I was saddened this morning to hear from Mathew Rosenblum of the death, at age 87, of microtonal patriarch Ezra Sims. He was the pioneer of a 72edo (72 equal divisions of the octave) notation that spread among his younger colleagues in Boston and gave that city its own microtuning culture distinct from the rest of the nation. I only met him once, briefly at a Dinosaur Annex concert, but I respected his music from the first time I reviewed it in Fanfare, and we shared some jovial correspondence surrounding some liner notes I once wrote for him a 2011 profile I wrote of him for Chamber Music magazine.* His music was variously capable of gnarliness, wit, and soulfulness; for the second of these, I think of his choral setting of the epigram, “There is no need / Of Andre Gide.” And of course he entered theory-class anecdotal history when Baker’s Biographical Dictionary erroneously listed him as having written a String Quartet No. 2 in 1962, and he retroactively corrected the error in 1974 by writing a quintet for winds and strings and titling it “String Quartet No. 2 (1962).” As sometimes happens, he was clearly charming beneath a curmudgeonly reputation.

I found Sims’s microtonal notation a little counterintuitive: I once inherited a composition student from him, and could never keep track of which accidentals were which. But I notice from a statement on his own web site that his interests in the harmonic series were actually pretty similar to mine:

 Since 1961, most of what that Ive done all my major pieces that haven’t been tape music has been microtonal. At first, it was ¼-tone, but from 1964 it has been 72-note, using at any moment one transposition or another of an asymmetrical mode of 18 or 24 pitches drawn from a 72-note division of the octave, much as Tonal music used a 7-note mode drawn from a 12-note chromatic. The mode consist of a 8 pitches of superior importance, the 8-15th harmonics of the tonic of the moment, plus 10 (or 16) chromatic pitches also drawn from its harmonic series. The 72-note division permits an all-but-exact description of the sequialteran succession of Just ratios making up the mode (25/24–30/24 [or in the alternate version: 33/32 –5/4] followed by 21/16–31/16), while retaining the conceptual and modulatory convenience of a closed cyclic notation. I trust the performers naturally to play as near Just perfection as their musicality permits, but sometimes it helps to remind them.

I suppose one could say that, aside from Harry Partch in the beginning, three seminal microtonalists seem to have determined the nature and direction of microtonal culture in the U.S.: Erv Wilson on the West Coast, Ben Johnston in the Midwest, and Ezra Sims on the East Coast.

*UPDATE: I remembered he had sent me scores of all the works on this then-most-recent CD, which is what often happens with liner notes. And since that profile isn’t online, I attach it below as a tribute:

* * * * * * * * * * *

American Composer: Ezra Sims
By Kyle Gann

Ezra Sims is probably best known, even among those who haven’t heard a note of his music, for his wry response to a musicological misprint in Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Music and Musicians. In the ‘60s that edifying tome, then edited by Nicolas Slonimsky, attributed to Sims a work he hadn’t written, a String Quartet No. 2 dated 1962. In 1974 Sims gallantly agreed to ameliorate Slonimsky’s embarrassment to the extent that he could by writing a piece entitled String Quartet No. 2 (1962) – scored for flute, clarinet, violin, viola, and cello. As Sims notes, a title is not necessarily a description, and he cites as precedent the White Knight in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, whose song was called “Haddock’s Eyes” even though its title was “The Aged Aged Man,” etc. The score is dedicated to Slonimsky, “that he (or rather Baker’s) may now be less in error.”

This classic and oft-noted absurdity is far from the only bit of humor in Sims’s output; he has a piano piece charmingly called Grave Dance, and a song cycle titled Brief Glimpses into Contemporary French Literature whose recurring refrain is “There is no need of Andre Gide.” But for some of us Sims (www.ezrasims.com) is less important for the dry wit threaded through his work than for his status as one of the leading composers (along with Ben Johnston) of microtonal music for traditional acoustic instruments. More specifically, Sims is the doyen of a Boston-based microtonal world in which 72 equally-spaced pitches per octave is virtually the official lingua franca. Since 1964 Sims has written in his own notation which inflects pitches upward or downward by a 12th-tone, a 6th-tone, or a quarter-tone, and the local microtonalists (James Dalton being the one exception I know of) all seem to swear by the same notation.

The advantage of 72 tones per octave (or as it’s known among the cognoscenti, 72tet – 72-tone equal temperament) is that it renders close approximations to some of the lower but still more exotic overtones not in common use. (Please excuse the theory for the moment, we’ll resume practicality next paragraph.) A cent is defined as one 1200th of an octave, and with a new pitch every 17 cents one can achieve pretty clean 7th, 11th, and 13th harmonics. In fact, despite his equal-step grid Sims makes it clear that overtones are what he’s generally aiming for. At least in most works, he typically selects notes from the 72 possible to form an 18-note scale based on the 16th through 32nd harmonics, with a few “tendency tones” to fill it out. The varied transpositions of this18-note scale ultimately necessitate all 72 pitches.

The advantage of the 72-tone system with its mere three extra accidentals, as the Bostonians love lecturing the rest of us, is its practicality for live performance (as opposed to Johnston’s notation with its open-ended accidental system and difficult-to-find perfect consonances). Every sixth pitch is a familiar one on the piano, and the rest can be interpolated via a regular system that requires little explanation. As a result Sims’s output consists primarily of chamber music, and he has a special penchant for combining winds and strings, and playing the strings and winds off against each other. Like his String Quartet No. 2 (1962), Musing and Reminiscence (2003) and Landscapes (2008) reprise the two-wind/three-string combination; his Sextet of 1981 is scored for clarinet, alto sax, horn, and three strings; Night Piece (1989) is for flute, clarinet, viola, and cello with a background computer tape; and there’s a Flute Quartet (1982) and Clarinet Quintet (1987). Sims also has some delightful piano music and choral music using only the usual 12 pitches (12tet), and some orchestral work, but it’s the small wind-and-string groups in which he brews his microtonal aesthetic.

And a well-focused aesthetic it is. Sims tends to start off with a close set of pitches, often in repeated notes or in tremolo, whose evolution into wider and more complex harmonies evolves in accelerando. His music’s journey is always linear and easily followed by the ear – a wise thing, given the wild unfamiliarity of the ground he likes to cover. For some reason that psychologists will have to explain some day, composers who love splitting the half-step also love applying the same mathematics to rhythm, and Sims (much like Johnston) is fond of suggesting different tempos running at the same time. Quintuplets are everywhere, as well as fours-in-the-space-of-five. Tempos of fast movements run extremely fast, slow movements can be almost stationary. Between the 72 pitches and the phasing rhythms, it looks like extremely difficult music to play, but the types of difficulty are closely limited. So consistent is Sims’s language that I imagine once you learn to play one piece well, the others come much more easily.

For the listener, it’s a walk on the wild side indeed. The music is a pulsing, shifting continuum, dotted all round with contrapuntal echoes that maximize the tuning’s oddities. Yet if conventional moorings fall by the wayside, the music nevertheless projects a sense of restraint and logic. The microtonality comes off as exotic, yet the music’s linear motion and motivic cohesiveness keep the ear engaged. Music and Reminiscence opens with a series of parallel almost-fifths between the flute and clarinet, slightly changing in size. The first movement of Night Peace closes with a long, fluctuating drone on a wide tritone of 633 cents – bet you’ve never gotten to savor that ambiguity before. The music throbs, churns, dances, hibernates through pitch complexes you’ve never heard before, and the rhythm – though you’d rarely be able to identify a meter or locate a downbeat – has a pulse-based naturalness to it.

As with so much music that fascinates me, I regret having to describe Sims’s so technically. But it’s thoroughly abstract, with no programmatic associations, no typical musical forms, little melody in the traditional sense, no clear relation to minimalism or serialism or New Romanticism or heavy metal or polka or anything else. It’s just a unique brand of musical experience, and the only alternative to hearing it is describing how it’s made in hopes that you can imagine from that. And as Boston’s young microtonalists seep out across the rest of the country from the East Coast, the sense of Sims’s seminal influence is going national. He’s been one of our most original undergound musical legends for decades, and the mystery has built up too much pressure to keep quiet any longer. The good jokes he’s gotten off in his career are merely foils for realizing how serious and unprecedented his music is.

I’m snowed in, and statistically speaking, you probably are too. So let’s blog some of my Ives book, and I’ll give you my complete analysis of the Alcotts movement. I’ve already written about Ives’s mysterious references to Lizzy Alcott’s piano, and I won’t repeat that section here. At issue is which parts of the movement were meant to bring to mind Louisa May Alcott and her famous novels for children, and which her fecklessly philosophical father, Bronson Alcott. You’ll need to know a couple of things from earlier in the book to follow the analysis below. One is that the keys of E-flat and A are paired as oppositional tonalities throughout the Concord Sonata, in all four movements. The other is that Ives used a kind of source chord for the entire sonata, consisting of four, five, or six notes of a whole-tone scale along with one note from the opposing whole-tone scale. I call it the “whole-tone-plus-one” collection.

Now, one of my anonymous external readers insisted that I add some “theoretical commentary” about the whole-tone scale, what its properties are. Let that sink in a moment: the whole-tone scale is one that every college music major knows, and its properties are very simple and pretty limited. It’s all whole steps! Nevertheless, I had already written five pages about what the whole-tone scale would have meant to a musician of Ives’s generation, relating it to Helmholtz and the harmonic series, quoting Henry Cowell’s view of it, conceptualizing it in terms of Pythagorean tuning (which was an explicit interest of Ives’s), and talking about its implications for jazz chords in terms of sharp 11, flat 13, and so on. And that wasn’t enough! I was supposed to write more about it! How many of you reading this could write more than five pages about the properties of the whole-tone scale – not its use in specific pieces, but its properties? And assuming you’re already capable of reading a book of musical analysis, how much would you need of that in order to understand a whole-tone reference?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

…Ives’s view… that Bronson Alcott might be more kindly remembered if the dictagraph had been invented decades earlier (allowing him to record his extempore verbal flights), is an opinion with a long tradition behind and ahead of it. Ives takes Alcott’s reputation on faith, calling him “an exuberant, irrepressible visionary” with “[a]n internal grandiloquence [that] made him melodious without [p. 45].” He is more condescending to the family’s more famous daughter: “Miss Alcott is fond of working her story around so that she can better rub in a moral precept – and the moral sometimes browbeats the story [p. 46].” Though he attributes a didactic streak to both, he emphasizes their differences: “The daughter does not accept the father as a prototype – she seems to have but few of her father’s qualities ‘in female’ [p. 46].” Ives also signals his intention not to depict either individually. “We dare not attempt to follow the philosophic raptures of Bronson Alcott,” he writes,

and so we won’t try to reconcile the music sketch of the Alcotts with much besides the memory of that home under the elms—the Scotch songs and the family hymns that were sung at the end of each day—though there may be an attempt to catch something of that common sentiment… – a strength of hope that never gives way to despair – a conviction in the power of the common soul which, when all is said and done, may be as typical as any theme of Concord and its transcendentalists. [p. 48]

Elsewhere in the Memos, however, he mentions that the music tries to suggest the tales, incidents, and characteristics of the authors, and that “the Alcott piece tries to catch something of old man Alcott’s – the great talker’s – sonorous thought.”15

All this raises a question for the listener to The Alcotts, for all of its relative simplicity. Much of the movement is gentle and idyllic, but not all of it. Two passages in particular seem rife with struggle: the dissonant, crescendoing play of the Beethoven’s Fifth motives on p. 54, and the whole-tone flavored approach to the triumphant “human faith” theme on p. 57. It is tempting, of course, to fall back on gender stereotypes and link the calm, more tonal sections to Louisa May’s children’s books, and the more agitated struggle to Bronson’s “philosophical raptures” and “sonorous thought.” But Ives throws a wrench into that argument in the Memos, where he likens the bitonal key signatures of the opening to his fantasy that “old man Alcott likes to talk in Ab, and Sam Staples likes to have his say over the fence in Bb”16 – Sam Staples being the Concord constable who once threw Thoreau (and, earlier, almost threw Alcott) in jail for conscientiously refusing to pay the poll tax, and a later source of anecdotes about Thoreau, Alcott, and others. (No discredit accrues to Staples, who offered to pay Thoreau’s tax himself if Thoreau would let him.17) So the gentle first page, in Ives’s mind, seems connected to Bronson Alcott’s famed serenity. In addition, the stormier second page quotes the Beethoven’s Fifth motive liberally, and Ives talks of Louisa May’s little sister Beth “playing at” Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

Should we, therefore, reverse gender roles here? Louisa May was after all the practical member of the family, the one who went to work, published salacious stories under a pen name, and, with Little Women and its successors, secured a comfortable old age for her feckless father and his long-suffering wife. Along with her mother, she seems to have been the fiery one in the family. Louisa May/Jo’s struggle to control her temper is one of the major themes of Little Women. Sophia Peabody, who lived for awhile with the Alcotts, adored their restful companionship, with the single exception of Louisa May: “Her force makes me retreat sometimes from an encounter,” she wrote with a shudder.18 Could the quiet opening represent Bronson’s calm talk of the spiritual immensities, and the gathering storm Louisa May’s untamable fury, or her steely determination to raise her family out of a poverty that was not always genteel? Or do we more obviously relate the domestic, parlor-song quality of the middle section to Little Women, and think of the jagged, irregular dissonances as the attempt to express the ineffable relation of Spirit to Matter? Can we do both at once? Could Ives, limited as his view of Louisa May probably was to the children’s books, have sensed her darker side, or is to think so an anachronism of our post-feminist vantage point? Ives leaves us to imagine the entire movement as an idyllic life under the elms, infused at times with “a strength of hope that never gives way to despair,” but, certainly, the music circumscribes a dichotomy more violent than this suggests.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Alcotts movement is primarily concerned with the Human Faith theme, and also with the related Missionary Chant hymn; indeed, it is only this movement that requires us to take notice of the Missionary Chant at all. Ex. 9-1 gives the music in full.

