CHARLES IVES and his ROAD TO THE STARS A Guide to the Music and the Man SECOND EDITION Antony Cooke All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein. Copyright © 2016 by Antony Cooke Front Cover Images The Large Magellanic Cloud, courtesy of NASA, ESA, and the Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA)-ESA/HubbleCollaborationNASA @ nasaimages.org 1947 Portrait of Charles Ives (superimposed), by Frank Gerratana, with appreciation 2 CONTENTS Foreword by Johnny Reinhard 9 Author’s Preface and Acknowledgements 11 Introduction 15 Chapter 1 The Makeup of the Man Ives in his time Ives in our time The psychoanalyst’s couch Dashed idealism: Ives’s lone journey to the stars Knowing Ives through his music The isolationist Henry Cowell, and the awakening Ives the craftsman 35 36 36 39 41 41 42 45 46 Chapter 2 Ives’s World Danbury Years (1874–93) and George Ives Ives the dreamer The developing composer The revisions The “lily pads” Multiple orbits 49 50 52 53 55 55 56 Chapter 3 Originality and Influences The materials of music On Ives’s use of musical quotations Links to other music The “isms” of music 59 59 61 64 65 3 Programmatic content Ives’s counterpoint and musical textures The makeup of the music, and the “Four Musical Traditions” Folk, popular, Civil War music Church music The European model The experimental model The road to the stars 67 67 68 68 69 70 70 71 Chapter 4 Early Symphonic Ventures The European symphonic design The First Symphony The Second Symphony Listeners’ guide 73 73 74 76 80 Chapter 5 The Third Symphony (“The Camp Meeting”) Timeline The music of the symphony A link to the symphony: Fugue in Four Keys: on “The Shining Shore” Musical in the shadows Comparisons with other symphonic music of the period Listeners’ guide The significance of the Third Symphony 87 88 89 90 91 92 92 95 Chapter 6 Ives the Innovator Music in space and time Early innovations The timeline Innovative miniatures First Set for Chamber Orchestra Paving the road to the stars The Unanswered Question (a Cosmic Landscape) Listeners’ guide Central Park in the Dark Listeners’ guide 4 97 97 98 98 100 103 105 106 107 109 111 Chapter 7 Ives in Danbury The Symphony of Holidays Washington’s Birthday Listeners’ guide Decoration Day Listeners’ guide The Fourth of July Listeners’ guide Thanksgiving and Forefathers’ Day Listeners’ guide 115 116 116 117 119 120 122 124 126 127 Chapter 8 The Songs Selected Songs over the course of Ives’s most productive years When Stars are in the Quiet Skies From “Amphion” Tarrant Moss Hymn The Cage Watchman The Indians Like a Sick Eagle So may it be! (The Rainbow) September Afterglow 131 133 134 135 136 137 139 140 141 143 144 146 147 Chapter 9 The Concord Sonata Listeners’ guide Emerson Hawthorne The Alcotts Thoreau 151 153 154 156 158 160 Chapter 10 The Fourth Symphony Parallel thoughts 165 167 5 Ives’s mature counterpoint Movement 1 – Prelude Listeners’ guide Movement 2 – Scherzo A celestial railroad Listeners’ guide Movement 3 – Fugue Listeners’ guide Movement 4 – Finale Listeners’ guide 168 169 169 171 172 175 178 179 180 182 Chapter 11 The Universe Symphony Adirondack inspiration The challenge for the listener Why Ives did not finish the symphony, and the “Ives Legend” The real purpose behind the words 185 186 188 190 195 Chapter 12 Resurrecting the Symphony The sketch materials Paving the road for the listener The three orchestras All components together Realizations of the Universe Symphony Microtones The story behind Reinhard’s realization The difficulties of realization and the Ives sound 199 199 201 202 205 205 207 208 209 Chapter 13 A listeners’ Guide to the Universe Symphony I: Fragment: Earth Alone (also later: Heavens music fragment) II: Prelude No.1—The Pulse Of The Cosmos III: Section A—Wide Valleys And Clouds Further thoughts on the matter of the correct tempo IV: Prelude No.2—Birth Of The Oceans V: Section B—Earth and the Firmament VI: Prelude No.3—And Lo, Now It Is Night 6 211 211 213 214 217 218 220 221 VII: Section C—Earth Is Of The Heavens Is Reinhard’s realization the symphony of Ives’s imagination? 223 226 Appendix 1 Revising Ives The “Ives Legend” Questions of veracity The dates and other irregularities Putnam’s Camp Common sense Issues of mortality Cultivating the new avant-garde in America A question of deceit Psychobiographies Four years of study with Parker: a controversy settled Summing up 229 231 232 232 235 236 236 236 237 238 238 239 Appendix 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches General notes Section A Section B The “lost” prelude & the mysterious Section C Additional notes regarding the succeeding patches 51–54 241 241 242 243 244 249 Appendix 3 Glossary 253 Bibliography 255 Musical Scores (by Charles Ives, unless listed otherwise) 258 Index 259 7 8 FOREWORD M any of us have realized that Charles Ives is a bit of a mystery to practically all Americans. It is said only one percent recognize his name, and half of that one percent know him only as a life insurance innovator. Bumping into his Memos at the North Carolina School of the Arts college music library, and later at the Lincoln Center Music Library, only drove my curiosity further, initiated by several memorable encounters with his music. But curiosity can only flow when unimpeded. There is so much disinformation to impede knowledge of this great American composer. Ives lived in a different era, difficult to interpret from our 21st Century vantage point. However, besides the usual difficulties of obtaining records and by interviewing those who knew him personally, there has been a societal rejection based primarily on misinformation. We have long passed Rollo’s antagonism to challenging listening (Rollo was Ives’s fictitious name for arrogant music writers who were deaf to what he hoped to achieve) living at a time in which it is now quite comfortable to listen to “noise” music served at high decibels. The faux Ives “redating crisis” is one example, the excessive costs levied by publishers for permission to perform Ives’s music is another, and the pretense doubting the existence of a full Universe Symphony is still yet another example of the widespread numbing of curiosity for Charles Ives. Ives is typically relegated to the right (although he was very generous to the left). He was tarred a cranky Yankee, although he was America’s most generous philanthropist in music. The complexity of Charles Ives requires an appreciation of the artist’s musical sensibilities, as well as his philosophical explorations expounded in sound. Antony Cooke was seemingly born to this task. He combines a rich musical inheritance with a life long fascination with the universe. I guess it was only a matter of time before our author enthusiastically grasped the complexity of Ives and set to create a narrative that is refreshingly believable. It is to Antony Cooke’s great credit that Ives appears once again a flesh and blood human being, quite a turnaround for a man infamously rewritten. Working through unfinished music compositions had been a particular focus of mine over many years. Solving puzzles necessary to finish compositions that “ask” to be finished, such as Psalm 51 by Mordecai Sandberg, and Simfony in Free Style by Lou Harrison, was a regular function of my role as Director of the American Festival of Microtonal Music in New York City (since 1981). The Universe Symphony is the only piece I know of, throughout the entire annals of known history, that specifically “asks” for another composer to finish a huge work. Immediately after my realization of the Universe Symphony by Charles Ives was premiered in Alice Tully Hall, Lincoln Center in New York City on June 6, 1996, I believed it to be the composer’s magnum opus. It just did not make sense to me to deny Ives his explicit directions, not if one feels that being authentic is a good trait to have. The tempo is the singular tempo indicated by Ives of a quarter note = 30 on the first measure of the first page of the “Earth Orchestra”; no instrument was exchanged in the orchestration; and all the material you hear, and see in the score is what Ives left for us in perpetuity. It 9 Foreword was all one grand plan. Nothing was lost, a position contrary to all the assorted academics. I made certain that I left open all of my procedures, along with a Finale score of my manuscript of Ives’s sketches, and a book. No “new” notes were added to the score But since this flew in the face of what the public had been able to detect, it was immediately deemed “controversial,” with each music critic focused upon completely different points from one another; displaying a veritable rainbow of next generation Rollos, albeit a much more accepting bunch. The media seemed to enjoy the “controversy” stew, keeping things perpetually vague. I recall an early morning radio interview on WNYC given by the station head, wherein he lunged into whether or not my realization should be considered Ives at all! (I thought we had already covered that territory before we went to air.) Years later, I understand a bit better the pervasive mire that is our collective inheritance of the genius of Charles Edward Ives. A century ago, Ives was trying to understand his place in the universe, and he accomplished this mission with both humility and creativity. Who is to say that the “unanswered question” is not meant to give an eventual answer, but only after a certain life journey is taken? Ives’s Transcendental imagination was apparently too huge for the industry leading Finale™ notation program to account for in the “modern” age. The inputting of the Universe Symphony in Finale™ did not allow for its three orchestras—Earth, Heaven, Pulse of the Cosmos—to be set in three different meters, resulting in massive paste-ups, and multiple scannings. My great idea for the studio recording produced by Michael Thorne (Stereo Society 2004) was to make a connection with the Hayden Planetarium at New York’s Museum of Natural History. It always excites me to imagine seeing the universe before me while listening to the Universe Symphony. I had a taste of that when a now defunct Italian website matched the colorful Hubble photos with selections from the recording. It worked fantastically, a visual extravaganza with the music akin to the soundtrack to a silent film, even though the photographed astral bodies did not always correspond exactly with the composer’s designations. (Disney could probably work wonders through the cartoon medium.) Perhaps with the publication of Charles Ives and his Road to the Stars, the exceptional human being C.E.I. (Charles Edward Ives) can come out of the historical shadows. Most important to this success was to connect the dots throughout his diverse idealistic endeavors, the fruits of Ives’s musical labors. And finally someone has looked deeply into the material with the correct “prescription lenses,” someone who has effectively dodged the metaphoric land mines of false authorities, and who can explain the good news to the general public about the great wealth of their collective musical inheritance. Johnny Reinhard October 1, 2012 New York City 10 Author’s Preface and Acknowledgements (For the Second Edition) T he idea to write a book about Charles Ives came about by accident, or should I say, by sheer good fortune. Introduced to Ives growing up in England by my close friend during these early years, Oliver Knussen, now the distinguished composer and conductor, my initial impressions of the music were of utter incredulity. At the first British performance of Ives’s Fourth Symphony in the mid-sixties at the Royal Albert Hall, London (with the Philharmonia Orchestra under Gunther Schuller), I did not appreciate what I was privileged to hear and witness, and laughed aloud during the second movement. Perhaps Ives would have approved, because this was, after all, the “comedy” movement—a romp. However, I am not proud to admit that I was laughing at Ives, not with him. At that time, I was just another personification of Ives’s perennial favorite verbal target, “Rollo,” the character he borrowed from Jacob Abbott’s popular series of books from the nineteenth century, whose predictable good boy sensibilities were always assured. Little did I know it, though; I was already hooked. Just a year or two earlier, in that same venue as the British premiere of the Fourth Symphony, I had been present at the 1963 fiftieth anniversary performance of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring—with Stravinsky present and Pierre Monteaux conducting. It was an auspicious and unforgettable occasion! It is difficult to say which one of these two monumental musical happenings has become bigger in my life. But it must have been the Fourth. Just days after hearing it, I had to hear the symphony again, and bought the recording by Leopold Stokowski and the American Symphony Orchestra—the first, and perhaps the most magical, in my view. (*The concertmaster of the orchestra at the time, Murray Adler, had long left New York and was working in Hollywood for many years before I entered the same industry. Only recently did I discover that the beautiful solos on the recording were by him. Also recorded for television, there he was on the video preserved on YouTube; Murray looked exactly the same—more than 45 years earlier! Showing him my old Associated Music Publishers score of the symphony that Oliver had brought back for me to England from New York—quite something to have in those days—he memorialized our mutual, near lifelong, link to the composition by inscribing it.) If Charles Ives and his Road to the Stars fulfilled something of its intended role, mostly for those previously left in the dark about approaching the seemingly thorny musical essays of the composer, it also fulfilled a personal role for me. After nearly a lifetime, finally I was putting some thoughts on the page about a person and music that previously had inhabited a world only of inner comprehension. Doing so forces one to put into words things usually considered non-verbal. Moreover, intensive immersion in anything changes one’s perspective, too, as my much larger and detailed 2015 resource volume, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe, makes increasing clear. What seemed once “merely” three-dimensional became four, five or even six-dimensional. As all-things-Ives compounded in my thoughts, my perspective became, to a degree, a moving target—not that I have emerged for with different impressions from those I had held before—rather, they only have strengthened. Now, more dimensional and somehow more closely linked to composer himself, Ives emerges standing only taller, in direct and stark repudiation of the modern “scholarly” revisions of the man and music. 11 Preface and Acknowledgements As I came to view the Road to the Stars, it was in need of more than the updates of the past. Hence, the new, rewritten second edition, matched in format to my resource volume, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe, it is available in hard cover and full color; being intended to be accessible reading, the full color version seems to bring the subject to life. My late concession to the late John Kirkpatrick, greatest of Ives scholars, harks back to the updated first edition, in which I replaced the possessive Ives’ by Ives’s. Despite the fact that “s-apostrophe-s” grates on the very tradition of the English language I was taught, Kirkpatrick’s insistence on its use has made it the norm in Ives scholarship. Generally accepted now in standard American English, too, finally I adopted it for the more academically oriented Charles Ives’s Musical Universe, and similarly, decided to incorporate it in the Road to the Stars. So Kirkpatrick’s ruling—“Ives’s”—prevails! Perhaps I will be forgiven, however (especially by the good Kirkpatrick, from wherever in eternity he might look down), if I include here George Ives’s own verdict in the argument—had only he been aware of it—inscribed in one of his sketchbooks across the entire centerfold. Absent in the first edition, George Ives’s actual inscription is reproduced below for all eyes to see: “GEE. Ives’ Place for music” Courtesy Irving S. Gilmore Music Library of Yale University MSS 14 Writing about Ives had an unlikely beginning. Before tackling the Road to the Stars, my previous volume, Astronomy and the Climate Crisis was about as far removed from Charles Ives as anything possibly could be—well, almost, because both share a common connection to the stars. By happenstance 12 Preface and Acknowledgements and coincidence, thus, I had stumbled into writing about Ives. Fred Watson, Astronomer in Charge at the Australian National Observatory, and I began corresponding, following his kind agreement to write the foreword to the astronomy book. We found that we had a vibrant mutual interest. By sheer accident, my profession in music accompanied my other primary interest, astronomy, and Fred’s profession, astronomy, accompanied his other primary interest, music. Finding something we never saw coming, before long we were emailing regularly and sending each other CD’s of “space music,” ranging from the music of William Herschel (that composer who ended up an astronomer!), Morton Lauridsen, even, yes, … Charles Ives. It turned out that we “discovered” the Universe Symphony together. Perhaps dear Fred still curses me for pushing him into such an aural hazard zone. However, despite having been such a long time Ives buff, somehow, I had let Ives’s magnum opus escape me. The recording of the Universe Symphony, long an icon of Ives’s unrealized vision, had only come into being in recent years. When first I heard Ives’s Universe I didn’t know quite what to make of it. I remember putting it aside and thinking to myself, “well, at least I’ve heard it.” The same musical gravitational pull I had experienced with the Fourth Symphony had happened again, as the Universe Symphony, too, lured me back for “just one more” hearing. And so it went from there. The hearings became addictive; for a period of time I could not stop listening to it. Naturally getting my hands on the score, and the book documenting its realization and assembly were next. Understanding Ives’s Universe became almost an obsession; I scoured every detail of everything I could find. By then it had become abundantly clear what it was all about. Suddenly, I found myself retracing Ives’s “road to the stars,” a musical journey to a remote spiritual destiny, of which not even he seemed aware, consciously, at any rate, although it seems to have defined his entire compositional output. He had spent most of his adult life envisaging a world in which all mankind could live in freedom, peace, openness and mutual caring for one another, free of dictators and ruthless politicians—in short, his Transcendental Nirvana. With the Universe Symphony he found it, even if he never found its parallel on Earth. His view of the world around his idyllic home in West Redding must have seemed awfully close. Perhaps most of Ives’s devoted followers find him to be the most interesting composer in twentieth century music; perhaps, prefacing his name with “greatest,” even “America’s twentieth century Beethoven,” seems increasingly appropriate, even mandatory. But unlike Beethoven, Ives still is not a household name. Many concertgoers remain perplexed by his music, because they do not know how to respond to something that neither soothes nor explains itself easily. As in the best things in life, some effort is required to access it. And the fact remains that most concertgoers still are unable to accept music from much beyond the nineteenth century. More serious is the deterioration of appreciation for things beyond today’s slick and commercially promoted cultural “products,” even a lack of unawareness that socalled “serious” music still lives and breathes, and that “pop” is not merely its “modern” equivalent. “Classical” music is likely to be considered something stuffy and snobbish—strictly for elitists and “boring” academics. One can only guess how Ives’s reaction might be to the state of commercially-driven culture in the Western world today, although one can be sure it would not be favorable; Ives’s hopes for the populace to experience an increasingly elevated state of being were dashed even during his lifetime. An amusing anecdote I experienced recently illustrates the result of these two parallel realities. In a discussion at a local café about the once dominant European musical culture, and how it had begun to fracture during the twentieth century, an acquaintance struggled to name a composer from that great era whose music he had just heard on the radio. 13 Preface and Acknowledgements “His name began with an M, I think.” “Gustav Mahler?”, I inquired. “No, something like Monti...something.” “You mean, Monteverdi? “No, Manfredi, Manatini, or something…” “Can’t place it, I’m afraid.” “It was real pretty music.” That was my clue. “Mantovani?” “YES, that’s him; wonderful! There’s nobody like that anymore!” In almost rapid-fire succession, I was chided for not knowing that Roger Williams was a classical pianist. Humorous as it is, it would have made Ives sad. His worst fears have come true; conceivably, things are worse now than they were in Ives’s time, as education of Western culture continues to decline—borne witness by the phenomenon of disappearing orchestras and recital series. Lower concert attendance and profit-driven managements have replaced the true “art experience” for the “event experience.” Recycling the same old chestnuts, often in conjunction with visual displays, an increasingly unsophisticated musical public has come to regard such “packaging” of the arts as just another show. One only can hope that the kind of society that Ives dreamed about still might come to pass, although it might be too much to presume that time is on Western society’s side. However, before this introduction degenerates into a rant, I must offer special thanks to Oliver Knussen, long overdue, for having introduced me to Ives’s world (and who had recently what I would imagine was a near out-of-body experience having actually played Ives’s piano in his West Redding homestead studio before the studio was recreated with its furnishings at the Academy of Arts and Letters in New York City). Also to Fred Watson for having fired me up about all things connected to “space music,” Donna Coleman for her help in preparing this edition, Thomas and Alice Boutté of Keene Valley, NY, for the great warmth of their friendship and help in regard to the origins of the Universe Symphony and notably, and to Johnny Reinhard for bringing this work, Ives’s’ ultimate musical destiny, into the bright light of day, along with all his generous contributions to this book. But mostly thanks are due to Ives himself. Antony Cooke Capistrano Beach, California, 2012 and 2015 14 INTRODUCTION A galactic supernova (at bottom left) Image courtesy NASA/ESA, The Hubble Key Project Team and The High-Z Supernova Search Team N ear the beginning of his book, Essays before a Sonata, Charles Ives remarked that his Transcendentalist hero, Ralph Waldo Emerson, had traveled a road looking for his star.1 Through a musical extension of the same philosophy, Ives would travel down the same road to find his own star amongst the myriads of others claimed by the souls who had preceded him. Over the course of an astonishing creative period that flared up like a supernova in the New England “skies,” a prolific explosion of fast evolving musical language and stunning compositions shone brightly before it was gone. Charles Ives would stop writing forever, leaving his greatest masterpiece unfinished and in disarray, but not before he had found his star to illuminate the road upon which he had walked toward those who had helped to pave his way. Despite attempts by many music historians to rationalize the entire phenomenon, their varied explanations indicate many had missed the critical clues, and invented others. 15 Introduction Charles Ives’s America: an Overview Charles Edward Ives was born in 1874 in Danbury, Connecticut. A typical provincial town of the industrial age steeped in New England tradition, it was a matter of local pride that Danbury was known as “the hatmaking capital of the world”; in Ives’s day its thriving industry produced some five million hats a year. The influence of its thoroughly “Yankee” culture would remain central in Ives’s thought processes throughout his life. Effectively, he had experienced two Americas, and two ways of life—that of the old century, as well as the booming ascent of the new. The dichotomy profoundly impacted his creative originality, causing him to forge some of most radical musical futurism of the twentieth century. Though he left Danbury to embrace the twentieth century and its larger horizons, he remained anchored in the timeless values instilled in him, his vision of mankind’s ultimate attainment of universal enlightenment demanding that he would cross the musical cosmos. The cessation of the Civil War had bequeathed its survivors the promise of freedom and opportunity; an industrial boom not seen in the world before followed in its wake, seeming to fulfill the promise of the New World. Charles Ives’s father, George Ives, was one of the survivors of that war, though he failed to capitalize on its promise. However, as a remarkably gifted musician and theorist, he passed on to his son his knowledge and outlook, and instilled him the values of his family—an iconic group of forbearers in the history of Danbury. Handed down to George through his own mother, Concord Transcendentalism,2 as well as the loosely related Congregationalist faith of his family, had endeavored to demonstrate the unique perspective that Americans inherited. Ives’s music spoke through its very foundation, the striking stamp of his voice an authentic representation of the local culture and landscape, rather than that of the European empire states. Transcendentalism, however, posed its own contradictions for Ives, who solved them with his own unlikely blend of religiosity, populist political sentiments (built on his observations of the local industry), and his own prominent role within the emerging world of American commerce. Ives’s passions were preordained to a substantial degree by his family’s heritage and values, though no less, by the less-than-happy circumstances aspiring musicians encountered in nineteenth century America. Coming together at a unique moment in history, their influence paved what might be symbolized as Charles Ives’s “road to the stars”—a journey to musical destinations more attuned to his own experience and place in the cosmos. To be satisfied merely to follow in the footsteps of those transAtlantic composers who already had defined music according to their own cultures would have meant that the fulfillment of the promise of the New World had failed, denied by an inauthentic reflection of an increasingly detached culture. That Ives’s vision for the world failed to materialize in the way he had hoped seemed only to drive him harder to cling to the distant ideal he glimpsed ever clearer in his mind. George Ives George Ives, the leading figure in Ives’s early years, was a bright star in his son’s eyes, so much so that that later Ives would credit him for anything good that he had done in music.3 It is fair to say that George Ives had much more talent than ability to find employment—that is, beyond eking out a living in a provincial industrial town as a bandleader, miscellaneous musician, teacher, and less than successful businessman. However, his undistinguished musical career had begun auspiciously enough during the 16 Introduction Civil War, when apparently he found a degree of self-respect as a bandsman in the Union Army, reputedly having played for Lincoln. In an unfortunate incident, he destroyed his cornet and asked to be discharged from the band, ultimately going absent without leave. Fortunately, a relative handled his court martial, so all ended well, but nevertheless, his son would try to elevate George’s memory—enshrining his real, if unsung, achievements as a musician, man and mentor. The bond between father and son was so strong in the years following George Ives’s untimely passing—just after the youthful Charles had entered Yale—it seemed that Charles would spend the rest of his life seemingly in search of his father. Sharing George Ives’s traditions, musical knowledge and penchant for the unconventional, increasingly Ives would revere him over the years, as he realized the value of all he had given him. Irrespective of the reluctance of some historians to fully accept George Ives’s role, versus that of any later elite influence, indeed Charles Ives did owe his key foundations to his father. George Ives {{PD-Art}} 17 Introduction Danbury, Connecticut Happy memories of growing up in Danbury—the epitome of provincial industrial America—tinged most of Ives’s musical output. However, because its cultural life revolved mostly around local and historic traditions, the arts were maintained largely as a separate world of polite, high society functions, run by the wives of wealthy businessmen and other professionals. Ives’s youthful view that music was too feminine to consider for a career probably reflected its place in that society, as much as did his lifelong revulsion of “pretty” sounds in music. His father’s own lowly status in Danbury, too, presumably played a part. {{PD-Art}} The Influence of Camp Meetings and Religious Music Old time camp meetings brought revivalist religion to people in rural areas who, otherwise, would have been isolated from it. George Ives often led the music at those meetings, the passionate expression of the congregants greatly impacting the impressionable younger Ives; it would remain an influence in his own work. Hardly less, quantities of other religious music, right up to that of the “highest” church, famously were amongst varied sources of Ives’s musical quotations, his later works seeming to dwell increasingly on religious sources. As the years progressed, surely it can be no coincidence that Bethany (“Nearer My God to Thee”) would feature ever more prominently in Ives’s music, becoming the final hymn he would quote in any significant work. 18 Introduction {{PD-Art}} The Civil War {{PD-Art}} The brutal war between the North and the South provided the historic backdrop to Ives’s vision of America, relayed through his father’s own experiences. The Civil War was the defining event of Ives’s heritage. Its influence can be seen in practically everything he wrote, especially in the melodic quotations and the ever-present projections of fighting for the cause of democracy and freedom. 19 Introduction New England New England culture and tradition was as much a state of being as it was a product of a region. Here the backbone of America was firmly entrenched, supplying Ives with a near limitless resource of varied and colorful landscapes, deeply held values and traditions, immersion in the country’s founding, recent conflict, and above all, the empowerment of the thoroughly “Yankee” optimism to inspire him by its all-American spirit. Image: Patrick Breen {{PD-Art}} Yale Years With the influence and financial help from prominent members of his extended family (notably his uncle, Lyman Brewster), the academically wayward Ives attended Hopkins Grammar School in New Haven in 1893, and Yale University the following year, both being well beyond his father’s means, and out of the question following his death. Regardless, because Ives did not, however receive the European “finishing” so highly coveted by his composer contemporaries, it likely always he had harbored thoughts of a career in business, not in music. 4 Because Yale was known primarily as a business and professional school, too, Ives’s attendance there presumably was amongst considerations weighed by his family, and thus his career path following graduation lends weight to the argument. Taking an entry-level professional business position with Mutual Insurance Company of New York, apparently it was a choice pre-determined by his uncle; moreover, Ives’s one real attempt to become a successful professional composer was quickly abandoned without much of a fight. Image: AC 20 Introduction Attending Yale was a happy choice, even as Ives found himself at frequent loggerheads with his famous composition teacher, Horatio Parker (see below). Finding ready acceptance and popularity at Yale in a new environment, Ives enjoyed baseball and would come under the strong influence of his peers. In the business-oriented environment, however, it appears he did not feel could be open about his higher aspirations for music, being eager not to be perceived as an odd-man out—especially with the negative stereotypes about musicians he harbored. Ives, however, gladly relished the role amongst his friends as a popular musical “jack of all trades,” and actively cultivated an image of one who engaged in it lightheartedly for fun, or for practical gain (good business!) as an organist on Sundays. Oddly, to be academically somewhat of an under-achiever also was considered part and parcel of a true Yale fellow; it is well reflected in Ives’s record, along with that of many of his contemporaries. However, it is likely, too, that Ives was easily bored by the formal constraints of academia, and, aside from his regular studies, he was preoccupied by his duties as an organist and composer of music for church services. Thus, it is also not altogether surprising that his attentions might have been somewhat divided. Other possibilities of a more clinical nature for his lackluster academic performance have been proposed, too, such as Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). Yale and Horatio Parker {{PD-Art}} Horatio Parker, Ives’s thoroughly European schooled and gifted composition teacher at Yale, presented Ives with an even stronger pull toward another musical universe. Following his studies in Germany after training under the well-known American composer, George Whitefield Chadwick, Parker’s style was true to the late Romantic European tradition. He was highly celebrated in his day, especially for the cantata, Hora Novissima. However, out of his substantial output, the cantata is almost all he is remembered for. Ultimately representing the perpetuation of a different culture, Parker did, nevertheless, demonstrate that it was possible for a native born American composer to have a successful career in music. Regardless, in Parker’s America, even acclaimed composers needed to supplement their incomes in various ways; thus, in addition to teaching at Yale, and despite earning a considerable reputation in his day, Parker also maintained a busy schedule of performing as a church organist and local orchestra conductor. Regrettably, Parker—who can be credited with developing and refining his “wayward” student’s skills, especially for adding a composer’s perspective—would never recognize the huge talent he had under his wing, in many ways acting to suppress it, though not deliberately, or out of any feeling of 21 Introduction malice. To be fair, Ives represented a latent form of musician unknown to him, and more than likely he would have escaped the notice of almost any other professional musician of the day, too. Regardless, Ives would harbor conflicted feelings about Parker’s role in his music throughout his adult life, though, on a personal level, was known to speak admiringly of him. A career in life insurance {{PD-Art}} Upon graduating from Yale, Ives moved to New York City. His first ten years in New York were spent residing in a form of “digs” at an apartment building specially allocated to Yale graduates, famously nicknamed “Poverty Flat.” Here, he would stay far longer than his contemporaries (ten years), while retaining a musical hobbyist’s image for his friends and associates. Apparently reluctant to give up his Yale social life and that of a happy bachelor, his lengthy tenure also probably reflected a form of limbo. Likely, he was not yet quite ready to embrace the real world—and probably could not shake an uncertainty about how he might best embrace both business and music together. Perhaps, too, his early health issues, and the very The financial hub of the nation in 1910–20 crisis that almost enveloped the insurance Looking East toward the Financial District, is New York in Charles Ives’s time, the location of his business in the life insurance industry. In business in 1905, also were factors in his the distance, right of center, is the Woolworth Building; further to the apparent indecision with moving right, the Municipal Building; both still stand as witness to the era. forward. With Ives’s introduction into the insurance industry by his kindly uncle, by some stroke of good fortune, Ives fell into the perfect place to focus his talents in business. Though the near collapse of the industry from internal corruption almost jettisoned his chances of success, Ives would become the most prominent player in its redemption. His efforts to rebuild the life insurance industry model on a new foundation were largely instrumental in its reemergence, reorganization, and the staying power it has demonstrated into the present. Applying a “scientific” and compassionate approach, Ives’s business model, and the formula behind his actuarial tables, virtually recreated the industry. Ives, thus, became thoroughly entrenched in the business life of the big city, absorbing its culture, lifestyle and fast pace, although he always maintained a certain love-hate relationship with the sometime oppressive aspects of life in New York’s vast urban jungle. 22 Introduction Busy New York City Mutual Life building, New York City, in Ives’s day. ~ Tranquil West Redding, CT Although Ives remained spiritually bonded to his childhood home of Danbury, he would choose to leave it forever, becoming only an occasional visitor. His ambitions and needs, having outgrown the boundaries and provincial attitudes of “small town America,” had led to his relocation to New York City. Here, he would taste real success, even if it would not be in music; the latter he would keep largely to himself, as he quietly evolved his new methodologies. Because Ives’s music reflected his surroundings and experiences, he has been incorrectly labeled as nostalgic, although his music did not evoke nostalgia when he wrote it; it was an authentic reflection of his own life and times. Many of his compositions, such as Central Park in the Dark, and some of the Second Orchestral Set, reflect life in the big city. Thus, despite maintaining a primary residence in town {{PD-Art}} near his work, Ives would come to crave peace and solitude, designing and building a country estate in 1914 on a serene 18-acre property in West Redding, Connecticut. Later, it would become his full-time residence, and where many of his greatest works, such as the Fourth Symphony and Concord Sonata were composed or completed. Regardless, Ives juggled two major careers, composing in his spare time away from the office, completely unknown to the larger musical world, his musical life similarly unknown to his business associates. 23 West Redding woods Image: AC Introduction Harmony Twichell Ives’s primary support throughout most of his adult life was his wife and soul mate, Harmony Twichell, who cared for him, encouraged him, and always stood by him regardless of joy or adversity. Daughter of the iconic Rev. Joseph Twichell (who was also Mark Twain’s best friend), she was, thus, intimately connected to the culture of the legendary progressive community of Nook Farm in Hartford, CT. Being a trained nurse, too, there can be no doubt she was partly responsible for Ives attaining the age of almost eighty, despite his multiple physical ailments and frailty. Harmony provided the focus for his life, the reason to move on from his circular existence at “Poverty Flat” (the “digs” of young Yale graduates in New York City) into his successful future in business, and mostly for providing the freedom, safe haven and optimism—moreover, the belief in him—for his productive years as a composer. The Adirondacks {{PD-Art}} Image: GFDL Adirondacks mountain scene: Lake Placid In 1905, Ives experienced his first bout of the (various?) illnesses that would return to haunt him for the rest of his life. During the years before he had his country home, Ives came to treasure his time amongst the inspirational settings and solace of the wildernesses of the Adirondacks in Upstate New York, far from the bustling city. The vast panoramas as well as his spent time hiking and communing with nature would inspire many of his greatest compositions—most notably, perhaps, the Universe Symphony—the culminating focus of this writing, and one that never left his thoughts to the end of life. 24 Introduction Transcendentalism Ives’s Transcendentalist Heroes of Concord, Mass. Ralph Waldo Emerson Nathaniel Hawthorne Henry David Thoreau {{PD-Art}} 25 Amos Bronson Alcott Introduction Though raised a Congregationalist, Ives’s interest in the philosophical and spiritual values of the loosely connected Concord (Massachusetts) Transcendentalist movement, as passed down to him through his paternal grandmother, eventually became, perhaps, the largest spiritual focus of his life. The influence of the luminary Concord figures shows up throughout Ives’s mature compositions, and seems to encompass his lifelong search to find his place in the universe itself. Creatively, through his astonishing musical journey, the Transcendentalists would carry almost as much weight with him as did that of his ever-present, though deceased, father. As a product of its age, Transcendentalism reflected Romantic idealism in which man was central in the cosmos, and at one with it. With the viewpoint that everything possible already existed, Transcendentalists would build upon the works of those who came before. By looking to their own surroundings they would create a newly relevant reflection of their own place in time and space by reordering the same components long present in the world. If similar movements have sprung up periodically ever since, unfortunately, none of them ever has had a visionary figure quite like Ralph Waldo Emerson to steer them. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that Ives’s epic Sonata No.2 for Piano: Concord, Mass., 1840–60 would pay homage to four of them: Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry David Thoreau, and the Alcott family (of which Amos Bronson Alcott was head, and Louisa May Alcott, his celebrated daughter). Of all of them, Emerson would act as Ives’s predominant philosophical guide, although he maintained, too, a lifelong affinity for Thoreau. Emerson’s proposition, however, that people find “an original relation to the universe,”5 resonated with Ives. Though hitching himself to Transcendentalism, Ives would retain the essential Congregationalist faith of his upbringing, too; politically also being a staunch Democrat, it was a strange contradiction, because the Transcendentalists already had faulted both philosophies for having corrupted society. Transcendentalism taught that politics (especially in relation to both the issues of slavery and the mistreatment of the native peoples) and organized religions were ultimately harmful to the human condition. Faulting, too, academic intellectualism (to them, as typified by Harvard University at that time), and with the family tie to Transcendentalism, thus, surely it is no coincidence that Ives would attend Yale, Harvard’s rival. Both of the best known figures in the Concord Transcendental movement, however—Emerson and Thoreau—were Harvard graduates, Emerson also having attended the Harvard Divinity School! In its purest state, thus, Ives considered that Transcendentalism lacked the element of publicly affirmed faith, as well as a populist voice; managing these conflicts, thus, he blended them, too, with the inspirational “fervor” he had observed in the massed congregants at camp meetings. Though hardly marching lockstep with his Concord heroes, Ives took the Transcendentalist belief in man’s fundamental goodness and place in eternity to meld the best from seemingly incompatible sources into a highly personal approach to his own life. Ragtime Clear traits of Ragtime appeared early in Ives’s music, and remained a force throughout most of his output. Ives traveled to Chicago in 1893 with his uncle (Lyman Brewster) to attend the World’s Fair: Columbian Exposition. It is also known that Scott Joplin appeared there, and certainly the new vogue of Ragtime was “the rage” in restaurants, bars and clubs all over the city. Although Ives never mentioned the 26 Introduction artists he had heard, there can be no doubt that he heard Ragtime at this auspicious event in Chicago, which played a formative role in his background. While he was a student at Yale, Ives did mention George Felsberg at Poli’s Theater in New Haven, having been enthralled by what he had heard. However, no matter how vivid and present it may seem in some of his music, Ragtime was only another color on his palette. Ives’s words in Essays Before a Sonata, however, make it clear: “Someone is quoted as saying that ‘ragtime is the true American music’ … It is an idiom, perhaps a ‘set or series of colloquialisms,’ similar to those that have added through centuries and through natural means, some beauty to all languages … Ragtime has its possibilities. But it does not ‘represent the American nation’ any more than some fine old senators represent it.”6 The Stars Align Not intentionally nationalistic, most of Ives’s music reflects a personal immersion in his place and time, authentically experienced and expressed, reflecting, too, his life philosophies; a deep spirituality underlies many of his most mature works. The very “American-ness” of Ives’s music predominantly reflects the teachings of the Transcendentalists, who had implored Americans to look to their own surroundings (rather than to Europe) for cultural direction and cues, rather than a deliberate xenophobia. Ives’s undeniable patriotism, however, was aligned too with a larger spirit of freedom and democracy, as exemplified in the US Constitution, for all mankind across the world. Ives admired European culture, although he recognized that it could not project his own culture and landscape; the distinct difference, thus, from nationalism is easily missed. Ives’s resentment was of his own people’s unquestioning preference to remain within the familiar comfort zones of other peoples’ cultures and experiences. Effectively, they had relegated their own culture to an inferior standing, and accepted a form of colonization into perpetuity. Ives’s efforts rewarded him with little other than the devoted support and encouragement of a few people close to him, and the blunt rejection of almost all the outside world. In truth, hardly anyone was ready for what would have seemed incomprehensible to most ears at the time. Long after Ives had left his home in Danbury, his contemplation nearby from a lookout shelter (that he built with his brother, Moss Ives, on Pine Mountain, Connecticut in 1903) of the uniquely American panoramas around him likely sowed the seeds of a larger perspective in musical sound, ultimately leading him to embrace the very cosmos into which he had stared in his Universe Symphony. Choosing early on to write as his instincts guided him, Ives gave himself the freedom to use whatever served his needs, throwing out nothing by default—even if it had European origins—an outlook entirely consistent with the ideal. Ives chose a good model: Emerson himself built upon the (European) philosophies of Goethe, rather than start anew. With the reasoning that nothing was truly new, he considered everything existed in some capacity before. Just as Ives’s music reflected his own experiences and the world from his own horizons, many of the “alien” sounds actually were extraordinary combinations of existing elements previously considered irreconcilable. Having no compunction to add to, or reorder them in any way he saw fit, Ives also pioneered most of the defining techniques of the twentieth century along the way. Though the “alien” sounds that Ives created sometimes seem to belong to another musical universe, it is easy to overlook their important links to the traditions of Western music, maintained through the cultural 27 Introduction bond with his own country’s heritage. Many scholars, however, seemed surprised to find this obvious connection, claiming Ives to be less revolutionary than previously thought!7 Ives’s business model also reflected the ideas of the Concord philosophers. In order to live at peace within himself, his chosen career in the world of business had to represent more than just making money. There can be no doubt, too, that Ives’s altruism was influenced by his personal contact with the workers of Danbury’s hatmaking industry. Even though he never referenced it directly, the long, largely taboo, sight of its workers suffering the effects of mercury poisoning from unsafe practices in the town’s factories surely was not lost on his sensibilities, clearly being instrumental, too, in the forming of his political views. That Ives was instrumental in righting the wrongs behind the life insurance scandal of 1905, thus, is hardly surprising. What better way could Ives have designed his new actuarial model to reflect the Transcendental quest for self-reliance and independence than by helping people support themselves after their provider had departed? Ives’s mathematically conceived system would provide a self-perpetuating balance between lifelong financial security not only for the insured dependents, but also fiscal solvency into perpetuity for the company itself. Social responsibility in commerce became, thus, no less a part of Ives’s idealism than anything else in his life, and part of his dream of an enlightened world, in which even children would whistle quarter-tone melodies as they skipped happily down the street!8 Most people, perhaps, overlook the reality that business probably occupied significantly more of Ives’s time than composing. Therefore, they make little or no allowance for the fact that a large part of his life therefore will always remain unknown. Even many of his friends and business associates were unaware of his double life (as composer and businessman); they only knew one of two apparently separate persons. The rush to the stars The feverish rush toward meaningful expression in Ives’s musical development is increasingly reflected, too, in his large evolved musical essays by their scale and depth of spirituality, especially after he entered his fifth decade—that of his father’s early demise. It was a nagging reminder that time might not be on his side. Ives’s writings, however, do not hint of anything out of the ordinary driving him, or at least he would not admit to it; there is nothing that points to a final goal. A universe of contradictions The rush to the stars also was accompanied by Ives’s unique working methods. No one who knew him would ever gain from him any insight into the unique idiomatic traits of his musical language. Defining how he decided upon formulating what he wrote, thus, remains largely a mystery, even though, from a technical standpoint, it is possible to understand the methodologies he innovated and utilized, as well as many of the principal elements of his music. His preference to leave artistic considerations unsaid extended also to performers. John Kirkpatrick, the legendary Ives scholar and pianist (who also knew Ives well), related that Ives seemed singularly disinterested in providing specifics or guidance, being more interested in sharing details of his most recent musical ideas.9 Even Ives’s extensive words in Memos never gave it away; they maintain a certain vagueness of critical detail, as if such matters were entirely 28 Introduction too private, too esoteric, to discuss. However, Kirkpatrick also referenced that Ives likely never considered that few players possessed his extraordinary musical instincts. Ives’s fundamental philosophical code for living ensured that his famous outbursts (always out of ideological passion!) did not eclipse his fundamentally gentle and kind nature. Though a musical revolutionary, he maintained his ties to tradition—as a foundation—his forward-looking music preserving the best from the past. His success in business did not make him materialistic. His intellectual profundity was counterbalanced by his love of puns (!), his idealism, by apparent resignation to a world changing not necessarily for the better; his shyness, by a later push to see his work better known, although Ives had no need to impress anyone. Into old age, a quiet self-respect, even more an inner peace with who he was and what he had done in his life remained unshakable within him. His reclusiveness (as much by choice as necessity) was not a product of being anti-social. The apparent chaos of his music is, in fact, the product of careful organization—all these qualities being just a few of the remarkable contradictions that sum up a composer regarded by many as one of the greatest, an American Titan amongst his international contemporaries. Generous to a fault, Ives was an anonymous benefactor to countless people and causes, holding humankind and its march towards freedom and elevation in the highest regard. Carol K. Baron revealed his life philosophy in ways that never had been appreciated fully before. In her article, “Efforts on Behalf of Democracy by Charles Ives and His Family: Their Religious Contexts,”10 Baron would properly acknowledge and detail Ives’s immense philanthropic legacy, one born of the enlightened liberal religious passions of Horace Bushnell and William Ellery Channing, and their ties to the Transcendental legacy of Emerson, as handed down through his paternal grandmother. His family’s social idealism was demonstrated on a personal level when George Ives had brought home an African-American orphan from the Civil War in order to assist and reintroduce him to his newly liberation in society. One would never suspect Ives’s background and outlook from those who have adopted the new revised version of his life. Despite being the most individualistic of composers to emerge during the years of the new century, Ives, however, was unknown during his most creative period; his influence on other contemporary composers, therefore, was nil. Ives’s persona was nothing like that expected of great composers. An utterly down-to-earth individual, clearly he did not identify with the popular image of “tortured artist in the attic.” Uncomfortable with such a role, it can be traced not only to his negative perceptions of musicians within his community, but his populist convictions that great music was tied to all humankind, not just the elite. As such, Ives saw nobility in the most commonplace of music and music making, his father having shown him not to judge it by the sound (the superficial), lest he miss the music (the profound). Although a large part of Ives’s isolation was due to his increasing health problems, his double career and personal outlook made it inevitable. Had he tried to please audiences first and foremost, Ives would now be forgotten. Better that he not endeavor to make a living from music, and perhaps time would reveal what he had done. Ives criticized many contemporary composers for taking what he regarded as “the easy way out”11 by concessions they had taken in order to please their audiences—rather than risk breaking new ground. As such, he did not have too many kind words for them. Such crusty comments need to be taken in the spirit of Ives, the ideological purist. His comments should not be misinterpreted as having arisen out of bitterness or resentment. In truth, his remarks were partly humorous, and very much part of the impishness of his personality. 29 Introduction A destination amongst the stars Early on, Ives’s music already had touched upon virtually every twentieth century musical innovation. Typically well in advance of others, these techniques would be found within some of the most daringly avant-garde compositions of his day, as his expression seemed to look ever-more Heavenward. In a scenario that has been proposed before, it was as if he had envisaged his place in the cosmos itself. In his 2005 article,12 Michael Berest contemplated the real possibility that Ives had been on a path to a distant spiritual destination since 1893—apparently unconsciously—ever since he wrote his Variations on “America,” culminating with the Universe Symphony. It seems to have been his greatest, and most inevitable, musical contemplation. Until only relatively recently, it remained in a permanently suspended state, thought to exist only within Ives’s imagination like the shifting sands of the desert. Most scholars had regarded it as a mythical monument to a near-delusional idea; it was said to be far beyond practicality, impossible to complete, and never intended for completion. One version of the realized symphony, however, proved them wrong on all counts. Unsurprisingly, the music is truly cosmic in scope, and entirely consistent with Berest’s speculation and Ives’s philosophical stance. Can it be coincidental that Ives never embarked on a work more ambitious, massive or less worldly in its wake? Looking for a precise progression in the timeline up to this point is perplexing. Although the overall direction of Ives’s road to the stars is clear—and certainly no one ever would confuse a work from 1900 with one from 1920, for example—Ives, however, worked on countless works simultaneously, reworking existing music and ideas from one into another with uncanny flexibility and regularity. His materials would grow further as they continued to evolve, to the point that Ives often lost track of exactly what piece was written when. (His various attempts to catalog his work years later often were in slight disagreement, though they are not nearly so enigmatic as proposed by some.) The upshot is that sometimes works with elements belonging to different periods emerged at the same time. If a chronological and logical flow of musical evolution was not always to be, the destination itself, however, never was in doubt. Ives’s road to the stars also encompasses the years in which he built his hugely successful business, both careers being compressed within a mere two decades. Ives’s productivity could have filled several lifespans, his contributions in both fields being wide. Illness, disillusionment, and the Universe Symphony settled it; once the latter had formed in his mind (and to a large degree it did exist in sketch form), going further proved impossible, regardless, not only because Ives no longer had the energy, but also because he had reached the outer limits of his creative vision. Before completing a full draft of the work, his composing soon halted altogether. Many historians, psychoanalysts and musicologists have attempted to de-mystify the rapid cessation of Ives’s compositional activity, especially in regard to the mighty nearmythical symphony. Too clinical examinations of unique circumstances, however, especially such as Ives’s, can foster complex psychological and medical explanations that belie simple truths. Ives’s music emerged as the product of a brave new world, in which the cultural sophistication of the general public still was in its infancy. The arts were presumed to be European. Ives came to relish his status as one of American music’s “bad boys.” Wary of becoming too readily accepted, such an outcome would have meant that his music had become the status quo; Ives realized that such comfort levels spelled musical stagnation. He was not trying to shock or offend anyone, even more to scare his audience away, although he did not mind disturbing the “lily pads” (who could be men or women), who wanted to listen 30 Introduction only to that which soothed and caressed their sensibilities and never presented anything new (see, too, discussion at the end of Chapter 2). For many, Ives’s music still baffles, mystifies and perplexes. If impressions of it are derived from brief exposure only to his more outlandish and daring compositions, it is probably too much to expect easy or immediate acceptance. Just as Ives’s music evolved alone, it follows no remotely parallel path to those others have taken. The music—often dismissed in Ives’s day it as the incoherent ramblings of a dilettante, of one who did not know what he was doing—journeys along its own road, but first, one has to find and recognize that road! Seldom encountering any positive support or encouragement, Ives endured callous rebukes by renowned musicians and reviewers, even some of his extended family and those he considered his friends. Ives’s rise to prominence followed a long road of discovery—mostly after he had ceased composing. For the enthusiastic new blood in American music, as well as by those in progressive movements abroad, it was a golden period of innocence that saw Ives heralded as a musical prophet. It would be followed by a time of disbelief that something so remarkable, seemingly out of musicological bounds at every turn, had to be explained away. Being an “outsider,” Ives’s religious, philosophical and political views were apparently untenable in any figure embraced as the “Father of American Music”! An over-eager inquisition would devolve into the outright shredding of Ives’s reputation, resulting in the reinvention that suited the status quo better—trampling upon the innocent, benevolent genius of one of America’s most remarkably creative and defining figures. Ives, at times, appears totally unrecognizable. Persisting and further evolving even to the present day, the same attitudes that had dogged Ives during his lifetime still have not gone away. Despite clear refutations of many of the one-sided judgments, a segment of scholarship has continued to cling steadfastly to a false picture of Ives and his music, even going so far as to impose artificial dates upon his entire catalog, in order to suit a musicologically preordained model. One does, therefore, need persistence and openness to uncover the truth, as well as an understanding and willingness to think independently. Seeing through all the smoke shows this “Beethovenesque” figure to be not so different to the man most of his devoted followers thought they knew all along. Ives’s music and life stand proudly defiant of its recent revisionism, needing no justification or reason for its existence or contributions. Though, collectively, the numerous books (many needlessly redundant and repetitive) about Ives provide extraordinary breadth of detail and historical information, the commentary often is so contradictory that their authors’ positions seem to sway back and forth like a ship on the high seas. These texts will not likely cause those readers who have already rejected his music to change their minds. The cause itself has not been helped by the current fixation on quoted melodic fragments, which offer practically no meaningful insights into the music itself. What is available amongst the more studious texts, however, still leaves out the layman, because of the requirement that the reader already be knowledgeable about music, even musical notation—even though typically the texts fail to deliver much-needed technical insights. On the other side of the coin, sources written exclusively for the layman are likely to assume such a lowly a level of comprehension and knowledge that they surely are very frustrating (dare we say insulting?) for those who can handle more detail, but who remain unable to access more technicallywritten texts. Do most Ives scholars write materials only for other scholars? Have they ensured that a unique musical treasure trove remains the exclusive turf of an elite set? Regardless, in most instances, they still fail to offer significant analyses of what Ives actually did. Requiring, too, a degree of effort from 31 Introduction the listener (as with all the greatest artistic works of the ages), Ives’s music is never more likely to be rejected amongst those whose enjoyment of music goes no further than easy listening, or worse, has suffered the fate of being allowed to descend into mere background ambience. Thus, the problem is not a lack of books on Ives; rather, it is the lack of real insights into his music in most of them. In this light, those with a degree of musical knowledge should not overlook the now historic Charles Ives and His Music, by Henry and Sidney Cowell, (New York, Oxford University Press, 1969), and (not for the faint of heart), the more technically intensive The Music of Charles Ives, by Philip Lambert, (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1997). An opinion piece on “MusicWeb International” by Frank T. Manheim13 raised the specter of a continuing contradiction in the appreciation of Ives’s music. Between audiences and the so-called music “experts,” he argued that acceptance and appreciation of the music remains directly proportional to their level of training, expertise, theoretical/historical knowledge, etc. However, it seems that only when the subject of Ives’s music is raised does this particular kind of discourse rear its head! Such discussion seems less common, for example, in relation to many other twentieth century pioneers, such as Schönberg, Webern, or Cage—composers who are similarly far from public favorites, and whose music is any more accessible than Ives’s, if indeed even as much. Manheim further commented on the reactions and receptiveness to Ives’s music by current audiences, versus others over the course of time mostly since the late 1940’s. Things have not changed very much, apparently. But whose fault is this? The implication is that it is somehow Ives’s, because his music has not yet crossed most peoples’ horizons. However, if new ideas were best shunned, everyone still would be listening to plainsong. The public has rejected many of the greatest works of music at the time of their writing, even decades after their creation; a good case in point is the music of J.S. Bach, which had to wait for the better part of a century before Felix Mendelssohn re-popularized it. Many well-established works still are greeted with mere polite applause, even though society might have slowly accorded their creators a level of respect that surpasses any lack of affection they might still hold for their music. In light of Manheim’s position, although few laymen would contend that Bach was not indeed a musical Titan, most concertgoers would probably elect to attend a performance of Tchaikowsky’s 1812 Overture rather than the former’s B Minor Mass. Thus popular appeal is not the ultimate test. Nor should ever it be. Aaron Copland, perhaps, with George Gershwin, the most “popular” of all America’s “classical” composers, posed a similar challenge, with a somewhat more startling perspective. Because most of Ives’s music was written “in the dark”—formulated in isolation, irrespective of public reaction, acclaim or rejection—Copland saw it as a weakness.14 If such a position seems odd for a fellow composer to take in regard to the arts, especially regarding a true pioneer such as Ives, it does seem to fall right in line with Manheim’s position. However, with all due greatest respect and admiration for Copland, he was not a pioneer of revolutionary techniques, and indeed did write music to please his audiences. Thus, to accept his hypothesis, perhaps even more to consider music in general to be merely another form of entertainment, then one might agree with him. However, to embrace such a sentiment allows for little creativity or growth, and ensures artistic stagnation. Moreover, there are plenty of contradictions in history to Copland’s view, too; can anyone argue that the disastrous first performance of Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring would cause him to reject it, or to modify his future work based on that reaction? In fact, Stravinsky embraced his newfound radical image, thumbing his nose at an intolerant public and relishing having become the “bête noir” of his musical contemporaries. So although Ives’s music represents 32 Introduction extreme artistic independence to be sure, it was, in fact, one of his greatest strengths, freeing him to explore clear, new horizons, undeterred by the reactions of those who likely would reject them before they had had any chance of acceptance. That he was not dependent on his need to capitalize financially on his musical talents underscores the argument further. The movie business provides an instructive analogy. To be successful, in virtually every instance, a movie must be well received by the public upon its debut if it is to make its money back for its investors. Therefore the industry faces a constant challenge to embrace groundbreaking high art, while succeeding at the box office, especially when most of the public goes to the movies for sheer entertainment. If financial success is not achieved, the filmmakers concerned will not likely be rewarded with another opportunity to spend their investors’ money. This position is not to say that high art cannot exist within the movies; surely it does. When it breaks new ground and is entertaining as well, it is movie-making history. But to expect a public more interested in immediate gratification than experiencing the new and profound, even life-changing experiences, is always asking a lot in our commercially driven culture. It is necessary, too, to make peace with the fact that most of the public does not go to concerts. It seems the majority of the public still is unaware, even disdainful, of what all the fuss is about over “classical” music. It bores them! The majority seems to view it even as an elitist’s game. Ives knew this problem well, especially that most of the public found new and unfamiliar music not compelling—more likely, even ugly.15 An optimistic spirit by nature, he always held out hope for a time when people would tire of the status quo, to demand more from themselves and their culture, in some late realization of the Transcendental vision. Of course, to date, things have not worked out that way; some might argue, instead, that the world has stepped backwards. Through another prism Probably, it would be unhelpful to try to explore Ives’s music with cross-references of other music of the time, simply because his language evolved separately and independently, even when the innovations he explored were no longer exclusive to his work alone. The pioneering aspects of Ives’s music were conceived, for the most part, in a near artistic vacuum, and best presented on those terms. For our purposes, by tracing Ives’s artistic evolution to illustrate his musical journey, those works featured do not always reflect their significance, although they include some of his greatest masterworks. It would do little good, too, if the text were to feature examples from printed scores, when perhaps the majority of readers cannot read music! Indeed, nor should they feel any requirement to do so, since musical notation is not more than a means of communication—what the composer put on the page for the performer to interpret. In the larger sense, one should not need to be a musician in order to appreciate many of the finer points of what is involved to compose or perform, just as one need not be a painter in order to appreciate a gallery of fine art. Additionally, the musically descriptive texts in this book intentionally contain no musical score examples, in keeping with the stated objective of making Ives’s music accessible to all. Discussion is outlined mostly in standard terms; a glossary is provided (Appendix 3) for terms used in the text without explanation. For each work there is a general discussion, with listeners’ guides that feature musical 33 Introduction guideposts, the ready identification of which generally is possible. References, too, are limited to those that are included for those readers who might wish to investigate further. In conclusion, it was not the writer’s intent to retread yet another historic examination of Ives’s life. When Gayle Sherwood Magee’s book, Charles Ives Reconsidered, was released in 2008,16 as a relatively new entrant into the field and with a purported new stance, it was surprising that much of what was contained within its covers revisited detail presented exhaustively before. Magee even analyzed—to the near exclusion of other possible choices, and in detail at that—the same work, General William Booth enters into Heaven, as had J. Peter Burkholder in 1996.17 Although some review of Ives’s life and circumstances is unavoidable if the context of what is presented here is to make any sense, fuller accounts will be left to those texts, far more detailed, complete, and readily available. ENDNOTES 1 Charles Ives, Essays Before a Sonata (New York, Knickerbocker Press, 1920), 12. 2 Barbara Packer, The Transcendentalists of Concord (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2007). 3 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed, John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 114. 4 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2008), 55-56; Frank R. Rossiter, Charles Ives & His America (New York: Liveright, 1975), 114. 5 Ralph Waldo Emerson, (The Oxford Authors), ed. Richard Poirier (New York, Oxford University Press, 1990), 3. 6 Ives, Essays Before a Sonata, 113–14. 7 Leon Botstein, “Innovations and Nostalgia: Ives, Mahler, and the Origins of Modernism,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 40. 8 Ibid., 82. 9 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Urbana, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974), 214–26. 10 Carol K. Baron, “Efforts on Behalf of Democracy by Charles Ives and His Family: Their Religious Contexts,” The Musical Quarterly, vol. 87, 1, 2004: 6–43. 11 Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, 135. 12 Michael Berest, “Charles Ives Universe Symphony, ‘Nothing More to Say,’” 2005, www.afmm.org/uindex.htm. 13 Frank T. Manheim, “twentieth century pioneer composer Charles Ives: audiences and critics’ opinions over time,” MusicWeb International, 2004, www.musicweb-international.com/classrev/2004/Oct04/Ives_View.htm. 14 Aaron Copland, Our New Music (New York, Norton & Co., 1969), 109-10. 15 Ives, Essays Before a Sonata, 27, 90. 16 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008). 17 J. Peter Burkholder, “Charles Ives and the Four Traditions,” from Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 23–29; Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 106–13. 34 CHAPTER 1 The Makeup of the Man I n the cosmos, structures called “starburst” galaxies host star formation and development at such a frenetic pace that they rapidly exhaust their star-making materials. These galaxies are destined to have vastly shortened lives. Messier 82, a starburst galaxy Image: NASA/ESA/STScI/AURA/ The Hubble Heritage Team O n a human scale, Charles Ives’s accelerated development and fast decline is curiously reminiscent of a starburst galaxy—his major creative development and output spanning just a quarter of his life. Apart from some peripheral works dating from as early as the 1880’s to as late as 1927, most of Ives’s output and development encompasses the first two decades of the twentieth century. During the middle of the century’s third decade, the once-fevered music making from one of its most remarkable creators would fall as silent as had the guns of the World War I just before. By 1927, struggling to keep the fires burning, Ives reluctantly would face the reality that his time as a composer was over. In fact, it had been largely so for some time, although he had traveled light years from a provincial town in nineteenth century America into the extremes of the cosmos itself. 35 The Makeup of the Man Ives in his time Unsurprisingly, there is no better way to get to know Ives than by his own words. Memos, mostly consisting of dictated prose, is a collection of his thoughts about his music, early years, George Ives (as well as his teaching and outlook), other composers, philosophical outlook, what he encountered from others (musicians, critics, audiences of the day, and even friends and family), as well as providing countless insights into his personality and life.1 Full of satire, humor, and peppered with Ives’s frequent self-effacing remarks—Ives speaks directly to the reader as a living person. Indeed, none of the baggage that has been imposed upon him is evident at all, Ives’s own rationale for his work emerging as more credible than practically anything else one is likely to encounter. The real Ives turns out to resemble much the familiar person known before he was recast in the more recent revisionist image that seeks to better explain him and “manage” his legacy. There are other records that verify much about what can be found in Memos. Between 1969 and 1970 (more than fifteen years following Ives’s death), Vivian Perlis, formerly of the Oral History American Music Project at Yale University, undertook a unique task in recording interviews from every living contact that she could locate—friend, family member, musician, or business associate. Perlis assembled them into a book that provided a living portrait of Ives that reached from his youth through old age.2 One of the earliest books on his life still in print, Perlis’s book presents a portrait seen through the two-sided glass of music and insurance that Ives inhabited. Here, as seen through the eyes of others, was the pioneer composer, businessman, benefactor, family member and friend, someone who did not crave personal recognition and was comfortable in his own skin. Academically, it is a relatively light volume, in both weight and bibliographic documentation. However, in comparisons with most, the information contributed by those who knew Ives makes it one of the weightiest. Reinforcing Ives’s own words, most of the collective commentary leaves very little room for interpretation, or the discovery of deep-seated issues that need resolution and specialized analysis. Even more, the largely unflattering and dismissive explanations that many writers, critics and scholars have devised to explain his creativity, why it ceased, even his character and life choices—while shoehorning him into a prescribed stereotype—are not in evidence. Ives and his world speak for themselves, hardly less tellingly than by his own words, the authenticity of his life and work only further confirmed. Ives in our time If one is seeking extensive detail on the historic aspects of Ives’s life, however, although there are some remarkable sources of information available in existing books and biographies, some caution is encouraged, though. For those not yet sufficiently familiar with the person and composer, again, the reader should remain always keenly wary of most of the latter day texts, along with the conclusions and inferences drawn in them. Sometimes the authors’ positions reflect larger agendas, even perhaps the challenges of their own lives; some of the most unflattering and bizarre conclusions often emerge as more important than the composer himself. Two such typical texts illustrate the good and the bad, though they are amongst the most comprehensive of what is available, both representing substantial undertakings to compile and research, though fatally flawed in ways common to many others: 36 The Makeup of the Man • Although the massive book by the psychiatrist/musical scholar Stuart Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song”,3 is one of the most thoroughly researched books of all on its subject, this encyclopedic vault of information does not come without huge drawbacks. In this respect, it is typical of many in-depth works about Ives’s life and music, with much more than its share of the author’s own agenda, interpretations and subjectivity, and little that explains the methodology of what Ives did. Most readers likely will find it heavy going, somewhat tortured and twisted in outlook, and overly detailed for their level of interest. • The classic 1974 work by the historian Frank R. Rossiter, Charles Ives & His America4 is slightly different in its approach, and was amongst the first to reappraise the “legend” status that had been accorded Ives almost indiscriminately—even if some aspects were true, and not always recognized by Ives’s devoted followers. To the general reader, Rossiter’s book will be more positive and accessible than Feder’s, and slightly less exhaustive, historically. Unfortunately, Rossiter also took upon himself the unqualified and unsubstantiated appraisals of Ives’s compositional contributions, even though he was not a musician of any type, despite the book’s generally empathetic tone. One must approach any such text with caution. Of the two books, Rossiter’s easily is the more uplifting for the more human picture it paints of Ives’s life and times, its perspective being somewhat better than most. In the context of looking for explanations into Ives’s remarkable and visionary life, both works leave no stone unturned, discovering many red herrings along the way. Unfortunately, because blind alleys are not always recognized as such, unintentionally or otherwise, often the subject is left diminished in the process. Such is the consequence of secondhand “analyses” of figures considered sufficiently significant to study in the first place, though treated otherwise! In the opinion of this writer, however, both authors fell into the common trap of attempting to make definitive and subjective judgments, especially when apparently blind to the obvious. Often their attitudes seem like not to being able to see the forest for the trees, their judgments being, quite frankly, bizarre, even demeaning, perhaps having arisen out of a need to see intellectual profundity in things that, for anyone else, would have appeared obvious and easily understood! However, it should be stated that, perhaps most egregiously, both writers’ artistic evaluations are stated gratuitously, as if no serious, studied musician of any variety would, or could, possibly disagree with them. The writer takes issue, too, with the dissecting of the “Ives legend” by such writers—who, act ultimately, as detractors—to the degree that Ives’s unique contribution, character and voice is lost as they pull apart his corpse. The upshot is that Ives is redefined and reduced in stature according to their terms. Michael Broyles, in an expansive article that still seems not to have resonated, commented that musicologists had not grasped more current understandings of the period, leading to incorrect perceptions and conclusions about Ives’s motivations, personal philosophy, and the way he conducted his life.5 As part of the more negative appraisals, Ives also has been treated with a surprising level of suspicion and distrust. It is all the more disappointing in view of all that is known today about Ives’s philanthropy and the integrity with which he ran his business. Gayle Sherwood Magee, for example, tried to make the case, in Charles Ives Reconsidered (2005), that it was disingenuous that Ives used the earlier personal connection with his teacher at Yale, Horatio Parker, to try to secure a performance of his music. Parker 37 The Makeup of the Man was a friend of the famed German-born conductor, Walter Damrosch, at the time the director of the New York Symphony Orchestra.6 Although Ives had “moved on” in his life, he had not had a “falling out” with Parker. In that the connection did not result in a performance of his music under Damrosch (Ives received little more than polite treatment), and certainly his differences with Parker were hardly a secret. Magee, however, blamed Ives’s later criticisms of both figures on the unsuccessful outcome, although Ives’s opinions of them likely did not change because of it. Ives’s efforts were no different than anyone’s, being centered on building liaisons with those who occupied the very positions that could provide opportunities; just as in securing contracts in business, mutual admiration is not dependent upon it. In another instance, Magee saw Damrosch’s emphasis of financial considerations over art, in relation to attempting performances of new music, somehow, being at odds with Ives’s own quest for financial success.7 Her conspicuous absence of comment, concerning Ives’s great generosity in using his money to promote new music and help struggling composers (frequently underwriting performances of their works) rang extraordinarily hollow, however. As a substantial anonymous benefactor of other composers, Ives, thus, learned early on from Damrosch how it felt to have financial constraints stand in the way of a performance. Many other troublesome claims, contradictions and innuendos throughout her text make Magee’s book the most revisionist of all (see Appendix 1). Revisionist attitudes, such as these, seem to be accorded almost all domestic heroes. It seems ironic that much of the hand wringing about Ives comes from his own countrymen, those who one might have imagined would have been his strongest cheerleaders (see Appendix 1). America’s favorite musical son was not likely to be spared from the rite of passage that has become part of the culture. Regardless, it seems that even to this day Ives still is singled out for almost unique treatment even amongst American composers. Ultimately, such mistreatment blocks his unconditional acceptance into the hallowed ranks of the “musical hall of fame.” The writer cannot bring to mind any other composer been so utterly reinvented, micro-analyzed, misunderstood, misrepresented, even falsely accused—and yet, still so confoundingly illcomprehended regarding his music. In this respect, amongst those who still “don’t get it” (Ives’s own terminology!)—or, in instances of advancing alternate agendas amongst those who, in fact, do—nothing much has changed. The enforcement of a composer in step with pre-prescribed convention apparently remains a prime objective, even as Ives’s own recollections throughout the pages of Memos about his struggles seem just as defining today as when he recorded them, almost ninety years ago. In this light, one cannot overlook those few texts that have approached Ives with objectivity and a level of reverence duly earned. Notable amongst the few is Charles Ives: A Life With Music by Jan Swafford,8 a book that should not be missed by anyone interested in a more detailed examination of Ives’s life and work. It is sympathetically approached with the writer’s honest objectivity over the advancement of any particular agenda, in which one’s own occasional disagreements have only to do with interpretation and not reinterpretation. Ives’s greatness—the person and composer—is increasingly revealed rather than supplanted. Taking a calmly objective look at Ives’s life, it rivals virtually any biographical text, being perhaps, the best amongst them all. On many fronts, notably the standard of commentary (such as program or CD liner notes), marches largely out of step with those in musicology who claim to “own” Ives’s legacy. Luckily, too, the counter-reaction to the imposed revisionism from many in American musicology—the traditional rebuilding of a wounded former hero—has begun to take hold. The wellknown portrait of Ives leaning forward on his cane with that glint in his eye almost foretells it; he knew everyone would come around.9 38 The Makeup of the Man The psychoanalyst’s couch Because of the more recent interpretations of Ives’s life and music, Feder’s manipulative psychobiographic perspective is particularly important to understand, its agenda and rationale established at the outset. The effectiveness of this kind of “case study,” which advances secondhand, second-guessing, years after the fact, lies, of course, in the in the eye of the more impressionable beholder. In attempting to derive Ives’s genius from personal and mental flaws, Feder painted a tormented portrait of the composer that is particularly twisted on almost every level; did this reflect more the author’s demons, perhaps? Although the father/son connection, which formed the fundamental basis of his argument, is well grounded, Feder, however, intimated that such close bonds are unusual, less, even desirable in society; most parents, though, might hope to be so fortunate. Predictably, others glommed on to the psychoanalytical approach in trying to divine clinical explanations for Ives’s extraordinary creativity and unique musical perspective. Other than the obvious: he was a genius! One should bear in mind that no psychobiographer-revisionist knew Ives, and, thus, sheltering behind his or her subject’s inability to respond is a safe bet. Ives might never have been on the couch, but one can sense that he might have understood his “analysts” better than they did him. In contrast, figures such as Nicolas Slonimsky, who knew Ives personally, wrote explicitly about Ives’s simple take on life, and his lack of inner turmoil.10 Though Feder cited Ives’s famous outbursts as key evidence of a changing and unstable personality, pent-up frustrations (“crankiness”) also are easy to understand in one who is physically unable to affect any change—such as might be expected from one dealing with the considerable infirmities that Ives experienced. Fashionable, too, as it has become to refer to Ives as a curmudgeonly New Englander, one might try to find anyone who suffers from multiple physical ailments and who is not cranky at times! Besides, who, having faced the relentless and dismissive drubbing by those with small shuttered minds—far beyond anything normally reserved for objective critiques—would not feel something!? Although Ives’s words of disdain for them have been interpreted as bitter and angry, usually they are tinged with a kind of humor and stoic humility, even a slight chuckle often evident in their delivery. All things considered, for the most part, Ives remained pretty much above the fray; it is remarkable that he was able to keep his identity and inner peace intact. Regardless, no less a figure than Bernard Herrmann commented in 1945 that Ives’s state of mind was neither bitter nor compromised.11 These words should be compared against Feder’s relentlessly clinical and unsympathetic hypothesis, generations removed from the reality. Again, Herrmann knew Ives. The poet Louis Untermeyer recalled, too, Ives’s commanding presence. Not formed by an imperious persona in need of continual elevation, but rather by one whose unassuming demeanor, and of whose assured understanding of his place in the “grand scheme,” knew what he had done without having to hear about it from anyone.12 It has now finally been revealed, too, that Ives was diagnosed with diabetes in 1918; probably long been present to a degree, it probably explains his health collapse.13 The information hardly had been hidden, just ignored. Research by David Nicholls also has pointed to Addison’s disease, too, the ailment that afflicted Ives’s mother, Mollie,14 and whom appeared to be some kind of invalid. The ailment might be responsible for Ives’s reticence to talk about her, as well as George’s late reference to a “new nurse”;15 it seems it was responsible for her untimely death and shaky handwriting—not unlike that of Ives in later years.16 Because the precursors of the disease can be inherited from the mother, it might explain not only Ives’s writing tremors, but also might have contributed to his increasingly delicate state of being. 