“I did feel that the day was going to come eventually, but it’s not a song I ever wanted to sing,” Julian Lennon told me in 2022, when asked about the experience of covering his father’s 1971 modern hymnal, “Imagine.” Aside from naturally sounding like his dad, Julian’s version substitutes an acoustic guitar (played by Nuno Bettencourt) for John’s iconic Steinway. The result is a stark and moving tribute distinctly his own.
Despite not “wanting” to sing “Imagine,” Julian, a longstanding philanthropist, felt compelled to take action in response to the war on Ukraine. “I never wanted to sing any of Dad’s songs, he performed them so well. When the war in Ukraine broke out, Global Citizen called my manager and said, ‘We’re doing a huge charity initiative next week. Has Jules got anything up his sleeve?’ Because of how bad the crisis [was], the only thing I had up my sleeve, that I felt would make any kind of impact, was me singing ‘Imagine.’” Julian’s performance was part of Global Citizen’s Stand Up For Ukraine fundraising effort that resulted in over $10 billion pledged to “help refugees from Ukraine and around the world.”
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Fifty-four years ago, John Lennon asked us to imagine a world without heaven, countries, “nothing to kill or die for,” no religion—to “imagine all the people living life in peace.” Two years earlier, on July 4, 1969, John Lennon and Yoko Ono released “Give Peace a Chance,” a song recorded during the Montreal leg of their famous “Bed-In for Peace,” the song and the nonviolent protest both in response to the Vietnam War. I asked Julian, “How do we create a world where people care about each other and the world we live in?” His response was: “It is about taking on the good fortune we do have, but also living a life of empathy as well, where we understand the problems that other people are facing in life, on every level, and in some way, shape, or form, try to help those who are less fortunate.”
Music, he says, has the ability to be part of the change. “Music certainly has its place in changing the world and supporting the belief of those who wish to change it for the better.”
Without any restrictions or defining parameters, we asked our band of writers to list the first songs that come to mind when we talk about peace. These are not all about war, but they all ask us, in their own melodic peaceful protest, to refocus on our humanity.
— Liza Lentini
“Abre Las Manos” by Devendra Banhart
Venezuelan American alternative darling Devendra Banhart puts the state violence and struggles millions of Venezuelans have been going through for decades on display in this tender cut from 2019’s Ma. Over the gentle strum of a reverberated electric guitar and his usual spacey production, Banhart talks explicitly about museums destroyed by people who had never entered, kidnappings that have become everyday occurrences, and the hours-long lines for basic necessities like bread. The song’s seriousness is contrasted by Banhart’s delivery: a wistful, lilting voice that trembles gently as he weaves these horror stories with descriptions of the country’s natural beauty: ”The green of your hair / The blue of your skin” he sings, channeling Caracas’ iconic Cerro El Ávila on a clear day. “Abre Las Manos” is at its core a call for peace, a gentle invitation to digest a bitter pill in the hopes of encouraging change. — E.R. Pulgar
“Across the Universe” by Laibach
Beating the Beatles at one of their own songs is no mean featle, but Slovenian avant-garde art-rockers Laibach pull it off with their exquisitely distilled version of “Across the Universe.” Sung by guest vocalist Anja Rupel of Slovenian synth-poppers Videosex, Laibach’s rendition nails the crippled, defeatist inertia at the heart of this most beautiful of songs.
While other Beatles covers on Laibach’s 1988 Let It Be album turn Fab Four tunes into martial and guttural stompers, this draws more on the bittersweet transcendence of a Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares choral arrangement.
Bittersweet because the peacefulness of this song was always, even if the Beatles hid it with their hippie, Hindu-lite sleight of hand, one of sinking out of life. “Nothing’s gonna change my world,” might seem like gentle psychedelic machismo coming from them, but Laibach with Anja Rupel elicit the refrain’s deeper essence: a turning away, a sad inability to go on, a swooning collapse into stasis. It way outpowers the imaginary fluff about travelling.
Ultimately, this gorgeous song conveys a peace like that of Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” where the poet looks at the frozen depiction of antiquity, and notes: “Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave.”
