For Love of the Game

One of the 600+ films we worked on while I was Supervising Music Copyist in the Universal Studios Music Library was Kevin Costner’s “For Love of the Game” (music composed by Basil Poledouris). The last day of recording was under the most extreme battle conditions I had ever experienced, by far, in my 30+ years working in Hollywood. Basil had already scored six days of double sessions (consisting of two 3-hour sessions with a lunch break) with a 104-piece orchestra at MGM-Sony Studios, and by the end of Day Six it was obvious that an extra single session was needed to finish the movie. This was on a Thursday. The additional recording session was booked for Sunday from 1-4 PM. Eight cues, representing about fifteen minutes of music, were still to be recorded, and I expected to work my crew Friday, Saturday, and Sunday morning. Under the current Motion Picture contract, five minutes of music were allowed to be recorded each hour of a three-hour call. Fifteen minutes may not seem like a lot of music, but in real time it can be a tremendous amount of notes. Very quickly it was realized that a double session would be necessary with that much music still out, and so another three hours in the evening were booked, with a possible fourth.

In days past, the craft of music copying consisted of notating music by hand, very much akin to the method of creating illuminated Bibles practiced by Benedictine monks in their cold and poorly lit cells of medieval European monasteries. This is not to say that the contemporary offices of music preparation services are cold and poorly lit. But in days past, other adverse conditions abounded, such as ammonia fumes from the parts repro machine, stress from relentless deadlines, and—until then—back aches, hand cramps, and secondhand smoke from cigarettes. Until the development of today’s reliable and efficient computer programs, which only became efficient enough to use in the early 1990’s, music notation was still done by what many people referred to in the industry as “ink slingers.” Ideally, copyists had to have a beautiful hand and be fast and accurate. Long hours and eye-straining work were common, and under extreme last-minute conditions, music parts with ink barely dry were put on the stands for recording the score to a television series, an ice show, an album, a commercial, or a motion picture soundtrack. Today, the long hours and eye strain remain; only the method has changed. The computer allows the ability to make quick edits, change entire arrangements to a different key, and, using the “copy” and “paste” commands, restructure entire pieces of music which otherwise could take many hours or even days to accomplish.

A note about “quick edits”: A lot of people think that by simply “pushing a button” one can crank out full scores and parts in another key at the drop of a hat. Well, yes and no. We worked on the original Three Tenors Rome concert, which included preparing full orchestral scores, parts, and piano rehearsal scores. The latter consisted of combining all three vocal parts on one treble-clef staff, and an orchestral reduction on two staves below. That meant analyzing the entire score and reducing all salient material to a part that a pianist could play in rehearsal. We also had to provide lyric sheets—words only, in a large font—for each singer. Remember Pavarotti, Domingo, and Carreras reading off their music stands? There was no music—only the words. They knew the music forwards and backwards but needed the words as reference in case they needed a reminder.

One of the pieces that Pavarotti was scheduled to sing was Rossini’s “Tarantella Napolitana” in A-minor. After we had copied the entire score, we got a call from arranger Dick Hazzard asking us to transpose the piece down a step to G-minor. In the original version there is a violin line that goes down to a low G# on the dominant chord and then resolves up to an A. In G-minor, that note was now an F#, which is too low for a violin. Simply taking the note up an octave was not the answer, because it would have been very unmusical to have a descending run of notes suddenly leap up a major-7th interval to an F#, then back down to the G, so complete re-orchestration had to be done, while maintaining artistic integrity to Rossini. And we found all sorts of related problems caused by the transposition. On another day, during another phone call, we received a request to also provide a version in F-minor.

We were starting to get upset by someone not being able to make up his mind, but were told later that the placement of the Tarantella was being constantly moved around. Pavarotti was originally supposed to sing it mid-concert, when he was fully warmed-up and at the top of his game—hence the A-minor he was used to.

He then got the word that they moved it toward the end of the program, so he would need it down a step because his voice would be a little tired after a full concert of singing. Finally, the piece was moved toward the beginning, when he would not have been as warmed up and would need it in an even lower key, because it would have been harder to hit the high notes.

In each case we encountered problems that a seemingly simple transposition created. Completely on my own to make intelligent decisions, I had to rework the problem passages to make them playable, while honoring the original composer’s intent. No computer program can possibly do that.

