In the Wind. . .

“It went zip when it moved and pop when it stopped. . . .”

In 1962 American songwriter and folksinger Tom Paxton wrote and recorded “The Marvelous Toy,” a nonsensical song with the catchy refrain that continued, “And ‘whirr’ when it stood still. I never knew just what it was, and I guess I never will.” As I was working out this essay in my mind’s ear, the song popped into my head, and I quickly found a raft of YouTube video performances including Tom Paxton himself singing with his grandson Sean Silvia, and the ubiquitous cover recording by Peter, Paul, and Mary released in 1969. The more you know about a machine, the easier it is to care for.

My colleague Amory and I were on the highway together—I was at the wheel, and Amory was half asleep in a highway-induced reverie when we passed a large truck whose trailer was a huge complex dedicated machine. Amory wondered half to himself, “What kind of machine are you?” I have always been fascinated by machines, what they do, how they work, and how to care for them.

I had a learning moment as a teenager mowing the lawn when the grass chute clogged. I stopped the engine, turned the mower over, cleared the clog, set it right side up, started it up, and continued mowing—for about thirty feet, when the three-and-a-half horsepower Briggs & Stratton engine stopped with a bang. While the mower was upside down, the motor oil ran out, and the engine ran about twelve seconds before it welded itself solid. It was like the proverbial customer in the auto parts store asking for a longer dipstick: “Mine doesn’t reach the oil anymore.” The other day, as Wendy and I were leaving our house in Maine to be gone for more than three weeks, I checked the oil in the backup generator and topped it off.

You are going to leave a parking space. You start your car’s engine, check the mirrors and back-up screen, put the transmission in reverse, and start the car moving backwards, steering so you wind up parallel with the curb. While you are still moving backward, you drop it into drive, the car gives a thud, and you start moving forward. At least that is what you do if you have no idea how the transmission (whether manual or automatic), universal joints, differential, crankshaft, and piston rods work. By changing the direction of your travel while the car is in motion, you have put excessive torque on all those critical parts and diminished the working life of your car’s drivetrain unnecessarily.

Try this: put the car in reverse, back out of the spot turning parallel to the curb, come to a complete stop as you move the gear shift to neutral, then shift into drive and start moving forward. No thud, no thump, no excessive torque, and you go merrily on your way.

Speaking of motor oil, I believe it is smart to let the engine run for thirty or forty seconds before you put the car in gear. When the engine is not running, all the oil is sitting in the oil pan at the bottom of the engine. When you start it, the oil pump pumps the oil to the top of the engine where the critical cams are opening and closing the intake and exhaust valves of the cylinders. If you put a load on the engine by moving the car before the oil is distributed throughout, you are adding unnecessary wear. Take a nice breath before you start rolling, and your camshaft will thank you. Have you ever noticed a light clattering sound just after starting the engine on a cold morning that goes away after a few seconds? That is the camshaft moving those valves, waiting for the oil to find its way to the top of the engine. I drive about 35,000 miles a year, and I have run six cars past 175,000 miles, three of those past 250,000.

After my parents retired to their home on Cape Cod, my tween-ish sons discovered that when you turned the faucets of the first-floor bathroom sink on, then off abruptly, you would get a loud clatter from the pipes within the walls. (I guess the plumber ran out of pipe clamps.) I told them how the rattling could lead to leaking joints hidden in the walls, but my mechanical wisdom fell on deaf ears. My older son Michael is as interested in all things mechanical as I am, and he grew into a career as a fabricator with superior welding skills and a vast knowledge of fasteners and connectors. He once described a project that required interior welding in eighth-inch stainless steel tubing. He reminisced about the banging of his grandparents’ plumbing, “We really were jerks, weren’t we?”

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Like millions of American children starting in 1969, my sons grew up watching Sesame Street, which included feature segments about how things are made. I remember a montage of scenes from a Crayola factory showing how crayons are made, but the real standout was filmed at the Teddie Peanut Butter factory in Everett, Massachusetts, and featured the 1920s-flapper-style song by Joe Raposo, It Takes a Lot of Little Nuts to Make a Jar of Peanut Butter. The video flips from one machine to another as peanuts are roasted, ground, “a little salt, a little sugar makes the goo taste really good and keeps it pumping through the pipeline like a peanut-butter-pumper should.”

How do they shell those billions of nuts for peanut butter, or those big jars of shelled pecans, walnuts, or heaven help us, Brazil nuts. It is a small triumph to free a Brazil nut or pecan with a standard-issue nutcracker without chipping or breaking it. Jasper Sanfilippo (1931–2020) worked in his father’s nut business from the age of nine until 1963 when his father passed away. Jasper had a degree in mechanical engineering, and he developed high-volume machines for shelling all varieties of nuts. His company acquired the Fisher nut brand in 1995, which quickly became the best-selling brand of shelled nuts in the United States. You can still see his name on the back of any Fisher nut package.

His nut fortune allowed him to pursue his passion for machines, especially automatic musical instruments along with steam engines and locomotives, gramophones, carousels, slot machines, and penny arcades. His grand house in Barrington Hills, Illinois, Place de la Musique, is still operated as a museum that is used for charitable events and, predictably, conventions of various organizations devoted to the pipe organ. There is an immense Wurlitzer theatre organ at the heart of the collection. I was particularly fascinated by the machines that played four violins simultaneously. The violins are mounted upside down and arranged like a compass—north, east, south, west—and a circular bow surrounds and plays all four instruments at once. There are dainty metal padded fingers to damp the strings along the necks, little mechanical marvels adjusted by fractions of millimeters for correct tuning of every note.

Console etiquette

If you are an organist for a church or university, you are likely to be responsible for the care of the organ, a complex and sophisticated machine that is subject to mechanical failures and sensitive to climate changes. If you know a little about how it works, you can protect it from unnecessary wear and tear, just like sparing the drivetrain in your car by not changing direction abruptly.

Years ago, I maintained a simple little organ in Lexington, Massachusetts, that was notorious for dead notes in the pedalboard. The organist was an elderly woman with luxurious long, thick gray hair who kept a hairbrush at the console, and part of our routine was to pull out the pedalboard and sweep up the great clumps of hair that were interfering with the contacts. We called it the hairball organ.

Do not wear street shoes when you are playing the organ. Gritty bits of sand and debris will wreck the hard finish on the pedal keys and gather as abrasives on contacts, felt bushings, springs, and guides. You might be tracking water, snow, or heaven help us, salt. If you have ever left salt in a silver salt cellar, you know how salt corrodes silver. If your pedalboard is less than thirty years old or has been rebuilt in that time frame, your pedal contacts are likely made of silver. Salt from your street shoes means dead notes.

Organists have asked me many times whether it is okay to stand on a pedalboard. Don’t. There are some obvious variables. An antique pedalboard is likely to be more delicate than a modern one. Some builders are known for producing especially sturdy pedalboards. In my experience Casavant gets the prize. Theirs are frightfully heavy and very robust. I am a heavy guy, and I am certain I could stand safely on a Casavant pedalboard. But my weight or yours standing directly on the pedal keys is far more downward force that we generate by simply playing, so we would be crushing the felt down-stops (ultimately increasing the travel of the pedal keys) and pushing the contacts or tracker action past their normal “on” position (ultimately spoiling their adjustment). And should you fall through, you will cause terrible damage requiring expensive repair.

I once commented to an organist about the big coffee cup sitting on the stopjamb while he practiced: “If that ever fell into the keyboards . . . .” I got a huffy reply, but a few days later it was a contrite phone call. The cup was full, and the coffee was sugary. The organ was in a big, busy church, and we did not want to miss a Sunday, so I took the keyboards to my workshop one at a time, took them all apart, cleaned everything, and replaced several octaves of guide-pin bushings. That was the end of the coffee cup habit.

Our furry friends

My mentor John Leek was a first-generation Dutch immigrant who was friends with a gaggle of guys who worked for Flentrop. When I was working with John in the 1970s and 1980s, we did a lot of work for Flentrop, especially installing new organs. Hans Steketee, then president of Flentrop, came to John’s place for dinner and a shop visit, and John and I showed him a half-dozen reservoirs that we were releathering, telling him that we did a lot of that kind of work. “What do you do, put mice in the organs?” he asked. Have you known an organist who might leave half a donut on a napkin on the console keytable? Rodents like donuts. Please do not bring food to the console.

When I was a teenager, I practiced in a church in Yarmouth Port, Massachusetts, on an organ built by William H. Clark in the Swedenborgian Church. There was a terrible bang from inside the organ late at night that had me jumping out of my proverbial skin. The minister had set a Havahart trap inside the organ and caught his raccoon. I wonder how many nights that raccoon was lurking inside the organ while I rattled away at the keys. The tracker action for the Pedal Bourdon went across the floor. I imagine that would have been like the Caribbean dancers who jump between pairs of poles rhythmically moving back and forth while being held close to the ground. I hope my teenage playing was rhythmic enough.

