Ma Plus Belle Histoire d'Amour

Barbara's "Ma Plus Belle Histoire d'Amour" arrives as both declaration and paradox: my most beautiful love story is you, she sings — addressing her audience. She means it without irony. After years of performing, after the stages and the spotlight and the particular loneliness that follows applause, Barbara arrived at the understanding that her most sustained relationship was with the crowd that returned each night, the strangers who loved her completely and safely and without the complications of proximity. Her piano introduction is spare and searching, the chords falling with the deliberateness of someone choosing words carefully. Her voice occupies that unusual French-chanson register — not classically beautiful in any operatic sense, but singular, the instrument of a specific emotional intelligence. The production builds slowly, strings entering with the discretion of a good accompanist who knows not to compete. The lyric's movement is toward gratitude rather than sentiment — there is something clear-eyed about it, almost stoic: this is what I have, this is what sustains me, and I am not ashamed of its unconventionality. For those who love live performance, who know the particular communion possible in a concert hall between singer and collective listener, this song names something that usually goes unnamed. Best heard at high volume, alone, with the lights low.