Every page, practically every phrase, of the Concord Sonata, represents something.  The listener will miss almost all of the specific allusions unless they are pointed out.  Charles Ives was concerned with this problem; he started his Essays Before a Sonata with this: “How far is anyone justified, be he an authority or a layman, in expressing or trying to express in terms of music (in sounds, if you like) the value of anything, material, moral, intellectual, or spiritual, which is usually expressed in terms other than music? How far afield can music go and keep honest as well as reasonable or artistic?”  The problem is a philosophical one – what is “justified” in music – an issue that concerned scholars of his time.  But it is also a practical issue.  The music is so full of allusions, intentional and perhaps unintentional, that it has quite a different effect depending on whether you recognize the allusion or not.  If not, the effect can be, as one of my very young students noted, “gibberish.” But if you do follow the train of thought, the effect is profoundly moving.

I will try to use this blog to share the sources of my amazement and emotional reaction to the incredibly complicated narrative which is the Concord Sonata.  I do not intend “the legend of the true Concord Sonata” (as we plan to visit Arezzo in a week) but will present instead my personal, biased view, based on the threads of the narrative that have most meaning for me.  This selective process is a necessary part of interpretation, an art which is in decline in our profession, at least amongst the students, I feel.

I happened to take that picture with my phone in my hometown of Sheffield, Mass. last month during a visit with my father.  The line of those mountains has a way of embedding itself in your subconscious if you see it every day. Now it’s August; I am remembering the perfect Sheffield summer afternoons years ago – riding a bike crazily down the steep hill from the spot of the picture – Chapin’s Hill.

My identity is not there, however. It’s also not lower-East-Side Manhattan, where I was born and lived until age 10. Also not Ukraine, where I live in the summer and where my grandfather was from. If anything, I am a rootless cosmopolitan….