The term ‘sonata’ originated around 1600, from the Italian verb sonare, ‘to sound’. Originally applied only to compositions for solo wind or strings, in the mid-eighteenth century it became widely used as a title for solo keyboard works as well. It has meant many different things to composers throughout history, but despite its changing definition the term has never faded out of use. By the twentieth century, the increasingly vague notion of what constitutes a sonata was being reinterpreted all the time. What the title will always carry, though, is the weight of history: almost all major composers have written sonatas, and many of these are among the greatest works in the repertory. What fascinates me about composers writing piano sonatas is the sense that by selecting this title they are entering into a musical dialogue with other composers, making their contribution to a repertoire that has been expanding for centuries and will probably continue to do so for many more.

Although the works found here are often far removed from any conventional conception of the sonata, a brief ‘textbook’ definition of sonata form will be a helpful reference point. A sonata-form movement is built from three through-flowing sections: the exposition, where the contrasting musical ideas are presented and then the whole section repeated; the development, where these ideas are taken in new directions, pitted against each other and perhaps even combined; finally, the recapitulation, which returns to the initial ideas but puts them in a new light, with the inherent tension of the exposition somehow resolved. A sonata, in its most familiar form—that of the Classical and early Romantic periods—began with a sonata-form movement (usually moderately fast), which was followed by a slow movement, sometimes a minuet (or scherzo) and trio, then finally a rondo (usually fairly quick). Clearly the sonatas on this disc do not fit these moulds, but they often play on past conventions. The sonata is usually thought of as an abstract and elevated genre, like the symphony. However, a range of attitudes is betrayed here: Berg, for example, is earnest, whilst at the other extreme, Ives and Antheil are cheeky and irreverent.

Timothy Jackson (b.1972) — Sonata (2009)

The word ‘sonata’ shares an etymological root with the word ‘sonnet’—the Latin ‘sonus’, meaning ‘sound’. Inspired by this link, Jackson’s Sonata explores the notion of the sonata as musical equivalent to the sonnet. The English sonnet happens to map onto sonata form rather neatly: stanza I becomes the exposition; stanza II the development; stanza III the recapitulation; and the couplet translates to a coda. Jackson represents lines of poetry with musical sub-sections, of which there are fourteen (four in each stanza and two in the couplet), creating a kind of musical rhyme-scheme. The opening material is percussive and arresting: staccato chords dance around the piano, stopping and starting with disconcerting unpredictability; threatening repeated notes crescendo explosively, leaving ominous silence in their wake. Eventually the music moves to a more lyrical style, with only repressed hints of the preceding dance. A slower section, lurking in the murky bass, concludes the exposition, which is then repeated. In the development, Jackson uses the pedal to stack harmonies on top of each other and sustain the lyrical theme over the dancing chords. The development ends with a beautiful ruminative passage that gradually works itself into a frenzy, linking back to the opening music for the recapitulation. Here the aggressive chords are restrained by hushed dynamics. Tension continues to mount throughout the recapitulation, as we sense the music wanting to explode again. Finally it does, culminating in a series of chords that bound down the piano towards a crashing dissonance in the bass. In the aftermath of this colossal sound the coda slowly emerges. By contrast with the rest of the piece, the coda is delicate and spacious—tinkling in the high registers and glowing in the bass. The work closes with three quiet chords that seem either to lay the sonata’s demons to rest or declare their irrepressibility.

Alban Berg (1885–1935) — Sonate für Klavier op.1 (1909)

Berg completed his piano sonata aged 24, during the final year of his study with Schoenberg. He originally intended it as only the first movement of a larger work, but Schoenberg persuaded him that the movement already said enough and was best left to stand alone. The music is highly charged emotionally, constantly building and releasing tension through skilfully weaved contrapuntal lines. There is, however, a clearly defined sonata form structure, with a repeated exposition, development and recapitulation. The work’s frequently changing tempi help clarify these different sections and the themes within them. At the time of composition, Berg’s style was developing rapidly, and whilst the sonata is grounded in tonality (it loosely orbits B minor), it seems desperate to reach towards atonality. Fascinatingly, Berg’s later music worked the other way around—using serial methods designed for atonality but deliberately recreating a flavour of tonal music. As such, the sonata sounds in places like some of the mature works, in particular the opera Lulu (1929–35), despite the fact that these works were composed with essentially opposite compositional approaches. One such place is at the very end of the sonata, where the three-note theme from the opening is turned from melody to harmony—creating a ravishing dissonance, the likes of which would come to define the language of Lulu—in a magical passage lovingly prolonged across a large span of the keyboard before resolving onto the tonic, B minor, in the final bars.

