Acetaria Caesaris apud Juliam

Among culinary innovations of the last century, there are few as widespread, or as variable, as the Caesar salad. Rather like the sandwich or the cocktail, it is the sort of thing that seems so obviously correct that it is difficult to imagine a time before it existed. (And yet for millennia we did without it!) The popularity of the Caesar salad has been, perhaps, its undoing: any food so ubiquitous is bound to suffer a thousand iniquities by way of stale or cheapened ingredients and incompetent preparation. A local establishment here in Iowa City, billing itself as a "salad company", is content to call anything a Caesar if it has enough of the nominal dressing (pre-made, mind you) on it. I have been asked whether I want a Caesar salad with spinach. I do not. (An aside: how does one register as a "salad company"? It is anything like a "salad factory", where assembly-line workers clad in gray overalls each add one ingredient to a salad? Are there "salad mines" where, when the whistle blows, the miners emerge from the earth after a twelve-hour shift, smeared with ranch dressing instead of coal-dust?) Perhaps even worse — or at least more expensive, and less forgivable — are the culinary horrors of fusion cuisine. Does anybody really want a Caesar salad with curry, or wasabi? I submit to you that they do not.

The fundamental uncertainty of Caesar salad can be traced to its inception. Or rather, it can't be traced anywhere, since we can't even agree on where or when the salad was invented. The leading theory is that it was first made in the twenties at Caesar Cardini's restaurant in Tijuana. (Tijuana, Mexico: "the happiest place on earth", according to Krusty the Clown.) Julia Child, la grande dame herself, recounted visiting the restaurant with her parents and watching raptly as Caesar prepared the salad in front of them. She later would get the recipe from Caesar's daughter, and presented it in From Julia Child's Kitchen, an invaluable resource that I consult from time to time. In one of those acts of impassioned pedantry that make the Internet truly worthwhile, somebody has copied this account in its entirety on a website titled simply There are no anchovies in Caesar Salad. The recipe as Julia gives it contains all the wonted ingredients, without the accretions (anchovies, shrimp, chicken, bacon) that would later muck it up. It is worth noting that the original version was served on whole romaine stems, eaten with the hands. (This is a bit odd, but not unpleasant.) But the most jarring quality of the Ur-Salat is that the olive oil, lemon juice, coddled eggs, and Worcestershire sauce are not mixed beforehand! I found this to be most unsatisfactory, as without an emulsified dressing, each bite tastes of whatever liquid happened to fall upon it. In my first bite of an "authentic" Caesar salad, I must've had all the Worcestershire sauce in one go, for that was all I tasted. Subsequent mouthfuls tasted of oil, or lemon, or eggs, but nary a bite tasted like a harmonious union of the whole.

So much, then, for authenticity. I find a much better result is possible when one mixes the dressing together beforehand, and then applies it to the romaine. The only downside is that this method lacks the panache of mixing all ingredients at once in the salad bowl. But then, ours is an unglamorous and unimaginative age.

An Introduction to Chorale Preludes

The average church organist is at the distinct disadvantage of not being an organist at all. Rather, most are pianists, cajoled or coërced into playing an instrument with which they have little familiarity. For those attempting to make the case for pipe organs in churches, this situation is, to put it mildly, not ideal. While organ technique can only really be improved by lessons, there is also the issue of repertoire: how does an inexperienced organist select simple-enough literature that is not simply awful? Well, I have some suggestions. Here I present the first in what might be a series of posts featuring simple-to-moderate organ repertoire that will prove useful — and musically sound — for organists who don't know where to begin.

Chorale preludes, relatively simple pieces based on hymn tunes, are an essential part of a church organist's repertory. Whenever possible, use them in conjunction with hymns sung to the same tunes. (One finds that chorale settings of past centuries are very often in a higher key than modern settings, for a variety of reasons not worth examining here. Nevertheless, they can be useful in preparing a congregation to sing a given tune.) The annotated list below suggests collections of chorale preludes that are worth knowing. Whenever possible, I provide links to free scores on IMSLP.

