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In the wind...

John Bishop
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The secret of life

Donald Hall is an American writer. Because he’s Wendy’s client, I’ve met him several times. He was born in 1928 and last saw a barber or handled a razor at least ten years ago. He published an essay in the June 12, 2013, issue of The New Yorker with the title “Three Beards,” in which he chronicled his long relationship with facial hair. It begins:

 

In my life I have grown three beards, covering many of my adult faces. My present beard is monumental, and I intend to carry it to my grave. (I must avoid chemotherapy.)

 

It concludes: 

 

As I decline more swiftly toward the grave I have made certain that everyone knows—my children know, Linda knows, my undertaker knows—that no posthumous razor may scrape my blue face.

 

In 2011, Wendy accompanied Hall to the White House, where President Obama awarded him the National Medal of Arts. (That’s the same day she chatted with Van Cliburn, as noted in the May 2014 installment of this column.) The neatly trimmed and dapper President met the self-styled Methuselah. 

Donald Hall lives in the New Hampshire farmhouse that was built by his grandfather, whom he helped harvesting hay. Today, hay is harvested by powerful and intricate machines that spit out neatly tied bales in the wake of a tractor. (Hay bales are legitimately held together with baling wire.) Donald Hall, then a child, and his grandfather did it with scythes, pitchforks, and horse-drawn carts. And that’s the way he writes—the old-fashioned way.

He has published dozens of books of poetry, and dozens more of non-fiction, memoirs, and collections of essays. He has written hundreds of articles of literary criticism and countless essays for many publications. And his lifelong collection of thousands of letters to and from other literary and artistic giants will be the grist of many future dissertations. He writes in longhand and dictates into a tape recorder, and leaves a briefcase on his front porch every morning for his typist who lives across the road, who in turn leaves a corresponding case of typed manuscripts.

When we were first dating, Wendy shared Donald Hall’s memoir Life Work with me (Beacon Press, 1993). At 124 pages, it’s an easy read, but when he describes his process, you feel obligated to read it again, and then again. He writes drafts. There were fifty-five drafts of that essay about beards, and there are hundreds of drafts for some of his poems. He started working on his poem Another Elegy in 1982, and put it away, disgusted, in 1988 after more than five hundred drafts. He numbers the drafts. In 1992, he picked it up again, wrote thirty more drafts, then showed it to his wife, the poet Jane Kenyon, “who remembered the old one; her response encouraged me.” As he brought it toward conclusion, he woke many days before the alarm, jumping out of bed to start writing, but reminding himself that “You felt like this, about this same poem, a hundred times between 1982 and 1988.”

In Life Work, Donald Hall writes about his grandparents’ work ethics, about baseball players’ dedication to their work, and of course about his own routine, but he makes it clear that hates the phrase “work ethic.” Shortly after leaving the security of a professorship at the University of Michigan to move to the farm with Jane to support himself with his own writing, he attended his Harvard class (1951) reunion where he found himself complimented over and over about his self-discipline. He responded, “If I loved chocolate to distraction, would you call me self-disciplined for eating a pound of Hershey’s Kisses before breakfast?” He simply loves the process of moving words about, mining the English language, dog-earing his beloved Oxford English Dictionary—no matter what it takes to get it right to his own ears.

One of the principal characters in Life Work is the British sculptor Henry Moore. They met in 1959 when Hall was commissioned to write a magazine piece about Moore, and Hall was moved and inspired by Moore’s approach to his work. There was always a sketchpad at hand, there were studios scattered about the property allowing work at different stages to proceed concurrently, and when in his seventies, Moore built a new studio next to the house allowing him to spend another hour at work after dinner. The last time they were together, when Moore was eighty, Hall asked him, “What is the secret of life?” Moore’s response:

“The secret of life is to have a task, something you devote your entire life to, something you bring everything to, every minute of the day for your entire life. And the most important thing is—it must be something you cannot possibly do!”

 

Wrapped around a monument

Last week, the Parisian organist Daniel Roth played a recital at Church of the Resurrection in New York where a couple years ago, the Organ Clearing House renovated, expanded, and installed a Casavant organ built in 1915. It was a treat and a thrill to be around him for a couple days as he prepared and presented his program, and I particularly enjoyed a conversation in which he gave some deeper insight into the heritage of the magnificent Cavaillé-Coll organ at St. Sulpice in Paris, where he has been titulaire since 1985. His three immediate predecessors were Jean-Jacques Grunenwald, Marcel Dupré, and Charles-Marie Widor—four tenures that span nearly a hundred-fifty years. 

Those four organists are identified by their relationships with that organ. Their improvisations and compositions have been inspired by its beautiful tones and enabled by the ingenious mechanical registration devices built in 1862, maintained to this day in their original condition. Roth confirmed the legend that Widor’s original appointment was temporary, and though it was never officially renewed or confirmed, he held the position for sixty-seven years. I’ve known this tidbit for years, but Daniel Roth shared some skinny.

Aristide Cavaillé-Coll was a tireless champion of his own work. He was disappointed in the general level of organ playing in Paris in the late 1860s, but was enthralled by performances by Jacques-Nicolas Lemmens, the professor of organ at the Royal Conservatory of Brussels, who first played recitals in Paris during a tour in 1850. Widor was born in Lyon into a family of organbuilders and Cavaillé-Coll was a family friend. It was he who arranged for Widor to study with Lemmens, and the twenty-five year old Widor was Cavaillé-Coll’s candidate for the vacant position at St. Sulpice.

As a reflection of the political and even racial tensions leading up to the Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871), Widor’s detractors competing for the important position claimed he played like a German! (Quelle horreur!) The rector compromised by appointing Widor for one year.

Hundreds of American organists have been treated to Daniel Roth’s hospitality at the console of that landmark organ, hearing his improvisations and compositions, and his interpretations of the immense body of music produced by his predecessors. My conversations with him last week reminded me of that quote from Henry Moore. When a great musician spends a lifetime with a great organ, does that qualify as something to which you devote your life, but cannot possibly do?

Opera vitae

The mid-twentieth century renaissance in American organbuilding has given us a bevy of small companies building organs under the name of their founders. Among these, C. B. Fisk, Inc. is notable, in that the legendary Charlie Fisk passed away relatively young, and the work of his company has been continued by his co-workers—dare I say disciples? But when I think of names like Wolff, Wilhelm, Noack, Brombaugh, and the double-teaming Taylor & Boody, I think of these men, now elderly, retired, or deceased, who have had long careers personally producing many instruments with the help of their small and talented staffs. I think Fritz Noack is in the lead. His company was founded in 1960 and has completed nearly 160 organs. Nice work, Fritz, quite a fleet. Imagine seeing them all in a row. 

Considering all the effort and expertise involved in selling, planning, designing, building, and installing a pipe organ, I marvel at what Fritz and his colleagues have accomplished personally, with a lot of help from their friends. That’s work to which you devote your life, but cannot possibly do.

 

What was the question?

An old family friend is an expert in “heat transfer”—how heat moves from one mass to another, from a mass to a gas, or any other way heat moves around. One evening sitting with drinks in my parents’ living room and staring at the burning fireplace, I asked him, “Just what is fire?” He told me that it’s a chemical reaction. Yes, but what is it? I never did get an answer I could understand. I think he thought I was a bit of a prig, and I think I was asking a question that couldn’t be answered.

The more you know about the organbuilding trade, the more you realize you don’t know. Building pipe organs is a profession that remains mysterious to its most experienced practitioners. How does that air get from one place to another inside the organ? How does that thin sheet of pressurized air passing through the mouth of an organ pipe turn into musical tone? And how do those tones blend so beautifully with each other? How do we move such volumes of air silently? We have answers that refer to the laws of physics, but like my question about fire, they seem unanswerable. I’ve come to think that all you can do is know the questions and keep working to achieve better understanding of how to answer them. It’s work to which you devote your life, but cannot possibly do.

 

Go Daddy, go.

My father passed away at home on April 8, about six weeks shy of his ninetieth birthday. He was born four years before Donald Hall. He had a stroke a few months before from which he had largely recovered, although the gorgeous handwriting for which he was well known was gone. A vicious headache, which may have been another stroke, was our signal that the end was near. His doctor helped us establish home hospice care, and after about a week of comforting medication and declining consciousness he was gone. My three siblings and I, and our spouses, managed to gather during that week along with lots of the grandchildren. My brother Mark and his wife Sarah, my wife Wendy, and my mother Betsy were with Dad at his moment of death. Coincidentally, I was at work in St. Paul’s Cathedral in Boston, where my parents were married almost fifty-nine years ago.

The Rev. John J. Bishop was ordained an Episcopal priest in the Diocese of Massachusetts in 1952, and all the parishes he served were in that diocese. Everyone called him Jack. He served as rector of churches in Somerville and Westwood before he was called to be rector of the Parish of the Epiphany in Winchester, where he served from 1966 until his retirement in 1989. That was when my parents moved to the newly renovated and expanded family summer home on Cape Cod. After that retirement, he served as interim rector at churches in Dedham, Woods Hole, Falmouth, Provincetown, and Belmont. In December of 2012, the Parish of the Epiphany hosted a celebratory Eucharist honoring the sixtieth anniversary of his ordination.

My father grew up in Cincinnati, Ohio, as a member of Christ Church, which is now the Cathedral of the Diocese of Southern Ohio. Our grand colleague and mentor Gerre Hancock was organist and choirmaster there in the 1960s. Dad had recordings of that church’s Boar’s Head Festival led by Gerre Hancock—the first improvisations I ever heard. As he grew up in Ohio in the 1920s and ’30s, some of the liberal causes for which he was later known hadn’t been contemplated, but before he was finished, my father had championed civil rights, social justice, the ordination of women, and
same-sex marriages.

The Rev. Jeanne Sprout was the first woman to be ordained in the Diocese of Massachusetts. Her ordination in 1977 happened at the Parish of the Epiphany in Winchester as she joined the staff there. And Dad chaired the steering committee that nominated Barbara Harris as the first female bishop in the Anglican Communion. As interim rector in Provincetown, he blessed same-sex unions many years before the ruling of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court that made them legal as marriages ten years ago. During his adolescence in Ohio and while serving in the United States Army during World War II, he would never have imagined such a thing.

At the height of the Vietnam War, the parish’s associate rector Michael Jupin participated in a widely reported protest on the steps of Boston’s Arlington Street Church, placing his draft card in an offering plate in the hands of William Sloane Coffin, pastor of New York’s Riverside Church, and activist and pediatrician Benjamin Spock. This created a firestorm in the then conservative parish (Winchester was cited as the town where the politics met the zip code: Zero-1890). The wardens approached my father, demanding to know “how to get rid of Jupin,” as important pledge-units left the parish in droves. Dad’s immediate answer was, “you get rid of the rector.” He told us later about that crisis in his career and the life of that church, how he sat alone in his car weeping, wondering what to do, and how he sought the council of his bishop, who encouraged him to “stand in the midst of those people and lead.”

Through all of that, Dad remained devoted to the traditions and liturgy of the Anglican Communion. He was a strong supporter of the music of the church, and during his tenures, the parishes in Westwood and Winchester both purchased organs from Charles Fisk. I remember the thrill of using my newly acquired adult voice, singing in harmony accompanied by orchestra as the adult choir presented Bach’s Cantata 140, Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme

Dad understood the importance of the “theater” of liturgy. My childhood friends who were acolytes laugh today about how they were terrified of “blowing it” around Rev. Bishop. He needed it to be right. He led worship and celebrated the Eucharist with enthusiasm and joy—his “church voice” was nothing like his everyday voice. The crisp cadence and musical intonation of his delivery of the Prayers of Consecration are still in my ears, and remain my ideal. He really celebrated communion.

I’ve spent many days working as an organbuilder in churches of the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts. Often, when I’m introduced to a rector, I’ve heard, “There’s a priest in this diocese with that name,” followed by unsolicited tributes. It’s been wonderful to hear accounts of my father’s work from so many different sources. I’m grateful for Dad’s encouragement and inspiration.

 

What a weekend.

