Organ Preludes & Postludes through Laetare

5 January (Installation of Fr R.):
J.S. Bach: Prelude and Fugue in G Major, BWV 541
Jean Langlais: Pasticcio, Op. 91, No. 10
6 January (Epiphany):
Johann Pachelbel: Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, P.46
Louis Vierne: Carillon, Op. 31, No. 21
13 January (Epiphany I, Baptism of the Lord):
Anonymous (from the Lüneburg Tablature): Christ unser Herr zum Jordan kam
Gerald Near: Omnes qui in Christo
20 January (Epiphany II):
Niels Gade: Allegretto, Op. 22, No. 2
Gustav Adolf Merkel: Allegretto, Op. 102, No. 1
27 January (Epiphany III; Septuagesima):
Marcel Dupré: Invention, Op. 50, No. 2
Alexandre-Pierre-François Boëly: Fughetta in D minor
2 February (Candlemas):
Marcel Dupré: Élévation (Très modéré), Op. 32, No. 2
Marcel Dupré: Herr Gott, nun schleuss den Himmel auf, Op. 28, No. 31
3 February (Epiphany IV; Sexagesima):
Charles Villiers Stanford: Prelude in Form of a Minuet, Op. 88, No. 1
Max Reger: Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier, Op. 138a, No. 14
10 February (Transfiguration; Quinquagesima):
Paul Hindemith: Sonata No. 2 - I. Lebhaft
Friedrich Wilhelm Zachau: Herr Jesu Christ, wahr Mensch und Gott, LV 32
13 February (Ash Wednesday):
Jeanne Demessieux: Attende Domine, Op. 8, No. 3
Gottfried August Homilius: Erbarm dich mein, o Herre Gott
17 February (Lent I, Invocavit):
J.S. Bach: Christus, der uns selig macht, BWV 747
J.S. Bach: Wer nur den lieben Gott läßt walten, BWV 690
24 February (Lent II, Reminiscere):
J.S. Bach: Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BWV 639
Friedrich Wilhelm Zachau: Ach Gott vom Himmel sieh darein, LV 16
3 March (Lent III, Oculi):
J.S. Bach: O Mensch, bewein dein Sünde groß, BWV 622
Michael Praetorius: Sinfonia
10 March (Lent IV, Laetare):
J.S. Bach: Jesu, meine Freude, BWV 610
Max Reger: Mit Fried und Freud ich fahr dahin, Op. 79b, No. 5

St. Stephen's Day

Per multas tribulationes oportet nos intrare in regnum Dei.

Actus Apostolorum 14:21

The life of a church musician being unmitigated misery and self-loathing in the days leading up to Christmas, it really is quite a relief when the last note of music ceases to resound after the last Mass of Christmas Day. (Honesty compels me to admit that I exaggerate, slightly. But this year I anticipated Christmas Eve as the sinner anticipates the Day of Judgement: waiting to be consigned to the eternal fire, to eat nought but burning-hot coals and drink nought but burning-hot cola. I must somehow learn not to worry on behalf of other musicians, or I shall have to find some other vocation.)

Ah, but now, now it is Christmas, at least until Twelfth Night. (I have plans for Epiphany, as the Bishop is visiting, but preparing solo organ music inspires me with comparatively little dread.) And today is Boxing Day, or the Feast of St. Stephen the Protomartyr, if you prefer. Diplomacy was not Stephen's forte, to be certain. It takes a certain foolhardiness, or perhaps blissful unawareness, to, when facing a crowd quite ready to stone you, address them thusly:

Ye stiffnecked and uncircumcised in heart and ears, ye do always resist the Holy Ghost: as your fathers did, so do ye. Which of the prophets have not your fathers persecuted? and they have slain them which shewed before of the coming of the Just One; of whom ye have been now the betrayers and murderers: who have received the law by the disposition of angels, and have not kept it.

It is curious that Christians should so honor a man who pretty clearly brought his martyrdom upon himself. There must be a line, somewhere, between willingness to profess one's faith and eagerness for martyrdom. Perhaps that is the same line I must learn to draw between doing one's job and suffering for one's job. Hmm.

In any case, permit me to wish you, dear reader, "a wonderful Christmastime" (as Paul McCartney so catchily and irritatingly put it).

Inward Digestion

Yesterday a phrase was running through my head: "to read, mark, and inwardly digest". I recognized that it is a perfectly Cranmerian phrase, but knew not where I had last heard or read it. A cursory search reveals that it comes from the collect for Advent II:

BLESSED lord, which hast caused all holy Scriptures to bee written for our learnyng; graunte us that we maye in suche wise heare them, read, marke, learne, and inwardly digeste them; that by pacience, and coumfort of thy holy woorde, we may embrace, and ever holde fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which thou hast geven us in our saviour Jesus Christe.

Now, that's all well and good, but, regrettably, I had not heard this collect in either of my churches this past Sunday. (Pity the poor ELCA, which has quite obviously given up any pretensions to beautiful language in its published liturgies. The Episcopalians should know better, I think.) The Revised Common Lectionary collect for Advent II is an insipid affair:

Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

There's no comparison: Cranmer's has an immediacy, not to mention a memorable quality, that the newer one utterly lacks.

The question does arise: why should a phrase from the Advent II collect come to mind, quite without my conscious awareness of its origin, the day after the second Sunday in Advent? I can only suggest that this is one of the most important justifications for being well-read: that we should have inwardly digested meaningful turns of phrase. How can a English-speaking man claim to partake in Western Civilization without a thorough knowledge of the Authorised Version, of the Book of Common Prayer, of Shakespeare? (One might continue this litany, but the further towards the present one goes, the more contentious the listing.)

On a related point, I stumbled across (or acrost, as some are wont to say) an article on epigraphs today. It quite rightly recognizes that, in the use of epigraphs, we place ourselves in a living tradition of thought, a conversation with the quick and the dead.

"Patron Saints of the Unnecessary"

For some time now, I have been interested in the Magi, among other New Testament characters (e.g. Pilate, the three women on Easter morning). And lo, I encountered an interesting observation about the Magi in an article (of uneven quality, but worth a look-see, I think) on Evelyn Waugh's Helena, which I have not read but hope to read someday. The Magi, "attended by what outlandish liveries, laden with such preposterous gifts" (except the gold, perhaps), represent, in some way, all of us artists who offer our gloriously useless gifts: of music, of art, of words. Helena, the title character, addresses the Magi: "For His sake who did not reject your curious gifts, pray always for all the learned, the oblique, and the delicate." That's not a bad prayer, I think. Certainly we learned, oblique, and delicate sorts need prayers as well.

(My dear reader will forgive this blog-post better suited to Epiphany, I hope, even though we are not yet even in Advent. The church musician is always planning ahead, anyway. I have music planned through the new year, and am feverishly envisioning an organ recital for Transfiguration Sunday.)

Something Rich and Strange

I have succumbed and already begun listening to Christmas music. Well, not just any Christmas music. I had the great fortune of finding that recording of the Praetorius Mass for Christmas Day (by Paul McCreesh and the Gabrieli Consort, recorded in Roskilde Cathedral, which I can attest is a remarkable space) in a used records shop in Iowa City, and I simply had to buy it. It may be one of my ten favorite records. (I couldn't tell you the complete list, though I should say the Klemperer recording of the Brahms Requiem is always on it.) There's something about the music of that era (Praetorius's, that is) that is simultaneously quite familiar (we still sing some of the hymns — In dulci jubilo and Wie schön leuchtet, for example) and yet wonderfully strange. (McCreesh's recording accentuates the strangeness, in a way, by using period instruments. Shawms and krummhorns and sackbutts and all.) It is therefore an excellent fit for the Christmas season, I think.

It strikes me that we don't often recognize how strange the principal feasts of the Christian year are. Consider, for example, Christmas. How bizarre that God, this divine, omnipotent, sempiternal being, should take our flesh! How bizarre that a virgin should conceive and bear a son! This, this is the solution to the string of catastrophes that is human history: this profoundly strange plan that God should become incarnate in order to die. Christians, especially those raised in the faith from an early age, become desensitized to the very oddness of it all. (This is one reason why I am not altogether unhappy that we are rapidly losing any sense of being a Christian society: in a world permeated by Christian belief, one can discount Christian doctrine without the inconvenience of actually considering it. In a society that is materialist by default, Christianity may present a viable alternative.)

