Adrian Ellis' The Music Creative

We Wish you a Creepy Christmas by JKönig

Sick of the usual musical fare blasted at you incessantly since after Halloween, but still want some, shall we say, “Seasonally Appropriate” songs to get you in the spirit?

ME TOO.

Allow me to assist.  Here are some of my top picks of sometimes strange but always charming tunes fit for the Horror-days:

Christmas with the Snow – Marah (Last.fm)

This one has it all, but without the saccharine sentiment – snowball fights, merry gentlemen, snow angels, and a rockin’ beat and ridiculously catchy chorus that is a brilliant companion to snarfing heavily spiked eggnog with friends and family.

3 Generations – Hawksley Workman (Last.fm or Youtube)

“3 generations in the kitchen, all at once”  From Workman’s great album of Christmas originals,  this one beautifully captures those cherished moments with the whole fan-damily when you aren’t at each others throats.

I Haven’t Got You (Anything for Christmas) - Bo Pepper (Youtube)

A holiday break-up/missing you song?  Sure, why not!  Features the line “when you’re stuffing the turkey, do you think of me?”.  That alone should rocket indie Bo Pepper out of obscurity.

Robot Ponies – Laura Barrett (Youtube)

“Christmas eve, 2053.  Underneath every little girls tree… Robot Ponies”.  This off-kilter, Kalimba based vision of Christmas future is funny and charming, and at the same time a great little statement on consumerism.

Valley Winter Song – Fountains of Wayne – (Youtube or Last.fm)

I know, right?  Fountains of Wayne!  From the guys who brought you the Porky’s-esque MILF glorifying ballad “Stacy’s Mom” comes a lovely folkish song that feels just like curling up in front of the fire on a cold Winter’s night.

Everyday Should be a Holiday – The Dandy Warhols (Last.fm or Youtube)

Not really a Christmas song, but it has the word ‘Holiday’ in it, and it rocks.  Blast this at the office party and you’ll be sure to stir things up.

Faeries Aire and Death Waltz

We tend to spend a lot of times in our own head, but rarely do we actively envision how we come across to other people.  This is nowhere more obvious than in romantic relationships, where one person feels like they couldn’t be communicating more clearly, but the their Significantly Annoying Other just can’t get it.  It turns out that there is actually quite a bit of art to effective communication, and it has a lot to do with understanding how to speak a common language.

It’s often said that while filmmakers are walking encyclopedias of production knowledge from everything pre- to post-, music is the one area where the fear of the unknown sets in.  Leaving aside the rare genius/savant who can actually read music, if you handed your director a 12 stave score and began to blather on about the beauty of the contrapuntal voices and retrograde inversions, you would be met with anything from vacant stares, to frothy terror, to irritation and offense.  What does this have to do with the film?

Exactly.

As I seem to say often on this blog, composers for the screen are in fact not composers at all.  We are actually filmmakers, and our job is to help tell the story using sound and music.  While discussing music (never mind that pithy cliche about dancing and architecture) can be fun and meaningful, it’s actually quite distracting if not downright dangerous and detrimental if you want to get on the same page.  And that is the goal after all – you want to ensure that you know exactly what is being asked of you, exactly what function music is to perform at any given time.  It’s win-win – you can get to the business of writing the music, and if you’ve done your homework and communicated effectively, you can deliver the right cue to the director the first time.  They will be happy because they got a useful product that they wanted, on time and without stress and worry, and you won’t be stuck in re-write hell, slowly eroding the confidence that you worked so hard at building in your collaborator.

Here are some ideas for both composers and filmmakers to consider, that might aid better communication:

Conversations regarding the function of music should be in emotional, story telling terms. Avoid the use of technical musical terms, and instead talk about the feeling that the music should create, or how it should function to provide understanding or move the story forward.

