Took my piano in for repair last night. The shop is in the old Tin Pan Alley section of New York City. In days of yore, that area was home to the great music publishers. It was located on 28th Street between 5th Avenue and Broadway. Today, the area between Sixth and Eighth Avenues, bounded by 28th and 34th Streets is home to dozens of rehearsal studios, recording studios and strange shops.
My repairman’s shop on the 5th floor could be reached only by an ancient and very narrow elevator.
“Is this a one man shop?” I asked Flash as he helped me lug the Kurzweil PC2.
He looked like anything but a man called “Flash.” Easily 70 years old and emaciated, he looked more like an out to pasture hippie sporting long white hair and beard.
“I used to employ five people,” he told me, “but telling them what to do took up all of my time and didn’t leave any time for repairing electronics.”
His shop turned out to be, by my generous estimation, 200 square feet, all of it covered in electronic junk, empty boxes and decades of detritus. I would be willing to bet my house that he lives in the place, probably sleeping under one of the tables. One of my bass players had a similar shop, which he used to repair stringed instruments. He pitched a sleeping bag under a bench and called it home.
Despite the strangeness of the setup, I’ll bet Flash does a first class job of repairing my piano.
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