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In the wind...

John Bishop
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The Ugly Duckling”

I am a hopelessly besotted fan of Patrick O’Brien’s magnificent series of novels about the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. Through twenty-one novels, O’Brien carries his cast of characters from exuberant youth to deep old age, hardened by the experiences of more than twenty years at war. The main characters are “Lucky Jack” Aubrey and Stephen Maturin. We first meet Aubrey as an unruly lieutenant, who matures into one of the most illustrious post captains in the Navy. Captain Aubrey is impossibly unlucky and foolish when ashore, exposing himself to scams, cuckolding his superior officers, and occasionally winding up in prison for debt. When at sea, he is universally admired for his seamanship, leadership, intuition, courage, and cheerful demeanor.  

His close friend is Stephen Maturin, a complicated and curmudgeonly character, who is a physician and “natural philosopher” (biological researcher). When we meet him he is flat broke because his wealthy patient died, and a servant made off with all the money. But as the story progresses, we learn that he is not only widely recognized as a brilliant scientist, but is one of the most important members of the British Naval Intelligence Service. Stephen is responsible for much of Jack’s seagoing success as he cooks up secret missions, insisting that Jack sail as captain with him.

In the opening paragraphs of Master and Commander, the first novel in the series, Jack and Stephen meet at a concert, and the first days of their friendship are based on music, the one thing they have in common. Jack convinces Stephen to sail with him in his first command to serve as ship’s surgeon, allowing him to take advantage of world travel to fuel his scientific studies. 

Stephen plays the cello and spends a lot of time during long voyages, between battles, arranging various masterpieces for them to play together. Jack plays the violin, well enough that having received a “fortune in prize money” for capturing an enemy vessel, he indulges himself in the purchase of an Amati violin. (Stephen goes to the shop with him to offer his opinion about the instrument.)

They both play quite well for amateurs, often sharing a game of improvisation and finding relief in blasting through their favorite pieces, such as the “often played, yet ever fresh Corelli in C Major.” Night after night in the captain’s cabin, Aubrey’s steward, Preserved Killick, prepares toasted parmesan cheese in a silver chafing dish, complaining to his mate about the horrible noise of the tuning, “There they go again, screech, screech, scrape, scrape . . . and never a tune you could sing to, not if you were drunk as Davie’s sow . . . “

The musical subplot is always bubbling through this massive tale. It’s accurate and learned, and often very funny. One afternoon while in London, Jack takes refuge in a church where he is delighted to find that the organ is being played, but halfway through the piece, it whimpers to a stop mid-phrase and a surly teenager lurches out of the loft and onto the street. The priest who was playing comes down, apologizes for the sudden stop (the teenager was pumping the organ and the hour was up), and Jack compliments the beautiful playing, “Händel, wasn’t it?” The priest mentions that the organ was built by Father Willis. Jack offers to pump the organ himself so he can hear the end of the piece. As the music continues, Jack starts chuckling as he thinks, “it would be a pity to leave Händel (handle) up in the air for lack of wind.”

The many passages that describe the handling of those great nineteenth-century ships are equally colorful and accurate, making two passions of mine that are nurtured as I re-read these books.

Early on, Jack gets by on his innate seamanship alone, relying on others for the advanced mathematics necessary for navigation. But when Stephen is away on a mission and there’s no music, Jack listens in to the on-board schoolroom of his midshipmen (who are young teenagers), one of whom is so gifted that Jack is shamed into joining in. He is enchanted by spherical trigonometry (whatever that is!), and quickly adds deep scientific skills to his toolbox. That student, whose first name is Richard, is “horribly disfigured” by acne and is given the nickname of Spotted Dick, which is a dessert dish of custard and currants, popular among the officers.

Several novels later we meet up with Spotted Dick again, acne long past, who has matured into a “seagoing Apollo, perfectly unaware of his beauty.” He is serving as flag lieutenant under Admiral William Pellew, also a musician who “never sailed with anything less than a clavichord,” and “required his steward to take tuning lessons” in a long series of unlikely foreign ports, and who was known for “his appreciation of beautiful young men.”

The transformation from “Spotted Dick” to “A Seagoing Apollo” reminds me of Hans Christian Andersen’s tale, The Ugly Duckling, in which all the farmyard creatures make fun of the clumsy, unsightly little black bird and receive their comeuppance when he matures into a beautiful swan.

 

There’s no such thing as bad publicity.

Over the years working in the organ business, I’ve enjoyed it when our projects have attracted the attention of the local press. When a little weekly country newspaper gets wind of an organ project in a church, they show up flannel-shirted with camera hanging from a strap and ask ridiculous, ubiquitous questions. As we answer, we can tell that they don’t understand what we’re talking about, and invariably, when the story is published it’s full of inaccuracies. I remember a front-page photo of my teenaged self proudly holding up a stenciled façade pipe, bearing the caption, “Organbuilder John Bishop voices an organ pipe.” That made two promotions for me—to organbuilder and voicer—and my co-workers bowed and scraped appropriately, tongue in cheek, dope-slaps included.

As I grew into my newly acquired “in name only” skills (I’m still not much of a voicer—I rely on my smarter colleagues for that), I learned to understand that the pipe organ is an arcane subject. I received an important lesson from a member of a church where the Organ Clearing House was delivering a rebuilt organ. We had organized an “Open House” in the nave of the church the evening after unloading the truck. Some fifty people showed up, and I walked about through the heaps of bewildering parts, picking things up and explaining their purpose, trying to give the group a general idea of the assortment of components it takes to make up a working pipe organ. One gentleman spoke up, saying that now he understood why it all cost so much.

When an organbuilder is selling or planning a project with a committee of a client church, he may be the only person in the room who understands the subject. Through those experiences, I realize what a responsibility it is to carry the trust of the client, who nods his head, signs the contract, and hopes for the best.

I often hear comments from parishioners indicating that it had never occurred to them that the organ was separate from the building, that it required maintenance, and was in any way sensitive to what goes on around it. How often have we finished a project, only to learn that the floors of the church would be sanded and refinished the next month? How could that have failed to come up as we neared the end of the project, BEFORE we put the reeds in?