If you have a specific piece of music, style, or composer in mind, ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS provide examples. If it’s really specific, listen to the piece together and pinpoint exactly what it is that you like.  Again, it’s better to speak about the feeling that the music conveys as opposed to why/how you think it’s happening – it’s just too easy to misinterpret things.  The director might say “dark” and mean “in the low, register of the cellos, with sadness”.  The composer might go and write a “dark” piece, but one that means “foreboding and for brass”, which was not what the director wanted at all, even though the composer did “exactly” as instructed.  Musical genre terms are also tremendously flawed and indeterminate.  If you say “heavy”, that could mean Led Zeppelin, or Slayer… or Stravinski.

Composers should be working to understand the story, directors should not need to work to understand the music.  Read the script, study the film, ask questions, and really get into the head of your collaborator and find the heart of the story.  Then, talk about how music can help tell it; everything does and should relate back to that fundamental thing – the story.

Temp tracks are great as a reference – but again, there is a reason that the word ‘temp’ is used – they are not intended to be permanent.  In my opinion, having a composer re-create the temp track is like using Robert Deniro’s stand-in instead of the man himself.  We should be striving for works of quality and integrity, and when you request a facsimile, you are cheating yourself of an incredible value – the value a composer adds to a film which is a unique, signature element.  The temp track, as it relates to the spotting session and conversations with the composer, should again be used to start conversations about the feeling/emotion/function that the music creates.

Criticism is fine, but communication is a two-way street, and nothing is worse than being left stranded.  Telling your composer something like “It’s not right.  I don’t know why, but it’s just wrong and I hate it.  I’ll know the right thing when I hear it” does no one any good.  You’ll both end up frustrated.  Be honest, be real, but be constructive.  I often hear people say “Oh, but I don’t know anything about music”.  BULL.  Creative people (like filmmakers) know what they like, and they know what works.  They may not know the mechanism, but that’s not your worry.  Again, the magic solution for this is EXAMPLES.   Don’t try and explain it, just show us, and try to be as specific as you can.  Composers need to be specific too – the problem might be as simple as an instrument being too loud, or wrong – they hate oboes, oh, you didn’t know?  Make sure you are on the same page before throwing the baby out with the bathwater.  Oh, and to this point – NEVER, EVER, EVER DISCARD A PREVIOUS VERSION.  EVER!!!  I can count many times when things the client swore they LOATHED were in retrospect quite liked and requested restored to their former glory.

There is a great deal of trust that is demanded of a filmmaker when he allows a composer to contribute music.  The responsbility, in turn, of the composer is to honor that trust by knowing the film, it’s characters, it’s text and subtext, it’s arcs and lines, through and through.  Finally, there is a shared responsibility of both parties to engage in GREAT communication, which ultimately leads to brilliant win-win collaborations that everyone can be proud of.

The Audio Asylum

Suddenly, we hear voices from the opposite end of the abandoned factory and we freeze – we stare at each other for a few tense moments, trying to decide if our ears are playing tricks on us, and then break into a run through the broken glass, industrial debris, and pigeon crap towards our base camp where our equipment and several thousand dollars worth of microphones is stashed.  We arrive, huffing through our dust masks, to find the room empty, no sign that anyone has entered through the ragged opening of the boarded up window.  All our stuff is still safe – we breathe a sigh of relief and go back to work.

Just another typical day at the office.

Foreboding, no?

Hours earlier, on a cold and rainy Sunday morning, we arrived at our destination – an abandoned factory in the West end of Toronto we had dubbed The Audio Asylum for its foreboding presence.  The 3 person crack team was made up of  sound designer/composer Drasko Vucevic,  filmmaker extraordinaire Jason Leaver (on hand to document the process), and of course your faithful narrator.  Our goal was to enter the building with an arsenal of field recording gear, and capture as many wild sounds as the Asylum would offer up without getting killed or arrested in the process.  The factory itself is situated in the middle of a residential area, with quiet family homes right next door, so entering without drawing too much attention was problematic.  There were only two ways in – climbing up a canvas hose someone had (possibly) secured to a pillar past the 2nd floor window, or through a hole someone had smashed into a boarded up window about 8 feet above ground.  Sensibly, we took option two, and after clearing the opening with a hammer, we managed to climb through and ferry in our equipment.

Our entrance...

