Many of us newly professional musicians may have heard this an exhausting number of times from our most encouraging mentors and advisors. However, I doubt that our teachers are simply advising us to “find our voice” in the coziest sense of the phrase. I only recently realized that they mean it in the context of… well, context.

For example, when I play the Bach Suites, my creative “voice” shines through differently than when I play an Irish jig. This distinction is due, at least in part, to the extensive classical training I received before I started playing Celtic music. I, for one, feel more capable of expressing my individual creativity in the style I have the most experience performing in. My fiddler friends – bless them for their patience and encouragement – usually hear the classical influence in my Celtic playing quicker than I do, and they rightfully call me on it. Sometimes this is done in admiration (ex. if I am able to play a faster melody with a cleaner tone), but often it is done in the spirit of stylistic clarity (ex. if I play a mid-tempo melody with too much vibrato).

Over the past year or so, I have occasionally gotten frustrated by the technical changes I have to make when switching between classical and folk, my specialty styles. In classical cello playing, for instance, more emphasis is placed on the fullest, smoothest, and most even use of the bow. Clean melodies and clear dynamic contrasts are the name of the game. In Celtic cello playing, not all bow strokes are created equal, and a more authentic sound is presented when a melody is more groove-oriented instead of phrase-focused.

Funnily enough, the times when I have felt happiest in these two styles have been when I have successfully brought them together.

Many of the movements of Bach’s Suites, as some might know, are dances. The bow focus that I have acquired from studying Celtic music has certainly assisted in the rhythmic phrasing of these dances. Conversely, the tonal and metric steadiness so engrained in my playing by years of classical training have more often than not informed my ability to accompany my fiddler friends in a consistent and reassuring manner.

Practicing is not just another necessary tool in a musician’s toolbox. It is a way for us as musicians to get to know our instruments as living things, extensions of our being in the world.

I have noticed this concept most in my breathing while I play. Unlike wind players and vocalists, string players do not need to breathe through our instruments to make them function properly. We do, however, have to breathe through our phrases to make our creative intentions clear and convincing. If I do not take time to practice and polish this skill, among many others, there is more potential for ambiguity and insecurity in my live performances. This ambiguity is not only a threat to my abilities as a soloist but as a collaborator.

My frequent work with songwriters is a prime example of the importance of the player-instrument relationship. I often write my parts for other people’s songs, whether I am improvising in a studio setting or rehearsing with them directly for a live show. The times I have experienced the least artistic intimacy with songwriting friends of mine have been when I was not properly centered in my own space as an instrumentalist. This goes beyond basic technical discomfort or unfamiliarity with repertoire, addressing the fundamental spiritual connection between me and my cello.

It is always astounding to me how connected I can be with my instrument after a focused practice session. Even if I am playing a show with a bigger band, which sometimes means I will have a less-than-optimal ability to hear myself, I can make my way through songs without so much as a whisper of my own sound making it to my ears. Five years ago, I might have considered that luck. Some of it still is. Now, I firmly believe that it is due to a deeper connection between myself and my instrument that will only grow more with time.

Practicing should be an equilibrium of skill acquisition and instrument connection, not just a means to show-offish technical ends.

There is the necessary balancing of volume, for example, in an ensemble to make sure each instrument is heard properly. The amount of dynamic gusto I play my instrument with when I am performing a solo set is vastly higher than when I play in a string quartet. Sadly, I play less and less classical chamber music these days. The experimentation with balance that I prioritize more often lately is to the effect of idea contribution.

In the Celtic styles that I play, part of the tradition is to make sets of tunes, which are a bit like mashups. A jig (a type of tune in 6/8) in G major, for instance, folds beautifully into a D major reel (in 4/4). However, some fiddlers I play with tend to arrange these sets instead of just playing the tunes straight through a couple of times. As someone who loves to employ my basic arranging skills, I thoroughly enjoy making these sets shine. I also enjoy finding the best means of balancing my collaborators’ thoughts and visions for any given piece with my own.

There is more to be said for the importance of programming continuity as another balancing act. As biased as I am about the cello’s capacity to fit in anywhere and everywhere, not every song needs my playing on it. To make a performance more varied and engaging, I actually ask to be taken off certain songs if the setlist allows for it. This is not to give myself breaks during a show, but to give the music space to grow. I might not be the one playing the music all the time, but I am happiest when it is heard at all.

Playing music with people sometimes means indulging in the silence and space between notes more than the notes themselves. If I find that I can revel in that space more than usual, I will.