Peace on Earth?

I Wonder. . .





I’m playing for a friend’s church service this Sunday. They’re singing the beautiful old hymn, "I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day" by Henry W. Longfellow and John B. Calkin. I hadn’t thought about this hymn in a long time until I read the lyrics written back in 1864. They seemed strangely resonant to me today:

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head:
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor does He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

It’s ironic that the images of an Iraqi journalist hurling both his shoes at President Bush as a gesture of the journalist’s contempt for the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003 pervades the press at a time of year when the subject of “peace on earth” is at least broached. The journalist yelled in Arabic as the first shoe flew from his hand: “This is a gift from the Iraqis. This is the farewell kiss, you dog.” As he flung the second shoe, he cried out: “This is from the widows, the orphans and those who were killed in Iraq.” It made me wonder--is peace on earth possible, or does it exist only in the lofty rhetoric of poets and dreamers?

I believe that peace on earth has at least a chance if America ceases to impose our military in countries because of some agenda we have, with seeming little concern of the ravages our presence will leave in its wake;

I believe that peace on earth will be possible when world citizens are as moved by the plight of a tsunami survivor, or the retaliatory gang-rape of an innocent woman as we are by what happens to our neighbors in our respective countries;

I believe that peace on earth is possible when greed ceases to be the engine that drives the wheel of all mankind;

I believe that peace on earth is possible when the preying on the weaknesses and vulnerability of other human beings in order to perpetuate addiction or some form of co-dependency ceases to be;

I believe that peace on earth is possible when each of us treats fellow human beings the way we would like to be treated—with kindness, consideration, tolerance, compassion and respect; and

I believe that people on earth is possible when each of us works together for the good of all humankind.

I acknowledge and appreciate that many of you reading this already treat others lovingly and respectfully. Everyday I read about someone somewhere doing good, and my heart rejoices. My warmest wishes for a joyous and meaningful holiday. I hope that you’re able to spend your holidays with those you love. Continued health and happiness in 2009.

Oh yeah. . . and peace within, and peace on earth.

Phil Hall
Christmas, 2008

A Swingin' Christmas Indeed!

or, Showtime at The Apollo Theater

For better or for worse, I have an uncanny ability to focus. I mean, the ceiling could come crashing in, and—as long as it didn’t literally fall down on me, I’d finish what I was doing before I noticed. So, when my good friend, Karen Arlington, called to invite me to be her guest to see Tony Bennett with the Count Basie Band at the Apollo Theater tonight (I was in the middle of something else at my desk when she rang), my enthusiasm for her generous offer left a little to be desired.

But, when we got to the theater, and the Count Basie Band started lettin’ it rip, I realized I was one lucky guy with one great, smiling, redheaded friend to my left. One would think, with my having lived in New York City for thirty years now (and having grown up in Durham, North Carolina), I wouldn't forget that I can finish work, get in a cab, and go hear some of the greatest music-making in the world on any given night in this amazing city. And what a treat we were in for tonight!

The leader of the band mentioned that he had joined the band in 1952. Doing the math, I realized that he had been a member of the Count Basie Band for fifty-six years. He had been a member of that band for all the years I have been on this earth. And, having just heard them play, I understood why.

The band has four trumpets, four trombones, five reeds, piano, bass, drums and guitar. There was a female pianist (whose name they announced and I failed to catch) who appeared to be “guesting” with the band. It was great fun watching her dressy-sandaled feet keeping time to the music as she played.

