From the Dickinson Collection: Speech to the St. Louis Chapter of the American Guild of Organists by Clarence Dickinson

Lorenz Maycher

Lorenz Maycher is organist-choirmaster at First-Trinity Presbyterian Church in Laurel, Mississippi. His interviews with William Teague, Thomas Richner, Nora Williams, and Albert Russell have also appeared in The Diapason.

Introduction
The reputation of organist, composer, and educator Clarence Dickinson (1873–1969) has suffered undeserved neglect among American church musicians since the 1950s. By the time he retired as organist-choirmaster of the Brick Church in New York City, changes in taste and style had radically altered what was considered acceptable in church music and organ design. Following Dr. Dickinson’s retirement in 1960, the magnificent Skinner organ he played for over forty years was discarded, and his music gradually fell out of favor. Today his music lies largely forgotten. A recent search of a leading used music catalog produced 25 full pages of anthem titles by Clarence Dickinson that had been discarded by church music libraries throughout the country.
As we all know, styles are constantly changing, with one period of music, style of composition, or set of performance practices replaced by the next. Dr. Dickinson himself put the case well in his 1962 speech to the American Choral Directors’ Association:

    I suppose it is always a little rash to make any predictions about the future, because we seem always to be like the little boy who asked his mother whether the preacher was right when he said that we are dust, and will return to dust. When she said, “Yes,” little Johnny asked, “Is that pile of dust under my bed coming or going?”
    When I was a student in Berlin, Strauss was writing the latest of his tone poems. Heinrich Reimann, my organ teacher, played the first Berlin performance of the Brahms Chorale Preludes. When I got to Paris, Debussy was just beginning to be known. I prepared the chorus for a performance of the Beethoven Ninth Symphony and Choral Fantasy for Mahler in New York, at a time when Mahler’s music was considered very advanced. There have been many significant changes since that time.
    Our relationship to the repertory of the past will change. Thirty or forty years ago, who would have predicted the fashion for the baroque which seems now to be sweeping this country? I think it is likely that within a generation, only relatively little of this music will be used in churches. By that time, someone will have come up with some new period which captivates the attention of scholars and choirmasters, and then, who knows; we might even develop a mania for Barnby and Buck! I understand that the editor-in-chief of an important German reference work has said that the period which needs most research is the nineteenth—that’s right—the nineteenth century. When musicologists start work there, and doctoral dissertations are written about Stainer and his continental counterparts, how the picture of church music will have changed!

Recent trends suggest that the romantic style of music making has returned in full force: new church and concert organs are being built in the romantic tradition, with string divisions, abundant color reeds, and double expression, and the inclusion of romantic transcriptions has become acceptable even on degree recital programs in the major universities. Perhaps now is the time to reconsider Clarence Dickinson, surely one of the most influential figures in American church music in the first half of the twentieth century. This pioneering musician, composer, arranger, author, educator, historian, and concert organist set the standard for generations of church musicians and organists. He served as organist-choirmaster at Brick Presbyterian Church in New York City for over fifty years and was founding director of the School of Sacred Music at Union Theological Seminary and a founding member of the American Guild of Organists. As a composer, Dickinson was a master of form, counterpoint, and heartfelt melody. Working with his equally famous wife and partner, Helen A. Dickinson, he produced an important body of musical research, including hundreds of lectures on church music and music history, and published countless original anthems and historic editions. As his extant recordings reveal, he was also one of the great concert organists, with a dazzling technique and profound sense of color, drama, and musicianship.
Reminiscences, which is compiled from autobiographical sketches and speeches by Dr. Dickinson, is the first installment in a projected series of articles featuring items from Clarence Dickinson’s personal library, housed at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. We are very grateful to Patricia Furr and Dr. Gene Winters, of William Carey University, for so generously providing access to this collection and granting permission to publish these important historical documents, preserving the legacy of Clarence and Helen A. Dickinson.
—Lorenz Maycher
Laurel, Mississippi

This matter of age is a queer thing: for a goodly number of years, if you start early, people keep saying “Is it not wonderful that such a young lad can handle a great organ?” Then, through the middle years, when you are working your hardest, they just take it for granted that you do your job. After you hear yourself for the first time referred to as an octogenarian (an awful shock), people say, “Isn’t it wonderful that the old boy can handle that great organ at his age?” I thought you might be interested to know how I got started on this road.
Lafayette, Indiana, was a wonderful place for a boy to grow up in the latter part of the nineteenth century: one went up Ninth Street hill and almost immediately found himself in the country. The woods were full of nut trees: hickory, black walnut, and butternut, and it was such fun to gather bags of nuts for the winter. There were small caves in the hills through which you could crawl adventurously. In winter, if your school was at the top of one of the city’s hills, you could coast down home on your sled or skates, for there was much snow and ice. Of course, you had to be careful to stop before you reached the railroad track that wound around the city at the foot of the hills. My older brother, Richard, coasted down icy Ninth St. hill on his sled at such speed one day that he could not possibly stop. He arrived at the crossing at the very same moment as a freight train, and slid safely under the moving train, as he was lucky enough to strike the very center of a car. He never told anyone of this adventure until long afterwards, or I feel sure he would have made the first page of the Courier.
Many exciting things happened in those days: one was the flood where the water reached the level of the city streets. The old wooden covered bridge was in danger of being swept away. Mr. Goldsmith, the bridge builder, a perfect giant in the eyes of a small boy, was directing its rescue. The men attached a great cable to the bridge and fastened it around a large brick house which stood at the end of the street, so that if the bridge should be carried off its stone piers it would swing around alongside the shore and be salvaged. They knocked out a great number of the boards at the sides of the bridge and allowed the water to race through over its floor so that it did not offer much resistance to the raging current. It was not swept away, but it certainly was an exciting sight for a small lad!
We lived in the large Presbyterian brick manse on Columbia Street, which was, in my young judgment, most admirably situated, as all processions passed by the house every summer; the circus parade and the marches at election time, in which men carried swinging gasoline torches, their great wicks giving off light and smoke.
When I was about seven years old I made my first and only business venture. My allowance was 5 cents a week for carrying in kindling wood, and one of my classmates informed me how I could double my income by going down to the Courier office in the late afternoon and buying two copies of the paper for a nickel and then selling them for 5 cents apiece. I did this one day all on my own, and was much surprised when my family was not enthusiastic over the venture. It was probably just as well, as the nervous strain of wondering whether I would really recover my initial investment proved rather great for such a young man.
I began piano study with my two older sisters, Martha (Mattie) and Sarah, in those early days. My father, The Rev. William Cowper Dickinson, D.D., was the pastor of the Second Presbyterian Church, and my earliest memory of that church is of the great golden organ pipes standing so imposingly in front of me at my sister’s wedding. I suppose my future was settled right then. When I was ten years old, my father accepted a call from the College Hill Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati. It was like going home to him, because he had spent his boyhood in Walnut Hills, Cincinnati. My grandfather, Baxter Dickinson, had moved to Lane Seminary to be associate director of the seminary with Lyman Beecher, so that my father had as playmates Henry Ward Beecher and Harriet Beecher (later Stowe), who wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Baxter Dickinson had been a professor at Auburn Theological Seminary, where he wrote a very famous paper called the “Auburn Declaration,” which separated the church into the old school and new school, the conservative and the advanced. He lived to see the two churches unite on that same basis—the old church had caught up with the new. When I came to the Brick Church and sat down at the piano in the room that served as social room and chapel, I looked up at a picture over my head, and there was my grandfather standing on the steps of the old Church of the Covenant, which later became a part of the Brick Church, at the assembly which brought the two churches together.
In the summer of 1883, our church in College Hill was just putting in a new organ, and since the manse was next to the church, I was kept busy watching the erection of the organ. I spent all my time watching this, and learned much about the organ. I “helped” in various ways, occasionally pumping the wind into it for tuning, and part of the time holding the keys down for the tuning. When the men were away, I would pump the organ full of wind and race around to the front and play till the wind gave. I had a terrible time trying to decide whether to play for a couple of minutes on the softest stop or whether to have a great burst of glory with full organ for a few seconds. When the day came for the dedication of the new organ, a famous organist came up from Cincinnati and found this lad performing this act. He very kindly went around to the rear of the organ and pumped for me, so for the first time I could finish my piece. It was a very kind and wonderful thing for a great artist to do, and I doubt whether, in all my life, I have ever had a more exciting experience.
Soon after, I was allowed to play some of the Christian Endeavor services on the small organ in the chapel, and came to know the hymn book very well, as my father was rather strict, allowing no secular music to be played on Sunday. I was studying piano, and enjoyed the Mozart and Clementi sonatinas, but I gloried especially in a little book of operatic transcriptions my older sister had left behind when she married, enjoying immensely the showy arpeggios and splashy effects, in Martha, for instance. When I was twelve, I made my debut as a pianist and conductor in the Town Hall wearing little old folks’ concert dress. There I sat with my ruffled shirt, blue velvet coat, and white curly wig, conducting a chorus of children and the “orchestra,” which consisted of a piano and one violin.
When I was fourteen, in June 1887, my father retired, and we all went to California to live in Pasadena for ten months, where I grew 10 inches in 10 months, a good advertisement for the California climate. It happened that we took our dinners at the same boarding house as the quartet of the First Presbyterian Church, a church which has remained famous for its music ever since. By this time I had learned to play the piano well, and when the quartet, which included the beautiful soprano soloist, Mae Staats, was asked to sing after dinner, I was the only one who could play for them. This was a wonderful opportunity for me to learn all the well-known solos, duets, and quartets. (Years later, when Mrs. Dickinson and I were holding music conferences in the three universities—University of Los Angeles, University of California, LA, and Occidental College—notices of the conferences were in all the papers. I received a letter from Mae Staats in Northern California asking, “Were you the little boy who used to play for me so many years ago?”)
But it happened that my best friend was going to Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and he persuaded me to join him there in the preparatory school, which had just reopened after being closed from the Civil War to that year. Here I had the good fortune of being appointed University Organist at age fifteen, gaining my first experience in playing major services and accompanying anthems. This was an exciting winter because my friend and I occupied the room General Harrison had occupied when he was there, and this was the fall in which he was elected President of the United States.
The president of the college, President Warfield, started athletics that year, and we all had to play. I played on the scrub football team against the real team, on which the faculty played. One chilly afternoon, with players swarming the field, President Warfield, who was six feet, four inches tall, broke through the line, knocking men right and left, till I was the only one between him and the goal! I can still hear the spares yelling, “Hold him, Dickie! Hold him!”—but he knocked me sprawling. My friend unfortunately gave the mathematics professor a black eye during one game, and he was flunked owing to that black eye. I barely passed with the lowest successful mark possible.
When the year was over I joined my family in Evanston, Illinois, and entered Northwestern University in the fall of 1890 as the youngest member of a class of 125. When I showed my bad mark to the professor of mathematics at Northwestern, I was told I should have to take that course again. This was disheartening, as it was the one course in which I had no interest. Nevertheless, I attended the first meeting of the class. The professor finished with an amusing story, which he thought very, very funny. Naturally we all laughed uproariously, and while he was almost choking with laughter at his own joke, I shoved my application under his hand, and he signed it without putting on his glasses. You have all seen the play “How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying.” This shows you how to enter college with one bad mark!
I had started a classical course, in line with what most of my ancestors and relatives had done, with the idea of becoming a professor of Greek and Latin. But I was still interested in music, so right away I got an appointment as organist of a small church in Evanston—the South Presbyterian—and began the study of organ in earnest with Professor Cutler, organist of the First Methodist Church, of which I became the organist quite a number of years later for a short time, following Peter Lutkin. With the experience I had, it did not take me long to eat up the instruction book which Prof. Cutler gave me, and when I asked, “What next?” he replied, “You should have some Bach.” I said, “What shall I get?” He said, “Oh, get Volume I of Bach’s works in the Peters edition.” Bach’s Volume I contains the six organ sonatas which he wrote to complete the education of his son, Friedemann Bach. It was like being thrown into deep water and being told to swim. But I was always thankful, because when later I came to study the big preludes and fugues, they all seemed comparatively simple and easy.
At the Methodist church in Evanston, I not only practiced and years later became organist and choirmaster, but made my debut as a concert organist after only three months of study—a great occasion, naturally, for a young lad, but why it called for the purchase of my first stiff Derby hat, I do not know, as I could not wear it at the console. My number came in the middle of the program, so I sat in the front pew, and, when the time came for me to play, I left my new Derby, the pride of my heart, on the seat to keep my place. The audience was kind, and I returned to my seat during generous applause, feeling quite elated, but lost all consciousness of the pleasant sound when, to my horror, I saw what seemed to me the largest woman I had ever seen sitting in my place. “But where is my hat?” I cried. “I ain’t seen no ’at,” was the reply. I finally persuaded her to rise, and there it was, my precious Derby, crushed flat as a pancake, never to rise again! A lesson for life: you may have as many as three successes in a row, but then comes the inevitable “bump” to bring you down to earth again.
Organ study was quite expensive, because I not only had to pay $1.50 for a lesson, but I had to pay $.10 an hour to a pumper. My pumper was what we called a “Bib,” that is, a student at Garrett Biblical Institute of Northwestern University. He was a solemn young man, and would pump with his right hand and read a book held in his left. If I pulled out too many stops, he would quit pumping and come to the front of the organ, gazing at me very reproachfully over his glasses, so I would have to withdraw the larger stops.
The organ pumper was a very important being in those days. Dr. Isaac Woodbury, of Boston, the writer of some of our well-known hymns, used to speak of his pumper as a very skillful inflator of the bellows. If he did not pump steadily, he could spoil your playing by letting the wind run down, then pump fast and furiously to fill the bellows again, thus shaking the tone. When I was growing up in College Hill, we were fortunate to have the village blacksmith as our pumper. He was used to blowing up the bellows with one hand and then striking the red-hot horseshoe on the anvil, which made it very easy for him to pump steadily.
I remember substituting in a Baptist church one summer when vacationing from my own church. The morning service was quite exciting because they had baptisms. The leader of the choir would take hold of my coat tails, and as the victim stepped into the water, he would pull my coat tail very gently, gradually harder and harder, until he gave a sharp pull and I would come out with full organ to hide the splash.
This was summer, and the evening service was very quiet. After the sermon, I gave the signal to the blower for the concluding hymn, but there was no response, even after a second vigorous bump on the board which a certain stop struck. So I had to get off the bench, go back and wake up the young lad. He came to, saying, “I was just sneaking a little snooze.”
The best blower I have ever known was in Dublin. I naturally was anxious to see the organ that Handel played when he gave the first performance of the Messiah, so I went to that church. It was locked, but I found a reluctant sexton who opened the door. When I asked to see the organ, he said, “We never show the organ.” I told him I had come all the way from America just to see the organ that Handel had played. So he finally unlocked the organ console and said, “Of course, no one is allowed to play this organ except the organist of this church.” I sat down and put my hands on the keys, while he objected. I said, “I only want to see how hard the action is in this old tracker organ.” Then I pulled out a few stops, saying, “I just want to see how far one has to pull them. Sometimes they are very long in these old organs.” Suddenly the organ gave forth sound. He looked as though he had seen a ghost and dashed around to the rear of the organ. There was Mrs. Dickinson, pumping away. So he finally relented and said, “What’s the use of fighting these Americans.” He took over the pump handle so that I could play some of the Messiah and one of the concertos of Handel which I hoped might have been the one Handel played between the parts of the oratorio. When we came away, I gave him an extravagant tip and we parted good friends.
In my first position, at South Presbyterian Church of Evanston, where I was organist from 1890 to 1892, I received what was to me a fine salary; $100 for the first year. The second year they raised it to $10.00 a month.
In 1892, I saw an advertisement in a newspaper, “Organist Wanted,” for a big church in Chicago, Church of the Messiah, where they had just installed a beautiful Roosevelt organ, the most up-to-date in the city, with an electric blower, making it possible to play as long as one wanted. I applied for the job and got it. There I met a lady, Mrs. Proctor Smith, who immediately took an interest in me. She insisted that I must devote myself to music, and worked on me for hours, trying to convince me that I had enough natural ability to devote my life to it. She also later secured a $3,000 loan for my study abroad, and practically forced me to try my hand at writing music. So the Greek professorship went out the window. Mrs. Smith knew a great deal about art, poetry, and music, and put an interest in it all in me. She possessed a beautiful soprano voice, and studied in London, and later in Boston with the great singer and conductor, George Henschel, conductor of the London Philharmonic, and later, for one year, to get it started, the Boston Symphony. With such teaching, and her own natural feeling for the text, as well as the music, she was a wonderful interpreter, and so was the great inspiration of my young life. I dedicated my first set of songs, set to poems by my cousin, Emily Dickinson, to Mrs. Proctor Smith. These were written when the discovery and publication of Emily Dickinson’s poems was still creating much excitement and discussion.
It was at Church of the Messiah, where I was organist from 1892 to 1897, that I gave what was the first entire organ recital from memory, an innovation that called for much comment for and against. Clarence Eddy, internationally known as the leading organist of America, had brought up a pupil, Harrison M. Wild, to be a rival in Chicago. Although I substituted occasionally for Mr. Eddy, I was attracted more by Wild’s playing, and so studied with him. He gave a series of Sunday afternoon concerts to large audiences, and occasionally asked me to play a group of pieces.
When a young German organist, Wilhelm Middelschulte, arrived in Chicago, friendless and moneyless, he came to Wild for help. Wild secured for him a good position as organist of a leading Catholic church, and invited him to play a group of numbers on his recital series. Middelschulte played these from memory! Wild then said to me, “This will become the custom, I am sure. Get busy and play your first recital from memory.” I did.
Clarence Eddy attended the first half of the recital. He left at intermission, and the Tribune critic came in. The Tribune critic gave me a very enthusiastic review, insisting I played much more freely and better, not being hampered by notes. The next Sunday paper published a letter from Clarence Eddy, saying that my playing from memory had been a mistake—that there were so many things to attend to on an organ that I was nervous, and I would have played much better if I had had a score before me. All very true, and his presence did not help! But, by the time he left, and the critic entered, my nervousness had disappeared. Other leading organists wrote to the Tribune, and the discussion was carried on in the New York Sunday papers, all this to explain why I was the youngest organist asked to be one of the founding members of the AGO. It was at this time that John Hyatt (High Hat) Brewer, a very fine and quite pompous organist, came out from New York to organize the Chicago Chapter of the Guild.
Church of the Messiah closed for two months every summer. By great good luck I became the substitute organist for the summer months at the services of First Church of Christ, Scientist, substituting for Frederick Root, who, with his father, wrote many of the songs of the Civil War. The church held its meetings in the Chicago Auditorium, with its great five-manual Roosevelt organ, giving the young college boy a chance to amuse himself with what you would call “romantic registration.” This organ had the first crescendo pedal, which was an enormous barrel with projecting metal tabs which struck other tabs as it revolved and drew the stops in succession. This was really comparable to a music box on a tremendous scale.
It is interesting to see how inventions develop: when I was a student in Berlin, young Josef Hofmann, the brilliant pianist, was much interested in inventions, and asked me over to see his latest. Foolishly, I did not go. You all know one: he made a device for orchestral players to turn their music, controlled by the foot. The Boston Symphony adopted it for one season, but Hofmann made a great deal of money by later turning it into the windshield wiper for automobiles.
After five years at the Church of the Messiah, in June 1897, I moved over to St. James Episcopal Church—now Cathedral—for one year as organist. Then my friends insisted that I must go abroad to study. One of the older vocal teachers had been kind to me in Chicago, and having learned of my proposed trip, took me to supper at Theodore Thomas’s home after the Saturday night orchestra concert. Mr. Thomas, the conductor, very kindly gave me some important introductions to great musicians. He was in a good mood and reminisced with a number of amusing stories. The one I remember particularly was the one about the trombonist and the tympanist. The trombonist had borrowed $10.00 from the tympanist and had been very slow in returning it. The tympanist importuned him very strongly, and the trombonist said, “I’ll pay you Saturday night.” Just before the tympanist was to play a very long roll, the trombonist turned around and began tossing pennies across the drums which, of course, bounced high in the air and made a continuous shower, to the amusement of the audience as well as the orchestra. It must have been a great sight.

