As a boy who loved crafting, I found myself in a constant struggle with the limitations of “materials,” often feeling a sense of defeat. Faced with the inherent hardness of wood and metal, and the high level of skill required to process them, I felt a deep frustration at being unable to fully realize the images in my mind. Consequently, I usually spent my time making paper crafts or plastic models—materials that were easier to manipulate.
My world, which had been confined within predetermined boundaries, underwent a “non-material” revolution one day. This transformation came through the world of MSX computers and BASIC programming, which I discovered through educational magazines.
The concept of programming hit me with the force of a revelation. In that realm, there were no failed cuts or degraded materials. If commands were written logically, the system would respond without the slightest error. This “creative space where reproducibility is guaranteed” liberated me from the physical laws of materials and allowed me to engage in a play of pure thought.
My first foray into music production was on the MSX. By typing in strings of symbols called MML (Music Macro Language) and executing the PLAY statement, a three-note polyphonic world generated by the PSG sound chip would unfold before me. The process of sound being generated through written code, rather than the tactile nuance of fingers hitting piano keys, felt incredibly elegant to me at the time.
Initially, I transcribed scores for ensembles from music textbooks. When a melody resonated in the air through my “commands,” I felt a quiet, insular sense of omnipotence—a feeling of controlling a system that transcended subjective emotion or musical inspiration.
Eventually, my interest shifted to recreating existing game music on the MSX. I became obsessed with the joy of playing music I had heard in arcades, such as Sega’s “Hang-On” or Nichibutsu’s “Terra Cresta,” right in my own hands. The constraint of three-note polyphony via the PSG sound chip might seem meager at first glance. However, I was deeply drawn to the intellectual trial and error involved—what one might call the “aesthetics of subtraction.”
I would extract the most striking notes from the multiple parts of the original song and consolidate them into a single track, arranging them along the timeline. This process of building a multi-layered resonance within limited resources provided a highly sophisticated pleasure of design and construction, quite different from the struggles I had experienced in physical crafting.
To be honest, as a teenager, I had a slight complex about not being able to play keyboard instruments. However, through the logical device of the MSX, that sense of inferiority was replaced by a unique identity: a paradoxical pride in “playing music without being able to play an instrument.” It was perhaps an attempt at my own “intervention into the musical world through intellect,” independent of physical dexterity or talent.
For me back then, the inorganic electronic sounds from the speakers were never “cold.” On the contrary, I felt that the mechanical rhythm and precise tempo—void of human ambiguity—were the very characteristics and personality of computer music as a form of expression.
While there was certainly joy in showing my finished songs to friends, I remember feeling a deeper sense of fulfillment simply gazing at the orderly lists of BASIC programs. Those lists were a record of my musical sensibility and thoughts manifesting as a logical framework with a tangible sense of presence.
Thwarted by material constraints, I had finally acquired “command and processing” as transparent materials. In doing so, I likely learned the first steps of how to construct a firm, personal musical world that was invisible yet undeniable.
Having found this logical playground, I would eventually reach out toward the more complex and colorful world of FM synthesis with the PC-8801FH.
