I have just finished 26 Children’s Concerts (Adventures in Music) with the San Francisco Symphony, playing excerpts from Strauß (Also sprach Zarathustra), Poulenc (Organ Concerto), and most notably Saint-Saëns (Symphony III – The “Organ Symphony”). Punctuating these performances over the course of several weeks in the Autumn and in January & February of this year, was a SFS concert program set which included the Saint-Saëns (the entire piece) as the second half of the program – under the baton of the former SFS maestro, Edo de Waart. Maestro de Waart was at Davies Hall when the Ruffatti organ was delivered there. There was much fuss about it among the organ afficianatos in the Bay area, and Edo was left with a bad taste in his mouth over the project. When I was introduced to him, his first comment to me was that “all organists are mad!” This statement is especially unusual coming out of the mouth of a Dutchman, as the organ is greatly beloved in The Netherlands. I took his statement as a challenge to redeem his opinion of organs and organists and am happy to report that he seemed quite friendly with me and respected what I was able to do with that instrument.
Before the concerts themselves, I was given the opportunity to go onstage and speak with the several hundred people gathered to hear the pre-concert lecture. I opted to avoid the usual banter of facts and figures about the instrument, even though it is the largest concert hall organ in the Americas; I decided, instead, to describe what it is like to sit at that console and make music. I talked about setting up a crescendo of pistons in a rehearsal before the first orchestral rehearsal, not knowing which sound the maestro may decide to choose. I spoke about the sound delay. But I mostly talked about the various conversations which take place at the organ console.
Sitting on the bench of any pipe organ in the world is a little bit like having a high tea with a grande dame. One never assumes she will tell you all of her secrets within the first few minutes. It takes a while to develop rapport with an organ before one can truly learn what it can do. Music is a mutual endeavor. It may look like I’m making music alone when I’m playing the organ (without the orchestra), but I’m actually making music with the organ itself and with the acoustics of the room. If an audience is there as well, that markedly changes my relationship with the music because the energy, or vibration level, or engagement, or good wishes (compassion) of the audience can quite literally be felt by the performer. Each of these is a conversation which takes place.
So, when the music is Camille Saint-Saëns’ masterpiece, there’s an even bigger conversation going on, namely between me, the music, the maestro, and the orchestral players themselves. I’ve only played this piece with the SFS and with the Santa Cruz Symphony, so I don’t have a lot of comparisons to draw upon; but just looking at those two, the way different ensembles influence my ability to communicate through music is remarkable.
In the Saint-Saëns, the first entrance of the organ is unique in the history of orchestral music. The norm, with any soloist that plays with an orchestra, is for the orchestra to create a cushion of sound on which the soloist has the freedom to move around, musically speaking. But with Saint-Saëns, it is the organ that creates the cushion of sound, and the orchestra, weaving one of the more beautiful melodic lines of the nineteenth century, plays in unison – a reversal of our two roles. Magnificent! To have this responsibility of creating the sonic aura upon which some of the finest musicians on the Western seaboard proceed to make exquisitely nuanced music is humbling, almost to the point of tears. I feel as if I could wallow in that moment for an eternity. There is an expansiveness of heart which happens at that moment.
Later in the piece, the famous C major chord comes in after the orchestra has set the stage for me. This is the moment the entire audience has been waiting for. (It’s also the moment that awakens those who have found repose into an altered state of wakefulness.) When I play that chord, it’s a huge adrenalin rush to me. I can feel the “yes” of the other players and of everyone in the audience who knows the piece. And judging from the five standing ovations we got for each performance, that number would include most of the 2500 audience members each concert. The back and forth between organ and orchestra that follows from there to the end is something that I never tire of. Even after several dozen performances of it this season, it still pulls me with captivating energy. Why is that? What is it that transpires and catches me in its allure? My only conclusion is that it must be the unique opportunity to make music (back and forth, like a tennis match) with nearly 100 other musicians. That’s a considerable force of energy, most especially when you consider their level of concentration, training, and attention. How could I not be pulled gladly into that current of sound and energy?