In the Wind

John Bishop, executive director of the Organ Clearing House, graduated from the Oberlin College Conservatory of Music with a degree in Organ Performance. He has had a 30-year career as a church musician, most recently serving for 17 years as director of music at Centre Congregational Church in Lynnfield, Massachusetts. His activities as an organ builder started with summer jobs as a teenager with Bozeman & Associates, and include nine years with J.G.P. Leek of Oberlin, Ohio, three years with Angerstein & Associates of Stoughton, Massachusetts, and the last 14 years as President of the Bishop Organ Company, Inc. As an organ builder, he has purchased several organs through the Organ Clearing House, with the assistance of longtime director, the late Alan Laufman. He is active in the American Guild of Organists and the Organ Historical Society. For the past four years, Mr. Bishop was the author of the monthly column, “Miscellanea Organica,” in The American Organist.

The pipe organ gives us all a lot to talk about. We can trace its history back to the panflutes of the sixth century B.C. The hydraulis, the earliest real pipe organ we know of (complete with keyboard, a mechanical action controlling valves, pipes blown by air, and a regulated wind supply) was created by Tsebius of Alexandria in about 246 B.C. It’s depicted so accurately in an ancient mosaic that modern working reconstructions have been built using that image as a guide. We study the history of the instrument, comparing musical styles, voicing techniques, and mechanical innovations between regions and eras. We debate whether a certain organ is suitable for the performance of a particular piece. The organ is the subject of many scholarly books rife with numbers, charts, and appendices—comprehensible and interesting to organbuilders, but no more accessible to most organ lovers than celestial navigation or ancient Greek.

We need this minutia. Without it we would not be able to understand and appreciate the richness of the instrument. But beyond that, the instrument is a marvel, a source of joy and inspiration, in one sense un-understandable. I’ve worked in organbuilding since I was a teenager and I love those studies of numbers, history, and style. But it wasn’t the numbers that first attracted me to the organ. When you participate in a grand hymn in a great acoustic your spirit soars, not because of your awareness of the organbuilder’s proclivity with the numbers but because there is something magic about how all that sound comes from moving all that air.

It’s indescribable.

To be sure, it’s indescribable in part because we’ve done such a good job describing it—making it technically possible, but if the description overshadows the mystery we’ve lost a special something. It’s breathtaking because it’s founded on breath.

Takes your breath away

I’ve loved Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night for as long as I can remember. An art history professor at Oberlin College helped me understand it a little better than I could have just by seeing it on T-shirts, mouse pads, or coffee mugs. But I’ll not forget the first time I saw the painting itself, exhibited in New York’s Museum of Modern Art. Rounding a corner into a gallery I was stunned, gasping, weeping. It did not take my breath away because I could say something erudite about brush strokes or color contrasts. It simply took my breath away.

I am excited to have this opportunity to share thoughts about our grand instrument with you. I feel honored to share these pages with the many scholars who help us better understand the instrument and its music. And I hope you will join me using that understanding as a tool for ever better communication between us inside the organ world and the public of lay people upon whom we depend as both consumers and patrons—those who appreciate our playing and our instruments, those who fund the purchase and maintenance of this most wildly expensive of instruments and upon whom we depend for its presence in future generations.

I’ve heard colleagues refer to that public as “the great unwashed.” Does this imply that we are somehow better, cleaner, than those who are not familiar with the intricacies of the organ, who think that Toccata and Fugue in D minor was written by Andrew Lloyd Webber, or who commit the unthinkable and unpardonable by applauding between the Prelude and the Fugue? Fully aware of our superiority we knowingly shake our heads, driving away a future organ lover with each successive wag. What’s wrong with a little misplaced enthusiasm?

A Möller’s impact

It should be our mission to share our enthusiasm with others. Last fall the Organ Clearing House was preparing to dismantle a monumental organ built by M. P. Möller in Philadelphia in the Civic Center, a truly mammoth building built in 1930 with 13,500 seats slated for demolition to make space for the expansion of the University of Pennsylvania Health System. The organ was housed in chambers above the ceiling of the auditorium, 120 feet high, and had not been played in public since a convention of the Organ Historical Society in 1996, before that, not since the American Theatre Organ Society convention in 1990. By the time we were there surveying the organ, the building was full of hard-hats working on asbestos abatement, salvage operations, and the myriad details that precede the demolition of such a place. Because we were to have the support of several of the contracting firms involved for rigging, scaffolding, building crates and the like, many of these workers were aware that something was up with the organ.

Of course, we had to try to make the organ play. With the help of Brant Duddy, the Philadelphia organ technician who had for many years worked on the maintenance and renovation of the organ, we got the blowers running and the rectifiers turned on. We spent a few minutes pulling pipes to stop ciphers (there was a doozy in the bass of the 16’ Diaphone that must have been audible in Scranton) and, son-of-a-gun, it played! The consoles were on the two-acre floor of the auditorium (the same floor on which Wilt Chamberlain and the Philadelphia 76ers had played) in front of the stage (the same stage on which Franklin Roosevelt accepted his nomination for a second term as President in front of the 1936 Democratic National Convention), below the tiers of thousands of seats (from which audiences had heard the likes of The Beatles, The Grateful Dead, Nelson Mandela, Pope John Paul II, and The Metropolitan Opera). As I played there came a procession of more than a hundred hard hats through the many doors into the auditorium and down the aisles toward the console as though I was accompanying some huge and bizarre Christmas pageant. It would have been perfect had they been carrying candles—we settled for flashlights and electric hand tools. They came to experience this acoustic-mechanical magic. I played the National Anthem and some measures of Widor. Someone asked for The Phantom of the Opera. I played Bach.

As our work progressed over the following weeks, many of these men and women visited us in the organ, expressing their amazement at the spectacle of all that material (16 semi-trailers full) adding up to a musical instrument. You don’t need to be in such an outlandish setting to make an impression. Show a good pipe organ to someone who has never been near one, and you’re sure to make a big impression.

What an organ.

It has 86 ranks of pipes. Twenty of them are reeds. Four of those are Tubas! Who ever heard of an organ with four independent Tubas? Three of the Tubas are in the Solo Division—Tuba Profunda, Tuba Sonora, and Tuba Mirabilis. Really! There’s a 32’ Double Open Wood Diapason that’s twenty-five inches square at CCCC and a 32’ Contra Bombarde that’s twenty-two inches in diameter—some of the largest (and heaviest) organ pipes I’ve ever seen. The lowest wind pressure is 10≤. There’s a windchest in the Great with 22⁄3’, 2’, 13⁄5’, 11⁄3’ 11⁄7’, and 1’—on ten inches of pressure! Tuners, how do you like that thought?

Did you catch the plural when I mentioned consoles? On the floor in front of the left-hand end of the stage was an elegant four-manual drawknob console. At the right-hand end, a four-manual theatre console with more than two hundred stop tablets in a variety of colors arranged on horseshoe-shaped stop rails. Because of the immense distance between consoles and pipes, and the unusual power of the organ, there is an independent tuning keyboard in each of the four chambers complete with stop controls. Added up, this is surely the only twelve-manual organ Möller ever built! (See photo: “A Twelve-Manual Organ.”)

