In the wind . . .

The convention of conventions
Conventions are big business. Tens of thousands of like-minded people gather in huge hotels and exposition halls for orgies of sales, parties, seminars, and exhibitions. Poking around the Internet, I found that the Specialty Equipment Marketing Association expects about 130,000 attendees at their 2007 convention to be held ten days from now at the Las Vegas Convention Center. SEMA (serving the specialty automotive industry since 1963) deals with custom equipment for cars and light trucks. They are planning a seminar for the 2007 convention titled Mean and Green: Bio-fuel Hummers, Fords, and off-road machines, where they will be exhibiting a 700-horsepower Hummer powered by bio-fuel. They’re not telling what the fuel mileage will be—500 bushels-per-hour? It isn’t easy being green.
In early December, the Las Vegas Convention Center will host the NFR (National Finals Rodeo) Cowboy Christmas Gift Show. They expect 20,000 attendees. Last March the Nightclub and Bar Convention & Trade Show attracted 38,000 people, and in August 13,000 people attended the convention of the American Pool Players Association at the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas.
Given Las Vegas hotel prices, the cost of travel and food, and the propensity of conventioneers to consume various commodities with unusual gusto, the amount of money involved in these huge shows is incomprehensible. How do they manage the logistics? Imagine the swirl at the hotel check-in desk when 50,000 people are trying to check in on the same day.
Last week the American Institute of Organbuilders gathered at the Valley Forge Conference Center and Radisson Hotel in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. The Specialty Equipment Marketing Association has about a ten-year head start in membership development. Founded in 1963, their convention is now among the largest in the country. The AIO was conceived in 1973 and chartered in 1974. I don’t know the exact count, but I believe that around 250 of us attended, and to be truthful, I doubt we’ll get into tens of thousands any time soon.
This seems like a small group, but friends who are not involved in the organ world are amazed when I tell them I’m going to a national convention involving several hundred organbuilders. These are the people who say, “I didn’t know there were any of you left.” I’m feeling pretty good, how about you?
Any convention has an exhibit hall in which vendors show their wares to members of the trade. There were almost 25 firms exhibiting at the AIO convention, including companies that provide leather, specialty tools and hardware, keyboard restoration, organ pipes, console parts, and of course, solid-state control systems. The exhibits hall is open for several hours each day, especially in the evening when it becomes the locus for the convention’s social life. After dinner people swirl through the exhibits, run into old friends, make new friends, and head off to the hotel bars in small groups.
One benefit of this tradition is the dispelling of myth—I’ve been doing business with suppliers to the organbuilding trade for 30 years, and it’s fun to meet those with whom you’ve spent countless telephone hours. You get to form a personal connection with the person who answers the phone at the order desk, and to discuss technical problems in detail with the engineers who design and build the equipment. Over the years I have found great value in knowing the people I talk with on the phone. These relationships are unspeakably valuable when I’m calling from a job site where wedding limos are showing up outside and the organ is acting up.
I got active in organbuilding in the late 1970s just as solid-state controls for pipe organs were entering the market. I had my start in workshops that specialized in tracker-action organs, and my immature understanding didn’t allow much space for digital equipment. I knew many people who resisted or ignored using it. I was fortunate to work for several years along side an old-timer who had worked personally next to Ernest Skinner (in fact, I assumed the care of two Skinner organs he had helped install in the 1920s and had maintained ever since!) who said, “that stuff is for you young guys.”
In the ensuing generation, many if not most organbuilders have had at least some experience with solid-state equipment, and many use it exclusively. Years ago, I remember being easily bewildered. I would stand trembling with my hand on the switch before turning on a system for the first time and would be looking for smoke, unfairly (to both the supplier and myself) assuming that there would be smoke to see. I handled the circuit boards as though they were poisonous, and while I understood what they were supposed to do, I had no idea how they did it.
Enough time has passed that we’ve been through generations of solid-state equipment. Looking back, the earliest systems seem pretty primitive. The companies offering them went to great trouble to make the pin-boards (rows of pins where you connect the wires from the console controls to the system) look as much like traditional pipe organ equipment as possible. Later, multiplexing was introduced—logic-based systems that reduce organ music to data streams that allow the information to be passed from console to chamber using a single wire. In my memory, multiplexing was the first scary leap. Simply put, the system is based on a clock that scans all the console outputs a prescribed number of times per second and sends a code along the wire to the chamber where it is “unscrambled” by another clock. For someone who started with trackers, it was hard to imagine that it would work or that it could be reliable. At about that time, there was a Star Trek movie during which the USS Enterprise was under reconstruction and the famous Transporter was malfunctioning. When a crew member was “beamed” up or down, the machine failed to unscramble the molecules accurately, resulting in horrible scrambling of human tissue. Would this happen to our organ music?
At first bad things did happen. One system I worked with had a clock that was going too slow, resulting in herky-jerky organ music. And lightning strikes were death. I was caring for a couple large organs that had new multiplexing systems, and I sweated out thunderstorms with good reason.
Now we are getting used to software-based systems in which the organbuilder connects the console controls (keyboards, stop knobs, piston buttons, swell shoes) to rows of pins, and using software determines which pin does what. After the organ is finished, you could decide to change divisional pistons into generals by updating the software through e-mail.
It’s fun to think back a few generations to the time when electro-pneumatic combination actions and pitman chests were introduced. Any good modern organ builder knows the symptoms of trouble in a pitman chest. But when those chests were first being perfected, technicians must have sweated out mysterious problems the way I have with solid-state gremlins.
In the exhibit hall of the AIO convention, I was most impressed by the sophistication of new developments in solid-state pipe organ controls, and even more impressed by the sophistication of my colleagues, the organbuilders, who in the last 30 years have worked hard to understand the function, uses, and benefits of this equipment. I joined in conversations in which organbuilders were suggesting improvements, offering solutions to problems, and describing innovative ways they’ve found to use existing controls. I saw an institutional comfort level that can only be to the benefit of our clients. We’ve come a long way, baby.
Because I’ve been involved in some very large organ projects in recent years, I’ve noted an important way in which organ organbuilding industry has changed. Seventy-five years ago, when American organbuilders were producing thousands of organs each year, there were a number of companies that had hundreds of employees. It was much easier for such a large company to marshal the forces to erect a 32-foot Principal, or just to transport an organ of 100 ranks or more. They had people employed in experimental roles, developing combination actions, relays, and new types of voices. Today it’s rare to find a company with 100 employees, and most companies employ fewer than ten people. In this environment, the importance of the supply house is increased as we can decide independently whether or not to build pedalboards “in house,” or which solid-state control system best fits the design and function of the console we design.
I thank the people from the companies who exhibited at the AIO convention. I appreciate the hard work you’ve done developing new products. The American organ industry is strengthened by your efforts. The fees you paid for exhibition space helped make this valuable experience possible. And thanks for the candies, wine, keychains, and door prizes you provided!
Earlier this year I wrote a two-part essay about the new life of the famous, enormous, and almost indescribable organ in the former Wanamaker’s Department Store (May and June 2007, “Size Matters”). In it, I wrote that Philadelphia boasts an unusual array of very large organs. The Wanamaker organ (6/462), the Austin organ (4/167) at Irvine Auditorium of the University of Pennsylvania, and the Dobson organ (4/124) at the Kimmel Center (home of the Philadelphia Orchestra) add up to 753 ranks in three organs that are within a few miles of each other. The Wanamaker Store and the Kimmel Center are within walking distance. The participants in the AIO convention had a wonderful opportunity to hear these three giant and wildly diverse instruments in two successive days.
While organ-people will no doubt always refer to the Wanamaker Store in Philadelphia, credit must be given to Macy’s Department Store, now the proprietor of this most grand of retail spaces. Robin Hall is an executive vice-president in charge of Macy’s Department of Annual Events, the group that produces the Thanksgiving Day Parade and July Fourth Fireworks along with numerous flower shows and musical reviews. There can be no division of a modern American corporation more enthusiastic or better equipped for the care of this most singular of pipe organs. In the brief period since their occupation of the store, they have funded extensive and expensive long-needed repairs, provided a large amount of space in the building dedicated to an organbuilding workshop, and established a collegial relationship with Curt Mangel, curator of the organ, and Peter Conte, Grand Court organist. To hear Peter and Curt talk about the people of Macy’s is to hear a gushing exceeded only by the amazing sounds of the organ itself. (Please refer to this column in the May and June issues of The Diapason for more about the Wanamaker Organ.)
Anyone who has attended an organ convention knows the bus rides—hundreds of like-minded people rattling across the countryside on a tight schedule to hear and see organs. Along with the organ demonstrations, there were workshop tours (Patrick J. Murphy & Associates and Nelson Barden at Longwood Gardens), workshop seminars on mounting toe-studs, stenciling façade pipes, and rebuilding Spencer organ blowers, and lectures in a large conference room at the convention hotel. Those lectures were on subjects as diverse as rebuilding and repairing Möller pitman chests, recovering keyboards, and conflict resolution.
Patrick Murphy, whose organbuilding workshop is in Stowe, Pennsylvania, was the chair of the convention, and the staff of his company was present throughout answering questions, guiding us as sheep on and off the buses on schedule, and providing a cheerful and welcoming presence. Randall Dyer (Randall Dyer & Associates of Jefferson City, Tennessee) is the chair of the AIO’s Convention Overview Committee. These folks deserve the gratitude of America’s pipe organ community for their contribution to the education, celebration, and advancement of American organbuilders.
I have always thought that organbuilders are a collegial bunch. Although we are competing with each other in a small market, we are typically willing to assist each other with advice and exchange of ideas, and even by sharing workers when projects get larger than a small staff can handle. But during most of the working year, we are buried in organ chambers in our own areas, seemingly out of touch with what our colleagues are doing. In King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, we came out of our holes blinking in the sunlight, and shared a wonderful week of professional growth and companionship. Nice to see you all. See you in Knoxville next year.■

