Leave a Reply Cancel reply Your email address will not be published. Musician Biographies. In addition to being a prolific composer of music for film, he has quite a career as a songwriter. Composed pop songs with John Clifford under the name Andy Badale. I doubt anyone got it, but hey, I put it forth, and in my book, that's as much as anyone can do. However, lately, I've been questioning the act itself, especially in the face of oblivion.
I'm less and less concerned with proving my point--after all, there is none. Not to discount what comes out of everyone else's asses, but I don't think it matters if mine's unique. Besides, I'm eventually gonna disappear from this meaningless world, if I haven't already got one foot in the grave.
I could keep telling myself that there's something worth expressing, but really it's as self-important as so-called "art". Nowadays, I just don't give a shit. Ok, that's an exaggeration--everyone's great to some extent.
But not everyone's recognized as such. Sure, being mentioned in the media can be hardly categorized as an accomplishment--I mean, if my name's been in the newspaper , any idiot ought to be able to do the same.
Anyways, if one considers Wikipedia as a reliable souce of information, I got played by a bone fide imposter. She's not listed, as of this writing, on the "notable" list. But I think she ought to be--definitely moreso than her fellow imposter, Azia Kim. I actually remember reading about both stories.
Earlier this year, two individuals were caught posing as students at Stanford. Azia was exposed first , so she her notoriety had an advanced buzz. However, she only got away with pretending to be someone that she's not for a mere 8 months. Soon after, Elizabeth Okazaki was discovered. She lasted an impressive four years before getting banned from that university.
The UCLA campus police sent a memo to the Music Department alerting everyone of a suspicious person who's been lying about her status as a "visiting scholar".
Immediately I connected the dots and knew who they were looking for. After relaying my experience, other students shared similarly bizarre tales of their encounters with this "crazy homeless person". Apparently we're her "friends". Anyways, security officers escorted her out of the library today. One of my biggest mistakes was giving her my cellphone number.
On my way home from work she called--her number's unlisted, as with some of my other friends, so I foolishly answered. Fortunately, I'd established a neutral and passive tone with her from the last time and continuing that stance kept her at a distance. We've been advised not to upset her cause she's still got some books and CDs checked out on her questionably acquired library card. But I did notice, assuming the campus police are telling the truth, that whenever she told a lie, she'd preface it with an "OK"--for example, "OK, so I'm really a visiting scholar, and OK, so I don't know why they called the cops on me.
Cause I'm not worthy to be in her league of smoke and mirrors. Sure, I've lied here and there, but nothing on the level of her infamy.
I mean, I felt really self conscious about pretending to not know about her illustrious background during our last phone conversation--I tried my best to not say too much in fear of her figuring me out.
And yeah, I understand the moral boundaries, but I gotta admire anyone who can keep up a charade for that long. Not to get too philosophical, but everyone's a fake on some level, so I won't jump to any condemning conclusions. Afterall, most of us pretend that some of us aren't great. I watched it yesterday. Today my new credit card arrived--I doubt a scammer would go to the trouble of sending me a replacement. Meanwhile, I tried walking with my old portable CD player. It kept skipping ridiculously--shock resistant, my ass.
I now understand why MP3 players've been adopted by the exercising crowd. Yesterday she tried to get me to check them out for her under my name, which I flat out refused and expressed suspicion on her sketchy behaviour. OK, so she really needs this research material, and she said that she'd call me so I could transfer her to the circulation head tomorrow.
She never did. Like Kyuti Hani , it's yet another live action version of a horndog anime. This time it's about a super heroine who's dressed only in a red mask, red gloves, and red boots. Yeah, she's pretty much naked. Yeah, I can't wait for her to come. It was the first time since "80 days until football". She was in her car as I was waiting for the crosswalk to change.
She seemed busy so I pretended not to notice her. Lately, heterocera have been flocking my path. I believe her previous album From Me to You created the optical illusion. The moths seem to flutter away from their luminous lures and find it in their wings to follow me for a block.
Not that I mind, but I don't want to lead them astray. After a month of fighting traffic, I've decided to double my estimated commute times. I think it's safe to assume that the roads these days are twice as conjested. A tour bus pulled up in front of my parents' house.
