Frank Corcoran

North/South Consonance 2010-2011 Concert Schedule
Nine Concerts in the visually appealing and acoustically
superior setting of Christ and St. Stephen’s Church
Location: 120 West 69th Street (between Broadway & Columbus), New York City

PROGRAM IV
Monday, March 14, 2011 at 8 PM
St. Patrick’s Day Gala
FRANK CORCORAN
LIVIU MARINESCU
HOWARD QUILLING
MOON YOUNG HA
Songs of Terror and Love
Moto Perpetuo
Anticipation
Fairy Tale
Max Lifchitz, conductor
The North/South Consonance Ensemble

We´ll take the next question next: write it out in a verse. Best.

Is, then, a series of deep breaks, total cuts, sensual amputations: 1. necessary 2. desirable in this composer´s
childhood? So that I can fire up violence in the brass and percussion and longing in the legato string writing? A sounding genetic fallacy in massed orchestral forces letting go ?
´Tis far I am now. ´Twas also far from the six year old ( yet very near ) :
The Modreeny Ambush, A Swim In The Ballyfinboy River, Intermediate Hurlers of Boiríos Uí Chein ( – surely spurious Gaeilge ?) , General Ginkel Passed Through Our Glebe On The Night Of The Big Wind, Canon Martin Sheen ( he who launched ” Molua” ) of Holy Wood / Holly Wood, Uskane Clash Of De Ash, Mick Delahunty´s Orchestra ! ! ! ( – this Christmas column of ice lies not ). O Misterium tremendum, basses a little more, please. I
am/was he who did not drown. In our Ballyfinboy. Split the little psyche down through cold ganglia. The amputationer´s sharp knife in Tipperary , early fifties, as the Shannon froze.

Still, it´s very important to get rid of bleating, the whiningly personal, any whine. Button up all whingy bars. Keep the self out of music of distinction . No mawking. Be tough on autobiographical references, however smartly arcane or carefully hidden away they may seem ; be also strict about nifty private programmes, though I am myself not fully averse to the occasional motiv , eg. ” Doh – Re- Mi”, ” B-A-C-H” and the like. In my future work , even ” F-R-A- n – Cis-Es C-orcor-A- n and such fun may certainly appear. Does this negate what I´ve just written about “self” in well crafted works ? Not at all; here we have intra- and not extra-musical material. Do you see ? Do you hear? ).
If Orpheus had had three saxophones, he would have availed of their WHAT power ? Their melancholy and reedy, rotten fruity plangency? He would! It´s intra-musical, silly!
Music bewails more than the ” DIES IRAE” ( although, of course, that too) . Music mourns the passing of time ( its own very stuff, surely ! ) . Even without a double reed in any particular registrar, the composer´s unsettling caoine.
Well then, can we attempt “joyful” music ? Sure we can ! ( But am I sure we can define…. ? Hmmm ) . What about music of power, music of awe ? Awful music ? Certainly. And music of human weakness and of loneliness, any kind of mawkish self-pity being revealed of a cracklingly cold December night-sky? We can. More on chapter and verse anon.

” MUSINGS” for MAGYAR RADIO / RADIO BARTÓK ( April 20 2006 ) in connection with its May 17th 2006 Bela Bartók Centenary Concert in Budapest. ) :

