat lunch, and there have been some weeks in which I haven't spent a single night out with my dudebros. Wikipedia, which I have been passionately editing for the past 5 years, now finds itself on the back-burner.
However, it is becoming apparent to me that blindly cutting everything out my life is both impossible and highly undesirable. Last week, my best dudefriend invited me to join him on an epic all-day kayaking adventure; the next day, I was ordered by my matriarch to clean the upstairs bathroom; this entire weekend was reserved for a surprise birthday celebration in New York City for a close friend from college. As tempting as it was to just activate hermit crab mode and stay in my room, I did each of these things without hesitation, as they were all completely necessary in their own way. I look forward to paddle-powered aquatic shenanigans every summer, and it was simply not an option to let this adventure pass me by just because of my practice goals. As much as I absolutely detest the clubbing scene (to the point that I almost had a panic attack while dancing at a ridiculously overcrowded gay bar), I was happy to set aside my own preferences this weekend for a woman who has done the same for me countless times in the past. And cleaning bathrooms just fucking sucks, plain and simple, but I concede that it is something that should be done from time to time.
More so than any other part of my challenge thus far, Week 8 has taught me that the key to success is not the arbitrary excision of those elements that do not directly relate to music, but instead being able to balance my central goal with the other necessities in my life. I suppose this is probably true for any aspiration, but I think the idea of balance is especially important for artistic pursuits, as one must not let the time spent reflecting on one's experiences overrun the time spent having experiences that are worth reflecting upon. Jamming and songwriting have always served to help digest those experiences that have shaped me as an individual. This may seem obvious for songs with lyrics, but it is also true for instrumental pieces. This is not to say that there is always a one-to-one correlation between events and musical riffs; it's not as if I say to myself, "Oh boy, I can't wait to write a song about scrubbing shit particles off of my toilet." Instead, there is a sort of general connection between the range of emotions I have recently felt and the range of melodic ideas that appear in my music.
----
The boy eventually returned to the wise man, his face covered in dirt, flower petals in his hair, and a half-eaten scone in his hand. "Well! It looks like you've had a fun time, eh?" asked the wise man, playfully. The boy nodded, happily munching on the treat he had pilfered from the kitchen. "And where is the oil?" asked the wise man, sternly. The boy slowly swallowed his last bite as a look of sheer panic ran through his eyes. He looked down at the spoon in his hand, casually hanging down at his side without a single drop of oil in it. "As you now know, it is easy enough to focus on the spoon, and it is easy enough to focus on the world around you. The meaning of life lies in one's ability to do both."
----
Week 8 total: 24 hours
Grand total: 185.5 hours
Required pace: 154 hours (+31.5)
----
When I first began my 1000-hour quest, I thought that success or failure would be determined by how much I would be willing to sacrifice. How early would I be willing to wake up to start my daily routine? How many nights would I be willing to spend alone? What other interests would I have to put on hold in order to make time for guitar? It is true that I have made some of those sacrifices in order to insure the successful completion of my journey. I almost always have at least 2 hours of practice time completed before I eat lunch, and there have been some weeks in which I haven't spent a single night out with my dudebros. Wikipedia, which I have been passionately editing for the past 5 years, now finds itself on the back-burner.
However, it is becoming apparent to me that blindly cutting everything out my life is both impossible and highly undesirable. Last week, my best dudefriend invited me to join him on an epic all-day kayaking adventure; the next day, I was ordered by my matriarch to clean the upstairs bathroom; this entire weekend was reserved for a surprise birthday celebration in New York City for a close friend from college. As tempting as it was to just activate hermit crab mode and stay in my room, I did each of these things without hesitation, as they were all completely necessary in their own way. I look forward to paddle-powered aquatic shenanigans every summer, and it was simply not an option to let this adventure pass me by just because of my practice goals. As much as I absolutely detest the clubbing scene (to the point that I almost had a panic attack while dancing at a ridiculously overcrowded gay bar), I was happy to set aside my own preferences this weekend for a woman who has done the same for me countless times in the past. And cleaning bathrooms just fucking sucks, plain and simple, but I concede that it is something that should be done from time to time.
More so than any other part of my challenge thus far, Week 8 has taught me that the key to success is not the arbitrary excision of those elements that do not directly relate to music, but instead being able to balance my central goal with the other necessities in my life. I suppose this is probably true for any aspiration, but I think the idea of balance is especially important for artistic pursuits, as one must not let the time spent reflecting on one's experiences overrun the time spent having experiences that are worth reflecting upon. Jamming and songwriting have always served to help digest those experiences that have shaped me as an individual. This may seem obvious for songs with lyrics, but it is also true for instrumental pieces. This is not to say that there is always a one-to-one correlation between events and musical riffs; it's not as if I say to myself, "Oh boy, I can't wait to write a song about scrubbing shit particles off of my toilet." Instead, there is a sort of general connection between the range of emotions I have recently felt and the range of melodic ideas that appear in my music.
----
The boy eventually returned to the wise man, his face covered in dirt, flower petals in his hair, and a half-eaten scone in his hand. "Well! It looks like you've had a fun time, eh?" asked the wise man, playfully. The boy nodded, happily munching on the treat he had pilfered from the kitchen. "And where is the oil?" asked the wise man, sternly. The boy slowly swallowed his last bite as a look of sheer panic ran through his eyes. He looked down at the spoon in his hand, casually hanging down at his side without a single drop of oil in it. "As you now know, it is easy enough to focus on the spoon, and it is easy enough to focus on the world around you. The meaning of life lies in one's ability to do both."
----
Week 8 total: 24 hours
Grand total: 185.5 hours
Required pace: 154 hours (+31.5)
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