The next 10 minutes changed my life. He showed me the basic “theoretical”
structure of the blues. Then he paraded a few blues piano “licks” (a short combination
of notes, a musical phrase) that involved sliding off one note to another and
making discordant sounds by concurrently playing notes that were only one-half
step apart. In a matter of moments the hidden structures of the blues and rock were
revealed to me like the Apostle Paul on Highway 61. I mustered all my powers of
concentration to remember every spoken word and every played note of the
hallowed insights—the subjugated musical knowledge—granted to me. The lesson
ended when the piano player’s “woman” came into the practice room. “Well, well,”
she said looking at me with her dark brown eyes, “who do we have here?” The
pianist diverted her attention away from me, pulling her to him and kissing her
passionately. There was another lesson to be learned here, I remember thinking, but
it was best taught sans my alien presence. I ran all the way home, going over in my
mind everything I had learned. I rushed through the