J.S. Bach: Orgelbüchlein, BWV 599-644
Though the Orgelbüchlein ("Little Organ Book") is an essential resource for every organist, not every piece in this collection is suitable for beginners. Some, in fact, are as complex as anything Bach wrote for the instrument. Begin with the easiest settings ("Ich ruf zu dir", "Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland", "Komm, Gott Schöpfer, heiliger Geist") to start the lifelong process of beginning to understand Bach's genius. Difficulty: easy to hard

J.S. Bach: Neumeister Chorales, BWV 1090-1120
An odd assortment of settings by the young Bach, the Neumeister Chorales are accessible for beginning organists chiefly because they are mostly manuals-only. Difficulty: easy to moderate

Dieterich Buxtehude: Various Chorale Preludes, BuxWV 177-224
This great North German master, an important influence on the young J.S. Bach, produced a number of chorale settings, ranging from the simple to the virtuosic. The manuals-only selections, as well as some pedaliter settings (e.g. "In dulci jubilo", "Nun bitten wir den heiligen Geist", "Wir danken dir, Herr Jesu Christ") are good places to start. Difficulty: easy to hard

Marcel Dupré: Seventy-Nine Chorales, Op. 28
These settings of Lutheran chorales (all with references to Bach settings of the same tunes) are an excellent introduction to the harmonic language of Dupré, one of the most important organist-composers of the twentieth century. By far the finest of the set is No. 41, In dulci jubilo. Difficulty: easy

Marcel Dupré: Sixteen Chorales, Op. 38, "Le tombeau de Titelouze"
These sixteen settings based on plainchant hymns are helpfully arranged in order of difficulty, and cover a range of different liturgical occasions. They are an equally useful introduction to the harmonic language of Dupré. Difficulty: easy to moderate

Gerald Near: St. Augustine's Organ Book
This collection has ten settings based on chants for a variety of liturgical occasions. Near's harmonic language is modern enough to be interesting, but not terribly dissonant. The best setting in this collection is "Ubi caritas", an excellent choice for the Maundy Thursday liturgy. Difficulty: easy to moderate

Johann Pachelbel: Various Chorale Preludes
Pachelbel's settings are valuable not just for their accessibility, but also for their contrapuntal integrity. Difficulty: easy to moderate

Max Reger: 30 Little Chorale Preludes, Op.135a
This is a terribly useful collection of brief chorale preludes. Most are short enough to actually be used as an introduction to a hymn without trying the patience of modern American congregations. Hands down, the best place to start with Reger, a titan of German Romantic organ music. Difficulty: easy

Max Reger: 52 Chorale Preludes, Op. 67
A great variety of settings, often in Reger's densely chromatic style. Difficulty: moderate

Max Reger: 13 Chorale Preludes, Op. 79b
Yet more characteristic Reger pieces. Difficulty: easy to moderate

Christian Heinrich Rinck: Collection of the Most Popular Organ Compositions
Rinck, though often overlooked, is perhaps the most important organ composer of the early 19th century (not counting Mendelssohn). This collection contains, in addition to seventy-seven freely-composed short pieces, twenty-eight chorale preludes that are quite accessible for the beginning organist. Difficulty: easy

Johann Gottfried Walther: Complete Works for Organ
Walther's grasp of counterpoint occasionally rivalled that of his cousin Bach — no small feat. This collection presents a large array of chorale preludes, many of which can be played manualiter. Difficulty: easy to moderate

Ralph Vaughan Williams: Three Preludes Founded on Welsh Hymn Tunes
Though not idiomatic for the organ, Vaughan Williams's three preludes on Welsh hymns are tuneful (especially the gem of the set, Rhosymedre) and on very familiar Anglican melodies. Difficulty: moderate

Friedrich Wilhelm Zachow: Various Chorale Preludes
Zachow is best known to history as Handel's teacher in Halle. His chorale preludes, all manuals-only, are more valuable for their accessibility than for their compositional quality. Difficulty: very easy

In general, collections — especially those published monthly or quarterly, featuring "new" compositions and arrangements — are to be avoided. An important exception is 80 Chorale Preludes: German Masters of the 17th and 18th Centuries, edited by Hermann Keller. This collection provides a variety of chorale settings by Lutheran baroque composers (J.C. Bach, Krebs, Pachelbel, Scheidt, Walther, Zachow, and others), with a mix of pedaliter and manualiter selections. Every organist should have this book.

