Photo: Don Adkins
Recently, as I’ve been working through a tricky bass line, I’ve come to appreciate a principle that feels almost paradoxical: sometimes, the fastest way to get somewhere is to go slowly. It’s a lesson I first encountered while reading Jonathan Harnum’s The Practice of Practice, and it’s reshaped the way I think about progress—not just in music, but in almost anything I care about mastering.
We live in a world obsessed with speed. The faster we learn, the sooner we can show off, move on, get ahead. But when I pick up my bass and try to muscle my way through a new song at full tempo, the results are almost always the same: sloppy notes, frustration, and a creeping sense that I’m not really learning anything at all. There’s a kind of irony here. By trying to rush, I end up moving slower.
Harnum puts it simply: “Slowing down allows you to really listen, to absorb the details, and to build habits that last.” When I take the time to play each note deliberately, to pay attention to the way my fingers move and the sound each string makes, something shifts. I notice mistakes before they become ingrained. I can focus on the subtleties—the way one note rings into the next, or how a slight change in pressure can alter the tone. The process feels painstaking, almost tedious at first. But slowly, the music becomes part of me.
There’s science behind this. Harnum points out that “practicing slowly helps your brain create accurate neural connections,” which means you’re building a foundation that will hold up under pressure. It’s the difference between memorizing a shortcut and really understanding the map. When I finally do ramp up to full speed, everything feels easier, smoother, more natural.
Here are a few tips I’ve picked up from Harnum’s book and my own experience:
Break it down: Don’t try to tackle the whole song at once. Work on tricky passages note by note, measure by measure.
Use a metronome: Start at a tempo where you can play perfectly. Only increase the speed when you can play it cleanly several times in a row.
Record yourself: Listening back reveals things you might not notice in the moment—timing issues, uneven dynamics, or sloppy transitions.
Stay patient: Progress can feel slow, but trust the process. As Harnum writes, “Practice is not about playing what you already know; it’s about stretching your limits.”
Slowing down isn’t just about music. It’s a mindset. Whether I’m writing, learning a new skill, or even having a tough conversation, the discipline to pause, listen, and move with intention almost always pays off.
Speed comes from mastery, not from rushing. And mastery comes from a willingness to slow down, to pay attention, and to let learning take root—one note at a time.
Let me break down a few of these principles, because each one has made a difference in my own practice sessions—and, I’d argue, they can make a difference for anyone trying to learn anything new.
Break it down:
At first, I used to approach new bass lines with the same energy I’d use to walk across hot pavement: as fast as possible. But it rarely worked. The song would overwhelm me, and my mistakes would multiply. Harnum suggests a different approach—taking on one tricky passage at a time, sometimes even working measure by measure or note by note. When I started isolating the hardest sections, looping just a few seconds until they felt comfortable, I noticed real improvement. It’s like solving a puzzle one piece at a time instead of dumping out the whole box and hoping it comes together. This method isn’t just about making things easier; it’s about building confidence and accuracy that will carry over when you finally put the entire song together. Each small victory adds up. By the time you string the parts together, you’re not just playing the song—you’re owning it.
Use a metronome:
I’ll admit, practicing with a metronome used to feel a little like having a nagging voice in my ear. But there’s a magic to it. Harnum emphasizes starting at a tempo that feels almost embarrassingly slow—slow enough that you can play each note perfectly, without tension or panic. Only once you’ve nailed the passage several times in a row do you nudge the tempo up. This isn’t just about developing a good sense of timing (though that’s huge, especially for bass players); it’s about ingraining the right movements so they become automatic. Each notch up the tempo is a reward, proof that the slow work is paying off. And when you finally reach full speed, you realize you’re not fighting the music; you’re flowing with it.
Record yourself:
This one took me by surprise. I thought I was hearing everything in real time—and then I listened back to a recording of my practice. Suddenly, flaws jumped out at me: rushed notes, uneven volume, awkward transitions I hadn’t noticed before. Harnum points out that our brains are excellent at filtering out mistakes in the moment, but a recording doesn’t lie. It’s an honest mirror. Making a habit of recording and listening—without judgment, just curiosity—turned out to be one of the fastest ways to spot what needed work. Sometimes, I’d even discover moments of unexpected beauty, little touches I hadn’t realized I was capable of. It’s feedback you can’t get any other way.
Stay patient:
This, maybe above all, is the principle I have to remind myself of every day. The urge to rush is strong, especially when progress feels slow. But Harnum is clear: “Practice is not about playing what you already know; it’s about stretching your limits.” Real growth happens at the edge of your ability, in that uncomfortable zone where mistakes are common and progress is hard to measure. Some days, it feels like I’m moving backward. But if I stick with it—if I trust that each small, careful repetition is adding up, even if I can’t see it yet—I always end up further along than I expected. The patience to slow down, to embrace the process, is what makes the difference between surface-level competence and true mastery.
So whether I’m wrestling with a tough bass line, learning a new skill, or just navigating life’s challenges, I’m learning to welcome the slow, steady approach. It’s not always glamorous—and it definitely isn’t fast—but it’s honest work that sticks. Mastery, I’ve realized, isn’t a sprint to the finish. It’s a series of small, intentional steps, taken with care and patience. In a world that rewards speed, choosing to slow down feels almost radical. But every time I do, the results speak for themselves: deeper learning, greater confidence, and music (and progress) that actually lasts.