A thousand ages in Thy sight . . .
In June 1956, the Aeolian-Skinner Organ Company, under the leadership of tonal director G. Donald Harrison, was rushing to complete the new organ for St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Pierre Cochereau, the organist at the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, was to open the national convention of the American Guild of Organists on June 26 with a recital on the new organ at St. Thomas Church, and the pressure was on.
On June 14, New York’s taxi drivers were on strike, forcing Harrison to walk the eight blocks home to the apartment on Third Avenue he shared with his wife, Helen. It was unseasonably hot, and the exhausted Harrison stopped at a drug store for a dose of smelling salts. After dinner that evening, “Don” sat down with Helen to watch the impish piano virtuoso Victor Borge on television, and at 11 p.m. suffered a massive fatal heart attack. On June 18, he was buried on Long Island.1
In exquisite foreshadowing and coincidence, on June 18, 1956, John Gavin Scott was born in Wakefield, Yorkshire, in the United Kingdom. His early musical education and performing career was as a chorister at Wakefield Cathedral. From 1974 to 1978 he served as organ scholar at St. John’s College, Cambridge, under George Guest. After his graduation, he served concurrently as assistant organist at Southwark and St. Paul’s Cathedrals in London. And in 1990, he famously rose to serve as organist and director of music at St. Paul’s, following the retirement of Christopher Dearnley.
John Scott was appointed organist and director of music of St. Thomas Church and Choir School in New York in 2004, forty-eight years after the death of the creator of the organ there.
On Tuesday, August 11, 2015, John Scott returned home to New York from a triumphant concert tour of Europe, anticipating a day of meetings discussing the replacement of the much-altered Aeolian-Skinner organ at St. Thomas, and the start of a new academic year with the Choir School. According to the website of St. Thomas Church, he was “not feeling well the next morning and suffered a sudden cardiac episode. He was taken to Roosevelt Hospital but never regained consciousness. His wife, Lily, was by his side when he died.” John and Lily were married at St. Thomas Church in May 2013, and Lily gave birth to their son, Arthur John Gavin Scott, on September 4.
The power of social media
Social media is everywhere, and there are all kinds of uses for it, from the ridiculous to the sublime. I don’t need to describe the ridiculous—everyone who lurks on Facebook knows what I mean. But the sublime is there, and it can be powerful. In August, I was following the Facebook posts of four colleagues giving concert tours in Europe. Each published photos of the organs they were playing, and the buildings they were in. There were a few obligatory pub photos, and one of an Austrian cow. There were photos of statues of great musicians, with captions describing our colleague’s inspiration as they followed in great footsteps. It was fun to follow them as they crossed paths, sharing the stories of each venue, and rewarding to share the observations of such sensitive musicians as they sat on the same benches occupied by past masters.
John Scott was one of the touring artists. It was fun to follow him as he moved around, but eerie to scroll through them a second time after receiving the news of his death. How was anyone to know that this would be his last concert?
And never in its eleven-year history has Facebook showed its real value more than the days following John Scott’s tragic and untimely death, as hundreds of mentors, colleagues, and former and present choristers eloquently shared their grief and memories around the world. Photos of John at the organ, in front of choirs and orchestras, and at post-concert celebrations in pubs showed up by the hundred. I clicked “play” for dozens of John’s performances as they appeared on my page—from elegant moments of small ensembles on period instruments, to serene readings of the great anthems of the Anglican tradition, to the supreme sonic swashbuckling from the 1997 Christmas Concert at St. Paul’s Cathedral (type “St Paul’s Cathedral Choir 1997 Christmas Concert: Hark” in the YouTube search field, and fasten your seatbelt).
And someone please tell me, just how do a couple dozen boys project their voices in descant above such a mass of sound?
Millions of people have been privileged to hear John Scott’s music-making. His position at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London had him on the bench for such internationally televised celebrations as “The Royal Wedding” (Charles and Diana), Queen Elizabeth’s Diamond Jubilee, and the Queen Mother’s Hundredth Birthday.2 And those of us who understand anything about performing before the public know that a certain amount of self-assurance (dare I say ego?) is necessary.
