In the wind…
June 2011
Aeolus
Ruler of the
winds. That’s who he was. According to Greek mythology he was son of
King Hippotes and custodian of the four winds, keeping them in the heart of the
Lipara Islands near Sicily. At the
request of other Gods, Aeolus would release gentle breezes or fierce gales, depending
on the circumstances. He was something
of a vendor to the Gods. The Greek hero
Odysseus visited Aeolus who gave him a parting gift of the four winds in a bag
to ensure his safe return to Ithaca.
During the voyage Odysseus’ crew was curious about the contents of the
bag. When they were finally close enough
to actually see Ithaca, Odysseus fell asleep.
Members of his crew opened the bag releasing the winds, and the ship was
blown disastrously off course.1
It’s not for nothing
that there was an organ building company named Aeolian, later merged with the
Skinner Organ Company to form the august firm of Aeolian-Skinner, builder of
many of America’s greatest pipe organs.
The Aeolian myth is the heart of the pipe organ.
§
I love wind. We live near the ocean where the wind can
have the special quality of having moved unobstructed for hundreds, if not
thousands, of miles. Sometimes it’s
gentle and refreshing, sometimes it’s bracing and challenging, and sometimes
it’s downright scary – but it’s always blowing and feels like a friend to
me. Maybe this is a reaction to having
spent thousands of hours in the deep and dark recesses of church buildings,
toiling and moiling on recalcitrant machines.
Leaving a building at the end of the day, I love that wonderful feeling
of air moving around me. I picture the
day’s dust and debris wafting from my erstwhile hair, something like Charles
Schultz’ creation Pigpen, friend and confidant of Charlie Brown.
I love harnessing the
wind to make a small sailboat go. With
tiller in one hand and main-sheet in the other, the feeling of owning the wind
– of inviting it to draw me where I want to go – is a thrill. I can see the approach of a puff – an extra
burst of wind – making tracks on the water coming towards me so I can loosen
the pull of the sail at just the right moment to retain control of the
boat. I know the marks on the water are
a little behind the leading edge of the puff so the puff actually hits my sails
before the rougher water hits the hull.
If I’m sailing across or into the wind I’m aware of its power moving
past me. If I’m sailing with the wind at
my stern and everything’s going right, my boat moves at close to the same speed
as the wind so it seems relatively calm.
When I was kid I
learned about the principles of lift by holding my flat hand out the car window
as my parents drove. If I cupped my hand
a little so my knuckles were higher than the tips of my fingers, my hand would
be pulled upwards. I now know that I was
simulating the curved upper surface of an airplane’s wings causing the air
above my hand to move faster than the air under it. The faster moving air created a lower
pressure above my hand causing it to lift.
My curved hand gave the same effect as the curve of my boat’s
sails. The sails are mounted upright –
so the air moving faster across the convex curves of the front of the sail
draws the boat forward. The only time
the wind actually pushes the boat is if the wind is from behind. Otherwise, the boat is being pulled forward
by that pressure differential.
As a student at
Oberlin I was privileged to practice, study, and perform on the school’s
wonderful Flentrop organ. It was
brand-new for my freshman year, right in the heart of our twentieth-century
Renaissance, the revival of classic styles of pipe organ building. While many of us were used to the solid wind
of early twentieth-century organs, that instrument had a flexible wind supply,
terrific for supporting the motion of Baroque music, but a certain trap for the
inattentive organist. Approach a big
chord wrong and the sagging of the wind would remind you of the feeling you get
in your stomach going over the top of a roller-coaster hill. If you played with a firm hand on the
main-sheet, watching the wind like a hawk, you’d return safely to the dock
boosted by your friend the wind.
I don’t do the thing
with my hand out the car window any more because I’m almost always the one
driving. Judging from my neighbors on
many highways, I should keep my hands free for texting, flossing my teeth, or
putting on makeup. But I don’t text or brush my teeth while I drive, and I
never wear makeup.
§
Harnessing the wind
has been a human endeavor for millennia. There are images of sailing vessels under
weigh on coins dating from about 3000 BC, and by 500 BC sailing ships had two
masts and could apparently carry two hundred tons of freight. The Persians developed windmills for grinding
grain around 500 BC. And the earliest
form of the pipe organ dated from around 250 BC.
Just as wind draws a
sailboat rather than pulls it, the wind itself is usually drawn instead being
“blown.” Meteorologists tell us of high-
and low-pressure areas. A low-pressure area
represents a lighter density of air and high-pressure air flows toward it. A “sea-breeze” is formed by convection. If a coastal area warms up in the sun around
midday, the air above the land rises and cooler air from above the water flows
in to take its place. So most winds are
“flowing toward” rather than “blowing away.”
