From the Alexander Boggs Ryan Collection: The Letters of Marcel Dupré and Alexander Boggs Ryan

Blest be the tie that binds

Our hearts in Christian love;

The fellowship of kindred minds

Is like to that above.

That’s one of the great old chestnuts of hymnody. Who reading those words doesn’t have that tune buzzing in their ears? Everyone knows it. Verse after verse goes by, each building on the way we depend on each other, support each other, and live with each other. It’s usually in F Major or G Major—I prefer G, or maybe start in F and modulate a couple times. Nice to step the tonic of the last chord down a major third, let that become the dominant of the new key, throw in the seventh, and start This glorious hope revives . . . up a half step!

The text is by John Fawcett, London, 1782. The tune is Dennis by Hans Nägeli (1773–1836) and later adapted by Lowell Mason (The Psaltery, 1845). It’s as familiar as they come. But did you ever stop to think that the meter (SM; 8.8.6.6.8) is that of a limerick? Everybody sing: 

Writing a limerick’s absurd,

Line one and line five rhyme in word,

And just as you’ve reckoned, 

Both rhyme with the second;

The fourth line must rhyme with the third.

To make this trick work, you may choose between including the upbeat or not, and you sometimes have to place two or more syllables on the last beat of a line. Everybody sing:

There once was a fellow named Beebe,

Planned to marry a woman named Phoebe,

He said, “I must see 

What the minister’s fee be,

Before Phoebe be Phoebe Beebe.”

§

Last month our friend Jim passed away. His death is a first for us—the first of close friends roughly our age to pass away—and he’s been on my mind a lot. He was a prolific organic gardener and a quintessential “foodie.” He had a great love and real appreciation for fine wine and, since a recent trip to Scotland, single malt scotch. He played guitar a little, and he and his wife Lois were frequent attenders and strong supporters of musical ensembles, especially the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Metropolitan Opera. They traveled together frequently, especially to Italy where they spent much time and had many friends.

In addition to all this, Jim was a geologist, and he had a huge collection of minerals and ores. After his death, Lois is dealing with the dispersal of hundreds of specimens. Some are the size of a chestnut while others are huge—too heavy for one person to carry. The garage and basement are full of Jim’s rocks. Thankfully, Jim’s friends from the Boston Mineral Club have rallied to help with the task. That fellowship of kindred minds—each individual a little crazier than the last—is a tight society of people who are passionate about the variety of minerals that comprise the earth. You might say (as they often do), they have rocks in their heads. But they sure have been wonderful to our friend Lois in her sadness. Everybody sing:

Some people I hang with are jocks

With an aura of dirty white socks.

When they ask me to play

I say, “Maybe some day.

But my principal passion is rocks.”

§

Last summer Wendy and I launched and christened our new boat, Kingfisher. She’s a Marshall 22 built by Marshall Marine in Padanaram, which is a village of South Dartmouth, Massachusetts, just across a bay from the great fishing and whaling capital of New Bedford, an easy sail in a small boat from Nantucket. She’s a broad-beamed, gaff-rigged craft of a class that was used originally for commercial fishing before boats had engines because she can carry lots of cargo and can be sailed single-handed. When I tell people she’s a catboat, they often think of those little rocketship-boats with two hulls. No, not a catamaran, a catboat. She’s only twenty-two feet long, but more then ten feet wide, with lots of space inside for hauling fish! She has a centerboard so we can go into shallow inlets, a little diesel engine to keep us off the rocks, and pretty, classic lines.

Even before we had a chance to put her in the water we joined the Catboat Association. There are about four hundred members, and annual dues are $25. Last February we attended the CBA Annual Meeting at the Marriott Hotel in Groton, Connecticut. We had such fun that we’re going again this year—we’ll miss the Super Bowl, but I’d rather talk about boats. Having been to lots of meetings of pipe organ groups, I’m used to seeing displays of combination actions, tuning tools, CDs, and published music in the exhibition room. This time it was boats on trailers, wood carvers (who could make you a bowsprit or a ribbon-shaped name board for your transom), a couple of smart guys from Yanmar (Japanese manufacturer of marine diesel engines), and monogrammed life jackets. There were workshops about sail handling, navigating, diesel engine maintenance, and lots of storytelling. This fellowship of kindred minds organizes races and other fun events. Catboats, for all their practicality and beauty, are not very fast. One wag spoke up in an open forum saying, “If you wanted to go fast, you should have bought a bicycle.” Racing catboats is a little like racing turtles. May the best man win. Everybody sing:

We’re gathered to talk about boats.

At our meetings, we never take notes.

We organize races

In watery places,

And officers win with most votes.

§

In the summer of 2010, Wall Street Journal reporter Jennifer Levitz was covering a story in Washington, D.C., when she noticed a large crowd milling about in the front yard of a church. When she realized they were all wearing nametags on lanyards she figured they were part of a convention and like any good reporter, she walked across to investigate. She was dumbfounded to learn that they were all organists attending a convention, a fellowship of kindred minds. It had never crossed her mind that organists would gather for large professional meetings so she asked a lot of questions about the current state of the pipe organ. She mentioned that she was based in Boston and someone suggested she should interview me to learn about the role of the organ in modern society. 

The result was a story in the Wall Street Journal with the headline, “Trafficking in Organs, Mr. Bishop Pipes Up to Preserve a Bit of History.” (See http://tinyurl.com/mc9xu2y.) The story begins, “John Bishop leaves the soul-saving to the clergy. He’s content to save the pipe organs—and even that isn’t easy.”

By the way, I suggest there are three areas of public life where puns are
a nuisance:

1. Pipe organs (organ donor, organ transplant, piping up, Swell, Great, Positiv?)

2. Boat names (Liquid Assets, A Crewed Interest, Ahoy Vey)

3. Beauty shops (Shear Delights, The Mane Attraction, A Cut Above)

Feel free to continue with new categories!

In response to Jennifer’s call, we met at Starbucks near Faneuil Hall in Boston. We chatted over lattés for an hour or so. Jennifer is a tall, quick-witted, athletic woman, and from her enthusiasm about my topic, you might have thought she had been interested in the organ all her life. But as this was her first foray into our winded world, I took her through Organ Building 101, Church Music 101, and AGO 101. When she asked what I was working on at the moment, I invited her to come with me to Cambridge, near Harvard Square, that afternoon, where I was meeting with officials of Lesley University. The school had purchased a vacant building, formerly the North Prospect Congregational Church, and planned to move the building across its lot to adjoin a planned new building where it would become part of the Art Library, and the Aeolian-Skinner organ was being offered for sale.

Jennifer’s article concluded:

It can take years to place an organ, but sometimes there are matches made in music heaven. Within weeks of visiting Lesley University, Mr. Bishop found a home for its organ in a church in Texas. It was loaded onto a tractor-trailer, and off it went, the victory recorded by Mr. Bishop on Facebook.

“Another one leaves town ahead of the wrecking ball,” he wrote.

Everybody sing (add another syllable!):

We’re glad to have all that publicity.

Helps preserving works of historicity.

She wrote in the paper

’Bout that tricky caper;

By writing, she joined in complicity.  

§

In 1956, Walter Holtkamp installed a revolutionary organ in the tower gallery of the chapel at the Episcopal Theological School (now Episcopal Divinity School) on Brattle Street in Cambridge, Massachusetts—again, near Harvard Square. My father, a retired Episcopal priest, was instructor of Homiletics there when I was a teenager, and he introduced me to Dr. Alastair Cassels-Brown who was professor of church music there, and with whom I had my first years of organ lessons on that Holtkamp organ. 

Over a number of years I learned various tidbits about the early history of that organ; that Charles Fisk was an apprentice with Holtkamp, that E. Power Biggs lived a few blocks away, that Daniel Pinkham as a young disciple of Biggs was always around, that organ historian Barbara Owen was a close part of that circle, and that Melville Smith (director of the Longy School of Music and organist at the First and Second Church in Boston) was strongly connected with the seminary, and friend with all those others. The Holtkamp organ—with low wind-pressures, slider-windchests (though electro-pneumatic action), baroque-inspired reeds, full principal choruses, and a Rückpositiv—was quite the statement for 1956. And that fellowship of kindred minds (Holtkamp, Fisk, Pinkham, Owen, and Smith) must have had some heady conversations as the organ was being installed.

Christ Church (Episcopal) in Cambridge is an eighteenth-century building, complete with Revolutionary War bullet hole, around the corner from the seminary chapel. Stuart Forster is the current organist, and the World War II era Aeolian-Skinner has been replaced by a stunning new organ by Schoenstein. E. Power Biggs was appointed organist there in 1932, work that coincided with his blossoming concert career. In his book All the Stops (PublicAffairs, 2003, page 86), Craig Whitney relates a (to us) delightful story from that era:

Juggling all this took its toll, and when the rector of Christ Church asked Biggs to read the early Sunday service in addition to his musical duties, Biggs refused. The upshot was reported by Charles Fisk, a nine-year-old member of the church’s boy choir, in a note dated January 2, 1935, in the diary his mother had given him for Christmas. “I went to choir practice,” Fisk wrote. “Mr. Biggs wasnt there.” For (at least) the second time, Biggs had been fired from a church job. The leadership of Christ Church had decided that “Mr. Biggs” was more interested in his professional concert career than he was in being a good church musician, and they were right.

Everybody sing:

The choirboys all had to stand,

At a wave of the organist’s hand.

But Charlie had noted

And later he wroted

That dear Mr. Biggs had been canned.

§

The same year that Holtkamp installed the organ at the seminary, Rudolf von Beckerath installed a four-manual Werkprinzip tracker-action organ with sixty-five ranks at Trinity Lutheran Church in Cleveland. You can read all about that landmark organ at its own website: http://clevelandbeckerath.org/beckerathorgan.html.

That instrument was a major step toward the revival of interest in classic styles of organbuilding. In the following few years, many more new European-built organs were imported to American churches and schools, notably the 1958 Flentrop installed at the instigation of E. Power Biggs in the Busch-Reisinger Museum (now Adolphus Busch Hall) at Harvard University. That’s the organ on which he recorded the wildly popular series Bach Organ Favorites for Columbia Records—a series that still stands as the best-selling solo classical recordings of all time. Nice going, Biggsy!

In June of 1956, G. Donald Harrison was hard at work finishing the great Aeolian-Skinner organ at St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue in New York. He was working under a whopping deadline—Pierre Cochereau, organist of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, would be playing the opening recital on June 25 as part of the 60th national convention of the American Guild of Organists. During those weeks, New York was suffering both a heat wave and a taxi strike. After working late on June 14, Harrison walked to his Third Avenue apartment, ate dinner with his wife Helen, and sat down to watch Victor Borge present his shenanigans on television. At 11:00 p.m. he suffered a heart attack and died.

Last Christmas, and the previous two Easters, Wendy and I have worshipped at St. Thomas Church, to bask in the glorious sounds of the Choir of Men and Boys led by John Scott, who must be considered among the finest living church musicians. And, it’s a poignant thought that as I write, today is the second anniversary of the death of Dr. Gerre Hancock who led the music there with such distinction from 1971 until 2004. 

I never had a chance to meet G. Donald Harrison, but I can at least say our lifetimes overlapped—by less than two weeks. I was born on March 16, 1956!

As we think about the big changes that were going on in the American pipe organ industry, it’s fun to note other developments in the music world. On January 5, 1956, a truck driver named Elvis Presley made his first recording, “Heartbreak Hotel.”

§

Tom Gleason was Wendy’s Russian History professor at Brown University. He was a wonderful mentor, and as Wendy babysat for his kids when she was a student, Tom and his wife Sarah have remained dear friends to this day. Our daughter Meg was also Tom’s student at Brown—Tom and Sarah were hosts for Meg’s graduation party in their house and garden. And Tom and Sarah joined us for a sailing vacation around Greece’s Dodecanese Islands in the Aegean Sea. Tom and I share a fellowship of kindred minds with a love of limericks. Now, let’s face it, the limericks I’m sharing here, most of which are mine, are not the sort that we usually hear. But in the pages of this august journal, I’m not going there. Everybody sing: 

The limerick packs laughs anatomical

In a space that is most economical.

But the good ones I’ve seen 

So seldom are clean, 

And the clean ones so seldom are comical!

The limerick is furtive and mean.

You must keep her in close quarantine.

Or she sneaks to the slums

And promptly becomes

Disorderly, drunk, and obscene.

(Modulate up a step, kindred minds.)

The next time we’re sitting at table,

And finish the sharing of fable,

We’ll pour from the jugs

And hoist up our mugs,

Sharing limericks as rude as we’re able.

Once you’ve seen the best, there’s only the rest.

So many things, so many concepts, so many ideas today are labeled “the best” or “the greatest” that I sometimes wonder if we can still recognize real greatness. We speak in superlatives as if there was no other class. “This is the best cheese I’ve ever tasted,” lasts only until tomorrow when I get lucky enough to have a bite of something different. “Oh my God, it was the best movie ever.” And get the emphasis of punctuation: “Oh. My. God.” You set yourself up as the authority, as if no other opinion has value. Invoking the Deity is a tactic for substantiating overstatement.

“Of all time” is a common lead-in for overstatement. “He was the best quarterback of all time.” “She was the best actress of all time.” Maybe, but most of the time, I doubt it. You could make a perfectly legitimate claim a little less sweeping by starting with “I think,” as in, “I think that was a great play.” Fair enough; I’ll buy that. I think it was a great play, too, but neither of us are qualified to continue with “of all time.” “I really enjoyed that play,” isn’t forceful enough, somehow.

The search for “the best” or “the most” is a universal mantra, accompanied on television by triumphant music and the forceful voice of a male announcer. Anthony Bourdain travels the world looking for the most unusual meal. ABC Sports searches for the most dangerous ski slope. Sports Illustrated searches for the best swimsuit model. Stand them next to each other and they all look just fine.

Having worked as an organbuilder and an organist for more than forty years, I understand how people unfamiliar with the field are surprised and even baffled when they encounter it. The third or fourth exchange when you’re meeting someone for the first time at a party is “What do you do for a living?” “I’m a pipe organ builder.” “A pipe organ builder? I didn’t know there were any of you left.”

Once we get past a few pleasantries, an inevitable question is, “What’s the best organ in the world?” That’s a better question than asking after the biggest organ, which is easier to answer but usually leads to sniggering.

§

Wow! What is the best organ in the world? How in the world can I answer? Is it up to me to judge? What are the criteria? What are the variables? Can I break it into subsets like the best German organ, the best French organ, the best tracker-action organ? Do we need to know the best, or can we be happy with a list of “great” organs?

To be the best, must it be the biggest?

