Re: Cure for Valsava Maneuver?


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Posted by Brian Frederiksen on July 05, 2002 at 15:41:59:

In Reply to: Cure for Valsava Maneuver? posted by Martin on July 04, 2002 at 19:02:34:

Here's a good description of what is going on.


Arnold Jacobs Legacy of a Master - Richard Erb, Bass Trombone, New Orleans Symphony

I met Arnold Jacobs in the spring of 1966. Probably many players, in
describing their own first meetings with him, refer to those events as
having had "a profound effect." I believe that no one can make that
statement with more certain conviction than I. All that has been rewarding
as a performer and teacher in my career since that time has been possible
because of this remarkable man.

At the time I met Mr. Jacobs, I was 29 years old and had been a professional
player for about five years. I had just completed my second year in the New
Orleans Philharmonic. Prior to that I had played for two years in the San
Antonio Symphony.

What was it that led me to seek further help at a relatively advanced point
in my own development? Many professional players continue to seek and strive
for something a little better in their work, and I hope that I was among
that group at that time, but quite honestly I was also goaded a bit by the
curious realization that the work was not getting any easier in spite of a
modestly growing store of experience. There seemed to be a tiny worm
somewhere in the core of my sound production.

When I did begin to study with Mr. Jacobs at the end of my second year in
the orchestra in New Orleans, I was astonished to find that not only had
friend's claims been justified, they were far too modest. What seems most
striking about the experience is that my study with Mr. Jacobs caused me to
reassess the entire question of what musical ability, talent if you will,
really consists of, and how teaching relates to it.

Playing a brass instrument well requires the mastery of at least two large
areas or disciplines. In a very general view they could be described in this
way. One consists of all the physical and sensory phenomena which cooperate
in producing organized, controlled sound. The other is the artistic,
expressive aspect of music-making, which is best described as a conceptual
skill. One must, at least in symphonic playing (or interpreting), take a set
of cues relevant to the sense of sight - the printed page - and convert them
into a set of cues relevant to and experienced by the sense of hearing. To
do this requires something nearly magical: the ability to conceptualize
sound before it exists physically. It is rare that a player's mastery in
these two widely differing areas is exactly balanced. It is also important
to remember that as a student develops, these two aspects rarely develop at
the same rate, and any assessment of potential must take into account this
relationship.

One unique quality in Mr. Jacobs' teaching, however, is his degree of
understanding of the two-sided, physical/conceptual nature of performing.
This awareness is what has enabled him, in my opinion, to make his teaching
so effective. It also encourages an acute awareness of the question of
motivation. It is clear that in successful playing each of the two aspects
participates, the physical/sensory or mechanical aspect, and the conceptual/
artistic aspect. Mr. Jacobs has used this device of recognizing the
separateness of these aspects to allow him to apply his vast knowledge of
learning or behavioral psychology in a way that I believe is unique. He
defines the imagined musical idea as the cue which will and must elicit the
correct response from the physical side of the player.

Before going further, let me say that Mr. Jacobs himself might object to
some of the above. He might protest that his way of teaching concentrates
almost entirely on the idea of "the product (music) as motivation." It is
true that whenever possible he stresses that while playing one must
concentrate on the desired (conceptualized) musical statement. The mental
processes of the performer must not be occupied by thoughts (particularly
verbal thoughts) of method. He might object that my description of what he
did in my case tends to stress the physical response side too much, or
elevate it to a position of equality with the other, conceptual aspect. Let
me say only that I am attempting to describe my perception as a student of
my own experience. These are my subjective observations of what I believe he
is and was doing, and I have not discussed them with him in this
particularly broad way.

When I began my study with Mr. Jacobs, I thought that I was seeking the
solution to a single narrowly defined physical problem relating to attacks.
I was astonished at his enormous store of information of a purely scientific
nature - anatomical, physiological, as well as behavioral. I had a general
awareness that most of this information existed, but I never (age 29!) made
the connection between it and playing. Some individuals seem to begin
playing as youngsters with a minimum of physical effort or awkwardness,
while others take three years to get a recognizable sound over a range wider
than a fifth; unfortunately, I was in the latter group. Some possible
factors, however, may be a general high level of physical athletic ability,
excellent coordination, or strong kinesthetic senses. Another factor may be
the absence of bad instruction in breathing. As a teacher I have found that
pupils who come to me relatively or largely self-taught rarely have truly
incorrect breathing habits. Brass players have inherited a legacy of
misinformation regarding this. My own guess is that much of it is a
distortion of 19th-century singing techniques passed on to us through
(probably further distorted) descriptions by the great band virtuosos of the
turn of the century.

