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In the wind . . .

John Bishop

John Bishop is executive director of the Organ Clearing House.

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revolution: n. 1a. Orbital motion about a point, especially as distinguished from axial rotation: the planetary revolution around the sun. b. A turning or rotational motion about an axis. c. A single complete cycle of such orbital or axial motion. 2. The overthrow of one government and its replacement with another. 3. A sudden or momentous change in a situation: the revolution in computer technology. (The American Heritage Dictionary, Houghton Mifflin Company, 2000)
evolution: n. 1. A gradual process in which something changes into a different and usually more complex or better form. 2a. The process of developing.
b. Gradual development . . .
word-play: n. 1. Witty or clever verbal exchange; repartee. 2. The act or an instance of such exchange.

I can name that tune in four notes.
In 1964 the comedian and parodist Allen Sherman (1924–1973) performed a concert with Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops Orchestra. The program included Sherman’s reading of Peter and the Commissar, a parody on Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf with Cold War overtones (when discussing the effectiveness of an imaginary Politburo, Sherman quipped: “A camel is a horse that was designed by a committee.”), and a hilarious orchestral medley, Variations on “How Dry I Am,” which opens with a statement of the original and familiar melody (sol-do-re-mi) and continues with the beginnings of a series of familiar compositions and songs that start with the same four notes, ranging from You are my sunshine to the 1812 Overture. There’s even an inversion moment quoting one of the variations of Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a theme of Paganini.
I think most musicians have had the experience of freely associating a few notes from one melody with another. I know it’s happened to me many times—I’m sitting all dressed up at Symphony Hall surrounded by serious music lovers (and a few old men snoring), when one of those associations hits me—I chuckle and receive my wife’s elbow. And I know I amused the choir at church countless times (at least I thought so) by interrupting a rehearsal to turn a phrase from an anthem by Vaughan Williams into a Rodgers and Hart song. As a budding continuo player while a student at Oberlin, we roared one night in rehearsal turning the second trio from the last movement of Bach’s first Brandenburg Concerto into “The Lonely Goatherd” from The Sound of Music. You can’t tell me Richard Rodgers never heard Bach.
Word-play is same sort of thing. You hear a word that reminds you of another, swap them in context, and you have a pun—that high form of humor that invites such frequent elbows. It’s a matter of sound association—does that make musicians naturally inclined as punsters (otherwise known as pundits)?
I’ll give you a couple classics for free:
Dorothy Parker (1893–1967) was a writer and poet, perhaps best known for her humorous commentary on urban life in America published in The New Yorker. She was a founding member of the Algonquin Round Table, a group of writers, critics, and other literary folk who gathered each day for lunch at the Algonquin Hotel (West 44th Street near Fifth Avenue) from 1919 to about 1929. Harpo Marx, Tallulah Bankhead, and Edna Ferber were among other participants. Speaking about the Round Table years later, writer and curmudgeon H. L. Mencken commented, “their ideals were those of a vaudeville actor, one who is extremely ‘in the know’ and inordinately trashy.”
One session included a contest—each member was given a word around which to construct a pun. Ms. Parker was given horticulture. Her response, “You can lead a whore to culture but you can’t make her think.”
Science-fiction writer Isaac Asimov presented his favorite pun, which involved the story of an old cattle rancher whose offspring inherited the ranch, renamed “The Focus Ranch” as a stipulation of the will. The source of the name—“Where the sun’s rays meet.” Get it—focus, sun’s rays?1

An evolutionary revolution
In the last several days I’ve experienced two artistic revolutions and as I reflected about them, the word evolution joined the fun. I couldn’t find any published etymological connection between the two words, but I can’t avoid the sound association leading to a more meaningful connection—is a revolution a re-evolution? The evolution of musical theater includes several revolutionary moments like Monteverdi’s opera, The Coronation of Poppea (1642), which stands out as a breathtaking and groundbreaking composition with a raft of soloists, a chorus, lots of orchestral music and dancing—a mid-17th-century foreshadowing of the tradition of romantic Grand Opera.
Yesterday we attended a live-by-satellite broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera of Hector Berlioz’s La Damnation de Faust. The revolutionary brainchild of Peter Gelb, general manager of the Met since 2006, these performances are broadcast to nearly 800 venues, including movie theaters and concert halls, exponentially expanding the Met’s paying audience. The audiences are treated not only to huge-format excellent-quality broadcasts of the great operas, complete with “see every hair” close-ups so well known from televised sports, but also to backstage tours and interviews that give a great sense of the bustle that goes on behind the scenes. You see grand stage-sweeping shots and intimate close-ups. When the on-stage lovers are embracing, noses five inches apart and singing at the top of their gargantuan voices, one wonders if there is any hearing left when the afternoon is over. (Makes me think of the cheek-flapping films from early G-force experiments.)
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) created the character of Doctor Faust, a melancholy aging scholar who is contemplating suicide until he hears church bells and an Easter celebration. As he changes his mind, he is approached by Satan (Mephistopheles), who undertakes to win his soul. After several twists and turns, Satan provides Faust with the vision of a lover who ironically kills her mother using Faust’s bottle of poison as a sleep aid, trying to keep the old woman out of the way so she could encounter Faust. In the original Faustian Deal, Dr. Faust signs a pact with the Devil committing his soul to the underworld in return for freeing his lover for ascension into heaven. (After all, it wasn’t her fault that Satan made her fall in love!)
Hector Berlioz (1803–1869) was a revolutionary composer. His skill and insight as an orchestrator was such that his treatise on orchestration is still used in formal musical educations. He was a pioneer of the use of huge musical forces, on several occasions conducting more than a thousand musicians in performance. Berlioz originally called La Damnation de Faust a “légende dramatique”—as such it has most frequently been performed as an oratorio, only gradually evolving into a recognized part of opera repertoire.
Berlioz’s score is fantastique, contributing to the evolution of the symphonique tone poem, his interest in the form having been piqued by such masterworks as Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique. His orchestral technique is far ahead of its time. His sense of the dramatique is unique—the evil villain’s actions oblique, and the outlook for Faust’s soul is blique.
The evolution of stagecraft has been forever changed by electronics. The set for the Met’s production of Faust is a three-tiered skeleton on which the cast of characters carries on, and onto which virtual scenery is projected. The grid changes from a crucifixion scene to a bustling boozy inn to a stately mansion—from a creepy and spooky forest to the underworld and finally to heaven, all controlled by the proverbial flicking of switches. The concept is as revolutionary as the media. And I’ll tell you, watching such a progressive production in a quaint little tin-ceilinged second-story theater in a small town in Maine is surreal. Damnation and ascension complete, we walk out onto Main Street greeted by a wintery wind and the familiar sights and sounds of our little town. Revolution complete.
I think Hector Berlioz, whose imagination stunned the French public in the middle of the 19th century (200 years after the first performance of Coronation of Poppea), would have loved how the Metropolitan Opera, ostensibly but no longer that most stodgy of institutions, would present his music in such an imaginative and revolutionary way.
The other evolution of my week of revolutions was my second visit to the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles. I have yet to hear the extraordinary, revolutionary Rosales/Glatter-Götz organ in a live performance, but I have now had two opportunities to be with the organ in the company of Manuel Rosales in an otherwise empty hall. The visual design is fanciful enough in photographs, more so when viewing the organ from the hall. But the most fanciful is standing amongst the curved 32-foot Violone pipes that comprise the essence of the unique design. It’s a little like looking in a curvy fun-house mirror—the familiar is lost, and you feel a little disoriented. After all, the façade pipes of most organs sit obediently on an impost above the fray. To get to the “tracker console” of the Disney organ, you walk between a forest of façade pipes. Their toes are on the stage floor around the console—wind coming from who-knows-where through the floor.
Looking at the façade from inside the organ is a little like getting a backstage glimpse at the Met—you can see the clever structure that supports the façade: each pipe is curved, each pipe faces in a different direction, and there’s no apparent order to them that can be derived from musical scales, tuning systems, or chest order, as with virtually every other organ with an architectural presence. So much for obedience. (Notice that I didn’t bother to mention symmetry!)
In one sense this mighty organ represents a logical evolutionary step. In the past couple decades we’ve celebrated the design and construction of quite a few tremendous new concert hall organs. Each one has design features that build on its predecessors. A terrific amount of work has been devoted to understanding how to move enough air through an organ to produce pleasing and musical tones that can take a listener from whisper to volcano. It’s a grand achievement for a pipe organ to “stand up to” a modern symphony orchestra, which is capable of bewildering volumes of sound. To achieve that with modest wind pressures and slider chests is especially impressive.
There’s nothing quite like the bass response of a symphony orchestra. No great conductor is willing to wait a nano-second for a bass note to develop. The bottom notes from the orchestra’s tuba, trombone, contrabassoon, cellos and basses, and timpani are in the listener’s ears right now. Having spent a lifetime working to make organs sound their best, I can remember myriad struggles with bass response. Think of that low note in the Pedal Bourdon that yodels a little around the second partial before it settles on its pitch, or the note in the Contra Bombarde that offers a half-second of pfffff before you hear a note. No way. The organs that play with modern orchestras have to perform with their orchestral neighbors. On the Disney organ it’s possible to draw a dozen or stops at 32- and 16-foot pitch and play staccato notes in the bottom octaves—surreal.
§
On the score of his massive Grande Messe des morts (Requiem), Berlioz notes, “The number [of performers] indicated is only relative. If space permits, the chorus may be doubled or tripled, and the orchestra be proportionally increased. But in the event of an exceptionally large chorus, say 700 to 800 voices, the entire chorus should only be used for the Dies Irae, the Tuba Mirum, and the Lacrymosa, the rest of the movements being restricted to 400 voices.”
The score calls for 4 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 English horns, 4 clarinets, 8 bassoons, 12 horns, 4 cornets and 4 tubas (in the orchestra), 4 brass choirs [Choir 1 to the north: 4 cornets, 4 trombones, 2 tubas; Choir 2 to the east: 4 trumpets, 4 trombones; Choir 3 to the west: 4 trumpets, 4 trombones; Choir 4 to the south: 4 trumpets, 4 trombones, 4 ophicleides (usually substituted by tubas)], a battery of percussionists, 16 timpani played by 10 timpanists, 2 bass drums, 4 tamtams, 10 pairs of cymbals, 25 first violins, 25 second violins, 20 violas, 20 violoncellos, 18 double basses, 80 women’s voices (divided between sopranos and altos), 60 tenors, 70 basses, and tenor soloist.
Alas, no organ. And he thought it would be a grand performance.
But the nearly equally ambitious (minus the four spatial brass choirs) Te Deum is scored for 4 flutes, 4 oboes (one doubling on cor anglais), 4 clarinets (one doubling on bass clarinet), 4 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 2 cornets, 6 trombones, 2 ophicleides/tubas, timpani, 4 tenor drums, bass drum, cymbals, tenor solo, 2 large 3-part (STB) mixed choirs, 1 large unison children’s choir, strings, and (yes, Virginia) organ.
I’d love to hear that piece performed in Disney Hall. Given available space, they’d probably have to settle for about 300 singers, but that’d do. In the hall’s spectacular acoustics I’m sure I’d be able to hear every “K”, every “T”—and while most vowels would be clear, I’m afraid barely “O’s.” (Sorry, Hector.)

 

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In the wind . . .

John Bishop

John Bishop is executive director of the Organ Clearing House.

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Cracking the code
In April 2008 the Boston Symphony Orchestra premiered John Harbison’s Symphony Number 5 for mezzo-soprano and baritone soloists with symphony orchestra. The texts are from three poems on Orpheus, the tragic figure who tried to rescue his lover Euridice from the underworld. The score calls for a huge orchestra. Here’s the way it was listed in the BSO program book:

baritone and mezzo-soprano soloists, three flutes (third doubling piccolo), three oboes (third doubling English horn), three clarinets (second doubling e-flat clarinet, third doubling bass clarinet), two bassoons, contra bassoon, four horns, two trumpets, two trombones, tuba, percussion (three players—I: glockenspiel, vibraphone, cymbals, metal blocks, guiro, slapstick; II: concert marimba, high bell, triangle, tenor drum, maracas, high and highest claves, sandpaper blocks; III: large bell [E], tuned gongs [E, G], cowbells, snare drum, bass drum, sandpaper blocks), timpani, piano, harp, electric guitar, and strings.

