Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Martin How and the RSCM

Here is a setting of the Evening Canticles by Martin How, the only setting I know that uses the American BCP’s “Rite Two” text.

I cannot pretend to write properly about Martin How; a beginning might be made at Wikipedia and a bit more may be found in the online archives of the RSCM. But not enough. My point of contact with him was the Chorister Training Scheme. When I began RSCM work in the 1980’s, it was with Mr. How’s “little blue cards” (and red, for the Chorister level), with the slender handbook explaining how to use them. I still have the handbook, and still refer to it for the wisdom condensed into its 38 pages. In a manner that I gather was typical of him, How’s name does not appear anywhere in this volume, or on the CTS materials. Instead he explains: “What is presented here is not an entirely new approach, but the bringing together of ideas and experience which have proved successful.”

Indeed they have. Times have changed since the 1950’s and 60’s when he developed the Scheme, and the RSCM’s training materials have changed – and not always, in my opinion, for the better. But Mr. How’s “bringing together of ideas and experience” have been in some respects the foundation of my life’s work. I believe that if Mr. How were to walk into this afternoon’s Youth Choir rehearsal in our parish – and most certainly were he to slip into a rehearsal at the St. Louis RSCM Course this summer – he would immediately recognize what we are doing.

I am grateful for musicians such as Mr. How who, despite the commitments of an active musical life, find the time to teach others how to do the work, by written and spoken words and most of all by example.

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Antiphonies, and living up to one's models

For tonight's evensong, I played "Antiphonies" by William Mathias. Like the Vaughan Williams Prelude and Fugue that I played recently, Mathias is another composer whom I respect; it was an honor to learn a significant organ work of his composition.

I normally do not listen to YouTube performances of music that I am practicing; I want to develop my own sense of the piece. But once I have played it, then it is very useful to listen to the versions of others, especially the great masters. It shows what I have done well, and where I must continue to work.

Here is how the work should sound. It is from a recording by John Scott, for whom Mathias wrote the piece in the 1980's, played at St. Paul's, London. The performance is full of energy, sparkling and colorful. Compared to this, my rendition comes off as a shabby street-urchin, full of wrong notes. What is a musician to do? We cannot play at the level of the great ones; we can only do the best we can.

There are reasons why I stand by my performance and do not hang my head in shame:
- I cannot imagine who else would play this piece in this town; it is somewhat obscure. Even Mr. Scott's YouTube version has fewer than twenty views, and there is only one other YouTube version that I can find, a fine recording by Timothy Byram-Wigfield at Winchester Cathedral. If I don't play it, it would not be heard in live performance, not here and not by these people.
- It fit the occasion of Evensong for the Fifth Sunday in Lent better than anything else I could contemplate, with its use of the Passion Sunday plainsong "Vexilla regis."
- My version of the Mathias shows how the piece works on a small instrument in a small room, very different from St. Paul's.
- One of the major differences between my version and Mr. Scott's is the tempo of the faster sections. I think that my tempi are appropriate for our mechanical action instrument; I would play the piece faster on an electric action, but I think that my version hangs together effectively.
- It may be that I bring a different perspective to the piece. Not better, mind you, but different, perhaps throwing a different light on the work.
- I am sure that Mr. Mathias would be happy for someone in the middle of Iowa to be playing this piece in 2017, thirty-five years after its 1982 premiere.
- Working on it has made me a better organist. Working on any good music does that.

I could say the same about the Anthem: a setting of "Ah, holy Jesus" by John Ferguson, for choir with solo viola. We sang it well, but we cannot approach the silken perfection of the St. Olaf Choir recording directed by the composer. I do, however, think that we matched them for Connection and intensity, and the same arguments apply as listed above.

In due time, I may post our versions of the Mathias and the Ferguson on YouTube. I cannot do so at present because of some computer issues.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Ralph Vaughan Williams

My admiration for this composer knows no bounds. No, it is more than admiration: Love. When I hear certain of his works, I melt: the Fantasia on a Theme of Tallis. The Lark Ascending. Any number of places in his many symphonic works. The anthem “Lord, thou hast been our refuge.” The setting of the Old Hundredth Psalm Tune, sung as the Princess Elizabeth entered the Abbey for her coronation: the YouTube link here is from the Fiftieth Anniversary of that day.

As the young and still mostly unknown Music Editor for the English Hymnal (1906), it fell to him to compose four tunes, needed to fit texts that were to be in the book. All remain in use; three of the four are indispensable:

- Down Ampney (Come down, O love divine)
- Randolph (God be with you till we meet again)
- Salve feste dies (Hail thee, festival day)
And most of all:
- Sine nomine (For all the saints)
[See this.
And this.]