Today is Monday. Dad’s memorial service was Saturday. There were four bishops and twenty priests in robes up front and the pews were full of family, friends, and parishioners from across the diocese and around the world, and plenty more priests. In a piece included in the leaflet for Dad’s memorial service, I wrote, “The definition is ‘Great excitement for or interest in a cause.’ It’s from the Greek root, enthousiasmos, which came from the adjective entheos, ‘having God within.’ Enthusiasm.” That is the way he lived his life, inspiring people, encouraging them to think and grow, and sharing his love for the church, for better or for worse.

That’s work to which you devote your life, but cannot possibly do.

Of course I’m sad. Of course I miss him. But when a man lives such a long and productive life, has nearly sixty years of marriage, sees four children grow up, knows ten adult grandchildren, and with our grandson Ben, knew his first great-grandchild, we can only be grateful.

Yesterday, we interred Dad’s ashes. There were about thirty of us at the end of the boardwalk over the marshes that led to Dad’s favorite Cape Cod swimming hole. As the last of the ashes sprinkled into the water I blurted out, “Go daddy, go.” ν

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In the wind...

John Bishop
John Bishop is executive director of the Organ Clearing House.    
 
 
 
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Once you’ve seen the best, there’s only the rest.

So many things, so many concepts, so many ideas today are labeled “the best” or “the greatest” that I sometimes wonder if we can still recognize real greatness. We speak in superlatives as if there was no other class. “This is the best cheese I’ve ever tasted,” lasts only until tomorrow when I get lucky enough to have a bite of something different. “Oh my God, it was the best movie ever.” And get the emphasis of punctuation: “Oh. My. God.” You set yourself up as the authority, as if no other opinion has value. Invoking the Deity is a tactic for substantiating overstatement.

“Of all time” is a common lead-in for overstatement. “He was the best quarterback of all time.” “She was the best actress of all time.” Maybe, but most of the time, I doubt it. You could make a perfectly legitimate claim a little less sweeping by starting with “I think,” as in, “I think that was a great play.” Fair enough; I’ll buy that. I think it was a great play, too, but neither of us are qualified to continue with “of all time.” “I really enjoyed that play,” isn’t forceful enough, somehow.

The search for “the best” or “the most” is a universal mantra, accompanied on television by triumphant music and the forceful voice of a male announcer. Anthony Bourdain travels the world looking for the most unusual meal. ABC Sports searches for the most dangerous ski slope. Sports Illustrated searches for the best swimsuit model. Stand them next to each other and they all look just fine.

Having worked as an organbuilder and an organist for more than forty years, I understand how people unfamiliar with the field are surprised and even baffled when they encounter it. The third or fourth exchange when you’re meeting someone for the first time at a party is “What do you do for a living?” “I’m a pipe organ builder.” “A pipe organ builder? I didn’t know there were any of you left.”

Once we get past a few pleasantries, an inevitable question is, “What’s the best organ in the world?” That’s a better question than asking after the biggest organ, which is easier to answer but usually leads to sniggering.

§

Wow! What is the best organ in the world? How in the world can I answer? Is it up to me to judge? What are the criteria? What are the variables? Can I break it into subsets like the best German organ, the best French organ, the best tracker-action organ? Do we need to know the best, or can we be happy with a list of “great” organs?

 

To be the best, must it be the biggest?

The Wanamaker Grand Court Organ is the largest “fully operational” organ in the world. According to the website of the Friends of the Wanamaker Organ, it has six manuals, 463 ranks, and 28,677 pipes. This compares to the Boardwalk Hall Auditorium Organ in Atlantic City (not fully operational, but restoration work is under way), with seven manuals, 449 ranks, and 33,114 pipes. So if you’re counting by ranks, Wanamaker wins by 14, and if you’re counting by pipes, Atlantic City wins by 4,437 (the size of an organ with more than 70 ranks!).

When I was a naïve and budding organ-guy, deep in the thrall of the tracker-action revival in Boston in the 1970s, I knew vaguely about the Wanamaker organ, touted as the largest organ in the world. I understood that it was in poor condition—that a lot of it was unplayable. Hmmph, I thought in my infancy. What can being the largest have to do with being any good? It would be years before I actually saw, heard, and experienced the Wanamaker. By the time I made its acquaintance, enormous effort had been put toward bringing that massive instrument into good condition. And now I marvel at its artistic content every time I visit, which is ever more often.

I don’t know if it’s the best, but it sure is wonderful. A tour with curator Curt Mangel is a privileged walk through countless rooms crammed with pipes. Any tuner would quail at the parades of reeds and dozens of pairs of celestes. What a responsibility. And to witness Grand Court Organist Peter Richard Conte doing his thing (you really have to see it to believe what you’re hearing) is to witness a marriage of man and machine unparalleled in the human experience. Oops, I guess unparalleled is a superlative.

 

…Oldest?

Am I up to date? Is the little abbey organ built around 1390 in Sion, Switzerland, really the oldest in the world? E. Power Biggs taught me that with his 1967 recording, Historic Organs of Switzerland. I still have those bold tones and archaic tuning in my ears. Geoffrey Chaucer (1343–1400) wrote The Canterbury Tales around 1390. In one of those delightful narratives, The Nun’s Priest’s Tale, the main character was

 

A widow, poor and somewhat advanced in years, [who] dwelt once in a little cottage . . . By managing carefully what God sent, she provided for herself and her three daughters . . . her only treatment was a temperate diet, with exercise and heart’s content. The gout never kept her from dancing, nor did the apoplexy bother her head . . . She had a yard enclosed all around with sticks and a dry ditch, and in it she had a cock called Chanticleer. In all the land there was no match for his crowing; his voice was merrier than the merry organ that goes in the church on mass-days . . . *

 

Remember the wonderful carol with the refrain “O the rising of the sun, and the running of the deer, the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the Kwah!” Chaucer must have been referring to contemporary British organs, so we can assume a burgeoning pipe organ industry as Europe shook itself free of the Dark Ages. An organ built in 1390 that we can still play today? What a fabulous icon of human history. It has been rebuilt and expanded several times—its history seems to read “every hundred years or so, whether it needs it or not . . . ” What a treat to play on a musical instrument that’s 624 years old! Who cares if it’s any good?

 

…Most majestic?

One of the most familiar images of the pipe organ world is the lion-topped façade of the 1738 organ built by Christian Müller in St. Bavo Church in Haarlem, the Netherlands. The top of the case is nearly a hundred feet above the floor of the church, and the sounds of the organ are as vital, energetic, and expressive as any modern instrument. There’s a legend saying that Mozart played on this organ, and there are dozens of modern recordings available. The instrument is the centerpiece of the International Summer Academy for Organists, founded in 1955, and continuing today as a seminal educational experience for hundreds of musicians.

With just over 5,000 pipes, the Haarlem organ must have been one of the largest in the world when it was built, but today it represents only the difference in size between the Wanamaker and Atlantic City organs!

Studying the intricate details of the design and construction of this organ, it’s hard to believe that such a thing could have been built using available technology from the early eighteenth century. Think of the state of high culture in America at that time—what the fanciest colonial architecture was like. This organ is high on the list of doozies in the organ world. Does that make it best?

 

…Most influential?

Aristide Cavaillé-Coll completed the rebuilding and expansion of the organ at St. Sulpice in Paris in 1862. With five manuals and a hundred stops it was one of the largest organs in the world at that time. And with its myriad complex mechanical innovations, it was an eloquent statement of technology of the day. Charles-Marie Widor and Marcel Dupré combined their careers to serve this church for 101 years. The organ alone as a mechanical entity must be considered among the most elegant, expressive, and fiery instruments ever built. But when combined with its illustrious players—including present organists Daniel Roth and Sophie-Véronique Cauchefer-Choplin—it’s hard to imagine another church balcony that has housed and launched more extraordinary music. 

Widor (1844–1937) was born to a family of organbuilders. Cavaillé-Coll was a family friend who arranged for Widor to study with Jacques Nicolas Lemmens in Brussels. How many of us have played Lemmens’ Fanfare how many times? Maybe it’s unfair to use one piece to stand for a musician’s life work, but it’s a long way in sophistication from that Fanfare to Widor’s Symphonie Gothique or Symphonie Romane. Along with his organ symphonies, Widor produced dozens of orchestral works including symphonies and piano concertos, chamber music, piano music, and choral works. He was a prolific teacher whose students included Charles Tournemire, Louis Vierne, Darius Milhaud, and Alexander Schreiner. Widor’s lifelong relationship with the St. Sulpice organ must be one of the most important between musician and instrument in the history of music. 

Marcel Dupré (1886–1971) was also deeply influenced by Cavaillé-Coll’s masterpiece, and how many modern organists still living can claim to be his students and therefore students of that organ, whether in private lessons or master class. He died when I was in high school, and I never met him or heard him play. But I know he taught Jehan and Marie-Claire Alain, Jeanne Demessieux, Jean Guillou, Jean Langlais, and Olivier Messiaen. His weekly organ improvisations were legendary, raising the church of St. Sulpice to the level of organists’ pilgrimage—a tradition that remains more than forty years after his death. To this day, a knowing worshipper can quickly pick out the visiting organists, quivering and weeping in their seats.

 

…Most melodious?

Charles Brenton Fisk, aka Charlie, was a pioneer in the mid-twentieth century renaissance of classical styles of organ building. I was fortunate as a teenager growing up in Winchester, Massachusetts, to live within two blocks in opposite directions of two new Fisk organs. And I was fortunate to know Charlie at least a little. Charlie Fisk’s organs are lively and interesting. Many are controversial, especially because of their sonic power. His thrilling Opus 82, installed in Christ United Methodist Church in Greensborough, North Carolina, must be one of the most powerful organs ever built, stop-for-stop.

Fisk’s Opus 55 is a modest three-manual organ of twenty-nine stops, built in 1971. It has a lovely case that includes architectural elements from a much older case by Boston organbuilder Thomas Appleton. It’s housed in a stately 1806 building in Boston’s West End. While its size, scope, and surroundings are nice enough, it would be an unremarkable organ except that it’s widely considered to be one of the finest organs in the world. Its solo voices and choruses combine proud fundamental tone with limpid harmonic structure to produce strikingly beautiful organ tone. 

Yuko Hayashi, the brilliant twentieth-century teacher of hundreds of important modern organists, became organist at Old West in 1973, at the suggestion of Charles Fisk. Yuko had been teaching organ at the New England Conservatory of Music since 1960 and was well known for her lyrical playing. Shortly after she started playing there, she brought the NEC organ class there for lessons, and from then until her retirement in 2001 many hundreds of our finest organists studied with Yuko on the organ at Old West Church. Since it was built, it has been one of the most heavily used organs in the country. Yuko once told me she believed that the organ sounded better the more it was played—that the passage of air through the pipes makes the pipes sound better. How’s that for spiritual?

 

…Most incensed?

According to Google Maps, the Church of the Advent in Boston is six-tenths of a mile from Old West Church. The Aeolian-Skinner organ at Church of the Advent, a product of the firm’s G. Donald Harrison era, is just as modest and ordinary on paper as the Fisk at Old West. It has fifty-seven stops on three manuals, and is installed in a chamber above the chancel that also speaks into the nave. Modest and ordinary, maybe, but there’s just something about it. Worshipping there with the inspired musical leadership that has always been a hallmark of the place is a Magical Mystery Tour. It would be a challenge to find another organ of this scale that could equal the seamless crescendos and decrescendos that accompany the singing of the choir. It would be a challenge to find another organ of this scale that could play so much of the organ repertory so effectively. In the intense and incensed smoke-filled room that is the Advent’s sanctuary, the architectural borders between instrument and building are as elusive as the musical borders between organ pipes and acoustics. It’s otherworldly.

If Old West Church is a mecca for beautiful organ tone, Church of the Advent is a mecca for the effect of a pipe organ on deep and sophisticated liturgically grounded worship. And you can walk from one to the other in just fifteen minutes.

 

…Most seminal?

