Long before Aaron Copland penned his ballet music to Appalachian Spring and Rodeo, well-known works that critics lauded as having established a uniquely “American” sound in music, there was another American composer growing up in rural Connecticut—listening to the village bands playing in the town square and singing hymns and Civil War-era songs around the campfire. The son of a Union Army bandmaster, Charles Ives was born in 1874, two years before Brahms finished his first symphony. His earliest exposure to music came via his bandmaster father, a full-time musician who played, taught, conducted, and organized virtually every musical endeavor in the town of Danbury. Ives’ father was an unorthodox innovator who was known to mount various musical “experiments,” such as stationing bands at opposite ends of the town square and having them play different pieces in different keys as they marched toward and past each other—just to see how it sounded. He also embraced amateur musicians. Ives remembered he and his father hearing an old stonemason singing hymns off-key, and his father advising him to "Look into his face and hear the music of the ages. Don't pay too much attention to the sounds—for if you do, you may miss the music.” It was an open-minded approach that embraced the idea that anyone and everyone could make music, and that music played on a poorly tuned country fiddle in the town square was just as legitimate as music played on a Stradivarius in a gilded concert hall. Ives grew up believing that music was for everyone and that no sounds were “off limits,” and during his almost 80 years, alongside a steady output of more traditional songs, he produced some of the most unique, unexpected, experimental, forward-thinking, fearless, and thoroughly “American” music the world had ever seen.

Beginning music lessons with his father at the age of five, Ives would eventually turn his attention to the organ as his primary instrument, becoming the youngest salaried church organist in Connecticut at age 14. It was also around this time that he began composing—marches, church songs, fiddle tunes—the type of music he had grown up with. At age 17, he composed a larger-scale work for organ, the innovative Variations on “America”, which he penned for a Fourth of July celebration by his employer, the Methodist church in Brewster, New York. Ives performed the variations in local churches while still a teen and continued tinkering with them throughout adulthood. Variations on “America,” which Ives later described as "but a boy's work, partly serious and partly in fun,” is a witty, somewhat irreverent set of variations on the popular tune “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,” which was at the time considered the de facto national anthem of the United States. It is a precocious work, showing that even at the age of 17, Ives was already experimenting with polytonality (composing music in two different keys simultaneously). Although incredibly proud of his son’s work, his father apparently once forbade Ives to perform some of the polytonal variations in church, saying, “They upset the elderly ladies and make the little boys laugh and get noisy!” Variations on “America” was not published until 1948, after the organist E. Power Biggs discovered and recorded it. In 1962, the composer William Schuman transcribed the work for orchestra, and the orchestral version was premiered by the New York Philharmonic in 1964.

The work opens with a jolly introduction that incorporates snippets of the famous tune. Not long into it, Ives takes a few surprising “left turns” harmonically, as if to give us a hint of what is to come. The introduction is followed by a solemn presentation of “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” in the brass, accompanied by pizzicato strings. We are then treated to five wildly disparate variations on the tune. Like circus acts following one after the other, we are treated to frenzied woodwinds, barbershop quartet-style writing, a variation that veers far astray into polytonality before morphing into a quirky waltz, Spanish castanets, cornet acrobatics, and a rousing conclusion. The writing is flamboyant, grandiose, charming, and above all, incredibly creative and skillful. The short work ends before we’ve had time to fully digest what we’re hearing and inevitably leaves the audience wanting more.

Ives would go on to compose over 700 works, including six symphonies, smaller orchestral works, chamber music, keyboard music, and choral music, all while enjoying a highly successful career in the insurance business. (Ives & Myrick would become the largest insurance agency in the country, generating enormous profits.) Despite his enviable business success, however, Ives’ music remained virtually unknown. In the late 1920s, composers Henry Cowell and Aaron Copland began to promote Ives’ music, but live performances were rare. Finally, in 1947, Ives was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in Music for his Third Symphony, a work that he had finished in 1910, and in 1951, Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic gave the world premiere of Ives’ First Symphony, a work he had begun in 1898. Broader recognition had just begun when Ives died in 1954.

In many ways, the music world is still getting to know Charles Ives, whose wildly creative approach to composing was decades ahead of its time. Undeterred by years of toiling in obscurity and having his music rejected as incomprehensible, Ives had soldiered on, showing what Aaron Copland called “the courage of a lion.” He is perhaps best summed up in the words of composer Arnold Schoenberg, whose music was known worldwide. After Schoenberg’s death in 1951, his widow found a note in his desk where Schoenberg had written, “There is a great Man living in this Country—a composer. He has solved the problem of how to preserve one's self-esteem and to learn. He responds to negligence by contempt. He is not forced to accept praise or blame. His name is Ives.”

