What Should I Practice?

There exists an immense and ever-renewing body of musical work—an inheritance that no single musician can fully exhaust. To study music, therefore, is not merely to accumulate repertoire, but to enter into an ongoing dialogue with the past. Within many compositions lie compressed forms of insight: lessons in structure, expression, discipline, and restraint. Yet these lessons reveal themselves only to those willing to return, repeatedly and patiently, to the same material.

The central question is not how much one practices, but how one practices. Quantity, when divorced from intention, produces only superficial familiarity. Quality, by contrast, demands presence. In this sense, practice resembles devotion: its truth is measured not by duration, but by sincerity of attention.

For this reason, a musician must cultivate awareness of their own activity. One must know—not assume—what has been practiced. The act of recording practice is therefore not administrative, but philosophical. It transforms vague effort into observable reality. A written record becomes a mirror: it reveals habits, exposes neglect, and affirms discipline.

From this awareness emerges the need for structure. A “Master Schedule” is not a constraint, but a framework for freedom. By organizing time deliberately, the musician creates the conditions under which depth becomes possible. Such a structure should include:

• Protected time across the entire week, treated as non-negotiable

• Clearly defined monthly and yearly objectives

• Daily thematic focuses that give each session purpose

One might, for example, dedicate an entire quarter to a singular artistic or technical pursuit. This kind of sustained focus allows for transformation rather than mere improvement.

A useful model is to conceive of practice as a living system. The vertical axis represents the inner content of each day—technique, repertoire, improvisation, reading, sound development—while the horizontal axis represents time unfolding across days, months, and years. At their intersection lies the present moment: the only place where change can occur.

However, no system can exist independent of context. The demands placed upon the musician must shape the method. To perform in a large ensemble requires precision, literacy, and dynamic sensitivity; to perform in a rock setting demands endurance, consistency, and internalization. Thus, one must continually ask: What skills are required to realize the sound I hear? Practice must always be in service of that answer.

Underlying all of this is a deeper principle: transformation does not occur through resistance to what is lacking, but through the deliberate construction of what is not yet present. As the philosopher Socrates is often credited with saying, “The secret to change is to focus all of your energy not on fighting the old, but on building the new.” Whether historically precise or not, the statement captures an essential truth of artistic growth.

In practical terms, this philosophy must always return to action. At present, for instance, the development of an ostinato in the feet serves as a focused study—a small but concrete act of building. It is incomplete, as all meaningful work is, but it exists within a larger continuum of disciplined effort.

Thus, the task of the musician is neither hurried nor finite. It is to return, to refine, to observe, and to build—again and again—with patience and intention.