The motion of air that
we know as wind is one of the greatest forces on earth. If a gentle wind blowing over the table on
your porch can send a plate of crackers flying, think of how much aggregate
force there is across ten or twenty miles of porches. You could move a lot of crackers. This might not be the place for political or
social opinions – but I’d rather see windmills than strip mines. Both are bad for birds and both interrupt the
landscape, but one doesn’t lead to smog or acid rain. And let’s not even mention spent nuclear fuel
rods. Spent wind is fully recyclable!
Harnessing the wind is
the work of the organbuilder. We create
machinery that moves air, stores it under pressure, distributes it through our
instruments, and lets it blow into our carefully made whistles. The energy of the moving air is transformed
into sonic energy. As one mentor said to
me years ago, air is the fuel we use to create organ tone. Ever wonder why a wider pipe mouth, open toe,
or open windway creates louder tone?
Simple – more fuel is getting to the burner.
When I sit in a church
listening to a great organ I imagine thousands of little valves flitting open
and closed and reservoirs and wind regulators absolutely tingling to release
the treasure of their stored fuel into the heavens as glorious sound. They may be machines but when they’re doing
their thing during worship they take on what seems like human urgency.
§
Wendy and I have been
enjoying the use of an apartment in New York City’s Greenwich Village that
belongs to friends of my parents. Yesterday
we went up to midtown to attend an Easter Festival Service at St. Thomas Church
on Fifth Avenue. We chose the early Mass
at 8:00 because the church’s website assured us that the music would be the
same as at the later version but the crowds would likely be less. Preludes with organ and brass started at 7:30
including music of Pelz, Howells, Gabrieli, Dupre’s Poem Heroique, and Richard Strauss’ Feierlicher Enzug - a mighty
amount of music for that hour of the day.
The Mass setting was the premier of John Scott’s Missa Dies Resurrectionis.
John Scott must be the
greatest addition to American church music since electric organ blowers. His immense musicianship, immaculate sense of
timing, welcoming leadership of congregational singing, touching rapport with
the boys of the choir, concise and unobtrusive conducting, and by-the-way,
marvelous organ playing made our two hours in that beautiful church as
meaningful and memorable a musical experience as I can recall. The new Mass setting was gorgeous, moving
from recognizable folk tunes to riffs reminiscent of Olivier Messiaen in the Sanctus.
(Is it OK to say Messiaenic when
describing Easter music?)
I love noticing the
way the sound of an organ can change with different players. Dr. Scott was conducting for most of the
Mass, and we were treated to the wonderful playing of Associate Organist
Frederick Teardo and Assistant Organist Kevin Kwan. Dr. Scott slid onto the bench for the
Postlude, Gigout’s Grand Choeur Dialogue,
and off we went. Oopah! It was my impression that Scott’s years at
London’s cavernous St. Paul’s Cathedral prepared him to treat the magnificent
sanctuary of St. Thomas Church as an intimate space. Such rhythm, such drive, such energy, such
clarity. Wonderful.
And speaking of wind…
There were six
extraordinary brass players (plus percussion), about thirty boys and twenty men
in the choir (I didn’t count, so I’m probably not accurate), ten clergy and
attendants, and maybe a thousand congregants.
Quite a hoopla for eight in the morning.
The Great Organ in the Chancel has 159 ranks, and there’s a gorgeous
Taylor & Boody organ in the Gallery with 32 ranks. Add us all up and we were burning a lot of
fuel. It’s beautiful to me to stand in
the midst of all that sound, thinking of it in terms of wind.
The word inspiration has two distinct meanings:
the process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something, especially
something creative; and the drawing in of breath. These two meanings come together dramatically
during Festival Masses in our great churches.
§
When we worship in
great churches like St. Thomas in New York we are surrounded by opulent works
of art. The Reredos created by sculptor
Lee Lawrie is 80-feet tall, 43-feet wide and contains more than 80
figures. (If we say it’s a 159-rank
organ, do we say it’s an 80-saint Reredos?)
The stained-glass windows are spectacular, including a rose window of
unusually deep colors that is 25-feet in diameter.