The reverb in these empty chambers was impressive, as was the amount of possibly poisonous debris that was strewn about – we quickly donned masks and began exploring the darkened halls, ruined elevator shafts, and spooky stairwells.  Once we confirmed that the area was clear and we wouldn’t be attacked by ‘hostiles’, we began setting up the recording equipment and capturing sounds.

Setting up and checking levels (photo: Jason Leaver)

The Ear of the Beholder

The world around you really changes when you look at it from a different focus.  If your desire is to record interesting sounds, it’s remarkable how rich in possibilities otherwise mundane objects become.  We had no want of fascinating materials in the Asylum – rusted radiators, crumbling walls, steel doors, steel pipes, disfigured fan housings, decaying wood flooring, iron railing, broken glass and debris all became our instruments, which we played primarily by artfully smashing them.  Like any professional studio, the sound you get is only as good as the sound of the room, and these graffiti’d halls were sonic gold – rich, cathedral reverbs and tight room echoes.  After a few hours of banging and crashing, it was time for a moment of quiet zen-like reflection, and I played a Bansuri I had brought which gave our grim environment a serene air.  Strange radio frequency-like sounds spun off the walls as I then turned my Cracklebox loose for a short improvisation.  Finally, we moved into the furthest room which had massive 3 story ceilings, where we found a flock of pigeons was roosting in the rafters.  They made a wonderful sound as the fluttered around in that closed space, and got quite agitated when I ’spoke’ to them with my flute, cooing and chattering excitedly.  When I broke off, the 5 of them were making a sound that was eerily similar to a chorus of women speaking in tongues.  It was a haunting moment, and a perfect end to a surreal day.

The Main 'Verb Hall

Field recording is a woolly beast compared to the act of composing in the familiar and comfortable surroundings of your studio.  It can be cold, wet, dirty, complicated by unknown variables, fraught with mishaps and equipment failure, and even downright nasty, gross, and dangerous.  It’s also tremendously fun, exciting, surprising, and requires you to think very creatively on your feet – which also may be used from time to time for running away from drug addled squatters or the police.

I really wish I could post some of the amazing sounds we captured that day, but it will have to wait.  These sounds will comprise a very exciting and unusual boutique sound library which we hope to release in the very near future.

Hip or Homeless? (photo: Jason Leaver)

A Lonely but Beautiful Path by Trey Ratcliffe

Back in September I attended a memorial for Chris Dedrick, a wonderful musician and composer, and former president of the Guild of Canadian Film Composers.  It was a powerful and moving event, held at the McMillan Theatre at the University of Toronto.  There were stirring speeches, musical performances, and an incredible set of slides which were projected along with Chris’ music, spanning the decades.  He was involved in a number of projects, including the acclaimed band The Free Design, writing for the Starscape Singers, and a host of TV and film work.  I didn’t know him well – just a few words had passed between us over the short years I’d been volunteering with the Guild and attending workshops and seminars, but I had always been impressed with Chris’ harmonic sensibilities and incredible arranging skills (he struck me as a Canadian Brian Wilson) and his gentle and generous spirit.

Sitting there in that theatre, awestruck by the music and how many people he had touched, I began thinking about legacy for the first time in.  To be honest, the concept legacy had always seemed a very pompous and self-important thing – a kind of graffitti onthe wall of life that says, “Here I was, here is my work, wasn’t I great”.  I don’t know what happens to us after we die, but there is a possibility that the answer is “nothing” – consciousness simply evaporates.  Things which mark our stay seems kind of insignificant and pointless in that light.  But there is more to it than that, because there is a world and people we leave behind, which we affect – negatively or positively.

What if I died tomorrow, I thought.

What kind of legacy would I leave behind?  It made me think about the things I create, how I create them and why.  I imagined myself sitting in on my own memorial and trying to think of what they’d say, what music they would play, how my life would be laid out, how they would tell the “story” of my life, what meaning it might hold.  It was a pretty sobering, humbling moment.  While it may seem like an exercise in morbidity, imagining yourself at your own memorial is an extremely effective way to crystallize ideas about what you want your life to be about.  It’s also a kick in the pants because you realize that you have to do these things NOW – there is no waiting, time is fleeting, and every moment matters.  You must start creating the meaning you want in your life now, every chance you get.

