This Book appears in the Daily Office Lectionary in Year One during the week of Epiphany VII in which we currently stand. Epiphany VII (and VIII) occur only when Easter is quite late; this is the first time since 2006 that we have gone so deep into the Sundays after Epiphany. But that was Year Two of the Lectionary, wherein we would be reading from the Book of Proverbs this week. For Year One, the most recent time when Easter was this late was 2003 (BCP p. 879 and following, “Tables for Finding Holy Days,” mostly p. 882-3).
When Easter is early, the Lectionary uses more of the low-numbered Propers (BCP p. 966). The Book of Ruth is here also in Year One at Proper 2 (the Sunday closest to May 18). To get to this, Easter can be no later than April 2. In Year One, that last happened in 2005, and we will get it again in the next cycle, when Easter Day of 2013 falls on March 31. After that, it is another six years – until 2019 - before we get the Book of Ruth either after Epiphany or after Pentecost.
(Getting to the weekdays of Epiphany VIII, as we will this year, is even more unlikely; in Year One, that last happened in 1905. But I digress.)
All this is to say that we are not often granted the privilege of reading the Book of Ruth in the Daily Office. It indicates that the framers of the Lectionary considered this book to be filler, something to be relegated to a little-used corner of the calendar. It is a beautiful story, in its way important to the larger Story, and deserves better.
In the old days, I occasionally accompanied wedding soloists in various settings of Ruth 1:16. I always found it strange to have this text, addressed to one's mother-in-law, sung at a wedding. But it is, nonetheless, as beautiful as any verse in the Old Testament:
“Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”
It is because of the stubborn devotion of “Ruth the Moabitess” (2:2) to her mother-in-law Naomi, expressed in this text, that she becomes part of the Story, ultimately an ancestor of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of David her grandson.
Ruth's response, once she realizes that this is so, is a reminder to all of us Gentile Christians – like Ruth, “strangers from the covenants of promise, having no hope, and without God in the world” (Ephesians 2:12). We have no claim upon God, and it is only by grace that we are saved:
“Then she fell on her face, and bowed herself to the ground, and said unto [Boaz], Why have I found grace in thine eyes, that thou shouldest take knowledge of me, seeing I am a stranger?” (2:10)
And it was a reminder to the Children of Israel that the promises of God extended beyond them to the uttermost ends of the earth, including even their enemies (as the Book of Jonah makes abundantly clear).
May it be a reminder to us as well. There are more sheep in the care of our Shepherd than we might think (St. John 10:16). When we are finally brought home into the fold, all of us from every corner of God's creation, I am certain that we will be surprised at the extent of God's grace and mercy. Not least, I am and will always be surprised that it has extended even to me.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
G.P.S. - an update
February 12
The Recital Dreams have begun.
I always have them. They always involve being unprepared, and rushing to get to the venue, usually in some hopeless manner, knowing that I will not make it. I will miss my own recital, and even were I to show up, I would be a laughing-stock for my complete lack of preparation. On the rare occasions when I make it as far as playing the programme, sometimes people are throwing rotten tomatoes at me; sometimes they are booing, or walking out as I play. More often, I wake up before that.
This time, I was practicing on the recital instrument – the spinet piano back in my old family home, but it had been pushed into the hallway against the wall. This is where the recital was to take place. And there was music that I had never seen, and could not play.
But I probably wouldn't get there anyway. Later in the dream, I was travelling to the venue. I was riding a sort of cargo-carrying skateboard down the West Virginia Turnpike, south of Flat Top Mountain. It is a steep downhill grade of several miles, with a wicked curve at the bottom. I was on my skateboard, organ shoes and music in hand, trying to steer it around the curves (and I don't even know how to ride a skateboard), going faster and faster, and knowing that I would not make that curve at the bottom.
February 7-14
The fingering is now complete: five hours of work, most of it done at home with the paper “keyboard.” I am ready for the First Workout. Or I would be, except there remain a number of things that stand ahead of it in line.
As noted previously, Real Life intrudes on an effort such as this. Even in the limited aspect of Real Life that is involved with playing the organ and piano, recital music must take second place behind the ongoing services of the church. Several musical items have kept me busy in recent weeks:
- the Anthem for Jan. 23, “How lovely are the messengers” (Mendelssohn)
- several items for Evensong on February 6: Stanford in A and the “Prelude, Fugue, and Variation” of Franck – another of the Six Pieces from which the G.P.S. is drawn.
