There was a time when I, too, confused art with entertainment. When very young I tended to assume, as all young humans do, that everything in the world around was designed to stimulate me. Its value was primarily, if not entirely, in what it had to offer the pleasure centers of my nascent little brain. Fortunately, I grew out of that. Not all of us do.
But there is another reason I chose not to listen to the secret wisdoms buried inside the sugary presentations of the books and television specials. They seemed a bit over the top. That can't happen, I thought. The real world was much more humdrum, and luckily for me, far less prone to existential crises than was the one on television. Adventures were had to escape the predictable routine, but they did not tell us what to expect from life, or how to deal with those adversities.
Live long enough, though, and you will see reality do all kinds of things it wasn't supposed to do. Time bends, light is subject to gravity, and now and then, we really are about to lose the bedrock of our happy little lives, one piece of it at a time.
For all of those years of my childhood it was Christmas that was constant under attack of not coming and needing to be saved. Nobody seemed to realize that one day it would actually be Easter that didn't come. Or at least, the way it was supposed to.
When the Grinch grinchily stuffed all 8,000 of the Who's little Christmas packages into his enormous bag and managed to get them all up to the top of his private mountain, he learned a lesson that we were all supposed to learn, comfortably, and from a safe distance.
I watched the animated version of the tale last year for the first time in many Christmases. The first thing I realized was that the Whos were a seriously consumerist bunch of little buggers who did in fact purchase everything you could imagine and seemed intent on going all out. The second, of course, is the thing you remember, which was that on Christmas morning, with all of their stuff gone, without tears and recriminations, and without missing a beat, they all gathered in the town square to sing and to celebrate the day, presents or no.
And in the real world, last Sunday, Easter came, ready or not. Those of us who are used to gathering in churches managed to find community in front of our computers, with all of our brethren gathered in little boxes like the cable news shows had taken a large dose of steroids. Those for whom dinner is the main, or only, attraction of the day must have found virtual meetings to be similarly accommodating for their families. We had dinner with some of ours that way. Otherwise it would have just been the two of us and our cat.
Whatever you think the message of Easter is, it comes anyway, with or without the traditions or our ability to mark the day according to our own wishes. The ability to recognize that it exists independently of our need to observe it in any particular manner is a way to achieve peace.
There are other messages I wish we would learn from our corpus of movies, books, and television endlessly recycling our collective mythology. One of the themes we could absorb is that a powerful person who values personal loyalty above service to a greater good is not a good person. Or that letting feelings of hate take charge of you never has a good outcome. The consequences of these choices are playing out in America now, writ large.
Our mythologies go much deeper if we want them to, and tell us things about death and rebirth, conflict and companionship, and all manner of secrets pointing to a life well lived. But in a society with an attention span not gauged to value these things we will let one miracle of modern technology charm us into the realization that one day, and all that it can represent, can come to us under any circumstances. It cannot be lost because it was never ours in the first place.
Showing posts with label Easter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Easter. Show all posts
Friday, April 17, 2020
Friday, March 25, 2016
Easter
In three days, Easter will be here. If you are an organist, however, you get stuck in a time warp. Easter has already been here. The instant the Holy Thursday service ended in darkness and silence, you ran across the hall and started to rehearse Easter music with the assembled company. And on Good Friday morning, you finally got around to dusting off the Widor Toccata for another year.
If you're me, that is. I don't know what your schedule is like.
Fortunately, the Widor came back pretty fast. A couple of run throughs and it felt ready. One more for good measure. I play most of it from memory so I don't have to have 80 pages crowding the music rack with tiny font. Only the first and last two pages are up--it just makes me feel better to start with the music, for some reason, and the last page is where all the gymnastic hand crossings are. I've been playing the piece every Easter for over a decade to conclude the service, and this is the first year I've been particularly worried about it. But about that later.
We have a tradition at Faith of starting the service in darkness, just where the passion service left off. The choir sings an introit which begins quietly, and as the lights come up, the pastors remove the black sheet and the crown of thorns from the altar; then replace the Bible, add some flowers, put back the white paraments, and as the music swells and the faint glow becomes a blazing light, the choir begins to process from the back of the sanctuary. At the conclusion of the introit, the organist improvises an introduction to the opening hymn, Christ the Lord is Risen Today, in which we usually feature trumpets.
