I’ve been walking (mostly biking actually) around in The Netherlands for about eight weeks now after an almost twenty-year absence, interrupted only by very brief and infrequent visits (bliksembezoeken or “lightning visits”). My Dutch is still quite adequate, I like to think; some people do comment on a very slight American touch in my pronunciation—not my usage, I think—but interestingly only after I have already told that I have lived in the US for nearly twenty years.
Of course, the Dutch have been busy speaking Dutch in The Netherlands, and so, they all use a number of interesting expressions I am slowly getting used to. I thought I write a few salient examples down here, for the benefit of fellow ex-patriots or other learners of the beautiful Dutch language.
Back in the day, if you wanted to wish somebody a pleasant day or encourage him/her to enjoy his/her weekend, you said (I remember it well): “Nog een prettige dag verder,” or “Prettig weekeinde” (that word is pronounced as weekend, but we learned it was more elegant to spell it in Dutch anyway).
OK, forget prettig these days. For some reasons beyond my grasp, the Dutch have grown to tremendously dislike the word. (Is it because it reminds them of pretty? But then what’s wrong with pretty?) These days, everybody—and I mean everybody—wishes you “een fijne dag,” “een fijn weekeinde,” “een fijne avond,” etc. etc. I refuse to use it myself, but at least I’ve managed to say “Jij ook” (you too; and yes, the use of the informal pronoun je/jij instead of formal u has become much more common, to the point it’s almost getting rude, IMHO).
The Dutch pay with their card much, much more often than anybody I’ve seen in the US. This is known as pinnen (“to pin,” referring of course to the use of the PIN code). In fact in many places pinnen is not only the preferred, but exclusive way of payment. But if you’re lucky, you can still bay cash for your coffee and croissantje. When paying wiht exact change or even when paying at all, the person will almost 100 % certainly say “Helemaal goed,” “Completely fine.” I think this is the equivalent of prima in the old days.
Why the helemaal? Isnt’t goed good enough? Apparently not, and many good things are simply not good enough by themselves in The Netherlands. A teacher is not simply trots (“proud”) of his students, but megatrots (“mega proud”; mega of course is Greek for “big time” or—in fashionable US English—“bigly”), even if the results of a test are nothing special. Dutch always had the fun word leuk (“fun,” but with many connotations; “een leuke jongen” is not just a fun guy, but quite attractive to the speaker), but this morning I overheard two youngish ladies talk about a “superleuke jongen.”
I friend had already told me about the fashionable use of “nice” in Dutch. My friend tells me it’s predominantly used by women in a higher income class, and the word is a sentence by itself, commenting on something perceived as extremely positive mentioned by the conversation partner. “Nice!” I tried it once. “Oh,” said my friend, “but you also have to pull up your eyebrows when saying it.” I tried it. “Nice!”
“Nice!” my friend said, expressively raising her eyebrows in return.
Thursday, July 5, 2018
Saturday, June 30, 2018
Remembering Kee (2): The Solo Viola
I feel incredibly privileged to have been able to study for two years with Piet Kee at what was then called Sweelinck Conservatorium Amsterdam. (Unfortunately, the name of the great Amsterdam composer disappeared from the name of the school following a merger with the Hilversums Conservatorium in 1994.)
Many fellow students, back then or later, often privately (as students do), sometimes very publicly, have expressed dissatisfaction with Kee as a teacher. “It must always have been a tremendous burden to him,” I remember one excellent former Kee student—now a very prominent Dutch organist—saying, back in the day. Another very prominent international student has stated rather publicly that Kee, while evidently an excellent musician, could not teach at all. I humbly disagree, and here is one small example of how Kee taught in a manner that, at least to me, was fascinating, beautiful, and highly effective.
Many Kee students studied the Prelude to the Pange lingua by Zoltán Kodály in their first year at the conservatory. (Kee had recorded the Prelude himself at St. Bavo’s; I don’t recall having ever heard another organist play it in concert, but it is a very beautiful short work that is worth revisiting, I think.)
