The Organ Works of Buxtehude and Bruhns

Michael McNeil

Michael McNeil has designed, constructed, and researched pipe organs since 1973. He was also a research engineer in the disk drive industry with twenty-seven patents. He has authored four hardbound books, among them The Sound of Pipe Organs, several e-publications, and many journal articles.

Editor’s note: The Diapason offers here a feature at our digital edition—two sound clips. Any subscriber can access this by logging into our website (www.thediapason.com), click on Current Issue, View Digital Edition, scroll to this page, and click on each <soundclip> in the text.

The Clicquot organ at Houdan

The community of Houdan with a current population of just over 3,000 is located about thirty-five miles due west of Paris, France. In 1739 the organbuilder Louis Alexandre Clicquot completed the organ at Houdan in the church of Saint James. He was the father of François-Henri Clicquot who built the organ at the cathedral of Poitiers, and he was also a member of the family who to this day produces the wonderful champagne of that name. 

The organ at Houdan is preserved in virtually every detail of its original construction. For this we have to thank that it was placed in a small community without the resources to “modernize” it—large and prosperous cities have a habit of “improving” the organs in their care and irretrievably losing their history. The organ was unmolested until it went silent in the 1870s.

Fortune struck in the 1960s when Jean-Albert Villard, the organist titulaire of the F.-H. Clicquot organ at the cathedral of Poitiers, intervened when plans were formulated to modernize the instrument and discard most of its heritage. Villard and the efforts of many other preservationists prevailed, and the work of restoring the organ in its original state was entrusted in 1969 to Robert and Jean-Loup Boisseau. This is the organ we hear today. If you ever wondered why French Baroque music sounds lackluster on modern organs tuned in equal temperament, wonder no longer and buy the download of a new recording of the organ at Houdan by Régis Allard.⁹ It is a revelation; at Houdan the music sounds as it did to its composers and their intent becomes clear.

The limited resources of the community of Houdan were also probably responsible for the incredible economy in the design of the Clicquot organ. It has twenty-one stops distributed on three manuals (the third manual is treble-only), the pedal has no stops and simply couples to the bottom two octaves of the Grand Orgue, and there are no 16′ stops. But what looks at first like a tonal design lacking in grandeur is in fact extremely versatile and very grand. The French Classical scaling and voicing is musical and exciting without being in the slightest overbearing—the grandeur derives from its meantone temperament.

Meantone was an invention of the Renaissance, and one of its earliest practitioners was Pietro Aaron, who described his scheme for tuning it in 1523. While earlier temperaments going back all the way to Pythagoras favored pure fifths, the new system favored pure thirds at the expense of the fifths. In Aaron’s version there were eight pure thirds, four very impure thirds, reasonable fifths that beat about twice as fast as equally tempered fifths, and a wolf fifth that took up the remaining error. Aaron placed that wolf fifth on G-sharp and E-flat. There is always an error to be accommodated with our twelve-tone octave, and in equal temperament we distribute that error equally with the result that no intervals are in tune without beats. 

The wisdom of François Bédos de Celles

Our equally tempered third is a dissonant monster to which we have simply become accustomed. Bédos was well aware of equal temperament and despised it. His thoughts are worth revisiting: 

Among these schemes, two are the most worthy of note. One is called the old system, whereby the fifths are unequally tempered [meantone]; and the other is the new, which diminishes all the fifths to a lesser degree, but equally [equal temperament]. The mathematicians and the music-theorists disagree here. The latter, judging only by instinct and ear, cannot accept the new temperament, which they find harsh and less harmonious than the old one. Indeed, the fifths are diminished by only one-twelfth of a comma . . ., and all equally, with the result that all major thirds sound blurred, which makes a harsh impression on the ear. According to the old temperament, about eleven fifths are diminished by one-fourth of a comma. This is a greater adjustment than one-twelfth of a comma, but it saves, or keeps perfect, eight major thirds. 

Since altering these fifths by one-fourth of a comma still does not lead to a perfect octave, one fifth is sacrificed by having all the rest added to it, making it quite jangled. However, it lies in a seldom-used key. Organ-builders call this fifth the ‘wolf.’ Despite the prestige of the scientists who devised the new system, it has nevertheless been abandoned, even though it is less imperfect than the other, in theory. Music theorists prefer the old system, alleging that fifths may be altered one-fourth of a comma and even more without becoming disagreeable, whereas imperfect thirds must of necessity offend the ear: thus their old system is not inferior to the new . . . .
Moreover, the composer makes use of the very defects of the scale, finding in it resources for emphasizing the character of his various compositions. Whether the tone be gay, mournful, sublime, majestic, etc., he selects a mode suited to the harmonies most expressive of his idea. The new temperament does not offer this resource. Since all the intervals are equal, they all have the same character, with nothing to offset the harshness of the thirds.¹  

The point of meantone is its harmonic purity, tension, and color. The heart of meantone is the pure third, which has a benefit not explicated, but intuited by Bédos. A pure fifth sounds the second and third harmonics of a tone an octave lower, e.g., the interval at middle C to G has an audible subtone that sounds tenor C. Equal temperament fifths come close to purity, and we make use of that subtone to create pedal resultants. But here is a key feature of meantone: its pure thirds sound a subtone two octaves lower, e.g., middle C to E sounds the fourth and fifth harmonics of a subtone that sounds low C. When a French Classic composer uses a pure major third in the tenor, that sound contains a very real and audible subtone at 16′ pitch. This is why the Houdan organ sounds grand without a single 16′ stop. Listen to this soundclip of the “Suite du premier ton,” from Livre d’orgue II, Fugue, by Nicolas Clérambault to get a sense of the 16′ subtones created by meantone’s pure thirds <soundclip1>.⁹  

If you take a deep dive into researching the temperament of the Houdan organ you may find different opinions. The notes in the PDF booklet accompanying the recording heard in the soundclips simply states it to be “mésotonique,” and American organbuilders who have visited this organ report that it is tuned in 1⁄4-comma meantone with the wolf on G-sharp and E-flat, which is Pietro Aaron’s version. But according to Timothy Tikker at least one source reports that the Houdan organ may be tuned in the temperament devised by the French Classic organbuilder Dom Bédos, a variant of Aaron’s version.²  

Are these two temperaments really different, and are the differences important? At first hearing, the recording of the Houdan organ abounds in pure thirds. Aaron’s version has eight pure thirds, and according to Bédos, his version has seven pure thirds and one “slightly diminished” third on B-flat.³ Tikker states that Bédos’s tuning gained widespread favor in late eighteenth century France with its sonority.²

Beat rates describe sonority

There are many ways to compare the two temperaments. We will use beat rates (beats per second) to determine the relative purity of intervals—and beats are what you actually hear when you play an impure interval.⁴ A pure interval is consonant and has no beats; an impure interval with many beats has dissonant tension. Beat rates depend on actual frequencies, so we must keep in mind that the beat rates we will see in this article are referenced to the specific pitch A = 440 Hz; if the relative pitch is A = 395 Hz, like the organ at Houdan, the beats will be slightly slower. Beats will double for each ascending octave, so if an interval has two beats in the bass, it will have four beats in the tenor, and so on. We use beat rates for this comparison because we want to compare the relative consonances and dissonances of these temperaments, i.e., we want to understand their sonorities. 

Pietro Aaron’s meantone

Beat rates can be calculated for all the common intervals, and a table of the beat rates for Pietro Aaron’s meantone is seen in Figure 1.⁵ The second column in Figure 1 lists the notes from A-sharp in the bass octave to F in the middle octave. The third column lists the frequencies of those notes. The next columns show the beat rates for the intervals of the minor third (m3), major third (M3), fourth (4), fifth (5), minor seventh (m7), major seventh (M7), and major ninth (M9). A quick glance at this table will show the eight pure major thirds (0 beats) for the notes C, D, D-sharp, E, F, G, A, A-sharp. The wolf fifth on G-sharp–D-sharp in the tenor has 12.⁹ howling beats per second; it will have twice as many beats in the middle octave. There are four very impure thirds on C-sharp, F-sharp, G-sharp, B—Bédos called these “wolf” thirds. From this table you can get a feel for the extreme variation from consonant purity to dissonant impurity in meantone intervals. Modern conventional wisdom has held that these dissonances are to be avoided, but as Bédos noted, classical composers consciously used these dissonances to enhance emotional effects. Listen to this soundclip of the “Suite du deuxième ton,” Livre d’orgue, I. Plein jeu, by Nicolas Clérambault <soundclip2>.⁹ This vibrant color is completely lacking in equal temperament.

Key features of the Bédos temperament

So how does the Bédos temperament differ, and does it have any advantages? This question is not easily answered because Bédos left apparently conflicting instructions: these include tables of various types of commas and some specific instructions for tuning his temperament that do not correlate. There is less conflict when we understand that the tables of commas appear to describe conventional meantone; John Brombaugh has analyzed these commas and the author has used Brombaugh’s frequencies to produce a table of beat rates that are virtually identical to the Aaron meantone.⁶ Bédos’s comma tables and tuning instructions can be found in the Ferguson translation of Bédos’s monumental work, The Organ-Builder.⁸ Referring to Volume I, §§1142–1145, Bédos clearly states that for his temperament there are “three fifths [D-sharp to A-sharp, G to D, B to F-sharp] that are diminished more than the others [beat faster].” Bédos also clearly states in §1145 that the major third A-sharp to D “should be slightly diminished and beat slowly.” A major third tuned flatter than pure is very unusual! Something seems amiss here, but the beat rate program will shed some light. 

The construction of the Bédos beat rates

In the first column of Figure 1, the beat rate program shows the sequence of tuning the intervals used in the construction of the table. The analysis of the Bédos temperament uses the same sequence until we get to the A-sharp, and from that point it took a few iterations to get it to the point where the advantages of the Bédos temperament became obvious. Those not wanting to dive into the details may skip to the next section.

The use of a plus sign on a beat rate means that we tuned the new note sharp, and a minus sign means we tuned it flat.⁷ Starting with the A-sharp, instead of using the fourth F to A-sharp = +2.2 beats we will use +3.0 beats; Bédos mentions that the fifth B-flat to F beats faster, so the A-sharp will be tuned higher to make the major third on A-sharp to D diminished. We next tune the “diminished” major third so: A-sharp to D = -1.0, making the D diminished from pure by -1.0 beat (it is -2.0 beats an octave higher in the tenor).  

The major third D to F-sharp is tuned pure. Next, the fourth A-sharp to D-sharp is tuned +2.4 beats rather than the original +1.5 beats, and Bédos states that this interval will beat faster. It was determined by iteration that this preserves the original purity in the D-sharp major third. 

The rest is easy. All of the remaining major thirds, D-sharp to G, G to B, and E to G-sharp are tuned pure. It is very important to note that we have re-tuned G and B; both have new frequencies. Figure 2 shows the beat rates for the presumed Bédos temperament.

The sonority of the Bédos meantone

If the sound of pure major thirds in Aaron’s meantone is impressive, now try to imagine the sound of pure fifths, pure major thirds, and pure minor thirds. One result of Bédos’s instructions is that the keys of C and E now have completely pure major and minor triads. And the purity in the key of C extends to the interval of the major seventh. An inspection of the table in Figure 2 will show that we also achieved Bédos’s seven pure major thirds and one slightly diminished major third on B-flat with two beats in the tenor octave. 

Bédos did not make clear in his instructions that he significantly changed the beat rates of the fifths C to G and E to B when he diminished the third on B-flat and adjusted for its effects—those fifths are now pure! The pure fifths are part of the source of the confusion in his instructions. Bédos starts with instructions for a normal meantone and then modifies it. Perhaps he thought this would be obvious. The steps for tuning the normal meantone in Figure 1 are included at the end of this article.

A price is paid for this new sonority, which we can see in the worse wolf fifth with 15% more beats. The fifths on D-sharp, G, and B are all now degraded, as noted by Bédos. If this is indeed Bédos’s temperament, it has some very interesting sonorities.  

The pure triads are very unusual; only the Kirnberger I temperament has two major triads of such purity (not to be confused with the more common versions, Kirnberger II and III).⁴ 

Graphics read better than numbers

Tables of numbers are difficult to read, so we can get a better feel for the relative sonority of the Bédos meantone by using color graphics to represent the relative purity and tension between the twenty-four major and minor triads. In Figure 3 we see the Aaron and Bédos meantones represented by major triads in downward facing triangles and minor triads in upwards facing triangles. The lines between the notes are colored to represent purity (bright green), less purity (yellow-green), tension (yellow), and dissonant impurity (orange and red). The actual beat rates are indicated with the numbers placed next to the colored lines. The sonority of the Bédos meantone is now quite evident in the distribution of green.

Key features are satisfied

While we cannot be certain that Bédos’s temperament is represented in Figure 2, the temperament in that table does indeed have an improved sonority, and it follows Bédos’s instructions. The beat rate table in Figure 2 resulted from an attempt to incorporate the diminished third on B-flat with the least amount of adjustment to the Pietro Aaron meantone, and it also resulted in the faster beating fifths on D-sharp, G, and B. These are noted by Bédos as key features of his temperament. The pure major and minor triads on C and E were not a goal of this exercise; they were the surprising result when the adjustments caused by the diminished third were complete!

Unresolved issues

A survey of the literature will show that Bédos’s instructions have been interpreted in many different ways. Some of this confusion results from the conflicts between Bédos’s specific description of his tuning method and his tables of commas.⁸ Brombaugh has shown that the tables of commas describe normal meantone, but there is one other issue in Bédos’s specific instructions for tuning. He sets the tuning bearings for the third octave of the Prestant, i.e., 1′ to 1⁄2′ pitch, and he specifies that the interval G to D has five or six beats per second.³ While this beat rate is faster than the normal meantone fifth, it is much slower than the beats obtained for that interval in Figure 2: those beats will be faster in the octave of his tuning bearings.

Other interpretations of the Bédos tuning instructions may yield different results than those in Figure 2, but any new interpretation must also satisfy the constraints Bédos has described: a diminished third on B-flat and the faster beating fifths on D-sharp, G, and B. Many interpretations of the Bédos temperament exist, but only the interpretation in Figure 2 meets all of those constraints.

The Clicquot organ at Houdan

It is reasonably certain that the Houdan organ is tuned in 1⁄4-comma Pietro Aaron meantone. But the value of controversies is that they push us to re-explore our previous assumptions, and the exercise in this article may shed new light on the temperament of François Bédos de Celles. 

I hope you enjoy the remarkable meantone sonority of the Houdan organ as much as I do. Two recent recordings are well worth your money.^{9, 10}

Notes & References

1. François Bédos de Celles, O.S.B., The Organ-Builder, an English translation of the original L’Art du facteur d’orgues, 1766–1778, by Charles Ferguson, The Sunbury Press, 1977, pp. 230–231, §1135.

2. Personal communication, January 2019.

3. The Organ-Builder, p. 233, §§1140, 1142.

4. Michael McNeil, “Exploring the Sound of Keyboard Tunings,” The Diapason, April 2016, pp. 20–21. This article gives a description of the tradeoffs when comparing temperaments with cents or beat rates.

5. Detailed and accurate instructions for tuning the Pietro Aaron temperament that appears in this table may be found in Tuning the Historical Temperaments by Ear, by Owen Jorgensen, Northern Michigan University Press, Marquette, 1977, pp. 173–177. An abbreviated version is appended to this article.

6. Personal communication, April 2019.

7. This program and the instructions for its use are contained in a DVD with the author’s book, The Sound of Pipe Organs, CC&A, 2014, Amazon.com. The program is admittedly difficult to use. 

8. The Organ-Builder, pp. 230–234.

9. Régis Allard, Magnificat 1739, Editions Hortus, 2017. Available as a download from www.editionshortus.com. The tuning of the Houdan organ in this recording is spotless.

10. Michel Chapuis and Emmanuel Mandrin, Marc-Antoine Charpentier: Messe pour le Port-Royal, E 8598, Auvidis, France, 1997. This recording showcases the accompanimental balances of the Houdan organ with solo voices. The radiance of the meantone purity with the voices is remarkable.

Method for tuning the Aaron meantone:⁵

Inputs to the beat rate program are noted in [  ]

1. Tune middle C. [263.2] This will yield A = 440Hz. (McNeil)

2. Tune C below middle C pure to middle C. [C–C]

3. Tune E below middle C pure to C below middle C. [C–E]

4. Tune G-sharp below middle C pure to E below middle C. [E + G#]

5. Test all C, E, and G-sharp for purity.

6. Tune F below middle C pure to C below middle C and then raise F until it beats equally (1.6 beats) between the two Cs. [C + F + 1.6]

7. Tune A below middle C pure to F below middle C. Test that tenor C to A and tenor E to A beat equally (2.0 beats).   [F + A]

8. Tune C-sharp above middle C pure to A below middle C. Test that C-sharp above middle C beats equally with G-sharp and E below middle C (2.5 beats). [A + C#]

9. Tune the C-sharp below middle C pure to the C-sharp above middle C. Test that both C-sharps beat equally with the E below middle C (2.5 beats).   

