My teachers

Of all the topics I could write about, it wasn't until a few days ago that the idea of writing a few words about my keyboard teachers came to mind. Where, O Where would we be without our one-to-one teachers?! I have had eight:

Mrs. Josephine "Jo" Bunch (now Bunch-Sande), Statesville, N.C.: a fine, upstanding, proper Southern lady. She was reluctant to take an 8-year old (me). I thought she was the coolest ever. She had lots of students, lots of music, and lots of respect. Those were the days. She had three pianos in her converted garage. Two of them had stiff actions for little hands, and the other was a square Steinway that was not to be touched. Later on, she added a 9-foot Knabe to all that. Her class recitals were legendary. And long.

Marian Hahn, North Carolina School of the Arts: a picture of patience with a high schooler like me, and a picture of pianistic elegance seldom matched. I talked about her all the time, to the point that my mother thought (mistakenly!) we were having an affair. (I was FIFTEEN.)

Robert McDonald, North Carolina School of the Arts: while my keyboard fingers got their training with Mrs. Bunch and Ms. Hahn, my musical ears woke up with Mr. McDonald. Studying with this guy cannot be described; it can only be experienced. And then years later, all you can do is send him a sheepish, nearly speechless letter, thanking him for his patience and for his extraordinary teaching, not to mention his playing. One of the two most intense musicians I have ever known.

John S. Mueller, North Carolina School of the Arts: Dr. Mueller gets the short straw in this list. I studied with him for only a semester. But it was my first organ lesson ever. Self-teaching was no longer an option.

H. Max Smith, Appalachian State University: Daddy Max, Uncle Max, etc. A father-figure to those who needed one, a safe haven to those going through identity crises, a safe haven to those undergoing wars with parents.  A tireless champion for the students, ALL students. And a great teacher. Thanks to Max, I have the job I now have. It was he who suggested "they" call me to fill in at Appalachian for a year. That was 2004; the rest is history.

Rodney Reynerson, Appalachian State University: elegant, poetic, knowledgeable, and overworked, this man was and is a quiet mainstay of teaching at Appalachian. And he likes jokes.

Allen Kindt, Appalachian State University: a powerhouse of a pianist and teacher. A pupil of Sandor. And a kind, huge-hearted bear of a man. May he rest in peace.

Clyde Holloway, Rice University: the other most intense musician I've ever known. What can I say? Everything I now do as a musician is a direct result of his legendary teaching: everything from practice habits to teaching style to self-promotion. If I have my job because of Max Smith, I know how to do the job thanks to Clyde Holloway.

My torch burns for all these. They were a perfect storm, in the perfect order, at just the right time. How much more fortunate can a kid be?

Copping out

This blog is a bit over one year old. While I have plenty of random thoughts to flesh out into posts, I am facing blogger's block this week! But I am swimming in News, which may explain the block. Help yourself there this week:

Come, labor on

And I'll hope to see you back here next week, probably with some interesting commentary on the evils of wedding rehearsals.

Weddings! Part 2: Prelude music

Memo to:
The Wedding Terrier
The Associate Pastor
The Pastor
The Director of Music
The Chair of the Worship Committee
My favorite vocalist and trumpeter

From:
Joby Bell, the Exhausted One

Lately, the organ’s role as a service instrument has become difficult to maintain at weddings. I feel it is time to reduce the organ’s (and/or piano’s) “social” function and tighten up its liturgical/worship role for weddings.

Indoor traffic during 30-minute wedding preludes has increased in quantity and noise level. At any given wedding, there is usually a fair amount of noise generated by chatty acolytes, clergy conversations, soloist/reader traffic, media traffic/conversation, and general congregational nervous excitement. It has become difficult to establish and maintain a worship atmosphere, let alone be able to concentrate. [Hint to the clergy: stop bringing guest clergy out at the last minute to talk through logistics while the prelude is underway.]

I believe we are all in agreement that the organ’s first “appearance” at a wedding or any other service of worship should signal the beginning of that service, but I have found it is impossible for guests to maintain such a frame of mind for very long, let alone 30 minutes, in the midst of such a social event. Since many of the participants mentioned above are rarely ready by the time the music has begun, it now seems more effective to me to allow a reasonable time of socializing and last-minute setup, then signal the commencement of the service with the organ’s first notes. Therefore, I have made the decision to reduce wedding prelude time from thirty minutes to ten. It is my hope that by ten minutes prior to the ceremony start time, the room will be prepared and the service may commence. I feel that a worshipful attitude will then be unmistakable to most people. When taken in the context of continuing efforts to promote a certain high level of worship IQ among all who enter our doors, I feel that this is a good decision and will not detract from the ceremony’s importance as a worship service first and a social event second. [Hint to all: Seating of guests to music is a social convention, not a liturgical one. I play for services of worship, not cocktail parties.]

