Odd facts

A couple posts ago, I talked about the silly thoughts that come to mind during the heat of battle of a recital. During this past week following my mother's death, I have been reminded that one's mind also comes up with all kinds of things during a time of family crisis. Dates and odd facts stick in your head:

March has become an interesting month: My birthday is March 4. Mother's birthday was March 21. Mother died on March 20, only an hour short of her 72nd birthday. Dad died on a March 28.

Mother shared a birthday with Bach. I share my birthday with Vivaldi. And Dad died 60 years to the day after Rachmaninoff did.

We buried Dad and Mother in similar colors. Didn't plan that, but as I was staring forward during Mother's funeral, I remembered that. We also buried them in the same style caskets -- natural cherry by the Batesville Casket Company.

Does this sort of thing happen to you, too, or am I just a freak?

Mother always hand-wrote her calendar. She transferred appointments, birthdays, anniversaries, etc., BY HAND each year into a new Avon calendar. Other facts such as "25 years since Jingle [family dog] died," "17 years since surgery," "12 years since Dwayne was ordained." etc., were handwritten year after year. And every calendar was saved in an ever-growing stack in an ever-burgeoning cabinet. In part, this is all a "Southern thing." It is also a bit of an obsessive-compulsive thing. But Mother's meticulous if hand-written record-keeping is serving us well for estate managing purposes. We don't lack any information; even if there are many piles of papers, the piles are categorized. And when the time comes, cleaning out her house is sure to be a greatly detailed trip down memory lane.

I have picked up some of Mother's attention to details not so much by sending birthday cards as by calling family members on anniversaries of their loved ones' deaths. [My previous attraction to the funeral directing profession is always just below the surface.] There is something to be said for living a fact to learn it. Mother lived a lot of memories and kept up with them, and I am following suit to some extent. If only I could have learned facts this well in Organ Lit and Music History classes.

3/21/40 - 3/20/12

Judith Tilley Bell-Moore died Tuesday, March 20, at Iredell Memorial Hospital, after a brief illness. She was born March 21, 1940, in Statesville, N. C., to the late George Franklin Tilley and Janie Nantz Tilley. She graduated as Valedictorian from Scotts High School and graduated summa cum laude from Kings Business College in Charlotte.

Judi was preceded in death by her husband Donald Ray Bell of Statesville. Surviving are their two children, Talana Bell Wilkins (Mike) of Dothan, Ala., and Joby Bell (Susan Murphey) of Boone, N. C. Also surviving are grandson Eddie Wilkins (Jennifer) and their children Elizabeth and Cooper Wilkins.

In 2008 Judi married Weymouth Eugene Moore of Statesville, who survives along with his sons Timothy Moore (Kim) of Goldsboro, and Terry Moore of Chapel Hill. Also surviving are Judi’s sister Sandy Boyer (Marvin) of Statesville, childhood friend Louise Shoemaker, and several nieces, nephews, grandnieces, and grandnephews.

For her entire professional life, Judi served hundreds of customers as an Avon representative and briefly as a district manager for Avon. She sang in the Celebration Choir and the Joyful Singers of the Front Street Baptist Church, where she was also a proud member of the Jabez Sunday School Class.

The family will be gathered at the home this week and will greet friends on Thursday, March 22, from 6:00-8:30 pm at Bunch-Johnson Funeral Home in Statesville. A service of celebration of Judi’s life will be conducted on Friday, March 23, at 11:00 am at Front Street Baptist Church in Statesville, with the Rev. Tim Stutts officiating. Pallbearers will be Dwayne Bell, David Hall, Jason Kress, Scott Mitcham, Terry Moore, Tim Moore, Danny Stikeleather, and Mike Wilkins. Honorary Pallbearers include Robbie and Darlene Forsack, Brenda Jolly, Wanda Martin, Terrie Ross, Peggy Sharpe, Carroll Starrette, members of the Jabez Sunday School Class, and the Young-at-Heart of Front Street Baptist Church.

In lieu of flowers, memorials may be sent to the Gideons International. Bunch-Johnson Funeral Home is serving the family.

Why do I keep doing this?

Things go through my mind as I wait backstage.

