In the Wind . . .

The wind comes sweeping o’er the plain . . .

We watch our car’s odometer approach 100,000 miles. It seems like an important milestone, but we’re distracted by traffic, go into a different train of thought, and miss the great event. It reads 100,002.3 and we never felt a thing.

Ten years ago we were anticipating the start of a new millennium. As the year 2000 approached we were told that the language of computer programming did not allow for calendar years above 1999—that we should expect computers all over the world to crash at midnight on January 1. Enough people nervously withdrew money from ATMs that the banking system published concern about the supply of cash. We didn’t even know how we would say what year it was. What would we say, two-oh-oh-one, aught-one, the aughts, the Ohs? Some people planned to be in an airplane at the stroke of twelve, others assured us that the computer-driven air-traffic-control system would collapse at that moment.
And what do you suppose happened? Nothing. My computer kept working as did my alarm clock and microwave oven. I have not met a single person who has any trouble saying what year it is. Planes kept flying and landed safely and the ATM still spat out stacks of twenties. The clock struck twelve, the mouse ran down, hickory-dickory-dock.

We tend to mark our progress in big blocks. If the Baroque era ended in 1750, what did Händel (1685–1759) do for the last nine years of his life? The boundaries are muddy. We do this with the history of the pipe organ. The beginning of the 20th century brought electric action and orchestral playing. The second half of the 20th century was The Revival when some of us got excited about historic performance practices and tracker-action organs, and others felt upset and disenfranchised. A hundred years from now, what will our successors say about the beginning of the 21st century? What would we like them to say? How can we influence that? How do we assess the present state of the art? And most importantly, how do we assure its health and growth so that later generations will have something significant from our body of work to study and assess?

Eighty years ago, more than 2,000 new pipe organs were completed by American organbuilders each year. Now it’s more like 40 or 50. I don’t know how many digital instruments are installed each year now, but I suspect the number balances with the century-old total of pipe organs. We’ve noted and discussed at length the decline of the number of serious students of the organ, and we have watched in horror as venerable educational institutions close their organ departments.

The true test of the state of things is the response of the public. How many laypeople—those who are not professional organists or organbuilders—make it a point to attend organ recitals? I have sat in many a grand church listening to a great musician play a marvelous organ—sharing the thrall with only 30 or 40 other music lovers. At the height of his career, E. Power Biggs noted that twice as many Americans attended concerts of classical music than professional sporting events. Do you think that’s the case today?

All these things are related. While most pipe organs are unique, I suppose that thousands of churches may have identical digital instruments—an organ committee might opt for “no pickles,” but otherwise the choice is pretty limited. I know that many people think this is a good thing—McDonald’s and Starbucks would not be successful otherwise—but I can’t believe that such institutional sameness contributes to the growth of this or any art.

For the second month in a row I refer to the excellent article “Repertoire in American Organ Recitals 1995–2005” by Moo-Young Kim published in the October 2006 issue of The American Organist. Dr. Kim analyzed 249 recital programs totaling 1689 selections as published in TAO. Using statistics and pie-charts, he showed how limited in originality is our recital programming. Is this related to the disappointing attendance at so many organ recitals?

The performance of historic repertoire will always be central to the art of the pipe organ, and each serious player has ambitions about which pieces are next on the practice schedule. This is a good thing. But it’s the art of improvisation that distinguishes the organ. How thrilling for the first time concertgoer to hear the mighty instrument as the vehicle for the creation of new music, right here, right now. What a celebration of human genius! (I’m reminded of Gjon Mili’s time-lapse photograph of Picasso drawing a bull with a flashlight—a masterpiece of the moment—you can see it at .)

Everything’s up to date in Kansas City . . .

Ours is heralded as the age of communication. International news is instant, a CD or sweater ordered online today is in our hands tomorrow, and we have a fit if a Fed-Ex package is six hours late. We send what we think is an important e-mail and wonder why it hasn’t been answered four hours later. (Is it just possible that our correspondent wasn’t at home? What, no BlackBerry?) But if we limit our understanding of communication to these amazing technological advances, we will fail our art. You cannot communicate the art of the pipe organ by beaming between handhelds.

Here’s the good news. There may not now be many new pipe organs built each year, but most of them are glorious and unique works of art. And hundreds more projects are accomplished each year restoring older instruments to their full artistic potential. Some schools are closing organ departments, but others are revitalizing theirs. Young organists are still taught to base their playing on good scholarship, but as a foundation, not an end. After all, it is about the music. Playing the organ is not a parlor trick—it’s a thrilling vehicle for the expression of an artist and for an audience to experience and absorb.

There’s a bright golden haze on the meadow.

In what sometimes seems an atmosphere of gloom, I’ve always felt that the pipe organ has a significant future in our society, and my optimism is rewarded as I recently had the privilege to make association with what promises to become an important center of the study of the organ. The University of Oklahoma (OU) has a long tradition of excellence in organ teaching—that is where Mildred Andrews Boggess taught many of today’s finest organists during her 38-year tenure. Now a fresh wind is blowing in tornado country as John Schwandt has joined the faculty of the OU School of Music to lead an exciting new teaching program.

Brainchild of Dr. Schwandt and his long-time friend, theatre organ specialist Clark Wilson, the American Organ Institute has been founded to lift up and celebrate American contributions organbuilding and organ playing. The philosophy behind the institute is to unite the worlds of the classical and theatre pipe organ, advancing the art by emphasizing improvisation in all genres along with the performance of the classical repertoire. A fresh curriculum will include courses in arranging, computer notation, and multiple styles of composition—a return to the classic concept of the complete organist: one-third performance, one-third improvisation, one-third composition.

An integral part of the institute will be the establishment of a fully equipped and staffed pipe organ workshop on campus. This unique facility will be home to the restoration of an important instrument recently acquired by the university for the Paul F. Sharp Concert Hall at the School of Music and will allow students the opportunity for hands-on experiences with organbuilding, even to providing pipe organ maintenance services for the general area, an area not as yet saturated with experienced organbuilders. The next generation of organ students can be well-versed with knowledge of organ history and construction, and the next generation of organbuilders can be well-versed with knowledge of organ playing and composition.

There will be three degree tracks (Bachelor of Music, Master of Music, and Doctor of Musical Arts), each allowing flexible emphasis of applied studies to include classic and theatre organ playing as well as organbuilding. Significantly, the institute enjoys the enthusiastic support of University of Oklahoma President David Boren, Dean Eugene Enrico of the OU Weitzenhoffer Family College of Fine Arts, and Dr. Steven Curtis, director of the School of Music, who are working to build the foundation for this refreshing and innovative approach to the study of the organ.

The School of Music is housed in the Catlett Music Center on the north end of the campus, the entrance to which is a striking contemporary space of cathedral proportions. The Morris R. Pitman Recital Hall and the Paul F. Sharp Concert Hall both open off this grand space as does a corridor leading to the classrooms and teaching studios. This “lobby” is called the Grace B. Kerr Gothic Hall and is home to the Mildred Andrews Boggess Memorial Organ, C. B. Fisk’s Opus 111 (go to to see photos and specification). With three manuals and 45 ranks, it’s funny to think of this as a “lobby organ” but this is no ordinary lobby. The ceiling is very high with contemporary interpretations of gothic vaulting, the organ is placed in a high balcony at one end of the room, the reverberation period is 4.5 seconds, and both visual and aural effects are magnificent.

I’ve got a beautiful feeling . . .

Just a minute—that organ is already in place, and I referred to a “recently acquired organ” that will be installed in Sharp Hall. Ah, the other shoe drops. In the April 2005 and November 2006 issues of this column in The Diapason, I have written about M. P. Möller’s Opus 5819, the massive and singular instrument originally built for the Philadelphia Civic Center. Go to , scroll to the bottom and look for the two “specifications” links—you’ll get an eyeful. The University of Pennsylvania (Penn) became owner of this organ when they acquired the Philadelphia Civic Center with intention of using the site to build an important new research hospital as part of the University’s Health System. As the destruction of the 13,500-seat Art Deco hall was controversial, Penn preserved many artifacts from the building, including the organ. The Organ Clearing House was engaged to dismantle the organ, located in a 2500-square-foot, 25-foot-high chamber above the ceiling, 100 feet up.

