It’s not uncommon for kids in college to experiment with various things and stuffs. Doing so is a natural part of growing, especially when kids are out on their own for the first time — and without the near-constant supervision of parents. Me? I was no different. I experimented with sleeping in until two o’clock in the afternoon (liked that). I experimented with taking the same Calculus class twice (didn’t like that). But my biggest experiment involved music.

I didn’t take any music classes, but I nonetheless spent a lot of time in the music building. The basement held twenty or more practice rooms and each housed an old but sturdy piano. I’d been playing off and on since I was thirteen. But it wasn’t until college, without the near-constant supervision of a piano teacher, that I really started banging on the instrument.

I’ll leave the details of this period for another time. What’s important now, though, is that I’d started composing a number of piano pieces and eventually got to the point where I didn’t want to forget them. So one day I borrowed some high end audio recording equipment (okay, it was a boom box with a cassette tape) and went off to find a quiet practice room. Setting the device on top of a spinet piano, I pressed the record button and played.

The results were as expected. I could probably waste a few hundred frilly words here describing how it all turned out, but I don’t have to because an audio file is worth a thousand words. Yes, I still have almost all these old cassettes and yes, I spent a good deal of time a few years ago digitizing them.

In spite of all that “composing” talk above, this is me hacking my way through the third movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14 in C# Minor, popularly known as Moonlight Sonata:

Academically-speaking, it’s bad. It’s really bad. Tempo is uneven. There are almost as many bad notes as good notes. And not to be overly critical, but sometimes I feel like a goat wearing boxing gloves could do better. But I tried, and that’s the important part.

Eventually I’d laid down sixteen or more original tracks (“laid down tracks” is what TV and movie people say, so I’ll use the phrase too). With those in hand, I copied and ordered them all onto a single cassette. I then used a felt-tip pen to write up the track notes on the cassette’s paper insert and distributed it to my fan (my dad).

But I needed a good band name (in spite of the fact that one person does not a band make). After some thinking and some pondering, I ended up with the name Continuum. The word represents a philosophy I subscribe to: that in the real world things aren’t black or white. They’re not on or off. They’re not good or bad. Everything we observe and attempt to measure can fall along a line with an infinite number of divisions. But it’s also just a really cool word.

The “release” of my “band’s” first “album” was a “success.” Except for one small problem (setting aside the fact that the compositions and recording quality sucked). No, my real issue was that a single piano could never realize my aural vision. (Aural vision? Can I mix and match like that?)

And so I dreamed a bass would join me, and fill the bottom in. And maybe then some lead guitar so it would not sound so thin. I needed some drums to set the beat and help me keep in time. And way back in the distance, some strings would sound so fine.

(Extra points to any readers recognizing Harry Chapin’s Six String Orchestra.)

In reality, while I didn’t want a bunch of other human beings to help me out, I definitely wanted to expand my sonic palette. I needed something to fill the bottom in. And I certainly needed something to help me keep in time. But what was a poor college student to do?

We’ll find out. Next week!