Our career, though, hinges on perception. In fact, film music could be said to be all about manipulating the perception of an audience (through music). So maybe there’s an argument to be made that these clichés, empty and soulless as they may seem, actually have some value for us in our day-to-day professional lives. More on image, and why it is actually important, after the jump.

The next time you’re at a gathering of film music professionals, take a look around. Compare the throng before you to the glossy publicity photos and candid event shots of A-list film music personalities you see on websites, in trade magazines and newspapers. Realize that the images that these famous composers are sending out into the world are usually painstakingly calibrated to coordinate with their image — generally hip, creative, elite and expensive. (For plenty of others I’ve seen at events lately… not so much.)

At a certain point some A-listers actually budget for professionals to come in (a publicist, typically, or maybe a graphic designer, or a website consultant… the list goes on) and make them appear even more professional. Professionalism professionals.

Pretty meta, right? Or pretty metro, if you prefer. Either way, these folks clearly believe it gets results.

You may not be exercising much discrimination when it comes to your image, but an image of sorts—the default one, which for most of us falls under the heading of “…needs work” — is presenting itself nonetheless. It always does. And people come to associate the look with the profession.

Think about that the next time you see some bleary-eyed, socks-and-sandals composer crawling out from under their studio rock to bask briefly in the sun outside Starbucks.

Perception is reality… another cliché, sure, but when we’re interacting with individuals who have the power to make or break your career based on their hunches, or their intuition, or simply their mood, I think attention to professional presentation is worth a little head space. Too much is at stake to do otherwise.

These days it’s a hot topic of conversation to hold forth on those few of us who can command more than a pittance to do this job. I think one way the “million-dollar score” clique got there was to look like a million dollars.

It goes beyond the person, of course, to the entire setting: like so much of Hollywood, there’s a danger of obsessing over the right way to stock the koi pond, or whether it’s better to roll up to your director lunch in a Mercedes or a Maserati… but this whole thing doesn’t really have to be incredibly spendy or self-aggrandizing. Really, it doesn’t. And you don’t have to have the world’s greatest design sense to create a space and a “look” that communicates your own identity to your collaborators.

It just takes a little effort, and a little thought, and a little creativity. All stuff we’re good at. Be the kind of professional you’d like to be seen hanging out with. The kind you’d pay good money to work with. It’s a respect thing, that’s all. And respect is never a cliché.

I’ve said it before in this very column: in the end, what we’re all playing for is time. One of the best uses for the money we make is to buy us a little more time here and there… more time to polish up a demo; more time to strengthen relationships with our filmmaker contacts; more time to spend outside of music, with family and friends. And all the thousand other things that make your life a life.

Running a professional composing business is a lot like running a restaurant—besides the amusing comparisons to junk food, fast food and kitchens full of too many cooks (!), there’s the idea that there’s always something to do. Whatever time exists will all get spent on a given (menu/project).

For example, I’m using my time right now to write this. I could have written it last night, but I needed that time to finish up demo edits on a few cues for a project demo I’m working on next week. I could have written it tomorrow morning, but that’s my time for taking care of business stuff.

So I’m writing this now, because it’s actually a pretty great use of my time: I’m on an airplane somewhere over New Mexico, updating this text file via the in-flight wi-fi (don’t worry; by the time you read this I’ll be back in action at the Gulag!).

I can’t really write music with the laptop all that effectively (although here in a few minutes I will be working on some scores and parts!), so being able to remain productive like this is what I consider time well spent.

Just a quick anecdote, but the point is an important one: part of being truly professional is building a subroutine into your thought process that automatically seeks out these kinds of efficiencies. Even when it’s not crucial. Because once it becomes crucial—i.e., once you’re down in the trenches of an actual gig, for pay, with actual deadlines—it’ll be too late to have to think about all the great ideas and habits we talk about constantly on here.

Build ‘em in beforehand, that’s what I’m saying. You perform like you practice… fake it till you make it… pick whatever cliché you like. But remember to be careful with the ultimate finite commodity for us all: time.

Is a gig ever really over? Sometimes it’s clear when you’re finished (especially if things go, how you say, not so well). Other times, though, it seems that these ghosts of gigs past come back to haunt us over and over. More on all of this after the jump.

Something that happens more often than you’d think around here is this: I’ll get a suspiciously friendly phone call from a filmmaker I haven’t spoken to in a while. In the midst of catching up, I’ll hear that he has some Exciting News! (oboy.)

…Their two-year-old (or three-year-old, or six-year-old, or older) project has just been picked up by a distributor. Or they’re re-editing it for a festival. Or they just want to spruce it up or “dot all the i’s” before moving on to something new.

And, of course, there are a few teeeensy little technical details that need to be ironed out, the pace of technology being what it is and what-not.

Here it comes: Can I, their Amazing Composer, take a quick second and look through my files and send along:
A) the cue sheet
B) the Composer Agreement (funny how filmmakers and production companies seem to lose these!)
C) a complete set of audio files/stems of the score
D) a couple of revised versions of cues that “we never really nailed,” or maybe even…
E) a new version of the score, mixed in 5.1 instead of stereo? (Don’t laugh about that last one. It’s happened.)

Well, some of this is just a good laugh on a weekday morning. There’s no way you’re gonna volunteer for this kind of duty. But it costs them nothing to see if they can squeeze a little extra work and hassle out of you for free, so they’re giving it a shot.

But short of that, there’s a wide range of requests that we might legitimately consider to be part of the ongoing commitment we take on when we sign our composer agreements. We should, for example, keep all of our paperwork, filed away so that we can access it whenever it’s needed. This kind of paperwork should never be thrown away.

Likewise, it shouldn’t be too time-consuming to re-deliver the score (unless your internet connection is sloooow). If they want a new physical version mailed to them, my opinion is that they should cover the costs of materials and postage. And they should volunteer to pay for that (but they usually don’t).

By the way, a similar syndrome can manifest itself before any time has elapsed, and I had a phone call about this from a colleague just today. Here’s how this one goes: You’re ready to submit a set of library cues to (insert name of Big Library Music Company, or maybe even Cable Network Executive, here).

Not only are you getting no money up front for this ingenious piece of entrepreneurship, but you get a call from the recipient asking either A) if they can keep the hard drive(s) on which you submitted the material (at which point you’re paying for the privilege of giving your music away—!) or B) if you don’t mind creating an online-searchable database of those cues… you know, “so you can be competitive with the other companies submitting cues. We don’t really want to waste time with a library if it’s not searchable online.”

Again, those are nearly the exact words my colleague heard over the phone not 12 hours ago. As the executive was holding music placement for something like 100 cable episodes over his head. The beauty of this is that later in the conversation, the same exec uttered the phrase “I’m not comfortable with the idea of having some invoice from you hanging over my head.” (re: the hard drives, which I’m supposing the exec wanted the composer to offer up as a gift, free of obligation to use the music inside.)

That, to me, is equal parts painfully obscene and beautifully surreal.

Again, something this gratuitous is worthy of derisive laugher and not much else. But other requests sound so easy, so not-a-big-deal-just-this-once that you might get sucked in. Please, for the sake of the rest of us, consider what sort of standard operating procedure you’re committing to… and committing the rest of us to, by default.

Getting back to the larger point: you should have a system in place to deliver old materials. That includes organizing your completed works in such a way that they’re accessible and current in format (Jaz drives ain’t gonna cut it!). You should also take a little time when you’re not under the pressure of deadlines, to decide exactly what your own boundaries are with respect to this stuff. There are some gray areas here, which you’ll need to define on your own.

For example: should you be required to re-mix? Probably not. But you might be willing to batch-convert the audio into a different format if you’re asked. Or you might not. Should you re-send paperwork? Sure. But should you be willing to chase down signatures if that original paperwork never got fully executed? That’s sort of up to you.

Those, plus dozens of scenarios and situations I’m forgetting or incapable of imagining. They’ll all happen over the course of your career. Get out in front of them now, while it’s (relatively) easy.

Whatever your personal “lines in the sand” are, you should take a little time and consider how you’re going to handle phone calls like the ones above. While you’re at it, make a note to tighten up your organizational system… never throw anything away… keep an eye on new formats and figure out a strategy for transferring your data on a regular basis as your old media become obsolete.

Because it never ends.

Second assumption: You’ve successfully threaded your way through the various pitfalls that accompany a typical scoring assignment. Anyone who’s been around for any length of time will tell you that’s not the easiest thing. You’re to be congratulated. Seriously.

I’ve worked on a fair few projects that ended without any sort of closure—either the filmmakers decided they wanted to go in a different direction, or the show simply tanked. Either way, the process of “delivery and finaling” didn’t just grind to a halt—it ceased to exist altogether. And that’s something you should be prepared for, mentally and emotionally. This is a business, and no one in the executive ranks cares whether you achieve a warm and fuzzy feeling at the end of the workday.

Those are two big assumptions for us to make here at SCOREcast. And thanks for bearing with me through this tour of the obvious. Here’s the point—what can’t we assume?

The part we can’t assume is that what is being delivered—i.e., a musical cargo so precious, we’re spending an entire month just talking about how to deliver it safely, securely and properly organized!—is, in fact, worth anything. I mean, some of the procedures we’re outlining here are fairly involved and time-intensive… is your stuff really so good that it’s worth the time and hassle?

In order for you to consistently do a professional job of “putting the project to bed,” you have to believe, with passion and conviction, that the answer is yes. This phase of the game is no different than any other in that regard. If your score is “mailed in,” you might as well just… mail it in.

Just upload some mp3s to your iDisk. The guy cutting on the AVID (what’s his name again?) will figure out any formatting problems. 2-pop? No 2-pop? Who cares? They’ll probably move the cue around, or cut it up, or dump it, anyway.

I spend a lot of time and effort in my articles talking about our process, our mental and psychological state as composers. Getting your inner game in the right place to do the job in all its phases.

