Honor the Rest

I tell my students all the time, "Honor the rest." Most of my students will clip rests short or otherwise completely ignore them. I remind them that rests don't get zero-value but that a quarter rest gets one full beat of silence, just like a quarter note gets one full beat of sound. 

But I get it. My students aren't the only ones who rush the rests. 

I rush rests.
My colleagues rush rests.
Every choir I've sung in rushes rests.
Every band I've heard rushes rests. 

If nature abhors a vacuum, then musicians despise silence, so we rush to fill that silence with sound. This framework suggests a wrong understanding of musical silence because a rest is not a vacuum. It does not suck energy out of a musical phrase. 

I can hear a former choir director saying, "What's the purpose of a rest?" And we'd respond with, "To reenergize the music!"

Musical silence - the essence of timing - carves sharp lines of energy in the music. A prolonged grand pause generates suspense. A percussive kick is preceded by the briefest of 8th rests; the antecedent silence jump-starts the rhythm. 

Every symphonic musician knows that the silence between movements creates space for the preceding movement to settle and the subsequent movement to begin. This is why symphonic musicians brace themselves for the inter-movement scherzo of coughs and grunts from the audience. 

People truly abhor a vacuous space. 

I'm learning that my mind and body do not tolerate rest from training. I've placed a 90-day moratorium on all athletic competitions to allow my body to rest from a busy season of endurance races. Despite no races on my calendar, I'm still training, as if there's a triathlon next week. 

Crosstraining 3-4 days a week.
Two days in the pool.
Two days on the bike.
A run thrown in there.

It shouldn't have taken a Newtonian genius to determine that a body in motion tends to stay in motion; look at an endurance athlete. Indiana State Auditor Chris Traeger *literally* spoke for all of us.

Over Memorial Day weekend, I forced myself to slow down. I didn't get on my bike, even though the weather was gorgeous, because my body was beat. When I wanted to run, I walked my neighborhood instead. I even took a few midday naps on my sofa with the cat curled up on my belly. I didn't like any of it. My muscles felt restless; my mind felt low-key anxious. 

I wanted to rush through this rest, ignoring what my body wanted to do. My ego was worried that a slower training program would ruin any fitness I've built up. 

Yet my musical experience knows that rest reenergizes the musical body; rest doesn't suck the musicality out of me. Following the success of our Murder, She Wrote concert, I took a week off from practicing any music, and I felt no guilt in doing so. Over the holiday weekend, I ran through the entire program in preparation for our final concert, and I discovered, to my delight, that all my musicality was still in my fingers. Rest refreshed my mind to return to a more vigorous practice routine. 

So why do I feel so anxious about physical rest? I have decades of experience with music but only a few years of experience with athletics. I'm learning yet again that my lifetime with music is teaching me a valuable lesson about fitness. Honor the rest. It energizes your life. 

Event Recap: Murder, She Wrote at the Graveyard

There's a trifecta of conditions for a musician's dream concert: a sold-out concert, a packed house, and a unique venue to bring the music to life. On Friday, May 16th, my friend Patrick and I got to bring our dream to life, and I'd like to share the experience with you. 

The Music

Every year, Patrick Jones and I create an art song recital bound by a single theme. In 2023, our program Songs of the People explored the folk song roots of the art song genre. Last year, our recital Triumph Like a Girl showcased music composed by women like Pauline Viardot, Florence Price, and Rene Orth, or lyrics written by women, including Sierra DeMulder and Ada Limon.  

This year, our music took a bloody turn with Murder, She Wrote, a collection of art songs, folk songs, and opera arias exploring our fascination with murder. Popular media like true crime podcasts and Dateline murder mystery documentaries are a contemporary phenomenon. Still, their stories follow a centuries-old narrative tradition centered around one horrifying question: "Who could do such a thing?" We wanted our program to shock the audience not only with the content - our opening song tells the story of a serial killer named False Lamkin who graphically murders a mother and her baby - but also with a mirror: we are the people who cannot get enough of this gory storytelling. What are the ethical conundrums of taking delight in the bloody demise of innocent people? Even the music itself knowingly winks at the audience; False Lamkin kills his victims to the tune of an innocent folk song that sounds reminiscent of British hymnody. 