Out of it came a load of Taiwanese travelers en route to my brother's wedding reception. Whilst sitting in my car during rush hour, I noticed a modern relative of the delizchala bitterfeldensis. I daydreamed of projected prehistoric aspirations. It's my understanding that anyone who claims to be humble isn't so. Cause a truly humble person wouldn't brag. The scene from Swallowtail Butterfly in which the title is elaborated upon is the closet approximation of flight, literally and figuratively, that I've ever seen on film.
I almost forget that the major character is topless and a minor. I fit their entire discography, including all their B-sides, minus any overlapping English versions and remixes I think I'm only missing two cover songs that they recorded for tribute albums --a total of tracks. I've got plenty of space left for their future albums. Today was the first day that I took my Walkman, which shall henceforth be referred to as my Puffy Walkman, to work.
And it was like I was in heaven. I walked around campus with their sweet voices in my ears. I never knew life could be so cool. It was like Ami and Yumi are at my side at all times. I'm not backing down on my initial reason for NOT purchasing a portable MP3 player, namely that I don't like music enough to warrant me listening to it constantly.
I'm still not a big music fan. However, I believe that I love Puffy better than music. Cause I think most music is too serious, too self absorbed, too self conscious, too complicated, too self righteous, too ambitious, too real, too important, and too much to be associated with constantly.
Puffy is exactly the opposite. And that's enough for me. The latter's been getting frequently played on my DVD player--her greatest hits CD came with all her corresponding music videos. Anyways, I like hitting "shuffle". It's like having a radio station that plays what I want to hear plus a lot of Puffy.
It was parked last in a row of movie backlot wagons lining the street between the law and architecture buildings on the southeastern side of north campus. And they each had their own door--for example, "Henchman 1", "Henchman 2", etc.
There's a character who doesn't speak when she's at work, cause she's only an assistant. However, she talks when she's not on the job. I set the volume on my Puffy Walkman at 10 when I'm in the library. Everywhere else I crank it up to I think the snooty crowd likes to upgrade their headphones beyond stock. While I agree that there're better ways to listen to music, I like to be able to hear the outside world.
It adds a level of variability that I want to observe. We get to play baseball. It does sound like a curve ball, though. Sometimes I'll read a sentence a million times and still not understand what it means. Afterwards I simply give up. Whether it's busying themselves with building their credentials or accumulating mindsets for maximum usage later, I always feel sorry for these people cause they've got so much hope for themselves.
Meanwhile, today is just another stepping stone for them. It's this ambition that escapes me as I find things perfectly fine as they are. And I'm not saying that the world ain't a nightmare, but I think there's a fine line between being content with imperfection and greedily striving for improvements.
But that's just my opinion. And I'm a hypocrite. Cause just as I slam everyone for having their eyes on some prize that's down the road, I often ignore them as I wait for them to find themselves--instead I should just accept that they're restless. There is only the now. Pearl looked like she was protecting herself from an impending storm as she wore the hood of her coat indoors. She told me about her car problems. A drunk driver crashed into her parked car earlier this summer. And after getting it fixed, it got smashed again by a valet.
Luckily, she had a sense of humour about her bad luck--she was distracted by the set backs, but not enough to exclude laughing about it all. After she gets it fixed this time around, she's gonna sell it and get another car entirely. Based on what Kelly was listening to the other day, I assumed that she was blasting more East German rock.
Actually, I initially thought that she was a little weird for listening to foreign music, but then I realized that my Puffy Walkman is filled with Japanese songs. I'm not exactly one to talk. I recently rewatched it at home in its original language. This weekend I'm gonna walk to the beach.
Proving once again that my mind changes as often as the grains of salt that accompany every word that I spew, despite my honesty at the time of writing, I went and added Riri Shushu no Subete to my DVD collection.
And I was drawn into the haunting visuals, especially the kite suicide sequence. Besides wanting to hear the sad music in stereo, another reason for my buying the DVD was to be able to watch it in the privacy of my own home. From the first scene to the last, it's hard for me to keep a dry eye. She's cute, even though her character gets fucked up, literally. I'm not one to pick favourite directors, mainly cause I'm not a big film buff, but I'm getting close to declaring Shunji Iwai as a forerunner, if only for his usage of the same actresses.
