Many, if not most, musicians I know suffer from something I call music dysmorphia. As people who suffer from body dysmorphic disorder torture themselves with an overwhelming preoccupation of their perceived flaws, be they real or imaginary, musicians often listen back to their musical performances and only hear what they don’t like. (Timing is rushed, tone’s too thin or too bassy, note choice too cliché or too weird; it’s never quite right to their ears). I know a ton of players who are way better musicians than I will ever be, yet they genuinely don’t like the way they play. It’s not false modesty, it’s the inability to process reality accurately.
I see it come up often during Rig Rundowns. Usually, players begin the interview by playing a 15- to 45-second improvised introduction. Often, they’ll be playing, it all sounds great, then they hit something they don’t really like. They get a frustrated look on their face and ask to take it again. But now they are in their heads. The second take usually feels a bit self-conscious, not as free and flowing as the first take. You can almost hear their thoughts: “This will be online forever, evidence of my poor playing.” You rarely hear a second take that has the magic of the first one because they’re thinking about being judged.
The author with one of Nashville’s finest, Tom Bukovac.
Photo by Chris Kies
I know there’s a disparity between the music that I hear in my head when I’m playing and the music I’m actually playing. I often phone-record songs on my gig to gather some evidence of what I actually sound like: check the tone, timing, note choice. There are gigs where I feel ashamed of what’s coming out of my amp, but when I listen back, it’s fine, sometimes even good. Other times, I think I’m killing it, but when I hear the recording, I feel a crushing pain of disappointment combined with deep shame.
I suspect we all sound the best when nobody is listening. When you have an audience, then you judge yourself because you think you are being judged. Why should we care? Music is not a contest, it’s art.
“People respond to reckless abandon in art.”
There is no agreed definition of what constitutes art. Art is subjective. There are no wrong decisions with art, so we should be cool with whatever we play. Sadly, that’s not the case. I suspect that’s because music means so much to us. Playing music is not just something we do, it’s who we are. When I was younger, I worked a wide variety of jobs, but I never felt bad about being a terrible roofer, waiter, factory worker, or teacher, because this was just something I had to do for money—it was not my life’s goal. But being a musician is not only my passion and my job, it is how I am wired. Music is my identity. So when I play and it sounds like I can’t play, my sense of self is called into question: What am I doing with my life? Who am I? Performing for others means putting our tiny, naked heart in our hands, and offering it to God and everybody to be judged. That’s a scary, vulnerable position.
I was jamming with Austin Mercuri, a great bass-player buddy of mine, and I asked him if he thinks music dysmorphia is a thing. He agreed that it totally is a thing, and he gave an interesting insight. Austin said, “Ever notice when you record something comedic, like a parody, it turns out so great musically? Because it’s tongue-in-cheek, any mistakes or oversteps just make it better, so you go for stuff beyond what you’ve done before, take crazy chances fearlessly, and they work.” That’s the trick: Don’t care, then you can explore without any second guessing or fear of judgment, because you’re just goofing off. People respond to reckless abandon in art.
As a musician, you’re probably not going to find happiness by comparing your playing to others, which is pretty much impossible. For example, my friend Tom Bukovac and I moved to Nashville around the same time. I’ve watched his career take off and felt the sting of envy for years. But now, I listen to Buk play and the only thing I feel is inspiration and awe. With innate talent and an obsessive work ethic, Buk developed this ability to tap into music, where it flows through him, unhindered by doubt or self-consciousness. Why should Buk’s brilliance, or anybody else’s, make me feel bad about my thing? Get back to why you started playing in the first place. Stop thinking, just play.
John Bohlinger, Andrés Segovia would like to have a word with you.
Back in their day, recordings of music were a way to promote sheet music. Labels released recordings only after sheet-music sales slowed down on a particular song. That means that until recently, a large section of society not only knew how to read music well, but they did it often—not as often as we stare at our phones, but it was a primary part of home entertainment. By today’s standards, written music feels like a dead language. Music is probably the most common language on Earth, yet I bet it has the highest illiteracy rate.
As a lifelong professional musician, it’s surprising—and, frankly, a relief—how infrequently I read staff music. Though I read chord or Nashville number charts often, staff rarely comes up, usually only in sessions where a producer/writer/artist has a particular melody or gang riff. I feel a deep shame when I have to read music; I do it about as well as an out-of-shape guy with no training runs a marathon: slowly, painfully, maybe not making it to the finish line.
I learned everything I know about reading through junior high school orchestra, where I was a crappy violinist. So, you can chalk one up to the Montana public school system. Although at times I’m ashamed of my poor music-reading skills, it’s not that big of a deal. When I’m faced with a written staff full of sharps and flats and weird time, I just ask the keyboard player to play the tricky parts slowly. If there’s one player in the band that can read well, it’s usually keys; they mostly grew up with formal lessons. If I hear piano play the part while I read along, the dots and squiggles on the staff start to make sense.
“By today’s standards, written music feels like a dead language.”
I bet most guitar players feel conflicted about reading music. We all want to learn as much as we can about guitar, and obviously some of that information is going to escape us if we can’t read it, even with tabs and guitar-nerd videos just a few clicks away. But maybe our lack of formal training is the source of our superpower. I suspect that the reason guitar has been the driving force behind most popular music for the past 65 years is because the instrument invites exploration. The more you mess with it, the more you discover. That’s the addictive quality of guitar. That’s probably why most guitar players would rather make stuff up than read what somebody else wants them to play. When you have that many people experimenting and creating, art takes a big step forward.
By contrast, classical musicians are not about innovation or taking chances. They are more about interpretation, virtuosity, and a reverence for tradition. The majority of classical music played today was composed in 1600 to 1875. New, experimental classical music is a hard sell. People want to hear the classics, like Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart.
It’s a strange dichotomy: classical players tune by ear but almost never play by ear. Ask a seasoned orchestra player to improvise and most of them will get a little panicky.
Guitarist: Let’s jam in E.
Orchestra Nerd: What do you mean?
Guitarist: I’ll play something, you play with it. Just make up a melody.
Orchestra Nerd: What melody?
Guitarist: Just make one up?
Orchestra Nerd: What do you mean?
It goes on like that until they nervously decline.
Guitarists are, for the most part, fearless about exploration. Just look at the instrument itself. Most violins built anywhere in the world today look pretty much like the ones built in the 16th century in Italy. By contrast, guitar designs are as varied as car designs—maybe more so. Go into a big music store and you can play a gut-string, flattop, archtop, Les Paul, Tele, Strat, Jaguars, PRS, Flying V, Explorer … and that’s not even getting into the weird ones. Eddie Van Halen could not find a guitar that could produce the music in his head, so he built it. The point is, guitar is an instrument of improvisation—no rules in how you play it or how you build it.
Maybe this is just a way of justifying my shortcomings or making the most of my laziness or lack of brainpower, but I think there’s an upside to being musically illiterate. As the mighty EVH said: “You only have 12 notes, do what you want with them.”