Ex. 9.1 Missionary Chant

What we want to particularly notice are the motives of a repeated note followed by a falling major third that open each half of the verse, in slightly different rhythmic configurations.

The Alcotts movement is something of a clear ABA form, and its harmonic structure is, by Ivesian standards, remarkably simple as well. Within the first A section, after two brief phrases each based on the Missionary Chant, the Human Faith theme is repeated no fewer than three times, all three of them in the key of B-flat: at syss. 53-2/3, from syss. 53-4, m. 2 to 54-1, and from syss. 55-1, beat 7, through the first measure of 55-3. All of these employ both halves of the theme, though in the first some notes are altered or omitted, and the second veers off in the middle of the second half for an extended passage of development. At the final measure of sys. 55-3 begins an unmistakable, calmer and more conventional B section in a kind of American parlor-music style, which is itself repeated. The final A section, for which we can choose sys. 56-5 as a reasonable starting point, plays around with motives from the Human Faith theme for four systems, leading to a climactic statement of the entire theme in the key of C. As we’ve noted before, this is the theme’s most complete and defining statement in the entire sonata.

The Alcotts opens with the most conventional chord progression we’ve yet heard in the piece: I vi IV ii V I, pure and simple and logical, in the key of B-flat. The first eight notes of the melody outline the hymn Missionary Chant, except that the drop of a major third occurs between the third and fourth notes instead of the fourth and fifth – meaning that a Beethoven’s Fifth quote is included as well; in fact, Ives switches around the openings of the Missionary Chant’s two phrases, using D-D-D-Bb first and then D-D-D-D-Bb, instead of the other way around. And the odd little melodic flourish at the end of the phrase seems to be a Human Faith motive in retrograde, with the perfect fifth replaced by a perfect fourth (Ex. 9.2).

Ex. 9.2 Sys. 53-1, first half

The phrase repeats, and this time the melody follows the opening of the Missionary Chant rather than Beethoven’s Fifth. The harmony, however, goes to the subdominant, Eb, rather than the vi chord, which is natural enough; but then the Eb is followed by a chord that doesn’t fit in Bb major at all, A minor (Ex. 9.3).

Ex. 9.3 Sys. 53-1, second half

And so, as the Missionary Chant flows blissfully overhead, Ives has reintroduced our Eb-A opposition. The root movement goes a tritone from Eb to A, a logical fourth from A to D, up to the dominant of Bb, only to land unexpectedly on Ab major, a whole-step below our implied Bb cadence. Ives has packed a lot of meaning into the eighteen beats of this seemingly simple first line, and he is soon going to unpack it.

As mentioned in Chapter 6, we have a recording of Ives playing The Alcotts in its entirety from April 24, 1943, and we learn from it several things about his playing. One is that his hands weren’t unusually large. I have fairly large hands myself, but I can’t play that open bass triad Ab-Eb-C with my left hand without having to roll it, making the major tenth from a black key to a white; Ives couldn’t either. When he can’t split the notes between both hands, he rolls that chord. Nor does Ives always follow his own notation; in the example above, where the two D’s are tied together in the melody, Ives doesn’t play them tied, but reiterates the D over the F dominant chord.

At this point the music does something fairly radical for its time, notationally, at least. For the first time in the sonata a key signature appears, and in fact, two appear at once: Bb (two flats) in the treble staff and Ab (four flats) in the bass staff. The Human Faith theme now appears in B-flat. As mentioned before, Ives referred to this passage as Bronson Alcott talking in Ab, Sam Staples in Bb; it is curious that, of the two, the town sheriff has the Human Faith theme while the philosopher merely strums his Ab-major triads. A manuscript (f3979) shows that Ives had initially written the entire theme within the treble clef over the Ab chords, but he later took it up an octave. The theme is also incomplete; a phrase is partly missing, though Ives supplied some of the notes in a lower octave (Ex. 9.4).

Ex. 9.4 Comparison of sys. 53-2 with the Human Faith theme
We also notice how colored this page is by the interval of a major ninth. There are several major ninths in this passage with either an internal perfect fourth, tritone, or perfect fifth added from the upper or lower note, and in sys. 53-3 the music pauses for a pair of “shadow” chords outside the key: A-F#-B and F#-E-G#. The next phrase seems to be an altered Human Faith motto altered by an octave displacement on the F (Ex. 9.5),

Ex. 9.5 Human Faith motto embedded in sys. 53-3

and its successor is a similar motto in retrograde, patterned after the ones in the first system (Ex. 9.6).

Ex. 9.6 Retrograde Human Faith motto at sys. 53-4

Whether we are switching from Louisa May to Bronson or vice versa, the atmosphere now changes sharply. In the middle of sys. 53-4 the Human Faith theme in B-flat then starts up again, this time with a left-hand line that accompanies it bitonally through several keys, first D major, then B major (or E major if you count the A-natural), ending up on our afore-mentioned A minor (Ex. 9.7 – in the next few examples I will be rewriting Ives’s accidentals and sometimes durations to make the musical logic clearer, so I refer the reader to the original score for a more authentic reading).

Ex. 9.7 Syss. 53-4 to 54-1

Following the progression from the first half of Human Faith to the second, this leads to a rather startlingly naked Beethoven’s Fifth motive, D-D-D-Bb. Instead of leading to the alleged Hammerklavier quotation, though, its consequent is a motive on the Missionary Chant, with the fourth and fifth notes quickened into 8th-notes (Ex. 9.8).

Ex. 9.8 Sys. 54-1, combining Beethoven’s Fifth motive and Missionary Chant contour

This form of what we will now call the Missionary Chant motive becomes the basis of the development that leads us away from the second half of our Human Faith theme.

This next section is a sharp departure from the serenity of the movement so far towards anxiety and irregularity. The first Missionary Chant motive is followed by another Beethoven’s Fifth motive pounded in the Beethovenian key of C minor, which at first appears as a ii chord in this B-flat context, and then another Missionary Chant motive in the same key. This next increasingly tense passage will also end in C minor, so that what comes in-between serves functionally as what Schenkerians might call a prolongation, but a bitonal one. We see the bass echo the beginning of the movement by leading from Ab up a tritone to D, and then up a fifth to A, where we hit a chord that unexpectedly suggests A major (Ex. 9.9: once again, I alter many of Ives’s enharmonic spellings for clarity).

Ex. 9.9 Syss. 54-1/3

The subsequent Missionary Chant motive seems to outline Db major resolving to something like C major in the right hand, as the left hand plays pitches from G major, also moving to C. The next Missionary Chant motive resumes bitonality, with the upper chord rooted on C#/Db and the lower one on B, almost as though the C minor were going out of focus and blurring a half-step in both directions. The final Missionary Chant motive, altered in contour, again suggests tonalities a whole-step apart, Bb above C, and leading to a chord, the momentary climax of this progression, which contains an entire whole-tone scale plus one other note – Eb-F-G-A-B-Db and Bb – our “nature” chord from Emerson. (The chords on either side, E-C-Ab-Db-Bb, are subsets of this chord as well.) From here, the voice-leading moves chromatically upward to another Beethoven’s Fifth motive, and we find ourselves back in unassailable C minor.

Two more statements of the Beethoven’s Fifth motive are marked by an “overtone” note, a high D dissonant with the main chord (although in his 1943 recording Ives clearly plays consonant G’s both times); such notes will recur as a feature of the movement. The subsequent dissolution of this motive is one of the most theoretically revealing passages in the entire sonata. System 54-4 is remarkable for containing only seven pitches grouped in three triads: C minor in the treble and bass and an alternation between A minor and Eb minor in the middle register (Ex. 9.10).

Ex. 9.10 Sys. 54-4

Of course, these triads separated by minor thirds render seven pitches of an octatonic scale – Eb E Gb G A Bb C – and the inner chords are our familiar Eb/A opposition, now contained within a firm C minor, the clearest possible statement of one part of Ives’s overall harmonic conception. Even more remarkable is how Ives, limiting himself to just these three chords and with a new attack on every single 8th-note, manages a stirring rhythmic acceleration by progressively shortening the repetition patterns. The C’s in the bass grow shorter in duration in an 8th-note pattern of 6-5-4-3-3, and the pairings of A and Eb decrease as 7-5-5-3-3-2, with the treble C-minor chords accelerating and then slowing down again, a quite audible effect. The underlying logic also makes the passage easy to memorize, even if the pianist isn’t consciously aware of it.

The explosion to which this process leads is full of resonance for the Missionary Chant. This time, though, it is not the hymn’s first phrase, but its third that is referred to almost subliminally, not only in its rhythm but its dropping down by thirds (Ex. 9.11), which Ives cleverly augments by one last third (G-Eb-C-A-natural) where the hymn ends with only a major second (C-Ab-F-Eb).

Ex. 9.11 Comparison of Missionary Chant with sys. 55-1

The figure pulls us back into the key of B-flat by a relatively conventional, if colorful, harmonic progression (i-VI-V/VII in the key of C, the V/VII pivoting to V of Bb), retroactively reinterpreting the C minor once again as ii of B-flat. The example is significant for illustrating the way Ives sometimes (especially in his songs, but also abundantly elsewhere) refers to musical materials that are outside the work and only incompletely instantiated within it. One need not know the Missionary Chant to understand The Alcotts: the movement makes musical sense without it. But if the opening variations on the hymn’s falling major third do bring it to mind, this veiled allusion to the complete third phrase acts as almost unconscious confirmation that the tune is in Ives’s mind, even if the music never presents the hymn in toto. On some level the music’s meaning finds completion in music that exists external to the sonata, shared in Ives’s and the listener’s memory.

The Human Faith theme makes a grand appearance next, but a recessive one, dimenuendoing away from a climax rather than building toward one. The harmonization is fairly standard, by Ivesian criteria, but it is worth noting some lovely internal imitative counterpoint, such as this unusual imitation at the lower seventh (Ex. 9.12),

Ex. 9.12 Imitation at sys. 55-1

and also a great deal of textural originality, along with some downward chromatic voice-leading that makes the huge, ripped chords seem to melt (Ex. 9.13).

Ex. 9.13 Sys. 55-2

The second half of Human Faith takes place more quietly in virtual 5/8 meter. The theme in the right hand is in standard B-flat major; this is rendered mysterious by the left hand, which is entirely in a whole-tone scale plus an added C# – in other words, another appearance of our whole-tone-plus-one source pitch set (Ex. 9.14).

Ex. 9.14 Sys. 55-2

And the section closes on an expectant Bb dominant seventh with a quiet F# echoing above. We quoted this recurring chord in chapter 3 as a highlighted example of a whole-tone chord plus a perfect fifth.
The B section that begins at the second measure of sys. 55-3 is pure parlor song material, though with the occasional ironic chromatic Ivesianism. This is clearly what Ives refers to as Beth playing the Scottish folk songs – the tune even includes an instance of the so-called “Scotch snap,” an accented 16th-note followed by a dotted 8th. The key is Eb, the subdominant of the movement’s prevailing Bb, a relationship typical of 19th-century classical ABA forms in general and 19th-century sentimental songs alike. Like so many celtic folk songs, the tune is in a kind of gapped pentatonic scale, Eb-F-G-Bb-C, with many motives of a second followed by a third in the same direction, or vice versa. This is true of the Human Faith theme as well, and in fact, in their entirety the two themes share the same pitch set, a diatonic scale missing the leading tone. Since the Human Faith theme starts high and comes downward, and the B theme here does the opposite, it seems possible (in the manner of so many classical composers) that Ives derived the new theme from some form of the old one, in this case the retrograde (Ex. 9.15).

