Endorsed by:

Sir David Willcocks
  
Former Director of Music
King's College, Cambridge
  
Former Director
Royal College of Music

John Alexander
  
Artistic Director
Pacific Chorale
  
Former President
Chorus America

Tom Hall
  
Music Director
Baltimore Choral Arts Society
  
Former President
Chorus America

Sondra Harnes
  
Founder and Artistic Director
World Children's Choir

Alice Parker
  
Artistic Director
Melodious Accord

Duain Wolfe
  
Past Chairman
Chorus America
  
Chorus Director
Chicago Symphony Orchestra
  
Chorus Director
Colorado Symphony Orchestra

Endorsements:

“There have been very few periods during my lifetime when there hasn’t been a war somewhere… and at this very moment our thoughts are with all those in regions of the earth who are engaged in conflict.  I think we have to pray as never before for peace to settle as we sing Dona Nobis Pacem”
             Sir David Willcocks, Former Director of Music, King's College, Cambridge
             July 22, 2006

"People have been singing and praying for peace since the dawn of human life. Yet it seems elusive as ever, as the instruments of warfare get more and more deadly and widespread. Those of us who dream of a world without armed conflict need to raise our voices -- and how better to do so than with these many time-honored invocations. Can we sing enough prayers to overpower the warriors? If enough of us join our voices, can we change the world? It's never been tried on this scale before, and it just might work! I support this effort with my own heart and voice, and hope you will join us."
             Alice Parker, Artistic Director of Melodious Accord
             October 12, 2007

Anecdotes:

"When we went to Mexico in January, 1991, we had programmed all Baroque music - Bach and Mexican Baroque - but had included an 'American' encore - Joshua fit the battle of Jericho.

A close friend in the choir came to me a few weeks before we left, and said that in light of the approaching Gulf War, we might want to change that encore to something less warlike...and suggested the Dona nobis pacem from the B minor Mass.

What a call.

As it turned out, the war started while we were in the silver mining town of Taxco. The night before it started, when it was clearly inevitable, we had a candlelight vigil at the hotel during which we sang the Dona nobis pacem while the hotel guests and staff watched and prayed with us.

The next day, after the war had started, we walked up to Santa Prisca at the top of the town to the bizarre sounds and sights of a fireworks celebration (in honor of a saint's day). The promoter was uncertain whether we should even perform (the war was extremely unpopular there), but the priest met us outside the church to tell us that he was holding a mass in time of war, and that we were invited to sing afterwards.

In the event, the entire town (it seemed) attended the mass and stayed for the concert, which we dedicated to the hope and dream of world peace, closing with that amazing Dona nobis pacem.

These events literally changed my life. The power of Bach's music to reach singers and audience alike was made clear to me in a way I had never before experienced. When we returned home, I immediately began planning for what turned out to be the establishment of the Sonoma County Bach Choir in the fall of 1991."
             Bob Worth, Director of Choral Music, Sonoma State Universty (CA)

Excerpts from “The Cellist of Sarajevo” by pianist Paul Sullivan
Reprinted courtesy of Paul Sullivan and Rivermusic

Last April I was invited by the cellist Eugene Friesen to perform with him at the International Cello Festival in Manchester, England. Every two years a group of the world's greatest cellists gathers in Manchester for a week of celebration. It's not a competition or merely a string of performances, but a true celebration of the cello, with workshops, master classes, concerts, seminars, recitals and parties all day and evening for a week. There is a tremendous feeling of fellowship and friendliness, as well as an incredibly high standard of musicianship.

Every evening the entire group of about 600 or so gathered in the Royal Conservatory Concert Hall for the major concert of the day. My seat was on the aisle not 20 feet from center stage so I had a perfect unobstructed view of all the proceedings. And what proceedings! Every single note that came off that stage was the polished, burnished work of a master. One after the next, the greatest players in the world came out, took a bow, flattened us with lyricism, poetry, precision and virtuosity, and then yielded the stage to the next astounding colleague.

The opening night concert featured unaccompanied cello only. There on the great stage sat a single, solitary chair. No piano, no music stand, just a chair. Each performer played only one piece, so the atmosphere was charged with concentration and focus.

