Very loosely translated, this
hymn text basically means, "good
riddance, world!" It was
composed in the 16th century and
became a mainstay at funerals
during the Baroque period. The
opening line can be rendered,
"Gladly will I leave you, false
and evil world!" which, after
all, does make it seem like the
deceased has it far better than
any of the attendees. Bach's
contemporaries always did seem
to be in a hurry to get out of
here.
I ended up playing the piece a
couple of weeks ago for a
prelude to a church service in
which the scripture reading was
about Jesus's entry into
Jerusalem. Normally that
scripture would have been
reserved for Palm Sunday, which
is in a couple of months, but
our pastor is on a different
schedule this year. And, he
wanted to emphasize that Mark's
version of the story suggests
that the event may not have been
so public and obvious: in other
words, the "Triumphal" entry may
have just been more of an entry.
That, in turn, triggered my
decision to not only play a
piece based on a hymn tune that
we normally associate with Palm
Sunday (rather than funerals;
there is obviously a different
text) and to use a lighter
registration and a more stately
tempo, which may have been why I
received an unusual number of
compliments from non-organ/Bach
fans after the service.
No Chewing
Gum Necessary
January 21, 2022
My first thought when I
fired up the organ at church this
morning was "it's gonna blow!" Then I
called our organ technician to make
sure that wouldn't happen.
There is a part of the organ that is
so wondrously--and
painfully--reminiscent of the 19th
century. An instrument that has been
around since the days of the Roman
Empire (not our organ but THE organ),
it has seen the Middle Ages, the
Renaissance, the Baroque, the 19th
century, all the revolutions, all the
wars, all the changes in power, and
still it goes on, even under threat of
extinction and irrelevance--and even
that existential threat isn't new to
it. It has grown and changed to meet
every age, and every part of its
history can be found like a layer of
sediment in the workings of our own
instrument, from the days of water
power and debates over the Greek
modes, to the 21st century and all of
its plagues. There was a time when
knights wore heavy armor, walls were
several feet thick, and the organ
could only be played full blast.
Centuries later, more tonally various,
it still required the labor of both a
player and a few unskilled others
(poorly paid, I suspect) who pumped
the wind into the chamber. Then, when
electricity turned the world into a
monopoly of machines, it became
something else again.
It was this part of the organ's
not-quite-so-ancient history that was
clamoring for attention. It sounded
like the Industrial Revolution had
come back to haunt us yet again. More
specifically, it sounded like the
overworked engine on a steamboat, like
the one in Twain's story about the two
steamers rashly racing each other
until one of the boilers exploded.
I've never heard an organ explode. I'd
rather not, thank you. I switched off
the blower.
Jon arrived a few hours later with a
theory about what might be causing the
noise. Perhaps some worn out leather
had, from a long period of disuse as
our organ sat for years after the
lightning strike which was then
followed by its recent regular use,
finally lost its grip and needed to be
replaced. It turned out, however, to
be a very large leak from one of the
reservoirs. There are several in this
6800 pipe Moeller organ, and several
leaks as well. Because of these, ever
since we switched on the blower in
August, the air has been making its
presence known. Quite known. Every
time I switch on the blower during a
service people notice it (it is too
distracting to leave on during the
sermon). My favorite episode was at
the Christmas Eve service when, not
comfortable waiting until the end of
the scripture reading, I chose the
words "and the glory of the Lord shone
round about them" and the sudden woosh
of air caused several people to look
around. Nothing like a little dramatic
reading.
The gash in the side of the reservoir
was rather large, but not too large
for a home remedy. Jon asked for some
Duct Tape. If you've been around the
block a few times, you know that Duct
Tape can fix darn near everything.
Well, add pipe organs to your list.
There were several leaks, and Jon
spent the next two hours going around
to all of the places that were leaking
air.
The result is that the pipe organ
sounds much quieter than it has in the
past. If you are in the sanctuary
during its operation, you might not
even notice it. This means that the
pipes can remain on for the whole
service. It also means that
forthcoming recordings won't have so
much ambient noise. And it means that
the age of steam and mechanized
industry can take a
seat--quietly--alongside the other
eras the inform our organ's makeup.
The Duct Tape is a temporary fix, and,
due to the elevation in wind pressure
now that half of it isn't escaping
from everywhere, there will probably
be a few new ruptures in the coming
months. There are still several
long-term issues that need to be
addressed.
In the meantime, there won't be any
unearthly sounds from the balcony, we
hope, which is good, because our
pastor wasn't planning to preach about
Hell anytime soon, and the balcony is
in the wrong direction for that
anyway, so that would be kind of
disorienting.
