Sometimes I think I could restrict my blog's focus solely to the two main pillars of my pop culture passions, STAR TREK and STAR WARS, and still be able to generate enough posts for several years. But of course, with so many weird and wonderful movie music gems to spotlight in all genres I keep it to a minimum; in fact the last time I wrote about a STAR WARS soundtrack was back in 2013, specifically about THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK. Seeing as how there's a new STAR WARS film, ROGUE ONE, being primed for launch this month, I figured I'd celebrate this with an appropriately themed topic. And considering the frequency, or lack thereof, of my posts, this might wind up as my closing thoughts for 2016.
I wanted to write about the final installment released in the series up until Disney, the new owners of all things Lucasfilm, inaugurated a new STAR WARS era with 2015's THE FORCE AWAKENS. In 2005, REVENGE OF THE SITH, otherwise known as EPISODE III, was released as the chapter that seemingly completed the saga's circle and it delighted, surprised and moved me in ways I hadn't anticipated. Along with this, John Williams provided the movie a masterful score that I've listened to more times than I count in the ensuing decade, almost more than any other soundtrack from the series.
On the day it was released, I wound up seeing it twice - once in the early morning on my own and then again in the evening with friends. From the opening space battle to the visually poetic closing moments, I was riveted. As a first generation fan who caught each film from the classic trilogy in the theaters, I'd found myself fascinated on many levels by the era being presented in this second trilogy, the prequels. It was akin to watching a "period piece" of our own history, when mannerisms, dress and behaviors might differ to the present, such as Elizabethan dramas compared to present day. Not to everyone's taste, but I was digging it. The world-building was imaginative and immersive, diving into other cultures and corners of the fictional galaxy previously unexplored or simply unknown. I plugged into the macro/micro level of parallel storytelling on display throughout, noting how over the course of the trilogy we witness both a democratic Republic and a compassionate Jedi Knight named Anakin Skywalker be manipulated and corrupted from the inside out, all by the same person, that being Chancellor Palpatine. Indeed, the fateful circumstances leading to Anakin's downfall constitute the component to which I unexpectedly connected.
As I've mentioned in a previous post (see STAR TREK GENERATIONS), my father passed away without warning back in November 1994, when I was twenty-one years old. This tragic event cleaved a solid demarcation in my personal history, between my life with and then without a father. Working through this in the years since has been a convoluted process, as the emotional and psychological ripple effects are not always evident until much later. And sometimes these unseen effects are uncovered by unpredictable means. And so it was when watching REVENGE OF THE SITH. I was struck by what was portrayed onscreen, the movie unmasking for me a truth that my fear of mortality and loss, stemming from my father's death, might negatively affect choices I make in life.
Anakin, as a young adult still figuring himself out, was plagued and emotionally crippled as a result of losing his mother in an unforeseen tragedy. Of course, his character's subsequent experience followed a much more severe path (cue the "Imperial March" here), but what hooked me was that his immense sense of loss over his mother had twisted over time into a need for control and an obsessive drive to prevent suffering any further loss. This pushes him into alarming and reckless decisions which lead to not only his own spiritual and physical destruction, but also ends the life of whom he most wanted to save. Akin to enduring Greek tragedies, Anakin echoes Oedipus by unknowingly fulfilling a haunting prophecy through the determined process of seemingly holding it at bay. There are also noted similarities to Shakespeare's "Othello", where we find good and kind qualities slowly overshadowed by hubris and greed, with a dash of a superiority complex from Anakin. This is powerful, deep stuff, not often essayed in sci-fi spectacles. Flawed, fictional heroes may tread on the edge of extremes, yet they normally refrain from fully falling in.
It dawned on me that I'd been struggling to keep from things changing in my own life. The further that time advanced into my father's absence, I think I unconsciously endeavored to control my surroundings, maintaining routines and who I was inside, even in small ways. It surprisingly didn't stop me relocating across states, from North Carolina to Illinois and then California, which on a surface level absolutely seems like a willingness to embrace big changes. Yet, if I lifted a corner and peeked below that surface, I found that the major moves fostered a distance away from what might affect me emotionally. Distance actually allowed me to preserve my inner self in amber, in a way. Instead of accepting and dealing with loss, I placed myself far from what would remind me of the absence of loved ones. (I totally understand why Anakin as Vader never visited Tatooine again.) Feeling loss and change penetrates too deep. I unknowingly led my life in directions that would safely keep me from experiencing any further loss or calamity again. In REVENGE OF THE SITH, when Anakin speaks to Yoda of his fears of losing someone close to him, Yoda advises him how death is a natural part of life and that he should learn to let go of all he fears to lose. While counsel from Yoda isn't exactly approved by the American Psychological Association, it held sway with me, I felt I should heed this lesson.
It's funny that I share these thoughts directly following my prior post on the TV series LOST. Deftly delivered in its denouement to its lead character is a similar sentiment, that of learning to let go. There, however, it's tied to less catastrophic choices as made by Anakin in SITH and expressed more as an integral, necessary component for successfully transitioning beyond corporeal existence. In LOST, Jack Shephard needed to learn to let go in order to forgive himself and grant his soul a sense of completion and peace. In SITH, Anakin never learned to let go of his fear of loss and instead was seduced down a dark, calamitous path. At a high cost, he'd been promised a power to prevent the deaths of those he loved and by extension, prevent himself from ever experiencing their eventual absence from his life. This revelation in Anakin's journey astounded me. Never in my fan's eye view of what triggered the transformation of Anakin Skywalker into Darth Vader would I have imagined something so human and so vulnerable, almost uncomfortably so. It endeared his character to my adult self, living on the other side of my father's passing. In the life I lived that included both my father and STAR WARS, I most connected to Luke Skywalker. Later, in the life without him, I seem most in tune with Anakin.
Regarding the music, Williams's score is an absolute treasure trove of gems, both major and minor. Bold new themes essay the tragic duel between Anakin and Obi-wan and mechanistic menace of General Grievous. Existing material, such as the love theme from EPISODE II, is often revived in melancholic tones. With this album, there isn't any interesting story about how I grabbed it, I think it was at the Borders on State St. in downtown Chicago. I do remember being surprised at its overall brevity, that there were some marvelous cues from the film not included on the album. And, vice versa, I was surprised at tracks heard on the album that went unused or partially used in the film, but this is all old hat for an experienced soundtrack fan. Williams' score for REVENGE OF THE SITH charts a varied path, from rollicking, 5/4 and quarter-time action material, to choral elegies, blistering brass fanfares and a 13-minute closing track that even encompasses the Throne Room music from the original STAR WARS. As soon as it wraps up, I want to listen to it again, but then I'm worried of wearing out its effect.
