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“Miriam Israeli’s lyrics give context to the broader vision”

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aakov Shwekey’s recently released Musica album is exactly on trend, featuring energized anthem-style songs with original theme-based lyrics and catchy melodies. Behind the scenes, talented lyricist Miriam Israeli keeps on crafting those distinctive, powerful words. As the creative brain behind the words to Benny Friedman’s spirited “Ivri Anochi,” and “Yesh Tikvah,” among dozens of other well-known songs, Miriam is responsible for the Hebrew and English words to many of the tracks on Musica, including “Aish,” “Netzach Yisrael,” “One Heart,” “Perfect World,” and the title track “Musica.”

“When I wrote ‘Maamin Benissim’ [“Ani maamin benissim, ani yodeia sheyesh Elokim… yishlach li et haneis sheli”] I had an inspiration and I sent it off to Yaakov Shwekey,” says Miriam. “But for Musica, the concepts were all Shwekey’s and Yitzy Waldner’s, and they approached me for lyrics.”

She says that working with singers and producers who have strong ideas about the music they want to produce makes her job easier. “They had already come up with a concept for each song,” she says. “They had ideas about exactly what sound they wanted, which was a bit of a challenge for me, but also healthier, because it’s much harder if an artist has no confidence in his own vision.”

Miriam composes, too, and when Shwekey mentioned the idea for a song using the theme “Netzach Yisrael lo yeshaker,” which attests to the eternal existence of the bond between Hashem and Klal Yisrael, Miriam came up with both lyrics and a melody — although the end product didn’t incorporate her melody.

Sometimes a burst of inspiration is enough to carry the creation of the song from inception to completion, but there are also times when Miriam wrestles with each word. “For ‘One Heart,’ I wrote the English section right off the bat, standing at the bus stop one morning [“You and I have shared one heart, we were never meant to be apart”], but the Hebrew was trickier. It needed a lot of moving around until it ‘sat’ right on the melody,” she recalls.

Usually, the melody is composed first and acts as an inspiration for the lyrics. But for the song “Aish” [“Tadlik et haeish, tagid im yesh, nair et halaylah kulo…”], Miriam received only the concept. She wrote lyrics, which gave Yitzy Waldner the inspiration to compose a melody. But the words didn’t fit exactly and had to be rewritten. The melody was tweaked, and then the lyrics were tweaked again. Eventually, Miriam says, the composer came back with the song’s final arrangement, “and it blew me away. It was just so strong.”

The song “Yishtabach Shemo,” on the other hand, was completed right away, no redrafting or second versions [“Yishtabach Shemo, al kol ma shebara li, al kol ma shekarah li…”]. As for the album’s title track, “That was a fun one to write,” says Miriam. “I instantly loved the melody.”

Today’s lyrics are simple yet sophisticated. Miriam admits that she sometimes compromises on her original word choices for the sake of simplicity or rhythm, but her audience will never know. Like artists in all media, she says, “You can go on perfecting something forever, but at some point you have to close on a final version.”

Yiddish was actually Miriam’s first language, but once she started school, English moved into first place. Her songwriting career has taken off in both English and Hebrew, jumpstarted with songs like “Ima Tagidi Li,” which was written for a BJJ Seminary production. “Early on, I used to get stuck for words in Hebrew and would call a cousin to help me out,” Miriam explains. Although that’s no longer an issue, she says that a song like “Vehaya Hashem L’Melech” (on Mordechai Shapiro’s Machar album) “has a sophistication I could not have managed in Hebrew.” In Benny Friedman’s “Gut Shabbos” and Tzvi Silberstein’s “Todah,” she wrote Yiddish parts as well, and recently a well-known chassidic producer and singer has ordered Yiddish lyrics for an upcoming song.

Despite the cynicism that has come along with excessive commercialization, Miriam says the holy purpose of Jewish music is alive and well. “We artists are bringing out something from within ourselves, and even if it’s commercialized, it can still be real at its core. I believe singers really do want to inspire and make people happy and bring them closer to their roots.”

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 721)

Musica
Yaakov Shwekey
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With Flying Colors

Walking home from shul recently, I bumped into my friend Hilly Gross, who never fails to comment on my articles. But he wondered why I never wrote about my 15 seconds of fame on the Carnegie Hall stage. He told me it was one of the funniest things he had ever seen at a concert. He was right. I smile just thinking about it.