To be continued

Clarence Dickinson

Lorenz Maycher is organist-choirmaster at First-Trinity Presbyterian Church in Laurel, Mississippi. His interviews with William Teague, Thomas Richner, Nora Williams, Albert Russell, and Robert Town have appeared in The Diapason.

The first installment in this series, “From the Dickinson Collection: Reminiscences by Clarence Dickinson, Part 1: 1873–1898,” was published in the July 2008 issue of The Diapason; next appeared “From the Dickinson Collection: Memorizing Controversy,” September 2008; “From the Dickinson Collection: Reminiscences by Clarence Dickinson, Part 2: 1898–1909,” February 2009; and most recently, “From the Dickinson Collection: Speech to the St. Louis Chapter of the American Guild of Organists, by Clarence Dickinson,” June 2009.

Introduction
“Music and Worship” is the fifth installment in The Diapason’s “From the Dickinson Collection,” a series of articles featuring items from Clarence Dickinson’s personal library, housed at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. We are very grateful to Patricia Furr and Dr. Gene Winters, of William Carey University, for so generously providing access to this collection and granting permission to publish these important historical documents, preserving the legacy of Clarence and Helen A. Dickinson.
—Lorenz Maycher
Laurel, Mississippi

•

Whether we belong in the pulpit, the choir loft, or in the pews, the music in the church service is bound to be a matter either of interest or of concern to us, since it is a constant part of worship. In the past, in most churches, the music just happened; it was not chosen with any particular idea in mind. Something was sung, something was played. Now this has in large measure been changed; a great deal of thought is being given to the subject.
The sermon naturally gives the theme to a church service; that is to say, it gives “direction” to the worship. The great Swiss theologian, Karl Barth, once said, “The sermon is an extension of God’s revelation of Himself in His Word, and is in truth, a sacrament.” The music must reinforce the message of the sermon, must imbue it with appeal and with an emotional quality which will win the heart when the mind does not follow. As that old Dean of Bristol said 300 years ago, “A song may find him who a sermon flies.” But music must do something more: it should create the spirit or the atmosphere for the whole service. It should lift up the hearts of those present into the very spirit of worship, be so sensitive to the significance of meeting in the house of God that the intellectual and spiritual illumination of the sermon shall be intensified into a message from the Most High.
A service is held for the purpose of bringing the people consciously into the presence of God. They should feel that, as Martin Luther said, “Here, God speaks to us through His Word,” and further, “The people speak to Him in prayer and song.” This bringing of men into the very presence of God, awakening in them the consciousness that He is in their midst, is the ideal of every service; and the degree to which a service achieves this is a measure of its value. With this as its purpose, the service must build up a sort of crescendo of interest; it must have, first, a pictorial or dramatic quality, and second, movement toward a climax.
We are coming around to the idea that a church service ought to be a unified, integrated whole. As the Federal Council’s Commission on Worship said some years ago in a report, “We have at last come to realize that a miscellaneous collection of devotional items does not constitute a service.” A service should be a perfect and united whole, and, to ensure this, the music must not be hit and miss, chosen according to the mood of the director or to the repertory of the choir. It must be perfectly integrated with the service in an inner unity; the texts must be in the thought of the service, the music in its mood. And this thought and this mood are determined by its center and climax, which is the sermon.
For the opening of the service, a song of praise seems to be most fitting: as the Psalmist sings, “Enter into His courts with thanksgiving and into His gates with praise.” Praise was one of the earliest worship-emotions which stirred the heart of man when he began to realize the majesty and glory and power and might of God. The early church opened its services with praise. There is in a great opening song of praise an emotional exhilaration which lifts us out of every-dayness, out of petty thoughts and cares, and into a mood of worship.
With the consciousness that we are in the House of God, that we are come into His presence, comes the realization not only of His power and majesty, but of His holiness. As we stand in the white light of that holiness, we are conscious of our own littleness, our earth-bound outlook; we see with appalling clarity of just how entirely we “have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and have done those things which we ought not to have done,” and we cry out for mercy; and God, the loving Father, always hastens to meet penitence with forgiveness. For this we thank Him, remembering also His many past mercies, in Psalm or Hymn or Anthem.
The realization of God’s love and compassion strengthens our desire to know Him better, to learn something of His will and His purposes for mankind, and how best to requite His great love by serving Him. This we learn through the Scripture lessons and the sermon, which is, as we have said, “an extension of God’s revelation of Himself in his Word.” As we thus come to know Him, we needs must adore; and we offer to Him all we are and have, consecrated to His service. This is the Offertory, which therefore, with the sermon, should constitute the high point of the service, a part of “the sacrament.”
Such a service has climax, and possesses the dramatic elements of movement and direction toward that climax. But the music can only heighten the climax and lend definiteness to the direction and emotional intensity to the movement if it is integrated with the service, in perfect inner unity.
Upon the consecration will follow the return, in joy, to everyday living, ready to do the will of God as servants in His eternal kingdom. The expression of this lies in the closing hymn, in the benediction, and, at the very end, in the organ postlude.
Often I have heard ministers and musicians alike regret that the postlude is practically lost in the movement of the congregation. It can indeed be a beautiful and uplifting thing when, at the close of a vesper service, for instance, ministers and congregation resume their seats silently for a short, lovely organ number. But this is not the function of the organ postlude to the morning service; its function is to say to the departing congregation, “Go forth into the world in peace and in joyful readiness for service. You are glad to have been in the House of the Lord; it was good to be here. And now, recharged by the dynamic power communicated by the service, go forth to make His ‘Kingdom come and His will be done on earth as it is in Heaven’.”
There are three great avenues of life and thought, as I feel it—three doors that make up the triune gateway to Heaven: Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. The scientists concern themselves with truth, and the scholars and the literalists. The chief interest of the church’s ministry since Puritan days in this country has been goodness, or morality. But there is a third door, and many who “become as little children and enter the kingdom of Heaven” enter through the gate of pure beauty. And this is largely what we are called upon to do as musicians in the church. The beauty of music is not an ornament to the building we call worship; it is a portal. It awakens man’s sensitivities to the highest and loveliest things, it lifts him out of and above himself to their contemplation; it unites him with the things that are pure and holy through its emotional power. For this reason, we must have music that is worthy to be the portal to worship, and as beautifully and truly interpreted as possible, that it may not fail to be a gateway open to the presence of God.
I was deeply impressed by a sentence in an address given by that great missionary, the author of “The Christ of the Indian Road,” Stanley Jones, recently at Columbia University: “Beauty is as necessary to the soul as light to the eye, truth to the conscience.” Such beauty is not mere superficial ornamentation, but deep vision and thrilling impulse, through the perception of things of the Spirit, unseen, eternal. As William Pierson Merrill wrote of it, “Music is not a garnishment of the service, but a part of the food for the soul;” or as Walford Davies has expressed it, “Music is not an ornament to the service, it is not even a means of inducing the mood of worship; it is worship.”
That we may bring to God, the Creator of all beauty, our perfect worship, we must enrich it with beauty. That we may create and foster in men that spirit of worship, we must reveal the beauty of the Most High; as Ecclesiasticus has it, we must “put on the comeliness of the glory that cometh from God.”
Every great movement in the church, every signal victory or triumphant assertion of faith, every widespread renewal of trust and love, has found spontaneous expression in music. The almost passionate revival of religion in Italy led by Francis of Assisi can hardly be understood unless we know how all Italy burst forth into passionate songs of love and praise to the God whom Francis had, as it were, brought down again to man, that man might be reunited to God.
Again, think of Luther. How shall we realize the effect of his great fight for spiritual emancipation of the people, unless we hear them join “with heart and soul and voice” in the chorales of Luther and of the great Johann Sebastian Bach? In the Wesleyan movement, the atonement ceased to be only a dogma, and came to signify overwhelming love and self-sacrifice; how can we realize that more convincingly than in the sacred songs of Charles Wesley?
Now, out of my long experience, I should like to offer you a few suggestions:
First: Good music should not be regarded as synonymous with difficult music, and put aside as unattainable by the small church choir. Many beautiful anthems, lovely old carols, breathing beauty and love and consecration, may be had in very simple arrangements.
Second: What may be called expressive music is best confined to choir singing. Only on occasion, under special religious exaltation, will a whole congregation sincerely pour out its soul in words; but it will be moved to such an attitude by the devout, noble singing of such a solo as “If with all your hearts,” from Elijah, or “O God, have mercy,” from St. Paul.
Third: In spite of my earlier recommendation that the music of a service should express the theme of the sermon, there are times, in my opinion, when it is wise not to have all the music, especially the anthems, follow the themes too closely. It may be an advantage to have them different in sentiment so that some hearts that may not be attuned to the sermon that day may perhaps receive a message through the music. I have in mind a story, told to me by a minister, of a day when a heartbroken member of his congregation came to church for the first time after much illness and suffering in her own person and bereavement of those dear to her. The sermon and all the hymns (save the opening one of praise) bore on some such theme as the peace movement, but the offertory anthem, “Ye shall have a song in the night—The love that it revealeth—All earthly sorrow healeth—Ye shall have a song in the night,” brought the calm and solace that she sought.
Fourth: The organist and choirmaster should endeavor constantly to raise the standards of the music in his church. If a congregation has been in the habit of using commonplace music, it is unwise to break away from it at one fell swoop. It takes patience and repetition. But gradually a group may be led away from trivial music joined with words of no spiritual import, to the stately dignity, the noble sincerity, the glorious exaltation of inspired words set to harmonious music, with a resultant gain in the virility and dignity of the religious conceptions of the congregation. A hymn new to the congregation, or an unfamiliar tune to an old text, should be sung several times in close succession. In time it may become a favorite.
I have never found it necessary to play down to any age. If they are accustomed to good music, they come to expect it. I can still hear the choirboys at St. James Church, Chicago, when we had to sing the school hymn of a young man for his wedding. It was rather waltzy for an anthem, and the boys, accustomed to good church music, exclaimed, “Huh! Cheap!”
One can express adoration and praise in any musical language, but is it inspiration and exaltation put there naturally, or is the composer just trying to do something not done before and hanging it on sacred words? The church service is not the place for experimentation. The extreme modernists are making us familiar with new combinations of harmony; in fact, they overdo the use of certain combinations, so that one can become bored, not startled, with their use. Musicologists of today publish many dull, uninspired pieces from the past without troubling themselves with anything but perfection of technique. It is our job to find music inspired by faith and love.
We must keep ever in mind the power of music to lift the individual person out of his self-centered existence. When he joins in singing a hymn or listens to an anthem, he ceases to be wholly individual; the congregation becomes one, and he a part of it. Personal differences of creed, questionings, doubt, disbelief are forgotten as hearts and voices unite in gratitude, joy and aspiration. Music is a redeeming force in that it can free us from ourselves by setting us within a vision of beauty which unfolds all about us, and by giving us a glimpse of something which, while immaterial and non-corporeal, is yet eternal and infinite. A large element in Salvation, or redemption, is just this release from the tyranny of self and its demands, its smallness and its limitations. St. Chrysostom wrote to a friend after a time of terrible trial and strain, “I came up here to the mountains to get rest and refreshment, but I have not succeeded, because I brought myself with me.”
He who has known what it is to lose himself wholly in listening to a great symphony, or any great music, knows what I mean: the sense of entire oblivion to self and the material world, the sublimation of a sort of translation to another plane of being. In Koussevitzky’s address upon receiving an honorary degree at Harvard, he said, “We belong to those promoters of the ideal who lift men out of the grayness of their everyday living into a world of beauty and vision.” Thoreau describes it, “What is the prospect such strains of music open up to me? My life becomes a boundless plain, glorious to tread, with no death or disappointment at the end of it.” This is the redeeming power of music. It can give us release from self and from time, and make us realize our kinship with the infinite.
But, if these greatest messages in the world are imperfectly given, if the people do not get them because we do not communicate, we are failing in our duty to God. You cannot “put over” something you only half know; you are too busy with the notes to bring out the meaning. This means rehearsal for all of us; faithful, constant, regular rehearsal; and having something to say in our work, to know perfectly what we are going to say, and say it with all our heart. It is a big job we have before us, and it is up to us to work with might and main, beside the minister, to do our part through our messages of sacred song—messages of courage, cheer and faith, of hope, and love, and the certainty of Eternal Life!
“Whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away; but there shall be music forever in the presence of God and His saints."

Compiled by Lorenz Maycher

Lorenz Maycher is organist-choirmaster at First-Trinity Presbyterian Church in Laurel, Mississippi. His interviews with William Teague, Thomas Richner, Nora Williams, Albert Russell, and Robert Town have appeared in The Diapason.