The organ was stored next door in another large convention hall slated for demolition at a date that was suddenly and significantly accelerated by the needs of the hospital construction. This news was a shock—another demolition deadline—we were going to have to rescue the organ for a second time. In the November 2006 issue, I wrote wistfully about it sitting in storage, looking more like an industrial wasteland than a work of art. But—thanks be—I can say now that as I wrote I knew that a zephyr was over the horizon—a breath of amazing promise. John Schwandt had come over the bow looking for a significant concert organ around which to build the American Organ Institute. Oh boy—have we got the organ for you! (See photo: theatre console, classic console, automatic roll-player.)

It seemed too good to be true. Here’s a huge organ with two consoles, virtually the only large extant instrument expressly intended as both a classic concert organ and a theatre organ with “all the bells and whistles,” drums, cymbals, toys. And there’s a new venue for the teaching of organ playing of all styles.

Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry . . .

Meanwhile, the administrators at Penn were preparing to demolish their building, and engaged me in a complicated conversation about what to do with the organ. They were less than entranced with the idea of funding another moving project, but having gone to considerable—really considerable—expense to dismantle, pack, and store it, they were committed to its preservation. When Dr. Schwandt and OU came into view with the possibility of a new home for the organ where it would be properly restored and used as part of a significant educational program, there started a whirlwind of conversations between the two universities. We all have experience with large bureaucracies moving slowly, but picture this. In just four weeks, OU expressed interest in the organ, Penn agreed to make it a gift, and the myriad political and legal details were worked out. Two other important and usual hurdles were instantly checked off—funds were immediately available to move the organ, and first-class space was immediately available in which to store it. The Organ Clearing House lined up a fleet of five semi-trailers, and the 120,000-pound organ was moved to Oklahoma, two days ahead of Penn’s demolition schedule. Yikes! Go to to read an article about this stunning transaction.

While we were dismantling the organ a couple years ago, Brant Duddy (Philadelphia area organ technician who had tuned the Civic Center organ for many years) gave me a recording of the recital played on the Civic Center organ by Tom Hazleton for the 1992 convention of the American Theatre Organ Society. Along with several traditional barnburners (high on the list of favorites in Dr. Kim’s TAO article!) is Hazleton’s medley of tunes from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma. What a wonderful way to introduce a venerable organ to its new home. And a quiet aside: Once the organ was in storage, I was in touch with Mr. Hazleton to ask about his experience with it. He was enthusiastic about its preservation and promised to help find it a new home. I asked him for an interview thinking that would enhance a column someday, but before the scheduled date arrived I heard of his death.

Late one evening while the Organ Clearing House was in Norman delivering the organ, Dr. Schwandt played the Fisk organ for us, weaving a creative tapestry around Richard Rodgers’ place-appropriate theme. As the music reverberated in the darkness, I reflected on the magic of improvisation—how a mystery becomes reality, and how important that concept is to the history of organ music. Like Picasso’s bull it’s gone as soon as it’s over, perhaps to be recreated tomorrow but never to be repeated. Improvisation must be the best tool to convince the public that the pipe organ is not just a relic of an earlier age but a vital participant in today’s culture. A fresh vision, a fresh approach, and the rebirth of a renowned institution and a venerable instrument combine to bring new energy to the work of organists and organbuilders across the country.

If you think this is “just another big Möller organ,” take my word for it: There is no other organ like it. It’s simply spectacular—an American monument of artistry in concept and craftsmanship in execution. I hope you’ll join me in Norman when it’s first played there. It’s fun to imagine that future music historians will notice Opus 5819’s rebirth as a significant event. You young students of the organ, here’s the website of the Office of Admission at the OU School of Music: ''". You’ll be glad you looked.

In last month’s issue of The Diapason we started to recount the fictional story of one church’s experience with the process of purchasing and installing a new pipe organ. We pick up the tale this month as the new organ actually arrives at the church. 

Note: All fiction is based on reality. While many of the episodes are derived from past experience, this narrative can be described as a reflection on an actual project that is nearing completion at this writing. Christ Church in New Haven, Connecticut is installing an important new organ built by Lively-Fulcher Organbuilders of Rocky Mount, Virginia. The Organ Clearing House arranged for the sale of the previous organ and prepared the striking building (designed by Henry Vaughan) for the new instrument with the renovation of the organ chamber and other related projects. These thoughts are not offered as an actual account of the project but those who participated will recognize vignettes . . .

Here it comes!

The organ committee worked hard to plan the day. The organ would arrive in a huge truck at one o’clock on Sunday afternoon. The pastor’s sermon recalled the words of the Besançon Carol of the Advent:

People look East, the time is near

of the crowning of the year.

Make your house fair as you are able,

Trim the hearth and set the table.

People look East and sing today,

Love the Guest is on the way.

He reminded us how hard we work to dress up our houses, both domestic and spiritual, for the coming of the Lord and suggested that the huge effort to purchase this new organ is an expression of that preparation. 

After worship we had a pot-luck meal. The organ committee showed us videos that had been taken at the organbuilder’s workshop during the open house last month. It was fun to see our fellow parishioners in that different setting. They showed slides of the people who work at the shop so we’d know them a little when they arrived, and they showed photos of the organ as it stood in the workshop. 

When the meal was finished we went outside and sat on the steps and the truck came around the corner right on time. What a special moment. Our church has been working toward this for years. The organ committee spent almost two years studying before making a recommendation to the parish. The organbuilder had to finish a couple of instruments before building ours, and once they started it took most of a year to finish it. And now this new instrument, a work of art created just for us, was sitting outside our church.

The truck driver opened the doors and we could see myriad fascinating shapes wrapped in blankets. Here and there a few pieces were exposed--we could see immediately that they were built with great care by skillful people. A ramp was set up from the truck to the church’s porch. Ropes and straps were untied and the first few pieces came off the truck. They let us carry some of them. As the parts were carried into the church, the blankets were draped across the backs of the pews. Four hours later, the church was full of the most extraordinary collection of crates, finished lumber, and mysterious gizmos. We wandered around looking at it amazed that anyone could possibly make sense out of it all. The organbuilders seemed confident enough. They walked around with us saying this is the Great windchest . . . this is the back panel of the Swell Box . . . here are the slider motors of the Swell and Choir . . . the façade pipes are in these crates--never touch them with your fingers . . .

Hoist away

The next week was an energetic flurry. Scaffolding was erected, hoisting equipment was hung in the organ loft. The workers opened crates and sorted out piles of structural parts. They took measurements and made marks on the floor and started sorting and lining up the organ parts. The floor frame was put in place in the chamber--they explained that the frame positioned the organ in the church and provided the locations for the organ’s legs and the various other parts that would be located on the floor of the organ. The biggest pipes of the pedal division would be against the walls of the chamber. Their windchests were put in place and the racks that would support the pipes were assembled and screwed to the walls. The biggest pipe would be first. It was rolled across the floor on dollies, tied to the hoist with canvas slings, and guided up through the opening into the chamber. It took eight workers to stand it up and hook it to the rack above the windchest. Imagine, all that bulk for one note! Someone said, “it’s a very special note.”

It’s alive

Heavy pieces of framework followed and in no time we could see the outline and bulk of the instrument. The windchests were hoisted into place, positioned by dowels. They were obviously very heavy, but it was amazing to see how carefully the workers handled them. Some of the workers carried the organ blower down the stairs to the basement. The electricians arrived and starting running wires to the blower, the organ console, and the organ chamber. The blower was turned on for the first time. The bellows came up, a few machines moved--like they were coming to attention. Someone from the church remembered scenes in the movies when the mad scientist throws a big switch, there’s a lot of noise, lightning, and smoke, and the monster strapped to the table opens its eyes. The organ came to life. 

The organbuilders crawled around inside the organ adjusting things, and pretty soon it was quiet in the organ. They tested notes and we could hear air blowing from holes in the windchests. And those big bass pipes were played for the first time. You could feel the sound from the floor through your feet. If you sat in a pew you could feel the sound through your back and backside. The organ came to life.

A few days later they were opening crates, unpacking pipes, and handing them up into the organ. There were thousands of them. Everyone was wearing gloves. Row after row of gleaming pipes stood in the organ looking like a choir waiting for its conductor. They tested notes. We could tell that it was rough and unfinished sounding. One of the workers joked, tuned at the factory. Another asked, where’s that can of Perma-tune? They rough-tuned a couple of ranks and we could hear how wonderful it would be. The organ came to life.

