One September morning in 2009, I glanced at my watch over and over, nerves fluttering in my chest. I was sitting in the front row of a packed concert hall in Schwarzenberg, Austria, surrounded by other vocal students. At precisely 10:30 a.m., the baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau stepped onto the stage. It was the first day of his master class at the Schubertiade, and it was the moment I would meet the artist who had shaped my musical life.
I was just 12, growing up in Bavaria, Germany, when I first heard Fischer-Dieskau. Leonard Bernstein had called him “the greatest singer of the 20th century,” and few would disagree. When my music teacher played us a recording of his interpretation of Schubert’s “Winterreise,” something stirred within me. This voice was different. Immediate. Truthful. Over the years, I listened to dozens of Fischer-Dieskau’s recordings, studied them, grew with them, and was continually astonished by them.
Now I stood before him. The old video footage of that master class still shows how nervous I was: my vibrato wavering, my breath shallow, my stance unsure. What I did not realize at the time was how open and attentive he was with me. At the end of the course, he offered to work with me privately. For the next three years, I had the privilege of studying with him regularly at his homes in Berlin and Bavaria. Those hours remain among the greatest gifts of my life.
In the months leading up to his centennial on Wednesday, I was granted access to his personal archive: letters, diaries, programs, photo albums. It was a journey to find out more about the man behind the name, affectionately known to his friends as FiDi. And it was an immersive experience that helped me to shape my new album “For Dieter: The Past and the Future.”
This recording features songs that defined his artistic path; songs that shaped the singer who would became one of the most revered vocalists of his time, including works from his family circle; songs by Brahms, Schubert and Wolf; as well as compositions written especially for him by Britten and Barber. Through my access to his archive, I was also able to accompany the album with a book that offers a deeply personal portrait of a multifaceted, fascinating man.
Born in 1925 in Berlin-Zehlendorf, the third son of Albert and Theodora Fischer, Fischer-Dieskau grew up in an educated and cultured household. His musical gifts were evident early on, and his father, a school principal and avid composer, nurtured them. A shy, anxious child, he did not fit the image of the ideal Nazi soldier. Still, he reluctantly joined the Hitler Youth and was drafted into the army in 1943, serving on the Eastern Front before being taken prisoner in Italy.
One of the deepest traumas of his childhood was the loss of his brother Martin, who suffered from epilepsy and was taken from the family’s home under the Nazi “euthanasia” program. He was murdered just weeks later. This experience, Fischer-Dieskau later said, left an indelible mark on his soul. It fueled his deep mistrust of totalitarian ideologies — and his quiet, profound humanism.
It was in an American prisoner of war camp near Pisa, Italy, that Fischer-Dieskau’s talent was discovered. He began by singing a cappella for fellow prisoners, later accompanied by a piano that was strapped to a truck and transported from camp to camp. In captivity, he began learning much of the song repertoire that would later define him. His first years of apprenticeship began behind barbed wire.
Upon returning home in 1947, his rise was meteoric. Fischer-Dieskau became a leading figure in the cultural rebirth of postwar Germany. With him, the lied, or art song, was reborn: Brahms’s “Vier Ernste Gesänge,” lesser-known songs by Schubert and Schumann that were rediscovered, Mahler’s “Lieder eines Fahrenden Gesellen” and “Kindertotenlieder” heard anew. Critics spoke of his power to breathe new life into long-forgotten repertoire.
Fischer-Dieskau’s tone was warm, resonant, intelligently shaped. He interpreted from the text, painted with sound and infused every phrase with meaning. The song recital itself was reimagined under his influence — no longer a miscellany of works, but a carefully curated, thematically cohesive experience.
What struck me most in our work together was his uncompromising dedication: Nothing was taken for granted. Every detail was questioned, explored and rediscovered. His tireless pursuit of deeper understanding in text and music, his desire to uncover hidden structures and harmonies, was magnetic. FiDi was not an artist who merely “delivered”; he sought to recreate, anew, each time. His presence — intense, demanding, inescapable — filled the room with an atmosphere that is difficult to describe but left a lasting imprint.
All of these qualities are vividly present in his recordings. Take, for example, the aria “Mache dich, mein Herze, rein” from Bach’s “St. Matthew Passion.” His voice possesses an almost transcendental serenity, enveloped in a gentle aura of peace. Each phrase is shaped with the precision of an instrumental line, every note adorned with a perfectly even vibrato. The clarity and expressiveness of his consonants reveal his deep connection to the text, using language as his primary vehicle of communication — yet always within the most seamless legato. Even when the text repeats, he finds fresh nuances and colors. There is something disarmingly direct about his voice, but his artistry is never self-serving; the music is always placed above the performer.