Introduction
Clarence Dickinson (1873–1969) had one of the longest and most influential careers in the history of American church music. The first installment in this series of Dickinson’s own writings, Reminiscences, appeared in the July issue of The Diapason and covered his early childhood and musical awakenings in Lafayette, Indiana, his formal study, and his first recitals and church appointments in Evanston and Chicago, where musical friends urged him to study abroad.
Reminiscences, Part Two, begins with Dickinson’s arrival in Berlin in 1898 and traces his musical studies in Europe with Reimann, Guilmant, Moszkowski, and Vierne, his meeting and falling in love with Helen Adell Snyder, and his return to Chicago, where he became an overnight success as organist-choirmaster at St. James Church and founding conductor of the area’s most prominent choral societies. All material used in this series is taken from the Dickinson Collection, Dr. Dickinson’s own personal library, which is housed at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. We are very grateful to Patricia Furr and Dr. Gene Winters of William Carey University for granting access to this special collection, and for permission to use these items in this series intended to preserve the life and legacy of Clarence and Helen A. Dickinson.
—Lorenz Maycher
Laurel, Mississippi

Dr. Heinrich Reimann, the organist of the Kaiser Wilhelm Gedächtnis-Kirche in Berlin, took only one pupil a year. I was fortunate enough to arrive in 1898 just as the last year’s pupil, Karl Straube, had left to become organist of Bach’s old church in Leipzig. I had gone to Reimann because of his reputation as the greatest organist in Germany, but did not know of him as musicologist, composer, and scholar. Reimann was up-to-date with all the French technique of the day, but had an exalted interpretation of the masterpieces of all organ repertoire. He wrote the program notes for the Philharmonic, and was librarian of the Royal Music Library, which contains such a large collection of manuscripts of the great early composers. He collected many folk songs for a series of historical recitals by Amelie Joachim, one of the great singers of the day, many of which Mrs. Dickinson and I later edited for church use. Reimann gave an organ recital while I was in Berlin, which Kaiser Wilhelm and his old court attended. It was the only organ recital I have known where it took a cordon of police to keep the overflow crowd out.
In the middle of the winter, Reimann said to me, “I have broken my rule and have taken one more student, a young girl from America whom I heard playing a very good piano transcription of one of Bach’s chorale preludes. I was so struck with it that I told her she should study some organ,” which she did. I never met her while abroad, so when I returned to America I kept looking for news of this brilliant organist whom I had never met. At an A.G.O. dinner I sat next to a charming young lady and we discovered we had been studying in Berlin at the same time. I told her of my experience with Dr. Reimann and that he had taken on a young lady student whom I had never met, and she replied, “I was that young lady.” It was Olga Samaroff, the brilliant pianist, who of course became too busy with her tours as a concert pianist to continue with organ study, but felt that it had helped her piano playing greatly.
I also studied theory and composition that year with Otto Singer, most widely known as the arranger of Wagner opera accompaniments for the piano as published by Schott. Singer was a friend of Strauss, taking the first rehearsals of his new tone poems, as he did for the first performance of Ein Heldenleben. I heard the Berlin premiere, and the critics made fun of Strauss for making himself the “Helden” by using the themes of his own works. I remember Singer defending him by asking, “Whose themes could he use?” Singer said Strauss worked the entire composition out in his head before he put a note on paper, and then had made only slight changes in the arrangement of voices in the brass parts.
Singer put me through Rischbieter’s Harmony book, which puts each given theme to be harmonized in each of the four parts, the alto and tenor being much harder to harmonize effectively than I had heretofore done. Singer sat at the side of the piano smoking his pipe, criticizing me very severely. He seemed to be an old grouch to me, but it was wonderful training and invaluable assistance when I later came to improvising fugal bits with Vierne in Paris. And, when I returned to Chicago to teach theory in first the Columbia Conservatory, and then my own Cosmopolitan School, I used the Rischbieter themes in the same manner in my class, using the soprano, alto, and tenor clefs, which helped when it came to score reading.
In Berlin, I lived on Wilhelm St., and was awakened practically every morning at six as the Kaiser rode by at the head of his troops, out for their daily drill. I did not have the financial struggle so many musicians have. Only once did I not have enough to eat for a period. I roomed in the home of Fräulein Schumann, a distant relative of the composer. The roomers were all men: a Dane, a Norwegian, two Germans, and two Americans. The other American was a student at the university who had run out of money and could not get back to St. Louis, where he said a position was awaiting him. He said he would receive money as soon as he arrived, but could not get any sent to him in Berlin in advance. If I loaned it to him, he would send it back immediately. So I drew my balance in the bank that was to take care of me for the next few months, keeping just enough for the next few weeks. The money never came, and I was afraid to write home for more, for fear they would think I had squandered it “in riotous living,” as so many of the students were doing. So I got down to one roll and a cup of coffee at the automat. At that time, I was taking part in a play to be given for the benefit of the American Club, and we were invited to the apartment of Andrew White, the American Ambassador to Germany, for an evening rehearsal. Afterwards, we were given a most sumptuous supper of all kinds of rich foods. But I was in such a condition that I could not touch a bit of the food that I needed so much. Fortunately, the next day I received a large check from my father, with a letter saying, “I’m quite sure you have plenty of money for the winter, but I want to make sure.” This kind fatherly letter was the last I had from him, as he died very suddenly soon after.
Berlin, at this time (1898–1899), was the great music center of the world, and for a mark and a half (37 cents), we heard the leading conductors of the day: Felix Weingartner, Arthur Nikisch, Karl Muck, Richard Strauss, and Siegfried Ochs. I felt they taught me the control of a proper accelerando and ritard in the building of a climax. When I came home, my former teacher said, “Well, what is that?—just a little faster, and a little slower.” Siegfried Ochs, with his chorus of 1,000 and the Berlin Philharmonic, brought out every detail perfectly, but also the great majesty of such numbers as the “Sanctus” and “Cum Sancto Spiritu” given as Bach undoubtedly heard them in his conception. I do get very impatient with these critics who say you cannot have this music properly done with more than thirty singers, which is but a pencil sketch, like the preliminary drawing for a great Rembrandt, with its glorious light and color.
In Berlin, not only did we have great orchestral concerts and operas, but we had the debuts of many young players. Rebling, the assistant conductor of the Philharmonic, was sadly overworked. We not infrequently feel that a conductor has gone to sleep, but poor Rebling actually did go to sleep at the switch. During a very long cadenza in a piano concerto, he laid down his baton and leaned heavily on the stand, dropping lower and lower. As the cadenza’s end drew near, the orchestra began raising their instruments, with the concertmaster finally raising his bow to bring them in on time with the crash of full orchestra. Poor Rebling, leaping into the air, rubbing his eyes and grabbing his baton frantically, tried to find out where they were, to the great delight of the audience.
Of course, many of these concerts were wonderful treats. Busoni, the great pianist of the day, gave a series of four historic concerts with the Philharmonic, playing fourteen concertos (*) on four successive Saturday nights. The house was full of the greatest musicians in Berlin. At the end of the last concert, Busoni came out and played an encore—his own arrangement of the Bach D Major Prelude and Fugue—in tremendous style, turning to look at the audience, and ended on a C-natural, after a month of perfect playing when you could criticize nothing. I heard Widor do the same thing while in the loft with him one time. Among his visitors that day was a very beautiful young lady standing at his right. As he finished a big number in F Major, ending with a run in the pedal, he turned to her saying, “My dear countess,” and landed on an E-natural that rang out from the pedal Bombarde. I have used this as a warning to my students—do not relax until the last note is played.
After my winter with Reimann in Berlin, in the summer of 1899, I took a trip with a friend, Arthur Burton, who was later to become a well-known baritone and vocal teacher in Chicago. He had been studying with William Shakespeare, the great conductor and vocal coach in London. At this time there arrived a very lovely old lady from Hamilton, Ontario, who was going to meet a young lady, Helen Adell Snyder, in Heidelberg and travel with her. As Arthur and this older lady had become very good friends, and discovered they were to be in Switzerland at the same time, they decided to leave a note at Cooke’s Travel Agency in Lucerne so that they might see each other. Arthur and I found such a note in Lucerne. We called on them at their hotel and had lunch together, but they were just leaving for Geneva. Unfortunately, Arthur and I had just sent out our laundry and had to wait for “the wash,” or we would have joined them on the same train. We caught the first train possible and had three very delightful days with them. I said to Arthur, “You can have your old lady. I’m going to take the girl,” and at the end of the third day Adell and I were engaged. We each had two more years of study—she to get her Doctorate at Heidelberg (from which she graduated summa cum laude in 1901, the first woman to do so in the Philosophy Department), and I to study in Paris. When I met Adell, I knew that here was inspiration in a young and beautiful woman who also possessed great knowledge. However, that was not the reason I had the courage to ask her to wait for a poor organist who would probably never make more than $2,000 a year; it was just intense love at first sight. I believe the real thing comes that way, though, of course, it can come slowly, I suppose, as has been described in many stories, without the individual being aware of it for a long time.
In the fall of 1899 I moved on to Paris, intending to study with Widor, who could play in tremendous style, but, if he were not particularly interested, could be very dull. Meanwhile, I discovered Guilmant, who was at the height of his career. One of the first concerts I heard in Paris was the dedication of a new organ shared by four organists: the organist of the church; Gigout, one of the most brilliant players of the day; Widor, third; and Guilmant, last, showing his greatness in every way. I studied with him for the next two years, and never regretted it. That first year I also studied composition with Moritz Moszkowski.
The second year, I went to Vierne (who had just been appointed organist of Notre Dame, and possessed a lovely organ in his home) for composition, improvisation, and plainsong accompaniment. How he ever got the notes of his compositions on paper I do not understand, as the head of a quarter note was as large as the end of a little finger because of the little sight left in him. I had a pedal piano in my room in the Latin Quarter, and the use of an organ in the Cavaillé-Coll organ factory and that of the American Episcopal Cathedral, where I was organist and an Englishman was director of the boy choir. I wrote my first organ piece, “Berceuse,” during the year I studied with Vierne, and dedicated it to Helen Adell Snyder. Professor Peter Lutkin, of Northwestern, sent it to H. W. Gray for recommendation for publication. It was refused. I then sent it to Schirmer and Ditson, who likewise returned it. (After returning from Europe, I later played it in a recital on the Ocean Grove Auditorium organ, and had the fun of having the same three publishers come up and say they would like to publish it!)
When my generous supply of money had run out in Paris, I felt I should begin to try and give out something, instead of always comfortably receiving, so returned home in 1901 with 125 pieces in my memory. So began the next portion of my life, first as director of the choir at McVickers Theatre, where Frank Crane, a popular minister in Chicago, was preaching on Sunday mornings, and the following year as director of music at First Methodist Church in Evanston. After only six months there, I became organist-choirmaster at St. James Episcopal Church in Chicago, with a boy choir of sixty. I enjoyed this choir very much for six years, although the strain of replacing eight or ten boys a year, along with the many rehearsals and discipline, was rather wearing. I rehearsed the boys alone twice a week at 4:30. They were out of school by 3:00, so I usually had to interrupt a game of baseball at an exciting moment, and it was difficult to get them in on time. After such an experience one day, I walked past Notre Dame Catholic Church and found the priest having the same trouble. He finally lost his temper and called out, “Any little boy who is not inside this door in two minutes I am going to send straight to Hell.” You should have seen them run! He had an unfair advantage over me. All I could threaten my boys with was the loss of a two-week encampment during the summer. This was the real pay for their year’s work.
Part of the job of running the boy choir in Chicago was putting on a light opera to raise funds for summer camp at one of the Wisconsin lakes. One year we chose the far end of Lake Mendota, north of Madison. It was near an insane asylum, and some of the harmless patients often walked through the camp and saw the boys. One of them always came swinging an alarm clock. When we asked her why she carried the clock, she replied, “Oh, they say time flies, but he’s not going to get away from me!” Another one was a very coquettish old maid who sort-of flirted with the boys, and they had fun drawing her on, nicknaming her “311,” but never telling her what it meant: “311” was the hymn “Ancient of Days.” Another hymn they delighted in, which our rector, Dr. Stone, often selected as a processional, had a line that always occurred just as the boys came in sight of the congregation. I could not stop them from always turning their heads towards the congregation, and roaring out, “My God, what do I see and hear.” There was another they delighted in: St. James was in the aristocratic north side of Chicago, and our principal rival was Grace Church, on the south side. The boys always emphasized in singing this line, “On the north side are the palaces.”
At this same time, I was offered the conductorship of the Aurora, Illinois, Musical Club without ever having held a baton or directed a chorus or orchestra. I went to Frederick Stock, the conductor of the Chicago Orchestra, who gave me a few suggestions. Of course, I always braced up my orchestra with a goodly number of players from the Chicago Symphony, which is really what put us over. This gave me very good experience, as we presented a different oratorio at every concert, never repeating anything in five years, giving the Chicago premiere of Davies’ Everyman and other such novelties, and ending with Wagner’s Tannhäuser in concert form. Aurora was a railroad center, down below the hills, so the train station was just filled with smoke. For one of the rehearsals I took the boy soprano soloist from St. James. “You don’t need to worry about my manners, Dr. Dickinson. My mother told me what to do and say.” When we alighted from the train in the midst of a great cloud of smoke, so that you could not see a thing, he said, “Aurora is a lovely city, isn’t it!”
To show you how busy I became: my weekly schedule soon meant catching a 5:30 train for the hour ride to Aurora, and getting dinner on the train. The train was a deluxe express—first stop Aurora—and the thru passengers were allowed to come into the diner, while those in the day coaches were kept locked up. Fortunately, I found a key that would fit the door, and so, when the headwaiter was at the other end of the dining room, I’d unlock the door and come in. He and the waiters were always startled to see me come in, but always served me, thinking me to be a member of the board. So, I always had my dinner and arrived at the hall in time to rehearse the orchestra for an hour, and the chorus for an hour and a half. Catching a ten o’clock train back to Chicago, I then crossed to another station and caught the sleeper to Dubuque, Iowa, where I taught for four hours the next day, then had rehearsals for the Bach Society of Dubuque, following the same routine of rehearsing the orchestra first and the chorus last. I then caught the sleeper back to Chicago, where I taught at the Cosmopolitan School, of which I was the director, until the middle of the afternoon, and then rehearsed the boys at St. James. I took the evening off! On Thursday, I was back at school for classes in the morning, rehearsal for the Musical Art Society at 2:30, a rehearsal of the English Opera company at 4:00, and, at 6:30, the chorus of the Sunday Evening Club rehearsal. Friday morning was given up to organ lessons at the church, and, in the afternoon I attended the concerts of the Chicago Orchestra. Friday evening was given over to rehearsing the men and boys of St. James for the Sunday service. Saturday morning was the service at Temple Kehilath Anshe Mayriv. In the afternoon, I practiced for various services. Sunday morning and afternoon was spent at St. James Episcopal Church. Once a month, in the afternoon, there was a large important festival service with a short organ recital following. Then came the Sunday Evening Club, a service held at Orchestra Hall, for which we had distinguished preachers from all over the country, a large chorus, and a fine quartet of soloists. I played a half-hour program of organ music, and then, putting another organist on the bench, conducted the chorus. Mondays I taught at the Cosmopolitan School until four o’clock, when I went to rehearse the boys at St. James. In the evening, I caught the train to Aurora, and the week began all over again!
Many interesting things happened along the way: One time, on the way to Dubuque, a deep cut between two hills was filled with snow. Our engine tried to ram it, getting stuck so tight it could not go back or forth. We were held there all night and most of the next day, with nothing to eat but a few chocolate bars. This spot had belonged to one man, but two little towns had grown up around it, so he named them after his daughters. We men on board decided we would send telegrams explaining our absence by saying, “Snow storm delay: spent the night between Elizabeth and Anne.”
Another amusing incident took place during the forming of the chorus for the Sunday Evening Club in Orchestra Hall, which was made up of the best soloists who sang morning and afternoon services in their churches. The men for the chorus proved easy, as practically all my men at St. James came. I had to advertise for women, and when I arrived for the auditions at my Cosmopolitan School of Music in the Auditorium building, I found the place full, much to the distress of my teachers. The first I took into my office was a mother and daughter. The old lady immediately said, “I am sure you want Jenny. She can sing higher and lower, and softer and louder than anyone you have ever heard. Jenny, show the gentleman your high C,” whereupon Jenny let out the loudest, wildest shriek you ever heard, like the sound of a wounded hyena. I could hear doors open and feet come running, and the manager opened the door to ask if he could be of any assistance. Of course, I told Jenny that nothing more was necessary. That settled it, but, as a matter of form, I told her I was compelled to hear the others who had come, and I would let her know. We did secure a beautiful chorus in the end.
In 1904, after being engaged for five years, Helen Adell Snyder and I were married. Following our studies abroad, she had become Dean of Women at the State College of Pennsylvania, and I had returned to Chicago $3,000 in debt—a good deal of money in those days. The first year I saved nothing; the second year I saved $1,500, and the third year, $1,500. I went to the wealthy young lady who had loaned me the money and said “Here’s the balance. However, I have been engaged for five years and would very much like to get married and go to Europe on our honeymoon. Instead of paying you back now, I am sure I can do it next year.” She very kindly consented, and Mrs. Dickinson and I sailed on the Romanic, although we preferred calling it the “Romantic.”
My older sister met us at Boston to say goodbye and said, “This is very nice. Our friend Miss Blanchard is sailing on the same boat with ten young ladies, who I am sure will want to meet you.” Naturally, we were not so sure and we engaged four steamer chairs—the two on the North side had our names on them; the two on the South side, where we always sat—nothing. So we dodged them until the last day.
We landed in Gibraltar, where there were men selling Maltese lace. Mrs. Dickinson was buying some for her mother. The man started the price at $10.00 and Mrs. Dickinson, having lived in Europe, countered with $5.00. Each gave in until they were only $1.00 apart, whereupon the man turned to me and said, “Father will pay the $1.00. What’s a dollar to Father?”
We took a boat to Tangier, and after a few days’ stay, another boat around to Cádiz, a very beautiful way to enter Spain, as it projects out into the ocean and the houses are painted pink, blue, and white—nice gay colors. At luncheon I asked for a glass of milk—not realizing that the only milk available would be goat’s milk, which one notices as soon as it enters the room. The waiter, of course, could not understand this request for milk, as this was my first day to use my Spanish, and he brought me several different articles until I took the menu and drew a picture of a cow, whereupon he immediately cried, “Si, Si, Señor,” dashed off, and came back with two tickets for the bull fight.
I played several recitals on the organs in Spain. The most surprising request I received was in Cordova, where the Gothic chapel is set down in the midst of the old mosque, with its 900 pillars of different colored marbles, creating a very mystical atmosphere. After I had tried the organ a bit, the priest organist said to me, “There is one American tune I have always wanted to hear. Will you play it for me?” I said, “Surely, if I know it.” He replied, “It is Yankee Doodle Dandy.” So, Mrs. Dickinson, who was not allowed to come up into the organ loft where there were priests and monks (so strict are the rules!), was rather aghast when she heard the strains of “Yankee Doodle” echo through and around the 900 columns! It was in Spain that we first began to collect folk songs. One of the earliest was “In Joseph’s Lovely Garden.”
The greatest choral group I ever had was the Musical Art Society of Chicago, which I organized in 1906. This society was made up of 50 leading singers of the city, and we performed the great choral music of the church, which had never been heard in Chicago. While I was in Paris, I was much fascinated by the beautiful singing of the 15th and 16th century music by the famous choir of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and longed for an opportunity to present these works, as well as modern music of the day. All this would require a chorus made up of very good musicians. Thus was born the idea of a society composed of the best soloists in Chicago. Mrs. Dickinson said one day, “Is this really your heart’s desire?” “This is the thing I want most.” She immediately turned to the telephone and called singers one by one, starting with personal friends who were among the top singers of the city, until fifty had agreed, most hesitatingly, to come to a meeting. This meant singing for pleasure, no money in it for anyone.
The devotion of the singers was marvelous. Individual members would go to New York to sing with the Philharmonic Orchestra, and then, if compelled to miss a rehearsal, hurry back for private rehearsals in order to prepare for the coming concert. Any one of them could sing over a big orchestra, and when you put them together, it was stunning. We could perform unknown music, old and very modern, in any language, and we gave Chicago its first hearing of works by Palestrina and Gabrieli, and the “Sanctus” and “Cum Sancto Spiritu” from the great B-Minor Mass in concert with the Chicago Orchestra. This was still in the day of the quartet, and this kind of music was new to them. They were very conscientious singers, and would study those runs at home. Three of the best altos in Chicago were sisters, one of whom was Mrs. Clayton Summy, and they would get together in her home and rehearse these difficult numbers. At their third rehearsal, they entered the room, and were greeted by Mrs. Summy’s parrot singing “Cum Sancto Spiritu,” the only parrot I ever knew that sang Bach.
I recall that for one performance of Messiah there, I had the bass and tenor of the First Presbyterian Church of New York, who had come out to sing at another event. It was very successful, and the visiting singers returned to New York and reported that it was the best performance they had ever heard. Word of this must have got around, for in 1909 I was invited to the Brick Presbyterian Church to succeed Archer Gibson. Because the salary was less than what I was making in Chicago, I was also asked to conduct the Mendelssohn Glee Club, succeeding Frank Damrosch, and was also organist at Temple Beth-El, located at Fifth Avenue and 76th Street (now merged with Temple Emanu-El). Even then I came to New York at a financial sacrifice, but for greater opportunity.■

