In the midst of writing a college essay about my passion for Mr. Williams'
music. Anyone have suggestions?


“Meeting Superman”
There is a delay. I see his arms fly through the hot summer air. Although
the delay lasts a fleeting half-second, there is more than enough time to
flex the six muscles it takes to express joy. I smile. Then I hear the
blistering B-flat chord.
Springing from a beach towel on the grass of the Blossom Music Festival in
Cleveland, I began to sprint. Dodging hot dogs and small children, I dashed
towards the dome while a lightening storm raged overhead. But the chaos in the
sky only added to the emotional force of what was to come. Like clockwork,
a 72-year-old, baton-wielding man lifted his arms. The familiar theme sounded
and applause suddenly spread through the crowd like an electrical current,
lasting long after the final note; the musical rush of Star Wars was
contagious. Someone shouted. “We love you John!” I was not alone. For
two minutes
and fifty five seconds, optimism and ecstasy replaced pessimism and sadness.
As the sky illumed a brilliant white, I was reminded why I had convinced my
entire family to drive eight hours for that very moment. The music of John
Williams, in its grandeur and consonance, was one with nature. I wish I could
tell him how it makes me feel.
I was shivering, but that hardly mattered. One year later and miles of
interstate highways from Cleveland, I waited patiently in Tanglewood,
Massachusetts amongst fellow diehards. With my Star Wars score in one hand and
the
Greatest Hits piano book in the other, I wondered what I would say. Should I
tell
him where this passion began? I hardly knew myself. For more than a
decade, I had listened to an eclectic array of music, including Jewish chants,
Christmas classics, traditional Afghani hymns, 1950s do-op, hits of the British
Invasion, bubblegum, Bob Dylan, Prokofiev, Michael Jackson, and Blink 182,
until dramatic movie themes began to stand out above all others. Before I knew
it, I had grown up. Instead of dancing around the house with my mom to
Whitney Houston’s I’m Every Woman, I was conducting the 1984 Olympic Theme
in
front of my cat. Later, I progressed from cuing imaginary violins with pretzel
rods to waving around a strand of cardboard. But perhaps I should tell him
about my own playing. After all, the double bass had sparked my interest in
orchestral music. Perhaps he would ask me to play for the Boston Pops! But
that night, I discovered that it would not matter what I was planning to say
after all. An usher appeared. “We apologize. Mr. Williams has left,” he
said. “He will not be signing autographs tonight.” I left, unsatisfied.
Two days later, I returned to Tanglewood without a ticket. A thunderous
storm had once again accompanied the evening performance, leaving the field a
muddy mess. But it was my last chance. Begging a guard to let me in, I
sprinted across the field with the Star Wars score clutched to my chest.
Tchaikovsky’
s 1812 Overture blasted and canons exploded behind me. The show was almost
over. Then, in a rush of mud and water, I found myself at the stage exit for
the second time that week. As I panted, a lady emerged. I could not hear
what she said, but I clearly saw her signal for me to come closer. I felt my
heart palpitate. Nervous, I stepped forward and peered at the stage door. I
straightened my back.
In the next moment, a small, bearded, white-haired man in a tuxedo appeared.
He reached out and shook my hand. My mind was blank. I could not think.
However, my face was frozen in a big smile. “Mr. Williams,” I finally
managed
to say, “I admire your music so much. The way you take 100 instruments and
evoke such strong emotions in the audience…it’s just amazing! I love
E.T.,
Star Wars, and The Cowboys, and the NBC News Theme, and Hook, and The
Reivers, and all the Olympic themes and so many others. Oh, and I really like
Superman! I don’t understand how you create so many masterpieces!” He
just
stared. Then I said, “Could you sign this for me? Oh, and could you make
it
out to my high school orchestra? I’m going to conduct Jurassic Park next
year,
because I think your music will revitalize our group!” The words rolled off
my tongue faster than the bass section’s ominous low notes in the JAWS end
credits. Mr. Williams responded calmly. “Thank you. Please do send me a
recording!” And then, before walking away, he turned. “We will meet
again,”
he told me.
And we did. Months later, as my arms swept through my high school's air
conditioned symphony room, I met him again. As I led one-hundred friends in
creating his trademark sound, I felt more intimately connected than ever
before.
1:38 into the piece, when a cymbal crashed and in turn sent my arms
dramatically flailing (nearly dislocating my shoulder), I suddenly felt as if I
was
one with the symphony. And minutes later, as my outstretched arms held out
the final B flat, I knew that I had just met the real-life Superman, John
Towner Williams, again. Like he promised.


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