A bipolar Möller

The drawknob console, known as the classic console, controls a very powerful and colorful straight organ with fully developed principal choruses, lots of strings and celestes, beautiful flutes, and a wide range of reed tone. Only one of the ranks of pipes in the complete roster is not included in the classic specification—an 8’ Kinura of seventy-three notes. (A Kinura is a reed stop something like a Trumpet without resonators that produces a characteristic bleating tone commonly found in theatre organs.) To get at that, you have to move to the theatre console where you also find all the toys and gadgets you could hope for, including but not limited to Song Birds I, Song Birds II, Sleigh Bells I, Sleigh Bells II, Auto Horn, Telephone Bell, Fire Gong, Steamboat Whistle, Locomotive Whistle, Siren, Factory Gong, Surf, Door Bell, Aeroplane, Chinese Gong, Persian Cymbal, Grand Crash, Glass Crash. There are a half-dozen different drums that can either tap or roll, and an array of percussions like castanets, tambourines, and Chinese Block (tap or roll). Top it off with four different tuned percussions (Harp, Celesta, Glockenspiel, Orchestral Bells) and a piano with a vacuum-powered player-piano style action, and you’ve got quite a sandbox to play in.

Before we dismantled this mighty organ I spent ten days studying it. If all goes well we will put it back together someday so we needed to learn as much as we could about it. We preserved the electro-pneumatic relays as a Rosetta stone for making the organ work again. Those automobile-sized machines that filled an entire room were the key to how the engineers at Möller made it possible for one organ to have two personalities. It’s enough of a trick for an organbuilder to conceive of a cohesive instrument—one in which choruses blend with themselves and with each other and in which reeds can both contrast and complement flues. It’s a much greater achievement to produce a single instrument that allows two styles of playing that are so radically different. I value highly the recording made by Tom Hazleton provided to me by Brant Duddy which juxtaposes Boëllmann’s Suite Gothique with Hazleton’s own Oklahoma Medley. Individually each sounds terrific—comparing the two seems nearly improbable. You can hardly imagine that both are played on the same organ.

The theatre console plays nineteen ranks of the organ--those ranks with unit actions. There are sixteen different tremolos that turn on singly or in combination. For example, a tablet on the theatre console marked Woodwinds Vibrato turns on 5 tremolos in four different chambers. The piano plays at various pitches on every keyboard. There are toe studs that control the piano’s damper and sostenuto pedals, and pistons, tablets and toe studs that play all the percussions and toys. There’s a piston (duplicated with toe stud) engraved “Change Title,” part of the razzmatazz of accompanying movies.

It took something like four hundred fifty person-days to dismantle, pack, and store this organ. Remember, every piece had to be lowered more than a hundred feet to the floor. This was all made possible by the University of Pennsylvania as part of their effort to preserve something of the heritage of this heroic building.

The organ is safely stored. The floor of the organ chamber was 120 feet above the floor of the auditorium. The organ did not speak directly into the hall, but toward the front of the hall away from the audience, above the stage, into a tone chute 100 feet wide, 17 feet deep, and 45 feet high. The organ’s sound came down that tone chute through grillework in the ceiling in front of the proscenium arch, projecting back under the organ, a change of direction of 180 degrees. From that disadvantage it filled the 400’ x 175’ x 120’ room. Eighty-six ranks make a good-size organ, but not a behemoth. This organ is a behemoth. It would be a rare church that could house it. It’s unbelievably loud. How about a baseball stadium?  I already know the National Anthem.

I feel privileged to be involved with an instrument that has such a grand heritage and so thoroughly captivates its players, builders, and listeners. I value “shop talk,” those conversations with colleagues or aficionados that broaden our knowledge by sharing experiences--I’ve often been chided by family members for the specialized jargon that peppers those talks. But we cannot thrive on shop talk alone. We strengthen our art by developing and nourishing connections with the rest of the music world, with the broader expression of the arts, and with as many facets of our culture as possible. 

I have recently read (and reread) a book that I think offers a thoughtful opportunity for enrichment by considering the heritage of another musical instrument. I recommend Stradivari’s Genius written by Toby Faber (Random House, 2004).

“It’s a Strad”

Antonio Stradivari (1644-1737) was the preeminent member of the revered and prolific tradition of violin-making in Cremona, Italy. His local competition included such well-known names as Amati and Guarneri, family workshops whose products are highly revered today, but Stradivari’s instruments were superior enough that he stood out among giants. Today his name is widely respected as a mark of excellence.

The evolution of music can be studied from three different points of view, that of the composer, the performer, and the instrument builder. None could advance without the others, and I think it’s interesting to note how the sway of influence has passed back and forth. Ludwig van Beethoven, Claude Debussy, and Igor Stravinsky were composers who introduced new, imaginative, even controversial musical languages that brought the art of musical expression to new levels. Niccolò Paganini, Franz Liszt, Vladimir Horowitz, and Yo-Yo Ma stand out as performers whose technical skill and artistic perception have influenced, even changed the way others approach the instruments.

A number of builders of musical instruments have similarly influenced the development of music. Aristide Cavaillé-Coll produced a huge number of pipe organs that included countless innovations both in tonal resources and mechanical controls. The instruments he built inspired an entire school of organ composition and playing--the music of Widor, Vierne, Franck, Tournemire, Duruflé, Dupré, and Messiaen (to name just a few) was all inspired by the work of Cavaillé-Coll. It’s hard to imagine today’s organ world without it. By the way, Cavaillé-Coll’s genius was not limited to the development of the organ--he is also credited with the development of the circular saw blade.1

American organbuilder Ernest M. Skinner is an excellent example of an instrument-maker whose work has had profound and lasting influence on the art of organ playing. The Ruckers family (Hans I, Hans II, Andreas I, Andreas II) were at the center of the famous Flemish school of harpsichord building. Remarkably, about 135 of their instruments built between 1581 and 1680 survive today, a central and profound influence on modern harpsichord makers and players.2 Steinway & Sons is certainly not the only show in town, but it is impossible to separate their brand name from the evolution of the piano virtuoso. 

Antonio Stradivari’s career spanned over seventy years, during which he produced more than 1100 instruments. Most were violins, but he also built many cellos, fewer violas, guitars, and harps. About 650 instruments built by Stradivari survive, most of which are used regularly by modern virtuosi. From the admittedly naïve point of view of an organbuilder, the construction of the violin seems simple, but Stradivari’s Genius offers rare insight into the world of instrument building and the various ways that instrument makers have influenced the evolution of musical composition and performance.

The premise of the book is made clear by the subtitle: Five Violins, One Cello, and Three Centuries of Enduring Perfection. After an introductory overview of Stradivari’s life and career, the author traces the history of six individual instruments from original purchase to the present, their paths often crossing. The fact that the full history of so many Strads is known is testament to their value. Each instrument has a name (as do the majority of the extant instruments), often the name of the instrument’s most prominent owner, and each has a life story. 

What makes something great?

