Brian Bode Piano Tuning and Repair

02/14/2026

“I realize it's late. I don’t know if you’ll remember me, this is Miriam Rice. We met once a while back at the Gordons’. You’re probably surprised to get a call from me.”

Although it was late, I had decided to answer the phone. As it turns out, I did remember her, and actually wasn’t surprised at all. I frequently get calls from friends and strangers alike asking to have their pianos tuned. “Hey Miriam, I do remember you. What can I do for you?”

“I want you to take on my son, Eric, as an apprentice.”

This did surprise me, but not terribly: I also get the occasional request to take on an apprentice. Piano tuning is one of the few trades that still relies on apprenticeships to teach the next generation. Contrary to common assumption, an apprenticeship is not a standardized course you take for a certificate; it’s more of a complex relationship in which both participants need to be invested, focused, and working towards the same goal. I’ve learned that it pays not to rush into anything and check out the potential apprentice before committing.

Honestly, the bigger issue bouncing around in my head was that I wasn’t ready to take on another apprentice. Over the years, I had had several apprentices, but the most recent had ended pretty badly. After investing a lot of time and effort in Andrew, I was stunned one summer morning when I went to pick him up for work to find that he and a collection of my tools had vanished into the night. A year later, I learned through a friend of a friend that he was living in Texas.

“Well, I’m not really taking on apprentices right now, but I would be happy to let him shadow me for a day. Let him see if it actually interests him.”

“Oh, it interests him.” I could dimly hear a piano on her end start playing in the background, and she began talking to someone else. “Stop that right now! I mean it! Sorry about that, yes, it interests him. Are you sure you won’t take an apprentice? We could pay. I feel you should reconsider.”

I could feel her pressure. “I appreciate that, but I can’t do it right now. So, what day would work for him to hang with me?” I threw out a number of dates, which she checked with someone else—Eric, I guessed. I could hear them talking intensely, and she finally came back on the line, sounding exhausted.

“Instead of a whole day, could he just watch one tuning?”

“How about two?” I asked. “Later this week, I’m tuning two pianos for the Symphony. He could come down to the hall and check it out.” They agreed to this, and we arranged for Eric to meet me at the front doors at 2:00.

I arrived at the hall a bit early and, after making sure the pianos were in place and ready for tuning, walked through the lobby to the front doors. Since Miriam’s call, I had been thinking about apprenticeships, including my own. When I was 28, I apprenticed for 2 years with a Steinway master technician named Bill Larson. Bill was a kind, generous 50-something with wavy silver hair, thick wire-rimmed glasses, and a neat, clipped mustache. He was slight, but surprisingly strong. He lived in a tall, sun-splashed, rambling house in the Sacramento neighborhood of Curtis Park. At his artistic wife’s insistence, the house was painted lime green.

Behind the house, Bill had a piano shop shaded by pines and surrounded by wood ferns, and it was there that I learned to rebush flanges, file hammers, install strings, and so on. It was with Bill that I also learned that with great skill does not necessarily come great teaching ability. One day, as I was struggling to tune, I asked Bill how to set a tuning pin. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment and then purposely swung around to the bookcase behind his cluttered desk. He pulled out a well-thumbed copy of Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, paged through it, and read the following:

“Polarized light from the sky is very much weakened by reflection, but the light in clouds isn’t polarized. So invisible clouds pass among visible clouds, till all slide over the mountains.”

With that, he closed the book and looked at me, highly satisfied and clearly expecting a big OMG. What he got was closer to a big WTF.

But I was driven, and I soon invented subtle ways to extract the information I needed from Bill. Asking for stories; feigning incomprehension so I could study his exact technique; and staying glued to him on jobs, memorizing his every move—by the end of the two years, I was working for a local piano store and on my way.

Waiting at the doors, shielded from the rain, was a teenage boy in sweats who appeared to have just arisen from slumber. He wasn’t physically in pajamas, but mentally he seemed to still be between the sheets. But what really caught my attention was the determined, tailored woman standing next to him. Clearly, Miriam had decided to come as well.

“Hello! Miriam, you came too,” I said.

“I came too. This is Eric.”

Eric turned to me, “Sup?”

“Hey Eric, how long have you been interested in tuning?”

