How Bad Do You Want It? Not Bad Enough!

With the start of a new school year a few days away, I begin to get excited about the prospects of the coming semester. In the academy, summer brings the opportunity to hit the reset button and by summer’s end, we should feel refreshed and ready to take on the challenges of another busy school year (You’ll notice I didn’t say rested).

As students return to the hallowed halls, I know that some are looking for a chance to redefine themselves, to develop new habits or break old ones or perhaps set some new goals. Maybe they hope to distance themselves from an unfortunate interaction (that most have already forgotten) or perhaps burnish their reputation as a dedicated student. Still others simply plan to take a few steps back in preparation for making some well-timed leaps forward. 

All things are possible in the Fall. For me, Fall is a heady time that repeats every year and helps create the distinctive rhythm of my life. This rhythmic cycle is a tectonic movement that once felt slow and nearly imperceptible but now seems to gain speed with my every trip around the sun. Or as Jimmy Buffett puts it:

Every day’s a revolution
Pull it together and it comes undone
Just one more candle and a trip around the sun
—Jimmy Buffett, Trip Around the Sun

In the metaphorical framework known as the “Four Seasons of Life,” Autumn is usually characterized as the second half of the life cycle but, In the Academy, Fall represents new beginnings. For many this could be a new year, new school, new job, new friends, new responsibilities, or new opportunities. So many things begin anew as golden summer turns to the orange and burnt umber of autumn, warm days, cool nights, and football under the lights. 

Fall is ripe with opportunity! In our allegorical model Autumn can also represent a time of reflection, change, and transition, and depending on where you are in your educational journey (or life cycle) it may also involve some introspection about what your life might look like after the boys of summer have gone.

But as the semester approaches, I also begin to wonder what my students expect from their college experience. I ask myself “what do they want and how bad do they want it?” I know this because for most of my life I have struggled with the same queries. Identifying the “what” was never the problem, but it was the fundamental question that every person who aspires to something more in this life must ask themselves; “how bad do you want it?” In many cases the answer is, as singer and songwriter Don Henley would say, “not bad enough.”

So you wanna be a big baseball player?

As a kid growing up in East Texas, I wanted to play baseball but, not bad enough. I wanted to play football but, again, not bad enough. I wanted to be an Architect but not bad enough to put in the work to get good grades.

Then I joined the band. There I wanted badly to play the trumpet but no matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t going to happen. So, in 1969 I landed in the drum section. How bad did I want that? Not at all…

But in the Fall of 1970, and because of a loving and masterful band teacher, I got to start over. And in doing so I began to feel the early pangs of desire to become a musician; a real drummer. I had never experienced wanting something so much that it gave me an ache in the pit of my stomach thinking about it. Whenever I failed to measure up to that teacher’s expectations, it physically hurt. In retrospect, and in my own experience as a teacher, I suspect that it hurt him as much as it hurt me. I’ve had that stomachache ever since and it hasn’t subsided. I hope it never does. 

I’ll admit that from time to time, I’ve felt alone in my journey but as I kept at it, I met more and more kindred spirits along the way. The first one was my childhood friend who had a four-track reel-to-reel tape recorder that lit the fire of my desire to write and record music. Then it was my fellow high school band geeks who wanted to put together a horn band to play the music of the popular group Chicago. 

My high school bandmate and future college roommate, Lynn Childers, and I stayed long hours after school in the band hall transcribing and arranging their music and arguing about if we got it right or not. On Saturday nights we cruised around our hometown blasting music out of the windows of his Ford Mustang just like all the other kids except we were listening to Frank Zappa, Bill Chase, Buddy Rich, Mike Oldfield, Blood, Sweat, and Tears, and of course Chicago. We made music together because we wanted so badly to do it.

My grandmother knew all too well that wishes wouldn’t fulfill dreams. At home in Longview circa. 1950.

Whenever I got a new passion, something that I “really wanted” to do, my grandmother would say to me “wish in one hand and spit in the other and see which gets filled first.” Like so many East Texas syllogisms, it took me years to figure out what she meant.