It was admittedly not so terribly easy to play this colorful work beautifully at the 1950s Flentrop in Amsterdam South (where Kee famously taught for many years, presumably because he particularly liked the action of the instrument). Moreover, I had really no clue what to do with a Neoclassical work with elements reminiscent of, say, Ravel. On the top of the last page, there was a rather high solo in the left hand, which I obviously had difficulty with.
“Look,” said Kee. “Such a beautiful little solo! Think of it as a viola solo in an orchestral piece.” (As always when I cite Kee here, please note that I cite from memory after many years; moreover, I do my best to translate citations into idiomatic English.)
At 18 I found that such a beautiful and enlightening remark. I remember smiling; Kee, of course, observed my reaction. “I see that appeals to you,” he said, I suppose not altogether displeased. “Why don’t you play it one more time.” I did, and of course it now was so much better (not that I noticed that myself, but I noticed very little back then).
Many fellow students, back then or later, often privately (as students do), sometimes very publicly, have expressed dissatisfaction with Kee as a teacher. “It must always have been a tremendous burden to him,” I remember one excellent former Kee student—now a very prominent Dutch organist—saying, back in the day. Another very prominent international student has stated rather publicly that Kee, while evidently an excellent musician, could not teach at all. I humbly disagree, and here is one small example of how Kee taught in a manner that, at least to me, was fascinating, beautiful, and highly effective.
Many Kee students studied the Prelude to the Pange lingua by Zoltán Kodály in their first year at the conservatory. (Kee had recorded the Prelude himself at St. Bavo’s; I don’t recall having ever heard another organist play it in concert, but it is a very beautiful short work that is worth revisiting, I think.)
It was admittedly not so terribly easy to play this colorful work beautifully at the 1950s Flentrop in Amsterdam South (where Kee famously taught for many years, presumably because he particularly liked the action of the instrument). Moreover, I had really no clue what to do with a Neoclassical work with elements reminiscent of, say, Ravel. On the top of the last page, there was a rather high solo in the left hand, which I obviously had difficulty with.
“Look,” said Kee. “Such a beautiful little solo! Think of it as a viola solo in an orchestral piece.” (As always when I cite Kee here, please note that I cite from memory after many years; moreover, I do my best to translate citations into idiomatic English.)
At 18 I found that such a beautiful and enlightening remark. I remember smiling; Kee, of course, observed my reaction. “I see that appeals to you,” he said, I suppose not altogether displeased. “Why don’t you play it one more time.” I did, and of course it now was so much better (not that I noticed that myself, but I noticed very little back then).
Friday, June 29, 2018
Remembering Kee (1): At the Cinema
When I came back to The Netherlands in mid-May of this year, it was very much on my mind to visit my old organ teacher Piet Kee. But the first weeks were busy, and I figured there was no hurry in contacting Kee; yes, he was 90 years old, but since his dad had made it to 99, it seemed reasonable to expect that Piet would still be with us for quite a while.
Boy, was that a mistake. Kee passed away within two weeks of my being back in Haarlem.
That’s now almost exactly a month ago and I have spoken about Kee quite a bit with colleagues and close friends. Many, many memories, and my intention is to write them down here, a bit as I get to them (or as they get to me). Here is a first one.
I was reminded of this when I went to see a movie in Haarlem’s outstanding independent cinema, the Filmschuur. We saw The Bookshop, a nice enough movie that I enjoyed watching for the second time, this time in the company of a friend. At the end, as it happens with movies, the titles rolled down the screen. People start leaving the room. We stay seated a little longer.
“Many years ago,” I tell my younger friend, “I went to see a movie in the old Filmschuur, over in the Smedestraat. An Italian movie, Tuscany, beautiful pictures, but goodness knows what it was about. One of those movies.
“Anyway, I walk into the cinema, and there are Piet Kee and his wife. I sit down next to them, how could I not, they were friendly, both parties bien étonnés de se trouver ensemble, so to speak.
“At the end of the film, like now”—I said to my friend—“the titles roll down the screen. People start leaving, but not Piet Kee and his wife, nor, of course, I.
“Piet Kee turns to me. ‘Ik heb zo’n hekel aan mensen die meteen weglopen,’ he says, somewhat quietly, but nonetheless very clearly.” I hate people who walk out immediately (although admittedly ‘hate’ sounds little too harsh in English.)