39 The Makeup of the Man Although Ives’s outbursts, nevertheless, were real, those who knew him understood tacitly that his flash points reflected his deeply held passions, mostly about political and social inequities, closed minds, and bad music and musicians. (Harmony, his wife, would caution visitors not to broach these subjects for fear of inducing a heart attack!) In Ives’s later years, when more exaggerated personality quirks paralleled the compounding of his physical infirmities, his close friend, composer Carl Ruggles, recalled that Ives, by now quite frail, threw the manuscript of the Robert Browning Overture across the kitchen floor in disgust;17 (luckily, it has survived in good condition: the writer is privileged to have examined it!). Ives had lived with the overture for a long time, and had concluded, wrongly or rightly, it was no good (“N.G.”), relying too heavily upon carefully calculated formal constrictions. To Ives, such self-conscious straightjackets were the antithesis of creativity.18 Feder’s unsympathetic and subjective “diagnosis” seems all the more bizarre coming from one in the profession of helping people come to terms with their problems. Consequently, Ives emerges unsympathetically judged; presumably he would have been glad that Feder was not his doctor. In a scholarly and interesting, but in some ways forced comparison of Ives with Mahler,19 Leon Botstein’s position that both Ives and Mahler wrote “nostalgic” music—as far as Ives’s music is concerned, at any rate—underscores a common misperception, once even the writer’s, too (see again, Introduction, p.23). Again, Ives’s so-called nostalgia is merely a direct reflection of his own life experiences. At the time, it was real, not nostalgic. Regardless, for the most part, too, no one would ever confuse the music of Mahler for Ives; the fundamental differences between their music, attitudes, culture, even more especially, their respective backgrounds, keep these two figures well apart. Otherwise, notwithstanding the cogent analysis that both of these composers did share some clear traits and common influences (vernacular elements and incorporated childhood memories, envisaged spatial entities, even their shared sense of independent linear motion in polyphony), similar comparisons between other composers from almost any period would not be hard to find, even though, perhaps, Botstein was onto something in relation to the evolving music of the new century. Botstein, however, seemed no less surprised than was J. Peter Burkholder that Ives’s music had some European roots.20 Although Botstein did credit George Ives with “musical musings that were as advanced and sophisticated as other commentators had suspected,”21 compliantly, he also took the larger revisionist line that Parker passed down “much more than he [Ives] and his defenders were prepared to admit.” 22 George Ives was marginalized, thus, by default, one of the major revisionist tenets in redefining the composer, though few of Ives’s honest defenders have marginalized Parker’s role. Understanding the context of both figures in Ives’s musical background is pivotal. Moreover, seemed to tacitly embrace Stuart Feder’s psychoanalytical portrayal of Ives as just another “case history,” falling directly into the trap that Feder had so carefully laid in “Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song.” Despite Botstein’s carefully thought-out analysis, the article leaves the impression in which Mahler emerges standing tall, while Ives is reduced to a psychiatric “anomaly.”23 His unique genius, musical originality, creativity, even his colorful personality seemed, thus, is reduced to a search for the clinically explainable. And certainly Mahler had far greater inner psychiatric devils of his own to deal with than Ives ever knew. It is altogether odd that Mahler was not subjected to the same clinical treatment as that accorded Ives; even odder, by resorting to an apologist’s reasoning, was Botstein’s apparent justification for excluding Mahler from it.24 Ultimately, the psychoanalytical “take” on Ives initiated by Feder must be seen as a dispassionately errant case study of an absent patient on a psychoanalyst’s empty couch. 40 The Makeup of the Man Dashed idealism: Ives’s lone journey to the stars Ives witnessed the beginning of the now-familiar twentieth century (and beyond) phenomenon often termed the “dumbing down” of the populace: the rise of crass commercialism, automation, the elevation and exaltation of the glamorous and superficial, as well as tabloid journalism. The descent into mediocrity of man’s higher aspirations is even more evident today. Ives, however, had optimistically anticipated his nation’s evolution along Emersonian ideals, as a true age of enlightenment and a beacon of light from the New World. If he was unrealistic, who can say his aspirations were misplaced? Ives’s hopes for the working people were deeply rooted in his visions of enlightenment for all. Reality, however, dictated that all the distractions and demands of the booming new century allowed few people the time to consider a state of higher existence. Works, such as Majority and He is There!, speak of Ives’s expectations that the leaders of society hold the highest of ideals for society. However, by 1920, as Ives reached his artistic zenith, he must have felt he had traveled alone. Both culturally and politically, society had not advanced; it had gone backwards. Ives saw it reflected in a brutal world war, followed by the victory of Warren G. Harding in the 1920 Presidential Election, even the rejection of Ives’s own, formally proposed Twentieth Amendment to the Constitution (surely too idealistic for the modern political arena). Ives, a staunch supporter of Woodrow Wilson, felt Wilson had let him down by failing to deliver the kind of leadership he had promised, not the least of which was having given only lip service to his Constitutional Amendment. Ives’s health crisis of 1918—and from which he would never fully recover— further compounded his problems. Feder, downplaying Ives’s motivations in attempting to make the case that Ives only had acquired his political interests later in life, claimed that Majority is “a ranting, vituperative diatribe.”25 Really? Did Feder make the foolish assumption that no one actually would, or could, read what Ives had written? In no way—be it in words or music—does Majority correspond to Feder’s description. The words Feder quoted to support his that Ives had become a demagogue are present only in a separate essay,26 and hardly rise to the level of his charge. Apparently, Feder disallowed personal passion or conviction; more likely, only for Ives. Majority, in fact, is a reaffirmation of idealism in the face of disaster. Feder could not leave his mental “diagnoses” alone, continuing with more unsupportable assessments of his own making: that Ives “still had ideas in abundance, although he no longer had the capacity to cast them in musical form.” His agenda to redefine Ives, substituting the gravity of his charges for fact, becomes clear. Regardless, for Ives, dashed idealism and poor health were only part of the picture, perhaps the lesser part, at that; he had reached his ultimate compositional destination (the Universe Symphony) just in time. Knowing Ives through his music Since it seems quite plausible that Ives never had a particularly strong bent to pursue music professionally, he took an entry-level position in a Mutual Insurance Co. of New York agency immediately upon graduating from Yale in 1898. His uncle (Lyman Brewster) already had arranged for that first step in the business world. By the end of the next decade, Ives, almost single-handedly had reinvented the business model of life insurance, soon becoming the largest agency in the country. At the same time, burning an alltoo-short candle at both ends, his musical output would dwarf that of many full-time composers. 41 The Makeup of the Man Ives’s music reveals the same personality found in his words—it is just as present, colorful, humorous, independent, proud, spiritual, thoughtful, and often, too, just as frustratingly diffuse! In the case of his words, Ives usually avoided precisely disclosing specifics, which remain a private part of part his universe. No less identifiable than by his words, Ives’s fingerprint is almost immediately identifiable, the product of “coded” mechanisms that influence the successions, combinations and rhythmic interactions of notes; though seemingly irreconcilable, they function simultaneously to become compatible. Ives’s music, thus, requires a different kind of listening. The confluence of melded styles and techniques in any one of Ives’s compositions has made it, thus, almost fashionable for his detractors to try to link specific characteristics of his music to other composers. That often these characteristics extend back through numerous other earlier incarnations typically is disregarded. However, the independent usage of Ives’s innovations usually pre-empted that of their later “discoveries” significantly. Utilized differently, too, comparisons usually are redundant, anyway—much like trying to force a square peg into a round hole. Goddard Lieberson, unable to fathom how Ives evolved his language, remarked that Ives did not seem the slightest bit interested in the innovations of any other composer, let alone wish to copy them.27 Despite the revisionist agenda to persuade the listener that Ives’s music, like that of many other figures, was influenced by the innovations of others, his unique sonic stamp defies the charge as much as it does conventional explanation. The originality of his music continues to elicit disbelief that it could have emanated on American soil, and outside the “preordained” path, at that. Ives’s American “voice” is utterly absent amongst the handful of otherwise distinguished domestic figures who preceded him (most notably members of the Second New England School: Horatio Parker, Amy Beach, Arthur Foote, George Chadwick, John Knowles Paine, Edward MacDowell), who struggled for an identity within the musical status quo of the times. The aging Ives’s wonderful down-to-earth spirit and character are preserved in a number of private recordings made between 1931 and 1943. His singing and playing of They are There!, made in 1942 when he was adapting the original 1917 song (He is There!) for the latest war effort28 has become iconic. Even with its period sound, and Ives’s modest, well-nigh ragged voice (!), he appears larger than life, booming with enthusiastic verve, and seeming almost present in the room. In another complete piece, The Alcotts from the Concord Sonata, Ives’s late pianistic abilities also are on display. They are not inconsiderable by any standards, despite his greatly weakened physical condition at the time (including hand tremors, general weakness and poor eyesight). It would take more than his ailments to suppress some extraordinarily facile, if not necessarily always completely note-perfect playing. With an indefinable fluidity, direct musicality and genuine sentiment, the concluding chord of The Alcotts is particularly telling. The isolationist In America, the prevailing societal view of musicians at the time and place of Ives’s youth was not encouraging. Ives’s father, George, had amply demonstrated what one could expect as a musician in the provinces. Ill paid, little respected, and forced to eke out whatever living his musical skills could provide, George Ives’s lot would have been humiliating for any young person to witness. George also had found himself doomed to the same humiliating status in business before trying his hand at full-time music 42 The Makeup of the Man making, and then, looking for a way out, tried it again in the hardware business as an employee of his brother, though with the same lack of success.29 George Ives might have been well respected within his own household, but his lowly status in Danbury was not lost on his son. Ives also had to accommodate his larger family’s social status. Most of his relatives were members of the “higher set” in Danbury (his grandfather even had founded the first bank in the city, as well as the building of the local cemetery); from Ives’s perspective, as a member “merely” of George’s family, he would have been acutely aware of his status as a “poor relation.” Within weeks of entering Yale, George Ives’s untimely death at age forty-nine seemed only to reinforce his motivations. If Ives chose not to take on music as a livelihood, who can tell him he was wrong? Although a few domestic musicians who enjoyed lofty perches of public acclaim were able to escape this fate, it was only because the vast majority were trained in Europe, and deemed, thus, to be direct beneficiaries of a “sophisticated” culture. There was no one more likely to be greeted with enthusiasm in the concert hall than an artist from the other side of the Atlantic. Reflecting some wit’s remark that the definition of an expert is “anyone from more than fifty miles away,” privileged American composers traditionally were sent to study in European conservatories to complete their musical education. The opportunity to follow such a path was not about to be accorded Ives, so it is hardly surprising that he had little interest in pursuing music as a profession, and resented the domestically perceived implications of permanent foreign superiority. However, there was more in play. Frank R. Rossiter, 30 as well as Stuart Feder, 31 advanced the additional, and very real, perspective that music was not seen as a particularly masculine or “real” profession at the time in America. In his 2004 book, Baseball and the Music of Charles Ives, Timothy Johnson went so far as to theorize that one of the main reasons Ives liked playing sports was because it negated the image of femininity he associated with the public’s perception of musicians.32 What all three authors had raised was born out by Ives’s own words in Memos.33 Ives admitted that, growing up he had felt ashamed at the prospect of becoming a musician. In the Danbury of Ives’s youth, indeed, the many “Danbury’s” throughout America, business, medical, legal and academic professionals, as well as skilled craftsmen—those in “solid” professions—were seen as admirable. They carried the hopes of every parent for the next generation. In a culture with a pioneering past, even common laborers were people who provided for their families by “honest toil.” If musicians were the occasional providers of entertainment at functions of genteel social clubs and local gatherings, as a livelihood—music—most definitely, was not something to be confused with real work. One must ask, therefore, what young man, growing up in a country bursting with new opportunities in the more “respectable” professions, would willingly take on a musician’s shabby lot? And how many—at their most self-conscious age—would have wanted to be perceived in the negative light generally reserved for members of the musical profession? If the young Ives, regarded locally as a musical prodigy, could, for the moment, escape such bias by way of his tender age and talent, it was only because a musically precocious youngster always has charmed society. Everyone knew Charlie would grow up and get a real job. Traces of the condescending attitude towards musicians can be seen to this day, even in developed regions of the country. Up against, say, the sport of football, music still is likely to be considered “artsycraftsy,” even a pastime for sissies, and certainly not something from which one could earn a decent wage. Indeed, there can be hardly a professional musician who has not cringed behind the patronizing question: “That’s wonderful, but what do you do for a living?” Although a few of the more successful homegrown 43 The Makeup of the Man musicians managed to escape this stereotype, they were more likely only to be embraced by the upper crust of society. Leon Botstein challenged the notion of a domestic musician finding success in America by discussing the career of the nineteenth century New England composer, Arthur Foote.34 The kind of success and societal acceptance enjoyed by Foote, and which Botstein put forward to substantiate his view, however, was not the norm. Even Foote had to find other musical venues to supplement his income, from teaching to taking church positions. Certainly universal stardom in the mold of one of the European masters, such as Gustav Mahler or Antonin Dvořák, was an unlikely prospect for a domestically raised composer in America. Music seems to be the only profession in which most people consider themselves authorities; the word “talent” is thrown around routinely as if the musically uneducated could recognize it in the first place. Without having the slightest notion of the vast amounts of intelligent, educated effort required to develop skills that surely are second to none in any field—plus, to be able to deliver them in public forums under levels of pressure only known to those who do it for a living—talent is the least of it. Since Ives realized early on that there was little tolerance, too, in America of the day for anything radical in music, and having elected, thus, to make a living doing something less dependent on society’s approval, the choice of insurance as a career was his liberation. Goddard Lieberson (composer, music critic and music executive) was amongst those who saw it quite simply and clearly: it was the business of music, which Ives shied away from, not music itself.35 Therefore, contrary to all manner of theories amongst historians concerning what was behind his career choice, it seems easy to deduce that Ives did not want to repeat his father’s experience. Feder surely was not off the mark in concluding that Ives found his own way to bring honor, indirectly, to his father’s name—in both areas in which George had failed to make a decent living.36 It was oddly contradictory, however, that Ives saw no irony in relating his father’s sentiments: if one tried to make a living from music with only oneself to provide for, it could be justified; otherwise, art would be compromised.37 Ives apparently did not wish to see that his father had, in fact, not followed his own advice, failing to provide adequately for his own family as a consequence. Having freed himself from the need for the approval of others, Ives could work on his music in any way he wished, and never be constrained by dependence on receiving commissions. During his most productive years, however, Ives was behind a business desk all day, and a piano half the night and all weekend-long; fulfilling two careers explains Ives’s isolation, at least in part, even before he became seriously ill. Ives’s isolation did not, however, eliminate all prospect of hearing his music, contrary to popular impression. He did benefit from some interaction with a small circle of musicians, apparently regular acquaintances at his house for musical soirées. Apparently, they were more charitable towards him than the famous visiting musicians, and whose reactions gave rise to his discouraging tales of their blunt, even callous reactions upon trying to play his music. Furthermore, his pianistic virtuosity would have allowed him to hear the effects of virtually everything he composed. Because many of his songs reflect or encapsulate much of the content of his larger works, by singing, too, Ives was able to hear the effect of sustained vocal lines accompanied with complex textures on the piano, simulating, perhaps, even an entire orchestra when so desired. The practical benefits surely enabled him to adjust his methods as he judged its effectiveness, rather than by its acceptance by others. This experience of actual sound answers in large part those critics who maintained for many years that Ives had no awareness of the validity of his ideas. It is inconceivable much made it to the page having only existed in his mind. It is easy to understand, too, the well-intentioned folly of what Aaron Copland and others have proposed: that Ives lost some of the potential in his music by (i), his isolationism and inability to reap the 44 The Makeup of the Man benefits of interaction with other musicians,38 and (ii), the modifications of style and substance that public performance would demand. Clearly, such interactions would have precluded everything about it that is so identifiable as “the Ives sound.” The likelihood is remote that much in the way of radicalism would have been accepted, or even would have been was playable by American musicians of the day. Even those celebrated European musicians who had played, tried to play, then rejected his music already spoke to Copland’s critique. Modifying it accordingly would have destroyed all that made it original and unique, replacing it only with more of the familiar. Ives’s claims to having been aware of little of the new music emanating from Europe probably can be accepted at face value, too, especially since it was unlikely to have been nearly as radical as parallel works by Ives. He soon realized, too, that exposure to the work of others would affect his own creativity, increasingly learning to stay away.39 The phenomenon Ives was referring to can best be understood as one recalls music in one’s memory; composers (not improvisers) rely on hearing their music mentally, rather than physically on an instrument, such as piano. Actual sound tends to obscure or strongly discolor what is intrinsically delicate during the act of creative formulation. Typically, the instrument acts assists in the process only as the means to “translate” and extract the music from the imagination onto the page in the most efficient manner. Henry Cowell, and the awakening Largely credited with having “discovered” Ives well after he had ceased composing (just before 1930), Henry Cowell would remain a significant presence in Ives’s music during the rest of his life, even beyond. Although others had championed Ives before Cowell (Henry Bellemann, Nicolas Slonimsky, Robert Schmitz, and Clifton Furness), no one up until this time had made the mission a lifelong passion, or had, perhaps, quite the perception, or even the promotional flair of Cowell. Cowell saw Ives as the paternal figurehead needed for the new avant-garde in American music. As a much younger composer, Cowell was one of a new breed of American avant-garde figures that embraced the progressive arts. It is tempting to speculate what Ives’s influence might have been had he been recognized sooner; perhaps the very spark of creativity that his isolation fostered never would have materialized. Regardless, by the time anyone in the avant-garde in America discovered Ives, they already had formulated their own compositional methodologies and philosophies. If Ives became their “patron saint,” it was too late for their own language or thought processes to reflect his. Indeed, as living products exclusively of the twentieth century, their work was imbued with the faster paced culture of the times. They had no exposure to the world from which Ives had emerged. Ives, eschewing the limelight during the period of his greatest productivity, never paused to concern himself with securing performances of his music; there were none. Doing his best to rescue Ives from oblivion, while endeavoring to make sure he was recognized as the revolutionary force he was, Cowell has been accused unfairly of intentionally fabricating the facts surrounding what has been termed “The Ives Legend.”40 If Cowell exaggerated certain aspects of Ives’s life and work, it was unintentional and out of sheer enthusiasm, or even by misunderstanding what he was told or had concluded from Ives’s own notated comments. In the case of the Universe Symphony, for example, the myth of as many as fifteen separate orchestras on mountaintops appears to owe its origins to Ives’s colorfully worded instructions on 45 The Makeup of the Man the manuscript pages (see p. 193). It is important to state, too, for the record, that charges Cowell and Ives systematically manipulated the public with an inauthentic image of a curmudgeonly New Englander, who, magically, anticipated what was to take place in the twentieth century, are entirely unfounded. Critics also would be well advised to cut Cowell some slack. Without him, Ives might have slipped back into the shadows (see “Ives Legend,” Chapter 11, and Appendix 1.) Ives the craftsman If one’s sole impression of Ives’s music has been formed by superficial exposure only to his more radical compositions, especially in the absence of what led to, or underlies, them, questions about the composer’s expertise might be understandable. However, since many examples of accessible, extremely craftsmanly, beautiful, relatively conventional, late Romantic-styled music came from the very same pen, clearly Ives was no dilettante; in fact, he was a master. Of Ives’s most wildly radical compositions, Ives authority John Kirkpatrick maintained that Ives fully heard in his mind all the complexities and sonorities of his music; nothing was an accident, unless he planned it that way, nor was it the result of anything other than the highest of musical skills.41 For his efforts, Ives received more than his fair share of criticism, but as a figure living true to his being, he found the path to his own destiny, not towards the place to which others would steer him. Ives’s symbolic representations and spiritual aspirations take his music far beyond being “merely” that of pioneer, innovator and wrongly perceived American nationalist. His greatness is all the more remarkable for its intrinsic value, however, more about the uniquely original, evocative and extraordinary depths that he plumbed—a lifelong mission in life and music that culminated only when he could travel no further. ENDNOTES 1 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 106. 2 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Urbana, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974). 3 Stuart Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song,” a Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1992). 4 Frank R. Rossiter, Charles Ives & His America (New York, Liveright, 1975). 5 Michael Broyles, “Charles Ives and the American Democratic Tradition,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 118–60. 6 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008), 91–93. 7 Ibid., 93. 8 Jan Swafford, Charles Ives: A Life With Music (New York, W.W. Norton & Co., 1996). 9 Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, 44. 10 Ibid., 155. 11 Bernard Herrmann, “Four Symphonies of Charles Ives,” Modern Music 22 (May–June 1945): 222; in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 402. 46 12 Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, 213. 13 Stephen Budiansky, “Ives, Diabetes, and His ‘Exhausted Vein’ of Composition,” American Music, vol. 31, 1 (Spring, 2013): 1–25. 14 David Nicholls, “‘The Unanswered Question of Her Son’s Biography’: New Thoughts on Mollie Ives,” Journal of the Society for American Music 5 (2011): 95–111. 15 George Ives, letter to Charles Ives, September 28, 1894; The Charles Ives Papers MSS 14, Irving S. Gilmore Library, Yale University, New Haven CN. 16 One of Ives’s references to his famously shaky handwriting was in a letter to E. Robert Schmitz in May 1938: “Please excuse these snake tracks—I can’t see them well enough to see how bad they are.” From the Charles Ives Papers, MS 114, Irving S. Gilmore Library, Yale University. 17 Ibid., 172. 18 Ives, Memos, 76. 19 Leon Botstein, “Innovations and Nostalgia: Ives, Mahler, and the Origins of Modernism,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. Burkholder, 36. 20 J. Peter Burkholder, “Ives and the Nineteenth Century European Tradition,” in Charles Ives and the Classical Tradition, ed. Geoffery Block and J. Peter Burkholder (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996), 11–33. 21 Botstein, “Innovations and Nostalgia,” in Charles Ives and his World, 40. 22 Op. cit., n.22. 23 Ibid., 41. 24 Botstein, “Innovations and Nostalgia,” in Charles Ives and his World, 41. 25 Feder, “My Father’s Song,” 301. 26 Charles Ives, Essays Before a Sonata and Other Writings, ed. Howard Boatright, (New York, Norton, 1961), 241. Ibid, 208. 27 28 Charles Ives, Ives Plays Ives, CRI 810 (CD) [1999]. 29 Feder, “My Father’s Song” 67. 30 Rossiter, Charles Ives & His America, 23–24; 28–31; 83. 31 Feder, “My Father’s Song,” 119. 32 Timothy Johnson, Baseball and the Music of Charles Ives: A Proving Ground (Lanham, MD, Scarecrow Press, Inc., 2004). 33 Ives, Memos, 130. 34 Op. cit., n.12. 35 Goddard Lieberson, “An American Innovator; Charles Ives,” in Charles Ives and his World, 378. 36 Feder, “My Father’s Song,” 85–86; 102. 37 Ibid., 131. 38 Rossiter, Charles Ives & His America, 147. 39 Ibid., 154. 40 Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 151–60. 41 Perlis, 221–24. 47 CHAPTER 2 Ives’s World I ve ves’s quintessentially American outlook was reflected as he pioneered and developed new compositional techniques that progressively and rapidly shifted away from those of his late Romantic European counterparts. In those instances across the Atlantic when other pioneers seemed to parallel Ives’s innovations, generally, Ives was ahead of them. Moreover, the way some similar methodologies were adopted by trans-Atlantic composers is entirely at odds with what Ives did, one musical philosophy usually featured above all others as individual “schools” of composition, such as dodecaphony and serialism, both of which emphasized the lack of tonality and conventional design. Ives’s music cannot, however, be categorized under any particular heading, being freely tonal and atonal. Aside from the predictive aspects of Ives’s music, which always have gained him an enthusiastic following, are the cultural, too. Experiencing a type of childhood he would have never known in Europe, Ives’s upbringing was pioneer stuff, plain and simple, with a heavy dose of Civil War culture thrown into the bargain. With new techniques in hand, in near total isolation, Ives would create not only an “American” sound virtually single-handedly, but also successfully capture the essence of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Transcendental philosophies as he traveled along a musical road that would lead him to his place next to those who had been his guides. Ives’s Danbury Postcard imagery {{PD-Art}} 49 Ives’s World Danbury Years (1874–93) and George Ives Ives might have never made it out of in Danbury to find on his road to the stars had it not been for something extraordinary about the width of his vision, fueled by the insights of his father, George Ives. George’s notebooks demonstrate a thorough grounding in theory, traditional harmony and counterpoint under the German musician, Carl Foeppl in New York. It is inevitable that he was exposed to a substantial breadth of German musical literature, by default of his own teacher’s training, which surely included the masters, Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. George, passing his knowledge down to his son, further colored by his own unique musical outlook and perspective, shared with his son, too, the family’s New England heritage. Just as Foeppl had introduced George to European musical orthodoxy, George’s own role as a bandleader ensured that Charles Ives’s musical education also was steeped in popular and traditional tunes, as well as myriads of time-honored hymns, and even those of revivalist camp meetings. In Danbury, George Ives’s lowly social standing did not reflect his real accomplishments. Presumably possessing his son’s same latent DNA, the fact that in George, through limited opportunity (being unable to ascend higher than local bandleader and music teacher), it would lie largely untapped. As Carol Baron revealed, however, his remarkable, if unsung, insights as a music theorist1 would be a lifelong influence upon his son. It is unfortunate that those who wish to deny or diminish George’s role in Charles’s background have continued to perpetuate the label of mediocrity on him—even more, decry Charles’s justified reverence of his father. As a performer, too, Ives referred enthusiastically to his father’s telling musicality.2 George Ives also taught his son the value of musical conviction; dismissing complaints about the local stonemason’s rough, off-key singing at camp meetings, George famously admonished listeners not to “pay too much attention to the sounds—you may miss the music.”3 More interested, thus, in musical communication than overly refined “superficial” qualities, for the younger Ives, his father’s perspective stood in stark contrast to traditional formal attitudes in “nice” music making. George Ives’s openness extended, too, to practically anything in music; it would be valid, as long as an understanding of the process was in place (“something more than thoughtless fooling”),4 with proper theory and grounding. Singularly important amongst all attributes that are overlooked, misunderstood, or underestimated, George’s approach surely is what caused the younger Ives to credit his father so highly, while increasingly relegating others to the basement of his consciousness. George’s open-mined perspective extended to his experiments in microtones with various devices, even with a piano tuned in partials.5 George also bequeathed Charles his adventures in musical discovery; In Memos, Charles Ives referred to his father’s unconventional methods of ear training, even more, his unusual interest in natural acoustics and other auditory phenomena.6 Stuart Feder mentioned George’s multiple skills on various brass instruments, violin,7 even flute—it was the first instrument he played in childhood.8 Where, though, did Ives learn the organ, an instrument in which the pedals alone require a highly specific playing technique? George, again? Stuart Feder maintained that Emile Gaebbler, a local organist and composer, was “no doubt the music teacher for the Ives family” 9 (that of Charles’ grandparents), which might explain it, but mostly, George’s background, even more, specific information about his son’s early training, have been ignored as if there is nothing to be asked. Not a particularly good academic student, the youthful Ives was fortunate to be admitted to Yale, barely qualifying for entrance. Partly because Horatio Parker so vociferously opposed the open-minded approaches as were at George Ives’s core, reactively, Charles Ives not only would diminish Parker’s 50 Ives’s World influence, but also attribute forward-looking experimentation to his father. However, there is no reason to suspect the picture he painted of George is not fairly accurate. Unfortunately, the record does not provide unqualified evidence of George’s experimentation, and there is little that can be reliably substantiated outside the few recollections of those who knew him,10 but his own writings support his interest in possibilities outside the status quo, and, thus, quite likely, he was an enthusiastic experimenter,11 even if actual physical evidence of it is circumstantial. Some of Charles Ives’s early works (under his father’s guidance?), including the polytonal works also speak to it: a version, at least of Psalm 67 (c.1894), and Variations on “America” (1891). One ought not forget, too, that these works emanated within Brahms’s and Dvořák’s lifetimes! No less remarkable, however, is that at least some of the tonally advanced Three Harvest Home Chorales was written in c.1897. Although most of the set was lost and subject to a later reconstruction (c.1912), one can confidently conclude that most (if not all) of the utterly groundbreaking work belongs authentically to the early date, because some of the original manuscript of one of the chorales, readily datable to the early period, has survived as witness to its years of composition. Among ideas that set George Ives’s teaching apart were his answers to the challenges of tonality at the height of the Romantic age; in the wake of Wagner’s evolution of radical chromaticism, it was a matter of where music next would go. (In this sense, Wagner was to twentieth century music what Beethoven was to the nineteenth; thus, Wagner—the epitome of European music—ultimately, caused the very un-European music of Ives!) George Ives’s innovative thinking in regard to addressing the questions of tonality, even conceptualizing integer notation as part of the answer, caused his young son to question conventional rules and limitations of Western music. His teaching, as demonstrated by his written notes, provided an impetus that begged large strides beyond age-old accepted practices. Those critics who do not understand why Ives would appear to slight Horatio Parker and elevate his father should understand that he did not misrepresent either of them. Rather than showing self-serving ingratitude towards Parker, as Gayle Sherwood Magee proposed in her book, Charles Ives Reconsidered, it really was Ives’s father who gave him the keys to everything significant he would do in music.12 Although Parker certainly enriched the groundwork that George had laid with the insights of a practicing composer, he was not the sole, or even primary, source of Ives’s musical background, as has so often been proposed in the modern era. It does explain, however, why Parker represented to Ives the formulaic dogma that stifled him; Ives outgrew Parker. Some have misinterpreted Ives’s attitude to mean that he rejected every aspect of Parker’s training while almost hypocritically still retaining its foundations. In fact, he built upon it and moved music to different ground, in a manifestation of true Transcendentalism. There are other reasons for Ives’s slighting of Parker. He is known to have long harbored resentment of Parker’s suppressions of anything remotely adventurous, requiring him to write the first movement of his First Symphony in an utterly conventional idiom to graduate, and most notably stipulating that the movement was to conclude in the same key as the beginning! Although Ives conformed, nevertheless, he incorporated a few unconventional aspects for which he was able to gain his teacher’s reluctant agreement. Regardless, he was never happy about the incident, an all-too-familiar experience throughout his relationship with Parker. One must try, however, to understand Parker’s perspective. With his practical background and knowledge of a composer’s lot in America, not only could he not condone Ives’s radicalism in music as he knew it, but also, surely, was trying to be protective of Ives’s future. Even though Parker never saw Ives as one having the potential to follow his own career path, it was unlikely Ives ever understood his teacher’s likely additional motivation in discouraging the unconventional. 51 Ives’s World Magee further inferred that Ives could not have succeeded without Parker’s training, although it is clear that had Ives followed Parker’s model, he would not have found his own.13 There can be no doubt also that he acquired a broad knowledge of music from his experience with Parker. That it was instrumental in the larger development of his compositional skills cannot be in doubt. Ives, however, always had access to great music, and by the mid-1890s would have amassed a degree of expertise on the structure and language of musical composition. His father had taken him to symphony concerts with some regularity, too, in New York. It is not unreasonable to assume that Ives’s extraordinary talents and early musical grounding ultimately would have enabled him to acquire the skills that Parker had bestowed upon him, anyway. Such would be far from abnormal amongst many of the greatest composers of history, of whom, perhaps the majority have emerged out of situations far removed from the university or conservatory system, or indeed any advantageous situation at all. Among the greatest, Brahms, for example, had virtually no musical education at all. The implication that only formal musical training engenders the skills for great composers does not concur with history. In addition, Ives’s breadth of musical ability surely was expanded by the substantial literature for organ that he would have learned and played long before leaving home in 1893 (for “cramming” in private school at Hopkins Grammar School in New Haven, Connecticut) ahead of entering Yale the following year. Being something of a prodigy, and holding some fairly significant church positions during and after his Yale years, he was considered by some to be the finest organist in Connecticut. His father had, in fact, tried in vain to convince the timid teenager to become a concert pianist. It is entirely reasonable to suppose that had Ives wanted it, he could have had a performing career, something confirmed by his private recordings. Though made when he was decidedly frail, and admittedly far beyond his prime, a few recordings of Ives’s playing reveal an extraordinary fluency and freedom of expression, the residue of a commanding technique still evident.14 Even late in Ives’s life, composer Carl Ruggles still considered he had never “heard better.” 15 However, Ives’s notorious shyness would make sure he remained uncomfortable with the slightest suggestion of being showcased as a soloist in the public arena. After his Danbury years, and his first exposure to Ragtime, the new popular music of the age, in Chicago, Ives found it again in New Haven, at Poli’s Theater, and thus, well before he graduated and relocated to New York. As the single most significant precursor to jazz, it was loosely related to what have become known as the musical styles of Tin Pan Ally and Cakewalk. With other close ties also to jazz, and the idioms found in the blues, spirituals, hymns, even Minstrel music, few serious-minded, purely classically oriented musicians would have appreciated the potential for their infusion within viable art music. Taking Ragtime, Ives incorporated its idiom within other melodies or lines, as an ever-present part of much of his music. Ives the dreamer Briefly entertaining the hope of an early meteoric success as a composer, in 1902, Ives tried to echo the model of Horatio Parker’s own rise to domestic fame by staging, at his own expense, the New York premiere of his largest work of the time: the cantata, The Celestial Country. Presumably he had hoped for a similar degree of the success enjoyed by his teacher, with the prospect of attaining a livelihood worthy of respect, and bringing honor to his family name into the bargain. Based in essence, too, on the very work 52 Ives’s World that had catapulted Parker into prominence and respectability as an American composer in 1893, Hora Novissima, Ives’s production apparently was a last-ditch effort to pull a musical career out of the proverbial hat. The “hat,” however, entailed composing in a style that was not authentic to him. The premiere was well received, however, and the review in the New York Times couched in positive terms overall. Nevertheless, the less than ecstatic reception—seeming in some ways like kind words for a budding student—mixed with praise for its most saccharin moments, rather than Ives’s favored more radical ones, were enough to cause Ives to inscribe the words, “damn rot and worse,” across the newspaper article; possibly reflecting the music, more likely it was the review. (Ives’s crankiness, thus, is evident from an early age, it seems! Feder’s theory that it developed in later years, thus, can be dismissed (see Chapter 11.) Coincident with his disappointment, Ives resigned his prestigious position as organist at Central Presbyterian Church in New York and “gave up music,”16 fully aware that the sorry lot of the majority of homegrown musicians—that of his father before him—surely would have been his, too. With music now an avocation, the choice cemented his isolation. Judging by the title of this admittedly musically conformist work, The Celestial Country, can it be argued, that the seeds of cosmic thought had been sown early, even, perhaps, inadvertently by Parker? Ives believed his text was by the same author as his teacher’s celebrated cantata (Hora Novissima): the twelfth-century The Celestial Country: From the Rhythm of St. Bernard de Morlas of Cluny—actually, an ecstatic three thousand-line poem. Unwittingly, he had selected the much more manageable ninety-six-line total of Forward! Be Our Watchword by Henry Alford (1810-1871), written for processional purposes in 1871. It painted a fantastic far away place, shimmering with light, where glorious spiritual oneness with the creator would be encompassed within one’s existence into eternity. The Celestial City in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s outlandishly adventurous The Celestial Rail-road immediately comes to mind, of course, although Hawthorne’s wild tale was hardly comforting. It should be no surprise that Hawthorne’s fictional work later did, in fact, form the mighty inspiration and program behind some of Ives’s more important music during his mature compositional period; Ives even transplanted the title itself to one piece, a late work (not published until 1925) for piano. The developing composer In the arts there are many parallels; seldom do they proceed totally out of step with each other. Ives’s music, however, fitted this profile only to a degree. Although he pioneered virtually all of the innovative technical “cues” ahead of other composers of the time, his use of them, collectively, is far from synchronized with any twentieth century artistic movement. Usually, his contemporaries limited themselves to a single innovation or school of writing at a time, not the free interplay of many such elements together as Ives habitually utilized. As a means to a creative end, not to the end itself, typically, he was completely at ease even with the simultaneous use of every technique he knew—sometimes within the very same piece! Despite developing many methodologies in his music that can be isolated and analyzed, those who hope to tie some overriding creative formula to it, or some other deliberately imposed prescription, likely will be frustrated. Ives would be slave only to his imagination, his music as natural to him as it was natural for his contemporaries to reject it. 53 Ives’s World Because Ives refined and incorporated his innovations into his music over many years, regularly borrowing and reworking materials from his existing works—and produced countless compositions simultaneously, too—all manner of inconsistencies in style can be expected. His manuscripts and sketches often are peppered with related, even unrelated, comments, cross-referenced with events, names and addresses, as well as occasional conflicting dates. Ives sometimes compounded the confusion in those works he did not leave in full score by sketching parts of more than one on the same sheet of manuscript paper. However, much clearer, stylized, even relatively neat handwriting characterizes Ives’s manuscripts whenever a composition was in, or was approaching, its final form. Striking organization, thus, is revealed, despite the outward appearance of chaos in his working methods. Multiple periods of Ives’s development sometimes coexist variously, too. The third movement of his late Fourth Symphony immediately comes to mind: the serene and utterly orthodox slow third movement emerges out of the blinding blaze of complexity and modernity of the second movement. Relocated and reworked from a much earlier source (the First String Quartet of 1897–98 during Ives’s Yale days), not only does its inclusion function within the later context, but also surprisingly, serves a larger purpose: that of recovery from the wild ride of musical adventure (of the second movement), and preparation for the spiritual journey of the glorious revelations of the Finale of the symphony. So integral was the reworked movement to the symphony it appears that Ives comfortably “lost track” of its earlier origins.17 Some of the Finale, too, of the Second Symphony was developed from an even earlier composition. During later phases of Ives’s songs, a return to materials from an earlier work often can be found, too, even while he was engaged in writing radically avant-garde large-scale works. Flexibility of means to suit the purpose, thus, was a hallmark in all that Ives did, his ideas continuing to grow long after they had hatched and left the nest, often well beyond the original works’ completion. Two related examples for chorus and orchestra, serve to demonstrate the sharing of materials. They date from a period that reveals Ives’s passions about what was going on in the world, leading up to and immediately following World War I, a time that saw him give full rein to his ideals and passions, both musically and in social activism, even as the world became increasingly broken, his aspirations dashed: • Lincoln, the Great Commoner, a 1919–20 reworking of the song from c.1914, pays tribute to Lincoln’s leadership, as well as the qualities of the country so identified with his era. The almost angular vocal line seems to represent a projection of Lincoln’s strength and resolve, in some ways not unlike Ives’s projection of Ralph Waldo Emerson in the Concord Sonata. The musical language used by Ives is already mature, and shares many attributes with his other works of the period. • An Election, written in 1920, set Ives’s total disenchantment with the political establishment to music, following his initial disillusionment with Woodrow Wilson, and his subsequent 1920 defeat to Warren G. Harding. The ending was borrowed directly from Lincoln, the Great Commoner, the extended development of the material making complete sense in this context, and illustrating, too, how it had continued to grow in Ives’s mind during the intervening years. Even more notably, out of other examples, Ives transferred and reused materials from another composition of 1903-05 into at least five others, reaching as far as 1942, in the following timeline: 54 Ives’s World • The original form of the material appears in Country Band March of 1903–05. Although its simplest form, the content will remain unmistakable through every future incarnation. • The primary melodic component that defines the march appears suddenly again in Hawthorne, the second movement of the Concord Sonata, its initial form probably fully set well before the middle of the century’s second decade. • A fragment can be heard again in the 1917 war song, He Is There!. • In a comparable setting, in the c.1921–23 recomposed Scherzo (second movement) of the Fourth Symphony Ives again used the essential setting of the same material from Hawthorne in the Concord Sonata. • In the parallel composition for solo piano to the symphonic Scherzo, the 1925 The Celestial Railroad, it appears similarly. • In 1942, Ives reworked his 1917 song, He is There!, for chorus and orchestra, renaming it, They are There!; the same material from Country Band March still is preserved. The revisions Ives is well known for his revisions, often made many years later. Not mentioned by his detractors, the practice has been shared perhaps by many, if not most composers. In Ives’s case, with few exceptions (the largely rewritten Scherzo of the Fourth Symphony, and to an infinitely lesser degree, Emerson of the Concord Sonata), the revisions usually were slight, contrary to impressions of extensive redrafting in much modern commentary. Indeed, it is hard to find instances in which a work was altered to such a degree that its fundamental identity was rendered anew. Elliott Carter, Ives’s former protégé and compatriot, in 1939, infamously wrote “[Ives] has rewritten his works so many times, adding dissonances and polyrhythms, that it is impossible to tell just at what date the works assumed the surprising form we know now.”18 Carter was as unfair to Ives as he was incorrect in the assessment of what he had observed. When Ives wanted to engage in the wholesale reworking of entire prior efforts, or parts of them, he turned them into new works, as duly observed and noted by Wayne B. Shirley,19 the origins of Ives’s innovations, thus, readily traceable. The “lily pads” Critics have attacked Ives for reveling in dissonance, even harshness. They have said that he would use these techniques largely and deliberately just to upset what Ives termed the “lily pads.” This analysis is just as misguided as many others. There is no doubt that, by writing bold, stark sonorities, Ives’s bias reflected his distaste of unchallenging, “nice” music, and uncritical listeners. Certainly he took an impish delight when it shook up stuffy and timid listeners, although it was not the reason why he wrote radical or 55 Ives’s World dissonant music. Rather, it was to expand the musical range and language, to keep it alive and relevant, instead of merely “letting the ears sit back in an easy chair” (another “Ivesism”).20 To do so required something other than the perpetration of the familiar, comfortable or consonant. George Ives already had raised his awareness that consonance is an acquired relative perception, anyway.21 In many ways, one can draw a parallel to Beethoven, who dared early nineteenth century listeners to embrace bold, startling new music, without sacrificing expressive power. Does one ever have the sense that Beethoven’s music is insipid, mawkish or saccharin? Does one sense that it is not expressive? Ives’s music resembles it in many ways. Thus, Ives believed music could not grow—even, survive—if it fell back on the comfortable well-trodden paths of complacency. Instead, he looked instead to a brave new world of possibilities, to become the first truly avant-garde composer. Keeping the vital force of music alive required the listener to break down familiar musical boundaries and preconceived biases. Multiple orbits Ives’s music frequently startles by its sheer complexity. Remarkable for more than just the blending of multiple idioms, the complex interactions of independently oriented components, tonalities and rhythms compete like people moving in a crowded room, as some collisions become inevitable. In Ives’s music, the collisions are part of the sonic design. Because precise alignments from part to part were not necessarily intended (though not intended to be haphazard), thus, another predictive trait was heralded in the aleatoric music that would follow in the years to come. For players in Ives’s day, their struggles to make sense of what he had written must have been as confusing as their immediate sonic surroundings. The challenges were at one time considered so great that some works, such as the mighty Fourth Symphony, had to wait almost fifty years for a complete performance. Even Ives’s most conservative music often, too, is laced with unlikely rhythms and tonal cadences that fight the instincts and make it difficult to play. Throughout Memos, Ives’s own words show that he was not particularly sympathetic to the professional musical community of his day in private readings at his home when they struggled to make sense of his writing—while insulting his work at the same time. Railing against them (usually a European “professor,” or some such) for their perceived ineptitude, Ives could not understand what others found so perplexing that was so natural to him. Rhythmically, though his individual musical lines might look awkward on the page, they sound deceptively simple; actually, they simulate a level of freedom reminiscent of the instinctive flexibilities in recordings of Ives’s own playing. In this light, much of his piano music was written without bar lines, meaning specific speeds, or sense of meter, were not always amongst his intent. The ultimate evolution, perhaps, of the old European tradition of rubato, such writing demonstrates how Ives retained its roots, while redefining them in new terms. Even today, the difficulties associated with Ives’s writing are widely known, making airings of most of his output not entirely commonplace, although their growing familiarity is serving to make the formerly formidable closer to routine. The celebrated conductor/composer, José Serebrier commented to the writer that by some unexplained process of musical “osmosis,” the formidable task of preparing the premiere of Ives’s Fourth Symphony was followed by more easily realized successive performances by other musicians at different locales. Somehow, the problems lessened diametrically, the fundamental challenge always being the first reading. 56 Ives’s World There do remain issues, however, with the pure practicalities and costs relative to Ives’s musical ensembles. The Universe Symphony, for example (the culminating focus of this book), requires an unusual orchestra of highly specific instrumentation, rendering the services of many musicians (read, “paid”) unlikely to be needed for the remainder of the concert program. Sometimes, more than one conductor is required, too, because Ives often wrote in multiple speeds, and separated ensembles. Additionally, there is the problem of attracting audiences when so many music lovers are left bewildered by his music, such that even now it still is greeted by mixed acceptance and risky concert attendance. Thus, as Frank T. Manheim had pointed out, (see again, Introduction, p. 32), it seems the public’s level of openness and sophistication has scarcely budged since Ives’s time. ENDNOTES 1 George Ives, “Music Theory Lesson Notes,” Ives Collection, np7398-415, Irving S. Gilmore Music Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT. 2 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. by John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 45–46. 3 Ibid., 132. 4 Ibid., 46. 5 Ibid., 45 6 Op cit., n.4. 7 Stuart Feder, “Charles Ives: My Father’s Song, a Psychoanalytic Biography,” (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1992), 49. 8 Stuart Feder, “Charles Ives and Henry David Thoreau: a transcendental tune in Concord” in Ives Studies, ed. Philip Lambert, (New York, Cambridge University Press, UK, 1997), 167. 9 Stuart Feder,” “My Father’s Song,” 26. 10 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974), 16. Also Feder, “My Father’s Song,” 49. 11 Op. cit., n.1. 12 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL University of Illinois Press, 2008), 48. The diametrically opposite position espoused by Magee would have one believing that Charles Ives entered Yale with virtually no musical training whatsoever. 13 Ibid., 8. 14 Charles Ives, Ives Plays Ives, CRI 810 (CD) [1999]. 15 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, 173. 16 Ives, Memos, 57. 17 Ives, Memos, 66. 18 Carter, Elliott, “The Case of Mr. Ives,” Modern Music (March-April, 1939): 172–76. 57 19 Wayne D. Shirley, “The Second of July,” in A Celebration of American Music: Words and Music in Honor of H. Wiley Hitchcock, ed. Richard Crawford, R. Allen Lott, Carol J. Oja (Ann Arbor, MI, University of Michigan Press, 1990), 393. 20 Charles Ives, “Postface,” 114 Songs (Bryn Mawr, PA, Merion Music), 261. 21 Op. cit, n.3. 58 CHAPTER 3 Originality and Influences P erhaps the pre-eminent twentieth century musical pioneer, Ives often is credited either as the creator of wholly unique music, or criticized for retaining connections to European models and influences. One cannot have it both ways, although efforts to lower Ives’s standing go further. It is said, too, that because his music often reflects his connection to the nineteenth century, Ives was lost in the past and not quite the modernist everyone previously had thought. However, had Ives not actually been raised in the nineteenth century, and been years ahead of his time, the point would be moot. Leon Botstein, in his exhaustive article,1 wrote that failure to embrace all aspects of twentieth century modernism—artistic, technical, cultural, even societal—contradicts “exceptionalism” within it. It does not take a very wide leap of rational thought, however, to recognize that Ives was truly exceptional in the context in which he lived and worked, and that what he did cannot be limited by such restrictive terminology, any more than some aspects of cultural and societal “exceptionalism” that emerged in the second and third decades of the twentieth century can be considered amongst the finer advancements of civilization. Is it necessary to disassociate oneself from one’s own culture and place in time to demonstrate “exceptionalism”? How does one interpret the literal meaning of the word? The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines the term as “the condition of being different from the norm.” Limited to these terms, nothing describes Ives better. In artistic considerations, what makes up originality in anything? Because the Transcendentalists believed in the endless renewal of ever-existing materials—that everything was new only into itself—they showed that nothing exists in a total vacuum. All composers have been influenced by their predecessors, the culture and events of their own personal circumstances, as well as their place in history; the fact that many of Ives’s compositions largely reflect his time and place in history, too, should not be a surprise to anyone. Those who think that Ives should have functioned independently of the latter—or one who should be diminished because he did not—have not thought the premise through. Originality in music is defined by what a composer takes to make his own. Similarly, modernism in Ives’s hands was achieved within a seemingly contradictory synthesis. Expressing experiences of his own life, Ives set them in an entirely modern, even futuristic, language that, nevertheless, reflects the times in which he lived. The materials of music In a curious sense, the endless renewals of the same raw materials in Western music reflect, by default, Transcendental logic. All exist already! Pitches—twelve “half-step” note divisions in each octave span— can be joined horizontally (melody) and vertically (harmony), often over multiple octaves. The octave itself is easily recognizable, because the mind recognizes the doubling of frequencies that results in each successive octave. A common clear road map emerges across the greater sonic spectrum, in which the designated pitch (remember, there are only twelve) is recognizable as the same note with each doubling of frequency, except that it sounds—higher! Obviously, only a finite number of possible combinations of pitches exists, their potential linear successions, or simultaneous combinations. 59 Originality and Influences Moreover, by reducing the entire aural spectrum to the twelve possible recognizable pitches, regardless of their octave displacement, all musical lines and pitch combinations can be contained, thus, within the maximum numeric total of twelve, a fact that gave rise to the organization of some twentieth century music according to the designated “pitch classes”—0–11—of “post-tonal theory.” 2 The significance of this detail is that both Charles Ives and his father were exploring integer notation well ahead of those who have become closely identified with it, most notably Schönberg, Webern and Berg. George Ives had assigned them, perhaps a more logical numeric series: 1–12, while Charles soon began writing musical lines that featured all twelve in aggregate, and even—in true anticipation of twentiethcentury “twelve-tone music”—had arranged them in collective “rows,” in which no tone reappears until all twelve had been stated. Rhythm also involves frequency: the instinctive sense of pulse within the progress of time that all people possess. Take a simple click and repeat it ever faster, however, and the click, too, takes on pitch; thus, rhythm and pitch are more than casually related. Offering almost endless combinations of durations, groupings, even more especially subdivisions of the “beat,” the impositions of these durations of time upon identifiable pitches produce the phenomena recognizable as melody, or linear successions of tones that have “melodic” qualities. Because the human mind always seeks to impose order—even more, patterns within rhythmic organization—rhythm, thus, gives music life, motion, often, too, inducing the response of coordinated physical motion. Multiple melodic lines create the inference of harmony; when their durations are matched, the combinations emerge as chords. It is not surprising, thus, that the concept of harmony only developed after multiple lines had been combined in counterpoint (otherwise known as polyphony), in which more than one melodic line is combined in a form of compatible synchronicity. Composers before the late Baroque period had not come to regard harmony, however, as a separate entity, viewing chordal structures as just another type of counterpoint. For this reason each part was made worthy as a melodic line in itself, a principal that has underscored all good harmonic writing and its homogenous sound ever since. One can compare the result with the simple block chords of the average “garage band,” in which the very linear weaknesses and effects of the crude parallel movements are overcome only by the richness of overtones in the electronically enhanced sound. Separate “tone colors” (the realizations of the overtone series) of different instruments add further to the potential. The development of Western musical instruments speaks to the search for coloration and compatibility, the symphony orchestra being its grandest incarnation. Thus, as the orchestra evolved, so did the need for specific types of writing (orchestration) for the individual instruments; it should be no surprise that the music of Bach’s perfect counterpoint works so well when played by so many different types of instrument. His music, being so linear and less matched to specific instrumental colors, sounds almost equally effective on virtually any melodic instrument. The composer seeks to impose his own combinations and order upon both these types of frequency and coloration to communicate his thoughts, and amazingly, to convey the human experience. Why certain arrangements of sounds have the effect they do, especially upon one’s emotions and feelings, is one of the great mysteries and miracles of music. Such is the art of composition, whereby the powers of the composer’s mind reorder and assemble selected existing raw materials to make new and (one can hope!) original interplay. By some inexplicable quirk of consciousness, the result can express many things to each person. But most significantly for this discussion, originality is to a large degree subjective, because all music is built out of the same components. In this sense, Ives was no different; what set him apart was the extraordinary uniqueness with which he combined them. 60 Originality and Influences On Ives’s use of musical quotations Over the years, numerous musicians and critics have taken issue with Ives’s frequent use of traditional American, popular and hymn tunes. Composer Elliott Carter again missed no opportunity to fault his old mentor, roundly criticizing the practice, as if Ives could not create his own.3 Revealing only his own shortcomings by failing to understand or recognize how, and especially why Ives infused these melodic elements into so much of his music, he appeared not to recognize that they were not structural in most of Ives’s compositions. Carter’s shortsightedness has been repeated by countless other figures over the course of time, with the result that “tune spotting” has become a substitute for insight into the music itself. Other commentators have remarked that over time, these melodies will no longer be recognizable, and thus, Ives’s music will lose the unique connection with its heritage for the listener. Reflection on the deep roots of many American melodies that are intrinsically tied up with the Civil War era (a period etched in the social conscience) would seem to negate this position, although there is some truth to the observation that the younger generation is not necessarily familiar with the history of their country, their frequent disinterest in it even more discouraging. However, for these strongly-hued American melodies to fall out of the culture altogether seems hardly likely; nor would it negate the real core of Ives’s music. The vernacular “Americana” in Ives’s musical roots showed themselves even in his early efforts at composition. Quotes exist, too, in a surprisingly wide range of music even from his Yale years. Because many were written as extra-curricular works for church services, they would not have been subject to Parker’s curriculum and possible rejection. Parker’s contempt for the “sweet sentimentality” of popular and hymn melodies lay behind many of Ives’s later misgivings of his teacher, because those very simple melodies that Parker despised were close to Ives’s being, and destined, too, to become unlikely components in Ives’s large-scale compositions. The First String Quartet, however, amongst Ives’s first substantial works to emerge along these lines, dates from his Yale years (1896) and was written under Parker’s guidance. With hymn melodies at its core (including Missionary Hymn, Coronation, Beulah Land, and The Shining Shore), somehow, this work and more than a few others like it from Ives’s student years managed to survive, showing that Parker must have had a tolerant, even kind heart. Because it has been speculated that Parker, out of step with Ives at almost every level, also encouraged his student’s growing interest in Transcendentalism, does it explain, perhaps, his willingness to allow him certain freedoms in his choices of already existing materials? Ives’s incorporations of materials mostly with domestic origins played well into the philosophy because it encouraged Americans to look first to their own surroundings for authenticity and spiritual identity—just as the Europeans, effectively, had done. It is important to emphasize that although Ives’s music became profoundly immersed in American lore, it does not mean that nationalism, per se, was behind it. Ives discussed such trends in music in Essays Before a Sonata,4 whereby some composers had tried to recast the dominant compositional models in the image of the identity of their own country. By self-consciously imposing traditional melodic elements of their own countries onto the predominant German mold, the music was not a genuine expression, its specific colorations simply tacked on for the identifiable idiom. Indeed, any skilled composer could do the same to simulate any number of supposed nationalities, the music, thus, being neither authentic nor personal. Ives, on the other hand, drew directly from his own environment and experience to build his music from the ground up. His music, in which the quoted elements seldom exist structurally, caused it to evolve rapidly to share little in common with the esthetics of his European counterparts. 61 Originality and Influences Colonial America lacked a significant resource of its own traditional folk tunes, which is why many familiar melodies in “Americana” had European origins. It was the subtle colloquial distinctions that had been slowly grafted onto these tunes that re-identified them with the New World. The Civil War, however, gave rise to many other purely domestic tunesmiths; countless melodies by iconic figures, such as George F. Root (1820–95), were handed down to Charles Ives directly through his father, and would color the spirit and values of Ives’s place and moment in time. There is a substantial body of hymns, too, whose origins emanated entirely from within the New World; most notable, perhaps, are the nothing less than formidable number of contributions by Lowell Mason (1792–1872). If Ives’s music took on actual nationalistic overtones as World War I approached, it was in reaction to forces across the Atlantic that threatened to crush and destroy all that the New World represented, rather than out of an effort to exert patriotism for its own sake. Ives’s own remarks—clearly resentful of prominent German musicians of his time—reflect this sentiment; Germany, after all, was the nation at the center of the fight. On more specific terms, the very countrymen whose music had dominated the musical arts for so long now were trying to dominate Ives’s very homeland, not to mention those of many other nationalities. The tunes he quoted were old calls to arms and fighting for freedom, recycled from his life and father’s background. Anything but nationalistically motivated, Ives put the freedom of all man at the top of his priorities. His quintessential “Americanism” was exemplified the principles of the founding fathers in the US Constitution. Ives wished people everywhere the same rights and liberties. {{PD-Art}} With Ives’s authenticity so often misunderstood, in a further reflection of true Transcendentalism, however, Ives had no compunction in using small quotations from European masters as well, maintaining, too, its models within his musical language whenever he chose. After all, their music and the larger umbrella of Western culture were part of his experience, too. The phenomenon of quoting them makes complete sense within the context of Ives’s philosophy.5 62 Originality and Influences To Ives, thus, most of what he borrowed hardly was different to any other resource, even specific harmonies, rhythms, or instruments; they were just resources of color—natural and authentic expressions—not contrived inclusions for their own sake. Would anyone accuse one painter of “quoting” identical colors, or even identical subjects, that previously had been depicted by another painter no less realistically? Can a detail depicted in a scene be painted within an original work? In Ives’s music, the quotes are indeed comparable; with few exceptions, they are not part of the structural fabric itself, or in any way to be confused with “settings,” or “arrangements.” Ives was not the first composer to quote melodies, however, even in America. Indeed, earlier domestic composers had done so. However, the comparison stops there. In virtually every instance, what they produced indeed was not unlike what would be considered “arrangements” in popular music today. Here, the fundamental complete identities of the melodies are retained, but, essentially, they are given nothing more than a facelift: a new “setting.” Maintaining their former full role, the new settings provide novelty, and a fresh attitude, though not more. Ives’s use of quotations usually consists of fleeting broken fragments, and typically, just the opening few notes of any tune. Often incorporated into unlikely contexts and being scarcely recognizable, harmonically and/or rhythmically, they exist in a state of metamorphosis within broader original material. Occasionally they trigger massive musical invention, such as in a Bach chorale prelude, or Ives’s own Third Symphony. In other instances, a few notes are shared between various melodies; in the Fourth Symphony, just three adjacent tones form a large unifying component throughout the entire work. In such situations, one hardly would consider such a fragment to be a “quote” in the normal sense of the term. J. Peter Burkholder revealed the extent of quotations in Ives’s music, with a detailed examinations of the obvious connections between them, as well as their frequent ties to European musical culture.6 Burkholder estimated that such quotations applied to approximately a third of Ives’s entire output, a figure that might seem too conservative to anyone familiar even with a small part of his music. However, looking beyond the many large-scale compositions to smaller forms, such as the extensive song catalog and chamber works, the assessment begins to resonate; in other words, quotes are not a mainstay in Ives’s work. Within standard musical practice of the day, the majority of vernacular sources would have been considered entirely unsuited to serious artistic composition, due to the (diatonically) limited melodic and harmonic inference of their outlines; however, they lend themselves readily to the shuffling of their notes and rhythms, and interchanging with other tunes. Ives’s use of quotations sometimes combined multiple melodic fragments together, horizontally and vertically independent or aligned, depending on the circumstances. Alternatively, Ives used just their shapes, if not their exact notes, or, vice versa. His almost unrecognizable quote of the first few notes of Stephen Foster’s De Camptown Races that forms a lighter middle segment in the Scherzo of the Fourth Symphony is typical. Sometimes, Ives featured just some prominent tones of the complete melody, rather than a precise quote. Examples can be found in the makeup of pitches in the “Quasi-Pentatonic Melody” of the Concord Sonata, or in Section C of the Universe Symphony (see discussion in Appendix 2 regarding “patch 47”); both feature an evolution of Bethany (“Nearer, My God to Thee”), built upon the general outline formed by the extremes of its pitches, implying, too, the sweep of its main phrases. Bernard Herrmann, in his earlier years, one of the new avant-garde in America and among Ives’s first supporters, later would become renowned as a film composer (e.g., for Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho). He remarked that the music of Franz Josef Haydn (the de facto “father” of the modern symphony, string quartet and sonata form) frequently employed similarly vernacular material of his day, and no one had 63 Originality and Influences ever found fault with it!7 Béla Bartók,8 another twentieth century figure, wrote music built extensively on Hungarian and Romanian folk material, and included not only direct quotes of melodic sources, but also the incorporations of their unique intervallic makeup. Perhaps it is as close a direct comparison as one will find, except for the fact that Ives seldom based his musical structures on the wholesale use of specific melodies or their foundations. Can one recall Bartók’s music ever being criticized for quoting or basing its structures around such melodic inclusions? Rather, Bartók’s music is considered brilliant and inventive. There are many instances in which other major composers have employed such material, from Ralph Vaughan Williams to Percy Grainger, who often incorporated folk melodies (or their primary components) into their compositions. In general, however, Ives’s usage of vernacular material is far more diffusely connected to the whole, and more philosophically than technically, at that. Leonard Bernstein, a passionate advocate for Ives, famously made the error of confusing what Ives did with American primitivism, likening him even to the painter, Grandma Moses. Though both Ives and Grandma Moses were influenced by their local rural environments, the comparisons stop there—Ives’s sheer groundbreaking sophistication renders his artistic realm in no way folk art, and no more “primitive” than the philosophers who inspired it. Finally, it is worth commenting on Ives’s spiritual association with what has been termed the Fate Motif (Ives’s name for the four-notes that open Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony). Ives likened this oft-quoted fragment—showing up with uncanny regularity in almost every conceivable guise within a large cross section of his music, from very early in the timeline—to fate knocking at the door of opportunity.9 As one of a number of spiritual clues, it increasingly dominated the later stages of Ives’s output, to the increasing exclusion of purely secular quotes. By the time the Universe Symphony appeared, even the religious quotes were almost completely absent, save one (significantly, Bethany), although now it had become scarcely possible to isolate, or even easy to recognize. Links to other music It is common to find infused within Ives’s music—even his mature works—certain links to traditional Western musical language. Consequently, one does not normally associate Ives’s music with that of most other composers of the time, who were intent upon disassociating themselves with all that had preceded them. Ives’s earlier works touch openly upon the music of Brahms and Bach, for example; he seemed to have been paying homage to them. If Ives’s piano writing can be linked idiomatically to that of the masters before him, it is because the development of piano technique also is closely associated with many of these figures’ pianistic virtuosity.10 Such writing would be expected from any player/composer who has trained his mind and fingers around optimal ways of utilizing the instrument, the standard solo instrument since Classical times. Even in Ives’s later works, such as the futuristic Finale of the Fourth Symphony, direct residues of the harmonic language of his predecessors still can be found. The reuse of existing ideas certainly fits the Transcendental ideal. Similarly, fleeting suggestions of familiar idioms appear at moments in much of Ives’s music. Before one reads too much into the phenomenon, too, one should take into account the inevitability that coincidences will occur within the blended languages of clearly linked Western cultures, of which American culture always had been a part. 64 Originality and Influences The “isms” of music Considering the rejection he encountered regularly, Ives, though nevertheless comfortable in own his musical language, cannot be blamed for moments of doubt, wondering on more than one occasion whether his ears were “on all wrong.” However, the limits to peoples’ musical comfort levels typically reflect a resistance to anything beyond the familiar established styles they have become accustomed to hearing.11 What is considered good often is termed “nice,” or “pretty,” though communicate nothing other than a listener’s comfort level, or limited tolerance. Extended even into the social lexicon with such platitudes as, “Have a nice day,” is there any more casually dropped expression that wishes for others nothing more specific than to have the kind of day that they like? By pushing the musical envelope outside easy comfort zones into new sonic territory, Ives knew his efforts likely would be rejected, arbitrarily, as “bad.” One can only marvel at the strength of his resolve to continue in the face of condemnation and ridicule. One of the reasons that Ives’s music seems out of step with other composers’ work is because his compositions often encompass multiple innovative techniques together, with no single overriding philosophy governing his means of expression. Being, thus, slave to no particular idiom or technique, Ives did not set out to prove the merits of any particular musical system. Up until the time of Richard Wagner, European composers—long dominated by the great German-Austrian composers, from Bach to Mozart, then Beethoven to Brahms—had developed and refined a largely unified methodology. In the post-Wagner years, composers of the various nation states began to exert their independence, most obviously at first by the inclusions of nationalistic melodic elements (such as the infusion of Hungarian elements by Franz Liszt), then more significantly, by pioneering new “schools” of thought and methodologies. The fact that Ives’s music pre-empted so many methodologies has been one of the more perplexing “anomalies” for some musicologists to accept. The French composer, Claude Debussy, was among the first in Europe to forge an entirely new nationalistic sound and approach to composition. Building on Erik Satie’s early excursions in modal harmony, repetitive minimalism and free form techniques (that Satie often notated without meter), Debussy pioneered Impressionism; as such, essentially paralleling impressionistic painting, it defined the avant-garde of the French school that sought to convey fleeting imagery and sensations. Representing another philosophical school was Expressionism, in which the Norwegian, Edvard Munch’s work is inextricably associated. His painting, The Scream of 1893, will forever be associated with the darkest of primal emotions; such raw nerve endings never had been touched during the great Romantic age, nor, it seems, at any prior time in history. Schönberg’s Five Pieces for Orchestra of 1909 can be considered one of the most direct representations of expressionism in music. Evolving his own musical approach, later, Schönberg led the march towards a system of pure atonality—the ultimate “anti-Wagnerian” reaction to the perceived excesses of the music of the Romantic age; ultimately, his twelve-tone system (Dodecaphony) emerged as a complete methodology unto itself that ensured that the very notation on the page effectively escaped the gravity of key centers. Igor Stravinsky, at first, followed in the nationalist steps of the Russian “Five,” a group of late/post Romantic composers who infused Russian idioms into their music. More effective in this respect than most nationalistically oriented music, it was still subservient, nevertheless, to the art forms of the dominant German-Austrian culture and methodology. Ultimately, breaking entirely with traditional musical models, Stravinsky would unleash a short-lived burst of Russian Primitivism in the The Rite of Spring of 1913, in 65 Originality and Influences which rhythm and tonality were “turned on their heads” in a dissonant portrayal of barbarism previously not known in music; the notorious riot that resulted at its premiere still is legendary. One of the primary innovators of the twentieth century, Stravinsky’s music would establish or follow several schools of thought during his lifetime. Abandoning Primitivism for Neoclassicism—further intended as a clear reaction and rejection of Romanticism, seen as a spent force in the new century—it was another break also with the dominant European model, and attempted to return to music the artistic purity of the Classical period composers. Later, Stravinsky’s neoclassic style evolved into a less strictly austere style (typified by works such as the Symphony of Psalms, and the Oedipus Rex), which effectively restored some elements of the very Romantic music it had sought to replace! Later, Stravinsky explored Serialism, developed by such composers as Alban Berg and Anton Webern. As an outgrowth and evolution of Schönberg’s original twelve-tone system (Dodecaphony), the methodology imposed a similar sequential logic not only to pitch, but also rhythm, harmony, tone colors, dynamics, and so forth. Such schools of thought were not restricted to music. Pablo Picasso’s work, which often seemed to parallel Stravinsky’s, also encompassed various related modernistic periods and artistic identities, sharing the penchant of starkness and angularity found in much of the arts in the new century. Picasso’s softer early Blue period would be followed by the Pink Period; both still were related to Romanticism, much as were Stravinsky’s early nationalistic works (The Firebird, The King of the Stars), and often occupied postRomantic turf. The increasingly radical African Cubism followed, then Synthetic Cubism, Classicism, and Surrealism. At home in America, even architecture took on stylistic tones that reflected the arts of the new age. Frank Lloyd Wright’s iconic contributions include the stylistic cues of the school of Prairie Architecture; truly reflective of the age of stylistic purity, even mechanical prowess, the style only could have emanated from its time in history. In literature, T.S. Eliot’s Modernism, called into question the older established ideals—tarnished by war and a changing society—and replaced them with a new linguistic style more in keeping with the age. Beyond the Modernists, Post-Modernists emerged, which was intended as a rejection of Modernism! In its musical manifestations, as defined by composers, such as Terry Riley and Steve Reich, practically anything that represents the characteristics of Modernism can be expected. Thus, within the many artistic “schools” of the twentieth century, each of its protagonists sought to establish new idioms and techniques, often seeking to be the recognized for the specific methodologies and philosophies each had pioneered; unquestionably, conscious efforts were made to supplant one school with another. In contrast, and often well ahead of his contemporaries, independently, Ives pioneered or dabbled in virtually every major technique of the new century, guided by his belief that Bach, Beethoven and Brahms—whom he respected as the greatest amongst composers—nevertheless, had not found the perfect mode of expression (out of the need please their audiences, at the expense of pursuing the ideal).12 Hardly seeking recognition for any innovation in particular, Ives remained largely unknown and detached from the outside world, his music drawing few parallels in Europe. Twentieth century music would be far along in evolution before his music was noticed, although recognition took place abroad before Ives received acknowledgement at home. In bringing his music to Paris in the 1920s, Russian born Nicolas Slonimsky,13 himself an émigré in the United States, suddenly found Ives embraced as a musical prophet by the very people whose cultures Ives was trying to escape. 66 Originality and Influences Programmatic content In regard to his outlook about how music should relate to real world programmatic content, Ives believed “absolute” music to be of questionable value; no less so, he considered a work built entirely to a program would not need the music!14 Advocating, nevertheless, that music should express something, Ives usually wrote about his own experiences and thoughts, though he seldom “spelled out” the specific content for the listener. Well illustrated, perhaps, by his more programmatic works, such as Washington’s Birthday or The Fourth of July, it is clear what he was writing about, even as one is left largely to decide for oneself what is represented by most of the notes and progress of the music. Even when more diffusely expressed, such as in the Universe Symphony, as Ives roamed the distant, futuristic and wholly dreamlike realms of his wildest imagination, the music remained deeply rooted in specific content from his actual experience; in this instance, it was the scenery and skies of the Adirondacks in Upstate New York. Ives’s counterpoint and musical textures There has always been controversy surround precisely what Ives expected the listener to hear. Although he did not often have the advantage of hearing all of his finished music played (and being able to adjust the instrumentation or dynamics accordingly), he did know what he was doing. Quite aside from his considerable expertise—ably demonstrated in the orchestration and contrapuntal skills of his earlier, more conventional works—there is no question that he had benefitted, too, from many run-throughs of his earlycentury small-scale works with groups of theater orchestra musicians, and by others sometimes invited to his home. Ives’s textures often are highly complex. Parts were intended to weave in and out of the larger fabric, briefly isolated, just as in the oft-described scenario of George Ives’s bands clashing while their relative positions shifted. Similarly, in Ives’s music, the listener is not meant necessarily to resolve all the lines equally, nor any for long, because not all parts might were intended to take a consistent role, the purpose more often being to create a complex blur of moving coloration. In Ives’s most advanced music, the components usually can be moved around to a small degree and the result is the same, as long as the stricter, true contrapuntal relationships between the predominant lines are preserved. Complicating matters, and out of sheer symbolic idealism, Ives knowingly included parts he knew were assured of being lost in far larger sonic conflagrations, some being philosophical, rather than practical. Other lines were included as “shadow counterpoint,” or resemble it in their function. This type of “counterpoint” is unique to Ives—even the term itself—and usually was assigned to the slightest of instrumentation (see Chapter 5). “Thrown off” the fundamental, Ives did not intend these “shadow” parts to be heard directly, but rather to add ill-defined colors to the sound. Goddard Lieberson, who had understood so much about the composer that others somehow missed, slipped, however, when he commented somewhat negatively on Ives’s expertise regarding the practicality of his orchestration and musical complexity—a bizarre position, considering his knowledge of Ives’s background and writing skills. Misunderstanding that critical part of Ives’s musical esthetic, he failed to recognize its purpose and design.15 Was he unaware of Ives’s own references to the topic in Essays Before a Sonata?16 Here, in relation to criticisms that Brahms’s orchestration was “muddy,” Ives maintained that were it less so, Brahms would not have been able to express his thoughts accurately. A more accurate 67 Originality and Influences truism never was better stated. Thus, Brahms’s music requires proper handling and interpretation of the materials at hand. In Ives’s case, modern amplification might be an easy way to resolve most of the balance issues, although its effective use would depend upon the insight and dedication of the performers, something that cannot be taken for granted in all cases; sensitivity and care by the performers is more likely to provide optimal results. If Lieberson’s remarks seem slightly reminiscent of Elliott Carter’s (of his 1939 review, in relation to the Concord Sonata),17 and to an even lesser degree Copland’s (in regard to the lack of audience reaction and Ives’s isolation),18 they seem to typify yet another composer’s attempt to impose the constraints of his own limitations and biases upon Ives. Copland’s later appraisals of Ives’s work are, however, some of the most noble of all.19 The makeup of the music, and the “Four Musical Traditions” Ives’s music was built on several distinct types of idiomatic foundation that seem incompatible, especially when they appear simultaneously, which often is the case. J. Peter Burkholder memorialized them in detail in his article, “Ives and the Four Musical Traditions.”20 Although the overall identification of primary components can be dissected into even more sub-categories, the four divisions are logical and important to differentiate. Three of Burkholder’s “traditions” (in which Ives was thoroughly immersed) were fully evolved separate modes of Western musical language at the time. Had only the “fourth tradition,” however, existed in isolation, Ives’s music might have, just as well, descended from an alien civilization, because it is the only one that was not part of the larger Western culture of the time. However, Ives explored the “fourth tradition” independently, innovating techniques later discovered, too, by others and subsequently identified with the twentieth century. These innovations are of monumental significance in regard to the totality of Ives’s overall musical language. If one should consider, too, the technique of melding all four “traditions” together to be another part of the “fourth,” the influence of it on the other three normally separate entities was so great that in their totality, they, too, seem entirely new. 1. Folk, Popular, Civil War music Ives’s earliest exposure to music in Danbury would provide a lifelong resource. Ives’s immersion in the daily sounds of his cultural microcosm included the patriotic and other tunes from the Civil War that his father’s marching played, the music of his father’s dance bands, as well as other popular tunes and songs of the day that were part of daily life. All reflect a newly optimistic community emerging from the receding dark clouds of domestic conflict. Most of Ives’s major works were infused with complex arrays of fragments from these well-known melodies; rather than quoted or set in their entirety, often they are so altered it is easy to miss them entirely. These unlikely components serve many functions other than the predictable, appearing, too, in unexpected ways: altered rhythmically or melodically, beginning from a mid-point, offset by appearing in entirely different tonalities, speeds and rhythms relative to their surroundings, or sometimes blended with others. The listener is not, necessarily, expected to identify them consciously, only to sense the familiar and unique colorations they provide; typically, many reveal themselves with each airing. Seldom do they provide the foundation of the music itself. 