On a September morning in 2009, nerves stirred within me as I sat in the front row of a packed concert hall in Schwarzenberg, Austria. It was 10:30 a.m. sharp when baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau took the stage for the first day of his Schubertiade master class—the moment I finally met the artist who had profoundly influenced my musical journey.
At just 12 years old, growing up in Bavaria, Germany, I first encountered Fischer-Dieskau’s voice. Praised by Leonard Bernstein as “the greatest singer of the 20th century,” his interpretation of Schubert’s “Winterreise” left a lasting impression. His voice was immediate and sincere, stirring something deep inside me. Over time, I immersed myself in his recordings, continually inspired by their depth and artistry.
Standing before him that day, I was painfully aware of my nerves: a wavering vibrato, shallow breaths, uncertain posture. Yet what I didn’t realize then was how patient and attentive he was. By the end of the class, he invited me to study with him privately. For three years, I had the extraordinary privilege of learning from him regularly in Berlin and Bavaria—an experience I cherish deeply.
In the months before his 100th birthday, I gained access to Fischer-Dieskau’s personal archives—letters, diaries, programs, and photo albums. This journey offered insight into the man behind the legend, affectionately known as FiDi among friends, and inspired my new album, “For Dieter: The Past and the Future.”
The album features songs that shaped his artistic identity, including works from his family circle and revered composers such as Brahms, Schubert, and Wolf, alongside pieces composed specifically for him by Britten and Barber. Drawing on his archive, I also authored an accompanying book that paints a personal portrait of this multifaceted figure.
Born in 1925 in Berlin-Zehlendorf to Albert and Theodora Fischer, Fischer-Dieskau was raised in a cultured and educated home. His father, a school principal and passionate composer, nurtured his early musical talents. A shy and anxious boy, he conflicted with the idealized image of a Nazi soldier, though he reluctantly joined the Hitler Youth and was conscripted into the army in 1943, serving on the Eastern Front before becoming a prisoner of war in Italy.
A profound trauma of his youth was the loss of his brother Martin, who suffered from epilepsy and was killed under the Nazi euthanasia program shortly after being taken from their home. Fischer-Dieskau later acknowledged this event as a defining moment that deeply shaped his mistrust of totalitarian regimes and fueled his quiet but profound humanism.
His vocal talent was first recognized while he was held in a POW camp near Pisa, Italy. Singing a cappella for fellow prisoners and later accompanied by a piano transported between camps, he began learning much of the song repertoire that would come to define his career. His initial musical apprenticeship unfolded behind barbed wire.
After his return to Germany in 1947, his career quickly ascended. Fischer-Dieskau became a central figure in Germany’s postwar cultural revival, revitalizing the lied or art song genre. He brought renewed attention to Brahms’s “Vier Ernste Gesänge,” rediscovered lesser-known Schubert and Schumann songs, and reinterpreted Mahler’s “Lieder eines Fahrenden Gesellen” and “Kindertotenlieder.” Critics praised his ability to breathe new life into neglected repertoire.
His voice was warm and resonant, shaped with intellectual rigor. He brought text to the forefront, painting vivid sonic pictures and imbuing every phrase with meaning. Under his influence, the song recital evolved from a mere collection of pieces into a carefully curated, thematically coherent experience.
What impressed me most during our collaboration was his relentless pursuit of excellence. Nothing was assumed; every detail was examined, questioned, and rediscovered. His passion for uncovering hidden musical structures and nuances was captivating. FiDi was not content to simply perform; he aimed to recreate the music anew each time. His intense, demanding presence filled the room with an indefinable energy that left a lasting impression.
These qualities shine vividly in his recordings. For instance, in the aria “Mache dich, mein Herze, rein” from Bach’s “St. Matthew Passion,” his voice exudes a nearly transcendental calm, enveloped in an aura of gentle peace. Each phrase is crafted with instrumental precision; his vibrato is even and controlled. His clear articulation reveals a profound connection to the text, using language as his primary expressive tool while maintaining seamless legato. Even repeated passages are rendered with fresh subtlety. His voice is disarmingly direct, yet never self-indulgent—the music always takes precedence.
