If there is a world’s second-most beautiful piece of music, then which is the first, and who said so? Of course, that ranking would be entirely subjective, right?
I learned to compose by listening. When I need inspiration, I also listen. It doesn’t pay very well, as they say, but the benefits are pretty great; I get to listen to a lot of incredible music.
So, I remember a dear friend, who knew I was a musician, rushing breathlessly to my side, proclaiming, “I have found the most beautiful piece of music ever written!” There were some flourishes of her arms and flashing of her eyes as she prepared to enlighten me with her revelation.
I smiled and answered, simply, “The ‘Flower Duet?’” Her eyes widened as if I had actually been able to see into her soul, and she asked, “How could you possibly know that?”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tD5ry23HggM
The “Flower Duet” is one of those compositions that aficionados would say has been overused. It has been featured widely, in advertisements by British Airways, movies such as Tarantino’s “True Romance,” and even in “The Simpsons”—so I am not sure whether the aficionados are being snobbishly superior or overprotective. Either way, the first hearing of the duet seldom fails to bring people to their knees.
Regardless, I informed my friend that the “Flower Duet” was the second-most beautiful piece of music ever written. At which point her eyes widened even further.
Leo Delibes, the genius the gods chose to compose the “Flower Duet,” was born in France in 1836—before the car, the telephone, or the airplane—yet the music is timeless. Yes, it is classical music, but even today’s classical composers struggle to achieve that level of complex elegance and beauty.
Tchaikovsky, upon hearing an earlier work of Delibes, the opera “Sylvia,” was noted for saying: “What charm, what grace, what melodic, rhythmic and harmonic richness. I was ashamed. If I had heard this music earlier, then I would not have written ‘Swan Lake.’” Delibes confounded everyone by going on to write the opera “Lakmé,” from which the famed “Flower Duet” was born.
“Lakmé” premiered at the Opera Comique in Paris in 1883. By May 1921, it had reached its 1,000th performance there.
The opera is a tragic love story, like many others of its time. During the first act, Lakmé, the daughter of a high priest, and her handmaid, Mallika, gather flowers at a riverbank. They sing the duet, imagining floating down the river beneath a white dome of jasmine flowers, listening to a beautiful birdsong. It is this song that enchants the young soldier who is hiding by the riverbank, and it is little wonder he is enchanted.
The orchestra plays in 6/8 time, which lilts like a breeze, almost a gentle waltz. The close harmonies of the voices quite literally shimmer at just a third apart, singing a melody that seems to echo the birdsong and the waters of the river. They rise and fall with a sweet yearning before soaring impossibly into the chorus section. The two voices, a soprano and a mezzo-soprano, seem almost to take flight in a melody that is both searing and fragile, thrilling and uplifting, but with a longing that brings real flesh and blood to a melody that could almost be too beautiful. The structure of the melody and vocal counterpoints continue upwards to one of opera’s most sensational and heart-stopping crescendos. The last notes seem to hang, frozen in the air for a long moment, before the motifs are repeated in a soft refrain that finally allows the listener to bathe in exquisite, liquid rapture. It is a breathtaking affect that shatters the intellect and cuts deep to the core, leaping the gap between stunning musical accomplishment and pure human emotional experience.
I recommend searching online for a performance of the piece by Anna Netrebko and Elina Garanca. It will not disappoint, I assure you.
While Delibes’ three main operas, “Sylvia,” “Coppélia,” and “Lakmé,” were received to great critical acclaim, they have not stood the test of time in the same way as some of the Italian compositions of that era, like “Tosca” or “Madame Butterfly.” “Lakmé,” for example, is set during the English colonial occupation of India. When that occupation ended, the world moved on, and modern politics and social mores, perhaps rightfully so, have left many such works begging for continued relevance.
However, while some operas and ballets might have lost favor, the arias from those works often go on to have lives of their own, and, thankfully, such is the case with the singular “Flower Duet.” It has rightfully earned its place at the center of the canon of classical repertoire, and is performed around the world to this day. There probably isn’t a soprano alive who does not dream of performing this iconic piece.
As a composer, I would feel blessed beyond words to pen just that one melody and retire, content that I had made a miraculous contribution.
And yet, as startlingly wonderful as the “Flower Duet” is, it might surprise you to know that there is always another piece of music, hiding just around the corner, waiting for a curious ear to find it. That is how blessed we are: For every act of mindless madness we can attribute to the human race, we can look back at a reservoir that is positively brimming over with our higher expressions, with incredible wisdom and beauty, expressed through literature, art, and music. That treasure trove is deep and wide.
And so, I assured my dear friend that it was a mathematical certainty that she would find yet another incredible melody that she would be sure was “the most beautiful piece of music ever written.” Ergo, the “Flower Duet” would become the second. But, how incredible would that be!
