LUDWIG STREICHER

        Mi deseo de pertenecer a la Filarmónica de Viena, ya existía cuando aún era joven. Soy de Ziersdorf, de donde viene el buen vino, mi madre tenía una fonda y mi padre, que fue director de la banda militar, siempre quiso que fuera músico. ¿Y qué meta más alta existe aquí? Naturalmente, la Filarmónica. Así que crecí con la música. Mi padre tocaba en las fiestas del pueblo. en los bailes de máscaras, en el baile de los bomberos y cuando algo fallaba gritaba: "Fa sostenido, imbécil" lanzando al tiempo la batuta contra el músico - en aquella época todo era diferente, ya que hoy existen los sindicatos. Primero estudié violín, pero como cada vez mis dedos eran más gordos, me cambié al contrabajo y toqué también en la banda de mi padre -a ocho chelines por noche. Fueron tiempos muy duros. Fue en 1939 cuando obtuve el "Diplomprüfung" ( título superior ).

        Finalmente se realizó mi sueño y durante veintinueve años fui contrabajista de la Filarmónica de Viena. He trabajado con los directores más importantes pero cuando se tiene durante tantos años directores ante uno mismo, con el tiempo te vas hartando. Ahora, como solista, le tengo detrás de mí ( a la izquierda en diagonal ) y esto es mucho más agradable. Solo confío poder tocar el contrabajo durante mucho tiempo, para que no tenga que empezar a dirigir como algunos que en el instrumento ya no funcionan del todo, pues casi siempre se convierten en directores.

        He de hacer una terrible confesión: como saben ustedes cada músico debe practicar en casa pero yo, debido a ciertos acontecimientos no desenfundé el contrabajo en casa entre los años 1946 -1966. No saqué el arco ni una sola vez. Mis hijos no sabían entonces que yo era músico. En casa me dedicaba a la electrónica, construía pequeñas instalaciones telefónicas e iluminaciones automáticas. Por ejemplo, cuando cerraba las cortinas, la luz se encendía automáticamente y cosas así. Todo menos tocar el contrabajo.

        Y entonces, un día una casa discográfica se acercó a mi porque querían grabar un disco. No me entusiasmó mucho la idea y les dije: "Estáis locos! Esto quiere decir que tengo que empezar a estudiar!" Durante medio año me suplicaron de rodillas. Y hoy estaría tranquilo si no hubiera existido mi mujer. Ella me ablandó a golpes, como un filete. Así que empecé a practicar. Mi intención era hacer sólo ese disco y nunca un concierto porque tengo un terrible pavor al público, pues cuando actúo me he muerto antes tres veces. Sin embargo "sucedió" el primer concierto antes de este disco, en Wels y hoy he llegado a tal extremo que no me queda más remedio que practicar en mi tiempo libre. Durante tres horas diarias. Pero he visto que el instrumento tiene grandes posibilidades y que no sólo se puede tocar "ta, ta" sino que también, de vez en cuando, se puede subir hacia el registro agudo.

        Naturalmente había dificultades al principio, porque en aquellos tiempos tocaba en la Ópera Estatal, lo más importante, pues se trata del puesto de funcionario - esto es, la jubilación - y de donde luego se formó la Asociación de los "Filarmónicos". También era miembro de la "Wiener Hofmusikkapelle", donde cada domingo por la mañana tenía que tocar la misa en la capilla de la Hofburg y además daba clase en la Escuela Superior que entonces se llamaba "Academia", y después comencé a tocar como solista... ¡ Ni un buey aguanta esto! Y además estaba casado. Antes de que mi mujer se pusiese en huelga presenté mi dimisión en la Filarmónica, quedándome sólo como profesor superior lo que salvó mi carrera como solista.

        A veces el trabajo diario era bastante agotador: Vivo aquí arriba en el "Küniglberg" y tenía que salir una hora antes. Con Karajan – que era un madrugador- las grabaciones de discos empezaban siempre a las nueve de la mañana, es decir de nueve a doce. Después iba corriendo para estar una hora en la Academia, después comía, luego continuaban las grabaciones desde las tres hasta las seis, y después a la ópera que, cuando se trataba de una ópera pequeña, como la "Boheme" hasta me alegraba ya que dura sólo dos horas y media.

  Comencé a desarrollar una nueva y especial técnica de arco a través de la cual ahora es posible ponerse como solista al lado de un violonchelo. Descubrí la anchura dinámica íntegra del instrumento que todavía enseño hoy en día. Quería únicamente demostrar, que se puede hacer música con un contrabajo, lo cual no quiere decir que el contrabajo sea un instrumento solista. No lo es.

