You As the CEO- Chief Education Officer

As I wander through Costco, buy groceries at my local food mart, and board a plane headed for unknown places, a recurring thought crosses my mind—could I run this place? Do I have what it takes to be the CEO of a multi-national company? Would this organization be better served with me at the helm?

Really, I do this ALL of the time.

 As I meander from aisle to aisle (I think I can run a billion-dollar company but can't develop a grocery store plan), my mind wanders through supply chains, logistics, marketing, efficiencies, HR, and every other aspect of the business. Strange, I know, but it's better than trying to figure out why the hotdog buns come in different sizes and quantities than the hot dogs that sit in them.

What's even more bizarre is that it doesn't matter what the business is or if I have any experience in that space and place; I am continually enamored with the same question: Do I have what it takes to run it?

Do you ever have that same thought? 

Have you ever wondered if you were meant for something bigger? Have you ever looked at a Fortune 500 company and thought, "Could I run that?" Have you ever pictured yourself in a high-powered C-Suite office with a dedicated assistant and a generous expense account? 

At first pass, you might think, "Nah, I don't have the experience or training to run a conglomerate." But you are wrong! You are more capable than you realize.

At first pass, you might think, "Nah, I don't have the experience or training to run a conglomerate." But you are wrong! You are more capable than you realize.

 A recent Harvard Business Review article analyzed successful CEOs' skill sets and abilities and identified must-have characteristics for surviving and thriving in the high-stakes world of a corporate boardroom.

 To be an effective corporate leader, you must:

Make quick, confident decisions. How many decisions do you make throughout every class and day? You have no control over the inputs (kids), no time to contemplate, just the ability to make accurate real-time adjustments. The stakes may be smaller, but the pressure and tears are just as real (yours, not the kids).

Align shareholders and teams. Oh, how cute (insert sarcastic tone). Hey, Mr. Big Shot, is getting people you pay to align and agree with you hard? Try aligning parents, administrators, custodians, and drummers who think they are more intelligent than you. Music teachers don't need to remind people of their organizational chart's command and control structure; they use the "don't mess with me, I am a music teacher" look as their superpower to slay 170 teenagers.

 Adapt to changing markets. Music teachers adapt to changing bell schedules, surprise fire drills, teenage hormones, busses that don't show, and situational such as no one telling them the auditorium is now being used for standardized testing. Again. More than that, the art form of music is advancing every year in a way unlike any other curriculum.

Deliver results quarter after quarter. Quarter after quarter? Try week after week. I have a performance review every Friday night - and year after year. 

Nurture relationships. Music teachers align students, parents, counselors, school boards, and the saxophone player who insists on improvising in every key but the correct one. They do this without a shared vision or purpose - they have to create, market, and sell it - all hoping, no, praying, that people will volunteer to be a part of it.

Have a vision and bet big. Music teachers choose music without hearing the group, chart movement without seeing the kids, and take freshmen on a trip across county lines. Some might call it daring, others delusional, but we can all agree it's betting with all the chips. 

Grow future leaders. I know of no other organization that invests more time and effort into leadership development than the music teacher. We don't take people with an MBA and send them to a corporate retreat—we take pre-adults, train them on our own, and send them into the fire. It's not about future growth and development; it's about survival.

Be able to handle a crisis. While a CEO might deal with a product recall, I thought about recalling my product almost every Friday night. Crisis? Hey, Mr. CEO, let me introduce you to my color guard.

Deliver value. As I demonstrated on the Band Dad Podcast - music teachers run multi-level organizations with almost no financial support for less than $2.00 an hour. I'll compare my product and my paycheck to a CEO's any day of the week. ROI? You make seven figures and lead a company of 150 adults. I make 50K and lead 150 teens (including a couple of dozen drummers, where it's more about chaos management). 

Are you getting the drift? 

It's not IF you could be a CEO; you are already one. You are the Chief Educational Officer of your program, school, and community. 

 You chart a path, set year-end goals, train your staff, manage your facilities and inventory, engage in daily growth exercises, and are accountable for your choices and decisions. You do this without a large budget, support staff, assistant, or the luxury of time. Your role is invaluable and deserves recognition–and a related compensation package, or at least better coffee.

 The depth and breadth of your education, training, and experience make it likely that you would be a highly successful CEO. 

But could the CEO be a successful music teacher?

We all know the answer to that question.

 Have a great week, 

Scott

MYSTERIOUS–IMPORTANT & SEVERANCE!

Apple TV's psychological thriller Severance has captured audiences worldwide with its eerie aesthetic, thought-provoking themes, and unsettling workplace dystopia. 

Severance is set in a dystopian society where some company employees undergo a surgical procedure to separate their work from their personal lives. It's a disturbing yet fascinating take on work-life balance taken to the extreme. 

At Lumon, select employees undergo the severance procedure, creating two distinct versions of themselves:

  • "Innies" – Their work personas, who exist only inside the office and have no knowledge of the outside world.

  • "Outies" – Their personal lives, who do not remember what happens at work.

Amid Lumon Industries' ominous halls and the eerie detachment of its workers, an unexpected presence stands out: the marching band.

Yes, if you live under a rock or are culturally unaware (as I typically am), the marching band has become a cultural phenomenon.