 

A shuttered view

It’s easy enough to understand innocent ignorance regarding the organ as a musical instrument, but it troubles me to realize that more than a few prominent symphony conductors consider the pipe organ to be expressionless. I think this notion comes from the concept that a violinist, clarinetist, or trumpeter can alter the volume and timbre within the duration of a note, while a single organ pipe can only play a single note at a single volume level. Also, the classical idea of terraced dynamics, which has played such an important role in our study of historically informed performance, enforces the idea of the uninitiated that the pipe organ is unexpressive. 

These are simplistic views. Organists know that expression comes from the manipulation of stops and shutters. It’s a physical and mechanical fact that any accent, crescendo or decrescendo, “soloed out” melody, change of timbre—in short, any alteration of dynamics at all—is accomplished by the organist manipulating “the machine” by pushing buttons, operating pedals, drawing stops, each motion in addition to the simple playing of notes. The uninitiated may focus on the machine, but the effect is all art.

The apparent ugly duckling blossoms into the dramatic and beautiful expressive instrument.

I believe that the modern pipe organ, with its sophisticated combination actions and efficient and effective expression enclosures, is the most expressive of musical instruments. The skillful organist can take the listener smoothly from a distant whisper to a heroic roar in a few seconds—and today’s large instruments have a greater dynamic range than a full symphony orchestra.

There’s an apocryphal story that I believe is true about the first rehearsal of the Dallas Symphony Orchestra with the brand-new Fisk organ in the Meyerson Center. The orchestra was preparing (of course) Camille Saint-Saëns’ Organ Symphony. When the last movement started with the monumental C-major chord from the organ, a trombone player raised a white flag with his slide.

The Meyerson Fisk is a landmark in my opinion, as it was the first of a new wave of brilliant concert instruments with tracker key action. 

And let’s not forget that early in the twentieth century, a tribe of brilliant concert organists, many of whom as municipal organists were city employees, played with just as a great a dynamic and expressive range, as they explored the extraordinary, newly conceived electro-pneumatic instruments being produced by such innovators as Ernest Skinner.

Perhaps twenty years ago, I was having a conversation with organ historian and consultant Barbara Owen, during which she asserted, “We need to get the organ out of the church.” At first I thought that was ridiculous. After all, without the long illustrious history of the organ in church, we wouldn’t have the pipe organ today. But reflecting on the (let’s face it) diminishing role of organized religion in American society, it’s true that if we would only find organs in churches, most people would never hear an organ.

 

How ordinawy

So says Madeline Kahn as Lily von Shtupp as she receives a gift of flowers in Mel Brooks’s zany 1974 movie, Blazing Saddles.

When we think of the pipe organ, we might be thinking of the grand and glorious instruments that knock our socks off in church and in the concert hall. But we have to admit that for every inspiring and beautiful organ, there are at least two dowdy old tubs lurking in dusty balconies. Through decades of working in and around organs, I’ve been aware that thousands of people think of the organ as a wheezy, murky thing that utters incomprehensible sounds at unexpected moments. (I suppose that some of this may be operator error.)

I’ve written many times that it was the corporate assessment of these dull cousins that inspired the revival of classic styles of organbuilding that ultimately led to the further revival of interest in the spectacular electro-pneumatic instruments that dominated the early twentieth-century. Many people defined this movement as “organ wars,” known as the battle between electric and mechanical actions. But it was deeper than that—I think it was the battle between good and bad organs. Something had to be done in response to the content-lacking factory-produced organs of post-World War II America. 

There’s that ugly duckling again.

 

The best of both worlds

Last Thursday night, one of Wendy’s clients treated us to fancy “down front” seats at Paul Winter’s “Winter Solstice Celebration.” The venue was New York’s Cathedral of St. John the Divine, affectionately known as St. John the Unfinished. It’s a grand Gothic structure on Amsterdam Avenue, unfinished as the West End façade and towers are not complete, transepts haven’t been built, and interior stonework is incomplete. We understand that it will remain in this state of perpetual incompletion. The six-hundred-foot-long interior is breathtaking, and it has all the functions, chapels, and memorial spaces needed for majestic worship and pageant. As an unfinished edifice, it’s a metaphor for Work in Progress, symbolizing the state of religious celebration and thought.

I am well aware that many colleagues disagree with the frequent secular use of that most grand of sacred spaces. Since the twelfth century, worshippers have been building Gothic spaces out of stone—spaces that are so lofty and massive as to be inspirations to us before the introduction of any content, whether religious or secular. The Episcopal Diocese of New York has condoned and promoted the liberal use of its landmark space for decades.

On August 7, 1974, Philippe Petit surreptitiously strung a high-wire between the two towers of New York’s World Trade Center and famously spent forty-five minutes walking back and forth, saluting, kneeling, even lying on the wire. New Yorkers were transfixed and the police were baffled by the spectacle. That incredible feat and the years of planning that preceded it are documented in the award-winning documentary film, Man on Wire. To commemorate that singular public expression of self-confidence, theater, and the human spirit, the Cathedral of St. John the Divine includes Petit on a long list of Artists in Residence and has installed permanent fittings in the fabric of the building that allow him to hang a high-wire across the nave.

For thirty-five consecutive years, the cathedral has hosted the Paul Winter Consort’s celebration of the winter solstice. The heavily amplified instruments of the Consort (saxophones, oboe, cello, bass, keyboards, percussion) and the Latino night-club style of Puerto Rican headliner Danny Rivera are not the usual fare of Episcopal cathedrals, but the production standards, the choreography, and the iconography combined to provide a deeply moving spiritual experience.

We were especially moved by the depiction of the sunrise that ended the first half of the three-hour production. A procession down the length of the seemingly endless nave, up the steps to the chancel, and all the way to the great granite columns that define the apse was accompanied by brilliant music dominated by the sounds of more than a dozen great bronze gongs. Dramatic lighting and smoky effects focused on the distant front of the church as the sun, depicted as the mother of all gongs in polished, spotlighted brass, rose out the depths and ascended to a dizzying height. The thing must have been ten feet in diameter, big enough to look dramatic in that vast place. It was accompanied toward the heavens by a safety-harnessed “Gonger,” wielding a mallet of suitable heroic size in a slow rhythm that produced a crescendo of earth-shaking tones that echoed throughout the cathedral.

Wendy and I have visited the site of the quarry where those fifty-foot high columns were made on a specially built lathe. It’s in Maine on the island of Vinalhaven in Penobscot Bay. As the spectacle of the sunrise unfolded, I remembered that visit and marveled at the role those columns were playing in that glorious theater.

