You started studying singing relatively late, at 25 ...
(interrupts) I've never thought in terms of age, not in my entire life.
You can certainly say that with regard to your high age career. There is a reason for your late start as a singer.
Yes, the war. I studied mechanical engineering and was drafted in 1942, after which I was a prisoner of war in England. I was a submariner, fortunately in the Baltic Sea, where there was no radar yet.
As a Salzburger, why did you want to join the navy?
For various reasons. Firstly, I could continue to do my job in the engine room. But the more important reason - I don't know how an 18-year-old can think so rationally - was that there are only two options in the navy: Either you don't come back because you drown, or you come back in one piece without missing an arm or a leg.
How did you get into music?
We always played a lot of music at home. During the war, I sang popular songs all the time. During my naval training in Kiel, our ship of residence was the "New York", a Hapag-Lloyd ocean liner. There was a large movie theater with a grand piano. A comrade from Berlin who wanted to study music had Schubert songs with him. We played them at night between eleven and one o'clock; we had to leave again at six. I enjoyed that, also because it was new to me. Sometimes I went to symphony concerts. At one, I got into a conversation with a lady who asked me if I played music myself. I said that I used to play the violin and was now starting to sing Schubert songs. "Why don't you come to dinner and bring some sheet music," she said out of the blue. So I went, and a slim young man came along, sat down at the piano and played fantastically: Heinz Erhardt. He had been called up to look after the troops, that was in 1943. We never saw each other again.
Did the war shape you as an artist, for example in the sense that you later recalled drastic experiences as patterns for the depiction of certain feelings?
No, I must have a pronounced repression gene. I was stationed in Gdynia in December 1944, during the war it was called Gotenhafen. Germany's largest dry dock was located there, which was easy to locate. During a maneuver, I was anchored at night on a submarine escort ship when the air raid alarm was sounded. I was part of the watch crew and had to stay on board; the others went ashore. We took five hits and sank within eight minutes. I was lucky enough to catch hold of a small raft made of lifebuoys together with a comrade. I don't know how long I swam in the cold water. We were eventually picked up by a merchant ship. And here's the funny thing: I didn't get a cold, nor did I ever dream about this event afterwards, although it was a powerful experience.
A healthy man in every respect!
I've never seen a family doctor in my entire career, even though I smoked like a chimney, for example. Maybe the cold shock triggered that, I don't know. I'm not normal to be measured anyway. (laughs)
Let's move on to your beginnings in opera.
I was always incredibly lucky with my general music directors; they were all strong personalities. At the beginning, every piece is new, so it's an art to integrate a young singer into the ensemble in such a way that it doesn't interfere. At my first engagement in Kassel, this was Paul Schmitz, who incidentally was the teacher of Hans Wallat and Heinz Fricke. For me, Schmitz was one of the greatest Mozart conductors ever. In Mainz, it was Karl-Maria Zwissler with whom I worked on my first Wagner role, King Heinrich in "Lohengrin". He said this great sentence for a young singer: "There is a secret for your future life with Wagner: think Wagner, but sing Verdi." For Zwissler, this meant looking for the arc in the vocal line, no typical German chopping, but also: without portamenti. Of course, we know today that portamenti have their place with both composers.
How did you come to Mannheim?
During a guest performance in Kiel in 1958, Horst Stein, who was still at the State Opera in Berlin at the time but wanted to go to the West, heard me by chance as Mephisto in Gounod's "Faust". As I found out much later, he said: "When I get a permanent position, I'll get Mazura." In 1963, he became General Music Director and Opera Director in Mannheim, and a year later he hired me; I came from Braunschweig, where I had been engaged for five seasons.
In Mannheim, you began to conquer a new repertoire and new vocal fach.
I was always a bass, but with a good high register. I sang Sarastro most often back then. Because our heroic baritone was too heavy for a new "Salome" production, Horst Stein persuaded me to sing Jochanaan in 1966 - as it turned out, it was ideal for me.
The part took on special significance for you.
It was my first guest performance abroad. I had to step in in Geneva because Ingvar Wixell hadn't learned the part - incidentally a Wieland Wagner production, Anja Silja sang Salome. I was just in Hamburg, singing Beethoven's Ninth on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day, when the request came. This meant that I suddenly had to sing twenty performances in January 1967 and sat on the train all the time, because I had agreed to sing Baron Ochs in Freiburg and the villains in "The Tales of Hoffmann" in Karlsruhe, and I also sang Jochanaan in Mannheim. I was always used to working a lot. Everything went well and I felt comfortable. That was the start of my international career, within the next two years I was in Brussels, Barcelona and Amsterdam. I made my debut again in San Francisco with Jochanaan. The best thing was that I was able to sing the Commendatore there alongside Cesare Siepi. He saw me in the dressing room on the very first or second day and said: "You look like my brother who fell in Russia." From then on, he took special care of me during the "Don Giovanni" rehearsals. Siepi was a great fencer, he could have coached a national team. During our scene, he showed me how to hold the sword: "You can do whatever you want now, I'll parry anything." There was a paragraph in every newspaper about the commander's death - it wasn't my doing, it was all Siepi.
