RSCM Report 2011: Part Three

Sunday, July 31, and Afterword

Most of my organ practice this week was on the little Wicks instrument in the St. Cecilia chapel. Most often, this was after evensong and the nightly staff meeting. I played on the little Gemshorn 8' with the swell shades closed to avoid disturbing the adults in the adjacent house, and I will carry good memories of this work in the quiet darkness.

I played the closing hymn and postlude for the Mass at Grace Church in the morning: “Guide me, O thou great Jehovah,” and the St. Anne Fugue of Bach. Playing the organ for the course fulfilled a dream. But the responsibility, even in small measure as it was, left me emotionally detached from the music in comparison with other years. The experience was more akin to normal Sundays at home with organ and choir -- fulfilling, in that I am doing the work for which God made me, but with the balance tilted more toward mind than heart.

That is, until the choir -- these choristers, my friends young and old -- launched into the hymn. To be at the organ supporting their sound was sublime.

Evensong was at the Cathedral. The floor of the nave was cool, as it had been on Tuesday; the choir gallery was sultry. As one ascended the stairs, the temperature gradient was some fifteen or twenty degrees. I had the prelude and opening hymn, along with one of the anthems, so I climbed the steps some twenty minutes before the service to prepare. That gave me time to do a silent play-through of the Howells prelude, which significantly improved the results. At the stroke of 4:00, on cue from Br. Vincent, I began the Howells. I then watched from my perch as the choir sang “Bawo, thixo somandla” down front [unlike the other musical links in this and the previous post, this one is our group, the RSCM 2011 Course].

And it was time for the hymn: “O love, how deep, how broad, how high” (Deus tuorum militum). It was this hymn that chiefly occupied me through the week. A long interlude was needed to allow the choir to mount the steps and wriggle into the crowded gallery. The text presented a logical break after stanza four, so I planned to go from B flat Major into G Dorian, leading to C Major for the final two stanzas. I wanted it to be good. In rehearsal, it was not; I lost track of which manuals I was on, playing loud ugly chords on the big solo trumpet. But in the service, it went fine, as did the anthem. There was a shaky moment near the end, but we held it together.

I found my place in the corner of the choir with the other tenors. We were crowded into the back row and the corner; it was great. My favorite of the music that we sang was the Peter Klatzow Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis.


The service nearly complete, we went downstairs to sing the Victoria from the rear of the nave, blissfully cool. Then, we processed to the front during the concluding hymn, “Love divine, all loves excelling,” to the tune Blaenwern with Brother Vincent at the organ. As it happened, I was in procession behind Meredith and beside Mike W. In such company, the balance shifted from mind to heart. By the final stanza, I was unable to sing. I was not alone in this; I think the congregation carried the hymn more than the choir.

I should speak of Mr. Garmon Ashby, our music director. He was outstanding in a quiet, steady, disciplined manner very different from last year’s director, Simon Lole. Most of what I know about choral singing has come from these Courses and their directors; I learned much this week from Mr. Ashby and his rehearsals that I hope I can apply at home.

There were many new choristers and adults this year, the largest group coming from the Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Dallas, Texas. I had the privilege of travelling with them to the local Roman Catholic parish for the Saturday Vigil Mass, where I accompanied their anthem. It was a delightful nineteenth-century German Catholic edifice with a little pipe organ and a Clavinova keyboard in the rear gallery, both equipped with boom microphones for the organist/cantor, an energetic young man obviously in love with his work.

And there were old friends: choristers who have grown up remarkably since last summer, and the adults who staff the course, from Mr. B. and Br. Vincent, “Miz Deb,” and Debra, Weezer, Michael, and H.J., to our own Meredith and Jennifer, who were the girls’ proctors and whom I remember as little girls themselves. These people are my family (cf. St. Mark 3:33-35).

But I have family at home, too. As I revise this essay for posting a week later, Vacation Bible School is concluding in our parish. I am not involved in it this year, but I attended the closing ceremonies on Friday. These children of the parish and their parents, the adult choristers, the people in the congregation who sing the songs and hymns – they are my family, too. Some of them told me that they were looking forward to rehearsals in a few weeks.

So am I.