Two weeks after the organ arrived, the nave was cleaned up, the crates were gone, the blankets were folded and stacked (there were hundreds of them), the scaffolding was down, and everything looked great. All but two of the organbuilders went home. Those two settled in to a couple months of careful methodical work. One was up in the organ manipulating the pipes, the other sitting at the console.

Thousands of pipes. Each pipe got special individual attention. Each time they both listened. Sometimes they weren’t satisfied with the sound of a pipe and agreed to come back to it. The one at the console kept a list. Watching and listening to them was a lesson in concentration. Sometimes we could hardly tell the differences they were listening for--but they sure could. Someone from the organ committee remembered the meeting in which they were told how different organs could be. This kind of careful attention must really set an instrument apart from “the usual.”

Each pipe was made to sound right, one at a time. Each pipe was made to sound right in the church and with the other pipes in the stop; and each stop was made to sound right with the other stops. When a two-foot stop sounded good with the chorus but was too loud to use without the Mixture, they voiced it again. Gradually the organ was transformed. It had sounded like a street fair at first--now it was becoming refined. The organ’s voicers are just like coaches of diction, of manners, of refinement, and of excitement. Remember Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews, “She’s got it. By George, she’s got it!” 

It’s finished

We’ve heard little bits and pieces of organ music coming from the sanctuary. We’ve heard just enough that we’re sure it’s going to be terrific, but we can hardly wait to really hear it. We can hardly wait to sing with it. The organbuilder was very clear--we wouldn’t use the organ until it was ready. He wanted our first impression to be based on something he was satisfied with--anything as complicated as this has thousands of things that could go wrong. That confirmed our knowledge that we were working with an artist who really cared about his work. And besides, we already know what a cipher sounds like! 

So we waited. The organ committee kept us up to date about the progress. We knew that our organist was spending time with the organbuilder and we could sense that she was excited. Finally, one Sunday during worship one of the members of the organ committee announced that the organ was finished and we would use it in worship for the first time next week.

The church was packed. The new organ looked great. We had all seen the drawings and models of the design, but we were not prepared for the effect of the real thing. The effect was increased because we had gotten used to seeing tools, boxes, and other gear in the church, and for the first time since the organ was delivered everything was neat and clean. We started with a hymn. The organ’s sound was clear and natural. When we started to sing we felt as if our voices were part of the organ--or that the organ was part of our voices. It was like drafting behind a truck on the highway--the sound came from our mouths without effort. We knew right away . . . 

It’s part of the family

It’s been two years since the new organ arrived. Two Christmases, two Easters, two summers full of weddings. But it’s not just back to normal. First of all, we haven’t seen the organist run across the front of the church to try to fix a cipher. There was one Sunday when something went wrong and they had to call in the organbuilder, but it was fixed right away and no one seemed worried about it. But more important, our worship is really different. The music is alive and that makes the services alive. Our singing gets better and better--there’s nothing like a good leader. Our organist is practicing a lot and often letting us know how exciting this is for her. And when she plays we can tell. 

We’ve started a concert series. It didn’t take long for our community to realize that our church was a good place to go to hear music. It’s not that we think we’re running a concert hall but it’s great to have so many visitors. Someone once said that there’s no such thing as bad publicity--but there really is nothing like good publicity. 

The purchase of a new pipe organ is a gift that one generation gives to those that will follow. How many venerable organs do we celebrate today that represent a story like this experienced by those who came before us? A new organ is a symbol of strength, of vision, and of faith. A new organ is an expression of excellence--a manifestation of human skills and workmanship. A new organ is the introduction of a new chapter in the life of any church--a lifetime experience for those who participate in it, and an opportunity to combine a parish’s identity with both its past and its future. 

“The Past Becomes the Future”--a double meaning. Every moment of our lives we are moving between the past and the future. The future of a community of worship must be both informed and unfettered by its past. A tricky balance to be sure, but when you get it right you know it.

But, what if your church has a fine organ that’s falling apart? Not every old organ needs to be replaced. Some churches own older instruments that are just as good or better than new--you simply can’t tell because they don’t work. And an organ is not necessarily a poor instrument just because it doesn’t happen to work. There are countless modern examples of organ committees whose study has led to the restoration of their existing organ, and there are many outstanding organbuilders who specialize in shepherding a venerable organ through a rebirth or renaissance. Our narrative is just as appropriate for the rebirth of an old organ as for the commissioning of a new instrument.

Whichever choice is right for your church, the decision will take plenty of time, effort, advice, and money. The result of committing all that treasure of human and financial resources will be the gift your parish leaves to your children.

What is art?

