Under the ‘P’

The Appalachian State University Marching Mountaineers are dubbed “North Carolina’s Band of Distinction.” They are 300 strong, and they preside at Mountaineer football games with enthusiasm, focus, determination, precision, and musical integrity.

One day in 2023, director Jason Gardner stopped me in the hallway and asked if I’d like to serve as “The Voice,” following the retirement of Jay Jackson. Once I actually found my voice in that moment and picked my jaw up off the floor, I managed to say something like, “Yes, yes! When do we start?” The second thing I said was, “But I’m not saying Roll 'neers.” [He and I are of one mind on that silly little phrase that won’t go away.]

My job is to announce for the Band when they are on the field. Show tunes, context, generate excitement, etc. [I do NOT announce the games, heaven forbid.] So on home game days I arrive at 7:00 am to get good parking. I’m in my khakis and black Band polo and my black Band ballcap. I join the Band in Kidd Brewer stadium on the ASU campus around 8:30, and we rehearse. I get to hang out in the uppermost areas of the home side press boxes, where I enjoy the grandest view in town. I sit directly under the ‘P’ in ‘Complex’ in this photo:

 

Then we walk downtown for some lunch. I hit a few tailgate parties and enjoy the gathering crowds. Then I go change into the official black suit, white shirt, gold tie, Appalachian cufflinks, black ballcap, flashy oversized gold pocket handkerchief, and stadium credentials. We do a lawn concert for any fans who wish to gather, while I roam among the people and make announcements in a wireless mic. Following the lawn concert, we line up and commence our grand Episcopal procession into the stadium to the cadences of the percussion battery, and we are greeted by the roar of gathered students and fans trickling in. I start roaming the stadium and greeting folks in the name of the Band. I announce the pre-game show and then roam the stadium during the first half of the game, then announce the halftime show, and I am done for the day. I usually hang around, though, and roam some more and make sure the Band sees my face and the enthusiasm on it for them!

I love game day for the crowds and for the Band. I love working behind the scenes and making things happen, much like doing so at the organ for church. I love being involved in a marching band once again. I had not been involved in one since the football season of 1982, when I was the best last-chair third trumpet player the Statesville (N.C.) Greyhound Grenadier Marching Band ever had [by golly].

My favorite parts of game day:

- walking into the stadium for rehearsal and listening to the Band crank up for the day;
- hearing that first cheer from the audience at the lawn concert;
- stepping off for the parade into the stadium;
- the diabolical sense of enjoyment I derive from the drunken fools who don’t get out of the band’s way during the parade. They are about to get, shall we say, 'maced' by up to four drum majors wielding maces;
- the percussion battery taking the field for pre-game, announcing to the world that it’s on, and the Band holding their position in the end zones and then taking the field and daring anyone not to listen;
- the first four chords of Simple Gifts after some fanfares;
- poking my head into the Band stands during the first half and getting a blast of second-down fanfaring;
- walking around during the first half of the game and visiting with friends. Walking through Miller Hill in the south end zone, which I call Hops and Pot Field, and hearing people say, “Hey, nice suit!” I always say, "Thank you – please watch the band at halftime;”
- seeing the entire production team up in the booth linger to watch the Band on the field. They could be taking a break during that time, but they are staying up there to watch and to comment on their favorite moments, just like I’m doing now. It’s a great day.

The Marching Mountaineers are collectively our teams’ biggest fan. And I am glad to have been given a place among them, considering my otherwise unrelated ‘field’ of expertise.

on Richard Forrest Woods – Part 9

This is one of many installments of a biography of mentor and friend Dick Woods. See here for the entire series.

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Some writing on the wall

Dick succeeded Mr. G. Alex Kevan as Organist/Choirmaster for the parish of St. John the Divine in Houston. During my tenure, I discovered many photos of Mr. Kevan and many anthems and service pieces he had written. His music program for the parish appeared to be squarely grounded in the great American musico-liturgical heyday of the 1950s-1970s. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that the Rev. Thomas A. Roberts, who hired Dick in 1972, was equally grounded in that liturgical heyday. But Father Roberts died suddenly and unexpectedly the following year and was succeeded by The Rev. Maurice “Ben” Benitez.

Fast-forward to 1993: rector Benitez was now Bishop Benitez. He was unable to attend Dick’s funeral. He prepared a letter to be read aloud during the funeral. In it, the bishop related the story of his and Dick’s first sit-down at St. John the Divine in 1974, during which he insisted Dick include ‘renewal music’ in services. He then reported that Dick sighed deeply and asked resignedly, “Well, do I have to do that every week?” That short anecdote reveals that when Dick took the post under Fr. Roberts, perhaps it was in the sort of environment that would feed his musical and liturgical soul. Perhaps based on the legacy of Alex Kevan and Fr. Roberts’s direct recruitment, Dick saw at St. John’s an opportunity to ply his trade unimpeded. But this story also bears out how easy it was – even in the 1970s – for St. John’s to drift into musical licentiousness, notwithstanding its ultra-conservatism otherwise. But Dick’s response in that story also suggests that he was accepting of where things were heading. As a former lecturer on church music at the Seminary and having served as the head musician at several parishes around the country, he knew very well the ‘renewal movement’ was on the rise, and perhaps he was increasingly resigned to the fact that the movement would probably catch up with him, no matter where. Although Benitez was demonstrably one of Dick’s biggest fans all the way to the end, that meeting was a turning point, a sort of writing on the wall, by my calculations. Dick soldiered on, and when rector Benitez became Bishop Benitez in 1980, the next rector, the Rev. Laurens A. “Larry” Hall embraced the same trend in music, yet to a much greater degree. Dick soldiered on.

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The annual parish hymn-sing each Thanksgiving Wednesday was a highlight. It was an evening of Thanksgiving dinner in the parish hall, followed by about an hour of hymn singing with piano and small orchestra. We did nothing else like it all year. It was always a full house, and I loved seeing everyone enjoying themselves outside of liturgy. In 1991, Dick was particularly inspired to compose arrangements for the orchestra for many of the hymns for the event. He had learned that rector Larry Hall could not attend that year, and so Dick felt freer to do his own thing and had a surge of creativity. The two of us stayed at the church one Friday evening until 4:00 am the next day, composing arrangements and making copies. We were nearly derailed by the rector, though, who had been insisting there be an element for children during the event. But Dick felt it wasn’t a children’s kind of event, and I felt the children would be just fine singing hymns along with everyone else, just like on Sundays. Larry announced in full staff meeting one week that since he was going to be away for it that year, he wouldn’t push the children thing; otherwise, he would have pulled rank. He seemed truly irritated.

