The artist I was working with had everything needed to produce a great recording: talent up the wazoo, a unique musical perspective, an incredible amount of polish for a person in his early 20s.

But when I pushed the “record” button and he played, I could tell he was nervous. Nothing terrible, mind you. Great chords, nice phrasing, all that. But I could just hear the tension in his performance.

So after that pass, I said, “Think of this while you’re playing: Enjoy.

“No matter what, enjoy it. This moment is why you decided to do this instead of being a lawyer or getting an MBA or becoming a tribal chieftan. So enjoy it. Insist on having a damn good time as you play through the changes, ’cause you’re doing something that millions would love to do and just can’t. You’re doing something that makes you different and reflects who you are. You will do few if any things in your life that will give you greater pleasure than recording your own music. So enjoy.”

He smiled and said, “You give good advice.” And then he played the hell out of the next take.

You can hear joy — or tension — in a performance. Hard to put your finger on why. But just as we see emotion in a face, we hear it in the notes. Enjoying the performance you give is part of communicating straight into a person’s soul. Which is what the art is all about, right?

Great players like to play, and they like to win. They run the ball as hard as a Green Bay Packer. They crave the applause that comes with victory. The audience might change, but the goal remains. A great player knows she’s a badass and wants to hear from those who matter that they also know she’s a badass.

Play on a team? You bet, as long as the teammates advance the ball. But great players will not suffer fools who stumble, fumble and lag behind.

You want to play in the pros? You see yourself in the big leagues?

Then I have one word of advice. One word. Do this, and you’ll be ready. Don’t, and you’ll be a poser.

The word? Practice.

Yes, I said practice. Practice daily. Practice when you want to do something else. Practice when others invite you to do something else. Practice when you don’t want to. Practice until you can’t stand it, and then practice some more. Practice until your neighbors scream and your fingers bleed.

Or be content holding your instrument while posing before the mirror. And forget about the big leagues.

When I was a teen, I spent hours every day picking up the needle and putting it down on the vinyl at an earlier spot to learn every lick Chris Squire recorded. Then I pushed rewind, play, rewind, play, rewind, play to burn Stanley Clarke into my brain and fingers.

And I was a lightweight. Even lazy. In a 1954 radio interview, Charlie Parker said that he learned the horn by practicing 11-15 hours a day for a period of 3-4 years. That effort so trained his brain and fingers in the mechanics of the horn and harmony that he could, once on stage, “forget all that and just wail,” as he put it. Indeed. (Parker starts playing at 1:13 in the video.)

People today want what they want fast and short. 3 steps to greatness! 5 keys to ultimate victory! 7 must-knows to get everything you want with minimal effort! (I borrowed from the impulse when titling this blog post.)

Ignore that silliness. There are no shortcuts to get you to that place where you stand on a stage, someone counts off, you start to wail, and everybody in the room does a double-take.

You want that experience? You want to play in the big leagues? Practice. End of story.

Rings true to me. And you?

Since performer is what I am, great performances turn me on. I love discovering them, sharing them and discussing them. (And emulating them.)

What makes a great performance great? What can we learn from the masters?

This is the first of a series where I seek answers to those questions. On deck: Big Mama Thornton performing Lieber and Stohler’s “Hound Dog.”

First, that voice. It’s huge. Thick, smooth, ballsy, effortless. Whether she’s riffing in the wings before the groove begins, setting up the story with “I just wanna let everybody know all about it” or wailing “I ain’t gonna feed you no more,” Big Mama’s voice opens up and let’s go. It never strains, never shrinks. That voice tells us how it is with authority. The voice proclaims; we hear and believe.

Second, her attitude. Notice how relaxed she is. She saunters in already a’singin’, all gussied up in skirt, pumps and matching plaid shirt and hat, gently placing her carpet bag on a crate in mid-phrase before squaring her shoulders in front of the mic, sucking in an enormous breath and bellowing the opening scold, “You ain’t nuthin’ but a hound dog …”

This is not a woman who stressed over the gig in the green room.

She’s so relaxed she does a little personal hygiene on camera. Check her out at around 50 seconds. During the second “You told me you were high class” phrase, she lifts a hand to her left eye and wipes something away. Without missing a beat or a phrase. Amazing.