Arisu from Hana to Arisu is heartbreaking as the kite suicide girl. Number one: cool chick I could care less about anything else. We were working on a project in the basement, which she often commented reminded her of a morgue due to the dead acoustics.
The popular music collection was being relocated to the depository in order for a spatial renovation of the reading room--those shelves are gonna get knocked down. So we were manually marking property inscriptions and transcribing accession numbers onto sheet music, filing them in free-standing containers, and sending them off to their next subterranean home.
To kill the peace she accessed her network drive and played a copied CD of renditions of pop hits performed on an antara. The sonorities of the Andes, albeit cheesed up, eroded the dusty air. The first track was a chirpy version of "The Sound of Silence".
We began to work only to freak out and put our stamp and pencil down--the first folio that she grabbed was for the music we were concurrently hearing.
And now I'm looking at the music. It was titled Popular Fake Song Book. Rather than bringing it to her attention I kept quiet. Because this summer was extraordinarily hot, I sweated a lot, and hence waited til the temperature dropped for me to put the sofa bed's canopy in the laundry--it'd only get smelly again, so why repeat the struggle.
Anyways, it rained this afternoon, which convinced me to clean my futon, but was a concern for my weekend's plan--I wanted to walk to the beach today. During lunch my taste buds returned. Ever since I quit smoking I've been anticipating the moment when food'll sideswipe me, like my sense of smell did a month and a half ago--my nose overloaded as it caught up on what I'd missed all these years. So I was eating a tonkatsu plate.
And the sesame sauce knocked me out. Last night I watched Iwai's Love Letter. From the opening scene, with the super fine Miho Nakayama walking in a brilliantly framed snow shot accompanied by a pleasant piano on the soundtrack, I was hooked--it captures those fateful crisscrossings of happenstance that make relationships so intriguing.
It's another winner from Iwai and another reason to vote for him as my favourite director. Next up: Picnic. Puffy's playing a concert in LA in November. I'm gonna pass on seeing them cause I've seen them before and I don't want to ass anyone out of enjoying their live show who've yet to experience their crazy performances.
Also, I'd like to preserve the time I saw them as the greatest concert I've ever attended. Sure, they might be better now, but I'm happy with what they've already given to me. It'd be greedy of me to buy another ticket to heaven. My G-string unraveled. I didn't've an extra one so I replaced it with a D-string--it seems I keep busting that gauge. I'm gonna be housesitting for my boss next week and I intend to bring my guitar.
Nevertheless, I ordered another set of strings. They probably won't arrive before my stint, but for now I'm just glad that I've got six strings. Tonight I watched Kurosawa's Tengoku to Jigoku. Without a doubt, it's masterfully directed, even though there're hardly any chicks or music in it.
The black and white cinematography is tight. And the ethical plot is captivating. I hate to admit it when I fall for the classic reasons for liking a movie cause it's as if critics have determined what to look for as opposed to the audience finding their own personal enjoyment. But I can't argue with Kurosawa's legendary status as a great filmmaker.
I wouldn't mind seeing Puffy live in Japan. Cause they play big auditoriums there as opposed to the small clubs here. And yeah, I prefer intimacy, but the larger venues call for a more exaggerated act. As well, their interaction is related to the size of the crowd. Of course that's hypothetical gravy. I really can't think of any singer that I'm dying to see in concert and haven't before, except perhaps Hajime Chitose.
It took me an hour from my door to the ocean--the downpour passed. Actually, I my feet didn't touch the water, cause there was a warning sign which stated that contact with the beach is dangerous cause it's been contaminated by a storm drain. On my way back, I went on an adventure that took me far from the path that I took to the beach--I followed roads that, although seemed to backtrack, took me to corners of my neighbourhood that I'd never find otherwise.
