Holding forth at the organ

If you are an organist, and have always wondered how to impose your will on a congregation, I have your long-sought answer:

First, don't think of it that way. It's bad form.

Second, you have to be subtle about it. Well, not subtle, exactly, just....flexible.

...which is a paradox, right? I love a good paradox. Do you?

We're going to get along fine.

Now then, about last week. We had a little hymn going. A favorite of the pastor's, it seems. Now this little hymn had a bit of a fermata at the end of the second to last line.

If you've been a church organist for a while, you see one of those, and you ask yourself a few questions internally, in the run up to the fermata. 1) does the congregation know this hymn? answer: probably not. I don't recall us doing it more than once or twice in the ten years I've been their organist. 2) how musically literate is the congregation? answer: the choir is, but not universally. Besides, they routinely ignore musical symbols and have to be reminded to observe them. As for the congregation at large, they are average folks who have forgotten what they learned in music class, and many of them probably either won't notice the fermata or don't know what it's for (I'd vote for the former as the majority position; you can't underestimate people's ability not to notice things).

All of which means that if you are going to observe the fermata, it will have to be audibly spelled out for them. So how does one do that?

The first clue is in the introduction. I played through this section, observing the fermata. Now, an idealist would be under the impression that the congregation would be listening carefully and imbibing the various clues as to how to sing the hymn when it was their turn, particularly since they maybe don't know it. But that's probably assuming too much. Instead, they'll have spent at least half the introduction fumbling with their hymnal and the rest clearing their throat. However, the folks at Faith do manage to receive at least one important element every time:

The introduction sets the tempo. I recently heard an organist online whip through an introduction and then, when the people came in, the tempo was worlds slower. That's not how things work at Faith. Part of the point of the introduction is to set the tempo. And it is the same speed at which the hymn will be played throughout. Also we set the stage via the key, and remind people how the tune goes. But the tempo is pretty important. And they pick up on that and are ready to join me at the same tempo. Yeah, congregation!

The choir and the pastor are also good about figuring out when to come in. I imagine I deserve a bit of credit for that, but they have good ears and can hear the musical cues I throw out so we don't all have to stare at our shoes during some enormous grand pause and can simply hit the ground running. Now then....

The fermata. It worked, if I recall, on the first verse. I think it happened on the second. I thought I had it made. Then it failed on the third attempt. And finally, the last time, it worked beautifully. Ok, so what happened the third time?

The organist is a leader. But there are two ways to lead. One is from the front, another is from behind. Sometimes you get out in front and set the agenda (or the tempo). Other times you are there to make the congregation sound good--i.e... to facilitate. I may have been doing a little too much facilitating at the wrong time on the third verse. The stop selection may have been too quiet, and I don't think I gave enough of a ritardando on the three chords leading up to the fermata, which is what made the fourth try so obvious, and got everyone to stop. Also, on that last verse, I set louder stops.

My general philosophy as a hymn-leader is to do just enough and not more. If it is a familiar hymn and the choir and/or congregation sounds good, I often don't play the melody. Then I am an accompanist. The organ part may sound like the accompaniment to an anthem, or it may be spare and only serve to keep time and remind of the pitch. There are also times when the organ stops altogether and the choir and congregation sing a verse entirely unaccompanied. I frequently do this without advance warning, and it is based on my listening to the quality of the singing and determining whether folks sound like they would be comfortable without an organist. If they don't need me, my role changes.

There are other times, of course, when it is obvious they are hanging on for dear life, and I keep a firm tempo, a full organ sound, and make the melody obvious. The difference is in the listening, and for me, the ear is the primary arbiter when I am playing hymns. What is in the page is secondary--the ear keeps me oriented.

Which is pretty handy sometimes, because what happened on that third verse is that the entire choir completely blew through the fermata. Before I knew it, they were on the next downbeat--without their organist! But a recording of the hymn, if such existed, would not seem to indicate that anything was amiss. That's because while I was recovering from my surprise, I was re-configuring my meter map. Beat one was all congregation and no organ. Beat two was where the organist started up again, having immediately reinterpreted the downbeat, and knowing exactly where he was rhythmically. So in fact, it sounded exactly as if I had planned it that way (there are times I drop out for a beat or two on purpose). Of course, it probably helped that I was already on alert for such a thing happening before it happened, but listening and reacting quickly can keep ensemble disasters from happening.