In the last episode of season two, the marching band, part of Lumon's Choreography and Merriment department, symbolizes compliance and control. The band's performance serves as a demonstration of the manager Milchick'sunwavering commitment to Lumon's ideals as he leads them in the workspace to celebrate a great accomplishment. 

For music teachers, this eerie concept may be too real. While we may not have undergone brain surgery to split our identities, the struggle of separating work from home is an ongoing battle—one few of us win. 

Unlike many professions, music teachers don't just clock out at 5 p.m. and forget about their jobs. This crazy profession follows us home, quite literally, into our nights and weekends with an unending list of tasks and a mental playlist of every wrong note played in rehearsal.

In the series, employees struggle with the idea that their innie (their workplace persona) has no real agency outside of work. This isn't a sci-fi concept for a music teacher but a daily reality. Our "innie" teaches, conducts, organizes fundraisers, handles school politics, manages the inventory, polices the practice rooms, and somehow manages to teach Holst and Holsinger along the way. But their "outie" still gets late-night emails from parents, contests on weekends, and hears the distant echo of a student asking, "Wait, when's the concert again?" in the supposed solitude of their living room.

Beyond that, and perhaps more importantly, how many of us struggle to maintain the "ethos" of our job at home? How many of us feel guilty about not studying scores when we ask our students to practice? How often have you had cognitive dissonance preaching work ethic to your students when all you wanted to do was go home? How many days during the summer break did you go to work or feel guilty about not going to work when you weren't even supposed to be there?

As dark as Severence is, and it's dark, they may be on to something with this separation of work and home.

Imagine finishing a stressful day of rehearsal, stepping outside, and instantly forgetting about the trumpet section's inability to count rests. 

Sounds heavenly, right? But there's the darker side of the equation.

 With Severance, my "innie" wouldn't remember ANY of what happened at work. I wouldn't remember the joy of a well-played phrase, the excitement on a student's face when they finally played it correctly, or the emotional rush of knowing we wouldn't crash and burn at a contest (admit it, you've felt it).

Unlike the workers in Severance, music teachers can't simply separate their professional and personal lives by pushing an elevator button. Their work is deeply personal, emotionally taxing, and, in many ways, a fundamental part of our identity. When students succeed, it's a personal triumph. It feels like an existential crisis when funding is cut or programs are undervalued. The stakes are too high for a clean divide.

But just like in Severance, there's also a struggle for autonomy. Music teachers constantly navigate school bureaucracy, battling for budgets, rehearsal space, and performance opportunities. Their passion is sometimes reduced to a series of spreadsheets and justifications to administrators who see the program as a dispensable extracurricular rather than an essential part of student development.

Despite the challenges, the very thing that makes a Severance-style split desirable is also what makes being a music teacher worthwhile. We live for the moments when the "innie" and the "outie" align—the moment when the hours of work pay off in a standing ovation, when a student finally masters that impossible passage, or when a marching band takes the field under stadium lights, ready to perform for the first time.

Ultimately, we don't need to sever our brains—we need balance. We may never fully escape the demands of our chosen profession, but I wouldn't want to. Unlike the corporate drones of Lumon, I don't just work to survive; I work to inspire. Our mysterious and important work, despite its challenges, is worth remembering—inside and outside the band room. 

Have a great week! 

 

Scott

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EGGFLATION & OUR MUSICAL UNION

Remember when eggs were just a simple breakfast staple, not a status symbol for the ultra-wealthy? Thanks to inflation, eggs have gone from a grocery list afterthought to a hot commodity rivaling gold and real estate. At this rate, carrying a carton of eggs through the store requires a security escort and a Brinks delivery truck.

And what about the impending Easter holiday? Word on the street is that parents are painting potatoes instead because who can afford to waste an actual egg? I love my boys, but I am not wasting a dozen eggs to color them. The theme this year is to eat what you paint.

But if you really want to see inflation gone wrong, bypass your local farm yard and head over to Harvard Yard. 

Yep, the granddaddy of the Ivy League. And I'm not talking about tuition costs (Harvard just announced an expansion to its tuition-free program); I'm talking about grades. 

According to a recent article in the Washington Post Magazine, Twenty years ago, the mean grade-point average for Harvard University undergraduates was 3.41. Today, Harvard's average GPA has ballooned to 3.8. At America's oldest university, 79 percent of the grades are now A's and A-minuses ― a 32 percent increase from 10 years earlier.

The same article said their Ivy school rivals in New Haven, Connecticut, reported equally rampant grade inflation. In the 2022-2023 academic year, nearly 60 percent of the grades Yale University professors awarded undergraduates were an outright A, not even an A-minus. Only 20 percent of grades in the entire college were a B+ or below.

Are kids learning more? Are they studying longer? Or have we just gone soft?  What do you think?

Now, before I criticize my tweed jacket-wearing, pipe-smoking counterparts - it should be known that I gave away more than my fair share of "A's" in my day. I could spin you a tale of lack of grade book software and self-grading programs were to blame, but truth be told, I would give away just as many, if not more, A's today.  

When I was a classroom teacher, my theory was that if you were willing to come in at 6:00 a.m., of your own accord, let me work you like a dog for 90 minutes, come back during third period for another 60 minutes, and then cap it off with an afternoon sectional, evening rehearsal, or Friday night game, you earned the A. I haven't even mentioned Saturday competitions or band camp.

But twenty-plus years later, I would give A+s—not just because of inflation but because the kids have earned and deserve it.