        En 1967 llegó mi primer disco. Cuando se presentó, se celebró una pequeña fiesta en St. Margarethen, en el Burgenland, donde salió a relucir mi siguiente concierto, pues tenía que viajar al día siguiente a Mónaco. "Qué?", me decían "¿ va a ver la bonita Gracia Patricia? Pues dele muchos saludos, y cuando le entregue el disco, le da un beso de nuestra parte"

       Con este encargo me puse en camino. Antes del concierto, el Jefe de la Casa del Principado me advirtió de que no me molestara, pero que se podría dar la circunstancia de que el Príncipe Rainiero quizás se durmiera. Yo le dije que trataría de despertarle ( al final no se durmió). Y a su lado estaba sentada Gracia Patricia. Una vez finalizado el concierto exclamé: "y ahora me gustaría tocar una pieza sólo pour Madame". Toqué la Elegía de Bottesini, y ella se quedó totalmente fascinada. A continuación hubo una gran recepción, para la que me había cambiado en un cuartito, donde había residido el príncipe Alberto que entonces era todavía un medio niño. Después cogí mi disco, y el Jefe de la Casa del Principado me tradujo, cuando dije, que junto con el disco tenía que dar un beso a Madame. Éste cambió de color, buscó aire y se negó rotundamente a traducir semejante proposición. La Princesa se percató e insistió en la traducción. Con la cara completamente roja reveló mi petición y ella se rió y dijo en francés: "Por qué no?" Entonces se inclinó sobre la mesa hacía mi ( llevaba un vestido negro con puntillas arriba al estilo de María Stuart ) me acercó la mejilla y yo la besé. Y cuando quería volver a sentarme me retuvo y me dijo: "...y esto es para usted"... y me besó en la mejilla. No me afeité durante tres semanas.

        Dos reacciones sobre mi primer disco me han quedado muy especialmente grabadas en la memoria. Un día recibí una carta del psiquiatra Profesor Hoff, en cuya clínica daba conciertos de vez en cuando. En esta carta me comunicó que cuando todo le desborda, se encierra para escuchar mi disco y rápidamente vuelve a conseguir la tranquilidad. Y lo que opinaba el jefe de mi mujer: "no solamente es usted un gran artista, sino que también es un psicólogo de primera categoría, porque yo, que tengo muchos problemas, desde que escucho su disco, he vuelto a conciliar el sueño".

        Antes del concierto mi mujer escuchó comentarios del público como: " ¿ toca hoy un contrabajo? ¿Qué quiere éste aquí? ¡No es posible que éste berree delante de nosotros durante dos horas!" Pero después fue un éxito. Incluso en un periódico de Linz se podía leer: "Streicher es el Oistrach del contrabajo".

        La mayor dificultad del contrabajo no es  tocarlo, si no que es mucho más complicado transportarlo. Necesito dos billetes, uno para mí y otro para el contrabajo, y a pesar de esto nunca sé si llegaré a donde quiero ir, porque uno siempre depende de la benevolencia de las azafatas o de los revisores de tren. Del tren me quisieron echar un par de veces, porque se habían creído que me acompañaba un monstruo. Cuando vuelo, necesito el billete para la primera fila, porque no puedo doblar el contrabajo, todavía no tenemos instrumentos desmontables. Es terrible...viajes, giras,...es algo espantoso.

        Un día, mientras yo estaba en Madrid, en Francia había una huelga de controladores aéreos que impedía prácticamente todas las salidas por lo que estaba esperando con mi contrabajo en medio de una inmensa masa de gente delante del mostrador para facturar hacia Portugal. Como siempre, tenía dos billetes, uno para mí y otro a nombre de la Sra. Streicher".Coloco por lo tanto mi contrabajo junto al mostrador, le doy a la señorita los billetes y coloco la maleta sobre la cinta transportadora. Ella me pregunta por la segunda maleta, la de la Sra. Streicher. Yo dije "La Sra. Streicher no tiene maleta". "Ah, y ¿donde está la Sra. Streicher?" "Aquí yace", y señalé a mi lado, al suelo. La señorita se levanta aterrada y mira fijamente el contrabajo que estaba tumbado en el suelo."Ah, no" dijo ella muy convencida, "esto no es la Sra. Streicher, esto es un contrabajo". "Ah", exclamé yo muy contento,"¿sabe usted qué es esto?" y ella insistía en su afirmación "Si, si, esto es un contrabajo". "Estupendo", dije yo, "Entonces déjeme seguir, porque tengo dos billetes." "En efecto, en efecto, pero aquí está puesto Sra. Streicher. ¿Dónde está la Sra. Streicher?" Yo le contesté a esto nuevamente "¡Aquí está la Sra. Streicher!" Las personas que estaban detrás de mí ya habían empezado a protestar, hasta que por fin la azafata fue a buscar a un oficial, que le dio la razón: "No, señor, esto no es su mujer, esto es un contrabajo."