Keep your eyes open for signs of rodents in your organ. A particular favorite lair for little mousies is in between the keyboards of your organ’s console. Searching for a rattling sound in the keyboards, I have found messy trails and stashes of acorns on the keyboard behind the nameboard, another chance to imagine a manic dance for a little critter as the organist practices a wicked toccata. (Once when returning to our house in Maine after a while away, we found a stash of acorns in a pillowcase on our bed, a cozy but temporary home for a furry family.) Keyboard mice add to their comforts by harvesting the felt from capped pipes and keyboard bushings to make little multi-colored nests.

During a service call in Osterville, Massachusetts, a pipe was not speaking because there was an acorn inside it. There were well-marked trails through the organ, across windchests and across the tops of capped pipes (many of which were stripped of their black felt), and a mouse had dropped his acorn into the pipe. He was not complacent about his loss, going down to the rackboard and gnawing at the mouth of the pipe trying to free his nut, without success.

Aeolus, keeper of the winds

One of the most important tasks in caring for a pipe organ is lubricating the blower and keeping the blower room clean. In many churches, the blower is a heavy, dark monster lurking in a murky or dusty basement lair that is likely to be full of spider webs and the assorted creatures that maintain and frequent them.

It is best to keep the blower room clean, and you may be inspired to bring in a shop-vac, but I recommend a protocol for cleaning a blower room that ensures the blower will not blast loosened dust into the delicate mechanisms of the organ. You should leave this to your organ technician:

• Turn off the power to the blower to ensure it cannot be started during the process. There is typically a heavy cutout switch on the wall next to the blower.

• Seal the air intake of the blower with plastic and tape.

• Clean all the surfaces of the room with a vacuum cleaner. Use a bucket and mop on the floor. Use a cleaning agent with damp rags on the blower and ducts. (I like Simple Green.)

• Let the room sit idle for at least twenty-four hours to allow dust to settle.

• Clean the room again.

• Let the room sit idle for at least another twenty-four hours.

• Remove the plastic and tape from the blower air intake, being sure that no free dust enters the blower.

You can now start the blower, being sure that no dust is blown into the organ.

And most important:

Be sure that the organ is properly insured. The church’s insurance policies may be overseen by a parish administrator or a volunteer member of the property committee. Investigate whether the organ is clearly named in the policy. Many churches have a fine arts policy that covers musical instruments, stained glass windows, communion silver, and any other artwork that may be present. It is usual for an insurance carrier to require an assessment from a neutral pipe organ expert, someone other than your usual organ technician. The assessment and coverage should specifically be for the organ’s replacement value. In the case of a total loss, the organ could be replaced. In the case of partial loss due to fire, flood, vandalism, or even rodents, the insurance adjuster will negotiate with organbuilders and advisers to determine an appropriate settlement based on the replacement value.

The officers, organists, and members of many churches are blissfully unaware of the status of insurance coverage, leaving their organs at risk. It is the responsibility of organists and organ technicians to raise this issue.

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When I was a kid, the television had rabbit-ear antennae, often festooned with tinfoil, and when the reception was poor (it was always poor), we would slap the side of the machine as if that would knock those delicate vacuum tubes into submission. I have watched organists jab hard at intermittent piston buttons and stop controls, thinking that would get them to work, when in fact that was the cause of the fault. All our machines are the product of human ingenuity as applied to the laws of physics. There is no such thing as a machine that works better when treated roughly. Be gentle with your machines, and they will serve you well.

Out and about

After Christmas 2019 I retired from maintaining pipe organs. With some forty-five years of racing about twice a year to get to every client during “tuning season,” I was looking forward to sitting back, watching my friends and colleagues as they blasted about doing Easter and spring tunings, but as it turned out, no one was doing any tuning that spring. In March of 2020 the world as we knew it shut down, churches closed their doors, and organ tuners across the country stayed home.

My tuning and service career started when I was a student at Oberlin during the 1970s, as I was fortunate to work three days a week for John Leek. If you are a regular reader, you have read about John before. He was a first-generation Dutch immigrant who apprenticed in various workshops in the Netherlands starting when he was a child. He came to the United States in the early 1960s to work with Walter Holtkamp, Sr., whose reputation as an innovating organbuilder was widely known. While working on Holtkamp organs on the campus of Oberlin College, Leek saw that the school was advertising for a full-time organ curator. “That’s the job for me.”

He was still employed by Oberlin when I started working with him, but as he had developed a lively organ service trade outside of his work at the school, he soon left Oberlin and founded his eponymous company. I loved traveling around the area with him servicing organs from the start, going in and out of church and school buildings, working on a variety of instruments. Each client had distinct personalities, both personal and institutional. It was easy to tell if a place was well run or struggling, ambitious or complacent, progressive or conservative. There were people we looked forward to seeing and people we knew would be difficult. There were organs that were fun to work on, and a few that we dreaded. Some buildings were immaculately maintained, always neat and clean, and others were dirty, smelly, and cluttered.

I left John’s shop in 1984 with my wife and two toddlers to return to Boston where I grew up, joining the workshop of Daniel Angerstein & Associates in Stoughton, Massachusetts, and taking a position as music director at a lovely Congregational Church in Lynnfield, Massachusetts. In my first weeks with Angerstein, Dan and I went on service calls together so he could introduce me to the more complex and important instruments, and I was soon exploring my home territory with helpers from the workshop, learning the tricks and foibles of each instrument and client.

Dan closed his business in 1987 to become tonal director at M. P. Möller for what turned out to be Möller’s waning days—that venerable firm closed in 1993—and I took on Angerstein’s service clients as I formed the Bishop Organ Company. Over the years I think I serviced more than 300 different organs, some for short periods, some for well over thirty years, and I know there was a stretch in the 1990s when I had close to 100 clients at once. I had a group of wonderful helpers, three of whom I taught to tune and who were my pleasant travel companions as we rolled around New England.

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We worked on a wide range of organs, from the mighty 240-stop Aeolian-Skinner at The First Church of Christ, Scientist (The Mother Church), in Boston where we tuned once a week, to a three-stop positive organ by Bedient Pipe Organ. That Bedient organ is in Saint Mary of the Harbor Episcopal Church in Provincetown, Massachusetts, at the tip of Cape Cod. Provincetown is more than seventy-five miles from the Sagamore Bridge connecting Cape Cod to the mainland. It was seventy-five miles from the workshop to the bridge, so we would schedule another service call on the Cape to make the trip worthwhile. After all that driving, tuning that tiny organ was something of a lark. Once as we started that long drive home, my helper Mark was half asleep in the passenger seat, looking dreamily out the window. As we passed a car, I overheard him whimper softly to himself, “They have ice cream.” I took the hint, and we stopped at the next opportunity.

After his retirement, my father was interim rector at Saint Mary, and I played a short evensong recital on the organ. It was like riding a tricycle. The organ had been a gift from an elderly gay couple who had lived in Provincetown for decades who collected $30,000 worth of recyclable bottles and cans by rooting through the dumpsters behind restaurants and bars—600,000 bottles and cans.

I once got fired by a client after a long day of travel. When I was working with Angerstein, we did a renovation and expansion project on a small Hook & Hastings tracker organ on Martha’s Vineyard, a quaint but exclusive touristy island about forty-five minutes by ferry from Cape Cod in Massachusetts. Later, when I was working on my own, the organ ciphered on Good Friday, and I received a call from the organist informing me that Easter was the day-after-tomorrow. His panicky and self-centered demeanor was well remembered from the time of the renovation project. I was finished with my hundred-or-so tunings, and the program of Easter music at my church was ready to go, so on Holy Saturday I made the two-hour drive from home in North Reading, Massachusetts, to Woods Hole where you catch the ferry to the Vineyard. It takes most of an hour to get your car in line for the ferry, and it is a forty-five-minute trip across the water.

I got to the church around noon, opened the windchest bung board, found a pallet caught between two guide pins, pushed the pins apart with my fingers, closed the bung, checked the tuning of the Oboe, and drove back to the ferry terminal. The invoice I sent the next week reflected four hours of driving, four hours dealing with the ferry, the cost of mileage and ferry tickets, and my minimum hour-and-a-half service call. The organist was furious. “You were in the church for fifteen minutes and you’re charging me a thousand dollars? You’re never coming back here.” I would not have expected “I’m so grateful you could get here in time for Easter” from that guy.

I had another panicky call from an organist on a Saturday morning. A wedding was starting in an hour, and the organ would not play. When he turned on the switch, lights glowed, and he heard the blower, but no sound. The church was a half hour from home. By the time I arrived, there were limousines parked in front of the church, a bagpipe howling in front, and people pouring into the church. I raced up the stairs to the organ loft, verified that the organ was running, and the electric stop action was working. I went to the basement and found a card table sucked up against the blower intake. Easy fix. Here comes the bride.

John Leek and I worked for a Polish Catholic Church on the west side of Cleveland. At the end of each tuning day, we presented ourselves at the rectory where the pastor would ask what we like to drink, duck back inside, and return with bottles of booze and cash to pay for the tuning. It seemed like kind of a loose way to run a ship.

Gustatory tuning

When scheduling a slate of tunings, I kept two criteria in mind, geographic proximity and what would be for lunch. Some organs would command a full day a few times a year. On other days we might visit two, three, or even four organs. Wendy and I lived in the Charlestown Navy Yard for ten years, a neighborhood of Boston across the harbor from the city where our neighbor was the USS Constitution, the oldest commissioned warship in the United States Navy. The Episcopal church in Charlestown was a service client with a neat little two-manual tracker organ. The organist there was a pal who was happy to hold notes, so that church was often an easy fourth stop of the day, getting me home in time for cocktails.