I still get mild butterflies. Not because I'm nervous but because I'm READY to play but have nothing to do but sit and wait. If I'm waiting backstage where I teach, then I'm playing Words With Friends and cracking one-liners with the crew. If I'm waiting backstage anywhere else, I'm staring at the four walls, looking for something to do, and thinking about all kinds of things:

Why did these people come to hear this organ recital? Did they come to hear me? Did they come to hear this organ? Did they come to recruit a friend to the organ? Did they come to get picked up? Did they come thinking this was going to be a revival service? Did they come thinking they were going to hear the only two organ pieces they know of? What does Fred Swann think when he's waiting backstage? How many times has Diane Bish done this? Is anyone ever going to fix that squeaky swell box? What if we were on a deserted island and made an organ out of bamboo? Oh, dear, they have THAT anthem in their choir folders? Wonder if anyone can hear this toilet flushing?

I also think about all kinds of things during the heat of battle. At a recent Lenten recital, I had a few memory slips because I had been re-thinking my posture at the console, and when I would change "the routine" to send a few brain cells toward sitting up taller, I would have to think harder or at least differently about the notes. Very interesting study. Another time, as soon as I hit the first note, I saw a fly writhing in death throes on high C of the Great; the same fly that had been terrorizing me earlier that day during practice time. (Nothing to do but play on and knock him off afterwards.)

At all times, I keep checking my motives to confirm that I still want to do this. Do waiting backstage and going out and playing ever get old? Do I want to continue doing this? Do people who play pretty much every week get tired of it? Tired of the traveling? Tired of the practicing? All those hours of practice for one hour of performance? Do Olympians get tired of that sort of schedule, too?

I wouldn't call this ADHD. I'd call it heightened awareness during a higher stress time. Recitals are not stressful to me -- they are exciting. But they do create a certain stress on the nervous system, and the brain runs wild, unattended, as a result.

I'd talk more about this if I could remember more. But those backstage thoughts are a bit like dreams -- they're real in the moment, and then we forget them. Got to go practice now and prepare to do what I still want to do.

I need a good laugh

Disappointing news has recently come to me, and I am choosing to laugh rather than rant. (Those who know me may be proud of me for that.) So here are three funnies I have pulled from my memory and from my multiple retellings over the years:

1. During my second Sunday as organist of First Presbyterian Church in Houston, I was climbing the learning curve on how the various clergy do their thing in worship. One Associate Pastor had the (bad) habit of scripting nothing and overblowing everything. Everything he did, from prayers to announcements to benedictions to sermons to liturgical segues, were always on two wheels and in constant danger of derailment. So he was praying over the tithes and offerings after they were presented after the Doxology. At some point, he implored God to “help us put on the yoke of Christ – and to strap it on good and tight.”

Now, the choir and I did not know each other as well at that point as we would later on. Had they known that that was “my kind of line,” they all would have glanced my way and seen me a) react in horror, and then b) turn around to laugh uncontrollably.

2. My dear friend and colleague John Yarrington loves to tell funny stories of things that happen in church. He tells of attending the singing Christmas tree pageant at First Baptist Church in Little Rock. Before the program started, he was perusing the program booklet and noting all the committees and so forth that are involved with such a huge undertaking. He reports, “As God is my witness, there was a Tree Erection Committee!”

3. A particular performance of the Dubois Seven Last Words of Christ incorporated a modicum of staging, lighting effects, and costumes.

Plus the string parts played by the organist.

On a synthesizer.

During the final chorus, the lights gradually dimmed, as planned, so that the piece ended in total darkness.

But in the stillness and the darkness, a button on the synthesizer apparently got pressed, and the performance then continued with BOOM, chicka BOOM, chicka BOOM, chicka BOOM…

Because it was dark, the organist could not find the kill button, and so in the midst of BOOM chicka BOOM, there was also the quiet cursing of the organist trying to rectify the situation. Had I been there, I could have died happy, if I hadn’t died of a heart attack from laughing so much.

The next time you see something funny in church, PLEASE make sure I’m there to see it, too. I would appreciate that.

Who am I?

Schools of music are re-discovering the importance of sacred music to their organ curriculum. Many undergraduate curricula include at least a course in service playing. Many undergraduate and graduate curricula include a handsome overview of liturgy, sacred music literature, materials, and methods. Some organ teachers prefer not to “deal” in sacred music. And some organ teachers revel in their sacred music component.