And then, if the Count Basie Band playing four or five songs to warm up the audience wasn’t enough, out comes Tony Bennett and his amazing conductor/pianist, Lee Musiker, and several of Tony Bennett’s rhythm section players. It’s almost unimaginable to think that Tony Bennett is eighty-two years old. If I’m still vertical at eighty-two (and I might be--my grandmother lived to be 99, and her oldest child lived to be 101 [married to a 106 year old]), I’ll consider it miraculous (and realize that God has a great sense of humor. I keep waiting for the day I get up from the piano bench only to find that my posterior is shaped exactly like the piano bench). And while Tony Bennett may not have the fresh bloom of youth in his voice that he had as a younger man, it doesn’t matter one jot--we're still in the presence of a master. Watching him do what he loves to do—sing his heart out—is a lesson in following one’s bliss. He sings the lyrics as though he has taken a sip of his favorite beverage, and is rolling it around inside his mouth to prolong the pleasure. Finally, he serves the lyrics up but only when he’s ready to impart them to our delight and understanding. And while his voice is not as supple as it was in his youth, he is utterly fearless with it--singing the same high notes he sang sixty years ago, and with the same gusto that has distinguished his career. Tonight, I got to see and hear one of the all-time greats ply his craft, and that’s exactly what he is, and what he does. He is a lesson in how, at the end of the day, spirit prevails. I don’t believe his spirit has any idea how old his body is. And I hope it never finds out.

For All The Food I'm About To Eat (and really shouldn't)

. . . I Give Thanks

For all of you who might not know it, I'm a rich man. Well, rich in friends. I am sitting in the Connecticut kitchen of one of my favorite North Carolina friends--Alecia Adams Evans--watching her buzz around in her footies (I’d offer to help her with the cooking, but everyone would be sorry). I’m savoring the smells of the turkey cooking, onions simmering on the stove, and pumpkin and southern pecan pies (or, as we call it in North Carolina—PEE-can pie) cooling down, punctuated by the aroma of a freshly brewed pot of coffee. Her husband, Jeff and daughter, Eva, stayed overnight in New York City so that Eva could attend the Macy's Day Parade. They're taking the train up shortly—along with a family friend, Larry, after which time, we'll sit down together to Thanksgiving dinner.

About eight years ago, Alecia, who lived in NYC at the time, ran into a friend at a restaurant in Rhinebeck, NY. Her friend asked for her number, and Alecia shouted it to her across a crowded room. Turns out Alecia’s friend was not the only person writing her number down. A handsome, divorced artist and renown cosmetic dentist based in Manhattan, and the father of two grown children--Jeff Evans, also managed to jot her number down. He called her and explained how he had gotten her number, promised he wasn’t a stalker, and offered to meet her anywhere, anytime if only she would. Well, the rest is history. They began to date, fell in love, and got married. Alecia wanted to have a baby, and Jeff, who had had a vasectomy, had it reversed so that they could. Alecia had dreamed of living in a house with a covered bridge. Jeff managed to find a 1745 traditional New England saltbox with its own covered bridge in New Preston, Connecticut. Alecia and Jeff have decorated the house thoughtfully, creatively, lovingly . . . beautifully. Although I almost drove past it last night in the dark Connecticut night, she had left the outdoor lights on, and--and, as I started to drive past it, I somehow knew I was "home."

She showed me to my room, and I wandered around upstairs a little—enjoying all the charming touches they’d used to transform their beautiful house into a beautiful home—and imagined how at home they must feel living there, since I--as their guest--felt totally welcome. Alecia was already cooking up a storm when I arrived. She finished up all she could do in the kitchen the night before Thanksgiving, and we moved to the den, where we sat by the fire and reminisced. It was so nice to catch up. I love Alecia’s lilting, unapologetic North Carolina accent, and her southern sensibility. I find it wonderfully familiar and comforting.

Today, Thanksgiving Day, is a nippy but sunny day, and I took a walk around the brook that encircles their property. From the brook, I looked back at their sweet house, and wondered about those who had lived here before them, and if, once upon a time, another house had stood where their house now stands? What families had lived, loved and prospered here before them? How many Thanksgivings had been celebrated before ours?

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday (although I am a huge fan of Christmas music). I like that someone long ago had the good sense to create a moment to pause and give thanks. I thought about how blessed I am, and how lucky I was about to be to sit down to a lovingly-prepared meal in the home of dear friends. I thought of how many people in the world might stave off starvation with even a forkful of what I was about to enjoy in great abundance.

