Steve Vai, Guthrie Govan, David Maxim Micic — when the electric guitar becomes a contemporary art form

There's that one moment in every guitarist's life. The moment when you realize that the electric guitar wasn't actually meant to do what you're hearing.

Normally, the general public associates the electric guitar with sweaty rockers, ripped jeans, loud tube amps, and—let's be honest—a certain rustic, craftsman-like romanticism. Three chords, full throttle, call it a night. For a long time, it was the sledgehammer of musical instruments. Of course, there have always been brilliant eccentrics. Jimi Hendrix set his instrument on fire on stage, Eddie Van Halen transformed the fretboard into a frenetic tap dance. And rock 'n' roll cultivated egos whose sheer size is otherwise only Lars Ulrich —and he, as is well known, doesn't even play guitar.

But then there are those guys who suddenly transform that sledgehammer into a fine brush. Artists for whom the guitar becomes a contemporary art form, noisy wooden board. And their own musical worldview? It gets turned completely upside down.

Steve Vai – or: What our bassist taught me

Let's start with the man who gave the starting signal for this completely absurd stage of evolution: Steve Vai.

My first encounter with Vai was purely technical – and completely missed the mark. As a teenager, I had a very clear worldview: Floyd Rose tremolo automatically meant awesome. It was a law of nature to me. Vai had a Floyd Rose. Therefore, Vai was awesome. The subtleties of his technique, the microtonality, the way the instrument spoke – all of that existed in a dimension that I, as a 16-year-old, couldn't even perceive.

I heard: noise with tremolo. I thought: artwork

What truly brought me to this realization wasn't a musical epiphany. It was Hubert.

Back then, I played in a teen band called Exit Only. To put it kindly, we were a collection of wannabe musicians with very clear role models. Johannes, our second guitarist, was obviously a Nirvana and Pearl Jam fan—not just musically, but in every way. Long hair, flannel shirt, that specific vacant stare. The guy lived and breathed Kurt Cobain without ever saying a word. Edgar was on drums and was the most ardent Lars Ulrich fan in Greifswald history. He even had a Danish flag hanging from his kit. The problem was, Lars was still better than him—though he didn't look nearly as good. You have to give Edgar that.

And then there was Hubert. Hubert on bass was what you'd call a stereotypical band chaos queen – only good. Reliable as clockwork, cables would go missing from the rehearsal room after every session, only to miraculously reappear in his gig bag at some point. The crucial thing was: he did it with such a mischievous nonchalance that you couldn't help but like him. He was the heart and soul of this band – and I miss him terribly. (If the guys ever read this article: get in touch!)

But he was also the most honest of all of us. And honesty is the most dangerous thing that can happen to a teenage guitarist.

After a few rehearsals, we sat together, and Hubert said with the casualness of a man who is talking about the weather: "Man... we don't sound like ourselves."

Me: "We sound awesome."

Hubert, without a second's hesitation: "Tilman, you of all people have to say something. When you play, all you hear is: Vai – Vai – Vai – Vai – Vai – next note – Vai."

For a die-hard Vai fanboy of 16, that was a declaration of war. My proud teenage soul—already teetering on the edge between "I'm the greatest talent in town" and "I'm utterly mediocre" —was hit like a badly tuned C major chord. Those were great times.

Today I know: Hubert was absolutely right. Role models serve as a guide. You shouldn't copy them. But you only understand that when your own bassist tells you so to your face, unprompted. The wannabe Vai from Exit Only eventually became the guy who now guitar lessons in Düsseldorf . Hubert would probably be proud. Or he would have brought an extra cable.

Anyone who wants to understand how Vai really operates should take a look at his official practice schedule, which he once published. Ten hours. Per day. With dedicated blocks for various techniques – and a separate time slot for "emotional expression." Not as a side note. As a regular part of the program. I then took a very honest look at my own daily practice routine and compared it to his – once, briefly, and never again. For my ego.

In 1986, Vai also played the villainous guitarist in the film Crossroads . The catch: His character loses the guitar duel at the end. Steve Vai loses a guitar duel. In a movie. Against a teenager. Imagine the conversation on set. "Steve, your character is losing." – Silence. – "Guitar?" – "Yes." – "Me?" – "Okay." He played it anyway. And that pretty much says it all about Steve Vai: He loves to laugh at himself and just goes with the flow. For someone with that ability, it's remarkable – and perhaps explains why his music never sounds cold, no matter how complex it becomes.     