Ex. 9.15 Middle section theme compared to Human Faith theme retrograde

To assert this abstract relationship, though, seems hardly necessary; the new melody fits programmatically and is closely related to Human Faith in intervallic style. Why the theme ends with an unmistakable evocation of the famous-to-the-point-of-hackneyed wedding march from Lohengrin presents a small mystery, though perhaps Ives was simply making a reference to comfortable domesticity, or to the fact that every 19th-century sentimental novel culminates in a wedding.
What’s more interesting is the way Ives’s own 1943 performance of The Alcotts deviates from the notation. Both times the end of this phrase comes up, in the 6/4 measure where he appends the direction “hold back a little,” Ives himself doesn’t hold back at all, but, as Ex. 9.16 shows, rather doubles the tempo of the fourth and fifth beats.

Ex. 9.16 Comparison of Ives 1943 recording to sys. 55-4

It seems to me the pianist, if he or she so chooses, is fully justified in choosing the second option, which Ives voted for with his hands in 1943, even if he voted another way with the notes in 1920 and 1947.

The B phrase of this little internal ABAB form is in the dominant of the B section, Bb. Musicologist H. Wiley Hitchcock has noted that the first six beats are identical to the first measure and a half of an old minstrel song, published in 1847, variously called “Stop Dat Knocking” or “Stop that Knocking at My Door” (Ex. 9.17), by Anthony F. Winnemore, who led a minstrel group called the Band of Virginia Serenaders.27

Ex. 9.17 “Stop Dat Knocking at My Door”

This italianate melody is itself a parody of Italian opera style28, and similar phrases abound in the classical literature. More essentially, its motive of a lower neighbor note leading to a rising scale becomes the generative germ of the lead-in to the final A section, recurring from syss. 56-4 to 57-3.

At the upbeat to m. 3 in sys. 56-4 the rising scale motive runs into a Human Faith motto, and Ives begins reintroducing dissonances. I have referred to The Alcotts, as everyone does, as an ABA form, but what Ives does here is more nuanced and complex than that implies. At sys. 56-5 the music cadences momentarily on a Bb triad, which can conveniently be taken as the beginning of the second A section. But actually, the Human Faith motto is hinted at before this (sys. 56-4, mm. 2-3), as the B-section melody continues being referred to after it. The first section A and section B are clearly articulated from each other, but the B blurs back into the second A via an interestingly gradual process, and the stage-by-stage progression back to the full Human Faith melody is in Ives’s best cumulative form manner.
In the right hand of sys. 56-5 Ives continues the B-section material with a pentatonic scale graced with chromatic lower neighbor notes (and a final Scotch snap); the left hand begins wandering up and down a whole-tone scale on Bb with an F added (Ex. 9.18).

Ex. 9.18 Sys. 56-5

In the next system all of the notes, up until the “human faith” motto in Eb at the end, are within a whole-tone scale on D with a C# added (Ex. 9.19).

Ex. 9.19 Sys. 57-1

If any doubt remained that Ives was thinking of a pitch set containing a whole-tone scale plus one additional pitch, it is surely dispelled here.

In syss. 57-2 and the first half of 57-3 the music is grounded on an Eb drone, as the left hand wanders around a whole-tone scale on D, and the right hand plays with the Human Faith motto in what could be taken as an incomplete octatonic scale: Eb-(E)-F#-G-A-Bb-C-(Db). In the middle of sys. 57-3 this relatively lengthy dominant preparation on Eb bursts into an A major triad, giving us one last taste of our Eb/A opposition. The music shifts uneasily between A-major and Bb-major triads, as the do-re-mi motives above create an elegant logic for the shift away from Bb, twice playing G-A-B, Bb-C-D, and then continuing G-A-B-C-D-E (Ex. 9.20).

Ex. 9.20 Sys. 57-3, right hand

as the sonata finally bursts into its grandest statement of the Human Faith theme in its entirety, in bold, exuberant C major. The number of notes per chord, the simultaneous bass line, tenor chords, and treble melody with internal clusters and added grace notes, create a feeling that the music is trying to transcend the keyboard, bursting the bounds of what the piano is capable of. The failure of the instrument and the fingers to do justice to the emotion is almost palpable, rendering the emotion all the more affecting. Significantly, when Henry Brant orchestrated this part of the Concord (in A Concord Symphony, which will be discussed in Chapter 14), he wisely played down this passage and made it softer (marked f molto cantabile), for what sounds heroic on the keyboard would have produced only bombast in the orchestra.

Though it looks simpler than some of the others, one chord, marked with an asterisk in Ex. 9.21, has always struck me as problematic.

Ex. 9.21 Sys. 57-5

The upper nine notes that follow the grace-note octave in the bass cannot be played all at once by two hands of reasonable size. If Ives seriously wanted all those notes, the chord must be rolled, like its predecessor; and in fact, it is marked with a wavy roll line all the way up in the 1920 score, which he omitted in 1947. Is the top note supposed to be struck with the left hand, as so often in Ives’s gargantuan chords? This is not how he plays it in 1943; there is some rolling, but the top several notes are simultaneous with their chords. The temptation to leave out either the bottom G or the middle B is very great, but one tries to be faithful to the score, knowing that with Ives one must frequently finesse the rhythm and texture to get all the notes in. [Of the 42 recordings I own, 24 roll that chord; the rest presumably either omit a note or have very large hands.]

One essential feature of the Human Faith theme is that is doesn’t quite end – every single statement of it in the sonata, except this one, is a kind of a question disappearing into the ether. In this one case, though, Ives comes up with a true ending, and his solution is brilliant. He resumes the theme with a recap of its first seven notes but continuing down the scale to a Bb, over a left-hand harmony that has suddenly dropped down from C to Bb, just as in the beginning of the movement the harmony drops from Bb to Ab. For someone who is so often chary of dynamic markings, Ives throws in a humorous surfeit of them here, just where a sensitive performer least needs them as a guide (Ex. 9.22).

Ex. 9.22 Ending of the Human Faith theme in The Alcotts

As mentioned in chapter 3, the music feints towards Bb for a moment and seems about to end there, where it began, but then resolves, with a minor-seventh drop in the melody, onto one of the most comforting, reassuring, even heart-breaking C-major triads in the history of music. Oddly enough, and flagrantly contradicting his “slower” indication, Ives in his 1943 recording speeds up for this little coda, as though too reticent to draw from it all the pathos of which it is capable.

A side note: in a manuscript of the Alcotts movement (f3986 to f3991), all of the little “overtone” notes through the entire movement that ring dissonantly in the top register are F#’s except for the two high D’s in sys. 54-3. Ives toyed with the idea of inserting six such pianissimo F#’s during the final “human faith” statement. Ex. 9.23 shows a sketch from f3991, in which one can see a high F# marked pp just after a 16th-note rest above the fourth chord, and another one, crossed out, following the last chord of the phrase.

Ex. 9.23 F# overtones in f3991

There is even one above the movement’s final chord, marked ppp. Except for perhaps this last, which I rather like, Ives was right to ultimately decide against these; they would have been a quirky distraction from the grand statement he makes here. But that he considered inserting them (and they also are reinserted into a revision on the 1920 score at f4142) says something about his large-scale sense of harmony, and confirms a vague impression I sometimes get that F# is a special pitch in the Concord, saved primarily for the long statement of Martyn in Hawthorne, and otherwise rarely emphasized structurally but sometimes hovering in the background.

 

[15] Ives, Memos, p. 191.

[16] Ives, Memos, p. 191.

[17] Edward Emerson, Henry Thoreau as Remembered by a Young Friend, p. 64.

[18] Sophia Peabody to Mrs. William Russell, July 25, 1836; quoted in Bedell, The Alcotts: Biography of a Family, p. 125.

………

[27] H. Wiley Hitchcock, Music in the United States: A Historical Introduction, p. 167. Gayle Sherwood Magee speculates that the use of “Stop Dat Knocking” might be in ironic response to the “Fate knocking at the door” of the Beethoven’s Fifth motive; certainly a wry joke on Ives’s part if true. See Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, p. 135.

[28] Robert B. Winans, liner notes to The Early Minstrel Show, New World Records 80338.

This defense of contemporary music by visual artist Curt Barnes on Susan Scheid’s Prufrock’s Dilemma blog is so accurately stated that it jarred even me back into consciousness of things I tend to forget:

[A]s citizens of the 21st century, now, we need to acknowledge the truism that the art (read: music) of the past is to some degree artifact. Its force as art has been softened with age, and unconsciously or not we condescend to its conventions, its narrower world, to fully enjoy it. It coddles us with the safe haven of its familiar forms. Art, living art, has the capacity to be terrifying, disturbing, iconoclastic, risky, and if you find something of value by a living composer it can connect with you with unequalled vitality. If it lacks certifiable genius, it provides something else: it is formed of the rudiments of the here and now, it is yours as Beethoven is not, can never be.

The whole post is well worth not only reading, but saving for your students and friends who too easily dismiss new music.

All attend!: the Fifth International Conference on Minimalist Music, taking place at the University of Turku and the Sibelius Academy in Finland this September, has finally announced its call for papers. They will be focusing on “the relevance of the minimalist style in the 21st century,” and are looking for papers on the core minimalist repertory but also postminimalism, Nordic minimalism, the migration of the style among genres, minimalism in popular culture, and so on. The keynote speakers will be scholars Robert Fink and Jelena Novak. This is the biennial event I plan my life around; I wouldn’t miss it if I had to get there by goat cart. And I was going to submit my paper I’ve started on “Elodie Lauten as Improviser,” for which I’ve been transcribing some of her piano performances, but they’ve made me guest composer for the conference. I’m not sure why, but I could not possibly be more deeply honored. It was meeting my fellow founding musicologists of the Society for Minimalist Music in 2007 that renewed my interest in writing books and induced me to begin referring to myself as a musicologist. Now that the Ivesian musicologists think they can make me fetch their drinks and shine their shoes, I’ve gone back to calling myself a composer who writes books, but I will be in Helsinki without fail.

I wrote some more of my Nursery Tunes for Demented Children that I recently mentioned here. They’re silly little pieces, but they serve a serious purpose for me. I’ve been doing a lot of sketches for large works in what I call my 8×8 tuning, which contains potentialities that I need to explore and learn to hear before I can commit myself to basing entire pieces on them. In particular I’ve been trying out, in the second and fourth pieces here, more exotic triads a little higher in the harmonic series, such as 7:9:11, 10:13:15, and 8:11:13, which resolve in both pieces to conventional major (4:5:6) and minor (10:12:15) triads. “Tiger, Tiger” climbs through the 33-pitch scale step by step to control the harmony, just as so much late Romantic music harmonized the charomatic scale. And the final piece moves between major triads on the 5th and 13th harmonics in kind of a super-Neo-Riemannian voice-leading. Anyone capable of the requisite math can quickly see what I mean.

Down to the End of the Town
Up the Hill and Up Again
Tiger, Tiger Turning Right
The Cracked Bells of St. Swithun’s
Jack Ate a Blackbird

I just love that microtonality enables me to write music with which I can confuse my own ear. And I think it’s fun to occasionally hear conventional musical textures reworked microtonally, as a way of imagining what we might have been doing all these decades had Europe decided not to cut us off above the 5th harmonic. I also realize occasionally that I could have been a passable neoclassicist had I decided to go that route, though that would have seemed like career suicide when I was first starting out. But as it turns out, almost everything interesting is career suicide, microtonality most of all.

I can use these pieces to illustrate a didactic point, though. My 1/1, the reference point of my tuning, is Eb, but that doesn’t mean the pieces are all in that key. The first piece is in G, the last in C13-flat, and the penultimate begins every phrase on D7-flat; the others move around. I tend to avoid Eb, in fact, because that’s where the least exotic intervals are. I say this to confute all those music professors who find it droll to smugly remind us that Harry Partch’s music is all in the key of G. (Partch’s 1/1 is G 392 Hz.) Actually, Partch’s music employs many tonalities, and sometimes none. It would be exactly as accurate to claim that all orchestra music is in the key of A, since that’s the pitch the orchestra tunes to before the performance. I could rename any of my 33 pitches 1/1, but Eb is the reference point that provides the simplest fractions. There’s a precise analogy with a meantone keyboard: in the 17th century, writing in the key of Bb made more of the sharp side of the circle of fifths available, while the key of A major made more of the subdominant side possible, so you chose your key according to the mood you were aiming for. So you could as easily claim that all pre-1800 keyboard music is in the key of C. The attractiveness of having an implicit center is the subtle tension of leaning away from it. Resisting gravity is how artists create a feeling of lightness.

