From Music Camps to Music Cities

Zoom lessons, Friday night livestream on Instagram, and virtual album release parties are all examples of how pandemic life has pushed musicians into the clouds. The social gatherings that normally define the year for many old time musicians instead morphed into a Facebook group called “Quarantine Happy Hour.” With the number of members approaching 20K, this group easily dwarfs the number of any old time music festival from the past. The group runs nightly concerts that receive great enthusiasm and participation, giving participants the ability not only to reach a wide audience, but also receive some income in the form of virtual tip jars. The QHH is just a slice of the new online music scene. Countless musicians took the opportunity to livestream performances in 2020, including many of the industry’s most recognizable names, like Yo-Yo Ma, John Legend, and Chris Martin. Album productivity remained steady, with heavy hitters such as Taylor Swift releasing not one, but two albums.

Acoustic music Facebook group, “Quarantine Happy Hour” is an online music festival that has been running for over a year. The group features nearly 20,000 members

Despite the forming of cloud communities, daily livestream performances, online tip jars, and steady artistic productivity, major questions hover over the music industry as the world transitions past COVID:

• Do struggling small businesses have the financial resources to pay live music?

• Will closed concert halls and music venues reopen?

• Is it worth touring over live-streaming all year round?

• When will big businesses and online streaming platforms start valuing music?

• Should musicians currently focus on teaching full time instead of performing full time?

• Does a career in music provide any security whatsoever?

• What will happen when another crises takes place?

• And many more………..

Additionally, there are gaps in the pre-pandemic musician life that the new online music scene and social media does not address. Those gaps are largely, and perhaps ironically, social. The lag time and 2D representation on Zoom is no substitute for an in-person lesson or workshop. The energy emanating from a crowd when they recognize their favorite song from a band gets lost when alone on the comfort of a couch.

Festivals in the past have provided an “oasis for musicians to teach, learn, collaborate and create”, as the Fretboard Journal described the Shasta Music Summit. They also provided a much needed escape from the daily grind of ordinary life, giving participants a sense of adventure, community, and creativity all at once. These traits are why attendees call festivals like Weiser, a famous old time music festival in the state of Idaho, “Christmas in June.” In a totally online environment, this sense of escape is at least somewhat lost, as the moment one closes the laptop, it’s back to normal. Back to everyday stresses.

Musical performance at the Shasta Music Summit

Aside from the social failure of the online music scene, the financial end of the spectrum presents steep challenges as well. Spotify, Amazon, Apple Music, and other streaming services leave the artist little financial incentive to stay motivated. The already shaky confidence musicians had in streaming platforms reached a new low in 2020 when Spotify CEO Daniel Ek said, “…obviously, some artists that used to do well in the past may not do well in this future landscape, where you can’t record music once every three to four years and think that’s going to be enough.” Bandcamp was praised by musicians for offering all proceeds to the artist once a month during 2020, showing just how little music artists expect from the current landscape.

Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

COVID hasn’t brought down the music industry. If anything, it has revealed problems that already existed, and forced musicians to think of creative solutions to these problems, rather than continue to silently ignore them. Furthermore, the pandemic has forced many music traditionalists and purists to take a closer look at technology and how it can help in navigating the way music is presented and secured in modern society.

Speaking of solutions, one has to wonder, what would happen if the strengths of the new online music scene were combined with the strengths of the traditional music scene?

If one combined the technology of live streaming and Zoom instruction together with the community of in-person collaboration, music would continue to reach all corners of the world without losing the important aspect of interpersonal connection. However, there’s one important piece of technology missing: cryptography. When cryptography becomes utilized, musicians can then generate their own cryptocurrency, thereby eliminating the third parties who continually profit from an ever-increasing musical workload.

When one takes all of these combined solutions into account, it starts to look a whole lot like the formation of a startup city, or possibly many startup cities.

