Chemjo Vinaver reports on the choral music of Israel, telling how Israel’s intensely self-conscious desire to create a high culture has led in many ways to a disregard for the slow processes of growth which alone can produce sweet fruit.
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Though it has lately become fashionable to find fault with things in Israel, in the field of music it is still the accepted thing for the visitor to come, to listen, and—to praise. But perhaps I may claim exemption from the status of “visitor,” for I gave concerts in Palestine long before it became Israel, and when I returned this past summer, I did so again to fulfill professional engagements rather than for sightseeing. Working for about three months with an Israeli choral group and pursuing other musical activities, I could not avoid direct exposure to the blessings—and curses—of musical life in Israel.
Choral music in Israel has not until recently been subjected to careful inspection. If one were to judge it by that first crop of choral recordings shipped to these shores-well, they did not serve to raise expectations. Nor did the “tradition” of adulation that prevails among well-meaning friends of Israel convince one of the “wonderfulness” of everything pertaining to Israeli song and singing. These reservations might have been expected to protect one from disappointment.
And yet, to one returning to the Israeli musical scene after a number of eventful years, the progress made in the development of a choral culture seemed far from satisfactory. As things stand, it will take more than time for the country to bring forth a choral body of impressive scope and artistic standards. And it is not a shortage of “raw materials,” but rather an unfortunate lack of knowledge and training which blocks the road to higher achievement. The time has come to leave off the customary “praise and encouragement,” so helpful to the beginner; at this stage, Israel’s musical artists deserve the compliment of more demanding criticism. Given proper direction and impetus, it should be possible to raise the general level of choral activity, and to develop a choral instrument that would be no less representative of the country’s choral culture than, for example, the Israel Philharmonic is in instrumental music.
Israeli choral singing I found sometimes stimulating, rarely inspired, and often downright maudlin. Most disheartening was the discovery that an unfortunate craving for publicity is in some quarters leading to an emphasis on quick results rather than on true achievement through hard work and perseverance; often this is coupled with a provincial adulation for “names” from the “outside.” While this attitude seems to be most apparent in the cities—especially among organizers of musical activities and such—rather than in the rural settlements, it seems impossible to “localize” the tendency in the long run, for the cultural efforts of the kibbutzim depend to a large extent on guidance and administrative assistance from the cities.
The summer season of 1952 in Israeli music was devoted mainly to choral activities. In addition to the local “Kinnus,” an annual gathering of the choral groups from the kibbutzim, there was scheduled the greatly anticipated “Zimriah,” the first international Jewish choir festival on a supposedly impressive scale, for which choral bodies from several countries had been selected for participation. The Zimriah, as has remained no secret, did not turn out to be the expected tourists’ attraction, nor was it a success from any other point of view. Of its musical merits, the less said, the better; what little cannot be entirely ignored will find mention later. The less ambitious Kinnus proved the more rewarding.
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The Kinnus took place this summer at Givath Brenner, a large settlement near Tel Aviv. It began at eight o’clock of a Saturday morning in July, and ended at midnight. The participants—about thirty choirs with a total membership of about one thousand—came almost entirely from the communal settlements. All these singers, and many of their leaders as well, are regular members of their kibbutzim, able to devote only their scanty hours of leisure to choral training—amateurs in the true sense of the term: people who love music for its own sake. Some more gifted, some less gifted, the trained and the untrained mixed together, but all of them, and this was evident throughout, devoted to their choir work. For one coming from New York, where Jewish choral concerts inevitably evoke the picture of somewhat aged people both onstage and in the hall, this gathering of enthusiastic young people was a refreshing experience.
Not quite so captivating were the musical presentations offered by these young people, if one is to judge them by serious musical standards—and how else should they be judged? This song festival, like others before it, bore out the truth of the saying that there are no good or bad choirs but only good or bad conductors. Among the conductors at the Kinnus, this one showed talent, another some knowledge; but one watched in vain for even one among them with all the qualities necessary for effective choral leadership: general musicianship, command of choral technique, authority as a leader and communicative spirit, knowledge and ability to select a repertory, not to mention the finer points of interpretation, pitch, dynamics, blending, and the rest on that tedious list. Watching them all day long, three distinct types of conductors could be discerned: the “born” conductors—a very few, as usual; next, those not exactly “born” to be conductors, but capable of development under proper training; and lastly, those decidedly “born” not to become conductors—of these there were quite a few. Even among the better conductors, lack of training seemed the common trait. But sincere devotion and enthusiasm were evident in everything they undertook—yes, even in their worst musical “sins”—and it is this that makes one feel how much they need, and deserve, proper guidance and less “charitable” criticism.
Of the thirty choirs at the Kinnus, two were of special interest: a group composed of Yemenites and, at the other extreme, a chorus of Communists. These latter did not miss a chance to demonstrate their spiritual loyalty to the Soviet Union—to the extent of not including even a single number of Israeli music in their repertory. However, they showed up well against most of the other choirs: their vocal material was good and they were led by an able conductor. Indeed, there could be no doubt as to the conductor’s command over the group: however, the stern precision with which he led his forces through excerpts of Prokofieff’s “Alexander Nevsky” (which, incidentally, calling for orchestra and mass chorus, was not really suited to this small group) was more on the side of military rather than musical discipline, and did not make for enjoyable music.