* Busoni piano concerto series
October 29, 1898: Bach D minor, Mozart A major, Beethoven G major, Hummel B minor
November 5: Beethoven E-flat, Weber Konzertstück, op. 79, Schubert Fantaisie in C major, op. 15, Chopin E minor
November 12: Mendelssohn G minor, Schumann A minor, Henselt F minor
November 19: Rubinstein no. 5 in E-flat, op. 94, Brahms D minor, Liszt A major

To be continued

Neal Campbell

Part 1 of this interview was published in the March 2010 issue of The Diapason. Charles Dodsley Walker celebrated his 90th birthday on March 16. He is a Fellow of the American Guild of Organists and is the founding director of the Canterbury Choral Society, which he began in 1952 at the Church of Heavenly Rest—a position he still holds, preparing and conducting three concerts per season. Part I ended with Mr. Walker about to leave for France to serve as organist at the American Cathedral in Paris.

NC: So, you’re in Paris.
CDW: Yes, I’d longed to go to France; this was my first time there. I’d been to a French-speaking country during the war—Algeria, on the way to Sicily. At Trinity College, I had immersed myself in the study of the French language and culture, and this was a dream come true.
I lived in the deanery—a lovely three-story stone building separated from the cathedral by a garden. The church sexton was a man named Lucien; he was also a master chef, and he did a lot of things beside dust the church pews off, I’ll tell you that! I lived there on the top floor of the deanery, and he would come up and wake me up in the morning with a plate of what he called paingrillé, which was a word I hadn’t learned in my study in French, but it turns out it was actually two words, pain and grillé—toast.

NC: Quite a few well-known American organists have held that post, haven’t they?
CDW: Yes, Robert Owen preceded me and Donald Wilkins followed me. They were great years over there, especially if you were a Francophile.

NC: What were services like at the American Cathedral? They were in English, I assume?
CDW: Yes, they were just as if you were here in the States. Everything was in English, we chanted the canticles and so forth.
One of the things I tried to do was to get more Americans in the choir. I had a lot of French opera singers already in there. They’d sing [mimicking the French pronunciation of English] oly, oly, oly, looord Gott uf osts, aven ant urse are fuel of zei gloory, so I was trying to get more Americans, and Janet [Hayes, later Mrs. CDW] was part of that campaign after we married.
One day after service, a little man came up to talk to me and said, “I am Pierre Duvauchelle and I am the conductor of the Paris Chamber Orchestra. You have a beautiful acoustic here in the cathedral.” Well, he wanted to do a series of three or four concerts at the cathedral. And I thought quickly and said, “I will see to it that you may have the use of the cathedral, heated and lighted, for the first three concerts, and then for the fourth concert I want to conduct your orchestra and do a concert with my chorus and your orchestra.” All my life I’d wanted to do works for chorus and orchestra. Many of the orchestra players were members of Lamoreux Orchestra, which was an important orchestra in Paris. So we did the Palestrina Missa Brevis unaccompanied, of course, and then his orchestra joined us for the Bach Magnificat. It was recorded on acetate discs, which I still have, and it was broadcast over the Radiodiffusion Française.
I must have met Langlais by then, because I remember that he came to that concert and complimented me on the Palestrina. He also brought along a friend, a pupil I think, named Pierre Cochereau, whom I met for the first time.
Not too long after I arrived, the dean gave me a new job, in addition to the cathedral, as director of the American Students’ and Artists’ Center on the Left Bank—a beautiful building on what had been Chateaubriand’s estate. The place had been closed up because the Germans had taken it over during the war.

NC: So this was an umbrella of the cathedral or part of its ministry?
CDW: Yes, exactly, to students in Paris. On the first floor it had a theater with a balcony. It didn’t have a very big stage, more of a lecturers’ stage than a theater stage. And there was a big lounge, and a billiard room. On the second floor they had a library and on the opposite wing was the director’s apartment. I had administrative charge of the operations of the center.

NC: And that’s where you lived?
CDW: That’s where we lived—I was married by then. The apartment provided for the director was very comfortable. The building was designed by prize-winning architect Welles Bosworth, who had been J. D. Rockefeller’s architect in charge of restoring Reims Cathedral. He also designed all those buildings for MIT along the Charles River that have those rotundas. And several former Harvard students were over there—Robert Middleton, Noel Lee, Douglas Allanbrook. Leon Fleisher was there at the time, also.

NC: Those were pretty heady years to be in Paris; you must have met many well-known persons?
CDW: Yes, including Poulenc, and notably Nadia Boulanger, whom I had known from her time in Cambridge while I was at Harvard. A lot of people were studying with her in Paris in those days. Janet studied with her. She was Nadia’s favorite singer, and everyone said she sang French songs better than the French did.

NC: Boulanger didn’t teach voice, did she?
CDW: No, she had been a very close friend of Fauré, and coached singers working on his songs. She didn’t exactly teach vocal technique. She said some things I don’t agree with. For instance, she would say—I forget exactly how she put it, but something like “Oh, you don’t have to sing those songs in a sexy way.” Well, many of Fauré’s songs are incredibly sexy and you do need to bring that across. Her forte was teaching composition.
One thing that Nadia did that was influential was that every Wednesday she had a salon—a sort of open house—and young people who liked to trail on the footsteps of the stars would pop in on Wednesday afternoons.
Actually, you were supposed to know her to show up at these. Well, one of the times I was there, Robert Shaw, who I guess had heard of these, showed up, and apparently he didn’t know her. I was sitting there with several others, and the doorbell rang, and Nadia asked if I would answer the door, and when I did, it was Robert Shaw. I brought him in, introduced him, and Nadia was sitting there like a grand dame, which she was!
So, he sat down and the rest of that afternoon the conversation was all about how difficult it was to find a garage to park your car in Paris. There wasn’t a word about Fauré and his use of modality or anything musical like that! This is what was going on, and she was just being friendly, and I don’t recall her addressing a word to Bob Shaw. Nothing! It was funny.

NC: Poulenc?
CDW: For some reason, I remember having dinner with him at an outdoor restaurant on one of those avenues that lead up to the Opéra. He hadn’t even written his now-famous Gloria at this time. He gave quite a few small concerts with singers. There was this singer named Pierre Bernac, and Poulenc would accompany him. I’d run into them a couple of times and we were just friendly.

NC: Ned Rorem must have been around in those days.
CDW: Yes, Janet did a concert with him at the American Embassy; he accompanied her. One of the things Boulanger did was to act as a resource to the American ambassador in Paris in providing Franco-American musicians for concerts of the Cultural Relations of the American Embassy. And on this concert Janet sang some of Ned’s songs.
Janet had gone to the New England Conservatory on the recommendation of Eleanor Steber, and she won the Frank Huntington Beebe award for study abroad, which is what brought her to Paris. She knew Ned at the New England Conservatory and he dedicated a piece to her—A Sermon on Miracles, which we performed in his presence at the Church of the Heavenly Rest many years later, in 1973.
We also toured throughout Germany during the summers of 1950, ’51, and ’52 under the auspices of the United States Department of State as part of a cultural exchange program established after the war. The state department wanted to present our musicians so the German people wouldn’t think we were all barbarians. That was the whole point. There were American artists, poets, authors, and musicians presenting their work all over Germany. We performed in forty different cities in West Germany during those summers, playing a lot of American music, including works by Sowerby, Piston, Bingham, Pinkham, Lukas Foss, and Rorem—that was part of the propaganda to show the Germans that we had composers and performers, and that we cared about these things.
While we were there we crossed paths with Daniel Pinkham and a young violinist named Robert Brink, who were touring doing the same thing.

NC: There must have been many Americans with whom you rendezvoused in Paris?
CDW: Yes. Clarence Dickinson and Seth Bingham paid courtesy calls at the cathedral. Thornton Wilder was a member of the bridal party for a wedding I was playing, and I was introduced to him as if I were being introduced to the next-door neighbor. A lot of people found their way to the American Cathedral.

NC: Edouard Nies-Berger?
CDW: Yes, he visited at the cathedral and at the Students’ and Artists’ Center. He was a very friendly man. I also met Hugh Giles over there. I’d only spent a year in New York before coming to Paris, so I hadn’t met many of the big name organists until they came through Paris.

NC: Tell me about the organ recital series you organized at the American Cathedral.
CDW: When I got there I found out what a wonderful organ it was. It had been a big three-manual Cavaillé-Coll. In 1930 it was enlarged, and a fourth manual added. It was one of the very few organs in France at that time with capture combination action. Leaving all that aside, it was a real Cavaillé-Coll, with wonderful reeds and an abundance of everything you wanted. The Solo division was not so big. It was built by Maison Pleyel, successors to Cavaillé-Coll, and they had been sent to Ernest Skinner in America in order to learn from him. The result was that it was a rather typical E. M. Skinner Solo division. It had nice strings, a French Horn, one of the few in France, a Tuba Mirabilis, and a Philomela which was huge! No chorus reeds, but, of course, there were 16, 8, and 4 reeds on the Great.
Anyway, I saw this organ and thought it would be nice to have a recital series. So I told the dean I’d like to invite a bunch of famous French organists to play on this organ, and he said “Fine, go ahead.” I wish I could remember the fee we paid them, but it was ridiculously small. I think it was 10,000 francs, which was about $30.
So, I picked up the phone—believe it or not—and called Marcel Dupré, whom I had met through Clarence Watters in this country. He was the only one I knew, and I didn’t call him Marcel, either! It was “Maître, would you be willing to play on a series on this organ? I want to help raise the reputation of the American Cathedral as an artistic center in Paris.” He agreed and I thanked him, and put the phone down. Then I called André Marchal, and repeated my story, saying that Dupré had agreed to play, and would you do it, and he said yes. Of course, if Dupré hadn’t agreed to do it, it might have been a different story. I didn’t know Marchal from a hole in the ground! It was the same with Langlais, Messiaen, and Duruflé. These names were legend, even back then.
Then I called up Mlle. Boulanger, telling her that I had asked each of these eminent organists to conclude with an improvisation, and asked her to submit the themes for each of these players. I must have caught her at a weak moment and she agreed. As it turns out, I had to chase her up each week to get the themes in time for the recital. It wasn’t that she gave me all five at once in advance.

NC: Was that part of the promotional packaging of the series, that she would be supplying the themes?
CDW: It wasn’t on the advertising, but on the program I inserted a little slip sheet stating that the themes for each of the improvisations had been kindly submitted by Nadia Boulanger. The recitals were a week apart in Lent, and there were big crowds and wide newspaper coverage.

NC: How did the organ in the American Cathedral stack up in comparison with the famous Paris organs?
CDW: Well, for one thing, it was in better tune than any of the others, and that was because of the Germans. They had taken over the cathedral and used it as their army church. Say what you will about their politics, but by golly if they were going to have a Wehrmachtskirche, it was going to have an organ that was in tune. So the organ was in great shape when I got there. It was amazing.

NC: Did you have an opportunity to hear any of these organists in their own churches?
CDW: Very little. Duruflé, for example, at St.-Etienne-du-Mont didn’t have the organ; it was down. I don’t think he had any organ to play. With all my duties, I didn’t get to other churches very often. In retrospect, I certainly wish I could have heard more. I did go to Ste. Clotilde from time to time, because I was very close to Langlais.
One thing that might be of interest is my impressions of these great men as they came to the cathedral to practice. For one thing, I was . . . skeptical is too strong a word, but I was not convinced that every note that Messiaen wrote down was for real, or whether he was trying for effect in one way or the other. But of all those organists, Messiaen was the one who practiced the longest; he actually got me in there and asked me to play some passages (and I’d never even played any of his music, but he wanted to hear what it sounded like out in the church). And before he came to practice he said, “you know, I want to have some time there pour choisir mes couleurs, to choose my colors.” And he went way up in my estimation. But he was the most concerned that it be a good recital.
The main thing I remember about Duruflé was that he arrived at the appointed time outside the cathedral riding a bicycle.

NC: How did you happen to go back to New York?
CDW: One of the real reasons I wanted to come back was, as you can imagine, that I was so busy being the director of the Center—I think we had five or six hundred members. It wasn’t a musical job at all, but it was my full-time job, and the cathedral position was secondary.
So when I found out that Heavenly Rest had an opening, I made every effort to look into it. It was the Rev. Richard R. P. Coombs, who had been a tenor in my choir in Cambridge and who had gone to seminary during the war, and who had told me of the opening at the Paris Cathedral—he was now the curate at Heavenly Rest and told me of the vacancy there.

NC: So he had a hand in your going to Paris and in your coming back to New York?
CDW: He did!

NC: What sort of process did you have to go through when you applied for the job?
CDW: I simply wrote to anybody who was anybody who knew my work—Frank Sayre [the Very Rev. Francis B. Sayre, Jr.], Eddie West at the Cathedral [Canon Edward N. West, later Sub-Dean of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York]—I mean personal friends who were in a position to be helpful and who knew my work.

NC: What was the musical tradition at Heavenly Rest as you found it?
CDW: For one thing, there was an assistant organist I inherited, so that made a smooth transition. I had never heard a service there previously, but my impression was that it was pretty run of the mill. They did have a men and boys choir, but with some female ringers in it. One of my so-called claims to being a candidate was that I was considered experienced at dealing with boys. And I built up that choir a lot, until, one fine day when every one of the best boys I had, every one of them—let’s say there were thirty kids, and the eight best ones either went off to prep school or their voices changed. And with what I had left, I felt I really couldn’t do the repertoire, so I wrote the vestry saying I thought we needed to strengthen the women’s sections, and from that time you really couldn’t say it was a boy choir.
Still, we continued to have a boy choir as a separate choir, and we did lots of things, including several television performances: one with Victor Borge, on a program at Christmas time—just because it was Christmas time and I had a boys’ choir.
Talk about TV—I did later do a program with CCS with Robert Merrill on “I’ve Got a Secret,” and the secret was the star, it was his birthday. So, in the course of the show, they had a barbershop quartet sing “Happy Birthday” to him. Then they laughed and scratched for a while, then a larger group came in and they sang “Happy Birthday” to him. And they laughed and scratched and did some more things. Meanwhile, there was a stage at the other end of the studio with the curtains closed, and at the given point, the curtains were opened and there were one hundred members of the Canterbury Choral Society and Robert Merrill in the middle of them to put the finishing touches of “Happy Birthday” in a paraphrase of a Mozart opera chorus, as I recall. That was a lot of fun.

NC: What was the organ like at Heavenly Rest as you found it?
CDW: It was a 1929 Austin, and it had either three or four 8-foot diapasons on the Great and they were all leather lipped. It was a big four-manual organ, with a typical complement of stops on each division, except it only had about four ranks in the Pedal! It did have a drawknob console. Anyway, it was like a whole set of foghorns.

