The Final Music Lesson: Resonance Sown and Reaped

Passionata – Music lessons make all the difference

«Eh? No! Definitely not the playground! We want to go back to music school.» «Can we make up another little play?» «Or play the drums together?» «And a music shower!»

I really should have seen it coming. Even on the last day before the holidays, my music pupils were bound to throw my plans into disarray. After all, I've been teaching them for two years according to the principles of resonance-based education as developed by Hartmut Rosa.

«Unpredictability» plays a key role here. What this means is that the truly significant moments cannot be planned or forced. They often arise unexpectedly, when a child asks an unexpected question, someone puts forward a new idea, or the group suddenly takes a shared thought further. Giving such moments space not only strengthens relationships amongst the participants, but also paves the way for particularly lasting learning processes.

A clear idea

However, on this record-breaking hot summer's morning, I had a very clear idea of what the final lesson of the Basic Music Training course should look like. I brought the children the script from their play, which they had written themselves and performed to great acclaim. They were to put this document in their folder as the very last item and pack it away along with their gym shoes. Then we would sing a few more songs in the shade of the trees on the little playground, have a bit of a chat, have a laugh and play.

The start went according to plan. We leafed through the play together, page by page, with great enjoyment. I saw their eyes light up as the children read out their names and roles. Sixteen pages full of dialogue, jokes, chase scenes, and songs and dances we'd created ourselves – which we'd spent months devising, rehearsing and meticulously recording.

«Do you remember, Ms Dubs, at the dress rehearsal you played the first and second earthquake tremors for too long on the piano. There were eight beats instead of just four, and that threw us off,» recalled Milena*. Lilly spotted another mistake in the score: «In the underground scene, we didn't make a change: I was playing the djembe there, not the frame drum.»

Moments like these are among the most wonderful in my life as a music teacher. Not only because the children's progress in language and musical skills becomes evident, but also because there is a real «spark» in the lesson, as Hartmut Rosa puts it. When something they have created together has become so important to the children that even the smallest inaccuracies are not forgotten.

A shared ritual in music lessons

And then, once they'd sorted everything out, the children felt the urge to get creative again. Instead of heading to the playground, they scattered in groups in all directions to prepare one last little performance, whilst I set up the audience seats and marked out the stage with tape.
On the stage, one group performed a sketch, whilst another drummed a shared rhythm – gently at first, then increasingly wildly – until everyone burst out laughing. Two boys hadn't prepared a performance; instead, they'd laid out a picture using rhythm materials out in the cloakroom. It was an exercise from Year 1 that they'd remembered when they rediscovered photos of it in their folder.

And once everything had been tidied away, there was indeed time for the «music shower» we'd been looking forward to . This is our ritual for listening to music together. With a gentle tap on a metal basin, I «shower» each child, and one by one they glide to the floor until they're all lying scattered around the room. Normally, the children are then given a listening task. But this time, I suggested they could choose a piece they knew. «No, please play something new instead,» said Julia, and the others agreed with her.

«And what sort of music should it be?» I asked. They wanted some beautiful music that you could lie back and relax to, and Jorgos added: «It should sound a little sad, because we won't be seeing you in Year 3 any more.» Edvard Grieg's Sarabande from the Holberg Suite immediately sprang to mind. Four minutes that, in my youth, allowed me to embark on a journey of self-discovery and which still move me deeply today.

I'd never planned to play this piece – which meant so much to me personally – for the younger pupils. But it turned out to be an exceptional morning, and without warning I played the music. Most of them kept their eyes closed right until the very last note, or buried their faces in their arms. Some rolled slightly to one side or shuddered at the climactic moments that the sarabande builds up time and again.

After that, we didn't analyse the piece, and I didn't offer any explanations either. The children were moved by the music. It brought us together one last time.

*The children's names have been changed by the editors.