On Teaching

Gavin Black is director of the Princeton Early Keyboard Center

Hard pieces and 

recalcitrant passages

This month I am writing about the phenomenon of pieces being difficult and the related phenomenon of specific passages being hard to learn: either difficult by any standard or surprisingly difficult—for reasons that may seem elusive—for a particular student. This is not a very systematic or methodological discussion: just a few ideas—almost just random thoughts—that I think are interesting or that may help some students or teachers. 

We all believe that some pieces are harder to learn or to perform than other pieces. This—just as a basic fact—is probably as close to uncontroversial as anything gets in the field of music and music teaching in general, or of organ-playing and organ teaching in particular. We don’t necessarily all agree as to which pieces are more difficult and which less so. Most of us, from our own experiences as players and from what we have seen with our own students or other performers, know that different pieces or sorts of pieces are more or less difficult for different players, and at different times in one player’s career.

Repertoire in order of difficulty

When I first acquired copies of one or two volumes of the Peters edition of the Bach organ music—in about 1971, at the age of about fourteen—I noticed that the separately bound Preface included a listing of all of the (non-chorale based) pieces arranged according to difficulty. I was excited about this, since it seemed both useful and authoritative. I allowed it to influence what pieces I chose to work on—though not in a logical or consistent way. Sometimes I would choose a piece because I thought it was easy enough to be within my grasp, sometimes I would spurn and reject pieces that were described as being “easy,” because I thought that working on them would be sort of embarrassing, classifying me as “not very good.” Needless to say, this was all rather silly. 

I did continue for a long time—after my studying had become at least a bit more systematic and effective—to cast sneaky glances at the list out of the corner of my eye. I would pat myself on the back just a little a bit whenever I put in some work on a piece in the top half or so of the difficulty scale. I pretty much stopped doing this when Eugene Roan, with whom I had by then started taking lessons, mentioned casually to me one day that an eminent recitalist he know thought that piece x was much more difficult than piece y—the opposite order from the Peters list. This introduced me to the idea that this whole difficulty thing could be relative, though at that point in my career I couldn’t have said how or why this might be so. 

Reger and Straube

Another way that the concept of difficulty as a kind of independent variable in pieces of music came to my attention when I was first getting interested in organ was through hearing the story of Max Reger and Karl Straube. The idea was that Reger had made his organ pieces more and more difficult in the hope of writing something that Straube, his good friend who was also the leading German organ virtuoso of the time, would be unable to play. It was also said that he never succeeded: that Straube “won.” There are a couple of interesting things about this. One is that, of course, it is trivially easy to write a piece that is unplayable, if that is really all that you want to do. All that you need to do is to write notes that are too far apart in compass to reach.  The music does not have to be particularly complex or intricate or fast. However, a piece that is really unplayable will, in fact, not be played. That is never in any composer’s interest. Not surprisingly, composers—whether they are writing for Karl Straube or not—tend to approach daringly close to that “unplayable” line, and then to decide not to cross it. This is as true of a composer like Beethoven, who stated bluntly that he didn’t care what performers could or couldn’t do, as it is of composers like Bach or Franck, whose keyboard compositions arose out of their own work as performers and improvisers. 

It is also interesting that Straube—as a student, before he had met Reger in person—was in fact drawn to Reger’s music in part because it was first presented to him as being too difficult to play. Straube’s teacher Heinrich Reimann showed him Reger’s then very recently published Suite in E Minor, op. 16, telling him that it was unplayable. This seems to have motivated Straube to learn it, which may or may not have been Reimann’s intention all along. I myself, when I was still more-or-less a student, occasionally started to work on a piece because someone had said to me that I could not learn it. (This was never, in my case, one of my own teachers.) I always learned something valuable from the attempt, although it did not necessarily result in my mastering the piece in question at that time.

Aspects of difficulty 

When we talk about a piece’s being very difficult, we are almost always talking about the learning and reliable playing of the notes: the right notes, in the right order, at a suitable tempo. That is not to say that anyone denies that other aspects of playing a piece can be difficult. In fact, performing even a simple piece in such a way that it is extraordinarily compelling, beautiful, interesting, thought-provoking, disturbing, whatever we want it to be, is probably as hard and (at least) as rarely achieved as playing a difficult piece competently. However, that is indeed a different thing. When students ask whether the Goldberg Variations or the Dupré Prelude and Fugue in G Minor is too hard for them, they are rarely inquiring about whether the teacher thinks that they can project the deepest meaning of the piece effectively. Of course, there is always this relationship between what might for the sake of simplicity be called the two types of difficulty: that the better-learned the notes of a piece can become for a given player—the closer the piece can come to feeling easy once it has been learned—the more of a chance there is that a performance can also be musically effective.

The piece that I happen to have been practicing the most in the week or so before I sat down to write this column is the “In Nomine” by John Bull that is found in volume 1 of The Fitzwilliam Virginal Book. The makers of a list like the Peters Bach organ repertoire list would probably put this piece at the easy end of “moderate” or the somewhat high end of “easy.” It is in three voices throughout, but none of the voices is very busy or intricate. For much of the piece the middle voice lies in such a way that it could be taken by either hand, so there is a fair amount of fingering flexibility. It is (though this is obviously subjective) not a piece that many people would think should go very fast: certainly not fast enough to make playing it into an athletic challenge—which some of Bull’s pieces are. This is a piece that I used to play a lot and, as best I can remember, I did indeed initially choose it because it was not too athletic. Bull’s Walsingham or King’s Hunt would have seemed beyond me many years ago. However, it occurs to me that this piece is a good illustration of the relationship between note-learning difficulty and tempo. There is—literally—a set of tempos at which this short Bull piece would be harder to play than the Reger Opus 16: that is, a mind-bendingly fast tempo for the Bull and a glacial tempo for the Reger. In order to achieve my inverting of the difficulty of these two pieces, the tempos would have to be so extreme that they would both be well outside what anyone would ever do. However, within a more realistic range of performance tempos, the Bull can become a virtuoso challenge of its own, and the Reger can move from the “impossible” all the way down to the “very hard.”

Difficult passages

Many pieces that have a reputation for being very hard are as difficult as their reputations suggest only in spots. For example, the Bach F-major Toccata is considered one of his hardest organ pieces. It earned a very high place on “the list”—maybe at the very top, certainly close. However, long stretches of the piece are really not hard at all. The opening has nothing going on in the pedal, and the two manual lines are somewhat intricate, but not remotely beyond the bounds of the “intermediate” for anyone. Then there is a pedal solo, which is also quite learnable. The following two pages are essentially a recap of this opening: carefully designed by the always pedagogically aware composer to be a bit longer and a bit trickier than the opening itself, but similar in nature. Then, beginning at about the fifth page, the hands and feet start moving together, and things get more complex. Still, however, the notes fall into place quite naturally. Most players I know who have worked on this piece report that this section yields nicely to practicing and is not more difficult than other Bach prelude-type pieces. It is the three brief passages that involve the return of the opening motif of the piece, this time in manuals and pedal together, that seem really hair-raising to many of those who work on the piece. This is not everyone’s experience, but it is a common one. Other very difficult pieces can be analyzed this way as well: perhaps most of them. In the Goldberg Variations, for another example, probably about eighty percent of the writing is no more difficult than the average for The Well-tempered Clavier or Handel harpsichord suites. That is not, by any standards, “easy.” But it is the remaining fifth or so of the work that gives it its reputation as “only for advanced players.”

One source of difficulty in working on pieces of music is unfamiliarity with a particular style or the technical tendencies of a particular type of music. Ralph Kirkpatrick, in his preface to his edition of sixty Scarlatti sonatas, first outlines a set of rigorous ideas about how to work on the sonatas, both as to analysis and as to practicing. Then he says that if a student approaches six sonatas this thoroughly he or she will not have to do the same with the next sonata or later ones. The particular shapes of a given kind of music become ingrained. I myself, as a player who has worked more on Baroque music than on anything else, find it much easier both to sight-read and to learn Baroque pieces—even complex and difficult ones—than music from a later era. To me this suggests patience. If a student is working on his or her first piece from a particular genre or style or time period, then that piece is going to be harder than the next one will be. That should not be surprising.

Practice strategies

If a student is interested in working on a piece that seems too hard, I am extremely committed to letting him or her do so and to making it work. The first step for me is to try to figure out whether the difficulty is found in a few spots or more or less throughout. This affects learning strategy. In the first instance, I will suggest to the student that we break the piece up and completely abandon any thought that it is one unified piece—just for the time being of course, but with a lack of impatience as to how long that time will be. Then the easier—more “normal”—parts can be practiced and learned in a “normal” way, systematically and carefully, along the lines that I have written about before. The extremely hard passages can be treated as intensive exercises: analyzed, taken apart, put back together and practiced to within an inch of their lives. 

A piece that is quite difficult—perhaps too difficult for the student—and of much the same difficulty throughout simply needs to be taken apart and practiced well. The key here is to make sure that the student understands what the process will feel like. Anyone can practice anything effectively if it is kept slow enough. In this context, the meaning of a piece’s being “too hard” is simply that working on it correctly will take a long time. Would the student rather work on this piece for a very long time, or postpone it, work on other pieces in the meantime, and wait to work on the proposed piece later? This is simply a matter of what the student prefers: either approach is fine for helping him or her to become a more accomplished player. 

