Here’s a musical discovery, music few have heard: the newly-made premiere recording of my Sonata for Violin & Piano, composed 1971-74.

Robert Bonham is a TN pianist who plays in a piano trio which calls itself Trillium, a lovely name. After Trillium performed my trios, Robert kindly inquired about my works for violin & piano, or cello & piano. When he learned that my violin sonata had never been recorded, Robert and his violinist associate Alison Maerker Garner undertook the endeavor.

While, in the sprawling epic of Western civilization, my violin sonata is less consequential than a lightning bug, it’s an important piece for me. In writing of this sonata, especially the final movement, I found my voice, gave myself permission to be myself. It was the last composition of my youth and the first of my maturity, a milestone.

You’ll hear the influences of Hindemith and Bartok in this sonata, a direct quote from Bach’s Invention in D minor and an “Alleluia” we sang in the Lutheran church in which I grew up. You’ll hear it in the high, hovering violin at 1:15. It was an Ivesian way of acknowledging my roots.

Ives is the chiefmost influence in this work: the abrupt changes, the sudden drops and rises from fff to ppp … the feeling of music freely improvised … the quasi-ragtime syncopations … bi-tonality here and there … and a masculine quality.

Ives was a major influence on my character and career … but I think that this is the ONLY piece of mine that shows Ives’ musical influence.

The sonata owes much to Charles Ives; in my early twenties I made a close study of Ives’ life, writings and music. I saw his home in West Reading, CT, visited his grave in Danbury, read his epitaph (from Psalm 108: “Awake, psaltery and harp, and I myself will awake right early.”), met people who had known him, including John Kirkpatrick and Charles Seeger (father of Pete, who looked just like his famous son).

I even got my hair cut by the barber who had trimmed the fringes round the bald pate of Ives’ friend and fellow curmudgeon, Vermont composer Carl Ruggles. The barber told me, laughing, “Carl used to say, ‘I been busy, revisin’ my shit-list.’ And he had one, too! -- a mile long!”

New Englanders. They’re different than Midwesterners.

Late one rainy afternoon, we pulled up at an historic New England village inn, an 18th-century structure with a big front porch. An old timer was ensconced there in a rocking chair; I don’t think he was a guest, just a character who lived in the village. I got out of the car, dashed through the downpour and up the front steps. I nodded at the fellow, friendly-like, the way Midwesterners do. “Think it’s gonna stop raining?” I asked. He regarded me for a moment, then slowly pronounced, “Wahl, it always has.”

All my life I’ve liked ‘old guys.’ And now, at long last, I am one!

The sonata has the tang of lean, late November. A friend observed, “It seems rather sparse compared to your more mature music, more a line drawing than an oil painting.” That’s true. The musical lines are like bare, black branches penciled across a darkling gray sky.

The sonata opens with a probing introduction, marked “coldly.” At 2:26 the music turns lively but never warm.

Then comes the slow middle movement. My later slow movements are lush and neo-Romantic. Not this one. Immature, I felt I must be dispassionate and dark.

I was wary of writing music that was just plain beautiful, let alone light-hearted, bucolic or funny. In those days, I took myself seriously! The second movement is marked “bitterly.” But it’s only 1:44 long.

I hope you aren’t put off by the first two movements. They are a ‘set-up.’ They create a hunger for what the life-affirming third movement offers. Marked “exuberantly,” the third movement conveys most of what the sonata has to say.

After finishing this piece in 1974, having come to understand how Ives had embraced his New Englander identity and expressed it in music, I was ready to embrace and express my own Midwesterner identity.

Ready, yes, but still with much to learn. In those days, I jammed too many good ideas into too short a duration of time. I didn’t much bother with developing my ideas. I can remember watching myself compose, so to speak, congratulating myself as I went along: “Wow! What a great idea! And now, quick, here’s another great idea. And if you thought THAT was a great idea, well, here’s another one and just wait until you hear the one that’s coming up next…”

I would jam twenty ideas into a half-dozen measures.

I exaggerate. But it’s true that I was slow to learn the value of exploring an idea at some length before offering a contrasting idea. Giving an idea enough time to fully blossom is one of the secrets of writing good music in any style and the same goes for prose. When I revised the sonata in 2005, I gave the ideas a little more breathing space.

In these weekly emails I usually share an mp3 of one movement from a mutli-movement work. But this sonata only makes sense when all three movements are heard in sequence. So I’m inviting you to stick with me through all three movements, a 12-minute journey, worthy, I hope, of your time and attention.

For me, hearing this piece so masterfully by Alison Maerker Garner and Robert Bonham is moving, exciting, strange and wonderful. May it be the same for you!

To hear their commanding rendition, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.

I'd love to know what you think about this music; feel free to reply if you're inclined. But please don't feel that you are expected to reply. I'm just glad to share my work in this way.

As always, feel free to forward this message to friends for whom it might be meaningful.

