Hmm, well I happened to stumble upon this site today, so I figured I might as well get some feedback about my essay. This was written in response to one of the Common Application's prompts: "Evaluate a significant experience and its impact on you". It's about my introduction to rock music.
An explosion of noise burst forth from the car stereo, shattering the peaceful summer air with such force that any insects in the vicinity must have been blown backwards by the sheer vibrations of the sound. "This", said my father, "is called rock 'n' roll". To a five year old whose only previous musical experiences had involved Sesame Street, the intoxicating blend of guitars and drums that invaded my ears that day was a revelation. It was also an invitation, beckoning me to tread ever deeper into the waters of musical history. I wasn't quite sure what this cacophony of melody and hand claps was, but I had to hear more of it.
Unbeknownst to me, thoughts from that initial experience began to plant themselves in my mind as wishes and dreams that sometimes waited years to make their presence known. In the fourth grade my class was given the option of playing a musical instrument. I chose to play the clarinet, envisioning myself as the next Benny Goodman, another of my dad's influences. Reality, however, soon caught up to me. Playing music turned out to be hard work. Not only that, the difference between being a jazz legend and a ten year old was a bit larger than I had imagined. Nevertheless, I pressed on, the shrill squeaks and the savagery of frustration slowly evolving into smoothly played notes and the quiet confidence of skill. The lesson I learned ingrained itself into my mind; those wishes and dreams could be attained, if only I had the diligence to reach them.
Gleaning such knowledge from my explorations of music was often an individual act. As an only child, I had always been independent minded, and with the arrival of my teenage years that independence grew. Thus, at the age of thirteen I asked for and received a guitar for my birthday. Suddenly a whole new range of sonic possibilities beckoned to me. I began to break away from the songs of others and experiment with writing my own, finding my own voice. I started bands with my friends, practicing in the dankest of garages to play such glorious venues as our school talent show, and writing anthems about the virtues of apples or the hubris of Macbeth. They were silly songs, but at least they were my songs, products of my own unique abilities.
I see my life up to this point as the first movement in a great symphony. One section, the section that began with that first summer day spent listening to "I Want to Hold Your Hand" by the Beatles, is nearly over. However, the music continues to crescendo and the tempo continues to increase, all building towards a climax I can barely perceive, and yet am anxious to reach. I've been able to play that song for years now, but my journey is only beginning. I hope to take the next step, and find the next song, at (College Name).
Thanks for your time.
An explosion of noise burst forth from the car stereo, shattering the peaceful summer air with such force that any insects in the vicinity must have been blown backwards by the sheer vibrations of the sound. "This", said my father, "is called rock 'n' roll". To a five year old whose only previous musical experiences had involved Sesame Street, the intoxicating blend of guitars and drums that invaded my ears that day was a revelation. It was also an invitation, beckoning me to tread ever deeper into the waters of musical history. I wasn't quite sure what this cacophony of melody and hand claps was, but I had to hear more of it.
Unbeknownst to me, thoughts from that initial experience began to plant themselves in my mind as wishes and dreams that sometimes waited years to make their presence known. In the fourth grade my class was given the option of playing a musical instrument. I chose to play the clarinet, envisioning myself as the next Benny Goodman, another of my dad's influences. Reality, however, soon caught up to me. Playing music turned out to be hard work. Not only that, the difference between being a jazz legend and a ten year old was a bit larger than I had imagined. Nevertheless, I pressed on, the shrill squeaks and the savagery of frustration slowly evolving into smoothly played notes and the quiet confidence of skill. The lesson I learned ingrained itself into my mind; those wishes and dreams could be attained, if only I had the diligence to reach them.
Gleaning such knowledge from my explorations of music was often an individual act. As an only child, I had always been independent minded, and with the arrival of my teenage years that independence grew. Thus, at the age of thirteen I asked for and received a guitar for my birthday. Suddenly a whole new range of sonic possibilities beckoned to me. I began to break away from the songs of others and experiment with writing my own, finding my own voice. I started bands with my friends, practicing in the dankest of garages to play such glorious venues as our school talent show, and writing anthems about the virtues of apples or the hubris of Macbeth. They were silly songs, but at least they were my songs, products of my own unique abilities.
I see my life up to this point as the first movement in a great symphony. One section, the section that began with that first summer day spent listening to "I Want to Hold Your Hand" by the Beatles, is nearly over. However, the music continues to crescendo and the tempo continues to increase, all building towards a climax I can barely perceive, and yet am anxious to reach. I've been able to play that song for years now, but my journey is only beginning. I hope to take the next step, and find the next song, at (College Name).
Thanks for your time.