I’ve learned a lot from jazz musicians, but one of the most important lessons I’ve learned is how to listen. And from that, I’ve made a life-changing discovery: that using my ears is key to finding my voice.

My art form of rhythm tap dance is deeply rooted in jazz music, and shares its tradition of improvisation. Making it up as you go along is exhilarating, and one of the most freeing experiences imaginable. But it’s also nerve-wracking at best -- and terrifying at worst. When you put yourself out there as an improviser, you’re really putting your SELF out there – you’re not playing a character, you’re not telling someone else’s story through choreographed movements, you’re not presenting a pre-planned message. What this means is that you better have something to say. You don’t have to know what it is in advance, and you don’t have to be able to articulate it in words. But you have to have something to contribute -- a musical idea, an emotion, a connection with the band, something. Otherwise, it’s just noise.

Most artists struggle with whether they have anything to say that is meaningful or original (and just try finding both!). Improvisers aren’t alone in that, but we do experience a unique form of on-the-spot pressure, which results in our making a lot of noise. Some of that noise is inevitable. Just like visual artists, we sometimes have to try out a bunch of sketches before we hit on something that works. The difference is that you see all the sketches.

Turning noise into music

But some of our noisiness is not inevitable. Some of it is being too focused on our heads and feet and not enough on our ears. Some of it is our fear of silence and our mistaken belief that we have to keep talking even when we don’t have something to say. Some of it is our forgetfulness of the musicians on stage with us, despite our deep respect for them. All of these barriers have something in common: they keep us from having conversations with the musicians and other dancers. And missing these conversations often keeps us from finding what we truly have to say.

Like a lot of dancers, I used to spend all my energy thinking up steps that the audience might want to see and planning out musical arrangements of tunes I know so that I could dance with the melody. Some interesting phrases came from this approach, but the dances never made sense as a whole. They neversaid anything.

Then two things happened. First, I started really listening to music, especially when I wasn’t dancing, to try to learn how the musicians found their voices. I watched how each of the band members took their solos, how they traded phrases with one another, how one of them would tweak a rhythm or a melody to inspire the others’ creativity. In short, I watched how they listened to each other.

Second, I realized that my best moments – the ones that really “clicked” and felt meaningful -- were moments of connection. Sometimes these connections were with other dancers, sometimes they were with one of the musicians, sometimes they were with the whole band. Sometimes they involved trading related but not identical phrases with a musician; sometimes they involved another dancer, together weaving a complex rhythmic tapestry out of very simple steps. Always they were conversational.

Joining the conversation

These listening experiences were powerful. And they were reinforcing. The more I listened, the more I’d find to say in response. And the more I’d find to say, the less pressure I felt to constantly say something. I became comfortable “laying out” and just listening until I felt the connection and the compulsion to say something. I’d jump in and play off of a little doodle from the pianist. And then I’d hear him take my phrase and play with it some more. And the conversation would build, making transitions and taking new turns and eventually finding its natural conclusion. And just like talking to a good friend, these conversations flowed with little thought. At some level, of course, my brain was involved, but not consciously. The only conscious part of the experience was the listening. And my ears mattered more than every other part of my body, even my feet.    

Since I started learning how to really listen, I have found that other dancers, musicians, and audience members are also listening more to me, because I’ve finally found something to say that connects to them. And I’ve also realized how often I – and we all – still forget to listen, especially while trying to be creative. I’m bewildered by how long it took me to start doing it, awed at how much more I still need to do it, and surprised by how many other people that I see don’t do it, mostly because they don’t think to.

What does it take to really listen?

It takes very little, and yet so much; so little skill, but so much awareness. I’ve learned a few hints that I try to pass on to my students for cultivating that awareness and having good musical conversations. And as I’ve watched them grow (especially the younger ones), I’ve witnessed the way those skills translate into other kinds of conversations and help them develop their voices in other areas of their lives. Here are a few of those hints:

• Space is powerful, and silence can be golden;
• Sometimes you lead the conversation, and sometimes you follow; 
• You have to show your collaborators that you hear them, whether it’s through paraphrasing, challenging, answering, or asking for clarification;
• A conversation should have a natural and logical flow; sometimes it will meander or change course abruptly, but it shouldn’t be a string of unrelated ideas;
• Miscommunications are normal, but it’s important to work through them and end on the same page;
• Some of the best conversations happen when you have little prior knowledge and few expectations, because you have to really, truly listen.

Even while keeping these things in mind, I still worry (often!) about whether I have anything unique or important to say, both on and off the dance floor. But I do know that I’m even less likely to say something if I forget them or I don’t use them. I know now that I’m only going to find my voice if I use my ears.

Have you used your ears to find your voice? In what areas of your life has listening helped you find who you are and what you have to say?

With open ears,