In fact, it can be perfectly useful and helpful for a student to work on a challenging piece even if he or she never really learns it—assuming that the failure to learn it is of the right sort. If the goal is to perform a piece then, by definition, that piece must be practiced until it is learned and secure and ready to go. However, if the goal is to use the process of working on a piece to become a better player in the long run, then it doesn’t matter whether the time put in practicing that piece is followed by more time with that same piece (eventually leading to its being learned) or by practicing a new piece. The choice to practice a hard piece up to a certain point and then let it go is perfectly acceptable, assuming that the student is happy with it, and understands that it is a process, not a failure. And of course, that same piece will be there for the student to come back to later. In fact, the first round of work on the piece will leave that piece in very good shape to be picked up again later: it will probably even get better during any time that the student takes off from it. It will be sinking into the subconscious mind. The only technical requirement for this approach to be fruitful is that the work done on the piece—or any section of it—be accurate and technically sound, but below tempo. If the piece is put aside in this way, it should be put aside at a slow tempo but otherwise exactly as it should be.

Gavin Black is director of the Princeton Early Keyboard Center. He can be reached by e-mail at [email protected]. A selection of Gavin Black’s organ performances can now be heard on YouTube by searching on his name at the YouTube website.

Marijim Thoene received a D.M.A. in organ performance/church music from the University of Michigan in 1984. She is an active recitalist and director of music at St. John Lutheran Church in Dundee, Michigan. Her two CDs, Mystics and Spirits and Wind Song are available through Raven Recordings. She is a frequent presenter at medieval conferences on the topic of the image of the pipe organ in medieval manuscripts. Alan Knight has been music director of Ss. Simon and Jude Church in Westland, Michigan, for the past 11 years, during which time he earned the D.M.A. in organ performance at the University of Michigan under James Kibbie. There, he did research into Renaissance methods of organ improvisation and performed contemporary works of Rorem, Messiaen, Schroeder, and Kenton Coe. He has served as sub-dean of the Ann Arbor Chapter of the American Guild of Organists, organized new music festivals, and contributed to this year’s successful POE. He coaches and writes reviews freelance and has recently written a memorial acclamation for the new English liturgical texts. Photo credit: Marijim Thoene, unless indicated otherwise.

With unflagging dedication, enthusiasm, and vision, Marilyn Mason planned and organized the 51st Organ Conference at the University of Michigan. European guest artists included Jaroslav Tůma, interpreter of Czech music; Almut Rössler, artist, scholar, and teacher of Olivier Messiaen; and Helga Schauerte, interpreter and scholar of Jehan Alain. It was exhilarating to hear these three artists perform, as well to hear them instruct students and lecture. Many other outstanding performers and scholars participated in the conference, which featured the music of Franz Liszt, Olivier Messiaen, Jehan Alain, Alan Hovhaness, and others. The overarching theme of the conference was celebration—of the bicentennial anniversary of Liszt’s birth and the centennial anniversary of the births of Jehan Alain and Alan Hovhaness.  

Sunday, October 2, Hill Auditorium

The opening concerts were played in Hill Auditorium on the Frieze Memorial Organ. Joseph Balistreri, student of James Kibbie, opened the conference, with a memorized master’s degree recital that featured Bach’s Fantasia et Fuga in g-moll, BWV 542, Alain’s Aria, Duruflé’s Prélude et fugue sur le nom d’Alain, and Widor’s Symphonie Romane. His playing reflected an impressive technique and a bristling enthusiasm for each work, especially the Symphonie Romane, which he introduced by singing the chant, Haec dies (after the first reading on Easter Sunday), upon which the work is based. 

The evening recital was played by Timothy Tikker, a doctoral student of Marilyn Mason. His all-Liszt program included Präludium und Fuge über
B-A-C-H, S. 260 (1885/1870), two meditative pieces from Consolations, S. 172 (Adagio IV, transcribed by Liszt, and Adagio V, transcribed by A.W. Gottschlag), Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen, S. 180, and Fantasie und Fuge über den Choral ‘Ad nos, ad salutarem undam’, S. 259 (1850), Liszt’s first organ piece. Tikker’s careful preparation of these pieces was apparent, as was his emotional investment. His thoughtful comments described Liszt’s stages of grief in Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen, S. 180, his anger and final resignation and acceptance of God’s will expressed in the Bach chorale, Whatever God Ordains Is Right. Tikker noted that the breakdown in western tonality began with Liszt’s Weinen, Klagen.

Monday, October 3,

Blanche Anderson Moore Hall

The day began with Czech organist Jaroslav Tůma, who presented a predominantly Czech program, along with Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in A Minor, BWV 543, and O Mensch, bewein’ dein’ Sünde gross, BWV 622. It was a special gift to be introduced to the repertoire of Bohuslav Matej Cernohorsky, Josef Ferdinand Norbert Seger, Jan Křtitel Kuchař, Jan Vojtech Maxant, and Anonymous from Moravia by such an exuberant artist who made us want to dance. Tůma exploited every possible color on the Fisk organ. His pungent registrations and light touch were especially enjoyed in the eleven movements of Suite of Dances from the Region of Haná by an eighteenth-century anonymous Moravian composer. The reeds, cornet, and flutes shimmered in excited dialogues. Tůma ended his recital with Suite for Clavier (Organ, Harpsichord or Clavichord) by Maxant—a piece of irrepressible circus joy, filled with foot-tapping waltzes and calliopes. 

1:30 pm First Congregational Church

German musicologist and organist Susanne Diederich, who has examined over 150 French Classical organs in situ, lectured on “The Classical French Organ and its Music 1660–1719.” Her handout included a succinct summary of the specifications of an R. and J. Clicquot organ dated 1690/1794 as well as a cabinet organ dated 1671 by Etienne Enocq; tables listing the composition of mixtures for a small and large instrument; a table listing families of stops, the combination of ranks involved, and corresponding French title of the composition; and D’Anglebert’s table of ornaments, which J. S. Bach copied. 

Registration and ornamentation of the French Classical School were demonstrated on the Karl Wilhelm organ by Kipp Cortez, a first-year organ student of Marilyn Mason, and Christopher Urbiel, D.M.A., former Mason student and music minister at St. Sebastian Catholic Church in Dearborn Heights, Michigan. Both performers played with conviction and energy. Cortez played Plein jeu Continu du 7e ton by Jacques Boyvin, Kyrie from Messe du 2me Ton by G.G. Nivers, and Récit tendre from Messe du 8me ton by Gaspard Corrette. Urbiel played Fugue from Veni Creator by de Grigny, Tierce en Taille by Boyvin, and Dialogue in D Minor by Marchand.

3:15 pm Hill Auditorium

Jaroslav Tůma, with Karel Paukert acting as translator and general bon vivant, offered a masterclass in improvisation. Performers included Marcia Heirman (former student of Marilyn Mason), Joseph Balistreri, and Colin Knapp (students of James Kibbie). Tůma suggested experimenting with these techniques in developing a theme: repetition, retrograde, interval expansion, keeping the direction the same; strong rhythmic underpinning; meter change; ABA form; pedal ostinato; skeletal harmony for accompaniment or a regular scale; drone. 

4:15 pm Hill Auditorium

A recital of the music of Jehan Alain was played masterfully by students of James Kibbie. Professor Kibbie made this music especially poignant by prefacing each piece with an explanation of the piece, or reading from Alain’s diary. Each student clearly felt great empathy with Alain’s music. The recitalists and works included: Andrew Lang, Première Fantaisie; John Woolsey, Variations sur un theme de Clément Jannequin; Benjamin Woolsey, Fantasmagorie; Joseph Balistreri, Aria; Colin Knapp, Deux danses à Agni Yavishta; Monte Thomas, Choral dorien; Matthew Kim, Variations sur Lucis Creator; Richard Newman, Deuils from Trois danses; Daniel Mikat (organist) and Sara B. Mikat (soprano), Vocalise dorienne/Ave Maria. A recording of Alain’s music by Prof. Kibbie’s students is available on the U of M website, .

8 pm Hill Auditorium

It is a great privilege to hear Almut Rössler play an all-Messiaen recital. Her connection to Ann Arbor began in 1974, when both she and Marilyn Mason met as judges at the Chartres Organ Competition. In a very quiet voice, Prof. Rössler spoke about the evolution of Messiaen’s style, saying that he considered the Ascension Suite to be in his “old style” and that his true style did not begin until his Nativity Suite. He began his Easter cycle, Les Corps Glorieux, immediately before World War II. In it is the enigmatic vision of what Prof. Rössler calls “the resurrection of the successors of Christ.” She gave a brief analysis of each of the seven movements. Her assistant, Nancy Poland, a D.M.A. graduate of Michigan and former student of Marilyn Mason, read the text accompanying each work. Included here is the text that accompanies the seven movements of Les Corps Glorieux (1939), and a brief synopsis of Prof. Rössler’s analysis:

1. The Subtlety of Glorified Bodies. “It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body” (I Cor. 15:44). “For they are as angels of God in heaven” (Matt. 22:30).

A.R.: “The music is totally unaccompanied monody. It is played in alternation on three different cornet stops of varying volume.” 

2. The Waters of Grace. “For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of water” (Rev. 7:17).

A.R.: “The strangely ‘fluid’ character of the music is achieved in two ways—by polymodality and registration.”

3. The Angel of Incense. “And the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, ascended up before God out of the angel’s hand” (Rev. 8:4). 

A.R.: “A monodic main theme in the style of certain Hindu ragas played on clarinet and nazard.”

4. The Battle between Death and Life. “Death and life have been engaged in one stultifying battle; the Author of life after being dead lives and reigns. He has said: ‘My Father, I am revived, and I am again with you’” (Missal, Sequence and Introit of Easter).  

A.R.: “Two armies clash in battle, represented by big chords, the theme of death begins . . . ”   

5. The Power and Agility of Glorified Bodies. “It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power” (I Cor. 15: 43).

A.R.: “The ability to pass through walls and traverse space with the speed of lightning is conveyed in music of powerful vitality. Vehement and robust are the resurrected, agile and strong. This section is monodic.” 

6. The Joy and Radiance of Glorified Bodies. “Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father” (Matt. 13:43).

