An Ineffable Memory Of Effortless Mastery

A precious portrait of peak performance at the piano

Setting The Stage

This is a cherished recollection of the first time I experienced effortless mastery while performing jazz piano. 

It was a Sunday evening sometime in the late 2000s at the Billy Miner Pub, a local joint hosting jam sessions (for those into details, it was named after a local train robber.) Upon reflection, this would have been during an apprentice phase of sorts, where I sought to earn performing experience as an aspiring professional musician. 

The usual sequence would involve showing up, signing up to a list of performers, and waiting my turn to jam. Occasionally, I would be called up to support other jammers, but often enough I was relegated until the end of the night due to my peculiar taste at odds with small-town populist preferences.

I was in love.

A Love Affair & Divine Inspiration

I was smitten by the allure of jazz with its sophistication weaving harmonic complexity with the freedom to improvise –  a siren song for my cerebral inclinations. It is admittedly an acquired taste for those of particular sonic disposition. Some say it is music for musicians. By contrast, the prevailing preference in the rural area was country music, though that middle-aged crowd also enjoyed blues, rock and other pop styles well enough.

I don’t blame the hosts in the slightest as I was guileless at the time though I finally clued in over the span of months and years. The house band’s job is to get people dancing. Dancers get thirsty. Thirsty people buy drinks. And speaking of drinks, I wasn’t really there to imbibe as such – less for purity reasons and more out of practical considerations befitting my modest early-twenties net worth. In other words – I was cheap. That night was an exception. I noticed they had a beer on the menu I was familiar with, aptly named ‘The Back Hand Of God.” I ordered the dark stout, pulled up a chair and bided my time. 

As the evening rolled on, I nursed two or three drinks over several hours. Performers came and went. Then it was finally my turn. As I stood up, I took stock of my internal state – I was not sober. The residual buzz of alcohol muffled my internal state like a warm blanket. As I took the stage and got ready, I noticed that the crowd had thinned as it was past the peak hours of the jam. That was just as well as I was there more for the love of playing. I particularly admired the playing of Gary, the resident guitarist there. Along with some of the other pros, he was a sort of unofficial mentor during this jazz apprenticeship of mine. Over time, I came to learn he was also deeply spiritual which emanated from his playing. Though I didn’t know the terminology at the time, I was chasing the elusive dragon of what is now much more mainstream – the flow state.

Two Surprise Visits

We began playing a jazz standard that even then I knew quite well called Stella By Starlight by Victor Young. For reference, the lyrics go like this: 

The song a robin sings 

Through years of endless springs 

The murmur of a brook at eventide 

That ripples from a nook where two lovers hide 

That great symphonic theme, 

That's Stella by Starlight and not a dream

My heart and I agree 

She's everything on this Earth to me. 

And then my father strolled in. Whether it was mid-performance or just after, I remember it from my perspective on stage. This was quite the surprise – although I often invited him, he rarely accepted despite his being my most stalwart source of encouragement though that’s a story for another time. In any case, that he came at just this moment was a remarkable synchronicity. 

After playing through the head, a jazz term indicating playing through the melody before and after performers take turns improvising solos, something clicked. Whether it was the alcohol, the cumulation of practice, the unlikely presence of my dad, the phase of the moon, or some bizarre combination, magic happened.

When Words Fail

As an intellectually inclined individual often accused of overthinking or absent-mindedness, the appeal of effortless mastery was unquestionable: to simply play freely and fearlessly without being enslaved to the tyranny of incessant thinking permeated by stress and anxiety. What I did not expect was just how conducive alcohol would be to sufficiently quiet my mind. As of this writing I have known and played that same standard for around 15 years. 