For the last several years the Organ Clearing House has been involved in the preservation of a mighty organ. M. P. Möller’s Opus 5819 (89 ranks) was installed in the Philadelphia Civic Center in 1929–30. The Civic Center had something like 13,500 seats. It was 400 feet long, and the ceiling was 100 feet up. The organ was above the ceiling, 120 feet off the auditorium floor—the floor on which professional basketball and hockey games were played, on which the Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey circus performed, on which national Democratic conventions were held. I’ve written about the organ before in these pages. In fact, the first column of “In the wind . . . ” (The Diapason, April 2005) included some impressions of the then recently completed dismantling project. The Civic Center was about to be demolished. It was mid-winter. There was no heat in the building. And we were hard at work above that ceiling dismantling what must be 85 tons of pipe organ. There were 162 stairs to climb to get to the organ.
The organ was placed in storage in another large Convention Center building next door. We moved it between buildings on flat-bed semi-trailers—it took 16 loads. As it is stored it occupies about 150 feet by 80 feet of floor space surrounded by a chain-link fence with a padlock on the gate (pace that out in the sanctuary of your church). And it looks about as much like a work of art as a defunct steel mill or an automobile salvage lot. There is stack after stack of wooden crates full of organ pipes—200 eight-footers and 100 ten-footers. A six-foot-high pile of Swell frames looks like a collapsed barn. All of the big metal bass pipes laid out on the floor look like a storage yard at an oil refinery. And the two huge four-manual consoles (covered with tarps) look like abandoned narrow-gauge railroad cars. Dozens of windchests and reservoirs, the dismantled blower with its 30-horsepower motor, and a vast array of theatre-organ percussions (drums, cymbals, gongs, whistles, you name it) create the illusion of some huge demonic machine that came down the River Styx.
There is very little light in the building. The organ parts are dirty, having sat in that huge industrial-style building for over 70 years with nothing but our clothing to move the dust. I walk around inside that fence and know that I’m in the midst of a monumental and magnificent work of art. Though the organ was played only twice since 1979, I did have the thrill of playing it before we dismantled it. It was out of tune, and there were plenty of ciphers, but there was no doubt that we were in the presence of something great. Anyone else looking at the heap in storage could only say, “what in the world is that?” For us, familiar with the most beautiful and ornate of church buildings, working in this setting with scaffolding, trucks and construction vehicles circling the floor, asbestos abatement enclosures, and the crash and clatter of hundreds of construction workers was something new. I had never been in a building that large except as a spectator with hot dogs and beer in my hands, and ticket stubs in my pockets. At the close of the job I found for myself a moment to be alone in the building after hours. I was loading up the last of our tools and equipment and my van was parked on the floor on the front of the stage. (To drive into the building, you used the same curving ramps that the circus elephants walked on.) I climbed up to the second balcony (Row ZZZ) and took this photo (p. 14).
The American Heritage Dictionary (Houghton Mifflin Co. 2000) offers several definitions of the word art, the first of which is “Human effort to imitate, supplement, alter, or counteract the work of nature.” Seems to me that’s a definition that covers almost anything. Have the lexicographers punted? How does a great work of art fit into this definition? Michelangelo’s Pietà at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, depicting the crucified Christ lying across his mother Mary’s lap, is an unparalleled example of the imitation of nature using an unlikely medium. Depicting human pathos in stone is at least a contradictory effort, but critics and viewers seem to agree that the artist’s effort was successful (understatement intended!).
Georges Seurat’s masterpiece Sunday in the Park (completed 1886) (you can see at it ) was his effort to prove his theory that painting in colored dots, a technique known as pointillism, would produce colors more vivid and pure than the traditional technique of mixing colors on a palette. He believed that human eyes would mix colors better than an artist. Seurat’s dots are approximately 1/16" across. The painting is about 82" by 121"—multiplication says that there are something like 2.5 million dots. To twist this visual effect into our dictionary definition, Seurat was both counteracting and imitating nature. And note that Seurat (1859–1891) was a century ahead of his time—aren’t those dots the Victorian equivalent of pixels?
Frank Lloyd Wright designed houses that blended into their sites. Fallingwater is located in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania, and was built in 1934 for Edgar J. Kaufman. It is widely celebrated as a brilliantly conceived contemporary structure imposed on a wooded setting in such a way as to create an unlikely but beautiful blend of concrete, trees, rocks, and a waterfall. You can see photos of this amazing building at . I like the word imposed here—maybe we could add that to the definition. Fallingwater is supplementing, counteracting, altering, and imposing on nature—and it is simply gorgeous.
When Christo bedecks Central Park with saffron-colored fabric is he supplementing or counteracting nature? Or is Central Park itself a work of art as it was constructed in an urban setting to imitate nature? As we walk through the world we all notice different things. I’ve wondered if an artist can be defined as someone who sees more clearly than others and has some special ability to communicate clear observations. Meidert Hobbema (1638–1709, nearly an exact contemporary of Dietrich Buxtehude) had an unusual affinity for light. Go to to see an example of his sun-lit landscapes. Any of us has witnessed such a scene—but how many of us can notice enough of the detail to retell it so effectively using paint?
How does music fit into all this? You can’t very well compose music to depict a bowl of pears in still-life. Or at least in my ignorance I haven’t heard of such a piece. There are some obvious musical depictions of nature such as the thunderstorms in Rossini’s William Tell Overture, Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, or Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain, and organists cannot overlook Olivier Messiaen’s bird calls. But outside programmatic tone-paintings, what does an orchestral symphony or a piano sonata have to do with nature?
Organ tuners and voicers are very familiar with musical overtones. I’ll give an easy example. Play tenor C of an Oboe, Clarinet, or Krummhorn. Hold it for five seconds or so—then while you’re holding it hum G to yourself. That should reinforce for your ears the organ pipe’s overtone so that when you stop the humming and keep holding the note, you’ll hear the G as clearly as if you were holding two notes. In fact, G is part of C. It’s nature. For many years I was curator of the wonderful Aeolian-Skinner organ (Opus 1203, 237 ranks) at The First Church of Christ, Scientist (The Mother Church) in Boston. The building was open to the public, and there was a platoon of tour guides whose spiel became as familiar to us as the rising of the sun. One of the guides was a singer who loved singing arpeggios while I was tuning: “Next, la-la-la-LA-la-la-la; Next, la-la-la-LA-la-la-la.” It was predictable, unalterable, and wildly distracting. But it was a clear and accurate representation of nature’s musical harmonic series.
Remember the harmonic series: Fundamental, Octave, Twelfth, Fifteenth, Seventeenth, Nineteenth, Twenty-first, Twenty-second, etc. Sound familiar? 8' – 4' – 22⁄3' – 2' – 13⁄5' – 11⁄3' – 11⁄7' – 1'. So that’s where that comes from! A principal chorus is nothing more than overtones on top of their fundamental. All of those overtones exist in every organ pipe. Start with a Gedackt 8'—strong fundamental, weaker overtones. Pierce the cap and solder on a chimney and it becomes a Chimney Flute or Rohrflöte—you get a stronger second overtone (22⁄3' and a brighter, cheerier sound.
Any musical sound has those overtones—a bell, a frying pan, a pottery bowl, an axe; all produce sounds with overtones. The first person to strike a resonant object and produce a lasting tone would have been the first to hear overtones. When do you suppose that was? And when did humans first learn to sing? If you could sing a melody of three notes, and you could also hear overtones, you might imagine trying to have two people singing the same melody an overtone apart—as in a fourth apart, as in faux bourdon. If you could do that and you were imaginative enough to be interested in counteracting nature the two of you might sing some notes in parallel motion (faux bourdon) and then some in opposite motion (counterpoint). From there, all you would have to do would be to write the rules of four-part harmony (Theory 101 and 102) and there you’d be: 371 Harmonized Chorales, Preludes and Fugues, Sonatas, Symphonies, Ballads, Rock ‘n roll . . .
The modern symphony orchestra is a grand human achievement. Starting with those basic overtones, we have driven an evolution, organizing those manipulated overtones into time—we call it rhythm—in unbelievably complex structures. There is more going on in five measures of a Brahms symphony than in the first 10,000 years of music history. And not only have we developed the music itself as imitation, supplementation, alteration, and counteraction of the work of nature, but all the myriad instruments, and the techniques to play them. A modern violinist in a silk gown with a Stradivarius under her chin is a long way from a Cro-Magnon homo sapiens with a rock in his hand!
Back to my fenced-in organ in Pennsylvania. Philadelphia has quite a fleet of huge pipe organs, among them the new Dobson organ at the Kimmel Center (4-111), the recently renovated Austin in Irvine Auditorium of the University of Pennsylvania (4-162, two blocks from the now demolished Civic Center), and of course, the legendary and recently revived Wanamaker Organ (6-461—think of it!). One wonders how many monumental secular organs one city can support.
The Civic Center Möller will almost certainly leave town. When it does, it will take with it a big piece of the history of 20th-century Philadelphia, from the moment when a flock of symbolic doves were released during a convention of the Democratic party, flew into the big electric fans that were cooling the stage, and were splattered all over party chairman Sam Rayburn on national television, to the tens of thousands of high school and college graduates whose commencement exercises were held in the hall.
This huge organ is an industrial machine, built in a large factory by hundreds of workers. It has miles of wire, tons of lumber and metal, and a bewildering array of gadgets and gizmos. There are dozens of ladders, walkboards, structural beams. There are more than 250 swell shutters. But at its core it’s the artistic equivalent of those hundred tuxedos and gowns on the stage at Symphony Hall with the truckload of sophisticated valuable instruments. A vast pile of lumber and metal; a vibrant, breathing work of art, imitating, supplementing, altering, and counteracting the work of nature.

John Bishop is the executive director of the Organ Clearing House.

The seat of the Bishop
I’ve always been a sucker for construction equipment. The other day I was walking up Second Avenue in New York, where a new subway line is under construction, and although I was on a schedule moving between appointments I couldn’t help but stop for five minutes to watch an enormous crane lowering an electrical transformer the size of a UPS truck into a hole in the street. You can read about this massive project on the website of the Metropolitan Transit Authority at <A HREF="http://www.mta.info/cap
constr/sas/">www.mta.info/capconstr/sas/"</A>. (sas refers to Second Avenue Subway!) I’ve been involved in a consultation project in New York that has led me to learn something about the city’s utility system, and I’ve seen maps and photos that show an underground labyrinth of train, maintenance, and utility tunnels, and electrical, gas, and steam lines. It seems unlikely that there’s any dirt left under the streets of the city. Knowing something about that subterranean maze helps me understand just a little of how complicated it must be to create a new tunnel some four miles long, and sixteen new underground stations. And hundreds of thousands of cubic yards of dirt, stone, and rubble removed to create the tunnel has to be trucked across the city’s congested streets and river bridges to be dumped.
It’s a massive project that’s made possible by millions of dollars worth of heavy equipment, including my crane, tunnel-boring machines, payloaders, dump trucks, and heaven knows what else. Equipment like this has been improved immensely in the last 20 years by advances in hydraulic technology. The principal of hydraulics is that specially formulated oil (I know the root of hydraulic refers to water) is pressurized in cylinders, that pressure being great enough to lift heavy loads, turn rotary motors, or steer huge articulated equipment. Without these advances we wouldn’t have Bobcats, those snazzy little diggers with cabs like birdcages that can turn on a dime.
Sometime around the year 1250, the great cathedral in Chartres was completed. Nearly 800 years later it still stands as one of the great monuments to religious faith in the world. Tens of thousands of pilgrims and tourists visit there every year. The cathedral houses one of Christendom’s most revered relics, the Sancta Camisa, reputed to be the tunic worn by the Virgin Mary at the time of Christ’s birth. (Camisa and camisole come from the same root.) There is a labyrinth more than 40 feet in diameter laid in stone in the floor of the nave. The path of the labyrinth is about 13 inches wide and about 860 feet long (about a sixth of a mile), all twisted upon itself within the confines of the diameter. The towers are 300 and 350 feet tall, the ceiling of the nave is 121 feet off the floor, and the floor plan has an area of nearly 120,000 square feet, which is close to two-and-a-half acres.
Thousands and thousands of tons of stone lifted to great heights, and not a hydraulic cylinder in sight. The challenge and effort of building something like that with twelfth- and thirteenth-century technology is breathtaking. Most of us have been inside tall buildings, and most of us have been in airplanes, so we as a society are used to looking down on things. But imagine Guillaume, the thirteenth-century construction worker, coming home after a long day, flopping into a chair, taking a hearty pull from a mug of cider, and describing to his wife how that afternoon he had looked down on a bird in flight—the first man in town to be up that high!

