Here we are, at the end of all things. Well, at least at the end of my Countdown to 40, anyway. I may turn the big four-zero today, but life certainly does not end here. No, many more adventures and memories await me, my family, and my friends. Because, after all, that's what it's all about.
I truly believe I've saved the best for last, though it probably surprises no one that The Lord of the Rings earns the number one spot on my list of most important, influential, and favorite pop culture moments. On the whole, the trilogy employed several different mediums to make an impact on my life--through the books and movies, of course, but music and video games also came into play. Combined, then, the truly multi-media series thus represents a quadruple threat. I will confess that before Peter Jackson released his cinematic interpretation of The Fellowship of the Ring in 2001, The Hobbit was the only book set in J. R. R. Tolkien's Middle Earth I had read in its entirety. I thoroughly enjoyed the fantastic tale of Bilbo's adventures, which serve as a prequel of sorts to The Lord of the Rings saga, and I expected I would react the same to Frodo's quest to destroy the One Ring. I found, however, the trilogy books difficult to navigate, mostly because I tend to read at night before I fall asleep and am therefore prone to miss things. Like with any true literature, Tolkien's masterworks require a reader's full attention, but as a result of my (questionable) bedtime reading habits, I initially thought The Lord of the Rings confusing and had to reread a number of chapters just to grasp who was who, what those characters were doing, where they were, and when everything was happening. I generally felt lost. After The Fellowship of the Ring hit theaters, everything changed. Jackson's virtuosic film drew me into Middle Earth and provided me with such clarity about the characters, history, and lands that I began Tolkien's books anew. The movie truly helped me to understand The Lord of the Rings in a way I probably never would have without it. In true Chris fashion, I became obsessed. I read through the trilogy quickly, feeding my newfound passion and priming my anticipation for the release of the next two films. I then roped my friends into attending midnight screenings of The Two Towers and The Return of the King when they arrived in December of 2002 and 2003 respectively. In fact, I ended up seeing The Return of the King in the theater a total of eight times, more than any other film. (Though I will admit I probably only paid full admission for four of the viewings and may or may not have left on occasion after Aragorn tells the Hobbits they bow to no one.) My escalating craze for all thing Lord of the Rings led me to buy Howard Shore's brilliantly scored soundtracks, multiple movie posters, t-shirts, and several video games. This is all because of Peter Jackson's motion picture trilogy, the importance of which has only deepened with time. A year or so after The Return of the King came out on DVD, I invited some close friends over to watch all three in succession and make a day of it. We enjoyed tasty food and drink throughout the day as we lost ourselves in Middle Earth. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I initiated a tradition that continued annually for a few years. Now, every odd numbered year, Bryce and I host a Lord of the Rings movie marathon the first Saturday in January, complete with food and drink to make any Hobbit proud. We even switch out the theatrical releases for Jackson's extended versions every other marathon. The viewing parties have become much beloved events for Bryce and I, and we start looking forward to them well beforehand. Because what is better than sharing your love and passion for something so intrinsically linked to your sense of identity with dear friends and family? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing. Blogging these past 40 days about the music, movies, books, television shows, and video games that played a role in shaping the person I am today has been fun and enlightening for me, and I hope the same holds true for anyone who read/reads the posts as well. The exercise proved cathartic and revealing at times, especially when the writing process prompted new revelations about my path of self-discovery and sense of identity. I look forward to rereading my Countdown to 40 in the near future and perhaps pondering some of the items a little more deeply. And who knows, maybe new insights will inspire me to expand on some of the posts, create and share new Spotify playlists, add entirely new entries, or even turn this little project into a book. Only time will tell.
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May 18, 1993. A date that will live in infamy...at least to me. On that day, Janet Jackson released her janet. album, intensifying my growing passion for her and her music. In the weeks leading up to the CD's arrival, I began counting down the days until I could purchase my own copy. Not surprising, right? Particularly since countdowns and I have history and fit together so well. Still, you may find my anticipation and excitement not all that noteworthy, until you take into consideration the rest of my classmates were preoccupied with how many days of school were left until summer vacation. I could not be bothered by that. Clearly, the new Janet Jackson CD proved far more important than the last day of sophomore year for 16-year-old Chris.
