Teaching Music: Not Quite as Planned

Since I started my Master’s in Germany, one of my main career goals has been to become a professor of composition or music theory at a Hochschule (university-level music school), ideally in Germany, Switzerland, or Austria. While I’m open to opportunities elsewhere, Germany feels like the best fit for practical, logistical, social, and personal reasons—not to mention its deep-rooted tradition in classical music.

Like most musicians, I’ve taught private lessons in both instrumental and theoretical subjects and have also shared educational content through my YouTube channel, Música Teórica Online. But teaching in a structured academic environment is a completely different experience, and I got to explore that in depth during my PhD in California.

For five years, I taught music courses to students from other disciplines who took them as electives. Most of them were of Asian or Asian-American descent and studying STEM fields. Many had some musical background—something that seems relatively common in Asian families, especially Chinese ones—but for cultural reasons, their academic paths were usually geared toward non-artistic careers.

They were used to a highly analytical and structured way of thinking, which sometimes made music theory feel less rigorous to them compared to the sciences. Certain inconsistencies—like how E and F are placed the same distance apart on the staff as C and D, even though the actual interval is different—were hard for them to accept.

They were incredibly skilled at solving problems within clear, well-defined systems, but when it came to creative challenges where they had to set their own rules, they often struggled. It wasn’t just about finding the right answer—it was about developing their own criteria for what made sense within a system they had to define themselves.

Not teaching future musicians, but rather students with a completely different logic and approach to knowledge, was not only an interesting challenge but also an experience that ultimately broadened my own perspective on music and teaching.

This made me reflect on music education in different contexts and what it really means to pass on musical knowledge to people with such diverse ways of thinking or professional goals so different from those of someone who is fully committed to dedicating their life to music. And, as you’ll see later, this issue turned out to be key in my current situation.

During my time at UCSD, I took some courses focused on preparing academic applications, securing funding, and applying for grants. This knowledge proved essential—not only to understand how selection processes work in universities and research support programs but also to develop more effective strategies when applying for professional opportunities. (The results became evident rather quickly: on my first attempt, I was awarded support from the Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte in Mexico, something I saw at the time as a combination of preparation and, surely, a bit of luck.)

During this period, I attended a talk by Mark Applebaum, a composition professor at Stanford and former UCSD student, who shared his experience applying for faculty positions and how he ultimately ended up at Stanford. In his talk, he introduced what he calls the Taco Bell Plan, a philosophy that reinforced ideas I had already been forming about balancing job stability and creative freedom. His idea prioritizes artistic independence over the security of a job within the non-academic music field: if given the choice between a non-music-related job that allowed him to compose freely—like working at Taco Bell—and a music industry job that, while still in music, restricted his ability to create his own work, he would choose the former. This perspective made me reflect further on my own goals and the importance of finding a career path that balances my creative and academic interests.

Aware that my next professional step was to pursue a position in academia, I decided to start applying for jobs in Germany even before formally graduating. I knew the competition would be tough and that, while my background was strong in terms of education and perhaps artistic output, I still lacked experience as a full-time faculty member in a university setting. Even so, I was certain that I needed to start familiarizing myself with the selection processes, understanding expectations, and applying as soon as possible.

My first application was for a W3 position in Music Theory, the highest professorship level at a university-level music school in Germany, at the Hochschule für Musik in Trossingen, in the south of the country. It was my first time applying for a position of that magnitude, and I probably spent over 70 hours preparing the application, which included my CV, cover letter, teaching philosophy, artistic portfolio, and other required documents. I pushed myself to meet the highest standard possible given my experience at the time. The only thing I didn’t manage to do, due to time constraints, was translate the application into German—so I submitted it in English. Given the level of the position and my lack of prior experience as a full-time professor, I assumed my chances of being invited for an interview were slim. Still, I felt I had to try; at the very least, it would help me build a foundation for future applications, allowing me to improve and refine my submissions over time.

Despite my low expectations, I sent the application and carried on with my plans, assuming the process would end there. Whether or not I got the job, my intention was already to move to Germany to pursue academic opportunities. Before graduating, I had planned a cross-country road trip across the U.S.—a kind of farewell before starting this new chapter (The Second Super-Cycle). However, to my surprise, I received an invitation for an interview in Trossingen, which completely changed my plans.

This was, without a doubt, one of the biggest surprises of my career. Until that point, every application I had ever submitted had failed on the first attempt, which is usually the norm. It’s rare to be accepted at the first place you apply, to win a grant on the first try, or to get into a university without prior rejections. Statistically, those situations are unlikely.

For my self-confidence, it was a huge boost—a clear sign that I was doing something right. What were the actual chances of being invited to an interview on my first try? But beyond the surprise, I now had the challenge of preparing for a highly complex interview process.

