The fantasia of Angelo Badalamenti, veil-piercing composer
A girl walks into a diner and goes straight for the jukebox, and she puts on is a strange one: a wordless, off-centered jazz number that slinks around, snapping its fingers and occasionally erupting in fits of woodwind and brass. "God, I love this music," the girl sighs. "Isn't it too dreamy?" In the middle of the restaurant she begins to sway — eyes closed, head back, arms out like airplane wings, lost in a mesmerizing and vaguely concerning trance. At other times the girl's air of mystery is cannily performed; here it is plain to all witnesses that the song has taken her somewhere else. At this moment, in , I and presumably millions of others fell obsessively in love with the television series and, without then knowing, the music and whose partnership with David Lynch was intrinsic to the director's famous sensibility — the terror, the absurdity, the wild pain and sublime beauty and distinctly American ambient psychosis, the sincerity beneath it all. That part of the scene was unrehearsed, a pure reaction to the sounds; Lynch had given no warning to the actress, Sherilyn Fenn, that she'd be dancing to "this really cool, sexy, jazzy thing that Angelo and I just wrote!"