In any case I believe Mr. Jacobs was the first teacher or researcher to
apply general scientific knowledge of the structure and function of the
pulmonary system to brass playing. He was the first, as far as I know, to
realize that the most natural function of that system is the most effective
way to move air, thus producing a vibration in the embouchure and ultimately
music. Other teachers seemed to assume that some exotic, or special
maneuvers, used only while playing were necessary, movements or techniques
which applied only to brass playing. Their techniques were poorly
articulated (if at all) and considered mysterious. The problems were
addressed but not solved in this way: the teacher would play or sing an
example and say, "OK, like that." My ability to imitate, a conceptual skill
basically, was pretty good. Success or failure to produce a similar result
was, I suppose, considered a measure of talent, and the lack of it couldn't
be fixed anyhow. Little information of the sort describing method ever
changed hands. After all, the ability to execute an action does not assure
the ability to describe it. Thus, I was amazed when Mr. Jacobs was able to
not only demonstrate, but describe each separate component of each complex
action involved in playing. Further he was able to describe not only the
action but the cue or stimulus which elicited it.

There has been much discussion of why Mr. Jacobs' psychology, or his use of
it, is so effective. My belief is that apart from his obviously positive
attitude and his generous encouragement of his students, his method is
neither complex nor mysterious. I referred above to cues and responses. This
terminology comes from the Behaviorist School of psychology, of which B. F.
Skinner is probably the best-known writer and researcher. Obviously it is a
complex subject, but it can be made useful, or applied, with a very modest
amount of background. Once the simple learning paradigm
(cue/response/reward) is understood as a way of explaining habits
(problems?) or of acquiring new patterns of behavior (learning), progress
can be rapid.

This is particularly important to a person who, as so many have, comes to
Mr. Jacobs while already engaged as a professional. That was my situation in
1966; and while the changes he created in my playing were profound, his way
of making them was never disruptive. This is another aspect of his teaching
that is unique. None of this "take off six months, and then move into my
house for a year" stuff.

Although I originally consulted Mr. Jacobs to solve what I thought was a
rather minor problem in my sound production, I discovered that the problem
was far from minor, and solving it affected every aspect of my playing. My
first experience of problem solving with Mr. Jacobs will illustrate some of
my

observations of his methods.

The problem that so vexed and alarmed me as to send me to an admittedly
famous stranger in Chicago was difficulty in starting the initial note in a
phrase. It was not as drastic as this sounds, just a tendency to lateness, a
reluctance on the part of the tongue to move on rhythmic command. It was
only apparent outside of the rhythmic context supplied by an ensemble, and
particularly so on the dreaded first note of the day. That was always Bb of
course, since the Remington warmup starts that way, and my devotion to it
was religious or obsessive depending on one's viewpoint. Various people
suggested various remedies, mostly psychological (in the sense of positive
thinking) or artistic. When I described the problem which by then had
concerned me for four or five years, Mr. Jacobs described the specific cause
and the specific cure in a matter of minutes - before he heard or saw me
play a note!

I think it is worth sharing a bit of the technical aspect of this for
several reasons. First, no one else had even the vaguest notion what to do
about it. Curiously, I have had some discussions with other students of Mr.
Jacobs' and none relates a similar problem or any awareness of such a
problem. This is surprising because I have observed this phenomenon in the
general population of brass players with considerable frequency.

The cause of the difficulty is simply the presence of static air, held under
pressure in the lungs by the closing off by tongue, lips or glottis. When
the lungs are full, the diaphragm is, of course, in its downward contracted
position. When the top of the system is closed, great pressure in the lungs
may be generated by the opposing (to the diaphragm) musculature of the
abdominal wall. This also results in greatly increased pressure on the
contents of the abdominal cavity. When this pressure is sensed and processed
in the brain, the autonomic nervous system reacts in a typical pattern of
behavior known to physiologists as the Valsalva Maneuver. (Valsalva
(1666-1723) was an Italian anatomist and physiologist who first described
this phenomenon.) Simply put, the response has this effect: the diaphragm
maintains or increases the downward pressure or contraction. The tongue
maintains a simultaneous effort to block the airway, thus maintaining
internal pressure. Now while the diaphragm's primary function is one of
inhalation, this secondary or supportive use of it is essential to the body
in several functions such as emptying the bowel or bladder or in childbirth.
The crucial point to understand is that this pattern of responses is
triggered through the autonomic nervous system and therefore totally beyond
one's conscious control. The tongue at that moment of high internal pressure
will not respond to a conscious command to begin a note.

