This week, two titans of church music passed from this world to the next; each had an enormous influence on me.

The first of these, Gustav Leonhardt, was actually only an acquaintance of mine, having met him while still a Conservatory student.  But his career was one that I emulated.  Here was a brilliant keyboard player, a pioneer of the recording world, a founder and director of the Leonhardt Consort – having worked with the hugely influential Harnoncourt, Bruggen, Kuijkens, and others – and a church musician.  I recall seeing him on Christmas morning, in Amsterdam, Bach scores tucked under his arm in the inclement weather, headed to play a service at his church, the Waalse Kerk.  He was very principled about Bach and especially about his cantatas.  He would refuse to perform a Bach cantata in any setting other than a church as he felt that Bach’s sacred literature had no place in a concert hall.  Such courage to make that statement!  And, of course, he was right.

After my graduation from Oberlin, I spent the better part of a year in Europe, studying organ, choral music, and traveling.  I spent a good deal of time in Amsterdam, visiting my classmate and good friend, Jillon Stoppels (now Dupree).  Jillon was on a Fulbright to study harpsichord with Leonhardt, so I heard many stories about his teaching and inspiration.  It was almost as if I had the privilege of working with him as well.

When I first dreamed up the ensemble that would become the American Bach Soloists, my vision was to create something similar to what Leonhardt had created – a solo career, a conducting career, a church career, and intimately involved with the music of J. S. Bach.  Of course, time told me a different story about my own career; it was not to imitate Leonhardt’s even though he continued to be an inspiration to me.

What is it like, for a performer, when a musical role model dies?  There is a subtle feeling of having the baton passed on.  It’s as if the role model looks at me and says:  ”It’s up to you to carry on the tradition in the best way that is specific to you.”  There’s sadness in their passing, but also responsibility to other musicians in the same line of work.

The second titan was Gerre Hancock, long-time Director of Music at St. Thomas Church, Fifth Avenue.  He was a friend, a teacher to me, and a mentor to me.  Here was another man who had the career that I modeled my own after.  A tremendous musician with a significant solo career, the most celebrated men and boys choir in the United States, a very visible church position, a highly respected teacher in improvisation, the founder of the Association of Anglican Musicians, but most of all, a profoundly spiritual person who loved everyone he ever met.  Gerre, or rather, “Uncle” Gerre – as we all called him, was one of my chief counsels when I lived in New York City.  We used to get together for lunch to talk about music, life, and everything in between.  While a student at Yale, he taught an improvisation class which taught me a great deal.

Gerre’s passing caught us all off guard.  In fact, he was headed to play a recital when he was taken to the hospital instead.  Talk about dying with your boots on  (or, in his case, perhaps his organ shoes)!  In many ways, Gerre was a father to many of us of my generation who work in the church.  And, like the death of any father, he leaves a hole in our lives.

It’s too early to discern how his absence may influence the work and lives of my colleagues and me.  Right now, the task is to live (experience) the void.  As a musician, it is inevitable that this will inform the way I make music in some subtle way.  As with the death of Leonhardt, sadness is mixed with heightened responsibility.  When I conduct an Evensong at Grace Cathedral, I can’t help but sense the nearness of my mentors Gerre Hancock and Simon Preston.

It’s only been within the past 200 years or so that the role of Organist/Choirmaster has been considered professional or artistic. Prior to that, the musician (all musicians) were little more than an indentured servant, performing at the discretion of his masters (whether Lords or Bishops). Music was not on the same academic level as philosophy, science, or religion; and all musicians were trained by serving as apprentices to other musicians. It wasn’t until the end of the Enlightenment, with common recognition of the genius of Beethoven – and all of the idol worship of great artists that started with him – that music was taken seriously as an art form to be studied.

But as we all know, the Church moves a little slower than society at large; and the notion of studying church music as a serious profession didn’t really surface until the end of the 19th century. This means that, for centuries, the apprentice-style program was not only the most viable way of becoming a church (or cathedral) Organist/Choirmaster, it was the only way. Even today, as we look at the very nature of the profession, we see that it has less to do with the technical and philosophical prowess that we learn in the Academy, and more to do with learning how to communicate, how to work with people, how to engage singers, how to support without overpowering, how to accompany deftly and cleverly – virtually none of which can really be taught in the academic world.