The Wanamaker Grand Court Organ is the largest “fully operational” organ in the world. According to the website of the Friends of the Wanamaker Organ, it has six manuals, 463 ranks, and 28,677 pipes. This compares to the Boardwalk Hall Auditorium Organ in Atlantic City (not fully operational, but restoration work is under way), with seven manuals, 449 ranks, and 33,114 pipes. So if you’re counting by ranks, Wanamaker wins by 14, and if you’re counting by pipes, Atlantic City wins by 4,437 (the size of an organ with more than 70 ranks!).

When I was a naïve and budding organ-guy, deep in the thrall of the tracker-action revival in Boston in the 1970s, I knew vaguely about the Wanamaker organ, touted as the largest organ in the world. I understood that it was in poor condition—that a lot of it was unplayable. Hmmph, I thought in my infancy. What can being the largest have to do with being any good? It would be years before I actually saw, heard, and experienced the Wanamaker. By the time I made its acquaintance, enormous effort had been put toward bringing that massive instrument into good condition. And now I marvel at its artistic content every time I visit, which is ever more often.

I don’t know if it’s the best, but it sure is wonderful. A tour with curator Curt Mangel is a privileged walk through countless rooms crammed with pipes. Any tuner would quail at the parades of reeds and dozens of pairs of celestes. What a responsibility. And to witness Grand Court Organist Peter Richard Conte doing his thing (you really have to see it to believe what you’re hearing) is to witness a marriage of man and machine unparalleled in the human experience. Oops, I guess unparalleled is a superlative.

…Oldest?

Am I up to date? Is the little abbey organ built around 1390 in Sion, Switzerland, really the oldest in the world? E. Power Biggs taught me that with his 1967 recording, Historic Organs of Switzerland. I still have those bold tones and archaic tuning in my ears. Geoffrey Chaucer (1343–1400) wrote The Canterbury Tales around 1390. In one of those delightful narratives, The Nun’s Priest’s Tale, the main character was

A widow, poor and somewhat advanced in years, [who] dwelt once in a little cottage . . . By managing carefully what God sent, she provided for herself and her three daughters . . . her only treatment was a temperate diet, with exercise and heart’s content. The gout never kept her from dancing, nor did the apoplexy bother her head . . . She had a yard enclosed all around with sticks and a dry ditch, and in it she had a cock called Chanticleer. In all the land there was no match for his crowing; his voice was merrier than the merry organ that goes in the church on mass-days . . . *

Remember the wonderful carol with the refrain “O the rising of the sun, and the running of the deer, the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the Kwah!” Chaucer must have been referring to contemporary British organs, so we can assume a burgeoning pipe organ industry as Europe shook itself free of the Dark Ages. An organ built in 1390 that we can still play today? What a fabulous icon of human history. It has been rebuilt and expanded several times—its history seems to read “every hundred years or so, whether it needs it or not . . . ” What a treat to play on a musical instrument that’s 624 years old! Who cares if it’s any good?

…Most majestic?

One of the most familiar images of the pipe organ world is the lion-topped façade of the 1738 organ built by Christian Müller in St. Bavo Church in Haarlem, the Netherlands. The top of the case is nearly a hundred feet above the floor of the church, and the sounds of the organ are as vital, energetic, and expressive as any modern instrument. There’s a legend saying that Mozart played on this organ, and there are dozens of modern recordings available. The instrument is the centerpiece of the International Summer Academy for Organists, founded in 1955, and continuing today as a seminal educational experience for hundreds of musicians.

With just over 5,000 pipes, the Haarlem organ must have been one of the largest in the world when it was built, but today it represents only the difference in size between the Wanamaker and Atlantic City organs!

Studying the intricate details of the design and construction of this organ, it’s hard to believe that such a thing could have been built using available technology from the early eighteenth century. Think of the state of high culture in America at that time—what the fanciest colonial architecture was like. This organ is high on the list of doozies in the organ world. Does that make it best?

…Most influential?

Aristide Cavaillé-Coll completed the rebuilding and expansion of the organ at St. Sulpice in Paris in 1862. With five manuals and a hundred stops it was one of the largest organs in the world at that time. And with its myriad complex mechanical innovations, it was an eloquent statement of technology of the day. Charles-Marie Widor and Marcel Dupré combined their careers to serve this church for 101 years. The organ alone as a mechanical entity must be considered among the most elegant, expressive, and fiery instruments ever built. But when combined with its illustrious players—including present organists Daniel Roth and Sophie-Véronique Cauchefer-Choplin—it’s hard to imagine another church balcony that has housed and launched more extraordinary music. 

Widor (1844–1937) was born to a family of organbuilders. Cavaillé-Coll was a family friend who arranged for Widor to study with Jacques Nicolas Lemmens in Brussels. How many of us have played Lemmens’ Fanfare how many times? Maybe it’s unfair to use one piece to stand for a musician’s life work, but it’s a long way in sophistication from that Fanfare to Widor’s Symphonie Gothique or Symphonie Romane. Along with his organ symphonies, Widor produced dozens of orchestral works including symphonies and piano concertos, chamber music, piano music, and choral works. He was a prolific teacher whose students included Charles Tournemire, Louis Vierne, Darius Milhaud, and Alexander Schreiner. Widor’s lifelong relationship with the St. Sulpice organ must be one of the most important between musician and instrument in the history of music. 

Marcel Dupré (1886–1971) was also deeply influenced by Cavaillé-Coll’s masterpiece, and how many modern organists still living can claim to be his students and therefore students of that organ, whether in private lessons or master class. He died when I was in high school, and I never met him or heard him play. But I know he taught Jehan and Marie-Claire Alain, Jeanne Demessieux, Jean Guillou, Jean Langlais, and Olivier Messiaen. His weekly organ improvisations were legendary, raising the church of St. Sulpice to the level of organists’ pilgrimage—a tradition that remains more than forty years after his death. To this day, a knowing worshipper can quickly pick out the visiting organists, quivering and weeping in their seats.

…Most melodious?

Charles Brenton Fisk, aka Charlie, was a pioneer in the mid-twentieth century renaissance of classical styles of organ building. I was fortunate as a teenager growing up in Winchester, Massachusetts, to live within two blocks in opposite directions of two new Fisk organs. And I was fortunate to know Charlie at least a little. Charlie Fisk’s organs are lively and interesting. Many are controversial, especially because of their sonic power. His thrilling Opus 82, installed in Christ United Methodist Church in Greensborough, North Carolina, must be one of the most powerful organs ever built, stop-for-stop.

Fisk’s Opus 55 is a modest three-manual organ of twenty-nine stops, built in 1971. It has a lovely case that includes architectural elements from a much older case by Boston organbuilder Thomas Appleton. It’s housed in a stately 1806 building in Boston’s West End. While its size, scope, and surroundings are nice enough, it would be an unremarkable organ except that it’s widely considered to be one of the finest organs in the world. Its solo voices and choruses combine proud fundamental tone with limpid harmonic structure to produce strikingly beautiful organ tone. 

Yuko Hayashi, the brilliant twentieth-century teacher of hundreds of important modern organists, became organist at Old West in 1973, at the suggestion of Charles Fisk. Yuko had been teaching organ at the New England Conservatory of Music since 1960 and was well known for her lyrical playing. Shortly after she started playing there, she brought the NEC organ class there for lessons, and from then until her retirement in 2001 many hundreds of our finest organists studied with Yuko on the organ at Old West Church. Since it was built, it has been one of the most heavily used organs in the country. Yuko once told me she believed that the organ sounded better the more it was played—that the passage of air through the pipes makes the pipes sound better. How’s that for spiritual?

…Most incensed?

According to Google Maps, the Church of the Advent in Boston is six-tenths of a mile from Old West Church. The Aeolian-Skinner organ at Church of the Advent, a product of the firm’s G. Donald Harrison era, is just as modest and ordinary on paper as the Fisk at Old West. It has fifty-seven stops on three manuals, and is installed in a chamber above the chancel that also speaks into the nave. Modest and ordinary, maybe, but there’s just something about it. Worshipping there with the inspired musical leadership that has always been a hallmark of the place is a Magical Mystery Tour. It would be a challenge to find another organ of this scale that could equal the seamless crescendos and decrescendos that accompany the singing of the choir. It would be a challenge to find another organ of this scale that could play so much of the organ repertory so effectively. In the intense and incensed smoke-filled room that is the Advent’s sanctuary, the architectural borders between instrument and building are as elusive as the musical borders between organ pipes and acoustics. It’s otherworldly.

If Old West Church is a mecca for beautiful organ tone, Church of the Advent is a mecca for the effect of a pipe organ on deep and sophisticated liturgically grounded worship. And you can walk from one to the other in just fifteen minutes.

…Most seminal?

I’m stuck in a rut along the Charles River in Boston, which is just a long block from Church of the Advent. (By the way, the home of Joseph Whiteford, president of Aeolian-Skinner from 1956 until 1965, faces the Charles from one of the little neighborhoods near “The Advent.” It’s the one with the tapered front door!) From there it would take about an hour and a half to walk, but only ten minutes to drive to Adolphus Busch Hall, formerly known as the Busch-Reisinger Museum, and familiarly known to generations of organists and Harvard students as “The Busch.” Aeolian-Skinner had installed an experimental organ there in 1937, one that included classically inspired principal choruses, from which E. Power Biggs played many live radio broadcasts. Mr. Biggs commissioned the landmark Flentrop organ with his own money in 1958 and placed it on loan to Harvard University. He paid personally for its tuning and maintenance for the rest of his life and bequeathed the organ to the university after his death.

Like the organs at “Old West” and “The Advent,” the Flentrop in “The Busch” is of modest proportions—three manuals and twenty-seven stops. But simply to mention the extraordinary series of recordings Biggs made on that organ, E. Power Biggs Plays Bach Organ Favorites, is to acknowledge its importance. It still stands as the best-selling series of solo classical music recordings, an accurate and indisputable superlative. And while those performances are still controversial icons of the “organ wars,” his snappy and peppy readings of those classic pieces brought excellent playing of excellent organ music to the ears of millions around the world. Many of us were hearing “chiff” for the first time. To some it was clear and rhythmic, to others it sounded like hitting xylophone bars. Bach’s Jig Fugue brings popping popcorn to mind. The organ is fifty-six years old, and I love taking visiting friends to see it. They melt in its presence. 

…Most nostalgic?

I think that all of us who care about playing the organ have a favorite or two, and I, for one, have a list of organs I’ve loved since I was a kid. There are a couple in Yarmouthport on Cape Cod that I played (and practiced on) for hundreds of teenage summertime hours. There are a couple beauties by
E. & G.G. Hook that were within walking distance of my youthful home. And there are some, even those that fail to stand out as excellent examples of the art, where I had important experiences both personal and musical, where I heard great musicians play for the first time, where important milestones of my personal life and professional career are marked.

In fact, some of the worst organs I’ve seen have had the most impact on me, helping me understand in their negativity why excellence is so important.

Please don’t ask me to name the best organ in the world. If I’m lucky, I haven’t heard about it yet. And the organ to die for? It will be played at my funeral. Any takers? ν

Postscript:

While I’m always interested in good organs anywhere, in this writing I’ve focused on instruments that I think have served as more than just good organs. Each has had a special and wide influence on many musicians, and each has played a particular role in the history of our instrument. Organists go out of their way to experience them. When we think of the modern pipe organ, we can picture dozens, if not hundreds, of various forms, and each of these pivotal organs have played a part in that development. I’ve written this off the top of my head without research, so the list is in no way complete. I’m interested to hear from readers their suggestions of additions to this list. Please write me at [email protected] to share your thoughts.

Thank you for reading.

* Geoffrey Chaucer, The Nun’s Priest’s Tale. Translation by Gerard NeCastro, published as “eChaucer” by the University of Maine at Machias: http://machias.edu/faculty/necastro/chaucer/translation/ct/21npt.html.

Photo credits: William T. Van Pelt, except as noted. 

The secret of life

Donald Hall is an American writer. Because he’s Wendy’s client, I’ve met him several times. He was born in 1928 and last saw a barber or handled a razor at least ten years ago. He published an essay in the June 12, 2013, issue of The New Yorker with the title “Three Beards,” in which he chronicled his long relationship with facial hair. It begins:

In my life I have grown three beards, covering many of my adult faces. My present beard is monumental, and I intend to carry it to my grave. (I must avoid chemotherapy.)

It concludes: 

As I decline more swiftly toward the grave I have made certain that everyone knows—my children know, Linda knows, my undertaker knows—that no posthumous razor may scrape my blue face.

In 2011, Wendy accompanied Hall to the White House, where President Obama awarded him the National Medal of Arts. (That’s the same day she chatted with Van Cliburn, as noted in the May 2014 installment of this column.) The neatly trimmed and dapper President met the self-styled Methuselah. 

Donald Hall lives in the New Hampshire farmhouse that was built by his grandfather, whom he helped harvesting hay. Today, hay is harvested by powerful and intricate machines that spit out neatly tied bales in the wake of a tractor. (Hay bales are legitimately held together with baling wire.) Donald Hall, then a child, and his grandfather did it with scythes, pitchforks, and horse-drawn carts. And that’s the way he writes—the old-fashioned way.

He has published dozens of books of poetry, and dozens more of non-fiction, memoirs, and collections of essays. He has written hundreds of articles of literary criticism and countless essays for many publications. And his lifelong collection of thousands of letters to and from other literary and artistic giants will be the grist of many future dissertations. He writes in longhand and dictates into a tape recorder, and leaves a briefcase on his front porch every morning for his typist who lives across the road, who in turn leaves a corresponding case of typed manuscripts.

When we were first dating, Wendy shared Donald Hall’s memoir Life Work with me (Beacon Press, 1993). At 124 pages, it’s an easy read, but when he describes his process, you feel obligated to read it again, and then again. He writes drafts. There were fifty-five drafts of that essay about beards, and there are hundreds of drafts for some of his poems. He started working on his poem Another Elegy in 1982, and put it away, disgusted, in 1988 after more than five hundred drafts. He numbers the drafts. In 1992, he picked it up again, wrote thirty more drafts, then showed it to his wife, the poet Jane Kenyon, “who remembered the old one; her response encouraged me.” As he brought it toward conclusion, he woke many days before the alarm, jumping out of bed to start writing, but reminding himself that “You felt like this, about this same poem, a hundred times between 1982 and 1988.”

