A COLD DECEMBER IN HAMBURG , MUSING :
The trouble is the flute –
I’ve heard too many Flatterzunges of the ” avant WHAT ” of those sixties, Gazzeloni and other giants excellent
blowers of just WHAT for young
Stockhausen ( awful ! ) and breathy young Boulez ( wasn’t much better on the quick-ear ) and other fluted
My ” IT SOARED A BIRD” re-entered terrain I’d swore I’d never again .
So each of my 3 short movements must be unashamedly different, over-theatrical, yet keep the sigh in a tiny
interval, the memory of an archetype, a suggestion of sweet or sour.
No neo – anything ; my mighty flute phrases striding, my ( as usual ) orchestrally thought pianoforte.
Mov. 1 with its modest
Irish tin-whistle of my early Tipperary fifties and its Debussyan ” Tres Mod’er’e ”
My Alto Flute in Mov. 2 sobs and swings and startles with its still
fresh chromatic notes and appoggiaturas , its lows and highs.
In Mov.3 I ( once again ) have to conquer the Standard Bartokian Model with fast, driving, repeated
piano chords, the piccolo unleashed, high and cruel, its highest registers conquered.
“IT SOARED A BIRD” for Flutes ( including Tinwhistle ) and Piano.
No bad self-discipline at all, a few sleeplessnesses.