Patrick and I believed in the power of this program; we both love horror stories (I'd rather not admit how many times I've seen Midsommar or reread Edgar Allan Poe's short stories). But would our venues agree to host a springtime recital about murder? We started cold calling, and we struck gold. 

The local music store agreed to host our concert.

The Episcopal cathedral agreed to host our concert (with a raised eyebrow).

And then, finally, a historic cemetery with Antebellum gravestones invited us to perform our show in the graveyard chapel. 

We couldn't believe our luck. It was an immediate yes from us.

The Trifecta Realized

The day before our program, we received an email from our hosts saying that our concert had sold out. Now, I have played to packed houses before and performed for larger audiences than we would have at Elmwood Cemetery. But never before had I played a sold-out show. 

It turns out that 50 people were wild enough to pay money to hear a 45-minute set about murder in a graveyard chapel on a Friday afternoon. One of my clients pulled her child - my student - out of school early to attend this show! Who could do such a thing, indeed.

Patrick and I came to the venue energized, knowing that our music was in high demand. We found out later that the cemetery was turning audience members away. However, one crucial matter remained: would these people show up?

Sure enough, the audience arrived. Our hosts had to set out one extra chair to accomdate everyone, so we achieved overflow capacity. Not bad for a Friday afternoon concert on a day when it was threatening to storm. 

I looked beyond the amassing audience through the windows into the manicured cemetery, where strong winds whipped through the trees, and gray tombstones were set against the blackening sky. In an instant, I realized the demands of this moment: to play this set of music to the best of my ability and then a little more. 

Patrick Jones and I perform to a full house; in the background, an audience of the dead listen in.

Patrick and I were introduced, and we went to the front of the chapel to begin our concert. From the first bar to the final chord, the audience, venue, music, and musicians created magic over those 45 minutes. We heard gasps at the horror of our stories. People whooped after a beloved aria. After one aria where Patrick's character desperately confesses to his crime, a profound silence overcame the chapel for nearly a minute as the spirits of the graveyard held space for the living. After our program, the audience gave us a rousing ovation, and we graciously took our bows. 

Patrick and I post concert.

The Gift of Gratitude

I try not to be overly critical of my performances, and I tend to blow my mistakes entirely out of proportion. There is no such thing as a perfect concert; in 45 minutes of live music, the musicians will make mistakes.

However, I could genuinely say that our performance at this cemetery concert was an honest A+ graveyard smash. 

Our performance resulted from proper prior preparation, meeting the luck of the moment: a full house, a killer venue, and dedicated musicians. Our show was a concert experience I'll cherish for a long time. 

We perform this show one last time on Sunday, June 8th, 3:00 PM at St. Mary's Episcopal Cathedral. It'd be…criminal if you weren't there. 

Join us for The Final Concert

Event Recap: Annie Oakley Triathlon

There are some events where the main goal is to go faster, and there are other races where you push yourself to go farther. 

The Annie Oakley Triathlon was an example of the latter. 

The Road to an Olympic Triathlon

I ran my first triathlon I 2023, a sprint distance event, and repeated the race the following summer. This year, I pushed myself to try the longer Olympic race. I mean, why not? I had already notched a half marathon and a 25k under my belt, so a 10k was no problem. During the warm months, I log 80-100 miles a week on my bike, so a 25-mile bike ride is merely a Tuesday morning for me. The only thing I had to do was train my body to swim 1500 meters; my longest, contiguous swim before that point was a 750-meter swim. I knew my body could handle it, but that kind of swim is primarily a mental challenge. 

So, I got up early on dark winter mornings to swim dozens of laps in my local YMCA’s pool. Once the weather crept above freezing, I disciplined myself to bike to the pool to acclimate myself to stringing those legs together. Eventually, our wet winter yielded to crisp spring days, and I could log some training miles on the bike. By early March, I began my brick workouts, gradually increasing my volume week after week. 

Triathlon training is, at minimum, a 10-hour weekly part-time job. Each trip to the pool, including the commute, was 75 minutes. Each 20-mile training spin was 75 minutes. My shortest brick workout took 45 minutes, and my longest brick took nearly 2 hours. I also completed three hours of cross-training a week. 

