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Like the instruments he revives, this piano tuner struck discord in life until he found the right tune BYLINE: Camille Wheeler, Austin American-Statesman Staff Muffled piano notes tiptoe down the orange-brown carpet of the darkened church hallway. This door? No. This door? No. An ear pressed against the brown chapel door makes it clear: Stop here. The door glides open, the music washes over the red-cushioned pews. The man at the keyboard glances up, smiles, keeps playing. Come in, he says. Paul Brown is almost finished tuning the Kawai baby grand piano. He stops playing and delicately flicks dirt off the piano's hammers with a small brush. The chapel's soft lights bounce off his glasses and brown-gray hair and beard. He again places his fingers on the keys, listening and tilting his head to one side. Do questions disrupt him? No. Does he mind having company? No. Does he have perfect pitch? No. Does he have stories? Oh, yes. A tuning trip to the, ahem, brothel (more on this later). A mouse skeleton under the keyboard (always look under there). A piano stuffed with enough coins to fill a slot machine (hidden during a war between sisters). Day after day, Brown climbs into his white 1982 Chrysler New Yorker, the dark maroon front seats so tattered that the stuffing is showing. He prays, flips the starter switch and pushes the ignition button (the key doesn't work because the ignition switch rod is broken). He peers through the cracked windshield and leaves his Pflugerville driveway, the odometer's mileage clicking closer to 200,000 as he makes house calls across Central Texas. He makes clients exclaim, "You've given me back my piano!" Sometimes, he's a birthday present; sometimes a Christmas gift. He is announced by a little girl, "Mother, the tunist is here." His stories flow as naturally as the notes he plays. Pull up a chair and listen. A road to better sound Better yet, buckle up for an entertaining ride. It's a sunny Friday morning, and Brown is barreling south down Interstate 35, the long hood shimmying atop the New Yorker's roaring 8-cylinder engine. The car's right visor is missing, with only its steel arm remaining. The headliner (the soft fabric on the underside of the roof) is gone, exposing foam rubber. The air conditioner doesn't work, but chilly air whooshes through a partially open back window. |
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“In the Key of Brown” |