Laibach here brings a powerful musical conjuring of peace, but, as the creature noise thrown in at the end underlines, this is the peace that the Pied Piper brought the children of Hamelin. It is the peace an addict seeks by stopping time. — Matt Thompson
“All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands,” Sufjan Stevens
“If I am alive this time next year,” sings Sufjan Stevens in the beginning of this devotional jewel from his 2004 album, Seven Swans, “Will I have arrived in time to share?”
Share in what?
In a transfigurative Revelation of the Lord.
Stevens’ song is inspired by a glorious passage from the Book of Isaiah in which the prophet writes of a time when “the mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.”
Over his climbing banjo and backup women chanting wordless vocals, Stevens asks “Will I be invited to the sound?” He then sheds himself of himself, of every equivocation, of everything between soul and totality: “I am throwing all my thoughts away,” he sings. “And I’m destroying every bet I’ve made … I’m preparing every part for you.”
The peace of this song is one of ego death, of awe and wonder — of dissolving before the sublime majesty of Creation and into the Godhead. A lifetime or more ago I would sometimes sit in reverent silence with a friend on her porch in the southern tablelands of New South Wales, Australia — high country in which winds would sweep the grasses for miles ahead of us and whirl the trees lining the paddocks and filling the far ranges, everything in motion, everything whooshing.
“Will I be invited to the sound?” sings Stevens. “Will I be a part of what you’ve made?” — Matt Thompson
“All You Need is Love,” The Beatles
This 1967 non-album single from The Beatles, a reflection of the Summer of Love, stands as a rallying cry for counterculture and the ethos of flower power. It also marks, arguably, the inception of John Lennon’s humanitarian outlook. What gives the song its universality and continuing accessibility is its origin: composed for Our World, the first live global television broadcast, its message needed to be clear and comprehensible across cultures. That guiding principle continues to define its resonance. With sparse lyrics and a recurring refrain, the song functions as a mantra—at once persuasive and meditative. — Lily Moayeri
“Biko,” Peter Gabriel
Steve Biko was a South African anti-apartheid activist who died in September of 1977, a month after being arrested, of severe head trauma while still in police custody. He was 30 years old. Gabriel wrote the song after learning of Biko’s death, including it on his third self-titled solo LP, released in 1980 (the album commonly/colloquially known as Melt). Some of the lyrics are in Xhosa, a language native to Southern Africa. Aside from being known for influencing Gabriel’s mainstream incorporation of world music into his songs (think of Youssou N’dour singing at the end of “In Your Eyes”), “Biko” is widely regarded as the start of Gabriel’s career in human rights activism and, even more, credited as bringing both Steve Biko and the horrors of apartheid to widespread consciousness. Throughout the last four-and-a-half decades, “Biko” has been performed, covered, and even re-recorded, an enduring testament to its power as an anthem for awareness. — Liza Lentini
“Casket Pretty,” Noname
Poet and rapper Noname has never shied away from decrying violence in the Black community or working toward positive change, from her music to her work facilitating Noname Book Club, which works with connecting inmates and local libraries and bookstores with radical texts. On this short but sweltering cut from 2016 debut EP Telefone, she speaks plainly about the racially charged police violence in her native Chicago. More than a call for peace or radical change, it invokes the equally necessary sentiment of mourning what has been lost, along with the fear of not being safe to walk out at night, the unspeakable sadness of seeing “too many babies in suits.” Recorded four years before the death of George Floyd made police brutality against Black people a national issue in the U.S. (and bringing about similar movements at a global scale), Noname names the pain, paints the cruel picture, and holds it up to the eyes of the world, holding out her hand for healing and, potentially, liberation from the pain. — E.R. Pulgar
“Fragile,” Sting