For three centuries now there has been a continuing debate about just why Stradivari’s instruments are so much better than others. One theory acknowledges that the shape, size, and position of the soundholes (also known as f-holes) is critical--that the master’s skill is evident in the precision with which these important features are made. Another theory focuses on the varnish used to finish the instruments. Stradivari used a unique varnish made of materials indigenous to his area that remains notably soft when cured. Would a harder finish inhibit the instruments’ resonance? Does the varnish act as a filter for certain harmonics? If so, how?3

Another interesting theory was described in an article written by Duncan Mansfield and published in USA Today on December 2, 2003.  According to that report, Dr. Henri Grissino-Mayer, an expert in tree-ring dating at the University of Tennessee, theorized that a “Little Ice Age” that affected Europe from the mid-fifteenth through the mid-nineteenth centuries slowed tree growth resulting in uncommonly dense Alpine Spruce, the wood used exclusively by Cremona luthiers. This Ice Age was at its coldest between 1645 and 1715--remember that Stradivari was born in 1644. Dr. Grissino-Mayer suggested that this particularly dense wood contributed to the magic of Stradivari’s instruments:

“It just amazed me that no one had thought of this before,” said Dr. Henri Grissino-Mayer, “the relationship between the violins, the trees that they were made from, the climate that existed when the trees grew and how it affected wood density to create a superior tonal quality. It just started clicking, and I thought, ‘Oh, we are on to something,’” he said.4

Perhaps the superiority of Stradivari’s instruments results from a combination of these factors. I have no doubt that there are many more theories, but the fact remains that the instruments are incomparable. Faber’s book goes on to say that while Stradivari’s work was admired during his lifetime--the original purchasers knew they were getting something very special--the instruments did not achieve their potential until they had aged for decades, even as long as a century.

Faber makes major points in this delightful book that have special significance to us who study and work with pipe organs. One is that it was common for Stradivari’s instruments to be purchased by patrons and either given or loaned to the virtuosi who could show the instruments’ capabilities to best advantage. 

The virtuoso gambler

Unlike those who play orchestral instruments, organists do not have freedom to choose the instrument they play. There are those fortunate organists who are given the opportunity to participate in the planning of a new instrument on which they will be playing, and some whose choice of where to audition is influenced by the instrument involved, but even they must play on whatever instrument is available when they are away from home. And the organist is virtually never in the position of actually purchasing the instrument. The funding for these monumentally expensive works of art must be provided by a patron or by an organized group of donors. 

Early in the nineteenth century, violin virtuoso Niccolò Paganini was to play a concert in a theater in Leghorn, a coastal town in Tuscany. He arrived without a violin, having pawned his instrument to pay a gambling debt. The owner of the theater was a French merchant and amateur violinist named Colonel Livron. He loaned his valuable instrument (built by Stradivari’s competitor, Guarneri del Gesù) for the concert, realized that the instrument had found “its true master,” and gave it to Paganini, saying, “Never will I profane strings which your fingers have touched; that instrument is yours.”5

A singular loaner

One of the instruments followed in Faber’s book is the incomparable cello known as the Davidoff, one of whose twentieth-century owners was Jacqueline du Pré, the brilliant cellist whose career was cut short by multiple sclerosis. As her illness progressed, she changed to a modern instrument that was easier to play and the Davidoff was placed in storage with a Parisian luthier. About ten years later, du Pré’s husband, the conductor and pianist Daniel Barenboim, met the young virtuoso Yo-Yo Ma after which Barenboim and du Pré loaned Ma her instrument. After du Pré’s death in 1987 at the age of 42, Ma was the first to be offered the opportunity to purchase the cello, an offer he reluctantly turned down as both his career and his children were young and he was unable to afford such a purchase. An anonymous enthusiast heard of Ma’s decision from the luthier where the instrument was stored, purchased it, and presented it to Ma as a lifetime loan.6  This was the third time in its history that the use of the Davidoff cello had been made possible by a philanthropist.

Keep the receipt

By the way, it’s Ma’s other cello that had an extra-curricular taxi ride in 1999. He inadvertently left his 1733 Montagno (Venice) cello in the trunk of a cab but wisely kept the receipt. The NYPD tracked the cabbie’s medallion and returned Petunia to her owner within five hours. For years after you could hear Ma’s recorded voice advising you to keep your receipts when you got into a cab in New York.7

Why is all this relevant to the pipe organ? The funding of our instrument is crucial to its future. The price of an excellent pipe organ of even moderate size can easily exceed a million dollars. The church that can consider a purchase like that is becoming ever rarer. The history of our civilization is rife with wealthy donors whose vision was broad enough to appreciate the value of art and who provided funding in support of the work of the artist. It’s hard to imagine a world without the art made possible by people named Medici, Esterházy, Guggenheim, or Rockefeller. The steel magnate Andrew Carnegie donated more than 8800 pipe organs.8 It should be the mission of modern organists, organbuilders, and enthusiasts to take every opportunity to cultivate such relationships.

Adapting and evolution

Faber made another point in his book that I thought was revelatory, stating that while so many Strads survive today, not one is in original condition. Each was modified during the nineteenth century to adapt it for modern playing. The angle of the neck was changed as were the original tapered fingerboards. The instruments were built when common pitch for “A” was around 420 Hz--some of their pitches have been raised to as high as 460 Hz to accommodate the pitches of certain orchestras. Raising the pitch necessarily increases the tension of the strings and the force the instrument must bear, requiring heavier sound posts and other modifications. Also, the design of the bow was greatly altered. The bows that Stradivari knew had about 1/4 inch of horsehair--modern bows have more like 7/16”, allowing the player to draw ever more sound from the instrument. Faber concludes, “it all presents us, however, with a supreme irony: the brilliant and powerful tone for which Strads are famous, and which is most responsible for their value, is very different from what their maker himself must have heard.”9

Even more interesting, Yo-Yo Ma enhanced his exploration of seventeenth-century music by having the Davidoff cello returned as closely as possible to its original condition including gut strings, a baroque bow and bridge. He uses a different instrument for all other music.10

This has everything to do with our modern conversation about the pipe organ. We have researched the methods of organbuilders from every period and every country. We have studied the relationships between the instruments and the music written for them and have built modern instruments in ancient styles to enhance that study. We have restored older altered instruments to their original condition. We energetically discuss the possibilities of playing one style of music on another style of instrument--sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, and we often disagree.

There are countless differences between the organ and the violin. It is surely a risk to draw parallels without careful thought. But I find it interesting to learn about the approach to some of these questions as discussed by our colleagues who work with other instruments.

“It’s a Doozy”

August and Fred Duesenberg were bicycle makers in Iowa who developed an interest in gasoline engines. In 1926 they joined in partnership with Errett Cord to build the luxury J-model Duesenberg automobile, producing fewer than 500 vehicles between 1928 and 1937.11 While the Duesenberg automobile was wildly expensive, available only to the most wealthy patrons, it set such a high standard of style, quality, and excellence that we use the term Doozy today to refer to anything extraordinary or bizarre.12

If bizarre is part of Doozy, I suppose that defines the difference between It’s a Doozy and It’s a Strad. Maybe I should look up bizarre . . .