        Yo sabía que este monstruo negro yaciendo a mi lado no era mi mujer que estaba tranquilamente en Viena, así que mi aclaración no cambió la situación. Finalmente, cuando ya estaba rodeado por cinco empleados del aeropuerto, todos ellos insistiéndome que se trataba de un contrabajo, a lo que yo nunca me había opuesto, uno de ellos desapareció con los billetes y cuando volvió, un billete llevaba mi nombre como antes, y el otro indicaba:   "¡Ojo, esta Sra. Streicher es un contrabajo!"

        Pertenecí 29 años a los Filarmónicos de Viena, desde 1945, y con ellos viví los tiempos más bonitos. Bueno, a veces no tan bonitos, pero he tenido la oportunidad de trabajar con todos los grandes directores de entonces, los Bruno Walter, Dimitri Mitropoulos, Furtwängler, Knappertsbusch, después Fritz Reiner, Pierre Monteux y más tarde Bernstein y Karajan. Francamente eran buenos tiempos, y la orquesta era una agrupación de ensueño.

        A veces no me resultaba fácil subordinarme al director porque soy una persona muy temperamental. Pero esto dependía mucho del director. Cuando un director es malo, si nosotros tocásemos como realmente él dirige, sería una catástrofe porque un director es como un jinete y la orquesta es como un caballo. Los músicos ya perciben en el primer ensayo si el hombre entiende algo de su oficio, de cómo frasea, o si simplemente chapucea. Cuando perciben una buena dirección, el director puede hacer con ellos lo que quiere. Pero cuando llega uno, que aún no está maduro, aunque se corte en pedazos, aunque dé saltos al aire de un metro, nada le vale. El director no debe limitar a la orquesta, si no facilitar su desarrollo para que haga música libremente, porque cuánto mejor es una orquesta, mejor toca camerísticamente. Allí nos escuchábamos unos a otros y si nos decíamos: " Chicos, no le miréis! ¡ Nos miramos entre nosotros!", lo cual sucedía con bastante frecuencia, ya podía hacer lo que quisiera el director que nosotros hacíamos nuestra música de cámara, sin que él nos molestara.

        Los grandes directores no siempre eran agradables, pero siempre era una gran experiencia tocar con ellos. Por ejemplo una vez ensayando la Cuarta Sinfonía de Brahms con Furtwängler, marcamos con un lápiz el número de veces que nos interrumpió. En un sólo movimiento que ensayamos durante una hora y media nos había interrumpido ¡sesenta y cuatro veces!. Con él se llegó a otro mundo. Era frecuente en aquellos directores repetir diez veces dos tonos en un pasaje, cosas que los directores de ahora simplemente pasan por alto. Muchas veces decía a mi compañero Hermann: "Te acuerdas Hermann? Aquí interrumpía, y aquí, y aquí. También hoy se debería interrumpir aquí...".

        Pero hoy no es lo mismo que antes. Hoy todo se ha vuelto un poco más superficial, aunque tengo que decir, que los instrumentistas de hoy están mucho mejor preparados que los de entonces y también son más flexibles. No quiero ofender a los señores de entonces, pero ahora estamos en otra época. La culpa de esto también la tienen los malditos micrófonos - ¡como éste que tengo delante!

        Como músico se disfruta lógicamente de cierta libertad de bufón. Porque, esto dicho entre nosotros, los músicos están algo tocados. Pero de otra forma no podríamos existir. Nos moriríamos. Cuando el día comienza por la mañana con música y finaliza por la noche con música, ésta penetra taladrando constantemente el tímpano. Y, sobre todo, cuando usted va a la ópera, ¿qué escucha allí? ¡Dramas de amor! Ella que se muere de tuberculosis, el otro que es acuchillado, etc. Estamos constantemente inmersos en emociones.

        Ahora bien, nadie me puede decir que esto no se transforme en vivencia, cuando se es un auténtico músico. En mi caso, así fue. En casa mi mujer y yo, por ejemplo, sólo hablábamos con ejemplos wagnerianos. Si alguien hubiera escuchado nuestras conversaciones habría dicho:"¡Vaya familia!". Y, naturalmente, esto contagió a mi hijo que estudió violín con el profesor Samohyl y hoy es concertino en Alemania, y a mi hija que estudió Bellas Artes. Con esto quiero decir, que en cierto modo se trata de una familia de locos. Cuando no se domina la paleta completa desde el pianissimo más fino hasta el fortissimo, entonces es preferible ser funcionario en el Ministerio de Hacienda, pero nunca músico.

        Sin embargo el trabajo en una orquesta es a veces como un vasallaje y tampoco mejora la salud que digamos. Cuando, por ejemplo, se toca en la ópera la obertura, uno ya comienza a sudar. Cuando se levanta el telón, a nosotros los contrabajos, que estamos con la espalda contra la pared, nos llega desde arriba algo como una mano mojada, fría, que se coloca directamente sobre el cogote. Y hoy cuando giro mi cabeza a la izquierda o a la derecha, mi cuello hace un ruido como el de un viejo molinillo de café. Todo está cascado.

