KRULL and RAMBO, ALIEN and N.I.M.H....

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.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CwQZ9UrnyJw

THE ROAD WARRIOR (1982)

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.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgiiSCFaNXk

CONAN THE BARBARIAN (1982)

Like many nerds, I met CONAN THE BARBARIAN when I was a teen-ager in the 80's. Wait a minute, let me rephrase that. I should instead clarify that I was introduced to the character, along with the concept of what an R-rated sword and sorcery movie looked and sounded like. Previously, I had only a passing familiarity with the CONAN novels and comics books purely from browsing the Sci-Fi & Fantasy section at book stores.  I'd never been motivated to fully investigate his specific world, created by author Robert E. Howard. Maybe the color-saturated muscle-bound cover art seemed too far outside my usual reading wheelhouse of space stations and starships. So, when the 1982 movie adaptation, led by Arnold Schwarzenegger, was selected by a friend of mine as a home video rental for a scheduled sleepover, I held only a vague idea of what to expect. I'd heard rumors its contents included plenty of blood and boobs, but by the time the main credits began the lasting impression for me was from the powerful, hypnotic and engaging music the film showcases, composed by the late, great Basil Poledouris.

The aforementioned sleepover was hosted by a friend of mine named Jeremy.  We'd first met back in the sixth grade while both attending school in Durham, NC and he was the only friend I knew who had divorced parents.  I'm sure if my family had remained in one location for more than a handful of years I would have encountered this scenario more often, since it became quite standard by the 80's. However, we'd been moving often up until then, leaving me to always start over with a clean slate in terms of peer groups.  From the outside looking in, Jeremy had all the surface advantages of two Christmases and two birthdays, thanks to the intermittently present father ever eager to please him with gifts, while only his mom played the role of disciplinarian.  I might've envied his extensive and shiny array of toys and games, but his life seemed chaotic to me. Packing up and moving houses with my own family every few years was already a dreaded occurrence and I couldn't imagine splitting time between two houses and both parents.

Soon after sixth grade Jeremy and his mom moved to Creedmoor, about an hour away from Durham.  We kept in touch by phone and planned weekend sleepovers when our respective parents felt generous enough to make the drive. It was during those subsequent years, grades seven though nine, that I really needed a consistent friend, as it wound up as a difficult time socially.  To be frank, rednecks and mullets were in vogue at my school, ruling the roost and kicking ass. I never successfully brandished the mullet look and thus for contrast I sported the perennially unpopular look of gawky, bespectacled nerd. It really just came to me naturally, don't be jealous. As expected, I experienced the exhausting extremes of being either completely invisible to the other kids or being mocked and bullied by them, with no real reliable friends for support.  A kid who accepted me one day might attempt to light my jeans on fire the next, the lighter in question smuggled in for smoking out in the school parking lot.  

It was always such a welcome respite to get a call from Jeremy.  Whether chatting on the phone or scheduling to hang out, I looked forward to it as an occasion with no judgments from someone my own age.  Our get-togethers consisted of the usual teen agenda of movies, video games and junk food.  And while Nintendo's "Castlevania" held my rapt attention, I never caught the gaming bug as so many others did of my generation.  Jeremy and his mom lived in a mobile home as part of a full-on trailer park community, with a yawning ditch and dingy creek as his backyard.  It felt a far cry from my home, a two-story ranch house cozily couched in a Rockwell-inspired neighborhood of emerald-colored lawns and white-trimmed window sills.  However, on the upside Jeremy owned a moped scooter which granted us the freedom of brief jaunts to grab pizza without needing his mom as chaperon. As an aside, I find it amusing now that at the age of thirteen most kids desperately wished to appear as if we had no parents whatsoever, oblivious to the fact that no one would be convinced we were self-sufficient.

On one occasion while awaiting our pepperoni-laden pizza, we visited the video store next door and rented CONAN THE BARBARIAN.  Since it was R-rated, I have a feeling the store clerk technically shouldn't have allowed this without a parent being present.  Regardless, it was our entertainment for the evening.  I recall being far more entranced with the movie than Jeremy and it was almost primarily all due to the music. Basil Poledouris's score equals the muscular screen presence of star Schwarzenegger, while also expressing the richness seen in its mountain locales, production design and oddball secondary characters. His music roars right from the main titles with an indelible main theme powered by brass and signing through the strings.  The opening twenty minutes of the film are nearly dialogue-free, leaving Poledouris to provide sole commentary to the action onscreen, as we witness the slaughter of young Conan's parents and village, followed by his capture and time in slavery.