- the Mozart “Laudate Dominum,” mentioned in these pages
- Bach Prelude and Fugue in C (BWV 545) for last Sunday's postlude
- an organ concerto of Handel for the March 6 Evensong
One might wonder whether I neglect our church's contemporary service by paying so much attention to my duties as Organist. The contemporary service is larger in attendance than the traditional service, and it deserves a large share of my efforts.
It is not that simple, for the rhythms of preparation for the contemporary and traditional services differ. The selection of music takes about the same amount of time for the two services. I spend much time with the adult choir (and most of the work cited above was with anthem and canticle accompaniments, not preludes and postludes) – but I spend an equal amount of time in preparation and rehearsals with the youth choir, which sings for the contemporary service more than it does for the traditional service. I spend time preparing voluntaries for the traditional services of the Eucharist and monthly Evensong, and working on the hymn accompaniments. With the contemporary service, I improvise postludes and occasional preludes, and I try to play the congregational songs with imagination, not just parroting what is on the page. Practice for this is more a matter of skill development than specific preparation for a given Sunday morning, so it is hard to compare with the work at the organ. And my work on music such as Bach, Mozart, and Handel helps develop the technical proficiency to play the piano for the contemporary service.
Even my preparations for the recital on March 16 contribute indirectly to my duties at both services. Music faculty are expected to present annual recitals. The reason is that serious engagement with the work of performance will make them better teachers. The same applies to me; I would quickly grow sloppy in my playing if I never played the sort of music that one finds in a Bach prelude and fugue – or the Grande Pièce Symphonique.
But I do wonder whether I should undertake something like this again. Part of being an Organist-Choirmaster is never having the time to do either part of the work satisfactorily. Perhaps it means that I should not attempt to play outside of my immediate service-playing duties, both contemporary and traditional, not until I am fulfilling all of the duties assigned to me – something that has never happened in my ten-plus years in this place, and never will; it is a bigger job than I can do with integrity. I have presented arguments for (and against) playing recitals, but does this carry a priority high enough to keep me from other duties?
At least I am tacking one-third of the hypothetical programme I drew up in the linked essay back in 2008. It is a start. And I still have no answer to this:
“The question of utility is one that I cannot answer, any more than Messiaen's apple tree; it makes apples, whether they are of any use to anyone or not. Perhaps God can put my music-making to some use; I hope so. But that part of it is up to Him."
--
Footnote: Those who follow the link to the essay from 2008 might notice my comments about the university organist. At that point, he had just been hired to begin work that fall. I had not met him, and knew of him only by hearsay from some then-current organ students. He has turned out to be a fine organist, and he has done much to re-establish the organ department under conditions made almost impossible by the Flood later that year. I think well of him, and repent of my previous comments.
Another Footnote: I mentioned in that same essay that I had not played a proper organ recital for over a decade. Since then I have: March 2009 as a way to raise money for the repair work on the organ and the LEED certification of the construction project. The programme featured the Brahms Eleven Chorale Preludes, plus a large and challenging piece by William Mathias. That experience will help me with the G.P.S., for I got that programme ready in less than a month, following my current practice methods -- which is what I have left for this one, and it is only a half-hour of music. I hope to get a solid start on it this weekend.
The Recital Dreams have begun.
I always have them. They always involve being unprepared, and rushing to get to the venue, usually in some hopeless manner, knowing that I will not make it. I will miss my own recital, and even were I to show up, I would be a laughing-stock for my complete lack of preparation. On the rare occasions when I make it as far as playing the programme, sometimes people are throwing rotten tomatoes at me; sometimes they are booing, or walking out as I play. More often, I wake up before that.
This time, I was practicing on the recital instrument – the spinet piano back in my old family home, but it had been pushed into the hallway against the wall. This is where the recital was to take place. And there was music that I had never seen, and could not play.
But I probably wouldn't get there anyway. Later in the dream, I was travelling to the venue. I was riding a sort of cargo-carrying skateboard down the West Virginia Turnpike, south of Flat Top Mountain. It is a steep downhill grade of several miles, with a wicked curve at the bottom. I was on my skateboard, organ shoes and music in hand, trying to steer it around the curves (and I don't even know how to ride a skateboard), going faster and faster, and knowing that I would not make that curve at the bottom.
February 7-14
The fingering is now complete: five hours of work, most of it done at home with the paper “keyboard.” I am ready for the First Workout. Or I would be, except there remain a number of things that stand ahead of it in line.
