I've had a lot of fun lately, writing about my passion: the guitar.  In particular, in a recent newsletter I discussed the challenges of being taught to properly after playing my way (and I don't mean the song) for 35 years.

People have asked me why I bothered (getting lessons that is.  They knew why I'd written the article).  It comes down to a few things that had been niggling away at me.  First, I knew I could be better, and it annoyed me that I wasn't.  Second, teaching myself wasn't working - I didn't have an incentive or a structure, there was no accountability.  And third, I suspected my technique was flawed, but I didn't know how.

So I got myself a teacher, one Danny McCrum.  He's a really good guitarist, but he's an even better teacher.  Mercilessly he points out the flaws in my technique that I'm not even aware of.  I have a way of playing A that is somewhat unique.  He said to me "what's that chord? I don't recognise it."  I explained it was my version of A, to which he gleefully said "ah, it's a bullshit chord!".

He sets difficult exercises for me to learn, but he also fills in the basics that I haven't taught myself  - for example, timing properly as opposed to highly trained guesswork.  

He has ridiculously high expectations of me - he fully expects me to become a human metronome, and I'm still struggling with counting to 4. He won't show me how to play a piece, because playing by imitation is my strength and reading is my weakness, and if I don't work it out for myself I'll never learn to do it properly.

Now that's a coach.

2 September 2010