Every single muscle in my body was in shock.

I had just finished a yoga class led by a merciless Cambodian yogini, a vinyasa class that left me so drenched in sweat I had forgotten what it was to be dry. The first person to see me asked where the water park was, and I didn't have enough energy to figure out if she was kidding or not. Every step forward was a herculean feat, all 10cm of ground covered.

Don't get me wrong, there is an incredible feeling of energy in your body after a great class- a release of tension, of stress, of emotion. It emanates in every direction, like the cloud around the peanuts character Pig-Pen...just not as pungent. Usually.

Clearly I was out of shape, and while I felt all these wonderful feelings my body was also convinced I had just been at war, exasperated as to why this sweet Cambodian hated us so much.

All of which is to explain just how I ended up at the nearest possible restaurant, a random Thai place where I happened to meet the greatest blues guitarist I've ever heard.

To set the scene: I am in a city named Ubud, near the center of the island of Bali, Indonesia. This is the kind of island where everything you've heard is likely true, no matter what you've heard. It is beautiful and kinda dangerous and serene and exotic and westernized and culturally distinct and spiritual and depraved in some way. It is a Hindu island in a Muslim country that has a large expat community, an incredibly devoted indigenous religious community, insanely expensive resorts and dirt cheap backpacker haunts. To say it is a land of contradictions is an understatement; compressed by the small size of the island, you can literally stand on a beach and watch a drunken techno-rave sloshed in excess right next to a quiet, profound local religious ceremony at sunset. This is Bali.

Ubud itself is known as the spiritual and cultural center of the island, though I'm still not clear if that is more of a local or foreigner tradition. But for many people, myself included, there is a palpable spiritual energy here. It manifests itself in ways that feel alternately authentic and superficially image-conscious, and you could say that it is there as much due to our own intention as anything, but it exists nonetheless. The conversations I have here with random strangers in cafes can cut right past the surface to a surprisingly soulful place in the blink of an eye; yoga classes simply based on breathing can effect me in profound ways, and seemingly every kind of spiritual practice can be studied in surpassingly beautiful environs. It's the kind of place where the biggest event in town is a weekly 'ecstatic dance' where no one talks, no alcohol is served and no one is pressured to feel self-conscious about expressing whatever their body wants to express in the musical moment. The community of people that consider it home in some way is one of the most open, caring, inspirational communities I've ever experienced.

And then there are the tourists...

On this night, I was already near the end of an extremely brief introduction to this place I did not yet fully know. I came to Bali on a whim from Malaysia, in search of an exotic locale, beaches, maybe a dash of yoga but mainly good times. I found a little bit of all the above, along with some incredible friends and a monkey bite.

(psa- don't reach out to help a monkey open a water bottle it has stolen from you. Also I may have rabies but nbd)

I sat down at a romantic table for two in Siam Sally's, a self-described 'Homestyle Thai' restaurant in a large space that tried oh-so-hard to convince you that it was both a large resort and a cozy, rustic place. It mostly succeeded. I was very excited for Thai food, and even more excited to not walk any more. A band was already set up on a small stage which looked to have been forced into the floor plan after construction; the entire scene was endearing. I considered myself incredibly lucky- live music is often the first thing I look for in my dinner-decision process. Live music, ambiance, food cost....and then food quality. I know I probably have that backwards.

The band broke into song almost immediately, somehow perfectly timed to my exhausted whimsy. They were all kinda crammed onto the stage, so that I couldn't even see the piano player or drummer in the back. Up front the lead singer wore a dope fedora and crooned appealingly into the mic; to one side was a slightly older guitar player just on the verge of developing a bald spot; on the other side was a pleasant-faced bass player. I managed to catch a couple glimpses of the drummer, often with his head tilted back, eyes closed as he sat and played on a type of cajon- a box that can create a variety of percussive sounds without taking up all that space a full drumset takes up. God bless the poor hidden piano player, I never even saw the guy. They started with a cover of a Rolling Stones song and I instantly recognized that they were better than the typical Southeast Asian cover band. Don't get me wrong- all the cover bands I've ever seen in this area of the world have been charming, quality entertainment. I love them. But this group was clearly better, a little more polished and a little more groovy than usual yet with the same unassuming demeanor.

