Raphael’s The School Of Athens (1511)

Back in 2006 I went to Rome, vis­it­ed the tombs of Keats and Shel­ley, sat on the Span­ish Steps, had my cam­era stolen on the sub­way (hol­i­days are often mixed affairs, after all), dis­cov­ered a pen­chant for liquorice liqueur, mar­velled at the Col­i­se­um, got a sore neck look­ing up at St Mark’s Cathe­dral and the glo­ri­ous Sis­tine Chapel…and spent some time in con­tem­pla­tion of the famous fres­co that is the sub­ject of today’s blog. The School of Athens is one of four wall fres­coes in the Stan­za del­la Seg­natu­ra, the apart­ment in the Vat­i­can palace whose walls and ceil­ing were paint­ed by Raphael between 1508 and 1511.

Raphael (Raf­fael­lo Sanzio da Urbino) was com­mis­sioned by Pope Julius II, the same man who also com­mis­sioned Michelan­ge­lo to paint the near­by Sis­tine Chapel (this Pope clear­ly knew his painters), and, like that work, the Stan­za del­la Seg­natu­ra is an embod­i­ment of all that was great about the clas­si­cal spir­it of the Renais­sance. It’s hard to think of a bet­ter sym­bol for the mar­riage of art, phi­los­o­phy, and sci­ence that was the hall­mark of the Ital­ian Renais­sance than The School of Athens.

The fres­coes depict the themes of phi­los­o­phy, the­ol­o­gy, lit­er­a­ture and jus­tice, and per­son­i­fi­ca­tions of the same four themes dec­o­rate the ceil­ing. The School of Athens, rep­re­sent­ing phi­los­o­phy, is notable for its accu­rate per­spec­ti­val pro­jec­tion, which Raphael learned from Leonar­do da Vin­ci (whose like­ness Raphael used for the cen­tral fig­ure of this paint­ing, Pla­to). The two cen­tral fig­ures are Pla­to and Aris­to­tle, each hold­ing a copy of one of their books (Plato’s Timaeus and Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics), and around them is an assort­ment of fig­ures from the worlds of phi­los­o­phy and the nat­ur­al sci­ences, includ­ing Socrates, Pythago­ras, Euclid and Ptole­my. If you’re ever in Rome, be sure to vis­it the Stan­za del­la Seg­natu­ra, but do look after your cam­era!

Aaron Copland’s Fanfare For The Common Man (1942)

In May 1942, soon after the Unit­ed States had entered World War II after Pearl Har­bor, F D Roosevelt’s Vice Pres­i­dent James A Wal­lace deliv­ered the speech of his life, in which he cast a future world peace as mean­ing “a bet­ter stan­dard of liv­ing for the com­mon man, not mere­ly in the Unit­ed States and Eng­land, but also in India, Rus­sia, Chi­na, and Latin America–not mere­ly in the Unit­ed Nations, but also in Ger­many and Italy and Japan”

Some have spo­ken of the “Amer­i­can Cen­tu­ry”. I say that the cen­tu­ry on which we are entering—the cen­tu­ry which will come into being after this war—can be and must be the cen­tu­ry of the com­mon man.”

As well as being trans­lat­ed into 20 lan­guages and mil­lions of copies being dis­trib­uted around the world, the speech also inspired the leader of the Cincin­nati Sym­pho­ny Orches­tra, Eugene Goossens, to com­mis­sion a fan­fare. He asked Amer­i­can com­posers to sub­mit patri­ot­ic pieces to sup­port the war effort, repris­ing a sim­i­lar ini­tia­tive dur­ing World War I and each one to pre­cede the CSO’s orches­tral con­certs. A total of eigh­teen fan­fares were sub­mit­ted, includ­ing Fan­fare for Para­troop­ers, Fan­fare for the Med­ical Corp, Fan­fare for Air­men, and one that became very famous, Aaron Copland’s Fan­fare for the Com­mon Man.