 

At face value, 3% doesn't seem like a lot—but when compounded over twenty years, it's significant. Any music educator who taught for twenty-plus years will attest to this. There's plenty of video and recording evidence to back it up.

So, if value has risen with the "price," then it's not inflation; it's valuation. In today's music groups, students (and teachers) are achieving 109.3% more and being rewarded with a paltry (or poultry) 20% increase in remuneration (FV = PV * (1 + r)^n – I Googled it)

That's right—3% over time means we have doubled our production—but we're still paying them nothing!

 These kids need to unionize or stage a walkout. Wait a minute—we music educators need to walk out. But that would mean missing a rehearsal, which we all know will never happen.

And that's not the whole story. 

Students aren't just learning more; they are applying it to their lives daily. They can't just know the right note, rhythm, or drill spot; they demonstrate mastery daily. What other curricula increase demand, make it applicable daily (that rules out French and Geometry), and demonstrate mastery?

None.

Demand, daily application, and demonstrable mastery. Just add 3%, and rinse, and repeat next year.

 Achievement/demand/rigor - which came first? Well, that's a chicken/egg type question. And, right now, I can't afford either.

FADING EFFECT BIAS & NOT BEING AS GLORIOUS AS I REMEMBER

Reflecting on my days as a high school band director, I am filled with gratitude, love, and a deep sense of purpose. For me, and I suspect for many of you, it was more than a job; it was, and is, a fundamental part of my identity. 

I remember my students fondly and think about the short and long-term impact I might have had on them. My memories are vivid and rich; I remember it all like it was yesterday. When I think of these days,  I become nostalgic, remembering the well-oiled machine and the perfectly synchronized musical and visual unit we were. Even twenty years removed, I am bathing in the glow of excellence and achievement - feeling like I was a part of something truly special.

 At least, that's how I remember it. 

I revisited some old recordings this past weekend and faced a very different reality. The recordings painted a very different picture than I remembered and described above.

At first, I wrote off the less-than-stellar marching technique as lousy camera angles and inopportune moments. I passed off the transgressions of tone to being thirty-year-old and poorly placed shotgun mics. And yes, the drumline was a bit dirty and simplistic, but that was before Kevlar heads and modern drum tuning.

But as I continued to watch, I could no longer ignore the harsh reality that the band I was watching was not the band I remembered.

  • The spotless drill in my mind? In reality, it was solid technique with some spacing issues.

  • That Carolina Crown-esque sound I remembered? It seems to have stayed in Carolina.

  • The grandeur of the guard? Well, it lacked integration and execution.

  • And while we're at it, what happened to my hair?

This is crazy. How could my memory be so disconnected from reality? How could I be so disassociated from the truth? How did I forget everything wrong in favor of what went right? Was it early (or not so early) onset dementia? Am I in an alternate universe?

No. 

 Fading Affect Bias (FAB) is a psychological phenomenon where negative emotions associated with past events fade faster over time than positive ones. This means we often remember the positive aspects of memory more vividly than the negative ones, even if they occurred simultaneously. In their infinite wisdom, our brains have deleted the misery and left us nothing but a highlight reel of glory. And my highlight reel was exceptional - or so I thought!

Let me give you a real-life example.

This being my son's first year in high school, I wanted him to be excited about band camp. I shared my (twenty-year-old) camp memories with him as a joy-filled time of laughter, camaraderie, and heartwarming moments of self-discovery. I explained that through this life-changing experience, he would grow as a musician, bond with his section, and learn life lessons to help shape his future. 

That is exactly how I remember it twenty-one years ago. That's not exactly the way he remembers it from twenty-one weeks ago.

(Think of this like you would the Close Encounters skit on SNL with Kate McKinnon)

At the end of camp, he would have described his experience as an eight-day real-life version of Survivor, set on the face of the Sun and designed by someone who definitely trained and possibly killed Navy SEALs once upon a time. 

He complained about the long days, the stench of sunblock and body odor, and would swear the spaghetti he was served was leftover from last year.

Now, months removed, he remembers less of the struggle and more of the experiences, the friendships he created, and the rewards of performance.

This doesn't just happen to students; FAB impacts teachers as well.

Fading Affect Bias explains why we are excited for next year in May, despite swearing the previous November never to do this again. It helps us understand why we are fried at the end of the school year and excited at the start and why next year, we will once again select contest music that is too hard on a timeline that is too short!

Our brains protect us by gently sweeping the bad stuff under the rug like a responsible parent hiding the real ingredients of dinner so their kid doesn't realize they just ate spinach.

In the end, what remains is the transformative power of memories. The heat, the exhaustion, the pain—all of it fades. We remember the rush of hitting the final note in a perfect arc, the weight of the medal around our necks, and the ridiculous late-night diner stops where we laughed until we cried. We remember the people, the moments, the why—even if the how is lost to time. These memories inspire us, reminding us of the joy and camaraderie that made it all worthwhile.

Yes, we remember the good things, but those memories are born of the bad. The weight of the medal is evidence of the long days spent in the broiling hot Sun. The twelve-hour bus rides are proof that our ensembles are worthy to compete on a national scale. What makes us laugh until we cry is the ridiculousness of the activity. You can't have one without the other. It's a bittersweet balance that shapes our recollections of this life-changing activity.

We remember what went right because of what went wrong.