Let me tell you, it was a surprise to hear the sound of an electric guitar from a guy in a tux on that venerable stage!
You ask, what’s a guiro? It’s a Latin American instrument made from a gourd with notches cut in it. You scrape a stick across the notches to make the sound. And by the way, if the large bell and the gongs are tuned to specific notes, why isn’t the high bell?
We are used to hearing thrilling performances of huge orchestral pieces. It’s not uncommon to see a hundred-member orchestra, even with an array of solo singers and a huge chorus. We marvel at how hundreds of musicians can be kept together in any kind of coherent ensemble, but when a great conductor raises a finger the response is instant. I remember witnessing a rehearsal at Tanglewood in which Seiji Ozawa was leading an orchestra and choir of student musicians in a Bach cantata. There was a scrabbly moment that could only have been caused by singers’ inattention, and I was fascinated watching Ozawa pointing two fingers at his own eyes and then at the tenors. That was the end of that lack of focus. It was as if his fingers were ray guns.
When we perform a familiar piece of music we have something of a head start. We know how the piece should sound, we have an idea of how to achieve that sound, and we have past mistakes informing us. Hearing the premiere of Harbison’s symphony, I was struck by the majesty of the achievement of the ensemble in a brand-new piece of music. It was new for all of the musicians. But much more, I was struck by the composer’s ability to conceive such complex sounds on paper, to lay the score out across the orchestra in such a way as to achieve antiphonal effects, create curious inner ensembles of two or three instruments seated forty feet apart, and affect a balance of the wide range of timbres. How did Mr. Harbison know how to balance eighteen first violins and thirteen second violins with the guiro?
When a composer is sitting at a desk with blank manuscript paper (or the electronic equivalent) that can accommodate 35 or 36 independent parts, what does he hear in his head? Can he hear the balances and contrasts emerge as he starts to put notes on the page? Can he tell that the horns will be too loud in this passage? Does he know that the guiro will balance with the strings? Does he toss and turn all night because in his mind’s ear the large bell (E) is too loud?
Reflect on the magic of musical notation—how it stands as a code for a palette of pitches and tones arranged in the passage of time. Is the printed score actually the piece of music, or is it code for the realization of a piece of music? Perhaps it doesn’t become music until someone cracks the code and the ink blots on the score become audible sound. The score implies not only melody, rhythm, and harmony, but the intricate balance of tone colors coming from so many different instruments.

Persichetti ate spaghetti he himself had made.
He spilled some sauce upon the score and called it “Serenade.”

Listen
You’re at home or in your office riffling through your music library planning the next four or five weeks of preludes and postludes. You open one volume after another, glancing at the titles and the first couple measures. What do you hear? Do you have a memory of the sound of the piece the last time you played it? Do you remember the sound of another player’s performance that particularly impressed you? Or are you simply rattling through a catalogue of titles without hearing anything?
Have you been organist of the same church for years, playing the same forty or fifty standard pieces again and again? Do you use the same registrations each time you repeat a piece? And when you play that piece on a different organ, do you draw the stops by name as if you were at your home instrument, making the appropriate substitution of 4? Rohrflöte for 4? Koppelflöte? Close enough? Not if the caps of the Koppelflöte are loose so the speech is poor.

Listen
Organists have a special privilege in that they are free to “orchestrate” the pieces they play in the same way the symphonic composer can choose between an E-flat clarinet and an English horn to play a particular melody. To simply draw stops by name without listening critically to how they balance, how they complement the composer’s intentions, or your own feelings and moods of the day is to deprive yourself and your listeners of the feature that distinguishes the organ from virtually all other musical instruments—the wealth of tone colors possible by thoughtful, creative, inspired choice of registration. The organist who doesn’t consider registration as important a musical element as melody, harmony, and rhythm is missing a dimensional opportunity.

Listen
Many church organists only play on the organ at their home church. If you’ve been playing the same organ and only the same organ for years, you may have fallen into habits of registration. Take an afternoon to reacquaint yourself with your instrument. Invite a colleague to your church. Ask him to play a couple contrasting pieces so you can hear the organ “out in the room.” Listen to a few of the pieces you play most often using “your” registrations. Try lots of different registrations and listen critically. Take a piece that you’ve always played on principals and try it on reeds. The brilliant harmonics of reed voices might help an important inner voice sing out. Work hard and specifically to understand the listeners’ impressions of the instrument. Walk around the church as the organ is played, or stand near the console to remind yourself of the impression you get while playing and then walk out into the church and listen to how the impression might be different. You might be surprised at how your conceptions differ between playing and listening to the same organ.

Last week I read in the newsletter of the Boston AGO chapter that Dr. Thomas Richner passed away on July 12 at the age of 96. [See p. 10, and Lorenz Maycher’s interview with Thomas Richner in The Diapason, November 2005.] He was organist at the Fifth Church of Christ, Scientist in New York for many years, and at the First Church of Christ, Scientist (The Mother Church) in Boston where it was my privilege to care for the spectacular Aeolian-Skinner organ (#1203, four manuals, 237 ranks).
When I knew Tom Richner he was in his early eighties—spry, energetic, and a touch wily with a sly sparkle in his eyes. He loved a racy joke, he loved a tasty lunch, he was a master of the double-entendre, and he was as devoted to his work as a church musician as anyone I’ve known. He called me “Pee-pee”—come to think of it, he called everyone Pee-pee. And everyone called him “Uncle T.”
Tom Richner was an inspired organist, pianist, and teacher. It was a treat to watch him prepare a piece at the organ—a tiny man seated at a behemoth of an organ console choosing gorgeous tones from the vast array available in that huge organ. He listened. He never took registrations for granted, but tried countless combinations before settling on just the right sound. I remember his unusual choice of the Choir Tuba—a very powerful and brilliant Trumpet rank—with the box closed as the voice for the cantus firmus of Bach’s chorale prelude, Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme. His rationale? It’s the only reed in the organ that will trill fast enough! (He played that piece at quite a spiffy clip.)
It was my sense that he could draw as large a variety of tone from the single “rank” of piano strings as he could from the Aeolian-Skinner organ. He specialized in the piano sonatas of Mozart, which he knew intimately, and his playing was as colorful as I’ve heard. I have a copy of his dissertation, “Orientation for Interpreting Mozart’s Piano Sonatas,” in which he combined meticulous scholarship with his love of the music, sharing the insights gained from many decades of study and performance.
He had a home in Port Jefferson, New York that housed a beautiful Steinway piano and a three-manual Aeolian-Skinner unit organ—as I remember it had about twelve ranks. Several times he asked me to tune the organ, and I installed a solid-state combination action. Driving from Boston to Port Jefferson involved taking a ferry from Bridgeport, Connecticut across Long Island Sound. Tom had an invariable habit of stopping for breakfast at a Howard Johnson’s restaurant along Route 95 in Rhode Island. The first time I made the trip with him we agreed to meet at the HoJo’s. I got there first and told the hostess I wasn’t quite sure I was in the right place. When I described Tom to her she looked at her watch and said, “Oh no, he’s not due for about ten minutes.” Sure enough, there he was ten minutes later, so regular in his habits that a restaurant staff could tell time by his arrival! When the waitress came to take our orders she only asked me what I wanted. She knew perfectly well what he would order.
When we left the restaurant, I was to follow him to the ferry slip. It was all I could do to keep up. Remember the speed of those Bach trills.
When I was wiring the combination action in his house organ, I had the great treat of being a “fly on the wall” as he gave a piano lesson to a graduate student. She was a young Korean woman preparing a Mozart piano concerto for an important competition. The lesson lasted more than four hours. It was all done from memory, and as I sat quietly inside the organ soldering away I heard the two of them analyze, criticize, and transform her performance. During that afternoon, Tom barely touched the piano. He sat in a comfortable chair listening with his eyes closed, jumping to his feet periodically to interrupt her with a fresh point. I consider that piano lesson one of my richest musical experiences.
I loved hearing Tom tell stories about musicians and organbuilders. He was eloquent describing David McK. Williams leading the choir of St. Bartholomew’s Church on Park Avenue in New York in oratorios on Sunday afternoons. Williams directed from the console while playing wonderful transcriptions of the orchestral accompaniments—but what impressed Tom so much was the sense of theater. The seamless flow and exquisite timing of the service and the magical meltdowns from fortissimo to quiet nothingness stuck out his memory as powerful influences on his own musicianship.
He also loved to tell a story about G. Donald Harrison of Aeolian-Skinner who was planning a new antiphonal division for the organ at Fifth Church of Christ, Scientist when Tom was the organist there. Tom asked about the possibility of enclosing a few echo stops with their own set of shutters inside the expression chamber of the Antiphonal organ, providing a double expression. Replied Harrison, “wouldn’t that be gilding the lily?” In that exchange, organist and organbuilder were exploring possibilities, pushing boundaries, creating the machinery that would produce a stunning musical effect.
The composer orchestrates his music, deploying a vast collection of timbres and personalities to produce just the right effect. The organist interprets a piece of music by deploying the sounds of the given instrument. He listens carefully and chooses voices with thought and discrimination. And the congregation is reminded of the majesty of the organ. This matters.

In the wind . . .

John Bishop
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A Night at the Opera

When you think of a night at the opera, what images flash through your mind? Stunning sets and costumes? Brilliant singing? Melodramatic stories transformed into staged magic? The thrill of a lifetime to witness such ambitious performances? Or do you imagine fur coats and diamonds, limousines, $200 orchestra seats, standing room lines, no late seating?
I have friends in the Boston area who make special trips to attend performances at the Met. This means traveling to New York ($100 each for the train), staying in a hotel ($300), restaurant meals (say $200), and expensive tickets ($150 each for moderate-priced seats)—a thousand dollars! How accessible is that?
The future audience for opera is today’s children, but how many families can consider such an expensive outing? And how many children can manage a three-hour commitment to sit in a seat and pay attention? What is the future of the art form if it’s not really available to young people? We who are serious about the performance of serious music are used to strict rules of etiquette at concerts. We never applaud between movements. We scorn those who arrive late or leave early; we’re openly derisive of those who leave early and then return to their seats. We focus on authentic performances of complete pieces; we take all of the repeats. We expect our listeners to accept the music on our terms, insisting that we are speaking for the composers. These are all important rules. We should stick to them. But I think we need to admit that these rules apply more to those who are already appreciators of serious music, and that they are not great tools for audience development.
In August of 2006, Peter Gelb succeeded Joseph Volpe as general manager of the Metropolitan Opera in New York. Mr. Gelb began his working life as an office boy for the great impresario Sol Hurok, presenter of more than 4,000 artists including Marian Anderson, Pavlova, and Andrés Segovia. You can find his biography on the Met’s website . Realizing the importance of offering opera to children, and stating that most operas are simply too long for children, he has spearheaded a striking effort to build tomorrow’s audience. Under his leadership, the Met has created an edited version of Julie Taymor’s 2004 production of Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte especially for audiences of children. From its typical duration of three hours and ten minutes, the production was cut to 90 minutes.
On Monday, January 1, 2007, the New York Times printed two articles about this revolutionary presentation. Times music critic Anthony Tommasini’s article, “An Opera at the Met That’s Real and ‘Loud’,” reports that “the overture and several ensembles and arias were cut. Other arias were abridged through some very deft trims.” Poet J. D. McClatchy, a lecturer in English at Yale University, created a new free English translation of the libretto. And as perhaps the most important vote of support, James Levine conducted. The matinee performance on Saturday, December 30, was sold out, and Tommasini reported, “Actually the matinee clocked in at close to two hours, but few of the children seemed to mind. The audience was remarkably attentive and well behaved. Of course one strict Met protocol—if you leave the auditorium you are not allowed re-entry until intermission—was wisely ditched for the day, so children could take restroom breaks.”
When Tommasini interviewed some children in the audience, they told him that the singing was too loud. He challenged them, “when children hear amplified music everywhere, even channeled right into their ears through headphones, how could un-amplified singing seem too loud?” They responded that it wasn’t too loud to listen to, but that they “never thought voices could do that.” Tommasini went on, “So their reaction was not a complaint about excessive volume, but rather an attempt to explain the awesome impression” made on them by the Met’s singers.
The other article about this extravaganza was written by Campbell Robertson under the title, “Mozart, Now Singing at a Theater Near You.” As if the abridged edition weren’t radical enough, the Metropolitan Opera went a step further and arranged for the performance to be simulcast live to 100 movie theaters across America, in Canada, Great Britain, Japan, and Norway. The numbers were not all in at press time, but Robertson reported that the average attendance was at 90% of capacity—of the 60 American theaters presenting the simulcast, 48 were sold out. Tickets were priced at $18. The article was full of enthusiastic responses from parents and children. I imagine Mr. Gelb was pleased.
What a radical approach to a seemingly inaccessible art form. If there were 200 seats in each of those 100 theaters and an average of 90% attendance, that’s 18,000 tickets. Add 3,800 seats and 195 standing-room places in the Metropolitan Opera House* and you get 21,995. Now that’s an audience!
This kind of radical programming is not for everyone. We have to admit that the diamonds-and-fur crowd is essential to the Met. Take a look at the program book of any major musical ensemble and you can see who gives what. I have the program from a recent concert of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in my hands in which is published the list of contributors to the orchestra’s recent Capital and Endowment Campaign. There are three names in the $2,000,000 and up category, eight in $1,000,000–$1,999,999, and seven in $500,000–$999,999. Elsewhere in the same book is the list of supporters of the Higginson Society, which “embodies the deep commitment to supporting musical excellence continuing the legacy of the orchestra’s founder and first benefactor, Henry Lee Higginson.” This list is a little closer to earth with the highest gifts at around $100,000; there are 107 sponsors ($5000–$9999) and 281 members ($2500–$4999). These lists fill eight full pages.
While I’d like to imagine that many of these $2500 to $2,000,000 supporters would approve of such innovative programming as I describe from the Met, I bet that many would prefer to attend a “real” performance of Die Zauberflöte. So of course the Met continues to offer their familiar fare. Go to and you’ll see everything from Andrea Chénier to Eugene Onegin to Butterfly to The First Emperor (the premier of a very ambitious piece by Chinese composer Tan Dun commissioned by the Met, which we heard on the radio this past Saturday).
What does all this have to do with the organ? When’s the last time you saw a family with young children in the audience at an organ recital? What’s your attitude about audience etiquette at recitals presented at your church? How welcoming are the concerts presented in your community? And who will be listening to organ music in your town 50 years from now?
We could promote the simulcast trick for special recitals—something flashy from Walt Disney Hall might fill a few theaters—but there are exciting organs in many (hundreds, thousands?) locales that could attract big crowds of young people if handled right. What would you play if you were guaranteed a full audience of teenagers? Chorale preludes of Johann Gottfried Walther? Elevations by Frescobaldi? Don’t get me wrong—I love that music, I’ve played it and many other things like it. But with respect to Johann and Girolamo, it’s just not the thrall of a 21st-century kid.
Do we have to degrade the organ to make it enticing? I don’t think so, but we have to be creative. Do we cheapen our musicianship by “catering” to the masses? On the other hand, what good are we without the masses? I’ve heard colleagues refer to the lay public as “the great unwashed.” I object to this characterization. Does that make us the “great washed?” (If so, that precludes us from getting “down and dirty” with our music-making.) My objection comes from the feeling that while we certainly expect the respect of our audiences (in both sacred and secular settings), we often fail to offer reciprocal respect. And in that failing, we are shooting ourselves in the collective foot. Just as a wife might compliment her husband for his good taste in women, the organist might applaud the audience for its good taste in choosing their afternoon’s entertainment. And what better way to applaud the audience than to reward it with a thrilling, enlightening, accessible program?
I participate as a member of the board of the Friends of the DaPonte String Quartet, a non-profit organization that supports, promotes, and presents the quartet in regular concerts in mid-coast Maine. In addition to some 30 concerts a year in the home region, they frequently play in distant cities, acting as musical ambassadors from the small towns in which they live. It’s a wonderful organization with a strong audience, and it’s impossible to measure the advantages of having such an institution in a small town. But there’s an inherent struggle. How do we balance the artistic ideals and aspirations of the quartet with the pressures of meeting the budget? The fact is the choice is never that clear. Of course the audience wants to hear the classic string quartet repertory. Of course the quartet wants to explore new music, new concepts, and new challenges. Of course, everyone wants to play and attend concerts of music that is beautiful, uplifting, and stimulating. And of course all of us would like to see more children attending the concerts. It’s a matter of balance.
The Boston Symphony Orchestra rewards its generous donors with “Pre-Concert Talks” presented by leading musicologists before every concert and with museum-quality displays about the composers’ life and work. An educated audience will be more receptive to the unfamiliar.
I was struck by what I read in the New York Times about the Metropolitan Opera. For such a venerable institution to undertake such a radical program should be an example to all who care about the future of the arts. Imagine the expense. A special translation, editing all those scores and parts, recasting the production to allow for a new pace of set and costume changes and lighting cues, relearning and re-rehearsing that most familiar of operas so singers were familiar with the cuts. And don’t forget the paperwork to arrange for all those theaters and organizing the simulcasts. The whole adventure must have cost a fortune, no doubt supplied by well-briefed donors. It’s fun to picture all those children running up and down the grand staircases, covering their ears at the high notes from the Queen of the Night, and going home looking forward to the next time they get to go to the Met. Or the symphony. Or a string quartet concert. Or an organ recital—now playing at a theater (or a church) near you. Make it happen.
* http://www.metoperafamily.org/met opera/about/whoweare/faq/house.aspx