Other tunes followed in later books, especially Kings Weston (At the Name of Jesus). But more even than these tunes, it was his philosophy of hymn singing, rooted in his love and knowledge of English folksong, that took English hymnody out of the nineteenth century propriety of Victorian chapel and music room into the fresh air. For, as I think he discovered when he began working with hymn tunes, the best of the Old Tunes are a type of folk music, rooted in the faith of common people – not the theologians or clergy – who know that God is with them come what may.

He wrote:
The task of providing congregations with familiar tunes is difficult; for, unfortunately, many of the tunes of the present day [that is, 1906]… are quite unsuitable to their purpose. More often than not they are positively harmful to those who sing and hear them…

The usual argument in favour of bad music is that the fine tunes are doubtless ‘musically correct’, but that the people want ‘something simple’. Now the expression ‘musically correct’ has no meaning: the only ‘correct’ music is that which is beautiful and noble. As for simplicity, what could be simpler than ‘St. Anne’ or ‘The Old Hundredth’, and what could be finer?

It is indeed a moral rather than a musical issue. No doubt it requires a certain effort to tune oneself to the moral atmosphere implied by a fine melody; and it is far easier to dwell in the miasma of the languishing and sentimental hymn tunes which so often disfigure our services. Such poverty of heart may not be uncommon, but at least it should not be encouraged by those who direct the services of the Church… (Preface to the English Hymnal, pp. viii-ix)

Vaughan Williams wrote little for my instrument. There are the Three Preludes on Welsh Hymn Tunes (1920) which I have played many times over all the decades of my career – Bryn Calfaria, Rhosymedre, Hyfrydol. There is the little “Wedding Tune for Ann.” There are two more Preludes on Welsh songs (1956) -- Romanza: The White Rock (which I have not played) and the Toccata: St. David’s Day (which I have, and must play again; it makes a fine energetic postlude)

And there is this:
Ralph Vaughan Williams: Prelude and Fugue in C minor

The above recording is from my noontime recital on March 8. I have owned the score for many years. I have looked at it several times. And I have laid it aside: “I don’t have time to learn this, not now. Maybe next year.” The one-and-only large-scale work for organ by this composer whom I love, and I had never played it.

For me, the number of “next years” dwindles. I felt that it had to be now, so I programmed it for an Evensong last fall – and (as I had warned myself all those years) I ran out of time. I was able to prepare only the Prelude, finding myself tangled in knots with the two-against-three of the Fugue. That determined me to make it the centerpiece of the March recital, and I managed to work it up, some of the fugue falling into place only in the final days of preparation.

I do not know that I will play this piece again. But I am grateful that I have finally grappled with it. I have learned much. And I am honored that I can in my small way keep his music – this little and somewhat obscure corner of his work, at that – in living performance. I hope that my March 8 playing of it may bear fruit in some manner, but that is up to our Lord.

Sunday, February 26, 2017


Christianity is caught, not taught. (old RSCM saying)
In “The Talent Code” [see the previous essay], Daniel Coyle writes that what he calls “ignition” is “the set of signals and unconscious forces that create our identity; the moments that lead us to say ‘this is what I want to be’” (p. 108, author’s emphasis). It is the realization that “I’d better get busy” (p. 111), and it is often a sense of wanting to belong to a group: “Those people over there are doing something terrifically worthwhile” (p. 108). It is what Steven Pressfield calls “Turning Pro.”

Coyle is speaking of music, athletics, and other endeavors of the sort that demand the effort of “deep practice” and years of commitment. This is all very true; it is one reason that I take choristers to the RSCM summer course in St. Louis. I hope that for some of them, it will be a defining event. It is one reason that when we are doing something big for our parish at home, such as the Beethoven chorus from “Mount of Olives” a year ago, or “Worthy is the Lamb” from Messiah, I seek to include the youth choir. For some of them, singing such music might be the key that unlocks their vocation.

But music and athletics are not the only things that demand effort and long-term commitment, nor are they the most important:
And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men. (St. Matthew 4:19)
St. Clare of Assisi is a good example. She heard and saw Francis, and as Coyle would say, she thought “this is what I want to be.” The fire burned strongly enough in her to overcome every obstacle.

How can we live in such a way as to ignite such a flame in those around us? How can our parishes become places that will cause people to think that “Those people over there are doing something terrifically worthwhile?” This is the center point of evangelism. No amount of talk will do it.