So you can keep your tape of my band, and I will keep my memories. I know they exist because of one another, but Fading Affect Bias teaches me that my memory of the tape will fade, but my memory of the kids and experiences will live forever.

Have a great week!

Scott

 

EARNING YOUR "DOG-TERATE" AND BEAGLE AMBIVALENCE

To those who know me well, you know I am a "dog person."

Don't get me wrong - I also love me some feline friends and other assorted creatures, but my furry four-legged tail-wagging friends have my heart. My current dog, Riley? She is the sweetest, most intelligent, and best-trained dog I have ever had.

Don't be offended. I am sure your dog is fine (in a potty-trained sort of - I can sit on command way), but Riley? She has Albert Einstein's brains, Dolly Parton's sweetness, and Ryan Reynolds's charisma. But I may be biased.

Our family has mulled over about getting her trained and certified as a service dog, which brings me to today's blog.

 I taught Riley to drive!

Today, I stumbled upon an article showcasing the exceptional abilities of dogs like Riley. These extraordinary canines can find earthquake survivors among the rubble and search for lost children in the woods - all for a treat, a squeaky toy, and some affection. They are the superheroes of the animal kingdom and should wear capes!

The article followed the dogs through their training, and it's incredible. They spend their days navigating a chaotic playground of concrete chunks and wooden pallets to find evidence of a hidden human. 

Spoiler alert: they usually ace it in seconds. Search-and-rescue is just one of many career paths for these brilliant canines. 

More importantly, these training centers don't just train dogs—they redefine the relationship between humans and their four-legged partners, creating an elite workforce that can detect everything from missing persons to deadly diseases. It's not just the WHAT; it's the HOW.

Specifically:

  • Dogs self-select their job based on their natural skill set and passions.

  • The handlers are then matched to dogs based on their shared passions and personalities.

Over time, the pair develop a deep and unique communication system. They communicate with different barks, postures, paw signals, and other behaviors, creating a fascinating and heartwarming bond. Anyone who has ever had a long, deep discussion with a dog about why they shouldn't have eaten an entire turkey off the counter or recreated the Grand Canyon in your backyard knows what I am talking about. Dogs listen, understand, feel, and communicate out of love and respect. Except for Beagles – they don't listen to anyone or anything. I know; I had one growing up.

All of this made me think about the relationship between a music teacher and their students. Odd? Perhaps. But in this profession, we have a teacher and a student. A trainer and a trainee. An adult and a teen. Just as a dog trainer guides a dog through its training, a music teacher guides a student through their musical education, helping them develop their skills and find their passion in the same way a dog trainer helps a dog find its role and passion in life.

In music education and dog training, we don't force kids into specific roles; they self-select according to their skills, interests, and passions. Just as a pup might naturally excel at tracking or herding, a student might naturally excel at playing a specific instrument or singing a particular style of music. Some students pursue leadership, while others pursue improv. Some students opt for all-region or all-state, while others pursue chamber music. Some prefer marching band; others prefer indoor winds/percussion/guard. Either way, the student self-selects their path and is matched with an instructor who shares their passions.

This is where the magic happens.

When people (and puppies) share a sense of purpose and passion, they are willing to endure hardships, sacrifice, and do big things. They aren't just performing "tricks for a treat;" but engaging in meaningful, fulfilling, and challenging work. This shared passion drives them to show up early, stay late, and work until the task is done.

 

Your goal is not necessarily teaching them to march, play, or sing, just as a trainer doesn't train a dog to smell, climb, or dig. You teach them to pursue, to grind, and not to stop until the objective or task has been met.

The reward might be a treat, a high-five, or a kind word, but they do it for the regard, respect, and approval of the person who trained them.

This is far more profound than just training—it's a sacred partnership between trainer and trainee. Trusted teammates bonded through hours of shared experiences. This relationship is unmistakable and unbreakable. A trainer knows their trainee's every habit and quirk—how they think and feel. Trainees look to their trainer for guidance, trust them implicitly, and work not just for a treat, but because they genuinely want to do well for their person.

Whether the trainee walks on two legs or four, this relationship remains the same. The trainer needs the trainee just as much as the trainee needs the trainer. It's a symbiotic relationship. 

Unless you're a Beagle. Now, who wants a treat?

Have a great week!

Scott

 

THE CRUSHING BURDEN I WILL NEVER KNOW

Speaking objectively, I am not a handsome man. 

Listen, I'm not saying I am a troll, just that At 5'6(ish), I lack the statuesque physique and imposing presence commonly associated with male beauty. You should know about some other shortcomings (insert short joke here). My jawline is as strong as my biceps, my complexion reveals my fifteen years of sun-drenched rehearsals, and my once full head of hair has given way to a grey mop, hanging on for dear life.

It's safe to say, Ryan Reynolds, I am not, much to my wife's (and my) dismay. But there is some upside to my model mediocrity.

I used to foolishly believe that whatever success I achieved in my life and work was due to hard work, diligence, perseverance, and perhaps a bit of luck. A foolish belief indeed. What do I have to thank for my successes? 

My looks. Or, more specifically, lack thereof.

A recent article in The Guardian dispels the myth of masculinity with science that verifies that good-looking guys not only don't get the girls/partners, they don't get the job either.

According to a new study from University College London's School of Management, men are more likely to be overlooked for competitive roles that rely upon individual talent – if perceived as handsome. 