Larry and Dick had worked together long before I arrived, but the meeting just described was the first time I sensed Larry losing patience with Dick, and I became uncomfortable with the realization that Dick and I might have been on thinner ice than I first thought. Things didn’t feel transparent. I began to wonder if Larry merely tolerated Dick since he ‘inherited’ Dick from one of Larry’s best friends and one of Dick’s biggest fans, former-rector-now-bishop Benitez. I woke up to the sense that Dick was somehow in the rector’s way and that I was likely guilty by association. I became manifestly ill at ease for the duration of my tenure there.

Next time: The Choir of St. John the Divine, Houston

Note by note: Dupré Prelude and Fugue in A-flat

This is an extraordinary piece. I think it’s the finest of Dupré’s six Preludes and Fugues. The Prelude churns and alludes to the Fugue to a high – but not overdone – degree, and the Fugue is one of the most beautiful pieces ever composed for the organ. Dupré is not his usual gargoyle self here but rather a picture of nobility and soaring melody. Don’t know what came over him.

Before we begin: Graham Steed’s book The Organ Works of Marcel Dupré is a most helpful guide for history, some performance advice, and so forth. And it doesn’t take itself too seriously – imagine encountering humor in a book on Dupré.

Opening registration: In the U.S., I leave the Swell mixture off. The reeds are often enough to create the manual contrasts we’ll need, particularly if the Choir/Positif is weak by comparison (and it often is in the U.S.).

Measure 4: The Final D of the left hand should probably be D-flat. See Graham Steed.

Measure 11: I add the Positif to Pedal, if it needs it.

Measure 16: Graham Steed suggests the Great to Pedal remain off, in case that helps the balance. He suggests adding it in 24. At 16 he also advocates moving the left hand to the Great and the right hand to the Positif for this passage, to improve the balance. I concur, but I move the left hand to the Great at the final three sixteenths of measure 15. Easier to “thumb” that way. The hands can then follow the published manual indications again from 24.

Measure 22: The second F in the alto should be an eighth note, not a quarter. And if you don’t have the high A-flat and B-flat notes Dupré writes (and he didn’t either), then just play from the fourth beat of 22 without 8va. You can recover at the third beat of 24.

Measures 26-29: I achieve a bit more gradual decrescendo by:

- taking the final alto B of 26 with the left hand and moving the right hand to the Positif for the downbeat of 27;
- taking with the right hand all manual notes of the fourth beat of 27, plus the first sixteenth of 28;
- then moving each hand in turn as published in 28 and 29. 

Measure 32: Graham Steed recommends moving the dim into the middle of 33. I concur.

Measure 42: Graham Steed suggests the first D# in the left hand be D natural. I concur.

Measure 44: If you don’t have the high A# in the right hand (and Dupré didn’t), just play that one note an octave lower.

Measure 63: I move the right hand to the Positif there, to keep those higher notes from screeching so much.

Measures 73-75: In the interest of a more gradual decrescendo, I would play the left hand on the Great in 73, then on the Positif in 74.

Measures 74-76: The left hand and Pedal are vying for the same pitches, which makes some notes ‘disappear.’ Just remove the Pedal couplers (and beef up the Pedal a bit, if the sudden loss of the couplers renders it too weak).

Measure 93: I remove the Pedal stops and couple Récit and Positif to it, to help with the wide reaches. Pedal can be restored in 94.

Measure 98: Graham Steed and I agree the Pedal G should be G-flat.

Measure 102: I don’t play the left hand low A-flat. With a note that low and that quick, who’s going to notice? I feel the first-tenor subject statement there is more important than risking a misfire with rapid substitution after the low A-flat.

Measure 106: I remove all Pedal couplers, especially the Swell. The Swell is required to add stops in 108, but there is no need for those to transfer to the Pedal during its ongoing decrescendo.

Measure 108: I tend to leave the Swell 4-foot principal off, to keep the Swell from growing too much there. We still have a long way to go.

From here on, obey Dupré’s every staccato marking. If not marked staccato, then legato. And if one hand has one voice marked staccato and another one not, then your finger independence is about to get the workout of its life.

Measure 121: The second eighth notes in left hand and Pedal are not marked staccato. Misprint? Also, the final E-flat in the second tenor appears to be marked staccato. Dirty engraving plate?

Measure 130: The final eighth note in the right hand appears to be marked staccato. Dirty engraving plate?

Measures 134-136: I achieve a more gradual decrescendo by moving the right hand to the Positif on the downbeat of 134 and the left hand on the second half of beat 1. Then I move the left hand to the Swell on the downbeat of 135. I move Dupré’s Swell growth onto the sixth sixteenth of 136, so that the Swell growth doesn’t transfer coupled to the Pedal.

Measure 141: I move the left hand to the Positif on beat 2, rather than in measure 144.

I execute tiny crescendos via pistons at 147, 156, and 162, before the bigger growth begins in 169. These little growth spurts are only for a lingering Prestant here or another 8’ there. Maybe a small mixture here or a light reed there or a heavier Pedal 16’ there. Just a little something here and there to begin filling the room.

Measure 150-152: In the interest of a smoother crescendo, I take the first sixteenth of 150 with the right hand and move the left hand to the Positif on the second sixteenth. Then I move the right hand to the Positif at 152.

Measure 158: Graham Steed says the right hand first note G should be staccato. I concur, but I also say it should be G-flat. And the high B-flat on the downbeat is legato.

Measure 160: I believe the first two eighth notes of the left hand should be staccato, and that the final eighth of the left hand (B-flat) also be staccato.

Measure 161: ditto the final two eighth notes of the left hand.

Measure 163: I believe there is a ledger line missing on the second eighth of the left hand. That should be E-flat.

Measures 163 to the end: If you don’t have that high A-flat (and Dupré didn’t), then you’re missing out on one of the most sumptuous moments in organ literature. The French are forgiven, but American builders are not.