We had pairs of churches close to each other, each pair associated with a nice place for lunch, and I scheduled things so we had a variety of lunches. You would not want to have Mexican food two days in a row. We had a nice range of cuisines including Vietnamese (Harvard Square), Chinese (Boston University), Mexican (Worcester and Quincy, Massachusetts), Thai (Back Bay, Boston), Italian (Newton, Massachusetts), fried seafood and clam chowder (Cape Cod)—you get the idea.

Several of the organists of churches where we tuned often joined us for lunch, allowing fun conversations about what was going on in each church. I paid attention to what music was out in the choir rooms, what music was piled around the organ console, and what notices were posted on bulletin boards, so I had a comprehensive working knowledge of dozens of church music programs, all of which informed my work at the church where I was music director (as well as organ tuner).

Watch your step.

If you are paying attention, maintaining a lot of instruments is an education in organ building. It is a delight to work on a well-designed, well-engineered, well-built, and well-voiced organ. How easy it is to move around inside an organ and how easy it is to reach things that will always need attention is an important reflection on the quality of an instrument. No church wants to hear that an ordinarily simple repair would involve a week of dismantling other parts of the organ to gain access to the offender.

I maintain an organ in a large, central building in New York, built by a widely known and respected builder, that includes a common brand of solid-state controls for switching and combination actions. I was dumbfounded when I realized that the “brain” of the system was installed inside the console in a way that the interchangeable circuit boards could not be removed, making normal maintenance impossible without removing the entire unit from the console and stressing the immense jumble of ribbon cables that connect it to the organ. That Medusa-like tangle made my blood run cold.

We like to see neat wiring on junction boards in an organ, every wire in its proper place, soldered evenly, tied and dressed so it will be easy to troubleshoot in the future. Sometimes we are confronted by tangled messes of wires that show no order or logic. The weight of cables is hanging directly from delicate contacts, odd wires are laced about, and there is no logic from one row of pins to another. You just know by taking a glance that the mess will be unreliable, and it is difficult, sometimes hopeless to dig down to find the wire in question.

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Organs enclosed in free-standing cases are often among the best built, but they can be difficult to service because one must reach everything from walkboards outside the back of the case. If there are seven or eight stops on the Great, that tin façade seems a mile away, and the treble pipes of the Principal down at rackboard level are often out of reach, especially if they are cone-tuned so you cannot use a long tuning iron. Staying with the Great as example, you might find three or even four reeds at the back of the windchest (16′ Trompette, 8′ Trompette, 8′ Vox Humana, 4′ Clarion), and two or three compound stops buried behind them (Mixture VI, Scharff IV, Sesquialter II). It is a stretch to reach over those hulking reeds to get to those tiny mixture trebles. As you get used to such an organ over the years, you realize which big reed pipes you can remove to gain the angles needed.

The lowest notes of the 8′ Gedeckt are probably tubed off the main chest and mounted on the case wall, but they are far away, and they can be especially tough to handle because if the pipe is sharp you must reach the pipe with two hands, one to hold the pipe and the other to move the cap higher on the pipe. Sometimes I asked a helper to hang on to my belt to keep me from falling into the pipes.

Ernest Skinner cared a lot about the serviceability of his organs. Stable ladders, ample walkboards between windchests, and sturdy tuning benches above the pipes make tuning comfortable and safe for both the tuner and the instrument. There are no surprises like treacherous spongy boards underfoot as you pass through the organ. We hope for this quality in any organ, but some are spooky. You must figure out what can bear your weight. A good rule for when you are walking somewhere in an organ where you have not walked before is do not put all your weight on anything without trying it gently first.

Over the years

Over years I learned the priorities and interests of the many organists I worked for. For one, I would always double check all the expression boxes, shutters, motors, and mechanisms, knowing that he used them constantly and considered them an important part of his playing. For another, it might be the trebles of the flutes, making sure that solo stops like orchestral reeds or harmonic flutes were in tune with each other, especially if there were antiphonal pairs of similar stops.

I learned the strengths and weaknesses of each organ, which reeds would need attention, the trebles of stopped wood flutes, keyboard contacts, and recalcitrant tremulants. I also learned which firms build organs that are reliable, easy to maintain, and, most important, beautiful. In my conversations with many organists, I learned what features of an organ made it most useful to the working musician, and how effectively it led the church’s music, especially congregational singing.

It is fun to reflect on how much easier that work is in the age of the mobile phone. Thirty years ago, while on the road doing service calls, I had to find pay phones to let people know if I was running late and to maintain my schedule. I had a memorized list of gas stations that had phone booths that were likely to be available. If I had to call a vendor with questions about the systems of an organ, I would ask in the church office if I could use the phone and sit facing away from the secretary so I could not see her angry glare when I had tied up the church’s only phone line for too long. Today you have your phone with you all the time (and it has a flashlight). If you are explaining something to a technician at Peterson Electro-Musical Products, Organ Supply Industries, or one of our other valued suppliers, you can snap a photo and send it instantly. What could be easier?

In several churches where I tuned for decades, I outlived generations of staff members and could be relied on to find a stepladder, to know where the controls for HVAC equipment were located, and how to program the electronic tower chimes. (I like to call them Bongatrons.) It is fun to think back on tens of thousands of miles driven, thousands of satisfying repairs—it is fun when you solve a knotty problem and get an organ back on its feet—endless conversations with musicians, clergy, and staff members. I had running jokes and teases with people I saw twice a year.

What an adventure, what a privilege, and what an education. Thanks for the great ride.

I remember when . . .

Leading up to Christmas of 2019, I decided to stop maintaining organs so I could concentrate more on the administration of the Organ Clearing House, especially the management of organ sales. I met with several colleagues asking if they would be able to take on more maintenance customers, and I wrote to my clients recommending those technicians for the care of the organs I thought they would be best suited for.

As the winter started winding down in early 2020, I was looking forward to missing the first holiday tuning season since I was a teenager, only to find that leading up to Easter of 2020, no one was tuning organs. Like pretty much everything else in our world, the whole business shut down as covid spread virulently around the world. 

No one has pronounced that the pandemic is over, and we are still hearing about spooky outbreaks, especially in big cities. But with a few reservations, life seems to have returned to something like normal. This past March, the organ tuners were out and about like never before, documenting each lapsed thermostat, each shallot-encased moth carcass, and each insistent vacuum cleaner on social media. I especially enjoy the posts of Richard Pelland, the prolific organ technician based in New Hampshire, who at my recommendation took on many of my former maintenance clients. His habit of posting videos of his assistant playing freshly tuned organs brings back memories of my mad dashes around the countryside, of the many lovely organs (and a few not so lovely), and of the satisfaction of completing a good tuning.

Would the average parishioner identify that great tuning as integral to the celebrations during Holy Week and Easter? Not likely. But they would go home after church with a tune in their head, and I always knew I was part of that. I believe that a well-tuned organ brings a smile or a raised eyebrow that sour notes cannot.

The body of Christ

Carolyn Manning of the Red River Organ Company in Norman, Oklahoma, posted a photo taken during an Easter tuning from high in the rear of the lofty sanctuary of the First United Methodist Church of Corpus Christi, Texas. The longest resonators of the Trompette-en-Chamade were visible in Carolyn’s photo, as was the console I helped build around 1986. I was working for Angerstein & Associates in Stoughton, Massachusetts, and we rebuilt and expanded the four-manual Reuter organ there. Dan Angerstein, a terrific voicer, was in the thrall of Aristide Cavaillé-Coll, and Lawrence, Kansas, became something close to Paris on Shoreline Boulevard in Corpus Christi, across the street from the Gulf of Mexico.

We did our best to reconstruct the classic shape of Cavaillé-Coll’s grand consoles. My shopmate, pal, and wicked wag Jack Carr built the cabinet, and I built the curved and terraced stop jambs and the four keyboards. I do not remember the exact dates, but I sure remember that the installation trip was in the heart of summer, a big deal for this life-long northerner. The church’s vacation bible school was going on while we were there, and I have a hilarious memory of the church’s organist, wearing a “coat of many colors,” having been put in charge of a live camel. This had not been his first choice, and he was not mincing words.

A local electrician was on the job with us, ostensibly helping identify the many cables running from the two organ chambers in the front of the church to the Antiphonal organ and the Trompette-en-Chamade. He was using live current to “ring out” the different cables. It turned out that there were speaker wires from the PA system in the same conduit that looked just like organ cables, and when he touched those with his hot wire, we heard such a sound. I am pretty sure that was the end of those speakers. The big reed had been given in memory of a young parishioner who was killed in Vietnam. The drawknob is engraved “Trompette Boyd.”

Our flight from Boston to Houston at the beginning of that installation was my first trip in first class. My coach seat had been double-booked with a guy who was refusing to move. I was rewarded for my ambivalence, and I took full advantage of the perks of first class even though it was a morning flight.

It was fun to see Carolyn’s post, reminding me of that job from so long ago. It’s nice to know that the organ is still being used and cared for.