In the wind . . .

John Bishop

John Bishop is executive director of the Organ Clearing House.

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The upper class
I’m thinking about virtuosity these days. Last Tuesday, October 10, the New York Times published a tribute to Joan Sutherland following her death on the 8th. That day (noted as 10-10-10) happened to be my mother’s birthday and I enjoyed the coincidence as I remembered a family episode from the late 1960s. My parents are great music lovers and the instrument of choice when I was a young teenager was the then cutting-edge KLH stereo with amplifier and turntable in one sleek little unit and separate speakers. It seemed super-modern in those days of the console hi-fi built in the shape of a credenza. My father, an Episcopal priest, had a routine of closing himself into the living room on Saturday nights with a little analog typewriter on a card table and writing his sermon to the Saturday night live broadcasts of the Boston Symphony Orchestra hosted by Richard L. Kaye on WCRB, 102.5 FM.

Joan
My mother was devoted to recordings by Joan Sutherland as confirmed by the Winchester, Massachusetts police department. When our house was burglarized, mother was asked over the phone if she could identify the stereo. Not being much of techno-wiz, all she could say was she knew there was a Joan Sutherland record on the turntable. Good enough to reclaim the prized machine.
The piece in Tuesday’s Times, written by the paper’s long-time astute and influential music critic Anthony Tommasini, shared story after story of triumphant debuts, thunderous ovations, immense technical facility, monumental stage presence (in every sense of the word), and a flexibility of stylistic intuition and pure ability that allowed this one artist to be revered as perhaps the greatest living interpreter and presenter of the operatic roles of Handel and Wagner—two musical worlds that are afterworlds apart.
Miss Sutherland was also humbly self-deprecating, referring to her figure in her autobiography as flat in the bust but wide in the rib cage. Tommasini quoted her as saying that certain dresses “could make her look like ‘a large column walking about the stage.’”

The supremacy of youth
I had a brief personal contact with her. When I was an undergraduate organ major at Oberlin, I was, naturally enough, accompanist to a gaggle of singers. Joan Sutherland was to give a recital in Akron, about two hours away, and I rented a car from the college fleet to haul a bunch to hear her. We had terrific seats very close to the stage so my youthfully discerning and supremely knowledgeable companions could witness every tic. I don’t remember what she sang or who was the accompanist, but I sure do remember that, inspired by a couple little bubbles we heard in the Diva’s voice, one of my flock greeted her in the receiving line asking if she had a cold.
Another lovely moment with virtuosi in my Oberlin career was the morning after the long-awaited artist recital when Itzhak Perlman sat in the student lounge chatting with the students. A lot of classes were cut that morning. I’ll not forget his bright smile and twinkling eyes as he casually shared thoughts about music-making while drinking vending-machine coffee.

Re-creation as recreation
Vladimir Horowitz was one of the greatest virtuosi of the twentieth century, and while I never had an opportunity to hear him in live performance, I’ve seen and heard plenty on television and recordings. He was inspiring to watch. His posture had his face close to the keyboard and his hands were pure magic and mystery. The piano was made a chameleon with a range of tones as great as any hundred-knob organ. Of virtuosity, Mr. Horowitz wrote,

In order to become a truly re-creative performer, and not merely an instrumental wizard, one needs three ingredients in equal measure: a trained, disciplined mind, full of imagination; a free and giving heart; and a Gradus ad Parnassum command of instrumental skill. Few musicians ever reach artistic heights with these three ingredients evenly balanced. This is what I have been striving for all my life.

I love the use of the word re-creative, implying that once the music is created by the composer, the performer with free and giving heart can re-create the music. Earlier in the same quotation, Horowitz writes,

Classical, Romantic, Modern, Neo-Romantic! These labels may be convenient for musicologists, but they have nothing to do with composing or performing… All music is the expression of feelings, and feelings do not change over the centuries… Purists would have us believe that music from the so-called Classical period should be performed with emotional restraint, while so-called Romantic music should be played with emotional freedom. Such advice has often resulted in exaggeration: overindulgent, uncontrolled performances of Romantic music, and dry, sterile, dull performance of Classical music.
The notation of a composer is a mere skeleton that the performer must endow with flesh and blood, so that the music comes to life and speaks to an audience. The belief that going back to an Urtext will ensure a convincing performance is an illusion. An audience does not respond to intellectual concepts, only to the communication of feelings.
He speaks directly to the conundrum inspired by concepts like Historically Informed Performance. It’s essential to play music with deep knowledge of the practices of the times in which it was created, but never at the expense of the “communication of feelings”—the imparting of depth and delight to the listener. To any listener.

Biggsy
As a teenager growing up in the Boston area, I had quite a few opportunities to hear E. Power Biggs play recitals, especially on the beautiful Flentrop organ that he had installed in the hall formerly known as the Busch-Reisinger Museum (now called Busch Hall), a reverberant stone space on the campus of Harvard University. That organ was perhaps best know then (and still is today?) for the series of recordings, E. Power Biggs Plays Bach Organ Favorites, a fabulously successful series of recordings that gave both organ aficionados and professionals a new perspective on the music of Bach. I never questioned it then, and the group of organists I traveled with didn’t talk much about Virgil Fox except as some decadent music killer. Of course, now I realize that those two artists represented two wildly divergent points of view, both valid and both influential.
In his book Pulling Out All the Stops, Craig Whitney, former senior editor of the New York Times, presented an eloquent history of the relationship-feud-competition between Biggs and Fox. It continues telling the story of the twentieth-century American pipe organ by chronicling the lives and careers of Ernest Skinner, G. Donald Harrison, and Charles Fisk—a great read that still makes a terrific Christmas gift for anyone you know who’s interested in the organ.
In the fall of my freshman year at Oberlin, the new Flentrop organ in Warner Concert Hall was dedicated with a recital played by Marie-Claire Alain. A galaxy of stars of the organ world were there for an exciting weekend of discussions, lectures, and concerts, and I was fortunate to be chosen with a classmate to give Biggs and his wife Peggy a tour of the conservatory building and its organs. It was thrilling to spend that time with them, and while Biggs’s arthritis meant he was not up to playing, he had us demonstrate practice organs for him. We ended the evening sharing beers.
My girlfriend at the time was still in high school in Winchester. She didn’t believe my story, so went to meet Biggs at a record signing at the Harvard Coop, and Biggs corroborated for me: “Oh yes, he was the bearded one.” (I’ve had the beard since high school—it’s never been off.)

Yo-Yo
In the panoply of living virtuosi, perhaps none is more esteemed and admired than Yo-Yo Ma. He took the world by storm as a very young man, playing all the important literature the world across. The rich tone he produces from the instruments he plays warms the heart and feeds the soul, and his mature collaborations with other musicians have proven his versatility and inquisitiveness. And I’ll not soon forget his self-deprecation made public in his appearance on Sesame Street. The cool-dude, dark-shades, saxophone-playing Muppet, Hoots the Owl, greeted the great musician, “Yo, Yo-Yo Ma, ma man!” Wonderful.
A few minutes ago I took you to Winchester, Massachusetts, where my father was rector of the Parish of the Epiphany, a thriving and dynamic place with a wonderful music program and an organ built by C.B. Fisk. It happened that Yo-Yo Ma and his family lived in town. His wife was a Sunday School teacher and his children were part of the place. He asked my father for an appointment at which he asked if he would be allowed to play in the church on Christmas Eve. Dad responded showing the respect for church musicians that has so inspired me, “You’ll need to speak with Larry, the organist. Planning music here is his responsibility.” Larry Berry did not have to consider for very long.
Dad remembers that as he and the other clergy were robing for that special Christmas Eve service, a couple obviously unfamiliar with the familiar knocked on the obscure back door that opened into the clergy robing room. “Is this where the concert is?” asked the boor. One of the clergy replied, “Actually, we’re celebrating a birth here tonight.”
Yo-Yo Ma also appeared a couple times to play for the children’s Sunday morning chapel service, to the amazement and excitement of the Sunday School teachers. I was not present for any of those experiences, but I’m still touched by the humility that would lead such a great artist to make such a gift.

Jimmy
Wendy and I have seats at Symphony Hall for the “Thursday A” series of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. James Levine has been music director of that great band since the retirement of the organ-deploring Seiji Ozawa, and we’ve been treated to some of the most extraordinary music making since “Jimmy” came to town. His programming is innovative and imaginative, and his rapport with the orchestra is obvious and thrilling. Our seats are in a balcony above stage right, so every time he turns to the concertmaster we feel we can hear everything he says—he’s talking and singing all the time as he conducts. His consummate musicianship is communicated with the musicians of the orchestra, and through them to the audience. There’s something very special about the sound of Levine’s music. Mr. Levine is well known for the admiration his collaborators feel for him, made abundantly clear in the up-close interviews of Metropolitan Opera stars during the HD-simulcasts of the Met’s performances.
A pure example of Levine’s facility happened on Saturday, October 9. That afternoon at 1:00 he led the Met’s performance of Wagner’s Das Rheingold and flew to Boston in time to lead the BSO and Tanglewood Festival Chorus in Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony at 8:00. Holy cow! And this from a man who missed much of last season because of serious illness. Hey Jimmy, what do you want to do tomorrow?