Exception: I will be willing to play for up to twenty minutes, if the couple has made specific requests and if I determine that the assembled congregation and participants would not compromise the organ’s worship role with excessive noise or distraction. This exception should never be construed as a license to solicit such requests from couples. Those couples to whom music is especially meaningful will know who they are and will already be organized accordingly with their requests. [Hint to the Wedding Terrier: do NOT mention this exception to couples. I’ll handle it myself, based on my visit with them.]

If there are questions, see my tirade on playing when no one is listening.

My debut

Technicalities abound when determining what my “debut” was. Was it the first time I played the piano in church at age 11? Was it the first time I played the organ in church at age 14? Was it the first recital I played before going off to boarding school at age 15? Was it the first recital I played in college? Was it the first non-degree recital I played while enrolled in grad school? Was it the first master’s recital I played? Was it the first recital I played after grad school?

I tend to define my debut as the first recital I played away from home turf at the invitation of a complete stranger. In that case, it was a recital played on November 4, 1996, at the Rivermont Presbyterian Church in Lynchburg, VA, at the invitation of David Charles Campbell, then director of music. But even that carries a bit of a technicality, because David Charles had heard me play earlier that year for a traveling youth choir and wanted more. And so the truly completely stranger-invited recital was April 13, 1997, at St. George’s Episcopal Church in Port Arthur, Tex.

But there were other debuts. My “European debut” was little more than a performance as part of a group tour. But an audience of tourists developed downstairs during the performance. That was a highlight of my career. Or perhaps my European debut was as Mass organist at Saint-Sulpice during the summer of 2003. Then there could be a mini-debut chalked up for each large region of the country in which I have performed. And we could assign even mini-er debuts to individual states or major cities.

But who's counting? This is all in good fun. I’m not gearing up to make some sort of pithy statement with all this. I’m merely reflecting on all the fun I have had and how I wish to do nothing else. And I’m only 43, so I hope I have at least 30 years of stage enjoyment left.

Every recital is an event for me, and I plan each of them carefully, paying attention to the event, the targeted audience, the instrument at hand, the time of year, and a balance between exciting and soothing programming. And I’m in the business of helping others make their debut, however they choose to define that. So let’s have some more fun now!

Memorization, Part 2: Hoping vs. Having a Plan

The topic of memorization of organ music comes around every few years. And it’s back now. Those who memorize swear by it. Those who don’t memorize preach its evil qualities. I have just read the latest fire & brimstone in an organist magazine. That writer apparently had a VERY abusive past with memorizing.

He says in reference to an organ audition that required partial memorization: “I was unaccustomed to memorizing, and I worked very hard at it.” He says about a later recital memorization requirement: “I had no idea how I would manage to cope with that requirement. Either I would work very hard at it and hope that it went well…or I would hope for some sort of miracle.”

He also says, “…it would be hypocritical of me to believe that we teachers ought to expect – let alone force – our students to memorize.”

He goes on to say plenty other things.

Well, my poor abused friend, the scenarios you describe are indeed barbaric, nerve-wracking, and unnecessary. They are also indicative of a lapse of good teaching. Your comments on having no idea how you’d survive give away the fact that your teacher/s must have given you absolutely no guidance on memorizing, other than probably to say, “Memorize this.” That is indeed barbaric and unhelpful. For that kind of teaching, you could have stayed home and saved the tuition.

I’ve said before that there is a big difference between being told to memorize and being taught how. There are many difficult tasks in life that we are taught and allowed to practice to perfection. And I dare say that there are many athletes, lawyers, scientists, and doctors who are taught and THEN expected to do things that are far more difficult than memorizing a few notes and muscle movements to play them. So, organ music memorizers are not at full liberty to complain about our lot in life!

I know of only one teacher in higher education who taught memorizing as a discrete, step-by-step process. Fortunately, I studied with him. His processes served me well and still do. And I teach them, too. When I am asked, “Do you make your students memorize?” my answer is, “Yes, right after I teach them HOW.” I should add that practicing what I preach is a great seducer – my students witness my playing a recital from memory every semester; and they are practically begging to learn how to do that.