Size matters

We’re fascinated by superlatives. We admire great engineering feats and geographical marvels, and we are skeptical of fallacious claims. When a family restaurant advertises “the world’s largest ice cream sundae,” we expect something big but we doubt whether the claim is true. I went to  and saw a video of someone named Higgenbotham jumping off an eight-meter platform into an 18-inch deep pool of water, setting a new record. Pretty silly, but he did it in front of a huge audience and stood right up waving his fists. He must have been very proud.
Hammacher-Schlemmer claims to be selling the World’s Largest Crossword Puzzle. According to their on-line catalogue, it “hangs on a full seven feet by seven feet of wall space and has 28,000 clues for over 91,000 squares . . . a 100-page clue book, with no repeats, provides the hints.” (“Comes with a storage box.”)
Until I started writing today, I thought that the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River was the largest canyon in the world. It’s as much as 8,799 feet deep (that’s 1.66 miles) and almost 275 miles long. But when I Googled® “world’s largest canyon” I learned about the Great Canyon of the Yarlung Tsangpo (Brahmaputra) River in the Himalayas of Tibet, which has a maximum depth of more than 17,500 feet (3.3 miles) and is more than 308 miles long. It’s located in a very remote area forbidden to foreign travelers, and has apparently been revealed only recently to the rest of the world.
The world’s largest city is Bombay where the population was 12,778,721 in 2005. That’s larger than the entire country of Zimbabwe (12,671,860). New York City is number eight with 8,143,197 residents in 2005.
The Nile is the longest river in the world with a total length of 4160 miles. While the Amazon is second longest (4049 miles), it’s the largest in volume, discharging something like seven million cubic feet of water into the ocean every second.
I looked up tallest buildings and found an argument about whether or not antennas should be counted (Sears Tower in Chicago if you don’t, Taipei 101 in Taipei if you do). What a time-sink is Guinness! (Get back to your writing.)
We brag about our pipe organs by citing statistics: “It has 20 reeds.” “It has three 32's.” “It has three 8' Opens on the Great.” But let’s be careful. In the organ world (or elsewhere in the world of the arts), bigger is not necessarily better. Most of us have generally known that the Midmer-Losh organ in the Convention Hall in Atlantic City, New Jersey, is the largest in the world, but we also know that it’s not playable, and when we read more carefully we find that some experts believe that the entire specification has never been playable at once. One legend says that the early staff of the organbuilding workshop at the Wanamaker Store in Philadelphia claimed that the Atlantic City organ was never finished.1 Small wonder that they would want to make such a claim—they were involved in building what they believed would be the world’s largest organ.
As with skyscrapers, it turns out that it depends how you count. Here is what seems to be current and definitive regarding the dimensions of the largest pipe organ in the world:

Atlantic City       Wanamaker’s
Ranks    452            469
Pipes   33,112       30,067
Weight (tons) 150    2872

It’s easy to guess why the Atlantic City organ has more pipes but fewer ranks—the bottom three of seven keyboards have 88 notes! Wanamaker’s has the edge by 17 ranks, but where did the extra 137 tons come from? (I imagine that the same person who figured out the weight of these organs also did the numbers for the cubic capacity of the Amazon.) (See Photo 1, The Grand Court.)

The customer is always right

John Wanamaker was the personification of the classic American success story. He attended school through the age of 13 and opened his first store in Philadelphia at the age of 22. His stores grew progressively larger as he introduced retail policies that are central to the industry today. Wanamaker was among the first to offer guarantees, refunds, and fixed prices; he introduced the first restaurant in a store, and was a pioneer in the use of newspaper advertising for retailing, including the first full-page newspaper ad.3
The unprecedented opulence of the Wanamaker stores in both Philadelphia and New York allowed customers to express their personalities as they shopped. The very wealthy were catered to in special ways—those with more modest incomes were made to feel special, and had specialty goods of high quality made available to them as never before.
It was John Wanamaker’s appreciation of beauty that inspired him to include pipe organs in his stores from the very beginning. That appreciation was instilled in his son Rodman whose love of the organ began early in his life. Devout Presbyterians, John Wanamaker was a Sunday school teacher at Philadelphia’s Bethany Presbyterian Church, and young Rodman was the organist. The family’s country home Lindenhurst boasted an important personal art collection and a large two-manual Roosevelt pipe organ, all of which was destroyed in a catastrophic fire in 1907.4
Longtime Grand Court Organist Mary Vogt linked John Wanamaker’s original inspiration for the construction of a truly monumental organ in the Philadelphia store to this fire. He lavished attention on Rodman, his only surviving son, and knew how much the Lindenhurst organ meant to him. The Grand Court organ was therefore offered as consolation to Rodman, and once the project was underway, John Wanamaker deferred to Rodman’s exquisite artistic and musical taste for the fulfillment of the vision that has now provided the world with one of its most important musical instruments.5
The Grand Court of the Wanamaker Store in Philadelphia is an immense space, taller than it is long or wide. America’s major organbuilders were considered for the commissioning of a new organ, but John Wanamaker commented that it would take years to construct a new organ large enough to fill the space, and the financial climate of the time was unstable (the Panic of 1907 was just ending). Then a wonderful opportunity presented itself.
Organbuilder Murray Harris had been chosen to construct a huge concert organ for the St. Louis World’s Fair of 1904. It was planned that after the World’s Fair, the organ would be moved to a new convention hall in Kansas City, Missouri (the initials “KC” were carved in the console’s music rack). The scope of this contract necessitated the building of a larger factory and considerable expansion of the firm’s staff, and the company’s capital was stretched so thin that stockholders were assessed $10 a share to raise needed cash. Their outrage led to the end of Harris’s association with the firm, which was reorganized with company superintendent William Boone Fleming in charge.
The organ was a great success at the World’s Fair, attracting millions of visitors to hear recitals played by the world’s greatest organists, including a landmark series of 40 recitals by French master Alexandre Guilmant. But when the fair was over, both Murray Harris and the Los Angeles Art Organ Company were insolvent. While the organ was being built, in the confusion during the reorganization that resulted in the formation of the latter firm, the contract with officials in Kansas City had never been ratified. It was voided and the organ was placed in storage in St. Louis in default.6
The organ had been in storage for five years before John Wanamaker focused on acquiring it. Finding such an immense organ “ready-made” seemed an ideal solution for the grand space in the Philadelphia store.
Organbuilder George W. Till had worked with Odell in New York for many years. When he left that firm in 1905, he had heard that John Wanamaker was looking for an experienced organbuilder who could also repair and tune player pianos. By the time the Wanamakers were considering the purchase of the St. Louis organ, George Till was well ensconced as the house “organ-man.” Till was dispatched to inspect the organ in storage and was later charged with closing the purchase and arranging for the organ to be shipped to Philadelphia.
While most organbuilders are accustomed to being able to move their instruments in rented trucks, the St. Louis World’s Fair organ filled 11 railroad boxcars. The train left St. Louis on the evening of August 5, 1909. William Fleming was engaged to supervise the installation of the organ. George Till was to be the “tonal man.” From the first times the organ was heard in the store, it was evident that it was inadequate to fill the immense space of the Grand Court with sound. Shortly after its dedication on June 22, 1911, the Wanamaker Organ Shop under the direction of both Till and Fleming was established on the 12th floor of the store. Over the ensuing years the organ was expanded from its original specification of approximately 130 stops to its present gargantuan size.
My source for this historical background is the beautifully produced book Music in the Marketplace written by Ray Biswanger, president and one of the founders of the Friends of the Wanamaker organ. If you are interested in reading the history of this unique organ and the people who built it, funded it, and have played on it, visit  where you can order a copy. (And while you’re at it, join the Friends.) There are dozens of wonderful photographs of the organ, specifications of the Grand Court organ in several stages of its development, and photos of the Grand Court decorated for different festivals and celebrations. On the website, you can also see the schedule of regular performances, hear streamed radio broadcasts, and purchase recordings of the organ by several distinguished artists.

Just the facts, ma’am . . .

Here a few tidbits I single out from the specification that help define for me the scale of the Wanamaker Organ (See Photo 2, The String Division):
The 88-rank String Division includes 58 eight-foot strings, all of 73 notes, all ranks starting on low C. A quick glance shows 34 eight-foot Diapasons on the manuals. The Main Pedal Division has 54 ranks, and only five stops borrowed from the manuals.
Another quick glance shows 82 ranks of reeds. There are altogether seven different ranks at 32' pitch—one of them is a Bourdon with half-length resonators.
More than virtually any other large organ I know, the Wanamaker Organ is a “straight organ.” There is very little borrowing. A large percentage of the manual ranks have 73 notes. And true curiosities such as the two-rank Clarinet in the Swell, the nine-rank chorus of Vox Humanae (recently reconstructed as an independent division!), or the chorus of strings in the String/Orchestral Pedal Organ at 16', 102⁄3', 8', 51⁄3', 4', 22⁄3', 2', 13⁄5', 11⁄3', and 4⁄5' (this division includes two full-length 32's and a total of 19 ranks and 716 pipes) add up to separate the organ from any other in the world. You cannot say it’s the best or largest of its class, because it’s the only organ in its class! (See Photo 3, String/Orchestral Pedal Organ, 32¢ Contra Diaphone and 32' Contra Gamba.)
The six-manual console is as elegant in design and construction as any I’ve seen. There are 692 stop tablets in eleven rows. There are 167 pistons. And under each of the six manuals there are brass slides about three octaves long that operate the expression shutters. The woodworking is exquisite, the materials rich and colorful—a world-class single-class console for a world-class single-class organ. (See Photo 4, Wanamaker console, Peter Conte, organist.)
Maintaining an organ of this scale is a continuous process. It requires all of the usual organbuilding skills, of course, with the addition of extraordinary organizational skills and patience. And how do you go about playing such a thing? One of the things I love about my work is the number of different organs of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions that I get to play. But sitting in front of a console like this is bewildering. And what about funding? Simply and bluntly put, how much does it cost to keep an organ with 82 reeds in any kind of presentable good tune? Remember, this is an organ that is played in public 12 times every week.
The Wanamaker Organ by itself is special enough. It’s a marvel—it’s over the top—it’s indescribable. But in my opinion the real story is the group of people who are gathered around the organ—the organist and his associates, the curator and his colleagues, and the executives and officials of the corporation that now owns the grand store built by John Wanamaker, which has been handed down through several generations of ownership.
The May Company has recently taken control of the Philadelphia Wanamaker store. Their division of Annual and Special Events (think of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade) has assumed responsibility for the organ, by all accounts an exciting and constructive move. A new Wanamaker’s Organ Workshop has been established in the building, and ambitious plans for the further renovation, preservation, and presentation of the organ are in the works. (See announcement, page 3.) To put it simply, the organ is now owned by a corporation that understands its importance as a musical instrument, cares deeply about its place in America’s cultural life, and is committed to maintaining it in the best possible condition.
So consider this column as background, and join me here in the next edition of The Diapason so I can tell you about those wonderful, brilliant, welcoming people who are the modern-day stewards of the world’s grandest organ.