The music accompanying one specific sequence I found beguiling enough to rewind the VHS tape and watch it again the next morning.  During the sequence, Conan infiltrates a strange, religious cult in their imposing temple stronghold.  The cue which colors his journey inside features a theme only heard here.  It isn't menacing, as one might expect, but instead it swaggers and sounds proud to the point of arrogance, confident in its ability to convert any outsider with its sweeping charm.  It's a cue that wasn't included on the original soundtrack album back in 1982, thus once more that frustrated grumble of the movie music aficionado emanated from me that day. I was quickly growing accustomed to this disappointment, yet it still boggled my burgeoning collector's brain as to why certain wonderful pieces of music were excluded.  Nevertheless, the album sported a stunning collection of tracks from the movie.  Unfortunately, it's single playback during a long family road trip failed to win over anyone else, with my dad quipping during the final crescendo, "Is this when Conan walks off into the sunset with his girlfriend?".

The movie itself may have its shortcomings, but I've always admired its epic ambitions.  Director John Milius really swung for the fences in crafting a visually engaging and kinetic presentation of a fantasy/mytho-historical past.  The literary character of Conan, created by Robert E. Howard, could probably never escape or transcend his pulp origins, but it doesn't mean his filmic incarnations are any less enjoyable.  This particular 1982 adaptation wound up having long-lasting effects on the genre of fantasy films overall.  This is evidenced mainly through production design, costume and music, while subtracting most of the graphic violence and nudity.  Poledouris's rapturous score could not quite be equaled, though. Howard Shore's music for the recent LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy certainly measures closest on this scale, but the raw ferocity and power that traveled from the thoughtful, talented mind and spirit of Poledouris into the voices of the orchestra and chorus will always be the musical yardstick for the genre.

Contact between Jeremy and I dwindled when we both entered our respective high schools.  My family had moved yet again, further away this time, to Rocky Mount, meaning visits became more infrequent.  Plus. it was becoming obvious that as people he and I were no longer growing up in the same direction, instead emerging with different temperaments and interests.  Jeremy later learned I was headed to Guilford College after graduation. He decided to join me there as well for freshman class. Surprisingly, for a campus of only twelve hundred students we didn't see very much of one another. His dorm wasn't even very far from mine. It's not uncommon for any one of us to outgrow friends we kept as kids, but Jeremy had primarily been my only consistent friend during some lonely years.  It was an awkward and sad fact to acknowledge that we'd essentially turned into strangers as young adults. It certainly didn't diminish the value of the role he played during my teens. It was another reminder for me, however, about the impermanence of people in our lives and the fluidity of our respective roles to each other. Not to sound like a dour philosopher or 60's folk singer, but sometimes we're all just shifting around like loose stones in a nimble stream, our surfaces slowly changing while we gradually tumble in different directions.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onGWF8mz1Zw

WATERWORLD (1995)

It was the Summer of WATERWORLD.  Granted, this statement was probably not uttered by the general public during the latter half of 1995.  Regardless, the much-maligned, not-half-bad movie and its score unexpectedly turned into a totem for me and my roommate at the time, Mark.  It wasn't necessarily due to the film itself, a guilty pleasure if there ever was one, or the score by composer James Newton Howard, which we both loved.  Instead, the memorable WATERWORLD emblem emerged in the form of the soundtrack CD I purchased, which then subsequently broke Mark's stereo system... twice.

Mark and I both graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill that year.  In order to ensure that the fun times continued along uninterrupted with our happy group of friends, we decided to room together in an apartment not far from the UNC campus.  You know, because extricating yourself from college can sometimes be a slow process, only achieved in stages, similar to carefully removing a Band-aid from a hairy body part.  It was a two-bedroom apartment, granting us each our own personal space, plus there was a bullet hole in the living room window acting as a daily reminder of what a low-rent neighborhood we chose.  Early cooking attempts included the lesson I learned that burning ravioli on the stove resulted in enduring endless yet valid mocking.  Our sole television set was Mark's postage stamp-sized model.  Menial jobs included my stint at Blockbuster, during which time I was tasked with calling customers early each morning to politely insist they locate and return overdue videos, such as THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION and STREETFIGHTER (that's a double-feature God never intended). 

WATERWORLD was on our movie-going radar that Summer, as was other genre fare like BATMAN FOREVER and SPECIES, simply because our youth and newly acquired (yet paltry) disposable income allowed us to frequent the movies.  I wound up seeing several on my own in order to check out the music scores in context.  In some cases I dragged Mark along, later having to apologize to him for JUDGE DREDD.  I spared him from TANK GIRL.  This was also the age at which I could better handle midnight showings, as twenty-something stamina seemed to perpetually renew itself.  Those initial months into post-collegiate life felt like emerging from a sixteen year long slumber inside a classroom-shaped cocoon.  No longer being beholden to a syllabus and teachers filled me with such giddiness and sheer joy that I accepted almost every new thing placed in front of me.   I shake my head in amazement now at how back then I actually went clubbing, saw small-time bands at small-time venues, sledded on the nearby frozen highway and bought cigarettes.  Yes, I briefly was a smoker, but it'd take me a week to finish just one pack.  Whatever, I still bought them. 

