Leslie Helpert is an anachronistic composer who was ultimately born to promote global ordinance for sound pollution. By the time of her death (approximately 50-106 year from now) all things ambulatory and emergent will be satisfactorily audible at half the decibels they are now currently amplified. Imagine purring cop sirens, tea kettles that communicate telepathically, a New York City that whispers suggestively (might you please, dear sir, step out of the way, this melodious emergency vehicle is prancing toward a fire to put out).

Her bones are like tuning forks and, after years of performing in The Club and sharing stages with legends like Buddy Guy and Richie Havens, Helpert currently performs solo at a creme-de-la-creme spa in central Manhattan, cooing throughout an architecturally perfected room in long-tones of single hertz frequencies. In the midst, Helpert has released numerous records on international labels, written pop songs, earned the title of music master from the prestigious Berklee College of Music and coached all levels of voices, from TED MainStage speakers to high-security prisoners in Spain.