Ben Linder was an engineer volunteering with the American Peace Corps in Nicaragua when he was killed by the Contras on April 28, 1987, just a few months shy of his 28th birthday. Sting wrote “Fragile” as a dedication to Linder, and it became the sixth track on his second solo album, 1987’s Nothing Like the Sun. (Sting also sings Spanish and Portuguese versions on his 1988 EP, Nada Como el sol.) While “Fragile” was inspired by Linder’s murder, its plea for peace amongst humankind (“nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could”) have made it a prayer-like protest for many causes throughout the decades, from environmentalists to the 9/11 terrorist attacks. There is a lullaby quality to “Fragile,” as though—despite its graphic and desperate lyrics—Sting is singing to a child, making it that much more heartwrenching. — Liza Lentini
“HEALMODE,” Jeff Rosenstock
“I never thought I’d say it but it’s hard to hate the rain in California.” The quiet center of Rosenstock’s HELLMODE album, this song asks the listener to slow down and appreciate life’s small, unexpected moments of peace, like being stuck at home during days of downpours. From the soft, looping guitar to gentle backing vocals from Laura Stevenson to thoughts like “I’m wondering if the neighborhood coyotes found a good place to take cover,” Rosenstock empathetically shares his calm like a neighborly joint. The peace in “HEALMODE” might not save the world, but it’s the kind that makes surviving the hard times easier. — Brendan Hay
“In The Year 2525,” Zager and Evans
You had to be there. When that song came on the radio, you stopped and listened and in your head sang the rising, nasally hook—not a chorus because there isn’t one in this song (although the lines are repeated at the end, like a sort of audio signal to replay). “In the year 2525, if Man is still alive,” has to be one of the more desolate, despairing lyrics of all time—and the song doesn’t get any cheerier—but this is a song of hope, actually. It’s a wake-up call to humanity, to get our runaway destructive behavior in check (and it gave us 10,000 years to do so, spotting us the first 500, which, given the state of the world today, looks generous. At this point we might do well to see out 2025).
It correctly, eerily, foresaw AI and our environmental degradation of the planet. The ultimate one hit wonder song—Zager and Evans never had another hit—came out in 1969, parallel to the Summer of Love and as the alternate universe version of it. The single was loosely thought to be anti-nuclear, because nuclear annihilation was on everyone’s minds then, but the song never mentions weapons. It just warned us that we were in mortal danger of making ourselves extinct. So no, it’s not “Peace Train,” but it was trying to get us to make peace with ourselves. — Bob Guccione Jr.
“Land of Hope and Dreams,” Bruce Springsteen
Bruce Springsteen has been in the headlines a lot lately for his very vocal stance against the Trump administration during his most recent European tour. So it’s only fitting that we feature the Boss here, a musician who’s always created songs about America’s misgivings and those who fall victim to them. His 1999 song, “Land of Hope and Dreams,” wasn’t released on a studio album until 2012’s Wrecking Ball, and its inspiration came to him after getting back together with his beloved E Street Band, with which he had parted ways a decade before. Springsteen had divorced his first wife and married Patti Scialfa, with whom he had children, and in his words, was “…having a hard time locating my rock voice.” By his own declaration, he had rediscovered it with this song, which he and the newly reformed E Street Band played at the closing of their shows during their 1999-2000 Reunion tour. It’s a song that was inspired musically by the Impressions’ “People Get Ready” and lyrically by the 1922 gospel song “This Train.” Despite it being used by TBS in its 2012 Major League Baseball season coverage, the song became a symbol of peace most prominently after the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, when it was released as the B-side of “The Rising” single. It was also a staple during Springsteen’s 2002-2003 tour, promoting his 9/11-themed album of the same name. The song drips with optimism and, well, hope, with lyrics like “This train / Dreams will not be thwarted / This train / Faith will be rewarded,” as Springsteen uses a train metaphor to express his view on the American dream; an idea that currently seems to be on the verge of collapsing. — Charles Moss
“Mystic,” Shahram Nazeri
During a major crackdown, with regime men bludgeoning, shooting, snatching, and lynching a path through dissent back to uncontested domination, I creep up an expressway with two Iranians, our arrival at a northern Tehran party delayed not just by the ever mammoth traffic but here by cars spun and wrecked, occupants bloodied and dazed, waiting for ambulances as jammed in the slow swarm as everyone else.
