Pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Music Theory and Composition was one of the most fulfilling and transformative experiences of my life. It wasn’t just about becoming a better musician; it was an immersion into the depths of sound, creativity, and intellectual rigor. As I reflect on my four years of study, several key moments stand out—each one shaping me both as a composer and as a person.

Musical Bootcamp: Surviving the First Two Years

The first two years of my degree felt like a musical bootcamp. The intensity of these early classes, especially in music theory, was a significant factor behind the high dropout rate. Our classes began at 7:00 a.m. every weekday morning, a time when most people were still waking up, and yet we were already diving into harmonic analysis, counterpoint, and ear training. This grueling schedule tested our discipline and mental endurance. For many, it was simply overwhelming. The complexity of the material, combined with the sheer volume of work, caused many students to give up.

I called it “musical bootcamp” because it truly felt like an endurance test. For me, though, it was exhilarating. Each day was a challenge to master abstract theoretical concepts that most people never encounter. I had a natural affinity for theory, which helped me thrive where others struggled. That may have been part of why I chose music theory as my major—I loved the intellectual aspect of it. But the bond that developed between those of us who endured these early years was powerful. The shared struggle created a camaraderie that made us stronger, and we came to see that music theory wasn’t just a necessary academic hurdle—it was the foundation for our creativity as composers. My class of Music Theory and Composition graduates was comprised of only four or five people!

Creating in an Academic Environment and the Fear of Accessibility

As I progressed in my studies, I finally began taking composition lessons. This was the part I had looked forward to most, and it didn’t disappoint. There was an intense pressure to create music—not just any music, but compositions that pushed boundaries and challenged conventions. I loved composing, and I eagerly anticipated the feedback from my professors and classmates. But in the academic environment, there was an unspoken rule: if your music was too “accessible”—if it resonated too easily with listeners—it couldn’t be taken seriously.

This ethos was something I encountered not only at my school but across composition programs everywhere. Complexity, dissonance, and innovation were seen as the hallmarks of a “serious” composer. If your music was melodic or easy to listen to, it was often dismissed as too simple or insufficiently sophisticated. While I understood the value of experimentation and intellectual rigor, this pressure to create music that alienated casual listeners sometimes felt stifling.

One day, during a composition lesson, I was struggling to explain why I had written a particular section of my piece in the way I had. My professor could see I was wrestling with how to justify it in theoretical terms. He stopped me and said, “If it sounds good, it is good.” That simple statement had a profound impact on me. His advice was liberating. It reminded me to trust my ear and my instincts, even if I couldn’t articulate the reasoning behind every musical decision. Sometimes, if it sounds right, it is right.

Try your best but realize you are not creating your Magnus opus!

This lesson helped relieve some of the pressure to create music of staggering genius and allowed me to simply create. The process of writing music, getting it from my head to the page, and then into a performer’s hands was far more important than endlessly laboring over a score, only to let it languish unheard.

Bridging Rock and Pop with Classical Performance

Throughout my studies, I found ways to integrate my background in rock and pop music into the world of classical composition. One of my most memorable performances occurred during a Wednesday concert—a weekly showcase where students performed their work. For this particular piece, I combined a pre-recorded electronic track with a live violin performance. It was unconventional in its presentation: I began playing my unamplified violin at the back of the auditorium, walking slowly down the aisle until I reached the stage.

The combination of the electronic track with the acoustic sound of the violin created a unique texture that felt distinctly modern, and my peers responded positively. Several students compared my piece to the sound of Sigur Rós, a comparison I welcomed. For me, it was a validation of my belief that different musical genres don’t need to be separated. By blending my rock and pop sensibilities with classical techniques, I found a way to express myself authentically, and that resonated with my fellow students.

Realizing How Much I Didn’t Know

One of the most humbling experiences during my studies came when I composed a graphic score with elements of indeterminism—a piece where performers had freedom to interpret certain sections. I was proud of my innovation and eager to share it with my professor. He appreciated the piece and gave me constructive feedback. However, near the end of our discussion, he casually mentioned, “This looks a lot like the music coming out of the late 60s.”

