Blessed Returns

Motty Steinmetz recently released his third album, Emunah u’Bitachon, after over a dozen popular singles and two full albums, Haneshama Bekirbi and Atik Yomin; but until a little over a decade ago, hardly anyone knew of the sweet singer with the soul-stirring voice outside the confines of the chassidus.

Yet nothing here hints to international fame. Kiryat Vizhnitz is its own little world nestled into the bustling metropolis of Bnei Brak, with all the needs of a chassid’s life within reach: a beis medrash, Talmudei Torah, yeshivos, kollelim for avrechim, simchah halls, a senior home, a matzah bakery, supermarkets and grocery stores, a guest house, and even a cemetery. And these days, of course, the eyes of the residents are focused on Moshav Ora near Jerusalem, where the Rebbe (Rav Yisrael ben Leah Esther, may he have a refuah sheleimah) is currently staying after a series of exhausting medical treatments overseas.

But while everything from the crowded streets to the no-talking rule during davening in the Vizhnitz shul points to the simplicity of chassidic life, we see it most inside the Steinmetz family home. It was only a year ago that Reb Moshe’s father-in-law, Rabbi Avraham Weg a”h, lived here together with them. Reb Avraham was a “Meron Yid,” spending nearly every Shabbos and many weekdays in Meron at the tomb of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai. He would sit by the tziyun, learn Zohar, say the entire Sefer Tehillim, eat and sleep sparingly, and essentially shelter in the shade of Rashbi.

“Even in the last period of his life,” Motty recalls, “Zeide wouldn’t forgo those trips to Meron. In the past few years, I had the privilege of driving him, and in fact when I bought my car, I wrote on the bank transfer, ‘For the honor of Rashbi’ — as Rebbe Shlomke of Zvehil would say, that expenses incurred for the honor of Rashbi come back to you. Zeide passed away on Motzaei Shabbos, and the Wednesday before he was still in Meron, in a kind of chilling farewell.

“I’m trying to keep up Zeide’s tradition,” Motty continues, “to make the trip up to Meron once a week, learn a little Zohar at the tziyun, and pick some hadasim in honor of Shabbos from a special tree in the moshav, just like Zeide did every week.”

Cry with Them

Music, it turns out, has been an inseparable part of the Steinmetz family for generations.

“My father’s father, Rav Yechiel Steinmetz, Hashem yikom damo, was among the staunch chassidim in the court of the Ahavas Yisrael of Vizhnitz,” Reb Moshe relates. “After the Rebbe’s passing, when the Imrei Chaim took on the leadership of the chassidus in the city of Grosswardein, he honored my grandfather to serve as chazzan for Shacharis on Rosh Hashanah.”

Reb Moshe relates that his zeide actually added a few original “teniyos” that became part of the nusach. One of them was in the piyut “BaShamayim Uva’Aretz” on the words chai olamim, tahor einayim.

“A year later,” Reb Moshe says, “the Rebbe reminded my father about it. My father, Mendel Steinmetz, went through the Holocaust as a young teenager, somehow surviving Auschwitz when he was just fourteen. After the war, he and his older brother, Reb Yossel, made it to Antwerp, where the Imrei Chaim of Vizhnitz was residing. Tatte wanted to continue on to Eretz Yisrael, but Yossel worried for his spiritual future there, hearing about the pioneering spirit and how people were casting off the yoke of Shamayim.

“So the two of them went to ask the Imrei Chaim’s advice. The Rebbe didn’t cancel my father’s plans, but turned to him and said: ‘Do you remember, Mendel, how your father would trill, chai olamim, tahor einayim before the war?’ The Rebbe repeated and hummed the sounds of the teniyeh, signaling to my father that whatever he decided, he must hold on to the sounds of his father’s tradition, which would protect him against the dangerous winds blowing.”

In the end, Mendel Steinmetz remained in Antwerp, while Reb Moshe moved to Eretz Yisrael after his wedding. Years later, toward the end of his life, his father followed. For Reb Moshe’s son Motty, that move would be transformative.

“I was 14 when my zeide moved from Antwerp to Israel,” Motty relates. “For the next two years, I spent my days in yeshivah and my nights at his bedside. He was a living, breathing musical archive and he taught me his entire repertoire of old Vizhnitz melodies. The truth is that nobody sings those songs anymore — but I know them and I think that having them inside of me makes a difference in the songs I do sing.”