In the particular phase we’re focusing on now, I think you can see all that airy talk actually starting to become useful (!). If you’re not convinced of the worth of your product, you won’t take the fussy-but-critical steps necessary to see that that product reaches its destination intact and in perfect shape.

And the bigger the project, the fussier and more critical those steps become. And so the more you have to believe. It’s your energy and commitment that drives the project to completion. As vital as your music team is to the success of a project, it’s ultimately you who has to be the impetus. If you want to change the world, even in the sometimes small and indirect way that’s within our power as film composers, you have to assume that burden.

So… with all that in mind, here are some final thoughts:
1. You can start making a difference in the world any time you think you’re ready.
2. If you believe what I just wrote, and if you believe in yourself, it’s generally better to start taking risks too early than too late.

…the rest is details. Granted, there are a lot of details (!), and a big part of what we’re about as a community is amassing the collective wisdom in order to get through those details in a smart way… but the Big Picture (and, despite the nuts-and-bolts title of my monthly column, I am at heart a Big-Picture kind of guy) is that we’re all playing for stakes.

Most people’s jobs allow them, at best, the opportunity to affect only a few grains of sand on the beach that is humanity. Maybe they can change those few grains profoundly… I’m not denigrating the importance of anyone’s chosen field of endeavor. But as partners in the storytelling enterprise, I think it’s important for us to keep in mind that we’re playing for the entire beach.

LEE SANDERS has scored hundreds of episodes of network television, including music for seven-time Emmy award-winner THE AMAZING RACE, THE BACHELOR, PROJECT RUNWAY, and numerous others. Lee has taught film scoring for UCLA Extension, and is a frequent lecturer for emerging composers and filmmakers at both USC and UCLA. He also serves as a member of the Music Peer Group Executive Committee of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. You can find his SCOREcast bio (and links to his other sites) here.

If you could hear, side by side, the album version and the “in-film” version of some of the Remote Control guys’ scores, I suspect you’d notice substantial differences.

First off, the album-version cues are limited and tweaked to within an inch of their lives. The waveforms resemble what you’d see on commercial albums by recording artists… thick black blocks. A super-full sonic spectrum. This isn’t normally what you want to deliver to a dub stage—even in the fairly rare event you’re delivering full mixes in the first place.

So, for me, Step One is re-thinking the mix concept. That might mean going back to the original sequence file or Pro Tools session and starting more or less from scratch. In my view it’s worth it—the goal of what you’re creating at this stage is entirely different from its original purpose, so re-conceptualizing your mix makes a lot of sense. It also forces you to evaluate exactly which cues are worth the effort—sort of pre-selecting your favorites to go into the Demo Bin.

Along those same lines comes Step Two: editing for content. I think of a demo CD as a carnival ride… which the listener can get off of at any point. Your job is to keep them on that ride. Manipulate their attention span so that there’s something new and interesting every few seconds, while at the same time maintaining the overall musical integrity of the cue.

This is one of those areas where you can apply as much or as little time and energy as you have to spare. Honestly—by the time you experiment with different mixouts, different shapes, moving sections around in sequence, combining two or more cues into a single cue, etc., there are instances when you might as well start from scratch entirely (at least it often feels that way!).

Also, some cues just prove impervious to cutting. In those cases it’s time to make a command decision whether to accept the cue as-is or chuck it out of the Demo Bin entirely.

So… here’s one of the Big Questions people often debate: how long should a demo cue be? The answer is really a part of your own personal musical aesthetic—and I don’t know that, inside a certain reasonable musical-duration ballpark, there’s really a wrong answer. One of my own pet peeves is demos that contain only one loooong track (I’ve received a few). They’re gonna make me listen to that whole thing one way or another! Except, you know, I don’t. Filmmakers like to be able to fast forward if what they’re hearing isn’t interesting. It’s not a bad thing, I think, to give them the opportunity to do this (and thus to get to something they might like better!).

Next up: if your demo consists entirely of cues from a single project, you should take Step Three: considering track order, just as you would any other kind of demo CD. This may sound obvious, but I’ve had the following conversation on several occasions:

Aspiring Composer: “So… what did you think of my demo?”
LHS: “Well, [other, unrelated comments]. And I would have put that first track later… maybe third. Take the fourth track and put it up front—”
AC: (interrupting, slightly rudely): “—But the first track is the Main Title! The whole thing is in chronological order; I’m telling the story the way it was in the film—”
LHS: (returning the favor with my own rude interruption): “—And I don’t care what the order was in the film. I think moving things around makes for a better ride.”
AC: “Hmm.” (delivered in that tone of voice that means there’s no way this particular piece of advice is going to occupy any more of AC’s head space, and now AC is wondering where the nearest Starbucks might be located).

Do what you want with track order… but I encourage you not to set arbitrary limits. And I consider “that’s the way they appeared in the picture” to be arbitrary.

Finally, it’s time for Step Four: naming your cues. “1m21″ isn’t gonna cut it, and unless you’ve already come up with something clever (say, in the spotting session), now’s the time to think of some really evocative titles. Again, for some reason people send me demos. The ones whose cue titles are most interesting tend to be the ones I’m most excited to hear. Simple as that.

If I read “Chase” or “Comedy,” I’m expecting something as generic and vanilla as its title suggests. I don’t mean to suggest that you have to put undue strain on your thesaurus for this, but it’s one of those attention-to-detail things that might make your demo ever so slightly more interesting to a listener… and that, in my opinion, makes it worth the stretch.

This weekend’s column isn’t intended to be my Last Word on making demos… but I hope it’s reminded you of how important it is to treat them as their own thing, rather than just copy/pasting your film-dub versions onto a CD playlist. The difference requires more effort and hassle—in some cases, a lot more—but it’s worth it.

If you have any other tricks or tips on this, let’s talk… hit the COMMENTS. Something I’ve left out? Something you disagree with? I’d love to hear it. SCOREcast is only as vital as we all make it!

I’d start with this: Focus the conversation on dramatic needs. You want to avoid loading up on musical terminology pretty much throughout your collaboration, but more so than ever during spotting. Because you haven’t written anything yet, now’s the time when it’s most tempting to try to explain what your ideas are by using musical language.

Resist. Not only does it threaten to alienate your collaborators, it also hems you in unnecessarily. Keep the conversation focused, as much as possible, on what the music should be trying to achieve.

Next up: Consider alternate approaches. Here I’m speaking in terms of the highest-level conceptual approach to a scene. You can score a scene entirely viscerally (‘Mickey-mousing‘ being the obvious example); at such a remove that you’re actually playing against scene; or somewhere in between (music that reflects the character’s state of mind, for example, or that speaks to the larger dramatic situation that is unfolding rather than simply reacting to actions).

Keeping this entire spectrum of possible approaches in your mind allows cool and original ideas to present themselves to you. Especially when there’s an easy, obvious way to come at a scene, you might want to step back mentally for a moment and consider: what if I did the Other Thing here? It takes a certain presence of mind to do, and that comes with practice—but a certain, deliberate, willful sort of practice.

For me, it’s a similar mental muscle to the one I exercise when I’m watching a picture on TV while continuously focusing on only the music. It’s not difficult, exactly, but easy to lose focus and let important moments slide by unremarked.

Also, you’ll need to address filmmaker requests. This one is probably the most important thing you’ll do, for a number of reasons. If the director wants a certain approach that you’re absolutely convinced is wrong… the spotting session is likely the place where that’s gonna come to light. If you’re going to be pressed harder and harder just to copy the temp, you’ll find that out (or your initial impression will be confirmed) at the spotting session. And so on.

I don’t want to make it sound like too much gloom and doom here, though: there are also great ideas that filmmakers bring to the spotting session. Things you might not even have considered. After all, these people have been present throughout the project’s gestation, and they may even have built a scene or two with a specific musical effect in mind.

Bottom line on this one: you’re going to have to take up the issue of specific filmmaker ideas, requests and even demands pretty much every time out. Yes, they cut into your domain. Yes, they can torpedo your carefully-considered approach. Yes, sometimes it sounds like the filmmakers weren’t even listening to your prepared speech at the outset, selling your concept for the score.

If the approach is workable, if the ideas they’re bringing are something you can live with at all, I suggest you hang in there, make your argument without being a pest about it, and get about the business of trying to orient yourself to whatever it is they’re suggesting. If only to understand why another creative human being would prefer that choice. Think of it as a way to expand your own locus of cool, if nothing else.

See? All pretty simple stuff. Not easy, but simple. I want to hear what you think on this one… I know there’s more to be discussed here, so consider this Weekend Provocation article a stub (Wikipedia-style) that we can all add to in the discussion, below.

At first glance, getting out seems to be easier than getting in. When the scene ends, simply stop the music along with it. Usually you’ll be using a chord with a fermata, so that you can fade smoothly into the next scene.

Of course, when we dig deeper we can see it’s more nuanced than that. No surprise there. But it’s more than mere complexity: the issue of getting out intertwines the “how” and the “when” on an even more basic level than we observed in our last peek into spotting.

That’s only natural, of course, because now we’re considering a situation where the music is, by definition, already playing. So my approach to the subject this week has to be a little more contextual and anecdotal than last time out, when we were starting (literally and sonically) from zero.

Let’s look at some specific cases:

Melodramatic “outs.” If you build, build, build a cue, then simply stop, the result is rather like being thrown off a musical cliff. Leading, say, a crucial line of dialog in this way is painting with a Big Brush (and yes, I’m aware of the horrendous mixed metaphor). It’s a strong, overt move that brings with it a greater risk of music drawing attention to itself. These kind of cue endings are referred to as “hard outs.”