One of our teenage choristers showed up at this morning's warmup rehearsal with a friend. I could have told her to sit out in the congregation while her friend sang in the choir, and come to our next rehearsal if she wanted to sing. That would have been sensible, and would have respected the rehearsal time that the other choristers had put into their work. But I knew that this girl was a singer, and the moment would have passed by the next rehearsal. So I invited her to put on a vestment and sing with us. Perhaps nothing will come of it. Or perhaps it might be a beginning.

We need a lot more of this.

See also this, from my online friend Tim Chesterton:
“What does discipleship look like?”


For those who are nearby, I am playing a noontime recital at the Congregational Church on Wednesday, March 8, starting at noon. Here is my program, with notes (I have spent much of the evening writing them). There is a lot of work ahead: I have struggled with the Vaughan Williams fugue, applying my “deep practice” methods to it and finally completing a First and Second Workout. It took so long that I have neglected its prelude (which I played in December, but which needs to be practiced). One of the Messiaen movements is new to me, and starting to frighten me. It is fingered, but must be learned by next Sunday, when it is to be the postlude. To say nothing of March 8, about ten days from now. Jesu juva.

Prelude and Fugue in C minor (Ralph Vaughan Williams)

Four movements from Livre du Saint Sacrement (Olivier Messiaen)
1. Adoro te (I adore thee)
2. la source de Vie (the source of Life)
3. le Dieu caché (the hidden God)
6. la manne et le Pain de Vie (the manna and the Bread of Life)


Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958) was a towering influence in British musical life through the first half of the twentieth century. Although he was a prolific composer, he wrote little for the organ; today’s work, the Prelude and Fugue in C minor, is the most substantial of his organ works. He wrote it in 1921, revised it in 1923 and again in 1930, when he also arranged it for orchestra.

The prelude is in rondo form, with the principal theme and its massive chords separated by two quieter, flowing sections. The fugue is characterized by constant two-against-three motion, established immediately by its subject and countersubject, building to a grand conclusion. Both movements are colored by modal and pentatonic harmonies, as is characteristic of much of his music.

Olivier Messiaen (1908-92) was equally significant in the musical life of France in the twentieth century. His music strikes many as strange. I believe that this is accurate; it is strange because it is holy. Two key elements appear constantly: birdsong and color. None of his music, aside from one unaccompanied motet, is “liturgical.” He considered that the only acceptable liturgical music is plainsong. While Messiaen occasionally quoted plainsong, he preferred to quote birds, considering them to be the greatest of musicians. An avid amateur ornithologist, he transcribed their songs into notation in the field wherever he traveled, and incorporated them into virtually all of his music from the 1960’s onward.

In my opinion, Messiaen can be compared only with J. S. Bach in his ability to depict matters of faith by means of music. Yet, Messiaen would be the first to say, as he wrote in the preface to his “Quartet for the End of Time,” that “All this is simply striving and childish stammering if one compares it to the overwhelming grandeur of the subject.”

Livre du Saint Sacrement (Book of the Blessed Sacrament) was his final composition for the organ, commissioned by the American Guild of Organists for their national convention in Detroit, 1986. In eighteen movements with a duration of about an hour and a half, it is an extended meditation on the central mystery of the Christian faith.

The cycle begins with Adoro te. Messiaen writes: “[the first three movements are] acts of adoration to the Christ who is invisible, but genuinely present in the Blessed Sacrament.” Adoro te is quiet, warm,and sensuous. Messiaen draws the title from the first words of a hymn by Thomas Aquinas: "Humbly I adore thee, Verity unseen…" See also Colossians 1:15: “He is the image of the invisible God…”

la Source de Vie is gentle, a quiet depiction of the Water of Life. Messiaen quotes St. Bonaventure: “My heart is ever thirsting for you, O fountain of life, source of the eternal light!”

le Dieu caché juxtaposes a plainsong Alleluia; a unison melody as a reply to it; the song of the bird Onycognathus tristrami (Tristram’s grackle, notated by Messiaen at Engedi, between Masada and the Dead Sea); and a slow descending chordal figure, like a meditation. These are presented in block form, each element extended as it reappears. Near the end, we hear the song of Hippolais pallida (Olivaceous Warbler, notated at Lod, near modern-day Tel Aviv.) Messiaen quotes:
My eyes could not bear to behold the splendor of your glory. It is with regard for my weakness that you veil yourself in the Sacrament. (from "The Imitation of Christ," Book IV, chapter 11)

On the Cross only the divinity was hidden. But here [in the Sacrament] is hidden also the Humanity. In confessing and believing both, I ask that which the repentant thief asked. (St. Thomas Aquinas, from the hymn Adoro te)