A.R.: “Radiance or splendor is the first attribute of glorified bodies, each of which is the source of its own light and its own individual luster, which St. Paul explains in a symbolical way when he says: ‘For one star differeth from another star in glory.’ These differences in degrees of radiance are mirrored in the shifting tone-colors.”

7. The Mystery of the Holy Trinity. “Almighty God, who with the only-begotten Son and with the Holy Ghost art one God not in the unity of one person but in three persons of one substance” (Preface for Trinity Sunday).

A.R.: “This entire section is devoted to the number 3. It is three-voiced, its form is tripartite, each of the three main subdivisions being in itself in three parts. The middle voice (the Son) has the straightforward tonal color of the 8′ flute; the other two (the Father and the Holy Ghost) mix the 16′ and 32′ with the 2′, in other words the very lowest with the very highest. The whole piece is in a remote, blurred pp, against which the middle voice stands out: by his incarnation the Son alone came visibly close to us.”

Also included in the program were Chants d’Oiseaux (IV, Livre d’orgue, 1951), and VI from Méditations sur le Mystère de la Sainte Trinité (1969), the Offertory for Epiphany, based on the text, “In the word was life and the life was the light” (John 1:4). It was a rare privilege to hear Almut Rössler, who has devoted her life to this music, present a profound expression of Messiaen’s sacred beliefs.

Tuesday, October 4, Hill Auditorium

At 9:30 am, Helga Schauerte’s lecture, “Jehan Alain: A Life in Three Dances,” reflected her life’s commitment to the study of Alain’s organ music. She was drawn to his music the first time she heard it—she had never heard anything so free. In 1983 Ms. Schauerte wrote the first English and German biographies of Alain. In 1990 Motette released her 1989 recordings of Alain’s complete organ works. The 1990 CDs were reissued in 2004 and include the addition of newly discovered recordings of Jehan Alain playing at the Temple in the Rue Notre Dame de Nazareth in Paris. Schauerte’s years of research, which led her to discover unknown manuscripts, and rugged determination culminated this year in Bärenreiter’s publication of her edition of Alain’s organ work in three volumes.

Schauerte observed that Alain’s life was mirrored in his masterwork, Trois Danses—Joies (Joy), Deuils (Mourning), and Luttes (Struggles). His youth was reflected in Joies; his grief on the death of his 23-year-old sister, Odile, who died in a mountain-climbing accident while protecting her younger brother Olivier, in Deuils; and his life in World War II as a soldier volunteering for risky missions in Luttes. Schauerte said Alain had a premonition of his tragic death, this “coincidencia” he expressed in his music, drawing, and poetry, and he, like Mozart and Schubert, crystallized his whole life’s work within a short period of time. She illustrated biographical details of his life with photographs of Alain’s parents; his childhood home; himself as a child, music student, mountain climber, and soldier; his siblings; his wife and three children; and the place where he was killed in action in Saumur. These were powerful images, filled with the beauty and exuberance of a life ended too soon. Schauerte also showed some of Alain’s whimsical drawings and read from his poetry and diary, offering intimate glimpses into his personality. She said he could be lively and wild one minute and contemplative the next. 

Schauerte stated that among her discoveries are findings from 14 autographed copies of Alain’s work owned  by Lola Bluhm and Alain’s daughter, and they are included in the new edition.  She noted that the only pieces with Alain’s own metronome markings are the Intermezzo and Suite. 

11:00 am Hill Auditorium

In Almut Rössler’s masterclass, Joshua Boyd, a freshman student of Marilyn Mason, played The Celestial Banquet. Prof. Rössler pointed out that these were early sounds for Messiaen—drops of the blood of Christ. In abbreviated form, I include her comments, which are invaluable to anyone playing Messiaen: 

The sound of water drops is achieved not by legato playing, but by movement of the leg straight down into the pedal with a sharp release. In the second edition he uses in the pedal registration 4, 22⁄3, 2, 13⁄5, a kind of cornet without a fundamental. Messiaen can be played on a North German Baroque organ, English and American organs; one must know what is adequate, what is the character, atmosphere, and emotional expression of the work. One must know the inner idea and how to achieve it. The second edition, 1960, is the most important one. Pay attention to slurs; some end at the end of the line, others go to the next line.  Always follow the slurs. Also pay attention to thumb glissandos.  

1:30 pm Hill Auditorium 

With her characteristic light touch Marilyn Mason, “the maker of organists” for over a half a century, shared her good luck “secret” with us. She said after one of her recitals at Riverside a woman congratulated her, saying that she was envious of her being so lucky to play so well. Prof. Mason replied, “Yes, and the more I practice, the luckier I get.” She continued, saying, “I always tell my students when they feel like giving up, that’s the time they need to really practice. Never give up.” She then introduced four of her former students who had received the D.M.A. and who proceeded to demonstrate that she’s right! Each of them played with dazzling technique, assurance, and passion. The performers, dates of their degrees, and their pieces follow: Shin-Ae Chun (2006), Prelude and Fugue on the name of A.L.A.I.N., Duruflé; Joseph Galema (1982), Allegro deciso from Evocation, op. 37, Dupré; Seth Nelson (2006), Troisième Choral en la mineur, Franck; and Andrew Meagher (2010), Prelude and Fugue, Jerry Bilik (b. 1933). This was the premiere performance of Bilik’s work, which was commissioned by and dedicated to Marilyn Mason. It features the Michigan fight song, Hail to the Victors (!)—the composer’s grin was as big as ours. 

3 pm Hill Auditorium

Peggy Kelley Reinburg, recitalist and Alain scholar, presented an informative lecture, “The Liturgical Potential in Selected Organ and Piano Compositions of Jehan Ariste Alain.” She demonstrated how Alain was influenced by the colors of the French Classical School by playing Clérambault’s Suite du Deuxième Ton. Her description of her visit to the Abbey where Alain played and composed his Postlude pour les Complies allowed us to absorb its stillness and peace. She quoted from his letter, “The abbey organ (Abbaye de Valloires) was beautiful especially after 9 pm,” and commented that this was his first composition written for organ. She suggested that the following pieces be used in a liturgical setting: (organ) Postlude pour les Complies, Choral Dorien, Ballade en mode Phrygien, Berceuse sur deux notes qui cornent, Le jardin suspendu; (piano) Choral—Seigneur, donne-nous la paix eternelle, Romance, Nocturne, Suite Façile—Comme une barcarolle, and Suite Monodique. Reinburg’s elegant performance of these meditative and serene pieces offered convincing support for her argument.

8 pm Hill Auditorium

Helga Schauerte’s years of researching Alain’s life and music were abundantly apparent in her recital. Not only was she at one with his music, breathing into it a deeply personal interpretation, but by playing two of Langlais’ pieces—one written in his memory and one dedicated to him—presented Alain the man, the self-sacrificing citizen. Included in her recital was Langlais’ Chant héröique, op. 40, no. 4, inscribed, “To the memory of Jehan Alain, fallen for France as a hero in the Defense of Saumur, June 1940,” and his Resurrection, op. 250, no. 4, inscribed, “dedicated to Jehan Alain.” Of all the Alain repertoire in the recital, which included Fantaisies nos. 1 and 2, Variations sur un theme de Clément Jannequin, Deux Danses à Agni Yavishta, Fantasmagorie, Litanies, and Trois Danses, for me it was in the Trois Danses that Alain’s spirit seemed to dance and leap. One of Alain’s daughters has thanked Schauerte for bringing his music to life, saying that her father lived on because of her. We all say thank you, Helga Schauerte!

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

9:30 am Hill Auditorium Mezzanine

Damin Spritzer shared her extensive research on René Louis Becker, a compilation of many published works as well as original manuscripts. As an Alsatian-born and educated musician and organist, Becker seems to have fit well into the early 20th-century American scene, first joining the faculty of his brothers’ music conservatory in St. Louis, Missouri, and then in a series of church positions in Illinois and Michigan, including his appointment as first organist of the Cathedral of the Most Blessed Sacrament in Detroit, Michigan. Spritzer is interested in studying the various organs of Becker’s experience, both in America and in Alsace, as a factor in shaping his organ compositions. It is not always possible to acquire information on these organs. Spritzer suggests his three organ sonatas, which are extended works, as a starting point to appreciate René Becker’s music. 

There are several choral works of Becker’s as well. Well-respected by his contemporaries such as Alexander Schreiner, Albert Riemenschneider, and others, Becker was one of the major organ figures of his day in America, though now largely forgotten and left to the past, even in the churches where he had ministered. However, renewed interest is beginning to flower with new recordings and publications. Becker’s works are not completely catalogued, partly due to discrepancies in opus numbers of works published in his lifetime and those in original manuscripts. Spritzer related that the selection of René Becker for research was suggested by Michael Barone. In this mammoth research task, the descendants of René Becker have lent their assistance. They were present for the lecture. 

10:30 am Hill Auditorium

Almut Rössler resumed the masterclass begun the day before on the stage of Hill Auditorium. With Nancy Deacon (Les Bergers) and Kipp Cortez (Le Verbe), she stressed counting the subdivisions of the beat to make the longer notes precise and the rhythmic texture secure as written. “‘Espresif’ does not mean ‘free’” was one of her comments. Also noteworthy was not breathing and lifting between phrases if there are no phrase marks (slurs) indicated. Always play a perfect legato with “old-fashioned” finger substitutions (from the methods of Dupré and Gleason) as well as the thumb glissando. All-important is locating the musical symbols and depictions and playing them according to their own nature, both by the manner of playing and in the registration. One must understand the titles and subtitles to execute the meaning and color of the piece, which is almost always objective. 

No matter who is on the bench in a Rössler masterclass, it is always a rewarding experience to receive her teaching, benefit from her inspiring musicianship, and to upgrade one’s awareness of Olivier Messiaen’s music, owing to her 20 years of close association and study with him. 

