Conductors: In the Wrist

In the past decade, four of the most widely praised new Metropolitan Opera productions—Mozart’s Don Giovanni, Berg’s Wozzeck, Strauss’s Salome and Die Frau ohne Schatten—all had one element in common: Conductor Karl Böhm. It was hardly coincidence. Long recognized as one of the world’s foremost maestros, Böhm helped lead the way in elevating his profession to its rightfully high place in opera. Now 72, he dates his career back to the days when many opera houses did not even bother to list the conductor’s name on the program. By contrast, his appearances at the Met this season, especially his inspired reading of Die Frau (TIME, Oct. 14), have loosed the kind of stormy ovation usually reserved for prima donnas.

In a house dedicated to the cult of the singer, that is a remarkable accomplishment, particularly for Böhm, since he is the antithesis of the flashy, scene-stealing conductor. Where some maestros seem intent on bending the score to fit their own interpretation, Böhm thinks of himself as the trustee of the composer, lets the music speak for itself. His attack is clean, crisp and controlled, and he adheres to the dictum of his close friend Richard Strauss: the basic duty of the opera conductor is to buoy up rather than drown out the singers. Böhm’s stickwork, as spare and exacting as needlepoint, is also an inheritance from Strauss, who, to contain his enthusiasm, often conducted with his left hand in his pocket. Years ago, during a Dresden performance of Die Frau, Strauss forgot himself and signaled a climax by thrusting both fists in the air. Böhm later chided him for it. At the next performance, the composer introduced the climax by shaking only his right hand in the air; with his left, he waved to Böhm, sitting in a box.

Young Upstart. As a child in Graz, Austria, Böhm tagged after the town band to play make-believe maestro. At the insistence of his father, he entered law school, but often cut classes to serve as substitute conductor and pianist at the Graz Opera. At 25, he took a few hours off from rehearsals to pick up his law degree, then rushed back to conduct a performance of The Flying Dutchman.

It was obvious that law would always play second fiddle under Böhm. In the ’20s he worked under Bruno Walter, then moved up to become music director at the opera houses in Darmstadt, Hamburg and Dresden. In Vienna during World War II, Böhm, a Roman Catholic, secretly harbored a Jewish industrialist for a year and a half while he continued conducting. In 1954, he was appointed general manager of the Vienna State Opera, resigned a year and a half later to become one of the most sought-after conductors on the international circuit.

“Wot! Wot! Wot!” Today, still remarkably spry for his years, Böhm jets between continents to conduct about 80 performances a year, is already booked through 1970. A high-domed, bookish-looking man, he is known among musicians as a conductor long on native talent but short on patience. He is a stickler for punctuality, keeps a collection of 15 clocks ticking in perfect unison in the bedroom of his Vienna apartment. At rehearsals, he can be a demanding despot, responding to mistakes by roaring “Wot! Wot! Wot!” But his dictatorial ways are all in service of the music. He feels, for example, that an opera like Der Rosenkavalier must be performed at least 20 times before conductor and orchestra are worthy of it. Having conducted it 120 times himself, he now says proudly: “I have it in my wrist.”