A Musician Remembered

Tim’s call for advice about speaking at a musician’s memorial service took me back a few years when I was asked to speak for a similar occasion. Thus A. Lawrence Kimbrough is in my mind today, a tiny, and when I knew him, old Black man, University Organist at Missouri’s Lincoln University, an historic school begun by an African American Division of the US Army following the Civil War. The Division organized the school as a normal college to train African American teachers in the effort to educate their newly freed population. By the time I knew Kimbrough, the University was a part of the State system and had been integrated for several decades.

I got to know Kimbrough when our church organist brought him in to substitute during her vacations. With great competence he’d play the rehearsals for the choir I directed, and on Sundays he’d sometimes thrill members of the congregation with improvisations on old gospel hymns. Following one of those services I recall a prominent member coming to the chancel to express to the organist how much he appreciated hearing a hymn he hadn’t heard since his childhood in the small-town Missouri church where he grew up. Kimbrough thanked him and explained that his grandmother had taught him the song.

Kimbrough came to our home for dinner one Sunday afternoon. A friend who had graduated from Lincoln University was also a guest. They talked about the university and other local items. At one point the far-ranging conversation turned to the mind. Kimbrough asked her what music she heard in her head. She replied, “I never hear music.” The organist was surprised, puzzled. He had never imagined a mind that wasn’t filled with music! I thought about my friend’s mind that was crammed with historic, economic and logical reference! Lawrence then related how when he was at an educational conference in Philadelphia, he sought and was granted permission to attend rehearsals of a local opera company as they prepared a harmonically lush late 19th century work. All his free moments were spent listening to the rehearsals. After quite a few hours he found a piano and played from his auditory memory all the music. His mind was full of music.

One Sunday Kimbrough began an improvisation on another old hymn his grandmother may have taught him. After the opening verse and at the beginning of the second, he began playing a chromatic scale way down in the bass. In steady eighth notes the scale crept its way upwards. I thought, “Oh my, now he’s lost.” But my musical imagination wasn’t correct. The scale ended on the key note on the final resolution of the full cadence. His mind surely was full of music and a kind of musical genius to remember. I celebrate his musicianship today as I recall of telling this story years ago at his University-wide Memorial service.

Another short musical story. I fondly remember my dad as a church musician. In the church where I grew up, the sermon moved straight into a plea for persons to make decisions to become disciples of Christ, to commit themselves to a life of following Christ, to start their lives anew with Jesus as one old song put it. The transition was covered by the quiet musical beginning of the invitation hymn which the congregation eventually sang. The minister, W. F. Lown told this story.

One Sunday after service a member who appreciated the seamless and always musical transition asked Lown how Earl, my dad, knew when to begin. He asked the minister what signal he gave the organist.

“Signal?“ Lown asked and then explained. “Well, it’s like this; when Earl gets up to play, I know it’s time to end my sermon.”

Now I wish I had told that story at Dad’s funeral.

Denver, 2014

My dad would be happy to know that music
making is still underway in the family. This
great grand kid of his is composing music
and playing a great variety of music and
musical styles as a fifth generation family
musician. There may have been more,
 many more generations
about which I know nothing.

Kalo Hoyle at the piano.
Photo by Phillip Hoyle