Countless times in my car I’ve listened to Philip Glass‘s score for The Fog of War (2003). It’s techno that haunts, unnerves, and instills a certain creepy, ominous feeling, and yet is oddly soothing and even moving at times. If you really let it in, I mean.

Two decades ago Morris’s landmark doc won the Best Feature Documentary Oscar. (Technically in early ’05.) But Glass’s score wasn’t even nominated.

Without Glass’s existential ennui The Fog of War, which is entirely about and entirely narrated by former Defense Secretary Robert S. McNamara, who served between ’61 and ’68, would mostly be an arid thing…analytical, data-ish, egghead-ish. But Glass’s music, operating on its own plane, delivers great, twirling, surging, rumbling currents of emotional anxiety, and is the reason The Fog of War won the gold statuette.

The Fog of War is about a brilliant, analytical guy who passed along orders that brought about tens of thousands of bombing deaths in Vietnam in the mid to late ’60s, and was part of a mechanism that fire-bombed much of Japan in the the mid ’40s, and yet it gets under your skin in a very unusual way. It almost makes you cry here and there.

So that’s what I often do when I’m driving around. I listen to Glass’s score and occasionally taste the welling of stuff that’s been churning inside for decades.