Issue link: https://digital.copcomm.com/i/1535880
38 M PS E . O R G Styrofoam coffee cups on your razor blade scarred, mag-wipe-stained bench. It was now real coffee cups and actual creamer instead of that powdered crap. You might still be the last on the lifeboat, but you now felt like you were appreciated and a part of things. It was a wonderful time and the favorite part of my career. You were part of the mix, you got to be creative, have fun and if the shit hit the fan, it hit the mixers and sound supervisor and not you. How awesome was that? I had somehow wrangled the position of stage editor for sound supervisor Per Hallberg. He might have been the most unflappable in-control supervisor I've ever seen on a mix stage. Some supervisors, sensing something wrong or a change in the atmosphere, would immediately panic, have you start cutting sweeteners and alternatives, often with none of them being asked for, let alone being previewed or used. When things went sideways on our stage, Per would calmly assess the situation and in that strangely hypnotic comforting Swedish accent say, "It's in the tracks. Let's figure it out." We had developed a shorthand. With a nod, he would let me know that something actually needed to be cut. Paying attention, I knew what sound the nod was referring to. He had trust in me, rarely previewing my sweeteners before they went up. A pretty perfect relationship that lasted decades. In the quiet of night when just the crickets and my tinnitus are singing, I sometimes miss it and wipe away an imaginary nostalgic tear. It was beautiful while it lasted. So, it goes... ust after the turn of the century, a film called The Bourne Identity landed in our laps at Soundelux. The turn of the century … wow, turn that over in your head. A phrase that when I was a kid, conjured up images of things mysterious and not seen in person, Things like steam trains, children working in factories, and a domesticated Wyatt Earp in a suit and derby. We have now lived through the turn of a century. Amazing. Back in the second half of that century when I was selling waterbeds, doing ridiculous amounts of acid, weed, and cocaine and the rabid bats were flying in and around my brain, I had read some of those Ludlum books, including The Bourne Identity. I remembered it being one of those beach books with an amnesia plot containing lots of convoluted twists and turns. It was well written, compelling, and full of fun empty calories. The sound crew was called together for what was not really a spotting session but more like a viewing session. No notes taken or given, no ideas explored, just paid to sit and watch the rough cut of the film. Cool. Not sure that happens anymore. I sat next to my buddy Dino DiMuro. This could easily turn into an article about friendship and Dino would be the star. In the film days, we had at times actually shared editing rooms. Two Moviolas clattering away in a single room with trim bins that rumbled like distant thunder every time they were moved. We sometimes had a third editor in there. I remember Victor Iorillo, Richard Dwan, and maybe Lou Kleinman passing through. How did we do it? Don't know, seems impossible now. Those Sony MDR-V6 headphones that seemed to be the industry standard at the time had helped. Through the years, Dino and I had kind of become Soundelux's version of Statler and Waldorf, those two grumpy guys in the balcony on The Muppet Show. During spotting sessions, we would provide running commentary and snide remarks that maybe we were the only ones who found it funny. At that first viewing, the Bourne film played … and played and played. J When waterbeds were a thing.