My Lunches With Doug

Making a playlist from a past life—My Adventures in Underscore, Part 21.

I returned from vacation to get a distressing phone call. “He’s in the ICU, and it doesn't look good. Can you come to visit today?”

So much for decompressing. I raced across the Bay Bridge at 10am, squinting thru the bright sunshine, grateful for the open, uncongested roads. It's not often that you can cross from San Francisco to the East Bay in under 30 minutes but I did just that. I carried a boom box and an eclectic pile of CDs, hoping that I might have time to play a couple of them. Of course, my mind wandered...

I met Douglass Fake as a shopkeeper 38 years ago, when I was buying records from his store on Vallejo Street in San Francisco. It looked like any number of other vinyl-and-disc emporiums, perhaps a little neater than most but with the distinction of all the music being from movies. Imagine, a store devoted exclusively to soundtracks! And the titles were arranged by composer—not film title. Hardcore! Even more impressive, the most interesting albums for sale were produced by the guy behind the counter, on his house label called Intrada.

He was a portly guy then, hair thinning but with a formidable pair of lamb chop sideburns and a Burt Reynolds ’stache. His voice soft and pitched a little higher than you'd expect—or maybe it was just the boyish enthusiasm with which he filled the room, his eyes twinkling as he recounted a scene from one of his favorite films. Especially if it was a heroic scene from some World War II battle, or sword-and-sandal epic, or classic western—and especially if it was accompanied by a solo trumpet.

Of course I fit right in, but it took a while before I introduced myself. In fact, it wasn't until almost ten years later, when I was working as art director for Film Score Monthly, an upstart music magazine and competing record label, that I approached Doug. He was a little standoffish, because as I would later discover, he always wanted to start a film music mag himself. But he was polite and had a lot of opinions to share as long as I was willing to listen—which I did.

I had been a regular customer, visiting as often as my pocketbook allowed. The store always had a steady stream of music playing, much of it exciting but unfamiliar. Inevitably I would ask “what’s that from?” and be introduced to a new score by Laurence Rosenthal, John Scott or Christopher Young—and to discover that the proprietor was on a first name basis with those guys. I'd drive home with a half-dozen new shiny discs, wishing that I had a CD instead of a cassette player in my rusting Toyota.

Another year went by before I wheedled my way into his good graces. Doug had written music for an indie film by his store manager Jeff Johnson. My client Lukas Kendall had reviewed the score for the magazine and I needed a copy of Holly Vs. Hollywood in order to scan the cover. “You can buy one.” he informed me. I did, and I took advantage of the opportunity to listen to his music. It was warm, bouncy, with a catchy, propulsive drive—like the composer himself.

Eventually, I worked up the courage (and the portfolio) to pitch myself as his new graphic designer, boldly stating “Your albums are GREAT—but they don't look as good as they sound.” Arms folded, eyebrow raised, he regarded me warily. I assured him that there was nothing wrong with his albums, per se, but that we could do so much more.

Again, unbeknownst to me, he was already on the lookout for a new designer, but he let me do a trial run at a bargain-basement rate on a new project they were planning: Bruce Broughton's One Tough Cop. I returned with printouts the next week, showing how he could choose from more than one version of the color scheme, how the typography could be more expressive, how the photo scans could be larger and clearer.

He was like a kid in a candy store, asking if this was possible, or that. He didn't care so much how the technology worked, “That's your wonderland!” he'd exclaim. But suddenly, I was part of the enthusiasm that I'd observed for a decade. And it was infectious—he soon became my biggest graphic design client—and eventually, one of my very closest friends.

We met most every week to talk shop, deciding what poster artwork would make the best cover, (the lesser ones would be relegated to the back cover or “flipper”), the importance of showcasing the stars in the booklets (especially when they were favorites, like Brando or Stallone), and how to brand the discs with the charmingly literal logo that he had designed (and I subsequently refined)—a bowtie-shaped image of film stock morphing into a music stave.

Over the course of the next two decades (and many burgers and fries at his favorite neighborhood joint, also called “Flippers”), we grew closer. We talked about family and girlfriend troubles, avoided politics for the most part, and gossiped endlessly about composers and our colleagues in the business. Most soundtracks were produced in Los Angeles, so we enjoyed a certain distance from the hustle and bustle of Tinseltown, even though we dealt with every major studio there and plenty of others around the globe.