68 Originality and Influences 2. Church music Organized religion was at the center of nineteenth century American culture, providing both a common societal bond. For most of the church going public, however, the highest musical exposure they might experience would have been dominated by hymn tunes, and only a limited representation of the larger expressive musical spectrum. Having been raised a Congregationalist, Ives was immersed in hymn tunes from an early age; he had experienced, too, that special brand of revivalist music at camp meetings in which his father led the music. The great “waves of sound” and “fervor” of the people emanating from these outdoor services remained with Ives through to the end of his life. Hymns written especially for camp meetings were distinctly different to those for formal church services—the words less constrained by tradition, and more reflective of the popularly emotive idioms of the Romantic age. The revivalist temperament also inspired freer interpretations than did conventional hymns, and thus, allowed a more direct expression of the people’s collective voice in a kind of wide-channeled, yet singular, emotive response. In totality, however, Horatio Parker (Ives’s teacher at Yale), however, openly scorned the limited harmonic and melodic language of the “sickly sentimental hymn tune,” regardless of its origins. Ives soon learned not to show him his earlier compositions, especially those written for services while he was at Yale (Ives was organist at Center Church on the Green, New Haven, throughout his college years); being laden with many such quotes and derivations, they were automatic targets for Parker’s scorn. Even exposure to Parker’s commanding mastery of the broader tradition of the European masters could not dislodge Ives’s affection for the direct emotive gravity of the simple harmonic and melodic hymn tunes of his upbringing, any more than it could dislodge the influence of his father. Ives’s teenage duties as a church organist in Danbury meant, though, that he must have been well versed in the larger forms of religious music, too. Most notably, however, his weekly repertoire would have featured the organ music of Bach; well-prepared in its methodology by his father, no church organist of the day could have held a post without possessing considerable familiarity and expertise in performing it. As Burkholder duly noted,21 the influence, too, however, of the music of notable church organistcomposers, such as Christian Heinrich Rinck and John Knowles Paine, even more especially that of the renowned Dudley Buck (whom it is believed the young Ives had the opportunity to study with soon after entering Yale), surely expanded the range of Ives’s compositional language, too. Buck, however, often was criticized by the elite in America for having incorporated popular elements into his music, such as the unmistakable close-voiced chromatic harmonies of “barbershop quartets,” but, in doing so, was responsible for elevating the musical appreciation of countless less musically educated individuals who otherwise would have been left behind. Because its sophistication was greater than anything most churchgoers might otherwise experience, its ready lyricism and straightforwardness made it accessible, and practical, too, for local choirs to sing. The youthful Ives resented the fact that Parker looked down on it, or indeed, on any of the emerging popular idioms. However, it was Buck, not Parker, who had provided a means of communication with a segment of the populace, and slowly introduced them to a higher level of music. Parker, instead, effectively shunned them, pushing them away forever, failing to recognize what Buck—a substantial musician in his own right—had managed to do in solving problems of musical communication. Even as Ives closely modeled his early major work, The Celestial Country, on the music of Parker, Buck’s influence still can be heard. 69 Originality and Influences 3. The European model Aside from taking pains to hand down to his son the same grounding he had received in the music of the European masters, the fact that George Ives also took Charles to concerts in New York reveals the youngster was not nearly the provincial figure some have supposed. Under Parker, Ives’s skills as a composer blossomed to the degree necessary to write a major work—his First Symphony—which confirmed his thorough schooling, as exemplified during his time by Johannes Brahms. Horatio Parkers’s teacher, in turn, had been George Whitefield Chadwick, whose own Third Symphony had been awarded a prize from the National Conservatory of Music during the tenure of the iconic Czech composer, Antonin Dvořák’s directorship. Parker, too, had been awarded a prize for his cantata, Dream King and His Love, with Dvořák the principal adjudicator. Thus, Dvořák’s noticeable influence is evident in the music of both American composers, to be handed down to their students—in this case, Ives. It should not be seen as surprising, therefore, that Ives’s early symphonic works (Symphonies 1 and 2) also shared an idiom that has been compared to Dvořák’s New World Symphony—unintentionally, it should be added, because Ives adamantly maintained he had not heard it. Although not an unpleasant man, Parker was a “stickler” for the “correct” way of doing things. Moreover, of the Second New England School of composers, he might have been the most gifted amongst them. The story of Parker humorously scolding Ives for “hogging all the keys” typified his adherence exclusively to the conventional European model, however. Such was his influence on Ives, that it seems to have confused the young composer, who, one must not forget, briefly tried to emulate the career path of his teacher with the composition and subsequent performance of The Celestial Country—a work closely modeled on Parker’s own Hora Novissima. Had Charles Ives continued to follow that path, he would now be as nearly forgotten as Horatio Parker. There can be no doubt that Parker was a fine teacher and highly skilled musician (his Suite for piano trio, op. 35, is especially noteworthy among his other compositions). Ives acknowledged as much, and up to this point in time, Parker was the most distinguished teacher with whom he had spent extended time. Moreover, their relationship was far from as strained as many have supposed, and the completion of Ives’s grounding in the European mold took place under Parker’s wing. It seems, too, that Parker’s considerable tolerance for the undercurrent of latent radicalism in his young maverick student was based on a genuine caring for him. 4. The experimental model To this writer, Burkholder’s terminology no longer seems appropriate; “experimental” implies dabbling— trial and error to find what works, and what does not. Ives, for the most part, was not engaged in experiments once he turned from his “party tricks” to actual compositions. As Philip Lambert demonstrated in 1997, by the time of writing his miniatures, Ives knew exactly what he was doing.22 “Innovative” surely would be a more appropriate word. Probably owing more to his father’s approach—in solving the late nineteenth century challenges in music theory—than to any other factor, Ives’s innovations were central to his monumental output in the years to come. The so-called “experimental model” featured highly advanced structural code that included elaborate cyclical organization, polytonality, elements of dodecaphony, polyrhythms, polytempi, polymeters, polychords, new chord structures, scales that variously divided the octave, parallel entities, spatial entities, microtones, tone clusters, aleatoric (chance) elements 70 Originality and Influences and even serialism. Once fully adopted and developed according to the required mode of expression, the use of these new attributes was unprecedented, utterly dominating the first three “traditions;” from then on, these other formats would occupy an entirely subservient role. The road to the stars Ives’s primary innovations essentially were complete by 1908, the period divisible into two overall segments: prior to 1902, expansions of the harmonic language; from 1902, the development of the rhythmic and melodic. Eventually recognizing the value of his early miniatures, Ives organized or reworked many of them into collections or groups of pieces, such as the First Set for Chamber Orchestra (see Chapter 6). After these years, the early small-scale innovative compositions gave way to their various incorporations within his greatest large-scale masterworks, often having preceded them by a decade or more. However, in most instances, it is the earlier innovative miniatures that determined Ives’s priority. In 1942, astonished at all Ives had done in those years at the turn of the century, Stravinsky would refer to him as “the Great Anticipator.” Ives, however, only saw his innovations as answers in his search for a more personally relevant form of musical expression, having already grown comfortable with them when barely a glint in other composers’ eyes (see Chapter 6). Over a few short years, all the building blocks were in place for Ives’s future work, his “road to the stars”; all he had to do was to follow it to a destination probably more distant than even he had imagined. ENDNOTES 1 Leon Botstein, “Innovation and Nostalgia: Ives, Mahler, and the Origins of Twentieth-Century Modernism,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 48. 2 Allen Forte, The Structure of Atonal Music (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1977). 3 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974), 145. 4 Charles E. Ives, Essays Before a Sonata (New York, Knickerbocker Press, 1920), 92–96. 5 See again, Barbara Packer, The Transcendentalists of Concord (Athens, GA, University of Georgia Press, 2007). 6 J. Peter Burkholder, All Made of Tunes, Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 2004). See, too, Introduction, 28. 7 Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, 158. 8 Halsey Stevens, “Béla Bartók, Hungarian Composer,” http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/54394/BelaBartok. 9 Ives, Essays, 45. 10 David Michael Hertz, “Ives’s Concord Sonata and the Texture of Music,” in Charles Ives and his World, 114. 11 Ives, Essays, 75–117. 12 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. by John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 100-01. 71 13 “Nicolas Slonimsky,” http://www.slonimsky.net/. 14 Ives, Essays, 4. 15 Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, 208. 16 Ives, Essays, 25. 17 Carter, Elliott, “The Case of Mr. Ives,” Modern Music (March-April, 1939): 172–76. 18 Aaron Copland, The New Music (New York, Norton & Co., 1969), 109-10. 19 Ibid., 117. 20 Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder, 3–23. 21 N. Lee Orr, Dudley Buck (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008). 22 Philip Lambert, The Music of Charles Ives (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1997). 72 CHAPTER 4 Early Symphonic Ventures T he symphonic model that had developed since the time of Franz Joseph Haydn (1732–1809) remained the most significant large musical format right up until the early twentieth century. As the great Romantic age peaked, the work of major composers of the era, most notably Richard Wagner, already had begun to anticipate, even ferment challenges to the old order, and thus, the seeds of change already were sown in the very age that felt still locked to the existing status quo. The dynamic energy of the new century would, however, cause traditional methods and models ultimately to give way to newer formats, even as some composers clung to the larger tenets of the fast waning Romantic age. While composers, such as Gustav Mahler and Jean Sibelius, known as “post-Romantics,” remained committed to the old model, they wrote some truly monumental music, the cast of it ringing, however, of an age more intimately connected to the modern world. Ives’s teacher at Yale, Horatio Parker, was more obviously a post-Romantic composer, and completed his musical education in the finest tradition abroad, as had many musicians in America. Likely, he would have considered Mahler and Sibelius radicals! However, the ageold German dominance in music was nearing its end; after Brahms, Richard Strauss was the last to extend its monolithic grip. Perhaps, the most direct descendent of Wagner’s musical language, Strauss already had embraced a new form of composition: the “tone poem.” The single movement symphonic format, having grown out of the overture, had evolved during the Romantic age in lieu of the old symphony format, largely due to the vision of the Hungarian composer-piano virtuoso, Franz Liszt. The European symphonic design Traditionally, symphonies since Classical times typically comprised four movements, which followed a carefully organized plan for maximum variety and dramatic focus. The overall design was so successful that it was utilized also for other major concert works, from string quartets, trios and larger chamber music forms, to sonatas, concertos, and more. Some of these formats, such as the last two, usually featured one less movement, while retaining those that corresponded to the weightiest three of the four-movement design. Regardless, common to all, the first movement was the most substantial and could be expected to take the grand European design pattern—Sonata Form—the most important musical structure to have evolved during Europe’s long musical history. The second movement, usually slow, though hardly less significant, often utilized sonata form, too; the third, provided a livelier, more light-hearted relief (in those formats where it applied), and frequently was an evolution of the old minuet and trio; the last movement, a spirited and often dramatic conclusion, which, in Romantic works, might also be weighty and substantial, often employed at least a variant, too, of sonata form. Allowing for many variations, sonata form evolved from three-part (ternary) form, in which the same essential material (“A1” and its essential repeat, “A2”) was used on each side of a contrasting “B” section. Thus, the A1-B-A2 formula provided balance, and also a sense of completion by the return to familiar territory for the conclusion. Sonata form allowed for extended writing and greater artistic freedom: 73 Early Symphonic Ventures • (A1)–Exposition: The first theme (First Subject) was to be capable of extended development. Melodically and harmonically, it was meant to be memorable. • A bridging section (Transition) was to lead to another theme. Sometimes, too, introducing new material, it was not intended to detract from the prominence of the first or second themes. • A second theme (Second Subject) followed in a contrasting key (often the dominant); it, too, might introduce sub-themes as it evolved in its progress towards the next major section, the Development. • (B)–Development: an extended working of all the materials from all that had been presented (collectively, the Exposition), the segment was developed in any way the composer chose. It was considered a test of creativity and compositional technique. • A brief concluding portion—the Codetta—signaled that the development was over. It led back to the opening key and materials. • (A2)–Recapitulation: the return and restatement of all the materials used in the exposition provided balance and finality, though typically it featured an abbreviated transition. Traditionally, the Second Subject now would be in the same key as the First Subject to further solidify the whole. • Concluding the Recapitulation was the Coda, the final section that brought the movement to a close. In the opening key, and sharing features with the Codetta, usually it was larger in scope, perhaps constituting a small development section in itself, and projected finality. Thus, the parallel to ternary form can be extrapolated: Exposition-Development-Recapitulation. Considerable creative flexibility was expected with this plan, as no two works that utilize sonata form tend to be quite the same. Sometimes modified hybrids constituted the later movements of symphonies and concertos, etc., such as the Sonata-Rondo (often utilized in the last movement), as well as other variations of the form left to the choice of the composer. Ives, in taking advantage of the standard symphony format in both of his post-Romantic First and Second Symphonies (the deviations from the norm that appear in them being within common practice) mastered it before developing his own structural designs. The First Symphony Typical of the great symphonic tradition before the turn of the century, the First Symphony is a fine conventional Romantic work, even though it reflects other persons’ gravities perhaps more than Ives’s own. The first movement was composed as part of his graduation requirements, and as such, incorporates the fabric of high European art. There are a few clues about Ives’s future directions, however, not the least of which is the restless shifting through multiple keys (“six or eight,” per Ives) at the outset; far from establishing the predominant tonality, it seems as if Ives was trying to escape it. Parker insisted he make another attempt. Less successful in Ives’s view, Parker kindly recanted and allowed his student to reuse the original material—as long as he agreed to start and end the movement in the same key!1 74 Early Symphonic Ventures Although the music belongs to his Yale years, Ives did not disguise the fact that he notated the final version a few years later. However, arbitrary attempts to place the substance of its composition much beyond Ives’s student years have not been substantiated. The symphony demonstrates an early mastery of seamless flow and musical development, the comfortable management of countless key changes reflecting George Ives’s influence, perhaps, even more than Parker’s. Ives’s penchant for borrowed materials appeared even here, the first movement containing references to the hymns Beulah Land and The Shining Shore, two melodies that feature prominently in many of Ives’s later works. Again, one can be sure that Parker hardly would have been likely to embrace the inclusion of these “sickly sentimental hymn tunes.”2 The quotations did not stop there. Ives’s growing rejection of European musical dominance did not prevent him from including possible references to some of the old masters. Much has been made of this seeming contradiction, though one should keep in mind that Ives always retained his reverence of them; what Ives had rejected was the easy complacency that allowed ready substitution of another society’s culture for one’s own. Charles Ives in 1898 {{PD-Art}} 75 Early Symphonic Ventures However, to conclude easily that the character and specific instrumentation of Dvořák’s New World Symphony influenced that of the second movement, as did J. Peter Burkholder in his book, All Made of Tunes,3 (even the Pathetique Symphony by Tchaikowsky in the fourth movement),4 one would do well to know that Carol. K. Baron demonstrated in her review of Burkholder’s book that George Chadwick (Parker’s teacher) had pre-empted Dvořák in that regard by ten years.5 Ives staunchly denied having heard the New World Symphony even late in life, although apparently he was, however, familiar at some point with the Pathetique, referencing it on a later song sketch. Regardless, these aspects—no more than minor constituents of the whole—perhaps, would better be seen as reflections of the styles handed down to the young Ives from his predecessors, rather than as consciously made inclusions. The Second Symphony Ironically, many years later, when Ives had reached far into the cosmos, long after he had poured a degree of scorn upon the easy perpetuation of European cultural traditions, he would continue to maintain the names, as well as the overall large-scale embodiments, of its major musical forms (e.g. symphony, sonata, string quartet, etc.). The surprise expressed by some that Ives would retain links to his European predecessors throughout his output is naïve, because American culture remained predominantly Western. Following the First Symphony in quick succession, the Second Symphony again would adhere largely to the format and methods of the European masters, even as it staked a claim to local roots. Although the Second Symphony still speaks almost entirely through trans-Atlantic time-honored methodology, its innocent New England foundations, both melodic and personal, imprint a distinctively American stamp through Ives’s emerging voice, more than it does the specter of its European umbrella. The Second Symphony incorporates a number of Ives’s early cheerful works set now in more enduring circumstances, all filled with much the same spirit, inventiveness, if not—as a factor of their original design—a high level of artistic sophistication. Although Ives’s symphony was completed well after the youthful compositions he chose to resurrect and incorporate within it, his early optimism remains energetically infused throughout. (Other early pieces [not part of the symphony] include the 1888 Holiday Quickstep, based on a march style well familiar to him through his father, and specifically its quote from David Wallis Reeves’s Second Regiment Connecticut National Guard March, the 1895 March No. 3, with “My Old Kentucky Home,” and even The Circus Band of 1898, which included quoted fragments of Jolly Dogs, Marching Through Georgia, Riding Down from Bangor and Reuben and Rachel.) Although well within traditional constraints, the symphony is connected to three periods: (i), the musical beginnings of Ives’s past, (ii), his present, which, in this instance still reflected Parker’s language, and simultaneously, (iii), the future, because, even though the music runs contrary to the time of radical innovation that coexisted with it—nevertheless, in this conventional work, Ives was forging an American declaration of musical independence. Strains of his striking voice can be heard, one that pervaded all that he wrote, regardless of the period or methodology; through it, one comes to know him and his world. In later years, Ives expressed offense at Dvořák’s advocacy (in 1895)—a European Titan patronizingly showing “provincial” American lightweights the way to their own culture—that American composers ought to incorporate nationalistic aspects of the “Negro” and “Indian” melodies into their music: 76 Early Symphonic Ventures “A while ago I suggested that inspiration for truly national music might be derived from the Negro melodies or Indian chants. I was led to take this view partly by the fact that the so-called plantation songs are indeed the most striking and appealing melodies that have yet been found on this side of the water, but largely by the observation that this seems to be recognized, though often unconsciously, by most Americans …”6 The substance of Dvořák’s own New World Symphony corresponded, thus, precisely to Ives’s objections: the deliberate attempts to imprint regional color through inauthentic and superficial infusions of national folk material upon its thoroughly German foundations (see again Chapter 3). Similar attitudes—at least in their implications of American cultural inferiority—among the European musical elite would be partially behind the scathing opinions Ives developed towards many of his counterparts across the Atlantic. Although the premiere of the New World Symphony coincided with Ives’s sophomore year at Yale, if one accepts his word that he had not heard it when he wrote his Second Symphony—(he would stick to his claim even many years later)7—perhaps he knew enough about it, however, to make the conscious decision to answer the Czech composer and write authentic music of his own experience. In a carefully documented analysis of the symphony, J. Peter Burkholder detailed Ives’s authentic incorporation of local melodies, of which Dvořák was unlikely to be aware.8 Title Page of Dvořák’s New World Symphony Its date of composition (1893) is listed alongside those of his earlier symphonies {{PD-Art}} 77 Early Symphonic Ventures After the premier of The Celestial Country, which Ives surely considered a debacle (it was not!), the Second Symphony seems to be the work that cemented Ives’s conscious choice to return to his roots—and ultimately, the abandonment of Parker’s world. However, had the choice already been made, the symphony perhaps having been conceived first? Certainly, some of its substance was. According to Ives, the Finale of the symphony was based on the lost overture, The American Woods, apparently written and played in Danbury in 1889, well before his Yale years.9 The fact that no record of that performance has survived means nothing, in and of itself, although the absence of records for an inauspicious, local musical event in a provincial town has not stopped some scholars from challenging Ives’s date. Other early materials reappeared in each movement of the symphony, too. In the first, remnants of works since lost: an Organ prelude and Down East Overture. In the second movement, the largest structure of the symphony, Ives incorporated the lost overtures: I and II, In These United States (1896), student works undertaken while at Yale. From Ives’s words in Memos,10 the slow, third movement also had origins in another genre altogether (an organ prelude for a religious service that became a piece for string quartet), before it was developed as a movement for his First Symphony. Apparently, Horatio Parker didn’t think it suitable for such a work, and it seems that the essence of the piece was saved and later transferred into the third movement of the Second Symphony. The fourth movement featured not only the materials from the first, but also reworked others from another lost early overture: Town, Gown and State, also written around 1896 or so. The inclusion or reworking of existing works reveals another of Ives’s compositional hallmarks—that of the endless growth and incorporation of long-standing musical ideas, to the degree that practically everything he ever wrote seldom was “put away.” The stylistic language of the Second Symphony does not correspond remotely to the types of radical works with which Ives had been preoccupied long before the date that Gayle Sherwood Magee assigned its completion: the latter part of the twentieth century’s first decade.11 The handwriting on the manuscript of the fair copy (the last “word” on the symphony) fully removes any nagging doubt that the primary musical content dates from the years immediately after Ives graduated from Yale.12 Even though John Kirkpatrick thought the surviving sketches belonged to no earlier than 1901–02, Ives’s own dates for the symphony, c.1898–1902, are in essential alignment, thus, with Kirkpatrick’s assessment, and the forensically traceable handwriting13 of the finished score. Though seeming, thus, to avoid virtually all the musical innovations he was engaged in developing already, nevertheless, Ives chose to follow the largely traditional First Symphony with another major work of the same essential genre, in a full stylistic evolution of the format. He was not yet ready to venture into more radical large-scale structures. The appearance of the Second Symphony, in the context of more radical compositions, therefore, makes complete sense, marking the conclusion of one path as others were just gathering steam. Regardless, certain less-than-conventional rhythmic complexities, even, amongst the writing—“Ivesian” twists—were harbingers of things to come. Aside from the many vernacular quotes, there are, also, other borrowed elements from the masters in the symphony. Ives subtly worked literal references to Brahms’s First and Third Symphonies into the fabric, as well as traces of a Three Part Sinfonia by Bach, even the Scherzo from Borodin’s Second Symphony, Antioch, (Handel’s “Joy To The World”), and Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. J. Peter Burkholder’s helpful analysis14 (which differs in some minor respects relative to that of the writer) showed how these formal references—always transitional rather than thematic—were suggested by the developing context, rather than taking the thematic role of the vernacular melodic quotes. Functionally, therefore, they share much in common with their original usage. Giving weight to the position, too, finally and 78 Early Symphonic Ventures definitively, that the greatest European composers still stood tall in Ives’s estimation, their placement in his symphony confirms that he was not biased against the artistic expression of the Old World, only its presumption of superiority over that of the New. The telling amalgam of two cultures—the European Romantic tradition blended with its thoroughly American content results in a curious but resonating hybrid (one can hear even Mahleresque pangs at times. Mahler, conductor of the New York Philharmonic from 1908–11, was, after all, a composer-conductor with whom Ives was well familiar).15 {{PD-Art}} The Second Symphony, despite its essential conservatism, nevertheless, is a fresh and vigorous work— a time capsule, in which Ives’s youthful world comes again to life in his depiction of a boundless and bountiful land enjoying its rebirth. His optimism, untempered joy, and idealism were destined to be tested, however, by illness, political disillusionment, rampant commercialism and superficiality in society at the expense of higher values. Combined with the shock of World War I, a larger schism even than that of the Civil War of his father’s time, the specter of universal enlightenment was gone. At the time the Second Symphony was written, however, Charles Ives’s hopes for the world had not been challenged; his youthful spirit still is in full bloom in a work that captures joyous festive and ceremonial occasions, parades, barn dances, popular songs, Ives’s college years, sturdy religious traditions, even perhaps scenes directly out of a novel by Mark Twain (the best friend of his future father-in-law). More traditionally and onedimensionally displayed than in Ives’s later work, their imprints, nevertheless are unmistakably preserved in this musical time capsule, needing very little explanation to enjoy on its own terms. If Ives had needed to create a significant “American” symphony, no one can argue that with his Second Symphony—a substantial composition by any standards—he did not succeed. If the conservative language of the symphony still seems hard to understand from a figure known to be rebellious about accepted traditions, and especially in hindsight now, after so much musical evolution has taken place, likely Ives’s prime objective at the time was to have his music performed! One might have a better perspective, too, by putting oneself in the shoes of any composer of the day. Ives’s years at Yale coincided with the last three of Brahms’s life; at that time Brahms’s music was considered modern. If the works of the dominant European romantic masters of Ives’s time became widely accepted soon after they were written, surely it was because these figures never considered navigating truly “alien” sonic territory. 79 Early Symphonic Ventures Despite some unlikely precursory compositions by Erik Satie from the 1880s, none of the radical avantgarde movements of the twentieth century then existed, much less were contemplated. It must have seemed that just the gradual evolution of the Western idiom would continue to define mainstream music forever, and that European composers would continue to define it; its musical art forms did emerge from trans-Atlantic cultures, after all. The inferiority complex existing in the arts in America was not about to evaporate; evidence of it can be seen even today. Late nineteenth century music, initially not at the forefront of progressiveness, also lagged behind the visual arts at first. Impressionism and expressionism, especially among French and German painters after 1880, began to suggest more diffuse, surreal, more personal visions of the world. Only a few years later, Ives, with such works as the polytonal Psalm 67, pushed music into new territory. Paradoxicaly, George Ives, despite his open-minded attitude, seemed to have discouraged the use of radical techniques in serious composition—the excisions of some highly exploratory interludes in the early Variations on “America” (1891–92) being one result of it.16 Listeners’ guide The melodic quotes listed in the guide below, and in other guides throughout this book, essentially, should not be considered more than signposts—useful listening reference points. The significance of their place in Ives’s music, however, centers on what he did with them, not that they are present in it. In this symphony, however, the quoted materials often are extended in their size and development, contrary to the more typical role they occupy in Ives’s music, in which short fragments are associated with his recollections. The symphony comprises an uncommon five movements, in this respect, being atypical of the standard model. The first and fourth movements, however, are intimately connected, both acting as dramatic introductions to the movements that succeed them, functioning more as transitional vehicles than primary musical anchors. They introduce, too, many of the quoted melodic fragments that appear elsewhere in the other movements. Additionally, the symphony lacks a scherzo, or equivalent movement of lighter relief, such as might be expected before the finale in comparable works; the liveliness of the primary movements (second and last) more than compensates in Ives’s design, however. The first movement, Andante moderato, a lyrical introduction to the second movement, functions much like the traditional attention-arresting slow introductions that often begin the first movement of Classical period symphonies, a typical feature in Haydn symphonies. In this instance, Ives expanded the idea into a more substantial introduction as a separate freestanding entity. Featuring remnants of the lost early works, Sonata for Organ and Down East Overture, the movement also announces Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean (David T. Shaw); thus it anticipates and connects to the Finale (the fifth movement) by placing the same material at each end of the symphony, much like musical bookends. • Having elected to use a large symphony orchestra for this work, Ives, ever the individualist, featured just the string section alone for the first sixty-five bars, entering in canonic imitation, colored at times, too, by the bassoons. 80 Early Symphonic Ventures • Early on, a fragment from Stephen Foster’s Massa’s in de Cold Ground (“Down in de cornfield”) is set in counterpoint against the primary melodic material in the upper violins, and again more fully a little later. If this fragment is hard to catch (listen for the descending line that comprises the quote), it is because Ives wanted to infuse the sound of the melody into the fabric, rather than present an obvious quote or mere “arrangement.” Indeed, the opening theme is loosely based on the same material. Bernard Herrmann compared some surprising harmonic interactions that to the music of Sergei Prokofiev.17 Likely because detailed examinations of Ives’s music were in their infancy in 1945, Herrmann failed to recognize any of the quoted materials until nearer the conclusion of the movement, at which point he did, however, identify a prominent clip of (Oh) Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean in the horns. • Mid-way through this section, a second primary element consists of gentle figurative material built from Pig Town Fling; it is worked into other locations in the symphony by more manipulations of its linear makeup. J. Peter Burkholder remarked upon a parallel writing technique in Brahms’s First Symphony, using the term “lower neighbor-note” to describe the close relationships of adjacent notation.18 Any idea, however, that Ives also had in mind a dramatic moment in the Finale of Mahler’s First Symphony while he developed the segment (as the author once suspected), seems negated because the 1909 premiere in New York of Mahler’s work took place well after the composition of Ives’s symphony—unless, perhaps, Ives had been otherwise influenced by the master’s treatment of comparable materials. • Burkholder further demonstrated Ives’s remarkable knack of linking unlikely thematic elements from portions of different melodies, by analyzing two with relationships in common that Ives used together and separately.19 This technique can be found elsewhere (e.g., the Human Faith Melody in the Concord Sonata, in which a fragment of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier Sonata, as well as the opening of the hymn, Missionary Chant, and the opening motif of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, all share the same figure; see Chapter 9). • As the music returns to the opening theme material (including the quote from Massa), it builds and develops. A brief allusion to the approaching third movement, via a succession of strong, but lush descending chords, again, is modeled on “Down in de cornfield.” • After the brief quote (that Herrmann noted) from Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean in the horns, there is a dramatic reoccurrence of the “neighbor-note” figure, now in decidedly Mahleresque guise (listen for the sharply defined plucked notes in the accompanying second violins to identify it). The music pauses, to continue directly into the next movement. The second movement, Allegro, is in modified sonata form, its position as the true primary symphonic statement made clear by the bulk of its substance. Typical of post-Romantic works, it breaks with convention; here, the development, codetta, and coda are inextricably crossed and interconnected. • The first theme is ushered in brightly and built on a fragment of the hymn Wake Nicodemus. Developing, it reaches an extended variant of Bringing in the Sheaves, utilized here simply as part of the evolving thematic material of the transition. 81 Early Symphonic Ventures • The second theme follows, a quoted melody stated in full, an unusual practice in Ives’s music. It is a lyrical old college fraternity song, Where, O Where Are the Verdant (‘Peagreen’) Freshmen?, reflecting college days still recent in his life. The speed is slower, the melody plaintively set in the woodwinds against an even-paced countermelody in the violas. Contrasted with the sprightliness of the first theme, the material is radically developed, especially that of the countermelody, to become urgent, dramatic, and even strident at times. Seizing developmental potential far beyond what might be considered the limitations and constraints of simple melodies, multiple fragments of unrelated quotes are woven together into a working counterpoint that never sounds contrived, and clearly demonstrated throughout the development and codetta, and again in the later part of the recapitulation into the coda: • By nature of its evolving character, the material of the second theme readily connects to a fragment of Brahms’s Third Symphony. Consisting of a short descending chromatic line, culminating by rising, as if questioning, the line is further underscored with rich chromatic harmony. The passage—a chromatic sweep stereotypical of the late Romantic style—also is not unlike another to be found in Wagner’s Overture to Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg (specifically that which leads into the love leitmotif, and effectively acts as Wagner’s second primary theme). In the woodwind, the quote, inverted, can be heard in the recapitulation, too. • Most striking in the codetta and coda are luminous portions of the hymn, Hamburg (“When I Survey the Wondrous Cross”), appearing in the low brass, and evolving much further from that point. Hamburg is augmented with truncated “responses” from Naomi (“Our Children, Lord, in Faith and Prayer”). Thematically, these materials seem particularly suited for inclusion in the symphony as a whole, because, at their outset, both hymns share the same rhythm (though in augmentation) as the folk tune Pig Town Fling (introduced in the first movement). The rhythm appears, too, in what originally was an English song that is touched upon in the last movement, Long, Long Ago (by Thomas Haynes Bayly), and that links the overall musical span. • Common also to both the codetta and coda is a quoted fragment from another Brahms symphony—his First. Comprised of a passage of dramatic rising triplets in the strings, it appears in the coda twice as fast as it did in the codetta. • Another segment reminiscent of Mahler’s First Symphony (the first movement) comes to mind during the dramatic build leading into the recapitulation; the driving rhythmic percussion part that offsets the rest of the orchestra seems a common thread in both works. • Similarly, in both the codetta and coda, a fragmentary clip, borrowed from the syncopated second theme of the Scherzo of Borodin’s Second Symphony, follows immediately. Built from the segment that answers and concludes Borodin’s second theme (a double succession of descending fourths, a step apart), it is miraculously transformed, while still showing its origins. The fragment is most strongly confirmed in Ives’s symphony the coda during its final appearance. 82 Early Symphonic Ventures Ives described the third movement, Adagio cantabile, as a “take-off … of the Long Green Organ Book of the sixties, seventies and eighties.”20 By the nature of the melodic materials, it has been deduced to be, at least in essence, the second movement that Parker had rejected for inclusion in the First Symphony. In three-part (ternary) form (A1-B-A2), both “A” sections are built primarily around material from a well-known hymn tune by John R. Sweney, Beulah Land, joined to part of the patriotic tune, Materna by Samuel A. Ward, best known as “America, the Beautiful”: • Emerging from the introductory material, Ives set Beulah Land, from its midpoint, as the first part of the primary theme. • The second part of the theme is taken from the latter part of Materna. Weaving together both of these seemingly ill-matched melodic fragments in an appealing and seamless fashion, the resulting contour is rounded out by another quote from Brahms’s First Symphony, recognizable as a short, sigh-like figure. • After a stirring quote borrowed from Tristan und Isolde by Richard Wagner—a line also characterized by chromatic descending harmonies—a short transition follows, consisting of material related to other parts of the movement, including “Down in de cornfield.” A little later, the solo cello restates the beautiful composite melodic line of Ives’s primary theme. • The “B” section is derived from numerous discreet references to the four-note, so-called Fate Motif that opens Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Tucked into many of his works with a regularity that denotes its significance to Ives, Ives often modified the motif. In this instance, he expanded or reduced the motif by one note. The opening of Charles Zeuner’s hymn tune, Missionary Chant—also sharing the four notes of the Fate Motif—is blended within the fabric, first in the horns, then the upper strings. Forming a unified whole through Ives’s carefully chosen quotes, it would not be the last time that he would join these two fragments (see Chapter 9), or find other melodies sharing the figure (e.g., the hymn, Dorrnance), or even just its rhythm. It is followed by another supporting rearward glance of John Wyeth’s hymn, Nettleton, in the horns. • “Down in de cornfield” enters in the winds; building, it is extensively developed and accompanied by the Fate Motif, which is fragmented across the strings. A similar passage within the first movement (in the horns) anticipates this segment. • The derivation of “Down in de cornfield” is handed quietly to the strings, growing at times as it develops, and becoming central to the structure of the mid-section of the movement. The descending notes that characterize this theme encompass a great deal of transitional material. • The recapitulation (“A2”), advances to the close. However, at its high point, Ives scored the coda almost exclusively for strings. Leonard Bernstein considered this “inexplicable orchestration.” Most certainly it is, although there can be no doubt that wished to complete the movement essentially in the same manner that it began, in thoroughly formal balance, if not of the expected sonic weight of the design. • Staggered restatements of the Beethoven Fate Motif conclude the movement, the last, uniquely and movingly placed, again, creatively transformed. 83 Early Symphonic Ventures The fourth movement, Lento maestoso, serves more as a transitional bridge between the third movement and the fifth (Finale) than it does as an independent musical statement. Separate weighty introductions precede, thus, the two most substantial movements. • The movement opens with the same thematic material (from the lost Sonata for Organ) as that of the first movement, though now it is completely re-characterized. The woodwinds play a supporting fragment, possibly based on Wake Nicodemus. • A flavor reminiscent of the Finale of Brahms’s Fourth Symphony is immediately striking from the outset. • Becoming slightly faster, the violins and flutes again recall the Ives’s first movement, with a section based on Pig Town Fling. Further transformed, it is accompanied by Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, followed, by another quote from Brahms’s First Symphony. • The build to the last statement of the opening material further restates part of the first movement. It is characterized by punctuating, alternating “stinger” woodwind tones; now they are more pungent and telling. Even more suggestive of the first movement of Mahler’s First Symphony than the comparable moment in the first movement, the segment also is supported by the “lower neighbor-note” figure, as before. With one last oblique reference to “Down in de cornfield,” the movement leads directly to the Finale. The fifth movement, Finale, Allegro molto vivace, contains the surviving developments of Ives’s lost overtures: The American Woods Overture of 1889, and Overture: Town, Gown and State. It was conceived in standard sonata form. • Stephen Foster’s De Camptown Races bursts out of the starting gate as the first theme, coupled with subtle elements from Turkey in the Straw. • As the music evolves, hints of Columbia the Gem of the Ocean in the bassoons and celli suggest the lost original youthful compositions, likely little evolved. • The transition features a militaristic piccolo and flute line; accompanied by the snare drum and bass drum, it is reminiscent of a fife and drum corps of the Revolutionary War. The strings play short accompanying chords, rhythmically implying the “street beat” of a marching band. • With the completion of an extended transition, for his second theme, Ives featured an earthy and lyrical horn solo built from the harmonic foundation of the accompanying derivations of Pig Town Fling /Turkey in the Straw (violins). The horn solo is related also to the rhythm of Antioch—as an inverted apparition of the upcoming melodic fragment. Ives interjected a touch of Long, Long Ago in the flute and oboe, again recognizing compatible common ground between it and Pig Town Fling. • An actual quote from Antioch follows; subsequent development of the melody appears first in the winds. This optimistic hymn is found, too, in the reworked slow (third) movement of his Fourth Symphony, added to what originally was the first movement of his First String Quartet 84 Early Symphonic Ventures • • • • from his Yale days. The quote reflects the happy exuberance of the symphony, and the upbeat mood common to its placement in the Fourth Symphony by the trombones; the section builds before returning to the opening material for the recapitulation. The recapitulation is laid out in a similar manner to the exposition, though its more extensive development better prepares the listener for the grand conclusion. (Leonard Bernstein instigated a cut to the score for the first performance and subsequent recording—a superlatively good, if not an entirely authentic version—that shortens this dramatic section.) The second theme appears now in the solo cello. It is a memorable point in the symphony before the final build to the finish; strains from Long, Long Ago can be heard again. The conclusion (coda), is built on the lost The American Woods; featuring increasing references to Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, Henry Cowell cited numerous other melodic fragments, including Love’s Old Sweet Song, The Fisherman’s Reel, In the Sweet Bye and Bye, even Turkey in the Straw, interwoven into the violin writing. The climax is a veritable free for all. Along with militaristic rhythmic percussion, and a quote of the Reveille bugle call, the movement culminates in a full bore statement of Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean— another rare instance in which Ives chose to quote an entire original melody in the full context of its tradition. Realizing earlier allusions to it elsewhere in the symphony, the full statement hints at what would become cumulative form in later works (see Chapter 5). After one last Reveille “bugle” call is the final shocking last chord—every note but the “right” one! It was a late addition, however, that came about when Ives reworked the ending for the premiere in 1951, the chord being a tribute to his father (see Appendix 1). Remarkably, humorously, and in the most unlikely way, it works. Unfortunately, the alteration has been used against him to lend “weight” to efforts to discredit his provenance and character (see also Appendix 1). The Second Symphony, like the First, again reveals a masterful young composer, who, by his midtwenties had produced this large-scale substantive work. Remarkably conceived, organized and written, it confidently holds its own against virtually any contemporary comparison, revealing Ives’s world through its evocative, immensely appealing sounds. In the context of what it portends, of course, Ives had barely begun to build his road to the stars, but the personality and well-honed skills of the composer stand clear and confident, ready to take on the unknown. ENDNOTES 1 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 51. 2 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008), Horatio Parker, “Church Music,” (1904), 14–15: uncorroborated source. 85 3 J. Peter Burkholder, All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 2004), 90. 4 Ibid., 95–97. 5 Carol K. Baron, review, “All Made of Tunes,” Journal of the American Musicological Society, 53, 2 (Summer, 2000): 437–44. 6 Antonin Dvořák, “Music in America,” Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, 90 (Feb. 1895): 432. 7 In his article of 1944: “Ives Today: His Vision and Challenge,” Modern Music 21 (May–June 1944): 199–202, in which he tried to make amends for his notoriously negative 1939 critique of the Concord Sonata, Elliott Carter stated that Ives had been influenced by Dvořák. Ives replied in no uncertain terms that he had “not heard or seen any of Dvořák’s music which you assume had influenced my symphony.” 8 J. Peter Burkholder, “Quotation and Paraphrase in Ives’s Second Symphony,” in, Joseph Kerman, Music at the Turn of Century: A 19th-Century Music Reader (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press, 1990); see also, J. Peter Burkholder, All Made of Tunes, relative to Ives’s entire output. 9 Ives, Memos, 52. 10 Ibid, 51–52. 11 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 175; according to Magee, Ives only returned to the symphony to complete it after his 1906 illness. 12 Antony Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe (West Conshohoken, PA, Infinity Publishing, 2015), 525–27. 13 Carol K. Baron, “Dating Charles Ives’s Music: Facts and Fictions,” Perspectives in New Music (Winter issue, 1990): 20–56. 14 Burkholder, “Quotation and Paraphrase in Ives’s Second Symphony,” in Kerman, Music at the Turn of Century, 48–49. 15 Ives, Memos, 137. 16 Ibid, 115. 17 Bernard Herrmann, “Four Symphonies by Charles Ives” Modern Music, 22 (May–June 1945): 215–22. 18 Burkholder, All Made of Tunes, 126. 19 Burkholder, “Quotation and Paraphrase in Ives’s Second Symphony,” in Kerman, Music at the Turn of Century, 36. 20 Bernard Herrmann, “Four Symphonies of Charles Ives,” Modern Music, 22 (May–June 1945): 215–22 (reprinted in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 397– 402. 86 CHAPTER 5 The Third Symphony (“The Camp Meeting”) A nineteenth century camp (revival) meeting {{PD-Art}} A lthough Ives’s Third Symphony preserved some elements of the existing symphonic model—in which Europe’s shadow, therefore, still remains present to some degree—it broke ranks, nevertheless, in setting a seismic shift in form, technique and idiom. Ives had moved to a far more personally relevant vehicle of expression, rather than follow most of the established dictates, as he had in the First and Second Symphonies. The Third Symphony falls somewhere, thus, on the middle ground between convention and radicalism, though, nevertheless, is a decided departure from Ives’s previous efforts, and another step in his development of a new musical order. In utilizing American hymns exclusively for its foundation (an unusual occurrence for Ives), if emotionally, it is not yet free of the last century, musically, the symphony belongs to the new. It is a work in which optimistic youth suddenly is replaced by a sense of yearning, however, a telling reflection that, in a personal sense, Ives had experienced his fair share of angst, only now feeling prepared to share it. Here is a rare glimpse of true nostalgia that has been often incorrectly attributed to Ives’s entire output. 87 The Third Symphony The backdrop of the symphony reflects specific religious experiences of Ives’s upbringing, though apparently not of his own direct involvement. One of the ways his father supplemented his income was by leading the music at revivalist camp meetings, with his son often joining him. In regions of the American frontier where sparse populations made churches and resident preachers impractical, the phenomenon of Protestant massed religious gatherings in the open-air offered the only large social interactions and sense of community many people ever would know. Attending a camp meeting was, thus, a major highlight within the tedium of daily life, and well suited to “spreading the word” during the period in nineteenth century America known as the “Second Great Awakening.” Since participants often had to travel from afar to attend, services might involve more than one day, and so the worshippers needed, therefore, to “camp” on site. One can assume that the majority of Danbury’s residents—a community with a number of wellestablished churches and denominations—were not amongst the participants of those events that George and Charles attended. The impressionable young Charles Ives, struck by the passionate “fervor” of the crowds, maintained as an adult that the lack of such outward declarations of spiritual faith in the intellectually oriented and antireligious philosophy of Transcendentalism was no less one of its shortcomings than was its famous disdain of politics. Likely he was referring to a type of mass rapturous ecstasy of the participants, also characterized by the heightened religiosity and even, perhaps, convulsive physical movements, sharing much in common with some fundamental religious practices to this day. Ives carried memories of these outward manifestations of faith through his entire life; the Finale of the Fourth Symphony, too, would recreate an early work within its massive frame, similarly inspired by an outdoor religious event— Memorial Slow March—a piece that Ives specifically described as intended to represent the remarkable musical style that accompanied the peoples’ religious passions at a camp meeting in their singing of Bethany. Timeline Considerable confusion exists concerning the date of composition for the Third Symphony. Ives assigned a preliminary version to 1901–04; returning to it around 1907, he notated on his third work list the dates 1902–12, the last date being the final ink fair copy. Ives’s estimate might have been a year late, because it is believed he had sent it out to be copied in 1911! Regardless, the basic tenets of the music had come about far earlier (during his church organist days in New York). Continuing to develop in Ives’s mind over the years, any of the earlier surviving sketches and scores of the symphony itself must be considered part of the maturation of the materials. The unusually wide range of development, most especially the unconventional intricacies and complexities, amidst some truly forward-looking melodic and harmonic writing, speak perhaps to a large interval of time between the initial concept and the final score. Gayle Sherwood Magee claimed that the primary composition more accurately dates to 1910–1911, following the stillborn birth of the Ives’s child and the loss of Harmony’s (Ives’s wife’s) mother. Magee considered the symphony as an elegy of sorts; certainly, adopting such a scenario might explain its overall somber mood.1 It should be mentioned, however, that Magee’s new re-dated chronology of Ives’s works has not met with universal acceptance amongst Ives researchers, the writer amongst them. Indeed, it can be demonstrated that the revised sketches predate these years—1907, per Ives—being entirely consistent with 88 The Third Symphony the manuscript.2 The original materials, upon which it is based, however, seem to date to far earlier; Ives recalled having played the formative versions of all three movements for organ with string quartet in 1901.3 For anyone disinclined to accept Ives’s account, it ought to be asked whether Ives would have regressed to such a comparatively conservative musical style in the midst of an almost frenzied number of concurrent compositions that accelerated into the far more radical musical forms of these, his most creative years. Although Magee’s description of the emotional impact of the Ives’s sudden bereavement does makes sense in regard to instigating the final push to put the symphony into its final form, the loss of Ives’s unborn child realistically cannot have been behind the formulation of this work. The primary composition, thus, surely concurs with Ives’s assignment of 1901–04, especially since the timing of the encroachment of his evolving rhythmic language into his established harmonic style seems just about right. And because the origins of the symphony were early, it should not be seen as inconsistent that the final score of this symphony would emanate from a later time than far more concurrent experimental excursions, such as Putnam’s Camp of 1912, for example. Ives was not concerned at this stage of his life with such mundane matters as establishing provenance, even more, recording specific dates for his compositions, let alone working within definable “stylistic periods.” Ives composed many organ works for church services, having developed a sensitivity not to inflict anything potentially upsetting on congregants, whom had no choice in the music they would hear, and “could not get out from under it.”4 Thus, he did not feel at liberty to let loose his more radical music, and came to consider most of his earlier church music insufficiently challenging for development into major compositions, although, apparently not in the instance of the Third Symphony. Unfortunately, most of these church works have been lost. The fact that they are missing, however, should not be viewed with the mark of suspicion that some have supposed. More likely, the young Ives conceived and wrote these organ works rapidly, viewing them purely as “music for hire.” Likely he never imagined they would have later value, especially with his view regarding their value to him. Probably, subsequent to their use, he actively discarded most of them, or just left them behind on the church shelves. It seems this fate is precisely what happened to everything Ives wrote for services at Central Presbyterian Church in New York City. In 1902, at the time he decided to abandon music as a career, it seems he left quantities of music in place—perhaps altruistically, too, as Kirkpatrick supposed—for future generations to use if they wanted it. Unfortunately, when the church relocated in 1915, the music was discarded.5 The music of the symphony Ives’s solid grounding in hymns of many types gave him a wide cross section of materials from which to choose. His choices for the symphony, however, were limited to those that were sung, or even written exclusively, for camp meetings. In building his symphony around six such hymns (and one other song used sometimes as a hymn) particularly dear to Harmony, Ives proved their suitability for inclusion in a work of high art. It is one that demonstrates Ives’s originality, creativity and artistic growth, even as it occupies a curious place somewhere between the traditional and radical. Written for small orchestra, nothing Ives ever wrote was more lovingly conceived, colorfully evocative and masterfully crafted. He never returned to the format again; it was a personal expression meant for Harmony alone. 89 The Third Symphony As a composer, Ives has been mischaracterized as a modern voice in search of the past; though truer here than in most of his music, he appears, too, as a cautiously modern progressive who has not yet completely left the past. Though the music is far less radical than much of what he wrote during the period, the Third Symphony was not cut from the same cloth as other late/post-Romantic music of the day. Perhaps most interesting and unusual in Ives’s music is its exclusive use of just a small number of quoted melodies; rather than appearing as mere quotes, they speak to its very foundation. Retaining many familiar musical parameters, as well as an overall sense of tonality within its less-than-conventional language, Ives’s intimate symphony vividly reflects his father’s teaching. Its melodic and harmonic imbalances, not to mention, its rhythmic and phrasing irregularities, can be tied directly to the principles outlined in some of the lesson notes George Ives wrote for his son.6 Ives’s unsettling harmonies shift listlessly, leading towards stability only as the music progresses to its conclusion. Ives changed his mind about the original plan for a four-movement work after he began to lay it out. Realizing that the three movements he had finished represented a better balance—the third movement already having returned to two primary hymns featured in the first. From a compositional standpoint, however, Ives realized that the established, long presumptive architecture (sonata form) of symphonic and many other large musical structures was too formulaic, and repetitive for the continuous musical renewal that increasingly characterized his developing style. In a clear rejection of the tidal pull from across the Atlantic, for the “bookended” first and third movements, Ives jettisoned sonata form in favor of developing the more flexible cumulative form, a term J. Peter Burkholder aptly coined.7 To a large degree, it would be present in many of Ives’s works from this moment on, although it would never again be so evident and formalized as featured in this symphony. The concept was simple: the primary thematic material was presented initially in fragmentary, even alluded forms, then gradually expanded, and revealed only at the conclusion—something akin to the appearance of the development in a movement of sonata form, before the exposition! Thus, full recognizable forms of those melodies quoted appear only at the conclusion of a given work, or movement. The use of cumulative form in this particular work, however, shares with sonata form the use of more than one primary theme and sub-themes, so the association with the old traditional form was not yet completely severed. Modern, though not to the degree that would have been uncomfortable for moderately open-minded listeners, the music incorporates many less-than-traditional twists nestled amongst the more familiar. The Third Symphony is authentic and original, uniquely organic, emotionally tugging, utterly successful in its depictions—and idiomatically, no longer suggests anything European. Ives had penned the “American experience,” in ways no one else had succeeding in doing. Indeed, few ever had tried, let alone contemplate such a thing. Regardless of whenever the main content was conceived or scored, even the degree to which its compositional daring places it in the vanguard of twentieth century musical advancement, the Third Symphony still is well in advance of most other music written at the latest ventured date, at home or abroad. A link to the symphony—Fugue in Four Keys: on “The Shining Shore” Although the specific organ works that Ives used to build his symphony are lost, its musical evolution is traceable within some other compositions of the time. The Fugue in Four Keys: on “The Shining Shore,” 90 The Third Symphony provides a direct link to the evolving style of this symphony, not only regarding its specific musical content, but also its harmonic and idiomatic character, even more its overall sound. Ives referenced a fugue in the same four keys (C, G, D and A) originating in 1896,8 scored for strings, or organ and violins, but it is unclear if it is the same one discussed here. If so, its futurist leanings are remarkable. James B. Sinclair dated this particular fugue—a reassembled compilation of two surviving incomplete versions—for string orchestra, cornet and flute, as 1903, although no corroboration was provided for the year.9 The fugue sounds eerily similar to the first movement of the Third Symphony, despite the use of multiple simultaneous keys not incorporated into the symphony. Instead, the essence of the harmonic relationships created by the various opposing keys was ingeniously transferred to the symphony’s first movement through one of the principles Ives gleaned from his father’s teaching, in relation to the interval of a “third” in chords.10 Ives, by forming coincident compatible chords that did not feature clashing intervals, or omitting tones that did clash—notably the defining chordal third—was able to write his fugue in multiple keys, yet effectively make sound as one, at least from chord to chord. Because many “extended” chords (typical in jazz harmony) of single keys also approximate such “polychords,” sometimes the same characteristic harmonic relationships of this very multi-tonal fugue were recreated in the “uni-tonal” symphony to form the same intervallic relationships, the type of multiple function sometimes termed “polyvalence.” The first movement of the symphony, passing continually through transient key centers, as well as duplicating the noticeable linear “walking” movement of the fugue, sounds very similar. Towards the fugue’s conclusion, the cornet solo seems even to evoke the same yearning quality of the Finale in the symphony, too. Might it be that the essence of a Yale period experimental fugue (not one of Parker’s assignments!) was reworked and ultimately developed into the first movement of the symphony? Is it mere coincidence that the primary melody of the fugue (George F. Root’s The Shining Shore), bears a close relationship to the opening melody (Azmon) quoted in the first movement of the Third Symphony? The two respective hymns show such a striking mutual resemblance that one can be forgiven for confusing them. But the links to the symphony do not stop there. As the fugue proceeds, strains of Azmon can be heard! Music in the shadows Ives tried out something else new in this symphony, too—what he termed “shadow counterpoint.” Appearing to be unique in all music, it consists of peripherally audible, subsidiary solo parts that loosely trace the predominant musical lines, almost as if spun off the primary harmonic and rhythmic context in some way. Ives equated these “shadow” entities with visual parallels, like sunlight darting through a maze of leafy branches on a windy day.11 Because he suggested they might represent vague realities of the subconscious, “shadow” parts suggest other dimensions, too, or places in time. Representing, thus, spatial writing in another form, “shadow” parts sometimes are best played off-stage, or well separated into the background—the reason being, if played with too much definition and forward projection, this type of counterpoint sounds simply wrong, almost as if the performers are mistaken, even lost. “Shadow,” thus, is the operative word. Within any other fundamentally tonal music, it is hard to find a parallel with Ives’s concept of any kind, although the mental imagery of fleeting shapes, and shifting light does bring impressionism to mind. 91 The Third Symphony In this instance, the parts seem almost to have been afterthoughts, because they were lightly sketched into the manuscript. Ives eliminated them from the original version for publication. He continued to have doubts about their inclusion until many years later, for a time intending to restore them, but he never did. Carol K. Baron was able to demonstrate, however, that he did incorporate aspects of the shadow lines into the definitive version that was prepared by Lou Harrison in 1947,12 which, presumably, is the way Ives wished the symphony to be heard. Today, one is just as likely to hear it with or without these added parts, depending upon the performance edition. Although the comparison is enlightening, one would be wise to remember that the decision to include them at this stage is most likely, incorrect. Comparisons with other symphonic music of the period Atypical, rhythmically and harmonically, the Third Symphony stands almost alone among other symphonies of the time, most of which had continued in the predominant post-Romantic language. The Third Symphony joins them only to a degree, the break from the Second Symphony being substantial. Its distinctive, rugged “pioneering American” character is immediately striking. Although hardly radical, those few works from the European continent that actually were (such as Arnold Schönberg’s Five Pieces for Orchestra [1909]), only accompanied the ground Ives already had broken, often years earlier. The deceptively inherent modernity of Ives’s very listenable, lovely and charming work, however, might cause one to miss many of its remarkably original departures from well-worn European paths. In this respect, it is one of Ives’s most important works, even though its basic content still is contained within the overall context of traditional tonality. Moreover, increasingly recognizable idiomatic features that so personify this composer resonate with a proud commentary that speaks across time, its strong faith-based religious echoes clearly captured from deep within another era as nineteenth-century America is reawakened from its distant slumber. Listeners’ guide First movement (Old Folks Gatherin’): Andante maestoso. Instead of stating the first theme at the outset, as would be expected in sonata form, the cumulative construction dictates a gradual unfolding of the material. Consequently, the immediately recognizable thematic foundations of a conventional symphony are diffused into something subtler. Dominated by threads based on the traditional hymn tune, Azmon, two other hymns are featured in addition, Woodworth (“Just as I Am”) and Erie (“What a Friend We Have in Jesus”), although they never are aired in their complete or original forms, nor do they assume the structural significance of Azmon. True also to the tenets of cumulative form, even Azmon is not heard complete until the movement’s end. Woodworth, however, is positioned to simulate the expected second theme in sonata form. • The symphony opens in a lyrical manner in the violins; tonally restless, it is built on the beginning phrase of Azmon in deliberately vague contours that shift rapidly from key to key. A more prominent fragment from the middle of the melody sets the tone of the movement: a falling figure of successive thirds that is easily identifiable. 92 The Third Symphony • The Azmon-derived material is further established (in fugal-like imitative entrances), as the music develops and continues to build around it; different instruments take fragments of the melody, the music becoming increasingly agitated. Quarter-note motion is derived from the accompaniment of the upcoming section—it seems directly linked, too, to the “walking movement” observed in the Fugue in Four Keys. • Reaching a pivotal moment and hold, a sudden change heralds the announcement of Woodworth in the horns. With the arrival of the second theme, the parallels to sonata form are obvious. However, Ives did not accord his “approximation” of the second theme equivalent time or importance. • Material from Azmon reappears shortly thereafter, dramatically building in the full orchestra (with a gentle reference again to Woodworth in the horns). It leads to a brief hold that is identifiable by an actual silence. • With a mood change, material derived from Azmon now accompanies Erie in the solo oboe. The solo flute answers and develops the melody (Erie) well beyond its original confines. Moments of unusual rhythmic accompaniment, mostly in the strings, effectively establish more than one simultaneous speed. • The section concludes with dialog across the orchestra, followed by the appearance of a livelier segment, more clearly based on the accompaniment to the horns’ earlier statement of Woodworth. • A last reflection of Woodworth leads into a further derivation of Azmon in the horns. Echoed by the strings, the music heads into an optimistic, joyous development of the material throughout the orchestra, culminating in an ecstatic high point. • As the climax fades, the tempo slows, to become almost prayerful in character. Saving the loveliest moment of all to herald the end the movement, Ives set a largely complete statement of Azmon in the violins, fulfilling the purpose of the cumulative design. It is accompanied with a rapturous variant of Erie in the solo flute, leading to a peaceful close. Second movement (Children’s Day, or Young Folks Meeting): Allegro. Ives chose lively, spirited material to suggest the happy play of children. Further reflecting their innocence, he kept the fundamental structure simple (ternary form: A1-B-A2), although the rhythmic complexities and fast-changing harmonies conspire to disavow it; this music is no mere extension of nineteenth century Romanticism! Ives, however, tied the use of the themes to some of the tenets of cumulative revelation, even though full statements of any of the themes never appear. Children’s Day is built largely on the opening bars of two revivalist hymns, There is a Fountain Filled with Blood, and later, There is a Happy Land. Peripheral melodies are the traditional Naomi, and There’s Music in the Air (George F. Root’s song sometimes sung as a revivalist hymn), and even a fragment of Erie. • The opening segment is built largely on the opening bars of There is a Fountain, outlined within vigorous harmonic motion in the strings. The horns gently accompany it in long sustained tones with Naomi. Soon, fragments also derived Naomi, seemingly sharing 93 The Third Symphony fragments of both Erie, too, are introduced to create a primary motif as part of the line, in conjunction with additional material built from There is a Fountain. • After a period of evolution that leads to a hold and crescendo, the announcement of the second section (“B”) takes place in the woodwinds. Built predominantly from the latter part of Happy Land, the material is developed immediately, variously interspersed with, or accompanied by, a brief melodic figure derived from There’s Music in the Air. Smooth and linear, it contrasts with the jaunty rhythmic character of Happy Land. The earlier motifs for the “A” section reappear, too, serving to bond the music together. • Under constant development, the music continues to build dynamically to suggest children at play, although increasing militaristic overtones and march-like energy suggest perhaps a game of soldiers. Seeming loosely to parallel a development section in sonata form, nevertheless, it lacks a significant presence of the materials from the “A1” section. • The jaunty rhythms give way to the reprise of the first section (A2). The quoted motifs from There is a Fountain and Naomi reappear, the high tones of the flute later standing starkly clear of the motion beneath—a striking contrast relative to its textural placement in A1. • The music builds toward a climax; though dramatic, the increasing sense of weight suggests weary children. Gyrating through seemingly countless keys, the descending lines in the lower instruments add to the growing heaviness, as they echo There’s music in the Air. • The movement concludes with an extended continuation of the fragment of Happy Land, an element of cumulative form in evidence, if not quite materializing. Third movement (Communion): Largo. The music is built cumulatively from diffuse fragments of two of the primary hymns (Azmon and Woodworth) of the first movement. The almost tragic mood seems to go well beyond even the introspective tenor of the rest of the symphony. The texture is intricately woven, the many diametrically opposite moving lines, unconventional harmonies and conflicting rhythms seeming to point to a developing modernity over the period that Ives wrote the symphony. Nothing in the record, however, indicates it was conceived or developed later than the other two movements. More generally, the structure proceeds through a four-part layout, the related first and third sections counterbalancing the second and fourth (A1-B1-A2-B2). Harmonically, the last section ends up where the first began, and thus the two contrasting areas find common ground and ultimate unity. • The first incarnations of the primary material are less directly stated than in the first movement, and enter in reverse order, too. A quote derived from Woodworth appears first in the cellos, diffusely, joined immediately in the higher strings canonically (one voice after another, as in fugal entrances). • An extensive evolution of both hymns takes place, ultimately leading to the second section; the first violins build upon an ingeniously devised variant of the first part of Azmon. It is so disguised that it is not necessarily obvious at first, the opening few notes, however, giving its thematic allegiance away. 94 The Third Symphony • As the segment continues, the primary line evolves into a literal quote of the now familiar descending succession of thirds from the middle of Azmon. Soon after reaching a high point, a substantial development of Woodworth dominates the texture, starting in the first violins, in octaves. • In an overall descent, the music begins to transition into the third section (which is related to the first); reaching it forcefully, it is dynamic and massive, and characterized, too, by strong scalic motion in the lower lines. • At the high point, the music moves to the final (fourth) section, accompanied by strong ascending movement in the lower lines. Now in the same key as the first section, it is a “nod” to the recapitulation of conventional sonata form. Musically identifiable with the second section, nevertheless, it is presented with both primary themes now together, led by the cellos playing Woodworth (and joined by the flute a bar later), followed by Azmon in the violins shortly thereafter. The cumulative and dense texture is harmonically transient, its “fervor” seeming to suggest the singing by camp meeting congregants that had so impressed the youthful Ives. After its peak, the music melts away into a wonderful moment of purely wistful resignation in the flutes. • Towards the end of the symphony, a less-than-literal quotation of Woodworth appears to morph into a fragment of Silent Night. Often wrongly identified, it is, however, really only the concluding segment of Woodworth that occupies the same contour. Intensely moving, the music seems suspended in space and time. Ives leaves the listener lost in the echoes of the nineteenth century. • In fragmented fashion, the strings lead out of the movement, continuing Woodworth, and even further, the “Silent Night” fragments; they are joined briefly by what were intended to represent barely audible distant church bells. Set in another key, they act as a variant of shadow counterpoint. The music wafts away in a prayerful cadence, without ever quite completing the hymn melody, an increasingly common trait in Ives’s music from this point on. Here, it speaks to one of the most profoundly lonely moments in all of Ives’s music. The significance of the Third Symphony Few works provide better insights into Charles Ives’s world than does the Third Symphony. Although its technical language barely hints at his final destiny, the small orchestra allows Ives’s most intimate and innermost thoughts to pervade the fabric, without the physical bombast that larger scale works impart. The symphony demonstrates, too, Ives’s superlative command of a remarkably intricate medium. One would have presumed this wonderful little symphony would be performed with regularity; the fact that it is not heard much more often reflects the reality that anything not already well trodden and familiar remains a challenge at the box office, as much as it does Ives’s worst premonitions about the direction of society. 95 ENDNOTES 1 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008), 97–99. 2 Antony Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe (West Conshohoken, PA, Infinity Publishing, 2015), 533–34. 3 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 55, n.16; 128. 4 Ives, Memos, 128–29. 5 Ibid., 148. George Ives, “Music Theory Lesson Notes,” Ives Collection, np7398-415, Irving S. Gilmore Music Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT. 6 7 J. Peter Burkholder, All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 2004), 137–38. 8 Ibid., 38. 9 James B. Sinclair, A Descriptive Catalogue of The Music of Charles Ives (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1999), No.69. 10 Op. cit., n.5. 11 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974), 161. 12 Carol. K. Baron, review, “Charles Ives, Symphony No.3: The Camp Meeting,” ed. Kenneth Singleton (New York, Associated Music Publishers, 1990), Notes (June 1992): 1437–38. 96 CHAPTER 6 Ives the Innovator J ust as surely as Ives had not contrived the presence of nationalism in his music, he had not set out to write “modern” music for its own sake, either. His music was as authentically American as it was natural to him and ahead of his contemporaries. Although American culture had been built on its Western European origins, the regional variations between the two continents are as striking as are the spoken dialects of the British language common to both sides of the Atlantic, in which the national idioms and accents are immediately identifiable. The musical language of Europe, which had nobly served those whose world it reflected, could not serve Ives, and no fluke, thus, that the phenomenon of “Ives the anticipator” was poised to usher first from American shores, not European! Despite continued incredulity and disbelief that Ives could have “stumbled ” upon so many techniques masks the fact that, with his circumstances and talents, it was inevitable. It is clear, too, why Ives’s brand of modernism is so different to that of figures across the Atlantic, no less than their applications of similar techniques; his was American modernism. Staying true to his conviction that musical evolution in general had been compromised by the need to find acceptance rather than face starvation, for Ives, “giving up” music meant only not having to depend on it for a living. His music became “modern,” by default, his convictions remaining strong enough to brush off rejection from listeners, critics, other musicians, and amazingly, even some of his close friends and family members. Comfortable within his chosen path, Ives did not chase anyone’s approval; validation of the rightness of what he had done would not make his music good or bad. Music in space and time Despite some predictive flashes from a few original spirits of the period, again, it needs to be emphasized that Ives indeed was the first true avant-garde composer, and by more than a few years, at that. Even Erik Satie’s precursory anticipations of Impressionism, parallel harmonies (that often contained dissonant intervals, too), even quartal harmony—in which the conventional construction of thirds was substituted by the larger interval of fourths, and elements of Minimalism or its related Repetitivism—they cannot be placed among the major thoroughfares that define the rejection of the old art for the new. Schönberg’s radical Three Piano Pieces would not appear on the scene until 1909; though remarkable as a work of musical expressionism far ahead of its time, and Schönberg’s efforts to break music’s bonds with traditional methodologies of pitch and musical proportion, the free-form chromaticism of its atonal language subscribes to no particular systemization. With Pierrot Lunaire of 1912, Schönberg went further; aside from its deliberately extreme expressionistic style, the vocalist was to sing in a kind of spoken song—Sprechstimme—setting poems by Albert Giraud in a musical context organized into mathematically arranged sub-structures, pitches and strophes. However, for all its radicalism of style, from a purely technical standpoint, it was still well behind what Ives already had demonstrated within the prior decade. 