In memoriam

My beloved Ollie

left this earth

by accident

on April 20, 2011.



Words fail me.

Random Hallelujahs

     Any idea how many times you've heard, sung or directed the Hallelujah Chorus (HC)?  Why is it so popular?  A great work of art?  Tradition?  Historical - a reminder of our country's British roots?  Or is it part of what is labeled culture?

         "Messiah" by George Frideric Handel is perhaps the most recognizable classical choral music in the world. The HC is only a small part of the three hour long oratorio. Part I is the announcement of the coming Messiah – what we know as Advent and Christmas. Part II, which deals with the Messiah's  sacrifice, death, and resurrection, concludes with the HC.

    Why is the HC, part of the Easter section of  "Messiah", sandwiched into the Advent or Part I for a holiday sing? Is the same person who dreamed up those “Sing-along Messiah” get-togethers to blame?  But getting out of the house on a weekend afternoon to participate in an activity which encourages deep breathing, social interaction and mental stimulation can't be all that bad. Besides, clear consonant harmonies encourage long life, don't they?

     Do you detect a love-hate relationship with HC?  Many times I've struggled to fit parts of "Messiah" into a Sunday worship service. Oh, it wouldn't be Christmas/Easter without the Hallelujah Chorus, I've been told. But I was never comfortable. Why?   It's a difficult piece for the average choir; there are many passages with notes that jump octaves or demand instrumental-like flexibility.  Need I add that an organist-choir director is equally challenged to play an orchestral reduction while keeping the singers together?

     "Messiah"'s first performance in London was in a secular setting, not in a church. King George II attended that 1742 performance.  For some reason – he was tired of sitting? - the King stood as the first notes of the HC sounded. Naturally, his subjects rose.  So 269 years later, folks wonder if they should stand when they hear the start of the HC!

     Since the HC is performed worldwide, the Internet is jammed with examples. I've chosen a few for your consideration.

• HC 1   Here's an average rendition.  Energetic, operatic-sounding.  I do object to the Hallelu-JAHs. The way the lyrics are set to quick notes makes it difficult to sing a sustained choral sound.
• HC 2   Part of an evening's entertainment.  Notice the soloists' outfits.  The audience rises, just like King George II.  Andre Rieu appears to be following the ensemble rather than leading it.
• HC 3   Viewer discretion advised.  If you don't want to see/hear the iconic HC spoofed, don't open this link.
• HC 4   Professional choir at Trinity Church in New York City.  Musically, it's ordinary.  But I appreciate the singers' attempts to not leap off the JAHs.  Notice how some are even leaning forward to emphasize halle-LOO-jah instead of hallelu-JAH.
• HC 5  Random Act of Culture at Macy's with the Opera Company of Philadelphia and the glorious Wanamaker organ.  For pure sound and joy, you can't beat this one.  I'll go for sound over perfection any time.  Note:  the video will skip and buffer unless you adjust to a lower resolution.  On the lower right of the window, I adjusted mine down to 240p.

                                                                                *     *     *

     When my mother-in-law was ninety-five-years old, my husband asked her if we could accompany her to mass. We were on our semi-annual visit to Cambridge, MA and I liked attending Sacred Heart to hear their men and boy's choir.
     "No, I guess not,"  she replied.  "The priest says I don't have to go any more."

     Maybe like my mother-in-law, I've reached my "quota" of Hallelujah choruses. Or must I attain age ninety-five before I receive my dispensation?

     Wishing you a blessed week.  Hallelujah!

The Here-now

     On another sunny day in St. Petersburg, I'm outdoors at my favorite Starbucks (they greet me by name - yes, I know: it's good for business).  Cozied up in a shaded nook, enjoying my tall half-caf (half a cup of decaf, topped off with regular) coffee, I ponder this post.

     I'm jotting notes about the tension in churches between the so-called spiritual world and the physical world. Drive by a church building.  Solid, upright, above the fray, right?  However, inside that building, someone behind a desk is juggling the accounts, attempting to meet the costs of running that business.  Are the tithes paid and up-to-date?  Can that empty office space be rented? Will another fund-raiser be necessary this year? How do ministers and lay administrators walk the fine line between funding the "here-now” and delivering the “hereafter”?

     A long-haired blond 40-ish woman, clad in hip jeans ending in boots, settles at a table next to mine.
     “My grandfather worked his whole life for that money,” I overhear her declare into her cell phone. “Now it's gone. The church took it!”
     How can I concentrate on my work?  Did a character just walk into my musings?
     My neighbor tosses her hair, punctuating her words with swings of her crossed leg. “Rich people don't know what it is, y'know, to scrimp and save.”
     She listens before continuing, “You're right, I guess they're not slackers, but.....”
     I wish I could hear the other end of the phone.
     “I know, I know, the church is just the body.....” She swings her leg faster. “God, I wish I could live like Jesus, but...” She listens.
     She leans forward, freezes her body like she's holding her breath, and lowers the pitch of her voice.
     My right ear hones in.
     “My husband doesn't get it. He never had anything. He's saving for retirement. And now,” she throws back her hair and punches the air, “he says I want to give it all away.”
     She slings her purse over her shoulder, gets up and starts pacing the pavement, then turns toward the parking lot.
     Wait, I want to say, don't go.  How can you leave right now?

     I conjure up her story. Did her grandfather's church make eternal promises to him in exchange for his earthly assets?  Is she feeling torn between her husband's thrift and her own church's teachings?  Is her church walking that age-old tightrope: Give us your money in the here-now. We'll take care of you in the hereafter.
    