How to start a new city

- Build a community in the cloud
- Organize economy around remote work
- Enforce laws with smart contracts
- Practice in-person norms of civility
- Simulate architecture in VR
- Eventually, crowdfund territory
- And materialize city into the real world

— balajis.com (@balajis) June 6, 2020

According to Balajis, it takes 7 steps to create a startup city. Many of which, thanks to the adjustments brought about by COVID, legions of musicians have already achieved. As illustrated, in 2020, even a niche musical community like old time regional music can form a strong cloud-based presence. Indeed, a musical subgenres like old time is a unique feature in which to build an identity of a city.

The second step in the framework of Balajis is to organize an economy around remote work. This is where the experience of high-quality remote recordings, lessons, and livestreams comes into play. The economy of the new music city would be to export the music under it’s own cryptocurrency. Let’s call the city’s currency a “NOTE”. Nearly every recording, lesson, and live concert would be doubly live and streamed at the same time, thereby fulfilling all of the possible audience experiences. The city would create it’s own streaming platform for audiences to listen to around the world. Through the usage of smart contracts, every one of these experiences would cost a small fee in the value of a “NOTE”, which would then be sent directly to the artist. As the world starts admiring the music coming from the city, and in-person shows start to gain traction, the currency would continue to grow in value.

The logistics of running a music city seem fairly straightforward given the hundreds of years of resourceful living that musicians have practiced. Whether touring on the road or camping for weeks at festivals, musicians have honed their communities to achieve a great deal of joy and civility.

As simple as expansion from a musical camp to a musical city sounds, how would one get started?

The notorious financial struggles of artists has given way to numerous crowd funding projects over recent years. On Kickstarter, musician Amanda Palmer raised almost $1.2 million for the funding of one album alone. If fans want to see music from a musical supergroup in the form of a city, they will find a way to fund it.

All that’s left is to build, and then listen to the resulting music.

Proving Grounds For Hacking Flow

Halfway up the small mountain side, I pause to check in on my body. Around 15 minutes in, this is the point where I turned back just one month ago. Shockingly, I feel completely fine. In fact, maybe too fine for the experience to even begin to make sense. The temperature is topping out at -12C, and I'm the only one on the mountain wearing nothing but trainers and shorts. The extremely rare individual who passes by on this normally popular hiking trail looks like they're dressed for exploring antarctica.

Clearly, there's no time for a wandering mind in states like these.

Each time the effects of the cold ramp up, I focus a little deeper, feeling the frosty impact fully, and my internal thermostat kicks in. Heat seems to rush through my veins right when I need it most.

Two things are keeping my mind silent and focused: motivation and survival. Motivation to get to the top, to go beyond my overly rational view of the world, and maybe to confirm what I've always hoped, that we can do more than we think. That's what the top symbolizes for me.

Then there's the case of surviving. Either out of confidence or sheer foolishness, I decided to leave behind any spare clothing or emergency gear. It feels like one of the few times in my life that I've burned my ships. And it feels good. Full commitment. I have to survive. I have to keep my limbs. I have to stay calm. I have to know that I can do this. I have to adapt right now, not tomorrow or next week.

Each abnormally heavy breath, which I adapted from Wim Hof (known around the world as the “Iceman”), sends a shroud of arctic air in front of me.

Following one breath and one step at a time, I manage to reach the top. This reality seemed like an impossible task a month ago, yet here I am, gazing out at snow-caked peaks in the distance.

At this point, I can't help but wonder how such adaptation and strengthening of willpower could happen so quickly. It looks like I'll reach the bottom at around the 1-hour mark. Using this timeframe, the simple math shows that my body is nearly 4 times more effective at dealing with the cold than just one month earlier.

A sense of pride burns within. It seems my ego has finally arrived at the scene.

Before setting off back down, one guy rushes out from the warmth of the top visitor center. “Hey! Are you okay?” he cries. It's all I can do to not shout back with, “Do I look like I'm okay?”

---

In another time and place, something similar is going on. Tonight, though, I happen to be sitting on a bed in my pajamas—in a heated apartment—with a musical instrument across my knee.

My right and left hands correlate in seamless unison across eight strings of a mandolin. It's 1am, and I still can't stop. Playing music right now is more nourishing than sleep.