For years I’ve been complaining about the unavailability of George Rochberg’s symphonies on recording, aside from the 2nd and 5th. The 2nd is such a fantastic piece – just about the one 12-tone piece I can count on students going nuts for at first listening – that I’ve felt like an important slice of history was missing in especially the 3rd and 4th symphonies, the ones written during his turn toward romanticism and collage in the period of his Concord quartets. Well, several months ago the remaining symphonies were quietly added to YouTube, and so now I’ve finally, finally been able to listen to all of them (I thought the 2nd was up too, but I can’t seem to find it at the moment). The links are here:

Symphony No. 1 (1948/77/2003)
Symphony No. 3 (1969)
Symphony No. 4 (1976)
Symphony No. 5 (1984-5)
Symphony No. 6 (1987)

I also bought scores of the 3rd and 4th from Sheetmusicplus.com. The 1st was revised a couple of times; one of the YouTube videos is only of three of its five movements, and the other has the whole 64 minutes, so make sure you get the full version, as it’s well worth it. The five-movement version was recorded on Naxos at some point but seems to be unavailable now (at least via Amazon). That’s a wild, imaginative, colorful piece, generally atonal but clearly not 12-tone, and with neoclassic elements.

The 3rd is amazingly strange, a choral symphony soaked in Beethoven quotations (with a dash of Mahler). Some of the Beethoven is from the Eroica and instrumental movements of the 9th, though with chorus added for a surreal effect; you recognize the music but can hardly place it because they’re singing a nonvocal piece. It’s kind of an American answer to Berio’s Sinfonia – admittedly, not nearly as fun, but dramatic and strangely evocative at times. I’ll caution you about getting the study score – it’s a Xerox of Rochberg’s pencil score, reduced to 8×11 paper from legal, and the notes can be really hard to make out. (It’s a sad commentary on our times that composers of the stature of Rochberg and William Bolcom, whose symphonies I also collect, get sold in such crappy manuscript-duplicating editions that you can hardly read. I suppose music engraving is too expensive these days, but you’d think they could pay some grad student to input the pieces into Finale.)

The 4th is Rochberg’s big romantic symphony, very 19th-century in idiom yet not without its timbral and textural idiosyncrasies, and it astonishes me that someone could have produced such a piece as early as 1976 – ten years later, such boldly anachronistic gestures were no longer so uncommon. I like it better the more I listen to it for its personality, formal clarity, and sense of being somehow ahistorical. The 5th and 6th symphonies don’t interest me quite so much only because they are not so wildly out of place for their time; the 5th returns somewhat to Rochberg’s earlier atonal idiom, though the 6th can sound like an odd cross between Mahler and Shostakovich, generally tonal but extremely free harmonically. They’re all very individual works, interestingly contrasted, and I think Rochberg has to be counted among the top six or eight American symphonists (with Ives, Copland, Harris, Schuman, Harrison); he was a natural for the form. I also enjoy teaching his music more than that of any other non-Downtown, post-12-tone figure, because in one bumptious trajectory he encapsulated so many phases that American music itself would go through. He’s kind of a one-composer object lesson for making a wide variety of points. The very existence of such pieces is a philosophical conundrum worthy of discussion. I find him tremendously brave, extremely talented – and if not consistently convincing, always impressive.

 

I meant to post this earlier, but between semesters I lose all concept of time. Some of my microtonal music, specifically Charing Cross and Echoes of Nothing, is being used in a new dance today choreographed by my Bard colleague Peggy Florin. The event is at 3 PM at the Danspace Projects DraftWork Series at St. Mark’s Church in New York on 10th Street and Second Avenue. Dances by Peggy and also Lisa Kusanagi, performed by Peggy, Harriett Meyer & Dana Florin-Weiss. Free event. I like people dancing to my music. Happens occasionally. And I thank Peggy for taking the initiative to listen to my music and getting interested.

 

Peter Burkholder’s book All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing is my bible. In it Peter systematically outlined all the various methods and intentions with which Ives quoted and borrowed from other music. Peter worked from the manuscripts outward, and when he found a folk song penciled next to the symphonic tune Ives derived from it, Ives was caught red-handed. There were many attributed quotes in Ives that I was reluctant to think were intentional, but when Peter shows the notes in the manuscript next to the score, it’s not just persuasive: it’s a mathematical proof. Everything in the book is so closely evidence-based and so judiciously stated that I’ve never found a sentence I could argue with – and it transformed my idea of how Ives composed. I consider it the single most important volume in Ives scholarship.

The problem is the book’s aftermath, for which Peter bears no blame. I’ve wondered for decades why academics so often remind me of a flock of birds, in that when one changes direction, they all do, instantly. Or in this case, maybe it was more like the fishermen in the charming Jean Shepherd film My Summer Story, if you know it; when one of them catches a fish, sixty fishing boats in this large lake all converge on that same spot, convinced that where one fish has been found, all the rest must be hiding as well. What the other musicologists should have said, when All Made of Tunes appeared, was, “Man, Burkholder really wrapped up that topic. That’s encyclopedic. Now that there’s nothing left to say about Ives’s borrowings, what else can we study about Ives?” Instead, they responded, “Oh – we’re doing borrowings now! So the way to research Ives is to find all his borrowings. Consider me on board.” They reacted as though Peter’s book had explored only the tip of the iceberg of Ives’s borrowings, when in fact, in one stroke of genius and impressively thorough research he had mapped out the entire iceberg.

What we’ve had since, unfortunately, is an ongoing flow of speculative borrowings. Alone of all composers, the name Charles Ives at the top of a score unleashes an Easter egg hunt for all the juicy little borrowings presumed to be scattered within. Peter never speculated: he found the notes in the manuscripts. But some of his successors have blithely matched every three- or four-note motive in Ives with other pieces containing similar intervals. Yet if I inveigh against this indiscriminate tendency, someone invariably reacts in horror: “You mustn’t say that! You’ll offend Peter Burkholder!” This, to me, is a clear sign that they didn’t read Peter’s book. All Made of Tunes draws scrupulous and fine-grained distinctions among the various categories of supposed borrowings: obvious lengthy quotations of well-known tunes; tunes so altered as to evade discovery except that the manuscript evidence is incontrovertible; tunes that we have programmatic reason to think Ives was slyly alluding to; borrowings that have been imputed but can’t be confirmed; and alleged borrowings based on random note-groupings too brief to take seriously. No one seems to have noticed that Peter dismisses dozens of imputed borrowings as not meeting any meaningful set of criteria. His is an elegantly stratified model for how to talk about borrowings without making unwarranted assumptions about Ives’s intentions.

For instance, PETER STATES IN HIS BOOK, on page 195, “The first half of the [Human Faith] theme is apparently not based on borrowed material”:

I completely agree. And yet musicologists, since Peter wrote that, have crawled all over that theme finding borrowings in every interval. “That’s a descending perfect fifth! Didn’t Schubert use that interval once?” Why don’t we make a list of all the pieces that have ever used do-re-mi, so we can marvel that Ives quoted them all at once? Peter and I are on the same page. I’m the one upholding Peter’s exacting standards and wishing that other writers would show the same cautious self-restraint.

For another instance, here’s a problem in analyzing the Concord Sonata. Every theme in the Emerson movement is quite tonal, and based on the pentatonic scale, except one, which is more atonal and which I and some others (Burkholder included) have called the Fugal or Fugue theme:

How do we explain the presence of this theme that differs so much in character from the rest? Well, since the musicologists only have one tool with which to explain Ives’s music, every problem becomes a nail: it must be a borrowing. That raises an ancillary question: what is it borrowing from? And so the musicologist then thinks through the pre-Ives repertoire, trying out the errant theme on piece after piece until he finds some matching tune that it can be stretched to fit. And the scholarly consensus on this theme is: it’s Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde! Problem solved:

Can you hear the resemblance? Neither can I. (Nor is it in Peter’s book.) I’ll admit, the F-E-D# is in there. First of all, since Ives’s theme is propulsive and forward-moving, the rhythmic character couldn’t be more different. The opening tritone creates different harmonic expectations than a leap of a sixth. Then, the essence of Wagner’s motive is that it isn’t a linear theme, but two lines at once, resolving chromatically in opposite directions. Let’s just say that I’ve known the Concord since 1969 and Tristan since 1974, and I was flummoxed a few years ago when I read about this alleged identity. Nothing clicked into place. My composer’s sense rebels at the thought that either of these could be intended as a reference to the other. (If you want to hear Tristan brilliantly reworked, listen to the hilarious Scherzo Mortale of William Bolcom’s Fifth Symphony.) More importantly, the writers who so confidently assert this identity never cite any Ives manuscript containing a sketch in which Ives transforms the Tristan motive into the Fugal theme, and so (having looked through all the relevant sketches myself) I have to assume no evidence has been found indicating this was Ives’s intention.

Moreover, for the musicologist, the identification of the source borrowed from is the end of questioning. The composer, though, still has as many questions afterward as before. “Why did Ives write that sequence of notes?” becomes, “Why did Ives borrow that sequence of notes?” If Ives really thought of this as a quote from Tristan, what’s it doing running through the ferociously dense fugue in a movement about Emerson? What does Wagner’s ode to sensuousness and longing have to do with a philosopher as unsensuous as Emerson, a man perennially declared incapable of intimacy by the women in his life? Even supposing Ives did twist the Tristan motive into this, what would knowing that add to our experience of the Emerson movement? What do we gain from trying to keep in mind that somehow Ives is making a point about Tristan, or Wagner, or forbidden love in the middle of all that frenetic counterpoint? The cognitive dissonance makes my head hurt. Maybe Ives was thinking about Tristan when he wrote that, and maybe Keira Knightley longs to throw herself into my arms, but without evidence both propositions amount to no more than wishful thinking, and shouldn’t be stated as fact.

I think it has something to do with knowing how composers think. Peter started out as a composer, and he has a sound sense for what a composer’s thought process would be. One thing I admired about the late Wiley Hitchcock was that he lived his life among composers, knew many intimately, and could always talk about composers with authority. Musicology, though, has become such a successful and self-contained discipline that its practitioners can now afford to live in a bubble, and I feel that in many of their books these days, composers are misrepresented. Our motivations are caricatured. Musicologists often do pretty well with music that can be described in strict terms, like Webern or early minimalism. But the Concord is a huge, paradoxical hybrid, a sprawling Romantic sonata made of modernist materials, with collage elements and the occasional vestige of sonata form, intermingling atonality with the most conventional tonality. No one tool will do: the analyst must have forty techniques at his disposal, and a sensitivity for when to switch from one to the next. I submit that it takes a composer to do it justice. Analyzing music is what I do for a living. I teach courses in analysis of 20th-century music, and every year I add several more pieces to my repertoire. Where the musicologists only have a hammer, I have screwdrivers, blow-torches, tweezers, crowbars, drills, a set of graduated socket wrenches, you name it.

So I look at the fugal theme, and I can see a different group of relations in it. And lo and behold, if you turn the Human Faith theme’s first four notes retrograde and subtract a half-step from each interval, you get the Fugal theme:

Now you may think this looks as far-fetched as the Tristan theory, but we happen to know that Ives liked to plant hidden retrogrades in his music (I have a nice Concord example I’ll tell you about sometime). We also know that one of his most frequent methods of varying a melody was to slightly alter the interval sizes; Lora Louise Gingrich, in her fine 1983 dissertation “Processes of Motivic Transformation in the Keyboard and Chamber Music of Charles E. Ives,” found this technique so pervasive that she invented a quasi-mathematical notation to express the variations in. So we know this explanation stays within Ives’s habitual practice. I find that one can even start to hear the relationship once it’s pointed out. The Fugal theme’s ensuing notes merely continue with a pentatonic fragment common to most of the Emerson-movement themes. I don’t have evidence that Ives created the theme this way, so I don’t state it as fact. But the relationship among those notes is a fact.

And I’m not finished. One of the oddities of the Fugal theme is that it is almost always paired, either simultaneously or in alternation, with a quiet theme I call the Verse Theme, found at the top of page 5 of the sonata. The Verse and Fugal themes are briefly paired on the opening page, and then when the Verse theme gets its first full statement on page 5, the Fugal theme isn’t present. Or is it?:

This is not coincidence, nor simply interpretation. The intervals of the Fugal theme are outlined by the harmonies that repeatedly accompany the Verse theme – and those chords don’t suggest anything Tristanesque. The question is, did Ives write this accompaniment to the Verse theme and then derive the Fugal theme from it? Or did he write the Fugal theme and then cleverly slip it into the harmonies underlying the Verse theme? I don’t know. I haven’t found any evidence in the manuscript that would solve this chicken-and-egg puzzle. But I have succeeded in relating the anomalous Fugue theme to both the Human Faith theme and the Verse theme, thus giving it a purely musical justification based in clearly evident note-patterns, and I don’t have to bring Tristan und Isolde in as backup. This explanation also makes me more impressed with Ives’s ingenuity than the Tristan speculation had. No previous book or article, as far as I’ve been able to find, has ever drawn out these relationships I’ve just outlined.

