IN-PERSON VOICE LESSONS VS. TEACHING REMOTELY: AN ARTIST AND TEACHER'S PERSPECTIVE

A confession from a reformed skeptic

I have a confession to make, and it's not pretty. Before the pandemic unceremoniously shoved us all into our respective corners of the world, I was—how shall I put this delicately—an absolute snob about online voice teaching. Not publicly, mind you (I do have some manners), but privately I dismissed my colleagues who taught virtually as lazy, ineffective, and frankly, guilty of highway robbery. The very thought of teaching voice over the internet? Preposterous! I might as well have suggested conducting La traviata via smoke signals.

Fast-forward to today, and here I am, teaching 98% of my lessons online with students scattered across Europe, Israel, Russia, and yes, Nashville, Tennessee. And before you ask—no, it's neither a country singer nor anyone from that delightfully dramatic Chrisley clan.

When I accepted my position at The University of Michigan in 2015, I naturally taught all my lessons in person, including sessions with young artists from what was then Michigan Opera Theater (now The Detroit Opera House). The idea of teaching voice through a screen seemed foreign to me.

But here's the thing about eating humble pie—it's surprisingly nourishing. Over the past decade, technology has evolved exponentially, and the sound quality on both sides of the screen now provides a remarkably accurate representation of the voice. I've had students fly from New York and various corners of the country for in-person lessons, and I must grudgingly admit that the sound quality is virtually equal to what I experience remotely.

That said—and this is where my inner perfectionist rears its head—while these media applications deliver impressive audio quality, nothing can replace the intangible magic of human connection in shared space. There's an energy, a communion of spirit that occurs when teacher and student occupy the same room, breathing the same air, feeling the same acoustic vibrations.

My greatest frustration with remote teaching lies in demonstrating breath and support—the very foundation of vocal technique. During my University years, I rarely abandoned my piano bench to demonstrate breathing; I could stand at the piano and guide students through my pedagogical approach to support. But peering through a computer screen? It's like trying to conduct an orchestra while looking through a keyhole.

I can clearly observe when a student fails to breathe early enough to begin a phrase or holds their breath before onset—these visual cues translate beautifully through the screen. But what drives me to distraction is my inability to see the entire body in service of the vocal mechanism. The subtle engagement of the core, the gentle expansion of the ribcage, the coordination of breath and sound—these nuances are the difference between competent singing and transcendent artistry.

Despite these limitations, I'm deeply moved by the students who, at their own considerable expense, fly to me for lessons. This gesture isn't lost on me. It speaks to our collaborative relationship and the mutual excitement we share for this beautiful, demanding art form. It's this loyalty and shared passion that makes the journey so profoundly rewarding.

In closing, I owe my colleagues a heartfelt apology. My past skepticism was both arrogant and misguided. If COVID-19 taught us anything positive, it's that meaningful progress can indeed be achieved through remote teaching. The success my students continue to enjoy stands as testament to this truth.

The voice, after all, is about connection—to breath, to emotion, to story, to one another. And whether we're separated by a piano bench or an ocean, that connection remains beautifully human.

Until next time, I send you all my love and warmest wishes for your own vocal journeys.

David