In Life Work, Donald Hall writes about his grandparents’ work ethics, about baseball players’ dedication to their work, and of course about his own routine, but he makes it clear that hates the phrase “work ethic.” Shortly after leaving the security of a professorship at the University of Michigan to move to the farm with Jane to support himself with his own writing, he attended his Harvard class (1951) reunion where he found himself complimented over and over about his self-discipline. He responded, “If I loved chocolate to distraction, would you call me self-disciplined for eating a pound of Hershey’s Kisses before breakfast?” He simply loves the process of moving words about, mining the English language, dog-earing his beloved Oxford English Dictionary—no matter what it takes to get it right to his own ears.

One of the principal characters in Life Work is the British sculptor Henry Moore. They met in 1959 when Hall was commissioned to write a magazine piece about Moore, and Hall was moved and inspired by Moore’s approach to his work. There was always a sketchpad at hand, there were studios scattered about the property allowing work at different stages to proceed concurrently, and when in his seventies, Moore built a new studio next to the house allowing him to spend another hour at work after dinner. The last time they were together, when Moore was eighty, Hall asked him, “What is the secret of life?” Moore’s response:

“The secret of life is to have a task, something you devote your entire life to, something you bring everything to, every minute of the day for your entire life. And the most important thing is—it must be something you cannot possibly do!”

Wrapped around a monument

Last week, the Parisian organist Daniel Roth played a recital at Church of the Resurrection in New York where a couple years ago, the Organ Clearing House renovated, expanded, and installed a Casavant organ built in 1915. It was a treat and a thrill to be around him for a couple days as he prepared and presented his program, and I particularly enjoyed a conversation in which he gave some deeper insight into the heritage of the magnificent Cavaillé-Coll organ at St. Sulpice in Paris, where he has been titulaire since 1985. His three immediate predecessors were Jean-Jacques Grunenwald, Marcel Dupré, and Charles-Marie Widor—four tenures that span nearly a hundred-fifty years. 

Those four organists are identified by their relationships with that organ. Their improvisations and compositions have been inspired by its beautiful tones and enabled by the ingenious mechanical registration devices built in 1862, maintained to this day in their original condition. Roth confirmed the legend that Widor’s original appointment was temporary, and though it was never officially renewed or confirmed, he held the position for sixty-seven years. I’ve known this tidbit for years, but Daniel Roth shared some skinny.

Aristide Cavaillé-Coll was a tireless champion of his own work. He was disappointed in the general level of organ playing in Paris in the late 1860s, but was enthralled by performances by Jacques-Nicolas Lemmens, the professor of organ at the Royal Conservatory of Brussels, who first played recitals in Paris during a tour in 1850. Widor was born in Lyon into a family of organbuilders and Cavaillé-Coll was a family friend. It was he who arranged for Widor to study with Lemmens, and the twenty-five year old Widor was Cavaillé-Coll’s candidate for the vacant position at St. Sulpice.

As a reflection of the political and even racial tensions leading up to the Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871), Widor’s detractors competing for the important position claimed he played like a German! (Quelle horreur!) The rector compromised by appointing Widor for one year.

Hundreds of American organists have been treated to Daniel Roth’s hospitality at the console of that landmark organ, hearing his improvisations and compositions, and his interpretations of the immense body of music produced by his predecessors. My conversations with him last week reminded me of that quote from Henry Moore. When a great musician spends a lifetime with a great organ, does that qualify as something to which you devote your life, but cannot possibly do?

Opera vitae

The mid-twentieth century renaissance in American organbuilding has given us a bevy of small companies building organs under the name of their founders. Among these, C. B. Fisk, Inc. is notable, in that the legendary Charlie Fisk passed away relatively young, and the work of his company has been continued by his co-workers—dare I say disciples? But when I think of names like Wolff, Wilhelm, Noack, Brombaugh, and the double-teaming Taylor & Boody, I think of these men, now elderly, retired, or deceased, who have had long careers personally producing many instruments with the help of their small and talented staffs. I think Fritz Noack is in the lead. His company was founded in 1960 and has completed nearly 160 organs. Nice work, Fritz, quite a fleet. Imagine seeing them all in a row. 

Considering all the effort and expertise involved in selling, planning, designing, building, and installing a pipe organ, I marvel at what Fritz and his colleagues have accomplished personally, with a lot of help from their friends. That’s work to which you devote your life, but cannot possibly do.

What was the question?

An old family friend is an expert in “heat transfer”—how heat moves from one mass to another, from a mass to a gas, or any other way heat moves around. One evening sitting with drinks in my parents’ living room and staring at the burning fireplace, I asked him, “Just what is fire?” He told me that it’s a chemical reaction. Yes, but what is it? I never did get an answer I could understand. I think he thought I was a bit of a prig, and I think I was asking a question that couldn’t be answered.

The more you know about the organbuilding trade, the more you realize you don’t know. Building pipe organs is a profession that remains mysterious to its most experienced practitioners. How does that air get from one place to another inside the organ? How does that thin sheet of pressurized air passing through the mouth of an organ pipe turn into musical tone? And how do those tones blend so beautifully with each other? How do we move such volumes of air silently? We have answers that refer to the laws of physics, but like my question about fire, they seem unanswerable. I’ve come to think that all you can do is know the questions and keep working to achieve better understanding of how to answer them. It’s work to which you devote your life, but cannot possibly do.

Go Daddy, go.

My father passed away at home on April 8, about six weeks shy of his ninetieth birthday. He was born four years before Donald Hall. He had a stroke a few months before from which he had largely recovered, although the gorgeous handwriting for which he was well known was gone. A vicious headache, which may have been another stroke, was our signal that the end was near. His doctor helped us establish home hospice care, and after about a week of comforting medication and declining consciousness he was gone. My three siblings and I, and our spouses, managed to gather during that week along with lots of the grandchildren. My brother Mark and his wife Sarah, my wife Wendy, and my mother Betsy were with Dad at his moment of death. Coincidentally, I was at work in St. Paul’s Cathedral in Boston, where my parents were married almost fifty-nine years ago.

The Rev. John J. Bishop was ordained an Episcopal priest in the Diocese of Massachusetts in 1952, and all the parishes he served were in that diocese. Everyone called him Jack. He served as rector of churches in Somerville and Westwood before he was called to be rector of the Parish of the Epiphany in Winchester, where he served from 1966 until his retirement in 1989. That was when my parents moved to the newly renovated and expanded family summer home on Cape Cod. After that retirement, he served as interim rector at churches in Dedham, Woods Hole, Falmouth, Provincetown, and Belmont. In December of 2012, the Parish of the Epiphany hosted a celebratory Eucharist honoring the sixtieth anniversary of his ordination.

My father grew up in Cincinnati, Ohio, as a member of Christ Church, which is now the Cathedral of the Diocese of Southern Ohio. Our grand colleague and mentor Gerre Hancock was organist and choirmaster there in the 1960s. Dad had recordings of that church’s Boar’s Head Festival led by Gerre Hancock—the first improvisations I ever heard. As he grew up in Ohio in the 1920s and ’30s, some of the liberal causes for which he was later known hadn’t been contemplated, but before he was finished, my father had championed civil rights, social justice, the ordination of women, and
same-sex marriages.

The Rev. Jeanne Sprout was the first woman to be ordained in the Diocese of Massachusetts. Her ordination in 1977 happened at the Parish of the Epiphany in Winchester as she joined the staff there. And Dad chaired the steering committee that nominated Barbara Harris as the first female bishop in the Anglican Communion. As interim rector in Provincetown, he blessed same-sex unions many years before the ruling of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court that made them legal as marriages ten years ago. During his adolescence in Ohio and while serving in the United States Army during World War II, he would never have imagined such a thing.

At the height of the Vietnam War, the parish’s associate rector Michael Jupin participated in a widely reported protest on the steps of Boston’s Arlington Street Church, placing his draft card in an offering plate in the hands of William Sloane Coffin, pastor of New York’s Riverside Church, and activist and pediatrician Benjamin Spock. This created a firestorm in the then conservative parish (Winchester was cited as the town where the politics met the zip code: Zero-1890). The wardens approached my father, demanding to know “how to get rid of Jupin,” as important pledge-units left the parish in droves. Dad’s immediate answer was, “you get rid of the rector.” He told us later about that crisis in his career and the life of that church, how he sat alone in his car weeping, wondering what to do, and how he sought the council of his bishop, who encouraged him to “stand in the midst of those people and lead.”

Through all of that, Dad remained devoted to the traditions and liturgy of the Anglican Communion. He was a strong supporter of the music of the church, and during his tenures, the parishes in Westwood and Winchester both purchased organs from Charles Fisk. I remember the thrill of using my newly acquired adult voice, singing in harmony accompanied by orchestra as the adult choir presented Bach’s Cantata 140, Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme. 

Dad understood the importance of the “theater” of liturgy. My childhood friends who were acolytes laugh today about how they were terrified of “blowing it” around Rev. Bishop. He needed it to be right. He led worship and celebrated the Eucharist with enthusiasm and joy—his “church voice” was nothing like his everyday voice. The crisp cadence and musical intonation of his delivery of the Prayers of Consecration are still in my ears, and remain my ideal. He really celebrated communion.

I’ve spent many days working as an organbuilder in churches of the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts. Often, when I’m introduced to a rector, I’ve heard, “There’s a priest in this diocese with that name,” followed by unsolicited tributes. It’s been wonderful to hear accounts of my father’s work from so many different sources. I’m grateful for Dad’s encouragement and inspiration.

What a weekend.

Today is Monday. Dad’s memorial service was Saturday. There were four bishops and twenty priests in robes up front and the pews were full of family, friends, and parishioners from across the diocese and around the world, and plenty more priests. In a piece included in the leaflet for Dad’s memorial service, I wrote, “The definition is ‘Great excitement for or interest in a cause.’ It’s from the Greek root, enthousiasmos, which came from the adjective entheos, ‘having God within.’ Enthusiasm.” That is the way he lived his life, inspiring people, encouraging them to think and grow, and sharing his love for the church, for better or for worse.

That’s work to which you devote your life, but cannot possibly do.

Of course I’m sad. Of course I miss him. But when a man lives such a long and productive life, has nearly sixty years of marriage, sees four children grow up, knows ten adult grandchildren, and with our grandson Ben, knew his first great-grandchild, we can only be grateful.

Yesterday, we interred Dad’s ashes. There were about thirty of us at the end of the boardwalk over the marshes that led to Dad’s favorite Cape Cod swimming hole. As the last of the ashes sprinkled into the water I blurted out, “Go daddy, go.” ν

The following conversation, conducted both in person and by telephone in March 2013, explores the career of one of America’s most eminent musicians and teachers, Ann Labounsky. Dr. Labounsky was my undergraduate organ teacher at Duquesne University, and she is now in her 44th year as professor and chair of sacred music and organ at that same institution. Some years after completing graduate study and working in church music, I had the privilege of returning to Duquesne as a faculty member, teaching alongside Dr. Labounsky for four years. We maintain a close collaboration, and therefore, I have been in the unique situation of knowing Dr. Labounsky on several levels since we first met in New York City at the 1996 American Guild of Organists Centennial Convention. As a teacher, mentor, colleague, and friend, Ann has challenged, encouraged, and supported me in many ways. In this interview, we discuss Ann’s life and career. Several life chapters particularly dominate our discussion: Ann’s student days at Eastman as a pupil of the young David Craighead, and the full circle of Ann and David’s long friendship; Ann’s time as a Fulbright scholar in Paris, studying organ under André Marchal, Jean Langlais, and Marcel Dupré; and finally, Ann’s inimitable teaching career in Pittsburgh. 

Andrew Scanlon: When people ask me why I decided to learn to play the organ, I most often reply, “Actually, the organ chose me!” Most of your life has been devoted to the organ. What was your first encounter with the organ, and when did the organ first “choose you?”

Ann Labounsky: As a young girl, our family was living in Port Washington, Long Island, and my mother used to take me to a Methodist church across the street from our home. This was before I could read; and I must have heard the pipe organ, but I don’t have much of a memory of it.

Later, we attended Christ Church (Episcopal) in Oyster Bay, where Paul Sifler (also a composer) was the organist-choirmaster. My mother, my brother, and I all sang in the choir, and it was then that I became interested. I was fascinated by the way Paul played. I would come early for choir rehearsals or lessons to watch him practice. I began studying the organ with Sifler at age 15. He was a very good teacher for me, and I loved his compositions. One summer, I went away to a camp, where I couldn’t play the organ for about two weeks, and I missed it so much. I think at that stage, I knew I would be an organist.

The conventional wisdom seems to be that before learning the organ, a strong piano background is useful, even essential. Were you already accomplished on the piano? 

My piano teacher in high school was John LaMontaine, Paul Sifler’s partner. He was also a wonderful composer and had a great command of technique. He followed the Tobias Matthay school of relaxation. I would take the train to go to their apartment on 57th Street in New York to take the lessons. It was he who encouraged me to go to Eastman. 

Since your piano teacher encouraged you to apply to the Eastman School of Music, did you audition on both piano and organ? What was required for the audition?

Yes, we were required to perform on both instruments. For the organ portion, I remember playing Mendelssohn’s Sonata No. 6, but can’t remember which Bach I played. I do recall that I played a recital my senior year of high school and had played Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor and Wir glauben all an einen Gott on that recital, so I must have played one of those works. For the piano portion, they required that you know all scales and arpeggios, as well as the performance of a work by Bach and a Beethoven sonata. I was very nervous for the audition.

Before you went to Eastman, what, if anything, did you know of David Craighead? Did you want to study with him, or were you taking the advice of your teachers?

Well, no; actually, I didn’t know anything about David Craighead. But John LaMontaine had studied at Eastman, and he thought it was a very good school. He wanted me to study with Eastman’s piano teacher, George MacNabb. (It was from MacNabb that I learned the Brahms Fifty-one Exercises, which I still use.) Paul Sifler thought that Catharine Crozier would have been a good organ teacher for me, and I looked into studying with her. However, by the time I entered Eastman as a freshman, Crozier had already left the Eastman faculty for Rollins College in Florida. 

Did you audition anywhere else besides Eastman?

No. It always makes me laugh now, because these days, students audition at several schools. But for some reason, I didn’t.

Had you given any thought to what might happen if you didn’t get in?

No, that didn’t occur to me! 

In 1957, you moved upstate from Long Island and began your new life in Rochester. What are your memories of those undergraduate years? 

Eastman was a wonderful school. For many years, I stayed in close touch with the friends that I made there because we all struggled together. It was very demanding; in fact, I had nightmares. I was so afraid that I wouldn’t do well enough and that David Craighead would make me study with Norman Peterson, the secondary teacher! 

Can you recall your close friends and colleagues from that time?

Some dear colleagues included Bill Stokes, Joanna Tousey, Bill Haller, Maggie Brooks, Bruce Lederhouse, Jim Johnson, Gretchen Frauenberger, and Robert Town. Roberta Gary was working on her doctorate and David Mulberry was a senior, but they were beyond me. They were the great legends at the time!