If you have been keeping score, you'll notice I have dealt with three of Dupre's six Preludes and Fugues. Those three -- B, A-flat, and C -- are my favorites. I have not learned the others and am having some trouble imagining doing so. Forgive me. (Or change my mind?)

on Richard Forrest Woods – Part 8

This is one of many installments of a biography of mentor and friend Dick Woods. See here for the entire series.

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The red sea, a.k.a. the sock drawer

[This post is a rant on how things were, not on how they currently are. Anyone familiar with the parish of St. John the Divine, Houston, will know that things are now much improved from the days (1990s) I am describing herein. But it’s where Dick Woods and I worked, and it warrants description.]

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The original worship space for St. John the Divine, Houston, now still in regular use as its chapel, was completed in 1940. Other buildings, including the nave, were completed in 1954, designed by Karl Kamrath (1911-1988) a Houston-based devotee of Frank Lloyd Wright. The exterior of the church proper is striking, with its heavy limestone walls and high-pitched roof with low-hanging eaves. Faithful to its architectural style, it looks like it naturally, literally, organically ‘grew’ out of the earth. But this author never found the interior very beautiful nor very worshipful. Thanks to acoustical-paneled ceiling, cork flooring under the pews, and wood veneer everywhere, it looked less like a church and more like the attic of a high-end suburban house. The room seemed to call more attention to its severe architectural style than to God. Furthermore, there was thick, red carpet in all three aisles, in the side chapel, and throughout the chancel and sanctuary. I called the room ‘the red sea.’ Any reader familiar with the acoustic that results from all that carpet can also appreciate my bonus appellation ‘sock drawer.’

A renovation of sorts of the nave was slated to be rendered between Christmas 1992 and Easter 1993. During the renovation, Sunday services were moved into the gym. I played a most interesting digital organ that could say things like ‘Hey!’ and ‘Yeah!’ and make the sound of dentist drills. I never discovered a suitable use for such sounds during Rite II, but I would have enjoyed it, and the choir would have welcomed the diversion. Anyway, the nave renovation was not intended to make any major changes but rather to spruce up what was already there. The carpet was to be replaced, and so I threw a Hail Mary and spoke up about this chance to improve the acoustics. But not only were acoustics not on the table and we were wasting our time resisting it, Dick and I would also have been painfully incompetent bulls in that particular china shop, anyway. Neither he nor I had the vocabulary nor the finesse nor enough time to educate the parish with any degree of success in matters of acoustics and worship. Furthermore, he was very sick and in the final weeks of his work, and so I was sounding the carpet alarm alone and in vain.

The 1992-1993 renovation transformed the narthex and hallways outside the nave into much more useful spaces, but it left the nave proper unchanged in all ways except cosmetically. The red carpet (which had faded over time to near-orange) was replaced by new, lower-pile red carpet. [It can’t be ignored that a longtime Vestryman, who always had the ear of the rector, made his millions … selling carpet.] The ugly wood veneer throughout the room was replaced by new, equally ugly wood veneer. The trusses and ceiling were re-treated and achieved a modicum of aesthetic and acoustical improvement. A not-so-heavenly host of spotlights was added. The rector wanted those lights and got those lights and at the very first services held in the renovated space, Easter Vigil and Easter Sunday 1993, announced, “These are my lights.” That was kind of endearing: not only did it elicit some snickers as to how those new bright lights got there, but it also let everyone know to whom they could complain – and that he wouldn’t be listening. Nowadays, bright lights in church are normal, but that was everyone’s first experience with them in those days, and they were quite jarring to behold the first time. Some choir members wore sunglasses in protest during rehearsals held in the chancel.

Furthermore, I swear I saw hearing aids on the fellow selling and installing the new sound system. And since another old fellow who was going to be operating sound each week was also hearing impaired, I was not encouraged by that particular ‘renovation.’ [I was right. The sound and lights systems became nightmarish places of steep learning curves, usually during Sunday preludes (lights) and sermons (sound). Even the rector called out during more than one sermon and told the technician to just disable the wireless mic and switch to the pulpit mic to avoid the constant, shrieking feedback.] But oh, you should have heard that room while the old carpet was out. For one glorious week between the completion of work and the installation of the new carpet, it was heaven on earth during practice time. No one knew it at the time, but that carpet-free sound was a preview of another, future renovation finally done right. I’ll get the dear Reader there eventually.

Next time: Some writing on the wall

Note by note: Dupré Prelude and Fugue in C

Memorizing is hard work. And it’s time-consuming. But it’s worth it, because memorized performance always sounds better (assuming the music was solidly memorized in the first place). Memorizing this prelude and fugue is not to be taken lightly, and it must be constantly refreshed. I believe that the chromaticism of the prelude and the close strettos of the fugue just make this piece a memorization nightmare. Not even the Vierne 6th or the Clérambault first Suite was this tricky!

Well, that’s that. Below are some of my insights into playing the piece, memorized or not:

Dupré’s fingerings and pedalings are welcome, although I changed quite a few to fit my own hands and feet. I wonder what he would have thought. Sometimes he goes to an unnecessary amount of trouble with substitutions, whereas I just tuck a thumb or cross a long finger over another.

Graham Steed’s book has excellent insights into all of Dupré’s organ music. He knows of a couple corrections for the C Major that Dupré confirmed post-publication (measures 27 and 179, mentioned below). I see several additional opportunities for consideration.

Measure 12: The final eighths in the manuals will have to be released early to be repeated in measure 13. Dupré would have prescribed a sixteenth-note break, but if you’re playing slower, you might delay that to the thirty-second-note level with some success. So long as it doesn’t sound panicked. Ditto the second eighth note of 19 and the final eighth of 38 and 39 and isolated notes in the right hand of 52-54. Ditto lots of individual Pedal notes in measures 2, 4, 9, 26, 28, 40, 43, 45, and 65.

Measure 13: I believe the final A-flat in the left hand should be A natural, since there are two A naturals against it in the right hand, plus the A-natural quarter note in the Pedal. Crunchy chromaticism aside in this Prelude, outright atonality or the prolongation of what sounds like a sour note is probably a misprint.

Measure 27: According to Dupré/Steed, the final G of the right hand should be G-sharp. I concur.