For musicians, the terms “Bach” and “easy” usually don't belong in the same sentence. The intricate Bach passage I'm playing feels like I've know it inside-and-out all along. The reality is, I just learned it some hours ago.

When moving from one clear-struck note to another, the back of my mind is filled with a certain sense of awe. It almost seems like I'm playing mandolin for the first time again after 15 years. And what's funny is I don't feel like “I” am doing anything. Music is happening while “I,” or my ego, is sitting back, just listening and taking it all in.

A year ago, or more like a couple of months ago, learning a Bach passage so quickly would have seemed insurmountable, let alone the ability to execute it at this level.

When I finally come back to reality, the late night feeling starts sinking in.

Before drifting off to sleep, I run through a mental review of the experience and find one thought particularly interesting: I could no more describe how I was doing it anymore than I could describe how I am able to walk. In terms of playing the mandolin, much of how I play is the same as in the past. My left-hand technique is still frankly average at best, and my right-hand technique hasn't been adjusted in years.

So, what's going on? What happened?

As someone who has always been a seeker, these two recent apparently unrelated events have weighed my mind with questions ever since. Did they somehow feed off of each other? Is there an obscure connection? Is everything I thought I knew about learning and evolving wrong?

Based on the activities themselves, these two experiences couldn't be further apart. The striking similarities of how they feel internally, though, are too prominent to ignore.

Both times, there is an immersive focus. The only thing largely occupying my mind is the experience itself.

There's also a certain level of risk in each instant. In the case of the cold, the risk is primarily physical. In performing music, whether for yourself or for an audience, the risk is primarily mental and emotional.

But one of the more obvious commonalities between these scenes is the idea of merging with obstacles. In other words, taking on challenges that go beyond our perceived limits bring out the best in us, and in a way, they then become part of our identity, as long as they don't break us first.

Challenges of nearly any type can literally force us into a new approach, as it becomes very clear very quickly that business as usual doesn't cut it. That's when a desire to adapt and change takes root. That's when a merging with obstacles happens.

Behind both scenarios is an identical, clear-driven purpose and goal. The purpose is to show myself and others that we are all capable of doing more than we think. The goal is to reach a new level of personal understanding, awareness, and performance. Such clarity provides a deep will to make it happen.

When there's a boundary-pushing task that we're passionate about, we can finally push aside most of our troubles and worries and just let life flow.

In fact, it appears that the true underlying current connecting these two experiences is what modern society refers to as “flow.”

Steven Kotler, co-founder of the Human Flow Genome Project, refers to flow as an “optimal state of consciousness where we feel our best and perform our best,”....In flow, every action, every decision, arises seamlessly from the last. In this state, we are so focused on the task at hand that all else falls away. Action and awareness merge. Our sense of self vanishes. Our sense of time distorts. And performance goes through the roof.”

One of many revolutionary aspects of flow is it's ability to potentially improve every single area of our lives. Many who consistently experience flow states see radical increases in creativity, learning, and of course, performance. As a result, cultivating flow benefits treks into the cold in shorts as much as it does playing music in a heated den.

We hear, perhaps too often, the old clique, “less is more.” But sometimes cliques catch on for a reason. In flow, instead of an expected increase in brain activity, there's actually a decrease. This shows that there's a fine line between rest and relaxation and high energy output.

Interestingly, this mirrors my minimalist approach to the obstacles at the beginning of the article. Rather than exhausting energy by taking practice and obsession to extreme levels, as in past instances, I sought out ways to delegate energy more efficiently. In other words, the practice rate didn't increase past normal levels. If anything, it decreased.

The extra time left over was put into activities such as mindfulness, focus, conscious breathing, physical exercise, and traveling. With the help of all of these techniques, I was somewhat unknowingly searching for the ability to tap into flow.

If we spend less time on something, though, then we lose effectiveness, right?

