Soundtrack Of A Generation: The Top Two (Part 6)

By: By Ben Levi

Before we reveal the top two, I have a confession to make. I got one wrong. Not the rankings. I’m standing by those, which is either conviction or stubbornness depending on whom you’ve spoken to over the past few weeks.

I’m talking about MBD’s “Ma’aminim.” Looking back over this entire exercise, that’s the omission I regret most. “Ma’aminim” should have been here somewhere. Maybe not in the Top 10, I’m certainly not reopening that particular courtroom, but it absolutely belonged among the honorable mentions. And there was a clue staring me in the face that I had made a mistake: I had somehow constructed a list of the most iconic Jewish songs of the past 25 years without Mordechai Ben David appearing anywhere on it. That should have triggered an internal audit.

This wasn’t just any omission. MBD was the King of Jewish Music: for decades his voice, songs, and his unmistakable sound helped define Orthodox Jewish music. And in 2002, right near the beginning of our eligibility period, “Ma’aminim” gave him yet another enormous anthem. The song became quintessential MBD: big, proud, instantly recognizable, and seemingly designed for thousands of Jews to sing while pointing enthusiastically at each other. Concerts, camps, weddings, schools, rallies, communal events, once those opening notes hit, nobody needed instructions. So, I am expressing my sincere apologies to MBD, a Jewish music superstar and king.

If this series has proven anything, it’s the impossibility of reducing 25 years of extraordinary Jewish music to a top ten list. But a list had to end somewhere. And for me, these last two (or first two) stand out in a fascinating way. One began with three simple words and grew into a movement, a brand, a musical universe, a bumper sticker, and enough minyanim that I’m keeping a close eye out for an official nusach. The other took words from the Haggadah and gave them a new melody that feels as timeless as the words.

So here we go:

#2 “Thank You Hashem” (2019) – Joey Newcomb feat. Moshe Storch. Every song on this list became something bigger than a song. But only one appears to have become a full-fledged anthem. I say that with tremendous affection because somewhere along the way, Thank You Hashem stopped being merely an enormously popular song and became an entire movement. There is TYH music. TYH Torah. TYH clothing. TYH events. TYH children’s programming. TYH WhatsApp groups. TYH hoodies, hats, bracelets and, of course, the ubiquitous Thank You Hashem bumper stickers and car magnets, ensuring that even your minivan can express hakaras hatov. TYH is what happens when a small group of friends focused on gratitude grows into a worldwide movement.

There are even TYH-style shuls and minyanim. You know what I mean. Not necessarily something officially called “Khal Thank You Hashem,” but a recognizable kind of place: more singing, more niggunim, more warmth, more emphasis on connection and penimiyus, and a general sense that davening should involve more visible happiness than some of us were raised to believe was permitted.

They’re a little like what Carlebach minyanim became in an earlier generation: a recognizable style that if someone tells you, “It’s kind of a TYH shul,” you have a pretty good idea what you’re walking into.

And all of this can be traced back to something remarkably simple: three words. Thank You, Hashem.

Composed by the Blumstein Brothers, produced and arranged by Doni Gross, and performed by Joey Newcomb and Moshe Storchm, it appeared on Joey’s debut album, “To Be a Yid” in 2019.

Musically, “Thank You Hashem” is a case study in how little you actually need when you have everything right. It begins with familiar Hebrew expressions of gratitude, moves into Hapa’am odeh es Hashem, and then arrives at the part that required no translation and four seconds of musical training: Thank you, Hashem. That’s the hook. And what a hook!

The song is joyous without being frantic, catchy without sounding like a jingle, and repetitive in exactly the way a song needs to be if it’s going to become a communal anthem. Joey Newcomb was perfect for it. There was nothing distant or overly polished about his delivery. Joey sounded like Joey: warm, exuberant, completely sincere, and genuinely thrilled to be singing those words. With Moshe Storch alongside him, the recording felt less like two performers presenting a song and more like they had started singing and were waiting for the rest of us to join. And we did. Children sang it. Adults sang it. The musically gifted sang it. The musically ungifted sang it with virtually identical confidence. You could play it at a wedding, in camp, in a classroom, in a car, at a kumzits, or around a Shabbos table. There was no learning curve. By the second chorus, you were singing along.

By now there have been so many TYH songs, singers, collaborations, and releases that “Thank You Hashem” today can refer to a song, a musical brand, a movement, an attitude, a style of shul, or possibly the fellow sitting three seats away from you on an El Al flight wearing the sweatshirt.

But going back and listening to the original still has the same magic. The melodic turn into Hapa’am odeh, the back-and-forth feel, Moshe Storch’s presence, Joey’s unmistakable warmth, and then the absurdly simple English refrain that somehow sounds as natural today as it did when everyone first heard it: Thank you, Hashem. That’s really the entire idea. And maybe that’s why it became so enormous. There was nothing to decipher and nothing to explain. A child understood it. A grandfather understood it. A lifelong yeshiva man understood it. Someone taking his first tentative steps toward Yiddishkeit understood it.

Three words. One tune. Everybody invited.

We’ve spent this entire countdown talking about what makes a song iconic: recognizability, reach, staying power, how widely it’s sung, whether it crosses communities, and whether it ultimately becomes part of the fabric of Jewish life. “Thank You, Hashem,” checks every box.

That’s why “Thank You Hashem” comes in at #2. Which means there’s only one song left.