Now as fans and general audiences are being introduced to new stories and characters in the STAR WARS universe, the focus has returned to its origins, that being the tenets of the classic trilogy. I'm loving what's been presented thus far and am still in giddy awe of the simple fact that Han Solo, Luke Skywalker and Millennium Falcon populate the THE FORCE AWAKENS. It almost feels like a missing cinematic artifact from the 1980's catapulted through time somehow. Nevertheless, my passion for the prequels, and by extension the long-running "Clone Wars" TV series, hasn't dimmed. I realize I might be the oddball old-school fan. To me, it's like being a fan of the original STAR TREK series along with STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION - same universe, different flavors. Part of me enjoys delving into the fictional historicity of it, somewhat analogous to J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Silmarillion" providing background to "The Lord of The Rings". Another side of me ruminates on the symbolism and mythology present in the story's undercurrents. Then there is that other part that simply relishes seeing the adventures of young Obi-Wan Kenobi. Of it all, REVENGE OF THE SITH remains a potent distillation of everything I love about STAR WARS, while also embodying an emotional truth personally relevant to me.
As longtime readers already know, and mentioned in my initial post, this blog was inspired by a scene in HIGH FIDELITY, both the novel and movie. The blog's focus was to trace my life in an autobiographical fashion based on the soundtrack albums I collected, like following stepping stones across a stream. The events and memories that surrounded them and how they each led to the other was integral. So I disciplined myself to make sure each post centered on some personal episode tied to an album or movie, yet there are occasions when I'd like to talk about a score without a specific time and place context. Sometimes I just end up casually buying several awesome albums at Amoeba Records on a Sunday afternoon and nothing else momentous happens (except maybe excellent street parking). And what I bring home with me, the music contained on the discs could actually be momentous enough to blog about.
Since reaching my thirtieth post and nearly three years writing on my blog, I decided that it's time for a bit of evolution. First of all, now that I just wrote that opening statement it feels like that isn't very many posts to show for three years' worth. Feel free to judge, just do it silently. Granted, it can be a bear to carve out a stretch to devote to the blog amidst work and life. Also, I usually spend weeks on each post simply sifting through my thoughts and memories before setting down to write anything. I imagined my posts would be frequent. I still hope to write more often than I do, yet my concern is whether or not what I publish is of interest to anyone else. Today's post is certainly of a personal nature, not tethered to one incident but instead a span of six years.
Recently I attended a concert at the Ford Theater, here in Los Angeles. It was a concert celebrating the music of the television series LOST, hosted by showrunner/writer Carlton Cuse and composer Michael Giacchino, the latter of whom conducted the orchestra. The theater was packed with passionate fans, evident during the pre-show chat when they peppered Cuse and Giacchino with both adoration and questions. The main event featured some full cues from select episodes, some performed live to projected sequences, and also several ingeniously arranged suites. I've attended numerous film and TV music concerts since moving to L.A. nine years ago, but considering how often I listened to the soundtracks and revisited these episodes it was surreal to experience it all live. I realize this seems an obvious aspect for me of all people to point out. I mean, look at my blog for goodness' sake, yet during the LOST's time on air I buried myself in its music. So often it existed between my ears on headphones as I walked to work in downtown Chicago. And in terms of TV music, it became tattooed on my soul, along with the scores for STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION, BATMAN: THE ANIMATED SERIES and 1978's BATTLESTAR: GALACTICA.
The series spanned six seasons and I was a fervent fan from the start. I found it an intoxicating, potent mix of character, story, setting and music that kept me engaged intellectually and emotionally. Like the aforementioned STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION, it wound up being a consistent companion during major shifts in my life. While NEXT GEN paralleled my high school and college years, LOST trekked with me from living in Chicago to Los Angeles, through marriage and divorce and highlights and lowlights, some of which I find painful to recall. Not all TV shows that I enjoy really get their hooks deep into me, though. I think it's all due to the point in my life at which I'm exposed to the show, kind of like when NASA launches a probe into space at a precise moment in order to rendezvous with a planet at a specific point in its orbit. If I'd been any younger, older or at another revolution in my life's orbit, LOST might not have made such an impact upon landing.
For better or worse, I connected with the lead character of Jack Shephard (Matthew Fox) immediately. Among my friends, he wasn't the popular choice. He was the obvious hero, he was willfully stubborn, often self-righteous, qualities which hopefully aren't quite like me. It was probably easier to latch onto more modest or humble characters like Hurley or Desmond. Yet Jack became my constant through the series, much in the same manner as the character of Data in NEXT GEN. During my high school and college years, Data seemed to essay my own social awkwardness, the aim to fit in and belong while feeling apart and unlike others. With Jack Shephard, it was watching him struggle with his estranged father's unexpected death, his own failing marriage, along with pressuring himself to always make the perfect, right decision and striving to repair what appeared broken around him, in people and situations.
Granted, my father and I hadn't been estranged before he passed away. Nevertheless, it was a powerful thread for me to follow, especially in the early, surreal scenes of Jack chasing his father's ghost on the island and then stumbling across the splintered, empty coffin. Much later, the closing sequence of the series finale left me raw. It's not often that I shed tears with such abandon. Not only did I imagine myself meeting my father again in a similar fashion as Jack, but the guidance he shared contained lessons I sorely needed. Hell, I probably still need to take heed. The advice to Jack was to "let go", which I interpreted as letting go of how we attempt to control all aspects of our life. It can create a sense of panic, an anxiety, when we seem unable to control all facets. In addition, another shade of letting go is forgiveness - to forgive others, yes, but also to forgive oneself. Forgiving others allows one to move forward or move on, both emotionally and practically. Learning to forgive yourself can help break down the bars in our self-made cages, those cages we sometimes create out of fear or shame and which keep us locked in place, developmentally speaking. Hearing such sage advice at the close of a favorite show, reframed it all for me and it felt as if I was hearing this spoken by my own father.
