When Maurice Jarre died nearly a month ago, I felt a loss. I did not know him and he certainly did not know me, but his work worked for me.As much as any artist, he gave sound to my adolescent longings, my wonderings. There in the mid-sixties, I could only see Dr. Zhivago when it was shown, but I could listen to the music when I wanted, as often as I wanted. I memorized each rise and fall and anticipated the smallest hints of a reoccurring melody and the hardest hammers of percussion. Maurice Jarre gave me a soundtrack, a backdrop for my struggles with pen and paper and battles with teenage angst.
They were all there...all the themes I needed to have, needed to hear: the heroic sweeps with brass blasting when the armies arrive and the tide is turned; the soft snare drum tensing-up a moment of self examination at a decisive moment; the gentle lift of airy strings and woodwinds, subtle, a soft breeze that reassured and fulfilled.
All the music was there, then,
and is here, now.
I hear it all as I write,
as I have done for a very
long time.
Thank you Maurice.
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Editorial Appreciations - Maurice Jarre
