Alexander Scriabin completed his Sonata No. 6, Op. 62 for solo piano in 1912. It is a dark, murky, and uneventful sonata, but somehow never boring. The composer described it as "horrifying" and "unclean." He refused to perform it in its entirety. This sort of declaration is mere garden-variety eccentricity in comparison to the lunacy he was capable of offering. The work itself does not demonstrate madness. It is highly original. Few composers have written a successful work that is so uneventful. Brahms was occasionally capable of such a style, as was Debussy, but the German master was traditional enough that even his least display-oriented pieces still had themes that were strenuously worked over. The more avant-garde, atmospheric Debussy is closer to the mark of comparison. Scriabin usually sounds unashamedly French. Russian culture was dominated by French influences throughout the nineteenth century. Scriabin had an appetite the progressive textures and ornamental effects that Debussy seemed to generate effortlessly. The fundamental distinction of the two composers is that Debussy's music has a deep connection to nature that the Russian composer's work does not have. Scriabin's bizarre inner world was one of cosmic ruminations and messianic pretensions. The manner in which Debussy's melodic contours follow the arabesque motions of vegetable matter was not Scriabin's concern. The latter composer was absorbed by an impending apocalypse, an Earth destroying tragedy in which he figured heavily.

The Sixth Sonata has the interstellar ambience that pervades many of the composer's scores. What it does not have is an overbearing exterior. Though it is of astounding technical difficulty, it also has a poised insularity, the opposite of an attention-getting showpiece. It is in one movement, which is slightly less than 14 minutes in duration. When comparing the music to the persona of the composer, they stand as stark opposites. The music behaves like the shyest of sublime objects, quiet enough to protest against its own importance. Scriabin thought himself to be an artist whose significance was of biblical proportions. He was a master of messing up his personal life, relying on others for financial support, becoming a bigamist, a fugitive from the law, etc. This sort of irresponsible and extravagant conduct does not carry over into the Sixth Sonata, which bears its resemblance to Brahms mainly for its economy of utterance, saying just enough with less. No two composers could have had more different temperaments; even their eccentricities were completely incompatible. But while Brahms' oddness came from a gruff, stay-at-home cantankerousness, Scriabin was intent on building temples in India where he would play for those he would save from the Earth's destruction with his music. His Sixth Sonata reflects none of this. It is sane, warm, and nocturnal. There is little in it to make the audience aware of how difficult the material is, and the composer's voice is an original one. It is an excellent work and recommended.

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