Charles Ives: A Life with Music (Paperback)

In his early years, Ives was a one-man dynamo. Learning much of his music theory and practice from his father George Ives, who had been a very young (perhaps the youngest) Civil War band leader, and then from Horatio Parker at Yale University, he had more than a "thorough grounding" in the basics. However, unlike most American composers, particularly those of his and the following generation, he did not go to Europe for a post-grad internship with any known European composer, but simply set out on his own after matriculating from Yale. He went to New York City, employed as an insurance clerk for one full-time job, wrote music constantly for another full-time job, and had yet another career, had he wanted it, as organist and choir director for the Central Presbyterian Church in New York. During this period – leading up to his marriage in 1908 – he literally burned the candle at both ends. (Swafford goes on, later in the book, to posit why Charlie had this incredible burst of energy for the first 15 or 20 years of his adult life, but it’s best that his reasons for this – and for Ives’s shortened composing career – be left to you, the potential reader.)

Most anyone who knows anything about Ives knows that he became comfortably wealthy in the insurance industry, that during his active composing days little of his music was played by anyone, and that he was – literally and figuratively – burned out by the time he was only 40. For the remaining half of his life, much of it was spent editing, publishing and promoting his music and the music of others, including many friends, using the proceeds from his insurance success to underwrite projects for many composers who would have gone unnoted had it not been for him. Musical success – unlike business success – came too late in life for him to truly enjoy at least its artistic, if not financial, rewards. He was in his last years when Leonard Bernstein premiered his Second Symphony, and never lived to hear his masterpiece – his Fourth Symphony – premiered by Leopold Stokowski in 1965. Despite this, he was far from an unhappy man in his later years; philosophically resigned yet optimistic that his day might yet come would be the more accurate description.

Swafford’s writing is simply wonderful. It tells the story of a true American iconoclast; an “original.” The narrative flows beautifully without omitting anything of significance in Ives’s life or about his music. (The book contains nearly 80 pages of endnotes, in which the musical marginalia are explained in exhaustive, but emminently readable, detail, to preserve the flow of the main narrative.) In parts, it is incredibly moving. I particularly enjoyed the extended “mating dance” of his courting of Harmony Twichell, who was to become his life-long helpmate (and who did live long enough to attend the Stokowski premiere of his masterpiece, as the guest of honor). Ives, ever the Victorian man if something else as a composer, would always refer to her, to third parties, as “Mrs. Ives.” Yet their fifty years together could be a model for today’s dysfunctional families. A beautiful chapter; one of the best in the book.

There’s a curiously cryptic endnote that suggests a “what might have been.” It is a fact that very little of Ives’s music saw public performance before the early 30’s, when Nicholas Slonimsky championed Ives and other “moderns.” Yet another two decades were to pass until Bernstein premiered the Second Symphony. Yet, in 1910, while shopping in a music store in preparation for his final return to Vienna, where he would die in less than a year’s time, Gustav Mahler purchased a fair copy – one of only two or three in existence – of Ives’s Third Symphony. Swafford doesn’t make that big a deal about this, but I do. I’ve always thought that Ives and Mahler, aside from being near-contemporaries, had more in common than they did in opposition. It is just conjecture – but truly fascinating conjecture – to think what might have happened had Mahler premiered Ives’s Third Symphony at a time in the life of Ives when it really might have made a difference.

Just what was Ives, as a composer? Bernstein did him no favors by calling him “a primitive; a Grandma Moses of music” while at the same time championing his music. Back in those days, there were no labels like “atonalist,” “serialist,” “avant-gardist,” “post-modernist,” what-have-you, that we tend to use today to compartmentalize a composer. To me, Ives was, well… an iconoclast, an “original,” and, if a label must be applied, our first “pre-post-modern.” He was never imitated, at least not successfully, not only because he didn’t have his own students as did other composers, but because by the time his music enjoyed sufficient – if not plentiful – performances, composers’ agendas were different.

Fortunately audiences think differently, and do enjoy Charlie’s music. And you will enjoy this book.