Rabbi Moshe Steinmetz himself has been a member of the Vizhnitz choir for years, led by the famed chassidic conductor Rabbi Binyamin Hartman a”h. When he was little, Motty would tag along with him, standing near him and trying to sing along. He also got to join his father in the monthly Rosh Chodesh seudos for members of the choir together with the previous rebbe, the Yeshuos Moshe ztz”l.

“I’d get to go with my father into the Rebbe’s study and get a candy, a little pat, and feel so excited,” Motty recalls.

Motty says he always loved to sing, although he never considered himself especially talented. Other kids did, though, and when their bar mitzvahs rolled around, those classmates invited him to sing.

“I still remember how thrilled I was when I, too, was asked to join the choir. For me there was no greater honor,” Motty says. “There came a point when I wanted to take professional voice lessons, but where I grew up nobody did that. And in any case, it really wasn’t in my parents’ budget. So I let it go, telling myself that even if my voice wasn’t as professional as it could be, I could still enjoy singing, for me.”

As his friends started getting married, Motty would entertain the crowds at the weddings with typical grammen, but he soon realized he could add another dimension. The kabbalas panim in Vizhnitz before the chuppah is a very emotional event, with undertones of the Yamim Noraim davening and atmosphere — but there are some chassanim who have a hard time connecting to those feelings.

“That became my job,” Motty says, “to break down those barriers and get the tears flowing. When I sang, I knew I was helping the chassan connect with the most important day of his life. I’d see tears trickle down his cheek, and soon I’d be crying too.”

Motty, though, was still pretty much of an unknown outside the chassidus. His big breakthrough into the broader Jewish music industry came after a chance meeting with Ruvi Banet, son of the Seret-Vizhnitz “court composer” Rabbi Chaim Banet, and a famous arranger and producer in his own right. Motty was invited to sing at a fundraising dinner in Jerusalem, and Ruvi Banet was conducting the orchestra. The connection between them was immediate. Banet — a second generation to deep understanding in good music — was enchanted by the unique voice and became the patron of the wonderboy who almost no one yet knew.

Fast Track

The road from that Jerusalem dinner to the Jewish music world’s most coveted stages was short and fast. Half a year later, he was invited to an event in Monsey, but the organizers got off cheap: an airline ticket and a thousand dollars. Needless to say, the rates have risen since then.

But the remuneration notwithstanding, the trip was an important connector.

“At that event, I met Shraga Feivel Gold from Shira choir, who told me that they were organizing the upcoming Shabbos in Los Angeles at the home of philanthropist and occasional composer Rabbi Shlomo Yehuda Rechnitz, who was then making a bar mitzvah for his orphaned nephew, following the passing of the boy’s mother just a few weeks earlier. He invited me to join them and of course I agreed. On the way to Los Angeles we both learned the song ‘El Han’ar Hazeh’ that Reb Shlomo Yehuda had composed for the celebration, which would become one of my first recorded singles.”

A month later, when he again spent Shabbos at Reb Shlomo Yehuda’s table, he also met Mordechai Ben David. A short time later, the two of them released the song “Vese’arev,” another Rechnitz tune.

“Sometimes I just can’t make sense of how fast all this happened, how I became this public figure whose voice and face are recognized wherever I go,” Motty admits. “But when I get letters from cancer patients who say my singing helps them forget they’re sick for a few minutes, it’s worth it. Obviously, though, I don’t have much privacy. I have to hurry to shul so people won’t stop me on the way with their questions, comments, and suggestions.… But when someone in Flatbush walked up to me and told me the yarmulke on his head is there because of a song he heard me sing, or the sports trainer from Herzliya who found me outside my parents’ house last Purim and told me how he landed on my song after having an inexplicable urge to look up the words ‘Atah Bechartanu,’ who am I to argue?”

While Motty’s popularity soared in the chassidic music world, what branded his name into the general public consciousness of Israelis around the country was the storm that erupted following a Supreme Court ruling in the summer of 2019 banning his separate-seating concert in Afula, under the banner of equality and illegal segregation.