“I have often thought about that,” I said to my friend. “Of course, it had nothing to do with music, but in a way everything with Piet Kee’s artistry. Respect for the work of art. For the music. For the performance. And for the performer, of course.”
My friend encouraged me to blog about my memories of Kee, so thanks to her, there’s the first one. Many to come.
Boy, was that a mistake. Kee passed away within two weeks of my being back in Haarlem.
That’s now almost exactly a month ago and I have spoken about Kee quite a bit with colleagues and close friends. Many, many memories, and my intention is to write them down here, a bit as I get to them (or as they get to me). Here is a first one.
I was reminded of this when I went to see a movie in Haarlem’s outstanding independent cinema, the Filmschuur. We saw The Bookshop, a nice enough movie that I enjoyed watching for the second time, this time in the company of a friend. At the end, as it happens with movies, the titles rolled down the screen. People start leaving the room. We stay seated a little longer.
“Many years ago,” I tell my younger friend, “I went to see a movie in the old Filmschuur, over in the Smedestraat. An Italian movie, Tuscany, beautiful pictures, but goodness knows what it was about. One of those movies.
“Anyway, I walk into the cinema, and there are Piet Kee and his wife. I sit down next to them, how could I not, they were friendly, both parties bien étonnés de se trouver ensemble, so to speak.
“At the end of the film, like now”—I said to my friend—“the titles roll down the screen. People start leaving, but not Piet Kee and his wife, nor, of course, I.
“Piet Kee turns to me. ‘Ik heb zo’n hekel aan mensen die meteen weglopen,’ he says, somewhat quietly, but nonetheless very clearly.” I hate people who walk out immediately (although admittedly ‘hate’ sounds little too harsh in English.)
“I have often thought about that,” I said to my friend. “Of course, it had nothing to do with music, but in a way everything with Piet Kee’s artistry. Respect for the work of art. For the music. For the performance. And for the performer, of course.”
My friend encouraged me to blog about my memories of Kee, so thanks to her, there’s the first one. Many to come.
Polleke
A while ago, when I taught third-year French to an interesting mix of students in America, I somehow got the idea that it would be fun to read some really good Dutch children’s books in French. I found the first two of Guus Kuijer’s (possibly the foremost Dutch children’s author of the fin de siècle) Polleke cycle in what are in my view excellent French translations and very much enjoyed reading them. Kuijer is a master in discussing very serious matters for a young audience in a manner that is both serious and playful, no mean feat, as they say.
I could not find the remaining three French Pollekes (although I now see that all five books in the series have indeed been translated), so now that I’m back in The Netherlands, I finally walked into the nearest independent bookstore, Gillissen on de Rijksstraatweg in Haarlem Noord. Polleke was not on the shelf, but the friendly bookseller offered to order it for me. “It’ll be here tomorrow after three o’clock.”
It’s now tomorrow 6:30 PM and I just started reading the third Polleke book, Het geluk komt als de donder. I made it to page 3 and already I have to interrupt my reading to write this little piece. I could not have written all of this introduction, all you really need to know is what Polleke writes (the books are written in the first person, very effectively) at the bottom of that page 3. Here it comes, with my own translation:
Soms lijkt het of er overal oorlog is, behalve hier.
Sometimes it seems as if it’s war everywhere, except here.
“Hier/“here” is The Netherlands, of course, and one only wishes it were true. Amsterdam just got a new mayor, a woman just two weeks my senior and from my hometown, a prominent member of the “green-left” party in The Netherlands. Already not only the Dutch capital, but the whole nation seems to be divided about the new mayor, and in no uncertain terms.
But perhaps this is nothing compared to what’s going on in other parts of the worlds at the moment.
I could not find the remaining three French Pollekes (although I now see that all five books in the series have indeed been translated), so now that I’m back in The Netherlands, I finally walked into the nearest independent bookstore, Gillissen on de Rijksstraatweg in Haarlem Noord. Polleke was not on the shelf, but the friendly bookseller offered to order it for me. “It’ll be here tomorrow after three o’clock.”