Notes

1. Biswanger, Ray, Music in the Marketplace, Friends of the Wanamaker Organ Press, 1999, p. 241.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid., p. 35.
4. Ibid., p. 47.
5. Ibid., p. 49.
6. Ibid., p. 330.

Notes 1. Frank Rippl, “OHS 52nd National Convention, July 11–17, 2007, Central Indiana,” The Diapason, February 2008, vol. 99, no. 2, pp. 24–29.

Since the beginning of this century, the recital calendar of The Diapason has included numerous listings for Ken Cowan. A native of Thorold, Ontario, Canada, Cowan was first taught organ by his father, David Cowan; he subsequently studied with James Bigham, with John Weaver at the Curtis Institute of Music, and with Thomas Murray at the Yale Institute of Sacred Music. He has held organist positions at St. Bartholomew’s, St. James Episcopal Church, and the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in New York City, and St. Clement’s Church in Philadelphia; during his college years he was on the roster of associate organists for the Wanamaker Grand Court organ in Philadelphia. He presently serves as Assistant Professor of Organ at Westminster Choir College of Rider University in Princeton, New Jersey; Rider University has honored him with the 2008 Distinguished Teaching Award.
A featured artist at the 2004 AGO convention in Los Angeles and during the 2008 AGO convention in Minneapolis (as one of several players during a concert recorded for Pipedreams), Ken Cowan has also performed at many AGO regional conventions, as well as at conventions of the Organ Historical Society and the Royal Canadian College of Organists. His discography comprises numerous recordings (for the JAV label) on Skinner instruments, including The Art of the Symphonic Organist, recorded on the 1921 Skinner organ at the Parish Church of St. Luke, Evanston, Illinois. (Note: John Speller’s review of this recording in The Diapason praised Cowan’s choice of repertoire, demonstration of the organ’s colors, and skill with buildup and decrescendo, calling the disc “one of the finest I have heard in some time.” See The Diapason, August 2004, p. 14.) With Justin Bischof, he recorded Aaron David Miller’s Double Concerto for organ with the Zurich Symphony Orchestra, on the Kleuker organ in the Tonhalle in Zurich (Ethereal Recordings). Cowan’s repertoire is broad, but favors nineteenth- and twentieth-century composers, from Bossi to Liszt, Wagner to Widor, Dupré to Roger-Ducasse, and much in between. He is associated with transcriptions, yet these do not dominate either his recital programs or his recordings. As a performer he seems relaxed, taking any difficulties in stride. Ken Cowan is represented by Karen McFarlane Artists.

JR: Let’s talk about your DNA! Your father is an organist, and other grandparents were too, correct?
KC: Yes, two grandmothers and great-grandmother Cowan. Thurza Cowan was an organist, and I think she must have been pretty good too, because the repertoire that is still sitting around my house in Canada shows she played some really difficult things.

JR: Were those the days when you had to have a pumper?
KC: A little bit after that, I think it was. She played a Woodstock organ. I saw a picture of the old console, and it looks like a theatre organ console. But it would have been electrified, I think.

JR: And your grandmothers?
KC: My father’s mother and my mother’s mother both played, each as a local parish organist.

JR: Did your grandmother teach your father?
KC: No, actually; that’s not our family’s habit. My father studied with a local organist named George Hannahson, actually a very good player; the brothers Hannahson did a lot of the church music in the area. Except for the things that my dad showed me to get me started at the organ, I think everybody in my family who learned an instrument always studied with somebody outside the family.

JR: Were your first lessons with your father?
KC: He got me started with the instrument. He didn’t teach me piano, so we always had it in mind that I would eventually find an organ teacher outside of our house.

JR: Did you insist on organ lessons, or did he suggest you should take them?
KC: No, it was me. He insisted that I study the maximum amount of piano possible before I ever touched the organ. Ever since I was three years old, I would hang around the organ bench, and I knew what all the stops were. I knew the difference between a Lieblich flute and a Rohr flute when I was little—before I could play anything. And I was the token key-holder in the family—if the reeds needed to be tuned, I would be carted down to the church. The arrangement was that if I was well-behaved in church, he would play whatever my favorite organ tunes were before we would go home. I still remember that.

JR: So what were your favorite organ pieces when you were a wee lad?
KC: They were a little different from what they are now! (laughter) Probably mostly little songs that I knew how to sing at the time. Or wedding pieces and old campy hymns, I used to like those too—and I knew all the words. Somewhere I have a tape of myself singing along, I think—locked away! Anyway, I was fortunate that there was a really nice Casavant organ from the ’20s in the church where my father played, a three-manual organ, so it was great just to get to know registration on a nice instrument first. And we always had a lousy piano—which is still there, actually! So to have this really nice organ—I couldn’t resist but to learn how to play it—or try.

JR: How old were you when you started playing the organ?
KC: I knew how to play a hymn on the organ, but I really started to learn pieces around eighth grade, so twelve or thirteen. I knew how to play the piano pretty well by then. In fact, I got a lot more interested in piano after I realized how much I really liked playing the organ. I learned about some organ pieces that had been arranged for piano—I remember one was the Liszt B-A-C-H—I guess if you don’t realize that it’s a hard piece
. . . . So I improved a lot as a pianist after I decided I wanted to try to become as good an organist as I possibly could, and realized at that time, too, that piano was the key, at least for a lot of it. A couple years after that, studying some Bach and other things, I heard music of Dupré for the first time. So I went along for a while just learning all the pieces that made me think “oh, that’s a really neat piece!” It wasn’t the most logical progression, but it worked out all right.

JR: What was your first recital like?
KC: First recitals on the organ—I was 13 or 14. At that time it was mostly playing the Widor Toccata, the Bach Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, Fantasy and Fugue in G Minor—I used to work on lots of Bach pieces when I was in high school, so I always programmed that. I could practice the same pieces quite a lot, unlike now where there are piles and piles of things to get through in a short amount of time. But at least when I began performing I was confident that “I’ve been playing this Bach piece for a few months, it’ll probably be all right.”

JR: What was your first church position?
KC: I was sort of the perpetual assistant organist! I worked that way alongside my dad for the last year or so of high school, so I guess outside of any kind of familial supervision was when I went to college. I was assistant at St. Clement’s Church—and that was being thrown into the deep end of the pool, because Peter Conte was the organist at that time and of course ran a pretty tight ship, and still does there. I stayed at St. Clement’s the whole time I was in college in Philadelphia, and worked for a couple years at St. Mary the Virgin, and then at St. James Madison Avenue, and then at St. Bartholomew’s.

JR: You had said that when you were first studying, you weren’t sure about a career. At what point did you know that this was going to be your life’s work?
KC: I think that when I went away to college I knew pretty well that music was going to be what I would do primarily. And I never had any doubt that certainly I’d always be involved in music in my life. But I guess I was brought up in a casual enough way that no one ever said “You must be a musician.” And there are plenty of other interesting things out there to do! So it was by the time I went away to Curtis for college. I was fortunate that they were willing to take me in, and it was a great experience. I’ve been fortunate, in every place and with everyone with whom I’ve studied—I really made some lucky choices.

JR: At this point, could you identify who your big influences are?
KC: I think now it’s sort of a conglomeration. But there’s no one that I’ve ever studied with who hasn’t been an influence, and recordings are very valuable too. I remember when I was in high school—even though it wasn’t a complete immersion in music like college, I remember clearly what I learned from James Bigham, who was my teacher at that time—a major influence and a masterful player and teacher. At Curtis, of course, I was studying with John Weaver, and he had a different approach to teaching and was demanding about what was to be expected week to week.
My experience at Curtis was great. I still remember bringing in—I think it was my second year there—the Liszt Ad nos, and I was trying to be conservative, in the sense of not using countless general pistons. At that time the organ at Curtis Hall had just twelve general pistons, so I learned it using only one level, and I thought, “well, that’s a bit of restraint here”—a mere twelve generals, with lots of divisionals. I finished playing through it, and we talked about the music, and John Weaver said, “Now, I just should tell you, that when you’re approaching the registration of a piece like this, you can’t always count on having a dozen general pistons. I just bet that through use of more divisional pistons, I could work out all the registrations for this piece with no compromise whatsoever, on six general pistons.” And the amazing thing is—that he could! He was really impressive in that way, because, having decades of touring experience, he’s mindful that there weren’t always multiple memory levels. So he was very encouraging about people not being a slave to a computer combination action. For example, if you hit a piston for a chorale prelude registration that had a flute here and a cornet there, you’d be asked—“Can’t you remember these stops? Why do you have to hit a piston?”
Then of course, Thomas Murray is sort of a wonder in his own way. I enjoy just watching him at an organ—how he approaches the instrument, how to choose registrations—musically and registrationally always doing the most with the least, and loving every minute of it. I think a lot of people associate him with “oh, and he hits 500 Swell pistons.” Actually he doesn’t; he uses the fewest number to get the greatest effect. I didn’t realize that until really watching.
Martin Jean began teaching at Yale the same year I began studying there, and he was a really interesting person to study with as well. I had lessons with him for a semester at Yale while Tom Murray was on sabbatical; in addition to a coaching here or there at other times, students in the Yale department were free to coach with faculty outside of their own studio. Martin was full of curiosity about compositions and their possible interpretations, so I would always leave lessons with him pondering many possibilities. And I remember along the way I had a few lessons with McNeil Robinson, and he, in terms of how to learn a piece of music in a really thorough way, is just masterful. But you don’t have to study with someone for five years to get something immensely valuable, that you’ll never forget.

JR: Were you fairly confident with your registration ability before you studied with John Weaver and Tom Murray?
KC: I guess I was. Since I was a little kid I was fascinated with how stops were built, what the different ones did, the difference between the various colors, and so on. And there were enough nice instruments around that I pretty much understood how that worked—also, my dad was good at registration himself; that helped. If you’re around someone just an hour a week, that’s different than being around somebody all the time—as an aside, you can at any point say, “hey, how come you would do this, as opposed to something else?” And then Jim Bigham, with whom I studied in high school, just has an amazing imagination for registration and a huge instrument at Holy Trinity Lutheran; that was another great stroke of good fortune for me.