I had friends who went on an environmental road trip called YERT (Your Environmental Road Trip . They would send wonderfully-insightful videotaped segments about what they were encountering in the fifty states they visited—and the environmental work that is at hand for us to be a responsible, hands-on, more earth-friendly nation. And, in watching their segments about the United States, I realized we are one of seven continents, and I began to think a little more globally.

I’ve always wondered why Presidents of the United States always end their speeches with only “God bless America.” I, too, hope that God blesses America, for I have enjoyed (and benefited mightily from) the many advantages of having lived my life in America. But I hope God will also bless the six other continents. (I expect he does, even if our Presidents forget to ask God to bless the world.)

Tonight, on CNN, there was a two-hour special about heroes from all walks of life and all parts of the world who are called to minister where it is sorely needed. Even more touching is that they do it to no acclaim--expecting no reward. They do it because it is needed. That is their calling. And almost all of them say that, in the course of giving, they get back much more than they could ever give.

So, on this Thanksgiving, I pause to give thanks for the many, many blessings in my life:

• how rich my life is in good friends;
• that we have a new, and wonderful, intelligent President of our country;
• how I was fortunate to grow up in a loving home;
• that I had two amazing dogs once--toy poodles named Maxie and Beau who taught me how to be a better person;
• for those who leave the world a better place than they found it;
• for the human body that does all it can (sometimes, in spite of us) to keep us up and running;
• for the human spirit that defies the odds every day in every way;
• for music and its ability to bring hearts together when mere words fail us;
• for love—for I cannot imagine a world without it;
• for education, so that knowledge can replace fear—and we can learn from our mistakes, and do better
• and for the world--which I hope will be a better place because of our having been in it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free

A Chance For A Truly United States of America
I couldn't be more proud of the amazing and historic event that transpired tonight in the United States. Barack Obama was elected President of the United States! After witnessing the eloquence of both John McCain in his concession speech, and Barack Obama in his acceptance speech, and watching the CBS news correspondent, Byron Pitts, speak of his mother's response to Obama's being elected, to which she replied, "I've got four words: Glory Hallelujah! Glory Hallelujah!" Pitts spoke of his mother who was raised in the segregated south (where I was raised as well) not daring to look into the eyes of a white man or woman. He showed a picture he keeps in his office of a 1960's strike of sanitation workers holding signs that read "I Am A Man." He mentioned that one of the sanitation workers photographed was working the night shift this very night-- some forty-six years after that picture was taken. While it makes me weep bitter tears that, in my own lifetime, an African-American sanitation worker felt the need to hold up a sign to remind the rest of us that he was a man, it gives me tremendous hope for where we're going. To watch Jesse Jackson weep tonight seeing his own reflection in the eyes of the President-elect of the United States; to watch Oprah Winfrey, a strong and accomplished African-American woman who has championed women's causes, and has contributed so much to making the world a better place for all of us be unable to hold back her own tears as she sees the first African-American President-elect of the United States make his acceptance speech is powerful stuff. To hear of the one-hundred-and-six year old African American woman casting her vote by touching a computer screen, and trying to imagine the America she's known. With the election of Barack Obama, I am reminded of the story line from African-American novels and films about a leader rising up, being "the one" to lead the African-American people into a more fully-integrated (humanly, not racially) life. I don't know if Barack Obama will be "the" one, but he certainly has the potential to be. He is so clearly called to service, and is an intelligent, articulate, eloquent, passionate, level-headed leader. He sees the "big picture" of humanity--our inter-relatedness, and how we need one another--as clearly as anyone in my lifetime has. It is our differences as well as our commonalities that make life the rich and beautiful tapestry it is. One of my favorite hymns speaks of Jesus being "Risen with healing in His wings." The mere thought of all the healing that lies ahead in both our country, and the world, is thrilling, and the possibilities seem endless. I am reminded of the lyrics of a song by Richard Lamb and William Taylor--sung by Nina Simone--called: "I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free"

I wish I knew how it would feel to be free.

