Mark Stewart played several instruments in Paul Simon’s band, and he spent his idle hours watching us. He sat in the empty house during soundchecks, leaned against the back wall, and watched from the side of the stage at night. You always know when a real musician is paying attention.
After one soundcheck he told me, plainly, that I was a good guitar player. I could live a week on a sentence like that from a man like him.
Then he gave me a note. Every time I took a solo, I turned inward toward the band. I played to the four men I trusted, as though we were gathered around the same fire. It felt humble. It felt musical.
He told me to do the opposite.
Turn toward the audience, he said. Make yourself bigger. When you take the solo, give it to the room.
It was unnatural at first. I worked at it until it became second nature. The instruction changed something visible in me, but it also changed something underneath. A private player had begun learning how to become a public one.