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I do not have a tally of how many organs I have maintained, but I know it is in the hundreds. My tuning career started in Oberlin, Ohio, when I was working for John Leek. John was the organ and harpsichord technician for Oberlin’s Conservatory of Music and had a healthy side business of maintaining instruments in that general area. I worked with John part time and summers while I was student and shifted to full time after I graduated. During my junior year, John left the school to concentrate on his business. Altogether, I worked with John for about seven years, during which time we built several new harpsichords and two organs together. We renovated and releathered a small fleet of organs and went on hundreds of service calls together. We took care of organs in big city churches and in tiny hamlets far out in farm country. We covered an area from Toledo and Cincinnati to the west, to Erie and Pittsburgh to the east.

The biggest trip I took with John was to deliver a harpsichord we built for a woman in Oakland, California—she had been a student at Oberlin and admired John’s instruments. It was the summer after I graduated, and John proposed the trip to me saying it would take two weeks. I would not get paid (I suppose he was not getting paid either), but we would stay in nice hotels and eat in good restaurants. We would gamble in Reno, see the Golden Gate Bridge, and swim in the Pacific Ocean. Of course I’d go.

We loaded his butterscotch-colored Dodge van and headed west. It is about 2,500 miles from Oberlin to Oakland, and we drove 500 or 600 miles each day. We marveled at the open spaces, hunkered down under bridges to sit out thunderstorms, and drove all day from Salt Lake City with the mountains of Nevada dead ahead that never seemed to get closer until we reached them. When we stopped for gas after crossing into Nevada, I put a dime in a slot machine, received a little cascade in return, and was all ready for Reno. We stayed overnight in Elko, Nevada, and ate dinner in a Basque restaurant recommended by Oberlin voice professor Howard Hatton. And we got creamed in Reno. My meager cash supply disappeared, and John played a few hands of blackjack—it was remarkable how often the dealer got twenty-one.

Arriving in Oakland, we carried the harpsichord into the house, and unpacked and set it up. John tuned it and fiddled with the voicing. We went outside for a cigarette and were admonished by the client’s physician husband about the dangers of smoking. The next evening, he brought home a cancerous lung in a jar for our viewing pleasure.¹ That jaunt with John was the first of many cross-country trips I have made carting about instruments.

One summer, John and his wife Maria wanted to add a large screened porch to their house, and he flung the resources of his company at the job. He made a nice drawing of a post-and-beam structure, and off we went. There would be a lofty pitched ceiling, stained and varnished plywood wainscoting, and a floor of wide pine planks. We cut mortises and tenons on the machines in the workshop and assembled the frame and shingled the roof. We made screened frames to fill the window openings, and we painted everything. Painting the floor, I had my back to John, but heard a big increase in his industry. I turned to find him rushing to paint me into a corner.

John Leek passed away in the fall of 2019, and I drove to Oberlin for his funeral. It was wonderful to see Maria and their children Paula, James, and Peter. A week later, Maria wrote me a note thanking me for coming, which inspired another flood of nostalgia—her handwriting had been on my paychecks for seven years.

§

Dan Angerstein had a large stable of service clients, and when he closed his business in 1987 to become tonal director at M. P. Möller, I assumed most of those accounts—that was the foundation of the Bishop Organ Company located in North Reading and then Wakefield, Massachusetts. When I joined the Organ Clearing House in 2000, I continued the care of most of those organs as the BOC morphed into the OCH. By the time I stopped doing service work in early 2020, there were still seven organs I had been caring for since 1984—thirty-five years. There were six instruments built in the late 1980s whose care I assumed when they were new. I was the only technician to work on them for the first thirty-plus years.

Shortly after I started the Bishop Organ Company, I became curator of the huge Aeolian-Skinner organ (four manuals, 237 ranks) at The First Church of Christ, Scientist (the Mother Church) in Boston, and of the double Skinner/Aeolian-Skinner organs at Trinity Church on Copley Square. Jason McKown had cared for the Mother Church organ since its installation in 1952 and had worked for Trinity for over fifty years. He was in his mid-eighties when I met him, and he introduced me to many of his clients as he was finally ready to retire. Jason’s tenure at the Mother Church was extended so he would overlap with me for six months to show me the ropes of caring for such a large organ. We tuned there every Wednesday, and Jason’s countless stories were an important part of my education.

As a young man, Jason had worked personally with Ernest Skinner installing his Opus 692 at the West Medford Congregational Church in Medford, Massachusetts, in 1928 and had maintained it ever since. I worked there until 2009 when the church closed and the building was sold.2 Between us, Jason and I maintained that organ for eighty-one years.

Less is more.

When I mention Skinner Organ Company Opus 692 (1928) in West Medford, Massachusetts, I remember the pristine interior of the instrument. It was still playing on its original leather and had never been altered. This reminds me of another Skinner organ less than ten miles away that I have written about recently, Opus 459 (1924), which was sold through the Organ Clearing House to Galilee Church in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Both organs had been regularly maintained and well used, and neither show the familiar wear-and-tear damage of stretched tuning scrolls, out-of-round pipes, cotton balls left in mixture pipes, or spare wires looping about.

The only other century-old organs I have known in like-new condition are those in small remote churches that had never seen organ technicians. The organs might be full of spider webs and coal dust from obsolete heating systems, but the pipes and interior components could be straight from the factory. Ironically, organs that have never been maintained are the best candidates
for restoration.

I offer a challenge to all my colleague organ tuners and technicians. Leave each organ looking as though no one has been inside. Do not harm the organ in the interest of forcing it into tune. Do not leave little piles of your rubble. Do not leave obvious evidence of quick-and-dirty repairs. I know this is a tall order. I know that many churches are struggling financially and are unable to fund proper repairs. I am sure you will often have to take my admonition with a grain of salt, but I encourage you to respect the instruments you work on and the people who built them.

Those of you on social media, please keep sharing your experiences with the organs in your care. 

Retirement project

Retired organbuilder Gene Bedient has set about building a new two-manual tracker organ for his home and has documented the process intricately and intimately on Facebook. Starting with making open 8′ bass pipes from wood and progressing through building windchests, keyboards, actions, bench, and lately moving the completed base of the organ into the house with the help of neighbors, he has posted hundreds of photos with colorful descriptions of each step in the process. Every now and then, he posts a photo of the drawings so we have an idea of what the finished organ will look like. I recommend you follow Gene’s page and scroll through the last couple years of his documentation. This is a much more creative use of Facebook than photos of your cats or your savory breakfast.

Gene discusses the materials he is using, shows photos of complex gluing setups, and acknowledges the occasional need to “split the difference” to make something line up perfectly. His workshop is in the garage that adjoins the house, and while it is a tiny space and this is not the tiniest of residence organs, Gene’s photography provides a fascinating educational experience for anyone interested in how a pipe organ is built. I am eager to follow the continuation and culmination of this project.

As I write, I have been corresponding with Gene about his project, and he offers this statement about “Bedient Opus # Undecided”:

This home organ is for practice purposes and has only two stops—the lower manual, Principal 8, and the upper manual, Flute 4. Each manual couples to the Pedal. No manual to manual coupler. The lower manual is suspended action. The upper manual keyboard pivots in the center and pushes the top-of-grid pallets up to play, like the French Positif and Echo actions. It is the hope that two beautiful stops and two contrasting but light and responsive key actions will make the organ a pleasure to play.

Thank you, Gene, for sharing your exciting project so generously.

Notes

1. I stopped smoking two years later, on New Year’s Eve, 1981, when my first wife Pat was pregnant with our first child. Michael was born the following March into a smoke-free home.

2. I was in touch with the new owners of the building asking if they had plans for the organ. They replied that they did not plan to use it but did not want to remove anything original from the church building. I check in every now and again.

Passing eras

My mother’s grandmother died in Boston in 1959 when I was three years old. I have a dim memory of her and of sitting in the kitchen of her apartment in Boston’s Back Bay at the time of her death, where I was served Cheerios with blue milk, food coloring added by her maid. Granny Reynolds was born in 1867 and remembered her grandmother who was born in 1779. As I grew up, my grandfather made a point of reminding my parents and me of that to keep the milky memory alive. Now, in my early sixties in 2020, I can claim to remember a family member who remembers a family member born during the Revolutionary War. Mozart was twenty-three years old.

Jason McKown (1906–1989) was an old Skinner man. I met him in 1987 when I was engaged to care for the Skinner and Aeolian-Skinner organs at Trinity Church, Copley Square, in Boston (a few blocks from Granny Reynolds’s apartment), where Jason had been organ curator for fifty years. He was eighty-one years old and spry as a cat, easily negotiating the tall ladders and narrow walkboards, but he was eager to retire so he introduced me to another of his clients, The First Church of Christ, Scientist, in Boston, home to the monumental Aeolian-Skinner organ with over two-hundred-forty ranks.