10. Tune A-sharp below middle C pure to F below middle C, and then raise the A-sharp until it beats at the same rate as the small minor third A-sharp–C-sharp (2.2 beats). [F + A# + 2.2]

11. Tune the A-sharp an octave lower than middle C pure to the A-sharp below middle C. Again, test that A-sharp–F and A-sharp–C-sharp beats equally (1.1 beats), where A-sharp is an octave lower than middle C.   

12. Tune D below middle C pure to the lower A-sharp. Test that the interval D–A beats 1.4 compared to the interval F–middle C at 1.6 beats. [A# + D]

13. Tune F-sharp below middle C pure to D below middle C. Test that the C-sharps above and below the F-sharp beat equally (1.7 beats). [D + F#]

14. Tune D-sharp below middle C pure to the lower A-sharp and then raise the D-sharp until it beats equally between the lower and upper A-sharp (1.5 beats). [A# + D# + 1.5]

15. Tune G below middle C pure to D-sharp below middle C. [D# + G]

16. Tune B below middle C pure to G below middle C. [G + B]

17. Tune B an octave below middle C pure to B below middle C. Test that D-sharp–A-sharp beats equally with E–B in the octave below middle C (1.5 beats).

Photo: the keydesk of the Houdan organ. Photo credit: William T. Van Pelt

Ludger Lohmann

As one of the most renowned organ virtuosos and organ pedagogues Ludger Lohmann has exerted a lasting influence on organ culture. His career as a recitalist, which has brought him to many churches, cathedrals, and concert halls all over the world, started with awards at important international competitions, such as the competition of the German Broadcasting Corporation in Munich 1979 and the Grand Prix de Chartres 1982.

Born in Herne, Germany, in 1954 he studied organ with Wolfgang Stockmeier and harpsichord with Hugo Ruf at Cologne Musikhochschule. While writing a musicological doctoral thesis on “Articulation on Keyboard Instruments of the 16.–18. Centuries,” he received important artistic stimuli from Anton Heiller in Vienna and Marie-Claire Alain in Paris. The dedication to this artistic legacy motivated him to regard his own pedagogical work as equally important in his recitalist career. In more than forty years, first at Cologne Musikhochschule, and since 1983 as professor at Stuttgart Musikhochschule, he has educated numerous talented young organists from all over the world, many of whom are now doing remarkable artistic and pedagogical work themselves. A central concern was always striving for an interpretation of musical works according to the stylistic conventions of the times of their origin, departing from the insights gathered in his doctoral dissertation, which became standard reading, and later broadened by many publications concerning the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Musically they are documented in his numerous CD recordings.

His artistic and pedagogical impact has led Ludger Lohmann throughout the world as guest professor, teacher of masterclasses, and jury member of international competitions. He was part of the organ research project GOArt of Göteborg University as senior researcher. As organ consultant he has led organbuilding and restoration projects in several countries. To honor his manifold activities the British Royal College of Organists awarded him its first honors medal. In 2023 he received the prestigious German “Prize of European Church Music.”

Editor’s note: the scores to works mentioned in this article may be found online for free access.

Max Reger, Zwölf Stücke, opus 59

Reger, Introduction, Passacaglia, und Fugue in E Minor, opus 127

Reger, Fantasie und Fuge über B-A-C-H, opus 46

Reger, Organ Sonata No. 2, opus 60

Franz Liszt, Präludium und Fuge über B-A-C-H, S. 260

J. S. Bach, Fantasia and Fugue in G Minor, BWV 542

The sesquicentennial of the birth of Max Reger (1873–1916) has given new life to the reception of his enormous oeuvre. Among the many works of this astonishingly productive composer, only the organ pieces—the number and importance of which are rivaled only by Johann Sebastian Bach’s organ works—have enjoyed a constant presence in public concerts. This fact is not the least due to the efforts of Karl Straube (1873–1950), Reger’s closest friend and arguably his most important advocate during his short life. As the most influential German organ pedagogue of the first half of the twentieth century, Straube motivated generations of the most talented young German organists to become avid Reger performers. Their influence, in turn, can still be felt today particularly regarding certain parameters of Reger performance, since they tended to emulate Straube’s teaching method, which relied heavily on the principle of copying the master, usually starting to learn a new piece by literally copying all indications (fingering, articulation, and phrasing) from the teacher’s personal copy. Thus many details of Straube’s personal performance style, which sometimes are not consistent with Reger’s own indications, are still firmly entrenched in what might be called mainstream Reger performance practice. Straube’s students never, at least not in principle, questioned their validity but regarded them with a kind of Biblical faith, given the fact that Reger always heaped high praise on his friend’s performances of his music.

Straube’s ideas became a second layer of performance indications, sometimes overriding those given by the composer. As the authority that he was in German organ culture, Straube might even have contributed inadvertently or intentionally to the canonization of his ideas. We will never know whether Reger, in cases of conflicting indications, really preferred Straube’s ideas over his own. This must remain in doubt, particularly since Straube did not preserve Reger’s letters from the Weiden years, i.e., Reger’s most productive period regarding organ music, ostensibly because he did not want future generations to get an insight into an intimate exchange touching many aspects of the genesis of Reger’s music—possibly also not due to potential disagreements on matters not only of composition but also of performance practice.

In his monumental doctoral dissertation, “Reger, Straube, and the Leipzig school’s tradition of organ pedagogy: 1898–1948,”¹ Christopher Anderson has described the Straube-Reger relationship with its many positive but also problematic aspects in detail. The new and definitive biography Max Reger: Werk Statt Leben² by Susanne Popp touches this subject only briefly. Some basic problems of Straube’s style of Reger performance have been commented upon by Wolfgang Stockmeier in a volume, Max Reger 1873–1973—Ein Symposion,³ published on the occasion of Reger’s 100th birthday. Some of Stockmeier’s observations will be further developed in the present article, the aim of which is not in the first place to criticize Straube but to point out some very common clichés of present-day Reger performance, some—but certainly not all—of which might have originated in Straube’s practices. These practices can be learned from Straube’s editions of some Reger pieces published during the composer’s lifetime and also from listening to recordings made by some of Straube’s students.

When looking at the editions, some blatant contradictions, particularly regarding dynamics and agogics, can be noted. They expose some fundamental differences of opinion about how to deal with certain musical phenomena like the preparation of a culmination point. Here the name of Hugo Riemann (1849–1919), the most influential German music theorist of the late Romantic period and Reger’s composition teacher, comes into play.⁴ Reger very closely adheres to Riemann’s performance recipes, which can be found in his various treatises,⁵ whereas Straube, while generally being in agreement with Riemann’s theories, sometimes appears to come from a different school of thought. The fact that a performer would change a composer’s detailed performance indications in an edition of his own seems almost unthinkable today, but was all too common a century ago.

Certainly Straube’s aim in the first place was to make some of Reger’s best-known pieces more accessible; he might even have seen a justification for his interventions in Reger’s compositional process, or at least in his way of preparing a final fair copy of his works as the basis for an edition. Reger first wrote the musical text proper in black ink and later added all instructions pertaining to performance in red ink. Of course, it would be naive to assume that the genesis of a piece’s overall musical structure did not already include at least a rough concept of dynamics and movement, but details were probably determined only during this late “red ink stage,” thus easily leading to the impression that they were accessories rather than essential elements of the composition.

As a concert organist who has regularly played Reger’s works all over the world throughout a fifty-year career, I had many opportunities to observe typical problems of the reception of Reger’s music, problems that might have led a majority of colleagues mainly in English- and French-speaking countries to reject this music altogether. According to my experience the single biggest problem, apart from listeners’ difficulties of following Reger’s often over-complex musical textures, is what I would call a lack of coherence. This is first of all due to Reger’s tendency to compose free works like preludes or fantasias in a patchwork style: rather short musical phrases in certain textures are separated from each other by concluding chords. Even when the player goes from one passage to the next in an organic way by letting the listener feel a continuous metrical flow (albeit shaped by rubato twists and turns), the danger is that the piece falls apart, the all-too-frequent “stop and go” effect, tiring the listener and preventing an effective emotional buildup.

“Toccata in D Minor,” opus 59 (Zwölf Stücke), number 5

Looking at “Toccata in D Minor,” opus 59 (Zwölf Stücke), number 5, will illustrate this problem.⁶ The first part of this short tripartite composition consists of only twenty measures that contain, depending on how one counts, between four (in measures 4, 7, 15, and 20) and seven (the additional ones in measures 10, 11, and 12) such subdivisions. If the dynamic culminations in Organo Pleno reached at the end of all of the dynamic waves always starting at ff are any clue Reger would have regarded measure 12 as one of the important breaks in spite of the fact that the sixteenth-note triplet movement continues. Among the four clear breaks, all indicated by a large quarter-note chord, the one in measure 20 is marked by a fermata, the one in measure 4 by a fermata with the word kurz, or short. The other two breaks do not bear any indication. The common way of realizing these four transitions, experienced in dozens of performances by students and competition participants without exception, is holding the respective chords for about two beats instead of one as notated. While this is obviously acceptable for the chords marked by a fermata it is clearly not correct in the other two cases.

Apart from the resulting lack of stringency there is a consequence for the dynamic perception of harmonies, which prevents the buildup of tension as probably intended by Reger. The A-major seventh chord in measure 7 is followed by a D-minor harmony on the next beat, by the way a harmonic concept (a traditional dominant-tonic cadence) that Reger employs in a vast majority of formal transitions, even major ones (see measures 20–21: the B-major dominant seventh chord in measure 20 is followed by an E-minor harmony implied at the beginning of the soft middle section of the piece). Since the A-major seventh chord is in an accentuated metrical position (beat 3), holding it for a half note will inevitably give the ensuing D-minor harmony a metrical accent, particularly if the player gives it a strong dose of initially hesitating rubato, a gradual speeding up, with the aim of making his performance expressive.

Both player and listener are satisfied with an accent on the tonic, which might be the reason for this metrical misreading in the first place. If, however, the A-major chord is given its proper value, the D-minor harmony can be perceived as an upbeat to the much more interesting chord on the following beat 1, which consists of a double suspension (B sharp and D sharp) before an A-major sixth chord, thus keeping up the harmonic tension of the A-major seventh chord in measure 7 by preventing the succession of A major and D minor to be perceived as a definite cadence. It goes without saying that this is extremely consequential with regard to the perception of form, in other words to coherence or a lack thereof. The situation in measure 15 is different but comparable: the F-major 3-4 chord is continued chromatically by the implied bass line of the ensuing broken chords.

The question is why Reger notated fermatas in measures 4 and 20, but not in 7 and 15. The answer for measure 20 is clear: in measure 21 the middle section of the piece starts. In measure 4 the fermata marks an E-major chord that is followed by a new statement of the toccata’s opening passage in A minor, the dominant. This fact gives the E-major chord a higher formal relevance than the chords in measures 7 and 15, but not of the same degree as in measure 20, which is why Reger cautioned the player with kurz in measure 4. Since the opening passage starts on beat 4 (and should consequently be played with an upbeat feeling, not easy to achieve particularly when too much initial rubato is involved, as is very common) the “short” fermata should still allow the listener to perceive the value of the E-major chord as one (quarter note) beat in order to maintain the upbeat feeling for the new beginning. Even in measure 20 it is to be recommended to keep the B-major chord only for one beat (albeit somewhat longer than the E-major chord in measure 4, by means of a larger ritardando preparation) in order to clarify its upbeat metrical position.

This upbeat position, the first of its kind after so many seemingly comparable chords concluding phrases in downbeat positions, is undoubtedly a formal ploy to bridge the most incisive formal transition of the whole piece, another example of Reger striving for formal coherence.

“Benedictus,” opus 59 (Zwölf Stücke), number 9

It should by now be clear that Reger’s notation of transitional places is by no means accidental but highly differentiated and precisely responding to the formal structure. The question is now whether the consequences for the dynamic or metrical perception of harmonies were also on his mind. This can be answered more easily by looking at the equally famous “Benedictus” from the same collection, opus 59, number 9.

This piece is based on two motives, both exposing the interval of a fourth, the second of which outlining the fugue subject (which could easily be sung to “Hosanna in excelsis”) with two ascending fourths, the first with two descending fourths, thus probably meant to be the inverted idea. In its first appearance with the notes D flat, A natural, B flat, F, it enters three times alla stretta, the entrances always coinciding with the fourth note of the preceding entrance. As a consequence the entrances occur on different beats of the first two measures: 1, 4, and 3. The listener might be misled into assuming that the piece is in 3/4 rather than in the 4/4 that Reger notated. Another misunderstanding—this will immediately show its relevance—is that the listener will understand the first two notes as C sharp and A, i.e., a falling major third in A major.

This strange opening has to be viewed in light of Riemann’s teachings. Riemann develops his ideas about the dynamics of phrases, so crucial for his theories, starting with motives of two or three notes.⁷ According to his principles static dynamics are unthinkable: a melodic line always moves either in crescendo or decrescendo. Accordingly a two-note motive can be crescendo or decrescendo.⁸ For a three-note motive there is a third possibility: first crescendo, then decrescendo9 (the fourth theoretically possible variant, decrescendo-crescendo, is not really considered). This is also his favorite dynamic shape for any musical phrase: starting with a crescendo, which leads to a dynamic climax, then relaxation in decrescendo. Though Riemann generally opposes the late Baroque system of metrically oriented accentuation he still maintains the primate of beat one, in his musical examples always placing the dynamic climax on beat one. Hence we may assume that Reger’s dynamic thinking also respects bar lines.

This explains the opening of the “Benedictus.” Reger’s intention probably is to present his central motive in various possible dynamic shapes: the first entrance is thought decrescendo throughout. This can easily be accepted by the listener who de facto hears a falling major third.

The problem here is that the player knows that this interval is supposed to be a diminished fourth, and that the second note is longer than the first, so he will intuitively intend these two notes rather to be felt as a crescendo. In fact a trained ear can identify the player’s respective intention. The motive’s second entrance places the first note in an upbeat position, leading to the second note in crescendo. The third entrance uses still another option: here the dynamic climax is meant to be on the tied-over part of the second note. Since this is not really communicable on the organ Reger employs the swellbox, ending the crescendo sign exactly at the bar line and thus underlining the harmonic tension of the chord on the following beat one, which converts the originally consonant A natural into a dissonant suspension.

According to general compositional principles the moment has come where the composer should change the motive at the very latest: the fourth entrance starts one note higher on E flat, and thus is the loudest entrance. (Note that in the final short part of the piece, in measure 51, the corresponding entrance on the high E flat arrives after the swellbox has been closed, another dynamic-motivic refinement!) Straube¹⁰ displaces the dynamic indications: his crescendo sign starts not on the first note of the third entrance (D flat), but on the second, and continues till the end of the following measure, resulting in a dynamic climax on the first beat of measure 4 on a totally consonant B-flat major chord. He obviously did not see the refinement of Reger’s dynamic strategy and probably also did not understand Reger’s intention to present the motive in three different dynamic versions, an intention very essential to late Romantic musical thinking.

The first appearance in this piece of a solo line on the second manual (measure 8, beat 3) reveals another misreading of Reger’s intentions: Reger continues a diminuendo throughout the first solo notes, which start in a tonality of D major, finishing it on the lowest note of the solo when the tonality has returned to the tonic of D flat (measure 9, beat 4). Straube, however, lets the solo line begin at the end of a diminuendo, which on the first glimpse seems to be more convincing, but Reger’s concept is clearly motivated by considerations both melodic and harmonic and thus certainly more logical from a composer’s perspective.

This excursion into the “Benedictus” was supposed to demonstrate Reger’s refined dynamic intentions and to underscore the importance of playing the transition in measure 7 of the “Toccata” in a metrically correct way. In his edition¹¹ Straube does not add a fermata to the respective A-major chord, but his rallentando covering the first three beats of this measure and the sudden dynamic drop from forte to piano (including switching to another combination and moving back the Rollschweller device quite considerably), which he prescribes, clearly result in an interruption of the metric flow. The same can be said about the transition in measure 13: whereas Reger goes from Organo Pleno to a mere meno ff Straube goes from fff to p. Additionally already in measure 10 he prescribes Sostenuto, eighth note equals 84, and ritenuto in measure 12, thus probably resulting in a tempo only half of the initial eighth note equals 120, which he again suddenly prescribes in the middle of measure 12. This is obviously not the uninterrupted flow of sixteenth-note triplets, which is implied in Reger’s notation, but a clear break.