The first hurdle was logistics: the interview required me to travel to Germany in person—there was no option to do it online. Getting from California to Trossingen was a significant expense. Unlike Berlin or other major cities, it isn’t easily accessible; reaching it required not just main routes but also multiple transfers to smaller regional transport options, making the journey even more complicated.

However, the most important thing at that moment was preparation. I couldn’t leave anything to chance—every aspect had to be carefully fine-tuned so I could approach the interview with confidence. It wasn’t enough to just know my own work; I had to anticipate what the school was looking for in a candidate at that level. Every detail had to be carefully planned, from the structure of my presentations to how I would communicate my ideas in front of the committee.

The interview process was not just a formal conversation—it required demonstrating my teaching abilities and pedagogical approach through several practical assessments. I had to teach two group classes on topics of my choice: one in a seminar format and another with a more practical approach, incorporating a digital component into at least one of them. Additionally, I had to conduct a one-on-one composition lesson, analyzing a piece brought in by a student. On top of that, I was required to give a brief presentation on the development of music theory and composition within the institution, followed by a discussion with the selection committee, where I had to defend my ideas and answer questions about my academic and pedagogical vision.

Preparing for all of this was challenging, as the available guidelines were quite general. I had to research the school, its history, curriculum, and academic objectives to ensure my proposal aligned both with their profile and my own interests. To refine my approach, I had multiple discussions with professors in the U.S. about the most suitable content and methodology. I was also aware that music theory is taught quite differently in Germany, so I needed to adapt my presentation accordingly.

In the end, I settled on two topics, which I will elaborate on in future writings: The Reevaluation of the Identity of Media and Variation: A First Principles Approach.

I arrived in Germany and made my way to Trossingen. Unlike larger universities in the U.S., where certain expenses might be covered, here the candidate was responsible for all costs. I booked two nights at a hotel to avoid arriving exhausted. I used the first day to rest and the second to review everything intensively. I meticulously went over every detail, practicing as if it were a performance. I prepared a Keynote structured as a performance-presentation, with numerous slides, musical examples, and carefully planned material—much like the presentations I typically create in this format.

When I arrived and was introduced to the committee, I found myself facing a large panel: between 15 and 17 faculty members, plus five or six students. At that moment, there was nothing left to do but, as the saying goes, fake it till you make it—I had to look like a professor.

At the end of the process, two professors approached me and gave me very positive feedback, showing clear interest in my proposal. They more or less hinted that if the decision had been solely up to them, they likely would have chosen me. However, they also pointed out that my approach to teaching music theory, at least for that institution, was somewhat unconventional. While the committee found my ideas interesting, they didn’t necessarily align with the profile they were looking for.

They told me the decision would take a few weeks and that nothing was set in stone. However, after a long wait, I eventually received the news that they had chosen another candidate. That was the first—and so far, the last—invitation I have received to interview at a university in the past two years.

Since then, I’ve sent, I don’t know, maybe over 80 applications. The range has been vast: from positions where I’m clearly overqualified (when I tell this story in person, I always joke that the range goes from janitor at the Berlin Philharmonic) to roles where I don’t fully meet the requirements, and, of course, positions for which I am appropriately qualified.

I had a few other interviews—one for a teaching position at a Musikgymnasium in Karlsruhe and another for a research institute in Detmold—but in both cases, I wasn’t selected. Beyond that, there were no more invitations.

On top of the job search challenges, I also had a visa issue: I needed employment to continue residing in Germany legally. That’s when my good friend and colleague, Adrian Kleinlosen, suggested that I apply to secondary schools, primary schools, and high schools, as he had done himself. It wasn’t something I had initially considered, but after so many rejections, I had to take action.

In Germany, becoming a school teacher typically requires specialized training, and most positions demand the ability to teach at least two subjects—something I didn’t have. However, due to a severe teacher shortage across the country (among other professional shortages), it is possible to enter the field without having followed the conventional training path, though the bureaucratic process to get there is long, complex, and tedious.

Finally, I applied to several schools in Berlin and one in Hamburg. For the latter, Adrian wrote a letter of recommendation—perhaps the most sincere anyone has ever written for me—and eventually, I was hired at the Stadtteilschule in Farmsen, in the northeast of Hamburg, where he was also teaching. That letter likely played a significant role in their decision, which, in a way, feels a bit disheartening but is also just part of human nature. As they say here, “Vitamin B”… Had he not written it, I probably wouldn’t have gotten the job, despite being the exact same person with the exact same qualifications.

That chapter of my life is now over. I currently live in Berlin and teach at a different school, in a completely different environment from what I experienced in Hamburg. The transition hasn’t just meant a change of city but also a new work dynamic, different types of students, and a shift in pedagogical approach. In another post, I’ll talk more in depth about my experiences teaching 5th and 6th grade in Hamburg—how I adapted to that level and what I learned from it—as well as my time in Berlin, the differences between both contexts, and how my role as a teacher has evolved in this new stage.