Now, if you think this is too trivial to get exercised about, I completely agree. The quibbles of musicologists should be matter for conferences, hardly worth airing in blogs, let alone published books. I don’t care if someone wants to think that’s a Tristan quote above, it’s a free country (relatively). Had I been external reader for their books, I wouldn’t have made my recommendation contingent on their excising that speculation. I’m happy for others to be wrong, as long as I’m allowed to be right. I’m sorry if I’m hurting anyone’s feelings. But if I find that “borrowing” unconvincing, groundless, dissonant to Ives’s intentions, and irritating to contemplate, why should I be pressured to bring it up in my own book? I have written a book from a composer’s viewpoint, aimed at explaining the Concord Sonata to musicians in general, but the musicologists find the details of their Easter egg hunt so endlessly fascinating that they insist that I celebrate their exploits as well. I am told to engage the writings of other musicologists, to grapple with them. And if I politely decline, they have a deadly fault to charge me with: “He’s not familiar with the latest literature on the subject!”

Well, I quote heavily from three scholarly books about Ives published in 2013/14. And you can see how this works: one writer speculates; another, trying to get tenure, having to be congruent with his colleagues or his external reviewers, trying to get published, is forced to agree, to cite; a third is pressured to flatter the first two, and eventually the academic consensus floats away from any mooring in reality. So I come along, trying to correct musicologists’ errors, replace their fanciful speculations with arguments grounded in textual evidence, and infuse my narrative with a composer’s sense of why Ives would have done what he did. And for four years, the musicologists have denied me grants, condescended to me and insulted me in their readers’ comments, and patronizingly tried to teach me how to do musicology. And since they have done what they’ve done from behind the screen of anonymity, I can only answer in public. I will not do in my book, but I have done here in my blog, what they asked. I have engaged – I have grappled – and I am finished.

 

For forty-five years, since I was a middle-schooler in Dallas, Ives’s Essays before a Sonata has been one of the most important books in my life. Lately it’s become tremendously underrated. Some Ives scholars have dismissed it nearly entirely as a jumble of psuedo-intellectual bloviations. The literature about the book has mined it piecemeal, a few sentences at a time, for insights into Ives’s biography, or to prove that he was highly influenced by Emerson and considered himself a Transcendentalist – or to prove the opposite. One of the themes of my book is that the Essays are undergirded by a more stable and coherent aesthetic project than Ives’s scattershot prose style leads one to suspect. As I rhetorically ask in the preface, “What if Ives had things to tell us, not about himself, but about musical creativity, that only a composer of his stature was in a position to know?” He was tremendously well-read and clearly spent years forming a rational justification for his compositional waywardness, and while his manner of verbal expression may not have been the most efficient for getting his points across, it’s clear that he deliberately wrote prose in a way analogous to the way he wrote music. The book is indeed kind of a mess, but so much of its language sends chills up my spine.

I’ve written here before about Henry Cecil Sturt (1863-1946), a rather undistinguished. post-Hegelian Oxford tutor whose essay “Art and Personality” Ives wrote the Essays partly in response to. The musicology world has virtually ignored Sturt, but more than a little of Ives’s rhetoric was borrowed from him even when Ives doesn’t acknowledge the quotation. The passages below are the run-up to the climax and the climax, though not the end, of my 15,000-word essay on Ives’s Epilogue, remarking on Ives’s relation to Tolstoy and Hegel as well as Sturt. Again, page numbers are from the standard edition of Essays before a Sonata. One of the things I’d love to accomplish with my book is to get the Essays taken more seriously than they ever have been.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From Chapter 12: A Harmony of Imperfections: The Epilogue

The part of Ives’s argument that may have seemed most radical at the time is his separating off beauty from substance. Beauty has nothing to do with substance (p. 76), he affirms, and then gives examples of circular reasoning to show, a little disappointingly, that beauty can’t be defined. “The word ‘beauty’ is as easy to use as the word ‘degenerate.” Both come in handy when one does or does not agree with you [pp. 76-77].” In claiming that we can reach no consensus on the meaning of beauty, Ives may be following the lead of an 1898 book he had rather cursorily dismissed in the Prologue: Leo Tolstoy’s What Is Art? Tolstoy, preparing to encapsulate the entire history of the various theories of beauty, throws up his hands in advance over writers’ inability to define the term: “…after whole mountains of books have been written on the subject by the most learned and profound thinkers… the question What is beauty? remains to this day quite unsolved, and in each new work on aesthetics it is answered in a new way.”[1]

Yet, despite this disclaimer Tolstoy, once he’s gone through definitions from an impressive wealth of historical treatises starting with Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten’s Aesthetica of 1750, does manage to distill all the answers down to derivations of two fundamental concepts: beauty is a manifestation within an object of “the Perfect, of the Idea, of the Spirit, of Will, or of God”; and that beauty is “a kind of pleasure we receive which does not have personal advantage for its object,”[2] i.e., that is disinterested and does not create desire. (“Selfish pleasure,” writes Sturt accordingly, “is the death of art.”[3]) His feigned complaint aside, Tolstoy ends up demonstrating that there is far more unanimity on the definition(s) of beauty, at least in modern times, than Ives follows up on. Likewise, these conceptions align with the definition given in George Santayana’s The Sense of Beauty, published in 1896 and based on lectures given at Harvard just prior to that. “Beauty,” Santayana concludes, “is pleasure regarded as the quality of a thing.”[4] Moreover, as Sturt had also written, the perception of beauty has the subjective experience of seeming objective:

When I judge a thing to be beautiful, my judgment means that the thing is beautiful in itself, or (what is the same thing more critically expressed) that it should seem so to everybody. The claim to universality is… the essence of the aesthetic; what makes the perception of beauty a judgment rather than a sensation.[5]

Apparently, Tolstoy is the only other writer on aesthetics in the two centuries before Ives to deny beauty (defined as pleasure) a major role in the value of art. (Coming close, Sturt soft-pedals the role of pleasure, and defines beauty otherwise; “Beauty,” he writes, “is a kind of high vitality,”[6] a more ambiguous phrase that Ives takes over from him.) Tolstoy considers the idea of beauty/pleasure as all-determining in art a perversion of the upper classes once they left traditional Christianity behind. He points out how often writers on aesthetics begin with a repertoire of approved artworks and then stretch the theory to fit them: “There exists an art canon according to which certain productions favored by our circle are acknowledged as being art… and the aesthetic laws must be such as to embrace all these productions.”[7] The truth all these writers since Baumgarten have missed, by Tolstoy’s lights, is that the importance of art lies not the pleasure it gives, but in “the purpose it may serve in the life of man and of humanity.” He seizes on the common ability of one person’s narrative or means of expression to recreate his inner emotional state in, or transmit it to, another person, and concludes that, “To evoke in oneself a feeling one has once experienced, and having evoked it in oneself, then, by means of movements, lines, colors, sounds, or forms expressed in words, so to transmit that feeling that others may experience the same feeling – this is the activity of art.”[8] Tolstoy’s corollary to this is, that as “Humanity unceasingly moves forward from a lower, more partial and obscure understanding of life to one more general and more lucid,” the best art is that which communicates feelings which will be most conducive to the spiritual improvement of society. And for Tolstoy, what determines the fruitful direction of spiritual improvement is the great truths of religion.

In a sense this is so parallel to Ives’s intent that I’m a little surprised he didn’t seize on Tolstoy as more of a potential ally. Both wanted to remove beauty/pleasure from the criteria for art and emphasize instead a perception of spiritual truth and inspiring example. It’s true that Tolstoy’s criteria were relentlessly Christian in a statically conservative way, and that, since for him aesthetic theory superceded individual works of art, Beethoven’s Ninth must be accorded bad music for perverted tastes because it was unintelligible to the common man: “I am unable to imagine to myself,” he wrote, “a crowd of normal people who could understand any of this long, confused, and artificial production, except short snatches which are lost in a sea of what is incomprehensible.”[9] Though Tolstoy’s vision allowed for the improvability of mankind, it did not include the possibility of art that could be ahead of its time, that might be incomprehensible at first but understood later. And so Ives waves Tolstoy off completely: “From his definition of art, we may learn little more than that a kick in the back is a work of art, and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony is not [p. 5].” It seems to me, though, that Ives and Tolstoy were theoretically similar in their aesthetics: the purpose of art for both was not to give pleasure (pleasure often being a symptom of a temporary perversion or “under-value”), but to lead man toward further spiritual enlightenment. It was mainly their religions that differed, Ives’s being more ineffably mystical and less church-bound. Then again, Ives – writing a sonata that remains “difficult” to average listeners even a century after its completion – was surely uncomfortable with Tolstoy’s insistence that art should be understandable, and instantly understandable, to the working class…..

[1] Tolstoy, What Is Art?, p. 20.

[2] Tolstoy, What Is Art?, p. 41.

[3] Sturt, “Art and Personality,” p. 308.

[4] Santayana, The Sense of Beauty, p. 31.

[5] Santayana, The Sense of Beauty, p. 26.

[6] Sturt, “Art and Personality,” p. 313.

[7] Tolstoy, What Is Art?, p. 44.

[8] Tolstoy, What Is Art?, p. 51.

[9] Tolstoy, What Is Art?, p. 158.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It may seem peculiar, in retrospect, that Ives writes this long Epilogue to a book meant to accompany the Concord Sonata without any direct allusion to his own music (except, glancingly, in the second paragraph). Without seeming to make a special case for his own work, he is attempting to arrive at an aesthetic groundwork that will justify his deviations from musical normalcy. One passage from Sturt must have offered a particular point of identification, though he only quotes the second sentence of it: “Suppose that we come upon a strange artist who is producing work which he affirms to be art. The work may not be quite like any other work in the world, but it is art so long as he feels in doing it as true artists feel, and so long as his object is akin to the objects that true artists admire.”57 Ives must indeed have felt like that “strange artist” he refrains from mentioning, the one whose “ears were on wrong,” and Sturt seems to offer the artist permission to make this judgment for himself. Accordingly, Ives needs to arrive at a viewpoint in which his own confidence in his music can be set equally against all those musicians who, over the years, thought he was doing something incomprehensible, if not amateurish or insane.

Sturt begins his essay with a complaint that aesthetics has too often been written about art experience from the viewer’s standpoint, and not enough from the artist’s.58 And Ives writes at times as though the validity of art lies less in the listener’s recognition than in the experience the artist had while creating it. “Whether he be accepted or rejected, whether his music is always played, or never played – all this has nothing to do with it – it is true or false by his own measure…. [p. 81]” And again, leading to the Sturt quotation, “The artist does feel or does not feel that a sympathy has been approved by an artistic intuition and so reflected in his work. Whether he feels this sympathy is true or not in the final analysis, is a thing probably that no one but he (the artist) knows but the truer he feels it, the more substance it has…. [p. 81]” As to the question of whether Debussy’s music contains substance, “Debussy himself, doubtless, could not give a positive answer. He would better know how true his feeling and sympathy was, and anyone else’s personal opinion can be of but little help here [pp. 80-81].” Ives veers close to admitting that the substance of music might not be entirely accessible to the listener, in a rather astounding statement: “what music sounds like may not be what it is [p. 84].”

In this connection, Ives pulls a Hegel quotation from Sturt’s article, and it is one of his rare deliberate and admitted misquotations:

If we may be permitted to leave out two words, and add a few more, a sentence of Hegel appears to sum up this idea, “The universal need for expression in art lies in man’s rational impulse to exalt the inner…world (i.e., the highest ideals he sees in the inner life of others) together with what he finds in his own life – into a spiritual consciousness for himself [p. 81].”