In 2008, Quimby Pipe Organs completed a comprehensive rebuilding and renovation of the cathedral’s great Skinner/Aeolian-Skinner organ. The Organ Clearing House was privileged to play a role in that herculean job, providing scaffolding and rigging and assisting the staff of QPO with the installation of the completed organ. It was a thrill for us to experience that building “up close and personal,” learning the legends of the place and experiencing the singular acoustics when the space was empty.

The organ was used heavily during the Paul Winter extravaganza, and I wept as we were enveloped by its gorgeous tones. The emotions generated by the scope of the sound were enhanced by memories of the spooky heights of the hoisting scaffolding, the difficulties of getting four semi-trailers full of organ parts into the hundred-feet-up organ chambers, and the incongruity of logistics meetings held while sitting in folding chairs surrounding the bronze medallion in the chancel floor.

Through the miracle of concert technology, the instrumentalists on the stage in the Great Crossing were effortlessly accompanied by the organ, more than a hundred feet away. I pointed out to our hosts that the organ was the only instrument that was not amplified, and while Paul Winter’s soprano saxophone was much nearer to us, and the speakers through which he played were almost directly in front of us, the organ was by far the more present—a triumph for acoustic music.

The majesty of the room, the creativity of the music and the production, the energy of the instrumentalists, singers, and dancers, and the enthusiasm of the vast audience (must have been over three thousand people) combined to create a beautiful artistic and spiritual experience. What’s wrong with that? 

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In the wind . . .

John Bishop
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Thar she blows!

I know I share with many organbuilders the sense that the organ is alive. Stand inside an organ chamber when the blower is off and all is silent—unliving. Turn on the blower. The reservoirs fill, the swell shutters give a little twitch, and the instrument seems to quiver expectantly, ready to sound. We normally don’t notice air. We don’t bump into it when we walk. We don’t feel its resistance when we gesture with our hands. But we do notice it when it’s in motion—we call that wind. Reflecting on the nature of wind, we typically refer to blowing wind, as in “it’s blowing a gale out there.” But a sailor knows that the effect is often just the opposite. If there’s a low pressure cell up north, all the high pressure air south of us rushes by to fill the gap. The wind is caused by air being drawn, not blown. Another interesting case is the classic sea breeze that occurs when coastal land is heated by the midday sun causing updrafts. You can’t have a vacuum without an enclosure, so when all that air rushes skyward, the cooler air over the water rushes ashore to take its place. Again, the wind is caused by air being drawn.
Wind n. 1a. Moving air, especially a natural and perceptible movement of air, parallel to or along the ground. b. A movement of air generated artificially, as by bellows or a fan . . .1 The organ is all about wind—air in motion. Because the organ and the piano have similar keyboards, many people assume that they are a lot alike. In fact, they could hardly be more different. The tone of the piano is created by a hammer striking a metal string. The vibration of the string creates the sound, the length and tension of the string determine the pitch, and the impact of the hammer causes the attack. The fact that a great pianist can produce cascades of notes without the sensation of hammering is at the heart of the art—the art of both the instrument and the player. I’ve often marveled during piano performances when a scale or arpeggio gives the impression of falling water rather than hundreds of hammers hitting strings. Here the art surpasses the mechanical—or the mechanical enables the art.
In nature, wind is caused by air being drawn. Of course, the wind in a pipe organ emanates from a blowing device, usually a rotary blower. But when I play, I think it’s fun to imagine the air as being drawn out from the top of the organ’s pipes, originating in my body, leaving my fingertips to make the sound. That imagined sensation is the heart of the player’s phrasing. Remember your teacher encouraging you to breathe with the music? Once again the art surpasses the mechanical. The huge mechanical entity that is the pipe organ in effect vanishes, leaving only the player and the sound of the music.
The sound of the organ is produced by columns of air vibrating in the organ’s pipes—or in the case of a reed stop, by the vibration of a brass reed or tongue. The physical production of those sounds is analogous to the flute whose sound is produced by the player blowing across an open hole (like the top of a bottle), or a clarinet whose sound is produced by the vibrating reed. Whether you are vibrating a column of air by splitting a sheet of air against the edge of a hole or with a vibrating tongue, you need air in motion to do it.
We measure organ air pressure in inches using a manometer. In its simplest form, a manometer is a U-shaped tube filled with water so the level of the water is even on both sides of the tube (gravity does a good job of leveling). When you apply air pressure to one end of the tube, the water in that end is blown down forcing the other side up and you use a ruler to measure the difference. If an organbuilder forgets to bring a manometer to a job, he can make one using flexible plastic tubing as found in a fish tank, a rough piece of wood, and a few staples.
The other measurement we take of organ air is volume—considered as a factor of an amount of air in a specified period of time. In the case of a pipe organ it’s meaningless to say, for example, 1,000 cubic feet of air, because when described that way our thousand cubic feet is sitting still and won’t make a peep. Instead we say 1,000 cubic feet per minute (CFM), which describes a volume of air in motion. And, 1,000 CFM doesn’t mean much unless you also assign a pressure value. So you might purchase an organ blower that can produce 2,000 CFM at 4? WP. That would be adequate for an organ of about 25 stops with low wind pressure. If you needed 2,000 CFM at 10? WP, you would need a more powerful blower. Some organbuilders use the term windsick to describe an instrument in which the wind supply is not adequate for the job. Now you’re an expert.
I’m inspired to write about organ air by the engraving that hangs over my desk. It’s reproduced from L’Art du Facteur d’Orgues, the 18th-century French treatise on organbuilding written and illustrated by the good monk Dom Bedos de Celles—it depicts a large organ in cross-section. On the left side of the image, which is the back of the organ, there is a young gentleman working a set of three large manually operated multi-fold bellows. He walks down the row, pushing down each lever, in turn raising each bellows. The bellows are connected together with a tripping mechanism—when one nears empty, the next one starts to fall, and the young gentleman circles back around to fill the first again. He’s wearing a jacket with some 20 buttons, breeches that buckle at the knee, and stockings that cover his calves from the top of his buckled shoes.
Back then you couldn’t play a note on an organ without someone to pump. I imagine that there were plenty of very bored organ-pumpers. But remembering that mechanical or electric organ blowers are essentially a 20th-century invention—how many of us would have volunteered hours to pump while Buxtehude, Bach, Mendelssohn, Franck, or Widor was practicing? Maybe rival organists tried to infiltrate “enemy” organ lofts by embedding their choir boys in the other’s pumping squad: “What’s that Bach up to this week?”
The great Cavaillé-Coll organ in the church of St. Sulpice in Paris was built in 1862. It has about 100 stops—a very large organ by modern standards and downright huge for the days of hand-pumped organs. Charles-Marie Widor’s tenure as organist there started in 1870 and ended with his retirement in 1934 (he was hired as a temporary fill-in and never given a permanent appointment!), so we can assume that there was a magical Sunday when Widor played the organ for the first time supported by an electric blower. That must have been liberating for the organist.
When organs were pumped by hand, organists were acutely aware of how much wind they were using. The more stops you drew, the more air you used and the faster the pumper had to work. Surely more than one young gentleman quit in protest. Think of Bach’s pumpers dealing with those huge arpeggiated diminished chords midway through the Toccata in D Minor that start with bottom D of the pedalboard, the third biggest wind-consuming note of the organ. Imagine the master playing those soon-to-be famous chords with arms outstretched and head thrown back, reveling in the sonic experience, while the pumpers raced from bellows to bellows, trying to keep up with the demand: “Nice work,” he said, “here’s an extra ducat for your trouble.”
I have had personal experience with this phenomenon. At the time I graduated from Oberlin College I was working with an organbuilder in Ohio named Jan Leek, a wonderful man who was trained in the Netherlands and who shared his wealth of knowledge and experience with me. We restored a 19th-century organ in a church in Bethlehem, Ohio—a project that included the restoration of the original hand-pumping equipment. Garth Peacock, a member of Oberlin’s organ faculty, played the dedication recital, which included some pieces and a hymn to be played with the organ pumped by hand—and I was the pumper. The pump handle stuck out of the right-hand side of the organ case where pumper and player could see each other. As we got into the hymn, Peacock caught my eye and winked. He drew stop after stop, filled in manual chords, then added doubling in the pedals, using all the wind he could, chuckling as I flailed the pump handle up and down. I know he did it on purpose.
My other favorite organ-pumping story happened after I completed the restoration of the 1868 E. & G. G. Hook organ (Opus 466) for the Follen Community Church in Lexington, Massachusetts. That project also included the restoration of the hand-pumping gear, and more than one parishioner felt clever commenting that the organ could be played even during a power failure. And sure enough, one of the first times the restored organ was played in concert there was a power failure and someone from the audience volunteered to go forth and pump.
Those who know me well—and probably some casual acquaintances—know that I love the epic series of novels about the brilliant captains of the Royal Navy in the early 19th century, especially captains Horatio Hornblower (written by C. S. Forester) and Jack Aubrey (written by Patrick O’Brian). Many a turnpike toll-taker has chuckled as my lowering car window emits a hearty “belay there” (audio books have accompanied me for tens of thousands of miles of pipe organ adventuring). Both epics are full of musical allusions, such as when Captain Hornblower rounds Cape Horn in a gale after lengthy adventures in the Pacific, and the groaning of the timbers of his ship Lydia “swelled into a volume of sound comparable to that of an organ in a church.”2
Captain Jack Aubrey, an accomplished amateur violinist as well as a brilliant fighting sea captain, shared hundreds of evenings making music with his closest friend, the equally able cellist and ship’s surgeon (and prolific intelligence agent) Stephen Maturin while traveling through 360º of longitude and twenty novels. Their evening concerts (typically enhanced with toasted cheese and marsala) pepper the active story with allegory while giving the reader a chance to understand the musical tastes of the day. It’s a delight to read how these determined warriors reveled in playing chamber music or improvising on favorite melodies as they sail around the world. On several occasions they discuss the effect of all that damp salt air on their instruments, and Jack Aubrey is smart enough to leave his precious Amati violin at home, distinguishing it from his seagoing fiddle.
In Post Captain, the second book of the series, Captain Aubrey returns to shore at a dramatic and complicated moment in his life. Heavily in debt, badly wounded after a violent sea battle, and thrilled with his new promotion to post-captain as a result of his victory, he is confined to the Duchy of the Savoy in London, a sanctuary where debtors were protected from arrest. After learning the boundaries of the Savoy from his innkeeper, he goes out walking:

Wandering out, he came to the back of the chapel: an organ was playing inside, a sweet, light-footed organ hunting a fugue through its charming complexities. He circled the railings to come to the door, but he had scarcely found it, opened it and settled himself in a pew before the whole elaborate structure collapsed in a dying wheeze and a thick boy crept from a hole under the loft and clashed down the aisle, whistling. It was a strong disappointment, the sudden breaking of a delightful tension, like being dismasted under full sail.
“What a disappointment, sir,” he said to the organist, who had emerged into the dim light. “I had so hoped you would bring it to a close.”
“Alas, I have no wind,” said the organist, an elderly parson. “That chuff lad has blown his hour, and no power on earth will keep him in. But I am glad you liked the organ—it is a Father Smith.3 A musician, sir?”
“Oh, the merest dilettante, sir; but I should be happy to blow for you, if you choose to go on. It would be a sad shame to leave Handel up in the air, for want of wind.”
“Should you, indeed? You are very good sir. Let me show you the handle—you understand these things, I am sure . . . ”
So Jack pumped and the music wound away and away, the separate strands following one another in baroque flights and twirls until at last they came together and ran to the final magnificence . . . ”4

The next day while writing a letter to Stephen to share the news of his promotion, Captain Aubrey recognized the depth of his humor:
. . . in the Savoy chapel I said the finest thing in my life. The parson was playing a Handel fugue, the organ-boy deserted his post, and I said “it would be a pity to leave Handel up in the air, for want of wind,” and blew for him. It was the wittiest thing! I did not smoke it entirely all at once, however, only after I had been pumping for some time; and then I could hardly keep from laughing aloud. It may be that post-captains are a very witty set of men, and that I am coming to it.5
That reminds me of E. Power Biggs’s quip after recording Handel’s organ concerti in the 1950s with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra on the instrument that Handel played in St. James’ Church, Great Packington, Warwickshire, when he recalled “handling the handle Handel handled.” I’m long-winded today. I’ve got lots more to say about organ wind, and I’m running out of space. So join me here next month for Thar she blows—some more.