All of that is at the start of the service. Then welcomes and announcements. "Christ is Risen!" shouts the pastor. "He is Risen Indeed!" shout all the people. Except the year that the pastor shouted the second line and the people couldn't figure out what to do. At least he didn't wish everybody a Merry Christmas, like a pastor at my mother's church.
Everybody is excited, and if you aren't touched by the emotions of the moment, your nose is running anyhow from all the flowers. Boy are they pungent!
An anthem from the choir. A reading from the scripture. A sermon. A choral offertory. The choir gets up early on Easter morning and sings at the 8 o'clock service as well as the 10:30. And it is a full service. Full enough that I am not likely to make it on time for the second service, which begins at 9. But after the offertory, and the doxology, in which we bring back the one with all the "alleluias" for the first time in seven weeks (feels good!), it is time for the closing hymn about resurrection, in which I sneak in references to the Widor Toccata, and then, of course, the piece itself, which the choir always stays to hear, and, if the pastor reminds them, most of the congregation as well. Afterward, someone comes up to me with tears in her eyes and thanks me for playing the Widor. Others remember it from their wedding or a loved one's funeral.
It is a real privilege to be an organist on Easter. The choir director wants it to "sound like a cathedral" and of course, it is hard not to just let loose with the torrents of sound and a phalanx of notes, on this most joyous of days, and the climax of the church year. The organ is never louder than the final peroration of the Toccata, a festival shout of Alleluia! The general enthusiasm is quite evident.
Faith has three services on Easter morning. When they are finished their will be Easter dinner (I'm famished, despite meeting my wife in the church kitchen during the 9am sermon for a quick repast of cinnamon rolls and that Easter egg I pilfered on the way out of the house). I started my day at 6am. By 2 I will be horizontal again, as the traditional Easter excitement is followed by the traditional Easter Nap. Later on there is the Traditional Easter Choir Practice by a community choir that doesn't stop rehearsing for anything. On Monday it may seem like I will never rise again. But you organists know how it goes.
Sunday's coming!
If you're me, that is. I don't know what your schedule is like.
Fortunately, the Widor came back pretty fast. A couple of run throughs and it felt ready. One more for good measure. I play most of it from memory so I don't have to have 80 pages crowding the music rack with tiny font. Only the first and last two pages are up--it just makes me feel better to start with the music, for some reason, and the last page is where all the gymnastic hand crossings are. I've been playing the piece every Easter for over a decade to conclude the service, and this is the first year I've been particularly worried about it. But about that later.
We have a tradition at Faith of starting the service in darkness, just where the passion service left off. The choir sings an introit which begins quietly, and as the lights come up, the pastors remove the black sheet and the crown of thorns from the altar; then replace the Bible, add some flowers, put back the white paraments, and as the music swells and the faint glow becomes a blazing light, the choir begins to process from the back of the sanctuary. At the conclusion of the introit, the organist improvises an introduction to the opening hymn, Christ the Lord is Risen Today, in which we usually feature trumpets.
All of that is at the start of the service. Then welcomes and announcements. "Christ is Risen!" shouts the pastor. "He is Risen Indeed!" shout all the people. Except the year that the pastor shouted the second line and the people couldn't figure out what to do. At least he didn't wish everybody a Merry Christmas, like a pastor at my mother's church.
Everybody is excited, and if you aren't touched by the emotions of the moment, your nose is running anyhow from all the flowers. Boy are they pungent!
An anthem from the choir. A reading from the scripture. A sermon. A choral offertory. The choir gets up early on Easter morning and sings at the 8 o'clock service as well as the 10:30. And it is a full service. Full enough that I am not likely to make it on time for the second service, which begins at 9. But after the offertory, and the doxology, in which we bring back the one with all the "alleluias" for the first time in seven weeks (feels good!), it is time for the closing hymn about resurrection, in which I sneak in references to the Widor Toccata, and then, of course, the piece itself, which the choir always stays to hear, and, if the pastor reminds them, most of the congregation as well. Afterward, someone comes up to me with tears in her eyes and thanks me for playing the Widor. Others remember it from their wedding or a loved one's funeral.