Measure 33: Curious that Dupré does not reverse the Pedal couplers here like he did for a similar texture in measures 16 and 51. That’s probably because in 35, the right foot will be more melodic there than textural before. By 43, the Pedal is back to ‘normal’ in this configuration. In 60, the Pedal is once more melodic, but with the Récit coupler rather than Great. I doubt any of this is a misprint, but it is nevertheless noted, and the performer may have to do whatever it takes to preserve good balance. As we all know, the lower end of Pedal eight-foot flutes and bourdons can be notoriously weak in the U.S., so you may have to go into various contortions to keep the upper Pedal notes from being too loud and the lower notes from disappearing completely.

Measure 35: The right hand is on its own for legato here. I don’t try to disguise wide intervals with what my teacher Clyde Hollway called the lunging, “omigod” way of trying to achieve legato where legato is not possible. So I just lift the thumb proudly, note by note, until the intervals shrink back down to something more manageable. That is even more pronounced in measures 59, where the white/black key pattern makes detachment even more necessary. I’ll take a proud, gently detached sound over a panicked lunging-for-notes sound any day.

Measure 43: The first eighth (E-flat) of the left hand is not the same interval it was in corresponding passages in measures 2 and 15. I wonder if that E-flat should have been a G instead. If so, then the entire passage (42-43) would match its sibling measures 1-2 and 14-15, interval for interval. For the record, I have not changed that E-flat in performance; I just raise the question here. Misprint?

Measure 47: Right hand, sixth sixteenth: that should probably be F natural to make a more 'natural' resolution from the E natural just before it. (F had been flatted on the third sixteenth.)

Measure 56: The Pedal is engraved strangely. Okay, this is going to be painfully wordy: The half rest is positioned in the measure in such a way that it looks like the entire Pedal should take a rest for the second half of the measure. I happen to feel that the Pedal should do just that, but the note and rest values are incorrectly displayed in that case. Look just above in the left hand, where a quarter rest is employed at the same spot for a voice there. On one day, I thought that the half rest in the Pedal applied to the right foot, which had been resting since the previous measure. But if that were the case, then the rest should be located dead center of the measure left to right, which it is not. I looked again at Dupré's use of half- and whole rests throughout this Prelude, and he employs a whole rest when a voice rests for an entire measure, even when a measure is only two beats long (measures 1, 22-25, etc.). Therefore, I feel that the half rest given in 56 is indeed representing half the measure but should have been given as a quarter, and I feel that the low G should in turn be a quarter note. Furthermore, the sudden upstem of the low G there is better explained by the right foot no longer needing any notation at all. This will all create a nice decrescendo, dropping voices in left hand and Pedal, until we arrive at the gentle coda of 57.

Measures 69-70: The left-hand stab accents are a bit jarring. Was Dupré just asking for an early release? If so, he might have used a staccato, as he did at the beginning of 69. And I don’t know how much “accent” one should be expected to get from such a light registration. Was Dupré asking for only the top note to be released early and the other two notes of the triad to move legato? Who knows? I’m still experimenting.

The Fugue is a nightmare for finger/voice independence. Make sure you’re obeying Dupré’s staccato and legato markings exactly.

Measure 109: Third beat, I move the right hand to the Swell as instructed, but I move the left hand to the Positif, for greater relief of the subject. I’ll move the left to the Récit for the downbeat of 115.

Measure 115: The soprano is legato, but not the second soprano. This legato lingers all the way into the downbeat of 123, including the manual change.

Measure 124: The pedal is still legato, which suggests a full-value second beat in this measure, against the staccato second beat of the manuals. So far, that hasn’t sounded ragged to me. But depending on the organ, that low G might 'stick out' unnecessarily if it isn't shortened. Similar mismatches occur in the B Major fugue, so it’s not unheard of. But in that piece, Dupré’s exacting markings and performances are testament that they were correct.

Measure 134: The left hand note values are incomplete. The final E-flat should be an eighth note.

End of measure 137: Note that both soprano voices are now legato, all the way to the rest in 143.

Measures 149-157: Legato here, staccato there. Watch Dupré’s markings, especially for the isolated staccato voices. And release legato voices exactly on rests, not early.

Measure 158: The downbeat is still legato, which means full value to the rest. 

Measure 159: Second and third beats: notice that Dupré has written a long note value there, asking for a later staccato release.

Measures 167-173: Hardest part of the piece to memorize, if you ask me. The voice independence is a nightmare.

Measure 179: I move the left hand to the Positif on the downbeat of 179, rather than 180, so that I don’t have to negotiate a potentially awkward manual change after sextuplets. Third beat of 179: I move the right hand to the Positif, one beat earlier than instructed. Since the fugue subject begins on the 3^rd beat, it just makes sense there. Curiously, Steed/Dupré says that the left hand should remain on the Great there to the end of the piece. That doesn’t make sense to me until 190.

Measure 189: I move my right hand to the Great a beat early. Although that is not a subject statement, moving on the third beat of 189 would retain the third-beat start pattern.

Measures 197-204: I find it dangerous for my hands to work so hard playing all those octave-spread chords. Those bouncing/traveling chords would all be hard enough to play, anyway, even without the Pedal scurrying up and down. I redistribute the notes and leave the hands in one position. That introduces issues of finger independence but it removes the issue of hitting cracks with so much quick repositioning from chord to chord.

Measure 218: Dupré didn’t have that high C at St-Sulpice. If you don’t, either (and if you’re in the U.S., then why not?!), then solve it any way you like.

The Great upper work and reeds, the Pedal upper work and reeds, and the manual 16s are not indicated at the beginning of the Fugue. Other than pedal coupler adjustments and a few (really short) hairpins and some dynamics indicating box position, Dupré does not specifically call for registrational buildup except by way of his fff in 196-197, which to the French meant simply ‘full organ.’ But surely he would allow some sort of buildup along the way from his opening registration and indicated box position of mf. I suggest some growth at the third beat of 137 (which may have to be reversed somewhat in the Pedal for 161-173). Depending on the size of the instrument, I suggest further growth at the third beat of 173, the second beat of 184, and the third beat of 189, plus Dupré's required full organ at the third beat of 196.