In la manne et le Pain de Vie, the sounds are those of a desert, with silences and waiting, and frightening things scurrying about, and the calls of two birds, both native to the deserts of Judea: Oenanthe lugens (Mourning Chat) and Ammomanes deserti (Desert Lark). Again he uses block form, extending each musical element as it reappears. The movement ends in repose, with a final two measures that could be from Debussy. Messiaen quotes:
You gave your people food of angels, and without their toil you supplied them from heaven with bread ready to eat, providing every pleasure and suited to every taste. For your sustenance manifested your sweetness toward your children; and the bread, ministering to the desire of the one who took it, was changed to suit everyone's liking. (Wisdom 16:20-21)

The life that Christ gives us by communion is all of his life, with the special graces he has deserved, living for us each of his mysteries. (Dom Columba Marmion, “Christ in His Mysteries,” chapter 18)

I am the living bread which came down from heaven: if any man eat of this bread, he shall live for ever: and the bread that I will give is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world. (John 6:51)

Sunday, February 19, 2017

The Talent Code

The Talent Code (Daniel Coyle, Bantam Books 2009)
The Little Book of Talent (ibid., 2012)

Upon a recommendation in an online forum, I read “The Talent Code” and followed that up with “The Little Book of Talent.” For the purposes of the Music Box, the part that is of greatest interest is Coyle’s description of what he calls “Deep Practice,” chapter 4 of “Talent Code.” In most respects, it is the way that I practice, described in a previous essay.

Coyle describes how the method works. What we normally call “talent” is the growth of myelin sheathing around neurons, which strengthens the circuitry of any action or thought that is repeated a lot.

The way to build this sheathing is repetition – but not mindlessly, playing a scale or exercise hundreds of times in a row, as one of my teachers had me do for a semester. Coyle writes: “With conventional practice, more is always better…. Deep practice, however, doesn’t obey the same math. Spending more time is effective – but only if you’re still in the sweet spot at the edge of your capabilities, attentively building and honing circuits” (p. 88). Coyle describes this earlier in the book; he finds that the “sweet spot” is at the edge of one’s ability, making a few mistakes and immediately attending to them (chapter 1).

I would emphasize that it is a FEW mistakes in the initial slow playing of the phrase. For me, that is the guide as to whether my practice is sufficiently slow. If there are absolutely no mistakes, I am not pushing hard enough; it seems important that there be some struggle to get it right, so it cannot be so slow as to be playable without focus, and Coyle would agree with this; in “The Little Book” he says to “Embrace Struggle.” In this playthrough, I stop immediately at every mistake, think about it for a moment, and play it again, perhaps just the one or two notes leading to the mistake and this time getting it right. If I cannot, I slow it down further, even take it entirely out of rhythm to move carefully from one note to the next (I often have to do this when learning Messiaen).

I should be taking a tempo where, with the work described above, the second playthrough is perfect. And the third. If not, I need to slow down, or possibly take a smaller chunk of music – a half-phrase, one measure, even down to a couple of beats or less, whatever feels like a single manageable “chunk”. The goal (with which I think Coyle would agree) is a perfect playing of the phrase, measure, or other short passage, which is then repeated perfectly. I never leave a phrase until it is as perfect as I can make it, even on the first day’s practice of it.

More than that, the passage is repeated perfectly the next day, and the day after. Coyle writes that the growth of myelin is a slow process, taking days or weeks.

As Coyle writes, this is why regular practice is essential. “Causing skill to evaporate… only requires that you stop a skilled person from systematically firing his or her circuit for a mere thirty days…. Myelin… is living tissue. Like everything else in the body, it’s in a constant cycle of breakdown and repair. That’s why daily practice matters, particularly as we get older” (p. 88)

There is lots of good material about teaching and coaching in Part Three of “Talent Code” (p. 156 and following). One insight that is especially helpful for me with my struggles with improvisation was his comparison of the training of young Brazilian soccer players with the Suzuki method. Coyle thinks that “skills like soccer, writing, and comedy are flexible-circuit skills…. Playing violin, golf, gymnastics, and figure skating, on the other hand, are consistent-circuit skills, depending utterly on a solid foundation of technique that enables us to reliably re-create the fundamentals of an ideal performance” (p. 194).

I have spent most of my life learning and playing organ and piano repertoire. In Coyle’s terms, that is “consistent-circuit” work. That is why every mistake must be immediately eliminated by slow practice.

