Ken Aplin, founder, representative, and embodiment of Kenneth Aplin Organs, is the father of possibly more than a 100 "children".

Whenever he meets them - as he does often - he is reminded of all their foibles and charms. Ken Aplin's job of caring for his babies leads him all over New Zealand, at the most awkward times, plays havoc with his social life, and he can't remember when he last had a quiet weekend at home. These "babies" are pipe organs, which need to be maintained and nurtured like their human counterparts.

"They're just like children - they often play up when you don't want them to," says Aplin. That's why he often attends major organ concerts given on instruments of which he is the guardian - just in case.

Humidity, fluctuations in temperature, and dust are the worst enemies of a pipe organ. The babe in the Christchurch Town Hall enjoys the benefit of an air-conditioned environment. Even so, the heat and sweat from thousands of bodies in an auditorium takes toll of any organ, no matter the venue. That's the reason for the regular visits for tuning and maintenance of at least seven organs in Christchurch, most of which are mechanical and built by Aplin. "There is no such thing as an organ where everything is easy to get to," says Aplin. Inside the case, as well as the pipes and boardwalks, there are ladders, purpose built for better access, and infinite care must be taken not to disturb anything.

Able to see only the front row of façade pipes, most audiences have no idea of the complexity of pipe organs, understandably known as the "King of Instruments". Think "Giant Lego meets Meccano" and you get the idea. The Christchurch Town Hall Rieger organ, for instance, has 3372 pipes, which range from pencil-size to the largest 32-foot pipe that an adult could crawl into, hundreds of metres of rods and components which connect keys to pipes. In some organs (unlike the Rieger) space and light can be very limited, and Aplin has occasional nightmares about being getting trapped. "A lot of them are filthy, very cramped - and supposing you slipped?" In pre-electricity days a dropped lit candle spelled a flaming end for the organ of St Eustache, Paris, but even today it's not a job to be taken lightly.

Aplin, who has spent the last 50 years working with pipe organs (which, in the case of mechanical action organs, often function well for centuries), says it's not just one job - it's a blend of metalwork, woodwork, electrical, musical, and artistic skills. "Unless they are all called into play, you don't get a successful organ," he says.

Aplin uses no electronic tuning device, simply his ears; he begins with a tuning fork to check one pipe, and then tunes all the rest from that one. "The final test is the ear - after all, that's what we all hear it with in the end," he says. His own ear was attuned to fine sounds in Taunton, England, where he fell in love with church music as a choirboy singing the Anglican liturgy, and later began his five-year organ-building apprenticeship ("which I haven't finished yet" he says) while learning both piano and organ, before moving to New Zealand in 1964.

- Jenny Setchell -