        Como músico de orquesta en cierto sentido se es un subalterno. Es complicado hablar de ello con diplomacia. Cada director cree que tiene siempre la razón y hay que tocar tal y como cada uno quiere ( excepto los Filarmónicos que por encima de todo tienen su voluntad propia ). Ser músico de una pequeña orquesta tiene que ser frustrante porque se presenta un director con cuatro o cinco años de estudios de piano que empieza a dirigir y no sabe nada de una entrada de metales, no sabe exactamente cómo Streicher tiene que tocar, pero él quiere mandar. Un músico de orquesta es un esclavo.

        Hay que decir que los Filarmónicos de Viena tienen también una increíble rutina. De esto puedo contarles una anécdota: Yo era una persona bastante indisciplinada y siempre hablaba con mi compañero de atril. Durante la actuación nos contábamos las novedades del día pero sin dejar de prestar atención a  la música. Esto quiere decir que tenía que trabajar con mucha concentración para poder hablar y tocar al mismo tiempo, que no era tan fácil!  

        Un buen día vino a verme el profesor Hollreiser, el director, y me pidió encarecidamente: "¡ Streicher, se lo ruego! Le doy lo que usted quiera si por una vez no habla durante la representación de una ópera". " Pero maestro, esto es mucho pedir ", le contesté yo. "Además, no sé por qué se preocupa si toco todo". "Lo sé, usted lo toca todo", exclamó él. Yo le aclaré entonces mi "compleja" situación: "Mire, he de prestar mucha, mucha atención. Primero tengo que prestar atención a mi contrabajo, a lo que toco. Tengo que atender a la chorrada que cantan ahí arriba los cantantes y después tengo que prestarle atención a usted. Tengo tres factores a los que tengo prestar toda mi atención y al mismo tiempo también quiero hablar! Esto es muy difícil para mí!". "No obstante, señor Streicher..." empezó otra vez el Profesor Hollreiser y yo continué mostrándome dispuesto a llegar a un acuerdo, "la semana próxima tenemos Cosi fan tutte en el Reduttensaal", le dije. "Regáleme una entrada para mi mujer." Hollreiser se puso contentísimo. "Si, eso está hecho! Tendrá el mejor sitio!"

        Así que el día del Cosi llegó, mi mujer tenía una de las mejores localidades y yo estaba sentado en el foso de la orquesta, al lado de mi compañero Hermann. Sólo había dos contrabajos. y a Hermann le gustaba siempre charlar conmigo. Así que Hollreiser comenzó a dirigir y, de repente, me dice Hermann: "¿Qué te ha parecido el ensayo de ayer?" Y yo sentado como un Buda. "¿Qué tienes, estás loco, por qué no hablas?" Yo me quedé sin pronunciar una palabra, mudo. Mientras tanto Hollreiser me miraba, dirigiendo hacia mí, disfrutando al verme tan callado. Hermann cada vez se enfadaba más hasta tal punto que no me dirigió la palabra durante los dos días siguientes. En el entreacto Hollreiser vino a verme y me dijo: "¡Streicher, esto es maravilloso!". "i Es horrible!" exclamé yo, "Guárdese su entrada que de ahora en adelante vuelvo a hablar...y ya le compraré yo la entrada a mi mujer"

        Karajan grabó su último disco en Viena en la primavera de 1989, la Séptima Sinfonía de Anton Bruckner. No nos habíamos vuelto a encontrar en dieciseis largos años. Yo estaba en el Musikverein de Viena para un concierto cuando ví llegar su coche con dos hombres que le ayudaron a salir y le saludé con la mano. El preguntó: "¿Quién me saluda ?" Me acerqué a él y me dijo sonriendo: "¡Hombre, Streicher" ¿Qué pasa, ya partió en dos su contrabajo?". Después se soltó de uno de sus ayudantes y me cogió del brazo. Se acordaba perfectamente de que nuestro último encuentro fue en Salzburgo, con motivo de la Sexta Sinfonía de Bruckner y que él  me había dicho entonces: "¿Por qué no me mira?". "¿Quizás le ofendí en aquel momento?", me dijo.      " Si fue así le pido ahora disculpas formalmente." Ya caminando hacia el ascensor me dijo el gran Karajan: "de verdad, ha sido usted muy amable al saludarme. Sabe, hay muchos, muchos, que se marchan de esta orquesta y ya no me conocen." No sabía que era la última vez que le iba a ver.

“His virtuosity has always been evident but secondary, because, as he always says, what really matters is to express what lies between the notes”

Astrid Spitznagel

Ludwig Streicher in aeternum

By Xosé Crisanto Gándara

The Viennese double bass player Ludwig Streicher died in March 2003, at the age of 82 years in his residence of Vienna. It has certainly disappeared the master of the double bass in the European scene since the end of World War II. This loss makes that, today, we all dedicated to the noble art of playing this instrument feel a little lonelier. His beginnings as a double bass player are not very different from those of a normal instrumentalist of the last two centuries.

