When I began composing Ragtime in 2006, it wasn’t part of a grand plan. It was a response—a way to stay musically alive after the door to formal study had closed. Three rejections from my university’s music program left me adrift, and even eight months of private piano teaching, meant to build experience and credibility, ended without the breakthrough I had hoped for. Music, once a career aspiration, became a hobby. But it was the only way I could remain connected to the rhythm that had always moved me.
That same year, the World Cup was everywhere. But it wasn’t the matches that sparked my imagination—it was a news story about Cologne’s Pascha bordello, which had playfully rebranded itself around the tournament. That article planted a seed. I began to wonder: what if a single character—a traveler—experienced the full emotional spectrum of the red-light district? Not just lust or thrill, but loneliness, joy, regret, empathy, and even redemption. The concept was born.
At the time, the series was centered on one individual. The idea of anonymity hadn’t yet emerged. The red-light districts I chose—Amsterdam’s De Wallen, Hamburg’s Reeperbahn, Alkmaar’s Achterdam, and Cologne’s Pascha—were drawn from Wikipedia. I knew the sources weren’t perfect, but they existed for a reason. They were cultural touchstones, places where stories could unfold.
The first four melodies followed that arc:
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Amsterdam (now fourth in the series) was the first written—a dance of desire and spontaneity.
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Hamburg (now seventh) came next, exploring observation and inner conflict.
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Alkmaar (now sixth) followed, a meditation on conscience and compassion.
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Cologne (now eighth) was a reckoning—a search for redemption through restraint.
It wasn’t until I leaned deeper into the hobby—using it to fine-tune my own education—that the series expanded. I added four more destinations, each inspired by new emotional textures and geographic layers:
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Nijmegen and Arnhem, loosely inspired by the Medal of Honor video game series, brought a sense of movement and youthful ambition.
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Brussels and Antwerp added playfulness and exuberance, rounding out the emotional crescendo across three countries: the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany.
By the time the eighth rag was complete, the concept had shifted. The traveler was no longer a single person, but an anonymous figure—free from race, gender, religion, or creed. This change wasn’t just aesthetic; it was philosophical. It allowed anyone to step into the story, to feel the rhythm, and to walk the streets of memory and imagination without bias or boundary.
Ragtime at the Red Light District began as a personal refuge. It became a narrative. And now, it’s a living archive of emotion—told in syncopation, silence, and soul.