Jason had been caring for that organ since it was installed in 1952, and in order to ensure a smooth transition after I was appointed, the church retained Jason for six months to help me learn the ropes. And some ropes they were. Forty-one ranks of reeds (including a full-length 32′ Kontrafagott and 51⁄3′ Quinte Trompette in the Swell), over a hundred ranks of mixtures (including some harmonic doozies with 7ths and 9ths), and nearly fifty independent ranks in the Pedal. It is a model of engineering, three stories tall and three chambers wide behind an acre of gold-leafed façade pipes. Jason patiently shared his approach to the instrument, its strengths and weaknesses, and the history of repairs and adjustments. We were together at the organ all day every Wednesday for those six months, with Jason leading me around as he offered his hints and insights. After more than sixty years as a tuner, he was an accomplished keyholder.

Shortly before I started at The Mother Church, Ronald Poll of Salt Lake City had been contracted to install a solid-state switching and combination action supplied by Solid State Logic. Ron was the brother of Robert Poll, curator of the huge Aeolian-Skinner organ at the Mormon Tabernacle, and had just completed a similar project there. As Ron started installing the hardware at the various switching stations throughout the organ, I was still maintaining the extensive electro-pneumatic electrical system for its last few months of operation, and I quickly became familiar with one of the weaknesses Jason had mentioned. The machine-formed silver contacts in the vertical gang switches were breaking and falling like pine needles in the forest. There were scores of those switches operating windchest cutouts, single ranks with independent actions, couplers, offset bass chests, and the scores of magical effects found in a huge organ.

When the contacts were manufactured, the bends were formed too crisply, and the wires broke at the bends, with new failures appearing every week. What happened when they fell? They got tangled in the contacts below them and caused cluster-ciphers of five or six notes, terrible interruptions to the marvelous playing of Dr. Thomas Richner, organist of the church, known to generations of students and admirers as Uncle T. “Peepee” (he called everyone Peepee), he’d say, “there’s a little problem in the Pedal Ophicleide.” Some little problem, when a half-dozen notes sounded as one in a stop like that! One afternoon, I was pointing out to Jason how the rows of transistors on the big switching panels compared to the rows of contacts I was so busy repairing. He shook his head and said quietly, “this is for you young guys.”

During those months, as Jason and I shared lunches and coffee breaks, he told stories from his past. He remembered seeing the 32′ Double Open Wood Diapason from the Hutchings organ in Boston’s Symphony Hall, across Massachusetts Avenue from The Mother Church, chain-sawed into pieces and stacked on the sidewalk to make way for the new Aeolian-Skinner organ (Opus 1134, 1947). He remembered talking with Marcel Dupré as the great French organist prepared a recital at King’s Chapel in Boston (Aeolian-Skinner Opus 170-A, 1946), asking how often the Cavaillé-Coll organ at St. Sulpice was tuned. “Not until the next cleaning.” Jason was a direct connection between Marcel Dupré and me.

Jason recommended me to a dozen or so other churches, one of which was especially meaningful. The Congregational Church of West Medford, Massachusetts, was home to Skinner Organ Company’s Opus 692 (1928), a lovely instrument with fourteen ranks. Jason was twenty-two years old when he worked on that installation, under the personal supervision of his employer, Ernest Skinner. The organ was fifty-nine years old when I became the second technician to care for it. Jason was a direct connection between Mr. Skinner and me.

Jason McKown and his wife Ruth were devoted members of Centre Methodist Church in Malden, Massachusetts, where the Bauhaus sanctuary housed a 1973 three-manual Casavant with a harsh angular case design. Jason did not much like that organ, but he maintained it until the end of his life with all the care and skill he gave to his favorite Skinner organs. In those days I drove an eight-passenger van; I ferried a carload of people from The Mother Church to attend his funeral in 1989.

Centre Methodist Church closed in 2007. The Organ Clearing House sold and moved the Casavant organ to Salisbury Presbyterian Church in Midlothian, Virginia. A new case was designed and built by QLF Organ Components, a subsidiary of Lively-Fulcher Organbuilders. Jason was not generous with his comments about the original Casavant case design. I think he would have liked the new one.

Chapters

My friendship with Jason spans eras. I was in my early thirties when I knew him, and over thirty years after his death, I value that he was my personal connection to Ernest Skinner. I admire his longevity, diligence, and devotion to the organs in his care, and I was influenced by his respect especially for Mr. Skinner’s genius. Though he knew it was too late for him to learn about solid-state organ controls, he was open to the new technology being installed in The Mother Church organ. Stories like the destruction of the old Symphony Hall organ told of how he had witnessed deep change in the name of progress.

When Jason first worked at The Mother Church, the fifteen-acre site included the Original Edifice (1894), the first church building built by Mary Baker Eddy, the founder of Christian Science; “The Extension,” the marvelous domed wedding cake of a building (1906) that seats 3,000; and the Publishing Society, home of the renowned international newspaper, The Christian Science Monitor. The site was transformed in 1971 with the construction of the new Christian Science Plaza with three new significant buildings, including a twenty-six-story administration building and a seven-hundred-foot reflecting pool, and the entire plaza was paved with bricks. Jason had been friends with the man whose life work was the creation and care of an extensive rose garden next to the church along Huntington Avenue. When the plaza was built, the rose garden was destroyed. Jason told sweetly of the heartbreak of his friend seeing his life’s work disappear.

Progress

I am a loyal fan of Patrick O’Brian’s marvelous series of novels about the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. I have audio recordings of all twenty-one books and often listen to passages in my workshop or as I drive. Captain Jack Aubrey, one of the central characters, is a skillful and courageous frigate captain, and his friend Stephen Maturin is a physician who travels on Jack’s ships as surgeon, which serves as cover for his central activity as a member of Naval Intelligence. Jack plays the violin, well enough to tackle the Bach Chaconne in D Minor, and Stephen plays the cello. As they sail around the world, they play the classics together deep into the night. Jack distinguished between his sea-going fiddle and the precious Amati that he kept at home. One night as they were tuning their strings, Jack’s steward Killick griped to the steward’s mate, “Scrape, scrape, screech, screech, and never a tune you can sing to, not if you were drunk as Davie’s sow.” Those stories are rife with adventure and intrigue. O’Brian was a devoted student of that history, writing dialogue using two-hundred-year-old figures of speech, and for this enthusiastic sailor, he accurately and dramatically describes the act and art of sailing big ships. 

As the wars dragged on toward 1815, steam-powered ships were being introduced. It was easy for Jack to understand the advantages of steam power, allowing a ship to sail directly into the wind or without any wind at all. Guns could be mounted facing straight forward and backward, while sailing ships were encumbered by sails and rigging in both those directions and limited to firing broadsides. If your ship had steam power, you had an immense advantage over sail; if you were sailing and encountered an enemy in a steamship, you were in grave peril. Nonetheless, one tradition-bound and slightly drunken admiral lamented loudly about the Navy contemplating losing its skillful sailors to “a hoard of mechanics.”

Steam locomotives powered railroads from the early nineteenth century through the middle of the twentieth. Diesel powered (and diesel-electric) locomotives were first introduced around 1930. By around 1950, diesel locomotives were more powerful, more economical to maintain and operate, and safer than those powered by steam, and steam locomotives became a thing of the past. Many engineers revered the elegance of steam machinery and regretted their demise, but today with few exceptions, steam locomotives are limited to historical exhibits and attractions, and a troupe of hobbyist organbuilders I know.

Friends of ours have a huge old iron cook stove in their kitchen. Susan is a virtuoso with the cooktop lids, lifting them as she converses to drop in a log or two. She manages different levels of heat from one side to another and has pots of savory smelling stuff simmering away. The hulking thing sure does make the kitchen toasty warm on a cold night, but she uses the modern gas cooktop mounted in the counter for most of the cooking. Her curmudgeonly husband Barnaby thinks food tastes better from the wood stove, but he does not cook, ever, and Susan has her way. “Barnaby, have another bourbon.”

Charles-Marie Widor was organist at Saint-Sulpice in Paris for sixty-three years. Something like halfway through his tenure the first electric blower was installed on the Cavaillé-Coll organ. By then he had written the ten organ symphonies that are the backbone of his output, played for thousands of Masses, hundreds of concerts, hundreds of funerals, weddings, and festivals. He must have spent thousands of additional hours at the organ practicing and teaching. Through all of that, the hundred-stop organ was pumped by human power. What a liberation it must have been for him to climb the steps to the organ loft, switch on the power, and play to an empty church using all the wind he wanted.

There are a number of modern mechanical-action organs built under classic inspiration that are pumped by reconstructions of ancient human-powered systems, and in the late 1990s I restored an organ built in 1868 by E. & G. G. Hook (when my great-grandmother was one year old), including restoring the hand pumping system. Yuko Hayashi, the revered long-time professor of organ at the New England Conservatory of Music, brought her organ classes to that church so they could experience hand-powered organ wind, comparing both sources of wind playing the same passage of music. It is a fascinating study, helping us to understand just how music sounded when played centuries ago, but I doubt many of us would forsake the convenience and stability of the electric blower.

The passage of steam-powered ships and locomotives, Susan and Barnaby’s woodstove, and Widor’s hand-pumped organ are all examples of innovations replacing “the old way.” Many pipe organ professionals and enthusiasts are admirers of the old way. “If God intended us to have more than four general pistons, Mr. Skinner would have given us five.” But today’s conversation is not about venerable electro-pneumatic organs being replaced by modern trackers, and it’s not about historic tracker organs being replaced by modern electro-pneumatic instruments. It’s about the future of the organ, the future of all organs.

