An Unexpected Gift
Not long after midnight, leaving St. Patrick’s Day behind in 2016, I was deleting old emails from my nearly full-up EarthLink account. I would check the “all” block on the screen page, click, and another twenty would be zapped out of existence.
I paused at some of them, maybe where my daughters had sent me their college papers to edit long ago, and I made sure I still had the originals saved. Then, with the information preserved elsewhere, those emails were banished, as well.
Zap, zap, the “all” block was checked and, with a click, my overflowing 900 pages of emails were finally making a downward descent.
The ones that had been opened-and-read were shown with letters in opaque gray, while those never opened were in bold. Few had been left that way, as I try to keep up with them each day. Don’t we all?
I had started this late-night project—the kind even a near-brainless person can accomplish before putting his head on the pillow—from the earliest dates several years ago. I figured those would be the least likely to be of interest anymore. Can an email be long in the tooth?” Such thoughts echoed through my tired mind as each screen page disappeared.
Then one showed up in bold, on an otherwise completely opaque screen, from December 3, 2010, five-and-a-half years ago. How had I missed this one back then? Still-emboldened was the name of the sender—K Barnes, my brother.
He died last February, a little more than a year ago. While I had taken time to grieve, there are always lingering feelings that you sometimes didn’t see eye-to-eye about now-forgotten topics. But the wave of remembrance for my departed sibling had crested to a good height. There had been comfort in knowing we had similar blood running through our veins for over sixty years.
So, what had he sent me, which I somehow managed to completely overlook?
I pondered what it might be. As I did, that little bold line seemed to intensify and grow into some sort of unexpected gift from him, a year since his death, and half-a-decade since he had taken the time to send it. I even felt a little glad I had missed it back then, when it was fresh and new. I wouldn’t have knowingly waited this long to read it, and did not foresee his passing, but I was looking forward to reading some brand new words from Ken, now gone.
The line read: K BARNES Hallelujah 1KB
I didn’t think I had ever seen a message of only one kilobyte, so tiny. Maybe it was a mistake, and there was nothing to see at all.
Ken was not a religious man, in fact, almost the opposite, but he was a genius—not in his own way, but in most ways. He wouldn’t let something like one’s moral or philosophical beliefs stop him from listening to what a person had to say, even when views differed from his own. He would banter any point with the best of them. I think we both learned this from our father, a self-educated, renaissance man.
So, if the “Hallelujah” in the subject line reflected something to do with religion, and it had come from Ken, my interest was really piqued.
I clicked on the line and the email opened up before me:
From: K BARNES <mojo77@q.com> [Edit Address Book]
To: Wayne <wayneabarnes@earthlink.net>, me <kabarnes@pobox.com>
Subject: Hallelujah
Date: Dec 3, 2010 11:48 PM
At Wannamakers - Turn the volume way up.
There was a YouTube link pasted into his email. (It is provided later.)
This wasn’t much, but the message gave me, at least, a clue.
John B. Wanamaker’s was the oldest and most famous department store in Philadelphia, having been created by renovating an abandoned railroad terminal for the American Centennial in 1876. It is right across from City Hall on Broad Street and twelve-stories tall.
It has a massive atrium several stories high where, seasonally, there are lavish and ornamental decorations which draw Philadelphians to see them nearly any time of the year. But the specialties of the Wanamaker house were those at Christmastime. The crowds were no less enthusiastic than those who traveled to New York’s Rockefeller Center. The date of the email in early December should have told me something.
The Wanamaker Pipe Organ in the seven-story atrium of the Grand Court
Ken had taken the time to watch something on YouTube, and thought enough of it to give it the Ken-Okay, and shuffle it off to me. He was not one to forward any old “Forward this!” email, willy-nilly, so there had to be more to it.
He was never much of a singer, but he liked to hear music. For my part, I liked to sing and had been in some sort of choir or glee club most of my life. Being in the music and participating in making it, was something I reveled in.
He had written, “Turn the volume way up.” What could that possibly mean? Had it been recorded at a too-low volume, or was it of poor quality?
I could wait no longer to try to figure what had gone through my brother’s mind, and so I pasted it into a browser line, plugged in my headphones, and waited.
The scene opens in the cavernous, yet glorious, Grand Court in the center of the ground floor of Wanamaker’s. It is now a Macy’s flagship store, with the largest pipe organ in the world—30,000 pipes—which is still called the Wanamaker Organ.
Millions over the years have marveled as its chords reverberating through the seven-story atrium. But there is one other extraordinary item of which all Philadelphians are aware. It is center-stage and simply called, “The Eagle.”
"Meet me at The Eagle," (in Wanamaker's, now Macy's), Philadelphia, PA
Of course, that is the name of the city’s professional football team, and how appropriate to have the national bird on display in the birthplace of our nation. With the Liberty Bell down the street and Independence Hall nearby, to say nothing of the ghost of Ben Franklin and his fellow-framers all around, it seems only appropriate that there would be a ten-foot tall, 2,500-pound, bronze statue of an eagle, right in the middle of the main floor. Its meticulous details go down to the tiniest lines on each and every feather, and the shiny talons are proof that tens of thousands of children couldn’t resist touching them over the last hundred years.
