To this day, your voice has a primal, softly creaky, natural tone. Is that natural - or manufactured?
My tone? Yes, yes, it is nature. Certain teachers, however, have cultivated it. People who understood something about it, namely Luigi Ricci in Rome and Matti Lehtinen in Helsinki. Lehtinen is now 94 years old - a great artist! What did the two of them do? Well, they fiddled around a bit, if I may say so. A little bit of adjusting. I think I'm an exception in that respect: my last singing lessons were before I came to Germany. So around 1969.
What vocal ideal did you follow back then?
I always believed that the voice alone is worth nothing. You have to interpret, and you have to interpret the text. I often miss that in younger colleagues today. Many only practice beautiful tones. In Italian opera, that might work ... although, maybe not. In Wagner, it definitely doesn't work.
How did you control your vocal development without a coach?
I had my own ears. And a Walkman! When that came along, about 30 years ago, I immediately bought a device. During rehearsals, I always put it in the so-called zero alley - and listened to the result afterwards. In Cologne, there was already a sound engineer who recorded for me. I controlled myself.
Your voice has gotten better with age. How was that possible?
I think all artists get better with the years. Because you become more mature. For me personally, maybe it has to do with the fact that I never chickened out. There are colleagues who cancel immediately if there's a scratch somewhere. That was out of the question for me. Rather, I think that as a singer you have to have your toolbox under control. If it pinches here, pinches there, I know exactly - and have known for a long time - which screwdriver I need to get over these spots.
Can you advise young singers in good conscience to take up this profession today?
That's a serious question. On the one hand: Yes, I can. On the other hand: People have to have a clear idea of what they want. I would advise against the profession if someone doesn't know - and has no one to honestly advise him or her - how buildable his or her own voice is. That's where the truth is often concealed and swallowed. The result: mediocrity. In my opinion, unbearable. The greatest danger comes from overestimating oneself, and teachers are partly responsible for this. There are too few good ones.
Why is that?
Many today have too little stage experience of their own. Of course, a great singer doesn't automatically teach well. It's just that you have to come from practice. The system today is such that young singers are specifically trained as opera singers. Twice a week for 40 minutes of repetition, and then they do that for two years until they pass the master's exam. Much too short! The further you get, the more time you need. And I say that although I have had so few singing lessons as hardly anyone else! All this annoys me. Actually, you only learn the profession by doing. But if the teachers have no practice, what do they want to pass on? The students notice this and often change classes. But that is also dangerous.
The agencies probably also bear responsibility. How many could you recommend?
Exactly four. The state-owned ones don't qualify, they have too little experience, don't know their way around. Most of the others collect the commission, but have no eye on building a career continuously. Agents must be networked with the directors. And they must have know-how, like Robert Schulz, for example, who advised me at the time. My impression is that most of them just have dollar signs in their eyes.
Why is it so hard for singers today to say no to the wrong kind of offers?
Every no carries the brutal risk of not being asked again. To some extent, this risk only appears on the surface. Even if it were otherwise: it's quite clear that you have to take it. That is unavoidable.
In Zurich, you were still involved in Jean-Pierre Ponnelle's legendary Monteverdi cycle - conducted by Nikolaus Harnoncourt. Did this work feel as great even then as it seems today?
Yes, absolutely. Something outrageously special was happening, that was clear to everyone involved from the very first moment. Jean-Pierre Ponnelle was my first director ever, in 1972 with the "Magic Flute" in Cologne. At that time, he wanted to kick me out.
Why is that?
I alternated with Harald Stamm as Sarastro and as the narrator. The rule applied: whoever sings the premiere sings the other part in the following performance. István Kertész conducted, and all the dialogues were written out. But I didn't know German yet; I learned the texts like a parrot. At the main rehearsal I got stuck. Dead silence in my head. Jean-Pierre threw a tantrum: "Throw that stupid Finn out at last!" Kertész with his high voice intervened: "But at least he sings decently ..." After that, Ponnelle's and my careers went in different directions, including "Tristan" in Bayreuth. That didn't change anything about the Monteverdi cycle: Ponnelle could not get rid of me.