This training all happened while managing a piano studio of 50 students, hosting an annual studio recital, preparing my full-length spring recital, and serving as a bass section leader for the Episcopal cathedral. Yes, I provided the soundtrack for the Passion and Resurrection of our Lord and Savior one week before running this blessed triathlon. 

My social life is the gym, the bike, the pool, and the rehearsal space.

Finally, Race Day Eve was upon me, and I trekked up to Shelby Forest to grab my race pack and prepare for that brutal four AM alarm.

Race Day Play by Play

0400, the alarm goes off. Pointless, since I slept like shit the night before. I grabbed my overnight oats and protein waffle mix out of the fridge while the kettle was heating water for coffee. My cantankerous cat clearly communicated that she expected to be fed as well, as long as we’re up. 

0500, I load my bike on the bike rack and put my race day duffle bag into the car. I turn up the race day hype playlist - Lady Gaga, Beyonce, various ska bands - and drive to Shelby Forest State Park.

0535, I park and unload my gear. I hop on my bike to ride the last mile to the transition area. The referee checked my bike, and I set out all my materials. The sun rises over the lake, and I begin to limber. I jump in the water for a 50m warm-up swim; it’s a refreshing 74º, perfect for swimming. 

0655, the MC calls over all the athletes to the dock and announces the order of waves. Olympic Division women first, then Olympic Men second, individual entrance. I check - and re-check - my swim cap and goggles. My heart rate is slightly elevated because I am eager to get this show on the road. Stay steady, and enjoy the day. Except…

0710, the MC announces a race delay because the ambulance is not onsite. They went to the wrong visitor center of the state park. “It should be only a 5-minute delay; they’re on their way!” The MC is annoyed. The race director is annoyed. I’m annoyed. Every athlete and their mother is annoyed. It took 20 minutes for the ambulance to arrive. What can you do? 

0730, the gun goes off, and we’re in the water. I should back up a second to say, it’s intimidating to see a 1500m swim course laid out on the open water. When you’re used to swimming 25m laps in the pool, 1500 meters feels much more manageable, but on the open water, 1500 meters is a long ass haul. Make like Dory and just keep swimming. 

The hardest part of open water swimming is sighting your buoys to keep on track, especially when swimming right into the rising sun. I couldn’t see anything for a 500-meter stretch of water, so I just tracked with a swimmer slightly ahead of me. I figured if he were off track, then we’d get lost together. Eventually, I reached the terminus of the swim course and turned around to head back to the dock. With the sun behind me, I could keep a more steady pulse. I finished my swim in 32 minutes and returned to the transition area.

0808, I mounted my bike to begin the 25.7-mile bike course, two 12+ mile loops on the beautiful roads of hilly Shelby Forest. I spend my summers biking these roads, so I am intimately familiar with every turn, incline, and dip of the course. It was not my fastest bike leg by a long shot, but I reminded myself that this is a “go farther” race, not a “go faster” race.

On the second lap of the course, in the middle of a tree-covered road, I said aloud to no one in particular, “What a gift to have a body that’s strong enough to do this.” The lengths I competed on this race were the same lengths Olympic triathletes did in the Paris Olympics. How cool is that?

As a word of advice for anyone considering their first triathlon, I hydrate and fuel up on the bike leg.  The hardest part of the race is the last portion, and you can’t fuel up in the first leg (please do not drink the lake water). The bike leg is the best time to recuperate spent energy on the swim while also preparing the hard effort of the run.

The final stretch of the bike course was a steady descent into the transition area, so I stopped pedaling for the last 800 meters and coasted to the bike corrals. While returning to home base, I watched the Sprint division athletes walk their bikes to their cars; they were finished for the morning.

0938, I quickly switched from my cleats to my running shoes and grabbed half of a peanut butter and honey sandwich and my third bike bottle. I walked out of the transition area while eating my snack, watching my heart rate drop to a manageable number. Here's a lesson I learned the hard way from my first triathlon: walking the first little bit of the run leg is okay. I know it's a race, but I strongly recommend walking so your body can reset for the last push. I finished my sammich, took a swig of sports drink, and settled into a trot for the long 10k run. 

If you’ve lost track, I have been racing for 2 hours by now, and I have about one hour of physical activity left.

