‘Please stand to greet the bride’, said the priest. The congregation surged to its feet, heads turning towards the back of the church. To the left of the altar (it wasn’t my own church) I started cheerfully playing ‘Here comes the bride’. And nothing happened.

Unless you are in a church with an enormously long aisle, the well-known ‘Bridal March’ from Wagner’s Löhengrin is usually more than enough to get bride, father and even the biggest cluster of bridesmaids into position. In fact, some processions whizz up so fast that you have a problem bringing the music to a credible close. But on this occasion I played it right through and out the other side, and the bride hadn’t moved.

She was certainly there – I could see the white dress at the far end of the church. So could the priest, who decided to go down and investigate. I watched him conferring with the bride and her father, as I brought Wagner round for the second time, but now playing softly and warily. Best to treat it as an interlude, I thought, until we know whether a Jane Eyre situation (‘He already has a mad wife in the garret!’) is developing. By this time the congregation had turned through fully 180 degrees and were gawping. Groom and best man looked nonplussed.

Afterwards, I was told that the bride had burst into tears and declared she couldn’t go through with it. However, persuasion was brought to bear, and eventually the priest led the procession up the aisle. I pulled out a few more stops and everything proceeded as normal.

Two thoughts remained with me after this episode. First, that I should always have something in reserve should Wagner not prove sufficient. As it happened, not long afterwards ‘Here comes the bride’ was again stretched to the limit, for quite a different reason – but that’s another story.

The second thought was: isn’t there something in Canon Law about persuading someone to marry against their will?

Oh, well. Not my affair.

Still haven’t followed up the banned hymns rumour, but in the meantime another one has cropped up which can be squashed right away.

Here’s the rumour: A number of parish musicians, and even some parish priests, believe that Mass music created BY a parish composer FOR the parish cannot be used WITHIN the parish without permission from the National Liturgy Commission approval committee.

NOT TRUE. You can compose Mass music for your own parish, and it can be sung there quite legitimately (provided of course that priest and parish want to sing it!).

Nothing has been announced publicly and precisely about this, which is a pity, as lack of information just breeds rumours. However, the truth of this particular question is given by implication in the Guide for Composers on the Roman Missal Scotland website. On page 12, paragraph 36, we have:

Many who compose music for the liturgy wish to pass on the fruits of their creation to others, beyond the particular community for which it was first created.

From this, one can take it that the approval system kicks in only when you want to spread your music outside its original community, usually your own parish. So within the original community there’s nothing to stop you writing and using your own Mass settings.

And again, same page, paragraph 39:

The Concordat [they call it ‘imprimatur’ elsewhere on the website, but it just means the permission they hand out] will be required of any published liturgical settings. This means making the setting available to others, whether freely or for a fee. However the Concordat is not necessary to set the liturgical texts and it is recognised that musical settings invariably have to be tried in a local setting [I assume they mean environment, not musical!] before they are published. [emphases mine]

The people who wrote these guidelines seem to think that every liturgical composer is anxious to publish his or her music, the original parish being just a testing-ground. This of course need not be the case at all. Many composers are happy just creating Mass music for their own parishes and leaving it at that. Sadly, these are the ones who suffer most when the above rumour causes them, or their priests, to believe their music is not permitted at all.

In consequence, some might just give up composing altogether. Others, on the other hand, may well be inundating the approval committee with music never intended for publication.

Following on from the previous post, I don’t think our guitarists need worry at all.

I’ve been dipping into the 2011 General Instruction of the Roman Missal, as given on the
Roman Missal Scotland website. Here’s part of paragraph 393. It applies to both England and Scotland:

Likewise it is for the [Bishops’] Conference to judge which musical forms, melodies, and musical instruments may be lawfully admitted into divine worship, insofar as these are truly suitable for sacred use, or can be made suitable.

And here’s the same part of 393 in the American version:

While the organ is to be accorded pride of place, other wind, stringed, or percussion instruments may be admitted into divine worship in the Dioceses of the United States of America, according to longstanding local usage, in so far as these are truly suitable for sacred use, or can be made suitable.

