We’re not, however, blank slates. Even as beginners, we have automatic responses built into us. In a primal context, that’s a good thing. Automatic responses—for example, fight or flight—kept us alive when we were on the menu of hungry predators. But in more sophisticated (and less lethal) contexts, automatic responses can sabotage what we’re trying to do.
It helps to know how automatic responses can derail you during practice. If you’re alert to these subconscious quirks, then you can tame them, and thus keep them from slowing your progress. So in that spirit, let’s examine some common culprits that stand in your way.
Symmetry Bias
I often have beginners play “Frère Jacques” in G major. Here are the first four notes:
But when trying to play this for the first time, beginners invariably make this error:
Almost without exception, every beginner does this. And here’s the revealing thing: different beginners don’t make different errors—they all make the same error. (Over decades of teaching, I could’ve made a tidy sum betting beginners on what mistake they’d make when first trying to play this measure.)
Why?
The answer is that we have a hardwired and subconscious bias for symmetry. If a melody on the guitar creates a physical symmetry for our left hand, it’s easier to play. Notice, however, that the first four notes of “Frère Jacques” create an asymmetric movement. In essence, the left hand movement for the first four notes is “off, on, off, off.” Subconsciously, we prefer “off, on, off, on.” So unwary beginners give in to this bias. They instinctively change the asymmetric movement into something more symmetric.
Symmetry bias never entirely goes away. Even with advanced players, it lies in wait to pounce upon the unwary. It’s a relentless enemy. Know it well.
False Expectations
Here’s a passage from a piece intended for beginners:
When beginners get it wrong, they do this:
There’s an obvious reason for this error: those who make it aren’t accurately counting the second measure. But this error has another less obvious reason. To a beginner, after the litany of eighth notes in the first measure, the second measure’s half notes just seem too long. Playing the half notes as quarter notes feels more correct. (Experienced musicians notice the anomaly of a two beat measure in a common time piece—beginners, alas, don’t.)
Humans are wired to leap to conclusions. We abhor uncertainty. When faced with a lacuna, we instinctively fill it in—the quicker, the better. As long as our hasty interpolation conforms to our expectations, we’re satisfied. (I recall playing a wrong note in a piece for sixteen years, until another guitarist pointed out my mistake.) The irony of false expectations is this: the better your musical sense, the more likely you are to unknowingly alter the music. Your robust musical sense will lull you into accepting whatever inadvertent changes you make.
Overcomplexity
Some years ago I was practicing this passage:
On the first try, I botched the bar chord. My annoyance grew as the passage refused to get better on repeated tries. Then I noticed something. My second finger on the D# in the measure before the bar chord was the same finger holding the D# in the bar chord. Yet inexplicably, I was lifting this finger and then putting it back in the same spot. This made getting into the bar chord harder than it needed to be. Indeed, why lift the second finger at all? Just keep it in place as a pivot finger. So I did. On my next try, the passage snapped into focus. Simplifying the movement immediately solved the problem. (Now I was annoyed that it took so long to find this obvious solution.)
Sometimes errors are the result of unnecessarily complex fingerings. Fingerings should be as simple as we can make them. Mind you, this isn’t an excuse to accept unmusical playing in the pursuit of simplicity. If a tougher fingering gives a musical result that can’t be done with an easier fingering, then the tougher fingering is a valid choice. (Provided one can do it.) But if two fingerings—one difficult, the other easy—offer the same musical result, then the easier fingering wins every time.
Overcomplexity may not seem related to unthinking automatic responses. But it is. Too often we accept a fingering without thinking it through. We try to make a needlessly complex fingering work when, with some thought, a better fingering might be possible.
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What intrigues me about these errors is that they’re entirely automatic. Commonly, we’re no more aware of them than a computer is aware that it’s running faulty code. But equally intriguing is that they’re so reliably predictable. When assigning to a beginning student music I’ve used for years, I often can pinpoint the exact errors the student will make. Student after student, young or old—if they’re beginners, the errors are virtually the same. And these unconscious errors have the same basic cause: inattentive practice that allows our automatic biases to take over. So to become efficient practicers, we must accept that eternal vigilance is the price of better progress.
Indeed, I’ve become increasingly hostile to the notion of mindless practice. The reports that Franz Liszt practiced scales while reading a novel infuriate me. (To those who take umbrage at my dissent with Liszt: if he advocated jumping off a cliff, would you do it?) And recently I read the following online post:
“I watch television all the time while practicing. I just learn better that way. This way, I’m splitting my concentration between the television and whatever I’m playing—it helps me develop an auto-pilot mode.”
To which I reply: “No. No! NO!” Mindless practice invites the automatic errors I’ve described above. (A friend of mine aptly dubbed it “anti-practice.”) A mindless error, cemented by routine, becomes exasperatingly hard to root out. Mindless practice means wasting countless hours undoing what might have been avoided with more attention.
Abraham Lincoln once said: “If I had eight hours to cut down a tree, I would spend six hours sharpening my axe.”
He might’ve been a fine musician.
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