Cause I prefer not to retrace my steps Not that I don't like his film scores anymore, I just didn't really dig his last two albums-- Charlotte's Web and Meet the Robinsons. Plus I didn't see those movies in the theatre, so my disinterest drifted distinctively during disassociation. I mean, I hope to hear what zaniness the Maestro's capable of later in his life, but call it a break, disappointment in his current slump, or just his lack of successfully holding my attention whilst the Japanese attack and take control of my entertainment budget.
There's a cool button on the bottom of the Amazon. The customer service is awake during my normal hours of leisure and sent me an email requesting me to retry my newly replaced credit card.
Apprently it's OK for me to make purchases at Amazon. That's cool cause I've got another card that got approved within a minute after I edited my payment options. My films of Iwai soundtrack backorder have an estimated date of arrival three days from today. There are titles that I've yet to watch on DVD--I'm confident that they'll be alright at the very least, afterall the director is a composer, and I trust musicians more than I do any other vocation with my admiration. In other words, I equate his talent to match actresses with equally matched cinematography and musically matched equations as a worthy subject worth investigating in my Puffy Walkman.
Needless to say it's not cheap to import these items from overseas. So I diverted funds to cover the extravagance. But I think it's worth it, cause I'll briefly allow non-Japanese acts some flash drive space, but in general, my policy is to keep the playlists on a strict Japanese-only rotation. Not that their music is better than any other in the world, I just jive with them more than any other ethnic demographic, namely their seifuku school girl uniforms --probably the greatest invention, ever.
In my opinion, those sailor style designs surpass the wheel. I'd rather listen to music than watch a movie. Cause I can do other things when I've got my Puffy Walkman playing thru headphones, as opposed to being tied to my futon in front of my television set, not to mention the concentration that's involved on my part during paying attention to plot points. The way I look at it, the DVDs are inspirational viewing material, but the CDs compliment the scenes with my imagination, which ain't usually directly correlated with reality.
I mean, I tend to pretend that I'm a character in a film when I hear the soundtrack, where I can interact with the actresses, oftentimes in interactive action within some demented dimension. Technically speaking, the Iwai soundtracks feature the piano in a pseudo classical style that I believe captures the fabric of those seifuku. I certainly don't find any authentic hints of such in Hollywood.
They are here when I hear that music from scenes that displayed widescreen shots of seifuku wearing main characters. Strangely, most of these films aren't available to rent on Netflix and I've been scouring eBay for Korean editions. Like I said earlier, I don't mind getting ghetto versions of the films cause I'm not attached to their visual artistry.
But I don't mind watching them repeatedly, if only to relearn their remembered resemblance in realms of restricted resonance. Whilst I don't value any particular place in the world more important than any other, after all, it's all the same to me, if I were to qualify such, my home is only sometimes the most important place in the world. Cause it depends on whether or not I'm there--the most important place in the world is wherever I'm at.
I mean, otherwise I wouldn't go anywhere else. So their motto is right, but it's also wrong. Circumstances led me to catch the entire live broadcast of the president of Iran's United Nations address. Normally, I'd've been at work and oblivious to the day's political show business. And even on my average absences from my office, the chances of me watching television in the afternoon are scarce. But I was in the waiting room of the car repair shop, which I generally spend asleep in a corner couch.
However, today my usual seat was occupied, as well as most of the other places to bide time, leaving me almost no choice but to lounge by the TV. Thus began the speech via a translator. Last night, my car's battery died. On any other given situation, I'd've waited til the following day to jump start it--call in sick to work, take it to the repair shop, get it checked out, etc.
But I was scheduled to house sit for my boss as she's on vacation for a week. And I would've brushed off my duties had there been no cats involved. For their sake, I deemd it imperative for me to, at the very least, get across town, feed them, and clean their litter boxes. It was midnight and it just so happened to be that I was on the phone with my spiritual advisor when I discovered my standstill. Fortunately, he's unemployed and had nothing better to do than to help me out.
My car was really dead--I couldn't even get it into neutral. Hence, it was trapped in my garage and too far to reach for my spiritual advisor's short jumper cables. So we abandoned it and he graciously drove me to my boss' house to care for the cats. I returned to my apartment so that I could tend to my car when the rest of the world was awake.