To discuss the LOST's music specifically for a moment, composer Michael Giacchino devised a wonderful way to provide the show its own unique soundscape. In the best tradition of film composing greats Bernard Herrmann and Jerry Goldsmith, he eschewed a standard symphonic orchestra set up and instead limited his palate to just strings, four trombones, piano and varied percussion (timpani, boobams, drums, things that clang, etc). No woodwinds, no supplemental brass. It was a sparse and spare sound that mirrored the characters' living conditions on a (seemingly) deserted island. Herrmann and Goldsmith set the bar as far as changing up their "band" for each movie, the former famously for PSYCHO (1960) with its "strings only" approach and the latter on CHINATOWN (1974) by relying only on strings, piano, percussion and solo trumpet. Sometimes the project demands its own sound and sometimes, I think, this is done just for a creative exercise. With LOST, Giacchino achieved his goal brilliantly, notably in this current age of television scoring landscape clouded interchangeable drum loops and drones. He never wavered from this instrumental grouping, even though I half-expected him to expand it for the series finale, maybe as a powerful send-off.
But it wasn't only the particular sound of the score that elevated each episode. Giacchino was composing and displaying a multitude of distinct themes and motifs, for characters, for places and situations, themes that were often laid bare on the soundtrack to the exclusion of all else. The first season brought forth themes for Jack, Kate, two for John Locke and even a jaunty tune for traveling across the island. That same season's finale also announced a soaring theme, bursting with hope, for the launching of a ramshackle raft out to the open sea. When first seeing this sequence as it aired, I was floored at how openly expressive and emotional the music was allowed to be, breathing such life and soul into the images, surprising for television in the 2000's.
I've always loved the fact that Giacchino cut his compositional teeth in television, before moving fully into motion pictures. Those years of smaller ensembles, tight deadlines and no time for second guessing on both ALIAS and LOST lays a groundwork similar to where Jerry Goldsmith and John Williams began. Goldsmith once described how it helped him solve problems quickly on the scoring stage and to make the most of minimal resources, such as only 10-12 performers on an episode of THE TWILIGHT ZONE. I imagine Giacchino gained a similar skill set, along with honing his own personal style. The two strongest qualities inherent in all his music is a sense of play and a direct, emotional sincerity. The sense of play is front and center in his scores for Pixar and the revamped STAR TREK and MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE film franchises. The emotional sincerity underpins throughout, only migrating subtly into the spotlight subtly at select moments. Even when scoring something menacing, especially in scenes in LOST, there is an enthusiasm in the music, as it discovers new ways to jolt. In a way, his music simply feels pleased and proud to play a part in the overall experience enveloping the audience, without a trace of cynicism or irony.
Continuing with LOST, Giacchino added fresh melodic ideas each season, culminating in the sixth and final season, which I find showcases the richest musical treasures, including a heartbreaking theme used in only one episode, "Ab Aeterno". LOST is the TV equivalent of what John Williams has accomplished in his seven STAR WARS scores and Howard Shore in his for the LORD OF THE RINGS and THE HOBBIT film series. In these rare cases, a talented composer first unpacks colorful and memorable ideas onto the page. Then, embellishment to the work progresses over many years, as unheard themes meet the original thematic inhabitants, blending into unique relationships. The layering and enriching of the music is akin to the weaving of an intricate tapestry. I find that this brilliantly reinforces the most memorable, indelible aspect of LOST itself, that of the characters. We're introduced to the survivors, then watch this group expand and adjust each season to new players, all mingling and interacting in fascinating combinations. I wonder, was it all so that they could learn from each other to "let go", to forgive? Is this what people in our own lives are there to teach us?
In STAR TREK V: THE FINAL FRONTIER, released in June 1989, there is a moment when Captain Kirk (William Shatner) says to a stunned Spock (Leonard Nimoy), "You look as if you've seen a ghost". Spock replies back to Kirk, "Perhaps I have, Captain, perhaps I have". That very same Summer, during a week when I was eagerly awaiting this movie yet was entrenched in a family trip to Texas, I had the very same experience as Spock. I was sure I had seen a ghost. I can still place myself to when it happened and the image remains clear while other memories from that time are starting to run like rain-soaked watercolors. I want to tell that ghost story here, as it's my only such story, along with a snapshot of me as the burgeoning STAR TREK fan that year. Being that 2016 is the 50th anniversary of this American pop culture icon, I can't help but add my voice to the chorus, though you could toss a bitcoin in any virtual direction on the internet and strike a blog post about STAR TREK.
Mom, Dad and my sisters Erin and Meri spent at least a week or more in McAllen, TX during the month of June 1989. The trip's motivation was somber as my maternal grandmother, who all of us kids called "Dear", had passed away just prior to Christmas, from emphysema. Rumors later looped through the family that her husband, called "Gramps", seemed resigned to let go his own mortal coil on any given day. My Mom looked to be losing both her parents in a span of six months, thus it became imperative that we visit soon. Once school wrapped up (high school sophomore year for me), the three-day road trip from North Carolina commenced. Is it just me or didn't it seem "de rigueur" back in the day that families more often than not drove to all destinations, no matter the distance, instead of piling onto planes? Sure, air travel would be quicker, but I think parents were far more stingy then. For us, time spent on the freeways between states provided my Dad hours in which to power through all his mix tapes, both new and old, from The Beatles to Bach to big band. It gave me the time to delve further into any and all STAR TREK paraphernalia I'd packed with me.
A word first about Dear, for some context. When comparing my two grandmothers, Dear was always second place. No other grandmother could match my dad's mom for sheer warmth, wit and fun. Alternately, my lingering memories of Dear involve me sitting quietly at her yellow linoleum kitchen table, drinking a short glass of Tang orange juice, while she smoked her cigarettes and grimaced in my direction. She was tall, very thin, with hair styled in the standard "high & tight" for women of a certain age. I remember her being very curt, sometimes gruff, but I wonder if now that I am older, would I have appreciated these qualities of hers. An elderly lady of her dapper stature, fingering a cigarette and heedlessly delivering caustic judgments of everyone sounds certifiably charming. However, for a small child and eventual teenager, Dear unsettled me.