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Of an entirely different character, and thoroughly enjoyable, was the performance of the Yemenite group, a chorus of sixteen voices, mostly women. The music, rendered in unison, with occasional percussions, revealed all the subtlety and skill that Yemenite musicians are capable of. An unobtrusive discipline united the singers with their leader, the young Yemenite Ovadia, whose improvising, rather casual style was eminently suited to the free-flowing Oriental rhythms of the music. A rare, almost haunting quality in the women’s voices contributed greatly to the effect. One encounters this special timbre of the quasi-alto voice often among Yemenite women singers—it seems to be one of the intangible by-products of an ancient culture. (Western music-lovers have yet to hear a fair sample of this timbre, despite the recent minor “invasion” of Yemenite songstresses.)
The two selections on their program were most interesting specimens of Semitic-Oriental religious folk song, music of the early recitative character, rather archaic in style and sound. It is almost impossible to establish the exact age of such music as this, but it is not at all improbable that some of the music of the Yemenites antedates Gregorian or even Ambrosian chant. The flowing, broad melos of these songs is often interspersed with unexpected rhythmical melodies, changing the recitative flow into a crowded web of intricate rhythms; it is then that the singers make use of their percussion instruments, a sort of tambourine and castanets.
From a purely musical point of view, this Yemenite group was far more interesting than most of the more ambitious four-part choirs, some of which even boasted a “classical” repertory—often to the lesser glory of Bach and Handel. Nor was my admiration for the Yemenite musicians lessened by rumors that the jury had had grave doubts about allowing these “primitives” to share the stage with groups devoted to four-part singing.
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This introduces the question of repertory, an eminently important problem for these choirs. At the Kinnus a conspicuous dearth of suitable repertory made itself felt, notwithstanding the fact that a special Music Division exists in the Cultural Department of the Histadrut, which provides its entire network of choirs with choral literature and sheet music. The pieces sung at the Kinnus were more often than not entirely unsuited to the range and capabilities of the performers. Moreover, the limitations of the available repertory led to incessant repetitions of the same pieces. The natural tendency to stress the familiar leads those of Western European background to emphasize the classical repertory, no matter if their choruses are up to its standards or not. Nobody will suspect me of advocating an exclusive diet of Israeli music; even if Israeli music were richer than it is, I should not favor this. Nor do I have to demonstrate my acceptance of the choral classics of any land or age. But nothing will convince me that shoddy performances of Bach and Handel, Schumann and Mendelssohn, will develop an appreciation of the masters. It is possible, however, to offer adequate performances of certain classical pieces—even with the vocal material at hand—if conductors will show the discrimination necessary in selection.
A tragi-comical illustration of the misguided ambition which blighted the Kinnus was provided by an incongruous performance of a chorus from Handel’s “Judas Maccabaeus” by a Tel Aviv choir of Bulgarian immigrants. It was a double crime: against Handel and against this choir, which, considering its good vocal material, might have done very well with a less ambitious piece of music. As it was, the group’s sole contribution consisted in unplanned amusement for those who remembered authoritative Handel performances.
Having said all this, it is fair to record that some choirs managed to do rather commendable work, and that some of the young leaders present may emerge as capable conductors. Although higher standards and better achievements must be aspired to, it is well to remember at this point that song festivals like this one are designed primarily for the stimulation of choral activities within the country, without too much artistic pretension. Thus, with all its shortcomings, the Kinnus certainly came closer to accomplishing its aims than did the ill-starred Zimriah, which took place a month later, in August.
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For many reasons this premature undertaking was doomed to failure. As to the standards aspired to—that story was told already when we glanced at the list of participants “selected” from among New York’s Jewish choral groups. Not quite so drab, though far from inspiring, were the participants from other countries: England, France, Belgium, Yugoslavia, Canada, and Israel. But the predominance of mediocrity among these Jewish choral groups was a shock—to audiences and critics alike. One of the Tel Aviv dailies dedicated a sarcastic article to the embarrassing event, another preferred to ignore it altogether. The much heralded festival became the butt of the jokesters, and for its duration an aroused vox populi made itself heard in Tel Aviv cafés and buses.
The Zimriah had begun with an inauspicious “overture” provided by choristers from abroad (who en route angrily protested against the travel accommodations provided for them). But—to dwell on the “artistic” aspects of the festival—what had prompted the importation of such low-caliber choirs as the New York groups remains a mystery. It is no secret that even at home these choirs serve musical functions pretty much limited to the activities of their sponsor organizations, and some of them barely fulfill these modest requirements. No wonders could be expected from them, though they did their best to prepare for the “great event” in Israel—some of them enriching their Hebrew and Yiddish repertory with Negro spirituals. No amount of true-to-style “handclapping” could make the renditions of these spirituals sound authentic. But let us hasten to “accentuate the positive,” whatever there is of it.
There was one bright spot, although it was not contributed by any of the guest choirs. The best impression—as this listener goes—was made by a genuine Israeli product: an unpretentious chorus, composed of members from various kibbutzim, led by Yehuda Sharett. The young singers followed the demands of their leader with admirable devotion, producing a nice tone quality which seemed in spots surprisingly well-balanced. From the point of view of technique, Sharett’s style of directing appears somewhat awkward, but he impresses one as a musician without guile or pretense—to the extent of not even attempting to hide his awkwardness. An asset worth more than technical proficiency is his sincerity, his devotion to music, and a relentless striving to make the best of his abilities. His choral compositions, though too often weighted down with counterpoint, are also rather engaging.
One bright spot. But for the sake of presenting this group, which may be heard any time in Israel, it was hardly necessary to convoke an elaborate Zimriah. And if a Zimriah there had to be this very summer, it might perhaps have paid to aspire to ideals higher than mere expediency—if only for the sake of expediency. The most dedicated concern for artistic values could hardly have proved less “popular” than this wasteful festival of the second-rate.
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