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.