There’s nothing to it
The thing about virtuosity is that it takes infinite effort to make it look easy. And when it can look easy it sounds good. A student musician might tackle a great masterwork and exult that he “got through it” when the performance was finally over. “Getting through it” is not the apex of the musical or artistic experience.
I think it’s correct to say that a virtuoso is born. Unless one is endowed with particular gifts, one cannot become a virtuoso. But he who is born with those gifts and doesn’t embrace them by dedicating his life to nurturing and developing them squanders what he has been given. The musician who plays scales and arpeggios by the hour achieves the appearance of effortlessness. The musician whose power of thought, concentration, and memory allows him to absorb and recall countless dizzying scores achieves the ability to knock off performances of multiple masterworks in a single day. Have you ever stopped to wonder at the spectacle of the great performer having to “cancel due to illness,” only to be replaced at the last minute by an artist who dashes across the country, roars from the airport to the concert hall, combs his hair, washes his hands, and walks on stage to play a concerto with a strange conductor, a strange orchestra, and a strange piano? There’s nothing to it.

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I feel privileged that my work brings me in contact with some of our greatest instruments and therefore, some of our greatest players. These thoughts on virtuosity are fed by the many thrilling moments I’ve had chatting with a great player at the console of a legendary organ. He draws a stop or pushes a piston and rattles off a passage, tries it on another combination, tries it with different phrasing or inflection. His conversation reveals that he is always thinking, always questioning, always searching for the actual essence of the music. There’s a depth of understanding of the relationship between the instrument and the acoustics of the room, between the intentions of the composer of the will of the re-creative performer.
Wendy and I have just gotten back to our sublet apartment in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village. This afternoon we heard Ken Cowan play the dedicatory recital of the large new Schoenstein organ at St. James’ Episcopal Church on Madison Avenue at 71st Street. There was a large-screen video monitor set up on the chancel steps showing Ken’s work at the console with three different angles. There’s a great debate about whether or not this detracts from the experience. I love it. The organ is alone in its concealment of its players. Excepting the relatively few concert venues where the console is placed on the stage, most organists are completely hidden from view when they play. The extreme is the organ with Rückpositiv in a rear gallery. (I remember one concert where the organist was sitting on the bench before the doors were opened and announced he was about to start by playing a simple chord on a Principal. The audience never even laid eyes on him before he started. I can understand the desire to allow the music to speak for itself, but isn’t the performance of music a human endeavor and a human achievement?)
It’s great fun to watch an artist like Ken work the console, and seeing it on a clear screen adds greatly to the experience in my opinion. And of course, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to watch! The orchestration of Ken’s playing is the point. And of course, the Schoenstein organ is symphonic in design and intention—a great marriage between artist and instrument. It was a wonderful concert—fascinating programming and great artistry in a beautiful church building.

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This little string of remembrances, inspired by Joan Sutherland’s obituary, seems to be about the humanness of music-making. Some great musicians are haughty and unapproachable. I was once eating in a restaurant at the same time (not the same table) as Lorin Maazel, then conductor of the Cleveland Orchestra. He stood out because he stood up—when the waiter was ready to take his order he stood and announced the orders of everyone in his party. I don’t know if they knew beforehand what they would be eating. It seemed to me to be the performance of “a very great man.” I doubt he would have graced the Sunday School class of a suburban Episcopal church.
When a great virtuoso connects with the audience as a human being everyone learns a lot. As Horowitz said, it’s about communicating feelings. ■

In the wind...

John Bishop
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Abetted by Satan

On August 5, 2014, the New York Times published a review of two concerts performed on the same evening as part of Lincoln Center’s “Mostly Mozart Festival.” Both featured Swedish clarinetist Martin Frost, about whom critic Corinna da Fonseca-Wollheim wrote, “In earlier times, the talent of Martin Frost would have attracted suspicion. Like that of Paganini, whom contemporaries suspected to be in cahoots with the Devil…” Ms. Fonseca-Wollheim gushed on: “… something approaching the supernatural … sounds he drew from his clarinet were so extraordinary that they produced incredulous laughter and head-shaking …” The headline read, “Languid, Meandering, and Clearly Abetted by Satan.”

In the second half of the first program, Frost joined the Emerson String Quartet to play Mozart’s glorious clarinet quintet. Ms. Fonseca-Wollheim reported that his artistry pulled the Emerson’s players back together after a lackluster first half. Of that, she wrote, “Without him … the Emersons were having a bad evening … visibly struggled to hit their stride … uncharacteristic intonation problems … It felt as if the players were fiddling with the radio dial in search of a frequency on which to broadcast the music clearly.” Ouch! She went on, “It was an entirely different string quartet that returned for the performance of the Mozart…”

It’s unusual for a critic to carry on with such abandon. It was as if the fair Corinna was smitten and couldn’t help herself.

Last week, there was another article about Martin Frost in the New York Times. This time the writer was George Loomis, and he was commenting on another facet of Frost’s apparent genius. He opened the piece reporting that Frost was to start his season of appearances by playing Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto with the Amsterdam Concertgebouw, adding that he had played the same piece thirty-seven times last season. But the point of the article was Martin Frost’s “urge to move beyond the traditional concert format to create a new kind of experience.”

In an interview following his appearances at the “Mostly Mozart Festival,” the forty-three-year-old Frost said, “I’ve started to look back at my career from a point in the future. When I’m 85, what will I think I’ve done with my life? I wouldn’t be proud that I’d done 1200 Weber concertos. I need to shake myself around and be brave enough to develop new ideas.”

In that interest, Martin Frost has created a program that includes music taken from Stravinsky’s Pulcinella, Dukas’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice, and other well-known works, in which he appears as soloist, conductor, dancer, actor, and master of ceremonies. Two other clarinetists appear (Bless their hearts!) along with other orchestra players, the whole enhanced by lighting and choreography.

 

Silk and goats

In the world of sports, “the greatest of all time” can be defined, at least in part, by numbers—the most home runs, the most goals, the most saves, the most strikeouts. It’s more difficult to define “the greatest” in the arts. Who was the greatest painter? Was it Rembrandt, Picasso, Monet, or Pollock? The work of those four can hardly be compared, so it seems impossible to know who was best.

The twentieth century knew three great cellists, Pablo Casals (1876–1973), Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), and Yo-Yo Ma (born 1955). The twenty-first century has given us Facebook as a new vehicle for the dissemination of wisdom. A lovely quote from Casals appears regularly in those ubiquitous pages. Asked at the age of ninety-three why he still practiced three hours a day, Casals replied, “I’m beginning to notice some improvement.”

It’s easy to argue that those three masters set the standard for modern cello playing, if one fails to mention Jacqueline Du Pré, Janos Starker, or Lynn Harrell. But in the spirit of gushing, I’m willing to single out Yo-Yo Ma as an inspiration, a technical wizard, a magical interpreter, and an imaginative performer. Heaven knows how many times he has played The Elgar, The Barber, or The Dvorak (there are two Dvorak cello concertos), but it must be hundreds of repetitions for each.

Yo-Yo Ma has made more than seventy-five recordings and he has sixteen Grammy Awards to show for his trouble. A Grammy Award is a mighty special thing, and many performers are satisfied with just one. But think of this. He received those sixteen Grammys in just twenty-seven years, between 1986 and 2013. That’s an average of 1.7 Grammys each year! Give me a break.

But wait, there’s more. You might expect that Yo-Yo Ma’s Grammys would be in the usual categories: Best Chamber Music Performance, Best Instrumental Soloist Performance, Best Classical Album. Of course he’s all over those. But he’s also received four for Best Classical Crossover Album and one for Best Folk Music Album!

Instead of satisfying himself with the acknowledged glory of playing the great works for cello and orchestra on all the world’s greatest stages, the height of ambition for most performers, he has collaborated with the electrifying genius Bobby McFerrin, and founded the Silk Road Project, which has brought the world’s indigenous music together in the most energetic and meaningful way. Wendy and I attended a concert of the Silk Road Project at Tanglewood last summer, and were thrilled and mystified by the beauty of the collaboration. I was especially moved to witness Yo-Yo Ma (the world’s greatest cellist?) sitting as an equal between two younger brilliant cellists.

Remember that folk music Grammy? The Goat Rodeo Sessions is the collaboration of Yo-Yo Ma, Stuart Duncan, Edgar Meyer, and Chris Thile. It’s roughly described as a blend of classical and bluegrass music, and the term “goat rodeo” refers to a chaotic event that can succeed only if everything goes just right. One of the cuts on the album (my kids hate it when I use the old-fashioned word, album) is titled “13:8.” Students of music have pored over the piece analyzing the meter in attempts to make it conform to the time signature, 13:8. The mystery was revealed during a concert at Tanglewood in August of 2013, during which Stuart Duncan shared the story of an airline pilot with the audience. Each evening, when the flight attendant served his dinner, he replied, “Hebrews 13:8.” Her interest piqued, she finally looked up the New Testament verse: “Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today, and forever.”

By the way, The Goat Rodeo Sessions was awarded two Grammys: Best Folk Album, and Best Engineered Album, Non-Classical.

 

What should I play this year?

I served a Congregational church in suburban Boston as music director for almost twenty years. I was fortunate to have lots of resources to work with including enthusiastic volunteer singers, a professional quartet, a fine pipe organ and excellent piano, and funds sufficient to maintain a large library and to engage other musicians for festivals and concerts. I was proud of the programming, but as I look back on it, I know I wasn’t always as imaginative as I could have been. I could never resist the temptation to play Bach’s settings of Valet will ich dir geben on Palm Sunday. They are both smashing pieces, based on the tune we know colloquially as St. Theodulph (“All glory, laud, and honor”). Of course, I published the title in German, assuming that the parishioners would figure it out. I haven’t gone back through archives to prove it, but it’s a safe bet I played those pieces on each of those nineteen Palm Sundays.

What’s the formula for a classic organ recital? I can give you a couple. The simplest is the “All-Whomever” recital. Your choice. Bach, Buxtehude, Scheidt, the list goes on and on. Open with a  chaconne, then a set of chorale preludes, followed by a choral fantasy. Interval. Second half: minor prelude and fugue, trio sonata or set of variations, close with a major toccata and fugue.

Or for more variety: Classic French set (the usual Couperin, Corrette, De Grigny, or Clérambault), three German chorale preludes, then a Baroque prelude and fugue. Interval. Second half: Selections from a favorite collection (Vierne or Langlais 24, or Pierné 3), novelty (elves, nymphs, naiads, your choice), close with swashbuckling barnburner.

Similar formulas also apply to the programming of orchestral concerts: Opera overture, classical piano concerto (“Elvira Madigan”). Intermission. Second half: Major Romantic symphony with lots of recognizable tunes and French horn solos.

 

Catch–22

Joseph Heller’s novel published in 1961 is a brilliant, satirical telling of the experiences of a group of World War II airmen in a fictional squadron based on an Italian island. The common thread seems simple enough—they are all trying to hold it together until the end of the war or their discharge from the service, whichever comes first. Some are trying to maintain sanity, while others are trying to convince their superiors of their insanity. The telling is so complex that the title of the book has become a catchphrase in our language describing an enigma, a puzzle that cannot be solved. A simple example that happens to me: if you lose your glasses, you can’t see to find them.

The commercial demands of the symphony orchestra have never been more clear. The past few years have shown a spate of stories about strained labor relations between orchestral musicians and the institutions that pay them. The Minnesota Orchestra is a premier example. When the board of directors asked the musicians to accept reductions in salary and benefits, the musicians pointed out that the wildly expensive renovation of the concert hall was the cause of the orchestra’s financial difficulties. The dispute raged for years with the board of directors locking out the players, culminating in the resignation of music director Osmo Vänskä, who was credited with creating a dramatic increase in the quality and popularity of the orchestra. 

The musicians made a unanimous vote of no confidence in the board’s president, Michael Henson. Vänskä stated that Henson’s departure would be essential to the orchestra’s recovery. Henson resigned, and eight other board members resigned in protest. Now, Vänskä has been engaged in a new two-year contract to start rebuilding the fortunes of the orchestra. This dispute has been a classic example of the struggle between art and commerce. It costs a fortune to place an elite symphony orchestra on stage for a single concert. One might wish that excellence in performance and programming would be enough to assure funding.

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James Levine was music director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra from 2004 until 2011. Levine, a musician’s musician, brought a host of terrific collaborators to the Boston stage. And as a tireless champion of new music, he programmed the most fascinating series of concerts. Wendy and I benefitted from this in three ways. One was simply the exposure to many brilliant performances of exciting and challenging new music. The second was when friends offered us their excellent subscription seats because they were tired of all the new music. The third—we lived for two years in an apartment on Massachusetts Avenue next door to Symphony Hall and as BSO audiences dwindled, the management of the apartment building received complimentary tickets from the BSO in their effort to put “butts in seats,” and we were only too happy to accept those offers.

It’s ironic that we who are interested in hearing new music benefit from the dismay of the many who don’t. It’s a safe bet that if Levine returned to the beloved formula, the hall would be filled.

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In September of 2013, the stagehands at Carnegie Hall went on strike, demanding that they should have control over the movement of musical furniture in the hall’s new educational wing, due to open the following month. The turmoil was well documented in the New York Times and other august publications. Forbes Magazine documented that the hall’s executive director Clive Gillinson was paid $1,113,000 in 2012. The next highest-paid employee was stagehand Dennis O’Connell ($465,000), followed by carpenter James Csollany ($441,000). Fourth on the list was the Hall’s chief financial officer. Fifth and sixth were an electrician and another stagehand. How in the world can we afford to make music if we have to pay someone $465,000 a year to move music stands? Many of us sweated through this dispute because the opening of the Carnegie Hall season was in doubt, and our friend and colleague Stephen Tharp was to appear with the American Symphony Orchestra in Aaron Copland’s Organ Symphony. Happily, that concert was presented as scheduled, but the season opener, ironically an important fundraising event for the (recovering from a bitter labor dispute) Philadelphia Orchestra, celebrating its new music director, was cancelled because of the strike. By the way, because the new wing is specifically dedicated to educational activities and is not a performance space, the stagehands lost that round.

