Leonard Bernstein, in this enlightening Young People’s Concert, masterfully unveils the enigmatic world of Charles Ives, not merely as a composer, but as a true American Pioneer in music. Imagine hearing a piece of music so unconventional, so strikingly different, that it defies categorization. Would you attribute it to an avant-garde composer from another planet, the untamed creativity of a child, or perhaps an orchestra improvising on the spot? Bernstein posits that you, the astute listener, might recognize its modernity, placing it amongst the daring experiments of contemporary young composers. However, the revelation is startling: the composer is not only far from new but has long passed – Charles Ives, who penned the piece over half a century prior, at the dawn of the 20th century, predating the groundbreaking works of Schoenberg and Stravinsky.
At a time when the label “radical modern music” was applied to the relatively tame innovations of Debussy, Ravel, and Richard Strauss – composers now considered pillars of tradition – Ives, a Connecticut native, was already venturing into uncharted musical territories. His compositions were perplexing, technically demanding, and largely unappreciated. Yet, this lack of recognition only fueled his creative fire, each subsequent piece becoming more audacious and revolutionary than the last. Was Ives eccentric? Perhaps, in the most complimentary sense. A successful businessman in insurance, Ives channeled his primary energy into composing music – works like the whimsical piece we just experienced, aptly titled “The Gong on the Hook and Ladder or, Firemen’s Parade on Main Street.”
Even the title itself hints at a playful, perhaps slightly irreverent, spirit. But it’s crucial to understand that Ives embodied both genius and the spirit of a pioneer – qualities often perceived as bordering on madness, yet a beneficial form of it. Consider the early American pioneers who fearlessly traversed westward across an untamed continent, facing untold hardships. Ives shared their adventurous spirit; he was a musical pioneer, undeterred by convention or expectation.
To truly grasp Ives’ essence, we must recognize that the spirit of adventure is fundamentally intertwined with the spirit of play, a sheer delight in the act of creation for its own sake.
The concept of “fun” is often undervalued, yet it is profoundly relevant to music, just as it is to exhilarating experiences like roller coasters or swimming. Once we acknowledge the pivotal role of “fun” in Ives’ creative process, his music resonates with newfound clarity. The seemingly chaotic “Firemen’s Parade,” with its simultaneous layers of contrasting rhythms, becomes comprehensible. Why this bewildering mix? Because it’s fun.
Moreover, if the objective is to musically depict a Firemen’s Parade bursting down Main Street, complete with the clangorous gong of a fire engine, what better approach than to capture the cacophony and jubilant disarray through a multiplicity of rhythms colliding at once?
And what of the notes themselves, those jarring dissonances? They too contribute to the “fun,” to the overall exuberant commotion. This playful spirit also clarifies the sudden, unexpected emergence of the familiar, innocent melody of “My Darlin’ Clementine” amidst the chaos.
The parade concludes abruptly, like a damp squib. Ives intended this anticlimactic ending – a deliberate “blah.” Why? Perhaps rain dispersed the crowd, or maybe it was all a fleeting dream leaving us slightly disoriented. Ultimately, it’s Ives indulging in playful subversion, defying expectations, even playfully mocking his audience – who, in his time, were largely absent anyway, as his pieces were deemed virtually unplayable. In fact, as Bernstein notes, the performance just given might have been the first concert hall rendition of “The Gong on the Hook and Ladder.”
It’s important not to mistake Ives’ music solely for jest and lightheartedness, as exemplified by “The Gong on the Hook and Ladder.”
He composed four substantial symphonies, over a hundred songs, and a deeply introspective piano sonata of epic proportions – a vast and varied oeuvre. Yet, irrespective of the gravity of the work, this element of “fun” permeates his compositions – whether manifested in quirky rhythms, dissonant harmonies, surprise endings, or his distinctive technique of incorporating musical quotations. These quotations span a vast spectrum, from “My Darlin’ Clementine” to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Brahms’ First, bugle calls, ragtime, and “Swanee River.”
Again, it’s the spirit of play – a playful engagement with music, both his own and others’. In the subsequent piece, the decidedly serious “Washington’s Birthday,” listeners will discern at least five such quotations, all evoking a sense of cozy, old-fashioned Americana.
This penchant for musical quotation is deeply rooted in Ives’ biography. Born and raised in Danbury, Connecticut, he remained a countryman at heart throughout his life, even after his business career led him to New York City. He cherished his Connecticut roots and the unadorned simplicity of small-town life. The sonic tapestry of his childhood – local marching bands, barn dances with fiddles and fifes, hymns, patriotic anthems, sentimental ballads, and folk melodies – profoundly influenced his musical language. Regardless of how avant-garde, adventurous, intricate, or “modernistic” his music became, echoes of his formative musical experiences persisted. This imbues much of Ives’ music with a poignant sweetness, particularly when juxtaposed with his radical sonic innovations. “Washington’s Birthday” perfectly encapsulates this duality: simultaneously mysterious and nostalgic, yet imbued with his characteristic playfulness.