I think that the liturgical musician, in planning Advent and Christmas music, should take this into account. The hymns of the Christmas season are undoubtedly the most familiar in all the repertoire: even non-Christians are acquainted with them, thanks to that horrible custom of blasting Christmas music in public spaces from the day after Thanksgiving until December 25th. We church musicians must provide some measure of comfort, of course. I could not countenance a Christmas without Es ist ein Ros entsprungen or In the Bleak Midwinter. But I suggest that it may be beneficial to throw in, occasionally, a lesser-known hymn. Try Quem pastores, or the Huron Carol. (Perhaps the latter is quite common in Canada. But it isn't here.) We all need reminding that religion is not merely a source of thoughtless platitudes: it should discomfort and challenge us, at times, as well.

Attention Anglophile Organists:

The other day an Orgelbauer friend of mine had an excellent idea that I feel compelled to disseminate. We were watching Midsomer Murders and he commented that its theme would make an interesting basis for a chorale prelude (or, rather, a television programme theme music prelude, as it were).

To wit: I humbly suggest that all interested Anglophile organists select theme music from a British television show and compose a chorale prelude upon it. I shall accept all entries, Finale-ize them, make a very pretty title page and table of contents, and send a pdf copy of the compleat collection to anyone who might want it. To any interested dear reader, I entreat you: please feel welcome to forward this prospectus to anyone you know to whom it might appeal. You might leave a comment on this-a-here web-log, if you wish to express interest. Rather than have duplicates, though, I suggest we each claim a particular show's theme. As for me, I have selected the theme from Blackadder.

(I suppose we might open the idea up to all television shows of any origin, not just British ones. But for some reason the prospect of limiting the project a bit appeals to me. You needn't pay me any heed, though.)

Since organists are, in general, busy folks, I therefore suggest this might be a long-term project, lasting, perhaps, years. Oh well. I offer it for your consideration.

Admirable Words, Vol. VI

1. Apothegm
   
2. Credenza
   
3. Esurient
   
4. Hokum
   
5. Mephitic
   
6. Murrey
   
7. Oleaginous
   
8. Pleurisy
   
9. Rhombus
   
10. Woad

Beards

...sicut facies barbam, quam non esse munimento, sed virili ornamento...

Augustine, De civitate Dei, XXII, §24

Due to a combination of laziness, climate, and sensitive skin, I have resolved to attempt growing facial hair (viz., the beard sometimes called the "Verdi"). This is, in fact, the second time I have tried such a thing; the first essay, conducted one Lent during my undergraduate years, was a resounding failure. I am beginning to wonder whether this attempt might be equally unsuccessful. Unexpected facial hair is a conversation starter, to be certain. People feel no compunction about commenting on it. But my experience has been that most people, rather that ask "Oh, you're growing a beard, eh?", will ask "Oh, you're trying to grow a beard, eh?" I have received donations put forth for to buy me a razor (jokingly, har har). Nevertheless, I hope to persevere, until I am either successful or so obviously misguided that shame compels me to shave.

Organ Preludes and Postludes through New Year's

11 November:
attr. J.S. Bach: Prelude and Fugue in C Major, BWV 553
J.S. Bach: Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier, BWV 730
18 November:
Louis Vierne: Lied, Op. 31, No. 17
Jacques Boyvin: Grand plein jeu continu
25 November (Christ the King):
Felix Mendelssohn: Prelude in G Major, Op. 37, No. 2a
Gordon Young: Prelude in Classic Style
2 December (Advent I):
Flor Peeters: Creator alme siderum, Op. 75, No. 1
Nicolas de Grigny: Verbum supernum prodiens: Plein jeu
9 December (Advent II):
Johann Pachelbel: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, P.386
Gerald Near: Jerusalem surge
16 December (Advent III, Gaudete):
Gottfried August Homilius: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland
J.S. Bach: Herr Christ, der einge Gottes-Sohn, BWV 601
23 December (Advent IV):
Jeanne Demessieux: Rorate caeli, Op. 8, No. 1
J.S. Bach: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, BWV 599
24 December (Christmas Eve):
Samuel Barber: Chorale Prelude on "Silent Night"
Claude-Bénigne Balbastre: Tous les bourgeois de Châtres
25 December (Christmas Day):
Gerald Near: Puer nobis est natus
J.S. Bach: Der Tag, der ist so freudenreich, BWV 605
30 December (1st Sunday after Christmas):
Dieterich Buxtehude: In dulci jubilo, BuxWV 197
J.S. Bach: In dulci jubilo, BWV 729
1 January (New Year's Day):
J.S. Bach: Das alte Jahr vergangen ist, BWV 1091
J.S. Bach: In dir ist Freude, BWV 615

Elektra at the Lyric

I cannot understand people who consider opera to be boring. Well, no, that is not true at all: there are many examples of opera that can be boring, I readily admit. But this is not an inherent flaw of the genre; indeed, opera, when it approaches the ideal of Gesamtkunstwerk, is perhaps the most captivating of all things. (Several months ago I made an offhand remark to a fellow opera buff and church-musician that liturgy should be like opera. This is not to say that I esteem opera above liturgy, but rather that what is effective in one can and should be effective in t'other. But that is another discussion.) Yesterday's performance of Elektra at the Lyric, which I attended, instilled in me a fascination that straddled the line between rapture and disgust. One may therefore say that it succeeded unequivocally as art. I am getting dangerously close to pontificating about the nature of art; let me restrain myself.

Strauss's score for Elektra, though now more than a century old, still sounds fresh. (His dissonances are thrilling; perhaps this is because we'll never overcome a natural inclination for functional harmony? Certainly we won't, as a culture, if our popular music remains limited to four different chords.) The performances, instrumental and vocal, were uniformly excellent, though Christine Goerke, in the title rôle, deserves special praise. The costumes and set resonated with the ghastly splendor of the the plot and music; the Tribune review quite rightly notes the "beautiful ugliness" of the experience. Altogether it was like something out of a fever dream — unnerving, but riveting.

Letters from Flannery

Though real work, as I mentioned, is satisfactory, it leaves far less time for leisure. This is particularly true in this particular month, as I have three important Sundays in a row (St. Luke, transferred from today; Reformation; and All Saints) and that upcoming recital, as well as planning for Advent Lessons & Carols and a chamber music concert in December. And I am attending Lectures in Church Music, again, and helping to tune the instruments at my two churches. Why, it barely leaves time for my wonted hobby of late, preparing editions of Hassler motets for CPDL.

Books have begun to pile up. There are, of course, the dozen or so that I have already begun reading and have not finished. (Most of these, at least, are not novel-length fiction.) But people persist in recommending books unto me. I appreciate this very much, but feel I am being set up like a protagonist in a Greek tragedy, doomed to some miserable end. (It remains to be seen what my ἁμαρτία is. Perhaps it is a susceptibility to distraction.) Alas, but oh well. For the meantime, I am occupying myself with the letters of Flannery O'Connor, whose spelling is rather haphazard but whose observations are keenly informed and whose sense of humor is inimitable.
On suffering:

I believe that everybody, through suffering, takes part in the Redemption, and I believe they suffer most who live closest to all the possibilities of disbelief.

On modern education:

I have what passes for an education in this day and time, but I am not deceived by it.

On librarians:

Librarians are the last people you can trust about the insides of books.

(I hesitate to add, in deference to any dear reader of mine who may be a librarian, that doubtless Miss O'Connor was referring to a very particular sort of small-town — possibly southern — librarian. Surely.) There's much to unpack in O'Connor's letters; one wishes for the other half of some correspondences. But at least they provide interesting background about her stories, which I find to be consistently good.

In other news, today I encountered a fine recording of the Bach B-flat Partita (BWV 825). Here it is. I have mixed feelings about playing harpsichord music on a modern piano — it seems as foolish as playing gamba repertoire on a cello — but while listening to such a recording I can suspend my objections.

A Reformation Sunday Recital

Much like having regular examinations in school, I find that regular recitals provide a certain measure of motivation. (Is this due to a certain lack of self-discipline on my part? Or is self-discipline merely knowing what sorts of tricks to play on one's own mind?) To that end, I will be performing a recital on October 28th in Dixon; it oughtn't be more than an hour, I hope. You are, dear reader, of course invited.