It’s now tomorrow 6:30 PM and I just started reading the third Polleke book, Het geluk komt als de donder. I made it to page 3 and already I have to interrupt my reading to write this little piece. I could not have written all of this introduction, all you really need to know is what Polleke writes (the books are written in the first person, very effectively) at the bottom of that page 3. Here it comes, with my own translation:
Soms lijkt het of er overal oorlog is, behalve hier.
Sometimes it seems as if it’s war everywhere, except here.
“Hier/“here” is The Netherlands, of course, and one only wishes it were true. Amsterdam just got a new mayor, a woman just two weeks my senior and from my hometown, a prominent member of the “green-left” party in The Netherlands. Already not only the Dutch capital, but the whole nation seems to be divided about the new mayor, and in no uncertain terms.
But perhaps this is nothing compared to what’s going on in other parts of the worlds at the moment.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Hyde Park on Hudson
I haven't published anything here for almost two years. That time I spent teaching and performing in Australia. Some of what I've done in Armidale NSW is published in a different form; take a look on YouTube and/or on my website. I'm now back in America--at least for the time being--and I had been thinking about writing again. But I couldn't anticipate that my first piece in two years' time would be about a film.
Here I am in Lexington, Kentucky--of all places, some people might add. But what I had hoped turned out to be the case: there's a very nice movie theatre which plays independent new films and nice oldies. So to celebrate MLK Day I went to see a movie about FDR. It's called Hyde Park on Hudson, which is actually not so far from where we used to live north of NYC. Hyde Park is where FDR used to live when he didn't have to be in DC. The film is really about the president's affair (whatever its exact nature) with a distant cousin, Daisy. At the same time, there's the visit of the British king & queen (that's the king we all know from The King's Speech) and there's lots of fun stuff along with really beautiful aspects of FDR as a person--his relationship with Daisy at its best, his fatherly care for the much younger king. That the Daisy in the movie (perhaps not the one in reality) felt also betrayed by FDR (who, after all, had many girl friends) makes the film in a way even stronger: it's not just a 'nice' fairy tale.
But what struck me most--sorry, can't help it--was the music in the film, both on- and off-screen. The "theme song" is clearly based on the song "When I Fall in Love" (although I doubt that 5 % of the audience will recognize the opening motive), and very nicely done. (I just looked it up and "When I Fall in Love" is an early 1950s song; not that it matters.) But then there's the on-screen music in the form of various bands performing for FDR. Not only is the music that's played so sweet, the best is how the people in the film--not least FDR himself--clearly like the music in a very physical and lovely manner. You see FDR sitting in his chair, tapping the beat with his right arm, and the household staff nodding their heads along with the music. I think it's so nice because it seems to me that this is something we no longer have in the popular music (if that is the correct terminology) of today. Well, at least not in this friendly kind of way.
FDR's affair with Daisy starts out by him taking her for trips in the car. Finally, he gets rid of the body guards and is alone with Daisy in the middle of the fields of upstate New York. He lights a cigaret and turns on the radio. "Moonlight Serenade". "I love that song," says Daisy. You can tell that she means it.
I don't think I realized it when watching the film, but I realize now: They both loved music.
Nice.
Here I am in Lexington, Kentucky--of all places, some people might add. But what I had hoped turned out to be the case: there's a very nice movie theatre which plays independent new films and nice oldies. So to celebrate MLK Day I went to see a movie about FDR. It's called Hyde Park on Hudson, which is actually not so far from where we used to live north of NYC. Hyde Park is where FDR used to live when he didn't have to be in DC. The film is really about the president's affair (whatever its exact nature) with a distant cousin, Daisy. At the same time, there's the visit of the British king & queen (that's the king we all know from The King's Speech) and there's lots of fun stuff along with really beautiful aspects of FDR as a person--his relationship with Daisy at its best, his fatherly care for the much younger king. That the Daisy in the movie (perhaps not the one in reality) felt also betrayed by FDR (who, after all, had many girl friends) makes the film in a way even stronger: it's not just a 'nice' fairy tale.