Every diplomatically cloaked word from the president of Iran's mouth via the translator was right, but also wrong. And it got me thinking--as much as religions are stereotypically to blame for conflicts, I don't think it's unreasonable to hold the phrase "home is the most important place in the world' just as responsible. By itself it sounds like background hiss with the occasional scuffling of people who can't sit still.
However, mixed with the MIDI orchestra, the ambient hall noise adds some smoke to the mirror of reality. Cause the ear is accustomed to hearing background noise, but often filters it out--listen to a recording of classical music, or any live performance for that matter, and the sound of the room and the people in it are usually present. The music is often the focus of attention, so the background noise is commonly ignored, unless of course it's annoyingly noticeable.
Likewise, remove the background and the foreground can sound fake. Illusions are about distracting the audience. I'm reading two books right now. Well, they're not really books in the conventional sense, rather they're visual media. It's a neat story and is filled with scrapbook clippings from the era.
It's so neat that the actual drawings, which look like a kid's stick figure scribblings, almost go unnoticed. Cause it's the story that really matters.
I bought a car adapter for my Puffy Walkman. It's handy, but I'm afraid that it reveals the defects of compressed audio all too well. Like a good pair of headphones, listening to ATRACs Sony's version of MP3s on speakers sound like the sound's been dulled and squashed--in other words, less alive and present.
The audio quality doesn't bother me on cheap headphones, especially when my surroundings intrude. Cause it's about the actual music and convenience thereof that outweigh the technical compromise. It's essentially a v23 portfolio--they did album artwork for 4AD. Back in the day, 4AD was the coolest label. Along with bands like the Pixies, Cocteau Twins, and Lush, they had a distinct look to their sound. Obviously, words fall embarrassingly short when I try to describe the graphic designs. Nevertheless, it's difficult to separate the music from the artwork, which is a compliment to how they complimented each other.
My Iwai soundtracks arrived. I've noticed that the scores use a lot of samples. It took me some getting used to--most Hollywood films hire real orchestras, and it's generally a low budget production that resorts to synthetics. Plus, I've been spoiled with hearing actual instruments. But whether or not economics are involved, the aesthetic decision to use electronically simulated sounds seems to fit--there's a "childishness" and "innocence" evoked from a digitally sampled piano that the "mature" and "complex" textures of a real concert grand can't fake.
Besides, listening to these albums on my Puffy Walkman, the difference is negligible. Ultimately, what matters most is if can relive the movies thru the music. Last night I had a dream that I saw myself in bed having a dream of myself in bed having a dream of myself, etc.
And the loop produced feedback in the form of instructions from the beyond asking me to contemplate the similarities between an atomic explosion and urination. The only thing that I can think of is after a zillion years both acts'll be most likely rendered as equally long forgotten.
The chair of the music department held a start of the new school year party for the the faculty and staff to which I was peripherally invited due to my position at the music library. Alex begged me via email to join her and my engineer in suffering thru the event. I was shuffling polite rejection phrases in my head as I was about to compose a reply when Kanae changed my mind.
The day before, I was searching for photographs--I was asked to snap pictures for the library's webpage. Desperately, I was eyeing the directory that hangs in the hall for textual imagery. End Titles. First Love Touch. Heartbeat to a Gunshot. Mathilde's Theme. Secret Code. Elodie's Theme. Kissing Through Glass. Massage Fantasy. Never Had the Child. Angelo Badalamenti.
December 07, Badalamenti composed the seductively melodic theme, lyrics, and all background music for the series and was nominated for several Emmys, including Theme, Music and Lyrics, and Underscore. He also won a Grammy Award in the Pop Instrumental category and a nomination in the I nstrumental Composition film or television area. The threesome also released Industrial Symphony No.
Many other projects followed including being honored as the composer and conductor of the Torch Theme and 25th Anniversary theme at the Olympics in Barcelona, Spain. I feel the mood of a scene in the music, and one thing helps the other, and they both just start climbing.
The City of Lost Children, New York Times, July 1, Cite this article Pick a style below, and copy the text for your bibliography. Power, Debra " Badalamenti, Angelo. Power, Debra "Badalamenti, Angelo.
