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THE GREATEST FILM COMPOSER NO ONE’S EVER HEARD OF

Over the course of roughly two decades, from the early Fifties to the late Sixties, Herman Stein composed the music for nearly two hundred films and television shows. If you’re of a certain mindset, he wrote some of the most memorable music for some of the greatest films ever made, including Creature from the Black Lagoon and The Incredible Shrinking Man. You’d never know it, though, as he only received credit on about half a dozen of the pictures he worked on. Trying to find a complete filmography can be a daunting task. Even his IMDb page is sorely incomplete and rife with inaccuracies.

In the mid-Nineties, while planning to launch a small record label devoted to releasing soundtracks from forgotten sci-fi and horror films from the Forties and Fifties, David Schecter set himself the task of tracking down some of the composers who’d worked on those pictures. Fully understanding most of these composers would have been in their eighties or nineties, at the very least he would contact their families or estates in hopes of gaining access to their written scores. One of the first he tried to find was Herman Stein.

“I don’t remember where I found the information,” Schecter recalls. “But Herman Stein had apparently died in 1984. His obituary was in Variety. So I began placing calls around town to every Stein I could find. Given there are a lot of Jewish people in Hollywood, I think this took up about a month of my life. I left messages all over town saying, ‘If you are a child of Herman Stein, please call me back. I’m trying to find out where his archives are.’ Then I moved on to other composers. One day the phone rang and my wife Katy came up to me and her face was white, and she said ‘That dead guy is on the phone.’ And I said, ‘Which dead guy?’ And she said ‘Herman Stein.’”

When Schecter picked up the phone, Stein, who had a reputation for being a bit cantankerous, demanded to know why Schecter was trying to get in touch with him.

“I said, ‘You’re THE Herman Stein?’ And he said, ‘Yeah, but how could you have heard of me? No one’s heard of me.’ I explained that he had four cuts on that Dick Jacobs record, Themes from Horror Movies, from 1959, and I’d always loved his music. He seemed really suspicious and curmudgeonly. I explained we were thinking of starting a label and wanted to record some of his film music. He wanted to know what titles, and I told him his science fiction stuff—It Came from Outer Space, This Island Earth, Tarantula and on and on. And he said, ‘Why would you want to do that crap? Do my Westerns.’ And I said, ’Nobody cares about your Westerns.’ I mean, he scored dozens of these Audie Murphy Westerns, Rock Hudson Westerns, and you have to remember those were the prestige pictures back then. Those were the ones the composers were proud of. The science fiction stuff was just disposable. So I tried to convince him people still knew who the Creature from the Black Lagoon was, and he didn’t believe me.”

Upon leaving the movie business two decades earlier, Stein and his wife Anita retreated to their home in the Hollywood Hills. He didn’t go to the movies, he didn’t read about movies, and if one came on the television he’d snap it off. That was all part of his past life, and it didn’t interest him anymore. In fact, Schecter says, he was happy to hear about that Variety obituary, as it meant he had an excuse for not dealing with people anymore.

“I remember one thing that was really interesting to me and kind of put things in perspective,” says Schecter. “I told him I wanted to record some of the music from The Mole People, and he said, ’Did I do that picture?’ Even though every time that movie came on when I was growing up, whether it was five in the afternoon or four-thirty in the morning, I’d be up watching it. For Herman, it was a job he worked on for three ore four days in between a Ma and Pa Kettle movie and a swashbuckler, and that was it. And he probably only saw the part of the movie he scored—the opening scene. It would be like me asking you, ‘What did you do on July 17th, 1984?’ Chances are you have no idea, and Herman didn’t remember it at all. It made me realize I was coming from a very different perspective than the people who actually wrote that stuff. For them it was just product they were cranking out. It doesn’t mean they weren’t doing brilliant work, just that they didn’t obsess about this stuff.”

At the time Schecter contacted him, the only bits of Stein’s music to be recorded and released on an album appeared on that legendary 1959 Dick Jacobs record. Truth Be Told, it was a pretty shabby recording, performed by what was probably a seventeen-piece ensemble which, lacking a harp, substituted an organ instead. Schecter wanted to record his music properly and faithfully. As gruff as he was, it seems Stein still had some interest in the proposition.

“So he said he wanted to give me a test. I asked him what sort of test, and he said basically ‘to see if I can trust you with my music.’ I thought, oh boy, I’ve chosen the wrong composer. Bernard Herrmann had a reputation for being difficult, and Herman Stein was difficult in his own way. Anyway, he sent me a cassette with three pieces of music on it. The instructions were to listen to it, then call him up and talk to him about it. I had no idea what I was supposed to talk to him about, but I listened to it, then called him up and just gave him my two cents worth. Apparently, and I still don’t know to this day why, I passed the test with flying colors, and he said ‘Okay, tell me what you want and I’ll get it.’”