But what struck me most--sorry, can't help it--was the music in the film, both on- and off-screen. The "theme song" is clearly based on the song "When I Fall in Love" (although I doubt that 5 % of the audience will recognize the opening motive), and very nicely done. (I just looked it up and "When I Fall in Love" is an early 1950s song; not that it matters.) But then there's the on-screen music in the form of various bands performing for FDR. Not only is the music that's played so sweet, the best is how the people in the film--not least FDR himself--clearly like the music in a very physical and lovely manner. You see FDR sitting in his chair, tapping the beat with his right arm, and the household staff nodding their heads along with the music. I think it's so nice because it seems to me that this is something we no longer have in the popular music (if that is the correct terminology) of today. Well, at least not in this friendly kind of way.
FDR's affair with Daisy starts out by him taking her for trips in the car. Finally, he gets rid of the body guards and is alone with Daisy in the middle of the fields of upstate New York. He lights a cigaret and turns on the radio. "Moonlight Serenade". "I love that song," says Daisy. You can tell that she means it.
I don't think I realized it when watching the film, but I realize now: They both loved music.
Nice.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Conducting Hänsel und Gretel
When I was in Austria recently, I picked up Peter Planyavsky's rather disturbing book about his 35 years as organist of the Stephansdom in Vienna. The book is quite appropriately called Gerettet vom Stephansdom (Saved from St. Stephen's). You wonder how Planyavsky managed to spend such a long time in a outrageously difficult working place. The book is full of horror stories: lots of mediocrity, of course (and this is the big cathedral of the music capital of the world!), lots of utterly hypocritical priests (not all of them, thank God). That Planyavsky—who is one of the very best improvisers alive—was nevertheless able to bring lots of great music to the church is a miracle. Anyway, if you read German and you have some kind of connection with church music, by all means read the book.
I feel a bit of a connection with Planyavsky, and funnily enough, I've just retired from church music myself after some 35 years of professional involvement in it (though thank goodness I've not been a cathedral organist for 35 years). Like Planyavsky—he calls himself an agnostic—I don't feel particularly religious in the narrow sense of the word, and I've been increasingly aware that that made it impossible to function well as a church musician. Plany sees this differently: to him, agnosticism is not in the least an objection to being a good church musician: "You don't need to believe in witches to conduct Hänsel und Gretel," he writes with his wonderfully dry sense of humor.
"But one has to know what a fairy tale is, what a witch is, and what the story wants to bring across. Most of all, however, one needs to try and understand what went on in Humperdinck's mind as he set the text to music exactly the way he did."
I have thought about Plany's comparison for days and spoken to a number of people about it. My initial reaction was: "Of course, he's completely right." In fact, I thought, it would be a real problem for a Hänsel und Gretel conductor to believe in witches. I mean, how the heck are you going to conduct Hänsel und Gretel if you believe that witches actually exist?!
And so I mulled things over for a long time until, finally, I came to a different conclusion. Here's the problem: If I—and I confess to not believing in witches—were to conduct H & G, I surely don't have to deal with a stage director, singers, and an audience who—at least allegedly—all believe in witches. In fact, if after the show I met a five-year-old who was really scared of the witch in the opera, I would surely tell her that, look, witches don't exist for real, you know.
Now try working in a church, especially in America, and not believing in the virgin birth, the resurrection, water turning into wine and all that jazz in a literal sense. I once worked for a minister who objected to the song "We three kings of Orient are." "Look here," she said. "They were not kings, but magi, and it doesn't say there were three of them." So much for her analysis of one of the better stories in Christian mythology, but how was I ever going to tell her that, well, this was of course mythology? To another minister, with whom I thought I had a really good working relationship, I once mentioned a bestselling author of books on early Christianity He simply dismissed the whole author with a "We don't do that sort of thing." Huh? An advanced degree in theology and no interest in a middle-of-the-road scholarly book on what happened in the early church? I once had a choir member who went to a seminar at some church where the free-thinking presenter had had the chutzpah to suggest that the physical reality of the virgin birth was, perhaps, not so crucial to Christianity in today's world. "If that's not true," she said disdainfully, "the whole fundament of my belief is gone."
