It was pointed out to me by my brother that playing the guitar is a lot like playing a video game: There are certain things you need to do with your fingers at certain times, and you need to memorize the moves (either specifically or generally) before you try it so it works out better. He’s right. Having played electronic games for over two and a half decades, and finally poking about working on the ukulele, it’s entirely true.

I was a little surprised at how vehemently and viscerally I reacted. I’m sure my fellow Starbucks patrons were wondering why I suddenly burst out with an emphatic, “No it’s not!”

I’ve had (pretty much) the opposite experience from Nat’s. I’ve spent the past two and a half decades playing cello, and have never really gotten into video games. For a brief period of my youth, I was dedicated to Munch Man, but since then, it’s been less video game and more computer-mediated game play (solitaire, scrabble, boggle, etc.). Occasionally I’ve had the chance to play Guitar Hero or Rock Band when visiting friends. And I always come away from the experience frustrated because it doesn’t feel like playing a real instrument.

In one sense, I think Nat’s right: with video games, “your fingers have to be in the right place at the right time, just like fingering for chords on a guitar or other stringed instrument.” But with Guitar Hero, hitting the right button at the right time is the end of the story. If you do it right enough times, you win the game. On a real guitar (or other musical instrument), learning to put your fingers in the right place at the right time means that you are finally ready to begin making music. Playing the correct notes is more of a prerequisite than the goal.

This video of Max Roach is a perfect example that making music isn’t about how many buttons you have:

Like Nat, I’d be happy if playing Guitar Hero encourages more people to get into making music. But I think that it’s just as likely that kids who might have asked for a real guitar for their birthday will now be begging their parents for a cheap five-button fake, and that makes me a little sad.

So why this change of heart? Or, why blog about it? It’s simple: we saw Brad Mehldau last night.

Before I tell you about the concert, though, I want to explain why I hated T&V. I think Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations has a lot to do with it. I think it’s a stupid stupid piece of music. Can’t stand it. Like many (thought not all) T&Vs, it starts out with a cornball theme, and then spends the next umpteen minutes piling on the drivel. The embellishments twitter and twirl around the theme, changing the rhythms, or the key, or the harmonies, or the timbres. But in the Rococo (and other bad examples of the form), these embellishments are about as interesting as dotting your i‘s with a heart. It’s cute and all, but it ain’t art.

But then I discovered that those embellishments don’t have to be insipid.

In 1997, I wrote my master’s thesis on what I still think is one of the best examples of T&V: Frederic Rzewski’s The People United Will Never Be Defeated. 36 variations on the Chilean song ¡El pueblo unido jamás será vencido! Six sets of six variations. Each 6th variation is a compilation of the previous five, and the last six variations summarize the entire hour-long piece. But unlike the Rococo, the theme is powerful, and the variations have life. They play, poke, deform, explore the theme, expanding our idea of what it could be. Rzewski gives us humor and sadness and childlike simplicity and quantum complexity. You feel like you’re in the middle of a cat and mouse game, chasing a theme that at times is in plain view, and is sometimes so fleeting and hidden you aren’t sure if you’re hearing it or not.

Last night I was reminded again why T&V is a good thing. Brad Mehldau played at the Athenaeum Jazz at the Neurosciences Institute series. And he played a solo jazz piano concert, which isn’t very common. Mehldau is known for his improvisation, and the T&V is really the backbone of the improviser’s craft. And not having others on stage with him gave him free reign to do what he wanted. When you hear a jazz ensemble (large or small), you’ll hear lots of improvisation. But in order to make it possible to play with the rest of the group, the improv is usually restricted to designated places in the music, and still has to conform to a relatively rigid structure (e.g. twelve-bar blues). When Mehldau improvises on his own, there’s still structure to the music, but he’s got a lot more freedom to suddenly do something different if he wants.

The concert was a little over 90 minutes, without an intermission. I recognized many of the themes and some pieces from his albums, but even the most familiar tunes were given a novel treatment. His version of My Favorite Things was probably my–and definitely the audience’s–favorite thing. And I’ve still got one tune stuck in my head that I recognize but can’t place.

I wonder how improvisation really works. Musical improvisation (especially jazz) is an often- (and probably over-) used metaphor in organizational studies. I think that in that comparison, there is a tendency to forget that the improvisation occurs in the context of incredibly practiced and precise routine. Even though the music that Mehldau plays may never have happened in exactly that way before, I’m sure he’s been practicing these particular pieces for months if not years, and he’s been building up routines on the piano for most of his life. Some new note or phrase or idea finds its way into the music, and that new bit produces a whole series of reactions. But the reactions are comprehensible because they are guided by routine and structure.

I don’t do musical improvisation, so this is an outsider’s perspective. I wonder how Mehldau or other jazz musicians would respond. How do they understand what they are doing? Do they feel in control of the process as it is happening? How do they avoid improvisational ruts? What do they see as the source of the music? Is improv a series of random happy accidents? How much is planned?

Matt Wilson is a great drummer. He’s got these amazing expressions on stage – if it weren’t for the shock of gray up front, you’d think he was 17. He likes to experiment with the sound – banging on every part of the drum kit, blowing whistles and harmonicas, dropping things on the stage, and using his hands to play everything. The down side of all the experimentation is that it occasionally comes off gimmicky. But when it works, there are some great moments. Amazing variations in tone from what seem like simple instruments. He used what looked like a normal egg shaker, but he was opening and closing his hand in a way that was making a huge range of sounds. And some of the stuff he was doing with the brushes and the crash cymbals was magic.

One of the other highlights was a real live Hammond B-3 organ. I’ve heard them in all kinds of recordings, and everyone knows the sound even if they don’t know what it comes from. My first thought on seeing it was that this is a group on tour, and this thing looks like a real bear to lug around. Organ console with pedals, plus the big speaker case. And with the ancient technology inside, it’s probably really susceptible to gremlins when it’s moved.

The sounds that this thing can make. Growls, barks, moans, wails. There’s that basic gospel organ sound – you expect a robed choir to come swaying down the aisle. But the organ can be so much more. I’d kind of had the impression that playing various electronic keyboard instruments could have lots of keyboard technique, but the sounds were kind of pre-packaged. But with this thing, each little nudge and tweak of the sliders and switches gives a new sound. It kind of felt like a painter mixing the colors in real time instead of just taking what came out of the tubes. I was a little disappointed that Gary Versace didn’t do more with the pedals – it was all fingers for him, but a great sound.

Dan and I both had the same reaction to the concert: jazz (at least of this ilk) has become a parallel universe to classical music. The musicians are just as skilled, and the music is just as thoughtful. It’s working with very different harmonic and structural forms, of course. But like the most interesting classical music, the forms aren’t taken for granted. They push and play and twist and experiment. And they think in long arcs. It’s art music in the best sense.