JR: When you studied with John Weaver and Tom Murray, did you work more on interpretation, or did they spend a lot of time with registration?
KC: A little of everything. Tom Murray in particular is very attentive to registration; even if he doesn’t change something radically, he is very sensitive to the finest details. Even if you can row your own boat to start with, I’d say to study with Weaver is to learn his system of managing a big instrument. He’s quite amazing in that he can register an entire recital in a couple of hours, and it will sound as though he’s played the organ for a long time, just because he’s so clear about exactly what he’s going to do at every point in a piece. Tom Murray is known as this “orchestralist,” who gives each color in an instrument its best opportunity to shine, so just to watch him do what he does is really an education!

JR: At Curtis, you were required to play pieces from memory. How many pieces have you memorized?
KC: Oh, probably hundreds. I think from year to year there are pieces—especially pieces that I learned when I was in high school—that I find I can usually play without really thinking about it much at all. From year to year I’ll carry around a few recital programs’ worth of repertoire, at any given time, and I try to keep on expanding that. During school semester, for example, there’s just not time to practice the number of hours a day that I’d love to, so I’ll always practice technical things on the piano, even if I don’t touch an organ. I find that to maintain a few hours of music is manageable, but it takes a lot more time to be constantly learning dozens of pieces.

JR: Do you have some favorite pieces? Desert island pieces?
KC: I’ve always loved Bach, and I think as is the case with so many people I ended up playing the organ because of the music of Bach. As things have gone, I’ve gotten into a lot of repertoire that is far from Bach—I’ve always loved symphonic organs, orchestral transcriptions and that sort of thing. But I think I could do just fine with some of the great works by Bach.
Now as far as what’s fun to play in a concert, on, say, a particular type of organ—for Skinner organs, they’re great at something English Romantic; the Willan Introduction, Passacaglia and Fugue is a fun piece to play because it relies quite a lot on the interpreter, as does Liszt, Reubke, Reger—if you hear three people play the same piece by Liszt, or Reger, or Reubke, it will sound completely different, as I think it should.
Many people who play those pieces think that it couldn’t possibly be done any other way than their own, because they require a very strong interpretive perspective, but in reality there are of course many possible interpretations. I love playing transcriptions, because on an American symphonic organ, you really push the instrument to the edge of what it’s able to do, and that’s always kind of fun. And historically it’s been controversial because for much of the twentieth century the attitude of most organists was “why would you do such a thing? Go learn some more legitimate organ pieces!”

JR: It’s nice stuff!
KC: Yes, there are so many great pieces that weren’t originally composed for the organ. I think once you do learn most of the standard organ repertoire, it’s fun to look beyond it a little bit and see how an instrument can work at interpreting something else. I have to confess, too, that I started listening to records of transcriptions when I was in high school. I have old recordings by George Thalben-Ball, for example, and I still remember getting two recordings of transcriptions by Tom Murray and Thomas Trotter, I think both made in the ’80s, and so I thought, “Wow! That instrument sounds great—and very expressive. Wouldn’t it be fun to learn how to do that?”
Anybody who gets into this kind of orchestral stuff might be pigeon-holed with “Oh, all he plays is Wagner,” or, “All he plays are transcriptions,” which of course I don’t think is true of anybody who does. One of the keys to having success with transcriptions, though, is to know when it’s a good idea not to play something, because one of the pitfalls about the organ is you cannot bring exactly the same program to every instrument, or else you’ll win some and lose some. I find as with some of the big Romantic works, a transcription can sound great on an ideal instrument and it can sound like a dismal failure on the wrong instrument. I hope to usually be a good judge of when’s the time, and when’s not the time, to play a particular part of the repertoire.

JR: How about the future of this instrument with young people?
KC: I’m always glad when I know someone is bringing kids to a recital. And in a way, it’s a good reason to think about programming very carefully. Every once in a while I’ll play a program that might get a little too—mature for the newcomer.
If I were only playing for myself, I could go on for days listening to very intense-sounding organ music. But I’m not just playing for me; though I guess some people would say you should always be playing as though no one else is there—but someone else IS there. (laughter) So I am usually quite cognizant of the fact that there may be some young person there who’s never heard an organ recital before.

JR: Do you ever program a specific piece with children in mind?
KC: If I know they’re going to be there, yes. Things that are very effective with kids are pieces that are programmatic and tell a story, or pieces that really are “visual” in how the instrument is used. Kids immediately get a kick out of the fact that there are all these different colors and that wow, the organist plays with his feet, and beyond that things like Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre are great for kids, because they understand—they can tell what’s going on in the story as it’s going along. Of course, that’s a transcription, but there’s George Akerley’s A Sweet for Mother Goose nursery rhyme suite—that would be just the thing. I’ve heard some people do things like Carnival of the Animals and so on—that’s another work that’s not originally an organ piece, but can certainly get children’s interest in the instrument. And they all love the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor!

JR: How do you plan a program? Fast–slow, or loud–soft, or keys?
KC: Having interesting key relationships can be nice, particularly if you segue from one piece to the next. More importantly, just not flogging people with the same kind of piece over and over again is a good rule of thumb. For example, I wouldn’t play half a program of, say, a prelude and fugue by Bach, followed by a preludium by Buxtehude followed by Prelude and Fugue on the Name of BACH, and so on—but contrasting forms, contrasting styles. I’ve never been much into the philosophy that “we should always go in chronological order.” It’s more a question of how can you give a good psychological flow to it? I guess that’s the right way to describe it. And it’s different on recordings, too. I think how you listen to a recording is a little different. In a concert, you can go from fast and furious to very intimate, to scherzo, back to this, back to that. On a record, if you do exactly the same thing, you end up with people constantly adjusting the volume control.
Programming is a constant challenge. And then the trap is, when you find a combination of things that you think works really well, to then be able to get out of it. I remember reading an article years ago about Glenn Gould’s thoughts on why he stopped playing concerts; he said he was feeling that sometimes he settled in on the same small number of pieces, the philosophy being, “well, the Beethoven worked in Toronto, it’ll probably work in New York, too, so I’ll play it again!” And again, and again—and so on it goes. Trying something new, even if it means going out on a limb, is a good idea, I think.

JR: You’ve long been an Organ Historical Society convention favorite. How did that get started?
KC: Good fortune, I guess! When I was working at St. Clement’s in Philadelphia, I think it was 1996 the OHS had their convention in Philadelphia; at that time we were doing an Evensong at St. Clement’s as part of the convention, and they wanted Peter to play something, and he was already going to play a recital at the Wanamaker Store, so he said, “I’ll play the prelude, and why don’t you have my assistant play a short program after the Evensong?” I think there was some trepidation at first; “who is this guy?” I guess they liked it. And one thing led to another there; I’ve been back several times since.

JR: Yes, including in 2007 with your wife! Tell me about her, and how you cooked up this scheme.
KC: We met in graduate school; she went to Yale too. While we were students there, I had always liked an old recording I had of Jascha Heifetz and Richard Elsasser playing the Vitali Chaconne, as arranged by Leopold Auer. So on one of JAV’s Skinner series recordings, Joe Vitacco asked me to go out to Jefferson Avenue Presbyterian in Detroit, and I checked out the organ and it’s a great instrument—huge sound, and very mellow sound. I thought this would be a good accompanying organ, and that it would be neat to try and do a violin piece. So I asked Lisa to come along then, and that was the beginning of playing together. In the last seven or eight years, we’ve been asked to play duo programs together, so we’ve always been on the lookout for good repertoire that has been written for violin and organ, and things that transcribe well. We’ll often do an early piece, maybe something that’s contemporary written for those instruments; from the Romantic period, Rheinberger wrote some violin and organ works. I’ll often transcribe a concerto accompaniment for the end, and do a violin concerto as a violin and organ piece. And then we’ll usually do a solo piece each, too.

JR: The review of the OHS convention in the February 2008 issue of The Diapason mentions Lisa playing behind a screen.1
KC: We did the Karg-Elert Fugue, Canzona and Epilogue, for organ and violin, and a quartet of women’s voices is included at the end. I think Karg-Elert may have started this tradition himself, but there’s been a long practice of putting the violinist and the singers either offstage or in the Swell box. And at this particular church it worked, because you could open the door behind the Swell box and there was a hallway in behind. So everyone crammed in behind the chamber and you could have this diminuendo to nothing at the end. It was very unexpected color coming out of the organ chambers suddenly! It was a lot of fun, and everyone was a very good sport about the whole thing. The instrument was a Kimball organ, and certainly played repertoire well, but maybe accompanied even better. So it was nice to show that side of things.

JR: At the AGO convention in Minneapolis you played some new works. Do you play new pieces from memory?
KC: Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. One of the things I’ve been working on this week is memorizing them. I find if I have a deadline, it doesn’t take long to get things like that learned. I probably spent a week or so learning each of the preludes and fugues. But then the question is—what do you want to do with it? There’s no question that I play a piece better after a year than after a week. So the rest of the time is spent just trying to refine things and get a clear interpretation, especially with brand-new pieces. The composer Henry Martin is a pianist and is probably known for composing 24 Preludes and Fugues for piano, and he teaches jazz and music theory at Rutgers, Newark. The reason for the commission was that Michael Barone really liked his piano pieces, and so commissioned him to write a couple for organ. Not knowing what his musical taste is—of course, when you learn a piece like that, I found I was initially sort of cautious in an interpretive sense—if it’s not written in the score, well, is it OK to do something? Well, he has a great imagination, and is a good sport about everything. That was actually nice to discover. Interpretive freedom is good! So I really liked them—they’re difficult, but I think will make nice pieces.

JR: Teaching versus performing—do you enjoy the balance that you have right now?
KC: Absolutely! I think it would probably be hard for me to only teach, because you end up living musically only through your students, instead of being able to do something yourself—so you need an outlet. On the other hand, it’s great to work with other people—it’s so satisfying and exciting when students work very hard and get a lot better, and you can help them along their way. This year, it was only the second time in recent memory that I didn’t play Easter Sunday some place. So before cooking dinner for family, I went to Trinity Church where two of my students play, and I had a better time listening to them accompany the Easter service than I would have if I’d done it myself! I’ve always been interested in teaching, so I have no regrets there at all.

