Pletts: Timeless music in our mountains 

The Alpin Horn. 

Originating in the mountains of Tibet perhaps 2,000 years ago, how did this instrument journey to the Rocky Mountains? In the case of Western slope musician Helmut Fricker, he brought it with him! 

Once upon a time, Helmut was a German book binder, a box maker, and a musician with an irascible smile and a gigantic heart. The way he speaks of crafting and repairing his extraordinary rare books — he once repaired one for the Vatican — he fills with energy and complete respect for his craft the way he also plays music now. If you’ve never seen an Alpin horn, it’s typically 10 to 13 feet long, and separates into three sections. Resourceful mountain musicians figured out how to transport it. It’s often made of Birch wood, looks heavy but weighs between 6.6 and 22 pounds. Composers including Beethoven and Rossini included it.

But here’s the thing: 

When he once played in Vail, in summertime, someone told him later that they heard the glorious sound in Minturn — more than eight miles away. Holy moly. No satellite waves to prevent bees from pollinating our food chain. If I were a bee flying near the horn’s voice, I’d settle on a comfy flower and watch the musical vibration enlighten the flickering aspen leaves all around until it reached where I stood. Then I’d flutter away better than ever. 

It’s said that man only invents objects that serve a function that he already has inside himself. Industrialists would have us believe that only a cell phone can communicate far away. Helmut made me think I should hone up on my yodeling skills. 

During tea at his table alongside his singer wife, Charlotte, she rises and goes out the kitchen door, returning with horn parts. Together, they assemble the extraordinary instrument, and this 89-year-young man stands to play. His lungs and cheeks fill like a larger-than-life celestial Gabriel, and the glorious sound emerges. It fills the home and flows out windows to the birds. Everyone listens! You have no choice. I get up and dance because I have to. He plays “Amazing Grace” with no fingering on buttons or openings. Afterwards, I ask how he did that, and he gestures his right forefinger to his lips. “The notes are made here.” His composed wife calmly says, “When we first met, I thought he might be a good kisser.” We three laugh. 

After the “concert,” I’m high as a kite with my heart overflowing. Helmut tells me, “I had a breath capacity test not long ago, and the nurse said, ‘I’ve never seen such lung strength on anyone of any age!'” He grins.

He sang with John Denver in the Jerome Hotel, played for many Aspen Christmas tree lightings, helped the Aspen Institute and The Little Nell welcome guests, and, most recently, played for a wedding on a ranch up Independence Pass that lasted three days. Lucky revelers. 

Another long-time Aspen resident recently claimed that it was fashionable ski industry clothing that made our economy unique. That is partly true. But it is our music that makes Aspen rare. When Eliabeth Paepcke brough Arthur Rubenstein here to play piano in 1949 — to honor German philosopher Goethe — she was looking toward our future.  

Helmut will be honored this coming Labor Day weekend in Beaver Creek, as the longest employee. A life-size sculpture of him will be unveiled. He was there in 1980 at the ribbon-cutting when the resort opened, and he’ll likely keep playing as long as he has breath. Would that other businesses in the West do so well to keep a musician employed and be proud of it! 

Just before I leave their Eagle home after a wondrous visit, Helmut takes me into his book binding sanctuary and sits me down. He opens a small, hand-made, colorful box and lifts a tiny sheet of gold leaf up. He places it on my hand, rubs it in, and says, “For your golden years to come.” Listener, if you have the good fortune to hear an Alpin horn playing, think of your golden years in the mountains where we can continue to protect the pristine power of Nature, when we choose to.