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My favorite composer is Charles Ives.

 

For one, he remains obscure and found little love for his music

during his lifetime, which is automatically endearing to me.

 

Secondly, his music was all about individuality – the singular unit acting and reacting to and against the collective.

 

It’s extraordinarily simple and complex at the same time.

 

Bare bones, at first superficial listen, but bursting with

little secrets, littered with abandon and nuance.

 

You just have to go looking for it.

 

It’s also sad, but sad in a comforting way.

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My favorite piece of his is entitled The Unanswered Question.

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In it, strings flutter, swelling in a void until a horn comes along

and posits the meaning of existence. One by one, woodwinds

struggle to answer, becoming more and more panicked until they give up,

leaving the horn to announce the question one

last time only to be met with silence.

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To me, this is the most beautiful piece of all time

because it’s the most honest piece of all time.

 

Not like Bach or Beethoven, whose sonatas, quartets, concertos seemed too ornate. Featured too much instrumentation, with a false elegance I always despised, as if all the people playing those rococo melodies packed into one place could actually emulate such divine harmony.

 

The second they put down those instruments and exited the royal hall, I bet they were back to hating each other.

 

Tearing at each other’s pasty skin and powdered

white wigs, waving their violas and brandishing their flutes . . .

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Less is more, I say.

 

Their music was also joyful.

 

Painfully joyful.

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            And I ask you: Of what use is joy now?

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