10 Harsh Truths About Music

Recently I watched a powerful YouTube video by jazz pianist and educator Noah Kellman called “20 Years of Harsh Jazz Musician Advice In 23 Minutes.”

The video resonated with me deeply because it wasn’t really about scales, theory, or virtuosity. It was about the psychology of being a musician. It was about self-doubt, comparison, performance anxiety, burnout, emotional resilience, and learning how to actually enjoy music instead of constantly trying to prove yourself through it.

As I listened, I realized how many of these struggles I’ve dealt with personally over the years. Some of them I’ve improved at. Others I’m still actively working through. But I thought it would be worthwhile to take Kellman’s major points one by one and reflect on them through my own experiences as a guitarist, teacher, performer, and lifelong student of music.

This article is not a summary of his video so much as a conversation with it. His ideas sparked a lot of thoughts for me, and I want to give him full credit for inspiring many of the reflections below.

1. Overthinking and Self-Doubt Can Destroy Your Music

One of Kellman’s biggest points is that overthinking hurts musicians more than lack of talent.

That really hit me because I’ve experienced this firsthand many times throughout my life. I’ve had periods where I was so focused on trying to become “good enough” that I wasn’t really making music anymore. I was trying to prove something. Trying to justify myself. Trying to demonstrate worth through the instrument.

And ironically, that mindset almost always makes the music worse.

When it comes to self-doubt, one of the most important books I’ve ever encountered is Effortless Mastery by Kenny Werner. The central mantra of the book is “I am a master,” and at first glance that can sound arrogant or unrealistic. But Werner’s point is actually psychological and spiritual rather than egotistical. The idea is to release the constant internal criticism that prevents us from fully expressing ourselves.

A few years ago I remember showing up to a weekly gig, and the drummer complimented my playing in a way he hadn’t before. He said something sounded particularly relaxed and musical that night. The interesting thing was that technically I wasn’t doing anything new. What had changed was my mental state.

I had gone back to the meditations from Effortless Mastery.

That was it.

Nothing changed physically.
Nothing changed harmonically.
Nothing changed technically.

But psychologically, something shifted.

More recently, I experienced something very similar during a lesson with Ronan Guilfoyle. Many of our lessons involve singing, clapping, rhythm exercises, and conceptual work rather than listening to my actual guitar playing. But during this lesson, I asked him what the next step was in my development, so he listened to me play over a backing track.

His comments struck me deeply.

He said:
“You’re very knowledgeable and your lines sound professional. But you’re still playing the guitar and not playing music.”

That hit hard because I immediately knew exactly what he meant.

He said I was trying to do something on the instrument instead of simply playing what I wanted to play naturally, without rushing, forcing, or trying to prove anything. He said I needed to leave more space, listen to the rhythm section, and actually interact with the music instead of imposing myself on top of it.

And then he said something even simpler:
“It’s not about you.”

That sounds almost too obvious to matter, but it shook me.

Because even though I’ve studied jazz philosophy, mindfulness, and musical interaction for decades, I realized I still often approach music with an agenda:

wanting approval,
wanting validation,
wanting acceptance,
wanting to sound impressive,
wanting to prove myself.

And all of that subtly interferes with the music itself.

Ronan had me play again, but this time he instructed me to simply listen to the backing track, leave space, react to what I heard, and enjoy the interaction.

Afterward he said:
“That was 10 times better.”

Same guitarist.
Same harmonic knowledge.
Same technique.

Different mindset.

That says everything.

2. Comparing Yourself to Other Musicians Is a Trap

Another major point in Kellman’s video is comparison.

Every musician compares themselves to others at some point. In today’s world, it’s almost impossible not to. At any moment you can open social media and instantly find someone younger, faster, more advanced, more successful, or more accomplished.

But the deeper problem is that comparison completely distorts your relationship with music.

The truth is there really is no competition in music.

No one can do it exactly like you can do it.

Even musicians in the same city, same genre, or same scene often end up helping each other:

subbing gigs,
recommending each other,
collaborating,
inspiring one another,
teaching each other,
or simply bringing out the best in one another.

And intellectually, I understand this completely.

Emotionally, though?
I still struggle with it sometimes.

I’m slightly embarrassed to admit this, but there are still moments where I want to feel “better” than other musicians. But the funny thing is that this mindset immediately backfires.

Because the moment you start thinking:
“Maybe I’m better than these people…”

you inevitably encounter someone clearly stronger than you in some area.

Then the comparison reverses and suddenly you feel inadequate again.

So the whole thing becomes ridiculous.

Why can’t we just enjoy music?
Why can’t we genuinely appreciate each other’s gifts?
Why does ego constantly try to rank everything?