We can’t save them all.

In the 1920s, American pipe organ builders were producing twenty-five hundred new organs each year. Suburban churches had sixty voice choirs and sixty-stop organs, and a thousand place settings of monogrammed china. Those churches now have dwindling congregations, staggering fuel bills, and leaky roofs. In a world weakened by epidemic, smaller, weaker parishes are struggling like never before, and pipe organs are coming on the market like fireworks on the fourth of July. Hundreds of organs, many of them priceless historic artifacts, are glutting a market in which churches choose between pipe organs, electronic instruments, or no organ-based music at all.

My desk at the Organ Clearing House is proof of that. My inbox is full of pleas to “save this beautiful organ.” We can place only a fraction of the available instruments, and it is hard to justify encouraging a church to purchase an organ of poor quality and doubtful musical interest when so many wonderful organs are available. Once it was hard for me to condemn an organ to the knacker’s yard, but I have gotten over it. I know that there is a finite amount of money spent in the United States each year on pipe organs, and it feels like smart duty to see that as little as possible is spent on lesser organs. If we are going to have fewer organs, they might as well be the best.

An unwanted pipe organ is among the greatest of white elephants. This applies to instruments of high pedigree and important historical value as much as to small, simple, ordinary instruments. When progress means that a building has to go, whatever is inside goes with it. If it is a historical home with a beautiful organ, when time’s up, time’s up. If it is a spectacular church building, ravaged by time and weather and failing budgets, whatever is inside goes with it.

If you learn that a church in your neighborhood is planning to close, encourage them to think right away of the artifacts that should be saved. Pipe organs, stained-glass windows, and liturgical furnishings can all be preserved and relocated, but it takes time. If my first contact about an available organ is from the real-estate developer who bought the building and plans to gut the interior in two weeks, there is no hope. As it takes years for a church to decide to commission a new organ, it takes years for a congregation to embrace the idea of disbanding. Plan ahead.

Most importantly, we must care for our profession. Colleague organbuilders and organists must project their work in the music of the church as a rich gift. We have received our talents as gifts. It is our responsibility to nurture those talents and share them with the people in our churches, those in the pews, and those around the table at weekly staff meetings. Make them love what you do. I am tired of seeing memes showing the Dowager Countess of Grantham with pursed lips, saying that people who think the organ is too loud “don’t have any taste.” I am tired of seeing images of gag stop knobs engraved with “Rector Ejector,” or “Cut Pulpit Mic.” They may be good for a smirk between organists, but they imply an underlying disrespect that is not good for our future.

An organist accepting a new position “if there will be a new organ” is an affront to church music. Maybe the place should have a new organ, but that should be the collective decision of a generous and worshipful community with the support and encouragement of the musicians, not an arrogant demand. You likely know more about church music than those around you, but with your help, they can love it as much as you do. That is what honors the links between you and the centuries-old procession of brilliance which is the heritage of our music and our instruments. That’s our future.

Photo: 1952 Aeolian-Skinner Opus 1203, The Mother Church Extension, The First Church of Christ, Scientist, Boston, Massachusetts (photo credit: William T. Van Pelt)

The human touch

Choral music is not one of life’s frills. It’s something that goes to the very heart of our humanity, our sense of community, and our souls. You express, when you sing, your soul in song. And when you get together with a group of other singers, it becomes more than the sum of the parts. All of those people are pouring out their hearts and souls in perfect harmony, which is kind of an emblem for what we need in the world, when so much of the world is at odds with itself. That’s just to express in symbolic terms what it’s like when human beings are in harmony. That’s a lesson for our times, and for all time.

When I was writing for the July 2015 issue of The Diapason, I was in the thrall of a video interview with John Rutter just released on YouTube by his American distributer, J. W. Pepper. (Type “john rutter the importance of choir” in the YouTube search bar.) This simple statement, presented as a matter of fact, says everything about why we work so hard to nurture parish choirs. Maybe not quite everything. He goes on,

Musical excellence is, of course, at the heart of it, but even if a choir is not the greatest in the world, it has a social value, a communal value . . . . [A] church or a school without a choir is like a body without a soul.

Recently, a blog post appeared on the website of the Episcopal Diocese of Dallas with the title, “The Future of the Organ for Church Worship,” written by the Reverend Marc Dobson. The piece opens with an overview of various chapters in the movement of contemporary music in worship including the Pentecostal movement, Folk Masses, Charismatic worship, television evangelists, and the Willow Creek movement. We are all well aware that many worshippers are moved by styles of music other than the organ-and-choir tradition in which I grew up. My first job playing the organ in church was in a Roman Catholic parish (I was thirteen years old) where the 5:00 Mass on Sunday afternoon featured folk music. I played traditional music on Sunday mornings on the Conn Artiste. (Get it?)

Fr. Dobson continues with other truths, such as, “Finding a good church organist is hard, given the nature of the church and where things are at today.” He states, fairly enough,

. . . many organists are not easily adaptable to a changing worship culture. Finding an organist who is willing to ‘give and take’ is certainly a challenge. Many organists are ‘purists’ when it comes to music, making the challenge even more difficult. They are Kings and Queens of their domain and will certainly let you know that very thing!

I have witnessed many musicians insisting that their way is correct, and I have participated in many dinner table conversations about working with difficult clergy. I know that what Fr. Dobson says here is based in truth. But when he continues by suggesting that if your church “finds itself without an organist,” a weekly subscription service, or “organ in a box,” is a viable solution, I think he has gone off the rails. Among advantages of this plan, he lists, “Pastoral control over weekly content,” “Accurate and professional sounding organ led worship,” and “Reliability.” These ideas carry negative connotations for organists, especially when taken out of context. In that light, it is important to mention that Fr. Dobson implies that he would prefer to have a “real” organist: “While it’s great to have a real organist, like I said, they’re not easy to find.” Fake organists need not apply.

§

Wendy and I moved to New York City four years ago, but I still have quite a few organ-service clients in the Boston area where I have been maintaining organs since 1984—I have been visiting eight of those organs for all that time. Thirty-five years is more than a generation, and I have seen many changes. I remember a formidable list of musicians who occupied the great organ benches of Boston, like George Faxon, John Ferris, Max Miller, Yuko Hayashi, Donald Teeters, and Daniel Pinkham, now all deceased; each led brilliant music programs and influenced the generation that followed them. University organ departments, notably the New England Conservatory of Music, fed churches with energetic ambitious young organists, many of whom are now the senior musicians in the area.

Unfortunately, NEC has closed its organ department, and perhaps not coincidentally, many of the churches where I maintain organs struggle to retain organists. More than a few congregations that I served and admired have disbanded, and quite a few of my clients have informed me that they will stop maintaining their organ because they have not been able to find an organist. I often learn that when the prominent incumbent musician retired, the church advertised the position at a lower salary, believing that such a transition was a good time to cut the budget. The next generation of organists, eager to apply for that plumb position, is disappointed to learn that the salary offered is low and moves on to the next opportunity.

Another symptom of a church that is cutting budgets is the unattended office. Thirty years ago, it was typical for every church to have at least one full-time person in the office. Of course, those were also the days before voicemail, call waiting, call forwarding, and all the technological advances that allow us to stay in touch without answering the phone. But today, at least where I live and work, when calling a church office, there is someone in the office only two or three mornings a week, so it is usual to reach a voicemail system. Scheduling a tuning visit and being sure that the heat will be turned up is done by voicemail, email, and text messages. In some ways, that is the same as replacing the organist with a subscription service, as in both cases the personal connection is removed from the equation.

I have been in countless church buildings where the ubiquitous church secretary ran an important ministry that was the bustling, cheerful, comforting traffic of parishioners coming and going during the week. The coffee was never very good, but there was always a bowl of candies or a plate of cookies and plenty of good cheer. It is a little sad for the organ tuner to open the building with his own key and walk alone down dark corridors past bulletin boards festooned with yellowing minutes of meetings held four months ago, and it is frustrating to find that in spite of numerous emails and voice messages, they failed to turn up the heat—again. It is especially sad in those buildings where I remember the bustle and conviviality of a rollicking church office, where running jokes lasted from year to year.

§

I’ll do my best to shine a positive light on Fr. Dobson’s blog and read it as a plea for good organists rather than a plan to replace them. Every good organist deserves a proper position, and every church that wants a good organist deserves to have one. However, there are some ground rules. The musicians and the clergy all must strive to be creative colleagues and constructive leaders in the life of the church, not the “King or Queen” of impregnable domains. And just as clergy should be well compensated, the church must offer reasonable compensation to the musician that reflects the requisite education and experience. Good organists are trained seriously and creatively. Planning a vibrant and varied music program requires deep knowledge of the literature and lots of skill, and church organists are among the most prolific of performing musicians, often playing fifteen or twenty different “numbers” before the public each week.

In many parishes, the choir (or choirs) is the most active volunteer activity. Dozens of people arrive cheerfully twice a week to give their effort and talents to the enhancement of worship. There are choir parties, retreats, and special programs of outreach to members who are suffering illness in their families or other of life’s complications. Some parish choirs even go on international tours, carrying the ministries of a local parish across oceans to sing in European cathedrals. To sustain all this excitement, it is the responsibility of the choir director to program music that is stimulating and challenging. Squandering that powerful volunteer effort by wasting hours is unthinkable. It is impossible to imagine any or all of this being replaced with a subscription service.