Sie bekamen es bald auch mit großen Dirigenten zu tun.
1970 stieg ich in Salzburg in die «Fidelio»- Produktion ein, alternierte mit Theo Adam als Pizarro in der Felsenreitschule. Karl Böhm dirigierte, der mich allerdings nicht kannte; ich hatte nur Günther Rennert vorgesungen, der gehört hatte, ich sei ein guter Schauspieler; ihm genügten wenige Takte. In den szenischen Proben saß auch der Sohn des Dirigenten, der Schauspieler Karl-Heinz Böhm, und dessen kleine Tochter, die mich gleich mochte. Vor der ersten Orchesterprobe sagten ein paar Wiener Philharmoniker, die ich kannte: «Mach dir nichts draus, du wirst heute das Opfer sein.» Tatsächlich, gleich nach meinem Auftritt klopfte Böhm ab [der in Salzburg geborene Mazura imitiert den wienerisch Grantelnden]: «Herr Mazura, ihre ,Ha! Ha! Ha!‘, dös sind keine Dreiviertelnoten, dös sind nur Hoalbe.» Danach war Ruhe. Ein Jahr später sang ich Pizarro in Berlin, wieder mit Böhm, den ich vor der Probe an der Bühnenpforte traf. «Ach wissen’s, Herr Mazura, die Arie brauchen wir nicht zu probieren, Sie sind ja so mit meinem Sohn befreundet.» Ich hätte am Abend Wozzeck singen können, es wäre ihm wurscht gewesen.
You soon got to work with great conductors.
In 1970, I joined the "Fidelio" production in Salzburg, alternating with Theo Adam as Pizarro in the Felsenreitschule. Karl Böhm conducted, but he didn't know me; I had only auditioned for Günther Rennert, who had heard that I was a good actor; a few bars were enough for him. The conductor's son, the actor Karl-Heinz Böhm, and his little daughter, who liked me straight away, also sat in on the staged rehearsals. Before the first orchestra rehearsal, a couple of Vienna Philharmonic musicians I knew said: "Don't worry, you'll be the victim today." In fact, right after my performance, Böhm knocked off [the Salzburg-born Mazura imitates the Viennese grumbler]: "Herr Mazura, ihre ,Ha! Ha! Ha!‘, dös sind keine Dreiviertelnoten, dös sind nur Hoalbe." After that there was peace. A year later, I sang Pizarro in Berlin, again with Böhm, whom I met at the stage door before the rehearsal. "Oh you know, Mr. Mazura, we don't need to rehearse the aria, you're such friends with my son." I could have sung Wozzeck that evening, he wouldn't have cared.
And then came Bayreuth in 1971.
I was a late bloomer then too, I was 47.
You stayed for almost a quarter of a century. Everyone has to audition in Bayreuth - what did you offer?
Wotan. Wolfgang Wagner said afterwards: "Dear Master Franz" - that's what he called me, I don't know why - "I have three very good Wotans, I can't throw any of them out. But I need an Alberich." And again, no bass part. Gustav Neidlinger only wanted to sing two of the three cycles. Horst Stein, who was conducting, said that a piano and orchestra rehearsal would be enough. He knew that I was always well prepared. Nevertheless, finding myself suddenly next to Neidlinger, who was standing on a pedestal for me ... In 1973, I stepped in for Franz Crass as Gurnemanz within two days; the famous Wieland Wagner production of 1951 was given for the last time that year. During my time in Braunschweig, "Parsifal" was scheduled 18 times in one season; the artistic director wanted us to know our parts very well. That is an irreplaceable foundation.
Gurnemanz, Biterolf, Alberich and Gunther in one Bayreuth summer: did you have problems when you sang roles with such different tessitura in quick succession?
No. I was able to sing Wotan shortly after the "Man of La Mancha". However, I never took on certain roles. Wolfgang Wagner had offered me the Dutchman, which Harry Kupfer was to stage. The beginning with the entrance monologue would have worked, but the duet later on was too high. I never sang Sachs either, for two reasons: because I am not the jovial type usually associated with the role, and because the parlando in the higher middle register is not my thing. The most difficult thing in our profession is to say no. Singers like Alfredo Kraus and Hermann Winkler knew their limits.
On the other hand, you often said yes and stepped in at short notice.