On August 22, the New York Times published an article about the opera house Teatro Regio in Turin, Italy. The story opened with snide comments about how Italian opera houses are typically known for poor management and finances, singling out Teatro Regio as one company that’s making waves with wonderful performances, and ambitious tours and recording projects. But once again we run into that struggle. Music director Gianandrea Noseda is threatening to resign, accusing the company’s general manager Walter Vergnano of reigning in the finances unnecessarily. Noseda is quoted as saying, “Now we have the engine of a fantastic car, like a Ferrari, but you cannot drive a Ferrari and win the Gran Prix if you leave the brake down all the time.”

 

The mother of them all

All of these stories pale in comparison to the recent wild machinations at the Metropolitan Opera. The Met’s general manager Peter Gelb has been heralded as a genius in the field of arts administration, especially through his introduction of live HD simulcasts of Met performances, showing in some 700 movie theaters around the world, and attended by nearly a million viewers. But when the Met faced growing and serious deficits in its colossal budget, which exceeds $330,000,000, the salaried employees accused Gelb of placing too much of the burden of economy on them. According to the Met’s website, there are some 3400 employees, including 300 solo artists, 100 orchestra players, and 80 chorus members. These most visible workers are supported by legions of carpenters, tailors, directors, make-up and hair artists, painters, electricians, and—you guessed it—stagehands. All of these workers are represented by powerful unions, and the dirty details were published in the Times in a long series of complex articles. 

We learned that members of the orchestra and chorus are paid over $200,000 a year—nice compensation, but it doesn’t seem like that much when you realize that the 2012–2013 season included 209 performances of 28 operas. Add the requisite rehearsal time, and you have a mighty busy year! We learned that the highest fee paid to solo artists is about $16,000 a performance. Nice compensation, but given the depth of education and preparation compared to an evening’s take for a hip-hop artist, it doesn’t seem like that much.

The dispute put the musicians into the awkward position of arguing for fewer new productions of old favorites, and less new music in the interest of saving money. The recent new production of Wagner’s Ring Cycle cost nearly $20,000,000. Why not just trot out the old one? There was an excruciating series of articles as the company threatened to lock out the employees and cancel the season. A special national arbitrator was engaged to direct the negotiations. Several deadlines passed or were extended, and finally a settlement was announced. The show must go on.

 

And our survey says…

In many markets, the most banal of classical music programming is the most successful. Radio stations run audience surveys whose results are predictable. The audience wants to hear the “greatest hits.” Brilliant and innovative programming, such as Levine’s in Boston, reduces the audience, but we need programming like that to sustain the arts, to encourage creativity, and to be sure there always is new music.

But the enigma continues. While I am strongly supportive of bold programming in concert venues, and am disappointed when programming seems weak when bending to popular demand, I realize that the future of the organ world, performers and audiences alike, depends on the discovery of bold new ways to use our venerated and ancient instrument. “Dead White Men” is a phrase that implies the kiss of death in the world of the arts. I interpret that to mean that we shouldn’t depend on the work of those from centuries before us for the completeness of our artistic expression. And with its huge heritage of ancient music, its correct and unswerving connection with the church, and its often arcane voice among the clamor of the modern world, the pipe organ can be the ultimate example of the Dead White Man. 

I got interested in the organ as a kid simply because I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I have many friends and colleagues who share that experience. Ours is a world in which you can easily spend $250,000 on a fine piano. When I was a student at Oberlin in the 1970s, that was the price of a new 45-stop Flentrop (Warner Concert Hall). We’re more than a tenth of the way through the twenty-first century. Let’s give ’em their money’s worth. 

In the wind . . .

John Bishop

John Bishop is executive director of the Organ Clearing House.

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The temperamental organ
Winter was coming to an end, and at Fenway Park, fabled home of the Boston Red Sox, and the facilities manager was working down his checklist of pre-season chores. This would be the second year of the new ballpark organ, and he figured it would need tuning. He called up Fred Opporknockity, the guy who had delivered the organ, and asked if he could come to tune the organ before Opening Day. Fred replied that the organ didn’t need to be tuned—he was sure it would be fine. Mr. Facilities suggested that the organ at his church was tuned for Christmas and Easter. “No,” said Fred, “don’t you know that
Opporknockity tunes but once?”
This joins a long list of so-called jokes like the one that ends, “Is that an almond daiquiri, Dick?” “No, it’s a hickory daiquiri, Doc.” Or the one that goes . . . But I digress. (How can I digress when I’m only 160 words into it?)
In fact, the Fenway Park organ didn’t need to be tuned. It’s electronic and was tuned at the factory. But the tuning of pipe organs is a subject without end or beginning, without right or wrong, without rhyme or reason—it just needs to be in tune!
Mr. Facilities’ recollection that the church organ needs to be tuned for Christmas and Easter (notice that I capitalized Opening Day as a High Holyday!) is only half right, in my opinion. For years I scheduled big tuning routes that occupied Advent and Lent, but where I live in New England, Christmas and Easter are almost always both winter holidays, and the August brides would walk down countless center aisles straining to the strains of sorry 8-foot trumpets that made her guests pucker as if they were biting into a lemon. It’s my experience that summertime tuning problems always involve either “soprano” D, F#, or A, ruining virtually every Trumpet-Tune processional. In one wedding I played, the fourth E went dead—the trill on beat three of Jeremiah Clarke’s ubiquitous tune made me laugh. I was only quick enough to go down a half-step, a safe enough transposition because you can keep playing the same printed notes with a different key signature. It was an awkward sounding transition, but at least it gave me back my “dee diddle-diddle-diddle da-da dum de dum dum” instead of “dee doh-doh-doh da-da dum de dum dum.”
Gradually I changed my plan to define seasonal tunings as “heat-on” and “heat-off”—around here that works out to be roughly November and May—and maybe it means I found myself a little extra work because there often seem to be Easter touch-ups as well.

§

Why do we schedule tunings according to seasons? Simply and authoritatively because the pitch produced by an organ pipe of a given length is subject to temperature. Say a pipe plays “440-A” and say it’s 70 degrees in the church. Raise the temperature a degree and now the same pipe plays 442 (roughly). And the catch is that the reeds don’t change with temperature and the wooden pipes (especially stopped pipes) are more affected by humidity than temperature. So when there’s a temperature swing the organ’s tuning flies into pieces. You cannot define organ pitch without reference to temperature. A contract for a new organ is likely to have a clause that defines the organ’s pitch as A=440 at 68 degrees.
And here’s the other catch. My little example said it was 70 degrees in the church. But it’s never 70 degrees everywhere in the church. It may be 70 at the console, 66 in the Swell, 61 in the Choir, and 82 in the Great. If these are the conditions when it’s cold outside and the thermostat is set to 68, you can bet that summertime conditions have it more like 75 or 80 degrees everywhere in the building except any high-up area where you find organ pipes—then it’s super hot and the reeds won’t tune that high.
Conditions outdoors can have a dramatic effect on organ tuning. Imagine an organ placed in two chambers on either side of a chancel, and imagine that the back wall of each organ chamber is an outside wall. The tuner comes on a rainy Friday and gets the organ nicely in tune. Sunday dawns bright and sunny, the south-facing wall gets heated up by the sun and that half of the organ goes sharp. During the sermon the organist “txts” the tuner to complain about how awful the organ sounds. (Wht wr u doing☹) The following Thursday the organist shows up for choir rehearsal and finds the tuner’s bill in his mailbox. What would you do? Was it the tuner’s fault that it rained? Any good organ tuner pays attention to weather conditions and forecasts as if he were the mother of the bride planning an outdoor wedding.
I care for a large tracker-action organ in Boston, housed in a free-standing case with polished tin Principal pipes in the façades of Great, Pedal, and Rückpositiv cases. It’s situated in a contemporary building designed by a famous architect, who gave the congregation the gift of light from the heavens coming through a long narrow window that runs along the ridge of the roof. In the winter as the sun moves across the sky, brilliant light moves across the front of the organ, heating the façade pipes as it goes. Instantly the Great 8-foot Principal goes 30 or 40 cents (hundreds of a semi-tone) sharp. Do the math—how many hundredths of a semitone are there in a quarter-tone? Guess what time of day this happens? Eleven AM. And guess what time the opening hymn is played on a Sunday morning? The first time I tuned that organ, I felt as though I were in a carnival fun-house with mirrors distorting the world around me as the organ’s pitch followed the sun across the room.

Temperature’s rising
In order to do a conscientious tuning, we ask the church office to be sure the heat is up for when we tune. When they ask what it should be set to, I reply that they should pretend that the tuning is a Sunday morning worship service. If the heat is turned up to 68 degrees five hours before the hour of worship, then set the heat at 68 five hours before the tuning. It’s not very scientific but it seems to get the point across.
I’ve arrived many times to start a tuning to find that there is no heat in the church. Sorry, can’t tune. I’ll come back tomorrow—and the time and mileage I spent today goes on your bill. Once I showed up at the church (made of blue brick and shaped like a whale—some architects have the strangest ideas) and the sexton proudly announced, “I got it good and warm in there for you this time.” It was 95 degrees in the church and the organ sounded terrible. Sorry, can’t tune. I’ll come back tomorrow. He must have run $400 of fuel oil through that furnace in addition to my bill for wasted time. And the haughty authoritative pastor of a big city Lutheran church once said to me from under an expensively-coiffed shock of theatrical white hair, “We heat the church for the people, not the organ.”
The eternal battle of the organ tuner and the thermostat is not because we don’t like working in cold rooms. It’s not because we want the organ to be warm. It’s physics. When you chill oxygen, the molecules get closer together and it thickens to the point at which it becomes a liquid. When air warms, the molecules get further apart. When the air molecules get further apart, the air gets less dense. When the air gets less dense, sound waves need less energy and they shorten. When the sound waves shorten, the pitch increases. It’s not a matter of comfort, it’s physical law—the laws of physics.
The same laws say that the organ will be in tune at the temperature at which it was tuned. Set the thermostat at 68 on Thursday for the organ tuning, turn it down to 55, then back up to 68 on Sunday. Voila! The organ is in tune—unless the weather changed. And it’s better for the organ not to be vigorously heated all the time. Ancient European organs have survived for centuries partly because their buildings are not superheated. American churches are often guilty of “organ baking”—keeping the heat up all winter, using the argument that it’s more cost-efficient than reheating a cold building several times a week.

It’s a Zen thing.
I’ve been asked if I have perfect pitch. No—and I’m glad I don’t. A roommate of mine at Oberlin had perfect pitch, and he identified that my turntable ran slow (remember turntables?). It didn’t bother me—but he couldn’t bear it. The organ tuner with perfect pitch has to compensate for the fact that you are not necessarily tuning at A=440. If the organ is a few cents sharp or flat when you arrive to tune, chances are you’re going to leave it that way. It takes several days to change the basic pitch of most organs. And for really big organs it can take weeks.
I’ve been asked how I can stand listening to “out of tune-ness” all day. I don’t like hearing it when I’m listening to organ music or attending worship, but when I’m tuning I love it because I can change it. There’s a satisfaction about working your way up a rank of pipes bringing notes into tune. You can feel them “click” into tune—in good voicing there’s a sort of latching that I sense when I give the pipe that last little tick with my tool.
An organ tuner is something of a contortionist—he has to be able to forget about physical discomfort in the often-awkward spaces inside an organ so he can concentrate on the sounds. He often hangs from a ladder or a swell-shutter for stability. (Key holders, please keep your dagnabbit feet off the Swell pedal!) He learns to tune out little mechanical noises and defects of speech. An organ pipe might have burps and bubbles in its speech that are clearly heard when you’re inside the organ and still sound perfect from the nave or the console.
He gets into a nice quiet state and a rhythm develops: “next,” tick-tick-tick, “next,” tick-tick-tick. A couple hours and ten ranks (610 pipes) into it and the sexton comes in with a vacuum cleaner. The flowers are delivered for Sunday. A lawn mower starts up at the house next door. The pastor brings in a soon-to-be married couple. They politely assure me, “Don’t worry, you’re not disturbing us.”
Once I showed up to tune the organ at a university chapel. A couple heavy trucks full of equipment were outside and a guy was loading tools into the bucket of a cherry picker. I went up to him saying I was there to tune the organ and wondered if they’d be making noise. “Not much,” he said, “just a little hammer-drilling.”