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

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

Here it comes!

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

People look East, the time is near

of the crowning of the year.

Make your house fair as you are able,

Trim the hearth and set the table.

People look East and sing today,

Love the Guest is on the way.

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

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

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

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

Hoist away

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

It’s alive

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s finished

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

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

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

It’s part of the family

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you say millions?
It’s like making sausages. You might enjoy the finished product but you don’t want to know what went into it. Each month I sit to write, often after the official deadline has passed. If I’m lucky, I start with an idea that I’ve been chewing on for the past couple days. I’ve written a few notes on the index cards I keep in my briefcase and car, maybe I’ve even recorded a couple audio notes on my cell phone as I walk the trails in the park next door. The paragraphs are flowing before I get to my desk.
More usually, I sit down and stare at a blank screen waiting for inspiration. I play a recording of organ music, trusting that I’ll agree or disagree with something I hear or that the music will bring up a thought that I can spin into an essay. I type the usual heading, and there I sit. It’s like staring at your closet wondering what to wear to dinner. If only that shirt was clean I’d be all set. I fidget. I clean my glasses, I clean the screen of my laptop, I organize the piles of paper on the desk, allowing myself to be distracted by details I’d better get done first. I change the recording and try again. (Some of you have gotten e-mails from me commenting on your recordings—e-mails written as I get traction on my subject du jour (I don’t know the French word for month!)
When I have finished writing a column, re-read it several times, and shared it with my editor-wife for her observations and input, I attach the Word.doc to an e-mail addressed to my friend Jerome Butera, tireless editor of this journal, and press <send>. Often I hear from Jerome within minutes—there’s never any waiting before I know his reaction.
E.B. White was a celebrated writer for The New Yorker magazine and award-winning writer of children’s books (Stuart Little, Charlotte’s Web). Shortly after his second marriage to Katherine Sergeant Angell in 1929 (an editor at The New Yorker) he moved his family from Manhattan to a farmstead in rural Maine and continued his weekly writing for the magazine. Let me be quick to say I draw no personal comparisons to Mr. White, whose writing I admire and enjoy enough to justify periodic re-reading. But I can imagine the anguish and insecurity he felt waiting the days and weeks it took for the 1929-style U.S. postal service to get his manuscripts to New York and his editor’s responses back to Brooklin, Maine. (I know he had those feelings because he wrote about them—thank you, Jerome, for your dependable quick responses.)
Once a piece is in the hands of the editor, a new set of anxieties crops up. You know the thing about a tree falling in the forest—if there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? Of course, we know it does—a sound wave is a physical thing that results from a transmission of energy, whether it’s a tree falling or air blowing through an organ pipe. You can’t stop physics. But it works as a rhetorical question: if no one reads what I’ve written, there’s no exchange of information. So once I’ve pressed <send> I wonder where my thoughts will wind up.

§

In mid-April this year when I wrote for the June issue of The Diapason, Wendy and I were fresh from Easter services at St. Thomas’ Church in New York. I was the one in the congregation scribbling notes on the bulletin and I knew exactly what I wanted to write. I could hardly wait to get home—but wait I did, because after a Midtown lunch we had matinee tickets for a play at the Manhattan Theater Club on East 55th Street in which the son of good friends was a cast member.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I wrote about the majesty and beauty of festival worship in that great church, about the brilliance of John Scott, St. Thomas’ organist and director of music, and about the public appeal from rector and organist for funding to support the commissioning of a (very costly) new organ. I wrote about how organs are likely to be replaced as styles change, even as organists succeed one another, and how the other artwork (reredos, windows, etc.) in places like St. Thomas’ Church is seldom changed.
This is one time that the tree made noise when it fell. Even before I received my mailed copy of the June issue, I had received e-mails and phone calls from friends commenting on what I had written, and in the next weeks Jerome forwarded two thoughtful letters he received from readers of The Diapason. Several important points were raised, and I thought it would be worthwhile to respond directly by way of continuing the conversation.
First, your assignment: re-read this column in the June 2011 issue of The Diapason.
Arthur LaMirande, concert organist from New York City, wrote:

It is with interest that I have read “In the wind . . . ” by John Bishop (The Diapason, June 2011). In particular: his remarks with regard to the Arents Memorial organ at St. Thomas Church, New York City.
Opines he: “We scarcely bat an eye before proposing the replacement of a pipe organ.”
Is he serious? He goes on to say: “Across the country, thousands of churches originally equipped with perfectly good pipe organs have discarded and replaced them with instruments more in tune with current trends, more in sync with the style and preferences [italics mine] of current musicians…”
He continues: “Over the decades of service that is the life of a great organ . . . ” [italics mine].
Now, Mr. Bishop surely must be aware that there are hundreds of organs in Europe that are fully functioning and that have been in existence and in use for centuries! (Never mind mere decades!) Even the organ at Notre Dame, Paris, which has been rebuilt several times, contains pipes that go back to the 18th century.

I don’t think I was opining, rather simply reporting. Plenty of perfectly good pipe organs have been replaced at the urging of a newly hired organist or because the church across the green got a new and larger instrument. It’s true, Europe is rich with hundreds of venerable instruments, and we can celebrate that their artistic content and historic value is recognized, allowing them to stay in situ and in service. And there are many wonderful historic instruments in this country that have survived the ravages of innovation and fad. Equally, I know many churches where early organs by E. & G.G. Hook were replaced by new-fangled Skinners in the 1920s that were in turn replaced by “revivalist” tracker-action organs in the 1970s—a new organ every fifty years whether you need it or not. When I was starting my career, an older colleague gave me this sage advice: never build an organ for a wealthy church. You’ll put your heart into your magnum opus and they’ll replace it during your lifetime.
States Mr. LaMirande:

On May 1st this year, I gave a recital on the Arents Memorial organ at St. Thomas Church. The major work on that program was the rarely performed Chaconne by Franz Schmidt . . . For an organ that “is on the verge of catastrophic collapse” [from the brochure passed out at St. Thomas Church to which Mr. Bishop makes allusion], it seemed to work extraordinarily well for me. With the exception of one cipher on a (non-essential) stop during rehearsal, I had no problems whatever with this organ. It succeeded in doing everything that I demanded of it. And that for a massive work calling for numerous changes of registration!

We might take exception to the phrase catastrophic collapse as used by St. Thomas’ Church. After all, assuming the organ hasn’t collapsed physically into the chancel wiping out the altos in the choir, what’s the big deal if an organ ciphers? (Organists: sorry to say, but there is no such thing as an organ that will never cipher.) Mr. LaMirande experienced a cipher while practicing for his recital, usual enough for any instrument. And if an organ ciphers during worship in a suburban parish church, we might shrug and chuckle, climb the ladder to pull the pipe, and go on with the show.