The music of the “common folk” has long been a source of inspiration for composers. As far back as the 1700s, Baroque composers like J. S. Bach composed music based on the rhythms of German folk dances. Chopin and Liszt continued that tradition into the 19th century, composing mazurkas, polonaises, and rhapsodies based on the rhythms and spirit of Polish and Hungarian folk music. Tchaikovsky and Mussorgsky evoked the sounds of Slavic folk music in their compositions, while Bartók traveled extensively throughout Eastern Europe, researching and recording folk tunes, then using them as inspiration for his own compositions. Antonín Dvořák, whose Slavonic Dances were among his earliest and most successful publications, famously advised American composers to look to the music of the “new world” for inspiration. His “New World” Symphony, composed in 1893 during his stint as the director of a newly established National Conservatory of Music in New York, was heavily influenced by both Native American and African American folk music.

It was not unusual, therefore, that early-20th-century composer William L. Dawson turned to the folk music of Black Americans for inspiration for his first symphony. What was unusual was that Dawson himself was a Black American, composing in an era where the color of his skin would have disqualified him from consideration as a “serious composer” by all but the most progressive members of the art music community. Fortunately, famed conductor Leopold Stokowski was such a member, and it was through his advocacy that Dawson’s Negro Folk Symphony was premiered by the New York Philharmonic in 1934. Dawson thereby became the third Black composer to have their music performed by a major American Orchestra in only a few short years, following William Grant Still, whose Afro-American Symphony was premiered by the Rochester Philharmonic in 1931, and Florence B. Price, whose Symphony in E Minor was performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in 1933.

Born in 1899 in Anniston, Alabama, Dawson was the first of seven children and showed an early aptitude for music and academics. He was educated at Booker T. Washington’s famed Tuskegee Institute, graduating in 1921. He went on to become the first Black student to receive a bachelor’s degree from the Horner Institute of Fine Arts in Kansas City, Missouri, and then earned a master’s degree in composition from the American Conservatory of Music in Chicago. He returned to the Tuskegee Institute in 1930 as a faculty member, where he served for 35 years. Under Dawson’s leadership, the Tuskegee Institute Choir quickly achieved national acclaim, and in 1932, the choir spent six weeks in New York City, performing in gala concerts marking the opening of Radio City Music Hall. It was there that Dawson met Stokowski, who expressed an interest in performing Dawson’s music. The symphony that he had begun during his time in Chicago in the 1920s was completed, and in 1934, Stokowski conducted four performances of the work, three at Philadelphia’s Academy of Music and one at Carnegie Hall, with one concert broadcast nationwide on the radio. At each performance, the reception was extraordinary, with audiences breaking protocol to applaud at the end of movements and giving a standing ovation at the conclusion of each performance. Black and white critics alike gave the work glowing reviews, and it seemed as if the symphony would quickly find a home among the standard orchestral repertoire. Unfortunately, that was not to happen. The excitement over the work faded, it lapsed into obscurity, and Dawson never composed another symphony, despite living to age 91. It is only in the 21st century that the work has been resurrected, finding new and equally enthusiastic audiences.

Giving each of its three movements a descriptive title, Dawson wrote that his symphony was “symbolic of the link uniting Africa and her rich heritage with her descendants in America.” In his own program note, he wrote, “The themes are taken from what are popularly known as Negro Spirituals. In this composition, the composer has employed three themes taken from typical melodies over which he has brooded since childhood, having learned them at his mother’s knee.” Interestingly, the spirituals he chose are not among today’s most well-known: “Oh, My Little Soul Gwine Shine Like a Star,” “O Le’Me Shine,” and “Hallelujah, Lord, I Been Down into the Sea.” Yet, they were clearly dear to Dawson’s heart and infuse the symphony with the musical DNA of 1930s Black America. They are not the whole story, however, as the extraordinary work is primarily original material that paints a vivid and often searing portrait of the African American experience.