The important thing here is that we are all working for institutions that are not as strong as they were a generation ago. The musician who fails to be a constructive colleague is hastening the day when another good position vanishes.

§

I admit freely that I have heard very little contemporary worship music, and none of what I have heard merits much praise. I have never gone out of my way to hear it. My only exposures have been the several occasions when I have been working in an organ through a Saturday afternoon, agreeing that the praise band can rehearse while I am there. I have heard young volunteers with powerful amplifiers, no ears, no skill, and no sense of trying to improve plodding through four-chord, four-note, four-word songs over and over, making the same mistakes each time. (Just keep turning leather nuts, John.) I am sure there are skilled professional ensembles that lead contemporary music in worship, but I have not had an opportunity to witness in person.

If a parish judges that their congregation would thrive on a diet of contemporary music, wouldn’t it be appropriate for it to be offered with the highest professionalism possible, rather than allow it to serve as an excuse not to pay musicians? Joseph W. Clokey (1890–1960), professor of organ at Miami University and Pomona College and dean of the School of the Fine Arts at Miami University, said:

The purpose of worship is to elevate, not degrade. The quality of music used should be above, not below the cultural level of the congregation. If the music seems to be ‘over your heads’ the best plan is to raise your head.

I have had another experience with the diminution of excellence. A member of the clergy on staff with me did not approve of my assigning solos to members of the youth choir, saying that it was not fair to kids of lesser ability. I understand that kids do not want to be left out, but didn’t Aretha Franklin, Whitney Houston, Leontyne Price, and Jessye Norman all start their singing careers in church choirs? Would their artistry have thrived if they were held back to be like the others? Isn’t a church choir a good place to encourage natural talents? And isn’t it a responsibility of the choir director to recognize and encourage extraordinary abilities?

I know that I have always been involved with skillful church musicians; I am grateful for that. When I was directing choirs, it was my privilege to work with talented and dedicated singers, both volunteer amateurs and hired professionals, who were willing to work hard and who were excited each time by the challenge of learning a new piece. I also know that many churches present more modest music programs, but unless they are really horrible, the human element will always bring depth and warmth to the music.

Besides working with choirs to present music during regular worship, the church musician can fulfill another important pastoral role: working with families to plan music in times of joy and sorrow. Among the odd collection of memorabilia that has collected in the top drawers of my dresser is a note of appreciation I received from a couple a few days after I met with them to plan the music for their wedding. It is written in a childish hand with several strangely placed commas and misspelled words, but it simply thanks me for being nice and helping them to choose such nice music. They were certain that their wedding would be wonderful. Maybe it was a simple service with another round of Wagner, Pachelbel, and Mendelssohn. Maybe it was bit of a bore for me. But it was an important day for them, and they had the chance to choose special music for themselves. It might be the only time in their lives that they chose music for a celebration. I am happy that I had the chance to provide that for them. Sure, someone could have played recordings of the same pieces, but it would not be the same.

The last church I served had a traditional “chancel plan,” with the organ console on the right side. There was a door behind the bench that opened into the stairway to the choir room below, and it was usual for the groom and best man to hang out there waiting for the processional march. While playing preludes for the wedding of two beloved children of the parish (the bride had babysat for our kids), the groom was standing by the open door, marveling at the organ. I remember hearing him say to his best man, “we should let him ply his trade,” as he quietly closed the door. No subscription service could have done all that.

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Allow me a sassy moment. If an organist can be replaced by a subscription service, so can a pastor. I bet I could find a service that would provide recorded sermons based on the lectionary, as if preaching was all the pastor did. And CDs are so yesterday. Each week you would receive an email with a WAV file to download. The laptop or tablet would feed Bluetooth speakers, and Bob’s your uncle.

But that is not the point. In response to Fr. Dobson’s essay, I would like to remind all of us that, at best, the church musician is called to the work in ways comparable to a call to join the clergy. Musicians get specialized educations, they practice many hours each week to maintain and hone their skills and to learn new literature, they read and study to keep current with new trends and styles, and with the work of serious new composers. Church musicians add life and color to worship, from mystery to majesty. They can inspire awe and wonder or interject a touch of humor. A huge proportion of the history of the fine arts has been devoted to public worship, from soaring architecture to the great settings of the Latin Mass, and from pictorial art to ecclesiastical symbolism.

Remember those words of Joseph W. Clokey, “The purpose of worship is to elevate, not degrade.” And remember the words of John Rutter, “. . . a church or school without a choir is like a body without a soul.”

I am thinking and writing about the best of things. Not all church musicians have conservatory degrees. Not all churches can afford or produce sophisticated music programs. But clergy and musicians should always be ready to work with each other and respect each other, to create constructive environments without animosity, envy, or competition, and to present a unified worship experience for the benefit and betterment of the communities in which they work.

Musicians, live up to the challenge! Raise the bar, work toward the best. Work to be sure you are a valued colleague and a valued part of staff. Would that it could be that no member of the clergy could feel that the local musician was overlord of an impregnable domain. You will be the one who is always offered a job.

Note: I contacted the communications director of the Episcopal Diocese of Dallas to ask why Fr. Dobson’s blog post had been removed. I was told that they received many responses in a short period and did not have a mechanism through which to make it be a discussion. ν

Doo-dads

In the late 1970s and early 1980s I lived in a four-bedroom house in the rolling farmland outside Oberlin, Ohio. I had just graduated from Oberlin, was working for the local organbuilder John Leek, and was director of music for a big Presbyterian Church in Cleveland. The house was part of an eighty-acre farm, and like most similar properties in the area, the fields were rented by a farmer who worked a total of about 1,500 acres in the neighborhood. It was typical to rotate corn and soybeans year by year, because their effect on the soil is complementary. Around the house, there were three or four outbuildings including a large barn that I remember as being in better condition than the house. The house had a natural gas well, pretty unusual for many people, but common there in those days. After all, now we know it as fracking country.

Our neighbors Tony and Claire-Marie across the street had a similar property with a neat house, an enormous barn, and fields that were rented by a farmer. They were friends of the Leeks from church and lovely, considerate people. Tony ran an excavating business and used his barn to store and maintain his huge pieces of heavy equipment. Occasionally, Tony invited me to help him with a repair project. I do not think he really needed my help but knew that I would be interested, so I would spend a Saturday with him doing things like changing the wheel bearings on his Caterpillar D-9 bulldozer.

That machine was over twenty-five feet long, fifteen-feet wide, and weighed over 100,000 pounds. You don’t just jack it up, pull out a tire iron, loosen the lug nuts, and pull the wheel off. He had a homemade hydraulic jack made from parts taken from old construction equipment. The hydraulic pump came off an excavator and was driven by the power-take-off of a farm tractor. The lug nuts were three inches in diameter (his sets of socket and open-end wrenches went up to five inches), and he used a backhoe and a hoisting strap to lift the wheel off the machine. I was a young apprentice, the proud owner of a new set of Marples™ chisels (I still have them and use them regularly), and I had never seen such an ingenious caper. Because of my career in organbuilding, I have had a lifelong fascination with tools and, as Tony realized, I would always be interested in seeing something new to do with tools.

Watching Tony make that heavy work look easy by using the right tools influenced my work with organs. It was not long after that time that I was helping to install a large three-manual tracker organ in a high organ loft. We centered the floor frame properly, but when the case started getting tall, we could see that it was not going to center under the peak of the vaulted ceiling. We used hydraulics to move the entire organ with case, windchests, reservoirs, keyboards, and actions, budging it to the right about an inch-and-a-half. (Don’t tell anyone.)

When we were done with the wheel bearings, we started the D-9 (the starter motor is a forty-horsepower diesel motor), climbed on board, he backed it out of the barn, and let me drive it around in a circle in the big gravel apron. I had another experience running heavy equipment when the farmer who rented our fields was harvesting corn, and I got to run the combine for a couple rows. Glad I didn’t have to parallel park it.

A man and his tools

As more than forty years have passed since my heavy-equipment-operator days, I have downsized to a small private workshop which is the three-car garage attached to our house. I have a table saw, drill press, and band saw left from my big shop days, and shelves and drawers full of countless hand tools and odds-and-ends. I have a terrific woodworker’s workbench, the maple job with built in vises and bench dogs, and I have a sturdy well-lit, double-length workbench where I do most of my work. Wendy and I are thinking about enlarging the laundry room (sometimes called the mud room) that shares a wall with my shop, a wall covered with shelves. We were standing there tossing ideas around, and she commented that I might just get rid of all that stuff. Quickly and defensively, I pointed out the house jacks.

Why does an organbuilder need house jacks? When releathering a reservoir, you get to the step where the pairs of ribs are glued to the top frame and the whole assembly is glued to the body. You cut and glue on the eight leather or rubber cloth belts and let the glue set overnight. In the morning, you have to open the reservoir by lifting the top, as if it were filling with wind. All that freshly set glue and nice stiff material has to be convinced that this is a good idea, and the reservoir is on your workbench, so you are lifting it to chest level. That is a perfect use for a small house jack. I prop the jack up on blocks and pump the hydraulic handle. You can also use a house jack lying sideways to budge an organ an inch or two to the right.

