In the UK, you must be 16 years old to drive a tractor, 17 to fly an aeroplane and 18 drive an HGV. Fortunately there is no lower age limit to play a cathedral organ, which is a gift to any budding organist, as the thrill will set them on a path to musical success. Full organ is bold, majestic and awe-inspiring, but simultaneously controllable. You feel the kind of pleasure that Kant described as the ‘dynamical sublime’. Village church organs are, however, very different. Most are not afforded the luxury of monthly tuning and expensive renovations. They slumber away in the chancels of parish churches, often unplayed, and rarely commented on. The mechanical action is heavy, couplers work themself loose with intense playing, and tutti is not so rewarding as you would hope. Yet, as I reflect on my first decade as an organist, I find myself more and more at home at the console of a one-manual ‘Bishop & Son’ in the rural countryside, than a magnificent cathedral organ.

Organists are often thrust into the limelight simply by making more noise than anybody else. But if, like me, you consider yourself a ‘musician’ rather than a ‘performer’, you will appreciate solitude. I wander into a village church and stay for two hours without seeing anybody. I meditate as I play, relishing the simple pleasure of exploring the instrument alone, and all thoughts of the world rushing around me fade away. No performance or exam to worry about, and nobody to impress. What’s more, an insect buzzes past the music desk, pigeons coo outside and a breeze gently rattles the windows.

As I play, I begin to notice faults with the instrument. Air is escaping from the base of a pipe, bottom C is temperamental, and so on. This is because financial attention is diverted elsewhere; to the crack in the old Norman tower or the leak in the transept roof. But somehow, the quirks contribute to the charm of the instrument. Rattles, out-of-tune notes, unsteady wind supply, all add a depth of musical character that is completely authentic. I often say that the beauty of music is in its imperfections, and that we admire performances not because of what is written on the score, but what isn’t. The intake of breath of a singer, the subtle strain in the voice, the notes that are – intentionally or otherwise – ‘off key’ are the most expressive moments. Music is most emotional when it is relatable to us as humans – and humans are not perfect.

Similarly, each village church organ has its own identity. It might only have four stops, with only three working, but with limitation comes creativity. Try, for instance, playing two pedal notes at the same time to produce a rumbling sound, or play a passage an octave lower to create the illusion of more keyboards. If you have an organ with an oboe stop, try a solo in octaves to imitate a trumpet, or couple it down to the pedals to make a pedal reed. Though my followers enjoy seeing me soaked in a field, or carting my trolley full of sheet music through the mud, they are most intrigued witnessing the processes of exploration and experimentation which characterise the life of a village church organist.

So, if you are just starting out, or you’ve been playing for decades, your life will be richer for the moments of peace you’ve spent at your local village church organ. If it wheezes and groans despondently, don’t give up. Coax it, try a different sound, and soon it will begin to sing again. Music brings us joy in the face of adversity. Perhaps that’s why my most successful video this year, with 90,000 views, is titled ‘Unplayable Organ? CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!’

Ben Maton is an organist and creator of the YouTube channel, The Salisbury Organist

This article originally appeared in the Autumn 2024 issue of Choir & Organ. Never miss an issue – subscribe today