JR: Tell us about your position at Westminster. Do you teach service playing, or does your teaching concentrate just on recital literature?
KC: Mostly my colleagues Alan Morrison, Matthew Lewis, and I end up concentrating on creating some kind of structured program of study for each student. I do at times make students learn hymns and accompaniments as part of their lessons. I find that you can teach somebody about as much about creative possibilities at the organ through hymns and accompaniments, at least from a registration point of view, as from anything else, because so often with a lot of the primary parts of the repertoire—Bach, Franck, Vierne, and so forth—you frequently follow convention or instructions for registration; in service playing you have a blank slate, and can really get acquainted with the organ in a more individualistic way.
The school’s strong emphasis on choral training provides a great background for developing graduates who can become very effective church musicians. There are classes in improvisation, courses in organ literature, there’s a class on accompanying at the organ, which is primarily a service playing course. Then the sacred music department offers courses on the history of church music, theology, choral pedagogy and management of programs, worship planning, and congregational song. A broad range of guest lecturers in the organ and sacred music departments address other specific topics. It could be a masterclass on organ playing or literature on some occasions, or frequently guest perspectives on the general field of church music in America.

JR: Do you see any consistent patterns of problems among your students?
KC: Nothing that applies to everybody. In fact, that’s one of the fun challenges of teaching—it’s all problem solving, but everybody’s a different case. For example, some students don’t learn pedal technique in a structured way, and I’m surprised that students coming in at the graduate level sometimes don’t understand very much about registration—that can be a big project. But that’s certainly not unique to everybody; some of them are great at that. Nuanced registration is a hard thing to teach in a short time. And if you encounter people who are trained to do only one thing in a particular situation, it can be a real challenge to make them more curious and sensitive to the precise character of each stop or chorus on different instruments, and how they combine with others. Then comes the issue of how to control the instrument in the context of a complex piece if they’ve never been trained to manage a console with a combination action.

JR: Do you have responsibilities at Westminster besides teaching?
KC: I also am the coordinator of the organ and sacred music program. That involves plenty of meetings, planning, and discussions with other faculty about how to proceed with programs and curriculum. In the past year we have revised the entire curriculum in organ and in sacred music. This year began the implementation of those revisions, which is a big undertaking, but a necessary step to try to keep the program from getting behind the times. Of course, I’m not doing that on my own, but I certainly have to stay involved with how things develop. And then another task for sacred music at Westminster will be to find a faculty member to succeed Robin Leaver, who just retired. Hopefully we’ll soon be looking for the next teacher of sacred music there, but in the current economic climate, universities can be tentative about filling vacancies. Always something, you know! It’s the sort of place where I can stay there until ten o’clock every night and have plenty more to greet me the next morning.

JR: Are you ever able to go hear other organists or other concerts?
KC: Here and there. There’s not as much time as I’d like there to be, because I’m often away weekends, when a lot of great concerts happen. Going to conventions and so forth, I can hear a lot of things in a short amount of time, just to keep track of who’s doing what. And then the nice thing living between New York and Philadelphia is oftentimes there will be good concerts on week nights. Plus, Princeton has some really good music series right in town. So whenever possible, I attend performances.

JR: Do you have any big projects planned?
KC: For Westminster, keeping the department growing stronger is a priority. As far as playing goes, it’s asking myself, what do I want to play now that I haven’t played before? And I’ve got lined up some recordings that I’ve been promising to make and that I haven’t gotten around to yet, so I’ll just keep chipping away at them. A new CD on the big Schoenstein organ at First Plymouth Church in Lincoln, Nebraska, was just released this February on the Raven label. That disc has German Romantic repertoire (Reger, Reubke, Karg-Elert) and a transcription of the Liszt Mephisto Waltz #1. But otherwise it’s a question of just balancing responsibilities out—and finding some time for fun, too.

JR: Thank you so much, Ken!

John BIshop is executive director of the Organ Clearing House.

Personal settings

Not long ago Wendy set the wallpaper-screensaver option on her PC so it would scroll randomly through her files of photos. Her machine often sits on the desk in her home office, which is next to our bedroom, so as it lazes through her photos I can see a travelogue of the vacations we’ve taken, family holidays, special parties we’ve hosted. Because our daughter Meg lives in Greece, we’ve been there several times, Wendy many more times than I, so there are lots of photos from islands in the Aegean and Ionian Seas and ancient archeological sites. It’s fun to see them casually as I dress, pack and unpack suitcases, and move around the house.

Not to be left behind, I went to System Preferences/Desktop, then screensaver/iPhoto/Photos. I clicked “change picture (every minute),” “random order,” and “translucent menu bar” so I could keep working. Perfect. Worked like a charm. There’s a beautiful photo of our friend Michael by the shipwreck at the south end of Monhegan Island in Maine, there’s one of the Maxim Gorki Theater in Berlin, but oops, there’s one of the engraved data plate on the old Century motor of a huge organ blower. How romantic.

And there’s one of the interior of an expression box that I don’t recognize. I’m pretty sure it’s a Swell box (not Choir or Positiv) because there are a couple strings, Trumpets at sixteen, eight, and four, an Oboe, and Vox Humana.

I take hundreds of photos in the usual routine of my work, and my hard-drive says there are around 24,000 in files. Lots of them show beautiful places, lovely buildings, and spectacular organ cases, but most are intended to show details about the dozens of organs I visit every year. It’s not very good casual amusement, but it might be fun to spend a couple hours writing about what I see as random photos appear.

Here’s a photo of members of the Organ Clearing House staff loading a dumpster in front of a church on Central Park West in New York City. We’re a few blocks from the Dakota, the snazzy residential building where John Lennon lived, in front of which he was murdered, and where Yoko Ono still lives. Just across the street, immediately inside Central Park, is Strawberry Fields, the memorial to Lennon dedicated by Mayor Koch in 1985. It’s pouring rain, and some scrap-metal scavengers have shown up asking if they can take stuff from the dumpster. Sure, why not—so they load a couple dilapidated vans with galvanized windlines. There’s something poignant about discarding pipe organ parts. We don’t take it lightly, but there are some times when it’s best to give the heave-ho to material of poor quality that we feel doesn’t merit the effort of renovation.

George Taylor and Barbara Owen share a laugh in front of the organ built by David Tannenberg in 1800, restored by Taylor & Boody, and installed in a new recital hall at the Museum of Early Southern Decorative Arts in Old Salem, North Carolina. Paula Locklair, director of the museum, is sharing the joke. This was taken during the dedication symposium several years ago. Peter Sykes played the dedicatory recital, which included the premiere of the commissioned work, Salem Sonata, by Paula’s husband Dan Locklair, composer-in-residence at neighboring Wake Forest University. This was a showcase restoration and I discussed it in detail at a recent conference in Montreal, where several colleagues and I were talking about the conundrums of restoration.

There’s a hair-raising catwalk across the top of the Newberry Memorial Organ in Woolsey Hall at Yale University. You walk across just behind the façade pipes, occasionally bridging deep abysses and looking through the gaps between the pipes down into the vast auditorium. It’s one of hundreds of special views the organ-guys get that are difficult to describe and not for the faint of heart. It’s a little like the suspension bridges made of rope found in the Himalayas, strong enough to support a yak. There are thousands of wooden seats in Woolsey Hall, and this photo shows that quite a few have been replaced or refinished.

Lobster boats moored in Muscongus Bay off Medomak, Maine are bobbing in floating sea-ice. When we think of a difficult day at work in the organ chamber, we forget the challenging conditions in which other people work. As much as I love boats, I’d rather do just about anything in a pipe organ than spend a day hauling lobster pots on a rough wintry sea. It takes the myth out of the price of lobster. Please pass the butter.

During a recent trip to Bermuda, my colleague Amory Atkins and I completed the tonal finishing of a new pipe organ in an African Methodist Episcopal church in Hamilton. One afternoon after work we walked along Front Street, passing a huge cruise ship from the Holland America Line. The ship’s passengers were crowding all the stores, doing their best to part with their money during the time allotted. But lucky for the shops, we were to find out that we’d all have an extra day. Tropical Storm Maria came blasting through and the ports and airports were closed. I had to explain to Wendy that we needed to spend an additional unscheduled day on that little island.

In Boston, we live in a building that originally served as a warehouse for the Boston Naval Shipyard in the neighborhood known as the Charlestown Navy Yard. Our neighbor is the USS Constitution, the oldest commissioned warship in the United States Navy. Keeping with naval tradition, the ship fires a gun at sunrise and sunset. Since it’s a residential neighborhood, here and here alone, the Navy observes a modified sunrise that occurs conveniently at eight a.m. A couple years ago, a family moved into a neighboring condo and was dismayed by the disturbance. They tried to start a neighborhood movement to get the Navy to stop firing the guns. The Navy didn’t budge. One of the historic buildings in the neighborhood is a ropewalk built in 1837, which supplied rope for the U.S. Navy until the shipyard closed in 1975. It’s more than 1,100 feet long inside. You can find videos on YouTube that show how rope was made in ropewalks—there’s one still operating in the U.K.

This summer we dismantled a tiny two-manual organ built in 1986 by Casavant for St. Peter’s Episcopal Church in Osterville, Massachusetts. This is on Cape Cod, about an hour-and-a-half from Boston—a beautiful and upscale vacation community where the high season is in the summer. Karen Crosby is the church’s energetic and effective music director, who took the choir on tour to England last year, and who brings such beautiful music to that little parish. The congregation has undertaken a significant rehabilitation of their building, which was originally built as a summer mission, and we have removed the organ to storage for safekeeping. Doesn’t look as though it will be back for Christmas because the building project is a little behind schedule.

Now there’s a big organ. There are two 32-foot ranks mounted horizontally along the back wall of the String Division in the Wanamaker Organ in Philadelphia: Contra Diaphone and Contra Gamba, both with 24-inch scale. Good heavens, that’s a big expression chamber! And there’s John Bishop standing casually in front of them wearing a terrible necktie and the ID badge of the AGO national convention. When I was a kid and didn’t know any better, I had the impression that the Wanamaker Organ was a freak show that existed only to be huge. When I was growing up in Boston, the tracker revival was in high gear, and new organs by Flentrop, Fisk, Andover, Noack, and Bozeman were everywhere. Why would anyone need more than 20 ranks to get their point across? More than 400 ranks, how decadent. Oh remember not the sins and offenses of my youth, but according to Thy mercy look Thou on me, O Lord!