I deliberately stand somewhere in the middle, while leaning toward the organ performance component. I recognize the importance of all organists being able to play for church/synagogue, but my teaching addresses those practical skills as equally important to developing a reliable technique for organ repertoire. As for early technique – well, that’s nice to learn, and I enjoy using it and teaching it. But it lies behind legato and hymn/anthem accompaniment for usefulness in establishing a career for the vast majority of graduating organists. Those who are drawn to a daily diet of early music know who they are, and they will have my support. I will teach all students early technique and when to use it, but I will not push anyone nor insist they specialize in anything, especially at the undergraduate level. And let’s not forget that most graduating organists will not be playing copies of Silbermanns and Hildebrandts at their church jobs.

As for myself, I have "specialized" in being able to do lots of things and pass on that ability to others. (My music-to-learn list is noticeably longer in the French Symphonic column, but I keep things balanced.) We all probably define ourselves differently from how others define us. I am Joby Bell, teacher/mentor, concert organist, service player, and recording artist, in that order. I am also collegial workmate, court jester, and all-around good guy. But every now and then, I am recognized in public as that guy who does the Halloween thing and the Messiah Singalong. And when I appear in the Statesville, N.C., Record & Landmark newspaper, I am the son of Donald and Judi Bell first and musician second. To some, I am still that little kid with the curly hair who played piano in the Baptist church (it has been TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS since I last did that). Upon my return after a number of months away at graduate school, I was horrifyingly re-introduced to my home church as “our home missionary to the Episcopals [sic] of Houston, Texas.”

That was an unfortunate Big Bang for my progress toward self-definition. But I did start thinking more about it, and I realized that an artist’s self-definition changes with the wind. Nowadays, I am introduced as “Dr. Bell, our sacred music coordinator. He also teaches organ.” Well, that’s better than being someone’s 'home missionary to Episcopals,' but there is still some image defining to be done here. While I have plenty experience in sacred music and have plenty to offer others in that field, my performing and applied teaching are my forte, and so far, I haven’t wavered in wanting to keep that so. That's not so bad, is it?

Not bad for a 19-year-old, huh!

Too often we decide something is wonderful just because it’s familiar. We think our family member should have gotten that job no matter what. We think no girl/boy is good enough for our precious little Billy/Suzy. We visit a huge city for the second time, and we want to go back to the same two restaurants we visited during the first trip. Regardless how well they did in medical school, doctors sometimes come highly recommended because they pray with patients. A dentist once came highly recommended to me because “he is such a nice man.” (And sure enough, as I endured my first visit with him, I discovered that he really is a nice man – and a terrible dentist.)

We start looking for our six degrees of separation right away. I lived in Houston for 14 years, and a stranger wanted to know if I knew their nephew, who lives 30 miles out of town. (Not likely to know him, no.) We also try to box something huge into our own limited understanding, such as thinking an entire state revolves around one city. During my years in Houston, a casual conversation with a Presbyterian stranger would usually go something like this:

“So, Joby, where are you from?”

“I’m from Statesville, North Carolina.”

“Oh, is that near Asheville???”

“Well, it’s 100 miles east of Asheville on I-40.”

“Oh, we have a house in Montreat [all Presbyterians do], and we just love Asheville. Where did you go to college?”

“Appalachian State University, Boone, North Carolina.”

“Oh, is that near Asheville???”

…and so it would go. The remaining questions had to do with snow skiing and other things an organ student would be ill-advised to attempt.

In the music world, talent can be overlooked in preference to the familiar, bigger name. It is sort of the artistic equivalent of the rich getting richer. The famous get more famous while the talented keep struggling to be heard (not to slight here the famous who are also talented). This is borne out by the enormous amount of drivel we hear in pop music today, which is also another example, I confess, of the familiar being “better.” (I prefer 80s rock/pop over anything I hear in today’s music.)

As artists, we are charged with responsibility for our own publicity and press. That is a half-time job, and few people will do it for us without taking all our profits. But as audience members, we are charged with the responsibility of listening to others' work and deciding for ourselves how wonderful it really is. You kind of have to ignore some of the press sometimes -- "renowned" is not that informative a word.

I once heard a fine(?) example of local, homegrown, trite love ballad songwriting. The emcee exclaimed during the rapturous applause, “Not bad for a 19-year-old, huh!” I couldn't help my inner response: “Neither was Julius Reubke.”