That comment hit me hard. I had believed I was creating something groundbreaking, only to realize I was decades behind. It was a critical learning moment for me. While my education had given me a strong foundation, there was still so much music history I had yet to explore. I realized that I didn’t know what I didn’t know—a humbling but necessary revelation. It became clear that to truly innovate, I needed to immerse myself in the music that came before me and expand my understanding of the broader musical landscape.

The Narrowing Path of Music Theory

As I neared the end of my degree, I found myself growing disillusioned with the extreme end of music theory. I took an advanced course on the relationship between math and music, which focused on abstract structures and patterns. While I could appreciate the intellectual challenge, it felt increasingly disconnected from what had drawn me to music in the first place. The research papers I wrote on obscure theoretical topics often felt pointless, and I frequently found myself wondering, “Who cares?”

For some, this deep theoretical work was fulfilling, but for me, it was a departure from the emotional and expressive core of music. I realized that my passion lay in creating music, not analyzing it to death. I wanted to trust my ear and my creative instincts more than I wanted to spend my time dissecting mathematical patterns in pitch relationships. Composition felt like a more authentic expression of who I was as a musician.

A Glimpse into the Academic Future

Looking toward the future, I considered a career in academia. I had great respect for my professors, but I also saw the harsh realities of that career path. Many of my professors were highly educated and talented, yet they struggled to make ends meet. One professor even worked as a bartender on the side to supplement his income. It became clear to me that pursuing a career as a university professor in music would likely mean facing similar challenges.

The financial aspect wasn’t the only issue. The academic system itself seemed difficult to navigate, with few opportunities for upward mobility. Many musicians and composers were stuck in entry-level teaching positions, earning barely enough to live on. While I was passionate about music, the prospect of spending years fighting for a stable position in academia didn’t appeal to me.

On top of that, I witnessed the fierce fight my professors went through in order to have their pieces performed! Writing grants, submitting to competitions and symposiums…basically desperate for performances. Not that I’ve been able to navigate this piece of the puzzle very well, but I think if your goal is to write music and get it out to a wide audience, remaining in academia is not the optimal path.

A New Path: Ethnomusicology in Thailand

After graduation, I decided against pursuing a master’s degree in Music Composition. The cost simply wasn’t justifiable. Instead, I set off on a new adventure: moving to Thailand to study Ethnomusicology at Mahidol University College of Music. I was the first Western student to attend the program, and I flew over on a one-way ticket, excited for the unknown.

It was the right decision. I had spent four years deeply immersed in Western classical music, but I was ready to broaden my horizons and explore new musical traditions. Studying Ethnomusicology in Thailand exposed me to a world of sounds and ideas that I had never encountered before. It was a transformative experience that enriched my understanding of music on a global scale.

I quickly learned a couple things about music by studying Thai court music: 1) harmonic analysis and melodic analysis tools I used all the time in my undergraduate work were more or less useless when investigating music that doesn’t share the same formative forces (structures, goals, etc.). And 2) I learned that the relationship between teacher and student can be dramatically different. In my American mind, offering opinions and disagreeing and engaging with professors is a sign that you are excited and interested in a topic. It’s a sign of respect to engage with a professor. However in Thailand, I learned that students are more or less expected to offer opinions when asked and the teacher is more or less always right. It’s more of a parental relationship than a colleague relationship – both have their pros and cons.

Conclusion: Re-engaging with My Passion

Looking back on my time studying Music Theory and Composition, I feel an immense sense of gratitude. It was a challenging, sometimes grueling experience, but it shaped me as both a musician and a person. During those four years, my life revolved around music—whether I was composing, performing, or simply discussing music with friends.

Over the intervening years after graduation I dropped away from music. Music would pop back up in my life here and there, so it never truly left, but I haven’t been engaging with it like I did when I was in the University system. Today, I’m working to re-engage with that same passion. My education was solid, and my professors pushed me to strive for excellence. But with age, I’ve come to understand that music is about more than theory, more than analysis, and more than academia. It’s about creating something that feels true to me and connects with others, whether it’s complex or simple, popular or avant-garde. In the end, if it sounds good, it is good.