The fan­fare is writ­ten for four horns, three trum­pets, three trom­bones, tuba, tim­pani, bass drum, and tam-tam, and is as stir­ring a piece of brass sound­scape as one can imag­ine. It cap­tures won­der­ful­ly the spir­it of Wallace’s opti­mistic theme of ush­er­ing in a just future world. Below, let’s watch this dra­mat­ic ren­der­ing by the Dutch Radio Phil­har­mon­ic Orches­tra, and then lis­ten to the bril­liant prog rock ver­sion released in 1977 by Emer­son Lake and Palmer (and which was my first expo­sure to Copland’s music).

Aaron Cop­land

Paul Robeson’s I’m Goin’ To Tell God All O’ My Troubles (1927)

The injus­tices endured by enslaved African Amer­i­cans in the Unit­ed States between the 17th cen­tu­ry right up until the Thir­teenth Amend­ment abol­ish­ing slav­ery in 1865, but then also the resid­ual racism and seg­re­ga­tion that sim­mered after its abo­li­tion well into the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, makes for dif­fi­cult read­ing. A pod­cast I have been lis­ten­ing to about the his­to­ry of slav­ery in the US opens with a slave song, I’m Goin’ To Tell God All O’ My Trou­bles, sung by Paul Robe­son in that famous bari­tone of his, and it’s worth look­ing at the life of the man Paul Robe­son, whose sto­ry is real­ly about how you can’t keep a good man down, against all the odds.

Robe­son was both an aca­d­e­m­ic and an ath­lete, and won a schol­ar­ship to Rut­gers Col­lege in 1915, the only black man there at the time. He excelled for the Rut­gers foot­ball team, the Scar­let Knights, although at one point he was benched because a South­ern foot­ball team refused to take the field because the Scar­let Knights were field­ing a negro. But he kept going and flour­ished both ath­let­i­cal­ly and aca­d­e­m­i­cal­ly, end­ing up fin­ish­ing uni­ver­si­ty with fly­ing colours and accept­ed into the pres­ti­gious hon­our soci­eties Phi Beta Kap­pa and Cap and Skull.

He went on to study law at Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty, whilst simul­ta­ne­ous­ly play­ing pro­fes­sion­al Amer­i­can foot­ball for the Mil­wau­kee Bad­gers and pro­mot­ing his fine singing by act­ing in off-cam­pus pro­duc­tions. After grad­u­at­ing, he became a fig­ure in the Harlem Renais­sance with per­for­mances in the Eugene O’Neill plays The Emper­or Jones and All God’s Chillun Got Wings, and gave up both his foot­ball and his fledg­ling law career. He was lat­er to find world­wide fame from per­for­mances such as his “Joe” in Show Boat at London’s Drury Lane The­atre, fea­tur­ing the bench­mark song Ol’ Man Riv­er, and as Oth­el­lo in three sep­a­rate pro­duc­tions of that play.

Robe­son soon found him­self wel­comed and court­ed by elite social cir­cles, but this did not turn his head, and he was to become a pro­lif­ic polit­i­cal activist for civ­il rights and oth­er social jus­tice cam­paigns through­out his life, as well as sup­port­ing the Repub­li­can cause in the Span­ish Civ­il War. His sym­pa­thies for the Sovi­et Union and com­mu­nism caused him to be black­list­ed dur­ing the McCarthy era, but his rep­u­ta­tion as a strong and respect­ed voice for jus­tice had already been sealed, and he nev­er gave up.

Between 1925 and 1961, Robe­son record­ed and released some 276 dis­tinct songs, span­ning many styles, includ­ing spir­i­tu­als, pop­u­lar stan­dards, Euro­pean folk songs, polit­i­cal songs and poet­ry. I’m Goin’ To Tell God All O’ My Trou­bles was released as the B‑side to Deep Riv­er in 1927, and is a deeply felt expres­sion of life under the yoke.