It is no coïncidence that the vast majority of composers mentioned above wrote for the Lutheran liturgy, and, accordingly, most of the chorale preludes are on tunes that Lutherans sing (or used to sing). No other denomination comes close in terms of the number of hymn settings for organ. However, Anglican organists have an invaluable resource in the innumerable collections of Healey Willan. His chorale preludes range from the easy to the difficult, and, though not always terribly inventive, are indispensable for Anglican liturgy. Other resources for Anglican organists are the settings of Alec Rowley (generally easy) and Hubert Parry (though these are moderate to difficult). Finally, one last composer with a good many collections of competent chorale preludes is the Belgian Flor Peeters.

Did you find this information useful? You may eagerly anticipate the next installment in this series:
2. Freely-composed organ works for beginning organists

Musical Mysticism & Intellect

It is altogether too easy for students to acquire the prejudices of their teachers. This is particularly true in terms of taste, which is mostly (though not entirely) subjective. Why, I still have a bias against the music of Bruckner, one I am working halfheartedly to cast aside, acquired from the same orchestra conductor who instilled in me my love of Mahler. I remember clearly the opinion of my piano teacher regarding Philip Glass, whom she regarded as "prodigiously untalented". This appears to be a general consensus. Even now, in his venerable old age, critics must carefully mete out their praise of Glass lest it be construed as endorsement. Consider this recent article by Terry Teachout: while Glass is acknowledged as "the only American classical composer whose name is reasonably well known outside musical circles" and "something of an elder statesman of American music", the author cannot bring himself to claim that Glass's music is particularly memorable, well-crafted, or enduring: in short, it isn't very good. The real interesting part of the article comes at the very end, when Teachout acknowledges the very different telos of Glass's music:

Part of the continuing resistance to Glass's music lies in the fact that it raises the question of what one thinks music is for, and answers it in a way that many concertgoers find unsatisfactory. Is music a means to an end, or the end in itself? Do you, the listener, use it in order to induce in yourself an ecstatic state of consciousness, or do you engage with it, as you might engage with, say, the "Unfinished" Symphony or The Brothers Karamazov? Most listeners opt for engagement over functionality. But it is necessary to remember that they are both legitimate goals of art, just as the narrative-based organization of Western classical music is neither innately natural nor historically inevitable. The mere fact that Glass writes music for a reason different from Schubert's does not invalidate the results.

This is the crux of the difference between minimalist music and that which came before it, and it is important to recall that not all minimalist music is content (as Glass's) to remain airy persiflage. Bach's Johannes-Passion demands spiritual, emotional, and intellectual attention, while Pärt's Passio secundem Joannem instills in the listener, perhaps, a mystical state of consciousness. The huge difference between Pärt — an unequivocally good composer — and Glass — a bad one — is that Pärt, for all his mysticism, provides countless structures within his music that we can engage with, in addition to the numinous qualities of his music. Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't: Pärt's tintinnabuli technique is the product of a rigorous mind, and its results, though deceptively simple-sounding, are rich indeed.

Arvo Pärt: Passio Domini nostri Jesu Christi secundum Joannem

Passio text & translation
A good 2010 article on Pärt in the Gray Lady

(It should be mentioned, as well, that my current favorite recording of the Bach St. John Passion is that of John Butt and the Dunedin consort, which is an attempt to reconstruct the entire Good Friday liturgy of its first performance in 1724. It is especially interesting to hear how organ music might have figured into the liturgy.)

"My eyes for beauty pine", Robert Bridges

My eyes for beauty pine,
My soul for Goddës grace:
No other care nor hope is mine,
To heaven I turn my face.

One splendour thence is shed
From all the stars above:
'Tis named when God's name is said,
'Tis Love, 'tis heavenly Love.

And every gentle heart,
That burns with true desire,
Is lit from eyes that mirror part
Of that celestial fire.

(One is compelled to mention the lovely Howells anthem that is a setting of this text. Why, even average church choirs can — and should — sing it.)