97 Ives the Innovator By then, Ives had discovered, touched upon, formulated, or otherwise used elements of Dodecaphony and numerous major innovations yet to come in the twentieth century (see again, Chapter 3, The experimental model). He had done so during a period still dominated by the European tradition, as defined by Dvořák and Brahms, then the great post-Romantics, such as Mahler, Strauss and Sibelius.1 Because the emerging new generation of European moderns was associated with specific “schools” of musical philosophy (see again Chapter 3, The “isms” of music), a major difference between them and Ives also is obvious. Ives’s discoveries and developments, however, would influence no one. During his most productive years, he was disinterested in announcing them to the musical world; it was enough to be busily engaged with the quiet process of creation, and immersion in his expanding universe of sound. He had a business to run, too. Early innovations As a youngster, Ives tried to duplicate on the piano the “street beat” of his father’s band with rhythmically divided low tone clusters, one hand slightly ahead of the other. His father had done nothing to discourage it, nor his son’s latent curiosity; indeed, it is believed the upshot was that he sent his son to the local drummer for tuition. (“Piano drumming” is recreated frequently in Ives’s music, for example, in the 1914 song, General William Booth Enters into Heaven.) Ives’s training encompassed similarly progressive thinking, including singing melodies accompanied by the piano in different keys, and playing two tonalities together in each hand (both of which instilled polytonality in Ives at an early age).2 As early as 1891, Ives built polytonality into portions of his Variations on “America,” showing, too, that indeed he knew how to do things the “wrong way—well,” because George Ives’s training and admonition had ensured he knew how to do them the “right way.”3 This iconic little work also shows an early comfort with the unconventional. A later example of polytonality applied to actual musical composition can be found in the little Fugue in Four Keys: on “The Shining Shore,” already detailed in Chapter 5. Another is the iconic Psalm 67, which surely existed in some form prior to Ives’s time at Yale. The fact that the fair copy dates to his last year at Yale (per Ives’s work lists) has been used to deny its earlier provenance; Ives, having also referenced his father’s choir tackling it (thus, placing a preliminary version before the fall, 1894) has been ignored, or dismissed glibly as wishful fabrication. A few early examples of Ives’s childhood polytonal dabbling have survived, too, in his father’s copybook; based on baroque imitative forms, they also point clearly, too, to his grounding in the music of the Baroque—one of the more telling indicators of the level of Ives’s father’s teaching, and helping to substantiate, in the face of revisionist denials, that “Father had kept me on Bach and taught me harmony and counterpoint from [when I was] a child until I went to college.”4 Well before his time at Yale, Ives, thus, understood and questioned the orthodox “rules” of tonality. Hardly having settled on Parker’s model, Ives’s radical ideas coexisted alongside the traditional all along. The timeline Over the decade after graduating from Yale, Ives was composing confidently with methodologies of his own making far outside customary practice, and independently of his duties as an organist and choir director. (Ives held appointments from 1898 at First Presbyterian Church in Bloomfield, New Jersey, then 98 Ives the Innovator a more prestigious position at Central Presbyterian Church in Manhattan, from 1900–02.) For musical employment, Ives, thus, was confined to playing or writing music of a more conventional nature, especially in light of his own sensitivities in relation to inflicting radical sounds on captive audiences (see again Chapter 5). Regardless, many works from this period featured innovative harmonies and treatments. As might be expected, typically they were written for organ, with or without chorus, his more avant-garde compositions unlikely to have been performed in services. Regardless, it is hard to find comparable harmonic innovation or polytonality in the works of any other composer during this time; the majority had not even entertained such prospects at all. Beyond 1902, up to 1906 or even 1908, Ives, now freed from professional restraints, continued to expand his ideas into unconventional turf. Harking back to the observations of real life phenomena that had so intrigued his father, Ives, in turn, explored and incorporated them into his music with newfound techniques. In his New York digs apartment housing (“Poverty Flat,” in which newly employed Yale graduates often resided and continued their experience of college community), Ives’s “resident disturbances,” often involved portraying his more experimental ideas as jokes or party tricks in order to elicit the participation of his friends. Thus, he was able to judge the effectiveness of his ideas in real time, before developing further them into compositions. During the ten-year period, Ives’s innovations exploded; perhaps even he still had no inkling of the magnitude they would reach. As Philip Lambert so artfully illustrated in his 1997 book, The Music of Charles Ives, the period would see the development of cyclical, rhythmic, harmonic and melodic principles in his music.5 The connection of cycles with the grand design of the universe is easy to see; just as stars orbit their galactic cores, and planets orbit stars, consciously or not, Ives was drawn to the cosmic order. In the grand design of his ultimate musical destination, the Universe Symphony, it would be fundamental throughout its length (see Chapters 11–13; also Appendix 2). Ives’s music would feature increasing degrees of layering, in which multiple speeds (polytempi), and independent rhythmic sub-structures (polyrhythms) could be made to interact innovatively with others, especially since regularly divided pulse could include irregular fractions and combinations. Melodic lines increasingly reflected predictive dodecaphonic tonal organization, anticipating Schönberg’s twelve-tone system by almost twenty years. It was during this period that many instrumental pieces emerged—compact little tone poems— ultimately being incorporated into larger compositions, or grouped into the now well-known sets for theater or chamber orchestra, even reworked into songs. The apparent dearth, however, of large-scale works during the four-year period from 1902–06 might suggest that Ives refocused his life for a time around business interests, and wrote only small-scale innovative miniatures. However, his clear references to composing Thanksgiving (from the Symphony of Holidays) in 1904, and at least an early version of the Third Symphony, even the initial work on the First Piano Sonata during this time, show that he had not retreated into composing miniatures only. Soon, however, Ives’s business prospects began to feel the pinch. The life insurance industry scandal of 1905 ultimately resulted in the demise in 1906 of the Raymond Agency (an agency of Mutual Life of New York) where he worked. With the ensuing fiasco closing in all around him, for a time, he must have felt that the investigation would embroil him too, the stress affecting his health badly. The first of his many notorious bouts with ill-health incidents occurred in 1905, followed by another worse scare in 1906. Without the benefit of modern diagnoses, it is hard to be specific about the nature of these early illnesses, all manner of fanciful, unsubstantiated, sometimes absurd speculation—even denials of their reality at 99 Ives the Innovator all—having been proposed over the years.6 However, it was sufficient to sideline a young man of only thirty-two years of age. After a time spent at a Virginia health center in Asheville to recuperate, Ives began to feel stronger, and his former optimism began to return. With new business prospects beckoning in the aftermath of the insurance industry debacle, Ives formed a partnership with his old colleague (Julian Myrick, his associate from his old job) to create a new agency, Ives & Co. Opening its doors at the beginning of 1907, this new venture would be short lived, however, because its parent company, Washington Life, would be absorbed into Pittsburgh Life and Trust, a company that had no agencies in New York. Undaunted, Ives and Myrick formed another new venture 1909 that returned the pair to the Mutual Insurance fold. The company of Ives & Myrick would grow to become the dominant and largest life insurance agency in the country and the key to both partners’ considerable financial successes, each having unique talents and roles within it. It is hardly an exaggeration that Ives, virtually single-handedly, was responsible for resurrecting the previously scandalized life insurance industry by designing a new actuarial system that created a selfsustaining, ethical business model assuring stability into the far distant future for all parties. Thus, Ives would help bereaved clients a greater chance of attaining the Transcendental vision of self-reliance and independence. Redefining the industry’s structure by using a sound mathematically relevant formula, Ives matched the company’s clients’ likely future needs with sustainable benefits, melding “scientific” principles of solid business practices with community responsibility. Providing long-term security for families, his system ensured that their provider, too, could be indefinitely self-perpetuating. Ives’s model became the standard of the industry. It is worth contemplating the reality of the unlikely scenario in which Ives was performing at the highest levels in two separate careers during these years, revolutionizing both of them. If he recognized that his commitment to two full-time occupations would necessitate a near round-the-clock lifestyle, did he consider its long-term consequences on his already compromised physical wellbeing? Innovative miniatures Ives stumbled upon huge compositional potential with applications of cycles—in the smallest sense, a single figure could be variously manipulated through systematic organization and be joined into a continuous stream of related invention and musical prose; in the largest sense, substantial arched waveforms could consist of multiple small cycles, and even span the length of an entire piece. Offering limitless possibilities through orderly changes in pitch and rhythm, via (including, but not limited to) transpositions, inversions, retrogrades, rhythmic compressions and augmentations, alterations of note order and rhythmic contours, even combinations or superimpositions of others—hence, new compositional opportunities to maintain coherence of sound and design in extended structures. A demonstration of cyclically derived waveforms may be heard in the revolutionary miniature, From the Steeples and the Mountains of 1901; one of the earliest such examples, potentially it dates, thus, before some of the Second Symphony. Cycles built upon the simple sound of pealing church bells—some of the earliest cycles found in his music—comprise the overall waveform. Lengthy, at about three-and-a-half minutes, it evolves through multiple sub-cycles to create, effectively, different keys and speeds. The cycles 100 Ives the Innovator hint even at some of the structural features in the Universe Symphony of some fifteen-plus years later, not to mention, too, predictively, and astoundingly, the early use of twelve-tone rows. Four separate sets of bells, two pianos, a trumpet and trombone expound upon a canonic fragment generally considered to quote Taps—or is it, perhaps, (Oh) Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean? In another miniature from these years, the small instrumental group, Scherzo: All the Way Around and Back c.1907, illustrates a large cycle in the shape of a near-perfect palindrome; however, because the full waveform occupies only fifty seconds or so (aside from its noisy conclusion), the piece is more akin to a “skit”—an idea, rather than a substantive musical excursion. The music depicts a baseball game, in which the base runner has to return from third base to first after a foul. A bold quoted fragment in the bugle from Taps/Columbia again sets the scene. Ives’s little tone poem, The Pond (1906), is an entirely more esoteric miniature, and an early example of “spatial” writing (see later). Ives referred to it as an “echo piece,” which indeed it is. If the vast landscapes that often had inspired him could be limitless and open, why not musical landscapes, too? Redeveloped in 1912, and featuring short, rhythmic, transposing cycles (in the harp and celesta) superimposed upon the structure, The Pond is built in an overarching waveform of sorts, in which the implied opening tonality returns at the conclusion of the piece via a chain of transpositions of the smaller internal cycles in the harp and celesta. The Pond, Central Park, New York City Image: AC Was this scene, perhaps, the actual setting Ives had in mind? 101 Ives the Innovator As undulating impressionistic patterns and sustained harmonies paint a visually surreal and serene outdoor setting, a solo trumpet attempts to recreate the haunting and subtle echo effects created as sound wafts over a body of water, and which had so intrigued Ives’s father.7 At the conclusion of the scene (at night, or is it early morning?), a fragment of Taps in a lone piccolo floats through the mists across the pond. With that brief snatch again of something Ives would have heard his father play on many occasions—perhaps fearing, too, that his own business prospects might be doomed by the insurance crisis enveloping the industry at that time—was he, perhaps, yearning for his father’s reassurance? Stuart Feder, however, considered that Ives had a darker emotion on his mind: early death, like his father before him.8 The hypothesis is quite possible, of course, maybe even likely, considering Ives’s health concerns at the time. Fittingly, Ives added words by William Wordsworth in the score of the 1912 version, in which it became conclusive that George Ives was on his mind while he wrote the composition.9 It does, too, seem to invoke an actual location that even has the same name: “The Pond” in Central Park, New York City, just a stone’s throw from the location of “Poverty Flat” at the time. The Gong on the Hook and Ladder, likely belongs to somewhere around the end of the new century’s first decade and the beginning of the next. As another of Ives’s innovative miniatures, its primary emphasis is on rhythmic interaction, and hardly less, a musical projection of his sense of humor. In depicting a local small town parade—in this instance, the annual one by the Volunteer Fire Department— Ives strove to emulate the struggles of the firemen with heavy equipment as well as their musical instruments during their slow procession through the town. Ives described the scene: “… coming downhill and holding backward fast, and going uphill out of step, fast and slow, the Gong seemed sometimes out of step with the Band, and sometimes the Band out of step with the Gong….”10 Nineteenth century fire truck {{PD-Art}} 102 Ives the Innovator As the uneven terrain caused the firemen to vary their pace unintentionally, the struggle to keep the engine gong ringing steadily usually ending up out of step with them. Ives recreated the firemen’s inability to maintain an even pace by ill-matching, irregular rhythmic notation, and simulated their further inability to play in tune by careful alternations of pitch alignments. Even funnier as the company went downhill than up, complex patterns come together only every so often, their displacements and combinations mimicking what Ives had observed in real life. The multiple levels, different speeds, new melodic structures, and unlikely instrumental combinations were, of course, outside commonly ordained musical practice, and speak of a new kind of music. Keen ears will catch Oh, My Darling Clementine, Marching Through Georgia, and Few Days. Hardly less iconic, the route Ives took in composing the semi-atonal ragtime Scherzo: Over the Pavements can be found starting early in the first decade of the new century (when much of it can be shown to have been sketched), and finished in the second (when it was completed and scored for small chamber orchestral ensemble). Inspired by ragtime, Ives formed his piece from combined multiple rhythmic and harmonic entities set in constantly varying patterns, to simulate the random patter of horse and foot traffic below his window. Unsurprisingly, cyclical elements play a formative role, as well as the use of multiple carefully conceived motifs. Despite its casual adherence to tonality, the music never sounds dissonant or unnatural, the mind-boggling complexity aside. Jan Swafford marveled, too, at Ives’s ability “to make it swing.”11 Remarkable as well was Ives’s use of twelve-tone rows (and aggregates) and predictive uses of serialism. Especially apparent in an optional cadenza (featured also in Study No.23 for solo piano), Ives’s recreated his old piano exercises by “playing the nice chromatic scale not in one octave but in all octaves,”12 spreading the chromatic pitches across the range of each pattern. In the middle portion, Ives even anticipated Stravinsky’s neoclassical idiom (the crisp and clean nuances of L’Histoire du Soldat of the century’s third decade, even Dumbarton Oaks of the fourth). Ives might well have been conducting what was only an intriguing observation of life, but the result is high art. First Set for Chamber Orchestra Over the years, Ives recognized that many of his miniatures, though too short to program individually, might stand as viable concert works in their own right. Subsequently, he began arranging them into groups, such as the First Set for Chamber Orchestra, the components of which date from 1907–13, their compilation and final arrangements from around 1913. In assembling six such miniatures, Ives created a treasure trove of engaging cameos that support each other as a whole, instead of having allowed them to be discarded and forgotten as mere innovative exercises: • The See’r, a lively scherzo—one of many pieces later adapted into a song—opens the set in a semi-dissonant ragtime idiom, its jagged rhythms suggesting, much in the same vein as Scherzo: Over the Pavements, neoclassical style. Here, multiple motifs and cyclical components are built into a complex structure of intricately syncopated and opposing lines, held together by the shared gravity of a common rhythmic pulse. Although the song version appears to date later, it is hard to imagine that Ives did not have it always in mind, not only 103 Ives the Innovator because of its title, but also because of its perfectly matched content. The words depict an old man sitting outside a grocery store, apparently oblivious to the world. In fact, he saw and knew all. If the banal simplicity of the song’s melodic line and the repetitive stagnation of the words represent the dismissively judgmental impressions of onlookers, the complex “code” behind the music represents the insightful “see’r.” Perhaps it represents, too, similarly dismissive listeners, who were unable to hear what lies within the music. • A Lecture is an amusing recreation a college memory, as well as another little work Ives adapted later into a song (Tolerance). Multiple rhythmic fragments, even actual chatter (!), combine to suggest a classroom called to order by the professor (represented by a cornet). The (professor’s) lecture appears as a disjoined melodic line in the trumpet, while compounding sequences of block chords broken into complex rhythmic articulations represent the students vigorously jotting down notes. Likely, the wide leaps of the cornet line were related to George Ives’s “Humanophone,” a characteristically Victorian-age mechanical solution to a challenge, in which many voices were assigned each just one pitch, so that otherwise impractical lines could be sung.13 After adding other instruments into the fray, and introducing innovative serialistic incremental changes to the materials, rhythmically and harmonically, the lecture concludes with a fast summation and victorious dismissal by the professor! • The Ruined River was adapted in 1913 from Ives’s earlier song, The New River of 1911; subsequently it was remade into a larger version for chorus and orchestra, then further revised in 1921 for his song collection, 114 Songs. In addition to the amazing array of short transposing cycles at its core, built from a single motif, the words of the song—even the music—reveal some of Ives’s political leanings: a brief reference to Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!. Most likely, Ives also had in mind the more brazen version of the song by Joe Hill.14 The words bemoan oppressive employers and working conditions. Following the shrieking, chromatic burst at the outset, The Ruined River evolves largely in the whole step movements that characterize its figurative makeup, the melodic line contrasted against the vigorous accompaniment. Frequently set an octave and a step apart, rather than simple octaves, the musical lines are built almost entirely on innovative applications of the common cyclical thread. The final blast resembles a car horn, in contrast to the words leading to it in the song version, “killed is the blare of the hunting horn.” Set over a gently rocking figure, as if in defeated resignation, the effect is at its most telling in the version for chorus and orchestra. • Like a Sick Eagle, of 1913, compositionally a late entrant into the set, is a graphic musical representation of Keats’s poem about a once majestic bird in its death throes. Likely triggered by Ives’s recollection of Harmony’s miscarriage in 1909, and written originally as a song, its innovations include the use of quarter-tones among sliding chromatic intervals in the violins. Although Ives was not the first composer to incorporate these tunings in Western music (such techniques having been occasionally explored by composers centuries before, as well as being standard fare in other cultures for millennia), likely he was the first Western figure to utilize them in modern times. George Ives had strongly advocated exploring “tone-divisions other than the half-tone,” having done so himself, apparently keenly aware of microtones in natural acoustics.15 However, the piece is most distinguished by the separate, controlled increments by which the independent, but otherwise rhythmically locked, melodic and harmonic lines move 104 Ives the Innovator to form compressions and expansions between both parameters, creating a disembodied and listless sense of tonality. For more detailed analysis of the song version, see Chapter 8. • Calcium Light Night (c.1907) often stands on its own, having begun as a form of parody Ives listed amongst his “Cartoons or Take-Offs.” Constructed within a large palindrome of highly programmatic content, it was supposed to represent the sounds of students in a fraternity ritual parade at Yale, in which the marchers carried different colored lighted torches from room to room for the induction of new members. Within the overall arched palindrome, rhythmic, tonal and melodic sub-cycles are variously superimposed on the “piano drumming” of tightly knit chords in the piano (four hands). By manipulating entering fragments of fraternity tunes, Psi Upsilon Marching Song, A Band of Brothers in DKE, Few Days, Jolly Dogs, Marching through Georgia, and Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the marchers appear to approach (rising in pitch to the closest point of the approach), and pass (depicted as the melodic components fall in pitch and reverse the order of their entries), then drop out one by one. A two-and-a-half minute waveform in all, it was assembled by Henry Cowell in 1936 from the 1913 pencil sketch for the set (which is much closer to complete than some have granted), and other fragments and copious directions for Cowell by Ives himself. • When the Moon Is On the Wave (another celestial reference, from Lord Byron’s “Incantation” from Manfred, also existing in the song version, From the “Incantation”) likely dates to as early as 1907. It is built on just two basic entities: a flowing arpeggiated piano part, (i) broken chordal lines set in a wave-like motion, joined later by the flute in opposing motion in arched waves, and, (ii) a primary short melodic phrase, divided initially between violins and cornet in staggered (canonic) entrances. One step short of an octave apart, they are located tonally a half-step below the accompaniment. While the cornet takes the lead towards the peak, all wave motion ceases, as all forces briefly come together, rhythmically and harmonically stepping up to the key of the piano accompaniment. With a shimmering chord hanging over the now-emboldened cornet, the violins intone a final echo. Paving the road to the stars Adding Overture and March “1776” (1903) into the music spawned by Country Band March (1905)—see again p.55—the pattern of Ives’s musical evolution shows another dimension. Elements of both pieces can be found in the second movement (Putnam’s Camp) of the First Orchestral Set: Three Places in New England (1912), Hawthorne of the Concord Sonata (1919), briefly ghosted in the song He is There!, and rehashed in the second movement of the never completed Third Orchestral Set of the 1920s. In each instance, demonstrating precisely the difference between revisions and the redevelopment of existing materials into new compositions, the distinctions should not be confused. With few exceptions, Ives’s much misunderstood “revisions” were limited, almost exclusively, to small details, only. Though detailed in Appendix 1, it is worth noting at this stage the controversy surrounding the dating of Putnam’s Camp, in which Ives incorporated innovative elements to imitate the interactions of independent marching bands. Recalling the oft-cited story of his father’s fascination with the sound of his band clashing with another on Main Street, the effect has become an iconic example of Ives’s modernity. 105 Ives the Innovator Much of the other radical content resembled the advanced techniques, hitherto credited first to Stravinsky (with the composition of The Rite of Spring), the work that stunned the world in 1913. However, in 1990, Carol K. Baron demonstrated and effectively proved that Ives, indeed, had composed Putnam’s Camp in 1912. Some of the innovations Ives reused already existed in Overture and March “1776” and Country Band March, not only a year earlier than The Rite of Spring, but for the better part of a decade. Not long after Country Band March, two substantive short works from around 1906, or so (perhaps as late as 1908), have become standard repertoire, and are vividly indicative of Ives’s newly charted musical course. One, Central Park in the Dark (A Contemplation of Nothing Serious), originally was conceived as part of a group, with The Pond and Hallowe’en in the proposed Three Outdoor Scenes. Eventually, however, it was paired instead with The Unanswered Question (A Contemplation of a Serious Matter), the two pieces appearing together as Two Contemplations. Regardless, all the above works usually are performed separately! As noted by Wayne B. Shirley, the title of the latter might owe its origins no less than to Emerson himself (The Sphinx).16 Most remarkable in these works was their design, in which the layering of fully independent parallel levels, both technically and philosophically conceived, had not been considered previously. Another characteristic common to both Central Park in the Dark and The Unanswered Question was the actual of notation in multiple speeds, rather than simulations by complex divisions of a common meter. Ives’s music was separated not just sonically, but also as entirely unrelated musical entities, as if suspended in different places in space and time—even parallel realities. The Unanswered Question Ives was one of the first composers to resurrect antiphonal writing in modern times. In this vein, Mahler, too, is well known;17 indeed, he had featured antiphonal writing even in his First Symphony approximately twenty years earlier,18 although Mahler ensured the relationships between the separate layers remained linked, technically and musically. Centuries before, Giovanni Gabrieli (the Venetian composer of the Reformation) positioned individual choirs of brass instruments on opposite sides of the sonically grand Saint Mark’s Patriarchal Cathedral Basilica in Venice to create wide-open antiphonal sonorities. Long considered the most effective demonstrations of antiphonal music, the “spatial” effect is awe-inspiring. George Frideric Handel tried it, too, in some of his more festive works. The Royal Fireworks Music set separate forces across the River Thames (did he anticipate George Ives’s experiments across water, perhaps?). Since then, however, antiphonal writing had remained dormant. The Unanswered Question, a radically antiphonal work that followed the otherworldly path trod by Psalm 67, surely was Ives’s first piece to step fully into the cosmic abyss. Deceptively simple, it encompasses three levels of awareness: three separate musical entities blend together the tonal, diffusely tonal and purely atonal. From the perspective of his own earthly surroundings, Ives seems, perhaps, to be glimpsing his place in eternity amongst the stars, The Unanswered Question apparently marking the point that firmly established his vision in musical terms. As one of Ives’s most celebrated compositions, The Unanswered Question demonstrates Ives’s rapidly evolving modernity, even, newfound creative directions. In one short work, through its distant and expansive sounds, divergent musical components, cyclical and dodecaphonic elements, Ives left something for the ages. 106 Ives the Innovator “Thou art the unanswered question” … Emerson (The Sphinx) Image: ESA/Hubble, R. Sahai and NASA Listeners’ guide • An off-stage “choir” of string instruments plays an extremely slow progression of widely spaced, simple diatonic chords; mostly in descending patterns, they are set in an implied, if not necessarily literal, cycle. Most effective in creating the otherworld, static quality when played by a hushed, larger string section (for maximum blend), the progression commences with a long, sustained G major chord, the contemplative mood being fully set before any chordal motion begins. Alone for the first minute, the strings paint a far distant horizon and serene sense of timelessness. It is “The Silence of the Druids” of Ives’s descriptions, in which the strings represent the state of “knowing, seeing and hearing nothing.” • A solo trumpet poses the first of many statements of “the eternal question of existence.” When the sheet music is turned on its side, a line connecting the notation of the trumpet figure appears to outline an actual question mark, laterally inverted, as Stuart Feder noted.19 The figure occupies a vague key center that arguably could belong anywhere, although it seems to gravitate immediately to the note above that of its outset. Should one assume such a visual 107 Ives the Innovator • • • • • “pun” had been the intent, it could be argued that the defining symbol might have been made to conform to actuality even more closely than it does. Nevertheless, the prospect is enticing. The string choir begins to move at strategic moments relative to the trumpet “question”; when the trumpet is active, the strings are passive, and vice versa. The trumpet is answered quietly in random atonal mumblings by four flutes (“The Fighting Answerers”), two of which may be substituted by an oboe and clarinet. Comprised of a descending and ascending atonal wedge, it is built from lines a half-step apart and spread over more than an octave, in aggregate, having dodecaphonic (twelve-tone) origins. The trumpet question is posed another six times, each, except the last, answered by the increasingly agitated and incoherent babble of the “Answerers.” Growing in intensity and shrillness with each huddled discussion, even taking the notes of the question in rapid succession, they mock the question, eventually taking the entire succession of notes. In addition to having twelve-tone foundations, these successive responses also reflect further coded logic, each being progressively louder and faster: more early precursors of serialism in twentieth century music. After another attempt at asking the “question,” and some final shrill screams of laughter from the “Answerers,” all that remains is the stillness of the strings. Holding a G major chord, one last plaintive, seemingly more reflective statement of the “question” is posed. As if dumbfounded, the now-silent woodwinds leave the listener suspended, as if hanging in space. The great mysteries about life, death, and eternity, remain, as ever, irresolvable. Ives “engineered” the competing entities to fall at the most poignant places relative to the string progressions, their placements being nothing short of inspired. Despite the fact that every performance will produce slight variations in the alignments, no change to the musical effect results! Such loose coordinations reflect, too, the beginnings of aleatoric writing (from the Latin, “alea,” for “dice”), in another anticipation of techniques made famous by others in the years following. One of the first such works subscribing to the principle “in toto,” was John Cage’s Music of Changes (1951), which is entirely dependent on chance events. Cage not only knew Ives, but also was a student of Henry Cowell. Although Ives would make some revisions to this work in the 1930s, its character was not fundamentally altered. The most obvious difference is the trumpet “question,” in which the last note of each statement alternates between two different pitches a half-step apart. Additionally, the flute parts were made somewhat more shrill and complex. Even a casual hearing, however, confirms that the revisions were not radical; they did not make the piece more dissonant (“modern”), as demonstrated by Carol K. Baron.20 Indeed, the slightly modified last note(s) of the question only confirms its tonal, consonant roots, in this instance, resulting in a slightly smoother and more colorful whole. Thus, one question did get answered: how modern the original version of a revised work by Ives actually was. Demonstrating that conceptions of any of his works were largely whole from the beginning, the so-called later revisions seldom changed them in any substantive way. Because it is not rare that many composers revisit and refine long-extant compositions, what Ives did was more the norm than the exception.21 The real unanswered question is why he has been relentlessly singled out for doing so. 108 Ives the Innovator {{PD-Art}} Was The Unanswered Question perhaps Ives’s own “Music of the Spheres?” Pythagoras’s view of the cosmos from the ancient world proposed that mathematical ratios between the eight members of the greater solar system known at the time created a type of unheard music in the Heavens, as he envisaged cosmic forces in parallel reflecting oneness man with the eight notes of the scale. Of course, it was too soon in history for Pythagoras to know that there were more than eight members of the solar system; Pluto and the minor planets (planetoids), asteroids and comets alone fundamentally disavow any notion of the ancient model. Coincidentally, as it happens, Ives himself was enamored of Pythagoras’s tuning system, and would feature it many years later in the Universe Symphony. Along with many mathematically derived musical principles, Ives again broke new ground with a type of music that he linked to the near-processional processes of the cosmos. The Unanswered Question seems to inhabit that place, too. Through a strangely satisfying, yet bizarrely disembodied language, the piece projects an impression of great expanse and distance. In the few years since its belated first performance (in 1946), it has become almost institutional amongst Ives followers, even by those who do not know the identity of the The Music of the Spheres haunting music they are hearing. Staking its claim as one of the Italian Renaissance engraving showing most iconic little masterpieces of the twentieth century, and the planetary spheres and musical ratios. sometimes even accompanying a film or television production (e.g., in Young Goodman Brown [1972], The Thin Red Line [1998], Run Lola, Run [1998], Wit [2001], amongst others), the fact that it exists as a concert work—even more by a composer of whom the viewer might never have heard—might be all the more surprising. And how many people will be aware that the early place it occupies in the twentieth century almost belonged to the century before! Central Park in the Dark At one time Central Park in the Dark was known by a longer title than it is now: Central Park in the Dark “In The Good Old Summertime,” owing the second part of the title to a popular 1902 Tin Pan Alley tune. In addition to setting the time of year, does the melody, too, have some special unknown connotation in this composition, even though, officially, it does not appear? Ives recalled the sounds that could be heard across the stillness of the night from a park bench—from the casino, street singers, rowdy gadflies, people engaged in pianola “ragtime wars” (per Ives’s description) from their open apartment windows, a fire engine, street cars and the like, even a runaway horse and buggy—interacting in the warm night air in a scene similar to some still possible, perhaps, to experience in some degree to this day. 109 Ives the Innovator Featuring a number of quotes from the most vernacular of sources—primarily the once iconic Ben Bolt (Nelson Kneass), the Scottish-derived The Campbells are Comin’, Sousa’s Washington Post March, and the most striking of all, the ragtime Hello! Ma Baby (Howard & Emerson)—the identities of these fragments, however, have been transformed in the classic Ives manner, so that none, with the exception of Hello! Ma Baby, are easy to detect. Yet, even the latter has undergone significant rhythmic and pitch transformations to give it more wildly reckless abandon. Image: AC Ives would raise the layered and “spatial” ideas of The Unanswered Question to new extremes. The material of the independent string choir (common to both pieces) is structured in a true cycle, its harmony built of new types of chords (“quartal” and “quintal”) he had begun to develop during the late 1890’s. The handling of the strings differs, too, from that of The Unanswered Question; here, the volume grows alongside the emerging cacophony elsewhere, even though its speed remains constant. In the rest of the orchestra, the element of chaos builds until many simultaneous effective speeds are in play. Central Park in the Dark, however, is anything but the spiritual excursion of its sister piece, although the perfectly portrayed night scene of its “spatial” sonorities puts it into the category of music that belongs to another place and time, something hardly lost on the modern listener—though the time implied is not necessarily that of the past! In a brief article about Central Park in the Dark in the book, The Philosophy of Music: Theme and Variations, by Aaron Ridley, one can begin to surmise what Ives experienced during his lifetime at the hands of his closed-minded critics.22 For Ridley’s 2005 commentary to have appeared anywhere near to 110 Ives the Innovator this day is more than surprising. Although he seemed well attuned to the intent of the music—at least— even the significance of its priority, he brushed aside Ives’s masterpiece, dismissively mischaracterizing even the musical imagery of Ives’s sound painting, while failing to comprehend the deliberate inconsistencies of its musical components, let alone what they convey. Central Park in the Dark, however, needs no validation; standing as an iconic soundscape, it is undiminished by time over a century later, locked into a surreal and contemplative dalliance with the circumstances of its creation. Listeners’ guide • The silence of the night is represented by the string section. As distinctive and effective a portrayal of an extra-musical idea as anything ever conceived, it seems even to anticipate Music for Strings, Percussion and Celeste (1936) by Béla Bartók, some thirty years later. Harmonically, moving in parallel blocks that expand and contract in an endlessly drifting cyclical ostinato, Ives’s “night” chords are structured from unconventional chordal intervals— perfect fourths and fifths, instead of thirds. (Coincidentally, such harmony corresponds— though Ives’s is more radical—to those used in some yet earlier predictive works by Erik Satie.) The level of dissonant harmonic tension fluctuates throughout the repeating cycle, its internal rhythmic accumulation and relaxation, range and total tones continuing independently of all that surrounds it. Also avoiding any sense of a perceptibly discernable tempo, later, as the rest of the orchestra accelerates, the relative pace of the strings remains constant. • Hauntingly, like a night owl, the clarinet twice gently hoots fragments of Ben Bolt, a popular song at the time. Supposedly the sounds emanating from the nearby casino, it is a good example of Ives’s ability to transform whatever he was quoting in order to give it the character of something else entirely. Joined later by the flute and oboe, set a half-step and half-beat apart (apparently imitating street musicians),23 and even a solo violin with a fragment of Violets (another tune of long ago), the mood is interrupted by the rhythmic ghosting of Hello! Ma Baby. • With another quote from Ben Bolt, then Hello! Ma Baby again, the music begins to gather momentum rapidly (the strings continuing to maintain the original tempo). All other members of the ensemble move increasingly fast with each new segment. • The music develops over various repeating twelve-bar cycles built on Hello! Ma Baby, initiated by the piano. The earlier melodic fragment in the flute and oboe continues to conjure up bawdy street musicians. • The flute and oboe are joined by the high E-flat clarinet; in canonic response to the piano it also hoots Hello! Ma Baby. Now stridently and at a faster tempo still, the identity of the twisted tune is now completely clear. • An interruption from the trombone, with rhythmic jabs in the second piano, continues the musical buildup. Short, discreet references in the uppermost flute line to The Campbells are Comin’ are placed so subtly one could be forgiven for missing them entirely. Later, the second piano enters with what has been presumed to be the fraternity song, Freshmen in Park. Perhaps, though, was it derived from the ghoulish funeral melody of The Worms Crawl In 111 Ives the Innovator (originally in a minor key). The major form also would suggest the English nursery rhyme, Boys and Girls Come Out to Play, which certainly would not have been inappropriate in this context. • Finally, Hello! Ma Baby bursts in with full force, the trumpet taking the lead, the E-flat clarinet echoing it imitatively (in canon), while the second piano plays Sousa’s Washington Post March in the style of a street band, off the beat (syncopated). • Compounding matters, Freshmen in Park shrieks high above the fray, ultimately assuming its own tempo, while the orchestra builds to the final frenzy that Ives described as a runaway horse and buggy crashing into a fence. • The wild pandemonium, even with what sounds like flapping bat wings, cuts off abruptly, leaving the string ostinato drifting into the stillness of the night, the clarinet once again intoning Ben Bolt with a solitary flute and violin echoing. {{PD-Art}} At this stage of Ives’s compositional life, Central Park in the Dark and The Unanswered Question had established the road to his destination; there would be no turning back. Although the scenes he painted were set in Ives’s present, they took him to a future perhaps beyond even his wildest imagination. Ives had defied the readily accepted musical language of his Post-Romantic contemporaries, and in doing so, created a hitherto unknown balance of the familiar and alien that still seems to stand unique in all Western music. ENDNOTES 1 David Nicholls, American Experimental Music (Cambridge, UK, Cambridge University Press, 1990), 33. 2 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1991), 46. 3 Ibid., 47. 4 Ibid., 49. 5 Philip Lambert, The Music of Charles Ives (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1997). 6 For example: Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008), 74–82; also Maynard Solomon, “Charles Ives: Some Questions of Veracity” Journal of the American Musicological Society 40, 3 (Fall 1987): 464; Michael Broyles, “Charles Ives and the American Democratic Tradition,” in Charles Ives and His World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 139; Stuart Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song,” a Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1992), 183. 7 Henry and Sidney Cowell, Charles Ives and His Music (New York, Oxford University Press, 1969), 20. 8 Stuart Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song,” a Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1992), 197–98. 112 9 Feder, “My Father’s Song,” 2. (Wordsworth’s words are: “A sound of a distant horn; O’er shadowed lake is born; My father’s song!” These words, of course, inspired the title of Feder’s book.) 10 Ives, Memos, 62. 11 Jan Swafford, Charles Ives: A Life With Music (New York, W.W. Norton & Co., 1996), 179. 12 Ives, Memos, 44, 63. 13 Ibid., 142. 14 Compare the various lyrics at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ta-ra-ra_Boom-de-ay 15 Ibid., 44–45. 16 Wayne D. Shirley, “Once More Through The Unanswered Question,” Newsletter of the Institute for Studies in American Music, XVIII (May 1989): 2. 17 Leon Botstein, “Innovations and Nostalgia: Ives, Mahler, and the Origins of Modernism,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 45–46. 18 The symphony still was subject to Mahler’s revisions as late as 1896, for which he has not been subjected to any of the latterday skepticism as has Ives in regard to his own revisons. 19 Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song,” a Psychoanalytic Biography, 196. 20 Carol K. Baron, “Dating Charles Ives’s Music: Facts and Fictions,” Perspectives of New Music (Winter issue, 1990): 26–29. 21 Many composers, perhaps even most, have returned to their earlier works to make changes for posterity. Dvořák, for example, a composer who has been unfairly tied to some of Ives’s early works, made revisions, not unlike those by Ives, to many of his songs; see Jan Smaczny, “Cypresses: A Song Cycle and its Metamorphoses,” in Rethinking Dvořák: Views from Five Countries, ed. David R. Beveridge, (New York, Oxford University Press, 1996), 55–70. 22 Aaron Ridley, The Philosophy of Music: Theme and Variations Edinburgh (Edinburgh, UK, University Press, 2004). 23 The identity of the fragment of melody in the flute and oboe has long remained a mystery. The writer contends that it might be, in fact, the very connection to the tune, In The Good Ol’ Summertime. Examined carefully, it can be seen that the fundamental melodic “cell” of the tune encompasses the four pitches of a perfect fourth; for the most part, so does the fragment appearing in Central Park in the Dark. 113 CHAPTER 7 Ives in Danbury T ves’s hometown of Danbury, Connecticut, was the focal point of his upbringing, and consequently, his early impressions of America, even the world. Life in similar towns in New England during the nineteenth century was rugged, simple and honest, their citizens’ semi-isolated state of existence further reinforced by the difficulties of travel. Cultural traditions mattered. In Danbury, since most of its residents had direct links through their families to the Civil War, its lingering spirit of survival and renewal fostered mutual support. Shared observance of patriotic holidays, served, thus, to further bond the people with a commonality strengthened in turn by communal worship. Ives seemed to know that his Danbury horizons ultimately were too provincial, too limiting. Just as he had outgrown Parker’s world, he outgrew the little city of his youth soon after he had left Danbury for New Haven, especially with his father’s untimely passing; it was as if the town also had gone with him, too. His outlook further broadened substantially after relocating to New York City immediately after college: Ives had no intention ever of returning to live in his hometown. The precipitous decline of its once booming hatmaking industry further added to its permanent change. Ives chose, nevertheless, to build his country estate not far from his provincial beginnings, although West Redding might have seemed light years away. Even after his mother, Mollie, died, Ives chose not to return to Danbury to visit, other than once. His stunned reaction upon seeing Danbury for the last time in 1939 was a shocking reminder that the town, as he remembered it, no longer existed. He would, however, retain his cultural heritage, acting no more as a retrograde force than did, say, Prokofiev’s, or Bartók’s ethnic roots. The twentieth century, however, had brought an alarming invasion of all things alien to Ives’s values: hedonism, mechanical automation, depersonalization, an increasingly superficial media, and the socially glamorous mirage of the slick and glossy world of entertainment. Although World War I and its aftermath dealt a further blow to Ives’s visions for society, he tried to maintain his optimism for an enlightened world, free from oppression. Songs, such as He is There!, and Majority (written in the wake of political disappointment) speak to it, although his subsequent gradual withdrawal into a near seclusion (from illhealth) was not a reflection of disillusionment. Not unhappy, however, in the solitude and peace that he found at home, Ives, thus, would write many compositions centered on the colorful scenes still vivid in his memory. Early musical excursions from it, too, often evolved into larger soundscapes, e.g., The American Woods and Overture, Town, Gown and State both had been incorporated into the Second Symphony. Ives would draw, too, from his experiences at Yale, in pieces, such as Calcium Light Night and Scherzo: All the Way Around and Back; also from his time in New York City, e.g., Central Park in the Dark, Scherzo: Over the Pavements, and much of the Fourth Symphony; stress-relieving vacations away from the city in the Adirondacks led to such works as Hawthorne in the Concord Sonata, and the Universe Symphony. As always, it was his own experiences that remained at the core of his predominant musical subjects, almost through to the end of his output. The Symphony of Holidays typifies that core. 115 Ives in Danbury The Symphony of Holidays The Symphony of Holidays (Washington’s Birthday, Decoration Day, The Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving and Forefathers’ Day) could not better illustrate the authentic reflections of Ives’s culture. Around 1905, following his assemblage of some organ pieces, notably his Prelude and Postlude for a Thanksgiving Service of 1897, into what became Thanksgiving and Forefathers’ Day, Ives envisaged an expansion of the idea. In depicting four patriotic holidays from his firsthand experience in the form of a symphonic collection, ultimately he would settle on the term, “symphony,” to categorize it.1 Ives left fairly extensive commentary about the Symphony of Holidays in Memos, which serves to answer most questions.2 However, his comments are positioned as if the reader already is familiar with the subject, so not every pertinent detail seems addressed, despite the breadth of discussion. Remaining loathe to reveal too much of his methodology, also, Ives always couched his descriptions in tantalizing commentary that, nevertheless, seems to skirt precisely the specifics one seeks, as if by doing so he would diminish the creative processes behind them. One should not expect the type of formal plan normally found in a work fitting such a description, however. And even though the idea itself was hatched in an instant, it is clear that originally Ives did not conceive the music for each “movement” at that time, either, since the first three begin in a similar vein. Although all may be played separately, all share common festive themes that were high points in Ives’s youth. Because all four holidays occurred in each of the four seasons, consequently, they are sometimes loosely termed, “Ives’s Four Seasons,” in an obvious reference to The Four Seasons by Antonio Vivaldi (1678–1741). The old-world charm of the subject matter of Ives’s collection notwithstanding, nonetheless, it seems to contradict the radical music maker. However, as the bona fide modernist invoked his inherited culture from personal experience, why should modernism necessarily avoid visual depictions of the traditional—or in Ives’s case, events from his life? Ives puts his listeners into vivid scenes as he had experienced them. Regardless, only some of the content is spelled out programmatically, the remainder being left to the listener’s imagination. The last movement, Thanksgiving, however, differs from the others, being based more around Ives’s interpretations of the Pilgrims’ traditions and observance than his attempt to capture his own experiences on that particular day. Washington’s Birthday Washington’s Birthday, today, unofficially known as “Presidents Day,” also is the occasion in which the “Purple Heart” is awarded—the first military badge of merit established by General George Washington. Today, it is an occasion in which to hold automobile sales! Far from commemorating the holiday with something steeped in reverence, Ives chose to paint a more realistic picture of the way the holiday was celebrated in his part of the world; humorous and near irreverent, it meant no disrespect, however, towards “The Father of the Country”! Depicting a young person’s celebration of the holiday, the movement features a romp across the snow to a local barn dance, typical of his and his father’s youth. Starting in a serious vein with stark imagery of winter snow scenes, the listener is led to expect an entirely different outcome. Started around 1913 from preliminary sketches Ives made in 1909, the movement features the 116 Ives in Danbury {{PD-Art}} smallest orchestra of the set, including, though, a Jew’s harp (!). If it seems an unlikely choice, it is entirely in keeping with actual practice; many people at a barn dance would have had one. Because Ives contemplated that up to a hundred might be needed in order that the part be heard, such a number, thus, was far from a composer’s unrealistic pipe dream! With modern amplification, however, only one such instrument is required. In barn dances, as many as three or more separate dances might have taken place simultaneously within the cavernous spaces; as the libation flowed, wayward ensembles might start up at any time. A scene Ives and his father had witnessed, the resulting multiple speeds, rhythms and separate layers corresponded perfectly to his musical instincts. Capturing it in Washington’s Birthday, even as it defies precise analysis, the musical effect also is slightly misleading, because in spite of its advanced technical features the movement might seem closer to the music of Thanksgiving and Forefathers’ Day, stylistically, than the others. It parts company with Thanksgiving in its multilayered polyphony, polytempi, polyrhythms, and polytonality, features that belong to later years. Listeners’ guide • The opening paints the depths of winter in a snow-clad scene. John Kirkpatrick thought that quoted material was derived from two tunes that feature home life provided the foundation; indeed, what seem to be references to the beginning of Home, Sweet Home in the violins, and Old Folks at Home in the horns can be heard in a musical dialog, though neither are outright quotes (except, perhaps, initially, the latter). One could be forgiven for not identifying them at all. Perhaps their inclusion was meant to portray cozy cottages dotted across the landscape. • The horn drops out, as the violins continue in a hauntingly high register with one last allusion to Old Folks at Home. With the flute and oboe, this complex polytonal section is built on a shifting arpeggiated figure that ascends from the lowest registers. • An extended section for the strings follows, with a line of shadow counterpoint in the flute; featuring gentle syncopated chords, their strident dissonance notwithstanding, the music continues to paint the bleak winter horizons, now without quoted material. • The music grows more restless, the strings soaring higher in register. Gentle bells (sleighbells, perhaps?) join the ensemble with additional shadow writing. Articulated chords repeated as arpeggiated figures interrupt the flow. 117 Ives in Danbury • The horn joins with a serene melodic line, accompanied by fragmented strings, now-shifting arpeggiated figures again appearing below. • Increasing motion interrupts the stillness of the winter scene. It is the beginning of the famous portrayal of the romp through the snow. Over increasingly restless shadow lines, the strings play up-and-down waves of strident chords that represent the hills and dales. Moving in parallel and built from unconventional intervals, the notation on the page resembles sled tracks! • A snippet of Turkey in the Straw can be heard in the flute, followed by an even smaller clip from Sailor’s Hornpipe. Kirkpatrick thought they might represent the distant sounds of music wafting from the distant barn. The travelers reach the barn and the music winds down. • With string chords ushering a fanfare, the dance begins! For a time, the largely traditional gait of the music lulls the listener into complacency, until another fragment of the Sailor’s Hornpipe in the flute indicates that some members of the assembled group have broken away on their own. Soon, others separate from the main group to play strains of De Camptown Races. Someone is singled out for congratulation as a fragment of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow interjects (most likely, Washington!). During this emerging scene, complex syncopated rhythms, even technically predictive sliding low string clusters, speak to the modernity of the music, belying the superficially folksy charm. • As the dance lurches clumsily to a stop, someone takes a Jew’s harp out of his pocket and joins the group, which has now started playing The White Cockade. The flute chimes in a fragment of Turkey in the Straw, followed by “Down in de cornfield” (from Massa’s in de Cold Ground) in a low register, both seeming like half-hearted attempts to get something else going. The flute, now sounding lost, adds to the growing near-chaos, as further separate dances break out all over the barn! • Turkey in the Straw joins again; sounding now more full and confident, eventually the flute switches to piccolo; The White Cockade continues in the strings, as The Campbells are Comin’ joins the musical disarray in the horn. • The horn morphs into Garryowen, which only further compounds matters when it switches to St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning while the piccolo tries to play Fisher’s Hornpipe. By now, the music is becoming increasingly disorganized; near chaos is taking over, the increasingly polytonal and cyclical supportive texture vividly depicting the scene. • Finally, chaos reigns! Coming to a screeching halt, with a tone cluster (similar to the last chord of the Second Symphony)—precisely indicative of George Ives’s customary cue to call it a night3—all that is left are the strings, later joined by the horn and bells, playing the “sentimental songs” of Ives’s description in the program notes. • Over a saccharin melodic line (likely original material), a solitary violin (apparently reluctant to call it a night) plays a shadow part, consisting of a blend of Pig Town Fling and Turkey in the Straw; unsurprisingly, it is in a different key. (This figure is a throwback to the Second Symphony.) A weary Goodnight Ladies in the strings and flute ushers the exhausted partygoers back into the cold in the middle of the night to trudge home over the wintery snowcovered terrain. 118 Ives in Danbury Washington’s Birthday ranks with The Fourth of July as one of the most lighthearted of Ives’s larger scale works. Consequently, one should not try to intellectualize the meaning of the music too much. The movements, intended to reflect the spirit of the festivity each represented, invite all to step into the scenes and take part. Decoration Day Decoration Day was the nineteenth century forerunner of Memorial Day in America, and observed originally as a national public holiday to commemorate those who had {{PD-Art}} died in the Civil War. The holiday would have evoked strong emotions and memories for Ives, because, not only was his father a survivor of the bitterly fought war, but also had played in the service and led the band every year in the march from the cemetery (which his own father cofounded) back into town. Now George Ives, too, was one of Charles Ives’s fallen heroes. Stuart Feder understood George’s central role in the music, although, his further interpretation of some of the underlying imagery seems self-consciously contrived and stretched beyond incredulity—even into the realm of the ludicrous.4 Dating this work is a little tricky. Though stylistically, it falls in line with Ives’s dates (1912/1913), what survives of the supposedly original sketch materials and version (for violin and piano) has become a victim of the faux “science” of manuscript paper dating that has placed it—untenably— a couple of years later! Because Ives notated years later that the violin version was arranged from the orchestral score, it would seem to address the situation, although Kirkpatrick disagreed! In fact, parts of the work appear to have emanated from far earlier, according to Ives’s remarks in Memos. Most notably, the Adeste Fideles segment, which features so prominently in this movement, also once was part of Ives’s teenage 1887 Slow March.5 If Decoration Day is a less radical composition than might have been expected of Ives for its year— though it is still far from conventional—its somber religiosity, and direct link to his father, probably caused him to take a less extreme approach, just as he had in his church compositions. In any event, the music still is decidedly in advance of the Third Symphony, but greatly distant from the Fourth or Universe Symphonies. As in the Third Symphony, Ives featured true shadow counterpoint at times. In most of the remainder, similar appearing writing can be only loosely described as such; frequently found mimicking the first violin part, typically lying a half-step apart. Feder thought that the “extra” violin might represent his father; in what capacity, however, is hard to guess, although certainly it is possible; however, in view 119 Ives in Danbury of similar writing in other works, the supposition is speculative.6 There are moments, too, that are vaguely reminiscent of the poetic works of Delius, the British composer whose music shortly predated Ives—a similar type of subtle impressionistic imagery seeming evident (e.g., Brigg Fair of 1907), although it seems hardly likely that Ives would have heard any of that composer’s work. Overall, however, the music speaks in Ives’s distinct harmonic language (and hence, sound)—the chord structures often being formed from notes a step, or only a half step apart, though placed in different octaves. The subsequent wide intervals between these notes create a ghostly angst. Because such pitch relationships and intervals can be demonstrated to typify many of Ives’s harmonic structures (in Washington’s Birthday, for example), they can be considered a defining part of his methodology. Common to some of Ives’s other works of the time, many of melodic lines also feature increasingly wide leaps between notes, a characteristic more fully developed in the Universe Symphony. With the music weaving seamlessly in and out of tonality, its dreamlike quality, in some ways reminiscent of the Third Symphony, surely represented the depth of Ives’s lingering emotional burden. Listeners’ guide In Ives’s description, the townsfolk gather in the early morning for the collection of flowers to decorate the soldiers’ graves. The generally somber mood can be felt, even resonating in overtones of near anger at times. Partly reflecting of old tensions going into the Civil War, the lives of many close relatives and friends would have been lost in what most would have considered an avoidable conflict. The people are joined in their procession to the cemetery by horses and carriages, veterans, army members, the town band, even the fire engine company with its bells gently ringing; some marchers quietly and solemnly sing Adeste Fideles. After the graves are decorated, Taps is heard, and the assembled gathering sings Bethany. Both are superimposed, though surely the trumpet is George Ives playing. The ceremony concluded, the band strikes up a rousing march and approaches the gravesite to lead the crowd in procession back to town. In a “fast forward” to the end of the day, nightfall encroaches. The sun will shine brighter tomorrow. • The quiet opening represents daybreak. It has been suggested that in the muted violins, combined fragments of Taps and Bethany are hauntingly changed into a ghostly premonition of the decoration service; more likely, though, it is Adeste Fideles. • The English horn states the principal thematic motif of the first part of the piece (in the writer’s view, unquestionably, quoting Dies Irae), as the violin lines seem to float upwards in a dialog with the French horns and oboe. (The Dies Irae fragment appears in numerous restatements and variations over a considerable segment of the piece. In fact, a subtle harmonic code can be traced: the tonic tones of the various keys in which the motif appears are balanced precisely by the sustained tones of the accompaniment at the beginning of the piece—to complete an aggregate of all twelve pitches that comprise an octave!) • An anxious rush and surge in the music surely represents one of the depictions of townsfolk bitterly reflecting upon their losses. The writing features a fragment of Lambeth, the hymn that Ives referred to, and that, oddly, is considered absent by most analysts. 120 Ives in Danbury • With the music subsiding in wistful sighs, Dies Irae can be heard again in the strings, followed by a glimpse of Marching through Georgia in the horn, then in the flute and oboe. There is even a brief hint of Massa’s in de Cold Ground in the bassoon—surely a salute to abolitionists—then again in the violins. Lightly ringing high bells represent the fire engine company that joins with the people for the march to the cemetery. • Suddenly, a more militaristic and strident passage interrupts the mood of quiet resignation with piercing shrillness and stark angst, the pickups from Taps featured motivically. • In the procession to the gravesides, the eerie ringing of the fire engine company bells is accompanied by deathly, even sickening sighs in the upper strings, against shuddering in the lower strings. • A solemn march commences. It is Ives’s creatively modified Adeste Fideles, and presumably what remains of the 1887 Slow March. (The “walking” pizzicato [plucked] bass line is one of the moments reminiscent of the music of Delius.) • Pulsing notes in the strings hint of the Fate Motif, in a treatment similar to that in the third movement of the Second Symphony. Serving a double purpose, actually, however, it is a wistful allusion to Tenting in the Old Campground, which evolves into a quote from The Battle Cry of Freedom in the first violins, typically, appearing in an entirely unexpected setting. The strings round out the passage with an extension of Adeste Fideles, amid a further shuddering in the lower strings; the graveyard (a musical depiction of Wooster Cemetery in Danbury) now is in sight. • Marking the ceremony, in one of Ives’s most magical and poignantly moving moments, a distant trumpet plays Taps set against a shimmering choir of violins playing Bethany quietly in the background; they are surprisingly matched in tonality, if not harmony. • At the low point, heavy footsteps and drumbeats (reminiscent of “piano drumming”) interrupt the somber mood; the band is approaching to lead the people back into town. In a burst of near-hallucinogenic exuberance, the Second Regiment Connecticut National Guard March (by David Wallis Reeves, and one of Ives’s personal favorites)—with all the nineteenth century frills typical of actual practice at the time—bursts upon the scene. Polytonally modified according to Ives’s whims, the upper woodwinds even play something resembling Reveille! • Underneath the bellowing marching band, a lone viola and gentle bells continue to play Taps. Not exactly shadow counterpoint, surely their presence was, for Ives, out of a need for its symbolism, rather than of any realistic expectation of being heard. • With a final victorious cadence, the procession has arrived back in town; reality sets in again as the pensive mood returns. Reflecting once more the quiet sounds that began the day, it is now evening, and time for the town people to renew their spirits for a better future. Unfortunately, the exhilaration of Reeves’s march setting is so great that many of the polytonal details become obscured unless the performers pay special attention to them. Ives, far from oblivious to practical considerations of orchestration, as some have suggested, was keenly aware of balance problems and the need for separate and placement of the instruments in performance. Though advances in technology can 121 Ives in Danbury resolve many such issues, many of the sounds Ives had in mind here would benefit with more care and understanding than found in any reading the writer has heard. Thus, rather than blame Ives’s orchestration, special heed should be paid to the unique requirements of each piece, because most balance issues, perhaps, are attainable even without any special means. Other than a reliance of the players’ awareness, Ives’s scoring of the march is relatively conventional. For him, easy music making was no more desirable than easy listening (see again comments about Brahms’s orchestration in Chapter 3). Serving as a perpetual reminder of Ives’s legacy and heritage, Decoration Day is a somber work, one that demonstrates characteristics often considered not part of his lexicon. If such soundscapes do not dominate Ives’s music, they can be found variously throughout his output, nevertheless. The Fourth of July This particular holiday, the habitual favorite of the young, was quite a dangerous time in the late nineteenth century. With little supervision of any kind, large crowds and unreliable and unregulated fireworks, anything could happen. Anticipated as a rip-roaring good time whenever and whatever the excuse—such a boisterous laissez-faire was as common then as it is today! Ives did not shy away from portraying some of the things that could go wrong: an accidental explosion, gunfire, even the Town Hall being set afire. Ives must have witnessed and participated in the not-always-universally-happy scene numerous times, his personal recollections vivid in his memory. As a musical depiction of general revelry and disorderly conduct, Ives did not conceive The Fourth of July as high art; nevertheless, the result is high art. Conceived, however, without the need of elaborate justification or intellectual fanfare, The Fourth of July was supposed to be fun for the listener, invoking the preparations, build-up, and celebration of the annual holiday. In the spirit of the occasion, Ives wrote his piece discarding most practical considerations (even by his standards!), believing that it might not even be playable at all. Using every trick in his book to achieve the result he had in mind resulted in about six minutes of some of the most tangled orchestral writing ever put onto a page of manuscript. One almost can feel the crowds pouring into the town square for the parade and fireworks, the growing pandemonium of frenzy and celebration, the scattered street musicians, the town band on Main Street, the explosions, gun fire, brawls, rowdy drunkards, even a pick-up baseball game (!). One senses being “right there” amidst the excitement. The depiction of the firework display is particularly {{PD-Art}} 122 Ives in Danbury vivid, painting the brilliant lights and trails of smoke lighting up the sky, concluding with the traditional ascent of the rocket over the church steeple. Written somewhere in the second decade of the twentieth century, the precise date of The Fourth of July has been hard to ascertain. However, it is likely that it was laid out in some form prior to 1913,7 even though the final additions to the last version date from the mid-1920s. A large-scale realization of many of the innovations in Ives’s earlier works, notably one from 1904 that depicted an explosion on the boat “General Slocum” and a piece of the same name,8 The Fourth of July required considerable thought and planning to achieve the astonishing effects he had in mind. Ives even included the enthusiastic, yet terrible performance of the town band—all out of tune, laden with wrong notes, and coming apart at the seems with regularity. By utilizing written shifts of synchronization within the overall speed, near-octaves— major 7ths and minor 9ths—as well as carefully contrived dynamics from note to note, Ives was able to simulate the effect of poor intonation, and, even, the typical mix-ups of the tune(s) that he must have heard many times. The radical techniques used in the short time frame are remarkable by any standards; more specifically: • Melody and Harmony Ives was enamored of the tune, Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, over his entire life. In The Fourth of July, elements of it can be found throughout the texture from the beginning to the end. Surrounded and frequently accompanied by a multitude of other melodic fragments, Columbia remains predominant, although it is heard in its entirety only near the high point of the piece—just as in the Second Symphony—in this movement it represents an advanced evolution of cumulative form. Its incorporation extends, too, to quartal and quintal harmonies derived from strongly characteristic intervals of the melody a fourth or fifth apart, found at its extremes and within it (these intervals really are just inversions of each other), and regularly incorporated into the composition, both melodically and harmonically. It is noteworthy that the tones of the former chords complement those of the latter, to create an aggregate of the twelve pitches. In works, such as The Cage (which he cited as the source), and Central Park in the Dark, he demonstrated in normalized usage in his music the successful application of these chord structures, as well as other innovations from his early years. However, even more innovation was needed for Ives’s aims in The Fourth of July, including He even tone clusters (notes piled upon one another without spaces in between), and aleatoric “chords” (in which the choices of notes were left up to the performer). • Tonality Finding new ways to organize successions of tones into melodic and supporting lines, The Fourth of July contains cyclic manipulations of the twelve-tone rows Ives had developed during his earlier years. The roots of such techniques, again, can be traced back further to his father’s musical thinking, as detailed earlier (regarding integer notation in his lesson notes on music theory),9 especially in relation to Arnold Schönberg, who applied pure dodecaphony to all twelve possible named pitches in freely-selected succession. With no tone repeated, consequently, Schönberg subjected the tones to an array of organizational developments that continue to reflect the “encoded” order of those pitches. Ives did not subscribe to the adoption 123 Ives in Danbury of dodecaphony as the sole basis for a composition, however—as his comments on the score of Majority make clear, another work dating from about the same time as The Fourth of July (see also Chapter 11). Ives’s use of tone clusters, which also defy tonal roots, were, themselves, another innovation, years ahead of their “discovery” by other composers. • Rhythm The composition features multiple applications of many of Ives’s earlier rhythmic innovations, including mixed rhythmic divisions, independent linear components, and polytempi. Horizontal rhythmic separations were attained by the use of mixed parallel meters (rhythmic groupings, as well as bar lines) that enable the ensemble to fall in and out of synchronization as if by accident. Rhythmically, the constantly changing and varied textures are as striking as are the visual suggestions of the sounds—the intentions, at least, easy to grasp in this orchestral tour de force. Cyclical elements are utilized in various ways, too, including, at the climax of the piece as glissando strings (sliding) play tone clusters in opposing motion in measured increments. Listeners’ guide • The opening scene depicts the approaching dusk: as if in anticipation, a quiet tone cluster in the lower strings provides a muted backdrop to a fragment of Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean in the first violins (almost unrecognizably belonging to the famous tune). Soon, the second violins join with a quiet Columbia-derived militaristic call to action. Urgent stirring informs the listener that The Fourth of July will not be a relaxing experience. • Declamatory statements in the basses are ominous and eager in their rhythmic urgency. Based again on Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, harmonic intensity and nervous motion in the upper violins follows. A further hint of Columbia in the low trombone punctuates slow chords in the lower strings. • A flurry of activity (organized within a systemized musical gesture) follows in the strings and woodwinds, strikingly set in contrary motion and deliberate atonality. Another militaristic hint (of a bugle call?) in the piccolo is, in fact, a cuckoo. Apparently, the bird is as keenly aware as the human population of what the preparations signify. • With rhythmic anticipations, the entire string section (plus tuba) builds upon harmonic material initiated by the basses, while flute and piccolo add more fragments of Columbia. • Following another systematically organized gesture of skittering tones in the strings, the woodwinds join the discourse, adding to the rhythmic anticipations. Snippets of material from Columbia are spread between the woodwinds and horn. • A tiny quote (perhaps hard to discern) in the cellos from The Battle Cry of Freedom anticipates a prominent Columbia-based passage in the flutes and piccolo, while the clarinet interjects a militaristic call. • Overlapping the end of the fragment from The Battle Cry, the trumpet plays a stirring syncopated quotation from Marching Through Georgia. 124 Ives in Danbury • Without warning, a ringing, echoing gunshot is simulated across the orchestra. Interrupting any sense of remaining peace, it, too, was achieved by systematic organization of the intervals between groups of close pitches, as well as members of instrumental families. • Against conflicting jazzy rhythms in the woodwinds, aficionados of Ives’s songs will recognize a brief fragment from Old Home Day in the violins (Ives quoting Ives in another musical setting of an event on Main Street). Ives officially dated it at 1920, no doubt, when completing the fair copy for 114 Songs, though clearly it was extant before The Fourth of July was composed in order for it to appear as a quote—unless, perhaps, it was added late into the final version. The oboe, flutes and piccolo also play a hornpipe; the strings, take a prominent quote from The Battle Hymn of the Republic, and another from Old Home Day. • The horns burst in with another quote from The Battle Cry of Freedom, developed into a cyclical, strongly rhythmic passage in the strings; it is joined, too, by Reveille in the horns, then trumpet. • The energy continues to grow; a further fragment of Columbia, the Gem is interrupted by a brief allusion to Hail, Columbia in the bassoons and clarinet. • A short quote from London Bridge is Falling Down is divided so subtly amongst the woodwinds, as well as transiting descending octaves, that it might not be caught by the majority of listeners. • An “accidental” firework explosion across the orchestra follows, the effect achieved by the use of twelve-tone aggregates, serialistic rhythmic compressions, and also dividing the texture into instrumental families and multiple complex rhythms. A large spread of closely placed sustained tone clusters set in scales (strings) dissipates into a multitude of cascading, falling rhythms and pitches, like light flashes in the sky. • Seemingly undisturbed by the commotion, Old Home Day again appears in the violins, followed by Garryowen in the xylophone. Generally disjoined writing simulates the gathering of the crowds. Excited children are everywhere, musicians are practicing, and many townsfolk have already “partied” beyond orderly behavior. Fragments of Columbia, the Gem are widespread, as the percussion section shifts in and out of synchronization. The xylophone takes St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning, the trumpet, Reveille. Firecrackers are let off randomly as the mob pours into the town square, while the trombone practices passages from Columbia; a wavelike tone cluster (a repeating cycle in contrary motion between upper and lower strings) gradually gains in momentum, suggesting the crowd’s surge and excitement. • This segment, developed from the 1903 Overture and March “1776,” is now playing at full tilt. The town band announces its arrival with possibly the worst rendition of Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean ever heard—all out of tune and lacking normal harmonic support (everyone wants to play the tune!). Ives’s simulation includes ingenious pitch, rhythm, and even volume displacements. It is further complicated by the sounds of another band playing the Battle Hymn of the Republic, as the cornet and woodwinds mix up the verse, chorus and rhythm between them. Other instruments play Katy Darling and Dixie (piccolo), Hello! Ma Baby (horns), Yankee Doodle (xylophone), ensuring complete pandemonium; it is the point at which 125 Ives in Danbury the Town Hall is accidentally set ablaze! Then, the big moment of the night has come: the fireworks display. • Created within the space of just five bars, a highly realistic sonic portrayal of actual fireworks required the most complex orchestral texture Ives had attempted to date. Its terrifying sound scarcely has been surpassed to this day. Recalling the previous “accidental” explosion, in this instance, however, twelve-tone rows in the woodwinds are built from multiple assemblages of opposing three-note atonal patterns (broken trichords cycles) across all manner of rhythmic divisions. An astounding fragmentation of other punctuating entities adds the crackle of the fireworks; as the frenzied climax of the cycles builds, the strings’ massive glissando clusters further support it. • The launching of the rocket over the church steeple—simulated by a final surge and hold in the orchestra—announces the conclusion of the evening’s celebration. The cut-off signifies the apex of its trajectory. Seven solo string players and one flute represent the rocket’s fall amidst sputtering sparks. As they peter out, the last dying spark is signified by a solitary pizzicato note, with timpani; the scene fades to black. Thanksgiving and Forefathers’ Day The full title of the finale to Ives’s “symphony” (Thanksgiving and Forefathers’ Day) reflects the historic associations of the holiday from the time of the Pilgrims. As the longest movement, compositionally, perhaps one might have expected it to be the most recent and advanced of the group, when, in fact, its primary composition came first in the collection. As the most conservative, thus, from a technical standpoint, it was also the movement that inspired Ives’s vision of the festive symphony. Much of the material dates from Ives’s Yale days, starting out as music for a church service (Prelude and Postlude for a Thanksgiving Service) in 1897, while Ives was organist at Center Church, New Haven. What has survived of the organ music that formed the basis of the piece reveals, nevertheless, that Ives was actively writing in unconventional idioms and innovative techniques right under Parker’s nose. Further, it is evidence that Ives was none too reticent to inflict a certain amount of modernity on his congregants, despite his protestations to the contrary! Either that, or they must have been more tolerant than one might have supposed. What is more significant about the early organ material, however, is the early appearance of some remarkable harmonic leanings that set two uncompromising keys together from the outset (C major and D minor). Continuing apart and compounding their separate ways within the section, they remain entirely unbeholden to conventional harmonic progressions. Even though Ives did not score the work in large format until 1932, he dated the composition itself to 1904, which, based on surviving manuscript pages and his stylistic language of the time, is entirely consistent. Clearly, it is a manifestation of his evolving language of the 1890s, with the mixing of conventional chords of different keys much in evidence, often between “choirs” of lower and higher instruments. Thanksgiving appeared, thus, not long after the completion of the Second Symphony, and only two years after the “failure” of The Celestial Country; consequently, it does mark a decided departure from the major works that preceded it. In works that followed, Ives soon progressed to entirely new chords built 126 Ives in Danbury from intervals other than the conventional thirds, and which moved often in parallel. As witnessed in the later Washington’s Birthday and The Fourth of July, harmonic language such as this, however, even melodic lines built from unlikely note combinations, are barely present in Thanksgiving. These characteristics are entirely consistent with the music typifying Ives’s organ works, all of which date from before 1902. Thus, this otherwise entirely modernistic composition is differentiated from the other movements by its relative conventionality, melodious sustained textures and more ready accessibility. It is built, too, on traditional three-part (A1-B-A2 ternary) form, although the extensive development and reinvigoration of this simple structure might leave the casual listener completely unaware of it. Because the final fair copy dates from as late as 1932, it serves, too, to refute those, and notably, Stuart Feder, who proposed that Ives was incapable of such intellectually grueling activity at this stage of life.10 Listeners’ guide • Most of the “A1” section is structured around portions and fragments of three hymns, two having old formal roots: Federal Street—so named after the address of the church that its composer, Henry K. Oliver, attended, and Duke Street—so-named because its composer John C. Hatton lived there. It includes, too, prominent fragments of more revivalist-oriented The Shining Shore, another defining melody of 19th century Americana by the iconic George F. Root. Gentle fragments of other hymns (Laban and Nettleton) are introduced occasionally as counter-lines; not easily caught in casual listening, their role is peripheral. • Thanksgiving commences with the strong, sturdy writing of the organ Postlude; the organist John Cornelius Griggs, who acted as a mentor figure to Ives during his years at Yale, compared its almost angular character to the ruggedly stark values of the Puritans. Motivically, a short rhythmic figure stands out throughout much of the fabric, featuring a large drop to the lower octave, and an immediate return to the original register. Representing the toils of the harvest, the strenuous polytonality and rhythmic rigor is obvious immediately, the primary thematic infusion being fragments of Federal Street. As the music proceeds, additional quotes from The Shining Shore can be heard in the low flutes, too, echoed by the trombones, immediately and loudly. {{PD-Art}} 127 Ives in Danbury • An expanding “stinger” chord of mounting components announces increasingly strident string writing. A prominent fragment of The Shining Shore in the trumpets is followed by another similar expanding chord in the brass (by chance, amazingly reminiscent of moments in John Williams’s iconic score to the 1977 movie Star Wars!—will someone yet claim that Ives did not compose Thanksgiving until after he had seen the movie, from the grave?). The chord introduces a premonition of Federal Street in the violins, and soon thereafter in the low strings, echoed by the horns, before being handed back to the violins. • Amidst the complex harmonic language, the identity of Federal Street shifts as the music gains power and momentum. Leading to a prominent series of four descending detached chords in the orchestra, the linearity of which can be traced to the latter portion of Duke Street, the descending figure is further exploited in smooth lines. The music builds around the first definitive announcement of Duke Street in the low brass. Subtle references to both Federal Street and Duke Street are maintained in the lower part of the orchestra. • As the strings gain speed with syncopated rhythmic energy and further reinforcement in the woodwinds, the trumpets burst in with a derivation of Duke Street. The music builds to an increasingly tangled and strident climax, characterized by many syncopated and accented counter lines. This section represents the “scything action” that Ives had alluded to, as well as pointing strongly to rhythmic innovations already underway.11 • Squarely landing on a strong segment built on the opening material, the music settles down into a quiet transitional portion. The sound is highly reminiscent of textures in Central Park in the Dark (that feature the clarinet playing fragments of the popular song Ben Bolt)—perhaps unsurprisingly, since that work would follow in just a couple of years, or so. Descending incrementally, the section ends with a brief build in the cellos and basses, strangely predictive of the opening of the Fourth Symphony many years later. • From here, the music enters the transition to the “B” section, drawing the listener into a dreamlike setting. An undisguised statement of The Shining Shore alternates in dialog between the oboe and flute, set amidst diametrically opposed harmonic accompaniment to the melody; it is as oddly restless as it is reassuring. The section reaches a pause; one’s awareness grows of a superimposed, faintly “glowing” string chord in another tonality—resembling a presence looming out of an evening mist. It is one of the work’s most haunting moments. • The chord emerges into a full statement of The Shining Shore in the upper violins (a rarity in Ives’s music) in a ravishing, but simple setting. Ives gave this section a tonal distinction: it is in just one key. The Shining Shore also comprises the thematic foundation of the section, also having links—though not as close as those used in the “A1” section—to another fragmentary sketch page of the Postlude. The second part of the melody is played again in dialog between the flute and oboe. Underneath, in the cellos, close-voiced chromatic writing (“barbershop quartet”) descends and ascends, an alluring trace of Dudley Buck’s influence. • As the impetus picks up quickly, the hymn The Shining Shore is miraculously transformed into a rhythmic and festive variant. Though clearly recognizable, the order of the notes is reversed (appearing in retrograde) into a lively, “classic” American hoedown, and frequently wrongly identified as the harvesting section. Its character is more readily associated with the 128 Ives in Danbury • • • • music of another composer of the newer school, Aaron Copland, and especially reminiscent of his own Appalachian Spring of some four decades later! Independent hymn-based lines buried in the oboe parts also have been described erroneously also as shadow lines, when, in fact, they are not “spun off” (according to Ives’s definition) the dominant lines at all. The “B” section winds down in much the way it began, though now the same sense of yearning that defines the Third Symphony seems present—Ives dated both works in their original forms to precisely the same date: 1904. Thus, if one accepts the reliability of Ives’s accounts for the primary composition of both works, finding a style so obviously related to the period to which Ives accorded them should not be at all surprising. The return to “A” (A2) material is marked by a decided change from its former identity, rather than a mere restatement of the original “A1” section. However, the original rhythmic motif that characterized so much of the “A1” section is preserved, its strident polytonality, as well as the comparable fragments of Duke Street in the lower voices. Increasingly urgent and accented writing leads to some massive pounding chords that surge into the coda, and a near cumulative revelation of both primary “A” section hymns in tandem—Duke Street and Federal Street. In his final version of Thanksgiving, Ives switched the dominant melody in the texture from Federal Street to Duke Street; it hardly constitutes a major revision, however. As the chorus and trumpets enter grandly with the melody of Duke Street, Federal Street sounds in the lower instruments. A bell choir clangs in celebration, with strings and woodwinds reinforcing the sound by mimicking the pealing of church bells. Characteristically, the hymns’ identities are greatly affected by the uniqueness of Ives’s setting. As the music recedes, elements of the accompaniment and melody remain, gradually falling away. The avoidance of harmonic resolution becomes increasingly evident, the strings setting polytonal elements of the unresolved cadence crossed with elements of the bell peals against the fabric. Though the piece attempts to end with an “amen” cadence, the last chord never arrives. Common, too, to the conclusion of the Third Symphony, Ives increasingly would conclude many of his compositions this way for poignancy. With the appearance of Thanksgiving just before Ives’s frenetic period of composition, it represents perfectly his early maturing style. Even as its scale and richness makes an ideal finale, it offers little hint that by the time all four movements had formed, Ives already had left his Danbury days far behind. ENDNOTES 1 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W.W. Norton & Co., 1972), 94. 2 Ibid., 94–106. 129 3 Henry Cowell, “Charles Ives Second Symphony,” Current Chronicle, The Musical Quarterly 37 (July 1951): 399– 402. 4 Stuart Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song,” a Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1992), 239. 5 Ives, Memos, 101–02. 6 Feder, “My Father’s Song,” 241. 7 Antony Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe (West Conshohocken, PA, Infinity Publishing, 2015), 190. 8 Ibid., 104–06. 9 Carol K. Baron, “George Ives’s Essay in Music Theory: An Introduction and Annotated Edition,” University of Illinois, American Music (Fall 1992): 239–88. 10 Feder, “My Father’s Song,” 352–53; see, also entire context in Appendix A, which sums up Feder’s premise. 11 Ibid., 39. 