Jack Gottlieb (z'l) talks about his music on WQXR (1980)

With the recent passing of Jack Gottlieb, the Jewish music world has lost a giant. A brilliant and gifted composer, Jack's music was just as captivating and effective in the synagogue as it was on the concert stage (and vice versa.)

In October 1980, Jack celebrated his 50th birthday with an extraordinary concert of his music that I was privileged to attend. (More on that very soon.)

Several days before that concert Jack was interviewed on WQXR radio, and several of his songs were beautifully performed by Julia Lovett, Alberto Mizrahi, and Jay Willoughby. Click on this link to download a 30-minute portion of that program. 

Debbie Friedman's Cantor Controversy, 1980

In my JUF News article on the passing of Debbie Friedman, z"l, I quoted from her letter to Reform Judaism magazine (above) in reaction to a November 1980 piece by Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin (below) on the paradigm shift toward more musical participation that was beginning to take hold in Reform synagogues in the late 1970s.

I don't believe that cantors were opposed to participation, per se. But they were very concerned about the movement away from a more sophisticated composed liturgical-music style toward the burgeoning (if admittedly simpler) folk/pop style. The trend had begun with songs such as Oseh Shalom from the Israeli Chassidic Music Festival beginning in 1968, but found its American voice in the music of Debbie Friedman.

Being a cantorial student at Hebrew Union College at the time, I tried to stay on the sidelines of this debate. As a camp song-leader and creator of some "new trend" music of my own, it may have been obvious which side I was on, but it was also important for me to graduate, and that meant being sympathetic to both sides of the argument (which I was, by the way; I knew that I was young and still had a lot to learn.) So, I'm not suggesting that all cantors were allied against what Debbie represented. And the title of this post is not to make light of what happened. But I do believe that the musical and liturgical issues raised during the 1980s forced cantors and rabbis (and their congregations) to reassess their worship and music, and to ask difficult questions about the nature of communal and individual prayer in liberal synagogues.

Let's not forget that cantors have been at the center of heated debate regarding the music of worship for hundreds of years. Debbie's letter, along with the two others that accompanied it, represented the first salvos of a new chapter in a very old embroglio. (The original article that inspired her reaction appears below.)

Obviously there is much more to say on this topic, and I hope to do just that before too long.

Click (or double-click) on each page to enlarge it.

The Songs of Israel (Part 2)

Anyone who knows anything about Israeli music probably knows the name Naomi Shemer. By every measure she towered over other Israeli songwriters. For half a century her songs were, literally, the voice of a nation and a people. After her death in 2004 it was revealed that she had appropriated the melody of a Basque folksong for Yerushalayim Shel Zahav. The Jewish people held no grudge.

But there was another great female Israeli composer who lived in her shadow for decades, Nurit Hirsh. Her name is less well known in North America, even though her music was (commercially) more successful.

Having a hit song is one thing, but composing a mega-hit, a song that by definition alters the musical landscape, is quite another. By that yardstick, Nurit Hirsh’s Oseh Shalom became the equal of Yerushalayim Shel Zahav, and more. Where did this seemingly “traditional” song come from? Oseh Shalom was one of two hit songs from the first Hassidic Song Festival, held in Tel Aviv during Sukkot of 1969. This is what it sounded like on the very night of its premiere. (The other was V’haeir Eineinu by Shlomo Carlebach, whose wildly popular Hasidic-pop songs had inspired the Festival. In the years following, a dozen or more Hasidic flavored worship standards would emerge from this Festival to become part of the permanent American synagogue repertoire.)

Nurit Hirsh’s new Oseh Shalom arrived on these shores like every other Israeli song in those days – via sh’lichim (emissaries) who came here from Israel in search of olim chadashim (new immigrants). During the spring of 1970 it spread through a network of Hebrew teachers and young rabbis, helped along by high school students returning from their Israeli exchange programs. For those of us strumming our guitars at Jewish camps in 1970 (I was 16) and learning it for the first time, it hit like a bolt of summer lightning.

Yes, during that summer we were gifted with one of the most recognizable Jewish songs in history. Through the summer and into the fall it was on everyone’s lips, and by the following year it felt like an old friend. In Jewish venues across the USA, from synagogues, camps and Hebrew schools to Federations, nursing homes and nightclubs, it became an anthem. Here is NFTY’s recording from 1972. 

Before long, teenagers, emboldened by the power of this new song (and others that would follow) urged their rabbis and cantors to include it in worship services, and many did. But some questioned the appropriateness of such a “simple” tune becoming part of the regular synagogue repertoire. Youth group and camp was one thing, they said, but the bima was another. In 1975 I attended an academic conference on Jewish music, at which I heard a well-known musicologist complain that the repetition of melodic sequences in Oseh Shalom’s B and C sections made it a poor choice for inclusion in synagogue services.