Having survived the great depression as a young woman starting a family, my grandmother knew all too well that wishes wouldn’t fulfill dreams. She believed that the ability to achieve your goals only comes through action, dedication, and hard work.

I think she saw me struggling with the bellyaches of wanting to be a musician, but she worried that I didn’t have a strong enough work ethic to follow through on meeting that goal. By the time I figured out what she was trying to tell me, and I had begun to take her advice, she had passed away. 

“Wish in one hand and spit in the other and see which gets filled first.”
—Pattye Burgess Leverett

With Jimmy Yancey, the man who lit my fire. Back stage after a concert as guest soloist with the East Texas Symphonic Band, 2016.

Years later that same band director who lit my fire when I was 12 years old, told me that of all his students, I was the one that wanted to be a musician so much that I wouldn’t let adversity (meaning a lack of innate talent) or circumstances (coming from a poor family), prevent me from achieving my goal. He knew how badly I wanted it, even before I did. It was he who gave me the encouragement, the drive, and the push that my grandmother knew I needed. Thanks Grandma and Mr. Yancey.


A musician is all I can ever remember wanting to be. Longview Symphony rehearsal circa. 1975.

Since Junior High School, a musician is all I can remember wanting to be which is why I sometimes become frustrated with my students when they don’t appear to show the same drive and motivation that it took for me to get to where I am today. As a teacher, I have been surprised many times by how often students appeared to not—in my opinion—want it bad enough.

I’ve had students who loved being in band in high school, so they decided to continue studying music in college only to drop out the moment they hit a brick wall in theory class, or when they faced the inevitable scenario of practicing for hours and hours and not improving. Then, when their archrival—the one who never practices—makes first chair, it knocks the wind completely out of their sails. “It’s not fun anymore” is the reason most often given for dropping out. But again, it raises the question “how bad do you want it?”

American singer and frontman for the rock band Counting Crows, Adam Duritz, explains it like this.

“You’ve heard people say this a million times. They’re doing something they really like and then it gets hard and they’re like ‘it isn’t fun anymore.’ That’s the line that divides artists from people with hobbies because hobbies are fun—and they should be. Art can be enjoyable, but it’s not supposed to be [fun], and that’s not the deal. That’s not what it’s about. I mean it’s great if it’s fun but it’s not going to be fun all the time. And it’s hard and it should be hard and you’re gonna be miserable and hate it at times or just hate the experience—not the thing—because its real; it’s your whole life and that’s different.” 

That’s the line that divides artists from people with hobbies because hobbies are fun—and they should be. Art can be enjoyable, but it’s not supposed to be [fun], and that’s not the deal.
—Adam Duritz, Counting Crows

But is it possible to want something too much? 

Yes, the cost of going “all in” on the pursuit of your goals can be quite high. It can affect your mental and physical health and your personal life. In the film The Devil Wears Prada, Nigel (Stanley Tucci) wipes his brow as he tells Andrea (Anne Hathaway) “let me know when your whole life goes up in smoke. Means it’s time for a promotion.” Nigel’s cynical view is that seeking career advancement can bring personal hardships if you are willing to sacrifice everything else in your life for work as he has done. It is important to keep in mind that when desire becomes an obsession it can create a vicious cycle where the very intensity required to achieve your goal pushes the desired outcome further away.

The reality, however, is that most people aren’t really at risk of over doing it in pursuing their goals which is probably why I’m not a professional baseball player today (among other reasons). Even the overachieving Italian Renaissance sculptor, painter, architect, poet, and writer of sonnets, Michelangelo, believed that “the greater danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short, but in setting our aim too low, and achieving our mark.”*

“The greater danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short, but in setting our aim too low, and achieving our mark.”
—Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni (1475-1564)

*Yes, I know that I have used that quote in a previous post but, hey, it’s a good one.

It’s all about balance. 

There is a reason why as a culture we enjoy entertainments that require exceptional balance. Things like walking a tight rope, juggling, or spinning plates in the circus, the balance beam in gymnastics, or log rolling at the lumberjack competition are just a few examples. We respect and admire the skill needed to maintain balance because without good balance there is the inherent danger of failing—and falling.