Music is already difficult enough professionally, emotionally, and financially. Supporting each other should not be the hard part.

This is actually something I actively work on psychologically. Sometimes before performances or jam sessions I’ll use EFT tapping exercises — emotional freedom technique — to release competitive thinking and self-judgment. I’ll also listen to meditations focused on support, openness, and letting go of egoic thinking.

Does it permanently solve everything?
No.

It’s an ongoing process.

I still have many egoic layers that I’m trying to shed.

But awareness itself helps tremendously.

3. Talent and Technique Are Not Enough

Kellman also emphasizes that technique and talent alone do not create meaningful artistry.

This is something I’ve gradually come to believe more and more over time.

When I was younger, I strongly believed that becoming a great musician meant becoming more technically advanced, more flashy, faster, more impressive. I thought that if I just kept improving technically, eventually I would arrive at some higher musical state.

But many years later, I’m not convinced anymore.

I remember after one particular set where I consciously wasn’t trying to impress anyone, a friend told me:
“You finally sound like a musician instead of a guitarist.”

Again, that sounds simple, but I understood immediately.

There’s a difference between:

displaying guitar playing,
and
making music.

This is very similar to what Ronan Guilfoyle keeps trying to teach me:
“It’s not about you.”
“Play music, not guitar.”

Ironically, when I listen to certain types of highly technical fusion music now, I often lose interest after a few songs. I can appreciate the skill tremendously, but emotionally it sometimes feels exhausting to me. There are simply too many notes, too much information, too much effort to impress.

And I say this as someone who spent years studying exactly those kinds of things.

One painful example for me personally is my album What Are the Odds. I worked incredibly hard on that project. But when I listen back now, much of it sounds stiff to me. I hear myself trying to be clever instead of emotionally honest.

And interestingly, it’s one of my least-played albums on Spotify.

That taught me something important.

Listeners do not necessarily connect to complexity.

They connect to honesty.

4. Practicing More Is Not Always Better

Kellman talks about diminishing returns in practice and the importance of life experiences outside music.

I completely agree.

There’s a famous quote from Bill Evans where he said:
“I practice the minimum.”

He never fully explained what he meant by that, but I’ve thought about it many times over the years.

I suspect he meant the minimum amount necessary to:

maintain his skills,
stay creatively open,
and continue growing musically without becoming psychologically rigid.

Because life itself feeds music.

Travel feeds music.
Relationships feed music.
Struggles feed music.
Cultures feed music.
Adventures feed music.

I remember arriving in Puerto Rico years ago and hearing three musicians playing rhythms in the airport. The grooves were incredible. I became so fascinated by them that I spent much of the trip transcribing and studying those rhythms.

That experience affected me more deeply than many practice sessions ever did.

This is also one reason I think older musicians often become more musical even if their raw technical ability declines somewhat.

Life experience matters.

As someone who never attended music school formally, I sometimes compare myself to younger musicians who emerge with incredible technical command. But then I remind myself:
they simply cannot yet possess decades of life experience.

They haven’t:

raised children,
lived through certain struggles,
traveled extensively,
dealt with loss,
built businesses,
led bands,
experienced long-term relationships,
or navigated the emotional complexities that eventually shape musical expression.

That doesn’t make one musician “better” than another.

But it does remind me that music is bigger than chops.

5. Listening to Others Without Losing Yourself

One thing I appreciated about Kellman’s video is his warning against letting other musicians completely define who you are artistically.

“To thine own self be true” may sound cliché, but musically it matters tremendously.

One thing I’m grateful for is that I never became obsessed with sounding exactly like one guitarist. Certainly players like John Scofield, Pat Martino, and Jim Hall influenced me deeply, but I never wanted to become a clone of any of them.

At the same time, I absolutely fall into the trap of constantly searching for “the missing link.”

The next concept.
The next system.
The next breakthrough.

But over time I’ve realized something:
many masters did not master everything.

They mastered a few things extremely deeply.

And for me, rhythm has increasingly become that focal point.

Studying rhythm deeply has been humbling because it exposed weaknesses I didn’t fully realize I had. But it’s also been incredibly exciting because rhythm is endless. The deeper I go into rhythmic phrasing, interaction, subdivision, metric modulation, and time-feel, the more alive music becomes.

I also strongly agree with Kellman’s emphasis on concrete goals.

Abstract goals like:
“I want people to think I sound amazing”

are psychologically dangerous.

Concrete goals are healthier:

learn this tune,
internalize this rhythmic concept,
master this phrasing exercise,
develop this coordination skill.

I’ve found authors like Brian Tracy very inspiring in this regard because they emphasize clarity and specificity in goal setting.

6. Invisible Psychological Blocks Are Real

One of the best points Kellman makes is simply acknowledging that fears and anxieties are normal.