Measure 196: Unless the 32s muddy the Pedal scales, I don’t see the point of holding those in reserve for later. In any case, I have full organ on by 212. I feel the pregnant pauses don't need further buildup, since they are the only pauses in the entire piece, other than the break between Prelude and Fugue. We'll get the message!

Measures 213-215: People add their own interpretation of the pregnant pauses. Graham Steed says not to lengthen those nor the quarter notes in 213-214. Dupré even adds a breath mark in 213, to remind of the staccato directive. If everyone always followed Dupré's and Steed's instructions, perhaps everyone would sound alike. They would certainly sound like Dupré himself, who was the ultimate technician and micro-manager of every note. Then again, not everyone plays this piece, and so the risk of monotony in interpretations is low. And with the acoustical joyriding these guys engaged in during the final measures of countless pieces, further revving of that particular engine is irresistible! But I don't give in -- I keep it all in tempo, and I hold the final chord for a countable two measures and a downbeat (but who's counting?).

on Richard Forrest Woods – Part 7

This is one of many installments of a biography of mentor and friend Dick Woods. See here for the entire series.

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The parish of St. John the Divine, Houston

In the early 1990s my professor Clyde Holloway, Organist-Choirmaster at Christ Church Cathedral, Houston, would shrug his shoulders in mild defeat when discussing St. John the Divine, Houston. He said (paraphrased) that St. John’s always … just … kind of … proudly lingered on the fringes of Episcopalianism. There was always … a vague sense … more of … Hey look at us over here … rather than … Hey let us help you with your struggles. Friends of mine have put it more bluntly: “They were just Baptists posing as Episcopalians.”

Dick arrived at St. John’s in 1972. By the time I got there in 1990, it was the third-largest Episcopal parish in the country: 4500 members, right behind St. Michael and All Angels, Dallas (#2), and St. Philip’s Cathedral, Atlanta (#1). And being situated at the portal of River Oaks Boulevard leading into one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the country [anyone who has driven down that street knows what I’m talking about], it was among the wealthiest churches of any sort in all of Houston, and it was helmed at the time by the nation’s highest-paid Episcopal priest.

Speaking ever so subjectively, I’d say St. John the Divine represented a high-level, complex system of self-preservation. With so many successful white collars on the parish roll, it should come as no surprise that there was a careful, corporate approach to the management of the parish. Everything stayed clean, well-organized, and in relatively decent repair although aging by that point. Deferred maintenance was common so as not to overspend, but emergencies were handled straightaway. Money was spent copiously but deliberately. But there was also a vague sense that although the poor were welcome in the door, the rest of us will handle things around here, thank you. I sensed early on that we artists were welcome as members of the parish but would never be members of the club. There were plenty nice enough individuals about, but the parish as an entity seemed to take a greater interest in being the Church of St. John the Divine for River Oaks than in being an outpost of Jesus Christ for all people. Dick sensed all this, too, and we discussed it many times. It’s hard to say unequivocally, but he and I always detected something just a little … cold … about this parish.

On many fronts, St. John the Divine was always one of the most conservative parishes in the country. Members were the ultimate conservative in matters of wardrobe – everyone was dressed to the nines, and not just on Sundays. The parish was painfully conservative in social matters, which was usually [and was here] an extension of painfully conservative scriptural approaches. And of course, they were fiscally conservative. On another hand, the parish was refreshingly conservative in liturgical matters, delivering well-orchestrated, faithful liturgy at all services. That is about the only sector where the parish’s conservatism overlapped with Dick’s.

The parish lay clear at the other end of the spectrum on musical matters. While many other outposts in the diocese were still on an unchallenged, steady diet of motets, anthems, and organ music, St. John the Divine was always clamoring for spirituals, praise choruses, piano music, and ‘renewal music,’ as it was called in those days. Folks didn’t notice or didn’t seem to care about the irony of singing campfire choruses while wearing cufflinks. Virtually no one but us folks in the choir stalls thought twice about the National Anthem being shoe-horned into such Sundays as Lent I just because it also happened to be Boy Scout Sunday, or onto Pentecost just because it also happened to be Memorial Day weekend. Dick and I were in the dissenting minority, but we always dutifully pulled out all the stops for the assembly to sing their hearts out to their country. Dick always longed for them to sing sturdy hymns of the faith so well. I suggested we passive-aggressively carry big mixing spoons around, in protest of the blissfully ignorant mixing of church and state going on.

We nearly had mutiny in the congregation one Sunday when the choir sang the Messiaen O sacrum convivium and I played his Le Banquet céleste during communion. A couple outspoken parishioners hated it all, said that “the music today was awful; just awful,” and left truly angry. One of them even made a groaning sound and bent over like an old man to illustrate how painful it was to sit through that music. When I related that story to Clyde Holloway, he shrugged [as he did at the beginning of this post] and said, “I guess some people just don’t like to be challenged in God’s presence. We do Messiaen at the Cathedral all the time, and people just file by and say, ‘Nice to hear Messiaen again. What’s on deck for next week?’”

Self-preservation existed on various fronts and levels. The tragedy is that the various versions of self-preservation were seldom compatible. There was general toleration on each side, but both sides chose to feel threatened at every turn. Dick was trying to preserve a tradition and an art, but there was fear that he was holding the parish back from bursting in full glory onto the renewal music scene. Dick, meanwhile, felt further threatened because he felt his training meant little to nothing to anyone within those walls, which then put him deeper into survival mode.

A new contemporary service materialized in those days. While it got on its feet, its budget was embedded in the music budget at first, and so a new double threat emerged. ‘They’ felt threatened that Dick was going to cheat them or pull rank, and Dick felt threatened that ‘they’ were going to become the preferred service for the entire parish and he’d be washed up and/or sent away. Then, as with most contemporary services, when the service had ripened enough to get its own budget, the threats still didn’t go away. Dick still felt threatened that they were going to take over and start getting some of his budget for themselves. And so the us-vs.-them cold war continued.

Next time: The red sea, a.k.a. the sock drawer

Note by note: Dupré Prelude and Fugue in B

This piece is played a lot. Maybe too much. It’s flashy, but only if you’re the organist. If you’re a first-time audience for it, it’s either thrilling or it’s mush. That’s a nice way of saying that this piece is often played far too fast for its musical merit. Dupré’s metronome markings were notoriously (and impossibly or at least un-musically) fast, and he never achieved them on his recordings, anyway. Metronome markings were (and are) usually included at publisher insistence, and they are quite useless most of the time, going all the way back to Beethoven. So just don’t look at them, ever. And for the record, my tempo for the Prelude hovers around 90, and that for the Fugue hovers around 70.