It turns out, research suggests flow can enhance human effectiveness and productivity up to at least five times more than normal levels. The number sounds strikingly familiar. If flow really was at the center of my cold hike, it's no wonder that I found myself up to 4 times more effective at adapting to the cold than just one month prior. And I haven't even scratched the 5x surface yet.

Imagine the enormous implications of a work culture where 3 days a week results in much more activity and productivity than the normal 5 day 9 to 5.

Another intriguing aspect surrounding the nature of flow states is its ability to speed up the learning and adaptive processes. It doesn't matter if it's golf, painting, chess, or human relations. Name it, and flow brings about a new level of ease and understanding, even in instances where we're complete beginners.

It's as if flow sits somewhere near the heart of learning and evolution itself.

Sometimes, it can be difficult to know why we naturally excel in some areas of learning but struggle in others. What's more, it can be frustrating when lessons acquired in one subject don't seem to carry over across the board.

An education that gravitates around flow strikes at the core of learning. It connects the dots. It not only helps us to discover our passions and ace school subjects, but it also equips us to deal more effectively with the changes life throws at us outside of the classroom.

With so many potentially tremendous benefits, some of the world's leading organizations, companies and individuals are already making flow an integral point of focus. These include one of the world's most effective task forces, the Navy Seals (who call the ability to tap into flow “flipping the switch”), innovative companies Google, Pixar, and Facebook, and individual success giants Richard Branson and Larry Page.

Flow is a revolutionary framework modeled to decrease our workload and optimize productivity at the same time. It's what might allow us to effectively deal with the information overload and frantic pace of modern society. If we are able to 5x our output, we can spend less energy and less time while getting more done. And honestly, 5x feels like a modest number to describe the potential.

As a matter of first-hand experience, the more we push our limits physically, mentally, and spiritually, merging with challenges and personal goals that connect with us individually and collectively, the more we cultivate flow and find what we are truly capable of. Happiness, creativity, and health naturally rise when we efficiently delegate our time and energy in ways that matter to us.

When we continually become aware of just how far we can take it, momentary flow “states” start turning into lingering flow “traits”, as Jamie Wheal puts it. Flow traits ultimately lead to an expansion of consciousness and a transformation of character.

To simplify with numbers, building a life around flow means this: 1 hour is as nourishing as 5 normal hours. 1 day is as effective as 5 normal days. 1 week amounts to 5 weeks. 1 year amounts to 5 years. 10 years amounts to an incredible 50 years.

Did I mention that flow can improve our lives? Find out. Flip the switch.

10,000 Hours And Counting

Driving over empty roads at 12:30am in rural country has that unique ability to bring lurking emotions out of the shadows. As usual, it's after the gig. Sometimes I feel high and inspired on these late night road trips, reflecting on how me and the audience synchronized through the simple act of producing and receiving sound. Other nights, it's negativity that grabs the reigns, and I feel as helpless as a horse in the hands of a skilled rider. This time, it happens to be one of those nights.

Inside a heated cab, frustrating memories from earlier in the evening flash through my mind like the brightest stars streaking above my windshield. I'm driving 70mph, but my mind's driving angrier and racing faster. Earlier, my band once again found ourselves battling background music, dealing with disinterest, receiving small appreciation, and even smaller tips. We were the featured entertainment for the evening, but we couldn't compete with the large muted screens, let alone the tiny ones. Unfortunately, it's not an anomaly. The feeling is all too familiar.

The performance sets an underlying tone to the week, but if there's one bit of relief I can squeeze out of the situation, it's that at least I have a steady-ish gig—a place where I can often literally take the stage and express myself. Many musicians would find that to be a win despite everything else. But on the weekend, I get a call from my band leader. He usually texts. Yes, the last positive disappears. 20 years of dedication to my craft doesn't even earn an explanation or personal conversation with the employer. Come to think of it, what has it earned? But I'm not sure if I'm really surprised, considering similar occurrences have happened multiple times over. Regardless, as it sinks in, fuel is added to the fire. Confidence wobbles. The downward spiral is in full swing.