An old-time movie had a couple traveling the world separately, but where would they finally get back together? Easily resolved, “Meet me at The Eagle!”
Now on the screen, people were milling around. The store was full, those shopping or just gawking at all the stuff that was for sale and the heavenward decorations. Necks were craned to see them high up on the walls, and others suspended in space, blowing from an unseen breeze, and the feeling was dizzying.
It was Saturday, October 30, 2010. The organist was on his throne with the tool of his artistry sounding out at his touch of the keys, the floor pedals, and any of the hundreds of colorful stops that surrounded six levels of keyboards.
We were told we were about to witness a “Random Act of Culture.”
The music played on, not something you could easily whistle, but the magnificence of the pipes, the magical fingers of the organist, and the liveliness which was produced was compelling for anyone within earshot.
Then the music ceased, but only for a moment. The people seemed to hold their collective breath. Then the music began anew and struck a familiar chord. It built into a full-bodied intro and you knew something special was on the way.
It was the lively, and a bit jaunty, beginning of the Hallelujah Chorus from George Frideric Handel’s Messiah, written over 250 years ago. It sounded wonderful on this organ, but wouldn’t it be nice if there were a choir to sing the words?
Then individuals in the crowd were moving around, seemingly with a similar motive. All eyes turned to a spot two balconies up, as though something were radiating from a focal point.
Way up high, a petite older woman, with bobbed gray hair and a meaningful countenance, raised her arms, and it all came together. The intro was ending, and what we had been waiting for would now begin.
Her arms gave a signal, and from every rail of every balcony, and every part of the great spread-wide ground floor, and all around The Eagle, voices began to ring out in unison.
HAAAAL-le-LU-jah! HAAAAL-le-LU-jah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hal-LAY-AY-lu-LAH!
Again, but several notes higher, the same words were repeated. And they went on.
This was a phenomenon which happens in too few places, and an art-inspired Philadelphia had taken this one to a new level.
The Philadelphia Opera had orchestrated 650 choral members from 32 choirs all around the city, including their own seasoned professionals. While there had seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the hundreds of people in the store, now there was, and you could distinguish the singers from the sung-tos, the ones who knew the words from the ones just moving their lips, trying to keep up.
All of the invited singers had round, charcoal-colored badges, reading that this was a “Random Act of Culture,” and was it ever!
It is one of the very best-known pieces of music, and choir members from o’er the world, even those who speak different languages and have never met, could hear that intro and know exactly when to come in for their part, and how the harmony would lift all their voices together.
The little gray-haired lady had the attention of those that mattered, and her arms waved as the parts came in and went out. The altos held their notes and the sopranos went higher. The tenors carried their melody, backed up by the depth of second basses. Their full voices added balance to the higher notes and gave another level of rumbling reverberations to go along with the ones the organ was pumping out.
There were highs and lows, crescendos and modulations. Then there was the crowd of hundreds, who were not part of the show and were simply ecstatic that they were there at the right place and the right time.
At first, they thought it was just some people singing along with a well-known musical piece, but then the operatic quality of the voices made it clear this was something else. Who would do all of this, and why, was on the tips of their tongues. These questions became rhetorical as the sublimeness of the impact of what was going on completely overcame them.
There was laughter among what could only be called an audience, but there was no dividing line between those singing and those listening. And their brimming laughter could not be heard with the sound of the pipes and the operatic power of two-thirds of a thousand voices. You could see tears of joy rolling down the cheeks of the most surprised and those most impressed.
The glee on the faces of the ones doing the entertaining took on something different than when they had sung this piece before. It had never been conducted in such an enormous facility and with so many people all at one time. They, more than ever before, could hear, not just their part, and those of their singing partners nearby, but the sound overflowing the balconies from several stories up, like musical waterfalls cascading to splash so lively to the ground-floor level, around each singer’s feet, and then echoing back up, and around again.
All of the shopping had stopped when it was realized this wasn’t just a bunch of revelers being rowdy in a crowded store, but a world-class performance you couldn’t have bought a ticket for. Likely, most could not have paid the price of admission anyway, however much that might have cost. No, they had just lucked out. They reveled in it, and could not believe their good fortune.
Of course, cell phones and cameras were out in a flash, once you began to comprehend what was going on, but what good were they, really? Try to take a panoramic snapshot of the Grand Canyon with an instamatic, and see how that works. And there is something else. If you had your camera up to your face, you were not a singer. Soon there were hundreds of cameras and cell phones held up by people spinning in place, trying to capture it all. It distinguished them from the singers, like separating the chaff from the wheat.
There were children in the crowd, small ones, maybe three-years old. Though youthful, they, too, seemed to realize this was special. Parents held them aloft and pivoted with them above their heads, so they could better observe the mysterious goings-on by these strange adults.
This was more that “surround-sound,” as it is advertised. It was above and below you, to your left and right, in front of and behind you. And it wasn’t emanating from a mechanical speaker. Rather, this joyful sound was ushered into the world by healthy lungs, through the clearest voice boxes. The hearts and souls of hundreds of volunteers were there to make a point: There is culture if you look for it.