It might be said in defense of Straube’s apparent handling of these transitions that it separates sections and thus clarifies the structure of the piece very efficiently. However, the question is whether Reger’s way of writing is not structurally clear enough anyway, even considering possible acoustic issues with reverberation, which should be negligible in light of the limited dynamic contrasts, except for measures 20–21.

Looking into a piece by a different composer will show a similar problem. In Straube’s edition of some of the major organ works by Franz Liszt¹² the diminished seventh chord at the end of measure 12 in Präludium und Fuge über B-A-C-H is enlarged from six to eight notes, followed by a manual change,¹³ implying a break between this seventh chord and the ensuing sixth chord of G-flat major. This is a crucial moment in the piece that may be interpreted as a reference to a strikingly similar harmonic adventure in measures 20–21 of Bach’s Fantasia in G Minor, BWV 542i. Since this harmonic progression is a correct but totally unexpected resolution of the seventh chord it is important for the player to present the seventh chord as leading to the following chord. Liszt’s notation of a fermata on the sixteenth-note rest on beat one probably intends to give the listener a moment to digest the surprise, and Bach’s soprano tie across the bar line clearly aims to connect the chords.

It thus appears that Straube’s style of performance had a tendency of accentuating formal incisions of a piece rather than bridging them for the sake of holding together larger sections or the piece as a whole. Whether the motivation for this is purely musical or the result of resignation in the face of technically difficult registration manipulations (some of these self-inflicted by his disrespect for the composer’s dynamic indications) is impossible to decide.

Returning to Reger’s “Toccata in D Minor,” looking at the final two pages will reveal another problem with respect to Straube’s treatment of the musical form, but even more with respect to what might be called the emotional curve. Reger marks the broken-chord passage starting in measure 29 stringendo. The latter continues up to the A-major 6/5 chord in measure 33, which is followed by a dynamic drop to meno ff and an ensuing diminuendo until measure 35. In the middle of measure 35, while the chordal sequence of measures 33–35 still continues for a half measure, Reger turns the diminuendo into a crescendo, thus dynamically bridging the transition to a totally different figurative pattern.

Straube’s concept of the same passages is drastically different. Instead of an accelerando he prescribes an allargando; instead of meno ff plus diminuendo in measure 33 he prescribes pp and then a sudden and quick crescendo starting in measure 36. While on the first glimpse his solution seems to be more convincing than Reger’s rather surprising, in fact counterintuitive one, a second look leads to the conclusion that Reger’s concept might actually be considered artistically superior, at least more interesting, since instead of underlining the formal incisions it rather blurs them, resulting in a far more stringent ending of the piece.

The arpeggiando passage is not majestic (Straube writes sostenuto plus ritenuto) but breathless, the A-major 6/5 chord does not become an opportunity for a satisfied rest (Straube gives it a fermata), but spills over its accumulated energy into the ensuing chordal passage, which because of its falling bass line should rather be diminuendo, during which this energy is gradually spent. Obviously this concept is much more dramatic than Straube’s; it also shows a clear intention to keep the whole third part of “Toccata” coherent.¹⁴

“Kyrie,” opus 59 (Zwölf Stücke), number 7

In replacing Reger’s stringendo of measures 29–33 with sostenuto/ritenuto Straube shows an attitude toward preparing a dynamic climax that is fundamentally opposed to Reger’s own. In fact he seems to adhere to a different school of thought in this respect since he does exactly the same thing in measures 17–18 and 31–32 of “Kyrie,” opus 59, number 7, and in measures 41–46 of “Benedictus,” or in a totally different musical situation, in measures 35 and 98 of the first movement of Reger’s Second Organ Sonata, opus 60, where the crescendo and accelerando of the short transition between what might be called the second and third main thematic ideas is replaced by diminuendo and ritardando, separating the respective sections rather than connecting them as is clearly Reger’s aim.¹⁵ Reger follows his teacher Riemann’s recipe: a crescendo is naturally accompanied by an accelerando (correspondingly a diminuendo by a ritardando);¹⁶ a dynamic climax is reached with an accelerando, holding back the tempo briefly on the climax itself before the energy is released a tempo, the ensuing diminuendo eventually accompanied by a ritardando.¹⁷ Straube’s approach can be found in some late Romantic organ treatises, for example, Karl Matthaei, who states that an agogic dwelling causes an increase of intensity; when playing in forte registration it may even been extended to longer stretches.¹⁸

Perhaps this fundamentally different approach to presenting climactic moments of a composition reveals differences between the respective personalities: Reger’s radical, dramatic pushing forward versus Straube’s more civilized (if not to say more bourgeois), relaxed basking in a glowing Organo Pleno sound.

Passacaglia in E Minor, opus 127, and Fantasie und Fuge über B-A-C-H, opus 46

Different opinions about separation/contrast versus blending/overlapping may occasionally work the other way. In measure 64 of Passacaglia in E Minor, opus 127, Reger originally closed a variation in diminuendo and pp and abruptly began the new variation in f, as can be seen in his extant autograph manuscript. The first edition, which was already informed or influenced by Straube’s first performance of this work, commissioned for the inauguration of the world’s then largest organ, built by W. Sauer Orgelbau of Frankfurt/Oder, in the Breslau (Wrocław) Jahrhunderthalle on September 24, 1913, replaces this dynamic contrast by a more modest beginning of the new variation in p;¹⁹ again an example of Straube’s diplomatic mollifying of an emanation of his friend’s more radical personality?

The comparison of autograph manuscript and first edition of opus 127 sheds light on a possible practical explanation of some of the two men’s differing opinions. The original tempo indication for the fugue was quarter note equals 66–84. The first edition indicates eighth note equals 116–132. Though the two indications meet at 66/132 (actually a fairly realistic tempo), the edition’s indication is generally considerably slower. This, however, is not the main point. When listening to performances of the piece it can usually be recognized whether the player feels a quarter-note or an eighth-note pulse, in the latter case resulting in a loss of the dance-like character probably on Reger’s mind, even when there is not a large difference in metronomic tempo. Considering the fact that Straube had to learn this long and difficult piece on rather short notice it may very well be that his studies were in a phase when he was still thinking in an eighth-note pulse, as would be typical for a player facing such a daunting task. The player’s way of thinking will affect the listener’s reaction: thinking in a quarter-note pulse will point his perception toward the larger picture more easily and will consequently lead to a better formal coherence of the piece.²⁰

A comparable problem of learning a difficult piece quickly may have led to two famous instructions Straube used to give his students concerning two short passages of Reger’s “Fantasie” from Fantasie und Fuge über B-A-C-H, opus 46: Straube recommended to play the chordal diminuendo passage from measure 19, beat 4, to measure 20, beat 2, twice as slow as notated, in spite of the fact that Reger, knowing that this would be difficult to achieve, prescribes Vivace assai, and to the contrary, the four final chords (measure 55, beat 4 onwards) twice as fast as notated, which means that the concluding chords of the fantasia, notated in eighth notes, are performed at the same speed as the chords preceding the eighth-note rest (measure 55, beat 3).

As I could observe numerous students (almost without any exception) doing the same at the end of the fantasia without having the slightest idea of a corresponding tradition, my suspicion has grown that Straube’s recommendation was the eventual result of an original miscounting that he codified, possibly as a face-saving ploy. Notwithstanding the possibility that the resulting performance of the fantasia’s end might be considered as more natural than the one indicated by the composer’s notation, a miscounting would be a very human error that can easily happen even to a distinguished musician like Straube.

A similar mistake might have occurred in measure 10 of the “Toccata in D Minor” where Straube suddenly reduces the tempo to almost only fifty percent. The same can be observed in most students’ performances of the second half of measure 14, there (unfortunately) also in an otherwise quite convincing performance by Straube’s famous contemporary Alfred Sittard (1878–1942), who by the way, makes fine distinctions concerning the transitions in measures 4, 7, 15, and 20. He does, however, keep the first fermata quite long so that the perceived note value becomes something like a half note, whereas his A-Major seventh chord in measure 7 can be perceived very well as a quarter note. Otherwise he generally respects Reger’s indications quite precisely; only his phrasing caesurae are rather too long, possibly a reaction either to the large acoustic of Saint Michael’s Church in Hamburg or to the difficulties of handling registration on its huge Walcker instrument.²¹

As can be seen from the example of Sittard’s performance of this ostensibly “small” piece, Reger’s refined dynamic and agogic indications, certainly at least partly conceived with the aim of guaranteeing formal coherence and a stringent emotional curve of the piece, presents the player with many technical and musical difficulties. The changes that Straube made in his edition eliminate some of these difficulties; additionally they are easily acceptable to a musical player or listener. In fact some of them seem to be more natural than Reger’s original indications. The question of whether they are musically superior may have to be answered individually by anybody experiencing the piece. For Reger his friend Straube was the ultimate authority concerning organ performance in general. His belief in his friend’s opinions went far enough to accept Straube’s suggestions regarding questions of composition proper, the most unfortunate example of this being Reger’s Requiem, which remained unfinished. It should not be forgotten, however, that at least during Reger’s lifetime Straube was active and renowned only as an organist, whereas Reger himself had an enormous reputation as an orchestral conductor and as a pianist, particularly in chamber music and Lied accompaniment. Thus we have to accept that his meticulous performance instructions were informed by vast experiences gained during a very busy and successful career as a performing musician, and that these instructions deserve to be taken seriously despite the inherent difficulties.

Reger’s oeuvre is the fruit of a short, busy, and stressful life taken anything but easily. As responsible performers we should honor his efforts with a matching respect for detail.

Notes

1. Ann Arbor (UMI), 1999.

2. Wiesbaden (Breitkopf & Härtel), 2015.

3. Ed. Klaus Röhring, Wiesbaden (Breitkopf & Härtel) 1974, pages 21–30.

4. See “Hugo Riemann and the Development of Musical Performance Practice,” Ludger Lohmann, in Proceedings of the Göteborg International Organ Academy 1994, edited by Hans Davidsson and Sverker Jullander, Skrifter fran Musikvetenskapliga avdelingen, Göteborgs universitet, Göteborg 1995, pages 251–284. Riemann’s ideas are also to be found in Orgelschule zur historischen Aufführungspraxis, Teil 2, Romantik, Jon Laukvik, Carus, Stuttgart, 2000. The respective passages seem to be quite dependent on my Göteborg article.

5. The two most important ones are: Lehrbuch der musikalischen Phrasirung auf Grund einer Revision der Lehre von der musikalischen Metrik und Rhythmik, Hugo Riemann, Breitkopf & Härtel, Hamburg/Leipzig/St. Petersburg, 1884, and System der musikalischen Rhythmik und Metrik, Breitkopf & Härtel, Leipzig, 1903.

6. Since the scores of Reger’s organ works are easily accessible and probably present in many organists’ libraries I have refrained from giving musical examples. The measure numbers refer to the Breitkopf edition, but other editions may as well be used since they differ only in small textual details not relevant here.

7. Lehrbuch der musikalischen Phrasirung auf Grund einer Revision der Lehre von der musikalischen Metrik und Rhythmik, Hugo Riemann, pages 11ff.

8. According to his terminology “anbetont” or “abbetont.”

9. “inbetont.”

10. Zwölf Stücke für die Orgel von Max Reger. Op. 59. Hieraus in Einzel-Ausgabe: No. 9. Benedictus. Im Einverständnis mit dem Komponisten herausgegeben von Karl Straube. Leipzig: Peters 1913; London-Frankfurt-New York: Peters, 1949.

11. Präludien und Fugen für die Orgel von Max Reger, herausgegeben von Karl Straube, Leipzig: Peters 1912, Nr. 1. I thank Mrs. Ursula Wild of the library of the Hochschule für Musik Freiburg for providing me with a scan.

12. Orgelkompositionen von Franz Liszt, herausgegeben von Karl Straube. Band II, Leipzig: Peters 1917, pages 55–56.

13. In the first (1855) version of the piece Liszt also indicated a manual change, the right hand moving to the Oberwerk. This does not necessarily result in a dynamic break since the Oberwerk of the Merseburg organ for which the piece is intended is as powerful as the Hauptwerk. It is also interesting to see that the manual change was omitted in the second (1869) version. Additionally the fact that the lowest note of the right-hand chord has a shorter value than the rest of the chord, allowing the left-hand passage to interfere with it, implies that the manual change was not Liszt’s original intention anyway. Whether Straube knew the first version at all is doubtful, his edition concerns the second version, of course.

14. Reger seems to have liked the effect of overlapping musical passages, as can be seen on a smaller scale, e.g., on the last page of his Second Organ Sonata, opus 60. The numerous entrances alla stretta of at least the fugue subject’s opening motive are rarely marked by the beginning of new slurs. Reger once (measures 87–88) places a new slur on the two notes preceding the first thematic note, and more frequently on the second note of the subject, thus indicating respectively that the subject is prepared by a short upbeat, or that the initial note has the double function of ending the preceding phrase and starting the new phrase. In any case his clear intention is that there should be no break in the legato—as most players would do, reacting intuitively to the notation—in accordance with Riemann’s advice that phrasing does not necessarily have to be shown by articulation, but sometimes only by slight rubato nuances in order not to interrupt the longer legato line in the sense of a Wagnerian “infinite melody:” “Es ist etwas ganz bekanntes, dass die Schlusstöne der Phrasen oder wo die Verkettung loser ist, auch der Motive, zumeist abgesetzt, d.h. nicht in ununterbrochenem Tonflusse zu den Anfangstönen der folgenden Phrasen oder Motive fortgeführt, sondern von diesen durch kleine Pausen geschieden werden. Vielfach sind diese Pausen nicht anders, als durch das Ende eines Bogens oder auch gar nicht angedeutet und müssen also ad libitum, d.h. nach Massgabe des guten Geschmacks, durch Abzüge vom Werthe der letzten Note gewonnen werden; Gesichtspunkte, welche mangels einer Andeutung von Seiten des Komponisten dafür entscheidend werden können, ob man überhaupt die Phrasen- resp. Motivtrennung durch wirkliches Absetzen oder aber nur durch eine unbedeutende Verlängerung der letzten Note bewirkt, werden wir weiterhin kennen lernen.” (Riemann 1884, 145)

This way of indicating what Riemann would call “Phrasenverschränkung” (roughly to be translated as “joining of phrases”) or “Phrasenverkettung” is a bit unusual; Reger almost never uses the more conventional notation of letting two slurs meet on one note.

15. The described handling of this transition is not documented anywhere, but I clearly remember it from a radio recording of the piece by Michael Schneider, one of Straube’s most important students, to which I listened several times years ago.

16. See Reger’s footnote on page 8 (first edition, Aibl, later republished by UE) of the Choralfantasie über Freu dich sehr, o meine Seele, opus 30: “Die < > beziehen sich auf den Gebrauch des Jalousieschwellers; doch kann man auch im Tempo bei < etwas string. u. bei > etwas ritard. (Tempo rubato),” which is the practical implementation of a passage in Lehrbuch der musikalischen Phrasirung auf Grund einer Revision der Lehre von der musikalischen Metrik und Rhythmik, Hugo Riemann, page 11: “Mit dem crescendo der metrischen Motive ist stets eine (selbstverständlich geringe) Steigerung der Geschwindigkeit der Tonfolge und mit dem diminuendo eine entsprechende Verlangsamung verbunden.” Reger’s remark even goes one step further, giving an important hint to situations where no Swell division is at hand: dynamic inflections may be replaced by agogic ones.

17. “Die merkliche agogische Schattirung der Werte, nämlich eine gelinde Beschleunigung im Hineinlaufen in die Schwerpunktsnote, merkliche Dehnung der auf den Schwerpunkt selbst fallenden kurzen Note und abnehmende Dehnung der weiter bis zu Ende folgenden Werte.” Hugo Riemann, System der musikalischen Rhythmik und Metrik, Breitkopf & Härtel, Leipzig, 1903, page 17.

18. “Die agogische Stauung, eine bewußt herbeigeführte Verbreiterung des Grundtempos, bewirkt auf der Orgel, dem Instrument unendlichen Atems, eine Verdichtung der Intensität, welche bei stärker registriertem Spiel sich sogar auf längere Strecken auszudehnen vermag.” Vom Orgelspiel. Eine kurzgefaßte Würdigung der künstlerisch orgelgemäßen Interpretationsweise und ihrer klanglichen Ausdrucksmittel, Handbücher der Musiklehre XV, Karl Matthaei, Breitkopf & Härtel. Leipzig, 1936, page 52. Matthaei was a Straube student; his remarks on rubato otherwise follow Riemann’s teachings.

19. A similar contrast mp–f is to be found measure 80, which in the first edition is changed to the f being prepared by a crescendo ending of the preceding variation.

20. I do not want to address tempo questions in general, which in the case of “Benedictus” would be quite interesting. See my article in the Festschrift for Wolfgang Stockmeier.