Hmm. At least the Americans appreciate us organists.

As one whose liturgical life revolves around the organ, I never thought I would find myself firing up on behalf of guitars, but there’s a first time for everything. It’s really a matter of principle, the same principle that sent me rushing to the defence of the MacMillan Mass in 2010.

The principle is this: people differ greatly in the type of music which appeals to them, and if the purpose of music is to enhance the liturgy and be spiritually uplifting, then varying tastes have to be taken into account. Forth in Praise’s remit from the Liturgy Commission, which is to give practical advice and help to parishes regarding the music they (the parishes) have chosen, echoes this principle. Obviously, you can’t please all of the people all of the time, but on the whole, parishes tend to settle on styles of music to which their congregations are responsive.

What has brought all this on has been a remark by a guitar-playing acquaintance that there is a ‘feeling’ that with the advent of the new liturgy, the Church is now seeing guitars as somehow vulgar and to be forbidden, or at least discouraged.

Now I’ll bet that this is the old rumour factory at it again. There has been no official pronouncement on guitars, so far as I know. The rumour must have arisen from the current exhortations to silence, dignity and reverence in church. Guitars became popular following Vatican II, along with a lot of informal behaviour like chattering in church. The informal behaviour is now being discouraged, and possibly guitars are being seen as part of it, which of course they aren’t. No doubt some church guitarists overdid the Elvis stuff, but you can’t blame the instrument.

The guitar, in one form or another, has a history going back to pre-Christian times. It is a serious musical instrument. As it can play more than one note at a time, it is able to provide a harmonic basis for singing, and is thus useful in the absence of an organ. Unlike the organ, the guitar can’t prolong its chords. It has to repeat them rhythmically, and is therefore happiest with metrical music. Writing for the guitar has become more difficult with the new Mass text, but it isn’t impossible. So provided that guitarists are suitably reverent, why shouldn’t they continue their work in the parishes which appreciate them?

This reminds me very much of the anti-choir and anti-organ rumours that affected so many parishes in the immediate aftermath of Vatican II. In church after church, choirs were disbanded and organists discouraged, because of the rumour that the people, and only the people, must be involved in liturgical music, all other singers and instrumentalists being superfluous or at least dumbed down to providing minimal support. The guitar, however, was different. With Vatican II now permitting ‘indigenous’ instruments, it was seen as an instrument of the people, and encouraged. But if one studies the Vatican II documents, one finds that choirs and organs were never banned. In fact, quite nice things were said about them. All the rest was just rumour.

And now it all appears to be happening again, but this time in reverse.

Rumours of this kind can be damaging and discouraging. My guitarist friend was quite depressed. I remember my own disillusionment as a post-Vatican II organist. So this year I thought I might have a look at some of these rumours as they arise. For example, there’s one going about just now about a list of hymns (note: hymns, not Mass settings) which are banned in the new liturgy.

Or so they say.

… and apologies for blog-absence. New liturgy, on top of the usual Christmas hectic music preparations, is the excuse. I think because we didn’t have all the snow that afflicted us last year, we felt we had to make up for it this time and go the extra mile. We did the Christmas Carol Mass on Christmas Eve, and our PP particularly liked the Ding Dong Gloria, which was sung with great gusto. I wonder if anyone else used it? There were a lot of downloads, but that doesn’t really tell you much.

Winding down now, but plans are afoot for early 2012 which will affect Forth in Praise and this blog – favourably, we all hope.

Tell you more soon. Meanwhile, enjoy the holiday!

There is no doubt that of all the music of the new liturgy, the Gloria gives the most problems. Longer than its already long predecessor, the unwieldy text may be closer to the Latin original, but it’s far more difficult to set to music. There is very little that can be grabbed hold of rhythmically, and that, with its length, makes it difficult for people to learn, as well.

And why, oh why, did our normally misogynistic Catholic Church have to go all inclusive and say ‘and on earth peace to people of good will’?