The study stated, "Male superiors were reluctant to place those they consider to be more handsome at the same level as themselves. This seems obvious. Work is hard enough without Ken stopping by your cubicle every day asking where Barbie is?

The genesis of the distrust lies in jealousy. The study stated that the less dashing males perceived their more alluring counterparts as having an easier pathway to success. They were determined to right this wrong by passing over their more striking counterparts.

In other words, the world resents your perfection and makes you suffer for it.

The article made me wonder if we don't do something similar in music, specifically how we view our more successful colleagues and how they got to be so successful.

I am not a musical savant and was never confused with conductor of the President's Own, or any other professional wind band. I never aspired to be a college professor or a household name as a conductor. However, I do know what it's like to be competent, which is exhausting. So, I can't imagine the burden and pressure if you are wildly successful.

Think about it. Have you ever thought the following when watching another group perform at a high level?

  • I could do that if I had their drill writer and arranger.

  • If I had their budget, I would have placed first, too!

  • It's all because their kids take private lessons.

  • They won't be good next year; they're a one-hit wonder.

I have. And frankly, I have heard colleagues say similar things about me.

It's not that we're (myself included) bad people. We're putting everything into our jobs and still not achieving the success we want for ourselves and our students. We're coming up short, and it's easier to believe that it is something that they have, instead of something we could do.

Success is a hungry monster that demands to be fed. You're never allowed an off year. Meanwhile, if the football team loses eight games in a row, it's called a "rebuilding year," and everyone nods sympathetically. If your clarinets flub Molly on the Shore (and who wouldn't), colleagues start eyeing my job like vultures circling a musical carcass.

Specifically, as a music teacher, the second your program succeeds, some assume you're coasting on a wave of sheer, effortless talent. They think your students come to you as savants, your boosters bankroll anything you need, and you have a former band director as your admin.

It's not you - you're just lucky. As if luck and not the soul-crushing early morning rehearsals, the endless hours of score study, or the fact that you have begged clarinet players not to treat their reeds like the fine wood and swap them out once in a while. Nope, just luck.

Being a band director is like being a model - we are judged on what people see. Every concert, every halftime show, every competition—people see the polished final product, but no one sees the blood, sweat, and tears behind it. Like a male model struggling to be taken seriously intellectually, a successful band director sometimes struggles to convince the world (and their peers) that this isn't as easy as it looks.

But, I am speculating, as I am neither uber successful nor uber handsome. I am an average band director, doing my best,  running on caffeine and desperation.

So yes, I feel for my beautiful brethren who suffer the unbearable burden of being too handsome for this world, just as I feel for those music teachers who are too successful for the profession because I know their struggles are real. Their pain is valid, and they have earned their success the old-fashioned way with talent, grit, and hard work.

Now, if I could figure out how they get their marching bands to triple-tongue? Must be the articulation fairy? It can't possibly be me.

Have a great week.

Scott

p.s. If you haven't checked out our new podcast and shared it with your parents, you should! The feedback has been off the chart. In just 24 hours it's been downloaded in over 100 cities and three countries.

 

WHILE OTHERS CONDUCT MAHLER, YOU CONDUCT MIRACLES

The classical music world is reeling (or at least politely murmuring in hushed, cultured tones) over recent shocking developments.

Has Bach actually rolled over in his grave? 

Did someone find the final movement of Shubert's Unfinished Symphony? Did we discover the identity of Beethoven's Immortal Beloved?

No.

What has the cadenza connoisseurs so up in arms? Esa-Pekka Salonen has resigned as Music Director of the San Francisco Symphony. 

(insert slightly audible yet polite gasp)

Shocking, I know! Now, let's get out our opera glasses and zoom in on why this unexpected departure happened. 

 It turns out Salonen and the board couldn't see eye-to-eye on his grand artistic vision—and, more importantly, its very grand price tag.

From what I understand, Salonen is a rare breed of intellectual and musical savant. The problem? Salonen wanted to push boundaries, expand the Symphony's artistic reach, and craft performances that redefined classical music for a modern audience. The board? They wanted to keep the lights on without having to sell their kidney organs to pay for it.

Salonen is no ordinary baton-waver. He doesn't just conduct concerts but envisions entire artistic landscapes—a rare breed. So when his vision wasn't met with open arms (and open wallets), he walked. I get it. And I respect his willingness to take a stand. 

(Keep in mind - I know nothing more than he quit over the budget. I am just trying to make a point.)

But, from the outside looking in, it seems childish and selfish. If he can't have everything he wants, he quits. No compromise. No work around. No collaboration, he just quit.

What about his musicians? What about the community? What about all of the employees that count on him for a living?

An educator would just another way to achieve the same goals without giving up. It's what you do every day. You fight, you overcome, and you provide for your student musicians and school community.

Imagine if all music teachers reacted as Solonen did in similar circumstances. You create a dream and present it to your Governing Board, only to discover there is not enough budget for your dream, so you quit.

  • "What do you mean we can't afford the new marching band uniforms? I resign!"

  • "No budget for a second bassoon? I will not work under these conditions!"

  • "You're telling me the concert will be held in the cafeteria because the gym is booked for a dodgeball tournament? I'M OUT!"

The above has likely happened to many of you - sans the quitting part.