I sat back and enjoyed my meal- this is also the night I discovered the vegetarian heaven that is Indonesian tempe, though that is probably a story for another day. Live music, good food, beautiful weather. This was the life. And the band was really rocking; their musical joy was so infectious the open space in front of the stage quickly filled with women twirling in brightly colored outfits and rambunctious kids who unconsciously showed us all how to really dance. A smile was now permanently plastered on my face; that was about all the muscle use I could muster planted in my seat, but I still felt warmly connected to the scene. Love and laughter enveloped us all.

And the band was good! Like, real good. The lead singer had charisma and a smooth voice, not overly powerful but an instrument in itself that blended seamlessly into the band's sound. They all handled the licks and kept everything pretty tight, but they also let room for a solo to go off into a technical flourish before converging back with group chorus. They played as if they were totally familiar with each other's quirks, strengths and weaknesses. And the songs...while they were covers, they also had something fresh in the interpretation; it wasn't a slavish devotion to the page that colored their music, but curious energy in the possibilities each song presented. They did a slow blues version of Purple Rain that would have convinced you that it had always been meant to be heard this way- with all due respect to Mr. Prince.

I hope you start to notice the guitar solos in the above recording; it didn't take long for me to zero in on him. He didn't grab attention physically, didn't seem to have any showmanship in him. In fact, it seemed quite obvious that he felt far more comfortable communicating with the guitar in his hand than the words in his mouth. He couldn't sit still or stay silent during interludes between songs; 10 seconds wouldn't go by without him plucking, riffing on something he just had to get out through his hands. And he tuned the thing obsessively, even in the middle of songs. He didn't seem to be at all concerned with what the audience was thinking at any point...the most important thing was the music was right. Outwardly nonchalant, you could see subtle physical signs when he knew that he had just played something well, or when the band came back together seamlessly end a big finish. They all looked to him for the musical cues, and when it came time for his solo they all seemed to understand that he was going to go off into magic-land for a bit before bringing them back together.

And magic it was...the notes seemed to just cascade out of the guitar when he wanted them to, flying wildly around the melody yet always under complete control. It was the work of someone who knew he could do anything he wanted in the moment- but also understood that each moment didn't need 'everything'. The licks were rollicking throughout the first set, yet it never seemed to be too much of a good thing, if that makes sense. He was simply killing it moment to moment without drawing too much attention to the fact that he was this good.

Was he this good? I wondered. Was I just delirious from physical exhaustion and food bliss? I looked around the restaurant for a sense of confirmation; the dance floor was exuberant, for sure, but mostly due to how much fun they were having together. Other tables happily bobbed their heads along while they also maintained conversation over each song. Maybe I really was crazy, desperate for transcendence.

But then I noticed another bearded dude at the bar who was just as intense about the music as I was; he glanced at me after another epic solo and we both nodded in agreement: "Yeah. This guy is legit."

Turns out, whether or not Ubud is actually the 'spiritual center' of the island it certainly seems home to the best live music scene. I've seen a number of bands and singers here that run the gamut from Reggae and Bossa Nova to Rock and Soul...but the blues bands are the ones that stand out clearly to me. Perhaps it's the fact that blues often relies on musicality more than technical skills; maybe the Balinese just have a better handle on the easy-going and honestly emotive space blues music exists in. As I've mentioned before, the Balinese culture is incredibly devout, but it lacks the proselytizing harsh judgement that sometimes accompanies devotion in more evangelical societies...

The brand of Hinduism practiced here is unique; it says that the world is divided into two (Dharma and Adharma; or, for the sake of brevity, that which is good and of nature, and that which is evil or against nature). But the division is not a complete separation- Dharma and Adharma are two sides of the same coin, two poles on the same sphere. They do not exist without each other- and thus you see the Balinese putting out offerings to both gods and demons every day, because neither should be fully ignored. The goal in life is to follow Dharma, but with full understanding and awareness. This, I believe, also feeds into the open-mindedness I came across in the people when it comes to other religions- for isn't it the goal of every faith to follow that which is good? I have been at traditional indigenous performances of 'kecak' ceremonies where the emcee began seated in a circle with all of us spectators and praised God in ways specific to Christianity, to Islam, to Buddhism and to Hindu faith, subtly connecting all of us and all faiths into one whole, one love with many different names. In the span of minutes he established a common ground with a hundred tourists from across the globe before we experienced a highly specific cultural ceremony.

