It is often overlooked that, as a child prodigy, among numerous prizes and awards taken by Alkan at the Paris Conservatoire is a first for organ in 1834 in the class of François Benoist, who would award the young César Franck a mere second prix in 1841. Some two decades later, Franck would lay the cornerstone of serious organ music in France with his Pièces (6), including the Beethoven-inspired Grande Pièce symphonique, dedicated to Alkan. There is a certain irony in this as Franck's organ works are among the most popular for the instrument, while Alkan's—despite Busoni's high regard for them—remain "caviar to the general." Alkan's interest had been engaged by the pédalier in the late 1840s, when the piano manufacturer Érard put one at his disposal. At the Paris International Exposition of 1855 Alkan was to be seen demonstrating Érard's "newly perfected" model—what a pity that Berlioz, who was on the Exposition's jury, did not deign to notice it! Alkan's close connection with the house of Érard is acknowledged by the dedication "À la mémoire de Pierre Érard," who died that year. By 1859 Alkan's interest in composing for the pédalier—or, one may say, for an instrument with capabilities extended by a pedal-board—was signaled by the appearance of the imposing Benedictus and reflected by the assignment of the Prières (13) (Richault, 1866) to the organ "avec pédale obligée," or pédalier, or "piano à trois mains." As a Jew, the post of organist at one or another Paris basilica, where so many French composers began their professional lives—Saint-Saëns, Franck, and Fauré among them—was closed to him, while an appointment as organist to the main Paris synagogue in 1851 was hastily abandoned. Thus, there is some ambiguity about the sound Alkan ultimately wanted. Almost certainly, the pédalier, is what he heard in his inner ear and composed for. And with a turn to the pédalier came a change of heart. Though the writing is as quirky as ever (some of the later pédalier works have been compared to Satie and Ives), for the Prières his satiric vein has been muted to a tone of genuine devotion, deeply felt, and occasionally profound, even mystical (for instance, No. 3). No. 2, No. 9, and No. 11 are winsomely pastoral. No. 8, Deus Sabaoth—Dieu des armées, is a rousing battle hymn, while other pieces traverse moods from the stately to the sweetly yearning, the festive to the strange.

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