One of our parishioners informed me recently that I play the hymns too fast. He followed up our conversation with a letter in which he listed some considerations I should keep in mind to play at the proper tempo. In our parish, he is not alone in his opinion. This is nothing new for me; in a previous church, one of the sopranos often told me (generally with a good dose of contempt for my lack of musicality) that it was obvious that I was not a singer. If I were, I would understand that my tempos were too fast.
I think that my tempos on the hymns are just right. Otherwise I would play them at a different tempo.
More seriously, they raise a question that is important for anyone who accompanies hymns. Are you going to play it safe, do nothing that will offend anyone? A lot of players do this – perhaps they have been beaten up too much over the years by parishioners and clergy. All stanzas on the same generic registration, a nice safe middle-of-the-road tempo on every hymn, no matter what the music or text might suggest. And they probably get fewer complaints than I do.
I do not worry about playing too fast. I worry more about playing too slowly – not on the hymns so much as with the organ repertoire. I seem to play almost everything slower than other people. I am not doing so because I cannot play faster; I play at what in my judgment seems to be the correct tempo.
Here is an example; my postlude at today's choral service. It is the manuals-only setting of the chorale Aus tiefer Not from Bach's Clavierübung. This afternoon, I checked YouTube for other playings of it; a search turns up lots of them. Of the dozen or so that I sampled, mine was by far the slowest. Most of them are on much larger registrations than my single 8' flute – I found only one other that agreed with me on registration; this one, by Jonathan Wessler. It is a fine performance, considerably faster than mine. I had not intended to post my version, knowing that so many others have this repertoire online. But I see that mine is at least unusual, whether it is any good or not.
At the contemporary service today, my improvisation was another attempt at sonata form, using two hymn tunes that would occur in the service. The first was “Deo gratias,” to the text “O love, how deep, how strong, how high,” in the key of E Dorian. For the second theme grouping of the form, I used the Shirly Erena Murray hymn “Touch the earth lightly,” which was a comment on the Old Testament lesson about Noah and the rainbow, and God's covenant with all living things. The tune is by Swee Hong Lim, sweet and gentle and very much in contrast with “Deo gratias,” and I put it in C major to allow the transition that you will hear. I like the uncertainty at first as to what mode it is - it is only after a few measures that one hears clearly that it is in major.
I think that the Exposition of these two tunes worked adequately. There were some good ideas in the Development too, but it was too long for the time available – for these improvisations do not occur in a vacuum; I am to finish precisely at 9:00 a.m. Thus, the Recapitulation was too abrupt. I wanted to give “Touch the earth” (now in the home key of E) two more variations as I did in the Exposition, but there was no time, and that was a musical flaw; the piece would have been more balanced with that extra playing.
I do not know if these efforts of mine are recognizable as sonata forms. Perhaps the idea of using two hymns in this manner does not work with the form. But it seems to push me in an interesting direction, and I hope to keep making the attempt from time to time.
And perhaps the point of tonight's essay is this: we never know with any certainty whether we are on the right musical path. We cannot adequately evaluate our own work. But we must go on the best we can.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Speak the Language (Part Two)
Last week I wrote about harmony, counterpoint, and listening to the Tradition. This week it is time to be more practical.
The manner in which Music Theory is taught is not immediately useful to the improviser. Most of the work is done with pencil and paper. How can the musician transfer this to the instrument?
One place to start: Harmonize a Scale. The book by Marcel Dupré (“Complete Course in Organ Improvisation”) begins here, and this is where I started. In his method, the student works out a solid four-part harmonization of a major scale with good voice leading, and plays it. Slowly. Over and over. Then in different keys. Then, the minor scales. Then with the scale in other voices: bass line (in the left hand, and also in the pedals), alto/tenor. By the time I had spent about a month doing this, it started to become easier. Dupré does not say so, but I would add the Modes (Dorian, Phrygian, etc.).
What made this skill come to life for me was accompanying the choir as they sing scales in warmups. In that setting, I cannot think much about the scale, for I am listening to the choir and thinking about them, so the scale and its harmony become automatic – eventually.
Gerre Hancock's book (“Improvising: How to Master the Art”) likewise begins with scales, but he suggests a less rigid approach – accompany the scale with a second voice, then three voices, then four, in various styles, various tempos, with rhythmic modifications. These are steps that the student must eventually take, even if she begins with Dupré's strict approach.
When you can play a scale and harmonize it, you can also play any stepwise passage. That is the next step: melodies that are mostly stepwise.
In a sense, this is the “top-down” approach. One can also work from the “bottom-up,” and that would be Figured Bass. I wrote of it here and here.
As an entrance into improvisation, Figured Bass provides a harmonic framework and a bass line, and the player must create the rest. There is no better training than this for practical keyboard harmony.
Yet another approach is by way of Counterpoint. For this, I recommend a little book by Jan Bender: “Organ Improvisation for Beginners” (Concordia Publishing House, 1975). He teaches the student to improvise two-part textures based on hymn tunes, then expanding to three-part contrapuntal textures, and finally free (non-hymntune) improvisation. The two-part work is the most useful, and not terribly difficult. Here is a review of the Bender.
Sadly, it appears to be out of print, and if it is on Google Books, I cannot find it. Copies are available on Amazon for outrageous prices ($40 and up, for this slender volume of 71 pages. I see a copy on eBay for over $200!) Don't pay that much, not even $40 – but see if you might be able to read it via interlibrary loan. You could pick up the basic ideas in less than an hour, take careful notes, and work on your own without the book.
I see that the Dupré is expensive too: volume one is in the Organ Historical Society catalogue for $65. For the serious student, that might be worth it, more so than the Bender. The OHS catalogue also has volume two for $79; hold off on that until you have completed volume one. In fact, you can harmonize scales without Dupré; save your money and work at this skill, and when you have mastered it, order a copy of volume one for the rest of his material.
It has been a difficult week, with another funeral. This time, it was a middle-aged father who died after a tortuous nine years of cancer treatments. He was a member of the contemporary congregation, and there was much grief among them. This morning, the day after the funeral, our Youth Choir sang at that service. We had one of the plainsong Propers for the day, the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, and I improvised on it for the prelude. I hope that my little bit of music-making was a beginning toward the healing of grief, and of incipient breaches in our congregational life that have resulted from it. Or I should say “our” music, not just mine, for my work was altogether a preparation for the Youth Choir's singing of the chant, and an attempt to place it in the context of the congregation's sadness and “morning after” emptiness that many felt.
It took one verse from the end of the Gospel as an Antiphon, a line that can easily be overlooked:
Nor can we understand the suffering and death of a person in the prime of life, and the grief of his family. Not without the Cross. And not without the Resurrection.
