A Lament

                 From on high hath he sent fire into my bones, and it prevaileth against them; He hath spread
                 a net for my feet, he hath turned me back: He hath made me desolate and faint all the day.
                                                                                             Hebrew Bible, Lamentations 1:13
                                                                                             American Standard Version

Sometimes only an old word, an ancient one, will do.

     The trials and tribulations of the world come at me fast – and faster – these days. Ads for speedy Internet and wireless devices slide through my mail slot or pop up before my eyes. Seems like I'm not supposed to miss any Breaking News.  Is my broadband Internet access fast enough? Is my computer's speed sluggish? Do I need to update Adobe Flash Player for “superior HD video performance with hardware acceleration of video”?

     All this news disturbs my equilibrium. I remind myself how lucky I am – and vow not to complain about little things. The American Red Cross emails me graphics-enhanced browser windows describing international needs.  Oh, these poor people, I think, as I click Donate in the lower-right-corner box. Right out of my Inbox and, hopefully, out of my mind.

     But some events can't be dismissed so easily. Like Timothy Robson's church story. After I surfed last week to find an example for my post, Speaking Volumes, I continued reading his blog.  That's when a heart-wrenching post grabbed my attention, A Year Ago – EACC Fire Remembered.

     Timothy writes from Cleveland: “It was a year ago today in the early hours of the morning that fire destroyed Euclid Avenue Congregational Church of the United Church of Christ, which was my church home (and employer) for twenty-seven years. The fire began during a freak thunder and lightning storm late the night before.” After detailing the trauma, he tells how it occurred the week before Palm Sunday, a high point in the church year. Then he adds: “The impact to me personally was considerable, since the church’s organ was lost, as was the choir’s music library and much of my own personal organ music library.”

     The church's pipe organ – the hymnals and choir music – his personal music library! Stunned, I slumped in my desk chair. It was like being punched in the stomach. I related personally to his loss. How would I have coped?

     Several days later, I visited my music closet. I leafed through paper music editions which sit undisturbed for months now that I'm retired.  Piles of yellowed memories. The Cesar Franck's Trois Chorals pour Grand Orgue – I performed the A Minor Choral on my master's recital at the Church of the Heavenly Rest in New York City (aka The Church of the Celestial Snooze to students). The Liturgical Year: Orgelbuechlein by Johann Sebastian Bach. To hold my place at the practice organ at the Schleswig-Holstein Orgelschule, in Luebeck, Germany, I'd pencilled “Zueruck [back] in 5 Minueten” on the inside cover. George Frideric Handel's MESSIAH, an orchestral reduction score for organ,  a 10.5 x 14 inch monstrosity, impossible to flip pages and almost as impossible to play. It cost $16.95 in 1976. Probably priceless today.

     It's not just another hurricane, another earth quake, another accident when some one's tragedy hits home. It's not so easy to send off a donation, an email or even a written note. I hunt for proper words, but only find overused sentiments that don't seem appropriate - too limited, too shallow, too easy. That's when I seek the help of antiquity. What do the old books have to say?

     It is in the Hebrew Bible, what Christians used to call the Old Testament, that I find words that suit, poetry that digs into my worldly self, expressions that ring true. Especially in Lamentations, where the poet wrestles with the destruction of the Holy City of Jerusalem. How could God let that happen? Wasn't the Temple so sacred that it was forever protected?

     My contemporary self no longer accepts glib explanations from external authorities. I'm left to excavate my own layers of doubt, to sift through the accumulated silt of lectures, readings and sermons - to sink into the depth of my Self as Meister Eckhardt taught back in the early 14th century.

     In the end, I commune with the wisdom of the ancients.  The sadness I feel for Timothy Robson's loss leads me to the poetry of journeys lived in other times, in other places, in other unknowns. Here I find the ancient word that describes the human anguish at living in the mystery. The word leads me to the way of all shared loss and pain, historic and current. I lament.

Speaking Volumes

     Out of the corner of my eye, I see a full-figured elderly matron making her way up the center aisle, every step an exertion assisted by her cane. I'm half-curious where she's going, but force my eyes back to the organ's music rack. I'm in the middle of the Postlude at the end of the worship service. I need to pay attention to what my hands and feet are doing. (I once lost my focus when playing a familiar hymn – well, that's another story.)

     The Postlude is when organists literally pull out all the stops. Parishioners expect to hear their marvelous organ played by their marvelous organist as well as get their money's worth. Very few people play the organ, yet many donate to its maintenance and periodic improvements.  (Got a loose $100,000? )

     The matron is approaching the chancel stairs, close enough so I can see her jowled face, painted with dabs of rouge and lipstick. Her determined trudge seems to have one destination – me.  (Here's a similar Anglican edifice with a long aisle like my church.  Click for an idea of the atmosphere and acoustics.)