George Antheil (1900–1959) — “Woman” Sonata (1923)

Antheil wrote his “Woman” Sonata around the same time as his most well-known piece, the Ballet Mécanique (1924), which is notorious for its use of eight pianos, pianola, eight xylophones, two electric doorbells, and aeroplane propeller. Both works have a modern ‘machine age’ aesthetic, shunning conventional musical development and giving rhythm precedence over melody. Antheil was a friend of Stravinsky, and during this period was heavily influenced by the latter’s Rite of Spring (1913). The ‘Woman’ movement opens with gentle cluster chords, disturbed only by a disquieting staccato ticking motif in the left hand later on. In the largest section of the movement a spread chord is softly repeated, setting up an oddly sparse, uneasy, rhythmic ostinato that suggests a 3/4 time signature but with the last beat expanded by one semiquaver. Over the ostinato a fast, fanfare-like line appears, as if from nowhere. Later, the spread chord is replaced by a single bass note, and the fanfare by a long, arcing melody. The movement ends by returning to the spread chord motif, which refuses to resolve its rhythmic tension. The second two movements are like throw-away encores after the drawn-out first movement. Chugging chords characterise the ‘Tree’, which also features glissandi and various piano acrobatics, where the pianist is required to dive around, playing chords with both hands at either end of the keyboard in quick succession. ‘Flower’ blooms from a rumbling bass into a particularly Rite-like passage of primeval rhythmic driving, before returning to the clusters from the opening of the ‘Woman’ movement. The titles of the movements in this sonata remain something of an enigma, but given Antheil’s sense of humour, perhaps that was the intention.

Alexei Stanchinsky (1888–1914) — Piano Sonata No.2 (1912)

The first movement of Stanchinsky’s second sonata is a fugue in three voices, with a subject covering the huge span of two octaves. Stanchinsky begins with a long section of serene pan-diatonic harmony, to which he adds sprinklings of chromaticism that eventually lead to wildly remote keys. The centre of the movement is dark and introspective, at a slower tempo and dwelling in a low, muddy area of the piano, where tonality seems to melt. Eventually the music claws its way out of these depths and gathers speed to restore the original tempo, culminating in a final reprise of the fugue’s subject, in blazing G-major ecstasy. The closing bars, however, are a sting in the tail: suddenly everything is much quieter, and a held dissonant chord resolves to an unexpected—inappropriate, even—E major. The second movement takes up the melody of the fugue’s subject, but distorts its profile so it is barely recognisable. In contrast to the first movement’s concentration and steady development, the second has a lightness, brought about by its rhythmic energy and cheeky harmonic shifts. Stanchinsky writes in 11/8, exploiting the quirky and irregular beat groupings possible in that time signature. The movement ends with fast chords covering all of the keyboard, in a spirited, celebratory climax.

James MacMillan (b.1959) — Piano Sonata (1985)

MacMillan composed his Piano Sonata during a winter in his home-town of Ayrshire, Scotland. In his programme note he recalls ‘the barren trees and hard frozen ground of a landscape that was empty and silent but for the harsh, hollow cry from the rookeries’. He goes on to explain that ‘this is reflected in the Sonata’s tolling, mournful chords, with its bursts of violent, or delicate and icy, figuration.’ The tolling figure of the first movement calls to mind Debussy’s ‘des pas sur la neige’ [footsteps in the snow], and creates a similar sense of eerie stillness. MacMillan exploits the piano’s high register for glittering effects, then builds a melancholic chorale to a broad, impassioned surge of melody. As this dies away we are left once again with the lonely toll of the opening. The second movement is less homogonous, and its unpredictable outbursts convey the dangers of the unforgiving winter. MacMillan’s passages of ever-inventive figuration often converge onto a single note which blossoms briefly into a scrap of aching melody. At the end, one such melody is sustained over slowly repeated short chords that create a sense of timeless expanse. In the third movement, spaciousness again alternates with bouts of dense figuration. The closing bars return to the icy sounds heard in the first movement, with spasmodic rhythms that offer no comforting sense of stability. MacMillan describes the mood of this work as one ‘of elegy, of despair and desolation.’

Charles Ives (1874–1954) — Three Page Sonata (1905)

Ives’ Three Page Sonata is so called because the manuscript is only three pages long. The work is not actually divided into movements, but its three sections correspond to a conventional three-movement sonata plan: the first an impassioned Allegro moderato; the second meditative and slow; the third lively and explosive. The sonata opens with a paragraph of sumptuously harmonised lyricism in Ives’ neo-Romantic mode. This gives way to a long slow section, in which gentle rocking patterns support a wandering melody. Midway through, Ives suggests the upper part be played by an extra player (it is impossible for one person to play all three parts simultaneously without compromising the rhythm or over-blurring the harmony), preferably on celesta. With the entry of this ‘celestial’ voice, the section becomes a heavenly aria. It is typical of Ives that the melody eventually reveals itself to be a warped version of the ubiquitous Cambridge Chimes tune used in chiming clocks. This beautiful passage eventually peters out, then an Ivesian riot ensues in the form of a highly dissonant and frequently wrong-footing march. Part way through, the trombones (octaves in the left hand) suddenly decide to play a fast waltz instead of the stately march, sending the whole band into disarray. Ives interrupts the chaos with a bizarre and outrageous ‘pub piano’ passage in which a dizzy chromatic tune circles round itself like a dog chasing its own tail. Eventually the pandemonium gets out of hand, and Ives puts a stop to proceedings by pouring a bucket of cold water over them, with an ironically triumphant C major chord.