Here is the improvisation.
The manner in which Music Theory is taught is not immediately useful to the improviser. Most of the work is done with pencil and paper. How can the musician transfer this to the instrument?
One place to start: Harmonize a Scale. The book by Marcel Dupré (“Complete Course in Organ Improvisation”) begins here, and this is where I started. In his method, the student works out a solid four-part harmonization of a major scale with good voice leading, and plays it. Slowly. Over and over. Then in different keys. Then, the minor scales. Then with the scale in other voices: bass line (in the left hand, and also in the pedals), alto/tenor. By the time I had spent about a month doing this, it started to become easier. Dupré does not say so, but I would add the Modes (Dorian, Phrygian, etc.).
What made this skill come to life for me was accompanying the choir as they sing scales in warmups. In that setting, I cannot think much about the scale, for I am listening to the choir and thinking about them, so the scale and its harmony become automatic – eventually.
Gerre Hancock's book (“Improvising: How to Master the Art”) likewise begins with scales, but he suggests a less rigid approach – accompany the scale with a second voice, then three voices, then four, in various styles, various tempos, with rhythmic modifications. These are steps that the student must eventually take, even if she begins with Dupré's strict approach.
When you can play a scale and harmonize it, you can also play any stepwise passage. That is the next step: melodies that are mostly stepwise.
In a sense, this is the “top-down” approach. One can also work from the “bottom-up,” and that would be Figured Bass. I wrote of it here and here.
As an entrance into improvisation, Figured Bass provides a harmonic framework and a bass line, and the player must create the rest. There is no better training than this for practical keyboard harmony.
Yet another approach is by way of Counterpoint. For this, I recommend a little book by Jan Bender: “Organ Improvisation for Beginners” (Concordia Publishing House, 1975). He teaches the student to improvise two-part textures based on hymn tunes, then expanding to three-part contrapuntal textures, and finally free (non-hymntune) improvisation. The two-part work is the most useful, and not terribly difficult. Here is a review of the Bender.
Sadly, it appears to be out of print, and if it is on Google Books, I cannot find it. Copies are available on Amazon for outrageous prices ($40 and up, for this slender volume of 71 pages. I see a copy on eBay for over $200!) Don't pay that much, not even $40 – but see if you might be able to read it via interlibrary loan. You could pick up the basic ideas in less than an hour, take careful notes, and work on your own without the book.
I see that the Dupré is expensive too: volume one is in the Organ Historical Society catalogue for $65. For the serious student, that might be worth it, more so than the Bender. The OHS catalogue also has volume two for $79; hold off on that until you have completed volume one. In fact, you can harmonize scales without Dupré; save your money and work at this skill, and when you have mastered it, order a copy of volume one for the rest of his material.
It has been a difficult week, with another funeral. This time, it was a middle-aged father who died after a tortuous nine years of cancer treatments. He was a member of the contemporary congregation, and there was much grief among them. This morning, the day after the funeral, our Youth Choir sang at that service. We had one of the plainsong Propers for the day, the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, and I improvised on it for the prelude. I hope that my little bit of music-making was a beginning toward the healing of grief, and of incipient breaches in our congregational life that have resulted from it. Or I should say “our” music, not just mine, for my work was altogether a preparation for the Youth Choir's singing of the chant, and an attempt to place it in the context of the congregation's sadness and “morning after” emptiness that many felt.
It took one verse from the end of the Gospel as an Antiphon, a line that can easily be overlooked:
Tell no one about the vision that you have had this day, until the Son of Man has risen from the dead.To this it added two verses from Psalm 97:
The Lord is King; let the earth rejoice: let the multitude of the isles be glad. Clouds and darkness are round about him: righteousness and justice are the foundations of his throne.In rehearsals, we discussed this, concluding that the disciples were to be silent because people would not understand the Transfiguration without the Cross and Resurrection.
Nor can we understand the suffering and death of a person in the prime of life, and the grief of his family. Not without the Cross. And not without the Resurrection.
Here is the improvisation.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Speak the Language
The first stage of improvisation is to Know the Tune.
The second stage: Speak the Language.
A writer must know how the language expresses ideas. That involves such disciplines as spelling, grammar, composition of ideas into sentences and paragraphs. My impression is that modern education discounts such old-fashioned concepts, but the fact remains that deficiencies in these areas interfere with the readers' comprehension of the author's intent.
Beyond these foundational skills, a writer must read. She must read all the time, deeply and widely, immersing herself in the language and the art of storytelling, or poetry, or nonfiction writing, or (better) all of them. She reads and listens until what Tolkien called the Cauldron of Story is part of her soul.
It is the same for a musician. Here is where the academic coursework which is part of any music degree finds its application: harmony, counterpoint, musical analysis, music history. Beyond these things, every bit of music that the musician encounters goes into what one might call the “Cauldron of Song,” the great Tradition of which we all partake.
This is a good image in more ways than one. Both “cauldrons” exist more in oral transmission than in what our ancestors often called “book learning.” The books, if they are good, attempt to codify the untidy soup of words and archetypes and deeds – and tunes and rhythms and harmonies – that underlie the crafts of Story and Song. But it is the actual work – the stories, the novels, the poems and epics and fairy tales, the songs, the anthems, the jigs and reels, the ballads, the symphonic works, the hymn tunes, the sonatas – that are the genuine Language that we must know.
The musician (and the author) do not have to go to school to learn these things, not if they pay attention – “read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest” as the marvelous old Collect says. There are countless folk and roots musicians who have never come near a School of Music, and make better songs than people like me with my diplomas hanging on the wall. But many of us would not find our way through the thicket without some book learning, and even the folk musicians who have not been to a formal school almost always have had what amounts to an apprenticeship, listening to the old ballad singers, or sitting around the edges of bluegrass bands and occasionally getting a chance to play along, and then getting advice from the old-timers as to how it is done. That is what the books are doing, if they are worth studying. I think of old Fux and his Gradus ad Parnassum, or C.P.E. Bach and his “Essay on the True Art of Playing the Clavier” as two examples of such work. Or crusty old Schoenberg and his “Fundamentals of Musical Composition.” Or Hindemith and his “Elementary Training for the Musician,” a book that is so difficult that no one I know (and certainly not me) has gotten more than about a quarter of the way through.
Speaking the Language is often the barrier that keeps people from making their own music. Someone who has not had much formal training wishes they “knew the chords,” as it is sometimes expressed. But those who have a lot of formal education are equally paralyzed. “What if I play a parallel fifth? What if I don't resolve a dissonance, or use proper voice leading?” As soon as one starts thinking too much about such matters, it becomes impossible to play anything unless it is in black and white on the page: Real Music, written by a Composer.
