Where's the Orchestra? My Story

By Harold Faltermeyer

After 36 years in consideration and the making, the long-awaited sequel to Top Gun will be released in May of 2022. Right in time for Top Gun Maverick hitting the box offices, beloved composer Harold Faltermeyer revisits his life, telling us how his music became the soundtrack of the 80’s.

In the mid 80’ Harold Faltermeyer reached worldwide fame with the epic theme from Beverly Hills Cop so called Axel F. It hit the top ten charts worldwide and started a new way of electronic scoring for Hollywood movies. He produced and composed for legends like Donna Summer, The Pet Shop Boys, Cheap Trick and Patti LaBelle. His songs Hot Stuff and Top Gun Anthem became milestones of pop music. His deep love for his home country was the main reason to stay steady like a rock in this world of sex, drugs & rock ‘n’ roll.

Harold Faltermeyer paints a colorful life between two worlds which cannot be more contrary.

He travelled from the glamorous world of Tinseltown to the down to earth Bavaria and it’s beautiful mountains. In Hollywood he writes hits, in Bavaria he is a passionate chef, brews his own beer, produces his Falty-Weißwurscht, constructs alpine cabins and paints Pop-Art red stags. The producer and composer portrays picturesque and storyful his way to the top of the music world, the meaning of homeland and roots and why he is never bored!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harold Faltermeyer
• Release date: May 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463039946

Harold Faltermeyer

After 36 years in consideration and the making, the long-awaited sequel to Top Gun will be released in May of 2022. Right in time for Top Gun Maverick hitting the box offices, beloved composer Harold Faltermeyer revisits his life, telling us how his music became the soundtrack of the 80’s.In the mid 80’ Harold Faltermeyer reached worldwide fame with the epic theme from Beverly Hills Cop so called Axel F. It hit the top ten charts worldwide and started a new way of electronic scoring for Hollywood movies. He produced and composed for legends like Donna Summer, The Pet Shop Boys, Cheap Trick and Patti LaBelle. His songs Hot Stuff and Top Gun Anthem became milestones of pop music. His deep love for his home country was the main reason to stay steady like a rock in this world of sex, drugs & rock ‘n’ roll.Harold Faltermeyer paints a colorful life between two worlds which cannot be more contrary.He travelled from the glamorous world of Tinseltown to the down to earth Bavaria and it’s beautiful mountains. In Hollywood he writes hits, in Bavaria he is a passionate chef, brews his own beer, produces his Falty-Weißwurscht, constructs alpine cabins and paints Pop-Art red stags. The producer and composer portrays picturesque and storyful his way to the top of the music world, the meaning of homeland and roots and why he is never bored!

Book preview

WHERE’S THE ORCHESTRA?

My Story

by

Harold Faltermeyer

Smashwords Edition

Published on Smashwords by:

Red Deer Studios

Where’s the Orchestra?

English language copyright 2021 by Harold Faltermeyer

German language copyright 2020 by Harold Faltermeyer

Authored by Harold Faltermeyer and Janneck Herre in conjunction with Birgitt Wolff.

Copyeditor: Kevin Anderson

All photos copyright Faltermeyer private collection unless otherwise noted

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my beloved father, whose wisdom, foresight and graciousness made me like I am today. And, along the lines of Mothers form Sons – my beloved mother, who always gave me clear, pragmatic and unambiguously announcements which influenced my doing and behaviour until she passed.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Harold With An O

Chapter 2: Playing Piano Seems to Be Sexy

Chapter 3: Have The Boy Get It

Chapter 4: Ready for the Big League

Chapter 5: Swing Over to Giorgio

Chapter 6: Make Me Rich, Sucker!

Chapter 7: Working for the Golden Boys

Chapter 8: Axel F. or Where’s the Orchestra?