Recital on the Karstens organ at St. Paul Lutheran Church, Dixon
28 October 2012, at 3pm

J.S. Bach (1685-1750):
        Prelude and Fugue in C Major, BWV 547
Hymn: ELW #308 "O Morning Star, How Fair and Bright"
Dieterich Buxtehude (c.1637-1707):
        Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, BuxWV 223
Hymn: ELW #839 "Now Thank We All Our God"
Sigfrid Karg-Elert (1877-1933):
        Nun danket alle Gott (Marche Triomphale), Op. 65, No. 59
Hymn: ELW #488 "Soul, Adorn Yourself with Gladness"
J.S. Bach:
        Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele, BWV 654
Hymn: ELW #504 "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God"
Cor Kee (1900-1997):
        Een vaste Burgt
Chant: "Te lucis ante terminum" (Mode VIII)
Jehan Alain (1911-1940):
        Postlude pour l’Office de Complies, JA 29
Louis Vierne (1870-1937):
        Symphony No. 1, Op. 14 – VI. Finale

The astute reader will notice that some of these pieces may look familiar. Indeed, I have played many of them over the past fifteen months in Dixon. But most of them warrant a more careful listening (as well as, I should admit, a more careful performance). I wouldn't close with the Vierne, but for the fact that I was deprived of my chance to play it for the Lutherans at Easter. Easter morning I turned the organ at St. Paul on, only to discover that the entire swell and choir divisions were out. If that happens again, I shall take it as a sign that I ought not to play Vierne for Lutherans.

Muppets, Ordered and Chaötic

Recently it was brought to my attention that every single person can be classified as either an order muppet or a chaös muppet. (This idea is several months old, but it was news enough to me.) Such a bold statement was apparently formulated on the basis of years of observation of supreme court justices, which seems as reasonable a way to glean profound insight into the human condition as any. Upon some reflection, I suggest that I am an order muppet, while many of the people I work with (especially at the newest job) are chaös muppets.

It should probably be emphasized that this dichotomy is not, really, based on the intent of the individual person (or, er, muppet): rather, it just seems that people are accompanied by order or chaös wherever they go. To be sure, certain behaviors conduce to certain outcomes. Perhaps we are not always the most aware of the consequences of our habits.

Honest Work

... et operam detis ut quieti sitis, et ut vestrum negotium agatis, et operemini manibus vestris, sicut praecepimus vobis.

I.Th 4:11

There's something immensely satisfying about having a real job, one where you work with your hands, build things, see tangible improvements. I realize this, now, because I recently obtained such a job (in addition to my church-organist duties): I have been hired to help install a 1904 Verney tracker organ in a local performance venue. Much of organ-buildery is carpentry, which, as my boss has noted, is not my métier. But there are also all sorts of fiddly-work (especially considering this is a tracker instrument), which I find surprisingly rewarding. And I appreciate very much the opportunity to learn how pipe organs actually work. (Perhaps organists can be forgiven some measure of ignorance about their instruments, as the things are just so deucedly complicated. But I think a deeper knowledge of the mechanism by which we produce our art can only improve our production.)

Shortly after beginning this new job (only three days ago), it became quite apparent that it fulfills a need of mine that I had not before recognized: the need to do actual work. Academe and the arts, the only fields in which I have real experience, leave me endlessly questioning whether I have, in fact, done my job well. That way lies madness. How does one know if one's scholarship or musicianship are actually good? One can only listen to the other inmates in the asylum. To build something of value, however, is to obtain concrete justification for one's endeavor.

Musical Glossolalia and Divine Play

Why Catholics Can't Sing is one of those books that's been on my radar for several years, during which time I've kept telling myself I should read it. Now, having been lent the book by our new Anglican priest (a good sign, I should think), I have finally begun to read it. It is quite instructive. Any Protestant who's ever been to a Roman Mass in the ordinary form of the rite has noticed the anemic singing and shoddy hymns. Why, not even Notre Dame is exempt from the let's-pretend-folk-music-is-church-music phenomenon. The insight of Thomas Day (the author, you see) is not just to recognize this, but to provide a plausible explanation for why it is so, and why it is so far removed from the true spirit of liturgy.

I can't review the compleat book yet, as I'm only fifty pages into it. But two points, especially, have caught my attention:

• Song, or chant, is our equivalent of speaking in tongues. This is a very attractive notion.

  Anyone who has ever attended a Latin High Mass in an old-fashioned Benedictine monastery has really attended a charismatic event. This style of worship makes us realize that the early Christian church had taken the wild fires of charismatic zeal and compressed them into the intense flame of monastic chant. ... Through the medium of music, the monks become "filled with the Spirit". They are madmen, breaking out in a focused, unified, musical glossolalia.

  Indeed! Chant is not some dry, dead thing that smothers the stirrings of the Holy Spirit; it is the authentic expression of that joy that comes from the Paraclete. Likewise, the great sacred music of the ages, from Josquin to Bach to Pärt, is glossolalia, given structured direction and form. It is no less spiritual because it is meant to be sung by professionals. Anyone who condemns professional music as antithetical to spiritual experience only reveals their own philistinism, their own impoverished view of spirituality and culture. (I probably need not reïterate here that many of my most profound experiences have been in listening to music.)
  
• Ritual is play; liturgy is divine play. This, properly speaking, is not Thomas Day's idea, but that of Johan Huizinga, whose concept of Homo ludens is worth examining. This is not to denigrate ritual, nor is it to suggest that it is somehow less real than "reality" (or whatever the things that take place outside a church building can be called).

  Ritual "is seriousness at its highest and holiest", and yet a form of play; play is fun; true ritual is supremely serious, solemn, earnest fun. In religious ritual the beautiful and the sacred can come together. Ritual (the medium) can become the divine game and from it people can become conscious of their role in the divine order of things (the message).

  Ritual, of course, is not the sole province of High-Church Anglicans. No, every form of Christian worship has its own ritual, even down to the Krustians meeting in their warehouse "praise and worship center" in the suburbs. Performed well, ritual enhances our understanding of the world and God's designs for us therein. Performed poorly, it is merely so much padding.
  

Good Christian Artists

Heretofore, chief among my failures as a church musician has been the failure to communicate why good church music is just so important. (I harp on such thoughts on this-a-here web-log perhaps because I find myself unable to express them effectively to the people whom I serve as organist and/or choir director.) My mind returns again and again to Ratzinger's notion of the best apologia for Christianity being its art and its saints. The best Christian art is that which is both unequivocally Christian and unequivocally art. There is much that is undoubtedly Christian but lacking artistic merit, and there is much that is artistically powerful but of questionable Christianity, and there is far too much posing as Christian art that is neither distinctly Christian nor of any artistic value. I shall leave these three unfortunate categories for my reader to populate, but I would laud artists like Bach, or Giotto, or Flannery O'Connor, who have produced works of the highest quality and theological truth.

Consider the Pange lingua of Thomas Aquinas, one of the greatest hymns of the Church: it not only clearly sets forth complicated theological claims, but also does so in quite excellent poetry (in Latin, anyway; I've never been satisfied with any metrical English translation). And these words are coupled with a chant melody both memorable and beautiful. That would be enough (and indeed, has been enough). But I'll refer you, finally, to an organ composition by Nicolas de Grigny (1672-1703). Non-organists may be forgiven for not knowing that, in French classical organ music, verses chanted by a choir were performed alternatim with verses played on the organ. (By this time, apparently, everyone knew the text so well that it made little difference whether the actual words were sung or not.)

Nicolas de Grigny: Pange lingua gloriosi
performed by Sven-Ingvart Mikkelsen (on the Isnard organ at Saint-Maximin)
and the Ensemble Vox Gregoriana

1. Pange lingua; Nobis datus
   
2. In supremae nocte; Verbum caro
   
3. Tantum ergo; Genitori, genitoque; Amen

(I purchased this particular CD in Hillerød from Mr Mikkelsen himself; he's an excellent player, and seems a very nice fellow to boot. He was kind enough to let us play the 1610 Compenius, which I still dream about.)

Such art has sustained me many times when my soul was disquieted within me; it is sometimes my primary reminder of the mercy and goodness of God. It is to my great distress that the quality of such art is not self-evident to all Christians, for it is so closely bound to my faith. Indeed, my reader may not understand why on earth this music would inspire such feelings. Perhaps I must resort to Kierkegaard's notion of the subjectivity of faith. Some wag may rightly point out that Kierkegaard and Aquinas make strange bedfellows. The same wag may also note that I misconstrue Kierkegaard to claim, as I might like to, that aesthetic experience can be related to actual religious experience. Søren was quite clear — well, as clear as he gets — that the aesthetic and the religious are nowhere near each other. I shall let this thought trouble my sleep tonight.

