In the heartland of American consumerism, a silent revolution is underway. Once filled with the scent of freshly baked pretzels and sounds of gleeful shoppers, the American shopping mall is dying.

This once epicenter of retail therapy and teenage angst faces its most formidable adversary yet: the relentless march of time, technology, and demand for consumer convenience.

Once considered an essential sign of status, "the mall" has been competing against high operational costs, lower costs associated with online shopping, the convenience of one-day delivery, and a global pandemic.

Macy's, JCPenney, Nordstrom, and others are closing hundreds of their mall stores as online shopping has grown to around 16% of US retail sales. Real estate research firm Green Street estimates that about 150 enclosed malls have closed since 2008, leaving about 900 today."

According to recent statistics, the number of shopping malls in the United States has plummeted faster than a Black Friday bargain. In fact, experts predict that by the year 2030, the only place you'll find a shopping mall is in a museum next to the relics of Blockbuster and the Blackberry 8100.

And the shopping isn't the only thing that's dying.

What about the infamous food court - once a culinary melting pot of gastronomic fast-food delights? It now resembles a ghost town populated by lone one-off survivors serving oversized sodas and stale nachos. The once-revered Orange Julius is gone, and the beloved Sbarro is a distant memory.

An article on CNN states, "Food was long an afterthought at malls, and department stores were the primary reason shoppers visited. But that is changing." As US malls race to reinvent themselves, they aren't replacing lost tenants with Pottery Barn and The Gap; they're replacing them with sushi conveyor belts, craft beer membership clubs, and Korean barbecue.

And that's where the renaissance begins.

At one time, the mall's primary purpose was to shop, with food being a minor afterthought to keep shoppers shopping longer. Now, their place on the impact ladder has them flip-flopping, with food being the reason customers flock to the mall, hoping they will shop afterward.

There are some lessons for music educators and our buildings to learn here.

Since its inception, the primary purpose of a music room has been to make music, but it is not the room's SOLE purpose, nor is it the SOUL of the room.

Music may be the reason our buildings were conceived, designed, and built thirty years ago, but that doesn't mean our buildings, curricula, and purpose haven't evolved into something more than musical overtones and soaring melodies.

Think about it.

Set aside the fact that our room is a place where we hold meetings, practice marching basics, and rehearse the color guard—all of which are non-musical activities—this space serves as a gathering space for friends, a place of refuge from the onslaught of academics, and a safe place away from the myriad of unhealthy choices teenagers make every day.

In our rehearsal spaces, students learn to create soaring melodies and complex harmonies. These rooms are also a place where students learn to take risks, push themselves, and be accountable to others. It is where they not only create but collaborate. This is where our young people grow to become young adults, musical and otherwise.

If you were to ask any of my former students, they would tell you that I was a high-energy, high-standards, and high-results teacher. Effort was placed at a premium, and I pushed my students to be their best. As a music educator, I took pride in the accomplishments of my students and ensembles.

However, a fundamental change occurred as my own children approached high school. I became far less concerned with the quality of the music and more concerned with the quality of the experience.

Can we have both? Absolutely! But we only measure one: music.

I have always said, "You can't change the life of a child who isn't there—and our greatest enemy is an empty chair." What if we took a step back and looked at what it took to bring in and keep more kids making music?What if we could measure the things ancillary to music that attract children to this activity and keep them there, including food, social interaction, personal growth, and safety? We have ratings for everything else, so why not this?

Shopping keeps the mall doors open, but what brings the shoppers to the mall is anything but. Landlords don't care what brings shoppers to the mall, just that they come. What keeps the doors open in a music building is making music, but what brings the music makers to the room is anything but. Perhaps we could be less concerned with what brings someone to our building and just be happy they came.

Why not?

Otherwise, we might go the way of Orange Julius.

Something to think about.

Have a great week,

Scott