Paul Robe­son

Gabriel Fauré’s Berceuse (1893)

Gabriel Fau­ré (1845 – 1924) was one of the fore­most French com­posers of his gen­er­a­tion, and his name sits com­fort­ably amongst those of his near-con­tem­po­raries Berlioz, Debussy and Saint-Saens. It is said that his career strad­dles the gap between Roman­ti­cism and mod­ernism: when he was born Chopin was still com­pos­ing and by the time of his death jazz had arrived. Among his best-known works are his Pavane, Requiem, Sicili­enne, and his noc­turnes for the piano but I’m going to look at an inter­est­ing col­lec­tion of pieces for piano duet that Fau­re com­posed called the Dol­ly Suite, Op. 56.

The Dol­ly Suite con­sists of six short pieces writ­ten between 1893 and 1896, to mark the birth­days and oth­er events in the life of the daugh­ter of the com­poser’s mis­tress, French singer Emma Bar­dac (who went on to become Claude Debussy’s mis­tress, too; she clear­ly had a thing for com­posers!). Each piece has its own title: Berceuse, Mi-a-ou, Le Jardin de Dol­ly, Kit­ty-valse, Ten­dresse, and Le Pas Espag­nole, and the com­plete suite takes about fif­teen min­utes to per­form.

The best-known piece is Berceuse (French for “lul­la­by”), which in the UK became famous as the play-out tune to the BBC radio pro­gramme for very young chil­dren, Lis­ten with Moth­er, which broad­cast from 1950 onwards, and which will like­ly be recog­nised by many a baby boomer. The Berceuse has been arranged for sev­er­al com­bi­na­tions of instru­ments over the years but below we’ll lis­ten to it in its orig­i­nal piano duet form, played by Dutch broth­ers Lucas and Arthur Jussen. Are you sit­ting com­fort­ably?

Gabriel Fau­ré

Marcel Proust’s In Search Of Lost Time (1913)

In Search of Lost Time (French: À la recherche du temps per­du) is a mon­u­men­tal nov­el in sev­en vol­umes by French author Mar­cel Proust, writ­ten between 1909 and the author’s death in 1922. Weigh­ing in at 3200 pages, it real­ly is a mag­num opus and indeed was Proust’s life’s work (his only oth­er nov­el, the ear­li­er Jean San­teuil, was unfin­ished and was some­thing of a pro­to­type since it con­tained many of the themes and motifs that he would deploy lat­er). So, has your blog­ger gone above and beyond and read the whole thing? Of course not! How­ev­er, I have recent­ly read vol­ume one, Swann’s Way, and judg­ing by the qual­i­ty of writ­ing and the enjoy­able way I was sucked into his world, who knows, I may yet attempt the whole series, in time.

My ver­sion is in Eng­lish of course, rather than the orig­i­nal French, and so a word should be said about the qual­i­ty of the trans­la­tion. This defin­i­tive trans­la­tion was ren­dered by Scots­man C K Scott Mon­crieff whose job it was to use the appro­pri­ate phrase­ol­o­gy and le mot juste to reli­ably cap­ture the essence of the Prous­t­ian text in Eng­lish. To illus­trate how this may dif­fer, con­sid­er his orig­i­nal title Remem­brance of Things Past, com­pared with what pub­lish­ers lat­ter­ly decid­ed upon, the more lit­er­al In Search of Lost Time.

The theme of the book is sig­nalled by this title: the nature of mem­o­ry. Despite the book being fic­tion­al, Proust’s child­hood and ear­ly adult­hood in late 19th cen­tu­ry and ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry high soci­ety France must have been plun­dered prodi­gious­ly: the detail is extra­or­di­nary and you could be for­giv­en for believ­ing you are read­ing a true auto­bi­og­ra­phy, and that the fic­tion­al town of Com­bray, in which most of the events take place, was a real French town. Through­out the book are instances of “invol­un­tary mem­o­ry”, that is, vivid mem­o­ries con­jured up for the nar­ra­tor by sen­so­ry expe­ri­ences such as sights, sounds and smells. Per­haps the most famous of these occurs ear­ly in Swann’s Way, name­ly the “episode of the madeleine”, which I repro­duce here:

No soon­er had the warm liq­uid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shud­der ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extra­or­di­nary thing that was hap­pen­ing to me. An exquis­ite plea­sure had invad­ed my sens­es, some­thing iso­lat­ed, detached, with no sug­ges­tion of its ori­gin. And at once the vicis­si­tudes of life had become indif­fer­ent to me, its dis­as­ters innocu­ous, its brevi­ty illusory—this new sen­sa­tion hav­ing had on me the effect which love has of fill­ing me with a pre­cious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. … Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and appre­hend it? … And sud­den­ly the mem­o­ry revealed itself. The taste was that of the lit­tle piece of madeleine which on Sun­day morn­ings at Com­bray (because on those morn­ings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morn­ing to her in her bed­room, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dip­ping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the lit­tle madeleine had recalled noth­ing to my mind before I tast­ed it. And all from my cup of tea.

Mar­cel Proust

Caravaggio’s The Calling of St Matthew (1600)

For the arche­type of the dan­ger­ous­ly pas­sion­ate artist, go no fur­ther than Car­avag­gio. Car­avag­gio (full name Michelan­ge­lo Merisi da Car­avag­gio, 1571–1610) lived a tumul­tuous life in Rome in the late 16th cen­tu­ry, paint­ing mas­ter­pieces in between being locked away for var­i­ous offences usu­al­ly involv­ing brawl­ing and assault. Many records exist of his being sued for one infrac­tion or anoth­er: he was sued by a wait­er for throw­ing arti­chokes in his face; he was sued by his land­la­dy for not pay­ing his rent and then for van­dal­ism when he threw rocks through her win­dow. Usu­al­ly, Car­avag­gio was bailed out by wealthy patrons but when, in a duel in 1606, he actu­al­ly killed a local gang­ster, he was forced to go on the run and he spent the final four years of his life mov­ing between Naples, Mal­ta, and Sici­ly. Thus, Car­avag­gio, like none oth­er, com­pels us to sep­a­rate the artist from his art.

But what an art: Car­avag­gio employed close phys­i­cal obser­va­tion with a dra­mat­ic use of chiaroscuro (the use of strong con­trasts between light and dark) that came to be known as tene­brism. He used the tech­nique to trans­fix sub­jects in bright shafts of light between dark shad­ows, and since he often chose cru­cial moments and scenes from the Bible and lit­er­a­ture, his works were often vivid­ly expressed dra­ma. He worked rapid­ly, with live mod­els, pre­fer­ring to for­go draw­ings and instead work direct­ly onto the can­vas: if he had been a snook­er play­er he would have been Hur­ri­cane Hig­gins.

A case in point is The Call­ing of St Matthew, held in the Con­tarel­li Chapel, Rome, and depict­ing the sto­ry from the Gospel of Matthew: “Jesus saw a man named Matthew at his seat in the cus­tom house, and said to him, ‘Fol­low me’, and Matthew rose and fol­lowed Him.” Car­avag­gio depicts Matthew the tax col­lec­tor sit­ting at a table with four oth­er men. Jesus Christ and Saint Peter have entered the room, and Jesus is point­ing at Matthew. A beam of light illu­mi­nates the faces of the men at the table as they stare at the new arrivals. When you look at the pic­ture, you could be for­giv­en for won­der­ing which sit­ter is Matthew: is the beard­ed man point­ing to the slumped fig­ure (“Who, him?”) or at him­self (“Who, me?”). For­tu­nate­ly, two oth­er paint­ings sit along­side this one in the chapel (The Mar­tyr­dom of St Matthew and The Inspi­ra­tion of St Matthew) and they fea­ture the same beard­ed man unequiv­o­cal­ly play­ing Matthew.

Car­avag­gio, The Call­ing of Saint Matthew

Walt Whitman’s O Captain! My Captain (1865)

Walt Whit­man (1819–1892) was an Amer­i­can poet, essay­ist, and jour­nal­ist, famous for his major poet­ry col­lec­tion Leaves of Grass, first pub­lished in 1855 and revised mul­ti­ple times before his death in 1892 (the first edi­tion con­sist­ed of only 12 poems; the final edi­tion con­tained near­ly 400). The col­lec­tion rep­re­sents a cel­e­bra­tion of Whitman’s phi­los­o­phy of life and human­i­ty, and focus­es on nature and the indi­vid­ual human’s role in it, rather than focus­ing on reli­gious or spir­i­tu­al mat­ters.