As noted previously, Real Life intrudes on an effort such as this. Even in the limited aspect of Real Life that is involved with playing the organ and piano, recital music must take second place behind the ongoing services of the church. Several musical items have kept me busy in recent weeks:
- the Anthem for Jan. 23, “How lovely are the messengers” (Mendelssohn)
- several items for Evensong on February 6: Stanford in A and the “Prelude, Fugue, and Variation” of Franck – another of the Six Pieces from which the G.P.S. is drawn.
- the Mozart “Laudate Dominum,” mentioned in these pages
- Bach Prelude and Fugue in C (BWV 545) for last Sunday's postlude
- an organ concerto of Handel for the March 6 Evensong
One might wonder whether I neglect our church's contemporary service by paying so much attention to my duties as Organist. The contemporary service is larger in attendance than the traditional service, and it deserves a large share of my efforts.
It is not that simple, for the rhythms of preparation for the contemporary and traditional services differ. The selection of music takes about the same amount of time for the two services. I spend much time with the adult choir (and most of the work cited above was with anthem and canticle accompaniments, not preludes and postludes) – but I spend an equal amount of time in preparation and rehearsals with the youth choir, which sings for the contemporary service more than it does for the traditional service. I spend time preparing voluntaries for the traditional services of the Eucharist and monthly Evensong, and working on the hymn accompaniments. With the contemporary service, I improvise postludes and occasional preludes, and I try to play the congregational songs with imagination, not just parroting what is on the page. Practice for this is more a matter of skill development than specific preparation for a given Sunday morning, so it is hard to compare with the work at the organ. And my work on music such as Bach, Mozart, and Handel helps develop the technical proficiency to play the piano for the contemporary service.
Even my preparations for the recital on March 16 contribute indirectly to my duties at both services. Music faculty are expected to present annual recitals. The reason is that serious engagement with the work of performance will make them better teachers. The same applies to me; I would quickly grow sloppy in my playing if I never played the sort of music that one finds in a Bach prelude and fugue – or the Grande Pièce Symphonique.
But I do wonder whether I should undertake something like this again. Part of being an Organist-Choirmaster is never having the time to do either part of the work satisfactorily. Perhaps it means that I should not attempt to play outside of my immediate service-playing duties, both contemporary and traditional, not until I am fulfilling all of the duties assigned to me – something that has never happened in my ten-plus years in this place, and never will; it is a bigger job than I can do with integrity. I have presented arguments for (and against) playing recitals, but does this carry a priority high enough to keep me from other duties?
At least I am tacking one-third of the hypothetical programme I drew up in the linked essay back in 2008. It is a start. And I still have no answer to this:
“The question of utility is one that I cannot answer, any more than Messiaen's apple tree; it makes apples, whether they are of any use to anyone or not. Perhaps God can put my music-making to some use; I hope so. But that part of it is up to Him."
--
Footnote: Those who follow the link to the essay from 2008 might notice my comments about the university organist. At that point, he had just been hired to begin work that fall. I had not met him, and knew of him only by hearsay from some then-current organ students. He has turned out to be a fine organist, and he has done much to re-establish the organ department under conditions made almost impossible by the Flood later that year. I think well of him, and repent of my previous comments.
Another Footnote: I mentioned in that same essay that I had not played a proper organ recital for over a decade. Since then I have: March 2009 as a way to raise money for the repair work on the organ and the LEED certification of the construction project. The programme featured the Brahms Eleven Chorale Preludes, plus a large and challenging piece by William Mathias. That experience will help me with the G.P.S., for I got that programme ready in less than a month, following my current practice methods -- which is what I have left for this one, and it is only a half-hour of music. I hope to get a solid start on it this weekend.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
some thoughts on Sabbath
The previous entry raised questions about Sabbath. Before I go further, I must emphasize that I am a novice at Sabbath-keeping; it is only in the last year or so that I have made a serious effort to be faithful in this, and I still fail very often.
I was (and remain) behind schedule in my preparation of the Grand Piéce Symphonique for its performance next month – four and a half weeks from now -- and I had the opportunity to finish fingering it last Thursday, which is the day that I try to observe as a Sabbath. Instead, I laid the Franck aside, and had a fine Day of Rest.
This Sunday's Gospel in the Revised Common Lectionary is St. Matthew 5:21-37, wherein our Lord speaks about several of the Commandments: they are not so simple to obey as they seem at first glance, for the intents of the heart matter just as much as overt actions. Trees of the Field addresses this splendidly here.
It seems to me that all of the Ten Commandments are at root questions of faith. It is right that it should be so, for justification is by faith, not by the works of the law – not even in the time before Christ. The law is simply a schoolmaster to teach us faith (Galatians 3:24 – 4:7).
“Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day” (BCP p. 318). The test of faith in this commandment is obvious: Will I get the work done? Even in “earing time and in harvest” (Exodus 34:21)? Do I believe that the work is God's and not mine?
The Sabbath is almost always mentioned in connection not only with oneself, but with “thy son, thy daughter, thy manservant, thy maidservant, thy cattle, and the stranger that is within thy gates” (c.f. Exodus 20:10). Taking a day of rest for oneself is no Sabbath if one's manner of life is such as to force others to work (c.f. Isaiah 58), and the American way of life does just that. We demand convenient shopping opportunities, service, and entertainment seven days a week, and someone has to do the work. This comes back to the same question of faith: Will the work get done? Will our quarterly profit statement satisfy the upper management and stockholders? If I close my store while my competitor stays open, how can I stay in business?
In our area, there is a relatively small state-wide grocery chain that does indeed close on Sunday, while all of its competitors stay open. I have spoken with some of their employees, past and present, who appreciate this above anything else that the company does – and consider it indicative of the company's respect for its employees.
There is another test, which the Pharisees failed: “The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath” (St. Mark 2:27). Sabbath-keeping can become just another task, an arduous one hedged about with restrictions. As with the commandments concerning murder, adultery, and swearing falsely addressed in St. Matthew 5, Jesus forced his listeners by his actions and teaching to look again at the commandment of the Sabbath. It was not a list of regulations; it was a gracious gift. It was a proclamation of liberty to the captives, beginning with the people whom he healed on the Sabbath, and a foretaste of the everlasting rest which is promised to the people of God (c.f. Hebrews 4).
The same two temptations that attach to the Sabbath also attach to the Daily Office and other forms of disciplined prayer, which are “little Sabbaths” through the course of the day. On the one hand, we are tempted to think that we do not have time for them, especially on the busiest of days (when, ironically, we most need to be in contact with God), and on the other hand, the Offices can become a burden instead of a blessing, especially for those bound to them by monastic rule.
It would be instructive to work through the rest of the Ten Commandments and consider how they test one's faith, sometimes in subtle ways. Not surprisingly, the most direct test of faith is in the “first and great commandment” (BCP p. 324). To “love the LORD thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind?” Too often, the children of Israel wanted to love the LORD their God, but they hedged their bets with a bit of devotion to Moloch or Baal on the side. The prophets compared this to adultery (e.g., Ezekiel 23). Too often, we do the same. What if the materialists (including many clergy) are right – there is nothing beyond what we can see with the eyes of science? What if Jesus was just another rabbi, and his bones lie hidden in a grave somewhere? We have a handful of teachings, filtered through the early Christian communities and Gospel accounts. We have the institutional church, which is more of an argument against Christianity than for it. All the rest, in this view, is based on wishful thinking and the delusions of Mary Magdalene, Paul, and a handful of others, none of them reliable scientific or historic observers. “If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable” (I Corinthians 15:19). No wonder many of us try to hedge our bets by limiting the scope of our Christianity and, in effect, serving other gods in various aspects of our lives.
But love “believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things” (I Corinthians 13:7). Because it depends upon love, there is no hedging of this bet, as there was no way for the children of Israel to hedge their bets. “Choose you this day whom ye will serve” (Joshua 24:15).
I was (and remain) behind schedule in my preparation of the Grand Piéce Symphonique for its performance next month – four and a half weeks from now -- and I had the opportunity to finish fingering it last Thursday, which is the day that I try to observe as a Sabbath. Instead, I laid the Franck aside, and had a fine Day of Rest.
This Sunday's Gospel in the Revised Common Lectionary is St. Matthew 5:21-37, wherein our Lord speaks about several of the Commandments: they are not so simple to obey as they seem at first glance, for the intents of the heart matter just as much as overt actions. Trees of the Field addresses this splendidly here.
It seems to me that all of the Ten Commandments are at root questions of faith. It is right that it should be so, for justification is by faith, not by the works of the law – not even in the time before Christ. The law is simply a schoolmaster to teach us faith (Galatians 3:24 – 4:7).
“Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day” (BCP p. 318). The test of faith in this commandment is obvious: Will I get the work done? Even in “earing time and in harvest” (Exodus 34:21)? Do I believe that the work is God's and not mine?
