Gratefully we cast our bread upon the blue-green waters of the Salzach to give thanks to this festival city. Across the river the famous castle stands fortress over the old town. On the terrace of the Cafe Bazar one hears the tongues of France, Italy and Spain as well as Austria, because this is old Europe. Not ‘European’ as defined by the EU, European as in the Arnoldian sense, handing on from one generation to another the best that has been thought, or said, or done. There is a European way of living, and it is easy to find it here.
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No city of comparable size (150,000 souls) enjoys so elevated an international ranking. That Mozart was born here has something to do with it, even if he longed to get away. Another composer, Richard Rodgers, painted it in a rather different hue, and although The Sound of Music was never a big hit in Austria the tourists come in their thousands. But ever since Richard Strauss and Max Reinhardt put their heads together after the first world war, festivals have nurtured its reputation. No sooner has Easter faded than thoughts turn to Whitsun, after which the mighty summer programme carries everybody through to autumn, when the jazzers arrive.
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Easter used to belong to the Berlin Philharmonic. Next year, when they head to Baden-Baden, the Dresden Staatskapelle will take their place. There is sadness, and among some of the patrons there is a sense of betrayal. Herbert von Karajan, Sir Simon Rattle’s predecessor as music director in Berlin, and a Salzburg native, established the Easter festival in 1967, and his spirit still hangs over the place, though suffocate might be a better verb.
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