This fantastic Lifehacker article by Adam Pash on aptitude, or lack thereof, got me strolling through the sketchier parts of Memory Lane. Much of my life until recently was governed by a crippling fear of failure. I wanted to be able to do something well immediately, without practice or effort; anything that I wasn't instantly good at wasn't worth doing. I don't know when in my childhood this idiotic idea lodged itself into my brain, but I had this absolute dread of making mistakes, especially in front of other people.
Which brings me to piano lessons. I love music, and one of my childhood dreams was to be a composer someday. Piano lessons, unhappily, were music made torturous - not only did they require me to practice (and make mistakes!) within parental earshot, but every so often recitals and competitions would rear their ugly heads. Those were the worst. Not only was it possible that I would make a mistake, but it would be in front of people, and there WERE stakes - a gold ribbon, dammit! Blue, to me, was unacceptable. It had to be gold.
And it was, four years in a row, until the combined stress of perfectionism, performance anxiety and a bad teacher (and, let's face it, my own lack of diligence) ended my competitive piano career. The few instances my new teacher - whose training was exclusively performance-oriented - brought up the possibility of recitals, I burst into tears. Every time. The silver lining to my increasingly heavy high school workload was that I was finally able to stop taking piano lessons.
My anxiety about performing in public took years to dissipate. It even took me a while to warm up to games like Guitar Hero and Rock Band - they looked like fun, but I was still terrified of making musical mistakes in front of people, to the point where I would shake at the prospect of holding a plastic guitar. My friends would play, and I would watch, and admire their ability to not crumple into sobbing, self-pitying wrecks at the mere sight of a fake instrument.
Fast-forward through years of proverbial therapy. I recently went to a friend's house to play Rock Band after the evening's bowling plans fell through. (Apparently bowling is big on Friday nights. Who knew?) At this point I now love Rock Band, and no longer regard scores of less than 100% as abject failure worthy of seppuku. As my friends and I rotated instruments - five players, four instruments - it became apparent that no one else besides me really liked playing the drums in this game. Also, that the other 80% of the group was rhythmically challenged. They soon dubbed me "Animal."
I guess I have a soft spot for percussive instruments, because, despite the stress of my experience as a piano student, I'd always wanted to play the drums. I was in fourth grade when I mentioned this to my parents, who promptly shot it down. That wish never quite died out, though it remained dormant until that Rock Band marathon. There really wasn't anything to stop me from signing up for lessons, even if it was 18 years later than I would have liked. So I did. Being a grown-up has its advantages.
I've been taking drum lessons for a month, and I love it every bit as much as I thought I would. Do I suck? Not entirely. But my aptitude will only take me so far. That's why I practice - in earshot of my cat, my significant other, the downstairs neighbors unless I use a pillow - as often as I can. Do I make mistakes? Oh, yes. But that's how I know I'm learning, and I have a lot to learn.
And I can't wait to play in a band someday.
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