Measures 1 and following: The opening flourish pattern has two instances of common tones: the B from the 6^th to the 7^th sixteenths, and the B across the barline. These can be tied; I don’t feel the sixteenth-note motion suffers from that.

Measures 4, 6, 8, etc.: The Pedal eighth rests may not be long enough if your tempo is really fast. You may need to release those a bit earlier to ‘clear the air.’ Always beware a sense of ‘panic’ to the sound.

Measures 6-7: The sixteenth-note motion has repeated notes across this barline. I tie them.

Measure 13: On the eleventh sixteenth, I take the alto G-sharp with the right hand, which allows the entire sixteenth-note pattern to remain legato into measure 14. And as we all know, any lengths we go to in order to preserve legato in this style is worth the time in the practice room. Don’t be lazy.

Measure 26: I would configure the organ in such a way that the two manuals you’ll be traveling back and forth among are adjacent to each other. Put in some clever ‘thumbing,’ and legato will then be preserved.

Measure 35: The addition of the Pedal couplers is necessary, but on many organs the Positif or Choir is so weak that its presence or absence is immaterial. I add only the Great to Pedal there, so that I don’t have to hit two couplers nor sacrifice a General piston.

Measure 36: I take the final sixteenth with the right second finger, thereby preserving legato in the sixteenths.

Measure 39: I take the final sixteenth with the right thumb, thereby preserving legato in the sixteenths.

Measure 42: I take the right-hand lower Fs with the left hand, to keep the thumbs out of each other’s way. Ditto the first E in measure 43.

Measures 57-65: Feel free to establish a gradual crescendo to your liking. Dupré just adds ‘cresc.’ in 59. I delay the FFF into 68, not only to add to the continuing crescendo, but also because there are no limbs left to hit a piston for the downbeat of 65. And I never sacrifice notes for pistons. Ever.

Measures 93-100: Same crescendo freedom as in measures 57-65.

Measures 100-102: Hold your horses. That pedal cadenza is still music.

The Fugue subject begins on an off-beat. Be sure it sounds like that. Don’t dwell on the first note – rather, arrive on the fourth note (the beginning of the second beat). Then release the quarter note in such a way that the next morsel of the subject is suitably propelled ahead.

Get those feet ready for their first subject appearance! Do your ankle exercises and prepare the first four notes all at once, heels and toes.

Throughout the Fugue, obey Dupré’s staccato markings. Any note without a staccato is to be played legato to the next note. And obey Dupré’s note values, such as in measure 111, where soprano and alto have different values on their first note.

Measure 113: The final C# in the left hand should probably be released early for the next downbeat. The A# need not be, since it is not going to be repeated.

Measure 114: The first C# in the left hand should probably be released in preparation for its re-striking on the next eighth. The upper F# need not be released early.

Measure 116: The first D# should probably be released early to allow for the restrike coming up in the soprano.

Measure 118: The alto G is common to two sixteenths in the middle of the measure. I tie it. Ditto the alto E-flat in 120.

Measure 122: As mentioned for measure 35, the Positif or Choir is often so inconsequential on many instruments that managing its coupler to the Pedal is much ado about nothing. I don’t employ the coupler for this Fugue until the end. Also in this measure, notice Dupré’s exact staccato marking on the first eighth note but not the second.

Measures 123-124: Again, obey Dupré’s exact staccato marks in the Pedal. Yes on beat 4 of 123; No on beat 1 of 124.

Measure 124: I take two notes with the right hand to preserve legato: beat 3 alto G#, and beat 4 alto A#.

Measures 129-151: It might be good to consider a good tempo for these measures before beginning the Fugue. This is where many organists lose their audience due to excessive speed. The rhythm is so vibrant in this section that it sounds plenty fast at a more humane tempo. And again, I just have to take issue with Dupré’s metronome marking – or at least sympathize with him for publishers’ myopic insistence on metronome markings. Italian tempo markings are always much more expressive and informative.

Measure 131: I move to the Récit there, instead of the Positif. It allows the left hand to be heard better at 133.

Measures 138-139. I tie all the common notes among the moving sixteenths.

Measure 140: Notice the staccato first eighth but full-value second eighth. Ditto measure 141.

Measure 144: I take the final two sixteenths with the right hand to smooth out the transition to the next manual. And I do agree with the editorial C# added above the final manual chord.

Measure 149: I take the final sixteenth with the right hand, to smooth out the transition to the Positif.

Measure 151: I take the third and fourth sixteenths with the right hand, to allow the left hand to get to the Great.

Measure 152, downbeat: Again, take Dupré quite literally with his staccato markings or lack thereof. Notice that the final soprano E of 151 will proceed into 152 legato, which in this case probably means tying. And notice that the Pedal low C will proceed to the F# of 152 legato, which means you’ll need the right foot prepared on F# (unless your left foot is really long and its ankle really flexible).

Measure 154: Beat 3, the left hand high F# will have to be released early, because the soprano is about to need to restrike that note. But don’t release early the remaining notes of the left hand there.

Measure 157: Beat 3: The final C# in the right hand will need to be played quite short, to allow the alto to use that note next.

Measure 160: Again, taking Dupré’s legato literally, the final two chords of the left hand should be legato.

Measure 161: The first chord of the right hand might well omit the lower G, since the left hand needs it for its sixteenth-note pattern.

Measures 166-168: The manual chords are not staccato there. They are real sixteenths and should be no shorter. And this section need not go faster. Again, with so much happening at the sixteenth-note level in this piece, a relaxed tempo still sounds fast. And exciting.

Measure 168: The final lower C# in the right hand may be taken by the left.

Measures 169-170: Tenutos are always a guessing game with these French guys. If tenuto means ‘to hold,’ then why can’t the usual, underlying rule of legato suffice here? Therefore, I believe that Dupré’s use of tenuto there actually means ‘release.’ At any rate, it makes sense to release these chords early, to add to the excitement. Dupré is rarely so careless with rhythmic indications.