How many students were studying organ then?

I think there may have been about ten—smaller compared to what it is now. 

Can you recall periods of particular growth in your playing during the Eastman days, or conversely, any precise struggles?

I don’t recall any struggles specifically; everything was difficult. We had to have all our repertoire memorized. I would get very nervous before performances. I wish that I would have found a way to get over that more easily, as I look back now. But all of this contributed to my growth as a musician. 

When you arrived at Eastman, in the studio of David Craighead, he was still fairly new to Eastman’s faculty, correct?

Yes, he had arrived in 1955, and I entered in 1957. He always told me this funny story about when I first arrived. Evidently I went up to his office and knocked on his door and introduced myself. I said, “I’m Ann Labounsky: Ann without the ‘E’!” David said he always remembered that.

What was Craighead like as a teacher in 1957? What aspects of learning did he emphasize as a young teacher?

He was always very precise. At that time in his life, he was rather nervous, quite inhibited. He would tell you all the things that were not right, but you always wanted to strive to do better in the next lesson. We spent a lot of time on the registration. He used the Bonnet Historical Anthology of Music, which was highly edited, and not a good edition. He used the Seth Bingham edition of Couperin’s music and I hated that music back then; it wasn’t until I went to Paris to study with [André] Marchal that I knew what it all meant!

That anecdote reminds us of how David Craighead evolved tremendously, over the years, both as teacher and a performer.

He did. I remember seeing him some years later, perhaps in the early 1970s. He had come to perform in Pittsburgh, and we attended the Pittsburgh Symphony together. He spoke of the Offertoire from Couperin’s Mass for the Parishes, and how he had learned about the notes inégales. For Bach, we changed registration frequently and each change was well marked in the score. Also, phrasing was carefully marked. Craighead was meticulous about every detail, but was patient in working with us until we got it right. He was most effective when he would quickly slide onto the bench to demonstrate a passage.

Can you remember your degree recitals?

They were all in Kilbourne Hall on the Skinner organ. For my senior recital, I played the Bach Prelude and Fugue in A Minor, BWV 543, and of course, a lot of American music. David Craighead loved the music of Sowerby. I played Sowerby’s famous Arioso, which was gorgeous on that organ. At Eastman, there was a kind of “shopping list” of music that we all had to work on. Ironically, when we got to Langlais’ music, I hated it! I had performed some of the Hommage à Frescobaldi, and I didn’t like it at all! I also remember playing in the weekly performance class in preparation for my senior recital. At one such class, having completed a play-through of the Bach “A Minor,” I remember David Craighead saying, “That was bloody but unbowed!” 

When you were wrapping up your days at Eastman, did David Craighead advise you about what you should do in terms of furthering your education?

David Craighead was very different from Russell Saunders, who told the students exactly what they should do. David took a far more hands-off approach. He gave his students the confidence to make their own decisions. I thought about staying at Eastman for my master’s degree, but decided to go to the University of Michigan. It turned out to be a very good thing to do that, as I would meet my future husband, Lewis Steele, at Michigan.

After four years at the Eastman School, I imagine that you had a much broader sense of the organ world, and you knew what you wanted?

I certainly knew that I wanted to go on to earn a master’s degree, but at that time, I didn’t know much about church music or improvisation. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, except that I wanted to learn music.

In few words, can you summarize the church music curriculum at Eastman in those days?

It didn’t exist! 

Your next move was from Rochester to Ann Arbor. Tell us about what life was like at the University of Michigan in 1961.

In those days, the president of the AGO was Roberta Bitgood. She did a wonderful thing for the new students at U. of M. When we got off the train in Detroit, she met all the students. She had gathered members of the clergy from churches in the area that were looking for organists. She introduced all of us, and as a result, I began a church job right away in Dearborn, Michigan, about an hour from Ann Arbor. 

U. of M. was a very different school than ESM. My teacher there was Marilyn Mason. Mason was less of a teacher for me, but more of a coach. David Craighead had really formed my technique—so she didn’t have to work on that. We worked on musical details and interpretation. We always had our lessons on the organ in Hill Auditorium.

Were there other organ teachers?

Yes. Ray Ferguson and Robert Noehren were on the faculty at that time. 

Besides organ playing, were there any other memorable aspects of the Michigan graduate degree program that helped you grow?

The courses at Michigan were wonderful! I especially recall Hans David the musicologist, and Louise Cuyler, and I learned a great deal from both of them.

You mentioned that you also met your husband while at Michigan?

Yes, I earned the degree in one year and two summers, and I was getting ready to play my recital. I met Lewis Steele on the steps of Marilyn Mason’s studio. I needed soloists to sing in my church every Sunday since we didn’t have a summer choir. I heard his resonant voice, and asked him to sing a solo. That’s how our romance started! 

Would you care to elaborate?

Well, three children and four grandchildren later, we are very happy together. 

I could never have done the things I have done without Lewis’s support. He always said that in a marriage, it’s not a 50/50 partnership, rather it’s 100/100. You have to give all of yourself, all the time. He did so much in raising the children. I had no idea even how to change diapers. He taught me. So many of the things I didn’t have (for example, expertise in theology, scripture, choral directing), Lewis did have. It has been a wonderful partnership over the years. I always remember what Marilyn Mason said: “I’d marry him for his laugh!”

Can you sum up the church music curriculum at U. of M. in those days?

They had two tracks. You could earn the MM in organ, which I did, or the MM in church music. However, it seemed to me that the only difference was you didn’t have to memorize the recital if you were in the church music track. All students took Robert Noehren’s course in organ building, which I almost failed! You had to know the composition of mixtures, which was too much for me! He was a very good teacher, though. He had a significant influence in the organ department there at that time. 

As your time wound up in Michigan, the next big step would be the Fulbright process. What were you doing in Michigan to prepare for the program in France?

By the time I got to Michigan, I knew I wanted to go to France for additional study. In fact, I had applied for a Fulbright while still an Eastman student, but I didn’t get it. I applied a second time while at U. of M. I had been passionate about the French language and was determined that I would go to France one way or another. Every week, I would get together with Deedee Wotring, one of André Marchal’s former students. We would meet for coffee, and she would force me to speak French! 

But your love of France and the French language had begun long before Michigan, through your beloved Aunt Julia, correct?

I’m glad you mentioned Julia. You knew her and played at her funeral. She had studied art in Paris after the war, and following her arrival back home in New York, she spent every weekend with us in Long Island. Julia was determined to teach me how to speak French! My father (a geologist and engineer who worked on the Manhattan Project) was Russian, his second language being English. I was determined I was going to Paris to study, even if I had to be an au pair. 

In April, having applied for a Fulbright, saying I wanted to study with Marchal, but not yet knowing my fate, I went to a recital at St. Thomas Church Fifth Avenue, performed by Jean Langlais, whom I met for the first time. I told him I had played his Miniature on my graduate recital at the University of Michigan, and that I hoped to soon be in Paris studying. He replied that he hoped he would see me! When I returned home to Long Island from that recital, I found out I had gotten the Fulbright grant! That was such a great blessing to be able to go, with everything paid for; it was just a marvelous thing. 

I should speak a little bit about how we got to France. The first time we went over was on the “Queen Mary,” and on the “France” a number of times. It took five days, and there was no jet lag, because each day you changed the clocks only one hour. It was a wonderful way to travel. Ruth Woods (Harris) and I went together, both studying with Marchal on a Fulbright grant. We remain close friends.

Though you are perhaps best known as the leading American disciple of Jean Langlais, when you set off for France, your initial intent was to study with André Marchal, and you did. Tell us about studying with Marchal.

When I heard Marchal play for the first time, it was at Oberlin. He played in a way I had never heard anyone else play. Each line breathed. I heard music differently when he played, and I wanted to learn what he knew. Fortunately, my French was good enough that I didn’t need a translator, but his daughter Jacqueline often translated for the other students. Lessons were in his home at 22 Rue Duroc. I also wanted to study improvisation. Even though Marchal improvised very well, at that time he no longer taught improvisation. He said: “Well, you may study improvisation with Langlais.”

You must understand about the teachers all over Europe at that time: they were very possessive of their students. You were not able to simply study with anyone you wanted; definitely not several teachers! You went abroad to study with ONE teacher. I studied organ repertoire with Marchal, but Marchal gave me his permission to study with Langlais. After that time, while continuing to study with Marchal, I would then go to Ste. Clotilde in the evenings for my lessons with Langlais, which was wonderful. Playing on the organ that Franck, Tournemire, and Langlais knew so well, and hearing their music on that instrument, made all the difference in learning that music.

What musical facet did Marchal underscore the most in how to play the organ?

The touch. He had a way of phrasing each line independently. And he had such a concept of the whole piece. I remember working on Bach’s great Fantasy and Fugue in G Minor (BWV 542) with him. He had the whole piece completely engraved in his mind—every voice. It was amazing to me that this blind man knew music so well. For example, if you used a fingering that was not effective, he could tell!

You mentioned having studied Couperin as an undergraduate at Eastman. I know that with his interest in early music, Marchal would make the classical French school an essential part of what you studied. How did your point of view evolve with respect to this music?

Marchal just knew that music. I don’t know how—because he had studied with Gigout, and of course, everyone was playing completely legato then. Marchal attributed his style of playing to studying the harpsichord, saying that as a result, he had learned a different way of playing. And in the 1960s, no one else was playing like that. We usually associate Marie-Claire Alain as a leader in the early music revival for the organ—but even in the 1940s when Marie Claire Alain was very young, it was Marchal who was the first great leader in this movement. There was something about the way he played that helped me understand that “this is how you play!” With Marchal, I studied all Couperin, as well as all the music of de Grigny, Clérambault, Daquin, etc.

I recall from other conversations over the years that you recall practicing constantly during the time you were in France. You learned a great deal of music—how much repertoire did you absorb in two years?

In addition to all I mentioned just above, with Marchal, I studied all the Bach trio sonatas, all the big preludes and fugues—tons of repertoire! With Langlais I studied all of Franck’s music, much of Tournemire, and other pieces, too. In terms of how lessons worked, with Marchal (and Donald Wilkins said it was the same with Duruflé), you brought in a piece to a lesson, one of these big pieces, and they told you everything you needed to know. If you brought in the same piece again to another lesson, they said, “Well, I already told you everything I know about it last week!” We knew that we wouldn’t be there forever with those brilliant musicians. Our goal was to cover as much repertoire as possible in the shortest amount of time.

Do you still play the pieces you studied with Marchal or Langlais the same way as when you learned them? Or do you perform them differently now?

Wonderful question. I think that the spirit is the same; some things changed a little. I’m constantly trying to think in a fresh way, but the spirit of what I learned from Langlais and Marchal has stayed with me.

Concerning Marchal’s teaching, did he have any idiosyncrasies?

Many have said of Marchal that if a student was not gifted, he would be very lenient with that student; but the more diligent a student was, he would be much more strict. And that certainly was true. One funny story was about phrasing in one of the trio sonatas. I had asked why he played it that particular way, and he thought for a long time. After quite a long period of silence, finally he answered: “Because it pleases me!”

Many people are very well acquainted with your work and expertise on the music and the life of Jean Langlais. Much of this information can be learned from your book, Jean Langlais: The Man and His Music (Amadeus Press, 2000), as well as from the liner notes on your CD recordings. Would you share with us, in a broad sense, what it was like to be Langlais’ pupil, and how that relationship developed over many years?

Langlais was extremely supportive. He always made you feel that you could do anything! If you made a mistake, he knew, but he was just thinking about the music. Always so encouraging and supportive, he was continually trying to find places for his students to play, and to help them in whatever way he could. As I learned his music, I became more and more interested, and I wanted to learn as much as I could. 

Over the years, how much cumulative time did you study with Langlais?

I have no idea. I usually had a weekly lesson on Wednesday evenings, when the church was closed. In addition to that, on Saturday afternoons, we were at the Schola Cantorum, and that’s where we worked on improvisation. Over the years, I returned many more times to study.

After remaining in France for an extra year, what path did your career take upon returning to the States?

Langlais asked me to be his guide for his fall 1964 American tour, and I did that. Shortly thereafter, I took a job in a very large Roman Catholic church in New Hyde Park, Long Island. I had a choir of men and boys that I had to develop and direct. That was hard work. 

How did you end up in Pittsburgh? Did you move there to take up your position as organ teacher at Duquesne University?

In 1967, Lewis and I moved to Pittsburgh to take up a joint church position at Brentwood Presbyterian Church. Lewis was the choir director, and I was the organist. We had only one child, six months old. Two years later, in 1969, the head of graduate studies at Duquesne University called and asked if I would like to teach organ at Duquesne—but I had never heard of Duquesne! Honestly, I was not thinking about teaching in a college and university. I had done some private teaching, but had not thought beyond that. I wanted to be a church musician and recitalist. Looking back on it, I don’t know why I hadn’t considered university teaching. I was busy at the church and raising our kids. So, in 1969, I began teaching part-time, and it initially cost our family money for me to teach at Duquesne, because I had to pay for child care! At that time, there was a degree program in organ, but no sacred music program or sacred music courses. 

In 1972, around the time of the birth of our third child, the dean of Duquesne’s school of music at the time, Gerald Keenan, called me into his office and said they wanted to hire me full-time. After that time, I was the only organ teacher.

What was your strategy for building up the sacred music degree programs at Duquesne? 

I didn’t really have a strategy. I worked slowly, adding courses as it made sense. Even before I was full-time, I had brought Jeanne Joulain to Pittsburgh for a recital and workshop—in that way, I was already developing a tradition of guest artists. The first class that I started was the “Service Playing” course. I was always interested in improvisation, having studied it with Langlais, and I had won the very first AGO improvisation competition in 1966 in Atlanta. I began an improvisation course, focusing on rather simple aspects of improvisation. 

For a few years, we moved along slowly, trying to figure out the curriculum and course requirements. In 1976, the 25th year of the Duquesne School of Music, I decided that Langlais should come to Duquesne. This coincided with the official establishment of the sacred music degree programs. While Langlais was in residence, we awarded him an honorary doctorate, and we had a whole week of concerts featuring premieres of his music. This started things off in a huge way, attracting a lot of national attention. Gradually, more and more students wanted to come to Duquesne, continuing over the years. I couldn’t say in what specific year things really blossomed. Another aspect of our program’s emphasis in church music came after I realized there had been a huge void in the Catholic Church after the Second Vatican Council—no choirs, no hymnals, a very low level of music. I saw that Duquesne had a responsibility and an opportunity to take a lead in this area. The dean, Robert Egan, agreed with me, and we worked for several years on strengthening the program. I called many people at different universities to see what other programs were offering. In those early days, I taught all the courses myself, as we didn’t have that many students. 

