Rhythm and Ruin: Jean-Baptiste Lully’s Final Beat

In this episode we explore how Jean-Baptiste Lully, the towering figure of French Baroque music, met an unexpectedly grim fate: while fiercely conducting his own Te Deum, he stabbed his foot with his staff, refused surgery and died of gangrene. Along the way we follow his rise from Italian miller’s son to court composer of Louis XIV, survey the evolving tools of conducting, and reflect on how a moment of hubris and misstep changed music history. Strap in for spectacle, irony and a reminder that even great maestros can trip up literally—and yes, the internet says it’s true. Did you know The Internet Says It’s True is now a book? Get it here: https://amzn.to/4miqLNy

Before we talk about Lully’s bizarre death, let’s take a little side road into the world of conducting—because conducting wasn’t always what it is now. When we picture a conductor, we imagine someone on a podium waving a small baton, guiding an orchestra with elegant gestures. But that didn’t really become standard until the early 19th century. In Lully’s day—the 1600s—things looked and sounded very different.

Orchestras were smaller, maybe 15 to 30 musicians, and rhythm was often kept by someone playing the harpsichord or violin. In France, though, things were more theatrical. Instead of conducting from the keyboard, leaders like Lully used what was called a bâton de direction—a long, heavy staff that they’d literally pound on the floor to keep time. Imagine the “thud, thud, thud” echoing through a Baroque theatre as dancers and singers kept time to the pulse. It wasn’t graceful. It was loud. Physical. It was conducting as percussion.

This was especially true in France’s royal court, where precision and spectacle were everything. Louis XIV’s palace wasn’t just a political hub—it was the center of European entertainment. And Jean-Baptiste Lully was the man responsible for the soundtrack.

He didn’t start out that way, though. Lully was born Giovanni Battista Lulli in Florence, Italy, in 1632, the son of a miller. His beginnings were humble, and there was nothing to suggest he’d one day dominate French music. But he had two things working for him: talent, and charm. At some point in his teens, he caught the attention of a noble family—the Chevalier de Guise—who brought him to France in 1646 as a language tutor for their niece. Lully quickly absorbed the French language, its customs, and, crucially, its opportunities. He wasn’t content being a servant. He wanted to climb. And the ladder led straight to the Sun King himself.

By the 1650s, the court of Louis XIV was obsessed with ballet. The king loved to dance—he even performed on stage in elaborate productions where he’d play mythological characters, often symbolizing the sun. Lully, who was also an accomplished dancer and violinist, got himself involved in these productions, composing and performing in court ballets. He appeared alongside the king in Le Ballet de la Nuit in 1653, and that performance changed everything. Louis XIV adored him. The two became close collaborators, even friends.

Louis made Lully his official court composer, giving him titles like “Compositeur de la musique instrumentale du roi” and later “Surintendant de la musique.” It’s worth pausing here to understand what that meant: Lully didn’t just write music for the king—he controlled music in France. He managed the royal orchestra, oversaw musical performances, and, through a royal monopoly, became one of the most powerful cultural figures in Europe. If you wanted to perform opera in France, you needed Lully’s permission.

He also changed the sound of French music. At the time, Italian opera was the gold standard: long, ornate, full of vocal fireworks. Lully fused that style with French language, poetry, and dance to create something new—the tragédie lyrique, a uniquely French form of opera. It was dramatic, but also stately, full of dances and choruses that flattered the grandeur of the monarchy. He invented the French overture—slow and regal at first, then lively and rhythmic—that composers like Handel and Bach would later imitate.

So, by the 1680s, Lully was living the dream. He had risen from a Florentine servant to the musical dictator of Versailles. He was wealthy, arrogant, and adored—though also feared. He was known to be ruthless with rivals, manipulative, and vain. He was a perfectionist. Which brings us to January 1687, when that perfectionism literally became his undoing.

That winter, Lully decided to conduct a performance of his Te Deum, a grand hymn of thanksgiving he’d written years earlier to celebrate the king’s recovery from illness. The occasion this time? A celebration for Louis XIV’s recent recovery from surgery. It was a huge, elaborate production—over a hundred musicians, chorus, soloists, and dancers. And if this surgery sounds familiar – congratulations – you’re an avid TISITOR. We did an episode about the Limping Ladies of London and told you about this specific surgery. I shouldn’t but I’ll tell you about it. Louis had an anal fistula. And when his doctor successfully created a method for fixing it, other men also started getting it. But not because they needed it – they got it unnessecarily because the King did, so they thought getting the surgery gave them status. But we’ve gotten off track. This was about the “congratulations your anal fistula surgery was successful” party with over a hundred musicians. And our man Lully, as always, was in charge.

But remember that old French conducting style? The one where the conductor slammed a long staff on the floor to keep time? Lully was still doing that, even though he didn’t need to. He was an animated conductor—almost theatrical—and during this Te Deum, he was pounding the floor vigorously. At some point during the performance, he missed the floor and struck his own foot. Accounts differ: some say it pierced his big toe; others say it crushed the bone. Either way, it drew blood.