12:15 pm School of Public Health, Community Lounge

Brandon D. Spence performed for the audience of the Community Lounge, where those on Central Campus can enjoy an organ recital in the “Brown Bag” lunch recital series at the School of Public Health on the Létourneau organ. Included on his memorized program were Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier, BWV 731, Bach; Two Meditations, Ulysses Kay; Fuga C-Dur, BuxWV 174, and Praeludium und Fuga g-moll, BuxWV 149, Buxtehude. Spence gave helpful comments on each piece before playing.

1:30 pm Hill Auditorium

Marijim Thoene presented an in-depth and authoritative lecture/recital of Alan Hovhaness’s eight organ works, indicating which are unpublished, as well as the published works (C. F. Peters and Fujihara Music Co., Seattle, Washington). Hovhaness is perhaps known more for his orchestral (Mysterious Mountain) and choral (Magnificat) music more than for his organ works. Discouraged by the criticisms of Leonard Bernstein and Aaron Copland of his Symphony in 1943, Hovhaness took the advice of the Greek psychic and mystic painter Hermon
di Giovanno, who persuaded him to study the music of his Armenian ancestors. Hovhaness then became organist for St. James Armenian Church in Watertown, Massachusetts. There he studied his Armenian musical heritage, which was not passed down to him through his family. Thoene noted his “turn toward the East” in musical language and played a recording of the beginning of the Divine (Armenian) Liturgy as well as a few notes on the sho instrument, a handheld, Japanese pipe organ of ancient Chinese origin. Hovhaness strove to incorporate the musical idiom of Eastern peoples into his compositional style and make their modalities his own. 

Thoene performed Organ Sonata No. 2, Invisible Sun, op. 385, Ms.; three pieces from Sanahin Partita for Organ, op. 69: 2. Estampie, 4. First Whirling, and 7. Apparition in the Sky; Hermit Thrush (Sonata No. 3, op. 424); and her own commission, Habakkuk, op. 434 (1995), which is Hovhaness’s last organ work (1995). In this piece, Hovhaness was asked to reflect on Habakkuk 3:17–19: 

Even though the fig trees are all destroyed, and there is neither blossom left nor fruit; and though the olive crops all fail, and the fields lie barren; even if the flocks die in the fields and the cattle barns are empty. Yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will be happy in the God of my salvation. The Lord God is my strength, and He will give me the speed of a deer and bring me safely over the mountains. 

Thoene performed this stirring work in an exultant manner. Hovhaness created a new harmonic language in this last organ piece to express both the despair of the prophet and of the triumph of his enduring faith. Thanks to Thoene, this piece exists.

2:30 pm Hill Auditorium Mezzanine

Michael Barone celebrated other composers with anniversaries aside from those featured on the conference. Playing recordings of at least two examples each as well as some other discs of interest, Barone offered a very humorous journey from names such as Georg Boehm, Louis Couperin, William Boyer, Jan Koetsier, Nino Rota, Jean-Jacques Grunenwald, Enrico Bossi, Gustav Mahler, Gian Carlo Menotti, and Carrie Jacobs-Bond. In addition, the radio exponent of the pipe organ made a case for Franz Liszt’s influence on music in general and organ music being more extensive than commonly thought. Liszt envisioned the organ beyond a church instrument, giving an influential “push” for the organ in the music world. As inventor of the tone poem, he took the organ (as well as the piano) into the expression of emotional extremes. Several examples of Liszt’s smaller, meditative works intended for private reflection were played, showing that his output of organ music goes well beyond the “big pieces.”

8:00 pm Hill Auditorium

Gregory Hand completed the conference, sharing his project of recording the entire corpus of William Bolcom’s Gospel Preludes. He performed Preludes 1–6 (Books I and II) with intermission, followed by Preludes 7–12 (Books III and IV) in Hill Auditorium. Adding to the delight of this performance was the presence of the composer.

This conference was a mind-stretcher in organ literature. Each of the composers—Liszt, Alain, and Hovhaness—created a special musical language of their own. Additionally, their spirituality was wedded with their musicality, often taking on a very personal expression. Thus, a huge panorama of literature, much of it from our time, was offered to the conference participants for possible exploration. At the same time, the conference was a huge dose of spiritual music of a theological bent, from the Gospel Preludes of William Bolcom to the piano pieces of Jehan Alain to Messiaen’s Les Corps Glorieux to Langlais’ Resurrection to Hovhaness’s Habbakuk and many others—attendees took in much inspiration and food for thought. Thanks to Marilyn Mason, the presenters, and the attendees for another dynamic educational event for organ music at the University of Michigan.

Gavin Black is Director of the Princeton Early Keyboard Center in Princeton, New Jersey. He can be reached by e-mail at [email protected].

Continuo, Part 3

The core of this month’s column is a description of the approach that I suggest for drilling and learning the actual—improvised—creation of continuo parts at the keyboard. The fundamental reason that it is better to improvise continuo parts than to play from a part—a realization—written out in advance is that the most effective continuo accompaniment is one that is flexible. Even at the last minute, but certainly during any process of rehearsal and preparation, it is important to be able to make basic decisions about what notes to play in response to things that we hear from the other players: dynamics, accentuation, intonation, and so on. The earlier in the process the notes are fixed once and for all, the less flexible it is possible to be. So, in playing, unaltered, a continuo realization written by the editor of a published version of a piece, we are committing ourselves to having no flexibility whatsoever during the rehearsal and performance process. Most published realizations are very thick—four voices most of the time—and, in the judgment of many players and listeners, too busy, too noisy. (This is especially true when they are played on organ or harpsichord. At the piano the busy-ness can be made less of a problem by simply playing the part more quietly.) But any realization that is created beforehand, even a wonderfully musical and sensitive one, lacks this flexibility. A player who works out a continuo realization during preparation and rehearsal, and writes it down planning to play it as is, has the opportunity to make it a good realization. But in this approach, last-minute flexibility is still lacking. 

(Actual last-minute flexibility—the ability to change the notes of a continuo part in performance from what they were even a short time before in rehearsal—can be desirable for several reasons. Some of these are: a change in the room acoustics with the arrival of an audience; an unanticipated change in the way a colleague is playing his or her part; problems in performance that suggest that you must project the beat more forcefully; and—most happily!—the fact that a new and better idea occurs to you.)

It also turns out to be easier in the end to learn how to realize continuo parts at sight than either to write them out in advance or to edit existing, published realizations to make them suitable for a given occasion. (And “suitable” still doesn’t take the idea of flexibility into account.) My own reason for plunging into studying continuo realization in the first place—about twenty-five years ago—was not anything artistically significant, but rather extreme annoyance with the mechanics of writing out parts for myself: it was boring, and it took too long.

In the decades following the disappearance of continuo playing as a living art, the notation and technique of continuo realization—figured-bass realization—was borrowed to fill various roles in the teaching of theory, harmony, and counterpoint. It is routine, almost universal, nowadays that anyone who has studied music theory at the college level has spent time learning how to concoct and write out realizations of figured bass lines. Because this activity is done in order to further the learning of something other than actual continuo playing, the kind of realization that is being sought is very different from what is best in performance. Specifically, in theory class, or a similar setting, it is almost always considered necessary to realize in a certain number of contrapuntal voices—probably ideally four, or three to make it easier. The rules of voice leading of course must be followed, and perhaps it is expected that each voice will be kept mostly within a certain range. Often this kind of exercise is presented in two alternate versions: one with all of the added notes in what amounts to the right hand—say, middle C and above—and the other with the four voices more or less evenly distributed, creating a hymn-like texture. In any case, again, all of the rules must be followed. It is (mostly) the need to avoid parallel fifths and octaves that can make practitioners of this sort of exercise tear their hair out. 

It is often their experiences with figured-bass realization in such a context that leads students to believe that it is almost unimaginably hard to play continuo at sight. After all, if something is so difficult and awkward even when you have all day to puzzle over it, to try different things, and to write it out, study it, and think about it, then it must be effectively impossible to do it off the cuff while other musicians are actually playing and expecting you to keep up. This logic is good, but the facts are wrong. What you do when actually playing continuo bears very little relation to the “figured-bass as theory-learning tool” activity, and is in some ways directly opposed to it. The last thing that is desirable in a “real” continuo part is, of course, that the number of voices remain always the same. That immediately and utterly prevents us from using the realization process to influence rhythm, dynamics, texture, and so on. That is, it takes away the very reason for the existence of continuo accompaniment. 

The process of actually learning to play continuo, therefore, does not go through the kind of theory-oriented figured-bass study that I describe above. That kind of study can serve a purpose similar to the reading exercise that I included in last month’s column, that is, to bring a student to the point of knowing the meaning of the figures with real immediacy and ease. (It is overkill for that purpose, in the amount of time and effort that it takes, but it does accomplish it.) For every aspect of learning continuo playing after the meaning of the figures is well established, work on “continuo as theory/harmony/counterpoint” is actually taking us in the wrong direction.

If a student develops a strong sense—simultaneously conscious and instinctive—of what constellation of keys on the keyboard any given note/figure combination is pointing towards, and this sense directs the fingers towards those notes without the need to think much about it, then that student can play continuo at sight. That is, when the student who can already pick up the exercise from the last month’s column and “look at the first note and say ‘F’, the second note and say ‘A, C, and E’, the third note and say ‘F and C’” can play those notes rather than say them, he or she can take on continuo parts from real pieces with other players also playing.

The most effective way to develop that sense goes like this:

1) Find a bass line with some figures. It doesn’t matter very much what the bass line is, although lines from harmonically dense choral or orchestral music can be harder to deal with than is ideal at this stage. Handel chamber music is one excellent source, among many. (A public domain edition can be found at this address: <http://216.129.110.22/files/imglnks/usimg/4/4d/IMSLP05632-Handel_19_Son…;. There are appropriate bass lines on more or less every page.) The bass line can come from a slow or a fast movement. For reasons explained below, this doesn’t matter at all. It need not be a complete movement of a piece or any coherent section, just some notes and figures.