For many years, you have been a serious campaigner for the cause of the AGO certification program. From where did your advocacy of this program emerge?

Initially from Walter Hilse. I met Walter while we were both students in Paris. Walter, also from New York, was studying composition with Nadia Boulanger and organ with Maurice Duruflé. On Wednesday afternoons, Boulanger taught an analysis class for foreigners at her apartment, for which she had a huge following. She had a small house organ, having been a student of Vierne. Students would play pieces (Fauré, for example), and then she would pull the pieces apart and ask questions. She was a huge personality. I still have the scores. (We had to buy the ones she was going to discuss.) At these classes, Walter Hilse encouraged me to become certified. I distinctly remember him saying “You really should take the AAGO [Associate of the AGO] exam.” He has always been a huge promoter of the exams and has had many private students. Anne Wilson and Todd Wilson, for example, prepared for the exams with Walter. While my husband and I were still living on Long Island, I decided to do this. Once I began teaching at Duquesne University, it occurred to me that those skills were so vital to all students, that they should be learning these skills while studying for university degrees. 

Did the desire to help students become fluent with keyboard skills such as those tested on the AGO exams prompt you to require the AGO exams as part of the sacred music degrees at Duquesne?

In the early 1980s, I was on the National Committee on Professional Certification. Only one other school in the country was making it a requirement to take the exams. So, I decided to initiate the exams at Duquesne. When you tell people they have to do it, then they just do! Not everyone passed, and people took different exams, depending on their level of expertise. I met many wonderful people on that committee, including Max Miller, Sister Theophane Hytrek, John Walker, and David Schuler, for example. Different years, various others rotated on and off that committee, such as Todd Wilson. 

When did you ultimately attempt the Fellowship exam? 

Since I had already made the exams a degree requirement at DU, and I was the National Councillor for Education, I decided that it was time. You can’t just say to someone, “you should do this!”—you need to set an example. During a very busy time, when I had three children, was teaching full time, playing recitals, and was on the national board, I worked with two former students in Pittsburgh, John Miller and Robert Kardasz, to prepare together for the FAGO. Eventually, we all passed! It gave Pittsburgh more people with the FAGO diploma, where previously only Charles Heaton and Don Wilkins had earned it. We needed more highly certified people for a city our size.

Why do you consider it so important to take the certification exams?

There are a number of reasons:

1) In order to keep growing you need both long-term and short-term goals. As a student, it’s a short-term goal. Before earning a degree, it helps you have a point of arrival.

2) After my student, John Henninger, graduated from Duquesne, he went on to Westminster Choir College for graduate school and had applied for a church job in Princeton. He had passed the CAGO while at Duquesne, and he was appointed to the job because of having the Colleague Certificate. 

3) The exams represent a very structured way of testing both theoretical and practical skill. You can work at your own pace, and everybody I know who has done this, whether or not they have passed, has profited by it. It seems like a natural thing to do this, when you consider that so many other professions offer certification.

4) Earning an AGO certificate is a way that we show we’re at a certain level in our profession.

5) Earning certification does level the playing field and sets a high standard.

Our professional organization is extremely important. I get upset with people who complain about aspects of degree programs, churches, even the AGO—when the only thing you can do is to get right in the trenches to make things better!

Several graduates of Duquesne have gone on to earn the highest AGO certification. How has that made
you feel?

Very proud. You [Andrew Scanlon] being one of them, and now even serving on the national exam committee—that has made me especially proud. My current colleague, Ben Cornelius-Bates, has recently earned the FAGO also. 

Reflecting on your almost 45 years of teaching at Duquesne, how would you say your teaching and playing has evolved?

On teaching, David Craighead always said that you learn so much from your students, and I really have. In the beginning, I felt I didn’t know much, but I learned along the way. I found some things that worked well, and I fought the scars of things that didn’t work well. I have found it important to document what each student does. Recently, I got a computer in my studio, and using the “Blackboard” tool has been transformative. I have begun taking notes for each lesson and posting them for each student to view.

In the early days of my teaching, I was still very much in the mode of the teachers I learned from in Paris—Langlais, Marchal, and Dupré. They were very directive. They told you exactly what they wanted you to do. Initially, I taught the way they taught, because it was so fresh in my mind. As things have evolved, I have wanted to help each student find his own voice. I might not always agree with the student, but feel strongly that it’s in the best interest of each student to let them develop their own musical instincts. 

Ironically, when I performed all the recitals that Langlais had organized for me, I still felt I was his student. Langlais said, “You have to do this the way you want to do it.” But he had not taught that way. For example, he was known for saying so emphatically in his teaching that “Franck is tremendously free—just like this!” In improvisation, he taught the Thème libre, which, of course, is not free at all!

As you grow older, you grow in wisdom. You learn a lot from your children, also. They keep you humble, and they really tell you when you mess up! 

When I look at David Craighead, I keep thinking of how he was when I first studied with him at Eastman. Then, he was a new teacher. I had the joy of knowing him so well for the last 14 years of his life, and he had changed so much. He started by telling the students when they had made mistakes, but ended up changing lives. I try to do that too. I try to be a mentor, to do everything I possibly can to encourage my pupils, and help them get along well together. Music school can be almost like a monastery, when you’re all working together, and it’s so important to have a good rapport with your colleagues, to show great compassion for one another. 

Secondly, in answer to your question about my own playing, several things have contributed to the way I have played over the years. One of these was earning my Ph.D. in musicology, and beginning my biography of Langlais as the dissertation. All my years of teaching, the wisdom I gained from colleagues such as Robert Sutherland Lord and Don Franklin, making all the Langlais recordings—all of that contributed to the evolution of my playing. Other factors include the 1985 Bach Year, when I was asked to play an all-Bach recital on the Beckerath organ at St. Paul’s Cathedral in Pittsburgh. I changed my approach to Bach playing, using all toes, and different fingering. Change was in the air at that time. 

Have there been still more recent developments?

Yes. I have been working with Don Franklin on the tempo relationships in Bach preludes and fugues. We have been looking back to Kirnberger’s tempo relationships. I am constantly trying to learn more. If you have everything figured out, you may as well just retire, and I’m certainly not ready to retire!

In addition, after being asked a few years ago to do a peer review of a string methods class, I became fascinated with the violin. I realized that I had always wanted to play the violin, but I was afraid to try! I started taking violin lessons with David Gillis, a member of the Pittsburgh Symphony, and I’m still studying! I’m working on the Vivaldi sonatas, Opus 2, which I love! It’s a whole other world. 

The most recent development is the establishment of Duquesne’s chant schola under the direction of faculty member Sister Marie Agatha Ozah, HHCJ. We study the St. Gall notation to incorporate those interpretive elements into our singing. In May 2013, I led a study trip to Paris to play the important organs there and gave a short concert at the Benedictine Abbey in Solesmes. 

How do you know what to say when a student plays? What not to say? 

Always, I do it by intuition, and I think David Craighead did too. I’m careful not to say too much, and not say too little. 

How do you decide not only what to say, but how to say it? How do you break through?

Teaching is so dynamic, because you have to figure out where the student is and how the student will perceive what you say. You always have to be honest, but you need to be helpful—not damaging. You can’t say something is good when it’s not. Some teachers are more didactic, but I find that I do almost everything by intuition.

Realizing that you could retire, what keeps you going?

I love what I’m doing. I’m finally at a point when I can do it more easily.

I still have a lot to give to the students. I can still make a difference in their lives, and I still enjoy it. When we look around the country, and see the teachers who have retired, only to see their programs eliminated, that is always a danger. 

What are your hopes for the future of Duquesne’s sacred music and organ programs?

We are working very hard to get a world-class organ on campus! We have plans, and hope to be able to do this in the near future. The last piece of the puzzle is to put a doctoral program in place. That has been in discussion for many years, and it has been very challenging because there are many hoops to jump through. Our library holdings have been critical, but we now have many sacred music collections (the Langlais Collection, the Craighead Collection, the Boys Town Collection, the Richard Proulx Collection, to name a few). We have the faculty, and the quality of teaching, but we need more financial support. 

What else would you like to say?

Duquesne University has always been a religious institution. Our mission is to train church musicians. There are other schools whose main issue is getting students ready for competitions, which is wonderful, and I admire them very much. But even David Craighead agreed that he wished the Eastman School had done more with church music and preparation for the AGO exams. I want to prepare students to be musicians in churches of all denominations. We are trying to evolve, as the church continues to evolve. Students have to learn both pastoral skills and musical skills. These are difficult to teach. Our internship, for example, is a requirement partially because of NASM accreditation, but it’s also a critical area that we use to help each student in that very way. 

Ann, thank you for sharing these details of your life in teaching and performing. Albert Einstein said, “I never teach my pupils. I only attempt to provide the conditions in which they can learn.” My experience of you as a teacher and mentor has been just so. You always gave the students exactly the right amount of guidance, and offered the right words precisely when they were needed; and yet you always allowed each student to discover his own path. You have led the way gracefully, setting a high bar and leading by example. Most importantly you have shown me the importance of constant, ongoing learning. I look forward to many more years of collaboration and friendship and wish you many blessings for continued joy in your work. 

James Kibbie is Chair of the Organ Department and University Organist at the University of Michigan.

Daniel Roth is widely acclaimed as a leading French organ recitalist, recording artist, improviser, teacher, and composer. He is titular organist of the Church of Saint-Sulpice in Paris, where his predecessors included Widor and Dupré, and he has held teaching positions at major institutions in France, Germany, and the United States. He has won prestigious competitions, including the Grand Prix de Chartres, and is a Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur, an Officier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, and an Honorary Fellow of the Royal College of Organists. I spoke with him in Ann Arbor, Michigan, during his appointment as visiting artist in organ at the University of Michigan.

James Kibbie: Daniel, it’s been an honor to have you work with our students at the University of Michigan as visiting artist. What are your impressions of organ study in the United States?

Daniel Roth: I think there has always been a very high level in the States. Many teachers at different universities have a wonderful background by having had lessons in Europe with several great masters, then coming back to the States. Also, in the States you have organists who have studied musicology besides their training on the instrument. In Europe, we sometimes have teachers who are only wonderful players; there is not always a basis of research.

Wasn’t it Widor’s idea that musicians must also study history and other subjects? Organ students in American colleges and universities have other course requirements such as music theory, history, and general studies. Is it the same in France?

Today, and for a number of years, things are changing. We had in France the conservatoire system, and really in this system there are many interpreters who did not have much experience with musicological research. The conservatoire system is a system of music interpretation. It’s difficult to generalize because musicians are very different, but you found in the conservatoire system many organists who did not have this base of musicology.

Are the organ students in France today different than when you were a student?

Oh, yes. The two great conservatoires, Paris and Lyon, now have the university system. In my days you could do only an instrument in the conservatoire, no harmony, no music history. Music students arranged their studies as they wanted. When I was in the Paris Conservatoire in the 1960s, I did the classes of harmony with Maurice Duruflé, counterpoint and fugue with Marcel Bitsch, accompaniment with Henriette Puig-Roget, and organ and improvisation with Rolande Falcinelli. In 1960 there was a strict director of the conservatoire, and every student had to take a class in music history with Norbert Dufourcq. This was very new!

Does it hurt the students’ organ performance to require other studies?

It depends—some students are able to study many things together, others not. Achieving a high level in music performance needs a lot of time. It’s a matter of organization . . . 

Your improvisation at your recital this week was truly moving. This is so interesting to us in the United States. How do you teach your students to improvise?

I don’t anymore—I’m retired! [laughs]

Well then, how did you?

Of course, teaching improvisation is not an easy task. You must begin with much hope, and the student must be encouraged. Training in improvisation involves so many things together. You need much training in writing music. In the Paris Conservatoire harmony class, every week we had to realize a given bass and a given chant, counterpoint exercises, and a fugue. The best thing when you want to become a good improviser is to study the different major styles of music history, starting with Monteverdi and going up to our time, study the evolution of harmony, and improvise in the different styles. Counterpoint is very important in our field of organ, of course. 

Did you use Marcel Dupré’s Traité d’improvisation?

Yes, I used that even before coming to Paris. In Mulhouse, I started the little preparatory exercises for improvisation by Marcel Dupré with my organ teacher. Dupré’s exercises are very good to train beginning improvisation. He starts with harmonizing melodies and then quickly moves to improvising commentary to a melody. He eventually gets to a sonata movement. The theme (four measures) ends on the dominant, you improvise several commentaries modulating to the neighboring keys, a bridge on an element of the theme, the whole theme comes back, this builds the exposition, then comes the development on another element and the recapitulation.

When we had dinner at Jim and Mary Ann Wilkes’ home, you told a wonderful story of how you became an organist because of a film about Albert Schweitzer.

When I was a little boy, we went to church in a little village near Mulhouse in Alsace. There was a big organ, so I heard the organ, but until the age of 10, I was only interested in painting and drawing. It was my great passion. Then my father bought a piano. He wanted me to play the piano, but I had no great interest, I must say. I didn’t have a very kind teacher, you know, so piano was a little burden. But Albert Schweitzer was becoming well known, and I was born in Alsace, and Albert Schweitzer was also from Alsace. I was absolutely fascinated by his personality. Besides being a theologian and a medical doctor in Africa, he was also an organist, a specialist in Bach, and in organbuilding—it’s amazing. The movie “Il est minuit, docteur Schweitzer” (“It’s Midnight, Dr. Schweitzer”) came out when I was 11. The actor was a wonderful actor from Alsace, Pierre Fresney. In the middle of the movie you see Albert Schweitzer playing his piano in Lambaréné, which was a piano with a pedalboard attached, and in his mind he was in a great cathedral with a nice organ. As a little child, I was very much impressed by this. When I left this movie with my mother, I told her, “Maman, I absolutely want to become an organist.” I then got another piano teacher, a wonderful lady, and was practicing the organ for six hours a day.

How did you come to study with Rolande Falcinelli?

In my hometown of Mulhouse I had a teacher who was a great admirer of Dupré, and during these years I only heard great compliments for the Dupré school. When I came to Paris, I had lessons with Rolande Falcinelli, a student of Dupré, and she was wonderful with me. She organized all my studies and presented me to the teachers of counterpoint and harmony. She prepared me for the entrance exam for the conservatoire.

What was the entrance examination?

In those days in the organ class (it’s different now), we had to improvise a sonata andante on one theme as explained in the first volume of Dupré’s Traité d’improvisation. We had also to improvise the exposition, first divertissement, and relative key of a fugue, but with a countersubject, which you had to retain. This needs great training, which I didn’t have in Mulhouse. Also, all the organ pieces had to be played by memory, which had not been asked in the organ class in Mulhouse. 