Who will you be remembered as? Were you honorable, passionate, generous, and kind?  Were you driven by purpose and integrity, were you committed, courageous, a leader who inspired others?

Was your work the best it could be? Was it done from a place of passion and purpose, did it have meaning?  Did you strive to make something better, to learn, to excel, and to lead?

It’s not about being ‘remembered’ – I think this is that distasteful aspect of legacy that came to mind when I used to think of the term.  It’s not about quantity, but quality – not how many you touched, but the way in which you may have touched a few.  If you happen to be one of the scant few who become remembered (in the grand sense), that’s amazing – but it cannot be the goal.

You have to be careful – you can get sucked into doing a lot of meaningless stuff in this life, simply by being unaware.  We all get caught up in the daily doldrums, resenting the work we ‘have’ to do, and wanting to slough off and take the easy way out, but we need to keep in mind that we have the capacity and indeed a responsibility to be and do far more.  We have to live now, say “I am doing”, not “I want to be doing”, and “I am”, not “I will be”.

Life is forever a work in progress.  We are always striving to learn and improve, to be better than you were the day before.  In being the best we can be as human beings, in doing the best work we can, and jumping into everything with love and passion, we can contribute positively to our world in some way.  And, hopefully, we will inspire others to do the same.

There is a famous anectdote about film composer David Raksin, who challenged Alfred Hitchcock on his decision not to have music in his 1944 film, Lifeboat.  Hitchcock’s thesis was  “Out in the middle of the ocean, where’s the orchestra?”   Raksin, famous for his quick wit, replied  “Out in the middle of the ocean, where’s the camera?”.  Where indeed.

They both had a point.  Music in film is a tricky thing, because it’s a highly artificial element.  It usually works on an emotional level, and care has to be taken so that it doesn’t take the viewer out of the experience.

This Magic Moment…

Determining where to enter a scene is one of the more delicate challenges in film scoring.  The more subtle the moment, the easier it is to ruin with a bad, stumbling, or overwrought entrance.

The ‘moment’ is hard to pin down.  Beyond what you get in terms of ins and outs in the spotting session with the filmmaker, it’s a gut thing.  Sometimes, a few frames one way or the other can make all the difference, and I’ve seen cues nudged even on the dubbing stage.  There are different ways to enter, depending on the scene.  Sometimes it’s slow and building – the cue will edge in, perhaps with a single note, building from almost inaudible to it’s full statement.  On the opposite end of the spectrum, it might be a jarring entrance, shocking the viewer purposely – that one is much easier to deal with – no subtlety required!  Getting out also warrants attention, and might be the same in reverse.  The trick is to follow the emotional shifts in a scene – which doesn’t mean hitting the nail on the head – you might come in just in advance or just behind that moment.  At those times, you are doing a delicate dance with the onscreen action, carefully taking turns steering the audience reaction without giving away too much or feeling like a late starter.

Massage in a Bottle

One of the reasons it’s important to make these considerations is to not let the device of music and it’s function be noticed by the viewer, taking them out of the experience.  This is not to say the music should not be noticed!  There is a difference between the music being noticed, and the music being noticed as a device, just as you don’t want to see the grip step into frame, or the shadow of the boom mic in the background.

Imagine you are getting a massage.  One technique masseurs use is that once they make contact with you, they always maintain it throughout the session – one hand will always be touching your skin.  This prevents the sudden unwanted surprise of the touch leaving or returning, as you are somewhat visually impaired by having your head in that toilet seat cushion thing!  Music in film should work the same, except your head should not be in the toilet, your head should be in the story!  Once music is established in a scene, the audience should not be aware of the music departing (without reason of course), and music should normally depart only when the scene dictates that it’s requirements have been met (the massage session is over).  This might character driven – something will change in the motivation or apprehension of a character, and the music follows suit.  If the music suddenly disappears without clear motivation, the audience will try and rationalize it, which messes up the story-telling, or worse, they’ll just think it’s poor film-making (which it is).

Up next – Fades fades fades fades