The Sabbath is almost always mentioned in connection not only with oneself, but with “thy son, thy daughter, thy manservant, thy maidservant, thy cattle, and the stranger that is within thy gates” (c.f. Exodus 20:10). Taking a day of rest for oneself is no Sabbath if one's manner of life is such as to force others to work (c.f. Isaiah 58), and the American way of life does just that. We demand convenient shopping opportunities, service, and entertainment seven days a week, and someone has to do the work. This comes back to the same question of faith: Will the work get done? Will our quarterly profit statement satisfy the upper management and stockholders? If I close my store while my competitor stays open, how can I stay in business?
In our area, there is a relatively small state-wide grocery chain that does indeed close on Sunday, while all of its competitors stay open. I have spoken with some of their employees, past and present, who appreciate this above anything else that the company does – and consider it indicative of the company's respect for its employees.
There is another test, which the Pharisees failed: “The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath” (St. Mark 2:27). Sabbath-keeping can become just another task, an arduous one hedged about with restrictions. As with the commandments concerning murder, adultery, and swearing falsely addressed in St. Matthew 5, Jesus forced his listeners by his actions and teaching to look again at the commandment of the Sabbath. It was not a list of regulations; it was a gracious gift. It was a proclamation of liberty to the captives, beginning with the people whom he healed on the Sabbath, and a foretaste of the everlasting rest which is promised to the people of God (c.f. Hebrews 4).
The same two temptations that attach to the Sabbath also attach to the Daily Office and other forms of disciplined prayer, which are “little Sabbaths” through the course of the day. On the one hand, we are tempted to think that we do not have time for them, especially on the busiest of days (when, ironically, we most need to be in contact with God), and on the other hand, the Offices can become a burden instead of a blessing, especially for those bound to them by monastic rule.
It would be instructive to work through the rest of the Ten Commandments and consider how they test one's faith, sometimes in subtle ways. Not surprisingly, the most direct test of faith is in the “first and great commandment” (BCP p. 324). To “love the LORD thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind?” Too often, the children of Israel wanted to love the LORD their God, but they hedged their bets with a bit of devotion to Moloch or Baal on the side. The prophets compared this to adultery (e.g., Ezekiel 23). Too often, we do the same. What if the materialists (including many clergy) are right – there is nothing beyond what we can see with the eyes of science? What if Jesus was just another rabbi, and his bones lie hidden in a grave somewhere? We have a handful of teachings, filtered through the early Christian communities and Gospel accounts. We have the institutional church, which is more of an argument against Christianity than for it. All the rest, in this view, is based on wishful thinking and the delusions of Mary Magdalene, Paul, and a handful of others, none of them reliable scientific or historic observers. “If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable” (I Corinthians 15:19). No wonder many of us try to hedge our bets by limiting the scope of our Christianity and, in effect, serving other gods in various aspects of our lives.
But love “believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things” (I Corinthians 13:7). Because it depends upon love, there is no hedging of this bet, as there was no way for the children of Israel to hedge their bets. “Choose you this day whom ye will serve” (Joshua 24:15).
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Grande Pièce Symphonique: a journey
January 13
Today, I ventured across town to the Congregational Church. They have invited me to play a half-hour recital in their Lenten noontime series. [For readers of these pages who are local, it is scheduled for Noon on Wednesday, March 16.] It is the newest instrument in town, a two-manual Casavant, and (as I found) very nice. But despite repeated invitations, I had never played it; I cannot afford the time away from my duties.
The role of “concert artist” is one that I play infrequently, especially “guest artist,” playing somewhere other than my own congregation. It is intoxicating; no wonder that many people aspire to such a life. While playing this role, one is fully immersed in great music. What could be better?
Some might be interested in the details of what an organist does to prepare for a concert on an unfamiliar instrument, so I will try to keep a diary for this event. It will also provide opportunity to describe my practice methods.
---
The secretary led me upstairs to the chancel. “There it is. I don't know a thing about it,” she said. The console was under a bed sheet like a piece of furniture in an old house. I unveiled it, and set about the first task: figuring out how to turn it on.
Methods vary. With luck, there is a switch in an obvious location on the console. Sometimes not; it might be controlled by a circuit breaker back in the Sacristy, or out in the hall, or (in one church I know) next door in the adjoining Rectory. This is a new instrument; surely it would not be hard to find.
It only took me ten minutes, poking around and thinking of whom I might call to ask as I grew slightly desperate. As it turned out, there is a keyed switch under the keybed. I found the switch readily enough, but the key took some hunting. It was on the stop jamb, but under some papers, and not labeled for its purpose.