Unlike many peers, Fischer-Dieskau embraced recording technology early, understanding its potential to extend his reach. His close relationship with the microphone—often humorously dubbed his “longest marriage”—was more than practical; he treated recordings as standalone works of art. His discography reportedly exceeds 1,000 releases, alongside extensive radio and television appearances. His cultural impact was so profound that the 1999 film adaptation of “The Talented Mr. Ripley” depicts the protagonist traveling with Fischer-Dieskau’s Schubert recordings, despite the story’s 1950s setting.
Despite widespread acclaim, he grappled with self-doubt throughout his life. Concert days brought intense anxiety and psychosomatic symptoms, accompanied by exacting standards imposed on himself and others. Though not always easy to be around, this uncompromising dedication helped define his unique artistry.
Fischer-Dieskau transcended his German roots through his embrace of foreign-language repertoire, a sensitivity shaped by his POW experience. He became a symbol of reconciliation, drawing audiences in New York, London, and Tel Aviv. Some sought a different vision of Germany, others wished to reconnect with their cultural heritage. His voice offered something healing and redemptive. In the Netherlands, he was honored with a laurel wreath inscribed “To the beloved enemy.” He was the first German artist to perform in Israel after the Holocaust, appearing with Daniel Barenboim to widespread acclaim.
The United States welcomed him warmly; he toured there 17 times. In a 1971 letter, he expressed delight at the “enormous fun” he experienced, praising the openness and curiosity of American audiences. “How dull and unspontaneous old Europe feels by comparison,” he noted. His first wife, Irmgard Poppen, recorded in a 1958 travel journal that American audiences still longed for the old European culture, which was rare to find in Europe itself.
His personal life was marked by tragedy and inner conflict. The early death of his beloved first wife, Irmel, in 1963 plunged him into crisis. Left alone with three young children and burdened by guilt, he nearly collapsed. Subsequent marriages offered only brief respite. In a candid 1972 letter to his half-brother Achim, he admitted, “I haven’t had much luck with women. I know my life and circumstances are difficult—I’m nervous and awkward—but despite everything, the longing for a peaceful haven is strong.” It was only with soprano Julia Varady, whom he married in 1977, that he found lasting companionship.
Yet Fischer-Dieskau remained a lifelong seeker—intellectually, artistically, and existentially. He sang, conducted, taught, wrote, and painted more than 5,000 artworks. For decades, he maintained a heavy cigarette habit. Fashion was another secret passion; his letters detail shopping trips across Europe and his fascination with fabrics and tailoring.
Despite his rigor, he retained a sharp sense of humor well into his later years. I fondly recall moments when, away from the public eye, his playful spirit emerged—dancing around the living room and laughing freely.
Once, as I arrived at his home, he greeted me at the door with a serious expression. “Julia and I were discussing over breakfast,” he said. “We both think the name Benjamin Appl is too complicated for an international career. From now on, you should go by Ben Appl.” I paused, silently thinking, “Yes, Herr Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau.”
What touched me most was his emotional state during his final weeks. He had devoted himself to music and art with near-total surrender—unyielding, relentless, and at great personal cost. He spoke openly about falling short as a father and friend, honesty that continues to resonate with me.
Our last meeting, just weeks before his passing in 2012, was marked by a profound stillness. Entering his home near Munich—a space he had personally designed—I sensed a change in atmosphere. We worked on Schubert’s “Harfner Songs,” themes of solitude, transience, and mortality. He often wept, questioning the meaning of his career and whether he would be remembered. Then, with tears in his eyes, he fixed me with a trembling voice and said, “Forgive me, I always tried to sing these songs truthfully, but I never succeeded.”
That moment was heart-wrenching, and I knew it would be our last. A few weeks later, he passed away quietly, as though one of his songs had gently faded into silence.
Fischer-Dieskau set unparalleled standards in the 20th century. Yet as time advances, his name may resonate less with younger generations. This project and its companion book are my tribute to his legacy—an effort to preserve his memory, express gratitude, and quietly tell him: “You gave us so much, and you are not forgotten.”
0 Comments
No comments yet. Be the first to comment!