Chapter 9: Top Gun – Rock’n’Roll in the Sky

Chapter 10: Hollywood - Melting Pot of Creativity

Chapter 11: The Sunshine of My Life – Everything to Me

Chapter 12: Red Deer – The Boiler Room or Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Music

Chapter 13: Not Invincible

Chapter 14: Down to Earth

Chapter 15: Lego for Adults

Chapter 16: Gotta go up there!

Chapter 17: This isn’t it!

Chapter 1:

Harold With An O

It’s Harold, not Harald!... Yes, with an O, not A. The guy on the other end of the line drives me crazy!

But you are German, right?

Yes, I am! But it’s still spelled with an O not an A!!

Oh, really? Get out of here, how could a guy from Germany be called Harold? More often than not, this is the reaction I am getting, whenever I meet new faces. This astonishment I encounter on both sides of the Atlantic, fittingly so, as my life turned out to be a Transatlantic story. Two continents divided by troubling events in its intertwined history, but united by some terrific music. I found myself in the middle with the stars lined up quite early for my unlikely path. To understand my journey, let's start from the beginning.

Before I was born, the madness of the 30s and 40s inflicted Hitler first on Germany, soon onto Europe and finally the world. I simply see it as a mad man's act. His dark doings are reminiscent of a devil in disguise at work. It was useless, painful, embarrassing, and above all unbelievably sad, with so many innocent human beings killed, too many historic buildings and precious art objects pointlessly destroyed, countless lives altered, and fates changed forever. By contrast, America’s reaction to the Great Depression did not lead to it abolishing its democratic principles to achieve a recovery as President Roosevelt became one of the most significant Democrats in the history of the United States. Europe on the contrary, turned to dictatorships as a false solution, be it Mussolini, Franco, Stalin, or in Germany's case, Hitler.

For the Faltermeyer family, Hitler’s junta did not only hit close to home, but directly home. One of Hitler's favorite artists, the sculptor Prof. Josef Thorak, jealously eyed our property in the small village of Baldham, right outside Munich.

Our old Munich estate so called Alte Schack Gallerie around 1920

Next to Arno Breker, he was the eminent sculptor of the Third Reich, and one of Hitler’s favorites.

My grandfather had acquired this nice property in 1913. Like many of his contemporaries, he was looking for a weekend retreat. So he left the city limits that winter, and followed the snow, in fact, he followed the color of the snow. He kept on going east until he found a spot with pure, white snow, innocently and far away from the marks of people's daily grind and the factories’ emissions. In the northern hemisphere the prevailing winds are blowing from West to East, that’s why in 19th century Europe, with the beginning of Industrialization, the refined society’s most favorite places are often found in the West of the city, like London’s or Berlin’s West End and the 16th arrondissement of Paris.

Grandpa did not like the bigwigs, he rather loved nature, the gigantic fir trees, the oxygen-soaked air and the morning concert of the birds. It’s the perfect place to be, to play violin, to paint and to be creative. Prof. Thorak shared this sentiment, at the location was only a hop and skip away from the city, where he could find his models. The Nazis told my family, that they suggest Grandfather sells it to Prof. Thorak. This suggestion came down with a slight hint, that whatever wasn't for sale could always be seized. They weren't beating around the bushes, so before the baseball bats came out, my family packed up and left. Little did my family know, how much of a favorite Thorak was. Once he had our property, Hitler, being a devoted amateur painter himself, stepped in and had Albert Speer personally design the artist’s outrageous, cubic and ugly workshop. Not selling wouldn’t have only meant to annoy the local Nazi elite, but pissing off the dictator directly? Not a good idea! My granddad, however, made it clear that he'd be only willing to exchange his property for a similar one in the same neck of the woods. He was offered a similar property in size, but was forced to exchange a beautiful piece of land with a charming Mansion for a lot consisting of roughly 25 acres of sting-nettles. I am not sure, if he loved nature this much, but suffice it to say the family relocated in 1936 to the very place, where I am writing these lines today.