But there are two sentiments common to virtually every comment I read: that John Scott was the consummate musician, setting the highest standards in everything he did, making it look natural and easy, and that John Scott was the epitome of humility, of gentlemanliness, of grace, and of kindness. I read of students who, in the thrall of John’s solo organ recordings, made impromptu international pilgrimages to hear him play, and were thrilled to be treated like honored guests. I read of colleagues who marveled at his virtuosity, hearing him play concerts that included not one, not two, but four or five of the most notoriously complex pieces—a series of blockbuster closers—with apparently little effort. And I read of people thrilled beyond belief to have received affirmation and encouragement from him.
I read the words of parents of choristers who valued the fatherly, mentoring life example for their sons as much or more than the spectacular musical education. And I read the words of clergy describing John Scott as the ideal colleague, unruffled, unruffleable, intuitive, innovative, and always exquisitely prepared.We would have forgiven him for thundering through life with full awareness of his genius, dramatic swirls of a cape, and (as I once witnessed a world-famous conductor do in Cleveland) standing regally erect to announce his restaurant dinner order in stentorian voice, stopping all other conversation in the room!
But there’s the beauty. As the Gospel of Luke reminds us not to keep our light (talent) hidden under a bushel, John Scott knew that his was a special gift, not given him for self-aggrandizement, but to be shared freely with all the energy he could muster. Hundreds of people writing about John on Facebook quoted Johann Sebastian Bach’s maxim, Soli Deo Gloria (to God alone be glory). John impressed and inspired thousands of musicians with his exquisite taste, consummate musicianship, and unparalleled collegiality. He honored us all by the care he invested in his work, and our lives are all enriched by his devotion to the music of the church.
Reminiscing
In the past few days, I’ve spent time with several of John’s colleagues and coworkers, hearing their memories and impressions. I intended to distill those offerings into separate vignettes, but felt that it read too much like tributes to the contributors.3
You know those gala dinners when a member of the committee introduces the keynote speaker by giving a ten-minute biography of himself?
Instead, what follows is drawn from the words of others.
John had a relentless work ethic. He studied, practiced, and programmed meticulously. He approached each piece of music and each instrument he played as a fresh experience, and he prepared each performance as though it were his first. When there was extra practice time available he used it diligently—perhaps nurturing his skills to be ready for the many times when there wasn’t much rehearsal or practice time.
John’s basic musical and keyboard skills were unparalleled. Once, when the choir was working toward a performance of J. S. Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, there were an extra few minutes in a rehearsal just before Evensong. John asked the choir to “take out the Bach” and run through one of the big flashy choruses. He went to the piano to lead, and his colleague noted that as the performance was to be performed at Baroque “low pitch” (A=415Hz) with an orchestra of period instruments, John was transposing down a half-step at sight. Another glance showed that he was playing from the full orchestral score—casually enough drawing on those basic skills—basic for him perhaps, but unattainable for most of us. His skills were perfectly preserved and carefully nurtured, available at any moment without notice.
Another rehearsal story came from an organist who was “filling in” during a period when the associate and assistant organist positions were vacant. The piece in question was Bach’s rollicking motet, Lobet den Herrn—five minutes and forty-five seconds of bounding Baroque ebullience. Determined to meet John’s standards, he had prepared carefully, and after a rehearsal run-through, was pleased to have grazed just one note. As the last chord died away, John turned to him and said, “Mr. ____, on page . . . .” One note of the multitude out of place, and John identified it perfectly and immediately. What’s more, the correction was not personal. It was accurate and simple, in the service of the music alone.
A colleague wrote:
John’s unparalleled, gentlemanly conduct with people was tangible in his sense of musical proportion, balance, communication and temperament. Never the triviality of wasted time nor wasted words, what was undeniably correct in the music could not have been easier to comprehend and follow. One hundred simply perfect musical thoughts communicated with one gesture and a smile. The acceptance of nothing less through the reciprocity that made this possible without a hint of eccentricity, ever.
A correspondent engaged John to play a recital on his home instrument, enjoyed and admired John’s preparation, and was astonished during the performance at how fresh and vital the organ sounded. The story-teller was used to playing on the instrument weekly, performing frequently outside of worship, and hearing many other musicians use the same instrument—but somehow this performance was different. With the program over, John returned to New York, and the story-teller took a look at the piston settings used during the concert, expecting to find magical creative combinations as yet untried. But no. John had used registrations that were conventional and uncomplicated. There was simply something about his fingers on the keys, the turns of phrase, the impalpable sense of rhythm that transformed the instrument into something even more special.