Conceived as the opening movement of a holiday symphony, encompassing Decoration Day, the Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving – all quintessentially American holidays – “Washington’s Birthday” stands out as particularly compelling. While all movements are noteworthy, “Washington’s Birthday” possesses a unique intensity.
The piece commences somberly, with hushed, wintry murmurings from muted strings. Almost immediately, a quintessential Ivesian quote emerges – a French horn intoning “Swanee River,” remarkably out of context.
Or rather, almost “Swanee River.” It’s a “peculiar” quote because it’s not a direct, unaltered citation. It’s akin to “Swanee River” but rendered in a drooping, melancholic manner, like a hazy, distant memory. This subdued winter tableau gradually swells in intensity – not into a literal depiction of winter with howling winds, but rather an internalized, psychological portrayal of winter’s grayness, somberness, difficulty, and inflexibility. Suddenly, the mood shifts dramatically as a spirited barn dance erupts, launching into a lively Quadrille.
Within this dance section, a profusion of “peculiar” quotes unfolds. The familiar sailor’s hornpipe surfaces:
Then, the widely recognized “Camptown Races”:
Each quote subtly altered, “peculiar” as Bernstein notes. And then, the barn dance staple, “Turkey-in-the-Straw”:
Again, rendered distinctively Ivesian. Next, the most audacious juxtaposition: a medley of old-time Irish reels, commencing with “The Campbells Are Coming” – of Scottish origin, but embraced nonetheless – performed by a horn and, remarkably, a Jew’s Harp. The Jew’s harp, Bernstein clarifies, is misnamed; it is a “Jaw’s harp,” played between the teeth, its sound produced by plucking a metal tab.
Only a composer of Charles Ives’ singular imagination could conceive of this improbable pairing: horn and Jew’s Harp, playing “The Campbells Are Coming” deliberately out of tune and rhythm, while the rest of the orchestra plunges into its own barn dance frenzy. It’s a sonic riot.
“Crazy?” Bernstein anticipates. “It gets even crazier,” culminating in a quintessential Ivesian sonic explosion, abruptly yielding to silence. A sentimental, unidentifiable melody emerges, behind which, in a contrasting key, a solitary fiddle hauntingly recalls “Turkey in the Straw.” Finally, to the strains of “Good-Night, Ladies,” the entire dreamlike vision dissipates into the winter darkness. “You see, it was a dream,” Bernstein concludes, “all Ives’ pieces are dreams, dreams of childhood and a vanished world.” He expresses confidence that the audience will appreciate “Washington’s Birthday.”
“An extraordinary piece, Washington’s Birthday,” Bernstein declares, venturing to call it “a great one,” perhaps even Ives’ masterpiece – intensely personal, profoundly mysterious, and utterly unique. Remarkably, like his major works, it was composed over half a century prior. Though Ives lived until 1954, nearly 80 years old, his compositional output largely ceased around 1916, save for a few songs and minor pieces in the 1920s. The strain of balancing a demanding business career with his fervent musical passion took its toll. Thus, the fact that “Washington’s Birthday,” a piece that sounds remarkably contemporary, was composed as early as 1913 is all the more astonishing.
To offer contrast, Bernstein introduces an early Ives piece, “Circus Band March,” written at the youthful age of twenty in 1894.
“This one is pure fun,” Bernstein states. “Ives isn’t attempting to convey Puritanical character or the enigma of nature. It is precisely what the title suggests: A Circus Band March.” This spirited and zesty march exists in two versions: one purely orchestral and another with a chorus singing Ives’ own whimsical lyrics. The orchestral version is chosen, as Bernstein quips, understanding choral lyrics amidst a blaring circus band would be challenging.
“And now here comes The Circus Band.”
As evident, Ives possessed a rich vein of humor. However, Bernstein emphasizes, performing Ives’ compositions is no trivial matter. They are exceptionally challenging, even for the esteemed New York Philharmonic. Performing multiple Ives pieces consecutively is particularly demanding. To allow the orchestra respite, a brief interlude is introduced – a song by Ives for voice and piano. Some consider Ives’ songwriting to be his pinnacle of achievement; he composed over a hundred songs, and the chosen piece, “Lincoln, The Great Commoner,” is deemed a magnificent accomplishment. It transcends a conventional song structure; it is a monumental, awe-inspiring edifice. Through this song about Lincoln, our understanding of Ives deepens. We recognize him not only as the composer of “The Gong,” celebrating his hometown of Danbury, Connecticut.