To such people, of which I was one: Don't worry about it. Just play.
Yes, the proper voice leading helps. It is a tool that can make your music better, and the more skill you have with harmony and voice leading and counterpoint, the better. But at the moment of improvisation, you cannot be thinking about such things. Just play. The thinking comes in retrospect, when you realize why a passage did not come off the way you had hoped. It may lead you (as it does me) to practice progressions and cadences and suchlike that have caused trouble. And that will help you play better the next time.
When I am improvising, I am mostly keeping track of the Tune. A second level of thought is the Form, which I have often scratched out on a piece of paper, and it is usually a thought such as “Okay, I've got to get to G major from here.” A third level of thought is trying to keep the outer lines in contrary motion, and the most basic harmony – which for me is just trying to stay diatonic in whatever key I am in. Or if I am in a more chromatic language, maintaining that level of chromaticism. And while all this is happening, I simply try to go where the notes want to take me, for every musical statement, even just two or three notes, carries within itself implications that must be worked out.
It is very much like an author in the midst of a story: the characters and events that have brought him to this point have a certain inevitability that causes the story to continue in one direction and not another. At its most fundamental, it can be as little as one line...
-----
My music for this week is the prelude improvisation for the middle service . It begins with a song that was unfamiliar and needed some preparation (though only a handful of people were there early enough to hear it): the tune “Tucker” by David Ashley White, to the Fred Pratt Green text “From miles around the sick ones came,” a text that fits today's Gospel. I began by simply playing a verse of the tune straight from the hymnal, and expanded somewhat from there. The music continues with a well-known Scottish tune “Ye banks and braes,” for which John Bell wrote the text “We cannot measure how you heal.”
The artwork on the YouTube clip, a seventeenth century Ukranian fresco, is not about today's Gospel; it is, instead, about the time when the woman with an issue of blood touched the hem of his garment. And that was enough; she did not need him to go out of his way or take the time to lay hands on her. Perhaps her thoughts were like those of the centurion who said “Lord, I am not worthy that you should come under my roof.” But Jesus would not leave it there; he stopped what he was doing (which was important: he was on his way to the house of Jairus, where a girl lay dead) so that he could tell the woman that it was her faith that had made her whole.
The second stage: Speak the Language.
A writer must know how the language expresses ideas. That involves such disciplines as spelling, grammar, composition of ideas into sentences and paragraphs. My impression is that modern education discounts such old-fashioned concepts, but the fact remains that deficiencies in these areas interfere with the readers' comprehension of the author's intent.
Beyond these foundational skills, a writer must read. She must read all the time, deeply and widely, immersing herself in the language and the art of storytelling, or poetry, or nonfiction writing, or (better) all of them. She reads and listens until what Tolkien called the Cauldron of Story is part of her soul.
It is the same for a musician. Here is where the academic coursework which is part of any music degree finds its application: harmony, counterpoint, musical analysis, music history. Beyond these things, every bit of music that the musician encounters goes into what one might call the “Cauldron of Song,” the great Tradition of which we all partake.
This is a good image in more ways than one. Both “cauldrons” exist more in oral transmission than in what our ancestors often called “book learning.” The books, if they are good, attempt to codify the untidy soup of words and archetypes and deeds – and tunes and rhythms and harmonies – that underlie the crafts of Story and Song. But it is the actual work – the stories, the novels, the poems and epics and fairy tales, the songs, the anthems, the jigs and reels, the ballads, the symphonic works, the hymn tunes, the sonatas – that are the genuine Language that we must know.
The musician (and the author) do not have to go to school to learn these things, not if they pay attention – “read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest” as the marvelous old Collect says. There are countless folk and roots musicians who have never come near a School of Music, and make better songs than people like me with my diplomas hanging on the wall. But many of us would not find our way through the thicket without some book learning, and even the folk musicians who have not been to a formal school almost always have had what amounts to an apprenticeship, listening to the old ballad singers, or sitting around the edges of bluegrass bands and occasionally getting a chance to play along, and then getting advice from the old-timers as to how it is done. That is what the books are doing, if they are worth studying. I think of old Fux and his Gradus ad Parnassum, or C.P.E. Bach and his “Essay on the True Art of Playing the Clavier” as two examples of such work. Or crusty old Schoenberg and his “Fundamentals of Musical Composition.” Or Hindemith and his “Elementary Training for the Musician,” a book that is so difficult that no one I know (and certainly not me) has gotten more than about a quarter of the way through.
Speaking the Language is often the barrier that keeps people from making their own music. Someone who has not had much formal training wishes they “knew the chords,” as it is sometimes expressed. But those who have a lot of formal education are equally paralyzed. “What if I play a parallel fifth? What if I don't resolve a dissonance, or use proper voice leading?” As soon as one starts thinking too much about such matters, it becomes impossible to play anything unless it is in black and white on the page: Real Music, written by a Composer.
To such people, of which I was one: Don't worry about it. Just play.
Yes, the proper voice leading helps. It is a tool that can make your music better, and the more skill you have with harmony and voice leading and counterpoint, the better. But at the moment of improvisation, you cannot be thinking about such things. Just play. The thinking comes in retrospect, when you realize why a passage did not come off the way you had hoped. It may lead you (as it does me) to practice progressions and cadences and suchlike that have caused trouble. And that will help you play better the next time.
When I am improvising, I am mostly keeping track of the Tune. A second level of thought is the Form, which I have often scratched out on a piece of paper, and it is usually a thought such as “Okay, I've got to get to G major from here.” A third level of thought is trying to keep the outer lines in contrary motion, and the most basic harmony – which for me is just trying to stay diatonic in whatever key I am in. Or if I am in a more chromatic language, maintaining that level of chromaticism. And while all this is happening, I simply try to go where the notes want to take me, for every musical statement, even just two or three notes, carries within itself implications that must be worked out.
It is very much like an author in the midst of a story: the characters and events that have brought him to this point have a certain inevitability that causes the story to continue in one direction and not another. At its most fundamental, it can be as little as one line...
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.That first sentence started Tolkien down a long path.
“Remember what Bilbo used to say: It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
-----
My music for this week is the prelude improvisation for the middle service . It begins with a song that was unfamiliar and needed some preparation (though only a handful of people were there early enough to hear it): the tune “Tucker” by David Ashley White, to the Fred Pratt Green text “From miles around the sick ones came,” a text that fits today's Gospel. I began by simply playing a verse of the tune straight from the hymnal, and expanded somewhat from there. The music continues with a well-known Scottish tune “Ye banks and braes,” for which John Bell wrote the text “We cannot measure how you heal.”