I wish that I could break all the chains holding me
I wish I could say all the things that I should say
Say 'em loud, say 'em clear for the whole round world to hear

I wish I could share all the love that's in my heart
Remove all the thoughts that keep us apart
I wish you could know what it means to be me
Then you'd see and agree that ev'ry man should be free

I wish I could give all I'm longin' to give.
I wish I could live like I'm longin' to live
I wish I could do all the things that I can do
Though I'm way overdue I'd be startin' anew

Well I wish I could be like a bird in the sky
How sweet it would be if I found I could fly
I'd soar to the sun, and look down at the sea
Then I'd sing 'cause I'd know how it feels to be free

I think Barack and Michelle Obama, Jesse Jackson, Oprah Winfrey, Byron Pitts' Mom, the 106-year-old voter, the sea of supporters in Grant Park in Chicago, and Democrats everywhere, all felt tonight a little of how it feels to be free. I know I did.

Why We Sometimes Can't Help Singing (and I didn't make this up)

Not long ago, a new singing student was referred to me by a good friend of mine, Jim Stenborg. She's a lovely lady in her mid-fifties who has a full-time job, but something inside her insists that she make the time to sing. When students come for the first time, they're often a little nervous to sing, but we have to have a starting place--so she sang. Her voice was lovely--sweet and expressive--a soprano. But her sound was small. Sometimes a small voice is what someone is born with. More often than not, it's a combination of the timidity that can come when one dares to "bare the soul" and sing for a stranger for the first time--and the lack of enough good vocal instruction. She happens to love the standards--songs from Frank Sinatra's, Bing Crosby's, and Rosemary Clooney's heyday. I could hear that she was unfamiliar with her chest voice, and I began to encourage her to explore it. I asked if we could lower the keys of some of the songs she sang, and she was agreeable. So, we began a relationship with her chest voice. When a singer hasn't spent much time with the chest voice, it can often sound a little raw, or uncouth to their ears initially--and feel a little wierd in their throats, even. But I assured her I wouldn't do anything to hurt her already-nice soprano voice. I told her that--as strange as the chest voice may sound and feel in her lesson--when she got home, and listened to the recording she was making of her lesson, she was going to like the color, or quality/soulfulness of her voice singing predominantly in her chest voice. The chest voice, which often actually buzzes in the chest bone of a singer is very close to the heart chakra, and songs sung in the chest voice tend to be passionate, ardent and soulful as a result. They sort of can't help but sound that way because of the proximity to the heart. Well, she's taken to the chest voice like a duck to water. She's having the greatest time with her new discovery, and she's begun to share this newfound voice of hers to her friends--and they've been so lovely and supportive in their responses to her. She sent me this email today (the day before my birthday). As a voice coach and voice teacher, I couldn't be given a finer present than this email.

"Hi Phillip--

Forgot to wish you a "Happy Birthday." Not sure of the date, but you did mention it before your trip to North Carolina.

Also, I was singing in the car on Madison Avenue today, and a gentleman with a bicycle came by the car and said he was listening to me sing and wanted to hear more. I was singing "Taking a Chance on Love." He thought I sounded great. Anyway, he mentioned that he took singing lessons about ten years ago and really misses it. He sang with me for a little while -- I thought he had a nice quality to his voice, although he hasn't sung in a number of years.

I suggested he get back to doing something he loves, and gave him your name. Who knows, you may hear from him! His name is Bill Evans. He said that years ago he would get calls from various women who were looking for the jazz pianist, Bill Evans.

Life is certainly an adventure.

See you Friday evening.

Regards,

Jeanette"What a great story hers is: there she is--singing her heart out in her car, a bicyclist hears and befriends her, wants to hear more, and they sing together a little before he pedals off and she drives off. Life is indeed an adventure!