“I’m not. I just like to play.”

At this point, an embarrassed Miriam jumped in. “Eric is getting ready to graduate, and we are trying to find something that he could pursue. He does seem interested in the piano, and we thought tuning might be a way for him to make a living.”

“I see,” I replied, observing Eric as he cast a listless eye about the lobby. “Well, let’s see what you think of tuning.”

I led them back into the hall and onto the stage. Once there, I had Eric sit on a piano bench next to mine, and Miriam sat in a chair nearby. I started by explaining the overall picture. “Basically, I temper an octave between the A above and the A below middle C using intervals within the octave. Once it’s right, I copy it to the rest of the piano.”

Eric’s attention seemed to be wandering a bit. Looking at her son with sad concern, Miriam softened her tone and said, “That is very interesting. Isn’t it, Eric? And you learned to do this all by ear?”

“Yes.” I was beginning to feel I was wrong about Miriam. She wasn’t the domineering, controlling mother I first suspected—forcing her son to do something he had zero interest in. She was forthright, yes, but loving too and genuinely concerned about her son, who seemed, frankly, to have very little going on.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Eric focused on me and said, “Is it true that the modern equal temperament tunes each note slightly and equally out of tune so a pianist can use the same tuning to play songs in every key?”

This really caught me off guard, “Uhh, yes, that is true. It’s an amazing invention. They used to have to retune the piano to play songs in different keys.” I couldn’t believe that he knew this. I was starting to think I was wrong about him, too. The boy was not only intelligent and articulate but also had taken the time to do some research.

We spent the rest of a pleasant, rainy afternoon on the stage together: I tuned the pianos while they both watched and asked intelligent questions. However, by the end, it was clear to me that Eric was not interested in committing to a career in tuning. I finished the second instrument and asked him if he would like to play something on a 9-foot Steinway. He took my bench and pulled up to the piano.

Calm and determined, Miriam wasn’t quite ready to let go yet. “Now, what can we do to change your mind about an apprenticeship? We would be committed and would certainly pay….” She abruptly stopped mid-sentence and swung around to Eric, who had started playing the introductory chords to a very familiar song I couldn’t quite place. “Stop that! Stop that immediately!” she yelled.

This sudden change was astonishing. I looked confusedly at Miriam and then at Eric, who had stopped playing but was now sitting there with a conspiratorial grin plastered across his face.

Flushed, Miriam turned to me, “Do you know this song? This is the worst song! A terrible song. Terrible! He learned it, and at first we thought it was great: he was learning songs. But I noticed he would play it every time I asked him to do something, or whenever I encouraged him, or whenever I had about any interaction with him at all. Then I learned the title!”

Eric was still silently grinning. Before I could say anything, Miriam suddenly reached the end; she let out an explosive exhale, grabbed him, and the two of them marched off toward the lobby doors.

“See ya, and thanks!” Eric warmly called back to me before they shot through the double doors.

Scratching my head, I closed up the pianos, gathered my tools, and headed home, still trying to remember what the song was he had started playing. It was so familiar—just out of reach. As I pulled onto my street, it hit me. I suspected I even had the record. I went into the house, pulled out Electric Light Orchestra’s Face the Music, and queued up their hit single “Evil Woman.”

11/24/2025

As you may have noticed, I've been posting some of my stories here. I've had the most wonderful responses from all of you, and I can't thank you enough for all of your encouragement, praise, and support! Some of you have further encouraged me to write a book or start a Substack. After figuring out what a Substack is, I've started one. Below is a link that will take you there if you wish to subscribe and continue reading my little stories. I'll continue to post some of them here from time to time. Thanks again!

Thirty years of piano tuning gives you a lot to think about. Click to read The Accidental Tuner, a Substack publication. Launched 2 days ago.

11/14/2025

My first thought upon spotting the elderly man with a walker delicately shuffling across 7th Ave was the letter “C.” His back was so exquisitely curved that it positioned his head low over the walker. His wife, much more upright, was closely watching him as she slowly crossed herself. Walking behind them, my wife, Claire, and I wondered whether they needed help, but aside from moving slowly together, they seemed to be negotiating just fine. So we followed them, attuned to their rhythm and pace. Suddenly, he stumbled, and we impulsively moved to help, but there was no need. Keeping her eye on him, his wife steadied his walker; he regained his footing, and they continued on. Soon, all had safely crossed, and we naturally moved past them and threaded our way along the bustling street—we were in a bit of a rush.