He was born in 1920. His taste for music came from his father, an amateur musician who created a small orchestra in Vienna. Streicher started playing the violin but he changed to the double bass after meeting Otto Krumpöck, a member of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. According to him, it would be easier to find a job if he played the double bass. Thus, in 1934 he started his studies of double bass at the University of Music and Performing Arts Academy in Vienna, where he finished with honours.

In the same year, he became member of the Krakow State Theatre Opera, where he worked until 1942. After that, he auditioned for a place in the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. Although he obtained it, he could not start working because he was conscripted into the army. After the war, he became member of the Vienna State Opera. A year later, he was already member of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, and in 1954 he obtained a place of co-principal. For twenty years, between 1945 and 1965, he worked for the State Opera, the Philharmonic and the Hofmusikkapelle. In 1965, he began his musical career as a soloist.

In the same year, the Austrian record company Amadeo decided to carry out a series of recordings presenting all instruments as soloists. At first, Streicher refused to perform in the recordings because he believed that his technique was not good enough for a performance of this nature. However, and advised by his wife, he finally accepted the job. The recording became a great success and a significant reference for all the double bass players of next generations —mainly because it was one of the first recordings in which the double bass was soloist.

This recording also entailed his beginnings as live performer and lecturer. In 1966, he gave his first recital in Wels (Austria) and he obtained a place as lecturer at the Hochschule für Musik und darstellende Kunst in Wien. In 1973, he quitted his job at the Philharmonic in order to focus on his teaching activity. Two years later, he was appointed Professor at the University of Music and Performing Arts in Vienna —where several generations of double bass players from all over the world have been educated— until his retirement in 1999.

Professor Streicher not only developed his teaching activity in Vienna; Spain was “a home from home”, just as he liked it to call it. Those who have learnt directly or indirectly from him, including myself, we have been educated with his method that, still today, is the basis for new performers and lecturers’ education throughout Spain. In 1971, he was invited to Spain to lecture in a course, in the framework of the Manuel de Falla courses, in Granada. Since then, he visited Spain regularly, sometimes to lecture, sometimes to give recitals in various cities. For instance, we know about his visit to Galicia thanks to a peculiar photograph were we can see Streicher with the pianist that accompanied him at the time, Ángel Soler. He had been invited by Antonio Iglesias in order to give a recital in Ourense, within the series of concerts Grandes Intérpretes (Great Interpreters). In 1992, Streicher was appointed Professor of the Escuela Superior de Música Reina Sofía in Madrid, by request of Zubin Mehta. He worked there until 2001.

In May 2000, Streicher was honoured on the occasion of his 80^th birthday in a celebration held in Madrid. A great number of his disciples were present. He delighted us with his characteristic sense of humour. In September 2000, the I Festival de Contrabajo “Ludwig Streicher” (1^st Ludwig Streicher Double Bass Festival) was held in Santiago de Compostela. Unfortunately, he could not attend it because of his bad health.

            Streicher has to be regarded as the defender of the use of the “German bow” in Spain, a technique that has been applied gradually in educational institutions as well as in orchestras. The Professor has to be regarded as the pioneer of the double bass as soloist during the second half of the 20^th century: as for his recordings, as his recitals or editions of genuinely double bass soloist music. He has to be considered as a kind-hearted human being, who taught us all, the followers of his method, his stories and his discipline to play our beloved double bass. For this reason, and many others, requiescat in pace in aeternum Professor Streicher.

Xosé Crisanto Gándara studied with Rubén Giorgis, a disciple of Ludwig Streicher. Today, he lectures double bass in the Conservatory of Ferrol and he is one of the highest qualified researchers on double bass history in Spain.

Astrid Spitznagel accompanied Ludwig Streicher on the piano for more than twenty years in lessons and concerts all over the world.

The kiss

            I already wished to be in the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra when I was young. I was born in Ziersdorf, where good wine is made. There, my mother owned an inn. My father, who had been conductor of a military band, had always wanted me to be a musician. Because, what else better can you aim at in Vienna? Certainly, the Philharmonic. Therefore, I was bought up in musical surroundings. My father used to play in the town festivities, in the masked ball, in the firemen ball; and when something went wrong, he would shout: “F sharp, you idiot!” while throwing the baton to the musician. At that time, everything was different —today we have trade unions.

            At first, I studied violin but as my fingers became fatter, I changed to the double bass. I used to play in my father’s band at eight shillings per night… We were living on hard times. In 1939, I obtained the “Diplomprüfung” (high qualification).

