The Evolving Landscape of Musical Virtuosity

What does it mean to be a musical virtuoso? The definition shifts with the sands of time, evolving alongside musical styles and cultural values. I often picture technically flawless guitarists like Tim Hensan, Marcin or Yngwie Malmsteen, whose fingers dance across the fretboard with breathtaking precision. Their compositions are intricate tapestries woven from a myriad of techniques, many of which they pioneered. You can hear the dedication, the thousands of hours poured into honing their craft. Every note is deliberate, every phrase polished and perfect.

But then we think of guitarists like Jimi Hendrix. While undeniably impactful, his music wasn't necessarily built on complex chord progressions or lightning-fast scales. Hendrix’s virtuosity lay in his raw emotion, his innovative use of the whammy bar to control the pitch of feedback, micro-tonal bends, and the sheer *feel* that permeated every note. He wasn't perfect, and that was part of his magic. You don't hear the rigid discipline of countless hours drilling scales in his music. His practice, I suspect, was less about technical perfection and more about exploring the sonic possibilities of his instrument and how it made him feel.

This contrast highlights a fascinating shift in our understanding of virtuosity. Both the oldest and newest masters were often judged by their technical prowess and their ability to execute complex passages flawlessly. To me, there was a sweet spot during Jimmy Hendrix and Dave Gilmour's era of virtuosos; while certainly possessing technical skills, they were celebrated for their unique voice and their ability to push boundaries and create something new but imperfect.

This brings me to my own experience with music, viewed through the lens of being autistic and having ADHD. When medicated for ADHD, my mind is clearer, information flows more smoothly, and focus is more readily available. I can read, process, and recall information with greater ease. My guitar playing becomes more precise; I make fewer mistakes. Medication certainly doesn't turn me into a virtuoso (far, far from it!!), but it smooths out the rough edges, allowing me to execute techniques more cleanly.

However, something must be said for those "mistakes," those unexpected notes that arise when I'm playing unmedicated. They're like detours on a map, leading to uncharted musical territories. A "wrong" note always opens up a new vista of possibilities, a beautiful accident that reshapes the creative landscape.

I experience music very visually. When I hear a piece, I see the playing in my mind's eye. When I improvise, it's like building a landscape in my head. And this landscape, I've realised, is much like a forest. No natural forest has perfectly uniform trees growing in perfectly straight lines. The most beautiful forests are the ones filled with character – crooked trees, trees with missing limbs, trees that have weathered storms. They're not perfect, but they're beautiful in their imperfection.

Perhaps that's the key. We weren't created to be perfect. Maybe, just maybe, true beauty and creativity reside in those imperfections, those unexpected turns and "mistakes." There is such beauty in imperfection.

Written by John Hugill

February 2025