Our friend and Wendy’s client Kenn Kaufmann is a brilliant naturalist with an unusual life story. He left home as a young teenager, with his parents’ blessing, setting out on a Big Year—criss-crossing the country in an attempt to set a record for sighting the most species of birds in twelve months. His memoir, Kingbird Highway: The Story of a Natural Obsession That Got a Little Out of Hand (Houghton-Mifflin, 1997, now available in paperback), is a lovely piece of writing describing this adventure, tracing the history of his teen-age romances, and his realization that it was more important to learn about the habits and lifestyles of the birds rather than accumulating the most sightings. He has since launched a series of outstanding field guides. He serves regularly as an instructor at an Audubon Camp on an island near our house in Maine, and most years he and his wife Kim spend a few days with us coming or going. Here’s Kenn photographing moths on our back porch. If you leave outdoor lights on all night you’ll attract dozens of species of moths, from little pink guys that look like bubble-gum stuck to the clapboards to the huge and dramatic Luna moths that hang out most of the day. Kenn and Kim have shown us that our neighborhood is exceptionally rich in biodiversity, adding greatly to our appreciation of the world around us. There is more to life than pipe organs!

One of the privileges of working in church buildings is to be surrounded by beautiful and inspiring architectural features. But I’ve serviced this little Hook & Hastings organ for 25 years, tuning twice a year as well as a couple of minor overhaul projects, and I can’t escape the notion that the light fixtures in the nave look like milking-machines.

In the old days when inspecting an organ in preparation for proposing a renovation, or for offering an organ for sale, I sat on the organ bench and laboriously wrote down the specifications, trying hard to get the spellings and accents right, and accounting for all the console controls. After the introduction of digital cameras, I realized I could get all that with a few photos. There are hundreds of photos in my machine of stop jambs, keyslips, pedalboards and toestuds, and coupler rails. It would be quite a quiz to see how many I could identify by sight alone. I didn’t recognize the last two I saw. I assume they’re neatly stored in folders that identify the organ. I hope so.

That was a large organ—an entire truckload of reservoirs and wind regulators. Funny how a small instrument can get all its wind from a single wedge-bellows. There must be 75 regulators in this truck. Last week we took out an old organ that had been powered by a five-horsepower Spencer Orgoblo. It took six guys to get it down the front steps of the church and into our truck. At the same time, we were helping the organbuilder get the components of the new organ into the gallery. Our guy Dean carried the blower for the new organ up the stairs on his shoulder.

Stephen and Lena Tharp work at the console of the Austin organ in Merrill Auditorium of City Hall in Portland, Maine. Stephen played a terrific recital there last summer and we grabbed a few days for a quiet visit before they returned to New York. This is the Kotzschmar Organ, named for Hermann Kotzschmar, a prominent musician in Portland who was sponsored by the father of publishing magnate Cyrus H.K. Curtis. (The H.K. stands for Hermann Kotzschmar—old man Curtis named his son for the admired musician!) After City Hall was destroyed in a spectacular fire that started by negligence in a fireworks factory and burned more than half the city, Cyrus Curtis offered to donate a concert organ to the City of Portland for installation in the new auditorium. 2012 brings the centennial of this venerable organ, and the Friends of the Kotzschmar Organ (a local not-for-profit corporation that supports and operates the organ) is announcing the centennial renovation of the organ. The Portland City Council has voted to extend a bond issue to provide more than a million dollars toward this project. During a choral concert in the auditorium on November 6, city officials and officers of FOKO announced the capital campaign that will fund the thorough renovation of the organ, effect repairs to the hall, endow the positions of Municipal Organist and Organ Curator, and support continuing exciting educational programs that FOKO offers to the community. How’s that for a city with 64,000 residents?

And there I am on the day of our wedding, wearing a snazzy white linen jacket and pink necktie—much better than the flowery job I was wearing in Philadelphia. Wendy and I were married at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in Newcastle, Maine in August of 2005—what a lucky day for me. St. Andrew’s is the first church building designed by Henry Vaughan. He was in his twenties, and the local legend has it that he painted the ceiling frescos himself. His last church building was the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C.—some ascendancy. The church has a neat little organ by George Hutchings, and dear friends Stuart Forster and Michael Murray shared the bench for the wedding. This was just on the heels of the landmark decision by the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court and then Chief Justice Margaret Marshall allowing same-sex marriages, and Stuart and Michael were married two months later in a grand affair at the Methuen Memorial Music Hall. Organist Robert Lehman and the choir of Christ Church, New Haven, Connecticut (another Henry Vaughan building!) provided the music.

Early this past summer the Organ Clearing House rescued a marvelous organ by Ernest Skinner, built in 1911 for Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts. The organ had fallen into disrepair in the 1960s, and as organs like this were rapidly falling out of favor at that time, there was no effort made to repair it. It has 66 ranks, a four-manual bat-wing console, and it includes some of the landmark voices found only in such instruments, like a behemoth of a 32-foot Double Open Wood Diapason, and a high-pressure Tuba at sixteen, eight, and four—the sixteen-foot octave has wood resonators. The college intended to demolish the organ, but people in the music department spoke up, and Nelson Barden and I went to visit. At our suggestion, Williams College provided much of the funding to salvage the organ. This photo shows the Danger Asbestos enclosures in the auditorium, as contractors were deep in the complicated renovation of the building while we were dismantling the organ. It was a ballet among football players, all of us jockeying for space, complying with OSHA regulations, and astonishing the contractors with the bulk of the instrument as it emerged from the organ chamber.

Here’s Martin Pasi, organbuilder near Seattle, Washington, wearing a blue workshop apron and a huge smile. I was working in that area transporting material from Tacoma to storage on Orcas Island in the San Juan Islands, almost as tough a duty as this summer’s job in Bermuda, and I took time to participate in a Pipe Organ Encounter. This was a great group of teenagers, teachers, and enthusiasts visiting Martin’s shop to see an instrument under construction (if I remember right, it was the humdinger he built for the Roman Catholic Cathedral in Omaha) and a demonstration of organ-pipe-making. Martin is a wonderful pipe-maker, and he dazzled the group by how quickly and beautifully the two-foot-long pipes were formed in his hands. It was like watching him pull rabbits out of a hat.

Goodness, this could go on all night. I’m past the preferred number of words and I still have tens of thousands of photos to look through. As these photos flit past on my desktop, I reflect that this is a rich and exciting adventure. Thanks to all my family, friends, and colleagues who have been part of it.

John Bishop is executive director of the Organ Clearing House.

Wind
I’m a nut for a good wind. We live by the ocean, and I never tire of the feeling of the wind coming off the water bringing fresh air and all the good tidal smells into the house. I love to open the sliding doors that face the water and a door at the other end of the house to create a wind tunnel. (It’s not always popular with other family members.)
Years ago I was active in a small inland sailing club on the shore of a lake in the center of a suburban town. The lake was less than two miles north-to-south, and less than one mile east-to-west, so you couldn’t go for very long without coming about (turning to take the wind on the other side of the boat).
Since ours was a single-class racing club, the size of the lake didn’t matter. Depending on the speed and direction of the wind, the race committee set a course using inflatable markers (yellow tetrahedrons) with anchors. The classic Olympic sailing course uses three marks labeled A, B, and C set in an equilateral triangle. A is directly upwind from the starting line, C is directly downwind, and B is to the left, so boats go clockwise around the upwind mark. The basic course is A-B-C-Finish, but you can add an extra lap or two, and we often modified it to read A-B-C-A-C-Finish. These patterns would expose all the sailors to all points of sail as they went around the course.
One drizzly afternoon I headed the race committee. The wind was northerly, so I set the upwind mark close to the northern shore. A few minutes after the start, I noticed that the entire fleet was heading in the wrong direction. These were pretty good sailors, and it would be unusual for the whole group to get the course wrong. They were following what looked like a yellow tetrahedron that was a little east of upwind—a fellow in a yellow slicker and a yellow kayak who was heading away from the mark! I flew the recall-signal flag and started the race again, but not until we had all had a good laugh.

Know your wind
To sail a small boat is to be intimate with the wind. You have telltale streamers on the sails so you can tell exactly where the “lift” is and you watch the surface of the water for the ruffles that indicate the presence of wind. When there’s an updraft on the shore, air rushes in off the water to fill the void—so hawks, ospreys, and eagles soaring can tell you something about the wind on the water. In fact, this is the cause of a “sea breeze.” When the sun heats up the land in the afternoon, air rises off the land and the cool air rushes in off the water to take its place. Where we live, you can have a quiet picnic in the boat around twelve-thirty and put your things away in time for the sea breeze to come in around two in the afternoon.
If you sail often in the same place, you get used to how the wind comes around a certain point, swirls in a cove, or rushes directly from the sea toward the land depending on the time of day. There was an old salt at that inland club who had figured out how to predict the local wind by observing which direction airplanes were traveling to and from Boston’s Logan Airport twenty miles away. During a race you’d notice him heading off alone to some corner of the lake only to pick up the strongest wind of the afternoon and shoot across to a mark ahead of the rest of the fleet. I never did figure out how that worked, but he sure won a lot of races.

§

The steadiness, reliability, and predictability of wind is a huge part of playing and building pipe organs. We compare “wobbly” with “rock-steady” wind, debating their relative musical merits. One camp hates it when the organ’s wind wiggles at all (ironically, those are often the same people who love lots of tremolos!), the other claims that if the wind is free to move a little with the flow of the music, there’s an extra dimension of life. I think both sides are right. I love good organs with either basic wind characteristic, but because they are so different it seems awkward to try to make real comparisons. The instrument with gentle wind that makes the music of Sweelinck sing does not do well with the air-burning symphonies of Vierne or Widor.
As a student at Oberlin in the 1970s, I spent a lot of time with the marvelous three-manual Flentrop organ in the school’s Warner Concert Hall. The organ was brand new at the time (dedicated on St. Cecelia’s Day of my freshman year) and is still an excellent study of all the characteristics that defined the Classic Revival of organbuilding. It has a large and complete Rückpositiv division (Rugwerk in Dutch) and a classic-style case with towers. There are independent sixteen-foot principals on manual and pedal, and the whole thing was originally winded from a single wedge-shaped bellows behind the organ. End a piece with a large registration and make the mistake of releasing the pedal note first, and the wind slaps you in the back, giving a great hiccup to the grand conclusion.
As students, we worked hard to learn to control the organ’s wind, marking in our scores those treacherous spots where the wind would try to derail you. There were no hawks there to warn about the updrafts. A little attention to the lift of your fingers or a gentle approach to the pedal keys would make all the difference, and I remember well and am often reminded that such a sensitive wind system can be very rewarding musically.