The most amazing thing happened, though - I felt no pain during the run. I was able to complete this entire race without feeling any pain at all. Oh sure, in the final half mile, I got a wee bit tight in my right quad, but I set that tightness aside by turning on the jets to finish strong. 

Instead of suffering, I chatted with the other athletes on our run. I set pace with a realtor from Jackson, TN, who was training for an Ironman 70.3 in Chattanooga later this month. I cheered on athletes as we ran past each other on the course. The high school volunteers working the Gatorade tables were such a vibe; one girl said, “My pleasure” as she handed me my Gatorade, and I hope she enjoys her new nickname, “Chik-fil-a.” 

1035, I crossed the finish line with a smile on my face. I hit all of my goals for the day.

1500m Swim:
Goal: Finish in 35 minutes AKA just happy to be here
Official result: 34:36.3 (caveat: my watch said I finished in 32:02, with a longer transition time)

25 Mile Bike:
Goal: 17 MPH Pace
Official result: 1:27:37.3 (17.7 MPH pace)

10K Run:
Goal: 9:30 pace, or sub one hour 10K.
Official Result: 58:34.7 (9:37/mi. Slightly slower than I wanted, but still hit a sub-hour 10k)

When I printed my official results out, I saw my efforts earned me a podium spot: 1st place in my age group (40-44, male). Somewhere, some time, 16 year old Jimmy is proud and still confused that he grew up to be this endurance athlete who likes putting his body through hard races. 

This was a great race, and I look forward to running it again next year. 

My Fitness Journey: How Covid Changed Everything

I recently shared my musical journey, so I thought I would write my fitness story. The COVID-19 lockdowns, which began five years ago this month, provided me with space to lay down the foundations of my current life in endurance sports. 

The Briefest Concise History

I was not an athletic child. Sure, I played little league T-ball and soccer when I was a young boy, but I can’t say that I enjoyed those teams. I spent more time drawing in the dirt than playing the game. Once I finished my little league days, I was averse to all sports. There was no room in sports for a boy like me: skinny, quiet, shy, and nerdy. At least, that’s what I believed about myself, and I behaved accordingly.

I did not push myself in PE.
I did not join any sports team in middle school or high school.
I did not go to any sports games at my school. 
I did not hang any posters of athletes on my bedroom walls.
I did not watch any professional sports on TV. 

My fears of fitness were bolstered by middle school bullies picking me last for most PE teams and more muscular high school classmates teasing me for having a lean frame when we were changing clothes for gym class. Most coaches agreed I was a lost cause because they never offered to help me make friends or learn the ropes. I mean that literally; I am still scared to attempt rope climbs. 

I kept away from most sports throughout college. I contented myself to play pick-up games with my school’s ultimate frisbee league after classes a few days a week, and to my belief that I didn’t belong in competitive sports, I never signed up for tournaments.

This trend of avoiding sports continued into my early thirties when I started lifting weights in my alma mater’s gym. I served as an adjunct professor in my old music department, and I gladly used my faculty privileges to lift four or five days a week. I didn’t know what I was doing and may have built sub-par lifting habits. Nonetheless, I enjoyed how it felt to lift heavy things and put them back in place.

COVID Changed Everything

Five years ago this week, gyms worldwide locked down, so I had to figure out how to keep moving my body. I spent my first stimulus check - remember those? - on some resistance bands and a sandbag set up. I watched YouTube videos to program my workout routines. Fitness had become an integral part of my life without me knowing it.

Then, a year later, I invested in a nice bike, a Scott Addict Gravel, something I could ride fast for long distances. I’ve had a life-long love affair with the bike, and this new bike allowed me to leave my home while COVID lockdown measures wore on. 

By the end of 2021, with most COVID lockdown measures rescinded, I purchased a membership to a local CrossFit gym. It was as much an effort to try a new modality of fitness as it was an attempt to find a new community in this strange new post-Covid world I found myself in.

There I was, being coached for the first time in my life, discovering a litany of poor lifting habits, trying new things like climbing a rope for the first time, and building a community of fitness friends. 

After a year of working out at my box, I was invited to participate in my first competition. Why the fuck not?

Holiday Havoc 2023

It was a three-day affair with five different heats, and athletes competed in teams of two. My teammate was Jorge, a man of similar fitness to me. 

