When I was seven, I announced to Mum that I absolutely must play the organ. Given that this decision came a matter of weeks after my resolution to study the bagpipes, Mum suggest that a good place to start would be to continue my piano lessons. In fact, she helpfully suggested, I might even like to try practising the piano between lessons and refraining from suggestions that Bach or other composers were deranged and that the music should be like the way I’d played it rather than the way it was on the page. I scoffed as only a seven year old can scoff at the very suggestion and explained to my imbecile parent that the piano was too small, too easy.
“I want to play something BIG, something GRAND”.
My Mother’s was an extraordinarily kind and effective parenting method. She arranged with an organist acquaintance for me to sit in the organ loft of the local cathedral for a service and see the playing of the organ in person. In fact, I was given a very special task, at the opportune moment, I was to pull out one of the stops for the performer when she gave me “the nod”.
Thrilled to bits and having conceded for the only time in my life to being dressed in a dress for the occasion, I proudly took my perch on a page-turning chair at 12.45pm ready for the 1.00pm service. Wide-eyed, I surveyed the keys; rows and rows of them, gleaming and polished and disappearing over my four foot horizon. I jumped down from the stool and stepped closer, a small, tentative finger out-stretched to touch, to feel, to run my hand across the smooth surfaces, to wonder at the repeated pattern of pale chestnut and deeper, rich brown. As I did so, my foot came down hard on the uneven surface beneath the keyboard and a thunderous E natural roared its way around the walls, rushing up the curved wooden pillars and billowed through the open doors and onto the street. I sat down hard and far below a gentleman clutched his chest where his heart had skipped a beat and let loose a stream of language more suited to the football pitch than the cathedral.
“Don’t touch anything, dear”.
A kindly voice gave tardy warning and the organist had arrived.
Shaking with fright, I meekly re-took my seat. Feet suspended carefully mid-air and hands clamped firmly under armpits, I listened to the instructions. Yes I understood, no I promised, I would not touch anything other than the stop indicated for my big moment. Yes, I would watch for her nod and pull it out, yes I would do it quickly, yes I would pay careful attention. What? Pedals, ah... yes, yes I was acquainted with them and would be careful when I stood up to pull out the stop.
The service progressed and my palms began to sweat. My legs ached from holding my feet in the air as far from the treacherous pedals as could be. After what seemed like an age, my piece arrived and I stood carefully and placed a damp hand on the correct stop. I fixed my eyes on the folds of skin which hung where the organists chin should have been (halfway between the purple flowered scarf and lip-stick mouth) and held my breath. The first chord echoed out across the church and my gaze flicked in wonder to the small hands with fat fingers which scampered nimbly over the keyboards, switching effortlessly between the two. Suddenly there was a great heave and my eyes flicked down to take in the agile feet tapping across the pedals. Hands AND feet? I watched with increasing wonder until suddenly I became aware of a vigorous wobbling of the chins which could only be symptomatic of a nod. Brought sharply back to the task in hand, I braced myself and pulled sharply and firmly on the stop. There was an extraordinary groan and then a wail which faded into a moan and then, abruptly, silence. Not daring to look up, I examined the object in my hands; the stop, wrenched in its entirety from its slot.
When we got home, I went straight to the Front Room and shut the door. After some time, there was a gentle knock and Mum came in.
“I spoke to the organ teacher and she would be happy to give you a trial lesson if you like?”
“Oh I don’t think so.” I paused, brow creased, “You see Mum, the organ is not as cool as the piano so I think I’ll get good at the piano instead.” I turned back to the keyboard and back to C major, two octaves in contrary motion.
Since then, I’ve had a great deal of respect for organist. They are a strange and mysterious breed not unlike the mythical wizard or sorcerer with the ability to summon extraordinary musicality from the great, piped beast with an apparently easy flourish. There is truly something magical in that moment before the organ sounds; the church holds its breath, the pews waiting, the altar still, the window expectant. Then, all of a rush, the great pipes open and the glorious music flows forth and fills the expectant void. No tuning, no procession on to the stage, no conductor to take his bow, nothing but the quiet, and then suddenly, the fullness of sound.
Waiting here at St Martin’s for the Organ Series concert to begin, I close my eyes and fill the quiet with the history of music within these walls, Mozart played the organ here and even earlier, Handel, and today, following in their footsteps, one of today’s great organists Tim Wakerell. Organist at St Paul’s Cathedral his is the touch on the keys which invites his audience to enjoy whether it be their first experience of the organ, or whether they’ve come specifically.
Alex sounds a sweetie
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