When the United States military conquered Munich on April 30, 1945, moving onwards southeast bound for Berchtesgaden, the army utilized the main road, the so called Bundesstrasse 304. Inevitably, as they passed by our estate they immediately recognized the perfect place for some kind of provisional headquarters. They saw the easy access to Munich from Baldham and yet it was securely located outside of any danger where the remaining Nazi nutcases might try an ambush. The fact that it was painted in some kind of camouflage added additional security. Our house therefore, became a fully self-powered and illuminated U.S. Military Headquarters. Quite a change from the black outs caused by the war. My family had to leave the house within 24 hours to give way for the HQ’s, so they left with the sheer minimum of what they needed, and for my grandfather this meant taking only his violin. My father got special permission to come back once a day to feed our cattle and pigs, but other than that, my family had to stay away from our home.

They were forced to quickly find a place, and ironically, they found themselves at the huge artist’s workshop of Prof. Thorak’s across the street, which was turned into an emergency shelter. Even with the U.S. military all around him, Prof. Thorak seemed firm in his madness: My family had to sleep on the floor of the Hitler Room together with two more families, Friedinger and Graf of Baldham, for a couple of days.

The U.S. Military didn't only bring freedom, democracy and liberty back to the old world, but its culture, rhythm, and the GIs, all of which would influence my life from the get-go:

What the hell are you thinking? A booming voice yelled at my father. He had just hit an army truck. Just because you couldn't beat us in the battlefield, doesn't mean you have to kill us now on the Autobahn by reckless driving, the GI was fuming. My father tried to calm him down, trying to explain that it was a real accident. This was right after the war in 1945, and although the fallout was less emotional, he still had to deal with the Military bureaucracy, which wasn't a walk in the park either. The result: The military court sentenced him to three days in prison. The charge: Reckless Driving. Luckily it was a lenient sentence, because the person assigned to his case was one Harold H. Clark, who must have liked dad from the beginning. A few years later, that man ended up being honorably discharged as Colonel Harold H. Clark. Clark’s grandmother was from Upper Palatinate, an area up north from here, and he was dying to get back in touch with his German roots. Our families became friends. My parents weren't married yet, but GI Clark offered to be the godfather of their firstborn, thus I got not only a rather peculiar first name for a German, but a cherished namesake, and a heck of a godfather. I have been blessed with Aunty Hazel and Uncle Harold, and I miss them dearly now that they have passed.

Hugolein, Hugolein, I can still hear my grandfather's shout-outs. Granny and he couldn't get used to the idea that I was a boy of the Faltermeier's that wasn't a Hugo but a Harold. Don't be silly, my granddad said to my dad, I'm named Hugo, you are named Hugo, and he is Hugo too. Besides, when we are gone he can use up our stationery. Granddad was always a pragmatic and thrifty businessman as I remember him. Eventually he was forced to give in, and had to call me Harold.

I was born in Munich, a Sunday's child, October 5th, 1952, 6 a.m. as Hans Hugo Harold, and in many ways, I have been born under a lucky star. Much like the solar system revolves around the sun, my whole life started to evolve around music. There was music all around me, music quickly became my sun, the center of my universe.

The parent’s family planning closed its gates with my brother Ralf being born September 29, 1955. All of a sudden, I had a companion for adventures in the style of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer.

I can still smell the seasonal fragrances of our estate. The blossoming crocus in spring, the fresh grass in summer, the leaves fermenting in autumn or the firewood in winter. It was the smell of total security, a special place, and an enchanted ground. My grandparents and parents didn't just live there; they were breathing and living it. The Tannenhof is not just home, but a way of life. Quite frankly, there is no need to leave the property if you want to play soccer or any other ballgame, play huntsman, hide and seek, climb the trees or do all sorts of things boys love so much.