I’m stuck in a rut along the Charles River in Boston, which is just a long block from Church of the Advent. (By the way, the home of Joseph Whiteford, president of Aeolian-Skinner from 1956 until 1965, faces the Charles from one of the little neighborhoods near “The Advent.” It’s the one with the tapered front door!) From there it would take about an hour and a half to walk, but only ten minutes to drive to Adolphus Busch Hall, formerly known as the Busch-Reisinger Museum, and familiarly known to generations of organists and Harvard students as “The Busch.” Aeolian-Skinner had installed an experimental organ there in 1937, one that included classically inspired principal choruses, from which E. Power Biggs played many live radio broadcasts. Mr. Biggs commissioned the landmark Flentrop organ with his own money in 1958 and placed it on loan to Harvard University. He paid personally for its tuning and maintenance for the rest of his life and bequeathed the organ to the university after his death.

Like the organs at “Old West” and “The Advent,” the Flentrop in “The Busch” is of modest proportions—three manuals and twenty-seven stops. But simply to mention the extraordinary series of recordings Biggs made on that organ, E. Power Biggs Plays Bach Organ Favorites, is to acknowledge its importance. It still stands as the best-selling series of solo classical music recordings, an accurate and indisputable superlative. And while those performances are still controversial icons of the “organ wars,” his snappy and peppy readings of those classic pieces brought excellent playing of excellent organ music to the ears of millions around the world. Many of us were hearing “chiff” for the first time. To some it was clear and rhythmic, to others it sounded like hitting xylophone bars. Bach’s Jig Fugue brings popping popcorn to mind. The organ is fifty-six years old, and I love taking visiting friends to see it. They melt in its presence. 

 

…Most nostalgic?

I think that all of us who care about playing the organ have a favorite or two, and I, for one, have a list of organs I’ve loved since I was a kid. There are a couple in Yarmouthport on Cape Cod that I played (and practiced on) for hundreds of teenage summertime hours. There are a couple beauties by
E. & G.G. Hook that were within walking distance of my youthful home. And there are some, even those that fail to stand out as excellent examples of the art, where I had important experiences both personal and musical, where I heard great musicians play for the first time, where important milestones of my personal life and professional career are marked.

In fact, some of the worst organs I’ve seen have had the most impact on me, helping me understand in their negativity why excellence is so important.

Please don’t ask me to name the best organ in the world. If I’m lucky, I haven’t heard about it yet. And the organ to die for? It will be played at my funeral. Any takers? ν

 

Postscript:

While I’m always interested in good organs anywhere, in this writing I’ve focused on instruments that I think have served as more than just good organs. Each has had a special and wide influence on many musicians, and each has played a particular role in the history of our instrument. Organists go out of their way to experience them. When we think of the modern pipe organ, we can picture dozens, if not hundreds, of various forms, and each of these pivotal organs have played a part in that development. I’ve written this off the top of my head without research, so the list is in no way complete. I’m interested to hear from readers their suggestions of additions to this list. Please write me at [email protected] to share your thoughts.

Thank you for reading.

* Geoffrey Chaucer, The Nun’s Priest’s Tale. Translation by Gerard NeCastro, published as “eChaucer” by the University of Maine at Machias: http://machias.edu/faculty/necastro/chaucer/translation/ct/21npt.html.

Photo credits: William T. Van Pelt, except as noted. 

In the wind...

John Bishop
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The show must go on.

Each month, The Diapason sports a flashy color photo of a pipe organ on the front cover. (So do the other guys.) These photos show the glamorous side of the trade—exciting new instruments and important renovation projects. The “centerfold” articles typically include statements by the organbuilder, the local musician, the pastor, and chair of the organ committee. Each is testament to a bold adventure in which a local church or educational institution commits a lot of effort and a ton of money to the commissioning and building, or rebuilding, of a musical instrument.

Once an organ is installed, and the celebration is past, it’s important to maintain it so it will always sound its best, and the owners’ investment is protected. I’ve just spent a week in Boston doing service calls, reflecting on how that work has changed over the years, and enjoying those long relationships with the instruments and their buildings.

 

Job one

Tuning, cleaning, and repairing of dead notes and ciphers make up the bulk of the routine of pipe organ maintenance, but I think the most important part of the job is being sure the organ is safe. Countless organs have been damaged or destroyed by fire, roof leaks, vandalism, and other forces. This past August, an early organ built by John Brombaugh was lost when the First Evangelical Lutheran Church of Lorain, Ohio, was destroyed by fire, and I have been corresponding with a church in North Carolina that lost a fine Schantz organ to fire early this year. I know that the parish in North Carolina had proper and adequate insurance coverage, so they will be able to rebuild and to replace their pipe organ. I hope the same for the people in Lorain, but Brombaugh’s Opus 4 is surely irreplaceable.

The careful organ technician should encourage the owner of a pipe organ to review their insurance policies to be sure that the organ is properly covered. It’s common for people to find that the organ is insured for its original purchase price—fine if the organ is a few years old, but you’re going to lose big if your four-manual E. M. Skinner organ is insured for the same $27,000 that bought it in 1928. It’s usual for an insurance company to require an assessment of the organ. This can be provided by your organ technician, the company that originally built the instrument, or by any knowledgeable and reputable organbuilder. The assessment report should include photographs of the organ, inside and out, to document its complexity, accurate specifications, the history of any rebuilding projects or major repairs, and mention of any prominent musicians who have performed on it. And the figure stated as “replacement value” should include consideration of quality of construction, description of the degree of ornamentation of an organ case, gold leaf, and any special voices included that are particularly expensive or difficult to obtain. For example, an original Skinner Harp is worth a truckload of Tierces!

The careful organ technician will also encourage the organ’s owner to inspect the roof and walls that surround the organ, and the condition of heating, ventilation, and plumbing equipment that may pass through the organ chambers. Recently, a lovely Aeolian-Skinner organ in my care suffered significant damage to the static reservoir and Spencer blower located in the basement of the church, caused by the rupture of a frozen water main. The lower level of the building was flooded—lots of flooring, carpeting, and furniture were destroyed, and the repairs to the organ were fully covered by the comprehensive scope of the insurance policy.

One bad shingle, one missing piece of flashing, and the right storm can wreck an organ.

 

Hygiene

In my home parish in the 1960s the sexton was an old gent from the back woods of Maine, complete with the authentic accent and the salty talk. My father, the rector, kept a running list of Don Wilkins’s colorful turns of phrase and when Don retired, published a pamphlet recalling them. Don organized the care of the building’s “systems,” kept the floors clean, and wearing an old white Oxford shirt with sleeves rolled up and a skinny dark tie, made and served the Sunday morning coffee. Forty and fifty years ago, the standing equipment in a building like that wasn’t as sophisticated or complicated as it is now, and Don knew how to keep the place humming and sparkling.

It’s common now for churches not to have sextons, but to hire cleaning contractors instead. The volunteers on the property committee look after the physical plant, and simply put, I’ve seen some pretty big mishaps resulting from well-meaning, volunteer oversight. 

My dictionary has two definitions for the word oversight:

1. An unintentional failure to notice or do something.

2. The action of overseeing something.

Definition 2 describes the well-meaning committee member. Definition 1 describes the inevitable result of uninformed supervision. 

It’s too bad when failing to change a filter leads to a mechanical disaster. Hiring professional cleaners while relying on volunteer mechanical maintenance is a false economy. It would be better to have volunteers cleaning, and hire a stationary engineer to look after the equipment. A two-hour visit each month would do it. He would create a schedule for maintenance of the HVAC and elevator motors, alarm systems, and other necessary equipment. He would recommend contractors and oversee their work.

Over years of writing reports for consultation clients, I’ve used the term Institutional Hygiene. I use it to describe the general condition of a building as it affects and influences the care of the equipment. Using mechanical areas for general storage is the perfect example. Decades-old Christmas decorations stacked around and against a furnace is the next thing to arson. In one client church, I have to pass through an attic to reach the organ chamber. During a tuning, I noticed a “Manger Hay Bale” piled with the artificial Christmas trees. There was vapor, some combination of steam and smoke, coming from the bale—composting for Christ. I schlepped it down the ladder and mentioned it to the administrator in the church office, then went to lunch. When I got back, the hay bale was back in the attic, smoking away. Bad hygiene.

There was the frantic call on a Saturday morning: the church is full, the bride has arrived, and the organ won’t play. “I turned on the blower switch and the lights came on, but no sound.” I raced to the church, arriving to the din of vamping bagpipes, to find a card table sucked up against the air intake for the organ blower. Bad hygiene.

And there was the call from the organist who said she couldn’t imagine what happened, but the organ suddenly sounds horrible. I found a stack of folding chairs on the reservoir, doubling the wind pressure. Bad hygiene.

And there was the call from the organist of the church with the card table, saying she couldn’t imagine what happened, but the organ suddenly sounds horrible. This one was out of their control. The Public Library across the street was being demolished, and they were using dynamite to move stone so the foundation for the new building could be deeper. Every capped pipe and every reed pipe had the daylights knocked out of it!

There’s another level of hygiene that’s a little more sensitive to discuss because it involves your personal habits. A cup of coffee (especially with sugar) or a can of soda is a terrible thing to introduce to your organ console. Maybe it’s sitting innocently on the stop jamb and seems pretty safe, but there have been two episodes in my career when such a quaff has fallen onto the keyboards. Felt bushings, silver contacts, even the glue that holds the ivories to the keys can be compromised and the repair can cost many thousands of dollars.

I’m lucky enough to have a vintage rosewood Steinway at home that came to me through generations of my family. We have a sign next to it that says, “Nothing on the piano, please.” I do not hesitate to speak up when a guest places a drink on my rosewood. It’s not about the wood—there’s an impervious finish on it. It’s about the sensitive, delicate, balanced action inside, made of wood, and bedecked with felt and various fine metals. It’s one instance when a martini is not a preservative.

Many organists don’t like to be called on this issue, so take this as a quiet and anonymous hint. The damage caused by such a spill is not worth the cost of a cup of coffee.

Second to a sugary drink, paperclips are the enemy of the organ’s keyboards. They can cause keys to jam together, and they can wind up on the contacts causing wild cross-ciphers.

 

And there was the call…

There are a lot of things an organist can do to help the tuner/technician, and many of them are based in common sense. It’s not always easy to tell where a problem is coming from, and mishaps like ciphers can be intermittent. If an organist calls to say there was a cipher on Sunday, but it went away, there’s nothing I can do. If in the heat of battle, you hear a cipher but can’t stop to locate it, there are a few clues that might help recreate it.

Maybe you’re sharp enough to tell me which note of which stop ciphered. If you were playing a trumpet tune as a wedding march, I bet a dollar that the cipher happened when you trilled between F# and G on the Great Trumpet. But if it was more elusive, you can give me a hint.

As soon as you finish the hymn, anthem, or response during which the cipher occurred, jump for your Organ Notebook (don’t tell me there’s no organ notebook on the console!), and write down the piece you were playing, and what registration or piston you were using. Leave the music on the console with a note saying on what page, on what line, in what measure the cipher occurred. If I play the same music with the same registration, the cipher might reappear. If I hear it, I’ll fix it. You can even narrow down the division. While you’re hearing the cipher, make up an excuse to use the Swell pedal. You’ll know right away if the cipher was in the Swell. That may not seem like much, but a clue is a clue. If I know you had a cipher in the Swell strings, I’ll stand in the Swell box while my assistant runs up and down the keyboard. Maybe I’ll hear a little whimper. If I hear it, I’ll fix it!

And there was the call from the organist who left a message on the answering machine saying, “The F-key sounds funny.” (True story.) Hmm. There are twenty-five stops on two keyboards, and eight stops in the pedals. That makes 274 “F-keys” in the organ. And maybe it’s not a single pipe that sounds funny. I’m not sure of which equation to use to compute the number of possible of combinations, but let’s say I square 274. That’s 75,076 possibilities. You can be specific (Great Melodia, #30, F above middle C, etc.), or you can help me find it (Hymn 242, third line, second measure, General 3). I’ll find it.

And there was the call from the cathedral organist. That organ has more than eighty stops on four manuals, and it’s more than an hour away. He called in a panic: “The organ is wildly out of tune.” I know very well that unless there has been some big event, like the dynamite at the library, a huge organ in a big stone church doesn’t just fly out of tune. But I jumped in the car, and raced to the cathedral. One pipe in the Pedal Clarion was out of tune. To be fair, it was way out of tune, but to this day, I can’t imagine why he didn’t poke around for a moment to identify it. Was it worth my losing a Saturday afternoon with my family? I think he would have been fine without the Pedal Clarion.

