Back in August of 2024 I came to my senses and threw out my organ shoes and finally gave up the ghost  to being an organist.  After sixty-plus years of frustration in dealing with churches and numerous personally bad decisions I had come to realise that I was never going to achieve any of the goals, no matter how small, to which I hoped to aspire.  The problem was that I loved the organ.  I have always believed it truly to be the king, or, — as Berlioz declared,— the emperor of instruments. It had everything to do with my love of music.  It was the force behind that love and why I decided to become a musician.  Yet, I always felt (and still do) that with the exception of a small — very small — number of  organists who understood the true demands of the instrument, most organists were extremely boring, as if they didn’t really love it.  I know that isn’t true; but, I couldn’t help thinking, “if these people love the organ so much why don’t they try to master the its virtually kaleidoscopic possibilities ?

The problem for me was I always thought of the organ in terms it being a concert instrument, notwithstanding its long history and tradition as a liturgical instrument. Moreover, it’s fairly evident that the better composers who for the organ felt similarly; otherwise there wouldn’t be the extensive amount of concert music for it.  Unfortunately, since the organ is now inaccessible to me (not by choice mind you) I can no longer contribute  to the promotion of the concert organ as a performer.

It breaks my heart every time I open up the cabinets in my study whit hat music that I will never play ch my music library I see all again — or ever.  I have no organ to play, no choir or orchestra to conduct no singer to accompany,  I sometimes try to read through the occasional art song or short piano piece by Schubert or Bach, even a Joplin rag, but it’s nothing the same.  My sight-reading has deteriorated from lack of desire to practise; my ear-training has atrophied to the point that I can no longer distinguish between a major or minor third.  Needless to say, composing has become even more difficult, even futile.

It’s not as if t he desire isn’t there; I think about writing the next thing all the time: a duo for viola and cor angles, piano pieces, etc.; but, then it’s as if there’s some emotional wall that blocks my motivation. It’s as if I’ve determined that I no longer have the ability to do it:  “I want to, but I can’t” is the feeling.  And, of course, at Seventy-seven the thought of starting over, sitting down at the piano and practising again seems silly, or at least an act of futility.  Even if I manage to reclaim a decent level of proficiency, so what?  To what end? I’ll be too tired or decrepit to anything of value.

  Then there’s the aspect of living in the cultural wasteland of Suburbia.  Quincy, MA is a city that function like a small town in which virtually no culture — particularly the tine arts exist i. any serious fashion.  Now I spend more time mowing the lawn, gardening (pulling weeds mostly), tending to the pool, dealing with home and auto insurance companies, driving — driving — everywhere, even for the slightest things.

So, I’ve pretty much given up music except for the occasional rag, art song and maybe the French Suites in b BWV 814 first movement.  Maybe that’s all I need.