The Tannenhof, around 1950

For my very protective parents it was yet another reason to suggest extending an invitation to our pals rather than to be going to unsafe playgrounds, or, god forbids, the lurking danger of the main road, one of our biggest enemies!! Right in front of our property: the Bundestrasse B 304 as it is called in German. Fahrvergnügen wasn’t only limited to the highway back in the 50s. No speed limit at all, except inside the city limits and selected road legs. The B 304 in front of our estate is a straight street, and a challenge for a car race at any time! The rising of the German Wirtschaftswunder encouraged people to buy cars again and everybody wanted to be the fastest driver. At times I felt like I had a front seat at the Indie-500. From the first days in school, we weren't allowed to cross the street alone. My father was an outstanding personality and a towering figure in my life, tall, handsome, and very firm and clear in his announcements. If you cross this road alone, and a car doesn't hit you, I will. You better not blow it with him.

Waiting like an authoritarian educated fawn, I saw the cars flying by, and not only the smell of exhaust fumes and the sound of high RPM engines surrounding me, but the constant shouts of chicken and coward by my classmates and the kids living in the area. My brother and I had to endure waiting until my parents or our nanny Romy Forster would come to pick us up. My home is my castle they say, but to me it was even more than that, it was a secure fortress. The key advantage was, once this mean street was crossed, and I walked onto the Tannenhof, I felt right home and protected. Once the gate was closed, I was in paradise. Until today, this place is much more than the word home could capture.

Our family is quick to be worried, sometimes over-anxious. Both grandparents and parents wanted to ensure that we were safe and sound. This legacy has been handed down to my kids too; they still would rather invite their friends over to our place.

My grandparents had the bad fortune to live through both World Wars, my parents seeing one up close and personally, so they naturally felt the urge to protect the happiness of their two boys, see that nothing threatens them, or interferes with their small world. All part of childhood life on Tannenhof. At this point I probably should clarify something: Tannenhof translates as Fir Yard" but in our case it is a bit of a fraudulent labeling. It should have been a fir yard, referring to the botanical species white fir (Abies alba). Not a single (white) fir, however, can be naturally found on our property. Our ground favors the common spruce (Picea abies), which became too common for a place called fir yard. So my father, and later I, tried to justify the name Tannenhof as we kept planting plenty of white fir to have just a few. Later, I tried every trick in the book, and I planted any and every variety like hemlocks, Nordmann or Douglas fir without significant success. Finally, for my father's 80th birthday I gave him a Colorado fir, which in fact prospers quite nicely.

When I close my eyes I can still smell my childhood. Every morning I would jump out of bed, get dressed quickly, and run over to my grandparent’s house, which is the first house built on our grounds after the war., I can see our two dogs, Hungarian shepherds, adorable creatures with a permanent bad hair day, who'd bring half of the woods home entangled with them. One was named Harpia and the other Erco, and especially with Harpia I had a hell of a time. We would be sitting in front of the house, playing and goofing around, and I was happy. I did not need many friends or peers on the playground; I was sitting on a blanket, fully amazed by nature and its beauty, and enjoyed being outdoors. I listened to the songs of the birds, tried to identify who's singing, I gazed after the clouds of white, indulged in the blueness of the sky.

Cuddling dad with Ralf, 1956

When I see my neck of the woods, it is quite literally a full-fledged explosion of the senses. To walk, crawl, and be in the under woods, feel the earth, smell the soil, and by it getting dirty like a chimney-cleaner. My brother and I were a handful for our parents and my nanny Romy. It was a terrific feeling though, and it was very important and essential to me. Down to earth is a description that suits me well, but it means to me much more than being grounded, it means to have roots too.

One of my favorite hangouts was an old attic, that wasn’t used in the construction of my father's house. Parts of the old truss were located nearby in the woods, and to my thinking it looked a ship. My brother and I used it as a ship as we crawled into it, equipped it with bottles, which served as fuel tanks filled with imaginary gas, oil, diesel, you name it. Only unimaginative adults saw our precious liquid as water, for us it kept the ship running. We navigated around the globe with it, and I swept my brother, three years my junior, away with my imagination. I always had a clear instinct of what I wanted to accomplish, and my dreams where my guiding star. At the same time we were exploring and experiencing our vast gardens – even if only to us boys the Pacific Ocean was trapped in it.