21. The recording is accessible on YouTube. It has been described in detail by Hans Martin Balz in an article in Ars Organi 1/2017 (journal of Gesellschaft der Orgelfreunde), pages 50–52. I thank Dr. Balz for providing me with the link.

This article originally appeared in Ars et Usus Musicae Organicae: Juhlakirja Olli Porthanille (Essays in Honour of Olli Porthanille), edited by Jan Lehtola and Peter Peitsalo, Sibelius Academy, University of the Arts Helsinki, Finland, 2020, and is reprinted here with permission.

Sandro Da Silva

Sandro Da Silva studied at East Carolina University, Greenville, North Carolina, earning a master’s degree in sacred music and organ concentration. From 2019 until 2024, he was organist at The Memorial Baptist Church, Greenville.

Throughout the history of music, composers have not only influenced and enriched the cultural life in their communities, but they have also influenced each other. The focus of this article is the influence of Antonio Vivaldi (1678–1741) on Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750) and specifically how that influence is manifest in Bach’s organ concerto transcriptions. We will explore Vivaldi’s concerto style and his L’estro armonico, opus 3. Finally, we will explore some facets of how Bach approached the Vivaldi concerto style and ritornello form in his transcriptions.

Among the many fine composers of the Italian Baroque period, Vivaldi is recognized to be among the greatest. He was seen as an outstanding composer even by such towering figures as Bach. The respect one composer had for another can be seen in their transcriptions of works for other instruments. Bach was thus demonstrating his respect for Vivaldi’s music when he transcribed for organ several of Vivaldi’s orchestral works. This began when Prince Johann Ernest introduced Bach to Vivaldi’s compositions during Bach’s time in Weimar. During this period, Bach arranged numerous keyboard reductions and transcriptions.

These works were intended for use in church. As the German musicologist and theorist Johann Nikolaus Forkel noted, “In his [Bach’s] time, it was usual for a concerto or a solo on some instrument to be played in church during the Communion.”¹ Scholars have noted that the practice of transcription established by Bach caused him to absorb musical-technical principles that later showed up in his own compositions. Robert L. Marshall notes, “Whether prepared primarily for practical performance by the Duke of Weimar or himself, or for purposes of study, the transcriptions represent the composer’s first known sustained encounter with the modern Italian concerto style.”²

Italian instrumental music

The Italian Baroque was populated with great composers: Claudio Monteverdi, Girolamo Frescobaldi, Arcangelo Corelli, Tomaso Albinoni, and many others. Scholars note that Italian instrumental music in this period led the development of a number of new musical forms and styles, such as the Venetian concerto style that brought heightened maturity to orchestral music. In the work of Vivaldi, the trend toward the solo concerto and chamber orchestra found its apex. Throughout his oeuvre, examples of mature sonatas, concertos, and sinfonias abound. Vivaldi’s approach to the concerto grosso led him to envision flexible ensembles with several independent soloists. Running the full gamut, Vivaldi’s double, triple, and quadruple concertos stand midway between concerto grosso and solo concerto.

Vivaldi’s period of instrumental composition extends from 1705 through 1730, during which time he produced a number of concertos for various combinations of solo violin, cello, flute, oboe, and trumpet. Vivaldi produced a variety of pieces for ensembles and soloists. Nicholas Anderson writes: “Vivaldi unquestionably was a composer for the voice; however, it was as an instrumental composer that he made his most original and far-reaching contribution.”³ Some of his most important contributions to orchestral music were the introduction of multiple solo instruments, three-movement cycles, and ritornello form.

Concerto grosso genre

The concerto grosso was characterized by the juxtaposition of the full (tutti) orchestra against a smaller group of solo instruments (ripieno). Often Vivaldi employed the harpsichord as a continuo instrument realizing a figured bass line.

Historically, the genre of concerto grosso originates from the Italian operatic sinfonia. The first composer to use the concerto form was Giuseppe Torelli, and the great era of the genre of the concerto grosso was found in the seventeenth century and the beginning of the eighteenth century. According to Wilhelm Fischer, “The form of the Baroque solo concerto was the most influential form of instrumental music in the High Baroque.”⁴

With reference to the concerto grosso genre, Vivaldi adapted the relatively new three-movement form to develop his concerto style. Karl Heller states: “Significantly, the early works are distinguished by Vivaldi’s treatment of the opening tutti ritornello and the artful construction of the opening solo passage.”⁵ As a result, sources draw the evolution of this concerto form through Vivaldi’s twelve concertos that comprise L’estro armonico, opus 3.

Original orchestral music: L’estro armonico, opus 3

These orchestral works were written during Vivaldi’s tenure as Maestro di violino at the Venetian female orphanage, Ospedale della Pietá, beginning in 1703. The collection of concertos included in L’estro armonico was dedicated to the prince of Tuscany, Ferdinando de Medici. In addition, the first performances were at the Pietá during the period of 1709 and 1710. The works were performed as collaborative ventures with the students at the Ospedale.

According to H. C. Robbins Landon, “Opus 3 was published by Estienne Roger in Amsterdam in 1711, with the title L’estro armonico,” which can be translated as the harmonious inspiration, impulse, or frenzy. “It embraced a set of twelve magnificent concertos for sometimes extremely odd combinations of instruments. In 1715 the concertos were reprinted by the London firm of Walsh and Hare, and by 1717 Roger was obliged to reprint.”⁶

Vivaldi set the twelve concertos in a tonal arrangement alternating major and minor keys and consisting of groups of one, two, and four violin soloists in symmetrical groupings. In addition, each of the concertos within opus 3 contains three movements, fast-slow-fast. Referring to opus 3, Steven Zohn stated: “Vivaldi’s works often widen the book’s focus to encompass tonal practice in early eighteenth-century Italy, thereby leading to a deepened understanding of both a crucial aspect of Vivaldian style and a historical period in which modal principles were rapidly yielding to harmonic tonality.”⁷ Heller further notes, “The uniqueness of L’estro armonico is due also to both the popularity and the historical importance of the concertos, which, as far as we can now determine, were reprinted or republished in at least fourteen editions in subsequent decades (by John Walsh of London and by Le Clerc le Cadet of Paris as well as by Roger).”⁸

The concerto is marked by spectacular tuttis, the central slow movements with great cantabile melodies. Landon wrote: “What can explain the immediate success of L’estro armonico? It was, of course, not any one element. Rather it was the freshness, the vigour, the variety, and, in the slow movements, the mysterious tenderness that captivated [people’s] minds.”⁹

Ritornello form

Another compositional technique present in many movements of opus 3 is the ritornello form. According to Michael Talbot, “Ritornello form is the quasi-automatic choice for the first movement in a Vivaldi concerto. It is the most common choice for finales, and appears in a few slow movements, where it may be reduced to a simple frame around what would otherwise be a through-composed movement for soloists, lightly accompanied.”¹⁰

Vivaldi recycled the ritornello form to combine diverse parts, allowing for structural cohesion. As Walter Kolneder states: “With the freedom of modulation gained in about 1680, and the tempered scale that was its inevitable consequence, it was possible to bring the ritornello on different harmonic degrees in accordance with a scheme planned on the basis of a large form.”¹¹

Process and problems of transcriptions

Transcriptions are adaptations of vocal, choral, or instrumental music for an instrumentation other than originally intended by the composer. For example, it is reasonable to play Bach flute sonatas on the violin with only minimal adjustments. In the same manner, adapting clavier works to organ require only the transcription for manualiter.

With reference to the original orchestral music from Vivaldi, Bach arranged the various instrumental parts of the concertos to be played on manuals and pedals. In creating the transcriptions, however, we note that Bach often crafted textures that differed from those of the original concertos. Peter Williams observed: “The passagework typical of Italian string concertos gave new ideas for textures often, in practice, rather different from the string originals. This goes, too, for Bach’s version of the Concerto in G Major, BWV 592, in which the violinistic figuration is replaced by something more appropriate for organ.”¹² Leslie Paul noted that, in addition to technical adaptations made by Bach, “Harmonies were often amplified by the addition of an inner part so cunningly derived as to appear essential, added passing and grace notes.”¹³

Bach’s organ transcriptions

The setting of organ transcriptions in the Italian style includes five works, manualiter and pedaliter, from BWV 592–596. The collection showed up in Weimar between July 1713 and 1714. According to Williams, “The young prince Johann Ernst von Sachsen-Weimar visited Amsterdam and sent Italian music back to Weimar that included the original music from L’estro armonico, opus 3.”¹⁴ As mentioned earlier, the setting includes five organ concertos. However, from Vivaldi’s opus 3, Bach arranged only two double violin concertos for organ. Even though the number of Bach’s transcriptions from opus 3 were small, Weber points out that “[f]rom these pieces Bach learned the essential tools that he would use for the expansion and transformation of seventeenth-century genres into large-scale forms.”¹⁵

One of these transcriptions, the Concerto in A Minor, BWV 593, has become a part of the standard organ repertoire, with a level of complexity and interpretive possibilities that provide ample challenge to the organist. Example 1 demonstrates basic music information regarding the music score archive of the transcription and original works.

Regarding the process of Bach’s organ transcription, Joseph H. Butler states: “The manualiter transcriptions were transposed and adapted to fit the range of the organ played by Bach in the Weimar region, which was four octaves, from C to c.”¹⁶ The two manuals and pedal of the organ were used to create dynamic effects and contrasts between solos and accompaniment, with further contrasts within the two solo lines and tutti. David Schulenberg has written: “Whatever the instrument, the use of two manuals [was] an obvious necessity [in the transcriptions], not only in order to reflect the tutti/solo distinctions of the original but to facilitate performance in several passages where voices cross.”¹⁷

Delving more deeply into the first movement (“Allegro”) of BWV 593, we see that the original orchestral composition was set up by Vivaldi for two violin soloists and orchestra. In the transcription, Bach used a second manual to distinguish each solo part and create the interaction within the two solo parts from the tutti. In addition, Bach added notes in some passages that differ from the original. In reference to Example 2, Williams observes, “particularly interesting is that Bach partly filled in the gaps of the original sequence” in measures nineteen and twenty.¹⁸

Bach used manual indications of Oberwerk and Rückpositiv to instruct for specific passages. Brenda Lynne Leach notes: “Bach used the manual indications to distinguish tutti from solo passages. While tutti sections are to be played both hands on the Oberwerk, Bach treated solo episodes in three ways:

1. Solo and accompaniment played on the Rückpositiv;

2. Solo on the Rückpositiv with accompaniment on the Oberwerk;

3. Solo on the Oberwerk with accompaniment on the Rückpositiv.”¹⁹

The examples mentioned here from the organ transcriptions are clearly regarding the functions of manual changes to bring out the voice leading with accompaniment and tutti. In addition, the transcriptions approach the natural use of the manualiter to establish the music dynamic contrasts ranging from forte to piano.

From the process of transcribing Vivaldi’s works for organ solo, it is clear that Bach gained skill in treating the solo lines individually as they returned in different keys. This process also seems to have given Bach a facility in employing the ritornello form, which he utilized repeatedly in other works as well.        

Italian music influences in Bach’s later organ works      

It is not overstated to say that the Italian influence, particularly that of Vivaldi, had a major impact on Bach’s works. Following his years in Weimar when he was introduced to much music from the Italian Baroque, Bach continued to deepen and develop ideas that he drew from Italian Baroque influences, of which he had sustained exposure while in Weimar. The court during this time was open to and encouraged the incorporation of foreign innovations in music composition. Geoffrey Webber has observed that “[t]he concentration of musical material found in the Orgelbüchlein complements the other great development of Bach’s adoption of compositional techniques learned from Vivaldi.”²⁰

Vivaldi’s influence is also clear in Bach’s six trio sonatas for organ, BWV 525–530, which include both the three-movement structure and ritornello form. According to Karl Geiringer, “Bach was strongly impressed by the natural grade of the Italian style and fascinated by the results that could be achieved by using Vivaldi’s concerto form in compositions for solo organ.”²¹ Bach shows even more mature understandings of the Italian influence and ritornello elements in such organ works such as Toccata in F Major, BWV 540i, and Toccata in C Major, BWV 564i.

Conclusion

It is possible to conclude that many of Bach’s works show the impact of Vivaldi and the Italian Baroque. To a large extent, that influence is grounded in Bach’s organ transcriptions of Vivaldi’s concertos. Peter Williams stated: “J. S. Bach’s experience of making organ transcriptions affected his composition much more deeply and widely, certainly well beyond the organ music itself.”²² Beyond the transcriptions, we see the Italian influence in many of Bach’s original works, including sonatas for solo instruments, harpsichord works, and ensemble music.

Bach’s sizable oeuvre reflects a growth and understanding of the varied sounds available to him that could be used to draw an almost orchestral approach to writing for the instrument. It is logical to conclude that his transcriptions of Vivaldi’s orchestral works contributed to this development.

Notes

1. Walter Kolneder, Antonio Vivaldi, His Life and Work (University of California Press, Los Angeles, 1970), page 109.

2. Robert L. Marshall, Eighteenth-Century Keyboard Music, Routledge Studies in Musical Genres, Second Edition (Routledge, New York, 2003), page 90.

3. Nicholas Anderson, Baroque Music from Monteverdi to Handel (Thames and Hudson, Inc., New York, 1994), page 110.

4. Kolneder, page 54.

5. Karl Heller, Antonio Vivaldi: The Red Priest of Venice (Amadeus Press, Portland, Oregon, 1997), page 62.

6. H. C. Robbins Landon, Vivaldi, Voice of the Baroque (Thames and Hudson, Inc., New York, 1993), page 42.

7. Steven Zohn, “The Baroque Concerto in Theory and Practice,” The Journal of Musicology, volume 26, number 4 (Fall 2009), page 569. https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/jm.2009.26.4.566.

8. Heller, page 67.

9. Landon, page 44.

10. Michael Talbot, The Master Musicians: Vivaldi (Schirmer Books, Macmillan Publishing Company, New York, 1992), page 111.

11. Kolneder, page 55.

12. Peter Williams, “Some thoughts on Italian elements in certain music of Johann Sebastian Bach,” FIMA-Fondazione Italiana per la Musica Antica. Source: Recercare, volume 11 (1999), page 197. htps://www.jstor.org/stable/41701304.

13. Leslie D. Paul, “Bach as Transcriber,” Oxford Journals, Oxford University Press, Source: Music & Letters, volume 34, number 4 (October 1953), page 308.

14. Peter Williams, The Organ Music of J. S. Bach, BBC Music Guides (BBC Publications, second edition, London, 2002), page 202.

15. Geoffrey Webber and Nicholas Thistlethwaite, The Cambridge Companion to the Organ (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1998), page 241.

16. Joseph H. Butler, “Emulation and Inspiration: J. S. Bach’s Transcriptions from Vivaldi’s,” The Diapason, volume 102, number 8, whole number 1221 (August 2011), page 20.

17. David Schulenberg, The Keyboard Music of J. S. Bach (Schirmer Books, Macmillan Publishing Company, New York, 1992), page 93.

18. Peter Williams, The Organ Music of J. S. Bach: Preludes, Toccatas, Fantasias, Fugues, Sonatas, Concertos, and Miscellaneous Pieces, volume I (Cambridge University Press, New York, 1980), page 298.

19. Brenda Lynne Leach, “Bach’s Organ Transcriptions: Influence of Italian Masters,”  The Diapason, volume 85, number 5, whole number 1014 (May 1994), page 11.

20. Webber and Thistlethwaite, page 241.

21. Karl Geiringer, Johann Sebastian Bach: The Culmination of an Era (Oxford University Press, New York, 1966), page 222.

22. Peter Williams, The Organ Music of J. S. Bach: A Background, volume III (Cambridge University Press, New York, 1984), page 93.

Michael McNeil

Michael McNeil has designed, constructed, voiced, and researched pipe organs since 1973. Stimulating work as a research engineer in magnetic recording paid the bills. He is working on his Opus 5, which explores how an understanding of the human sensitivity to the changes in sound can be used to increase emotional impact. Opus 5 includes double expression, a controllable wind dynamic, chorus phase shifting, and meantone. Stay tuned.

Editor’s note: The Diapason offers here a feature at our digital edition—four sound clips. Any subscriber can access this by logging into our website (thediapason.com), click on Magazine, then this issue, View Digital Edition, scroll to this page, and click on each <soundclip> in the text.

Many American organists have traveled to Europe and heard the sounds of older organs that make Bach a revelation. American organ building was for much of its history rooted in the Anglican tradition and the Romantic sounds of organbuilders like Ernest M. Skinner, and neither of those great art forms are an ideal medium for Bach. Tentative steps in the Anglican tradition were made as early as the 1930s to recreate this European sound, but they did not amount to a revelation. The revelation occurred with a British-born virtuoso, E. Power Biggs, who brought a sound to America that would convincingly play Bach in the form of an organ built by D. A. Flentrop. Biggs paid for this organ out of his own pocket and in 1958 found a home for it in the very reverberant acoustics of what was known at the time as the Busch Reisinger Museum.¹ His recordings of this Flentrop energized the budding Organ Reform Movement in the United States and inspired many American organbuilders. Listen to the end of the Fugue in A Minor, BWV 543ii <Soundclip 1>.

