SCORE OF A STORYTELLER: HOW MUSIC BECAME MY SECRET WEAPON IN FILM

by Jason Kendall of kendallprojects Media & Design

The First Notes of a Calling

How College Football and the Allman Brothers Lit the Fuse

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the foundation of my entire creative career started long before I ever held a camera. It began on practice fields, in weight rooms, on long bus rides, and in stolen moments of peace before kickoff—when my headphones went on and my world became something bigger, deeper, and more connected than the scoreboard in front of me.

For me, that soundtrack was the Allman Brothers Band.

Something about their music felt like truth—raw emotion, grit wrapped in soul, southern roots carrying weight and history. When I played college football, those guitar harmonies became my pregame ritual. “Dreams,” “Jessica,” “Whipping Post”—these weren’t just songs. They were mental armor, sometimes even prayers. The Allmans taught me that music could elevate any moment. It could make an ordinary day feel cinematic. It could make a simple memory feel timeless.

The way Duane Allman and then of course Warren Hayens bent a note could somehow reflect exactly what I was feeling before walking into a stadium. Gregg Allman’s voice could echo the kind of hurt, grit, and fire I carried after every loss. Their music wasn’t hype—it was storytelling. Deep, textured, layered storytelling.

Looking back now, that was the first time I realized music had the power to frame a moment—to shape the emotional lens through which you experience it. I didn’t have the language back then to explain what I felt. But I knew music mattered. I knew it could transform.

Years later, as a filmmaker, I would return to that truth. But at the time, I was just a kid with a helmet, a dream, and a Walkman full of southern rock.

Chasing the Roots of Sound

From Delta Blues to Jazz Icons—Finding the Depth Behind Every Note

My love for the Allman Brothers and then Gov't Mule was a gateway, a map that pointed backward through time. I wanted to know where theirsound came from. So I followed the trail. And the deeper I went, the more I understood what music really is—an emotional lineage, a generational conversation, a history written in melody.

My search led me to the crossroads with Robert Johnson, where myth and reality meet. Listening to “Hellhound on My Trail” hit me in the chest in a way that was almost uncomfortable. The vulnerability in his voice—pain wrapped in poetry—taught me more about storytelling than any film class ever could. Johnson didn’t have an orchestra or a wall of guitars. He had one voice, one guitar, and a world of feeling.

From Johnson I discovered Muddy Waters, and suddenly blues wasn't just emotion—it was identity, culture, swagger, revolution. Muddy’s “Mannish Boy” sounded like someone declaring their existence out loud. His music taught me that sound can be character, theme, and conflict all at once.

Then came jazz—not as background music, but as narrative intelligence. Miles Davis opened a door in my understanding of space, silence, and mood. Kind of Blue felt like a film score without a film. Miles wasn’t just playing notes; he was building worlds, scenes, and emotional pockets. And Thelonious Monk—God, Monk changed everything. His angles, his unexpected timing, the crooked perfection of his phrasing…it taught me that sometimes the most powerful emotional moments come from the unexpected. Monk gave me permission to embrace unpredictability in my own storytelling.

This journey reshaped my creative instincts. Blues gave me truth. Jazz gave me tone. Southern rock gave me soul. By the time I circled around to bluegrass and the roots of country, I realized that music wasn’t just something to enjoy. It was something to study. To absorb. To use.

R&B taught me motion.Funk taught me attitude.Hip hop taught me perspective.

As Funkadelic, DJ Shadow, Outkast, Nina Simone, Sturgill Simpson, Bill Monroe, Marvin Gaye, and The Beastie Boys entered the rotation, I felt my creative vocabulary expanding.

Every genre became a tool. Every artist became a mentor.Every track became a possibility.

All of these sounds, stretching across generations and communities, shaped my understanding of how to score a moment—not with flash, but with purpose.

Lessons From the Great Filmmusic Architects

How Tarantino, Williams, Zimmer & Others Molded My Approach

By the time I stepped into filmmaking, my musical taste was less a playlist and more a universe. But it was watching filmmakers at work—true architects of sound—that showed me how great directors use music as a storytelling weapon. No one shaped me more than Quentin Tarantino.