Unlike many of his contemporaries, he trusted technology. Early on, he recognized the power of recorded media to bring his art to wider audiences. His relationship with the microphone — often jokingly described as his “longest marriage” — was profound. He treated the LP not only as documentation, but as a stand-alone artistic medium. According to one source, his discography contains over 1,000 releases, in addition to a wealth of radio and television performances. So legendary was his presence in classical music that in the 1999 adaptation of “The Talented Mr. Ripley” — though set in the 1950s — Tom Ripley is shown traveling with some of Fischer-Dieskau’s Schubert recordings.
Despite his fame, he was plagued by self-doubt throughout his life. Concert days brought intense anxiety, psychosomatic symptoms and exacting standards — for himself and others. He was not always easy to be around, but perhaps it was precisely this extreme commitment that made his art so singular.
Fischer-Dieskau was far more than a German singer. His openness to foreign-language repertoire, shaped by his time as a prisoner of war, made him a symbol of reconciliation. In New York, London and Tel Aviv, audiences flocked to hear him — some in search of a different Germany, others hoping to reconnect with the cultural depth of the homeland they had fled. His voice held something healing, almost redemptive. In the Netherlands, he was honored with a laurel wreath bearing the inscription “To the beloved enemy.” He was the first German artist to perform in Israel after the Holocaust, with Daniel Barenboim, and was met with rapturous acclaim.
The United States embraced him. He toured the country 17 times. In a letter from 1971, he wrote with delight about the “enormous fun” he was having. He felt that nowhere else had he encountered such an open, fresh, curious audience. “How dull and unspontaneous old Europe feels by comparison,” he wrote. His first wife, Irmgard Poppen, recorded her impressions in a travel journal from 1958: “There is an audience here that longs for the old European culture — rare to find in Europe itself nowadays. You can feel how alive the musical spirit still is here.”
Privately, his life was marked by tragedy and inner turmoil. The early death of his beloved Irmel, as he called his first wife, plunged him into a deep crisis in 1963. Alone with three young children, consumed by guilt, he stood on the brink of collapse. Later marriages provided only temporary solace. In a 1972 letter to his half brother Achim, he wrote with disarming honesty: “I haven’t had much luck with women. I know my life and circumstances are difficult — I’m nervous and awkward — but still, despite everything, the yearning for a peaceful haven is strong.” It wasn’t until his marriage to the soprano Julia Varady, in 1977, that he found the enduring partnership he had so long desired.
Yet he remained a seeker — intellectually, artistically, existentially. He sang, conducted, taught, wrote, painted over 5,000 artworks and, for decades, smoked at least a pack of cigarettes a day. Fashion, too, was a secret passion. In letters, he detailed his shopping sprees across Europe, describing fabrics and cuts of the latest suits and women’s clothing.
Despite all his rigor, he retained a great sense of humor into old age. Of all our shared hours, I most vividly remember the moments when, unnoticed by the world, he let his mischievous spirit shine through — dancing through the living room, laughing.
One day, as I arrived at his home, he met me at the door and said seriously: “Julia and I were talking over breakfast. We both think the name Benjamin Appl is too complicated for an international career. From now on, you should call yourself Ben Appl.” I paused, and though I said nothing, what ran through my mind was: “Yes, Herr Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau.”
What moved me most was his emotional state in the final weeks of his life. He had devoted himself to music, to art, with almost complete surrender — relentlessly, unflinchingly and at great personal cost. He spoke openly about not having been the ideal father or friend. That honesty still echoes in me today.
Our last meeting, just weeks before his death in 2012, was cloaked in a quiet stillness. As I entered his home near Munich, a space he had largely designed and furnished himself, bearing his unmistakable touch, I sensed the atmosphere had shifted. We worked on Schubert’s “Harfner Songs” — music about solitude, transience and death. He often wept, asking the great questions of life, wondering whether his career had meant anything, or if he was already forgotten. Then suddenly, through tears, he fixed his gaze on me and said with a trembling voice: “Forgive me, I always tried to sing these songs truthfully, but I never succeeded.”
It was a devastating moment. I knew it would be our last. A few weeks later, he passed away — quietly, peacefully, as if one of his songs had simply faded into silence.
Fischer-Dieskau set standards like few others in the 20th century. And yet time marches on. To many in younger generations, his name no longer resonates. But this new project of mine, with its accompanying book, is my homage to his legacy. An attempt to keep it alive. A gesture of gratitude. A confession. And perhaps a quiet message to him: “You gave us so much. And we have not forgotten you.”
The post What I Learned From Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, a Sublime Voice appeared first on New York Times.