But piano (and organ) improvisation is the opposite – it is more of a “flexible-circuit” skill. In describing the Brazilian coach who (on the surface) is simply letting the kids play scrimmages with very little instruction, Coyle writes “To stop the game in order to highlight some technical detail or give praise would be to interrupt the flow of attentive firing, failing, and learning that is the heart of flexible-circuit deep practice” (p. 194 – in another place, he likens it to a baby learning to walk).

“The ideal soccer circuitry is varied and fast, changing fluidly in response to each obstacle, capable of producing a myriad of possible options that can fire in liquid succession: now this, this, this, and that. Speed and flexibility are everything…” (p. 193)

That is Thelonious Monk playing the tune for two hours without losing the groove. That is why, in an improvisation – even in practice – you use the mistakes to take you to a different place than you intended and you most certainly do not stop, go back, and fix them.

Yes, you make mistakes. And yes, you must fix them – just as the soccer players must learn to move the ball, to make passes, to hit their shots, and they will work on drills to isolate specific moves and skills often breaking each move into its components, very much like Mike Garson’s little fifteen or thirty second “etudes.” But the fixing of mistakes in a soccer scrimmage is of quite a different sort from the work that one does with slow practice, a phrase at a time, of Bach or Messiaen, and the practice method must likewise differ. You don’t bother with that particular mistake in that moment at all; instead, you think about how you might avoid going in that direction the next time, or (in practice) take another swing at it in the next variation through the tune, and see if you can get a better sound.

That is one reason improvisation is so scary for traditionally-trained classical musicians. It goes against everything we have learned about how to make music, if we have been careful in our approach to the repertoire. I have a lot to learn about this, and am grateful for Coyle’s insight into it.

I wrote of this mode of practicing recently, as well.

What about choral singing? There are many directors who work in the “precise” way, what I call the Robert Shaw approach – he would carefully mark a copy of the choral score, place it on reserve in the library, and expect every singer to have every marking before the first rehearsal, and adhere to them precisely. Every cutoff was defined as a precise rhythm, every possible detail was specified.

There are times when this is needed, but I am more of the other school: I want the singers to use their individual musical judgement as much as possible. I would be happiest if they were singing with perfect ensemble by listening attentively to one another, without me. We sometimes come close to this with psalmody.

In the next essay, I hope to discuss another of Coyle’s concepts: Ignition. But a closing thought for today – “Deep practice tends to leave people exhausted.” (footnote, p. 89). This explains my physical and mental collapses after every major undertaking, such as the Fourth Week of Advent described a few pages back. I should be kinder to myself and accept that this is simply how it is, not a personal failure of discipline.

And what about this, from St. Paul: “Bodily exercise profiteth little, but godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.” (I Timothy 4:8)

Ought we not to put as much effort into “spiritual exercise” as the bodily form, and engage in spiritual practice as well as musical? How do we do this? The details surely differ, but some of the same disciplines apply. William Law’s suggestion is apt:

It would be easy to show… how little and small matters are the first steps and natural beginnings of great perfection. But the two things which, of all others, most want to be under a strict rule, and which are the greatest blessings both to ourselves and others, when they are rightly used, are our time and our money. These talents are continual means and opportunities of doing good. He that is piously strict, and exact in the wise management of either of these, cannot be long ignorant of the right use of the other. (from “A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life”)

“Little and small matters…” This sounds like the musician taking a single phrase, bringing it to perfection by attending to every detail of it in slow, careful practice.

Habits result from the myelination process, every bit as much as Skills. “We are what we repeatedly do,” wrote Will Durant. At more length:
Excellence is an art won by training and habituation: we do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have these because we have acted rightly; “These virtues are formed in man by his doing the actions” [from Aristotle]; we are what we repeatedly do. [from “The Story of Philosophy: The Lives and Opinions of the Great Philosophers,” quoted here.]

This is one reason that I pray the Daily Office. It is but a first step, but it is at least that. And, like the learning of Music, it is not going to happen without daily repetition. And perhaps, spiritual exercise means working at what Coyle calls the “sweet spot” referred to above: “at the edge of one’s ability, making a few mistakes and immediately attending to them.”

When dealing with such matters as love for one’s neighbor or telling the truth under all circumstances, the “mistakes” are certain. It is the immediate attention to them that is the challenge.

I have posted two more YouTube clips. This one is a followup to the previous essay; it is today’s improvisation for which I began preparation on Tuesday.
Improvisation for the Seventh Sunday after the Epiphany

This one is from our choir: a psalm setting by David Hurd. The organ part is a passacaglia, an eight-bar ground-bass.
Teach me, O Lord (David Hurd)

As I wrote above, my next essay continues with material from Daniel Coyle’s book, on what he calls “Ignition.” I will say here that I owe David Hurd for some of my own “ignition” as an organist.