"That's the Way Love Goes," the album's lead single, introduced the world to a different, more mature Janet. The song's laid-back, sensual mood deviated from the more dance-driven, Minneapolis sound featured on her Rhythm Nation and Control albums. On the new CD, Jackson traded social consciousness for sexual exploration and individual assertiveness, most overtly showcased on the sizzling "Any Time, Any Place" and "Throb." Her infamous semi-nude Rolling Stone cover symbolized the singer's maturation and announced the arrival of the new Janet, not only on the magazine but on posters, too. My infatuation dictated I had to have that poster, and my friends often share their memories of seeing it in my room. Though none of them has admitted as much, they probably asked themselves why a gay guy would have a picture of a woman whose breasts were bare save the cupping hands of a man otherwise unseen. The easy answer to that question is: Because Janet Jackson, of course! Have I not mentioned I was (and still am) obsessed? It wasn't the only poster of the singer that adorned my walls, either. I wanted everyone who came to my room, both at home and at college, to know how much I loved her, so I snatched up any poster I could find and proudly displayed each one. (Update: I no longer own any of those posters, not that Bryce would let me hang them anywhere in our house. I lost them in the apartment fire my roommate, Maggie, and I experienced in the fall of 2000.) Once janet. hit stores, I rushed to obtain a copy and proceeded to listen to the entire CD on repeat until I knew it by heart. Thinking back to the days of Chris's Top 40, the album's impact on my life was evident. Each one of the songs eventually made its way onto my countdown regardless of whether or not Jackson released them to radio. Many of them found their way #1, including "That's the Way Love Goes," "If," "You Want This," "Because of Love," "Again," "This Time," and "Where Are You Now." One of the standout tracks from the album, "If," quickly catapulted to the top of my favorite Jackson songs, earning it the #2 position on my Hot 101. The song also spent more weeks on Chris's Top 40 than any other, hanging around on the chart from the summer of 1993 until I discontinued the weekly ranked list at the end of 1995. And as much as I loved Rhythm Nation and thought Jackson would never be able to outdo herself, janet. proved that assumption wrong. In just about every way, the CD defined my high school experience and served as my soundtrack to 1993, 1994, and 1995. Few other albums can boast such longevity and prevalence in their impact on my life.
Fun fact: R.E.M. released their masterwork album, Out of Time, on my birthday in 1991, something I learned just today. I am almost positive that is merely coincidently, though I took the news as a nice surprise this morning. I think my recent discovery only makes the CD's inclusion in my Countdown to 40 all the more fitting.
"Losing My Religion," arguably the band's greatest song, initially lured me into giving Out of Time a chance. Though the song certainly served as fodder for Top 40 radio, R.E.M. represented a divergence of sorts from my favorite typical artists, and their music defied the genre I listened to most in the early 1990s. As you may have gleaned from my earlier posts about Janet Jackson, Deee-Lite, and Michael Jackson, my general taste in late 1980s/early 1990s music skewed toward more dance-pop than pop-rock and alternative. R.E.M. changed all that with Out of Time. I thoroughly enjoyed each of the album's eleven songs, and "Radio Song," "Low," "Shiny Happy People," and "Country Feedback" are a few standouts I gravitate towards in addition to "Losing My Religion." My appreciation for Out of Time took a while to develop. Several years and a number of listens passed before I recognized just how great the CD was. Today, one attribute I find most appealing about Out of Time is that the album has aged extremely well. In fact, I'd go so far as to say R.E.M.'s 1991 work has improved over time and with each repeated listen. My deepening respect and love for Out of Time also converted me to a die-hard R.E.M. fan (I'm still mourning their retirement), though all of their subsequent works pale in comparison. I will admit that their follow-up album, Automatic for the People, is great, too, and I can understand anyone's argument favoring that album over Out of Time. After all, some of the band's most beloved and notable repertoire hail from Automatic for the People, like "Everybody Hurts," "Nightswimming," and "Man on the Moon." On the whole, though, Out of Time and its impeccable track listing bests Automatic for the People every time. The genius of "Losing My Religion" certainly helps, and the song has also stood the test of time, earning it the #3 position in my 101 most favorite songs of all-time. Speaking of "Losing My Religion," Fun Fact #2: For a hot minute in the early 2000s, I considered using "Losing My Religion" as my coming out song. I even started creating a PowerPoint presentation using the song's lyrics as substitutions for me actually having to say to anyone three little words, "I am gay." In the end I scrapped that idea entirely and chose the traditional route, a decision I am glad I made.