We had booked the NYC weekend some time ago. Well, actually, my brother had. This was a very generous birthday gift: one Fall weekend in the West Village to prowl around and visit as many jazz clubs as we could. Tonight was pianist Mr. Bill Charlap and upright bassist Ms. Noriko Ueda at Mezzrow. Doors opened in a bit, and we needed to queue up.

There were already several people standing in line, which was good, because without them as a marker, we would have walked right past. There is no sign, and the club is in the basement of a nondescript apartment building, in a row of similar nondescript apartment buildings. Though you buy the tickets beforehand online, seating is general admission. So, if you want to be close to the action, you need to get there early. We took our places and began waiting.

After a bit, Claire suddenly said, “Oh! What do you know?” I turned and saw the same elderly couple. Having finally made their way down the street, they were turning to descend the steep, narrow, cement steps from the sidewalk to the basement below. Claire left the line to see if they needed help. I watched her talk to them briefly, then carry the walker down the stairs as they slowly descended, hanging on to the wrought-iron railing. Returning, she told me that they apparently know the club owner and the performers and come and go in their own time.

Within minutes, a drill sergeant sort of fellow emerged from below and authoritatively informed the queue that tickets would be checked; we would be escorted below; we would buy at least one drink; and there was to be absolutely no picture-taking, recording, or talking. Tickets confirmed, we were quickly escorted down the steps, around a dark corner, and into the club, which surprisingly was the size of a living room—a long, narrow, living room. A tiny bandstand was at one end, and the bar was at the other. Physical dimensions notwithstanding, the atmosphere from end to end was spacious.

Still leading the group, the drill sergeant began pointing to the exact seats that we were to sit in. I was delighted to find that I was seated next to the elderly couple, who were already halfway through their Manhattans. Striking up a conversation, I learned that they lived in the Village and had been listening to jazz in the neighborhood since the 60s. “We never miss a show,” she remarked. I asked about a battered spiral notebook she had at her side. “That’s where I keep my notes,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye. She showed me years of thin, spidery notes written with a yellow stub of a pencil, which recorded every artist and every song she had ever heard.

I was surprised by their tenacious commitment to these performances, but before I could ask more, the performers took the stage and launched into their set. Charlap is a long-time, cherished fixture in the jazz community, and we were immediately reminded why. Brilliantly, ebulliently, he commanded the piano and led the duo—improvising his way through a songbook featuring Ellington, Strayhorne, and…uh…Porter, I think? The truth is, I soon forgot who wrote which tune or what it even started out as; I found myself transfixed by Charlap and the dazzling Ueda. I was beginning to see the value in having a notebook to jot down these little details.

This kind of small-group jazz had its birth in tiny clubs like this, and you quickly realize why it still flourishes here. The close intimacy you share with the artists is intense. You experience the creation of each piece of music. Nothing is written down; it’s all being created right there for the first and only time. You share the cues they give each other, the surprise at an unexpected change, the humor shared over a musical joke. Then you realize, thrillingly, that you are also a part of this. They are responding to your reactions as well: a clap or an encouraging yelp for sure, but more so the sublime, unfolding openness of the listeners in the room, the powerful, expanding, spiritual connection you realize you share with the performers and with everyone else in the room. It feels like a living musical tapestry that is not only being woven right in front of you, but you are one of the weavers.

Charlap began the introduction to the next number with a fiery improvisational flair. We followed his rhythm and pace, but it was hard to tell what the song would morph into, when suddenly he stumbled and stopped. Ueda turned to him. He looked at her and said, “I can’t remember what comes next.” The room tensed, but keeping her eye on him, she steadily thumped out the melody until, laughing, he started playing, and joked, “I guess I was getting too fancy with the intro.” The room exhaled, and off the two went to tear the song up.

As fast as it started, it ended. People were already queued up outside waiting to get in for the next show, so we were strongly encouraged to get up and leave—now! In a rush, the tiny subteranean club, Bill, Noriko, and the elderly couple all swam before my eyes and disappeared as Claire and I found ourselves back on the street. We took a breath of the autumnal air, Claire muttered a hushed, “Wow,” and we headed for the subway.