It is a real privilege to be an organist on Easter. The choir director wants it to "sound like a cathedral" and of course, it is hard not to just let loose with the torrents of sound and a phalanx of notes, on this most joyous of days, and the climax of the church year. The organ is never louder than the final peroration of the Toccata, a festival shout of Alleluia! The general enthusiasm is quite evident.
Faith has three services on Easter morning. When they are finished their will be Easter dinner (I'm famished, despite meeting my wife in the church kitchen during the 9am sermon for a quick repast of cinnamon rolls and that Easter egg I pilfered on the way out of the house). I started my day at 6am. By 2 I will be horizontal again, as the traditional Easter excitement is followed by the traditional Easter Nap. Later on there is the Traditional Easter Choir Practice by a community choir that doesn't stop rehearsing for anything. On Monday it may seem like I will never rise again. But you organists know how it goes.
Sunday's coming!
Friday, April 12, 2013
A bit of listening for the C and E crowd
The other day while making sure my link for the most recent sound file posting worked, I stuck around and listened to the piece ahead of it in the catalog for old time's sake and had an idea.
The following links will allow you to listen to two organ pieces by Michael Praetorius, one of which was written for Christmas, and the other for Easter. Both come from a collection he published in 1609 of seven organ settings of hymns for the church year. They happen to be two of my favorite pieces of his, particularly the Christmas one. They might also be illuminating. If you aren't familiar with the organ works of Praetorius, listening to both of them might help you get some sense of the composer's musical personality. It's pleasing sometimes to be able to say, oh yes, that sounds just like him, the way you might say about an old friend.
But it isn't just Praetorius speaking through these pieces. In fact, back during the Renaissance, many a musicologist will tell you, individuality in composition wasn't so treasured as it is now, so much of what you are hearing has more to do with how everybody was doing it than just how he was doing it.
I wonder about that; I don't know vast quantities of music from the period myself, but he does seem to have his own musical methods. Maybe it's just me. Perception is an interesting thing.
Anyhow, Christmas and Easter are, by general acclaim, the two highlights of the church year. One curiosity you might notice about these selections is that they are both in a minor mode, and have a certain amount of solemnity about them. Not that all of that was the composer's choice.
Both of these are based on ancient hymns of the church. The hymns themselves occur in the bottom voice, and move more slowly than the parts up above, which is a good way not to really notice them (and get lots of complaints from clergy!). And they happen to be in minor themselves. Church holidays tended to be dignified affairs. Note that Christmas wasn't yet about Santa Claus and presents, and the Easter bunny wasn't hiding eggs.
Still, there is enough joy in the proceedings. Notice how Praetorius likes to shoot up and down the scale, particularly toward the end of both pieces. In true Renaissance fashion, they both tend to start with longer notes, and accelerate note values so that they save all of their rushing around for the finale. Praetorius doesn't tend to do this much in the remaining pieces in his hymn settings for the organ; these are particularly joyous occasions.
Happy Christmas and Merry Easter.
Summo Parenti Gloria
Vita Sanctorum
The following links will allow you to listen to two organ pieces by Michael Praetorius, one of which was written for Christmas, and the other for Easter. Both come from a collection he published in 1609 of seven organ settings of hymns for the church year. They happen to be two of my favorite pieces of his, particularly the Christmas one. They might also be illuminating. If you aren't familiar with the organ works of Praetorius, listening to both of them might help you get some sense of the composer's musical personality. It's pleasing sometimes to be able to say, oh yes, that sounds just like him, the way you might say about an old friend.
But it isn't just Praetorius speaking through these pieces. In fact, back during the Renaissance, many a musicologist will tell you, individuality in composition wasn't so treasured as it is now, so much of what you are hearing has more to do with how everybody was doing it than just how he was doing it.
I wonder about that; I don't know vast quantities of music from the period myself, but he does seem to have his own musical methods. Maybe it's just me. Perception is an interesting thing.