An adjustable bench! What luxury! Ours at home is “one size fits all” (or not). And an AGO standard pedalboard! Our instrument was built some twenty years before the AGO decided that pedalboards ought to be standardized, and its pedalboard is flat rather than the concave layout in the AGO standard. This is not unusual, and not only with old instruments; many modern builders of mechanical action instruments routinely thumb their nose at the AGO console standards, in the name of “historical accuracy.” I view it as an effort to make their instruments as hard to play as possible.
And a combination action. It has been quite a while since I have dealt with one of these. I have become suspicious of them, old relic that I am – especially of combination actions with dozens of levels of electronic memory. But its presence is one of the reasons for my choice of repertoire. I hope to play the Grand Pièce Symphonique of César Franck, and it would be almost impossible to do it on the mechanical stop-action organ at home. Here, it can be done.
For an instrument of reasonable size, I like to take a few minutes and copy down the stoplist, in the order that it is laid out on the console. That way, if I get home and think “now where was that Great to Pedal coupler?” I will know. Often (and possibly on this instrument, since I may well play it again someday), I will transfer the list to my computer, making a full-page chart, then making multiple copies of it. For any given combination setting, I can circle the stops I am using, with a fresh sheet for each piston. With these in hand, I can set the combinations on the day of the concert quickly and accurately. When I regularly played an instrument with a combination action, I had a thousand copies run off by a print shop and used them for hymn registrations as well as for the repertoire.
At last, I am ready to sit down and start playing: Elapsed time for the above: about a half-hour.
But I can't start in on the Franck, not until I know the instrument better. The best method I have found for doing so is to improvise, starting on individual stops, then building ensembles, right on up to full organ and then back down. I spend about a half-hour doing so, discovering a number of delights such as a fine Grand Cornet on the Great and an Oboe on the Swell that is suitable for “that sound” - 8' foundations and reeds – without which Franck is virtually unplayable.
Now, I can open the score book and see what I can do.
I play through the piece. At this point, I do not care about accuracy; I simply want to get a sense of how the piece will sound on this instrument. If it does not work, I can try some of the other pieces that I brought along – music by Bach, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Alain. But the Franck is my first choice, and from what I have already heard in my improvising, it ought to work fine.
I get to the final pages, making complete hash of the F-sharp Major passagework in the pedals. Yes, this is the piece; it will sound terrific.
So, back to the beginning: now it is time for serious work. I make my way through the piece again, working out the registrations in detail and writing them all down – not yet in the score, but on a pad of paper, with references by measure number. This takes the next three hours, and is all that I need to do at the instrument for now.
January 25-26
One of the frustrations of any artistic endeavor is that the work is invariably interrupted by Real Life. I returned to my parish church full of excitement about working on the Franck – and I was unable to touch it for a fortnight. My other duties took precedence. But I managed to find a half-hour on the 25th and almost an hour on the 26th to work on it, transferring the registrations to post-it tape flags in the score (so that they can be removed after I play the piece) and beginning to work on the fingerings.
I have played this piece several times before, most recently in 1998. But in those days, I was casual about fingerings. Now, I am not; I write them all down. I am faced with thirty-two pages of score, some twenty-five or thirty minutes of music, all of it needing to be fingered before I can do anything else.
When I was in my twenties, I read Arthur Rubenstein's autobiography, “My Many Years,” an excellent book. He was a larger-than-life personality, a Concert Artist of the highest order, one of the greatest of the twentieth century. But he led me astray; he wrote that he paid little attention to fingerings, often changing them on the fly in performance. I was all too ready to follow suit; in those days I valued spontaneity above what seemed the mechanical drudgery of writing fingerings into the score. He said: “At every concert I leave a lot to the moment. I must have the unexpected, the unforeseen. I want to risk, to dare. I want to be surprised by what comes out. I want to enjoy it more than the audience. That way the music can bloom anew.” (quoted in Wikipedia, s.v. “Arthur Rubenstein”)
I can see where Rubenstein's approach could work at the piano, especially in the Romantic repertoire of which he was a master. But it took me thirty years to fully understand that it does not work at the organ. The added complication of the pedals and the absence of the piano's sustaining pedal demand greater accuracy from the organist than is needed at the piano. The organ demands what Dr. Delbert Disselhorst calls the “firm foundation” of a thoroughly defined and ingrained fingering. Thus, I now write down a finger-number for every note. I practice the music with these fingerings, carefully. And I play more accurately as a result.
I could say more about fingerings, but for now I will simply commend the Essay on the True Art of Playing the Clavier by C.P.E. Bach. It is the definitive guide to this subject.
