Mr. Sweelinck and I

For Ash Wednesday this year I played an organ piece by Jan Sweelinck. Intrinsic to this particular service each year is the reminder of our own mortality, so I chose a set of variations on "My young life has an end" as the prelude, which, if Mr. Sweelinck himself ever played the piece at his church, is probably when his congregants would have heard it too.

Whenever I think of Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck, I think of the survival of the church musician. Organists are never the ones in charge, and they know that their own philosophies and desires regarding the music of the church are always subject to review and censure from the ones who are in charge. I have been enjoying quite a bit of freedom to chose, and creatively execute, the music of the service, and so has our choir director. This summer, though, we will be getting a new pastor, and one never knows what will be permissible with a new boss.

Sweelinck's case was fairly extreme. He grew up in 16th century Amsterdam, a city many of us now associate with freedom of thought to the nth degree. In his day, Amsterdam was a Catholic City. Under the guidance of a Catholic priest, young Jan learned the organ, and by the age of 15 was the organist at his home church (I have him beat by a year if you include a four week stint as a substitute; more on that this fall). But a year later, he suffered a change of boss.

I say suffered because it was more than a small change. The entire city was taken over by Protestants. And in this age, they didn't merely set up across the street and compete with the Catholics, they were the ones in charge and dedicated themselves to wiping out every vestige of that "incorrect" religion they were determined to replace.

One thing they didn't do was smash the organ. The city fathers had just paid a lot of money for a new instrument and apparently prevailed upon the Protestants not to "protest" quite so cruelly as they often did when they "reformed" a city. (Believing the organ to be a Catholic thing, they were determined not to allow it as part of their own rite.) Adding to their moderation Sweelinck was even permitted to play the organ. Just not during church anymore.

Strict Calvinists did, and often still do, adhere to the "Regulative Principle" of worship, which basically says that if you can't specifically find it in the New Testament, or make a very close argument from scripture, you can't have it in worship. Since the letters of Paul don't specifically mention organ playing during worship, organ playing has to go.

There was a bit of a snag, which was that the Protestants brought with them an entirely new set of hymns which the congregation didn't know. So Sweelinck was allowed to improvise variations on these new hymns before the service began. Once the service started, however, he was not allowed to play the organ.

There is a tiny bit of me that is jealous of Sweelinck on this score. On the one hand, this must have represented a difficult censure of his person and his faith, and disallowed him from what must have felt his duty to God and his people; on the other, it relieved him of a lot of responsibility and basically gave him a lot of free time.

Sweelinck was apparently kept on as Municipal Organist, allowed to play concerts, and given what appears to have been a good salary, and without having to perform as many functions. This evidently gave him lots of time to compose. In that respect, it reminds me of Bach at his first church in Arnstadt, when he only had to serve about 6 hours a week and had the rest of the time to practice and write music. For a growing genius that was an incredible blessing. Sweelinck was also a growing genius, and needed time to develop and grow, whether the fruits of his labor would be permitted to resound in God's temple or no.

But he doesn't seem to have taken these developments lying down; not musically, anyway. Among his organ compositions, most of which were probably written down as he got older (being an inveterate improviser he didn't write anything down at first) are some pieces based on Catholic hymns (surprise!). That is also true of many of his vocal compositions. Peter Dirksen and Harold Vogel, in their edition of Sweelinck's works (2004) suggest that his publication in 1619 in the "Catholic city of Antwerp" (people sometimes chose places of publication that might be friendlier to their contents) might be "Sweelinck's answer to the Synod of Dordrecht" which basically re-affirmed Calvinism in the face of opposing doctrines (and political suspicion). It is an interesting premise; I have no idea what Sweelinck actually felt about all of these developments and have not uncovered any materials that would tell (do they exist?) But he seems to have gotten along pretty well for himself in the situation in which he was cast; he was even able to charge pretty high prices for lessons and seems to have been well respected by his city. But I can't imagine he was entirely happy with the people who had basically chased his priest and mentor from the city and were hostile to the faith of his formative years. That seems apparent from his output, which is mixed.

I've noticed that phenomenon in the catalogs of a few organists of the time; the tendency to write some pieces based on Lutheran chorales, and others on Latin Hymns. It is curious, and makes me consult the map of Europe during the Reformation and the composer's biographies for answers. I am more curious than many musicians who seem content to play the music without asking why. But whenever a composer whose town (and therefore himself; for geography was religion and personal choice was not a safe option) is of one faith (today we call them denominations) writes pieces of another, one well might wonder why, mightn't one? If you were me, that is.

I suppose I'll just have to keep digging.


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p.s. My cat doesn't seem to like Sweelinck's music. He jumped off my lap as I began to play some.