Japonisme

Like many renters, I have extravagant dreams of future home-ownership. There will be a library with lots of cherry-wood bookcases, and a sun room, and many bedrooms of various themes. Among them, I am convinced that one must be a "Nipponese Room", with bamboo floors and ukiyo-e prints and, prominently, posters of The Mikado and Madama Butterfly, two of my favorite things. I suppose there are several theses to be written about the influence of Japanese art and music on that of fin de siècle Europe. What interests me is not how accurately European artists translated Japanese forms, but rather how they idealized them. Japonisme tells us next to nothing about Japan: it reveals far more about the Europeans who reveled in it, dreaming of an exotic, venerable, ancient courtly culture quite removed from a Europe with its ethnic strife and dark satanic mills. (It requires a special sort of stupidity to think The Mikado is racist. The operetta is all terribly English.)

Here I shall mention that my absolute favorite recording of Madama Butterfly is the 1966 one directed by Barbirolli, with Renata Scotto in the title rôle. Aside from one clarinet lick that is almost comically off, I find the recording to be nearly perfect. And, fortunately, it has been remastered for posterity.

I will add, as well, that one of my favorite movies is Topsy-Turvy, which, besides being about the making of The Mikado, is one of the best depictions of the artistic process that I have seen on film.

If there is anything in actual Japanese culture that attracts me, it is perhaps the country's apparent obsession with cats, both in this modern age of the internets and in ages past. I should like to see, were I in New York, the current exhibition of cats in Japanese prints of the 17th-20th centuries.

Overworked Academics

Quamobrem otium sanctum quaerit caritas veritatis; negotium justum suscipit necessitas caritatis.

Augustine, De civitate Dei, XIX, §19

Having found myself as yet unsuited for total immersion into the world outside the university campus, I became, once more, a student. I should state first that it is good and pleasant to be around other people possessed of a natural curiosity.

(When I first left the womb-like comfort of Academe — though I don't personally recall residing in the womb, myself, I trust that it was comfortable enough to justify the simile — I found myself among a great many people who are perfectly content to never learn anything ever again. Indeed, this may be the default mode of existence. I have endeavored quite fruitlessly to understand it. How is it that all of these perfectly nice, well-meaning people can be so utterly devoid of curiosity? A day without a new experience, without new insight into the beauty and wonder of the world, is not only a day wasted: it is a kind of intellectual death, a persistent vegetative state of the mind. A string of such days is the surest way to drive me to that particular sort of melancholy to which I am susceptible.)

I will say, secondly, that perhaps the greatest joy of being a student is making connections (or, if you prefer, connexions) between seemingly disparate things; this is particularly satisfying when it happens between different disciplines. Hegel's whole bit about thesis and antithesis leading to synthesis is a pleasing model.

At the same time, it has been difficult to go back to living like a student: one wants some time, here and there, to do things that aren't especially related to one's job or classes, but such time is rare. One can acquire, upon prolonged exposure to such an atmosphere of constant work, an unpleasant mindset. It is impatient, ungenerous, uncurious, this mindset. It is thus the opposite of the spirit of real scholarship, which is gracious, forgiving, and — above all — constantly interested in the world. When I was an undergraduate and observed, from time to time, how academics could be so petty and myopic, I wondered how this could be. I now see how we are warped by overwork — and I say we, for I have found myself engaging in such behavior in the last few months. It is distressing, and I resolve to do better. Someday ages and ages hence, when biographers begin to chronicle my gradual descent into madness, they may well start at the point where I began my doctoral studies. But I retain some hope that it is possible to become a professional academic without abandoning the joy of learning.

The Grand Budapest Hotel

Plane travel, as anyone can tell you, is onerous. (It is really quite convenient, of course, and somewhat miraculous, that we can cross the Atlantic in a matter of hours THROUGH THE AIR! But I will set aside this optimistic view, as I wish to complain. Or, as one says in German, ich will mich beschweren.) One must either be foolish and improvident and spring for business class — which gets you to the same place at the same time for many hundred dollars more — or ride in steerage, which always feels to me like descending into the bowels of the galley in Ben-Hur where the slaves are rowing to the beat of the drum. The slaves in Ben-Hur, at least, had no wailing infants to contend with. Sing, O Muse, of the multifarious unpleasant sounds that babies make! The periodic waaaa waaa waaaaa, the sort of gurgling hiccup, the high-pitched, sustained eeeeeee.