Dirk Andries Flentrop (1910–2003) worked in his father’s organbuilding shop and with Theodor Frobenius in Denmark, eventually taking over his father’s business. He was intensely interested in classical organ design, and he gave a lecture at a very young age in 1927 in which he promoted the use of mechanical action and slider windchests.² A conversation with Flentrop in the 1970s turned to his earlier career, and he recalled that he was traveling on a streetcar in Rotterdam when bombs started falling on that city in World War II. Everyone on the streetcar agreed there was no point in getting off, and they continued traveling to their destinations as bombs fell. The date was May 10, 1940, the year he took over his father’s business. I sailed with my parents on the SS Rotterdam in 1964 and still remember the shock of seeing upturned docks as we approached the harbor at Rotterdam and whole city blocks of uncleared rubble decades after the bombing.

Flentrop’s sound

The sound of pipe organs can be described subjectively and objectively. Subjectively, the sound of D. A. Flentrop is bright and “instrumental,” where individual pipes in the principal chorus have rich harmonic content. This is very different from what is today called vocale voicing, which emphasizes less harmonic power. Flentrop’s richly harmonic sound creates a scintillating principal chorus with clarity of pitch.

A key component of this sound, and a strong departure from the Romantic and Anglican traditions, is the expression of “chiff.” E. Power Biggs described chiff as the articulate “ictus” of a sound, adding clarity to rhythm and contrapuntal harmony. Chiff is not just percussive noise. It consists of higher natural harmonics to which the human ear is very sensitive, quickly defining the pitch. Flentrop was a master of this percussive speech, and it was always musical and fast. Chiff can be modulated with a sensitive mechanical action and low wind pressures (i.e., with little or no key pluck). Biggs was adept at this on his Flentrop, easing the pallets open for a smooth treble line while crisply opening the pallets to delineate inner voices with more chiff.

Later expressions of this articulation in what became known as neo-Baroque voicing are often heard as a slow, gulping sound. You never hear slow, gulping speech in a Flentrop organ, and as the data will show, Flentrop’s voicing exhibits no relationship to neo-Baroque voicing recipes.³

There is ample evidence that much of D. A. Flentrop’s sound is based on examination of the work of Arp Schnitger, and Schnitger’s sound is much more instrumental in character than modern vocale voicing. The similarity to Schnitger extends also to the design of the reeds, whose basses are the source of a smooth and powerful fundamental.

Flentrop organs have considerable presence, due in large part to the shallowness of the casework found in all of his organs. Flentrop related that the maximum depth of a case should be no deeper than the reach of an arm from the back doors of the case to its façade pipes. Deep cases and chambers will tend to absorb sound, especially the higher harmonics that create the sense of presence. I find it interesting that unaltered manual divisions of Cavaillé-Coll organs, while using higher pressures with Romantic scaling and voicing, almost never exceeded twelve stops and always used slider chests with mechanical action, reflecting some of the important design features of Flentrop organs.

The generosity of D. A. Flentrop

D. A. Flentrop was secure in his knowledge and very willing to share it. I was the recipient of his generosity on several occasions when he toured the United States with his senior voicer, Sijmen “Siem” Doot, to maintain and tune his organs. Doot, born in 1924, entered Flentrop’s service in 1939 and retired in 1988. Ed Lustig at Flentrop Orgelbouw confirmed that Franz Rietsch, Rob Oudejans, Johannes Steketee, and Doot assembled the Flentrop organ in Saint Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral, Seattle, Washington, in 1965, while Steketee and Doot remained to voice the organ. The voicing data in this article is a testament to their skill. I was introduced to Flentrop by Albert Campbell in 1971. After scouring the literature and finding mostly subjective opinions with very little data, I quickly discovered that Flentrop was genuinely interested in answering the detailed questions of a budding organbuilder. When I asked him if he would grant me permission to take measurements of his organs, he replied, “imitation is the finest form of flattery. Your ears will be different than mine, and you will use your observations to find your own sound.” He was right, but it took quite some time before I began to understand some of those observations, and the data continues to generate insights.

I again met Flentrop in the Campbell home after completion of my Opus 1, and by that time I had learned enough to ask deeper questions. Flentrop had nearly completed the tuning of his organ at the University of California, Santa Barbara, and in a further gesture of generosity, Flentrop said, “If you finish the cone tuning of the Hoofdwerk Mixtuur, we can answer your questions.” I agreed to finish the tuning work on the Flentrop organ, and both he and Mr. Doot spent the whole day answering my questions.

Flentrop slider windchests

D. A. Flentrop organs have exclusively featured mechanical key action and slider windchests since 1949. Stop actions were mechanical, as well, and only in his larger organs do we find electric slider motors and combination actions. Organbuilders who looked to the literature for the design principles of slider chests in the 1970s often found the effort frustrating. Flentrop willingly shared a great deal of his design practice. In Figure 1 we see a drawing made by the author from notes of a conversation with Flentrop regarding channel design. Flentrop recommended that the cross-sectional area of the key channel should have about 20–30% more area than the combined areas of all of the pipe toes it would need to wind. A small vent hole at the end of the channel served two functions—to prevent ciphering and to dampen resonances in the channel that would interfere with reeds. Reeds that are equal in length to the channel that feeds wind to them may get much louder, and those not quite equal to that length may get much weaker and more dull in timbre from channel resonance. I noted that the bottom of the key channels in the Flentrop organ at the University of California, Santa Barbara, were covered in a thick paper that had pin pricks in a few channels in various positions, likely done to reduce channel resonance.

Flentrop stated that pallets did not need to exceed 200 millimeters (about eight inches) in length, but I have found much longer pallets in Hook organs. I did not ask how to trade off key channel widths and heights for a given area, nor the flow areas of the pallets, and these tradeoffs can be complex. Suffice it to say that the flow area of a pallet is the length of its opening times the distance the pallet is pulled open by the key (an open pallet has a triangle of flow at each side, and when combined, these triangles make a rectangle). It is also interesting to note that a pallet will not flow significantly more wind to a channel when its pull is more than half of the channel width (think about the height of those triangles that flow wind relative to the width of the channel). For a given pallet pull and a key channel width that is twice the pull, only a longer pallet will flow more wind to the channel.

The 1863 Hook organ at the former Church of the Immaculate Conception in Boston, Massachusetts, has roughly 460-millimeters-long pallets feeding 406-millimeters-long flue and reed channel openings in the Great bass octave (there are two pallets per note). The Romantic voicing of the Hook organ requires a very large volume of wind to feed its very deep flueways and very widely opened toes, which are much larger than Flentrop’s. At Saint Mark’s, Flentrop likewise used two pallets for the six bass notes of the Hoofdwerk, with pallet opening lengths of 155 millimeters, flue and reed channel widths of 21 millimeters and 17 millimeters, respectively, and a channel height of 79 millimeters. Readers who are interested in comparing the differences in the voicing of Flentrop and Hook organs can find the Hook data in The Diapason.⁴

Flentrop’s patented slider

Slider windchests in ancient organs often suffered from the advent of central heating. Topboard bearers are shimmed with layers of paper for a close fit between the slider, the windchest table on which it rests, and the topboard above it. With central heating and the resulting low humidity, shrinking wood caused these sliders to leak wind and impair the tuning. Many different forms of slider seals were invented in the twentieth century, most of which worked quite well. Flentrop’s system is patented and rather complex, but it is extremely reliable. Flentrop used two sliders, separated by springs with a leather-faced conduit for the wind between the two sliders. Figure 2 (see page 15) shows this slider seal mechanism in relation to the pallets, key channels, and topboards.

An objective approach to Flentrop’s sound

If you want to discover how to achieve a certain sound, it is often educational to closely observe the organs you like and those you do not. The objective differences will teach you what matters. Readers who want some perspective on the following Flentrop data will find a description of the voicing of several historic organs in The Diapason.⁵

The absolute minimum data needed to understand the sound of an organ is:

• pipe diameters (inside);

• mouth widths;

• toe diameters;

• mouth heights (also known as “cutups”)

• flueway depths.

Complete descriptions of these parameters can be found in the article mentioned above.⁶ In a nutshell, larger pipe diameters, wider mouth widths, larger toe diameters, and deeper flueways yield more power. Mouth heights control timbre, and higher mouths reduce harmonic power and brightness. Flutes typically have much higher mouths than more harmonically rich principals.

Wider scales produce an “ah” timbre, and narrower scales will progress towards an “ee” timbre, emphasizing higher harmonics. Flentrop stated that he used a constant scale of pipe diameters and mouth widths for the principal chorus in most environments and acoustics, which meant that he wanted a specific vowel timbre for all of the pipes at the same pitch and a specific power balance across the range of frequencies from bass to treble.

For different acoustics Flentrop used different pressures and voicing, adjusting the toe diameters and cutups. Ascending trebles were achieved in the toe diameters. Figure 3 shows Flentrop’s chorus scaling written in his own hand in 1971 with numerical values he had memorized.

Flentrop reeds were often made by the firm of Giesecke to Flentrop’s specifications. A description of the data needed to understand the sound of a reed can be found in an article in The Diapason.⁷ The author’s measurements of the Saint Mark’s reeds were not taken in sufficient detail to merit showing them. Flentrop reed designs are very similar to Schnitger’s and use tin-lead plates with restricted openings soldered to wide, lightly tapered, and deeply cut shallots for powerful, smooth basses. These typically transition to open, parallel shallots without plates in the tenor.

Taking the data at Saint Mark’s

I have been fortunate that many of those who are a gate to the access to some important organs have granted me permission to measure them. In 1972 that good fortune allowed me to take measurements of Flentrop’s organ at Saint Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral, Seattle, Washington, the organ Flentrop considered his largest by virtue of its 32′ façade pipes. The stoplist of the Saint Mark’s organ is easily found on the internet.⁸

The cathedral measures an estimated 150 feet in length and width, with a flat, wooden ceiling about 90 feet high. The walls are very thick concrete, yielding an acoustical reverberation of about five plainly audible seconds in the soprano range.⁹ The reverberation drops dramatically in the tenor and bass as a consequence of the very large windows, through which the lower frequencies easily pass.

Richard Frickmann, a life-long friend, and I drove over a thousand miles to visit this organ, and upon arrival in the early morning we sat in the pews in the empty cathedral, looking back at the organ. Glenn White, who maintained the organ, noticed our interest in this magnificent Flentrop and struck up a conversation. Learning that we were eager to find scaling data of the pipes, he questioned us for about five minutes and admitted that no one had taken the time to measure the pipework. He took us to the office and gave us the keys to the Flentrop casework, the organ loft, and the cathedral, asking that we return them when we were done. This was a stunning opportunity and one rarely offered. Mr. Frickmann and I took over fifty pages of data, interspersed with trips to the local twenty-four-hour pancake house to refuel with food and coffee. I had brought with me copies of scaling sheets and measuring tools, and Mr. Frickmann wrote down the numbers as I called them out from the walkways behind the windchests. After about twenty-four continuous hours of work, we handed in the keys to the office.

A word of caution on the data is in order. I took this data in 1972, very early in my career. I had experience with Flentrop’s organ at the University of California at Santa Barbara, and I understood basic scaling and data collection. But what I did not yet appreciate at the time was the importance of measuring the depth of the flueway. My general observations of the flueways of the Saint Mark’s organ were that “they tend to be consistent throughout the organ relative to pitch, much wider than current neo-Baroque work, but narrower than the voicing of the early American builders like Johnson and the Hooks.” Later measurements of Flentrop flueways provided a generalized model of the flueways for the Saint Mark’s organ. Please be aware that these are probably in the ballpark, but they are assumptions.

I was very careful in the handling of the pipes and making sure that their mouths faced in their original directions (this affects tuning on larger pipes whose mouths can be close to other pipes and shaded by them, lowering their pitch). The measurements of these pipes will have some inaccuracy from the time constraints. For larger pipes the measurements are likely better than +/- 1 millimeter, and for the very smallest pipes, about +/- 0.2 millimeter. The data is presented in halftone deviations from Normal Scale to make the relationships clear, as tables of numbers do not easily convey their meaning. These Normal Scales were published in the author’s article, “1863 E. & G. G. Hook Opus 322: Church of the Immaculate Conception, Boston, Massachusetts,” Part 1.¹⁰ Those who want actual measurements can use those tables to convert the Normal Scale data into dimensions, or they can email the author for a copy of the Excel spreadsheet with the more accurate raw dimensional data.¹¹

The Hoofdwerk

Larger pipe diameters generate more power, and smaller diameters generate a brighter timbre. Flentrop’s principal chorus scales combine these factors into the sound he wanted. His scaling model in Figure 3 is seen as a dashed blue line in Figure 4. The model generally follows the Saint Mark’s data. As Flentrop noted, the mixtures are narrower. Flutes trend much wider as the pitch ascends.

Sound clips of the Saint Mark’s Flentrop in the digital edition of this article allow one to hear these power and timbre balances. They were derived from 1981 recordings of James Welch, organist, another life-long friend. The recording engineer, Dave Wilson, was known as one of the world’s best, and he recorded Welch on Flentrop organs. I was present in 1981 for the Saint Mark’s recordings, mostly to help with touching up the tuning of the reeds. I also made suggestions for stop registrations that ran counter to the prevailing wisdom of the time, dictating a minimal use of foundations to aid in clarity of pitch. This was not necessary on a Flentrop, whose foundations can be combined to any degree and still maintain clarity of pitch. Amassing foundations, as any Romantic organist knows well, is a source of rich chorus depth, and it is heard to great effect in Charles-Marie Widor’s “Andante cantabile” from Symphonie IV in <Soundclip 2>.

We made many experiments with microphone placement. The proper power balances of the different Flentrop divisions were finally achieved by placing microphones on very tall stands about twenty to thirty feet in front of the Rugwerk, the division that has the most presence for the congregation. Having been accustomed to the practice of using fast tempos in dry acoustics, Welch and I discussed appropriate tempos for the reverberant acoustic of Saint Mark’s. Borrowing headphones from the recording engineer to hear what the sound was like in the room at the microphones, he arrived at the tempo we hear in C. P. E. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, which takes full advantage of Saint Mark’s long reverberation <Soundclip 3>.

Late in the all-night recording session a note went dead in the Rugwerk. The organ had been in service for only sixteen years at this time, and a failure was unexpected. I pulled up the floor panels in the choir loft, which gave access to the Rugwerk trackers, and the culprit was a torn piece of weak leather that connected a long horizontal tracker at a suspension point. None of the other connectors showed the slightest sign of wear. I made a temporary fix, adjusted the action, and we continued recording well into the next morning.

Figure 5 shows the scales of the mouth widths, and these generally imitate the diameter scales. Normal Scale mouth widths are based on 1⁄4 of the circumferences of Normal Scale diameters, and as Flentrop almost exclusively used 1⁄4 mouths, we would expect a similarity to the diameter scales. Some of these mouth widths appear to be a bit wider than 1⁄4 of the circumference, and this may indicate that the pipes were slightly tapered, something I did not measure, and which is not uncommon. Inside diameters were measured at the top of the pipes. If the pipes have a slight taper, the true diameter scales at the bottom will be larger and will more closely match the Flentrop model in Figure 4, as well as the mouth scales in Figure 5.

Figure 6 shows mouth heights, or what is more commonly known as “cutups.” The cutup controls timbre. A higher mouth will reduce the harmonic content, and smooth flutes have higher cutups. These can be clearly seen in the lofty cutups of the 8′ Roerfluit. Normal Scale mouth heights are calculated as 1⁄4 of the Normal Scale Mouth Width, a common recipe in neo-Baroque voicing. In Figure 6 we see that Flentrop did not use this recipe. The Saint Mark’s cutups are much higher, and they have no relationship to the mouth width scales. They are also highly variable as a free voicing parameter. Flentrop raised the cutup until the desired timbre was achieved and the speech was fast. This is why you do not hear slow, gulping speech in a Flentrop organ.

The soaring cutups of the Roerfluit

The soaring cutups of the 8′ Roerfluit illustrate how Flentrop achieved a rich harmonic timbre in his principal chorus and a smoother, warmer timbre in the flutes. While Flentrop is noted for a brighter, “instrumental” timbre, which strongly implies lower cutups, Figure 6 clearly shows that his cutups were much higher than the neo-Baroque recipe. As an example, the cutup of the 8′ Roerfluit tenor C pipe in Figure 6 is +5 halftones, while its mouth width in Figure 5 is -5 halftones, revealing a cutup that is a stunning 10 halftones higher than the neo-Baroque recipe.