The High Court overturned a local court decision allowing the gender-segregated concert, accepting the petition from the Israel Women’s Network claiming separate seating contravenes the principle of equality. Meanwhile, while the High Court was deliberating, the mayor of Afula — following the local court’s ruling — announced that the concert would be held with full gender segregation, in accordance with the wishes of the crowd who’d purchased separate-seating tickets.

The High Court ruling came too late, though: By the time it was handed down, the separate-seating concert was nearly over.

Still, the following week, the High Court had the last word, canceling a male-only concert in Haifa that had already been sold out — the only one of over 300 events put on by the city over the summer geared toward the local chareidi population — featuring Motty Steinmetz and MBD. While the Court succeeded in banning the concert, the reaction was not what they expected: Suddenly, even secular Israelis were talking about Motty Steinmetz and his uncompromising principles in not singing for mixed crowds, and everyone wanted to hear his chassidic playlist.

When Motty realized that his music was touching a broader swath of society, he decided to collaborate with other artists who have different singing styles and target audiences. Still, it was clear to him that he couldn’t do a duet with just any entertainer — it would have to be with someone spiritually and Torah-sensitive.

Perhaps that explains the success of “Nafshi,” which he released together with Ishay Ribo.

“Ishay is an exceptional artist,” Motty says. “From the beginning of his career, he committed to perform only songs of holiness and spirituality, and so I felt it was the right choice for me. And even so, I debated a lot with myself and consulted a lot about it — I have a responsibility to the public that listens to me, people who don’t want to be exposed to unsuitable content. I waited an entire year until I decided to release it.”

The Broader View

Although Motty’s star has risen, Reb Moshe isn’t accustomed to media interviews or flashing cameras — and that’s just fine for his famous son. While Reb Moshe sits at the table, his conversation imbued with Torah and chassidus, Motty is obviously comfortable sitting at his side, basking in his love and wisdom. He’s sung on stages around the world, yet precisely here, in the small, simple, warm home — he gets his inspiration and guidance.

But had Reb Moshe ever even heard of Ishay Ribo?

“Did I know Ribo?” he laughs humbly. “In truth, even today I don’t know him. But why should that matter? As soon as Motty decided that this was the right thing to do, it’s not my business to go check his tzitzis. Motty is married and a father of children. He makes his own decisions. But yes, we spoke about it and he explained to me that this is an artist who is kosher and G-dfearing. That was, in my eyes, the only important point.

“A Yid doesn’t need to be ‘square’ within his framework, to close himself off in his dalet amos and ignore everything around him,” Reb Moshe continues. “It’s important that there is a broader view. In this particular matter, for example, I knew there would be the great benefit that more and more Jews would discover Jewish music and draw closer to Hashem through it. That’s not to say that, as with everything, we can compromise on even one clause in the Shulchan Aruch, but to cooperate with a Jew who is G-dfearing and upstanding, what does it matter that he’s not considered ‘one of us’ or ‘heimish’ by our standards?”

In Reb Moshe’s world, a different division exists. Are these things that draw a person close to his Creator or things that distance him? Yet how did he react with his own son, seeing the path on which he was headed, whom he probably would have liked to see sitting in kollel instead of singing on world stages and living in a world of fans?

“First of all,” Reb Moshe says, “with Motty it’s clear that his path was paved from Shamayim in order to draw Yidden closer to Hashem. He was endowed with all the tools and talents for that, so it’s clear that he should utilize those talents. Who am I to interfere with that? How can one refuse such a Heavenly demand?

“And besides,” he continues as Motty blushes slightly, “Motty is very careful about clear rules he set for himself regarding modesty and holiness, and he’s also prepared to forego personal profit for the sake of those principles. But regardless, there’s still the question: ‘Is this my goal in the world?’ According to the path that was paved from Shamayim, the answer is that apparently this is the route. Motty only needs to carry it out with erlichkeit, yiras Shamayim, and all the preventive gedarim of halachah and chassidus.”

As a parent, Reb Moshe is fortunate in that Motty’s success hasn’t compromised his standards. But what about parents whose children have gone quite far from the way they were raised?

It’s a question that Reb Moshe, a prominent figure in the chassidus, is often asked. As in every religious sector today, there is often confusion and challenge, even as all of us would like our children to continue along exactly as we raised them.