In the wind...

John Bishop
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For the home that has everything

Many organists dream of having a pipe organ at home. It’s a great alternative to schlepping off to church to practice, especially if the church is far away, if it’s a busy building in which it’s hard to find quiet and privacy, or if the church is not heated during midweek and it’s simply too cold to sit in there for any length of time. Having worked with many clients as they purchase pipe organs for their homes, I’ve picked up some insight into what you might consider as you plan a purchase.

Pretty much every day I speak with someone about the cost of pipe organ projects, and I’ve found that the prices of new pianos can be a helpful comparison. I’ve downloaded an “Investment Brochure” from the website of Steinway & Sons that publishes the 2012 price of a new “Model B” (that’s the seven-footer) as $87,500, and the 2012 price of a new “Model D” (the nine-foot “concert grand”) as $137,400. If we round up a little to account for a couple additional years, we might say they’re at $90K and $140K. Not all of us can shell out that kind of money for a piano, but I think this is a good point of reference.

There are two basic and common types of residence pipe organs, two-manual tracker action “practice machines” with at least one voice for each keyboard, and two or three-manual electric or electro-pneumatic “unit” organs with a small number of ranks spread through switching to create a larger number of stops. The latter is typically less expensive, as engineering, construction, and materials are simpler and less expensive. But for the price of that Steinway “B” you can order a brand-new tracker-action practice organ with at least four independent stops. That’s enough organ for serious practice, and for “real” performances of organ music to add to your dinner parties.

I’m well aware of colleagues who have scored real bargains—hearing through the grapevine about an available instrument, and racing off in a rented truck to get it themselves. If you have basic mechanical skills, and if the organ is a good playable condition, you can be successful moving an organ yourself. There are even simple and inexpensive apps available that will help you tune your organ by watching a needle on the screen of your smart phone.

When planning to purchase a used car, many people arrange to take the car to their mechanic and ask him to assess it. You pay the usual hourly rate and receive a professional opinion as to whether it’s a good deal or not. Just because that gorgeous eighteen-year-old Jaguar looks like the car you’ve always dreamed of, you’ll be sorry if you find out the hard way that it has a fatal rust condition, or is running on only eleven cylinders.

In the same way, you can engage a professional organbuilder to give you advice about a purchase, to make suggestions about how to move it, to help you with the assembly at your home, and, I would add, ideally doing the tonal finishing and tuning for you. After all, those are specialized tasks and if you’ve never tuned an organ yourself, you’ll probably not achieve a really musical result.

 

What does it take?

Just this afternoon I received what I would call the most common type of inquiry regarding a residence organ: “I’ve always wanted to have an organ at home. Do you have anything that doesn’t need much work and doesn’t cost very much?”

I understand that personal budgets might be more limited than those of churches or other larger institutions. But if the price is your principal consideration, I doubt you have much chance for success. A fine pipe organ is a work of art, not a utilitarian machine. You should ask yourself what you hope to achieve. If you simply want two keyboards and pedal with sound coming from each key, you’ll be fine buying the cheapest thing out there. But consider these criteria:

1. If you’re serious about practicing, you should care about the “touch” of the keyboards. Some keyboards have simple spring actions that return the note just fine when you release, but have a dull, insensitive, mushy feel. That would hinder the development of the fine control of your technique. Your keyboards should have a precise clean feel, and if you’re going to develop your control, they must be regulated accurately, both in weight and contact point.

2. The response of windchest actions is just as important as that of the keyboards. Some electro-pneumatic and all-electric actions are sluggish, and while you might perceive that to be slow attack, it’s more common that it’s caused by slow release. A sluggish release hinders the repetition rate and produces a “gummy” feel. Also, some all-electric actions have a characteristic “bounce” on release that leads to actual repetition of a note on release. That will surely mess up your trills!

3. The stability of the wind supply is important to even playing. You may prefer winding that has some motion in it, but in tiny organs, this can be a real nuisance. If the original builder has squeezed a miniature wedge-bellows into the case, there might not be enough air to support the larger pipes. Also, in compact tracker organs, the scale of the windchest might be too small. If key channels and pallets are not adequate, the larger pipes in a stop will not get adequate wind, and you’ll be stuck waiting for them to speak. 

§

My colleague Amory Atkins and I are just back from a trip to Oregon and Idaho during which we finished the installation of two residence organs. The trip was quite an adventure for a couple of lifelong easterners, and while both locations were remote to the extreme, the two projects were very different. One of the organs is a two-manual tracker-action instrument built by Casavant in 1979, the other was built in 1964 by M. P. Möller—the nearly ubiquitous “Double Artiste.” Both organs came from churches for which they were too small, and both are now nicely ensconced in their new homes. And both clients are accomplished attorneys who elected to leave the big cities of California to live quietly in remote locations.

 

Chillin’ in Coolin

Robert Delsman recently completed building a beautifully appointed Craftsman-style house in Coolin, Idaho, located in the north-pointing “pan-handle” of the state, close to the border with Canada. We shipped the organ from New England in a rented truck. Roughly, the directions are to drive 2,800 miles west on Interstate 90 to Coeur d’Alene (Koor-dah-lane), Idaho, take a right, and drive north 150 miles. Once the organ was delivered, we flew back and forth from Spokane, Washington, which is less than two hours from Coolin by car. The town of Newport, Idaho, is between Spokane and Coolin, so it’s less than an hour’s drive to a real grocery store and the amenities of a mid-size town, but for real shopping, medical care, and other conveniences, Spokane is the nearest place. 

Wikipedia says that Coolin has about 210 residents. When I mentioned that to the proprietor of the Coolin Motel, he said, “Oh no, there aren’t that many people here.” Once you’re in the village, you drive twenty miles further north to get to Robert’s house. The twisting and pitching road is a nice drive in the summer time with plenty of sunlight and fragrant forest and mountain air, but when we were there last winter for the physical setup of the organ, there were two or three inches of hard ice on the road, giving us a difficult white-knuckle drive back and forth to town. Add to that excitement the large population of deer and elk, and you have a lot of chances to get in trouble. The local guys in the Moose Knuckle Bar and Grill told us that the spooky place with treacherous curves high above the surface of Priest Lake is actually the deepest place in the lake.