This is from a passage that Sturt quotes at greater length, in which Hegel discusses the question, “What is man’s need to produce works of art?” Hegel’s answer is that man “reduplicates himself” “in order to strip the outer world of its stubborn foreignness, and to enjoy in the shape and fashion of things a mere external reality of himself.”59 The original form of the sentence Ives takes pains to change (after unconcernedly misquoting so many other lines) is: “The universal need for expression in art lies, therefore, in man’s rational impulse to exalt the inner and outer world into a spiritual consciousness for himself, in an object which he recognizes as his own self [emphasis added].”60

Now this is odd, coming from a composer who painted, in his music, a child’s Fourth of July, Manhattan’s Central Park in the dark, the voices of Americans singing a hymn at a train station after the sinking of the Lusitania – Hegel speaks of art as exalting the inner and outer world, and Ives pointedly deletes the “outer.” In addition, he appends his own new apposition to “inner world”: “the highest ideals he sees in the inner life of others.” It is as though he is limiting substance to the inner world of someone, if not specifically of the artist himself, perhaps thinking that portraying the outer (physical) world – as Debussy did in La Mer, and Strauss in the Alpine Symphony? – comes too close to what he defines as mere manner. In any case, we’re in somewhat dangerous territory, aesthetically speaking, if only the artist him- or herself can determine with exactitude whether the sympathy and artistic intuition in an artwork rise to the level of substance. For if only the artist knows whether his own work is spiritually and emotionally true, what artist, speaking for himself, would confess otherwise? Perhaps Ives, with his long history of being told that his ears were on wrong and his music was distasteful, needed exactly this permission to make the determination for himself, and without external ratification. And what artist reading this – or writing it – can vouch with assurance that his or her creative experience was as intense as Ives’s?

Let us not shy away from Ives’s intent, nor politely assume that he couldn’t have meant to assert anything so heterodox, but grasp his point explicitly though it lead to absurdity. The entire force of his life might reside in his most extravagant claim. The artist has an experience while creating his art, and the spiritual intensity of that experience constitutes or determines the substance of the art. (This does not equate, we will remember, to feeling the specific emotions he may be depicting.) The listener to the music, the viewer of the art, may not recognize the quality of the substance – that is of no matter. Only the artist can “know how true his feeling and sympathy was, and anyone else’s personal opinion can be of but little help here.” We cannot found an aesthetics on the reception of the subjective and fallible, so often imperceptive, so easily misled, audience. Nor is it necessarily fatal if the artist lack the manner (the technique? the competency?) in which to communicate his or her vision, as long as the vision is embodied in the art. In the Prologue (p. 6) he speculates that “A true inspiration may lack a true expression,” though he admits that if it is not true enough to result in a true expression, we might have to conclude that “it is not an inspiration at all.” We perhaps find ourselves in the territory, mentioned in Ives’s Memos, of the old stone-mason John Bell, whose raucous and off-key singing George Ives excused to a parishioner who complained: “Don’t pay too much attention to the sounds. If you do, you may miss the music. You won’t get a heroic ride to heaven on pretty little sounds.”61 (Ruskin’s “harmony of imperfections” comes to mind.) It was the fervency with which John Bell believed what he was singing, not its technical polish, that made it art. What has sound got to do with music? What music sounds like may not be what it is. There might be a great work of art, and only the artist knows about it – only the artist experiences it. In retrospect, in fact, this is a simple description of pretty much the state Ives was in in 1919, and had been for many years. It is a state many an artist knows at a moment of triumph alone in her studio.

Of course, what is desirable, what makes the slow, difficult, inconsistently remunerative process of art socially worthwhile, is that that private state is generally deemed temporary. The art is shown, the music is listened to, and through whatever process of neuron mirroring makes artistic perception possible and potent, a psychological process occurs that recreates, according to whatever inexact process of analogy, a frame of mind within the viewer or listener something like the one that was originally in the artist. Even the listener to old John Bell might be spellbound by the inspiring sincerity of his flawed performance. As Ives had already seen, this process is infinitely vulnerable to failure, and in the 1920s, as a result of mailing that sonata out, he was about to gather a huge new wealth of evidential experience. It was possible that no one would ever respond to the Concord Sonata in the way that Ives hoped. It is hypothetically possible, according to this theory, that there exists, somewhere in the world, a great work of art whose substance no one has ever perceived, that has gone unrecognized, that might even be inaccessible to anyone living. Perhaps what was important about it was that the artist had the experience. Perhaps the mere fact of having created the glorious, never-to-be-understood work would make its way into the collective unconscious and indirectly elevate mankind’s perception of art. In that sense, perhaps theory will have to eternally presume the artist innocent – at least, an artist who has created a work we don’t understand.

Ives’s own musical vision was validated in the end, though hardly universally; of all the world’s music lovers, it is a safe guess that only a relatively tiny percentage would choose to continue listening to the Concord Sonata. And what does the quantity or percentage of appreciative listeners matter? It is tempting, though useless, to wonder whether Ives might have formulated the point differently, could he have foreseen how much lasting and universal substance music lovers would have indeed found in his difficult music by the 21st century. Perhaps we must assume a Platonic world of art, inaccessible to general knowledge, of which the public reception of art is only an imperfect mirror. We can admit the theoretical point while also granting its pragmatic inutility. On the other hand, perhaps the mere recognition of that occulted Platonic realm might serve to inspire a little welcome humility among those who are so quick and confident to affirm that our musical society is an efficient meritocracy, and that the artists who get the most visibility, attention, and honors are certainly those who deserve them. Occasionally we find that it was not Louis Spohr who was so great, as we thought, but the obscure Franz Schubert; and who knows but that another Charles Ives might be composing unheard-of things, today, in isolation? If Ives can teach us that the public world of art is a mere caricature of the real thing, and that we should revere aspects of creativity that don’t seem obvious or available to us, perhaps that is a worthwhile and sufficient lesson for the Essays Before a Sonata.

 

57 Sturt, “Art and Personality,” p. 328.

58 See Sturt, “Art and Personality,” pp. 291-92.

59 Hegel, Introductory Lectures on Aesthetics, p. 36. One of Hegel’s examples in evidence is charming: “Even the child’s first impulse involves this practical modification of external things. A boy throws stones into the river, and then stands admiring the circles that trace themselves on the water, as an effect in which he attains the sight of something that is his own doing.”

60 Hegel, Introductory Lectures on Aesthetics, p. 36.

61 Ives, Memos, p. 132.

I am stunned by the news on Facebook that musicologist and my close friend Bob Gilmore has died at age 53. He had survived a bout of cancer when I saw him two years ago in Amsterdam and London, and was physically reduced, but last I’d heard he was on the road to complete recovery. What a loss! He was not only a superb scholar (biographer of Harry Partch, anthologizer of Ben Johnston) but an incredibly irreverent spirit, incisive and fearless. I’ll never forget, after corresponding with him for years, pulling into Dartington, England, on the train and seeing his wild red Irish-fro emerge from the crowd – and then having to quickly acclimatize myself to his irrepressible personality. Two days ago I bought his new biography of Claude Vivier, and was planning to write about it here. I had never much warmed up to Vivier, but one evening in Dartington Bob took me back to his apartment and gave me the crash course, scores and recordings of the most striking works. I was fairly convinced, and added Vivier to my teaching repertoire. Bob was a walking intellectual’s party, his wit, sarcasm, insight, and appreciation of drink and conversation irresistibly sweeping one back into 1920s Paris (or more apropos, perhaps Shaw’s London). The times I could tell you about – in Dartington, where he brought me to teach twice, we drank for hours at a bar that had been there since the 15th century. And consider the musical intellect that could smoothly segue from Partch and Johnston to Vivier. I can’t picture a world without him. I can’t imagine that long, rippling, sardonic laugh ringing out no more.

 

One of the passages in my book I’m most proud of is the one in which I analyze my transcriptions of Ives’s recorded performances of the Four Transcriptions from Emerson (passages of the Concord‘s Emerson movement that he revised to be closer to the way he played them). One of my external readers advised firmly that this chapter should be stricken from the book. That’s right: for the first time, someone transcribed what actual notes Charles Ives played when he considered that he was playing Emerson, giving us a chance to see how what Ives thought with his fingers differed from what he wrote in the score, and a distinguished (one presumes) music professor declares that this has no place in a book on the Concord Sonata! It didn’t teach him anything about the Emerson movement, he says; but might it teach us something about Ives? Isn’t peer review grand?!

I have taken advantage of the blog format to do something I can’t do in a book: provide audio files of the recordings I transcribed, which I managed to embed in the blog page. They work on my browser, and I hope they work on yours.

**************************
From Chapter 6: The Emerson Concerto and its Offshoots

On four occasions in the 1930s and ‘40s Charles Ives went into a recording studio and had someone record him playing the piano:

* Columbia Graphophone Co., 3 Abbey Road, London, June 12, 1933 – shellac pressings
* Somewhere in NYC on an unknown date in the mid-1930s (between 1934 and 1937) – Speak-O-Phone discs on aluminum
* Melotone Recording Co., NYC, on May 11, 1938 – lacquer-coated blanks
* Mary Howard Studio, NYC, on April 24, 1943 – lacquer-coated blanks

He recorded some 42 tracks, some interrupted and picked up where they left off because the recording media of the day would not accommodate more than five minutes to a side. Three of the 1943 tracks were excerpts from the Emerson movement, seven and a half minutes in total1; in 1938 he tried to play Hawthorne and quickly broke off; and in 1943 he managed to play The Alcotts warmly and in its entirety, a precious document we will have occasion to study. Fifteen of the tracks, including some of the most complete, were of a relatively new piece called Four Transcriptions from Emerson, which consisted of sections from the Emerson movement as rewritten in the 1920s; they are attempts to play the movement more the way he liked playing it himself than was represented in the sonata’s 1920 publication, and the first in particular has passages from the original Emerson Concerto written back into it. He also played some of his Studies for piano, including portions of Nos. 2, 9 (subtitled The Anti-Abolitionist Riots of the 1830s and 1840s), 11, 20, 23 – all of these except No. 20 were written from material in the Emerson Concerto.

Thus, of the 42 tracks Ives recorded across these four occasions, no fewer than 31 were of material related to Emerson from the Concord Sonata. Ives was clearly intent on getting across his idea of Emerson with his own hands. He was only 58 at the first recording session, 68 at the final one, but though the recordings let his impressive prowess at the keyboard shine through at moments, he sounds like a rather frail old man. Diabetes at its worst had once reduced his weight to a hundred pounds, vitiated his eyesight, led to heart palpitations, and caused crippling neuritis in both arms, and though his weight and health began improving after the initiation of insulin treatments in April of 1930, his weakness is evident in his fumbling and at times arrhythmic interpretations. [All this information is footnoted to Budiansky’s Mad Music elsewhere in the text.] He often breaks off playing, muttering, “Oh, no, I can’t,” or ”Oh, I have to stop,” or ”That’s enough.” He also hums or sings or groans at moments, and the most touching entry is the song “They Are There” with Ives singing lustily but erratically as he accompanies himself, made in three takes in 1943 – he apparently hoped the song might gain some currency in the wave of World War II patriotism. Also, one item I find psychologically gratifying is that in 1938 he suddenly played a couple of minutes of the first-version Largo for his First Symphony that Horatio Parker had rejected and made him rewrite because it went through too many keys. Forty years later, he still had that music in his head, and he was not going to let Parker have the last word.

The sound quality, coming from soft aluminum or lacquer-coated discs, is highly variable, but for a 2000 compact disc release on CRI records, Richard Warren Jr., the curator for historical recordings at Yale University, transferred the original discs to digital sound files using a Packburn Audio Noise Suppressor, and repairing needle jumps via computer. Following CRI’s much-lamented 2003 demise, New World Records reissued the recording in 2006. Some of the tracks had already appeared on a Columbia vinyl recording during the Ives centennial. Mary Howard, the recording engineer for the 1943 session, remembers Ives saying that certain people had asked questions about how to interpret his music, and added, “Interpret! Interpret! What are they talking about? If they don’t know anything about music – well, all right, I’ll tell them.” “[H]e’d pound and pound,” Howard recalled, “and Mrs. Ives would say, ‘Now, please take a rest.’ He drank quantities of iced tea, and he’d calm down and then go back at it again, saying, ‘I’ve got to make them understand.’” And it helped. As we’ll see, these recordings have provided considerable insight toward restoring that mythical behemoth the Emerson Concerto…..

[Here follow sections on the Emerson Concerto as realized by David Porter, the related Piano Studies, and the Four Transcriptions from Emerson.]

Ives’s 1933 recording of the First Transcription (though he does not limit himself to that score) is one of the best documents we have tracking his thinking about the Emerson Concerto. He more or less plays the first two measures of the Transcription (corresponding to the first system of the Concord, and mm. 3-4 of the Concerto), and then skips to m. 14 of the Concerto (corresponding to page 2 of Study No. 9, for a long passage absent from the Transcription), rejoins the Transcription toward the end of Study 9 and then follows it into the Study No. 1 material, proceeding into Study No. 2 and following it to then end. In short, he basically plays the first 87 mm. of the Emerson Concerto except for mm. 1-2 and 5-13. This is as close as we can get to hearing Ives play the Emerson Concerto himself, as he had it in his hands and head, including the first three centrifugal cadenzas. He left us a compelling record that this really was the way he wanted it. Except, he has a moment of seeming uncertainty at the beginning, going into a little repetitive riff on a few chords before rebeginning the descent, something as in Ex. 6.9.