Moving through the rivulets of people and down into the subway, my mind was on the show and the intense sense of connection I was still feeling. The music and the intimate club had suddenly made it possible to spot, and I could now see it hiding everywhere. Rumbling uptown, we were surrounded by so many different people, different styles, different ages, different colors, different languages, but I understood it was all one single, intricate piece of improvised music. Consequently, all of our contributions were crucial. I knew this because I was one of its composers,...and so was Claire, and so was the drill sergeant, and so was my brother, and so was the old couple from the club, and so was the young couple seated over there in the corner laughing, and so was the lonely man standing by the door, and so were the jubilent buskers in the station. And so the list of composers grew and grew as the train carried all of us through the night.

10/30/2025

It is frequently assumed that working on a piano for a performing artist simply means tuning it well. And it’s true--you certainly do need to tune it perfectly--but it’s assumed you’re tuning at that level, or you wouldn’t even be there. Artists are generally more interested in the touch and tone of the piano.

How does the instrument feel under their hand when played? Light? Effortless? Blindingly fast? Capable of roaring out a call to arms yet also of whispering the most delicate secret?

And what of the tone? Is it authoritative, yet beguiling? Is it warmly articulate? Is the voice consistent throughout the instrument?

Hopefully, the piano you’ve been asked to work on has all these issues already sorted, but if not, well, everything can be adjusted…if you have the time. This was one day I was quickly running out of time. The piano had just arrived at the beautiful, historic auditorium that afternoon, and I was scheduled to tune it then. The artist planned to begin working with it the next morning. But I could tell that she was not going to like it. The instrument was a bit muffled and a little clumsy. I knew it really needed work, but when would I be able to do that? My schedule was packed until after 6:00, so, with some hesitation, I decided to come in after dinner and work on it until it was ready.

I arrived around 7:30 and used my key to let myself in. The large, two-story building was empty, dark, and portentous. I had already had a few…unusual experiences here and had heard disquieting stories from others, so I was always a bit unerved to be in the building by myself at night, but this work simply had to be done. Turning off the alarm, I got the lobby lights on and made my way back to the auditorium.

Slipping into the black auditorium, I felt my way to the sound and light booth in the back of the room and entered it. Having done this many times, I knew by touch which switch turned the light board on. Once illuminated, I could clearly see the slider switches used to turn on the lights and adjust their brightness. There was a long row of these switches that controlled lights all around the room—from the ceiling to the sidewall spotlights. But I had nothing to do with these, so I left them all in the off position. The only switches I ever used were the two on the far right, which lit up “the clouds”— the banks of lights right above the stage. I slid these two up, and the stage lit up, casting long shadows into the ornate auditorium. I quickly hauled my tools to the stage, took apart the piano, and started working.

I started by ensuring the keyboard was grounded correctly and supported, then I began examining and adjusting all the moving parts in the “action”—the delicate, intricate, bone-like wooden machinery between the keys and the hammers hitting the strings. All these pieces have very exacting specifications dictating how they work and move. When working correctly, the instrument operates silently, smoothly, and perfectly—in a sense disappearing and….

What was that?!

I looked up from the intense, consuming work I was completely absorbed in. Had I heard something? It sounded like…coughing? I looked out from the bright stage around the eerily half-lit auditorium. Nothing. Shaking it off, I dove into the work again. I began filing the hard, felt hammers—removing the softer (quieter) layers and getting to the harder, deeper layers. This would brighten up the tone and add power. Now I started needling the hammers. By sinking needles into the hard felt at precise locations, you relieve pressure in the hardened felt. This can decrease or increase the volume depending on several things, such as….

What the…?!

I jumped to my feet, yelling, “Hello!” into the vast, crepuscular room. This time, I had definitely heard a chair scrape across the floor. Its echo was almost still ringing in the still air. “Hello!” I repeated. Nothing. Feeling a cold sweat creeping across the back of my neck, I glanced at my watch: 11:30. OK, I was close. Just a few more tweaks and I could get out of here. Harshly telling myself to pull it together, I focused intently on the treble hammers; they weren’t quite where I wanted them. This one’s tone was a little brittle, but this other one was a little dull. I filed here and needled there, adjusted this and tweaked that. There! That sounded better. I was beginning to feel the artist might….

