The Teacher as the Band's Biggest Fan

Last night at the Modern Band Summit, I had one of the most enjoyable musical experiences I've had in a long time. I was asked to serve as the "band leader" for the Central indepenDANCE band, a group made up of educators from across the Midwest. Some of the members had played together before. Many only see each other once a year at the Summit. Others had never met anyone in the band before volunteering to play and being placed in our group.

Technically, I was the band leader, but it never really felt that way. My role wasn't to tell people what to play or make every musical decision. Instead, it became about creating the conditions for the band to become their band. Members suggested songs, worked out arrangements, offered ideas for transitions, and found ways to feature one another's strengths. The music became better because it belonged to everyone, not because it came from one person.

Watching that process unfold was rewarding enough. But the experience also reminded me of an idea I've been thinking about for several years.

I wrote an article for an upcoming issue of Teaching Music about what I called music teacher cheerleading. The article featured Adria Beasley, José Vergara, and Dan Black, teachers who celebrate students just as enthusiastically as they teach them. The idea was simple: music teachers spend a great deal of time correcting, refining, and improving performances, but we sometimes forget to react the way an excited audience would. What happens if, instead of always listening with the ears of a conductor, we occasionally listen with the excitement of a fan?

At the Summit, I realized I wasn't simply practicing music teacher cheerleading.

I had become the band's biggest groupie.

Every time the band played, I cheered. I screamed when someone nailed a solo. I clapped after great moments, even during rehearsal. I shouted people's names, pointed at musicians during cool riffs, danced along, stood on chairs, and celebrated what they were creating. When I wasn't cheering, I was moving around the band with my phone, filming from different angles, getting close to the drummer, weaving between the guitar players, capturing smiles, laughter, and moments of connection.

None of it was forced. I genuinely loved what I was hearing.

As rehearsals continued, I started noticing something interesting. The more I celebrated the band, the more the band seemed to respond. Musicians smiled more. They moved more. They looked at each other instead of staring at their instruments. Solos became a little bolder. Performances became less about playing the notes correctly and more about communicating with one another.

The concert was last night. We had only rehearsed together the day before and the day of the performance. Yet when we walked onto the stage, the band looked confident. They smiled. They moved. They played with energy. They connected with the audience, and the audience responded right back.

Afterward, I started asking myself why.

I don't think it was because they suddenly decided to become performers when the lights came on. I think they performed the way they had rehearsed (that’s what we teach, right?).

Throughout rehearsals, I wasn't just listening for mistakes. I was cheering. I was clapping after solos. I was shouting people's names when they played something great. I danced. I laughed. I pulled out my phone and filmed from inside the band, moving around like I was documenting my favorite group at a concert.

Without really planning it, I had become the audience.

And the band responded to that audience.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder why we expect students to do something they've never actually practiced. We ask them to walk onto a stage full of confidence. We expect them to smile, move, entertain, and connect with an audience. We want them to feed off the crowd's energy. But when do they ever rehearse that?

In many rehearsal rooms, the only audience students ever experience is the teacher. The teacher sits quietly, pencil in hand maybe, listening carefully for mistakes. Students quickly learn that rehearsal is a place where they are evaluated. Every run-through feels like an assessment.

If that's the environment we rehearse in, why would we expect students to perform any differently on stage?

Of course they stand still.

Of course they look serious.

Of course they perform as though someone is judging them.

That's exactly what they've practiced. Our band this week rehearsed something different.

They rehearsed what it feels like to have someone genuinely excited about their music. They experienced applause before the concert. They heard someone yell after a great guitar solo. They watched someone rock out when they sang Bulls on Parade. They learned what it feels like to play for people rather than simply play in front of someone evaluating them.

By the time we stepped onto the stage, connecting with an audience didn't feel unfamiliar. They had already been doing it.

I'm not suggesting teachers stop giving feedback. Great teaching requires careful listening, thoughtful coaching, and honest critique. But maybe we also need to rehearse the audience experience.

Maybe we should clap more.

Maybe we should celebrate great musical moments as they happen.

Maybe we should occasionally stop acting like adjudicators and start acting like fans.

Because if students only rehearse being evaluated, they'll perform as though they're being evaluated. But if they rehearse connecting with people, they just might walk onto the stage ready to do exactly that.

As I think back on the Summit, I realize my favorite memories weren't about perfectly executed endings or polished transitions. They were about watching musicians light up because someone was genuinely enjoying what they were creating.

Sometimes the most important thing a band leader can do isn't lead at all.

Sometimes it's becoming the band's biggest fan.