When we arrived, the situation at their house in McAllen was a bit disheveled. Many of Dear and Gramps' belongings had previously been boxed up and their bedroom, which I so rarely dared enter as a kid, was the most cramped. This is when I learned that I'd been assigned to share the room with Gramps. And moreover, that I would be sleeping in Dear's former bed. It had been set perpendicular to his with a tall padded arm chair placed awkwardly between, facing his bed. It was clear that Dear and Gramps lived in real life as Rob and Laura did on TV's "The Dick Van Show", that is in separate twin beds. Do we yet know whether this sleeping arrangement was a case of art imitating life or did the depiction of chaste married life on television wield that much influence? My dad's parents had the same set up and I would wonder, inappropriately, did they ever share the same bed? Needless to say, I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of my room assignment. I was in fact spooked. No offense to Gramps, but I felt as if I was inviting spectral grimaces from Dear by sharing the space with him.
Yet even when headed to bed in a slightly skittish state that first night, I never expected anything unusual. Even though when we're younger, we seem more inclined to believe in what we can't see and that strange, possibly supernatural occurrences have a real possibility of happening to us. Before carefully creeping into Dear's old bed, I ensured the closet light remained on. The closet doors were of the slatted variety so that light streamed outward across the dark room in parallel amber shafts. I recall Gramps was already sleeping fitfully in his twin bed. The padded arm chair still oddly demarcated the room, its back towards me. After eventually nodding off, my next memory is of waking suddenly.
I lay on my right side. As my eyes adjusted to dimly-lit room, I noticed something strange when focusing on the back of that chair. It no longer appeared empty. I felt I was looking at the back of someone's head, someone now sitting in that chair, someone staring in the direction of Gramps. To me, the hair on this head showcased the high & tight style sported by Dear. My stomach immediately twisted into a knot and dropped. Though I felt paralyzed with dread, I managed to slowly rotate onto my back, fixating on the closet light instead. I resisted turning back towards the chair to confirm what I glimpsed, I just eventually fell asleep again. In the morning I relayed the entire event to my Mom, who was fully onboard and never once doubted its validity. She even shared that the housekeeper made similar claims of seeing Dear walking across rooms. What I find funny now is how much fear I felt, as if I'd witnessed the ghost of Jacob Marley instead of my own grandmother. No matter how surly I found her in life, should I have been so frightened to possibly encounter her ghost?
Our Texas sabbatical continued without further apparition sightings, by me or anyone else. I wished I'd been able to take in a viewing of STAR TREK V that week, but I wasn't going to press the point or drag along unwilling family members. So as a suitable substitute, during a renewing excursion to the local McAllen mall, I raided their bookstore for copies of the official movie novelization, the special glossy interview magazine, the DC comic book edition and the audio book, read by none other than George Takei (his respectable vocal impressions of Shatner and the cast are highly entertaining). I then scoured their humble record store and thankfully found the soundtrack on cassette. In lieu of actually watching the movie, I inundated myself with all the ancillary material. I was enthralled by it all. Maybe it's because I was still a rookie Trekkie. Maybe I was still gathering context of what was widely considered "good" Star Trek, but regardless I totally grokked STAR TREK V. Funny enough, I never saw the film itself until a year later when it aired on HBO, which for better or worse granted me plenty of time to read what little praise it drew from critics, not to mention the negative response from most Trek fans. I remain a very forgiving fan to this day.
The score by Jerry Goldsmith was rightly and roundly lauded by many, however. It'd been ten years since his previous score for the series, that being 1979's STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE. Ironically, back then he also found himself singled out universally for acclaim against generally mixed reviews for the film overall. I eagerly awaited this album, imagining in my head what I hoped the music would sound like. By that Summer, I only owned six or seven Goldsmith soundtracks, so very far off from where I stand now, at somewhere around one hundred fifty. STAR TREK V became a lasting favorite. It sported energetic variations of his martial main title from THE MOTION PICTURE, a return to his pulse-pounding Klingon theme and a wealth of new material, even the shortest cues contained engaging musical ideas. For this film's story of an exiled, enigmatic Vulcan and his quest for the Supreme Being, Goldsmith composed varying recurring motives to score the wondrous, the dangerous and the personal qualities of the quest. It's a layered, ambitious work that even has notes to spare for a unique theme to musically paint the friendship between Kirk, Spock and McCoy.
Sadly, there would be another family Texas trip later in the Fall, another made under a sorrowful shade, as Gramps had passed away. I think we all agreed this was due to a broken heart. There wasn't really any evident medical reason for his death. Apparently, everyone who knew him closely observed the emptiness he felt deepening each day. It's one reason why I never scoff at the potency of such aching heartbreak and how we can crumble physically under its weight, to the point of our own passing. It certainly colors my sole ghostly sighting differently, now that my years have migrated beyond that initial spooked sensation. I've relayed this story often, highlighting my panic in the moment, but then I began imagining the purpose for why it took place. Dear was there to watch over Gramps. I realize this episode can be rationalized away by skeptics. I choose to believe in my memory, mostly because it seems right and good that Dear would continue to comfort her husband after her death. Gramps had felt his life become hollowed with her loss and maybe I witnessed a modest indication that she never really left his side. It seems like small scraps to hold on to, but it brings me comfort as I can envision my Dad's spirit continuing to look after my Mom, me and my sisters, maybe even sitting beside us as we sleep.
In this particular post, I wanted to flip the topic from last time on its head. Whereas before I was exploring the concept of "deep cuts" within a film composer's canon, I now feel inclined to focus on those "big ticket" scores, the titles that catch the attention of general audiences worldwide. Precious few composers in the business attain that notoriety, however briefly, when the spotlight swivels towards them. Often it's due to the movie itself striking a chord with the public and as a result, the music, and by extension, the soundtrack album charts successfully on Billboard and winds up in the collections of people who don't normally seek out soundtracks. There was 1965's DOCTOR ZHIVAGO by Maurice Jarre, with its waltzing "Lara's Theme" emanating from radios and department stores everywhere. Elmer Bernstein's brawny theme for THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN raised the bar for all Westerns in 1960 and then accompanied the Marlboro Man on TV commercials, while Ennio Morricone's THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY set an expected new standard for the sound of the genre. Years later, John Williams' STAR WARS and James Horner's TITANIC albums sold millions. Then there is my target for this post, John Barry's score for 1990's Oscar-winning epic, DANCES WITH WOLVES.