Well, I made it to the top five on my Countdown to 40, which means in a few days I will cross that bridge into a new decade. You'd think I'd be nervous or scared, but I'm not. The looming birthday also means the inevitable end to this little introspective project of mine, with several of the best and most important films, books, and music yet to come. Like today's feature post on Prince's Purple Rain album.
When it broke last April, the news of Prince's death hit me pretty hard, more so than the passing of fellow icons Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston in the decade prior. More so than George Michael and Carrie Fisher in the year afterwards. More so than any other famous person, to be honest. Up until that time, I never really understood how people could get so emotionally bent out of shape over the loss of a celebrity. I mean, we typically only know the public persona and not the person, so how could a pop star's death really mean all that much to anyone? When Prince died, though, I could finally empathize. In the earliest years of my cultural development, he laid the foundation for my love and understanding of pop music with the soundtrack to Purple Rain, which, to this day, remains my all-time favorite. No other album made a larger impact on me or my taste in music, thanks in large part to my sister Missy. I certainly wasn't alone in feeling that sense of loss. The outpouring of memories and odes to Prince filled my social media news feeds in the hours and days following the announcement of his death. I dedicated an entire Flashback Friday segment to Prince for my United States History class, to which a number of students expressed their dismay at his passing. The death also affected my sister, Missy, who introduced me to Prince more than 30 years ago. Like it did for me, Purple Rain played an important role in Missy's life, prompting her to write: Ah, the memories that flow into my mind when remembering Prince and Purple Rain. I recall my parents weighing in with their opinion of Prince's "so-called music"...which in their eyes was "just noise". But I loved it. I connected to the lyrics and the music itself was so different from what I was used to hearing. Not to mention the mysteriousness of Prince himself. I couldn't help but be drawn into it all.
She was right, too. Her adoration of Prince and constant replaying of Purple Rain helped me fall in love with it, too. I proudly showcased my liking for Prince, dancing around (was I really gyrating?) and lip syncing to my favorite songs from the album, like "I Would Die 4 U" and "Baby I'm a Star." The applause, laughter, and support I earned from Missy and my parents only encouraged me to continue my performances, each one likely more flamboyant that the last. Which brings up another trait of Prince's that made him such a big influence--he appeared fearless and confident to be whoever he wanted to be. He wore boots with heels. He changed his name to a symbol that represented equal parts male and female. And he challenged people's preconceived gender biases in rock music by featuring artists like Wendy and Lisa as prominent members. He also sponsored and wrote music specifically for women as a way to help promote their talents, serving as a champion for women in music.
There truly was no one else like Prince. He taught me just how great pop music could be, and even when I listen to Purple Rain today, I am constantly amazed at how timeless the album really is. He also showed me how powerful being true to oneself can be, unafraid and unashamed, a lesson I carried with me into adulthood as I grappled with my homosexuality. Prince and Purple Rain therefore form core elements of my sense of identity, and when he passed away, it felt as though I somehow lost a connection to that foundational part of myself.
I'm sure the inclusion of a Madonna album in my Countdown to 40 comes as no surprise, especially considering I am a child of the 1980s. And gay. It's one of the stereotypes I wear proudly. Truth be told, though, I know several gay men who could take or leave Madonna and her music. Not many, mind you. But there are some. Ultimately choosing Music as the one of her many albums to include may, on the other hand, surprise you.