Autumnal Organ Preludes and Postludes

2 September:
attr. J.S. Bach: Prelude and Fugue in F Major, BWV 556
J.S. Bach: Jesu, meine Freude, BWV 1105
9 September:
Dieterich Buxtehude: Praeludium in G minor, BuxWV 149
Johann Pachelbel: Magnificat sexti toni
16 September:
attr. J.S. Bach: Prelude and Fugue in G minor, BWV 558
Johann Caspar Ferdinand Fischer: Fugue in G Major
23 September:
Louis Vierne: Arabesque, Op. 31, No. 15
Pierre du Mage: Fugue (from Suite du premier ton)
30 September:
Marcel Dupré: Te splendor et virtus Patris, Op. 38, No. 15
Louis Marchand: Fond d'orgue
7 October:
J.S. Bach: Fugue in G minor, BWV 578
J.S. Bach: Erhalt uns, Herr, bei deinem Wort, BWV 1103
14 October:
Jehan Alain: Ballade en mode phrygien, JA 9
Nicolas de Grigny: Plein jeu (Deo gratias)
21 October (St. Luke, observed*):
Leo Sowerby: Prelude on Deus tuorum militum
Edward Elgar: Vesper Voluntary No. 2, from Op. 14
28 October (Reformation):
J.S. Bach: Prelude in C Major, BWV 547a
Johann Nicolaus Hanff: Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott
4 November (All Saints, observed):
Olivier Messiaen: Apparition de l'église éternelle
Johannes Brahms: O wie selig seid ihr doch, ihr Frommen, Op. 122, No. 6

* A saint's day, of course, cannot usually take precedence over a Sunday, but a patronal feast can. And St. Luke the Evangelist is patron of the Episcopal church in Dixon.

Further Adventures in Good Drinkery

My most recent favorite drink, if you must know, is of course gin-based. (Gin remains at the top of my hierarchy of liquors. Second is rum, though much of the time it is overtaken by whisky. Down at the bottom are vodka and tequila, which I find pointless and loathsome, respectively.) It is rather more complicated than my standard gin-and-tonic, but it is correspondingly more satisfying when prepared properly. The drink is known as a "Red Cloud". I offer here my recipe for it:

• 1.5 measures Gin (New Amsterdam's almost-citrus flavor works nicely)
  
• 3/4 measure Apricot Brandy
  
• 1/2 measure Lemon Juice
  
• 1/4 measure Grenadine
  
• two dashes Angostura Bitters

My experience suggests one ought not to err on the side of sweetness. The charm of this particular drink is in its subtle tonality (if one may misappropriate musical jargon), the interplay of the juniper (and, depending on the brand, citrus) of the gin with the herbal notes of the angostura bitters. The apricot and lemon flavors, though necessary, are by no means dominant, and the grenadine is more for color than overwhelming sweetness.

Cursory research has not revealed whether the drink has any connection to the Oglala Sioux chief of the same name. Another possible connection is to that bit of weather lore from the Gospel of Matthew (16:1-3):

The Pharisees also with the Sadducees came, and tempting desired him that he would shew them a sign from heaven. He answered and said unto them, "When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red. And in the morning, It will be foul weather to day: for the sky is red and lowring. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?"

A Word or Two About the Harmonium

As it so happens, this Sunday the Episcopalians of Dixon will be celebrating the holy mysteries out at St. Peter's chapel in Grand Detour. (The name of that town, like so many American town-names, is not pronounced the way you think it is. Locals are wont to pronounce it as one word, with the accent, improbably, on the first syllable. Thus, in IPA: ['gɹæn.diˌtɔ˞].) Rather than have Mass out in the "cheap showiness of nature" (as Reverend Lovejoy once called it), we'll be inside the little limestone building, which has a reed organ in the back. It will be my job to play this thing, and I thus selected appropriate repertoire for such an instrument: a Franck piece from L'Organiste and one of Elgar's Vesper Voluntaries. Both were originally written for the harmonium, which I mistakenly assumed is just a more fancy name for the reed organ. As it so happens, that is not quite the case: one operates with a suction bellows, and t'other with a pressure bellows, apparently. But, not being mechanically-minded, I am not particularly interested in what seems like a pedantic detail.

Browsing the literature composed for the harmonium, it appears it was widespread about a century ago, much like the piano. (On my more pessimistic days I believe the piano will probably follow the harmonium into obsolescence; certainly it is nowhere near as common as it once was in middle-class households, and in this age of decline the state of music education is only getting worse.) Much of the repertoire is charming, and little-heard (at least in its original instrumentation) nowadays. A favorite set, which I hope to someday perform with some string-player friends, is Dvořák's Five Bagatelles, Op. 47.

Dvořák, Op. 47, Nos. 1-3:

Dvořák, Op. 47, Nos. 4-5:

Whither Mainline Protestantism? (Part I)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that mainline Protestantism in the United States is in no good health. Simply put, every mainline Protestant denomination is losing, if not hemorrhaging, members. (It is less acknowledged, though equally true, that Roman Catholicism's numbers would be no better were it not for the many Latino immigrants to this nation. Though the reasons, and perhaps some of the solutions, for this are much the same, it is beyond my purview at this time.)

Much of the decline is due to two factors that we can do very little about:

1. Demographic changes, i.e., plummeting birth-rates in the white middle-class and the decline of the American small town. I have experienced the latter first-hand. (Incidentally, my birth-rate has been, and will remain, as steady as it ever was.) Real communities have been under assault by a mentality of hyper-mobility that seized us in the years after the Second World War and has only worsened. The great majority of both the congregations I serve in Dixon are members 55 years of age, or older, because their children have moved elsewhere, be it the suburbs, the Southwest, or somewhere else equally unpalatable. (Mr Wendell Berry speaks eloquently on the "boomers" and "stickers" of America.) Solving this particular problem requires more moral character than our society is capable of, at least at this time. We will, eventually, be forced to confront the problem of hypermobility, when we finally reap the consequences of an economy founded on improvidence. But that may be decades, perhaps generations, in the future.
2. Unprecedented disillusionment with all social institutions, cultural and religious. Consider the numbers of unions, of bridge clubs, of the Knights of Columbus: every group with a notion of "membership" — an extraordinarily important and rich concept in Christianity that is almost never adequately emphasized — has seen its numbers decline. This is only exacerbated by advancements in technology, which have served to make each man bound in a nutshell (though, he might believe, king of infinite space). Society is atomized, a state from which it will not soon recover.

Realistically speaking, we must accept that the Church will be smaller. Never again will it have the cultural and moral influence on American society it has enjoyed for centuries. I am optimistic that this will be beneficial for the Christian faith, as it will at least reduce that dangerous tendency towards complacency, towards an imagined sense of security.

(Here it is worth remembering Rudolf Bultmann: "The world's resistance to God is based on its imagined security, which reaches its highest and most subversive form in religion." — Das Evangelium des Johannes, tr. G.R. Beasley-Murrary [Oxford: Blackwell, 1971], p. 267)

But there is a third reason for the precipitous drop in church membership, one that should concern us very much and which we can work to amend. Simply put, the mainline Protestant denominations have lost their justifications for existence. Why do we go to church? It is not for entertainment, for better entertainment can be found elsewhere. It is not to solve social problems, for there are far more efficient means of effecting social change. It is not to socialize, for there are surely other groups of people far more tolerable than any given parish. (I admit, of course, that people do in fact attend church for these reasons. Indeed, they are not bad reasons. But they are not sufficient reasons to justify the Church's existence.) We go to church because it is our bounden duty and our joy to praise and serve God; because we draw strength — indeed, our very reason for being — from the twin sources of Word and Sacrament. Any church, of any denomination, that has forgotten this has no business remaining a church.

I wish to examine this further, but I dare not exhaust my reader's patience. That is to say: to be continued.

Mark Your Calendars:

One must keep busy, you know. To that end, I will be performing a recital in Elkhart, Indiana on Sunday, 15 July, at 7:00pm. It shouldn't be terribly long; it's about fifty minutes of music. You, dear reader, are of course invited.

Recital on the Fowler organ, Op. 28, at St. Vincent de Paul Roman Catholic Church, Elkhart

Dieterich Buxtehude (c.1637-1707):
        Praeludium in G minor, BuxWV 149
Jehan Alain (1911-1940):
        Variations sur un thème de Clément Janequin, JA 118
        Litanies, JA 119
Johann Valentin Görner (1702-1762):
        Chaconne in B minor
Dieterich Buxtehude:
        Erhalt uns, Herr, bei deinem Wort, BuxWV 185
Louis Vierne (1870-1937):
        Berceuse (sur les paroles classiques), Op. 31, No. 19
Samuel Scheidt (1587-1654):
        Ballo del Granduca
Edward Elgar (1857-1934), arr. William Henry Harris (1883-1973):
        Nimrod (from the Enigma Variations, Op. 36)
J.S. Bach (1685-1750):
        Prelude and Fugue in G Major, BWV 541

Nothing much out of the ordinary, as you can see. There is actually more variety than I would prefer, as the instrument, being an American eclectic one, is designed to play all things equally poorly. But I am optimistic that great literature is still worthwhile, even on less-than-ideal instruments.