2) Put this bass line up on the music desk of a keyboard instrument. For this purpose it doesn’t matter what instrument: harpsichord, organ, piano, electronic keyboard—anything with at least about four octaves of normal keys.

3) Prepare to play the line very slowly. Because the tempo at which you play this bass line and do this exercise bears no relation to anything about performing the piece from which you have extracted the line, it doesn’t matter what the tempo of that piece might normally be. Each note of the bass line must come along very slowly, regardless of whether it is printed as a whole note or a thirty-second note or anything else. For someone beginning this process, the notes of the bass line should come at a rate of no more than ten or twelve per minute. But that is just a guideline: slower is always fine; faster is also fine if it works.

4) As you play the bass line very slowly, try, for each note of the line, to play (in the right hand) some version—any version—of the notes suggested by the bass note and its figuring. Do not think about anything other than playing something that counts as the right notes: the playing equivalent of what you thought or said in doing the exercise from last month. Specifically, do not worry about the spacing of chords, the part of the compass of the instrument, or the nature of the transition from what you play with one bass note to what you play with the next. Do not worry in the least about parallel fifths or octaves or whether notes resolve correctly. 

5) If you cannot—more or less in tempo—think of any notes to add above a given bass note, simply move on. Do not worry about this. If, the first time through, you only add ordinary triads above the “8,5,3” notes—or even only above some of them—and nothing “fancier”, do not worry about this. 

6) After you have played the bass line and whatever notes you have added in this way once, do it again. Don’t increase the tempo. Try to add some notes where you didn’t the first time. Then, of course, do it a few more times. If it feels natural to let the tempo increase a little bit that is all right, but by no means necessary. However:

7) Do not play the same line more than several times. If after a while (four or five times through) you have not succeeded in providing right hand notes for all of the bass line, don’t worry about this either. The effectiveness of this drill does not depend on “solving” the entire bass line, but rather on developing a sense of spontaneity with those spots that you do solve. If you play over it too many times in a row, that sense of spontaneity will be lost and replaced by excessive concern for getting it all right. 

8) Choose another bass line, and do all of the above again. This can be another section from the same movement or piece, or something completely different. Practice this way with as many bass line passages as possible. Never stay with one of them so long that you feel like you know it and are simply repeating something that you have already learned: move on to another one. Try to use lines in different keys, but you need not seek out anything too unusual: two sharps or flats is far enough along the circle of fifths for now. If most of what you use is in keys with one or no sharps or flats that is OK. Just don’t stick to only one key. That can become a rut.

All of the details above are important, but clearly step 4 is the essence of this exercise. Here are a few more specific thoughts about how to carry out that step.

a) It is perfectly all right for the tempo of the bass line not to be entirely steady. (This is certainly different from most types of practicing.) It doesn’t exactly need a tempo, but only be not too fast. If you need to draw one note out a little bit longer to think about what to play over that note, that is OK, as long as it is only a little bit. If you are really, in effect, stopping to figure something out, then that defeats the purpose.

b) You need not play all the notes that you add at the same time as the bass note or together with one another, though as you do more of this exercise you should discover that you can add the relevant notes with or close to the bass note more of the time. Initially it is perfectly acceptable to do something like this: set a metronome to 60; allow each bass note to last for eight metronome beats; expect to play the added notes on or near the fifth metronome beat; use the last beat or two to begin to look ahead at the next note. The numbers are arbitrary; the principle of keeping it slow and careful is crucial.

c) If you make certain kinds of mistakes about what the figuring means or what notes would be appropriate to add over a particular bass note, this doesn’t matter! One extraordinary thing about this exercise is that it usually leads a student to the right place even if it is done wrong. The most common way that this comes up has to do with un-figured notes. If you mistakenly assume that a passing tone is not a passing tone, and therefore add chords to bass notes that are not supposed to have anything added, this just constitutes more (fully useful) practice. If you interpret as a passing tone a note that really should have something added, and don’t add anything, that is a very minor wasted opportunity. It doesn’t mislead or do any harm. If you forget, for example, that “7” usually implies “7,5,3” and just play the pitch seven degrees above the bass note, that is still useful practice in developing the spontaneity that we are looking for. There is time to refine and fill in gaps in your awareness of what the figuring means and what the abbreviation conventions were later on. 

d) Likewise, leaving out things that are too complicated or unexpected—for example a figuring like “9, 7#, 4, 3b”—is not a problem. You have simply utilized one less practice note: no harm done. Reading really elaborate, complicated, counterintuitive figures can come later. In any case they are extremely rare. It is of course OK not to leave them out, but only if they are accurate and don’t slow the process up very much.

e) Of course, really fundamental mistakes—taking “6,3” to mean the notes one and four steps above the bass, for example, or anything else really egregious—will lead to trouble. Real misunderstanding at a fundamental level will be hard to eradicate later on. Therefore this exercise should come, as I said above, only after the student has comfortably learned the basic meaning of the figures.  

f) It is extremely important to resist the temptation to write anything down about a realization. The sole purpose of this drill is to develop the reading faculties as they apply to figured bass lines. Any time you write anything—a note or chord or a reminder perhaps expressed as a letter-name for a pitch—you have lost the opportunity to develop that reading, and in fact you are training yourself to be unable to do it. 

g) It is perfectly OK, though, to flesh out the figuring itself. The relative completeness of the figuring of the line that you happen to be using for practice is arbitrary. If you make it more complete before playing from it that is fine. (See, for example, the two versions of the Handel bass line that I included in last month’s column. Either of them is good material for this sort of practice.)

After doing a certain amount of this work, the student will be ready to begin thinking about how to shape an accompaniment for “real life” use, and to begin playing pieces with other musicians. This “certain amount” is often something like 25 or 30 bass lines, each eight to sixteen measures, each played five or six times. That is not a lot, but this method is extremely efficient. Some students will need or want to do more than that; some will be ready to move on to the next stage sooner.  

I will return to the subject of continuo playing and deal with approaches to entering that next stage in a future column. Not next month, however; I want to give readers a chance to digest what I have written about it so far and, if so inclined, to try out the drill suggested here or to have their students do so. I welcome both questions about that process as it unfolds, from anyone who is trying it, and any other feedback.

John Collins has been playing and researching early keyboard music for over 35 years, with special interests in the English, Italian, and Iberian repertoires. He has contributed many articles and reviews to several American and European journals, including The Diapason, and has been organist at St. George’s, Worthing, West Sussex, England for over 26 years.

In 2012 there are several composers whose anniversaries can be commemorated. There are several lesser-known names here whose compositions are well worth exploring. 

Giovanni Gabrieli (1557–1612). One of the leading Venetian composers of the late Renaissance, his 38 keyboard pieces comprise a set of intonations, 12 toccatas, 11 ricercars, three fantasias, two fugas, and nine canzonas. They are edited by Dalla Libera for Ricordi in three volumes; volume three contains 13 keyboard settings of motets. Many more were made by German composers but are not available in modern editions.   

Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck (1562–1621) was organist of the Oude Kirck, Amsterdam, and a seminal influence on North German organ music in the 17th century through his pupils. His authenticated keyboard works include some 17 toccatas, 24 fantasias, one ricercar, 12 sets of chorale and psalm variations, and 12 sets of dance and song variations, with several more works in each category considered of doubtful attribution. Two recent complete editions include those by Harald Vogel and Pieter Dirksen for Breitkopf & Härtel in four volumes, and Siegbert Rampe for Bärenreiter in eight volumes. A most useful guide is Pieter Dirksen’s book, The Keyboard Music of Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck, in which the pieces are discussed in depth.      

Hans Leo Hassler (1564–1612). Primarily known today for his vocal music, he studied organ in Venice with Andrea Gabrieli and became a leading player in Augsburg. He left a substantial corpus of keyboard works of considerable scope and length, most of it preserved in the Turin manuscript, including eight toccatas, 18 ricercari, 18 canzone, 14 magnificats, an organ mass, four fugues, and two sets of variations. A good selection, as well as the variations on Ich ging einmal spazieren, was edited by Georges Kiss for Schott and Sons. The toccatas were edited by S. Stribos for the American Institute of Musicology, and the magnificats by A. Carpenè for Il Levante Libreria. A few other pieces from other manuscript sources have been included in various anthologies. Twenty-five of the 39
intabulated songs from his Lustgarten of 1601 have been edited by M. Böcker for Breitkopf & Härtel. The complete works from the Turin manuscript are available in two volumes edited by W. Thein and U. Wethmuller for Breitkopf & Härtel, but at about £200 each they will remain well outside the reach of most players.    

Wolfgang Ebner (1612–65) was organist of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, Vienna, and court organist, contemporary with Froberger. The works certainly by him include three toccatas, a courante, a Capriccio sopra L’aria Pergamasco, the Partite sopra l’Aria Favorita with seven variations, and the 36 variations divided into three groups of 12 (the second and third groups being in the form of a courante and sarabande) on an Aria in A minor composed by Ferdinand III. Works of uncertain authenticity include 56 versets encompassing various forms—i.e., toccata, capriccio, fugue—in the eight church modes (eight of which are variants of pieces by Froberger, and one by Frescobaldi), two preludes, a partita in A, and eight individual dance movements. Published by Bärenreiter in two volumes edited by Siegbert Rampe, the edition also includes keyboard works by Georg Muffat. 

Wolfgang Briegel (1626–1712). Organist in Gotha and Darmstadt, he left a few keyboard pieces in manuscript. The eight fugues in the church tones are for manuals only and were edited by Wilhelm Krumbach for Kistner and Siegel as Die Orgel: Reihe ii nr. 19.  