That certainly has to do with the ensemble discipline I was used to. In New York, where I sang Alberich in a "Ring" series in the 1980s, I had listened to a "Tosca" in the afternoon. Back at the hotel, James Levine called to say that the Wotan in "Walküre" had canceled in the evening and that he didn't like the cover singer, so I should please sing. Two hours later I was on stage. I was used to that.
You joined the Chéreau "Ring" as Gunther in its second year, not really a role for you either, is it?
Not at all, far too high. But since Patrice Chéreau had worked out the guy's instability, I didn't need to sing beautifully. I didn't care if a note didn't sound nice as long as the expression was right. It was great work, we got on incredibly well. I didn't need to get used to this aesthetic at all, I came from acting! That's why working on "Lulu" in Paris later on was so rewarding. Many directors let me go when they realized that I had a lot to offer scenically. Chéreau, on the other hand, said that he would work with me until we saw where the limits of what was possible were. That inspired me. Teresa Stratas, Chéreau and I often sat together after the orchestra rehearsals and pored over Wedekind. The work was intense and open at the same time. Patrice Chéreau knew how to open up his singers. For the last scene with Jack the Ripper, he asked us to improvise a slow motion. Afterwards, he simply said: please hold on to this point and this point and this point, you can create everything else freely every evening so that it stays alive. He trusted us not to let any wrong movements creep in. That distinguishes him from many directors today: they have no trust in the artists on stage.
How did you get on with Pierre Boulez? Didn't he represent a paradigm shift in Bayreuth?
The collaboration was fantastic. He was much more flexible than people say he was, he was always on the set, he could wait if the singer needed time. He also conducted "Lulu", which we recorded in the studio at the same time as the performances. As Teresa Stratas found this too strenuous, we had to record without her and her voice was added later. It was difficult for me as Doctor Schön in the scenes with her; thanks to Boulez it worked.
How did you generally get on with conductors?
I never had any difficulties with conductors because my mathematical background makes me a rhythmist. It's more likely to happen to me that there are a few notes that don't fit in terms of harmony. (laughs) I notice that in the past you could sing with your back to the audience and everything would still be together. That was because the conductors had studied the pieces and knew them inside out. Today, everything has to be ready for recording; this inhibits the freedom of the performance, the spontaneity and liveliness are missing.
Which other directors did you have a good relationship with?
My relationship with Peter Stein was similar to that with Chéreau. Stein hated singers who waited to be told what to do and where to go. He never staged from the piano reduction, but from the score, as did Bohumil Herlischka, whom I greatly appreciated. Incidentally, Herlischka had studied music with Karel Ančerl.
How did things go with Götz Friedrich?
Chéreau started working where Friedrich left off. The latter was more interested in content, the background to the play and choreography. He wasn't able to establish a relationship between two characters through acting. I appreciated him, but often struggled with him, also with Harry Kupfer. I had an argument with Kupfer in "Tristan". When Marke appears at the end and sees the dead Tristan lying there, he pretended: "And now you're happy that nothing has happened because you're back in front of the world." That freaked me out. Marke doesn't care what the world thinks. All that matters to him is that the relationship of loyalty that existed between him and Tristan was not tarnished. Always this social aspect! The important thing is what happens between Tristan and Marke on a human level. We argued for two hours until Kupfer said: "Do what you want." I did, whereupon he said: "That's how I imagined it." (laughs) Sometimes you have to disagree with directors; you don't have to accept everything. However, I prefer to try out scenic variations rather than discuss them.
As Klingsor, you were involved in Friedrich's centenary "Parsifal" in Bayreuth in 1982; James Levine, who became an important conductor for you, made his debut on the hill.
I liked Friedrich's 1976 Stuttgart "Parsifal" with the stage design by Günther Uecker better; I stepped in once as Gurnemanz. The way the old knight stands at the front at the beginning of the third act, as if he hadn't moved for 20 or 30 years, was incredibly evocative. As in Stuttgart, Friedrich wanted to leave the stage open during the preludes. Levine was strictly against it. They argued for hours and finally went to Wolfgang Wagner. The fox said he couldn't say anything about it, but that the composer should be consulted. After looking at the score, it was decided. It caused quite a stir that Klingsor's javelin throw at the end of the second act, which Parsifal catches out of the air, was not faked, but real. Peter Hofmann was a very good athlete, a decathlete, and during the war, as Peter knew, I was the East Prussian javelin throwing champion. We tried it - and it went well. The trick was to let the javelin fly a certain arc. We never tried it again before the performance. It always worked.
What has changed in opera in recent decades?
Many directors have lost confidence in the music; they find scenic silence annoying. Not everything has to be visualized.
Franz Mazura’s grandiose Alberich, Bayreuth 1974