|The Tao of Improv - Page 2|
Improv is like its cousin jazz, in that what drives the musician isn't some impulsive, random banging of notes, but a careful, yet spontaneous, construction, built around chord progressions and melodic lines. It's like therapy: both goal-directed and unrehearsed—a different conversation from the one you might have with the neighbor you meet at Walmart.
Once Joe and I put the imaginary block down, we both stand with hands on knees, puffing like racehorses.
"Hey," says Joe, carefully walking around the "block" toward me. "I took a glance at the new invoices this morning. Doesn't look good. There's a bunch of bold print in a lot of them. You better let me take care of them."
"Whoa, thanks man," I say, patting him on the back. "The companies never used to do that so much. But now . . . . I was going through those receipts last Thursday—it just sneaked up on me. Right in the middle of the page, in something like 48-point font. Freaked me out! I had to put it down as soon as I saw it, and it took me forever to settle down." I shake my head as though trying to dislodge the memory.
"I know, I know," says Joe, hugging my shoulders. "Don't worry about it."