Slowing down, obviously and loudly, going from facilitator to leader-by-making-himself-prominent to the ears of the congregation, I got that last fermata to stick. But I didn't hold it very long; that seemed wise. However, had I held that chord longer, I might have gotten the fermata to last a bit longer.

You see, I am an accompanist of the congregation, and they are an accompanist of me, if by that term we mean that we have to adjust to each other. All of us are raising our voices together, and by teaching the congregation to listen for musical cues from the organist, and by the organist doing the same thing for the congregation, we establish the importance of everyone doing this together. Nobody sings or plays at the expense of the other, we all contribute. And we all sing lustily or muddle through together as well, although that last is why I am sitting at a pitched instrument with a doctorate in music--so I can help with the unfamiliar and the difficult. Sometimes I have to carry the congregation and sometimes they do just fine on their own. We have our different roles, but we are one body.

Don't Let a wall of snow hit you on the way out!

Now that February is nearly over, I would just like to say to it, "good riddance."

The second month of the year and I have a history of not getting along. I don't think I'm really unusual in this respect. Most of the people I meet here in Illinois complain about the weather these days. The rest are currently in Florida, or Hawaii.

It's cold; it's dark; it's dreary. Christmas was over a long time ago. We societally binged on that chance to ameliorate the gloom with lights and cheer before we even felt the need (we're a little challenged in the impulse-control department) and now the snow is no longer a novelty, and the cold has nothing to do but to better its records (minus 4 so far tonight as I write this; that's in Fahrenheit), and the darkness, while technically diminishing each day, is not making the days noticeably longer just yet. I don't imagine I qualify as having Seasonal Affective Disorder, or Depression, but these days are just harder to live through. My overloaded schedule is making me tired, and I'm not feeling very ambitious.

And yet I've managed to record both Schumann's Scenes from Childhood and Satie's Sports and Divertissments this month, along with a delightful set of Rameau pieces, and a handful of pieces for the organ, including a few improvisations and have been practicing a few other things on the piano. Despite this, I feel like my productivity is down. It may be, or it might be an impression.

That's the first thing I do to combat these feelings: recognize that reality and my perceptions about reality might not be the same thing, particularly when it is cold and dark all the time. Other than having a few valid reasons for somewhat elevated stress, life isn't really any worse. I know what's causing this: it's the weather. I can't do anything about it, but it will change eventually. And when it does I'll have survived another February. Some years are harder than others.

There have been a few days when I haven't been particularly productive at all, but these tend to be on Mondays after weekends packed with extras--4 church services and a choir rehearsal always, but sometimes a late-night gig or a marathon rehearsal into the bargain. In that case, I forgive myself for not pursuing projects I would like to; get some rest, write some blogs, and get on with it the next day.

But it's February's final week, now. I'm taking a little hiatus from practicing this week, which is the only thing I really can take a haitus from (I can get away without voluntarily touching the piano and organ for a few days and still manage to sound fine at rehearsals and services). I'll be back by next week, I'm sure. Right now, I'm simply acknowledging that I need a break, and since I'm not going anywhere once again, February and I will have to do battle alone. But I've been watching the calendar and it hasn't got much time left. Soon it will just be another discarded page on the calendar. Take that, February! I always knew you were two days short of a real month.

And don't think you can get out of your impending doom by sending us more snow. It's pretty, but unless there's an avalanche I think we'll survive it just fine. But thanks for trying. It's given me a chance to make another hot cherry pie, and stock up on the cocoa and chai tea.

I'll watch you rage all you want outside, and be warm.

The music around here is clearly going downhill

Next week I intend to start discussing music I'm going to play this spring at a house concert in Champaign. But I'll let you get a jump on it by playing for you this very very short piece by a very interesting fellow named Erik Satie. We've gotten quite a bit of snow this weekend, the powdery kind, and it would be perfect for sledding, if Champaign were not exceedingly flat. A popular t-shirt here reads "Champaign, on the foothills of mount level."

Here is Mr. Satie's musical version of the activity of sledding. If you've got someplace to go, perfect. I promise this will only take 30 seconds. And when you've recovered, we can talk about it a little next week.