As a result, it’s often too overt an approach, causing the performances to feel hammy or over-acted. Compositional choices during the cue play into this as well, of course, but simply choosing to end the cue in this way, in and of itself, can destroy a carefully-paced and constructed scene.
One flavor of melodramatic out, in particular, deserves its own discussion. So let’s pause for…

A Moment of Silence (before the building explodes). Here the same technique comes across as less of a mismatch, because the action the “out” accompanies is truly consequential. It need not be an exploding building… it might be as simple as a character deciding whether or not to flip a light switch. But that better be one important light switch! The narrative stakes must be high enough, in short, to warrant the choice. The intrusiveness of the move requires the viewer to be fully invested in the dramatic moment. Anything less, and the music will seem too manipulative.

Note, too, that in this case you’re anticipating the consequential action by using a negative accent (i.e., that moment of silence). You’re doing the same thing that veteran schoolteachers do when they really want the attention of the class. They don’t shout; they whisper.

One last thing here, and it’s just my opinion (but I think I’m right!): Using this technique is something you can do once or maybe twice during a project without exceeding the boundaries of good taste. Too much trickery and your score will be the musical equivalent of a pimpmobile.

Then again, maybe you think all that chrome looks good. To me it threatens to undercut the underlying intent. And it destroys the rhythm of what might otherwise be a very well thought-out, (musically) attractive design.

Once again, we’re talking about context. Pick your moments. Don’t be afraid of bold choices or gestures, but remember that most of your cues aren’t going to require something quite so gimmicky to function well.


Don’t Give Away the Game. This one is the converse of the Moment of Silence: here you’re taking care not to exit the scene too early, because doing so would anticipate a payoff moment inappropriately. If a plot twist is coming up, for example, you want to do nothing to give away the game. If you’re in, stay in. If you’re out, stay out. The filmmakers have agonized over how to make this moment startling—and now they’re going to give you the power to ruin all that work with a clunker of a cue.

The Reel Change and the Act-Out. These are moments in the project where you have no choice: you must be out. In the case of a television act-out, you’re going to commercial, so there’s literally no program to score. With a reel change, it’s not as cut-and-dried—it’s only a technical, physical requirement that constricts you from continuing your cue. You can skirt the issue by pausing, then resuming the music nearly imperceptibly—or, if it’s mission-critical that the music continue, the reel can be “rebalanced” to accommodate your cue.

Either way, though, we’re generally talking about an inevitable out-point. Even if you’re working on a film that will almost certainly see the light of day (or the darkened room) of theatrical distribution, you should observe the reel change. The changing means of digital distribution may soon make the reel change obsolete, but for the time being it’s a consideration that you (and/or your music editor) will have to contend with.

The Contextual Out. I’m making up a term for this because I haven’t heard a better one (if you have, please let me know in the comments!). What I’m referring to here is coming out of a scene (or choosing not to spot a scene at all!) because of something that happens immediately afterwards. If you know a huge action scene is coming up, for example, you might choose to leave a significant amount of material unscored beforehand to avoid listener fatigue and/or heighten the auditory contrast.

This choice, of course, requires that you (ahem) know what’s coming up, and keep your decision-making  contextual. And, of course, it also applies to entering a scene—I should have mentioned it last week as well. After a huge, thunderous scene, you’ll want to be careful about coming right back in.

Know When (and How Long) to Hold ‘Em. If you’re using a sustained chord or note to end your cue, keep in mind that you’ll want to hold it quite a bit longer than you think. It’s always better to have more of that last chord/note, rather than less. Music editors will thank you… actually, no, they probably won’t. You’re just expected to get this right. But they will be straight-up irate (and with good reason!) if you don’t give them a long enough “tail” at the end of a cue.

If you’re working with live players, be aware that they’re generally able to hold that final note longer than you’d think. They’re smart enough to see that fermata coming, and to take appropriate action beforehand (for wind players, this is more of an issue, of course).

This was probably the most glaring of the many rookie blunders I made my first time conducting the Family Guy orchestra at the Newman Stage at Fox (for composer Ron Jones). I was pretty excited and nervous, and somehow the thought got in my head that the final chord of the cue might ‘fall apart’ as the wind players ran out of breath. So I cut off the band waaay too early.

Big mistake. I had to be corrected from the booth… twice. Two blown takes; something like three minutes of wasted session time, total. Let me tell you, on the ten-minute break at the end of that session hour, pretty much everyone in the building was giving me the stink-eye. And I deserved it. So take the opportunity to pick up this particular tip the easy way.

Last one for now—although I’ll be watching the comments this weekend to answer questions on anything I’ve omitted:

The “Pause” vs. the “Separate Cue.” This is something that caught me off guard the first time I encountered it as a teacher of film scoring for UCLA. From time to time, a student would score a scene with a loooong pause in the middle. It occurred to me that I needed to explain that, while their decision to leave part of the scene un-scored was OK (or, at worst, something we could talk about), anything beyond a brief pause really would be treated as a separate cue in the Real World.

I just mention it here out of caution—I believe the issue arose in my classes as an artifact of the isolated nature of class scoring assignments (i.e., there’s no real ‘context’ in which to consider the ins and outs), but it’s something you should be aware of nonetheless. If there’s anything like a substantial pause in what you’re hearing, you’re generally better off structuring it as two cues.

There are a lot more things to talk about here, and you can get additional perspectives from film composing texts like On the Track, The Reel World, Berklee’s Complete Guide to Film Scoring and others. All are highly recommended… in fact, I’d consider them obligatory reading for every composer.

So far we’ve covered the ins and outs of spotting; next week we’ll wrap up the series by looking at the stuff in between. Can’t wait to read your comments… and don’t forget to “like up” any SCOREcaster comments you think are cool!

Nowadays our up-front music budget seems to shrink with every new gig that hits our desk… so why would I take a wacky position like this? Why deny myself the (sometimes) glorious royalties that come from a wall-to-wall score? And doesn’t “writing as little music as possible” sound, well, kinda of lazy?

My rationale, and more… after the jump.

It’s simple, really: If my default position is not to score a scene, then including music becomes a conscious choice. In other words, I prefer to build in a decision point, right from the spotting session, in which there must be a argument for music.

Working this way means the music has a better chance of being target-specific, rather than ubiquitous. It has a better chance of heightening the experience by its presence (and absence!), rather than simply serving as what it’s often called: sonic wallpaper.

I say “has a better chance,” because working this way usually leads to conflict with filmmakers. You might be surprised how many filmmakers walk into a spotting sessions with the assumption that everything will be scored.

Once, at a spotting session several years ago, I was even flat-out told: “Just write music for the entire picture, and we’ll throw out all the cues that aren’t working.” Which was both refreshingly honest and casually insulting. When I launched into my whole “concept of spotting” spiel… you guessed it. Funny looks.

Maybe I was being “too meta” for them, talking about a philosophical framework… in fact, I can guarantee it. It’s an understandable thing to want to do, but it’s a telltale sign of inexperience. A rookie mistake.

Here’s why:
Opening the door of talking about process can be counterproductive, even dangerous. Never more so than at a spotting session. It can erode the filmmakers’ confidence in you. It can lead to blanket statements like “I want you to score everything,” out of a desire to cut to the chase. “Process” conversations, I’ve come to believe, are best left to cocktail hour… long after the gig is finished. They’re abstract at a moment when you ought to be dealing in the concrete; they’re speculative and introspective at a moment when you need to be definitive and self-assured. You’re being hired for your opinion, not for out-loud musings about how you reach that opinion.

A spotting session, as filmmaker meetings go, is a long one: it’s at least the length of the picture (…right? Don’t tell me you allow the filmmakers to “skip to the next part where we’re gonna have music”!). Keeping things focused, setting a brisk pace, is an important precedent for your subsequent playback meetings.

All of which is why I’ve adopted a “just (don’t) do it” approach to spotting, in which I simply remain silent until I feel music is required. If, before that moment, the filmmaker asks “…we’re gonna have music here, right?,” I can reply with a question: “Why?”

This little verbal jujitsu move, if done in a friendly, genuinely-curious way, leads into the discussion I want to be having, within the frame in which I want to place it. And if the filmmaker offers up some obviously-just-concocted justification, it doesn’t matter: you’re still having the conversation. You’re still taking part in the creative collaboration. Which means you’re in a position to talk it over. And maybe, just maybe, change your own opinion. None of this should be construed as closed-mindedness.

The spotting process is under fire, in my view, and not just from people like the score-happy filmmaker I mentioned above. Projects for which a music library is used—which, I don’t have to tell you, are more and more prevalent—don’t even have spotting sessions. It’s usually assumed those projects will be wall-to-wall.

On more traditional projects, temp tracks often fall into place long before a composer is set. The spotting decisions made as the temp is assembled become a kind of default unto themselves. If we composers disagree, we have to fight harder than ever even to reach a place where we’re deemed worthy of being allowed to voice an opinion on the subject. It’s a moment in the creative process that, frankly, is in very real danger of falling out of our jurisdiction.

That’s a shame—it results in a shallower collaboration between filmmaker and composer, and in my opinion, a weaker end product. If I’m completely against the idea of placing music in a scene in the first place, how inspired am I really going to be when it comes time to score it? Besides, I’ve spent my whole career honing a dramatic sensitivity… a huge part of which is knowing how and when to enter and exit a scene. It’s part of my identity as a (musical) storyteller. It’s something I bring to the party. I think that deserves a hearing, and I encourage you to be similarly confident and persistent in your own spotting sessions.

And if you still get funny looks from your filmmaking collaborators? Ignore ‘em. If you’re right, they’ll come around.

I want to hear some spotting session success stories… and nightmares… from people this month! The more we all share, the better prepared we are when we walk into our own sessions. So bring it on. The crazier the better. Winner gets respect.

Once in a while a project lands here at the Gulag that makes me sit up and take notice. Sure, I do my best work every time out, just like you all do, but you know what I mean. Some gigs just get under your skin. There’s something there that makes you want to knock it out of the park… show the world what you can do… get off your rear end and write the Great American Film Score.

All of which is usually followed by a sudden feeling of creative nausea. Musical constipation. Call it what you will—lots of people have called it lots of things, usually invoking some sort of unsavory gastrointestinal metaphor.