Lambert Chaumont (ca. 1630–1712). Organist in Huys, southern Belgium, in 1695 he published a set entitled Pièces d’orgue sur les 8 tons, each of which opens with a prelude followed by about 12  to 15 pieces in the usual French style. There are also two fine chaconnes as well as a few dance movements clearly intended for harpsichord. He also provides useful information on registration and ornamentation as well as a short treatise on accompaniment and a tuning method for the harpsichord. Jean Ferrard has edited these pieces for Heugel.    

Sebastian Scherer (1631–1712). Organist of Ulm cathedral, in 1664 he published a print in two parts, the first being a set of four versets on the eight church tones notated on a two-stave system of six and eight lines respectively; the first and third are toccata-like, the first having held pedal notes; the second and fourth are fugal. The second contains eight substantial toccatas printed on four staves, one to each “part”. Each is multi-sectional with long-held pedal notes, and shows the influence of Frescobaldi. The two parts have been edited by A. Guilmant.    

Juan Baptista Cabanilles (1644–1712). Organist of Valencia cathedral, and regarded as the greatest of the Spanish Baroque composers for keyboard, he left well over 200 tientos, including examples of falsas, contras (which utilize sequential repetition over long pedal points for the pedals), medio registro/partido (i.e., for divided registers used as a solo in one or more voices), lleno (i.e., for the same stops used for the entire compass), a number of dances, toccatas, batallas, and almost 1,000 versos. None of his works were published in his lifetime, but manuscript copies were made, mainly by Elías and his other pupils. Most of the nine volumes of his tientos so far published include a mixture of the partido and lleno tientos. The contents of volume two are more varied, with three llenos, one partido, five passacalles, five gallardas in duple time with extensive sets of variations, two batallas (one of which is by Kerll), four paseos, folias, a xacara, a pedazo de musica, a gaitilla (partido), and six toccatas (one of which is partido). The nine volumes are all published by the Biblioteca de Catalunya, Barcelona.        

Friedrich Wilhelm Zachow (1663–1712). Organist in Halle and teacher of Handel, he left some 53 chorale preludes, including a splendid set of 12 variations on Jesu meine Freude, the great majority of which are playable on one manual and do not require pedals, and 13 secular pieces including preludes, fugues, fantasia, capriccio and a suite in B minor. There are modern editions by Heinz Lohmann for Breitkopf & Härtel, and Klaus Beckmann for Schott.

Johann Hanff (1665–1712), organist in Hamburg and Schleswig. Only three cantatas and six chorale preludes survive in manuscript. Five of the six are in the Buxtehude style with highly ornamented melodies in the right hand, but in Erbarm dich mein two verses are set, the second opening with a fugue based on the descending chromatic fourth before reverting to a right-hand solo of the ornamented melody. They have been edited by E. Kooiman for Harmonia Uitgave.   

Johann-Jakob de Neufville (1684–1712). This regrettably short-lived organist in Nuremberg published one volume of keyboard pieces in 1708, the contents of which show clearly the influence of his teacher, Pachelbel. It includes five arias with variations, three of which require pedals, and a splendid Ciacona in B Minor. A Suite in G Minor is preserved in manuscript. A complete modern edition has been edited by Raimund Schächer for Pro Organo Musikverlag.  

Joseph Torner (1700–62). Organist in Trier, he published at least two collections of liturgical pieces, comprising eight sets, each consisting of Offertorium, Elevatio, and Communio in binary form, and miscellaneous toccatas, arias, and dance pieces. The 1730 print, which contained pieces in major keys, is presumed lost, but the 1735 print with the liturgical pieces in minor keys from A to G, and in A major, has been edited by Hans-Peter Bähr in two volumes for Dr. J. Butz Musikverlag.    

Johann Eberlin (1702–62). Organist in Augsburg, he published nine toccatas for organ in two movements, the second being a well-wrought fugue or double fugue, edited by Rudolph Walter for Coppenrath (now available through Carus Verlag) and two sets of versets (65 and 115) on the eight church tones, which are edited by Rudolph Walter for Verlag Doblinger. The pedal parts are limited to long held notes; these pieces make excellent material for clavichord. The 65 versets offer excellent practice in playing relatively short contrapuntal works and also include some challenging preludes and finales. Eberlin also published two sonatas, which sound well on any keyboard instrument. These are edited by Laura Cerutti for Armelin Musica. 

Pietro Chiarini (1712–77) was an organist in Cremona. Six of his pieces are found in a manuscript compiled by
G. Poffa. They include two allegros (both through-composed, the first one headed con violincello, cornetti e tromboncini in risposta), a marcia, a sinfonia in three movements, and two sonatas, the first through-composed in one movement, the second a substantial work in three movements concluding with a minuetto. Edited by F. Caporali for Armelin Musica, in Musica per Tastiera del ‘700 Cremonense; the volume also contains pieces by Calamani and Galli.   

John Stanley (1712–86). Organist of the Temple Church, he published three sets of ten voluntaries, each including examples of both the “1st voluntary” for solo stops and the “2nd voluntary” in the form of a prelude and fugue. Two sets of concerti (six as op. 2 and ten as op. 10 respectively) for harpsichord or organ were also published in versions for solo keyboard performance. Contemporary manuscripts also contain several arrangements of movements from his two sets of solos for melody instrument and also from his concerti. There are several modern editions of the three sets of voluntaries, all 30 being edited in one volume by G. Lewin for Greg Lewin Music, who has also edited (in two volumes) the six concerti for keyboard. A facsimile of the set of ten concerti has been edited by G. Gifford for Oxford University Press. In volumes three and four of English Organ Music, an anthology, published by Novello, Robin Langley has edited early versions from the Reading manuscript of some of the voluntaries that were printed in the three sets and of voluntaries in the Southgate manuscript.    

Johann Sperger (1750–1812). Organist in Ludwigslust, he was one of the leading double-bass players of his day and left many symphonies and chamber pieces. Two collections of his organ pieces preserved in manuscripts in
Schwerin have been edited in one volume by Dieter Ultzen for Dr. J. Butz Musikverlag. The first collection is actually a selection of the preludes and versets printed in 1689 in Wegweiser followed by four short fugues; the second is a series of preludes in various keys that reflect the Classical and Rococo influence; many of them consist of decorative figuration over sustained chords.        

Carlo Gervasoni (1762–1819) was Maestro di cappella in Borgotara, in which town he oversaw the construction of a fine organ in 1795. Well known in his day for his theoretical works, including notes on organ performance practice, particularly on instruments with several manuals, he also left some organ sonatas. The lezioni from the Scuola della musica of 1800 have been edited by M. Machella for Armelin.

Gavin Black is Director of the Princeton Early Keyboard Center in Princeton, New Jersey. He can be reached by e-mail at [email protected].

Continuo, part I

The musical practice known as continuo playing was an integral part of ensemble music from about 1600 until about 1750—the dates that we assign to the “Baroque Period.” Indeed, it makes a lot of sense to define the Baroque specifically as the era in music history when continuo playing was the norm. During that period, almost every work of music that was not a solo keyboard or lute piece included a continuo part. (Exceptions, such as pieces for unaccompanied violin, or lute songs, probably amount to no more than five percent or so of the repertoire.) This includes sonatas, trio sonatas, works for larger instrumental ensembles, songs, cantatas, Masses, operas, and oratorios—arias, choruses, recitative, and so on. The practice of writing continuo parts certainly persisted into the second half of the eighteenth century—the “Classical” era—but became less common, less mainstream, less central to what was going on in the world of musical performance. Continuo died out early in the nineteenth century. (Mendelssohn, however, still included continuo parts in some of his sacred music in the 1830s.)

What is continuo? 

This month’s column will begin to answer that question, or, really, to address it in ways that I hope will be helpful to students. (Of course if any of us as organ teachers have students who have already studied continuo fairly deeply or who have specialized in it, then those students will already know or understand more than I am going to write about here. So this is, at least directly, for everyone else.) Next month I will outline in a fairly basic form my own approach to teaching the nitty-gritty practical side of creating and performing continuo parts at the keyboard, starting with how to read the notation, and I will discuss how to deal with the artistic choices that creating such a part entails.

I actually have a memory—a distant memory by now—of my own first encounters with the word “continuo.” These happened at a number of chamber music concerts on the Yale campus that I heard in the late 1960s, as a youngster just getting interested in music. There were pieces described as “Sonata for violin and continuo” or “Trio Sonata for violin, oboe, and b.c.” or other such phrases. (The word “continuo” and the expression “b.c.” are both abbreviations for basso continuo.) I noticed that some of these pieces turned out to have the wrong number of players, that is, a trio sonata might have four people playing. I still remember a sort of “Twilight Zone” feeling that I got looking at descriptions in the programs that seemed not to be written in any normal language that I could discern and that seemed not to correspond to what I was seeing on the stage. I vaguely remember asking someone (my father?) what it all meant and his not knowing either. I believe that we considered the possibility that it might be some sort of misprint.

I still get the very basic question—“What does ‘continuo’ mean?”—both from audience members at concerts and from (new) students. The basic answer is this: a continuo part is a line of music, mostly in the range of the bass clef, that forms the lowest part of the texture of a piece, that is meant to be played by one or more instruments in unison, and that is meant to be supplemented by notes not written by the composer: chords or bits of melody supplied by one or more of the performers. The choice of instrument or instruments is not, except in rare cases, specified by the composer. The performer’s process of deciding what “notes not written by the composer” to add is called “realizing” the continuo part. In the Baroque period this was almost always done by actual improvisation. Nowadays it is done either by improvisation or by planning and writing a part in advance.

Elements of improvisation

Part of this picture is that Baroque composers—from the most iconic such as Bach or Handel through thousands of others whom most of us have never heard of—expected the actual notes of their pieces to be different from one performance to another, with part of the note picture composed not by the “composer” but by any given performer. This often blows people’s minds: we associate the notion of a performer writing part of the music with certain kinds of twentieth-century experimental art—participatory or aleatory music. The music of the Baroque often seems to embody an opposite principle, one of rigorous form, often expressed through complex counterpoint. 