I’d played for my companions great albums of American rock I’d brought into Iran that grim season of 2009—Lou Reed’s Berlin, Iggy Pop’s The Idiot, and Jane’s Addiction’s Nothing’s Shocking—but the less people pleasing–inclined of the pair, Siavash, wasn’t interested. “Listen,” he says, slotting a cassette into the stereo and honking as he cuts left across a row of cars. A brooding, quavering scrawl of stringed instruments fills the cabin, repeats and is overlaid with deep, long strings fingered with worn skin. All hangs in the air. It glimmers and grows and menaces. Hamed stares at the approaching end of the city. Siavash shakes his head ever so slightly and hums. We are engulfed in the sound of a terrible awe. A man’s tentative tenor-wail slips in and then away. More raw strings, and then his words come long and mournful and are gone. They return and circle, and it feels we are at a precipice.
“What’s he saying?” I ask.
Our other companion, Mehrak, smiles. “Difficult to translate—It is Iranian singer, Shahram Nazeri, singing Sufi poetry. He sings, ‘Of the thousands of…” Mehrak pauses and touches his fingers to his chest, his face. “Of the thousands of me’s and we’s, which one am I?”
It’s the most beautiful somber music I’ve ever heard. The pain and fear, my gut-wrenching paranoia, fade. The great Kurdish-Iranian singer Shahram Nazeri has sung us into a parallel Persia, a parallel life, via his incantation of Rumi, the 13th century poet. The song is “Mystic,” which opens Nazeri’s 2007 album, The Passion of Rumi.
Siavash smiles as he steers us up the foothills of the Alborz. — Matt Thompson
“One” by U2
U2 has long been known for their political convictions, but their 1992 song “One” evolved into something more universal—an anthem for human rights, social justice, and above all, peace. Ironically, it was written during a period of internal conflict within the band while recording Achtung Baby at Hansa Studios in Berlin, against the backdrop of German reunification. Though it can be interpreted as a breakup song, “One” speaks to the tensions and connections between people: “We’re one, but we’re not the same.” Rather than promoting uniformity, the song honors individuality while calling for unity. Unlike more didactic peace songs, “One” avoids preaching and instead offers a quiet invitation to solidarity: “One life, with each other, sisters, brothers.” — Lily Moayeri
“Partyup,” Prince
Prince largely sang his first four albums in a sensual falsetto, so it’s a little jarring when he finally raises his voice at the end of Dirty Mind to yell “You’re going to have to fight your own damn war, ‘cause we don’t wanna fight no more!” Prince based “Partyup,” the first song he ever performed on Saturday Night Live, on a groove borrowed from Morris Day’s band Enterprise, establishing a recurring theme of Cold War anxiety on his early ’80s albums along with “Ronnie, Talk to Russia” and “1999.” “That song is just about people who’d rather have a good time than go and shoot up one another,” Prince told the NME in 1981. — Al Shipley
“Peace,” Joe Zawinul
Joe Zawinul had already captured something of the essence of peace with his composition “In a Silent Way,” which Miles Davis stripped down to its elements and made into a founding document of ambient jazz. “Peace,” the closing song from Dialects, Zawinul’s supremely ripe 1986 album of synth, drum machines, and processed vocals, shares little with the inward melancholy of that 1969 classic. “Peace” is a pure product of the late Cold War, a time of emerging digital technology and yuppie excess given a hysterical edge by the threat of nuclear catastrophe. Dialects, like many albums of its era, envisions global unity through the power of fruity synthesizers, computerized, tribal rhythms and vaguely ethnic vocals (Bobby McFerrin guests, singing in a Zawinul-devised language). “Peace” is thankfully instrumental, but it has the neon-lit sleekness of its time. Yet, though its whistling, pipe-organ tone is dated—even Yanni-like—it’s not corny, and Zawinul gives it a real complexity and depth. It begins with a rhythmic pulse and brooding, even ominous synth notes. Zawinul quickly brightens it up with a birdlike melody suggesting brighter times ahead, but the slightly sinister edge remains in the background, accompanying the rosier melody in a kind of broken rhythm. “Peace” is a study of light and dark, two zones that dance around each other without ever fully syncing up. Only a steady beat unites them, Zawinul’s reminder that behind all the silicon dazzle and utopian dreams, the troubled, stubborn, and resolutely optimistic human heart remains paramount. — Reed Jackson
“Peace Piece,” Bill Evans
