The hurting musician: why performers resist letting go of limitations.

As an Alexander Technique teacher, I am usually the last resort for the hurting musician. The difficulties of playing major literature can cause pain or injury, which often exists a long time before someone tries Alexander Technique. If a performer is in physical trouble, one of three situations has usually occurred before I am consulted: surgery has been recommended and seriously considered; the performer has resigned herself to the reality that hard passages will always cause strain and pain; if the pain is severe enough, the performer is considering abandoning a career she loves to be free of the struggle. Yet, when I offer musicians the possibility of effortless, accurate performance that would end their limitations on the instrument, they sometimes choose not to commit to the necessary changes.

During lessons, I present physical solutions to technical problems, which is what the Alexander Technique is about--but I also address psychological resistance to problem solving and trouble shooting.

Being on the verge of ending his career can cause a musician to resist removing the limitations of pain and injury. Tired and exhausted, the hurting musician has forgotten he once loved music and just wants to be free of the tyranny of daily practice and the struggle for perfection. Subconsciously, the hurting musician wants to find out that I cannot help--then quitting will be justified, and he is free. From the first lesson, I have to be aware of this pull between wanting to quit and desiring to continue. I want to help the student rediscover his original reason for playing.

I believe that coming to an Alexander Technique lesson signals that the student is still open to physical and psychological solutions to pain and to a solution to the drudgery of repetitive practice. Deep down, the hurting musician knows there is still the possibility of joyous and pain-free playing.

Many classical musicians are trained to be in a constant state of criticism. Thus, their playing is guaranteed to never be good enough. This constant state of self-criticism hurts emotionally. As a guitarist, I pushed myself, hunkered down and practiced until I played well, but I never stopped criticizing myself. I did not realize this ingrained habit was interfering with what had brought me great joy. Because of this way of practicing, I was burned out at age 23. After spending nearly eight hours a day practicing at the Royal College of Music, I ended up collapsing in despair as I left the college.

A few years later, I discovered a book by Luigi Bonpensiem, New Pathways to Piano Technique. This book gave me exactly what I wanted--a way to play effortlessly and fearlessly. It taught me that if I knew where I was going on the guitar, and if I trusted my hands and withdrew all effort to hit the mark, I would not miss. This is exactly what happened. Every time I slipped back into trying to play perfectly, I remembered to release and trust my hands, and they hit the mark. I discovered at age 25 what a prodigy naturally does at age 5.

As a concert guitarist, I was a very good player, even as a struggler, but now I had found the holy grail of effortless accuracy. I was no longer afraid of mistakes because I had faith in the accuracy of my body. What did I do? I quit for good.

I quit because I was not willing to let my new-found accuracy become part of me, to allow myself to become the performer I had so much wanted to be. Because I was burying my anger and tears, never grieving for my lost time, I was overwhelmed. Even the Bonpensiere book could not help me after I returned to the United States. All these years later, I understand that to accept the gift of freedom from technical limitations, a musician must move beyond the years of struggle by acknowledging and expressing disappointments and by forgiving herself and teachers who gave all they could.

To grieve is to let out the tears of anger and sadness for the time lost to exhaustion from repetitive and thoughtless practice, negative reinforcement, failing to trust your body and working too hard with a poor and inefficient technique. Only after grieving can one claim the gentleness and compassion that was not offered or accepted in the learning and mastering of the instrument. Better late than never is true.

Trusting the hands, voice or embouchure to hit the mark is critical, and there are clear physical and technical habits that need to be addressed if you are going to be able to trust your body not to fail you.

I recently gave an organist her first Alexander Technique lesson. She recounted that at her undergraduate recital, she had played beautifully, showing potential she did not know she had to be a fine performer. She was never able to recapture that freedom and ease of performance and did not go on to perform regularly in concerts.

In this first session I addressed postural, technical, psychological and spiritual issues because I saw she was ready to accept this much change. She worked diligently to play well for me. I told her I did not want to focus on how well she played--I was only interested in having her discover how to reclaim what she had done in college and how to have this be her way of playing consistently. This college recital had been such a profound experience for her, that its memory kept her playing. It had been for her as powerful emotionally and spiritually as it had musically.

The first habit I saw was that she leaned into the keyboard, holding herself up for balance, so she didn't fall onto the pedals. I asked her to balance upright on the bench, so she would not have to use her arms, fingers and shoulders to keep from slipping off the bench. How different and easy this felt! I told her to stop pressing on the keys after they hit bottom and to play at a tempo that allowed her to play without leaning into the keyboard. Again, a flash of truth that it could be easy to play. I then asked her to become aware of how much tension she could remove from her hips, ankles and feet as she played the pedals. I had her balance on her sit bones and allow her legs to move without using tension to create accuracy.

Next, I asked her to release the tension in her neck and shoulders and be aware of allowing space between her head and the keyboard. I then asked her to breathe. There is no reason for a non-wind instrumentalist to ever hold her breath, no matter how difficult the passage.

These physical instructions were removing what did not work and leaving only what worked. She was now beginning to feel what she had experienced at that memorable recital.

Next, I introduced the idea of playing only as a gift, which Dr. John Diamond has written so beautifully about in Life Energy in Music, volumes I, II and III. I had her play as a gift for me, then as a gift for herself, then as a gift for someone she loved dearly, then as a gift for God and finally as a gift for us all. It was profound. The intention of playing only as a gift, removing what did not work physically and trusting her hands took her fully back to what she had done years ago. She now had the tools to do consistently what she had been seeking for such a long time.

We talked of grieving for 20 lost years, and that she may decide it is necessary to let out these tears. If she can forgive herself and her teachers for not seeing what she needed, then she can move forward and be the organist she always wanted to be, whenever she chooses.

Ethan Kind is an Alexander Technique teacher, certified at the American Center for the Alexander Technique in New York City. He has a private practice in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and is an adjunct professor at Wake Forest University, Salem College and the University of North Carolina at Greensboro.