Keep your pants on.
I’ve found a delightful video on YouTube showing a significant wedding faux pas in which the best man’s pants fall down just as the couple starts to exchange their vows. As you might expect, the groom found that to be pretty funny—hilarious, in fact. The bride joined in, and the church was full of real, honest laughter for quite a while. The minister was a trooper, acknowledging the humor of the situation. You can find the video at <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26a8JITwImQ&gt;. You’ll love it. It’s easy to say “things happen” and enjoy the moment. There’s a nice-looking pipe organ in the church. If any of you recognize it, let me know.
But we have a fresh international example of worship and religious festival in which one would not chuckle at the slightest glitch. On April 29 many (most?) of us watched Will and Kate’s wedding. Lovely couple, weren’t they? Her dress and hair were just right. He had a nice twinkle in his eye, and I enjoyed his little quips to his brother and his new father-in-law. Good thing Prince Harry’s pants didn’t fall down. The television coverage allowed us glimpses into the personal level of the occasion. But this was a big occasion. Heads of state were omitted from the guest list because of ongoing political and military circumstances. The dignity of the nation’s royal family was on display at a time when many Brits are wondering about its future. Heaven only knows how much money was spent. If you include all that was spent by the news media in the weeks leading up to the wedding, the total certainly surpassed the gross national product of many countries. As far as we can tell, it went without a hitch. And the pressure on the staff and officials of Westminster Abbey was made obvious in another wonderful moment immortalized on YouTube when a verger expressed his relief by turning cartwheels across the nave when the whole thing was over. I know I’m giving you a lot of research to do, but don’t miss this one either: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81Obpxf_pd8&gt;.

Off with his head.
The four-manual Harrison & Harrison organ in Westminster Abbey has 84 stops and was installed in 1937 for the coronation of King George VI. How’s that for pressure on the organbuilder—miss that deadline and you’re in the dungeon. Had that organ ciphered during Will and Kate’s wedding, it would have been reported all over the world. Imagine that service grinding to a halt while some technician raced to the chamber. Seventy-five chefs at Buckingham Palace would have panicked. Think of the soufflés. The Queen’s lunch would be in ruins. I wonder what Katie Couric and Barbara Walters would have said. The pipe organ universal would have a big black eye. And it would not have been a non-essential stop. There can be no doubt that it would have been the 32-foot Double Ophicleide or the Tuba Mirabilis. Vox Angelicas don’t cipher when the pressure is on, and if it had during all that hoopla no one would have noticed. There’s an apocryphal story about a team of voicers (I think they worked for Skinner) finishing an organ. The man at the console shouted, “Is the Vox Angelica on?” From the chamber, “Yes!” “Make it softer.”
While it may be okay for an organ to cipher or a participant’s pants to fall down somewhere else, it is not okay at Westminster Abbey. And St. Thomas’ Church shoulders a similar responsibility for dignity, grandeur, eloquence, and perfection, inasmuch as perfection is humanly possible. The much-altered Aeolian-Skinner organ there is not the artistic equal of the famed and fabled St. Thomas’ Choir, and while the brilliant musicians who play on it don’t miss a beat, we can only imagine what it will be like to experience worship there when the new organ is complete. The musicians there can almost taste it. And the responsibility born by the leadership and membership of that church is heightened by the simple fact that in an age when a pipe organ of average size installed in a “usual” church can cost more than a million dollars, an instrument for such a place as St. Thomas’ absolutely costs many millions.
Samuel Baker of Alexandria, Virginia wrote:

In the June issue, John Bishop suggests that perfectly good pipe organs are discarded and replaced with instruments more in tune with current trends and more in sync with the style and preferences of current musicians because pipe organs are in motion, whereas windows and statues are not replaced because they are static; physically they stay still.
Despite Bishop’s claim that seldom if ever are original design elements integral to the style of the building itself subject to change because they are considered old fashioned, many examples are easily found in my neck of the woods of Federal-style churches being “Victorian-ized” or Victorian-style churches receiving neo-whatever treatments.
And certainly organs are replaced because styles of organbuilding and preferences of musicians change but, rather than ascribe the reason that windows and statues are safe but organs are not to the premise that one is in motion and the other isn’t, I would propose that many more pipe organs are replaced because they were poorly designed, built with sub-standard materials, received little or no voicing, and were wholly unsatisfactory installations in the first place. The same fate awaits stationary items of poor quality and artistic merit with equity.
I agree fully with everything Mr. Baker says here. I appreciate his interest in including these thoughts in this debate. I’ve been in and out of hundreds of church buildings (actually probably thousands, but that sounds specious) and I’ve seen countless examples of beautiful liturgical and architectural appointments that have been discarded in favor of newer, lesser “looks,” and I’ve seen less-than-thrilling original equipment replaced to great benefit. However, what I wrote (page 12, fourth column, second paragraph) is, “But seldom, if ever, do we hear of a place like St. Thomas’ Church replacing their windows or reredos.” The key word is “like.”
I wrote, “Just imagine the stunned silence in the vestry meeting when the rector proposes the replacement of the reredos.” The allusion is to the vestry and rector at St. Thomas’ Church, not the Second Congregational Church in Newcastle, Maine. On Easter Monday I was writing with tongue in cheek—but it’s fun to revisit the image. I don’t know any of them personally, and I haven’t been in their meeting rooms, but I imagine it would be an august group of accomplished, insightful, and influential people sitting at an elegant table in a grand room. And they would be stunned. Images of that reredos have been published on calendars, record jackets (remember those old black LPs?), CD jewel-cases, postcards, and publicity photos for generations. The choir, resplendent in scarlet and white, stands in the chancel with that heap of saints in the background. Replace the reredos? No, Father. It’s staying.
The Aeolian-Skinner organ was famously revised by G. Donald Harrison in 1956, converting the 1913 four-manual E. M. Skinner instrument (91 stops) from symphonic to neo-classical in style. Harrison was personally working on the project, hurrying toward completion in time for the AGO national convention that year. Taxi drivers were on strike and Harrison had to walk many blocks in city heat to get home. He died of a heart attack on the evening of June 14 (93 days after I was born) while watching Victor Borge on television. The organ has subsequently been revised several times. It’s 98 years since Ernest Skinner finished the organ, which has now been altered just about every generation with diminishing degrees of success.

When there’s so much need in the world . . .
Mr. LaMirande’s letter ends:

Incidentally, I can’t resist pointing out that while St. Thomas Church is prepared to spend the extraordinary sum of $8 million the homeless and destitute are ensconced on the front steps of this church every night of the week! . . . How many homeless and destitute could be fed, clothed, and housed for that $8 million?

