Practice makes perfect

As I enter the last stretch to home, into the cul de sac to my driveway, I can hear the soft sweet drumbeats of a wannabe musician. I go to the front door, as the beats grow in intensity and then, I greet my husband who is surrounded by about 50 decibels of pure noise. Sometimes it’s the drumbeat and cymbals that greet my eardrums; or it can be the strum of a guitar, volume up to maximum pitch with electronic force.

I’m telling you this because at the age of around 50, my husband still wants to play in his own band. He’s almost there on Friday nights with the boys belting out a beat; but most just want to relax after a hard week.

He practises every day for an hour. For him, his practice is paramount to his happiness in this world. If he didn’t have it, was not able to release his creativity musically, he would wither and suffer.

Malcolm Gladwell, in his book Outliers says that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to achieve mastery in something. He says there is no such thing as natural talent. Only the time you put in to something is important. 10,000 hours of time. He cites some well-known examples. Bill Gates had access to a computer lab at a university near him when he was growing up, where he would sneak in at night to practise programming (sounds like a fun guy). In 1960 The Beatles did a stint in Hamburg where they played eight hours a night, seven nights a week. They notched up 1200 concerts together. Most bands don’t notch up that many concerts in a lifetime. After about four years, they became good.

It takes me back to my own musical days, in the hazy past of childhood summers when I’d walk up to the convent on a Saturday morning to be whipped into musical shape by an intimidating individual in a wimple. It was a drag having to practise piano. I’d do as little as possible hoping that my fingers would not betray my lack of interest, but of course they always would.

‘Have you been practising?’ Sister Imelda would ask, her bulbous nose unnervingly close to mine, with spit forming in the sides of her mouth. If I admitted I hadn’t, she’d pull my plaits.

‘Yes,’ I’d say. ‘As much as I could this week. I’ve been very busy.’ Protecting my plaits.

‘It’s all about the practice, my dear. Now go do it again.’ I could never get away with it. I guess I didn’t realise that she’d been dealing with lacklustre little girls like me for years. And their plaits. Sometimes, though, I wouldn’t have practised all week and she’d say, ‘Ooh good girl, you’ve practised well this week!’ which would always surprise me and I’d smile and say yes. The plaits were safe.

I pursued music or should I say it pursued me. I’d practise or not, and have my lesson religiously even though it was on a Saturday. The sisters changed from Imelda to Justina who had her stories of ‘the troubles’ in Ireland while she proudly showed off the rubber bullet on her piano.

‘They killed my brother, they did,’ she’d say. I wouldn’t get much tuition that morning.

My sister was always the better pianist. Family and friends would come over as my mother announced, ‘Come on, gather round, Claire is going to play!’ And my sister would burst out a tune, not a care in the world, to rounds of applause. Then they’d say, ‘Come on Robin – you can have a try too.’ And I’d bumble my way through Fur Elise or Study in C, pieces that I would normally play quite well. But not then. It was torture.

I was never destined to be a great pianist. I wonder why not? Let’s see. If I calculate that I had a lesson a week for most school terms from age 8 to 17, nine years, that’s about 450 hours. So nowhere near 10,000 hours! If I’d practised 40 hours a week for five years, I might have been great. But that was never going to happen.

The people who have ‘natural’ talent have spent double that time practising their art. Now that’s what I call passion; persistence in the pursuit of perfection.

My hubby’s been learning music for three years and has notched up around 1,000 hours – he has only 27 years to go to get to perfection. But then I think to myself – maybe it’s not about perfection. Maybe it’s just about the passion, the inspiration, the joy.

My message to him – and to everyone – is never stop finding your joy.