So you were accepted into Rolande Falcinelli’s class at the conservatory?

Yes, I entered the organ class in 1961. In 1960, I had entered the class of Duruflé for harmony, and then in 1962 I started the counterpoint and fugue class. I stayed two years in the organ class with Rolande Falcinelli and got my First Prize in 1963. I was very happy to get her ideas, and still today I am very grateful to her because her teaching and improvisation were most perfect. She was an excellent teacher, and of course I learned everything about the Dupré tradition, Widor and so on. I am very grateful to Rolande Falcinelli for all I learned from her.

You also studied with Marie-Claire Alain?

In 1963, when I graduated from the organ class of the conservatoire, it was the time in Haarlem when the great movement for the real interpretation of old music started. You remember these three famous teachers, Anton Heiller, Luigi Tagliavini (who is still alive), and Marie-Claire Alain. At that time I felt the desire to go deeper into the interpretation of old music. With Rolande Falcinelli it was the Dupré tradition, you played the whole repertoire with the same touch, absolute legato or staccato (half-value). I felt the desire to learn more about the real interpretation of old music, so I went to have lessons with Marie-Claire Alain. She was a wonderful teacher. First of all, she was always very happy, very kind. Rolande Falcinelli was quite formal: “Mon petit, comment allez-vous?” You know Marie-Claire—with her, it was, “Ha-ha-ha, comment ça va, comment ça va?” 

I was extremely happy to study the completely new kind of interpretation with Marie-Claire. You have to research the composer, his instrument, his touch, not playing all the repertoire with the same touch. And then of course there’s the difference between the composers who want you to play the music straight and the composers who use rubato, like César Franck. Marie-Claire opened to me this world of research into the personality of each composer. Serve the composer, in the same way as Nikolaus Harnoncourt writes in his book, “The composer should be the highest authority.” I was fascinated by this and continued with it my whole life.

Your first church position was as the assistant to Mme. Falcinelli at Sacré-Cœur?

At Easter 1963, Rolande Falcinelli asked me to be her assistant at Sacré-Cœur Basilica because she was having great problems with the head priest there, a very difficult person. He did not like her way of playing, he didn’t like modern music at all. I often went to hear her, and she improvised in a wonderful way, but he didn’t like this in the liturgy. They agreed together she should have an assistant, and this is what I became on the Sunday after Easter, 1963. 

And then you became the titulaire of Sacré-Cœur?

At first, the head priest and Rolande Falcinelli agreed she would play one Sunday a month, and I would play the rest of the time. Finally in 1973, she told me, “Now I have had enough.” This probably was because Marcel Dupré had died in 1971, and he had the wish that Rolande Falcinelli would be his successor at Saint-Sulpice. The head priest of Saint-Sulpice formed a commission of organists to select the titulaire, he read them the letter of Dupré saying he wanted Rolande Falcinelli as his successor, and the commission voted. But at the end of this vote, the head priest took the ballots and said, “I am going to give these to the cardinal.” Then of course all the organists were unhappy—“What is the result of our vote?” After that, Jean-Jacques Grunenwald was named. Of course, Rolande Falcinelli was very bitter about this, and she told me, “I will quit now at Sacré-Cœur, and you will be my successor.” 

By this time, you had already won the Grand Prix de Chartres. In 1971, you won the grand prix for both interpretation and improvisation.

There were two of us. My good friend Yves Devernay and I both received the grand prix. The program was completely crazy, impossible, all by memory, and then we had to improvise a symphony. We shared the grand prix, and after he became one of the four organists at Notre-Dame. He was a wonderful person and a very good friend. He died in 1990.

How did it happen that you then went to Saint-Sulpice?

In 1974, I was invited to Washington, D.C., for two years to be the organist of the National Shrine and to teach at Catholic University. Then I came back to Sacré-Cœur, and we restored the organ because it was in very bad shape. In 1982, Jean-Jacques Grunenwald died, so the position at Saint-Sulpice was open. I was at Sacré-Cœur, I love this organ very much, and I did not think about changing, but I had several friends who pushed me, “You have to be a candidate at Saint-Sulpice. We are very worried about who will be there, and the organ,” and so on. Finally, I agreed to be a candidate. There were many candidates, and the exam for the post took a long time. This was in 1982. By 1984, when Pierre Cochereau died, there were still no rules about how to name an organist and still no organist in Saint-Sulpice. Finally, after the death of Cochereau, the cardinal redid the text on the nomination of organists in Paris. The cardinal wrote that the curé is the head of the parish, and he makes the final decision, but he has to get as consultants a commission of composers, organists, and liturgists. The text says that the curé may do this in two ways, either by organizing an official competition in interpretation and improvisation, or by an examination based on the curriculum vitae. The curé at Saint-Sulpice wanted to do it the second way, by curriculum vitae. I remember in February 1985, I was playing vespers at Sacré-Cœur, and my wife came and whispered in my ear, “You just have been named at Saint-Sulpice.” Oh, I lost the key!

Are the organs in the churches of Paris maintained by a city commission?

In France in 1905 there was separation of state and church. From this time on, all churches and their furniture belong to the towns. All cathedrals belong to the state. So when there is an organ restoration to be made, the town pays, or for a cathedral, the state, not the church. When the organ in a town is also an historic monument, then the state and the town divide the cost of restoration. For organ maintenance, it depends. In some places, it’s the town that pays for tuning. In other places, Saint-Sulpice for example, it’s the church.

I read an article in The Guardian newspaper that said the city commission does not have enough money to maintain the organs of Paris. Is it true?

Of course, as you know, there’s a financial crisis right now, a difficult time for the economy. There is a lack of money for restoration and for new organs, this is sure, but the maintenance in general is done.

What are your favorite organs?

Oh, I like in general all kinds of organs which are in a true aesthetic. I like very much historic organs all over the world. I am very fascinated by a North German organ, or an organ from Middle Germany or South Germany, or a typical Italian or Spanish organ. I like also new organs when they have a good aesthetic. I am sad when I see an historic organ that has been changed.

Yes, I think particularly of the many changes to César Franck’s organ at Sainte-Clotilde.

Yes, a catastrophe, and also Notre-Dame.

I wish the organ of Sainte-Clotilde could be restored to its original state.

I wish this also. The state commission for historic organs is interested in this, but in Paris it’s always politics, you know; the organs of Sainte-Clotilde and Notre-Dame have not been restored back to the original because of the organists. In Leipzig, for instance, you have the great organ of the Thomaskirche, by Sauer originally. It had been very much changed by the Orgelbewegung, taking out beautiful principals with nice scaling and putting in their place little mixtures and mutations. Years ago they organized the complete return to the original disposition of the organ. Or look at the Dom in Berlin, also a Sauer. After communism, they decided to restore that organ as it was originally, with pneumatic action and so on, beautifully poetic. 

Before we finish, we should talk a little about your children.

Yes! We have four children. The oldest is a girl, Anne-Marie, and she has completed fine arts school and is a specialist in mosaic. She lives now in Geneva and has done mosaics in schools and other places. Then we have three boys. The oldest boy is François-Xavier, and he has a wonderful career as a conductor. Then we have Vincent; he plays viola and is professor of viola at the Conservatoire of Metz in Lorraine. The last one, born in Washington, D.C. in 1976 (a bicentennial baby!) is not at all an artist. He is a professor of mathematics in Laval. And we have nine grandchildren from 4 to 17 years old, among them students in horn, trombone, flute, harpsichord, clarinet, percussion, and tuba. We are very proud!

Daniel, thank you so much. It’s been a delight visiting with you. 

Boston, June 23–27

Jonathan B. Hall writes frequently for The American Organist, The Diapason, and The Tracker. He teaches music
theory and music criticism at New York University, and is music director of Central Presbyterian Church in Montclair, New Jersey. He serves on the American Guild of Organists’ Committee on Professional Certification. Hall is the author of Calvin Hampton, A Musician Without Borders  (Wayne Leupold Editions).

Joyce Johnson Robinson is editorial director of The Diapason.

The American Guild of Organists 2014 National Convention met in Boston, Massachusetts, June 23–27. The weather gods smiled favorably for the most part and the city was a delight. This was a walking convention, so it was possible to get sufficient exercise from transport on foot (and climbing stairs to use the metropolitan trains). The convention daily details (and program notes, written by the artists) were nicely packaged, with each day’s itinerary in a single booklet (all the booklets came packaged in a cardboard slipcase). Information on venues, organ specifications, and photos were presented alphabetically in a separate booklet (which one would have to remember to bring). Though we hoped to review all performances, we did not completely succeed—given the vast array of choices at our disposal, this ambition was unreasonable, but entirely understandable. 

Monday, June 23

James David Christie, 

Symphony Hall

Monday evening’s opening concert presented James David Christie along with the Boston Landmarks Orchestra, conducted by Christopher Wilkins, in a program of five works for organ and orchestra, at Symphony Hall in Boston. The 1949 Aeolian-Skinner organ, Opus 1134, was rebuilt by Foley-Baker in 2004, during which 32′ Diapason and Bourdon registers were added and the Bombarde division strengthened. The organ asserted itself wonderfully along with the orchestra; it added marvelous color and presence, and Christie used it to full advantage, presenting its range from whisper to roar, as both solo instrument and orchestral collaborator.

The program opened with Guilmant’s Première Symphonie, known to many of us as an organ-only sonata. It was enjoyable to begin the evening with a familiar work in a less-familiar guise, allowing us to hear well-known themes from the colors of different instruments. Christie’s deft use of the Swell pedal was noteworthy in the softer passages, and he withheld use of the Vox Humana until the end of the Pastorale. In the fiery finale, the organ’s upperwork was on display, along with great brass and percussion fanfares—quite a treat. 

Marie-Louise Langlais was then introduced from the audience; her husband Jean Langlais’ Thème, variations et final, op. 28 from 1937, was next on the program. It began in the low strings, with chordal punctuation from the upper strings, and a chantlike theme from the organ. The variation techniques included descending, sliding scales (which, admittedly, stringed instruments accomplish better than the organ does), fugal passages, and presentation of the theme by the pedal and brass. The work grew ever more fevered and exploited the powerful sound that an organ with an orchestra can produce.

After intermission, a medallion was presented to AGO President Eileen Guenther, by Vance Wolverton, marking the official induction of the AGO into the American Classical Music Hall of Fame. (Besides the AGO, other recent inductees include composer Aaron Jay Kernis, educator and choral conductor Weston Noble, pianist André Watts, and the Guarneri Quartet.) How positive for the AGO to receive such recognition from the wider musical world!

Boston-area native Daniel Pinkham’s 1995 Concerto No. 2 for Organ and Orchestra opened with an Overture Concertante, which featured much percussion and a good dose of spiky and angular themes that are a feature of Pinkham’s work. The lovely Adagietto was both lyrical and insistent, and the final Rondo alla burla included a crescendo with full organ and full orchestra, brass and percussion a-blazing. Next was Walter Piston’s 1943 Prelude and Allegro; the Prelude was hauntingly beautiful, melancholy yet sweet, in which Christie sensitively blended the organ with the string section of the orchestra, while the Allegro featured lively counterpoint. The concluding work was Samuel Barber’s Toccata Festiva from 1960; from the opening thunderclap of percussion to the lyrical and lovely themes to the pedal cadenza, Christie delivered the goods in this magical work. His playing was skillful and responsive and was enhanced by his elegant console demeanor.

Programs with multiple works for organ and orchestra (rather than merely a bit of Saint-Saëns) are rare; this was indeed a feast. 

Tuesday, June 24

Opening worship,

Cathedral of the Holy Cross

The convention’s opening interfaith worship service took place at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. I arrived late (having stopped with some others to assist a conventioner who had fallen), and so missed the prelude (Carol Barnett’s March to Glory: ‘Draw me nearer,’ a convention commission, in its premiere performance), the opening hymn (with Richard Webster’s descant), and AGO Chaplain Don E. Saliers’s invocation. Colin Lynch, organist for the prelude and the service, played solidly throughout, in both hymns and the imaginatively registered anthems. 

Libby Larsen’s new hymn tune (another commission and premiere), for the text “Eternal Ruler of the ceaseless round,” was solid, simple to sing—all within an octave range—and yet still contained enough harmonic surprise to be fresh. Matthew Martin’s anthem, Jubilate Deo (also a commission and premiere) was a stirring setting of Psalm 100, and exhibited fine text painting. It was followed by the chant hymn The Great Forerunner of the Race (Ut queant laxis). 

Rev. Barbara Cawthorn Crafton spoke of how artists working in faith communities must deal with being competitive, and how to work to be the best you can be while still containing your ego. She also addressed the challenge of striving for higher quality—if a congregation will “allow access to their foundation, we can raise their ceiling.” Crafton also touched on an issue that resonates with many of us: “Tell me that what I gave my life for was not a mistake.”

Paul Halley’s anthem, Jesu, the very thought of thee, was simply stunning; based on the hymn tune St. Botolph, it offered both a bubbling-brook accompaniment (for flute stops) and a cappella writing. The majestic concluding hymn, Coe Fen (“How shall I sing that majesty?”), with alternate harmonization and setting by Richard Webster, stirred the soul. The postlude, Daniel Roth’s Fantasie sur l’hymne à Saint Jean Baptiste (a commissioned work for this service, based on Ut queant laxis), played by Leo Abbott, covered a range of emotions, textures, and sound; it ended quietly on a small tone cluster, and we departed to begin a big day.

Tuesday morning

Scott Dettra,

Trinity Church

Scott Dettra’s recital at Trinity Church was a filling meal of meaty compositions, ably presented on the Skinner and Aeolian-Skinner organs. Healey Willan’s Prelude and Fugue in C Minor, op. 146, was a seamless release of energy throughout. Évocation II, a 1996 work by Thierry Escaich, was a delightful, colorful composition. The piece opened with a pedal ostinato (of a single note in octaves); chords of many colors then spoke from various locations in the room, like birds in dialog amongst the trees. The work ended with a surprise chord at the end. Dettra’s use of the organ, in all its locations (and stamina in playing those ostinato pedal octaves), was masterful. 

Herbert Howells’s Psalm-Prelude, Set 1, op. 32, no. 2 (inspired by Psalm 37:11, “But the meek-spirited shall possess the earth”), was a quiet contemplation, sweet and comforting, that displayed the organ’s strings. In Seth Bingham’s Passacaglia in E Minor, op. 40, Dettra once again exploited the spatial elements of the organ’s divisions, as well as its colors, and offered the quietest of endings, with the audience holding its collective breath. The expressive Prière from Joseph Jongen’s Quatre pièces pour orgue, op. 37, was a contemplative whisper on the strings; the concluding work, Maurice Duruflé’s Prélude et Fugue sur le nom d’Alain (played faster than I have ever heard it, but with absolute control) was an exercise in rhythmic propulsion and a spirited conclusion to an excellent recital.