In the 1600s, this was not a trivial injury. Doctors didn’t know about bacteria, antibiotics, or antiseptics. Even a small wound could lead to infection. Lully didn’t take it seriously at first. He may have continued conducting, even finished the performance. But within days, the wound became inflamed, then gangrenous. His doctors urged him to amputate the leg—a common, though dangerous, procedure—but Lully refused. 

According to one account, he said he’d rather die than lose the ability to dance.

And that’s exactly what happened. Over the next few weeks, the infection spread up his leg. On March 22, 1687, Jean-Baptiste Lully died in Paris at the age of 54.

Now let’s pause for a second, because this is one of those moments where history becomes almost too poetic. The man who literally defined rhythm for a generation of French musicians—the man who “kept time” for the court—was killed by his own beating stick.

Lully’s death shocked the French court. Here was the man who had practically invented French opera, gone at the height of his fame. But as soon as he was gone, the knives came out—figuratively this time. For years, he’d made enemies among other musicians and courtiers by enforcing his royal monopoly. He had sued or intimidated anyone who tried to stage operas without his approval. So when the “Sun King’s composer” fell to a self-inflicted wound, more than a few people quietly enjoyed the irony.

His body was buried at the Church of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires in Paris, but his musical empire didn’t last long. His monopoly on opera lapsed, and his collaborators began working with other composers. Within a decade, the public taste was shifting toward new voices—most notably Jean-Philippe Rameau. Lully’s operas remained admired for their craftsmanship, but his dominance was over.

Still, his influence was everywhere. Lully’s innovations shaped how orchestras were organized, how rhythm was notated, and how dancers and singers coordinated with instrumentalists. His French overture became a template for composers across Europe. Bach used it. Handel used it. Even centuries later, you can hear its DNA in symphonic and theatrical works.

But perhaps the strangest part of his legacy was what his death changed in the art of conducting. After Lully’s accident, conductors across Europe began rethinking the use of the heavy floor-beating staff. The long baton gradually evolved into a lighter wand held in the air—safer, more expressive, and much less likely to cause gangrene. It wasn’t immediate, but over time, the “Lully incident” became a cautionary tale for orchestra leaders: conduct with grace, not force.

If you think about it, there’s something poetic about that too. Lully’s death helped push music toward the kind of conducting we know today—batons that float like extensions of the arm rather than crash against the floor like weapons.

Of course, it’s easy to romanticize the story. But we should remember that in Lully’s lifetime, medical treatment was brutal. The choice to amputate a leg wasn’t simple—it meant almost certain death from infection or blood loss. Refusing the surgery might not have been pure vanity; it could have been fear, or simply denial. Still, the legend stuck: Lully was the man who refused to give up dancing, and it killed him.

Let’s zoom out for a moment, because Lully’s story isn’t just about one accident. It’s a window into how the arts and politics were entwined under Louis XIV. The king used art as propaganda—his “Sun King” image was cultivated through dance, architecture, and music. Lully’s operas weren’t just entertainment; they were expressions of royal power. When Louis danced, the court watched, and the message was clear: the king was harmony itself.

Lully’s compositions mirrored that order. His music was disciplined, symmetrical, and regal. It reinforced the idea that the king was the center of the universe. So when Lully died, some people saw it almost as symbolic—like the Sun King’s own rhythm had been broken.

And speaking of rhythm, let’s revisit that infamous Te Deum. The piece itself is a triumphant hymn, meant to glorify God and, by extension, the king. It had been performed for royal occasions before—weddings, victories, recoveries. The irony of dying while conducting it, celebrating the king’s survival from surgery, was not lost on anyone.

Lully’s death became a kind of dark joke in musical circles. Later composers would recount it with disbelief, as though it were a parable about pride and excess. Over time, it took on mythic qualities—some versions embellish the story with lurid detail, claiming he impaled himself through the foot, or that he continued conducting as blood pooled on the floor. There’s no proof of that, but the reality is already strange enough.

There are even apocryphal accounts that Lully’s family tried to cover up the true cause of death to preserve his dignity. But contemporary letters confirm the gangrene story. French chroniclers of the time described his refusal of treatment and his deteriorating health in the weeks before March 22.

It’s easy to reduce Lully to a punchline—the guy who killed himself with his baton—but his story is bigger than that. He was a visionary who built the foundation of French opera, revolutionized orchestral playing, and trained generations of musicians. His tragédies lyriques like Armide and Atys are still performed today. If not for him, we might not have the same concept of an orchestra or a conductor at all.

And that’s what I love about stories like this. They start with a strange, almost unbelievable detail—a man stabbing his foot while conducting—and open up into a portrait of an entire era. The grand courts of Europe, the obsession with spectacle, the clash of art and ego.

When we look back on Lully’s life, we see the contradictions of the Baroque age. Extravagance and precision. Devotion and vanity. A belief that art could make a king divine—and that the artist, standing close to that divine light, might borrow some of the glory.

In the end, Lully’s story isn’t just about death by staff. It’s about what happens when passion, pride, and power intertwine. He lived his life in rhythm—dancing, composing, conducting—and he died the same way: keeping time.

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