Anyhow, Christmas and Easter are, by general acclaim, the two highlights of the church year. One curiosity you might notice about these selections is that they are both in a minor mode, and have a certain amount of solemnity about them. Not that all of that was the composer's choice.
Both of these are based on ancient hymns of the church. The hymns themselves occur in the bottom voice, and move more slowly than the parts up above, which is a good way not to really notice them (and get lots of complaints from clergy!). And they happen to be in minor themselves. Church holidays tended to be dignified affairs. Note that Christmas wasn't yet about Santa Claus and presents, and the Easter bunny wasn't hiding eggs.
Still, there is enough joy in the proceedings. Notice how Praetorius likes to shoot up and down the scale, particularly toward the end of both pieces. In true Renaissance fashion, they both tend to start with longer notes, and accelerate note values so that they save all of their rushing around for the finale. Praetorius doesn't tend to do this much in the remaining pieces in his hymn settings for the organ; these are particularly joyous occasions.
Happy Christmas and Merry Easter.
Summo Parenti Gloria
Vita Sanctorum
Monday, April 1, 2013
Toccata minute?
Yesterday, Widor's celebrated Toccata, the final movement from his Fifth Organ Symphony, was heard throughout the land. It has been a tradition at our church, too, as the Postlude to our Easter services. So a few days ago I dusted the thing off and gave it another go.
The piece is probably one of the two most popular pieces of organ music in the world. This does not mean it is popular with organists,--I've come across several of them complaining about it recently online--but then, anything that popular with the general public is going to come into some irritation with the professionals, for two reasons:
1) it gets played entirely too often, and to the exclusion of all kinds of other great music
2) it is not the undisputed and far-and-away greatest piece of music in the world, despite what many people think.
The first reason is obvious. Anyone who plays the organ for a living is going to get tired of playing the same piece or handful of pieces again and again no matter how great it is; if a piece gets regularly requested (or demanded) for various occasions, it is probably going to wear thin after a while. Keep in mind that an organist is going to live with the piece while learning it (possibly an investment of hours, days, weeks, and months) and then keeping it under the fingers (more hours) and is going to have exponentially more exposure to such a piece than a person who only listens to it while it is being performed.
As to the second reason, there are certainly plenty of other fine pieces of music in the literature, and it is a shame many people don't know them, or care to know them. Widor's Toccata is, in my opinion, a very fine piece of music, though it is probably overplayed. I only play it once a year, on Easter, but I recently came across a comment saying that her organist played the piece four times a year.That seems a bit much, though I'll grant that as a listener you would still only be spending about 25 minutes a year listening to it, which doesn't seem at all excessive. It is a remarkable piece, though as an organist I know there are many others which I would like to share with people and would make their hair stand on end the way they do for me. But every year when I play the Widor I get an ovation; more compliments and more appreciation than at any other time of the year (and I am lucky: I have an appreciative and open-minded congregation); more people coming up to me with moist eyes telling me how that piece was played at their wedding, or a dear friend's funeral, or just thrilled that I am (so the legend goes) one of the few organists in the world who can play such a supremely challenging piece. I suppose I feel a little guilty and embarrassed about being such a celebrity for a day; on the other hand, what a privilege to be able to make so many people so happy with a single piece of music! I've had people suggest to me before that it just "makes Easter" for them. What is it about this single piece that makes it so loved while so many other great pieces never get the acclaim?
In the first place it makes an immediate impact. It does not require repeated hearings to figure it out, nor does it parcel out its mysteries over time with patient effort. Like a handful of other classical pieces that everybody seems to know, it gives a lot and makes few demands on the listener. It is loud and fast, which makes it exciting, and it delivers an constant stream of 16th notes which never changes for the entire course of the piece. The harmonies change--that is what makes the piece interesting--but the rhythmic pattern never does. The same thing happens with pieces like Bach's Prelude in C from the first volume of the Well-Tempered Clavier and Pachelbel's Canon in D, both mainstays of wedding ceremonies, pieces laypersons like and request frequently.