Many players never encounter this difficulty, but certain factors commonly
encountered in traditional brass pedagogy and method books may create a
situation where it will occur. For example, any variation of the
instruction, "Build up your air pressure behind the tongue in order to
prepare for the attack," may cause the beginning of the difficulty. In any
case, such an instruction, which is fairly commonly encountered, is an
inaccurate description of the situation that should prevail in the instant
before the attack. Another problem is the tendency of many teachers (some of
them fine players who should know better) to instruct students not to raise
the upper chest in inhaling, but to use something utterly erroneously
referred to as the diaphragm. When used in this erroneous way this term is
usually taken to mean a general area, roughly around the waistline, rather
than a single muscle. This matter is often discussed in conjunction with
something generally referred to as support. This term is also without
scientific or other definition, but it seems in practice to have several
connotations that result in isometric tension or rigidity in the abdominal
wall.

The three concepts of pedagogy mentioned above (air pressure for
preparation, diaphragmatic breathing, and support) taken together almost
perfectly describe the condition in which the Valsalva Maneuver will be
triggered. Fortunately individuals vary in their sensitivity to this as they
do in other reflexes. In my case I have a high degree of sensitivity to this
response.

Mr. Jacobs' method of dealing with the problem was direct and
straightforward. I had three one-hour sessions over a period of two weeks.
After observing my playing, he gave me a general but concise overview of the
anatomy of the thorax and abdomen, referring to the large charts and models
in his studio. Armed with this information (almost all of it new to me) he
explained in detail the physiological phenomenon known as the Valsalva
Maneuver. The vast amount of new material in that first half of the first
session was not presented in any simplified or watered-down version. After
having explained and demonstrated the correct way of dealing with beginning
a note, he worked on these new concepts with the aid of several mechanical
devices. Mr. Jacobs uses these devices for two reasons: first they allow an
utterly objective analysis of air movement, body movement, and the
relationship of the two. Second, they provide striking and new cues - cues
not carrying any anxiety-producing emotional or judgmental baggage to elicit
new responses. This can result in far faster learning than any traditional,
purely musical, method. Mr. Jacobs was quick to point out that we were
looking for ways to alter behavior as quickly and non-disruptively as
possible. At the time, I was only able to spend about two weeks in Chicago
because of my work. He told me that if I were there long term, he would rely
far less on these aids and would approach all problems from the standpoint o
f using pure musical ideas as the stimulus. He recognized, however, that my
situation was not ideal, and we proceeded from the ideal to the practical.

The devices used were the spirometer, pneumograph bands, several gauges to
measure air flow and air pressure, and the oscilloscope. The spirometer was
of the air-storing variety, measuring how much air I could move and the size
of the storage tank of air for later use. The three pneumograph bands were
placed as follows: high around chest (just under armpits), bottom edge of
ribcage (10th rib), and approximately at the waist (across navel). Each band
was connected to a small gauge which showed any expansion or contraction in
body size. A correct breath would therefore cause motion in all three areas,
but the motion would be in the same general direction and synchronized in
time. It was possible to see instantly the pattern of motion connected to
each breath. In my prior training the visible motion of the body during
breathing was rarely discussed, except that large movements in the upper
ribcage were discouraged. Much of the work with Mr. Jacobs was done on the
mouthpiece only, another new idea to me. Apart from the obvious benefits of
this type of practice, it had the effect of removing the most potent cue
likely to trigger old habits - the trombone itself. I believe that while
teaching, Mr. Jacobs analyzes every stimulus acting upon the student from
the standpoint of cue/response/reward. He is consciously and methodically
altering behavior at all times.

He stressed that using the pneumograph, which measures only body movement,
is valid only in conjunction with some means of measuring air flow. Sound
coming from an instrument is one way, but we wanted some way to measure flow
(result) without cues that would elicit old responses. Therefore he used a
simple set-up of rubber tubes, some with ports, which led to flow meters we
could observe. The combination of visual readout of body movement and visual
read-out of air flow rates, free of old cues (trombone), allowed near ideal
breathing performance to be experienced very quickly.