NC: It must have been quite a difference from the Cavaillé-Coll at the Paris Cathedral?
CDW: It sure was! I had correspondence with G. Donald Harrison about ways to improve the organ, and he suggested ways to brighten up the Great reeds, which Austin revoiced to have a little more overtone interest, a little more French sound. Of course I later had Austin completely renovate the organ.

NC: I’m eager to hear you talk about the beginnings of the Canterbury Choral Society.
CDW: Well, one day the rector came to me and said, “Charlie, all the big churches have Evensong on Sunday afternoons at 4:00. The Cathedral has Evensong, St. Thomas has Evensong, St. Bartholomew’s has Evensong. What’s the matter with us? Let’s have some Evensong services.” So I said, “Well, you know we have a paid choir, you’re talking about some serious changes in the budget.” He said, “Just get a bunch of volunteers.” [Huge laughter from each of us.] And so I said, “Yes, sir.” So I talked to some of the paid singers and asked if they would volunteer to start this Evensong choir and they said they would.

NC: Did he have in mind doing this every Sunday?
CDW: I think he did, but we started out doing them just in Advent.

NC: Did he have any idea what he was asking for, do you think?
CDW: No!

NC: Was this typical of his approach to work?
CDW: No, he was really a fine man and smart, but he just had this idea and hadn’t really thought it out. I can imagine that from other clergy I’ve known! [More laughter.] Anyway, some of the members in the choir were personal friends by this time and said that they would try it for a while, and so forth. And one of the vestrymen was a former member of the Harvard Glee Club, and he said he would be glad to volunteer to sing bass. He had a daughter who taught at the Chapin School, and he talked her into getting friends of hers from Chapin to come sing in this volunteer Evensong choir.
So, I said we were going to do a chorus from Messiah on each of the first three Sundays in Advent, and on the fourth Sunday we would get some instruments and do the entire first part of Messiah. It was quite successful; we had between thirty and forty singers, and the soloists were professionals from the church choir. In every case, the choir outnumbered the congregation. So the rector said, “OK, we’re not the Cathedral, we’re not St. Bartholomew’s, we’re not St. Thomas, nobody’s coming to our Evensongs, so let’s forget it.”
Then, when I told the chorus that they were no longer needed, they said “We like singing here and want to keep coming.” This was Advent of 1951, after I arrived in January.
So, I asked, “How would you like to sing Brahms’ Requiem?” And they said, “Wonderful.” And more people joined. So we put on the Brahms in the spring of 1952. We billed ourselves as the Oratorio Choir of the Church of the Heavenly Rest.
The concert was a success. We had harp and timpani in addition to the organ accompaniment, which was played by my assistant, Marion Engle. Anyway, after we did this successfully, we had a meeting and everyone wanted this organization to be permanent. So I said, “Well, we’ve got to have a name for ourselves, how about the Carnegie Hill Choral Society?” You know that part of Manhattan is called Carnegie Hill, the Carnegie mansion is across the street from the church. They felt that it sounded too much like Carnegie Hall Choral Society, and so forth, and someone suggested Canterbury Choral Society. We were Anglican, after all, even though this was to be a community chorus, and so the name chosen was Canterbury Choral Society.
At this time it was rare to have an orchestra in church. I think Trinity Church may have had one on Ascension Day, and St. Mary the Virgin from time to time. But the norm was to do oratorios with organ accompaniment, and there were organists who did it very well—I’ve mentioned David McK. Williams. But performing these works with the instrumentation as envisioned by the composer was something I really wanted to do. Of course this took money, so we set up a system of membership—friends, sponsors, and so forth. For the first season of this new plan, we had two sponsors at $25 each, and one was my father!

NC: Was this under the aegis of the church?
CDW: It was a choir of the church, but membership was open to anyone who could pass the audition. I handled it as a choir of the church, in that the professional singers of the church choir were required to sing in it, and the assistant organist was the accompanist. But a big part of my time in those days was spent raising money for this new organization.

NC: From a practical point of view, this must have doubled your work load: a big additional choir and fundraising duties. Did the church recognize this in any way, such as a salary raise?
CDW: It was more work, but not more compensation. I was making $4,000 a year, and I don’t think they raised that in my first decade at the church. But I loved what I was doing, and I had a nice school job. From 1952–61 I was director of music at Kew-Forest School out on Long Island in Forest Hills. Up until then, I really had been living from hand to mouth. The school had a Hammond organ, and the headmaster loved organ music and was thrilled to have someone on his staff who knew about the organ. I was involved in the Guild more and more at that time, and he would excuse me from staff meetings and classes when Guild duties conflicted. His name was Dr. James L. Dixon, and he was a lovely person to work for. I distinctly remember the job paid $3,400. Well, to jump from $4,000 to $7,400—it was just wonderful! Of course, it was hard working two jobs.
By the way, it so happens that one of my students there was Donald Trump. He was one of these kids who needed personal attention. There would be twenty kids in the room and you’d have to focus on him. He could sing all right, but he was difficult.
The next big thing that happened is that Eleanor Steber came into the picture. She was a big star at the Met by this time, but we had known her previously and we were together at a dinner party one night. After dinner and much of our host’s fine Perrier Jouet champagne, I went up to her and said, “Eleanor, my choral society is going to be singing the Brahms Requiem with orchestra in about a month and a half and I don’t have a soprano soloist yet; will you do it?” And she said, “Brahms Requiem, I love that work—sure, I’ll do it.” For $100, by the way! [Laughing.] She sang for me once again and I paid her $100, and she sent it back! She wasn’t interested in the money, she was a good friend. I mean, she was a big star at the Met by this time, singing all the Mozart operas, Rosenkavalier, and so forth. She also had a radio program. This was in 1955 and she was really famous.
So, having secured Eleanor Steber to sing the soprano solo, I pulled out the same technique I had used in Paris! I picked up the phone and called John Brownlee, one of the leading baritones at the Met who worked with Eleanor all the time, especially in Mozart operas. And I said, “Mr. Brownlee, I’m doing the Brahms Requiem, isn’t it a wonderful work?” “Oh, yes it’s a wonderful work,” he replied in his deep voice. And I continued, “Eleanor Steber is going to be my soprano and I need a really good baritone. Would you do it?” [Laughing] He was an Australian, did you know that?

NC: I did not know that.
CDW: So he said [Imitating an Australian accent] “Well, if Eleanor is going to do it, of course I’ll do it. Count me in.” So, that really packed the house. This was our third season, March 1955. I was just lucky to have an “in” with a couple of these prominent people.
And then, I’d call up people I didn’t know who were at the Met, and just asked them. I had Jean Kraft as my alto, and Shirley Love, Ara Berberian—he was an old friend. I gave him his first paid date in New York.

NC: In a nutshell, it sounds like the Canterbury Choral Society took off right from the start.
CDW: Yes, it really did. The next thing we had Eleanor for was the Mozart C-minor Mass. She was soprano I and Phyllis Curtin was soprano II. Mack Harrell was the bass, and David Lloyd was the tenor.

NC: I sense that the social aspect of CCS is important now. Was it always?
CDW: I think it was. And I think that perhaps is the thing that differentiates it from many other choral groups. They love to party. And they love to sing.

NC: I know that you later presented the Mahler Eighth Symphony at regular intervals, but prior to that, what were some of the early high points?
CDW: We did the Berlioz Te Deum at the Cathedral [of St. John the Divine] and that was tremendous. I struck up a friendship with Hugh Ross, who was a leading musician of the city for years. He was the director of the Schola Cantorum, which did all of the choral work with the New York Philharmonic; he taught at Spence School and Hewitt School, and his kids, David and Grace, sang in my choir. It was he who put the idea in my head that there are lots of important choral works that feature children’s choirs, and encouraged me to do that. So, for this Berlioz we had scores and scores of children in the chorus, from Brearley School chorus—this was in 1968 and I was already teaching at the Chapin School, so we had the Chapin Chorus, and others . . . lots of children.

NC: What prompted you to have the concert at the cathedral, as opposed to Heavenly Rest? Space?
CDW: In addition to that, we were celebrating the 100th anniversary of the Church of the Heavenly Rest, and I took the position that we ought to observe the occasion at the cathedral church.

NC: Was this the first time CCS had held a concert off the campus of Heavenly Rest?
CDW: [Thinking for a while.] No. Nineteen fifty-nine was the 200th anniversary of Handel’s death, so all the musicians of New York collaborated in a citywide Handel festival. I decided to do Handel’s Samson. We did that at St. Thomas Church, since it was in Mid-town nearer where the other concerts were held. Ara Berberian sang the bass lead. We also had a choir of girls, because in Samson, Delilah has an entourage that in the score is called “Delilah’s Virgins,” but I called them, to be discreet, “Delilah’s Handmaidens.” [Much laughter.] Anyway, it was broadcast by the Voice of America all over the world. I got a tape of it later. So that was a big event, in 1959.
And then our appearances on television . . . I guess it was in the 1950s that we did the most TV dates.

NC: Was there someone at the church in broadcasting who facilitated these appearances?
CDW: As a matter of fact, yes. The father of two of my choirboys—one of whom was Philip Morehead, who later became the director of the Chicago Lyric Opera Chorus—was related to the director of the CBS studio orchestra, so I did have an entree through him. And some good-looking gal in CCS was the casting director of “I’ve Got a Secret.” That’s how we got on that show with Robert Merrill.

NC: You worked with a lot of well-known soloists over the years. At the risk of appearing to be name dropping, who among them stands out?
CDW: Well, in addition to Eleanor Steber and John Brownlee whom I mentioned . . . Adele Addison who sang a lot; people like Robert Shaw used her.
Donald Gramm was a star at the Met, and he sang a lot for us, particularly the Vaughan Williams Five Mystical Songs, I remember. He was just one of those people I was fortunate enough to be able to call and ask, “Are you available on May 14?,” and he would if he could.
Louise Natale was the soloist at Riverside Church for Richard Weagley, and she was really wonderful. I remember particularly a Haydn Creation she did—a very good, really top-notch singer, and very funny and down to earth. I think her husband was a firefighter in Nutley, New Jersey, or someplace like that.
And I’ve mentioned Ara Berberian. He had been a lawyer, and he was in the Army Chorus in Washington. He sang in the Heavenly Rest choir for a while when he first came to New York,
The first time I did the Verdi Requiem, I had Ellen Faull as the soprano. The mezzo was Rosalind Elias, who was a big star at the Met and a friend of Janet’s from New England Conservatory. I then found out that these two were part of a road company that would travel around the country giving concerts. And the other two were Gabor Corelli, another Met singer, and Louis Sgarro, whom I remember particularly as being mentioned by the announcers at the Met broadcasts. So I thought it was really something to have four well-known Metropolitan Opera stars to sing my Verdi Requiem! And we packed them in.
We did the Bloch Sacred Service, and Arthur Wolfson, the cantor of Temple Emanu-El, sang the part of the cantor. We did it again with Howard Nevison, who was an excellent cantor at Emanu-El after Wolfson.
Seth McCoy . . . he sang with us several times . . .

NC: Was that ever an issue at Heavenly Rest in those days? The racial thing?
CDW: Yes . . . yes it was. You know there’s a kook in every crowd, and . . . you remember Richard Neel who sings in CCS?

NC: Yes.
CDW: He went to some advanced-type school, his mother was quite a liberal thinker for that era . . .

NC: She was the famous artist, Alice Neel?
CDW: Yes. Richard and his brother sang in my boy choir, and we encouraged the boys to bring in friends. The choir up to that point was lily white, and Richard brought in this African-American boy; I auditioned him, and he was good! So I took him into the choir. I later got a phone call—I remember the unpleasant tone of the voice—from the mother of one of the other boys in the choir saying, “you took a black boy into the choir without consulting with us.” And I said, “Yes, I did!”

NC: Did it ever go further than that? To the rector or vestry?
CDW: No, but can you imagine the nerve of that woman? I think I did tell the rector about it and he said that I should ignore that telephone call.

NC: You talked once about Thomas Beveridge; can you tell me a little more about him?
CDW: Tom was in my choir at the age of nine, and he was an ideal chorister in every way, bright and talented. I was honored that his father, Lowell Beveridge—one of the most distinguished members of our profession—was encouraging his boy to be in my choir. For many years I didn’t see Tom, but he later became a singer, and I hired him for a performance. His father, Lowell Beveridge, was the director of music at St. Paul’s Chapel at Columbia University, which used to be a big job. Searle Wright was his successor. Lowell went from there to Virginia Theological Seminary.

NC: We haven’t talked a lot about church life at Heavenly Rest. What were services like?
CDW: They were sort of middle-to-low church—Morning Prayer and all that. And they had lots of extremely fancy weddings, sometimes in questionable taste. The one I remember most clearly was a bride who came up to me and said, “I’ve been to some of your concerts and I know you know how to conduct an orchestra.” I said, “Sure.” She said, “I’d like to have an orchestra at my wedding,” and requested that we do the Siegfried Idyll—you know, the piece that Wagner composed for his wife on Christmas morning. So I had to have a pretty big orchestra.

NC: Talk about the Blue Hill Troupe that you directed for a long time.
CDW: This is a wonderful organization that does Gilbert and Sullivan operas. During my time, we did every one of the thirteen operas at least twice, with full pit orchestra and staging, which I liked a lot. I became the director in 1955 and stayed for thirty-five years.

NC: When you left Heavenly Rest, did that alter the life of CCS?
CDW: Musically it didn’t affect it at all. We had to go through all the legalities of making it an independent non-profit organization, separate from the church. We still had most of our concerts at the church, where I now had the title of Organist and Choirmaster Emeritus. The church gave us an office and storage space for music. But we did have to find the money to pay the professional singers and the accompanist, and we paid the church for using the facilities.

NC: So as a result you had to have some fundraisers.
CDW: Yes, you’re leading up to the Mahler! I first became aware of the Mahler Eighth Symphony when I was AGO president. I went into the office one day (this was back when the offices were at 630 Fifth Avenue across the street from St. Patrick’s Cathedral) and picked up a copy of Cathedral Age [magazine of Washington National Cathedral] and read about Paul Callaway doing the Mahler at Washington Cathedral; I salivated at the idea of this huge choral work, and just wondered if we could pull this off.
So, first we programmed Part I, which is only 25 minutes long, and paired it with Jean Kraft singing the Kindertotenlieder. I arranged for hundreds of kids from various schools and churches to sing the Knabenchor and we put this on at Heavenly Rest. By then we had the tradition of doing a concert every five years at either Philharmonic Hall [later named Avery Fisher Hall] or Carnegie Hall. So the next fifth-year anniversary was in 1977. We already had Part I under our belts, so we took the bit in our teeth and hired Philharmonic Hall, and I got hold of hundreds of kids, eight soloists, and the huge orchestra. I went into it with fear and trepidation, but we pulled it off. We packed the place and did it again in ’82. Then I decided to do it in Carnegie Hall in ’87, then in ’92, ’97, ’02, and of course in ’07 when St. Luke’s participated with us.
And we made enough money on those concerts to cover the annual deficits for the next five years. We’re in a little downturn right now in this economy and need to do a bit more fundraising, but that has been the pattern. But it’s remarkable—it actually makes money! Everybody loses money on a big production like that, but we charge the market price for tickets, and have good, loyal financial backing from our friends and patrons.

NC: After Heavenly Rest, you took up a new job, didn’t you?
CDW: Yes, for almost twenty years I was at Trinity Church in Southport, Connecticut, where there already existed the Trinity Chorale, a choral society. We did concerts there, and they joined with CCS on occasions, as well.
Incidentally, Lise and I were married there in the context of the regular Sunday morning service, which is sort of unusual. [Janet Hayes Walker died in 1997.] We had a full choir, and it was really wonderful. That was on January 14, 2001. I had met Lise Phillips as a singer in CCS. The wedding was a big community affair. Everyone in the church was invited to the wedding and to the reception, which was arranged by CCS. And quite a few members of Canterbury came out to Connecticut, sat up in the gallery and sang along with the church choir.

NC: What do you admire about church music or church life in general these days—what’s changed for the better since the early days of your career?
CDW: [Longer pause than usual.]

NC: Maybe nothing! [Both laughing.]
CDW: No, that’s a good question, one that makes you think. I think of my first teacher as being an exemplary practitioner of the art of church music, as an organist, as a choirmaster, and as a teacher—Coke-Jephcott. He was a hard-working, dedicated musician in the service of the church. He was a real inspiration.

NC: I know that by nature you are an optimistic person not inclined to the negative, but from your perspective, what could be better these days?
CDW: I do think it is regrettable—this tendency on the part of some, to make musical choices reflecting the tastes of people with no musical background at all, with the result that music of inferior quality has, in many places, risen into such prominence in church life; whereas music of good quality could be lifting up the noble and worthy aspects of worship to their rightful place.

NC: You’ve never really retired, have you?
CDW: No! I just love doing what I do, playing, conducting, teaching. I would feel strange not doing it, but guess you can’t do it forever. I’m just very glad to be here.

NC: As you reflect on your long career, for what would you like most to be remembered?
CDW: I feel that being a good church musician, doing your job from Sunday to Sunday, is a very worthy thing, and if you have the good fortune to be able to develop more elaborate musical programs—that’s good, too. But our job as church musicians is to provide, with the resources available, the best possible music for our church, week by week. I like that. 

