newclips

Phil:
This is a wonderful article about you and the comfort you provide to all who visit the site. Good luck with all your projects. I'll send more clips as I find them.

Love,
Nonie
________________
Newsday (New York) July 16, 2003 Wednesday Copyright 2003 Newsday, Inc.

Newsday (New York)
July 16, 2003 Wednesday
ALL EDITIONS SECTION:
PART II,
Pg. B03 LENGTH: 877 words
Site and Sound;
WTC flutist adds grace notes to grief
BYLINE: By Jeff Pearlman. STAFF WRITER BODY:
Like the clouds of white dust that still sneak their way off the Ground Zero construction site, Phil Belpasso is both here, and not here. Or, to put it simply, he is invisible. That's the way it is for many of New York's street musicians, especially those with soil-coated Eddie Bauer jackets and fingertips the color of soot. Belpasso is seen, yet ignored. Few look up to catch his face. Nobody stops to say "Hi" or "Hang in there." It is - sadly - easier this way. Easier on thee eyes and easier on the conscience.

And yet, Belpasso looms, and even the blind can sense it. It starts with a singular note; a warm toot from the silver Gemeinhardt flute he keeps by his side in a blue velvet case. Standing on the corner of Liberty and Church, no more than 10 feet from the Ground Zero viewing wall, he begins a stirring rendition of "Amazing Grace." The flute - one of many instruments Belpasso says he knows how to play - glides along his white beard, which is as dense and fluffy as a bushel of cotton. The tempo remains the same - slow, sad, stirring. Gut-wrenching and beautiful.

As Belpasso seamlessly slides into "America the Beautiful," something happens: People take notice. Oh, nobody stares directly at the musician. But for the 200 or so tourists within sound range, the impact is unmistakable. A young couple, gripped by the site of the World Trade Center's grave, grasp hands. An old man wipes a tear from his face. Three girls, no older than 10, quietly sing along. "Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves..."

Unintentionally, and with nary an iota of fanfare, Belpasso has become to this small section of Ground Zero what John Williams was to the initial "Star Wars" trilogy. The events of Sept. 11, 2001, need no soundtrack. But - thanks to the bearded flutist - they have one. Every day he stands by the gate, playing haunting song after haunting song, adding a subtle texture to the pain.

"If people listen, that's nice," says Belpasso, a quiet 56-year-old. "But I wasn't looking to take advantage of a tragedy."

Born and raised in Hackensack, N.J., Belpasso used to spend afternoons practicing the flute at nearby Memorial Park in Ridgewood, N.J., directly in front of the plaque honoring Abraham Godwin, who played flute for George Washington. Since those days, he has spent much of life bouncing around from New Jersey to Boston to Manhattan, playing in a haze of random streets and struggling to get by. On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, Belpasso was stationed on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a location he frequented regularly for nearly two decades. To the average street musician, the front of the Met is a bountiful garden of riches. During spring and summer, tourists arrive like ants to a watermelon, leaving a daily wake of $1 bills that can easily reach the high hundreds. It was good enough business for Belpasso to afford to maintain the house in Fair Lawn, N.J., that his family has owned for more than 50 years, as well as the Suzuki 250 motorcycle he rides to the city every day.

When the airplanes hit, Belpasso panicked. He knew more than 20 people who worked in the buildings, including a distant cousin. He says he tried to assist the relief effort, but - like most citizens - was kept far away. "It was frustrating," he says. "I mean, I was helpless." As New Yorkers ran left and right, up and down, Belpasso stood on the corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue and did the one thing that came to mind - he played the flute. The songs that used to be part of his repertoire - up-tempo ditties by Elton John and Billy Joel and the like - were set aside in favor of "God Bless America" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water." Whereas people usually stood around Belpasso tapping their feet, there was now silent disbelief.

Over the course of the ensuing weeks, he moved closer to the site, until he was allowed less than a block away. When he started, Belpasso says his jacket was a crisp beige and his dress shirts were white. Now, his attire - from blue New Jersey police departmentt cap to black sneakers - is covered in grime. "I'm gonna die from breathing this stuff in," he says, "but what am I supposed to do? Run?"

