Reb Moshe Goldman, a proud and devoted Bobover chassid, was the premier chassidish composer of his time
Photos: Mishpacha and Family archives
Reb Moshe Goldman, a proud and devoted Bobover chassid, was the premier chassidish composer of his time. Many of his joyful marches and slow melodies were icons of the chassidish world, raising a generation on a well-loved, pure and wholesome sound brimming with musicality and heart. Even years after his passing, the haunting pleas of “Pnei Le’elbon” and “Zachreinu Lechaim” echo in shuls the world over come Yamim Noraim, “Baruch Keil Elyon” remains the uplifting anthem of Shabbos morning, and Yiddish ballads like “Eloka DeMeir Aneini” express our hidden emotions with unparalleled intensity. Which songs have especially touched your heart?
The impact of Moshe Goldman’s contribution to the Jewish music industry is well-known, but what’s surprising is the enduring influence of his genre on chassidic music of the last decade, after he’d already passed away. Some of today’s most prominent chassidic music artists still consider Reb Moshe Goldman their rebbi in niggun. With over 380 compositions and 21 albums, Reb Moshe was among the most prolific composers of chassidic music in modern times. But he was more than an artist: He built a foundation on which today’s return-to-roots chassidic music industry still rests.
Reb Moshe was born in Germany in 1952, to a family of Bobover chassidic parents who survived the Nazi death camps and rebuilt their lives. He grew up in Eretz Yisrael, and came to America as a chassan. His soul was intertwined with music (even though he never played an instrument or read notes), and in 1974, an unexpected appointment to direct Camp Shalva, Bobov’s summer camp, jumpstarted his music career — his compositions became part of the camp’s soundtrack. Ten years later, in 1984, he released his first album, Al Har Gavoha — the first of 21 Camp Shalva albums.
Reb Moshe’s secret, say industry insiders, is that he introduced new arrangements and rhythms that hadn’t been used in this genre before, but he also stayed pure — he never allowed wild styles to invade his musical territory.
“For my father, the distribution of his yearly albums was a life’s mission,” his son Reb Chaim Yitzchok told Mishpacha. “He saw it as a kind of holy war against artists who tried to penetrate the cocoon of holy music and introduce foreign styles. He released a new album every year, and when he was asked why he worked so hard to make one album after another, even though it wasn’t always financially prudent, he replied: ‘As long as yeneh chevreh are giving out their stuff, then I won’t rest from producing holy songs.’ ”
Reb Moshe Tzvi Goldman was just 58 when he passed away the week after Purim in 2010 after a protracted illness, yet his compositions, and the path many young artists are still following today, is the legacy that still lives on.
Conductor and arranger
YISROEL LAMM
The Music That Bridged Worlds
Moshe Goldman’s compositions stand out for being very melodic, easy to grasp and easy to sing. He actually had two different styles. There are those songs that feel standard and familiar, nice singable melodies like “Baruch Keil Elyon,” and then there are those where he produced something new and very different, like “Ani Maamin,” which is very original in its kneitshen. I don’t think Moshe himself was aware that he had composed two types of songs.
Chassidishe niggunim before his time had a reputation for being long, complex, and pretty farschlept. Think of a four-part “Keil Adon” melody. But Reb Moshe revamped the style by incorporating a little bit of Carlebach-style with a simplified structure, just a first part and a second part, and by picking up ideas from the yeshivah world. Most of his niggunim have only two parts, like “Ani Maamin,” for example, and they’re chassidish while definitely including Carlebach-style elements. In doing this, he modernized traditional chassidish music and bridged worlds.
Interestingly, I actually came across “Baruch Keil Elyon” myself, as it wasn’t on any of the albums that I’d arranged for Moshe (it’s on the K’nesher album). I heard it sung in shul at Shalosh Seudos, and occasionally requested at weddings, and I thought it was an older chassidish niggun. It was a surprise to me when I heard that it was Reb Moshe’s composition.
Because Reb Moshe was so eidel, working with him was always very relaxed. He was not demanding, never hyper. He never raised his voice, and he did not get defensive when suggestions were made about his music. He had a reputation for getting along easily with everyone in the field, including the engineers, making studio time very pleasant.
Right after one of the albums was released, a young man came over to Reb Moshe in the beis medrash after Shacharis and told him that he’d bought the album but was disappointed in the music, because there was no bass in it. Moshe considered the comment, then told him, “You know what, you’re right, you’re right. Just please, keep it between us, don’t tell anybody.”
Just a few minutes later, another person came over to comment. “You know, on the new album, you had too much bass in the music.”
