I found this video to be a very illuminating one to make…the research process got me into some music I hadn’t been familiar with before. It’s a story with a dark end, but an interesting one. I hope you enjoy the video, and if you would prefer to read, I’ll include the text to the main part of the video below.
Just one quick note before we start: I’m afraid I bungled some facts during my research, and it’s important to correct them now that they were pointed out to me. First of all, Louis was Le Roi-Soleil, not Le Roi DU Soleil. Also, the title of Duke of Orléans was not usually reserved for the King, La Grande Mademoiselle’s father was not the eldest, but rather the only surviving brother of Henry IV, and lastly, Lully did go with her very briefly to the countryside. It was after that that he pleaded to be allowed to RETURN to Paris, not to stay there in the first place. The exile of La Grande Mademoiselle is also some cause for contention, as I have read that she at least had a hand in the decision, but I was also informed by another source that it was not her choice. I hope I can get some more clarification on that, but for now, don’t take that part of the video as absolute truth. I apologize for the errors, and if anything else is brought to my attention, I will update it promptly! Anyway, on with the script:
Hey YouTube, it’s Cello Ben, and welcome to Music History Mondays, my new series exploring some of the most interesting musical stories that I know. And today’s episode definitely fits that bill. We’re going to talk about Jean-Baptiste Lully, the French Baroque composer who was instrumental (get it?) in the development of France’s operatic and ballet traditions. So, with an apology in advance for any terrible French pronunciation, let’s dive in and learn about what makes Jean-Baptiste Lully an interesting dude to study. And don’t worry, we will get to his peculiar death.
Though he’s iconically French in his memorialization by history, Lully was actually born in Florence, then part of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, and now the eighth most populous Italian city. The year: 1632. He learned to play violin and guitar as a youngster, and one day, while he was playing, he was noticed by a man by the name of Roger de Lorraine, chevalier de Guise, who wanted to hire Lully. Not for anything musical, but to help his niece, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, practice Italian.
La Grande Mademoiselle, as she was known, was the daughter of the Duke of Orléans. This title was usually reserved for the King of France, but at times, select relatives would be called as such in his stead. In the case of her father, he was the eldest brother of Louis XIII to outlive him, and so he took on the title. So all this goes to say, we’re talking about a really notable family. To the point where La Grande Mademoiselle was a member of the dynastic House of Bourbon, a house that included King Louis XIV, whom we will definitely discuss later on. So, France had a tumultuous period from 1648 to 1653 known as the Fronde, with two phases of civil war. During the second phase, La Grande Mademoiselle was afraid for her life, and she fled into exile. Now, that was an embarrassingly brief summary of those events, but it does bring us to an important part of the story. Even though she headed to the provincial countryside, Lully did not want to go with her, and he pleaded to be allowed to stay where he was. His plea was heard, and he was permitted to remain. And shortly thereafter, became connected with a very important person in our story today: King Louis XIV.
Louis XIV, also known as Le Roi du Soleil, or the Sun King, was an extremely interesting and influential individual after the death of his father. His reign began at the tender age of four. His mother, Queen Anne, ruled on his behalf, because obviously, a preschool-aged kid can’t run a country, even though most of us could probably name several world leaders with similar temperaments and maturity levels. Once Louis was deemed old enough, he began running the show. He was the picture of vanity and arrogance. In fact, Voltaire said of Louis: “It is certain that he passionately wanted glory rather than the conquests themselves. In the acquisition of Alsace and half of Flanders, and all of Franche-Comté, what he really liked was the name he made for himself.”
Louis was a ballet fanatic, and he used the art form not only to showcase and glorify himself as a dancer, but he also injected it into political life, making it a major part of courtly pageantry. That’s once again embarrassingly brief, but it is important to know that Louis was not only a big ballet stan, but a very important figure in its history. In fact, he ordered his dance teacher, Beauchamp, to come up with a way to notate his sick moves. A man by the name of Feuillet took interest in this and published “Chorégraphie”, which enshrined what became known as Beauchamp-Feuillet notation for posterity. All this goes to show that if any historical royal was likely to patronize ballet, it was Louis. And patronize ballet he did. Now, this is starting to bring us back around to Lully, a beneficiary of this passionate patronage. At the age of 14, King Louis made his ballet debut in the Ballet Royale de la Nuit, a 13-hour work where Louis played Apollo. Now, Apollo is known as a god of many things, but one that stands out is of the Sun. Remember, we’re talking here about Le Roi du Soleil ,the Sun King. But Louis wasn’t the only cast member. Another dancer was our main man Jean-Baptiste Lully.
