On the writing of A Blown Away Leaf (une feuille emportée) for for my son during a restless, tearful two-hour sprint on a New Jersey balcony, inspired by migrating geese, Janáček’s solo piano suite, and a low-budget GIF of your fleeting, magical visit. Through vivid memories and serendipitous connections, this episode explores the interplay of sound, emotion, and the mystery of shared moments across generations.

Wherein the composer flashes back to 1999 in Austin, TX, penning a song as a creative alternative to hitting on Wendy, the architecture student moonlighting as a bartender. In the process, he’s pulled further back to 1987—the birth year of The Robertsons, his after-school alternative rock band. It’s his first taste of songwriting as flirtation, crafting a tune for Lorna, the high school cheerleader he once likened to a Polish pastry. Name of the girl, name of the song, and a legacy of melodies spun for muses who always seemed just out of reach.

In a lecture from a fractured future, a pivoted self dissects ethanol—both the chemical and the catalyst—unveiling a volatile mix of personal grief, academic absurdity, and sonic alchemy sparked by a single mixing mistake. What begins as science mutates into memoir: a mid-range stripped, a song reborn, and a life dissected molecule by molecule.

Season One, The Scientist and His Science, is Jack's odyssey—a hapless composer turned sonic alchemist, stuck between the petri dish of his own ambitions and the mess of the outside world. It’s a tale of dissection: of melodies, heartbreaks, and the ways we splice art with life until the DNA gets so tangled you’re not sure which came first.

Picture this: Jack, a wayward scientist, wandering through the concrete jungle of New Jersey after his wife and son became a distant chorus. Jack's only lab? Music—the one mistress who doesn’t demand explanations.