In a nutshell, the piece is both viscerally exciting and highly predictable, which is to say it soothes the mind and quickens the pulse. I might differ with some of my colleagues by suggesting that it is also a great musical achievement and I certainly don't mind playing it a couple of times a year. One thing that none of us can deny is that it sounds very hard to play and earns many accolades from an audience. It can also be used and abused by many an amateur organist or professional trying to set land speed records as if it were the Widor 100 meter sprint.
The curious thing about all that is that the composer, in the usually doomed but valiant attempt by a composer to keep his creation from being made into a vehicle to simply show off the performer, put staccato dots above every single note and it is really impossible to articulate each note and play the piece ridiculously fast at the same time.
I'll show you what I mean. Kristen and I were at an organ recital for tourists in Prague last summer, which of course concluded with this organ showpiece par excellence. Whether because the organist was tired of playing the piece 365 days a year or didn't think the audience could handle more than 3 minutes of Widor, he played the piece so quickly that he had to leave out several notes every couple of measures in the left hand because the organ (and/or his fingers) probably wouldn't respond fast enough. Then he cut the last couple pages and went straight to the final chords. This was in a real bathtub of a church, so to give you an idea of what it sounded like--begging your pardon--I added a "crap-ton" of reverb to this recording, which I played twice as fast as I usually do. It's only the first 45 seconds--or minute-and-a-half, depending.
Widor Toccata, tourist's edition
The odd thing about all that is, to my ears, at least, the piece doesn't sound all that fast anymore. It has gotten so close to warp speed that the stars aren't moving. All of which is delightfully ironic--in a bid to impress, it gets so impressive it isn't impressive anymore. But then again, my ears aren't your ears, or anybody else's. Maybe it does sound fast to you. For me, once those sixteenth notes lose their individuality and disappear in a hazy sound cloud the sense of motion gets lost and you have to fasten your ear on the much slower moving melody notes in the bass or the changing harmonies once a couple of times a measure. The effect is the same as being in an airplane and watching the ground beneath move ever so slowly even though you are going 600 miles an hour.
Last year, the day after Easter, I recorded the piece in a tempo that was probably closer to what Widor had in mind. Widor often complained about American organists taking his piece too fast so I slowed it down a little. Now it turns out you can actually hear Widor himself playing the toccata online (probably a copyright violation but you can find it yourself) and his version is still about 30 seconds slower than mine. Then again, he was practically ninety at the time of the recording! And although his physical control suffers at times, and the staid tempo occasionally lapses into the banal, most of the time his interpretation is riveting, majestic--alive! On Easter, when the message is pure joy, this is its musical evocation. One is again reminded how this simple piece became a musical symbol of resurrection, of hope beyond the grave, one great glorious Easter shout.
Happy Easter!
Widor: Toccata from Symphonie no. 5
The piece is probably one of the two most popular pieces of organ music in the world. This does not mean it is popular with organists,--I've come across several of them complaining about it recently online--but then, anything that popular with the general public is going to come into some irritation with the professionals, for two reasons:
1) it gets played entirely too often, and to the exclusion of all kinds of other great music
2) it is not the undisputed and far-and-away greatest piece of music in the world, despite what many people think.
The first reason is obvious. Anyone who plays the organ for a living is going to get tired of playing the same piece or handful of pieces again and again no matter how great it is; if a piece gets regularly requested (or demanded) for various occasions, it is probably going to wear thin after a while. Keep in mind that an organist is going to live with the piece while learning it (possibly an investment of hours, days, weeks, and months) and then keeping it under the fingers (more hours) and is going to have exponentially more exposure to such a piece than a person who only listens to it while it is being performed.