Back to the Costner film: Each member of my crew was an accomplished composer in his own right, and brought to the job a knowledge of theory, ear training, proper notation, and many styles of composition. As stated before, each had to know how to write for all the instruments, knowing their ranges, transpositions, and capabilities, for it still happens that a composer or orchestrator may unwittingly write a note that is beyond the instrument’s range. An oboe, for example, cannot play an A below middle C; a tenor trombone cannot play quickly from a Bb to a B-natural in the bottom of the staff, unless equipped with an “F” trigger; a violin cannot play two notes simultaneously below the third string. All this and more a copyist must know.

While every composer works differently—some working with paper and pencil, some with a computer—let me explain the circumstances for the film at hand. Basil faxed his music sketches to orchestrator Scott Smalley, who then entered the notes into a computer notation program called Encore. Scott then fleshed-out the music by voicing the appropriate harmonies for the various instruments of the orchestra, building a full orchestration to underscore that particular scene in the film. The score format was quite large, and even with the 22-inch monitors we used, one couldn’t see the top and bottom of the page at the same time. The list of instruments included 3 flutes, 3 oboes, 3 clarinets, 3 bassoons, 6 horns, 3 trumpets, 4 trombones, tuba, percussion, timpani, 2 harps, piano, 2 guitars, electric bass, first violins, second violins, violas, cellos, and basses—that's a big score!

As the orchestrator finished a cue, he then emailed me the file. Once I downloaded, I prepared a file to print in a somewhat reduced and reformatted form on 11x17 tabloid paper. I also had to prepare an extractable version for the instrumental parts which included changing the page setup to 89% letter; hiding staff names; adjusting compressed rests to 5% with a 24-pt. font size; creating assignments for page headers with the proper project information, font size, and pagination; creating defaults for clef spacing, measure-number size and placement, and measures per system. By preprogramming all of these parameters into the master extract score, each part was already formatted in a printable form (a lot of work still remained for the copyists, such as transpositions, dynamics, slurs, compressed rests, and any directions that may have been displaced, such as pìu mosso, accelerando, crescendo, etc.).

Once that was done, I sent the file to each copyist’s computer through our file sharing network and assigned one person to extract the woodwinds, one to extract the strings, and so on. Clarinets and trumpets, being transposing instruments, must be transposed up a major second. Horns transpose up a fifth, alto flutes up a fourth, alto sax up a major sixth, etc. Each copyist then printed the parts he extracted, which were then proofed by the proofreader. Corrections were made in the file and final parts were printed. The masters went to a person who enlarged them to 9-1/2 x 13" on 80-lb. stock, and enough copies of the string parts had to be printed for the 32 violins, 14 violas, 12 cellos, and 8 basses. Multiple-page parts were taped and 5 copies of the scores were bound (one each for the conductor, orchestrator, engineer, music editor, and librarian). The librarian made up the books, which were checked and rechecked to make sure that every musician had a part for each cue.

As I said before, we expected to start working Friday; however, we saw not a single note of music until 2:00 AM Sunday morning. The film had been cut and re-cut and Basil was behind in composing, which would dangerously delay the orchestration and music preparation process. I set my alarm Saturday night to wake me up at 1:45 AM, but two factors prevented me the benefit of the few short hours of sleep I had hoped to get: worrying about 104 musicians sitting on a recording stage with no music to play, and a brand-new head cold which I had caught that morning. The alarm clock, not caring about any of that, rudely evicted me from my bed and, like one of the creatures from “Night of the Living Dead,” I stumbled through the dark house to my office where I booted-up the computer. My cold had blossomed into a full-fledged war zone and my head felt as if it would split at any minute. By the time I had showered and was on-line, it was 2:00 AM. One file was there waiting, a five-minute rewrite of a cue Basil had recorded Thursday. I downloaded the file, dressed, and drove the 23 miles to Universal. Once there, I created the printed score and the extract file for the copyists who were to show up at 4:00. While we worked, three more cues came in, and by 8:30 in the morning we had at least four pieces of music to send to Sony for the one-o’clock downbeat.

Three hours passed before we saw another cue. My cold and lack of sleep were beginning to take their toll, and I dearly wished I could take a nap; however, the constantly ringing telephone precluded that luxury. I lost two members of my crew who had to go to Sony at noon to pass out the music and be responsible for receiving and printing the remaining cues that I would be emailing from Universal.