A Mother's Love

A Mother’s Love

“A voice instructor without a voice—how is that possible?” Those were my very thoughts when my mother passed away, and I lost my voice. A profound source of love and support was wrested away from me in what seemed an instant, and ten days later, I could only whisper. The diagnosis was a left vocal cord paresis; the prognosis was a sad, sad heart that didn’t feel like singing anymore. I had tried to imagine how difficult I would find this world when my mother was no longer in it, but I had no idea. While the paralysis never went away, I was fortunate in that a considerable amount of my voice came back to me over time. You can imagine how I was reminded of a mother’s love when I saw, in the New York Times, a picture of Michael Phelps face maybe an inch from his mother’s— sharing the heady delight of what he was just beginning to accomplish at the 2008 Olympics. This picture brought tears to my eyes the minute I saw it. This young man, who conducted himself beautifully as the whole world watched was suddenly—for the moment this photographer captured this picture—not the Olympic champion, but the little boy who grew up to be the loving son of Debbie Phelps.

I don’t know Michael Phelps personally—what I know of him is through watching him compete and hearing about him and his unprecedented accomplishments on television, and reading about him in newspapers and magazines. I didn’t realize that, as a child, he had been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder until I heard it discussed in an Olympics in-depth interview with his mother and him. But this picture of him with his mother speaks volumes about who he has become, and why.

I struggle with the notion of destiny. Destiny somehow implies predetermination, and if that were the case, I expect a lot of us might sit around waiting to see what becomes of us, or how we “turn out.” But somehow, that Michael Phelps came to the Olympics and won a gold medal in all eight categories he competed in seems to be a part of his destiny. The race in which he appeared to come in second (to the naked eye)—he won that too. I expect that he set out to win those races for himself—that it was a matter of focus, concentration, innate ability coupled with acquired athleticism and skill, as well as personal and professional pride. But—in that photo, you see both the ferocity and the quiet beauty of what love can do to a person, and for a person. Because Debbie Phelps never gave up on her son, Michael, he learned to never give up on himself. And that picture says it all. A part of Michael Phelps greatness—the part that supercedes his sheer swimming prowess—comes from his Mother’s loving him, loving him, loving him. And how beautiful it is to be able to see that in this picture: Michael Phelps looking into the loving eyes and face of the person who believed he could do whatever he set his mind to.

What is particularly moving to me about the Olympics is the ability of every country to put aside its differences and come together peacefully and celebrate the ability of athletes from all over the world. For a few weeks, we share a global humanity that seems to elude us at other times. And—while the Olympic motto remains “faster, higher, stronger,” I’m more taken with the sadly outdated ritual of the winner being presented a crown of olive leaves, with the olive branch signifying hope and peace. In the case of Michael Phelps, it appears that the greatest feat in Olympic history was realized because a human being learned to never give up on himself. While it’s clear from the televised coverage that Michael Phelps shares his Olympic accomplishment with his sisters and his mother, it appears Debbie Phelps understands where greatness comes from. She created an environment where her son would learn—a home where greatness found its beginnings in love.

Five Wimbledon Ladies' Championship Titles

I am a huge tennis fan. Huge! Today is the Ladies’ Singles Final, and—as has been so many times in the past, it’s a battle between the Williams sisters—Venus and Serena for the title. I, for one will be a sad camper when the Williams sisters are no longer a part of the tennis scene. They, like Tiger Woods, have distinguished themselves in a sport that has been dominated in the past by caucasian players. They are living out not only the American dream, but their own personal dream, as well as their parents’ vision. I marvel at their extraordinary athleticism, and their unprecedented skill and power. Sometimes they can be error-prone, particularly Venus, but they usually make up for it in sheer prowess. They have raised the bar in every way on the tennis court—particularly how hard and fast they hit the ball. Their game intimidates, and was one of the factors in the early retirement of Martina Hingis. She saw the writing on the wall, as did other tennis players. No longer was women's tennis to be only a "thinking" person's game--it was to become a power game as well. The Williams sisters’ game has lifted the game of all women’s tennis players. It’s incredibly rewarding for me to see two young women, who grew up in the projects of Compton, California, being trained and mentored by their parents into not only world-class athletes, but also world-class young women. They have grown up in the glare of the spotlight--their every move and word scrutinized and replayed countless times, and they have done so with amazing grace. Not unlike their early life, I imagine, they fight to the bitter end to achieve their dream (who will ever forget the 2005 Lindsay Davenport/Venus Williams final?) I wish them every success that can possibly come their way. They are living proof that dreams do come true.