Most of Whit­man’s poems are writ­ten in free verse and nei­ther rhyme nor fol­low stan­dard rules for meter and line length. If that was con­tro­ver­sial to the purist, so was his use of explic­it sex­u­al imagery, and his col­lec­tion was lam­bast­ed at the time (though cham­pi­oned by influ­en­tial fig­ures like Ralph Wal­do Emer­son and Hen­ry David Thore­au). Over time, how­ev­er, the col­lec­tion has infil­trat­ed pop­u­lar cul­ture and became rec­og­nized as one of the cen­tral works of Amer­i­can poet­ry.

In the 1989 film Dead Poets Soci­ety (set in 1959), Robin Williams’ Eng­lish teacher John Keat­ing advo­cates doing away with the restric­tions of poet­ic rules in order to give cre­ativ­i­ty free rein. He encour­ages his stu­dents to “make your life extra­or­di­nary” and “seize the day” and incites them to rip out the page on dry poet­ic rules from their text­books. His unortho­dox teach­ing meth­ods inevitably attract the atten­tion of strict head­mas­ter Gale Nolan, who con­trives to remove the heretic. As Mr Keat­ing enters the class­room to col­lect his belong­ings, the inspired stu­dents express their sol­i­dar­i­ty by climb­ing on to their desks and quot­ing the open­ing line from Whitman’s O Cap­tain! My Cap­tain! (though iron­i­cal­ly this poem does rhyme).

Dur­ing the Amer­i­can Civ­il War, Whit­man, a staunch Union­ist, had worked in hos­pi­tals car­ing for the wound­ed, and his poet­ry often focused on both loss and heal­ing. O Cap­tain! My Cap­tain! was writ­ten in response to the death of Abra­ham Lin­coln, whom Whit­man great­ly admired, and who had been assas­si­nat­ed in April 1865 just as his great work was com­ing to fruition. The three-stan­za poem uses a ship and its dead cap­tain as a metaphor for the Union­ist cause and Lin­coln him­self.

Ezra Pound called Whit­man “Amer­i­ca’s poet…He is Amer­i­ca”. Well, let’s hear the poem recit­ed and then let’s enjoy the emo­tion­al pow­er of that final scene in Dead Poets Soci­ety.

O Cap­tain! my Cap­tain! our fear­ful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the peo­ple all exult­ing,
While fol­low eyes the steady keel, the ves­sel grim and dar­ing;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleed­ing drops of red,
Where on the deck my Cap­tain lies,
Fall­en cold and dead.

O Cap­tain! my Cap­tain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bou­quets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a‑crowding,
For you they call, the sway­ing mass, their eager faces turn­ing;
Here Cap­tain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fall­en cold and dead.

My Cap­tain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voy­age closed and done,
From fear­ful trip the vic­tor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mourn­ful tread,
Walk the deck my Cap­tain lies,
Fall­en cold and dead.

Walt Whit­man

Claude Berri’s Jean de Florette (1986)

Jean de Flo­rette is a 1986 French com­e­dy-dra­ma film direct­ed by Claude Berri and based on a nov­el by one of France’s great­est 20th cen­tu­ry writ­ers, Mar­cel Pag­nol. The film takes place in rur­al Provence, where two local farm­ers (Yves Mon­tand and Daniel Auteuil) plot to trick a new­com­er (Gérard Depar­dieu) out of his new­ly inher­it­ed prop­er­ty. The film thus stars three of France’s most promi­nent actors, and this is a great place to see them all in action in one place.

The film was shot back to back with its sequel, Manon des Sources, over a peri­od of sev­en months in and around the Vau­cluse depart­ment of Provence, and whilst at the time it was the most expen­sive French film ever made, it was also a great com­mer­cial and crit­i­cal suc­cess, both domes­ti­cal­ly and inter­na­tion­al­ly, and was nom­i­nat­ed for eight César awards, and ten BAF­TAs. The suc­cess of the two films helped pro­mote Provence as a tourist des­ti­na­tion (a ten­den­cy that was cement­ed three years lat­er when Peter Mayle’s best-sell­ing mem­oir, A Year in Provence, was pub­lished ).