Sometimes the simple act of becoming aware of the nature of continuo accompaniment can reset a student’s sense of what Baroque music is all about, away from structure and control towards spontaneity and change, and, in a sense, away from the composer towards the performer. Of course, it is also true that a lot of Baroque keyboard and lute repertoire was improvised from scratch. In fact, we assume that something close to all of the keyboard playing that took place in the Baroque era was improvisation. However, in a funny way, improvised repertoire suggests a less radical departure from composer control than continuo accompaniment does, in that with improvised repertoire the performer is the composer.

Of course with continuo accompaniment, the additions to the music put in place by the performer exist within certain well-defined bounds—and we’ll come back to that below. However, it is clear from comparing all of the recordings of just about any piece of Baroque music that the differences between one player’s version of the keyboard continuo part and another’s can make a huge difference in the overall effect of a piece. And, again, this is something to which composers routinely ceded control.

The key to accompaniment

So why did composers give up control over a crucial aspect of their pieces—consistently and over a period of more than 150 years? I believe that the answer lies in the nature of accompaniment and in the nature of the instruments used for accompaniment during those years. There is a lot to say about accompaniment, whether of the continuo variety or of the obbligato variety, as represented by such things as Schubert song accompaniments. Great accompaniment requires all sorts of subtleties and sensitivities. However, one thing is absolutely fundamental, without which accompaniment runs the risk of being not just artistically sub-par but really grotesque: the ability to vary dynamics in a way that tracks what the other instruments or voices are doing. Without this basic ability an accompanist constantly runs the risk either of drowning out the other instruments or voices or of failing to support them adequately. If the keyboard instrument is one on which dynamic variation is inherently possible, say, the piano, then a composer can write accompaniments in which the note picture is fixed once and for all, that is, written by the composer as part of writing the piece. If, however, the accompanying instrument is, like the harpsichord or the Baroque organ, not capable of inherent dynamic flexibility, then it is important that the performer be allowed to change the number of notes being played at any one time in order to change the effective dynamics. A Schubert song piano part played as written on a harpsichord would be an almost pathetically ineffective accompaniment. It would fail to support a singer with a robust or just plain loud voice, it would drown out or at any rate compete too much with a light or delicate singer, and it would fail to reflect or mirror or complement nuances of dynamics executed by any singer. However, it is possible, in a piece with continuo accompaniment, to make the keyboard part of a whole passage louder or softer by choosing to play a thicker or thinner texture of added notes and chords. It is also possible to place an accent on certain notes or beats while allowing other notes or beats to be unaccented, again by actually playing more notes, a thicker texture, on the accented moments and fewer—or no—notes elsewhere. It is possible in the same way to respond appropriately to crescendo, diminuendo, and other dynamic gestures that singers or other players carry out.  

(I should mention that years ago I subscribed, without having really consciously thought about it, to the absurd idea that Baroque composers wrote continuo lines rather than obbligato accompaniments because their composing skills were too rudimentary to concoct complex accompaniments. In this story line, the development of “real” keyboard parts for chamber music and songs in the second half of the eighteenth century was a kind of progress, akin to the scientific progress that—genuinely—characterized that era. The notion that composers who wrote the elaborate, complex counterpoint that was routine in the seventeenth century couldn’t have written compositionally successful keyboard parts for their songs and chamber music is indeed absurd. However, I think that some people do fall into the trap of assuming some such thing, as we have a general tendency to believe that the passage of time brings progress. We feel that people of old simply couldn’t do a lot of what became normal or easy later on.) 

Some confirmation of the notion that the continuo texture really did serve the purpose I have described is found in this: when composers in the Baroque era wrote song accompaniments intended to be played on an instrument that had dynamic flexibility—namely the lute—they did write obbligato accompaniments. This gives us the lute song repertoire, with all of the notes of the pieces written by the composers.

Continuo instrumentation

The instrumentation of a continuo part is flexible. This is one of the reasons that the part is given the somewhat abstract name that it has. It is not the “organ” part or the “harpsichord” part. It was customary for a continuo part to be played by at least two instruments: a bass melody instrument playing the continuo line itself and a chordal instrument—keyboard or lute—also playing the written continuo line, but adding the extra notes and chords that we have been referring to. It was also common for more instruments to be involved. Typical combinations include cello and harpsichord; cello and organ; bassoon and organ; gamba, organ and lute; cello, double bass, and harpsichord, and so on. This flexible instrumentation is the source of my old confusion about the number of players on stage. A “solo” sonata can have anything from two players to four or, somewhat atypically, five; a “trio” sonata might indeed have only three players, but more usually will have four, often five or more. A continuo group for a large-scale piece—a cantata or oratorio or orchestral piece—can easily have half a dozen or more players.

Regardless of the exact instrumentation—which, again, is almost always at the discretion of the performers—the structure of the part is the same. The line actually written by the composer, the bass line, which is the foundation of the harmony of the piece, is played in unison by all of the instruments participating. Notes that are added by a keyboard player or lutenist are played only by that one instrument. Thus, most of the time it is the bass line itself that, within the texture of the continuo part, is the most prominent, with the added notes always somewhat in the background. (An organist performing a continuo part without the help of a melodic bass instrument should bear this in mind in planning registrations.)

Figured bass

So, if a keyboard player performing a continuo part is supposed to add notes to the texture, how is the choice of those notes to be made? The first answer is that they must be notes that are consistent with the prevailing harmony, and not in conflict with what is going on in the written parts. The player needs to have a way of knowing what that prevailing harmony is. This can be achieved by ear, for players who are skilled at such things, or by studying the score. However, this is also where the figures that are often written under the musical notes of a continuo part come into play. Those figures are in effect a short score of the harmonic picture of the piece. To some extent they indicate what notes the other instruments and voices are actually producing. Beyond that they indicate what other notes are consistent with the harmony implied by the notes being played or sung or by the harmonic logic of the piece. The system of figures is a system of abbreviations. As mentioned above, I will go into detail about how to read figures next month. The figures—or more accurately the figures in conjunction with the printed notes—never tell the keyboard continuo player what to play. They tell the player what the range of possibilities is for notes to be played, or, to put it another way, they tell the player by implication what notes are not available to be played. In many pieces the abbreviated nature of the figuring is taken to its logical extreme, that is, there are no figures. This in no way implies that the player is not meant to add notes and chords. It is not a situation in which anything different is going on. The player has to rely on other things—the listening and studying mentioned above—to glean the information that figures could have given.

From within the constellation of notes that would be acceptable to play at any given moment, then, how can a player make specific choices? This is both the most difficult part of continuo playing and its artistic/interpretive component. It is actually rare that a keyboard continuo player has to play notes—any notes—for the purpose of providing or filling out the harmony. This is true for two basic reasons. First, in most passages of chamber or vocal music, most of the harmony is provided anyway over the course of a beat or two, amongst all of the instruments or voices. (Clearly the thicker the texture, the closer this will come to being completely true.) Second, there is nothing in the rules or expectations of tonal music that says that every part of the theoretical harmony has to be present at all times. 

Instead, choices about exactly what notes to play (to add) at any given point are based on considerations that have nothing to do with completing the harmony as such. These are considerations of texture, volume, accent, rhythm, pulse, shaping of phrases or sections, and, very practically, both helping and not hindering the other performers. They all stem from the basic fact that adding more notes makes things louder and adding fewer notes or no notes makes things quieter. Thus “thicker chords on accented beats” is a simple but valid guideline, and there are plenty of others. More on this next month.

John Bishop is executive director of the Organ Clearing House.

A matter of manners

In the first days of the twentieth century my great-grandfather and his seven brothers ran a large and successful silk business, importing thread from China and weaving fabric. There was a sprawling mill complex in Manchester, Connecticut bearing the family name that included a company assembly hall, which is still home to a lovely organ by E. & G. G. Hook. Glad to know my forebears had good taste in pipe organs. Eight grand houses shared an expanse of lawn, one of which was still my great-grandmother’s home when I was growing up. Each year at Columbus Day we drove to Manchester for a visit, and I remember exploring that huge house with its endless corridors, seemingly dozens of bedrooms, and a third-floor playroom complete with a swing hung from the ceiling.

Hanging in our guest bathroom we have reproductions of flowery advertisements from the company, touting showrooms in Manhattan, and depicting tidy maids helping their mistresses with their frocks. My great-grandmother would have hated Downton Abbey.

Lunch at that house was a formal affair with fancy china, and plenty of forks, knives, and spoons, and we were coached in their proper use. After my great-grandmother died, the immense brass candlesticks from her table were converted into lamps, one of which lights my desk as I write today.  

My grandfather and father were both Episcopal priests, which had the trickle-down effect that my siblings and I were brought up accustomed to a succession of fancy and formal dinners, endless stacks of elegant china, stemware, and utensils having found their way through the generations to our adolescent dinner table. Now that my parents are living in a retirement community and their household has been downsized a couple times, we have realized that our children and the subsequent generations will have little to do with all that finery. Beautiful as it is, the stuff is a nuisance because the gold bands on the plates mean they can’t go in the dishwasher.

These remaining traces of formality in family life combined with the community’s expectation of the rector’s family (ever wonder how Preachers’ Kids got such a reputation?) mean that we were brought up to know good manners. We knew which fork to use for salad, and how to set the table with the dessert forks and spoons in the proper place, and yes, there were always dessert forks and spoons. My father carved the meat at the head of the table, passing plates to my mother at the foot, ensuring that the food was cold before anyone could take a bite. The most senior female guest was seated to Dad’s right, male to Mom’s right. It was usually obvious who those people were, but I bet there was more than one feather ruffled when someone who considered herself to be senior was seated in the middle of the table. When we ate at my grandparents’ table, the carving went a little better. Poppy had been a surgeon before entering the priesthood and the turkey seemed to fall apart into appropriate serving sizes the moment he lifted his oft-honed scalpel of a carving knife!