And Nikolaus Harnoncourt?
A prime experience! I was a big fan from the beginning. I saw him for the first time at "Orfeo". Claus-Helmut Drese, then director in Zurich, took me along and promised, "There you'll see the great conductor of the future!" The young Harnoncourt looked fabulous, very slim, tall. Nevertheless, many laughed at him at first. "What kind of puppet is that?!" was the first thought. After a few minutes, people understood what was so extraordinary about him. Above all, text clarity was in the foreground. That was unusual in its radicalness, even at that time. Later, Harnoncourt always demanded exactly twice the usual rehearsal time - and he got it. For me, this was followed by the "Abduction," three "Magic Flutes," and occasionally Bach cantatas. A very great rehearser and outstanding musician. The fact that I was not able to sing along with his last "Creation" is one of the very great omissions on my part.
Harnoncourt said that Ponnelle was the most modern director he had ever worked with. But no one noticed this because Ponnelle dressed everything up in period costumes. What was so modern about Ponnelle?
Harnoncourt is right, I would say so too. The period costumes were an essential part of Ponnelle's concept. Yet he was modern, and in his approach to work. Ponnelle was a perfectionist, a workhorse, he always had the ambition to undercut the agreed rehearsal times. This put a lot of pressure on those around him. He said, for example, "If I don't manage to do this within four weeks, I'll have the wrong people around me." His productions were done in a general-staff way. Very effective, very economical. Where he could, he would tell us, "Now you don't really need to sing at all." He was a genius at that. A style-conscious ...
Patrice Chéreau's so-called "Ring of the Century" from 1976 in Bayreuth, in which you sang Fafner and Hunding, was originally by no means considered the scenic triumph that it is unanimously regarded as today. What did it feel like back then?
Even the first encounter with Chéreau was strange. It was 1976, mid-April, rehearsal stage 1. Peter Hofmann, Jeannine Altmeyer and I were already there. Across from us, eight hippies were squatting in a row. They were all smoking Gauloises, no one said a word. Then Patrice gave the first instruction: "Come diagonally from back to front across the stage." Big deal! Very elementary. We didn't understand anything anymore.
What was the point?
He always wanted to see how a man gives himself under normal circumstances. Which is not such a stupid thought! The costume designer worked accordingly without figurines. He just looked at us. All this was very unusual, but interesting. And very intense. Patrice was constantly biting his fingernails and looking deep into our eyes. He literally crawled into you. We were together in this way all summer, including Gwyneth Jones, Donald McIntyre, Heinz Zednik. Not only at rehearsals, but also afterwards in the Mohrenstube. Patrice ate vitello tonnato with fried potatoes every day. Incessantly, beers were drunk and work issues were discussed. At this stage, the fascination had long since gripped everyone - if they hadn't already left again.
You were also a formative singer in Götz Friedrich's theater. What was special about him?
For me, he was another father figure. We met in London in 1974. At that time, too, during the "Ring of the Nibelung". Just the way he looked! Black leather clothes, black curls - very impressive. He didn't know a word of English, I knew a few words of German. He was happy about that. We got along well right away. Later he staged "Eugene Onegin" at the Zurich Opera, followed by "Boris Godunov" in 1984 at the Hallenstadion. He impressed me with his sheer ability. I think directors have to be able to answer questions. He was able to do that. There were also great fights. So fiercely that I wanted to leave the rehearsal during "Parsifal" in Berlin. He stopped me with the words, "I'll go first, otherwise it'll become judicial."
Surely you also argued with Götz Friedrich about the idea that you as Hagen had to sit silently on stage for 40 minutes - while the Waltraute scene was running parallel!?
