Ives' Concord Sonata

For this blog post, we turn once again to Charles Ives. This time, we will examine his Second Piano Sonata (Concord, Mass., 1840-60). The term “Sonata” is used loosely for this piece for it doesn’t fit the traditional Sonata form in the slightest. In fact, it doesn’t fit much of anything. Upon first glance, one would be hard-pressed to understand anything about a peace that contains mostly chord clusters, severe polyphony, and supposedly pointless references to past works. But there is a method behind Charles Ives’ madness, a method explained in his supplement to the Sonata, “Essays Before a Sonata”

In those extensive notes, he laid out not only his own philosophy toward music and composing, but those of the Sonata’s subjects and how each is intertwined. These were complicated people, perfect subjects for a complicated piece of work. For this post, I will focus on Ives’ interpretations on these philosophies and how he saw the people outlined in it, for I feel adding my own interpretation will only serve to cheapen Ives’ intentions.

The first movement is named for writer Ralph Waldo Emerson. Ives described Emerson as an explorer, a rebel, and a spiritualist. Ives compares him to Mother Nature, who repeats as much as she explains: not at all. He describes Emerson’s writing as a group of sentences based on the larger unity of particular aspects of a subject, resulting in a lack of unity. He goes further in explaining this: “His habit, often in lecturing, was to compile his ideas as they came to him on a general subject, in scattered notes, and when on the platform, to trust to the mood of the occasion, to assemble them.” This first movement, in a way, is kind of the same idea: a group of musical ideas thrown together based on an underlying idea. And what is that idea?

Emerson was a staunch believer in the Divine; he believed all things were connected to God, and as such, all things were Holy. There is, indeed, an ethereal sense of wonder present throughout the composition. This sense is suggested through chord clusters, rising and falling figures, and the general sense of calmness attached to them that contrasts with the rest of the movement’s air of chaos. The most notable instance of this occurring happens at around the 14:29 mark, which leads us into a section of a fearful yet soothing calm (accompanied by an optional Viola for some reason). Perhaps this is not the cleanest analysis of the movement ever given, but Ralph Waldo Emerson was a very complicated man, as shown by Ives’ analysis of him being three times as long as the other gentlemen.

The second movement, after Nathaniel Hawthorne, starts off as a quick vivace, vivacious, and relentless, and it continues throughout the movement. Ives himself describes this movement as “…but an ‘extended fragment’ trying to suggest some of his wilder, fantastical adventures into the half-childlike, half-fairylike phantasmal realms”. Ives describes Hawthorne as dripping in the Supernatural, a quality that the chord clusters in the extreme upper octaves seems to possess. But he was also a conservative man, a devout Christian who deeply believed in the power of guilt. There are several moments of quiet complacency throughout the piece, most notably around 5:20, which feels more like a moment of contemplation. But that contemplation wouldn’t last long as we are thrust without warning back into another wild section. One of the most notable features of this movement is its passionate use of chord clusters, the largest of which requires the use of a 14 ¾ inch pole. Such passion was the way of Nathaniel Hawthorne: a passionate, spiritual Christian who never leaves any indication of what he’ll do next.

The third movement is unquestionably the most tonal of the movements. After authors Bronson and Louisa May Alcott, this tonalism reflects the duo’s Christian and moral outlooks. But Ives doesn’t take it much further than that. The philosophy that the Alcotts followed was mostly frowned upon by Ives as he felt that Bronson glorified his over all elses. So instead, he focused on the house they lived in. What results is a beautiful and nostalgic work that demonstrates Ives’ artistic side. Though it still contains Ives’ trademark writing style, the often soft, homesick piano conjures up images of tranquility that causes the movement to transcend its sheet music and become a piece of art unto itself. With the beauty of God as its background (or as Ives would better agree with, with the beauty of Bronson Alcott as its background), this movement captures the spirit of 19th-century New England beautifully.

The fourth and final movement is centered around the controversial poet and philosopher, Henry David Thoreau. Though during his life, he was an easy target because of his personality, Ives assures us that Thoreau was a kind, loving, humorous man (albeit a little rude), citing his letters to the daughter of Ralph Waldo Emerson (incidentally, all four men in this Sonata knew each other; this will be further explained in the final paragraph). He was a man close to nature, and the piece in fact begins in a way similar to the opening of the 9th movement of Olivier Messaien’s Eclairs sur l’Au-Delà (Plusieurs Oiseaux des arbes de Vie)

And speaking of woodwind instruments, this piece contains a brief optional flute solo at 8:46 of the piece, a reference to Thoreau being a flute player. Ives compares him to Beethoven in his ability to play the music, not just the notes, shown on the page. And just like his skills in the art of Strum und Drang, so was his personality a master. Though usually reclusive, Throeau was known for having violent outbursts, especially when passionate about a cause; one of such cases occurs starting around 6:19 in the piece. But these are only a few aspects to a complicated individual. One who was better content with the rule of God and nature than that of man.

If you’re beginning to see parallels between two or more of the men described in this sonata, it’s by no means coincidence. What binds these men together, other than their place of origin, is their belief in Transendentalism. The basic belief of Transendentalists is that societies and their institutions (read: governments) corrupted the purity and soul of the individual, which explains their fascination with nature and solitude, not to mention their abolitionism. This ideal is represented in the Sonata not by chord clusters, not by asymmetry, not even by polyphony, but by a quote, an “oracle” as Ives describes it: the opening bars to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5:

This section repeats itself in various forms throughout the sonata, some display themselves obviously (such as the “family piano” section in the “Alcott” section), while others are so subtle one might miss them (such as in the Flute Solo in the Thoreau movement). On a side note, “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean” can also be heard toward the end of the Hawthorne movement.

And it’s this piece that shows just how passionate Charles Ives was in his music. To him, music was art and, citing Professor Strut, "The nearer we get to the mere expression of emotion,...the further we get away from art." Of course, hardly anyone during his time agreed with this philosophy, but Ives didn’t care at all what they thought. In fact, the introduction to his Essays is essentially a proverbial middle finger to his critics:

"These prefatory essays were written by the composer for those who can't stand his music—and the music for those who can't stand his essays; to those who can't stand either, the whole is respectfully dedicated."

Charles Ives’ Concord Sonata was not simply a dedication to four controversial men: it was music ahead of its time written for men ahead of their times.