You may have expected to see her quintessential, star-making album Like a Virgin here, which would not be a stretch by any means. I remember slipping quarters into the juke box at the local bar and grill near my grandparents' summer home to listen and dance to "Material Girl." Singing along to the title track with no concept of the meaning behind the song's lyrics whatsoever. Blaring the cassette tape from our garage and practicing my color guard routine in the driveway. (My brother and I joined a Drum and Bugle Corps for two whole days--he wanted to play drums and I wanted to twirl flags...to think it took me another decade or so before I realized I was gay is beyond me sometimes.) Then there's Ray of Light. Madonna enjoyed a renaissance of sorts in the late 1990s following the birth of her first child and her starring role as Eva Peron in the movie musical version of Evita in 1996. Many consider 1998's Ray of Light the pinnacle of Madge's career. Motherhood and a newfound passion for yoga and the Kabbalah seemed to give the Queen of Pop a more mature perspective, while coaching for Evita strengthened her voice in both tone and quality. The lead single, "Frozen," hinted at Madonna's new electronic sound and more introspective sensibilities. I grabbed my copy of Ray of Light on CD when vacationing in Orlando with my family, and I may or may not have forced them to listen to the entire thing with me for the first time. They may not have appreciated it much, but it turned me into more of a Madonna fan than I was before. Impressed with her new sound and direction, I eagerly anticipated Madonna's follow-up to Ray of Light, 2000's Music. The title track had me hooked well before the CD's release, and I think I even ventured to Wal-Mart shortly after midnight that September to purchase my copy as soon as it became available. I quickly fell in love with the entire album, listening to the CD on my drive to and from work for weeks. In addition to "Music," I developed quite a fondness for "Don't Tell Me" and "Nobody's Perfect," both of which made appearances on earlier compilations of my Hot 101. Beyond remaining one of my favorite Madonna albums in the years since its release, Music holds the distinction as the sole CD to survive an apartment fire my roommate Maggie and I experienced in October of 2000. We lost practically all of our material possessions that day, with the exception of the things we had with us. For something so tragic, Maggie and I managed to stay level-headed and kept our sense of humors about the whole thing. Though I had to leave a message with her parents informing her of the bad news, as soon as she could she returned my call. When I answered the phone, she asked in a tone clearly meant to mock infomercials: "Did you or anyone you know recently lose everything they owned in a fire?" I couldn't help but crack a smile. Maggie's attitude and support along with the comfort and familiarity of Madonna's Music album helped me cope with what could have otherwise been a complete and utter disaster.
My introduction to the Dixie Chicks came in 1998 with the band's release of "There's Your Trouble" from Wide Open Spaces. Before that time, I likely would not have paid any attention to them as I avoided their brand of music almost entirely (save for a few Garth Brooks hits). I generally considered country antithetical to what I saw as my more sophisticated and suburban pop music sensibility. I therefore thought country was out of touch with my reality and world perspective. Until the late 1990s, that is.
The times were a changin' during my sophomore and junior years at the University of Minnesota Duluth (thanks for the quote, Bob Dylan). Some of my close friends and roommates convinced me that my preconceptions of the genre lacked substantial justification, and soon I found myself in the midst of a country music baptism. Shania Twain initiated the mind-changing process with "Any Man of Mine" and "No One Needs to Know," which really sounded more like pop songs than down-home twangy ditties. Regardless, I thought maybe this stuff wasn't so terrible after all, and perhaps I'd been a little too quick to pass such harsh judgment on an entire genre of music. With a new and burgeoning appreciation for country music, I eagerly sought out popular recording artists like Trisha Yearwood, Deana Carter, Tim McGraw, Jo Dee Messina, Mindy McCready, and, of course and probably most of all, the Dixie Chicks. After I picked up Wide Open Spaces in 1998, it entered frequent rotation in my car and residence hall room CD players. I quickly learned each of the songs, and you could often find me singing along with the tracks from start to finish. When the Dixie Chicks' next album followed in 1999, I rushed out to purchase that CD, too. A little more edgy and confrontational, Fly sounded different from Wide Open Spaces but still largely fit into the country-pop genre and what I expected from a Dixie Chicks record. Then came Home. Even before the release of Home, the lead single, "Long Time Gone" enticed me. The song kept a thread of the group's signature country-pop sound but also teased another change. This further fueled my anticipation and excitement for Home, and I did not hesitate to add their 2002 album to my collection as soon as I could. Upon first listen, the evolution "Ready to Run" hinted at became clear--the band all but dropped their pop crossover status and traded it for more of a bluegrass sound. It was their most country-sounding album of the three I knew, and I loved it, I really loved it. More mature than the previous two albums, Home tackled the feelings of loss in the wake of September 11 while also exploring love and the promise of hope. It was both timely and timeless, a feat achieved by very few albums, and therefore established itself as one of my most favorite albums of all time. The fact the CD also holds "Truth No. 2," #11 on my Hot 101, only buoys my affinity for Home. I used to say I liked all kinds of music except country. In fact, you may have even heard me say as teenager that I hated country music. But like the Dixie Chicks, and thanks to them, I matured and no longer make such sweeping and disparaging comments about entire genres of music, especially considering I could not get enough of country for a brief period of time (and there are always exceptions to the rules). This transformation in my feelings for country music also helped to change my world view by encouraging me to open myself to new things more willingly. In fact, now when people say they hate any specific type of music, I raise my eyebrow ever so slightly, and whether or not it's warranted, I take those blanket statements as symbols of a person's unwillingness to try new things. Of course, we all have preferences in terms of what music we connect with the most--and there's nothing wrong with that--but closing ourselves off entirely from certain types of music, movies, books, and/or television shows effectively prevents us from growing as a person and developing a sense of empathy. So thank you, Dixie Chicks, for helping me become a better version of myself.