You can add your own piece to the great mosaic in a great city by participating in something that is so wonderful, yet so ephemeral, that it does not last a day, or even an hour. But it is the best of the best while it lasts. Picture a da Vinci painting, or a Michelangelo sculpture, which is in existence for a mere five minutes.
The music built on and built up. And the bobbed-haired conductress, on high, was rhythmically flailing her arms up and over the railing, so her multitude of musical minions could mark her cues. And she, too, was belting out her own notes with passion and flair, for that one more level of emphatic participation in this great event.
If you were there, it didn’t matter if you knew the words, or understood them. This was not only an assertion of religion, it was a unique performance of a masterpiece of auditory excellence, that no individual, or ten, or score of those present, could have pulled off. It was a feeling, a sound, a togetherness and a level of participation by creative thinkers who wanted to be part of something big and different, and no individual credit would ever be due here. Chorales are not often described as “teams,” but if ever there were a team effort, it was flocked all around The Eagle.
All of the performers were dressed in everyday clothes—no church or university choir robes among them. So, between notes, while inhaling for the next ones, there was no difference between them and the non-performers nearby.
Peter Richard Conte and the pipe organ, with six keyboards and hundreds of stops
It is one of those rare moments when you can tell, maybe only for a second, that the tall skinny guy, or the short, stout lady, or the seemingly uncomfortable-in-her-own-skin teenage girl, has at least that one kernel within them that shows what they are really made of. During these moments, their erect postures, jutting jaws, and steadfastness to do what they had come to do, said it all.
For many, it was thousands of hours of choir practice and voice lessons mounting over years, without which this event could never have taken place. Heads shaking in the crowd were people who grasped even a small part of this point. Maybe they wondered how come they had never learned to sing like this, hadn’t thought to sign up for the glee club. They might have rearranged something a little differently in their lives, some musical time squeezed into it so, one day, they might have been amongst this talented group of people.
This was also an opportunity for a college choir member, who had her sights set on something better, to stand right beside the diva she held in highest esteem, who had made it to the pinnacle in the professional music world. All the better to understand what can be accomplished with all of those years of voice training.
Finally, the ups and the downs, the hearty notes and the lesser ones, the personalities of the individual performers, and the meshing of so many into an extraordinarily cohesive unit, was coming to a close.
King of KINGS, and Lord of LORDS—King of KINGS and Lord of LORDS, and He shall reign for-eh-vah, and eh-eh-vah. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hal-LAAAAAAY-LUUUUU-YAAAAAH!!!
Every soul in the store was aware of how and when this would all end. The applause began halfway through those last extended notes, and it grew as the song came to its powerful conclusion. All of the voices—sopranos, altos, tenors and basses—exhaled their last mighty breaths for the final, “YAAAAAAAAH!”
Many raised their arms, all were smiling, and the clapping was thunderous, from all levels, and for all of the participants. Here the singers turned-tables and applauded the audience and, themselves, in turn.
It was a richly fulfilling performance which, at the same time, overjoyed, and took their cumulative breath away. Singing the Hallelujah Chorus can be exhausting, but when it is matched with such audience enthusiasm, it is exhilarating.
You know when a distance race is completed, the second and third-place finishers cross the line with exhaustion and near-collapse, but the one who came in first does not falter. The win renews and recharges him to the point of exhilaration, and he will even take a victory lap with the euphoria, while the others are left lying on the ground, gasping for air. It was this same euphoria that spread around the Grand Court, for this was a victory, and they were the winners.
Even the children were swept into the delight of the fray and were now spun around on upstretched arms by loving parents, so glad their little ones had been there to share this unique moment.
From a prominent balcony location, a sign went up, “You’ve just experienced a Random Act of Culture.” Then more such signs were raised aloft by men and women standing straight and tall, and it was truly so.
I used to be an FBI agent—was one for a long time—and profiling people was part of my stock-in-trade. But here, my late brother had turned the tables on me.
He would have seen this YouTube video, (now with over 9,000,000 hits), and might have enjoyed it. Religion wouldn’t have been an issue, and hearing himself as part of the story, singing along, would not have occurred to him. But what he did know about me was how we differed, and what I liked.
Four years before he died, he had done his own profiling of his “little” brother and made a certain assessment. And, boy, did he ever hit the right notes to make it come into harmony with the kind of scene he knew I would thoroughly enjoy.
I loved the glimpse back at the city of our childhood and a place we often visited, even polished those eagle talons, ourselves. I loved that the crowded scene turned into something organized, yet totally unforeseen, and in this, there was an infusion of life and song. If you know the Hallelujah Chorus, you cannot stop from singing along.
All those things I would have enjoyed, had I read Ken’s email five years ago, and it would have been very nice. But now that he is no longer here, it was something like a present had been wrapped and tied with a red bow, but then left, forgotten, in a dark closet for several years. Now it had been discovered and opened, and strongly brought back to mind the kind of things Ken would do. Here he was, again, and in such an eloquent way, giving me this unexpected gift.
Enjoy…
Plantation, FL
March 18, 2016