Actually, his name was Bartlett Butler … Dr. Bartlett Butler … and part of me sort of cringes at the ease with which most of us referred to him in conversation as “Bart.” But honestly, I don’t think we were doing so dismissively or disrespectfully (although most of us would never have dreamt to do so to his face) but rather because it was almost impossible not to have a very strong personal connection with this fascinating, passionate, brilliant, open-hearted man. And a week and a day after he passed away at the age of 84, I find myself remembering Dr. Butler with such affection and gratitude – as I know many other Luther alumni are as well who were similarly touched and inspired by him.
I actually remember Dr. Butler from the years we lived in Decorah (1965-1974) when my dad was pastor at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, which was the Butlers’ church. Lots of Luther professors belonged to Good Shepherd, but Dr. Butler stood out from the crowd (at least for me) for his distinguished-looking goatee and this air of charisma about him. He was in our home from time to time because he hired my mother to type the final copy of what I believe was his doctoral dissertation – a HUGE work which grew still more huge as he continued his research, until finally the institution in question (the University of Illinois, I believe) told him “that’s enough.” At least that’s how my parents always told the story. And honestly, it sounds like the Dr. Butler I knew, whose passion for music and thirst for knowledge was inexhaustible.
When I came to Luther in 1978, there was no question that the superstar amongst the music faculty was Weston Noble, the conductor of the world famous Nordic Choir. He was the single greatest reason why I wanted to study there and I can hardly put into words how powerfully he influenced and inspired me. But at the time I think it’s fair to say that I felt a stronger personal kinship with Dr. Butler – that is to say, Dr. Butler and I were cut from the same cloth much more than Mr. Noble and I were. It’s not that we were even on the same planet when it came to intellect – Dr. Butler was Socrates to my Barney Fife – nor that I shared his passion for early music or his encyclopedic knowledge of history. But there was something about the way Dr. Butler navigated through the world, rushing from here to there, slightly disheveled, shirt tail occasionally hanging out, that felt very familiar to me- along with his sensitive nature, his insecurities, and his unbridled joy. Never in a million years could I ever envision myself following in the footsteps of Weston Noble- there was something untouchable and almost otherworldly about his greatness – but I saw enough of myself in Dr. Butler to want to emulate him.
In the years I was at Luther, Dr. Butler taught the Music History course, except for the 20th century unit. I wish I still had my notebook from the course because it would be so interesting now to chart our progress through music’s epic timeline. There’s no question that we studied the earliest periods of western music far more thoroughly than the typical music student at other institutions- probably to the detriment of the later periods through which we had to make a frantic dash. (At least that’s how it felt at the time.) My suspicion is that this was not a premeditated choice on his part but just a reflection of what musically meant the most to him. But in fact I think it was more than okay because we were given such a thorough understanding of music with which we would otherwise have scant personal exposure or experience- while the later music was what we would be able to learn about on our own just through the course of our own musical lives.
My most powerful memories of Dr. Butler, however, stem from the four years I sang with Collegium Musicum- which literally means “musical colleagues.” This was an early music ensemble which Dr. Butler organized in the 1970’s, not long after he had given up directorship of the Chapel Choir which he had conducted for thirteen years. Collegium was a wonderful vehicle for him- and part of what made it such a labor of love for him was that he was a performer right along with the rest of us as he worked to master the various instruments of the recorder family. As a freshman, I found myself thrust into a musical world with which I had almost no experience whatsoever – and it was nothing short of thrilling. Among the most powerful experiences of my entire life was learning and performing a significant portion of the Vespers of Monteverdi – a masterpiece from 400 years ago that any serious student of music needs to know. (One of my saddest disappointments was a couple of years ago when Jim Schatzman called me to solo in the Vespers with his Choral Arts group, but I ended up having to withdraw because of a scheduling problem. What a thrill it would have been to reconnect with this work after thirty years away from it!) I loved that first year in Collegium and chose to remain in the group all four years, perhaps realizing on some level that it would be good for me as a singer to have to step away from the full- steam-ahead operatic singing I loved so much in order to sing with a bit more delicacy and restraint- or at least make the attempt!