The secret of maintaining a good work/life balance is to keep three areas of endeavor equally apportioned. These are the things we have to do, the things we need to do, and the things we want to do.

The things we have to do include those that are necessary to sustain life such as eating, sleeping, seeing a doctor, or simply stopping occasionally to “sharpen the saw.” Habit #7 of Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People is the concept of sharpening the saw. According to Covey “this habit is called Sharpen the Saw because dull or rusty tools are much less effective than clean and sharp tools.” Taking time to stop working and care for your tools will make things easier when you start again. The same applies for taking a break from practicing in order to let your mind and body (your tools) recover.

The things we need to do are those that we are required to do because of our responsibilities to others such as homework and attending classes, jobs to help pay the bills, or even mundane tasks like shopping for groceries which also impacts the things we have to do. For a musician, this might mean practicing for an ensemble you really don’t enjoy but is a requirement for your degree.

The final piece to be balanced is in the things we want to do. This is where your passion, your art, your calling lives. It is also the part that can knock your work/life balance completely out of whack! If we are passionate about something we are tempted to try and steal time from the things we have to do or need to do in order to focus on what we want to do.

I think every person who has pursued their passion has tried to cheat the balance at times and often with great success. This is an acceptable—even necessary—practice but, again, there is a cost. For anyone passionate about their life’s work, that cost is sometimes unavoidable because eventually the two neglected areas will demand equal time.  

Here is an example the late pianist and composer Chick Corea gave about his creative process. “When I compose for a record, I work 18-20 hours a day, I eat and sleep very little, and I feel fantastically good! I have my businesspeople leave, and I don’t take phone calls or have visitors. I isolate myself and get that creative flow going. Once it starts, it’s like a snowball…”

In doing this, Chick was stealing time from the other areas of his life to focus on creating his art. Both in his life and in his music, Corea made good use of the musical concept known as tempo rubato. The term comes from the Italian word “rubare” which means to steal. In music this means stealing time from some measures making them shorter or adding time to others making them longer to facilitate a more expressive performance. The point is that time (in music and in life) doesn’t budge so, if you steal time from one measure (or part of your life) it must eventually be repaid. Is this a bad thing? Not necessarily. Just reread two paragraphs above one more time.

Don Henley puts this all in perspective for us but, I think you are getting the idea:

So, you put a hold on happiness
A day, a week, a year
You got to bring somethin’ to this party, boy
If you party here

If you’re lookin’ for love
I have to ask you

How bad do you want it?
Not bad enough…

So, as Fall brings you new opportunities, try to keep your work/life in balance and keep asking yourself “how bad do I want it?”

Oh, and don’t actually spit into your hand; that’s disgusting.


Citations:

Buffett, Jimmy. Trip Around the Sun from the album License to Chill (2004), Mailboat Records, August 16, 2004

Beato, Rick. Counting Crows: Adam Duritz Interview, accessed August 21, 2025

Covey, Stephen. Seven Habits of Highly Effective People
https://www.franklincovey.com/courses/the-7-habits/habit-7

Corea, Armando “Chick”. Interview on writing the Mad Hatter album, Downbeat Magazine, March 1978

Devil Wears Prada. Film directed by David Frankel and produced by Wendy Finerman, screenplay, written by Aline Brosh McKenna, based on the 2003 novel by Lauren Weisberger, the film stars Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, Stanley Tucci, and Emily Blunt, 2006

Henley, Don. How Bad Do You Want it? End of the Innocence album, Don Henley, Danny Kortchmar, Stan Lynch, Geffen Records, 1989
https://youtu.be/DCahCPN3Kho?si=8Q_4JFSKzWVeFDli

The Michelangelo of Mowing (or how I joined the Longview Symphony)

You can get some pretty strange ideas while mindlessly pushing a smoky, sputtering lawn-mower around in the middle of a deep East Texas heat wave. It was the summer of 1972 and I was mowing lawns to earn money to be able to make the scene at the Longview Rollercade that night. As I sculpted ever-shrinking geometric designs into the thick Bermudagrass—like a Michelangelo of Mowing—my mind began to wander and I was deep in thought. On that particular Saturday, I was pondering my future as a musician. Having been a percussionist for nearly three years, I felt that something needed to happen in my musical career this year—something big! 