The moment of a lifetime followed the performance by Yo Yo Ma. He played a piece called The Cellist of Sarajevo, written by a contemporary English composer named David Wilde. The program notes told the amazing story behind the piece:

On May 27th, 1992, a bakery in Sarajevo which happened to have a supply of flour was making bread and distributing it to the starving, war-shattered people. At 4 PM a long line stretched into the street. Suddenly, a shell fell directly into the middle of the line, killing 22 people outright and splattering blood and gore over the entire area.

A hundred yards away lived a 37-year-old man named Vedran Smailovic. Before the war he had been the principal cellist of the Sarajevo Opera Company - a distinguished and civilized job, no doubt. When he saw the massacre outside his window, he was pushed beyond his capacity to endure any more. Driven by his anguish, he decided to take action, and so he did the only thing he could do. He made music.

Every day thereafter, at 4 PM precisely, Mr. Smailovic would put on his full formal concert attire and walk out of his apartment into the midst of the battle raging around him. He would place a little camp stool in the middle of the bomb craters and play a concert to the abandoned streets, while bombs dropped and bullets flew all around him. Day after day he made his unimaginably courageous stand for human dignity, for civilization, for compassion, and for peace. As though protected by a divine shield, he was never hurt, though his darkest hour came when, taking a little walk to stretch his legs, his cello was shelled and destroyed where he had been sitting.

The news wires picked up the story of this extraordinary man, sitting in his white tie and tails on a camp stool in the center of a raging, hellish war zone - playing his cello to the empty air. The composer David Wilde was so moved by the report the he wrote the piece which Yo Yo Ma played for us that evening.

Yo Yo sat down quietly on his little stool in his white tie and tails, and began. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, the music started, creating a shadowy, empty universe pervaded by the sense of death. Slowly, it built and grew into an agonized, screaming, slashing furor which gradually subsided back into a desolate death rattle - fading seamlessly back into silence.

When he finished, he remained bent over his cello, bow still resting on the strings. No one moved - we scarcely dared to breathe. We all felt that we had just witnessed that horrible scene ourselves. After a long period of absolute silence, Yo Yo slowly straightened in his chair, looked into the audience and raised his hand. He beckoned someone to come to the stage - and we realized it was him - the cellist of Sarajevo himself! He rose from his seat and headed down the aisle as Yo Yo came off the stage and headed up the aisle to meet him. With arms flung wide, they met each other in a passionate embrace right at my chair. I simply couldn't believe what was happening.

At that point, everyone in the hall leaped to his feet in a chaotic emotional frenzy, clapping, weeping, shouting, embracing, cheering. It was deafening and overwhelming, and in the center of it all stood these two men, still hugging, both crying. Yo Yo Ma, the suave, elegant prince of classical music worldwide, flawless in appearance and performance. And Vedran Smailovic, who had just escaped from Sarajevo, dressed in a tattered and stained leather motorcycle suit with fringe on the arms. His wild long hair and huge mustache framed a face that looked 80 years old - creased with pain and wet with so many tears. And this was the first time he had heard the piece.

And I thought of the audience - all the jewels and perfume and sophistication now completely meaningless and forgotten - all stripped down to the starkest, deepest humanity. What a triumph for us all. What a triumph for dignity and compassion. Beethoven's Ninth Symphony pales next to the emotion in that hall that night. And what a triumph for the cello! Here was a room filled with people whose lives had been largely devoted to that simple and unassuming instrument. Here were bowmakers, collectors, amateurs, historians, varnishers, and of course, the great master players. All come from all over the world to celebrate the cello together for a week. And here, on the first night, they encounter this man who shook his cello in the face of bombs, death, and ruin and defied them. It became the sword of Joan of Arc. It became the mightiest weapon of them all.

It's because of experiences like this that I call music my magic carpet. A week later I was back, playing for the residents of the Penobscot Nursing Home, where I've played a free concert/sing along every month for five years or so. And I realized it's all the same. It's the privilege, the blessing, and the solemn responsibility of all of us who make music; to try to make the world a tiny bit better each time we play.