Figure 7 (see page 18) shows the relative flow of wind in the pipe toes. Larger pipe toes will flow more wind and yield more power. Received wisdom relates that Flentrop used “open toe” voicing, but Flentrop toes are in most cases quite restricted. Much more open toes can be found in Hook organs. Hook toe diameters also have high variability at a specific pitch, very unlike the more regular wind flow patterns we see with D. A. Flentrop and Gottfried Silbermann.¹³

The values in Figure 7 are toe constants, a number that represents relative flow. Flentrop suggested to me that a reasonable starting point for a toe diameter is the square root of its resonator diameter. The area of that closed toe represents a constant of “1,” and as you can see in Figure 7, Flentrop converged on that number at about 1′ pitch and increased the flow in both deeper and higher pitches. The area of the toe is proportional to the toe constant, i.e., a toe constant of “2” has twice the area of a toe with a constant of “1.” One added feature is that the toe constant compensates for mouths that are wider or narrower than the Normal Scale mouth of 1⁄4 of the circumference. For Flentrop this does not matter, because he used 1⁄4 mouths, but for a builder like Gottfried Silbermann who used 2⁄7 mouths, or Ernest M. Skinner who used 1⁄5 mouths, this compensation is critical, because wider mouths need more wind and narrower mouths need less. The toe constant allows us to compare the relative flow of wind in pipes with different diameters and different mouth widths. A good example in Figure 7 is the 8′ Roerfluit, which has slightly more wind than the 8′ Octaaf. Although it has a much smoother timbre, the 8′ Roerfluit’s slightly more powerful fundamental adds chorus depth to the much brighter 8′ Octaaf.

Toes control power, and in Flentrop organs designed for smaller acoustics I have found toe constants of 0.6 in the lowest mixture pitches, and this is a very restricted toe. A fully open toe has a toe constant of about 4, which we see in the highest pitches of the 2′ Octaaf and III Scherp in Figure 7.

Note the consistency of wind flow in the Flentrop principal chorus pipes at a given pitch, with a minimum flow of wind at about 1′ in pitch and much more flow in the bass and treble. This represents a voicing model for the Saint Mark’s acoustic. Similar patterns of wind flow exist in the 1692 Schnitger organ in the Hamburg Jacobikirche.¹⁴

The wind flow of the 4′ Speelfluit in Figure 7 is very instructive. Its lower cutups, relative to the 8′ Roerfluit, are explained by its more restricted toes. Closing the toe has the tonal effect of raising the cutup for a much warmer timbre at a lower power. The Speelfluit adds color to the more powerful Roerfluit, while restraining the power of the combined flutes as accompanimental stops.

Figure 8 data are estimated flueway depths based on observation of other work by Flentrop. In 1972 I did not have tapered wedges for measuring flueway depths. Wooden wedges are the safest material for documentation, but for a voicer, brass or steel wedges will last longer.¹⁵ The important feature of Flentrop flueways is that they are not used as a primary means of controlling power. Flentrop flueways do vary, but they vary within a restricted range at a given pitch. Neo-Baroque voicing emphasized a cutup recipe set to 1⁄4 of the mouth width with “open toes.” The result was that a voicer was often forced to use very narrow flueways to regulate both power and timbre, and the resulting sound was typically thin in fundamental warmth with a slow, gulping speech on the verge of overblowing. Flentrop used wind pressures and toes to control power, not the flueways, and he adjusted the cutup to achieve the desired timbres with fast speech.

In both modern and ancient work we will find an enormous variation in flueway depths. Although it is very rarely measured, flueway depth is of critical importance in understanding the different sounds of pipe organs. As the flueway deepens, more breathiness is heard in the sound. This is corrected by an increasing amount and boldness of nicking as the flueway depth increases. This is one of the reasons you will find many bold nicks in deep Romantic flueways. Flentrop’s voicing finds the flueway depth that will yield a tolerable breathiness with a minimum degree of nicking, and this is the optimum point for chiff. This is not a deep flueway, but it is much deeper than the razor-thin neo-Baroque flueways that resulted from arbitrarily low cutups. Both Andreas and Gottfried Silbermann used much deeper flueways than Flentrop, and their milder chiff is the result of their bolder nicking. Readers can find the flueway depths for some important historical styles in The Diapason.¹⁶

Figure 9 shows what happens when we divide the area of the pipe toe (the radius of the toe, squared, times π) by the area of the flueway it feeds (the flueway depth times the mouth width). In Figure 9 we see this data as a ratio of those areas. This tells us a great deal about the speech onset of the pipes. If the pipe toe is closed to the point where its area is less than the flueway area, the pressure will drop in both the foot and the flueway.¹⁷ We often see this in organs with higher wind pressures where the toes are strongly reduced to control power. In this situation, however, not only does the pressure drop at the flueway, the buildup of pressure in the foot is slower, and this can lead to slower speech. This form of slower speech is not immediately obvious, but a chorus with ratios above 1.0 will have a prompt attack, while pipes with ratios of 0.5 will have a noticeably slower attack, as is often heard in the smooth solo voice of the classical French cornet.¹⁸ When we look at theatre organs with extremely high wind pressures and deep Romantic flueways, we also find extremely small toes that produce ratios well below 0.5. This is why the attack of theatre organ flue pipes is much slower than what we hear in a Flentrop.

Ultra-low area ratios also explain in part why theatre organ pipes never have chiff. A fast rise in pressure in the foot and flueway is essential to the production of chiff, and we hear this when Biggs crisply opens the pallets on his 1958 Flentrop. Ratios close to 1 or above will be conducive to a fast pressure rise and the production of chiff, and in Figure 9 we can see that no Flentrop pipes have values below 1, and most pipes have values well above 1. This is a feature of Flentrop voicing in all of his organs for which I have data, and it is a significant factor in Flentrop’s fast, articulate voicing. Flentrop flueways are not deep in the Romantic style, and their areas are relatively small, with the result that even Flentrop’s more restricted toes still supply much more wind than the flueways need, and the fast pressure rise produces chiff.

Chiff can be eliminated in any ratio of toe and flueway areas by simply applying many bold nicks, but Flentrop used nicking sparingly, and when it is used, it is typically very fine in nature. Hook voicing also features relatively high area ratios, but the voicers used many bold nicks on every pipe, and no chiff is audible in their voicing. Theatre organs combine ultra-low area ratios with very bold nicking and unsurprisingly never exhibit chiff.

Figure 10 shows the mouth of a Flentrop pipe from about 1980, which is articulate, even with its two bolder nicks. The finest nicking in the center of the languid is more typical of the Saint Mark’s organ. Note that the flueway, while not deeply open in the Romantic style, is much deeper than typical neo- Baroque voicing.

The Pedaal

Figure 11 shows the diameter scales of the Pedaal. The scales of the larger pipes are consistent with the Flentrop model in Figure 3, and the diameters of the larger pipes were measured at the bottom. The Mixtuur is also consistent with the model notes. Like the Hoofdwerk, the flutes trend much wider as the pitch ascends.

The wind pressure of the Hoofdwerk is 80 millimeters, which is interestingly the same pressure found in the restored 1692 Hamburg Jacobikirche Schnitger. All other divisions at Saint Mark’s are winded on a very modest 68 millimeters of pressure, including the Pedaal. Flentrop once commented that wind pressure in a pipe organ is analogous to the tension of strings on a violin, with similar effects in the sound.

When I visited in 1972, the 32′ Prestant featured large ears at the sides of the mouths, and a few years later I observed that large wooden rollers had been added between the ears. This was perhaps an effort to make the 32′ sound more audible, as human hearing is very poor in the deep bass. At about 20 cycles per second we feel sound as much as we hear it, and a 32′ pipe resonates at 16 cycles per second. The addition of the rollers increases audible harmonic power to the sound, just as they add harmonic power to very narrow string pipes. Joseph Gabler found an elegant solution to this problem in his organ of 1750 at Weingarten: drawing the 32′ stop also draws the 16′ stop at the same time, making the sound both felt and more easily heard.

Tin was very expensive when Saint Mark’s Flentrop was constructed, the result of a powerful tin mining cartel. Many Flentrop organs utilized copper for larger façade pipes during this time as an alternative to zinc. The colorful patina on Flentrop copper pipes exhibits reddish earth tones and subtle greens. I asked Flentrop how he achieved this, and he laughed. The process was the result of long experimentation, and it involved strongly heating the pipes and applying the urine of cows to the heated metal. Flentrop smiled when he said that the smell in the shop was not at all pleasant. The lovely pastel colors of those copper pipes enhance the deep reds of the mahogany used in the casework, which Flentrop carefully selected from his supplier in Africa.

The full principal chorus of Flentrop’s magnum opus in its 1981 configuration is electrifying in the Praeludium in E Major by Vincent Lübeck <Soundclip 4>. The organ today features some wonderful additions by the shop of Paul Fritts.¹⁹

Paul Fritts and Company Organ Builders

Additions and changes to pipe organs can result in irreparable harm to the original sound. The additions and changes by the Fritts shop, however, are sympathetic to Flentrop’s original concept. They are exceedingly well executed, and Flentrop’s original voicing was left unchanged.²⁰

In 1991 the console action was replaced with a suspended action. Germanic reeds were added at 16′ and 8′ to the Hoofdwerk, and the horizontal reeds were replaced at their original pitches with designs based on the 1762 work of the Iberian organbuilder Jordi Bosch. The original Flentrop reeds have been carefully packed and stored. The addition of a 32′ Pedaal Bazuin on the back wall to the rear of the Pedaal casework is a welcome one in a room whose large windows consume a great deal of bass sound. These alterations will hopefully diminish future appetites for changes to Flentrop’s historic magnum opus.

The precarious life of historic sounds

D. A. Flentrop’s organs are probably a very good representation of the sound of Arp Schnitger, which has very rarely if ever survived in its original form. Between 1953 and 1955 Flentrop undertook a major restoration of the 1720 Schnitger organ at Saint Michael’s Kerk in Zwolle to return it to its original condition, and Biggs recorded that magnificent sound in the 1960s.²¹ History teaches us that original sounds only survive in the very rarest of circumstances, and these are often found in depressed economies where there is no funding for restorations. Historically important sounds quickly disappear with the good intentions of restorers who change wind pressures, temperaments, pitch, and voicing to suit their own ears.²² This is why early documentation is so important, and it can expose later changes.

This article features a sample of scaling and voicing data from D. A. Flentrop’s magnum opus taken in its original form in 1972.²³ It has hopefully provided readers with a better appreciation of the sound of D. A. Flentrop. Astute readers will also no doubt notice that fifty-one years elapsed before I carefully analyzed this data. I should have done this long ago. Tempus fugit, carpe diem.

Notes and references

All images are found in the collection of the author unless otherwise noted.

1. Barbara Owen, E. Power Biggs: Concert Organist (Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1987), pages 128–133.

2. wikiwand.com/en/Dirk_Andries_Flentrop, accessed July 6, 2023. From their reference: Kerala J. Snyder (Spring 2005), Symposium in Honor of Dirk A. Flentrop, Resonance.

3. Michael McNeil, “The Sound of Gottfried Silbermann,” Part 2, The Diapason, January 2023, pages 13–19.

4. Michael McNeil, “1863 E. & G. G. Hook, Opus 322, Church of the Immaculate Conception, Boston, Massachusetts,” The Diapason, Part 1, July 2017, pages 17–19, and Part 2, August 2017, pages 18–21.

5. McNeil, “The Sound of Gottfried Silbermann,” Part 2.

6. McNeil, “The Sound of Gottfried Silbermann,” Part 2.

7. Michael McNeil, “Designing an Historic Reed,” The Diapason, June 2023, pages 14–20.

8. saintmarks.org/music-arts/organs/the-flentrop-organ/ accessed July 12, 2023.

9. “Plainly audible” reverberation is measured at about -26 dB. The -60 dB architectural standard does not take into account the audibility of reverberation in the context of music, and it is also a source of grave disappointment for musicians and organbuilders. The standard needs to be revised for music.

10. Michael McNeil, “1863 E. & G. G. Hook Opus 322: Church of the Immaculate Conception, Boston, Massachusetts,” Part 1, The Diapason, July 2017, page 18.

11. Email the author for Excel files with the Saint Mark’s Flentrop data and/or the Jacobikirche Schnitger data at no charge at: [email protected]. The Schnitger data is derived and graphed from: Heimo Reinitzer, Die Arp Schnitger-Orgel der Hauptkirche St. Jacobi in Hamburg (Hamburg: Christians Verlag, 1995), with restoration by Jürgen Ahrend and data measurements by Cor Edskes.

12. Ibid.

13. McNeil, “The Sound of Gottfried Silbermann,” Part 2; McNeil, “1863 E. & G. G. Hook, Opus 322, Church of the Immaculate Conception, Boston, Massachusetts,” Part 1.

14. Email the author for Excel files with the Saint Mark’s Flentrop data and/or the Jakobikirche Schnitger data at no charge at: [email protected]

15. Michael McNeil, “The Sound of Gottfried Silbermann,” Part 2, The Diapason, January 2023, see Figure 15 on page 14 for an illustration of a wedge for measuring flueway depth.

16. McNeil, “The Sound of Gottfried Silbermann,” Part 2.

17. Email the author for Excel files with the Saint Mark’s Flentrop data and/or the Jacobikirche Schnitger data at no charge at: [email protected]. The Schnitger data is derived and graphed from: Heimo Reinitzer, Die Arp Schnitger-Orgel der Hauptkirche St. Jacobi in Hamburg, (Hamburg: Christians Verlag, 1995), with restoration by Jürgen Ahrend and data measurements by Cor Edskes.

18. McNeil, “The Sound of Gottfried Silbermann,” Part 2.

19. saintmarks.org/music-arts/organs/the-flentrop-organ/.

20. saintmarks.org/music-arts/organs/the-flentrop-organ/.

21. E. Power Biggs, The Organ in Sight and Sound, Columbia Masterworks, KS 7263, ca. 1969. Many examples of Schnitger organs are included in this landmark recording. D. A. Flentrop wrote a primer on classical organ design for the twenty-eight-page book included with this vinyl recording.

22. Flentrop was right when he remarked that I would use my observations of his work to find my own sound. The temptation to modify organs to the taste of the restorer is very strong, and I have regrettably succumbed to that temptation, too. I carefully documented a Wm. A. Johnson organ and described the changes I made to it in these articles, “The 1864 William A. Johnson Opus 161: Piru Community United Methodist Church, Piru, California,” The Diapason, Part 1, August 2018, pages 16–20; Part 2, September, 2018, pages 20–25; Part 3, October, 2018, pages 26–28; and Part 4, November 2018, pages 20–24.

23. Email the author for Excel files with the Saint Mark’s Flentrop data and/or the Jakobikirche Schnitger data at no charge at: [email protected].

Sound clips

1. [00:34] Johann Sebastian Bach, Prelude and Fugue in A Minor, BWV 543, E. Power Biggs, Bach, the Great Preludes and Fugues, Volume 2, CBS Records, 42648, recorded in 1964 at the Busch Reisinger Museum, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

2. [00:30] Charles-Marie Widor, “Andante cantabile,” from Symphonie IV, opus 13, number 4 (1872), James Welch, Magnum Opus, Volume 2, Wilson Audiophile, WCD-8314, recorded in 1981 at Saint Mark’s Cathedral, Seattle, Washington.

3. [01:01] Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (often attributed to Johann Sebastian Bach, BWV 565), Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, James Welch, Magnum Opus, Volume 1, Wilson Audiophile, WCD-8111, recorded in 1981 at Saint Mark’s Cathedral, Seattle, Washington. Exhaustive research by Michael Gailit has convincingly shown C. P. E. Bach as the most likely composer of this work. See “Exploring the unknown of BWV 565,” The Diapason, Part 1, June 2021, pages 18–19; Part 2, July 2021, pages 12–14; Part 3, December 2021, pages 16–18; Part 4, August 2022, pages 15–17; Part 5, September 2022, pages 19–21; and Part 6, October 2022, pages 15–17.

4. [00:40] Vincent Lübeck, Praeludium in E Major, James Welch, Magnum Opus, Volume 2, Wilson Audiophile, WCD-8314, recorded in 1981 at Saint Mark’s Cathedral, Seattle, Washington.

—It is strongly recommended to use Sony MDR 7506 headphones for the sound clips. Earbuds will not generate bass sound.

Saint Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral website: saintmarks.org.

Flentrop Orgelbouw website: flentrop.nl.

Markus Rathey

Markus Rathey is the Robert S. Tangeman Professor of Music History at Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut, where he teaches at the Institute of Sacred Music, the School of Music, the Divinity School, and the Department of Music. Not only a leading Bach scholar and author of several books on Johann Sebastian Bach, he has also published numerous articles on the history of organ music and organbuilding from the seventeenth to the twentieth century.

