Late this afternoon I was reminded that the late great film composer Jerry Goldsmith died twenty-one years ago today. It seems like ten years ago.
The news of his passing had been given to me through a telephone call one sunny morning: "Hey, man. Goldsmith died."
This fan since high school was saddened by the news. He was an artist who I greatly admired, and consider him to be the greatest craftsman to have practiced the art of film scoring.
My brother and I met Goldsmith at Toronto's Roy Thomson Hall in November of 1990. He had three concert dates where he played a sampling of his movie and television material. While I chatted with some people in the lobby after the concert I overheard an older gentleman telling another regular concertgoer — they were dressed like season ticket-holders — his feelings: "I was very impressed . . . it must take an incredible mind . . . that's a lot of music."
"Mister Goldsmith, I finally get to meet you. I've been a fan for twelve years." I remember the slight smile on his face. Oh yes, another nutty fan. (I was one of many nutters in that lineup.)
I was uncharacteristically a little nervous. Big name, small name, I don't care. But. I'm thinking: "This is the guy who wrote Ave Satani !"
Genius!
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