Frank Corcoran

I marvell still at the systolic slop-slap-swish-wash of my blood as The Great Surgeon navigated the ( Amazonian ) ventricular system with my new stent up near the hypothumotic heart. Certainly it´s in my new ” VARIATIONS ON MYSELF” for 5 Wood-wind and Strings. Somewhere in these knotted musical lines, metric or aleatoric, as they spin out the ” F R A n Cis Es C o R cor A n” of my umbilicus, my name. My very self. In lines , blocks, the individual tone. Variations.
Premiere in New York City, March 2013.

Oxford Music Online Encyclopedia

(only accessible through

universities):

Corcoran has developed a distinct and complex language of aleatory
macro-counterpoint in which sound layers are superimposed polyphonically but
retain independence through distinctive polymetric, agogic and dynamic
indications. This technique is evident from the early Piano Trio (1978) to Ice
Etchings no.1 and Mad Sweeney (both 1996). His many cultural interests are
reflected in the texts of his vocal works; the opera Gilgamesh (1990), for
example, is based on a Sumerian epic. The Irische Mikrokosmoi for piano (1993)
are based on traditional Irish melodies and rhythms.
—

It´s very early still; mist on the garden trees caused by ( Mussolini´s fault? ) Lake Corbara, the older farmers insist.It´ll rise later as the killing sun moves in. Yes. In a world of hype. In an age of scopology, of gawking, seeing is believing. In this century of ( apparently ) looking ( – it´s too lazy even to be and become reading, registering, replying with eyes wide shut to any deeper reality ) the visual, therefore film, video, you-and-me Tubing and FaceDeBooking and Twittering and Teething and Twitting reign supremo. So the art of listening hasn´t a look in, the arts of sound, of sounding, of music in any even modest form ( I forget De New Dirt, Technowrapping or shtomping or electro-screeching, yowling of all imperious or impertinent kinds… ). No interest. No presence in a world of peeping, gawking hype. Hype on. The mist also rises. The sun is sneaking.

It´s all very well, young Bach´s ” Schlummert ein, ihr matten Augen” in BWV 82 ( Fische-Dieskau´s singing thereof unforgettable, yes; now it´s his eyes… So what ? ). To die. To what, did you say ? This rationally insoluble question is as old as the Neanderthaler, the cave-dauber, the three-note composer, on the swan-bone flute from 10,000 B.C. Catal Huyuk.It spawned religion, art,cathedrals, laws ( you could argue) and mores and more. Slumber?
“Das Nichts nichtet ” ? That is it ? Or that´s not it ? Be silent, our Celleno cats, as the light slides snidely.

A JULY HAIKU FOR WINTER:

The ice-berg´s calving Listen ! A gigantic crack
Splits its cold crawl

( Frank Corcoran 5.7.2012 )

The day is as long
As the bored crow´s long black beak
Shovelling silence

The crow knows no time
See: its dirty beak opens
In no time at all

The National Chamber Choir has recorded Frank Corcoran´s ” Caoine ” for the Irish Choral Anthology.
Good news for modern man. Modern choral singing. The pure drop, solo soprano against a massed backdrop, hushed tenors and basses crafted, the melodic line timeless.

Crawling on from birth

To stem and leaf and petal

Then comes its glory

Eden was. Now it

Awaits its green transcendence

Our caterpillar

Tensed time is crawling

With the caterpillar´s hairs

Come, God of Insects

The pain is terrific; waiting to get pregnant with the next musical work. eg. for fractal tuning-fork, frogs´real-time chorus and festival orchestra ? Or something smaller, perhaps ? A humble Harp Solo, a miniature Bassclarinet Solo ? But what has been left to say? Sing? ( Have I already sung it ? Self-repetition is no fun. ) There is then another terrific pain, that of waiting for a premiere or crawling towards a work´s performance ( – will they ? won´t they? The money? Where ? Who´ll prepare? )
So there´s two pains now for the price of one.