‘Peace to men of good will’ would have given the close translation they wanted – they have ‘men’ in the Creed (‘for us men and for our salvation’), so why be politically correct in the Gloria? ‘Men of good will’ is a Christmas phrase used in all the Churches, we all know it means ‘mankind’ rather than the male of the species, and it is a darned sight easier to put to music than the clunky phrase in the new liturgy.

What’s worse, a rumour is circulating that there is now a ban on refrain Glorias. For the uninitiated, a refrain Gloria is punctuated two or three times by a refrain in Latin or English taken from the Gloria words, perhaps the most popular being Gloria in excelsis Deo; the people sing the refrain, and a cantor the verses.

The rumour is not true. Both types of Gloria, refrain and through-composed, are perfectly acceptable, and a refrain Gloria is probably the best way in for a congregation who won’t hang around for practices (and most won’t). When they have listened to the cantor sing the verses often enough, they can be invited to join in with the whole thing.

At one point it struck me, and it has no doubt struck others, that a Gloria with a ‘disposable’ refrain might be an idea, a refrain that can be shed, like a spacecraft booster rocket, once the people are familiar with the verses. So I had a go and did one, the St Michael Gloria, which will no doubt be christened the ‘Disposable Gloria’ by my choir (we already have a ‘Forgettable Sanctus’).

It may be significant that of all the music put forward online by Forth in Praise, this single item has had most downloads world-wide. I have often wondered why, and maybe the refrain is the reason. Are there any more ‘disposables’ out there? I’d be very interested to know.

In the meantime, we can relax a bit. At least we have a break from the Gloria for a few weeks.

‘… and this one is of the organist, demanding to be paid ’.

For the first time, I reckon this disgruntled organist has featured in someone’s wedding photographs.

The church was some distance away, which makes collecting forgotten fees difficult. With this in mind, I had asked the couple, when I met them in the church to go over their music, to leave my envelope with the priest at the wedding rehearsal and I would pick it up from him on the day. I phoned the priest about this, and he was perfectly agreeable.

But when the wedding was over, and all the photographs going on outside, the priest told me they hadn’t left my fee with him, but that an usher had it. Ushers! The most unreliable element of any wedding. Envelopes entrusted to ushers get lost in their sporrans and found by the kilt-hire company weeks later.

That afternoon I’d already had a run-in with one hoity-toity usher over the orders of service. Added to that, the ‘organ’ was one of those beastly electronic pianos. The bride having arrived half an hour late, I had had to play the wretched thing for nearly an hour beforehand, the piper unusually having decided to take things easy.

So when the priest told me the location of my fee envelope, something snapped.

The open front door of the church was blocked by a line of kilted backs, obviously part of a group photograph. ‘Are you an usher?’ I asked one of the backs. ‘No, they’re over there, but they’re having their photos taken’ was the reply, in a they-can’t-possibly-be-disturbed tone of voice, which made me even madder.

I went out by a side door and round to the front. An usher was pointed out to me, and I marched over to him, completely disregarding any photography going on, and said as loudly as I could, ‘Excuse me, I’m the organist and I haven’t been paid’. I tried to say it with a smile, and it got a general laugh. Usher, only now remembering his duty, dives into his sporran and produces a whole bundle of envelopes, including mine. It was nice to think that I was saving other people’s fees from the dry-cleaning machine as well.

Maybe the word will go round now – ‘you don’t want that bad-tempered organist’. And do you know, I don’t mind if it does.

We started with the revised Bellahouston Gloria (1982 version). The reasoning was: they know the refrain, they know the chant melody. All (all!) they have to do is fit the new words to the existing chant.

‘They’ of course are the congregation. Now that we are in the no-man’s-land of the run-up to Advent, congregations have a lot of new stuff to learn. And they’re all busy people who can’t or won’t hang around for practices. Nevertheless, they’ve got to do it, willy-nilly. There’s no getting out of this one, unless your parish has no music, or sings only hymns.