This is one of the most difficult questions we face as we propose, plan, and create pipe organs for our churches. Of course, it’s the mission of the church to care for homeless, destitute people—to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. It’s also the mission of the church to provide and present worship experiences at every level. The Royal Wedding was cause for national and international celebration, but Oliver Twist and his cronies still haunt the back streets of London. Without the church’s need for illustration of religious texts, tenets, and principles, we would not have the sculpture or painting of Michelangelo, the organ music of Bach, the choral music of Mozart and Haydn, or the Gothic cathedrals. If it had developed at all, without the influence and resources of the church, the pipe organ would be a wholly different entity. And the majesty of our great churches as they serve as figureheads and examples for all worshipful expression supports and inspires the work of the church at all levels and in all places. Those who toil in suburban and rural vineyards travel to the big city to experience “big city” worship in “big city” buildings, just as we marvel in the great museums, theaters, orchestras, and other institutions that can only be supported in a city like New York. I care a lot about the homeless and I try to do all I can to support them, but I don’t go to St. Thomas’ Church to hear a sub-standard organ any more than I want to see plastic flowers on the altar in front of that reredos.
All this talk about expensive art leads us to the world of philanthropy. Any church that plans to acquire a new pipe organ will rely on the availability of a few large gifts to make it happen. I’ve long assumed and often witnessed that those individuals who are capable of making a major gift in support of an organ project do so because of their personal interests. But I’ve been privileged to witness another level of philanthropy that has informed and affected me deeply. Wendy served on the board of a major university for nearly twenty years. During that tenure we became friends with a lovely couple of immense wealth. They are dedicated to philanthropy—she focuses on social and humanitarian projects and he supports the arts. Their names are at the top of donor lists for every show in town. Several years ago during dinner at our house, the husband told us how a repertory theater company had approached him asking for a significant grant to support the production of a controversial play that tackled some of our thorniest social issues. He disagreed with a lot of the content and was uncomfortable with most of it, but he thought it was his responsibility to make the gift anyway. He said something to the effect of, “I knew if I gave them the money I’d have to go see the play.”
I was impressed and moved by this story, and in the years since I’ve often reflected on the nature of philanthropy and how much we all benefit from it. Whether it’s a church organ, a statue in the park honoring a public servant, an academic building, or a shelter for the homeless, the world relies on philanthropy. The trick is to be sure that all the bases are covered. 

Yesterday was Easter. I’ve spent the last three weeks roaring around New England in a flurry of organ tuning. As I moved from church to church I had the feeling that organ tuners get to see and smell more lilies than anyone besides florists. Each place I went had a more glorious display than the last. It’s a treat to witness the excitement of preparation in so many parishes and a privilege to play a part in that excitement by working to see that organs are at their best.

I think of all those sanctuaries now, the morning after. There’s a particular aroma—the mingling of white lilies and candle smoke. That aroma in turn mingles with the springtime sunshine as the sexton clatters around the nave straightening hymnals and gathering the bulletin inserts that name the donors and memorials for “this year’s Easter flowers.”

The organist left on vacation last night, to return in ten days to a choir room piled high with choral music left from the Holy Week services and the task of planning the music for the next liturgical cycle (dare I say that it’s only 32 Sundays until the beginning of Advent?). One of the trumpet players left behind his music stand and his check—we’ll hear from him soon. Otherwise, things will be quieter until Pentecost and Church School Sunday.

As for me, I lost my last mixture-tuning brush under a rackboard on Good Friday afternoon—I need to make a new batch. My car is full of tools, cleaning supplies, and the hardware store bags that supplied a dozen miscellaneous improvised repairs. There’s a long list of non-organ-repair phone messages on my desk, and heaven knows how many e-mails.

In the last few weeks I’ve visited about 30 organs. I’ve oiled blower motors, un-stuck keys, tuned reeds (lots of reeds!), replaced pouches, adjusted tremulants, regulated actions, cleaned keyboards, vacuumed under pedalboards (I always keep the pencils I find), and removed potted plants from the tops of consoles. I’ve removed the remains of moths, flies, mice, and one bat from critical locations in organ chambers. I’ve stood in the nave and listened to balances between organ and choir, and I’ve played passages for organists so they can hear their registrations. I even did a lunchtime music store errand for an organist—we are a full-service organ company!

A busy season of maintenance visits is a fine time to reflect on the majesty of the pipe organ. Each one is different. Each has its quirks. Some pipe organs are mediocre, nondescript, even poor. A fine pipe organ of any style, description, or size is an artistic treasure. In the February 2006 edition of this column, I posed the rhetorical question: which is better, tracker or electric action? There is no limit to how this question might be answered, but if I would propose a correct answer to my own rhetorical question, it would be: “A good organ is a good organ—a poor organ is a poor organ.”

I suppose the next question is how do you define a “good” organ? I’ll give it a whirl and I’ll be pleased to hear what you readers have to add.

1. A good organ is the product of an organbuilder’s artistic vision and philosophy, not the product of mass-production. Many instruments built by large firms certainly are good organs—as long as the leadership of the firm conceives their products as artistic creations.

2. A good organ is designed and built to be a credible vehicle for the presentation of great compositions of organ music. (I’m not addressing the question of whether every organ should be able to present many different styles of music.)

3. A good organ is compatible with its surroundings. It must be of a size and scale appropriate to the room it’s in. It must add to, not detract from, the architecture of its home.

4. A good organ has mechanical and structural integrity, which is synonymous with comfort and ease of playing, reliability of performance, and economy of maintenance.

5. A good organ has the metaphysical qualities necessary to excite the senses and move the emotions of both players and listeners.

These are all relative qualities, difficult to describe, easy to debate. How do we define good? What makes a good bottle of wine? What constitutes a good sermon, a good college course, or a good day? I may not be able to define it, but I know it when I see it. What makes a good meal? One that “does the job” by filling you up, or one that presents a subtle combination of flavors—perfectly cooked and beautifully presented—that goes beyond simple nutrition or satiation to reveal the philosophy and artistry of the chef? Can this analogy apply to the organ?

The rapid advance of digital sound creation and reproduction has complicated this debate. In his editorial letter published in the April issue of The Diapason responding to the February 2006 edition of this column, Dr. Christoph Tietze wrote, “I believe that the almost universal acceptance of electric action is partially responsible for the growing acceptance of electronic instruments today, for it is only one step further from fooling the fingers to fooling the ear also.” I suggest that fooling the fingers is hardly the point. How the music-making happens is between the instrument builder, the composer, and the performer—perhaps an unholy alliance, and certainly often an ongoing argument. The effective performer is free to add comment to the music but that presentation is always subject to the listener’s judgment. It should make no difference to the listener whether the keyboard is electric or mechanical—what does matter is whether the performer is comfortable with the instrument, whatever it is. As long as we have different performers, it must be acceptable to have different instruments.

Another reader responded to Dr. Tietze’s letter by carrying the debate a step further saying, “all art is, to a certain extent, fakery . . . There are some awful pipe organs . . . and it is [unreasonable] to claim that for all time and everywhere on earth, NO electronic organ would be better than such.”

As an advocate of the pipe organ, I am disinclined to compare them with digital substitutes. And I reject the idea that all art is fakery. Rather, I say that real art is real, and imitation or substitute art is fakery. One might say that a digital musical instrument is analogous to a print of a famous painting. It might be a very good print—I took a look at the online store of the Museum of Modern Art in New York (MoMA) and saw a print of a painting by Mark Rothko for $175—but it’s still a print.

