red if he could—should he succeed in building a studio of his own one day—find a way to move faster. Of course, this depends largely on the student. Indeed, this particular student took longer to master new material at first; he is moving through repertoire more quickly this year than in the past. However, it also depends on one’s objective in working through etudes and study material. What are these materials for, anyway?
One purpose of etude books is certainly to read and master as much material as possible in the lessons. Perhaps there would be some benefit to limiting our studies to fundamental exercises, scale and arpeggio patterns, and performance repertoire (solos and excerpts); we would be able to cover more solo repertoire, anyway. However, working through one or two—or even three or four—solo pieces in a semester would not expose students to the breadth of ideas and styles provided by a greater number of studies and etudes. Music majors in my studio typically have four method books assigned to them at any given time: one for technique, one for phrasing, one for clefs (trombone, euphonium) or low/valve register (tuba, bass trombone), and one for “synthesis.” In a good week, we get to two of these plus fundamental studies and a solo piece. Could we go faster? Possibly, but not without sacrificing accuracy and, more importantly, interpretation.
The best method books are more than mere technical studies. I do my best to select materials that offer at least some degree of musical depth in addition to the obvious technical requirements. While it would be easy to “check off” an etude played more-or-less accurately without “digging a little deeper,” exploring good music at greater depth is almost always worth the extra time, even if that means that in the end we don’t move through the repertoire as quickly.
So, what is the goal of method book study? Are we looking simply to “pass off” as much material as possible as quickly as possible, or are we more concerned about developing concepts and ideas than about “pass-offs.” In other words, are we more concerned with breadth or with depth? I’m still not sure I know the answer. I’ll admit that I get almost as much satisfaction marking a completed etude in a student’s book as I did from receiving such marks myself, but I would find it much less satisfying if I thought that important underlying concepts were left unaddressed, or if there were simply still too many wrong notes present.
I suppose I come down on the side of “concepts over checkmarks,” but I am happiest when a student gets both.
Every music teacher understands and emphasizes the importance of regular individual practice for students’ growth and development. There is a particular joy that comes from working with a student who is consistently well-prepared, demonstrating steady and sometimes rapid growth. Lessons with these students go quickly and feel effortless for the teacher, as the quality of playing seems to generate more ideas to promote further growth. On the other hand, there is a particular disappointment that comes from working with a student who is consistently unprepared. Here, the lessons are marked by frustration and repetition of previously unheeded suggestions, and time moves excruciatingly slowly for both teacher and student.
Even though those two types of lessons are polar opposites, they are both in one sense simple to teach and to evaluate. One has little difficulty figuring out how to best approach working with both well-prepared and ill-prepared students. The challenge comes from the student who claims to be practicing regularly—and perhaps can even prove this by means of practice logs or even recordings—but is not exhibiting the kind of improvement that such practice should engender. What does the teacher do to help this type of student?
Obviously, the first step is to make sure that the claimed amount of practice is actually occurring. Students sometimes overestimate the amount of practice that is taking place, or confuse “time in the practice room” with “productive time in the practice room