“Perfect intonation is infinitely flexible.” As with many things Francis Hunt says about music, it is not immediately clear whether he is speaking technically or metaphorically, about literal acoustic theory or an observation on the human spirit. He looks like Santa Claus is the first thing one thinks.
“What you have to do,” he says as he weaves a ribbon of red felt between the piano wires, “is set what’s called the equal temperament. Which is a compromise which allows you to play in all 12 key centers equidistantly. You don’t lean it in any direction, any particular key. You do that by making most of the intervals slightly out of tune.” He peers at his listener expectantly, looking for comprehension or puzzlement, interest or boredom. “Out of tune compared to true intonation–true intonation being the way two violinists would play. You don’t determine this by pitch consciousness–nobody could tune a piano by pitch consciousness alone. You have to know the physics that are involved.”
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He returns his attention to the process of tuning the Fischer and changes the subject–or maybe he hasn’t. “Perfect sanity!” He pauses for a long beat. The silence is filled with the repetitive thumping of a muted F sharp. The note bends, the hammer teases it into vibration with a D flat. “Perfect sanity is infinitely flexible. The kind of awakeness that allows you to be appropriate to whatever moment you’re in. If not appropriate, at least good-natured.” He smiles.
When asked if the piano is a particularly good or bad one, he answers characteristically: “As with people, a few pianos are truly bad, and few are truly great. Great pianos are about as rare as great people.”
Some paragraphs into what is obviously a very personal document, one phrase catches the attention: “I guess I was really very unhappy once. I’m not sure I fully realized it for a long while though.”
I was a symphonic trombone player, and for a while a very good one. I lived for the moments of playing trombone. All other moments were either seeking pleasure or waiting for the trombone moments. These trombone moments were heavily evaluated and were never considered good enough. If I played well, there was always something to complain about. I played out a game my mother taught me, rolling around in the imagined inadequacies of my doing, and seeking the scorned compliments of my peers. My motivation for playing as an adult was the illusion that I, the trombone player, was very important in the world, the only thing really; the arrogant puffed-up-ness of my blindered, post-adolescent self, excluding all of the love of music that was briefly there in my unfolding. So, I practiced evaluation and arrogance and was cruel to my colleagues, non-communicative and openly judgemental to them, as I was with myself.
It is not clear why.