Instead of writing music, you’re thinking about writing music. You’re competing against some hypothetical “perfect score” (whatever that beast would sound like), instead of simply doing what you do. In other words, you’re making parts of the process conscious, even self-conscious, that ought to be subconscious. It’s a fast track to an unhappy ending.

And yet we’ve all been there. If you haven’t, kudos… but your moment will come.

Here’s how Shaiman handled it: he got out of his own way. He sat down at his piano and mentally let go of the whole cue for a little while. He played through a bunch of tunes he knew well, and knew he knew how to play well, just for enjoyment and distraction. Just to allow his mind to decompress a bit and regain its footing.

He was jamming along to an up-tempo gospel tune when the tape machine (now *that* dates this story, doesn’t it?) automatically reached the end of its pause-timer and resumed playing that cattle-rustling scene.

As the story goes, Shaiman looked at the now-unpaused video, and heard the music he was playing on the piano, and the two just… fit. He knew exactly how he was going to score the scene. Copland’s ghost was banished (either to a Mexican salon or an Appalachian spring, one supposes), and Shaiman got back to work.

I didn’t want to end this month of competition with the cliché about your toughest competition being yourself—there are a whole lot of us composers out there now, and some of us are pretty damned good! So that whole thing, Zen as it might be, just isn’t true.

Except when it is.

Make of all of this what you will… I hope in the weeks and months to come, you’ll get out there, compete, hustle, and kick down some doors. (and let us know how it goes, OK? We love to hear from you!)

I receive plenty of these e-mails myself; usually it’s from well-intentioned folks who really want to get a foot in a door (mine). The truth of the matter is this: If I don’t know you, I’m not going to hire you. And getting to know someone, in my opinion, takes a little time. If the only correspondence we’ve had is the one e-mail you sent with links to your website and your work—and if that e-mail ends with something like “please give me a call or an e-mail so that we can discuss how much money you’ll be paying me,” you’re pretty much hosed before you even got started. It’s a turn-off. You’re making me feel like I’m just a sub-boss monster in the video game of your life. And you’re gonna blast me with your spam cannon and get onto the next level. I’m not that easy… and neither are most filmmakers.

I like meeting new people, especially music people, and even more especially music people who are on fire to get their careers going. But a little unclenching in this particular department works wonders. Building relationships takes time… at its best, it happens organically. And trying to force those relationships—looking at them too much like they’re something to be shooting your way through, rather than nurturing and enjoying—is, to my way of thinking, over-competitive.

Next up: gear. We’ve talked about GAS (Gear Acquisition Syndrome) around here before, and I freely admit to succumbing from time to time. What I sometimes find, though, is film music pros snapping up a whole new array of toys merely out of a desire to race in the Gear Derby. Again, it’s competing in the wrong event.

I’m not suggesting that it’s not important to stay up on the latest stuff; it definitely is. But it’s a means to an end. And there’s a pacing to the thing: it ought to be at a level commensurate with the gigs you’re actually getting (and if you simply must compare and compete, do so with those peers who are at your own level).

I’d love to have a brand spanking new Euphonix or SSL console; who wouldn’t? But I don’t need it. It’s way out of profile with where I am in my career. And the fact that (insert A-lister here) just bought one, or five, or whatever, shouldn’t really bear on my decision. If I let it, I’m allowing my urge to compete over my head put the rest of my finances in jeopardy. And that’s dumb. I don’t need any more machinery to legitimize what I do.

My take on this: put the blinders on, run your own race, and unclench. When you need gear, get the best you can afford and no more. (it’s enough to have to spend just doing that!)

Last thought for now: There are all sorts of aspects of this biz in which thinking of the struggle as a competition can be healthy. It spurs us on to do more than we might be inclined to otherwise. It takes us out of the safe, familiar zone where no growth occurs. It gives us definitive, often-humbling feedback about how we’re progressing.

But competing over who can go the longest without sleeping, or who has neglected their family and friends the longest, or even who can write the craziest number of minutes of music in a day? Somewhere in there is that oft-mentioned line between hard-ass and dumb-ass. Tread carefully. Run the right race. Don’t let your hardcore composer status become an end unto itself.

Lurkers—here’s a great chance to pitch in your own thoughts. I’d love to hear what you think on this one. What have I missed? Are there other areas where we’re all guilty of getting too amped-up, too competitive? Hit the COMMENTS below and let me know what you think.

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LEE SANDERS has scored hundreds of episodes of network television, including music for seven-time Emmy award-winner THE AMAZING RACE, THE BACHELOR, PROJECT RUNWAY, and numerous others. Lee has taught film scoring for UCLA Extension, and is a frequent lecturer for emerging composers and filmmakers at both USC and UCLA. He also serves as a member of the Music Peer Group Executive Committee of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. You can find his SCOREcast bio (and links to his other sites) here.

Then, one by one, those gigs just… slip away. Black swans start cropping up in your work life—unforeseen interlopers that threaten to swoop in and snatch the fruits of victory out of your hands.

What—and who—are these unexpected competitors? Knowing about them—and how to compete with them—should be an integral part of your game plan. So let’s take a look, after the jump.

1. The Budget Composer.
This person’s a vulture—preying on productions whose budgets are tight. He swoops in fast and lowballs everyone else off the table. Sure, it’s no way to earn a living in the long-term. Budget Composer is hoping to cement a relationship with the filmmakers, though, so that he’ll be a lock for the next gig (and, through some sort of magical process, the filmmakers will decide he’s worth a lot more money next time around).

Two problems with this approach: first, “lowball” has come to mean zero. And it takes real creativity to get below that (of course, some composers are now striking deals to give away their royalties, in effect literally paying for the privilege of writing music).

Second, chasing an expanded music budget on the next gig is like chasing the horizon. It’s out there, tantalizing you but never coming within reach. Take it from me. It’s not going to happen. Not if you do a standout job with the budget you have. Think of it like a producer: Why would you pay more for the same product—especially when the person providing that product desperately needs the gig?

I think the best tactic against Budget Composer is to take the high line. Know what you cost. Don’t deviate from it. And if you do deviate from it, make it clear up front that the filmmakers are getting a x score (where x is the rate you’ve chosen for yourself) for y dollars (where y is the amount you’re agreeing to), and that this special one-time offer won’t be repeated. You will lose gigs this way, but my take on it is that they’re predatory gigs to begin with. If “low cost” is the sole criterion (or even the #1 criterion) for choosing a composer, then you have to wonder about the filmmakers’ priorities elsewhere in the show. And you have to ask yourself if you want to spend the rest of your career on your knees, begging for every extra penny.

By the way, if this gig is for someone with whom you have an existing track record—i.e, if they already know your rate and have paid it in the past—you might be wise to take any offer of this sort to be a relationship-threatening insult. Unless everyone on board is taking a hit just to do the project (and the filmmakers are taking a bigger hit than anyone else!)… and even then I’d advise you to be wary.

If your standing (social and professional) with the filmmakers is solid, though, I still claim that you’ll have some general protection because of the rule that states: people generally don’t screw over their friends. Sure, it happens… but less often than you think. Keep those relationships right and tight, and you’ll find out for yourself.

2. The Music Supervisor.
When the position of music supervisor was first imagined, it pertained almost exclusively to the domain of songs in films. Now music supervisors have begun to assert jurisdiction over the score-selection process as well. In addition to presenting a “short list” of songs and/or artists to be considered for placement in a film or television project, they often recommend one or more composers for the gig. And their recommendations, increasingly, are carrying weight. Not just with individual filmmakers, but with networks and studios as well. The model is evolving: in a growing number of cases your demo will have to go through a music supervisor before it’s even mentioned to any other gatekeepers.

This additional middleman can save the filmmakers an immense amount of time—and never more so than in today’s composer-saturated environment. We’ve talked before about the hundreds—literally hundreds—of demos that land on the desks of filmmakers for each and every gig. Giving all those demos legitimate consideration really is a full-time job.

Of course, if you have a pre-existing relationship with those other gatekeepers, you can communicate with them directly, regardless of whether a music supervisor is in the picture. And if you’re friendly with the music supervisor, you may find yourself with a powerful ally in the competition to land a gig. You might even get a call out of the blue from a music supervisor, letting you know he or she is recommending you for a job!

So, while this additional layer of ‘triage’ does nudge composers a little further from the heart of the creative team, it also presents opportunities for you to enlist other Industry professionals as your evangelists. It’s all in making those connections.

3. The Music Library House.
If you’re writing any sort of library music, this is your dilemma. The production companies that make these shows are less and less inclined to speak with individual composers. It’s just too much of a hassle to pick up a few dozen cues here and there. They simply don’t have the time… or the budget to pay someone to hassle with the phone calls and e-mails and downloads and paperwork.

Reality shows today deal more and more frequently with massive music library corporations, who can ‘represent’ tens of thousands of tracks. The task of “filling out” the music for a show becomes a one-stop shopping kind of event—a single phone call from a line producer to a music library sales rep (though they typically give themselves a more high-flung title, that’s really what they are) can make it happen.

So if you want to compete in the music library biz under your own banner (i.e., not writing for an existing library company or composer), the bare minimum number of cues you’d better have ready to go is 500. Fewer than that, and no one (producers or music library execs) will consider you worth the trouble of doing the paperwork. Even better is 1,000 cues. At 1,000 cues, across a wide variety of styles and emotions, you could conceivably go directly to a reality show or production company and promote your own library. Your mileage may vary, but in my experience that’s where it seems to be shaking out these days.