Doug was incredibly loyal. He stood by everyone in his circle, fearlessly. I'll never forget how he was confronted by an angry producer who was hellbent on laying waste to another label. I was working for that label as a freelancer, just as I worked for Intrada. The producer informed Doug that he was to cease working with me, or he would take his business elsewhere. Doug very calmly and surely said “Joe's my designer. I guess you'll have to take your business elsewhere.” Two days later, the producer caved, and said he'd make an exception in this case. Doug could be gutsy and principled. I never forgot that.

However, after completing 800 CD packages in a twenty-year career (500 of them for Doug!) it was time for a change and I stepped away to pursue filmmaking. But our lunches continued, and I found myself continuing to kibitz and consult on the art, the marketing and even some of the business decisions, when Doug asked me to. We spent a lot of time swapping expertise—I'd explain the difference between a dolly and a zoom, he'd teach me about bass flutes and french horns. We'd talk until the last onion rings on the plate were ice cold.

Mostly, Doug would tell stories and recount favorite scenes. He'd tell me about “tricks” and “king tricks”—idiosyncratic customers who would make a big fuss in his store and not buy anything. There were a lot of oddballs among the soundtrack fans, I noticed. Not everyone was well socialized, and there were a fair number of deeply introverted, shy guys (almost always guys) who seemed to do their talking through their choices in music. But he had a kind word for them all—and a recommendation to match.

I came to recognize how Doug identified with heroes fighting the good fight—often against staggering odds. Rocky and Rambo. Terry Malloy and Fletcher Christian. He came of age during the epics and roadshow pictures of the late '50s and early '60s. Doug never singled him out this way, but three Kirk Douglas pictures are writ large from his adolescence. A rebellious slave, a doomed navy flyer, a cowboy out of his element—these three roles formed a triptych of soundtracks that fueled Doug's imagination, and maybe his identity too. The heroic pitch of Spartacus, the martial drive of In Harm's Way, the stirring solo trumpet of Lonely Are the Brave were key themes in the soundtrack of his life.

Producing soundtracks and preserving film music is no one's idea of a money-making business. The industry is littered with bankrupt labels and failed dreams. Underscores barely register with the vast movie-going public. But for 39 years Doug fought the good fight to make that music available to all of us who cared. He fought hard and put his work first—maybe even at the expense of his own well being. He deserved a noble trumpet accompaniment for his efforts.

Now I'm lugging my tote bag of shiny discs into the hospital, wondering how much time is left. I haven't spoken to my old pal in a week, not since a short phone call in which he sounded very tired. I had left two more messages on subsequent days. He called back once, late at night, leaving a very weak, barely audible voice mail, which I eventually decoded as simply saying “Hi Joe.” The transcription on my phone was unnerving: It read “...angel...”

I found Doug with his family, who had kept vigil with him for 30 hours straight. He was unconscious, but more peaceful than I‘d seen him in months. It was a token relief. I plugged in the boombox between the hospital monitors and popped in “The Artist Who Did Not Want To Paint”—a short composition by Jerry Goldsmith, Doug's favorite composer. The choice was noteworthy because Doug had produced (and paid for) the recording 35 years ago, right around the time we met. It was the start of big things for him and his label, and the music itself is beautiful, haunting, transcendent.

He passed barely an hour later.

I’ve been fortunate not to have lost too many close friends or family—yet. My mother passed 13 years ago, but my dad is still going strong at 91. There's no denying in late middle age that mortality is on the horizon. It's inevitable, I'm coming to accept it, but it ain't fair. Doug left us earlier than we would have liked, even as he continued to touch a vast population of film music professionals, fans and aficionados. He brought forth music that made people happy, full stop.

The outpouring of love for him on social media is tremendous. I have navigated the past few days by writing a formal obituary and watching it be rewritten and reposted in newsfeeds elsewhere. Doug claimed that he didn't want to be the center of attention—but he would have loved this. I hope that on some level, at some time, he was aware how many lives he had touched.

Five days on, I haven't fully grasped the loss. My voice quavers and breaks a little as I proofread this aloud. Maybe I'll lose it at the burger joint “wake” that the guys from Intrada are planning this week. We’ll tell some stories and share some fries—and save some for you, ol' buddy.

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