Frank Corcoran

Irish Composer

MORE APPLE-CRUMBLE. HIGHER MOUSE-DROPPINGS .

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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