Back in 1990, I owned exactly one soundtrack featuring music by John Barry. It was 1987's THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS, the first of two movies in the James Bond series starring Timothy Dalton. And it was on cassette. I hadn't yet ventured into tracking down more of Barry's music for 007 or even the other immensely popular scores of his by that time - BORN FREE, SOMEWHERE IN TIME and OUT OF AFRICA. I was still pinching pennies and selecting purchases very carefully. I also needed more time to truly plug into Barry, his unique sound and approach. I think a more mature mindset had to develop, an understanding and appreciation of how he incorporated jazz idioms early on before moving into his more lush, romantic stage. In THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS, I not only discovered a Bond film that's remained a favorite of mine, but also a fantastic score from Barry brimming with so much variety - three memorable songs, from which he drew melodies for danger, action and romance, a more pop-influenced rhythmic element and gorgeous music for the desert-set sequences. I'd found my first entry point into the world of John Barry.
DANCES WITH WOLVES became that quintessential, late-era John Barry score, attaining and even overtaking the heights he achieved with OUT OF AFRICA in 1985. Every major review mentioned its impact on the film, audiences everywhere fell in love with it and even radio friendly versions of the main theme hinged to a pop backbeat were produced. It became the second John Barry soundtrack I purchased. Barry's contribution proved to the absolute soul of the movie. It never simply filled the silence or existed as generic window-dressing. It was specific in its use and had a point of view, qualities evident in music from the very best film composers. The score eloquently speaks for the open land, its indigenous people and for John Dunbar's yearning to belong to something greater than himself. Without feeling overstuffed or haphazard, it's a multi-faceted work showcasing nearly a dozen themes and motifs, while maintaining a clarity of purpose behind each cue. The John Barry sound embarked on the 1960's as quixotic and jazz-tinged, later blossoming in the late 70's into a richer orchestral arena. It is this latter stage which reached its apotheosis in DANCES WITH WOLVES. What remained consistent throughout and what an interested listener can follow is Barry's song-like structure of his cues (verse/chorus/verse), his preferred harmonic and melodic intervals and the subtly bittersweet nature inherent in all his music.
I don't think I wound up seeing the movie itself until early '91, however. It was released in November 1990, during the era when popular movies stuck around in cinemas for months on end, allowing slowpokes to eventually catch it and even return for subsequent screenings. This was how my sister Meri and I went back to watch TERMINATOR 2 and JURASSIC PARK three times each. Nowadays, there exists instead a panicked rush by studios to quickly migrate every movie into homes and streaming networks. I think this simply results in a faster route to each movie becoming completely disposable and forgotten.
Anyway, my senior year in high school was in full swing, chock-a-block with juggling classes alongside the Fall theater production. Of course, I suspect that when compared to today's high school students' stacked agendas, mine was pretty darn paltry, but I digress. My social calendar finally had spiked - dates, party invites, lunch companions - ever since the year before. I'd silently hoped this would happen throughout those turgid preceding grades. The theater geeks and band nerds welcomed me into their colorful fold. A number of us had formed a fairly tight circle both in and out of school, our own non-threatening posse of bright-eyed actors, singers and musicians, full of promise and light on angst. We never gave our respective parents much reason to pause and worry when we gathered together. No one returned home smelling of booze and cigarettes (that I know of). Maybe we were all collectively, unknowingly saving up those regretful adventures for college and beyond.
When we all assembled on a Winter day at the movies to see DANCES WITH WOLVES, our group occupied an entire row. I remember sitting next to Paula. She played trumpet in the marching band and orchestra for our theater productions. The reason I mention this item is due to a scene early in the film when Kevin Costner's character, John Dunbar, is being ferried by covered wagon to his new assignment in the wilderness, that of Fort Sedgwick. The centerpiece of this sequence is an incredible wide shot, pulling back, of the tiny horse-drawn wagon meekly cutting through the middle of a vast valley. As the camera keeps retreating further back, John Barry's underscore continues to soar upwards. It's a unique cue in the score, constructed from a new theme composed only for this sequence and not referred to again. Its led by a vaulting melodic line for the French horns which plays fully several times before climbing an octave and at that moment, I recall both Paula and I sitting forward in our seats, lost in the tune and each playing invisible horns with our fingers. I still mimic playing brass instruments as I listen, when not air-conducting, but back then I wasn't sure whether or not it was strange until I spied Paula doing the same thing. I didn't feel so odd anymore.
Several months later, one weekend afternoon, Paula and I were chatting on the phone, the old handheld variety, of course. We'd decided to attend prom together, even though we weren't really dating or romantically involved. I think it seemed like a natural decision to both of us; we had such easygoing fun together. In addition, there was a tendency in our immediate circle to couple up, possibly for safety and familiarity. In our case, the friendship wasn't capable of progressing past platonic, though. The fuel that launches a close friendship isn't always the same propellant which can fire up a romance. Maybe unconsciously neither of us wanted it hard enough. So on this particular phone call, she said she had something to share with me and, following a few silent moments, I heard her playing "The John Dunbar Theme" on her trumpet. I was so damn impressed. Here was a girl I was taking to the prom, playing a John Barry-composed theme on her trumpet over the phone for me. I've listened to this score far too many times to count over the years and I can't help but be reminded of this memory each time that solo trumpet opens and closes the album.
Returning to my main topic, when I'm talking soundtracks with most people, often the initial assumption is that my personal favorites align with high profile popular titles, the aforementioned STAR WARS, TITANIC, DOCTOR ZHIVAGO, THE LION KING, etc. As stellar as these scores are (sidebar - even as a major fan of James Horner, I never felt that TITANIC approached his best work), I normally lean towards the "deep cuts", the under appreciated gems. Maybe I could chalk it up to a "too cool for school" mentality, akin to how in a hipster cliques there might be pressure to prefer only bands that no one else has heard of. Maybe I'm just aiming at unpredictably or showboating my vast movie music knowledge. Honestly, I can't help what I love (or don't). And in the case of the very well-known, award-winning, top-selling DANCES WITH WOLVES, I unashamedly list it among my personal favorites.