Anyone can be on my little list of recipients for these mpFrees (as I call these musical emails). To sign up, people should email me at rick@sowash.com, sending just one word: "Yes." I'll know what it means.
To unsubscribe, reply “unsubscribe.”

Rick Sowash
Nov. 29, 2020
Cincinnati, OH

🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶

In the story of Western civilization, my violin sonata is almost as consequential as a lightning bug. Still, it’s an important piece for me.

In writing of this sonata, especially the final movement which I want to share with you today, I first demonstrated that I had found my voice as a composer. Which is to say that I gave myself permission to BE myself. Written exactly 50 years ago, my violin sonata was milestone; the last composition of my youth and the first of my maturity.

The music is not audaciously original, arriving from nowhere. It is an extension of the music I had heard and admired up to that time. It continued existing traditions of tonality, melody and style as have the 500+ pieces I’ve written since.

In it, you’ll hear shades of Hindemith and Bartok, but the chiefest influencer is Charles Ives: the abrupt changes ... the sudden drops and rises in the dynamics … the feeling that the music is freely improvised … the quasi-ragtime syncopations … bi-tonality here and there … and a certain aggressive, two-fisted quality.

The sonata has the tang of lean, late November. A friend observed, “It seems rather sparse compared to your more mature music, more a line drawing than an oil painting.” That’s true! The musical lines are like bare, black branches penciled across a darkling gray sky.

It’s a good piece and I am proud of it. Nevertheless it is definitely the work of a young composer who still has much to learn. I had good ideas but I lacked the knack of giving them elbow room, space to breathe.

In those days, I jammed too many good ideas into too short a duration of time. I didn’t much bother with developing my ideas. I can remember congratulating myself: “Wow! What a great idea! And now, quick, here’s another great idea. And if you thought THAT was a great idea, well, here’s another one! And just you wait until you hear the one that’s waiting right around the corner!”

That was me, back then, jamming twenty ideas into a half-dozen measures.

It took me a while to learn the value of exploring an idea at some length before presenting a contrasting idea. Giving an idea enough time to fully blossom is one of the secrets of writing good music. Another is the fashioning of transitions between ideas. You won’t find that here! The ideas, good as they are, bump up against one another, rudely.

The youthful impetuosity of the music can be annoying. But stay with it, please. You’ll see. The music comes to life, sketching a vivid, exuberant personality.

Too, it presages things to come. It is the earliest of my pieces of which I am still proud today, 50 years later. When I hear it, I feel that I am encountering my own ghost, the ghost of myself as I was at 24 when my hair was thick and my beard was thin. I find that I like this young man! I want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to hang in there and all will be well. You may experience a similar impulse!

That is what makes hearing this piece so moving, exciting, strange and wonderful for me. May it be the same for you!

To hear violinist Alison Maerker Garner and pianist Robert Bonham performing with real command and enthusiasm, click on the link above.

There's also a link to a PDF of the score.

I'd love to know what you think about this music; reply if you're inclined. But please don't feel that you are expected to reply. I'm just glad to share my work in this way.

As always, feel free to forward this message to friends who might enjoy it.

Anyone can be on my little list of recipients for these mpFrees (as I call these musical emails). To sign up, people can email me at rick@sowash.com, sending just one word: "Yes." I'll know what it means.

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
Apr. 28, 2024

P.S. Here is something new! All of my recordings are now available through Kickshaw Records.

Please visit their website to purchase CDs of my music for $15 plus shipping.

The latest CD is titled “Voyageurs,” just released, featuring music for clarinet, cello and piano.

Profits from the sale of my CDs partially funds more recordings of my music, an expensive process. You can help!

To buy CDs of my music, copy and paste the link below into your browser:

https://kickshawrecords.com/shop/

🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶

Please forgive the length of this week’s message. Skim if you like!

Today, October 20, is the 150th anniversary of the birthday of Charles Ives! … often cited as America’s greatest composer and my musical hero.

His portrait hangs on the wall of my ‘cubbyhole’ (my study, a little room on our second floor) along with those of Henry Thoreau, Teddy Roosevelt, Odell Shepard, Gandalf and Babar the Elephant. Heroes, one and all!

Ives was tremendously important for me during my early twenties. I listened to recordings of his works and studied all his scores which I could locate. (There was no internet in those days and Ives’ scores were hard to come by.)

In my early twenties I made a close study of Ives’ life, writings and music. I saw his home in West Reading, CT, visited his grave in Danbury, read his epitaph (from Psalm 108: “Awake, psaltery and harp, and I myself will awake right early.”), met people who had known him, including John Kirkpatrick and Charles Seeger (father of Pete, who looked just like his famous son).

I embraced his determination to write music that expressed his authentic self and to fashion his composing career well ‘outside’ the musical establishment of his time.

We both refused to cater to the mainstream musical establishment of our respective times. In Ives’ day, the musical establishment was conservative; thus, much of his music was avant garde. By the 1970’s, when I was coming of age, the musical establishment held that tonal music was dead and was focused on serialism and the likes of Pierre Boulez, Stockhausen and John Cage. Like Ives, I went the opposite direction of the musical establishment of my time; thus, while Ives’ music had often been experimental, my music was conservative, tonal and melodic, extending existing traditions rather than striving to break new ground.