Oh, and for you pedants out there, a note on the Scheidt: many still attribute the variations on Ballo del Granduca to J.P. Sweelinck, as they are ascribed to him in the only surviving manuscript. But I think Pieter Dirksen makes a convincing case that they are by Scheidt, who studied with Sweelinck in Amsterdam in his early twenties. (There is some infelicitous voice leading that makes much more sense coming from the pen of the young Scheidt than from the mature Sweelinck.)

Scandinavia; Return

Two days ago I returned from the temperate summer of Europe to this uninhabitable (ten months of the year, anyway) climate. I am not yet sure whether I would advise two-and-a-half weeks in Europe to anyone. It was, for the most part, a wonderful experience, but I have hardly begun to process it. Real travel, the kind that necessitates closer inspection of a society and people than one can get from the train window, requires a good deal of careful observation. I am not altogether certain that I was worthy of the task. But let us dispense with such quibbles. Allow me to describe Scandinavia, in my deficient manner.

Copenhagen did not make an ideal first impression, as the train station is directly across from Tivoli Gardens. (I have, once or twice, seen people quite literally "falling-down drunk" before, but that was always on a college campus, where one, unfortunately, has come to expect such a thing.) Having read about Tivoli as a child, I pictured it as more of a city park with some attractions; in fact it is simply an amusement park, and I find such places to be tacky and loud, even in the best of circumstances. I suspect the atmosphere in the city owed much to the time of year, for it was right around St. John's Eve that we were there. (I did, in fact, observe that odd Danish custom of burning an effigy of a witch on a bonfire. The men in charge of lighting our particular bonfire were incompetent, and resorted to spraying the feeble flames with lighter fluid. I don't know whether the Danes have a custom of keeping burn-unit nurses on hand at such events.) Roskilde and Hillerød were both far more pleasant, and both have remarkable historic instruments. The 1610 Compenius at Frederiksborg Castle, in Hillerød, is especially stunning.

It appears that the Danish language is, in fact, a conspiracy perpetuated by the entire nation, for nearly every Dane speaks flawless English. Danish has but two phonemes, the glottal stop and the schwa, and these bear no relation to orthography. How anyone manages to speak, much less understand, the language is a most vexing matter.

After less than three days in Denmark, it was on to Sweden. Stockholm appears to be a very pleasant city, if one can judge a place by its smell. Every city has a smell, you know. Many American cities stink chiefly of polluted air, be it from factories or from our all-too-beloved automobiles. Vienna's smell, as I remember it, has an earthiness — perhaps that is the Wienerwald — atop which is a mixture of other, more acidic, smells: cigarettes, the Danube... I cannot identify all the components. Czech and German and Danish cities have their own smells. Stockholm is perhaps the nicest-smelling city, for more than anything else one smells Lake Mälaren. Perhaps it is different at other times of the year, or when the wind is from other directions. Unlike the Germans (who, as far as I saw, are utterly incapable of dressing up), the citizens of Stockholm dress well. The city is particularly expensive, though I suppose it was the height of tourist season this past week.

Uppsala, though it perhaps does not smell as nice, was far more agreeable to my tastes, being far less busy and with far fewer tourists. The city is dominated by the Domkyrka. (A note on Swedish orthography, which is at least a bit more sane than Danish: it appears that, after nasal consonants, "k" becomes an unvoiced post-alveolar fricative, that is, "sh". Thus, domkyrka comes out something like "domshirkah", as I am not in the mood to look up the IPA exactly.) In most respects it is a college town, which is perhaps what appealed to me, besides the cathedral. The Church of Sweden, though now it is just as empty on Sundays as any other European church, at least had the good sense not to dispense with all high-church frippery. (Apparently this is due largely to Laurentius and Olaus Petri.) The dom-museum in Uppsala has an impressive collection of vestments, altar-ware, and other historical churchy artifacts.

Perhaps appropriately, the very last place to visit was Leufsta Bruk, a tiny village at what feels like the end of the world. Leufsta Bruk is a surreal place: here, in the taiga of northern Uppland, is a perfectly preserved eighteenth-century settlement, with manor house, workers' quarters, and a church. It is the church that is of primary interest, for it houses a virtually unaltered 1720s Cahman organ.

Is it worth even attempting to describe what makes certain instruments so much better than others? I fear it is not. I could not have understood it myself before hearing, and playing, a historic instrument. Suffice it to say that, on historic instruments, the music makes sense in a way that it does not make sense on modern instruments. Sweelinck, and Buxtehude, and Bach, and all the great geniuses of organ composition, knew their instruments and wrote accordingly for them: everything, from touch to phrasing to registration, just seems to work on a historic instrument. There are difficulties, of course. Historic pedalboards are all flat, of course; that is not really a problem. (My teacher at Notre Dame notes that a curved AGO pedalboard conduces to "cookie-cutter interpretations", and I think he's right.) But historic pedalboards are also not standardized. Most have considerably shorter compasses, and many are wider — that is, the space between pedal notes is wider — which can be quite disorienting. The winding of certain instruments is downright difficult. These problems (and several others) notwithstanding, it is very much worth it to play historic music on historic instruments.

Broken German

Perhaps the first thing any tourist must overcome is the fear of being seen as an utter fool. (I use the word "tourist" in the sense of a person who wishes to visit a foreign culture — not just hang around with other insufferable Americans at a resort; if there were a lower genus than "tourist" I should assign such cultural troglodytes to it.) Irredisregardless of how well one knows the language and mores, one will make mistakes. Foolish mistakes. In a larger city, like Vienna, they are at least accustomed to having ignorant tourists frolicking about, but in the hinterland the things we do can come across as genuinely peculiar.

The chief barrier to communication is, of course, the language. While I have taken a German course in college and spent ten weeks previously in Vienna, my German is still, one might say understatedly, inelegant. My vocabulary is limited, yes, but far more limited is my knowledge of German grammar and syntax. The greatest problem posed by the German language to the amateur speaker is not (only) the word order but mostly the articles. German, as you may know, has three genders, with corresponding articles. It also has declensions, and while some nouns are declined, it is mostly the articles that bear the brunt of this process. It is thus difficult to even represent the sort of mistakes the English speaker is likely to make in his forays into German. There are two options for the ignoramus who would nonetheless have himself understood: (1) omit articles entirely. I suspect this comes across a bit like cave-man language. Or (2) attempt articles with the knowledge that most of them are incorrect. This was my strategy, and, though my sins against the German language were many, it seemed I got my point across. A good many conversations have been conducted in both broken German (on my part) and broken English, for while English is spoken by some Germans, they learn it a bit like Americans learn Spanish: for a few years in school, perhaps, then to be mostly forgotten. It is work, maintaining a language.

Grinzing

Sie sind uns nur voraus gegangen,
und werden nicht wieder nach Hause verlangen.
Wir holen sie ein auf jenen Höh'n
im Sonnenschein, der Tag ist schön,
auf jenen Höh'n.

It being an overcast and rainy day, I opted to go out to Grinzing. (A note about rain here: like everything else in Vienna, it is far more polite than back home. Perhaps less extreme weather conduces to a more civilized people.) It's a pleasant enough ride by the excellent mass transit system (take the U-4 to its end at Heiligenstadt and get on bus 38A; for variety's sake I took the Straßenbahn back into town), and thanks to the weather neither Heiligenstadt nor Grinzing were overrun by groups of Americans or Japanese visiting Beethoven's house (as if there were only one; he moved constantly) and stumbling out of the more touristy Heurigers.

I had not come for Beethoven, anyway, but for Mahler. Up the hill, pretty clearly marked, is the Grinzinger Friedhof, one of Vienna's smaller cemeteries (certainly much smaller than the Zentralfriedhof). Mahler is buried there. After some searching (for there was a small map by the gate, but it would be poor taste to label only famous graves, I suppose), I found the grave. Nearby were two other tourists come to pay their respects, as I had. (They had a Vienna travel guide in English, but neither their faces nor their accents suggested they were native speakers.) We shared a few kind words. I believe they were genuinely kind. For a short moment, at least, we shared a kinship, united in the love of the works of Mahler, this man who died more than a century ago. Music speaks to the souls of those who hear it; some souls respond. It is gratifying to meet a like-minded soul: "Ah, so I was not the only one!"