As I stopped to refill the gas tank and wipe the sweat from my eyes, it hit me. I should join the Longview Symphony. At that moment the decision was made, my mind was made up, and I decided to ask my private drum teacher, Mr. Don Lawler, if I could join up. 

In 1968, Mr. Lawler and Dr. James Snowden had formed the Longview Symphony Orchestra and Mr. Lawler was principal timpanist. In December 1971, Mr. Lawler had invited me to attend the orchestra’s first *Children’s Concert and dress rehearsal so I could watch him in action. Seeing him on the stage convinced me that playing music was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. (You can also get some pretty strange notions sitting on the front row of an orchestra concert) 

*Dr. Snowden recognized very early the importance of Children’s Concerts in the development of both future musicians and audiences. His dissertation from the University of Colorado is titled: The Role of the Symphony Orchestra Youth Concert in Music Education.

So, at my next lesson I made the request and, after a considerable amount of persuading and begging, Mr. Lawler agreed to discuss the matter with my junior high band director, Mr. Jimmy Yancey. After some discussion, they decided that I could probably read music well enough to at least smash a cymbal or bang a bass drum on cue every now and then. After all, smashing and banging is a defining characteristic of all percussionists—right? They, in turn, convinced Dr. Snowden, who was the fledgling orchestra’s conductor, to try me out under two conditions: I must first behave myself and second not do anything stupid, or say anything stupid. It sounded like three conditions to me, but I wasn’t going to argue. I was in the orchestra!

The big night came for my first rehearsal with the Longview Symphony and I was so excited that I arrived two hours early and sat twitching with anticipation on the steps of the high school band hall just waiting for my chance to do some high-class smashing and banging. Eventually, the doors opened, and I and the other, much older, musicians filed in. “Some of these people look really old,” I thought to myself, “they must be in high school or something.”

As I made my way to the back of the room, I didn’t see Mr. Lawler or any other percussionists for that matter. Who would show me the ropes? I didn’t know which of these confusing parts I should play and perhaps most important, I didn’t know that the first hour of rehearsal that night was for strings only! But “I can handle this,” I thought, “I have three years of experience after all.”  

The Percussion parts were laid out neatly on a music stand and Dr. Snowden called up the first piece for rehearsal. I grabbed what I considered to be the most interesting part, the “timbales” (Actually, I took that part because it was the only word on any of the pages I recognized). I quickly went to fetch the two small, gleaming chrome drums used commonly for Latin-American dance music, and known to all good percussionists as “timbales.”  The percussion music was interesting and had some notation that I had never seen before. It was composed by a person with a funny French-sounding name.

Dr. Snowden gave the downbeat and we were off and running. The strings sawed away passionately to which I added “rrrrap-tap-tappy-tap” on the timbales with a fervor that might have made Ricky Ricardo jealous. Yet try as I might, the two parts just didn’t seem to go together. One at a time, members of the orchestra began to turn around and stare. Older members shook their heads, the younger ones (girls in particular) giggled, and then turned away. “They must be impressed,” I thought, “they can’t believe what a great job I’m doing back here, and at such a tender age.” 

Finally, my infernal tapping became too much for Dr. Snowden to bear. He stopped the orchestra and inquired as to what—exactly—I thought I was doing. When I replied that I was playing the timbale part, the entire orchestra erupted in unison laughter. How was I supposed to know that “timbales” was actually French for timpani?  You know—timpani—those massive, copper, kettle-shaped bowls that produce the most grand and dramatic sound of the percussion family and even the entire orchestra. Grand and dramatic, not rrrrap-tap-tappy-tap. 

That was to be my introduction to the Longview Symphony, and the first of many important lessons I would learn from them. The orchestra ladies took me under their wing and taught me a variety of valuable lessons such as that dark socks are much preferred to white socks when wearing a tuxedo, and how to tell if your cummerbund is on upside-down (after learning what a cummerbund is of course). 