§

As I write, the Red Sox official website says that the Opening Day game at Fenway Park starts in twelve days, eight hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three seconds. It doesn’t really matter whether the organ is tune or not—they don’t use it as a ballpark organ any more. But there was a time when the organ music was an integral part of the ballpark experience. A common question in Boston sports trivia quizzes was, “Who’s the only person who played for the Red Sox, the Bruins (hockey), and the Celtics (basketball)?” Answer—John Keilly, the organist for Fenway Park and the Boston Garden.
My father and I have been to dozens (maybe hundreds?) of games at Fenway Park. He’s had the same seats (section 26, row 4, seats 13 and 14) since the early 1970s. When John Keilly was at the Hammond B-3, we joked about getting to the park early so we could hear the preludes. And he had an uncanny knack for playing the right tune at the right time. When Carlton Fisk hit his now legendary “walk-off” twelfth-inning homerun to win game six of the 1975 World Series, Keilly created a secondary sports legend when he played “Hallelujah”—though not according to historical performance practices.

§

Nancy Faust was organist for the Chicago White Sox from 1970 until her last game on Sunday, October 3, 2010. She missed five games in 1983 when her son was born—otherwise she played for more than 3,200 games without missing one. When she was hired, petitions were circulated by fans and sports officials offended that the White Sox had placed a woman on the team’s payroll. But she came into her own when Harry Caray became the radio commentator for the Sox. He gave her the moniker Pretty Nancy Faust, and started the tradition of leaning out the window of his announcer’s box to lead the singing of Take Me out to the Ballgame as Nancy played. She played by ear, and kept current with all the latest music through her four decades of playing so she was always ready with a current musical quip for the amusement of the fans. She was the originator of the ballpark use of the now ubiquitous 1969 Steam song Na Na Hey Hey (Kiss him goodbye), playing it when the pitcher of an opposing team was pulled out during the 1977 pennant race.
Nancy Faust was honored by the White Sox for her years of service to the team and its fans on September 18, 2010 in a pre-game ceremony. Ten thousand Pretty Nancy Faust bobblehead dolls were distributed to fans that day. My wife Wendy lived and worked in Chicago for about ten years, and as both a gifted organist and a baseball fan, she joined countless other Chicagoans celebrating Faust’s contribution to the game. We heard about her retirement on the NPR sports program “Only A Game” early one Saturday morning, and Wendy let me know how much she wanted one of those dolls. With thanks to Chicago organbuilding colleague and theatre organ guru Jeff Weiler, I found one complete with the ticket stub for the September 18 game, and it now has an honored place in our living room.
In the pages of this journal we often read about churches celebrating their retiring long-time organists. I’ve read plenty of stories about fancy concerts with reunions of dozens of past choir members, music committees commissioning commemorative anthems (bet you can’t say that three times fast!), cakes that look like pipe organs, bronze plaques, and surprise tickets for Caribbean cruises, but never bobblehead dolls. How cool is that? 

Aspects of French Symphonic Organ Music: L’Organiste Liturgique, L’Organiste Moderne, L’Organiste Pratique?

Joris Verdin

Joris Verdin studied both organ and musicology. This combination is the reason for his preference of reviving forgotten music at the same time as he creates contemporary compositions. He has recorded over 30 CDs as a soloist, spanning many musical eras and styles. After various activities as accompanist, arranger and producer, he now focuses on the organ as well as the harmonium, and has become internationally reputed as a specialist. He teaches at the Royal Conservatory of Antwerp and the University of Leuven. Master classes, musical editions and articles are an important part of his activities—among them, the first complete edtion of César Franck harmonium works and the first handbook of harmonium technique. The Spanish town Torre de Juan Abad (Ciudad Real) appointed Joris Verdin as honorary organist of the historical organ built by Gaspar de la Redonda in 1763. He obtained the Diapason d’Or and Cecilia award from the Belgian Press in 2001, was named Musician of the Year of the Flanders Festival 2002, and is artist in residence at the Fondation Royaumont, France 2008. The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance of Chris Bragg, Amersfoort, Holland/Perthshire, Scotland, in translating this article.

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Introduction
We can no longer refer to the 19th century as the “last century”; it belongs now, definitively, to history. As a result, 19th century music has become “early music.” Whether this is a positive or negative development I cannot say, but as a consequence of this music becoming ever more distant from our own time, the importance of collecting and preserving as much knowledge as possible increases. Such insights are essential for an accurate assessment of the surviving scores, texts and other sources.
This article will deal with several aspects of 19th-century French symphonic organ music, each of which can influence our appreciation and performance of this literature. Our perceptions of the repertoire in question are colored by such typically 20th-century ideals that it is now high time for the 21st century to contribute its own. As well as the currently typical philological (“musicological”) approach to the score, one should now evaluate the bigger picture. The context of French symphonic organ music as a part of 19th century music in general is an important concept for those who approach it creatively.

“Mon orgue c’est mon orchestre”
“French” is not difficult to define. It indicates, in general, the areas where the French language defined the culture in the 19th century: France, Belgium, parts of Switzerland and Spain, but with influences felt throughout Europe.
“Symphonic” has more or less the same clear meaning for everyone: we speak about symphonic music, a symphony orchestra, a symphonic suite, etc. Symphonic organ music, then, refers to symphonic music played on the organ, or music played on a symphonic organ. The first definition, in the sense of musical structure, requires no further comment. It is self-explanatory that the typical forms of symphonic music could also be applied to organ music. The second explanation describes the ensemble playing of different groups of instruments resulting in a cumulative sound-concept: that of the orchestra. This is nothing new, but still this idea has an essential importance for the sound of the organ.
The term “romantic” is often used in this context within the organ world. But what IS romantic? Is it a synonym for tempo rubato? For legato? Ad libitum? Senza rigore? In any case it has little to do with symphonic music, but refers rather to the evoking or expressing of extra-musical feelings. In this regard 19th-century music is no different than the music of any other period. An O Mensch bewein dein Sünde gross is at least as “romantic” as a Scherzo Symphonique. A Toccata per l’elevazione conjures at least as many images above the altar as a Prière à notre Dame. In fact, what we have here is one of those 20th-century ideals that color our view of 19th-century music: the term “romantic” was used in the 20th century to distance itself from the previous century, but today we are hardly aware of this. We would rather, therefore, speak about symphonic music and symphonic organs.
Of course some organs, mainly from the early 19th century, were “romantic.” However, the stops that were introduced at the time to imitate colorful instruments were intended as “decoration,” without influence on the sound of the ensemble, and therefore not symphonic. The “real” symphonic organ came about when the ensemble-ideal began to determine the direction of organ-building development. Solo stops remained important, but only on the condition that their function within the ensemble was of primary importance.
What would we think of a colorful Cor Anglais without the necessary Hautbois, just as in an orchestra? This is why one finds a minimum of solo stops on small organs. Not for nothing did Lefébure-Wely describe the harmonium as a “symphonic instrument”: an instrument with a compact and flexible ensemble made up of strongly differentiated colors. One of the consequences is as follows: In the context of the orchestra it is normal practice to hold sectional rehearsals. Why not then for the organ? Because an organist only has one head? But the conductor also has only one head and he allows the different groups to play beautifully together.
Symphonic organ music does something similar. The “symphonic organist” is comparable with the conductor; it is up to him to decide whether the oboe solo works with the accompaniment of the strings, for example. It is not the oboist’s problem in the first instance. The two hands of the symphonic organist behave in exactly the same way as the orchestra. The soloist determines his own expression while the accompaniment gives the framework wherein the soloist’s freedom comes to life. In other instances, where the orchestra sounds as one instrument to illustrate power and rhythm, for example in the scherzo or finale of a symphony, then it is the responsibility of the conductor to ensure that everything sounds together. In short, the organist must be able to adapt his way of playing to every musical situation. Insight, when referring to a symphonic score, is not limited to the study of the notes—insight dictates which voices may have freedom, and which may not.
The connotations of the term “symphonic” with regards to the organ changed substantially around the beginning of the 20th century. Initially it referred to the sound-concept it shared in common with the orchestra. However, with the reform movement in church music, and especially in organ philosophy, the term gradually began to become separated from its direct reference to orchestral instruments. The symphonic organ became “elevated,” even “spiritualized.”
Widor explains it as follows:
The possibility to enclose a complete organ in an opened or closed prison (at the will of the player), the freedom to mix sound-colors, the means by which to louden or soften, independence of rhythm, certainty of attack, equality of contrasts, and, finally, a complete expansion of colors; palette full of the most varied sounds, harmonic flutes, strings with beards, English horns, trumpets, Voix Célestes, foundations and reeds of an until then [until the organs of Cavaillé-Coll] unknown quality and variety. This is the modern organ, essentially symphonic.1
This has consequences for performance practice:

This is the way in which the organ symphony is different from the orchestral symphony. Confusion of the styles is not possible. One shall never again write in the same manner for organ as for orchestra . . .2
In other words, we see here a clear line of separation between the secular symphony and organ repertoire. Only the structural element remains important within the context of the symphony; the performance elements become different. They become adapted to the demands of the “modern” organ—distant and monumental.

It is not necessary to require the same precision and co-ordination of the hands and feet with the release as with the attack.3

. . . whereby Widor indicates that such an approach was considered sound.

L’Orgue Moderne
The French classical organ of around 1700 also had orchestral associations, referring to the orchestra of the time. Trompettes, cromornes and flutes were typical colors, but without the concept of ensemble being of importance. The irreplaceable Plein Jeu can be considered the most characteristic organ sound in this context. But the Plein Jeu is of course decidedly non-orchestral, far less symphonic. It remains a Blockwerk, a massive pyramid of sound. The Plein Jeu is also the first element that disappears in the 19th century. (The Plein Jeu as registration remains in use only in the liturgy, to accompany plainchant.) Of course the Jeu de Tierce also disappears; the sound is too nasal, and reminded the listener too much of old instruments with more overtones than fundamental. As a result it was less useful for the ensemble registrational ideal.
Now, an important difference between the classical and the symphonic organ can be found in the pitch basis of the basses, specifically in the pedal. The classical organ is based completely on the 8?. In the case of the Plein Jeu, a 16? stop can be used, but the tonal basis remains the 8?. The pedal specification is based on the 8? flute or trompette, not the 16?. The classical French organ shares this feature with the French baroque orchestra where no (or at least very few) double basses were used.
The great change happened around 1750 with the so-called “Concerts Spirituels,”4 where double basses were indeed introduced. From this time onward, French organs began to feature 16? stops in the pedal. This didn’t make the organ symphonic, but it can at least be considered a condition for an organ to be deemed symphonic. The pedal department of the symphonic organ is then just an expansion of the flutes and reeds at 8? and 4? with the corresponding 16? stops. The essential implication is that the “symphonic” pedal completely takes over the bass function.
One can see this in the music of Lefébure-Wely and his colleagues, for example Franck or Batiste. If one then considers that the pedal represents the basses of the orchestra, this leads of course to implications for the way in which the pedal must be played. The double-basses are of course played with bows, while the bass trombones, and tubas (or ophicleides in this musical context), represented in the organ by the reeds, are dependent on the human breath, with all the implied consequences for the initial sound. Total legato is, then, unthinkable, just as in the symphony orchestra.
This original symphonic manner of playing, that is to say not absolutely legato, is mirrored by the construction of the organs. Basses, by definition, sound low—in the lower regions of the pedal, easily accessible by the left foot. This leaves the right foot free to manipulate the cuillère swell box, which is found on the right hand side of the pedalboard. Legato playing in the pedal finds its origins when the organ began to become considered “sacred” or least disassociated from its human elements. It receives, then, an endless, eternal breath, more of which anon. From that moment the swell box and its position also changed: it became balanced and centrally located in the console.

La Peste de l’orgue
The swell box brings us to the following essential element of the symphonic style: dynamics.5 In the context of the importance of control and flexibility of volume in the symphonic “language,” it must be recognized that the increase of intensity, in the strings as well as in the brass, is reflected in the specifications of the organs. As a direct consequence comes the desire to be able to completely control the sound using a flexible mechanical system.
In order to be able to understand this better, we turn our attention briefly to the principles of expression in this period. The main factor when considering expression is dynamics. The normal shape of the dynamics is determined by the content of the musical phrase. A normal curve describes a rise-and-fall movement: an “opening out” from the point of departure, a climax, and a return to the initial point. To work against the gravity requires a certain energy—in other words, a general crescendo-diminuendo pattern is the basis for a normal musical phrase. The beginning and end of the phrase are determined by rests, or by slurs. If this was indeed the normal dynamic pattern, then its notation by composers was not necessary. It was only when the composer wished to indicate another expression that the change in intensity was expressed in symbols or words.
Over this basic curve are added the accents of a phrase. These accents were classified into three types, each of which has a consequence for the dynamic.6 The first is the metrical accent: this places the emphasis on the strong part of the bar. The metrical accent determines how the listener experiences the bar, and also determines the basic character of the piece. (In the current performance practice of early music, the metrical accent is omnipresent.) The second accent is rhythmic: it determines the rhythms or figures, further illustrated by upbeats, syncopation, subdivision of the beat, etc. The rhythm of the phrase requires a dynamic indication whereby the meter no longer follows a straight line, but instead follows an interesting and varied course. The third accent is pathetic: the feeling of the performer, or the transmission of this feeling to the listener giving rise to additional strong accents, independent of those already discussed. These accents can be notated in the score, but this is not necessarily the case. The essence of this accent is the experience of the performing artist who transmits the expression of his emotions through dynamics.
This phenomenon was already recognized, by Rousseau for instance, but it becomes a parameter of primary importance in the middle of the 19th century. A hierarchy of accents begins to develop. The pathetic accent becomes more important than the rhythmic, which in turn is more important than the metrical. The “virtuosity” of the swell box must be seen within this context. If one, as a consummate artist, wishes to able to express the whole gamut of feelings, then one must have complete control over the dynamics. Therefore the right foot spends ever more time on the swell pedal. (It goes without saying that this clarifies the great success of the harmonium.) In this way the organ gains the power of expression of any other instrument. This was essential to bring the organ out of the historical low-point it had found itself in.
The old joke that French organists could only play with the left foot was simply the truth! They were “left-foot virtuosi” and “right-foot virtuosi,” but the right foot remained on the swell pedal (certain Hammond virtuosi still have this technique). This is evidenced by an astonishing comment from Lefébure-Wely writing in L’Organiste moderne (2ème Livraison, Offertoire): “It is better to abandon the swell pedal and to play the pedal with both feet.” Dynamics therefore are incompatible with legato in the bass: with the “left-foot virtuosi,” expression always took priority over legato.
December 31, 1869 (the day Lefébure-Wely died) can be seen as the symbolic end of the left-foot virtuosi. The swell box became abandoned and both feet were now available for the performance of legato passages. The arrival of Widor as titulaire of St. Sulpice pushed the organ in a totally new direction. Widor’s succession of Franck at the Conservatoire further strengthened his grip on the organ culture.