In the end, my dream came true and for twenty-nine years I worked as double bass player in the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. There, I have worked with the most important conductors in the world, but when they are placed in front of you for so many years you are fed up. Today, as a soloist, conductors are behind me (in my left side) and this is much more pleasant. I hope I can play the double bass for a long time, so that I do not have to start conducting; just as so many others instrumentalists do.

            As you might know, musicians must practice at home but I must confess a terrible secret: I did not touch my double bass at home between 1946 and 1966, due to certain incidents. I did not even take the bow out of the case. What is more, at that time, my children did not know that I was a musician. At home, I used to work on electronics, make phone equipment and automatic lighting systems. For example, when I closed the curtains the light turned on automatically and so forth. I would do anything but playing the double bass.

            One day, a record company contacted me because they wanted me to play in a recording. I was not very keen on the idea and I said: “You are just crazy! Because this means I’ll have to start studying!” The company begged me to do it for half a year. And today, I would be much more peaceful if my wife did not exist. Indeed, she tenderised me by “beating” me, just as you do with a steak. Therefore, I started practising. What I really wanted was to play only in that record but not in a concert because I have a terror of public. However, I gave a concert in Wels before the recording and today I have come to the point that I necessarily have to practice in my free time, three hours a day. Thanks to this practice, I have discovered that the double bass has great register possibilities. It can be played not only in a low register but, sometimes, reach a high-pitched one.

            At first, there were clear difficulties with the recordings, because at the moment I was working for the State Opera, which was my first priority. Mainly since I was working for the state —a guarantee of enjoying an advantaged retirement— and also because, thanks to the State Opera, the Philharmonics would be created. I was, as well, member of the Wiener Hofmusikkapelle, where every Sunday morning I had to play the Mass in the Hofburg Chapel. I lectured at the High school, at that moment named “Academy”, and, soon after, I started to perform as soloist. I used to work my fingers to the bone! On top of that, I was married. In fact, before my wife “came out on strike” I resigned my post in the Philharmonic. I decided to keep only my job of Professor, which actually saved my career as a soloist.

            Sometimes, daily work was exhausting: I live in the Küniglberg and I had to go out from home one hour earlier in order to be on time. I always started the recordings with Karajan —an early bird—at nine in the morning until mid-day. After that, I used to run in order to lecture at the Academy, have lunch and carry on with the recordings from three to six. Afterwards, I would go to the Opera, where, sometimes, I was very pleased to hear that we were going to play works such as La Bohême, because it only takes two hours.

           I began to develop a new and individual bow technique that, allows double bass players to perform beside a violoncellist. I discovered the dynamic breadth of the double bass, which I keep on showing today to my students. I simply wanted to prove that it is possible to make music with a double bass; it does not mean that the double bass is a soloist instrument because it is not.

 In 1967, I recorded my first album. In order to launch it, a small party was held in St. Margarethen in the Burgenland. During the party, someone talked about my next concert —the following day in Monaco— and some people said: “What? Are you really going to meet the beautiful Gracia Patricia? Well, could you please greet her and, when you give her your CD, give her a kiss on our behalf as well?”

            Keeping that request in my mind I got on my way. Before the concert, the Chief of the House of the Principality of Monaco told me in advance that I should not be upset because there might be a possibility that Prince Rainier fell asleep. I answered that I would try to wake him up —in the end, there was no need to do so. Sitting beside Prince Rainier was Gracia Patricia. Once the concert was finished, I exclaimed: “And now, I would like to play a piece only pour Madame”. I played the Elegy by Bottesini and she was fascinated. After that, we all went to a great reception. I changed my clothes in a little room formerly used by Prince Albert —almost a kid at that time. Later on, I took my CD and I said that, along with the CD, I had to give Madame a kiss. The face of Chief of the House of the Principality changed its colour, he breathed in and out, and he flatly refused to translate my suggestion. The Princess insisted on hearing its translation. Completely flushed, he translated it. The Princess started laughing and said in French: “Why not?”. She came towards me (on a black dress in a Mary Stuart style), approached his face and I kissed her cheek. When I was going back to my seat, she stopped me and said: “This is for you” and she suddenly kissed my cheek. I did not shave for three weeks.

The therapy 

There are two reactions to my CD that I will never forget. One of them was a letter from a psychiatrist, Doctor Hoff. I used to give concerts in the hospital he worked for. In his letter, he said that every time he would get overwhelmed, he listened to my recording and he suddenly calmed down. And also the reaction of my wife’s boss who told me: “You are not only a great artist but also an excellent psychologist, ‘cause I have a lot of problems, and since I’ve been listening to your music I can sleep at ease”.