When events like these take place, they always seem to follow a nearly identical pattern: resentment forms, aimed at the outside circumstances, but before long, the blame turns inward. Emotions run their course, and disempowering questions surface like unwanted side effects. "Why am I not better? When will I succeed? What do I mean, when? "'If'" is more like it. Will I ever succeed at all? And what does success even mean?" Then, there it is, the one question that always seems to cut through the rest: "Was 10,000 hours worth it?" No, it's not the first time this thought has paid a visit, nor the second or third. In fact, this question or various permutations of it has impacted me so many times that I actually gave it it's very own name: naturally, the "10,000 hour question." Why 10,000? It's the basically arbitrary, but common, number of hours that society thinks is necessary to master a skill. For me, including the mental practice over a 20-year span, it almost feels more like 20,000 hours. Ironically though, in this moment, I feel further away from mastery than ever. Each time the "10,000 hour question" visits, the sting swells up a little more than the last.

In the days immediately after, it is so easy to find reasons to answer this seemingly important question with an emphatic "no." 10,000 hours for what? Only to be drowned by excessive conversation time and time again? Only to feel less relevant than the twice-told joke three tables down? Only to be constantly dealt with as an outsider in "the band?" Only to be found indispensable at the highest branches of power? Only to find the art failing to connect with people? I have no choice but to let it simmer—for days.

And it does take some days later, on a walk in familiar places, when I finally feel a slight change in the wind. For me, nature has always had a way of healing a bruised ego, perhaps by its subtle hint of perspective, or maybe because it listens. Today, nature has my mind seeing clearly, and I keep receiving a thought that negativity implies positivity. As an artist, I'm ever-so-slowly learning to accept and recognize these negative states. Just because some feelings are dark and gloomy doesn't mean they are any less right or important than the positive ones.

Often I forget that all forms of feeling are beautiful in their own way. Intense reactions, like frustration and loss, provide bridges to insight. In a single evening, I gained more respect than ever for those who continue to make art, despite the setbacks. In a single evening, I learned that a genuine show of appreciation can mean the world to someone. In a single evening, I learned that one's insecurities and vulnerabilities can be powerful driving forces. And yet, it was these negative feelings, the "wrong" feelings, that helped me see the world a little differently from the day before.

I'm starting to see the pin of light, and a pin is enough to provide much-needed guidance. When revisiting my age-old "10,000 hour question," a surprising thought develops. What happens is that the question itself feels flawed. This time, from a place of macro, big-picture thinking, I simply don't see a relevant or useful answer. The whole experience begins to remind me of what author James P. Carse calls "finite" and "infinite" games.

As artists, when facing the inner art critic from an emotionally compromised state, we tend to get trapped in the finite game. Those playing the finite game see their lives through a lens of results, constantly judging experiences, emotions, and feelings as a win or a loss. In this way, it is not good to feel negatively, or to experience melancholy states, as they aren't a desired result. A loss implies that we can't reach our goals. But still, there is always some place to get to, and if we finally arrive, then there's a new place just around the corner. One who asks the "10,000 hour question" while playing a finite game will likely be met with core-rocking anxiety and resentment.

Luckily, there is another side to the coin, and it's called the infinite game. Those who start playing this game begin to see existence as a continuous process. It's a state where we see that every experience, emotion, thought, and feeling matters. Playing the infinite game is a realization that life is an opportunity for endless growth. It's not about results as much as it is a process of constant learning, or of molding and shaping who we are as individuals and who we are as a society.

For musicians or artists in the modern age, there are times when we feel like we're becoming fixtures of the past, or that the deck is already stacked against us economically. The 10,000 hours of time that we put in might feel more like a badge of sheer madness than honor. However, when the ever-present inner art critic wonders whether to keep going, or excessively ruminates over seemingly persistent negative results, we can choose to focus and reflect on what empowers us.