February 2: Candlemas
A snow day! It is Wednesday, and we can ill afford to miss choir rehearsals with Evensong coming up this Sunday, but last night's wild ride home on the bus was convincing evidence that the blizzard was sufficient reason for everyone to stay at home today. I had only a short walk from the bus stop to our apartment, and I was wondering if I would make it. I can well understand how some of the old-time farmers could be lost in such weather between their house and the barn, unless they had tied a rope from door to door to guide them.
This day is my opportunity to get the fingering done. I have a paper tracing of the organ keyboard that permits such work away from the instrument. I spent several weeks in 2009 doing much work with it when the church construction project and jazz department left me holding forth from a desk in the downstairs hallway.
I am not entirely starting from scratch; I have a few written fingerings in place from the past, and these are the spots where I have had the most difficulty. What remains is the more routine work. As I have learned, these must be written down, too.
And so, to work: five hours of it. It it sufficient to finish the first movement. I find that I have better ways now to play some of the difficult passages that are already in the score, so I have changed more than half of the old fingerings.
I did not reach my goal. In part, I ran aground on the difficulties of working at home, where domestic responsibilities call. My wife also was home, so we had three square meals together, two of which I cooked and for all of which I washed dishes. And I shoveled snow from around our Honda; that took over an hour. But I faced the choice: continue work after Evensong? Work on Thursday, which I try to take as a Sabbath? I did neither, with hopes of tackling the later movements on my next day off from the church, this coming Monday.
Today, I ventured across town to the Congregational Church. They have invited me to play a half-hour recital in their Lenten noontime series. [For readers of these pages who are local, it is scheduled for Noon on Wednesday, March 16.] It is the newest instrument in town, a two-manual Casavant, and (as I found) very nice. But despite repeated invitations, I had never played it; I cannot afford the time away from my duties.
The role of “concert artist” is one that I play infrequently, especially “guest artist,” playing somewhere other than my own congregation. It is intoxicating; no wonder that many people aspire to such a life. While playing this role, one is fully immersed in great music. What could be better?
Some might be interested in the details of what an organist does to prepare for a concert on an unfamiliar instrument, so I will try to keep a diary for this event. It will also provide opportunity to describe my practice methods.
---
The secretary led me upstairs to the chancel. “There it is. I don't know a thing about it,” she said. The console was under a bed sheet like a piece of furniture in an old house. I unveiled it, and set about the first task: figuring out how to turn it on.
Methods vary. With luck, there is a switch in an obvious location on the console. Sometimes not; it might be controlled by a circuit breaker back in the Sacristy, or out in the hall, or (in one church I know) next door in the adjoining Rectory. This is a new instrument; surely it would not be hard to find.
It only took me ten minutes, poking around and thinking of whom I might call to ask as I grew slightly desperate. As it turned out, there is a keyed switch under the keybed. I found the switch readily enough, but the key took some hunting. It was on the stop jamb, but under some papers, and not labeled for its purpose.
An adjustable bench! What luxury! Ours at home is “one size fits all” (or not). And an AGO standard pedalboard! Our instrument was built some twenty years before the AGO decided that pedalboards ought to be standardized, and its pedalboard is flat rather than the concave layout in the AGO standard. This is not unusual, and not only with old instruments; many modern builders of mechanical action instruments routinely thumb their nose at the AGO console standards, in the name of “historical accuracy.” I view it as an effort to make their instruments as hard to play as possible.
And a combination action. It has been quite a while since I have dealt with one of these. I have become suspicious of them, old relic that I am – especially of combination actions with dozens of levels of electronic memory. But its presence is one of the reasons for my choice of repertoire. I hope to play the Grand Pièce Symphonique of César Franck, and it would be almost impossible to do it on the mechanical stop-action organ at home. Here, it can be done.
For an instrument of reasonable size, I like to take a few minutes and copy down the stoplist, in the order that it is laid out on the console. That way, if I get home and think “now where was that Great to Pedal coupler?” I will know. Often (and possibly on this instrument, since I may well play it again someday), I will transfer the list to my computer, making a full-page chart, then making multiple copies of it. For any given combination setting, I can circle the stops I am using, with a fresh sheet for each piston. With these in hand, I can set the combinations on the day of the concert quickly and accurately. When I regularly played an instrument with a combination action, I had a thousand copies run off by a print shop and used them for hymn registrations as well as for the repertoire.
At last, I am ready to sit down and start playing: Elapsed time for the above: about a half-hour.