The artwork on the YouTube clip, a seventeenth century Ukranian fresco, is not about today's Gospel; it is, instead, about the time when the woman with an issue of blood touched the hem of his garment. And that was enough; she did not need him to go out of his way or take the time to lay hands on her. Perhaps her thoughts were like those of the centurion who said “Lord, I am not worthy that you should come under my roof.” But Jesus would not leave it there; he stopped what he was doing (which was important: he was on his way to the house of Jairus, where a girl lay dead) so that he could tell the woman that it was her faith that had made her whole.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Snow Day
It snowed here Saturday night and all day Sunday, about a foot of it. As I often do when the weather is questionable for Sunday morning, I spent Saturday night in my office. That let me get sufficient practice for the morning's organ and piano music on Saturday, extending into the evening, then a good night's sleep, and a fine early start on Sunday.
Had I attempted to drive in on Sunday morning, I probably would not have made it. Only three of our choristers arrived: Bob, Perry, and Natasia. We cancelled our anthem and sang a congregational hymn, but Perry and Natasia sang a descant on the opening hymn and the four of us sang the Psalm.
We had put a lot of preparation into this month's Choral Evensong, being the Eve of Candlemas. It was not to be: given the forecast, we cancelled. Instead, I spent the afternoon and evening working on next Sunday's music: the Bach A minor Prelude and Fugue. We shall see if I have sufficient time this week to pull it off.
This week's musical example is in two parts: First, Psalm 111 in plainsong with congregational antiphon. This is our standard form of psalmody for the Choral Eucharist; we sing Anglican Chant at Evensong. I am pleased with how this turned out today, even with our small group.
I have also included the Hymn that we sang before the Gospel: “Silence!
Frenzied, unclean spirit.” This is a very prickly hymn, and I believe that it has almost disappeared from view. But I would be hard-pressed to find anything better to accompany this day's pericope: St. Mark 1:21-28, wherein our Lord casts out a demon.
The text is under copyright so I cannot print it, but you can find it here with commentary by its author, Thomas Troeger. Thirty years ago, he and Carol Doran taught at the Episcopal seminary in Rochester, NY (an institution that has since closed). They collaborated on two slim volumes of hymns, with Doran writing tunes as unique as Troeger's texts. This one is not my favorite (that would be “Make your prayer and music one,” which is about Paul and Silas singing hymns in the Philippian jail), but it is indicative of the fine work that Doran and Troeger did. Notice how the tune hammers away at one note with lots of dissonance, reflective of the mental anguish of the person possessed by the demon.
I commend their hymns to you; search them out, and sing them.
Had I attempted to drive in on Sunday morning, I probably would not have made it. Only three of our choristers arrived: Bob, Perry, and Natasia. We cancelled our anthem and sang a congregational hymn, but Perry and Natasia sang a descant on the opening hymn and the four of us sang the Psalm.
We had put a lot of preparation into this month's Choral Evensong, being the Eve of Candlemas. It was not to be: given the forecast, we cancelled. Instead, I spent the afternoon and evening working on next Sunday's music: the Bach A minor Prelude and Fugue. We shall see if I have sufficient time this week to pull it off.
This week's musical example is in two parts: First, Psalm 111 in plainsong with congregational antiphon. This is our standard form of psalmody for the Choral Eucharist; we sing Anglican Chant at Evensong. I am pleased with how this turned out today, even with our small group.
I have also included the Hymn that we sang before the Gospel: “Silence!
Frenzied, unclean spirit.” This is a very prickly hymn, and I believe that it has almost disappeared from view. But I would be hard-pressed to find anything better to accompany this day's pericope: St. Mark 1:21-28, wherein our Lord casts out a demon.
The text is under copyright so I cannot print it, but you can find it here with commentary by its author, Thomas Troeger. Thirty years ago, he and Carol Doran taught at the Episcopal seminary in Rochester, NY (an institution that has since closed). They collaborated on two slim volumes of hymns, with Doran writing tunes as unique as Troeger's texts. This one is not my favorite (that would be “Make your prayer and music one,” which is about Paul and Silas singing hymns in the Philippian jail), but it is indicative of the fine work that Doran and Troeger did. Notice how the tune hammers away at one note with lots of dissonance, reflective of the mental anguish of the person possessed by the demon.
I commend their hymns to you; search them out, and sing them.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
No turning back
For Samuel, one could say that it began that night at Shiloh, when he heard the Voice calling him by name. One could also say that it began years earlier when his mother Hannah brought him there, a little toddler of a boy. “I have lent him to the Lord,” she said. Or one could say that it began in the mind of God before the foundation of the worlds, when he predestined Samuel to be among his children (see Ephesians 1:3-5).
The point is that God has been calling us, and preparing us for the call, for much longer than we have known of it. But for all of us, there comes a time when we hear the Voice, in one way or another. And we are free to walk away from it. Most of us do, at first.
But he is patient.
For me, I first heard the call at age twelve. Keith, who was a neighbor and my friend, invited me to the Vacation Bible School at his church. That week they talked about some of the parables. I was blown away; I had never heard any of these stories, and they were like nothing else I had encountered. A half-century later, that is still true.
In today's Eucharistic lessons, we heard about Samuel, and about some of the disciples. For most of them – for pretty much all of us now – someone told them about Jesus, and said “Come and see.”
Who is waiting for you to say “Come and see?”
We sang the little song “I have decided to follow Jesus” at the contemporary service this morning, and I improvised on it. The song is usually done in a cheerful up-tempo manner: I don't see it that way, and I certainly didn't this morning. Part of it, probably, was my concern for one of our young choristers, who has been very ill this week and is not altogether out of the woods. But that is just a reminder that following Jesus is not an escape from troubles. It takes you deeper into troubles, because you begin to share some of the way that He sees people, and loves them.
But, as the song says, “No turning back.”
The point is that God has been calling us, and preparing us for the call, for much longer than we have known of it. But for all of us, there comes a time when we hear the Voice, in one way or another. And we are free to walk away from it. Most of us do, at first.
But he is patient.
For me, I first heard the call at age twelve. Keith, who was a neighbor and my friend, invited me to the Vacation Bible School at his church. That week they talked about some of the parables. I was blown away; I had never heard any of these stories, and they were like nothing else I had encountered. A half-century later, that is still true.
In today's Eucharistic lessons, we heard about Samuel, and about some of the disciples. For most of them – for pretty much all of us now – someone told them about Jesus, and said “Come and see.”
Who is waiting for you to say “Come and see?”
