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The 3 c's of a lasting career: curiosity, Commissions & communication

1/23/2026

The conversation with cellist Johannes Moser opens on a simple confession: he loves practicing. That single detail reframes the usual narrative about grind and burnout and sets up a wider lens on what a modern musical life can be. Moser’s story begins with a pragmatic jump from violin to cello and becomes a study in fit, resonance, and identity. The instrument stopped being an object and became part of his body, not a partner to be named but a limb he moves with intention. Growing up in Munich with a cellist father and a soprano mother, he saw a full cultural ecosystem up close—rehearsals, friendships, and chamber music folded into daily life. That early exposure shaped his belief that music is not just a job description; it is a way of meeting people, places, and ideas.

A major thread is how careers actually form. Moser breaks the myth of overnight success and replaces it with a map of compounding choices. He describes cutting his teeth with community and amateur orchestras, where entrances go astray and you learn to keep the musical story alive anyway. That chaos taught him leadership, flexibility, and stage mindset more effectively than pristine circumstances could. He argues that the highest level only makes sense after you learn to listen, adapt, and still project a narrative. Communication sits beside musicianship: talking with audiences, doing community work, and meeting listeners where they are in a world crowded with streaming options. The takeaway is practical—personal connections, not just polished profiles, move careers forward.

Moser then turns to repertoire and the evolution of cello playing. He traces a line from Casals and Rostropovich to today’s technical fluency, showing how performers enabled composers to expand what was possible. That progress brings a warning: social media can amplify stunt playing while draining depth if musicians do not feed their inner lives. He suggests reading, theater, and broad art intake as fuel for interpretation. When everyone can play the Dvorak Concerto cleanly, the differentiator becomes perspective, story, and intention. Excellence matters, but meaning matters more, and meaning requires time away from the scroll and toward real inquiry.

Commissioning new works is the engine of his current season and a source of renewal. Working with living composers forces him to solve fresh problems, which then sharpen his insights when returning to the classics. Studying manuscripts, reconsidering articulations, and finding structural clues let him make old scores feel new without gimmicks. He values shared ownership: pieces should move through multiple hands so they can evolve beyond a single premiere. That attitude resists the possessive streak around world premieres and turns repertoire into a living commons. It also strengthens the field by giving orchestras, students, and audiences more pathways into contemporary sound.

Teaching ties the loop. In the studio, Moser finds language for instincts he had never named, and those words refine his own technique. He encourages “productive doubt” at home and total conviction on stage, a balance that keeps performances honest. For young musicians, his advice is to prioritize relationships and live experiences that build trust across years. The digital stage can open doors, but the human stage keeps them open. Underneath it all is a simple promise: if you stay curious, practice with joy, and speak clearly to the people in the hall, your playing will carry purpose that outlasts trends.

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"Auditions, Anxiety, and the Myth of flawless Playing"

1/2/2026

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Perfectionism is often sold to musicians as the price of entry, but what if the real cost is confidence, joy, and sustainable growth? In our conversation with clinical psychologist Dr. Ellen Hendriksen, we examine how high standards can coexist with self-kindness and why striving doesn’t have to become self-erasure. She maps seven patterns that tend to cluster in perfectionism—over-evaluation of self, based on performance, relentless self-criticism, rigid rules, mistake avoidance, procrastination, social comparison, and perfectionistic self-presentation—and shows how these habits quietly shape practice rooms, rehearsals, and audition weeks. For performers chasing consistency under pressure, naming these patterns is the first step toward changing them.

A standout insight reframes procrastination. It rarely stems from poor time management; it’s an emotion management strategy designed to escape tasks that trigger shame, fear, or overwhelm. When your inner rules say the first take must be flawless, your brain chooses anything that feels safer—scrolling, tidying, over-prepping trivial details. The fix is not willpower alone but easing the emotional load: break rules that demand mastery in one pass, design work in drafts, and focus on controllable intentions for each session. By shifting the question from “Will they like it?” to “Did I fulfill my intention?” you reduce dependence on external approval and gain a practical lever for progress you can actually measure.

Musicians live with rejection, criticism, and uncertain outcomes. Dr. Hendriksen suggests normalizing a non-zero failure rate as part of a professional arc. When you expect some auditions to go poorly, the sting remains but the shame softens, making room for learning. This also counters over-evaluation: you are not your last excerpt. Healthy perfectionism pursues excellence for its own sake; maladaptive perfectionism treats mistakes as verdicts on character. The difference often comes down to two levers—loosening the link between self and performance, and replacing harsh self-criticism with firm, specific, and kind feedback aimed at growth.

