A quiet question… and what it taught me about music, connection, and receiving

By Frances Drost

I remember sitting in a conference in Nashville, listening to a live performance coach I deeply respected.

Meeting him had been a pivotal moment in my music journey.

He didn’t teach artists how to play better notes.

He taught them how to help an audience experience those notes.

That was the part I hadn’t fully understood yet—but I could feel it.

I was on the edge of my seat.

In my world, the responsibility ended when the song ended.

In his world, the song was just the beginning.

Tom is known for helping artists transform a live show into something memorable—something that actually moves an audience.

But what struck me most wasn’t who he had worked with.

It was how he listened.

He listens to a song and senses where the audience will want to respond—and then helps the artist make sure they can.

He works with artists to identify specific “moments” within a performance—not just the song as a whole, but the parts that have the potential to connect most deeply:

A lyric.
A musical phrase.
A pause.
A transition.
Even the space after the last note.

And then he helps shape those moments so they don’t pass by unnoticed.

In other words, he helps turn a performance into an experience.

Including… what happens after the last note.

Especially what happens after the last note.

When he opened the floor for questions, I raised my hand.

Looking back, I wish I could have explained my background first.

But in a room full of artists—and with only a few seconds to speak—I asked what I could:

“What do you do when the audience doesn’t clap?”

There was a pause.

I could feel the surprise coming from the stage.

“If you’re not getting applause, there’s something wrong.”

My shoulders dropped. My question didn’t quite land the way I had intended.

I see now that in that room, in Nashville, that question didn’t really make sense.

But in my world…

it made perfect sense.

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I had grown up in a musical culture where applause was… complicated.

In most settings, it was quietly discouraged.

If the music was offered to God, then applause—especially directed toward the performer—could feel misplaced.

And if applause did happen, the performer certainly wasn’t supposed to receive it.

Humility, as I understood it then, meant not taking anything in.

No acknowledgment.
No response.
No visible “thank you.”

So over time, I learned to move on quickly.

Finish the song.
Look down.
Start the next one.

Even if something meaningful had just happened in the room.

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At the same time, something else was happening.

I had been writing songs for years, but mostly kept them to myself.

In public, I sang the songs everyone knew.

The safe ones.

Until my husband gently—and persistently—encouraged me to start sharing my own.

That felt like stepping into deeper water.

But when I finally did, I noticed something.

People leaned in.

There was a different kind of connection.

Something personal was happening.

And even if they didn’t always clap… I could tell something had landed.

As the songs began to lead to more opportunities—and eventually full concerts—
I started to notice something.

The most awkward moment wasn’t the beginning.

It was the ending.

None of us quite knew what to do.

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So by the time I found myself in that Nashville room for boot camp, listening to this coach talk about “applause cycles,” I was already sensing that something about my understanding was incomplete. I was eager to fill in the missing pieces.

He talked about how audiences don’t go to concerts just to hear music.

They go to experience moments.

To be moved.
To be changed.

And he taught that even applause is part of that experience.

Don’t cut it off too quickly.
Don’t rush past it.
And don’t ignore it.

It’s a gift.

At the time, I didn’t fully know what to do with that—but I was ready to hear a different approach.

And this coach had already captured my attention the very first time I heard him.

When I first heard Tom Jackson in Nashville, Tennessee, I knew he had something unique to offer. From that debut moment, I set a personal goal: hire him, even if just for one day.

It took about 10 years, but it finally happened, thanks to my husband who once again, encouraged me to pursue my dreams.

After digesting Tom’s cassette tapes, DVDs and VHS tapes for years, I was eager to spend a couple of days working with him one on one.

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Two days with Tom barely scratched the surface. So I secretly dreamed of a day when maybe I could afford to hire him for weeks on end–like he did with mainstream artists. Maybe he could even come and work with all of us in the Portraits of White family?! But for now, I was grateful for any time spent with Tom getting such personalized coaching.

Later that year, to my surprise and incredible delight, Tom traveled all the way from Nashville to attend my 2015 Portraits of White concert. It was the second year of the show and we had moved the event to Parmer Hall, the beautiful performing arts center at Messiah University.

