We spent much of Sunday evening at the United World College, attending a student recital, which featured some excellent instrumental and vocal offerings.

We went as guests of our get-away student, Belen Sogo Mielgo, from Madrid, Spain.

Some of the entrants sang, some played the piano, and with kids in the late teens (and even of any age), there’s bound to be a slip or two — obvious to all.

So I remembered my own youth, when I was a work-study student at Highlands University’s music department. I worked under then-chairman Champ Tyrone and spent time with Ronald Wynn, the choral director. Once I asked Wynn, “You know that piano recital you asked me to tape last night at Ilfeld: Well, when the pianist hit the wrong note, why is it that everyone noticed?”

Wynn explained why even the most un-musical person on the planet — I think he was referring to me — notices keyboard errors. He spoke in terms too technical for me, and through no fault of his, I failed to take note of the tenor of his explanation.

But rather than turn this into a treatise on how lay persons take in music, let me digress to discuss our family’s experience with the first and only piano our family ever owned.

As payment for the after-school clapping of erasers, my oldest sister, Dolores, qualified for free piano lessons at Immaculate Conception School with Sister Mary Pianissimo. That meant we had to buy a piano.

I believe my sister Bingy and I created the need for the term “pounding” when we took our turn at the piano. If someone, possibly Dolores, were preparing for a recital, one of us younger children would attempt to help out.

So, as Dolores was playing “Malagueña” or “Clair de Lune,” we’d sometimes give her a hand by inserting supplemental notes as she played.

Dolores was not amused, accusing us of ruining her piano piece. But to us youngsters, our addition was Arthur Rubenstein and Arturo Toscanini personified. When reality set in, in the form of a lecture from dad (he was an accomplished banjo player and former small-orchestra conductor), we got the message.

As part of the punishment to “never bother someone who’s on the piano,” we were still able to discuss with Dad why he felt that our additional notes didn’t exactly improve Dolores’ recital piece.

Dad used terms like “consonance” and “dissonance” to explain that some notes, such as “g” following a “c” “simply sound better together,” but an “a” and an “a-sharp” don’t.

I’ve always been fascinated by the question as to why one can’t simply use any combination of notes and create sublime music.

Ann Mishler, my piano teacher decades ago, also introduced me to a bit of music theory. I learned about an “open fifth,” which Ann explained was a combination of keys spaced five intervals apart and not a quantity of liquor to be consumed.

Listening to the UWC students performing Sunday convinced me of the tremendous effort these youngsters put in to perfect their music.

I am particular about music. I like what I like. That includes classical music as well as some popular music, often the theme from movies I’ve seen. My wife, Bonnie, accuses me of being a musical snob because I’ve refused to attend some performances here in town. I say, “It is not my kind of music,” and she believes I ignore her efforts to broaden my horizons.

Dad saw to it that we had a wealth of classical music available at home. Often, we’d see him with a new classical LP tucked under his arm, something he bought at Ilfeld’s store on his way home.

Neighbor kids often sat on our lawn as Dad turned up the volume; they seemed to enjoy the “concert.” These performances, also, have faded, as so much music comes through headphones.

To wax eloquently, I like what I like. Beethoven’s Ninth would be an excellent choice for my funeral, as would Pachelbel’s Canon.

But at the moment — I believe my tastes have changed a lot — my current addiction is the music from Les Miserables, which includes selections like “One Day More,” “Master of the House” and “At the End of the Day.”

Years from now will I have become enamored of some other style?

As kids, we had limited choices of music on radio. Even though Dad once brought home a new radio, about the size of a small horse, all we could receive was the local station, KFUN, but no FM.

The radio had push buttons with call letters for stations printed in the tabs. We believed the tabs, complete with call letters for KNX, KOMA, WSL and KOB were simply “suggestions,” but my brother, Severino, figured out that we could fine-tune these buttons and receive far-away stations. That opened possibilities.

One of the stations played an hour a week of classical music, which I believed enhanced our appreciation of what we called “long-haired” music. In this pre-TV time in our family, we listened to Spanish, country-western, Top 40 and other varieties.

Even though I know the words to many Spanish folk songs, western songs and other popular music, I am passionately devoted to classical music as well as show tunes. Bonnie says I’m a curmudgeon, but in truth, I appreciate and laud the efforts of many high-minded people in our community who work hard to bring various forms of music. I enjoy town-and-gown presentations.

On tap in the coming weeks and months are a host of musical presentations, possibly even involving the pipe organ at Our Lady of Sorrows Church. Groups have been helping restore the musical treasure, which they hope will soon make the organ fully functional.

We have fine talent in the Meadow City. Let’s support the efforts to strengthen the amount and quality of music here. I will too, even if my own spouse says I’m a curmudgeon.