He said, “You’re right. But please, don’t tell anyone...”
Director, Shira Choir
SHRAGA GOLD
Like a Secret Recipe
I sang on several of Reb Moshe’s albums while I spent my summers in Camp Shalva. Later, when I introduced him to my nephew, Yoeli Teichman, and Yoeli became one of his star soloists, we developed a very close connection. (Yoeli’s father wasn’t thrilled with the idea of his talented son getting into the industry, but when it came to Moshe Goldman, he said, “Reb Moshe can be trusted.”)
A couple times a year, I’d go to Reb Moshe’s house in Boro Park and sit there for hours. We discussed music, but because Reb Moshe was a very smart, straightforward person with a lot of seichel, people would stop by for advice about other things too, from business deals to shalom bayis. On Erev Yom Kippur, MBD would call to wish Reb Moshe a gut yahr and also ask him to daven for Mordechai ben Malka.
Sometimes Reb Moshe would come to Williamsburg to bring me the first draft of an album for a second musical opinion. I remember that on one song, I recognized the music of the interlude — I told him it was very similar to part of a song that already existed. He respected that and changed the music.
When Reb Moshe wrote a song, he actually planned out the whole production with pen and paper: how many repeats, which key, which music, who should sing the solos. He was very creative, and he was very particular. He would note whether each solo would be an adult solo, a child solo, adult and child together, a duet, a strong child’s voice, or a high voice. The voices mattered, and the kneitshen mattered, so that he occasionally had a soloist repeat a line several times.
His son, Chaim Yitzchok, was his right hand, and the engineer in his studio. I was there in the studio when Reb Moshe was working on Isaac Honig’s second album, Adon Hakol, and on his own Shabbos album at the same time. Reb Moshe was a chassid through and through, and the niggunim of Bobov were his natural heritage and primary influence. He had a certain touch — you could always see his fingerprints on his music, almost like a certain secret recipe, a color to the music that made his work hard to imitate. And he had strict boundaries. He felt that chassidish music should be chassidish. He was usually very happy with Moshe Laufer’s arrangements, but occasionally, when something sounded too jazzy, he would ask him to change it. I remember this happening with the song “Hinei Mah Tov,” on the Eilecha Azameirah album.
The albums usually came out after Tishah B’Av and played all over during the summer. My personal favorite songs are “Ve’atah Shema Elokeinu” from (Samachti — Camp Shalva #10), and “Melech Shochein Ad” which he composed for Isaac Honig (on Behar Hamoriah). Alongside those classics that are still played today, there are also some hidden gems, songs that just didn’t get picked up by the crowd, like, for example, the song “Himatzei Lanu Bevakashaseinu” on the Ashira Lashem album.
Composing yielded a side income, but Reb Moshe did it l’Sheim Shamayim, to bring pleasure to Klal Yisrael and to create music with a chassidishe taam. Baruch Hashem, I’m in the music business today, and I can tell you that at almost every chuppah, we’re requested to play either Reb Moshe’s “Pnei Le’elbon” or his “Ani Maamin.” On Succos you can hear the songs “Ko Amar Hashem,” “Ve’al Yedei Avadecha Haneviim,” and “Haben Yakir Li” soaring through the open roofs. Although many years have passed, his songs continue to bring people pleasure, comfort, and uplift, and that has to be a zechus for the soul of Reb Moshe Tzvi ben Binyamin.
Arranger MOSHE LAUFER
I Never Thought It Would Catch On
“I first met Reb Moshe Goldman around 30 years ago on a visit to New York. I have some connection to Bobov, and when Reb Moshe heard I was around, he came over. The first album I worked on for him was Eliyahu Hanavi. All the material was a pleasure to work with, because his tunes were of a very high standard. That meant that the intros also had to be up to par, and Moshe Goldman apparently liked my taste and relied on me.
My intros to “Pnei Le’elbon,” the “Tallis Song” ("K’nesher"), and “Shulem Shulem” were very well received, as was the one for “Maskil LeDovid,” which begins with a saxophone.
After that, he sent me cassettes. There were always people traveling from Brooklyn to Bnei Brak, so he’d send some tapes along. Moshe did not play music himself — he wasn’t a professional in that sense, but only a composer. Usually, it was just a recording of him singing, but occasionally his children accompanied the new songs on the piano.
We met many times when I was in the US, and eventually became good friends.
Personally, I never thought that “Pnei Le’elbon” [Samachti — Camp Shalva #10] would catch on around the world like it did. I thought it was nice, and it definitely reflects the meaning of the piyut, but you can never know. Until today, I still see his style being imitated in chassidic music all over.
