Once upon a time the publication of a book was considered an important matter. Among Jews it was the accepted custom for an author to submit his manuscript to the rabbinical authorities of his time for their haskomes (endorsement) before daring to publish it. The story is told of one young author soliciting haskomes from a famous rabbi for his commentaries on the Biblical books of Job and the Song of Songs. Having examined both manuscripts, the rabbi announced that he would grant his endorsement for the COMMENTARY on Job, but not for that on the Song of Songs. The bewildered author asked for an explanation, and the rabbi replied: “It’s quite simple: Job was afflicted with many troubles, so one more can’t hurt him. But tell me, what do you have against King Solomon who was spared such suffering?”

The logic of the rabbi’s reasoning might possibly lead one to endorse the books being reviewed here,¹ for Jewish music has already suffered much at the hands of its leading exponents. But it is the only logic that would do so.

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The least to be expected of anyone undertaking to edit a collection of Jewish folk songs is a thorough familiarity with the existing material and the ability to evaluate the authenticity of previously published song notations. After all, it is conceivable that someone else has published a poor collection, and one cannot always rely on the books at hand. Miss Rubin’s Treasury of Jewish Folksong is, unfortunately, a conglomeration of many bad anthologies where it is not an entirely unsuccessful attempt to improve upon the available material. Even songs still known by many people in the correct version are substantially distorted.

Among the source books mentioned by Miss Rubin in her selected bibliography are collections by F. M. Kaufmann and M. Kipnis. She might at least have treated these two highly competent men with respect and not tried to “improve” upon them. She might even have learned from them. From Fritz Mordechai Kaufmann, the German Jew who was utterly captivated by the Yiddish folk song when he first came into contact with Eastern European Jews during World War I, she might have learned a spirit of reverence in approaching this musical heritage, she might have tried to assimilate his profound grasp of the original material, the piety with which he handled every phrase, his deep understanding of the East European Jewish milieu that had hitherto been so strange to him. From the folk singer Kipnis she could have derived the true spirit of Jewish folk song. Kipnis not only knew every town and village of the old Poland, he was a child of the folk, singing their songs and learning from them. Constantly in touch with his people, he wrote their melodies down just as they were sung. Kipnis’s approach was not infused with the awe and humility of the Western connoisseur Kaufmann, but in recording Jewish folk songs for his collections Kipnis was painstakingly exact. His familiarity with the source enabled him to produce first-hand notations that are free of distortion.

Not only did Miss Rubin fail to learn from Kaufmann and Kipnis, she tampered with them, often to the point of completely spoiling some of the songs published in their collections. Occasionally it is appropriate for an editor to ignore his predecessors in the field and to score a folk melody according to his own understanding, but such a delicate task must remain the rare privilege of an expert. Miss Rubin demonstrates consistently her lack of musical understanding and a crass ignorance of the true folk idiom. It would be illuminating to list all the songs that have been put to death in her book in order to substantiate this criticism completely. However, as this might become too technical for the general reader, we shall cite only a few typical examples:

Amol Is Geven a Mayse. The stretching of the two-four time to four-four is entirely unwarranted. Miss Rubin’s general tendency to slow down the melody is unfaithful to the character of Jewish folk song. Many of these songs are derived from synagogue chant, retaining its specific recitative character. Slowing down destroys this element, as can be seen in the above-mentioned song where the drawn-out four-four time eliminates the typical parlando. In addition, the melody is incorrectly noted. The fifth measure must begin with a fifth, as in Kipnis, or with a third, as in Kaufmann. If the latter, then F sharp is false, F natural correct. The two D’s in the seventh measure are also false. It must be either F natural and D, as in Kaufmann, or G and D, as in Kipnis. The second half of the chorus is incongruous. One almost suspects that Miss Rubin has allowed herself to be influenced by some group rendition of the song, sung in thirds. That is how she noted, and crippled, it. The final four bars are just thrown together.

Mit a Nodl, on a Nodl. The sin of stretching the note-values becomes even more evident here. The little tailor should chant his song much in the manner of the Yeshiva student bent over his Talmud, and the music reflects both rhythm and gesture, expressed in the two-four time. Miss Rubin, however, rashly disposes of these essentials by forcing upon the song a three-four time. In a correct notation, the seventh and eighth measures approximate the effect of a quickly spoken phrase (” Ney ich mix b’kovod godl”). But our editor prefers that the word “godl” be drawn out into three and one-half quarters. Kipnis, correctly, allows only an eighth. The second part is treated even worse.

Chatskele, Chatskele. A very simple matter: the editor has destroyed the entire dance rhythm by substituting in the first note a quarter for a dotted eighth. Music is peculiar. The smallest detail can ruin it. One need only place the Kaufmann notation alongside Rubin’s to get an idea of the liberties she has allowed herself with this song.