As futurist and digital visionary Kevin Kelly eloquently expresses: "There are two kinds of games in the universe: finite games and infinite games. A finite game is played to win...An infinite game, on the other hand, is played to keep the game going...to explore every way to play the game, to include all games, all possible players, to widen what is meant by playing, to spend all, to hoard nothing, to seed the universe with improbable plays, and if possible to surpass everything that has come before." If we play the finite game, we tend to see 10,000 hours as evidence of our own insanity. If we play the infinite game, we see our major usage of time as evidence of who we are, and who we might be able to become. So, instead of struggling to answer the "10,000 hour question," or one of its close cousins, it could be time to start openly asking better questions altogether. In other words, what game will we choose to play?

Stravinsky's Prediction

With an extensive history of music already in place, one might wonder, what more could possibly be accomplished? Are there really any musical components left for radical exploration? Here is how Igor Stravinsky, one of music's most historically celebrated composers, decisively answered a similarly posed question:

“Yes, pitch. I even risk a prediction that pitch will comprise the main difference between the “music of the future” and our music.”

— Igor Stravinsky, Memories and Commentaries

Why would Stravinsky say that the transformation of pitch is the future of music?

If we look at the components of a single musical tone, whether it be from the voice or any instrument in the world, we see an endless series of pitches, many of which have still never been heard consciously in isolation, let alone heard in a musical or harmonic context. These sounds within one sound, or pitches inside one tone, which I will now refer to as partials, could be the music of the future that Stravinsky predicted. Partials work with largely different rules and principles than those that have already been established.

One reason for the discovery of additional partials, along with the expansion of what pitches are deemed acceptable, is modern technology. In Stravinsky's time, along with all the ages before, there was not an efficient way of isolating, and thereby hearing and discovering, complex partials. Only with relatively recent advancements in science and technology are we able to bring the more complex and higher partials into our listening experience.

With further advancements in technology, modern instruments can play nearly any combination of tones and partials that can be conceived. As in many areas of life, the modern era is a unique time for musicians to be alive due to the contemporary opportunities and changes that only this period has yet been able to provide. Certainly, a number of musical creators from the past would be envious of our current circumstances, for many of those prominent composers and players felt limited by the constraints of their generation. Even Arnold Schoenberg, a true innovator in his time, articulated:

“We ought never to forget that the tempered system was only a truce, which should not last any longer than the imperfection of our instruments requires. I think, then, contrary to the point of view of those who take indolent pride in the attainments of others and hold our system to be the ultimate, the definitive musical system—contrary to that point of view, I think we stand only at the Beginning. We must go ahead!”

— Arnold Schoenberg, Theory of Harmony

Perhaps we are entering that age where imperfection need not last any longer.

Theoretical Music - A Definition

           Those who have discussed the subject of music with myself recently know that I prefer to use the term "theoretical music" (TM) when describing musical functions. Naturally, this phrase is met with slight confusion, as I am currently unaware of its usage anywhere else.

Theoretical Music: 
            A division of music that uses cognitive processing, mathematics, and aspects of the scientific method to understand and explain musical phenomena.

            Along with the simple definition above, theoretical music attempts to examine music from alternate systems and perspectives. For example, approaching certain musical concepts in a mathematical, physical, or even philosophical way can provide new insights. It's not just intellectual comprehension that these multiple perspectives provide. They also present ways to enhance and progress the practical, creative musical landscape. See my post titled M=m for a more in-depth look at how mathematical operations support music, and vice versa.

            A theoretical musician studies how music works with a scientific and evidence-based, while at the same time open, mindset. She forms ideas from creative thinking, then tests and validates these theories through reasoning and experimentation. Curiosity is vital, and with the consistent practice of theoretical music, she continually questions and shapes the existing musical understanding found in modern society.

            Other terms that deal with explaining musical functions are often rigidly entrenched and settled through years of cultivation and tradition. Theoretical music offers a chance to doodle and muse about the workings of music with a "clean slate," where the ideas therein carry no offense to any establishment. In other words, TM is its own practice with unique skills and interests. Being a theoretical musician is as simple as applying and utilizing the definition above. If these principles already come naturally to you, it is surely already adding to our understanding of how music works. If this is the first time hearing about these ideas, welcome to the world of theoretical music!