     As my fingers stretch and hold the final chord, my peripheral vision confirms that the matron is near. In fact, she's climbing the steps. Now she's so close I can hear her labored breathing. My heart pounds. She halts at the top of the marble stairs, faces me, and opens her mouth. "My dear, the organ is too loud."

     What did I respond? I hope my remarks were charitable, appreciative, and polite. Only thirty years old and new to this church job – I was too young to see any humor in the situation. And too recent to have a complete grasp of the building's acoustics or how sound acted in different areas of the nave. Was she right? When I hit the crescendo pedal to reach the climax of a toccata, were people covering their ears?

*     *     *

    The level of sound – the volume – is such an individual matter. The physics of sound  is daunting for most of us. Even a power point designed for youngsters is complicated. But here's a clue from that video under "The Facts of Sound". It reads: "Our ears take in sound waves and turn them into signals that go to our brains." That's it! Our brains store our ideas, so-to-speak, about the characteristics of sound.

     So my brain gives me varying messages. Take my neighbor's party music, for example. If I'm trying to sleep next door, I feel irritated. But if I'm dancing up a storm at that party, I enjoy the booming bass notes. Or if I'm going to the Crawfish Festival on the St. Petersburg waterfront with my knock-out date, I hardly hear the blaring decibels. But if I'm the proud owner of a pricey nearby condo, I'm reaching for ear plugs.

     What if I'm an elderly matron who's tithed to my church for decades - the same church which my mother endowed in her estate? What if I feel ignored by the young rector who doesn't speak to me by name? You bet I've got an opinion – and I'm going to deliver it to that kid organist.

* * *

     At the next staff meeting, I related the post-Postlude comment.
     "Oh, I think you're doing a great job," the rector said, "Good leadership on the hymns."
     "I hear only good comments," said the religious education director who is stuck with kids off in the dank basement during the 11 AM service.
     "You can't please everyone," said the janitor, who knows a thing or two about that subject.
    
     Even if I couldn't please everyone, I did assign myself a do-it-yourself class in pipe organ design. I studied the placement of the pipe chambers (rooms of pipes hung around the building) in the sanctuary - the Swell, Positive, Great and Antiphonal sets of pipes. I enlisted a volunteer to sit at the organ console and hold down chords using different combinations of pipes while I walked around, listening.

     In a sanctuary with empty pews, sound reverberates brightly. So I could only approximate the Sunday morning sound when pews full of human bodies soak up a portion of the overtones. In the end, I did not change my registrations.  I left those combinations of pipe sounds exactly as I'd previously set them up to my satisfaction - so I could transition from very soft to very loud by just hitting the different knobs or tabs as I rendered the music.

                                                                            *     *     *

     Some time later, perhaps a month, I'm nearing the end of Buxtehude's "Gelobet seist du, Jesu Christ" as worshippers file out of the sanctuary. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar figure. Oh, no! The same woman! I continue playing, concentrating on making my fingers and feet strike the correct notes.

     As I reach the final cadence and toggle the organ switch to Off, I swivel on the bench toward my visitor. Hints of a smile poke through her uplifted jowls. I relax slightly as I greet her.
     Leaning on her cane and twisting her neck in my direction, she says, "My dear, I want you to know -  there's been a great improvement."

                                                                             *     *     *

     Sometimes, words speak louder than organs.  It's Grand Prix race week in St. Petersburg.  Time for earplugs!  Donna

The Shrinking Piano

     My early memories center around visits to my maternal grandparents who lived on thirteen acres of grape vineyards near Fredonia, NY.  After Daddy pulled into the circular driveway, my sister and I could barely wait to get into the front parlor where the player piano stood in residence. The piglets, assorted kittens and Grandpa's milk cow would just have to wait.

     Enjoy this 58-second video to get an idea how that piano operated. Note the punched holes in the paper roller.  Just one paper tear could create disturbing dissonance.  (The hairy legs are a bonus.)

     Now let me tell you a story about what happened to Grandma's piano.  Grab some kleenex: it's a tear-jerker.
                                                 
                                                                    *   *   *

       A truck pulled up to the curb in front of our house on North Academy Street. I ran to the picture window, a new addition which was my mother's pride-and-joy, and peered out. "Grandpa," I cried. My little sister was right behind me.