Tuesday evening

Christian Lane,

Memorial Church, Harvard

Christian Lane presented his recital at Harvard University’s Memorial Church twice in a row (with but a 25-minute break) on this warm Tuesday evening. He began on the 1930 Skinner organ, Opus 793, now comprising 45 ranks. Lane offered a swashbuckling opening with Leo Sowerby’s Comes Autumn Time, in which the themes were made wonderfully clear through the full texture. Ned Rorem’s Magnificat from Organbook II and “There is a Spirit That Delights to Do No Evil” from A Quaker Reader were sensitively played; the latter work’s final chord was topped with a single note on the chimes. 

The mid-section of the recital included trumpeter Chris Gekker, professor of trumpet at the University of Maryland School of Music, and soloist on more than 30 recordings. Gekker played from the back balcony, first on Alan Hovhaness’s Prayer of St. Gregory, op. 62b, a lovely dialogue between organ and trumpet, and then the solo work Solstice Prelude by Carson Cooman (here in its first performance), a graceful work whose melodic structure featured thirds (mostly), on the heels of Christian Lane’s muscular reading of Max Reger’s Introduktion und Passacaglia d-moll. 

The C. B. Fisk Opus 139 (2012) in the gallery was used for the remainder of the recital. Another convention-commissioned premiere by Carson Cooman, Solstice Sonata, now combined trumpet and organ. Take Flight featured rapid passagework by the organ topped by the trumpet, then each instrument echoed the other. The Dream of Peace offered a smooth trumpet line over thick and complex chords, while Glittering, Aglow ended the work with a frenetic and splashy 3+3+2 rhythm. 

Lane then presented Jehan Alain’s Variations sur un thème de Clément Jannequin, its modal melodies sounding well on the Fisk; it was for me a highlight of the recital. Lane concluded with Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor, BWV 582, in a seamless performance that changed colors throughout but never let its energy lapse—a fresh approach to a familiar piece and a wonderful ending to a rewarding recital. 

Wednesday, June 25

Rosalind Mohnsen,

St. Joseph Parish

St. Joseph Parish, Boston, is home to an 1883 Hook & Hastings organ, Opus 1168 of two manuals, which includes a 16′ Open Diapason on the Great and corpulent, mellow reeds. The room, with its beautiful stained-glass windows and generous acoustic, provided as much pleasure as did the organ and player.

Rosalind Mohnsen displayed the organ’s many colors in a creatively registered program of mostly shorter works, many of them unfamiliar to me and many by composers with a Massachusetts connection. Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel’s Prelude in F Major offered sweeping, singing  lines; Mohnsen displayed the rich flutes in Tournemire’s S. Joseph Sponsi B.V.M: Prélude à l’Introït, from the Easter cycle of L’orgue mystique, op. 56. I especially enjoyed hearing the beefy Pedal division get its due in Everett Titcomb’s Toccata on ‘Salve Regina.’ 

Mohnsen did a fine job with two smaller works of Max Reger: Benedictus from Zwölf Stücke für die Orgel, op. 59, with a marvelous fugal section and harmonic detours, and Scherzo, from Zwölf Stücke für die Orgel, op. 65, in which the Cromorne took a turn. 

The works of four Massachusetts composers came next—all either born in or otherwise identified with the Bay State, and all from the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries: George Elbridge Whiting’s Melody (Homage to Grieg) from Twenty-Four Progressive Studies for the Pipe-Organ, which displayed the flutes and Oboe; George Whitefield Chadwick’s Postlude from Ten Progressive Pedal Studies; Frederick N. Shackley’s delightful Gavotte Pastorale, with its gapped registration; and Horatio Parker’s Fugue in C Minor from Four Compositions, which featured the massive pedal reed stop. (Parker, the Yale professor and Ives’ teacher, was born in Auburndale, Massachusetts.)

Next followed German works: Johann Kirnberger’s Herzlich thut mich verlangen, a lovely chorale setting featuring the oboe with tremolo; Sigfrid Karg-Elert’s Abstraction (alla Schönberg) from Dreiunddreissig Portraits, jumpy and dissonant, over a higher-pitched drone by the flutes; Johann Krebs’s Trio in F, recalling a trio sonata of his teacher Bach. 

Mohnsen ended with W. Eugene Thayer’s Sonata No. 3 in D Minor, featuring a sweet Andante, and a closing set of variations based on Austrian Hymn, the final variation containing a formidable pedal cadenza to introduce the tune’s last phrase. This was a full-bodied close to Mohnsen’s ably played and satisfying recital. 

Wednesday evening

Lutheran Vespers, 

Joan Lippincott & Boston Early Music Festival Chamber Ensemble

The service, held in the lively acoustic of the modern, brick-walled First Lutheran Church of Boston, was entitled “A Praetorius Organvespers for Pentecost.” It was led by Rev. Ingo Dutzmann, with organist Bálint Karosi, and the vocal ensemble Canto Armonico, conducted by Ulf Wellner and Cheryl Ryder; brass players were placed in the side gallery. The service was designed by Cheryl Ryder, Canto Armonico’s executive director. The opening pieces were all based on Come, Holy Ghost: the chant version of Veni Creator Spiritus in the Hieronymus Praetorius organ prelude, an antiphon by Franz Eler [from Cantica Sacrae, 1588], motet Komm, heiliger Geist by Michael Praetorius, and the lustily sung hymn Come, Holy Ghost (Enchiridion, 1524). Then followed choral psalmody (Psalms 113 and 104, the latter set by Schütz), readings and a responsory, the Magnificat (alternatim between chant and organ, with hymn interpolations by Michael Praetorius), and a Hieronymus Praetorius setting of Te Deum Laudamus. In the concluding organ postlude, Michael Praetorius’s Nun lob, meine seele, Bálint Karosi inspired awe with the work’s marvelous scalar passages and fiery finish, topped with a Zimbelstern.

All this made me wish that those who clamor for simplistic worship music had been present, to experience how soul-stirring traditional worship can be (even traditional from a century or two before the American Revolution!). It was so well performed and so satisfying to experience. Bravi (or wunderbar) and thanks to all.

Joan Lippincott then presented a program of three 18th-century concertos, accompanied by the Boston Early Music Chamber Ensemble, an eight-member string group led by concertmaster Robert Mealy, who stood near the keydesk for ease of interaction with the organist. The Richards, Fowkes & Co. organ spoke exuberantly into the room and put the nuances of Lippincott’s articulations and phrasing clearly on display. In Handel’s four-movement Concerto in B-flat Major, most enjoyable were the ornamented repeats (which included sweeping scales). The first movement of C. P. E. Bach’s Concerto in E-flat Major ended with a marvelous cadenza, and the second movement demonstrated the empfindsamer Stil with the melody played by flute and tremolo. Lippincott ended with a familiar friend, J. S. Bach’s Concerto in D Minor, wrapping up a satisfying evening of stylishly played works in a splendid acoustic.

—Joyce Johnson Robinson

Tuesday, June 24

Craig Cramer,

Old South Church 

I hurried back from the opening service to find a spot in Old South Church, to hear Craig Cramer’s recital. The organ, at its core Skinner’s Opus 308 from 1921 (originally installed in St. Paul, Minnesota), was reworked by Casavant and Hokans-Knapp, and later by Nelson Barden. The church previously housed Skinner’s Opus 231, installed in a still-earlier Hutchings case. (For the entire complicated story of the organs in this church, see the convention booklet. Better yet, visit www.oldsouth.org for an exhaustive account.) The organ’s most notable features include its rich String division, and its 32′ Bombarde (the organ’s thirty-twos are “dotted around the landscape,” as the convention book has it—notably lining the side balconies).

To this rich, intertexual organ landscape, Craig Cramer brought excellent technique and musicianship, as well as a highly original and well-chosen program. He began with a symphonic work by August Fauchard (1881–1957), titled Le mystère de Noël. This work is in the form of variations on the plainsong hymn “Jesu Redemptor Omnium.” Each variation is also a tone-poem on a verse of the hymn, or a sentence of scripture, or a scene from the Nativity. At times brilliant and at times simply competent and assured, the work was always executed with great perspicacity by Cramer, whose registrations were always exactly right, and whose sense of phrase, tempo, and rhythm were quintessentially French.

An interesting unpublished work followed, a tribute by Toni Zahnbrecher to his wife Beate. Titled Introduction, Scherzo under Fuge über B-E-A-T-E, its soggetto cavato is B-flat, E, A, D, and E. The closing material recalled the opening. Zahnbrecher is an organist and music director at St. Willibald’s Church in Munich. The next piece on the program, a Prelude and Fugue on ‘O Traurigkeit, O Herzeleid,’ by English composer Ethel Smyth (1841–1924), was perhaps the most conventional work on the program. Hard either to object to or wax enthusiastic over, it was nonetheless executed extremely well by the performer. I may not have been converted to the cause of Ethel Smyth, but I was certainly impressed with the quality of the performance.

The final piece on the program, Reger’s Second Sonata in D Minor, op. 60, was an exhilarating conclusion to an excellent recital. Cramer made the entire work accessible, communicating the music rather than simply presenting it. The recital ended on a most satisfying high note, as it were.

Overall, the only nit I found I could pick with this recital was a minor registrational one: I felt the 32′ Bombarde, “dotted around the landscape,” to be exciting once or twice, but eventually a little tiresome. The stop is enormous, Brobdingnagian, on pressures varying from 13″ to 20″; and of course de rigueur at an AGO convention! At least once, though, it detracted a little, with an effect like unto jackhammering. Cramer is an empathetic, gifted registrant, and an admirably conservative and well-grounded artist; surely he chose to use the stop because, well, it was there! And honestly, who wouldn’t? It’s an understandable decision; many an enthusiast in the audience was visibly excited by the high-pressure cannonade. I include this observation only in the interest of balance, and to make clear that my admiration for Cramer, while profound, is not facile. Kudos to Craig Cramer for presenting one of the highlights of the convention.

Wednesday evening

Evensong and John Scott recital,

Church of the Advent

The preludes began at about 7:12 for a 7:30 service. Organist and Choirmaster Mark Dwyer played the prelude, and all hymns and service music; Associate Organist-Choirmaster Ross Wood played the psalms, Mag and Nunc, and postlude. We first heard the C. Hubert H. Parry Fantasy and Fugue in G, op. 188. It was played extremely well: note-perfect, with excellent registrations and pacing. It was just the right piece to open a high Anglican evensong in honor of St. Botolph, patron saint of Boston. The David Lasky “Prelude on Picardy” was a meditative work that hewed fairly closely to the hymn tune; a nice contrast to the Parry. It was a commission for the convention, and this was its first performance. The choir sang beautifully; the Introit (by Byrd), the Preces (by Bernard Rose), and the psalms (67, by Bairstow, and 96, by Thalben-Ball) were executed with balance, blend, clarity of diction, and a tone at once straight and warmly vibrant. The hymns, needless to say, were “belted out” by a motivated congregation. The “Mag and Nunc”were from Howells’ Gloucester Service—composed, as the program book reminded us, for the Cathedral Church of the Most Holy and Undivided Trinity, Gloucester.

After Evensong—which surely thrilled every heart in the building, Anglican or not—John Scott gave an equally thrilling organ recital. He opened with Wild Bells, a piece composed in 1986 by Michael Berkeley. This piece, especially as it settled into its thrilling Vierne-ish body and conclusion, was a great opener. It was followed by the Stanford Fantasia and Toccata in D Minor, op. 57. Scott made this formidable work sound easy; right from its soft opening, the piece was infused with a certain lyricism, even amidst its moments of tumult. It was an even-keeled, gracious reading, and even at its most passionate, it was presented devoid of ego or excess showmanship. This was followed by the Frank Bridge Adagio, in a confident and convincing reading.

Next we had a premiere by a young American composer, Nico Muhly. His suite, Patterns, was another AGO commission, and this was also a premiere performance. I was delighted to discover this young composer, who is (like your reviewer) an English major turned musician. His own comments on Patterns are a joy to read, laced with vivid expressions. We have “clumsy cousins” in the pedal; a “perpetual motion machine on its highest setting”; “hiccoughs” and other colorful turns of phrase. Mr. Muhly should write an opera! His work, which offered fascinating rhythmic whirligigs, impressions of crickets (for this reviewer), and a somewhat more orthodox toccata to finish, was well received. In a word, nifty.

The final three pieces were the Fantasie-Chorale No.1 in D-flat from 1931, by Percy Whitlock; the Peter Fricker Pastorale (1959) and the Mathias Recessional, op. 96, no. 4 (1986). The Whitlock featured beautifully-managed registrations; I heard new sounds from the organ, always a thing I listen for in a recital. The use of expression was faultless; the piece grew elegantly, inexorably. The Fricker began on a spooky (for me) note, yielding to a quieter ending. And the Mathias was a perfect light finisher. Similar in style and spirit to his well-known Processional, the piece alternates a very lively solo line with a darker middle section with new material.

Overall, John Scott played a thoroughly professional and thoroughly enjoyable recital. It was an ideal blend of old and new, centered on English organ culture and yet reaching outward. This evening’s worship/concert pairing was as perfect as one could hope for.

Thursday, June 26

Jonathan Ryan,

Christ Church Cambridge

On Thursday morning, I gave a paper at the convention hotel. I hope that future conventions will continue to offer the option of participating this way; it offered a new, enriching, and very inclusive way to experience the AGO. Afterwards, I left immediately for Cambridge and Jonathan Ryan’s recital.

Christ Church is a small, wooden, eighteenth-century structure, with a low ceiling, many pillars, tall clear windows, and virtually no room for a pipe organ. In this somewhat cramped, though richly historic, venue (George Washington worshiped here on New Year’s Eve, 1775), Jonathan Ryan presented one of the convention’s finest recitals. The program was all the more remarkable for being delivered from memory, a remarkable feat in and of itself.

During the program, I found myself struggling, not with Ryan’s excellent playing, but with the relationship of the organ and acoustic. Part of the problem was that the room was packed, and that people kept arriving—a nice problem to have! But later, I learned more: there is almost no room for an organ, and no possibility of radical restructuring of the space. The Schoenstein organ succeeds in part through very high wind pressures (Ryan spoke to me afterwards, citing pressures of about twenty inches in some cases) and even the adoption of tone chutes. None of these expedients can fully conquer an acoustic that tends toward the dead side. As a result, some of the sonorities had to be accepted as the “best possible under the circumstances” variety. This is the fault of no one.