Totally turbulent
It’s interesting to note that while the older European-style organs are more likely to have unstable wind supplies, organs like that were originally hand-pumped and had more natural wind that anything we are used to today. The greatest single source of turbulence in pipe organ wind is the electric blower. Because the wind is hurried on its way by a circular fan, the air is necessarily spinning when it leaves the blower. If the organbuilder fails to pay attention to this, the organ’s sound may be altered by little tornados blowing into the feet of the pipes.
I learned this lesson for keeps while renovating a twelve-stop tracker organ in rural Maine ten years ago. Before I first saw the organ, the organist said that the sound of the Great was fuzzy and strange, but the Swell was fine. Sure enough, she was exactly right, and I was surprised by the stark contrast between the two keyboards. Every pipe of the Great wobbled like the call of a wild turkey.
This was the ubiquitous nineteenth-century American organ, with an attached keydesk and a large double-rise parallel reservoir taking up the entire floor plan. There were wedge-shaped feeder bellows under the main body of the reservoir and a well at each end to provide space for the attachment of the square wooden wind trunks. In the 1920s an electric blower was installed in the basement some thirty feet below the organ, and a metal windline was built to bring the air to the organ through a crude hole cut in the walnut case (Oof!). The easiest place to cut into the organ’s wind system was the outside face of the Great windtrunk—piece of cake. But the effect was that the Great was winded directly from the violently turbulent blower output, while the wind had to pass through the calming reservoir before it found its way to the Swell. Every wiggle and burble of the wind could be heard in the sound of the pipes. Relocating that blower windline sure made a difference to the sound.
That lesson was enhanced as I restored a wonderful organ by E. & G. G. Hook in Lexington, Massachusetts. Part of that project was to restore the feeder bellows and hand-pumping mechanism so the instrument could be blown by hand or by an electric blower. Of course, it’s seldom pumped by hand, but there is an easily discernible difference in the sound of the organ when you do.
The introduction of electric blowers to pipe organs must have been a great thrill for the organists of the day. Marcel Dupré wrote in his memoir about the installation of the first electric blower for the Cavaillé-Coll organ at St. Sulpice in Paris, where Charles-Marie Widor was organist between 1870 and 1933. I have no idea just when the first blower was installed, but it was certainly during Widor’s tenure, and it must have been a great liberation. I suppose that for the first forty years of his tenure, Widor had to arrange for pumpers. That organ has a hundred stops (real stops!), and pumping it through one of Widor’s great organ symphonies must have consumed the calories of dozens of buttery croissants.
Since electric blowers became part of the trade, organbuilders have worked hard to learn how to create stable air supplies. A static reservoir in a remote blower room is the first defense against turbulence. We sometimes attach a baffle-box to the output of a blower—a wooden box with interior partitions, channels, and insulation to interrupt the rotary action of the air and quiet the noise of the large-volume flow.
Another source of turbulence in organ wind is sharp turns in windlines. The eddy caused by an abrupt ninety-degree angle in a windline can be avoided by a more gradual turn or by the geometry of how one piece of duct is connected to another.
Air pressure drops over distance. Run a ten-inch (diameter) windline above the chancel ceiling from Great to Swell chambers and you’ll find that four inches of pressure going in one end becomes three-and-a-half inches at the other. Drop the diameter of the windline a couple times along its length (first to nine, then to eight inches for example) and the pressure doesn’t drop. As pressurized air and pressurized water behave in similar ways, you can see this principle demonstrated in many large public rooms in the layout of a fire-suppressing sprinkler system. The water pipes might be four inches in diameter at the beginning of a long run and step down several times, so the last sprinkler head has only a three-quarter inch pipe. It’s a direct inversion of the sliding doors in our house. When four big doors are open facing the wind and one small one is open at the other side of the house, all that ocean air gets funneled into racing down the corridor past the kitchen and out the back door. If you don’t prop the door open, it slams with a mighty bang.
We measure air pressure in “inches of water.” The basic gauge (called a manometer) is a U-shaped tube filled halfway with water. Water under the effect of gravity is the perfect leveling medium—when the U-shaped tube is half filled with water, the water level is exactly the same on both sides of the tube. Blow into one end, and the water on that side of tube goes down while the other side goes up. Measure the difference of the two water levels and you have “inches of water”—we use the symbol WP.
Many of the ratio-based measurements we use are two-dimensional. When we refer to miles-per-hour for example, all we need is a statement of distance and one of time. To measure pipe organ air we consider three dimensions. The output of an organ blower is measured in cubic-feet-per-minute at a given pressure—so we are relating volume to time to pressure. Let’s take a given volume of air. There’s a suitcase on the floor near my desk that’s about 24″ x 18″ x 12″. I make it to be three cubic feet. We can push that amount of air through a one-inch pipe at high pressure or through an eight-inch pipe at low pressure. The smaller the pipe and the higher the pressure, the faster the air travels. It doesn’t take much of an imagination or understanding of physics to realize that those two circumstances would produce air that behaves in two different ways.
A mentor gave me a beautiful way to understand the wind in a pipe organ—simply, that air is the fuel we burn to make organ sound. Put more air through an organ pipe, you get more sound. To get more air through an organ pipe, you can make the mouth (and therefore the windway) wider. A pipe mouth that’s two-ninths the circumference can’t pass as much air as one that’s two-sevenths. You can also increase the size of the toe hole and raise the pressure.
I’m not doing actual calculations here, but I bet it takes the same number of air molecules to run an entire ten-stop Hook & Hastings organ (ca. 3″ WP) for five minutes as it takes to play one note of the State Trumpet at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York (ca. 50″ WP) for thirty seconds. Imagine trying to hand-pump that sucker. It was mentioned in passing that when that world-famous stop was being worked on in the organbuilder’s shop during the recent renovation of that magnificent organ, the neighboring motorcycle shop complained about the noise!
I’ve written a number of times in recent months about the project we’re working on in New York. Because it’s an organ with large pipe scales and relatively high wind pressures, we’re spending a lot of time thinking about proper sizes of windlines to feed various windchests. I use the term windsick to describe an organ or a portion of an organ that doesn’t get enough wind, as in, “to heal the windsick soul . . .”
This organ has a monster of a 16′ open wood Diapason that plays at both 16′ and 8′ pitches. The toe holes of the biggest pipes are four inches in diameter (about the size of a coffee can). If the rank is being played at two pitches and the organist plays two notes (say for big effect, lowest CCC and GGG), we have four of those huge toe holes gushing wind. If we might have as many as four of those big holes blowing at once, what size windline do we need going into that windchest? To allow for twice the flow of air do we need twice the diameter windline? Here’s pi in your eye. To double the airflow, we need twice the area of the circle, not the diameter. The area of a four-inch circle (πr2) is about 50.25 square inches. The area of a five-and-a-half inch circle is about 95 inches. The larger the circle, the bigger the difference. The area of a nine-inch circle is 254.5 square inches. Two nine-inch windlines equals 509 square inches. One twelve-inch circle is 452 square inches, almost twice the area of the nine-incher.
That Diapason plays on 5″ WP—a hurricane for each note.
You can use any liquid to make a manometer. We can buy neat rigs made of glass tubes joined at top and bottom by round fittings. A longer rubber tube is attached to a wooden pipe foot (such as from a Gedeckt). You take an organ pipe out of its hole, stick the foot of the gauge in the same hole, play the note, and measure the pressure. You can also buy a manometer with a round dial, which eliminates the possibility of spilling water into a windchest—heaven help us. Measuring to the nearest eighth-inch, or even to the nearest millimeter, is accurate enough for pipe organ wind pressure. But using a denser liquid allows for more accurate measurement.
A barometer is similar in function to a manometer, except that it measures atmospheres instead of air pressure. Because the difference between high- and low-pressure areas is so slight, mercury (the only metal and the only element that’s in liquid form in temperate conditions) is commonly used in barometers. The unit of measure is inches-of-mercury (inHg); 29.92 inHg is equal to one atmosphere. Right now, right here, the barometer reading is 29.76 inHg. According to my dictionary, the record high and low barometric readings range from 25.69 inHg to 32.31 inHg. I guess today we’re pretty close to normal.
Measuring and reading barometric pressure takes us back to my eagles and hawks. An updraft creates a low-pressure region, which is filled by air rushing in from areas of higher pressure. That’s how wind is made. Wind doesn’t blow, it’s just lots of air running from one place to another.
On July 4, 2002, Peter Richard Conte played Marcel Dupré’s Passion Symphony on the Grand Court Organ of Philadelphia’s Wanamaker (now Macy’s) Store as a special feature of that year’s convention of the American Guild of Organists. It was an evening performance, and the store’s display cases were moved aside to allow for concert seating. This was early in the great rebirth of that singular instrument, and organists and organbuilders were thrilled by its majesty. Dupré conceived this monumental work of music as an improvisation on the Wanamaker Organ in 1921. (You can purchase the live recording of Conte’s performance from Gothic Records at <http://www.gothic-catalog.com/The_Wanamaker_Legacy_Peter_Richard_Conte_…;.)
The last minutes of that piece comprise a barrage of vast chords, chords that only a monster pipe organ can possibly accomplish. When I hear an organ doing that, I picture thousands of valves of all sizes flying open and closed and the almost unimaginable torrent of air going through the instrument. I remember thinking (and later writing) that as Conte played the conclusion of the symphony, barometers all across New Jersey were falling. Must have been some eagles soaring above the store. 

Photos of cats

Read recently on Facebook:

“We each have in our hands an instrument with nearly limitless computing power that gives me instant access to worlds of information, and we use it to publish photos of cats.”

My iPhone is sitting on my desk. It’s seldom more than a few feet away from me. It’s my link to the world. I get nervous when the battery is low. Imagine how awful it would be if the phone went dead while I was on the subway in the middle of a game of solitaire. I’d have to sit there and stare at a carload
of nutcases.

The iPhone (or any so-called “smart phone”) is a fantastic tool. It enables me to stay in touch with co-workers and clients when on the road. The ability to take a photo and send it away instantly is a fantastic aid when sorting out mechanical issues at projects. Need to send the specs of a blower motor to a repair shop? Take a photo of the engraved plate. Poof. I can make and change airplane, train, and hotel reservations. I keep my calendar and contacts organized. I can access bank accounts to transfer funds and pay bills. I can create and send invoices for service calls as I leave the church. You’d think that such a gizmo would have nothing but positive effects.