Finally, if you are playing on a three-manual organ that really should have been two, you could relatively strengthen the Positif by not coupling it to the Great. That would give you some degree of contrast among the three manuals. Of course, couple the Swell to both manuals.

If all you have are two manuals, then you get to decide when you’ll move to each manual during the Fugue. My adoptions are:

Measure 125: Left hand to Great.
Measure 137: Récit.
Measure 145: Great. And stay there in 146.
Measure 150: Récit.

on Richard Forrest Woods – Part 6

This is one of many installments of a biography of mentor and friend Dick Woods. See here for the entire series.

*******************

Gary and Austin

After Paris in 1964 and his abrupt dismissal from St. James in Wichita in early 1965, Richard went to work for two years as organist at the [Catholic] Cathedral of the Holy Angels in Gary, Indiana. Interesting choice of denomination. Was there to be no more Episcopal work, especially after what happened in Wichita? Was this cathedral just a suitable choice after returning from Catholic Paris? Was it the only job he could find on short notice? Was he trying to live somewhat closer to family back in Pittsburgh? I have no evidence one way or another.

While there, Richard dedicated the Cathedral’s then-new Casavant organ on March 28, 1965.

That’s all I have for his time in Gary. The Cathedral did not respond to my initial queries. One can only wonder if perhaps the Cathedral didn’t want to discuss it or if they’re just lousy about returning messages. Bell’s Rules of Order states that neither case is acceptable.

In 1966, Richard left Gary to begin a post as Lecturer in Church Music at the Episcopal Theological Seminary of the Southwest, Austin, Texas. By 1969 he was listed in the faculty directory as Adjunct Professor in Church Music and Organist of Christ Chapel. He taught liturgy and music, directed the Chapel choir, and played for the services.

At the Seminary he organized and hosted five-day Summer Schools of Church Music. By 1971, that was now called Summer School of Church Music and Liturgics, for which he was listed as ‘dean’ in promotional materials. He invited luminaries such as Clyde Holloway, Alec Wyton, the Rt. Rev. Chilton Powell, Bishop of Oklahoma, and several Seminary professors to perform and lecture.

Richard designed the Holtkamp organ, Op. 1835, in Christ Chapel at the Seminary. He played the dedicatory recital on May 9, 1969. Walter Holtkamp himself was present. The program is here, courtesy the awesome library research staff at the Seminary.

Also during those years, he wrote a booklet on liturgy and music, presumably as a music resource for the liturgies to be included in the upcoming edition (1979) of the Prayer Book. Other than the present blog, about the only other Internet mention of him is as the author of that booklet, which still shows up in searches for him:

From World Church in Brief, published by Diocesan Press Service, December 1, 1968 [71-11]: “Associated Parishes, Inc., has issued a new brochure ‘Music for the Liturgy of the Lord's Supper,’ intended for use with the Trial Liturgy. The booklet was written by Richard Forrest Woods, lecturer in Church Music at the Episcopal Theological Seminary of the Southwest, Austin, Tex.”

In May 1971 Dick was invited to perform during the International Festival of Organists held in Morelia, Mexico. He would subsequently return there a handful of times. On one of those trips, he purchased a ring that he wore for the rest of his life and which now lies with him in his urn, along with a watch that he also wore for years. I remember seeing the ring every day in the early 1990s. It was a hammered abstract in gold; it looked like a melting-down in progress. You can see it in a photo here. The watch was just a watch as far as I know, and I don’t know where he got it – black band, gold trim, analog. Perhaps it was a gift or some reminder for him. Incidentally, these accessories were part of a refreshingly old-school gentlemanly persona, from which I learned a lot. Dick carried Montblanc pen and pencil in his shirt or coat pocket, and he always wore coat and tie [with a single, centered dimple in the knot] on Sundays or whenever he had a meeting. When not at a Mexican restaurant, his drink of choice was scotch and water. His Mexican drink of choice was margaritas straight up, no salt.

Also during the early Texas years, "Richard" began to be "Dick" more regularly (except in print). I have called him Richard more or less consistently up to this point, but he is now pretty much Dick from here on.

While at the Seminary, Dick also continued to practice his craft in the field, first at St. David’s and then at St. Matthew’s. St. David’s was a repeat of Wichita, I’m sorry to report. Dick was fired for being gay, and that was that. He moved on to St. Matthew’s, apparently as an interim, judging from the accounts I have gotten from that church.

Then in late 1971 / early 1972, assertive and headstrong rector the Rev. Thomas Roberts got in touch and invited Dick to be the Organist/Choirmaster at the Episcopal Church of St. John the Divine in Houston. It’s always nice to be recruited outright, and the money was probably better. So off Dick went in the summer of 1972.

Next time: St. John the Divine, Houston

Note by note: Mulet Carillon-Sortie

This piece has always been with me. I always thought the main theme is so lovely and tuneful and has a certain French café air about it.

Measure 1: I begin with the box slightly open and close it in time for measure 2. Don’t know why. I just like that. I do the same thing with other pieces that begin similarly.

Opening measures: Sixteenth notes: always legato. There should be no phrasing, lifting, or other anachronistic techniques employed in any sixteenths in this piece. Matter of fact, ditto for eighths.

Measures 2-14: Except where otherwise indicated (such as measures 4, 5, and 9), the left-hand melody is not intended to be played detached in the least. This style is always legato unless otherwise indicated. The phrase marks in French Symphonic literature are designed to ‘land’ on the first note and carry on to the very last, but that does not dictate a break of any sort. When these French guys want you to break, they’ll write a breath mark or a rest. It’s quite scientific sometimes.

Measure 10: One might extrapolate left-hand detachment here, to match measure 9. And one has to wonder why measures 5 and 9 have a tie but measure 10 has a dotted half-note for the same value. Also in measure 10: play the Pedal F# with the right foot, just like all the other Pedal pairs, so that it doesn’t sound different. Discerning ears can hear that difference!

Measures 5, 9, 10: Pedal ‘stabs,’ both notes, should have exact releases. The French way is to measure that break, probably an exact eighth rest (or sixteenth, if it doesn’t sound too panicked). The note being held in the Great should probably be released at the same time as the second Pedal note, so that those releases don’t sound ragged. The left-hand markings in measure 10 suddenly don’t support the pattern, but I continue the pattern, anyway. There’s just not a compelling musical reason not to.

