Frank Corcoran

irish composer

DECEMBER MUSING, COLDISH – IS THIS 2017 OR 2018 ?

MUSING :

Another year, ( another train-ride up from Orvieto to Mestre. )

Perhaps it is the colours the eye wants
. Or the swoosh and whoosh and gear-changing boats’ clutches that clutch my ear.
Not so much the usual Jesuit confessor’s cry : ” since September 2015, my son, how many times ? Tones ?

Musical works I have just crafted included the Piano Trio ( with viola ) of last winter 2016, in Hamburg,then the
gestating Clarinet Concerto,
my delightful 8 Duetti Irlandesi for Piano and Cello
which had, face it, haunted me for a long time ,
also the cello solo piece, ” Rhapsodietta Joyceana ” .
The Arena RTE Interview convinces.
The autumn 2016 RTE programme, ” New Cross-currents ” , also.
Venice next Sunday should bring be colours and time to situate myself a little. Walk. Dawdle. Sounds and sky.
Certainly form matters, the opening strings
‘ rhythmicized chord before the soloist lifts off / in the new Clarinet Concerto for new York 2019 .
A dreamed fragment or a motivic phrase.
I am not to blame for the
musical world’s GREAT mess. No.
So after my death in Venice, release this :
Life was harsh. Hands up those for whom it was not? More help, any help, would have been a great help; a little bitty praise, un poco ” notice” was a sin .
It would have been easy before my death to perform the ( very good ) TENORLIEDER, my massive , choral EIGHT HAIKUS ,
“stunning ” was the I FC M’s International Jury’s word in awarding me their 2013 Premier Prix. m
It would.
It wasnìt to be at all, either snobs or yobs were blocking, blatant incompetence and ignorance . The worst, indifference.
We are bet in the Irish national schools and in the university music-departments and somewhere in between. Bhi an
ceart ag an bPiarsach, ‘ swounds !
So the self and its shadows nimbly snake on , continue to block or embrace or question or accompany each other .
Till death us do part.
Musical death, no doubt, before that, the death of desire and passion to continue the noble slog, the composer as
coal-miner.
Twas nobler in the mind. Release this jumble, certainly. Much good.
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