Musica Sacra
The turmoil of the revolution and everything that followed severely affected not only the church, but of course everything associated with it. To recover from such a low point the church had to “pull out all the stops.” One of its best weapons was music. The up and coming bourgeoisie had set the tone as far as music was concerned. Musical culture was not only blossoming in the concert hall, but also at home. Those who wished to attract these people to the church were duty-bound to offer music that reflected that of the secular world. For those from the lower echelons of society, the church offered the only possibility to come into contact with the musical fashion of the time. This is the reason that Boëly was so unsuccessful—his music was simply too reminiscent of the Ancien Regime—and why Lefébure-Wely was seen by the parish authorities as a hero. This fashionable music brought the extremes of dynamic flexibility into the church. This was one of the most important aspects objected to by the opponents of the new church music. The problem, of course, was nothing new. Berlioz describes it well in his Traité d’Instrumentation (1844):

Without wishing to again stir the debate about the endless issue of expression in spiritual music, which above all should be simple (without a hidden agenda), we do allow the advocates of “plain” music, plain chant, and the non-expressive organ, to express their admiration when the performing choir, singing a spiritual work, delights with its sophisticated nuances of crescendo-diminuendo, light-dark, swelling, exalted sounds. They clearly contradict themselves; at least by their asserting (which they do very well) that the, in essence, moral, liturgical and Catholic expressive possibilities of the human voice, when applied to the organ suddenly become immoral, not fit for liturgical use, Godless.7
Berlioz was not the only figure to discuss the problem. One of the leading figures in church music, Joseph d’Ortigue, was very much against this increase of expression. He cited the swell box as the defacing of the godly instrument:
. . . all the attempts today to corrupt the organ from its origins and to rid it of its Christian roots, are no less reprehensible.
The ensemble of the organ—even, continuous, plain—determines, precisely because of these properties, the character of the plain-chant. The orchestral instruments, which, in a certain context speak to our feelings, have, in the church only a contrived and caricatured expression, but the organ, whose keyboard is cold and insensitive, has, in the same house of God, a grandiose expression full of majesty . . . It is barely more than 160 years ago that people tried to rid the organ of the majestic character it had, due to the equality and “planitude” of its accents, in order to introduce the nuances and convolutions of secular music which imposed themselves on the expressing . . . of the sentiments of man in his most earthly worries . . . some were not able to resist this fatal impulse, and, as a result the power of secular music has tried to impinge on spiritual music for nearly two centuries . . .
The organ is “monotone,” it is distanced from all earthly basis. But church music is just as “monotone,” that is to say plain, distanced from earthly expression, full of a calm and heavenly expression, and of the human breath; I say again, the organ and church music have the same character, just as they share the same goal, and one can say that the circumstances of the origins of both are just as sacred as each other . . .8
. . . this expression, which we view as destructive for the character of the instrument.9

The successors of d’Ortigue such as Joseph Regnier attack the “persistent allowing of the mouth of the public to fall open” through the “persistent swelling of the sound.” To quote him, “Your box is the plague of the organ.”10 Adrien de La Fage, the other authority on the subject of church music, stuck resolutely to a position against the opinions of d’Ortigue:

The expression gained through such a simple method as a box with louvers is a very useful improvement made available to organists and one which has long been desired.11
Over the question of whether all the manuals of an organ should be enclosed, Ply offers the following pragmatic answer:

Recently Cavaillé-Coll and Merklin have applied swell boxes to all the manuals of an organ, at the request of organists . . . is this a positive development? Or a negative one? The critics have not yet clarified the official position. As far as we are concerned we can not reject it in an organ intended for concert use. On the other hand we would not see it as useful should all stops of a church organ be under expression.12

The tendency against dynamic expression becomes more important from the middle of the 19th century. One of the most notable results can be seen in organ building: the cuillère became gradually superseded by the centrally placed balanced pedal. A protagonist of this static conception of dynamics was Charles-Marie Widor, of whom more anon. Lefébure also followed this trend to a degree: L’Organiste moderne (1867) contains few dynamic indications, certainly much fewer than earlier in his works, like the Meditaciones religiosas (1858); there are a considerable number of pieces without indications and his notated crescendi are discreet. What a difference from his earlier publications!
Incidentally, it is worthwhile to compare the sacred music of Lefébure-Wely with his secular works. One sees from the outset a differentiation with regards to dynamics: the church music is, in general, less flexible. A good example of this is to be found in the Suites pour harmonicorde. The second piece from the first suite “Roma,” contains a footnote that reads: “This Prayer can be performed, if desired, without expression (NB: Lefébure means the dynamic changes), as long as one takes care to pump softly where ‘p’ is indicated”—and at the end of the piece: “played by the composer on the organ of the Madeleine Sunday 17 May 1857 during the High Mass.” This teaches us two important things: First, that good composers made the distinction between church and concert; second, that Lefébure-Wely within this context created for himself a clear line of separation. His music is also clear evidence of the ongoing evolution of church music. A comparison of the dynamics of L’Office catholique, op. 148, with Vademecum de l’organiste, op. 187, shows a sobering of the crescendi and diminuendi.
This trend becomes more and more common in church music; and in organ building: less flexible swell boxes; in organ-playing: the increasingly common use of absolute legato; and the new organ schools that were founded under the influence of Palestrina and Cecilia: École de Musique Classique et Religieuse (École Niedermeyer, Paris), Kirchenmusikschule (Regensburg), École de Musique Religieuse (“Lemmensinstitute,” Mechelen), Schola Cantorum (Paris). The development is noted in the French edition of Riemann’s Dictionnaire de Musique:

About the real crescendo, comparable to that of the orchestra, that is today certainly not applicable to the organ. Maybe this is a good thing, as it led to the loss of the organ’s majestic “impersonality” and also, without doubt to the era of sentimental and pathetic organ playing.13
It is reported, incidentally, that Tinel, director of Lemmens Institute, solved the problem on behalf of that institution, by rephrasing the French term for “swell pedal” thus: “La pédale faussement appelée expressive” (The falsely named expressive-pedal).14

L’Ecole du Choral
The banning of expression of feeling in the form of dynamics is not the only way to improve church music. Another element is rhythm. During the first decades of the 19th century cheerful and driving pieces made a substantial impact: the polka, mazurka, boléro, march, fanfare are interspersed with light and restful cavatinas, serenades, nocturnes and romances. The musical elements of these pieces were used in order to bring a picture of the prosperity of the outside world into the church. In some parishes these pieces entirely dictated the mood, in others their application was limited to certain moments in the service. The believers arrived and departed to a march, during the collection the public were treated to a brilliant offertoire, in order, of course, to encourage their generosity! The versets and communions reminded the listener of the cozy Soirée musicale of the day before.
However, a reaction against such music also manifested itself, particularly from those who considered the churches only to be full of believers attracted by the mundane music. These figures went back to the sources of church music, such as Gregorian chant and early polyphony, preferably before Monteverdi and the “seconda prattica”—in other words, Palestrina. This aesthetic can be recognized by its simple rhythm, preferably made up of long note values: half notes or quarters.
Via this “side door,” the Protestant chorale made its entry. It answered musically the requirements of “real” church music; the associated text can be left out or replaced. The vertical harmony with its, ideally, affiliated melodic movement brings forth a new genre, the choral. A typical example is Gounod’s edition of a selection of Bach’s chorales. Their titles have disappeared, but each is commented upon from a harmonic viewpoint, such as le Ré bémol, c’est de la démence (the d-flat is insane) in no. 130 (Vater unser im Himmelreich).
The rhythmic characteristics of the chorale and of counterpoint became an element of good Catholic church music. Rhythmic sobriety, simple meter, and absence of whimsical interjections are typical. The real church music is differentiated from the mundane not only by the rejection of lively accents, but also through the rejection of clearly profiled rhythmic figures (such as in a boléro). This is clearly evident if one compares Guilmant’s L’Organiste Liturgique with his sonatas, or Lefébure’s L’Office catholique with his Soirées Napolitaines, or even Lemmens’s organ school and the songs written for Helen Sherrington. An amusing example can be found in the Messe Solennelle of Rossini: the Prélude religieux consists of a 120-bar-long string of eighth notes. Truly religious!
But we can also see this phenomenon in L’Organiste Moderne: the “strophes” on a Gregorian melody exhibit a uniform picture of equal note values with the comment “dans le mouvement du plain chant.” This trend is officially recognized in Catholic church music in the encyclical Motu Proprio, 1903. Among organists, it was Widor who, above all, explored and forwarded it. His early symphonies are firmly rooted in the brilliant style, but the Romane and Gothique are classic examples of the new religious style; inspiration from Gregorian chant, rhythmically calm, classical registrations without extreme effects, sober dynamic indications.
Another nice example of this differentiation comes from Edgar Tinel, not only an important representative figure through his position. He was the successor of Lemmens, after the latter’s untimely death just after the foundation of the École de Musique Religieuse in Mechelen. As its director he was in the midst of Catholic church music in a country which, at the time, provided a model in a number of fields for its southern neighbors. Because of this, Tinel had an important influence on the following generation of organists. His legendary speech to the Societé Saint-Grégoire in 1883 was published in Musica Sacra, the magazine of the episcopacy.

How does one create a good organist? . . . it comes down to determining what is good taste and to educate . . . what is appropriate to perform in this context . . . Some works written in a somewhat concertante style . . . are easily recognizable because of their joyful worldly style, of their lively spiky rhythms, their military tempi, dancing or overly fast. Sometimes it suffices just to survey which stops the composer indicates . . . Piccolo 1? and Bourdon 16? on the Grand Orgue, Hautbois with tremulant and dynamics on the Positif or Récit . . . these works—sometimes composed by famous people—are certainly not appropriate for use in the church, whether performed before, during, or after the service. The good taste of the pupil is formed by his study of the great masters of the 16th and 17th centuries: Frescobaldi, Asola, Pitoni, Fasolo, Hassler . . . also Palestrina . . . works where calm majesty and serene beauty are ideal encouragement for silent reflection. But these masters alone are not sufficient.
J. S. Bach and his school are also necessary . . . not the complete Bach of course, but the “Catholic” Bach . . . in one word, the Bach of the chorale. This “Bach of the chorale” has already been, several years ago, brought to the attention of Catholic organists, to their benefit. Mr. Ferdinand Kufferath . . . has published a book entitled “The school of the chorale,” a volume containing the purest teaching of the organ-playing style of the church.15

Their tempi
The separation of church and concert music manifests itself in another area, also noted by Tinel. Tempo plays an important role in the character of 19th-century music in general, and of organ music in particular. Here, we must differentiate between two levels, the basic tempo of a piece and the flexibility of the basic tempo during the course of the piece, the agogics. As a general rule, the tempo of concert music is fundamentally quicker than that of church music: “their tempo” speaks volumes. This of course should hardly surprise us, but it is interesting to bear in mind that this is reflected in the tempo markings notated by Lefébure-Wely, Guilmant and Lemmens. A typical example from Guilmant is a Marche for harmonium and piano: 69 for the half note; Marche Religieuse: 60 for the quarter—in both pieces the smallest note value is a 16th note. A comparison of the metronome indications of Lefébure-Wely in his Meditaciones religiosas with his opera indicates even more pronounced differences.
The question of tempo was then a vexed one in the 19th century. The review of the organ exams of the Lemmens Institute in 1882, written by Kanunnik Van Damme, one of the founders of the school, tells us that the public criticized the tempi of the performed works. Van Damme agreed that “certains artistes” had made the listeners accustomed to quicker tempi, but states firmly that such dizzy speeds often obscured clarity, and, moreover, were not appropriate for the church. In other words, in the church music school, a moderate tempo was taught as an essential quality in a performance:

through them [the pupils], the listeners admired the incomparable qualities of the Master, perfection in fingering, excellent use of the pedal . . . and, above all, the extremely steady rhythm that lends greatness to organ playing, is indeed for the organ, what the claw is for the lion.16
Here, the agogic aspect is highlighted. Worthy church music is as firm and immovable as the rock on which one can build. This tallies exactly with a review of Lemmens’s piano playing, cited by Duclos.17