Is cumadóir ceoil mé. I am a composer. Pre-industrial, rural Ireland of my childhood in the fifties was in certain ways like the small, agricultural Hungary of Bartók´s youth.
Dublin and Budapest were vital cultural metropoles ( Dublin´s short-comings were enormous; agreed. ) Small nations, both were surrounded by culturally omnivorous neighbours eager to gobble up their identities.
Bartók took his stance, he ploughed the lonely furrow, said ” NO! ” to cultural tyranny. Moral. Artistic. Not that he wanted to marry folk- and art-music. You can´t. But as a collector and 20th. c. composer, forging his own individual voice , he refused to let lazy indifference stifle his own musical courage. Courage, that´s it. Bartók collected his hidden jewels of folk-music. Bartók composed mighty musical structures. His stance was heroic and lonely. He didn´t give in.
My Ireland in my 20th. c. has gone its way. My Irish language dies daily a thousand deaths.We had our Renaissance of folk-music, our explosion of traditional Irish ceol which, by its very over-kill, is currently endangering its own survival.
As a composer within Ireland I had to plough my own lonely furrow. In native Tipperary there was a hostile indifference to our oldest layers of Irish music. Post-colonial Dublin was dependent on second-rate London music-pedagogy. ( Yes, bits of Bartók were misused in our music-curricula, his work paraded lovelessly without any understanding of where he was coming from; as I was studying music at two Dublin universities, we shared British parading of bits of Bartók as “our” apologia for ” our” contemporary music, “our” bulwark against the horrors of , say, Viennese atonality. My ” politically free” Ireland didn´t provide any climate of musical understanding, it did not evolve the respect for musical creativity we would have needed in order to allow a ” Bartók na h- ´Eireann” to emerge.
“QUASI UN BASSO” for Solo Doublebass is my dyptich for a mighty-orchestra-in-one-giant-instrument. ( Think of B´s still fresh and shocking bass pizzicati in orchestral works like his Divertimento for String Orchestra or those extraordinary long lines at the end of his Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, the daring and brilliance of his orchestral imagination. ) Mine are two fragmented pictures from my vanished Ireland.
Art-music today faces the most viciously anti-art globality ever known.But you cannot barter Bartók in the market. Wares are bartered. Music of ” value” can´t be. It is questionable whether the folk-musics of Hungary or Ireland can survive the market´s kiss. It is questionable whether Hungarian or Irish composers will survive the market-place, swollen as it is with the greatest ocean of sonic rubbish mankind has ever known. Where have we composers a place to be heard ? Where is silence ? Out of which music is born?

www.ems.rikskonserter.se ( and www.capricerecords.se )

have Frank Corcoran´s ” QUASI UNA MISSA” ( EMS Prize .

2022 )

WER 6307-2 ( WERGO / Ars Acustica WDR ) has the WDR commissiond ” SWEENEY´S VISION ” ( 1999 Bourges Festival premier prix. )

www.zeitklang.de has ” Frank Corcoran : QUASI UNA MUSICA ” CD with ” QUASI UNA VISIONE ” Ensemble Modern 2005.

Apparently our ( modern ) bad Christmas faith comes from the Biedermaier period where they turned inward and sat on their Aunt Fannie´s couch in order to avoid having to greet Metternich´s secret police blowing on frozen fingers outside on the imperial streets. Marvellous how we´re back to the ” thin twine of red blood ” ( Seamus Cashman ), the Christmas goose as Girardian sacrificial victim in new snow which has been falling this unholy Christmas night of good sleep. I have no Jewish answer. eg. What was Abrahamic Abram up to ?
A full year it is since last we typed such jolly thoughts, the season´s greetings to all, also to our sundry. I wish myself well as well ? The healing air, healing sleep, grub, breathing ? Composing in this cold ?

Dear Próinsias,

Perhaps we´ll initiate a daily shortie from Phrank to Próinsias ( and back ? Hmmm ) for these few Silly Silent Nights now ? Off in the stilly morning and mind the dresser . This eg. ventilates some of the emanations of this little christmassy

soul, its daily re-living, re-flecting each snowy Christmas day the very next day ; it

reconciles the given I / Me Split to the pursuit of peace, no mean rabbit in the snow . It sums up all of my white yesterdays; it comments on the fury

temporarily gagged or for the sacred present bound; it bathes in the very civil civility of this festive time as we go easy with this our cold myth and also with all our loved ones an´ all.

It puts shape on frozen form, you might say.

That means no sweat of the soul this Xmas .