And then, of course, there's the whole bee thing. The guy on stage, his mane flowing, taming his tremolo like an intergalactic warrior, is a passionate beekeeper in real life. No joke. He calls his bees "flying diamonds" and bottles honey for friends. After a three-hour guitar workout, he puts on his protective suit and watches the bees produce liquid gold. There are few phrases in this world I love as much as: Steve Vai, Bee Whisperer.

Guthrie Govan — the Jesus of guitarists

Speaking of spiritual comparisons: Guthrie Govan simply looks like Jesus. He doesn't walk on water, but he floats weightlessly over a 24-fret fingerboard – and the effect is similarly supernatural.

What sets Govan apart from almost everyone else is the sheer speed with which he processes and implements music theory. He doesn't think in scales—he thinks in systems, and faster than most others can even formulate the question. A walking conservatory that can also play. Hans Zimmer—the man who scored Inception , Interstellar , and The Dark Knight —brought him in for his own live concerts. If someone who professionally achieves the impossible sonically needs someone for their shows who can take it to the next level: it's Govan. That says it all.    

My first personal encounter with him, however, was thanks to an acquaintance named Tom. Tom was—to put it kindly—a complete idiot. He belonged to that very particular breed of music snob who deliberately mention the most obscure things, just to revel in the way the other person nods out of sheer politeness. One day, Tom casually remarked: "Hey, this Govan guy—the way he plays legato, huh? Practically no overdrive or distortion at all, so incredibly clean."

I immediately put on my expert gaze and nodded confidently: "Ah yes, Govan. Amazing guy."

Spoiler alert: I hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about.

When I secretly googled Govan, I saw this Jesus lookalike who, on stage, appears completely relaxed, waiting for the bus – while simultaneously effortlessly conjuring arpeggios that others would sell their souls for at the next intersection. With Guthrie, jazz, rock, and fusion merge into something entirely unique. He is the perfect example of absolute musical enlightenment – ​​without any preaching and without breaking a sweat.

David Maxim Micic – the genius from Belgrade

Then there's a whole new generation. Plini, for example – but he's too clean and predictable for me. I understand the enthusiasm for Plini, but my heart belongs to someone most people don't know – and who deserves to be mentioned precisely for that reason: David Maxim Micic.

I discovered him on YouTube sometime during the Periphery era, when I was searching for fearless music. The first album in the Bilo series had just been released, I stumbled upon a video for a track called "Glog" – and something happened at 3:49.

I pressed pause. Pressed back to 3:49. Pressed play. Pressed pause again. This went on for a while. Eventually, I looked at the clock and realized my evening was gone. Not stolen—it had simply vanished without a trace. I didn't think much of it.

"Bilo" literally means "pulse". Micic himself interprets it a bit more broadly: it's the musical pulse, the life that flows through the notes. The Bilo albums are essentially his musical diary—they capture the vibe and energy of the very period of his life in which they were created. This is no coincidence. David Maxim Micic, who studied composition at Berklee College of Music in Boston, isn't a guitarist who composes—he's a composer who also happens to play guitar. The distinction might sound academic, but it isn't: you can hear it immediately.

Bilo I was a revelation – raw, interesting, unusual, with the energy of someone just beginning to show what they're capable of. But then came "Who Bit the Moon." And that's when something else began. The melodies didn't just stay in your head – they carved out rooms within it and moved in. Dreamy, delicate, with a vulnerability you wouldn't expect from this genre.

And Bilo IV topped it all. The first two tracks of the album are among the most beautiful musical intros I know. He achieved something there that is very difficult to define: a childlike honesty in the sound. Pure. Unpretentious. Like how small children draw before someone explains to them how to draw "properly." This quality is the rarest thing in music—and he has it.

I'm going to admit something I don't usually admit: sometimes this music brings tears to my eyes. Not because I enjoy crying—I'm pretty messed up, I assure you—but because of its honesty. He manages to express something in words that you can't actually put into words. That's art. The rest is technique.

What these three have in common

A beekeeper from Los Angeles, a Jesus lookalike from Essex, and a Belgrade sound visionary with a Berklee degree – sonically, they couldn't be more different. But they all have something to say. Not just to play – to say. And that's precisely the difference between a craftsman and an artist.

The electric guitar was never just a sledgehammer. Some people simply realized it earlier than others. As a guitar teacher, I experience it regularly today: the moment a student finds their own Vai – their own Govan, their own Micic – is the moment when duty becomes passion. And that's what it's all about in the end.

I, for one, learned it from Hubert. And he still hasn't returned the cable that disappeared in the rehearsal room back then.