130 CHAPTER 8 The Songs T ves’s songs, each one a microcosm in his expanding universe, offer an open window into his musical and personal identity. Their vast array of styles extends from the beginning years to the time he stopped composing; the complexities of many of their timelines, however, mean that almost any style can appear in any year. Most of the songs, as would be expected, are not lengthy works, although the breadth of this resource—virtually encyclopedic—often reflects Ives’s larger compositions. Some acted as working studies for larger works, or were excerpted from larger works for downsizing into a song; some, themselves, even were reworked into or within other pieces. The songs might have remained out of sight for many more years, had the composer not been able to regain some of his energies following his disastrous health collapse (in 1918) from the endocrine disorder that would plague him the rest of his life (diabetes).1 In 1922, Ives, having digested the reality of life’s tenuous hold, was determined to try to address his musical anonymity. Assembling and publishing a large book collection of his songs at his own expense (114 Songs), he printed five hundred copies, distributing them far and wide. Surviving editions have become prized items. Although the songbooks were received mostly without comment, from some he would endure more than his share of callous rejection and sarcastic rebuke for his trouble. Nonetheless, his blanketing sweep eventually would snag the attention of a few receptive and kinder individuals, although it took the better part of a decade. Clearly, Ives’s push to establish his music was an acknowledgement that fate could come knocking at his door again at any time. Not inconsequentially, it had occurred at almost the same age his father died. From a practical standpoint, the songs usually only required two performers, singer and pianist, so surely he surmised there was a real chance they would be performed. Over time, the plan worked, the collection ultimately introducing his music to the world. Ives knew, too, that if he failed to organize his music, as well as attend further to a few of his most important works, his life’s work in music might be for naught. Fortunately, he was in a position, financially, to do something about it. Even as late as his sixty-fourth year, despite growing fame, Ives was still paying for his music to be published. The contract for the publication of two of his songs (overleaf) is interesting, historically, the publisher (Arrow Music Press) having been formed as a non-profit organization dedicated to the music of American composers, and run by American composers.2 Ives paid the princely sum of $66.14 for the privilege of having two songs from the 1920s put into print. The initial subject of the contract was a song for his adopted daughter, Edith, and her friend (Two Little Flowers); the other (The Greatest Man) was added onto the contract in Harmony’s hand, having been worked into the deal (it happens to be the writer’s personal favorite!). Both songs are distinctly personal, though not groundbreaking, technically; however, they are both “classic” Ives! The first touchingly reveals his strong bond with his adopted daughter, Edith; the second clearly is symbolic of the lingering presence of his father. However, arriving late in his output, and as highly intimate statements, rather than radical, they revert to the near-conventional territory of at least twenty years before. (Overleaf) Ives’s signature on the contract is replete with his characteristic “snake tracks,” his deteriorating physical condition in 1940 now readily apparent: 131 The Songs Arrow Music Press Song Contract From the author’s collection Even though the new schools of writing in Europe gradually had conditioned American audiences to accept new sounds, and had met with some success, anyone so “provincial” as a American composer— even more a modernistic one—at home, still was unlikely to be regarded as having much merit. Ives ran into further resistance because of his status as a non-professional composer, and being an unknown quantity in the musical community at almost fifty years of age. Thus his compositional efforts as a whole usually were received with disinterest, callous dismissiveness, even outright condemnation and reprimand. Many individuals viewed Ives as a rank amateur. 132 The Songs It would take most of the 1920’s before it was clear that Ives’s outreach was forging a new chapter in his life; Ives was being taken seriously as a composer. Much of his future recognition, however, had stemmed from his concurrent efforts to promote the Concord Sonata and its philosophically descriptive text, Essays Before a Sonata (see Chapter 9), while the songs had to wait a few years more before attracting the interest of a few key people. In 1932, his compatriot, Aaron Copland, in a landmark move, decided to feature a group of Ives’s songs at the First Festival of Contemporary American Music at Yaddo (an artists’ community in Saratoga Springs, New York), which Copland largely had been responsible for organizing. The attention Ives received coincided with the advent in the 1920s of the American avant-garde. A group of young radical composers, under the leadership of Henry Cowell, was coming of age, a more open-minded generation eager to challenge the status quo. It was this group that cast a ray of hope to shine where none had before. After many years of being left out in the cold, Ives would at last receive the embrace of kindred spirits: the “Father of American Music” they had sought. Although the free-spirited lifestyles of many of these avant-garde figures made them polar opposites of Ives, whom he had always considered detrimental in modern society, he would find their welcome to be genuine and unconditional; perhaps they were not so bad, after all. Selected Songs through Ives’s most productive years In 114 Songs, Ives included some early examples that he had grown to regard as unworthy of attention—demonstrations of what not to write, or how! It is hard to know if he was serious, and certainly he had a delightfully self-deprecating sense of humor. Although they are well written and typical of their time, indeed, those few songs in question are well beneath his artistic potential; sentimental and largely predictable, likely they were written “for hire” at various social occasions, or even for his friends. It seems inconceivable that Ives would have composed them as serious representations of his work. The question remains why he chose to include them in his collection, having fundamentally disowned them! Regardless, anything from Ives’s earlier years is interesting to hear, if not necessarily indicative of what was lurking just over his musical horizon. One such song, When Stars are in the Quiet Skies (examined below), seems lucky not to have been counted amongst those Ives disavowed, although it is not entirely devoid of clues to his future. Out of Ives’s total output of approximately two hundred songs, in most commentaries, those that are better known and lengthier have been reviewed to the exclusion of the lesser-known gems. Concentrating mostly on the latter category, the songs selected for examination in this chapter are sequenced according to their time of composition, from earlier to later. Characteristically, amongst the resource of songs that Ives left behind: • They are usually succinct works, typically not built in traditional verse and chorus/refrain structures, sometimes being single complete thoughts in an evolving line. • Because the songs feature only piano and voice (with one or two exceptions), there are limits to the prospects for the incorporations of polyphonic or polytonal language, and polytempi, as 133 The Songs • • • • well as the complex rhythmic elements of Ives’s larger-scale works. Multiple part layering is limited, too, not only due to the resources, but also in order that the performers can stay synchronized. However, the frequent use of unusual divisions of the beat, independently between voice and piano, often simulates any of the above textures, and lead to a greater understanding of the larger scale works, too. Tonally, the piano is no less limited than is the voice in the range of sound qualities available. It is especially an issue in regard to the non-sustaining character of the piano, which restricts many of the techniques Ives was able to employ elsewhere. In this sense, combining the piano with the sustaining quality of the voice was invaluable, and one can be sure that singing and playing formed a major part of Ives’s working methods. In this way, he was not nearly so denied the opportunity to hear his music, physically, as some commentators have proposed. Further, because pianistic textures feature techniques that evolved over centuries, notational characteristics specific to the piano do not necessarily translate to other instruments. To simulate these sounds, historically, composers—especially those who were pianists, too— found ways to utilize types of writing to compensate for some of those instrumental qualities the piano lacks. Ives’s skills and background as a pianist are the reasons some of the songs sound almost orchestral. As in most respects of his writing, Ives explored new directions without necessarily jettisoning the old; in this regard he maintained a largely traditional approach in writing for the instrument (see also Chapter 3: Links to other music).3 Because opportunities for hearing his music during his busiest creative years were confined mostly to playing the piano and singing, it is not surprising that his songs are such a treasure trove. They are, perhaps, more directly representative of his wider output than those by any other composer. The songs resemble the early innovative compositions in some ways as distilled musical cameos. When Stars are in the Quiet Skies Seemingly fitting in relation to the “road to the stars,” the title of a poem begins the selection; this song apparently dates from Ives’s Yale days, and was reworked at the turn of the century. Beyond the simple setting of religious devotion, there is possible hidden meaning in the choice of words. More likely to be found in later examples of Ives’s work, references to heavenly things, dreams and guiding stars in this song are striking indicators of the cosmic realm that increasingly seemed to stake its claim in Ives’s consciousness. The song is steeped in the idiomatic language of late Victorian Romanticism, and still reflects the impact of Dudley Buck’s overtly close chromaticism. Although simple and utterly conventional, there are independent melodic tones moving in the piano part that break up what otherwise soon would become monotonous, had only the predictable broken chord accompaniment of the outset been maintained for long. Omitting the third and last stanzas (out of six), Ives ended the song with the word “dream” to create a less final, more ethereal exit, also extending the vocal line to finish on the fifth note of the key. 134 . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. The Songs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . When stars are in the quiet skies, . for “pine”) Then most I pine for thee; (Ives substituted the word “long” . . Bend on me then thy tender eyes . . As stars look on the sea. (Ives added “down upon the peaceful” after “look”) For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine; Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light (Ives changed “mine earthly” to “All my”) Beneath the heaven of thine. . . There is an hour when ugh slumber fairest glide; And in that mystic hour it seems Thou should’st be by my side. (Ives substituted “ever, ever” for “by”) My thoughts of thee too sacred are For daylight's common beam, I can but know thee as my star, My angel and my dream. (Changed to“my guiding star, my angel and my dream.”) Image: Tim Sprinkle (Bulwer-Lytton) {{PD-Art}} From “Amphion” Dating from a similar period as the previous example (1895–1896), it has been proposed that this song was written for Parker’s class. It adds weight to the argument that Ives indeed was studying in some capacity with Parker before his junior year, and the full four years that Ives claimed, something needlessly challenged to the point of distraction (see Appendix 1). As such, the song rightly should be expected to conform to the genteel language of his teacher. 135 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Songs Ives, thus, had written another largely conventional late Victorian song, using the popular musical language of the day. There are a few wrinkles, however, that suggest he had much more potential, because the song hints at cyclical and palindromic form, which does portend of things to come. Beginning with an unusual flourish in the piano, a simple introductory passage follows. When the voice enters, its chromatic descent (followed closely by harmonies in the piano) is again reminiscent of the “barbershop quartet” harmonic style associated with Buck, of which one would think that Parker would not have approved, although the song has survived. Ives selected just eight lines from Tennyson’s poem: The mountain stirr’d its bushy crown, And, as tradition teaches, Young ashes pirouetted down Coquetting with young beeches; (Ives repeated “Coquetting with young beeches.”) And shepherds from the mountain-eaves Look’d down, half-pleased, half-frighten’d, As dash’d about the drunken leaves (Ives inserted “The sunshine lighten’d,”) The random sunshine lighten’d. (Tennyson) Image: AC The word “coquetting,” is echoed with a rooster-like figure in the piano, which, in another composer’s work, might have seemed strangely out of character. The song continues, however, in the vein in which it began, until near the end. Here, the piano ascends while the voice moves dramatically in the opposite direction, ending the song as it began with another flourish, the voice dividing the last two repeated notes (on the tonic pitch of the key) of the final word into corresponding syllables (“light-en’d”). Tarrant Moss Ives would pen this deceptively modernistic song in 1902–1903, with words taken from the first and last stanzas of the poem by Rudyard Kipling. Even at the time Ives’s self-published 114 Songs appeared (1922), Ives did not yet have permission to use the poem, because it was still protected by copyright. All he could do was quote the first few words! Seeming conventional enough, a closer examination reveals that, melodically and harmonically, instead, it is decidedly more radical that it seems, initially. Jumping 136 The Songs through rhythmic irregularities, while often mixing more than one key center, it seems Ives still was not sure that vocalists could manage the challenge, so he all but doubled the line in the piano part. The vocal line, strangely angular in contour, closely follows the natural rhythm of the words, the monotone staccato character of the last line of the poem concluding it abruptly, and seeming to imply the shock of the sudden humbling reality experienced by the raconteur. It is accompanied by a bold and rhythmically metric chordal piano part that, in the bass, remains close to the opening key of C Major. Despite unlikely harmonic incongruities, the modern sound was achieved, nevertheless, without making use of new chord structures, notwithstanding the frequent omissions of thirds, as well as the tonally undermining final polychord. A handful of “foreign” notes within the polytonal blends largely contribute the altogether avant-garde ring that is somewhat startling, despite its simple appearance on the page. In the song’s entirety, just how many “foreign” notes (to C major) are there? A mere seventeen. Kipling I closed and drew for my love's sake That now is false to me, And I slew the Reiver of Tarrant Moss And set Dumeny free. And ever they give me gold and praise And ever I mourn my loss— For I struck the blow for my false love's sake And not for the Men of the Moss! (Kipling) {{PD-Art}} Hymn Because Emerson considered the text of this eighteenth century hymn by Gerhardt Tersteegen the ultimate in expression, it is hardly surprising that Ives chose it, the spiritual references being its hallmark. Arranging it from his 1904 Largo Cantabile (originally from A Set of Three Short Pieces for string quartet, bass and piano), Ives quoted More love to thee, and later, Olivet. In an expansive vein of rich unconventional harmonic breadth, mid-song, the music passes through a few rhythmically irregular bars before falling back to near-symmetry and resolution towards the end. Characterized by flowing, ascending broken chords in waveforms of up-and-down motion, the piano part alternates between the implied— though not confirmed—F and F# Major tonalities. True to the implications of its title (Hymn),4 the song utilizes only a limited number of chords, although they are of an unconventional nature and indeterminate key. By subtly altering them throughout the song, Ives suggested many diffuse tonalities, although with the exception of the final cadence, left them unconfirmed. 137 The Songs Thou hidden love of God, Whose height, whose depth, Unfathomed, no man knows, I see from far Thy beauteous light; Inly I sigh for Thy repose. My heart is pained, Nor can it be at rest till it find rest in Thee. (Gerhardt Tersteegen) Image: NASA, ESA, and M. Livio and the Hubble 20th Anniversary Team (STScI) Arriving at the word “see,” the piano briefly holds a chordal flourish, followed by repeated words in the voice, “thy beauteous light.” Broken ascending motion based on the opening chord suggests a resolution from F# Major to the C# Major. The musical high point reached, after a brief hold, an increasing transparency and a clearer sense of F Major tonality begins to emerge, as the waveform is renewed. With the word, “rest,” the music reaches another short hold, and the song winds down to the tonality that began it, and an unmistakable fragment of Olivet. Compounding waves in the piano, now alone, encompass Dudley Buck’s chromaticism, which has taken on entirely new ground. Now, however, A# (the “third” of F#) drops to A—the “third” of F7—the diffuse relationship to F# now clear, via its “third,” A# (=B♭). A dominant F7 chord resolves to the key of B flat Major: finally, at the end, the true tonic key, subtly hidden throughout the song, is revealed. 138 The Songs The Cage In a startling break with the past, this short, but landmark song was written in 1906, falling at the end of the period of Ives’s most radical innovations. The words are few—hardly poetry (they were by Ives himself)—merely describing the animal’s aimless pacing between mealtimes. A child observing poses the philosophical question whether the leopard’s endless cycle reflected life itself! {{PD-Art}} The monotonous, hopeless pacing of the caged leopard is simulated by novel harmonic and melodic innovation. An evolving cycle of chords is built unconventionally from intervals of fourths (again, instead of thirds), in which the spaces between chordal tones are further apart than in conventional harmony. Representing the leopard’s aimless existence, musicologist Philip Lambert observed that these cyclic chord progressions trace a circular path, amongst other mathematically encoded links.5 Lambert termed the culminating chord of each sequence a “meal” chord, points when the leopard pauses for food; as such, the chords are differently structured, with no obvious relationship to the others (although there is a hidden mathematical relationship). The meal chords increase in tension with each cycle. Rhythmically, neither the piano, nor voice, appear to have anything in common, although they are entirely complimentary, the vocal tones lying within the coincident chords. Repeating the initial harmonic cycle as its inertia pushes towards the first meal chord, the singer enters with a monotonous line in even increments that represent the leopard’s pacing. Each phrase is built entirely of whole-step movements, which, by chromatic shifts in each alternate phrase, encompass all pitches. The piano develops the harmonic cycle, but now, as it approaches the “meal” chord, the cycle (now transposed) slows instead. Reverting to accelerating rhythms, the chords approaching to the final “meal” chord are inverted from fourths to become fifths (quartal to quintal chords). By the conclusion, the word, “CAGE” has been spelled by prominent “outside” chord tones.6 In the small orchestra version, soft drum tones further represent the leopard’s footsteps, seeming, though, to imply more its heartbeat. 139 The Songs Watchman Watchman, tell us of the night, What its signs of promise are. Traveler, o’er yon mountain’s height, See that glory-beaming star. Watchman, does its beauteous ray Aught of joy or hope foretell? Traveler, yes—it brings the day, Promised day of Israel. (John Bowring) Image: NASA, H.E. Bond and E. Nelan (Space Telescope Science Institute, Baltimore, Md.); M.Barstow and M. Burleigh (University of Leicester, U.K.); and J.B. Holberg (University of Arizona) This short song provides another link to two other important works. Revealing more about Ives’s period of explosive innovation, confusingly, its origins seem to date to 1908 and before, even as Ives claimed the song’s origins were in his First Violin Sonata. Thus, the order of events, according to Ives, was: First Violin Sonata, 1914—the song, Watchman, 1913—then, Prelude of the Fourth Symphony, 1910-1911! The explanation for the apparent contradictions is not hard to find. The source of the song is the third sonata movement, actually developed in 1907; in turn, it was based on a lost organ and soprano song of 1901.7 Now the timeline makes perfect sense. Adding further to the confusion, in his listings, Ives 140 The Songs connected the song to the Second Violin Sonata. However, the numbered titles of the violin sonatas have been updated in reference to an earlier work, now known as the Pre-First Violin Sonata, which shares some of the material and reconciles at least this part of the muddle. The significance in the song, however, is that Ives included words of the first verse of the hymn (as in otherworldly symphonic the Prelude), creating an aura that is worlds apart, unlike the sonata, in which they are absent. In the Prelude, too, this text, which Ives expanded slightly at the end, paints even more vividly the path of evolution that seems to reflect how the idea must have grown with each step. The song opens with a short piano introduction, taken directly from its context within the third movement of the sonata. A fast descending three-note figure slows as the vocal melody is stated in contrary motion to the accompanying upper line. The regular accompanimental pacing and nearconventional harmonies of the “Watchman” melody, seeming to pose as a conventional setting, is unexpectedly unconventional, nevertheless. Because the tonality of the primary melodic line is centered in D major, the accompanying harmony normally would reflect it. Instead, it appears in the relative minor key, B minor; though sharing the same pitches, it is rooted 1-1/2 steps lower. Ives tied the tonal center, thus, to both keys. Although the bass line falls one “third” below expectation, the gravity of the “relative” higher major key remains predominant, for two reasons: 1) Because the natural key center of the melody itself is in D major. 2) Because the tonic of the melody is placed high in the harmony. The seventh degree of the major key (C#, the “leading tone,” a half step below the tonic), also stands atop the final G#11 chord, the raised “eleventh” also leading the ear towards the tonic, “d,” in conclusion. Although there are obvious ways to explain the larger tonality as a true minor harmony, as well as its relationship, functionally, relative to the melody, the way Ives set it up causes one’s perceptions to be kept constantly off balance. On the page, the minor key harmony is easy to see; it is just not heard that way. Continuing to “toy” with the listener’s expectations and perceptions, at one point even briefly confirming the major key, the song progresses amidst some striking rhythmic, harmonic and instrumental effects that carry the piano far higher than the vocal line—and outside the prevailing larger tonality. Rather than obvious dissonance, they create a gentle, almost consonant coloration of the words, “glory-beaming star.” Only as the song concludes does the instinctive D major tonality finally settle. In a telling descent in the accompaniment that contrasts with the ascending vocal line, it is as if Ives was dreaming in space. The Indians Written in 1912 and arranged in 1921 for inclusion in 114 Songs as an elegy to a people left to despair, The Indians was one of the seven songs originally selected by Copland to be performed at his festival at Yaddo in 1932.8 They garnered the first real acclaim for Ives’s song collection after more than a decade of withering on the vine. The vocal part is built mostly from notes of a pentatonic scale (corresponding, relatively, to the black keys on a piano) to symbolize the music of Native American tribes. Though demonstrating, perhaps, a surprising awareness for the time of the idiomatic characteristics of the indigenous culture, it is less unexpected from someone as attuned to social issues as was Ives. 141 The Songs {{PD-Art}} Alas for them!—their day is o’er, Their fires are out from hill and shore; No more for them the wild deer bounds; The plough is on their hunting grounds; The pale man’s axe rings through their woods; The pale man’s sail skims o’er their floods; Their pleasant springs are dry; Their children, look! by power oppressed, Beyond the mountains of the west Their children go to die! (Charles Sprague) The piano part is built from a two-bar segment that expands and contracts with the text, the chords being of dominant quality (harmonically). Instead of those chords resolving to new key centers (as normally would be expected), both the dominant chords and their tones of resolution move together in parallel—each dominant chord answering itself with the tone of resolution in the uppermost voice. Remarkable, too, mid-song, is the use of simulated parallel speeds between the piano and singer. Although the more complex works for large ensembles often require more than one conductor (because of the need to maintain coordination between multiple instrumentalists), the number of possible comparable relationships between just two performers in a song is fewer, but problematic, nevertheless. In this song, without resorting to writing in actual different speeds, Ives attained the effect by dividing the common (larger) rhythmic pulse into unequal groupings, while maintaining a common division, in which, over an allotted span, the total divisions in one line occupy the same total time as those in the other. However, this description is an oversimplification, since Ives changed the meter (number of beats per bar) regularly, too, often by uneven numbers! Regardless, the principle and perception stands. 142 The Songs Below is a simplified chart that illustrates the technique. Dividing one beat into equal subdivisions, then grouping them in fours and threes, and by accenting just the first note of each subdivided group, the total subdivisions that pass before the accented notes coincide again will be twenty-four. Effectively simulating six full beats in one speed and eight in the other, as such, it is the common subdivisions that allow for coordination between the performers: 1 2 >l l 1 >l l 3 > l 2 l > l l > 3 l l > 4 l l l 4 l l > > 5 l l 5 l l > l > l 6 l l > l l > 7 l 1 6 l > l l l l l > > 1 8 l l etc. etc. > However, Ives complicated the matter yet further! While maintaining the even metric divisions of the beat, he phrased the vocal line irregularly in one, two, or three notes at a time to create free, more unpredictably tangled rhythmic phrasings. The independence of elements is more closely aligned with his later symphonic essays than the relatively more limited medium of piano and voice. Like a Sick Eagle One of Ives’s most definitive miniatures, Like a Sick Eagle, likely originated in 1909 as an instrumental piece of the same name. In any event, it seems that Ives set Keats’s words in the song version for voice and piano around 1913, ultimately appearing in his published collection, 114 Songs. The instrumental version was incorporated among the movements of the First Set for Chamber Orchestra at about the same time as the song version was written, Keats’s words written above the melodic tones. In 114 Songs, Ives did not mention the sliding, quarter-tone effect between pitches that is a feature in the orchestral scoring, made possible because the part was written for violin. However, in a later collection (Thirty-four Songs of 1933), the distinction was made, with instructions for the voice to observe the slides through deliberately registered and placed quarter-tones. The piano, obviously, cannot accommodate microtonal increments between notes in this version. However, because it doubles the moving eighth-notes of the vocal part in the inner middle line, the effect is accomplished by the “ghosting” of the vocal part. The vocal writing, moving chromatically in half-step increments, paints the weary anguish of the eagle. The piano right hand (upper line) moves in parallel with the voice, but by whole-steps instead, which causes the lines alternately to separate or conspire to merge, the music flexing like an accordion with interesting harmonic consequences. During most of the song, Ives chose to feature a constant flow of eighth notes in both the vocal line and the accompaniment. With no need, therefore, for metric coordination points—versus the instrumental version—the independent rhythmic groupings in the lines can be attained from the outset without the use of bar-lines. In the piano, the left and right hands have been grouped respectively into individual phrasings, each being different; the vocalist has further independent note groupings. The illusion of separation established, coordination is maintained (again as in The Indians) through the commonly shared constant metrical divisions of the beat, by which continually evolving 143 The Songs independence of the parts can be attained. An effort, thus, should be made to hear the music both horizontally, and vertically, in order to appreciate the musical intent. As the relationships between the vocal line and the accompaniment shift, the constant variations of linear and harmonic interactions are paramount. The spirit is too weak; mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die, Like a sick eagle looking towards the sky. (Keats) {{PD-Art}} From the third line of the verse until the conclusion, syncopated piano writing, and evolving rhythmic motion highlight the increasing volume and tension. After the word, “God,” is declared by a wide leap in the vocal line and a startling broken chord in the piano, the song deflates as the eagle, that can no longer fly, looks “towards the sky.” The music “looks” up too, with a mildly ascending melodic line and the perceptively grief-stricken sounds of the accompanying chords. So may it be! (The Rainbow) It is now (1914)—already overlapping the cosmic territory of the Universe Symphony. Originally scored for voice, strings, flute, piano or harp, celeste and organ, Ives wrote So may it be! (The Rainbow) for his wife, Harmony, to celebrate her birthday in their newly finished summer home in West Redding. A validation of all he and Harmony had worked for, his success in business had provided the means to build the house. Ives had reached forty years of age—the decade that would witness his father’s untimely 144 demise. An increasingly reflective outlook, thus, points to what was behind the choice of this poetic miniature by Wordsworth about the phases of life. The Songs Ives did not arrange the original instrumental and vocal version as a song with piano accompaniment until assembling his 114 Songs in 1921, at which point he had turned forty-seven—and survived his most devastating brush with mortality. He was now only two years shy of the age his father had died. My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. (Wordsworth) The song is divisible into main two parts; the first opens with the piano rushing towards the singer’s entrance. The optimistic words of youth, “My heart leaps up,” are represented with a vocal line initially built largely of fourths (quartal harmony), an interval Ives used also to construct the harmony for moments of emphasis in the song. With a flourish and wide arpeggiated chord in the piano, the singer’s next words, “I behold a rainbow in the sky,” are set to an arching curve, as if to outline it. The vocal line continues, more or less in whole-step motion, as the accompaniment—built of two repeated segments, and comprised of a pair of gentle broken chords that culminate on a higher sustain—emphasizes the word, “man.” Occurring at the song’s midpoint, it is the highest chord of the song, too, and also structured from fourths. Signifying the shift into the mid-point of life, an abrupt change in character is matched by gentle descending quartal chords. Reflective words about growing old end with the word “die!”, before a further abrupt change takes place to herald the second part of the song with an optimistic sounding high chord of mixed, though related, tonalities (E augmented and B minor). Continuing, the precipitously descending and fading vocal part is based on the hymn, Serenity, and accompanied by a uniquely Ivesian coloration of notes that belong outside the prevailing tonalities. The accompaniment features a slow upward arch every two bars, proceeding through D Major, E Major, and A flat Major, also passing through neighboring chords before settling in B minor. The less than certain confirmation of the tonality is contrived, however, to imply D Major instead, as in Watchman. 145 Rhythmically, both the piano and voice, seeming utterly independent until now, and only loosely coinciding, finally “walk” together effectively in unity. Ives The Songs chose this moment when referring to a father and child— surely a reflection of a yearning desire for his own child—as the song concludes in the state of peace he sought within himself. {{PD-Art}} September This song, from 1919, with a text by the early Italian poet, Folgore da San Giminiano, is surrounded on all sides by Ives’s greatest musical visions, the grandest of them being the Fourth Symphony, the Concord Sonata, and the Universe Symphony. It should not be surprising that parallels can be found with the type of advanced musical language Ives had been developing for years employed within this song, too. As such, the piano writing is reminiscent of Hawthorne in the Concord Sonata, full of overlapping and compound cyclical structures. The flourishes that characterize much of the piano part are formed, in fact, from two primary motifs, consisting of rhapsodic broken chords built largely of augmented intervals, expanding exponentially, and strongly suggestive of the flight of birds. In the song’s second portion, ingeniously, the conjoined motifs can be found outlined across the larger phrase, dispersed across its span at the extreme pitches of the contour of the vocal line. Unfortunately, such esoteric considerations, endemic as they are to the musical design, will be hard for listeners to discern, their significance and purpose being to lend unity to the larger subconscious comprehension of the note relationships in the musical whole. And in Septem ber, Falcons, astors, m erlins, sparrow -hawks; D ecoy birds that lure gam e in flocks; And hounds with bells; Crossbows shooting out of sight; Arblasts and javelins; All birds the best to fly; And each to each of you shall be lavish still in gifts; And robbery find no gainsaying; And if you m eet with your travelers going by, Their purses from your purse’s flow shall fill; And avarice be the only outcast thing. (Folgore da San Giminiano) The vocal line is built in whole-tone scale-like segments (a structural feature often found in the concurrent Universe Symphony). 9 With the words, “crossbows…arblasts and javelins,” the texture fragments into repeating figures that suggest the scattering of the flocks, their winged quest for safety 146 represented by the widest of all the rhapsodic broken chords. As the right hand of the piano shadows the melody, it adds supportive harmony between the words, “And each to each…“gainsaying.” Meanwhile, the left hand plays a repeating flourish based on the opening of the song. (It is within this segment that the coded structure of these flourishes is subtly contained within The Songs the vocal line.) The emphatic nature that has developed implies the poet’s admonition that it is incumbent on all to give something back, and sternly underscored at the conclusion with: “And avarice be the only outcast thing!” as the piano rises to a dramatic peak after the vocal line has concluded. {{PD-Art}} Afterglow Written also in 1919, Ives took a short poem by James Fenimore Cooper, Jr. (grandson of the famous novelist) and set it in a mystical setting of distant thoughts. Having just survived his most serious illness (1918), in its aftermath, Ives must have spent considerable time reflecting on his own mortality—a terrible afterglow in itself. Transported to distant places, few reference points correspond to his earlier music, as the song seems to waft far and away from earthly bonds, even consciousness. {{PD-Art}} At the quiet close of day, Gently yet the willows sway; When the sunset light is low, Lingers still the afterglow; Beauty tarries loth to die, 147 Every lightest fantasy Lovelier grows in memory, Where the truer beauties lie. The Songs (James Fenimore Cooper, Jr.) Ives instructed the pianist to play indistinctly, using both pedals; correctly performed, it creates the floating sound intended. Ives also specified a similar approach to the last movement (Thoreau) of his mighty Concord Sonata, the subject of the next chapter. (Unfortunately, often both the song accompaniment and sonata movement are marred by heavy hands, which destroy their otherworldly qualities. Played according to the composer’s intent, however, the reflective remoteness of the sound surely is an expression of Ives’s inner thoughts, a fitting commentary on his spiritual journey.) The song is entirely unbarred, allowing for considerable flexibility, and so that the performers can gauge aurally the duration of the sounds appropriately. Much of the accompaniment is based on patterns of gently alternating broken polychords, their components constructed almost conventionally, though not functioning accordingly. A deep “pedal” tone in the bass sounds from time to time over the ringing of the harmonies, while light, even vague, melodic notes float in the uppermost lines of the piano, the mood and quietly fading light of the evening reflected in the words. Musically, often the piano alternates between further broken chords, still largely conventional in structure, while alluding to Erie (“What a Friend We Have in Jesus”). Gaining movement to reach the word, “light,” gradually both voice and piano drop to fade into the word, “afterglow;” hushed high “bell” tones ascend as if skywards. The final words are accompanied by a repeating cycle of broken chords ringing into each of their own sonorous “afterglows.” After the words, “every lightest fantasy lovelier grows in memory,” the piano climbs to the highest notes of the song, thereafter dropping with the voice. At last, the only clearly defined quoted fragment of Erie is placed according to the cumulative context of its ultimate realization, thereafter fading and drawing the listener out into space. Even now, having already embarked on his Zen-like flight of the Universe Symphony, Ives could not have known about, let alone envisaged, the ultimate afterglow— the Cosmic Microwave Background: the leftover radiation still remaining from the Big Bang some 13.7 billion years ago, even though he seems to have been viewing it.10 Background: NASA, ESA and Jesús Maíz Apellániz (Instituto de Astrofísica de Andalucía, Spain) 148 Image:nasaimages.org The Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation—Afterglow of the universe ENDNOTES 1 Stephen Budiansky, “Ives, Diabetes, and His ‘Exhausted Vein’ of Composition.” American Music, vol.31, 1 (Spring 2013): 1–25. 2 “Arrow”; Arrow Music Press history; http://imslp.org/wiki/Arrow. 3 David Michael Hertz, “Ives’s Concord Sonata and the Texture of Music,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 75–117. 4 Hymns, as a general rule, universally are comprised of straightforward diatonic melodic lines and largely predictable harmony—in the interest of community participation; it is one of the marvels of many of their creators that so many have such distinctive and memorable characters. 5 Philip Lambert, The Music of Charles Ives (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1997), 150–59. 6 Antony Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe (West Conshohocken, PA, Infinity Publishing, 2015), 247. 7 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 170. 8 “Reflections on Aaron Copland and his Festivals at Yaddo.” http://www.yaddo.org/Yaddo/MusicFestivalTsontakis.shtml. 9 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 107. 10 “Tests of Big Bang: The CMB.” http://map.gsfc.nasa.gov/universe/bb_tests_cmb.html. 149 CHAPTER 9 The Concord Sonata Concord, Massachusetts at the turn of the twentieth century {{PD-Art}} C onsidered by many to be Ives’s single greatest masterpiece, certainly the Sonata No.2 for Piano: Concord, Mass., 1840–60 is one of his most momentous. Representing the very core of his life’s work, it is also the product of near endless growth and soul searching. In only a few respects did the Concord Sonata draw upon models from any foreign soil. It is true American music without aspiring to nationalism, a statement of artistic relevance of the New World that heralds a new world in piano literature. Profound and personal, technically, it is also a tour de force, and nothing short of orchestral in scope. Considered unplayable for many years—to everyone, that is, except Ives1— it was John Kirkpatrick who, in 1939, would be the first to perform the complete sonata in a concert setting. Kirkpatrick’s devotion to Ives’s music would result, of course, in his becoming an authority without peer, one whose extraordinary commitment to the composer’s legacy surely has bequeathed him a permanent place at the pinnacle of Ives scholarship, despite the efforts of some in American musicology to supplant him.2 Through the vehicle of the piano, Ives’s epic sonata transcends mere earthly constraints, and stands as one of a group of three large-scale works that occupy a defining place at the apex of his output—the others being the Fourth and Universe Symphonies. Incorporating the fully evolved maturation of his innovations, Ives’s language reached its fullest potential in these works. Even when he finally put the Fourth Symphony 151 The Concord Sonata aside in the 1920s, the Universe Symphony and the Concord Sonata would remain present in his mind until the end of his life—and had from the moment they were first contemplated. Still working on the sonata as late as 1947 for the Second Edition, Ives continued to refine small details, even adding them into the printed pages into his final days. He would reflect, too, on the Universe Symphony often and bemoan his inability to complete it.3 Actual formal notation of the first edition of the sonata possibly was not begun until about 1915, but it was finalized in detail by 1919 for publication. Ives already had been working on most of the material—albeit sometimes in other works—even as early as 1904, and apparently had a fairly comprehensive concept of the sonata by 1912.4 Thus, it represents a lengthy evolution and highly personal expression of what mattered to him during most of his adult life. Ives can be heard playing the Four Transcriptions from Emerson, (the byproducts of reworking the movement for the second edition), as well as The Alcotts (the third movement) in private recordings made over the years from 1933–1943,5 so one can gain insights into the sweep and flexibility he intended for his music. How is it possible to tell that the sonata was not, actually, Ives’s ultimate musical destination? The fact that he still was working strenuously on the first movement (Emerson) until 1927, the time at which he almost entirely ceased writing music, and also agonized endlessly over details of the sonata for the second edition into the late 1940s, illustrates well the proximity of the Concord to his core. However, the early raw materials and initial completion put it well ahead of the time at which Ives trod his final steps. And both the Finale of the Fourth Symphony and Universe Symphony reveal advancement beyond even the vastly wide confines of the Concord Sonata. Moreover, in both the sonata and even the Fourth Symphony, Ives still quoted multitudes of hymns and vernacular melodies, as well as references to classical works— not to mention allusions to numerous near light-hearted earthly things.6 The Concord Sonata is both tonal and freely atonal. Free flowing, often unmeasured, unevenly balanced events and sub-structures create impressions of multiple speeds and layers. Musically, the listener is challenged to find the order that Ives forged within its “cumulative” totality, easily missed in casual listening. A deliberate and careful evolution of the materials disguises what might appear at first improvisatory; one needs first to find and absorb the primary components of which it is built. The Concord Sonata holds such an enormous reservoir of one man’s imagination that it can consume performer and listener alike for years, and even then, it is impossible to know it as did the composer. The challenge for the listener only is increased because Ives did not document his working methods, and although he would share the mature innermost musical philosophies behind it (in Essays Before a Sonata, 7 published concurrently with the Concord Sonata), he still did not divulge anything much about his composing methods, or how he had arrived at his musical choices. It was as if discussing them in mechanical terms would destroy the magic of their creation. To what degree did the Concord Sonata change in the second edition of 1947? Benefitting from years of reflection, for the most part, Ives restored material from the works that had comprised its foundation (an abandoned series: Men of Literature)—the Emerson Concerto (sometimes called the Emerson Overture, for piano and orchestra), the Hawthorne Concerto (for piano and orchestra), and the Orchard House Overture (for orchestra). At one time even contemplating writing the sonata for two players, Ives’s misgivings about the practicality of including some of the orchestral materials in the Men of Literature works caused him to pare them down in the first edition of the sonata. Later regretting having committed the music to paper hastily, Ives did his best to include everything possible into the definitive (second) edition. (Kirkpatrick, however, was slow to warm to the changes in the new version, ultimately settling on 152 The Concord Sonata a blend of the two.) Regardless, the identity of the sonata remains constant from edition to edition, because the differences are more to details than to its major substance.8 As Ives continued to fixate on his sonata, still, however, he expressed that a wish that he could leave Emerson (the first movement) unfinished, so it might always continue to evolve. Since something along these lines also was said about the Universe Symphony (but not necessarily by Ives!), it is worth bearing in mind that the Concord Sonata had been put into a finished performable form in 1919, putting its true compositional timeline squarely well before the first or last sketches of the never-completed symphony. Listeners’ guide The four movements of the Concord Sonata (one for each of Ives’s favored Concord Transcendentalists) exceed by one movement the design of most standard sonatas, though it is hardly a rarity even in the standard literature. Although Ives’s use of cumulative form is fairly clear in two of the movements, another much less usual feature, however, is the appearance of a significant thematic element throughout—the Human Faith Melody—that fully reveals itself, cumulatively, only later in the sonata. Although “cyclic” works that feature recurrent themes across movements hardly were new,9 Ives took the idea to another level, his gradual revelation of the primary theme through the course of several movements seeming almost unique. The Human Faith Melody is a composite of various components that appear individually in the sonata, as well as combined within the melody. Most striking among them, perhaps, are the four famous declamatory notes (Ives’s so-called Fate Motif) that open Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, found variously in many of Ives’s compositions, and that he considered to be fate knocking at the door of opportunity, rather than doom. Within the Human Faith Melody, the motif often appears in a curious amalgam with what often has been proposed to be another quote from Beethoven's Hammerklavier Sonata, although the identity of the latter is not universally agreed upon. By retaining the essential rhythm within the outline of something that certainly sounds like the Hammerklavier, the common repetitive rhythm of both and the chords of the latter, and the melodic variances above and below those notes, provide a means to extend the Fate Motif, which always appears first. In its grandest incarnation, these two quotes appear in blocks of closely voiced chords; hymns are normally associated with such writing. Shared common melodic traits of two hymns that “ghost” the Beethoven fragments—Missionary Chant and Martyn—also appear separately under their own identities elsewhere in the sonata. If the Beethoven fragments are most recognizable by their linear contours, the same is true of the hymns when presented in their chordal settings. Blending elements of all the quotes allowed for their interchangeable usage, as single lines, or supported by block chords. Ultimately, though, their commonality lies within the grand overriding theme, the Human Faith Melody, which can be tied to all four external musical sources in various ways. To hear the Human Faith Melody in its entirety, however, one has to wait until the end of the third movement (The Alcotts), cloaked in grand hymn-like chords that bond all the components together. Perhaps the best starting point for the new listener to the sonata, therefore, should be several hearings of The Alcotts, because identifying these components within the Human Faith Melody will help in understanding their role in the other movements, especially when they are infused with other material. 153 The Concord Sonata First movement: Emerson It is hardly surprising that Ralph Waldo Emerson inspired the opening and musically most substantial movement of the sonata—to Ives, he was, perhaps, the greatest American icon. Emerson’s enlightened philosophies encouraged endless creative reflections of the uniqueness of one’s surroundings, and celebrations of the human spirit. Consequently, the magnitude of the movement was meant to be as vast in scope, and weighty as the thoughts of Emerson himself. If it seems overwhelming upon first encounter, it was as Ives had intended. Emerson was not meant to be easy listening, any more than Emerson’s words were intended as easy reading. The movement occupies a place in the most rarified of atmospheres, along with the Finale of the Fourth Symphony, and even more so, the Universe Symphony. Excerpt from letter, Ralph Waldo Emerson From the author’s collection In Essays Before a Sonata, Ives described Emerson as “a mountain-guide, so intensely on the lookout for the trail of his star, that he has no time to stop and retrace his footprints, which may often seem indistinct to his followers, who find it easier and perhaps safer to keep their eyes on the ground. And there is a chance that this guide could not always retrace his steps if he tried—and why should he!—he is on the road, conscious only that, though his star may not lie within walking distance, he must reach it before his wagon can be hitched to it …”10 Thus, the meaning of Emerson’s words is apparent only after one has reached the destination, and looked back at the entirety of the journey. Comparable to this approach, Ives’s meaning is clear only after one appreciates the larger whole of all that might seem to be unrelated consecutive thoughts. It is the sum of their parts that reveal what he was trying to convey, and so, thus, within the first movement of his sonata, Ives attempted to create a sonic representation of Emerson’s universe. Thus, superficial impressions of free design dissolve, as fragmented detail, which pervades its entire length, emerges as the unifier—it is music to be viewed from all sides, in its entirety. Aside from common building blocks throughout the sonata, others are specific only to this movement. Moreover, the limited number of quoted materials ties it to Ives’s late period (just the fragmented “Beethoven” and related motifs, a small quote from Crusader’s Hymn, believed to signify Emerson’s own struggles to reconcile religion and Transcendentalism, and another motif borrowed from Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde). Such a small number of quoted elements perfectly illustrates the gradual shift away from vernacular sources towards fewer quotes, more of a spiritual nature that are intricately woven within diffuse musical textures. 154 The Concord Sonata Emerson himself is represented by a marked, rhythmically angular, five-note motif that suggests a person of striking and stoic character. Appearing near the beginning, at the top of the second “rush to the top,” the piano announces the motif in the first of many later, but identifiable guises. Another thematic device has been termed the Quasi-Pentatonic Melody; much more than a motif, it is comprised of notes that resemble the five “black” keys on the piano (an immediately familiar sound, and common to the same five-note pentatonic structure Ives had used in the song, The Indians; see again Chapter 8). A segment of this material appears early in the bass just a couple of notes after the first appearance of the Emerson Motif. However, the Quasi-Pentatonic Melody, an original theme, provides elements of another, the Lyrical Melody, which shares a far more significant connection to Bethany, the hymn so pivotal in Ives’s late music (see Thoreau, later). Additionally, a segment from his 1912–13 piano study, The AntiAbolitionist Riots, was incorporated into the movement as a reflection of Emerson’s views on slavery. Ives surely would have preferred that the musical components slowly work their way into the consciousness, to allow the larger perspective of the music’s grand design to become clearer with each hearing, in true Emersonian tradition. • Emerson opens with dramatic flourishes and bold writing that lay out the fundamental musical components; mixed and buried in deep and complex textures, some might be difficult to identify. Effectively an exposition, the segment carries the small subtitle, Prose. Within it, both Beethoven motifs seem obvious enough, even that of Emerson himself, periodically announcing his characteristic presence by the rhythmic angularity of his motif’s contour. The Quasi-Pentatonic Melody is partially introduced in the bass, as well as other material derived from the larger Human Faith Melody. • As the music unfolds, the Fate Motif constantly reinvents itself, often transformed into slower bass figures that accompany ascending motion in the upper lines, built on the first notes of the Human Faith Melody. As the music becomes increasingly restless, the Emerson Motif appears regularly, too; perhaps, not coincidentally, the agitated mood supports the brief quote from Crusader’s Hymn, reflecting Emerson’s struggles with religion. • A new section, subtitled Verse, follows. Soft, slower, more lyrical in nature and gentler in character, it is built from material intrinsically linked to the Quasi-Pentatonic Melody. The Lyrical Melody leads, too, to a second Verse segment, in which the upcoming full statement of the Quasi-Pentatonic Melody appears. • David Michael Hertz pointed out the direct tie to the standard blues progression in the QuasiPentatonic Melody.11 As broken chordal movement accompanies the line of the extended Quasi-Pentatonic Melody, the blues-like progression may be distinguished easily in the bass line. Grounded to the root of the prevailing tonality, it is punctuated by the characteristic alternating chords one fourth higher, and in this instance, at the end of each musical “paragraph.” Hertz did not comment upon the harmony that also features the characteristic lowered seventh of the scale in both chords, also just as may be found in the blues. • The segment develops into swirling writing in the bass line, as the Quasi-Pentatonic Melody is set atop massive broken chords—oddly reminiscent of the music of Maurice Ravel. Growing increasingly turbulent, fragments of the Human Faith Melody and Fate Motif intrude, too. 155 The Concord Sonata • Momentarily seeming to be almost a recapitulation, a new section, designated Prose, clearly identifies the later part of the movement with the opening segment; now reflective, it features gentle reminders of the Emerson and Fate motifs. It is further extended by an elaborate fugal treatment in a section built on thematic material from the Prelude to Tristan und Isolde by Wagner, again labeled, Verse. Short-lived, the segment develops with increasing motion, to form another Prose section. • As the Tristan segment dissipates, the Emerson Motif appears more frequently. Together with both the Beethoven motifs, which become gradually dominant, the ever more reposeful settings of the materials allow their gestures to be elevated, leaving all else in the background. • The movement winds down as the Emersonian revelation has become clear: the cumulative structure of the movement allows order to emerge from chaos; at the conclusion of the movement, the non-essential clutter slowly having been stripped away, Emerson’s presence dominates over the slow tolling of Fate in the bass. Second movement: Hawthorne Just as Emerson had evolved from earlier materials, so, too, Hawthorne was based on an evolution of another of Ives’s earlier prospective works for piano and orchestra that had ties to the Fourth Symphony. Were the impression of this movement to be based solely on some of the commentary surrounding it, one might conclude that the second movement of the symphony (Scherzo) is merely an orchestral transcription of Hawthorne. However, despite the mutual sharing of certain passages, likely, the casual listener would be unaware of most of the connections; overall, the symphonic movement will seem completely new. Although both separate compositions are outgrowths of the same original work, they have with different histories. Indeed, the symphonic movement more closely resembles Hawthorne’s tale, The Celestial Rail-road than does the sonata movement, in which the fancifully horrific story plays only a part. That is not to say, however, that there are not many direct comparisons [Image: Nkloudon] between them, since both share the fantastic, otherworldly {{PD-Art}} mystical visions of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s writings, with its scary and weird contradictions at every turn. Rather than setting the darker themes of his thought—both the sonata and the symphony movements were intended, thus, as something of an adventure: free, chaotic, reckless, extravagant, even hair-raising, akin to a roller coaster ride, also sharing glimpses of life on Ives’s Main Street with the listener. Their origins are shared, too. Both began as the Hawthorne Concerto (c. 1910?), the major materials of which were lost (though more likely they were discarded). Some earlier compositions (from around 1909) included in the concerto (since lost), were Demons’ Dance around the Pipe, The Slaves’ Shuffle, and a preliminary version of 1925 The Celestial Railroad, which is directly linked to the Scherzo. The first incarnation of Hawthorne (1911, per Ives), however, appeared two years prior to Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring. 156 The Concord Sonata In the Concord Sonata, its central theme (The Human Faith Melody) is never far away, paralleled by brief commonalities in the Scherzo. Otherwise, stepping in and out of the fabric, among the melodies common to both are: Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, Martyn, The Battle Cry of Freedom, In the Sweet Bye and Bye, even Ives’s own music, Country Band March, the song, He Is There!, and the chamber ensemble piece, Take-Off No. 3: Rube Trying to Walk 2 to 3!!. Hawthorne was not supposed to plumb the depths found in Emerson, its exceedingly intricately tangled texture as great a virtuosic display as Ives could muster, instead. As romps through Hawthorne’s supernatural dreamscapes, both the sonata and symphonic movements offer lighter relief of sorts—in the case of the sonata, after the rigors of Emerson; in the symphony, answering the questioning Prelude, although the “comedic” element might not be especially obvious! The movement, though, serves in some ways as a transitory bridge towards the revelations of the next movement (The Alcotts), as part of a three-movement arched cumulative form. • The movement opens with flurries of sixteenth-note activity (Ives’s “Magical Frost Waves”)12 that provide motivic materials underlying the structural fabric; echoing The Celestial Railroad (1925), the fast flurries common can be found also in the solo piano part in the Scherzo of the Fourth Symphony. A fragment of Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean is identifiable by its “dotted” rhythm; in a high register, the first three notes of the Human Faith Melody serve as a reminder that the essence of the melody remains. • Soon the first three notes of the Human Faith Melody appear in various guises, leading into a quiet section. It requires the use of a 14-¾ inch board to play gentle clusters of “black” keys to accompany other material played on the “white” keys—apparently, a shocking affront at the time—though hardly abrasive to the modern listener. Visually, however, it might still seem outrageous. The section shares its essence with Ives’s song, Majority, in utilizing similar clusters of black keys for much the same effect, including what it accompanies. Both comparable sections look surprisingly matched, although, in Majority, the technique is utilized forcefully and dynamically to create an entirely different musical result. • Leaving the section with one further reference to the Human Faith Melody, the music picks up speed and urgency; suddenly, what appears to be a clear quotation of the hymn, In the Sweet Bye and Bye, appears out of thin air in the bass, perhaps a spiritual connection to the movement’s counterpart in the Fourth Symphony. The first three-notes, alternating back-andforth, also links it to those of the Human Faith Melody, as well as to its motivic counterpart in the orchestral Scherzo, and dominating the structure of the latter. • The Fate Motif, and the adjoining Hammerklavier variant interject twice, winding down to a brief moment of repose built on the hymn, Martyn. Directly comparable to moments in the Scherzo of the Fourth Symphony (though Ives quoted other hymns, too, in that work—namely, In the Sweet Bye and Bye and Nettleton), the segment in the Scherzo represents the “trials of the Pilgrims in their journey through the swamp” (see Chapter 10). The way the segment is approached and suddenly exposed implies it always had been present, suspended at another level of consciousness and a different speed (again, just as in the Fourth Symphony). Appearing again, Martyn intones now more brilliantly and extensively, and is altered relative to the original hymn. 157 The Concord Sonata • Out of the blue, the music lurches into Ives’s 1903 Country Band March (that also formed the basis of Putnam’s Camp of Three Places In New England); it is one of the few places that corresponds precisely with a comparable, recognizable segment in the symphonic Scherzo. • As the Country Band March proceeds, an extended section evolves, in some respects similar to Debussy’s Golliwogg’s Cakewalk. If it is an actual quote, to find it here seems incongruous, due to the fact that Debussy was amongst composers Ives criticized passionately! The case against the segment being an actual quote, the musical style could be linked idiomatically to many “cakewalks” from the period. • After a frenzied build-up, the music pauses, gently descending into a section built on Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, also following the comparable segment in the symphonic Scherzo closely. The section concludes with a passing reference to The Battle Cry of Freedom, and Ives’s own He is there! of 1917. Written in anticipation of America’s involvement in World War I, it reveals, thus, compositional additions to Hawthorne made well beyond the time of the movement’s original incarnation in 1911; (The Battle Cry of Freedom also appears He is There!.) • The musical display becomes increasingly frenzied and fantastic; both Beethoven motifs appear forcefully, as if to underline their importance. Multiple fragments of Columbia and the Human Faith Melody are woven throughout the texture. With one last, high-registered fragment of Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean (characterized by its “dotted” rhythms), and a tiny reference to Martyn, the movement concludes with a mad dash to the finish. Third movement: The Alcotts The Alcott family occupies an important place in Concord history. Amos Bronson Alcott, father of famed novelist, Louisa May Alcott (Little Women), was in many ways the least successful of Ives’s four Concord Transcendentalists. Nevertheless, he is assured of his place in the pantheon of Transcendental thinkers. Founding a school of philosophy, and instituting an enlightened approach to education, the effects of both still can be felt to this day, and thus, it is Bronson Alcott’s predictive educational philosophies that are his principal legacy, which speaks to modern day social rethinking far across the distance of time. Bronson Alcott’s resolute idealism, and inability to find success in the workplace, often necessitated taking loans and the depending upon the charity of others. The family home, Orchard House (subject of Ives’s discarded Orchard House Overture of 1902–04), took its name from the apple orchard in its grounds; at times, apples were all the family had to eat. Reading Bronson Alcott’s elegantly styled prose today also confirms 158 {{PD-Art}} Louisa May Alcott The Concord Sonata contemporary criticisms that found it unfathomable, even incoherent. Even Emerson’s admiration and careful editing was unable to salvage much of it, though there can be no doubt that the words are the product of considerable intelligence immersed in a deep quest for meaning. Louisa May would remain dedicated to her father until his dying day, the bond reminiscent of that between Ives and his father. By a remarkable quirk of fate, already terminally ill, she would die within a couple of days of her father’s demise, seemingly accepting his deathbed invitation to join him in the next life. Despite Ives’s stated reservations about the elder Alcott’s accomplishments and practicality, it seems he was especially drawn to both his family’s simple virtues and their lack of materialism; the Spartan lifestyle Bronson Alcott advocated not being entirely dictated by his less-than-opportune circumstances. Thus, the sonata movement celebrates more Ives’s imagined vision of the quiet tranquility of the Alcott’s homestead than it does any specific attainment, one in which inner strength and resolve was as good an example of character as any. Indeed, Bronson Alcott’s lifestyle was echoed in many ways in Ives’s own. In spite of his substantial means, Ives lived simply, without even a radio, wearing the same simple clothes (and hat!) year in-year out, an old Ford Model “T” remaining his most conspicuous private transportation. Carl Ruggles remarked, too, that he hardly ate anything!13 Ives composed The Alcotts in 1914. Because it was built from the earliest materials found in the sonata, its composition was fairly late for the style. Compared to the complex sprawls of the two prior movements, it is relatively conventional, musically straightforward, and technically, altogether less challenging. Simplicity and Ives’s view of the Alcott’s contentment, then, is the central theme of the movement. Saving the full cumulative revelation of the Human Faith Melody for its conclusion, it is revealed in massive form, clad in hymn-like chords and with all its components woven into it. Thus, conspicuously, the high point of the first three movements occurs here, almost as a manifestation of one continuous thought, the relative consonance of the music complying optimally with its tonal contours. • The movement starts softly with the Fate Motif, so contemplative and reflective that it is easy to miss its musical identity. Infused to the chordal blocks of Missionary Chant, in this instance, however, the line does not progress immediately into the Hammerklavier Motif. Now more forceful, conjoined restatements of its elements from Missionary Chant, Hammerklavier and the Fate Motif gain in energy and speed, while increasingly diverging from the simpler static tonality maintained in the bass. Loud statements of the Fate Motif are followed by a brief reflection of the Emerson Motif, just to remind the listener, perhaps, of his strong influence upon Bronson Alcott. Ultimately, a somewhat more complete statement of the Human Faith Melody emerges, partly harmonized in the block chords in which it ultimately will be heard. • Ragtime—one of Ives’s perennial and most formative influences—pervades a two-bar melodic fragment (possibly original to Ives) that sounds more than a little like Bringing in the Sheaves (and not dissimilar to the appearance of the melody in the First Piano Sonata). It is followed immediately by a carefully placed, probable quote from Lock Lomond. Easily missed because it was taken from the end of the verse of the traditional Scottish song, and appears at half speed, it has been speculated that Ives placed it there to symbolize the Scottish airs (or as Ives mistakenly called them “Scotch” songs) that sometimes filled the Alcotts’s home. 159 The Concord Sonata • A soft, gentle cadence follows, in which an easily identifiable short fragment of the Wedding March by Wagner (apparently to signify the wedded bliss of the Alcotts) introduces an extended section built on a quotation of the minstrel song, Stop that Knocking at My Door. In this instance, it is symbolic of fate knocking at the door of opportunity, and the upcoming full statement of the Human Faith Melody. In Ives’s own recorded performance, his fleet fingers demonstrate the fluidity of style he envisaged for his music, in this instance, he discarded metric inflexibility for the run-up to the grand moment of revelation.14 • Finally, the full, grand and massive statement of the entire Human Faith Melody appears in summation of the three movements that preceded it, with its Beethovenesque features displayed grandly in full hymn-like chords. Fittingly, The Alcotts concludes with a low and reposeful C major chord. It is a chord without sharps or flats, quietly ringing like a gentle bell tone, as much to reflect Ives’s own inner peace as it does that of Bronson Alcott. Fourth movement: Thoreau Rather than try to depict Henry David Thoreau’s philosophies or writings, Ives decided to conclude the Concord Sonata with a musical portrayal of a summer’s day of contemplation around the reposeful setting of Walden Pond near Concord. He had in mind, of course, Thoreau’s great life experiment enshrined in the iconic Walden; or, Life in the Woods, the famous work of literature that Thoreau penned about the two years he had spent living in a simple cabin next to the lake on Emerson’s property. In an impressionistic portrayal by Ives, one can, perhaps, link it to some of the liquid sounds found, too, in Debussy’s pianistic textures.15 For part of the effect to be attained, Ives instructed the pianist to play the movement at a lower dynamic level than the rest of the sonata, while making continual use of both pedals, a technique reminiscent, too, of the song, Afterglow. Successfully realized, the technique creates a sonic image well matched to the imagery of Thoreau’s writing. The pond itself is clearly depicted with suggestions of gentle undulating waves radiating outwards in expanding circles. Thoreau, thus, seems like a last glance back toward the real world, and most especially, to Concord, the place that had inspired him so much in his musical journey. Often thought to be the only movement conceived from the start specifically for the sonata, in fact, it was built from another lost youthful work, Walden Sounds (no exact date known), for piano, strings and woodwinds, and recreated into the last movement of the sonata. Paradoxically, in relation to his pianistic masterwork, Ives considered that the original version had been a superior setting of the material, presumably due to its more varied instrumental coloration. While developing the sonata, in 1915, Ives also extracted the music from this movement into a song of the same name, setting the following text from Walden; or, Life in the Woods: He grew in those seasons like corn in the night, rapt in revery, on the Walden shore, amidst the sumach, pines and hickories, in undisturbed solitude. 160 The Concord Sonata In linking these words to the music, just as in quoting Loch Lomond in The Alcotts to suggest “Scotch” songs, Ives took the refrain from Massa’s in de Cold Ground (“Down in de cornfield”) in an apparent representation of the corn patch by Thoreau’s lakeside shack. Geoffrey Block, in his book on the sonata, discussed a “musical pun,” among other connected motifs between it and the otherwise curiously absent, Bethany—the hymn so significant in many of Ives’s late works, and the last quotation on his road to the stars.16 He missed, however, the connection of Bethany to the so-called Quasi-Pentatonic Melody in Emerson, the first strain of which shares the same notes and order, the second strain implying its high point. It would appear that Bethany was present in the sonata all along. Far more important yet, as it happens, the Human Faith Melody shares its tones and partial makeup with Bethany, too! {{PD-Art}} Image: John Phelan Walden Pond, Concord, Mass. • The movement opens with the gentle imagery of the sun sparkling on the water, as ripples move across the surface; free and flexible, it proceeds in an extemporized manner, in which loosely constrained washes of sound seem fitting for the summation of the sonata. Several structural “cells” comprise portions of the movement, providing materials for development. These “cells” reappear, too, elsewhere in the movement—something not found, otherwise, in the sonata. In general, Ives did not favor direct repetition. 161 The Concord Sonata • As the fleet-footed writing reaches a calm, the first appearance of “Down in de cornfield” is placed discreetly. Reappearing high in the upper register soon after, the notes are subtly changed; still identifiable, the essence of the quote continues to pervade the liquid quality of the music. • Rhythms and their groupings are mixed and interchanged with remarkable freedom; related to the phrasing techniques found in The Indians, they simulate the multiple speeds and independent levels of sound that so typify Ives’s mature orchestral works. The high point of the movement is reached in a prominent bell-like section that, if not the “Concord bell” of Ives’s descriptions, might be all the church bells of Concord. • A “stride” pattern follows in the bass, the actual representation of the “Concord bell,” and supporting expanded lyricism built upon “Down in de cornfield.” Concluding the section, dotted rhythms also seem to imply the presence of Emerson, too, the master Transcendentalist. • The rhythmic groupings continue to mix and vary, until a polytonal progression of conventional chords in contrary motion is announced. Shared between both hands (and reminiscent of Ives’s early theory experiments in George Ives’s copybook), it heralds a segment in which the structure of the chords often is conventional, though the frequent polytonality of their combinations is not. “Down in de cornfield” continues to pervade the fabric, as does the tolling “Concord bell” in the bass. One can tell the sonata is reaching its final stages. Even the Quasi-Pentatonic Melody of the first movement, in a different guise, seems to make a return as the music drifts along. • Somewhat startlingly, a distant flute (although the sonata may be played without) enters with the Human Faith Melody. Sounding nothing like its grand form in The Alcotts, it wafts across the shimmering sounds established at the outset by the piano. A further example of Ives’s spatial writing, the added flute solo seems eerily reminiscent of the early piece, The Pond (1906). Repeating the segment, gentler still with the “Concord bell” tolling, the melody floats by once again in full and recognizable form. With further appearances of “Down in de cornfield,” finally, one last pebble is thrown into the water, the ripples once again spreading out. Fate weighs in one last time atop the retreating echoes across the waters into the stillness of the air and final silence. Stuart Feder theorized that the unexpected solo flute part was a representation of his father, George Ives, and his efforts to learn the flute.17 It would indeed be a fitting tribute to his father’s memory and his early efforts on that instrument—even though the movement was supposed to be about Thoreau—who really did play the flute! However, its placement here might tie it, thus, to George Ives’s “echo” experiments, such as portrayed in The Pond; even the choice of instrument seems eerily linked to the last entrance of Taps in the early piece. However, Feder’s charge that Ives’s chapter about this movement in Essays Before a Sonata was “angry” does seem off the mark.18 Passionate? Yes. Ives was writing about an ideal, never attainable, world. It is hard to conceive that he would not have been completely comfortable living under the new societal rules he proposed; indeed, he lived that way already. 162 ENDNOTES 1 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974), 224; sound recording: Charles Ives Plays Ives, CRI 810 (CD) [1999]. 2 Sinclair, James B., A Descriptive Catalogue of The Music of Charles Ives (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1999). 3 Stuart Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song,” a Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1992), 349. 4 Charles Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 186–87. 5 Charles Ives Plays Ives, track 42. 6 A gradual evolution away from secular quotations through Ives’s maturation is evident over the years, and movement towards religious material quite clear, although by no means does it follow an even curve. Ultimately, the whittling down even of religious melodies becomes increasingly noticeable, leaving little melodic residual in their wake. The groundbreaking Finale of the Fourth Symphony is significant in this regard. It is limited mostly to quoting the hymns, Bethany (“Nearer, My God to Thee”), Missionary Chant and Dorrnance. At the end of the journey of the Universe Symphony, there is virtually nothing readily identifiable or “earthly” as a melodic quote, save for some diffuse references, again, pivotally to Bethany, a few from Erie, one from In the Sweet Bye and Bye, and oddly, even a fragment seemingly of Massa’s in de Cold Ground. In the sonata, Bethany seems absenct, which in theory, separates the work from the last two symphonies that surround it. However, it is there, albeit disguised, as will become clear. 7 Charles Ives, Essays Before a Sonata (New York, Knickerbocker Press, 1920). 8 Jan Swafford, Charles Ives: A Life with Music (New York, W.W. Norton & Co., 1996), 477. 9 Examples of “cyclic” sonatas are: Piano Sonatas No.13 and 28 by Ludwig van Beethoven; Piano Sonata in B minor by Franz Liszt; Piano Sonata in E major, op. 6 by Felix Mendessöhn. 10 Ives, Essays Before a Sonata, 12. 11 “Ives’s Concord Sonata and the Texture of Music,” David Michael Hertz, in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 114. 12 Ives, Memos, 187. 13 Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, 173 14 Op. cit., n.5. 15 Op cit., n.10. One must consider, too, that Ives was no fan of Debussy, so the link is perhaps better understood in relation to the comparable pianist attributes, rather than the musical. 16 Geoffrey Block, Ives Concord Sonata (Cambridge University Press, 1996), 35; 55. 17 Feder, “My Father’s Song,” a Psychoanalytic Biography, 271–72. 18 Ibid., 270. 163 164 CHAPTER 10 The Fourth Symphony {{PD-Art}} I ves’s star-spangled Fourth Symphony occupies a unique place in the pantheon of twentieth century symphonic literature. Until a fully realized version of the sketches of the Universe Symphony appeared in 1995, it seemed that Ives was represented by no higher musical aspiration, nor by any more otherworld vision. The monumental Fourth Symphony calls for a vast array of performers, between them, featuring no less than three pianos, three conductors, a full chorus, even a small group of players in a spatial context, separated from the main orchestra. Unlike the symphonies that preceded it, in totality, the Fourth Symphony no longer bears any relationship to traditional symphonic form. Ives, thus, had fully abandoned European symphonic structural traditions, although, as in the Concord Sonata, he still retained the name and large-scale umbrella for multi-movement works, having followed that course, too, in the Symphony of Holidays. Moreover, the Fourth Symphony embraces multiple idioms, so stylistically, although the movements are anything but uniformly bound together, they are entirely consistent with Emersonian thought. Ultimately logical and balanced in their progression, thus, the music features continued expansions and refinements of the applications of his innovations in large-scale composition. The miraculous Fourth Symphony, however, does lead far along the road to the stars, even touching the territory of the Universe Symphony, where human spirituality seems at one with the depths of the cosmos. Indeed, the forward-looking Finale does seem like the benediction for the beginning of Ives’s cosmic journey in the Universe Symphony, sharing, too, major design features, not the least of which is an independent “battery” of percussion instruments. Like its successor, the Finale no longer conjures up familiar imagery. Seizing many of the same otherworld tenets that would be central to the Universe Symphony, the primary esthetic for the Fourth was the search for the larger questions of existence. No less an auspicious figure than Bernard Herrmann,1 a devoted Ives disciple (who ultimately secured his greatest legacy in Hollywood composing such film scores as the iconic masterpiece for Hitchcock’s Psycho), would remark that Finale “belonged to some far distant future,” as if somehow aware of Ives’s musical destination.2 Remarkably, Herrmann’s skills were such that he was able to appreciate these qualities when the music existed only on the page, never having been performed. However, he added incorrectly, “it contains no themes, quotations or motives,” undoubtedly due to his lack of exposure to the particular liturgical music at its heart, rather than simply overlooking them. 165 The Fourth Symphony Though not initially conceived precisely in the form that would finally take shape (does such a work by Ives exist?), the Fourth Symphony gradually assumed its final identity over a period of years. The fact that Ives (or his copyist) misplaced much of the score also necessitated its partial reconstruction in the 1920s. And he would recompose the second movement, the Scherzo, during these years, too. In 1927 Eugene Goossens and some members from the New York Philharmonic Orchestra undertook the considerable challenge of playing the Prelude and Scherzo in a special performance. Out of Ives’s entire catalog, the Scherzo was the largest-scale work he ever would hear in person. After years of existing only on the page and in his mind, it must have been an auspicious occasion. Elliot Carter recalled that Ives invited some of the percussionists to his New York residence to help them with the tangled rhythms by pounding them out on the dining table; such music was anything but standard fare at the time.3 Ives dated the complete composition to between 1910 and 1916. However, (see below), the movements themselves, sketch materials, dates, copied and partial scores are especially confusing. I. The first movement, Prelude, the shortest of the four, is cast in the form of a prelude, and probably the oldest surviving manuscript of the four movements. Serving as an introduction to all that follows, its function is dissimilar to most symphonic first movements, which usually are the longest and weightiest. II. The second movement, Scherzo (literal meaning: a joke), has a remarkable history. It is believed that Ives originally decided to use his earlier Hawthorne Concerto for Piano and Orchestra in its entirety. However, after 1916, it appears he had a change of heart, and during the 1920s, reorganized and recomposed much of the original material into the movement known today. Regardless, Hawthorne (in the Concord Sonata) and the new Scherzo still can be heard to share musical material, although Hawthorne, too, hardly should be considered a mere transcription of the Hawthorne Concerto. The Scherzo also closely parallels a piano piece, entitled The Celestial Railroad, their mutual program outlining Nathaniel Hawthorne’s scary short story, The Celestial Rail-road. This closely derivative work (The Celestial Railroad) still is not the carbon copy of the Scherzo that it is proposed routinely to be, their divergences sometimes marked, despite the clear connection between them. III. The third movement, though posing as a double fugue, though not fully conforming to the form, dates to Ives’s days with Parker. Originally for organ (now lost), it was reworked as the first movement of his First String Quartet, and adapted many years later (1916) for the symphony. Surprisingly, this, the most immediately accessible of all of the four movements, had to wait another six years after the premiere of the Prelude and Scherzo to see the light of day, too. First performed in New York City in 1933 by the New Chamber Orchestra, it was under the direction of none other than Bernard Herrmann, who had been so tireless in his early support and recognition of the unknown composer. Though once intended as the second movement, after 1927, Ives switched its position with the Scherzo as the third movement, the Scherzo now becoming the second. It was a fortuitous decision—the largely traditional movement clearing the air following the boisterous romp of the Scherzo, and importantly, setting the spiritual tone prior to embarking on the otherworld journey of the Finale. 