If you don’t have that many cues just lying around (!), one option is to get into business with an existing outfit. There are many of them out there, and (like music supervisors, above) they’ve pretty much sewed up the market for this type of gig. You’ll be one or two steps removed from actually meeting filmmakers or seeing picture… and you’ll be giving up a sizeable portion of the income on the cues you create… and the pay up front is small, if any… but you will be writing music that actually stands a chance of getting placed in a show. You’ll be aligning yourself with a company that already has established contacts, in a business where contacts are the coin of the realm. It may sound like I’m slamming the notion, but I’m really not—you just have to have a plan for moving beyond this stage of your career, if moving beyond it is what you want to do (for many people it isn’t!). Otherwise that old chestnut about a career opportunity turning into a career trap could be the story of your life. Proceed with caution.

4. The Temp Track.
Here’s one where you can actually gain ground, if you’re willing to admit that there’s no rule prohibiting composers from befriending music editors and sneaking their own scores into the temp. It’s actually the rule rather than the exception… and another reason why LA-based composers have a colossal edge. Befriending music editors brings cool people into your social circle. It makes interesting work-conversations more likely. And it makes it possible for your music to become the ‘default position’ early in the show’s post-production process. Let some other composer fall prey to an unexpected competitor… you!

At a bare minimum you can ask your music editor friend what’s being temped into a project they’re working on. Then you can demo in a style that is similar. Or, if you’re convinced the approach is wrong, you can work against the grain and submit something completely different, armed with the knowledge that what you’re sending will be a fresh approach. (crazy as this may sound, I heard of a situation very much like this only a couple of weeks ago. Of a dozen short-list composers who sent in demos, the one who went completely against the brief from the filmmakers landed the gig. But you have to be damned sure you’re right to try this!)

If you’re not “on the temp,” and you haven’t the first clue what scores the music editor is using, you will find it much harder to write music that’s in the ballpark of what the filmmakers and execs are expecting to hear. You’re writing in the dark, using your psychic abilities to divine the intent of the production. That’s a tough proposition.

5. The Producer’s Girlfriend’s Cousin’s College Roommate.
Unlike the temp track, here you basically have no wiggle room. You get blown out because of a pre-existing relationship (however tenuous or unmerited) that someone leverages to get on a show. The only thing I’d mention here is that sometimes the composer at the other end of this ridiculous broken-line connection is actually good. And you have to admire the networking skill required to pull off something like this. Don’t hate the game… don’t even hate the player. As with the temp track, the secret here is: don’t assume a rule exists just because a tactic is personally distasteful to you.

6. The Old Flame.
No, I’m not talking (exclusively) about ex-romantic partners. I’m thinking more about a situation like Burton and Elfman, reuniting after Howard Shore stepped in for Ed Wood. Or Cameron and Horner. Or any number of other teams that break up and come back together… sometimes precisely at the moment you think you’re a lock for the gig! Ouch. It’s a tough one to take (believe me—I’ve experienced it), and yet there’s something to be said for loyalty. Even if that loyalty is sporadic.

There’s not much else to say here… if you get edged out by an Old Flame, there’s little to be done. My advice: wish them the best, then silently hope for another breakup (and your opportunity to introduce the filmmaker to the joys of a lower-drama creative relationship).

One thing I’m noticing about all these unexpected competitors is that there’s a social aspect to nearly all of them. Which underlines the social-interaction portion of our job even more clearly. I’ll end by making it simple: Being a competent writer is crucial. Being a brilliant writer helps. But the better you are at the social aspect of the game, the more success you’ll meet with in your career. Whichever of the two you are.

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LEE SANDERS has scored hundreds of episodes of network television, including music for seven-time Emmy award-winner THE AMAZING RACE, THE BACHELOR, PROJECT RUNWAY, and numerous others. Lee has taught film scoring for UCLA Extension, and is a frequent lecturer for emerging composers and filmmakers at both USC and UCLA. He also serves as a member of the Music Peer Group Executive Committee of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. You can find his SCOREcast bio (and links to his other sites) here.

Risk and competition are different. Competition implies effort. A lottery ticket is a risk, not a competition—there’s nothing you can do, besides buying more tickets, to improve your chances of hitting the right combination of numbers. Whereas, if you fail to land a gig, there’s always a nagging guilt, or doubt, that remains: What could I be doing better? Why didn’t they like me? Why do I have to do this ‘schmoozing and hustling’ part—why can’t writing incredible be enough?

Today’s column is all about these inner-game aspects of the career. It’s all about improving what’s between our ears, rather than what’s coming out of our speakers. It’s a subject I want to tackle even more here on SCOREcast, if you’re interested. So let me know.

For now, here’s an orientation: some basic techniques for getting through the competitive aspects of the biz, even (especially) if you find them distasteful.

First, discipline yourself to a positive attitude. Being dejected and cynical is easy. Finding reasons to stay in the game, and to keep a smile on your face as you do it, is much tougher. It is, in fact, a job unto itself. It requires discipline—one of the great unsung commodities of the age we’re in. I think discipline is a finite quantity, with each of us possessing a certain intrinsic maximum capacity that is expressed to a greater or lesser extent depending on how we prioritize its usage and constant development. Just like building muscle at the gym, in other words.

It’s only a theory, but it seems to line up with my experience, and I definitely feel the burn when I’ve had to force a little more discipline onto myself from time to time (usually around deadlines!).

Second, expose yourself to competitive experiences more frequently… and not just in film music. Desensitize yourself through increased exposure, a little at a time. So that un-returned phone call didn’t make you feel so great? Make ten more… twenty more. Once you realize that any one failure, any one defeat, isn’t the end of the road, you should (should!) be able to breathe a little easier next time.

Third, study resources that are proven for other competitive environments. There are books, websites, DVDs that use the same fundamental mental-toughness techniques that top trainers preach day in and day out to the peak-performers in every human endeavor. This technology has actually been developed to a fairly astonishing level—take advantage, be skeptical as required when confronted with some of the ridiculous claims that are out there, and find what works for you. Make a proactive effort to improve, just like you do when you sit down to compose. Work at it.

Finally, unclench. Accept that there may, in fact, be aspects of this career that aren’t your favorite thing in the world. Put in perspective, though, they’re actually relatively minor when you compare them to the fact that, even at a middling level of success, millions of people around the world will be hearing the music you create. You’re taking your place as one of the people who shapes the artistic reality of the present moment. That’s a pretty spectacular reward, and it’s one you shouldn’t just blow past in some sort of rush to whine about having to get out there and hustle.

Either way, though, one thing I recommend avoiding at all costs is talking too much. I was up for a small picture a few years ago, and had to take a “cold” meeting with a pair of producers (I was already friends with the director). The meeting was incredibly tense and awkward… and all the more so because the producers completely stonewalled me.

They literally said, like, six or seven words the entire 30-minute meeting. That kind of thing doesn’t just happen… it’s premeditated. But that didn’t occur to me then.

As the silent seconds thundered past… as the director stared in my direction with a hangdog look that told me he wasn’t gonna bail me out of this mess, all I could think of was: “What magical combination of words out of my mouth will cause these people to like me?”

I tried to fill the empty air with something, anything—opinions on their script, ideas of how my score would enhance the narrative, a preliminary concept for a palette—but it just got more awkward as they declined to respond. Again and again and again. Finally I was dismissed with a simple “thanks” (yes, I’m counting that as one of the six words they said!) and a nod toward the door. I’ve shown more respect to moldy, back-of-the-fridge lasagna before chucking it in the trash can.

It was one of the most humiliating professional interactions I’d ever had. It took me days to recover. If I’d been able to meet these people socially beforehand, at the very least I would have seen that dynamic in action ahead of time. I could have bowed out of the whole situation gracefully.

Could I have come out with a win? Was there some Jedi sequence of moves that would bring the picture my way? Almost certainly not. In this case, there was no hope for me (see below). Verbal economy is a best practice regardless, and sometimes it’s your only hope of retaining your dignity.

But I hadn’t gotten that memo. I just yapped my trap ad nauseam, hoping something would evoke a positive reaction. The better play would have been to let the silence fall, or simply to ask a couple of questions and then let the silence fall. Either way, I would have been demonstrating that I was comfortable without words… which would have put the pressure right back on them to say something. Then, if they chose to continue to disrespect me, I could keep control of my part of the equation by walking out without another word. Ending the meeting on my terms, and in a definitive, positive, fashion. That’s the strategy I recommend to you should you ever come across this particular brand of negotiator.

It turned out that the pair of producers in this little nightmare anecdote were in the midst of an all-out creative war with the director, so I was never gonna get that gig. Still, the way those producers wrung me out, just to make a point to the director about who was wearing the pants on the production, was asinine. And, after the sting of the insult faded, it was instructive. Now I know what to do when I find myself in one of those rooms (and I imagine you’re devising your own clever strategy right about now, too… which is sort of the point).
In happier meetings, being concise and focused is still important. It means that the words you do say carry more weight. They allow you to get to the point more quickly. This is a technique I have to work hard to keep at the top of my own mind—I have to be vigilant against my natural tendency toward wordiness. Especially if it’s a gig I really want, my tendency is to try to seize control of the situation with words… words… words.

That’s a bad idea, kids. For all kinds of reasons. Over-talking (and its first cousin, “always having to have the last word in a conversation”) is indicative of weakness, of a lack of self-control, of a feeling that the gig in question is needed rather than wanted.

Which leads me to this: no one gig should be everything to you. If it is, you lose any leverage you might ever have in your relationship with the filmmakers. You want to be affable, communicative, intuitive and responsible… but your self-respect demands that you stand up when it’s time to walk out of the room. Hopefully the gigs that you land will all be honeymoons, but don’t be afraid to use silence every once in a while to protect your turf. And don’t be afraid to take your toys and go home if your would-be collaborators are truly abusive.

There are times when it’s not worth getting the gig… and other times when the most useful thing you can do is act for all the world like you don’t want it. It’s amazing how much respect you can command when you prove you’re willing to stare someone down, or even to walk—not out of anger, pettiness or spite, but simply as a matter of self-respect.