Most churches that own
fancy stained-glass windows have to face expensive restoration projects at some
point. The effects of air pollution
corrode a window’s metal components, and simple weathering compromises a window’s
structure and its ability to keep out the elements. I was maintaining the organs at Trinity
Church, Copley Square in Boston when the magnificent windows by John LaFarge
were removed for restoration. There were
more than 2000 pieces of glass in some of those windows, and it was just as complicated
to restore them as to restore a large pipe organ. And while I think there’s less that can go
wrong with a Reredos than with a window or a pipe organ, I’m sure that at least
that great heap of saints has to be cleaned one in a while – a job that would
involve the careful choice and use of cleaning solvents and solutions, a big
assortment of brushes, a hundred feet of scaffolding, and a fancy insurance
policy. Imagine the fiscal implications
of dropping a bucket of water from eighty feet up in a place like that.
But seldom, if ever,
do we hear of a place like St. Thomas Church replacing their windows or
Reredos. The original designs are
integral with the building, and it would hardly cross our minds to say that
styles have changed and we need to overhaul the visual content of our
liturgical art every generation or so to keep up with the times. Just imagine the stunned silence in the
Vestry meeting when the Rector proposes the replacement of the Reredos. “It’s just too old fashioned…”
We hardly bat an eye
before proposing the replacement of a pipe organ. The country across, thousands of churches
originally equipped with perfectly good pipe organs have discarded and replaced
them with instruments more in tune with current trends, more in sync with the
style and preferences of current musicians, and ostensibly more economically
maintained.
Why is this? Simple. Windows and statues are static. They stay still. The sun shines through them and on them, air (and
all that comes with it) moves around them, but physically they stay still. A pipe organ is in motion. When you turn on the blower, reservoirs fill,
wind conductors are stressed by pressure, leather moves, the fabric of the
instrument creaks and groans as it assumes its readiness to play. When you play a note, valves open, springs
are tensioned, air flows, flecks of debris move around. When you play a piece of music, all those
motions are multiplied by thousands. The
Doxology (Old Hundredth) comprises thirty-two four-part chords. That’s 128 notes. Play it on a single stop and you’ve moved 128
note valves, plus all the attendant primaries, magnet armatures, stop and relay
switches. Play the same thirty-two chords
on a big organ using ninety stops (nothing out of the ordinary) – 11,520 valves. And that’s just the Doxology. I’ll let you do the math for a big piece by
Bach or Widor that has lots of hemi-demi-semi quavers. I suppose Wendy and I heard the St. Thomas
organ play millions of notes yesterday in that 8:00 Mass. There would be another identical Mass at
11:00, an organ recital at 2:30, and Solemn Evensong at 3:00. A wicked workday for the musicians, and a fifty-million-note
day for the organ. Just think of all
those busy little valves – millions of tiny movements to create a majestic body
of sound.
And the organ wears
out. Over the decades of service which
is the life of a great organ, technicians move around through the instrument
tuning, adjusting, and repairing. Musicians
practice, tourists receive demonstrations, liturgies come and go. That organ blower gets turned on and off
dozens of times each week. The daylight
streams through the windows, but the daylights get beaten out of the organ.
I’ve been in and out
of St. Thomas Church many times. I’ve
heard plenty of brilliant organists play there, and I’ve never been
disappointed by what I heard. But I’ve
known for years that the Chancel organ is in trouble. It has played billions of notes. It’s been rebuilt a number of times. And it’s simply worn out. It’s a rare church musician who would
intentionally offer less than the best possible to the congregation – or to God
– during worship. And musicians of the
caliber one hears at St. Thomas are masters at getting water from stone. As an organbuilder with a trained and experienced
ear I’m aware of the organ’s shortcomings.
But as a worshipper, I’m transported.
§
I single out St.
Thomas Church because we worshipped there yesterday. I know those responsible for the organ so I
know something about its real condition.
And prominent on the church’s website is an appeal for gifts to support
the commissioning of a very expensive new organ. There were even letters from the Rector and
Organist inserted in the Easter Service booklet repeating that appeal. An elderly woman, impeccably dressed and
obviously of means (she was wearing the value of a fancy car on her fingers),
arrived a little after us and joined us in our pew. When the Processional Hymn started she let
loose a singing voice of unusual power and beauty. I whispered to Wendy, “She’ll give the new
organ.” We chuckled, but a piece of me
says I could have been right. I hope so.
Our church buildings
are designed with expensive architectural elements. Including steeples, towers, stained-glass
windows, to say nothing of Gothic arches and carvings in wood and stone adds
mightily to the cost of building a church.
But once it’s all there we think of it as a whole. It would be hard to look back on the history
of St. Thomas Church as say the tower was actually unnecessary. Of course they built a tower.
The organ is right up
there on the list of expensive indulgences.
How can we say we actually need such a thing? But how can we imagine Easter without
it? There’s still plenty of wind
available. At least there’s no fuel
bill.
2.