Memorizing eliminates at least 90% of unnecessary motions. When you have only your body to look at, you quickly learn the virtue of cleaning up your act, literally. Putting a free hand in your lap is no longer useful. “Skating” back and forth on the pedals is no longer useful (and was never pretty to watch in the first place). Figuring out elegant ways to punch pistons without sacrificing notes and rhythms can only help, and it will remove much of the element of panic from the sound. One of the most dramatic proofs that memorization serves the music shows up when I sit down to memorize a piece I had been playing with score for years. Immediately, I notice note patterns I had never noticed before. And I discover far more serviceable fingerings/pedalings. Discovery of the composer’s finer details is life-changing, and thanks to the discrete training I had in it, it is not scary. And it is not rocket science. It is merely Having A Plan.

Yes, memorizing is time-consuming. But over the long haul, a memorized piece will “come back” to you much more quickly, and it will come back at a higher quality level than a non-memorized piece. Yes, it does slow you down for amassing repertoire, but is repertoire haphazardly learned and constantly stabbed at really worth listening to? The most useful product of memorizing is that the music sounds better. When you eliminate unnecessary motion, fix the sloppy playing, and demonstrate a deeper understanding of every note, then the music just sounds better. And since it’s music, I’ll take Sounding Better any day over Playing More Pieces.

Memorization is your friend, and I will allow that it is not for everyone. But when employed, it must be taught, not merely commanded. You will be authorized to say it’s useless and that you hate it only after you have thoroughly learned how to do it with a Plan and not just a Hope.

Unfortunately, I can’t offer you a Plan in a blog; you’d need to come have some lessons.

In pursuit of perfection

A former boss of mine, Richard Forrest Woods, said that he heard a perfect performance of the Fauré Requiem in his head, but of course, he would never be able to pull it off with a choir. There would always be a blemish somewhere. I suppose that’s true for a lot of people and a lot of pieces.

But how expensive is a blemish, really? And how much should we apologize for hearing a perfect rendition in our head? Who defines “perfect?” And who else cares?

For a soloist, a great way to approach perfection, as defined by the soloist, is to record yourself frequently and listen back. No other feedback is more accurate than hearing a machine reproduce what you just did. Scary, but verrrrry productive, and not all that time-consuming.

I have been known to perform the slow movement of something with score so that I could practice the harder stuff from memory. Of course, much of that is borne from not having enough time to finish everything. But so it goes. I do remember two “perfect” performances of mine. I’d like to have more, but I’m willing to let “perfect” be more elusive while I simply pursue “excellence.” Run the race, the Apostle Paul always used to say.



Quantifying our art

School is about to start. That means syllabus revision, which isn’t easy. Each of my courses comes around only once every two years, and so I re-discover, re-assess, and re-vamp the subject matter each cycle. While I’m tweaking course content this time around, I’m also revising syllabi to reflect the latest university policies and academic trends and buzzphrases.

Hiding behind the syllabus and the exams and the juries is an increasing amount of number-crunching designed to measure student progress and, therefore, program success. In the arts, such quantification is neither easy nor readily embraced by my colleagues and former teachers. How do you assign a number to a student’s development in the fine art of communicating without words?

We’ve been teaching for years. But we have reached a point in “the system,” whatever that is, where we now must define what we teach, how we teach it, how we measure it, and how we will improve it if the measurements don’t measure up. Most of it boils down to the biggest buzzword I have seen hit academia: “Assessment.” Just this past semester, I had to show on paper how my applied music instruction for graduate students is actually more advanced than that of the undergraduate.

The age of platitudes is over. It is no longer sufficient to say, “Music is a way of expressing yourself, and I’m here to encourage that.” That is no longer considered informative. Other examples of statements that have become commonplace yet uninformative:

“Pay more attention to phrasing.”
“Have this memorized by next week.”
“Music is a tool we use to help us worship God.”
“I want to be part of the next step forward here.”
“Stop that crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
“The budget should be balanced, the treasury should be refilled, the public debt should be reduced, and the arrogance of public officials should be controlled.” [Former U.S. presidential candidate Ross Perot.]

Search committees and accreditation agencies now want to know how you’re going to do something, what tools you will use to do it, what the student or choir will actually learn in the process, and how you’re going to Assess the success of it all. But then there is another level to work through, because additional platitudes had been employed up until now to answer those questions:

How will you do or teach something? “I’ll give them a lesson each week.” Or, “We will have rehearsal every Wednesday night.” No longer good enough. Exactly what will you do in these wonderful lessons or rehearsals?

