One of my musical heroes, the composer Charles Ives, wrote a series of essays to accompany his Second Piano Sonata. Logically enough, he titled these program notes Essays Before a Sonata. Since many listeners (both then and now) consider his music to be "thorny" and "difficult," Ives hoped that these essays might provide a bridge for listeners to make their way in to his music by providing some insight into his thinking and his musical goals.
Ives gave his sonata the subtitle Concord, Mass., 1840-1860, and he structured it around four New England Transcendentalist authors. The dedicatee of the sonata's fourth and culminating movement is Henry David Thoreau. In his essay on Thoreau, Ives describes how Thoreau once heard the ringing of the Concord Bell across a great distance while on Walden Pond. Ives quotes Thoreau, describing how, "At a distance over the woods the sound acquires a certain vibratory hum as if the pine needles in the horizon were the strings of a harp which it swept. . . A vibration of the universal lyre." If I recall correctly, Ives later combined Thoreau's ideas in a new phrase, calling this exalted state of awareness (through music) the "vibratory hum of existence." For Ives, the most important and most impressive music somehow captures this elusive, ephemeral quality. A life vibration.
I'm just saying all this stuff about Ives and Thoreau and vibrations because it came bubbling up while I was listening to this music by Masahiko Sato. Which is to say: I think it is magnificent, stunning, phantasmagorical music -- music that's as good as it gets. And Ives' words somehow explain very well how certain types of music (like his and Sato's) work (in figurative terms, not musical terms) -- and how it affects us (or me, at least).
I hope these ramblings make some sense to you, and I'm touching on an idea with which you're familiar through your own listening. . . . If not, my apologies for the long digression!
Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.