On my first Sunday morning as a freshman at Duke, I was with the Chapel Choir (which was open to all comers for the first week or so, while auditions took place). Mind you, my little Baptist church back home was not quite so fine as the Duke Chapel – indeed, nothing had prepared me for processing down that aisle with the Choir – while David Hurd, chapel organist (only for a brief time, perhaps just that one year if I remember rightly) played what I learned was the Bach Prelude in B minor.

I had no idea that such music existed. Obviously, I knew of Bach; I had played many things from the Well Tempered Clavier by this time. But I had never heard any of his organ music, nor had I ever heard or seen a pipe organ.

At the time, nothing changed. I failed to pass the Choir's audition, and failed again my sophomore year, making me determined in my career as a choral director to never have the sort of choir where people must pass an audition to get in. I laid aside choral music, pretty much quit going to church, proceeded with my major in piano performance, and did not take organ lessons. Nonetheless, in retrospect I think that it was that Sunday morning when the seed was planted.

Dr. Hurd, should you read this: thank you. Thank you for taking your work as an organist seriously, and playing real literature for a run-of-the-mill church service in late August.

We never know where our music-making might lead, or what effect it may have on its listeners.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Improvisation Practice: an Example

Here is an example of how I begin my improvisatory work for the week. My purpose is to take the tune “Fifths” (Sally Ann Morris, with a fine text by the Mennonite author and pastor Adam Tice, “If Jesus is come”) and practice it with my version of Thelonious Monk’s method as described by Mike Garson:
I continue working with the Mike Garson online masterclass, mentioned a few weeks ago. One of his ideas takes “Know the Tune” to a higher level. He quotes the jazz pianist Thelonious Monk: take one tune. Set the metronome (he suggests setting it to play on beats two and four of the measure, and if you are new to this, set a fairly slow tempo), and play the tune. For two hours. You can play whatever notes may happen; you certainly should vary it, add chords or countermelodies, move it to different keys, whatever occurs to you. But don’t lose the groove; stay with that click. For two hours.

It is often good to take the same tune again the next day: he had one of his students play “Autumn Leaves” in this manner for two weeks, two hours a day. One thinks of the disciplines of the Desert Fathers or the Zen masters.
Here, I play for barely over twenty minutes and without metronome, but it is enough to demonstrate the method. As I said in the linked essay, I cannot justify two hours of this, not with my other duties. Most days, I aim for a half-hour, more or less.

It is a tune with which I am not very familiar, so I must learn it. Thus, the example begins with me playing the tune in unison, in the written key (C minor), and singing along with solfege. Here is how it goes from there:

- 1’50” – start adding counterpoint
- 3’50” – a new key (G minor)
- 6’20” – and another (F minor). I did not intend it so at the time, but as it transpired, I stay in F minor for almost ten minutes, because I found it challenging to control the tune in this key.
- 8’35” – becoming more free
- 13’30” – quieter
- 14’50” – to F major (sort of). I like this passage.
- 15’40” – time to head back for tonic: transition
- 16’45” – Tonic. C minor.
- 17’50” – what jazzmen would call the “Head” – a simple playthrough of the tune very much in the manner in which I “started” (that is, about the two minute mark when I began adding counterpoint). Once through, then:
- 18’15” – Coda. It ends up rather big and dissonant.

It follows the pattern that Mike Garson suggested: I have to work through some of my more standard ways of playing such things, but it eventually starts to become more interesting, perhaps around the eight minute mark. By the end, I have discovered things about this tune I would not have expected, such as the F major passage (14’50”) and the rather harsh coda.

Some of this may end up in Sunday’s prelude improvisation. For now, I am not making any specific intention about it.

I have more to say on this: another day.

The text and tune are available in Adam Tice’s fine collection “Stars like grace” (2013) They are not in, which implies that they have yet to appear in any hymnals.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

Lord, make us servants

Here is Sunday’s piano improvisation on “Gather us in” (Marty Haugen) and Hymn 593 in the Episcopal Hymnal 1982: “Lord, make us servants of your peace.” It is a paraphrase of the Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi by the Scottish poet and religious James Quinn, S.J. The tune is “Dickinson College” by Lee Hastings Bristol, Jr., in a 5/4 meter.

The form is one to which that I have come to gravitate: a sort of double-variation with elements of ABA and perhaps sonata form.