But more to the point, remember when our daughter Meg wanted to convert the little shed out back to a pottery studio and we realized that one of the posts had rotted? Remember how her husband Yorgos and I jacked up the corner of the shed and sunk a new post into the ground? That’s why I need a house jack.

What is that next to the house jack? An ultrasonic cleaner, a little tub with a metal basket and a dial on the front. I use it to clean brass parts like reed tongues and shallots, cabinet hinges, escutcheons (look it up), and the fancy little brass doo-dads that organbuilders like to use for trim pieces, specialized controls, and the like. Parson’s Sudsy Ammonia™ is a great solvent. Fill up the little tub, fill the basket with your parts, and Bob’s your uncle. Oh, and anytime you have metal jewelry that needs cleaning . . . .

There is a big stainless-steel double boiler, the thing you ladle soup from in a cafeteria line. It’s on the shelf next to the glue pot. Hide glue comes in dry flakes or crystals. You mix it with water and heat it in the glue pot. You keep adding more water or more glue as you work to keep the consistency the way you want it. You can also put cloves of garlic in a cheesecloth bag and let it soak in the hot glue—it’s supposed to keep the glue from getting moldy, and it makes it smell a little better. When you are working with that glue, you need to have a hot, wet rag nearby to clean off excess. I can fill the double boiler and use the thermostat to keep the water just exactly as hot as I can stand putting my hands in, so I always have a good hot, wet rag. Oh, and when we have a cookout, I can clean it up and serve chowder from it.

There is a beat-up old steam iron. For the same reason I use hot water to clean up while gluing, applying heat is a big help when ungluing something. Crank up that old iron and heat up the rubber-cloth strips on an old reservoir, and voilà, off it comes, smelling like burned rubber. You can put heavy paper between the iron and the rubber to keep it from sticking, but it is hard to avoid gumming up the iron with melted rubber, so when it cools, I hold the iron on my belt sander to clean it off. This maximizes the awful smells you can extract from old rubber cloth. You should not take this iron into the house and use it on white linen. There is a household benefit, however. When it finally stops working, I will steal the iron from the bedroom closet and buy a new one for pressing clothes.

A popular meme says that you only need two tools, WD-40™ and Duck Tape™. If it’s supposed to move but doesn’t, use WD-40™. If it isn’t supposed to move but does, use Duct Tape™. As a professional organbuilder, I find that pretty sophomoric. But Wendy wanted to know why I need so many spray bottles. WD-40™ is great stuff, and it smells better than burned rubber. But it is oily, so you might want to use silicone for some applications. That is what I used on the sliding doors in the living room the other day. If you have WD-40™, why do you need Marvel Mystery Oil™? Simple. I love the pepperminty smell of it.

Goof Off™ comes in spray bottles, aerosol cans, and squeeze bottles, different dispensers for different situations. It is a terrific solvent for Duck Tape™ residue, or any kind of adhesive. The last time I used it on a service call, I was removing old chewing gum from under the keyboards of a distinguished organ. C’mon, people. And that is what I used to remove that nasty tar from the fender of the car. Works on stubborn windshield bugs, too.

3M 77 Spray Adhesive™ is terrific for gluing felt and leather together to make valves or for covering pallets. Spray that stuff on both surfaces, and according to the instructions on the can, “make bond while adhesive is aggressively tacky.” The can bears the warning,

Extremely flammable. Vapors may cause flash fire. Vapors may cause eye, skin, nose, and throat irritation and may affect the central nervous system causing dizziness, headaches, and nausea. Intentional misuse by deliberately concentrating and inhaling the contents may be harmful or fatal.

At least the valves do not come unglued. When Wendy finished that beautiful woven tapestry and wondered about fixing it to a piece of fabric for framing, that’s what I used. I feel fine.

My two favorite general cleaning agents are Murphy’s Oil Soap™ and Simple Green™. Both are biodegradable, and both are really effective. Both can be used full strength or diluted in water. Murphy’s is terrific for cleaning old woodwork, Simple Green™ cleans just about anything. I have two spray bottles for each, one diluted by 50%, the other full strength. You can also pour a bit in a bucket of water. And they both smell great. And there is some of each under the kitchen sink.

There must be thirty heavy plastic cases. Get rid of half of them?

• A set of dado blades I use to make the table saw cut wider. I used them to make that bookshelf.

• A propane torch that is good for light metal work. That is how I bent that piece of iron to hang the birdfeeder on the deck.

• A tap and die set that cuts threads on metal wire or rods (outies) or inside holes (innies) from one-eighth to one-half, in coarse and fine threads.

• A set of ratchet socket wrenches, both English and metric, with quarter-inch, three-eighths, and half-inch drives with extensions. The last time I used that, I was tightening all the hardware on your loom because you said it had gotten wobbly.

• Many sets of drill bits.

* One goes from one-eighth to half-inch, graduated by sixty-fourths.

* One has about a hundred bits graduated by the numbers and letters of the American Wire Gauge (AWG).

• Say you are using bronze wire that’s .064′′ as an axle in tracker keyboard action parts. You want the wire to be tight in the hole in the part that moves, and barely loose in the mounting hole. Use the .059′′ bit (#53) for the tight hole, and the .067′′ bit (#51) for the loose hole.

* One is metric from two to twenty millimeters, graduated by tenths.

* One is Forstner bits from a quarter to two inches, graduated by eighths, especially useful because they drill flat-bottomed holes, and since they are not guided by a central pin, you can drill overlapping holes.

* One is “airplane” bits from one-eighth to three-quarters, graduated in eighths, especially useful every few years because they are eighteen-inches long. I don’t need them very often, but when I do, nothing else will work.

* One is spade bits from three-eighth to two-inches, best for making very sloppy holes in soft materials, and for spraining your wrist. I do not use those very often.

* Okay, okay. I have two of the AWG sets, and two of the sixty-fourths sets. There are a few bits missing from each, and one of the drawers over there has replacements bits for every size.

• Digital calipers that read in fractions or thousandths of an inch, or hundredths of a millimeter. That is how I know that piece of bronze wire was .064′′.

• Another big set of socket wrenches that does not include metric sizes. That is the one we carry on the boat. I forgot to put it on board this summer.

• Caddies with assorted screw sizes that I bring to installation sites, so I never have just the size I am looking for.

• You get idea. The next time, I will write about why there are eight toolboxes full of tools. Sometimes they are all in the car at once.

That huge rolling steel cabinet with drawers that looks like it belongs in a gas station? In my previous shop, all my hand tools hung on purpose-made racks. There is not enough wall space for that here, so I bought this. In the drawers, from top to bottom:

• hinged tools like pliers and wire cutters. I used this big Channel Lock™ wrench last week to fix the drain for the outdoor shower;

• open-end wrenches;

• measuring tools like squares, scribes, miter gauges, calipers, micrometers, folding rulers, steel rulers;

• cutting tools like dovetail saws, Exact™ knives and blades, scissors, rotary knives and blades (for cutting leather and felt), small carving tools, razor blades, and the three beautiful leather knives that John Leek brought me from Holland in 1976;

• screwdrivers;

• that set of Marples™ chisels;

• pneumatic accessories like blow guns, detachable couplings, and assorted valves for inflating things. That is how I blew up the soccer ball. And remember when friends from New York were worried about their tire pressure? There is the gauge and valve;

• staple and pop rivet guns, staples and pop rivets;

• arch punches for cutting round pieces of leather and felt, or for cutting round holes in leather and felt. My set goes from one-eighth to three-inches;

• rotary bits for routers, cutting plugs, deburring holes;

• multi-spur bits—the big dangerous looking ones for drilling the holes in rackboards, dozens of them from a half-inch to three inches.

That cabinet serves me well and is big enough for the available space, but I admit to having tool-chest-envy when I walk through the big stores and see the jobs as big as a bus that have charging stations for power tools and mobile phones, refrigerators, and mirrors. What a great idea. You can tell which mechanic has a mirror in his toolbox because his hair is always combed.

It is easy enough to explain all these tools and supplies, especially when I can argue their domestic usefulness. How does anyone get by without an ultrasonic cleaner? But I also have boxes by the dozen with cryptic markings. “Schlicker Console Parts” is full of the little toggles that set stops on pistons, salvaged when I installed a solid-state combination action in a Schlicker console. Anyone needs some, I’ve got them. “Austin Coils” are the “electro” part of the Austin electro-pneumatic note motors. Anyone needs some, I’ve got them. “Skinner Toggle Springs,” “Misc. Peterson,” “Large Slide Tuners,” “Spare Ivories,” “Reed Organ Reeds,” anyone needs some, I’ve got them.

It’s not just an organ shop.

There is a cabinet full of flowerpots and gardening supplies and tools. There is a cabinet full of stockpots and lobster pots, overflow from the kitchen. There is a bag of life jackets, ready for winter storage. There are a half-dozen boxes full of spare parts for a sailboat, an outboard motor, a couple anchors, and lots of nautical line. You never know when you’re going to need a piece of line. Or an air horn. Or Schlicker combination parts. It would be aggressively tacky to think that I would get rid of them.