We sang the little song “I have decided to follow Jesus” at the contemporary service this morning, and I improvised on it. The song is usually done in a cheerful up-tempo manner: I don't see it that way, and I certainly didn't this morning. Part of it, probably, was my concern for one of our young choristers, who has been very ill this week and is not altogether out of the woods. But that is just a reminder that following Jesus is not an escape from troubles. It takes you deeper into troubles, because you begin to share some of the way that He sees people, and loves them.
But, as the song says, “No turning back.”
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
George Fox
For several years in the late '90's, my wife and I worshipped on Sunday afternoons with the Society of Friends, after I had played services at the Presbyterian church in the morning. It was the only period in our thirty-plus years of marriage that we have been able to attend church together, and it was good to be there with her, to share the long silences, the listening.
George Fox, who died yesterday (13 January) in the year 1691, is unlikely to appear on any Anglican calendar of saints. I suspect he would be displeased with the very idea. But I commemorate him, and revere his memory. In a tumultuous age, he preached nonviolence. In an aristocratic society, he considered all to be equal before God, women and children as well as men. He called both Anglicans and Dissenters to account, and neither group would attend to his message.
Fox, and the Society of Friends which came into being around him, are, I think, an important corrective to the Anglican Way. Our clergy (and sometimes church musicians) too easily become enamored of our Perogatives, our fat pensions and comfortable salaries and medical insurance and fine pipe organs and lovely old buildings and clerical finery and all the rest. I cannot think of many Episcopal clergypersons who live a life of humble simplicity, and if they did, I suspect they would have a hard time finding a parish that would hire them. The musicians are no better – we love our AAM and AGO conferences where we stay in the finest hotels and eat at the finest restaurants. George Fox reminds us that this is not the path that Christ walked.
Worse still, we too easily become enamored of our Liturgy and our Music. We come to believe that they give us a direct line to God. Fox reminds us that the whole business – Prayerbook, Liturgy, church buildings, pipe organs, choirs, clergy, even the Holy Sacraments – is superfluous in comparison to the Inner Light, the simple following after God, the love for one's neighbor.
I believe that the Friends are not without their problems. In my experience, by throwing out Sacraments and Liturgy, they have also gradually lost connection with Scripture and (I would say) any recognizable belief in Christ. The Friends I was around are in belief essentially Unitarians, and most of them have not opened a Bible in decades, if ever. I would submit that without grounding in Scripture and a conversion experience in Christ (which Fox himself considered essential), it all becomes like chaff, blown about by the winds.
But there is nothing like a burial service among Friends. Or a wedding. And by comparison, Episcopalians know nothing about Silence, or waiting for Clearness. And there remains the steadfast nonviolence of the Friends, even at great personal cost.
Perhaps we need each other, we Anglicans and the Friends.
George Fox, who died yesterday (13 January) in the year 1691, is unlikely to appear on any Anglican calendar of saints. I suspect he would be displeased with the very idea. But I commemorate him, and revere his memory. In a tumultuous age, he preached nonviolence. In an aristocratic society, he considered all to be equal before God, women and children as well as men. He called both Anglicans and Dissenters to account, and neither group would attend to his message.
Fox, and the Society of Friends which came into being around him, are, I think, an important corrective to the Anglican Way. Our clergy (and sometimes church musicians) too easily become enamored of our Perogatives, our fat pensions and comfortable salaries and medical insurance and fine pipe organs and lovely old buildings and clerical finery and all the rest. I cannot think of many Episcopal clergypersons who live a life of humble simplicity, and if they did, I suspect they would have a hard time finding a parish that would hire them. The musicians are no better – we love our AAM and AGO conferences where we stay in the finest hotels and eat at the finest restaurants. George Fox reminds us that this is not the path that Christ walked.
Worse still, we too easily become enamored of our Liturgy and our Music. We come to believe that they give us a direct line to God. Fox reminds us that the whole business – Prayerbook, Liturgy, church buildings, pipe organs, choirs, clergy, even the Holy Sacraments – is superfluous in comparison to the Inner Light, the simple following after God, the love for one's neighbor.
I believe that the Friends are not without their problems. In my experience, by throwing out Sacraments and Liturgy, they have also gradually lost connection with Scripture and (I would say) any recognizable belief in Christ. The Friends I was around are in belief essentially Unitarians, and most of them have not opened a Bible in decades, if ever. I would submit that without grounding in Scripture and a conversion experience in Christ (which Fox himself considered essential), it all becomes like chaff, blown about by the winds.
But there is nothing like a burial service among Friends. Or a wedding. And by comparison, Episcopalians know nothing about Silence, or waiting for Clearness. And there remains the steadfast nonviolence of the Friends, even at great personal cost.
Perhaps we need each other, we Anglicans and the Friends.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Rest in peace
We had another funeral yesterday: my friend Grace F., who died suddenly on Wednesday evening. She was an Organist and a member of our parish.
It was a scramble to prepare some music for a Saturday funeral. Here is some of the organ music. Without explanation, it would seem a bit strange.
First, there is the Bach Prelude in E flat that begins the Third Part of the Clavierübung. I often play the accompanying Fugue, often known as the “St. Anne” Fugue because of the accidental resemblance of the first theme to the head motive of the hymn tune; I played it recently, at the funeral on December 22. But the Prelude is another matter. It was a special favorite of Grace's. I had last played it on Trinity Sunday; it had a solid fingering in place, and I figured it was worth taking a chance on getting it ready in two days.
In the liturgy, this was the prelude. As I played, Nora came and told me that we would be five minutes late while guests were continuing to arrive, so I had time to add the chorale prelude “Vor deinen Thron,” which I played under similar circumstances on Dec. 22.
After that in the recording: the tolling of the church bell. I left it in with the ensuing silence as a remembrance of Grace.
The recording then skips ahead to the postlude, the aforementioned Fugue. Unless there is reason to play something else (such as a request from the family), I play this as the postlude for funerals.
The idea is not by any means original. Many years ago, I was with a group from my congregation at the Presbyterian worship and music conference at Montreat, NC. It is a grand event with about one thousand musicians of all ages, with a few liturgically-inclined clergy. That year, a young woman in the high school choir suddenly fell down dead, right in the middle of a choral rehearsal. It was quite a shock to the entire conference, especially her fellow high school choristers. I have to this day most profound respect for the high school director that year, Mr. John Yarrington, for the way he spoke to the two-hundred or so young people when they next gathered, that afternoon.
It was decided that we would have a memorial service for the young lady right there at the conference. The girl's family had arrived by then, I think from Florida. We sang many hymns. All of the choirs sang: children, junior high, high school, adults, handbell choirs. Scriptures were read. We even had Holy Communion, which in a Presbyterian gathering would not be as expected as it would be among Episcopalians.