My goal had been to provide a professional production with a personal touch. One night where everything was perfect. Sound. Lights. Orchestra. Christmas Trees. Grand Piano.

And everything was going beautifully…

until it wasn’t.

In the middle of the opening song, in that prestigious performing arts center, we had a major audio glitch. The whole sound system died. The room suddenly went quiet… and black.

Slowly, one by one, the orchestra fell silent.

Standing out front as the lead, I had no idea what was happening—and neither did anyone else.

My heart dropped to the floor.

The orchestra came to a complete stop… and we waited… in the dark.

As the front person for the concert, I had a choice.

Fall apart…
or do something with the moment.

So I did what I could.

I made a light comment. “Thanks for coming to the show. Good night” 😉
The audience laughed.
I stayed present.

At the time, I wasn’t thinking about performance coaching.

I was just trying to keep the moment from unraveling.

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After the concert, my coach came up to me.

“Frances,” he said, “I give you a 10.”

I just looked at him. Still recovering from the shock of the glitches.

I had spent so much time and money on that show…
I was struggling with a quiet disappointment.

My perfect night…

“The way you handled that snafu,” he said, “that’s exactly what I’ve been talking about. You took that moment and made a connection with the audience. That’s what professionals do. When the glitch happened, it provided an ice breaker. From that point on, everyone was at ease.”

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I stood there wondering which snafu he meant—
the first… or the second.

My mind quickly replayed the moments… still trying to understand what had gone wrong.

Because of the glitch in the first half of the show, the second half was affected as well.

We had planned to use special audio effects in combination with a local high school drumline—making a surprise entrance from the back of the room. But when the breaker blew in the first half of the show (we learned later), it somehow glitched the equipment we needed for the second half of the show.

Now, as we waited for the tech team to fix the problem, the whole stage of performers were looking to me to lead us through the awkward silence. Again.

As seconds turned into minutes, I was squirming… and trying to act professional.

My dress was soaked with sweat.

I heard the orchestra behind me giggle.

I turned around to face them.

The conductor had caught his ear monitor cord on his music stand…
lost his balance…
and fell off his podium onto the stage.

A welcome comic relief.

I leaned in toward the conductor, trying to understand what was happening… and what our options might be.

I turned back to the audience and joked,
“We’re thinking of ordering cheeseburgers.”

It was starting to feel… almost fun.

Almost…

And then, something really special turned the tide.

Tom Hemby—our guest guitarist from Nashville—began playing the most beautiful rendition of Silent Night on his electric guitar, drawing on years of stage experience.

Wayne Fox on piano instinctively joined him. We started to sing along.

The room filled with the voices of everyone in the audience and on stage. The atmosphere settled.

Without planning it… we had created a moment.

By then, we had the full attention of the audience.

With the equipment finally reset, the drumline was directed to prepare to enter from the back, as originally planned. Since the drums were heavy and cumbersome to wear for long periods of time, their director had allowed them to take them off until the stage crew could troubleshoot. They’d wait for a signal to get ready.

The haunting opening piano line of the next song redirected all of our attention appropriately back into concert mode.

At the appointed time, the drumline entered from the back of the auditorium–a surprise for the audience. With every beat, in perfect step to the music, the drummers made their way up on to stage.

The anticipation grew.

As the music built in crescendo and movement, you could feel the intensity growing. When the orchestra, singers, drumline and lights all highlighted the last note of Bradley Knight’s “Little Drummer Boy”, the crowd rose to its feet.

And they just… kept clapping.

We had overcome the glitch and turned it into another ‘moment’.

I stood there taking it all in.

Now that was a true standing ovation.

I knew I had just witnessed a genuine exchange between artist and audience.

Gift given.

Gift received.

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A few years later, in 2019, when Kirstin Myers and I began working together as Double Keyed, I felt as if I had stepped into an entirely different musical culture.

I had been cultivating my career as a singer-songwriter within a faith-based community that, at times, was still a bit shy about applause.

I understood their conundrum.
I had compassion.

At the same time, I had begun to venture into the orchestral world—hiring an orchestra each year for Portraits of White. That’s how Kirstin and I met in the first place.

Now, I was accompanying a classical musician who lived in that world every day.