This was something consistent across the society I experienced- the Balinese faith was so strong yet flexible that it was able to take elements and influences from a thousand different cultures visited upon the island and somehow still stay unquestionably true to itself. And devout beyond all belief. Offerings were set out every single day, multiple times; every household had small temples that mimicked large temples arrayed meaningfully around the island; religious ceremonies seemed to occur somewhere every day, at all hours of the day; and it was common to hear citizens explain they could not work tomorrow because they felt they needed to go pray all day. And if you saw the way they celebrated a funeral you would convince yourself it must have been some kind of royalty, when in reality it's just how they celebrate everyone's life.

The creative fruits of this devotion are apparent across the island, but especially in Ubud. Intricate beadwork, vivid art of every kind, unique craftsmanship, dances and shows and music performances abound at every turn. And, improbably, there are the blues bands.

The Cooltones -by now I knew their name- wrapped up their first set and took an intermission. The crowd filtered out, but I didn't even briefly consider an exit despite the fact that I had finished my meal and become fully cognizant of how much I smelled. I think the waiters had simply stopped walking by my table, and I didn't blame them one bit. The music was too important, the magic of this moment too dazzling for me to pull myself away. At this point, though, I still only thought I had happened upon a really cool band in a random location. Special, serendipitous, but just a really good night.

Then the band came back.

I instantly knew that the first set had been motivated by the electric noise of a dancing crowd, youthful beginnings to a night out. Now the clock had turned nearer the demarcation of 'late night', and the Cooltones opened with a minutes-long, atmospheric improv solo which announced a move into more individual expression. The playlist was still a collection of popular songs- but each chart was now just a framework for extended riffs and melodic digression. I heard a 15-minute version of Pink Floyd's 'Brick in the Wall' that seemed to have no beginning or end...it was an amorphous cloud of neon noise and uttered incantations. It was unreal. The guitarist- Mr. Agung, as I later found out- completely bloomed in this setting. He spray-painted each solo across bar lines, alternately full of fire and cool as vapor. It wasn't the number of notes or the speed at which they came out that was impressive- it was the way each line seemed to organically end up exactly where it needed to, shaped to each emotion along the way. He and his guitar embodied each moment, they didn't 'play'. And he was utterly at home, in his happy place and unfazed by any external stimuli. At one point he lit a cigarette, smoked while he played the first verse, then moved it over to the space between his pinky and ring finger to shred another solo...and smoothly take another drag after. I yelped.

I call him the greatest blue guitarist I've ever seen, knowing full well that I've drifted into millenial overstatement. I've certainly seen some incredible guitarists in the States and across Europe, in infamous blues clubs and ramshackle watering holes. I've seen players who were probably technically superior, tighter, more inventive. I've seen some that perfectly embody that iconic image of an American blues musician.

But here's the thing about Mr. Agung:
He's lived in Bali his whole life, and never had a chance to leave this small island. He's never seen a rock or blues band from the West in person. He never took a class or received a lesson from a guitar teacher. He was given a guitar- and then made himself into a guitar player.

I was in shock when he told me this at another restaurant the following night. I had stumbled into them during their final song of the night and grabbed him for a moment at the end. How in the world did he know what he was doing? Did he even read sheet music?

No, he replied. Growing up, he had a DVD of Led Zeppellin and a laserdisc (!) of Guns'N'Roses. He studied Jimmy Paige and Axl Rose to see what they did with their hands, how they made music with a bunch of strings and an oddly shaped instrument. He was understandably thrilled by the advent of youtube and the ability to watch many more guitarists playing different types of music.

The stuff he was doing on stage was not taught to him, wasn't suggested by a teacher or revealed through repetitive exercises. He was reproducing songs written by others and using images as models, but the music that came out was wholly his. This much was clear to me that first night at Siam Sally's before I knew anything of his story.