     My organ bench gave me a front-row seat to this drama when I was director in a prominent Anglican church, one with big bills not quite balanced by big hearts.  One Sunday, the "bricks and mortar" costs must have weighed heavy on the rector. It was Passion Sunday, the week before Palm Sunday. The choir, all professional singers well-trained by yours truly (of course), had presented sections of Johann Sebastian Bach's B Minor Mass.  Like a "Lessons and Carols" service at Christmas, the musical sections were interspersed with scriptural readings.

     Picture a gorgeous sanctuary, brass railings, two-story high, elegant stained glass windows, and filtered sunlight radiating mist-like overhead. The program had concluded with the choir's stirring “Crucifixus”, cadencing in a shimmering sotto voce which gradually evaporated into the heavens.

    I lifted my hands from the organ keys, feeling proud and satisfied, and looking forward to the rector's words, words of thanks and appreciation, which he would unfailingly extend to the choir members and their director for weeks of effort and commitment to the spiritual life of the parish.

The rector,

a lanky

six-foot-four inch

squash-playing

WASP,

walked

to the lectern

and,

 in his

very best,

high-pitched

squeaky

twang,

said,

“I want y'all to remember the White Elephant Sale.”

*     *     *

    “Nature’s great masterpiece, an Elephant. The only harmless great thing; the giant of beasts.”

                                                                                       John Donne in The Progress of the Soul

Language Barrier

                Fünf Wochen nach dieser Uraufführung schied er freiwillig aus dem Leben.

     Something puzzles me about this German sentence. I can pick out individual words.  But, all together, what is the meaning? Is my gut response correct?

     I didn't go looking for this sentence; it found me. When I riffled through my music closet last week - while writing about the Cleveland church fire, memories of my German experience came to mind.  What a cold, lonely Fulbright year I spent at the Schleswig Holstein Music Academy and North German School of Organ Music or, auf Deutsch, Schleswig-Holsteinische Musikakademie und Norddeutsche Orgelschule!  No central heating, limited hot water - only two hours a day, no television and no one who spoke English.  (Certainly this was better than tent-living in some desert.)  

     My German was so elementary, I didn't even know how to complain.  All I could do was send letters home and wait for return mail.  My mother recently handed me a stack of aerograms she'd saved.

Aerogram addressed to my parents, April 1966

     Out of curiosity now, I searched the Internet for the organ school's website. In the left-hand column, I selected staff. A window, displaying names going back to post-war years, appeared. There he was: my organ teacher, Manfred Kluge. I clicked on his name and his Wikipedia page opened, in German. First, I checked his birth date, 16. Juli 1928 - so he was only 37 years old when I met him. Then, his death date, 27. Februar 1971. Wait – that was less than five years after I returned to the US. He would have been only 42.

     My eyes raced to the bottom of the page: Fünf Wochen nach dieser Uraufführung schied er freiwillig aus dem Leben. I hi-lighted the text and right-clicked on 'Translate with Bing'. The German words changed to 'Five weeks after the premiere he retired voluntarily from the life'. Huh? I didn't want to believe what I was thinking. Bing is just a machine, I thought. Could it have missed some nuance?

     I googled "translation" and selected  “One Hour Translation” which advertised real humans at $.07 per word. I submitted six words, sheid er freiwilling aus dem Leben. Similar to Bing, the answer came back: he voluntarily departed this life. I emailed the translator: “Is this a euphemism – a polite way to talk about suicide?" You know the answer.

     I've been disturbed all week. There's so much about Herr Kluge's life I didn't know. How he had suffered during the war, how his father was killed, how he grew to want a better world full of peace and compassion. How the lyrics for his last composition – performed only weeks before his demise - included poetry about love and death.

     He left a wife and children.  I  remember meeting them when, one day after an organ lesson, he invited me to his home for supper.  Perhaps he felt sorry for me, having to return alone to my dormitory. I recall walking down a leafy lane to a house set in the woods like in a Gothic novel. Each room, built with its own fireplace, opened onto a central hallway. Moving around the house meant opening and closing doors as you went. We sat around a monastery-like wood table, sharing wurst on thin rye bread, and passing a bottle of rum.  Just a splash stirred into my tea with a spoon of sugar warmed me nicely.   I still like this concoction!

     Now I searched my book shelves and found this birthday greeting tucked inside a Luebeck photo book. Liebes Frauelein Donna Harris! Dated May 7, 1966. Just seeing his handwriting gives me goosebumps.

    I regret we never spoke in any depth.  But what could he have discussed with me?  All I knew revolved around music, family and school. Besides, my novice speaking ability further restricted any efforts to share ideas and aspirations. And Manfred did not speak English.  He must have felt impatient with me at times.  How do you teach complex concepts to someone without adequate language skills?  Fortunately, we both understood musical terms expressed in Italian, the international language for music.  

     I remember Herr Kluge's curiosity.  What was Amerika like?  He wanted to travel here. Why did he give up his dreams on February 27, 1971?  I'll never know.  How I wish I could have connected with the person behind the teacher.  At the end, he was organist-choirmaster at the beautiful St. Jacobi church.  Below is a photo of the organ pipe work.  He would have climbed narrow, winding stairs to the organ console on the second balcony.

        Listen to the St. Jacobi bells as they would have sounded throughout Luebeck on the day of Herr Kluge's funeral.

     RIP.  Donna