Other careers I haven’t pursued (yet)

Divine providence? Predestination? “You always end up where you belong”? Perhaps. But there are also lucky breaks and the phenomenon of "it’s who you know." And since my gut was divinely created, then gut instinct is also divinely inspired.

Up until the fifth grade, I was going to be a fireman, probably because I like red and the word "fireman" feels good to say. By the fifth grade, I was going to be a movie star. Soon after that, music kept coming up, and the prophet in his own land did enjoy a bit of success for five more years. Then the chance came along to attend high school with other developing artists. During that time, music remained a career option, even though I knew that pianists were a dime a dozen. But I had the added advantage of playing for church, and that kept doors open. Meanwhile, the pipe organ kept beckoning as a source of mechanical fascination, artistic satisfaction, and income potential.

I "broke up" with the piano gently, moving from a piano concentration in high school, to a double major in piano and organ in college, to all-organ performance in grad school. Throughout all this, although the question of "making it" at the keyboard without another day job was always nearby, I never questioned the fact that music was going to be a part of my life each week.

After grad school, I kept training -- this time in airplane cockpits. I quickly learned that flying was just as fascinating as I thought it would be. I also discovered that flying would have been a fun career. Hmm, a fallback plan!

A few months later, I was still searching for what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had the application form filled out and the finances arranged to attend funeral directing/embalming school. The very day I was planning to mail in the application and fee, I received a call from a former professor, now a Dean, asking if I could see my way clear to fill a sabbatical vacancy for a year, teaching organ and sacred music. My answer of Yes was calm and considered, but inside, I was jumping for joy. Plans changed immediately -- no funeral directing school required now. Eight years later, I’m still pursuing the teaching career I had wanted since beginning graduate school.

"Did he really say funeral directing school?" Yes, I did. Lifelong fascination with it. And it's not too late, you know.

And rangering in Big Bend National Park just might be part of my retirement package.

I also would have made an excellent surgeon.

Or veterinarian.

Or math teacher.

Or truck driver.

Answer me! Part 2: Responding in-kind

This is a bit of a rant, but honestly, I feel fine. This is based on past – not current – experiences:

Have you ever worked and slaved and …

1) spent lots of energy writing a

2) complete,

3) thorough,

4) fully explanatory,

5) passionate letter,

… only to get a one-line response to it (if any at all)?

And so next time around, you write a terse letter? And then you get a one-line response to that, asking for …

1) more energy,

2) completeness,

3) thoroughness,

4) explanation,

5) and passion?

You write a lot and get asked to pare it down. You summarize and get asked to clarify, magnify, explain, or provide more information. You answer a question and get told you didn’t answer the exact question asked. But when you answer the exact question asked, you are then asked for the extra information you already provided so eloquently in your original answer. Some people are never pleased. If Microsoft ever invents a way to reach through a computer and tweak someone's nose, the world will be a better place.

Having written lots of letters and explained myself in many ways to many people, this phenomenon has carried over into my speaking, as well. Sometimes I have trouble carrying on a conversation because I’m formulating the perfect sentence that will explain my thoughts in as few words as possible yet leave no room for question or interpretation. That is a tricky (and fully unnecessary) balance, and Freud would probably have a field day with it.

Those of you (or us) who play cat and mouse with one-line responses designed to make you look superior rather than help the other person, let’s re-learn and re-invoke that whole Do Unto Others thing. Every communiqué is important to its writer. No one composes their thoughts just to practice their typing! The writer doesn't have to know your reaction; most of the time, they just need your considered answer.

My rules:

Communiqués from students are always important. After all, I’m in the business of communicating with students.

Communiqués from family members are always important.

Communiqués from old friends are always important.

Communiqués from administration are (usually) important.

Everything else can wait.

Organ recitals and camera angles

The threat of over-production always lurks when video experts get near an organ console. Cameras zoom, pan, sweep, go after moving (and non-moving) body parts, get shots of stained glass windows, exposed pipes, church exteriors, and so forth. Fine to get all that, but not at the expense of missing the best visual part of the piece!

Let’s boil this down now: When an organist is playing, there are only two views that will be of continuing interest to the live audience: hands and feet. Based on that simple fact, here are some suggestions for the video crew:

1. If you insist on multiple shots, get an organist to call them -- you’ll get better shots at the right times.

2. This isn’t about video composition; it’s about getting an audience some visual access to what they otherwise usually cannot see. When in doubt, put the camera where any normal person would want to stand where they could see everything going on at the console, and then leave it alone. Find a good spot and stay there. Ignore the rule you learned in video school that says that people will lose interest after 7 seconds on the same shot. We're not watching cows graze here.