- First Tune, with several variations
- (2’50”) Second Tune, in contrasting key.
- (3’40”) Variations on second tune, increasingly involving the first tune as well, becoming more of a development section
- (7’03”) Return to tonic: First Tune, usually with some Second Tune mixed with it.
- (7’52”) Coda

For the first time in months, I did not improvise at the piano at all this week, not until Sunday morning in the half-hour or so before the liturgy. I wrote out the “Dickinson College” tune in the dominant key because I do not know it very well; I trusted memory on “Gather us in.” I had a vague notion of using something along the lines of the form described above. And that was it.

Improvisation is funny that way; you can sit down at the piano and just do it, creating what Mike Garson calls “Now” music entirely in the moment with little or no specific preparation. It is like magic. Or more properly, a miracle.

Obviously, it is nothing of the sort; it is the result of day after day of playing around with the tunes, getting to know them, and finding new ways to work with them. Before we changed the middle service start time, creating a need for an improvised piano prelude every Sunday and thus the discipline of a weekly deadline to make me practice instead of just wishing I could improvise decently, there is no way I could have done this.

This week, it worked pretty well. But “thou shalt not tempt the LORD thy God.” If I go very long without any improvisation practice at all, the results would soon be not so good. It probably helped that I was not altogether idle; I spent plenty of hours at the organ, working mostly on the Franck Chorale for evensong. That kept my mind and spirit musically engaged, and my fingers in action.

This week, I hope to do better. But it is Wednesday noon and I haven’t made it to either piano or organ yet since Sunday. That comes next, right now until Youth Choir in about four hours.

Saturday, February 4, 2017

How I practice: a demonstration

I described my practice method in a 2011 essay. Recently, I encountered the book “The Talent Code” by Daniel Coyle, where he describes a practice method similar to this, calling it “Deep Practice.” Here is my version:
- Work out the fingering
- Play a short passage (perhaps four measures, or one phrase), slowly.
- Play it again
- Play it a third time, still very slowly.
- Modify the rhythms several ways, still just this one phrase. The goal is to isolate the smallest musical unit – two notes – and tie them together with the neighboring units.
- Then larger groupings – four notes, two beats, a measure.
- Play the passage at a faster tempo, performance tempo if possible.
- Move to the next phrase, learn it in the same manner.
- For review, play the two phrases together.
- Move on to the third phrase.
- Repeat…
- When the practice session is nearly finished (or when I have worked through the entire movement or large section), give it a final slow, careful, mistake-free playthrough at half tempo or less. It settles the day’s work, as if telling the mind and body “Yes, this is how it goes.”
- The next day, repeat the above.

I have recorded an example of how this goes; it can be found here.

It is my first beginning with the Franck Chorale in E major, which will hopefully be the prelude for the February Evensong tomorrow. Before taking it to the organ as it is in the example, I have worked out the fingering, thoroughly. I write a finger number for every note.

I begin not at the beginning of the piece, but at measure 170. This begins a passage of about sixty bars that I expect to be the most challenging, and I normally begin my work on a piece at such a spot, building around it as the work progresses.

I am pleased that there are Problems, especially at the page turn between measures 174 and 175. It happens to be a difficult spot, made harder by the page turn. This seems to happen a lot; I have wondered if music editors do it intentionally. Especially in the first slow playthrough, there are almost always a few problems, and the clip is a good illustration of how to work on them, not allowing a mistake to go uncorrected.

Basically, my little workpiece is one phrase. I extend it a measure and a half past the phrase end because of the page turn, with the intention of starting the next phrase just before the page turn, giving it a double dose of work. Unless the turn is very easy, I generally do this.

After all of the rhythmic variations and groupings and playthroughs, I move on to the next phrase and treat it in the same manner. Then I string the two phrases together, and move on to the third phrase. When it is done, I string at least the second and third phrases together, and perhaps include the first phrase again, as well. At the end of the practice session, I finish with a final slow play-through of all that I have covered. I use the metronome for this, normally at half of the performance tempo.

The method seems highly inefficient in the short run, for it took me over twenty minutes to work through ten measures of music – in a piece that is 259 measures long. But I think that the listener can tell that those twenty minutes resulted in significant progress on the little passage, and one more day’s work on it will solidify it. In the long run, I find this method of work to be an immense time-saver.

My plan is to give the two pages that I got through today their Second Workout on my next day of practice – pretty much the same as the First Workout, except that it usually goes more smoothly – then lay it aside until I have worked through the entire piece in this manner. If possible, I will try to include one slow playthrough per week of the parts I have previously covered to keep them somewhat fresh. If this works, it could be the key for how I can better prepare a lot of music for one occasion, such as a recital or the Great Vigil/Easter Day.