The recital began with the Dupré Symphonie-Passion. Tempo was excellent; playing was clean, accurate, and confident. The crescendo to full organ was seamless and seemed effortless. Toward the end of the first movement, the sense of a singing line was most palpably evident. I wished for more acoustic—even a more humid day!—to give more resonance to the well-timed pauses at the end; these deserved, in Longfellow’s words, “wild reverberations, as of thunder in the mountains.”

In the other movements, Ryan used the colors of the organ to good effect, and with unceasingly varied creativity. This was especially clear in the third movement, where the dynamic and timbral range was as wide as one could hope for. Throughout, there was a sense of clear, thorough mastery of the music, and a clear vision for its interpretation. 

Following the Dupré, we heard a Meditation (2005) composed by Ken Yukl, who is married to Pamela Decker. The piece centered on a sweet lyrical tune; my impression was of early American hymnody. There was a nice buildup in classic English manner, which yielded back to a quieter and dreamier mood. We then heard two of the Schumann opus 56, numbers 5 and 4. As the first began, I was struck, again, with a sense of fresh registration. Both of these were played with great skill; one never missed the canonical writing.

Ryan ended with the Sowerby Pageant. Several of Sowerby’s students in Chicago have told me that he loved the Franck Finale, op. 21, and played it often at St. James Cathedral, sometimes for private recitals. I was struck, at this performance of Pageant, by its spiritual kinship with the Finale. Ryan has spent time in Chicago and has internalized the best of what it offers. He made the ferocious difficulties of Pageant seem like minor issues. Jonathan Ryan is one of the brightest younger artists in the field today; his Cambridge recital augurs a long and distinguished career.

Thursday afternoon

Heinrich Christiansen,

King’s Chapel

After Jonathan Ryan’s recital in Cambridge, I got back into Boston for the program at King’s Chapel. This church, marked by Daniel Pinkham’s long tenure, lies a few blocks north of Boston Common and close by Paul Revere’s resting place. The organ is Fisk Opus 44 from 1964. The program was for organ and string quartet. 

This church, once the symbol of royal Anglicanism in colonial Boston, today occupies about the same position in its city as St. Paul’s Chapel does in Manhattan. Though smaller than its New York cousin, King’s Chapel boasts some wonderful archaic features, like box pews throughout the space. I thoroughly enjoyed occupying one of these and facing backwards, so I could watch the performance.

Heinrich Christiansen, who has been at King’s since 2000, presented a varied and intruiguing program of music old and new. For me, the pieces that opened and closed the concert were the most enjoyable. Christiansen began with the Pinkham Sonata No. 1 for Organ and Strings, from 1943. A short work, it impressed me almost as more of a chorale, in the French Romantic sense, than a sonata per se. The organ interfaced elegantly with the strings, and the sense of ensemble was generally quite fine throughout.

This was followed by a work by Robert Sirota, titled Apparitions; it was a commission for this convention, and we heard its first performance. Sirota used four hymn tunes, and throughout the work fanned out a range of string and organ techniques. There were glassy harmonics, pizzicati, and various aliquot-rich organ registrations interacting with varied textures and ranges in the quartet. The diversity of textures was intriguing, but didn’t gel into a coherent musical statement. Sirota’s work was followed by Naji Hakim’s Capriccio, originally a commission for the 2006 Chicago convention. This piece might have done with being edited for length, but was extremely well performed by both violin and organ. It was quite amusing and easy to follow throughout—a good palate cleanser in Hakim’s whimsical style. (This is a delightful facet of Hakim’s musical personality, and I enjoyed it a lot.)

Christiansen ended with a Soler piece, the Quintet No. 3 in G Major. Its five movements projected a gracious, Mozartean spirit and seemed perfectly suited to an eighteenth-century church on a rainy New England afternoon. It made the rush-hour subway trip back to the hotel—the only awkward bit of traveling in my entire week—very bearable indeed.

Thursday evening 

Unitarian Worship and Peter Sykes,

First Church in Boston

First Church was exactly that, founded by the first arrivals in Massachusetts Bay during the Great Migration, led by Governor Winthrop. From its humble beginnings in 1630, it grew in stature, eventually reclaiming the various congregations that split off from it. Cotton Mather was one of its pastors, as was the father of poet e. e. cummings. During the Unitarian controversy, it embraced the new doctrine.

Today, this nearly 400-year-old church boasts a building in modernist style from 1972 (there was a fire in 1968); its members are very active in the community and welcomed me with warmth. The event was not packed to standing room, as Jonathan Ryan’s recital had been. I regretted this, as the service and concert were certainly convention highlights, models of liturgical music and concert programing.

The prelude, or “gathering music,” was another convention premiere: Embertides by Hilary Tann. These were evocative and effective pieces, playing off the four times in the traditional liturgical calendar when Ember Days are observed. The etymology of “ember” is unclear; one theory is that the word is “ymbren,” which is Old English for “to remember.” Be that as it may, Tann’s pieces were very interesting, and worth investigating. The organ was a large Casavant, in a modern case, in the Werkprinzip fashion. 

The choral music at this service was beautifully done, much of it a cappella by a small and obviously very professional choir. The “chalice lighting” motet was by Karl Henning, Love Is the Spirit of This Church, and nothing in the text would preclude its use in other traditions as far as I could see. An anthem by Leo Collins set the original church covenant of First Church; historically interesting but too particular for wider use. The major choral offering was called Prayer of Hildegard, by Edward Thompson, and again was a commission for this convention. For this, the choir came down to the chancel, and was accompanied by marimba for its three movements. The choral writing, as well as the marimba writing, were really effective; the piece was very enjoyable to hear.

Perhaps most thrilling of all, though, was the postlude, from the Liturgical Suite for Organ, op. 69, by Larry Thomas Bell. This piece was commissioned about a decade ago by Carson Cooman and Richard Bunbury; it was quite exciting, a very worthy addition to our repertoire of toccatas!

The entire service was planned and executed with intelligence and care. This extended to the sermon, which was beautifully affirmative of the value of sacred music and musicians. Delivered by the Rev. Stephen Kendrick, it should be read and prized by all organists. 

This service was followed by a concert on harpsichord and virginals by Peter Sykes. One of his harpsichords, unfortunately, had been sent back to his studio in error; we were left with the Winkler harpsichord, in German style, and two virginals, an Italian and a Flemish. On this last instrument, called a muselaar, Sykes began. 

His first piece, the Preludium Toccata of Sweelinck (SwWV 297) was a beautiful choice. It was captivating, thanks to the performer’s sense of form and motivic saturation. Next, on the Italian virginal (with a brighter and lighter tone) was the Toccata Prima from the Libro Primo (1608) of Frescobaldi. Here, the performer offset the brightness of the instrument with an introspective performance.

The remaining works—the Toccata Seconda (FbWV 102) of Froberger, the Praeludium in G Minor (BuxWV 163) of Buxtehude, and the Toccata in D Major, BWV 912, of Bach—were played on the two-manual Winkler harpsichord, a fine all-purpose instrument. Of these, I was most deeply struck by the Bach. What a Janus figure he is! Looking back to the multipartite works of his forebears, he also looks ahead, in a curious and prophetic way, to late Beethoven. Throughout, Sykes played with a keen sense of structure and motive, and communicated this to the audience. His performance was a revelation and a joy. 

Friday, June 27

Morning Prayer,

Basilica of Our Lady of Perpetual Help

On Friday, the convention began with Morning Prayer in honor of the patroness of this historic basilica in the Mission Hill district. It was a short ride on the T, but quite a change of scenery, moving from the polish of the convention hotel to a much grittier urban district. The church is beautiful, with a distinctive white cupola. A peaceful park adjoins, and I was able to rest there a while, having arrived early as usual.

The service was part of the Divine Office of the Catholic Church: Morning Prayer or Lauds. The music was greatly enhanced by the choir of men and boys of St. Paul’s Harvard Square. This choir is truly remarkable, as it is the only Roman Catholic choir school in the United States. The men of the choir are, according to St. Paul’s website, drawn largely from area music schools. John Robinson was the conductor, Jonathan Wessler the organist.

The Introit was the Kyrie Eleison of Ivan Božičević, the winner of the 2014 AGO/ECS Publishing Award in Choral Composition. It wasn’t entirely clear why a Kyrie would be chosen as an introit (more precisely, as an opening motet, as the Office has no introits per se), but the beauty of the setting soon banished that question. Throughout, there was excellent balance of organ and voices, due equally to the quality of the writing and the choir’s training. The choir sang serenely, with integrity and strength, as the piece moved from a hauntingly quiet opening to an energetic Christe, featuring solo work in the organ, and then back to a quiet mood. The opening hymn, “Hail, Queen of Heaven, the Ocean Star,” came from a time before my own religious formation; I had never sung it before, and cannot understand why it isn’t a standard Catholic hymn.

The psalms were largely Anglican; we heard Psalm 63 (always the first psalm on solemnities) by Henry Purcell, and then a Benedicite by Francis Jackson. The Purcell brought many smiles when it broke into its coda of alleluias to the tune we now call Westminster Abbey. The Jackson was sung to the highest standards, with the choir only pushed to its limit on the very highest notes. The organ and choir were again fully integrated, and the organ sang with a full, authoritative tone, rich in reeds. The congregation joined in the third psalm, sung in Tone V; it was prefaced by a glorious incipit en taille. The morning canticle, the Benedictus (or Canticle of Zachary), was set energetically by Scott Perkins, and was another first performance, commissioned by the convention. After the final hymn (all seven verses of “Hail, Holy Queen”) the postlude—Toccata, fugue et hymne sur ‘Ave maris stella,’ op. 28 of Flor Peeters—made perfect musical and liturgical sense. Peeters’s true skill and vision as a sacred musician were fully on display and in context during this stirring performance. All the musicians acquitted themselves expertly.

The recital following, by Thierry Escaich, was at its most arresting when the performer was playing his own works. These he presented with subtlety, flexibility, and fire. The opening work, Brahms’s early Prelude and Fugue in G Minor (WoO 10), was also dashing and exciting. It was, however, risky to program the familiar Bach In dir ist Freude from Orgelbüchlein, as there were some sketchy moments in the performance which, I assume, were unmissable by much of the audience. I was perfectly pleased with all of Escaich’s own work; in particular, his own work on Christ ist erstanden, which he played with suppleness and noble joy. Some of Escaich’s registrations were unusual, at one point reaching an apex of high brilliance, which lingered long after he released the keys; he did not carry this to excess, so it worked well. The last chords of this massive work were stunning and took a long time to die away—as did the enthusiastic applause.

The Romance and Finale from Vierne’s Fourth Symphony were both executed clearly and well; the Finale at a very fast tempo, though with great accuracy. The program concluded with an exciting improvisation on two hymns, Protestant and Catholic: “O Zion, Haste” and the Irish tune Slane. This worked up to a quintessential French toccata. The audience wanted more, so Escaich obliged with a joyful encore, presto.

Friday evening

Stephen Tharp,

The Mother Church (First Church of Christ, Scientist)

The convention’s closing recital was head, shoulders, and torso above every other event of the week. I heard much excellent, even world-class organ playing throughout, but Stephen Tharp’s program was transcendentally superior. Stephen Tharp is the best organist in America; further debate is pointless.

I might have even said this at intermission, before Tharp closed the deal with the second half, the performance of a memorized transcription that will live in the history books. 

As a cool evening came on, the vast space slowly filled, including several tiers above the main floor. In front of the awe-inspiring gilded façade was a large screen, in order to project a view of the performer. The camera was situated by the left stop jamb, affording a good view of Mr. Tharp, including his feet.

The program (a Saint Cecilia recital, endowed by the late Marianne Webb) began with the Final of Naji Hakim’s Hommage à Stravinsky. This was a clever choice, bookending the program and foreshadowing the second half. I have heard this devilishly difficult piece played before, but never with such passion and authority. It was followed by an ideal lighter work, the Prelude in F Minor by Nadia Boulanger. The contrast was delightful, and the Boulanger piece, though modest, was not easy, and was not treated in anything other than a serious, professional manner. Great care was lavished on the singing lines in the piece, and they stood out from the accompaniment in three dimensions.

Then came the Persichetti Sonata for Organ (1960). Here, I felt there was a certain invitation to lyricism in the first movement, which the performer declined in favor of an energetic approach. However, the lyricism of the slow movement was brought out just right. The final movement was as fiery and virtuosic as one could hope for; Tharp burned the house down with that one. The cyclical elements of the sonata—such as the identical gesture that opened all three movements—cohered and made musical sense. 

Next came the Sowerby Fantasy for Flute Stops, from the Suite. Here, again, I felt that a slightly more relaxed sense of whimsy at the opening would have been nice. However, the middle section was interpreted with a really wonderful, well-shaped singing line, and the rapid tempo of the first theme came to grow on me. Tharp knows how to make the organ sing; that was never in doubt.

The first half closed with the Max Reger Choralfantasie: Straf mich nicht in deinem Zorn, op. 40, no. 2. There was much anxiety and churning energy in this piece, as well as a spirit of genuine religiosity. The performer balanced these exactly right. The quiet, hymnic moments were absolutely sincere and paced to perfection, and the dramatic finale was extremely exciting. Lightning-fast piston changes gave seamless crescendos. My notes for the conclusion read thunderously thrilling. Much, topped with more, topped with most. It was first-rate and then some; the best Reger you’re ever likely to hear.

I spent the intermission in a state of exhilaration (not typical for me!), while eagerly anticipating the great second half which still lay before us. For this, Tharp played his own transcription of the Rite of Spring. Just a century ago, this ballet was a succès de scandale at its premiere. Tonight, while a few might have been scandalized, discerning audience members recognized the presence of musical greatness. There was no score; Tharp had worked out and memorized his arrangement from the two-piano version that Stravinsky prepared for rehearsals. He sat at the console, spent a long moment in thought, then snapped into action.

The performance combined detailed fidelity to the score with idiomatic adaptations, and extended techniques as appropriate—ferocious slappings of the bottom octave, with high-pressure reeds drawn, for example. The lyricism—the frenetic busyness—the earth-bound rage—it was all there. If anything, there was a bias towards the passionate and intense side. Throughout the performance, Tharp maintained an intent, low-key composure, entirely focused on the music. There was no ego on display. He was clearly drained by the performance, and had clearly held nothing of himself back from it.

Never previously have I found myself standing before my hands could come together in applause. 

Stephen Tharp’s recital was a triumphant conclusion to a great convention. Kudos to him, and to the Boston Chapter for excellent and innovative planning, and to all the performers and presenters.

—Jonathan B. Hall