Frank Corcoran

I call the new Work-In-Progress for strings and 5 ( I think, yes ) single wind :
” VARIATIONS ON MYSELF” for Chamber Orchestra.
World- and village-pump , take note and pity. – Is he gone off his umbilical top ? Autisticity rampans ?
I don´t think; at all. My new musical score is being spun out of my entrails, va bene. Nothing against that in the history of the musical art which I happen to know best; I´m thinking of ” B A C H ” , of Berg et Webern et Father Schön, but also of Josquin´s Dux Ferrariae and of Lutoslawsky and Dimitri Schumann and Robert Shostakovitch , also others of their composing kidney. Basically it´s hew your building blocks out of your own bleeding body, out of my very own named self. – ” Musica autobiographica” ? Not at all, woman ! Have a bit o´bloody sense now !
– Did I get this idea from those two giant sea-gulls outside my hotel-room window on the balcony of Il Monastero recently, sun-lit waves very far below the cells and graves and church and prayer tread-mill of all the long dead Clarissa nuns ( – Poor Clares – ? ) and all arrogant Arragonese ?
I did and I didn´t. Two enormous birds pleading and shouting and curdling and cawing and kidding and kindling and cuddling and spewing and sawing at that oleander was too much. ( I feared for my slashed eyes, nose ) I took their sun-baked advice , also their dawn dandling, clumsy pads a-pawing as the burnished Bay of Naples alba agreed I should. I did.