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LEE SANDERS has scored hundreds of episodes of network television, including music for seven-time Emmy award-winner THE AMAZING RACE, THE BACHELOR, PROJECT RUNWAY, and numerous others. Lee has taught film scoring for UCLA Extension, and is a frequent lecturer for emerging composers and filmmakers at both USC and UCLA. He also serves as a member of the Music Peer Group Executive Committee of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. You can find his SCOREcast bio (and links to his other sites) here.

Creatively, technologically, mentally, physically, emotionally and in all kinds of other ways, you have to be in a position to be better than the work deserves. Not that the project is necessarily bad—but, as Richard Bellis is fond of saying, “in order to move up, you have to be better than the material you’re scoring.”

If you’re wrestling with your samples… if your team is still learning to work together… if you’re stressed out and sleep deprived… you might not be in a position to do your best work. In fact, you might not be in a position to say yes at all. What promises to be a big career boost can become a long-term career anchor—even something that knocks you back to Square One—if you can’t deliver.

If you follow SCOREcast faithfully this month, you’re going to pick up ideas and techniques that will, if applied regularly and with liberal amounts of hustle, bring in some gigs. Our kung fu is strong. By February you’ll have a few new moves to try out, and we’re going to get you psyched again about getting out into the world and kicking down the doors.

So, just between you and yourself, ask yourself: are you ready to get the gig?

There’s something I think you should keep in mind, though, when you get to a similar point in your career: Your gear will not save you.


It won’t save you from a lack of planning.
It won’t save you from the unexpected.
It won’t save you from a bad collaboration.
It won’t save you from poor eating and sleeping habits.
It won’t save you from the mess you may be making of your relationships.

In fact, in a different sense, your gear won’t “save you” a penny. It will cost you, and keep costing you, as long as you continue in this business. In strict financial terms, that studio of yours is a liability.

Quite a few dark and stormy thoughts for this time of year… but there is a bright side. It’s what I’d like to leave you with over the holiday season, and it’s one that I’ve been hitting hard, in one way or another, over the past month:
It’s what your gear allows you to do that is important.

It’s the ability to say “yes” to gigs that might otherwise be impossible that makes your gear a tangible asset.
It’s the unprecedented sonic variety and fidelity available to everyone reading this that makes the technology more than simply a cheap replacement for live human beings in a recording studio.

Yeah—it’s not the gear, it’s what you do with it. With maximum emphasis on the “you.”

Whether you see your studio equipment and software as a luxury or a necessity for your creative process, there’s no arguing that gear has disrupted our identity as composers. It’s fundamentally changed how we go about organizing sound, and even how we go about marketing that ability (and our opinions as to how it should be done!). Even if gear isn’t the entire future of composing, it’s a fundamental driver of all the fastest-changing parts of it. It’s essential to each of us in one way or another. It won’t save us, but it can inspire us, challenge us, surprise us… and every once in a while, it can even fill us with awe.

I hope everyone is closing out the year in high style! Weekend Provocation will return on New Year’s Day with something special. Thank you for reading, and for energizing this community we’re building with your comments and feedback. You people are deeply cool, and I can’t wait to see where the conversation takes us in 2010.

Cheers.

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LEE SANDERS has scored hundreds of episodes of network television, including music for seven-time Emmy award-winner THE AMAZING RACE, THE BACHELOR, PROJECT RUNWAY, and numerous others. Lee has taught film scoring for UCLA Extension, and is a frequent lecturer for emerging composers and filmmakers at both USC and UCLA. He also serves as a member of the Music Peer Group Executive Committee of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. You can find his SCOREcast bio (and links to his other sites) here.

Regardless of what Santa leaves beneath your technological tree this season, you’ll eventually find yourself facing that blank canvas… once again, just like always. While a new array of sounds may inspire you to work just a little differently or try something just a little bit new, keep in mind: The gear is just a tool.

True to the name of this column, I’m going to give you a real View from the Trenches this month… outlining some of the problems and pitfalls I’ve encountered over a few (OK, more than a few) years of doing the thing. And maybe together we’ll come up with some techniques that will get you past the toughest spots.

So, in no particular order:

The Blank Canvas.

I’ve wanted to write this ever since I read the following quotation from QT (at Cannes in May 2008):

“I have one of the best soundtrack collections in America. I just don’t trust any composer to do it. The idea of paying this guy and showing him your movie at the end—Who the f*** is this guy coming in here and throwing his s*** over my movie. What if I don’t like it? And the guy’s already been paid!”

QT has every right to make his pictures the way he wants. It’s his prerogative as the director. No argument. And his pastiche-y style of soundtrack assembly matches his directorial style, which is equally heavy on extra-textual reference and homage. I get it.

But for him to make this statement—which was delivered in a Cannes Cinema Master Class, so it pretty clearly comes off not just as one man’s advice but as a universal recommendation—brings me to a few objections:

First, let’s talk business. QT mentions this whole “paying-in-advance” thing twice in his quotation, so his money’s on his mind. But here’s the thing: If a set designer builds a set the director doesn’t like, he’s fired—but he gets paid for the work he’s already done. If a writer turns in a draft of a screenplay that subsequently gets dumped, the filmmakers hire someone else—but the writer gets paid for the work he’s already done. If an actor isn’t delivering the performance the director wants, he’s fired—but he’s paid for the work he’s already done. Composers should be no different.

If you “don’t like it—and the guy’s already been paid!” then you fire him and find someone else. Just like you’d do with any other member of your creative team.

It’s part of the collaborative process, and part of the director’s responsibility and talent, to assemble a team around his vision. Music is an intensely personal aspect of filmmaking (and particularly so for QT), and I can imagine how difficult it must be for someone to try to match the nuanced, specific musical ideas that QT brings to his storytelling. Probably impossible—QT is probably saving everyone a lot of heartache by assembling his scores the way he does.

But for him to imply that it’s outrageous that a composer be paid for his time (regardless of whether his score is approved yet or not—oh, the injustice!) also implies that most composers are somehow incompetent. To paraphrase QT (fairly, I think), it’s a waste of a filmmaker’s time trying to work with an entire category of people who are only going to screw up the picture. That borders on the insulting.

Speaking of which…
I know QT often tends to choose his words for their shock value. But the context of this quotation goes beyond that: he’s at Cannes, speaking primarily with other beginning filmmakers. There’s a certain “in-group” implication here—that somehow composers aren’t to be considered as valid creative collaborators. While it’s none of my business to criticize how QT himself chooses to make a film, I think it is my business to stick up for the idea that composers are, in fact, a valid part of the creative process.

To make QT’s technique the norm—i.e., for every director to assemble his score from bits and pieces of all the music that’s come before—brings the advancement of film scoring as a technology, as a field of endeavor, and (if you believe it to be so) as an art, to a grinding halt. Something that’s not considered here is the idea that a composer might bring something new to the table, something that enhances the director’s vision for the story in ways the director might not have ever considered. Might, in fact, make it even better.

QT’s technique precludes that possibility entirely, containing the creative intersection between picture and music entirely within the mind of the director. For QT, as I’ve said, that seems to work just fine. In the long run, though, for it to become standard practice diminishes filmmaking.

One qualification here: I wasn’t at the master class, and the press tends to take quotations like this out of context. They’re looking for headlines. Nevertheless, I researched this one pretty carefully, and I haven’t been able to find a single instance in which QT comes back and clarifies his comments. If QT is on the record as saying “this is just how I prefer to do it… it’s only intended to apply to me… it’s my opinion, and I encourage you to try to find someone with whom you can collaborate on original score,” then my objections are based on a mis-reading of the context (except for the one about being paid for work completed, which stands regardless). QT needs to go on the record and make that clarification. Otherwise, he’s telling you, me and everyone else in our field that our jobs shouldn’t exist… that needle-drops chosen by the director are, for both financial and artistic purposes, superior to our considered efforts.

And for that I have to call him out.

You have opinions on this. Let’s hear ‘em.

To the extent that we personalize that input—that we A) choose it carefully in the first place, and B) develop it into something effective and original—we could be considered mature composers. It’s a truism that as artists we begin with an “imitative phase,” in which we tend to mimic works that already exist. Somewhere along the line, though, all the disparate influences coalesce into something new. Something unique to us. It’s a process that relies on our locus of cool—that collection of existing musical elements that resonate with us. That move and inspire us.

This is one of those months where I want to write another novel-length column (hot on the heels of last week’s Weekend Provocation, which was, how you say, loooooong). September’s theme of scheduling and budgeting is that crucial. It’s that fundamental. I’ll try to help you stay on schedule, though, by keeping my focus limited.

It’s an important thing to know, agreed? If, at the very least, we’re looking to break even (i.e., not have to pay for the privilege of writing music), we ought to know what kind of return we need on each minute we create.

You can get as granular as you want with this, but I think starting with a broad-strokes approach is acceptable for our purposes. And it’ll give you a good sense of how to budget and schedule… making it topical for our month-long SCOREcast feature.

The question is this: What is your Unique Selling Proposition?

Some quick background: the USP is a concept that’s crucial to marketing campaigns worldwide. The goal of formulating a USP—its reason for existing—is to distill the product (you!) into a one-sentence summary. Buy this product and you will get this benefit… that you can get nowhere else. Bounty, for example, is the “quicker picker-upper;” FedEx is the go-to company “when it absolutely, positively has to be there overnight.”

Both these USPs have been phenomenally successful in positioning their companies at the top of their particular product ladder. I’m sure you can think of countless others… and that’s the point! A successful USP is snappy. It’s memorable. It slips past critical thought and simply becomes the way the target perceives the product.

As composers, though, we’re in competition with more than simply a few rival brands. Each of us is, or should be, a brand unto ourselves. How would you characterize your favorite composer’s USP? Hard-hitting, synth-augmented simplicity? Ingenious orchestral color and quirkiness? It’s probably not difficult to define your favorite composers with a USP—it stems in large part from their artistic voice.

So… this weekend’s provocation asks you to do something similar for yourself. Defining your own USP is another way of asking you to label yourself as an artist.