Stein began coming over to Schecter’s home with music, Schecter began releasing Stein’s scores on his Monstrous Movie Music label, and the two remained friends for the next dozen years, until Stein’s death at age 93.

Herman Stein, born in Philadelphia in 1915, had been an astounding child prodigy. He began playing piano at age two, and first performed with an orchestra at age six. In his teens he was selling compositions to jazz ensembles, orchestrating for the likes of Count Basie, and through his twenties was composing and arranging music for the radio.

“How he learned music was, he went to the library, and he’d look at the classical scores there. Just study them,” Schecter says. “He was entirely self-taught until he came to Hollywood, and he was already in his mid-thirties by then.”

After scoring an industrial film called Career for Two, Stein took a job with Universal’s music department in 1951. His first assignment involved arranging some classical pieces for the Boris Karloff picture The Strange Door. The first things he actually scored himself were a few musical cues for a 1952 Ozzie and Harriet vehicle, Here Come the Nelsons.

“Thing about Herman, he was…different,” Schecter admits. “He had a brilliant, brilliant mind. People talk about perfect pitch, but he said perfect pitch isn’t important. If you’re a composer what’s important is having relative pitch. He would hear everything orchestrally in his head before he wrote it. Most of the great composers couldn’t do that. They would sit at the piano, hit a note, write the note down, hit another note, and so on. Herman would just sit out in his car in the parking lot at Universal and write the scores out.{Fellow Universal film composer} Irving Gertz said he and Henry Mancini would walk by, and they could see Herman in the car transcribing the music he heard in his mind. They would just shake their heads. He was taught by Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco, who taught everyone in Hollywood how to score films—Jerry Goldsmith, John Williams, so many others. Castelnuovo-Tedesco taught Herman to think everything out before he wrote it, and to write his scores in ink. You see sketches written by other composers and they’re in pencil and there are a million cross-outs and erasures, and that was just normal. It’s like being a writer like you and I are, you need to edit things. Herman wrote things out in ink, and apparently did not need to change them.”

The other thing about Herman, Schecter says, was that he was, even into his eighties, something akin to a human computer.

“I remember one day when I was doing some research on something. Herman had all his cue sheets and musical manuscripts in a closet at his home in Hollywood. I called him up one night and asked him about a piece of music he’d written for a Western in 1954. And I said, ‘It’s a piece called ‘On to Socorro’ or something like that. I told him I was wondering about why he did something the way he did there. And he said ‘Hmm, let me think about that for a second.’ He went over to the piano, and all of a sudden I heard this full orchestral version coming out of the piano. He’s not just hitting the notes with one finger, he was playing with flourishes and everything. You could hear the brass the way he was playing. It was about a two minute piece, and he’d played it perfectly, so far as I could tell because I’d been watching the film version. He got done with it, and I asked how he’d found the music so quickly. He said ‘Didn’t—I did it from memory.’ I asked him when he’d last heard the music, and he said ‘Only at the recording session.’ He’d written literally thousands of pieces of music, he’d written this one back in 1954. It was performed once, put away in his closet, and that was it. But he could play every single nuance of it fifty years later. He could do that with anything he’d written.”

In the early Fifties, Joe Gershenson was the head of Universal’s music department, and his second in command was composer Milt Rosen. Stein, Irving Gertz, Henry Mancini and others were mere contract composers. When a new picture was finished, it was determined how much time was left before the scheduled release, and how much money was left in the budget for music. Then Rosen, a couple of the composers, and the music editor would get together for a screening.

“They would decide which parts needed music and which didn’t,” Schecter explained. “They’d be doing that with the music editor, who’d be writing all these things down. Then depending on how much time they had and what the budget was. They would decide which parts needed new music, because that would take more time given the composer would have to write it, as they’d have to derive parts for the orchestra to play. All that versus how much older music they could use, maybe re-writing it slightly, or just re-using it as is. I’m not talking about using original recordings. But the written music. They already had the scores and the parts there, and wouldn’t have to spend the money on the copyist, and they wouldn’t have to spend the time. Some films would be completely scored, others would be a mix of new and old music, some would have nothing but older music. Then one or more of the composers would rearrange that older music to make it fit with the new music.

“Let’s say a few composers—Mancini, Gertz and Stein—were working together on a picture like The Monolith Monsters. For some reason, Irving Gertz scored most of The Monolith Monsters. Eighty percent of it. Some of the music came from earlier pictures, but the majority of it was written for that picture. And The Deadly Mantis, too—they were both the same score, so to speak, written at the same time. But then there were a few pieces Mancini wrote. Maybe Irving was running out of time, or maybe he had to work on something else. I have no idea. But someone told Mancini ‘Here are your three pieces,’ and they’d give Herman his three pieces. Sometimes the composers would talk to each other, sometimes they would play each other the themes they were using, so they’d have some kind of continuity. Sometimes the scenes a certain composer would be writing were so discreet from what the other composers were doing—maybe they just had to do with a certain subplot—so they could score their own things and it wouldn’t conflict with the rest of the picture. That’s one of the appeals of the Universal scores from the Forties and Fifties—there’s so much musical material in them. It wasn’t just one composer writing a couple themes and then doing endless variations on them. You listen to Creature from the Black Lagoon, even though the Creature theme is in there, Hans Salter’s music sounds like Hans Salter, Herman Stein’s music sounds like Herman Stein. Henry Mancini’s music sounds like Henry Mancini. Then there’s some older music by Milt Rosen that sounds completely different because it came from other pictures. There’s also a cue by Robert Emmett Dolan from Mr. Peabody and the Mermaid, which had nothing to do with any of the other pictures that provided music. You end up with an incredible wealth of musical material from these grade-B horror films.”