It was back in 1993, and I was organizing a benefit concert for Russian Jewry at the prestigious Carnegie Hall, starring Abie Rotenberg and the Journeys group. Abie and I decided that the first song would be “The Atheist Convention,” a song from the Journeys III album about three passengers traveling to the Atheiest Convention in L.A. — one was Peter, the lawyer from Manhattan, the other was Mohammed, a used-car salesman from Sheepshead Bay, and the third was Howard, a Jewish dentist from Woodmere. There was also a chassid on the flight, who elicited some sarcastic comments from the atheist trio — until the plane began to decelerate and almost crashed. (In the end, the plane rights itself and they all have a religious awakening — Peter becomes a priest, Mohammed becomes an imam, and Howard becomes frum.)

To make the presentation more interesting, besides for singing the song, the Journeys troupe decided to act it out. Abie was the narrator, Yussi Sonnenblick was Peter, Dr. Meir Abittan was Mohammed, and Dr. Elli Kranzler was Howard. Abie asked me who we could get to play the part of the chassid, sitting across the aisle from them eating a kosher meal.

Then Abie gave me this look, and I realized what he was thinking. “Believe me, you do not want to hear me sing,” I told him.

“Ding,” he said, “it’s just one line. How badly can you botch it up?”

After a little persuading, I agreed. I told him I would come onto the stage wearing a beketshe and shtreimel. He added, “You also have to get a properly wrapped kosher meal.”

So I told him, “You know how people always have a hard time opening food on a plane? I’ll exaggerate it a bit.”

Abie laughed and said, “Ham it up, Ding.”

I went home to think of ways to make that scene “take off.” First, I had to travel to a nursing home to get shrink-wrapped food on a tray. Then I got a hammer to open it up (this was pre 9/11) — and then I realized exactly what I needed to complete the scene.

The moment of the performance arrived. Abie opened the song playing piano and the three “passengers” were sitting on airline seats we had procured for that night. I entered the stage wearing my chassidish garb and rolling a carry-on suitcase. And I kept trying to open the meal. First I tried with my teeth, then with the hammer, and finally progressed to stomping on it. In the end, I opened my hand luggage, pulled out a chain saw, and attacked the tray. The audience cracked up.

And then (as the plane came out of its tailspin and the group thanked G-d for their salvation) it was time for my debut one-liner: “With your true colors showing, will you three still be going…” Much to the shock of everyone who knows me, I nailed it!

The takeaway of this story is that while it takes some people years of training to perform in Carnegie Hall, I belted out my first (and last) solo on that famous stage with no practice at all. Think about that next time you’re trying to open your kosher meal.

 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 749)

The Atheist Convention in LA
Journeys
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One Day, the Nations Will Know

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sk someone to name a Skulener niggun, and he’s likely to point to “Yivoda Bagoyim.” One of the most famous compositions of the previous Rebbe — Rav Eliezer Zusia Portugal ztz”l — the song represents the cry of the Yid shackled in galus, tortured and imprisoned by evil enemies. (It’s been recorded on several albums, including Cantor David Werdyger’s Skulener Nigunim and MBD’s Memories.) But how many know that this song helped extract the Rebbe himself from the clutches of life-threatening torture and abuse in a Romanian Communist prison?

The Romanian People’s Republic, the Soviet-aligned Romanian state that controlled the country from 1947 to 1965, officially provided religious freedom, but in practice, promoted atheism, engaged in religious persecution, and choked and suppressed all practice of Yiddishkeit. Still, after Stalin’s death in 1953, the government began using the positions of religious leaders to improve its image internationally, and would therefore invite guests from abroad in order to showcase Romania’s provision of religious freedom and flourishing Jewish life. In 1954, Rabbi Moshe David Rosen, Romania’s chief rabbi, was asked to invite Swedish chief rabbi Dr. Kurt Wilhelm to Bucharest. Rabbi Wilhelm, who had been educated at Oxford and at several German universities, was an influential personality in Sweden’s halls of power.

In honor of his visit, the authorities invited all the rabbis in Romania to a ceremonial Saturday night dinner in Bucharest. Nonattendance would have been interpreted as disloyalty to the Republic, so the rabbanim were forced to come to the capital for Shabbos. Some of them stayed with the Skulener Rebbe, who had initially moved from Skulen to Chernowitz before World War II and then, after being tortured by both the Russians and the Germans, escaped to Bucharest with dozens of orphans in the middle of World War II. In the years since, although the Communist authorities gave him permission to emigrate, he continued to care for the thousands of orphans and Jewish families still in Romania, teaching Torah under the Communist radar. On Motzaei Shabbos, the Rebbe’s guests davened Maariv and left for the banquet. The Rebbe himself did not hurry though, but followed his custom of presiding over a lengthy Shalosh Seudos tish and arrived at the dinner two hours later.

