“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” A phrase that people of my generation will recognise instantly. Drummed into us as children by schoolteachers and parents alike, it’s seared into our memory, never to be forgotten. You see, back in the 80s and 90s, it felt like schools had an impossibly relaxed attitude towards playground abuse. Teachers tended to turn a blind eye, preferring that the pupils sorted it out amongst themselves, and the above saying was taught to us as a verbal suit of armour. Looking back all these years later, the absurdity of it is amplified. One child would say something deeply hurtful to another, and the recipient would respond by pulling a face and chanting about sticks and stones. The victim’s intellect and apparent indifference was meant to represent a moral victory, and the perpetrator would shuffle off, humbled, tail between their legs, never to offend again. Or so the theory went. In reality, of course, there was no such thing as indifference in those moments. Instead, it was more often than not the wounded child who slunk away, head bowed. They’d go find a place to hide, sob quietly to themselves, and wish they had a teacher in whom they could confide.
That ridiculous little rhyme has a lot to answer for, and I often wonder about the harm that was caused by its proliferation. Not only did it downplay the impact of bullying, it served to cause those who were hurt by abuse to doubt themselves. “But words shouldn’t be this painful”, they’d think. “My teacher told me so”. Despite the innocence of our childhood, we had an instinctive understanding that words were actually capable of far greater, longer-lasting damage than any physical object a tormentor might yield, even if the adults in the room were telling us otherwise.
Nowhere is that truer than in the world of music. It’s often said that music has the capacity to convey emotions that spoken language cannot. With that in mind, I suppose it’s bitterly ironic that musicians are particularly vulnerable to the impact of words. We are sensitive souls and insecurity runs through our veins – it’s a necessary part of any artist’s DNA – and the need for reassurance and validation is constant. For us, a misjudged phrase, or a deliberately barbed remark, can draw blood and leave life-long scars. The language of kindness is essential to our survival.
Toxic Teaching
A few weeks ago, I was talking to a young piano student, and they shared a story that’s stayed with me since. They spoke about a consultation lesson that they’d taken with a faculty member prior to joining a European conservatoire, during which the teacher had asked them about their ambitions. The student replied that they dreamt of becoming a concert pianist, to which the retort came, “Ha – ridiculous! You’ll never achieve that!” The teacher’s insensitive, dismissive response shocked the student, who immediately recognised the inappropriateness of it all. Sensibly, the student opted to join a different class, and is now doing very well, making good progress and performing quite regularly. But, despite their success, the mocking tone with which the teacher had harpooned their dreams have clearly left a mark. Even when recounting the experience several years later, they became quite emotional, and that was desperately sad to see.
In my experience of matters such as these, there are two schools of thought. The first comprises those who believe that a teacher sometimes needs to be cruel to be kind. They argue that educators have a responsibility to inform students if they believe sights are being set too high. Much better to burst a few bubbles if it means not wasting time, the rationale goes. The opposite approach – and this is the one I generally subscribe to – is to nurture the student’s aspirations rather than write them off, giving them time and space to figure things out for themselves. In other words, let them evolve and discover their own context – with a bit of metaphorical hand-holding – rather than determining their fate for them. In my view, this tends to lead to happier long-term outcomes.
Either way, respect towards the student is surely a must. An aspiring young artist can be naive, yes, and sometimes their ambitions are misaligned with their potential. But they deserve better than to be mocked and treated as if they’re stupid. When a teacher speaks as the one mentioned above did, it reveals more about their limitations than those of the student. The hurt they can cause, however, is very real.
Another tragic tale emerged from a conversation that I had back in 2024. On that occasion, a violinist, now in her 30s, recounted her experiences of life at a famous specialist music school in the early 2000s. Her most vivid memory was of the first lesson she took with her new teacher, a fearsome but renowned disciple of the soviet school. She described her feelings as she entered the studio – a mixture of nervousness, excitement and hope. She remembered playing a piece of Bach, and she recalled how she turned to her teacher upon its conclusion, hoping for words of approval and encouragement. Instead, the imposing figure scowled, shook their head, and said, “You’re not very bright, are you? I’m going to call you chickenbrain”. And that’s what they did; in every lesson for the next five years – for the entirety of the girl’s time at the school – chickenbrain was the only name by which she was known. Imagine that; 11 years old, just entered into a boarding school – far from the comforting embrace of her parents – and degraded by a derogatory nickname on day one, by the very person who was supposed to be her mentor, her guide, her shining example. It’s awful. Over time, the girl’s parents noticed a change in her character; a loss of confidence, a reluctance to pick up the violin during school holidays, less time listening to music, fewer smiles. They raised their concerns with the school’s leadership, only to be reassured that sticks and stones might break their daughter’s bones, but words would never hurt her. “She needs to persevere”, they were informed. “It’s all part of her training – a way to build her resilience”. As non-musicians, they fell into the trap of believing the ‘experts’. Years later, they are full of remorse for not following their instincts. Needless to say, the teacher’s words were hurtful, and the scars will never heal.
Ruthless Reviewers
W. Somerset Maughan probably got it right when he wrote that “people ask for criticism, but all they want is praise”. Having your artistic choices questioned is a bitter pill for any musician to swallow. After all, we expel blood, sweat and tears to arrive at interpretations that we believe to be true, and it can be tough to accept that other people’s truth might be different. Nonetheless, music criticism certainly has its place in the world – I’d even go so far as to argue it’s a necessity – so long as it’s constructive.