Preparing for my Countdown to 40 blogging adventure was a multi-step process. I brainstormed lists of movies, albums, books, video games, and television shows that included what I considered sure things along with likely contenders and long-shots. (I plan to share some of the cast-offs on an honorable mention list sometime near or shortly after the final post on March 12th.) One of the items I always knew would be the focus of a featured post is Michael Jackson’s Bad album, an album intricately woven into my developing taste for pop music in the late 1980s.
By the 6th grade, my family had relocated from suburban Saint Paul to the vast and sparsely populated prairies of west-central Minnesota. As I shared in my first post about Entertainment Weekly, I felt isolated from the cultured life I longed to live, regardless of whether or not that was justified or true. My feelings of remoteness stemmed from the 200-mile move, yes, but I also felt disconnected from my older sister, Missy. (She prefers Melissa these days, but to me she’ll always be Missy.) Ten years separated my sister and I in age, and I always looked up to her as one of my role models, which meant I wanted to spend time with and be like her as much as possible. I probably annoyed her when I was not yet ten and she was a teenager. I’d intrude on her time with her high school friends (and boyfriends) and talk with them on the telephone before getting Missy for them. For her part, she rarely seemed bothered by my brotherly antics, at least as far as I remember, and had nothing but patience with me, taking me under her wing in many ways. As a result, I often felt we shared a unique bond, one that followed me into adulthood, and on more occasions than I can count, it seemed as if we knew what the other was feeling and/or thinking. Throughout those developmentally important years, I picked up a lot from Missy, including her taste in music. The connection we made over artists, albums, and songs was one thing I treasured most about our relationship (and still do). Like so many others in the 1980s, one performer she loved was Michael Jackson. So, naturally, I did, too. A year or so after my parents moved my younger siblings and I to Alexandria, Missy called one day to invite me to see the King of Pop in concert. She wanted to take me to his Bad tour stop at the Met Center in Bloomington—perhaps as a birthday gift, the details escape me now—and because it provided me the opportunity to spend time alone with her and return to our old hometown, I felt more than excited. That we were going to see Michael Jackson perform live was tertiary. As the concert date approached, a little nervousness emerged alongside my constant excitement. How loud was it going to be? Would I like it? Not as familiar with Bad as with Thriller at the time, I wondered, would he sing any of his other music? My eleven-year-old mind started psyching itself out. But I persevered, and the big night finally arrived, and although many of the details surrounding that night escape me, several important memories stick out in my mind. My sister somehow managed to get us tickets for floor seats in the 17th row. I was eleven at the time and my growth spurt hadn’t really happened yet (I was short), so I needed to stand on my chair in order to see Michael Jackson over the heads of the people in front of us. Every time Missy told me to jump onto the chair, however, a security guard would walk by and order me down. Unfortunately, the constant to and fro between floor and chair is what I remember most about that night. I must have loved it though, because in short order I became obsessed with Michael Jackson. I memorized every lyric to every song on the Bad album. I got the Moonwalker VHS tape, which served as the visual accompaniment to Bad, and repeatedly watched it, the short film for “Smooth Criminal” being my favorite. I put on little lip sync shows, dressed in boots and the concert t-shirt Missy bought me. I even wanted to grow my hair long and curl it, just like Jackson. Clearly, the concert experience with my sister and the album played a large role in defining my cultural identity during those last years before becoming a teenager. Today I consider myself extremely lucky that the first person I ever saw in concert was Michael Jackson. It fueled my love not just for Jackson, but pop music in general—undoubtedly including the work of his sister, Janet. The concert also sparked a desire to see other performers live, which would eventually include the likes of Janet Jackson, Prince, Madonna, Fleetwood Mac, Garth Brooks, and Simon & Garfunkel. It also reinforced the bond between Missy and I, and I cherish that above all.