I can only say that it felt like the music played itself while I watched – like a spectator in the first person. While largely ineffable, I will attempt to describe it. The heckling hobgoblin in my mind that commentated on and nitpicked every experience finally shut up for a few precious and sacred moments. A budding feeling of sheer exuberance and unmarred confidence slowly built as each string of notes sounded. Each successive melody that poured forth spontaneously from my right hand was complemented by the unerring harmony of my left in perfect conversation. I silently witnessed as my seemingly dispossessed hands glided over the keyboard; they felt like someone else’s! Incredulously, each phrase only served to crescendo the wonder and amazement. Surely, these are not my hands! It was like watching one of your favorite artists perform while being absolutely mystified and gobsmacked by their playing. The only exception was that it was somehow arising from my body and hands. It felt like I really couldn’t make any mistakes. Indeed, this will make sense as I explain below.

With sufficient skill in physical disciplines whether in the realm of sport or the performing arts, discursive thinking is both superfluous and obstructive. The experience I described above isn’t nearly as mystical as perhaps I am intimating, though it certainly felt that way then. For example, it's almost impossible to be able to speak so slowly in your mother tongue you notice the different parts of the vocal apparatus that are moving effortlessly in perfect coordination. And so with careful attention one can sit back, so to speak, and simply watch the organism that is your body-mind perform a series of complex motor actions and marvel in wonder.

For all I know, the performance I recounted wasn't particularly special and I was simply drunk. Such is the limitation of memory. At the very least, that I was able to perform sans thought while enjoying myself immensely was in and of itself a phenomenal victory in overcoming self-imposed limitations.

Amor Fati, Art & Affirmations

To give some more context around the term effortless mastery, a book of the same title, Effortless Mastery, was written by jazz pianist and educator Kenny Werner in the late 90’s. He detailed his spiritual journey through life and music while finding a way to navigate the crippling neuroticism that detracts our best efforts to grow as musicians, though it applies to any creative pursuit. It is and remains one of the most influential books I’ve read, particularly as it relates to merging what were previously disparate domains in my worldview at the time – spirituality and music. He makes a compelling case how psychologically damaging conventional artistic education can be – fear-based listening, fear-based practicing, fear-based performing, and so forth. One critical breakthrough was distinguishing the creative and analytical modes of being and learning to apply their appropriate contexts.

How many artists are plagued by negative thinking? Perhaps you know a ridiculously talented friend or two whose self-esteem is at odds with their skill, like an inverted form of arrogance. A highlight of the effortless mastery approach I was practicing then featured a series of guided meditations combined with affirmations designed to undo chronic habits of self-criticism. In a nutshell, it’s amor fati applied to art. To love whatever happens (as I wrote about in this piece). Here they are:

I am a master.

Music is easy.

I play music effortlessly.

I play masterfully.

Every note I play is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

On first impression, these statements seem full of hubris and are easily scoffed at. That would miss the point entirely. Their opposite is both untrue and unhelpful: I am not a master. Music is hard. I play music with great effort. I play terribly. Every note I play is the most terrible sound I’ve ever heard. 

Which set of beliefs would you rather adopt? I would wager it’s demonstrative of our culture that the negative statements are more easily acceptable despite their harmfulness, like a kind of psychological malware infection. This highlights our capacity for metacognition – the ability to examine our mind and investigate what thoughts and beliefs are operating beneath the surface.

For at least a few brief moments, I was able to experience mastery, greatness and unconditionally beautiful playing. My sincere wish is for you to enjoy the same in whatever your chosen field.

PS I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude and appreciation for all of my music teachers, friends and mentors over the years whose paths I’ve crossed, some of which I’ll name here: Gary Burns, Chris Rolin, Gary Bowman, Matt Paulson, Randy Morrison, Bill Aubert, Rob Marr, Jayden Beaudoin, Steve Iveson, Joel Mason, Vicky Hope, Darcy Jones, Bryan Roper, Chad Gales, Daniel Rainard, Brian Girley, Jeff Spence and Theo Dorges.

PPS While Kenny Werner’s Effortless Mastery is the most broadly applicable, here are other books on the topic of music I’ve drawn a lot from: 

• The Music Lesson, by Victor Wooten

• The Jazz Piano Book, by Mark Levine

• Forward Motion, by Hal Galper

• The Language Of Drumming, by Benny Greb

• This Is Your Brain On Music, by Daniel Levitin