50 years of teaching at The University of Michigan, Part 2

by Dennis Schmidt

Part 1 of this interview appeared in the October issue of The Diapason, pp. 16-21.

Q: I just wonder how you get all your energy.

A: Well, maybe it's because I'm from Oklahoma. I do exercise a lot. I walk quite a bit and I used to bike a lot, too.

Q: Does everybody in Oklahoma have energy like that?

A: It depends on the genes. They're always friendly, I know that.

Q: What suggestions do you have for young organists?

A: There might be some suggestions which are based on my own experience. One of them is the Boy Scout motto: "Be prepared," because as I look back the break that I had was in 1950 when the Boston AGO called me to say "Robert Ellis was to play and he cannot play. Will you play the Schoenberg 'Variations' for us?" I had less than two weeks to prepare this piece. But fortunately I had been prepared. I'd had my lessons with Schoenberg. I'd been preparing the piece and playing it for some time. I had it memorized.

The second thing is to be flexible. That is, if someone asks you to play, don't say, "I won't play because we don't have four manuals." Don't say, "I can't play because there's only two manuals."  Roll with the punches, be willing to fit into the situation. It's better to be playing a recital and have to make a few compromises than not be playing at all.

The third thing, very important, is be dependable. If you say you will be there, if you say you will do such and such, be there, do it. Be known for your dependability and your accountability.

Don't procrastinate. That comes along with being dependable. Don't put things off. I have a very fine colleague in the organ department--James Kibbie. He is the splendid example of this. He never procrastinates. If I suggest something or if I ask him to do something, he does it immediately. I think that's an important aspect of our work. If for any reason I might have to put off something, it's because my inner sense of the whole situation says "wait." We all know of situations where if you had waited a little bit things would have worked out a little better than if you had gone ahead immediately. So I say procrastination with a grain of salt--using your own judgment.

These four things matter: to be prepared, to be flexible, to be dependable, and not to procrastinate.

Q: Please tell about the Fisk organ here which is named "The Marilyn Mason Organ."

A: The organ which stands in the Blanche Anderson Moore Hall in the School of Music is a result of a lot of thinking and consulting and wondering what was going to happen next with our department. Robert Clark was teaching with us at the time we were thinking and trying to decide. He had just made his first trip to what was formerly East Germany. We knew that we were going to have this fund started by Judith Barnett Metz. She told me, "I would like to do something in your honor. Would you like a Marilyn Mason scholarship?" I said, "Well, we need an organ more than anything." So she gave Michigan the initial funds. Bob Clark said, "We should have a copy of one of those beautiful Silbermanns because we don't have anything like that." At that time, about 1979-80, there was nothing like that in the States. So he was the one who gave us that marvelous idea, and the whole faculty--Robert Glasgow, James Kibbie & Michele Johns--thought it was the right thing to do. So, that's what we did. The interesting thing is how it came about. I went to our Dean, Paul Boylan (and he had just become the Dean in 1979). I said, "We're going to have this money for an organ, but we can't have an organ without a place to house it." He said, "I want to have a rehearsal/concert hall for musical theater, because we're expanding that wonderfully." Then he said, "Can't we think about combining the two?" which is of course what we did. So we arranged to visit President Shapiro (this was during his very early days in office) and called on him together with this proposal. He said, "I'll be glad to help you and I think it a good idea." So he was very helpful in getting us funds from the legislature. Then there was other money which helped us get the Palmer Christian Lobby. People donated for that. The Earl V. Moore people donated for that. Bill Doty, Mildred Andrews and Franklin Mitchell also donated to the lobby. The hall is named for Blanche Anderson Moore (wife of Earl V. Moore) who was a very devoted patron of the arts. She came to many organ recitals. I remember seeing her at Hill Auditorium when some of us were playing. And so we named this hall in her honor. The organ contract was signed in 1980 with Charlie Fisk, who said, "I won't have the organ for you until 1985." We said, "Oh, it will never come." He said, "It will be here quicker than you can realize." That was really the truth--it was here very quickly. We dedicated the organ on October 4, 1985, and it was a special occasion.

Q: Was the organ named for you at that time?

A: No, that was a few years later. Dean Boylan said that it should be named for me because the initial funds had been given by Judith Barnett Metz in my honor. This was a very nice gesture, and I appreciate it very much.

The organ is modeled after a Silbermann, but there is no specific organ which it copies. We would not want, and  we could not make a perfect copy simply because the hall is different and the time is different. We're no longer in the 18th century. In most of the churches where the Silbermanns stand the organ is in the west gallery, while this one is in the front. We have a very nice situation the way the hall is built. There are tiers of steps that go up to the organ. Last night, as part of our Institute, there was a choral concert with James Abbington, conductor. The singers were standing on these different steps, and it was nice for the 20 singers to be heard that way in  acoustics quite sympathetic for the voices.

Q: The Fisk organ has provided the students there with an opportunity to encounter historic organ building principles that they wouldn't have in other places.

A: Exactly. It's been a big impetus for us. I am especially glad that we could provide the original type winding: the bellows may be hand pumped and a recital could go on despite an electrical storm, and Michigan has them. With this organ, our teaching organs and the organ at Hill Auditorium, we feel very blessed. We have 16 practice organs plus 3 teaching organs and 2 performance organs. We have the magic number of Bach--21.

Q: Would you talk about your family?

A: My first husband was Professor Richard K. Brown. Many of my students knew him. He was a true gentleman, a wonderful engineer and teacher, a man whom I had first met in 1945. We were married in 1949 (long enough time for him to see me in action, so to speak, and he knew what he was getting). He continued teaching at the University of Michigan until he retired in 1987.

We have two sons. The first is Merritt Christian Brown (named after my father and Palmer Christian), born in 1955. He's a scientist who earned his Ph.D. here at Michigan. He took classes with his father in engineering. He would come home and tell his father, "You could make that course even more strict. You have some very gifted students in there." Richard would say, "But I'm aiming for the middle students as well as the gifted ones." Then he would say to his son, "Please, don't go into engineering." Our son played the violin just wonderfully, studying with Gustave Rosseels at Michigan. When he would finish practicing, I would say, "Oh, Chris, you play so beautifully, but please don't go into music." So, here was this young man with opposing directives, so he chose acoustics. After earning the Ph.D., he continued research in the Kresge Hearing Laboratory. Later, he read a paper at an acoustical conference in Los Angeles. An engineer who heard him there said, "We would be very interested in having you join our research at Massachusetts General Hospital." Chris was intrigued with the work they were doing, so he joined that research group. His mentor there was Nelson Kiang. Dr. Kiang later invited him to teach at Harvard. He is Associate Professor at the Harvard Medical School where he teaches physiology. His specialty has been the inner ear. His music and his engineering led him into this.

To me, that's a lesson that young people must know. You must explore the options, and how better to explore the options than to go to school. If you're a freshman or sophomore in school and not happy with what you're doing, it may be that the Lord in telling you to go in a different direction.

I had a wonderful student, Weston Brown. After his sophomore year, he said, "You may be mad at me, but I think I want to change my major." I said, "No, I want you to do what you want to do." He said, "I am making straight A's in German and I am making a B in music history." I said, "The Lord is trying to tell you something." He said, "I love German." He earned the Bachelor's and Master's and later a Ph.D. from Columbia in German and musicology. That's a fine example of how you can find options if you keep watching. The best advice is to watch for the options and hope to find something that you enjoy doing. Try not to think about money. If you think only about the money you will make, you may end up doing something that you don't enjoy .

Our second son is Edward Brown, a wonderful young man who's a free-lance photographer. He lives in California. He likes California because the light is always wonderful there. But I think he loves it because there's no snow, fog or ice.

Q: Did either son have an urge to play the organ?

A: Not really, probably because they heard so much playing. It didn't turn them off, but they probably thought one organist was enough. I practice the piano a lot a home. Once one of our neighbors, Mary Sinnott, said to our son Edward, aged 10, "What's your mother doing?" He said, "She's playing the piano." The next day, Mrs Sinnott said, "What's she doing now?" He said, "She's still playing the piano." They got used to that.

When they were younger, I put them to bed with organ music on the house organ which my husband and I assembled in 1955. I gave that organ to two doctoral students, Howard & Marie Mehler. We purchased a small Walker tracker for practicing. My family has always been very supportive but also understanding with my schedule. The dishes may not get done or the beds made if I have to practice.

In 1991 my husband had enjoyed four years of retirement. Gardening was one of his interests and his beautiful rhododendrons still bloom. He suffered a stroke on May 7, 1991. We had to take him to the hospital. We thought he would recover from this, but on July 23 he slipped away. Both of our sons were extremely supportive of me at that time. Even though I had this great loss, I still had my teaching which was a comfort to me. I had become organist of the First Congregational Church in 1984. There, Tom Marshall had been my trusty assistant. I had the inspiration of the Wilhelm organ at the church and we had the Fisk here.

In the autumn of 1991, I felt more settled. Music was a great support to me. One of our good friends, Jim O'Neill, formerly chairman of the French department, called. "We have a dear friend and he would like for you to play a memorial service for his wife who died some time ago." Other friends, Mary and Bill Palmer, arranged dinner where I met William Steinhoff. Later, he came to the house to discuss music he wanted--mostly Bach and Mozart. I played for that service in January of 1992. After that, we had lunches and dinners. It was satisfying to spend time with someone who was not in music and yet who was very supportive. It's important to have a sympathetic person near you, someone who understands you. He is an emeritus Professor of English Literature at Michigan. Although he had taught here for 30 years, I had never met him. We were married on May 8, 1993. Someone said, "What did you do about music?" I said, "I played for my wedding!" We were to be at the church Saturday morning at 11:00. My sons were there along with Bill's nephew and niece. No one else was present. I said, "Well, I'm just going to play the prelude." So I played the Guilmant March on a Theme of Handel. Bill came in, saying, "Am I late?" So, Terry Smith performed the service for us. Then I moved to the organ and played the Widor "Toccata." That was a fine ending for our wedding service.

Q: Do you have brothers and sisters who are musical?

A: My brother James Clark Mason was musical. He was a wonderful family man, and loved his four children and wife. He died two years ago. My sister, Carolyn Mason Weinmeister, is active in computers and computer programming.   She enjoys music and sports. She lives in Oklahoma City and has one daughter and son.

Q: How do you keep your positive attitude?

A: A lot of this is based on the loving care that we had as children. Both our mother and father were supportive of us. My mother always did the cooking and dishes so that I could practice the piano or go to the church and practice the organ. A loving home, to be surrounded by such love, and a religious home, to be surrounded by Presbyterian Protestantism--these things are what you cannot take away but also what you can't buy. Parents must be aware of this when raising children. That religious upbringing that I was given is something that no one can ever take away and I hope I never forget.

Q: You continue to be a church organist, and you've been a church organist for a long time along with your teaching. Have you been an organist at several churches in Ann Arbor?

A: I was a substitute organist at the Presbyterian Church where we belonged for many years. When Zion Lutheran needed an organist, the music committee invited me to play there. I was the organist for many years in the early sixties. John Merrill was the choral conductor. I enjoyed the liturgical service and the Lutherans. I enjoy being a church organist and I like to play hymns.  I sometimes remind the students that if they are church musicians the title "church" comes first, with the flexibility and dependability that I mentioned earlier. And, after all, that is usually where the best organs are!

We were out at our lake cottage one Labor Day weekend, and I had to return for church on Sunday at Zion Lutheran. I went to the Schantz organ, saw the bulletin and #15 for the processional hymn. I opened the hymnal and found "Joy to the World." This was on Labor Day weekend! I thought--these Lutherans, if they want "Joy to the World" they're going to have it! I really gave it the full treatment. The choir came down the aisle with their books under their arms. Not a person was singing. When they arrived in the chancel the minister announced, "And now we'll have the opening hymn, number such-and-such." I had misread it and the "15" was the page number for the order of service. Regardless, I enjoyed the Lutheran service very much.

In 1963, I had a fine student, Donald Williams, who was just graduating. I recommended that he take over and he was invited. Dr. Williams was the organist/choirmaster at Zion Lutheran for over 30 years.

We need not frown on church and service music. As I said, that's where the good organs will be. We have at First Congregational a wonderful conductor, Willis Patterson, who inspires us all. My assistant, James Nissen, is Associate Director of Music. He is so versatile that he can play if I am gone or conduct if Willis is gone. That is good.

Q: The fact that you keep active in church music is a testimony to your own students and a good way that you can tell your students what they are going to experience when they go out to church jobs as well, because you know just what they will encounter. I think a lot of organ teachers in colleges are detached from that.

A: I don't want to ask my students to go into church music without experiencing it myself. We must not be detached from church music. We must be right in the swing.

One thing I do tell my students who move into church positions: You're a new organist and choir director in a church. If you don't hear anything, you're terrific. Keep telling yourself that. You'll always hear when somebody doesn't like it. When they don't like it, you must smile and try to agree. Don't be defensive. They may have a reason for saying so.

Q: I'd like to know when the cooking requirement came into the DMA program.

A: All my students, even Master's degree students, are invited to cook a meal for us. That idea came in the '50s. One of the nice meals that was prepared was by John McCreary and Phil Steinhaus. They knew that Jean Langlais was coming. They said, "We'll prepare a Master's dinner." So they prepared a wonderful dinner for us. It's referred to on page 15 of the book, Hommage à Langlais, in Langlais' diary, where he says, "We've had a dinner with the students and Marilyn Mason and her husband." That dinner was memorable because there was a pot roast which was luscious. The flavoring on the meat, the carrots and onions were delicious, but the potatoes had been added too late and they were hard. Langlais was trying to eat them with his knife and fork and said, "Is this some new vegetable in the United States that we don't know about?" Poor John was so chagrined. Those potatoes will always be remembered as the ones that didn't make it. That was the beginning of that requirement. And I am now so proud of Phil, his wonderful career as organist/choirmaster and his work with Aeolian-Skinner, and with John, too, 30 years in the Cathedral in Honolulu as Organist/ Choirmaster! I do feel we had that cooking requirement especially for the men, but we must all learn to cook.

Q: You're certainly well known for your jokes. For many years you had a joke book that you lost along the way.

A: No--it was stolen at Riverside Church. I was playing a recital there. The organ console had two large mirrors so the audience could see while you play. I thought I would put my purse right behind me. That purse had my joke book and some jewelry. Someone reached in behind and took the whole thing. Someone said, "What nicer way to lose it than to have it stolen from Riverside Church." But I've kept a lot of stories in my head. Along with flexibility comes a sense of humor--mostly to be willing to laugh at yourself. If we can have the light touch as we go along, I think that helps.

Q: Along with that, can you think of some humorous incidents in your travels that would be interesting?

A: I can think of some humorous things that happened here in Ann Arbor. I was playing for freshman convocation in the first week in September for about 4,000 new students. I had played the prelude, but they asked me to play a special piece. I chose the Haines "Toccata," which is something that I enjoy playing and can play without too much extra practice. The Dean of the Faculty, Charles Odegaard, looked over at me and said, "And now our organist will play --Miss Marilyn Monroe." All of these students just howled, and he was so embarrassed. He said, "Oh, I'm sure Miss Mason will do just as well." Then I did play and it was fun.

Another thing that happened at Hill Auditorium occurred in 1985. I had scheduled a series of 16 recitals of the music of Bach (1985 was 300th anniversary of Bach's birth). So I was doing that series here at the Fisk organ every Sunday afternoon at 4:00. But I was also supposed to play for a graduation ceremony at Hill Auditorium at 2:30. So I said to my colleague Sam Koontz (our organ technician at Hill Auditorium who knew the organ like the back of his hand and who had been one of my Master's students), "Will you please play the final hymn, which is the Michigan hymn, and then a postlude?" Sam said, "I'll be glad to." I played the opening prelude, the processional and "The Star-Spangled Banner." The console was in the corner on the far stage left. By this time it was about 3:00 and I needed to leave. So I left, and Sam was on the bench. I got to the Fisk on time and played the Bach recital in the afternoon. But I heard afterwards, the Vice President of the University, Richard Kennedy, had said at Hill (which he had never done before) "We're so happy to have our organist today--please thank Marilyn Mason." He looked back at the console. Sam threw up his hands in dismay, because I wasn't there. After that, when I was thanked for these occasions, Mr. Kennedy always looked back to see me.

Q: You mentioned that there have been 111 doctoral students. Do you have any idea of the total number of students you have taught?

A: No, I don't. But in over 50 years there were a lot of students. I wish I'd kept track, but at the time that is not the most important thing. Actually, we have graduated 600 organists in the Bachelor's and Master's programs since the first ones in 1932.

Q: I remember seeing the sea of people at your recognition dinner in 1986. All those people had been touched by your life, and also by the blue pencils that were given to each one.

A: I got the idea of the blue pencil from Palmer Christian. It's such a good way to mark music and it's easy on the eyes. It's a very important thing to mark fingering and how you're going to do things--not to have a Monday way, a Wednesday way, and a Thursday way. I have a student, Robert Jones, in Houston, who's fanatic about that. The strategy in the hand helps us to play. There are many people who say they're far too "creative" to mark their fingering. These are very often the ones who don't play as well as the ones who know where they're going.