Vienna

Greetings, dear reader, from Vienna! We arrived here late last night, after a full day of travel. "Life is a journey", it is said, tritely. People say this to remind us that it is not so much the destination that matters as what happens along the way. I do not entirely agree with this. The destination matters quite a bit. In our case the travel was far less pleasant than the arrival. After a transatlantic flight, we had a layover of six hours in Copenhagen's Kasterup Airport. The Danish are an exceptionally attractive people who speak a barbaric tongue not fit to be understood by man or beast. While Kasterup is pleasant, as airports go (it has a sort of streamlined Scandinavian aesthetic), six hours in an aiport is about five-and-a-half hours more than I wish to spend in an airport. We finally reached Vienna around ten, after a much shorter (albeit delayed) flight. (We flew over Germany's Baltic coast, but couldn't see most of the country due to heavy clouds beneath us. Fortunately, it's fairer weather down here.) At the airport I managed very efficiently to get us lost, having to rely on the worst sort of German: discomfited American tourist German. ("Bitte, wo ist der Zug?") We did finally find the CAT (City Air Train), making it to Landstraße-Wien Mitte, and thence to the Kolpinghaus, finally getting to bed after midnight.

Today we first walked around the Ring a bit, making it into Stadtpark, over past Café Prückel (which I am resolved to visit tomorrow), and from the Stubentor stop on the U3 over to the Zentralfriedhof. I'd been there already, the last time I was here, but it's a much more pleasant place to visit in the summer. I noted with some satisfaction that more flowers were placed on Brahms's grave than on Schubert's, though Beethoven had them both beat. Schoenberg, rather unfairly, had none. (No accounting for taste, I suppose.)

Back in the city, we went to Doblinger's, where I purchased several books of chorale preludes by obscure Viennese composers. (My rationale is that I should purchase things published by the Doblinger press, as they're a local product and I may not find them elsewhere.) I had Schnitzel-King for lunch, and it was glorious beyond words. And yet, just as no man steps in the same river twice, no man eats the same Döner sandwich twice. I don't remember there being cucumbers in it before, but I think they make a fine addition.

Into Relative Silence

I'll refer you to this article, about the lives of Trappist monks. The questions the author asks of the monks are not particularly good (and he erroneously describes Trappists as "the only Western-based monastic order that still actively practices the 'vow' of silence"; what about the Carthusians, next to whom Trappists are a bunch of chatty Cathies?), but he is wise enough to let them speak for themselves. When asked if silence is a sacrifice, one monk answers:

I would not speak of the “sacrifice of words” except in relatively rare instances when a passion moves me to speak and I struggle to hold my tongue. The silence which is my natural habitat is not created by forcibly sacrificing anything. When a man and woman meet and fall in love they begin to talk. They talk and talk and talk all day long and can't wait to meet again to talk some more. They talk for hours together, and never tire of talking and so talk late into the night, until they become intimate—and then they don't talk anymore. Neither would describe intimacy as “the sacrifice of words” and a monk is not inclined to speak about his intimacy with God in this way. Is silence beneficial for all people? I would say the cultivation of silence is indispensable to being human.

Travel, Memory

When, in a few days, I leave for Europe, I am sure I'll be very excited. But for the meantime I am still rather apprehensive about it. This stems mostly from the number of things I still must do before I can depart (in peace, anyway). Experience suggests that most things are better anticipated than experienced, but I suspect that this is not the case with travel. I look forward to travel with a sort of dread. Perhaps this is because I have developed such an ingrained distaste for being late: the idea of missing a connecting flight or a train distresses me as few (ultimately) trivial things can. And on this particular journey, there are an awful lot of trains one can miss.

Nevertheless, I am optimistic that travel may yet improve me (despite the many ways in which it probably will not). Playing historic instruments will be instructive. We've spent several months trying to line up time on various organs, and it appears we'll be playing instruments in Tröchtelborn, Magdeburg, Niederndodeleben, Hildesheim, Gifhorn, Clauen, Schellerten, Norden, Roskilde, Frederiksborg Castle, Leufsta Bruk, and Östhammar. Besides organs, we have set aside several days to explore Vienna, Prague, Magdeburg, Hannover, Roskilde, and Copenhagen. I hope to write about things on this web-log as much as is practical; while I hate the idea of spending an entire vacation trying to remember said vacation (taking pictures — which still strikes me as asinine, especially in churches — and writing web-log posts), I suppose I should produce some evidence of travels.

This makes me wonder about the nature of memory. Why would anyone devote so much time and effort encasing experiences in amber? Well, pictures and words, in one way, have a sort of sacramental aspect. No, then again, they don't at all: a sacrament is by its nature a tangible object, whereas images and words are the opposite of tangible objects, unless I engrave them like Job. (19:23-24: "Oh that my words were now written! oh that they were printed in a book! That they were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever!") Pictures and words on the internet, are, I guess, a sort of memorialist understanding of the past: we recall times gone by, but we lack the Real Presence, as it were.

Aestival Organ Preludes and Postludes

31 May (Visitation):
Ludwig Sennfl (tablature by Jan z Lublina): Ave Rosa sine spinis
Charles Callahan: Petite Carillon on Ave Maria
3 June (Trinity):
Georg Böhm: Allein Gott in der Höh sei Ehr
Healey Willan: Postlude on Nicaea
10 June (Corpus Christi, observed):
Leo Sowerby: Meditation on Pange lingua
Alexandre Guilmant: O salutaris Hostia, Op. 59, No. 2
17, 24 June: [on vacation]
1 July:
J.S. Bach: Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier, BWV 731
Johann Pachelbel: Toccata in E minor, T. 240
8 July:
Dieterich Buxtehude: Praeludium in C Major, BuxWV 137
Johann Pachelbel: Toccata in C Major, T. 231
15 July: [on vacation]
22 July:
J.S. Bach: Prelude and Fugue in A Major, BWV 536
J.S. Bach: Dies sind die heil'gen zehn Gebot, BWV 635
29 July:
Josef Gabriel Rheinberger: Pastorale, Op. 156, No. 8
Adolf Friedrich Hesse: Postlude in G Major
5 August:
Dieterich Buxtehude: Nun bitten wir den heiligen Geist, BuxWV 208
Dieterich Buxtehude: Wir danken dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BuxWV 224
12 August:
Samuel Scheidt: Ballo del Granduca
Anonymous (from the Dublin Virginal Manuscript): Alman Bruynsmedelijn
15 August (St. Mary the Virgin):
Pablo Bruna: Tiento de 2º tono por gesolreut sobre la letanía de la Virgen
Johann Pachelbel: Magnificat primi toni
19 August:
Orlando Gibbons: Fantasy in C Major
William Byrd: Pavan: The Earl of Salisbury
26 August:
César Franck: Offertoire ou communion in E minor (from L'Organiste)
Edward Elgar: Vesper Voluntary No. 3, from Op. 14

And mark your calendars: on Sunday, 15 July I will be giving a recital at 7:00pm, at St. Vincent de Paul Roman Catholic Church in Elkhart, Indiana. More details to come.

W.H. Auden on Liturgical Reform

I have, of late, been feeling mighty contrary, especially in matters liturgical. This mood was prompted, in part, by reports that suggest I am not alone in my reactionary tastes. When complaining about artless, ugly, and unnecessary liturgical reforms one need not look far to find kindred cantankerous spirits, though few of them appear to be involved in the bodies that decide such things. (One can at least take some comfort in being right, I suppose.) I present here one such spirit, W.H. Auden, whose work I generally enjoy. This letter (dated November 26th, but without a year; it was written while Auden resided at St. Mark's Place in New York) was apparently prompted by alterations to the Episcopalian liturgy.

Dear Father Allen:
Have you gone stark raving mad? Aside from its introduction of a lesson and psalm from the O.T., which seems to me admirable since few people go any more to Mattins or Evensong, the new 'liturgy' is appalling.

Our Church has had the singular good-fortune of having its Prayer-Book composed and its Bible translated at exactly the right time, i.e., late enough for the language to be intelligible to any English-speaking person in this century (any child of six can be told what 'the quick and the dead' means) and early enough, i.e., when people still had an instinctive feeling for the formal and the ceremonious which is essential in liturgical language.

This feeling has been, alas, as we all know, almost totally lost. (To identify the ceremonious with 'the undemocratic' is sheer contemporary cant.) The poor Roman Catholics, obliged to start from scratch, have produced an English Mass which is a cacophonous monstrosity (the German version is quite good, but German has a certain natural sonority): But why should we imitate them?

I implore you by the bowels of Christ to stick to Cranmer and King James. Preaching, of course, is another matter: there the language must be contemporary. But one of the great functions of the liturgy is to keep us in touch with the past and the dead.

And what, by the way, has happened to the altar cloths? If they have been sold to give money to the poor, I will gladly accept their disappearance: I will not accept it on any liturgical or doctrinal grounds.