No spark of stupid what? No bottle-necked anger, no resentment nor bite-my-neck-so as-I´ll-bite-yours-back bickering or snickering . No lickering to snowy excess . It means a frosty patience in my

neck of these hoary woods and the mutinous

Shannon ( – once again that adjective ? – Shure we had it last year also ! ) waves all blown and torn apart, the wintry wind-chill factor factored into the numbers of drowned Athlone sheep. Pursue poor peace, you white-flecked

soul-music. Peace – or at least pieces therefrom, I´d say.

Heavenlystrains with all their velvety parallel sixths and glissing thirds wrapped in our souls´anaesthetic, Próinsias ? ( All turkey knives,every goose carver lies still dormant in Chistmas kitchens ; let them sleep on in

the killer´s sleep ; there´ll be time for a thin twine of red blood in the aviary. )

Your Fond And Only Christmas Mirror, Phrank

—–Ursprüngliche Mitteilung—–
Von: Fbcorcoran
An: fbcorcoran@aol.com
Verschickt: Mi., 22. Dez. 2010, 8:10
Thema: Self – Referentiality – why ever not ?

Dear Próinsias,

Perhaps a daily shortie from Phrank to Próinsias ( and back ? Hmmm ) for these few Silly Nights now ? Off in the stilly morning. This ventilates at least some of the emanations of the christmassy

soul, its daily living out each our snowy Christmas evening the next day ; it

reconciles the ( this year less. Maybe. ) split I / Me to pursuing peace, no mean snow-rabbit. It sums up all ( well, these few seasonal ) of my yesterdays and it comments gently enough on the fury

temporarily ( or for longer , perhaps ? ) gagged, for the sacred present bound, the very civil civility of this festive time as we go easy with this our cold myth and with all our loved ones an´all. Put

shape on frozen form. That means no soul – sweat.

No stupid spark of what? No sparking off bottle-necked anger or resentment or bite-my-neck-so as-I´ll-bite-yours-back bickering or snickering . No lickering to snowy excess . Patience frosty in my

neck of the frosty woods ´n all and the mutinous

Shannon waves ( ah ! once again ? – Shure we had that last year ! ) all blown and torn apart by the wintry wind-chill factor on our drowned Athlone sheep. Pursue poor peace, ye white-flecked

soul-musics. Peace – or at least pieces therefrom, I´d say.

Strains heavenly with their velvety parallel sixths and glissing thirds all wrapping up our souls´anaesthetic, I suppose, Próinsias ? ( Turkey knives or goose carvers are still dormant; let them sleep

the killer´s sleep . there´ll be time for a thin twine of red blood in the aviary. )

Your fond Christmas Mirror, Phrank

—–Ursprüngliche Mitteilung—–
Von: Fbcorcoran
An: fbcorcoran@aol.com
Verschickt: Mi., 22. Dez. 2010, 14:32
Thema: Self- Referentiality at Xmas – why ever not ?

Dear Próinsias,

Perhaps we´ll initiate a daily shortie from Phrank to Próinsias ( and back ? Hmmm ) for these few Silly Silent Nights now ? Off in the stilly morning and mind the dresser . This eg. ventilates some of the emanations of this little christmassy

soul, its daily re-living, re-flecting each snowy Christmas day the very next day ; it

reconciles the given I / Me Split to the pursuit of peace, no mean rabbit in the snow . It sums up all of my white yesterdays; it comments on the fury

temporarily gagged or for the sacred present bound; it bathes in the very civil civility of this festive time as we go easy with this our cold myth and also with all our loved ones an´ all.

It puts shape on frozen form, you might say.

That means no sweat of the soul this Xmas .

No spark of stupid what? No bottle-necked anger, no resentment nor bite-my-neck-so as-I´ll-bite-yours-back bickering or snickering . No lickering to snowy excess . It means a frosty patience in my

neck of these hoary woods and the mutinous

Shannon ( – once again that adjective ? – Shure we had it last year also ! ) waves all blown and torn apart, the wintry wind-chill factor factored into the numbers of drowned Athlone sheep. Pursue poor peace, you white-flecked

soul-music. Peace – or at least pieces therefrom, I´d say.