Still, we have much in common, Charlie and me. His music sounds American. So does mine.

We both wrote books and were both inspired by literature and Nature.

Ives gave away his music to anyone whom he thought might be interested in discovering it; I do the same.

We both married once and for keeps. We both supported our families by means of non-musical careers. Oh, and we both sported white beards, wool sweaters and improbable hats.

But there is more to be said.

Ives showed me that you don’t have to be an academic or a music professional or even connected in any way to the world of ’serious’ music … and yet still be a deeply serious composer.

Ives showed me how to be a “regionalist” composer. Almost every piece of his is expressive of the CT he knew … plus a few that are about NY city. He is, to my way of thinking, a “regionalist composer” in the same sense that Willa Cather is a regionalist writer or Grant Wood a regionalist painter. And he is the ONLY such example. What other American composer could be termed a regionalist? Me, yes, sometimes. And why? Because Ives showed me that it could be done. If he was serious about CT, then I could be serious about Ohio. And that proved a wonderful springboard for all the came to me later on.

But it’s deeper than that. Ives was true to CT, but more importantly, he was true to himself, true to his own memories and experiences. He bravely asserted that such could be the ’stuff dreams are made on’ just as much as those of people who lived in the urban centers of Europe. He showed that what you can bring to the table is not limited by where you are from. In fact, he shows that “where you are from” might be a very valuable thing to bring forward artistically.

Ives showed me that humor can be an element of ’serious’ music. He is funniest when he shows us that musical styles, however disparate, can be juxtaposed for a grand effect.

Today I hope to share with you my Sonata for Violin & Piano, composed 1971-74.

Robert Bonham is a TN pianist who plays in a piano trio which calls itself Trillium, a lovely name. After Trillium performed my trios, Robert kindly inquired about my works for violin & piano, or cello & piano. When he learned that my violin sonata had never been recorded, Robert and his violinist associate Alison Maerker Garner undertook to record it.

While, in the sprawling epic of Western civilization, my violin sonata is less consequential than a lightning bug, it’s an important piece for me. In writing this sonata, especially the final movement, I found my voice, gave myself permission to be myself. It was the last composition of my youth and the first of my maturity, a milestone.

In this piece, you’ll hear the influences of Hindemith and Bartok. There’s a direct quote from Bach’s Invention in D minor and an “Alleluia” we sang in the Lutheran church in which I grew up. You’ll hear it in the high, hovering violin at 1:15. It was an Ivesian way of acknowledging my roots.

But the predominant influence is Ives. You’ll hear it in the abrupt changes, the sudden swings from very loud to very soft … the free, improvisatory character of the music … the quasi-ragtime syncopations … the occasional ventures into bi-tonality … and a certain masculine quality.

I dedicated this piece to Ives and, in writing this piece, I re-paid my debt to him.

The sonata has the tang of late Autumn. A friend observed, “It seems rather sparse compared to your more mature music, more a line drawing than an oil painting.” That’s true. The musical lines are like bare, black branches penciled across a darkling gray sky.

The sonata opens with a probing introduction, marked “coldly.” At 2:26 the music turns lively but never warm.

Then comes the slow middle movement. Many of my later slow movements are lush and neo-Romantic. Not this one. I felt I must be DIS-passionate and dark.

I was still wary of writing music that was just plain beautiful, let alone light-hearted, bucolic or funny. In those days, I took myself seriously! The second movement is marked “bitterly.” But don’t worry; it’s only 1:44 long.

I hope you aren’t put off by the first two movements. They are a ‘set-up’ for the life-affirming music that follows. Marked “exuberantly,” the third movement contains most of what the sonata “has to say.”

After finishing this piece in 1974, having come to understand how Ives had embraced his New Englander identity and expressed it in music, I was ready to embrace and express my own Midwesterner identity.

Ready, yes, but still with much to learn. In those days, I jammed too many good ideas into too short a duration of time. I didn’t much bother with developing my ideas. I can remember congratulating myself as I went along: “Wow! What a great idea! And now, quick, here’s another great idea. And if you thought THAT was a great idea, well, here’s another one and just wait until you hear the one that’s coming up next…”

I would jam a dozen “great” ideas into a half-dozen measures, as Ives sometimes does.

I was slow to learn the value of exploring a single idea length before offering a contrasting idea. One of the secrets of writing good music in any style is to allow an idea time to fully blossom. By the time I revised the sonata in 2005, I had learned to insert a little more “breath” between ideas.

In these weekly emails I usually share an mp3 of a single movement from a multi-movement work. But this sonata only makes sense when all three movements are heard in sequence. So I’m inviting you to stick with me through all three movements. I beg 12-minutes of your time.

For me, hearing this piece played so masterfully by Alison Maerker Garner and Robert Bonham is moving, exciting, strange and wonderful. I hope that it will be the same for you!