And there was the call from the organist of a church on Martha’s Vineyard. If you’re not familiar with “The Vineyard,” all you need to know is that it’s a quiet little sand-spit of an island offshore from Cape Cod in Massachusetts that morphs into an elite playground for the rich and famous during the summer. U.S. Presidents go there to play golf. Senators keep their lavish wooden yachts there. The summer social life on Martha’s Vineyard is transplanted directly from Embassy Row in Washington.

But this call was off-season. It was Maundy Thursday, and the organ was ciphering. Early the following morning, Good Friday, of course, I drove the hundred miles to the ferry slip, paid $90 for a round-trip ticket, enjoyed the hour-long passage to the island, drove to the church, fixed the cipher, and went home. The whole adventure took ten hours, and included two hundred miles of driving plus the cost of the ferry. I sent an invoice for nearly a thousand dollars. The organist was furious. “You were only in the church for ten minutes.” True enough, but I fixed your cipher on Good Friday, and it took all day. (By the way, I had my own service to play that night.) 

 

The tuner is coming this week.

There is a short list of things that you, the organist, can do to prepare for my visit. I’m sure my colleagues in this important work will have things to add, and I look forward to hearing from them.

1. Clean up around the console. The tools of your trade include hymnals, organ music, octavo scores, empty coffee cups (tsk!), paper clips (tsk!), cough drops, Kleenex (fresh and used), nail clippers and files, Post-Its, rolls of tape, hair brushes, etc. I can move them for you, but the meter is running, and I’ll never be able to put things back where they were. I’ve used my cell phone camera to document the piles of music, but it’s a nuisance. If you know I’m coming, take a half hour after the service to straighten things up.

2. Be sure the heat or air conditioning will be on. The rule is simple: We want to tune the organ in the same conditions for which it’s used in public. If the heat is turned up to 68˚ two hours before the service, turn the heat up to 68˚ two hours before the tuning. There was the time when after three or four visits to a certain church with the heat forgotten each time, the sexton announced to us joyfully, “I’ve got it good and hot in there for you this time.” That didn’t help!

3. Leave me a note. I trust that you’ve been writing things down in the notebook. (Don’t tell me there’s no notebook!) But take a minute to share your observations and concerns. You can call, text, e-mail, or leave an “analog” note on the console. If I don’t hear anything from you, I’ll do my best, but I may not stumble across what’s bothering you most.

4. Follow up. Please don’t call me ten weeks later saying, “Ever since you were here …” The organ changes character when the temperature changes, it’s affected by humidity—especially rain—or extreme dryness. If I missed something, or if something jumped out of tune, let me know that week.

If you don’t know the rules, let me clean the keyboards. A heavy spray of detergent and a lot of scrubbing will cause damage. 

Above all, it’s best if you and I know each other. We should have lunch together once in a while, or at least a good chat in the choir loft. I’d like to hear you play, to see how you sit at the keyboards. I can tell a lot by studying your piston settings, but the more I know about how you use the organ, the better. Feel free to ask me about the organ. The more you know about the organ, the better. Let’s keep that thing sounding good. 

In the wind...

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

 

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Blest be the tie that binds

Our hearts in Christian love;

The fellowship of kindred minds

Is like to that above.

 

That’s one of the great old chestnuts of hymnody. Who reading those words doesn’t have that tune buzzing in their ears? Everyone knows it. Verse after verse goes by, each building on the way we depend on each other, support each other, and live with each other. It’s usually in F Major or G Major—I prefer G, or maybe start in F and modulate a couple times. Nice to step the tonic of the last chord down a major third, let that become the dominant of the new key, throw in the seventh, and start This glorious hope revives . . . up a half step!

The text is by John Fawcett, London, 1782. The tune is Dennis by Hans Nägeli (1773–1836) and later adapted by Lowell Mason (The Psaltery, 1845). It’s as familiar as they come. But did you ever stop to think that the meter (SM; 8.8.6.6.8) is that of a limerick? Everybody sing: 

 

Writing a limerick’s absurd,

Line one and line five rhyme in word,

And just as you’ve reckoned, 

Both rhyme with the second;

The fourth line must rhyme with the third.

 

To make this trick work, you may choose between including the upbeat or not, and you sometimes have to place two or more syllables on the last beat of a line. Everybody sing:

 

There once was a fellow named Beebe,

Planned to marry a woman named Phoebe,

He said, “I must see 

What the minister’s fee be,

Before Phoebe be Phoebe Beebe.”

§

Last month our friend Jim passed away. His death is a first for us—the first of close friends roughly our age to pass away—and he’s been on my mind a lot. He was a prolific organic gardener and a quintessential “foodie.” He had a great love and real appreciation for fine wine and, since a recent trip to Scotland, single malt scotch. He played guitar a little, and he and his wife Lois were frequent attenders and strong supporters of musical ensembles, especially the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Metropolitan Opera. They traveled together frequently, especially to Italy where they spent much time and had many friends.

In addition to all this, Jim was a geologist, and he had a huge collection of minerals and ores. After his death, Lois is dealing with the dispersal of hundreds of specimens. Some are the size of a chestnut while others are huge—too heavy for one person to carry. The garage and basement are full of Jim’s rocks. Thankfully, Jim’s friends from the Boston Mineral Club have rallied to help with the task. That fellowship of kindred minds—each individual a little crazier than the last—is a tight society of people who are passionate about the variety of minerals that comprise the earth. You might say (as they often do), they have rocks in their heads. But they sure have been wonderful to our friend Lois in her sadness. Everybody sing:

 

Some people I hang with are jocks

With an aura of dirty white socks.

When they ask me to play

I say, “Maybe some day.

But my principal passion is rocks.”

§

Last summer Wendy and I launched and christened our new boat, Kingfisher. She’s a Marshall 22 built by Marshall Marine in Padanaram, which is a village of South Dartmouth, Massachusetts, just across a bay from the great fishing and whaling capital of New Bedford, an easy sail in a small boat from Nantucket. She’s a broad-beamed, gaff-rigged craft of a class that was used originally for commercial fishing before boats had engines because she can carry lots of cargo and can be sailed single-handed. When I tell people she’s a catboat, they often think of those little rocketship-boats with two hulls. No, not a catamaran, a catboat. She’s only twenty-two feet long, but more then ten feet wide, with lots of space inside for hauling fish! She has a centerboard so we can go into shallow inlets, a little diesel engine to keep us off the rocks, and pretty, classic lines.

Even before we had a chance to put her in the water we joined the Catboat Association. There are about four hundred members, and annual dues are $25. Last February we attended the CBA Annual Meeting at the Marriott Hotel in Groton, Connecticut. We had such fun that we’re going again this year—we’ll miss the Super Bowl, but I’d rather talk about boats. Having been to lots of meetings of pipe organ groups, I’m used to seeing displays of combination actions, tuning tools, CDs, and published music in the exhibition room. This time it was boats on trailers, wood carvers (who could make you a bowsprit or a ribbon-shaped name board for your transom), a couple of smart guys from Yanmar (Japanese manufacturer of marine diesel engines), and monogrammed life jackets. There were workshops about sail handling, navigating, diesel engine maintenance, and lots of storytelling. This fellowship of kindred minds organizes races and other fun events. Catboats, for all their practicality and beauty, are not very fast. One wag spoke up in an open forum saying, “If you wanted to go fast, you should have bought a bicycle.” Racing catboats is a little like racing turtles. May the best man win. Everybody sing:

 

We’re gathered to talk about boats.

At our meetings, we never take notes.

We organize races

In watery places,

And officers win with most votes.

§

In the summer of 2010, Wall Street Journal reporter Jennifer Levitz was covering a story in Washington, D.C., when she noticed a large crowd milling about in the front yard of a church. When she realized they were all wearing nametags on lanyards she figured they were part of a convention and like any good reporter, she walked across to investigate. She was dumbfounded to learn that they were all organists attending a convention, a fellowship of kindred minds. It had never crossed her mind that organists would gather for large professional meetings so she asked a lot of questions about the current state of the pipe organ. She mentioned that she was based in Boston and someone suggested she should interview me to learn about the role of the organ in modern society. 

The result was a story in the Wall Street Journal with the headline, “Trafficking in Organs, Mr. Bishop Pipes Up to Preserve a Bit of History.” (See http://tinyurl.com/mc9xu2y.) The story begins, “John Bishop leaves the soul-saving to the clergy. He’s content to save the pipe organs—and even that isn’t easy.”

By the way, I suggest there are three areas of public life where puns are
a nuisance:

1. Pipe organs (organ donor, organ transplant, piping up, Swell, Great, Positiv?)

2. Boat names (Liquid Assets, A Crewed Interest, Ahoy Vey)

3. Beauty shops (Shear Delights, The Mane Attraction, A Cut Above)

Feel free to continue with new categories!

In response to Jennifer’s call, we met at Starbucks near Faneuil Hall in Boston. We chatted over lattés for an hour or so. Jennifer is a tall, quick-witted, athletic woman, and from her enthusiasm about my topic, you might have thought she had been interested in the organ all her life. But as this was her first foray into our winded world, I took her through Organ Building 101, Church Music 101, and AGO 101. When she asked what I was working on at the moment, I invited her to come with me to Cambridge, near Harvard Square, that afternoon, where I was meeting with officials of Lesley University. The school had purchased a vacant building, formerly the North Prospect Congregational Church, and planned to move the building across its lot to adjoin a planned new building where it would become part of the Art Library, and the Aeolian-Skinner organ was being offered for sale.

Jennifer’s article concluded:

 

It can take years to place an organ, but sometimes there are matches made in music heaven. Within weeks of visiting Lesley University, Mr. Bishop found a home for its organ in a church in Texas. It was loaded onto a tractor-trailer, and off it went, the victory recorded by Mr. Bishop on Facebook.

“Another one leaves town ahead of the wrecking ball,” he wrote.

 

Everybody sing (add another syllable!):

 

We’re glad to have all that publicity.

Helps preserving works of historicity.

She wrote in the paper

’Bout that tricky caper;

By writing, she joined in complicity.  

§

In 1956, Walter Holtkamp installed a revolutionary organ in the tower gallery of the chapel at the Episcopal Theological School (now Episcopal Divinity School) on Brattle Street in Cambridge, Massachusetts—again, near Harvard Square. My father, a retired Episcopal priest, was instructor of Homiletics there when I was a teenager, and he introduced me to Dr. Alastair Cassels-Brown who was professor of church music there, and with whom I had my first years of organ lessons on that Holtkamp organ. 

Over a number of years I learned various tidbits about the early history of that organ; that Charles Fisk was an apprentice with Holtkamp, that E. Power Biggs lived a few blocks away, that Daniel Pinkham as a young disciple of Biggs was always around, that organ historian Barbara Owen was a close part of that circle, and that Melville Smith (director of the Longy School of Music and organist at the First and Second Church in Boston) was strongly connected with the seminary, and friend with all those others. The Holtkamp organ—with low wind-pressures, slider-windchests (though electro-pneumatic action), baroque-inspired reeds, full principal choruses, and a Rückpositiv—was quite the statement for 1956. And that fellowship of kindred minds (Holtkamp, Fisk, Pinkham, Owen, and Smith) must have had some heady conversations as the organ was being installed.

Christ Church (Episcopal) in Cambridge is an eighteenth-century building, complete with Revolutionary War bullet hole, around the corner from the seminary chapel. Stuart Forster is the current organist, and the World War II era Aeolian-Skinner has been replaced by a stunning new organ by Schoenstein. E. Power Biggs was appointed organist there in 1932, work that coincided with his blossoming concert career. In his book All the Stops (PublicAffairs, 2003, page 86), Craig Whitney relates a (to us) delightful story from that era:

Juggling all this took its toll, and when the rector of Christ Church asked Biggs to read the early Sunday service in addition to his musical duties, Biggs refused. The upshot was reported by Charles Fisk, a nine-year-old member of the church’s boy choir, in a note dated January 2, 1935, in the diary his mother had given him for Christmas. “I went to choir practice,” Fisk wrote. “Mr. Biggs wasnt there.” For (at least) the second time, Biggs had been fired from a church job. The leadership of Christ Church had decided that “Mr. Biggs” was more interested in his professional concert career than he was in being a good church musician, and they were right.