England still keeps this system, known as the Organ Scholar system, very much alive. The English see the craft of organ playing and accompanying as a learned trade and have only within the past 30 years started to blur the line between the heady academic pursuits of musicology and the practical trade of the cathedral organist.

In 1979, I decided to take a year off between college and graduate studies to go to Europe for organ and choral study. During that time, I spent a week at Christ Church, Oxford, observing the one person who most significantly was breaking down the strict barrier between musicology and cathedral music-making: Simon Preston. Simon was the first to combine men and boys choirs with period instrument orchestras; and he came right from the pinnacle of the English choral tradition: David Willcocks and King’s College Chapel.

Two years later, shortly after Simon’s appointment to Westminster Abbey, I met up with him for lunch in Larry King’s office in NYC. (Simon was in New York to give the President’s Day Weekend workshop for the NYC AGO.) I told him of my interest in returning to England as an apprentice and asked if he had any suggestions of people to whom I might write. Much to my surprise, he invited me to become his Organ Scholar at the Abbey 18 months hence (after I’d finished my graduate degrees). Although he had heard me play while he was still in Oxford, I gave him an official audition (with a high fever at the time) in London the following summer (1982). In September 1983, I began a year-long position as Organ Scholar of Westminster Abbey. As such, I attended virtually every choir rehearsal of the senior boys (led by Simon), regularly took the choir rehearsals of the junior boys and probationers (once weekly), played at about six services per week (some accompanying, most preludes, some postludes, etc.) and in general became a part of the Abbey life of worship and fellowship. Even Dean Edward Carpenter invited me to his home in the Abbey Close for chats.

There were four organists on the staff: Simon Preston, Christopher Herrick (called the Sub-Organist), Geoffrey Morgan (called the Assistant Organist – but whose duties were closely tied with daily instruction in the Choir School), and me as Organ Scholar. We met weekly (at 3:00 – to the second – on Wednesdays in Simon’s home in Little Cloister) to determine who was taking which services, who accompanying, who conducting, etc. Those meetings were also times when we would review the past week or plan things farther out than just one week. Simon’s sense of humour is extraordinary, as is his boundless amount of energy. We spent much of those sessions laughing!

But life at the Abbey was not all fun and games. To a certain extent, one was very conscious of all the great musicians that would pop in for an evensong from time to time. The world was watching Westminster Abbey (or so it seemed). Even the bones of the dead (including Handel himself) seemed to bear witness to an unspoken musical standard that was expected. Indeed, Simon’s standards were without parallel in the United States or Great Britain at that time. Nothing short of total note-perfection was acceptable – from singers or players. And while that may sound harsh and strict, the fact is that the musical standard at Westminster Abbey, during his time there, was undoubtedly the highest in the English-speaking world. (And it’s a pleasure to note James O’Donnell continuing the same excellent standards there.)

Watching Simon’s exactitude in playing has served me every day of my professional life. The clarity of rhythm in his hymn-playing always made the act of singing to be completely organic and natural. The subtlety of his accompanying (and also that of Herrick and Morgan) was like the most intricate of Elgar orchestrations at work. The clarity and passion in his conducting brought forth the same from the choir. And his trust in my work, as an organist and as a conductor, did wonders to help me establish my own professional standards.

A couple of memories stand out: Simon asked me to assist him on his recording of the Reubke and Liszt “Ad nos” which he was doing with Deutsche Gramophone. I asked him he didn’t find it nerve-wracking to have microphones all around. He quickly responded: “Absolutely not! The microphone is your friend!” Ever since then, I’ve loved the recording process.

Another time Simon was away on a concert tour, as was Herrick. The poet laureate, Sir John Betjamin, died rather suddenly; and his funeral was scheduled at the Abbey with both Preston and Herrick away. Geoffrey Morgan and I took the service with the Queen’s attendants present, Sir Lawrence Olivier preaching the sermon, Prince Charles reading the lessons, and a live broadcast on the BBC. Geoffrey conducted and I accompanied. (That would probably qualify for the most nervous 75 minutes of my life!)

The list of ways that my year at the Abbey have influenced the rest of my life could go on for many pages. The respect and friendship I developed with Simon Preston has been a constant inspiration to me personally and professionally. I feel enormous gratitude for being an American accepted into a very English institution (perhaps the most English of institutions), respected and encouraged by my musical cohorts, loved by staff and friends, and blessed by the building, ethos, and the Holy Spirit’s work in all that I encountered that year. I can honestly say that I would not be who I am today without it.

August 2008