At the head table sat Chief Rabbi Rosen, Rabbi Kurt Wilhelm and some Romanian government officials. There was a respectful silence as the Rebbe entered and was brought up to the dais. He sat down next to Rabbi Rosen, who had great respect for the Rebbe. Rabbi Wilhelm saw the Rebbe, short in stature, frail, bent, and weak looking, wearing an ancient shtreimel, and quietly asked Rabbi Rosen who this person was. The Romanian chief rabbi replied, “He has a weak body, but a healthy spirit. This man is the most spiritual person in Romania.”

The speeches began. One after the other, the rabbinic personalities and activists spoke about how good life was for the Jews in Romania and praised the humanitarianism of the Communist government. Not a hint about the unfortunate Jews who had been arrested, or all the community’s shochtim, who were languishing in jail. The Rebbe was then honored with a speech too. Standing up, he apologized that he wasn’t much of a speaker, but would instead sing a song that he had composed especially for the honored guest. (The Rebbe was known as a tremendous baal menagein, and dozens of his niggunim, and those of his son, the present Rebbe, are still sung today.)

The niggun he wrote was for the pesukim of Tehilim 79. “Yivoda bagoyim… Let it be known among the nations… the avengement of Your servants’ spilt blood. Let the cry of the imprisoned come before You, according to the strength of Your Hand, release those condemned to death. And return to our enemies sevenfold their abuse, which they have abused You, Hashem,” sang the Rebbe in a broken voice to a room full of Jewish rabbis — and Communist comrades.

Afterward, Rabbi Wilhelm commented that the song was the best speech of the night. It revealed the true suffering of the trapped Romanian Jews, without the government being any the wiser. He returned to Sweden with a clearer understanding of the situation, but it was five years before he was able to help in any way.

 

Meanwhile, the Skulener Rebbe continued his holy work unabated. Besides adopting and taking care of the many war orphans in Bucharest, he supported any Jewish family whose breadwinner was imprisoned. These unfortunates were avoided by everyone, lest they too be incriminated by association, but the Rebbe had no such fear. He traveled around Romania, spending Shabbos in different villages in order to strengthen the small communities, holding tishen with inspiring speeches and powerful niggunim. During this period, there was a small yeshivah in the western Romanian city of Arad, which the government allowed to exist with a few students, but through the efforts of the Skulener Rebbe, dozens more boys joined and were taught Torah.

The government initially hesitated to arrest the Rebbe, fearful of condemnation from the free world. But when they saw that he continued to fan the flames of Yiddishkeit among the people and no amount of harassment would stop him, they accused him of trying to undermine the government because of his support and adoption of orphans. On the night of Rosh Chodesh Nissan 1959, Romanian authorities burst into the Portugal home and hauled both the Rebbe and his son, Rav Yisrael Avraham — the current Rebbe — to jail.

Interrogation followed interrogation. With torture and violence, the Romanians tried to get the Rebbe to admit to the crime of smuggling orphans into Israel and of being an American spy, and to implicate other members of the Jewish community. At one point, today’s Rebbe once related, they tore his beard and peyos so brutally that he thought he might die of pain. He asked them to stop because he wanted to say something, so they excitedly granted him a reprieve, expecting a confession. He told them, “I have nothing to confess, but my final request to you is to allow me to be buried as a Jew.” Needless to say, the tortures soon resumed.

The news of the Skulener Rebbe’s capture spread to the free world through Rav Tzvi Bronstein of the Al Tidom movement, which supported Jews behind the Iron Curtain. A committee was convened in New York, together with Rav Tzvi Yosef Misky and Rav Shlomo Zalman Horwitz,  to work on his release. At one point, the committee discovered that the Romanian People’s Republic wanted an economic favor from the United Nations. They also found out that Rabbi Kurt Wilhelm, chief rabbi of Sweden, was a close friend of Dag Hammarskj?ld, the UN Secretary-General, from their time together at Oxford University.

 

Upon the advice of the Satmar Rebbe, who gave a large donation for this mitzvah of pidyon shevuyim and offered the committee great encouragement, they contacted Mr. Aharon (Harry) Goodman, a well-known Agudah askan from London, who knew Rabbi Wilhelm and agreed to contact him.

A phone call to Sweden revealed that the rabbi was actually in London. It was late at night, but Harry Goodman wasted no time in reaching him there. Apologizing for the disturbance, he told Rabbi Wilhelm that a well-known chassidic rabbi was imprisoned under terrible conditions in Romania. “You have probably never heard of him, but he’s well-known and beloved in chassidic circles.”

“What is the rabbi’s name?” asked Rabbi Wilhelm.

“Rabbi Portugal.”