I made the recording and wrote most of the above on January 6 and 7. It is now February 4, with the Evensong coming up tomorrow. The Franck has made good progress and I think it will be ready, even though I did not complete my Second Workout on one two-page section of the piece until yesterday.

For a long time, I have been on a journey toward being a Better Musician. It has troubled me for years that I continue to make so many mistakes in performance, so I continue to improve my practice methods. I think that this month’s work on the Franck is a step in the right direction.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Rest in peace

May God’s peace and blessings be with the members of the Red Army Choir, the Alexandrov Ensemble, who died in the airplane crash over the Black Sea on Christmas Day. They were doing their duty: flying to a Russian military base in Syria to sing for the troops on deployment there.

One of my friends, who I think still reads these posts, does similar work as a musician in the U.S. military. It is important work, and not sufficiently respected in parts of the civilian musical world. Well, all of the military musicians of our country, and other countries, have my respect for what it is worth.

There are several video tributes to the Alexandrov Ensemble on YouTube. Here is a brief one, from what I think is a Russian television network. They are singing a patriotic song, "The Red Army is the strongest” with video of what I suppose is a May Day military parade in Moscow, followed by what is probably a folksong, “The Road.” Lest some find it jingoistic, it is simply part of what such an ensemble does, much like the Army band playing "The Stars and Stripes Forever" at a White House event, or the military band playing the National Anthem in front of Buckingham Palace for the Queen's Christmas Message last weekend.

For a fuller sense of the choir’s work, here is their final concert, at the Bolshoi Theatre with instrumental ensemble and folk dancers. This is very fine choral singing, as one would find from equivalent U.S. choirs. Listen especially to the somewhat quieter songs starting at about 13’50” into the recording; it is a good way to remember these choristers.

It is my hope that President Trump might find a way to build peace between our nation and Russia. We have much in common, and many common interests in the world.

However that turns out, I hope that I might meet some of these choristers someday on the other side of Jordan, and that perhaps we might all sing together at the last, all of our divisions put aside forever.

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Angels and the Song

In his discussion of the birth of Christ, Benedict XVI quotes St. Luke 2:12-14, the angels appearing to the shepherds. Of these verses he writes:
According to the evangelist, the angels “said” this [v. 12]. But Christianity has always understood that the speech of angels is actually song, in which all the glory of the great joy that they proclaim becomes tangibly present. And so, from that moment, the angels’ song of praise has never gone silent. It continues down the centuries in constantly new forms and it resounds ever anew at the celebration of Jesus’ birth. It is only natural that simple believers would then hear the shepherds singing too, and to this day they join in their caroling on the Holy Night, proclaiming in song the great joy that, from then until the end of time, is bestowed on all people. (Joseph Ratzinger [Pope Benedict XVI], Jesus of Nazareth: the Infancy Narratives, p. 73-74)
“The speech of angels is actually song…” what a wonderful description!

In another context, I wrote elsewhere that the angels help us sing; it works both ways, for we help them sing, too. Without our very human song – and, for that matter, the songs of birds, the great whales, and all other forms of song from every living creature in its proper manner – it would be incomplete, the “glory of the great joy” would be diminished.

I love this little book by the Holy Father, Pope Benedict, the third of three volumes he wrote on Jesus of Nazareth.

On another topic which arose here in a previous essay concerning the Fourth Sunday of Advent, Benedict writes of the Virgin Birth. After discussion of the “extensive exegetical debate” (p. 46) concerning Isaiah 7:14 and St. Matthew 1:22-23, he concludes:
Is what we profess in the Creed true, then?—“I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God… [who] by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary?”

The answer is an unequivocal yes. Karl Barth pointed out that there are two moments in the story of Jesus when God intervenes directly in the material world: the virgin birth and the resurrection from the tomb, in which Jesus did not remain, nor see corruption. These two moments are a scandal to the modern spirit. God is “allowed” to act in ideas and thoughts, in the spiritual domain—but not in the material. That is shocking. He does not belong there. But that is precisely the point: God is God and he does not operate merely on the level of ideas….

Naturally we may not ascribe to God anything nonsensical or irrational, or anything that contradicts his creation. But here we are not dealing with the irrational or contradictory, but precisely with the positive—with God’s creative power, embracing the whole of being. In that sense these two moments—the virgin birth and the real resurrection from the tomb—are the cornerstones of faith. If God does not also have power over matter, then he simply is not God. But he does have this power, and through the conception and resurrection of Jesus Christ he has ushered in a new creation. So as the Creator he is also our Redeemer. Hence the conception and birth of Jesus from the Virgin Mary is a fundamental element of our faith and a radiant sign of hope. (ibid., p. 56-57)