A dozen more projects for John Barry trailed after this, some quite notable like CHAPLIN (1992), however it was becoming sadly apparent that his distinct musical voice and viewpoint was less in demand, while ironically still sorely needed in film. I think DANCES WITH WOLVES represents major turning points both within the context of its story and also professionally for its composer. We as the audience witness the turning point of one man's life into significance, juxtaposed against the turning point to diminishment of an entire Native American tribe. Arguably, the film represents the last major highpoint of Barry's career in film scoring. What DANCES WITH WOLVES portrays onscreen, that of the passing of an era and way of life, both by its visuals and observed narratively by the character of John Dunbar, could almost parallel how Barry's musical gifts became hemmed in, dismissed and pushed aside by the progression of a homogenized modernity.
I'd like to borrow from the parlance of pop music and talk about the concept of "deep cuts", specifically with regards to the music of John Williams. The term is often used to describe those songs nestled "deep" into an album, past the radio-friendly cuts kicking off Side One, and yet are as memorable, integral and important expressions from that artist or group. Some mights say that this is where you discover those hidden gems, the buried treasures that reward the devoted listeners whose fascination extends beyond the popular tracks presented to general audiences. Knowledge of the deep cuts is where you separate the casual fans from the fervent. Gleaning this knowledge creates the aficionado, the cognoscenti, or in simpler terms, the crazy people diligently seeking out bootlegs and B-sides by their favorite artists, at garage sales and second-hand stores across the States. It's the kind of person too ready and eager to make you a mix tape or playlist at the mere hint of curiosity about said artist.
On The Beatles' mega-popular, gotta-own-it album "Revolver", for each "Taxman" and "Eleanor Rigby", songs that seeped into our public consciousness, there is a "Doctor Robert" and an "I'm Only Sleeping" which are seldom heard. From The Smashing Pumpkins' "Siamese Dream", a staple of 90's rock, most everyone bought this record for the track "Today". For me it was the innermost tunes on the disc, "Soma" and "Geek U.S.A.", that I would repeatedly play and include on every pop mix tape I compiled. When talking movie music and "deep cuts", instead of referring to songs set far into grooves of a pop record, I think this term can apply to scores that wind up unfortunately unnoticed by both fans and the public. Even among soundtrack collectors, there are rare albums only a few own or scores for films that are best forgotten. There are even some composers whose entire career in the industry could be considered a deep cut (sorry, Roy Budd and Russell Garcia!). Meanwhile, the major names in film music - John Williams, Henry Mancini, Ennio Morricone, John Barry, Danny Elfman, Jerry Goldsmith, Elmer Bernstein, Bernard Herrmann - each have works that permeated our culture, like The Beatles, but their brilliance extends to all corners of their respective canons.
So, returning to my initial mention of Williams, during a recent binge listen of his scores from the late 1970's, including FAMILY PLOT (1976), BLACK SUNDAY (1977), JAWS 2 (1978) and THE FURY (1978), I noted that these would most certainly be considered "deep cuts" in the catalogue of his works. I remembered how when I was a young fan newly settling in to collecting his music, apprenticing in absentia to Mr. Williams if you may, so little of his output was known to me. As far as I knew then, that decade consisted of JAWS (1975), STAR WARS (1977), CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND (1977) and SUPERMAN (1978). I simply hadn't been exposed to much else by him at that time, outside of his dual themes for the 1960's TV series LOST IN SPACE. It stands to reason that even now, these four scores represent what most general audiences find familiar by Williams. They are the titles that ring the bell of remembrance for casual concert and movie-goers. And yet, despite how incredible these aforementioned works are, there is so much aural reward to be found in his other efforts in the latter years of 1970's.
With John Williams, his post-STAR WARS career, for good reason, became more well-represented on album than during the years prior. When I began collecting with purpose, I picked up the heavy-hitters, but soon learned about all those non-genre, non-blockbuster projects and wondered how much they might or might not sound like SUPERMAN. Early on, before I learned about "deep cuts", I compared this to charting the bridges that connect a long string of large islands. If JAWS, STAR WARS, CLOSE ENCOUNTERS and SUPERMAN can be labeled as the "big island" scores for Williams in the late 70's, then the "bridges" spanning these sizable landmarks would be scores such as BLACK SUNDAY, THE FURY, DRACULA and JAWS 2, among others. For me, it was important to understand and absorb what preceded the big ticket scores as well as what the in-betweeners sounded like. Basically, what led into and out of the "islands".
JAWS 2 and THE FURY, both composed in 1978, were the first deep cut/bridging scores of Williams that I purchased. It was sometime in 1991. I was bowled over by the excellence evident in both. When speaking of the former, one could be forgiven for assuming it only borrows heavily from its predecessor, the Oscar-winning score for JAWS. However, while the shark theme underpins much of the score's running time, it simultaneously is brimming with a freshness of melody and energy, from ebullient scherzos coloring the sailing sequences to frenetic and vicious music underscoring the copious shark attacks. Even the film's montage of beach-goers which echoes the first film's sequence of arriving vacationers is scored in an entirely different manner, while still robustly orchestral. Williams didn't rest on his laurels in the slightest, though it was the first occasion he scored a sequel to his own work and in addition, director Steven Spielberg wasn't involved. Over the years, I've found that both he and Jerry Goldsmith excelled at never settling to simply rehash material when hired to write music for a follow-up of theirs.
THE FURY is an unusual thriller about telekinetic young adults, starring an aged Kirk Douglas and directed by Brian DePalma, who has always laid bare in his movies his admiration of Alfred Hitchcock, this often extending to the musical direction. Williams's music here shares a few similarities with Bernard Herrmann, Alfred Hitchcock's house composer of choice and movie music titan in his own, bulldozing right. First, there is a shared brooding quality expressed by the low-range woodwinds. Secondly, a revolving motivic figure that opens the score and reoccurs throughout seems inspired by Herrmann's main theme from VERTIGO. Interestingly enough, Williams scored Hitchcock's final film, FAMILY PLOT, in the year preceding the game-changing STAR WARS. Beyond these elements, THE FURY remains inherently a score bearing the distinct stamp of Williams's music in late 1970's - all sections of the rich, full orchestra utilized effectively in a concert classical sense, with swelling horns and tutti exclamations join a balletic sense motion also present in SUPERMAN and CLOSE ENCOUNTERS. If someone new to collecting soundtracks asked me to recommend titles in the same vein as his most well-known works, JAWS 2 and THE FURY would top that list.