A friendly welcome 

In my first concert, in Wels, I went to the hall in order to be familiar with the acoustics and try the piano. There, “His Majesty the Tuner” was waiting for me. He looked at me with suspicion growling at the same time: “You should know, sir, that we’ve had the best ones here: Schneiderhan, Seefried and we also had a cellist, but never a bass player, no, never in my whole life”. “Oh my, oh my!” he added. Once finished his job, he sat down with a face expression that more or less said: “Let’s see what’s that”. Before that, he had told me that the hall would be full that night because the concert was included in the season ticket and he added: “When the public doesn’t like it, they just leave the hall”. “Great!” I said to myself, “and in my first concert…”. But when I began to play, he opened his eyes wide, and soon after, he stood up and said: “Well, in this case I’ll have to tell my wife to come tonight”. And he left the hall in a rush.

            Before the concert, my wife could listen to the people saying: “Is there a bass player performing tonight? What on earth is he doing here?” “Is he going to blare in front of us for two hours?” However, the concert was a great success. I could even read in the Linz newspaper: “Streicher is the Oistrach of the double bass”.

“Miss Streicher”

            The main difficulty that the double bass presents is not the art of playing it but its transport. In any mean of transport, I need two tickets: one for me and another for the instrument and still, I do not know if I will arrive where I want to go. Because I always depend on the kindness of an air stewardess or a ticket inspector. In a couple of times, I was asked to leave the train because people thought I was travelling with a monster. In the plane, I need a place in the front row, because a double bass can not be folded. We do not have collapsible instruments yet… Travels, tours… it is just awful!

One day, while I was in Madrid, there was an air-traffic controllers’ strike in France that prevented almost all planes from taking off. So there I was, waiting with my bass in the middle of a huge mass of people in front of a desk trying to check in, with the purpose of travelling to Portugal. As usual, I had two tickets, one with my name and the other with “Miss Streicher’s” name. I placed my bass near the desk and my suitcase in the conveyor belt, and I gave the tickets to a stewardess. She asked me about the second suitcase, that is, the luggage of “Miss Streicher”. I answered: “She doesn’t have any luggage”. “Ok, but where is she then?” she said. “Just right here” I said while pointing to the floor. The lady stood up visibly alarmed and looked at the bass. “No sir” she said with confidence, “This is not Miss Streicher, this is a bass”. “Oh” I answered happily, “But do you really know what’s that?”. She insisted “Yes, of course, this is a bass”. “Great”, I said. “Well, then let me get on my way, because I have two tickets”. “Certainly sir, but here it says ‘Miss Streicher’, so, where is she?” I answered for a second time “Miss Streicher is just here madam!”. The people waiting in the queue had already begun to complain. That is why a stewardess called an officer that agreed with the lady: “This is not your wife sir, this is a bass”.

I obviously knew that the black monster that lay next to me was not my wife, who at that moment was in Vienna; therefore my explanation did not change anything. Soon, I found myself surrounded by five employees of the airport who insisted on the fact that that was a bass. Well, I had never denied so. One of them disappeared with my two tickets and when he came back he gave them back to me. I could see that in one of the tickets said: “Mr Streicher” and the other said: “Careful! This Miss Streicher is a bass!”.

Old times 

I spent twenty-nine years in the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, since 1945. It was the most beautiful period of my life. Well, no so beautiful sometimes, but there, I had the opportunity to work with the greatest conductors of that time: Bruno Walter, Dimitri Mitropoulos, Furtwängler, Knappertsbusch, then Fritz Reiner, Pierre Monteux, and later on with Bernstein and Karajan. Honestly, they were really good times and the orchestra was a dreamy group.

Sometimes, it was not at all easy to be subordinate to the conductor because I am a very temperamental person. Although it would always depend on the nature of the conductor. In the case of a bad conductor, if the orchestra played according to how he conducts, it would be a disaster. Because the conductor is like a jockey and the orchestra, his horse. Musicians can see in a first rehearsal the conductor’s knowledge about his job, his particular phrasing or, simply, if he just does not know how to do his job. On the one hand, if the conductor is good, he can do whatever he wants with the musicians. On the other hand, is he is unqualified, and although he tries to pretend that he is good by jumping up and down, he is lost. The conductor can not limit the orchestra, but make its improvement possible so that the music can be played without restraint. Because, the better an orchestra is, the better chamber music it plays. In some concerts, we used to listen to each other saying: “Hey! Don’t look at him! We will look at each other!” It happened quite a lot, so in that case no mattered what the conductor did, that we would play our own chamber music.

Great conductors were not always nice, however, playing with them was always an excellent experience. For instance, one day, in the rehearsal of Brahms’ Fourth Symphony we had Furtwängler as conductor, and we decided to note down all his interruptions. For one and a half hours, we rehearsed only one movement and we realised that he had interrupted it sixty-four times! Formerly, it was normal that conductors made the orchestra repeat some passages ten times but nowadays they do not do so. I have talked a lot of times with my colleague Hermann about this: “Do you remember? He used to stop us here, here, and here as well. Conductors should do the same today…”

Today, things are different. Everything has become more superficial, though I must say that today’s instrumentalists are better trained than those of that time. Besides, they are more flexible. I would not like being offensive with instrumentalist of that moment, the point is that we are living a different period of time. Microphones, like the one I’m using, are also liable for this.

