Where Steinways and Students Slide

Image

Leading down into the School of Music’s basement is one of the University of Arizona’s most unusual dual-purpose facilities: a concrete slope that serves as both a ramp for hauling instruments and an impromptu recreational slide.

Installed long ago to safely transport pianos, harps, organs, xylophones (the list is fairly extensive), the slide has become something of a campus relic among students in recent years, with word of its existence traveling through obscure channels. If you aren’t hearing about it on the U of A’s (unofficial) Reddit page, it might be something you learn from an insider on campus.  

What makes it handy for transporting instruments — the surprisingly steep incline, the smooth, polished surface — also makes it, in theory, amenable to students looking for a quick thrill between rehearsals. No burlap sack or piece of cardboard is required, just a push at the top by a fellow student. Depending on the velocity of that push, the descent down can be over in a flash.

In recent years, however, the slide’s initial purpose has been somewhat supplanted by another, perhaps more prosaic technology.

“The slide,” piano technician Cymone Vega says wryly, “the slide is mostly retired these days. We stick to the elevator now to move instruments — it’s a bit more predictable.”

As it happens, this past year has involved a lot of moving instruments at the School of Music, most notably a new fleet of upright and grand pianos made by Boston Pianos and sold by Steinway.  

The initiative to replace the school’s 25-year-old inventory was made possible through grants plus some credit received for trading the old pianos back to Steinway, which took them off the university’s hands to be restored and resold. After all, these were still fine pianos — even with the typical ensemble of cosmetic imperfections and loss of concert pitch. Vega agrees: “I’m partial to older Steinways. They tend to have a lot of character.”

Being a piano technician, according to Vega, is all about upkeep and careful calibration. In her office, crowding the industrial shelves and workstations, are hammer shanks and tuning pins, disembodied keys and soundboard fragments. On the whole, it is a space that reflects a discipline requiring delicacy and practical craftsmanship.  

Indeed, watching Vega tune a rehearsal grand, it becomes clear that the work is as much about intuitive feel as technical precision and that a great piano technician doesn’t merely maintain an instrument, but develops a relationship with it.  

“While a home piano might be tuned twice a year, our performance halls and major classrooms are serviced daily or weekly because of constant use,” she says. “We also spend time on regulation and fine adjustments, working closely with musicians to make sure the instruments feel and sound their best.” Vega says some students even have preferences as to how weighted the keys are.  

Naturally, the vigor and dedication students bring to the piano also leaves its mark. “A surprising amount of wear comes from the sheer intensity of students playing, which puts a lot of stress on strings, keys and hammers. The passion is wonderful to see, but it does speed up mechanical deterioration.”

That’s a fitting coda for a place where the line between grace and fervor runs thin. The same students spending hours coaxing a Brahms intermezzo to life are, apparently, also the ones taking a trip down the slide. The concrete ramp and the piano keys tell the same story: Music, at least here, is a full-contact sport.