The inner critic won’t vanish on command, but your relationship to it can change. Acceptance-based tools treat critical thoughts like background music—present but not directive—while playful techniques strip them of authority by changing their voice or format. Cognitive techniques add a second path: challenge distortions, test utility, and speak to yourself like a trusted coach. This combination preserves high standards without sacrificing wellbeing. In a culture of auditions and rankings, comparison is inevitable; the upgrade is nuance: “I’m a good player who didn’t play well today.” That both-and framing protects identity while keeping responsibility for the next step.

Identify what you choose in your practice—curiosity about a passage, joy in color, pride in process—and let that motivation guide the plan. Lead with behavior: act as the musician you intend to be, and confidence will follow. Use intention-setting for rehearsals and auditions, normalize mistakes as data, and keep praise and critique specific and actionable. The goal isn’t to lower your bar; it’s to aim it wisely. Excellence thrives when standards are high, self-worth is steady, and your craft is fueled by meaning rather than fear.

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"Low notes, high stakes, & no time to waste"

12/19/2025

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Leading a major orchestra section can look glamorous from the audience, but the realities behind the stand tell a deeper story about culture, craft, and the constant calculation required to play at a peak level. Principal cellist Rainer Eudeikis maps the terrain from Utah to Atlanta to San Francisco, showing how an orchestra’s vibe shifts with geography, commute times, and life stage. What felt close-knit in Salt Lake City gave way to a more purely professional rhythm in the Bay Area, not better or worse, just different. He points out a crucial lens: sometimes what we read as cultural change is really personal change. Moving from early-career freedom to parenting two young kids reframed how community forms and how much energy is left after the hall lights dim. That self-awareness threads through every choice, from repertoire he prioritizes to how he leads.

Programming sits at the core of a principal’s daily reality. Rainer contrasts Utah’s mountain-heavy summers, runouts, and education tours with San Francisco’s robust subscription focus and a steady rise in film concerts. While he once resisted pops and movies, he now admits their benefits: physical relief between heavy rep, a reset for the ears, and a chance to refine mechanics under lighter load. The key is rotation and pacing; the right mix keeps technique fresh while preventing overuse. He’s frank about the value of agency—choosing where to expend limited practice time and how to align with what the music director wants. It’s an honest look at endurance, taste, and the economics of energy.

Leadership itself is a double-edged bow. Rainer loves the immediacy of influence—direct dialogue with the conductor, fewer relays between intent and outcome, and the satisfaction of hearing choices land in real time. He also names the cost: bowings. Marking parts demands foresight, coordination with other strings, and contingency planning for tempos, phrasing, and stamina. He describes staring at a Mahler slur that spans pages, debating where to breathe without breaking the line or clashing with violas. It’s unglamorous, critical work that saves rehearsal minutes and prevents back-stand confusion. The ideal is simple to say but hard to achieve: keep parts “set” so the section plays confidently, together, and with the flexibility to pivot if the podium shifts direction.

Family makes the system tighter. A four-year-old and a toddler turned idle evening hours into precision scheduling. Rainer’s answer is efficiency: a 30 minute daily routine of scales, arpeggios, intervals, and targeted drills that preserves baseline facility and intonation. He layers in small bites of upcoming solos weeks ahead so they can “simmer” instead of boiling over in a panic. He practices in stray pockets—45 minutes after a concert, 30 minutes before rehearsal—and treats time on stage as training. Pops shows become labs for shifts, bow control, and vibrato speed. The message for serious players is blunt and generous: build a small, reliable routine you can always complete, then add context-specific excerpts. Consistency beats heroics.

On auditions, Rainer offers rare transparency. San Francisco has hired three cellists in two cycles, sometimes from candidates whose resumes initially required tapes. He’s open to recorded prelims but sees pitfalls: committees need discipline to avoid dragging decisions, and tapes remove the one-take pressure that reveals readiness. In person, you hear identity and resilience faster. He doesn’t champion “auditions for experience,” preferring focused searches that spare candidates excess travel and expense while keeping standards high. The takeaway for applicants is twofold: curate your tape to prove musical identity quickly, and prepare as if every first round is decisive. If a committee splits to manage a large volume of candidates, clarity and character in the first 30 seconds matter even more.

For young musicians, his advice is surgical: define your niche early, then obsess. He knew he wanted to lead a top American section and built a path around it—studying with principal players, reverse-engineering the job’s demands, and practicing the psychology of pressure. He warns against vague ambition and encourages strategic mentorship. Study with someone who does what you want, then broaden your circle to fill gaps. Winning a job is about musicianship and adaptability as much as accuracy. Committees want to be moved and assured you’ll fit the machine without losing your voice. That balance—personal sound inside collective purpose—is the mark of a modern orchestral artist.