Any­way, I have my mate Jason’s wife Liz to thank for intro­duc­ing me to Jean de Flo­rette: whilst at their house sev­er­al years ago, she thrust the DVD of the film into my hands, say­ing “you’ll love this”. I took it home and duti­ful­ly watched it…and she was right! What was at first sight an obscure French film with a dull name and an odd plot became a huge­ly enjoy­able ride. The plot is indeed unusu­al, involv­ing jeal­ous designs on rur­al arable land, hare-brained plans and machi­na­tions around the block­ing up of a nat­ur­al spring. How­ev­er, it is a joy to watch: the rur­al vil­lage scenes are so glo­ri­ous­ly, authen­ti­cal­ly French, and the char­ac­ters con­jured up by these great actors, and a strong sup­port­ing cast, are tremen­dous.

This scene I have cho­sen is pret­ty rep­re­sen­ta­tive, I think: we have Depardieu’s irre­press­ibly opti­mistic Jean, pros­e­lytis­ing about his plans to breed rab­bits and grow mar­rows, Auteuil’s Ugolin try­ing at every turn to dis­suade and dispir­it him, and Montand’s Le Papet (Ugolin’s uncle), a wily owl pre­sid­ing over his and Ugolin’s schemes to dri­ve the new­com­er away and take the land for them­selves.

Daniel Auteuil, Yves Mon­tand, Gérard Depar­dieu

Be-Bop Deluxe’s Modern Music (1976)

I don’t recall now how I actu­al­ly dis­cov­ered Be-Bop Deluxe and came to be the own­er of their 1976 album Mod­ern Music. Pos­si­bly I heard the album’s sin­gle Kiss of Light on the radio, since it is that song that slots into my mem­o­ry as “the first”. Equal­ly, I may have been intro­duced by school­mates Rocky Col­lier or Chris Hobbs, since they too were big fans and indeed the lat­ter was there with me at my first ever gig: Be-Bop Deluxe at Leeds Grand The­atre, Feb­ru­ary 1978. How­ev­er, own the album I did, and my over­rid­ing mem­o­ry is the feel­ing of rev­er­ence I had for it. The themes and con­cepts con­jured up by band leader and gui­tar genius Bill Nel­son were thrilling and oth­er­world­ly; I recall at the foot of the back cov­er a line that summed it up sim­ply but effec­tive­ly: “Music and lyrics writ­ten by Bill Nel­son to enchant”.

Mod­ern Music was the band’s fourth album, so I had dis­cov­ered them late (to be fair, I was only thir­teen) and only ret­ro­spec­tive­ly edu­cat­ed myself in the band’s evo­lu­tion from glam rock pre­tenders to sophis­ti­cat­ed art rock­ers. The band had formed in Wake­field in 1972 and had start­ed out play­ing the West York­shire pub scene, one reg­u­lar venue being the Stag­ing Post in Whin­moor, Leeds. Sev­er­al per­son­nel changes had ensued by the time I had got into them, with my defin­i­tive line-up being Simon Fox on drums, Char­lie Tuma­hai on bass and Andy Clark on key­boards, an ensem­ble that under­stood Nelson’s vision and was emi­nent­ly capa­ble of help­ing him man­i­fest it.

The track list­ing itself gives hints of the fan­tas­ti­cal nature of that vision: Orphans of Baby­lon, The Bird Charmer’s Des­tiny, Hon­ey­moon on Mars, The Dance of the Uncle Sam Humanoids. To the unini­ti­at­ed, such titles might smack of prog-rock con­cept-album pre­ten­sion but the melodies, the tex­tures, the hooks, and the over­all musi­cal splen­dour argue against such a sim­plis­tic appraisal. It is cer­tain­ly con­cep­tu­al, and indeed Nel­son can get away with mak­ing the whole of side B a suite of short tracks merg­ing into one anoth­er, but pre­ten­tious it ain’t. Too much qual­i­ty.

