Kicking Up Our Heels with Offenbach's Can-Can (from Orpheus in the Underworld)
The Listen Guide

Where to Point Your Ears

If you've never listened to classical music, don't worry, because I wrote this piece so that nobody would need a guide. Start by following the strings, which carry the tune and scurry along almost without taking a breath. Then listen above them for the piccolo, the flute's small, shrill cousin, which my second flute player picked up to add a bright sparkle on top. Underneath, you can catch the cornets, the trombone and the timpani, which punctuate the rush with cheeky blasts and thumps, a bit like someone slapping the table at the end of a joke.

What's in a Name?

On my own pages the piece is called Galop infernal, and that title tells you two things. A galop is a quick dance that bounds along, and infernal fits because the opera sends its gods off to the underworld, where they behave far worse than any respectable god should. The name Can-Can is a popular nickname that grew up around the tune later, so it was never the title I gave it. You can tell how well known the tune became from the fact that Saint-Saëns quoted it in "Tortoises" in The Carnival of the Animals, where the strings play it at a slow, drooping pace.

A Form Without a Rule Book

Choosing the form was an adventure, because I had no wish to write a strict sonata or a tidy rondo for a finale like this. What I built instead is a chain of short, lively tunes that return and push each other along, so the piece feels more like a party than a lecture. The whole thing sits in the bright key of A major, which I shared with two other numbers in the same act. I'll divide it into four sections, and I'll take them one at a time in the paragraphs that follow.

Section 1: The Starting Gun

The piece opens with a short, playful introduction that sets the mood before the real fun begins. The music sounds expectant, as if the dancers are lining up and checking that everyone is ready. The pace is already lively, so you never get the feeling of a slow warm-up. This opening is brief on purpose, because I wanted the audience leaning forward when the main tune arrived.

Section 2: The Tune Everyone Knows

Now the famous melody arrives, bright and bouncy, and it is the part you recognised before you even pressed play. I keep the pace up-tempo, with the strings skipping along and the rest of the orchestra clapping in on the beat. The mood is cheerful and cheeky, and nothing in it asks you to take the gods too seriously. Because the melody is so easy to remember, you can hum it back after hearing it only once.

Section 3: A Moment to Catch Your Breath, Almost

After the big tune, the music loosens and other melodies take their turn. The colour of the sound changes here, with the wind instruments stepping forward and giving the strings a short rest. The mood is still light, but it feels like a playful pause, as if the dancers are smiling at each other before the next round. Listen closely and you will notice that the famous tune is never far away and soon comes back to claim the stage.

Section 4: Hold On to Your Hat

The last section is the grand rush, where everything I have set up comes together at full speed. The whole orchestra joins in, and the drums and brass make the ending feel like a crowd cheering itself hoarse. My audiences in 1858 loved it, and the opera ran for 228 performances, when a hundred nights was already considered a success. When the final chords land, the music stops so suddenly that you may find yourself wanting to start it again.

Your Turn to Press Play

Now I'd like you to try it for yourself, so press play and let the music carry you along. While it runs, keep in mind what we've talked about: the strings racing, the piccolo sparkling, and the four sections rolling one into the next. You don't need to know anything about classical music to enjoy it, only a willingness to smile. I hope the ride feels as thrilling to you as it did to me when I wrote it.