What will they learn? “They will learn how to play the organ well.” Well, how do you know? And how will you know that it worked, when the time comes? And who defines 'well?'

How will you Assess their progress? “Well, they’re going to play a jury each semester to determine if they learned anything.” But how will you determine that consistently from semester to semester? And how will you display that data so that the non-musical accreditation entity understands it and appreciates its value?

The profession has changed. Wake up and smell the coffee. But know that the coffee doesn’t smell that bad, after all. We can handle this.

Once more, with feeling: hymnals vs. bulletins

There is no more beautiful sound than that of a congregation singing healthily, loudly, and lustily. And according to Reformed tradition, that sound should be a church musician’s primary concern.

At some point in quite recent years, hymnals were deemed clumsy and too massive for the available space. They also did not contain the latest and greatest tunes to sing. Enter the printing in the bulletin of any congregationally-sung texts. Many people feel this is a good solution; they feel there should be one printed text for each pair of eyes. There usually aren’t enough hymnals for that, but I don’t understand why that suddenly became a problem when people had been sharing resources in worship for CENTURIES. I am convinced that many congregations sing so well because they open the hymnal, wrap an arm around their partner or child, and sing together. Long may they live and sing.

A hymnal is loaded with much more information than just words and notes. It contains authors, composers, dates, poetic meters, alternate texts and tunes, a fairly complete Psalter, and indices for all possible searches. Presenting hymns exclusively in verse form in a bulletin lessens their dramatic and informative potency. Melodic inflection and syllabification differences are also hopelessly lost without the music attached. Printing out just enough of a hymn to get by on Sunday robs a people of the opportunity to maintain a high liturgical IQ, and it sends the message that hymns are not very important. It also clutters up the bulletin. The hymnal is a well-developed, time-honored resource, and reducing hymns to text-only for anything other than reading is impersonal and devaluing of their richness.

Consider a sermon text. There is power in reading straight from the Book, rather than from an insert or the bulletin. The complete sermon text is not printed in the bulletin; indeed, the congregation is even instructed by the preacher to open their Bibles. There is a definite potency in holding the entire book, and something is lost when holding a flimsy pamphlet.

Throughout the Church these days, music and text appear together outside of published books far too rarely. People all over the country (and the world, I’ve discovered) are losing their ability to sing and follow along. When challenged on it, they claim a comfortable and damaging ignorance: “I can’t read music.” Text-only PowerPoint screens and bulletin printouts have rendered all but the simplest tunes foreign and more difficult than necessary.

No literate person who has ever sung a hymn from a hymnal can honestly say, “I can’t/don’t read music.” Music is printed proportionally across the page, and the untrained eye can discern long and short notes and melodic contour from the page after a short while. That’s all that is needed to be good at it. Seeing printed music is just as normal as reading anything else, whether fully understood or not. It becomes a habit—a good one.

“Well, the hymnal is available to them; all they have to do is reach down and get it.” The very existence of that choice does the damage. The bulletin is the path of least resistance, and a congregation, no matter how well educated, will eventually follow where it is consistently steered. If the hymnal is never mentioned, if an altered text is printed in the bulletin, if stanzas are cut or added, it renders the hymnal useless, and the conditioning of using the bulletin for singing becomes stronger. It is our responsibility as church leaders to eliminate the poorer choice entirely. If you keep handing the congregation a quick fix in the bulletin, a lusty congregational sound will be reduced to mere murmuring, and the repertoire will consist of a handful of hymns recycled far too often. People are not stupid; they can handle a hymnal.

Altered texts usually change only a few words, the sum total for which I cannot justify forcing the congregation into the bulletin. I feel “inclusive language” implies freedom to sing the words one wants to sing. Even if the hymnal “updates” a text, those who wish will undoubtedly sing the words of their choice or the words more firmly implanted in their memory. I should think that unity is better found there than in insisting on this or that text in the bulletin. This brings new meaning to the phrase “all on the same page,” and I find it no more unsettling than, for example, the “trespasses vs. debts” train wreck in the Lord’s Prayer, or the train wreck between the Nicene and Apostles’ Creeds.

Let the bulletin provide the necessary information: hymn number, first line, tune name. The reader can then engage in a little personal research to find the hymn (imagine that -- no more spoon-feeding). For any congregational music not found in the hymnal, print text AND melody in the bulletin or provide a music insert. I think it’s all worth the absolute consistency and demonstration of the highest possible importance placed on a congregation’s singing.