But I can't start in on the Franck, not until I know the instrument better. The best method I have found for doing so is to improvise, starting on individual stops, then building ensembles, right on up to full organ and then back down. I spend about a half-hour doing so, discovering a number of delights such as a fine Grand Cornet on the Great and an Oboe on the Swell that is suitable for “that sound” - 8' foundations and reeds – without which Franck is virtually unplayable.
Now, I can open the score book and see what I can do.
I play through the piece. At this point, I do not care about accuracy; I simply want to get a sense of how the piece will sound on this instrument. If it does not work, I can try some of the other pieces that I brought along – music by Bach, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Alain. But the Franck is my first choice, and from what I have already heard in my improvising, it ought to work fine.
I get to the final pages, making complete hash of the F-sharp Major passagework in the pedals. Yes, this is the piece; it will sound terrific.
So, back to the beginning: now it is time for serious work. I make my way through the piece again, working out the registrations in detail and writing them all down – not yet in the score, but on a pad of paper, with references by measure number. This takes the next three hours, and is all that I need to do at the instrument for now.
January 25-26
One of the frustrations of any artistic endeavor is that the work is invariably interrupted by Real Life. I returned to my parish church full of excitement about working on the Franck – and I was unable to touch it for a fortnight. My other duties took precedence. But I managed to find a half-hour on the 25th and almost an hour on the 26th to work on it, transferring the registrations to post-it tape flags in the score (so that they can be removed after I play the piece) and beginning to work on the fingerings.
I have played this piece several times before, most recently in 1998. But in those days, I was casual about fingerings. Now, I am not; I write them all down. I am faced with thirty-two pages of score, some twenty-five or thirty minutes of music, all of it needing to be fingered before I can do anything else.
When I was in my twenties, I read Arthur Rubenstein's autobiography, “My Many Years,” an excellent book. He was a larger-than-life personality, a Concert Artist of the highest order, one of the greatest of the twentieth century. But he led me astray; he wrote that he paid little attention to fingerings, often changing them on the fly in performance. I was all too ready to follow suit; in those days I valued spontaneity above what seemed the mechanical drudgery of writing fingerings into the score. He said: “At every concert I leave a lot to the moment. I must have the unexpected, the unforeseen. I want to risk, to dare. I want to be surprised by what comes out. I want to enjoy it more than the audience. That way the music can bloom anew.” (quoted in Wikipedia, s.v. “Arthur Rubenstein”)
I can see where Rubenstein's approach could work at the piano, especially in the Romantic repertoire of which he was a master. But it took me thirty years to fully understand that it does not work at the organ. The added complication of the pedals and the absence of the piano's sustaining pedal demand greater accuracy from the organist than is needed at the piano. The organ demands what Dr. Delbert Disselhorst calls the “firm foundation” of a thoroughly defined and ingrained fingering. Thus, I now write down a finger-number for every note. I practice the music with these fingerings, carefully. And I play more accurately as a result.
I could say more about fingerings, but for now I will simply commend the Essay on the True Art of Playing the Clavier by C.P.E. Bach. It is the definitive guide to this subject.
February 2: Candlemas
A snow day! It is Wednesday, and we can ill afford to miss choir rehearsals with Evensong coming up this Sunday, but last night's wild ride home on the bus was convincing evidence that the blizzard was sufficient reason for everyone to stay at home today. I had only a short walk from the bus stop to our apartment, and I was wondering if I would make it. I can well understand how some of the old-time farmers could be lost in such weather between their house and the barn, unless they had tied a rope from door to door to guide them.
This day is my opportunity to get the fingering done. I have a paper tracing of the organ keyboard that permits such work away from the instrument. I spent several weeks in 2009 doing much work with it when the church construction project and jazz department left me holding forth from a desk in the downstairs hallway.
I am not entirely starting from scratch; I have a few written fingerings in place from the past, and these are the spots where I have had the most difficulty. What remains is the more routine work. As I have learned, these must be written down, too.
And so, to work: five hours of it. It it sufficient to finish the first movement. I find that I have better ways now to play some of the difficult passages that are already in the score, so I have changed more than half of the old fingerings.
I did not reach my goal. In part, I ran aground on the difficulties of working at home, where domestic responsibilities call. My wife also was home, so we had three square meals together, two of which I cooked and for all of which I washed dishes. And I shoveled snow from around our Honda; that took over an hour. But I faced the choice: continue work after Evensong? Work on Thursday, which I try to take as a Sabbath? I did neither, with hopes of tackling the later movements on my next day off from the church, this coming Monday.
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