There are two reviews that I remember reading many years ago that were as far from being constructive as you could possibly get. One was published in the London Evening Standard and referenced a recital given by a well-known cellist at Wigmore Hall. “His sound was akin to the noise made by a strangled mosquito”, the author opined, ruthlessly. The other appeared in the BBC Music Magazine and accompanied a CD release by another British pianist of my generation. The award of a single star (out of five), was supported by paragraph after paragraph of vicious text, culminating in the line, “if this is the future of British piano playing, be afraid. Be very afraid”. A sensibly and sensitively-written critique of your playing can be a valuable asset, even if it’s hard to stomach upon initial consumption, and reflecting on the negative reviews I’ve received in the past (and there have been a few), I’m given cause to concede that they’ve been, for the most part, insightful enough that I’ve actually learned from them. [Whisper it quietly, but I’ve even come to agree with some of them!] But the quotes listed above do not – by any definition – fall into that category. They are needlessly nasty. It’s one of life’s great mysteries that editors still allow such materials to appear in their publications.
To be fair to those who are paid to criticise, they are not the only ones guilty of occasionally overstepping the mark. We stand on the shoulders of musical giants who were prone to poisonous commentary; a quick google will soon reveal a plethora of insults by composers and performers directed at their peers. (You can find 50 of the most infamous insults here.) That insecurity to which I referred earlier has a lot to answer for, and when you throw in the intangibility of a career in music – and the inevitable jealousy that sometimes boils to the surface – we have a petri dish of toxicity.
Agitating Authors
A few months ago, I tuned into the YouTube live-streams of the Chopin Competition and was horrified by the vitriolic bile that was flowing through the chats. Every minor slip was pounced upon as if the performer had delivered it as a personal insult, without an iota of recognition for the sublime talent and dedication on display. I had to turn them off. And permanent turning off is what the BBC was forced to do several years ago, when the now-defunct official Radio 3 messageboard became unbearably toxic, thanks to a rabid mob of armchair critics. Perhaps it’s the passion that music evokes which causes people to overheat, their fury igniting when interpretations don’t align with their own. But, here’s the thing; music is subjective, and by definition, the artistic decisions that one performer makes will never align perfectly with another. Accepting that subjectivity is a key element of being a good, patient and kind listener.
In truth, the digital world has a lot to answer for. Nastiness may be rife in online chats and messageboards, but it’s sometimes experienced in our one-to-one communications too. Yes, there were cruel letters in centuries past, but perhaps there was something in the time taken to write by hand that caused us to calm before firing off our unfiltered thoughts. Email – digital words on a screen, delivered in ubiquitous fonts, shorn of the sender’s personal penmanship – brings a greater sense of anonymity and distance. I recall one particularly nasty email I received whilst in a previous leadership position. The sender had a lot to say and didn’t mince their words in how they said it. But as much as they had a right to raise their grievances, they didn’t have any business doing so in such abusive fashion. I called them out on it, and they responded true to form, insisting that they were simply speaking the truth (I had a good chuckle, imagining them screaming into their computer, Jack Nicholson-style, “You can’t handle the truth!”). And therein lies a central problem of the digital age; abuse, whether it’s in the form of an email, a comment posted on a competition live-chat, or a messageboard review, is all too readily dressed up as ‘truth’ or freedom of speech. Just as rhymes about sticks and stones were once shared as a means to diffuse the impact of playground bullying, the digital bullies of today are creating bizarre moral contortions in an attempt to justify their own conduct. Times have changed, and the modes by which we communicate our words are different, but the impact of them is still the same.
Community Culture
We live in complex times. This is a moment in history when we’re trying to figure out how to interact with one another, shining a much-needed spotlight on past behaviours, and asking profound questions about what is and isn’t – or was and wasn’t – appropriate. And we’re doing all of this whilst grappling with (relatively) new modes of communication. So, I send out a plea to readers, fellow musicians, and music-followers around the world; let’s be kind to one another.
To teachers, I urge you to consider the wise advice of Carlos Ruiz Zafon, who wrote that, “the words with which a child’s heart is poisoned, whether through malice or through ignorance, remain branded in his memory, and sooner or later they burn his soul”. Your students’ life-long relationship with music will be shaped by your conduct, so take great care in the language that you use.
To critics, I ask that you respect the sensitive human soul who has crafted the notes you review. You can do great things if you deliver your feedback with care. You can cause great harm if you don’t.
To those embroiled in musical rivalries, please consider that anger is a self-inflicted wound. As the saying goes, holding onto envy is tantamount to drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. We all have limited energy – don’t waste it.
And to anyone inappropriately emboldened by the icy impersonality of email, bear in mind that rudeness rarely leads to the outcome that you desire. Amongst the shared notes authored by visitors to our recent Zenezen launch, was the simple but sage recommendation that “not being an asshole” is key to achieving success as a musician. I couldn’t agree more.
As constituents of the music industry, we have our fair share of sticks and stones to dodge from outside agencies. Governments are constantly trimming arts budgets, streaming models are robbing us of income, and we are still reeling from the aftershocks of the pandemic. AI looms large, and we worry about what that means for our futures. And even certain Hollywood superstars – fellow artists – are throwing rocks in our direction. We’ll be much better-placed to contend with this stuff if we work together as a community, and it is up to us to decide what kind of culture we want within the classical world.
Let’s not self-sabotage. Let’s choose kindness.