Third, the groove. The band plays a very nasty blues rhumba, characterized by the frequent double-hit 2 & on the snare or ride tom. These cats slide all greasy (pronounced with a “z”) through the tune, in no hurry for it to end, which it does with no fanfare — just a simple hit on the 1, in time and key. Song over. Next.

Ironically, Big Mama’s studio recording of “Hound Dog” is a blues shuffle, not a rhumba. Here it is on YouTube. I like both versions, but I prefer the rhumba. The groove and her phrasing were the inspiration for “Ring Around Your Finger,” a song on my latest album. Listen for free via the Broadjam player.

What’s the takeaway? Big Mama’s a great singer, and she’s playing with a great band. But perhaps the most striking element of this great performance is the level of relax. Big Mama’s vocal approach and physical movements tell us clearly that she’s in control, she’s in command, and she ain’t worried about it one bit. Likewise the players and their slithery groove.

Next time I stand in front of an audience and feel tight, I’m going to wipe something from my eye when I’m singing. Maybe that’ll help me chill and take command.

How come? My age wasn’t the problem; this year’s Grammys featured no shortage of greats from the past. Nor was the issue my musical taste, which has seasoned and broadened with time. No, my Grammy terror stemmed from something more complicated: my history and its meaning to me.

I had a taste of the success fully digested by Dave Grohl and Bruce Springsteen and recently savored by Adele and Bon Iver. But I blew it. I got screwed out of the money I should have made from selling about half-a-million albums with ’80s pop band The Producers. And I quit. Too early.

So watching the Grammys is, for me, an exercise in self-loathing. Whether well- or poorly performed, every note sung by every artist doing well enough to warrant a Grammy appearance beams from my television directly to my brain and screams “LOSERRRRRR!” My heart pounds, my throat tightens, my mouth droops, my eyes glaze. My command of English fails utterly, replaced by grunts, groans and whimpers.

Now, by most reasonable measures, I’m not a loser. I’m a senior editor at UW-Madison. I have an advanced degree in my discipline. I’m good at what I do, and I enjoy it. I just recorded an independent album of 12 original songs, and I’m singing better than ever. I’m not wealthy, but I do OK, which is more than many can say in these troubled times.

But my experience with the Grammys isn’t rooted in reasonable measures. It’s the cry of an artist’s heart who knows it’s over and I’ll never matter and I sing better than any of these clowns and no matter what I do nobody cares and it isn’t fair and what happened and how did I let it happen and why did God let it happen and why am I cursed and what did I do to deserve this and it’s my own goddamn fault and I blew it and yes I am a fucking loser …

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long to return to earth and get over it. I share the emotionality not to earn your pity but to borrow your ear. I’m a cautionary tale for aspiring artists and future celebrities. So let me focus your mind on three lessons you can learn from my experience.

1. If you’re not great, dial down the dreams and enjoy the experience.

I realize that the meaning of great is person-relative. But assess with rigorous, punishing realism whether you have something unique and uniquely entertaining as a performer, player, songwriter, storyteller.

If the answer is no, do your very best to turn down your dream dial – the one regulating your expectations and hopes. Continue to write, to book gigs, to record, to enjoy. But do your best to focus on the experiences and enjoy them.

2. Learn enough about the business that you’re able to smell bullshit.

Bullshit abounds in every business, but the music business seems especially well fertilized. Your only defense is knowledge.

Had I known 30 years ago a simple distinction between mechanical and publishing royalties – the former are recoupable; the latter are paid immediately – I would have pocketed around $250,000 that I neither received nor knew enough to demand.

Gird up your loins with knowledge of the details, or prepare to be reamed.

3. If you’ve got it, stick with it.

If you’re convinced that the answer to #1 is yes, and if you’re making progress, stick with the plan. Steady as she goes. Groove. Cruise. Don’t quit. Don’t make big, unnecessary, impulsive changes.

If you’re in a band that’s receiving and exploiting opportunities and you decide that your killer drummer’s hygiene habits annoy you, spray some air freshener in the room and keep going. If you’re an Americana solo artist and getting some attention, don’t switch to electronica because you feel bored and heard a song you really liked. Keep at what’s working.

Trying to make it in the biz? You must be great, and you’re going to need a lot of luck. Luck is out of your control; she must discover you. But educating yourself and remaining steadfast will help you recognize and embrace her when she enters the room.