Frank Corcoran

The snow will be back. It seems happy to announce nothing, nobody, except
1. the world is ( composed ) of mush, 2. behind ( all ) colour is white-gray, 3. ( all ) music is reducible to this wind whine.
Culture = seeing these our Three Truths, yet going on, head bent ( not bowed ) as we plod around the castled moat. Art puts up a good fight. Is this not something ? The pre-Christmas clenched fist ? It is. Yes. Celebrate this holy time. Behind good cheer we cheer ourselves on, that it ? Yope. Wintry words about nothing, no. Important.
Say it out! Sing up, little man !

Benozzo Gozzoli I came upon not, I´ll be snow-bound, by any mere accident – he painted his wings of his Umbran archangels, of his Umbran annunciated Jewish young girl, his brushed ( also finger-tips? ) Monte Falco parthenogenesis,
certainly. He painted lift off. He did brush with another world, announced the advent of what ? The Advent of WHAT ? He brushed off his brush-strokes each evening, opened the Monte Falco miracle-factory each sunny morning. New day, new angel´s wing. How ?

Are there some among us who cannot draw together these Benozzo Gozzoli e-threads ?
Well, we had male parthenogenesis ( rare enough , admit it, in the Queen´s County ). Go easy on the next gold stitch. ( The Great Scream is being propelled down , not up the chimney vortex) Gozzoli´s golden error can happen. Weave into our sewing passacaglia eleven tones, hypothumotics! ladies, come all to the potty !
Then, I remember it well, we stitched in nothing. God is no thing . Capitals is better. No, our little embroidery job´s not quite finished : weave in the one big auntie, damned good concertina-player – she was unravelled unfairly, out of the Big Design. Short is our needle, your tea-break. Certainly I googled you , Painter Ben . ” O filii et filiae, now the cancer raceth up my Renaissance stiff shoulder”…. I, Benozzo, courted painter of chiefly angels´wings, all sizes, am to get an Umbran welcome; I do bequeath to this, still my world also, my coloured swirls and slashes and oil wisps and half finished Monte Falco angelic rainbows and ye´ll have great fun with. Try to cap that. ” O filii. Now they race through the stiff shoulder. He´d painted the archbishop, the cancerous concertina with the three final chords. Listen: it´s C Minor, B Flat, E Flat. There now, easy, lay down dat brush.

It is / was , silly, at 9.30 Dec. 15. 2011.

Irish Television TG Ceathair Frank Corcoran, as Irish composer ( ” Cumadóir ´Eireannach ” ) .

Nov. 15 2011 . 21.30 Irish Time

Irish Television ( TG CEATHAIR ) :

Portrait Frank Corcoran

Recently become himself an archangel, Gozzoli Ben couldn´t email away my tears: ” Caro Corcorano, which black ? Why terror? The vortex? For my and her early death? For good ? For painterly talent? For your tones not quite reaching over our top, amico mio? We are all gone. Si. Into a world of light. Encore. Si, mister. I had it not easy – I remember well my first amateurish goose-quill attempt, the Annunciation Angel Gabriel falling over on his Umbran nose. It took time and tenseless spaghetti and reams of renunciation. I painted over the top. Across the top. Painted quills and wings into eternity.”
Normally a normal sort o´chap, I staunched my tears. As I will now. A shroud is calling. D Major, cheap, frilly-normal, cheerful.

Get this: she DID flutter as in one of your artistic Umbran-Tuscan excursions into The Other Side Of The Black Hole. Nightie singed, how paint great heat? We shall ALL be purified and burned and fly slowly on Benozzo Gozzoli half-wing through the purgatorial vortex in order to separate ourselves in an orderly fashion. From our dross. See “wing merchant”, ” artist on the wing”.
I was very weak now. Theologically toneless. Tuneless. It´s not every night you email a Renaissance Goose-wing Painter. But I did:
” Dear Benozzo ( may I call you Ben? No? ), a dying friend just emailed good me with : But she was disturbed long before your time; you see that, don´t you ? What chain of which suffering? ” – So how did you, Gozz, paint which causality? Who did what ? Your new pal, Phranck”.
Umbran silence from Beyant.

The Boston Phoenix Nov. 11 2005.

The hit of Boston Musica Viva ” Boston Celtics” ( Scottish, British, Irish and Welsh )…. In “MAD SWEENEY” , which was getting its American premiere, Irish composer, Frank Corcoran´s wild-man recitation from Seamus Heaney´s English rendering of the medieval Irish tale about the mad warrior king and knotty sound world reminded me of Peter Maxwell Davies´s 1969 ” Eight Songs for a Mad King”. ( This was “One Song for a Mad King” ) All the playing , under Richard Pittman, was spectacular.

Get back quick behind that microphone ( or there´ll be virtual violence ! ) ! On a green light, go! Ours not to choose: a green-yellow scream is different – fill cheek, go for the all out, a molten red scream, bawling screech, howl, roar, low again, anything really to get us going. On a green, I´ll say it once, twice; no breath across the microphone…. When the time comes, come it will, inject real suffering. So let´s take ten again, please, How now, brown howl ! Column of air, erupts like a studio Stromboli. Take two again. Have a quick listen: short approach curve, apogee, centre crammed with vocal temperature Galileo´s Inquisition boyos ´d envy. Feral grunt, rut sounding, surgical knife´s clean amputatory. Different from David´s harp preludes. Cathedral of pain inside her screech, quartering horses getting good hay for breakfast ( pressed to death in 1587 ). Be not wanting, micro. Inflect her yell too. A dollop of transcendence. Green light.

“The people in the bus go round and round” is a circular enough tune, its delicate tonic and dominant and cadence, tripartite as a Tripartite Life of Saint Patrick.
this children´s song form is its content, Herr Hanslick, its arpeggio up, then down again to its Doh, a child´s dominant echo, and then its octave leap right up to the tonic echo , an ” Abgesang” cadencing phrase.
That´s it.
No, that´s not it. So. What happened to German music-theory after our hugely noble Hugo Leichentritt and our gallant gentleman, Hugo Riemann had tried ? Were both tried and noble knights ?
What happened, I´ll try weeping this, was genetic exhaustion , gone-mad, pseudo Kantian stringency, linguistic tizzy, galloping, lovely incest.

Consider this sentence: ” Damit ist festgestellt, daß Herr Corcoran mit eindeutiger Mehrheit des Gremium und der Professoren auf Platz 1 der Liste kommt. ”
Humph. Now. Consider: could it really be that “Liste” = ” List” . Is it? – Is that it? Consider. And yet. And again yet: ” Beware the viper´s tongue; ” I did beware. I bewared, it was still sunny enough 1982, Prof. Dok Krützfi´s declared aim in his dirty ball-game was certainly to reduce his ( Hamburg; we are lying in his love-bed now in Milchstrasse ) and her ( in still, ah so distant Lübeck )
” fucking distance ” ( No ! I am not making this up, I quote …. ) from her fine bed ( in fine Lübeck ) to his ( fine ) ” Liebes” bed in ( fine ) Harvester Weg. How to reduce their ( love-mating ) distance from ( her female smelling ) Lübeck to ( his male smelling ; speriamo , si ) Harvestehuder Weg ?
Manipulate the votes. He tried. The Gremium stirred, my Selection Board tittered, shivered, it rallied, it voted me up from awe-filled Stuttgart.
” Nunmehr die Liste in der Reihenfolge….” ” Geheime Abstimmung “. ” zu beschließen. ” ” Diese Abstimmung erbracht folgendes Ergebnis…. ”