What a school performance reveals, but a lesson can’t

The school hall was silent as each class filed through the double doors, past the wall bars and took their place, cross-legged on the floor. Teachers straightened the rows, pointing and gesturing, as children wriggled back and forth until their lines were neat. Calm music pulsed, almost inaudible from loudspeakers. A teacher sat on a plastic chair at the end of each row of children. At the back of the hall, there were men and women in formal suits, poised, observant, reading their notes.

Five children sat with me, at the front of the hall. Everyone faced us as we waited for the assembly to begin. Each child had a cello, a bow and a piece of music on the floor in front of them. They were not the high flyers. They’d been on everyone’s radar. And that morning, they were delighted; as far as they were concerned, this was their ‘big moment’. I was very happy for them.

After a short welcome to the final assembly of the week, the headteacher sat at the side of the hall. We stood up, together. The children lifted their instruments as if they were sacred vessels and walked slowly, with poise and purpose to their places near the piano. One child announced the first piece. His voice was well-projected, authoritative and measured. He took his place with the same level of poise and purpose and even before a note had been played, the hush of the performance descended.

After playing together as a group, the entire school, every teacher, every child and every school inspector clapped and the young performers smiled as if they had always known this moment was theirs for the taking. Spurred on, each one took their turn to announce their piece and play their solo. They retained their poise, their presence, their dedication to the sequence that we’d planned together. And after each solo there was more applause, and a slow, formal bow from each young performer to show their deep appreciation of the audience’s attention. The final item, played by the whole group, was once again met with huge appreciation from the entire school and having bowed together as a group the young players walked slowly back to their chairs against the wall, placing their instruments with reverence on the floor in front of them.

The entire sequence had been devised to take fifteen minutes and each segment had been timed. We had factored in the introductions and the pacing was part of the prep work that we’d done two days earlier. The formal acknowledgement of applause had been rehearsed as a three-part sequence of movements that the children had practised and mastered as part of the performance. Some might call this ‘stagecraft’ and dismiss it as trivial or ‘old-fashioned’. In fact, it was the vehicle that enabled the children to perform with poise, to know exactly how to respond to the applause, how to walk when hundreds of people are watching and how to address an audience. At every point, the timing and the flow of the sequence provided a container for the intense experience of the performance.

The 'halo' effect: Why end of term performances matter

At the end of term heads are overwhelmed with pride as they watch their students performing in end of term concerts and productions. The heads who speak at the end and thank the performers are always sincere and this is a very heartwarming moment for the performers and the teachers involved.

The symbolic value of the exchange between performers and audience is not limited to what happens in that performance. There’s a kind of halo effect after an end of term performance. The school community has encountered itself in a kind of energetic mirror during that performance. The reflection in that mirror was bigger, better and more vibrant than anyone expected. The effect is so long-lasting that ripples of a great end of term performance never really disappear. The memories continue to shape the self-esteem of all those taking part and those watching the performance with so much admiration.

For privileged children, this halo effect is part of many such opportunities. This is wonderful, because performing does not become jaded with repeated exposure. Performance practice is something that shapes young lives, building enormous resilience and self-esteem. For some children though, the school performance at the end of term is more pivotal. This opportunity to be visible and to share their voice is a rare honour, as they long to be heard. For so many people, the stage is a source of performance anxiety, a very frightening place, but for others it is where they feel safest and most able to be themselves. They have the audience seated in front of them in silence, listening to them. They feel they are safe in this way and for once, they have no need to brace against what might happen next.

Performance, inhibitory control and executive functions

It’s obvious that performing requires intense inhibitory control. Without inhibitory control, no one can really focus their attention, decide what to do and how and when to do it. This is why inhibitory control, in my opinion, is the parent to working memory and cognitive flexibility, which together comprise the three core executive functions.