As I scrolled through the MoMA catalogue, I didn’t see any copies of poor art. The marketing people have chosen outstanding art to reproduce and offer for sale. I can understand replacing an ugly original painting with a reproduction of something excellent. Does that describe some purchases of electronic instruments? If so, the person I’m most disappointed in is the builder of the inadequate pipe organ.
My analogy has a serious flaw. It’s easy to say that I’d rather view an original artwork than a reproduction, but while I have been in a few private houses that have original masterworks on the walls, I realize that such luxuries are not available to many of us. An original masterwork might be worth a million times the price of a reproduction (the MoMA store sells reproductions of Monet’s Water Lilies for $17.95). This ratio does not apply to pipe organs and their substitutes. If a pipe organ cost a million times as much as a digital one, perhaps even I would have second thoughts.

While I accept that some churches choose to replace pipe organs with substitutes, I do not accept the claim or even intimation that “you can’t tell the difference.” Of course we can tell the difference. We might choose the substitute anyway, but we can tell the difference. We can tell the difference between fresh-squeezed orange juice and frozen concentrate. We can tell the difference between a burger from the backyard grill and one from a fast-food joint. We can tell the difference between a live symphony orchestra and a recording of one. We can tell the difference between real flowers and plastic flowers.

We’ve all heard the economic arguments comparing pipe organs with electronic instruments. Does it take two, three, even four electronics to produce a combined life expectancy equal to that of a pipe organ? Depends on the organ. We often hear the claim that a pipe organ will last a hundred years between renovations. But consider this story. For the past twenty years I have maintained a large tracker-action organ that was built in the early 1970s—it was just over ten years old when I first tuned it. Since then we’ve replaced the original solid-state combination action and drawknob motors, the slider motor controls, and the leather of the schwimmers. When the largest pipes of the 16' Posaune collapsed, we repaired and reinforced the resonators and built new supporting racks. And when the original “space-age” lubrication of the sliders turned to glue, we took all the pipes out of the organ, cleaned and lubricated the sliders, and retuned everything. The total cost of these repairs far exceeded the original price of the organ. In most ways this is an excellent instrument, but if it was not owned by a parish that is truly committed to having a fine pipe organ, it could well have been replaced by a substitute.

I’m fortunate that my work keeps me in constant contact with the best (as well as the worst) pipe organs. For example, I’ll be in New York City this weekend where I’ll have to cull a long list of wonderful opportunities to experience great music in worship. There’s nothing quite like the experience of singing hymns in a huge church with a thousand souls in the congregation, a brilliant choir, monumental organ, and imaginative organist. I confess that I’m often unable to sing because of the lump in my throat. The organist improvises an interlude, the swell boxes open, the choir adds a descant, and I melt. Feel free to accuse me of sentimentality when I sling an old cliché, that’s what it’s all about.

It’s a natural extension of such an experience to want to try to emulate it at home. Visit the church of St. Sulpice in Paris and realize what Widor had in mind as he wrote his music. That famous Toccata wasn’t intended as a five-and-a-half-minute machine-gun volley of virtuoso notes, but a series of long rolling chords, four to a measure. Because so many of us revere it as a masterpiece, we play it on whatever organ we have, in whatever acoustical environment—but it’s a distortion of scale.

A musical instrument should reflect the scale of its surroundings. A somewhat sassy example is to be reminded that bagpipes were conceived as outdoor instruments. Appropriate scale is critical to the success of a fine pipe organ. Designing a pipe organ is a balancing act—the struggle (it’s almost always a struggle) to achieve balance between the musical needs of the parish, the available space, the available budget, and the builder’s philosophy. Andy Rooney, the curmudgeonly commentator on ABC television’s 60 Minutes, once said he’d been eating working-day lunches in New York restaurants for decades and had never once been surprised by a check that was lower than he expected. Likewise, it’s hard to imagine and nearly impossible to remember the organ project where there was both enough money and enough space!

In my opinion, including a digital 32' stop in a modest pipe organ in a modest building is a violation of scale—the building cannot support the development of that very special sound, and it sounds out of place. In other words, if the real thing wouldn’t fit, the fakery doesn’t belong. Likewise, we frequently see a digital instrument that emulates a pipe organ with 30 or 40 stops, installed in a sanctuary that seats fewer than 200 people. A pipe organ of 10 ranks would be plenty, but the buyers are beguiled with the grand specification and the resulting impressive console. With all due respect, I wonder if it’s necessary to be able to play the music of Widor in every church building. It’s the musical equivalent of stuffing a grove of 20-foot-tall plastic lilac and cherry trees into a sanctuary with an 18-foot ceiling. It’s out of scale, so it’s out of place.

I know that digital instruments are here to stay, and I know that many churches are delighted to own them. I’ve been working in and around pipe organs for almost 35 years, and I expect I’ll always be advocating the pipe organ. But I agree with one thing said by the reader who responded to the response—there surely are awful pipe organs out there. My last word to the buyers and builders of pipe organs today: the future of our passion depends on excellence. Keep buying and building the best organs you can.

Is there really no such thing as bad publicity?

I had my first real job in an organbuilder’s workshop during the summer after my freshman year in college. I’ve often told the story of my first day--I was stationed outside in the parking lot by myself with the façade pipes of an old organ, sawhorses, a garden hose, and a gallon of Zipstrip®. I can imagine the previous week’s production meeting: “save it for the new kid!” It was a tough start, but it quickly got better. I remember that summer as a series of adventures as we worked on projects throughout New England, and I’m still at it.

Along with many other firsts I experienced that summer was my first exposure to media coverage of the pipe organ business. We were working in a church building installing a rebuilt instrument and a reporter from the local newspaper came to do a story that was published under a front-page photo that showed a colleague “voicing” a large organ pipe. I knew that what he had in his hands was a dummy façade pipe (one of those I had stripped)--it was both amazing and amusing to see how serious and erudite an organ builder can look while raising a virtual languid. (Remember “The Emperor’s New Clothes”?)

Five minutes of fame

Since then I have read many such stories in local newspapers. They often get some important technicality wrong, giving us a chance for a knowing snicker, but they have great value in raising public consciousness about the instrument. Many an organbuilder has been made a local celebrity by a photo and story published in a home-town newspaper. Alan Laufman, my predecessor at the Organ Clearing House, was notorious for seeking out the press whenever he went to work in a new town. He wasn’t looking for personal notoriety, he was spreading the word. 

On a wider stage, Craig Whitney, veteran foreign correspondent and assistant managing editor of the New York Times as well as organist and organ-enthusiast, has published a number of excellent and informative articles in the Times in recent memory. In his articles, Mr. Whitney’s compelling writing focuses the interest of the layperson, and his reporting skills produce content profound enough to educate the professional. His contribution to our field is immeasurable. I have had countless conversations with people who respond to hearing what I do for a living by saying, “Pipe organ builder! I didn’t know there were any of you left.” But whenever one of Whitney’s articles is published in the Times, friends and family from around the country call to be sure I know about it, and for the following couple weeks, daily conversations with new acquaintances invariably lead to, “I just read a story in the Times about that.” It’s a special pleasure to be able to respond by saying that I agree it was a good story and he really got it right. For those few days, people seem to be aware of the organ business.