Of the mistakes in the text, let us consider only two: In her introduction to the section of children’s songs, Miss Rubin offers us the historical information that in Eastern Europe a hundred years ago “A boy usually went to cheder until he was of marriageable age.” Surely it would not be asking too much of a “treasurer” of Jewish folklore to be able to distinguish between Yeshiva and cheder. And on page 124 Miss Rubin presents a song entitled, in large letters, “Zayt Gezunterheyt.” In Yiddish or in any other language, this is an impossible construction. “Gezunterheyt” is an adverb, and “zayt” is the imperative of “to be.” But the mistake reappears in several stanzas.

The book has one virtue—it is a beautiful production, and the illustrations are simple and charming. But of what value is the flask if the wine is sour?

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Harry Coopersmith’s The Songs We Sing is no better than the Rubin book. In his introduction the editor states that “this book is an attempt to meet those needs [of the school and community] by including sufficient and varied song material—old and new—for a six-year school curriculum, for the average home and community, and even, to some extent, for the performing artist and cantor.” In quantity the book is most considerable: it contains every variety of Jewish, pseudo-Jewish, and some non-Jewish song, plus a host of illustrations. It is apparent that money, at least, was not spared to make “the poor country cousin” of world music presentable.

The compilers of such books obviously consider folk music “easy as pie.” Let alone a songbook for children. The trite truth bears repeating: precisely in preparing material for the young, one must beware of offenses against style. Especially one must guard against the kind of condescension that conceives of the second-rate as being peculiarly appropriate for children’s understanding. These children are the generation of tomorrow. If they accept these songs at all, they will hand them on just as they were taught them, so that in due time we can be practically assured of a completely corrupted Jewish folk music. In the past, the folk instinct of the Jewish people constituted a means of protection for its oral heritage of folklore and folk song. This living “folk-censor” has disappeared. Today, when we approach the important task of anthologizing our religious and folk music, we must weigh every note. Israeli composers have, in recent years, seen their work garbled and vulgarized; but they, at least, are still around to correct distortions. The dead are, alas, defenseless.

It would be a space-consuming task to detail all the shortcomings of this book. Here is a small sampling from the first four sections (all told there are twenty-five, each covering a different type of song).

Shabbat Kodesh. The very first song (by Harry Coopersmith) is characteristic of the stylish trend of giving preference at any cost to the major key—enough of golus plaintiveness! But this cheap little dance is not quite up to the task of obliterating the golus. If major it has to be—what magnificent melodies in this key are available to us among our traditional chants for Sabbath Eve! Even the least of them cannot be touched by the editor’s own Sabbath jig.

L’ho Dodi. A fine piece by Ephros, and in perfect style. Having hit upon a decent song, why does the author give so little of it?

Shiru Ladonoi. This little Hasidic tune is treated outrageously, its first part in particular. Should the editor insist that he found it printed that way, the answer is that whoever first published it, killed it. This, after all, is not the first bad book.

En Kelohenu. This melody (to words from the liturgy) was sung in the Yiddish theater as part of the stage production of I. J. Singer’s Yoshe Kalb. It was intended as a parody on Galician Hasidic expression and pronunciation. To characterize this as authentically Hasidic is, to put it mildly, ludicrous.

The sins of omission and commission indicated here are characteristic of the entire volume. In a few decades inferior song collections like this one will be approached seriously and with respect. An aura of authority and authenticity will envelop them. Some day a young musician may lose his way, stumble upon them, and be convinced that they are really—Jewish music.

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By way of postscript. Quite another atmosphere comes to us from the pages of a third Jewish songbook, a collection of Hasidic melodies, Nigunai Hasidai Habad (“The Melodies of the Habad Hasidim”), published by “Nichoach” in Brooklyn.

In its outward appearance this book, it is true, cannot compete with the lavish volumes the buyers of Jewish songbooks have come to expect by now. No illustrations, not even the slightest sketch of a Hasid with kapote and peyes. No blurbs overflowing with the inevitable superlatives. As anyone can see, this modest paper-covered book has nothing to recommend it as a gift for the more ambitious Bar Mitzvah table. The accent is not on the external. However, as to the contents—they are all they ought to be.

Faced with the necessity of recording their oral tradition of Hasidic song, ten old-time Hasidim of the distinguished Habad sect, now residing here, gathered together for this purpose. The actual writing down of this music was done in a genuinely Hasidic manner: each of the ten men, from early childhood familiar with this melodic heritage, sang out the tune to be noted, precisely as he had heard it from the venerable Hasidim in the old country. After deliberation, the assembly, assisted by a cantor, decided upon the authentic version to be printed.

Thus the rescue of this heritage came—as in times past—from the traditional tsen batlonim (dwelling perennially within a Jewish community were ten righteous but unworldly men, considered good for nothing but things spiritual). From them one derives the hope that it might be possible even here and now to do for the body of Jewish music what these ten did for the melos of their Hasidic sect.

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¹ A Treasury of Jewish Folksong. By Ruth Rubin. Schocken Books. 224 pp. $4.50.

The Songs We Sing. By Harry Coopersmith. United Synagogue Commission on Jewish Education. 453 pp. $5.75.