As I discovered and delved into each deep cut, a more well-rounded understanding of Williams, or at least his music, emerged. I think that's what drives some fans, the need to collect all the pieces of a particular puzzle, that puzzle being an artist's work. How did they get from point A to point B in their writing or their composing? Of course, with film/TV composition, much of this is determined by the project itself, the genre in which it resides, as it charts what course the composer needs to follow. But for those listeners with a well-attuned ear you can track influences and interests that accompanied the composer in question on this course. With Williams' late 70's deep cuts, there is a complexity in orchestration and neo-Classical influence inherent throughout, but the brooding quality of THE FURY (and DRACULA, by extension) is unique, along with the savagery in much of his JAWS 2 score.
Only in recent years was I finally able to hear his work for BLACK SUNDAY and FAMILY PLOT, thanks to tenacious small soundtrack labels releasing limited edition albums. The former is a thriller concerned with home-grown terrorism, steeped in post-Vietnam disillusionment while the latter is director Alfred Hitchcock's final presentation of his light-hearted approach to criminal activities. Funny enough, both star Bruce Dern. Suspense and tension dominate both films and Williams responds in kind, although BLACK SUNDAY is a sparse and chilling approach while FAMILY PLOT is peppered with harpsichord and organ, enough to maintain a tongue-in-cheek quality. In addition, FAMILY PLOT's main theme is a catchy, airy almost alluring tune expressed by female choir, flutes, harp and the aforementioned harpsichord. The evocative choral work is continued on in his music for CLOSE ENCOUNTERS, one year later. Meanwhile, over in BLACK SUNDAY, there are determined, odd-meter, persistent rhythms propelling its stern action music, leading the way towards SUPERMAN, yet with few of the bright flourishes that eventually accompany the Man of Steel's adventures.
There is a soul-shaking experience when the work of an artist reaches into your heart and mind and creates there an impression, an impact crater so to speak, which forever alters your emotional landscape. It's that song you chanced upon on the radio during a road trip or a mix tape compiled by an ex that winds up striking straight to your core, converting you into an ardent fan of that band or songwriter. Granted, the art in question could not only be music, but also theater, sculpture, the printed word, or the moving image. The impact can stir the affected to investigate more of what that specific artist has produced. While it's been said in song that "the first cut is the deepest", for the ardent fan I think the hope is that uncovered "deep cuts" prove to be just as memorable as the first.
I was thinking recently about the concept of pen pals. I wondered, is this even a thing now? Or can the concept be considered an antiquated notion, like a calculator watch, in this era of instant and constant connectedness by way of social media? The shrinking of the world by digital insinuation into every hour of each day contributes heavily to this new state of living. With a few clicks online, we can connect with almost anyone across oceans, living in far-flung habitats. Through the portals of Facebook or Twitter, a "pen pal" can be found in short order and virtual friendships can be nurtured. Communication certainly occurs at an infinitely faster pace than it did prior to when were became caught up in the World Wide Web. Indeed, it all requires far less patience-building than I experienced in the late 80's with my one and only analogue pen pal, Conrad from Canada, my first friend in film music.
I discovered Conrad's address in an issue of "Starlog", a science-fiction movie magazine I've mentioned previously as my initial source for film music information, however infrequent it was reported. This was 1988 and he'd submitted a letter to the magazine regarding a Jerry Goldsmith interview they had published. It had focused on his work on LEGEND, POLTERGEIST and ALIEN NATION, the latter a score not actually used in the movie. I remember re-reading this interview often, committing details to memory and imagining what these scores sounded like, since I hadn't been exposed to them yet. In earlier issues of "Starlog", I'd devoured interviews with James Horner and Leonard Rosenman, the latter brimming with caustic comments from Rosenman, who it turns out was simply being his normal caustic self.
Anyway, at that time a person's full address could be printed in magazine letters column. On reflection, this seems both a blessing and a curse... probably more of a curse, seeing as how I took it upon myself to contact this person named Conrad, who lived in Canada. I wish I could locate that specific issue of "Starlog" in order to revisit his letter. What was it that he wrote to motivate me to respond? Did he ask for fellow fans to reply back? Honestly, it was the first such letter I'd seen from a fellow film music aficionado and I just wanted to chat. There were so few written resources available on the topic of music for the movies, at least in North Carolina, and this person Conrad seemed to hold all, or some, of the knowledge.
In the pre-net era, fans (nerds, actually) of any sort mostly met by way of personal letters, the aforementioned magazine letter columns as well as self-published "fanzines". Perennial events such as conventions began emerging in the 70's, thanks to STAR TREK and Comic-Con, but they often set up shop in places too distant for many to attend. So, it wasn't unusual to hear or read stories about small fan communities sprouting up and enduring purely via letter writing. When I would peruse excerpts from the unofficial TREK magazines, I was always impressed by the diligence and devotion of fans to stay connected and in communication in what now seems like a laborious fashion. I'm sure there were long-distance phone calls and unofficial gatherings, but it wasn't that odd to foster friendships and sometimes romantic relationships by way of putting pen to paper and stamp to envelope. So, despite my mom thinking this mysterious Canadian was suspicious (not really sure what kind of danger I was in), I initiated contact, asking all about his soundtrack collection, what he liked and where the heck could I find a copy of STAR TREK II on album.
Conrad's replies were always immaculately typed. Only his closing signature was in his own writing. It somehow made his letters more of an event to receive and read, as if they originated direct from the President of the United States. He always capitalized the full title of a movie, instead of placing it in italics or quotes, and it's a style which has carried over into my own writing here, funny enough. His impressions on film music helped shaped my own views early on. When he described how he considered the first LP of the double LP SUPERMAN: THE MOVIE set as the strongest (all that evocative music for Krypton and Smallville), it redirected how I thought about the score. He later mentioned how he rarely listened to the original STAR WARS soundtrack simply because he knew it too well, leading me to worry I could "wear out" a score, that I instead needed parcel out my listens and savor it. My paltry amount of albums and overall knowledge probably came across as naive, yet he always seemed glad to answer any question. To assist, Conrad began including with his letters black & white facsimiles of articles from UK movie magazines. Each stack of stapled copies were chock-a-block with film composer interviews, reviews and anecdotes. I sincerely hope it didn't cost him much in 1980's Canadian dollars to make these copies.