The following summer brought her second mega-hit, Bashanah Haba’ah, to an American Jewish audience now hungry for tuneful, inspiring and spirited new Israeli songs. Hirsh’s bouncy and playful melody, wedded to the late Ehud Manor’s elegant and simple lyrics was a huge hit at camp - we couldn’t stop singing it. By the early ‘70s El Al was using it in TV commercials, so kids would start dancing around the dining hall with arms outstretched like airplane wings whenever it was sung, and before long everyone was doing it.

Bashanah is an enduring song and I love singing it. But it has taken on more than a hint of Catskill kitsh, especially when done in swing time. This may be a legacy of the song’s English language version, “Anytime of the Year” sung by (Brooklyn cantor’s son) Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme. Broadway lyricist Robert Brittan’s “translation” has little to do with the Hebrew, (maybe that’s for the best) and while Steve and Eydie’s swinging 45 rpm version is rarer than rare, this excerpt, sung by Holly Lipton gives you the general idea.

Interpreting Bashanah is a risky affair. Where do you go with it – swing? samba? The song has started to show up in December school “Holiday” concerts as the token Jewish song, which, sadly, can only hasten its decent into dreidle-ization. I’ll give some credit to the San Diego Men’s Chorus for trying a different tack in this YouTube video, and then finish up with two of my personal favorites.

First, from the mid-70s, is the proto-Jewish-rock-group, Tayku, five superb musicians who met while studying Torah at JTS. Bassist David Burger is a highly respected composer and performer, while pianist Matthew (Mati) Lazar has become one of the leading conductors of Jewish choral music on the planet. It's an inventive arrangement. The Latin treatment is, trust me, (as I have said before) cutting edge for its time. I only wish I had a better sounding LP version, but sadly, a CD transfer was never released. Listen here.

Two decades later we have a very refreshing straight ahead rock treatment by the Boston based (and quite Beatlesque) Yom Hadash, one of our great contemporary Jewish bands, from their first album, When We Were Young. Listen here.

How can I end a tribute to Nurit Hirsh without taking note of her third big hit, Abanibi? Here’s the video. The cute disco hit (I actually kind of like it) gave Israel its first ever 1st Prize at the Eurovision Song Contest in 1978, paving the way for Halleluyah, video here, which also won 1st Prize for Israel the following year (and probably earned more money than anything either Shemer or Hirsh ever composed.) Eurovision songs have never been accused of heft - let’s just say the bubblier and bouncier your song is, the better your chance of taking home a prize.

The Songs of Israel (Part 1)

Happy Birthday Israel! What a proud and momentous celebration - six decades of statehood. I still treasure the memories of my first trip to Israel in 1978. I lost count of how many times I’ve visited since then, each trip unique and wonderful.

No aspect of Israel means more to me than her songs. They are her heartbeat and pulse, her very spirit. They live within me and I take them everywhere I go. They bathe my brain in beauty and memory. They conjure up the sand, the shuk, the Sea, the Golan, the Kotel, the sky, the heat, the air, the bitter and the sweet. Israel's songs are medicine for the soul, three-minute doses of strength and hope.

So what better way for me to celebrate these 60 years than to offer some reflections on The Songs of Israel as I know them and sing them, filtered through my ears and my heart. They are the musical signposts of my own journey through Israel’s recent past.

I grew up singing the old songs, the classics: Artza Alinu, Zum Gali Gali, Eretz Zavat Chalav... Hinei Ma Tov (in waltz time) is the first Hebrew song I remember learning. These were songs of yearning with few words and simple melodies. Sweaty and heroic, they serenaded the draining of swamps by day, then fueled a night of horas at week’s end. In those early years, schmaltzy old tunes from Russia were brilliantly retrofitted to accompany the exquisite poetry of Yonatan, Rachel, Bialik and Chefer. Later came the love songs, soft and plaintive, evocations of the Good Land, songs like Dodi Li and Iti Milvanon (both from Shir Ha-shirim, composed by Nira Chen).

The Six Day War in 1967 was the catalyst for a new and contemporary outpouring of song, now influenced by the American folk revival, and by tunes brought from around the world with each wave of immigrants to the young country. The most famous of this period is the late Naomi Shemer’s Yerushalayim Shel Zahav, a song so beloved it serves as a secondary national anthem and appears in many siddurim (prayerbooks).

As we count these days of the omer, I will be counting the songs of Israel that have meant so much to me, and blogging about them here.