They ended the night with yet another popular song- Gravity, by John Mayer. Not a rip-roaring song with a lot of complexity, but a slow jam streaked with some soulful melancholy. In the hands of Mr. Agung, it became a searing cry into the night. It was not gentle and smooth- there was pain, assertiveness in his lines awash in liquid fluidity. This is a song that relies as much on the spaces between notes as the black lines which connected them which showcased just what made him so special: an innate feel for pacing, for just how much each moment called for and how to build tension across these moments until you felt as if the whole thing might combust unbearably- and then release it all in a monsoon you never want to end. His guitar became a counter to the sweet sounds of the lead singers voice, expressing the full colors beneath such sweet longing. I looked around to see the restaurant had emptied, with the exception of my dude at the bar. But the music didn't require an audience; it didn't matter where the song came from or how many would hear it in that instance. The moment wasn't about us- for this band, it was simply the music. Nothing else mattered.

I left the place in a daze, blissed and complete and a little unsure of what I had just experienced. Was this band, this guitarist really as great as my ecstasy suggested? Was I just exhausted, in a hallucinatory state? Is tempe really this delicious everywhere? (Sorry...no)

I walked slowly- curse you, hamstrings- into the center of Ubud. There isn't much of a late-night party scene here, so 11pm usually feels like the dead of night. Yet I heard sounds on this night, a bit of musical racket in the air. I followed the sound of drums, gamelan and voice all the way to a covered space next to a temple where I found a large group of students playing music together. I smiled in wonderment- and then I realized that there was no teacher there. It was 11pm on a Thursday night and these kids were prodded by no adult, no authority figure; they simply seemed to enjoy playing music together. Songs would often descend into laughter, infectious giggles that belied pure joy.

This is it, I thought. This explains how Mr. Agung is possible.

Two years later, I was back in Bali and spent more time watching students at play and work with their instruments; sheet music is almost never used, the teacher instead using repetition and imitation to convey rhythms and melodies. The music they play is not difficult at the cellular level, but as a whole it is incredibly complex. It is essentially comprised of 4 or 5 layers of rhythms across the ensemble that have to line up every set number of counts to create a unified line...here's an example of adults doing the same thing with their voices in a 'kecak' ceremony.

Thought experiment:

Imagine you are in a group of 5 people. As a group, you are going to sing a musical line of 10 notes- but these notes are going to be split up between individuals. Not evenly (odds and evens) but in asymmetric arrangements we would call syncopation: You will sing 1, 4, 5, 8 and 9. The person beside you will sing 1, 2, 5, 6, 9, and 10. The next person will sing 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, and 8. To the audience, it will just sound like 1-10; but in reality, you performers have to share tempo innately and individually feel the beats of silence just as strongly as the beats of sound. And then add in the fact that most songs also include variations in tempo- slowing down or speeding up- and shift between rhythmic and lyrical melodies...it's incredibly complex, and far beyond the punctuality of, say, a George Michael type.

This is the musical environment most kids grow up on this island, to go with the intense yet open-minded spirituality which permeates every layer of their society. I was just as amazed, two years after my first introduction to this special place. And I continued to discover great musicians in Ubud, an entire local live music scene full of camaraderie, inventiveness, humility and great love. I saw a younger rock band one night- "Unbrock'n"- immensely talented and capable of straight up fire when they went on extended jams. But they also had the same qualities I recognized in the Cooltones, and in the student orchestra; they played first for the joy of making music together. They might as well have been in their own backyard. At one point they started a slow-roll blues song about New Orleans before a motif deceptively consumed guitar solo until it turned into a full-blown rendition of The Doors 'Break on Through'...before turning elegantly back into the original blues song to finish. It was masterful.

Afterwards I talked to the lead singer slash guitar player and asked him about that moment...had they heard the combination before? Sketched it out? No, he told me; it was a completely spontaneous moment right on stage. The music just took them there. I was stunned, yet again. I continued to ask about their upbringing, about their education and how they came to play so well. It was a similar story to what I had heard before, with one notable exception: he said that they had, in fact, taken lessons on their instruments. All of them. All from the same teacher-

Mr. Agung.

If you happen to be in Ubud and want to hear Mr. Agung or any of the other great musicians in town, head to the Laughing Buddha where there is live music each and every night. Or simply walk around town at 8pm and follow the audio rapture in the air...