Heavenlystrains with all their velvety parallel sixths and glissing thirds wrapped in our souls´anaesthetic, Próinsias ? ( All turkey knives,every goose carver lies still dormant in Chistmas kitchens ; let them sleep on in

the killer´s sleep ; there´ll be time for a thin twine of red blood in the aviary. )

Your Fond And Only Christmas Mirror, Phrank

—–Ursprüngliche Mitteilung—–
Von: Fbcorcoran
An: fbcorcoran@aol.com
Verschickt: Mi., 22. Dez. 2010, 8:10
Thema: Self – Referentiality – why ever not ?

Dear Próinsias,

Perhaps a daily shortie from Phrank to Próinsias ( and back ? Hmmm ) for these few Silly Nights now ? Off in the stilly morning. This ventilates at least some of the emanations of the christmassy

soul, its daily living out each our snowy Christmas evening the next day ; it

reconciles the ( this year less. Maybe. ) split I / Me to pursuing peace, no mean snow-rabbit. It sums up all ( well, these few seasonal ) of my yesterdays and it comments gently enough on the fury

temporarily ( or for longer , perhaps ? ) gagged, for the sacred present bound, the very civil civility of this festive time as we go easy with this our cold myth and with all our loved ones an´all. Put

shape on frozen form. That means no soul – sweat.

No stupid spark of what? No sparking off bottle-necked anger or resentment or bite-my-neck-so as-I´ll-bite-yours-back bickering or snickering . No lickering to snowy excess . Patience frosty in my

neck of the frosty woods ´n all and the mutinous

Shannon waves ( ah ! once again ? – Shure we had that last year ! ) all blown and torn apart by the wintry wind-chill factor on our drowned Athlone sheep. Pursue poor peace, ye white-flecked

soul-musics. Peace – or at least pieces therefrom, I´d say.

Strains heavenly with their velvety parallel sixths and glissing thirds all wrapping up our souls´anaesthetic, I suppose, Próinsias ? ( Turkey knives or goose carvers are still dormant; let them sleep

the killer´s sleep . there´ll be time for a thin twine of red blood in the aviary. )

Your fond Christmas Mirror, Phrank

—–Ursprüngliche Mitteilung—–
Von: Fbcorcoran
An: fbcorcoran@aol.com
Verschickt: Do., 23. Dez. 2010, 10:23
Thema: Fwd: Self- Referentiality at Xmas – why ever not ?

Dear Próinsias,

Marvellous how we´re back to the ” thin twine of red blood ” ( Seamus Cashman ), the Christmas goose as a Girardian sacrificial victim in the new snow which has fallen this

unholy night of good sleep in spite of the world´s ( – Ouch ! ) suffering. I have no Jewish answer. What was Abrahamic Abram up to ? How´ll I peer through the thick snow ? A

full year it is since last we typed such jolly thoughts, the season´s greetings to all, also to sundry. I wish myself well as well ? Pursue peace like a snow-hare ? How ? Healing

air, healing sleep, grub, breathing ; composing, conscious harp-playing, ” níl neart go cur le chéile ” is surely untouchable in its re-assuring Old Irish spondees. Yet I ache for

its content and then to kick its anti-maverick bias down the slippery 67 steps.

Dear Próinsias,

Perhaps we´ll initiate a daily shortie from Phrank to Próinsias ( and back ? Hmmm ) for these few Silly Silent Nights now ? Off in the stilly morning and mind the dresser . This eg. ventilates some of the emanations of this little christmassy

soul, its daily re-living, re-flecting each snowy Christmas day the very next day ; it

reconciles the given I / Me Split to the pursuit of peace, no mean rabbit in the snow . It sums up all of my white yesterdays; it comments on the fury

temporarily gagged or for the sacred present bound; it bathes in the very civil civility of this festive time as we go easy with this our cold myth and also with all our loved ones an´ all.