Everybody sing:

 

The choirboys all had to stand,

At a wave of the organist’s hand.

But Charlie had noted

And later he wroted

That dear Mr. Biggs had been canned.

§

The same year that Holtkamp installed the organ at the seminary, Rudolf von Beckerath installed a four-manual Werkprinzip tracker-action organ with sixty-five ranks at Trinity Lutheran Church in Cleveland. You can read all about that landmark organ at its own website: http://clevelandbeckerath.org/beckerathorgan.html.

That instrument was a major step toward the revival of interest in classic styles of organbuilding. In the following few years, many more new European-built organs were imported to American churches and schools, notably the 1958 Flentrop installed at the instigation of E. Power Biggs in the Busch-Reisinger Museum (now Adolphus Busch Hall) at Harvard University. That’s the organ on which he recorded the wildly popular series Bach Organ Favorites for Columbia Records—a series that still stands as the best-selling solo classical recordings of all time. Nice going, Biggsy!

In June of 1956, G. Donald Harrison was hard at work finishing the great Aeolian-Skinner organ at St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue in New York. He was working under a whopping deadline—Pierre Cochereau, organist of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, would be playing the opening recital on June 25 as part of the 60th national convention of the American Guild of Organists. During those weeks, New York was suffering both a heat wave and a taxi strike. After working late on June 14, Harrison walked to his Third Avenue apartment, ate dinner with his wife Helen, and sat down to watch Victor Borge present his shenanigans on television. At 11:00 p.m. he suffered a heart attack and died.

Last Christmas, and the previous two Easters, Wendy and I have worshipped at St. Thomas Church, to bask in the glorious sounds of the Choir of Men and Boys led by John Scott, who must be considered among the finest living church musicians. And, it’s a poignant thought that as I write, today is the second anniversary of the death of Dr. Gerre Hancock who led the music there with such distinction from 1971 until 2004

I never had a chance to meet G. Donald Harrison, but I can at least say our lifetimes overlapped—by less than two weeks. I was born on March 16, 1956!

As we think about the big changes that were going on in the American pipe organ industry, it’s fun to note other developments in the music world. On January 5, 1956, a truck driver named Elvis Presley made his first recording, “Heartbreak Hotel.”

§

Tom Gleason was Wendy’s Russian History professor at Brown University. He was a wonderful mentor, and as Wendy babysat for his kids when she was a student, Tom and his wife Sarah have remained dear friends to this day. Our daughter Meg was also Tom’s student at Brown—Tom and Sarah were hosts for Meg’s graduation party in their house and garden. And Tom and Sarah joined us for a sailing vacation around Greece’s Dodecanese Islands in the Aegean Sea. Tom and I share a fellowship of kindred minds with a love of limericks. Now, let’s face it, the limericks I’m sharing here, most of which are mine, are not the sort that we usually hear. But in the pages of this august journal, I’m not going there. Everybody sing: 

 

The limerick packs laughs anatomical

In a space that is most economical.

But the good ones I’ve seen 

So seldom are clean, 

And the clean ones so seldom are comical!

The limerick is furtive and mean.

You must keep her in close quarantine.

Or she sneaks to the slums

And promptly becomes

Disorderly, drunk, and obscene.

 

(Modulate up a step, kindred minds.)

 

The next time we’re sitting at table,

And finish the sharing of fable,

We’ll pour from the jugs

And hoist up our mugs,

Sharing limericks as rude as we’re able.

In the wind...

John Bishop
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To be the very best

I often remind myself (and you) of my start in church music. Dad, the Episcopal priest, the organist/choirmaster who was a harpsichord maker in real life, singing in the choir, and taking organ lessons . . . The culture of the music department of that wonderful church, charged with the excitement of the burgeoning movement of historically informed performance, and the revival of classic organbuilding, so active in the Boston area in the 1960s. I was hooked. I spent most of my after-school hours in local churches, practicing. I had paying jobs playing the organ in church from the age of thirteen, and I set my sights on attending the Conservatory of Music at Oberlin.  

In my early teenage years I spent one summer washing dishes (saving up my earnings to buy a Zuckermann harpsichord kit), then two summers working for a landscape company on Cape Cod, pushing lawnmowers around the estates of the rich and famous. I played the organ for a summer parish in our town on the Cape and spent most evenings there, practicing and messing around with the organ.

Since those three summers, everything I’ve done has been with the pipe organ. My sons were troubled by this when they got old enough to be wondering what they might do with their lives—“if Dad knew when he was fourteen, what am I supposed to do?”

I know many other musicians who came through high school knowing exactly what they wanted to do with their lives. Those players who spend their adolescent years developing the techniques, embouchures, musculature (AKA chops) necessary for playing their instruments, hopefully nurtured by enlightened and caring teachers, have an incredible leg up. Just as it’s easiest to learn a second language as a toddler (my grandson Ben, at nearly two, has the advantage of parents speaking with him equally in English and Portuguese), the musician who reads music fluently and sets the foundation for a comfortable technique at a young age will have a big advantage later on.

Our system of higher education is set up that way. You’re not going to be accepted as an incoming student in a serious music school when you’re just out of high school unless you have some credible ability with your chosen instrument. I was pretty sure of my organ-playing prowess as an eighteen-year-old freshman entering Oberlin, and I learned a lot about that “big fish in a small pond” syndrome in my first days on campus. Everyone there had been a star in high school, and I was startled to learn that during those first days there was to be a “Freshman Orientation Concert” showcasing new students who had been singled out as exceptional. Funny, they didn’t ask me! The gauntlet was laid down that night.

In the first few days of classes, I learned a thing or two about teachers who expected a lot from their students. One stands out in my memory. Robert Melcher taught Music Theory, notably the cornerstone, two-semester course intended to ground freshmen in musical analysis and four-part harmony. And I mean ground freshmen. He ground up freshmen.

Melcher was a diminutive elderly man whose gait made his head arrive before the rest of him. My classmates reading this will snicker as they recall his tremulous little tenor voice singing symphonic melodies “on loo.” The opening cello melody of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony sticks out in my mind. Loooooo-Loo Loooooo-Loo Loo Loo Loo Looooooo-Loo Looooooo.

Robert Melcher sure did know music theory, and he was a relentless teacher. And he was as mean as a rooster with his tail on fire. Early on he set organists at ease, saying that we were “theory prone” because of the way we understood bass lines. Part of the curriculum included the notation of figured bass, right up our alley. Made us feel great, but must have been hard on the others. When he called on someone in class who couldn’t answer his question, he made them squirm. And he deliberately called on people when he knew they wouldn’t know the answer—and he gave them hell for not knowing.

In particular, he had it out for singers. He generalized, he profiled, and he terrorized them. It was horrible to watch. Today, fully forty years later, I’m grateful that he was my teacher. He gave me a firm foundation in that critical subject that I still value. But I’ll never forget him finishing one of those Loo-loo melodies and then whipping around to pounce on some unsuspecting daydreamer, humiliating them to the point of tears in front of their peers.

 

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

That’s the lead to an old joke—the punch line is “Practice.” I had it in mind that it came from the old comedian Henny Youngman.* When I googled, I found that there is controversy, even a few squabbles about who first came up with it. Candidates include Jack Benny, Jascha Heifetz, and Arthur Rubenstein. The Carnegie Hall website states that it was violinist Mischa Elman, grumbling to a pedestrian as he left a frustrating rehearsal, the story as told by Elman’s wife.

How is it that the promising young talent finds his way to the right instrument and, knowingly or not, devotes his life to it while still a teenager? What does it mean to forsake at least part of whatever constitutes a normal childhood to strive to excel in a chosen field? And what is the responsibility of the teacher to acknowledge the student’s sacrifice, to encourage his ambition, and to challenge him in a way that honors his talent without affecting his emotional wellbeing?

The new movie Whiplash tackles this conundrum in the brutal story of Terence Fletcher (played by J. K. Simmons), a brilliant but abusive teacher in an exclusive jazz school. He notices the exceptional talent of a first-year student, a drummer named Andrew Neyman (as played by Miles Teller). Fletcher sees greatness in Neyman and uses intense verbal, physical, and emotional abuse to encourage it. He even abuses Neyman’s fellow students, especially other drummers, in his effort to bring out Neyman’s innate greatness.  

In the course of the film we learn that one of Fletcher’s former “great” students had died young—Fletcher told the students in the band that it was a car accident, but we learned that it was, in fact, suicide, encouraged by Fletcher’s brutal methods. We see Andrew make a shy and embarrassed attempt to have a first girlfriend, whom he later enrages when he breaks off the relationship, predicting that he will ultimately be bitter because she’s holding him back from greatness. In Andrew’s eyes, it’s Nicole’s bad luck to simply be a liberal arts student without having declared a major—incomprehensible to him who has been driven to be the world’s greatest drummer since he was a little boy, as we see in his home-movie clips.

Andrew puts tremendous pressure on himself, practicing until blood pours from his blistered hands and defending his drive to greatness in the eyes of his doubting family. Having been awarded “the part” as the school’s premier ensemble participates in an important competition, Andrew wriggles badly injured out of an overturned wrecked car and sprints to the concert hall where he plays his heart out until he collapses. Fletcher rewards his effort by expelling him from the school.

Wendy and I saw Whiplash a few days after it was released. While I never experienced anything like the brutality of Fletcher’s philosophy of teaching, I left the theater with memories of conductors who pummeled me, of friends who gave up their musical passion in despair, and of students being humiliated in front of each other. A week later, I invited a friend who is a great performer to see the movie with me. The second viewing was harder for me to watch because knowing what was coming next in each scene, I was cringing in advance.

Late in the film, Fletcher is brazen as he talks about his methods. He refuses to apologize, even though we know that his style had led directly to the suicide of a student. For much of the film, it’s hard to tell who is the main character. Fletcher is an “equal opportunity” abuser who thinks nothing of shredding the hopes of a promising student in front of his peers. And Andrew is a vulnerable young man with exceptional talent. Part way through the film, Andrew throws in the towel. But his burning, bleeding desire to be the best hurtles him back into the fray.

 

The lowest common denominator

After seeing Whiplash twice, I’m fascinated by the dilemma of how one finds the balance between Fletcher’s manic desire to spot and encourage greatness and the physical and emotional limits that must be imposed on how teachers relate to their students. Fletcher does things that would have him in jail in a heartbeat if he had been teaching in a public high school. But he’s the leader of the award-winning premier ensemble in the rarified world of the highest levels of education in a splinter-thin pursuit. It’s a cutthroat atmosphere, and Fletcher teaches us the origin of that phrase.

I had the inverse experience when working as director of music at a suburban Congregational church. In staff meetings, the associate pastor was outspoken about being sure that the church treated people equally. Fair enough, as we’re taught that we’re all equal in the eyes of God. But I think she took that too far when she suggested that I should not single out children in the Youth Choir by giving them solos. I should think about how that would make others feel less significant. I was dumbfounded, but I was not found dumb, at least in sense of at a loss for words.

I told her that when I was a kid singing in the Youth Choir, I was given solos to sing. When I was a middle school and high school student, I got all the gigs playing the piano to accompany choruses. That’s why today I’m the director of music. Other kids who sang in that 1960s Youth Choir are now doctors, attorneys, scientists, professors, even priests. I know this because I was reunited with many of them at my father’s memorial service last spring. Wouldn’t I have failed as a mentor if I hadn’t encouraged the children with special talents? And doesn’t it work out that someone who is passed over for the solo on Sunday gets handed the ball in a Little League game?

There are ordinary lawyers and star lawyers, ordinary doctors and star doctors. They might be equal in the eyes of God, but I’ve been treated a couple times by ordinary, even mediocre doctors, and I’ll choose the star any time.