The next step was to try to transfer these new responses to the trombone.
Still pursuing the original problem of delayed, paralyzed attacks, Mr.
Jacobs used a device to measure air pressure inside the oral cavity during
playing and also before the note began. He also used a mouthpiece with a
port for a tube to a pressure gauge to measure pressure in the cup
simultaneously.

We discovered that in the last moments of silence before the sound began I
was generating enormous pressures in the oral cavity, caused by the
accidental triggering of the Valsalva Maneuver. Without the understanding of
this physiology, it would have been absolutely impossible to solve this
problem. With this information the problem can be solved without the
mechanical equipment, but far less quickly. The action of read-out equipment
serves as a strong, clearly recognizable reward for new behavior. Mr. Jacobs
clearly understands the fact that a negative reward induces the very
behavior one is trying to extinguish. How few teachers understand this. He
also said that "the subconscious does not understand 'not'" - his way of
recognizing the futility of admonishing a student not to do something. This
is clearly in conformity with behaviorist theory.

Let me stress, however, that no awareness of psychological theory on the
part of the student is necessary. My limited knowledge of it is useful to me
in writing or in explaining his methods, but was of no real use in altering
my responses during those first three lessons. The method does not depend on
the education or the intellectual capacity of the student. In fact, Mr.
Jacobs suggested that my own rather analytical nature was probably a
disadvantage in my playing.

As I reflect now on this experience I am struck by the directness of his
approach. As I pursued study with him over the next 17 years, there were
times when he made changes without much conscious awareness of them on my
part, but at the beginning he was specific and direct. He was sensitive to
the fact that I had a job and had to continue playing on an acceptable
professional level while he altered things in my sound production. Nothing
he did was disruptive, nor did it involve any need to interrupt my normal
activity in playing. Rather its effect was to add to what I could do almost
from the first lesson. The most profound effect, which 17 years later is
still as clear and pronounced as it was then, was a feeling of enormous
relief: relief from anxiety, relief from what seemed like the domination of
irrational, inexplicable forces. If that seems overly dramatic as a
statement, remember that my body was doing something I didn't want it to do,
and I didn't know why. When I discovered that not only this phenomenon, but
any other that a player is likely to encounter, could be explained in
scientific and quantifable ways by a person of the highest artistic and
scientific integrity, then the prospect of learning to play became far less
frightening. Once and for all it had been demystified. I cannot stress
enough that before I knew of this enormous body of knowledge, I (and my
teachers) could only explain success or failure in terms of industry,
application, and that utterly unquantifiable term "Talent." Used in this
context talent meant something like predestination. If everything worked
perfectly, you had it. If it didn't, well then you didn't, and you'd have to
make do the best you could in an element to which you were obviously ill
suited.

After solving the enigma of the Valsalva Maneuver, and establishing
full-capacity breathing, free from isometric tension, I next faced the
problem of the tongue itself being in the wrong place, both in articulation
and during the duration of the note. Until my second set of lessons (1967) I
always started notes with my tongue through my teeth, and often through my
lips as well. One might well ask, "What must that have sounded like?" I
suppose that the answer could be "not as bad as it should have." Here again,
the musical stimulus of what I wanted my attacks to sound like was clear and
strong enough that I could get by with it. The problems were more often
manifested in terms of reliability than in what it sounded like when it
worked. It also served to exacerbate the problems related to delayed attacks
caused by triggering the Valsalva Maneuver.

Incorrect tongue placement after the attack was related to the problems
described above. My tongue remained not in the formation similar to an "O"
vowel, but farther forward in the mouth, almost in a position similar to the
sibilant consonant "S." These two related difficulties were attacked in a
way that again demonstrates Mr. Jacobs' psychological approach. These
drastic changes were made away from the instrument because having the
trombone in one's hand is a powerful, emotionally charged cue. It will
elicit whatever response has been rewarded in the past. Mr. Jacobs always
stressed that whatever is learned is learned forever. One cannot unlearn
anything, nor can one break a habit. Once cue/response/reward takes place,
nothing can eliminate or erase the effect, short of a time machine. This
does not mean that change is impossible. New learning can occur at any time,
just as earlier behavior was learned.