“True, there is a lot of pain in this generation, but we as parents must remember that each of our children has to forge his own path, which is charted out for him from Shamayim. We ourselves also undergo many changes over the course of our lives. Each of us has his inner storms, the upheavals that follow us through life. But when we remember Who is the Ruler of the Palace and that everything is done through wondrous Divine Providence, we have the strength to make peace with what we pass through. When a person learns to internalize that Hashem manages everything down to the finest details, he’ll also look that way at the choices his children make and will understand his place as a parent and an educator.

“Nevertheless,” Reb Moshe continues, “we also can’t neglect the duty to guide and direct our children, with sensitivity and gentleness. Yet when words don’t help, we go back to remembering that not everything is in our hands. And of course, not to stop davening. That’s the first and last stop — our one non-negotiable address in every situation.”

Yet there’s one caveat: “No matter what’s happening,” he says, “the connection between the parent and the child must not be harmed. Be vigilant about this. Always. It doesn’t matter what the child engages in, it doesn’t matter what choices he’s made in his life. Call, take interest, show caring and closeness. Believe me — you won’t regret it.”

It’s a question often directed to Motty as well.

“I’m often stopped by parents wondering whether to develop their son’s musical talents. I understand their hesitance — what if the kid becomes really successful and can’t deal with it? Because, in all honesty, the music world has a lot of not-so-nice places. But if a person has talent and doesn’t express it, there’s a danger in that, too. A child with that kind of gift needs to let it out. A person who has talent and doesn’t express it lives with a constant, nagging sense of loss. When I was a teenager, I walked around with that sense, so I get it. At about 18, 19, I told myself that’s it, I don’t have a chance — at most I’ll be a wedding singer. Then all this happened. I received incredible siyata d’Shmaya.

Emunah Training

That’s one reason Motty decided to call his new album Emunah Ubitachon. It’s also the title track of a long composition in Yiddish that tells of a widow whose husband and infant son passed away. Only after she strengthened herself in trust and understood that all the ways of Hashem are for the ultimate good even though that’s not usually revealed to us, did her husband appear to her in a dream at night and disclose to her why this happened.

“The truth is that I had doubts about using this as the title of the album,” Motty says. “In the end I decided to go with it, because lema’aseh, today, everyone has a pekel. The Rebbe always says that the word emunah is connected to the root of the word ‘imun — training,’ that we need to constantly be training and strengthening ourselves in the idea that everything that happens is done out of complete goodness, even when reality seems to be otherwise.”

Has Reb Moshe had a chance to listen to the new album? “Of course,” he says, surprised at the question. “For two hours I sat and listened. And the next morning, I ran into Ruvi Banet and told him that because of him I couldn’t sleep at night, that I didn’t go to sleep until I heard over and over again all the special songs.”

Reb Moshe can listen confidently, because he knows he can rely on his son, even as he’s out there in the world of glitz and glitter.

“You know, when my world suddenly became bigger and glitzier than anything I knew from my sheltered chassidish upbringing, I drew on tools from two sources,” Motty relates. “The first is the message my parents constantly repeated: ‘We’re in Olam Hazeh to serve. That’s what a Jew comes to the world for.’ My father never related to my talent and my siblings’ talents as anything we can take credit for. He told us it’s a gift from Hashem and not something we made for ourselves, so there’s no reason to feel any gaavah. I just try to put what I learned at home into practice, and it keeps me sane in a very big, very challenging world.

“Then there’s Vizhnitz. I’m lucky that in Vizhnitz you’re not allowed to talk during davening, and there are people in charge of enforcing that, so at least when I come to shul I can focus on my davening — no questions, no appeals, no curious kids. And beyond the quiet and the privacy, there’s the reality check of a community that prizes Torah learning and avodah much more than any hit song.

“But it’s also so much more than that. Vizhnitz put the heart into my voice. All those years I spent standing at the tish near the Rebbe, crying and singing, helped form the way I approach music and the way I sing. I wouldn’t miss Yamim Noraim davening with Vizhnitz for anything or any price. I guess you could say it’s my girsa deyankusa, which is with me until today.”

— Shlomi Gil contributed to this report.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1079)