Does Music School Matter?

Students and parents ask me this question every damn day.

"Do I need to go to music school if I want to make a career out of music?"

Sometimes they're asking whether Berklee College of Music is worth the tuition. Sometimes it's Northwestern, a local university here in Chicago, or whether they should skip college altogether and invest in private lessons, music coaching, and real-world experience instead.

My answer usually surprises them.

No.

Well... not exactly.

Here's the uncomfortable truth: if all you want is information, music school is one of the most expensive ways imaginable to get it. Every harmony lesson, every counterpoint assignment, every jazz theory lecture, every orchestration textbook, every transcription project already exists. Bach isn't hiding his manuscripts, Keith Jarrett didn't lock his records in a vault, and if you're willing to spend enough late nights chasing recordings, books, masterclasses, and libraries, you can build an incredible musical education without ever stepping foot into a conservatory.

So what exactly are you paying for?

Not the information.

You're paying for the environment.

That distinction completely changed the way I thought about music education. When I was studying composition at Berklee College of Music in Boston, I wasn't there because somebody behind a podium possessed magical knowledge I couldn't find anywhere else. I was there because I could walk down one hallway and hear a jazz quartet rehearsing, pass another room where someone was producing a hip-hop record, then wander into a practice room where some terrifying guitarist was casually playing something I'd spend the next six months trying to understand. You can't manufacture that kind of environment very easily. It's inspiring, it's intimidating, and if you let it, it'll quietly raise your standards without you even realizing it's happening.

Ironically, that's the lesson I appreciate most now that I spend my time teaching guitar, music theory, improvisation, composition, and artist development. Whether I'm working with a high school student in Chicago preparing for their first audition or a professional musician trying to break through a creative plateau, my job isn't to hand them information they couldn't Google. It's to create an environment that challenges them, encourages them, and gives them enough accountability to actually use what they're learning.

The problem is that people confuse being surrounded by excellence with becoming excellent themselves. Those are two very different things.

I knew plenty of people at Berklee who absolutely loved talking about music. We'd sit around somebody's apartment until two in the morning arguing over Snarky Puppy records, obsessing over John Mayer's tone, debating Coltrane versus Parker, and convincing ourselves that because we lived and breathed music we were somehow destined to make it. The conversations were great. The passion was real.

Then tomorrow came.

Some of those same people wouldn't spend one more hour in the practice room. They wouldn't spend their last twenty dollars on a concert ticket that might completely reshape the way they heard music. They certainly weren't eager to walk into the room where they knew everyone was better than they were.

That's where careers get built.

Not because somebody was accepted into a prestigious school. Not because they memorized more scales than everyone else. Careers get built because somebody keeps choosing discomfort over comfort, growth over ego, and curiosity over excuses.

That's honestly the biggest lesson music has ever taught me.

You're going to bomb auditions. You're going to trainwreck songs you've played a hundred times. You're going to freeze during a solo you absolutely nailed at home the night before. You're going to feel like you don't belong.

Good.

Those are usually the moments where something actually changes.

For a long time I thought my career had already been mapped out. I was a composition student at Berklee, and I assumed that was the road I'd stay on. Then life happened. I started touring, performing across genres, and eventually transferred to Northwestern University because I became fascinated with the science behind creativity, learning, and performance. I wanted to understand not only how musicians improve, but why they improve. I wanted to connect the art I loved with research that might help more people experience it.

Walking away from the path I thought I was supposed to follow wasn't easy, but looking back, it made me a far better musician and an even better teacher.

More importantly, it taught me something I wish every young musician understood.

Nobody is coming to save your career.

You are your boss. You're your employee. You're your accountant, your marketing department, your publicist, your HR manager, and every once in a while, you're the idiot who forgot to send the invoice. Teachers can guide you. Schools can open doors. Great mentors can save you years of frustration. But nobody can practice for you, nobody can take risks for you, and nobody can care more about your future than you do.

That's become the philosophy behind Care Again Music.

Whether someone comes to me for guitar lessons, improvisation, composition, music theory, or broader music coaching, I'm not interested in handing out another list of scales and calling it education. I'm trying to help people think like musicians. To become curious enough to ask better questions, disciplined enough to keep showing up, and confident enough to walk into rooms where they're not the best player.

Because that's where the growth happens.

So, does music school really matter?

I think it can.

If you thrive around ambitious people, want constant collaboration, and can realistically afford the investment, it might be one of the best decisions you'll ever make.

If you're disciplined enough to create your own structure, seek out great mentors, perform regularly, and keep yourself accountable, you can build an extraordinary education without ever earning a music degree.

Neither path guarantees anything.

The common denominator isn't Berklee, Northwestern, Juilliard, or private lessons in Chicago.

It's showing up tomorrow.

Music school doesn't create great musicians.

It creates opportunities.

What you do with those opportunities is what determines whether the education actually mattered.