 

Walking the line

There’s a balance in this conundrum, a line that separates teaching methods that are too harsh and abusive from those that treat all levels of talent equally. Star students should rise to the top. Their teachers should expect the best from them. And the best teachers have both methods and instincts to encourage the students to do their best.

I know that many readers of The Diapason were exceptional students as they forged their way through adolescence, and that many were lonely and outcast because of their devotion to an art form that requires intense discipline. I recommend strongly that you see Whiplash. The film is intense, fast moving, startling, and sometimes scary. It tells the story of the value and the trials of working hard on a specialized education. And it ultimately shows the reward of real devotion to a challenging art.

§

In March of 2012, I had a bad fall at work. I was tuning in a lovely old Hutchings organ in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and the support for a ladder gave way. I came down from about six feet up and landed flat on my back. Made some kind of noise. My colleague Joshua, sitting at the keyboards, whispered, “What was that?” The wind was knocked out of my lungs, and I had to lie still for a few moments before I could draw breath. I had a cracked vertebra and later had a wicked bout with sciatic pain as that critical nerve has received quite a tweak.

I cringe when I think about what might have happened. I was lucky. I can walk. I know that my right leg and foot are not the same—that sciatic nerve is something like the strings of a marionette—it holds you, and you don’t know anything about it until it goes funky, but I got off easy.

Ironically, a couple years earlier I had participated in a panel discussion at a convention of the American Institute of Organbuilders about organ maintenance, and one of the panelists had spoken at length about workplace safety.

It’s the middle of November as I write, and across the country and around the world, organ technicians are stocking their tool-bags and sharpening their tools, putting fresh batteries in flashlights, and making a round of phone calls and e-mails to clients as they schedule seasonal cold-weather tunings (please be sure the heat is up). As we fan out to do battle against ciphers, remove moths from shallots, adjust contacts, and set temperaments, we remember the hazards of the trade. All of the ladders and walkways in a hundred-year-old organ are a hundred years old. The organ in which I fell was built in the 1880s, around 130 years old.  

We climb off the ladder onto the walkboard and feel it sag under our weight. The walkboard is covered with dust and feels slick underfoot. We reach out to the sky-rack of the façade pipes to stabilize ourselves, and it moves sickeningly, the pipes rattling in their loose hooks.

After I fell, I singled out a half-dozen churches whose organs presented special hazards to technicians. I wrote to each of them, telling of my accident, and proposing the installation of new ladders, handrails, supports, and stabilizers. They all responded positively, and that work is now complete. It’s a pleasure to walk out on that precipice, holding on to a sturdy new steel railing. Somehow, it makes me hear better.

I encourage my colleague organ techs to identify those situations that are unsafe and propose remedies to your clients. We can have a new professional organization, the Society for Prevention of Injuries to Tuners (SPIT).

This is on my mind as my Facebook page is alive with posts from fellow tuners hitting the road, offering prayers and salutations. And it’s on my mind because of a dramatic event in New York City. Last week, the Freedom Tower at One World Trade Center was formally opened. Among the first tenants is Condé Nast, publisher of the popular magazines, Vanity Fair and The New Yorker. Built on the iconic site, it has 104 stories, and is 1776 feet tall. Freedom Tower, get it? 1776?  

Around 8:00 am on Wednesday, November 12, two window washers climbed into their scaffold—a mechanized walkway hung from davits on the roof of the building that lowers the workers down the side of the building. Something went wrong with the system of pulleys and lines, and the rig wound up hanging vertically at the 69th floor, rather than the more comforting horizontal. The workers were securely tethered to the machine, as was all their equipment. News reports mentioned liquids falling from the platform, which would be bad enough for someone on the sidewalk, but no buckets, squeegees, brushes, or whatever other gear they might have had on board fell.

Within about an hour, a special team from New York Fire Department was inside the building at that floor, cutting through three layers of special tough glass to make an opening that would allow the stranded window guys to climb to safety inside.

That site is sacred to us all, especially to those New Yorkers who witnessed the original calamity there. And the NYPD gained a special spot in the national consciousness through their heroic response to the disaster.

As I watched the drama unfold on television, I was struck by the remarkable preparation involved. Thinking back on it, of course the NYPD would have teams specially trained and equipped to deal with high-rise emergencies. There are a lot of tall buildings in this city. But it was very moving to watch the firefighters handling those sheets of glass a thousand feet above the sidewalks, leaning through the opening and helping those guys inside.

NYPD Battalion Chief Joseph Jardin was quoted saying, “It was a fairly straightforward operation.” Some teacher saw the good in him and encouraged him to be the best. 

 

* I was right remembering a story connecting Henny Youngman to Carnegie, but it was the Carnegie Deli on 7th Avenue between 54th and 55th Streets in New York, around the corner from Carnegie Hall. It was a favorite “hangout” of Henny Youngman, and when owner/founder Leo Steiner died, Youngman eulogized him as the “deli lama.”

A Life in Church Music: Donald P. Hustad (1918–2013)

Remembering the prolific and active church musician

Elizabeth Naegele
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Donald Paul Hustad, organist, choir director, radio musician, composer, arranger, scholar, educator, editor, and writer, died on June 22, 2013, at the age of 94. Active in church music for more than 85 years, he had become one of the most articulate scholars, chroniclers, and critics of the history and traditions of music in the evangelical and “free” (i.e., non-liturgical) church traditions. He wrote six books and over 100 articles, composed numerous hymns, hymn arrangements and choral octavos, edited a number of hymnals and authored hymnal companions, taught at Moody Bible Institute in Chicago and later the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky, and played organ for the Billy Graham crusades beginning in the 1960s. He held two graduate music degrees from Northwestern University, plus AAGO and FRCO certificates. 

Though he retired from the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in 1986, Hustad continued actively performing, writing, lecturing, and editing for the next two decades. Post-retirement activities included being the general editor for the hymnal, The Worshiping Church, which was first published in 1990, and revising his well-received textbook, Jubilate! Church Music in the Evangelical Tradition, first published in 1981, which was released in 1993 as Jubilate II: Church Music in Worship and Renewal. In 1989, he became a Fellow of the Hymn Society in the U.S. and Canada, in recognition of his contributions to hymnody. In 1991, Hope Publishing Company, which published music, hymnals, and books by Hustad, named him their first emeritus editor. In 2006, he received an honorary doctorate from Samford University, Birmingham, Alabama, and in 2008, he was honored for his contributions to church music at the American Choral Director’s Assocation’s Southern Division Conference.

Hustad’s legacy in the Chicago area is manifold, especially through his work at Hope Publishing Company (located in Carol Stream, Illinois) and through his tenure at Moody Bible Institute, beginning in 1942 at the Institute’s flagship radio station, WMBI, and then as conductor of the Moody Chorale beginning in 1947, and additionally as Director of Moody’s Music Department, 1950–1963. Under Hustad’s leadership, the Moody Chorale was critically acclaimed and the Music Department’s current facilities were built, including the Doane Memorial Music Building and the 4-manual Möller organ (now being rebuilt by R. A. Colby) in Torrey-Gray Auditorium. Hustad’s long relationship with Moody led to the opportunity for the following edited interview which took place on October 11, 2011.

Hustad was born October 2, 1918, in Yellow Medicine County, Minnesota. Following the death of his father in a hunting accident the year after his birth, his mother moved with Donald and his younger brother Wesley to the Boone Biblical College in Boone, Iowa, a home for indigent families. This is where Hustad’s musical life began.

Elizabeth M. Naegele: How did you first become interested in music?

Donald Hustad: At the age of four, I was taken under wing by a little lady at the Boone Biblical College where I grew up and where all of our music was from the “Holiness” tradition. She had me studying all the serious piano works of Beethoven, Liszt, Mendelssohn, etc., and in those days of limited entertainment, I ate it up. From my very first years, I improvised, but I never quit reading music that was serious.

You were doing church music alongside classical music?

Yes, I was in church music. In a very typically fundamentalist culture of church music where I improvised much of the time, I was also studying classical music. I grew up thinking of music schizophrenically because all the things that were ideal in classical music were taboo in the church music that we had, and all the things that we doted on in church music were just out-of-bounds in classical music. I had this love-hate relationship, understanding it, sensing it—from the very beginning—as being in two worlds . . . and I enjoyed them both! 

Curiously, I was also in radio at that age. Little Boone Biblical College had a ten-watt radio station which they bought in 1926, so when I began working at Moody Bible Institute’s radio station later in life, I was simply doing what I had done as an eight-year-old boy. I accompanied my mother who was a singer of sorts, and I played trombone in the orchestra. 

How did you begin your professional career?

Sacred music as a profession was a complete surprise to me. I didn’t realize that anyone could make a living with music, even though I studied it at the John Fletcher College in Oskaloosa, Iowa. The graduates from that school went to theology school and became ministers or they went to a university and became a school teacher. I didn’t want to do either, so I had nothing to do. I came to Chicago looking for any kind of a job. I went to the Christian Businessmen’s Committee downtown Chicago, where they referred me to a Christian businessman, Reamer G. Loomis, who had a real estate office on the south side of Chicago. There I wound up answering the telephone or did surveys in the neighborhood . . . until I got busy doing music. Interestingly enough, my future wife’s family was friendly with the real estate office’s owner.

Where did you meet your wife?

I met Ruth at Lorimer Memorial Baptist Church on the south side of Chicago—and the church had lost their musician, so I was hired to be their choir director and organist.

When had you studied organ?

Prior to this time, I had only one year’s instruction, 1940–1941, during the time I was working at a church in Zion, Illinois. I studied with Francis Moore, who had been a student of Alexandre Guilmant. He taught the organ at Oak Park Methodist Church. I remember him well because he was the first to teach me that I should have fingering written in for Bach. Would you believe I began with Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in E-flat Major? Moore kept active in music and years later, while I was at Moody, I remember that he was doing things for Lyon and Healy in downtown Chicago.

So your professional career began at the church where you met your wife?

Yes, but . . . there was a member of the church named Theresa Worman, who was in charge of children’s programming at Moody Bible Institute’s radio station, WMBI. She came to me one day and said, “Don, why don’t you audition? Down at Moody they hire a lot of musicians.” I asked, “They do? To do what?” She answered, “To play music. To write music. To arrange music. To make music!” So I arrived at WMBI’s Studio D on a Saturday morning in May, 1942, and was met by George Beverley Shea and Cornelius W. Kerr. Corny Kerr was one of the so-called “gospel” organists at Moody—there was a whole bevy of them. And they hired me . . . auditioned me on Saturday, and I showed up for work on Monday.

So you became a professional radio musician?

I played accompaniments for George Shea on Hammond organ, pipe organ, and piano. And I did solo organ programs, I did piano duet programs. I also very soon became an announcer, and then, like everyone else, I became a producer and sometimes an actor in a drama that the station had on for years, “Number Nine Elm Street.”

What music degrees did you earn?

I have a bachelor’s degree in music from John Fletcher College, and completed a master’s degree in piano from Northwestern University (Evanston, Illinois) in 1945, while I was working in radio. Later, I went back to Northwestern to do a Doctor of Music degree in church music, which combined organ, service playing, and conducting [completed in 1963]. I also have an Associate certificate from the American Guild of Organists and a Fellowship certificate from the Royal College of Organists in London. 

Interestingly enough, I never completed a conducting course in my life. The first official conducting I ever did was for a tour of the “Twelve Singing Men” from John Fletcher College. I simply watched people conduct, saw the motions, and practiced them myself as I walked across campus. 

When you were doing doctoral work in Northwestern, did you finally take some conducting courses?

Oddly enough, I didn’t take any conducting classes. I took more classes in literature. I didn’t even take any service playing . . . though I registered for thorough bass [figured bass/continuo playing], I opted out of it because I had played by ear all my life and could “bypass” the class.

In what educational institutions have you taught?

I take great pride in them all. One of the first teaching duties I had was as a substitute for Frank W. Van Dusen at Wheaton College for one full year. I worked at Olivet Nazarene College, now Olivet Nazarene University, 1946–1950, teaching piano and music literature. The lengthier stints: I taught at Moody Bible Institute, 1950–1963, and finally the Southern Baptist Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky, beginning in 1966 and officially retiring in 1986. 

What about your association with Billy Graham?