As to the second reason, there are certainly plenty of other fine pieces of music in the literature, and it is a shame many people don't know them, or care to know them. Widor's Toccata is, in my opinion, a very fine piece of music, though it is probably overplayed. I only play it once a year, on Easter, but I recently came across a comment saying that her organist played the piece four times a year.That seems a bit much, though I'll grant that as a listener you would still only be spending about 25 minutes a year listening to it, which doesn't seem at all excessive. It is a remarkable piece, though as an organist I know there are many others which I would like to share with people and would make their hair stand on end the way they do for me. But every year when I play the Widor I get an ovation; more compliments and more appreciation than at any other time of the year (and I am lucky: I have an appreciative and open-minded congregation); more people coming up to me with moist eyes telling me how that piece was played at their wedding, or a dear friend's funeral, or just thrilled that I am (so the legend goes) one of the few organists in the world who can play such a supremely challenging piece. I suppose I feel a little guilty and embarrassed about being such a celebrity for a day; on the other hand, what a privilege to be able to make so many people so happy with a single piece of music! I've had people suggest to me before that it just "makes Easter" for them. What is it about this single piece that makes it so loved while so many other great pieces never get the acclaim?
In the first place it makes an immediate impact. It does not require repeated hearings to figure it out, nor does it parcel out its mysteries over time with patient effort. Like a handful of other classical pieces that everybody seems to know, it gives a lot and makes few demands on the listener. It is loud and fast, which makes it exciting, and it delivers an constant stream of 16th notes which never changes for the entire course of the piece. The harmonies change--that is what makes the piece interesting--but the rhythmic pattern never does. The same thing happens with pieces like Bach's Prelude in C from the first volume of the Well-Tempered Clavier and Pachelbel's Canon in D, both mainstays of wedding ceremonies, pieces laypersons like and request frequently.
In a nutshell, the piece is both viscerally exciting and highly predictable, which is to say it soothes the mind and quickens the pulse. I might differ with some of my colleagues by suggesting that it is also a great musical achievement and I certainly don't mind playing it a couple of times a year. One thing that none of us can deny is that it sounds very hard to play and earns many accolades from an audience. It can also be used and abused by many an amateur organist or professional trying to set land speed records as if it were the Widor 100 meter sprint.
The curious thing about all that is that the composer, in the usually doomed but valiant attempt by a composer to keep his creation from being made into a vehicle to simply show off the performer, put staccato dots above every single note and it is really impossible to articulate each note and play the piece ridiculously fast at the same time.
I'll show you what I mean. Kristen and I were at an organ recital for tourists in Prague last summer, which of course concluded with this organ showpiece par excellence. Whether because the organist was tired of playing the piece 365 days a year or didn't think the audience could handle more than 3 minutes of Widor, he played the piece so quickly that he had to leave out several notes every couple of measures in the left hand because the organ (and/or his fingers) probably wouldn't respond fast enough. Then he cut the last couple pages and went straight to the final chords. This was in a real bathtub of a church, so to give you an idea of what it sounded like--begging your pardon--I added a "crap-ton" of reverb to this recording, which I played twice as fast as I usually do. It's only the first 45 seconds--or minute-and-a-half, depending.
Widor Toccata, tourist's edition
The odd thing about all that is, to my ears, at least, the piece doesn't sound all that fast anymore. It has gotten so close to warp speed that the stars aren't moving. All of which is delightfully ironic--in a bid to impress, it gets so impressive it isn't impressive anymore. But then again, my ears aren't your ears, or anybody else's. Maybe it does sound fast to you. For me, once those sixteenth notes lose their individuality and disappear in a hazy sound cloud the sense of motion gets lost and you have to fasten your ear on the much slower moving melody notes in the bass or the changing harmonies once a couple of times a measure. The effect is the same as being in an airplane and watching the ground beneath move ever so slowly even though you are going 600 miles an hour.
Last year, the day after Easter, I recorded the piece in a tempo that was probably closer to what Widor had in mind. Widor often complained about American organists taking his piece too fast so I slowed it down a little. Now it turns out you can actually hear Widor himself playing the toccata online (probably a copyright violation but you can find it yourself) and his version is still about 30 seconds slower than mine. Then again, he was practically ninety at the time of the recording! And although his physical control suffers at times, and the staid tempo occasionally lapses into the banal, most of the time his interpretation is riveting, majestic--alive! On Easter, when the message is pure joy, this is its musical evocation. One is again reminded how this simple piece became a musical symbol of resurrection, of hope beyond the grave, one great glorious Easter shout.
Happy Easter!
Widor: Toccata from Symphonie no. 5
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)