To facilitate this, an entirely new set of cues and carefully selected
responses, systematically rewarded, is needed. Applied to the problem
described, it worked like this: new learning was started away from the
instrument with mouthpiece or practice ring only. Mr. Jacobs pointed out the
unconscious ease with which we speak. Vocal sounds are produced under
perfect control, without any conscious effort or control. The responses that
form speech-sounds are motivated by the sounds (words) being conceptualized
in the brain in a way which exactly parallels ideal playing. He therefore
constructed speech patterns I had mastered by age two, which paralleled the
movements required to begin a note properly. Using these new cues, he then
began to transfer the new way of starting notes to the instrument, but now
always using speech patterns to motivate correct movements. In a similar way
he then changed the shape of my oral cavity during playing through the
relation to and imitation of vowel sounds. At this time he explained the
relationship of the Bernoulli Principle to tongue position.

While this is essential information for proper and efficient sound
production, particularly in the high register, we never based work purely on
the exchange of information. Rather, the method was more related to behavior
modification through his conscious application of behavioral psychology. It
is interesting to consider that I had known my tongue was in the wrong
position in attacks for many years. I pointed out this fault to my early
teachers and wanted to change it, but I could not, with help or alone, in
spite of endless worry and some considerable effort. Mr. Jacobs enabled me
to change this in a matter of a few weeks.

In trying to bring back these experiences, I have gradually become aware of
one unique aspect of Mr. Jacobs' teaching. Apart from his enormous
knowledge, which no student of his has ever fully acquired, he has specific
pedagogic skills that are what make his teaching effective. In other words,
it is clearly desirable to acquire information, but the acquisition of it is
not what causes the dramatic improvements his students experience. It is, in
fact, possible to make large changes under Mr. Jacobs' guidance without any
intellectual understanding of his factual data whatsoever. He cautions
against analyzing one's playing too closely. He has also occasionally
suggested that too much time spent analyzing my own students' problems might
be less than constructive for my playing.

In visits during subsequent years, we dealt with problems relating to
constriction in the throat, in the pharyngeal area. Over a period of time he
also made substantial changes in my embouchure, but this was done with such
subtlety, starting from the time of my first lessons, that I cannot report
when it actually occurred. Embouchure change as such was never discussed,
nor was any disruption involved. Not only is the placement different now,
quite nearly 50/50 upper/lower, as opposed to perhaps 70/30 upper/lower, but
pressure is nearly equal on all 360 degrees of rim surface. The movement in
placement was never directly discussed. These changes have greatly relieved
another serious problem, that of substantial shifts in position between
middle and high register embouchure settings. These shifts, apart from being
fairly gross maneuvers, were taking place at far too low a pitch level, long
before high register settings were necessary or appropriate.

There are clearly at least two topics or areas which are lacking in this
discussion and Mr. Jacobs might object strenuously to their absence. I have,
at embarrassing length, discussed my own physical ineptitude and my
inability to deal with it unaided. I have tried to explain what I perceive
to be Mr. Jacobs' way of causing learning in his students, or at least some
of his students. I have said practically nothing about purely musical, or
interpretive, or stylistic training.

The truth is, my needs were so great, and the time to deal with them so
short during any given period of study, that Mr. Jacobs was forced to use
methods he described as short cuts. While only my early sessions involved
scientific instruments, the overwhelming majority of time was spent on
production rather than on artistic or interpretive matters. Mr. Jacobs told
me on several occasions that he was not entirely happy with this, and that
had I been able to live in Chicago for an extended period, he would have
approached my case differently, in a manner involving far more musical
motivation.

While it should by now be apparent that I am deeply grateful for the help
and experience that I had, I feel that my general level of artistry would be
far higher with that opportunity. Even as things worked out, I received
enormous musical inspiration from Mr. Jacobs. This came not only through our
association in the lesson, but by hearing him play in the Chicago Symphony
at every opportunity. Sadly, inspiration and instruction are not quite the
same. There is a sheer musical energy which is reflected in and radiates
from his very personality, which affects every one of us who have studied
with him. No one can truly copy his unique style. One may be profoundly
influenced or guided by him, but all attempts to duplicate fall to the level
of caricature.

The other aspect of this article that is lacking is my ability to shed much
light on the human side of the man. He always treats me with kindness and
warmth, and has the ability to make each student feel special and cared for.
His kindness in recommending me to the National Youth Orchestra of Canada
altered my career, and I cannot imagine a sufficient expression of
gratitude. I have tried to do my work there in a way that would be
satisfactory to him, given my own limitations. The only personal advice I
can remember receiving was a caution not to try to emulate every detail of
his professional life, not to work too hard, to enjoy my family, to remember
that sitting under a tree is good for your playing too. I wish I had
listened better to him.






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