David krystal of Toronto’s Louder Music & Sound Design is a longtime film, tv and commercial music composer/producer and sometime film extra.

Last issue, On the Spot raised the theory that directors are talents underutilized when they aren’t involved early in the project. This edition of On the Spot looks at the dark side of early involvement in the production processŠfrom a musical pov.

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ah, the never-ending debate of whether to be involved from the tiny seed of inception or to be flung a 3/4′ tape a day before the session. Recently, uncharacteristically, I’ve been thrown into the former scenario. On three separate situations I’ve been summoned to sit around huge boardroom tables with everyone from the director and creative to clients and producers, while I was stuck between hair and wardrobe, quite fitting I thought. I actually found the process oddly cathartic.

Before embarking on the road to production everyone meets, and, after saying their piece, comes away with a fuzzy warm feeling of togetherness. Creatives are assured their ideas are not being sabotaged by the production houses and the clients feel they’re a part of the process.

So when I received a call from Miami suggesting I come down and attend a shoot and really immerse myself, I jumped at the chance; who wouldn’t you may askŠ

But my story is a cautionary tale, somewhat like a modern Chaucer. However, instead of journeying to Canterbury we’re off to Miami, the New World’s Mecca.

It wasn’t a huge job but it was for a good friend who had started a small agency in Florida. I had in the past worked on many of his wonderful projects, so I naturally offered him any help he needed.

The hotel I and everyone else was staying at was an architectural attempt at a ’70s re-creation of a Mayan temple. Unfortunately, the architect seemed to have been Dean Martin on a bad day. I never knew the Mayans had disco balls, god knows if they had the Spanish conquistadors if they would have fallen onto their knees in awe jabbering in reverential fear at the great god John Travolta.

It was wardrobe day and as the commercial was to be shot on a beach I thought they needed my expert opinion on beachwear. I managed to find the production office and greeted my friends and met the client called Chip. I’ve always wanted to meet someone named Chip, and now that quest was over, I felt somewhat deflated. This Chip was not a blonde, chiseled American but a short rather fat man who had a gorilla-like handshake that seemed to say, ‘I may not be the Chip you had in mind, but hell, just you wait till I shake your hand.’

So down came the cast all wearing their ’60s (this was another retro commercial) beachwear. Young men surfer-like and young women all ready to frolic for hours on a beach.

Chip appeared worried and as there was no one around to hold his hand I thought here’s my big chance to stretch out in the production process and get more involved.

Chip started to mumble mantra-like about whether the commercial was going to represent the normal average J’e Blow. Unfortunately, just as he mentioned this a huge Amazonian blonde appeared. She seemed like a walking ad for cosmetic surgery and appropriately was wearing a short silver rubber dress, very ordinary and just the number for a day at the beach.

Well Chip’s jaw dropped to the floor, but I stalwartly, with my best foot forward, immediately assured him this was just the kind of person he should try to attract to his restaurants.

Luckily, I was soon swept aside by some professional pacifiers who seemed to take charge of the situation. Yes, I was beginning to get the hang of things. Naturally Chip wasn’t that silly so a toning-down phase occurred. But still the creatives won some of their battles, the Goldie Hawn lookalike was still in.

The next day, the first day of shooting, was a washout; rain fell for most of the day so bundles of money was lost and all hell broke loose.

By the powers of osmosis, I too began to feel the strain. I even said a little prayer for blue sky to the old god Dean Martin, and at night with some others took part in many ritualistic martinis in his memory.

Well our prayers were answered as blue skies were delivered on cue the next day.

It was out to the beach and somehow release the midget wielding a large pick ax from my head. Not a great idea to be in 90 degrees on a beach with no shade nursing a hangover. Still, I was now part of a team and I had to make the best of things.

The day wore on, countless takes with bad beach stock music blaring, surfers and other young thingies dressed up like an homage to bad American tv shows of the ’60sŠas I said, there was a theme.

The music played to get them all dancing was that quasi Dick Dale beach guitar music that Quentin Tarantino had popularized in Pulp Fiction. Ever since the appearance of the film we have been plagued with speed-surfing music. Although it’s run its course and died away, there was a time that every third track we produced had to conform to this.

Tarantino has a lot to answer for ever since he gave us cleverly designed gruesome violence where everyone appears so nihilistically detached and gormless it must be cool, and must be mimicked. I wonder if gangster bosses all tell their hired goofs to play a song from the sixties to their victims and cut off an ear before the coup de grace.

Alas, the only thought I had was of shade, and I had just found the only leaf to hide behind when I heard someone shouting my name over the megaphone telling me to rush to wardrobe and get on the beach as an extra.

So there I was in a Kramer canary yellow shirt three sizes too small endlessly parading up and down, take after take behind the party.

The spot I had to start my epic performance from was on the border of a nude beach. Unfortunately, these naked specimens seemed to come straight from a casting of some Ed Wood horror flick. How on earth these people could take off their clothes is beyond me. Attracted to our set they shuffled or wobbled towards us like insects to lights until thank god someone shouted on the megaphone, ‘That’s far enough.’

Luckily that did the trick, but I was still dragging my feet Beau Geste-like up and down that bloody beach. I had to have some water as dehydration was beginning to threaten my loyalty to the production process.

I made my way to the nearest cooler and opened a bottle of water. Suddenly they were ready to shoot again, so bottle still in hand I stumbled back and took my position as somebody shouted and cameras rolled, until halfway through the take the director, grabbing the megaphone, shouted, ‘Cut, cut–David Krystal would you f—-g get rid of the f—-g Evian water and start f—-g dancing.’

A few days later back in Toronto I started to muse about my heavy involvement in this production process and was even happy when a 3/4′ tape was thrown my way accompanied by an insane deadlineŠwell at least until the next time.