In 2011, I wrote about attending worship at St. Thomas on Easter Sunday.4 Wendy and I attended the early Mass—the preludes started at 7:30 a.m. Two hours later, after we heard the sub-organists playing the anthems, hymns, and service music, John slid onto the bench for the postlude and it seemed suddenly like a different organ. It was breathtaking. The energetic drive of his playing woke up the instrument, giving it a new and distinct voice.
John was devoted to the boys of the choir. He cared deeply about them, and cared for them as a parent would. The mother of a chorister commented to the rector, “My son doesn’t have a father at home—Mr. Scott serves as his father.” John noticed dark circles under a chorister’s eyes. “You look a little tired. Do you need an early evening?” A chorister’s father posted a short video of John playing (pretty good) ping-pong with the boys, adding, “John was at home with the boys, and they were at home with him.”
The choir sang in a series of performances of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, led by the brilliant Sir Simon Rattle. After the last performance, Rattle commented, “Those are the finest choristers I’ve ever worked with.”
An organist was dejected after missing notes and registrations during Evensong. John expressed his belief in his associate, encouraged him—“I know you have it in you”—giving the richest of collegial experiences.
An organbuilder working at St. Thomas spoke of John’s vision for the organ—his intuitive sense of how timbres blended, and how he was able to alter the sound of the instrument with the subtlest changes in phrasing and articulation. Another commented that John was at home with whatever instrument he played. When on tour, he played a wide variety of instruments, from massive romantic cathedral organs, to huge modern trackers, to tiny ancient instruments. One observer pointed out that it didn’t seem as though he adjusted to each organ, he simply played the organ of the day.
Big shoes to fill
It’s a special responsibility for an artist to follow a legend—to assume a post long held by a beloved, skilled, and admired predecessor. Gerre Hancock was organist and master of choristers at St. Thomas Church from 1971 until 2004. Known as “Uncle Gerre” to generations of musicians, he raised the musical and liturgical standards of worship at St. Thomas to stratospheric levels. People thronged from around the world to participate in worship there, and under his leadership, the St. Thomas Choir was respected as among the best. Dr. Hancock’s organ improvisations were legendary, as were his compositions and hymn arrangements.
Following Gerre Hancock’s retirement, John Scott arrived in New York and quietly assumed his duties without fanfare. He simply took up where Hancock had left off, and continued to build and develop the sound, the prowess, and the international esteem of the choir. Perhaps this metamorphosis was enhanced by the turnover inherent in a choir of young boys. After all, a treble chorister’s career cannot last more than four or five years. But as one commented to me this week, John Scott saw himself as a steward of the choir, of that great tradition in that great church. It was his duty to encourage its work for the Glory of God as long as his tenure lasted. Tragically, his tenure was drastically shorter than any of us might have hoped or imagined. But we as individuals, and our art form, are the richer for having shared the earth with John Scott.
Never has the world of church music been graced by a more highly skilled, thoughtful, humble, caring participant. Church music will never be the same because John Scott was part of it. Much of his legacy is permanent through stacks of solo, choral, and ensemble recordings. And all who heard him have witnessed the best there is. He was born with immense gifts, nurtured them with grace and energy, and shared them generously with the world to the Glory of God. That was his way. ν
Notes
1. Craig Whitney, All the Stops, New York, PublicAffairs, 2003, page 119.
2. Queen Elizabeth appointed John Scott as a Lieutenant of the Royal Victorian Order (LVO) in 2004 in recognition of his work at St. Paul’s Cathedral.
3. Thanks to those who contributed memories by phone and in writing:
a. Fred Teardo, organist and director of music at the Cathedral Church of the Advent, Birmingham, Alabama, who served as associate organist at St. Thomas for more than five years.
b. Erik Suter, former organist at Washington National Cathedral, frequent “fill-in” organist at St. Thomas. Erik’s son Daniel is a chorister in the St. Thomas Boy Choir.
c. Haig Mardirosian, dean of the College of Arts and Letters at the University of Tampa, where he presides over the Dobson pipe organ in Sykes Chapel.
d. Canon Carl Turner, rector of St. Thomas Church.
e. Stephen Tharp, concert organist, and artist in residence at St. James Episcopal Church on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.
4. I have written twice about attending worship at St. Thomas Church with John Scott at the helm. See “In the wind . . . ” in The Diapason issues from January 2008 and June 2011.