So – week 1. Off we went. I positively pounded out the chant, in a manner of speaking, as of course you can’t actually pound anything on an organ. What I did was some sharpish staccato with most of the the stops out. The organ sounded like a blacksmith’s shop.

The congregation was all over the place, musically speaking. Priest sang along looking worried. Comparing notes afterwards, we decided it wasn’t too good, but we’d try again next week.

Week 2. We did exactly the same, but the congregation was more together.

Week 3 was better still. I left off pounding.

Week 4. They knew it! Priest delighted. ‘Next week, the MacMillan Bellahouston Gloria’ he announced.

Tomorrow, the world.

‘Can’t we sing this unaccompanied?’ The remark came from the back of the hall.

It was inevitable, I suppose, that the purist point of view should be represented at this fairly large gathering where we were trying out the ICEL chant. I was the accompanist, doing my best to play a very aged home organ.

I looked at our leader, who shrugged and took the polite option. ‘OK, we’ll try it without accompaniment’, she said. ‘Should I go home?’ I asked, equally politely, which got a laugh.

So we set off again, with me sitting to one side, feeling a bit spare. Little by little I became aware of the front row trying to catch my eye. After a while, the first two rows started making piano-playing gestures. I shook my head. After a few more minutes and some low-level muttering, they came right out and asked for the accompaniment to be resumed. Our leader nodded to me, and I returned to my post. There was no comment from the back.

Our purist got the last laugh, however, when the organ started an ominous growling and finally blew up with an almighty bang, sending me tearing across the room in fright, wondering if this was God’s opinion of my playing. We continued unaccompanied.

Two distinct points emerge from this incident:

• Yes, chant is traditionally unaccompanied. At the learning stage, however, most people appreciate the backing of an instrument, even when their ultimate aim is unaccompanied singing. There is actually some evidence that this practice went on in medieval times – I came across it when studying the modes as part of my thesis.

• As I’ve said before, one should be very, VERY careful with aged electronic instruments.

For a moment I thought I was in one of those wonderful English cathedrals listening to an evensong choral anthem, such was the purity of tone, the precision, the expressiveness – in fact the sheer spirituality of the sound.

But I wasn’t. I was at a normal Sunday Mass in a local Catholic church in Maryhill, Glasgow. Of course, St Columba’s has a rather special director of music, but could even James MacMillan produce a parish choir like this?

After Mass, I went to have a word, and asked if he had brought Cappella Nova along. He thought I was joking and said how flattered his parish choir would be. So it was a parish choir. I was truly impressed, and henceforward will regard my own choir with a new and speculative eye.

One very interesting feature was the use of the opening antiphon instead of the standard processional hymn. This is real cutting-edge stuff. Like the psalm, the opening antiphon involves a learn-a-snippet-on-the-spot job for the congregation. James MacMillan made it easier by using the same bit of melody again as the psalm response. And the music was on the congregation’s Mass sheet, which was good. Why do we always assume that people can’t read music?

Other Mass parts flowed beautifully, in Latin and English, old and new liturgies, with hymns and a motet, all led by this tremendously-organised choir.

The only negative aspect, of which James MacMillan is fully aware, was a lack of serious singing from the congregation, either of the new music or of the standard hymns which one would expect people to know well. It’s so easy to say that ‘a good choir puts people off’ – I’ve heard it often – but I don’t think it’s true. A really good choir, like this one, boosts the congregational singing by careful blending. The organ accompaniment was strong, with a good lead. In a Protestant church, the singing from the people would have been raising the roof.

So this seemed to be just another instance of the ‘Catholics won’t sing’ phenomenon, which is of course widespread. Myself, I think the responsibility for this – and the solution – lies with the Catholic Church itself. But that’s for another blog post.

St Columba’s was a lovely experience, musically polished and full of innovation. A parish like this leads the way, inspires other parish musicians and helps to battle musical stagnation.

Well worth a visit, folks. And if you do go, please sing your heads off!