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"Euniquely multi-talented"

12/5/2025

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The story of violinist Eunice Kim unfolds as a blueprint for building a modern music career that is resilient, creative, and human. Her early start in a music-filled home, a neighbor’s practice room as a nursery, and a solo debut at seven sounds like a prodigy script, yet the real thread is intention shaped by community. Growing up in the Bay Area, she found energy in the San Francisco Conservatory prep division, Saturday schedules packed with lessons, chamber coachings, orchestras, and recitals. Add Aspen Music Festival at ten and you have a young performer who learned to juggle scope, not just speed—repertoire with peers, listening with leadership, and ambition with curiosity. Those formative years seeded a lifelong comfort with variety, the foundation of her “yes—and” career.

That same curiosity guided Eunice to the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra, a conductorless ensemble that functions like amplified chamber music. Rather than a top-down command structure, the SPCO thrives on distributed leadership, time discipline, and precise listening. Eunice describes wearing different hats weekly: chamber player, orchestral section leader or member, and featured soloist. The payoffs are artistic intimacy and accountability; the challenges are efficiency and decision clarity when every voice counts. Rehearsals demand restraint as much as input—the concertmaster keeps pace, but anyone can flag priorities. With a small string count and flexible seating, players must adapt their sound, balance, and presence. The result is a musical culture that rewards preparation, initiative, and individual color within a shared sound ideal.

The audition path that led her there was equally non-linear: a recruitment play-in, sub dates, then a more recital-like official audition with solo Bach, Mozart, excerpts, and chamber music. This approach tested not only facility but fit—blend, communication, and response under pressure. Fit also defined her path to management. After time with Astral Artists, Eunice met Jonathan Wentworth Associates at a showcase where programming and authentic stage presence stood out. Speaking thoughtfully to the room the day after a major election, she framed music as connection rather than escape. That moment, paired with imaginative repertoire choices, launched a partnership that respects her SPCO commitments while developing recital, concerto, and collaborative projects. The engine is two-way: Eunice proposes partners and programs; her manager builds opportunities and refines offers, with honest post-concert debriefs shaping future bookings.

Programming sits at the heart of her external work. Presenters look for narrative, range, and relevance—new music alongside core repertoire, thoughtful pairings, and flexible formats such as a violin–double bass duo with Xavier Foley. Eunice’s approach favors curiosity over branding; try the unfamiliar, then adjust. That mindset, paired with organizational literacy, sustains her pace. She urges young musicians to learn how ensembles operate, how to advocate in negotiations, and how to do taxes. The soft skills—listening, empathy, follow-through—matter as much as intonation. Burnout often begins with mismatched relationships and automatic yeses; sustainability begins with fit, clarity, and boundaries that still leave room for wonder. In a field that pushes either–or, Eunice shows how a yes–and career can be rigorous, joyful, and deeply musical.

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"Lights, Camera, cello"

11/21/2025

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When a musician grows up in a home with two pianos, rehearsals on the calendar, and a father conducting across New York, a life in music can feel inevitable. For cellist and filmmaker Nick Canellakis, that inevitability came with a twist: a deep love of cinema that surfaced early, from childhood tapes and school plays to an ambitious spoof shot at the Curtis Institute. The conversation traces how those twin passions—serious cello performance and nimble, character-driven filmmaking—began to braid into a single career. We hear how a formative moment at Curtis turned a holiday skit night into a 22-minute movie, and how learning Adobe Premiere in the mid-2000s planted seeds for the creative process he relies on today. That blend of discipline and play fuels his voice: a cellist whose humor hits home because it is grounded in the lived reality of practice rooms, auditions, and chamber music life.

What makes Canellakis compelling isn’t just that he’s funny; it’s that the comedy never undercuts the music. He explains how a short film, My New Cello, unexpectedly went viral and reoriented his path, not by chasing algorithms but by doubling down on craft. The tools evolved: HDV tapes became iPhone rigs, and large crews gave way to agile setups, often with his wife Arabella behind or in front of the camera. He uses a single-camera approach with coverage, close-ups, and clean editing, turning short sketches into miniature films. The iPhone, paired with a small mic and a sturdy stand, removes friction, unlocks spontaneity, and makes it possible to shoot, cut, and publish fast without the weight of a full production. The result is a body of work that feels cinematic yet intimate, polished yet immediate, speaking directly to the neuroses and joys of musicians.

The ripple effects are tangible. Live shows now weave in five-minute sketches that set a mood before the orchestra launches into Tchaikovsky or Dvorak. Audiences discover the cello through laughter, then stay for the sound, often surprised by the depth of his playing. This bridge between entertainment and excellence expands opportunities: collaborations with orchestras, new listeners who convert from scrolls to seats, and a profile that supports both artistry and outreach. Importantly, he resists the trap of becoming “the comedian who plays cello.” The music remains the anchor. Years of study, chamber music, and solo work, plus a maturing sense of identity, give him the confidence to vary tone without diluting standards. The humor sharpens the focus; it doesn’t replace it.