166 The Fourth Symphony IV. The reconstructed fourth movement, Finale, was copied into full score in 1923. However, it would wait more than twenty years for John Becker to produce a more refined edition of nearindecipherable details in the manuscript, and for a further refinement in 1965 for the AMP publication, before all aspects of the sketches (notably, the accurate notations of complex birdsong) were set in stone. The symphony finally would receive its first complete performance more than fifty years after its composition, the auspicious event taking place under the direction of Leopold Stokowski and the newly formed American Symphony Orchestra. His associate conductor, José Serebrier, further refined the edition (not the notes!) for practical concert situations.4 Requiring still a third conductor, David Katz, is a reflection of the independent speeds and complexity. Sadly, Ives did not live to hear the almost supernatural sonics of this movement, from a late stage of his voyage to the stars. However, he was aware of its significance at the time, considering it the “best thing” he had done.5 Parallel thoughts Following the first performance of the Scherzo, Ives wrote an essay, entitled “Conductor’s Notes,” now included with the printed score. The performance had not been completely satisfactory, due to its unprecedented complexity and the players’ lack of familiarity with the music, and no doubt, limited rehearsal. Ives’s written notes discussed the philosophical ideas behind the music, but significantly, added some of the most detailed markings and indications found in any of his scores, revealing much about balance in all his music. Even more importantly, he outlined something that will be encountered again: “parallel listening.”6 Remarkably, it was the very same idea he would feature and describe for the Universe Symphony (see Chapter 11)! After the fact, he had connected it, too, to the Scherzo of the Fourth Symphony—to a word—his commentary surely, in this particular instance, appearing only in hindsight, because the comparable element is scarcely recognizable in the same manner that it was featured in the Universe Symphony. More surprising, though, is that he did not relate the term to the Finale (of the Fourth Symphony), because it is here that the music does align more closely with its successor. Ives, awestruck by the spectacular wide-open scenery in the Adirondacks during vacation stays in the area (see Chapter 11), found it to be an inspirational catalyst to both of these symphonies. Specifically, he compared “parallel listening” to viewing the skies and clouds above while maintaining an awareness of the landscape below. According to the attention paid to each level individually, by selectively shifting one’s attention to either level, awareness of the other is reduced, but not eliminated. In this way, multiple musical levels could be appreciated together; being registered differently, thus, with each hearing, they never would sound exactly the same twice. In the Scherzo, however, what was the “parallel” element Ives was referring to? Little of the content or imagery compares with the panoramic vistas enshrined in the Universe Symphony. Aside from some short episodes that feature a soft quarter-tone group that continues independently of multiple loud interruptions, true parallel entities are few and far between in this movement. The loud ride of The Celestial Railroad is represented by a cacophony of wildly disparate and constantly changing elements, as well as multiple fragments of near countless vernacular melodies; together, they ensure that the listener has little chance of settling on separate levels. In those instances in which it might be argued such levels do exist, usually their 167 The Fourth Symphony makeup consists of groups (cycles) of measured rhythmic patterns that coincide periodically with others by their common denominators, only to repeat the cycle in an open loop; they hardly comprise the separate layers of Ives’s descriptions. Perhaps, though, Ives had decided to broach his concept of “parallel listening” relative to a work that actually had been completed and performed, lest it never be raised at all—especially because, by 1929 (the date of the Conductor’s Notes), prospects of completing the Universe Symphony were fast fading from view. Regardless, long before this time, of course, Ives already had featured parallel levels of writing in many other works and contexts, dating back to The Unanswered Question, and even before. The germ of the idea, thus, was far from new to him, even though this occasion was the first time he had annunciated it as such. However, the larger upshot is that Ives had umbilically tied the Fourth Symphony to his ultimate musical destination, the Universe Symphony. Thus, as is typical of his methodology, his music, materials, and even ideas, often emanated in earlier works, implying that Ives’s entire creative output likely was not far from his consciousness at any one time. Such thinking reinforced the Transcendental philosophy of continual renewal of ever-present ideas. Ives’s mature counterpoint Some have criticized Ives’s masterpiece for being beyond the ear’s capacity to resolve—that his orchestration was fundamentally at fault. However, because Ives knew his orchestration (as demonstrated in the First and Second Symphonies, for example), that criticism can be put aside. Ives also was aware of the laws of physics in which dominant sounds cancel out lesser ones, but rejected that the ear was unable to hear what did not correspond to some “theoretical graph.”7 Ives’s notes for the Scherzo about the proper placement of instruments demonstrate his awareness of the ear’s ability to glimpse things within the larger texture; clearly, his ability was greater than that of his critics. The Finale, however, broke new ground, introducing a kind of contrapuntal texture that featured many similar lines moving independently; its strikingly stratified textures come much closer to his descriptions of “parallel listening,” especially the wholly independent percussion track relative to all that it accompanies. Like Bach’s music, too, Ives’s music challenges the listener to hear horizontally, instead of merely vertically—the latter being the easiest of listening skills. Although few people can claim honestly that they can resolve all the parts as individual lines in, say, a contrapuntal choral work by Bach, everyone hears them in combination, however, which certainly is part of the desired effect, even if not all. The music still is experienced in full. And no one can deny that just the combined vertical sound of Ives’s (or Bach’s!) horizontal linearity is an awesome noise indeed. Movement 1 – Prelude Conspicuously, all the primary melodic quotes in this movement are from hymns. The powerfully spiritual mood benefits from the unique and telling use of opposing tonalities and rhythms alongside the traditional. From its otherworld quality, it is clear that, spiritually, Ives already had left Danbury and New England, the Prelude seeming to have more in common with the Finale than it does with the next 168 The Fourth Symphony movement (Scherzo), seeming almost as if written out of sequence. Ives dated the sketch of the Prelude between 1910 and 1911, although the confusing scenario concerning the date already has been discussed and, perhaps, resolved to the reader’s satisfaction (see again discussion on pages 140–41, Chapter 8). Conspicuously, too, the early focal point of Watchman (“see that glory-beaming star!”) seems to indicate again that Ives seemed long to have had harbored visions of the cosmos. In the sonata version, the music appears without the words; once added, the perspective changes diametrically. Watchman, tell us of the night, what its signs of promise are. Traveler, what a wondrous sight: see that glory-beaming star! Watchman, does its beauteous ray news of joy or hope foretell? Traveler, yes; it brings the day, promised day of Israel. Image courtesy ESA/NASA & R. Sahai; nasaimages.org Listeners’ guide • In the low instruments, the symphony begins with a blustery and stormy figure of three adjacent, though non-equidistant, tones (dubbed by Jan Swafford: the “Urmotiv”), borrowed from Ives’s First Piano Sonata. The short opening figure is at once echoed, inverted, in the high violins. It appears with another three-adjacent-note motif (the “Lyric Motif,” which really 169 The Fourth Symphony • • • • is a variant of the “Urmotiv”), and corresponds to the opening three adjacent (and equidistant) tones of Bethany. Swafford revealed that the “Urmotiv/Lyric” motif can be found in as many as fifty other melodies quoted in the symphony.8 The writer, having discovered that a common denominator of three can be found in countless systematic guises throughout virtually all of Ives’s output—in horizontal, vertical and compound applications—termed the phenomenon the “Trinity Code.”9 Immediately, a “Distant Choir,” independent of the larger group, and consisting of a harp and two violins, can be heard playing the opening three-notes of Bethany in E Major. Again, celestial thoughts point to the “glory-beaming star” of Bowring’s poem, because the sound of this isolated group seems to be suspended in space. Continuing the spatial lineage of The Unanswered Question, these sounds, wholly separated from the main orchestra, permeate most of the movement, unaffected by their surroundings—far enough removed from the evolving musical foreground to approximate, too, in this context, Ives’s “parallel listening.” Another variant of the opening three-note motif trails off and leads into the main movement. As the Distant Choir (violins and harp) continues, a plaintive solo cello plays In the Sweet Bye and Bye (a melody that, not insignificantly, shares the three-note “lyric motif” in reverse), though here it is set in an entirely different key: A Major—the key that normally would be the result of a harmonic resolution from E Major heard in the Distant Choir. Here, as in the song, The Indians, both the “dominant” (before) and “tonic” (after) keys are heard simultaneously, in addition to other, less defining, tonalities that reveal the melodies anew. The piano, set further in tonal opposition, is joined by the flute, playing the first three notes of the Fate Motif. Derived from the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, it is another manifestation of the “Trinity Code.” Meanwhile, the celeste plays a variant of Bethany. The cello gives way to an actual chorus (with the trumpet), singing Watchman, tell us of the night, amidst building orchestral textures; the flute continues, joined by the strings. It is possible even to make out the unexpected, but familiar sounds of Westminster Chimes in the celeste (likely to symbolize time).7 Curiously, Ives indicated that he would prefer this section of the movement to be performed without voices, the lone solo trumpet reflecting his father’s custom leading the music at camp meetings.10 Although it is not how the movement usually is performed, the strong celestial underpinnings of the words, “see that glory-beaming star!” make actual voices seem inevitable. Indeed, Ives notated it thus towards the end of the movement. The high point of the melody coincides with the crux of the movement. Harmonically identical to the setting of Ives’s song Watchman, the extraordinary low line in the cellos—set one-anda-half steps lower than the expected tonality (B minor instead of D Major)—establishes an eerie musical antagonism. After brief quotes from Something for Thee and Proprior Deo (the latter, significantly, being the English setting of “Nearer, my God to Thee”) towards the end of the section, the flute and strings take a fragment from the concluding cadence of Bringing in the Sheaves (or possibly, it is I Hear Thy Welcome Voice) and one more quote from Bethany. This kind of seamless interweaving of otherwise well-trodden melodies demonstrates again Ives’s ability to re-energize existing materials to make them sound completely new. 170 The Fourth Symphony • A brief interlude bridges a noble and fuller concluding statement of Watchman, with the further evasion of its tonality; the music thins out and trails off into the distance. • The celestial violins and harp of the Distant Choir, which briefly had fallen silent, return as a reminder that the “glory-beaming star” still hangs brightly in the still night sky. Movement 2 – Scherzo Image courtesy NASA, ESA and A. Schaller (for STScI); nasaimages.org By any standards, the Scherzo is an extraordinary concoction; perhaps only Ives’s The Fourth of July rivals this movement in the scale of raucousness on display. According to the normally accepted meaning of the term, a scherzo would be associated with music altogether lighter and more playful. Ives’s Scherzo, however, not only is massive in texture, but also features the weighty substance one would expect to find in a traditional symphonic first movement. As a sonic representation of the fantastic, Ives considered it to be a “comedy” of sorts—a romp through life—though more particularly, it is an excursion into the realm of the spectacularly supernatural. Although it was modeled on the same materials as the Hawthorne movement in the Concord Sonata—the lost Hawthorne Concerto—here, the musical program is entirely limited to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s high-flying, but ultimately horrific tale, The Celestial Rail-road. Thus, despite sharing Hawthorne’s musical genesis, it is, thus, very different music, and only gradually does one 171 The Fourth Symphony become aware of their many ties and similarities. The late solo piano piece, The Celestial Railroad—of almost the identical layout to the Scherzo—parallels the rewriting of the Scherzo in the 1920s. The same single-story-specific musical vision apparently was intended originally as a movement in a compact version of the piano sonata: a Concord Suite. If the larger subject matter of Hawthorne’s Celestial Rail-road tale has not changed, the Scherzo includes many aspects of Danbury’s local color, and, in recalling tunes familiar to him since his youth, Ives piled them on top of one another with reckless abandon. Fittingly, the coda erupts in what might be another vision of the Fourth of July holiday. The sounds of celebration this time, though, seem on a far grander scale than anything likely to be heard in any small town (Concord, according to Henry Bellamann’s 1927 program notes); were they fireworks over the Statue of Liberty, perhaps? It has to be remarked, however, that entirely missing are the graphic sonic portrayals of fireworks themselves, so Ives was not attempting to rival those in his Symphony of Holidays. If Ives’s gaze was fixed ever more closely on the stars, the earthly chaos depicted conspires to delay his departure until the Finale. As the vast soundscape collapses upon itself at the conclusion, one’s initial impression is likely to be of shock. Subsequent hearings are more likely to reveal it as liberation from the status quo—a boisterous marvel of daring when most of the world was far from ready to confront what would have seemed like an incoherent cacophony. The cosmic component of the Scherzo is revealing, too, since “celestial” thoughts, at least, dominate its program. Can it be a coincidence that another hymn melody, In the Sweet Bye and Bye, features prominently in this movement, as well as in the first, though not in the earlier Hawthorne. Perhaps meeting his father on that beautiful shore was on Ives’s mind, because, while reworking the Scherzo, Ives was fast approaching the age that his father died (forty-nine). In this ultimately spiritual Fourth Symphony, the words point to it: There’s a land that is fairer than day, And by faith we can see it afar; For the Father waits over the way To prepare us a dwelling place there. To our bountiful Father above, We will offer our tribute of praise For the glorious gift of His love And the blessings that hallow our days. We shall sing on that beautiful shore The melodious songs of the blessed; And our spirits shall sorrow no more, Not a sigh for the blessing of rest. Refrain: In the sweet bye and bye, We shall meet on that beautiful shore; In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore. A celestial railroad In her book, Charles Ives Reconsidered, Gayle Sherwood Magee ventured that the rewritten Scherzo— even more, Ives’s carefully prepared score for its 1927 premiere—represented a more radical departure from anything he had attempted prior to 1918.11 To bolster her case, Magee proposed that in the 1920s Ives deliberately wrote in an ultramodern style in order to garner the acceptance of the avant-garde. Although Magee did not go so far as to claim that Ives had “updated” the Scherzo, she did equate it with his “post-1918 modernist outlook.”12 The premise she built, however, does not hold up on several counts, 172 The Fourth Symphony because, most notably, the reworked movement does not represent any particular departure from Ives’s evolved language of the second decade, despite being one of his most massive orchestral textures to date. Furthermore, a near-fully scored section of the Universe Symphony (equivalent to a large symphonic movement) from 1916 reveals that the Scherzo was far from the most radical piece Ives had contemplated before 1918. If Ives were trying to impress the avant-garde, would he not have chosen and prepared something from one of his most radical efforts? And would it not have been easier to complete and prepare the almost complete section of the Universe Symphony than rewrite the Scherzo? Nature’s own celestial railroad The Milky Way imaged in Death Valley, California. Image: NASA/National Park Service There is a larger point, however, to be made. Even within the Fourth Symphony, the Finale is a far more advanced compositional work than the Scherzo, representing a near-culminating example of Ives’s furthest developed art, and dating, at least in its essential form, to 1916 or before. The first complete edition of the movement, prepared by a copyist, was made from Ives’s manuscripts in 1923, four years before the preparation and first performance of the Scherzo. (Although a second edition of the Finale was made in 1944, Ives did not revise his manuscript beyond the time of the first edition, a date at which he was still unknown to the musical avant-garde.) So if Magee’s hypothesis were correct, why would Ives have selected and updated a less advanced movement for 1927, instead of the latter, which was already complete, and, most especially, known to have been of great satisfaction to him? The Scherzo, however, sums up Ives’s musical language in the mid-second decade. Its complexity reflects his life. Many friends and acquaintances remarked that the composer appeared to live and work in complete disarray, although he knew where to find everything—in his office, studio, and most importantly, in his mind. Again, he was the living personification of order rising out of chaos. In the second movement, as Ives rode his own railroad into the sky, the same ability to mentally compartmentalize multiple “trains” of thought is vividly on display. The huge and complex tour de force, probably, was the closest he would ever come to creating musical order out of chaos. Within the Scherzo’s approximately twelve minutes, an array of all manner of twentieth century techniques appear in league with fragments and elements of the vernacular, ranging from ragtime, popular melodies of the day, civil war tunes, hymns, ragtime, dance tunes, and more. 173 The Fourth Symphony Despite Ives’s description of both the Scherzo and Hawthorne as comedies or romps, there is a spiritual component in the symphonic movement largely absent in the sonata. Because Hawthorne is a reflection more of the wildly horrific elements of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s writings in general, the Scherzo, however, is more closely tied to The Celestial Rail-road tale itself, which Hawthorne had modeled on Bunyan’s Pilgrims’ Progress. Thus, even in this setting of such reckless abandon, with the steady backdrop and reminders of the pioneering and stoic Pilgrims—their values constantly mocked by the hedonistic travelers on their celestial ride to damnation—one does not escape the larger religious overtones. According to Henry Bellemann’s notes for the 1927 premiere, the Pilgrims’ toils and travels in life (a “journey through the swamp”) are represented by quiet hymn-based episodes punctuating the mighty bustle of the materialistic travelers’ of their ride to damnation. It ought to be said, though, that the sheer power of Ives’s orchestral excursion is so great that any expectation of finding an elevated sense of religiosity in this movement is likely to be misplaced. The Scherzo represents, thus, the age-old clash of secularism with timeless values. In this sense it can be considered philosophically different to the rest of the symphony, which has a more obvious, continuous and direct religiosity, its spirituality never in doubt. Stuart Feder reflected upon the relationship of the second movement to Hawthorne’s Celestial Rail-road text itself,13 quoting a portion of the text in relation to the substance of the music: “We heard an exulting strain, as if a thousand instruments of music, with height, with depth, and sweetness in their tones, at once tender and triumphant, were struck in unison, to greet the approach of some illustrious hero, who had fought a good fight, and won a glorious victory, and was come to lay down his battered arms forever.” Although illustrating perfectly the sonorous clashes in Ives’s Scherzo, Feder seemed to apply the words to the entire symphony, whereas they are a reflection only of the second movement. It might be the wrong analogy, but somehow it does fit the larger message of benediction at the conclusion of the symphony, nevertheless. However, Feder missed the mark badly when he proposed that Ives essentially gave up composition after the Fourth Symphony as a “sacrifice” to his father, who had done the same in music at the comparable stage of life in order to try to better support his family.14 The fact that Ives did not give up music at this time is a matter of record; in fact, he redoubled his energies. Contradicting himself later in his book, Feder proposed another similarly insupportable theory to explain why Ives stopped composing in the late 1920s (see Chapter 11). Regardless, in the case of the Scherzo, one cannot doubt that Danbury still has not fully left Ives’s thoughts, in spite of the massive presence of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s supernatural subject matter. Perhaps Ives felt the need to celebrate his roots one last time, although it was, however, “late in the day.” Because the sheer number of quoted fragments of melodies is overwhelming, identifying each and every one buried as the music proceeds hardly would be practical or helpful; furthermore, it would not aid in understanding the music. However, those very frequent complex interactions of the multiple tonalities and rhythms forged dramatic new consequences; rather than being designed as primary components, fragments of the quoted sources were intended to be perceived peripherally within, or even outside, the texture. 174 The Fourth Symphony Significantly, as Swafford noted, a substantial number of the quotes feature the same telltale, three-note “Urmotiv/Lyric” figure to serve a subtler purpose, entirely more structurally significant, of providing a foundation for an extraordinarily continuous stream of evolving thought.15 Amongst the quotes appearing in the movement, are the following: The Beautiful River; Beulah Land; Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean; God be with you; De Camptown Races; Dorrnance; Hail Columbia; God be With You; Happy Land; Home Sweet Home; Hello! Ma Baby (more often considered to be Throw Out the Lifeline. In the opinion of the writer, however, it is a derivation of Hello! Ma Baby; an almost identical can be heard in Study N 23, following the initially recognizable quote of the actual tune, seeming to confirm its identity);16 In the Sweet Bye and Bye; Irish Washerwoman; Long, Long Ago; Marching Through Georgia; Martyn; Massa’s in de Cold Ground; Missionary Chant; Nettleton; Old Black Joe; On the Banks of the Wabash; Pig Town Fling; Reveille; Shall We Gather at the River; St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning; Street Beat; Tramp, Tramp, Tramp; Turkey in the Straw; Washington Post March (Sousa); Westminster Chimes; Yankee Doodle. o. In the Sweet Bye and Bye appears in countless guises, and at many more points than listed in the guide. The Scherzo differs from Hawthorne in this respect, in which it appears just once. Often coincidental to more prominent lines, it is often well disguised. The hymn’s popularity around the time of the First World War is evident from Ives’s recollection of the entire crowd at Hanover Square singing it when the Lusitania was sunk in 191517—the inspiration for the last movement of the Second Orchestral Set. Listeners’ guide • Kirkpatrick thought the rumbling sounds that open the movement (absent, though, in the piano counterpart, The Celestial Railroad) represented the sounds of “an awakening city,” which does seem an apt description. Modern New York had become a large part of Ives’s life at this stage, and it is reflected in his music. So much for the claim that Ives was trapped in the past. • A quiet chorale follows to set the tone for the frequently intruding Pilgrims’ segments derived from Home, Sweet Home, and signifying the starting point of the travelers’ journey (the quarter-tones in the violins might require an open mind for the uninitiated). A flute and solo violin, quoting God Be with You, offer a prayer for the journey. The segment, continuing alongside the incoming sonic onslaught, is one brief instance in which the music does align with the idea of “parallel listening,” even though it becomes quickly and deliberately buried into inaudibility beneath the growing onslaught of the cosmic locomotive. • The entrance of the locomotive is immediately recognizable by the powerful rumbling sounds that paint the travelers’ departure; once underway, hollow shrieks of the piccolo, flutes and clarinets simulate its whistle, periodically punctuating the texture. Further defining the surging mechanical prowess, the trombones play massive fragments of the Civil War song, Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, albeit characteristically transformed beyond easy recognition. 175 The Fourth Symphony • As the train recedes into the distance, another quarter-tone chorale in the violins emerges from the sonic blur, as if always present. Seeming to be merely a continuation of the first chorale, the segment now is derived from In the Sweet Bye and Bye and Dorrnance. The locomotive bursts in on the scene, now “full steam ahead.” Obliterating the chorale, the hedonistic travelers mock the pilgrims as they rush by. • Although the locomotive had abruptly interrupted the peace, it continues to exit; another quiet chorale segment seems again to be just a continuation of the last one, though it is destined not to last. The train reappears, after another incarnation of Tramp, Tramp, Tramp in the low brass, (as if from around a corner), and the reckless abandon of Turkey in the Straw high in the violins. • A jazzy, jumpy clarinet line based on De Camptown Races suggests the locomotive settled into a cruising speed along with the clicking of rail joints. Near the end of the section, the flute quotes a drawn-out fragment of “Down in de cornfield” from Massa’s in de Cold Ground. • A labored rendition of Hail Columbia, written in a rhythm that seems at odds with all that surrounds it, suggests the train is laboring (as in climbing a hill). Seeming to relax at the summit, a further elaboration of De Camptown Races, with metrically tangled strains of In the Sweet Bye and Bye (violins, clarinets trumpet and trombone), De Camptown Races (flutes), and Nettleton (low pizzicato strings), appear variously in the texture. • As loud fragments of Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean interrupt (paralleling Hawthorne), the music assumes a militaristic character. Even though Columbia (written in 1843 by David T. Shaw) is mostly associated with the Civil War, more likely Ives had in mind the storm clouds of World War I. A loud trombone (with the cellos) takes a final snatch of these tunes, and the section concludes in a manner that implies the locomotive is braking. • The violins play in an interlude, in a tongue-in-cheek “salon” style, leading to a depiction of “Vanity Fair” in the Celestial Rail-road story. Apparently representing “Mr. Smooth-it-away,” it is constructed in imitative (canonic) style. • “Vanity Fair” reflects what Ives found objectionable about the “pink teas” of high society: interminable waffling of small talk; a contrasted context of the solo piano increasingly emerges through a distant haze against In the Sweet Bye and Bye in a solo (“extra”) viola. • A ragtime section based on a segment in Hawthorne appears in the solo trumpet; the flutes play a soft quotation, again, from In the Sweet Bye and Bye under it. Continuing in the woodwinds and trombone, eventually, the flutes and piano take the lead with passagework based on the three-note (“Urmotiv/Lyric”) motif that keenly underlies the musical structure. In the low strings and pianos, staggered entries of a fragment of the Human Faith Melody (from the Concord Sonata) also morph into In the Sweet Bye and Bye. • A musical haze (of building steam?) is punctuated by a tolling clock; Westminster Chimes sounds in the high bells; time is not on the travelers’ side. The trumpets, with the piano set a beat behind, join loudly with a rhythmic line built on a fragment of Long, Long Ago. Soon, the high violins take over with a striking quote from Hello! Ma Baby. With its contour slightly altered and set within the concurrent stream of sonorities, a startling, almost “Schönbergian” sound is created. 176 The Fourth Symphony • Concluding the segment, a rhythmically strong dotted triplet figure is played by the violins, while the second trumpet and piano play fragments of the Human Faith Melody. Above, the flutes play the refrain of Massa’s in de Cold Ground (“Down in de cornfield”); though likely to be obliterated by the violins and piano, they lead to a jaunty derivation, again, of Hello! Ma Baby, as the rhythmic complexity mounts. • After a ragtime-inspired interruption in the trombones, the trumpets take the lead. The Fate Motif appears in the clarinets, then the trumpets; it is further superimposed under the cornets that play “Down in de cornfield.” Additionally, in the trombones, Beulah Land is punctuated by In the Sweet Bye and Bye in the piano, although the complexity of rhythmic and cyclic interplay across the orchestra defies easy description. • The Pilgrims briefly reappear, the segment dominated by the hymn tune Martyn in the piano; the quote is well disguised by the “alien” tonalities surrounding it. Characteristically, it is interrupted by a huge explosion in the orchestra, the largest bombast of the movement so far. Although the lower trumpets and trombones dominate the melodic fabric with Beulah Land, the score is littered with references to In the Sweet Bye and Bye across multiple parts. The tumult culminates in another statement of “Down in de cornfield,” now blaring, to arrive on a vibrant shimmering chord in the strings and piano … Everybody holds! (Ives had used the term in the score of Majority!.) • The chord melts into a sweet violin solo of Beulah Land. It is set against a tangled quartertone piano part, and other seemingly unrelated rhythmic textures; the hymn Martyn accompanies it, now more completely represented in the (conventionally-tuned) piano. Here, Ives was depicting the travelers’ arrival in the Beulah Land of Hawthorne’s tale. Looking across the shimmering waters to the Celestial City, it is a destination they never will reach, because the devil plans to “disgorge” them! • From here, the music parts ways with the story, owing its origins much more obviously to the music of Hawthorne, which, as it continues, owes its origins to Putnam’s Camp, and even the much earlier Country Band March (1905?). Turkey in the Straw appears again in the violins, viola and bassoon parts, with other quotations superimposed. Amongst the more prominent are yet one more reference to Long, Long Ago in the cornet, even to Yankee Doodle in the upper woodwinds—the latter, a premonition of the tune that will resonate across the entire orchestra to announce the conclusion. • With Yankee Doodle fracturing the fabric to lead out of the movement, the rapid disintegration corresponds to the travelers waking up with a jolt just before the devil has a chance to act. The evaporation of the dream also is Ives’s farewell to Danbury, and everything in it. If the music ceases physically, somehow it seems to continue, suspended in mid-air. By the time the Scherzo resolves into the peace of the upcoming third movement—a reversion to simple values of long ago—Ives had reached the end of the line with the musical idiom of the Scherzo, developed and refined over many years. The upcoming third movement would serve as the bridge to his future—the Finale. 177 The Fourth Symphony Movement 3 – Andante moderato Greenland’s icy mountains Image: Jensbn {{PD-Art}} For this reflective movement—more like an interlude—Ives reworked an old fugue-based movement from his First String Quartet. Although it resembles a double fugue with two primary themes, the form it takes is little more than an abbreviation of the suggested grand baroque structure. Of an entirely different musical style to all that surrounds it, the movement raises an interesting specter, because its incorporation occurred well after Ives had rejected the traditionally based compositional methodology it represents— underscoring the frequent failure to understand the many allusions to the European tradition always remaining within Ives’s music. He had rejected only the stagnant perpetuation in America of another culture, and thus, the traditionally based form of Ives’s third movement does not sound as if it could possibly have come from across the Atlantic. Despite Ives’s lengthy exposure an old baroque form, it is impacted from his perspective of having grown up in a provincial Connecticut town. Historically, having started out as just an exercise, the movement would be reworked as an organ piece (now lost), only to reappear as the first movement of his First String Quartet (1897–1900). After almost two decades of lying dormant, recognizing the perfect balance it could provide for the symphony, Ives resurrected, modified and rescored it as the final step in completing the work. However, after much of the manuscript of the symphony was misplaced, he had to recopy it in the 1920s! If, initially, the style seems at odds with the tenor and language of the surrounding movements, the glowing tranquility of Ives’s nineteenth century Yale relic serves as the perfect moment of repose, clearing the air between what has just occurred and the profound, “religious” implications of the Finale. 178 The Fourth Symphony The two primary themes are familiar Congregationalist hymns: Missionary Hymn (“From Greenland’s Icy Mountains”), and the refrain of Coronation (“All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name”). In addition, Ives paid oblique homage to Bach by borrowing a melodic fragment from the Toccata and Fugue in D minor (BWV 538), as well as a syncopated figure that appears throughout in an accompanimental role. Much reduced, the ensemble consists of just the string section and a small group of woodwinds, solo trombone (or horn), organ and timpani. As a readily accessible piece of music, Ives’s fugue should not prove troublesome for the listener to follow. Listeners’ guide • At the outset, the cellos establish the character of the movement with a fragment of Missionary Hymn. It is followed by the usual multiple fugal thematic statements and responses across the ensemble, although it lacks a conventional countersubject. • Because the movement poses as a double fugue, the second theme (Coronation) is announced in a new section by the trombone. Set against the first melody (Missionary Hymn) in the violins, soon Coronation is traded to the upper violins and cellos, and appears further in the texture as the fugue unfolds. The descending syncopated line in the violin line (moving across thirds) is based loosely on Coronation, which also provides the link to the syncopated Bach fragment, which appears, too, as a prominent accompaniment feature throughout the movement. • With a mighty return of Missionary Hymn, a grand pause is reached, and followed by developed fragments of Coronation and the main Bach motif itself, recognizable by its broad, sustained, alternating “swing,” much like a pendulum. • Eventually a grand pedal point (a single low sustained pitch) supports continued development of Coronation. The music, glowing and climbing, reaches an apex, followed by a brief deflation of the dramatic tension (the flute playing something very similar to part of the bass line in Battle Hymn of the Republic!). • The impetus resumes through strident writing and massive chords (partly polytonal, in this respect, differing from the original string quartet version), leading to a truly ecstatic cadence, then a further pause. • With the appearance of a conventional Stretto, built on Missionary Hymn, the conclusion of the fugue seems near. The high point sets up the conclusion. • After the Stretto, Missionary Hymn returns in augmented form (stretched rhythmically into longer notes) as a majestic, stately summation of all that has taken place. The clarinet superimposes another hymn (absent in the string quartet version), I Hear thy Welcome Voice. • The coda adds a surprising, new thematic element. Built on the middle part of the melody, Antioch (“Joy to the World”), it appears here in the trombone and at half the normal speed. Also not appearing in the original string quartet version, the placement here of this particular melodic quote surely was symbolic of Ives’s state of mind at the time—one, still charged with optimism for a better world—and showing no signs of the introspect and disillusionment that was soon to follow in the wake of a brutal war and the collapse of his health, and loss of 179 The Fourth Symphony political dreams at the ballot box. (The fact that Ives quoted the same hymn in the Second Symphony, and not in later works, ties that symphony further to the period Ives’s youthful compositions—that of the First String Quartet—and not after 1906, as Magee proposed; see again Chapter 4, n. 28.) Contrary to some assertions, Ives must have felt true joy in his life at the time he scored the original version of the Fourth Symphony in 1916. Did he still believe his political passions and ideals had a chance of becoming reality after the dark clouds of war (World War I) had receded? Perhaps, instead, reflecting on his father’s untimely departure into eternity, the third movement captured a last moment of hope for a future of lasting peace in the world. Movement 4 – Finale Glory-beaming stars … Image courtesy NASA, ESA and the Hubble Heritage Team STScI/AURA)-ESA/Hubble Collaboration 180 The Fourth Symphony The Finale marks a clear delineation between Ives’s past and his future. As the beginning of his ultimate journey, which concluded in the Universe Symphony, the roots of that work seem to emerge directly from where the Finale leaves off. The crowning glory of the Fourth Symphony—even, some might argue, of Ives’s entire output—the Finale is one of the most powerful and overwhelming pieces of music to be conceived during the twentieth century—moreover, it is Ives’s benediction for the human race. Unsurprisingly, the movement owes some of its roots to an earlier work, the lost Memorial Slow March for organ (1901), in which Ives had tried to recapture the “fervor” of the massed congregants’ singing of Bethany at a camp meeting he had attended with his father. The processional character of the later part of the movement is the direct descendant of that march. Bethany, ever present in the musical fabric throughout, and in a constantly metamorphic state, reminds the listener that the futuristic Finale had grown, thus, out of a distant memory. Although copied in 1923, the definitive version had to wait another forty years for a performable version that would settle some remaining details previously considered beyond recovery. Ives’s friend, composer John Becker, came close to assembling a definitive version in the 1940s, though Ives’s failing eyesight prevented his formal approval of the score. It was not until the 1960s that Theodore A. Seder unscrambled the last few remaining “indecipherable” spots inspired by the flocks of birds (“thrushes,” according to Thomas M. Brodhead)18 in communal chorus from the woods behind Ives’s West Redding homestead. The chorus of birdsong effectively extended the embrace of the benediction to all creation. Ives’s counterpoint had taken the final step in its long line of evolution. Sonorities resulting from multiple lines of like character with different alignments, even in the less tonal context of the later work (the Universe Symphony), tie both works intimately. Although the counterpoint is more complex than in much of Ives’s earlier music, its stylistic homogeneity separates it from anything encountered in the Scherzo. In comparison, such counterpoint results in vaguer, though highly colored effects, that is less demanding of precise alignments between the parts. The same qualities are transferred into the quotes, too, being generally less clearly outlined rhythmically, and more repetitively compounded than those found in the other movements. Constructed, thus, of a more ethereal and subtle language, Ives’s music now seems to reach for another place. In both works, too, Ives usually featured just the refrain of Bethany—its high point. More subtly dispersed into the texture, too, it is clear that Ives’s creative needs were rapidly outgrowing the use of any type of vernacular material. It is significant that at this stage, with the exceptions of three other less significant quotations in the Universe Symphony, only Bethany would be carried into it from the Finale. More than in the Scherzo, it is here in the Finale that true “parallel listening”—similar to that of the Universe Symphony—really does appear in earnest. And just as in the Universe Symphony, a battery of percussion plays in its own independent speed and context throughout (in the Finale, occasionally joined by tuned instrumental lines in the piano, oboe, clarinet). Thus Ives’s words describing the Scherzo would have been far more appropriate in relation to this colossus, which, like its successor, also pits powerful washes of ethereal color over stark bass lines, and is splashed with ill-defined moving layers across the orchestra. With the massive foundations of its original religious inspiration,19 and questions of existence being much on Ives’s mind as he wrote it, the movement concludes and leaves the listener hanging in space, as it wafts and recedes far into the distance at its conclusion. The journey to the stars under way, Ives’s music never is more profound, more spiritually felt, or better expressed; even he knew it. 181 The Fourth Symphony Listeners’ guide • The percussion battery, alone, starts the movement in a gentle fashion in its own independent speed (twice the basic tempo of the remainder of the orchestra). Its meter and cyclical structure fundamentally pits four divisions of the larger orchestral rhythmic unit against three. Truly a harbinger of things to come in the next symphony, Ives’s contemplation of the unstoppable continuum of the universe already is set in motion. With its pulse-like rhythms in the snare drum seeming like a cosmic “street beat,” the percussion group continues throughout the entire movement, just as does the vast percussion orchestra in the Universe Symphony (see Chapters 12 & 13), although, in the Finale, it does not evolve, as in the latter. • A quotation from Bethany (from the middle portion of the melody) follows in the basses, mutating into the opening notes from the Prelude (Swafford’s “officially” designated “Urmotiv”), although here, it is dark and mysterious, instead of dramatic. • The brooding opening, played by the full string section, leads into a brief reflection of material also based on Bethany, easily lost behind the ascending trumpet and horn parts, and immediately tied into a recognizable reappearance of the “glory-beaming star.” Now, it appears in five distant violins and harp, also outlining Bethany. • The basses lead again, building on the opening notes of the Prelude. Inverted, again it reinforces the connection to Bethany; the orchestra takes it further, adding dramatic tension. • Evolving, the music sounds literally as if floating Heavenward. A strong figurative line in the violas tends to obscure a low variant of Bethany in the first violins, though it follows much more audibly in solo trumpet. The “glory-beaming star” re-enters with a distant invocation of Dorrnance blended with Bethany, also introducing an ascending scale figure that forms the basis of much of the instrumental motion featured as the movement develops. • Among the most ethereal sounds Ives would ever conjure up is a (well-disguised) setting of Bethany in the flute and oboe. Evolving around the material, the music floats timelessly. • Suddenly, an energized, urgent awakening through the orchestra is manifested through divergent rhythmic lines, built on three-note fragments of both Bethany and Martyn, and even another infusion of Proprior Deo in the Distant Choir and flute. The extraordinary power of the jagged lower descending lines, set strikingly against the tangled and rhythmically marked polyrhythms of the upper lines, is exhilarating and a uniquely original musical texture. • In a short interlude, the flute and piccolo take the lead (birdcalls—built by systematic organization), tied into another brief “glory-beaming star” fragment in the Distant Choir. The strings accompany with quarter-tone harmonic intrusions set amid another variant and fragment of Bethany. • Sounding continuously, and as if from another world, a bridge between segments is dominated by a chromatically meandering upper violin part superimposed on fragments mostly of Martyn and Missionary Chant. The suggestion of static writing quickly dissipates with the interactions of the parts, and leads to the section presumed to have been modeled on the lost Memorial Slow March. 182 The Fourth Symphony • The Memorial Slow March section, built collectively on Bethany, blended with Missionary Chant and Dorrnance, begins prominently in the trumpet and horn. Even the four notes of the Fate Motif were worked into the primary thematic component. • The bass lines, however, begin an evolving cycle that persists in various guises until the end of the movement. Built from the scale figure introduced earlier, now they are largely diatonic and inverted (descending), the range (initially spanning an octave) shrinking as the music builds, cycle by cycle, until subscribing only a major third. • Reaching a crescendo at the triumphant high point of the movement, the bass line once again occupies a full octave, its rapid evolution and periodically faster stepwise movement breaking the stricter cyclic identity. The melodic elements still are developed from the same three hymns, erupting in near ecstatic celebration (seeming to invoke another incarnation of the “Trinity Code”), as a mighty chorus sounding like ecstatic birdsong (largely built on Bethany and Dorrnance) flies high above the texture. • Mighty Wagnerian chords lead to the dramatic and massive climax, sounding as if the skies have opened up. From Ives’s words on the sketch of the Second String Quartet about a comparable passage (walking “up the mountain side to view the firmament!”), the cosmic vision is clear. The descending cyclic scale, spanning now only a minor third, is now chromatic. • Gently sparkling and luminous, a short connecting section emerging out of the sustained chord that completes the climax is followed by a dialog between flute and oboe (birdcalls again, as if heralding the dawn); the “glory-beaming star” shimmers high in the sky. • A glowing segment reflects utter peace and harmony; Ives had glimpsed his place in the cosmos. The bass cycle has resumed gently, a step higher, resurrecting its original identity. Floating within this section also are fragments of Happy Land, St. Hilda, Bethany, Proprior Deo, Martyn, and Dorrnance; all blending tonally, they seem to reinforce the unity and final reconciliation of the cosmos. • As the drift towards eternity continues, the chorus enters with counterpoint built from wordless variants of Bethany. It assumes increasing significance as the glistening orchestral texture thins out and recedes. Eventually, the chorus, itself, begins to fade, as the bass cycle shrinks to a major third, the remnants of the “glory-beaming star” seeming to imply the pendulum of a ticking clock. As the music falls away, all that remains is the percussion battery trailing off into the depths of space. Ives featured the same major/minor ambiguity heard in the Prelude to conclude his symphony, except he reversed them, placing B minor over D major, instead. The effect is even more tonally diffuse than in the Prelude, the lack of clear resolution implying the endless procession of time. The magic of Ives’s imagination and instrumental coloration seems never more to be from some otherworld place than it is here—its powerfully telling spirituality confirms Ives had set his course for the stars. There was nothing left to do, other than write the Universe Symphony. 183 ENDNOTES 1 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Urbana, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974), 155–62. 2 Bernard Herrmann, “Four Symphonies of Charles Ives,” Modern Music, 22 (May-June 1945): 222 (reprinted in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 401. 3 Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, 142. 4 Charles Ives, Symphony No.4 (New York, Associated Music Publishers, Inc., 1965). 5 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 66. 6 Charles Ives, “A Conductor’s Note,” New Music, San Francisco, CA (January 1929). 7 Ives, Memos, 67. 8 Jan Swafford, Charles Ives: A Life With Music (New York, W.W. Norton & Co., 1996), 351. 9 Antony Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe (West Conshohocken, PA, Infinity Publishing, 2015), 61. 10 Swafford, Charles Ives: A Life With Music, 353. 11 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008), 157. 12 Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 156. 13 Stuart Feder, “Charles Ives: ‘My Father’s Song,’ a Psychoanalytic Biography” (Yale University Press, New Haven, CT, 1992), 277–80. 14 Ibid., 279. 15 Op. cit., n.8. 16 Antony Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe (West Conshohocken, PA, Infinity, 2015), 364. 17 Ives, Memos, 92–93. 18 Charles Ives, Fourth Symphony, Performance Edition, ed. Thomas M. Brodhead, (New York, Associated Music Publishers, 2011); online: http://www.musicsalesclassical.com/composer/work/47475. 19 Op. cit., n.5. 184 CHAPTER 11 The Universe Symphony George Ives once told his son: “You won't get a wild, heroic ride to Heaven on pretty little sounds.”1 Image: nasaimages.org A nd so to the final destination: the Universe Symphony, Ives’s ultimate masterpiece. A musical representation of man’s place in the cosmos, it was to be his magnum opus, a sound painting of the vast skies above and the earth below, embracing time itself, humanity, spirituality and eternity—a truly Transcendental, rather than religious, interpretation of the Heavenly vault. The symphony was Ives’s destination amongst the stars, which is why he never gave up on its completion. It is a work that reaches across time without the “sin” of later revisions, because it was never fully organized, or laid out in any complete form; fulfilling that task would have to wait decades after his death, and for the efforts of others. 185 The Universe Symphony The symphony, thus, exists, just as it was left in the original sketches (that date between c. 1911–23), unless one should include what Henry Cowell alluded to: “he has never abandoned composition entirely, for on rare occasions, he will a few notes to his Universe Symphony,”2 although, subsequently, those words have been tied to the Third Orchestral Set. Failing to complete it, realizations would have to wait for the diligence of future decipherers. The “profusion of confusion” that Ives left in his wake, however, was considered by most authorities to be impossible to organize and complete, until one attempt (of three made to date) eventually succeeded in teasing out a workable roadmap for the epic symphony, along the lines that Ives had envisioned. Of the other “realizations,” one is highly interpretive, the other, only a partial representation. Utilizing all of the sketch materials, just one version would result in a “realization” of the complete work, although Ives was not around to sanction the result as the work he had intended. The first encounter with any of the Universe Symphony realizations, however, might leave one bewildered and likely to put it aside; it is an avant-garde composition by any standards. However, the music possesses the strangely captivating lure, typically encountered in Ives’s music, which reels the listener back for “just one more” hearing, to challenge existing perceptions, awareness and sensory boundaries. Such magnetism cannot be claimed necessarily for most unfamiliar avant-garde compositions. If they seem as inaccessible at first blush, likely, the listener will not return to them. Adirondack inspiration Ives, in dreaming up many of his most profound musical visions in the magnificent and serene surroundings of the Adirondacks in Upstate New York, it was not more than a day’s travel away from the hustle of the big city, the region being within relatively easy reach. Many of Ives’s favorite haunts, such as Saranac Lake, Elk Lake and Keene Valley, would trigger or enrich many of his most inspired masterworks. Mark Tucker documented Ives’s sojourns in the Adirondacks, as well as their formative role in the composition of the Three Page Sonata, Concord Sonata, Robert Browning Overture, parts of the Third and Fourth Symphonies, Second Orchestral Set, many songs and chamber works, and most ultimately, the concept and initial sketches for the otherworldly Universe Symphony.3 Adirondack skies and mountains Image: AC 186 The Universe Symphony Ives’s last visit to the Adirondacks during the fall of 1915 triggered a work that had been fermenting in his mind as an expansion of an idea preserved in a few sketches from 1911.4 In this work, Ives would capture in music a perspective of the universe from his nighttime vantage point atop a natural geological formation, known as the Keene Valley plateau.5 The awe-inspiring view of the surrounding landscape and skies from the plateau (actually, it is surrounded by higher ground and distant peaks) would lead him to write its equivalent in music. A colossus as cosmic in scale as it was in scope, the symphony would materialize in a concrete form with many sketches—some nearly complete and very detailed, others perplexingly less, with still more sketches only scantily laid out—some with descriptive instructions and extensive prose. By 1916, Ives had completed the short score of most of the first part (Section A), adding a new opening and a coda in the 1920s. The late David Porter theorized that Ives might have been re-inspired in 1923 to pick up again what had become dormant, following Edwin Hubble’s announcement that the universe was comprised of multiple galaxies just like the Milky Way. When Ives wrote the initial sketches, Hubble had not yet separated the universe into other galaxies; undoubtedly, the later materials do seem more closely aligned with the modern universe than do those from c.1911–16. Old impressions of the universe—still of an overwhelmingly large expanse—nevertheless, relegated it to confinement wholly within the boundaries of the Milky Way. When it turned out that the previously mysterious nebulae, dotted throughout its fabric, consisted of billions of separate stars, suddenly it was revealed that they were independent galaxies—other Milky Ways in their own right. Man’s knowledge of the true and terrifying, even indefinable, vastness of the universe suddenly came of age; eventually hundreds of billions of galaxies would be found to exist! Not insignificantly, too, 1923 also corresponds to Ives’s forty-ninth year, that of his father’s death; perhaps, too, fear of his own demise was the final trigger for the symphony’s reawakening. The new plan from this time included three main sections with a prelude to each. Many additional substantial, if less fully and ordered, sketches date from this time. Thus, the symphony expanded from a one-movement work into a far-reaching three-section epic (Sections A, B and C). If it seemed more akin to the universe of Hubble than that of the classical astronomers who had preceded him, its perspectives, nevertheless, still remain partly steeped in the nineteenth century, if expressed in an idiom aligned more, perhaps, even with the twenty-first—Ives, thus, seemed to have his feet firmly planted in multiple centuries! The Earth might have remained firmly at the center of his universe, but musically, it crossed the cosmos. In Ives’s descriptions of the symphony, the designation of the compositional technique, “parallel listening,” he had mentioned in relation to the Scherzo of the Fourth Symphony in 1927 (see Chapter 10) was a truer description.6 Having written these identical words about the Scherzo after having composed virtually all of the Universe Symphony sketches, here, the real meaning of the term is apparent: multiple levels of the music were to represent the scenes that had inspired him, and specifically, one was expected to maintain an awareness of different levels, while focusing on just one at a time. Comparing the idea to looking at the skies while remaining conscious of the landscape below, or vice versa, now, in the ultimate context in the Universe Symphony, these words make sense. In his magnum opus, Ives would challenge the listener to follow two levels of musical thought in a complex maze of competing and separate musical entities, plus a third, which included the constant representation of the energy of the universe: a mighty percussion orchestra intoning a kind of cosmic heartbeat as a backdrop. Constantly changing variables within cycles, in definable divisions of time, the “Pulse of the Cosmos” would continue throughout the symphony, its waveforms timed to coincide with the parallel ongoing orchestral drama. 187 The Universe Symphony The challenge for the listener Unfortunately for the casual listener, this monumental work likely will prove profoundly perplexing; without a degree of serious immersion, it is likely to remain out of reach. Even after several hearings, it is not easily grasped, although the composer’s vision begins to emerge from the apparent darkness the more one knows how to listen to it, and what it represents. The difficulties arise from the absence of virtually all the familiar, or expected, aural handrails to which the listener has become accustomed; they have been replaced by other, wholly unfamiliar handrails! Ives had set a course in uncharted space that makes normal musical comparisons and reference points largely irrelevant, including types of melodic content and orchestral textures. Surely beyond all comprehension at the time it was written, indeed, it is not easy to fathom even now, a century after Ives dreamed it up. Fortunately, modern listeners have become increasingly accustomed to different degrees of aural “assaults”—good and bad—so perhaps they might be open, at least, to the possibility of experiencing something new. Regardless, the Universe Symphony poses so many demands upon the listener, even assuming the most open of minds, that early and easy comprehension is unlikely. Rather, a wealth of continuing revelations is promised, even after the work has become as familiar and comfortable as an old shoe. Significantly, as Michael Berest noted in his 2005 article,7 musical quotes are largely absent, although he missed the many oblique, but significant, references to the hymn, Bethany (“Nearer, my God to Thee”), early, middle and late in the symphony, plus a surprising reference to In the Sweet Bye and Bye—hugely appropriate in the spiritual context of Ives’s later music, as well as still more quotes from Erie (“What a Friend We Have in Jesus”) located in Section A, though only present in the largest of the three realizations to date. Likely, the listener might catch most readily the first of a couple of little snatches from the refrain of Bethany in Section A, looming out of the texture in the solo trumpet and clarinet lines, soon after it has attained maximum density. Less obviously, it appears elsewhere, notably in the flute parts in the coda of Section B, and again, in its most extensive form, in the coda to Section C. As significant as this particular hymn was to Ives, musically and spiritually, it is also a unifying thread in the symphony, as well as a direct link with the Finale of the Fourth Symphony (see Chapter 13 and Appendix 2 for more discussion). Additionally, there is one small reference to the refrain of Massa’s in de Cold Ground (Section A), seeming particularly out of place in this context, especially since Ives had escaped the pull of Earth’s more secular musical gravity. Even more, the words throw the incongruity into stark relief, demanding an explanation that cannot be found: Down in de cornfield, all de dark-eyes am a-weeping, Hear dat mournful sound: Massa's in de cold, cold ground. From Ives’s own descriptions, the Universe Symphony was not conceived as music according the conventional meaning of the word. Terming it, “The Universe, Past, Present, and Future ‘in tones,’”8 the implication was that extended, rather than melodic sounds, in spatial and far-reaching textures, were primary ingredients, quite unlike the rhythmically tangled web of the Scherzo in the Fourth Symphony. Initially, thus, Ives’s Universe might sound totally atonal, devoid even of the slightest connection to one’s musical instincts. Unlike Arnold Schönberg, however, Ives did not set out deliberately to avoid tonality; surprisingly, the sketches sometimes notate near-standard chords, albeit highly expanded or constructed. 188 The Universe Symphony Some of them feature even conventional shorthand chord symbols! By the sheer weight of these and other tonal undercurrents, eventually the listener anticipates the strength of their gravitational pull throughout the work, as each established larger tonality leads to the next in an anticipated and logical order, even as it seems to compete against other simultaneous entities. Thus, Ives did not circumvent his instinctive musicality. Nor is the music rhythmically inactive or texturally simple, although Ives was no longer concerned with portraying clashing bands on Main Street; rather, he sought to project the larger order of the universe. Perhaps as a consequence, the Universe Symphony takes an uncharacteristically consistent musical idiom throughout, and yet, still provides the ultimate resolution of many threads according to the Emersonian/cumulative mold. However, classical formats never were more loosely applied than in the Universe Symphony, having far less in common with its European symphonic counterparts than even the Fourth Symphony. The only substantive link to them, in the most general sense, is its large-scale orchestral structure. Stuart Feder missed the clear dependence on musical creativity in the Universe Symphony; even his comparison with the later twelve-tone developments of Schönberg was not meant favorably.9 Instead, his charge was that Ives increasingly relied on mechanical formulae to compensate for failing creativity. In turn, he linked that “diagnosis” to an unfounded charge of mental disorder—the entirely false premise at the core of justifying his book. Feder failed to note that twelve-tone methodology was hardly new to Ives; it can be found in The Fourth of July, for example, and even as early as 1901 in From the Steeples and the Mountains. Ives utilized them expediently in situations in which they did not obstruct free musical choice. Otherwise, he regarded them “a weak substitute for inspiration” that could have been done “by any highschool student with a pad, pencil, compass and logarhythm table.”10 Long ago, Ives, thus, had addressed the topic succinctly, while acknowledging, nevertheless, that such methods had their place in the totality of music. Conspicuously, therefore, some allegiance to tonality always seems to underlie all his music—a diametrically opposite approach to that of Schönberg, who was obsessed with its avoidance, and who proceeded to build an entire compositional language on entirely chromatic, atonal order. Frank Rossiter, who also had discussed Ives’s approach towards twelve-tone writing, correctly pointed out that Ives saw no value in imposing predetermined successions of notes within his music, other than for specific and limited effect.11 Would Feder have proposed that Franz Liszt similarly had experienced mental decline for opening his Faust Symphony of 1857 with what was probably the first twelve-tone row in history? The Universe Symphony contains, too, many more types of systematic device buried within its coded design, for the very specific purpose of creating new sonic territory, according to the dictates of Ives’s inner ear. As discussed relative to The Fourth of July, on the last page of Majority is an interesting choice of words; after the direction for each player to adopt an aleatoric (random) succession of the twelve possible tones—again, multiple twelve-tone rows—Ives specified that each player hold the last one, to “find his star.” Of course, similar references to stars can be found, not only about Emerson in Essays Before a Sonata (“on the lookout for the trail of his star”; see Preface), but in frequent celestial references across the range of his compositions (e.g., The Celestial Country, The Celestial Railroad, When Stars are in Quiet Skies); in commentary, such as in the score of the Second String Quartet, “‘Politick,’ fight, shake hands, shut up—then walk up the mountain side to view the firmament!”, and programmatically, such as the depiction of “glory-beaming star” in Watchman and the Prelude of the Fourth Symphony. Image: AC 189 The Universe Symphony Why Ives did not finish the symphony, and the “Ives Legend” Out of everything in Ives’s catalog, only the Universe Symphony has cast such pronounced and lengthy shadows. Raising the defensive posture of many who still insist that it be allowed to remain incomplete and unfinished, and who continue to insist upon maintaining the incorrect premise that Ives never had meant to complete it, other detractors of the realizations have clung steadfastly to the position that many sketches were lost (see Chapter 12)—spirited away by Henry Cowell—whom, with Ives’s blessing, also had deliberately inflated descriptions of it. Thus, the Universe Symphony has become just another tool to add to the impression that anything connected to Charles Ives is open to question (see Appendix 1). For some, Ives’s final masterpiece must always remain “unfinishable”—the “great what if” symphony by the “great what if” composer. The physical evidence that, musically, he could go no further may be seen frequently in his late attempts at new composition. Gayle Sherwood Magee cited On the Antipodes (1922–23) as an example of Ives’s deliberate efforts to cultivate increasing modernism in order to be accepted by the emerging American avant-garde.12 However, its harmonic basis at least, was derived from the Universe Symphony, so it does not represent any forward direction beyond what already existed. Magee also suggested that Ives deliberately returned to earlier styles in the 1920’s, his modernistic status assured13 (even though she had just made the case that Ives turned to increasingly radical styles in order to be accepted by the avantgarde!). In this light, those few near-conventional compositions that Ives produced in the decade, such as songs, The One Way (poking fun at traditional song formulae), and Two Little Flowers (a touching tribute to his daughter and her playmate) will be found as delightful as possibly they could be; indeed they are far from forward steps or technically revolutionary, being set in a tonal and near-conventional idiom. The One Way (1922–23), however, was a humorous example mocking conventional song writing, so Ives would not have written negatively about something he was now embracing. And Two Little Flowers offers a rare glimpse in music of Ives’s private life, rather than musical composition for the outside world. Efforts have been made to assemble other compositions that Ives left incomplete, dating to around the time of the later period that he was working on the Universe Symphony. Among them is the Third Orchestral Set (1921–1926), the first two movements of which were made into a performable edition by the late David G. Porter, no stranger to completing or reconstructing works by Ives. The first movement (of which Ives had left a very comprehensive, if not fully fleshed out sketch) rings of total authenticity. Ives had returned to music from his past, basing it on material for the abandoned fourth movement of the Third Symphony. Set in a dark moody tone, it is expressive and dreamlike, and strongly imbued with Ives’s unique sound, although it suffers from limited development and awkward transitions between sections. By the time Ives reached the second movement, built on a collection of small, similarly early works, his inspiration seems largely detached and uneven in quality. Musically, it gives the impression that composing had become a chore—something Ives felt he should have been doing, though no longer could find the passion for. Perhaps the clearest evidence, however, of the waning of Ives’s previous unflagging need to write, can be seen in the barely sketched, apparently entirely new third movement, subsequently “filled out” into a finished piece by Nors Josephson. The Universe Symphony already had encompassed everything Ives had to say; he had no reason to say more, especially since no one was commissioning works from him; rather, few people showed any interest in his music at all. 190 The Universe Symphony Porter also produced a piano and orchestra realization of the abandoned and incomplete earlier forerunner to the Concord Sonata, entitled, unsurprisingly, the Emerson Overture (or Emerson Concerto) of 1910-14. In rebuilding such a work by Ives, the result is convincingly and authentically Ivesian, a fastidious and careful deciphering of the composer’s notoriously chaotic surviving sketches. Porter also assembled a performance version of portions of the Universe Symphony from those sketches left largely complete (see Chapter 12). As a far shorter work than intended by Ives, however, Porter maintained to his dying day that a complete version likely would always remain impossible to produce. After Ives returned to the Universe Symphony in 1923, he found himself increasingly unable to organize or assemble the collected old and new materials into a performance-ready work. Even though he was not ready to admit that his composing days were already in terminal decline, his attempts to produce new works were largely futile, often running aground. Taking into account the possible reasons for his compositional collapse, Ives regretted to his dying day that he was unable to muster the energy or stamina to complete his epic symphony. His typist (until 1951) remarked on his continuing preoccupation with it, and occasional mutterings of disappointment that he could not find it within himself to finish it; by then, of course, it was far too late, even to hope for it.14 Among the factors behind Ives’s inability to complete the symphony, he was suffering from accelerating and compounding health issues: the accumulated damage from years of diabetes before treatment was available, accelerated cataracts as a consequence after treatment was available, possible Addison’s disease that caused the sporadic shaking in his hands and made writing difficult, as well as a condition that resulted in bouts of palpitations and exhaustion at the least provocation. On a personal level, Ives’s old bullish optimism had taken on water following the trauma of World War I and the defeat of his political ideals: Woodrow Wilson, had let him down. Ives simply had run out of steam, physically and emotionally, presumably due as much as anything to having burned two sizable candles (business and music) at both ends. Quite aside from having nothing left in his compositional drawer, the physical capabilities to complete a giant project such as the Universe Symphony were spent. Clear indications of Ives’s general physical condition can be found in his own words.15 Following his serious illness (diabetic collapse) in 1918, it was all he could do just to handle the pressures of his office work. He no longer had the energy for the creative work he did once routinely late into the evening and on into the night.16 His infirmities also were widely recounted by the words of others.17 Probably, the former frenetic pace at which he had worked was partly due, too, to contemplating his father’s early demise, resulting in a race against time during his most productive years. Nevertheless, although Ives’s work at the office was far reduced during the 1920’s, it was during these years, while still recuperating at his home in West Redding, that he published the Concord Sonata, as well as his literary Essays Before a Sonata, Additionally, Ives organized and published the collection, 114 Songs, and tried to put his works into some kind of order. Attempting as well to extract a shorter piano work from the Concord Sonata—the Concord Suite—of which The Celestial Railroad (published in 1925) was to be a part, he also rewrote the Scherzo of the Fourth Symphony, and reconstructed much of what had been mislaid during the war years, while still continuing to work on the Universe Symphony! However, efforts to produce entirely new compositions in its wake never were successful, nor did they try to break new ground. Ultimately, by 1927, Ives informed Harmony, his wife, that he was unable to compose anymore; the die was cast.18 By the time he fully retired from business in 1930—and finally had access to insulin—he had been fighting the effects of untreated diabetes for twelve years. Amazingly, he had managed to survive 191 The Universe Symphony on a self-imposed extreme low calorie diet. With his little remaining strength fading, Ives’s last efforts centered on adapting Three Places in New England for smaller orchestra in 1929 (which, in doing so, has since become an unwarranted source of acrimony; see Appendix 1), and orchestrating the full score of Thanksgiving in 1931/32. Scoring the Universe Symphony, however, remained too grand a proposition. Thus, the late Universe Symphony sketches marked the true end of the line for Ives’s creative vision, and reveal a considerable struggle, not only of purpose, but also of waning physical strength, as he fought against advancing disease. It can be appreciated better, however, that Ives’s failing health was unlikely the sole reason he did not finish it, even more, why he stopped composing, or never ventured beyond the scope of his cosmic symphonic vision. Regardless, Ives’s allusions to attaining an improved state of health indeed cropped up in his 1931 writings in Memos, so he never gave up on regaining the strength to finish his symphony; defeat had not become one of his sentiments. In 1931 (in Memos),19 Ives commented upon taking the time to do so during the upcoming summer (of 1932), the Charles Ives in 1947 inference, thus, of his words that the symphony Image: Courtesy Frank Gerratana, with appreciation existed in large degree. He did not mention the additions made to his sketches as late as 1923, or beyond, only describing Section A, essentially composed in 1916. However, parts of the last portion (Section C) had been already laid out, too, in near complete detail around that time (1916–19), as well as other materials from even earlier. During the first part of the 1920s, as Ives hurriedly put together the conclusion of Section A, and, adding the new segment for a more satisfactory opening, he left significant quantities of Section B and more sketchy materials to Section C (although hardly in a structurally organized state) with considerable written information on the pages. Moreover, there is nothing of record that he left behind that shows he did not intend to complete it. Regardless, in the 1940’s, Ives asked Henry Cowell to help him finish the symphony; Cowell already had meticulously assembled some of Ives’s other music from sketches. Such a request does not sound like someone convinced that the symphony was beyond completion, although Ives already had deteriorated into the condition whereby his own ability to complete the masterwork had become totally unrealistic. Daunted by the task, however, Cowell declined, and thus, ultimately and unfortunately, the mythic symphony became the stuff of folklore, its mythic state regrettably finding support even amongst the most reliable of authorities. However, there is no evidence, whatsoever, that Cowell was a willing participant, even the creator, in the new projections of the symphony, a malicious accusation in absentia that had even 192 The Universe Symphony this writer once towing what is, effectively, the revisionist line of “Cowell and Ives: composers and willful embroiderers of the truth”; worse, the implication, “Henry Cowell: composer and liar.” Thus, the myth that Ives never meant the Universe Symphony to be finished, even more, the encouragement of it, is a byproduct of what has become known as the “Ives Legend.” Something of a caricature of the reality (see Appendix 2), the longer the symphony stood incomplete, the larger the myth grew. No doubt due to having discounted the real possibility that Ives did wish to finish it, this part of the legend has not been laid to rest by many in a position to dispel it. Outside officially sanctioned circles, it seemed there was little enthusiasm to grant official blessing for other posthumous collaborators to complete it. Thus, the iconic work was supposed to languish and retain its unattainable status into eternity, deeply buried under the well-established aura of being something that existed only in the composer’s mind. The extravagant descriptions of multiple orchestras (as many as fifteen), and even a chorus of 2,500 scattered around numerous mountaintops and valleys, did date, however, from the period of association with Henry Cowell. Cowell, himself, related them in his book, Charles Ives and his Music.20 However, misunderstanding Ives’s own description is the culprit, rather than being a deliberate exaggeration. On one of the sketches of the symphony, Ives described the division of the orchestra into fifteen “continents,” so that is where the part of the legend describing fifteen giant orchestras originated. With each retelling by Ives’s devoted enthusiasts, it seems the story continued to grow about a work so monumental, so unfathomable in design, so vast in scope, that no one person, perhaps not even any group of persons, could possibly hope to see it through to fruition. The self-fulfilling prophecy grew out of the reality that Ives, himself, had failed to do so. As gargantuan choirs and orchestras on mountaintops sprouted like new shoots in springtime, the myth has persisted in spite of the fact that Ives never did memorialize in writing any of the inflated descriptions of his symphony. It is always possible, of course, that once he realized that his creative strength would not allow him to put his masterwork into completed form, from here on out, his vision of it might have expanded like the universe itself—ever-grander projections increasingly reflecting his inability to deliver it. If such thoughts were what he expressed verbally to others, better, perhaps, he might have thought that it should be the “unattainable masterwork” rather than acknowledge defeat. Such a projection is, of course, pure speculation, though apparently enough for some to take as a substitution for the facts. Clear indications on Ives’s more detailed sketches, however, detail an orchestral force that resembles nothing of these inflated dimensions, the precise instrumentation being listed and specified on Kirkpatrick’s numbered page: Neg. = q3027. The orchestral forces are surprisingly modest, all the more so, in light of the image the symphony has attained. Furthermore, there is no chorus. In some ways (for example, the string section), the forces are less formidable even than those of the Fourth Symphony that preceded it. Perhaps it will come as a surprise to some to lean that the Universe Symphony orchestra amounts to fewer than seventy-five players at most, although this total does include nine flutes and a minimum of thirteen percussionists! The sounds Ives had in mind were unique, even to him. Regardless, blaming all manner of exaggerations and falsehoods on Cowell—indeed, that he “manufactured” the primary fabric of the “Ives Legend”—has become very fashionable. Even at this late period of time, in Charles Ives Reconsidered, Gayle Sherwood Magee once again recycled the myth of the symphony’s unfinishability, although it was only in this respect that she accepted the legend’s premise.21 Magee also dated most of the surviving materials to after 1923, and that with such radical compositions, Ives was attempting to become accepted into the avant-garde scene in New York. The premise is not 193 The Universe Symphony supportable, however, since the primary conception of the symphony can be demonstrated forensically to predate this time by many years, clearly being linked to Ives’s last stay in the Adirondacks (in 1915). Magee further strongly suggested that Ives might have been influenced by the scope of Scriabin’s Mysterium, especially since Ives was familiar with his piano music. Mysterium, however, just like the Universe Symphony, was never finished, and would have been little known (or even, not at all) in America, even in the 1920’s. The prospect that Ives knew about it is enticing, though not possible to demonstrate. Falling in line wherever his agenda was served, Stuart Feder, having decried the Cowell-Ives Legend, also had propagated its greatest misstatement—that it was Ives’s intention never to complete the symphony! Feder would read other meanings into the descriptive words Ives had written directly on his Universe Symphony materials, too.22 In trying to tie together a kind of mental decline and the incomplete Universe Symphony, Feder described the sketches as relying more on words than actual musical notation.23 However, Ives always had peppered his sketches and scores with liberal quantities of words, humor and sarcasm. The record also belies Feder’s charge of mental incompetence. Until near the very end of Ives’s life, and especially in light of his virtuosity on the keyboard (dynamically on display still in recordings made as late as 1943,24 even the descriptions of his work in preparing the 1947 Second Edition of the Concord Sonata,25 there is no trace of a weakened mind. Carol K. Baron documented the numerous late political periodicals and documents found in his office, which have subsequently disappeared, Baron’s article similarly deleted from the site listed in the endnote references.26 They had shed considerable light on Ives’s political leanings as well as his acute mental engagement in old age. Many depictions of Ives by those having firsthand contact with him also described his vigorous and engaging mind well into late in life. Brewster Ives’s commentary made it quite clear that his uncle retained a vital mind well into his late years, also as reported by many others, including John Kirkpatrick, Monique Schmitz Leduc, Lou Harrison and Luemily Ryder.27 Howard Taubman visited him in 1949; in his account, there is nothing that indicates anything other than a figure fully engaged, energetic in character, and spirited in persona.28 In short, the recognizable Ives seems still to have been largely intact even at that late date. Thus Feder’s theory is perilously flawed, a revisionist psychiatric theory in search of a valid argument. Feder, however, further attempted to support his case with summations of Ives’s abilities as a writer in Essays before a Sonata,29 and more surprisingly, Memos. Although Ives’s words cannot possibly be held to the same standards as those used to judge his music, doing so also does Ives grave injustice! Ives’s writing is substantially more effective than Feder was prepared to grant, and reveal insights into Ives’s personal outlook and values, as well as the true creative spark that set him apart. As it happens, Ives was a seasoned writer. His correspondence is extensive and far-reaching, though he was well known for his extensive guidelines, brochures, articles, and speeches for other business associates, as well as financial outlines in the life insurance business. Ives, having largely resurrected the industry from terminal collapse, was a legend within it, his written words held in the highest regard. Essays is, thus, in every respect, the work of a practiced communicator, in many ways a lot better as literature, too, than Feder allowed. Furthermore, Essays dates from the time of Ives’s greatest musical creativity, so it is even harder to make Feder’s case that these words—versus new musical compositions—represents a time of mental decline. It should be seen as hardly surprising that Ives would have wished to leave behind some of his own thoughts about life as it pertained to the publication of his major work for piano. 194 The Universe Symphony Memos, on the other hand, was not conceived as a literary work, rather it was the simple recounting of his recollections concerning all things connected to his music. It reads far more like answers to questions than it does a work of prose, the reminiscences being mostly the result of dictations, not writing. Most telling, however, is the picture Memos paints of Ives in 1931: totally engaged in mental acuity, humor and energy. The dismissive and bitter assertions by Maynard Solomon—the polarizing figure at the heart of three decades of debunking Ives and his “legend”—that Ives’s words were self-serving efforts to create a positive image of his life and work, appear to speak more to Solomon’s desire to be accepted within the musicological community than they do to truth, fairness, or respect towards one who needed no such selfserving personal elevation (see Appendix 1). As for Feder’s assertions that Ives was guilty of retreating into “rants,” certainly Ives’s passions flared when provoked. Diagnosis: normal. Perhaps the only words fitting Feder’s description, or which revealed any degree of real angst, occurred during the later section of Memos in a segment entitled Memories.30 As the words of an ailing semi-invalid, who had endured a lifetime of disrespect from the musical community, one can read far too much into them. Pent-up feelings that had festered for years ought to be seen for what they are. They signify no dark psyche, and are remarkably restrained for the most part; philosophical, too, they are even funny at times, especially in regard to the state of music in his day. The real purpose behind the words It is not difficult to determine that Ives’s verbal notations in the Universe Symphony sketches were to serve as signposts for those times when he would return to it, and also to provide something tangible for others to comprehend in the event he was unable to complete the work himself—precisely as he referenced in Memos.31 He took the trouble, therefore, to leave behind what he considered was a workable guideline to his ultimate musical vision, about which it is reasonable to accept was essentially “composed,” if not scored. It is also important to emphasize that the overriding factor behind Ives’s inability to undertake new works of composition was that he no longer had anything left to say. In his 2005 article,32 Michael Berest was perhaps the first to make this speculation, and it seems he just might have hit the nail on the head. The Universe Symphony indeed does go to close to the limit of the creative resources of the time. Thus, despite Ives’s physical condition, there are likely other creative factors, too, accounting for the rapid cessation of his compositional activities. There are limits to the growth of any one human mind. Even Einstein could not progress far beyond the Theory of Relativity; though formulated early in his career, no one ever suggested that he suffered from mental decline! Edison got lost looking for a substitute for the rubber tree. Did Feder consider him, too, a washed-up mental force? It seems reasonable to speculate, too, that Ives might have feared completing the symphony, because he knew it represented the terminus at the end of his own celestial railroad. 195 ENDNOTES 1 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 132. Henry and Sidney Cowell, Charles Ives and His Music (New York, Oxford University Press, 1955), 126. 3 Mark Tucker, “Of Men and Mountains: Ives in the Adirondacks,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 160. 4 Ives, Memos, 185. 2 5 Ibid., 106. 6 Ibid, 106–07. 7 “Charles Ives Universe Symphony: Nothing More to Say,” Michael Berest, 2005, www.afmm.org/uindex.htm. 8 Op cit., n.4. 9 Stuart Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song”, a Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1992), 298. 10 Ives’s words appear in a footnote on a rejected page of the orchestrated version of his song The Masses (also known as Majority), also using Feder’s term, “formulaic,” to denounce the mechanical usage of twelve-tone methodology. Feder used Ives’s own words against him. 11 Frank R. Rossiter, Charles Ives & His America (New York, Liveright, 1975), 137–38. 12 Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008), 151. 13 Ibid., 161. 14 Feder, “My Father’s Song”, 349. 15 Ibid., 112–13. 16 Op. cit., n.10. 17 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974), e.g., 103, 153. 18 Ibid., 224. 19 Ives, Memos, 106. 20 Cowell, Charles Ives and His Music (New York, Oxford University Press, 1955), 201. 21 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 157–58. 22 Feder, “My Father’s Song,” 292–97. 23 Ibid., 296. 24 Charles Ives Plays Ives, CRI 810 (CD) [1999]. 25 James B. Sinclair, A Descriptive Catalogue of The Music of Charles Ives (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1999); see “Comment,” Concord Sonata, http://webtext.library.yale.edu/xml2html/music.ives-sinclair.nav.html. 26 Carol K. Baron, “New Sources for Ives Studies: An Annotated Catalogue,” 2000, H. Wiley Hitchcock Institute for Studies in American Music, (ISAM). 27 Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, 77–80; 98–99; 128–29; 205; 219–20. 28 Howard Taubman, “Posterity Catches Up with Charles Ives,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 423–29. 29 Essays before a Sonata (New York, The Knickerbocker Press, 1920). 30 Ives, Memos, 133–36. 196 31 Ibid., 108. 32 Op. cit., 6. 