That’s difficult. And by the way? I’d also say it’s inadvisable as a full-time pursuit. In general it’s better to focus on making the music the best it can be, and leaving the analysis to critics and fan sites.

Every once in a while, though, I think it’s important to step back and take at least a stab at self-awareness—if only as an aid to marketing, demo packaging, and selecting which projects you’re going to invest time and energy attempting to land.

So I’d love to hear your USP. Don’t be shy. If you are the world’s pre-eminent composer for kazoo, let us know. If you’re the person who scores every project with sampled cat meows, well, that would make for an interesting comment, too. Jump in and let’s figure out which USPs work and which don’t—and why (or why not).

The way I see it, more cold water (cold ink?) is simply unnecessary. You know the long hours required to improve, to get your name out there, to advance in this career. You’re already aware that the odds of making a decent living as a composer are comparable to the odds of becoming a pro athlete. You know that fame and glamour are overrated; besides, they’re all but non-existent in our little corner of the music world. And none of that is why you write music anyway. You do it because you have to. There’s no choice in the matter.

I’ll be working all weekend (of course!), so have a little pity on a poor tired, under-caffeinated composer and jump in with some comments.

On the other hand, maybe considering this provocation reminds us of the film score’s necessary subservience to picture… or where we should be spending our time (is Photoshopping an album cover really more important than meeting with a filmmaker?)… or to whether, in a world with torrents and Pirate Bays, soundtrack albums even make sense anymore.

Then, of course, there’s also the issue of “soundtrack album vs. score album.” Some people get picky about which is which… hop in here and let me know what this all suggests to you.

Remember, as always, that these provocations aren’t necessarily to be taken literally—they’re intended to spur discussion and to prompt new perspectives. There is no right or wrong answer, in other words.

Provocation: Composers should charge as little as possible for their work.


OK, now we’re getting serious. Hitting where it counts… in the pocketbook. Film composers are one of the few groups in Hollywood that aren’t represented by a union. The Musician’s Union (Local 47 in Los Angeles) represents players, orchestrators, conductors, copyists, etc.—but not composers. When it comes to setting our fees, we’re on our own. Should we really low-ball ourselves into oblivion? On the face of it, this provocation seems like a really rotten business plan.

For me, though, this provocation brings to mind a piece of wisdom from Richard Bellis: “In this business, there are three things: good, fast and cheap. Don’t ever let your client have more than two out of three.”

Deciding what to charge, and when to score a project for less than our usual rate—these are incredibly personal subjects. So I wouldn’t presume to offer advice here. If you are sacrificing on the budget-side, though, you ought to be getting something substantial in return: more musicians, more equity in the project… something. To quote Bellis again: “Always know why you’re taking the gig.” Saying “yes” to a project just so you can call yourself a professional composer, in other words, shouldn’t really be enough.

At the very least, you should insist on keeping the rights to the music you create! There has to be a balance at some point; otherwise, you’re just being used. And that makes your filmmaking collaborators users.

Taken less literally, “charging as little as possible” could mean asking as little as possible in terms of things other than money. Keeping our personal drama out of the work space. Making sure our communications are focused. Hitting our deadlines.

Thinking of our provocation this way leads me to a terrific metaphor, which I first heard from Mike Post:

I like to work “big to small.” In other words, I try to start with the overarching concept, and then work out the details as I go. That way, if I’ve omitted anything, you have the larger context, and can figure out the details yourself. If you’re cool with that, read on…

Today’s Big Picture has to do with self-assessment, and it’s a metaphor from (American) football: coaches talk about their teams’ performance in terms of phases of the game. In football, the three phases are offense, defense and special teams (like kicking field goals or returning punts).

A coach might say: “We dominated the offensive phase of the game today. But we got beat on special teams, and those twelve field goals (!) they scored really hurt us.” What he’s saying is that his team had a critical imbalance—one facet of their performance wasn’t up to standard. And the team’s overall game suffered as a result.

Football teams that excel in one phase of the game can win individual contests; they might even beat a particular opponent regularly (they “match up well” against a certain defense, e.g.). Teams that are strong in every phase of the game, though… those teams have the potential to become legend.

So it is with us as composers. We’re talking about diversity this month, and I think a good way to approach this topic is to look at our own diversity. What are we great at? Where do our skills fall down? How can we target our efforts to improve?

Here’s a little quiz: rate yourself from one to five in each area. A one indicates little or no experience; a five is world-class mastery. Be honest—no one’s looking at this but you. I’ve picked areas that I’ve found to be important in my own career; your mileage may vary, but I doubt it’ll vary by much.

Some of the “phases of the game” I’m including below are crucial; others are merely important from time to time or if you’re wanting to break into a certain area of the biz. The quiz is primarily aimed at composers, though many of the topics apply to anyone in our crazy little corner of the music world.

Once you’ve taken the quiz, rate yourself. You’ve created a snapshot of your skill set—and now you can analyze that data. What does the graph of your skill set look like? How would you like it to look in six months… a year… five years? What’s the best way to get there?

You may decide to play to your strengths by beefing up the phases in which you’re already strong… or shore up those phases where you aren’t. That’s up to you. I hope this tool will be valuable, though, no matter where you find yourself in your career.

Music composiiton: Plain ol’ tonal harmony
1. Piano sound pretty! Sometimes…
2. I have a basic understanding of scales and simple common practice period harmonization.
3. I can perform a Roman-numeral analysis of, say, a Bach chorale.
4. Secondary dominants, predominant chords and chromaticism are familiar territory to me.
5. Tonality is my playground—to be used or transcended at will.

Music composition: Advanced harmony/modern techniques
1. Um, why are all those ugly notes in there?
2. I’ve studied a few serial and atonal works, and can “think in octatonic” or other scale forms.
3. Alternate tunings and notations; minimalism; musique concrete… I’m cool with all that.
4. I’m just as comfortable writing outside the tonal system as I am working within it.
5. The full range of sonic expression is at my fingertips. I’m involved in creating what comes next.

Music composition: Contemporary
1. Who is this Diddy of which you speak?
2. I can crank out a lead sheet.
3. I’ve studied production in one or more styles: Jazz, Hip Hop, Latin, etc.
4. I work regularly in one or more contemporary/popular music genres.
5. Whatever a client needs, I can deliver—regardless of style.

Orchestration
1. Hey, the big instruments play lower! Handy to remember, huh?
2. I know the instrumental families and have a pretty good grasp of ranges.
3. I understand balance and blend, and know the idiomatic tendencies of most standard instruments.
4. Orchestration is an integral, instinctual part of my process from the moment I conceive a musical idea.
5. I could teach Ravel a thing or two.

Conducting
1. Floor, wall, wall, ceiling… but what if the cue is in 3/4?
2. I know basic conducting patterns and recording session protocol.
3. I’m comfortable at the podium, conducting for a variety of ensembles and/or styles.
4. My skills and experience allow me to interpret a performance—not just survive it—regardless of the musical terrain.
5. I am a professional conductor.

Mixing
1. …These go to eleven.
2. I understand basic signal path, but my mixes aren’t consistently solid.
3. I have a strategy for building my mixes and a set of go-to tools for fixing problems.
4. My mixes are an expression of my musical opinion and personality, executed with the same control as the writing itself.
5. I’m a full-time professional mixer.

Performance
1. Never picked up a musical instrument in my life (um… seriously?)
2. I’ve dabbled on one or more instruments, but never taken lessons.
3. I’ve studied, but wouldn’t be comfortable putting my performances on recordings.
4. I’m a competent musician on one or more instruments.
5. I’m a full-time professional musician.

Gear: Hardware
1. I haven’t really started thinking about my own studio. I have a computer, but no other gear.
2. I can use my computer to record sound. Not that it’s sound someone would pay actual money for (yet…).
3. I have a functioning home studio, but I’d like to expand in order to get a better sound.
4. My home/project studio is more than simply adequate—it’s a resource, and sometimes an inspiration.
5. Those guys at Remote Control… they’re cool and all, but they need more gear.

Gear: Library
1. You mean people sell sounds? That you can buy? Weird!
2. I have a basic set of samples, but nothing fancy or exotic.
3. My studio is armed with a reasonable variety of samples, loops, virtual instruments, synths, etc.
4. I can call up pretty much any sound I need, in nearly any style I’d be asked to write.
5. If it’s out there, I own it. If it’s not out there yet, I’m probably beta-testing it.

Gear: Expertise
1. I know where the ON switch is, but I’m a little afraid to start pushing buttons.
2. Where’s that manual again? I’m digging in, but have a lot to learn.
3. I can run my gear with no problem, but some of the power-user commands are a mystery.
4. I have my own macros/custom key bindings for sequencing, and each piece of gear is optimized for my work flow.
5. I build my own electronic gear and/or work as a developer for a manufacturer.

Film Music History
1. Buncha old guys wrote some tunes. What’s the big deal?
2. I know the basic history of the art form, and a few of the “big names.”
3. I’ve listened to numerous scores from across the decades, and have a working knowledge of film music history.
4. I’ve written (term papers count) about multiple film composers, studied scores old and new, and can identify style and approximate historical period from a “needle-drop.”
5. Bring it on, Tony Thomas… I am a veritable Film Music History encyclopedia.

Film History
1. Nouvelle vague… emphasis on the vague.
2. I know about Rosebud and Tara and Rick’s. The classics, in other words.
3. I’ve studied the basics of the history of cinema around the world.
4. I’ve done in-depth research and/or read widely in the field. I might even own some Rohmer-era issues of Cahiers du cinéma.
5. I can pontificate for hours about the relative merits of, say, Huang Jianxin versus Wong Kar-wai.

Film Terminology
1. Words of the day: Director, camera, movie.
2. Dutch angle, cinematographer, pickups.
3. Slug line, walla, cigarette burns.
4. Brute, overcranking, chromakey.
5. Abby Singer, diegesis, zoopraxis.