      He’d done it! He brought us the piano! My adoring heart jumped in my chest.  Last week when we visited the farm, I didn't think he meant it.  I thought he was just kidding when he'd asked,  "How’d you like a piano?" His eyes twinkled like a kid's.  Grandma would say, "Oh, Herman" when she saw that twinkle.  She knew he was usually up to some mischief.

     It was a monstrous ancient instrument with big pedals. Heavy mahogany with ivory keys, its very presence suggested a time when Victorian ladies came calling, when gentile manners required gloves and hats, when time passed like a tintype photograph - in slow motion with hints of dusty shadows. My sister and I, only five and four, struggled with huge sliding doors to get into the front parlor. Our legs were too short to push the pedals, but we badgered big folks to make the roll turn so we could hear the music. Now Grandpa was delivering this magical instrument to us, just like he said he would.

     Mother, wiping her hands on her apron, joined us at the window. "Oh, no," she exclaimed. "That piano will never fit in this house." She rushed out and down the porch steps to greet her father. My sister and I held our breaths as we followed her. She couldn’t ruin it all. Somehow, Grandpa prevailed.  With the help of a friend who’d made the sixty mile trip with him, he heaved and hauled until that piano was resting right there in our dining room, at the bottom of the stairs where we’d see it first thing every morning.

     At the supper table that night in the kitchen, the piano stole the conversation.
     "Frank, we can’t keep it. It’s taking up way too much space in the dining room. I had no idea that he‘d actually follow through and drag that monster over here, " Mother said.
     Dad listened, then said, "But the girls do want a piano.  We've talked about lessons with Miss Graves."
     "Well," said Mother, shaking her head.  "I’ll just have to find something smaller. Maybe I can trade it."
     Kay and I looked at each other, wondering what the adults in our life were planning. What was going to happen to our piano?

     Not long after that conversation, another truck backed into the driveway. Two muscular men trudged into our house. Pointing to the player piano, mother said, "That’s it. Hope you can manage all right." Amid much groaning, swearing (‘Scuse me, ma’am) and bossing, they wrestled that piano out of the house as my sister and I sadly waved good-bye.

      "Just you wait," Mother said.

     From the dark depths of that delivery truck, those men lifted out a different piano - a dainty spinet, all polished wood to blend in with our living room furniture.  The keys were white plastic, not ivory - very modern and fashionable. It was no problem for those Popeye-like guys to march that usurper into our house. The new piano was much smaller than the departed gift from Grandpa. It looked like a little kid trying to stand in for a renowned stage actress. How could we ever forget our beloved player piano?

                                                                          *   *   *

     That spinet still sits in Mom's living room.  It made the trip when my parents moved to a renovated farm house high on a hill near Fredonia.  It's been part of many family gatherings, accompanied many "Happy Birthdays", and treated assorted guests to mini recitals, duets and dance tunes.  But it never replaced Grandma's piano in my heart.

     By the way, when you walk by a piano, touch middle C and hum. Store that note in your computer brain.  You can teach yourself to have a sense of pitch.

     I'd love to read about one of your musical memories. Hope your week is harmonious.
     Donna

Ah, Eh, Ee, Oh, Oo

It's that time of year, Lent, when choir directors dig out their most somber choral pieces – slow, no jerky rhythmic sections, composed (usually) in a minor key, and often sung in Latin. Ordinary singers – well, let me be clear. No singer is, by definition, strictly ordinary. It's just that some are less ordinary, so-to-speak.  Why? They can read music (or else!), they get remunerated in cold cash often just for showing up, and they know to smile when I hand out an anthem with a Latin text.

Now back to my premise. Ordinary singers are ordinary, so they are allowed, even expected to complain when the text is not printed in English. Something like this:

Me, speaking in an upbeat, positive tone:
     "I know you're going to enjoy rehearsing this lovely four-part harmonization from Mozart's Requiem, the Lacrymosa . Tonight we'll concentrate on the words.  There's plenty of time to work on the notes in the next rehearsals. Now, now, don't worry. I'll help you with the pronunciation. In no time, you'll love it as much as I do.

Ordinary Singer, wearing a grimace which forecasts her words:
      "I doubt it, but bring it on. It's all Greek to me anyway."

Me, not sure if O.S. is joking or not:
      "No, dear, Latin, Laaa – tiiin." I've learned over time never to assume humor. Volunteer singers' time and effort should be rewarded with appreciative support and earnest dedication by the director. Never, ever, risk losing a volunteer with a less-than-politic remark! (Add a chuckle here.)