It puts shape on frozen form, you might say.

That means no sweat of the soul this Xmas .

No spark of stupid what? No bottle-necked anger, no resentment nor bite-my-neck-so as-I´ll-bite-yours-back bickering or snickering . No lickering to snowy excess . It means a frosty patience in my

neck of these hoary woods and the mutinous

Shannon ( – once again that adjective ? – Shure we had it last year also ! ) waves all blown and torn apart, the wintry wind-chill factor factored into the numbers of drowned Athlone sheep. Pursue poor peace, you white-flecked

soul-music. Peace – or at least pieces therefrom, I´d say.

Heavenlystrains with all their velvety parallel sixths and glissing thirds wrapped in our souls´anaesthetic, Próinsias ? ( All turkey knives,every goose carver lies still dormant in Chistmas kitchens ; let them sleep on in

the killer´s sleep ; there´ll be time for a thin twine of red blood in the aviary. )

Your Fond And Only Christmas Mirror, Phrank

—–Ursprüngliche Mitteilung—–
Von: Fbcorcoran
An: fbcorcoran@aol.com
Verschickt: Mi., 22. Dez. 2010, 8:10
Thema: Self – Referentiality – why ever not ?

Dear Próinsias,

Perhaps a daily shortie from Phrank to Próinsias ( and back ? Hmmm ) for these few Silly Nights now ? Off in the stilly morning. This ventilates at least some of the emanations of the christmassy

soul, its daily living out each our snowy Christmas evening the next day ; it

reconciles the ( this year less. Maybe. ) split I / Me to pursuing peace, no mean snow-rabbit. It sums up all ( well, these few seasonal ) of my yesterdays and it comments gently enough on the fury

temporarily ( or for longer , perhaps ? ) gagged, for the sacred present bound, the very civil civility of this festive time as we go easy with this our cold myth and with all our loved ones an´all. Put

shape on frozen form. That means no soul – sweat.

No stupid spark of what? No sparking off bottle-necked anger or resentment or bite-my-neck-so as-I´ll-bite-yours-back bickering or snickering . No lickering to snowy excess . Patience frosty in my

neck of the frosty woods ´n all and the mutinous

Shannon waves ( ah ! once again ? – Shure we had that last year ! ) all blown and torn apart by the wintry wind-chill factor on our drowned Athlone sheep. Pursue poor peace, ye white-flecked

soul-musics. Peace – or at least pieces therefrom, I´d say.

Strains heavenly with their velvety parallel sixths and glissing thirds all wrapping up our souls´anaesthetic, I suppose, Próinsias ? ( Turkey knives or goose carvers are still dormant; let them sleep

the killer´s sleep . there´ll be time for a thin twine of red blood in the aviary. )

Your fond Christmas Mirror, Phrank

—–Ursprüngliche Mitteilung—–
Von: Fbcorcoran
An: fbcorcoran@aol.com
Verschickt: Mi., 22. Dez. 2010, 14:32
Thema: Self- Referentiality at Xmas – why ever not ?

Dear Próinsias,

Perhaps we´ll initiate a daily shortie from Phrank to Próinsias ( and back ? Hmmm ) for these few Silly Silent Nights now ? Off in the stilly morning and mind the dresser . This eg. ventilates some of the emanations of this little christmassy

soul, its daily re-living, re-flecting each snowy Christmas day the very next day ; it

reconciles the given I / Me Split to the pursuit of peace, no mean rabbit in the snow . It sums up all of my white yesterdays; it comments on the fury

temporarily gagged or for the sacred present bound; it bathes in the very civil civility of this festive time as we go easy with this our cold myth and also with all our loved ones an´ all.

It puts shape on frozen form, you might say.

That means no sweat of the soul this Xmas .

