Remembering Sixten Ehrling

When I had moved to New York City in 1998 and was working at Tower Records, Maestro Sixten Ehrling came in frequently. He was rather cranky the first time I met him: he did not guess that I knew who he was, and he barked at me that no one on the store staff had offered to help him. I let him cool down for a couple of seconds, then I made a small bow, and said: “You conducted my first RING operas, Maestro!”

From then on, and for years to come, Maestro Ehrling was a customer I always looked forward to seeing. He had a million stories, including tales of how antagonistic the Met musicians were towards him during those RING performances. He taught me how to pronounce the names of the RING characters: “…say ZEEEG-lin-da, not See-GLIN-da!”)

Then there was his tale of a recording session he had scheduled with Victoria de los Angeles on the day after her marriage. A couple of times, I forfeited my lunch hour just to stay and chat the Maestro up.

Maestro Ehrling was married to a former ballerina, a very kind woman with Old World manners. As time went by, the Maestro became increasingly feeble and unsteady. He sometimes came in unshaven, wearing rumpled clothing. Then, for a while, Madame would come in alone to get CDs for him, saying he was under the weather but slowly on the mend. For a few weeks, she too stopped coming in. I sensed that Mr. Ehrling had taken a turn for the worse.

The news came out that Maestro Ehrling had passed away. I wondered if Madame would remain in New York City (I believe they had a daughter living here). Then one day, she came in. She walked up to me with a gentle smile, saying, “I wanted to thank you for always being so kind to Sixten!”  I almost burst into tears. She became teary also. There was nothing more to be said. She held out her hand, which I kissed, and then she left.