Among the violinists who have shaped my musical life is Karen Gomyo, who over the last decade has become one of my closest collaborators and a dear friend. This concerto marks my second large-scale collaboration with her. Our first, Chamber Concerto—scored for an ensemble of fourteen players—was premiered in 2018 with Esa-Pekka Salonen conducting members of the Chicago Symphony. As indicated by its title and its conspicuous lack of the word "violin," that work is not primarily concerned with virtuosity and pyrotechnics, but rather explores a fluid concerto grosso relationship between soloist and ensemble. By comparison, this new work, subtitled The Wheel, is a more outwardly virtuosic concerto for both Karen and the orchestra. It attempts to harness the qualities I most admire in her playing: a combination of supreme elegance and laser-like intensity, of effortless control alongside an almost dangerous physical energy. And, as per Karen's initial request for a "real" concerto, this new work is written for full orchestra. Apparently, an ensemble of fourteen players did not quite qualify.

The title The Wheel refers to the circularity that runs through every level of the piece. Musical gestures return transformed; energies accumulate and dissipate; the soloist is sometimes propelled forward by the orchestra and sometimes swallowed by it, only to emerge again—like a surfer exiting the barrel of a massive wave. Every aspect of the music revolves, from the hushed, spinning lines the violin plays at the beginning of the concerto to the large-scale form of the work itself, which makes one great loop—or nearly does (no spoilers).

The concerto is cast in four movements. The first and last, each approximately four minutes long, are very fast, slippery, and mirage-like, acting as bookends to the two central, load-bearing movements, each lasting around ten minutes.

The second movement, Heavy, is built as a rondo with scurrying variations that repeatedly attempt to escape a series of massive returns. The movement draws inspiration from an unlikely trio of sources: the transformational harmonic logic of John Coltrane's Giant Steps (harmonic wheels), the micro-rhythmic experiments of composer and record producer J Dilla (rhythmic wheels), and the structural ingenuity of Beethoven's rondos (formal wheels). At moments, the orchestra forms towering blocks of sound—almost architectural in their weight—while the violin darts through and around these structures, occasionally absorbed by the machinery of the ensemble before breaking free again.

The third movement, Very calm, suspended, functions as a Baroque passacaglia, though its evolution is expressed not through traditional variation, but through the transformation of atmosphere and sound itself. A floating melody returns again and again, and with each appearance, the surrounding texture gradually thickens. The final statement of the melody arrives at the point of maximum intensity: harsh, bright, scorched, distorted, and completely overwhelmed by the forces that have gathered around it.

This third movement was the most difficult section of the concerto to write. I wanted to create something through which Karen could communicate at her most probing and sublime—a vehicle for the kind of playing she brings to the music that matters most to her, like the Rosary Sonatas of Heinrich Biber or the music of Dmitri Shostakovich. I distilled the music over and over, searching for what was essential. In the process, I found myself returning to an idea that has become increasingly important to me as I get older: that it's often the simplest material that elicits the greatest emotional complexity from those who play it. What remains is music uncomplicated in itself, but music that I hope will give Karen the space to build her own expressive forms.

The fourth and final movement brings the wheel full circle. It is, in many ways, a return to the opening world—not a simple recapitulation, but a memory transformed by everything that has happened in between. As the music approaches one large-scale formal revolution, it encounters its own past and asks what's at the heart of the concerto: what changes—and what stays the same?

This work, which I absolutely loved writing over the last year, is dedicated with the utmost admiration to Karen Gomyo. I am deeply grateful to her for asking me to write this concerto and to the LA Phil and Elim Chan for bringing it to life.