In the end, however, particularly if there were multiple composers involved in scoring a picture, as music director it was Joe Gershenson who got the sole screen credit. This explains why Stein’s contributions went uncredited for roughly ninety-five percent of the films he worked on. So maybe it’s easy to comprehend why Stein would be a bit cantankerous.

“Herman was really something,” Schecter says. “Unfortunately he was his own worst enemy. He was a curmudgeon, and he had reason to be. Some really terrible things happened to him over his life that probably would have destroyed many a weaker man. So Herman could be bitter at times, and I understood that. But he was also very funny and incredibly smart. He should have done so much better in terms of his career, but again he was his own worst enemy. He was very opinionated, and very ethical. In Hollywood, there are not a lot of people with ethics, and Herman would call you on it. That’s why we got along so great, because I’m honest all the time, and Herman knew he could trust me. But he burned a lot of bridges, unfortunately. After the music department was taken down in 1958, Joe Gershenson wanted him to score John Huston’s Freud. I won’t tell you what Herman said, but it was very insulting to Gershenson . It was also very true, but he shouldn’t have said it. Gershenson told him, ‘you’re never gonna work on another film again,’ and Herman didn’t, except for {Roger Corman’s 1962 feature} The Intruder. Maybe that’s one of the reasons he liked The Intruder so much.

When the music department was dissolved, Stein, Irving Gertz, Hans Salter, Mancini and the others suddenly found themselves out of work. Gertz moved over to 20th Century Fox, and managed to bring a few others with him, including Stein. For the next decade, Stein would compose the music for TV shows like Lost in Space and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. A young Jerry Goldsmith, meanwhile, snagged his first high-profile job by scoring Freud back at Universal.

“Mancini was and unbelievably talented composer,” Schecter says. “Herman was also unbelievably talented. I think Herman could have had a much better career than he did. Mancini early on had the reputation for being the tunesmith. Whenever there was a song, they would ask Henry to write it, or they’d bring in one of their staff songwriters, or they would go to a freelance person. But Herman could write some really, really, beautiful melodies that he had hoped would be turned into a record so he could have a hit. But Universal didn’t allow him to do that. He got kinda bitter over that, and I can understand why, because I’ve heard some of his tunes. Just listen to ‘Sand Rock,’ the cue that opens It Came From Outer Space right after the main titles. Just absolutely gorgeous music, and you could have easily thrown lyrics on that and had a hit song, but they weren’t going to do that for Herman.”

Stein and his wife lived quietly for two decades, Herman focused on his commodities investments, until Schecter lured him back out into the world by calling attention to his music.

“It was both good and bad,” he says. “He always let you know how much you were putting him out, but you could tell how much he liked it beneath the rough exterior. When someone would call him up from a TV or radio show, he’d just light up. He felt he’d been forgotten, as a lot of these composers did. It was kind of difficult at the beginning. And I think there was a little resentment there—‘Oh NOW they’re discovering me, now that I’m too old to get jobs out of it.’ You can understand that, you don’t want to be recognized when you’re on your death bed, you want to be recognized when you can still produce. Herman was well aware of the career he could have had. I’m glad he lived long enough that I could show him books that make reference to him and his music.

“He still did amazing things,” Schecter went on. “To my mind he was the sound of 1950s science fiction. As wonderful as the other composers were. Herman was involved with a lot of the bigger, more important films. The scenes that he scored and the way he scored them, that’s what you think of when you think of the science fiction films of that era. One thing about Herman’s style that set it apart from the others, he could use dissonance to his advantage. He didn’t write atonal things like Alex North, where sometimes you don’t want to listen to them because they’re so harsh. But he could push the envelope, especially with the brass, to where it bordered on being dissonant, but it wasn’t. So he could create these sounds that sounded like horror and monsters, but were also fun to listen to. They didn’t repel you, they didn’t hurt your ear drums. I think that was his strength. You listen to the cue ‘Visitors from Space’ from It Came From Outer Space, and you can hear him pushing it so close to where it’s gonna hurt, but in the end it’s beautiful. You could probably slow dance to that piece, but it’s definitely strident. When you listen to all his music from all those movies, you say, ‘Yup, that’s 1950s horror.’”

by Jim Knipfel

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