The next thing is making the goals in your study. If you have a piece you want to learn, divide it into sections rather than trying to learn the whole thing all at once. Young people should have goals to learn certain music. In the semester system, we have juries for the music the student has learned. I don't know but that all of us don't waste time by being rather aimless. We waste time by not having an objective. That's why I've enjoyed teaching, because the goal is to be there and to have a plan.

Another goal I've had over the last five years is recording all the works of Pachelbel. He's such an imaginative composer. He doesn't have the rhetoric of the North Germans. He has a sweetness, placidity and strength in his music, and it has been a great joy to learn and play his music. These are recorded in the Musical Heritage Series. I began the series with the freely composed works, but then there were enough chorale preludes for three disks. The chorale preludes were written for services or as interludes for hymns. So we decided that the chorale would be sung first. A gifted tenor in the doctoral program, Robert Breault, sang the melodies. After  recording the chorales, we came to the Magnificats. I asked a Benedictine monk, Irwin West, to sing the alternation. There are more Magnificats written for the first tone than for any other. Dr. Tom Strode and his Boychoir sang the alternation for Volumes 7 and 8.

Q: Have you done some additional teaching elsewhere in addition to your teaching at Michigan?

A: I did some  teaching at Columbia University during summers while I was in doctoral studies. I taught at St. Paul's Chapel at Columbia, where Searle Wright was the organist. I also taught at Pomona College in Claremont and at the school in Brazil. But I love Michigan a lot. What's wonderful about teaching is that the clientele changes. I have had students for as many as four or five years. I have recommended that some of my students study with my other colleagues in the department. Prof. Glasgow, Dr. Kibbie, and Dr. Johns each have their own special things to offer.

Robert Glasgow excels in the nineteenth-century interpretations, while Dr. Kibbie enjoys the baroque and contemporary. Michele Johns with her expertise and experience has brought  much to our curriculum in church music practices. Her position as organist/choirmaster at Our Lady of Good Counsel, Plymouth, has given "hands-on" experience to so many of our students.

Q: Was there ever a thought that you would go anywhere else to teach?

A: I had a wonderful offer from USC  and Raymond Kendall in the '50s. But I talked to my husband and to Dean Moore and decided to stay here.

Q: In a job interview, someone once asked me what I would like written on my tombstone. What would you like to be remembered for?

A: You would like to think that the things you have done have been a blessing to other people and that you were kind. We all have our own opportunity to serve. So, for the stone, I have two suggestions: "She served and enjoyed" or "S. D. G."

Q: Thank you, Marilyn, for your 50 years of teaching at the University of Michigan and for the positive influence you have had on so many lives!

Steven Egler

*Moniker assigned to Fred Swann in the printed program for the AGO 2008 Distinguished Performer Award.

 

Frederick Swann is one of the most well-known organists of the 20th and early 21st centuries. In this conversation, which is really a mini-biography, he reveals much behind-the-scenes information about his numerous high-profile positions, his relationship with the Murtagh/McFarlane Artist Management, and his early musical experiences, along with observations about the organ and church music today. He is an extremely humble man who has met his many challenges and professional opportunities with modesty and dignity. 

Swann’s honors and achievements in recent years include: 2002, International Performer of the Year by the New York City Chapter of the American Guild of Organists; 2004, inaugural recital on the organ in the Walt Disney Concert Hall, Los Angeles; 2008, AGO Endowment Fund Distinguished Performer Award; 2009, Paul Creston Award by St. Malachy’s Chapel, New York City. In November 2014, he will be honored by the East Texas Pipe Organ Festival.

He has performed inaugural recitals on symphony-hall organs at Orchestra Hall (Chicago), Davies Hall (San Francisco), and Renée and Henry Segerstrom Concert Hall (Costa Mesa).

Frederick Swann is currently the consultant for the Ruffatti organ restoration project at the renamed Christ Cathedral, formerly the Crystal Cathedral, where he was director of music and organist (1982–1998). Christ Cathedral is scheduled to reopen in 2016. (See The Diapason, June 2014, pp. 26–28.)

This interview was conducted on May 8, 2014, in Saginaw, Michigan, as Swann was preparing for his May 9 inaugural recital on Scott Smith and Company Opus 3, a project renovating Skinner Organ Company Opus 751. Thanks go to Kenneth Wuepper of Saginaw, Michigan, the recording technician for the interview; the First Congregational Church, Saginaw, Michigan; and to Fred Swann himself for allowing us to interview him, for his assistance with editing, and for providing the photos that accompany this piece.

 

Steven Egler: Please tell us about your early years and your family. 

Frederick Swann: I am the son of a minister, and there were six children—three boys and three girls. I was number five, and there was a big space between me and the four older ones. 

From the very beginning, I was fascinated by the piano, and I would frequently bang on it at age 3 or 4. My parents were not particularly happy about that, so they locked the piano. Of course, any three-year-old can figure out how to get into a piano if he really wants to, and I did! 

When I was five, they decided that I could have piano lessons from May Carper, the organist of a church near my father’s church in Winchester, Virginia. One day I arrived early for a lesson and couldn’t find her. But I heard the organ going, and finally I found her at the organ console. I was hypnotized watching things popping in and out, lights were flashing, her hands and feet were flying, and I thought, “Oh my! That looks like fun. I’ve got to do that!” 

I asked her if I could play, but my legs were so short they wouldn’t reach the pedals. I kept after her, so she bribed me: if I had a good piano lesson, she would let me “bang” on the organ for five minutes before I went home. Then when my legs got longer—when I was about eight—she started showing me things about the organ and that you had to play it differently—not like a piano. They were really not organ lessons, because I just was continuing on the piano, but she still told me a lot about the organ. It was very good that she did because the organist in my father’s church, Braddock Street Methodist Church, suddenly died, and I became the organist of the church—there was no one else to play. It must have been simply awful, but that’s how I got started at age ten, and I’ve just kept on. I was a lucky kid since I didn’t have to decide what I was going to do when I grew up: I just started playing and kept doing it. 

 

Can you recall what those early church services were like and being thrust onto the bench?

Mostly I just played the hymns. The choir director, Madeline Riley, was somewhat of an organist herself, but the console was not located where she could play and direct. I would play the hymns, and she would show me how to play simple accompaniments.

I would practice during the week, and then my Saturday routine was that I always went to the horse opera theater—cowboy Western—for ten cents. On my way home, I’d go by the church and make sure that I had everything ready for the next morning.

I don’t remember too much about the services, except that it was an old Möller organ and setting the pistons made a lot of noise. I would love to “play with” setting the pistons, and the choir director would always come around to slap my hands because they could hear the noise out in the church. 

My biggest excitement came one Easter morning. There were certain stops that I was not allowed to use, and one was a great big Open Diapason in the Great. The church, however, was full and they were really singing, so she came by and pulled out the Open Diapason. I was just thrilled to death! I thought, “This is heaven,” since I had not been allowed to make that much noise before. 

That went on for a couple years, and then we moved down valley to Staunton in 1943. There I started studying with the organist of Trinity Episcopal Church, Dr. Carl Broman, singing in the choir, and getting a lot of very good musical education at the same time. He was a very fine musician.

 

You mentioned moving as a PK (preacher’s kid). Was that frequent as a child?

Not so much. I left home to go to school when I wasn’t quite 16, and we had only lived in three places. I was born in Lewisburg, West Virginia, but only lived there six weeks. We then moved to Clifton Forge, Virginia, where my father, Theodore M. Swann, pastored the Methodist church. Six years later, we moved to Winchester and the Braddock Street Methodist Church for six years (1937–1943). Then we moved down the Shenandoah Valley to Staunton, where my father became a district superintendent and later a bishop. We didn’t have a home church as such because he was always traveling to other churches. This is the main reason I was allowed to attend Trinity Episcopal Church in Staunton where I was confirmed at age 13. I just loved it—the liturgy and the great music.

 

What attracted you to Northwestern University?

To tell you the truth, my childhood was not the happiest, and at that point in my life, the farthest place away that I had heard of was Chicago. With my Methodist background and it being a Methodist school, I won a scholarship and went there.

 

You studied with Thomas Matthews (1915–1999) who is known particularly for his choral anthems. How was he as a teacher? 

He was a fine teacher, and a very quiet but very fun man. He was inspiring as a teacher and was willing to let me try anything. He gave me very good ideas.

Most of my lessons were at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Evanston, on the fantastic E.M. Skinner organ. By my senior year, I’d started to do a lot of accompanying. Matthews was also the director of the Chicago Bach Choir that, for some reason, met in Evanston at St. Luke’s Church.

In 1952, we did the second United States performance of the Duruflé Requiem. The first had been performed slightly earlier at Calvary Church in New York City. At last count, I’ve played that marvelous work 91 times during my career. I played it many years later at Riverside Church with Duruflé himself conducting. 

Tom [Matthews] was a great improviser, so I learned a lot about improvisation and colorful use of the organ, both in organ literature and in adapting piano/orchestral scores to the organ.

I also studied with John Christensen, who was the organist at the First Methodist Church in Evanston, and was his assistant organist during my four years in college. During my senior year, I also became organist and choir director at First Baptist Church upon the retirement of William Harrison Barnes (1892–1980). Dr. Barnes was the author of The Contemporary American Organ (1930) and well known as an organ consultant.

 

You said that the Barnes family “adopted” you?

When I arrived on the scene at Northwestern University, they heard me play and thought that I was advanced for my age. They also had recently lost a son, and for some reason, I reminded them of him and they decided to take me into the family. They were also responsible for my introduction to Virgil Fox (1912–1980) and took me on my first trip to New York City. On Sunday, they took me to the choir loft of St. Patrick’s Cathedral to meet the organist, their close friend Charles Courboin (1884–1973). During the sermon at the Mass, Dr. Courboin said to me, “Why don’t you play the postlude?” Of course, I had never played in a room like that or on an organ of that size, but I knew the Langlais Te Deum from memory, so I managed to get through it with the crescendo pedal and a general piston or two. Later, I became very good friends with Dr. Courboin, and, in fact, I studied the complete organ works of Franck with him. This was a great privilege, for he was widely regarded as an expert on the works of Franck. He was a very fun-loving and wonderful man. He and his wife were both so good to me, and he never charged me a penny for all of those lessons!

 

You attended Union Theological Seminary. With whom did you study?

My primary teacher was Hugh Porter (1897–1960), who was the director of the School of Sacred Music at the seminary. The best thing, however, particularly at that time, was just being in New York. Those days were often referred to as the “glory days” because of the great names in church music who were at the other churches in town. On Sunday afternoons, you could hear Evensong at St. Thomas or St. Bartholomew’s. Plus, there were many choral programs and other concerts all of the time, so you learned as much being exposed to music itself in New York as you did with actual classroom or lesson study. 

 

What advice do you have for young people these days who see themselves being organists as their primary calling, attend university, and expect to be prepared for the big, wide world?

I usually remind my students that they really have to love playing the organ and really have to love what they are doing. 

As far as becoming a concert organist, one has to realize that the field is very full. There are dozens and dozens of organists under management, many of whom play very few recitals because there are so many organists available. 

If you think that you want to be a church organist, if this is something you feel you just have to do, go ahead and do it. But realize that there are not that many full-time church jobs where you are going to be able to make a living. So, learn the organ, play it as well as you can, find a church to play in, but be aware that you may also need other sources of income, maybe teaching or perhaps even something in the business world.

One of my current university students at Redlands is also studying to become a dentist, and he is one of the most talented students I’ve ever had. I believe that he could have a career in the concert field and in church work, but he’s preparing to have some other source of income. 

It’s not that there aren’t jobs available: they’re just not jobs at which you can make a living.

 

I’d like to discuss the sizes of the various organs you have played. One source cites First Congregational Church, Christ Cathedral (formerly Crystal Cathedral), and Riverside Church respectively as the third, fifth, and fifteenth largest organs in the world. You have presided over each one of these instruments. 

Theoretically, the First Congregational Church in Los Angeles, where I was for three years after I retired from the Crystal Cathedral, contains the world’s largest church organ. There’s very little difference in the size of First Congregational and the organ at the Cathedral of St. Stephen in Passau, Germany, but interestingly, in a book that I picked up the last time I played there, it lists the largest organs in the world; they even put First Congregational’s organ before theirs! 

Actually, the Wanamaker organ (now Macy’s) in Philadelphia is the world’s largest operating organ. (The Atlantic City, New Jersey, Boardwalk Hall—formerly the Atlantic City Convention Center—organ is bigger, but most of it doesn’t play at this point.) 

Many people are obsessed with size, yet size is not everything. I have played many small and modest-sized instruments that were extremely beautiful and satisfying.

 

Please tell us about New York and the various pre-Riverside positions that you held. 

When I was in school at Union, I had a fieldwork position, the West Center Church in Bronxville, New York, but at that time I had already agreed to substitute for Virgil Fox whenever he was away, which was quite a bit.

My job in Bronxville was with the understanding that I had to be at Riverside when necessary. I was the official substitute organist (at Riverside) for a couple of years. When I graduated, Clarence Dickinson (1873–1969), whom I knew very well, had a heart attack—he was the organist and choirmaster at the Brick Church—and they asked me if I would fill in for him for nearly two years. At the same time, I became Harold Friedell’s (1905–1958) assistant at St. Bartholomew’s Church. I’d play in the morning at the Brick Church at 92nd Street and run down Park Avenue to play 4 o’clock Evensong at St. Bartholomew’s. There was a church in between called Park Avenue Christian Church, and they performed their oratorios at 2 o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Sometimes I would stop there and accompany an oratorio between playing services at Brick Church and St. Bart’s. 

Some Sundays, I also played Riverside! I would finish at St. Bart’s, jump off the bench (Harold [Friedell] would finish the service), run downstairs and out the door where there was a car waiting to whisk me to Riverside. Somebody else would have played the opening hymn, and I’d jump on the bench and play the oratorio. It was crazy and I don’t how I did it, except that when you’re young, you do all kinds of foolish things and don’t think anything about it.

 

Of course, I assume that you knew the organs and had rehearsed with the choirs.

Yes, plus the enormous amount of preparation for all the other music involved. 

 

And those were with just organ accompaniments and no orchestra?

Yes. Fortunately, the organs were all big, beautiful instruments with every color in the world, and it was a wonderful experience. After a while, I played almost every oratorio in the standard repertory. At Riverside we even did the United States premieres of a couple of works—Stabat Mater (1925–1926) of Szymanowsky (1882–1937) and the Hodie (1954) of Vaughan Williams (1872–1958). It was a wonderful experience, both to learn the music and also to learn how to adapt the scores quickly to the organ.

 

Were you ever overwhelmed playing those large instruments?

No, but there were many challenges and satisfaction in being able to find solutions. 

I can remember Maurice and Marie-Madeleine Chevalier-Duruflé, who were very good friends, when they played their first recital in America at the Riverside Church. They had come for the 1964 AGO national convention in Philadelphia the week before, but Maurice had hurt his back and couldn’t perform, so Marie-Madeleine played the recital. 

I’m telling you this because I’m thinking about big organs and how they affect people. When the Duruflés entered the Riverside chancel and saw the console, Maurice put his hand on his head and said, “Oh, mon Dieu!” Marie-Madeleine said, “Ooooooo,” rubbing her hands. She just couldn’t wait to get at it. I don’t think that I ever said “Ooooo” and rubbed my hands, but I was always so thrilled by the color possibilities of an organ such as the Riverside organ.

When I first played at Riverside in 1952, the organ was not the Aeolian-Skinner. It was the original 1931 Hook & Hastings controlled by the Aeolian-Skinner console that had been recently installed. When they began putting in the new organ in 1953, they had to keep the organ going every Sunday for services, oratorios, and everything else. I can remember one time when there were two Greats—the old Great was on one side of the chancel, and the new Great was on the other. I had to flip a switch depending on which Great I was using. It was a real headache and I didn’t get that much time at the organ, but here again when you’re young, you think, “Oh well. I’ll work it out.” It was a challenge.

 

You mention color and large instruments. I’ve heard you play many times, both in person and on recordings, and I can say that you are an organ symphonist in how you approach your music-making. Obviously, all of these instruments that you have experienced have been an incredible influence upon you.

Absolutely. On any instrument, I explore every stop in the organ, and of course, with a large organ, it is important to find orchestral colors for the oratorio accompaniments. I always feel that if there’s a stop there, it’s supposed be used and you can usually find a way to do it. 

 

Please tell us about your time at Riverside Church in New York City. 

In the fall of 1952, I started substituting for Virgil Fox, and in 1957 the staff at the church changed quite a bit. Virgil’s career began to blossom, and thus, he was there very rarely, so they decided they would hire an organist. I was hired as organist, not as assistant organist, at the church. From then until his association with the church dissolved completely in 1965, he very rarely played—probably a handful of times a year, but his name was kept because he was famous. 

I was actually in the Army when I was appointed organist. I was not going to be released for another six months, so Richard Peek, who was studying in New York at the time, filled in for me as organist for the next several months. Then in January 1958, I started playing full-time.

 

Did you ever work directly with Virgil Fox? 

Maybe a few times, but very rarely. He was a real character in addition, of course, to being an incredible musician and technician. Amazing! 

 

So William H. Barnes introduced you to Virgil Fox. Was he responsible for getting you in the door at Riverside? 

Absolutely. Virgil was born in Illinois and got his career start in Illinois—that’s where he met the Barneses. As a result, I knew Virgil before that first trip to New York. 