Just like all great musicians he has, at the highest level, the feeling for rhythm, and his expression is not reliant, as with many talented famous artists, on freedom of tempo. That feeling for rhythm is so strong that he never, even in the quickest passages, hurries, and in slower passages never drags, a rare skill, which is at no time a hindrance to the warmth of feeling, or the unexpectedness of the poetry.18

Later we will see how Widor used these ideas of Duclos in his manifesto for the new organ culture. Widor liked to see himself in the famous line which, via Lemmens eventually leads back to Bach himself, but forgot to mention that, as far as is known, Lemmens himself never cited this link.
This brings us, inevitably, to the tempo problems of Franck. One statement we can make immediately: Franck’s “great” organ works are concert music; not a single title refers to the church. After his death, his works were saved from certain obscurity by their “declaration,” as it were, as church music. Pious tempi and discreet nuances elevated Franck to the “worthwhile” composers of the 19th century, and neatly to tally with Lenoir’s statue of Franck in the garden by St. Clotilde.19

Le Génie du Christianisme
The sacred character of the organ can only convincingly be accounted for by laying its origins in religion.
Just as with Christian architecture, the Christian instrument is an anonymous and collective discovery, just as a learned figure once said (M. Boyer, Notice sur l’orgue et l’organiste), the person prompted by the Holy Spirit to worship the supreme Lord.20
The literary source for this idea can be found in the manifesto of the revival of the Catholic Church in France: Le Génie du Christianisme (1802). In his short chapter about music, De Chateaubriand sets the basis for the purification of church music. He refers to Plato in order to determine the true basis of music:

Music is, in fact, an imitation of nature—art is cited in the same way. Her perfection is then the most beautiful possible manner in which to depict nature.21

The “real” music, produced by religion, contains the essentials of harmony: beauty and mystery. It goes without saying that these are lost through all human disturbances—“le trouble et les dissonances.” The closing sentence of the last paragraph would later be endlessly quoted: “Christianity discovered the organ and gave it breath.”22
D’Ortigue would also use this sentence at the beginning of his extended chapter about the organ. He goes on to add to it:

Indeed, the religious genius alone was able to make of the organ the wondrous instrument that we know, and with it the most complete and perfect expression of the Christian life, in art envisaged in the form of liturgy . . . antiquity, continuation, universality, unity, authority. As a monumental instrument, it represents the unchangeable elements in the structures of liturgical singing, in this art which develops independently.23

The Christian architect . . . with help from the organ and the suspended bronze, has attached as much to the Gothic temple himself, as the sound of wind and thunder, which rolls in the depth of the forest. The centuries summoned by these religious sounds, let their ancient voices sound again from the heart of the stones, their breath in the enormous basilica.24

Chateaubriand of course wasn’t alone. Victor Hugo (Chants du Crepuscule, about the “suspended bronze”) and Lamartine added their voices:

One cannot hear his deep and lonely voice/ mixes itself, outside the temple with the idle sounds of the earth ( . . . )/
( . . . ) But he directs himself to God in the shadow of the church/ his great voice which swells and hurries like a breeze/ And with voices raised unto God/ The song of nature and humanity.25
Finally, Ply published the text of the inaugural speech of the pastor of Clermont-Ferrard Cathedral, at the consecration of the new organ. Here, the ideas of “Le Génie du Christianisme” go rather in the direction of Widor’s “calme des choses définitives.” The text quotes “un auteur très-compétent” (and should you, the reader, know who this author is, I should be grateful to know).

There is in the thousand voices of the organ, in that smooth, supporting, enduring static mass of sound, something of the restiveness of the Cathedral, vast and calm like the ecstasy and adoration; something that flies as a “Hosanna” in an enormous heaven, something as unchangeable as God, a knowledge, a meditation of the unknown being, indestructible, from an eternal Word, the unending story of him who is.26

Widor had, just as did all his contemporaries, read all these books. The “organ-vision” of Widor fits precisely within the ideal of “Le Génie du Christianisme.” Therefore, the organ, and the way of playing it, had to become independent from human attributes (read “inadequacies”). There is in this context no place for the expression of personal feelings which have anything to do with sensuality, in the most literal sense of the word. As a result, no strong accents, no passionate crescendi, no excited agogics. In their place came a musical architecture with clear, straight lines, just as in the structure of cathedrals:
The great voice of the organ must have the calm of definite things: she was made for stone arches, and is reliant on natural proportions. Where orchestral instruments search for more or less neurotic virtuoso affects, the organ gains its maximum strength through the simple chord of C major, and with it the sound which seems to have neither beginning or end.27
Orgue is continuously written with a capital O, the supremely worthy instrument. Hereby the organ departs the mortal world and the organist depicts a new mysticism. In the early 1930s when Widor himself was rather closer to his own passing, he wrote in his preface to Felix Raugel’s Les Maitres français de l’Orgue aux XVIe, XVIIe, et XVIIIe Siècles, Recueil de 50 Pièces d’orgue ou harmonium:

When . . . the sound of this pipe shall become lost under the high arches of our Cathedral, taking with it our soul to the eternal, only then shall the organ truly be “The mystic instrument.”
The organist, due to the nature of his instrument, is elevated to the universe of the almighty.

When one can receive a note of unlimited duration under one’s finger, in all freedom, without the need to spare the performer’s lungs, when one feels, so to say, the master of time and power, then one has realized the true character of the instrument; of the language which it must speak, and of the style to which it belongs.28
How far away the 1850s seem now! The predecessors of Widor, whether Berlioz, Lefébure-Wely, or Franck, lived in another world. The ideal organ of their time is flexible, and is suited, just as an orchestral instrument, to the translation of the most refined nuances of the artistic sentiment. The organ and its music in that time really represented an attempt to break free of monumentality and stardom. In order to entice people into church, the organ had not to remind them of God, but had rather to reflect the human, the artistic, the refinement of the circles in which good was to be found, the earthly paradise. Dizzy luxury, blinding colors, sumptuous decors, all within easy reach of the man in the street. He who wishes to play Lefébure or Franck is best advised to read first a book by Zola, as this would give better results than reading a book about organ music or reading this article. The exuberance of this time and its music were banished by Widor and his generation. The technical means came first, the artistic consequences became sidelined:

She wants to sing in strict rhythm, this great voice needs rhythm, phrasing, a desire. Let us admire the cadences in Bach’s works which here and there break up the flow of the text, so that we may enjoy a minute rest. Whatever the movement, the Master shuns all suggestion of restlessness, and of hurrying. He never loses his calm and keeps his listeners with him.29
We find ourselves again at the rythme imperturbable, of Lemmens, elevated and stable, like a Grand Orgue. The accents described by Lussy are limited to the metrical and the rhythmic, with the resolute exclusion of the dominant pathetic accents. However, and precisely because of this, the organ gained its allure of greatness and eternity:

What string and brass instruments, the piano and the human voice gain through the bursting forth of the accent and the unpredictability of the attack, the organ gains as a result of its own majesty, speaking as a philosopher; it alone can display such an eternally unchanging volume, that it creates a vision of the religious and of the eternal. Surprises and accents are strangers to it; one lends them out, they are “adopted” accents.30

Through these words, Widor sets himself, for example, against the opinions of Berlioz regarding expression in religious music. Moreover this is completely in accordance with his rejection of Berlioz’s ideas about the organ: “Who informs Berlioz, which organist did he so unfortunately seek advice from?” (Widor, Technique, p. 176) This regarding the instrumental aspect, but it becomes immediately clear that this fits completely into a broader concept of the organ, which is resolutely against that of Berlioz. Though the citing of accents, and, as a result, expression, as being against the true nature of the organ, one must consider tempo and flexibility of agogics within this same context. The rigid structures of Roman and Gothic architecture are reflected in modern organ playing:

Rhythm itself will be influenced by modern tendencies: it shall become a sort of elasticity of the bar, though the essential elements shall be preserved. It will allow the components of the musical sentence to breathe when necessary and be phrased, assuming that it keeps hold of the reins, and that it keeps pace . . . And when the essential qualities of the style are defined by the words purity, clarity and precision, then we regard them as the basis of organ music.31

Provisional conclusion: the term “symphonic organ music” can be defined in very different ways. The whole spectrum of musical genres in 19th century music is represented. The repertoire is unique in its amalgam of profane and sacred ingredients. The performer must, therefore, continually make decisions. The listener can either follow him, or not.

Notes
1. Charles-Marie Widor, Symphonies pour Orgue, ed 1901, Preface.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid.
4. Nicolas Gorenstein, L’Orgue post-classique français, Chanvrelin, Paris, n.d., pp. 7–11.
5. Joris Verdin, “The Organ: fit for expression?” in Het Orgel 2000/5, pp. 15–22.
6. Mathis Lussy, Traité de l’expression Musicale, Paris, Heugel et Cie, 1877, and: idem, Le Rythme Musical, Paris, 1884.
7. Hector Berlioz, Traité d’Instrumentation, Paris, 1844, p. 169.
8. Joseph d’Ortigue, Dictionnaire liturgique, historique et theorique de Plain-Chant, et de musique d’église, au moyen age et dans les temps modernes, Paris, 1853–1860; “Orgue.”
9. Ibid., “Expression.”
10. H.J. Ply, La Facture moderne etudiée à l’Orgue de St-Eustache, Paris 1878, facsimile Leonce Laget, Paris, 1981, p. 18.
11. A. de La Fage, Le Plain Chant, 2nd year, no. 7, quoted from Ply, p. 19.
12. Ply, op. cit., p. 19, note 1.
13. Hugo Riemann, Dictionnaire de Musique, entièrement remanié et augmenté par Georges Humbert, Lausanne, 1913, p. 235.
14. Musica Sacra, 6th year, no. 2, 1886, p. 11.
15. Musica Sacra, no. 12, p. 99.
16. Kanunnik Van Damme, cited by Joseph Duclos, “Essai sur la vie et les travaux de l’auteur,” in Du Chant Grégorien, ouvrage posthume de Jacques-Nicolas Lemmens, Gent, 1886, p. XXXVI.
17. Duclos, op. cit., p. XXXIV.
18. Recent research has revealed the anonymous reviewer to be none other than Fétis; see Annelies Focquaert, Jacques-Nicolas Lemmens: leven en werk van een organist, unpubl. dissertation at the Orpheusinstitute, Gent, 2006 (2 vol., 314 + 181 pages).
19. Joris Verdin, “Discussions on César Franck,” in Het Orgel 2001/2, pp. 5–9.
20. Ply, op. cit. p. 309.
21. François-René de Chateaubriand, Oeuvres Completes, Tome Premier, Bruxelles, 1852, p. 251.
22. Ibid., pp. 252–253.
23. D’Ortigue, “Orgue.”
24. Chateaubriand, op. cit., p. 262.
25. Ply, op. cit., p. 311.
26. Ibid., p. 306.
27. Charles-Marie Widor, Technique de l’Orchestre Moderne, faisant suite au Traité d’Instrumentation et l’Orchestration de H. Berlioz, Édition Revue et Augmentée, Paris, Lemoine, 1925, p. 188.
28. Ibid.
29. Ibid.
30. Ibid.
31. Ibid.

Addenda: summaries of the mentioned articles in Het Orgel
“The organ: fit for expression?” (Het Orgel 2005/5)

Dynamic and agogic aspects play a major role in 19th-century expression. In this article the first one of these is explored. Based on investigation of period literature we conclude that expressiveness, dynamics and the term “expression” cannot be separated, even are quite inseparable. The importance that is attributed to dynamics is not only documented in general publications about musical aesthetics (Lussy, Riemann), but also, and in the first place, in harmonium methods (Lickl, Lefébure-Wely, Mustel). This makes completely sense, as the harmonium is, among the keyboard instruments, particularly suited to control the parameter of volume. Several quotations from the above-mentioned literature show that there are general “rules” with respect to the dynamic curve of a musical sentence (the up- and downwards movement of crescendo and diminuendo), and that individual musicians, on the other hand, differ from each other, so each of them can individualize his playing.
With regard to the organ we conclude that Charles-Marie Widor represents a school with another point of view: the nature of the instrument, its location and its repertoire demand a less flexible, more objective kind of expression, which is described by Widor as “architecture.” Sigfrid Karg-Elert develops the notion of expression into an idea of transcendent art, in which controlling of dynamics is regarded as the most important individual means of expression.

“Discussions on César Franck” (Het Orgel 2001/2)
The discussions on the “correct” interpretation of Franck’s organ works are mainly a result of the difference between a certain a priori concept of Franck and musicological investigation. Whereas this concept is patently based on unverifiable “testimonies,” the musicological investigation, led by Joël-Marie Fauquet, results in a coherent whole. A very important aspect is the difference between church and concert music. Interpreting Franck’s organ works as religious music requires accepting some assumptions that are contradictory to the entire context of organ playing in France, as well as to the objective indications of Franck himself.

 

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