Tone-deaf Feynman took on stiff strings, piano tuning

I was fascinated by Richard Feynman’s letter on piano tuning. While the author’s assertion that “had he wanted to, Feynman would have been a fine piano tuner” is understandable, readers might be amused to know that Feynman was seriously tone deaf: Not only could he not carry a tune, he could not reliably tell whether one note on the piano was the same as, higher than, or lower than another played a few seconds earlier. For example, in experiments we did together, he would often misinterpret the same note played louder as being higher in pitch. Nevertheless, we enjoyed playing on the piano together—1.2 hands, one might say, with me providing chords in the lower register and Feynman playing a very passable improvised melody, using one finger from each hand, a transfer of his marimba skills. Feynman’s piano playing was analogous to his drumming, in which he never counted out rhythms or phrases; rather, he captured the feel of the patterns—those unquantifiable aspects of a rhythm that make it human.

That a tone-deaf Feynman could expound on piano tuning so deeply—like a colorblind amateur pointing out intricacies of hue to a professional artist—makes his letter all the more remarkable, and it reminds me once again how much we miss him.