§

On December 27, 1892, the cornerstone was laid for the Cathedral of St. John the Divine on Amsterdam Avenue in New York City, one of only a few twentieth-century stone Gothic cathedrals. Celebrated as one of the largest Christian churches in world—the overall interior length of 601 feet is the longest interior measurement of any church building—it serves its modern congregation, hosts hundreds of thousands of visitors, and as the seat of the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, it serves as a national centerpiece to the denomination.
While the full interior dimensions of the building have been completed, much of both the interior and exterior remain incomplete. The central tower, the transepts, much of the interior finish stonework, and the two west-end towers were never built, and the building carries the popular moniker, St. John the Unfinished. Given the staggering cost of this kind of construction, there are no plans for the completion of the building. Perhaps this stunning building stands as a metaphor for us who are all incomplete before God.
Two years ago the Organ Clearing House was privileged to work with the artisans of Quimby Pipe Organs installing the restored Aeolian-Skinner organ in the two chancel organ chambers, nearly 100 feet off the floor of the nave. We spent some three months in the building, working with humbling towers of scaffolding and an electric hoist that would have been the envy of those men in thirteenth-century Chartres. We had rare opportunities to see that grand building from angles not open to the general public—somehow a hundred feet seems higher indoors than out. And we witnessed some of the challenges of maintaining such a huge building. Fixing a roof leak is a big deal when you’re 150 feet up! That the cathedral’s administration can manage all this is hardly short of a miracle.
There’s a peculiar type of quiet present in such a building. The interior space is large enough that true quiet is probably impossible. When it’s very quiet inside, one is aware of the distant sounds of the city, and even of a kind of interior wind blowing. Sitting in the nave or the Great Choir in this special quiet, I imagine the hustle and bustle of construction: how workers managed 60-foot granite pillars that were quarried in Vinalhaven, Maine, transported to New York on barges, and hauled across the city by steam-powered tractors in 1903; how workers hoisted tons of precisely cut stones to form the fabric of the vaulted ceilings; how workers created stone spiral stairways inside the cathedral’s walls leading to such places as organ chambers; and how workers created the ornate spectacular 10-ton marble pulpit—festooned with such delicate carvings that during the installation of the organ we built a heavy plywood barricade around it so as not to damage it with a battering-ram in the form of a 32-foot organ pipe!
And let’s not forget what could be considered the real work—the evangelizing, preaching, persuading, and cajoling necessary to raise the money for all this, unfinished or not.

A house for all people
Why do we go to all this trouble? This cathedral has been host to countless extraordinary events, held there because of the extraordinary scale and dignity of the place. Twelve-thousand-five-hundred people attended the funeral of Duke Ellington in 1974. (I wonder how much the cathedral organist had to do with that.) In 1986 Philippe Petit, the high-wire artist who had walked between the twin towers of the World Trade Center, performed his work Ascent inside the cathedral, accompanied by the music of the Paul Winter Consort. Petit is listed on every service bulletin as one of the cathedral’s artists-in-residence. In the documentary film about his twin-tower feat, <i>Man on Wire</i>, Petit wore a “Cathedral of St. John the Divine” t-shirt.
In 1986, Archbishop Desmond Tutu preached an anti-apartheid sermon. In 1990, Big Bird, Bert, Ernie, and the rest of the Muppets helped celebrate the life of their creator, Jim Henson. In 1997, South African President Nelson Mandela preached at a memorial service for anti-apartheid activist Archbishop Trevor Huddleston. And in 2000, New York Mayor John Lindsay’s funeral packed the place. My wife Wendy attended that service and came home raving about how cathedral organist Dorothy Papadakos had played the crowd out at the end of the service with Leonard Bernstein’s tune, <i>New York, New York, It’s a Wonderful Town</i> (immortalized by Frank Sinatra), complete with fanfares from the State Trumpet under the west end rose window—perfect.
We need special places like that for events like those.

§

Wendy and I have been in New York for two months, living in an apartment in Greenwich Village we’ve borrowed from my parents’ next-door neighbors. While Wendy has been working with editors in publishing companies promoting the manuscripts produced by her clients, the Organ Clearing House has tuned a few organs, and dismantled a marvelous, pristine E. M. Skinner organ from a closed church building in the Bronx for relocation to the new worship space of an active Lutheran parish in Iowa, to be restored by Jeff Weiler & Associates of Chicago. Last year we renovated and relocated a 1916 Casavant organ to a church in Manhattan—the dedication recital is in a couple days, and we spent the last week tweaking and tuning it in preparation.
The Cathedral of St. John the Divine is on my mind because we attended Evensong there last Sunday evening. It was a beautiful service, loaded with music, prayer, scripture, and a moving sermon. We sat in the ornately carved oak pews of the Great Choir, surrounded by magnificent decoration and in the midst of a modest congregation. The choir’s singing was wonderful, the organ was played with true inspiration, and I was aware that we were participating in regular weekly worship in that place where so many of the world’s most powerful and revered figures have led and participated in worship. The sense that the place equipped to welcome thousands to a huge event is open and welcoming to us on an ordinary Sunday afternoon was moving to me. You don’t often sing hymns in the presence of an organ with 150 ranks.

A study in scale
Some months ago I brought a group of friends to see the cathedral. Organist Stephen Tharp was practicing in preparation for his presentation of the complete organ works of Jeanne Demessieux. As we listened, I told them a little about the size, resources, and complexity of the organ, and one asked me why you would need so many stops. I pointed out ornate decorations throughout the building—carved pews, filigreed lamps, Gothic arches and vaults, tiled stairways, wrought-iron gates, bronze medallions inlaid in the floor—and suggested that such a large organ complements a building with more than a dozen chapels and all this finery. We love the sound of a string celeste. It’s even better to have two celestes to choose from. But this organ has eight sets of celestes—unimaginable wealth, especially when you consider that all the celeste ranks except the Swell Unda Maris go all the way to low C! When an organist moves skillfully around this organ, the range of tone colors seems limitless—a kaleidoscope of tone color, with a range of volume from the roar of thunder to a barely audible whisper—exactly in scale with the size and decoration of the building itself.
And cathedral organist Bruce Neswick did just that in his improvised closing voluntary last Sunday—he morphed away from the tune of the recessional hymn into a harmonically and rhythmically sophisticated fantasy, gave a climactic fanfare on the State Trumpet, then melted seamlessly from the robust full organ to the whisper of that Unda Maris. You could hardly tell when the music stopped.
When the installation of the renovated organ was completed and the organ had been given a chance to “settle in,” the cathedral presented a series of dedicatory recitals by such distinguished artists as Daniel Roth, Olivier Latry, Gerre Hancock, Thierry Escaich, and Peter Conte. What a thrill to hear such programs on such an organ. But take it from me, Neswick shares that organ with the Sunday afternoon congregation as if the Queen was in attendance. Perhaps it’s his joy of sitting on the bench of such a distinguished and stunning instrument. Perhaps it’s his sense of the privilege of presenting music in worship in such a place. Certainly it made me feel like royalty to be so treated, the tariff being what I chose to drop in the basket during the offertory.

Party horn
Another example of the relationship between the scale of the building and the scale of the organ is the State Trumpet—a single eight-foot rank of trumpet pipes mounted horizontally under the rose window facing east down the length of the nave. This must be the most famous single organ stop in the world. It plays on wind pressure of 50 inches—something like the pressure of the air in a tractor tire, and nothing like the levels of pressure commonly used in organs. The pipes are shackled in place to prevent them from launching as missiles down the nave. And there’s an octave of dummy 16-foot bass pipes. They don’t speak—they’re there to make the rank of pipes look like something in that vast space. The thing is majestic. It’s almost 600 feet from the organ console—two football fields. It would take a little more than six seconds to cover that distance in a car traveling at 60 miles per hour. It seems as though you can draw the stop, play a note, and eat a sandwich before the sound reaches your ears. (No mayo on the keys, please.) The sound is broad and powerful, sonorous and thrilling. There can be no building better suited to enclose such a sound.
But here’s the problem. When the new State Trumpet was introduced in the cathedral as part of the 1954 expansion and rebuilding of the organ by Aeolian-Skinner, every ambitious organist wanted one. And too many organists got their wish. Today there are hundreds of modest parish churches cursed with the sound of a too-loud but not-too-good Trompette en Chamade, searing the airways six feet above the too-big hair of the bride and her attendants. The proud organist can’t get enough of it, but everyone else can. Just because St. John the Divine has one, the pretty church on the town square doesn’t need one.