The first night was a run-lift-hang event. I remember we had to build to a one-rep max of a hang clean (I think) and then run a 400-meter (800-meter?) sandbag relay. The next morning were three different heats of CrossFit Games style events. I don’t remember much other than we had to do kettlebell lunges at some point, and my legs were screaming the entire time. The third and final morning was an marathon competition, a 24-minute dead-on sprint on all the erg machines to amass as many calories as possible. 

Deadlifting at Holiday Havoc 2023. Coach Brad was my judge for this competition.

Believe me when I tell you: I was in over my head. I cannot tell you why I competed in this event, and I can assure you that I had neither ambitions nor delusions of getting on that podium. I experienced the same stage fright that I feel backstage before a concert, only amplified to a higher frequency. But I had committed to finishing the whole competition, and I finished it. 

To my surprise, the coaches of my gym awarded me The Spirit of Hit n Run, a Miss Congeniality for athletics given to athletes who show a resilient spirit and excellent sportsmanship. It was the first time I had ever received any athletic recognition, and it did a lot of good in undoing a lifelong belief that claimed I didn’t belong in sport.

What Came After

I have competed in more competitions in the two years since that event. I podiumed in the 2024 Holiday Havoc Event, earning third place in a grueling ergathon competition. I’ve competed in two triathlons, a handful of competitive 5Ks, a half-marathon, and a 25K trail race, and I’ve participated in 3 different CrossFit Open events, including this year. (Sidebar: You won’t find me on the Open leaderboard this year, but I’ll save that post for another day).

I still carry the vestiges of athletic imposter syndrome because old ghosts don’t just leave their haunts. I check in with them and remind myself that I belong in sports, because every body belongs in sports. 

I often wonder what 5-year-old Jimmy, who spent Saturday morning soccer matches drawing figures in the dirt, would think of his future self training for triathlons and competing in gym tournaments. Hopefully, he would be proud and maybe a little bit confused that I would spend so much time in a world he tried so hard to steer clear of. 

Event Recap: Sylamore 25k

I had slept well for my first trail race until a massive crack of thunder jolted me awake at 2 AM on race day. As I listened to the rain pour down on my quaint bed-and-breakfast, I groaned, knowing I would be running 25 kilometers of mud-soaked trails.

The day did not disappoint. And at least the rain gods gave us a morning reprieve for a relatively dry race.

How We Got Here

You couldn't catch me running two years before this race, even if my life depended on it. Sure, I would run my 400m intervals for cross-training, and I'd trot out my two miles for the annual Murph workout, but I despised running. I'm a cyclist. I don't run. 

Then, in the summer of 2023, I ran my first sprint triathlon, which ended with a four-mile run. I survived, and maybe I didn't hate running as much as I thought. A year later, I ran the same triathlon at a faster pace.

My niece married into a family that runs a Thanksgiving turkey trot, so I was conscripted for my first 5k road race in 2023 and again on Thanksgiving 2024. I completed the 2024 Turkey Trot in 23 minutes flat, at a 7:20/mile pace, surprising even myself. 

I also ran my first half marathon in December 2024, the St. Jude Half Marathon in Memphis, completing the race in 1:57:07. I became a reformed anti-runner.

Many of my 13.1 friends were also running this mythical Sylamore 25k Race that I had heard so much about, and they recruited me to join them. I figured a 25k was just about 3 more miles than a half marathon, so it couldn't be that difficult. Plus, it was on trails in the Ozarks.

I bought new trail running shoes and a hydration pack, and I got a taste of running on uneven terrain. There was lots of tripping over exposed roots and plenty of cursing at the rocks. I even trained during a historic snowstorm that dumped 5 inches of snow on Memphis. After training in various conditions, I thought I was fully prepared for this race.

I'd soon learn that no amount of training can prepare you for the rigors of this race.

Over The Muddy Hills and Through the Rivers

I got to start line 20 minutes before the start to attempt some stretches, but I was already overstimulated from breakfast and coffee (cinnamon rolls and oatmeal, if you must know). I can't say I was nervous, but I was pretty overwhelmed by the sounds of race day. The gun went off, and we hit the road.