#1 “Vehi Sheamda” (2018) – Yaakov Shwekey. Before we get to the #1 song, we need to talk about the singer. Because Yaakov Shwekey deserves his own Top 10 list. Actually, that may be my next mistake. If you think this countdown has generated arguments, try ranking Shwekey’s ten greatest songs. “Racheim,” “Im Eshkachech,” “Veha’arev,” “Ma Ma Ma,” “Boei Bashalom,” “Reu Banim,” “Mama Rochel,” “We Are a Miracle,” etc. I could keep going, and I’ve already left out songs that someone reading this is currently furious I left out.

That’s the remarkable thing about Shwekey’s career. It isn’t simply the quality. It’s the quantity of quality. For the generation before him, the Jewish music landscape was dominated by two giants: Mordechai Ben David and Avraham Fried. MBD was the King, Fried built an extraordinary catalog of his own, and together their voices and music defined an era. When the next generation arrived, there was certainly no shortage of talent. But the question of who would inherit that mantle didn’t remain open for long. Yaakov Shwekey became the unquestioned successor. Not because he sounded like MBD or Fried. He didn’t. And not because Jewish music suddenly had room for only one star. It certainly didn’t. But from the moment “Shomati” arrived in 2001, Shwekey began assembling a body of work whose depth is almost ridiculous.

We already encountered “Racheim” at #3. And that’s the problem with trying to summarize Shwekey. A song that would constitute the career achievement of most singers is simply one Shwekey song. Then came another. And another. And another. Slow songs. Dance songs. Wedding standards. Kumzits staples. English songs. Hebrew songs. Israeli sounds. Classic American Jewish songs. Songs of emunah, yearning, simcha, and Klal Yisrael. For more than two decades, Shwekey somehow kept moving with Jewish music without ever seeming to chase it.

And the voice. There are singers whose voices are beautiful. There are singers whose voices are powerful. Shwekey’s great gift has been that unmistakable combination of power and emotion. He can fill an arena without making a song feel like it’s being overproduced. Even at his biggest, there remains something deeply sincere about the way he sings. That isn’t accidental. Shwekey has spoken about his music as something more meaningful than entertainment, and about the importance of actually believing and feeling what you’re singing if you want to reach an audience. After nearly a quarter-century of evidence, the theory seems to have worked out reasonably well.

Because if “Racheim” announced that Yaakov Shwekey had arrived, “Vehi Sheamda” was the song that confirmed exactly how far he’d come. And here’s the extraordinary part: it almost didn’t happen.

Composer Yonatan Razel was working with Shwekey and the late arranger Ken Burgess as they searched for material for “Ad Bli Dai.” They spent the day listening to songs and hadn’t found what they wanted. They were literally putting on their coats when Razel mentioned that he had one more composition, a song he hadn’t used on his own album. That last song was “Vehi Sheamda,” which is a useful reminder to anyone who has ever been sitting in a meeting at 5:30 while someone says, “Before everybody leaves, I just have one more thing.” Occasionally, let him finish.

Shwekey loved the composition and made one crucial structural change, moving Matzileinu to the soaring high section of the song. Then came the expert opinions.

People in the Jewish music business questioned the decision. Why record a Pesach song? Who is going to sing it all year? This is why predicting hits is a difficult profession. Because “Vehi Sheamda” didn’t remain a Pesach song in the narrow sense of it. It exploded into concerts, kumzitsen, schools, and communal gatherings. The performances of Shwekey and Razel together became some of those Jewish music moments that took on a life of their own.

Something else happened that even the biggest Jewish hits rarely accomplish: “Vehi Sheamda” became part of the Seder. And that matters. The Pesach Seder is one of the most widely observed Jewish traditions in the world, one of those extraordinary nights when Am Yisrael no matter where they are in the world sit around the same table telling the same story.

Once a melody becomes part of the Seder, it has entered one of the most universal experiences in Jewish life. And “Vehi Sheamda” didn’t merely get invited. It got a permanent seat at the table. Shwekey himself spoke about traveling for Pesach and watching families sitting together, arm-in-arm, singing the song. And that to me is where the argument for being #1 becomes overwhelming.

There are songs you hear at weddings. There are songs you hear at concerts. There are songs you sing at kumzitsen, then there are songs that dominate for a year, five years, or even a decade. But “Vehi Sheamda” attached itself to Pesach, to children growing up hearing their parents sing it and eventually singing it with children of their own.

The song has only grown more resonant with time. After October 7, words we recited at the Seder for generations suddenly felt painfully immediate once again. Shwekey himself has reflected on how “Vehi Sheamda” took on renewed meaning as an anthem of hope and emunah for soldiers and Jews around the world.

Which brings us back, one final time, to the criteria we’ve been arguing about for weeks. Staying power? Obviously. Recognizability? Instant. Cross-community reach? Absolutely. Sung in different settings? Absolutely. Did it transcend being merely a great recording and become part of Jewish life? At this point, the better question may be whether many families even think of it as a Shwekey song anymore. They just sing “Vehi Sheamda” and perhaps that’s the ultimate compliment.

Since 2001, Yaakov Shwekey has built a career that makes a strong case for him being the defining Orthodox Jewish singer of his generation. Along the way, he has recorded enough extraordinary music that selecting his ten best songs could probably sustain another month of columns and several damaged friendships.

But one of them did something even greater. It stopped belonging to him and became ours.

After all the songs, all the arguments, all the honorable mentions, all the reader nominations, and all the second-guessing, that’s the song I kept coming back to: “Vehi Sheamda,” the most iconic Jewish song of the past 25 years. Thank you, Yaakov Shwekey.