Slave to work 

            It is true that, as a musician, one can enjoy the freedom of a buffoon. Because, between you and me, musicians are all a bit off the rails. Otherwise we would die. It is the basis of our existence. When your day begins with music and finishes with music, it ends up by hammering your eardrums. On top of that, what sort of stories do you listen to in the opera? Love tragedies! She dies of tuberculosis, he is stabbed... We are permanently immersed in emotions.

            Nevertheless, there is no doubt that this can be applied to real life when you are a true musician —at least in my case. For instance, at home, my wife and I used to speak only with Wagnerian examples. If someone had listened to our conversations they would have thought: “What a family!”. Of course, we pass it on to my son, who studied violin with Professor Samohyl and works as live performer in Germany, and to my daughter, who studied fine art. What I really mean is that, in some way, we are a crazy family. If someone does not know about expressions such as pianissimo or fortísimo, then they should work for the Tax office, but never being a musician.

            However, working in an orchestra is sometimes like vassalage. For example, in the opera you already start sweating in the overture. When the curtain is risen, the double bass players —at the back of the stage—, we feel something like a cold wet hand in the scruff of our necks. As a result, today I can hear a funny noise every time I turn my head right or left. Everything gets worn out.

Failing in business

            A musician in an orchestra is, in some way, a subordinate worker. It is not easy to talk about it tactfully. Every single conductor thinks that he or she is always right and musicians have to play his / her way (except the Philharmonics, whose will is above everything else). Being a musician of a small orchestra must be frustrating because, suddenly, an inexperienced conductor with two or three years of piano joins the orchestra and he does not even know when the brass section has to enter or how Streicher has to play but still, he wants to have the power. A musician in an orchestra is a slave.

            I must say that the Philharmonics of Vienna also have a routine work. I can tell you an anecdote about this aspect: I was a rather undisciplined person and I used to talk to a colleague next to me during the concerts. We would talk about the news of the day while paying attention to the music. This means that I had to apply myself in order to play and talk at the same time, which was not at all easy!

            One day, Professor Hollreiser (the conductor) came to visit me and urged: “Streicher, I’m begging you! I’ll give you whatever you want if you don’t talk during the performance of an opera just for once!” “But, master, this is two much to ask”, I answered. “Besides, I can’t understand your worry if I always play every single note”. “I know! You do play every single note!” he shouted. I tried to explain my difficult situation: “Look, I have to pay attention, a very special attention. Listen, I first focus on my instrument, I mean on what I’m playing. Then, I have to listen carefully to singers croaking and I also have to look at you. There are three aspects I have to focus on and I want to talk at the same time! This is very difficult!” “However, Mr Streicher…” he tried to start again and I tried to show him that I wanted to come to an agreement: “Next week we will play Cosi fan tutte in the Reduttensaal” I said. “Could you give me a ticket for my wife?” Hollreiser seemed very happy with the idea. “Of course! She will have the best seat!”

            The day we had to play Cosi fan tutte came. My wife had one of the best seats of the hall and I was in the orchestra pit, next to my colleague Hermann. We were only two bass players and Hermann also liked talking during the concerts. Hollreiser began conducting and, almost at that moment Hermann asked me: “What do you think about yesterday’s rehearsal?” And there I was, sitting like a Buddha statue. “What’s wrong with you? Why you don’t talk to me?” I remained silent, dumb while Hollreiser looked at me, enjoying my silence. Hermann got more and more angry —so angry that he did not talk to me for two weeks. During the interval, Hollreiser came to me and said: “Streicher, this is wonderful!” “No, it’s not. It’s horrible! Look, I’ll give you my wife’s ticket back and from now on I’ll talk while playing!”

He still remembered me 

During the spring of 1989, Karajan recorded his last album in Vienna: Anton Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony. We had not seen each other for sixteen years. I was in the Musikverein of Vienna in order to give a concert. I saw his car and two men helping him to get off and I said hello with my hand. He asked, “Who’s that?” I came closer to him and, while smiling, he said: “Streicher! How are things? Have you already broken your double bass in two?” Afterwards, he left the two helpers behind, came to me and took my arm. He remembered the last occasion we had met in Salzburg, when we performed Bruckner’s Sixth Symphony. He also remembered what he had told me in that concert: “Why aren’t you looking at me?” “I hope my remark didn’t annoy you”, he said, “If it did so, please accept now my apologies”. While walking towards the lift the great Karajan added: “I must say that it’s been very nice of you to speak to me. You know, there are lots of musicians that once they live the orchestra they don’t know me any more”. At that moment, I did not know that it would be the last time I would see him.