Speaking figuratively

This week in church I'm playing a piece by Jan Sweelinck based on the hymn "I Call to You, Lord Jesus Christ" (or, in the original German, "Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ." Mr. Sweelinck lived from the latter 16th and into the early 17th centuries. He lived in Amsterdam for most of his life. He wrote organ music. He didn't own an IPOD or have a website. Or go to Disney world. What are the chances that a 21st century American is going to get something out of his music?

And yet that is my quest this week as I try to communicate with my congregation in a way that will at least stir some sense of understanding, if not appreciation, for the music of this seemingly remote individual. After all, I didn't really feel a sense of familiarity or understanding when I began learning the music, and I've had a lot more experience in musical matters than someone who walks into a church on Sunday morning and hears a piece by Sweelinck for the first time. To me, being able to communicate something that will help remove the barriers between the listener and the composer is important. But how to do it? And, can't the music just speak for itself?

An interesting question early this week led to some interesting results. While playing the piece through I started to wonder why the composer kept shifting gears so often: now the accompaniment was rapid, now slow, now jumped around, now was a series of smooth runs. What was making him change his mind so often? And yet, for all that, the hymn tune remained.

I had a little suspicion of what might be going on here. A number of composers of the time, particularly when they wrote music with words, or, in this case, music related to words in which the text is silent (ie, it is based on a hymn which you sing, but it is for organ alone so the words of the hymn are only implied) subscribed to the idea that you could invest those words with meaning depending on what you did with the music. Known as the "doctrine of figures" the idea was that if the notes when up it meant something, or if they went down it meant something; if they jumped around or were very active it meant something, and so forth. In its most extreme form one could get the idea that putting a composition together didn't involve creativity at all, and that, when faced with a concept, all you had to do was look up the "musical word" that meant that idea and you were all set. I don't think it really worked that way, though it might have tended in that direction.

I have to say I don't think because I am not much of an expert on this doctrine of figures. I've read about it here and there but I've had trouble locating any good sources that really explain it in detail. A few composers of the time wrote extensive works about the idea, complete with a compendium of musical analogues, and I hope eventually to get my hands on them and find out a few things. In the meantime, though, I've been going through middlemen.

It's rare that when I go online to find something out I get so enlightened so quickly, but, as it happened, an organist/scholar in Canada had posted a fascinating video in which she played the same piece I'm playing on Sunday, and, as each line of the silent text goes by, not only does she put the words on the screen, in Dutch and English, but her thoughts on what Sweelinck is doing, and why. Since I am new to this particularly field I don't know how certain she can be about it--how much is scholarly intuition or creative insight? But I have to admit it is intriguing. My favorite part of the video (and the music) involves a line from the last verse in which Sweelinck suddenly (at 8:15 in the video) switches to a triple time dance texture at the words "if temptation comes, Lord, defend me." Why there? Well, for many a religious soul in those times (and ours) dancing was worldly, sinful, and generally a bad idea. So apparently, summoning up a dance was a good way to remind us of a temptation we'd do well to avoid.

There are other ideas present in the music--times when the notes wander up and down aimlessly, times when they have jagged edges to represent negative emotions--all explained in this video. I'm linking to it here because I think it might well produce a kind of aha moment for you as well, and show something that we didn't realize was there. Sweelinck is indeed praying his way through this music, taking the text of the hymn as the basis for everything he does; it is not just an exercise in pretty music or finger digitation.

But to a larger question, because a few of you musicians out there will no doubt think all of this unnecessary. Shouldn't it all be obvious? Should we ruin the music by explaining it?

The composers of the time seemed to feel that explanation was unnecessary  and that what they were doing would be obvious to anybody. Perhaps they were being presumptuous. There are times, of course, when the notes go up or down or do something particularly sensational, that it does seem that most people would likely react to it pretty much the same way. People do that with marches and minor key music, flashy toccatas and erudite fugues. But it can quickly become a question of just how similarly we react and just when is a musical idea too subtle to admit that same idea to everyone regardless of preconditioning?

I've decided not to assume too much--after all, I didn't know most of this was there until I went looking for it. And I've decided part of my role as an organist is to help other people find these things, too--to appreciate their heritage, and to get something out of what we are doing on Sunday morning, as well.

Which is where the last sentence of my program notes took a turn this week. So far this may seem like a fairly learned exercise, of the understanding, and historical knowledge. But Sweelinck wasn't interested in making musical analogies for their own sake. He is setting a prayer to music. That isn't about simply knowing the words--it goes beyond that. It is about meaning them. Making meaning--in music, and in the hearts of the hearers.

Here's the video: Enjoy!