At one time, the family contemplated getting ponies for the Tannenhof, to add yet another enrichment for the boys. My brother and I were enthusiastic about the idea, it meant we could finally play Cowboys and Indians in style!

After some comprehensive research we found the objects of our desire and yes! We were going to get two Shetland ponies! What a sight, watching those adorable creatures grazing on the huge meadow in front of our house. They felt right at home, exploring the premises and finally discovered the trash cans, which they raided constantly over the years! We built a barn and fenced a piece of the property. We went for saddles and the entire garnish, including a sheath for the wooden Winchester rifle and of course, the twin saddle bags as seen in many John Wayne Western movies. Our little paradise got more and more complete.

Growing up on this paradise was much more than a big playground for us kids. It instilled something inside our family, which cannot be valued enough. It formed a clan, a feeling of family unity that cannot be broken or easily infiltrated. We do let people join us for small parties and celebrations, but eventually the family has a bond that cannot be breached. This feeling of being exceptional and strongly united as common folks is something, which remains intact in all of Bavaria.

Another thing I wasn't aware of was that my father had a stepmother. His mother died after a septic shock, and Kathy, whom grandpa married 9 years later, was her sister. She was integrated into the family as if she has been always there. Kathy stayed at the Tannenhof until she was very old, and needed special care. I remember her saying, I don't want to be a burden to anyone, even if she never, ever was. She is the first and only so far, who left this close-knit family. The issue of elderly care at another place has never been an issue before or ever since. A clan we are.

Not even a year old, my mom recognized how I was nodding to the beat of music. My small arms moving in-sync as if I was conducting, and she wondered, what would come of me. Quite early I was not only drawn to my grandfather’s violin and my father’s piano, but drawing them too! These instruments mesmerized me, so I didn't just have to hear them, feel them, fiddle around with them, but to paint and capture them in order to explore them inside and out.

Me and mom, 1954

You see, Music was an integral part of our family life. Coming from an average middle-class Bavarian family where music was always present, musicians, singers and conductors were always welcome. I eagerly listened to exciting conversations, the brilliant duets, performed by my dad on the piano and my grandpa, playing the violin like a virtuoso. Dad always told the story that not a Sunday morning went by without the family making music. This had already started while my grandparents were living in Munich right after WWI. They all gathered in my grandfather's house on Brienner Strasse, and they played pieces of Beethoven, Bruckner, actually all the great old composers. It meant so much more than just simply family music. It was not just our house music, we had little performances. My grandma had a great singing voice, so we had a very nice set-up for small performances. When the weather was good, we had the windows open, and neighbors could listen to it, or came by to see it live. Quite literally music was all over the place.

Moreover, my grandpa had been a lifelong devotee of classical music; some would call him a nut. He was very art oriented in general; he would collect art on a very small scale, since he wasn't rich. He made it a point though, to afford what he could afford. Time and again I heard about him going to Berlin just to see Furtwängler conduct. He had to take the red-eye train to be back in time the next morning in Munich for work. Time and again he went to the opera and to concerts, and a violin concert taking place in Munich without him in the audience was almost unthinkable. His love for classical music went so far, that he even shipped coal to the Munich Opera House one day to ensure a performance on a freezing cold winter night. This made him the talk of the opera, and in 1947 he got to meet the renowned conductor Sir Georg Solti, who was the musical director of the Bavarian State Opera right after the war. Ever since, Sir Solti was a frequent guest at our house. My father designed a bench and table for him and set it up way back in our forest, and Solti took advantage of it and used it to sink into the score of Richard Wagner’s Tannhäuser, which he conducted couple of days later in Munich.

With him came many opera singers, conductors, and an array of other professional musicians, and they all were gladly welcomed to listen to the family music. Every Sunday, we had our own family concerts in front of a highly professional audience. To my grandfather, my father, later my brother and myself however, these people were friends and peers, likewise living and breathing music. This eventually led to a wistful longing for making music my own, and to compose my own music. I watched the fingers of my granddad when he played