What is it? What’s the secret of Yigal Calek's music, the way it flows not past you, but through you?

Last month, we took the liberty of offering post-election analysis a month after the election.

This month, the obliviousness goes further as we attempt to pay tribute to a person who left the world on Succos.

But it’s not a hesped, which is forbidden on these days. Once again, it’s an attempt at social commentary.

One of the great advantages of learning in yeshivah in Eretz Yisrael is that it offers young adults the chance to truly understand the differences between American and European bochurim.

There are several, but I focus on a particular one, brought home during Kabbalas Shabbos in one of the downstairs rooms of Beis Yisrael shtiblach. (This was the late ’90s. I have been there since and it’s not the same — well-intentioned gabbaim having slapped down marble slabs, expanded rooms, added sinks, and worst of all, replaced the single wilted, soiled, ragged towel that devotedly served hundreds of people each day.)

The weekly minyan was composed entirely of bochurim from Mir, who would then hurry off to seudos in Arzei, Maalot Dafna, and Sanhedria Murchevet, where they would be served apple crisp and chicken. (Different time. Even wealthy American couples didn’t serve meat on Shabbos, and chicken was on the bone. Remember, there were no magazines then, so how could anyone have any recipes?)

The baal tefillah chose a popular tune for Lecha Dodi, starting with gusto, members of the minyan eagerly joining in, but when he reached the high part, he paused. He seemed to freeze in place. I chapped what happened, because I’ve been there — he blanked, forgetting how the song continued.

Eventually, some baal chesed rescued him, continuing the song, but what I recall is the look of pure horror on the face of a slight British bochur next to me. His eyes opened wide and he blushed in empathy with the humiliation of the baal tefillah.

But the baal tefillah himself, an American, found it hilarious. He turned around after davening, beaming with pride, and for weeks after, he would recall the moment for anyone who asked and even those who did not.

The encounter confirmed my suspicion that in England, if someone goes off-key during a kumzitz, security immediately arrives and politely, but firmly, leads him out of the room while the other participants lower their eyes then resume singing in perfect harmony.

It’s the precision of good music meeting the precision of the British, and it can make for an intimidating mix.

Enter Yigal Calek.

What is it? What’s the secret of his music, the way it flows not past you, but through you?

It was on Chanukah of 2021 that London Boys Choir-love reached its international peak, no longer the first choice just for real snobs or people with many sisters. There was something mesmerizing in those much-publicized clips of gray-haired choir alumni farbrenging with their old director, the synergy and wordless flow between them, the way his withered hands functioned as a baton pulling forth intricate harmonies, a flick of his wrist able to speed or slow down the tempo as if he were turning a dial.

Those videos were magic. Every so often, my phone’s memory is full and I need to delete all videos — but those are the ones I keep re-saving out of an irrational fear that they will disappear and no one else on the planet will be able to access them.

And in those clips lies the answer.

A great salesman is necessary only when the product itself needs pushing; if the item being sold is desirable, then even a poor agent will succeed.

This was a man who clearly believed in his product, who felt that the poetry inherent in a pasuk or phrase of tefillah was enough for it to sell itself. It was musical purism — he shot high, confident that if the words were presented along with his interpretation of their tune, then people would connect.

He didn’t need lyrics that instantly, obviously suggest broken hearts and Jewish tears, because he believed that the poetry inherent in the scene of a mother bird sent away from her children is no less potent, that the drama of Devorah’s reproach to the people of Reuven, who appeared to choose the bleating of sheep over the honor of joining their people in war, would move us, if the resonance of her words could be reflected in cadence and tune.

What we have lost is not just the man and not just his compositions, but also that approach and its authenticity.

Today, music comes with built-in distractions, gimmicks to keep people engaged for more than one low part and one high part. If the words of a pasuk or tefillah are too complex or intricate, then it’s okay to surgically replace them with easier Hebrew or English ones, ’cause it’s all about inspiring people.

Okay, changing times, changing needs, fine, but we can at least appreciate the fact that Yigal Calek wrote songs that you will never see anyone singing at a kumzitz in a winery. (Yes, it’s a thing.)

I have a ra’ayah. If you can find those videos, look (if you can’t, I happen to have them saved on my phone), and you will notice something. There is a nice crowd, in a balabatishe home, with elegant furnishings, and ample refreshments, but there is little by way of decor: no party-planner forced lighting, no indication that anyone worked on creating a vibe, no oversized meat boards or uncorked bottles positioned at symmetrical intervals down the length of table, with waiters and bartenders hovering to ensure an endless supply of emotion.

(A friend was recently making a simchah, and the agent assembling the orchestra listed off various options and prices, then asked him if he davka wanted chassidishe musicians. My friend wondered why he would care if the trombone player wore a gartel during davening or not.

“Forget it,” the agent mumbled, “whatever… just some people like the flying peyos look, the optics of it, you know?”)

Actually, in those London clips, there are ornaments on display: a large menorah in the corner surrounded by smaller ones, because it is Chanukah.

From Heaven, it had been perfectly choreographed. Yavan got optics, a world where splendid music reflected visual elegance, external layers of glamour complementing one another. We also believe in beauty, but for us, it evokes and reflects the neshamah within.

If the oil is pure, you can strike a match, ignite the wick, stand back, and behold the simplest, most unadorned beauty. The externals have changed many times over the past 2,200 years — different language, clothing, architecture, and art — but the flickering flames that told a story then do so now, and if you believe that, you can lean in close and hear their song.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)