This subject is on my mind these days because of a story broadcast recently on WBUR, “Boston’s NPR News Station.” On January 18, 2005, the First Baptist Church in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts was destroyed by fire. The church’s organ was lost that night, robbing the neighborhood of the distinction of being home to two pre-Civil War three-manual organs built by E. & G. G. Hook. A month or so ago, I was approached by Keith O’Brien, a local freelance writer who was preparing a story for The Boston Globe about the loss of that organ. In the course of his conversations with church officials and members, he had learned about the work of The Organ Clearing House and asked me for an interview during which we discussed the preservation of nineteenth-century instruments, their artistic and historical value, and their relevance to modern music making. 

Working on that story Mr. O’Brien became aware of the Organ Historical Society convention about to begin in southeastern Massachusetts, and began preparing a subsequent story for NPR. He asked me for another interview and I looked forward to hearing what seemed to be a well-conceived story. It was to be broadcast on NPR’s Morning Edition so I knew I’d hear it first thing in the morning on the bedroom radio. There it was, the pleasure of hearing organ music on the radio news. But there was that familiar theme: “I didn’t know there were any of you left.” 

Most organs don’t burn up

On the surface, the story was just fine. It was nice that the Organ Historical Society’s convention was noticed and mentioned so prominently in the press. The center of the story was the “resurrection” of an organ built in 1876 for Trinity Church in Boston by Hilborne Roosevelt, now installed in Our Lady of Guadalupe in New Bedford. The organ had been little used, seriously damaged by water due to leaks in the church’s roof and tower, completely silent for decades, and made playable again by heroic volunteer efforts on the part of OHS members. I’m certain that those listening to the story were compelled by the idea of a group of enthusiasts working hard to preserve a slice of antiquity. But I doubt that a listener would understand that there is any good reason for preserving antique organs. Following several comments that included phrases like “fumbling with the keys . . . “ that did little to impress the listener about the skills of an organbuilder, the clincher for me was when O’Brien said with reference to the Jamaica Plain fire, “most organs don’t burn up--they just fade away.” Yikes! I hope I’m never inside an organ when it fades away.

Who am I, and why am I here?

The story missed the point. Or as I reflected after hearing the story, I should have made a point of making the point: We are not a small sect of aficionados preserving antique organs to satisfy our own interests. Rather, we recognize the beauty and historicity of these instruments for their relevance to modern worship and modern music-making as well as for their antiquity. It’s special to realize that a century-old instrument is durable enough for regular use. But we must be sure to point out that it’s amazing that the instrument keeps its place in our modern society on its artistic merits as well. The pipe organ is not a relic from an earlier age--and neither are we who devote our lives to it.

The website of the Organ Historical Society, <www.organsociety.org&gt;, is worth a visit. It will keep you current with the Society’s activities, and it’s a terrific place to shop for music and books. As I thought about the story on WBUR, I remembered that the Society’s bylaws are published on the website and I took a look to refresh my memory. Here’s the relevant excerpt:

2. PURPOSE. The Society is an international organization for friends of the organ. The purpose of the Society is:

(a) To encourage, promote, and further an active interest in the organ and its builders, particularly those in North America . . .

I think some words are missing--or perhaps a better way to put it, I think some missing words are implied. I doubt that the bylaws’ authors intended that the active interest we are to further should be limited to the “friends of the organ.” I believe that it is our responsibility to our art to broadcast its relevance, its beauty, its majesty whenever and wherever we can. If the organ world is considered arcane, mysterious, or worse irrelevant, how can we assure its future?

The cost of building a new pipe organ has increased dramatically since my introduction to Zipstrip®. When I was first in the organ business a new twelve-stop organ built by a premier builder was installed in my home town for about $36,000. Today, that sum will purchase somewhere between one and two stops. Imagine a hypothetical random survey of modern organists, asking them to write down an “ideal” stoplist. I bet most of them would show more than 50 stops. That hypothetical 50-stop “ideal” organ certainly costs more than a million dollars today. Put enough of those pesky 32s in the stoplist and you will exceed $1.5 million. That’s the equivalent of at least fifty or sixty years of the salary of many of the organists I know.

Any monumental public art work is the product of vision and ambition. It’s easy to underestimate the appropriate scope of the vision. The newly hired organist of a church can play on a tired old instrument for a few weeks and mention casually during coffee hour that the church needs a new organ. That’s an observation, not a vision. The vision--the credible, mature, thrilling vision that involves a new organ necessarily includes an understanding of the capabilities and priorities of the community. Does this mean that a vision has to be realistic? Perhaps a vision is realistic only to the visionary. Everyone else sees it as a fantasy until they are persuaded that it’s possible--until they can share the vision.

Seers have everything!

Cyrus Curtis (1850-1933) was a visionary. He founded the Curtis Publishing Company which brought him fame and fortune principally through the success of The Ladies Home Journal and The Saturday Evening Post. Our culture would still be the richer if Curtis’ contribution was measured only by Norman Rockwell’s nearly half-century (1916-1963) of cover illustrations for The Saturday Evening Post. (Now that’s an important patronage!) Curtis grew up in Portland, Maine where Hermann Kotzschmar, organist of the family’s church, was one of his father’s closest friends, a friendship that was close enough that the son’s full name was Cyrus Hermann Kotzschmar Curtis. The young C.H.K. Curtis was so fascinated and inspired by Kotzschmar’s playing that he taught himself to play the organ well enough to master four-part hymns. As he achieved fantastic financial success, he installed instruments built by the Aeolian Organ Company in his home in Wyncote, Pennsylvania. Aeolian’s Opus 784 was built for Curtis in 1896 and enlarged by five ranks in 1903 as Opus 943. Opus 1374 was installed in the house in 1916, incorporating Opus 943 as the Antiphonal Organ.1 But the lasting proof of Cyrus H.K. Curtis’ devotion to the pipe organ is the grand instrument he gave to the City of Portland, built by the Austin Organ Company, dedicated to his father’s friend, and known to this day as The Kotzschmar Organ. Today the Friends of the Kotzschmar Organ (www.FOKO.org) oversees the maintenance of the instrument and presents a popular series of concerts each year.

Was it Cyrus Curtis’s vision that the organ he named for his father’s friend would still be in prominent public use, a beloved fixture of a small city nearly a century later? (It’s a safe bet that without the municipal organ, we would not remember that Hermann Kotzschmar was the organist of the First Parish Unitarian Church in Portland for 47 years.) Was he challenging people he would never meet--those people who formed The Friends of the Kotzschmar Organ when a fiscal crisis ended the city’s financial support for the organ? How often do we take such grand public fixtures for granted? And let’s take a step back. Was it Cyrus Curtis’s idea to place the organ in City Hall, or did some enterprising bureaucrat approach the wealthy native son?  

Portland is the largest city in Maine with a population of only 64,000 people. The population of the metropolitan area is about 230,000.2 If five percent of American cities that size had hundred-rank municipal organs, there would be a lot more people subscribing to The Diapason. And why not? It’s simply a matter of public relations. Is there a visionary in your town? I know where to find the organs!                        n