After a mile of pavement, the pack arrived at Sylamore Creek, a swift river that soaked us from our waist down. The river crossing is a diamond feature of the race, and as a person drawn to water (I love to swim), it was a highlight for me. I was also grateful for the body glide and the merino wool socks to wick away moisture; otherwise, I'd be running on gnarly blisters.

We kept a nice ~13:00/mi as we ran to the first aid station 5.5 miles into the race, where salted sweet potatoes, cookies, and gummy bears awaited us. Those first five miles weren't horrible, and the trails were in pretty good shape. 

Once we left the aid station, we started a 400-foot climb over the next mile, only to descend the other side of the mountain through ankle-deep mud. There wasn't much I could do other than patiently take my time to cross the mud. Once we reached the hill's bottom, the trail flattened out, and we hit the turnaround point. About face, we immediately ran back up the muddy mountain to begin the journey back to the aid station for more salted sweet potatoes.

I do love salted sweet potatoes. A lot. 

The vibes on this muddy climb were immaculate. Since this was an out-and-back trail, runners supported each other as we crossed paths. Unlike the St. Jude Half Marathon, Sylamore boasted no spectators to cheer us on, no hooligans holding cheeky signs, no St. Jude's patients to fist bump us. Sylamore 25k is an ad hoc community that supports itself on race day; we were our best and only cheerleaders. 

I saw many friends from home on the trails that day: friends from my gym, my cycling community, and even one of my clients ran the trails with me. Each smiling face was a boost for me. 

Hitting the Wall.

Once we left the aid station, there were 5.5 miles left to run, and I was feeling good (he thought) and staying on pace (he attempted), until I hit mile 13.3. At that exact moment, my ankles and my hips were screaming, "Jimmy, what in the actual fuck are you doing? You can take a hike."

So, I enjoyed a leisurely hike for 2.5 miles until I returned to the river crossing. The only award waiting for me was a finisher's pint glass and the privilege of crossing the finish line. There was no need to risk my health for anything more than that. Hiking this leg of the race allowed me to enjoy the rugged scenery surrounding me, mainly in silence and solitude. The faster runners had already crossed the finish line; I was well ahead of the slower racers. 

It was humbling when the 50k leader passed me - imagine running twice my distance and lapping me with only a one-hour head start. I hope that man is well. 

I dipped into the river for the second time, relishing in the coolness of the water rushing over my aching legs. The weather gods decided I needed one final test because as soon as I popped out of the river, the skies dumped rain on me. At this point, with one mile remaining in the race, I was just angry and in so much pain. So I did what any self-respecting endurance athlete does at this moment: I shut off all my feelings, ignored my pain, and jogged my way to the finish line in the middle of a rain storm. 

I finished in 4:13:41. 

I couldn't register the taste of the bacon cheeseburger I ordered at the restaurant hosting the race.

Wisdom from the Trail

If I gained one thing from this race, it was to learn my limits. Over the last two years of my fitness journey, I've added longer distances and achieved faster paces in all my events, and after every event, I wanted to go faster or longer. 

Not so with this trail race. I logged 16.8 miles on that trail, and no part of me wants to add the remaining 9.4 miles to make it a full marathon. I sure as hell don't want to run a 50K.

My friends told me I could run those distances if I wanted, but I don't want to push myself like that. It wouldn't prove anything to me.

Much of life is finding out who you are not so you can express the more authentic version of yourself.

I thrive as a choral singer and a collaborative pianist. I enjoy small choral ensembles of 6-12 voices, and I seek out these musical projects. I have no desire to be a concert pianist or sing in a large, symphonic chorus. 

I've found a similar limit to my athletics: A gran fondo (63k) on the bike is exhilarating to me; an imperial century (100 miles) is a profound challenge. I look forward to running my next half marathon and repeating Sylamore 25k next year; I don't want to do anything longer than that. I'm pushing myself to run in an Olympic triathlon in April, but I don't need to run a half-Ironman or a full Ironman. 

Now that the trails have taught me my limits, I'm eager to explore the endless possibilities within. Can I run this same race faster next year? Can I find better training patterns? I intend to find out.

My trail running shoes are still in the bathtub, where I washed them out three weeks after the race. I'll lace them up again soon enough.

