The Recovering Choir Director

People have asked me if I’m a composer.  I usually respond that I write music, but that whether or not I’m a composer I’ll leave entirely up to the judgment of others.  For certain, I am no Igor Stravinsky.  I say this because I’m about to criticize the work of others in rather unmitigated tones, and it seems necessary these days to assure the reading public that such criticism is not an intimation of self-admiration.  This is unfortunate, but now that I’ve taken note of it we can move on to the subject at hand.

This past Christmas, I was in the church practicing my improvisation for the Gospel procession when the pastor walked through the building.  When I took a pause in playing, he turned around and commented favorably on what I had done.  I noted that the improvisation was based on the Introit for the Third Mass of Christmas, Puer natus est.  “Yes, I know,” he replied.

“Yes, I know.”  He said it in a way that had “Of course!” written all over it.  To be truthful, Puer natus is probably one of the more popular introits of the church year, known not only to chant enthusiasts but also to early musick people everywhere.  But this would only strengthen the argument on behalf of the genuine propers, found in the Roman Gradual, that they appeal to musical memory and emotional connections–e.g. the connection of a melody to a given event.  People hear Puer natus and they think, “Ah, Christmas!,” just as they would when hearing “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”

Unfortunately, this magical connection between melody and event has been weakened in the church, due to the wily efforts of the disciples of expediency.^[1]  Any number of excuses are used in order to employ what might be called synthetic propers in place of the genuine propers of the Roman Gradual.  The most usual one is that the genuine propers are too difficult, a kind of statement which one might expect to hear from a public school bureaucracy but which is utterly disheartening when it comes from members of an institution which has been one of the most prolific promoters of art in Western history.

Are the propers of the Roman Gradual too difficult?  I used to demur when the unambitious would cite this as their reason for using one of the synthetic propers.  But on further reflection and experience with the Roman Gradual, I feel the duty now to say, “Rubbish.”  The chants of the Roman Gradual need practice, but they are not insurmountable.  Even the ornate graduals and tracts and alleluias have formulaic characteristics which make them easier to learn.  When, for instance, a mode 5 gradual is on tap, the experienced chant singer knows that certain melodic fragments are almost guaranteed to occur.  One need not be experienced, of course, to benefit from this.  The schola master need only point this out to his novices.

Another excuse—and this one is nothing more than an excuse—is that the interlectionary chants of the Roman Gradual take too long to sing.  I have treated this subject elsewhere, so for now I shall contemptuously dismiss it.  It really is pathetic.

What, besides the musical identity advantage already mentioned, does the Roman Gradual have going for it?  Not least of all is its adherence in musical expression to the liturgical action taking place.  The introits and communions have been composed neumatically, which musically intimates the movement of the processions which are then taking place.  The interlectionary chants are melismatic, which slows down the rate at which the text is rendered and fosters meditation on the word—which is precisely what the Liturgy of the Word is all about.  Isn’t this what Pope Pius X was saying when he mentioned “goodness of forms”?  These are the various forms appropriate for particular points in the liturgy, and through these forms the music strengthens the liturgical action.

Contrast this with the typical characteristics of some of the more popular proper “fakebooks”—the Rossini propers, the Graduale Simplex, and By Flowing Waters.   The Rossini propers are, hands down, the worst of all—nothing but Psalm tones from start to finish.  The Graduale Simplex and By Flowing Waters, are, however, not really all that much better.  In contrast to the idiomatic variety of the Roman Gradual, these synthetic propers turn the Mass into a gigantic Responsorial Psalm, introducing a monotony that might even make Alan Greenspan’s famous deadpan delivery seem melodious.

This idiomatic variety of the Roman Gradual also offers an opportunity for various individuals to perform tasks well-suited to them.  The interlectionary chants, for instance, are often done by a small group of select singers who are fit for the task.  The processionals are often done by a larger choir, and the Ordinary of the Mass is sung by the entire congregation.  This kind of variety would seem to strengthen the idea of each person using the gifts that he has, rather than the tired modern idea of egalitarian democracy which has everyone singing everything all the time.  Does the congregation ever tire of our constantly giving it stuff to sing?  I suspect it does, and yet that’s exactly what some of these idiomatically monotonous synthetic propers seem to require.

Recently, out of a kind of morbid curiosity, I perused By Flowing Waters to see what all the fuss was about.  It was even worse than I had imagined.  Not only does this book turn the Mass into a gigantic Responsorial Psalm, and not only does it destroy the idiomatic variety of the genuine propers, but it leaves the listener with nothing to love.  “Love, love, love!  That is the soul of genius!” Mozart once exclaimed.  But this music is merely functional, and, worse, unmemorable.  And how can this music be loved if it is unmemorable, if in the minds of the listener it will be nearly impossible to make an emotional or psychological connection between music and event?

Perhaps more importantly, how will the propers ever be brought back into use if they are not presented to the people in a way that they can be loved?  Without this, all that is left is liturgical positivism.  The synthetic propers appeal to the law, but the genuine propers appeal to something much more wonderful, much more lasting—something to which all good liturgy appeals—the human capacity to be ravished by beauty.

“By Flushing Waters!” I thought to myself as I investigated this book.  Indeed, the sight of these pages only presented yet another opportunity to reflect on why music in most Catholic churches has gone down the toilet.  By these flushing waters, everyone who knows better—musicians and laity alike—sit and weep at the destruction that has been wrought not only by bad taste but also by liturgical positivism.^[2]  Perhaps the hardest part about the destruction to accept is that not only is the much-maligned sacro-pop artificial, but so is much of the so-called “traditional” music that many insist is somehow better than Glory and Praise.  Ontologically speaking, I’m not sure there’s much difference.  It seems to me that doing good hymnody beats doing fake propers.

It’s time that those of us who know better take down our harps from the walls of the weeping willows that stoop by the flushing waters of American Catholicism and sing con arte—skillfully, with art.   We must sing the genuine propers with love and show just how much of a work of mercy these gems are for the human body and soul.  Already too much of the world is merely functional.  Let us be the bringers of beauty.