If that were the case, every school in America would be out of music teachers by October. Instead, these warriors sigh, grab some duct tape, and find a way to turn five working instruments, a xylophone missing six keys, and an out-of-tune trumpet section into a concert – one that will make parents shed tears of joy.

In your own way and world, you dream big and artistic masterpieces. You fight for funding. But when you're told "No" (which, if we're being real, happens daily), you don't resign in protest while making a grand exit speech about artistic compromises (but wouldn't it be awesome if you did). Nobody writes an article about you in the New York Times (again, awesome sauce). You roll up your sleeves and figure out how to turn 30 mismatched chairs, five playable instruments, and a budget of approximately $12 into a life-changing musical experience for your students (slightly less awesome).

Want to upgrade your string basses? No budget.
Need to get your piano tuned? Nada.
Want a second tuba because your duct tape repair is leaking? Zilch.

And yet, somehow, miraculously, the show goes on for your students.

So yes, Salonen's resignation is a dramatic moment for the classical music world. But in the world of education—where the smell of old rosin, broken reeds, and sunscreen fills the air—music teachers shake their heads and chuckle. 

 Quitting over a budget dispute? How adorable.

If you'll excuse them, they have a concert to run—with or without working air conditioning. 

Have a great week.

 

Scott





Going BANANAS for Music Education

This past weekend, my family and I had the chance to attend an event with the Savanah Bananas. Not a game, but an EVENT - one that left my head spinning.

I was BLOWN away by the experience - everything from the first marketing email to the pre-game tailgate party and through to the end-of-game email exceeded all expectations. They created a sense of energy, excitement, and exclusivity, which made you feel LUCKY to be there, because not everyone who wanted tickets got them.

If you've never heard of the Savannah Bananas, imagine the Harlem Globetrotters and a three-ring circus having a baby raised by Will Ferrell and deciding to play baseball—that's the Savannah Bananas. 

 They're like the rebellious, fun-loving cousin of traditional baseball, showing up to the family reunion in a banana costume, juggling bats while drinking a beer, and turning the event into a comedy show.

While most baseball teams are watching the scoreboard and playing to win, the Bananas are watching the crowd and playing for smiles. 

Take a second and watch this clip from the game I attended this weekend ( I was just to the right of the dancing banana (Split is his name) in center field. Be sure to watch until the end - simply mind blowing. 

You kind of get it now, right? Now imagine five hours of non-stop joy, laughter, and some incredible baseball. They even had a 9 piece house band!

Baseball's most bizarre, beautiful, and bonkers phenomenon breaks all the rules and establishes their own, dubbed Banana Ball rules. It's serious baseball, done in a very unserious way. There are choreographed dances, batters on stilts, and some of the wildest catches you have ever seen. While traditional baseball is looking for ways to engage and grow its audience, the Bananas are so in demand that game tickets are secured in a lottery drawing that sells out in minutes after the dates are announced.

The Savannah Bananas were founded in 2016 when Jesse Cole, a former baseball player turned marketing genius (who wears a bright yellow tuxedo), took over the struggling Savannah minor league team. The previous team, the Savannah Sand Gnats (gee - I wonder why no one wanted to go see the sand fleas?), had left town, and local fans weren't exactly banging down the doors to see another small-time baseball team. So, Jesse and his wife Emily did what any rational people would do: they drained their savings, sold their house, and bet everything on making baseball fun again.

Their first year was rough. They ran out of money before the season started, and Jesse had to personally call season ticket holders to apologize for not having any actual tickets printed. But then something wild happened: people loved the energy, the entertainment, and the sheer weirdness of Banana Ball. Within a few years, they weren't just filling seats—they were selling out every game, building a nationwide fanbase, and racking up millions of social media followers. Today, the Bananas don't just play in Savannah—they take their show on the road like a rock band, selling out stadiums nationwide.

What does all of this have to do with music education? 

Music educators may not be able to do backflips while catching a baseball or lip-singing to the Spice Girls, but we can up our game regarding recruiting, securing, and selling our product: music FUN!

 Let me explain how they do it.

 It all starts with their emails. Before you ever set foot in their stadium, the Bananas have already made you feel like you've won the lottery just by being allowed to buy a ticket. Their messaging is clear and energizing: "You are one of the lucky few chosen to witness this magic. Prepare yourself for the most incredible baseball experience of your life."

Now, imagine if our music recruitment emails sounded like this:

"Congratulations! Your child has been selected to join one of the most exclusive and exciting organizations in the school! This isn't just music; this is a passport to adventure, creativity, and friendships that last a lifetime. Welcome to the band/orchestra/choir family—where the soundtrack of your child's life begins!"

Three hours before the game begins, they host a pre-show where the crowd is serenaded, amused, and taught how to participate in the Banana Ballexperience. Through a cleverly staged and entertaining production, we were taught the rules, scoring system, and when, where, and how to cheer. We even learned a couple of the dances so we could participate during the game.
Having never been to a Savanah Bananas game before, we instantly felt like we were insiders and knew all of the rules the "vets" did. And the vets are all in - the garb, the gear, and the players, ALL IN!

Imagine if we did this with our incoming students. What if we taught them the lingo, chants, and rituals of being in the group - they would feel as if they are already in the know and have exclusive access to the coolest show on campus.