But there’s a hitch. They’ve turned us into a race of navel gazers. On any street corner you’ll see people standing still, staring into their phones. People stop suddenly while walking to go into their phones. The other day on the street, I was hit in the shoulder by a woman who was gesticulating while arguing with someone on the phone. And another tidbit from Facebook—a friend posted a photo of a woman dressed in yoga togs on the down escalator from New York’s Columbus Circle to the Whole Foods store, balancing a huge stroller laden with toddler with one hand, the other hand holding the phone to her ear. Sounds like child neglect and endangerment to me.

People talk on the phone at restaurant tables with friends, they talk on the phone at the cashier in a grocery store, they talk on the phone in the middle of a business meeting. Do those phones help us get more done, or do they keep us from getting anything done?

And worse, if we let them, our phones will affect the flow of human thought in generations to come. I did perfectly well without a smart phone until I was in my forties, but my kids have pretty much grown up with them. And our grandson Ben, at eighteen months old, is adept at managing touch screens—giggling as he swipes to change photos, touching icons, all the while staring intently at the thing. Thank goodness his parents read to him, and I hope he grows up learning conversational skills that seem to be eroding today. 

Innovation

The last century has been one of innovation. Many of the most important developments have come with significant downsides. The automobile has given us unlimited mobility, but it has torn up the landscape and poisoned the skies. The technological revolution has given us connectivity that we could not have imagined a generation ago, but it has compromised good old-fashioned face-to-face human contact. Image a guy breaking up with his girlfriend by text message. It happened in our family! Suck it up and face the woman, bucko.

Also, mass production and mass marketing has led to homogeneity. People in Boston and Tucson buy the same candlesticks at Crate and Barrel, as if there were no cultural differences between those regions.

These concepts apply to our world of pipe organs. In that world, the second half of the twentieth century was dominated by a debate about innovation. We argued in favor of the imagined purity of historic instruments and wondered exactly how they sounded when played by the artists of their day, or we argued in favor of the convenience of registration devices, the effect of expression enclosures, and the flexibity of organ placement made possible by electric actions. Both sides made cases about how unmusical were the instruments favored by the other camp. 

The result of the decades-long debate is generally a positive one. It’s true that many wonderful historic organs, especially early twentieth-century electro-pneumatic organs, were displaced and discarded by new tracker organs. But after all, that trend was a simple repeat of one sixty years earlier, when hundreds of grand nineteenth-century instruments were discarded in favor of the newfangled electro-pneumatic organs in the beginning of the twentieth century. 

Described in terms of the history of organbuilding in Boston, we threw out Hook organs in the 1910s and 1920s to install Skinners, and we threw out Skinners in the 1960s and 1970s to install Fisks and Noacks. What goes around, comes around.

Homogeneity

Until sometime in the second half of the twentieth century, each organbuilder’s work was unique. Any serious organist, blindfolded, could tell the difference between a Skinner console and an Austin console. The profile of the keycheeks, the weight and balance of the keyboards, the layout of the stop controls, the sound of the combination action, and the feel of the pedalboard were all separate and distinct.

I had a fascinating conversation with a colleague one night in a bar, during which we discussed the evolution in organbuilding toward homogeneity. Supply houses have become increasingly important to us, which means, for example, that our consoles have that “Crate and Barrel” syndrome. For example, there’s one brand of electric drawknob motors widely favored in the industry. They work beautifully and reliably, and they’re easy to install. So many firms building both electric and mechanical action organs use them on their consoles. They’re great, but they smudge the distinguishing lines between organbuilders.

There are several firms that supply keyboards to organbuilders. There is a hierarchy of quality, and builders can make choices about which organs should have what keyboards. If you’re renovating the console of an indistinct fifty-year-old organ, it doesn’t make much sense to install fancy keyboards at ten-thousand a pop, when a thousand-dollar keyboard will work perfectly well. But when comparing organs of high quality, we notice when different builders are using keyboards from the same sources. Again, the lines are smudged.

But here’s the thing. If a basic component of an organ is developed at high quality and reasonable cost by a specialist, the organbuilder can cross that off his list knowing that it will function perfectly and reliably, freeing him to put his effort into another part of the instrument. Ideally then, each hour saved by the purchase of ready-made parts can be put into voicing and tuning.

Ernest Skinner put lots of time and resources into the development of his famous Whiffle Tree expression motor. Today, there are three or four suppliers who manufacture electric expression motors with digital control systems. They use the motors developed for wheelchairs, and the controls allow the organbuilder to program the speed and distance of each stage. When shutters are opening, it’s great when the first step can be a tiny one, with the subsequent stages getting larger and larger. And even Mr. Skinner knew that it was an advantage when closing the shutters, for the last stage to be slower than the others to keep the shutters from slamming. He did it by making the exhaust valve smaller in the last stage so the power pneumatic wouldn’t work as fast. We do it by programming a slower speed.

When organbuilders get together, you hear chat about who uses which drawknobs, which expression motors, which solid-state relays and combination actions. We compare experiences about the performance of the machines, and the customer support of the companies that sell them.

Human resources

A fundamental difference between today’s organbuilding companies and those of a century ago is the size of the firms. Skinner, Möller, Kimball, Hook & Hastings, and others each employed hundreds of workers. The American church was powerful, and as congregations grew, new buildings were commissioned by the thousands. There were decades during which American organbuilders produced more than two thousand organs each year. And because the market was so strong, the price points were relatively higher than they were today. So when Mr. Skinner had a new idea, he could put a team of men on it for research
and development. 

Today there are a couple firms with more than fifty employees, but most organ companies have fewer than ten. A shop with twenty people in it is a big deal. In part, this is the result of the ethic of hand-craftsmanship championed during the twentieth-century revival. “Factory-built” organs had a negative stigma that implied that the quality of the artistic content was lower in such an instrument. And there can be little argument that in the mid-twentieth century, thousands of ordinary little work-horse organs were produced.

But the other factor driving the diminishing size and number of independent companies is the decline of the church. Congregations are merging and closing, and other parishes are finding new contemporary forms of musical expression. Electronic instruments now dominate the market of smaller churches. And it’s common to see congregations of fifty or sixty worshipping in sanctuaries that could seat many hundreds. Century-old coal-fired furnaces equipped with after-market oil burners gulp fuel by the truckload. And an organ that would have cost $50,000 in 1925 now costs $1,500,000. That’s a lot of zucchini bread at the bake sale.

I think these are compelling reasons in favor of the common use of basic components provided by central suppliers. Ours is a complicated field, and it’s unusual for a small group of people to combine every skill at the highest level. When I talk with someone who has done nothing but make organ pipes all his life, I marvel at his depth of understanding, the beauty of his drawn solder seams, and his innate sense of π, that mathematical magic that defines circles. He can look at a rectangle of metal and visualize the diameter of the tube it will make when rolled and soldered. The organ will turn out better if he doesn’t also have to make drawknobs.

The comfort of commonality

When Wendy and I travel for fun, we sometimes stay in quaint bed & breakfast inns, enjoying their unique qualities, and chuckling about the quirks and foibles of the innkeepers. But when I’m traveling for business, trying to maximize each day on the road, I prefer to stay in brand-name places. I want to check in, open my luggage, and know that the plumbing, the television, the WiFi, and the heating and air-conditioning will work properly. I want to find a functioning ice machine, and I expect a certain level of cleanliness. Besides, I like amassing rewards points.

Likewise, I’ve come to understand that traveling organists benefit from finding the same few brands of console equipment wherever they go. If you’re on a concert tour, taking a program of demanding music from church to church, you get a big head start when you come upon an organ with a solid-state combination system you’re familiar with. 

Peter Conte, Grand Court Organist of the Wanamaker Store in Philadelphia, played the dedicatory recital on the Casavant we installed at Church of the Resurrection in New York, and I took him to the church to introduce him to the organ. Seconds after he sat on the bench, he was delving through the depths of the menus of the Peterson combination system, setting things the way he wanted them. He knew much more than I about the capabilities and programmability of the organ.

Recently I was talking with a colleague who was telling me about the installation of a new console for the organ he has been playing for nearly forty years. He told me how he had to relearn the entire organ because while it had much the same tonal resources as before, he was able to access them in a completely new way. It was a succinct reminder of how sophisticated these systems have become, and how they broaden the possibilities for the imaginative organist.

So it turns out that for many, the homogeneity of finding the same combination systems on multiple organs allows organists a level of familiarity with how things work. It takes less time to prepare complex registrations, which is ultimately to the benefit and delight of the listener.

The top of the world

Many of us were privileged to hear Stephen Tharp play the massive and magical Aeolian-Skinner organ of The First Church of Christ, Scientist (The Mother Church) in Boston as the closing event of this year’s national convention of the American Guild of Organists. The majestic building was crammed with thousands of organists and enthusiasts. I suppose it’s the most important regularly recurring concert of the American pipe organ scene. And what a night it was. The apex, the apogee, the zenith —the best part—was his performance of his transcription of Igor Stravinski’s Le Sacre du printemps (The Rite of Spring). It’s a wildly complex score, but luckily, Stephen is a complex and wild performer! He didn’t play as though it were a transcription, he played as though it were an orchestra. He made 243 registration changes in the course of about thirty-three minutes. That’s roughly 7.4 changes a minute, which means thumping a piston every 8.1 seconds. Try that with two stop-pullers on a big tracker-action organ! For that matter, try that on a fancy electric console with all the bells and whistles. If there ever was an example of how a modern organist is liberated by the possibility of setting thousands of combinations for a single concert, we heard it that night.

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty…

Last May, Daniel Roth, organist at the legendary church of St. Sulpice in Paris, played a recital on our Casavant organ in New York. Besides the thrill of hearing such a great artist play our instrument, a very deep part of that experience for me was a conversation with Mr. Roth about his research into the life and work of his predecessor, Charles-Marie Widor. It’s a lovely and oft-repeated bit of pipe organ trivia that Widor was appointed as temporary organist there in 1870, and retired in 1937 having never been given a permanent appointment. I don’t know when the first electric organ blower was installed there, but let’s assume it was sometime around 1900, thirty years into his tenure.

There are 1,560 Sundays in thirty years. So Widor played that organ for thousands of Masses, hundreds of recitals, and countless hours of practice and composition while relying on people to pump the organ’s bellows. I’ve seen many photographs of the august Widor, and I don’t think he shows a glimmer of a smile in any of them. He must have been a pretty serious dude. But I bet he smiled like a Cheshire Cat the first time he turned on that blower and sat down for an evening of practice by himself. ν