The organist that year was Mr. Gerre Hancock. At communion, after the high school choir sang their anthem (and the rest of us wept), he improvised in his masterful way, and all of a sudden, I realized that he had worked his way around to the beginning of the St. Anne Fugue. It was the most perfect musical statement for that moment that could possibly have been offered, binding all that we had done and experienced into the glory of God.
I still remember that young person, taken from her family and friends all too soon. May she rest in peace. May Grace rest in peace, and all of my other friends, a list that continues to grow.
One of the blessings of growing older is that as time passes, more of your friends and family are on the Other Shore. Eventually, as with my 95-year-old mother, pretty much all of them are gone and you alone are left. That makes it easier to say good-bye to this life when the time comes; it becomes increasingly clear that you are going home, never more to part.
It was a scramble to prepare some music for a Saturday funeral. Here is some of the organ music. Without explanation, it would seem a bit strange.
First, there is the Bach Prelude in E flat that begins the Third Part of the Clavierübung. I often play the accompanying Fugue, often known as the “St. Anne” Fugue because of the accidental resemblance of the first theme to the head motive of the hymn tune; I played it recently, at the funeral on December 22. But the Prelude is another matter. It was a special favorite of Grace's. I had last played it on Trinity Sunday; it had a solid fingering in place, and I figured it was worth taking a chance on getting it ready in two days.
In the liturgy, this was the prelude. As I played, Nora came and told me that we would be five minutes late while guests were continuing to arrive, so I had time to add the chorale prelude “Vor deinen Thron,” which I played under similar circumstances on Dec. 22.
After that in the recording: the tolling of the church bell. I left it in with the ensuing silence as a remembrance of Grace.
The recording then skips ahead to the postlude, the aforementioned Fugue. Unless there is reason to play something else (such as a request from the family), I play this as the postlude for funerals.
The idea is not by any means original. Many years ago, I was with a group from my congregation at the Presbyterian worship and music conference at Montreat, NC. It is a grand event with about one thousand musicians of all ages, with a few liturgically-inclined clergy. That year, a young woman in the high school choir suddenly fell down dead, right in the middle of a choral rehearsal. It was quite a shock to the entire conference, especially her fellow high school choristers. I have to this day most profound respect for the high school director that year, Mr. John Yarrington, for the way he spoke to the two-hundred or so young people when they next gathered, that afternoon.
It was decided that we would have a memorial service for the young lady right there at the conference. The girl's family had arrived by then, I think from Florida. We sang many hymns. All of the choirs sang: children, junior high, high school, adults, handbell choirs. Scriptures were read. We even had Holy Communion, which in a Presbyterian gathering would not be as expected as it would be among Episcopalians.
The organist that year was Mr. Gerre Hancock. At communion, after the high school choir sang their anthem (and the rest of us wept), he improvised in his masterful way, and all of a sudden, I realized that he had worked his way around to the beginning of the St. Anne Fugue. It was the most perfect musical statement for that moment that could possibly have been offered, binding all that we had done and experienced into the glory of God.
I still remember that young person, taken from her family and friends all too soon. May she rest in peace. May Grace rest in peace, and all of my other friends, a list that continues to grow.
One of the blessings of growing older is that as time passes, more of your friends and family are on the Other Shore. Eventually, as with my 95-year-old mother, pretty much all of them are gone and you alone are left. That makes it easier to say good-bye to this life when the time comes; it becomes increasingly clear that you are going home, never more to part.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
The Day After the Epiphany
The Magi have “departed into their own country another way” (St. Matthew 2:12). The shepherds have returned to their work, “glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen” (St. Luke 2:20).
What of us?
Last night, we heard the magnificent Lessons from the Eucharist for the Epiphany, one of the Seven Principal Feasts of the Church. The Rector climbed a ladder and blessed the door of the church with a chalk inscription. She later announced the Date of Easter and its related Holy Festivals and Fasts. The ladies washed the dishes from dinner. Everyone went home; I locked the church, turned out the lights.
What next? How do we go on from here?
I spent part of this day helping my fellow-laborers in Christ (John and Nora) take down the Christmas decorations in the church. This used to be a community project by the parish; it has now fallen to the staff, and I did not want it to fall solely upon John, our Sexton. We took down the wreaths, removed the bows and packed them away, threw out the greenery, removed the fake electric candles from the windows, boxed up the figures from the Nativity creche (including the Angel, who got lost in the next room and never made it to the Stable).
It was Holy Work, and not just from helping my friends (instead of doing the work proper to my profession). It was a Transition, a Fresh Start. When I mentioned this to Nora, she said that many people have sensed these days as such a transition, a “de-toxification” from the rigors of Advent and Christmas. That makes sense to me: I have hardly accomplished anything since my essay last week, despite having the Gift of several days when I should have made some progress.
Much work lies ahead. From here, the path runs straight ahead to the River Jordan, and from there deep into the Desert, where Satan awaits, but where also the Angels minister to us (St. Mark 1:13).
This day is like standing at the starting line. I am not ready, but I need only follow my Captain, one step at a time, and go where He has led.
----
It is late for Christmas music, but here is my improvisation from Sunday, on "What child is this" and "O come, all ye faithful."
The music of Advent and Christmas can be a way that we, like St. Mary, ponder these things in our hearts. She never forgot those eventful days and months, nor should we.
What of us?
Last night, we heard the magnificent Lessons from the Eucharist for the Epiphany, one of the Seven Principal Feasts of the Church. The Rector climbed a ladder and blessed the door of the church with a chalk inscription. She later announced the Date of Easter and its related Holy Festivals and Fasts. The ladies washed the dishes from dinner. Everyone went home; I locked the church, turned out the lights.
What next? How do we go on from here?
I spent part of this day helping my fellow-laborers in Christ (John and Nora) take down the Christmas decorations in the church. This used to be a community project by the parish; it has now fallen to the staff, and I did not want it to fall solely upon John, our Sexton. We took down the wreaths, removed the bows and packed them away, threw out the greenery, removed the fake electric candles from the windows, boxed up the figures from the Nativity creche (including the Angel, who got lost in the next room and never made it to the Stable).
It was Holy Work, and not just from helping my friends (instead of doing the work proper to my profession). It was a Transition, a Fresh Start. When I mentioned this to Nora, she said that many people have sensed these days as such a transition, a “de-toxification” from the rigors of Advent and Christmas. That makes sense to me: I have hardly accomplished anything since my essay last week, despite having the Gift of several days when I should have made some progress.