Robert’s house is on the shore of Priest Lake, with stunning views of forested mountains. It’s beautifully appointed inside with black walnut doors and alder paneling that would be the pride of any organbuilder, all held up by an internal timber frame complete with mortise-and-tenon joints, graceful curves, dovetails, and bow-tie shaped “keys” holding joints together. The organ is in the Great Room, with the console on a balcony facing the two-and-a-half story window overlooking the lake, and the two organ cabinets on nice perches on either side of the console. The blower, static reservoir, and power supply are located about twenty feet away in a lovely hardwood cabinet in the closet of Robert’s bedroom, with windlines laid down and cast into the cement slab that forms the second floor. It’s a beautiful installation, made classy by the skill of the architect and contractor.

The scheme of the Double Artiste is just what the name implies—two independent Möller Artistes, one for each keyboard, played from a two-manual console. Unlike most two-manual unit organs, the two divisions are discrete from each other, with the exception in this case that the Gemshorn of the Swell is also playable on the Great. The Great comprises a Diapason, Rohrflute, and a two-rank Mixture. The Gedeckt is extended to sixteen-foot pitch playable on both Great and Pedal, and each rank is playable at several pitches. The Swell comprises Gedeckt, Viola, Spitzflute, Gemshorn, and Trumpet. The Trumpet extends to 16-foot pitch playable on both Swell and Pedal and again, each rank is playable at several pitches.

Those organists toiling in the vineyards of symphonic music will benefit greatly from having two independent expression enclosures in their home practice organ.

 

Entering Enterprise

Stephen Adams lives in Enterprise, Oregon, the seat of Wallowa County. With over 1,900 residents, Enterprise is a much larger community than Coolin, but it’s more remote. It’s about a four-hour drive across prairie and ranch land from Spokane, and just as far from Boise, Idaho. Lewiston, Idaho, and Clarkston, Washington (get it, Lewis and Clark?) are on the Snake River just about halfway from Spokane to Enterprise, but that’s it. Leaving Lewiston on our way to Stephen’s house, we followed a nearly empty school bus on a forty-five minute route across that rugged terrain.

Stephen’s home is less than ten minutes outside town, but since the town is so remote, the place is in the middle of nowhere. It’s an old established farm/ranch with a Music House right by the gravel road, and the main house isolated by trees and landscape, up on a hillside remote from the road. The Casavant organ, with eleven stops and fourteen ranks, came from a closed Roman Catholic Church in Wyoming, Pennsylvania (near Scranton and Wilkes-Barre). It endured its own long ride on Route 90, and the ride from Lewiston to Enterprise includes a particularly challenging road from high elevations to river valleys including dramatic switchback curves and steep grades. Organ Clearing House drivers had a special challenge to “keep the shiny side up” that time.

The Music House was already home to two Steinway pianos. The Casavant organ replaces a unit organ by Balcom & Vaughan, completing the fleet for Stephen, who is, later in life, a very serious student of keyboard playing. He travels to the east coast for “binge” sessions of organ lessons, and practices many hours a day, working to satisfy a lifelong goal. He has a strong interest in the music of the Baroque era and earlier, and this fine tracker-action organ with precise, sensitive key action and sprightly voicing is just the ticket.

 

Be your own boss.

In 1987, I was working for Angerstein & Associates in Stoughton, Massachusetts. It was a nice place to work—a large, airy space with wood floors in an old mill building with lots of equipment. While I was there, we had a deep pit dug through the concrete floor of the large lower room, which increased the available height for erecting organs by about eight feet. It was an unusual setup in that you had to climb down to work on keydesk and ground-level action, but it was fun to “walk the plank” across from the main floor to the impost level of the organ. Loading pipes into an organ was a breeze.

We completed several fun projects in my three years there, and I have lasting friendships with co-workers, but the fun ended in 1987 when Daniel Angerstein accepted the appointment as tonal director for M. P. Möller, Inc., and decided to close the workshop. As I had been doing much of the organ maintenance work for the company, Daniel and I made a deal allowing me to continue that work as an independent organ builder. The service work continued without interruption for the clients, and I was off on my own.

§

Loyal readers of The Diapason will remember that I’m a fan of the genre of historical fiction involving the exploits of the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. My favorites are the epic tales by Patrick O’Brien known as the Aubrey/Maturin series comprising nineteen novels, and the eleven book series by C. S. Forrester known as the Hornblower novels. I love the accurate description of the techniques of handling and equipping those ships, and am fascinated by the deep character development possible in such extended stories.

I have all of them as audio books, and just as some people listen to the same recording of music repeatedly, I enjoy listening again, sometimes to a particular passage, sometimes through a whole series from beginning to end.

Forrester’s Captain Horatio Hornblower seems to be modeled after Lord Viscount Admiral Horatio Nelson, the heroic real-life officer responsible for Britain’s great naval victory at Trafalgar. Throughout the series, Hornblower struggles against his personal weaknesses, from seasickness (which affected Nelson horribly in real life) to fear and trepidation—all characteristics unbecoming a naval officer. As my relationship with Captain Hornblower has developed, I’ve singled out two contradictory quotations that define the responsibilities of authority, and by extension resonate deeply with me as a self-employed worker.

In one installment, Hornblower is in a French prison after his ship, The Sutherland, was defeated in a battle in which it had been outnumbered four-to-one by ships of the French navy. He imagined that he would be executed by Napoleon, and in the agony of this confinement he relives an earlier period of imprisonment that had occurred before he reached the rank of Captain: 

“In those days, too, he had never known the freedom of his own quarterdeck, and never tasted the unbounded liberty—the widest freedom on earth—of being a captain of a ship.”

At another moment in his career, he is thinking about his coxswain Brown (we never learn Brown’s first name). Hornblower admires and envies Brown for his powerful physique, his natural cheerfulness, and his unbridled courage—all attributes that Hornblower lacks. He reflects on the relative ease of the life of an ordinary sailor (tar, swab), who is subject to the absolute authority of his superiors, and “never knows the indignity of indecision.”

I’m amused and perhaps informed by the idea that serving as a naval captain, or being the owner of a business, is either an incredible freedom, or the road to ignominy. Truth is, it’s a mixture of the two, see-sawing from day to day and from project to project. What a ride. 