Satie: Le Traineau

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.


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

Take Care of yourself

Sometimes the only thing between you and success is a glass of water.

Sure, it helps if you are prepared, mentally collected, experienced, and just generally good at what you do, but in the end, the performance, or the rehearsal, happens right here, right now, and you have to do your best no matter the circumstances and no matter your condition. And we all get sick, and we all get tired.

On Sunday, after three morning services and an afternoon going away party for our former pastor, an all-too-brief attempted nap and a dash for food, I faced a four hour choir rehearsal. That can be a tricky thing even when you are well rested and ready to go, but often my performances and rehearsals are lumped together and there isn't much time to recover from one before it is time for another. And when you are running from one place to another with little time for error it is easy to forget that most basic of elements:

water.


Feeling dehydrated, I took a minute to listen to my body, find a water fountain and fill a tall cup twice with water. Made quite a difference, particularly in the first two hours before dinner with 60 people hanging on for dear life through tricky meter changes and quick tempi.

Musicians these days love to blog; love to give advice; love to tell you how to be as successful as they are. The interwebs are full of advice on how to practice, how to be mentally tough, how to get the next gig; here's one you might not read often enough, but it's the result of experience, and this week is just the latest example. Try it, it works! The amazing take-care-of-your-body method. Keep calm and carry on.

But first, make sure you drank enough water.

Blame the Equipment

If you've ever played tennis you may be familiar with the phenomenon in which a black hole mysteriously opens in the middle of your racquet just as you are about to deliver a killer shot and inexplicably causes you to miss.

I was, very technically, on the tennis team for a year in high school and experienced this an unaccountable number of times. Naturally I was so stunned each time a parallel dimension came crashing through into our reality that I looked at my racquet as if to say, "somehow, this is your fault." My friend, who liked to stretch the definition of the term friend, enjoyed merrily pointing this out every time, suggesting that it wasn't really the racquet's fault at all and that there was in fact something wrong with my game.

I am, therefore, aware of how you might react to my recent round of equipment blaming. It has to do with the organ.

Last fall, I noticed an odd thing. There were times when the articulation on some of the notes was not as crisp as I wanted. I have a stern ear, and it wants what it wants. This means that actually missing a note isn't the only thing that can go wrong with a passage. If one of the notes overstays its welcome by even a tiny bit, that passage can sound sloppy. Now given that we'd just had the action reworked and tightened, and that some of the keys were quite obviously sticking, there was a case to be made that some of the occasional inarticulate passages that mar my recordings from last September were not my fault. Since that time, the action has relaxed, and sticking notes are less of a problem, though they still crop up occasionally. But last week, I made recorded evidence that it isn't just the keyboard that can make mistakes. This one came from the organ itself.

What you are about to listen to are two passages from the same performance. Our organ has a playback system, and what this means is that I can hit a record button on the console and play a piece of music, whereon the system in the pipe room stores as MIDI data each key as it is depressed, released, when stops are added or removed, and so on. Then, when you press the PLAY button, it will replicated your performance exactly on the organ itself.

So when I say it is the same performance, I mean I played the piece one time, and recorded the results twice, each time by hitting the PLAY button and audio recording the results that I had already recorded on the organ console earlier. And when I got to exhibit A I heard a note that didn't exactly fire.

exhibit A         

"That's odd," I though. "I don't remember muffing that note when I played it."

I hadn't. That much became clear when, being a suspicious lad, I hit the play button a second time and re-recorded the same performance from organ to microphone. The second time it sounded fine.

exhibit B

What would cause a variation like that? Remember, the organ is a large and complex instrument. It consists of large metal and wooden pipes, and lots of moving parts. Those parts can be affected by humidity and temperature. Sometimes something sticks, however temporary, and affects the execution.

My theory is that, the first time, the temperature in the sanctuary had something to do with it. Typically, when I record during the winter months, I bump up the temperature five degrees, then turn the thermostat back to its regular position. During the time it takes the sanctuary to fall five degrees, the heat will not come on, which would cause background hissing on the recordings and affect their quality, particularly when it comes to recordings of the piano (on the organ you can hear the blower going anyhow). Sometimes the change in temperature can cause the wood in the building to make rather loud settling noises, which I then have to edit out. But as the temperature settles back to what that space is "used to" there is less tension on the wood. And also less time to record before the heat begins to hiss and hum all over again. In the summer this is less of a concern. I only have to worry about the birds. And the air-conditioning.

