My Confession

I don't own it all.

And Jerry would be pleased by that. Jerry hated the bottle cap mentality of some collectors.

And I'm fine with that. I don't have a need to own every Goldsmith release. (I'm looking at you, Mr. Baseball.)

But there are some Goldsmith scores that no true fan should be without. The classics. The treasures. The jewels in Jerry's crown.

I have a lot of them. I daresay, I have most of them.

But there's one release that I still don't own. I still haven't heard. And i feel guilty about it. I'm sure I would love it. I'm sure everyone thinks it's a great score. But I just haven't pursued it.

Rudy.

There. I said it. I don't own Rudy. I've never seen the movie, never heard the score - except, of course, during virtually every movie trailer made in the last 15 years.

Is it a mistake? Should I jump out there and rectify this situation? Is it really a must-have score?

Do you have any Goldsmith confessions to make? List them here, and Jerry will absolve you.

Alien, Repurposed

Hat tip to Lehah from the FSM message boards.

Basic Instinct

I Had A Dream. Or Maybe It Was A Nightmare.

A man waves his arms. He holds a small white stick. A baton. His hair is long, grey, bundled in a ponytail. He stands atop a large rectangular box, painted red, with white racing stripes, not unlike the Starsky & Hutch-mobile.

He does not see me. He is engrossed in his work, waving his arms. Not conducting so much as conjuring. A wave of sound begins to envelop me, a wall of music that becomes physical, a labyrinth of notes, falling upon me, tightening around me, gripping me in their embrace, immobilizing me. My ears become blocked, clogged with notes, always more notes. The music itself remains elusive, though, a melody somehow there but unable to be grasped, unable to be extracted separately from the massive net of sound. My eyes are forced closed by the pressure, the music too strong to resist, it begins to smother me, crushing my torso, solidifying in my mouth.

A snippet jams into my ear and recognition floods through me. Yes. It's End of A Dream. It has to be. No wait, it's not. Not exactly. It's more than that. The horns from Timeline begin stabbing my cheeks. The blaster beam lodges in my throat and begins stretching it like taffy. A collection of mixing bowls rattle against my skull. My eyes are forced open by echoplex trumpets.

The man looms above me, staring, a cruel smile fixed upon his lips. He finally speaks. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before asking for an expanded version of Mr. Baseball."

All Hail The Great Jerry

Thank you, Sarge, for the inspirational image.