In the wind...

John Bishop
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Photos of cats

Read recently on Facebook:

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Innovation

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

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

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

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

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

 

Homogeneity

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Human resources

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

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

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

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

 

The comfort of commonality

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

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

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

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

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

 

The top of the world

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

 

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

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

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

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 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

In the wind . . .

John Bishop

John Bishop is executive director of the Organ Clearing House.

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It’s a colorful world
A couple years ago I was driving across Virginia to visit a church whose people were hoping to acquire a pipe organ. My destination was a tiny hamlet across the Rappahannock River from Tappahannock (nice ring to it). I left Richmond on Route 360, passing through Mechanicsville and Central Garage, Virginia. I drive a red SUV with Massachusetts plates, and I drive pretty fast (there are so many organs to sell!), and I think I brightened the day of the state trooper who showed up behind me, lights a-flashing. After he was so thoughtful as to award me with a little certificate, a memento of my visit to the Old Dominion State, I drove away reflecting that he must have thought me to be as stereotypical as I found him—a beefy, red-faced, tobacco-chewing, drawling Bubba in a Smokey-the-Bear hat, and a bearded, fast-talking Northerner (worse, an Easterner), in a big hurry in a bright red car. In this age of maturing political correctness we are cautioned about profiling—but I know that both of us were profiling that day.
Later that afternoon, after I met with the good people of the little church, I came back across the Rappahannock (a beautiful active river) and was disappointed to be joined by another vehicle with flashing lights. I was relieved of the temptation for further profiling when this time the Smokey-the-Bear hat was topping an attractive young woman with a star on her chest. (Wait a minute, I guess that noting that she was attractive gets me in more profiling trouble!) This was a much more pleasant encounter for me, but the result was the same—another little award requiring future attention. And by the way, after all that, no sale. Too bad, because I had just the organ for them.
Academia brings us two more conflicting stereotypes. There’s the absent-minded professor whose command of his subject is unassailable but who is otherwise so scattered-brained that he’s likely to forget to wear socks to class, and there’s the authoritarian, autocratic professor who terrifies his students into learning—they never forget what they’ve learned, but for years after they lie awake at night reliving the horror of being called upon in class. My mother tells of a family member, a distant cousin of several generations ago and Harvard professor of mathematics, whose speech pattern featured what we generally call a “Lazy-Ell.” He had an expensive gold pocket watch that hung on a gold chain from his vest pocket, and while lecturing it was his perpetual habit to twirl the watch vigorously around his fingers on the end of its chain. Predictably, the watch took flight one day, soaring across the classroom and smashing into pieces on the floor. The professor calmly said, “Gentlemen,” (profiling aside, there were only gentlemen studying mathematics at Harvard in those days) “that was an example of a puh-fect peh-wah-boh-wa.”1
As a student at Oberlin, I had both types of professors. The two extremes were a professor of physics and a professor of music theory. One memorable physics class had this teacher sharing thoughts about the transfer of energy from one mass to another. There was a golf ball on a little tee on the heavy desk in front of the class. He grabbed a five-iron, stepped up on a chair and climbed onto the desk (he did have socks on). As he nattered on about energy, he nonchalantly approached the golf ball, made a wicked back-swing, and took out the fluorescent light fixture over his head. He sure did transfer energy from the club, and I still wonder if he did it on purpose, exploiting the humor of the unexpected.
The music theory professor did have a funny side, but not if you were the one he was teasing. He was diminutive and elderly, completely bald, and sarcasm dripped from every word he said. My first encounter with him was the two-semester powerhouse, “An Introduction to Four-Part Harmony.” He was the author of the textbook and the course was an Oberlin institution. Without question, what I learned from him that year is still the foundation of my understanding of the structure and motion of music, but at what expense? Early in the course I figured I had it made when the professor announced that he thought organists were “theory-prone” because the bass-line of a piece of music drives the harmonies, and organists are all about bass lines. At the same time, this guy had it out for singers who he freely maintained were barely musicians. He started one class by attacking a tenor (who incidentally now has an impressive international career, appearing in all the great opera houses of Europe) whom he had seen in the library listening room with headphones on, accusing him of learning his scores from recorded performances. The poor kid was humiliated—I have no doubt that he remembers the incident more clearly than I do.
My triumph in that class came when he was returning a graded exam. A week before the exam, he had offered one point of extra credit for each composer’s life-span dates we could write down. I had the highest grade—95% for the exam plus forty-five composers. This runs in my family—my father can recite all forty-four American presidents both in chronological and alphabetical order.
I’ve never forgotten that comment about bass lines. Right now I’m listening to a recording of Widor’s Sixth Symphony played by André Isoir. What majesty comes from the bass line in the opening measures! And in that narky place where the main melody in the manuals is accompanied by bouncing octaves in the pedals, the bass line gives an entirely different feel. Think of the depictions of storms in romantic orchestral music (Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6, Rossini’s William Tell)—those thundering bass lines evoke visual images of boiling, murderous storm fronts rolling across the sky.
The power of the bass line was never clearer to me than when I played a recital with brass players from the Boston Symphony Orchestra at the First Church of Christ, Scientist (The Mother Church) in Boston. It was First Night, Boston’s fantastic city-wide New Year’s celebration. There were more than 2500 people in the church. The organ is by Aeolian-Skinner—it has more than 235 ranks, and I figured I was the king of the hill. But when Chester Schmitz first put his tuba to his face I knew I had a tiger by the tail. It was exhilarating to be riding in Chester’s bus. We played a predictable program of brass-’n-organ favorites (Fireworks, Voluntaries, Canzonas), and the wind was blowing in my hair the whole time. Chester could generate enough energy through his instrument to dwarf the thirty-horsepower blower of the mighty organ. His tone was clear and present, his intonation perfect, his sense of the motion of music breathtaking.

