Most students now arrive at music lessons with the attention span of a squirrel in a room full of nuts —
and the patience of a phone battery stuck at 1%.
They are curious, enthusiastic, optimistic.
Until they sit down at the piano.
Because the piano does not behave like Netflix.
You can tap the keys as many times as you like.
Nothing will load faster.
There is no Skip Intro for scales.
No Next Episode for technique.
No autoplay on Chopin.
Some students even stare at the keyboard waiting for something to happen — as if G major is buffering.
This is not a criticism of students.
It is a description of the environment they have been trained in.
The Netflix Problem
Modern digital environments reward speed, novelty, and instant resolution.
If something is slow, we skip it.
If it is difficult, we abandon it.
If it resists us, we replace it.
Music does none of those things.
Sound unfolds in time.
Skill emerges slowly.
Progress is invisible until it suddenly isn’t.
The piano does not reward impatience with content.
It rewards patience with competence.
When those two systems collide, frustration follows — not because students are incapable, but because their expectations were shaped elsewhere.
What This Feels Like in a Lesson
So instead of sitting with difficulty, students reach for familiar exits.
“My teacher has gone mad.”
“I feel like I’m dying.”
“I should probably be cleaning my goldfish’s tank right now.”
“Actually, this might be a good moment to watch a submarine Grand Prix.”
“I’ve been practising for four minutes — surely there should be signs of genius by now.”
“Does Chopin have a beginner version? Preferably with autoplay?”
This isn’t defiance.
It’s what happens when delayed reward meets a nervous system trained on instant resolution.
This Is Not an Anti-Technology Argument
Technology is not the enemy.
We can now access scores instantly.
We can hear thousands of performances.
We can slow down recordings.
We can track practice.
We can analyse progress.
We can learn from resources that were unimaginable a generation ago.
These are extraordinary tools.
The problem is not screens.
The problem is what they quietly train us to expect.
Technology is excellent at delivering information.
It is terrible at teaching endurance.
Why This Feels So Hard
Leon Fleisher called the missing ingredient “sitting capacity” —
the ability to stay in the room long enough for something to change you.
That capacity is not a personality trait.
It is a trained skill.
And like any untrained muscle, it feels weak at first.
Discomfort here is not a sign of damage.
It is a sign of adaptation.
A Practical Note for Teachers
You’re right to explain.
You’re right to communicate.
You’re right to persuade.
Explain why progress is slow.
Explain why repetition matters.
Explain why discipline is not punishment.
But do not lower your standards.
Because the moment you do, you’re no longer helping the student —
you’re protecting the discomfort of the adults around them.
Standards are not cruelty.
They are orientation.
Students do not lose confidence because expectations are high.
They lose confidence when expectations quietly disappear and no one tells them what “good” actually looks like.
So communicate patiently.
Advocate clearly.
Repeat yourself if needed.
But never trade standards for approval.
The Quiet Truth
The most valuable things in life do not arrive instantly.
Not skill.
Not confidence.
Not pride.
Not identity.
Music is one of the few remaining disciplines that still teaches this honestly.
And that is precisely why it now feels uncomfortable.