Tarantino uses music like a plot twist, a magician’s reveal, a punchline, or a gut punch. He doesn’t pick the obvious track—he picks the one that redefines the moment.

Think about the way he used “Stuck in the Middle With You” in Reservoir Dogs. A happy, almost goofy song underscoring one of the most unsettling scenes in cinema history. That contrast is storytelling brilliance. Or the use of Nancy Sinatra’s “Bang Bang” to open Kill Bill. One haunting voice and an empty room of sound. It’s not just mood—it’s foreshadowing, theme, and character all in one. Tarantino taught me this essential truth:Music should never just sit in the background. It should provoke something. Surprise something. Challenge something.

But while Tarantino showed me how to twist expectations, composers like John Williams and Hans Zimmer taught me how to build worlds.

Williams’ work from Raiders Of The Lost Ark to E.T. to Saving Private Ryan taught me the importance of melody as emotional memory. The moment you hear the first notes of “E.T.’s Flying Theme,” you feel childhood, wonder, fear, hope—without a single word spoken. Zimmer, on the other hand, built intensity and scale. The “Time” track from Inception is practically a class in emotional crescendo. His score in The Dark Knight made chaos feel symphonic. Zimmer isn’t afraid of aggression, of minimalism, of rhythm as tension.

Between Tarantino’s soundtrack genius and Williams’ and Zimmer’s compositional mastery, I found my blueprint.

From Tarantino, I learned to surprise.From Williams, I learned to uplift.From Zimmer, I learned to immerse.

Today, when I score a sequence—whether I’m finding a track or collaborating on original music—those lessons sit on my shoulders.

I ask myself:

• Does this choice elevate the moment?

• Does it deepen the emotion?

• Does it reveal something hidden?

• Does it challenge expectations?

• Does it create a world around the scene?

If the answer is no, I keep searching.

Crafting a Musical Identity for kendallprojects

Why Every Beat, Every Note, and Every Silence Matters

People often ask why I spend so much time choosing music for my films. Why I’ll spend days or even weeks hunting for the right song, the right tone, the right arrangement. Why I’ll pull from genres that seem unrelated to football—jazz, blues, folk, even classical—to score a sports sequence. The answer is simple: Music is the emotional spine of every story I tell.

At kendallprojects, I don’t just want to show people playing a game. I want to show the heartbeat underneath the jersey. And music is what exposes that heartbeat. When I build a sequence—whether it’s a weight-room grind, a quiet moment between teammates, or a Friday night under the lights—I’m building it the way a musician builds a song:

A rhythm.A melody.A crescendo.A release. Sometimes the right track is a haunting acoustic piece that captures vulnerability.Sometimes it’s a gritty blues riff that matches the determination in a player’s eyes.Sometimes it’s a soaring orchestral swell that elevates a hard-fought moment into something transcendent.Sometimes it’s an unexpected hip hop cut that gives a scene swagger. The key is always intention.

And maybe that comes from my roots as a player. Maybe it’s because I remember what it felt like to put on headphones before walking into a stadium. I remember how music made me feel seen—like someone understood me before I ever took the field. So now, as a filmmaker, I try to give that same feeling to the kids and teams I film.

I want every player to watch themselves on screen and feel truth.I want every coach to hear a track and say, That’s exactly what that moment felt like.I want every community member to feel the soul of their program reflected in sound.

Because when you choose the right music—really choose it with purpose and heart—you’re not just enhancing a scene.

You’re honoring the story.You’re honoring the people.You’re honoring the legacy.

Music is the bridge between what happened and what it meant.

That’s why I approach every project like an album—carefully curated, emotionally layered, and built to last.

It's why I draw from the Allman Brothers, from Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters, from jazz and bluegrass, from Bill Withers and John Coltrane, from Kendrick Lamar and Hans Zimmer, from Tarantino’s surprise soundtracks and Williams’ emotional signatures. All of those influences live inside the work I create.Every film is a mixtape of my life—of my love for story, sound, soul, and the moments that define us.

This is the magic of what we do at kendallprojects.This is the heart of our films.

We don’t just capture stories.We score them.We shape them.We make them sing.

And as long as I’m holding a camera—and a set of headphones—that will always be at the core of my craft.