Me:
      "Let's listen to this recording. While you're listening, watch the Latin text. (I play video.)
I continue: "Now let's use some elbow grease on those Latin vowels before we practice the text. Just listen, then repeat after me. " (Now, I'm singing on one pitch.)  Several look confused; one tenor appears in pain.  I sing "Ahhh". The choir sings "Ahhh", then continues to repeat after me. "Ehhh, Eeee, Ohhh, Oooo."

Me: "That's good. Let's try the vowels all together, still on one note."  All sing: "Ahhh, Ehhh, Eeee, Ohhh, Oooo."

Me:  "Hey, you've got it. Splendid! Vowels are the core part of singing Latin. Now let's follow the text I've written out phonetically for you." I distribute papers. We sing-song the Latin text together.

          "Lah – cree - moh - sah, Dee - ehhz  Eee – lah
          Coo – ah reh - zoo – jeht  egs - fah – vee – lah
          Joo – dee – cahn – doos  hoh – moh  reh- oos"

The rehearsal continues until I observe eyes glazing over and people yawning. Still maintaining a positive, motivational tone, I say:

     "Now, if you are good and faithful choir members and you practice your Latin - remember every traffic stoplight is an opportunity to sing-song your Latin vowels - this is what we'll sound like when we present our Lacrymosa on April 10th." I play Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra and Chorus. 

     "Oh, by the way, I checked.  And, toooo baaad.  The Viennese orchestra is unavailable for our performance. But, not to worry! I'll accompany you on the organ and I promise to hit 95% of the notes!"  Several choristers applaud and others fist-pump in my direction.


Wiener Konzerthaus - Vienna Concert House

Choir rehearsal draws to a close. I promise all my beloved, long-suffering singers their own personal future reward or "requiem" which, in Latin, means "eternal rest".
                                                               
                                                                         *   *   *

May you have a restful week - but don't leave earth yet.  Come back next Thursday!

Donna

Sheep Grazing Safely

Seated in a Unitarian chapel, waiting for the start of a long-lived friend's funeral, I listen as the organist performs Johann Sebastian Bach's “Sheep May Safely Graze”. The music and words are from the Hunt Cantata which praises hunting as well as faithful shepherds watching their flocks. This is a slow piece, I think, but I'm afraid the sheep will fall asleep if the organist plays it any slooow-er. So muses an off-duty organist.

     The flow of music, what we call tempo, is subjective and individual, like the pace of pedestrians. I think of my friend, Lew, who bounces along like a youngster; it's hard to keep up with him.  Or those whose arthritic hobbles are painful to observe or the knock-kneed gaits suggesting days in a saddle. Watching pairs of folks walking arm-in-arm, you know one of them is adjusting to the other's tempo.

     Maybe this in-built variation in tempo influenced the development of the metronome*. How could a composer ensure the correct performance of her piece?  The history of time-beating inventions goes back at least to Galileo, who played with pendulums over four hundred years ago. A long list of inventors tinkered with his ideas.  Eventually, Dietrik Nikolaus Winkel added weights at either end of the pendulum's arc to keep it swinging at very slow tempos. But he gets little credit because the entrepreneur, Johann Nepenuk Maelzel, saw an opportunity.  In Paris in 1816 he copied the design and put it on the market as Maelzel's Metronome. Now most student musicians struggle to keep time with the swinging arm on mechanical metronomes.  Incidentally, those new-fangled digital metronomes can take a back seat, I say.

   
     You'll often see M.M. = (a number) at the top of choral or keyboard music. If M.M. = 60, it means you render one note every second. That's sixty notes every minute - very slow. Try singing “America the Beautiful” at this tempo, that is, one note of the melody every second.

     Now try two notes every second or M.M. = 120.  Swing your arm like a pendulum. Make it one second from left to right and one second from right to left. If you sing two notes of the melody for each swing, the tempo feels almost right though still a bit slow.

     Here's a quick assignment; don't worry - there's no test.  Click on each title below.  Listen just for a few measures and decide if you like the tempo of that performance.  Notice how the fast notes (remember "running notes" in elementary school?) in the melody sound.  Are they rushed?  Which selection invites you to listen all the way through?  Sheep 1, Sheep 2, Sheep 3, Sheep 4, and Sheep 5.  Each conductor has his/her unique idea of how fast those sheep should graze.  Which one did you choose?

     Back in church, the organist is approaching the end of “Sheep”. Thank goodness! Like braking for a stop signal, he's executing a ritardando, gradually coming to the final cadence. Time for the speaking part of the service.

    Enjoy your week. Set your tempo so you can enjoy this time on earth. And watch out for sheep, especially you folks who live in Canada or in wide open spaces.

    Talk to you next Thursday,  Donna

     *  I don't sell metronomes.  But this is a photo of the mechanical metronome I referenced.