It’s a matter of scale
All of us who have toiled in the vineyards of church music have experienced the “big productions” of our parishes—a Christmas pageant, the wedding of the pastor’s daughter, Easter Sunday with trumpets and timpani. Imagine the big production for the cathedral organist. The country’s president might be attending a memorial service. National television cameras are often present. And on a festive Sunday morning, 1,800 people might come to the altar to receive Communion. That’s a lot of noodling around with <i>Let Us Break Bread Together on Our Knees</i>.
Our two months in New York have brought lots of great experiences, dozens of subway rides, and the rich experience of getting familiar with all that a great city has to offer. I encourage and invite you to visit the city and to hear some of the great organs and great organists in some of the world’s great churches. Start with St. John the Divine, and work your way around town. The New York City Chapter of the American Guild of Organists has a fine website with a calendar of events.
And after Tuesday’s recital, I’m looking forward to going home next week where there really is dirt under the streets.

Photos of St. John the Divine courtesy Quimby Pipe Organs.

Where’s the fire?

Throughout my organbuilding career, I’ve owned and driven large vehicles. There was an interval when I tried a mini-van. It was a nice car with lots of space inside, but it was no truck. It only lasted 185,000 miles, by far the least of any car I’ve had. The transmission couldn’t take the loads.

The current job is a black Chevy Suburban—think presidential motorcades (Wendy thinks Tony Soprano!). It has a big V-8 engine and a 31-gallon gas tank. It’s a 5,800-pound carbon footprint. I know it’s environmentally irresponsible, but I justify it because of my work as an organbuilder. As often as not, the car is loaded with ranks of organ pipes, a reservoir or two, a windchest, or at least, five or six boxes and bags of tools and supplies. It’s also great for taking organ committees on field trips to visit our past projects. Three ranks of reeds or a six-member committee takes the GVW up to nearly 7,000 pounds!

Even though the car is big and heavy, that engine has power to spare. Trusting that there are not many state troopers reading The Diapason, I confess that I routinely drive close to 80 miles-per-hour. I know I’ve exceeded 90 going downhill and not paying attention, but I’ve never “maxed out” the speed. I’m pretty sure I could pass 95, maybe even 100—but I doubt I’ll
ever try.

How fast is too fast? 

When I joined the Organ Clearing House, I knew I was taking on a travel schedule that would preclude my work as a church musician, so after thirty years on the bench, I hung up my cassock. It’s been fifteen years since I played for worship. Of course I miss it, and I may go back to it someday. But in the meantime, it’s been fun to mix having free weekends (!) with hearing other people play for worship. 

The huge repertory of music for the organ is chock-full of fast passages, and any good organist is capable of sending salvos of notes across a room faster than a speeding bullet. And good bel canto singers can dazzle listeners with fast passages. But the ordinary person in the pew is comfortable at a slower pace. Though I’m not a trained singer, I think I do pretty well, and I’m certainly familiar with most of the hymns we sing, but still I find that sometimes I have trouble keeping up. And I’m uncomfortable when I’m not given enough time to breathe. It’s easy to tell if an organist is paying attention to the words, even singing them as he plays, because he needs time to breathe also.

How loud is too loud?

Several years ago, Wendy and I attended a recital by a visiting European organist played on the Kotzschmar Organ in Portland, Maine’s City Hall. He came out on the stage to the customary applause. When he got to the bench, the audience went silent and the lights dimmed. The first chord he played was so furiously loud that we jumped, and I set my teeth against liking the rest of the program, which predictably continued in bombastic style.

My Facebook page regularly lights up with posts from organists who indignantly report to the community that a parishioner had the audacity to complain that “the organ was too loud.” No doubt, some are meant in fun—one exchange included the quip, “if they don’t like it, they can sit in the hallway.” Surely, no organist would say something like that in earnest. Would they? But I often read similar comments that I know are heartfelt.

No other musical instrument can approach the dynamic range of the pipe organ. Organbuilders tell an old joke: 

The voicer, seated at the console, cups his hands to his mouth and yells to his assistant in the distant chamber, 

“Is the Aeoline playing?” 

Barely audible, from the distance, “Yes.” 

“Make it softer!”

The Aeoline in the Echo is barely audible; with the box closed it’s but a heavenly whisper. And the full organ is mighty roar—a hurricane of sound to be used with discretion.

Of the hundreds (thousands?) of pipe organs I’ve heard and played, I’ve experienced only one that was so much too loud that there was no single stop soft enough to accompany a solo singer. There are many organs that are infamous for their power, but even they can be used with discretion. As organists, we have become inured to the mighty tones of our instruments. We sit on the bench, alone in a dark church, challenging the muses to our hearts’ content, in the thrall of the power of the tone. For many congregants, not so much.

I have to admit that when sitting in the pews, I often feel that the organ is too loud. I wonder how many of you would simmer down your registrations if you had the chance to sing to someone else’s hymn playing a couple times a year. Besides, if you’re always playing “with the pedal to the metal,” you’re making organbuilders look bad. We’re supposed to provide instruments that can challenge the Gates of Hell once in a while, but thank heaven we’re not always facing the Gates of Hell.

What’s your job?

I often ride the train between Boston and New York. It’s a beautiful route along the Connecticut coast, passing tidal inlets loaded with osprey, egrets, and herons. There’s a wonderful sensation as those trains leave a station. I’m daydreaming, gazing out the window, and suddenly realize the train is moving. There’s no sound of locomotion, or clanking as links between cars take up slack. My imagination goes next to the expert bus driver and his ability to operate the vehicle smoothly. His foot on the brake pedal is feather-light, his speed through turns is just right, and his passengers are free to enjoy the ride, knowing that they’ll arrive safely and promptly at their destination.

I know, I know, that may be a fictional driver. The New York to Boston route is crowded with budget bus companies that have terrible safety records. That’s why I take the train. But I like the image and compare it to the “hymn driver” at church. He goes fast enough that the words make sense, but not so fast that the average congregant can’t keep up.

When an organist is really focused on the words of a hymn, both pace and registration follow. The other night, Wendy and I attended a service of Evensong, and the devil made an appearance in a middle verse. The organist led us to safety, acknowledging Satan’s presence with a growling registration for those few bars, and returning to something more soothing. There’s the majesty of the organ, painting pictures with tone color.

A happy little cloud

Bob Ross (1942–95) was a teacher of painting who famously hosted a series on PBS called The Joy of Painting. He had a goofy way of chattering as he painted that I think was intended to make aspiring painters feel at ease. Make a little mistake, a slip of the brush? No problem, make it into a bird. It’s a bird now! His brush strokes were quick and easy, and he often suggested dropping in “a happy little cloud.”

The pipe organ has a greater expressive range and wider variety of tone colors than any other musical instrument, and the expressive musician uses those characteristics like a brilliant painter with a lovely palette of colors. Think of the landscapes of Meindert Hobbema (1638–1709) with those magical patches of sunlight glowing through the trees. How did he do that? I think he always included trees just so he could do his sunlight trick. I love it when the organist gives me glimpses of sunlight through the trees, or happy little clouds. If you play through all the verses of a hymn on full registrations, loud, louder, loudest, you deprive the listener/singer of the beauty of it all.

You can use your palette like sunshine and clouds, and you can use it like an arsenal. The arsenal is fine with me at the right moment—that powerful Tuba giving the melody in the tenor is an awesome effect, but I don’t want to hear it in every hymn. 

Many of us are inclined to characterize the pipe organ as a keyboard instrument, as if it is common with the piano or harpsichord. In the matter of tone production, the organ has more in common with a trumpet or flute, the piano has more in common with a xylophone, and the harpsichord has more in common with a guitar. I consider the organ first to be a wind instrument. Making organ music happen is about managing air. This, simply, is why the organ is ideal for leadership of our singing—both the organ and the human voice are wind instruments. We circulate the same air molecules through the organ’s pipes and through our voices in sympathy. We’re all in it together.

You can’t play a tune on a Mixture.

