The sun over Los Angeles had nearly retreated into the ocean by the time I found my section, and the night began its daily march across the California sky. The air was stiflingly hot, which I expected, but I had not anticipated the humidity that clung to my skin and forced buckets of sweat to drain down my face in torrents. Isn't it supposed to be dry heat around here?, I thought to myself as I spied my seat.

Benches! Another surprise, yet this time a welcome one. For a man of considerable size (i.e. fat), the chairs at most concert venues are formidable foes. They are designed for people with the waistline of malnourished squirrels, and a large person like me has to squeeze into one like a ten-year-old reverting into the womb. And God help us if they have cupholders on the ends of the armrests. Benches are not the most comfortable seating arrangement in the world, but at least I do not have to grease my hips and tether myself to a tractor when I want to get up from one.

I sit next to an attractive middle-aged woman and her husband, and after taking a sip of the cold beer in my hand, I take a moment to look at my surroundings. The Hollywood Bowl feels surreal to me; it is located just a mile or so from the heart of downtown Hollywood, but it feels isolated and rural, like those outdoor dramas scattered across the country. It rests on the side of a large hill, surrounded by trees. Even the bench I sit on is made of wood.

"Nice night for a show," says a voice to my right. I turn to see the lady looking at me.

"It sure is," I reply. The back of my left hand presses against my forehead, mopping up the multitude of sweat drops that have accumulated there.

"You're not from around here, are you?"

A slight chuckle escapes me. "Is it that obvious?"

"A little. Where are you from?"

"Cincinnati, Ohio."

"That's a long way from here. What brings you out to Hollywood?"

What brings you out to Hollywood? It is a simple question, but the answer is complicated. I had two reasons for coming to California. First, it was a culmination of nearly twenty-five years of dreaming. When I was five, I had my first life-changing experience. My father rented a copy of Gremlins from the local video store, and I watched it, not knowing how that movie would affect the rest of my life. I did not love Gremlins; I adored it, and became so obsessed with it that on more than one occasion my religion-laden mother swore it was the work of the devil.

But Gremlins was only a gateway drug; it opened my eyes to the world of popcorn cinema. I wanted more. Soon, I learned about Star Wars, and Indiana Jones, and suddenly all I cared about were movies. Even my playing involved some movie or another, and if it did not, then it played out as a movie.

As a movie lover, it was my life-long dream to see the place where it all happened, and perhaps gain some insight into the business of making dreams. That was the first reason for my trip to Hollywood.

And the second?

"I'm here to see John Williams," I told her.

The house lights dim and a wave of silence washes over the audience. I turn my attention to the half-domed stage below as the members of the Los Angeles philharmonic step out and take the seat beside their instrument. An empty seat in the front remains, but it is filled a moment later when an Asian woman holding a violin steps out and bows to the audience. I later learn her name is Bing Wang.

Following her is an old (but not elderly) spectacled man dressed in a blinding white tuxedo. The top of his head is bald, and what remains on the back and sides of his skull is thin and grayed. He sports a neatly trimmed beard that matches the color of his costume. John Williams steps up to the podium, taking a moment to flex his hand around his conductor's baton. The crowd roars, and a surge of excitement wells up inside me. I have waited my life for this moment.

I became a fan of John Williams by accident. I was fifteen, and like most teenagers, I was of the opinion that orchestrations sucked. I was in the local Media Play one day, when I spotted a cassette (yes, I said "cassette". You may commence the old jokes) of Jurassic Park misplaced in the country section. I bought it, and took it home, expecting to hear some sound clips of tyrannosaurs and raptors. There were no dinosaurs on that tape, but their absence was filled with a movie score that stroked the core of my imagination.

A good portion of my CD collection is movie scores. And most of the names on the covers say John Williams.

Mister Williams turns to face the orchestra, and with a raise of the wand brings them to attention. The first song of the evening is "The Star-Spangled Banner", and at once, the audience rises. Some even feel compelled to sing along, which strikes me as strange.
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Afterward, Williams begins the actual concert with a trio of songs to commemorate the recent Olympics. The first, "The Olympic Fanfare", is the one most associated with the event, and plays on all the commercials.

"The Song for World Peace" followed it, and while it does not exactly pertain to the Olympics, Williams chose it for the paralleling themes it shared with the others in the category.

Rounding out the trio was Williams's "The Olympic Spirit", which is one of my favorite scores. The music is sweeping and epic, and to make it better, the movie screens throughout the amphitheater show clips from the games. The crowd goes wild when a shot of Michael Phelps comes on the screen.

The first film featured in the concert was Close Encounters of the Third Kind. This is embarrassing to admit, but I had not seen this film before and was unfamiliar with the music, save for the iconic "tones" that are rampantly parodied in pop culture. Williams performed a medley of music from it, with clips of the film playing simultaneously. It begins with the scene where a little boy is abducted, and the music is incredibly terrifying. I was so moved by this that I recently rented Close Encounters just so I could see the movie in full.

The next piece was "Flight to Neverland" from Hook. The movie was forgettable, and alas, I cannot remember much about this piece either. They can't all be winners, I suppose.

The next section of music, however, I will remember as long as I remember my name.

This portion of the show is dedicated to the Indiana Jones films, specifically Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. He begins with "The Adventures of Mutt", a fun little piece that reminds me, oddly enough, of birds frolicking in midair. He follows this with "Irina's Theme", which he dedicates to all the femme fatales throughout movie history. As the noir-ish music plays, the screen shows footage of classic dangerous women holding smoking guns. And nothing says "sexy" like a girl with a smoldering weapon.

Next comes the "Raiders March", which, next to "Star Wars" is Williams's most memorable piece of music. It is also one of my favorites, which is why a surge of excitement shoots through my body as the music starts. It is surreal, hearing the music live while watching clips from all four movies. The scene where Indy shoots the swordsman plays, and even though every person in that audience has seen it enough times to memorize it frame by frame, they still howl with laughter. It is a testament to the enduring magic of these films; that even after twenty plus years and countless viewings, Indiana Jones can still inspire the same reactions it did upon the first viewing. For a few minutes, everyone there is nine years old; dreaming of the day that they would be a super-cool archaeologist, whip in hand, saving the world in style.

Then, the music stops, and the moment is over. John Williams gives a short bow to the audience, and steps offstage. The house lights come up.

"It's intermission already?" I say aloud. "We were just getting started."