3. Shooting over the organist’s shoulder to get the score usually also picks up fingerings, piston markings, other scribblings, and unsightly Post-It Notes. Therefore, this shot is not as dramatic as the videographer's playbook says it is. And don’t forget that you’ll probably get a page turner’s arm in there at some point, too. Uninteresting subject matter.

4. There is nothing of interest on the organist’s face. There is nothing of interest on the organist’s face. THERE IS NOTHING OF INTEREST ON THE ORGANIST’S FACE. I can’t tell you the number of videos I've seen that zoom into the organist’s face while the fingers and feet are at their busiest and most impressive. “Oh, you can tell she is concentrating so admirably!” Well, yes, she had better be, and we should be able to tell that from the sound, not from the camera shot. If you insist on going for the face, then just make it a full body shot, and make sure you have an organist calling the shots – you don’t want to miss something truly interesting while you’re chasing B-roll butterflies.

5. When putting titles up on the screen during live performance, recall that the audience has that same information in their printed program. So really, there’s no need. However, if you insist, then have the performer and the shot-calling organist check those title cards well beforehand. And refrain from over-quoting titles. The title is NOT “Adagio from Symphony No. 6,” quote marks and all. It is:

Symphony No. 6
II. Adagio
Charles-Marie Widor
(1844-1937)

Just as we all learned in the seventh grade, we use quote marks to quote quotations, not to refer to titles. And use the composer’s full name; he deserves it.

6. Finally, be willing to tell the organist that in the future they would do well to straighten out their posture, get new socks, or stop muttering under their breath while they play.

7. When in doubt, park the camera where the average person would park themselves in order to get the best view. Then step away from the camera and resist temptation.

Recruiting, Part 7: Recruiting the old-fashioned way -- just be an organist

I cannot realistically visit high schools to recruit for the organ. Not only are there no organs in most schools, but also many youth these days are not attending churches with organs, if they attend at all. The organ always faces these distant threats toward obsolescence. However, and fortunately, the organ does most of its own recruiting. As a machine that faintly resembles a piano, it is already both familiar and newly fascinating to many young people. The work of the American Guild of Organists and some “maverick” performers has breathed new life into the “rock star” appeal of the instrument. Couple this with my own performing and affability with audiences, and my student recruiting has taken care of itself so far.

It is vital for a teacher to maintain a conscious, pro-active approach to professional relations. Being friendly and refusing to be difficult go a long way. When “You’re so easy to work with!” becomes a fact rather than the occasional compliment, you have arrived.

Perhaps a teacher’s healthy performing career is his most powerful recruiting tool; a visible, assessable product is a strong magnet. Public visibility grows with every recital played away from the home base. Performing often “at home” is a good opportunity for me to prove to students that I practice what I preach in their lessons.

I always make available to interested persons the organ consoles at which I “preside” or on which I have just performed. This sends a message of good hospitality, which can help reverse a lingering stigma of surly organists in our society. Too often I hear of interested visitors who are categorically turned away from churches or institutions that keep the console under lock and key, with no hope for closer inspection. I have seen many a young person increase his interest in the organ after enjoying a brief visit to a console, and I am committed to maintaining the availability of those opportunities for all ages. I have said before that I am living proof that this works, and I have been fortunate to have realized it and be able to thank my mentors while they are still among the living.

Finally, I have developed a Halloween Monster Concert and an annual Messiah Singalong at Appalachian. The Monster Concert brings in capacity crowds in costume, ready to hoot, holler, sing Pumpkin Carols, watch a scary silent move, and get candy. The Messiah crowd bring their children, and all follow along in the scores and sing all those Part I choruses and Hallelujah. I learned two years ago that some people will come to the Singalong no matter the weather, and so I decided never to cancel that one for the weather – that music really does make a lot of Christmases, and I’m glad to deliver. After each event, the organ console is made available to all interested parties.

In short, for recruiting, I just do what I do, which is to be an organist. The organ draws a crowd in its own way, and a little positive reinforcement from me is usually all it takes to seal the deal.