"Shredded" would be the better word! Hagen sits and sits. And 40 minutes can get pretty darn long if you have an itch somewhere. "Why don't you take a double," I told him. That's when he yelled, "Nobody sits there as good as you!" In Helsinki, in the same situation, I then simply countered him: "Here I have house rights." Suddenly it worked without. But these 40 silent minutes naturally turned into an unforgettable, powerful scene. Friedrich's explanation was that Hagen was listening to the scene as a stone guest. That was my first stage Hagen. Before that, I had only sung it with Marek Janowski for a record.
In Götz Friedrich's "Aida" at the Deutsche Oper, you were on stage together with Luciano Pavarotti, Julia Varady and Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau - under the direction of Daniel Barenboim. Does something like that increase nervousness or rather security?
Definitely the security. Because you can feel the insecurity even of the really great ones. For example, Pavarotti's girth was already such that he couldn't possibly realize the idea of kneeling before Ramfis as Radamès. He simply could not get up. So they installed a sandstone on which he could support himself a bit. There was quite a lot of smiling ...
You have an immensely extensive repertoire, but you shied away from Wotan or Hans Sachs. Why?
Not for lack of offers! That I didn't manage Hans Sachs in the "Meistersinger" makes me sad to this day. Yet I rehearsed him twice. First in 1978 with Michael Hampe, alternating with Theo Adam. And then, several years later, in Zurich for Nikolaus Lehnhoff. He really wanted it. I canceled both times. Not because of the first or second act, those didn't cause me any problems. It's more difficult - but not impossible - in the Schusterstube. With the length or the tessitura generally moving upward, I could have handled that. Although with «Euch macht ihr’s leicht, mir macht ihr’s schwer» I did get to a point where I didn't feel quite fresh. I had to press.
But this was still not the decisive reason?
Ultimately, the festival meadow is to blame. Because there you suddenly have to sing two Schubert songs, so to speak - after all the effort you've already put in ... Unfortunately, I can't do that with my instrument the way I would like to.
What was the reason for Wotan's failure?
The case is similar. "Rheingold? No problem! With the "Walküre" you have to look around a bit. I sang the third act in concert with Birgit Nilsson in 1981. She kept rubbing Vicks ointment around her nose. "Now I can breathe freely again," she laughed. And then it went. Daniel Barenboim wanted me to sing Wotan in his Bayreuth "Ring." But I knew I couldn't do the Wanderer. The Erda story in the third act is too high. And I didn't think much of giving "Siegfried" to another singer. It's better if one does it all. I'm not even disappointed that it wasn't me ... That I never sang Hagen in Bayreuth hurts me more.
You could at least have sung Wotan and Sachs in a studio production?
I find such CD productions, where you can rest and otherwise trick your way in between, somehow dishonest. Actually, every studio production is questionable. Not to say: absolute nonsense. By the way, I am of the opinion that you can also hear the technical manipulations.
Finland has a remarkable tradition of great basses. Important?
Very important! But not as big as you might think. Even in Finland, basses don't grow on trees. That's why I've started a foundation through which I want to support and advise young people. I have been looking for a bass to carry the torch for years - so far without success. You can find a so-called basso cantante. But a really beautiful, black Osmin of the caliber of Kurt Moll? Nevertheless, you are right: Kim Borg was Finnish. Later came Jaakko Ryhänen. The most important for me was, of course, Martti Talvela; he helped me personally a lot.
Alcoholically asked: can basses take more?
Not necessarily, there are fragile specimens. Some do not speak for three days before going on stage. Even Martti Talvela, who spoke quite high in the nose, by the way, couldn't take much. With me it's different, I'm low maintenance. I still go to the sauna on the day of the performance. Of course, steam baths are the best anyway ... The singing profession is one where you should actually live normally. You have to pay attention to sleep - and I have no problem with that at all. Just looking at a pillow makes me fall over. In fact, as Birgit Nilsson rightly pointed out, shoes are also important. I need insoles. I would almost say: singing is a cobbler's problem. Even for the one who has knocked out the Sachs.