Since the revival of classic organbuilding in the mid-twentieth century, many of us have had love affairs with Mixtures. They provide brilliance and clarity in polyphonic music, and their harmonic structures blend wonderfully with choruses of stops. I say this assuming that the Mixtures on your organ are well planned, well voiced, and balanced with the other voices. In my days as a student, I was organist at a church in Cleveland that had an aging Austin organ. Originally, there was no Mixture, and one had been added not long before I got there. But even in my brash youth, steeped in the ethic of Northern European classic organs, I couldn’t bear to use the thing. It was just too loud, and had nothing to do with the rest of the Great division.

Mixtures in pipe organs are harmonic tricks. The typical Great Mixture comprises four ranks, meaning four pipes are speaking on every note. My organbuilding colleagues know that I’m leaving out a lot of exceptions and variations as I describe Mixtures generally, but it’s enough to say here that those four pipes each speak a different harmonic, and the harmonics “break back” each octave. It’s formulaic. At low C, those four pipes typically speak at 11⁄3′–1′–2⁄3′–1⁄2′, which are logical additions to “Principals, 8-4-2”. At tenor C, they jump back a notch: 2′–11⁄3′ –1′–2⁄3′. The 22⁄3′ pitch enters at middle C; 4′ pitch enters at “soprano” C. In the top octave, some builders omit the scratchy 51⁄3′ and jump directly to 8′.

Follow me carefully. A 4′ pitch at soprano C is the same note as 1′ pitch at tenor C. A 11⁄3′ pitch at low C is the same note as 51⁄3′ pitch at middle C. Think this through, and you’ll realize that an ordinary Mixture has pipes at soprano C that speak the same, and even lower pitches than at tenor C. Sounds like a muddle, doesn’t it? Well friends, use it wrong, and it is a muddle. Just for fun, play the melody of a hymn on Mixture alone, especially a hymn whose tune passes out of the middle octave past soprano C. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

Now play all four voices of the same hymn on Mixture alone. Wacky. Absolutely wacky. Imagine that as a tool for teaching a tune to someone for the first time. Now play the same hymn on 8′ Principal alone. That’s better. What’s my point? Be sure that every hymn registration includes enough fundamental tone that the tune is easily recognizable when playing four-part harmony.

If you’re playing on a large organ, you likely have more than one Mixture on each keyboard. Listen to each one carefully, octave by octave, and try to analyze what pitches are actually playing? Use that to inform how you use them. A Principal Chorus with Mixture(s) is ideal for playing a fugue, because the graduated harmonics of the Mixture help project inner and lower voices of the polyphony. Mixtures are great with Reed Choruses, because they emphasize the rich harmonics of the Reeds. But Mixtures are like icing on a cake—they enhance, even decorate, but substance is in the batter. All icing, and your teeth will hurt. Do I sound like the parishioner who says the organ is shrill? Maybe it is. The math says so.

It’s all in the numbers.

Here are some pipe organ facts for nothing. The reason reeds sound more brilliant than flutes or Principals is that reeds have richer development of overtones—those secondary pitches present in every musical tone. 

Pythagoras (571 BC–495 BC) was the first to understand overtones. He proved that they follow the simple formula of 1:2, 2:3, 3:4, 4:5, etc. That simple progression was later defined by Leonardo Bonacci (c. 1170–c. 1250) as the Fibonacci series. Google that, and you’ll find terrific articles that show how the Fibonacci series describes the shell of the Nautilus, pineapples, artichokes, pine cones, and magically, the Romanesco broccoli, which I think is one of the most beautiful and delectable vegetables.

Break a head of Romanesco apart into florets, toss them in olive oil and salt, and roast them at 400° for 40 minutes (or less if want to keep some “tooth”), maybe sprinkle a little lemon juice and parmesan.

What does all this have to do with playing hymns? Pythagoras’s overtones can be defined this way. Play low C on an 8-foot organ stop, and you’ll be producing the following pitches: 8′, 4′, 22⁄3′, 2′, 13⁄5′, 11⁄3′, 11⁄7′. Recognize those? It’s nothing but a list of the most common pipe organ pitches. Accident? I don’t think so. You may find these hard to hear, and as a practical matter, lots of them are inaudible, but they’re there. 

I demonstrate this at the console using voices like Oboes or Clarinets. They have especially rich “second overtones,” which is the equivalent of 22⁄3′ pitch. Play and hold tenor C on the Clarinet. Then, on another keyboard, tap third G on an 8′ stop. (That’s the equivalent of 22⁄3′ pitch at tenor C.) That should enhance your ability to hear the 22⁄3′ pitch present in the Clarinet note. Move around to different notes, and you’ll likely hear that overtone a little better in some notes than others. Then, play and hold tenor C on the Clarinet, and on your second keyboard, tap fourth E of an 8′ stop. That’s the equivalent of 13⁄5′ pitch, and you should be able to hear the Tierce independently in the Clarinet note.

Have you ever wondered why a Nazard and a Tierce sound so good with a Clarinet or Cromorne? It’s because the Clarinet and Cromorne (those two stops are very similar in construction) both have prominent 22⁄3′ and 13⁄5′ overtones. That explains the origin of the French registrations Cornet (8′, 4′, 22⁄3′, 2′, 13⁄5′), and by extension, Grand Jeu (Trompette 8′, Octave 4′, Cornet). Accident? I don’t think so.

Because of this, it’s often easiest to tune high mutations to reeds, assuming that the reeds are trustworthy, because the harmonics of the reed pipes are so clear. Draw 4′ Principal and 13⁄5′ Tierce, and play up the top octaves of the keyboard. Substitute a Clarinet for the Principal, and do it again. I’ll bet a tuning fork that you hear the pitch of the Tierce more clearly with the Clarinet.

Why is a Rohrflute brighter than a Gedeckt? Because the hole in the cap with the little chimney emphasizes the second harmonic, which is 22⁄3′ pitch. 

What does all this have to do with playing hymns? It tells us that higher-pitched stops are secondary to fundamental pitch. What is fundamental pitch? Eight-foot tone. It’s that simple. If your hymn registrations favor higher pitches, you’re back at that exercise of playing a hymn on a Mixture alone. Awareness of all this is at the heart of good pipe organ registration.

You can’t play a tune on a Mixture. It’s confusing to the singer, especially if that singer doesn’t know the tune. Suggestion? Introduce the tune on a simpler registration, and bring in bigger sounds as appropriate. If you have a variety of lovely solo sounds, use them. Play one verse on Trumpets alone. Play another with Principals but no Mixtures. Just be sure they can hear the tune. And be sure that your choice of sounds supports the words. There’s more to hymn playing than a blur of harmonics.

Gentle on the accelerator and the brakes, paint beautiful colorful pictures, “ . . . and the wheels on the bus go round and round . . .”

John Bishop is a regular contributor to THE DIAPASON and heads the Organ Clearing House.

Why is there air?

Forty years have passed since Bill Cosby raised this
question in his recording by the same name. The record (remember those black
vinyl discs?) was released in 1965 and the title cut referred to his days as a
physical education major at Temple University. With tongue in cheek he teased
philosophy majors, observing that they wandered around campus mulling over such
fundamental questions. I no longer own a turntable and couldn’t refresh
my memory so I paraphrase his response: 

Any Phys-Ed major knows that. There’s air to blow up
basketballs, air to blow up footballs . . .

I was in elementary school at the time, and my friends and I
thought that was the funniest thing ever, but forty years later the Wyman
School has been converted to condominiums and I think I have a more
sophisticated reading of what Mr. Cosby was getting at. As our lives and
society grow ever more complex we often lose track of the fundamental questions
that drive what we do.

What are the questions?

Ours is a field rich with people who “caught the
bug”--who were excited, even enchanted by the pipe organ early in
life. I’ve heard plenty of those personal stories. One colleague told me
how when he was very young his family traveled clear across the country to
attend a wedding. The trip itself was a huge experience for him, but he had
never seen such a large and ornate church building, and when the organ started
to play he knew what he wanted to do with his life. Another friend told that
when he was shown inside a large organ as a child the concept of the apparently
contradictory relationship between the organ’s industrial interior and
its glorious sound led to his important career as an organbuilder. My own
introduction to the instrument was a natural succession--the organist of
the church I grew up in (my father was the rector) was a harpsichord maker and
the community of instrument builders was well represented in the choir. My
childhood piano lessons led to organ lessons and why wouldn’t I have a
summer job in an organbuilder’s workshop? Was there in fact anything else
one might do?