197 CHAPTER 12 Resurrecting the symphony C ontrary to the commonly held perception, a surprisingly large quantity of material exists for the Universe Symphony, much of it being sufficiently comprehensive to justify the efforts of some later figures to try their hand at assembling at least parts of it. In fact, such collaborations were precisely what Ives had proposed, once he began to realize that completing his masterwork probably would remain beyond his capability. The file of sketch materials is pure, raw Ives, ranging from near-complete large musical spans, to fragmentary, seemingly disconnected ideas. As such, it provides unique insights into the workings of Ives’s creative processes. More significantly, it reveals just how truly innovative Ives’s music was at the time of its initial conception; the Universe Symphony sounds just about as avant-garde even as anything written today. The sketch materials Regardless, mischaracterizations of “missing sketches” still continue unabated in some circles, showing up unabashedly now and then. David G. Porter (whose credentials were impeccable) railed against all such phantom materials, since they are oddly out of step with what has been borne out by the evidence over recent years. Porter became totally exasperated by the continued propagation of the myth that pages of sketches were missing. If anything was missing, he argued, it was because it never existed! More likely, as he worked, Ives discarded some materials and replaced them with others. The non-uniform numbering of the sketch pages shows as much; in the case of the first main segment (Section A), it is clearly demonstrable. Whether the extant materials represent all of Ives’s intent for the symphony (a matter of some discussion), later attempts by others to produce a concert work are well supported by what exists. However, only the realization by Johnny Reinhard amounts to a work that coincides with Ives’s full plan. It is not insignificant that there happened to be just sufficient material to occupy the duration of all ten prescribed percussion cycles—and which continue uninterrupted throughout the entire work—something that supports Reinhard’s contention that all the necessary musical content indeed was present in the collective sketches. Conceived initially as a one-movement piece—eventually becoming what Ives would term Section A—the materials he left for this portion are highly detailed and largely complete. Dating mostly from 1915–1916, the three prescribed orchestras (“Heavens,” “Earth,” and percussion, “The Pulse of the Cosmos”) each are set in different speeds, sonic range and musical idiom. From Ives’s comments on the work in Memos, it is quite clear that some of the substance of Section A was conceived even as early as 1911. Conceptually, Ives also described the later, larger symphony, as well as the grand plan, with designated titled sections, and subtitled preludes.1 As late as 1923, Ives laid down his expanded general plan for a three-section work, Sections A, B and C; they were to follow each other without a break in a continuous stream of thought, with their respective preludes. A new introduction into Section A would follow the original prelude (the “Pulse of the Cosmos”), which was expanded into an ever-present 199 Resurrecting the Symphony percussion “track” of ten massive cycles to continue throughout the duration of the entire three-section symphony, the first three appearing alone at the outset. Some other sketch materials are dated 1915, variously labeled, and sometimes designated as “themes.” Many less fully worked out sketches originate from the later period, coming right at the cusp of the most precipitous decline of Ives’s compositional activity. Of these, some are clearly tagged for Section B, so there is no dispute regarding their placement. Amongst the less than clearly labeled sketches, the coda intended for Section B was not identified with any section, although it was straightforward to deduce, because of the completeness and specific naming of the other two. However, since the coda of Section C appears to have originated around 1915, or soon thereafter, and the opening of Section A dates from c.1923, the precise timeline for the layout was confusing almost from the start. Additional sketches are labeled for Section C; others are related clearly to materials designated for Section C (certainly not to the other two sections), so their placement there can be made fairly confidently—even when Ives did not specify such usage, or otherwise provide opportunity for their inclusion earlier in the work. Further, some former “orphan” sketches were assigned by Reinhard to a famously “missing” portion of Section A (see Appendix 2); in utilizing this previously unassigned material to complete the section, Reinhard found that it matched the existing tonal and descriptive references, as well as the subsequent realignment with the remaining sketch materials and position within the corresponding percussion cycle. Reinhard convincingly argued that the material easily might be the basis for what Ives himself had intended, in order to address the “missing” (discarded?) segment. Regardless, almost all of Section A was left largely complete, existing in detailed “short” score. With the initial percussion cycle forming the prelude to Section A, that for Section B dates from 1923; the prelude for Section C remains shrouded in controversy, most authorities considering it lost, or more likely, never written. Reinhard disagreed. Below is the final plan (I was added by Reinhard, per Ives) as it had evolved for the Universe Symphony by 1923, together with what has been traditionally considered the status of each part: I: Fragment: “Earth Alone” (existing fragment: Section A coda in detailed sketch). II: Prelude No.1: “The Pulse Of The Cosmos” (plan detailed, described and partly sketched). III: Section A: “Formations of the waters and mountains: Wide Valleys And Clouds” (fully sketched, with three orchestral [see p.204] units believed missing). IV: Prelude No.2: “Birth Of The Oceans” (present). V: Section B: “Earth, evolution in nature and humanity: Earth And The Firmament” (present). VI: Prelude No.3: And Lo, Now It Is Night (believed lost, or never composed). VII: Section C: “Heaven, the rise of all to the spiritual: Earth Is Of The Heavens” (plan for the assembly of the existing sketches is unclear, thought incomplete, except for the coda). In Memos, however, Ives did not claim much for the entire symphony, other than Section A; even in his own 1931–50 catalog, he listed only Section A.2 Apparently he did not consider Sections B and C sufficiently fleshed out or organized for acknowledgement, despite the fact that quantities of these materials do exist, and are fairly comprehensive at that—to say nothing of the fact that he detailed plans 200 Resurrecting the Symphony for the full duration of the “Pulse of the Cosmos” that accompanies all three sections. Some portions of the Section B and C sketches, if not having reached the final stages exemplified by the Section A materials, could be considered to approach them, however, in representation, at least. A plan, however, by Ives for much of their assembly is missing, the precise sequence or purpose often far from clear. Good powers of deduction, musical skills, knowledge, and a certain amount of intuition, therefore, are necessary in any realization, which naturally leads to questions of correctness, or even whether the entire symphony can be represented faithfully. In demonstrating the latter, Reinhard also assembled the only realization of an entire work that corresponds to Ives’s program. At one time Ives thought this lengthy work might be performed twice in succession to allow audiences to experience and grasp its multiple musical levels more fully! Actually, in the absence of alternatives, the idea was reasonable, even if not practical. In lieu of a double performance, Ives also suggested that fragments of the three separate levels with strongly identifying traits be allowed to stand on their own, perhaps presented at the outset of the entire piece, or even elsewhere within it. He must have known, however, that either of his proposals would only partially solve the problems for all but the most sophisticated listener. Things are different these days, the advantage of modern recordings, with their highresolution sound and separation offering answers to Ives’s dilemma. Familiarizing oneself, thus, with just a small portion of the symphony at a time ought not to be frowned upon. Perhaps, too, the listener will find Section C more readily approachable than earlier ones. By taking the opening fragment from the coda of Section A, for “Earth Orchestra,” Reinhard addressed Ives’s previewing proposals by carrying out his second idea; the section also contains all the primary motifs. Then “Prelude No.1: The Pulse of The Cosmos” begins, in which the first three of the ten percussion cycles are heard alone. Briefly interrupting the continuous percussion cycles, between the second and third, Reinhard extracted a portion of “Heavens Orchestra” material from the larger texture of Section A to feature its sounds alone, per Ives. Paving the road for the listener In Memos, Ives mentioned his piano studies and “cycle rhythms.” These techniques are directly related to “The Pulse of the Cosmos.”3 Clearly, the idea came about soon after the turn of the century (see again Chapter 6). From the Steeples and the Mountains also features cyclical rhythmic divisions that hint at the compound expansions and contractions of rhythms within the cycles. Another composition, Rondo Rapid Transit (otherwise known as Tone Roads No.3), which Ives considered more of a joke than an exercise, features a substantial harmonic cycle of expansion and contraction.4 In the Universe Symphony itself, the direct link (the featured cycles of an independent percussion orchestra) between the Finale of the Fourth Symphony is immediately obvious. However, there is a strategic difference; the single repeating percussion cycle in the Fourth Symphony is developmentally static; it evolves neither within itself, nor over the progress of the movement—unlike those in the Universe Symphony. However, its presence throughout the length of the movement strongly cements its connection to the Universe Symphony, which took the idea to the next level. Annotations on the sketches by Ives himself leave no doubt at all about the correctness of continuing the percussion throughout the Universe Symphony; his rationale, however, to impose on the listener the lengthy prelude (almost thirty minutes) of non-tuned percussion (except for one cycle) at the outset must have been threefold: 201 Resurrecting the Symphony (i) To convey fully its trancelike gravity, in which time itself seems suspended. (ii) To increase awareness of the “heartbeat” that adds to the cohesion of the entire work. (iii) To emphasize the symmetry that mimics nature at every level. In the Universe Symphony one will encounter all manner of lines and specific tunings, in tempered, microtonal, and natural scales.5 For these reasons alone, already it should be clear why the symphony cannot be immediately accessible, even upon successive hearings; more the case still if it is first encountered in a vacuum. Thus, a degree of effort by the listener toward it is desirable—actually, a necessity—because the music does not sound familiar in any traditional sense. Exposure even to Ives’s less radical compositions still is unlikely to render it any more accessible. Perhaps it can be compared to a three-dimensional, moving painting of countless complex paths, colored by broad irregular washes of constantly mixing and shifting colors. Traditional routes to cohesiveness have been replaced by evolving lines spun from fragmentary thematic motifs to create another kind of “Music of the Spheres.” Thus, the plea to give this symphony time. To put the scope of this work into perspective, 1915 is the date that Holst composed The Planets. It is also amongst the first true examples of “space music.” Despite the other world vision of Holst’s vision, its view is entirely of the “local” universe, its sound Edwardian and Post-Romantic. The vast disparity between both works’ respective visions and musical languages shows just how advanced Ives’s symphony was in its day. Certainly, the Universe Symphony would not sound out of place even today on a program featuring the most “far-out” avant-garde electronic compositions, its otherworld sonics being attained, however, with no high-tech means at all. (Ethereal electronic-sounding textures can be found, too, in the Finale of the Fourth Symphony.) Perhaps surprisingly, however, even in the Universe Symphony, a few ties to more familiar music remain. Those listeners with just a little musical background will detect tonal centers and logical harmonic inferences that become increasingly discernible after a few hearings. The three orchestras Though reflected in the plan of the symphony, Ives did not actually use the term, “parallel listening,” until 1927 (in relation to the redrafted symphonic Scherzo); many other works in his output already had featured multiple lines of parallel musical thought. However, the strong visual connotations of the Universe Symphony triggered the idea as never before, that music dating from even before the rewritten Scherzo (see again discussion, Chapter 10). Much more tangible than in the Scherzo, however, is its effect in the Universe Symphony, in which the remarkably slow basic reference tempo of the percussion “orchestra” underlies two other, highly individual, large-scale separate entities, set in their own faster tempi. Unlimited internal movement via multiple rhythmic divisions creates many additional effective parallel tempi, the resulting conglomeration negating any sense of obvious or predominant “beat.” Thus, the music takes on an entirely different sense of onward motion, for which the listener might not be prepared, the distinct independence of the three primary levels becoming clear, nevertheless, upon repeated hearings. However, only in Section A are they preserved as fully separated structural totalities. 202 Resurrecting the Symphony Reflecting the typical view of the universe among the general public at the time, Earth occupies much of the attention in relation to its “importance!” One’s attention gradually shifts away from it, however, through the progressing sections, from the terrestrial foundation beneath one’s feet, to the skies above, and ultimately, the realm of time and space always occupied by the percussion. Section A features the three orchestras in their original states of differentiation; the “Earth Orchestra” is characteristically jagged and indicative of terrestrial features. 6 The contrasting “Heavens Orchestra” is, however, harmonically independent, smoother and structured into “choirs” of instruments. Because maintaining the separation of the two tuned orchestras’ characters and motions was a primary consideration, actual specific tempi remain hard to discern—precisely the effect Ives intended—although eventually one can tell that the “Heavens Orchestra” moves at a faster speed, if not exactly reflecting an actual beat. Both tuned orchestras, however, utilize the same four short motifs as common fundamental thematic foundations. The instrumentation, too, of the later sections is increasingly blended, as both tuned groups regularly cross and join each other, sometimes appearing together as a unified single ensemble. In this respect, a gradual cumulative revelation bonds man, Earth and the cosmos together. The designated identities and purposes of the three independent instrumental “orchestras” can be summarized accordingly: The “Pulse of the Cosmos”—initially playing on its own three of the total ten cycles comprising the lengthy opening Prelude to Section A—continues, totally independently, throughout the entire symphony. The “Pulse” moves in its own integral tempo, exactly half that of the “Earth Orchestra.” Each beat falls at a two-second interval (incredibly slow for any conductor to maintain), each cycle differently comprised. Because the “Pulse” anchors the fundamental thread connecting the entire work, its slow reference speed (upon which everything else depends) has caused some misconceptions about the nature of the music. Some critics have mischaracterized the Universe Symphony as slow, as if they were listening with their eyes, not their ears (were they watching the conductor instead?). In actuality, the music is neither fast nor slow; the speed is indeterminate. Because each larger cycle encompasses, too, multiple sixteen-second subcycles within them, the “pulse” ultimately is perceived by the periodic sense of “waiting” for the regular point at which all instruments coincide. • • • Each of the ten percussion cycles is built in palindromes—by adding instruments one by one until the peak of the cycle is reached, then subtracting them in reverse order. In certain respects, the crests and troughs of the cycles are coordinated with the varying activity of the materials in the “Heavens” or “Earth” orchestras, as well as their harmonic inferences. Each cycle features a different group of instruments, and changing at the outset of each Basic Unit. The individual parts consist of multiple, equal divisions of the sixteen-second unit (termed the Basic Unit). Although the effect at the height of each cycle of the full compliment of prescribed instrumentation is reminiscent of many clocks ticking in one room, it is attained, of course, by an entirely different mechanism. The durations of percussion tones range from very long to very short. Superficially, the rhythmic divisions might sound irregular, but this illusion is due only to the mathematical misalignments of the rhythms of each instrument relative to the others. 203 Resurrecting the Symphony • • The percussion orchestra requires twelve or so players. The third cycle includes tuned percussion instruments (with added piccolo, borrowed from the “Heavens Orchestra”). The lengths and total number of divisions of each cycle are linked to the dimensions of each of the three major sections, and their associated preludes to which they are tied, as well as their high and low points. The last cycle in Reinhard’s realization differs from the others, being the only one that commences at its peak. It is, thus, a half cycle, each instrument dropping out from the high point out one by one. The “Earth Orchestra” is highlighted by prominent lines in the trumpet—Ives’s choice of solo timbre remaining a characteristic throughout most of his instrumental and orchestral output. From The Unanswered Question to The Fourth of July, the sound is altogether reminiscent of the dominant instrument of the local town band, and hence by default, his father. Having been ingrained on Ives’s consciousness from earliest times, transformed here, Ives, perhaps, was glimpsing the place where they would be reunited. • • • The “Earth Orchestra” highlights the lower aural spectrum and features a specific group of instruments to represent it. The writing for this “orchestra” represents features such as mountains, rocks, outcroppings, trees, rivers, fields, forests, etc., as well as the acts of their creation, from close-up to far in the distance—all typically symbolized in free polyphonic elements full of jagged intervals and rhythms. Although the “Earth Orchestra” is dominated by low to mid-range sounds, often the trumpet, clarinet and oboe soar skywards as symbolized features appear in the soundscape. Harmonic in nature, “Earth Chords”—various deeply grounded static structures appear in the lowest instruments of the group to represent the ground below. The “Earth Orchestra” moves at twice the speed of the percussion cycles. The “Heavens Orchestra” is altogether gentler, more smoothly linear and chordal in nature, projecting the skies and clouds floating across them. An outgrowth of similar linear chordal structures, such as the string cycle in Central Park in the Dark, and the parallel chords of the “romp across the snow” in Washington’s Birthday, grouped blocks move together. Rhythmically and harmonically divided further into sub-groups, the depictions of moving, interacting cloud formations are represented. • • Consisting of no less than nine flutes, clarinet, violins, violas, glockenspiel and celeste, unsurprisingly, the overall register and character of the “Heavens Orchestra” is significantly higher in pitch than that of the “Earth Orchestra.” Through most of Section A, the “Heavens Orchestra” exists within a tempo 150% that of the “Earth Orchestra.” Twice the tempo of the “Pulse of the Cosmos,” it imparts an even greater floating quality to its sound, ultimately being resolvable and identifiable by its unique sonic stamp and motions. 204 Resurrecting the Symphony All components together In those portions of Section A that appear in three independent speeds, the relationships between them can be summarized as follows: 24 beats of Heavens Orchestra/ 16 beats of Earth Orchestra/ 8 beats Percussion Orchestra = Two Orchestral Units (2x OU) = One Basic Unit (1x BU) = 16 seconds In itself, this arrangement is straightforward arithmetic. However, the vast array of further rhythmic subdivisions within each level of the three orchestral groups often results in as many as twenty to thirty independent, albeit linked, parallel speeds. Realizations of the Universe Symphony Fortunately, not everyone interested in the Universe Symphony was prepared to accept the traditionally and commonly ordained sentiment that it was beyond completion, even more that Ives intended it to be left unfinished. It seems hard to imagine that any composer—in this case, Ives—would wish for an indefinitely suspended state of existence for anything that occupied such a prominent place in his imagination. Fortunately, three “realizers” have not taken this position and have sought to bring Ives’s vision to life, one of them (Johnny Reinhard) fully incorporating virtually everything that Ives left behind. The result is a coherent whole, the complement of sketches supplying the requisite amount of material to occupy all ten percussion cycles of Ives’s allotted span. First to undertake such a project, however, was Larry Austin, long an enthusiast of Ives’s vision of the mythic symphony. Austin spent almost twenty years sorting through the available sketch materials in an effort to assemble what he intended to be accepted as a total “Ives experience.” The author, while a member of the same university faculty during the 1970’s, actually played some low “Earth tones” from the sketches for one of Austin’s preliminary Universe Symphony explorations (likely a first performance of these components!). However, Austin’s 1993 version did not incorporate all of the sketch material, though he enthusiastically took up Ives’s invitation to “work up the idea.”7 The question remains, however, precisely what Ives meant by his invitation. Even though the more complete “Earth” and “Heavens” orchestra materials from Section A essentially were preserved in Austin’s realization, they appear at twice the tempo Ives indicated! Austin could not accept that Ives’s astoundingly slow tempo specification (♩ = 30) was accurate (see further discussion in Chapter 13). Clearly incorrect, Austin’s ♩ = 60, causes the material to be garbled. Ives’s carefully crafted lines become blurred, and further subverted, too, by the continuing frenetic ad libitum percussion. Furthermore, the fast tempo causes the low bell toll at the beginning of each Basic Unit in the percussion to occur so frequently—and in the first recording placed in a register so high8—that it draws further undue attention to itself, ultimately becoming a distraction. 205 Resurrecting the Symphony Austin wished his efforts to be experienced much as the symphony Ives had envisaged. Though undoubtedly his intent, it is hard to argue that it succeeds, much less whether the sonic effect of his musical conflagration was anticipated ahead of its first performance. Some critics have argued that the material suffers from Austin’s additions, because it is clear that one is hearing not only what Ives himself had written, but also Austin’s contributions; again, one returns to the meaning of Ives’s words. Regardless, Austin’s Universe Symphony is not helped by its adherence to the more limited plan of Ives’s general layout, instead of the more evolved later plan, in which three clearly defined preludes precede three similarly defined sections. Moreover, Austin did not incorporate all the sketches in his realization, which comes across as compressed, rather than the epic monument that Ives had in mind. However, no one should question the sincerity or Austin’s determination to extract a performable work from the sketches. Much closer to the original concept, again, in as far as it goes, is the version of the symphony by David G. Porter. Essentially consisting of most of the first part (Section A), and the coda the last (Section C), it was performed for the first time at the Aldeburgh Festival in England in 2012, but as of this date, (2015), still has not as yet been recorded in a commercial recording. Porter was unable to trace clues to the assembly of the other sketches, and that most of them were insufficiently organized or clear to be included. Thus, he chose to exclude them from his realization. Noted as an Ives Scholar, and one-time historian to the Charles Ives Society, it would be presumed Porter closely followed Ives’s instructions and sketches for his realization. However, Johnny Reinhard, who produced the only full-length realization, considered that Porter misinterpreted the shaping of Ives’s ten specified percussion cycles in ways that interfere with their overall shape, and had constructed “beautiful diagrams” of the cycles, rather than those the composer intended. Porter also insisted that the “Pulse” should be a separate movement, not underlying the entire symphony. Reinhard pointed out that because the first page of the sketch was split, Porter misread the signposts that the top part was to continue while the lower half of the page began. As a consequence of both of these caveats, the differences alone between the percussion cycles in Porter’s and Reinhard’s realizations sets them apart, even within Ives’s largely completed Section A. Careful examination of the sketches supports, however, Ives’s plan for the percussion cycles to continue throughout the symphony, because on the opening sketch page Ives clearly indicated that the entire symphony was to consist of “one movement,” and that the percussion was to continue “through the whole movement.” Additionally, at the outset of Section B, another annotation regarding the continuance of the percussion cycles confirms it, and makes even more sense when one takes into account the sheer duration necessary to fill out Ives’s specifications. There is further corroboration, too, on the first page of Section B about the size and makeup of the orchestra: the number of percussion players is listed at twelve, which closely supports Ives’s previously listed specifications. Meanwhile, Johnny Reinhard further contended that the sketches for the complete assembly of the entire symphony were present, and that nothing, in fact, was missing. Thus, he fitted perfectly into the mold of an “outsider claiming to see what insiders could not.” Other than the clearly marked successions of numbered or labeled pages, Reinhard believed he had found the necessary clues to their assembly, such as tonal links, instrumentation from sketch to sketch, even “the subtleties that the cross rhythms of the crescendos/decrescendos indicated.” Despite multiple roadblocks that conspired to disallow Reinhard’s realization and subsequent public performance, The Charles Ives Society, as well as the owners of the publishing rights (Peermusic), ultimately gave Reinhard the green light. Remarkably, despite the concurrence of that position by David Porter (the society musicologist), later he would become a staunch 206 Resurrecting the Symphony critic of any attempt, other than his own, to realize the work! Reinhard seems lucky to have been allowed to proceed. Reinhard, however, continued to maintain that he could tread where Ives had gone before, producing a full, balanced work from the available materials, without adding anything to them. In his view, they were far from beyond recovery into a finished work of music. The Charles Ives Society, however, ruled that it should be known as Ives’s Universe Symphony, as realized by Johnny Reinhard, if for no other reason that it is impossible to be 100% certain about Ives’s intentions—he did not, after all, provide the finished score. Should one believe the sketch materials needed further “filling out,” as Austin had done, if only through judging against many of Ives’s large-scale work, Reinhard argued they do not. One must bear in mind again Ives’s description “The Universe, Past, Present and Future in ‘tones.’” Many of the sketches are extremely complex, nevertheless, in texture often reminiscent of the ethereally blended language of the Finale of the Fourth Symphony, though it was conceived in a less tonal context. For those who argue that the usage and placement of every single sketch cannot be claimed with certainty, even if had Ives completed the symphony himself from the materials, would it have emerged an entirely different work? It is hard to argue that Reinhard’s version does not function as a totality, in accord with Ives’s outlined plan, moreover, without the listener wondering how much of the music is by Ives himself. It is all by him. Microtones As Director of the American Festival of Microtonal Music (AFMM, New York), originally Reinhard was lured towards the Universe Symphony by its incorporations of microtones—the divisions between the normally recognized smallest intervals of pitch in Western music. As the sketches proceed into the later phases of the symphony, the microtonal notations become increasingly evident. In this instance, they are quarter-tones—half the amount of the smallest division of Western pitch. Richard Whitehouse’s poorly researched review of the first performance of Porter’s realization (June 2012, in England) compared it against Reinhard’s, in which he accused Reinhard of adding microtones to the material. 9 However, Reinhard only included in his score those that Ives, himself, had written in his sketches. Even the Charles Ives Society had recognized this reality, though because the composer’s microtonal indications increasingly characterize the later music of the symphony, Porter’s version, by default, excluded most of the relevant sketch materials from his realization, and hence, the microtones. The devil, as always, remains in the details. Additionally, Reinhard was able to trace clues to further unconventional tuning. In the Universe Symphony, was Ives, in fact, writing with Pythagorean tuning in mind? Although Pythagorean tuning might seem a subtle distinction to many ears, a special flavor is imparted by its system of tuning that is governed by the compounding spiral of mathematically pure perfect fifths, advancing at slightly lowerthan-expected intervals as they ascend. Ives did, after all, make direct and distinct references to alternative tunings for his symphony in Memos.10 In comparison, the tuning practice of conventional Western music causes notes of the same name to be necessarily different from key to key, although the adjusted stacking of perfect fifths ensures that octaves always fall as expected. A direct manifestation of microtonal differences between natural tuning and equal temperament, instinctive tuning predominantly involves the seventh and third tones in major scales (pitched slightly higher, respectively), and in the minor, the third 207 Resurrecting the Symphony (slightly lower). These “tempered” tunings are problematic in conventional chords, the result of the blend of overtones conspiring to make them seem to be out of tune. Consequently, in order to play standard literature effectively within ensembles, the musicians need constantly to adjust, so that all concerned tune to the average, equally tempered pitch center, just as in piano tuning. The difference is not great, but to a practiced ear, it is audible. An added solo line, standing apart from the homogenous ensemble, nevertheless, may be played essentially with tempered pitch, and sounds entirely correct. The piano, however, lacking sustaining tones, is an ideal candidate for the “equal temperament” system of tuning, both for melody and harmony. From his many remarks on the topic, in Ives’s polytonal music, clearly shaded tuning applies to each parallel linear key center; he was acutely aware of pitch and its relevance to key, even as he worked on the equally tempered piano.11 Suddenly, it is easier to appreciate the subtle distinctions he made, although Pythagorean tuning is specific to only one of many possible sets of pitch divisions. In this light, equal temperament, too, is just another tuning protocol, though its opposite counterpart—“justified” Ptolemaic intonation (natural tuning from key to key)—is not really interchangeable with true microtonal tunings, which divide the octave according to entirely different principles. A predominance of Pythagorean tuning, however, seems to fit most readily some of the types of tuning Ives described, and helps to explain why he frequently wrote what would be normally considered “enharmonic” tones within the same group. Such highly specific “spellings” may be found in the Universe Symphony sketches, in which sharps and flats are used within the same chords, as well as within melodic structures, in ways that imply subtle tunings.12 Reinhard’s incorporation of Pythagorean tuning into his realizations seems to concur Ives’s intent.13 The case seems even stronger in that Ives was seeking to write something more in line with the natural laws of the universe—better applied here, perhaps, than anywhere! The story behind Reinhard’s realization Reinhard’s documentation of the realization and assembly of the sketches, The Ives Universe: a Symphonic Odyssey, reviews the process he followed, and the decisions he made.14 In this book-length account, the major source material is reproduced, with descriptions of how one sketch was connected to the next. For those interested and able to read music, many finer details that are not spelled out by Reinhard’s words may be deduced by analyzing the sketches reproduced within the text, or even by obtaining the full score.15 The author requested from Reinhard information on certain specifics that were not always clear in his documentation (see Appendix 2); his openness and willingness to provide it was a testament to his passion for Ives’s music, and to the masterwork he had unlocked. Fortunately, too, a remarkable recording of his realization of the symphony is available, in which he conducted the AFMM Orchestra. Utilizing a unique process, Reinhard painstakingly layered each part for efficiency in the assembling of the recording. As such, it remains the sole recording of Ives’s Universe Symphony, as realized by Johnny Reinhard, the only realization of the entire symphony. A highly successful first recording of an unfamiliar work, it features virtually perfect sonics, balance and precision.16 208 Resurrecting the Symphony The difficulties of realization and the Ives Sound Realizations of composers’ unfinished or sketched works are tricky undertakings, to be sure. Hollywood film score orchestrators have developed an almost uncanny ability to perform a similar function with the widest possible range of materials imaginable provided them—from the extremely carefully detailed, fully composed and represented sketches by some of the most accomplished figures, such as John Williams, to the efforts of a few who have little or no background, even composing skills (no names!). Although Ives was sometimes extremely detailed in his directives and intentions, his working sketches (versus his more finished sketches or short scores) often are a mass of muddle and disorder, his scrawled notations frequently jammed onto every available scrap of the page. It takes a special kind of person to decipher and organize them. It has been said that this symphony does not sound like Ives. If one’s ability to identify the composer’s work is limited by a need to hear familiar musical quotations, even a type of counterpoint featuring radical mixtures of techniques and styles, perhaps the comment would be true. However, an awareness of the presence of other, subtler traits common to much of Ives’s output makes the landmarks clear and evident. In fact, idiomatically, the Universe Symphony sounds exactly like Ives, even more, perhaps, directly related to some of his earliest radical works, such as Tone Roads No.1. ENDNOTES 1 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. by John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 106–08. 2 Ibid., 106; 163: No.77. 3 Ibid., 101. 4 Ibid., 64. 5 Ibid., 107. 6 In works such as The Fourth of July and Majority (The Masses), even the wind parts within the very early cyclical piece, From the Steeples and the Mountains, Ives also had utilized some of the wide leaping intervals found in many of the individual lines of the “Earth Orchestra” in the Universe Symphony, often, too, encompassing twelvetone rows, or approximations of them. 7 Ives, Memos, 108. 8 Charles Ives: Universe Symphony, realized by Larry Austin, Cincinnati Philharmonia Orchestra, cond. Gerhard Samuel, Centaur CRC 2205, 1994. 9 Richard Whitehouse, “Aldeburgh Festival 2012: Charles Ives’s Universe Symphony,” www.classicalsource.com, June 24, 2012. 10 Ives, Memos, 107. 11 Ibid, 189–90. 12 Ibid., 107. 13 Johnny Reinhard, The Ives Universe: a Symphonic Odyssey (New York, AFFM, www.afmm.org, 2004), 99–117. 14 Op. cit., n.11. 209 15 Johnny Reinhard, (music score) The Universe Symphony, realized by Johnny Reinhard (New York, AFMM, www.afmm.org, 2004), 37–46. 16 Charles Ives UNIVERSE SYMPHONY realized by Johnny Reinhard, AFMM Orchestra, The Stereo Society, 837101048521 (CD) [2005]. 210 CHAPTER 13 A Listeners’ Guide to the Universe Symphony The Sombrero Galaxy in infrared light Image: nasaimages.org T he Universe Symphony is a work of pure, unfiltered, expressive power that belongs to another realm; reaching out and hitching oneself open-mindedly to unfamiliar demands is a necessity. Because this music seems already so far outside convention, on first impression it might sound like walls of incoherent sound. Some have remarked on a relentless similarity throughout its duration—the kind of remark that results from insufficient familiarity to appreciate the music on its own terms. First exposure to Ives’s ultimate masterpiece might be likened to a newborn child’s view of the world, to whom it appears to be a formless jumble of colors and light. Similarly, the Universe Symphony should not be expected to reveal itself with casual listening, or upon the first exposure to it. I: Fragment: Earth Alone (also later: Heavens music fragment) In Reinhard’s realization, the “Earth Orchestra” and its key motifs are presented in isolation, just as Ives had suggested, at the outset of the symphony before the “Pulse of the Cosmos” percussion orchestra begins. The fragment of “Earth” material was borrowed from the Section A coda; featuring not only the 211 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony four short primary motifs at the heart of the section at its heart in near isolation, it is a pure “Earth Orchestra” sonority. Similarly, because Ives had encouraged the free placement of the separate orchestral components in any way best introduced them to the listener, Reinhard also chose to introduce the “Heavens Orchestra” separately, as it appears in its fullest incarnation. Placing the excerpt at the end the second “Pulse of the Cosmos” cycle (one of the lengthiest such cycles in the piece), it overlaps the beginning of the next. The segment was borrowed, out of the surrounding musical context, from the beginning of the main section, in which the separate speeds emerge fully independent of one another. It is revealing that previously Ives never expressed similar suggestions for any of the rest of his music—the importance, thus, he placed in identifying the sonic landscape of this anything-but-familiar sounding essay is clear, and the recognition of its independent components pivotal to understanding his conception. Ultimately possible to differentiate between the more linear usage of the same motifs in the “Heavens Orchestra” and angularity of the “Earth Orchestra” character, in all, the four motifs comprise the entire fabric of both. Typically joined into linear chains that are endlessly varied, they impart the specific character and sound of the section. These motivic cues eventually will be identifiable within the section, although multiple hearings likely will be necessary in order to fully grasp their structural implications. Image: Chris Pearson {{PD-Art}} 212 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony Beginning with an ominous deep assemblage of low tones (an “Earth Chord”), the fragment that represents the culmination of Section A: “Earth formed” then features the four primary motifs, to appear throughout Section A in a continuous stream of densely complex invention. The starkly stated introduction sets the scene for the incoming “Pulse of the Cosmos.” II: Prelude No.1—The Pulse Of The Cosmos Using a massive battery of tuned and non-tuned percussion instruments, the first three of ten cycles of “The Pulse of the Cosmos” establish the heartbeat of the universe. Beginning as the lengthy Prelude to Section A, and then continuing as an undercurrent throughout the length of the symphony, indeed it does seem like a cosmic “heartbeat.” A parallel can be drawn between the “Pulse” and Einstein’s space-time continuum: the longer one listens to it, the time taken to play it, and the large musical space that it occupies, seem to become joined timelessly into a constantly warping, ongoing procession, in which even Pythagoras’s ancient view of a mathematically balanced order governing the cosmos is reflected in the ratios at the very core of the percussion cycles. Galaxy Messier 81 Image: nasaimages.org 213 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony Immersion in at least some of the extremely long first prelude (a full half hour) is a prerequisite to comprehending the foundational framework of the symphony.1 Even though Ives considered listening to the hypnotic, trancelike “Pulse” alone over the entire three cycles to be an important step in preparing the ear and mind for what is to follow, curiously, the half-hour prelude seems to contract with repeated hearings. Frankly, to appreciate fully its special power and pacing comes only as an acquired benefit of increasing familiarity with the symphony as a whole. The author is not alone in commenting, too, upon the almost gravitational sense of waiting at the end of each “Pulse” Basic Unit [BU]—sixteen seconds—just prior to the alignment of all of the instruments again at the beginning of the next BU. • Cycle No.1 features non-tuned instruments in compounding entries, each separately dividing the beat; the instruments exit the cycle in the order they entered. • Cycle No.2 is shorter, based on divisions of prime numbers only; by now, the ear and mind have absorbed something of the inevitable sense of “pulse.” • Between the end of cycle No.2 and the beginning of cycle No.3, Reinhard introduced a fragment of “Heavens Orchestra” materials from Section A. Ives left matters of the specific content and placement of the “previews” to the discretion of his interpreters. • Cycle No.3 differs from the others, in that tuned percussion, piano and piccolo add a series of repeating cycles of irregular pitches to the regular non-tuned divisions; they are similar to, but not quite manifestations of twelve-tone rows! III: Section A—Wide Valleys And Clouds This long, dense and complex segment is the first extended orchestral excursion of the symphony, utilizing the most detailed and fully worked out sketches of the entire work. Ives left it in detailed short score, essentially ready to copy into a long-form final fair copy. The section also poses perhaps the greatest aural challenge of the symphony, since it is the musical representation of primordial chaos. However, its extraordinary lure, initially seeming overwhelming and buried in musical haze, might be just sufficient to inspire the listener to return to experience its awe-inspiring scenes at first only tantalizingly glimpsed, though increasingly revealed. • • • Cycle No.4 (followed by the succeeding cycles) coincides with the beginning of Section A. The section, beginning in a manner more like a second prelude, opens in quiet mystery with a low “Earth Chord.” It is gradually interrupted by compounding counterpoint of low “Earth” material built from the motifs introduced in the opening fragment, and swelling chordal sonorities brooding in the higher strings. Ives described the wide landscape and distant horizons in his sketch materials. This scene gradually builds with more detailed motivic development, as entrances of the “Heavens Orchestra” appear in various chord groups, each moving in lockstep, to represent cloud formations in the sky. Divided between flutes and violins, they are moving already independently of the “Earth Orchestra.” Though not yet turned loose in an actual 214 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony • independent speed— the purpose, as much musical as functional—is to allow the listener to gain more familiarity with the sonically separate orchestral layers. The intervals between tones of “cloud” chords are systematically ordered, rather than randomly constructed, their similarly controlled degrees of movement still in locked independent blocks, to lead up to a grand dramatic pause. Following the pause (Ives labeled this moment, “Earth Created”), the “clouds” of the “Heavens Orchestra” take off, moving at a precipitously faster tempo, and further divide into several independent “cloud” systems built according to their own prescribed cycles and other systematic formulae. Though each “cloud group” is set in independent speeds, all are periodically synchronized by the one overall faster speed of the “Heavens Orchestra.” As the music proceeds, the fullest manifestation of Ives’s parallel listening is revealed. Image: AC Through extended portions of much of the movement, the lower “Earth Orchestra” counterbalances the “cloud” groups that make up the “Heavens Orchestra” floating above. The motion of each individual “cloud” is invariably smoother and more linear than that of the lower terrestrial counterpoint. Initially, although one might not be aware of the different overall tempi of each group, per se, eventually the motion of the skies is detectable, its smoother lines and faster pace standing apart from the orchestra below, entirely representative of the wafting movement of clouds over landscapes. Ives also built a further “code” of tonal organization into the section (what he termed “orbital harmonies”), in which the subtly stated tonalities occasionally come together in the manner of planetary alignments.2 The writer has isolated a systematically balanced pattern of coincident tones and tonal spaces, 215 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony aligned within mathematically organized periodic intervals over the course of the major portion of the section. Built according to an almost inconceivably ordered logic, not, however, obvious to the listener, they provide the larger harmonic structure that imbues the section with its characteristic sound. The methodology functions as much by what is present as what is not (no less systemized than that which is), a harmonic technique Ives long had perfected in his mature works. Greatly contributing to its integrated, yet constantly shifting sound, the organization also exists within another ingenious manifestation of the “Trinity Code” (see again discussion of the Scherzo in the Fourth Symphony, Chapter 10).3 Wishing to draw attention to the Earth and Heavens, for much of the section, Ives strategically separated the register of pitches between the two groups by as much half an octave (between “b” below middle “c,” and “e” above). However, even he allowed that the space between them necessarily could not be maintained precisely throughout, because his ear and imagination dictated a less rigid structure. Aside from the many competing entities, the additional caveat complicates the prospect of easily appreciating the separated strata through the section. Because of the difficulties of focusing on all three levels simultaneously, Ives asked only that the listener remain aware of all them while focusing on one at a time. The entirety of each level never was anticipated to be isolated in detail; rather, the music encourages the freedom to shift attention from one level to the next at will, which, consequently, results in experiences that reveal different aspects with each listening. (Section A cont’d): • • The “Earth” texture at first expands into higher territory, most obvious in the jagged and ascending trumpet and clarinet lines, then further into the low brass. (These parts are easy to differentiate from the floating movements of the “Heavens Orchestra.”) One might become aware of various technical features, especially the scales of different intervals (such as those made of whole-tones) that Ives mentioned in his descriptions of the mechanical makeup.4 The angular, jagged counterpoint of the “Earth Orchestra,” full of various parts opposing others, was supposed to represent Earth’s features, especially its formation: the “outcroppings” Ives described—mountain peaks, ravines, canyons, etc.—everything comprising the random chaos of nature at work. It is not hard to visualize the panoramas Ives was trying to portray from his position on the plateau at Keene Valley. The conflict between the gentler fabric of the “Heavens Orchestra” and the angularity of the “Earth Orchestra,” however, likely will be perceived just as a conglomerated stirring unless an effort is made to separate them. The challenge is to appreciate them more than as disjointed activity and motion. Although the representation of cloud movement with that of the “Heavens Orchestra” is an easy visual parallel to draw, the same is not true of the “Earth” material. Because music is built around time and pitch, any intrinsic musical motion might be interpreted instead as actual physical motion, obvious in the representations of clouds in the music, but not necessarily the case when interpreting the jagged and rapid movements that comprise much of the music of the “Earth Orchestra.” Instead, one might visualize bustling streets and car horns, for example—nothing like the scenes Ives had in mind! 216 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony There is a natural tendency, too, however, for the higher trumpet and clarinet lines to dominate the “Earth” group, and so, ideally, when listening to a recording, one should set one’s listening equipment to bring out the mid-low range, which is no less significant in the texture than anything else within the whole. Beyond the “Heavens” and “Earth,” of course, the building, cresting and falling cycles of the “Pulse of the Cosmos” continue to weave in and out of one’s consciousness. (Section A cont’d): • • An extended segment of “Earth” and “Heavens” soundscapes includes two direct quotes from Bethany (“Nearer, My God to Thee”). First appearing in the trumpet and clarinet lines, then the clarinet alone a fifth higher, the fragment is unlike any of the surrounding motivic material. Following the quotes, the “Earth Orchestra” moves together into a massive high point, like the thrusting up of a mountain peak. Soon the surrounding “landscape” begins to recede— like a depiction of clearing skies. Smoother contoured lines in the “Earth Orchestra,” perhaps, suggest the calmer plain of the plateau itself.5 Further thoughts on the matter of the correct tempo When the two quotes from Bethany (as described above) leap out of the surrounding maze of sound, and played at Ives’s stated tempo of ♩ = 30, they appear as normally would be expected, which should end any further discussion about the correct speed of Section A. It is significant that Ives hardly ever quoted materials, especially religious, at speeds other than in their original context, except in rare instances when the transformation resulted in another equally dignified incarnation. For example, in what is often incorrectly termed the “Harvest Scene” in Thanksgiving and Forefathers Day, Ives miraculously transformed the hymn The Shining Shore into a lively segment, just as dignified, but utterly symbolic of the festive spirit of the holiday he was trying to convey. In other instances, such as in the Fugue in Four Keys: on “The Shining Shore,” the melody and its matched counterpart, Azmon, appear both moderately paced and in a faster tempo, simply because these tunes, as in certain other instances, can be sung within a such a range of speeds. The significant point to understand is that at no time do they appear hurried, or otherwise outside their recognizable character. Thus, in Austin’s realization, Bethany’s quoted derivations are too fast to be identified with the source, sounding flippant, almost comical and cartoon-like, and further disavowing his contention that Ives’s tempo indication should have been recalibrated at one second per beat, not two. (Section A cont’d): • Immediately preceding the slow calming of the texture is a brief, if unlikely, reference to Massa’s in de Cold Ground in the trumpets, taken from the end of the bridge out of the refrain. Though not a religious melody, in this context, the tempo renders this fragment recognizable, again confirming that Ives’s tempo indication was correct. 217 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony • • • Following this extended segment, a differently textured middle section is easily identified by the prominence of the piano, over more rapid, thinner cloud movement in the flutes and oboes. It provides contrast after the preceding vigorous sonorities, and is based largely on Erie (“What a Friend”) and Bethany (“Nearer, My God to Thee”). This is the segment that was considered lost, never written, or missing prior to Reinhard’s realization (see Appendix 2). The case that he made for its inclusion at this juncture, however, is compelling.6 After a repeated portion on each side (with the high trumpets playing a line with high dissonant long tones just a half step apart), a lush, vaguely impressionistic, contrasting middle portion intercedes, over deep, spacious chords. The sketches set the stage well for a brief return to the earlier sonorities of the main section, followed by its conclusion. The momentum resumes in this segment (added during the later period of composition) to complete the section; both the familiar cloud movement and the “Earth Orchestra” texture are by now familiar, though they do not linger for long. Some truly otherworldly sounds begin to emanate from the “Heavens,” as the “Earth” recedes and largely dissipates below. Is it the landscape at night with clearing skies? It is hard to imagine how such sounds could have emanated in Ives’s day—their surreal, electronic, unearthly countenance years ahead of the time. As the horns and trombones again take the leading role, the “Earth Orchestra” builds to another block; large rock formations again dominate the perspective. Suddenly, an abrupt halt of the ongoing texture signals the conclusion of Section A; the “Earth formed” segment that begins Reinhard’s realization is placed precisely according to the connecting icons in the sketch; order has risen out of primordial chaos. Since the verbal terminology Ives utilized is subtly different from that he used early in the section (“Earth created”), the conclusion to Section A represents the difference between creation and the state that Earth ultimately had attained (“Earth formed”). The complexity and scale of Section A—even more than that of Sections B and C—will not fully reveal itself without numerous hearings, as well as a serious effort to identify elements of the motivic construction, and the individual characteristics of the music representing the “Earth” and Heavens.” Lacking normal cross-references, the totality of the section can create the illusion of loosely formed music, with no aural signposts. To help unravel the tangle, one needs to allow the sonic representations of the physical entities of the universe to register and establish themselves in the ear and mind. IV: Prelude No.2—Birth Of The Oceans Some of the specifics (notably rhythmic relationships) for the assembly and realization of the sketch materials for this section are vague, especially those that begin the Prelude, although a considerable wealth of notation, as well as the compositional process was present. In making the not unreasonable assumption that the same relative tempos between the percussion and orchestral units was to be retained (there is nothing to imply otherwise), Reinhard was able to deduce the necessary connections and organization for almost everything contained in the sketches: 218 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony Image: AC Image: AC Image: AC • Possibly depicting Earth’s basins slowly filling with water, long, building tones, and more “Earth formed” chords compound upon one another in building structures that contain mathematically derived codes. Inner movement based on their harmonic foundations creates anticipation and direction. Preliminary allusions to the upcoming “Free Evolution and Humanity” theme and other motivic material, which is central to Section B, dominate the lower “Earth” writing. • Some chords of the “Heavens Orchestra” connect the prelude, harmonically, with the end of Section A, while its second half continues to allude to the “Earth formed” passage that had featured at the conclusion of that section. Eventually, larger sonorities envelop it in apparent representations of the ocean masses themselves. • Reinhard assigned a succession of pitches to trombone solo, followed by what can only be described as an ascending, moving whole tone cluster between the trumpets, horns and harp. Reinhard utilized two isolated chords found on a single sketch page, and specifically designated to belong to “Prelude No.2,” to lead into Section B. 219 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony V: Section B—Earth And The Firmament Here, Ives began to turn his attention to the vast expanses of space. This point is where the Universe Symphony finally escapes the perspective of the cosmos as seen only from earthly confines. • “Earth Chords” return to the texture as a foundation; the available instrumentation made the inclusion of all that Ives indicated impractical, however, the function of much of what was excluded being hard to determine. • A trombone finally plays the complete angular theme that represents “Free Evolution & Humanity.” Many incarnations of this short theme will appear within the section to form much of its content. The theme actually is comprised of two twelve-tone rows, minus a note or two. • Chords built according to further remarkable systematic order can be found; in one example, all twelve tones are represented. Arranged in apparent disregard of a specific order, when shuffled laterally and vertically, however, they align themselves into a perfect mathematical order and balanced relationship.7 • A “just intonation machine” (in Ptolemaic untempered tuning) improvises, as new, and preserved harmonic entities from Section A represent “Heaven, Planetary skies and clouds.” Apollo 8/Image: nasaimages.org (Apollo 8) 220 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony • A sudden buildup and subsequent explosion of ultramodern sonorities seem to paint a cosmic view. Linear and harmonic structures moving below the trombone theme seem closely tied to those in the opening of Section A. The fire and fury announce the only portion of the work in which the percussion also breaks its bond to the cosmic heartbeat to play a bombastic and free cadenza (cycle No.7); even a marble slab (!) joins the fracas. • Ives designated the middle of this sonic conflagration as the coda. In the flute, another quote from Bethany continues through to the end of the drama. It is highly significant, from a standpoint of its presence in the totality of the symphony, even if it is problematic to identify amidst the surrounding competing complexities. • Within this portion, some astonishing mathematical “code” governs the individual lines of counterpoint, in which additions between tones (if represented numerically) across diminishing arcs within their spans result in matching totals that defy explanation.8 • Towards the end of this awesome spectacle, the percussion once again yields to the rule of the cosmic pulse, ending the cycle (No.7) abruptly at its height. • The music settles down more reflectively, as the next percussion cycle (No.8) commences; the low bell takes the largest (16-second) division alone. Sustained chords accompany the “Heavens” and “Earth” Orchestras, which continue in dialog with colorful and fragmentary evolutions of the thematic and rhythmic content of the section. • Subsiding further, mysterious tones lead out of the section, which concludes with the chord that, from Reinhard’s perspective, contained an important clue to the likely use of Pythagorean tuning—an enharmonic “spelling” of the “same” tone within it. Interestingly, Philip Lambert considered the dual notational anomaly within that now famous final chord likely a mistake!9 VI: Prelude No.3—And Lo, Now It Is Night The Prelude to Section C remains shrouded in mystery. It is not clear whether Ives actually wrote one at all; Reinhard considered that the sketches (“Universe Sym. 3rd Section Foreground Harmonic Basis 24 different chordal scales”) that he utilized to construct it were more than just a working diagram of the harmonic structure of the larger section. There is a clear distinction made between this material and what is labeled the true opening of the section. Although all are specified for Section C, the words written at the actual start of it (versus those of the materials that Reinhard used for the Prelude) make its role clear: “The Earth & the Heavens,” “III.” A collective subtitle for the entire assemblage of upcoming sketches establishes two distinct parts: “And lo—now it is night” (presumably the Prelude), and “Earth is of the Heavens” (Section C). Despite the confirmation that the latter sketch was the actual start of Section C—due to the specific differences of the respective labels—Reinhard argued that the materials he had used to construct his prelude conformed to the first subtitle, “And lo—now it is night.” His position is sure to remain controversial, although it is one he has maintained steadfastly. Regardless, despite the paucity of rhythmic or thematic designations in those materials, enough information was present, nevertheless, to produce 221 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony something workable, even musically viable. Whether resembling anything along the lines of what Ives had envisaged, Reinhard clarified that the instrumentation and rhythms of the reconstructed prelude involved the only creative decisions he made in the realization of the entire symphony. Image courtesy NASA, ESA, and L. Bedin (STScI); nasaimages.org • Reinhard selected another “orphan” sketch consisting of some loose, isolated tones at extreme registers to complete his prelude. Because the tones “spell” a twelve-tone row, they foreshadow the succession of the twelve structurally systemized “chordal scales,” alternating with twelve others raised by a quarter-tone—a total of twenty-four, designated by Ives as the harmonic/thematic foundation of Section C. They provided further clues, not only for the placement of some fragmentary sketches within the section, but also aided Reinhard in his frequent simultaneous combinations of more than one scantily written fragment. • Reinhard’s creative contribution to the prelude also included a superimposition of the radical crescendos and decrescendos that appeared near the beginning of Section A, along with accumulating rhythmic energy and values, common to the predictive traits of serialism found in many of Ives’s works. • Another sketch that continues the chords up to the twenty-third in the series leads to the last sketch—a separate and more elaborate “patch” that seems to outline not only the likely twenty-fourth “chordal scale,” but also a grand “fall-off” of descending chromaticism, along with an accumulation of dramatic chordal elements below. It served to overlap and connect into the explosive beginning of Section C. 222 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony VII: Section C—Earth Is Of The Heavens Melding into the screaming, eerie downward spiral of the outgoing prelude, Section C explodes as if the skies have opened up. It is night; from Ives’s annotated perspective of ravines and jagged formations pointing up to the heavens, the vast vault above them represents eternity. • “Pulse” cycle No.9 commences at the outset of Section C, initially with just the low bell tone; increasingly active divisions of the Basic Unit do not occur until later, where they will be heard. • As the music descends and calms, fragmentary dialog between flute and clarinet emerges from the texture. Seeming to hark back to “Earth” material, logically, Section C represents “Earth is Of The Heavens.” The segment also includes a predictive use of “canonic phasing,” normally associated with the contemporary composer, Steve Reich that involves a form of imitation between lines, in which one moves at a different speed than the other. • Coming to a brief halt and pause, two Image: nasaimages.org short pick-up notes herald a vast sonic panorama (and also suggest an upcoming motif in the trumpet). The segment includes striking (and apparently hitherto unrecognized) quotes from In the Sweet Bye and Bye (flutes), and another from Bethany (see Appendix 2). • At this point, the “Heavens Orchestra,” once again, appears as a clear separate entity, and although the parts are locked to a shared single reference speed, they move independently above the fray in rhythmically locked blocks of “cloud” chords (nebulae, perhaps?). • A short fanfare-like statement by a solo trumpet follows, consisting of cascading descending intervals and upward leaps. It is announced in short notes comprised of major and minor thirds, sometimes with a repeated tone at the lowest extremities. 223 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony The trumpet figure, full of radiant energy, seems to resonate with the heavens. Once again, a dominant figure in a work by Ives was placed in a trumpet (or cornet) part; as the constant reminder of his father, of course, and long one of Ives’s calling cards, it seems almost as if George Ives calling from the depths of space to join him. The trumpet heralds the simple related motif—two tones a third apart, typically used in chains or other successions throughout the first part of Section C—which was partly comprised of a series of undesignated “orphan” fragments (see below). Logically, most belong nowhere else except in Section C, due to their relationships to the larger harmonic and motivic materials. The trombone already had hinted at the motif early in the transition between Prelude No.2 and Section B, and prior to that, it can be found in the high solo bassoon, too. With many tonal and musical connections between them, referencing the twenty-four “chordal scales” assisted further in the placement and alignments of these sketched fragments. Below is the outline of the more than two-minute segment comprised of hereto-designated “orphan” sketches: • Immediately following the trumpet statement, the same figure appears again high in the violins, and also as an inverted variant in overlapping connecting points with other sketch materials. Further variations of the motif are immediately touched upon in the violas below, then the cellos, as well as in the succeeding dramatic violin writing. • As “Pulse” cycle No.9 reaches its high point, growing, powerful orchestral chords reach a climax at a place that Ives labeled in a short sketch “SEA”; it is a fitting point to draw attention to the massive waves of percussion activity, though hard to fathom (no pun intended) in relation to the program of the Universe Symphony; it seems plausible that the fragment was intended for Section B, instead. • Immediately following is a strong statement in the violins that invokes the trumpet figure again, underscored by a turbulent, prominent pizzicato descent in the cellos. This sketch is connected to another for the First Piano Sonata, both appearing on the same page as other materials for the Universe Symphony. The placement of the latter, in this context, however, strongly argues for its inclusion, rather than disqualifying it. Ives, after all, frequently shared and interconnected materials between works. For those who question also the correctness, idiomatically, too, of the kind of pizzicato line Reinhard utilized, the Adeste Fideles section of Decoration Day features a near identical usage of lower pizzicato writing. • The segment resolves as the percussion cycle winds down (seeming like a calming of the waters) with some material Reinhard scored for cello(s), appropriate, too, for its register, and providing continuity to another larger “orphan” segment to follow. • Reinhard included two other diminutive “orphan” fragments (“Sky” and “Rainbow”). It seems fair to have used them in Section C, due to lack of opportunity elsewhere. In the first fragment, the “3rd Sky Theme,” as well as another ascending figure, labeled “Sky,” appeared originally in Section A in the “Heavens Orchestra.” More than likely it was a sketch for the earlier section, although, in utilizing it here, Reinhard orchestrated the now familiar Section A “cloud” material differently. The fragment entitled “Rainbow” features a brief dialog between flute and clarinet at the outset, and appears on the sketch page to the song of that name. Kirkpatrick thought it belonged to the Universe Symphony, though it is impossible to be sure. 224 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony • These two short fragments lead to a more extended bridge: a dialog between the cello(s) and winds that precedes the inexorable push to the finish. The sketch, dated and demonstrably written around 1915, is entitled “Theme from the Universe Symphony.” Although the cello line also restates the “Free Evolution & Humanity” theme of Section B, its accompanying harmonies closely link it to Section C and the “chordal scales.” Clearly, the evolution of the larger plan for the symphony involved the incorporations of some early materials within sections composed later. • Propelling the music towards the conclusion of the symphony is an amazing splash of color that involves an increasing use of microtones and crossing textures. Joining into additional sketch materials (also dated and clearly from 1915), one feels the pull of growing anticipation, as “Pulse” cycle No.10 commences at full force from the top of the waveform (the only cycle to do so). The full complement of designated percussion instruments play, thus, from its onset, differing from the “fade in-fade out” structures of the other cycles. Effectively, thus, cycle No.10 is a half cycle, the instruments dropping out one by one through the end of the work, something never more musically appropriate than here. • The “clouds” of the “Heavens Orchestra” again appear in the skies. Although they are still rhythmically tied to the “Earth Orchestra,” they are notated as if set in an independent speed. Their placement also ties them thematically to the upcoming sketch materials of the coda that is further linked by the shared larger tonality. A brief restatement of the opening “Earth Formed” material from Section A may be heard one more time, superimposed (per Ives) midway during the growing buildup. Joining the “clouds” in the “Heavens,” well-disguised and discreet hints of Bethany can be heard in the flutes and violins. • Bursting into the concluding segment, marked clearly by Ives, “End of Section C, Universe Symphony,” feels as if the very fabric of the cosmos has been torn asunder, cutting loose an incredible sonic conflagration like a million fireworks in the sky. (Sounding akin to the “Big Bang,” itself, the sketch was written long before Fred Hoyle coined the term to ridicule the new cosmology of post-World War II!) The high point is not unlike that of the Finale of the Fourth Symphony, which remains, perhaps, the best preparation for appreciating this work. Here, though, the music seems even more awe inspiring, the sketch materials being largely complete in detail. Quite surprisingly, they emanated from the earlier years of the symphony’s composition, before the “chordal scales” even were envisaged as a harmonic core of any section! Indeed, these formations are not to be found at all within the sketch. • Finally—in the most telling quote of all those from Bethany—a substantial portion of the refrain is quoted in the flutes at the outset of the celestial explosion, descending as the bass line ascends; never was it more appropriate than here to lead to the conclusion of Ives’s journey to the stars. Because clear references to the hymn were made in the same manner within the materials leading up to the coda, it would seem to answer any remaining doubts that linking those sketches to the coda was correct. However, the sonic spectacle is so overwhelming that to identify the hymn amidst the conflagration might be a challenge. Rest assured, however; it is there. 225 A Listener’s Guide to the Universe Symphony • Gradually the massive sonics are shed; a remaining “wind shear” of all that has passed leaves one in a near trance. It is punctuated by leaping solo bassoon intervals in shaded microtonal tuning, finally tinged by a strange superimposed fading organ chord that seems to come from some distant horizon (similar to those that have characterized earlier moments in the work, such as toward the conclusion of Section B). Although seemingly at odds with its surroundings, magically, the chord somehow is in total accord with them, drawing the listener toward the depths of the infinite void that swallows the last deep bell tone. If no person ever has imagined a mightier scene painted in sound, or achieved it with such extraordinary means, for Ives it was the culmination of a lifetime of expanding his boundaries. His destination reached, one may share some of what he contemplated as he viewed man’s place in the cosmic realm from the Keene Valley Plateau long ago. Is Reinhard’s realization the symphony of Ives’s imagination? The added significance of Reinhard’s realization of the Universe Symphony is that the very fabric—the actual notes heard by the listener—all are by Ives, unembellished, “unimproved,” and unadorned. The grandeur of the work that Ives imagined seems undiminished by his failure to complete it. Those who say that what might be missing or never was sketched cannot be known, only need to hark back to Ives’s own words from 1931. Certainly no evidence, other than the later grandiose words that became attached to it, indicates that he had in mind very much more than is contained within the existing materials. In addition to Reinhard’s own documentation, further information on its assembly can be found in Appendix 2; they are unavailable elsewhere. Inasmuch as Reinhard included virtually all the sketches, and teased out their sequence where nothing was specified, he was successful in assembling a coherent and viable musical chain that readily states its case. Reinhard’s realization is a satisfyingly structured work, convincingly laid out and resembling the model of Ives’s originally stated final plan, imposing enough to earn a place alongside the Fourth Symphony to continue where its last notes of left off. The final reference to Bethany (having appeared in each section), and as the last quoted tune in all of Ives’s symphonic work, seems further to affirm that Ives’s destiny was as much musical as spiritual. Having won his race against time to reach it, nothing is clearer that at the end of this road there was no compelling reason for Ives to write anything more. 226 ENDNOTES 1 Charles Ives: UNIVERSE SYMPHONY realized by Johnny Reinhard, AFMM Orchestra, The Stereo Society 837101048521 (CD) [2005]. 2 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 107–08. For anyone who has observed the moons of Jupiter through a telescope, such alignments are familiar. 3 Antony Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe, (West Conshohocken, PA, Infinity Publications, 2015), 450. 4 Ives, Memos, 107. 5 The Keene Valley Plateau is set considerably lower than the surrounding mountainous terrain, so Ives’s perspective was of looking upward and across the distant peaks, rather than from a vantage point above them. The formation is not that of a mountaintop, but one of a number of similar structures in the region that surround ancient lakebeds. 6 Far from being late entrants, the materials appear to date from quite early in the timeline (1911–15), and although reworked over the years, were saved, apparently for later use in the symphony. See, too, Johnny Reinhard, The Ives Universe: a Symphonic Odyssey (www.afmm.org, 2004), 64–68. Also Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe, 467–70. 7 Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe, 479–80. 8 Ibid., 483–85. 9 Philip Lambert, The Music of Charles Ives (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1997), 197–99. 227 APPENDIX 1 Revising Ives T he 1980s saw the beginning in American musicology of an unfortunate re-evaluation of Ives, the composer and person, the resulting reinvention of both tarnishing his image of ascendancy. Although the negative assessments did not deserve the traction they gained in the first place, good scholarship, of course, demands that questions be answered; the assumption, however, is they will be addressed objectively. Following the less than completely head-over-heals portrait by Frank Rossiter, 1 the publication of a now infamous, one-sided article by Maynard Solomon catapulted the revisionist era into high gear.2 Overnight, it garnered national attention, prompting many critics, eager to seize upon any opportunity to dismiss the seemingly impossible specter of a composer with Ives’s unlikely background— far outside accepted norms—laying claim to any priority in twentieth century music. The debunking, in the face of incontrovertible evidence, has continued until this day; it appears not everyone in America wants to be convinced of the significance of their own great native musical son. Discrediting Ives’s music, however, was not Solomon’s intent. Rather, his attack spoke to something larger in play in the musicological community, which had come to feel great discomfort with everything surrounding Ives’s life—from his “unlikely” emergence as a musical pioneer, to his Transcendentalism, unconventional religious background, even his socio-political stance that, to, some, was far too aligned with progressive politics to be accepted among the ranks as the “Father of American Music." Ives was too “un-American” to be accorded the honor, even though enlightened thinkers know that Ives’s life was the epitome of what it means to be an American. Some scholars were no less comfortable with John Kirkpatrick’s role at the top of Ives scholarship, because he lacked credentials in musicology—a truly unfortunate stance, because Kirkpatrick’s depth of knowledge about Ives and his music still remains without peer. By questioning Ives’s character and actions, Solomon, thus, set had the stage for a challenge to the dates assigned to Ives’s works in Kirkpatrick’s extraordinary catalog—the crowning life achievement of his life. Suddenly, Ives’s priority seemed invalidated. In the 1930’s, long before Rossiter’s book came on the scene, the late Elliott Carter—a one time protégé of Ives, and thoroughly European-trained American composer (under Nadia Boulanger)—had sown the seeds of distrust with a highly uncharitable review of the Concord Sonata.3 Despite trying to make amends a few years later, in 1969, Carter compounded the damage by asserting that he had witnessed Ives adding dissonances to Putnam’s Camp (the second movement of Three Places in New England), when visiting him in 1929.4 Carter questioned just how original Ives really had been when composing his music. With a ready acceptance usually accompanying an agenda, Solomon compounded the skepticism, subsequently charging Ives with brazenly pre-dating his manuscripts, while further impugning his integrity, character, and even psychiatric makeup. It surely triggered Stuart Feder’s psychobiography, even if he did not agree with Solomon’s negative assessment of Ives’s character.5 Solomon also took Ives to task for deigning to make revisions to his own music. Ives made his revisions, for the most part, when he was still flying low under the radar screen; for all he knew, this predicament might have been how it always would be. More to the point, Solomon had not acknowledged that Ives’s more daring compositions did not suddenly become so by way of any revision, the vast majority 229 App. 1 Revising Ives being to small details. Feder, too, seemed perplexed that Ives might have regarded his music as his, to do with it what he wished, thus revealing a remarkable sense of entitlement to someone else’s property. Rossiter raised the issue of likely double standards being applied to Ives in 1975,6 pointing out that no one had questioned Carter’s motivation or psychiatric makeup when he had made his assertions. Indeed, despite having been mentored by Ives before further pursuing his musical training in Paris,7 Carter would initiate a contradictory lifelong pattern of alternate admiration and harsh criticism towards his old friend. Likely his unpredictable stance was borne out of an unspoken rivalry; upon his return to America, it was Ives who was in the ascent and receiving all the acclaim, rather than Carter. Most published obituaries after Carter's passing (November 6, 2012), made no mention of his mentorship by Ives, merely that Ives had encouraged him; apparently, Carter had disowned the record. Charles Ives in New York (1913), shortly after the first complete draft of Three Places in New England {{PD-Art}} During Ives’s day, critics routinely would accept avant-garde music when it emanated from Europe, but not from domestic figures; in the same light, Ives’s music initially was found more acceptable and interesting in Europe than at home. In a very real sense, thus, the recent period of revisionism in America shows that nothing much has changed. The scenario might have been fine if all American composers were treated with the same degree of, dare one say, suspicion. To admirers of Ives, one of the worst aspects of 230 App. 1 Revising Ives the climate of revisionism was that Americans were devouring their own, having for so long sought such a champion in their midst. Ives was declared guilty in musicological courts without a trial. Most, if not all, the assault had come from Americans, not from overseas. The “Ives Legend” The negative portrait of Ives also was a reaction to the sometimes-unrealistic picture painted of him in the 1930s, and popularized through the efforts of the avant-garde American composer Henry Cowell, a fine composer himself and a young leader of new American music. Needing a strong paternal figure for his cause, and especially in establishing that an American had demonstrated real musical priority early in the new century, Cowell found in Ives the figure he had been searching for, his enthusiasm being highly instrumental in bringing Ives’s music to the foreground. Cowell’s narrative rescued the little-known composer from obscurity; Ives was an authentic original and the first true American voice in music. As the supreme promoter of Ives’s music, Cowell, with his wife, Sidney, would write the first account of the composer, his music and his life.8 The larger Ives legacy was born, from which exaggerated claims grew, though more from lack of specific information and pure enthusiasm than anything else. Although there is nothing to implicate Cowell in any deliberate exaggerations, had he anticipated the age of revisionism, he might have exercised a little more care in recognizing the potential hazards of fostering glowing, seemingly uncritical, appraisals in an age of suspicion and distrust. Rossiter termed the aura surrounding the life and music of Charles Ives the “Ives Legend.” The “Legend” has been increasingly under attack as a distortion of the image of the composer: a lone figure, neglected and scorned by society, totally unaffected by, even largely unaware of, any of the musical developments in the outside world, his musical education almost exclusively due to his prophetic father, at odds with his teacher at Yale, Horatio Parker (almost to the degree that he graduated in spite of him), and who, purely to keep his artistic integrity intact, dutifully made the choice to pursue a business career, and infused his music with an American voice. Although the story would become “embroidered” with a gilded thread, all of the items on the golden laundry list essentially were true. Regardless, Ives would become a sitting duck for negative agendas, the upshot of Solomon’s article being as unkind as it was an act of war on one of the finest and most generous souls ever to be born with musical talent. Flying in the face of everything previously believed about the composer and man, Solomon had reduced Ives to the status of con artist; Stuart Feder’s book, My Father’s Song, written in the wake of Solomon’s article, turned Ives, instead, into a mentally disturbed psychiatric case. The damage has been compounded since within “Ives scholarship,” which is guilty of promoting new interpretations of his life, and a wholly insupportable redating of his works ever more forward in time, not to mention allowing incorrect assessments of the nature of his revisions to go unchallenged.9 Despite the musicological onslaught, it seems, however, the outside world of performers and listeners has preferred to stick with the original, as reflected by countless program notes for concerts and recordings. Thanks to diligent research, and the fairer perspectives by other noted scholars and interested parties, a more careful examination of all the facts surrounding the composer has begun to cast new light, and with it a much fairer portrait. Ives is emerging little the worse for wear, and the shabby treatment he has received is increasingly contrasted against the beacon of truth. 231 App. 1 Revising Ives Questions of Veracity Solomon’s assertions that Ives just might have “cooked the books” regarding the dates of his compositions provided the real grist for the mill of modern Ives revisionism. The charge was stunning because the Ives “mystique” had become centered on the claim that, uncannily, he was working in most twentieth century techniques long ahead of others. His supporters, perhaps, had over-emphasized it to the degree that it became a “reason for being” in and of itself. Ives was wrongly accused of focusing primarily on being a pioneer and an obsession with being “first!,” even though he never claimed to have been first in anything. The fact that many of Ives’s early works—in which he developed his innovations—are worthy as substantial musical works in themselves was lost on the critics. And perhaps his futurism had been enabled because, rather than in spite of, his “unacceptable” background. The dates and other irregularities Solomon attempted to support his case by raising the issue of general disorder long noted throughout Ives’s working process, and as referenced in Chapter 2. He included the profusion of dates and addresses on his manuscripts, personal contacts, phone numbers, comments, reused manuscript paper, writing with multiple pens and pencils, even the cutting of margins from pages (consequently eliminating dating and other information). Solomon also raised the issues of Ives’s multiple sketches—his revisions and reworkings, combinations of more than one original work or thought, incorporations of portions within further re-worked parts, fragments turned into other pieces—to justify the accusation that the pattern of disorder indicated deliberate alterations in later years to establish priority, after the fact. The controversy exploded. Any attempt to form an objective picture of the composer was buried in the grisly aftermath of what was purported to be worthy scholarship. With the quickly rendered guilty verdict based on an explosive accusation alone, a number of other scholars found these assertions to be highly subjective and wholly ill-founded. The breadth of research materials available, even at the time of the article, offered other interpretations. For example, Solomon failed to mention that often Ives had assigned later dates to his compositions than those of their actual creation! Examples of post-dating appear quite frequently, readily found amongst the songs in the 1922 book, 114 Songs, for example. Fittingly, in the context of this book, Ives clearly notated 1915 for his initial Universe Symphony sketches, but an address on the manuscript was for a former residence that he left in 1914. However, Solomon only had used what served his argument. Complicating the task of establishing provenance, sometimes the original sources were lost (many were for organ, or organ and choir, from Ives’s church organist days), their dates recorded somewhere in Ives’s notes, or otherwise referenced in some way. Often, too, Ives left the original dates of the first draft of a composition intact, after he had refined or redeveloped it, perhaps even assigning the dates of earlier works to later ones in which essentially they were already fully represented. It was easy for latter day critics to claim that a lost source allowed for deliberate obfuscation and pre-dating, although the same individuals were unlikely to acknowledge that Ives left many works on the shelves at the Central Presbyterian Church. It is known that these works were discarded at the time of the church’s relocation to Park Avenue in 1915. Numerous finished scores (by copyists) of works no longer exist in manuscript, too; others were assembled from multiple sources and different batches of sketches. 232 App. 1 Revising Ives Ives did not help his cause, however, by his notoriously jumbled manuscripts and careless working methods. As a messy practitioner of script, Ives had no reason to try to work otherwise, since public performance, let alone acclaim, was far from his mind. Ives’s untidy, contradictory and disheveled working materials, like the gradual revelations of cumulative form, reflect order rising out of chaos—a hallmark of his life, even his work in business, of which his office was a prime example: the piles upon piles of paper in apparent chaotic disorder were fully compartmentalized in his mind. Just as in his music, Ives knew where everything was. Jokingly, he is known to have forwarded to composer John Cage a blank sheet of manuscript paper. More akin to Cage’s approach (!), it was a commentary on his own diametrically opposite working methods. In partial testimony to his unselfconscious working methods, too, Ives’s tangles on the page reflect his non-professional status as a composer, too. “Completed,” thus, did not necessarily mean a fair copy; what Ives considered complete might have been just as likely a full score as the sketches necessary for one, a short score, even an early version of a composition since rewritten. It is entirely conceivable that he might have thought that his works dated from their first—or any—substantive incarnation. It stands to reason that there might have been some confusion! Willing, even eager, distrust by others, and opportunistic adventurism in scholarship are other matters entirely, however. Thus, the all-too controversial dates should be seen for what they are, especially since copyists made many of the surviving finished scores. And as far as Ives was concerned, further minor cleanups, revisions and refinements of detail were no reason to change the date. He probably never thought about it; indeed, most composers are “guilty” of the same thing. Ives’s multiple efforts to provide reliable lists of his musical output, undertaken many years after the fact, were subject, however, to slight memory slips; as such, they are occasionally at odds with each other. However, as Kirkpatrick insisted, the dates Ives provided seldom were inaccurate by more than a year or two, and were due to the compounding of minor errors from list to list. The larger reality is that Ives never took the time or trouble in earlier years to establish a legacy trail; they were not important to him, especially during his productive years. Only as he became increasingly aware of the importance of establishing a history of his body of work did he try to do so, but in the years later, not every detail still was crystal clear. In her largely revisionistic 2008 volume, Charles Ives Reconsidered, Gayle Sherwood Magee actually speculated that because Cowell had, himself, altered some dates of his own compositions in the 1950s and 60s, it might have inspired the composer to do the same.6 However, the confusion surrounding Ives’s manuscripts far predates his association with Cowell, as Magee surely knew. Ives would have had no reason to engage in such activities during his most productive period at a time when Cowell was nowhere in the picture. And adding and altering dates significantly, to the degree painted by Solomon, would have been all too obvious and easy to trace. If Cowell did engage in the practice, it was entirely of his own doing. Regardless, Magee did not agree with Solomon’s bold accusation that Ives was fundamentally dishonest, although she was all too willing to cast Cowell in a bad light, indirectly tarring Ives with the same brush.10 Magee, too, raised the specter that Ives sometimes assigned dates to his works’ initial appearance, revising and adding to them later. Despite her rejection of Solomon’s larger hypothesis of deliberate falsification, Magee nevertheless indirectly validated it by proceeding to come up with a “new chronology” of dates for Ives’s catalog, one that many scholars, including some members of the Charles Ives Society, have, all too happily, adopted. Most notably, perhaps, J. Peter Burkholder quickly, and 233 App. 1 Revising Ives nonchalantly, endorsed it in his book, All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and The Uses of Musical Borrowing,11 though neither writer provided any substantiation, or any corroboration for their position. Leon Botstein also fell victim to the tenets of revisionism, arbitrarily post-dating some of Ives’s compositions far in advance even of those in James B. Sinclair’s catalog (designed to replace Kirkpatrick’s), and hence, by default, those of Magee.12 It should be noted, however, that other leading Ives scholars, most notably Carol K. Baron among them, have wholeheartedly rejected the new dates; Baron, while maintaining steadfastly that Solomon’s larger arguments were ill judged and incorrect, contended in her review of All Made of Tunes, that Solomon’s hypothesis ultimately would be repudiated.13 (See, too, discussion relative to Endnote 24.) Meanwhile, other explanations for many of the inconsistencies in Ives’s manuscripts have begun to emerge. Ives was no less typical than any artist in his dissatisfaction with most of his work, especially the tendency to correct earlier efforts. It is a testament to him, in view of the complexities of his output, that most of the revisions he undertook were slight.14 His Four Transcriptions from Emerson (which he made and recorded as he worked through possible revisions for the second edition of the Concord Sonata)15 demonstrate the occasional extreme to which he went, not the norm. The movement upon which they were based, Emerson, was one of his most deeply personal expressions; Ives found that it seemed to be constantly growing, and never became tired of working on the new ideas as they occurred to him.16 However, he did complete the sonata, unlike the Universe Symphony, to which the sentiment has been solidly (and incorrectly) attached, and the first edition is not radically different to the second. Moreover, dishonesty was anathema to Ives; totally opposite to his philosophies, resolute values, and lofty expectations for his own behavior and those of mankind, he would have had no part of it. And to imagine that Harmony Ives would have been unaware of such activity, or, as a daughter of Joseph Twichell, similarly complicit in some kind of scam, again stretches the boundaries of rationality; more, it extends the measure of insult to others. Solomon’s huge imaginary plot becomes all the more implausible had it occurred during the years that he theorized—those when Ives struggled to muster the effort to write anything at all, let alone accomplish the organization of his works and sketches. Similarly struggling for musicological relevance, Solomon’s arch-competitor, Stuart Feder, took another approach to attack Ives’s credibility. Though defending Ives’s noble character, the temptation to undertake such a determined and complex series of actions as Solomon proposed would have been beyond the mental capabilities of the ailing composer!17 Thus, Feder, substituted one fallacy for another, even though his theory is completely at odds with the volumes of anecdotal and other evidence (see Chapter 11.)18 Feder did, at least, reject Solomon’s larger hypothesis that Ives was dishonest, though his picture of the strong father-son relationship was completely likely, even as it is hardly the rarity in society upon which Feder hung his case. Magee further dismissed the significance of George Ives’s role in his son’s training.19 George Ives’s written notes, however, provide the keys to much of Ives’s compositional language. As Carol Baron illuminated in a landmark article,20 George was a considerable theoretician, and demonstrated creative solutions to the problems of the advancing musical language in the wake of Richard Wagner, whose music dramas had pried open the floodgates that led to the future century of musical modernism. It is noteworthy that Ives did not deny the value of Horatio Parker’s teaching; the greater reality, however, was that Ives and Parker, were poles apart, temperamentally and artistically. Parker undoubtedly provided the necessary composer’s skills that enabled Ives to write proficiently in the manner that he chose; Ives’s fine 234 App. 1 Revising Ives training is quite clear in the extraordinary quality of works emerging following this period, including his first two symphonies. Regardless, one can see how the insidious, wanton debunking of the “Ives Legend” took hold. Putnam’s Camp Putnam’s Camp, CT Image: AC By the 1990s, refutations of Solomon’s assertions had begun to emerge out of the fog. Kirkpatrick, however, already had provided the reason Ives had cut down his manuscript pages, answering Solomon, whom had vilified Ives for attempting to organize his music into files that were otherwise too small to accommodate it. One of Solomon’s central arguments, however, involved the score of Putnam’s Camp (from The First Orchestral Set: Three Places in New England). He charged Ives not only with tampering with its modernity, but also with the dates of its composition. In Charles Ives Reconsidered, however, Gayle Sherwood Magee demolished Carter’s argument. Ives only had redistributed existing dissonances, previously diluted throughout the entire ensemble in the large original orchestra version (shreds of which have survived), while he was adapting it for chamber orchestra and its first performance in 1929. Merely locating those dissonant intervals in the piano part, Carter assumed they were new additions, and did not seek clarification from Ives.21 Additionally, much of the musical content of Putnam’s Camp emanated from other works years earlier (see also Chapter 6). Thus, Carter was all too swift to believe the worst, and not the best, of Ives. The incident would become central to the launching of the revisionist argument, and caused lasting harm, for which Carter never took responsibility. Although Stuart Feder, in his book,22 acknowledged the pivotal and detailed 1990 study by Carol K. Baron that established a methodology to date Ives’s handwriting by forensic means,23 he had done so only to strengthen his own hand, and deny, thus, Solomon his case—of deliberate falsifications by Ives—while touting his own (Ives’s supposed mental deterioration). In light of the startling, but not necessarily surprising, absence in scholarly sources of a substantive evaluation of Baron’s forensic dating system, the writer, since writing the first edition of this book, conducted an extensive review of the landmark study covering a wide cross-section of Ives’s works. The results strongly validate not only Baron’s findings, but also Ives’s and Kirkpatrick’s veracity. (The writer’s complete study is available in his 2105 book, Charles Ives’s 24 Musical Universe. ) Carol Baron, having compared the manuscript and handwriting of a number of Ives’s compositions, and notably an early score also of Putnam’s Camp among others, was able to demonstrate that Ives’s use of both pen and pencil was not incidental to different periods. Proving her point, tellingly, Baron was able to show that Ives’s writing—even just the clefs alone (e.g. treble, tenor or bass)—varied in a marked observable manner over the years, providing a significant tracer in his manuscripts. Baron also showed, virtually conclusively, that Ives had not undertaken any revisions at all to the early version (1912) of Putnam’s Camp. She found no evidence of other such indiscretions, since there had been occasions in which Ives himself had discussed correcting the date on one of his manuscripts (e.g., Washington’s Birthday). She also referenced Solomon’s eager acceptance of Carter’s version, de facto, without considering a possible alternate explanation.25 235 App. 1 Revising Ives Common sense Regardless of the reality, many critics, still are unable to accept that Ives could have been oblivious to all outside musical influences at the time, remaining doubtful that he was as original as has been claimed. If one considers how much time in Ives’s life was occupied by his business, compounded by huge musical productivity over an extremely short creative period, any remaining free time left available for attending concerts—in fact, anything!