My Musical Background

There’s never been a period of my life without music. Both of my parents were musicians. My mother was a pianist, and her mother was a church musician and pianist, just like me. My father was a trumpet player and band leader; he led the Cadet marching band and jazz band at the United States Military Academy at West Point. Both of my sisters were pianists, though one of my sisters preferred dance to music. 

Coming from a musical home meant I was surrounded by music of all kinds. My father would play his old big band jazz records, favoring the brass-forward sounds of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman. He also introduced me to the jazz pianists like Dave Brubeck and Thelonious Monk. His car radio was always set to the local NPR station, and he taught me how to listen to a Beethoven symphony, a Bach cantata, and a Mozart concerto. By the time I took my first listening exam in my college musicology courses, I had been identifying compositions by their sound for years. 

My mother grew up to the soundtrack of the rock and roll revolution of the 1950s and 60s. If it had a driving beat and bold vocals sung by a handsome rockstar, my mother was all over that music. She ensured I knew about Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, and Jerry Lee Lewis. She didn’t care much for the Beatles, but she had me listen to their music. Mom also loved musicals, particularly the big-budget productions of the 80s and 90s. Cats and Les Mis were her favorites.

It’s no surprise that my musical tastes reflect my musical matrix. Brassy music with full-chest singing and theatrical vibes? No wonder I love ska as much as I do. I’m immediately drawn to music with pulsing rhythms and spicy harmonies. A Telemann suite properly played can excite me as much as a thundering death metal album. 

Mom enrolled me in a church choir at age five, and I’ve never stopped singing. I didn’t love it at first; in fact, I despised it for a long time. However, my high school church youth choir provided an opportunity for me to make friends who make music together, and that planted the seeds for my passion for creating community around sharing and performing music. 35 years later, I’m still singing in a church choir, and my choral colleagues are friends as much as they are ensemble mates.

My parents signed me up for piano lessons when I was 10, a relatively late start for professional pianists. They noticed I was always the kid who could find a piano in any building, and I would plunk on the keys trying to make sense of it all. They took the hint and found a teacher who taught at a nearby church. My first lessons were in that church’s choir room, and I blitzed through the primer book in about 3 months. Three years and three teachers later, my parents finally found a teacher who could match my ambition, and she had me playing Joplin rags, Beethoven sonatas, Mozart variations, and Chopin nocturnes and polonaises. She introduced me to Brahms - the Waltz in A-flat Major, Op. 39, and that’s when I fell in love with the instrument. Critics often deride Brahms’ music as being too intellectual, too detached, but I could feel the bottomless yearning for authentic connection in his music. Maybe it helped that I was a closeted gay boy growing up, and I also had to present a detached facade to survive high school. Piano was the place I could go to be my most authentic self because no one was around to tell me what to do or who to be. No one ever had to remind me to practice; my parents had to tell me to stop practicing so I could do my homework. 

With piano and choir, I found the music I love to make. Choir was my team sport; piano was my solo sport or a doubles sport with a duet partner or chamber music. I earned my undergraduate degree in piano performance and my master’s in choral conducting. From there, I stumbled into the career I have, running a full-time teaching studio and singing in a cathedral choir as a section leader. I feel fortunate to be able to put my musical degrees to profitable work.

I’ve learned a lot about patience and diligence through music. You can’t force the music to be learned on your timetable; rather, you must discipline yourself regularly approach the instrument with thought and care. Even so-called “easy pieces,” if they exist, require thoughtful practice if you want to perform them beautifully.

Music has taught me how to express myself on my terms, in tandem with the composer and my fellow musicians. Brahms teaches me to express my longing for a truer life. Beethoven invites me to play both my rage and thunderous joy. Mozart reminds me to laugh at the world. Even Bach - heady, contrapuntal, florid Bach - reminds me that order and beauty go hand in hand. 

A lifetime of preparing and performing music gave me the skill set to compete in endurance competitions. The same diligence and patience required to prepare and perform a full-length recital is needed to train for and compete in a half marathon. The flutters I feel backstage before performance are nearly identical to the jitters I feel at the start line of a triathlon. Music taught me how to handle the pressures of competitiuve sport. 

Training Log, February 24-March 1

Here’s this week’s training log. I’m sharing this so you know what it takes to prepare for both an Olympic length triathlon and a full length concert as collaborative pianist.