At this, the Swedish rabbi started to cry. “Rabbi Portugal is my own rebbe!” He immediately called home with a change of plans: He’d be flying directly to New York instead of returning to Sweden. A meeting with Dag Hammarskj?ld influenced him to apply pressure to the Romanian government to release the Skulener Rebbe, and the efforts bore fruit. The Rebbe and his son were released from jail five months later. When the Rebbe arrived home, his family and adopted children didn’t even recognize him because of the torture he had undergone. Yet true to the words of his most enduring song, Hashem indeed avenged His shame.

The Skulener Rebbe continued his rescue and outreach efforts after arriving in America in 1960, and traveled to Eretz Yisrael many times to oversee the continuation of his work in the Chesed L’Avraham educational network he created. And although over 25 years have passed since his petirah on 29 Av 1982, the Jewish world is still singing his song of trust for better times. (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 719)

 

Yivoda BaGoyim
David Werdyger
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If Shoes Could Talk

The Story Behind the Song

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mong the exhibits at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., is a room filled with the shoes that the Nazis’ victims were forced to discard before they were gassed. The words on the plaque next to the haunting, horrific display are an unlikely inspiration for a song, but leave it to Yiddish balladeer Michoel Schnitzler to take a phrase from that plaque — “Mir zenen shich, mir zenen letzter eidus” (We are the shoes, we are the last witnesses) — and turn it into the heartbreaking song “Di Shich Fartzeilen” (released on his 2009 album, Mein Kind Treff Mich).

Schnitzler recalls the impact those words had on him and his on-the-spot decision to make them into a song.

“Years ago, my nephew visited the museum and sent me a picture of the plaque with the words: ‘We are the shoes, we are the last witnesses. We are the shoes of grandchildren and grandfathers…. And because we’re only made of fabric and leather, and not blood and flesh, each of us avoided the hellfire.’  We added lyrics that describe the journey of those shoes from all over Europe, where they might have been worn, and then their final journey and removal — while their owners walk their last few steps toward death.”

Schnitzler is a child of Holocaust survivors, but his mother never discussed the hellish suffering that she had undergone in the Nazi camps. “We knew nothing,” he says, “until ten years ago, when my mother began to suffer from dementia. She began to speak in her native Hungarian, and some pieces of the puzzle emerged. For the first time, we heard about her “job” in Auschwitz: She was assigned to clean up after the horrific ‘medical experiments’ of Mengele yemach shemo.” (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 718)

Der Shich Fartzeilen
Michoel Schnitzler
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Shlomo Simcha’s Favorite Chabad Niggun

Pick Your Tune

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he centuries-old, holy niggunim that are part of the Chabad heritage seem to carry the very spirit of the chassidus: introspective and elevating, with a joy that comes from true spiritual connection. Some niggunim were written by venerated chassidim of centuries past, while others were either composed or adopted by the Chabad rebbes themselves_— but all have been transmitted from generation to generation with great care for their authenticity, and remain vibrant and sung until today. With such a rich and varied selection, what’s your personal favorite Chabad niggun?

 

Shlomo Simcha

“My favorite is the powerful, slow, ‘Anim Zemiros.’ Chabad chassidim don’t actually say Anim Zemiros as part of davening, but many years ago the Rebbe taught a beautiful niggun for it. He told the story of how chassidim came to shul the morning after Yom Kippur to find a chassid still dressed in his tallis and kittel, fasting, eyes closed, still singing this niggun of ‘cleaving and yearning’ from the night before.”

Each year after hakafos on Simchas Torah, the Lubavitcher Rebbe would either teach a new melody or reintroduce an old one. He taught this niggun to the chassidim on Simchas Torah in 1961.

 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 717)

 

Anim Zemiros
Nichoach Chabad
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Moshe Laufer’s Favorite Chabad Niggun

Pick Your Tune

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he centuries-old, holy niggunim that are part of the Chabad heritage seem to carry the very spirit of the chassidus: introspective and elevating, with a joy that comes from true spiritual connection. Some niggunim were written by venerated chassidim of centuries past, while others were either composed or adopted by the Chabad rebbes themselves_— but all have been transmitted from generation to generation with great care for their authenticity, and remain vibrant and sung until today. With such a rich and varied selection, what’s your personal favorite Chabad niggun?

 

Moshe Laufer (Chabad album producer and arranger)

“For a slow song, I’d pick ‘Arba Bavos’ — special, moving, and extremely deep. And for a happy niggun, the ‘Baal Shem Tov’s Niggun’ — I’d say that niggun is the soul of chassidish song.”

“Arba Bavos,” composed by the Alter Rebbe, has fours stanzas, corresponding to the four spiritual worlds of Atzilus, Beriah, Yetzirah, and Asiyah. Each stanza is intended to be a point of elevation to a higher spiritual realm, and due to its depth, the niggun is only sung by chassidim at weddings and other special times.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 717)

 

Arba Bavos
Shira Choir
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