I shot up bewildered and looked around. I hadn’t heard anything this time, but suddenly found myself bathed in a bright orange light. Looking frantically around, I saw that the side wall spotlights were now turned on, lighting the entire stage. Instantly, I turned to the back booth, hoping to see someone back there, pranking me. But there was no one, and I could hear nothing.

I quickly jumped from the stage and ran to the back of the hall, intently searching to see if I could spot them slipping out the back or hiding. Nothing. I ran through the lobby only to find it also empty and the doors locked. It was clear—no other living being was in the building.

I walked back into the auditorium and decided to check the sound and light booth. Entering it, I looked at the light board. At initial glance, all the switches were in the off position except for the two I had turned on—just as I had left them. But then I noticed that on the left of the board, there was now another switch slid up into the on position: the switch for the side wall spots.

A jolt shot through me. Having a light suddenly ignite on its own was weird, but hopefully, it could be explained by bad wiring, a short, or something else “wire-related” that I don’t really understand. But to see that the switch had actually been physically moved into the on position was something that I absolutely did understand, and it turned my blood to ice.

It suddenly occurred to me that I honestly didn’t care what the artist thought of the piano. If she had problems, she was absolutely free to sort them out herself. As quickly as you might imagine, I gathered up my tools and cases and made a mad dash for the front doors.

Happy Halloween!

10/14/2025

I recognized the piano immediately—a Yamaha grand with a natural wood finish, a player mechanism, and a needlepoint cushion on the bench. I’d sat on this cushion and tuned this piano many times.

Tom had lived in an ivy-covered cottage by a lake and had bought the piano from the local Yamaha dealer. He’d had some complaints, however, and since I was working for the store at the time, they sent me to take care of it. I was able to resolve his issues, and we got along so well that I just continued tuning for him.

Tom was intelligent, quiet, kind,…and sad. He wasn’t gloomy or depressed, but once you got to know him, you could feel his sadness permeating him and everything around him. You could feel it in his smile and laugh, in his bright piano playing, in his welcoming house. Tom lived alone except for frequent visits from his beloved daughter. She was pretty young, and though I never saw her, Tom had framed pictures of her at every stage of her childhood covering his house.

After several years of tuning and talking to him, I was able to piece together his story. He was a man of few words and really didn’t enjoy talking about his past, but now and then, something would drop (sometimes unexpectedly).

“I’m an engineer,” he revealed once as I was taking off the fallboard.

“I got caught up in the whole corporate culture. I put everything into my career, everything,” he ruminated another time while I inserted a temperament strip.

“I totally lost sight of my wife and daughter.” Surprised, I looked up from under the piano where I was adjusting a pedal.

“It’s all my fault, all of it.” This I heard numerous times, regardless of what I was doing.

The divorce was crushing, and he could never forgive himself for being the cause of it. So, he changed everything in his life: values, attitudes, priorities, hobbies, and, for reasons never made clear to me, he grew an enormous mustache.

Tom’s new focus was on raising his daughter and helping his ex-wife as best he could. And he really could! The guy was infinitely brilliant and inventive when it came to repairing or building things for a house. He built a fascinating and beautiful fence with an ingenious gate latching mechanism. Clever shelves; handy, swinging dry-erase boards; and interesting and lovely furniture began showing up all over his home.

Then one day, as I was finishing up a tuning, he told me he was getting married and was moving to Indiana. This came as a surprise, but he did seem different: he appeared genuinely happy without any lurking sadness. After the tuning, he paid, gave me a really huge tip, thanked me for everything, and I never saw him again.

I thought about Tom from time to time and even found myself missing him and wondering how he was doing. Years later, I got a call from a new customer. She lived in a town nearby and was very warm and friendly when I called on her. Once inside, she brought me back to the piano. I took one look and knew: this was Tom’s piano. I excitedly swung around to her, and she was smiling conspiratorially.

“I know this piano! This is Tom’s piano. Are you…?”

“Tom’s daughter,” she replied. “Dad gave me the piano a while ago and insisted I find you to tune it.”

