A Voice Hidden in the Waves

Some music takes you to an unfamiliar place from the very first note. A low resonance beginning on piano keys, chords repeating in monotony. Is it waves? Or the beating of a heart? When I first heard this piece, it felt as though someone was whispering in my ear: “Sit here, in this place, and listen until the end.”

Alkan’s Prelude Op. 31 No. 8, “Song of the Madwoman on the Seashore (La chanson de la folle au bord de la mer).” The title alone unfolds an entire story. A woman sitting alone by the sea, singing. Why did she go mad? What led her to the water’s edge? The music doesn’t answer directly. Instead, it brings us to her side, inviting us to listen to the waves together.

This piece is brief. Barely four minutes. Yet within it lies an entire person’s solitude and madness, despair and resignation. There’s no virtuosic display, no dramatic climax. Only repeating patterns and fragmented melodies. And yet, strangely, this very simplicity reaches deeper.

A Genius Hidden in Chopin’s Shadow

Charles-Valentin Alkan. Born in Paris in 1813, departing this world in 1888—have you heard this composer’s name? In mid-19th century Paris, he stood shoulder to shoulder with Chopin and Liszt as a pianist. A child prodigy who entered the Paris Conservatoire before age six. A genius who claimed countless prizes. And yet today, we know Chopin but not Alkan.

Why? After 1848, Alkan gradually withdrew from the world. Living like a hermit while continuing to compose, his music was too complex, too personal. The public wanted Chopin’s lyricism and Liszt’s brilliance, not Alkan’s experimental, intimate universe. His attempts to weave Jewish melodies into classical music—a pioneering effort—went unappreciated in his time.

And so Alkan was forgotten for nearly a century. Only in the 1960s did a few pianists begin dusting off his scores. And belatedly, we realized what we had lost.

Alkan’s 25 Preludes Op. 31 were composed in 1844 and published in 1847. Just as Bach wrote the Well-Tempered Clavier, just as Chopin left 24 preludes, Alkan made his pilgrimage through all the keys. Twenty-four major and minor keys, plus one more for a total of 25. About this collection, the contemporary critic François-Joseph Fétis wrote: “Do not expect the rapid cascades of notes found in Chopin’s works. Alkan is a man of heart and mind. His preludes are dreams.”

Among those dreams, this eighth prelude in A-flat minor is the darkest and quietest dream of all.

Repeating Waves, Shattering Heart

The music begins with low notes in the left hand. The same pattern repeats. Ummm, ummm. Like waves rolling in and pulling back. Or like someone’s groan. This repetition is monotonous, yet threaded with a strange unease. The key of A-flat minor itself is said to carry the color of “grumbling, moaning, wailing”—and it truly sounds that way.

Above this, the right hand sings a melody. Or does it sing? It’s not a complete song. It’s a fragmented song. The same intervals repeat, the same rhythm returns, but something is missing. Unfinished sentences. Questions without answers. What was she trying to sing?

As you listen, you find yourself sitting on that shore. Next to the woman, or perhaps just behind her. You can hear her murmuring. Faintly, mixed with the sound of waves. You want to speak to her but cannot. She’s already in a world of her own. Your voice would never reach her.

Then suddenly the music swells. Crescendo. The woman’s voice rises. No—it’s closer to a scream. Something crushes her. Memory? Phantom? Or the sea itself? When that moment passes, stillness returns. But it’s not the same stillness as before. It’s the quiet after something has shattered. The silence of resignation.

Finally, the music fades. Like waking from hypnosis, or perhaps falling into a deeper trance. Only the waves remain. Where did her song go? Was it carried away by the wind, swept out by the tide? We cannot know. We only know that the waves continue their endless rhythm.

Freedom Named Madness

Every time I listen to this piece, I wonder: Is Alkan’s “madwoman” truly mad? Or is she someone who saw a truth the world couldn’t comprehend? In the 19th century, the label “madwoman” was often pinned to women who strayed from social norms. Women who were too passionate, too sorrowful, too free. Alkan himself was a recluse, an artist at odds with society. Could this woman be a portrait of Alkan himself?