That sounds simple, but many musicians resist their emotions so strongly that they end up amplifying them.

Personally, after moving to the Myrtle Beach area, I’ve noticed that I sometimes become anxious about being accepted socially and professionally. I want to be liked. I want to fit into the community. I want people to respect me musically.

And if I resist those feelings, they grow stronger.

But if I simply acknowledge:
“Okay, I’m feeling anxious right now,”

then something interesting happens.

The feeling loses intensity.

This reminds me strongly of Practicing the Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. The central idea is not to fix every emotion immediately but simply to observe what you are experiencing without judgment.

What am I feeling?
Where do I feel it in the body?
What thoughts are occurring?

That awareness itself begins changing your relationship to the emotion.

Not by force.
Not by suppression.
Not by analysis.

Just by conscious observation.

I’ve found that incredibly valuable.

7. Performance Is Its Own Skill

Kellman’s section on performance anxiety was excellent.

We spend thousands of hours practicing alone, but comparatively little time actually performing. Then we become shocked when performing feels stressful.

Of course it does.

Performance is its own environment.

One thing that deeply changed my thinking came from an ex-girlfriend of mine who had a master’s degree in opera singing. She used to say:
“Mistakes are always my favorite notes.”

At the time I barely understood what she meant.

Now I think I do.

The other day during a lesson, we were playing in f minor and a student played an a natural — theoretically a harsh avoid note in that context. But the sound surprised me in a beautiful way and made me laugh positively.

It sounded alive.

That experience reminded me that music theory describes tendencies. It does not imprison sound.

You really can play almost any note over almost any chord if:

the phrasing,
intention,
rhythm,
and emotional context support it.

That realization creates freedom.

I also strongly believe musicians should practice simulating performance conditions:

standing while playing,
using amplification,
wearing earplugs,
playing for family members,
practicing complete uninterrupted run-throughs,
or using backing tracks at performance volume.

I occasionally do all of these things myself.

But still, there is no complete substitute for actual performance experience.

At some point, you simply have to go out there and play.

8. Creativity Suffers When You’re Nervous

Kellman talks about nervous system regulation and creativity.

This absolutely resonates with me.

Whenever I listen back to the live version of “All of Me” from my album Come Out and Play, I hear a level of creativity and freedom in my playing that came directly from relaxation and enjoyment.

I was surrounded by friends.
We were having fun.
I wasn’t worried about judgment.
I wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

I was simply enjoying music.

And creativity flowed naturally.

When I do get nervous on stage, I’ve developed a few methods that genuinely help:

deep breathing,
consciously relaxing the body,
mentally sending love toward the audience and musicians,
and focusing attention in the heart center rather than the analytical mind.

This may sound unusual to some readers, but it works for me.

Sometimes I’ll literally look around the room internally thinking:
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”

And something shifts.

The nervousness softens.
The music becomes more open.
The interaction becomes more human.

9. Emotional Resilience Matters More Than Talent

Kellman emphasizes persistence and emotional resilience over raw talent.

I believe this completely.

This reminds me of the core philosophy in Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. Persistence matters enormously.

There’s also a famous story about Bill Evans allegedly having a giant letter “P” on his wall. Students assumed it stood for “practice.”

But according to the story, it stood for:
“Patience.”

That’s profound.

Because musical growth is slow.
Identity development is slow.
Artistic maturity is slow.

Many musicians quit not because they lack ability, but because they emotionally cannot tolerate the pace of development.

Patience is a musical skill.

10. Learning How to Enjoy Music May Be the Most Important Skill of All

Kellman ends by talking about how musicians are taught how to play music, but not necessarily how to enjoy it.

That may be the deepest point in the entire video.

Ronan Guilfoyle talks about this constantly.

When he had me redo the lesson while leaving more space and interacting naturally with the rhythm section, something important happened:
I actually had fun.

And honestly, that’s the whole point.

Sometimes I think about a story a friend told me about meeting Tom Harrell. My friend was enthusiastically discussing some of Harrell’s past work, and Harrell apparently dismissed much of it negatively, saying things like:
“That’s out of print,”
or speaking dismissively about projects my friend admired.

Now, I don’t know Tom Harrell personally, and I’m not judging him whatsoever. I have enormous respect for him musically.

But it made me think deeply about success.

Someone can achieve:

recognition,
acclaim,
mastery,
influence,
historical significance,

and still struggle internally.

That realization has stayed with me.

Because if success is disconnected from inner fulfillment, eventually it may start feeling empty.

And maybe that’s one of the deepest lessons musicians eventually learn:

The goal is not simply becoming impressive.

The goal is remaining connected to the joy, honesty, freedom, curiosity, and humanity that made us love music in the first place.

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