Belpasso is as ubiquitous as the merchants peddling $5 World Trade Center paperweights; an almost daily 11 a.m.-to-4 p.m. presence who still finds it odd that two enormous buildings just - poof! - vanished. Recently, Belpasso, who fancies himself an architect as well, began working on a blueprint for the Trade Center memorial, which he planned to submit to the city before the official late June deadline. Next to his TIPS cap, a pile of fliers explains another of his concepts - a Stonehenge-inspired monument based on the Earth's axis position as pertaining to the Australian flag, the Big Dipper and the star Vega. It is inexplicably weird -easily Belpasso's most ambitious endeavor since 1993, when he attended "The Richard Bey Show" as a member of the studio audience and stood up to defend Sinead O'Connor's "Saturday Night Live" protest of the pope.

"I'm not just a guy who plays music," he says, an American flag tie - wrinkled and dirty - looped around hiss neck. "I've got contributions to make."

The Invisible Man wants people to listen.
GRAPHIC: Newsday Photo/Ari Mintz - Near Church and Liberty streets, flutist Phil Belpasso plays patriotic tunes.
_______
The Seattle Times August 9, 2003, Saturday Copyright 2003 The Seattle Times Company

The Seattle Times
August 9, 2003, Saturday
Fourth Edition SECTION:
ROP ZONE; News;
Pg. A5 LENGTH: 672 words
Flutist stirs crowds with tunes at Ground Zero
BYLINE: Jeff Pearlman; Newsday DATELINE: New York BODY:
NEW YORK Like the clouds of white dust that still sneak their way off the Ground Zero construction site, Phil Belpasso is both here and not here. Put simply, he is invisible.

That's the way it is for many of New York's street musicians, especially those with soil-coated Eddie Bauer jackets and fingertips the color of soot. Belpasso is seen, yet ignored. Few look up to catch his face. Nobody stops to say "Hi" or "Hang in there." It is sadly easier this way, on the eyes and conscience.

The flute one of many instruments Belpasso says he knows how to play glides along his white beard, which is as dense and fluffy as a bushel of cotton. The tempo remains the same slow, sad, stirring. Gut-wrenching and beautiful.

As Belpasso seamlessly slides into "America the Beautiful," something happens: People take notice. For the 200 or so tourists within sound range, the impact is unmistakable. A young couple, gripped by the site of the World Trade Center's grave, grasp hands. An old man wipes a tear from his face. Three girls, no older than 10, sing along quietly. "Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves ... "

Unintentionally, and with nary an iota of fanfare, Belpasso has become to this small section of Ground Zero what John Williams was to the initial "Star Wars" trilogy. The events of Sept. 11, 2001, need no soundtrack. But they have one thanks to the bearded flutist. He stands by the gate every day, playing haunting song after haunting song, adding a subtle texture to the pain.

"If people listen, that's nice," said Belpasso, 56. "But I wasn't looking to take advantage of a tragedy."
Born and reared in Hackensack, N.J., Belpasso has spent much of life bouncing around from New Jersey to Boston to Manhattan, playing in a haze of random streets and struggling to make ends meet.

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, he was stationed on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a location he frequented regularly for nearly two decades. To the average street musician, the front of the Met is a bountiful garden of riches. During spring and summer, tourists arrive like ants to a watermelon, leaving a daily wake of $1 bills that easily can reach the high hundreds. It was good enough business for Belpasso to afford to maintain a Fair Lawn, N.J., house that his family has owned for more than 50 years, as well as the Suzuki 250 motorcycle he rides to the city every day.

Belpasso panicked when the airplanes hit. He knew more than 20 people who worked in the buildings, including a distant cousin. He says he tried to assist the relief effort, but like most citizens was kept far away. "It was frustrating," he said. "I mean, I was helpless."

As New Yorkers ran left and right, up and down, Belpasso stood on the corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue and did the one thing that came to mind he played the flute.

The songs that used to be part of his repertoire up-tempo ditties by Elton John and Billy Joel and the like were set aside in favor of "God Bless America" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water."

He moved closer to Ground Zero over the course of weeks, until he was allowed less than a block away. "I'm gonna die from breathing this stuff in," he said, "but what am I supposed to do? Run?"

"I'm not just a guy who plays music," he said, an American flag tie wrinkled and dirty looped around his neck. "I've got contributions to make."