Organization
1. I wanted to finish this quiz, but I forgot the website location. And I lost my laptop.
2. Car keys and the rent—I’m pretty good about the obvious stuff.
3. I have an organizational system in place, and attend to it fairly regularly.
4. I create my own custom templates in FileMaker/Excel/Numbers.
5. My backups have backups, and nothing is more than a keystroke or two away. Total organizational control.

Personal Presentation:
1. Dorito-stained t-shirt? Check. Spinach in my teeth? Check. Let’s take a meeting!
2. I have reasonably good interpersonal skills.
3. People say I’m a good hang… and it doesn’t mean they want to hang me.
4. I’ve spent time and energy—and money—cultivating an image, an impression. But I’m not, like, a jerk about it.
5. It’s like there’s an aura around me. I am an “it” machine.

Team-Building
1. Pee Wee Herman said it best: “I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.”
2. No longer a lone wolf, but there’s tension in the pack. And I’m not quite sure how to be alpha.
3. I’m working on finding the best qualities in the team I assemble, and inspiring them to become even better.
4. I’ve put together a well-oiled team that is stronger than the sum of its parts.
5. Jack Welch, Winston Churchill… and me.

Network
1. I know the number for Domino’s pizza.
2. My friends and colleagues are solid resources for each other, but I don’t really know too many Industry people.
3. Hanging out with filmmakers, studio execs, etc. is a regular part of my social calendar.
4. If there’s an opportunity out there, chances are I can hook into it with a phone call or an e-mail (or a txt msg or a tweet).
5. I am the Hollywood Creative Directory.

Psychology
1. Most of the time I find myself wondering why people do things.
2. I understand people’s basic emotions and drives.
3. Insights concerning others’ motivations and desires are common for me.
4. I can instinctually position my interactions to get the most out of my relationships.
5. Freud? Amateur.

Collaboration
1. I’m surrounded by idiots.
2. I can get through a meeting without a fistfight breaking out. Usually.
3. Contributing to a positive environment while getting my viewpoint across is a balance I’ve learned how to strike.
4. I know how to get the most out of a creative relationship, and understand the nuances of interacting with my colleagues.
5. Patience, young Jedi…

Current Events (General)
1. I know who won the last Presidential election.
2. Headlines? Sure, I follow ‘em. Maybe even pick up a USA Today on Sunday.
3. I watch news/read news sites regularly, and am up-to-date on the latest events.
4. Maybe I’m spending a little *too* much time catching up on C-SPAN.
5. I’m a news junkie. My favorite news sites are refreshing in the background while I work/eat/sleep/shower, and the TV is locked on a news channel.

Current Events (Industry)
1. I know what movies are out this weekend.
2. If there’s a major studio or network shake-up, I hear about it.
3. I read the trades, and I know who most of the players are.
4. My expertise extends beyond the latest script sale or studio green-light. I’m up on all the latest.
5. Perez Hilton calls me for the latest scoop.

Current Events (Culture and the Arts)
1. Elvis on velvet.
2. I’ve watched the Kennedy Center Honors.
3. I keep tabs on the local, national and international art scenes and major cultural “happenings.”
4. I’m actively involved in local/regional culture. I even travel to take part in major national or international cultural events.
5. I know where the hippest gallery openings and Art world scenes are… because I host them.

Graphic Design
1. Hand-labeling my demo CDs isn’t that bad… is it?
2. I know enough to avoid Comic Sans font at all costs.
3. I can navigate a graphics and/or layout app, and know a bit about typography.
4. I understand the concepts and principles of graphic design, and apply them to all my work.
5. I am a pro-level graphic designer.

Please jump in with your thoughts and comments… that’s what this is all about!

Provocation: Directors should use a different composer for each film they make.


OK, this one hits close to home. I applaud loyalty in this crazy Industry… even when it costs me the gig. I think the creative shorthand a collaborative team can achieve is incredibly valuable, and many of my favorite films (and scores) are born of long-standing partnerships between filmmaker and composer.

I can’t imagine a Steven Spielberg picture, to take the most obvious example, without a John Williams score. And my favorite Alfred Hitchcock films are the ones in which Bernard Herrmann’s music amps up the suspense till I just can’t stand it anymore.

On the other hand… This provocation reminds me that (in keeping with this month’s theme of diversity) we must approach each new project with a perspective that’s unique to the story we’re trying to tell together. As if we’re a different composer. Even if it’s with a director with whom we’ve collaborated often and successfully.

Another pathway this provocation suggests has to do with staleness. I have my favorite sounds all loaded comfortably into my writing template, but recently I’ve been working on a project that has required me to strip those away and use all-new sounds. It’s astounding how tough that’s been. And how refreshing. A director might come to feel the same way (in this comparison, you and I equate to those familiar sounds in the template—!).

Let me know what this provocation brings to mind for you. Take it literally if you like—after all, for many directors (Oliver Stone comes to mind) it’s their standard operating procedure. Or just follow whatever seems interesting about it. The point of these provocations is to suggest new angles for tackling old problems… to lead us away from the familiar.

The idea is to define a problem or a topic for consideration, then to posit something else—something that’s clearly unrelated, or just plain wrong—in order to break us out of our pattern of routine thinking. Using that new and strange interloper, in other words, as a way to provoke ideas that we never would have come upon otherwise.

It’s a creativity tool, and I’ve found it to be powerful and simple. I use it all the time in my own career. So what I’m going to do here at SCOREcast is this: each week I’ll post one of these provocations, and then we’ll all mull it over in the comments.

This week’s inaugural provocation: Films should not have scores.


This one’s just plain crazy, and that’s why I like it as an opener. Film music has been around nearly as long as the art form has existed, and we continue to rely on and refine it as a narrative tool. It’s an art form, and calling for its abolishment is insane—besides all of which, if films didn’t have scores, this fine website you’re reading right now wouldn’t have much of a reason for being.

On the other hand: thinking of this statement as a provocation leads us to consider just what it is that a film score is trying to accomplish, the role of silence in film music (which leads to thinking we might not otherwise do about our own compositional process and the use of space in that process), and all kinds of other possibilities… which I hope you’ll join us in discussing in the comments.

Look for one of these Weekend Provocations each Friday.

I think it has to do with the feeling of being “in the loop”—that secure, clubby vibe that comes from knowing we’re among geeks of a similar stripe. TLAs and their ilk are like secret handshakes. They’re the modern-day shibboleths by which we identify our own.

So here are a few “secret handshakes” you’ll hear in the studio, in the editing bay and on the scoring stage.

ADR: Automated Dialog Recording (or Automatic Dialog Replacement, or one of any number of similar meanings—!). The exact meaning of the abbreviation, believe it or not, is a point of controversy in the Industry. What is agreed on is what ADR is: it’s the replacement (in post-production) of poorly recorded or performed bits of dialog or location sound. Also called looping.

ASCAP, BMI, SESAC: Only one of these is a true TLA (the other two are acronyms). All three are PROs (see below).

DGA: Directors Guild of America. The union for film and television directors.

DP: Director of Photography (a.k.a. cinematographer). And, of course, Digital Performer.

EDL: Edit Decision List. This is a file generated by computer-based video editing systems, containing information about all the cuts, fades, timecode locations, etc. that constitute the edit.

FCP: Final Cut Pro. Apple’s pro-level video-editing software (even though it’s now officially titled Final Cut Studio).

IATSE: The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees. The IATSE union represents a wide variety of people involved in the making of films: from set decorators to costumers, from grips to lighting to first aid.

M&E: Music and Effects. You’ll often hear this term used when a producer is talking about foreign versions of a particular picture—even though they may be dubbing (i.e., replacing) the dialog, they don’t want to re-do their entire project mix, so they’ll create a submix containing only the music and effects… hence, M&E.

MOS: Mit Out Sound. Here’s a wacky one for you. MOS derives from an old Hollywood tale about a German director asking for a scene to be shot “mit out sound,” and a snarky camera assistant who wrote M.O.S. on the slate. The name stuck. (Sound is, of course, added later.)

NDA: Non-disclosure agreement. Depending on the type of show you’re working on, you might be asked to sign one of these confidentiality documents. You’re basically promising not to tell who wins the reality-show competition, which main character dies in the season finale, or any other privileged information. Penalties threatened by NDAs can run into the millions of dollars.

OMF: Open Media Framework. A data standard used by AVID editing systems, OMFs are typically used to transfer audio information from AVIDs to Pro Tools setups for mixing.

OMG: What you text your friends when you pick up a network series or studio picture.

PRO: Performing Rights Organization. These are the fine folks who collect and distribute royalties to composers, songwriters, lyricists, etc. Of course, they do much more than that… but it is tough to read beyond the magic word: royalties.

SMPTE: Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers. In our world this is usually shorthand for the timecode found on work prints, but the abbreviation refers to the organization that developed the standard.

UPM: Unit Production Manager. An executive responsible for the administration of a given film (particularly budgetary expenditures associated with the production phase of filmmaking—the UPM delivers the working budget, for example, to the financiers). UPMs are part of the DGA (see above) union.

WGA: Writers Guild of America. The union for professional writers (particularly screenwriters). Two branches here: East and West. Unlike the music scene, no lethal rivalry is known to exist between WGAw and WGAe writers.

If you’d like more of these (and really, who wouldn’t?) check out these links:

I have a bunch of projects going just now (too few of them paying… sigh), and I find that the most fun way to work isn’t necessarily the most efficient way—bouncing back and forth between sequences and shows, writing a bit here and a bit there until I’m stumped (or bored, or sleepy) and then switching gears.

Composing this way definitely takes the edge off of grinding through a particular tedious cue, but I suspect I’m never quite achieving the focus necessary to do my best work.

So what do you think, SCOREcasters? Is it better to power through one thing at a time, or is flitting around (I hesitate to call it multitasking) something we can call a SCOREcast-approved work strategy? Hop into the mix here and let me know what you think.