Jacques Offenbach
Composer

A Cantor's Son With a Cello

I was born Jacob Offenbach in Cologne in 1819, when the city belonged to Prussia, so I did not start out French at all. My father was a synagogue cantor, and I was the seventh of ten children, which meant our house was rarely quiet. My brother Jules played the violin and my sister Isabella played the piano, so music was simply the family business. In 1833, when I was 14, I played for Cherubini and was admitted to the Paris Conservatoire, but I left after about a year because lessons were not really where my talents lay.

Opening My Own Front Door

After the Conservatoire I took a job as a cellist at the Opéra-Comique in 1835, and I toured as a soloist, even travelling to England in 1844. In 1850 I became musical director of the Comédie-Française, which taught me a good deal about how a theatre really runs. Then in 1855 I opened a theatre of my own, the Bouffes-Parisiens, on the Champs-Élysées. That was the moment everything changed for me, because for the first time I could write exactly the kind of lively, witty pieces I wanted and put them on my own stage.

Paris Adopts a German

Paris was the place where I made my name, and it was a city that loved to be amused. In 1860 Napoleon III granted me French citizenship, which was a pleasant bit of paperwork for a man born in Cologne. The following year I became a chevalier of the Légion d'honneur, and I was quite proud of the little ribbon. My theatre and the court of the emperor suited each other well, and for a good while the city laughed along with my music.

The Dance That Raised Eyebrows

The piece most people know from me is the Can-Can from Orpheus in the Underworld, which I first presented in 1858. I should be honest and say that I did not invent the dance, because it had been kicking up its heels in rough little venues since the 1830s. What I did was bring it onto a respectable stage, and from then on it became the fashion. Listen for the fast, galloping tune that never seems to stop for breath, and you will understand why audiences could hardly keep still.

A Foreigner Again

In 1870 the Second Empire fell, and suddenly my German birth and my friendships at the imperial court counted against me in Paris. Success did not disappear altogether, because I stayed popular in London and Vienna. In 1873 I took over the direction of the Théâtre de la Gaîté, hoping for another triumph. It ended in financial loss, and I learned that running a theatre can be harder than writing for one.

Across the Ocean and Home Again

In 1876 I crossed the Atlantic for a tour of the United States. Back in Paris I kept working on an opera that meant a great deal to me, The Tales of Hoffmann. Gout had been wearing down my health for a long time, and on 5 October 1880 it brought on heart failure, so I died in Paris at the age of 61. I was given a state funeral and I rest in Montmartre Cemetery.

The Show Went On Without Me

I never saw The Tales of Hoffmann performed, because it premiered at the Opéra-Comique on 10 February 1881, a few months after my death. Ernest Guiraud orchestrated it, with changes and cuts, and to this day nobody can say there is one single authentic version. Composers of operetta such as Franz von Suppé, Johann Strauss II and Arthur Sullivan followed in the path I had opened. Many of my works came back to the stage in the 20th century, so it seems audiences were not finished with me yet.

A Present for Your Ears

What I would like to give you is permission to enjoy music without feeling that you must be solemn about it. You do not need to know anything about composers or rules to be carried along by a good tune. If the Can-Can makes you smile, or even makes your foot tap under the table, then it has done what I wrote it to do. So listen, laugh a little, and let the music take care of the rest.