Cantor’s Corner

Have you ever been sitting in shul, chatting with the person next to you, when suddenly you perk up because you recognize a modern day melody?  Usually it catches the listener by surprise because the melody is recognizable but completely out of its familiar context.  You sit there puzzled until the end of the service and then ask me where you’ve heard that tune before.  Caught you – at least I know that you were paying attention!

I am often responsible for introducing “secular melodies” into the davening.  It is on no rare occasion that in the middle of Kedushah you may hear a melody that you recognize but can’t quite determine its origin.  I have a few favourites – among them “Time to Say Goodbye” (Sarah Brighton/Andrea Bocelli) and “Close Every Door” (Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat).  While the general public thoroughly enjoys hearing music which they know and relate to – the connoisseurs may share a different opinion.  In the circle of Hazzanim, I would likely be criticized for the introduction of these secular melodies into our religious services.  This has prompted me to do some research into the origins of the music we sing. 

Where does the traditional music I sing in shul come from?  After all, so many of the melodies I sing are what we often refer to as “the old standards.”  I wrote a column last year about the origins and importance of “Nusach HaTefillah,” the mode of our prayer.  This plaintive chanting, which follows a different framework for Shabbat and Holidays, has roots which can be traced centuries back.  Some tunes we know are termed “MiSinai,” and go as far back as the giving of Torah.  Aside from the chanting which follows a set structure, where do our traditional melodies come from?

Here are some of my discoveries:
In medieval times, the musical standard of a country’s culture was largely dependent on the music of the religious establishments.  In early centuries, the Jews exerted an influence upon their gentile neighbours.  In fact, Christian clergy studied Jewish literature and Hebrew, as well as the songs of the Synagogue.  By the 12th century, Jews and Christians alike raised prohibitions against the exchange of Synagogue and Church melodies and hymns.  In the 15th century, Christians and even Dukes attended services in the Synagogue.  In the 17th century, a Cantor in Frankfurt complained to his Rabbi that Jews were adopting Christian tunes for their Shabbat songs.  They justified their act with the excuse that the Christians had borrowed these tunes from the Temple in Jerusalem.  Despite the restrictions and prohibitions, crusades and persecutions, a reciprocal relationship existed between the Jewish and Gentile communities, indicating that music transcends all barriers.

One of the most well know songs we sing at Yom HaShoa (Holocaust Remembrance Day) is the “Shir HaPartisanim”, the Partisan’s Song (Zog Nit Kein Mol) – influenced by the Russian marching music during World War II.  Yet we sing it with pride because it perfectly captures the feelings of the Jewish partisans who sang it in a time that history does not permit us to forget. 

Maoz Tsur – this song is a “classic” from the Chanukah repertoire.  We don't really know why the song became permanently attached to Chanukah. We do know that it originated in 13th-century Germany and was written by an otherwise unknown poet named Mordechai.  The well-known melody came later; its first known use in connection with "Maoz Tsur" is found in a 1744 manuscript, but scholars think it was borrowed from 15th-century church hymns.

In view of all the evidence presented, it is quite natural to assume that we have been and will continue to be influenced by the dominant culture which surrounds us.  In a recent conversation I had with the Rabbi regarding this article, he shared with me a beautiful story which exemplifies society’s influences on our musical choices, even in shul: 

It was like any other Shabbat morning at the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s Crown Heights stheibl.  The morning service was coming to a close with the traditional singing of Adon Olam.  However, on this occasion the leader chose a “not so traditional” melody.  As the man began his rendition of Adon Olam, the soft murmur from the congregation grew into a full objection to the melody he chose for this traditional hymn.  The leader was singing Adon Olam to the tune of the French National Anthem.  The leader, clearly embarrassed, paused in the middle, the sweat dripping from his brow.  All present turned to the Rebbe.  However, in an act which shocked all in attendance, the Rebbe raised his hand and said:  “Please don’t stop… for you are singing beautiful music – and beautiful music should be appreciated by all.”

As we observe the festival of Chanukah, it is with joy that we rejoice in not only the beauty of what is within us, but also with the beauty that surrounds us. 

Happy Chanukah