Ex. 6.9 Emerson Transcription No. 1 opening, as played by Ives in 1933

One has to wonder, at such puzzling moments in the recordings, whether he was intentionally improvising, or had a moment of indecision or misremembering about what to play next.

Thus the First Transcription. Our primary reason for spending time with the Third Transcription is that Ives interestingly (and clearly intentionally) deviated from the score every time he recorded it. As (soon to be) printed, it follows the sonata movement fairly literally, with almost unnoticeable note changes, from sys. 14-3, m. 3, through the first six beats of sys. 16-4, at which it dies out with a repeated C and a few pppp dissonant chords. How Ives played the movement at his four recording sessions, however, was different indeed. The first measure (corresponding to sys. 14-3, m. 3 in the sonata), he never plays literally at all. In each case he played a rather rambling introduction which eventually leads into the second movement of the printed Transcription. In my own transcription of these four introductions as recorded, we can get a view of Ives as improviser over a ten-year period.

A word about the following (and preceding) transcriptions: I do not vouch for the notes in detail. The sound quality of these recordings is not at all pristine. I have played the audio files at different speeds in an attempt to get all the notes, and in so doing, a note that seems audible at one speed will disappear at another; a note sustained from a chord may sound like it has been restruck when it hasn’t; dissonances deep in the bass may be mistaken for tremolos and vice versa. I have even made use of pitch-transcription software, which, because it will sometimes register harmonics of notes as well as the fundamental, I have found generally inferior to my own ears. The rhythms are more secure, since one can pinpoint in the audio file the exact time-point at which a note starts, and Ives does maintain a fairly clear feeling of beat. I think my transcriptions are adequate for showing the variations in Ives’s improvised versions of various passages, and I think they are followable with the recordings, but I am sure that close listeners to the recordings will disagree with some of my note choices, as I have so many times come to disagree, upon further listenings, with my own.

Subject, then, to the limitations of converting audio to notation, Ex. 6.10 shows what Ives played to open the Third Transcription in 1933. [The third Emerson transcription starts abruptly with page 14, system 3, measure 3 of the Concord. Admittedly, the scores of Ives’s Transcriptions are in the process of being published and not available yet.]

Ex. 6.10 Beginning of Third Transcription as played by Ives in 1933

Note the opening on a Bb; the move to a diminished seventh chord; the momentary cadence on Eb-major; the rise to A and then Ab; the C-minor triad in the right hand contradicted by the E-natural in the left; chromatic rumblings in the bass around D, C#, and Eb; and then the Transcription pretty much takes off with its second measure. A couple of years later, Ives records the piece again, and we find all these elements preserved, though with some differences (Ex. 6.11).

Ex. 6.11 Beginning of Third Transcription as played by Ives in mid-1930s, take 1

In 1938 Ives makes a third recording, and all the elements we’ve named are still intact except for the cadence on Eb, which is replaced with a flurry of chromaticism and a recitative-like solo line (Ex. 6.12).

Ex. 6.12 Beginning of Third Transcription as played by Ives in 1938

In 1943 Ives makes his final recording. Here (Ex. 6.13) the opening Bb proceeding to a dminished seventh chord is jettisoned, replaced with a more dramatic flourish leading directly to the treble Ab and also dispensing with the Eb-D treble sonority which, in the other three versions, led into the notated part of the Third Transcription.

Ex. 6.13 Beginning of Third Transcription as played by Ives in 1943

These four versions of an improvised introduction to the Third Transcription contain enough similarities to demonstrate that Ives had in his head (and fingers) a number of elements which, for him, constituted the opening to this work. Such recurring elements as reappear always occur in the same order. Porter found some of these elements in two sketches on pages associated with the Emerson Transcriptions. At f4890 (Ex. 6.14) we can see the Eb triad (though with a D# and B-natural), some notes moving to the A-C dyad, the chord with G on top going to A and G#, the G-C-Eb motive with E-natural in the bass, and the F-major triad with an E descending to D#.

Ex. 6.14 Notes from Third Transcription at f4890

At the end one will notice a D in the bass, and at f4947 – a printed page of the Third Transcription with many emendations by Ives (Ex. 6.15) – we find the Eb-B-D motive (Ives’s naturals can sometimes look almost indistinguishable from flats), and it precedes the B-D#-F#-A-C-E-G chord we’ve already seen.

Ex. 6.15 Notes from Third Transcription at f4947

If we compare the notes Ives played in his first recordings with those in the score of the Third Transcription and Sonata movement, we see some correspondences that would be difficult to notice, since the fugal theme on top is omitted and some of the notes are sustained at much greater length (Ex. 6.16).

Ex. 6.16 Correspondence of Ives’s improvisations to the notated Third Transcription

Thus, for the correlating passage of the Emerson Concerto, Porter combined the Third Transcription (identical to the Sonata movement in this case) with some of the elements found at f4890 and f4749 and, using Ives’s 1933 recording as a guide, worked a corresponding two-measure piano intrusion into this point (Ex. 6.17).

Ex. 6.17 Emerson Concerto, mm. 264-267

In later years, as we can notice above, Ives began treating the Third Transcription’s opening a little more rhapsodically. Nor does he follow the printed score closely once he reaches m. 2 of the score. In particular he tends to replace the first nine beats of sys. 14-5 (in the sonata) with a group of repeated chords and then some repeating motives or chromatically moving chords, before restarting with the syncopation in the notated tenth beat. The point of the recording for Ives, one gathers, was to introduce the quick runs that were eventually notated on page 15, so he tends to play that passage fairly literally. Each version except the 1943 (which he abandoned in mid-take) does die away with a repeated note (or minor-ninth dyad) and chords, but the number of repetitions vary, as do the chords. These variations suggest what has been speculated28, which is that Ives was probably making the recordings from memory, without a score in front of him. The loud Eb-B-D motive with the bass octaves or tremolos is related to a minor-2nd/minor-3rd motive, but there seems to be no hint of the fugal theme in the introduction, nor of any of the other Emerson themes. Ives didn’t write this material down as part of the Third Transcription, but he carried it around in his head and could reproduce it fairly similarly, if evolvingly, at intervals of several years each. This gives us as close a picture as we can get of how he would improvise on and expand a piece that he thought of as relatively fixed in its material.

From the comparison of these transcribed recordings with the printed Third Transcription from Emerson and the sketches, I think we learn something both about Ives’s improvisation style and his playing in general. It seems from the available evidence that when he played rather extemporaneously Ives tended to have in mind a musical structure that he had already worked out. His idea of timing and tempo was extremely flexible, and here we find him holding out at great length notes that he had written as a series of eighth-notes in the final score. He seems not to be just “making notes up,” but recomposing, as he plays, a passage that had for him some kind of firm identity in its relationships, though he felt free to interpolate motives and chords within it. He will write next to a sketch, “I find I play something like this here” (as Porter found on f2230)29, or write “sometimes” next to an accidental. This is not free improvisation, but reconsidering over and over how a passage might have been written. One thinks of the complaint of Ives’s grandmother who, hearing Emerson lecture, found that “the printed text, which she knew almost by heart, was hardly more than an outline in his lecture. Apparently Emerson liked to trust to the mood of the moment….” One could hear some of these recordings and think of Ives’s printed scores as merely outlines. “Music may resent going down on paper!,” Ives wrote to Cowell.30 The classical musician’s inability to identify with that jazz attitude has been the source of misunderstandings about Ives.

1 The passages of Emerson Ives played in 1943 included system 5-3, beat 10, through p. 6; sys. 17-1 through 18-1, m. 1; and sys. 14-2, beat 4, through 18-1, m. 1.
2 Budiansky, Mad Music, pp. 1, 207, 213.
3 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered: An Oral History, p. 210.
……..
28 By, for instance, James Sinclair in the liner notes to Ives Plays Ives, New World Records 80642-2, p. 6.
29 Porter, p. 17.
30 Ives to Henry Cowell, August 12, 1928; quoted in Owen, Selected Correspondence, p. 155.

All material copyright © Kyle Gann 2014

All that is currently clear is that Essays After a Sonata: Charles Ives’s Concord will be delayed, as musicologists argue over whether I’ve flattered them enough. But they can’t silence me, and as I’ve been chary of posting excerpts of the book for fear of getting scooped on some of my ideas, it is perhaps time to spring some of those ideas out into the world. This way you can judge the book, piecemeal, for yourselves, and savor the naughty thrill of reading a book someone doesn’t want you to read. Of course, it may be – who knows? – that my blog readers will quickly tire of my personal insights and demand that I add in more and more quotations from other Ives books already in print. In that case I will be humbled, and forced to concede that the musicologists were right after all.

So I start here with the passages explaining why I think Ives’s opposition between substance and manner may have had its source in the art critic John Ruskin. In an early review of my book proposal, an anonymous prof sternly warned me that the subject of Ives’s intellectual inheritance had been exhaustively mined by Peter Burkholder in his Charles Ives: The Ideas Behind the Music, and that I would find nothing new to report. Peter’s book is indeed excellent, but Ruskin is not mentioned in it (nor is Tolstoy, Hegel, or Henry Sturt, all of whom I discuss in terms of their appearances in Essays Before a Sonata). Peter had his priorities and I have mine. My book does not render his superfluous, nor vice versa. It would be as ludicrous to fault him for not doing what I did as it would to fault me for not duplicating him. There is room in Ives’s world for at least two people to frame complementary narratives of his mental development.

One recurring idea in my book is that when one traces the quotations in Ives’s Essays to their source, the original context often tells us more about what Ives was thinking than the specific quote does. (All pages numbers within the text refer to Ives’s Essays Before a Sonata.)

*******************************
From Chapter 4: Emerson: The Essay

…A sentence from the 19th-century art critic John Ruskin (1819-1900) at this point seems almost like a non-sequitur, but carries an unsuspected weight once one is aware of its original context: “Suppose I like the finite curves best, who shall say I’m right or wrong? No one. It is simply a question of experience [p. 23].” This is from a chapter in Modern Painters11 in which Ruskin is discussing the geometry of forms which imitate nature. He demonstrates, first, that curves such as a circle or oval are less pleasing than more gradually expanding curves that reach out to infinity (the spiral of a nautilus shell, for example), because we can perceive their (the former’s) endpoint and necessary repetitiveness; and, secondly, that the curves of a landscape tend toward the spiraling and infinite because of the natural forces which created them (for instance, a river flowing downhill gains more momentum as it descends, and gradually increases the angle at which it cuts into a hill; Ruskin was a natural historian before painting became his passion).

And so, contrary to what one might think on reading Ives’s isolated quotation of him, Ruskin is not acquiescing to the subjectivity of the perception of beauty, but indeed grounding it in a kind of geometrically natural objectivity. Ruskin continues: “[W]hen we find on examination that every form which… has been received as lovely,… is composed of these infinite curves, and that Nature uses them for every important contour, small or large, which she desires to recommend to human observance, we shall not, I think, doubt that the preference of such lines is a sign of healthy taste, and true instinct.”12 In other words, those with little experience might find the simpler, more self-contained forms more pleasing, but a more developed perception will learn to recognize that the curves that point to infinity, if more challenging to perceive, are closer to nature and therefore more profound. Thus Ives uses Ruskin, if you’re aware what Ruskin was really saying, to justify the more complex curves of the Concord Sonata as more analogous to nature, thus more satisfying to comprehend in the long run, than the quickly-apprehended outlines of a simple sonata form. And we can cite, though Ives doesn’t, this explicit example of Emerson’s agreement on this point: “A beauty not explicable is dearer than a beauty which we can see to the end of.”13 (We will have much more to say about Ruskin in Chapter 12 where we discuss Ives’s Epilogue.)

11 Ruskin, Modern Painters, Vol. 4, IV. Banks, Chapter XVII (London: George Allen, 1902), p. 283.
12 Ibid, pp. 283-84.
13 Emerson, “The Poet,” in Essays, p. 212.

