Confessions of a Film-Music Addict

Confessions of a Film-Music Addict

A chilling account from a gentleman in the Midwest:

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This is the story of how an innocent(?) teenager became an addict. Specifically, a film-music addict. I offer it as a sober warning to today’s young people.

It happened in the summer of 1959. That is to say, back in pre-history. It was a simpler time, with simple people living simple lives. The air was clear, people had dogs named Taffy, and they watched “I Love Lucy.” Rock n’ Roll ruled the music universe. Male moviegoers lusted after Marilyn Monroe; females preferred Rock Hudson. (They didn’t know his secret.)

I had just completed my junior year in high school. Our high school operated on a fairly well-defined caste system. I belonged to the “serious students” or “college prep” caste, otherwise known as nerds. We were expected to master the classical academic disciplines and then ascend into the rarified atmosphere of higher education. The most popular caste by far were the “jocks.” Universally admired and worshipped, they were considered the luckiest s.o.b.s on the planet. Cheerleaders with names like Sherry and Jackie belonged to the “beautiful people” caste, otherwise known as hotties. Most of us silently yearned euphemistically after them, knowing we had no chance. Status seekers to a fault, they only had time for the jocks. Males lacking the brain power to crack the “serious students” caste and forced thereby to learn some sort of trade to make a living were in the “shop students” caste. Females who couldn’t inveigle their way into either the “serious students” or “beautiful people” castes were relegated to the “home-ec” caste. They learned to make brownies. At least I wasn’t a “greaser,” with slicked-back hair and a perpetual sneer on my face.

I remember well the specific incident that triggered my descent into addiction. As is so often the case when we are young, my parents were at fault. They went and bought the latest amenity that every status-conscious household had to have. They bought a stereophonic portable record player. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, it consisted of three pieces. A central unit housed the turntable and the electronics. Two detachable speakers were wired into the central unit and could be positioned on either side of it at distances that maximized the listening experience.

You must have lived in the era of monaural sound to truly appreciate the impact that the advent of stereophonic sound had. In that era, all sound from a movie emanated from the center of the screen. In the early years of stereo, we all flocked to the movie theater to see the first movie in cinemascope and stereophonic sound, a biblical epic entitled “The Robe,” based on a novel by Lloyd Douglas. It was a real novelty. The screen was so wide that you could have a character on the right conversing with one on the left who was in the next county. Not only that, the voice of the character on the right came from the right side of the screen, and the voice of the character on the left came from the left side. Oh, the novelty of it! You told your neighbors all about it when you got home. And the music, well that was something else. The clarity of the sound and the separation of the instruments in space, mind boggling. Alfred Newman’s marvelous score probably prepped me for my descent into addiction several years later.

Meanwhile, back at home, you could get the same thing with your popular music because of that new stereo record player. The catch was that your records had to have been recorded in stereo. Oops. We didn’t have any. Your mono records still sounded like mono, that is, like the singers and the orchestras were encased in bubble wrap and shut up in a closet with the door closed. There was nothing for it. If you wanted to hear stereo sound from your record player, you had to buy stereo records.

The stage is now set. Off I go, with my modest disposable income, to the record store in the nearest shopping mall with the intent of bringing home something worthy of that stereo record player. And having now attended several cinemascope movies over the years, I have a fair idea of what that might be. It should be some full symphonic orchestral thing that maximizes the listening experience. In other words, I’m ripe for the kill. I might as well have exposed my neck and voluntarily placed it on the chopping block.

So, there I am, thumbing through the various LP vinyl albums in their categorical bins, searching for the holy grail, when I stumble, not entirely by accident I suspect, on the movie soundtrack category. And I am thumbing, thumbing, thumbing, when suddenly my thumbs are arrested by a sight that caused my eyes to dilate and my breathing to cease momentarily.

You have to remember that LP vinyl albums were big, not like the teeny tiny cassettes and CDs that succeeded them. (Check your nearest retro record store if you feel a need to verify.) The sleeves or thicker containers in which they were held measured 12.375 inches square. You could fit some really impressive artwork on the cover. And what I was looking at was impressive.

It depicted a chariot pulled by four white steeds, with a driver in the carriage behind them, and they were galloping pell-mell straight toward you. At that speed, they would be on you in seconds. Behind them, chiseled in granite, dwarfing the chariot and everything else were the gigantic letters: BEN-HUR. Roman statuary was at either end of the letters. Yes, that was impressive.

But what about the music? I check the track listing: Prelude; Roman March; Love Theme; Burning Desert; Naval Battle; Victory Parade; Mother’s Love; Miracle & Finale. This really looks promising. So, I take the plunge. I buy it.

And I take it home. And I mount it on the spindle of that stereophonic record player. And I turn the thing on. And I poise the needle over the first track. And I watch all atingle while it lowers itself into the groove by the first track. And then, and then, a fraction of a second later, …

I am blown away by the first bars of Miklos Rozsa’s epic Oscar-winning score.

You don’t have many transformative moments in your life. That was one of mine. From that moment, I became a film-music addict.

I can honestly say that I subjected my household to that soundtrack approximately 4,328 times that summer. Oh, how my parents must have regretted the day they bought that record player! (Possibly also the day they were born.) To be fair, I must say that, having seen the change that music wrought in me (the change from endlessly listening to rock n’ roll and pop music to what must have sounded very classical) they suffered pretty much in silence. Only the occasional “Not again!” Actually, they were saints.

Very soon I added “King of Kings” and “El Cid” to my nascent collection, and I was on my way. In the following decades, I discovered Jerry Goldsmith (Star Trek, Sleeping with the Enemy, Powder, Medicine Man, The Shadow), James Horner (Cocoon, Willow, Glory, Apollo 13, Titanic, A Beautiful Mind, Avatar), and the all-time leader at nabbing Oscars and nominations, John Williams (Star Wars, E. T., Close Encounters, Superman, Harry Potter, Artificial Intelligence). Right up to this day, picking up Danny Elfman (Batman, Sleepy Hollow, Alice in Wonderland), Micheal Giacchino (Cloverfield, Up, Star Trek reboot), and Alexandre Desplat (Girl with a Pearl Earring, Grand Budapest Hottel, Shape of Water), to name a few. My soundtrack collection now occupies two CD cabinets, and that just includes the ones I have on CDs. There are other ways I cannot go into to obtain film music.

I am, in other words, besotted, bewitched, seduced, enchanted, entranced, enslaved, and hopelessly addicted to film music.

So, if you are thinking of taking up an addiction, consider my story and beware.

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On second thought:

After sober reflection, I feel that I may have overstated the case. Not all addictions are so terrible that they lead to inevitable destruction. If you are addicted to candy corn, it won’t kill you. In fact, there is a good chance that in the normal course of events you will overcome it and be on your way. The ones to worry about are those that are harmful and, in some cases, lethal. In fairness, addictions ought to be judged by their potential for harm, as is the case for other possible dangers. Most would agree that addictions to alcohol, tobacco, hard drugs, pornography, violence, and the like carry a high risk for harm, even death. But film music? Where’s the harm? A sense of proportion seems called for.

Well, I must bid you farewell now. There is something I need to listen to. “Need” is perhaps too strong a word. I would like to listen to it. I want to listen to it. I have a strong desire to listen to it. But I am not compelled to listen to it. I could NOT listen to it. I am the captain of my ship.

Goodbye. I’m going to go listen to it.

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Need anything more be said?