Soon enough, he offered to send cassette dubs of those hard-to-find and out-of-print LPs I inquired about, as long as I first delivered the blank tapes and return postage. Perhaps Conrad took pity on my tragic situation of sparsely-stocked record stores in North Carolina, coupled with a lack of cash inherent to being a high schooler. Either way, he suddenly became my Santa Claus of soundtracks. I felt like I could ask for almost any soundtrack that peaked my curiosity - STAR TREK II, KRULL, DUNE, RAMBO: FIRST BLOOD PART II, THE SECRET OF N.I.M.H, ALIEN.... music that elevated their respective movies (no matter what you think of KRULL) and made indelible impressions on my newly laid foundation of fandom, like messages carved into wet cement. These scores bolstered the bedrock of my fascination with the art.
Since the cassettes were transfers from LPs, slight pops and ticks were endemic to the recordings. I eventually became so familiar with these sonic artifacts that even after obtaining official versions on pristine CDs and listening to them for years, I can still hear those pops and ticks in my head exactly where they were. On the copy of KRULL that Conrad sent, a brief warble marred the last cut, the "Epilogue and End Title", as if someone had leaned on the record as it spun. I could never bring myself to ask him to revisit and re-do that particular cassette, it seemed discourteous to do so. Then I grew so accustomed to it that I half expect to hear it now when my digital version plays.
RAMBO: FIRST BLOOD PART II and THE SECRET OF N.I.M.H. helped expand my Jerry Goldsmith collection past STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE and PATTON. With the former movie, I didn't pay it or its initial installment, FIRST BLOOD, much attention at the time, but curiosity motivated me to catch its broadcast on cable, probably in anticipation of that Summer's upcoming release of RAMBO III. During the film's climactic helicopter chase through claustrophobic jungles and over twisting, shallow riverbeds of Vietnam, Goldsmith's music pounded victoriously with heart and something in the arcing string lines captivated me. And geez, did I totally dig Goldsmith's sizzling synth sounds augmenting the orchestra. I added it to my next request list for Conrad. As for the animated N.I.M.H., ever since watching it years earlier with the family on a rented Beta tape, I'd been haunted by the prickly cue underscoring a nightmare sequence of the movie's enhanced yet caged rodents undergoing sinister experiments in a human laboratory.
Tacked onto the last minutes of the cassette copy of Jerry Goldsmith's, ALIEN, Conrad included bonus tracks from the score for FREUD, from 1962, also by Goldsmith. Hearing these, plus referring to his notes, educated me on how the cues from the latter score had actually been licensed and used in ALIEN, all due to director Ridley Scott having become enamored of them during the temping process. Production trivia of this variety I absolutely adored and absorbed. It was a revelatory to experience these scores isolated from the images and yet also to understand the prolonged process of their creation, the obstacles, the wildly divergent personalities that willed these collaborative artistic endeavors into being. Story, directing and music were my favorite aspects of filmmaking. Music was often not covered in much detail in standard literary sources, so what Conrad mailed scratched quite an itch for me.
Maintaining a pen pal friendship, especially with someone from outside the States, provided me a small, insightful glimpse of life beyond high school, my family and the borders of home. Possibly a perfunctory observation, I realize, considering that this endeavor was often a scholastic assignment for many during grade school years. I'm sure there were some kids who successfully kept in touch with their pen pals long after the sixth grade ended. In my situation, though, I had reached out to a complete stranger, an adult no less, in a strange land, simply in hope of learning more about movie music, compelled by a comment published in a magazine. There wasn't much sharing of personal details between us that I can recall. It wasn't that kind of friendship. Maybe this is just standard for when men develop friendships over a shared hobby. Despite trading letters every few months over the course of several years, I never knew Conrad's age, except that he was older, nor his marital status or job. There were no phone calls, just the words exchanged silently alongside the occasional gift of music.
Contact wound down once college enveloped me. In some ways, it was akin to when one loses touch with friends left miles behind after graduation ends, friends whom you'd once been unable to live one day without. My world opened wide and there was so much new that flooded in that it seemed to wash away the old. Sadly, this included my Canadian pen pal. I certainly don't mean to diminish or dismiss the peers I made in high school, who allowed me to finally, publicly geek out in the best manner. A love of movie music was even shared by a small group of us. But Conrad fit the mold of that wise and knowledgeable elder, the Obi-wan Kenobi character who first instructed me on the art and business of film scoring. In the ensuing years, I pursued this knowledge on my own or later by way of the ever-expanded community of fans, so many brought together thanks to Film Score Monthly, but that's best saved for another post.
Lastly, it's disheartening that I now can't locate any of Conrad's letters. I thought I had been so organized, as some scattered samples survived frequent moves across North Carolina, then to Chicago and finally here to Los Angeles. I had hoped to scan them to post here. Maybe in the future, like the Ark of the Covenant, I'll uncover them amid boxes of randomness, still kept in the yellowing envelopes with Canadian postage.
Grandparents, algebra and THE ROAD WARRIOR: three things you'll never catch grouped together yet all were significant signposts for my Summer 1988. Beginning with the latter, back then THE ROAD WARRIOR was a movie I knew only by reputation, thanks to multiple mentions in sci-fi magazines like Starlog (I realize I seem to write that often). Its trend-setting post-apocalyptic world had become well-recognized, along with the far-out characters and vehicles, while its breakneck and hard to duplicate action kept the audiences riveted. The soundtrack was an album I often noticed in the record store racks and contemplated picking up. It sported such striking cover art which alone almost made it worth the purchase price. Musically, I hoped it would feature an exciting orchestral score. However, knowing nothing of the film's composer, Brian May, it could well have consisted of wailing guitars and pounding drums (hello, MAD MAX: FURY ROAD!). I never seemed to find the movie being broadcast on TV in those days of far fewer cable channels, probably because TBS was too busy constantly showing THE BEASTMASTER. So, I either needed to make a blind soundtrack buy or rent it from the local video store.
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.
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.
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.