Now imagine the whole opera company plus the audience all believing—or telling themselves they're believing—in witches. "But you know, the conductor doesn't believe in witches!" "What?! He doesn't believe in witches?!" "No—he thinks it's all just a fairy tale!" "O my... But how can someone conduct H & G without believing in witches?!" "You're right—we had better get someone who believes in witches."
I feel a bit of a connection with Planyavsky, and funnily enough, I've just retired from church music myself after some 35 years of professional involvement in it (though thank goodness I've not been a cathedral organist for 35 years). Like Planyavsky—he calls himself an agnostic—I don't feel particularly religious in the narrow sense of the word, and I've been increasingly aware that that made it impossible to function well as a church musician. Plany sees this differently: to him, agnosticism is not in the least an objection to being a good church musician: "You don't need to believe in witches to conduct Hänsel und Gretel," he writes with his wonderfully dry sense of humor.
"But one has to know what a fairy tale is, what a witch is, and what the story wants to bring across. Most of all, however, one needs to try and understand what went on in Humperdinck's mind as he set the text to music exactly the way he did."
I have thought about Plany's comparison for days and spoken to a number of people about it. My initial reaction was: "Of course, he's completely right." In fact, I thought, it would be a real problem for a Hänsel und Gretel conductor to believe in witches. I mean, how the heck are you going to conduct Hänsel und Gretel if you believe that witches actually exist?!
And so I mulled things over for a long time until, finally, I came to a different conclusion. Here's the problem: If I—and I confess to not believing in witches—were to conduct H & G, I surely don't have to deal with a stage director, singers, and an audience who—at least allegedly—all believe in witches. In fact, if after the show I met a five-year-old who was really scared of the witch in the opera, I would surely tell her that, look, witches don't exist for real, you know.
Now try working in a church, especially in America, and not believing in the virgin birth, the resurrection, water turning into wine and all that jazz in a literal sense. I once worked for a minister who objected to the song "We three kings of Orient are." "Look here," she said. "They were not kings, but magi, and it doesn't say there were three of them." So much for her analysis of one of the better stories in Christian mythology, but how was I ever going to tell her that, well, this was of course mythology? To another minister, with whom I thought I had a really good working relationship, I once mentioned a bestselling author of books on early Christianity He simply dismissed the whole author with a "We don't do that sort of thing." Huh? An advanced degree in theology and no interest in a middle-of-the-road scholarly book on what happened in the early church? I once had a choir member who went to a seminar at some church where the free-thinking presenter had had the chutzpah to suggest that the physical reality of the virgin birth was, perhaps, not so crucial to Christianity in today's world. "If that's not true," she said disdainfully, "the whole fundament of my belief is gone."
Now imagine the whole opera company plus the audience all believing—or telling themselves they're believing—in witches. "But you know, the conductor doesn't believe in witches!" "What?! He doesn't believe in witches?!" "No—he thinks it's all just a fairy tale!" "O my... But how can someone conduct H & G without believing in witches?!" "You're right—we had better get someone who believes in witches."
In dulci jubilo
The other day, a colleague asked me about a well-known Bach organ piece, the chorale prelude on the medieval German Christmas carol "In dulci jubilo" from the Orgel-Büchlein, BWV 608:
"What's the current interpretation of Bach's In dulci jubilo in canone all'ottava—the one with quarters in the left hand and 9/8 in the right (3/2 in the pedal)? Can I play the quarters in dotted rhythm, is that a cop-out, or is it considered stylistically correct? My mother played it the other way, and it's a nice challenge, but I'm thinking it's probably out of date."
The colleague asked a bunch of colleagues about this and I think the results will be published in the newsletter of the local chapter of the American Guild of Organists (of which I am, still, a member). But I thought I might put what I wrote here as well. (When playing the piece again the other day I was reminded of some tricky passages and I want to write something about fingerings some time soon—but for now, this is it.) So, here we go.