What really hooks you is from the moment you inquire about tickets until you leave the parking lot, the Bananas don't just sell you baseball—they sell joy and a feeling of community. They make it clear that attending a game isn't about balls and strikes; it's about being a part of something special. Something that everyone wants to be a part of but isn't. While others have FOMO, you have family. You even end the game, arm in arm with complete strangers, singing Stand By Me. 

That's exactly how we need to frame our music programs. Music is not just another elective—it's an experience, a family, a place where kids find their people, and parents know their kids are safe.

 Before you naysayers proclaim, "Scott, we can't have a breakout choreographed dance in the middle of a concert. Our superintendent will not approve of kids in banana costumes setting off pyrotechnics (if we could, we would)." However, what we can do is rethink the way we make students and parents think and feel about the experience of joining a music group.

Think about the typical music recruitment night: a PowerPoint, polite clapping, and maybe a cookie if the booster parents felt generous. Now imagine if, instead, we went Bananas with it:

  • We teach the kids what to be excited about before the night and who to cheer for.

  • The moment families walk in, they are celebrated—music playing, videos of students having fun, and directors greeting them like VIPs.

  • Media, sound, merch, and other things associated with a well-planned public gathering.

  • Kids and staff in well-adorned shirts were stationed throughout the experience to answer all questions.

  • Contests, games, autograph sessions, photo booths, and activities to keep kids engaged and get them excited.

  • Instead of speeches about commitment, we show them the joy of music—student testimonials, performances that feel like events, and a true sense of community.

  • We end by making it clear that this is not just another class—it's the best decision they will ever make.

The Bananas have proven that when you make something fun, people want to be part of it. Music education is already fun—we don't always communicate or sell it convincingly.

 While we may never recruit students by lighting an instrument on fire (no one likes the oboe anyway) and having the drum major do backflips, we can inject some potassium passion into our approach.

So, since it's recruitment (and retention) season, how about we go the extra mile to make kids feel like joining music isn't just a class choice—it's a once-in-a-lifetime. life-changing opportunity.

And who knows? Maybe they'll go BANANAS.

Have a great week! 

Scott

HEARTBREAK AND HARMONY; LESSONS FROM THE BILLS LOSS

If you're a regular reader (my Golden Retriever and mother), you know I am a die-hard Buffalo Bills fan. We are not just fans, we are a part of the Bills Mafia, a community that willingly embraces all that comes with it - the hopes and the heartbreak. It is more than a love of a sport or particular team; it is a part of my (and my son's) identity, a bond that unites us with others who share our passion.  

 Every week, we don the same garb, cook "victory breakfast," and perform our rituals (stand-up on third down, pet "luck-pup" on key plays, to name a couple). Your team or sport may differ, but many of you share the same passions and traditions.

Sunday's game, and this season, felt like an almost perfect performance. We poured our heart into it and hit so many great moments, but then that one snafu—a wrong note, a missed drill spot—left us just shy of the podium. Sunday night's loss was the most heartbreaking I've experienced - a collective heartbreak for the entirety of the Bills Mafia—a gut punch wrapped in a cruel twist of fate.

What made it so hard? The fact that we were not even supposed to be there.

 

If we're being honest, this was supposed to be a rebuilding year. We weren't supposed to be here, and yet we were. The Bills proved that even in the face of obstacles, magic can happen when a group of people believe in each other. They overachieved. They exceeded expectations. Yes, it ended with a loss, but the story of this season wasn't defined by one game. And that's where football and music education part ways: unlike the NFL, the point of music education isn't about winning or losing—it's about the journey.

Despite my hectic travel schedule, I have made it a priority to be home on weekends. And I am ALWAYS home for game day. However, I was away from home for a game for the first time due to a family emergency. My son and I were both devastated, but even in that difficult moment, we found solace in our shared rituals even though we were apart. We still stood on the third down, pet my imaginary 'luck-pup,' and blew at the TV during field goal attempts.

But to no avail.

After the game, I called my son (who is more die-hard than I am). He was devastated.

I told him...

"We had 17 weeks of being together, 13 celebrations, three commiserations, three additional weeks of games (playoffs), and most important, we are a part of Bills nation. All in a season that was supposed to be a rebuild. It's not about the destination, it's about the journey, and this journey has been a grand one. I wouldn't trade it for another win."

 And, I really wouldn't. The Bills gave me a gift.  The gift of time with my son. Hours spent together, petting luck pup, and celebrating and commiserating in our shared passion. The Bills gave me the gift of time.
How lucky am I?

The opponent can have two more weeks, and possibly a Lombardi Trophy. It doesn't compare to what I got in return.

In the NFL, the scoreboard rules all. You're judged by how many wins you have, how far you go in the playoffs, and whether or not you hoist the Lombardi Trophy. Success is binary: you either win, or you don't. But in music education, the "scoreboard" is so much broader. It's about the process: the highs and lows, the right notes and wrong notes, the good and bad sounds, the laughter and the frustration. It's about taking a group of kids from where they are to where they never thought they could go and finding joy in every step along the way.

Think about it: a performance that ends shy of perfection doesn't erase the hours of camaraderie, growth, and sheer effort that led to that moment. A festival where the ensemble earns a lower rating than expected doesn't negate the fact that just last week, the clarinet section finally nailed that impossible run for the first time. Those moments—the ones that don't appear on a score sheet—are the heart of what we do and music education as a whole.