With best wishes,
[signed]
W.H. Auden

Let Us Now Praise Famous Organists

I have written before about the power of media (books, in particular) as tangible objects. This point was driven home today as I was cataloging (a word that looks misspelled, but isn't) my organ literature. Much of it, as it happens, is inherited, and I hope to someday pass it on to someone else. Much of the inherited stuff, it appears, was itself inherited, for many of the older volumes are marked with the distinctive signature of a Hans Vigeland (a wonderfully Norwegian name). My curiosity piqued, I hurried to the internet, where a summary search reveals that Mr Vigeland was an "internationally acclaimed organist and arranger" from Buffalo, New York. For a man who's been dead for decades, there's a remarkable amount of information to be found about him:

• Before joining (or being conscripted into?) the army, he was organist and choirmaster at First Congregational Church in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. He was a soldier at Camp Croft, South Carolina, and served as organist in town. This hilariously inaccurate 1941 article from the Spartanburg Herald-Journal describes a concert he was to give at the First Baptist Church there. (The article was clearly written by a newspaperman with no knowledge of music: "This piece opens and closes with a light scherzo sounding pattern, the middle section contrasting in touch, in the form of a canon." "The main theme is introduced in the pedal, and because of its treatment is compared to what is nowadays associated as a passacaglia." "Handel, who was Purcell's successor as England's outstanding composer, is said to have been strongly influenced by Purcell's music." Huh!) A guest article Vigeland wrote for the Herald-Journal reviews a performance of The Pirates of Penzance. The money quote? "Miss Platt's singing was as easy to the ear as her appearance to the eye."
  
• From 1949 to 1975 he served as organist at Westminster Presbyterian Church in Buffalo, where he must've presided over the installation of the 84-rank Aeolian-Skinner organ completed in 1958.
  
• His son Nils is now chair of the composition department at the Manhattan School of music, and is famous enough to warrant his very own (one-sentence) Wikipedia page.
  
• Knut Nysted, a notable composer whose choral music you might actually be expected to've heard of, was apparently a friend: he dedicated at least one piece to Vigeland, and in copies of programs (tucked away into the very music I now possess) one sees that Vigeland played pieces by Nysted.
  
• One suspects Vigeland may have had a sense of humor. He was known to "play" Cage's music. He is responsible for the placement of the image of Duke Ellington among the saints in the windows at Westminster Presbyterian.
  
• Vigeland was among the party to greet visiting composer Ralph Vaughan Williams at the Buffalo airport; he spoke to RVW about his admiration for the composer's Christmas cantata Hodie. "I've just learned," RVW replied, "in your state of Texas, that it should be pronounced Howdy."

In any case, it seems Mr Vigeland was quite the fellow. And I now have some of his organ music!

Admirable Words, Vol. V

1. Athwart
   
2. Bint
   
3. Conniption
   
4. Encarnadine (a rarer, but better, spelling than Incarnadine)
   
5. Esplanade
   
6. Glebe
   
7. Lagniappe
   
8. Malinger
   
9. Palanquin
   
10. Termagant

O Tempora! O Mores!

After many years of abuse (mostly repeated droppings, mostly on concrete), it was decided that I need a new cellular telephone. I therefore made my way to the local cellular-telephone-store, fully prepared to have wares hawked at me. There is an almost antiseptic quality to such a store, what with its kiosks on an otherwise bare floor space. I suppose this is the most fitting sort of display for a technology so far removed from any sort of organic human experience. At least I was only there for a brief time: I stipulated that I needed a phone that I'll be able to use in Europe, and was pointed toward several options, of which I selected the cheapest and least modern. I was dismayed to find that it was a "smart" phone (am I using the proper terminology? I mean it was a phone with internet and a tiny little keyboard). Heretofore I had taken some consolation from the fact that I did not own a "smart" phone; was I to give up this source of satisfaction so easily? Alas, there were no other options. There can be, I confess, a fine line between Luddism and snobbery. I maintain that the amenities provided, beyond (or perhaps including) that of making phone calls, are patently unnecessary, and I felt as though pierced by the disapproving glance of Wendell Berry. But I now will use said amenities, nonetheless. Perhaps I should've put up more resistance? Probably. Shall I come to depend on these unnecessities? I do hope not. Is there a day when I shall give up the cell phone entirely? It is my fond desire, but not one I foresee fulfilled for a long while. In any case, I have resolved to limit my use as much as possible.

Concerning Taste

There is, as the saying goes, no accounting for good taste. (It stands to reason that there is likewise no accounting for bad taste either, but there really should be some accounting for no taste, for that is just another name for ignorance.) I have noted that certain acquaintances of mine cannot countenance certain composers, even composers that are widely accepted as part of the established canon. A fellow cellist at Augustana could not abide Copland, for example. And my organ teacher at Notre Dame has such an antipathy towards Vaughan Williams that his music irritates him almost to distraction. I happen to like both composers quite a bit. (Just now I was listening to RVW's The Lark Ascending, which I think to be a piece of surpassing loveliness.) I think I understand, however, why they provoke such a reäction in particular individuals: more than anything else, each has a distinctive harmonic language that one either likes (or, at least, tolerates) or doesn't. In both composers' cases there is a — what word ought I to use? — a charm to their works that overcomes their compositional deficiencies. (For, indeed, neither is formally a perfect composer. Vaughan Williams, in particular, has some very clumsily-written works, from a compositional standpoint.) What can be said of those people who fail to notice this charm? Well, that's what we can't account for, I guess.

The question that bothers me — that may keep me awake tonight — is how broadly such differences in taste can legitimately differ. I would venture to say that nearly half of my Lutheran parishioners (though a smaller fraction of my Episcopalians) have no fondness at all for the established canon of organ music, which is of course what I play. Much of this can be fairly attributed to ignorance (that is, no taste); most of it, I hope. I will not pander to the lowest common denominator, in any case. But I do wonder whether there is room for legitimate dislike of such music. Classically-trained musicians, after all, are taught to appreciate a certain body of music; can a person reasonably protest the established classical canon?

Rückkehr nach Wien

It is now fifty-four days until I will be leaving for Europe. As of now the itinerary includes several days in Vienna, then Prague, Erfurt, Tröchtelborn (a tiny town outside Erfurt where an organist friend of mine will give a recital), Halle, Leipzig, Magdeburg, Hannover, Norden (another small town, but home to perhaps the greatest Arp Schnitger instrument in the world), Hamburg, Roskilde, Copenhagen, and Stockholm. (I am also optimistic that we may be able to visit Lövstabruk and Östhammar, towns north of Stockholm, each with fantastic organs of their own.)

The organ-tour portion of the trip (basically everything from Erfurt onwards) will be a lot of fun, I don't doubt — I am attempting to reäcquaint myself with all of my North German repertoire that has proven less-than-ideal in Dixon — but at the moment I am especially excited to return to Vienna. Though by now I have surely forgotten nearly everything I learned about how to survive in that city, I remember it fondly. I am resolved that I shall catch a concert at the Musikverein, eat a Hot-Dog at my favorite stand in the Naschmarkt and some Döner at Schnitzel King (whose proprietor, though his brain is surely addled by a multitude of plum schnapps shots taken with visiting American students, is a very pleasant fellow), and visit the Kunsthistorisches Museum. (Holbein awaits!) Perhaps the only downside is that I will be horribly jet-lagged all the days that I am in Vienna, for we'll only be there three days and I am quite sensitive to such things. (Even the one-hour switch to South Bend time throws me off.) But no matter: it is Vienna. It will be glorious. And even if the weather is miserable — as it was for more than half the time, last time I was there — I will enjoy simply being back there. At the very least, it will give me an opportunity to write about it in my Vienna travel log.

Surrexit Christus

The Bible characters I most relate to are those who have no idea what's going on, those who are more or less ignorant of their place in the narrative of salvation. Perhaps for this reason I prefer the three women — who go to the tomb early Sunday morning — as they are described in the reading from Mark: "they went out quickly, and fled from the sepulchre; for they trembled and were amazed: neither said they any thing to any man; for they were afraid." People, with the exception of certain saints and poets, are generally not very good at recognizing the work of God: we are more likely to be doubtful, or confused, or "affrighted" (as the Authorised Version puts it), than to observe God's workings with serenity and joy. We do, if we are fortunate, have moments in which the utter mystery of God is somehow tolerable. Well, "tolerable" is not really the word I mean. I don't mean we merely tolerate God; I mean that there are moments in which Grace — which by its nature is uncomfortable for us — is not only less uncomfortable but actually comforting. I hope, dear reader, if you celebrate Easter, that you may have such a moment during this season.