I joined the Graham team in 1961 and worked for them six years until 1967. At the beginning of my time with them, I was on a leave of absence from Moody but still chairman of the Music Department until 1963, one of those flitting chairmen who bounced off and on campus, helping make important faculty and catalog decisions, teaching assignments, and so forth. 

You started teaching at the Southern Baptist Seminary in 1966 before you were done with Billy Graham?

I kept playing for the Billy Graham team off and on for 20 years and retired from them around the same time that I retired from the seminary. 

What changed during your years of teaching church music?

When I began teaching people how to use music in the church, I knew only one kind of music, and that was what I had learned in the conservatory and colleges. As I understood it, musicians could take the same understanding, the same theory, same techniques, and work in, say, church or even nightclubs, just as well. They were trained for music, and they did music wherever they had to do it. Later, I began to realize the discipline of church music was separate from the ordinary discipline of music, and there were no books written about church music. Church music has different requirements, different objectives—so you should have different training for it. I learned the principal activity of the church was its worship, so I became intensely interested in worship, and I essentially began all over again to study worship and liturgics. My books Jubilate! and Jubilate II became journals on worship and church music and evangelism and Christian education . . . the whole activity of the church. 

Finances have become one of the primary problems with church music in our day. It costs too much to train musicians, so Northwestern University throws out its organ department. Other schools throw out a whole music department because it costs so much more to train a musician than it does to train a philosopher or a theologian. I’ve often wondered if maybe our system should be different. I’ve watched the Europeans teach all beginning applied music in classes. Only artists are taught privately. When I was on sabbatical in France, my daughter took flute classes, not private lessons, at the local conservatory. Everybody heard everybody play. Everybody learned from what everybody else learned, and they spent hours in a studio listening to teaching as well as practicing. I’ve wondered if we shouldn’t do more of that. I think we have the same problem in reverse when teaching conductors. Conductors need more private study than we give them. 

What do you see when you look ahead in church music?

None of us really know! But it’s very interesting for me to look at history, to see movements come and go. As I mentioned, I felt schizophrenic growing up, because I could see that church music and classical music were on two different tracks. For instance, my mother was an amateur singer, but she heard that Amelita Galli-Curci (1882–1963), a famous Italian opera soprano in the 1920s, was giving lessons for $25 to anyone who showed up in Des Moines. And my mother wanted to travel to Des Moines for a lesson because that was a different kind of music than she knew. So she learned Bernard Hamlin’s solo, “Beside Still Waters,” and I accompanied her when she sang it for Galli-Curci. Why did she do this? Well, because there was that other world of art music out there. And it was not a sinful world, it was God’s world. She didn’t know that, but she thought it might be. She had a chance to toy with it, and she did!

On the other hand, George Beverley Shea was a gospel singer from his youth. He grew up in an educated family, all of whom were university people, most of them scholars, preachers, and professors of various sorts in the denomination in which he grew up. But he was a gospel singer, he was different . . . though not completely, because his idol was the concert baritone, John Charles Thomas (1891–1960). Shea worshipped Thomas’s singing, because of his diction, which was the most accurate, most precise, most dramatic diction of any singer in the English language. Shea copied him. He went to Thomas’s coaches, and as a result, Shea had the sharpest diction in English of any singer I know. He’s the oldest singer whose words I can identify when the song is one I’ve never heard before. 

Western music in the year 1000 had no place to operate except in the church. And for hundreds of years, serious composers were trying to imitate the “music of the spheres”—the music that the Book of Job writes about when God says to Job, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation . . . while the morning stars sang together?” (see Job 38:1–7). This was the music of heaven’s angels joined with all of creation, which has together moved to earth only twice in history: once at the creation of the world, once at the birth of Jesus Christ. And did you ever notice this comes full circle in the Book of Revelation, where it says that we will sing in heaven an anthem to God who created, to God who redeemed? That’s all. That’s all there is. That’s all! For eternity!

How does this fit with contemporary music in the church?

Evangelicals have always been plagued with the love of novelty. The gospel is the “good news”—the new good news. Got to have a different music for it. Can’t have ordinary music that God blessed from eternity. Got to have a special music, so we’ll throw out Watts, we’ll throw out Wesley, we’ll throw out Luther, and we’ll have the gospel song. And in the late 19th century, evangelicals did it thoroughly, throwing out the tried and true, God-given music of Watts and Wesley and sang the gospel song. Had a lovely time, and founded Moody Bible Institute to perpetuate it, but knew all the time that they really shouldn’t have let the other go—that they should have hung on to it. The conductors of the auditorium choir at Moody Bible Institute knew this in 1910. The teachers at Moody who played the organ knew this about the organ, and so they had serious organ study back in those days. They never let serious music go because they had a sneaking suspicion that somehow God had blessed it, and they should bless it and protect it and teach it forever. But evangelicals may not do it today. They’ve frittered around to the point now that many have let classical music go. 

Who knows what will happen? The present movement has lasted so long there are few classical musicians left. A cousin in Minneapolis sent me a copy of a program from a Covenant church that had a prelude on the organ by Bach, anthems—true anthems, liturgy, and straightforward hymns, but I don’t know many other evangelical churches that do that. To you that do, I say, “Hang on!”

What activities are you involved in now that you’re really retired?

Years ago I started writing a memoir, and I’ve had so much fun just writing it, I’m on my 15th chapter. 

Are you going to publish it?

No—somebody else can! The title of the 15th chapter is the name of the retirement community where we live now, Plymouth Place. And that’s the end. Plymouth Place has been ideal—it has so many people with all kinds of ideas and interesting backgrounds. There are a lot of Congregationalists, a lot of Catholics, a lot of Lutherans. I wake up remembering that my first memory of Billy Graham was in Western Springs, Illinois, and he was considered too conservative by most of the people in this place.

You know, for me, I’m back where I started. I grew up in a communal living center and now, though we never thought we’d go to a retirement home, it’s a perfect situation. Our needs are cared for and we can use our energy to do what we want to do. 

What do you think music will be like in heaven?

On earth, we’re preparing to worship in eternity—why don’t we do it the biblical way? Thank goodness, the biblical way is happening in some places, and I have faith that God will not let it die.

At this point in the interview, Mrs. Hustad interjected and asked if she and her husband could share the prayer by John Donne which they said every night. Dr. Hustad agreed and—together—they recited:

Since I am coming to that holy room

Where, with Thy choir of saints forevermore,

I shall be made Thy music, as I come

I tune the instrument here at the door,

And what I must do then, think now before.

—from Hymn to God my God, in my Sickness, by John Donne (1572–1631)8

On January 14, 2013, Dr. Hustad addressed the music faculty and students at Moody Bible Institute for what turned out to be his final time. He distributed a handout, which included his personal credo (see sidebar) and an outline of his lecture titled “Creation, Culture and Musica Mundana.”9 The lecture covered the biblical story of music from creation to the music of heaven, the history of church music from Greek culture through 19th-century Romanticism, and the history of Moody from the music promulgated by Moody’s founder, evangelist Dwight Lyman Moody (1837–1899) through the history of contemporary Christian music. He challenged the students (1) to use the hymnal, even in personal devotions; (2) to use all kinds of music; and (3) to use their education in music. He also reminded them that we are not called to be successful; rather we are called to be faithful. Finally, he left the following exhortations ringing in our ears: 

Worship God!

Teach what God taught!

Live out truth!

Sing to the glory of God!

Ruth Hustad died less than one month after her husband, on July 18, 2013. Their daughter Marcia reported that as her mother was saying goodbye to her father, she said, “Don’t walk too fast, darling…I’ll be right behind you.” The memorial service Mrs. Hustad had planned for Dr. Hustad was revised and became a double ceremony, celebrating both their lives. The service was held July 27, 2013, at Western Springs Baptist Church, the church where Billy Graham was pastor when he first became famous. Current members and alumni of the Moody Chorale sang at the service under the direction of longtime former conductor and faculty member emeritus Gerald H. Edmonds. Their repertoire included an excerpt from Brahms’s Requiem and an original anthem with both words and music by Hustad, “Prayer Before Singing,” which was published in the 1950’s (copyright 1959, Hope Publishing) and recorded by the Chorale. 

Notes

1. Hustad’s life and contributions to church music have been well documented by Rhonda S. (Rogers) Furr, especially (1) in her dissertation, Rhonda S. Rogers, “The Life and Work of Donald Paul Hustad,” DMA dissertation, The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, 1988; (2) in her article “Jubilate!—‘Shout for Joy!’ 70 Years in Church Music: Donald Hustad,” The Hymn, Vol. 47, No. 2 (April 1996); and (3) in her contributions to Jubilate, Amen!: A Festschrift in Honor of Donald Paul Hustad, Timothy W. Sharp & Paul Richardson, editors, Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2010 (see “Biography,” pages 23-55, and “Bibliography,” pages 57–103). 

Another good resource for information about Hustad is the Donald Paul Hustad Collection (SC 5585), Special Collection, Harwell G. Davis Library, Samford University, Birmingham, Alabama.

2. Hustad met Ruth McKeag on February 12, 1942, and they were married on November 28, 1942. They had three daughters and were married for over 70 years. Lorimer Memorial Baptist Church was at 73rd St. and St. Lawrence Avenue on Chicago’s south side. It later moved to Dolton, Illinois, and today is called New Community Church and includes two locations in Chicago’s suburbs, one in Dolton and the other in Park Forest.

3. During his last year at John Fletcher College, Hustad’s keyboard talent earned him his first church job at the First Methodist Church in Oskaloosa, Iowa, where he taught himself basic organ technique. Following graduation in 1940, he continued playing organ for another year when he worked at two churches in the Chicago area, filling in for the organist who was on leave at Ravenswood Methodist Church on Sunday mornings and assisting at the Christian Catholic Church (now Christ Community Church) in Zion, Illinois, on Sunday afternoons.

4. George Beverley Shea (1909–2013) was best known as a soloist who sang with Billy Graham’s Crusades, beginning in 1947. Shea died on April 16, 2013, at the age of 104, only a few months before Hustad died.

5. Hustad was also associated with other radio programs that originated in the Chicago area, most notably the American Broadcasting Radio network’s Club Time, a 15-minute weekly program of hymns, and the longtime popular radio series, Songs in the Night, for which Hustad played organ for two decades beginning in 1947. Songs in the Night began in 1943 and since 1968 has been produced and broadcast by the Moody Church, an organization separate from Moody Bible Institute (though named after the same 19th-century evangelist Dwight Lyman Moody) and also located in downtown Chicago.

6. It may be assumed that Hustad’s conducting of a nationally known choir, the Moody Chorale, and his outstanding improvisation skills made it possible for him to “bypass” course work in conducting and service playing, leaving his remaining studies in various areas of music literature, primarily choral and organ. His two doctoral research projects, both completed in 1963, were “A Study of Sacred Choral Music by Ralph Vaughan Williams” and “The Organ Music of Paul Hindemith.” Hindemith died in 1963, making Hustad’s project the first major document that covered the complete organ works of the composer.

7. Frank W. Van Dusen began teaching at Wheaton College in 1935; he also taught at the American Conservatory in Chicago.

8. This is the first strophe of six in Donne’s Hymn to God my God, in my Sickness. Some scholars suggest Donne wrote it when he was on his deathbed, 1630–1631. Others suggest it was written during a life-threatening illness in 1623.

9. Musica mundana means the “music of the spheres” or universal music, the music that occurred in God’s creation as differentiated from the music of heaven and its angels.

10. E-mail from Marcia Hustad, July 19, 2013.

11. Billy Graham returned to lead Western Springs Baptist Church’s 50th anniversary celebration in 1962. Don Hustad participated in organ dedications at this church in 1962 and again in 1980.

In the wind. . . .

John Bishop
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Why it matters.

An hour ago, I finished my last “Christmas” tuning. It’s been a fun season involving lots of organs—some wonderful, and some a little less wonderful. I started tuning organs in Boston in 1984 when I joined Angerstein & Associates after returning from almost ten years in northern Ohio that included my years as a student at Oberlin, my first marriage, a long stint as director of music at a large Presbyterian church in Cleveland, and my terrific apprenticeship and friendship with Jan G. P. Leek. I still tune quite a few of the organs I first saw when working for Dan Angerstein in 1984—organs that were nearly new then and that have lots of miles on them now. In those churches I’ve outlasted as many as ten organists, five pastors, and who knows how many sextons.