Much work lies ahead. From here, the path runs straight ahead to the River Jordan, and from there deep into the Desert, where Satan awaits, but where also the Angels minister to us (St. Mark 1:13).
This day is like standing at the starting line. I am not ready, but I need only follow my Captain, one step at a time, and go where He has led.
----
It is late for Christmas music, but here is my improvisation from Sunday, on "What child is this" and "O come, all ye faithful."
The music of Advent and Christmas can be a way that we, like St. Mary, ponder these things in our hearts. She never forgot those eventful days and months, nor should we.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Lessons and Carols: The Heritage
A Service of Lessons and Carols: King's College, Cambridge, Christmas 1954
In honor of the sixtieth year of televised broadcasts of the Service, BBC replayed the first broadcast, from the Year of Our Lord 1954.
The United Kingdom had a beloved young Queen, nearing the end of her second year on the throne; it had an eighty-year-old Prime Minister, perhaps the greatest in the history of the Kingdom but now nearing the end of his days: Winston Churchill.
The Choir of King's was directed by the legendary Boris Ord, like Churchill nearing the end of his long tenure (1929-57, excepting the War years). It is fascinating to watch him at work in the video; he stands at the end of the treble line and the choir is led by almost imperceptible nods of the head. All is done with the utmost dignity.
And the Choir sings better in this video than they do now. That is not all Ord's doing (though much of it is); times have changed, and it is more difficult to maintain a choir of men and boys, even in a place such as King's. Listen to the shape of the phrases, the precise attacks and releases, the diction, the blend. Listen also to the quality of the soloists, both trebles and choirmen.
At the organ is Hugh McLean. Notice the manner in which the hymns are played: the organ enters with a chord one beat before the voices. This was the old-time way of playing, and very effective in a large acoustic. All of the playing is solid, reserved, supportive.
I notice that the Lectors conclude with “Thanks be to God,” just as they do now, so that is not a modern innovation as I had thought.
At the end, the “Amens” from the Smith Responses are a nice touch.
All in all, I enjoyed this much more than the 2014 service, fine as it was. The selection of music is superior, the standard of performance is higher. And it is shorter by some forty-five minutes.
It seems to me by comparison that the Service has become somewhat bloated in recent years. One senses more of a desire to showcase the virtuosity of the Choir rather than to simply sing straightforward music – most of it homophonic, often strophic, and none of it terribly difficult – that supports the Lessons, and to sing it with utmost perfection. I do not fault Mr. Cleobury for his work with the current Choir; he is doing what he must, and they remain one of the finest choirs in the world. I fault the times in which we live, and the manner in which Great Britain has changed over these sixty years.
“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” [J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Fellowship of the Ring”]
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Lessons and Carols: large and small
This morning we had something of a hybrid service: part Christmas Lessons and Carols, part Holy Eucharist. I do not think that the two belong together, but the Second Rule of Liturgics tells me this:
I have noted to others that I hear more complaints about the music at Christmas than at any other time of the year. One person who usually supports my efforts told me after the Midnight Mass that unless I can arrange for “something special,” I should not bother with preservice music. After working quite a bit to prepare the Canonic Variations of which I wrote the other day, I did not take that well.
This evening as I worked on yet another set of Bulletins (groan!!!), I have listened to the Real Lessons and Carols, the one that they do at King's College, Cambridge. The music is of course spectacular. Most of it is choral, with a handful of congregational hymns. I have no doubt that their Director, Stephen Cleobury, receives a lot of complaints. But there is probably no one on the planet who would not consider their work “something special.”
I have four liturgical comments:
-- The First Lesson is not Genesis 3:1-15, as it is printed in the green “Carols for Choirs” book and which I have always assumed was the way it is supposed to be done. Instead, it is the later part of the chapter, verses 8-19, about the Curse, and “Dust thou art.” This is a much more logical selection for the account of our Fall and Redemption that is the purpose of the service. I will see if the Rector might let me use this next year both in our Advent service and the inevitable repeat of today's Christmas service.
-- The Scriptures are all from the Authorized Version. I suspect that this is part of the attraction of this Service, which draws its audience from all of the English-speaking world. Who would want to hear the intentionally ugly prose of the New Revised Standard Version?
-- At the end of each lesson, the Lector says “Thanks be to God.” Not “The Word of the Lord” with the congregation responding. I am puzzled at this. Are they, like the trendy liturgists in America with their “Hear what the Spirit is saying to the people,” no longer willing to assert that these passages of Scripture are in any sense the Word of the Lord? That is my suspicion.
-- Somehow, I do not find the whole thing conducive to worship. Not in the slightest. Nor did I find our service this morning worshipful. It too easily becomes all about the music. Perhaps that is all right; for those who want something more liturgical, BBC also broadcast the Roman Catholic Midnight Mass from Westminster Cathedral. And if what one desires is a good sermon, one could do worse than the one that Pope Francis gave on that Night – my thanks to the blogger Jesse, who posted it – and for the music, linked the YouTube of Ting and myself playing “O Holy Night.” I do think that it turned out well, and I am pleased that her fine playing is thus given a larger hearing, well over 100 views when I checked on it yesterday.
This year, the King's service featured several arrangements from their former director Sir David Willcocks, in honor of his 95th birthday. I must say that when the choir – especially THAT choir in that room – sails into his descant on “Sing, choirs of angels” in the penultimate hymn (“O come, all ye faithful,”) it never fails to send chills of delight up my spine. And when the organ cranks up into the harmonization of the final stanza, it is the same. The final hymn, “Hark, the herald angels sing,” again in the Willcocks arrangement (with a slightly different descant than what I know), is the same for me. I played these arrangements the other night at the Midnight Mass, but our little Pilcher – and our little parish choir – cannot work up to such an effect.
The organ scholar concluded with the large and majestic (and youthful: he was under the age of twenty) Bach organ setting of “In dulci jubilo,” BWV 729. By chance, I also finished this morning's service with a Bach setting of “In dulci jubilo” – but not that one. Instead, I played the little setting from the Orgelbuchlein (BWV 608) which dances along like little cherubs at play, the four voices forming a double canon. It is fitting, perhaps: what they do is large, what we do is small. But both have their place.
Concluding Remarks:
I am unable to keep up the pace; tonight's essay is the last of my daily entries. I hope to return to a more-or-less weekly schedule.
One of my accomplishments the other day when I should have been pressing on toward Sunday was a milestone: I cut my first CD of organ music, in limited edition (three copies). It begins with the Toccata and Fugue in F and finishes with the Canonic Variations, and I am proud of it. For all of my complaining and last-minute scrambling this fall, I consider it a respectable body of work.