The powerful first movement, The Bond of Africa, opens with a solemn horn solo. Despite utilizing syncopated rhythms commonly found in spirituals, there is a somewhat ominous tone to the introduction. Dawson wrote, “a link was taken out of a human chain when the first African was taken from the shores of his native land and sent to slavery.” The tragedy of this “missing link” is front and center in this searing music. The solo horn returns to introduce the main body of the movement, upbeat music that vacillates between agitation and jubilation with nods to the rhythms of ragtime. Chattering woodwinds trade tunes, punctuated by lively brass and percussion, until the brass section shuts down the party with the opening “missing link” music, as if to remind us of the tragedy of slavery. The solemn music and the upbeat music trade off as the movement continues, constantly interrupting each other and culminating in a ferocious, full-orchestra statement of the “missing link” theme. A final burst of full-orchestra energy brings the fierce movement to a stunning close.

Opening with ominous harp and percussion, the second movement, Hope in the Night, features plodding strings underpinning a plaintive solo for the English horn. Dawson wrote that he intended to depict the “atmosphere of the humdrum life of a people whose bodies were baked by the sun and lashed with the whip for two hundred and fifty years; whose lives were proscribed before they were born,” adding that “the English horn sings a melody that describes the characteristics, hopes, and longings of a Folk held in darkness.” The heartbreaking melody builds to a searing climax, before, as in the first movement, a contrasting, carefree section begins. Dawson wrote, “The children, unmindful of the heavy cadences of despair, sing and play; but even in their world of innocence, there is a little wail, a brief note of sorrow.” If this is the “hope” in the movement’s title, the respite is short-lived, as the remainder of the powerful movement is devoted to the enormous weight of “the night,” with closing moments that are positively shattering.

The final movement, O Le’Me Shine, Shine Like a Morning Star!, offers a rebirth of sorts. Introduced by solo oboe, bassoon, and clarinet, the music quickly grows agitated, as if we are being propelled upward from the darkness of the previous movement toward a lighter place. Snippets of melody are tossed back and forth in a complex rhythmic texture that is constantly gaining momentum. Dawson revised this movement substantially after a trip to West Africa in 1952, and the intricate rhythms of African percussion inspired the highly virtuosic writing. The restless movement careens relentlessly forward, culminating in a thunderous finale.

Today, as this powerful work is finally garnering the attention it deserves, we can acknowledge not only Dawson’s extraordinary gifts as a composer but also the unique impact of his Black American experience on the music. Prior to its premiere in 1932, Dawson was interviewed about the work, noting, “I’ve not tried to imitate Beethoven or Brahms, Franck, or Ravel—but to be just myself, a Negro. To me, the finest compliment that could be paid my symphony when it has its premiere is that it unmistakably is not the work of a white man. I want the audience to say: ‘Only a Negro could have written that.’”

Indeed—and 21st-century audiences are grateful for the opportunity to hear it at last.

There is perhaps nothing that tickles audiences more than watching those they hold in high esteem show their humorous sides. Whether it’s a CEO opening a speech with a self-deprecating joke or the Pope wearing a baseball cap, people love to feel that their heroes have a sense of humor. The music world has its own share of jokesters. Consider Mozart’s “A Musical Joke” for string quartet and two horns, purposefully composed with compositional “errors,” or Haydn’s “Farewell Symphony,” where the players were told to slowly leave the stage one by one (in hopes of gently alerting the king that the court orchestra was tired and wanted to go home), or Erik Satie’s Three Pieces in the Form of a Pear, which legend says were composed as a response to Debussy telling Satie that he needed to “pay more attention to form” in his music. Add to this list one of Brahms’ most beloved overtures. Faced with composing a work for the most pompous of university ceremonies, Brahms responded with a boisterous survey of student drinking songs, the Academic Festival Overture.

Although Brahms never attended university, he did spend one glorious summer at age 20 in Göttingen, where he joined his friend, the violinist Joseph Joachim, and enrolled in the local university’s classes on philosophy and history. For two months, Brahms and Joachim immersed themselves not only in their academic studies, but also in the rowdy camaraderie of the local students. Beer-fueled debates and late-night song fests complemented their intellectual pursuits, and Brahms reportedly thoroughly enjoyed all aspects of his “university experience.” Those memories resurfaced 26 years later, when Brahms received notice that the University of Breslau intended to award him an honorary doctorate, proclaiming him “the foremost composer of serious music in Germany.” Flattered, Brahms sent a casual note of thanks to the university faculty, remarking that he hoped to get to Breslau soon to enjoy a few “doctoral beers.” Shortly after sending his note, he was contacted by a friend at the University who strongly suggested that the appropriate way to express his gratitude would be for Brahms to compose something fitting for the occasion. The following summer, while on vacation, Brahms finally sat down to write his musical thank you. Although the University had unabashedly asked for a full symphony, what they got was a glorious ten-minute overture that anyone in attendance would certainly have recognized as a tongue-in-cheek tribute to the “after-hours” joys of student life.