But don't let me bore you, dear reader, with my travails on the plane. What I really meant to write about was the movie I saw whilst crossing the Atlantic, coming back from Vienna: The Grand Budapest Hotel. Ten minutes into the film I was certain that I would want to watch it again. Perhaps this is partly for sentimental reasons: the story takes place in a fictional Mitteleuropean nation, "once the seat of an empire", that, over the course of the twentieth century, goes from decadence to fascism to communism to post-communism. (The titular hotel is depicted in the thirties as a gorgeous jugendstil palace; by the sixties its gaudy façade has been replaced with depressing concrete. It's finely-observed details like this that make the film especially satisfying to anyone who has traveled in those parts of the world where this happened.) The dialogue, while not composed of sentences that people actually say, was charming, perhaps because of the excellent performances, by Ralph Fiennes and F. Murray Abraham in particular. (Certain writers have instantly recognizable dialogue that irritates me to no end because it is merely how the writer himself speaks. I find Aaron Sorkin to be especially bothersome in this regard.)

The movie is written and directed by Wes Anderson, whose works generally inspire passionate intensity of feeling, either positive or negative. The chief charge leveled against him is that his films are excessively twee. I cannot say whether this is a fair assessment, as the only movie of his I have previously seen is Fantastic Mr Fox, which I found to be a fun adaptation of the Dahl book, and not unduly precious. In any case, I have a high tolerance for whimsy. The real issue, of course, is whether Anderson's films are entirely style without any substance, and whether that is bad. To be certain, they are highly stylized — but we can't condemn a movie simply because it isn't verismo. Looking at the other arts as an instrumental musician — and thus a producer of art that cannot make explicit reference to anything — I am very reluctant to pan a film simply because it is so stylized as to be non-referential. Must a movie make us think about other things? Why can't a movie simply be an exercise in making a movie, as skillfully as possible? I found The Grand Budapest Hotel to be a well-made movie, with fine actors, a carefully-realized setting, and a compelling story. Does one need anything more from a film?

The Hildebrandt Organ, Naumburg

Today we made the trek out from Leipzig to Naumburg, to play the Hildebrandt Organ there. The weather being unseasonably warm for this part of the world, the trip was unpleasant: today is Pentecost Monday, which I understand is a public holiday in Germany, so trains were full of vacationers returning home after the holiday weekend. (I am, at least, appreciative that Germans are generally quiet when using mass transit.) But despite the oppressive heat and crowded trains, it was well worth it. Indeed, to describe the experience of playing Bach on this instrument so closely linked to the master requires hyperbole. Let me skip that and merely describe. It exceeds in size and variety all other Hildebrandt or Silbermann instruments. So far as we know, it is the one surviving instrument that most closely accords with Bach's ideas about organ design. Every stop on the instrument, I thought, was beautiful. (Other organists in the group largely agreed, though some considered some of the Rückpositiv stops to be less pretty. I have found that Rückpositiv and Brustwerk stops, if present, must be assessed generously by the organist at the console, for they always sound better out in the room.) It seems almost too obvious to say, that every stop on an organ should be beautiful, but in fact that is hardly ever the case: builders include mediocre stops, or even ugly stops, so that they might be combined to make better sounds — if that makes sense! But let us not consider other organs, at the moment. The stops on today's organ were each extraordinary alone, yet also worked well together. (Worthy of special mention are the 8' Hohl-floete on the Oberwerk, the 8' Spitz-floete, and the full Cornets found on both divisions. But I could listen to even just a single 8' Principal all day.)