Nor only as the composer of “Washington’s Birthday,” celebrating New England and nature’s grandeur. But now, we see Ives as a patriot, deeply devoted to his country. This patriotic thread permeates his music, mirroring the poetry of Walt Whitman. Indeed, Ives and Whitman share striking parallels – a similar boundless energy, vitality, humor, and youthful exuberance. However, Ives expanded musical language further than Whitman with words, forging a uniquely personal musical idiom, as “Lincoln, The Great Commoner” will demonstrate. It will also feature Ives’ characteristic “peculiar” quotes, this time drawn from patriotic songs – “The Star-Spangled Banner,” “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean,” “Glory, Glory Hallelujah,” “America,” and others.
Bernstein engages the audience in identifying these disguised patriotic tunes.
AD LIB AND PLAY AGAIN (Audience participation) “Which one is this?”
AD LIB AND PLAY AGAIN (Audience participation) “And how about this one?”
Bernstein anticipates potential misinterpretations of Ives’ treatment of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” “You may not think it very patriotic to treat The Star-Spangled Banner that way; but from Ives’ point of view it was intensely patriotic.” He clarifies that Ives wasn’t mocking the anthem but enriching it, infusing it with his own profound musical sentiments. The song’s conclusion directly quotes the National Anthem, albeit less dissonantly, modulating keys mid-phrase.
But Ives’ inventiveness persists to the very last chord. A conventional ending is insufficient.
He subtly introduces a soft dissonant chord
underneath the grand final chord, so that upon the grand chord’s resolution,
the soft dissonance lingers. “And that’s how the song ends – on a note of mystery again. What an amazing mind that Ives had!”
To perform this monumental song, Bernstein introduces Mr. Simon Estes, a celebrated bass-baritone. Before Mr. Estes begins, Bernstein recites the Edwin Markham poem set to music in “Lincoln, The Great Commoner,” allowing the audience to fully immerse themselves in the music.
“And so he came from the prairie cabin to the Capitol One fair ideal led our chieftain on He built the rail pile as he built the State The conscience testing every stroke, To make his deed the measure of the man So came our Captain with the mighty heart And when the step of earthquake shook the house, Wrenching rafters from their ancient hold.”
— at this point, Bernstein emphasizes Ives’ dramatic musical depiction, with the pianist pounding chords with fists (SHOW) — continuing the poem:
“And when the step of earthquake shook the house, Wrenching rafters from their ancient hold, He held the ridge-pole up and spiked again The rafters of the Home he held his place — He held the long purpose like a growing tree Held on thro’ blame and faltered not at praise And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down As when a Kingly cedar green with boughs Goes down with a great shout, upon the hills!”
“Now here is Mr. Estes to sing Lincoln, The Great Commoner”
Simon Estes, bass-baritone Leonard Bernstein, piano
“Now that was an earful,” Bernstein acknowledges. “I hope it wasn’t too much for you. But you must never forget that pioneering genius that was Charles Ives; his spirit of adventure, and of play, took him way beyond the borders of us ordinary mortals.” For the concluding piece, Ives’ most renowned work, “The Unanswered Question,” is presented. “I don’t know if it’s famous enough for you to have heard it, but it’s one Ives work that is played and known all over the world.” This concise piece transcends local Connecticut scenes, venturing beyond America to the cosmos itself. Ives grapples with profound existential questions: “why do we exist?”
Ives entrusts this question to a solo trumpet, which poses it six times.
Each time, a response, or an attempted response, emanates from a group of woodwinds. The initial response is vague and slow; subsequent responses become progressively faster, culminating in a frantic, almost unintelligible outburst by the sixth. These woodwinds, Ives suggests, represent human answers, growing increasingly impatient and desperate, ultimately losing coherence. Throughout this dialogue, the strings maintain their own independent musical discourse – infinitely soft, slow, sustained, unchanging, unaffected by the trumpet’s question and the woodwinds’ responses. The strings, Bernstein elucidates, symbolize the vast, unchanging galaxy, slowly revolving as we pose questions and seek answers. Regardless of our efforts, the stars continue their celestial dance, unperturbed and indifferent. Finally, the trumpet poses the question for the seventh time, eliciting no response – only the silent, slow motion of the universe.
“What an idea for a piece of music!” Bernstein exclaims. Anticipating the question, “But what has happened to that spirit of play, that adventure you talked about?” He responds, “Oh, but what a spirit of play there is in this piece!” He emphasizes the audaciousness of conceiving two simultaneous, independent musical layers, divorced in time, rhythm, and key. This concept, now explored by contemporary composers, was conceived in 1908 – nearly sixty years prior.
“Ives was our first great american composer pioneer.” “All alone in his Connecticut barn Ives created his own private musical revolution, whose rumblings are only now beginning to be understood.” These “rumblings,” about to be heard, are intentionally subdued. “In fact we are breaking the hallowed tradition of the concert hall by ending our program with a soft slow piece. But if Ives could pioneer, so can we: it’s all in the spirit of adventure.”
END
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