There is an atmosphere of anticipation as the overture opens with hushed strings presenting a rhythmic statement drawn from one of Brahms’ favorite marches, the Rákóczi March. This introductory material grows in intensity, culminating in a bold, full-orchestra statement. There is a sudden pause, then the trumpets announce the first of the student songs, “Wir hatten gebauet ein stattliches Haus (We Have Built a Stately House).” This tune originated in the East German town of Jena as a protest song after the student union there was forcibly disbanded 60 years prior. The tune was still considered quite controversial and would definitely have been perceived as a somewhat “pro-student” and “anti-establishment” statement by Brahms. A return to the opening march music provides an interlude before the introduction of another student song, “Alles schweige! Jeder neige (Everyone Be Silent).” This tune was traditionally sung by students as part of a ceremony where they pledged their loyalty to Germany. Brahms excerpts part of the melody in a lush presentation by the upper strings. The atmosphere takes a decidedly rowdier turn when the bassoons suddenly announce the third student song, a freshman hazing tune called “Fuchslied (Song of the Fox).” Similar to the English tune “A-Hunting We Will Go,” it is a boisterous melody that would have been immediately recognized by the full student body, as well as the faculty in attendance. What follows is a magnificent development section where all three tunes are interspersed with the opening march music in a gorgeous amalgamation that could only have been conceived by Brahms. This glorious mélange leads directly to the grand finale, a magisterial presentation of “Gaudeamus igitur,” a traditional graduation day melody (and common drinking song) whose opening line is, "Let us rejoice, therefore, while we are young." With ceremonial brass, swirling strings, and powerful percussion, Brahms puts a triumphant exclamation point on this humorous homage to youth, student life, and those glorious early years where anything and everything seems possible.

Named Musical America’s 2020 Composer of the Year, Joan Tower is regarded as one of America’s most important living composers, with works that have been commissioned and performed by major orchestras, chamber ensembles, and soloists worldwide. Her compositions have garnered GRAMMY® Awards, the prestigious Grawemeyer Award for Music Composition, and in 2019, she was awarded the League of American Orchestras’ highest honor, the Gold Baton. When she began her career in 1968, however, those kinds of accolades were virtually unheard of for a woman.

Following the breakthrough success of her 1981 orchestral work Sequoia, Tower became composer-in-residence with the Saint Louis Symphony Orchestra, where then-Music Director Leonard Slatkin became her champion. Other residencies included a ten-year residency with the Orchestra of St. Luke's (1997-2007) and the Pittsburgh Symphony (2010-2011). She was the Albany Symphony’s Mentor Composer partner in the 2013-2014 season. Tower was co-founder and pianist for the Naumburg Award-winning Da Capo Chamber Players from 1970-1985. She has received honorary doctorates from Smith College, the New England Conservatory, and Illinois State University. She is the Asher B. Edelman Professor in the Arts at Bard College, where she has taught since 1972.

1920/2019 premiered on December 3, 2021, by the New York Philharmonic. The composer has provided the following program note on the work:

“1920/2019 was commissioned by the New York Philharmonic, Jaap van Zweden, Music Director. It is dedicated to Deborah Borda, the orchestra’s President and CEO, in recognition of her vision for the creation of Project 19.

“Project 19 is the Philharmonic’s initiative to commission and premiere 19 new works by women composers in honor of the 2020 centennial of the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, guaranteeing women the right to vote. Project 19 is the single largest commissioning project for women in history.

“1920 was the year when the amendment was ratified and adopted—an important and long-sought-after achievement. I began writing this music in 2019 as the #MeToo movement continued to grow. Victims of sexual abuse, assault, and harassment are ending their silence, finding strength by sharing their experiences and beliefs. These two years—1920 and 2019—were probably the two most historically significant years for the advancement of women in society.

“The 14-minute work features a steady repeated note/chord beat in various tempos and textures, alternating with runs (in scales and broken chords) that include first a cello solo and then a violin solo.

“Later on, there is a section of solos, a duet, and two quartets—starting with the clarinet, then trumpet solos, and a unison piccolo/flute line followed by four horns, ending with a percussion group.

“It is a piece largely about rhythm and texture (hopefully) set in a dramatic and organic narrative.”