Organ recitals usually do not create a lot of drama. Even less so are rehearsals for organ recitals the stuff of dramatic tales. However, it was a rather dramatic practice session that marked the first public performance of Györgi Ligeti’s (1923–2006) most famous organ work, Volumina. The memorable event involved smoking pipes, a failing electrical system, and an exasperated organist who had to find a different church in which to perform. But more about these spectacular events in a moment.

The Hungarian composer Györgi Ligeti was one of the most influential and revolutionary composers in the second half of the twentieth century. Born on May 28, 1923, in Dicsőszentmárton (today as Tîrnăveni, part of Romania), Ligeti studied at the conservatory of Koloszvár (Klausenburg) and, after a short interruption due to the war, finished his studies in Budapest where he graduated in 1949.

In later comments about his training, Ligeti lamented that the Cold War had made it impossible to stay abreast of the musical developments in the West and that he was mostly expected to compose vocal works in a folk style that had been dominated by Hungarian national composer Zoltan Kodáli. Ligeti made early compositional experiments and developed a unique personal style; however, most of these innovative compositions had to remain in his desk until he was able to flee Hungary and move to Vienna in 1956. Soon after arriving in the Austrian capital, Ligeti not only absorbed the new developments in post-war Western European music, but he also contacted some of the leading avant-garde composers.

Already in 1958, Ligeti began teaching at the Darmstadt International Summer Courses for New Music, one of the hotbeds of musical innovation in the 1950s and 1960s. Working with Karl-Heinz Stockhausen, Iannis Xenakis, and others expanded Ligeti’s style, and his musical visions became more and more innovative. Ligeti experimented with clusters, composed electronic music, and challenged established conventions of musical sound. His revolutionary approach to music was often paired with an ironic sense of humor, which is reflected in works such as Trois Bagatelles (1962) for piano or the satirical Fragment (1961).¹

It might come as a surprise that Ligeti formed an interest in organ music. The organ, often viewed as an instrument stifled by its own traditions, was not particularly involved in the musical innovations during the twentieth century. Several factors contributed to Ligeti’s decision to write organ works.² The earliest root of his interest in the instrument dates back to his music studies in the 1940s. As he later reports, he studied organ for a few years at the conservatory of Koloszvár, and he proudly describes that his skills were sufficient to play Bach’s Sonata in E-flat Major, BWV 525.³ He abandoned his organ studies when he left Koloszvár during the war, but we have a few traces of his organ playing in later years. Most importantly, he played his own organ work Volumina on a small, mechanical-action organ in Vienna in 1962,⁴ even before the disastrous rehearsal for the first public performance took place. Ligeti did not play the piece in public (so it does not count as an official performance), but it demonstrates that he was still able to play the instrument twenty years after he had taken his first organ lessons.

Musica Ricercata

Ligeti had even composed a small organ work when he still lived in Hungary. This composition grew out of a cycle of contrapuntal and experimental pieces with the name Musica Ricercata.⁵ Written in Budapest between 1951 and 1953, the eleven movements, originally composed for piano, document Ligeti’s search for a new musical style. As the political separation of Eastern Europe had cut him off from the latest developments in the West, Ligeti fundamentally re-envisioned the musical material with which he was working.

In Musica Ricercata, each of the movements is based on a limited set of pitch classes. Movement I only features two pitch classes (A and D), movement II expands this to three (E-sharp, F-sharp, G), and each of the following movements adds another pitch class until in the eleventh movement, all the twelve pitches of the chromatic scale are included. In a way, the collection traces the path from simple musical models to complex twelve-tone music. As a nod to history, Ligeti based the last movement of Musica Ricercata on a chromatic subject from Girolamo Frescobaldi’s “Ricercare cromatico post il Credo” from the collection Fiori musicali (1635). Ligeti expands Frescobaldi’s chromatic subject into a complete dodecaphonic row (Example 1). The composition, however, does not slavishly follow the restrictions of dodecaphony but rather treats the material more freely.

While originally composed for piano, Ligeti soon reworked the final movement for organ. The composition remained unpublished during the composer’s lifetime, and it would take until 1990 before it finally appeared in print. The texture of the piece and the musical techniques employed remain still very conventional. Only toward the final measures does Ligeti show his budding interest of unusual textures by requesting a registration that was reduced to a 32′ stop in the pedal and only 4′, 2′, and 1′ stops in the manual. The result is that the highest and lowest notes are nine octaves apart while the middle range remains empty. This is a far cry from Ligeti’s revolutionary compositions of the 1960s, but it already shows that the composer wanted to expand the conventions of the organ sound. He just did not know yet how to do it. Even Ligeti himself saw the composition more as an experiment. He commented, “The piece is intentionally monotonic: I wanted to balance the polyphonic technique with a monotonic rhythmical structure, [and thus] almost eliminates the polyphony.”⁶

While Ligeti’s own organ studies and his first organ work remain within the realm of tradition and only hint at the wish to break the mold, the later 1950s brought new creative impulses. After fleeing Hungary, Ligeti witnessed (and participated in) numerous musical innovations. Several avant-garde composers in the late 1950s and early 1960s had become interested in composing for the sound of the organ in innovative manners. While neoclassical styles were still abundant in central and northern European organ music (France saw a different development), and the Organ Reform Movement (Orgelbewegung) with its focus on Baroque models dominated the discourse, several composers found ways to break out of this tradition and to explore new paths. The Swedish composer Bengt Hambraeus (1928–2000) started composing with clusters, manipulated pipes, and other musical and technical innovations in the late 1950s; other composers and organists adopted his ideas and built on them.⁷

Volumina

In 1961 the north German public radio station Radio Bremen commissioned a series of new organ works that showed the possibilities of the old instrument in a new musical context. Instrumental for the commissions was the composer, organist, and head of the music department at the radio station, Hans Otte (1926–2007). Otte commissioned three of the most innovative composers of his time to write new works: Bengt Hambraeus (1928–2000), who has already established himself as a revolutionary in the realm of the organ; the German-Argentinian composer Mauricio Kagel (1931–2008); and Györgi Ligeti. Hambraeus wrote the piece Interferenzen and Kagel composed Improvisation Ajoutée, while Ligeti contributed his Volumina.⁸

While Ligeti had some experience with the organ, he relied heavily on the advice and the inspiration of Hambraeus, and he especially consulted with the Swedish organist Karl-Erik Welin. It is not a coincidence that Ligeti composed Volumina during a stay in Stockholm during the winter of 1961–1962. Welin took him to his church and demonstrated ways to manipulate the sound of the organ and how to incorporate new techniques. He was a trusted advisor throughout the process of the composition. Welin’s suggestions helped Ligeti envision a new type of organ composition that left behind traditional parameters such as melody, theme, and harmony, and instead focused on sound-colors and textures. Ligeti had already explored these musical ideas in his orchestral work Atmosphères (1961),⁹ and the exchange with Welin provided him with the technical knowledge to adapt these ideas for the organ.

Ligeti operates with clusters of notes that take different shapes, move across the keyboard, and create ever changing sonic colors. In his performance instructions, the composer differentiates between three types of clusters:

• Chromatic cluster—depress all keys (or as many as possible) between the indicated limits;

• Diatonic cluster—depress all the “white” keys between the indicated limits;

• Pentatonic cluster—depress all the “black” keys between the indicated limits.¹⁰

The clusters are manipulated in different ways: they can move up and down the manuals (and pedal); the clusters can have internal movement (while the outer margins remain fixed); and they can expand and contract, thus creating crescendo effects. To notate these musical details, Ligeti decided to abandon classical notation and to use a graphic notation instead that indicated the qualities and movement of the clusters.

The idea of using graphic notation had its roots in Ligeti’s own compositional process. He had been employing graphic sketches as a tool when planning his large-scale works such Atmosphères. These sketches served as an orientation for his compositions, which he then wrote down in classical notation. In Volumina, however, Ligeti decided that the graphic representation captured his musical intentions much more precisely than any traditional notation would have been able to. As a result, Volumina is the only work by Ligeti that features graphic notation. In later comments about this decision, Ligeti points out that he does not want the graphic elements to be understood as being random or just a prompt for improvisation. Instead, he states that the graphic notation (in conjunction with verbal performance instructions) captured precisely his intentions for how the composition should sound.¹¹

In addition to the graphic notation and the consistent use of clusters, Volumina also features several techniques that are intended to manipulate the sound of the instrument. One way is the manipulation of wind pressure while pulling the stops. Ligeti writes:

. . . by pulling out or pushing in the stopknobs slowly, fluctuations in intonation and “intermediate sounds” can be created. The tone-colour transitions should be realized as delicately and continuously as possible. The player and/or his assistants can take their time, leaving the stopknobs in intermediate positions ad lib.¹²

The result is, of course, a reduced wind pressure, which leads to fluctuations of the sounds of the pipes. Ligeti will return later to this idea when he composes his organ etudes towards the end of the 1960s.

A second, even more effective technique of manipulating the sound of the organ, is the use of the organ motor. Volumina begins with a broad cluster that ideally encompasses the whole keyboard. The organist presses down all the keys with their arms, while the organ is still turned off. Only then, one of the registrants starts the organ, and we hear not only a crescendo but a wild combination of overtones, pipes that start sounding at different times, and a wall of sound that slowly builds up. Like the manipulation of the register stops, this only works on a mechanical-action organ, where the stop controls and keys work independently from the electric motor. In 1967 Ligeti published a revised version of Volumina that also includes suggestions for other organs.¹³

The organ motor becomes a dominant part of the performance again at the end of Volumina. The piece ends on a high, chromatic cluster of notes when the organ motor is turned off, and the sound slowly fades away, again with the typical fluctuations in sound that come with a decreasing wind pressure and the different ways in which the individual pipes respond to this. Ligeti’s comments from the revised (1967) score, which also include the instructions for organs with electric key action, show not only the sonic ideal the composer wants to accomplish, but they also hint at other new ways for how to manipulate the sound of the organ, some of which are later picked up by Ligeti himself or by other composers:

The marking “Blower off” does not apply to those organs with electric key action, on which the wind is immediately discharged from the pipes as soon as the current is cut off. On these organs, however, the gradual fading out of the sound, together with the typical pitch fluctuations which are created by the decrease in wind pressure, can be accomplished by other means. First the full cluster . . . is sustained for a while; then the keys are slowly released one by one from the lower to the upper extreme, lingering on some keys longer than on others, so that the cluster gradually becomes narrower and softer, and ultimately disappears. To complete this process, several small pipes may be removed from the organ in advance, these are blown by mouth very softly by the player and his assistant . . . . This produces a “denatured,” “out-of-tune,” and extremely delicate sound, which may continue for some time after the played cluster has died away.¹⁴

We can see how Ligeti aims at manipulating the traditional sound of the instrument in a way that considers the mechanical (and electrical) features of the organ. These manipulations involve technical changes of the instrument, which some organists (and church councils) might frown upon. This brings us to the memorable rehearsal I mentioned at the beginning. Karl-Erik Welin, with whom Ligeti had cooperated during the composition of Volumina, was asked to play the premiere of the piece in Bremen Cathedral in 1962.

After Ligeti had completed the composition (and played through it on a small mechanical-action organ in Vienna), Welin tried to practice the piece at an organ in Gothenburg, Sweden. The rehearsal did not go as planned, as Ligeti reports:

Already the opening cluster was too much for the electrical system of the church. The moment the motor was started (with the notes of the cluster pressed down), smoke rose out of the organ pipes and the smell of burning rubber filled the church. The insulation of the electrical wires had melted, and it turned out that the mechanical parts that were made out of softer materials had also melted. The insurance of the church refused to pay for the costly repair of the instrument because, as it turned out, somebody had replaced a missing fuse with a sewing needle.¹⁵

Needless to say, the authorities at the Bremen Cathedral were shocked at the destructive effects of Ligeti’s composition (even though it was not his fault) and withdrew their permission to perform the piece (and also the two other pieces commissioned by Radio Bremen) in the cathedral. Karl-Erik Welin quickly found another church in Stockholm where he was allowed to record Ligeti’s piece. However, the tape provided by Swedish Radio was too short for the performance, and only a part of Volumina was recorded. Only a last attempt, now at the Westerkerk in Amsterdam, was successful, and Volumina was finally successfully recorded to be broadcast by Radio Bremen.

Etudes

Welin remained one of the most active interpreters of Ligeti’s organ work. In the mid 1960s, he was joined by the German organist Gerd Zacher, who not only played Volumina frequently but who also advised Ligeti in the revised version of 1967. Out of the collaboration between Ligeti and Zacher grew the plan to write four more organ works, etudes, that would further expand the musical vocabulary of the organ. Of the four projected etudes, only two were eventually executed.¹⁶ The first one was Harmonies. Composed in 1967, it requires the organist to play a dense chord in which all ten fingers are in constant contact with the keys. Gradually, one finger shifts to the next key, while the other fingers remain in place. The result is a slow-moving, almost static sound (Example 2).

Although the harmonic progressions are not random (Ligeti notates it very precisely), the sequence of harmonies does not follow a specific, goal-oriented plan. Instead, it is determined by the adjacent keys to which one of the ten fingers is able to glide. As an additional feature, Ligeti again requires the organist to mechanically manipulate the sound of the organ. As earlier in Volumina, the registrants are asked to pull and push the knobs of the registers slowly, thus creating inconsistent wind supply. Ligeti also suggests that the organist can press the keys slowly, which also leads to an inconsistent supply of wind for the individual pipes.

In addition to these techniques that can be accomplished from the console of the organ, Ligeti (on suggestion of Zacher) asks to reduce the wind pressure by manipulating the organ motor. The preface lists a number of suggestions, which were devised by Zacher and other contemporary organists:

• by using a weaker motor like that of a vacuum cleaner, inserting the hose into the reservoir (Gerd Zacher);

• by adjusting the valve in the chief wind-receiver between the fan and the reservoir (Gábor Lehotka);

• by opening the windchest (Gerd Zacher);

• by reducing the rotation of the speed of the fan by loading the circuit (installing an adjustable resistance in the circuit, for instance);

• by removing some low pipes from a pedal reed register so that some of the wind escapes (Zsigmond Szathmáry).¹⁷

Most remarkable, and Zacher’s original suggestion, is probably the use of a vacuum cleaner instead of an organ motor. Shortly after composing Harmonies, Ligeti gave a talk at an organ builder symposium wherein he advocated for organs in which the power of the motor could be reduced electronically, so that there would be no need to bring a vacuum cleaner up to the organ loft.

The second etude, composed 1969, presents Ligeti’s interest in the organ from a different perspective. In Coulée, the organist plays alternating eighth notes at a rapid tempo, creating the impression of an almost static sound. Ligeti had already used a similar idea in his harpsichord composition, Continuum, written the previous year. Like Harmonies, the intervals only change gradually, and the organist is again in constant contact with the keys throughout the whole piece. The alternating eighth notes then transition gradually into short ascending (left hand) and descending lines (right hand), before Ligeti returns to the alternation between lower and higher pitches.

The intervals gradually become smaller until we hear short chromatic lines played in contrary motion between the left and right hand. The intervals expand to major seconds and thirds until the etude closes with sequences of thirds in contrary motion. The last note is to be played very short, as Ligeti comments: “last tone in both hands very short and fleeting”¹⁸ (Example 3).

While this second etude does not rely on technical manipulations of the instrument, Ligeti has a very precise vision of the sound he wants the organist to create. As in Continuum, where the natural timbre of the harpsichord already creates a transparent, somewhat sharp sound, Ligeti asks in Coulée for a registration that keeps the individual notes distinguishable, even at a very high tempo and in a reverberant space. He writes:

Dynamics of the two manuals must be balanced (the manuals are of equal importance), while the tone colours may differ. To preserve the continuous character of the piece, it is recommended that the same registration is kept throughout. The selected registration in both manuals should be sharp and colourful, so that the striking of the keys is audible and that the extreme speed of the piece evident (a registration that is too weak would create a static continuum, which is not desired; as stated, the individual tones must not be distinguishable as such, but the key action—despite the enormous speed—must have the effect of a very fast time-grid).¹⁹

The second etude is not only a direct sister work to the harpsichord piece Continuum, but it also reflects Ligeti’s interest in mechanical processes, which can be found in many of his works from the 1960s and early 1970s. The same “pattern-meccanico” technique²⁰ can also be seen in chamber music works, such as his Ten Pieces for Wind Quintet (movement 8) or the final movement of his Second String Quartet. Ligeti’s interest in mechanical patterns correlates in an interesting way with his interest in the organ as a large-scale machine. While the second etude does not include experiments with wind pressure or unusual registrations, its mechanical motion fits well into Ligeti’s fascination with the mechanical and technological side of the organ.