The song "Escapade" basically introduced me to Janet Jackson in the spring of 1990, and if you want a specific sign to identify the start of my enthusiasm for the youngest of the famous Jackson clan, look no further. If you need more solid evidence to explain my infatuation, however, I completely understand your hunger for something a bit more meaty and substantial. Because, let's face it, no matter how powerful and symbolic, a single cannot justify a life-long, pop-culture love affair. With over 25 years and counting, there has to be more than a simple song to warrant my unending support of Janet. So, ladies and gentlemen of the non-existent jury, I present to you Exhibit B, Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814.
I could ramble on about the album's numerous accolades and achievements, like how it became the biggest-selling album of 1990. Or how it has sold more than twelve million copies worldwide since then. Or how it earned Jackson the distinction of being the first woman ever nominated for a Producer of the Year Grammy. Or how it remains the only album ever to have seven commercial singles reach the top five on Billboard's Hot 100 chart. Or how it produced three number one hits over the span of three consecutive years, 1989-1991, and endures as the only album to have accomplished that. Or how the Rhythm Nation World Tour 1990 became the most successful debut concert by a recording artist. I could ramble on about all those things, but I won't. Instead, I'll tell you how the album was the second CD I ever purchased (after World Clique), but the first cassette tape I replaced after getting my first CD player. And how "Escapade" lured me to the album, but the title track, "Miss You Much," "Alright," "Black Cat," and "Love Will Never Do (Without You)" quickly established Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814 as one of my early all-time favorites. And how "Rhythm Nation," "State of the World," "The Knowledge," and "Livin' in a World (They Didn't Make)" helped open my eyes to the social injustices faced by many people, particularly children, around the world. And how, at the age of thirteen, it therefore taught me the meaning of privilege, white and otherwise. And how I subsequently used lyrics from two different interludes to start off a paper written in my 11th grade social studies class, the first being: "We are in a race between education and catastrophe." The second stating: "In complete darkness, we are all the same. It is only our knowledge and wisdom that separates us. Don't let your eyes deceive you." And how these songs and interludes prove every bit as true and important today as they did when Jackson released the album in 1989. And how I whole-heartedly believed the album's opening words, "We are a nation with no geographic boundaries, bound together by our beliefs. We are like-minded individuals, pushing toward a world rid of color lines." And how I still believe those lines today and with every fiber of my being, perhaps more than ever before. So, if The Velvet Rope helped me to better see myself, Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814 helped me to better see the world. Most of the items on my Countdown to 40 blog symbolize key transitional points in my life. Entertainment Weekly reconnected me to the suburban life I felt I had lost. Jagged Little Pill served as the soundtrack to freshman year of college for my friends and I. A major period of self reflection and realization began when I heard The Velvet Rope for the first time (and several times thereafter). Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends inspired my appreciation for the written word. A few other items simply represent a few of my favorite things (see Pushing Daisies, Super Mario Bros, and Game of Thrones). Somewhere between the the importance of the first set of examples and my pure affinity for the latter set lies World Clique.
Deee-Lite's 1990 album of dance-pop music boasts the distinction of being my very first CD purchase and therefore marks the beginning of an era of conspicuous consumption. (It was the 90s, after all.) Soon after acquiring my first CD player, I quickly grew obsessed with purchasing CDs and building my collection. By the time I graduated college, I owned over 400 of them, ranging in genre from classical to rap and from Disney to grunge. I considered them badges of honor and something to be proud of, proof of which was recently uncovered after rifling through a storage bin of photographs. Tucked away near the bottom of the container sat a box of wallet-sized senior portraits, including one of me sitting among piles of CD jewel cases with several of my favorites prominently featured in the foreground. Clearly I wanted people to know just how important those CDs were to me, and I also thought I would want to remember such banality. Talk about an awkward photo! I laughed out loud before promptly sharing the cringeworthy photo with my husband and one of our good friends, Jen. My addiction, for lack of a better word, was fueled equally by my susceptibility to the idea that buying stuff would make me happy and my desire to "broadcast" my own Top 40 using CDs (rather than music recorded on cassette tapes from the radio). I mean, how could I effectively accomplish creating and listening to my Top 40 without the CDs needed to play each song on cue? For a while, the CDs and Top 40 did bring me much happiness, at least superficially. I considered them my path to popularity, or at least acceptance. This, of course, proved a faulty line of thinking, but I was a teenager searching for acceptance by any means possible and didn't know any better, and the more CDs I purchased, the more accepted and understood I assumed I'd become. In reality, though, they provided more of a curtain to hide behind and false sense of identity. My CD collection never did provide me with the magic ticket to the in-crowd. More often than not, the random and numerous CDs I couldn't live without because of my love for a one-hit wonder were disappointments. Yet despite the glaringly obvious problem with my misplaced consumerism, it did introduce me to some great music along the way, beginning with my very first CD purchase, Deee-Lite's World Clique. I bought the album for "Groove Is in the Heart," number #28 on my Hot 101, but I also discovered that every one of the CD's twelve tracks proved just as delightfully catchy and enjoyable, a circumstance rarely repeated. What I didn't recognize was how World Clique would turn into one of my most listened-to albums. Today, I continue to thoroughly enjoy World Clique and still find myself returning to it a few times each year--far more than I can say for roughly 95% of the other CDs I thought I could not live without as a teenager.