A few of the lessons were harder but no less important. I once missed a dress rehearsal for a big concert. When I showed up the night of the concert, Dr. Snowden wouldn’t allow me to play. I sat on the stage throughout the entire concert then stood at the edge of the section whenever the other percussionists played. I watched my parts go by unplayed and hoped that my mother didn’t notice that I wasn’t actually doing anything. It was one of the few concerts she was able to attend, and all I did was stand there. Lesson learned!

I played with the Longview Symphony from ninth-grade through high school and into college; my formative years as well as theirs. I started in the orchestra as “Danny” but by the next season, I had been promoted to “Daniel.” With the LSO I was exposed for the first time to great repertoire such as the Overture to CandideAcademic Festival OvertureCarnival of the AnimalsCarmina Burana, and The Pines of Rome, to name just a few, and I got to sit next to musicians who were much better than me which is how you grow as a musician. 

Program from my first concert with the Longview Symphony on January 30, 1973

The first time I performed Igor Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale was in 1976 as a high school senior. In his dissertation, A History of the Longview Symphony Orchestra of Longview, Texas from 1968-2011, Author Gene H. Moon wrote “The work was performed by first desk players in the orchestra: Betty Grout, violin; Walter Caughey, cello [sic]; Richard Cammack, clarinet; Winnie Voss; bassoon; Gary Jordan, cornet; Lynn Childers, trombone and Danny Moore, percussion.” It was one of the highlights of my senior year even though Dr. Snowden changed my name back to Danny—the name he calls me to this day—in the concert program. Though not known to me at the time, this concert also happened to be a turning point for the orchestra. Writer Suzanne Thomas of the Longview Daily News wrote that “Snowden chose four compositions to comprise possibly the most difficult program yet played by the local musicians.” At the time I had no clue that the little community orchestra was struggling to find its way just like I was.

Program from April 24, 1976 performance of excerpts from Igor Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale.

In the early days, The Longview Symphony always swung for the fences in both repertoire and in guest artists. I had the opportunity to perform with artists such as Eugene Fodor, Gary Karr, James Dick, Ralph Kirshbaum, and others. Those years paved the way for a professional orchestra still operating more than fifty years later. 

Concert program from April 24, 1976 signed by violin soloist Eugene Fodor.

But perhaps the most important lesson I learned from the LSO—one I would never forget—was the French word for timpani.

Fast forward some twenty-odd years and I find myself in the middle of the biggest exam in my college and professional career; the exhausting two-day comprehensive examination for the Doctor of Musical Arts degree in percussion performance at the University of Kentucky. For part of the exam I had to identify works and composers from a single page of a score. Everything was going well until I came to a page and drew a complete blank. I was tired from the exam and couldn’t think straight, but just as I was about to give up, I happened to notice the word “timbales.” Suddenly, I was transported back to that first night with the Longview Symphony and trying to figure out why this composer with a funny French-sounding name wrote for Ricky Ricardo timbales. The words I needed flowed out like grass from a side-discharge mower. Thanks, Longview Symphony!

Danny Moore is a 1976 graduate of Longview High School where he was a member of the Band, Jazz Band, and was president of the Orchestra. He played percussion with the Concert Choir and for Theater Department productions, and served as a percussionist with the Longview Symphony from 1972 to 1979. He is, however, no longer known as the Michelangelo of Mowing.

Me with James Snowden (left) and Don Lawler, February 7, 2010, following a concert as soloist with the East Texas Symphonic Band.

References:

Moon, Gene H. A History of the Longview Symphony Orchestra of Longview, Texas from 1968-2011, DMA thesis, University of Oklahoma, 2012 

Snowden, James Wyn. The Role of the Symphony Orchestra Youth Concert in Music Education, PhD thesis, The University of Colorado, 1979

Thomas, Suzanne. Longview Morning Journal, “Symphony Shows High Polish Here”, Monday, April 26, 1976. 

Standing Left to right, Don Lawler, David Elias, Me, and James Snowden on the cover of the 1975-76 brochure.