It takes four to play a trio
Small baroque ensembles are usually “music plus one.” A piece might be scored for two violins and “basso continuo”—the “basso” comprises a bass instrument (usually viola da gamba or violoncello, sometimes bassoon) and keyboard (usually harpsichord, sometimes organ). The keyboard player doubles the bass line and fills in harmony above. There are thousands of pieces like this—duets, trios, quintets—all with those elaborate bass lines, written by Corelli, Vivaldi, Tartini, Telemann, Bach, Handel, you name ’em.
Last night we went with friends to a small local jazz café to hear our friend Bert Seager play with his trio (piano, bass, drums). It was a shabby little room with a low ceiling on the ground floor of a strip-mall bank building, next door to a beauty salon—a far cry from the wedding-cake opulence of the Mother Church. The food was ordinary, the drinks okay (they didn’t have the bourbon I asked for), the music fantastic.
A trio like that has, in a sense, three bass instruments. In some jazz trios, the piano is primarily rhythm and accompaniment. In this piano trio, the instrument has many functions as soloist, accompanist, percussionist, and of course, lots of bass. The bass fiddle (mostly pizzicato) gives a rolling bass with lots of intervals filled in to become scales. And the drums (in this case played by an inventive young Peruvian) were a vibrant presence above, below, and through the music. I was struck by the functional similarities between this and the baroque basso continuo.
The work of these guys is nothing like the standard barroom Girl from Ipanema kind of jazz that accompanies the swilling of whiskey sours. Their music is unique, innovative, colorful, and poly-rhythmic. Though we’ve heard Bert play jazz standards in other venues, most of what they played last night was his original music. One started as a sort of 5/4 version of a Bach prelude (Well-Tempered Clavier), morphed into a complex driving thing in which each player had a significant solo, then returned to the relative simplicity of the beginning. You can find Bert’s music at <www.bertseager.com&gt;. The website opens with a perfectly beautiful classically inspired piece called Three Candles.

Color my world
If organists are theory-prone, they are also (or should be) color-prone. Our instruments offer us rich palettes of tonal color. Like a painter mixing colors to show the cathedral in fog or in sunshine, so we draw stops, figuratively mixing paints to anoint each piece with exactly the right hue. My experience as an organbuilder allows me to connect the physical shape, construction, and material of an organ pipe with its tone. I’ve created associations between the look of a Gemshorn pipe and the sound I hear from it, and I’m fascinated by how the slightest alteration of dimensions or metal thickness can alter that sound.
John Leek of Oberlin, Ohio, was my mentor in the craft of organbuilding. He also built wonderful harpsichords, and I recall my fascination when I realized how different the tone of a string could be depending on how far from the nut the plectra hit the string. (The nut is the wood rail attached to the pinblock that lifts the string away from the tuning pins—the other end of the speaking length of the string from the bridge, which is glued to the soundboard.) If the point of pluck was close to the nut the tone was more nasal, further away it would get rounder, fuller. (It’s awkward to describe tone colors, like arguing whether a certain wine is fruity or nutty.) In a harpsichord with two eight-foot “ranks,” the contrasting tone colors resulted from the fact that the rows of jacks were necessarily in different spots along the length of the strings.
Watch a guitarist carefully—watch his fingers on the strings go closer or further away from the bridge and hear how that affects the tone. Watch a cellist or violinist—again, the closer to the bridge, the more bright or nasal the tone.
Last night in the jazz café, I was mesmerized watching the drummer pulling different timbres from his instruments. It would be a sorry generalization to assume that each drum has one sound—smack it with a stick and sound comes out. But here those principles of tone production from harpsichord and violin strings were right in our faces. He could work a single snare drum with two sticks, moving from the center of the head to the edge, to the rim, to the hardware on the side, and draw out a rainbow of colors.
I noticed that one of his cymbals had three little holes drilled in it, seemingly in random locations, and wondered if they had to do with attempts to perfect its tone. Was there a nasty little zing to the sound that a skilled craftsman could eliminate by drilling a hole? And as he played on that cymbal I noticed how different the tone was at the center than at the edge. If he did a light roll starting in the middle and moving to the perimeter he produced a subtle kaleidoscope of tone.
The bassist gave a great account of himself—always rhythmic, always exploiting and driving the direction of the harmonies, often filling in intervals with colorful ruffles of notes, sometimes stepping forward to play and improvise on the melody. He would lean forward, seemingly embracing the instrument, to reach high notes and put his pizzi-fingers closer to the bridge. He would stand straight, throwing his head back to let free the full sound of instrument. And the three of them were in constant contact with each other, celebrating a sneaky unexpected move with a grin or a wink or showing a moment of disbelief as one took off toward new horizons.
All this talk of color reminds me of a brief scene in my favorite story, the twenty-one volume epic tale of Captain Jack Aubrey of the Royal Navy and his friend, ship’s surgeon and secret agent Stephen Maturin, written by Patrick O’Brian, a story that spans more than twenty years of the Napoleonic Wars. Jack plays the violin, Stephen the cello, and as they sail the oceans of the world they play their own versions of the great works of chamber music. In Post Captain, the second novel of the series, Jack has been injured in a battle and Stephen has prescribed some nasty medications. It was a stunning battle in which Jack’s ship roundly defeated a French squadron, and as a result Jack was promoted from Commander to Post Captain. Jack and Stephen had attended a party at the home of an Admiral whose wife (known to Jack as “Queenie,” a sort of nanny from his youth) was showing off a recently acquiring breezy, somewhat salacious painting of an “as of yet unrepented” Mary Magdalene:

[Jack] had gone to bed at nine, as soon as he had swallowed his bolus and his tankard of porter, and he had slept the clock round, a sleep full of diffused happiness and a longing to impart it—a longing too oppressed by languor to have any effect. Some exquisite dreams: the Magdalene in Queenie’s picture saying, “Why do not you tune your fiddle to orange-tawny, yellow, green, and this blue, instead of those old common notes?” It was so obvious: he and Stephen set to their tuning, the ’cello brown and full crimson, and they dashed away in colour alone—such colour!2

What a lovely image—perhaps for Jack the result of too much marsala, but for organists an inspiration to exploit the depths of the instrument. You will fill the seats at your recitals if the audience knows they can expect the unexpected. A little musical wink as a humorous note or two gets soloed out, a zig when it might have been a zag, a hint of the pompous, the shy, the frightened, the regal. Your scholarship is the foundation of your music-making, not its principal purpose. Organbuilders are on a constant quest to create the sounds, to squirt the paint from the tubes onto the palette—the organists draw those squirts of paint together, blending the colors, scooping them out of the organ case or chamber, and applying them to the canvas, which is the acoustics of the room and the ears of the listeners. Make the most of it.

 

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