Today when we entertain, Wendy sets a beautiful table, but sometimes I can’t help speaking up to protect the memory of that grand succession of mothers who brought me up to know which way the dessert fork should face. What is it they say, choose your battles?

I’ve read many novels about life in the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars, and chuckle because so many of the dinner-table rituals I grew up with are present at the tables of the Captain while at sea, battles or no battles. And British officers serving in distant outposts of the empire were never without their silver and table finery, their sherry and port wine, a custom exquisitely lampooned by the British comedy troupe Monty Python. We can deduce that the formalization of dining rituals set the stage for freer exchange of ideas in conversation.

When you get right down to it, good manners in just about any situation are a statement of respect for the occasion and the people participating in it.

§

A couple months ago, I wrote of my fascination with the fast-growing world of cell-phone Apps. Those snazzy little bits of software that are being created to simplify our lives at ninety-nine cents a pop seem like gifts from God because they drop from heaven with no effort at all, with the potential of enlightening us like mega-bytes of holy grail. But in fact, when used without consideration, our cell phones and all they contain are playing a large role in the decay of social order. How’s that for sounding like an old, um, codger?

But I don’t think I’m being sanctimonious. How many of us have stood tapping our feet in a long line at the bank while the guy at the teller window can’t finish his transaction because he’s on the phone? How many of us have traveled to attend a meeting that was continually interrupted by its leader answering his phone or e-mails while we wait? (“Sorry, I’ve been waiting for this call.”) And how many of us have tried to pass someone on a city sidewalk who’s weaving from side to side and walking at a snail’s pace with a phone glued to her ear, making herself into a double-wide with her gesticulations?

You’re sitting in a coffee shop enjoying your non-fat-triple-shot-soy-praline-half-caff beverage. Nice, but there are two people in the shop with their ties loosened and sleeves rolled halfway up their cubits, laptops open, talking in full voices on the phone. One is fighting with his wife; the other is clearly the most brilliant and insightful businessperson in town. So much for reading the paper—on my iPad.

Under the pews

Last week I got together with a friend in New York. We had lunch in a nice little French café, then walked to his church to see the organ. It’s a large old church with a fascinating nineteenth-century organ, but what really caught my eye was on the literature table in the narthex—a stack of photocopied sheets with the title “Church Etiquette Page.” It starts out defining Christ’s presence in the Tabernacle, suggesting that it’s appropriate to bow or genuflect when walking past, and continues with a statement: Please observe the following courtesies when you are visiting the church.

• Silence is the norm while in church. Conversation is to be confined to the narthex or the courtyard. Since the acoustics in the church are very fine, any necessary talking needs to be at a whisper.

• Proper attire is expected. Since this is relative to taste and fashion, you are expected to use your good judgment.

• Food and beverages have no place in a church. However it is permitted in the narthex and courtyard. The use of alcohol and tobacco is prohibited on church premises. This is not the O.K. Corral.

• Gum is not to be chewed in church.*

• Running is inappropriate. Parents or caretakers need to stay close to their children. Adults mustn’t run either, unless they’re chasing after a child.

• Reading newspapers, using cell phones, applying cosmetics, changing clothes (yes, it’s happened) and other similar activities do not have a place in church.

• Refuse should not be left in the pews or the floor around you.

• Dogs are allowed to enter the church as long as they observe silence and know the difference between a holy water font and a fire hydrant. After all, they can be better behaved than some humans.

• Smoking is simply not to occur anywhere on church property.

*Please use this paper to discard your gum rather than the underside of a pew.

How did that priest know I’ve been sticking gum under the pew? I thought I was getting away with it. But how refreshing to see this simple expression expecting respect. By setting out a code of decorum with a twinkle in his eye, he has taken the pressure off anyone who didn’t know how to behave in church, while giving a nudge to those who know perfectly well but seem to have forgotten. I’ve heard many stories from colleagues who, sitting in princely splendor at their console in the chancel, look out across a congregation full of Tetris, Words-With-Friends, e-mails, and texting. One told me how a man answered a phone call during worship, then walked around behind a pillar, thinking that would keep his fellow worshippers from hearing him. (“Hey Mister, churches have acoustics!”)  

One of my Words-With-Friends friends is organist of a church in Hawaii. Last week she shared a YouTube video on the subject of cell phones in church, saying that she used to play for the church in the video. Here’s the link—it’s worth a look: www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2_c81Nnsc0.

But organists, don’t think you’re exempt from this rant. At 10:45 on a Sunday morning I receive a text from an organist, “cn u fx ded note tmrw?” Hey, you’re still sitting on the organ bench, sermon probably halfway through. Put your phone away. From the pews fifty feet away congregants can see that pale glow reflected on your face. We know it’s not the console indicator lights, and it’s certainly no halo. Let’s not txt our friends from the organ bench during worship. I know it happens a lot.

Who is it?

On January 10, 2012, music director Alan Gilbert was leading the New York Philharmonic Orchestra in a performance of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony in Lincoln Center’s Avery Fisher Hall. According to an indignant blogger:

It was in the fourth movement. (Funny how these disturbances never happen in fortissimo passages.) After the last climax, as the movement begins to wind down, toward that sublime last page of the score where music and silence are almost indistinguishable. In other words, just about the worst possible moment. (After a quick check of my Dover score, I think it was about 13 bars before the last Adagissimo.)

You guessed it. A cell phone rang. The iPhone Marimba. In the front row. In Avery Fisher Hall. It kept ringing. It rang and rang.  

Someone in the audience yelled, “Thousand dollar fine.”

The first sentence of reviewer Daniel Wakin’s article in the January 12 edition of the New York Times read, “They were baying for blood in the usually polite precincts of Avery Fisher Hall.”
Maestro Gilbert stopped the performance, turned to face the audience, located the offender and stood staring at him. An article in the January 11th issue of (the online version of the famous British newspaper) added, “During a pause of several minutes, the music director asked ‘Are you finished?’ When the culprit didn’t reply he said: ‘Fine, we’ll wait.’” Holy cow! The incident was covered and commented on by newspapers around the world. Google “Alan Gilbert cell phone” and you’ll get a flood of newspaper stories.

But wait, there’s more. On January 7, the Dayton (Ohio) Philharmonic Orchestra was starting its Saturday evening concert with Debussy’s Prelude to “The Afternoon of a Faun” when a baby started to cry. It cried and cried. The Dayton Daily News reported:

The youngster had been wailing for quite some time when [conductor] Gittleman stopped the music, turned to the audience, and asked that the child be removed. Some audience members applauded . . . . Gittleman said he’s had to stop concerts due to cell phones in the past, but this was the first time a child had caused enough commotion to require him to stop and begin a piece again. “The very first noise that the baby made was just as the flute was beginning her solo,” he says. “The piece begins with a big, long, famous, hard, flute solo and my job at the beginning of that piece is to make the flute as comfortable as possible.”

The story continued:

Many who attended the concert as well as those who heard about the incident felt that it was handled in the best possible way.

Jim and Ellen Ratti of Middletown are season DPO subscribers who witnessed ‘the whole affair.’ “The baby cried several times, not just once, and due to the outstanding acoustics in the Schuster, the sound carried throughout the concert hall,” Jim says, adding the cries were very loud, disruptive and distracting.

“I’m sure that some will say that Maestro Gittleman was inconsiderate and rude for calling attention to the offending parent(s),” he adds. “My reply to those criticisms would be that it’s inconsiderate and rude to bring a child of that age to an event which holds no interest for him or her. It is also inconsiderate and rude to disrupt the listening pleasure of everyone else in the concert hall, or to expect that such disruption would be excused.”

My grandmother would have agreed. But had she been the conductor in either of these situations, she wouldn’t have had to say a word. Just one look. Violet, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, had nothing on her. You might as well be using the wrong fork.

§

Anyone who knows me might call me a hypocrite for ranting about cell phones. To borrow a phrase from a colleague-friend, I hold the thing “like a crack pipe,” checking e-mails constantly, texting friends with quick thoughts and observations, keeping up with phone messages. I use it to check the weather, keep my calendar and contacts, look up maps and directions, choose restaurants, make travel reservations, and even sometimes, to the horror of our daughter, Google to find the answers that end dinner-time arguments. (Yes, Roger Maris did hit his 61st home run in the 161st game of the 1961 season. Nice symmetry.)

I think the cell phone has made possible great flexibility for people during the working day. And well used, it’s a vehicle for good manners. There’s no excuse for not calling to say you’re on your way, but you’ll be a few minutes late. But we need to create a new social order to deal with them. Here are a few general rules I propose to the social court:

• Don’t put a phone ahead of a personal, face-to-face conversation.

• Don’t let your phone call impede or delay someone else.

• Don’t let your phone diminish anyone else’s enjoyment of anything.

• Don’t assume that it’s okay with everyone around you to be forced to listen to your conversation.

Does anyone out there in Diapason land want to add to my list?

A few weeks ago a bad thing happened to my iPhone while crossing Broadway in lower Manhattan. Luckily, there was an AT&T store right there and twenty minutes later I was upgraded to the iPhone 4S. For those not familiar with the jargon, this is the new model which includes Siri, a voice-recognition program that allows you to speak to your phone, asking it to place a call, send a text message, or pretty much anything else, except to play an audio book. I asked the polite female computer-generated voice to play one of the books in my audio library. She replied, “I’m not able to do that.” I said, “You can’t play an audio book?” “I’m not able to do that.” “What good are you?” “Now, now…” “I’m sorry.” “That’s OK.”  

Next, I have no idea what got into me: “You’re cute.” Her reply: “You say that to all the virtual assistants.”