My ninth grade school year had turned into a rocky road emotionally and scholastically and as an unwelcome indicator of this, I wound up failing my algebra class. I was the bespectacled string-bean labeled a nerd who in actuality bucked the stereotype and displayed no skills in mathematics. My real life did not imitate the movie REAL GENUIS. Instead, upon receiving my final report card that semester I recall seeing the big, bold "F" and feeling the resulting pit twisting in my stomach, as I knew there wasn't anything I could do to change that grade. My parents took it all pretty seriously. Mom was a middle school teacher then, which meant hearing the stern lecture regarding how much this affected my "permanent record". I hate being a disappointment.
As a consequence, Dad decided I would spend time that Summer being tutored in algebra... by his father no less, who had been a math teacher years earlier. This "math teacher" detail was late-breaking news to me. I doubt I ever gave much thought to careers Grandpa and Grandma held before I arrived on the scene. They simply existed in the world to me solely as grandparents. Typically narrow-minded mindset of a kid, I guess, as I only seemed aware of the fact that Grandpa loved baseball and big band music. Oh, and that he and Grandma were both Quakers, which is not to be confused with the Amish, thank you very much.
So, the plan was to deliver me to their home in Black Mountain, North Carolina, located between the city of Asheville and Mount Mitchell, the highest peak of the Appalachian Mountains. Visits to Grandpa and Grandma increased once we moved to nearby Durham, but for years prior, when we lived in Texas, trips to their house were as rare as snow in San Antonio and meant a three day pilgrimage in the family station wagon. For some, three days spent in a car and assorted roadside motels with family feels like being shackled to a sheriff for a crime not committed. I, on the other hand, adored it. Hours sprawled on the backseat, reading or playing games, gazing at the world blurring past at sixty-five miles per hour, all while my dad's mix tapes sang through the speakers. These particular travels I consider among my most cherished childhood memories.
Initially, this idea of "math camp" at the grandparents seemed like an ominous, isolating sentence for a teenager. Being grounded from television and the mall was one thing, but banishment for the Summer to the grandparents' retirement community was sure to be soul-crushing. The truth is that the only ominous, soul-crushing aspect of this "punishment" was that I finally had to come to grips with learning algebra. The weeks at my grandparents' house turned out to be blissfully simple. From their tiny, closet-sized kitchen, Grandma, who herself was quite tiny, prepared our meals each day, my favorite being lunch due to the inclusion of sandwiches, pickles and cookies. Afterwards, she and I would clean and dry the dishes together, all while listening to the local public radio station. From this, I developed a habit of always seeking out those listener-supported local classical, NPR and Garrison Keillor-led stations wherever I lived or traveled. During mid-mornings, she would attempt to teach me gin rummy. The problem with me and card games, sadly, is I have a tendency to quickly forget the rules, especially if the game goes unplayed for awhile.
Afternoons were set aside for the required algebra lessons with Grandpa, my whole reason for being there. I actually found these sessions more tense than a general classroom setting since there was no place to hide, no one else to answer the formulas. At other times of each day, I was free to read my books and magazines, get lost listening to soundtracks on my Walkman and explore the forested area stretching behind their house, snaked with burbling creeks. Television only entered the picture when Grandpa wanted to watch the Phillies games, otherwise their dusty, rabbit-eared, dual-knobbed unit remained sequestered in a corner. I remember now that, before arriving, I was worried conversation would be stilted because of me. Did I offer anything interesting to say on my own, without my parents and sisters also being there? I soon discovered, unsurprisingly so, that no concern was necessary on my part as discussion flowed as free as their backyard creeks. Grandma and Grandpa displayed such interest in my thoughts and comments on the world and in turn I found myself enraptured by stories they shared of their histories.
The album begins and ends with sound effects from the movie. Strange and distracting for sure, as I prefer my soundtracks to represent the music only. Between these two tracks, though, is music that is indeed robustly orchestral, ranging from melancholic string elegies to propulsive, unapologetic brass outbursts. Brian May's main theme, heard under the film's prologue montage and end credits, conveys a sense of fatigue and apathy for the world as it exists. Alternately, the rapid brass and percussion action material sketch out a great sense of motion, but motion generated by a raw desperation to live as opposed to feelings of exhilaration. In addition, there's nothing superfluous in the orchestration, no fancy flourishes, akin to how the characters in this post-apocalyptic setting live day to day in meager fashion. Since an actual viewing of the movie was years away for me, I instead imagined the scenes the music accompanied, picturing crazed punks atop their motorized rides, both embellished by spikes or chains, and all hurtling across frighteningly endless desert terrain.
My interest in the MAD MAX series began with this score and later was bolstered by Maurice Jarre's brilliantly rapturous effort for MAD MAX: BEYOND THUNDERDOME. Trust me, there is more to love in THUNDERDOME's music than just those two Tina Turner songs. The movies themselves, including last year's incredible and intense installment FURY ROAD, are quite surprisingly more loosely connected to each other than today's audiences might expect from similar long-running franchises, whether in cinemas or on television. I initially found this aspect frustrating when making my way through the films, but over time it actually became a fascinating component. The character of Max could be seen as the equivalent to James Bond or The Man With No Name from the "Dollars" trilogy, in which he is introduced into someone's else story or a story already in progress, there mainly to affect the outcome yet remain unaffected himself. Granted, this isn't quite a complete comparison. In MAD MAX (1979), we do witness Max's beginning as both a loving family man and a tough yet idealistic cop. Watching the ultimate loss of who he was and the best parts of his life, informs how we see him for the rest of the series, an understanding which we never gained with James Bond (at least until the Daniel Craig era). This grants the series several layers of engagement, allowing the viewer the choice of either following Max's subsequent journey between a deep apathy and moments of emotional involvement or simply running alongside his character through another wild adventure in the Wasteland.