Let’s get our eyes back on the ball. It’s being hit uncontrollably all over the field.

Answer me!

Communication is more rapid than ever, and modes of communication are more numerous than ever. And yet how often do emails, texts, phone calls, snail-mail letters, and Facebook messages still go unanswered these days? We’re doing better with communication options, but the actual communicating could still improve dramatically.

Several times during my career, I have written detailed, almost passionate letters, most of which were not only ignored but also not even acknowledged. Recently, I sent an article twice to one of my professional organizations and received no acknowledgement whatsoever. (Was it something I said?) I have used online forms, as instructed, to apply for being considered for several recital series. Nothing.

Here’s one for my students: Too many people won’t answer the phone if they don’t recognize the number. What is up with that? What do you think the caller is going to do, kidnap you over the phone? The caller could be someone borrowing a phone to get an important message to you. Answer your phones; it won’t hurt you. Unless you’re in class or church or court.

I learned to stay in touch by invoking the “Do unto others…” rule. If I don’t want people going AWOL on me, then I won’t do so to them. I don’t trust people who don’t answer messages, and I wouldn’t expect them to trust me if I did the same. No one sends messages to practice their speaking or typing skills, you know. Answer!

At one church were I served, brides and their families were often pleasantly surprised when I returned their emails and phone calls so quickly. Apparently, they had gotten used to delays from other staff members and outside vendors. Aside: They were also usually surprised to find that the church organist was so young and personable. [Mercy, people, were organists of yesteryear so surly that laymen automatically thought all of them were?!] And although I’m still personable, that “young” bit is fast fading in applicability.

An out-of-state student once contacted me about double-majoring in organ and a certain field of mathematics. He said that no single institution in his home state offered both of those degrees. When I responded to him, his mother sent me an additional email, saying that they were amazed and grateful that not only did I respond, but I also responded the SAME DAY. As it turned out, they had been inquiring at other schools and had not received ANY responses. I was horrified that other schools had not responded, but I was delighted to help this family out. I was also glad to enroll that student the following fall, thank you very much.

So if good communication boosts “business,” why on earth don’t more people exercise it? Dropping the ball on good service can be immediately soothed through good communication. I would forgive a multitude of sins, if only the sinner would stay in touch. For every day the painting crew doesn’t show and doesn’t communicate, the less willing I am to have them do the work. For every day a student absence goes unacknowledged, my willingness to forgive it wanes.

Good communication is probably not included among the great virtues of human existence. But it works for me, and I develop an undying loyalty to anyone who exercises it. Good communication has become the exception rather than the rule. My students WILL learn the rule from me. Or else.

Shucks, folks, I’m speechless

What to say when you’re speechless about a recital (and not in a good way):

"Your performance was remarkable."
"Now THAT was a recital."
"Well, that was certainly more than we expected."
"Boy, you've done it again."
"I have no idea how you do it."
"It was the most incredible thing I've ever heard."
"I have never heard you do better."
"I wouldn't change a SINGLE thing."
"A lot of people seemed to like it."
"This performance was mind-boggling."
"I'm overwhelmed. I just don't know what to say."
"Boy, I'll bet you're glad it's over."
"Thank you for being with us." [My personal favorite]

What to say when you’re speechless about an organ (and not in a good way):

"This organ really makes a statement."
"It's quite a sound."
"It's certainly a good example."
"Too bad the room isn't better."
"Just think of all the hard work that went into that."
"And to think there was a time it didn't play at all."
“It’s quite a banjo.” [My personal favorite]
“You must be proud.”
“I hope you’re enjoying it.”

Finally, here are two hilarious, rather more direct comments I’ve heard people say:

“That was very biblical playing. The right hand never knew what the left was doing.”
“I liked that last piece. I don’t remember it having so many modern chords, though.” [Truly the best one ever.]


There might be a few of those that I would actually say. But when you hear playing you hate and yet you need to be friendly without feeling violated, what DO you say? It has backfired on me only once: Following a particularly atrocious pre-Evensong recital, I stood dutifully in the receiving line and said my usual line, “Thank you for being with us today,” to which this rather blustery organist said, “You didn’t like it?! You’re supposed to say you liked it!” And then he said to the next person, “Did YOU like it? Because apparently Joby didn’t.” Clearly there was an agenda headed straight for me, so I quickly got out of its way.

Anyway, have fun laughing at these and pondering what you might say next time. There is no substitute for diplomacy, but you have to be ready with it.