A wonderful world has grown up around the pipe organ, a
world full of talented people dedicated to both the study of what has preceded
us and to innovation. It’s a complicated subject with a very deep
history, myriad technical issues, and elusive artistic concepts that drive the
whole thing. The instrument itself is tangible--you can build it, touch
it, feel it, play it, care for it. But the basic concept is more difficult to
explain. This is not like the admiration directed toward the first person to
eat an artichoke or lobster, rather it is the understanding of the collective
contributions of countless people through the ages. The intertwined
relationship of the instrument, its music, its builders, and its players brings
to mind those quirky philosophical questions about trees in the forest, smoke
and fire, chickens and eggs--or Bill Cosby’s why is there air? Any
organbuilder knows the answer to that question: There’s air to blow organ
pipes, air to leak through worn gaskets, air to cause ciphers. We are the heirs
of erring air. (Remember E. Power Biggs talking about pumping the bellows of an
18th-century British organ--”handling the handle that Händel
handled.”)

However lofty our introduction to the pipe organ, once we
are engaged in our careers we often move from one deadline to another somehow
forgetting that original inspiration. We may know the thrilling sensation of a
huge Swell box opening, allowing the sound of powerful reeds to gradually join
the choir procession during a festival service. (If the procession is slow and
in the middle of the service, we could use the Swell box to gradually join a
gradual Gradual!) But what do we have in mind if we are in an organ chamber
struggling to get a Swell motor to work properly--technical issues,
skinned knuckles, and holed leather, or that spectacular procession, banners
a’flying? Try whistling a hymn tune as you work--I recommend
Westminster Abbey!

The struggle between art and commerce is well defined and
frequently written about. A friend who loves to paint put it succinctly
recently when she said she simply doesn’t have the time for it. Who was
it that said, “time is money?” At what point does the thrill of
creating a monumental pipe organ become a battle between time and money?
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I recently stumbled across a quotation from Daniel
Barenboim: “Every great work of art has two faces, one toward its own
time and one toward the future, toward eternity.” Did Mr. Barenboim
forget the past as a third face? Aren’t great works of art at least
informed by the past? Certainly pipe organs are.

There’s a debate in the world of pleasure boats
between the merits of wood and fiberglass hulls. A purist might say
there’s nothing like the sound of water slapping against a wooden hull.
But there are many arguments in favor of fiberglass boats. Does this debate
actually confuse questions of personal preference or convenience with whether
or not it’s a good boat?

The debate between the merits of mechanical and electric
keyboard actions has been raging for more than fifty years. It seems to me that
one can argue that the debate couldn’t really get started until electric
and pneumatic actions were well-developed and prevalent so there was strong
basis for comparison. I’ve said many times that the result of the debate
is that our organbuilders are producing excellent instruments using all kinds
of actions. The questions surrounding the construction of organ cases, the
design of wind systems, or the deployment of stops in divisions are just as
fundamental as those concerning keyboard action. Let’s debate the
relative merits of balanced or suspended tracker key actions, or whether the
keyboards of electric action instruments should be pivoted in the middle or at
the end. My point is I want to play and listen to good organs, well conceived
and beautifully made. Just as I’ve had great days sailing in both wooden
and fiberglass boats, I’ve been thrilled by both tracker and electric
action pipe organs.

When I say I’ve been thrilled by both tracker and
electric action pipe organs I have also to say that I’ve equally been
disappointed by both.

One thing that sets the pipe organ apart from other
instruments in my opinion is the extraordinary variety from one example to
another. I know that a clarinetist recognizes countless differences between
clarinets, but how can one compare a three-rank continuo organ with a mighty
200-rank job in a huge church? The experiences they produce are worlds apart as
is the music that can be played on them. (I’ve noticed that we often talk
about what music an organ can play--as if there would not be an organist
involved.) What’s really funny is how we try to mix those experiences.
Widor’s famous Toccata is a staple of the modern organ repertory and
it’s played as often on ten-stop organs as on those of the scale for
which it was conceived--many, many more than ten stops. And it’s not
just about the number of stops but more important, the acoustics of the room. I
remember vividly the first time I played that piece in an appropriate
acoustical setting. It was in Lakewood, Ohio in a cavernous church building
with a marble floor. It was a Wicks organ of only moderate size but the way the
harmonies rolled around the place helped me understand the piece more fully. Of
course, this was after I had played the same piece in perhaps dozens of small,
dry rooms on dozens of small, dry organs.

It seems to me that our love affair with pieces like that
has led us toward an artificial world. We know that 32-foot stops add a lot to
large-scale organ music, so we add artificial 32¢s to organs in churches
that do not have space for them. Ideally, we design organs using mathematical
formulas that have been proven through the ages. The Golden Section, for
example, is a classic system of ratios that defines the proportions of
countless structures built over thousands of years. There’s a pleasing
naturalness when an instrument is conceived well in relationship to the room it
graces. Hearing 32-foot tone in a building with a 15-foot ceiling leaves one
somehow confused.

An organist’s work is often defined by the struggle
between tradition and innovation. Christmas is coming. Are you preparing for
the tenth, fifteenth, twentieth Christmas in the same church? How do you
program innovative, exciting music without disappointing the expectations of
tradition? Think of the congregation that was first to sing O Come, All Ye
Faithful (there must have been one). Did anyone go home that day grumbling that
the organist didn’t understand the value of tradition? One piece that struck
me at first hearing as a future chestnut is John Rutter’s Candlelight
Carol. Easily singable, absolutely beautiful, text full of meaning--I
wonder if that’s what people experienced when they first heard In dulci
jubilo some seven hundred years ago. 

I had a parallel musing the first time I visited St. Sulpice
in Paris. I wondered how many of the older people in the congregation would
remember Marcel Dupré as their parish organist. It’s a stretch,
but it’s at least possible that a few of them remembered Widor--it
was fewer than sixty-five years after his retirement. Think what those people
must have experienced in the way of musical tradition when so much of what they
heard from the organ was improvised!

One of my greatest professional struggles has involved wedding
music. It’s the privilege of the parish organist to be a part of so many
celebrations. I played for more than four hundred weddings at one church.
It’s a thrill to be able to share one’s skills to enhance such an
occasion. I didn’t keep proper records but I would be fascinated to see a
spreadsheet that showed a statistical analysis of the music I played at all
those weddings. At what percentage of weddings did I play Mendelssohn, Wagner,
or Schubert? How often did a couple listen to eight or ten choices before
lighting up when I offered Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring the evening they
were choosing music? It’s very likely that the only time a couple
actually chooses what will be played live on a pipe organ will be their
wedding. How does an organist introduce creative and meaningful music into a
wedding service without disappointing the expectations of families and their
friends? When I was first an independent organbuilder I had as an employee a
young woman who worked for me for nearly ten years. She was both a terrific
worker and a close friend. She had many opportunities to hear my reports of
“last Saturday’s wedding” when I would regale her with the
trials of the wedding organist. (Maybe there’s a movie title in that
sentence.) It is a great regret of mine that she formed such an impression of
my feelings about weddings that when she got married she asked someone else to
play the organ.

Is the future of the pipe organ better assured if we sustain
tradition or if we find exciting new ways to use it? How do we strike a balance
between those concepts? Are consumers of organ music always going to be happy
with old favorites? How do we find, write, create those pieces that will become
tomorrow’s chestnuts or are today’s chestnuts good enough to last?
And if we find such a piece, how do we introduce it in the place of something
else? 

What is the future form of the pipe organ? Can its builders
stay faithful to ancient forms while continuing to be innovative?

What is the future of the economics of organbuilding? Will
churches, schools, concert halls always be willing to commit to such enormous
expenditures? Does our society value artistic expression enough to justify
that? How do we share our passion and enthusiasm in the interest of the future
of our art? Do we assume that a strong future for our art will add to the
cultural wealth of society? How can we sustain the wealth of the heritage of
our instrument in the world of the sound-bite, the megabyte, the Big Gulp®,
the Big Mac®, the Playstation®, VCR, DVD, or PCD. With music education
in public schools in decline, who will be the next generation of organists and
who will be the next generation of music lovers?

We are stewards of a glorious heritage. It’s essential
that we find new ways to communicate that wealth. We must be informed by the
past, but we shouldn’t dwell on it. As we are informed by the past, we
are better able to inform the future. How many ways can we read the phrase, The
Past Becomes the Future?