The Bills season and your academic year are filled with those moments: small victories, improbable setbacks, and flashes of brilliance from players overlooked by everyone else. Yes, the Bills' loss was heartbreaking, but it does not deter me from the journey they took my son and me on. I see this because, as a music educator, I know better than most that the journey is everything.

Music education isn't about winning; it's about teaching. Showing students how to navigate the ups and downs of life. The wrong notes matter as much as the right ones, because they teach us resilience. It's about embracing the bad sounds, the dragging tempos, and the moments of chaos, because those are the stepping stones to greatness. 

Every concert, every competition, every rehearsal is part of a bigger story—a story of growth, determination, and community. The destination is important, sure, but it's the journey that changes lives. That's what makes music education so much more meaningful than a win-loss record.

 While my Bills Mafia mourns this loss, I hold my head high because I celebrate the journey, not the destination. It's defined by the journey—the highs, the lows, the breathtaking wins, and the heartbreaking losses.

Football is just a game. Music education? It's life. It's messy, beautiful, and unpredictable. And through it all, it's a reminder that the magic isn't in the outcome—it's in the process.

I will watch the Super Bowl in two weeks, but my eyes will be forward-facing on the 2025 draft, because Evan and I have already started on our next journey.

We're on the hunt for a safety, got any suggestions?

Have a great week!

Scott

 

MY SON, MY JOB, AND ME IMHO!

 This weekend, I shared with my son that my only regret about leaving the classroom was that I could not teach my own children. It was a sweet sentiment and poignant moment that I thought would demonstrate my love for him in a meaningful and impactful way. You almost feel his warm embrace when he responds with...

 "Dad, you would be a horrible teacher."

Shocked and thinking he was joking, I laughed and triumphantly said, "I was an excellent teacher and would be even better today!"

"You would be a train wreck. You wouldn't last a week," he responded.

My wife sat silently, with a smirk, foreshadowing the car crash that was happening right in front of her. 

"I travel the country and stand in front of teenagers all of the time teaching! I MAKE MY LIVING, THE ONE THAT PUTS FOOD IN YOUR MOUTH, TEACHING," I extorted triumphantly!

 “Yeah, and then you get on a plane! Way to go, Scott Lang Leadership!"

(Yes, he calls me by my business name when he wants to goad me. It always works.)

For the next twenty minutes, he explained in no uncertain terms that I was old, out of touch, and unable to connect with and understand today's teens. He informed me that the world is different than when I was a teacher, and kids are different now.

This is when my wife jumped in. 

FINALLY! I was about to feel the love and support that comes with loving someone for twenty-three years, and my boy was gonna get an earful of Dad's awesomeness.

"Sweetie," she said in a soft and loving tone (you know, the kind of voice that is about to tell you that someone died or that the SUITS reboot doesn't have any of the same characters), "We love you & think you are amazing at a lot of things... But I think your son is right. It would NOT be good for you to return to the classroom, and you should DEFINITELY NOT be your son's band director."

What? My world was rocked. How could she take his side? Sure, she created him, and he gets better Valentine's gifts than me, but she knew me as a teacher and how awesome sauce I was. And in case she forgets, I remind her all the time.

I'm a modern and up-to-date type of guy. Right now, I am wearing a half zip with a French tuck and cool shoes (all of which my wife picked out). I would say I'm "hip," but that would prove the exact opposite.

 I am good with technology and can communicate via almost any electronic device. But, if you ever get a text from me with "LOLZ," "OMG," or "IMHO," it doesn't mean I've caught up with the younger generation. It means I'm dead. Dead, and someone has stolen my phone. Worse than that, they're using terrible grammar. Don't let them near my epic—and frankly, a bit overstated—mausoleum. 

 Because of this attitude, my family considers me out of touch, a relic, and unfit to occupy a podium or a music classroom. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't care if I taught English or something. I wonder if they will put me out to pasture or just put me down? Suddenly, I am Old Yeller?

"Dad," he said, "You've got to evolve. Kids today are different and well... you're kind of stuck in your ways."

Evolve? I've seen musical trends come and go, and through it all, I've stuck to one guiding principle: music is music, kids are kids, and teaching is teaching.

I tried to plead my case, but my wife and son remained steadfast and immovable. Finally, to shut me up, my son said in a condescending and dismissive voice, "Okay, Dad, sure."

 That kid is a piece of work.

We will have to agree to disagree on this and many other subjects. I would be an excellent music teacher today. Better than before. I am more patient now than I was twenty years ago. I have a better grasp of pedagogy and rehearsal techniques. I have been witness to exceptional teachers and life-changing concerts. And yes, having children in music has given me a sense of perspective and purpose over time.

But also...

Because teaching music is timeless, it's not like other curricula. We play music exactly as it was written long ago. We rehearse in chairs and stands as our forefathers did and play on instruments invented in another century. We dress in uniforms and march on a field the way the Minutemen did during the Revolutionary War. And, just yesterday, the President's Own performed wind band music for the Inauguration of our 47th President, just as they did for President John Adams.

 More than anything, despite ever-changing trends and technology, I believe with every fiber of my being that kids will always be kids, teachers will always be teachers, and music will always be music. 

Trends and tech may change, and slang may evolve, but the power of connecting with kids through music remains eternal. So, as long as I am breathing, I can teach.

IMHO!

 Have a great week!

 

Scott