February 24, Retrieved February 24, from Encyclopedia. Then, copy and paste the text into your bibliography or works cited list. Because each style has its own formatting nuances that evolve over time and not all information is available for every reference entry or article, Encyclopedia.
Composer, conductor, music director, orchestrator, music producer, lyricist, and musician. Composer of advertising jingles, including music for Opium and Obsession perfume commercials, and television theme music; arranger of musical pieces for recording artists, including George Benson , Paul McCartney , Liza Minelli, Melba Moore , and Mel Tillis; occasional songwriter with John Clifford, under the name Andy Badale.
Also worked as a voice coach, a junior high school teacher in Brooklyn, NY, a pianist at resorts in the Catskill Mountains of New York State, and as an employee of a music publishing company. Orchestrator, music director, and conductor, Cousins also known as A Touch of Infidelity , Paramount, Music conductor, Mulholland Drive also known as Mulholland Dr.
TV, Musician, Industrial Symphony No. Une annee au front, les coulisses de " Un long dimanche de fiancailles, " Warner Bros.
Badalamenti's film music has been included in numerous soundtrack recordings; many compositions have also been recorded by other artists. Marianne Faithfull —A Secret Life, Naked in New York , Fine Line, Entertainment, Les enfants de la cite perdue also known as Les enfants de la cite perdue.
Nationality: American. Education: Eastman School of Music. Family: Married Lonny, ; two children: daughter Danielle and son Andre. Career: Accompanist to singers in the Catskills as a teen; taught at a Brooklyn junior high school before developing career as songwriter in the s; hired for Blue Velvet as vocal coach for Isabella Rossellini but retained as composer, ; has scored all of David Lynch 's films, TV productions, and other video material; composer for TV series Inside the Actors Studio as Angelo Bagdelamenti , , The Profiler , —, The Last Don , , and Cracker , Industrial Symphony No.
Only a few composers for films have the distinction of being deeply identified with a string of major works by a famed director, so that one can hardly think of the films without hearing the soundtrack: among the foremost pairings are Bernard Herrmann with Alfred Hitchcock and Nino Rota with Federico Fellini. Few, perhaps, would place David Lynch in the august company of Hitchcock and Fellini, but certainly many of the haunting moments of the American director's work have been accompanied by the music of Angelo Badalamenti , who since 's Blue Velvet has scored all of Lynch's films, TV work, and experimental videos.
The composer has worked on other films, composed themes for TV shows, and collaborated on CDs with various singing artists, but his work with Lynch, notably Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks and The Straight Story , has been his most celebrated. Blue Velvet 's opening title music is relatively conventional, symphonic in style, appropriate enough for a moody, noirish film. Later, at suspenseful moments, as when Jeffrey is sneaking into Dorothy's apartment, the scoring is more sparse, and kept to the background, so that the low strings become indistinguishable from moaning sounds that might be wind blowing through a stairwell.
In the first scene at the Slow Club, Badalamenti himself shows up as a pianist, with sax and bass, to accompany Dorothy Isabella Rossellini in a very slow version of "Blue Velvet. The somber organ music appears to be coming from behind the stained glass windows glowing in the darkness, but as Sandy tells about her dream of robins and love, the music reaches a peak of hyper-sweet piety that seems a sly mockery of her speech. If one may speak of a fully mature Badalamenti style, one can find it in his score for Twin Peaks , the TV series whose pilot film, directed by Lynch, was shown as a feature film in Europe and on video in the United States.
Later in the pilot film we do hear it backing a vocal line though not remotely Country sung by Julee Cruise, again with lyrics by Lynch—indeed, we see it performed, as the world's most improbable dance music for a biker roadhouse. A second important musical segment for Twin Peaks is the somber progression of notes, spare and tragic, first heard when the body of Laura Palmer is found; this segment often features a second part, when a piano enters and builds to a kind of soap-operatic pop climax, just short of parody—or well across the border—and thus perfect for various hyper-emotional scenes the sheriff announcing Laura's death, or the love scene between the heartbroken teens James and Donna.
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