In a performance situation, inhibitory control is fully flexed. The pacing, the style of delivery and the intention behind the performance are filtered through inhibitory control. When pacing, style and intention are so clear that they become second nature, the recall and the spontaneity of the delivery become vibrant, effortless and take on a peculiar energy that arises in an optimal flow state.

And children who start from a set point of vigilance are naturally good performers. They are already poised, ready to work under intense pressure and they understand the importance of collective intention, pacing and style. Performing is a familiar experience for the children living complex lives, under strain, enduring in silence what no one has seen or asked about. When these children are invited to perform, their voices are heard, appreciated and recognised.

From football to the concert hall

In my opinion it is not ethical to ask children to perform without a great deal of preparation. A performance ‘lives on’ in people’s memories, and that of course includes the memory of the performer. For the teacher, the responsibility to the children, the school, the parents is built on a deep sense of trust that the repertoire is suitable, enjoyable and rewarding to perform.

The children who’d played in full school assembly had only had a week’s notice of their performance and we’d had a ‘dress rehearsal’ two days beforehand. Each child chose the piece that they would feel most comfortable playing as their solo. At that point, after learning for about a year, they already had a repertoire of about 20 easy pieces to choose from and they’d even learned how to respond to applause with a slow formal bow, because they’d been longing to perform for quite a few months. The entire preparation for a ‘possible future’ performance had been underway for about a term, and they felt more than ready to share what they had achieved in that time.

Their lessons had been grounded in a rhythm-based approach, one that I had built for them as their inhibitory control had been very sparse when I’d started working with them. They were watchful and unpredictable, laughed loudly and lost their confidence in an instant. Lifting their feet in time with music had been a very important aspect of their group lesson, week after week.

Many years later, this approach became the Rhythm for Reading Programme, but back then, it was simply a technique that helped them to absorb, understand, retain and recall information. I was delighted as they became accomplished young cellists, able to read music fluently, and then, able to perform in full school assembly with poise, intention and purpose in every moment.

How performance strengthens inclusion and spreads courage

The children who shine as performers in a school are not necessarily the academic high flyers. Often they are socially quiet or difficult to engage. On stage, however, they are more than comfortable, and are able to share their light in a way that may surprise and delight their teachers and classmates.

Every school has children waiting for their moment to shine. They need opportunities as much as guidance. In this respect, performance in a school community strengthens inclusion. This is when young people form their own community. They hang out together in music and drama departments in schools across the nation. I see them everywhere I visit.

They bask in the opportunities that performance gives them: to be themselves, to enjoy the company of their fellow performers and to dedicate their time and energy to practising, preparing, discussing, sharing experiences and supporting each other. It’s not only a question of longing to be heard, and giving expression to the voice, but also the endless work and courage that are required to build these skills. Courage grows when schools create spaces and opportunities for every child to be seen, heard and celebrated.

Courage is contagious. This is hardly surprising as our ancestors would have needed to find collective courage far more than we do in our artificial environments. Performance requires enormous courage and commands the immediate respect of the audience. But there’s more to this than meets the eye. A performer displaying courage inspires those in the audience to reach further and try harder in their life too. No matter how valuable the curriculum may be, it is unlikely to inspire or empower a hall packed with students in an instant.

Insights from children who learn differently

Looking back at that group of children, who walked with poise and purpose back to their chairs, their performance completed, I remember the change in their posture. They knew that their performance had gone to plan, that they had had their moment in front of a school that a year and a half earlier had temporarily excluded them. They had also been invited to join the school orchestra and to sit beside the privileged academic high flyers.

These children had chosen the cello. The school had invited me to teach them. If I had not figured out that their love of football meant that I needed to work with their feet first, none of this would have happened. More importantly, if they had not looked at me, expecting me to blame them for the failure of that very first lesson, I might never have even asked them about what they were good at and loved to do after school.

That one small question led to ten minutes of rhythm each week. A year later, the same feet that had once only wanted a football carried these children through a performance, with poise and purpose, and held the attention of the entire school.