Let’s begin with a spectacular moment from 30 years ago: Barbara Streisand talks to former Prime Minister Golda Meir on national TV, then sings Hatikva to celebrate Israel’s 30th birthday. Raised in Brooklyn, Streisand learned early on how to shed her accent, a talent that served her well on Broadway and in Hollywood. Listen to her perfect elocution as she introduces the humble Golda, slipping into comfy Brooklyneese for the chit-chat, then effortlessly back again, before singing a stunning Hatikva!

Songs for your seder from Kol B'seder

Maybe you already have these on CD, perhaps on cassette tape, or maybe you don't, but here's some Pesach music to sing at your seder from Kol B'seder.

In Every Generation - mp3 - lyrics - music: page1 - page2 - page3  Here is "B'chol dor vador" from the Haggadah (just after Dayeinu), that we must see ourselves as personally delivered from Egypt.  We sing the Hebrew with the traditional wording, and also in a gender-neutral Hebrew version. The English is a reminder that just as we must "look upon ourselves as if from slavery we were freed," we must also, "look around and help all the ones who are in need." (By the way, that's the incredible Howard Levy on harmonica.)

The Ten Plagues - mp3 - lyrics - music: page1 - page2  This song is not just a handy way to remember the order of the plagues. It reminds us of a midrash that the Eternal rebuked the angels for rejoicing at the destruction of Pharoah's army saying, "My children are drowning in the sea..."  The drops of wine we spill from our cups are thus, in a way, like tears.

If you'd like to sing and play more of our music, here's a special offer on our Songbook.

Uno Chi Sa?...When In Rome

As long as we're globetrotting, here is another version of Echad Mi Yode'a, this time in Italian, "Uno Chi Sa?", from the Roman tradition.  My trip to Rome in 1989 (visiting my wife, Deeana, who was doing a fellowship in history at the American Academy) had a profound effect on me.  I found the Roman liturgical  music - which has been carefully preserved for generations - to be meaningful in a very personal way.  For myself, who grew up without a distinct Jewish musical tradition of my own and thus had to create one (I'm speaking of the so-called "American nusach" folk style of liturgical song), having the opportunity to experience and absorb the Roman tradition for nearly six weeks felt very comforting.  So much so, that when we were both back home, we decided to adopt their melody for the Shabbat evening Kiddush as our family tradition, which has continued to the present.  I'll get back to all this in a future post, but for now here is a sweet little macaroon of a seder song. Recorded in 1985, the two wonderful soloists (hazzanim) are Rav Haim Vittorio Della Rocca and Rav Avraham Alberto Funaro.  The Italian lyrics may be found here (just scroll down a bit).

Echad Mi Yode'a from Syra in Judeo-Arabic

Every Pesach I try to convince my wife that I am actually Sephardic, and thus we should be able to eat rice and kitniyot on Pesach.  (I was spoiled by the one year we went to Jerusalem during Pesach and realized I could just walk into Supersol, pretend I was Mizrahi and buy a container of the best hummos I've ever had. Now, that was heaven - on matzah.)  Well, each year she doesn't buy it.  With the first seder on motzei Shabbat this year, the kitchen is about to be turned upside down so she can start cooking.  I may have to keep my bagels in the basement freezer this week, thaw them with a hairdryer and eat them in the car.  I do try to incorporate as many Sephardic melodies into the seder as I can, along with songs from Israel, Russia, Germany, Italy and the USA.  This amazing version of Echad Mi Yode'a from Syria has an incredible back story that you can read about on my web site, here.  The printed lyrics in Hebrew/Judeo-Arabic are here (page 1; page 2) and in transliteration (slightly different wording) here.  No other melody gets me into the mood for the seders like this one. It has a beat that may as well be trance music - it's hard to explain but it really moves me. Singing it after four cups of wine, I don't hold back.  (Hint: it's a good way to clear out the last few lingering guests.) The wonderful old gentleman who recorded this, Avraham Malki, z"l, taught me how to say "Hazak U'varuch" (the Sephardic equivalent of "Baruch Tih'ye") and it stuck.  That's what I say all the time in response to the ubiquitous "Yashar Koach" in shul. So, maybe I do have Sephardic blood in me after all. 

"Adir Hu in the traditional method..."

That is how my grandfather, Bernard "Barney" Klepper, z"l, introduces the Pesach melody taught to him by his Romanian grandfather 100 years ago, on a scratchy old record that floated around my extended family for years until I found out about it and got a taped copy.  (I'm told the original disc no longer exists.) Every time I hear NPR's 'Lost and Found Sound'  I think this recording would be perfect for it.  The story: in 1942 my grandfather and his three siblings sat around a microphone and recorded their favorite seder songs, including the gypsy-klezmer inflected Adir Hu and the equally infectious Chad Gadya.  No one's quite sure how the recording session came about, and that generation is gone, but there is something both spooky and comforting about hearing the voices of your ancestors from beyond the grave. The complete 12 minute recording can be found here.