From that moment on, the game changed. Aside from the printouts for the proofreader, no more parts would be printed, as there was no time for a courier to get from Universal across town to Sony with each cue as it was finished. In fact, for the rest of the day the orchestrator emailed me only pieces of each score at a time. First the strings came through. I downloaded the file, prepared a print score which I then emailed to my person at Sony who would make the necessary score copies on that end. I also created the extract file which would go to the copyists and, via email, to someone working for me off the lot in Valencia. Finished parts were proofed, corrected, and then packaged in a compressed file to email to Sony, where they were downloaded, printed, and taped (at a table behind the conductor, in full view of the orchestra). Great care had to be given to not disrupt the recording process with the noise of the printer and the taping of parts and scores. Most of that was done during any rehearsing and during the all-too-short ten-minute breaks every hour. During a “take,” silence is paramount.

The first session ended at 4:00 PM, and since Basil still had to write two more short cues which my people there would take care of, it was decided that the one-hour dinner break would be extended to two. Back at Universal, we received two of the last three cues from the orchestrator and processed them as fast as humanly possible. It was an amazing juggling act to keep track of the details of the attention I had to give to the new scores as I received them, including the email transmissions to and from Valencia and to Sony. The two-hour dinner break allowed my people at Sony to download and print the two cues in time for the evening session at 6:00. That kept the orchestra busy for well into the second hour. By 7:45 they were running out of music and I still had not received the last cue from the orchestrator—one that he had only just begun to orchestrate at 7:00.

I kept the stage at Sony completely informed of every iota of progress, and Basil was well-aware that there was a good chance that he would not be able to record the last piece of music, because the orchestra had to be dismissed exactly at 9:00. One minute into overtime would be very costly. They had already booked the two extra sessions and were way over budget. There was always the last option of the editor chopping up an already-recorded cue in ProTools and reassembling it to fit the picture, not an uncommon practice in the industry.

At 8:00 I received the strings from the orchestrator. He sent me pieces-at-a-time so that we could work in stages, allowing me to email portions of the score bit by bit. We worked at a fever pitch: me desperately juggling more and more balls in the air while trying to manage head-splitting congestion; copyists furiously plowing through the extractions; parts being proofed, corrected, and sent off. At 8:20 the stage at Sony received a glimmer of hope: The string parts finally arrived via email. The librarian quickly printed enough copies so that Basil could at least rehearse the strings while the rest of the orchestra sat quietly. Twenty minutes later they received the woodwinds and brass, and Basil rehearsed that portion of the orchestra. I began sending parts one-at-a-time, just to get them there. Every second counted. By 8:50, with 10 minutes left in the session, I emailed the last parts: 2 harps, piano, and timpani, and by 9:55 everything had been downloaded, printed, and distributed to the musicians. There was time left to record one take. In fact, the person who pulled the last part out of the printer raced across the room to the timpanist and became a human music stand, holding the two pages out with both hands for the timpanist to read, just in time for the downbeat of the final take.

Needless to say, we were heroes. Basil could not believe that we had accomplished the impossible. He had been able to record every note that he had written, maintaining the full integrity of his score. It took a behind-the-scenes operation and the abilities and dedication of an incredible team of music copyists to pull it off. With the exception of the three-hour break in the middle, my nineteen-hour day had been run on full-throttle adrenaline. There was no choice in the matter. At no point could I afford to stop and wonder if we could handle the job. Once we had stepped onto that bobsled, there was no turning back, no room for failure. Everyone performed far beyond normal human capabilities, not pausing for a heartbeat, and proving that, yes, we can build pyramids, climb Mt. Everest, and send a man to the moon.

As I wrote this on the following day, my cold had started to move down to my chest, and I felt as though I had been dragged twenty miles by a team of runaway horses. The events of the previous day remained a blur of chaotic activity, something that took a long time to settle down in my head. On subsequent gigs, I relived the stress and pressure that each brought, but at least for the time being, I had the week off, and I was thankful that there was time to recuperate before the next project began. Every job had its quirks, blind alleys, and unforeseen hazards, and had the potential of unleashing unmitigated terror and anxiety. Why did I put up with it? It was a job, and a well-paying one at that; however, I wouldn’t wish those experiences and working conditions on anyone. I was reminded of the joke about the man with the circus whose job it was to clean up the smelly bucket-loads of prolific elephant dung. A passerby, who saw him hip-deep in the excrement, asked, “My good man, how can you put up with such demeaning conditions? Have you ever thought about another line of work?” To which the carnival worker replied, “What!—and give up show business?”

Postscript: In later years, while most of the battle conditions described above remained, the technology changed — for the better. We changed to Sibelius software, a rock-solid application that virtually eliminates the procedures listed in the fifth paragraph. File transfers were accomplished with DropBox, and the office size was unlimited with the use of “virtual” copyists working at home anywhere in the world.

[From my memoir-in-work, What!—and give up show business?]