It’s fun to return to these places several times each year, visiting the old friends who work in the buildings and monitoring the condition of the organs. Many of my tuning clients couple with a particular restaurant or sandwich shop. We were disappointed a couple weeks ago in Newburyport, Massachusetts, to see that the favorite sandwich shop near the church had been torn down. A sign indicates that they’ll reopen in a new building in the spring, but I think it will take twenty years to get the place seasoned so things taste right.

I’ve been fortunate over the years to be associated with some very special organs—special because of their size, their musical beauty, or their historical significance. It’s exciting to tune an organ that was played by Marcel Dupré, Lynnwood Farnam, or Pierre Cochereau. And I’ve had the thrill of preparing organs for concerts by such giants as Simon Preston, Madame Duruflé, Catharine Crozier, and Daniel Roth. You sit in the audience waiting for the artist to play that C# in the Swell Clarion you had so much trouble with two hours ago. Hold on, baby, hold on!

Of course, most of those experiences happen in big city churches with rich histories, fabulous artwork, heavy tourist traffic, and outstanding musicians. I’ve always felt it’s a special privilege to work behind the scenes in those monumental places, surrounded by all that heritage. But let’s not forget the importance of the small church with the seemingly inconsequential organ. 

Yesterday, I tuned one of the older Möller unit organs known as The Portable Organ. The opus list of M. P. Möller includes something like 13,500 organs, and while we know plenty of big distinguished instruments built by that firm, by far the most of them were these tiny workhorse organs with two, three, or four ranks. They built them by the thousand, and you find them everywhere. Maybe you’re familiar with the newer Artiste models that have a detached console, and one or two, or even three eight-by-eight-by-four foot cases stuffed full of pipes like a game of Tetris. The model I’m referring to predates that—they were popular in the 1940s, had attached keyboards, and usually three ranks, Spitz Principal (they called them Diapason Conique—oo-la-la), Gedeckt, and Salicional. The ranks were spread around through unit borrowing, each rank playing at multiple pitches, and there were compound stops such as “Quintadena” which combined the Gedeckt at 8 and the Salicional at 223.

The particular instrument I tuned yesterday was originally in a Lutheran church in Bronx, New York. As that parish dissolved a few years ago, the Organ Clearing House moved the organ to another Lutheran church in Queens. There was no budget for renovation, so we simply assembled it, coaxed all the notes to work, gave the case a treatment of lemon oil, and off we went. It had been a year since the last tuning, and it was fun to find that all the notes were working, the tuning had held nicely, and the organ sounded nice. I spent less than an hour tuning the three ranks, chatting with the pastor, and cleaning the keyboards.

When I got home this afternoon, I had a quick lunch and took a look at Facebook to be sure everyone out there was behaving. I was touched to see a post by colleague Michael Morris who works for Parkey OrganBuilders in the Atlanta area. He had just tuned another copy of the same Möller organ and wrote this:

 

It’s not always the quality of the instrument that makes a tuning job enjoyable. For some years now, my last regularly scheduled tuning has been in Georgia’s old capital of Milledgeville. It’s usually a pleasant drive through farm country to get to the antebellum Sacred Heart Church.

This was Flannery O’Connor’s parish, the center of her spiritual life and an influence in her writing. In 1945 Möller delivered a three-rank unit organ and placed it in the heart-pine gallery. It’s not a distinguished instrument, but it’s always easy to tune and I enjoy the thought that this instrument was part of the fabric of her life.

I’m always done just before the parishioners start the Rosary before noon Mass. I have lunch at a Mexican restaurant, then drive back to Atlanta knowing I have put another tuning season behind me.

 

Nice work, Michael. 

Flannery O’Connor (1925–64) was a devout Roman Catholic. After earning a master’s degree at the University of Iowa, she lived in Ridgefield, Connecticut, with classics translator Robert Fitzgerald and his wife, Sally. In 1952, O’Connor was diagnosed with lupus (from which her father died in 1941) and returned to her childhood home, Andalusia Farm in Milledgeville, Georgia. 

Her writing is spiritual, reflecting the theory that God is present throughout the created world, and including intense reflections on ethics and morality. The modest little organ in Sacred Heart Church in Milledgeville was present for her whenever she worshipped. On such a personal level, that three-rank organ is every bit as important as the mighty 240-rank Aeolian-Skinner at The First Church of Christ, Scientist, in Boston or the iconic Cavaillé-Coll at Saint-Sulpice in Paris.

How did you get started?

After his ordination as an Episcopal priest, my father was rector of a small church in Somerville, Massachusetts. Subsequently, he was the first rector of a new parish in Westwood, Massachusetts, starting there when it was formed as a mission. I was two years old when we moved into the rectory next to the church building. The church building was designed as a very simple structure, sort of an A-frame with a linoleum floor. It was furnished with folding chairs, so the single room could be used for worship, dinners, and all sorts of other things. A few years later, the planned second phase was executed. An adjoining parish hall was built, and the original building was turned into a proper church with towers, stained glass, pews, and a rear gallery for organ and choir. The organ was also planned in stages. It was one of the first instruments built by Charles Fisk, back in the days when he was of the Andover Organ Company. It had six stops, mechanical action, and a detached-reversed console, all mounted on a six-inch-high platform down front. Get it? It was the console and Rückpositiv of an organ that could be expanded to include two manuals and pedal. When the second phase was under construction, there was a moment when the roof was off—and that’s the moment they moved the organ. They lifted the whole thing with a crane, pipes and all, and placed it in the new balcony. I would have a fit if someone did that with one of my organs today, but seeing that organ hanging from the hook of the crane is one of my earliest pipe organ memories. It was more than twenty years before the second case containing Great and Pedal was built.

When I was ten, we moved to Winchester, Massachusetts, where Dad became rector of the Parish of the Epiphany, home to an Ernest M. Skinner organ built in 1904 (Wow! That’s an early one.), during the time when Robert Hope-Jones was working with Mr. Skinner. I started taking organ lessons a couple years after we got there and was quickly aware that the organ was on its last legs. I didn’t play the Skinner organ much, because less than a year after I started taking lessons, I was playing for money at other churches. That organ was replaced by a twelve-stop Fisk in 1974, their Opus 65. Six additional stops that were “prepared for” were added in 1983. The on-site installation of those stops was under way when Charles Fisk passed away. A 16 Open Wood was added in 2012.

My organ lessons continued a few blocks away at the First Congregational Church in Winchester, home to Fisk’s Opus 50.1 During my high school years, I was assistant organist to George Bozeman at the First Congregational Church in neighboring Woburn, Massachusetts, where I played on the fabulous 1860 three-manual E. & G. G. Hook organ, which at 156 years old is still one of the very few remaining pre-Civil War three-manual Hooks. I didn’t know how lucky I was until I got to Oberlin a few years later and started hearing about the organs my classmates got started on.

All my college buddies were terrific organists, but I learned that some of them had never played a pipe organ before their audition at Oberlin. And while I had free access to those glorious organs by Fisk and Hook, some had only ever played on modest electro-pneumatic unit organs. The first time I played a tiny electro-pneumatic pipe organ was in a practice room at Oberlin! But thinking back and knowing that all of them were wonderful organists when they were in high school, I’m sure that thousands of parishioners in those few dozen churches were moved and excited to hear such young people play those organs so beautifully.

 

A matter of scale

Many composers and musicians consider the string quartet one of the purest forms of music-making. The composer working with four musicians and four independent parts is writing intimately and minimally. Each measure, each individual chord is specially voiced and tuned for the moment. There is no blurring of the edges; everything is exposed. Compare that to a symphony orchestra with twenty first violins. Conductors are fond of saying that an instrumental or choral ensemble is only as strong as its weakest member. I’ve always thought that was baloney. It’s a great cheerleading sentiment, but it seems to me that in a twenty-member violin section, the stronger players inspire and encourage their colleagues, helping them to achieve new heights. I’ve led volunteer church choirs whose collective ability far outshone the individual skills and musicianship of the weakest member.

We can draw an analogy with pipe organs. A tiny chamber organ with four or five stops is every bit as beautiful as a big-city monster with two hundred ranks. It’s almost unbelievable that both are called by the same name. When you’re playing a chamber organ, you listen to the speech of each individual pipe, but when you’re whipping through a big toccata with a hundred stops drawn, each four-part chord involves four hundred pipes. There might be an individual stinker in the Swell Clarion (remember, the pipe I was having trouble with), or a zinger in a Mixture that stands out in the crowd, but otherwise, you’re really not listening to individual pipes any more than you single out an individual violist in a Brahms symphony.

If we agree that a tiny chamber organ and a swashbuckling cathedral job are both beautiful organs, we should also agree that they serve different purposes and support different literature. I suppose we should allow that it’s likely to be more effective to play Sweelinck on a hundred stops than Widor on five. But we’re lucky that we still have organs that Sweelinck knew, so we can imagine and even reconstruct how his playing sounded. I don’t know if Widor had much opportunity to hear others play his music, but I bet he wouldn’t have liked hearing “that Toccata” on a small two-manual organ in a two-hundred-seat church.

 

Will it play in Milledgeville?

I’m sure my colleague Michael Morris did a lovely job tuning that little Möller organ. I assume, or I hope that some caring person will be playing lovely music and our favorite Christmas carols on the organ in the next few days. Maybe the congregation will sing “Silent Night” while holding candles, lighting that simple sanctuary with magical twinkling. Maybe that lovely effect will make people’s eyes go moist. Families will go home after Mass, whistling and humming those familiar tunes.

We know that Flannery O’Connor worshipped in that church during bleak moments in her life. There was that first Christmas after she was diagnosed with the disease that killed her father. There was that last Christmas before she died, when she must have been in terrible pain. But there was that organist doing that special thing that adds so much to worship at any time, and on any scale. And the organ was in tune.

One more thing . . . 

I’ve tuned around forty organs in the last month. Some days it seems that all I do is carry my tools back and forth to the car. I’ve seen a ton of Christmas decorations—some gorgeous, and some horribly tacky. The brightly colored life-sized inflatable plastic Nativity scene was the nadir. I expect there will be some snickering going on there on Christmas Eve.

The sacred spaces that are the most worshipful are almost always beautifully kept. There are no ragged stacks of last Sunday’s bulletin, no wastebaskets overflowing with Styrofoam coffee cups, and no inflatable Santas.

Wendy and I worship at Grace Church on lower Broadway in New York. It’s a beautiful Gothic-inspired building with magnificent stained-glass windows, elaborate carvings around the pulpit and choir stalls, a big, shiny brass eagle holding up the lectern, and a fabulous organ built recently by Taylor & Boody. John Boody has a degree in forestry and a special affinity for beautiful wood. I believe that Taylor & Boody is alone among American organbuilders in harvesting trees and milling and curing their own lumber. And the Grace Church organ sure looks it. Intricate enchanting grain patterns abound. The two facing organ cases and the massive freestanding console add their gleam to the place. It’s nice that I’ve never seen a stack of music on the console.

There are lots of organ consoles that look like the day after a fire at a Staples store. Everything from Post-it notes to rubber bands, from cough drops to hair brushes festoon the cabinet. The organ console is a worship space, especially when it’s visible from the pews. I know that the console at your church is your workspace. I know you have to view it and use it as a tool, a workbench—something like a cubicle. But you might think of creating a little bag that contains all your supplies, or installing a neat little hidden shelf to hold your hymnals. I bet your organbuilder would be happy to build you one. 

Please don’t let the state of your organ console intrude on someone’s worship. Every week you’re playing for people who are suffering, scared, sick, or worried. Be sure that everything you do is enhancing their experience of worship. That’s why we’re there. ν

 

Notes

1. On the Fisk website, this organ is referred to as Winchester Old and Opus 65 is Winchester New. Another similarly cute organ nickname belongs to the Bozeman-Gibson organ at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Brookline, Massachusetts—Orgel-brookline.

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