The album cov­er shows the band besuit­ed and un-rock star like, with Bill pre­scient­ly sport­ing a “TV-watch” (or smart­watch, as we’d call it today, albeit with­out the anten­nas!). This was noth­ing like their glam rock ori­gins, nor any­thing like the punk nihilism that was burst­ing onto the scene at around the same time (in the same month as the album’s release, Sep­tem­ber 1976, the 100 Club was host­ing a two-day punk fes­ti­val fea­tur­ing the Sex Pis­tols, the Clash and the Damned). Mod­ern Music rep­re­sent­ed a unique sound and vision, and although the band would only release one more album and dis­band before they could achieve last­ing fame, it stands as a mon­u­ment to Bill Nelson’s con­sid­er­able musi­cal abil­i­ties.

Here is the title track, which gives but a flavour of the music though I would rec­om­mend immers­ing one­self in the whole album to get the prop­er Be-Bop expe­ri­ence.

Be Bop Deluxe

Léo Delibes’ Flower Duet from Lakmé (1883)

Léo Delibes (1836–1891) was a French Roman­tic com­pos­er, best known for his bal­lets and operas. His works include the bal­lets Cop­pélia (1870) and Sylvia (1876), both of which were key works in the devel­op­ment of mod­ern bal­let and remain core works in the inter­na­tion­al bal­let reper­toire, and the opera Lak­mé (1883), which includes the well-known “Flower Duet”. I say “well-known”; it’s pos­si­ble that you know it with­out know­ing you know it (although you may need to wait for the 1.05 minute mark before it clicks). Although Delibes’ name may be less famous today than oth­er con­tem­po­rary French com­posers such as Berlioz, Debussy or Rav­el, the melody he has bequeathed is a gem.

Lak­mé was Delibes’ attempt at a seri­ous opera, hav­ing com­posed sev­er­al light com­ic opérettes in the 1850s and 1860s. The opera com­bines many ori­en­tal­ist aspects that were pop­u­lar at the time: an exot­ic loca­tion (sim­i­lar to oth­er French operas of the peri­od, such as Bizet’s Les pêcheurs de per­les and Massenet’s Le roi de Lahore), a fanat­i­cal priest, mys­te­ri­ous Hin­du rit­u­als, and “the nov­el­ty of exot­i­cal­ly colo­nial Eng­lish peo­ple”. The stuff that would prob­a­bly dis­com­fit mod­ern sen­si­bil­i­ties but which in 1883 was firm­ly de rigueur.

The opera includes the Flower Duet (“Sous le dôme épais”) for sopra­no and mez­zo-sopra­no, per­formed in Act 1 by Lak­mé, the daugh­ter of a Brah­min priest, and her ser­vant Malli­ka. Here we see it per­formed by sopra­no Sabine Devieil­he and mez­zo-sopra­no Mar­i­anne Cre­bas­sa.

Inci­den­tal­ly, have you ever won­dered how for­eign lan­guage poems still rhyme when trans­lat­ed into Eng­lish? Of course, this is where trans­la­tion has to be cre­ative in its own right. The Flower Duet pro­vides a case in point. See how Theodore T Bark­er, in 1890, turned the orig­i­nal French lyrics into singable Eng­lish, pre­serv­ing the form and rhyme:

French lyrics
Viens, Malli­ka, les lianes en fleurs
Jet­tent déjà leur ombre
Sur le ruis­seau sacré
qui coule, calme et som­bre,
Eveil­lé par le chant des oiseaux tapageurs

Lit­er­al Eng­lish
Come, Malli­ka, the flow­er­ing lianas
already cast their shad­ow
on the sacred stream
which flows, calm and dark,
awak­ened by the song of row­dy birds.

Singable Eng­lish
Come, Malli­ka, the flow­er­ing vines
Their shad­ows now are throw­ing
Along the sacred stream,
That calm­ly here is flow­ing;
Enlivened by the songs of birds among the pines.

Now enjoy the music…

Leo Delibes

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