I began to notice that her world—rooted in classical performance—had a very different relationship with the audience.

In her world, applause didn’t seem awkward.

It seemed right. Appropriate.

Received.

Acknowledged.

From the piano bench, I began to watch closely.

After a piece, the audience would respond—sometimes with a gasp (moved by the warm oboe tones), but always followed by applause.

And Kirstin would bow.

Not dramatically.

Not performatively.

Just… naturally.

And then she would glance at me.

Your turn.

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And something began to change.

Not from a lecture.

But from watching.

From mirroring.

From slowly becoming comfortable with something that had once felt unfamiliar.

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And then, not long ago—sitting in the audience at a classical concert in York—I was on the other side.

I was part of the audience.

From the very first note—literally one note, played with such intention—I was drawn in.

I didn’t know the music.

But it didn’t matter.

The passion translated.
The artistry carried it.

And when the final piece ended, the audience rose to their feet.

One by one… then all at once.

Clapping.
Gratefully.
Strongly.

I turned to the woman next to me and said, “Wow.”

She looked back at me, eyes wide, and said, “Wow.”

We both knew that word wasn’t enough.

But it was all we had.

As the performers returned to the stage, they bowed.

Once.

Then again.

Receiving the applause.

Not taking something that didn’t belong to them…

but acknowledging something that had been given.

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Just recently—after returning from London—I had a moment that brought all of this into even sharper focus.

Double Keyed had been in London for one of the most significant days of our new project—our recording session capturing the London Symphony Orchestra at Abbey Road Studios.

Heading into Studio One to record the London Symphony Orchestra

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Throughout the day, we had small windows of time to talk with some of the players. One of them was David Cohen, the principal cello.

I had watched him work.

Focused.
Precise.
Completely immersed in the music.

At one point, when we spoke briefly, he told me a bit about his concert work.

I made a mental note right then—I wanted to go home and look up his performances.

So when I found a full concert video of him, I didn’t just click out of curiosity.

I clicked because I remembered that conversation.

The setting felt surprisingly personal.

I recognized him.

And some of the players around him—you’ll hear them on our upcoming album.

Because of that, I found myself watching differently.

Listening differently.

And noticing something I might have missed before.

Partway through the performance, there was a moment.

The piece ended… and the audience hesitated.

You could feel it.

That familiar uncertainty:
Do we clap?
Do we wait?
Is it over?

And I felt it with them.

Because I’ve been there.

But instead of ignoring it, David acknowledged it.

Almost playfully, he leaned into the moment—encouraging them, giving them permission to respond.

And they did.

I was watching the very lesson I had been learning play out in real time—through a world-class musician.

And it finally clicked.

At the end of the performance, there was a beautiful exchange.

The audience responded freely.

And David received it.

Not with ego.
But with presence.
With gratitude.

Even turning to acknowledge the other musicians around him.

And as I watched, I realized…

This is what I’ve been learning.

This is what Tom was trying to show me all those years ago.

It was subtle.
But unmistakable.

David wasn’t just performing the music.

He was guiding the experience.

And when the performers bowed, they weren’t taking something that didn’t belong to them.

They were acknowledging something that had been given—and received.

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And in that moment, I found myself thinking back to my own concert in 2015…when everything fell apart—
and somehow, something better emerged.

I could feel it.

The audience was with me.

Applause isn’t about ego. It’s about relationship.

“I’ve created something for you.”

“Thank you. I received it.”

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As a postlude to this post, I’ve included a short clip below of reflections from the drumline and director from the 2015 Portraits of White concert:

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If you’d like to see a masterful example of this kind of exchange in action, I highly recommend watching David Cohen’s performance with the London Symphony Orchestra.

I found myself leaning in… watching not just the music, but what was happening around it.

Watch around 14:00–14:45, where the audience isn’t quite sure what to do…

And then again at 32:16 to the end, where you’ll see a beautiful exchange between the artist, the audience, and the orchestra.

It’s exactly the kind of moment I’ve been trying to describe.

And truly… the entire performance is worth watching from beginning to end.

(You might even spot a few familiar faces—some of these players will be part of our upcoming album… including David himself).