Backstory I

An excellent question. I'd be lying if I said I know. I don't. No one really does. Which is mostly a question of philosophy. I started learning about music and computers both around the same time. I went through eight or so years of undergraduate studies mostly consisting of graduate-level coursework with a smattering of requirements for both of my majors thrown in for good measure. Oh. And a dozen or so minors. Mostly on full-ride scholarships because I played horn. Not so well back then, I suppose. But taking the better part of a decade off to explore marriage, relationships, divorce, corporate America, neo-Conservatism, and a handful of other things eventually led me back to Los Angeles, back to friends unseen since leaving college.

Yes. Leaving college. Not completing university undergraduate studies. Eight years of cool courses does not make a degree. There was no objective, no goal, so no degree. Just the random wanderings through graduate conducting, chamber ensembles, most of a decade of playing nothing but principal horn, tensor calculus, gravitation, Jewish studies, Torah, Talmud, Kabbalah, Gematria, astrophysics, particle physics, solid-state physics, metaphysics, philosophy, ethics, civil law, micro- and macroeconomics, and whatever else suited me on registration day. But nothing that any advisor worth a damn could actually assemble into a degree, let alone an extension of another year of eight years of scholarship at two universities when I only really took a smattering of courses actually in my major. Well, I tested out of half when I started the first university between entrance exams and 60+ units of AP courses and tests, and the second half when transferring. But I did take the interesting ones.

Counterpoint. One of the most absolutely useful courses for pretty much anything. You learn how to hold multiple completely contradictory themes in your head at the same time, follow each of them independently, and still synthesize them into a tapestry of awesome. I loved counterpoint. I would travel back to San Diego for Spring Break some years just to tutor people for a week. Mostly this consisted of me sitting in front of a keyboard improvising two, three, four, or more themes, playing with them, taking them apart individually, explaining each one, and putting them back together.

Form and Analysis. A stupidly-named class. Analysis is a given. It's the foundation of Pseudo-Hellenic Xtian Civilization. If you take something apart down to its fundamentals you understand it, right? No class was ever named Form and Synthesis. And for good reason. No one understands the Synthesis.

A few weeks ago, more or less, at the final rehearsal of the year for the orchestra I play with (and pay other horn players to play for since I'm too damn cynical to want to play with bad ones all the time), we hosted the graduate conducting masterclass from Long Beach State. Our conductor, after probably 30 years as a practicing anesthesiologist, decided to get his masters degree in music. He's also been conducting this orchestra nearly that long. And so he volunteers it to the CSU Long Beach graduate conducting class. It's a dangerous ensemble to conduct if you're expecting a normal community ensemble. We're an eclectic group. Many are retired professionals, many have multiple careers, and a few of us are even real polymaths. The conductor is one. The principal clarinet another. Most of the principal players are, really.

I'm completely without tact, shame, or fear of helping people learn. Especially professors who haven't taught anything new in a long time. And since I'm the subject of several studies on people who aren't typical, I tend to ask questions that are dangerously insightful.

I tried hard not to. I took too many pills. But it didn't make the slightest bit of difference. I still managed to ask each student at least two questions. Each one completely shocked everyone in the ensemble, the students, the professor, but not our conductor. He's actually one of the handful of brilliant people I've met. I can't imagine leaving this group. But I have no doubts I will eventually.

There were two students who actually understood what they should be doing. They understood the questions I asked immediately. The professor might have, at least the words, since he used them subsequently. The other students were just there.

One was actually already a teacher himself. I made a suggestion to him, and he actually tried negotiating with me. Fortunately our conductor stepped in and explained to him that he really shouldn't negotiate with me, and should try what I say, and see what happened. He tried for a bit, but he had practiced his ridiculous style for far too long to let go of it.