We find Ligeti’s own reflections on organ sound and organbuilding in a paper he read at a conference of the Walcker-Stiftung in 1968 (subsequently published in print).²¹ The paper reads like a commentary on the ways Ligeti had manipulated the sound of the organ in Volumina and in his two later etudes. He explains the significance of wind pressure, the possibilities of manipulating the pressure through different means, and his particular fascination with lower pressures that make the organ sound “sick.” From there, Ligeti speculates about ways to construct organs that invite similar and additional manipulations—electronic dials that can regulate the wind pressure of the organ, technologies that change the intonation of individual pipes while playing, etc. Ligeti envisions a Baukastenorgel, an organ consisting of building blocks that can be easily reconfigured depending on the piece that is being played. Ligeti’s paper reflects the innovative spirit of the 1960s and the attempts to include new technologies (including computers) in the process of music making.

At the same time, it is important that Ligeti does not want to replace the pipe organ. Computers and other technological aids are used to support, modify, and expand the sound of the traditional organ. But as in his other instrumental works (with the exception of his earlier experiments with electronic music in the late 1950s), Ligeti saw the future of his own music within the realm of traditional instruments, which were pushed to new limits to create new and revolutionary sounds.

As far as I know, Volumina has not caused another organ to go up in smoke or an electrical system to fail. Ligeti’s composition, while played by few organists, has become a milestone in the history of organ music in the second half of the twentieth century.

 

Notes

1. For these compositions see Benjamin R. Levy, Metamorphosis in Music: The Compositions of György Ligeti in the 1950s and 1960s (New York: Oxford University Press, 2017), pages 132–134.

2. See also Kimberly Marshall, “György Ligeti (1923–2006),” in Christopher S. Anderson (ed.), Twentieth-Century Organ Music (New York/London: Routledge, 2012), 
pages 262–285.

3. György Ligeti, “Orgelwerke,” in G. Ligeti, Gesammelte Schriften II, ed. by Monika Lichtenfeld (Mainz: Schott, 2007), page 184.

4. Ligeti, “Orgelwerke,” page 185.

5. See Sean Rourke, “Ligeti’s Early Years in the West,” The Musical Times 130, no. 1759 (September 1989), pages 532–535.

6. György Ligeti, “Über Musica ricercata,” in G. Ligeti, Gesammelte Schriften II, ed. by Monika Lichtenfeld (Mainz: Schott, 2007), page 155.

7. See the excellent study of Hambraeus’s and Ligeti’s work by Per F. Broman, “Back to the Future”: Towards an Aesthetic Theory of Bengt Hambræus (Göteborg: Göteborgs Universitet, Avdelningen för Musikvetenskap, 1999).

8. See the overview of these three pieces in Ulrich Schmiedeke, Der Beginn der Neues Orgelmusik 1961/62 (München: Katzbichler, 1981).

9. A good introduction to Ligeti’s Atmosphères can be found in Levy, Metamorphosis in Music, pages 113–127. For the relationship between Atmosphères and Volumina see also Jan Lehtola, “György Ligeti—Traditional Reformer or Revolutionary Discoverer? Ligeti’s Organ Music and its Influence on Organ-Playing Technique,” TRIO 1–2/2019, pages 99–100.

10. György Ligeti, Volumina, “Instructions for Performance,” page 1.

11. György Ligeti, “Bemerkungen zu Volumina,” in G. Ligeti, Gesammelte Schriften II, ed. by Monika Lichtenfeld (Mainz: Schott, 2007), page 188.

12. Ligeti, Volumina, “Instructions for Performance,” page 2.

13. For performance practice and interpretation of Volumina see Beth Loeber Williamson, “Performing New Music: Ligeti’s ‘Volumina’,” The American Organist 13/10 (October 1979), pages 32–36.

14. Ligeti, Volumina, “Instructions for Performance,” page 4.

15. Ligeti, “Orgelwerke,” page 185.

16. For the two remaining pieces, see György Ligeti, “Was erwartet der Komponist der Gegenwart von der Orgel?,” in G. Ligeti, Gesammelte Schriften I, ed. by Monika Lichtenfeld (Mainz: Schott, 2007), page 227; see also Lehtola, “György Ligeti,” page 102.

17. György Ligeti, Etude No. 1, “Harmonies,” page 4.

18. György Ligeti, Etude No. 2, “Coulée,” page 5.

19. Ibid.

20. Cf. Levy, Metamorphosis in Music, page 244.

21. Ligeti, “Was erwartet der Komponist der Gegenwart von der Orgel?,” in G. Ligeti, Gesammelte Schriften I, 217–230.

Jonathan Bezdegian

Jonathan Bezdegian, DMA, is the instructor of organ and campus minister for liturgical music and mission trips at Assumption University, in Worcester, Massachusetts.

Sitting on the parapet of the story where the towers arise from the massive corpus are all kinds of devilish things that were contrived by a grandiose imagination and captured in the grinning stone by a forceful and strict hand. Wondrous animals with long beaks, pointy claws, with misshapen ears and distorted mouths, devils with devout wings, midgets with long beards sit there and gape at the city with large, vicious, lurking eyes.¹

While the history of Louis Vierne’s Sixième Symphonie (Sixth Symphony), opus 59, is well documented, the actual harmonic construction of the thematic material leaves interested performers in a bit of a predicament. Traditional and functional harmonic analysis is not the correct method for deciphering this music. Occasionally, one will find evidence in Vierne’s music that successfully allows this method. However, modal material will always be present. Thus, the use of the Modes of Limited Transposition becomes important. To date, no sources directly address this approach.² The intent of this article is to apply the Modes of Limited Transposition and to prove their importance in the study of Louis Vierne’s organ works, focusing on the “Scherzo” from his Sixth Symphony.

Intriguingly during the time between the 24 Pièces de Fantaisie and the Sixth Symphony (1927–1930), Olivier Messiaen published Le Banquet céleste (1928) and Diptyque (1930). Both of these pieces use the Modes of Limited Transposition. Michael Murray makes reference to this in his book, French Masters of the Organ:

Though he was not yet twenty when he wrote Le Banquet céleste, he had already turned from prescribed harmony to the Modes of Limited Transposition that were to be a main feature of his early work, and it is these, or, more precisely, his uses of one of these, that create a distinctive harmonic movement dominant and tonic only by analogy.³

Based on the principle of modal evolution, the chronology of these works does not appear to be merely “coincidental.” However, the actual genesis of the Modes of Limited Transposition still remains a mystery.

It is impossible to tell if Vierne is responsible for the genesis of this modal material (later codified as the Modes of Limited Transposition by Messiaen). There is no known documentary evidence that allows this assertion. Messiaen also denied creating all of them.⁴ It is also unlikely that Vierne and Dupré collaborated on the use of these modes via improvisation practices.⁵ However, the evolution in composition regarding the use of these modern harmonies is evident. From evidence germane to this research, this evolution stems from the Paris Conservatoire.

Vierne remarked in his Mémoires about his excitement upon learning new, looser, and modern improvisational techniques from Adolphe Marty at the Institut National des Jeunes Aveugles in 1889. Later, Vierne drew on this inspiration while studying with his fellow pupils at the Paris Conservatoire. They all desired to be original. Charles Tournemire, in particular, was a prime example.⁶

The development of Vierne’s own original voice in regard to improvisation reached its initial height in 1897, when he took over Guilmant’s studio at the Conservatoire (he was leaving to go on a concert tour to the United States). Vierne’s enthusiasm was palpable: “I was . . . delighted to be able to express unrestrained my own ideas on free improvisation. We would ‘whoop it up’ with modern harmonies.”⁷

Through Vierne’s studies, collaborations, and improvisations, he would gradually incorporate all of his findings in his own music compositions. His modal usage began gradually. It is found extensively in his 24 Pièces de Fantaisie (1926–1927). However, at the time, for Vierne, this method was in its infancy. As his music progressed, more consistency in his dense modal writing is observed—at least thematically.

A close analysis of Vierne’s “Scherzo” from the Sixth Symphony, composed in 1930, exemplifies that his modal awareness has evolved. Thus, the modal usage becomes more logical in his writing. This is evident in the opening measures of “Scherzo.” There are no passing tones or chromatic alterations in the opening material. Modes 3 and 7 dominate the composition. (See Example 1. Mode 3 uses two transposition levels: 2 and 4. Mode 7 uses transposition 1, 2, and 5).⁸ Their common tone relationships are displayed in the examples of the main theme. However, for this opening material, the common tone of G is found in all transposition levels used by Vierne, thus allowing the free movement between each level on the opening measures (Example 1a).

Analytical chart of the opening page (measures 1–10):

Measure 1: M3, T4 (eighth-note opening flourish); sixteenth-note group: M3, T2

Measure 2: first sixteenth note: M3, T2; second group: M7, T1.

Measure 3: flourish: M3, T4; sixteenth notes: T2

Measure 4: sixteenth notes: M3, T2; 2nd group: M7, T1

Measure 5: flourish: M3, T4; sixteenth notes: M7, T2

Measure 6: flourish: M3, T2; sixteenth notes: M7, T1

Measure 7: first group of six notes: M3, T1; group of 4: M3, T2

Measure 8: first group of six: M3, T4; group of 4: M3, T2

Measure 9: flourish: M3, T4; sixteenth notes: M7, T2

Measure 10: first sixteenth notes: M7, T5; second group: M7, T2

While this article is not intended to provide an exhaustive analysis accounting for every note in each measure of the eighteen pages of “Scherzo”, a detailed analysis of page one illustrates a clear lack of functional harmony. One does not sense, aurally or visually, any traditional voice leading or harmonic progression. Thus, claiming that “Scherzo” is written “in the key of G minor” is erroneous. The material is modal, and knowledge of the Modes of Limited Transposition is paramount for understanding this music.

The most important analysis of “Scherzo” pertains to the main, cyclical theme (meaning, it is present in all five movements of the symphony).⁹ It comprises two parts—the first is six measures in duration; the second is ten measures.¹⁰ Here is the layout:

First statement

Part 1, measures 41–46: Mode 3, T1. See Examples 2 and 2a.

Part 2, measures 47–56: Mode 7, T2 (passing tone B in measure 55). See Example 3. (Mode 7, T2 is written in Example 1.)

Common tones (measure 46): E, D, C (allowing for modal shift).

Second statement (common tones G, D from previous measure)

Part 1, measures 57–62: Mode 3, T1, measures 41–46.

Part 2, measures 63–72: Mode 7, T2 (passing tone B in measure 71), measures 47–56. Common tones, E, D, C (from measure 62, allowing for modal shift).¹¹

Third statement

Part 1, measures 113–118: Mode 3, T4. See Example 4 (M3, T4 is written in Example 1).

Part 2, measures 119–128: Mode 7, T1 (passing tone B-flat in measure 127).

Common tones (measure 118): E-flat, D-flat, C-flat. See Example 5.

Fourth statement (common tones: C, G-flat, D-flat, D from previous measure).

Part 1, measures 129–134: Mode 3, T2. See Example 6.

Part 2, measures 135–144: Mode 7, T6 (passing tone C-sharp in measure 143).

Common tones (measure 134): F-sharp, E, D. See Examples 7a and 7b.

Fifth statement

Part 1, measures 153–158: Mode 3, T4.¹² See Example 8.

Part 2, measures 159–168: Mode 7, T3 (passing tone F-sharp in measure 167).

Common tones (measure 158): B, A, G. See Example 9.

Sixth statement (common tones: C-sharp, A, B-flat from previous measure)

Theme is inverted with a different accompaniment pattern; theme becomes segmented into three parts:

Part 1, measures 169–174: Mode 3, T4 (six measures). See Example 10a.

Part 2, measures 175–180: Mode 7, T5 (six measures).

Common tones (measure 174): A, B, C-sharp. See Example 10b.

Part 3, measures 181–184: Mode 7, T3 (passing tone C in measure 183) (four measures).

Common tones (measure 180): B-flat, C-sharp. See Example 10c.

Compared to Vierne’s earlier works in 24 Pièces de Fantaisie, “Scherzo” from Sixth Symphony is more modally consistent.¹³ The theme has virtually no chromatic alterations as seen in his previous compositions. Also, Sixth Symphony is Vierne’s last piece for solo organ. Rollin Smith states that “Vierne’s harmonic vocabulary by this time had become so intensely chromatic that one of the themes in each of the first two movements of this symphony utilizes all twelve notes of the chromatic scale.”¹⁴

We can conclude, then, that as the years progressed, these modal elements that were once used rather loosely took on a new structure and identity, one that piqued the interest of Olivier Messiaen. Through this interest, Messiaen wrote two compositions (between Vierne’s aforementioned pieces) and later codified these modal elements into the Modes of Limited Transposition. This codification was published in his La Nativité du Seigneur in 1936—one year prior to Vierne’s death.

Notes

1. Louis Vierne, Pièces de Fantaisie en quatre suites, Livre III, opus 53, ed. Helga Schauerte-Maubouet (Kassel: Bärenreiter-Verlag, 2008), XXII. A fitting quote to describe the imagery of “Scherzo.” This is further emphasized by Maurice Duruflé’s description of: “The Scherzo, although wishing to jest, neither succeeds in finding a true gaiety nor makes one forget the somber nightmares that haunt the Aria [Movement 2]. Instead, the composer, with sparkling verve, depicts the diabolical giggles of grimacing gargoyles.” Rollin Smith, Louis Vierne: Organist of Notre Dame Cathedral (New York: Pendragon Press, 1999), page 567.
2. The most recent document that analyzes Vierne’s Sixth Symphony is the dissertation of Emily Marie Meixner: Meixner, Emily Marie. n.d. “The Sixth Organ Symphony of Louis Vierne (1870–1937): An Analysis.” doi:10.7274/2227mp50s8q. It is a significant achievement and an interesting approach. Meixner does make reference to Vierne’s common use of the whole-tone scale (Mode 1 of the Modes of Limited Transposition) and the Gregorian modes (Phrygian and Mixolydian, respectively). My published articles in The Diapason and my dissertation, “Louis Vierne and the Evolution of His Modal Consciousness,” 2018, clearly outline my approach and methods. I will continue in this manner.

3. Michael Murray, French Masters of the Organ: Saint-Saëns, Franck, Widor, Vierne, Dupré, Messiaen (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1998), page 186.

4. Also, “Messiaen says he became fluent in his modes by often improvising on them in Dupré’s class. But he takes no credit for contriving them all.” Ibid., page 188.

5. By 1924 Vierne and Dupré, once close friends, were bitter enemies. The crux of the dispute was over the title of “Organiste titulaire de Notre-Dame de Paris.” This misuse by Dupré during his first American concert tour (he was Vierne’s assistant, not the sole organist of the cathedral) drove a wedge between these two men. The animosity lasted until Vierne’s death. Dupré even forbade any of his students to play Vierne’s compositions during their organ lessons at the Conservatoire. Smith, Louis Vierne, pages 330–343.

6. At this time (1890), César Franck was Vierne’s first teacher at the Paris Conservatoire. Vierne and Tournemire were also classmates. Regarding Tournemire, Vierne remarked that he was “a born improvisor” and the entire studio was “captivated by the harmonies he had discovered for the free theme,” in reference to a studio competition in 1890, where Tournemire was awarded “first accessit.” Smith, Louis Vierne, page 47.

7. Ibid., 125.

8. Be mindful of enharmonic equivalence when comparing music passages to scales. Having your own corrected score for study while reading this article is advised.

9. Maurice Duruflé referenced this in his description of the Sixth Symphony for the Paris premiere at Notre-Dame Cathedral in 1935. The full description is found in Smith, Louis Vierne, page 567.

10. This division is more for clarity than for phrasing/musicality. The mode changes at the created divisions.

11. The second statement is identical to the first, it is just written in the treble octaves. There are some notational changes in comparison. However, they are just enharmonic.

12. In the original score (published by Henry Lemoine in 1931), there is an error in the pedal theme in measure 155. The first pedal note in Lemoine’s score is an “E” moving down to “D.” This does not fit the regular pattern of the theme in previous statements. Also, it does not fit the Mode 3, T4 scale. On hearing this, it is an obvious engraving error. While Rollin Smith’s list of “Textual Corrections for the Six Symphonies” (Smith, Louis Vierne, Appendix E, pages 719–734) does not mention this correction, it is clearly made in Bärenreiter’s new 2010 edition (BA 9226). The correct pattern of measure 155 is “B” moving up to “D.” This also highlights the importance of understanding the Modes of Limited Transposition for analysis of Vierne’s organ works.

13. A composition of note is “Feux Follets.” The writing Vierne uses can best be described as a modally dense quilt patchwork of the work’s main theme and figurations. It is so highly chromatic that even the Modes of Limited Transposition do not work well as a form of analysis; it is chromatic writing.

14. Smith, Louis Vierne, page 565.