...And then he died.

Sometimes people can be funny without meaning it; or at least you and I can derive humor from their serious efforts (shame on us). That can be said even of the Bible, specifically parts of Genesis and other places strewn about the OT in which genealogical lists are (slightly) amplified by a short description of a person's accomplishments (usually slaying a lot of enemy combatants) followed quickly by the phrase "...and then he died." If you are reading the list at even a normal speed, after the eighth or ninth repetition, that ultimate phrase can start to seem pretty amusing. It seems to indicate that the author didn't feel like saying any more (see also 1 and 2 Kings: "As for all the other interesting stuff king X did, is it not written in the Book of the Annals of the Kings of Israel? Then don't bother me about it!") and it also puts into tragicomic perspective the brevity of our lives. Grim realities pile on until, by sheer repetition, you can't help laughing about it.

That phrase strikes a little closer to home this week, though, because, as a church organist, I couldn't help noticing a strange phenomenon a few years ago. It may be nothing, but the way it happened seemed to give it  importance.

I happened to notice, a while ago, when reading about the great organist Marcel Dupre, that he died on Pentecost. In the afternoon. Played the service, came home, took a nap, and went to Divine Mass up close.

It wasn't more than a few weeks later that I purchased a recording by another french organist, Pierre Coucherou, who was known for his improvisations, and collaborated with his priest during Lent one year to improvise pieces to accompany scripture readings for the entire book of Matthew. His final improvisation was on Easter Sunday. On Monday night, he died.

Hmmm, I thought. Dupre died on Pentecost in the afternoon. Coucherou died the day after Easter. Is this part of a trend? After all, major church holidays can leave me feeling pretty drained. Maybe if you are old and tired to begin with, or in ill health, that last push can take what you have left. And then a voice whispers, "Christmas is over. You can go now." or "Easter is over. Take a rest. Permanently."

These are only two instances, whether or not I happened to hear about them within weeks of each other. So I thought I'd ask the interwebs if anyone else of note in the organist world had passed within days of a major church holiday. The first thing I found out is that (astonishingly) the internet isn't at all interested. I had to look up the date of Pentecost in 1971 to even confirm that I remembered Dupre's death correctly. All the articles would say was it happened on May 30.

I'd assumed that some ghoulish soul would have compiled such a list already, but I couldn't find it. So I looked up a few famous organists and checked their deaths against the calendar. Widor and Vierne both died in 1937 but not right after a big holiday. (Widor passed during Lent and Vierne waited until summer.) Both revolutionized the idea of composing for the organ. Widor was the first to call pieces for the instrument "symphonies" because of the sheer sound and scope of their conception. Sounds like quite the pioneer, right? But if Widor's death were in the Bible (no time for dallying here), it might read thusly:

"Widor was an organist. He wrote 10 symphonies, one of which is nearly an hour long! He lived to a ripe old age and had many pupils. And then he died."

Or, if you prefer the alternate ending..."as for all the other things Widor did and the compositions he wrote, are they not listed in the organist's guild magazine?" (or Wikipedia)

Charles Tournemire, on the other hand, passed on November 3rd or 4th (we aren't sure for some reason). That happens to be right around All Saints Sunday, so I checked it out. Sunday was on the 5th. Although, being Catholic, he may have already played services for All Saints Day itself (which is always on November 1st) and possibly All Souls Day the following day. I don't know--I don't know the customs in Catholic French Cathedrals well enough, and I haven't done the research. But it does make you wonder a little.

Eugene Gigout was organist at St. Augustine in Paris for 62 years. He died during Advent (how inconsiderate!). He was 81.

Everyone mentioned in this blog was advanced in years except Coucherou, who died of a brain hemorrhage at 59. And, you know, people die when they die. There isn't necessarily any logic to it.

Anyhow, I'm only just past 40. And it's Friday already. Easter was six days ago and I'm still here. So I'm not making celestial reservations. I was pretty tired on Monday but I'm feeling better now. I'm pretty sure I'll pull through. The grim reaper is going to have to wait.

No looking over my shoulder till Pentecost.

We're All Going to Die....weeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!

It's been a rough couple of months for human civilization. It always is.

First, we were told that an ancient (and still living) people from South America had predicted the end of the world, which was conveniently going to happen RIGHT NOW! (O MY GOD!)

The funny thing about that was that right before the Mayan Apocalypse  a few people were on the radio saying that, really, the Mayans weren't predicting the end of the world, it was just the end of a major cycle of their calendar, the way the year 2000 was the end of a major cycle of ours. To which the major media responded: LALALA, WE CAN'T HEAR YOU! WE ARE TOO BUSY TELLING EVERYONE THE WORLD IS GOING TO END AND WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE! Have a nice day, and don't forget we are your number one source for news (and mindless panic)!

Then on the first of January those of us in the United States went over the Fiscal Cliff. At midnight, my wife and I held hands and screamed like we were going down a roller coaster. It was fun.

But it turns out we are still here, disaster averted (or at least deferred), and so I have another blog post to write. As I do, I can't help wondering what the major apocalyptic disaster for the month of February will be. Any ideas?

This being the part of the blog that deals with church music, I thought I'd trot out a fun little piece I played last year for Lent, when we are thinking more seriously about our mortality. It was written by a Mr. Georg Phillip Telemann, a contemporary of Bach, and it is based on the hymn, "All Men Must Die." I made a recording of it the morning I saw it for the first time, so what you are hearing is decidedly a first impression:

Telemann: Alle Menschen Mussen Sterben (first version)

I don't know what your ears heard, but for me, listening to it again after several months, it seemed pretty cheerful, even a bit silly. Now it is possible that Mr. Telemann had his theologian hat on, telling us all that we need not fear death because Christ died for our sins and we have a glorious eternity to look forward to (actually, Bach had ways of incorporating theological constructs into his music, but with Telemann I'm not so sure). And as for the sunny major key, the hymn tune came with that part supplied already and there wasn't much Herr Telemann could do about that. But the third part...well, there's were I may be culpable.

Telemann left absolutely no directions regarding organ registration, so the choice to play the whole thing on one single flute stop is my own. And he didn't say anything about the speed of the piece, which may be the deciding factor in how the piece goes down. I played it pretty briskly. Why, you may ask?

Well, it's hard to pin down. As I looked at the piece, I noticed all the repeated notes, and the little falling gestures, and it just looked so good-natured and slightly daffy that I played it that way.

About a week later, I repented. Still not having played it in church, I thought, well, maybe if I played it a bit slower it would have more gravitas. Maybe the first version was a bit too undignified, I thought. Which is a little odd for my usual tendencies, but we'll discuss that later. You'll note that version two is a minute-and-a-half longer than the first version. I wanted to make sure it had some heft, if not a long face.

Telemann: All Menschen Muss Sterben (second version)

By the time I had gotten around to Sunday, I think I inclined to the first tempo again. I'm curious which one you'd vote for.  Of the 48 Chorale Preludes of Telemann, this is one of my favorites. I can see why he was so popular with the people. Although, if you don't think religion ought to wear a smile...well, I played another piece of Mr. Telemann's for Lent, and a woman told me afterward that it reminded her of the alligators from the Disney movie "Peter Pan."


    

The Karlskirche in Vienna where I played a few of Mr. Telemann's creations. I found the noisy elevator at right, which every five minutes carried workers to the dome for restoration work on the artwork to inspire much devotion and sober contemplation.