Annie Oakley Olympic Triathlon Training

An Olympic triathlon consists of the following elements:

• 1500 m 🏊🏻‍♂️

• 24 mile 🚴🏻

• 10k 🏃🏻‍♂️

Monday:
0600 Swim (1600m total)
0845 Cross Training

Tuesday:
~18 mile bike ride at 16-18 MPH pace

Wednesday:
0600 Swim (2200m total)
1200 Cross Training

Thursday:
Active Recovery Day, Memphis Social Bike Club

Friday:
Brick 1: 8 mile 🚲 2 mile 🏃‍♂️
CrossFit Open 25.1

Saturday: Either lifting workshop or active recovery

Murder, She Wrote Practice

In May, I will be the collaborative pianist for a full length art song recital. Repertoire includes arias by Benjamin Britten, Ruggero Leoncavallo, Jake Heggie; other composers on this program include Schubert, Brahms, and Weil.

This week’s main practice priorities

• Stabilize tempo on difficult repertoire (Heggie, Weil, Brahms)

• Incorporate the singer’s rubato and characterizations into my accompaniment

• Memorize the Brahms Eduard Ballade

Tuesday: 0600 practice (~60 minutes)

Wednesday: 0830 practice (~60 minutes)

Thursday: 0600 practice (~60-90 minutes)

Friday: 1400 practice (~60-90 minutes)

Saturday: Rehearsal with soloist. (2 hours)

Introducing Motor Rhythms

I’m doing it for myself.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself about this little side quest writing project. Lately, I’ve wanted to publicly write about my experiences as an athlete and a musician, because I’ve found that my lifelong experiences as a musician have informed my more recent adventures in endurance athletics and functional fitness. It turns out that my newfound love for sport has a lot to teach me about being a better musician.

Thus this little writing project: Motor Rhythms. What is a Motor Rhythm?

Motor Rhythm is a 20th century term used to describe music with an insistent, propulsive rhythmic drive. Bach made great use of it throughout his musical career, and Gershwin said Rhapsody in Blue was inspired by the sound of the subway on the train tracks. And yes, late 90s house was built on motor rhythms. It’s my favorite kind of rhythmic device, and it is the soundtrack to all of my endurance training and competitions.

Motor Rhythms will be a place where I live journal about my training for competitions and practice for concerts. I will be competing in an Olympic length triathlon on April 26, and I will have a run of concerts as a collaborative pianist throughout May. I will share what my training routines will be throughout the spring.

Motor Rhythms will be a place where I reflect on what music and sport can teach each other. Both require disciplined practice, sacrifice, patience, resilience, and creativity. I’m a firm believer that you don’t have to choose one or the other; it’s possible to passionately pursue an interest in both.

I hope that someone out there finds this blog and gets some kind of inspiration from it. But even if not, I’m writing this blog for myself, to better understand my love for music and competition.

Summer Sabbatical Practice Tips

Starting today, the Studio is on a 6 week sabbatical, and I hope we all take this opportunity to rest and enjoy our summers. Here are three tips for your summer sabbatical practice.

1. Maintenance, Not Progress: Your main goal for these 6 weeks away from piano lessons is to maintain the skills you’ve developed in the last year. To do that, focus on technique - scales, cadences, arpeggios - and enjoyable repertoire. It can be beneficial to re-learn older pieces with newer skills and sharpened ears. You can also work ahead in your books, or find new songs that utilize the skills you’ve learned, but if you grow frustrated with more advanced skills, step back to hone the skills you know.

2. Make a practice rhythm: 4-5 days a week, 30 minutes a day is most ideal (5-15 minutes for beginners, 45-60 minutes for advanced students). Write it in your planner and keep that time sacred. It’s your practice time for your musical investment.

3. Rest is good: With summer travel, summer camps, summer adventure, summer heat (see a pattern?), you're prone to fall off the practice wagon at some point. That’s normal and okay. In fact, an extended rest period - as in, 2-4 weeks - can be beneficial to your overall musical development. Professional athletes require off seasons to maintain a healthy and functional body; professional musicians operate the same way.

If you follow these tips, then you’ll keep your skills sharp so that you’ll be ready to dive into new repertoire and technique.

This is my first post!

Sound off! Tell me how your summer is going.