First of all, there's the incongruity: a somewhat shabby part of town, and a dingy, cluttered, second-floor workshop with only the name in small letters on the mail box downstairs to tell you that you've come to the right place. But what a name! Virtually every professional bassoonist in America (and many from beyond our shores) has at some time brought his instrument to this man --for a checkup (what better way to insure piece of mind in a business known for its anxieties?) or for major surgery, or perhaps for emergency treatment. If the medical analogy seems to ring true, then Hans Moennig will surely suggest both the wise, kindly old family doctor, and an immensely skillful and innovative surgeon, this craftsman whose name has become legendary in the relatively tiny world that he serves.
Nor is his practice limited to the bassoon, as you discover from the dozens of inscribed photographs that line the walls of what must originally have been intended as a sort of waiting room, but is now the outer office, a somewhat dusty repository of cartons, boxes, instruments, stacks of old magazines, and mail from all over the world. The photographs of woodwind artists span a period of well over fifty years and their inscriptions, in several languages, are lavish in their praise of Moennig, whom the musicians regard as a full partner in their pursuit of an exacting art.
In the workshop proper, Moennig sits at a seemingly ancient, heavy workbench, by now deeply scarred and worn. He is surrounded by hand tools, power tools, and devices of every conceivable shape and dimension, many of which he himself created; close at hand, and most frequently used, is a small, foot-operated drill. The pipes he smokes constantly are an integral part of the setting--old, comfortable, well-worn, thickly encrusted with carbon, and, it seems, forever going out, so that the relighting ceremony with the gas flame takes on the character of a momentary and necessary break from intense concentration on the task at hand.
Around the room you note a large collection of old cigar boxes and pipe tobacco canisters for storage. It all seems a bit chaotic but the system, you realize, is in its own way as precisely organized as the Library of Congress. A pad? Some cork? A bit of felt? A spring? Fish skin? Moennig tells you which box he needs, you find it (eventually), and voila! The room is cluttered: instrument parts on nearby tables, still more cases stacked here, there, and everywhere (indicating, of course, a huge backload of work), still more dusty piles of old magazines and symphony programs, and still more mail. Completing the picture, finally, you observe the two plain light bulbs hanging from the ceiling (from which the paint has started to peel), with their old-fashioned shades, the cords doubled back with a clothespin. Taking it all in, you get the unmistakable impression that in this one place, at least, time has stood still--that, had you entered Moennig's workshop twenty, thirty, years ago, everything would be, miraculously, exactly as it is today.
Typically, today's appointment was made many weeks ago. Now, in the holy of holies, you sit and watch. You exchange some small talk, you discuss your instrument's idiosyncrasies, Moennig asks some pointed questions about this note or that key while he works. You answer the phone, you adjust the radio as necessary, you wonder (silently) what your wife or your non-musician friends would say about this incredible workshop, and you marvel at this incredible man.
What finally emerges from such a day (and it's apt to be a long day, too; Moennig generally remains at his workbench until after 7 o'clock) is an instrument that plays as you always hoped it would, that now, somehow, feels just right. Nor will minor adjustments be necessary later; Moennig, you know, does it right the first time.
In describing the exact character of Moennig's work, the term repairman seems curiously inadequate if it suggests only someone who fixes what is broken or malfunctioning. Because as most bassoonists know (and others may find hard to believe), the new instrument that comes out of the Heckel factory in Germany, as fine and splendid as it appears, is still rough, not yet capable of providing what today's demanding players and conductors require. Certainly the potential is there, but it is as though the beautiful music is still locked within. So now Moennig (or Hugh Cooper--and there must be a few others) steps in and actually completes the manufacturing process in a way that Heckel can't or won't do. (Or is it the air, the humidity, or something less definable on this side of the Atlantic -- beyond Heckel 's control -- that affects the new instrument adversely? Not likely, of course, though you'd rather think so than criticize the renowned and venerable firm: sacrilege!)
During the long day of watching and waiting, some thoughts occur that are perhaps worth sharing. For one, when seen on the workbench (operating table?)--mute, naked (keys and U-joint removed, private parts exposed), components (limbs?) separated -- our instrument, the bassoon, is revealed as an exotic, almost bizarre creation, far more so than its fellow woodwinds. One is forcibly reminded that attempts were made in the last century to simplify the fingering system, but to no avail; the mechanical improvements that succeeded with the flute and clarinet only destroyed the distinctive timbre of the German bassoon. It has stubbornly resisted modernization; little wonder, then, that so few craftsmen, among whom Moennig is pre-eminent, have managed to penetrate its mysteries.
Another thought: this man, working slowly, painstakingly, lovingly, is an anomaly in today's plastic, hurry-up, throw-it-away world. His values seem to represent another era altogether; and if the comparison isn't too far-fetched, he even recalls to mind another craftsman named Hans from long ago -- the warm and wise cobbler in Wagner's Meistersinger.
We bassoonists owe him a great debt of gratitude. It's good to know that some things haven't changed, that Hans Moennig, now in his seventies, is still at his workbench, still smoking his pipe, still serving our profession. Perhaps Sol Schoenbach said it best of all when he wrote, on an old photograph of him that occupies a place of honor in Moennig's shop, "To Hans Moennig, who makes it possible to play!"