The Invisible Man wants people to listen.
GRAPHIC: photo; Ari Mintz / Newsday : Flutist Phil Belpasso plays uplifting music for visitors to Ground Zero in New York. (0393357608) LOAD-DATE: August 10, 2003

___________

The Houston Chronicle
August 09, 2003, Saturday
3 STAR EDITION SECTION:
A;
Pg. 21 LENGTH: 766 words
Flutist puts the grace notes in grief ;

Stirring melodies serve as a musical backdrop to Ground Zero SOURCE: Newsday BYLINE: JEFF PEARLMAN DATELINE: NEW YORK BODY:
NEW YORK - Like the clouds of white dust that still sneak their way off the Ground Zero construction site, Phil Belpasso is both here, and not here. Or, to put it simply, he is invisible.

That's the way it is for many of New York's street musicians, especially those with soil-coated Eddie Bauer jackets and fingertips the color of soot.

Belpasso is seen, yet ignored. Few look up to catch his face. Nobody stops to say "Hi" or "Hang in there." It is sadly easier this way. Easier on the eyes and easier on the conscience.

And yet, Belpasso looms, and even the blind can sense it. It starts with a singular note; a warm toot from the silver Gemeinhardt flute he keeps by his side in a blue velvet case.

Standing on the corner of Liberty and Church, no more than 10 feet from the Ground Zero viewing wall, he begins a stirring rendition of Amazing Grace.

The flute - one of many instruments Belpasso says he knows how to play - glides along his white beard, which iss as dense and fluffy as a bushel of cotton. The tempo remains the same - slow, sad, stirring. Gut-wrenching and beautiful.

As Belpasso seamlessly slides into America the Beautiful, something happens: People take notice. Oh, nobody stares directly at the musician.

But for the 200 or so tourists within sound range, the impact is unmistakable. A young couple, gripped by the site of the World Trade Center's grave, grasp hands. An old man wipes a tear from his face. Three girls, no older than 10, quietly sing along. "Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves . . . ."

Unintentionally, and with nary an iota of fanfare, Belpasso has become to this small section of Ground Zero what John Williams was to the initial Star Wars trilogy. The events of Sept. 11, 2001, need no soundtrack. But thanks to the bearded flutist they have one. Every day he stands by the gate, playing haunting song after haunting song, adding a subtle texture to the pain.

"If people listen, that's nice," says Belpasso, a quiet 56-year-old. "But I wasn't looking to take advantage of a tragedy."

Since those days, he has spent much of life bouncing around from New Jersey to Boston to Manhattan, playing in a haze of random streets and struggling to get by.

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, Belpasso was stationed on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a location he frequented regularly for nearly two decades.

To the average street musician, the front of the Met is a bountiful garden of riches. During spring and summer, tourists arrive like ants to a watermelon, leaving a daily wake of $ 1 bills that can easily reach the high hundreds.

It was good enough business for Belpasso to afford to maintain the house in Fair Lawn, N.J., that his family has owned for more than 50 years, as well as the Suzuki 250 motorcycle he rides to the city every day.

When the airplanes hit, Belpasso panicked. He knew more than 20 people who worked in the buildings, including a distant cousin. He says he tried to assist the relief effort, but like most citizens was kept far away.

"It was frustrating," he says. "I mean, I was helpless." As New Yorkers ran left and right, up and down, Belpasso stood on the corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue and did the one thing that came to mind - he played the flute.

The songs that used to be part of his repertoire - up-tempo ditties by Elton John and Billy Joel and the like - were set aside in favor of God Bless America and Bridge Over Troubled Water. Whereas people usually stood around Belpasso tapping their feet, there was now silent disbelief.

Now, his attire - from blue New Jersey police cap to black sneakers - is covered in grime. "I'm gonna die frrom breathing this stuff in," he says, "but what am I supposed to do? Run?"

"I'm not just a guy who plays music," he says, an American flag tie, wrinkled and dirty, looped around his neck. "I've got contributions to make."