The music doesn’t judge her. It simply stays by her side. It records her song. Imperfect though it may be, incomprehensible though it may be, that song exists. On the shore, within the sound of waves. And now, in this moment, in your ears.

The emotion this piece evokes is complex. Not merely sadness, not merely fear. Something like deep empathy. Don’t we sometimes feel like that woman? Those moments when we walk alone, murmuring to ourselves, carrying something in our hearts that the world cannot understand. Those moments when we sing songs no one will hear. Alkan captured that moment in music.

How to Listen

If you’re hearing this piece for the first time, don’t prepare anything. You don’t need to study the score or learn music theory. Just sit somewhere comfortable, close your eyes, and for four minutes, imagine yourself on that shore.

Listen to the low notes of the left hand. That’s the sound of waves. Surrender yourself to that repetition, regular yet threatening. The right hand’s melody flowing above is the woman’s voice. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Her story was never meant to be complete.

When the music grows louder midway through, don’t be startled. That’s not a scream—it’s her truthful voice. The moment when something long suppressed bursts forth. Feel the silence that follows. What lives in that silence?

This piece should be heard multiple times. You cannot understand it all at once. Alkan himself said the interpretation of this work is open. Some days it will sound like sad music, other days like something eerie. Depending on your state of mind, depending on what you’ve experienced, this music transforms.

If you must choose a recording, I recommend Igor Levit’s 2023 performance. He finds faint light even within this music’s darkness. His touch is delicate yet confident. High-resolution audio makes it even better—every subtle nuance, every resonance of the pedal, every small sound from the keys carries meaning.

On a Shore Where Time Has Stopped

When the music ends, linger a while in silence. Don’t rush to the next piece. That silence is part of this work too. The waves still roll. The woman is still there. Even when we leave, she remains.

Just as Alkan’s music was forgotten for a century, perhaps this woman’s song went unheard for a long time. But now you have heard it. That’s enough. Music transcends time. A shore imagined by a Parisian composer in 1844 has reached you in 2025.

If you see the ocean after listening to this piece, perhaps its sound will be different. In the sound of waves, you might hear someone’s song. Fragmented melodies. Incomplete sentences. Then you’ll know: Was that woman truly mad, or had we simply failed to listen?

The sea remembers. Every song ever sung there. What Alkan left us is not merely four minutes of music. It’s a testament to lonely souls, a question about the boundary between madness and art, and ultimately, consolation for the loneliness we all carry.

Next time you’re walking alone, lost in thoughts no one else would understand, remember this music. You’re not alone. Somewhere on a shore, long ago, a woman sang the same song as you. And a composer captured that song. Forever.

From Sea to Field: Music to Pair With This

Having left Alkan’s shore, shall we walk toward a different landscape? From France’s dark coast to England’s green fields. I recommend Ralph Vaughan Williams’ “Norfolk Rhapsody No. 1.”

Composed in 1906, this orchestral work presents an entirely different world from Alkan’s piece. There’s no madwoman here, no threatening waves. Instead, folk songs from England’s Norfolk region unfold across pastoral landscapes. A simple melody sung by the oboe, rolling hills drawn by strings, the whisper of woodwinds like grass bending in the wind.

Yet these two pieces share something: both are “songs of place.” If Alkan carved one woman’s soul into the space of a shore, Vaughan Williams planted the collective memory of the English people in Norfolk’s fields. Just as Alkan wove Jewish melodies into classical music, Vaughan Williams elevated English folk songs to symphonic art.

If Alkan’s is music of solitude, Vaughan Williams’ is music of nostalgia. One is a cry within the sound of waves, the other a song above the fields. But both tell us the same thing: music remembers places, captures time. It can call back what has vanished.

After spending four minutes on Alkan’s dark shore, spend fourteen minutes in Vaughan Williams’ sun-drenched fields. You’ll travel through two different worlds. But both journeys will lead you to the same truth: music preserves what we’ve lost, and whenever we wish, we can return there again.