By the close of that Summer 1988, we had relocated from Durham to Rocky Mount. A new school, better friends and much better report cards ensued. There were no further tutoring sessions in algebra with Grandpa. By some strange magic, though, the subjects of geometry and trigonometry clicked with me in a way algebra never could, for which I'm sure my parents and my "permanent record" were both thankful. Happily, I spent part of another Summer at my grandparents' home, in 1992 to be specific. Without that persistent chore of math studies, I recall less about this second stint on my own with them, but I do remember that the soundtrack signpost, purchased at the same Asheville mall, wound up being BASIC INSTINCT. You know, if I'm not mindful, these posts might all start sounding like "A Prairie Home Companion". No doubt, I have my grandparents to thank for that.
So, the plan was to deliver me to their home in Black Mountain, North Carolina, located between the city of Asheville and Mount Mitchell, the highest peak of the Appalachian Mountains. Visits to Grandpa and Grandma increased once we moved to nearby Durham, but for years prior, when we lived in Texas, trips to their house were as rare as snow in San Antonio and meant a three day pilgrimage in the family station wagon. For some, three days spent in a car and assorted roadside motels with family feels like being shackled to a sheriff for a crime not committed. I, on the other hand, adored it. Hours sprawled on the backseat, reading or playing games, gazing at the world blurring past at sixty-five miles per hour, all while my dad's mix tapes sang through the speakers. These particular travels I consider among my most cherished childhood memories.
Initially, this idea of "math camp" at the grandparents seemed like an ominous, isolating sentence for a teenager. Being grounded from television and the mall was one thing, but banishment for the Summer to the grandparents' retirement community was sure to be soul-crushing. The truth is that the only ominous, soul-crushing aspect of this "punishment" was that I finally had to come to grips with learning algebra. The weeks at my grandparents' house turned out to be blissfully simple. From their tiny, closet-sized kitchen, Grandma, who herself was quite tiny, prepared our meals each day, my favorite being lunch due to the inclusion of sandwiches, pickles and cookies. Afterwards, she and I would clean and dry the dishes together, all while listening to the local public radio station. From this, I developed a habit of always seeking out those listener-supported local classical, NPR and Garrison Keillor-led stations wherever I lived or traveled. During mid-mornings, she would attempt to teach me gin rummy. The problem with me and card games, sadly, is I have a tendency to quickly forget the rules, especially if the game goes unplayed for awhile.
There was at least one shopping trip to the nearest mall in Asheville, around thirty minutes away. I'm not certain if the drive required thirty minutes due to how my grandparents drove or if this is really how long it took everyone in Black Mountain to reach it. Regardless, once we arrived I cheerfully perused the book and music stores the mall offered. During the browsing time, I caught sight of THE ROAD WARRIOR soundtrack among the various other cassette titles. I decided to take the initial plunge into the world of Mad Max. That album cover art had grabbed my attention enough to dip my listening toe into untested musical waters, so to speak. Once that cassette later looped through my Walkman, I met with a score that both pleased and confounded me.
The album begins and ends with sound effects from the movie. Strange and distracting for sure, as I prefer my soundtracks to represent the music only. Between these two tracks, though, is music that is indeed robustly orchestral, ranging from melancholic string elegies to propulsive, unapologetic brass outbursts. Brian May's main theme, heard under the film's prologue montage and end credits, conveys a sense of fatigue and apathy for the world as it exists. Alternately, the rapid brass and percussion action material sketch out a great sense of motion, but motion generated by a raw desperation to live as opposed to feelings of exhilaration. In addition, there's nothing superfluous in the orchestration, no fancy flourishes, akin to how the characters in this post-apocalyptic setting live day to day in meager fashion. Since an actual viewing of the movie was years away for me, I instead imagined the scenes the music accompanied, picturing crazed punks atop their motorized rides, both embellished by spikes or chains, and all hurtling across frighteningly endless desert terrain.
By the close of that Summer 1988, we had relocated from Durham to Rocky Mount. A new school, better friends and much better report cards ensued. There were no further tutoring sessions in algebra with Grandpa. By some strange magic, though, the subjects of geometry and trigonometry clicked with me in a way algebra never could, for which I'm sure my parents and my "permanent record" were both thankful. Happily, I spent part of another Summer at my grandparents' home, in 1992 to be specific. Without that persistent chore of math studies, I recall less about this second stint on my own with them, but I do remember that the soundtrack signpost, purchased at the same Asheville mall, wound up being BASIC INSTINCT. You know, if I'm not mindful, these posts might all start sounding like "A Prairie Home Companion". No doubt, I have my grandparents to thank for that.
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