And occasionally, the equipment doesn't quite behave itself. In which case, you try it again. Even if it's not your fault. That's life.

Now that's not so paranoid, is it?

Omaha!

The older I get, the more I stress planning ahead, particularly when it comes to church services. The chances are good that by the time the congregation hears the opening voluntary on Sunday, I've been practicing it close to every day for around two weeks. The same will be true of various other elements in the service. The choir usually gets going on the anthem about a month ahead of time; I've chosen most of what I'm going to play as soon as the next sermon series gets disseminated. Only the hymns come the week of the service, and I don't practice those much.

It's odd that I am such a preparer, because I also improvise a lot. I used to improvise entire church services--that offertory you heard this morning? Totally made that up as it was happening. If it's done well, the congregation can't tell. In fact, I remember throwing a change-up at some people in my congregation in Baltimore. When someone asked about the morning prelude one morning and I told them I just made it up, word got around that I sometimes improvised. The next week somebody noticed that there was no music on the rack and said, "You must have made up that postlude." "Nope" said I. "That was a piece I was playing from memory!" I like messing with people.

These days I still incorporate improvisation into a service (hard to avoid). But I emphasize the planned elements more. Still, it is impossible to get through a service without a fair amount of real-time adjustment.  This is not always in the form of create music on the spot, either. It can simply mean listening and watching. Last Sunday, for instance, the pastor wanted to sign through a single-verse hymn twice. He put up two fingers as we were singing. Now he had warned me at the early service just before we sang the hymn, but I didn't think the choir director knew about it. She had planned to conduct the hymn (which she rarely does) nice and slow and with some rubato. So I played the hymn a bit faster and in time for the first round, looking at the pastor and choir loft every so often the whole time. Then I noticed the pastor give the "2" sign again while the choir director was looking. Good, she saw it, I thought. So we went around again. This time, she directed. I know because on the second beat it was clear that the choir was behind me. I suddenly looked up and realized what a dummy I was for not having my eyes on the choir loft (20 feet to the right, by the way) when we started the second verse. Instead, my eyes were on the piano, making sure I didn't miss some octaves in the left hand. The ensemble problem only lasted a second, though; we were synced up by the next measure (I stretched that third beat a lot). I had had some warning about both the extra verse and the directing, but still had to be on the lookout for how these elements would come together. Otherwise they wouldn't!

An incident like that is only a few moments out of a typical Sunday morning. Two weeks ago we had what is possibly our most impromptu service. We've been in the midst of a pastor change at Faith, which, given that it involves medical leave, came up suddenly. So on Sunday morning extra elements (like an announcement to the congregation, followed by question and answers) were added, some were discarded (for time reasons), and some were moved around (such as when the liturgist accidentally skipped the opening voluntary). About a third of the way into the service, the pastor said to the congregation that they'd probably noticed that what was actually happening bore little resemblance to what was in their bulletins and that they could discard their bulletins!

Far from find that sort of thing annoying, I actually enjoy the challenge of a slapdash morning like that. I enjoy them because I know they can be successful but that I had better concentrate because the service(s) will be difficult, and lack of focus and quick and accurate decision making will make a mess of things. Therefore there is a bit of survivalist mode in view. This is going to take everything: no sleepwalking today.

And yet I plan. And most mornings go pretty much according to plan. Never entirely, I think, but mainly. And yet, when the pastor (or someone else) calls an audible, changing the play at the last minute, it can be most interesting. Now for some folks that's a dirty word: interesting. It is a synonym for less-than-good. But that's not what I mean. I actually mean that it piques my interest.

Our church is going through a lot of change these days. I am reminded of the 'Chinese curse': "May you live in interesting times." Whenever yet another development rocks our comfortable world, I tell my colleagues, "Well, it least things aren't boring around here." It's practically become my motto. It does feel sometimes as if there can be too much of a good thing: even for the man who likes change more than most there can be some overload. So when all of this is over, I may order up a couple of weeks of 'boring' just so I can get a bit of rest!