Peace is usually thought of in negative terms—an absence of conflict, strife, or stress. Pianist Bill Evans, in his languid improvisation “Peace Piece,” recorded at the end of the session for his classic1959 album Everybody Digs Bill Evans, imagines peace as an active state. Built around a gentle two-chord progression that echoes Erik Satie, “Peace Piece” glows with meditative beauty. But it doesn’t just instill a sense of immense serenity, it partakes of the mysterious, perhaps paradoxical nature of its subject. In its limpid repetition and delicate, floating rhythm, “Peace Piece” is all transparent surface, yet it contains cloudy depths, as Evans introduces traces of dissonance while tenderly unraveling the harmonies and undermining the melody. Can peace exist without tension, or is it just an idealized version of nothingness? Is it absence or transfigured presence? Is it even attainable for more than a few fleeting moments grasped at the end of a long night? Evans doesn’t provide any answers, but he’s not after answers. “Peace Piece” is just that: a fragment or flicker of something that can never be completely captured or described. But if you’re lucky, you get to live in it for a bit and carry the embers of its quiet fire with you for use in darker days. — Reed Jackson
“Pease Porridge,” De La Soul
De La Soul’s 1989 debut Three Feet High and Rising was celebrated as an oasis of good vibes during the rise of gangsta rap, but the group quickly tired of being called the “hippies of hip-hop” and dismantled their peacenik image on 1991’s De La Soul is Dead. “Pease Porridge” made it clear that the Long Island trio’s positive lyrics didn’t mean they couldn’t throw hands if they were disrespected, with Maseo exasperatedly asking, “Why do people think just because we speak peace we can’t blow no joints?” Trugoy the Dove might have a 9mm pistol on him, but he’d rather keep it tucked and kick a verse of unity (or watch the Simpsons). — Al Shipley
“People Have the Power,” Patti Smith
Patti Smith’s 1988 anthem “People Have the Power,” co-written with her late husband Fred “Sonic” Smith, channels the defiant spirit of 1960s protest songs. As Smith explained in NME Song Stories, their aim was to “reintroduce that energy” of resistance that fueled anti-Vietnam War movements. But “People Have the Power” is more than a nostalgic nod—it’s a timeless rallying cry that continues to surface in protest movements around the world. Delivered with Smith’s quiet authority, the song is both inspirational and commanding, carrying her co-writer’s belief in the transformative power within each individual. Today, its message resonates with particular urgency in Iran, where the people are at a pivotal moment in their long history. As Smith declares: “The people have the power / To redeem the work of fools.” — Lily Moayeri
“Spinning Song,” Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Peace may come for the dead, but what about those left behind? “Spinning Song,” which opens Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ Ghosteen (2019), may begin with a story about Elvis Presley, but ultimately encapsulates Cave’s final intact memory of his wife before they both learned of their son Arthur’s tragic death. Over Warren Ellis’ mournful synth, Cave sings in a rarely used upper register, repeating, “Peace will come, and peace will come, and peace will come in time.” Grief is such a personal emotion, one that can be softened but not completely healed by time. But then again, peace eventually comes for us all. In time, we will all be at peace. — David Harris
“Water No Get Enemy,” Fela Kuti & Africa 70
Afrobeat pioneer Fela Kuti often sang and spoke out against the colonialism and dictatorships that Nigeria suffered under, and he would eventually be jailed by the government in 1984 in retaliation for his activism. Perhaps Kuti’s most profound message of peace can be found in the more philosophical metaphor driving “Water No Get Enemy,” the 11-minute track that takes up the entire second side of his 1975 LP Expensive Shit. Water sustains life, but if your child was drowned in water, it wouldn’t make sense to declare it your nemesis and deprive yourself of water—a poignant concept in a nation where the government used military force against its own people. — Al Shipley
“What’s Going On,” Marvin Gaye
If ever there was a song about peace that continues to remain relevant, it’s the title track of Marvin Gaye’s 1971 album, What’s Going On. Written by Gaye, Renaldo “Obie” Benson of the Four Tops, and Motown songwriter Al Cleveland, the song was inspired by the highly controversial Vietnam War and the police brutality and racism Black citizens were facing in America during the late 1960s. During this point in his career, Gaye wanted to branch out from the Motown sound of “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)” and the other love songs he had become famous for and record music that reflected the injustices that were happening at the time, to which Motown founder Berry Gordy replied, “Marvin, don’t be ridiculous. That’s taking things too far.” With the help of producer Harry Balk, Gaye released it as a single under the Motown Records subsidiary label, Tamla, without Gordy’s knowledge. It wasn’t until the single sold more than 200,000 copies within a week that Gordy reluctantly gave Gaye permission to produce his own music, resulting in his concept album of the same name about a Vietnam War veteran coming back to an America he no longer recognized. Sounds familiar, huh? — Charles Moss