Arvo Pärt: Passio

Arvo Pärt: Passio Domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum Joannem
(The Gospel of John, chapters 18-19)
This — the internets, that is — is just about the worst medium for a piece like Pärt's St. John Passion. The work is worth remembering, though. Here is some context: [1] [2] [3]

Organ Preludes and Postludes through Whitsunday

7 April (Easter Vigil):
Louis Vierne: Symphony No. 1, Op. 14 – VI. Finale
8 April (Easter Sunday):
Georg Böhm: Christ lag in Todesbanden
Louis Vierne: Symphony No. 1, Op. 14 – VI. Finale (reprised!)
15 April (1st Sunday after Easter, Quasimodo):
Healey Willan: Prelude on O filii et filiae
Flor Peeters: Hymn Prelude on Gelobt sei Gott
22 April (2nd Sunday after Easter, Misericordia):
Michael Praetorius: Vita sanctorum
Jean-François Dandrieu: Fugue sur l’hymne des Apôtres «Exultet»
29 April (3rd Sunday after Easter, Jubilate):
Edward Elgar (arr. W.H. Harris): Nimrod (from the Enigma Variations, Op. 36)
Ernst Pepping: Sonne der Gerechtigkeit
6 May (4th Sunday after Easter, Cantate):
J.S. Bach: Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele, BWV 654
Max Reger: Lobe den Herren, Op. 135a, No. 15
13 May (5th Sunday after Easter, Vocem Jucunditatis):
Joseph Jongen: Chant de mai, Op. 53, No. 1
Hermann Schroeder: Allegretto, Op. 9, No. 4
17 May (Ascension):
J.S. Bach: Prelude in D Major, BWV 532a
François Couperin: Messe des Paroisses - VII. Petite fugue sur le chromhorne
20 May (6th Sunday after Easter, Exaudi):
J.S. Bach: Fugue in D Major, BWV 532b
Max Reger: Jesus, meine Zuversicht, Op. 135a, No. 13
27 May (Pentecost):
Dieterich Buxtehude: Te Deum, BuxWV 218
J.S. Bach: Komm, Gott Schöpfer, Heiliger Geist, BWV 631

Bach; Grief

My latest project is a transcription of BWV 12, "Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen". Granted, there are already scans of it online, from both the Bach-Gesellschaft Ausgabe and Bach's original autograph, but neither of these is practical for performance. (Then again, if your singers and instrumentalists are used to the original clefs, then perhaps they don't mind reading from the full score either.)

The cantata is an early one, written while Bach was still at Weimar. (A second viola part would be unusual in later works; there's a joke to be made about violists here, but I figure they receive enough abuse as it is.) It is dispiriting, perhaps, to recall that he wrote it while still in his twenties. How is it that such a young man could produce a work of such perfection? The answer lies partly in Bach's immense genius, of course, but also in the culture that produced him. Musicians and theologians were cultivated then in the way we cultivate athletes today. We have an efficient system for recognizing athletic talent at a young age and encouraging it; Bach was the end result of generations of musicians teaching their children the art and livelihood of music. He grew up living and breathing harmony and counterpoint, Lutheran chorales, and instrumental technique, absorbing all musical styles he encountered. We will never produce another Bach, or Shakespeare, because our priorities as a culture as so different (read: much worse).

BWV 12 was first performed on April 22nd, 1714, which, as it happened that year, was the third Sunday after Easter, Jubilate. (I think these old names for Sundays in the church year are worth keeping.) The cantata, however, is not particularly jubilant. Consider its titular chorus:

Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen Angst und Not Sind der Christen Tränenbrot, Die das Zeichen Jesu tragen.

Weeping, lamentation, worry, apprehension, anxiety and distress are the bread of tears of Christians who bear the mark of Jesus.

It is not hyperbole to say that Bach's cantatas, taken as a group, represent the full range of human emotion. This is distinctly at odds with church music as it is commonly conceived nowadays. We have become unable to recognize grief and suffering as an integral part of the Christian life. Consider nearly every new piece of church music written in the last half-century: how many even attempt to deal with grief, let alone in a theologically and intellectually honest manner? (My complaint, here, is directed at the "new" "music" of Haugen, Haas, et al. that has wormed its way into Evangelical Lutheran Worship and other such hymnals. Let us not discuss the even-less-disciplined approach of "Praise" music.) We are afraid to recognize sadness because doing so would remind us that religion is about more than a constant endorphin high; seeking to stay on the heights at all times, we ignore the depths the psalmist was talking about. If the Christian religion is worth retaining, we must endeavor to regain the integrity of grief, honestly considered and addressed. An excellent way to begin this process is with our music.

Rowan Williams, Admired

Perhaps you've heard of the Archbishop of Canterbury's resignation; I wish him all the best. While reading up on the topic I happened upon an article over at The Atlantic from a few years ago; though its author's biases are obvious, it's worth reading, if only to better understand Dr Williams's motivations. A particular passage caught my attention:

[Williams] came to the threshold to preach to two dozen of us on Paul's remarks in the First Epistle to the Corinthians "concerning the unmarried" — the passage in which the saint first advises people, married or unmarried, to hold to the state they are in, and then in the next breath tells them to disregard the bond of marriage after all, for the world is passing away.

I couldn't help but hear Williams's description of the saint as a description of himself, a man saved from his contradictoriness by his obvious integrity. "That's a hard text to preach on," he began. "Paul is thinking on his feet: 'Of course on the other hand,' he says, and 'Well, that is true, but however...' But Paul, for all his hemming and hawing, has a clear point to make. This is not it. Capital letters. I.T. Whatever you’re doing — your job, your passion — there is something more."

However well or poorly you think Dr Williams has done in his post as Archbishop, it's pretty clear that he is indeed a man of integrity. More than any recent religious thinker I can name, he reminds us that Truth and ambiguïty are not always mutually exclusive. It takes a certain intellectual honesty to recognize this. It is unfortunate we do not expect such honesty from our religious and political leaders more often.

Weather, Unseasonable

Summer weather is upon us, inexplicably, here in mid-March. (Well, that's not entirely fair: a goodly number of scientists have a reasonable explanation for why the climate appears to be changing.) The heat provokes both passionate intensity — mostly in the worst sorts — and an idle listlessness in the rest of us. It is perhaps the worst sort of weather for Lent, for he who loves not Lent, as Herbert reminds us, "loves not Temperance, or Authoritie, / But is compos'd of passion." Such heat encourages a sanguine humour in even the sanest fellow.

The past few days I assisted in the tuning of the (ludicrously oversized) organ at St. Luke's. While the organ-tuner was up in the chamber doing the actual work, I sat at the console, doing what is called "holding keys" — that is, playing a single note until told to play the next note. It is another one of those jobs, like organ calcant, that requires very little thought but constant attention. To call it torture would be hyperbole, but it was not pleasant, being stuck inside for the better part of two days while outside spring had arrived. It brought back memories of grade school — do you remember the feeling? — of being imprisoned in a poorly ventilated space doing nothing particularly rewarding. (I do not miss grade school.) At least, now, the organ is mostly in tune, barring any violent changes in weather. Holy Week will quickly be upon us, and I have, shall we say, plans.

The Lutheran Insulter

An esteemed correspondent has shared with me the Lutheran Insulter, which is not a tool for insulting Lutherans (unfortunately?) but rather a compilation of the many and varied insults Luther hurled at people in his writings. He was a rather combative fellow, after all. Anyone who argues that public discourse has become less civil these days should have a look-see at tracts from Luther's day.

Upon Nearly Finishing a Translation

Spurred by the music of Ástor Piazzolla (I made a Pandora station), I have decided once more to try my hand at a translation of that Borges essay on Job I've been attempting to translate for almost five years, now. Again it is worth remembering Eco's dictum that "translation is the art of failure".

Nevertheless, I feel more optimistic this time around. I've managed to root out a few embarrassing errors. (Naïve younger-me glossed los caldeos han atacado su tierra as "droughts have attacked his land", assuming a link between caldeo and caldear, when in fact it is the word for "Chaldean". Well, I told you it was embarrassing.) And I've had more luck in finding some of Borges's more obscure citations, especially in Quevedo (who, it should be observed, is stylistically superior to Góngora). After some peer review and once I've nailed down some last few mysterious references, the translation should be as done as I'll ever get it. I am resolved that I shall never be entirely happy with it, but it is satisfying enough to decipher some of Borges's dizzying erudition. (In a relatively brief lecture on the Book of Job he offhandedly mentions Ezequiel Martínez Estrada, the Authorised Version, Fray Luis de León, Quevedo (many times), Ernest Renan, James Anthony Froude, Milton, Vergil, Leibniz, Max Brod, Huxley, Coleridge, Jung, Aristotle, and Plato. No doubt there are other citations, as I am surely missing some of them.) I'll let you know, dear reader, when I am finally finished.

I need little projects such as this. I have found life outside of a college campus to be rewarding in some ways, but not especially intellectually stimulating. (Perhaps, pace Republicans, there's nothing wrong with a college education.)