***********************************
From Chapter 12: A Harmony of Imperfections: The Epilogue

…Let us address more directly, then, before going further, the aspects of substance and manner. We know of no precedent for Ives’s use of these specific terms to indicate higher and lower artistic values, but 19th-century criticism is rife with such categorical oppositions.7 David B. Robinson notes in this connection Emerson’s distinction between genius and talent in his essay on “The Poet”: “Talent may frolic and juggle; Genius realizes and adds.”8 Ives’s demotion of the composer Max Reger from “genius” to “man of ‘talent’” on page 88 is perhaps an echo. But there seems to me to be a striking parallel between Ives’s project here and that of John Ruskin in Volume 2 of Modern Painters (1846). Ives quotes Ruskin only three times, but the contexts from which those quotes are taken are so apposite as to make me think Ruskin’s influence on Ives was more pervasive than has been noticed. The Emerson essay mentions Ruskin’s “imagination penetrative”; the “Imagination Penetrative” chapter of Modern Painters is preceded by one on the “Imagination Associative,” which Ives certainly also must have read. Here Ruskin draws a distinction between fancy and imagination parallel to Ives’s manner and substance, though referring to the artist’s process rather than the quality of the art. He describes the painter of mere fancy:

When an unimaginative painter is about to draw a tree… he probably lays on his paper such a general form as he knows to be characteristic of the tree to be drawn, and such as he believes will fall in agreeably with the other masses of his picture, which we will suppose partly prepared. When this form is set down, he assuredly finds it has done something he did not intend it to do. It has mimicked some prominent line, or overpowered some necessary mass. He begins pruning and changing, and, after several experiments, succeeds in obtaining a form that does no material mischief….

Where the powers of fancy are very brilliant, the picture becomes highly interesting; if her images are systematically and rightly combined, and truthfully rendered, it will become even impressive and instructive; if wittily and curiously combined, it will be captivating and entertaining.9

Sounds like manner to me. Ruskin then describes the process of an artist who is capable of imagination:

If… the combination made is to be harmonious, the artist must induce in each of its component parts (suppose two only, for simplicity’s sake,) such imperfection as that the other shall put it right. If one of them be perfect by itself, the other will be an excrescence. Both must be faulty when separate, and each corrected by the presence of the other. If he can accomplish this, the result will be beautiful; it will be a whole, an organized body with dependent members;—he is an inventor. If not, let his separate features be as beautiful, as apposite, or as resemblant as they may, they form no whole. They are two members glued together. He is only a carpenter and joiner.10

The one painter composes a painting from images of nature stored in his memory, each one of them perfect independently; the other imagines the painting as a whole, full of imperfections in the individual forms which harmoniously balance each other and create a texture reflecting nature in its complexity and underlying emotive expression. (Ruskin’s visual examples, too lengthy to cite here, are impressive and worth looking up.) Though Ruskin is difficult to quote succinctly, here he is again on the fanciful painter:

Now, I suppose that through the whole of this process, he has been able to refer to his definite memory or conception of nature for every one of the fragments he has successfully added… But, as far as the process of combination is concerned, it is evident that, from beginning to end, his laws have been his safety, and his plague has been his liberty. He has been compelled to work at random or under the guidance of feeling only, whenever there was anything left to his own decision… He has walked as a drunken man man on a broad road; his guides are the hedges; and, between these limits, the broader the way, the more difficult his progress.11

Now, imagine how much Ives may have recognized himself in the subsequent contrasting portrait of the imaginative painter, and what a heady compliment it must have felt:

The advance of the imaginative artist is precisely the reverse of this. He owns no laws. He defies all restraint, and cuts down all hedges. There is nothing within the limits of natural possibility that he dares not do, or that he allows the necessity of doing. The laws of nature he knows; these are to him no restraint. They are his own nature. All other laws or limits he sets at utter defiance; his journey is over an untrodden and pathless plain… He saw his tree, trunk, boughs, foliage, and all, from the first moment; not only the tree, but the sky behind it….12

Ruskin’s division is more severe than Ives’s: a painter is capable of either fancy or imagination, but the processes are mutually exclusive. And, like Ives (with his Beethoven/Strauss pairing), he draws this line not between good art and bad, but between sublime, permanently relevant art – and pretty good art that people like, but which does not manifest eternal values and will probably go out of fashion. In the “Imagination Penetrative” chapter, Ruskin takes Dante as an Imagination example in poetry, and Milton (no minor poetaster) as the poet of mere Fancy, whose description of Satan “is too far detailed, and deales too much with externals; we feel rather the form of the fire-waves than their fury, we walk upon them too securely….”13

Now the reader has in mind the very clear distinction (possibly too speciously clear to be true, once one contemplates it) that Ives had in mind before writing, and that he was going to recreate in the sphere of music; this juxtaposition may throw the entire essay into relief. The word fancy was not going to retain any intellectual heft by 1919. In using substance and manner, he focuses on not the creative faculty of the artist but qualities of the artwork, which already reduces the rhetorical dynamism a notch, and is going to be harder to make stick in a medium as immaterial as music. He does not possess Ruskin’s phenomenal powers of description. The aspects that make music transcendent are not as easy to pinpoint as those of poetry and painting. A Ruskin-like analysis of why the “Archduke” Trio is an objectively better piece than Also Sprach Zarathustra might serve his purpose, but would mire him in endless details. In 1846 Ruskin was straining to preserve an Enlightenment tradition that landscape painting was a scientific branch of natural philosophy, and that, rightly done, it imparted true scientific knowledge of natural forms14; by 1919, artistic perception had come to be understood as more subjective, and Ives has Henry Sturt on his other shoulder lamenting the impossibility of objective criteria. But as part of his philosophical and moral (but not artistic) conservatism, he feels the force of Ruskin’s dichotomy.

I would venture that by not making more of his Ruskin quotes, Ives is soft-pedaling his indebtedness; possibly recognizing that in the 19-teens Ruskin’s reputation was at the bottom of a slump, and would not aid his case.15 In a sense, Ives himself was in the position of the great Romantic painter J.M.W. Turner (1775-1851), whom Ruskin began writing Modern Painters in 1843 to defend: pursuing goals outside the boundaries of the art form as currently understood, but which Ruskin could justify as embodying “a more essential truth than is seen at the surface of things.”16 Ives, too retiring to even bring up his own music, is hamstrung trying to do for himself what Ruskin did for Turner. It’s fascinating, though, that Ruskin pointed to imagination as a harmony of imperfections conceived as a unity, as opposed to a collection of self-sufficient types. I think we could recognize the Concord Sonata in that characterization.

And so Ives Ruskinizes as best he can. Substance (to collect Ives’s scattered near-synonyms) has to do with reality, quality, spirit, character, spiritual consciousness, inspiration, affection, a divine spark, and truth. To return to his Emerson essay, “It gives the sincerity to the constant spiritual hopefulness we are always conscious of, and… a note of exultation in the victories of ‘the innate virtues’ of man [p. 31].” Paraphrasing one of Ives’s quotations of Thoreau (p. 32), it “satisfies hunger” rather than merely “gratifies the palate.” If an artist’s work lacks substance, it may, in a sense, be not his own fault (or at least not from lack of hard work), except insofar as every person is responsible for his or her own spiritual development. An artist needs to cultivate a kind of radical honesty, a larger insight into the workings of the human mind not based on his own education or prejudices, but in a universal sympathy, let us say even a love of one’s fellow man that makes him or her want to reach out through art to share with the world. As Ives states it most clearly,

Substance in a human-art-quality suggests the body of a conviction which has its birth in the spiritual consciousness, whose youth is nourished in the moral consciousness, and whose maturity as a result of all this growth is then represented in a mental image. This is appreciated by the intuition, and somehow translated into expression by “manner” – a process always less important than it seems…. (p. 75)

The superior artist is, then, a superior person, or at least one who has overcome his or her own psychic limitations. “The finer the sense of justice, the better poet,” writes Emerson.17 A mean, petty, limited, and/or unevolved person could not produce art of surpassing substance.18 Ives seems to have been quite serious about this. In an insert intended for a possible second edition of the Essays (included by Boatwright as a footnote, since Ives didn’t specify where it should be placed), Ives hypothesizes about an artist who pretends to value freedom when he really means selfishness: “He must be free to express his great soul but forgets, that unfair & impatient, or even indecent treatment of his wife – means that he hasn’t got a great soul to start with… [p. 253]” And thus we must displace Charles Dickens, who treated his wife shamefully (and who was, incidentally, one of Ives’s favorite authors), from among the novelists of substance based on his biography, for the sake of whatever supposed traces it may have left in his fiction. (Likewise, forget about Ernest Hemingway.) Ives goes on to describe a composer who left his family to fend for themselves: “Look into this man’s or any similar character’s (art) music – live with it long enough – & you will gradually feel the decadent part of the man’s soul – making a strenuous perhaps beautiful sound, – but you can’t live with it long – any more than he could live with his family….”19

Such a belief in the necessary morality of great artists, which seems to arise in history periodically, is one of Ives’s affinities with Ruskin, who wrote that “no supreme power of art can be attained by impious men,”20 and, “It is, of course, true that many of the strong masters had deep faults of character, but their faults always show in their work.”21 The German Idealists (of whom we can take Sturt as a neo-Hegelian) separated knowledge and morality into independent spheres, and believed that art transcended its social context; Ruskin, coming from another tradition, fused art with morality, locating truth outside art and insisting that art be judged according to knowledge.22 There are, in the literature, innumerable anecdotes of famous artists and composers acting selfishly or vindictively, and occasionally someone will cite a munificent and generous human being who was, nevertheless, a mediocre artist (in fact, Ives had a good friend who he was forced to admit was just such an example: the composer John Becker23). Still, the correlation Ives posits here is a perennially attractive one. We run into a different strain of the same conviction among those who suspect T.S. Eliot’s poetry on the basis of his antisemitism, or Ezra Pound’s poetry due to his public advocacy for Italian fascism.

7 Burkholder notes that Ives’s mentor John Cornelius Griggs uses the words content and manner to discuss Debussy in Griggs, “Claude Debussy,” in Wilbur L. Cross, ed., Yale Review, Vol. 1 (New Haven: Yale Publishing Association, Inc., 1912), pp. 484-494. But they are not used as oppositional categories. Charles Ives: The Ideas Behind the Music, p. 71.
8 David B. Robinson, “Charles Ives on Emerson and Art,” in Cody & Budd, On Emerson, p. 186.
9 Ruskin, Modern Painters (edited and abridged by David Barrie), (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987), pp. 249, 247.
10 Ibid., p. 247.
11 Ibid., p. 250.
12 Ibid., pp. 250-51.
13 Ibid., p. 255.
14 Teukolsky, The Literate Eye, p. 36.
15 As a book on Ruskin would note in 1932, Ruskin’s reputation had fallen because he “invariably introduced a social, moral, or religious interest into the brilliant but dictatorial criticism of pictures.” Henry Ladd, The Victorian Morality of Art: an Analysis of Ruskin’s Esthetic (New York: Ray Long and Richard Smith, 1932); quoted in Teukolsky, The Literate Eye, p. 26. Plus, of course, the painter Whistler’s 1878 libel suit against Ruskin had made the latter look stodgy and a little ridiculous to the younger generation at the time.
16 Ruskin, Modern Painters (edited and abridged by David Barrie), (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987), p. 266.
17 Emerson, “The Sovereignty of Ethics,” p. 179.
18 Hegel, though, with respect to musicians, provides a dissenting observation: “we often enough see very great expertness in musical composition, as also in execution, subsist along with remarkable barrenness of mind and character.” Introductory Lectures on Aesthetics, p. 32.
19 Ives, Essays, p. 253.
20 Ruskin, Modern Painters (edited and abridged by David Barrie), (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987), p. 238.
21 Ruskin, Lectures on Art: III: The Relation of Art to Morals, §72.
22 Mary Ann Stankiewicz, “The Eye Is a Nobler Organ,” Journal of Aesthetic Education, Vol. 18, No. 2 (Summer, 1984), pp. 55-56.
23 Budiansky, Mad Music, p. 232.

All material copyright © Kyle Gann 2014

*************************************
Had some previous book or article alerted me to this Ruskin-Ives connection, I would quote and footnote it with an obsequiousness that would make your head spin. But I had to come up with this myself.

Stay tuned, if interested, for more soon.

One of the things my Concord Sonata book is being criticized for is that all I do is analyze the music. Apparently I’m supposed to be bringing in multidisciplinary approaches: I dunno, historiography, reception history, gender studies. Musicology has moved on from the mere analysis of music, and by analyzing a piece I must be implicitly asserting that all I care about is the glorification of Dead White Males and the Great Western Canon. I am accused of a “music in a vacuum” approach (I thought that was called music theory) – and seriously, that’s being taken as a reason to prevent publication of the book. But as I say in the book, you have to see what something is before you can compare it to everything else in the world, and a lot of nonsense has been written about the Concord because no one’s ever written a close textual analysis of it. And what if analyzing music is what I’m trained at, and what I’m good at? Really, musicologists? To ply the trade I was academically trained in makes me a racist and sexist troglodyte? No good insight can some merely from close examination of a complex score? Even if I’m not trained in those other fields, even if other people are already doing that work, I have to do it too? As Larry Polansky once said to me, “Composers are now doing the work that musicologists used to do, while the musicologists are all off doing gender studies.” And now composers aren’t even allowed to do that in books anymore.