“(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love & Understanding,” Elvis Costello and the Attractions
Though this song was originally written by Nick Lowe and recorded by his band Brinsley Schwarz in 1974, it’s Elvis Costello’s 1979 cover that made it a classic. While Lowe’s version is fun, Costello’s cover—which was released as a B-side to his “Oliver’s Army” single and on the American version of the 1979 album Armed Forces—is an anthemic, rollicking good time that has morphed into a song associated with hope and resilience during times of hardship. Lowe wrote the song in 1973 when it was no longer cool to be a hippie. Originally intending it to be a jokey song about an old hippie being laughed at by the younger generation who were becoming increasingly cynical, Lowe decided to take the song more seriously because, in his words, “…something told me there was a little grain of wisdom in this thing, and not to mess it up.” While Lowe’s version never charted as a single (though the album it appeared on, Labour of Lust, did so at No. 31 on the 1979 Billboard Album Charts), Costello’s cover did at No. 10 on the U.S. Billboard 200. What sets this song apart from its predecessor, besides Costello’s nasally, sardonic vocal delivery, is Pete Thomas’ wildly energetic drum playing, which is enough to inspire even the most cynical of us to believe in peace, love, and yes, understanding. — Charles Moss
“What the World Needs Now Is Love,” Jackie DeShannon
Written by Hal David and Burt Bacharach under the shadow of the Vietnam War and tumult of the 1960s, “What the World Needs Now Is Love” is a waltzing prayer for a better world. Jackie DeShannon’s voice is full of sincere longing as she negotiates with God for a kinder world. The song builds with each repeat of the refrain, until DeShannon, her back-up singers, and the string section unite to turn what started as a gentle prayer into an urgent, desperate plea. If you can’t find more love in this world, this song at least lets you know you’re not alone in asking for it. — Brendan Hay
“White People for Peace,” Against Me!
Like many of the best Against Me! songs, this one is simultaneously deeply earnest and bitterly caustic. Written in response to the U.S.s’ wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in the 2000s, the song calls out how, ultimately, protests and protest songs aren’t going to stop a war. Laura Jane Grace sings about the many reasons why not, including the darkly striking line, “Civilian casualties had been a cost that was predetermined.” Yet at the same time, the song’s anthemic guitars and soaring vocals make you want to get up off your ass. It’s a rallying cry to do something for peace, even if it’s just tilting at windmills. — Brendan Hay
“World Leader Pretend,” R.E.M.
“World Leader Pretend” is the first time R.E.M. included lyrics with an album, so you know the band thought Michael Stipe’s words were pretty important. In the song, inspired by Leonard Cohen, Stipe uses military terminology to explore the complex inner battle of his narrator, a man who has completely shut himself off. Whether he is an actual world leader or a disillusioned loner is immaterial. Like nations that simply build their arsenals rather than use diplomacy, Stipe’s narrator raised the wall himself and knows that only he can knock it down. Perhaps first razing the walls and making peace with ourselves is necessary before attempting to conciliate with others. — David Harris
“World Peace is None of Your Business,” Morrissey
Can we really believe politicians who espouse the desire for world peace? Has there been a modern American president who hasn’t ordered a military strike overseas, denied aid to those in desperate need or turned the National Guard on his own people? Why does the American government hide behind the façade of spreading peace and freedom? Leave it to our favorite (or least favorite) curmudgeon to articulate these inquiries in a song. “World peace is none of your business / So would you kindly keep your nose out,” Morrissey sings in this 2014 song that hasn’t lost any of its relevance as our current administration wantonly bombs Iran and attacks protesters. “Brazil, Bahrain, Egypt, Ukraine / So many people in pain.” If we really cared about peace, we would be doing more. — David Harris
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