—would have been seriously limited, by default. In Memos, Ives discussed this very issue. Quite frankly, it ought to settle the argument on its own.26 Notwithstanding that for a time Ives did indeed go to concerts, and would have heard a number of modern works, a finite upper limit on his time, nevertheless, would have existed if he were to accomplish anything of his own. Further, to the extent that the state of music in America early in the twentieth century would have encouraged premieres of radical works of any kind, even more, the well-known limited expertise of performers at the time (as they struggled to play the newly evolving musical language), it is hardly likely Ives could have been exposed to more than a small amount of new music, at most. Perhaps of greatest significance, if one considers, too, the residual effect that he described of unintentionally recalling music in his ears while trying to formulate his own, it is not at all surprising that eventually he chose to stay away from musical performances as much as possible. One only has to ask any composer how hard it is to keep the mind clear from outside influence, let alone live and work in Ives’s circumstances. Issues of mortality The 1920s were a period of increasing physical challenges for Ives; being ever mindful about his father’s early demise, he must have seen himself in a race against time to organize his life’s work in music, including the photocopying of as many materials as possible—a much larger undertaking than it is today. Ives was, however, in a position to promote some of his music, as well as publish a number of works, including his collection, 114 Songs, the Concord Sonata and Essays Before a Sonata, even to pay for performances to help promote other unknown composers, his activities and generosity as a benefactor almost unlimited and still virtually unsung. Cultivating the new avant-garde in America In her book, Magee cited the few forward-looking compositions from the 1920s as evidence Ives was cultivating the avant-garde in America, although most of what he wrote at this time predates in style the period by more than a few years.27 However, Ives’s legitimately new work, almost solely, comprises the expanded Universe Symphony sketches—certainly in advance of other music he had contemplated, though hardly providing the evidence that he was engaged in much activity of the type Magee supposed. Not much time passed until even Ives himself realized that he was spent, and had reached the edge of his compositional universe. It should not be surprising that those few new works that he undertook during the decade did not approach the Universe Symphony in any way, a work that provides some answers to numerous unanswered questions, including those posed by Solomon. Perhaps the most telling refutation of Solomon’s arguments is the sketch material itself, largely unfiltered and fresh from 1915–19 and 1923. The materials demonstrate that, far from being the straw that 236 App. 1 Revising Ives breaks the back of Ives’ reputation, as it turned out, they conspicuously give weight to his authentic and extraordinary modernity. The work was left just as it was left in its initial incarnation, and radical enough to have been written today, even tomorrow. A question of deceit Lingering commentary about Ives’s character persists in spite of itself. On the last page of narrative in her book, Magee used the term “deceitful” about Ives,28 even though the term certainly was surrounded by a few other, more positive terms. To support her position, on the pages leading up to those final words, Magee raised the issue of the famous last chord of the Second Symphony. The dissonant “blat” that has become a hallmark of the work resulted from a last minute change made only in 1950 for the premiere of the symphony. Thus, it had taken another fifty years since the symphony’s initial completion to settle on an ending, the dissatisfaction with the original Charles Ives c.1889 version clearly having twisted and turned in Ives’s mind during the interim. Indeed, Magee The youthful Ives, at the time of his composition, which evolved into The showed that he had changed the ending more than American Woods, subsequently once before. Magee tacitly claimed that the idea for the transferred and concluding the Second new chord was Henry Cowell’s,29 and that it was an effort Symphony. to confirm Ives’s avant-garde image. Why, one might ask, {{PD-Art}} however, would Ives seek to tag a fine work with musical graffiti— even more, doom any chance of the otherwise conventional sounding symphony being taken seriously in the future? There is, however, an explanation. Following the symphony’s premiere, in an article published in The Musical Quarterly in 1951 by none other than Cowell,30 he related that Ives had told him of a common practice his father (“Pa’s”) maintained with his Danbury dance band. On cue, the musicians would play any note they chose to signify the end of the last Saturday night dance: a “blat!” Reproducing it in the symphony, Ives, thus, was paying a final late light-hearted tribute to his dad on the occasion of the symphony’s first outing. And yes, it does work, especially following what might have been another tribute—the revival of the “shorter piece” from 1889 that his father’s band had played. Reworked into the American Woods Overture, it was subsequently incorporated into the coda of the Second Symphony leading up to the final chord.31 The crux of the argument speaks for itself. Would anyone seriously believe that throwing in a dissonant joke to end a thoroughly conventional work could make it or its composer appear avant-garde? Or modern? More to the point, even if one wishes to believe that Cowell was so dishonest as to invent the whole story, what possible gain could he have had in mind? If so, would he not 237 App. 1 Revising Ives have followed up the performance with a shenanigan more in line with defending a lie? Instead, Cowell explained away the reason for the chord without any pressure at the time to do so. Thus, undoubtedly, Ives was doing nothing more than memorializing “Pa’s” humorous custom. Psychobiographies It is important to realize that not everyone has accepted as a valid science what New York Times communist Donal Henahan referred to as “the controversial craft of psychobiography,” referring in his 1990 column Baron’s research and its impact upon Solomon’s article.32 After all, these are attempts to prove a point in which the subject of the study under examination is absent. Even if Ives had been present and agreed to psychoanalysis, could the motivation behind his decisions, or even more specifically his creativity, have been determined with any greater degree of understanding? Genius and originality cannot be explained away with systematic analysis, especially when reduced to some kind of medical anomaly. Feder’s book, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song,” a Psychobiography, is, of course, an elaborate example of the type of literature raised in Henahan’s critique. It should be viewed for what it is: the product of pure pseudo-science. Four years of study with Parker: a controversy settled One additional controversy raised, with regard to Ives’s studies with Parker, warrants comment. Despite Ives’s obvious failure to recollect his precise timeline of events decades later, Solomon again used another irregularity from a supposed correspondence with his father (who already was deceased!) to support his case of deliberate and fraudulent datings—in this instance, Ives’s reference to “four years with Parker.”33 The perspective was curiously odd to take, and an insignificant statistic that proves nothing about Solomon’s primary theory. Magee cited a curious lack of comment about such studies in Ives’s correspondence to his father, but again, one must remember that not much time would elapse from the time Ives entered Yale until his father died.34 Ives made just one oblique reference to Parker in his only known letter from Yale to his father. It is probably inconsequential. George Ives would pass away from a stroke shortly after that letter was written, and not long after Ives had begun his studies. A lack of more frequent correspondence likely would be no more out of character for Ives than it would for any other young adult just installed in an exciting new environment. However … again, John Kirkpatrick already had provided a plausible explanation for Ives’s reference to four years of study with Parker: “Parker might have welcomed qualified underclassmen as auditors … even individually. …” 35 Besides, precisely what was Ives referring to in relation to Parker? Is the inference only about actual formal studies? Ives did not even meet Parker until October 10, 1894; George Ives died a little over three weeks later. Perhaps Ives had sought private instruction; might not an insecure young freshman have taken a little time to pluck up enough courage to approach the seemingly lofty professor? Magee, however, probed further. In referring to a book on Parker, she cited real evidence that Ives had audited Parker’s courses in harmony and music history. Thus, it appears that Magee laid the shabby issue to rest after years of needless nitpicking, for which she deserves due credit.36 238 App. 1 Revising Ives Summing up One of the most troubling aspects about revisionism in relation to Ives is its accusatory condescension, as if he is under a prosecutorial examination in which he has a lot to answer. Ives, however, is on more solid ground than his detractors would grant. Disagreements with Solomon’s conclusions, such as those by Philip Lambert,37 Kyle Gann38 and Jan Swafford39—blunt to say the least—likely were among factors that led Solomon to remove the article from his list of works. If the objective had been to find possible links to other outside musical influences, or to reconcile the limitations of musicological horizons that dictate a composer’s “supposed” route to his necessary skills, many have stepped into the same morass that Solomon had before. Looking too deeply into what they imagined was Ives’s psyche, they found only a tangled and dark version of the man. Others simply missed the obvious. Admittedly, Charles Ives’s path was not over the same route trodden by the great European composers, but neither should it have been. In fact, the Ives phenomenon was entirely in keeping with his circumstances and time in history. Should one, instead, wish to believe the worst of Charles Ives, so be it. However, in an ideal world, other composers just might be accorded a similar degree of scrutiny, even distrust. Ives’s music and humanitarian legacy is the greatest testimony to his time on Earth, and it really does not matter what anyone thinks. Ives did not care one whit either; he had found his road to the stars. Have his detractors found theirs? It seems to this writer, at least, that Ives has emerged from their imposed purgatory with his head held high. ENDNOTES 1 Frank R. Rossiter, Charles Ives & His America (New York, Liveright, 1975). 2 Maynard Solomon, “Charles Ives: Some Questions of Veracity,” Journal of the American Musicological Society, vol. 40, n.3 (Fall 1987): 443–70. 3 Elliott Carter, “The Case of Mr. Ives,” Modern Music 16, March-April, 1936; reprinted in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996): 333–37. 4 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974), 138. 5 Stuart Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song”: a Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1992), 351–57. 6 Rossiter, Charles Ives & His America, 285–87. 7 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History, 139–42. 8 Henry and Sidney Cowell, Charles Ives And His Music (New York, Oxford University Press, 1969). 9 Convincingly demonstrating the folly of such projections, see Carol K. Baron, “Dating Charles Ives’s Music: Facts and Fictions,” Perspectives of New Music (Winter issue, 1990): 20–56. 10 Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008), 158–59. 11 J. Peter Burkholder, All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 2004), 10. 12 Leon Botstein, “Innovations and Nostalgia: Ives, Mahler, and the Origins of Modernism,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. Burkholder (Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ, 1996), 43. 239 13 Carol K. Baron, Review, “All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing,” J. Peter Burkholder (Yale University Press, New Haven, 1995)—Journal of the American Musicological Society, vol. 53, 2 (Summer, 2000): 437–44. 14 John Kirkpatrick, A Temporary Mimeographed Catalog, The Music Manuscripts of Charles Edward Ives (New Haven, CT: Yale University, 1954–1960), vii. Also, Kyle Gann “Poisoned Musicology”: PostClassic: Kyle Gann on Music After the Fact, 24 March 2014, http://www.artsjournal.com/postclassic/2014/03/poisoned-musicology2.html. 15 Ives Plays Ives, CRI 810 (CD) [1999], Tracks 3–6, 11–16. 16 Jan Swafford, Charles Ives: A Life with Music (New York, W.W. Norton & Co., 1996), 261 17 Feder, 355. 18 Even late in life, Ives’s mental capabilities were vigorous and engaged, as documented by discoveries in Ives’s studio by Carol K. Baron: “New Sources for Ives Studies: An Annotated Catalogue,” 2000, H. Wiley Hitchcock Institute for Studies in American Music, (ISAM). Unfortunately, the documents were removed from the collection—presumably prior to being housed in the Academy of Arts and Letters in New York City. In addition, Baron’s online article no longer can be found. 19 Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 20. 20 Carol K. Baron, “George Ives’s Essay in Music Theory: An Introduction and Annotated Edition,” University of Illinois, American Music (Fall 1992): 239–88. 21 Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 158. 22 Feder, “My Father’s Song,” 355. 23 Op. Cit., n.9. 24 Antony Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe (West Conshohocken, PA, Infinity Publishing, 2015), 517–56. 25 Baron, “Dating Charles Ives’s Music,” 25. 26 Charles E. Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972), 136–40. 27 See again, Chapter 11, 191. Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 180. 28 29 Ibid., 175–80. 30 Henry Cowell, Current Chronicle, in The Musical Quarterly, 37, 399–402. 31 Ives, Memos, 52. 32 Donal Henahan, “The Polysided Views of Ives’s Personality,” Music View: The New York Times, June 10, 1990. 33 Ives, Memos, 116. 34 Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 188, n.18. 35 Ives, Memos, Appendix 6, 183. 36 Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered, 188–89 (re: William K. Kearns, Horatio Parker (1863–1919): His Life, Music, and Ideas (The Scarecrow Press, Metuchen, N.J. 1990). 37 Philip Lambert, The Music of Charles Ives (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1997), 207: Appendix A. 38 Kyle Gann “Poisoned Musicology”: PostClassic: Kyle Gann on Music After the Fact, 24 March 2014, http://www.artsjournal.com/postclassic/2014/03/poisoned-musicology-2.html. 39 Swafford, Charles Ives: A Life with Music, 446, n.2. 240 APPENDIX 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches R eaders who are familiar with musical notation, and are interested in gaining a deeper understanding of the symphony, as well as the methodology Johnny Reinhard utilized for his realization, might do well to spend some time with his book, The Ives Universe: a Symphonic Odyssey, available from www.afmm.org (see Bibliography). Below are some additional observations. Reinhard was extremely helpful in addressing the author’s questions about some of the sketches; the insights he shared are provided wherever indicated. General notes Ives did not always provide smooth connections between sketches, even when the materials were presented in clear chronological sequence. In cases of the most complete sketches this caveat does not apply, since he carefully considered all aspects in preparation for the final score. However, as might be expected, the less complete the sketch, the more the perplexing the instructions, ties and other connections from one to another become. Many notations: Appear to lead nowhere. Come to an abrupt stop without providing any indication of what is to follow. Do not indicate how they should be incorporated with prior materials. Omit instructions concerning aspects of assembly. Are largely complete but lack precise details about rhythms and placements of notes relative to others. • Do not represent the entire texture. • Exist in fragmentary form with little reference, if any, to their context. • Appear in various meters without indicating their relationships to other materials. • • • • • Much of the time, the sequence of events is fairly clear, the rhythms implied, and the linkage possible to plot. In other instances, such as those less clearly defined materials above, Reinhard deduced convincing linkages, resulting in a seamless and logical assemblage, placed according to every clue. Reinhard has remained firmly convinced that Ives did, in fact, complete the symphony—at least overall, and that the extant sketch materials represent the entire component parts. His challenge was to interpret them correctly to complete the symphony, the full form of which, for decades, was known only to Ives. According to the John Kirkpatrick, most of the sketch materials for the Preludes, as well as those of Section B and Section C, date from 1923, or possibly a year or two later, which is born out under examination. The conclusion of the symphony (Section C coda), however, is datable to around 1916, apparently being originally intended for Section A. Thus, the basic timeline does seem largely beyond doubt, the exceptions being, however, certain other materials dated 1915 that Reinhard assigned to 241 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches Section C. Ives’s references to the total years of the symphony’s composition extend it even further, to between 1911 and 1928; whether Henry Cowell’s recollection that Ives tinkered occasionally with the symphony right into his final years is correct hardly matters. Beyond a few notes, however, it is inconceivable that that what remains could extend much beyond the late-1920s. Kirkpatrick noted that Ives incorporated elements from the symphony into a couple of later songs, On the Antipodes and Eighteen, which also provide further clues about the dates that Ives worked on the symphony. Both songs belong to 1922–1923, clearly linking them to the time Ives last worked on the sketches, in earnest. Section A After the fragment of Earth material that Reinhard selected to open the work—according to Ives’s suggestion to introduce selections from each “orchestra” in isolation—the Prelude to Section A follows, which consists of the first three percussion cycles. Interspersed between the second and third cycle, Reinhard featured a fragment of the “Heavens” material, further interpreting Ives’s suggestion. As the percussion cycles continue after the completion of the prelude, Ives added an introductory portion to the main body of Section A that more resembles a second prelude. This segment also is amongst those materials that date likely to no earlier than 1923. However, the main body of Section A itself clearly belongs to c.1916, and the styles of the two parts were well matched. The addition acts as a bridge between the lengthy percussion “Pulse” prelude and the visionary music to follow by gradually introducing the essential motivic materials of the “Earth” and “Heavens Orchestras.” The hypnotic pacing of the underlying percussion can be comprehended as a binding thread throughout. Ives carefully introduced the musical elements, allowing each level to settle before moving ahead into the main section, the orderly layout from page to page proceeding with various icons or directions connecting one to the next. JR: “The conclusion previously reached by Peermusic under Todd Vunderink, with support (on some level) from David Porter and the Charles Ives Society, is that page 8 was lost by Ives.” Much has been speculated regarding the extent of possible missing material in this symphony, and none more so than the middle of this section (A). That some was missing was assumed, historically, to be true, but was assessed at only three orchestral units (per the publisher, Peermusic)—or three measures of the “Earth Orchestra” material! However, Reinhard could not easily accept the official position concerning these “missing pages.” Reinhard argued that not only are the sketches largely complete, but the material previously believed missing does, in fact, exist, representing everything that Ives had intended to complete the section. The case for this may be demonstrated fairly readily, even beyond Reinhard’s own documentation. One should always bear in mind that Ives’s page numbering is highly confusing, and does not necessarily lead to obvious conclusions; his disordered sketching on any available piece of manuscript (even adjacent to those of other works) is notorious. Ives was known even to reuse previous manuscript pages, and those of the Universe Symphony were no exception. In fact, other unrecognized materials exist as well, in addition to the three supposed missing measures. Conspicuously, the percussion cycles appear to demand a larger 242 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches “plug” than three measures in order to properly align where Ives had indicated the designated sketch pages were to continue. The sketch materials Reinhard utilized provided the necessary missing material, mostly on one page, noted as Page 19. Appearing to hold the keys to solving the puzzle, it is linked by Ives with an icon to further supporting sketch material found on Ives’s Page 3, previously left unassigned by researchers. Thus, it is possible to deduce that short score pages 13–18 never existed, or at very least were discarded, because Ives specified that the music should continue from page 8 to 9, from which the music clearly proceeds through to the defined coda and conclusion; since Section B continues at page 10, and then 11, and the coda to Section C is numbered page 12 (since it was originally intended for a single movement rather than a section), the inference is clear. Furthermore, Ives provided descriptive words that continue on page 19 from page 8, along with other indications that the material belongs to Section A. In tying it all together, finally what allowed Reinhard precisely to locate and align the measures and materials of Page 3 and Page 19 is the icon appearing in both—a rectangle with a dot in the middle. Adjacent to that symbol is the beginning of a progression of some spelled out chords. However, the pivotal key is the explicit instruction next to the progression on page 3 to go to page 19. On page 19, the same symbol appears, together with a full progression of spelled out chords, beginning with the same ones named in the page 3 sketch, further confirming the connection; it is what ties pages 19 and 3 together, that definitively supports Reinhard’s contention. Thus, the riddle of the so-called “missing” pages of Section A apparently is solved; there never were any. One final detail: the additional sketch material from Page 3 is marked “TRIO” by Ives, implying a three-part, ternary, structure (ABA). By repeating the first four orchestral units after the second four (those that coincide with the spelled out chords on page 19), a trio structure thus is produced. In fact, the math adds up relative to the high ending point of the prevailing percussion cycle), precisely according to Ives’s indication for the next incoming sketches. More telling yet is that the relative position of the succeeding sketch material matches from a musical standpoint, further confirming the material had been intended only for Section A, and for this location. Section B Ives wrote fairly comprehensive sketches for the Prelude to Section B. One way or the other, it is spelled out in a kind of musical shorthand that contains most of the essential information. Ives’s intentions largely can be deduced by the relative placements of the notes; with the exceptions of some staggered “chords,” ultimately the sketches do not leave very much to the imagination. Instrumentation is also fairly clearly implied by the layout of the sketches, which follows standard practice, a factor that assisted Reinhard’s realization of much of the symphony. The writer inquired further about Reinhard’s methodology to assemble certain sequences of less than clearly designated patches: AC: “For the Prelude to Section B, can you tell me anything about your methods in organizing the material from patch 32 through 34?” 243 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches JR: “patch 32 starts with a tuba pedal point that performs a glissando. String writing continues from the previous patch, thickening the tableau. Patch 32B brings in some Universe harmony terrain to support the melodic qualities of the other patches in combination. Patch 33 starts with a distinctive pickup, but quickly dissembles, making the opening needed for a close to this juggling of chaos.” The connecting icons between Sections A and B further indicate that this prelude was conceived independently of these two principal sections. Thus, the beginning of Section B, itself, can be determined with certainty. Within the prelude, the deciphering of patches 32A & 32B (q3038) seems to be the correct interpretation of Ives’s directions. Amounting to a superimposition of the loosely sketched notation to make a whole, the downward arrow points to the succeeding material on the page. Although Ives was less than exact in assigning rhythms and instruments in some of his sketch materials, this example is extreme. The majority of Section B sketches are far clearer; Reinhard’s interpretation of it, however, seems logical. For the remainder of the prelude, the sketches are remarkably complete, albeit in shorthand. However, one final scrap (patch 35) consists of just two chords, specifically titled for use in this prelude. They provide the musical link into Section B. Section B is laid out more clearly than the prelude, in large part fully notated, if rather informally, and clearly marked Page 10. It seems clear that all the intended material for Section B is present, the coda being designated “from Page 11,” a number precisely in line with the page numbering of Ives’s long score pages. The musical connections in the sequence of sketches further seem to support it, as well as the concluding sketch materials being those intended for the coda of Section B, rather than any other, by default—owing to the clear labeling of the codas for Sections A and C. Significantly, this coda contains another reference to Bethany in the flute parts, repeating the notes from the refrain of the melody; it is not easily heard because it coincides with the loudest and most active part. Thinning textures approaching the final chord of Section B seem to lead inevitably towards the Prelude to Section C; some are less than completely fleshed out, requiring careful judgment calls. However, the closing chord provided further evidence of Ives’s intentions for tuning protocols other than of equal temperament. Spelled in apparent Pythagorean terms, it is a feature that Reinhard noted and others apparently had missed, or concluded was Ives’s notational error. Since Ives had made much of other tuning protocols notation in other works—clearly specifying that substituting enharmonic notation for his notation was not appropriate for the purpose—it provided a simple demonstration of Ives’s written intentions to extend advanced tuning concepts into the Universe Symphony. The “lost” prelude & the mysterious Section C The Prelude to Section C is considered lost or nonexistent; Reinhard, however, found just enough material, separate to the main section, to put something workable together. He concluded that some of the sketches, labeled “C1,” and “Universe Sym. 3rd Section” (designations appearing on the respective pages), along with other materials—namely, an opening sequence of tones (it is a twelve-tone row), as well as a grand descending chromatic sequence with building chords leading into Section C—might indeed belong properly to the hitherto-believed missing prelude, especially since it was not part of the main, specifically labeled Section (C). The latter sketch, entitled, “Universe Sym. 3rd Section” (as 244 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches opposed to Section C), also featured a series of twenty-four chord systems, along with some fairly detailed instructions that further separated it from the actual sketches of the main section. Regardless of the intended application, unfortunately, these instructions are not very specific, but it is possible to conclude that the main Section C sketches do, in fact, feature elements of the twenty-four “chordal scales” that Ives so designated; they were useful to Reinhard, additionally, as he deduced the combinations of the more thinly sketched materials of the section, among those clearly representing only parts of the sonic texture. (For those interested in understanding the harmonic structure of the section that Reinhard featured in the prelude, as it relates to the “chordal scales,” the writer’s 2015 volume, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe, presents a detailed analysis of all structural aspects of the music.) Both Reinhard and Austin (in his version) preserved these chord progressions and set them to stand as part of the symphony itself. In utilizing them for the Prelude to Section C, Reinhard proposed that Ives would have wished the harmonic inferences to be identified by the listener ahead of the main section, in which they were designed to be the backbone. Overall, despite the lack of formal confirmation that the materials belong to a prelude, Reinhard felt, that as the core of the main section—appearing distinctly separate to the main section itself—was justified for assembly into the Prelude. Representing Reinhard’s “greatest interpretive addition to the work,” he recounted that forming the materials into music involved the assignments of rhythms, instrumentation and dynamics. It remains unclear, of course, what Ives might have had in mind for them, other than to memorialize the harmonic foundation of the section. In his original plan for the symphony, Ives titled the sketch, Section C, “Earth Is Of The Heavens.” Because the remaining material is labeled specifically, “The Earth & the Heavens and III,” it seems to confirm that Section C itself was intended to start at this point, even if the wording does not correspond exactly to the main plan (although it is close). An increasing usage of quarter-tones in the materials both for Section C, and their appearance in the prelude serves to add further weight to the case made for their mutual connection. JR: “It is a good point, I think, to bring up that this Section C is NOT movement No.3. At its start in measure 183, we have a deceptive sound for the start of a movement.” Reinhard also demonstrated that other previously unassigned material that he had used in Section C was not intended for yet-to-be determined placement elsewhere in the symphony, as well as making the case that the sketches from 1915 belonged to it, rather than being merely isolated materials for possible inclusion elsewhere. Regardless of their early date amongst the materials, these sketches seem to reflect Section C alone. The additional short and sporadic “orphan” sketches (amounting to about two minutes of the section’s eleven minutes total length) were not discarded; finding them unsuitable for use elsewhere in the symphony, Reinhard’s conclusion, again, was that he was justified in assigning them to the middle of the final section. Section C (most of it previously considered lost) is a most powerful and impressive portion of the symphony in this realization. Much of its surviving material dates from 1923 or even fractionally later, a time when some have considered Ives’s well was starting to run dry. Moreover, it does not present itself as the work of someone losing touch, especially in the way Stuart Feder suggested (see Ch. 10); Reinhard made its case convincingly. Going “out on a limb” regarding Section C and its assembly, the writer considers that the perfect continuity of tonalities between the progressions of patches, the strikingly fluid 245 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches connections of their musicality, even the balanced tension and resolution, causes one to wonder whether such a satisfying whole could have been achieved purely by the good fortune that they happened to align, musically. Overall, one’s innate musical sense, thus, dictates something else, perhaps, was in play— moreover, that many of these patches might be located precisely as had been intended. If it cannot be shown that Reinhard’s sequence of events is what Ives would have done, his projections seem not to have fallen far from the tree. Aside from the previously referenced two-minute portion, the remaining substantive sketches do exhibit several common links, and seem balanced with each other. Reinhard provided additional clarifications and insights on their assembly: AC: “How did you determine the connection from the opening sections to patch 47? (Unlocated/Copyflow = 1849)” JR: “When I began the project Todd Vunderink sent me a photocopy of the sketches in John Mauceri’s transcription. They were sent in a particular order, and they accounted for all the known sketches of the Universe Symphony (divided among different folders at Yale because Ives would mix different pieces on large manuscript pages).” “Following the manuscript page labeled Section C, we find patch 47 at the top of its manuscript page. Ives’s words on the manuscript page of patch 46 make the necessary elision possible. The simultaneous instruction on the same page to hold each note into silence leads us to a written word on patch 46: “ZERO.” Two sixteenth note pick-ups in the clarinet and piano anticipate the change of mood in patch 47. From Prelude No.3 through this patch we find a finesse of quarter-tones in different perspectives.” “This patch had to be used as it was clearly Universe material, based on its microtones, its majesty, and the weight of Kirkpatrick’s opinion. Its dynamism demanded the most ideal set up, which it gets in my realization.” Adding to the case that most, if not all, the miscellaneous “orphan” patches belong to Section C: • • • Early in the section the upper brass parts are related to Bethany; this much is discernible because the notations of the instruments subscribe the notes of the middle portion of the melody—not in sequence, but as a succession of the requisite pitches defining the boundaries of the line. Once one is familiar with it, this “quote” seems to stand out quite clearly, representing, too, a continuance Ives’s cumulative form, with material from early in the symphony developed throughout the work. The characteristic fanfare-like trumpet motif at the end of patch 48 (from the same sketch page, and clearly intended to follow patch 47) appears in various guises by other instruments throughout the segment from patch 44, earlier, and also later, through patch 51B. It is a prominent unifying force during the first portion. In regard to the issue of the placement of patches 47 and 48, Kirkpatrick had designated them part of the Universe Symphony. Were they to be placed elsewhere, even in another 246 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches main section—where would they go? Sections A and B already are well accounted for, with no obvious insertion points, the mood and content of these patches being altogether wrong for the material. In the Section C patches, aside from many appearances of the underlying harmonic structure, other common threads can be found, from descending bass lines, “cloud” movements, as well as the general tenor of the writing. In this part of the section, elements of that trumpet fanfare motif appear so frequently and variously that they seem to act further to unite the sketches. If Ives had not specified how he wished the material to be used, Reinhard teased out a musical flow and sequence to the material where not indicated. AC: “Going on (from Patch 48) to 49A & B—figuring out that it belongs there—how did you deduce the meaning of Ives’s written indications and intent at this place?” JR: “Patch 49A says on it, “later part Sec. C Universe Sym,” and here I was at a later part of Section C. However, it lacked a harmonic identity, which was provided by combining it with patch 49B. Patch 49B gains, while 49A dissipates. Patch 49B has the most profound discussion of the piece by the composer of any sketch page.” Significantly, in connecting patches 49A to 49B, the tonality continues at the junction/overlap, lending additional support to their placement. Harmonically, the combination of patches seems further confirmed by the harmonic code introduced in the prelude. Musically, the high violin line does seem to echo and continue the solo trumpet motif. Any remaining doubts that the simultaneous sounding, but minimal, fragment of patch 49B belongs to Section C can be strongly negated by observing identical chordal syncopations (displacements of the beat) in patches 57–59. Also, both of these patches are barred in small meters, something not found elsewhere. Within Section C, Reinhard overlapped sketches at certain points, because direct cuts or dove-tailings from one to another were not always possible. Necessitated by their various inequalities, the numerous clues to their assembly can best be understood when examining the sketches themselves: • In many cases Ives laid out various sequences of patches quite clearly on the page. • At other times he sketched in different meters, of unequal durations. With no locations indicated, they appear, too, sometimes in incomplete vertical textures, necessitating structured blends with others. • Ives sometimes directed (in notation and/or writing) certain lines and moving figures that he wanted continued beyond the confines of the patch into the next, though usually without logistics for their continuance within other sketches. • Overlapping connections sometimes can be surmised from the sketches themselves. Patches 48 through 50 require considerable overlapping, although it is always difficult to be definitive about the Ives’s intentions, despite the relationships that are obvious. Within Section C, not only was there 247 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches a need to accommodate all the existing material into one meter (for practicality), but also that it would fit into Ives’s mathematical plan for the “Pulse.” These challenges must have been amongst the headaches Ives faced in attempting to complete the symphony himself, and always the stumbling blocks for others. Reinhard always was careful not to superimpose obviously conflicting major thematic, harmonic, or motivic elements upon another. Harmonically, the sum of the parts fits together in a complementary and harmonically supported fashion. In producing a logical, satisfying flow and form to the available material—while avoiding obviously incompatible blends—not a single note of Ives’s material was changed or expanded. Reinhard steadfastly resisted the temptation even of simple part doubling. AC: “I was very struck by the placing of q3257 before q3256 (patch 50 followed by patches 51A & 51B); no doubt at all that it sounds correct, but how did you know to reverse them?” JR: “Measure 203 (q3257) is marked the ‘SEA.’ The powerful waves of the percussion orchestra returns here at 19BU until its calming, the result of connecting to the end of the piece. The complexity and volume of the ‘Pulse of the Cosmos’ percussion lends itself well to using patch 51A with its long sustained notes. I combined it with patch 51B, which I found independently from an examination of the original sketches. Its string pizzicatos fit well with the sustained sounds of patch 51A, and the climb of percussion to 23 divisions of the BU. I followed guide posts by CEI wherever I could find the right ‘worm hole.’” The dynamic character of the string parts makes musical sense when placed in this order, and further, Kirkpatrick’s numbering system is not necessarily indicative of Ives’s intentions for the sequence of events. Additionally, one becomes increasingly aware of the growing power of the percussion cycle (No.9). Reinhard’s approach ensured that its maximum strength coincided with the moment Ives had entitled “SEA,” each succeeding BU (Basic Unit) resembling a large series of waves. Reinhard made every effort to ensure that the highest points did not compete with the important and complex orchestral textures, allowing the percussion to compliment less complex rhythmic or musical passages. AC: “On patch 51B underneath Ives’s notation ‘IMPORTANT,’ there appears to be a directive where to place the patch, and above an arrow, the reference ‘to bar 25.’ In fact, that’s about where it is in your realization. Was this a clue to placing it where you did? And is possibly the decision to combine it with patch 51A also based on other directives that you traced as well?” JR: “Patch 51A is explained above. And yes to your surmise above. In addition to idiosyncratic guideposts for making connections between patches, the counterpoint works here, lines are connecting in the strings.” AC: “Then ‘Sky’ and ‘Rainbow,’ and their positions and usage.” JR: “Sky is necessary before having a rainbow. Sky is labeled the third theme, and it follows the SEA theme, and the un-named simultaneous patches of 51A and 51B. These were all inserts.” 248 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches This section of joined “inserts” again is complex in its interweaving, though is a highly effective usage of what might otherwise have been discarded by less savvy individuals; their placement, however, fits the description of the music of this section. Despite inconsistent meters in the various sketches, the numbered bar location (25) in the sketch of patch 51B is about dead on, almost to the bar. Coincidence? Maybe. And once again, one can catch shreds of the material used for the trumpet motif (in the violins) announced in patch 48. With the possible exception of the “Sky” insert (which incorporates Section A thematic material from the long score of Ives’s page 4—mentioned on the sketch—and which Reinhard chose to orchestrate differently here), there can be little doubt that most of the “orphan” sketches—formerly considered merely “inserts” of no known location—were intended for incorporation into Section C. Logically, there can be no other possible place for them in the symphony. Even if it is impossible to determine whether Ives necessarily would have developed any or all of this material further, the mere fact of its existence strongly implies it was intended for incorporation somewhere within the work. The motivic form of the “Sky” and “Rainbow” fragments is comparable to the upcoming and more expanded, angular but melodic solo cello statements in patch 54. Thus, the instrumentation was assigned by Reinhard to make it compatible with the actual instrumentations indicated by Ives in patch 54, and continues within a dialog of similar musical material in the flutes, oboes and clarinets. The cello line reuses material from the trombones in Section B, labeled there, “Free Evolution & Humanity.” Additional notes regarding the succeeding patches 51 - 54: Reinhard’s realization of Section C benefits from having a less bombastic mid-section than the outset and conclusion. The progression through it (leading to patch 55) is smooth, serving as an outgrowth of the music as it progresses. However, a connecting icon appearing at the end of patch 51A—a circle with a dot in it, and the accompanying words, “etc. to ; see back P14”—raises some questions. Harmonically, it appears that the connection to the next selected patch (51B) is the correct one, although the icons in this ¤ case, ý , are not identical. In relation to this question: AC: “And the connection from patch 54 to 55. What were the clues that led you to it?” JR: “Patch 54 expands into patch 55, through counterpoint and the gradually increasing number of musical forces.” The musical material is closely related, and patch 55 logically can be construed to be an expansion of patch 54. Motivic similarities also may be seen with regard to the rhythmic and intervallic structure of patches 54, 55 and 56. Musically and technically, the patches also are closely tied to the final coda; the angular thematic material implies it, as well as the ascending and descending arpeggiated passagework of patches 55 and 56. Hence, collectively, there are musical ties to all that surrounds these various fragments, with no other destination obvious, even actually possible—especially since quarter-tones are introduced precipitously during this sequence. 249 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches Throughout the segment, percussion cycle 9 continues to retrograde and decline from its apex as the music builds through patch 56. Linear musical intensity gradually takes the dominant role from this cycle as it wanes. AC: “Another connecting point is patch 56 to 57; how you were able to determine that those next patches tied into the concluding section?” JR: “Patch 56 is another dynamic, extroverted patch with lots of quarter-tone relationships. Patch 56 features two opposing orchestras a quarter-tone apart, following a third bass drum played behind the audience. This is really ‘banging the can’ in that this Ligeti-like idea is in itself historic. It is a most amazing surprise sound that brings a single musician to the audience covertly. (Almost gave my friend Pete a heart attack.) This is the surest evidence to me that this was planned by Ives for a concert stage (and not any valley between mountains) … Patch 56 enlarges dramatically until in patch 57 a quarter-tone orchestra is established, which cleans the palette, like eating ginger between differing tastes of sushi. It restates the core of the musical material cleanly in a noble manner, but in a way that obscures how ‘movements’ would be constructed. The power of the piece is enhanced by its positioning, both before and after.” Patches 55 and 56 represent the beginning of the final segment, having musical content in common with the coda (patches 60-62). In turn, the coda features material in common to patches 57-59! One can see the resemblance of common elements, such as the descending bass line (in patch 56), and jumping syncopated figures (common to patch 56 and to 60–62); these ties to earlier material have already been explored. Once again, the meaning of Ives’s multiple usage of the icon (on patch 56), , was far from clear. Other spurious placings of the same circular icon, numbers and indications add to the confusion. More especially, Ives’s words at the end of patch 55—“to back P6”, with another reference “back of P16”; at the end of patch 56, the same icon appears with remarks “see 5 back,” as well as another triangular icon, , with the words, “see back P.8.” Dating from the earliest conception of the work, ultimately the next segment (patches 57 - 59) seems unquestionably intended for its placement here as the run-up into the coda; the thematic materials dating from circa 1915 also are shared with it. Had Ives meant to further develop the materials of the segment, he did not need to; it serves the purpose perfectly to build the anticipation of the coda. Fittingly, near the end of the symphony, even the melodic high wind and violin parts (“Heavens Orchestra” clouds again) appear to have been derived from Bethany. Because the coda to Section C—originally intended for Section A—dates from earlier times, its designation here confirms that Ives later changed his mind. In seeing it as something befitting the work’s conclusion, and thus ultimately designating the sequence of patches, “End of Section C” shares material predominantly in common with Section C, rather than Section A. Further, the surviving 1915 sketches make more sense in this context. In another nod to cumulative form, the flutes feature the lengthiest quote from Bethany in the symphony. It is certainly likely a fulfillment of spiritual intent at this precise point in the music; indeed, the flutes maintain elements of this melody almost to the end, drifting away only when the music has fallen away beyond the extent of the quotation. With the inertia created by patch 57 leading to the conclusion of the symphony, it seems the sudden explosive beginning of cycle 10 in Ives’s plan is ¤ 250 App. 2 The Universe Symphony Sketches entirely appropriate, because it helps to drive the music forward to the coda with a renewed and irresistible energy. Thereafter, the music is allowed to assume its own gravitational pull, seemingly growing as the last “Pulse” cycle recedes. 251 252 APPENDIX 3 Glossary Accidental: A musical symbol denoting an alteration to a written note; most common accidentals are sharps (♯), flats (♭) and naturals (♮) that return the tone to its unaltered pitch. Atonality: Music or context that lacks a tonal center, or key. Bar (or Measure): The grouping of beats according to a stated metrical unit, notated with vertical lines ruled through the score. Bitonality: the use of only two different keys at the same time. Canon: a type of musical echo, in which, after a defined interval of time, one part is followed by another in continuously locked invention. Chromatic/chromaticism: movement by the smallest divisions of pitch in Western music, often bridging notes of the diatonic scale. Consonance: the combination of two or more notes with compatible relationships between their frequencies. Countersubject: The subsidiary line in a fugue to its subject, beginning as a continuation of the subject when the answer (or next statement of the subject) appears. Diatonic(sm): the recognizable pitches of key, outlined by the associated scales. Dissonance: a harsh, discordant combination of sounds. Dodecaphony: as defined by Arnold Schönberg, a theme must contain all twelve tones and repeat none. Enharmonic: Different notations of the same pitch; e.g. b♯ and c. Fourth: a perfect fourth, a musical interval between two notes five semitones apart; a diminished fourth: a musical interval between two notes four semitones apart; an augmented fourth: a musical interval between two notes six semitones apart. Fifth: the perfect fifth spans seven semitones, whereas the diminished fifth spans six, and the augmented fifth spans eight semitones. Fugue: A complex imitative form, derived from canon, in which (usually) four parts enter in succession— typically tonic key answered by dominant—until all four proceed in continuous invention through various episodes and other manipulations. Glissando: a glide that joins one pitch to another. Half-step: see Semitone. 253 App. 3 Glossary Integer notation: the translation of pitch classes and/or interval classes into whole numbers Measure: See Bar Microtones: intervals smaller than a semitone. Motif: a small/short musical figure, identifiable much in the same way as a full theme. Quarter-tones: a pitch halfway between the usual notes of a chromatic scale or an interval about half as wide (aurally, or logarithmically) as a semitone (half-step), which is half a whole tone (whole step). Pitch class: a numeric notation of pitches sharing the same “chroma,” as in different octaves. Polychord: More than two chords blended together as one. Polyrhythm; the simultaneous use of two or more separate and conflicting rhythms not heard as simple manifestations of the same meter. Polytonality: the musical use of more than one key simultaneously. Polymeter: different compounded metric groups sharing a mathematical common rhythmic denominator, that causes them periodically to align. Semitone: The smallest increment of pitch in Western music. Serialism: A method or technique of composition that dictates a mathematically derived incremental series of changing linear values to manipulate many different musical elements. Short score: A compressed draft of the final “full’ score, with all information present. Stretto: a series of rapidly compounding entrances of a fugal subject near the end of a fugue. Syncopation: the displacement from the beat by a linear musical component. Systematic: the organization of musical materials according to mathematical logic, in a controlled system. Tempo: the speed of a given piece or subsection thereof, and based on a measured, numerically expressed pulse. Third: A musical interval encompassing three staff positions; the major third is a third spanning four semitones, the minor, three. Tonality: A musical system in which pitches or chords are arranged so as to induce a hierarchy of perceived relationships, the pitch to which all gravitate being called the tonic. Tone cluster: A musical chord comprising at least three adjacent tones. Twelve-tone row: a non-repetitive ordering of a set of pitch-classes, consisting of the twelve notes the chromatic scale. 254 BIBLIOGRAPHY “Arrow” (Music Press), http://imslp.org/wiki/Arrow Carol K. Baron, “Dating Charles Ives’s Music: Facts and Fictions,” Perspectives of New Music (Winter issue, 1990), 20–56 ——, review, “Charles Ives, Symphony No. 3: The Camp Meeting,” ed. Kenneth Singleton (New York, Associated Music Publishers, 1990), Notes (June 1992): 1437–38 ——, “Efforts on Behalf of Democracy by Charles Ives and His Family: Their Religious Contexts,” The Musical Quarterly, vol. 87, 1, 2004): 6–43 Michael Berest, “Charles Ives Universe Symphony, ‘Nothing More to Say,’” 2005, www.afmm.org/uindex.htm Geoffrey Block, Ives Concord Sonata (New York, Cambridge University Press, 1996) Leon Botstein, “Innovations and Nostalgia: Ives, Mahler, and the Origins of Modernism,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 35–74 Michael Broyles, “Charles Ives and the American Democratic Tradition,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. Burkholder (Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ, 1996), 118–160 Stephen Budiansky, “Ives, Diabetes, and His ‘Exhausted Vein’ of Composition,” American Music, vol.31, 1 (Spring 2013): 1–25 J. Peter Burkholder, All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 2004) J. Peter Burkholder, “Charles Ives and the Four Traditions,” from Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 3–34 ——, “Quotation and Paraphrase in Ives’s Second Symphony,” in, Joseph Kerman, Music at the Turn of Century: A 19th-Century Music Reader (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press, 1990) Elliott Carter, “The Case of Mr. Ives,” Modern Music 16, March-April, 1936; reprinted in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, 255 NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996): 333–37 Antony Cooke, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe (West Conshohocken, PA, Infinity Publishing, 2015) Aaron Copland, The New Music (New York, Norton & Co., 1969) Henry Cowell, Current Chronicle, in The Musical Quarterly, vol. 37, 399–402 Henry and Sidney Cowell, Charles Ives and His Music (New York, Oxford University Press, 1969) Antonin Dvořák, “Music in America,” Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, 90 (Feb. 1895): 428–34 Stuart Feder, Charles Ives: “My Father’s Song,” a Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1992) ——, “Charles Ives and Henry David Thoreau: a transcendental tune in Concord” in Ives Studies, ed. Philip Lambert, (New York, Cambridge University Press, UK, 1997) Allen Forte, The Structure of Atonal Music (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1977) Kyle Gann “Poisoned Musicology”: PostClassic: Kyle Gann on Music After the Fact, 24 March 2014, http://www.artsjournal.com/postclassic/2014/03/p oisoned-musicology-2.html Donal Henahan, “The Polysided Views of Ives’s Personality,” Music View: The New York Times, June 10, 1990 Bernard Herrmann, “Four Symphonies of Charles Ives,” Modern Music 22 (May–June 1945); in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ, 1996), 394–402 Donal Henahan, “The Polysided Views of Ives’s Personality,” Music View: The New York Times, June 10, 1990 David Michael Hertz, “Ives’s Concord Sonata and the Texture of Music,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 75–117 Charles Ives, “A Conductor’s Note,” New Music, San Francisco, CA (January 1929) Bibliography ——, Ives Plays Ives, 1933–43, CRI 810 (CD) [1999]; originally New World Records, B000ETRM9E (LP) [1980] ____, Universe Symphony, realized by Larry Austin, Cincinnati Philharmonia Orchestra, cond. Gerhard Samuel, Centaur CRC 2205, 1994 ——, Universe Symphony, realized by Johnny Reinhard, AFMM Orchestra, The Stereo Society, 837101048521 (CD) [2005] ____, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, W. W. Norton & Co., 1972) ____, Essays Before a Sonata (New York, Knickerbocker Press, 1920) ——, Essays Before a Sonata and Other Writings, ed. Howard Boatright, (New York, Norton, 1961) George Ives, “Music Theory Lesson Notes,” Ives Collection, np 7398-415, Irving S. Gilmore Music Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT Timothy Johnson, Baseball and the Music of Charles Ives: A Proving Ground (Lanham, MD, Scarecrow Press, Inc., 2004) William K. Kearns, Horatio Parker (1863–1919): His Life, Music, and Ideas (Metuchen, N.J., The Scarecrow Press, 1990) Philip Lambert, The Music of Charles Ives (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1997) Goddard Lieberson, “An American Innovator; Charles Ives,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996) Gayle Sherwood Magee, Charles Ives Reconsidered (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008) Frank T. Manheim, “Twentieth century pioneer composer Charles Ives: audiences and critics’ opinions over time,” MusicWeb International, 2004;www.musicwebinternational.com/classrev/2 004/Oct04/Ives_View.htm NASA, “Tests of Big Bang: The CMB.” http://map.gsfc.nasa.gov/universe/bb_tests_cmb.h tml David Nicholls, American Experimental Music (New York, Cambridge University Press, 1990) N. Lee Orr, Dudley Buck (Chicago, IL, University of Illinois Press, 2008) 256 Vivian Perlis, Charles Ives Remembered, an Oral History (Urbana, IL, University of Illinois Press, 1974) Richard Poirier, ed. Ralph Waldo Emerson, (The Oxford Authors) (New York, Oxford University Press, 1990) Johnny Reinhard, The Ives Universe: a Symphonic Odyssey (www.afmm.org, 2004) Aaron Ridley, The Philosophy of Music: Theme and Variations Edinburgh (Edinburgh, UK University Press, 2004) Frank R, Rossiter, Charles Ives & His America (New York, Liveright, 1975) Wayne D. Shirley, “Once More Through The Unanswered Question,” Newsletter of the Institute for Studies in American Music, XVIII (May 1989) ____, “The Second of July,” in A Celebration of American Music: Words and Music in Honor of H. Wiley Hitchcock, ed. Richard Crawford, R. Allen Lott, Carol J. Oja (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1990) James B. Sinclair, A Descriptive Catalogue of The Music of Charles Ives (Yale University Press, New Haven, CT, 1999) “Nicolas Slonimsky,” http://www.slonimsky.net/ Jan Smaczny, “Cypresses: A Song Cycle and its Metamorphoses,” in Rethinking Dvořák: Views from Five Countries, ed. David R. Beveridge, (New York, Oxford University Press, 1996), 55– 70 Maynard Solomon, “Charles Ives: Some Questions of Veracity,” Journal of the American Musicological Society, vol. 40, n.3 (Fall 1987): 443–70 Halsey Stevens, “Béla Bartók, Hungarian Composer,” http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/543 94/Bela-Bartok. Jan Swafford, Charles Ives: A Life with Music (New York, W.W. Norton & Co., 1996) Howard Taubman, “Posterity Catches Up with Charles Ives,” from Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996), 423–429 George Tsontakis, “Reflections on Aaron Copland and his Festivals at Yaddo.” http://www.yaddo.org/Yaddo/MusicFestivalTsont akis.shtml. Bibliography Mark Tucker, “Of Men and Mountains: Ives in the Adirondacks,” in Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996) Various authors, Charles Ives and his World, ed. J. Peter Burkholder (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1996) Richard Whitehouse, “Aldeburgh Festival 2012: Charles Ives’s Universe Symphony,” www.classicalsource.com, June 24, 2012 MUSICAL SCORES (by Charles Ives, unless listed otherwise) Calcium Light Night, ed. Henry Cowell (King of Prussia, PA, Theodore Presser, Inc.) The Celestial Country (New York, Peermusic) Central Park in the Dark, ed. John Kirkpatrick (Hillsdale, NY, Mobart Music Publications) Complete Organ Music (King of Prussia, PA, Theodore Presser, Inc) Concord Sonata, Piano Sonata No. 2, first edition (New York, Knickerbocker Press, 1921) Country Band March, ed. James B. Sinclair (Bryn Mawr, PA Merion Music, Inc.) Decoration Day, Critical Edition, ed. James B. Sinclair (New York, Peermusic) First Set for Chamber Orchestra (Bryn Mawr, PA Merion Music) The Fourth of July, Critical Edition, ed. Wayne D. Shirley (New York, Associated Music Publishers, Inc.) From the Steeples and the Mountains, ed. Kenneth Singleton (New York, Peermusic) Fugue in Four Keys, on “The Shining Shore,” ed. John Kirkpatrick (Bryn Mawr, PA, Merion Music) The Gong on the Hook and Ladder, or Firemen’s Parade on Main Street (New York, Peermusic,) Hammerklavier Sonata, Ludwig van Beethoven (Vienna, Austria, Artaria, 1819) Three Harvest Home Chorales (King of Prussia, PA, Theodore Presser, Co.) Holiday Quickstep (Bryn Mawr, PA, Merion Music) 114 Songs (Bryn Mawr, PA, Merion Music) Overture & March “1776”, ed. James B. Sinclair (Bryn Mawr, PA, Merion Music, Inc.) 257 The Pond (Hillsdale, NY, Boelke-Bomart, Inc.) Prelude and Postlude for a Thanksgiving Service (King of Prussia, PA, Theodore Presser, Inc.) Scherzo: Over the Pavements (New York, Peermusic) Sixty-Seventh Psalm (New York, Associated Music Publishers, Inc.) String Quartet No.1 (Peermusic, Inc., 1961) Symphony No.1, Gustav Mahler (Vienna, AUT, Universal Edition 2931, 1888) Symphony No.2 (San Antonio, TX, Southern Music Publishing Company, Inc.) Symphony No.3 (New York, Associated Music Publishers, Inc.) Symphony No.4 (New York, Associated Music Publishers, Inc.) Symphony No. 4, Performance Edition, ed. Thomas M. Brodhead, (New York, Associated Music Publishers); online: http://www.musicsalesclassical.com/composer/wor k/47475 Symphony No.4, Critical Edition, (New York, Associated Music Publishers Inc.) Thanksgiving and Forefathers’ Day, Critical Edition, ed. Jonathan Elkus (New York, Peer International Corp.) Three Places in New England, ed. James B. Sinclair (King of Prussia, PA Theodore Presser, Inc.) Toccata and Fugue in D minor (BWV 538), J.S. Bach (Leipzig, DE, Breitkopf & Härtel, Band 15, 1867) Washington’s Birthday, Critical Edition, ed. John Kirkpatrick (King of Prussia, PA, Associated Music Publishers, Inc.) The Unanswered Question (San Antonio, TX, Southern Music Publishing Co. Inc.) Variations on “America” (Theodore Presser, Inc., King of Prussia, PA, 2012) 258 The Universe Symphony, realized by Johnny Reinhard (New York, American Festival of Microtonal Music) INDEX Bernstein, Leonard, 64, 83, 85 Bethany, 18, 63, 64, 88, 120, 121, 155, 161, 163, 170, 171, 176, 181–83, 188, 216, 217, 221, 223–26, 244, 246, 250 Bethany (“Nearer My God to Thee”), 18 Beulah Land, 75, 83, 175, 177 Birdcalls, in Fourth Symphony, 182 Block, Geoffrey, 47, 161, 163 Borodin, Alexander, 78, 82 Botstein, Leon, 34. 40, 44, 47, 59, 71, 113, 239 Boulanger, Nadia, 229–30 Bowring, John, 140, 170 Brahms, Johannes, 50–52, 64–68, 70, 78–79, 81–84, 98, 122 Brewster, Lyman, 20, 26, 41 Brigg Fair, (Delius), 120 Bringing in the Sheaves, 81, 159, 170 Broyles, Michael, 37, 46, 112 Buck, Dudley, 69, 72, 128, 134, 136, 138 Budiansky, Steven, 47, 149 Bunyan, John, 174 Burkholder, J. Peter, 34, 41, 46–47, 63, 68–72, 76–78, 81, 86, 90, 96, 112–13, 149, 163, 184, 196, 234, 239 Bushnell, Horace, 29 Byron, Lord, 105 A Addison’s disease, 39, 190 Addresses, 54, 232 Adeste Fideles, 119–21, 224 Adirondacks, NY, 24, 67, 115, 167, 186–87, 194, 196, 256 Adler, Murray, 11 AFMM Orchestra, 208–10, 227 Afterglow, 5, 147, 148, 160 Alcott, Amos Bronson, 25, 26, 158, 159, 160 Alcott, Louisa May, 26, 158–59 Aleatory, 56, 70, 108, 123, 189 “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name,” see Coronation, America, the Beautiful, 83 American culture, 45, 64, 69, 76, 97 American Festival of Microtonal Music, 9, 207 American Symphony Orchestra, 11, 167 An Election, 54 Antioch, 78, 84, 180 Antiphonal writing, 106 Appalachian Spring, (Copland), 129 Arrow Music Press, 131–32, 14955, Atonality, 97, 103, 106, 108, 124, 126, 152, 188 Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), 21 Augmentation, 82 Austin, Larry, 205–07, 209, 217, 245 Avant-garde in America, 7, 45, 63, 133, 172, 191, 236 Azmon, 91–95, 219 C Cage, The, 123, 139, 233 Cakewalk, 52, 158 Calcium Light Night, 105, 115 Canon, 80, 94, 101, 105, 111–12, 176, 223 Carter, Elliott, 55, 57, 61, 68, 72, 86, 166, 229–30, 235, 239 “Cartoons or Take-Offs,” 105 Celestial City, The, 53, 168, 177 Center Church on the Green, New Haven, CT, 69, 126 Central Park in the Dark, 23, 106, 109–13, 115, 123, 128, 204 Central Presbyterian Chruch, NY, 53, 89, 99, 232 Chadwick, George Whitefield, 21, 42, 70, 76 Channing, William Ellery, 29 Chromaticism, 51, 97, 134, 138, 222 Church music, 21, 44, 69, 85, 89, 99, 119, 126 Civil War, 16, 17, 19, 29, 49, 61–62, 68, 79, 115, 119, 120, 173, 175–76 “Classical” music, 33, 47, 64, 66, 73, 80 Coda, 74 Codetta, in sonata form, 74 B Band of Brothers, A, 105 B Minor Mass, (Bach), 32 Bach, 32, 50, 60, 64–66, 69, 78, 98, 168, 179 Barbershop quartet, 69, 128, 136 Baron, Carol. K, 29, 34, 50, 76, 86, 92, 96, 106, 108, 113, 130, 194, 196, 234–35, 238 Baroque, 60, 98, 178 Bartók, Béla, 64, 71, 111, 115 Bayly, Thomas Haynes, 82 Beethoven, 13, 50–51, 56, 64–66, 78, 81, 83, 153, 153–56, 158, 160, 163, 170 Bellemann, Henry, 45, 174 Ben Bolt, 110–12, 128 Berest, Michael, 30, 34, 188, 194–96 Berg, Alban, 60, 66 259 Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, 80, 81, 84, 85, 101, 123, 124, 125, 157, 158, 175, 176 Columbian Exposition, see World’s Fair, Chicago Comedy (Scherzo in Fourth Symphony, Hawthorne in Concord Sonata), 11, 171 Concord Sonata, 23, 25–26, 28, 34, 42, 54–55, 63, 68, 71, 81, 86, 105, 115, 133, 146, 148–49, 151–66, 171, 176, 1865, 190–91, 194, 196, 229, 233–34, 236; Emerson, 55, 152–57; Emerson Motif, 153– 57, 159; First Edition, 152–53; Hawthorne, 55, 105, 115, 146, 156–58; Human Faith Melody, 81, 153, 155, 157, 158, 159–62, 176–77; Lyrical Melody, 155; Prose, 155–56; Quasi-Pentatonic Melody, 63, 155, 161–62: Second Edition, 152; Thoreau, 148, 155, 160–62; Tristan und Isolde, quote in Emerson, 154, 156 Congregationalist denomination, 16, 26, 69, 179 Cooper, James Fenimore Jr., 147 Copland, Aaron, 32, 44–45, 68, 72, 129, 133, 141, 149 Coronation, 61, 179 Cosmic Microwave Background, 148 Counterpoint, 50, 60, 67, 81–82, 91, 95, 98, 117, 119, 121, 168, 181, 183, 209, 214–16, 221, 249 Country Band March, 55, 105, 106, 157–58, 177 Cowell, Henry, 45–46, 85, 105, 108, 112, 130, 133, 186, 190, 193–94, 196, 231, 233, 237–40, 242 Cumulative form, 85, 90, 92–95, 123, 129, 152–53, 156–57, 159, 233, 246, 250 Cyclic rhythms, 201 Cycles, 99–101, 104–05, 107, 110–11, 125–26, 139, 148, 168, 182–83, 187, 199–201, 203–07, 212–15, 217, 221, 223–25, 242–43, 248, 251 Dorrnance, 83, 163, 175–76, 182–83 Down East Overture, 78, 80 “Down in de cornfield,” (from Massa’s in De Cold Ground), 81, 83–84, 118, 161–62, 176–77, 188 Dream King and His Love, (Parker), 70 Duke Street, 127–29 Dumbarton Oaks, 103 Dvořák, Antonin, 44, 51, 70, 76–77, 86, 98, 113 E “Echo piece,” 101, 162 Einstein, Albert, 195, 213 Elk Lake, NY, 186 Eliot, T.S. 68 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 15, 25–27, 29, 34, 49, 54, 55, 108, 110, 137, 153, 160, 162, 189, 234 Emerson Concerto, (Emerson Overture), 152, 191 Enharmonic pitches, 207, 221, 244, 253 Equal temperament, 207–08, 244 Erie, 92–94, 148, 163, 188, 218 Essays before a Sonata, 15, 27, 34, 47, 61, 67, 71, 133, 152, 154, 162–63, 189–90 194, 196, 236, European culture, 13, 16, 21, 27, 40, 43, 51, 59, 61– 63, 65–66, 69, 75–76, 79–80, 97, 178 Exceptionalism, 59 Exposition, in sonata form, 74 Expressionism, 65, 80, 97 Eyesight, Ives’s, 42, 181 F Falsification, of dates, 229, 233–35 Fate Motif, 64, 83, 121, 153, 155–57, 159–60, 162, 170, 177, 183 “Father of American Music,” 31, 133, 229 Federal Street, 127–29 Felsberg, George, 27 Few Days, 103, 105 Fifth Symphony (Beethoven), 64, 78, 80, 83–84, 153, 170 Fireworks, portrayal of, 122, 126, 172, 225 First Orchestral Set (Three Places in New England), 105, 235 First Piano Sonata, 99, 159, 169, 224 First Presbyterian Church in Bloomfield, New Jersey, 98 First Set for Chamber Orchestra, 71, 103, 143 First String Quartet, 54, 61, 84, 166, 178, 180 First Subject, in sonata form,74 First Symphony, 70, 74–76 First Violin Sonata, 140 Fisher’s Hornpipe, 118 D Damrosch, Walter, 38 Danbury, CT, 16, 18, 23, 27–28, 43, 49–50, 52, 68, 69, 78, 88, 115–29, 168, 172, 174, 177, 237 De Camptown Races, (Foster), 63, 84, 118, 175–76 Debussy, Claude, 65, 158, 160, 163 Decoration Day, 116, 119–20, 122, 224 Delius, Frederick, 120–21 Demons’ Dance around the Pipe, 156 Development, in sonata form, 74 Diabetes, 39, 47, 131, 149, 190–91 Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, (Wagner), 82 Dies Irae, 120–21 Disorder, in Ives’s work methods, 209, 232–33, 242 “Distant Choir,” in Fourth Symphony, 170–71, 182 Dixie, 125 Dodecaphony, 49, 65–66, 70, 98, 124, 253 Donal Henahan, 238, 240 260 Five Pieces for Orchestra, (Schönberg), 65, 92 Foeppl, Carl, 50 Folgore da San Giminiano, 146 Foote, Arthur, 42, 44 For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, 118 “Four Musical Traditions,” (Burkholder), 34, 68–71 Four Transcriptions from Emerson, 152, 234 Fourth Symphony, 11, 13, 23, 54–56, 63, 84, 88, 115, 128, 140, 146, 151–52, 154, 156–57, 163, 165–67, 16–84, 186–91, 193, 207, 216, 225–26 From “Amphion,” 135 “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains,” see Coronation From the “Incantation,” 105 From the Steeples and the Mountains, 100, 189, 201, 209 Fugue in Four Keys, 90–91, 93, 98, 217 Furness, Clfton, 45 Harmony, 50, 59–60, 65–66, 82, 88–89, 91, 97–98, 110–11, 121, 123, 131, 139, 141, 144–46, 149, 155, 183, 208, 238, 244 Harrison, Lou, 9, 92, 194 Hartford, CT, 24 Harvard University, 26 Harvard Divinity School, 26 Hatmaking, industry in Danbury, 16, 28, 115 Hatton, John C., 127 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 26, 53 Hawthorne Concerto, 152, 156, 166, 171 Haydn, Franz Joseph, 63, 73, 80 He is There!, 42, 55, 115 Heartbeat, 139, 187, 202, 213, 221 Hello! Ma Baby, 110–12, 125, 175–77 Henry Alford, 54 Herrmann, Bernard 40, 47, 63, 81, 86, 165, 166, 184, 256 Hitchcock, Alfred, 53 Holiday Quickstep, 76 Holidays Symphony, 99, 129 Hollywood, 11, 165, 209 Holst, Gustav, 202 Home, Sweet Home, 117, 175 Hopkins Grammar School, 20, 52 Hora Novissima, (Parker), 21, 53, 70 Hubble, Edwin, 10, 15, 35, 107, 138, 180, 187 Humanophone, 104 Hymn, 13y G Gaebbler, Emile, 50 Galaxies, 35, 187 Gann, Kyle, 239–40 Garryowen, 118, 125 General Slocum, 123 General William Booth enters into Heaven, 34, 98 Gabrieli, Giovani, 106 Giraud, Albert, 97 Glissando, 124, 126, 128, 253 “Glory-beaming star,” 140–41, 169–71, 180–83, 189 God be with you, 175 Goethe, 27 Golliwogg’s Cakewalk, (Debussy), 158 Goodnight Ladies, 118 Goossens, Eugène, 166 Grainger, Percy, 64 Griggs, John Cornelius, 127 I I Hear Thy Welcome Voice, 179 Illnesses, Ives’s, 24, 30, 79, 86, 147, 190 Impressionism, 65, 80, 91, 97 In The Good Old Summertime, 109 In the Sweet Bye and Bye, 157, 163, 170, 172, 175– 77, 188, 223 In These United States, 78 Insulin, 191 Irish Washerwoman, 175 Ives, Brewster, 20, 26, 41, 194 Ives, Edith, 131 Ives, George, 12, 16–18, 21, 27, 29, 36, 39–40, 43– 44, 47, 50–51, 56–57, 60, 62, 67, 70, 75, 76, 80, 88, 90–91, 93, 96, 98, 102, 104, 106, 116, 118–20, 127, 130, 162, 185, 224, 234, 238, 240 Ives (Twichell), Harmony, 24, 40, 88–89, 104, 131, 144, 191, 234 Ives, Mollie, 39, 47, 115 Ives, Moss, 27 Ives & Co., 100 Ives & Myrick, 100 H Hail Columbia, 125, 175–76 Hallowe’en, 108 Hamburg (“When I Survey the Wondrous Cross”), 82 Hammerklavier Sonata, (Beethoven), 81, 153, 157, 159 Hand tremors, 42 Handel, George Friderick, 78, 106 Handwriting, 39, 47, 54, 78, 235 Hanover Square, 175 Happy Land, 93–94 Harding, Warren G., 41, 54 261 M “Ives Legend,” 37, 45–46, 190, 192–95, 231, 235 Magee, Gayle Sherwood, 34, 37–38, 46–47, 52, 57, 78, 85–86, 88–89, 96, 112, 172–73, 180, 184, 191, 193–94, 196, 233–40 “Magical Frost Waves,” 157 Mahler, Gustav, 14, 34, 40, 44, 47, 71, 73, 79, 81–82, 84, 98, 106, 113, 239 Majority, 41, 115, 124, 157, 177, 189, 196, 209 Manfred, (Byron), 105 Manheim, Frank T., 32, 34, 57 Manuscripts, 40, 46, 51, 54, 78, 89, 92, 119, 122, 126, 166—67, 173, 178, 229, 232–35, 240, 242, 246 Marble slab, in Universe Symphony, 221 March No. 3, with “My Old Kentucky Home,” 76 Marching Through Georgia, 76, 103, 105, 121, 124, 175 Margins, on manuscript pages, 232 Mason, Lowell, 62 Massa’s in de Cold Ground, 81, 118, 121, 161, 163, 175–77, 188, 217 Memorial Day, 119 Memorial Slow March, 88, 181, 182–83 Memories, (Ives), 194 Memos, 9, 28, 34, 36, 38, 43, 47–48, 50, 56–57, 78, 85–86, 96, 112–13, 116, 119, 129, 149, 163, 184, 192, 194–96, 199–201, 207, 209, 227, 236, 240, Men of Literature, 152 Mendelssöhn, Felix, 32 Mental disorder, Ives’s, 41, 189, 194–95, 234–35, 240 Microtones, 50, 70, 104, 207, 225, 246 Milky Way, 173, 187 Minstrel music, 52, 160 Missionary Chant, 81, 83, 153, 159, 163, 175, 182–83 Modernism, 48, 66, 71, 113, 116 More love to thee (Olivet), 137–38 Motifs, 63, 94, 103–04, 120, 129, 146, 15–59, 161, 169–70, 176–77, 179, 201–03, 211–14; 223–24; 246, 249 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 65 “Mr. Smooth-it-away,” 176 Munch, Edvard, 65 Music for Strings, Percussion and Celeste, (Bartók), 111 “Music of the Spheres,” 109, 202 Mutual Insurance Company of New York, 20, 23, 41, 99–100 J Jew’s harp, 117–18 Jolly Dogs, 76, 105 Joplin, Scott, 26 Josephson, Nors, 191 “Joy To The World,” see Antioch “Just as I Am,” see Woodworth “Just intonation machine,” 220 K Katy Darling, 125 Katz, David, 167 Keats, John, 104, 143–44 Keene Valley, 14, 186–87, 216, 226–27; plateau, 188, 215–16, 225–26 Kipling, Rudyard, 136–37 Kirkpatrick, John, 12, 28–29, 34, 46, 57, 71, 78, 85, 89, 96, 112, 117–19, 129, 149, 151, 152, 163, 175, 184, 193–94, 196, 209, 224, 227, 229, 233–35, 238, 240–42, 246, 248 Kneass, Nelson, 110 Knussen, Oliver, 11, 14 L L’Histoire du Soldat, (Stravinsky), 103 Laban, 127 Lake Placid, 24 Lambert, Philip, 32, 57, 70, 72, 99, 112, 139, 149, 221, 227, 234, 240 Lambeth, 120 Largo Cantabile, 137 Lecture, A, 104 Lieberson, Goddard, 42, 44, 47, 67–68, 256 Ligeti, György, 250 Like a Sick Eagle, 104, 143–44 “lily pads,” 30, 55 Lincoln, Abraham, 17, 54 Lincoln the Great Commoner, 54 Little Women, (Louisa May Alcott), 158 Liszt, Franz, 73, 189 163 Lock Lomond, 159, 161 London Bridge is falling down, 125 Long, Long Ago, 82, 84–85, 175–177 Love’s Old Sweet Song, 85 Lusitania, RMS, 175 Lyrical Melody, 155 N Naomi, 82, 93, 94 Nationalism, 27, 61, 97, 151 Neoclassicism, 66 262 Nettleton, 83, 127, 157, 175–76 New Chamber Orchestra, 166 New England, 15–16, 20, 39, 42, 44, 46, 50, 70, 76, 105, 115, 158, 168, 192, 229–30, 235 New Haven, 20, 27, 52, 69, 115, 126, 149 New World Symphony, (Dvořák), 70, 76–77 New York, 11, 20, 22–24, 32, 34, 38, 41, 50, 52–53, 67, 70–72, 79, 81, 88–89, 99–102, 115, 133, 166, 175, 186, 193, 196, 207, 209–10, 238 New York Symphony Orchestra, 38 New York Times, 53, 238 Nicholls, David, 39, 47, 112 Nook Farm, 24 Nostalgia, 23, 40, 87 Pitch, 59–60, 63, 66, 97, 100, 103–05, 108, 110, 120, 123, 125, 139, 141, 143, 179, 204, 207–08, 216, 219, 246 Pitch classes, 60 Pittsburgh Life and Trust, 100 Poli’s Theater, New Haven, CT, 27, 52 Polytempi, 70, 99, 117, 124, 133 Polytonality, 70, 98–99, 117, 127, 129, 162 Porter, David G., 187, 190–191, 199, 206, 207, 242 Post-dating, 232, 234 Post-Romantic, 73–74, 81, 90, 92, 98, 112, 202 Post-tonal theory, 60 “Poverty Flat,” 22, 24, 99, 102 Prairie Architecture, 66 Pre-First Violin Sonata, 141 Prelude and Postlude for a Thanksgiving Service, 116, 126 Presidents Day, 116 Primitivism, 64, 65–66 Prokofiev, Sergei, 81, 115 Proprior Deo, 170, 182–83 Psalm 67, 51, 80, 98, 106 Psi Upsilon Marching Song, 105 Psycho, 63, 165 Ptolemaic intonation, 208, 220 Puritans, 127 Putnam’s Camp, 89, 105–06, 158, 177, 229, 235 Pythagoras, 109, 207–08, 213, 221, 224 O Oh, My Darling Clementine, 103 Old Black Joe, 175 Old Folks at Home, 117 Oliver, Henry K., 127 Olivet, 137–38 On the Antipodes, 190, 242 On the Banks of the Wabash, 175 114 Songs, 104, 125, 131, 133, 136, 141, 143–44, 191, 232, 236 Orchard House Overture, 152, 158 Orchestration, 9, 60, 67, 83, 121–22, 168 Overture and March “1776”, 105–06, 125 Q P Quartal harmony, 97, 110, 139, 145 Quarter-tones, 28, 104, 143, 167, 175–77, 182, 207, 222, 245–46, 249–50 Quintal harmony, 110, 139 Quotations, 18–19, 61–63, 75, 163, 165, 177, 181, 209 Paine, John Knowles, 42, 69 Parallel listening, 167–68, 170, 175, 181, 187, 202, 215 Parallel speeds, 142, 167, 205, 215 Parker, 21–22, 37, 40, 42, 50–53, 61, 69, 70, 73–76, 78, 83, 91, 98, 115, 126, 135, 166, 231, 234, 238, 240 Patriarchal Cathedral Basilica of Saint Mark in Venice, 106 Pealing church bells, 100, 129 Peermusic, 206, 242 Pens and pencils, Ives’s use of in manuscript, 232 Perlis, Vivian, 36 Philharmonia Orchestra, 11 Phone numbers, on manuscripts, 232 Pianola, 109 Picasso, Pablo, 66 Pierrot Lunaire, (Schönberg), 97 Pig Town Fling, 81–82, 84, 118, 175 Pilgrims, 116, 126, 157, 174–77 Pine Mountain, CT, 27 R Ragtime, 26–27, 53, 103, 109–10, 159, 173, 176–77 Ravel, Maurice, 155 Raymond Agency, 99 Recapitulation, in sonata form, 74 Reeves, David Wallis, 76, 121 Reformation, the, 106 Reinhard, Johnny, 10, 14, 199–201, 204–13, 214, 218–19, 221–22, 224, 226–27, 242–50 Retrograde, 100, 115, 128 Reuben and Rachel, 76 Reuse of materials, 54, 65, 74, 106, 232 Reveille, 85, 121, 125, 175 263 Revisionism, 31, 36, 38, 40, 42, 98, 193–94, 229–35 239 Revolutionary War, 84 Rhythm, 42, 55–56, 60, 63, 66, 68, 71, 78, 82, 89, 93– 94, 99–105, 111, 117, 124–29, 137, 139, 142–45, 153, 155, 157–58, 162, 168, 176–77, 182, 189, 201–06, 241, 244 Riley, Terry, 66 Riding Down from Bangor, 76 Ridley, Aaron, 110, 113 Rinck, Christian Heinrich, 69 Rite of Spring, The, 11, 32, 65, 106, 156 Robert Browning Overture, 40, 186 Romantic music& Romanticism, 21, 26, 46, 49, 51, 65–66, 69, 73–74, 79, 81–82, 90, 93, 134 Rondo Rapid Transit, 201 Root, George F., 62, 91, 93, 127 Rossiter, Frank R., 34, 38, 44, 47, 196, 238 Royal Fireworks Music, (Handel), 106 Rubato, 56 Ruggles, Carl, 40, 52, 159 Run Lola, Run, (the movie), 109 Russian “Five,” 65 Ryder, Luemily, 194 Set of Three Short Pieces, A, 137 Shadow counterpoint, 67, 91, 95, 117, 119, 121 Shaking, Ives’s hand tremors, 189 Shaw, David, T. 80, 176 Sherwood, Gayle, (Magee), 34, 37–38, 51–52, 78, 88–89, 172, 180, 184, 193–94, 196, 233–40 Shirley, Wayne B., 55, 106 Sibelius, Jean 73, 98 Silent Night, 95 Slonimsky, Nicolas, 39, 45, 66, 72 Slow March, 119, 121 “Snake tracks,” 47, 131 So may it be!, (The Rainbow) 144–45 Solomon, Maynard, 112, 195, 229, 231–39 Something for Thee, 170 Sonata for Organ, 80, 84 Sonata Form, 73 Sonata-Rondo, 74 Sprague, Charles, 142 Sprechstimme, 97 St. Bernard de Morlas of Cluny, 53 St. Hilda, 183 St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning, 118, 125, 175 Star Wars, 128 Stephen Foster, 63, 81, 84 Steve Reich, 66, 223 Stokowski, Leopold, 11, 167 Stop that Knocking at My Door, 160 Stravinsky, Igor, 11, 32, 65–66, 71, 103, 106, 156 Street Beat, 84, 98, 111, 175, 182 Feder, Stuart, 37, 39–44, 47, 50, 53, 57, 102, 112–13, 119, 127–30, 162–63, 174, 184, 189, 194–96, 229–31, 234–35, 238–40, 245 Study No.23, 103, 175 Swafford, Jan, 38, 46, 103, 113, 163, 169–70, 175, 182, 184, 234, 239, 2401 Sweney, John R., 83 Symphonic model, 73, 80, 87 Symphony of Holidays, 99, 115–30, 165 Symphony of Psalms, (Stravinsky), 66 Systematic methodology, 46, 100, 124, 170, 182, 189, 215, 220, 238 S Sailor’s Hornpipe, 118 Saranac Lake, 186 Saratoga Springs, 133 Satie, Erik, 65, 80, 97, 111 Scherzo: All the Way Around and Back, 101, 115 Scherzo, (Fourth Symphony), 6, 56, 63, 64, 78, 82, 103, 105, 115, 156, 157, 158, 166, 167, 168, 171, 172, 173, 174, 178, 181, 186, 188–89, 202, 216, 255 Scherzo: Over the Pavements, 64, 103, 253 Schmitz, Robert & Monica, 46, 47, 194 Schönberg, Arnold, 32, 60, 65–66, 92, 97, 99, 123, 176, 189 Schuller, Gunther, 11 Scything action, in Thanksgiving, 128 Second Great Awakening, 88 Second Orchestral Set, 23, 175, 186 Second Regiment Connecticut National Guard March, (Reeves), 76, 121 Second String Quartet, 183, 189 Second Symphony, 54, 76–86, 118, 121, 123, 126, 180, 237 Second Subject, in sonata form, 74 September, 146 Serebrier, José, 56, 167 Serialism, 49, 66, 71, 103, 108, 222 T Taps, 101–02, 120–21, 162 Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!, 104 Tarrant Moss, 5, 136–37 Tchaikowsky, Peter Ilyich, 76 1812 Overture, 32; Pathetique Symphony, 76 Tennyson, 136 Tenting in the Old Campground, (Kittridge), 121 Tersteegen, Gerhard, 137–38 264 Thanksgiving (and Forefathers’ Day), 99, 116–17, 126–29, 190, 217 The Alcotts, 42, 152–53, 157–62 The American Woods, 78, 84–85, 115 The Battle Cry of Freedom, 121, 124–25, 157–58 The Beautiful River, 175 The Campbells are Comin’, 110–11, 118 The Celestial Country, 53, 69–70, 78, 126, 189, The Celestial Rail-road, (Hawthorne), 53, 156, 166, 171–72, 174, 176 The Celestial Railroad, 55, 156–57, 166–67, 172–73, 175, 189–90, 195 The Charles Ives Society, 206–07 The Circus Band, 76 The Firebird, (Igor Stravinsky), 66 The Fisherman’s Reel, 85 The Four Seasons, (Antonio Vovaldi), 116 The Fourth of July, 67, 116, 119, 122–25, 127, 171– 72, 189, 204, 209 The Gong on the Hook and Ladder, 102–03 The Greatest Man, 131 The Indians, 141, 143, 155, 162, 170 The King of the Stars, (Stravinsky), 66 The Musical Quarterly, 34, 130, 237, 240 The New River, 104 The One Way, 191 The Planets, (Gustav Holst), 202 The Pond, 101–02, 106, 162, The Rainbow, 144–45 The Ruined River, 104 The Scream, 65 The See’r, 103–04 The Shining Shore, 61, 75, 90–91, 98, 127–28, 217 “The Silence of the Druids,” in The Unanswered Question, 107 The Slaves’ Shuffle, 156 The Sphinx, (Emerson), 106–07 The Thin Red Line, (the movie), 109 The Unanswered Question, 47, 106–10, 112–13, 168, 170, 204 White Cockade, The, 118 The Worms Crawl In, 111 Theory of Relativity, (Einstein), 195 There is a Fountain Filled with Blood, 93–94 There’s Music in the Air, (Root), 93–94 They are There!, 42, 55 Third Orchestral Set, 105, 186, 191 Third Symphony, 63, 70, 82, 87–96, 99, 120, 129 Thirty-four Songs, 143 Thoreau, Henry James, 25–26, 57, 148, 155, 160–62 Three Harvest Home Chorales, 51 Three Page Sonata, 186 Three Part Sinfonia, (Bach), 78 Three-part (A1-B-A2) ternary form, 73, 83, 127 Three Places in New England, 105, 158, 191, 229–30, 235 Throw Out the Lifeline, 175 Tin Pan Ally, 109, Toccata and Fugue in D minor (BWV 538), 179 Tolerance, 104 Tonality, 49, 51, 66, 74, 90, 92, 101, 103, 105, 120– 21, 123, 128, 136, 141, 145, 155, 159, 169, 170– 71, 188–89, 225, 247 Tone cluster, 70, 98, 118, 123–26, 157, 219 Tone Roads No. 3, 201 Town, Gown and State, 78, 84, 115 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, (Root), 105, 175–76 Transcendentalism, 10, 13, 15–16, 25–29, 33–34, 49, 51, 57, 59, 61–62, 64, 71, 88, 100, 115, 153–54 158, 162, 168, 183, 185, 229 Transcendentalists, 15, 25–26, 27, 34, 59, 71, 153, 162 Transition, in sonata form, 74 “Trinity Code,” 170, 183, 216 Tucker, Mark, 186, 196 Turkey in the Straw, 84–85, 118, 175–77 Twain, Mark, 24, 79 Twelve-tone row, 65–66, 99, 101, 103, 108, 123, 125–26, 189, 196, 214, 220, 222, 244 Twentieth Amendment to the Constitution, 41, 40 Twichell, Harmony, 24, 88–89, 104, 131, 141, 191, 234 Twichell, Rev. Joseph, 24 Two Contemplations, 106 Two Little Flowers, 131, 19 U Universe Symphony, 9–10, 13–14, 24, 27, 30, 34, 41– 42, 45, 57, 63–64, 67, 99, 101, 109, 115, 119–20, 144, 146, 148–49, 151–54, 163, 165, 167–68, 173, 181–96, 199–202, 205–51; And Lo, Now It Is Night, 200, 221; Birth Of The Oceans, The, 200, 218; Basic Unit [BU], 205, 214; “Chordal scales,” 221–22, 224–25, 245; “cloud” chords, 215, 218, 223–24; Earth Alone, 200, 211; Earth And The Firmament, 200, 220; Earth Chords, 204, 220; Earth Is Of The Heavens, 200, 223, 245; “Earth Orchestra,” 199, 201–05, 209, 211–19, 221, 223, 225, 242; “Free Evolution and Humanity” theme, 219–20, 225; “Heavens Orchestra,” 199, 201, 203, 204–05, 212, 214–19, 218, 221, 223–25; missing sketches, 199, 201, 218, 226, 242–44; “Orbital harmonies,” 215; “Pulse of the Cosmos,” 187, 199, 200–01, 203–04, 211–13, 217, 225, 248; 265 Pythagorean tuning, 207–08, 221, 244; Section A, 187–88, 192, 199–206, 210, 211–26, 235, 241–47, 249–50; Section B, 187–88, 192, 200, 206, 219– 20, 224–26, 241, 243–45; Section C, 63, 187–88, 192, 199–201, 206, 218, 221–26, 241–50; “The Universe in Tones,” 207; Unfinishability, 190–93; Wide Valleys And Clouds, 200, 214 Untermeyer, Louis, 40 Urmotiv, in Fourth Symphony, 169–70, 175–76, 182 Waveform, 100–01, 105, 137, 187, 225 Webern, Anton, 32, 60, 66 West Redding, CT, 13, 14, 23, 155, 144, 181,190 Western music, 27, 51, 59–60, 80, 104, 112, 207 Westminster Chimes, 170, 175–76 “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” see Erie When Stars are in the Quiet Skies, 133–35 When the Moon Is On the Wave, 105 Where, O Where Are the Verdant (‘Peagreen’) Freshmen!, 82 Whitehouse, Richard, 207, 209 Williams, John, 128, 209 Wilson, Woodrow, 41, 54, 190 Wit, (the movie), 109 Woodworth, 92–95 Wordsworth, William, 102, 113, 144–45 World War I, 54, 62, 79, 115, 158, 176, 180, 190 World’s Fair (1893), Chicago, 26 Wyeth, John, 83 V Vanity Fair, in Fourth Symphony, 176 Variations on “America,” 30, 51, 80, 98 Vaughan Williams, Ralph, 64 Vernacular music, 40, 61, 63–64, 78, 110, 152, 154, 167, 173, 181 Verse, 155–56, 159 Violets, 111 Vivaldi, Antonio, 115 Vunderink, Todd, 242, 246 Y Yaddo, Festival, 133, 141, 149 Yale University, 12, 17, 20–22, 24, 26–27, 36–37, 41, 43, 46–47, 50, 52, 54, 57, 61, 69, 71–73, 75, 77– 79, 85–86, 91, 96, 98–99, 105, 112, 115, 126–127, 130, 134, 149, 163, 178, 184, 196, 227, 231, 238– 40, 242, 246 Yankee Doodle, 125, 175, 177 Young Goodman Brown, (the movie), 109 W Wagner, Richard, 51, 65, 73, 82, 83, 154, 156, 160, 183, 234 Wake Nicodemus, 81, 84 Walden Pond, 160, 161 Walden Sounds, 160 Washington Life, 100 Washington Post March, (Sousa), 110, 112, 175 Washington’s Birthday, 67, 116, 117, 119, 120, 204, 235, 259 Watchman, 140–41, 145, 169–71, 189 Watson, Fred, 12, 14 Z Zeuner, Charles, 83 266 267 Antony Cooke Author of the resource volume, Charles Ives’s Musical Universe (2015), American Antony Cooke was born in Australia, the son of distinguished cellist Nelson Cooke AM, and received his major training in London. A protégé of the legendary pedagogue Helen Just, he established an early career as a solo cellist, and received artist diplomas from both the Royal College of Music and the Royal Academy of Music in London, studied theory and historical musicology under John Wilkinson, composition under Nadia Boulanger protégé John Lambert, and conducting under Sir Colin Davis. Cooke was a gold medalist at the London Music Competition in 1966, also receiving the prestigious “Young Musicians ‘73 Award” in London, and appeared as a concerto soloist and recitalist on the BBC. Cooke has concertized extensively throughout Europe and USA, recorded many solo and cello/piano CD’s and LP’s under the Centaur, PROdigital, and Golden Crest labels. In 1971 he became England’s youngest principal cellist (the London Mozart Players under Harry Blech), then England’s premier chamber orchestra, performing regularly with the ensemble as concerto soloist; during this time he also toured Israel with The London Symphony Orchestra. At the age of twenty-six Cooke was appointed as assistant professor of cello at the University of South Florida, where he also worked as conductor of one of the wind ensembles. Subsequently, he became associate professor of cello in the School of Music at Northwestern University in Chicago, a position he held until 1984, when he relocated to Southern California. In Los Angeles he established himself as one of the luminaries in the Hollywood recording industry, having participated in approximately 1500 movie soundtracks, countless television and record productions, and has composed music for prime time television. His compositions have been published by Kendor, Studio PR, Kjos Music, and CPP Bellwin, Inc. As a founding member of the Charles Ives Trio, Cooke is dedicated to the advancement of Ives’s music and related works. An informal, though intensive background in astronomy also has long accompanied his music; as author of five books on the subject, including the acclaimed Astronomy and the Climate Crisis, Cooke’s astronomical titles are published by the second largest science publisher in the world, Springer. 267