Measures 17-18: The dotted rhythm in the RH there is ostensibly legato, and Mulet has not indicated anything else. So loosen up those fingers and get ready to cross them over and under each other. There is precious little time (if any) for substituting your way through those two measures. Likewise the left hand a few bars later.

Measure 18: I move the right hand to the Swell for its final sixteenth note, rather than on the next downbeat. Doing so gives me more time to make the switch and doesn’t sound panicked.

Measure 48: I ‘thumb’ the alto D with the left hand, to help the right hand with the parallel sixths. Likewise measure 49, for the alto D and Ab.

Measures 52-56: Limber up those ankles and play all those consecutive black notes legato! If there’s room on your pedalboard, the right heel could play the Eb in measure 53. Play the Db in measure 56 with the right toe or the left heel. Heels on black notes in the tenor range don’t always work if the expression shoes overlap the notes (a design flaw, if you ask me).

Measure 71: If there is one, I’ll add the Zymbelstern for the recap. (Hey, it’s a bell piece!) I remove the Zymbelstern in measure 99, after one of those chords, either one.

Measure 80: The final alto A in the right hand is problematic for right-hand legato. Solution: since both hands are together on the Great, play that A (and hold it for its eighth-note value) with the left hand.

Measure 82: It’s good news that the left hand is permitted an ad lib there. I take advantage of that to allow a little ‘daylight’ before reintroducing the melody in 83 in the new texture. Likewise measure 94 for the right hand, but to buy time to move the hand to the Swell.

Measures 91-99: The left-hand octaves could be played on a solo reed, so long as the balance is still pleasing. I move that hand back to the Great for the second chord of 99.

Final chord: It’s admirable that the French approximate the ‘boom’ of the big Bourdon bells with Pedal resultants. That works in France. But in the U.S., the fifth of a Pedal resultant is very often too heavy, becasue many 16-foot stops are voiced to dwindle toward the low end (a sin, if you ask me). Instead, I play D octaves in the Pedal and transfer the left hand to a lower inversion of the chord: low A/tenor D/tenor A. Another alternative is to play tenor A rather than low A with the right foot, to produce the resultant but not overpower the fundamental. I have become increasingly less apologetic about making such changes, and no one has ever noticed. I wonder if Mulet would have.

on Richard Forrest Woods – Part 5

This is one of many installments of a biography of mentor and friend Dick Woods. See here for the entire series.

*******************

Paris

“Going to study in Europe” has been a thing for American musicians for decades. France, Germany, and the Netherlands have tended to be prime territory, but the list of teachers and their locations covers the entirety of the continent, and a list of their American students contains some of America’s most household names of our time. Dick’s generation of organists and church musicians routinely went to Europe to study playing, improvising, and conducting, and they tended to come back to rather successful careers.

During his time at St. James in Wichita, Richard made his way on a leave of absence to Paris for just under a year, roughly late 1963 to mid-1964. I don’t know where his funding came from, but it does not appear to have come from the popular and bountiful Fulbright U.S. Student Program that usually comes to mind when discussing American study abroad. It could be that his years in the Navy Band gave him some connections and/or some funding or at least ignited the idea of studying abroad.

At any rate, Jean Langlais had invited Richard to go to Paris and study with him, and St. James Church approved. He studied conducting privately with Nadia Boulanger, who taught some of our most acclaimed American composers, including Aaron Copland, Leonard Bernstein, even Burt Bacharach. Boulanger herself was a pupil of Gabriel Fauré. Richard received valuable, firsthand insight into the Fauré Requiem from her. It was from that study that he developed a ‘perfect’ performance of the piece in his head, which he told me about when we were once preparing the piece at St. John the Divine, Houston. He told it with a sense of longing rather than of celebration, because he knew that neither he nor any choir could pull off the perfect performance rattling inside his head. I found that oddly defeatist in tone, and it informed my observations of him from then on.

Surely training abroad is life-changing, but Dick never discussed it much. However, he was passionate in talking about Boulanger’s insistence on learning all about Richard the man, so that they could cultivate the deepest musical foundation possible. She would insist they take long walks so that she could learn about him. This probably explains why her roster of students is so diverse. The way Dick talked about it made it sound like therapy! I wish I had been older and wiser to know more of what to ask him and how to process the information.

Richard also studied organ with Langlais at the Schola Cantorum and with André Marchal privately. Normally, one does not study concurrently with multiple organ teachers in Paris, because inter-animosity tends to run high (it’s a French thing). But Marchal had taught Langlais, and their mutual admiration endured. Marchal even subbed for Langlais on occasion at the Schola.

During this time, Langlais recorded the complete solo organ works of César Franck, the first recording of its kind. Richard and another classmate (perhaps Allen Hobbs, perhaps Ann Labounsky) pulled stops for it. Dick once wryly told me that he ‘turned pages’ for those recordings [Langlais was blind!]. He also told me that he screwed up a stop change once, which forced a furious Langlais into an extra take.

Somehow, Langlais screwed up Dick’s playing, to put it bluntly. Dick told me that Langlais insisted that the third beat in a measure always be very strong. Whether something got lost in translation from Langlais’s mouth to Dick’s ears or from Dick’s memory to my ears or from my memory to this blog, I cannot say. But I saw [and heard] firsthand that Dick’s third beats in his playing were always rushed outright rather than merely strong, and it skewed his hymn playing. My own teacher Clyde Holloway taught me that I should always endeavor to sound like Dick when playing for church so that the congregation would never be distracted by being able to tell the difference between us. That’s a noble professional tenet, but on the point of third-beat heaviness, I just couldn’t. Sorry, Clyde, and sorry, congregation.

The St. James newsletter prints a letter that Richard wrote to the congregation while abroad. It has some wonderful lofty language that he always used when discussing church music. He was immersed in music's beauty and power, and that showed through to scores of choir members throughout his career. I have reproduced images of that newsletter here and here.

On June 6, 1964, Richard Woods was among the first four Americans to receive the Diplôme Schola Cantorum, with distinction in organ playing and improvisation. That translated back in the U.S. as ‘Dr. Woods’ from then on.

Next time: Gary and Austin