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.)