Teaching at Curtis adds a new dimension. The school’s refreshed model, where students share time among multiple teachers and meet visiting artists like Gary Hoffman, mirrors the collaborative ethos of Nick’s creative life. It asks students to synthesize diverse inputs, find their own voice, and learn to navigate differences without losing center. That approach suits advanced players who benefit from multiple vantage points, and it invites younger students to grow into independence with steady guidance. There’s an ecosystem here—faculty, peers, visiting mentors—designed to build resilience and perspective, much like a film set where many hands and viewpoints shape a scene but the director still owns the cut.

The most striking thread is mindset. Nick admits he once underestimated his solo potential and took a cautious route in his 20s. The advice he offers now is blunt and humane: dream bigger, swing harder, and avoid choices made from low confidence or inertia. If your heart points to an orchestra job, chase it. If it points elsewhere, go there instead of piling on credentials you don’t want. Fantasy has a place in your 20s; it fuels the work that defines your 30s and 40s. For creators balancing multiple lanes—performance, filmmaking, teaching—the lesson is clear. Pick the standards you refuse to compromise. Then let everything else flex. Lean into the tools that remove friction, surround yourself with collaborators who see your range, and trust that seriousness and joy can live in the same frame.

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“Sacred Strings and Sweetgrass Things”

10/27/2025

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Sweetgrass began as a question: how can sound, place, and culture meet in a way that feels both ancient and new? Host Joel Dallow brings together cellist Wilhelmina Smith and composer Dawn Avery to trace that path from discovery to release. Their collaboration lives at the crossroads of indigenous tradition and contemporary classical music, where Mohawk language, sacred stories, and natural soundscapes find a home inside the voice of the cello. The project took shape during the isolation of the pandemic, when Wilhelmina’s Salt Bay ChamberFest sought a way to serve its audience through works filmed in specific Maine landscapes. That visual and spiritual context gave Dawn’s music a striking canvas and a clear purpose.
Dawn’s own journey anchors the album’s ethos. A conservatory-trained cellist of Mohawk descent, she composes with a wide lens: indigenous song forms, meditative textures, blues gestures, and even echoes of rock language. Her name, meaning she digs deeply into the earth to learn, reflects a process rooted in listening—to elders, to nature, to communities, and to history’s dissonances. Wilhelmina’s path complements it: early success at Curtis and with the Philadelphia Orchestra, balanced by formative time in George Crumb’s experimental orbit and decades of chamber collaboration. Those experiences taught her to treat the cello as a laboratory for new colors and a meeting place for voices that rarely share a stage.
The album’s title work, Sweetgrass, honors a sacred plant revered for strength and tenderness. That duality becomes a guiding image for Wilhelmina’s playing and Dawn’s writing. Many tracks feature layered cellos and voice, shaped through careful multitracking. Building a duet with oneself demands planning: the accompaniment lines must anticipate phrasing and rubato in the melody that doesn’t yet exist. The result is a living dialogue—breath meeting bow—that supports Mohawk text and chants with a resonant, human timbre. It’s hard to do well, but when it lands, the music feels like a single body breathing with two hearts.
Listeners meet key pieces along the way. We Enter Together sets the tone, a call to shared presence. Decolonization unfolds as a narrative suite for solo cello, threading a healing song, a women’s stomp dance, blues gestures, and a Jimi Hendrix–inflected national anthem into one American tapestry. The juxtaposition reveals irony and resilience: traditions once banned as “savage” now stand shoulder to shoulder with national symbols. This isn’t provocation for its own sake; it’s a framework for hearing how cultures interlock, collide, and finally converse inside the instrument’s voice.
Behind the sound is a modern production roadmap. Wilhelmina describes funding the last three albums with state arts grants tied to community engagement, then recording in tailored halls with a veteran producer to shape edits and master takes. Labels have shifted from owning masters and handling physical distribution to partnering on digital releases and sharing rights. CDs now languish in closets while listeners stream. The lesson for artists: own as much as you can, budget for the pieces that matter—room, engineer, producer—and choose partners who amplify your mission instead of replacing it.
Why make records at all when profits are thin? For Dawn and Wilhelmina, it’s legacy and service. Recording is a calling card that seeds repertoire for younger players, preserves language and stories, and keeps the art form growing outward. Their advice to emerging musicians is simple and demanding: love the work enough to labor for it; keep your heart present when competition and metrics intrude; define your path before others do; and when doors close, pivot without losing your center. Bring your gifts back to your community—sometimes the best career move is the one that grows roots. Sweetgrass suggests that when music holds both tenderness and strength, it can carry culture into the future with grace.

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The 3 c's of a lasting career: curiosity, Commissions & communication

"Auditions, Anxiety, and the Myth of flawless Playing"

"Low notes, high stakes, & no time to waste"

"Euniquely multi-talented"

"Lights, Camera, cello"

“Sacred Strings and Sweetgrass Things”

Joel Dallow

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