Going up the old, wooden, circular staircase, with a marine rope for a banister, I ascended to the organ loft of the 15th century church, St. Mariager – originally a Carmelite monastery and still echoing the monks’ plainsong singing of Salve Regina that would form the centerpiece of my recital there. Well, I wasn’t actually planning to sing the Salve Regina, but play a massive setting of it by a rarely heard Renaissance composer, Peeter Cornet. I’m in Helsingør, Denmark at the church where Bach’s great mentor, Dietrich Buxtehude, worked from 1660 – 1668. The organ was built by Marcussen in 1988, but is widely regarded as “the” Buxtehude organ in the world. The organ case is original (pre-dating Buxtehude), and 27 of the pipes still exist from Buxtehude’s organ. Like using a DNA sample to re-construct an entire living organism, Marcussen used these 27 pipes to figure out the sound, character, voicing style, and size of the organ, then built the organ to match. What that organ company built was miraculous. It is, indeed, like taking a step back in time.
It’s not quite the same as sitting down at an old organ, which has absorbed the energy and vibration of countless players over the centuries. That special “something” wasn’t (couldn’t be) present. So I relied on the building itself, the organ case itself, and the character of this particular organ’s sound, to transport me to a past world (a parallel world?) as I played.
Playing old music and new, European and even American music, I feel a universality to the music that once was considered entirely regional. Buxtehude, himself, seems to have transcend some of this regionalism. The Danes claim him for their own; so do the Germans; and so do, even, the Swedes. By today’s definition, he worked in all three of those countries (Helsingør in Denmark, Helsingborg in Sweden, and Lübeck in Germany). But Denmark owned most of that territory at the time, so international borders have changed several times. How interesting that each of those three countries want to claim him as their own.
What is it about “international borders” that seems so restrictive, perhaps even outdated? Europe is in the midst of its biggest refugee crisis in about 75 years. International borders are being breached in the name of safety, freedom, economic opportunity, and taking care of one’s family. The mood ranges from hope to despair. The other day I was practicing at Johannes Kyrka in Malmö, Sweden. I left the church at around 11 p.m. and had a premonition that I should open the door very slowly as I walked out of the building. It’s a good thing that I did. An eleery woman, likely a refugee from Syria, was attempting to sleep on a mat in the doorway. I would have startled her, and possibly hurt her, if I hadn’t been careful.
Art rubbing up against humanity and political unrest.
Walking back to my comfortable hotel room, which could have easily slept a family of six, I couldn’t help but notice the juxtaposition of her situation as opposed to mine, and feel enormous compassion for her (and the many others I’ve seen on this tour). I’m not naive enough to believe that there’s anything I could do to help her directly other than be authentic to what I’ve come to Europe to do: share beauty, and offer the possibility of transformation to those that choose to hear me play (nearly always at free concerts). I have occasionally noticed homeless people at my concerts, and it brings me joy to know that they have availed themselves of that opportunity to hear music and leave the difficulties of their life for even a few minutes. Maybe, on some level, their life depends on it.