 

Please tell us about the choir program at Riverside, which was well known and directed by Richard Weagley (1909–1989). 

He was a great musician and wonderful to work with. He retired in 1967, when the program had been reduced from an oratorio every Sunday to just eight or nine a season. There was less work, so they asked me if I would be director of music and organist, which meant that I was the primary organist but was responsible mainly for the choir. Then I was given an assistant organist, and I had some great ones: Marilyn Keiser, John Walker, and Robert MacDonald, to name a few. They were wonderful people, and we’ve remained lifelong friends. I had the whole show, basically, until I left January 1, 1983, to move to California.

 

One of the first recordings I heard of you was with the marvelous soprano Louise Natale (1918–1992). 

Louise was a fabulous soprano. She had sung with Robert Shaw and was one of his main soloists for many years, and we were so fortunate to have her at Riverside. I encouraged her to sing [Jaromir] Weinberger’s (1896–1967) cantata, The Way to Emmaus (1940), and she did it magnificently with that organ to accompany her. 

We started doing it on Easter afternoon, and we did it for 25 consecutive Easters! After all of the loud music and the “Alleluias” all morning and then to come at 5 o’clock with the sun streaming across the Hudson through the beautiful windows and to end the Easter Day quietly was a very moving experience for a lot of people, and eventually the church was filled. 

 

Did you position the console so that you were able to conduct the choir from the console? 

The console was not movable and worked just fine as far as services were concerned, but for the oratorios I would have to go out front and conduct while one of my assistants played. I think the only time I played and had somebody else conduct was when we performed Elgar’s The Dream of Gerontius. The accompaniment was so complicated and so wonderful that I wanted to hear it using all of that organ. So we engaged as conductor Dr. Harvey Smith from Arizona (now deceased). Of course, I had trained the choir before he arrived.

 

Could you explain why there was overlapping time before you left Riverside and when you began your position at the Crystal Cathedral? 

When the Crystal Cathedral had just been built and the organ installed, there were many festivities to open the organ. Pierre Cochereau came to play with orchestra, and a week later I played the first solo recital on the organ. Additionally, they asked me, as long I was there, to play the Sunday morning service. I played the morning service, and afterwards, Dr. and Mrs. Schuller wanted to meet with me. They asked me if I would become the organist of the church. I told them that they had a very fine organist, Richard Unfried, who was a friend of mine, and that the job did not exist. I said that I knew they were without a director of music and asked them if they’d like to discuss that. They said, “No,” that they only wanted me to play the organ. I indicated that I was not interested, since they already had a fine organist. 

So I went home to New York, and four days later, there at my office door at Riverside Church stood Robert Schuller. He said, “I just want you to know that Arvella and I have come light years since our discussion last Sunday, and we’d like to offer you the position of director of music and organist. Would you please fly out to meet with us next Monday to make arrangements.” He then turned around and left! 

I flew out to California with no intention whatsoever of moving, but I had already fallen under the magic spell of that fantastic cathedral and the organ, and as is sometimes said, “They made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse.” 

The arrangement that we finally made was that I would spend one week a month in California—working with the choir, etc.—and the other three weeks a month in New York. That’s what I did the first six months and then moved full-time to California in January 1983. 

I played the last service at Riverside at midnight, December 31, 1982, and then January 2, 1983, I flew to Toronto to play a recital in Roy Thomson Hall, and then flew immediately to California to meet the moving van, set up housekeeping, and get started with the new position. 

People would always ask me if I missed New York, and I’d tell them that I didn’t have time to miss New York! The music program was very large (at the Crystal Cathedral) with several hundred people in the program. I had to learn the organ and get the choir going, so I didn’t have time to think—to miss New York.

 

What was it like working with Robert Schuller (b. 1926)? 

It was wonderful. What you see on television with him is what you get. Both he and Mrs. Schuller, Arvella de Haan (1929–2014), treated me beautifully all the years that I was there, and we became very good friends. 

Dr. Schuller wasn’t around that much since he was always out speaking and raising money. Mrs. Schuller was in charge of worship and the music.

It took us a while to learn which buttons to push with each other, but we eventually became very good friends. She was an organist herself and told me I could do Palestrina and Hubert Parry’s I was glad anytime that I wanted, but I would have to do “the other things that we do,” too. But they wanted me specifically to bring that type of music—the “big Eastern church music.” They wanted me to provide music they felt would be commensurate with the new cathedral building, a great organ, and a fine choir. Thus, I was able to stretch them in doing a lot of that music, but they also stretched me into various other forms of music. 

There was an enormous variety of music. We could have a country-Western singer, a Metropolitan Opera star, an English cathedral anthem, and a Bach prelude and fugue, all of these and more in one service, but the best thing was that whatever we did was done with the best taste, and to the best of everyone’s ability.

Johnnie Carl, a fantastic musician, was in charge of the instrumental program and contemporary music. It was a learning experience for all of us, and I thoroughly enjoyed my 16-plus years there. The people made it: the choir especially. 

 

And you just happened to be on television every week, too!

Yes, eventually I got over being nervous about cameras peering over my shoulder, and occasionally I’d look up and see a cameraman standing on top of the organ console getting ready to shoot something! It was all very enjoyable, and many stories can be told about that!

 

That’s almost a book.

Oh, easily! One of those stories is about Alicia the tiger that was born at the cathedral. Her mother was one of the 60 animals used in the “Glory of Easter” production. I knew her mother, and her mother’s trainer. After Alicia was about a week old I went to the animal compound and played with her mother a bit, and the trainer gradually moved Alicia closer. Her mother didn’t object, so I picked up Alicia (she weighed only 35 pounds) and scratched her stomach and played with her every day for two weeks after that. Tigers (tame ones, anyway) are somewhat like elephants—they can bond with you, remember you, and when you see them after being away for months they’ll come right over and nuzzle you like a kitten—with the trainer nearby, of course.

It used to scare my staff to death when she’d come to my office and come right over and want to play. She was from an animal training facility that provided animals for movies, and had a reputation for being the most-tame “cat” in the business. She’s retired now. Organists all over the world were fascinated, and wherever I traveled—Jean Guillou’s apartment in Paris, or one in Berlin—there was one of the photos framed.

 

After the Crystal Cathedral, you went to the First Congregational Church, Los Angeles, for three years (1998–2001).

Right. When the Crystal Cathedral organ went in, their nose went out of joint at First Congregational Church because, up to that point, they had the largest organ in the area, so they set about to make it bigger and better than the Crystal Cathedral organ. About the time that the organ was finished, their organist Lloyd Holtzgraf retired, and they said, “Okay, we’ve got the bigger organ. Now we want the big organist from the other place.”

As Rev. Schuller had done earlier, the Congregationalists made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. At the heart of it was simply the fact that I was really worn out from all that I’d had to do at the Crystal Cathedral. I was playing the organ less and less and doing administrative work and conducting more. So I thought it would be rewarding to play the organ for awhile. I went to First Congregational Church with the understanding that I would only stay three years and retire on my 70th birthday, which I did right to the day in 2001.

That was a wonderful time there, too. Thomas Somerville, a great Bach scholar, was the director of music, and we did wonderful music. The congregation just loved that organ and would remain motionless and utterly quiet during preludes and postludes. It was a great place to make music—a smart move, and I’m so glad that I did it.

 

And since 2001, you have been organ artist in residence at St. Margaret’s Episcopal Church in Palm Desert, California. 

When it came time to retire, I decided not to move back east—I’d already shoveled enough snow! I had many friends in Palm Springs and had visited there a lot and decided to retire there. I’d even purchased a home three years earlier and was able to rent it out until I needed it.

When I moved to Palm Springs, John Wright had come from Memphis to St. Margaret’s Church as organist and choirmaster. I had opened a new organ in his church in San Antonio, Texas, years before. He invited me to practice at St. Margaret’s whenever I wanted, as long as I played a recital during the year. I said, “Okay.” I was still out on the road finishing up several recitals that I had on the books. This went on for a couple years, and he said, “Why don’t you play for church once in a while.” I said, “Oh no. I’ve done that and I’m tired.” But he kept after me and I finally agreed. In recent years, I have been playing at least two Sundays a month and sometimes more often than that, plus all of the festival services. John is then able to concentrate on conducting the choir—a very good choir—and the organ is a large four-manual Quimby. Friends who visit are always amazed to find, out in the middle of the desert, a big choir, big church, big organ. I think they thought that we beat on bamboo! But, it’s been very enjoyable, and it is a wonderful congregation. I can walk in and play and walk out, and I don’t have to attend staff meetings. After a lifetime of doing that, I’m happy just to be able to play the organ.

 

That takes us to another leg of your journey: your performing career and association with the Murtagh and now Karen McFarlane artist management. As far back as I can I remember, I can see your smiling face on the back page of magazines (The Diapason and The American Organist). When did you start with the management?

Soon after I went to Riverside—I can’t remember the exact date. I was with the management for over 40 years.

Lilian Murtagh was the assistant to Bernard LaBerge, the famous manager of organists and other musicians in this country. After LaBerge’s death in 1952, she continued as head of the organ division (under what had become Colbert-LaBerge). She then purchased the organ division in 1962 and continued until her death in 1976 when Karen McFarlane became president. Murtagh was a dear, dear lady and so very good as a manager. 

It was great to get to know all of the famous organists who were with the management: it was a wonderful relationship. 

Lilian had gotten to know my secretary at Riverside, Karen McFarlane, and after Lilian became ill and realized that she didn’t have long to live, she asked Karen to consider taking over the management. Thus Karen McFarlane became the manager from 1976–2000.

 

So you and Karen McFarlane go way back.

We go way, way back! She had done some playing for me and was my secretary at Riverside. Then she became my concert manager. She’s like a sister and is a very dear friend.

When I retired I intended to finish recitals that I already had on the books, but I really didn’t intend to play anymore, so I asked them to please take my picture off the back page. I’ve curtailed my performing to maybe two or three concerts a year, mainly because the travel is becoming more difficult.

 

Do you have any more recordings in the works? 

No, I did my last one in 2010 (Gothic Records) on the magnificent Casavant organ, Opus 1230, in the Memorial Chapel at the University of Redlands. Recording is very nerve-wracking at my age. I can still play adequately as long as a microphone has not been turned on. When that happens, I become the Florence Foster Jenkins of the organ!

Going back to the LP days, I think that there’s a total of about 30 recordings. A lot are from Mirrosonic, Vista, Decca, and, of course, Gothic. It’s not an enormous number—many people record a lot more—and some of those are organ and some are with choir.

Some things I’ve recorded more than once, and I don’t really apologize for that. Marie-Claire Alain was once asked why she recorded three sets of the complete Bach works; she answered, “Because my ideas change or I learn.” It’s the same with all of us, and I would hate to think that we were not constantly changing.

 

Please tell us about your varied teaching experiences, the positions you’ve held, and your students. 

I’ve had a whole bunch. The first formal teaching that I did was at the Guilmant Organ School (1899–ca. 1970) in New York. It was established in the early 20th century by William Carl, who was the organist at First Presbyterian Church, New York City. He had been a student of Guilmant. I came to it late, actually just the last three years of its life, and I had about eight to ten students. Then I began teaching organ and accompanying the choir at Teachers College, Columbia University. I also did some private teaching at Union Seminary where I was also the fieldwork supervisor; I would go out to students’ churches, take notes, and make suggestions. 

In 1973, I became head of the organ department at the Manhattan School of Music. At that time, it was housed in the old Juilliard School buildings across the street from the Riverside Church, which was very convenient. I held that position for eight years during the 1970s until I left New York for California. 

When I first went to California, there was absolutely no time for teaching. But after I finally “retired,” playing almost no recitals and just playing at St. Margaret’s, in 2007 I became the university organist and artist teacher of organ for the University of Redlands, just an hour west toward Los Angeles. 

The Casavant organ there, originally installed in 1927, was completely restored in 2002 at the same time that the building was being retrofitted for earthquakes. It’s a marvelous organ, totally enclosed—even the three 32-foot stops. It’s a thrilling sound, even with the orchestra and choir and soloists. Just a short while ago, we were able to fill up all of the blank knobs on the console and add another 20 ranks.

I have very good students there. 

 

What about the composer in you?

Oh, I’m not a composer! 

 

You wrote a wonderful Trumpet Tune.

I don’t know how wonderful it is, but people seem to enjoy it. One man has even made a handbell arrangement of it that is published. There are a few other organ pieces, too.

The other compositions are mainly anthems, and they were all written when I was at the Crystal Cathedral, because I couldn’t find what I wanted to fit with the service of the day or they were not the right length. They all had to be written in major keys, had to be loud, and had to end with the sopranos on high C, so there isn’t a great deal of variety. But the publishers wanted them: because I was the organist at the Crystal Cathedral, and they thought they would sell! I don’t know if they ever did or not—a few of them did, I guess—but I make no claims to being a composer, whatsoever. 

There are several hymn arrangements and preludes that are also published. In particular, Toccata on “O God, Our Help, In Ages Past” is fun to watch— it made good television. It has lots of work jumping manuals, which idea I got from Petr Eben’s Moto Ostinato. I played it for him once and he burst out laughing. I said, “Well, it was your idea!”

 

Please reflect upon your time as President of the American Guild of Organists (2002–2008), which is when I first got to know you. 

I was amazed that I got elected, and I’m sure the only reason was because of television and concerts. A lot of people don’t know most of the people who are ever nominated for office, so they usually vote for the ones who are best known. I enjoyed it very much. We had a wonderful group of people on the National Council—you were there—everybody worked well together and with the administration of the Guild. It was a very happy time and I feel that we accomplished a lot of things. In addition to the POEs (Pipe Organ Encounters), there were many highlights of my years there. I will be forever grateful for the opportunity to serve the Guild in that way.

 

What do you see as the function, the purpose, and even the future of the AGO?

I think that the Guild is very much alive. It is still very influential—it’s the largest and oldest organization (founded in 1896) of its kind for musicians and for instruments in this country. 

The only other musical organization that is older is the Royal College of Organists in London, which in 2014 is celebrating its 150th anniversary. They used to wield an enormous amount of power, and even had a big office building. The organ and organist had been well thought of in halls and cathedrals, but a recent article in the New York Times said that they have fallen on bad times and there are not as many jobs. They are now focusing on reinventing themselves by reaching out more to the general public. I don’t how they will do it, but they are determined. 

Generally speaking, I believe that the Guild is on firmer ground now than it’s ever been. I’m very optimistic about the future of the AGO and about the organ in general. There are many naysayers who think that the organ is dying and that there are too few people interested in becoming organists. This is simply not true.

Some of the major organ builders no longer exist, but there still are organs being built—some of them very large and expensive—as well as smaller organs. Along with all of the recordings that exist, I feel very optimistic about future of the organ, and I don’t believe it’s going to die anytime soon.

 

What do you like to do in your free time?

I don’t have a lot of free time, although I try to walk one to two miles daily—I am not in shape to do any great physical activity, but I do enjoy walking. I live in a two-story condominium, just so I can have the exercise of going up and down steps many times a day. I like reading, going out to eat, and I love being with friends.

There are many retired organists where I live in Palm Springs, many of whom I have known for years. It’s fun having a very nice social life, too. 

 

Very little grass grows under your feet. 

No. I learned several years ago—and I practice it religiously—that when you get into your ninth decade, you do not want to sit and stare at the wall. The day may come when I have to do that, but until it does, I’ll keep as physically and mentally active as I possibly can. I do crossword puzzles and everything I can to stay active. 

 

Do you practice everyday? 

I’m embarrassed to say that I do not. I should, but I practiced a lot in recent weeks to prepare for the recital here. 

 

Here is where humility must be brushed aside for the sake of honesty. You have everything on your résumé: you are without a doubt the most well-known and most visible organist of our day . . . 

. . . fading fast, as there are some real barn-burners coming along nowadays who are really going to go right to the top and who are creating a lot of stir in the organ world. I’m thankful for them because we need to keep the organ world alive . . . 

 

What do you see being your important contribution(s) to our profession? 

Regardless of what some people might think, I’m really modest and somewhat shy. I have been given wonderful opportunities in my career, such as having been blessed to serve in church positions most organists can only dream about. I’ve played close to 3,000 recitals in various places around the world, including a lot of daily recitals in churches, as well as being on television for over 16 years.

With the combination of things like that and teaching, I feel that I’ve helped to contribute to keeping the organ alive. I don’t believe that I’ve done any one thing in particular that I could cite as being outstanding. Rather, I’m grateful to have been given so many opportunities. I’ve tried to make the most of those opportunities for the advancement of the organ and its music. I’m more embarrassed than pleased when people compliment me.

 

At this point in your life and career what occurs to you as the most pleasurable reward resulting from your more than 70-year career?

That’s easy! In addition to being grateful for all the music making I’ve been fortunate to do, it’s the satisfaction of knowing that I’ve been able to bring joy and encouragement to others. One thing that has surprised me in recent years, and keeps happening more and more, is hearing from colleagues in the profession that my service playing or a recital or teaching, often on a very specific occasion, was a life-changing event for them in their career path. I am so very grateful for these expressions! More important, it makes me aware that all of us should take time to consider the influence we may unconsciously be having on others. 

 

Good advice for all. Thank you, Fred. You are the gem of our ocean!