A Blue Christmas Without Him

“ . . . Light and life to all He brings, Risen with healing in His wings. . . ” from Hark! The Herald Angels Sing (words by Charles Wesley)

My friend, Tony, ruined Christmas for me. Well not exactly “ruined,” since he introduced me to the most sublime Christmas music I’d ever heard. Unfortunately, he left before we’d had sufficient time to share it. I had always imagined we two friends would grow old together, and I’d have a chance to sit with his partner, Frank, and him and enjoy this beautiful music for many Christmases to come. In undergraduate school (UNC/Chapel Hill), Tony was one of my best friends. He was one of the smartest, most accomplished musicians I’ve ever known. He would carry on conversations with the professors I couldn’t begin to follow. And he was an astonishing pianist. He was the rehearsal pianist for the Men’s Glee Club, and he would read four-part contrapuntal open score at our rehearsals. How he did that, I’ll never know! I get around on the piano a little, but his skills made mine pale by comparison. One of the beauties of Tony was that he loved music so much. To this day, it moves me when I see someone who loves what he does, do it. When Tony would hear a passage in a recording, or a live performance moment of sublime music making, he always looked over to share it with me. Those little shared moments are among the dearest gifts I’ve ever been given. Tony introduced me to opera by playing a recording of the “Flower Duet’” from Madama Butterfly for me (with Anna Moffo, who became one of my favorite singers). We both eventually migrated north to New York City where we were fortunate to share a number of musical memories with one another before his untimely passing.

Christmas is perhaps my favorite of the holidays. As I decorated my tree this year, I listened to a CD Tony introduced me to: Christmas Night—Carols Of the Nativity by the Cambridge Singers, conducted by John Rutter. These are some of the warmest, most intimate, most beautiful, and most sublimely rendered Christmas carols I’ve ever heard. But it’s hard to listen to them alone without becoming sentimental, and missing my friend. I wondered why I found listening to this particular CD (which I always put on while decorating the tree) always so moving.

Every now and then, I stumble upon a moment of clarity. (These moments are, perhaps, few and far between. But I’m grateful that I have any at all.) This CD was a gift of Tony’s love to me—one of many such gifts. In choosing to give it to me, I suspect he hoped that I would find the same inspiration; the soul-stirring experience he found when he listened to them. He found hope, joy and some universal soulful connection in the lyrics, and admired the skill, heart and love that had been poured into recording it—the recording itself, a witness to that love.

I thought about Christmas—and about God loving us so much that he wanted to give us a gift unlike we’d ever known. Since God couldn’t physically come down to dwell among us, He sent His messenger, His Son to live among us and call us to be our best selves. And how the world marked this occasion—the Star, the Wise Men—this gift was going to be awesome. And awesome it was. And still is! And while there were many lessons Jesus taught us in his short time on earth, I believe the most important was to “dwell in love.” To this day, the essence of “being” is to love. When we think we cannot possibly love a single second longer, we dig deeper and ferret out greater love than we realized we were capable of; when our knee-jerk reaction is to judge, another opportunity to love instead; when we feel like we cannot take another step on our own, we turn to the love of our neighbors. Like music—which needs no common, single-language lyric to connect us—love reaches inside our hearts and beckons us to where it is needed. And love connects, rather than divides us.

I guess my friend, Tony, really helped open my eyes to all that Christmas, and music, could be—through the gift of his friendship, and the purity of his love. He wanted to share with me some of the incredible music inspired by the birth of Christ. And we marked the occasion by his giving me these gifts, and my receiving them. I had no idea at the time just how powerfully Tony’s gifts of music and love would come to impact me. Thankfully, at this blessed season for which love is the very reason, I begin to see with both my eyes and my heart.

Phil Hall
December 23rd, 2007