'I made them on a computer!' he excitedly exclaims about the planetary orbs and psychedelic swirls - mathematical, formulaic interactions imprinted into a bronzed-aluminum backing. From upstairs, Cope suggests we shoot the art lining the walls above the piano as he readies himself for our conversation. When we first arrive, Cope's wife answers the door slightly confused and momentarily sure that we're there to sell magazines - the professor, it seems, has forgotten to inform her that our arrival has been pushed up by an hour.

There's nothing of particular note to speak of downstairs in the living room, where Cope gives lessons on a grand piano littered with any number of music books. It's the perfect uniform for an unassuming computer music pioneer. If there exists a walking manifestation of Santa Cruz, it might well be him. Cope, a lifelong music professor, wears a denim jacket, floral button-up, white stubble and a sly smile. In amongst a forest of redwoods, it overlooks the pristine wilderness of the central coast that so famously inspired Kerouac, Miller and Steinbeck. It's a fairly standard suburban house from the outside, a few blocks from the base of the hill that holds the University of Santa Cruz. It's hard to say precisely what we've gotten ourselves into. 'I guarantee you've never seen a laboratory like this.' 'Yes, well,' he answers quietly, as we ascend the stairs of his Santa Cruz, Calif., home. We've seen a lot of strange and wonderful things - robots and space shuttles and ghost hunts. We've been on the road for a while now, I tell him. Professor David Cope speaks in purposeful abstraction, attempting to brace us for what we're about to see.

Switched on bach