Louis obviously took a liking to Mr. Lully, because he quickly decided to bring him on board as a royal composer, and later on, he put him in charge of music for the royal family. A high position of art in government, indeed. Like if I became Joe Biden’s personal cellist or something. He became very prolific as a composer, not only of ballet music, but operatic and other music, too. His earliest operas were premiered at an indoor tennis court, of all things, which Lully transformed into a theater. Later on, his operas would often premiere in the court of Louis, not of tennis ,and would then be offered to the public at the Palais Royale. For the most part, his operas focused on settings of tragedies, and he worked extensively with Philippe Quinault as his librettist. The two remind me a little bit of a story I’ve heard about Jerome Kern working with Hammerstein, where Kern allegedly would start with the music, and then ask Hammerstein for words. Lully and Quinault are said to have done much the same if you want to immerse yourself in Lully’s operatic work you can start with what’s probably his most famous opera, “Armide.” For now, though, let’s head back to the world of dance. There were two main genres in which Lully was heavily involved one was so-called ballet de cour, or court ballet. Court ballet performances were social events for nobles. I guess it’s where the Paris Hiltons and various Kardashians of the day would hang out. They were also celebrations of the arts, of course, but another purpose was to serve a nationalistic cause, extolling the virtues of the homeland’s powers that be. Aside from ballet de cour, there was what is called comédie-ballet. comédie-ballet was mainly predicated upon a play, but it was interspersed by what were called intermèdes. These intermèdes consisted of music and dance, and Lully wrote a great number of them to go with plays written by a man who went by the pen name Molière. Now, some of his music didn’t fall into any of these categories, and rather was sacred music for the royal chapel. one sub-genre of sacred music In which Lully was particularly involved was called the grand motet. Grand motets, a mainstay of the French Baroque, were large-scale works that typically had not only a beefy orchestra, but two choirs. I was so struck by majesty, beauty, and grandeur during my grand motet listening session. And that points to some of the hallmarks of Lully’s music, which are, to me, energy, emotion, and overall power. Much of the time, it’s rollicking dances when it’s fast, and heart-wrenching melodies and harmonies when it’s slower. Obviously, that’s a gross oversimplification, but it is what came to my mind when I was listening. I really mean it, though, that as I was researching for this video, I realized how much I loved Lully’s work on a personal, visceral level. How much it affected me and just…made me feel. I’m going to leave some links in the description to some works that I think are a good introduction to his style, and that just might unlock all the feels for you, too. And I encourage you to take a listen, but don’t forget to head back to this video, because we are about to talk about the strange circumstances of Lully’s death. This is rather gruesome, so if you don’t want to hear about it, go ahead and skip to the last minute of the video.
Okay, here we go. In 1686 King Louis was bothered by a real pain in the butt… literally. And he had surgery for it. Thereafter, he spent two months recovering, and to celebrate afterwards, Lully conducted a performance of his “Te Deum”, one of those grand motets that I mentioned, for the boss. Now, conducting back then was markedly different from what it is today. As far as I have found, directing an orchestra by waving a baton in the air did not become a thing until the 19th century. Before that, many conductors would keep time by essentially whacking a stick on the ground. And that’s how Lully decided to keep the band together for the performance. But this did not go exactly according to plan. While conducting, Lully missed the mark a little bit, and struck himself in the toe with his staff. Now, I had a metatarsal fracture in my foot when I was a young man, so I know how much this kind of thing can hurt. In Lully’s case, though, he developed an abscess, which can be serious today, but back then could be especially so. Eventually, he ended up with gangrene. Gangrene is when tissue in the body dies, which is a horrifying prospect, and I do not recommend looking at pictures of it. The main way that gangrene is treated, even these days, is with the removal of that dead tissue. And sometimes, that can necessitate having fingers, toes, or even entire limbs taken off. Lully’s only hope was amputation. But he did not want to do it. Obviously, in the 17th century, surgery was an awfully risky and painful endeavor, and I could understand not wanting to deal with that, especially after seeing your boss take two months to heal from his own operation. But that’s not actually the reason that history gives for Lully’s refusal to have the procedure done. Instead, it was because it would mess with his ability to dance. Remember, like Louis, Lully was a passionate dancer. Doing ballet together was when Louis first became impressed with him, and Lully was not about to give that up. But this devotion came with the ultimate price. The gangrene spread, eventually affecting the poor man’s brain, and on March 22nd, 1687, Jean-Baptiste Lully sadly met his end in Paris. He died for dance.
Thereafter, he was buried at Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, where you can visit his bust and tomb today. Now, there’s much more to Lully’s biography than what I’ve provided, of course. My goal here was just to give a brief introduction to his contributions to the arts in France, his relationship with royalty, and the sort of music he put out, before telling you about the tragic but odd end to his life.