What is a motion picture without its score, I ask you? Not much different, I suppose, than macaroni without cheese. Or Ben without Jerry. Or Mary-Kate without Ashley. Or Laverne without Shirley. Or Bert without Ernie. Or C-3PO without R2-D2. I could go on listing famous pairs almost indefinitely, but I think you get the point. In each example, one of the individuals can most definitely stand alone; however, something magical happens when the two join forces. Together they create a whole much greater and sometimes more powerful than the sum of their parts.
The same symbiotic relationship holds true for movies and their music. When you think about it, could you imagine Jaws without the music of John Williams? It certainly amped up the film's suspense level (...and convinced me never to swim in the ocean, but that's another story for another time). What about Braveheart without James Horner, The Lord of the Rings without Howard Shore, and American Beauty without Thomas Newman? No, I would venture to bet you could not separate a film from its score, not in a way that would keep intact a movie's connection with an audience. For, as in each example listed above, the composer interprets a film's narrative using music, thereby establishing the emotional core of its accompanying motion picture and conveying its tone. Fairly early on, I recognized the power of film scores to leave their lasting impressions on me, largely because of John Williams and his work in Jaws, Indiana Jones, and Star Wars. It was his soundtrack for Schindler's List, though, that stuck with me the most, so much so that I went out and bought the original score on CD. When listening to it, the film's haunting theme, played on violin, prompted equally haunting images and scenes from the film, eliciting many of the same emotions I experienced while watching the movie. The soundtrack evoked such an emotional response, it intensified my personal connection to the film and marked the beginning of a new appreciation for the power of movie music. Before long, my newfound appreciation for film scores turned into more of a fixation, particularly as my love for movies intensified. From that point on, it seems I could not get enough of movie music. Over the years I amassed quite the collection of film scores, both digitally and on CD. Along with the soundtrack to Schindler's List, several others join an elite group of all-time favorites, including The Last of the Mohicans (Randy Edelman and Trevor Jones), Braveheart (James Horner), The Lord of the Rings Trilogy (Howard Shore), American Beauty (Thomas Newman), Gladiator (Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard), Atonement (Dario Marianelli), The English Patient (Gabriel Yared), Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (John Williams), Elizabeth (David Hirschfielder), Shakespeare in Love (Stephen Warbeck), Brooklyn (Michael Brook), and Finding Neverland (Jan A.P. Kaczmarek). Beyond and within those full scores, many individual pieces stand out in memory and importance, like "The Park on Piano" from Finding Neverland, which served as the processional music for our wedding ceremony. Additionally, about 10 years ago, my love of movie music even inspired me to create a set of compilation CDs for a good friend of mine, Carrie. The resulting collection spanned twelve discs and featured many of what I considered to be the greatest film score selections at the time, grouped according to quality, mood, or emotion and showcasing just how deep my passion for movie music ran. Since undertaking that project, I've continued to expand my collection of motion picture scores, further highlighting the importance movie music plays in my life and sense of cultural identity. And because I couldn't spend an entire post waxing on about such wonderful pieces of music and not share them with you, below you will find a Spotify playlist with highlights from the 12-disc collection I mentioned as well as several more recent pieces that have joined my iTunes library during the intervening years. |
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I am a self-proclaimed pop culture geek and list enthusiast who is celebrating the big four-zero by counting down the most important, influential, and favorite music, movies, television shows, books, and video games of my life so far. Categories
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