Is Music Telepathy Real? | Last Call with John Bohlinger

Players like Marcus King, Masayoshi Takanaka, and Tom Bukovac seem to live in that effortless zone, channeling endless streams of soulful licks. Alone in a room, you might tap into that, too—those late-night jams where riffs cascade and ideas feel infinite. No stakes, no judgment. Only creation. But in the studio, that red light is a judge with a gavel. Every note feels etched in stone, ready for eternal scrutiny. The ticking clock, the producer’s glance, the knowledge that a single take could live forever—it’s enough to stall the flow.

I’ll never forget filming a Rig Rundown with Thom Bresh in 2020. Thom was an absolute legend with talent that drove an incredible seven-decade career. Before we started, I said, “Hey Thom, want to play something going into the interview?” He paused, grinned, and replied, “Been playing my entire life, but the minute somebody asks me to play, I got nothing. My mind goes blank.” If a giant like Bresh could feel that pressure, what hope is there for the rest of us mere mortals? It’s proof that the red light doesn’t discriminate.

“It’s not about nailing every note; it’s about capturing something true.”

Live music, though, is a different beast. There’s freedom in the fleeting moment. The crowd’s energy, the vibe with bandmates, the knowledge that a flubbed note vanishes by the next song—it all invites risk. I’ve seen players, myself included, get bold onstage in ways we’d never try in the studio. You’ll stretch a phrase, chase a wild harmony, or lean into a bend that might not land, because it’s yours and it’s gone in minutes. It’s a tightrope walk with a net, letting you attempt crazier tricks.