I attended a coed boarding school for high school, and the choirmaster was also a phenomenally talented organist and pianist. He would routinely finish the last hymn during chapel, wait for the closing benediction, and then immediately begin a wild improvisation that started with a theme taken from the final hymn. During the month of December, the improvisation would almost invariably end up with a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer segue in the middle. During ‘Hell Week’ for the musicals, the segue in the middle would include snippets of the show’s songs. Just like watching the Simpsons opening credits closely for Bart’s chalkboard and the couch segment, some students would stick around after chapel to listen to his solo, even though it was intended purely as exit music. I loved it to death, and appreciated his talent even more when he stretched out the entracte in one of our musicals – Guys N’ Dolls? – to stall for a longer-than-expected set change. As a solo musician playing a piano or an organ, he was very good at judging how baroque he could get before the audience (teenagers with somewhere better to be) would stop paying attention.
Did he practice or prepare to “improvise”? I’m sure he did. During choir practices he would often fiddle around with little chunks of the hymns as though feeling for a transition, and sure enough, we’d hear it slip into the Sunday improv. Some weeks he’d do just enough improvisation to get him “on the path” so he could play one of his own compositions, particularly his Rudolph theme-and-variations. Many weeks you’d hear him open with the same measures (especially on the pedals – he loved a good baroque pedal intro) as the week before and then sail off in a different direction, like he was trying them out before writing them down. Sure enough, when he recorded the Christmas CD with the school choir, most of his organ pieces were recognizable as mature versions of his earlier improvisations. For him, as an organist and an artist, improvisation was definitely central to his entire approach to the instrument.
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I also listen to Phish and the Grateful Dead. They’re great bands with a lot of talent, but I tend to stick to their studio recordings because I can not stand “noodling”, especially when the whole band does it at once. You can’t have four (or more!) people “solo” simultaneously unless the solo is scored and practiced in advance. It just doesn’t work. The transitions between songs (e.g. “China Cat Sunflower -> I Know You Rider”) are interesting to listen to, but I’ve also heard studio versions where the transition is scripted, and I prefer it, because then none of the instruments is out of step, or off-key, or trying to play an innovative counterpoint in 5/4 against 4/4. I’m sure it’s marvelous to listen to if you’re high – the cacophony and chaos probably stimulates all sorts of groovy visions and stuff – but as entertaining music, the noodling that most Jam Bands do simply fails. This is also why I generally can’t abide “drum circles” at camps and other hippie-type gatherings.
Now, when I say Phish and the Grateful Dead “fail” to entertain me with their improv, it’s not for lack of talent. Jerry Garcia can improvise in a bluegrass band very nicely, and Page McConnell has several moments on a few live Phish tracks where he is given a true solo and he makes some beautiful music. Jerry succeeds in bluegrass (but fails in the Dead) because the form of bluegrass encourages individual improvisation by each musician in turn. Page succeeds solo where Phish fails because he can solo but still produce a full sound. John Bonham’s drum solo in Moby Dick succeeds for the same reason. Joe Morello’s improvised (?) drum solo in Take Five, ditto – I could go on for pages. Note especially the very very brief solo on the bass guitar during Paul Simon’s “Call Me Al”, where the band drops out and the bass player noodles like crazy for eight beats. The horns a-a-a-a-lmost step on his finishing note, but he’s been given eight beats to do his thing and he knows it. It always catches my ear, because it’s clear that everyone in the band knows exactly where his solo starts and stops (put differently: there’s no room for “everyone listen for him to finish and come in quick” when you’ve got a horn section). Good improvisation needs a spotlight, not a dogpile.
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For my part, I prefer to listen to composed music, even when I know the composition has its roots in an improvisation. A good musician can play it as though it’s just occurred to him, but can retain the control and precision that makes a studio recording so tight. It’s the same with poetry: I’d prefer the sixth rewrite of a good poet over the stream-of-consciousness scribblings of a master. It’s not a work of art until you’ve put work and art into it. The exception is a single artist who has practiced and practiced until his fingers bleed, playing either alone or in a group that understands where the freeform sections are.