Singer ISAAC HONIG
He Realized He Had Something New
Reb Moshe Goldman wrote all the songs for my first album, Samei'ach. I remember that we had chosen nine songs and were still missing one when he called me to come over to his home. He was holding his mini cassette recorder and just catching his breath — a new song had just been born, sung, and recorded, and Reb Moshe himself didn’t even know it well yet. That song, “Min Hameitzar,” became a favorite of mine, and in my view, it was the first song in a set for which Reb Moshe will long be remembered — what I call the “pleading songs,” in which the singer is a petitioner to open the gates of Shamayim. The other songs he wrote in this style are “Pnei Le’elbon” “Koli el Hashem Ezak” and “Melech Maazin Shavah.” They are all arresting, powerful, and very easy to catch on to. Reb Moshe himself realized, I think, that he had come out with something new. It surprised him as well.
Many composers struggle to compose, while Reb Moshe seemed to compose with ease, and with a touching simplicity. Sometimes he was inspired by a particular situation, like when he wrote “V’gam es Noach be’ahavah zacharta...” for someone who did not have children for many years. He used to say “Open up any part of me, and you will find niggunim.” I can remember Moshe Laufer saying with wonder, “How do you make these songs?” Reb Moshe was unique, creating songs that caught everybody and drew everyone in like a net.
Son and choir director YAKOV GOLDMAN
Our typical Friday night seudah would last for a few hours. Sometimes my father would compose a single part of a song on one Shabbos, the next Shabbos he would compose another part of it, and so on. My father would hum the new tune all night and all day, over and over, and it would become the melody of that Shabbos. “Higoleh Na,” for example, was composed over two or three Friday nights.
My father almost never sat down specifically to compose — the songs were generally a product of his personal inspiration. He was not a musician — he didn’t know notes and keys — but he had a good ear and deep emotion. So, if he was looking into the zemiros and his eye fell on certain words, a song might come to him. He was once driving to work on the Palisades Parkway when he composed a song. But soon he forgot it, so he drove back to that same spot on the Parkway, and the tune came back to him — it was the song “Ve’al Yedei Avodecha” (on Im Eshkocheych Yerushalayim — Camp Shalva 3).
Later on, people sometimes contacted him to ask for songs for certain occasions, like when representatives from Satmar asked him to compose a song with the words “Gadol yihyeh kevod habayis hazeh” in honor of a big dedication. He did so, but I don’t think those songs were of the same quality as the ones from his own heart.
On many albums, my father was the one who decided or arranged which part should have a solo, which would be sung by the children’s choir or by adults. In the beginning, before we had our own studio and had to pay for studio time, the choir practiced beforehand and came to the studio ready to record. Sometimes, though, especially with children involved, things could change at the last minute. The Shabbos album, for example, had 20 children, while most of the others had between seven and ten. It’s hard, because when you record, you expect perfection, you want beauty, but these are children after a day at school, and they can get rowdy. My father had a way with them. Still, things could occasionally become tense. After all, we almost always recorded after a full day at school or work. My father was a veteran badchan, so when things got tough, he would crack a great joke that took all the tension out of the air.
In the days when we all used to use the Systems Two studios on Ditmas Avenue, with Joe and Michael Marciano as engineers, I remember that Michael was crying as we recorded “Elokai Neshamah.” We asked why, and he said “I don’t know. I don’t understand the words, but the song is just making me cry.”
People ask about lyrics, but my father wrote Yiddish lyrics only a couple times, for “Eloka D’Meir Aneini” and “Shabbos Lecht.” Other people were involved with other songs. The words of the song “A Neshamah,” which is a long ballad in lyrical, complex Yiddish and has been an injection of strength for so many, were written by a Mrs. Meyer, based on my father’s understanding of a particular mashal in a chassidishe sefer.
One story worth repeating, that I heard from my father: At one point, he did some of the distributing himself, driving to the stores in Monsey, Monroe, and Kiryas Joel with his albums. He once came to Kiryas Joel and was talking to the storeowner, when a Yid in the store, hearing that this was Moshe Goldman the composer, began to hug and kiss him. He said “Your song, ‘Neshamah,’ was mechayeh my daughter.” She was a young woman who has lost six babies to a particular illness and had fallen into a deep depression. She wouldn’t come out of her room and it was very scary for the entire family. Still, whenever a tape came out, they brought it to her, and when this song was released, she listened to it over and over. It helped her to deal with her depression and painful challenges. The couple eventually had a seventh, healthy, surviving child.