Concerning WATERWORLD, Mark and I knew very little about it outside of its infamously ballooning budget and a MAD MAX-inspired look and feel set on the high seas.  In terms of its music, composer James Newton Howard had that task, the second such composer who had been hired on the film.  As examined in a prior post, I'd been following Howard's projects since 1991's THE MAN IN THE MOON. In the best tradition of Jerry Goldsmith, he'd shown himself to be eclectic and unpredictable, able to effectively tackle any genre and always create compelling music. Additionally, each score was infused with his own personal stamp - not an easy feat in the art and craft of film music.  By the mid-90's, his career trajectory gradually shifted from primarily scoring dramas and comedies over to becoming an A-list name for action, thanks in large part to 1993's THE FUGITIVE.

THE FUGITIVE successfully blended together his groove-oriented licks from FALLING DOWN into a larger orchestral palate, crafting a propulsive "urban" sound at which he still excels, as heard in last year's NIGHTCRAWLER. However, it was the sprawling sonic landscape of 1994's WYATT EARP that demonstrated Howard's immense creative range with purely orchestral colors.  Here, his music was informed by the melodicism of his preceding dramatic works and the rural instrumentation of THE MAN IN THE MOON, married with an arresting, kinetic action style and solo woodwind and violin spotlights.  It proved to be an incredible symphonic work.  So with all of this as prologue, I was pretty eager to find out what type of scoring he would provide WATERWORLD.

Surprisingly, Howard's score emerged as almost a cross-section of the disparate styles he'd explored up until that point.  A nimble and spirited main theme accompanies Kevin Costner's begrudgingly heroic "Mariner" character, embellished by rousing brass and acrobatic orchestral flourishes.  Next, a lyrical and hopeful secondary melody provides counterbalance, representing the two female leads played by Jeanne Tripplehorn and Tina Majorino. Intermingling with this are ghostly synth elements, pulsing grooves, hypnotic chimes, a battery of exotic percussion and even a solo vocalist, all adding to the strange melange that is one of Howard's most enjoyable works.  The soundtrack album generously presented many of the highlights.  I rushed to grab a copy as soon as it was released.  Little did I notice, unfortunately, that a slight warping defect on the compact disc itself would cause equipment failure in Mark's stereo system.

His was our only proper stereo system.  My boom box, with its cassette-driven portable CD player precariously perched atop it, hardly fit the entertainment bill.  Mark's featured a front-loading cartridge capable of holding up to ten CD's, thus extensively increasing our "shuffling" options during parties.  I was dependent on his system for assembling my painstakingly crafted mix tapes and always treated it with kid gloves.  Imagine the pit in my stomach when I discovered that the WATERWORLD disc, once loaded into the stereo, caused the entire cartridge to lock up.  Prying it open proved impossible, even trying gently with a butter knife.  To boot, nine of Mark's albums were trapped inside along with WATERWORLD.  It cost $100 to have them all freed by a professional and that was probably my income for an entire week, no thanks to $4.25 an hour at Blockbuster.

And then, several months later, it happened again, inexplicably.  Specifics are hazy now, but I must have simply spaced and forgotten the lifetime ban enforced on the WATERWORLD CD entering Mark's stereo.  No doubt it was a mix tape of mine that needed updating.  The end result once more was $100 paid to the shifty guys at the electronics store plus a week-long wait while they milked the job.  By then I was at least earning an increased hourly wage after trading in Blockbuster for Waldenbooks (both sadly defunct now) and thus the dollar-shaped dent left on my checking account wasn't quite as cringe-worthy.  It also stressed, with nary a suggestive comment offered by Mark, that I should begin saving up for my own deluxe sound system and leave behind my days of stereo mooching.

I can't recall if I ever saw WATERWORLD again after that Summer '95 theatrical viewing.  Without a doubt the soundtrack album received more plays than I can count (by way of a cassette copy).  Twenty years later it remains a favorite from James Newton Howard's overall canon and he's continued to impress as a composer since then.  Now, in this all-digital era of music played on phones and streaming through the "cloud", it's not often that the album itself travels far from my CD racks.  It's usually only when I'm assembling a new, painstakingly crafted playlist for my iPod, a holdover habit of mine from those mix tapes days.  So, I always smile to myself when loading up this warped CD, the Stereo Breaker totem from 1995 and hope to heck that it doesn't choke up my computer.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0eCmPCBXV0

One-Sided Relationships: Remembering James Horner

I didn't expect to be writing another blog entry centered on composer James Horner so soon after the most recent one.  However, the tragic and sad details of his untimely passing prompted me to put words to page (or internet), after spending some time processing.  By now, the film music community, both industry folks and fans alike, have been aware, in shock and mourning since the incident occurred in June.