The Invisible Man wants people to listen.
GRAPHIC: Photo: Phil Belpasso's music adds a subtle texture to the experience at Ground Zero in New York. He plays spiritual and patriotic songs on a street corner near the viewing wall.; Ari Mintz / Newsday TYPE: Biography LOAD-DATE: August 10, 2003

Duluth News-Tribune
August 10, 2003 Sunday SECTION: NATL LENGTH: 542 words
Grit, grace cover Ground Zero flutist
BYLINE: BY JEFF PEARLMAN; NEWSDAY DATELINE: NEW YORK BODY:
Like the clouds of white dust that still sneak their way off the Ground Zero construction site, Phil Belpasso is both here, and not here. Or, to put it simply, he is invisible.

And yet, Belpasso looms. It starts with a singular note; a warm toot from the silver Gemeinhardt flute he keeps by his side in a blue velvet case. Standing on the corner of Liberty and Church, no more than 10 feet from the Ground Zero viewing wall, he begins a stirring rendition of "Amazing Grace."

The tempo remains the same -- slow, sad, stirring. Gut-wrenching and beautiful.
As Belpasso seamlessly slides into "America the Beautiful," something happens: People take notice. Oh, nobody stares directly at the musician. But for the 200 or so tourists within sound range, the impact is unmistakable. A young couple, gripped by the site of the World Trade Center's grave, grasp hands. An old man wipes a tear from his face. Three girls, no older than 10, quietly sing along.

The events of Sept. 11, 2001, need no soundtrack. But -- thanks to the bearded flutist -- they have one. Every day he stands by the gate, playing haunting song after haunting song, adding a subtle texture to the pain.

"If people listen, that's nice," says Belpasso, a quiet 56-year-old. "But I wasn't looking to take advantage of a tragedy."

Born and raised in Hackensack, N.J., Belpasso used to spend afternoons practicing the flute at nearby Memorial Park in Ridgewood, N.J.

Since those days, he has spent much of life bouncing around from New Jersey to Boston to Manhattan, playing in a haze of random streets and struggling to get by.

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, Belpasso was stationed on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a location he frequented regularly for nearly two decades.

When the airplanes hit, Belpasso panicked. He knew more than 20 people who worked in the buildings, including a distant cousin. He says he tried to assist the relief effort, but -- like most citizens -- was kept far away. "It was frustrating," he says. "I mean, I was helpless." As New Yorkers ran left and right, up and down, Belpasso stood on the corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue and did the one thing that came to mind -- he played the flute.

The songs that used to be part of his repertoire -- up-tempo ditties by Elton John and Billy Joel and the like -- were set aside in favor of "God Bless America" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water." Whereas people usually stood around Belpasso tapping their feet, there was now silent disbelief.

Over the course of the ensuing weeks, he moved closer to the site, until he was allowed less than a block away. When he started, Belpasso says his jacket was a crisp beige and his dress shirts were white. Now, his attire -- from blue New Jersey police cap to bllack sneakers -- is covered in grime. "I'm gonna die from breathing this stuff in," he says, "but what am I supposed to do? Run?"

Duluth News-Tribune
August 10, 2003 Sunday SECTION: NATL LENGTH: 542 words
Grit, grace cover Ground Zero flutist BYLINE: BY JEFF PEARLMAN; NEWSDAY DATELINE: NEW YORK BODY:
Like the clouds of white dust that still sneak their way off the Ground Zero construction site, Phil Belpasso is both here, and not here. Or, to put it simply, he is invisible.

"If people listen, that's nice," says Belpasso, a quiet 56-year-old. "But I wasn't looking to take advantage of a tragedy."

Born and raised in Hackensack, N.J., Belpasso used to spend afternoons practicing the flute at nearby Memorial Park in Ridgewood, N.J.

Since those days, he has spent much of life bouncing around from New Jersey to Boston to Manhattan, playing in a haze of random streets and struggling to get by.

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, Belpasso was stationed on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a location he frequented regularly for nearly two decades.

Over the course of the ensuing weeks, he moved closer to the site, until he was allowed less than a block away. When he started, Belpasso says his jacket was a crisp beige and his dress shirts were white. Now, his attire -- from blue New Jersey police cap to bllack sneakers -- is covered in grime. "I'm gonna die from breathing this stuff in," he says, "but what am I supposed to do? Run?"

LOAD-DATE: August 10, 2003