But beyond the vocal benefits of such singing, plus the pleasure of singing shoulder to shoulder with such gifted colleagues, there was also the incalculable benefit of singing under a director very different in approach from Mr. Noble, whose rehearsals were a master class in methodical, technical perfection that ultimately enabled us to experience supreme musical mountaintops. Dr. Butler’s rehearsals were, in a sense, much more unkempt and unruly affairs. I don’t mean that we were rowdy- but rather that there was no sense of a clean, clear master plan that was being followed. (Thats how it felt to us, anyway.) Everything was much more spontaneous and free-flowing… we worked incredibly hard but not in the cool, meticulous fashion with which we worked, for instance, in Nordic rehearsals. I find that fascinating now because when people think about early music, they tend to think about it as a very serious, emotionally tepid, and largely humorless affair. Dr. Butler could not have been a more emphatic contradiction to that stereotype. Of course, Collegium concerts were often scary affairs with plenty of moments in which we were perched on the precipice of musical catastrophe. But there was also something incredibly exciting about those concerts exactly because we were living on the edge- and more often than not, things worked out incredibly well.
Of course, Dr. Butler could drive us crazy. There was that night – and Marshall remembers it well- when Dr. Butler rehearsed us almost a half hour later than we were supposed to go (we had a concert coming up and were not ready for it) and by going over as long as he did, it meant that the cafeteria was closed and …. horrors! …. no supper. I was livid – I didn’t even know I could be that angry at someone – and because Marshall missed out on supper, too, we were both mad as hornets at Dr. Butler. (You would have thought the world was about to come to an end.) But then Marshall called his mom, who invited us over to their house where we were served the most delicious turkey sandwiches I’ve ever had, and our imminent starvation was averted. I’m not sure why I even tell this story now; maybe it reminds me of what I was like back then…. although come to think of it, anything now that would force me to miss a meal would lead to very similar consternation! Maybe I tell it just as a reminder that even though I tend to remember myself back then as an incredibly dedicated and serious musician, I sure don’t come off that way in this story. And by the same token, music was the kind of passion for Dr. Butler that tended to render all other matters – including dinner – as of little consequence.
As I read Dr. Butler’s obituary this morning on the website of Fjelstul Funeral Home in Decorah, I was struck to read by a couple of things. First, Dr. Butler’s B.A. was in Classical Languages and Humanities – not music, but when I think of how well-rounded he was as a thinker, I’m not surprised. And when he began teaching at Luther in 1954, it was as a sabbatical replacement. . . precisely the same way I began teaching at Carthage back in 1991. Dr. Butler ended up staying for 35 years, a stirring testament to the thrilling joys that sometimes await us when we step through certain doorways that open unexpectedly for us.
This year I was asked to take back the Chamber Singers at Carthage, which I had conducted for more than a dozen years before my responsibilities at Carthage were changed and the Chamber Singers were given over to someone else. It’s hard to say if this is a temporary shift or if I will continue with the Chamber Singers after this year, but while I have them I am delighted to be reconnecting with something very important to me- and in a very real way to be reconnecting to much of what I learned from Dr. Butler. When I first began directing the Chamber Singers in the early 90’s, I wrote Dr. Butler a letter (that was just before the days of e-mail) in which I tried to thank him for all he had taught me. He actually wrote me back and thanked me for “lovely note” but gently admonished me for the “hyperbole.” Here’s a somewhat embarrassing confession to make: I had to look up the word “hyperbole” in the dictionary because I didn’t know the word. And when I read the definition – “an exaggeration or extravagant statement” I realized that on some level Dr. Butler didn’t really believe all that I had said in that letter about my sense of indebtedness to him. In fact, I meant every single word . . . and I still do.
One of his favorite works which Collegium sang was a 6- voice motet by Heinrich Schutz, “Ich bein ein rechter Weinstock” – his gorgeous setting of the passage from the gospel of John: “I am the true vine and my Father is the vine dresser.” But the most beautiful part of that scripture is: Abide in me as I in you. As a branch cannot bear fruit all by itself, unless it remains part of the vine, neither can you unless you remain in me. What is the life of a musician or of a teacher if it isn’t about bearing fruit? And by that measure, Dr. Butler is as stirring a success story as I can think of.
pictured above: Dr. Butler and I when I was back at my alma mater for my 25th class reunion.