Surprisingly, the news of Horner's plane crash wound up receiving far more attention than I initially expected.  Perhaps it was due to the mystery in the report of his small private aircraft suddenly going missing, when no one could confirm whether Horner had been piloting it at the time.  Another factor could be the long list of high-profile movies for which he contributed music, many of which were either commercial hits of their day (AVATAR, TITANIC, APOLLO 13), award winners (BRAVEHEART, TITANIC again) or perennial favorites that remain in the public consciousness (FIELD OF DREAMS, GLORY, STAR TREK II). Thus, there's been no shortage of retrospectives and remembrances in recent weeks from both colleagues and admirers. 

Horner and his music has been special to me since the early 80's.  I felt compelled to offer up some sort of "in memoriam" post once everything settled a little bit, primarily aiming to explore why it matters to me and others.  Several fans noted that his sudden passing affected them more profoundly than when they lost members of their own family.  In the world of movie music aficionados, we've been witness to many talented, beloved composers shuffling off the mortal coil in recent years.  Jerry Goldsmith was the first that affected me deeply, more than ten years ago.  Shortly after him, Elmer Bernstein passed, then Shirley Walker, Michael Kamen, John Barry, Maurice Jarre and Basil Poledouris.  All produced scores that I count as personal favorites, but not all I counted among my favorite composers.  I was curious to discern why it would affect me, why the loss of artists we love reach us on level usually reserved for people we actually know. 

While on a long drive south to Costa Mesa recently, it occurred to me how this could be characterized like a one-side relationship.   I'd become a fan of Horner's music when it was still early in his career and early for me as a film music enthusiast.  As he continued to compose new movie music each subsequent year, I kept track by seeing the movies, buying the soundtracks (when there was one available) and reading interviews when published.  I learned to recognize his style, discern his techniques and approaches, even as it would inevitably evolve over time.  As I grew up, so did Horner and his music, remaining a constant companion and providing such comfort and joy.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how losing this person and their consistent, maturing part of my life would be akin to losing a close friend.  This wouldn't be the same when delving into the works of composers already long gone, such as Mozart or Stravinsky.  I could immerse myself in their works at my own pace, I could even "binge-listen" to it all.  There was a finite amount of their music, too, nothing new was expected to emerge from their respective pianos or quills.  What sets this scenario apart was that these were living composers writing for orchestras, even if it was for movies and TV, and they produced wonderful new music almost every year.  Goldsmith alone was a powerhouse for decades, often scoring four or five films a year, which is astonishing.  In 1983, Horner composed music for seven projects.  And as a soundtrack fan, when you really clicked with one of them, there was always anticipation and excitement for these upcoming scores.

Of course Horner didn't know me. Nevertheless, he'd always been there for me, from my teens until now.  His introductory, rambunctious scores - KRULL, STAR TREK II, 48 HOURS - seem to represent those years when a new friend could be a bit of a hellraiser, an excitable troublemaker, maybe even prone to passing fads.  Later, this same friend settles into a comfort zone, finding their niche and maybe slowing down somewhat. This shift I equate to what we heard in Horner's scores throughout the 90's - LEGENDS OF THE FALL, APOLLO 13 and THE SPITFIRE GRILL, for example.  Now and again, you could glimpse flashes of that inaugural, fiery spirit inside them -  let's call out his music for 1998's THE MASK OF ZORRO - akin to how infrequent evenings of inebriation with old friends can draw forth their former rowdy habits.  And while new interests emerged in subsequent years, some seemingly far from where they started, that connection persisted.

Admittedly, so this post has veered into sentimental territory, no doubt, yet it isn't something I'd write for every composer I like.  There are some who I followed for only a brief stint.  They didn't stick around in my soundtrack wheelhouse, similar to friends of convenience who recede into the distance after one quits a job or departs a city.  For innumerable reasons, no matter the shifts circumstances of life, my connections to composers such as Horner, Goldsmith and Williams never waned.  As a fan looking back, it's fascinating to chart the ups and downs, what worked and didn't work for the artist during their career, having been witness to it at the time.  I think this experience bonds you to an artist in a unique way, as their development and maturation runs parallel to your own life.  I changed, they changed, but what they produced remained important to me.  A fresh score from Horner or Goldsmith always added an extra level of anticipatory fun and excitement from year to year.   So, part of the sadness stems from the fact that this artist and his music won't be continuing alongside us anymore as we journey forward to new experiences.