I should admit that I find organ scholarship, and most Baroque scholarship in general, to be far too Bach-centric. We cannot see all music as merely prefiguring or echoing Bach; this is a disservice to countless composers of great talent. (Perhaps Buxtehude, Walther, and Krebs have suffered the most in this way.) In the same way, we cannot praise the Hildebrandt Organ of Naumburg merely because Bach inspected it and said it was very good. (Besides, he almost certainly had a conflict of interest due to his friendship with Zacharias Hildebrandt.) But it is remarkable, nonetheless, that such an instrument has survived, and it is probably not coïncidental that it happens to be so very special. Peter Williams notes that "Alas, it is simply not true that fine organs are inextricably related to fine music; many times over the centuries organs have been 'better' than the music they were built to play[.]" But we see in this Hildebrandt, I think, an extraordinary affinity between the finest of composers and — surely — one of the finest organs in the world.

(Oh, and, like many important instruments over here, there is a guestbook for organist visitors to sign. There are, of course, many big names in it, with observations and thanks. Perhaps my favorite was that of Thiemo Janssen, the organist at the Ludgerikirche in Norden, with its magnificent Schnitger: "Herr Schnitger grüßt Herr Hildebrandt." Isn't that cute?)

Lady Day

One benefit of winter's continued presence here, in the desolate heart of this North American continent, is that, now that we've had a week off for Spring Break, one can immediately distinguish between the tanned, crazed, oversexed, overliquored, improvident hedonists (who spent the last week in brighter climes) and the God-fearing, upstanding, abstemious, frugal and very pale Puritans, surely God's Elect (who didn't have the money to traipse off to Texas or Mexico or Florida or a similar place of higher crime rates and insufficient government regulation). I, for one, appreciate the convenience of being able to distinguish between the two at a glance. It certainly saves the time and effort of getting to know people.

The weather makes it difficult to believe that Lady Day is already upon us. (For some reason I am reminded of the O'Hara poem "The Day Lady Died", though that was in July. And Billie Holiday has no connection to the Theotokos, so far as I am aware.) I am continually astonished — indeed, my mouth must be perpetually agape — that the Church does not make terribly much of the Feast of the Annunciation. Why, it seems to me that it should be a bigger celebration than Christmas, don't you think? Babies are born with some regularity; while Jesus's birth was a good thing (I suppose), a birth is a rather ordinary event, in the grand scheme of things. But the very beginning of the Incarnation? Well. It just seems a bit more unusual. The Nicene Creed (or, if we're to be pedantic — and when have we ever turned up the chance to be pedantic? — the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed) emphasizes the Incarnation, and indeed, that's the spot in the Creed where one kneels (or, if one is Episcopalian, bows, or looks around confusedly, or does nothing whatsoëver; I believe all options are encouraged in Episcopal rubrics).

For obvious reasons the Annunciation is one of the most popular images in Christian Art. There is an extraordinary variety of very good paintings, woodcuts, windows, sculptures, et alia that depict the moment. I am very fond of Dürer's (as always), and Fra Angelico's, but my current favorite is the version of Henry Ossawa Tanner.

Parhelion

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky.
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd some league inviolable:
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.
In this the heaven figures some event.

Henry VI, Part III: Act 2, Scene 1

Today, whilst driving to classes in Iowa City, I spied a prominent sun dog, which is the sort of term one couldn't possibly make up. (The second element in the term is attributed in some sources to Norfolk, where it may have been a corruption of dag, ultimately from the Norse.) I have chosen to take this as a good omen for the semester. Or, more accurately, the past week suggested that this will be a good semester, and I am coöpting an unrelated meteorological phenomenon as confirmation of that fact.

This semester, you see, I have finally gotten an apartment in Iowa City. The chief benefit of this is that I no longer need drive two hours every school day. In what must be a sure sign that I am a raving socialist, I find that I greatly prefer mass transit. It is remarkable how a thing like driving, that we think nothing of, can so effectively make life unpleasant. No other activity exposes us to a greater swath of the American public than does driving; driving, therefore, is the chief reminder (and an unwelcome one) of how horrible most people are. I suspect that one reason why I enjoy traveling to Europe so very much is that I never have to drive there.

But don't let me ramble on about such things. I am looking forward to my classes this semester, too. Of the three — Seventeenth-century music, a seminar on Max Reger and Karl Straube, and Counterpoint before 1600 — I find the last the most promising, as I have a well-documented interest in Renaissance polyphony.