I don't know what the current interpretation is—that probably depends on the country one lives in, one's teacher, and one's religious views (in matters of performance practice, I mean). To me the question is, What is gained by playing two-against-three? In terms of actual hearing experience, not much, IMHO. In fact, I think a listener in 1715 would have been bewildered by the incomprehensible, "shaky" rhythm and by the de facto strangely arpeggiated chords. It is true that Bach's writing could be unconventional, but he was not an eighteenth-century kind of Stockhausen or Carter.
That two-against-three is hard to play may sound trivial in itself; the real point is not that it's difficult but absurdly difficult in the context of Bach's music (not to mention his contemporaries). In fact, it would make this piece rhythmically the hardest Bach organ piece by far—more so, than, say, the hypercomplex five-part Vater unser from Clavier-Übung III. Bearing in mind that the Orgel-Büchlein was intended (according to Bach's title page) for beginning organists, I simply don't buy that level of complexity. All in all, my best judgement is that it's best to adjust those evenly notated quarters to the triplet movement, taking Bach's hints in mm. 25, 26, 28, 30 (I am aware that one can also use this as evidence to the contrary).
The pedal cantus firmus, BTW, was surely intended to be played an octave lower using a 4-ft. stop; no organ would have had a high F-sharp in Bach's time—in fact, very few European organs do today. The facsimile I have in front of me is to small to see if there's any indication, but I personally think it's quite possible to play the extra tenor voice in the last two measures (dare I call it the quinta vox) in the pedal as well—of course with the same 4-ft. stop and therefore also an octave lower, obviously with the left foot (and yes, I think toe-toe-toe-toe will do fine). Remember that the piece—as almost all of Bach's organ music—was written on two, not three, staves; the separate staff for the pedal is largely a later invention. In any event, the double pedal ending feels very idiomatic to me.
"What's the current interpretation of Bach's In dulci jubilo in canone all'ottava—the one with quarters in the left hand and 9/8 in the right (3/2 in the pedal)? Can I play the quarters in dotted rhythm, is that a cop-out, or is it considered stylistically correct? My mother played it the other way, and it's a nice challenge, but I'm thinking it's probably out of date."
The colleague asked a bunch of colleagues about this and I think the results will be published in the newsletter of the local chapter of the American Guild of Organists (of which I am, still, a member). But I thought I might put what I wrote here as well. (When playing the piece again the other day I was reminded of some tricky passages and I want to write something about fingerings some time soon—but for now, this is it.) So, here we go.
I don't know what the current interpretation is—that probably depends on the country one lives in, one's teacher, and one's religious views (in matters of performance practice, I mean). To me the question is, What is gained by playing two-against-three? In terms of actual hearing experience, not much, IMHO. In fact, I think a listener in 1715 would have been bewildered by the incomprehensible, "shaky" rhythm and by the de facto strangely arpeggiated chords. It is true that Bach's writing could be unconventional, but he was not an eighteenth-century kind of Stockhausen or Carter.
That two-against-three is hard to play may sound trivial in itself; the real point is not that it's difficult but absurdly difficult in the context of Bach's music (not to mention his contemporaries). In fact, it would make this piece rhythmically the hardest Bach organ piece by far—more so, than, say, the hypercomplex five-part Vater unser from Clavier-Übung III. Bearing in mind that the Orgel-Büchlein was intended (according to Bach's title page) for beginning organists, I simply don't buy that level of complexity. All in all, my best judgement is that it's best to adjust those evenly notated quarters to the triplet movement, taking Bach's hints in mm. 25, 26, 28, 30 (I am aware that one can also use this as evidence to the contrary).
The pedal cantus firmus, BTW, was surely intended to be played an octave lower using a 4-ft. stop; no organ would have had a high F-sharp in Bach's time—in fact, very few European organs do today. The facsimile I have in front of me is to small to see if there's any indication, but I personally think it's quite possible to play the extra tenor voice in the last two measures (dare I call it the quinta vox) in the pedal as well—of course with the same 4-ft. stop and therefore also an octave lower, obviously with the left foot (and yes, I think toe-toe-toe-toe will do fine). Remember that the piece—as almost all of Bach's organ music—was written on two, not three, staves; the separate staff for the pedal is largely a later invention. In any event, the double pedal ending feels very idiomatic to me.
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