It was truly a unique opportunity. A set of symphony concerts, in the regular subscription series, opening with 14 minutes of solo organ music. I can’t think of any time I’ve heard of that happening in a major concert hall in this country. When I was asked if I was available and interested in doing this, I was floored! The confidence which that displayed in me, just an orchestra “extra,” matched with the opportunity for the organ to be heard by 12,000 regular concert-goers, was humbling and exciting. The requested choice of repertoire, was unusual: a selection of Brahms chorale preludes. “Unusual” because the chorale preludes of Brahms, written on his death-bed and published posthumously, are deeply introspective. This is not flashy music which would show off the bravado of the organist. The music is warm, dark, but hopeful. Full of heart in every sense.
The concert featured the stupendous Brahms Requiem, under the baton of Maestro Herbert Blomstedt. At 70 minutes (or so), it’s not long enough for a whole concert program – hence the administration’s idea of having some solo organ music. I am also aware that many of the major donors to the symphony have requested hearing more of the organ. Also, reviewer Joshua Kosman usually mentions the organ (and pretty regularly in glowing terms) whenever I play with the SFS. So, perhaps it was time to give the organ some Prime Time placement.
I chose four settings: “Herzlich tut mich verlangen” – about death and the afterlife, with a motivic character much like the opening of the Requiem itself, with its pulsating bass notes; “Herzlich tut mich erfreuen” – about the beauty of summertime, a very short piece (under two minutes) to contrast with the somber opener; “O Gott, du frommer Gott” – about God and the beauty of heaven, with its chorale melody presented in the pedals; and “O Welt, ich muß dich lassen” – about the parting of the soul from this world, with its series of diminishing echoes. Admittedly, I was slightly worried that the audience would find this music too somber for their night out at the symphony, but based on the warm reception I received each night and the virtual absence of coughing throughout my playing, such fears were ill-founded.
The actual experience of playing was fairly magical. As has often been described by others, the waiting, before going onstage, is often the hardest part. In my case, I find it important to be as quiet as possible, immersing myself in the the intention of playing the music, meditating in stillness, doing a few body stretches, eating something, and avoiding conversation. The latter is probably the most significant factor for me; small-talk seems quite counter to what I am attempting to do to achieve mental focus at that point.
Walking onstage is slightly surreal: The bowing, which generally comes easily to me, feels awkward when the blinding lights and complete darkness of the hall make it seem like I might lose my balance and fall into the abyss at the edge of the stage as I bow. Fortunately, climbing onto the organ bench is one of the most natural things I do in my life; so everything feels comfortable and familiar pretty much immediately. This particular series of times, I kept hearing the voice of Kurt Masur in my head, who, in a conversation he once had with a talented friend of his, said that the friend had a “unique gift, and therefore a responsibility to take care of his body.” I took that a further step and told myself that I had a responsibility to Brahms himself, to the cosmic nature of the music itself, and to the people in the audience, not to let my petty fears nor my ego to get in the way of communicating what needed to be communicated at that moment. It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about my abilities. It was about solace and compassion. It was about that indescribable paradise resting inside the music. I was merely sitting there as a conduit, assisting the grand design of divine connection. When viewed in that light, it completely changed my demeanor, from one of self-doubt to one of selflessness.