I felt a joy bloom in my chest. “It is so nice to finally meet you! It’s funny, I don’t recognize you now, but I know exactly what you looked like from kindergarten to about high school.”

She laughed.

“So, how is your dad?”

“…Dad died a year or so ago,” she said sadly.

This walloped me, and I told her how sorry I was to hear it. We talked a bit about the grinding details of the illness, the treatments, and the eventual heartbreaking acceptance. I could tell it was still very hard for her, so I gently segued into the tuning.

It felt good and familiar to tune Tom’s piano again. The piano actually wasn’t that out of tune, and the job was done in short order, which surprised her. She told me that it hadn’t been tuned for quite a while.

“Well,” I said, “I have found that if new pianos are consistently tuned for the first several years of their life, they develop a kind of inertia and tend to hold their tuning more consistently over the years. Your dad was really consistent and had this piano tuned very regularly.”

At this, she took a purposeful breath and said, “You know how my dad made things. He made things for his house, but also for me. Things that I needed to help me. We had some pet rabbits, but they were getting older, and I was worried about having to handle them and bury them when they died. So one day, during his final month, he measured the rabbits and made little caskets for them, so we would have something to bury them in. We buried the last one a couple of weeks ago. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how that was it—that was the last thing that he made for me, and it’s buried now and gone. But now it feels like there is still something he took care of for me: this piano. For years, he was maintaining this so that it would be good for me now. It’s a connection I still have with him.”

It happily occurred to me that it wasn’t just the piano that Tom had properly cared for. While watching his daughter say this, it was perfectly evident to me that he had finally also successfully repaired the breach he had caused so many years before.

10/02/2025

Not too long ago, I got a call to evaluate a home piano. Evaluating a piano is pretty common, and a great idea if you are thinking of buying an instrument. However, this was somewhat unusual in that it was the seller requesting the piano be evaluated. It was even more remarkable in that they weren’t even selling the piano; they were going to give it away for free. I suddenly felt very interested in finding out more about this piano and its owners

I arrived at the modest, handsome, brick home nestled in a cozy, tree-shaded city neighborhood and rang the bell. The door was answered by an elderly couple who warmly welcomed me in and directed me to a back room where the old, upright piano was located. They explained that they were moving into a retirement home. Consequently, they were preparing to sell the house and sell or give away many of their belongings. They had met a young couple with little kids who were looking for a piano for lessons, but didn’t have the money to buy one. So, they had decided to give the young couple their piano, but wanted to make sure that it was actually in good shape and wouldn’t be a burden to the new owners.

Feeling genuine respect for them, I began the evaluation. In an evaluation like this, you want to ensure that the tuning pins can hold a tune, the bridge isn't cracked, the keys play evenly, what’s the status of possible cracks in the soundboard, and so on. To do this, you need to remove the piano’s wood panels, both the top and the bottom. It was when the bottom panel was off that I first noticed the crumpled, plastic shopping bag slouching against the inside of the piano.

I worked around it at first, but then got around to lifting it out. Except,…I could hardly lift it. I now saw that there were two bags, one inside the other, but what was inside that? I managed to pull it out of the piano and opened it only to find myself staring at a big pile of gold coins! My first thought was, “This can’t be real gold. Maybe it’s those foil-covered chocolate coins.” But even as I drew a coin out to check it, I knew this wasn’t right. They were absolutely real gold coins.

I finished the evaluation, put the piano back together, and wrote up the invoice. Sensing I must be done, they meandered into the room and asked, “Well, how did it go? Did you find anything?”

I couldn’t resist. I deadpanned, “The piano looks to be in great shape; you can feel good about giving it away. I didn’t really find anything noteworthy…oh, except for this big bag of gold!”

They were speechless for a moment, their eyes clouded in disbelief and confusion, and then widened with sudden realization. “That’s where we put it!!!” They joyfully exploded. It turns out that years before, they had invested a substantial portion of their savings in gold coins and then worked to find the perfect hiding place for them. They finally found the place, but it ended up being a little too perfect. Now that they were older, retired, and ready to move, they really needed the stash and had been searching the house for some time in vain. They had finally, with great anguish, given up and just considered the gold gone.

I left the house amidst their rejoicing and felt good about my expanded job title: piano tuner, treasure hunter.