My principal reason for the CD was the hope of sending it as a gift to my organ teacher, Dr. McDonald. I walked it to the post office on Friday and mailed it. His health has not been good, and I fear that he may no longer be in his apartment where he has lived alone for decades. I hope the CD gets to him.
Last year, my wife and I made the mistake of neglecting one another at this holiday. This year was better; we found small gifts for one another and she had the forethought to have me purchase a frozen lasagna from the grocery so that we could have a bit of a special meal in the late afternoon on Christmas Day. It was good to be with her.
My work is challenging at this time of the year. Hers is worse – “big box” department store work. We must care for one another, especially at this time of the year.
And finally, a bit of a puzzle about that recording of "O Holy Night." I received notice from YouTube that the clip contained Third Party Content, and that one of the performing rights organizations was claiming it. I could acknowledge and All Would Be Well, or I could fight it and probably get a "copyright strike," which could result in my banning from YouTube. Now this is thoroughly puzzling: Adolph Adam wrote the music in 1847 and it is in the public domain. I was one performer, Ting Davidson the other (and she has given me permission to post it). Who is claiming it? YouTube does not say. But I was unwilling to fight it, so I clicked my acknowlegement -- and now I see that there are advertisements running with the video. Someone is making a little money on this at our expense.
Sigh.
If the Rector says “Do it this way,” then you do it this way.Nonetheless, it was a good service. Six of the Lessons, a total of fourteen Carols, all congregational, for the Choir is on holiday until January. Those who attended seemed to enjoy it. I received the usual handful of complaints about various aspects – the tempo is too fast, why didn't you sing this, why did you sing that?
I have noted to others that I hear more complaints about the music at Christmas than at any other time of the year. One person who usually supports my efforts told me after the Midnight Mass that unless I can arrange for “something special,” I should not bother with preservice music. After working quite a bit to prepare the Canonic Variations of which I wrote the other day, I did not take that well.
This evening as I worked on yet another set of Bulletins (groan!!!), I have listened to the Real Lessons and Carols, the one that they do at King's College, Cambridge. The music is of course spectacular. Most of it is choral, with a handful of congregational hymns. I have no doubt that their Director, Stephen Cleobury, receives a lot of complaints. But there is probably no one on the planet who would not consider their work “something special.”
I have four liturgical comments:
-- The First Lesson is not Genesis 3:1-15, as it is printed in the green “Carols for Choirs” book and which I have always assumed was the way it is supposed to be done. Instead, it is the later part of the chapter, verses 8-19, about the Curse, and “Dust thou art.” This is a much more logical selection for the account of our Fall and Redemption that is the purpose of the service. I will see if the Rector might let me use this next year both in our Advent service and the inevitable repeat of today's Christmas service.
-- The Scriptures are all from the Authorized Version. I suspect that this is part of the attraction of this Service, which draws its audience from all of the English-speaking world. Who would want to hear the intentionally ugly prose of the New Revised Standard Version?
-- At the end of each lesson, the Lector says “Thanks be to God.” Not “The Word of the Lord” with the congregation responding. I am puzzled at this. Are they, like the trendy liturgists in America with their “Hear what the Spirit is saying to the people,” no longer willing to assert that these passages of Scripture are in any sense the Word of the Lord? That is my suspicion.
-- Somehow, I do not find the whole thing conducive to worship. Not in the slightest. Nor did I find our service this morning worshipful. It too easily becomes all about the music. Perhaps that is all right; for those who want something more liturgical, BBC also broadcast the Roman Catholic Midnight Mass from Westminster Cathedral. And if what one desires is a good sermon, one could do worse than the one that Pope Francis gave on that Night – my thanks to the blogger Jesse, who posted it – and for the music, linked the YouTube of Ting and myself playing “O Holy Night.” I do think that it turned out well, and I am pleased that her fine playing is thus given a larger hearing, well over 100 views when I checked on it yesterday.
This year, the King's service featured several arrangements from their former director Sir David Willcocks, in honor of his 95th birthday. I must say that when the choir – especially THAT choir in that room – sails into his descant on “Sing, choirs of angels” in the penultimate hymn (“O come, all ye faithful,”) it never fails to send chills of delight up my spine. And when the organ cranks up into the harmonization of the final stanza, it is the same. The final hymn, “Hark, the herald angels sing,” again in the Willcocks arrangement (with a slightly different descant than what I know), is the same for me. I played these arrangements the other night at the Midnight Mass, but our little Pilcher – and our little parish choir – cannot work up to such an effect.
The organ scholar concluded with the large and majestic (and youthful: he was under the age of twenty) Bach organ setting of “In dulci jubilo,” BWV 729. By chance, I also finished this morning's service with a Bach setting of “In dulci jubilo” – but not that one. Instead, I played the little setting from the Orgelbuchlein (BWV 608) which dances along like little cherubs at play, the four voices forming a double canon. It is fitting, perhaps: what they do is large, what we do is small. But both have their place.
Concluding Remarks:
I am unable to keep up the pace; tonight's essay is the last of my daily entries. I hope to return to a more-or-less weekly schedule.
One of my accomplishments the other day when I should have been pressing on toward Sunday was a milestone: I cut my first CD of organ music, in limited edition (three copies). It begins with the Toccata and Fugue in F and finishes with the Canonic Variations, and I am proud of it. For all of my complaining and last-minute scrambling this fall, I consider it a respectable body of work.
My principal reason for the CD was the hope of sending it as a gift to my organ teacher, Dr. McDonald. I walked it to the post office on Friday and mailed it. His health has not been good, and I fear that he may no longer be in his apartment where he has lived alone for decades. I hope the CD gets to him.
Last year, my wife and I made the mistake of neglecting one another at this holiday. This year was better; we found small gifts for one another and she had the forethought to have me purchase a frozen lasagna from the grocery so that we could have a bit of a special meal in the late afternoon on Christmas Day. It was good to be with her.
My work is challenging at this time of the year. Hers is worse – “big box” department store work. We must care for one another, especially at this time of the year.
And finally, a bit of a puzzle about that recording of "O Holy Night." I received notice from YouTube that the clip contained Third Party Content, and that one of the performing rights organizations was claiming it. I could acknowledge and All Would Be Well, or I could fight it and probably get a "copyright strike," which could result in my banning from YouTube. Now this is thoroughly puzzling: Adolph Adam wrote the music in 1847 and it is in the public domain. I was one performer, Ting Davidson the other (and she has given me permission to post it). Who is claiming it? YouTube does not say. But I was unwilling to fight it, so I clicked my acknowlegement -- and now I see that there are advertisements running with the video. Someone is making a little money on this at our expense.
Sigh.
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