In Loving Memory of...
Fritz
In Loving Memory of
Fritz
In Loving Memory of
Fritz
Funeral
Services details:
A simple and heartfelt ceremony for all the family, friends and acquaintances to join us in saying goodbye to Friedrich Johann Werner
RSVP
Let the family know if you will attend the funeral
A message from the family
Celebrate Fritz your way:
Play his favorite vinyl (Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, side A) at full volume tonight at 9 PM—he’ll sync up the afterlife performance.
Visit Ziggy’s for his memorial jam session next Friday. Bring your instrument or just your ears—no sad ballads allowed.
Donate to his Broken Horn Fund, repairing instruments for kids who can’t afford them (because ‘music shouldn’t be a luxury’).
*No flowers—just wear something striped (his signature look) and raise a glass of cheap brandy. As Fritz would say: ‘If you’re on time, you’re late. The gig starts when I say it does.’
About Fritz
Fritz was Berlin’s jazz icon—a trumpet player whose soulful notes became the soundtrack of the city’s rebirth. Born in 1949 amid the rubble of postwar East Berlin, he discovered jazz through smuggled American records, teaching himself to play on a dented brass trumpet traded for two packs of cigarettes. For 50 years, his nightly performances at Ziggy’s Jazzkeller were pilgrimage-worthy; audiences came for his haunting rendition of My Funny Valentine, but stayed for his between-song banter—a mix of sharp wit and communist-era cynicism. By day, he repaired instruments in his tiny Kreuzberg shop, where musicians paid in stories and the occasional bottle of Polish vodka. Even after chemotherapy stole his hair, he kept playing, quipping, "Now I’m aerodynamic—high notes come easier."
Eulogy
Fritz didn’t just play music—he was music. His trumpet sang what words couldn’t: the ache of a divided city, the joy of its reunification, the quiet loneliness of outliving his bandmates. He survived on instant coffee and jazz standards, believing ‘A wrong note played with conviction is just modern jazz.’ When the Wall fell, he played Summertime at Checkpoint Charlie for 12 straight hours, tears cutting through the November chill.His greatest masterpiece wasn’t a song but the community he built—the lost souls who found family in his smoky basement club. To Fritz, music was medicine: ‘You can’t cure life,’ he’d say, ‘but you can damn well swing it.’ His final encore? Winking at the nurse as morphine blurred his vision and whispering, ‘Save my seat at the afterparty.’
The Cause of Death
Liver cancer, diagnosed too late—"Typical jazzman timing," he joked.
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