No spark of stupid what? No bottle-necked anger, no resentment nor bite-my-neck-so as-I´ll-bite-yours-back bickering or snickering . No lickering to snowy excess . It means a frosty patience in my

neck of these hoary woods and the mutinous

Shannon ( – once again that adjective ? – Shure we had it last year also ! ) waves all blown and torn apart, the wintry wind-chill factor factored into the numbers of drowned Athlone sheep. Pursue poor peace, you white-flecked

soul-music. Peace – or at least pieces therefrom, I´d say.

Heavenlystrains with all their velvety parallel sixths and glissing thirds wrapped in our souls´anaesthetic, Próinsias ? ( All turkey knives,every goose carver lies still dormant in Chistmas kitchens ; let them sleep on in

the killer´s sleep ; there´ll be time for a thin twine of red blood in the aviary. )

Your Fond And Only Christmas Mirror, Phrank

How compose cold music ? ( Yes, yes, I know: well-tried high string harmonics, let´s say, punctuated and,well, well- rubbed by pianissimo stopped horn number one and then your sawed on or off marimba; or is it these metallophones? Washed, say, in water of the frightful temperatures which this nighte an´awle is now offering me here in my High Freezing Eyrie ? What IS, then, cold music ? Well, what could comic music possibly be ? What is it which sonically defines light- or arse-heavy, heaving music? Porous musical texture? Gripping musical narrative and sailing-to-Bizantium note-after-note ?

New to New York!

Nine free admission concerts featuring
Music by Composers from the Americas and the World

including works by

Talia Amar, Rafael Aponte-Ledee, Elizabeth Bell, Allen Brings, Chou Wen-chung, Dinos Constantinides, Frank Corcoran, Aurelio de la Vega, Federico Ermirio, Elizabeth Gaskill, Edward Green, Moon Young Ha, Sean Hickey, Federico Ibarra-Goth, Paul Konye, Jose Lezcano, Max Lifchitz, Mei-Fang Lin, Liviu Marinescu, Robert Martin, David Maves, Dosia McKay, William Ortiz, Howard Quilling, Raoul Pleskow, Carlos Rausch, Alexander Semmler, & Rain Worthington

performed by

Patricia Caicedo, Thelma Ithier-Sterling, Siri Rico, & Erika Vogel, sopranos
Isai Jess Munoz, tenor
Jose Lezcano, guitar
Lisa Hansen, flute
Richard Kravchak, oboe
Arthur Campbell & Julia Heinen, clarinet
Max Lifchitz, piano & conductor
The North/South Chamber Orchestra

Concerts start Sunday, November 14 and will take place at

Christ & St Stephen’s Church
120 West 69th St (bet Bway & Columbus) New York City

complete schedule at

http://www.northsouthmusic.org

To stream and/or download the more than fifty albums comprising the North/South Recordings catalogue please visit

http://www.classicsonline.com/North_South_Recordings/

North/South Consonance’s 2010-11 season is made possible in part with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts and the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs. Additional support comes from the Alice M. Ditson Fund at Columbia University in the City of NY; the Music Performance Funds of Local 802 of the American Federation of Musicians; and contributions from many generous individuals like you.

This colde nighte and alle , how many poor shiverlings, how dey use now this my frigid e-confessional ? Log, blog, sblog, also smblog, the poor hermit´s prayer?
A ” musician ” ?. I don´t play, sight-read so mighty symphonies, not undangerous sculptures. Gustav Mahler was, in HIS normal enough underpants, one metre sixty.

Teach me a bit of sense ( The musical work is NOT its performances, their frequency, quality, notoriety or their ambience either ). To chew or not to chew the hermit´s pencil. To intersperse the odd Haiku when apposite. Not to go beyond the exhausted, developed, wrung – out / run out material. To take a high-trapeze artist´s risk when it behoves. To variate but not to repeat if there´s no earthly reason. To reason aethereally with compositional logic. To sing , when it´s a Violin Concerto ( it will be, soon ) . To bow rhapsodically if it´s 8 Celli you have . To believe once again in vocal polyphony it´s 8 HAIKUS for quasi cori spezzati. Teach. This cold blogs to log out.