Soundtrack Of A Generation: The Countdown Begins (Part 4)

By: Ben Levi

Last week, we unveiled #10 through #8, and judging by the responses I’ve received, the debate has only intensified. Some readers agreed. Some explained why they thought my rankings were hopelessly misguided. A few even submitted their own Top 10 lists, each of which, coincidentally, featured their personal favorite at number one.

Apparently, everyone loves a countdown—unless their song isn’t on it. I was reminded of that recently while visiting South Florida. I happened to be standing in the lobby of a shul, where the bulletin board provides just enough cover for everyone to overhear everyone else’s conversation. A fresh stack of the Five Towns Jewish Times sat on the table where, also coincidentally, the Honorable Mentions installment had just come out (I’m sure, the top copy just happened to be opened to that page).

Before long, a lively discussion broke out. On what topic? How could Yaakov Shwekey’s “Mama Rochel” possibly be related to Honorable Mention? There was just one small problem, though. No one actually knew what was in the Top 10. The countdown hadn’t been published. Yet somehow, the verdict was already unanimous.

One gentleman passionately argued that any list relegating a song composed by Abie Rotenberg to the Honorable Mentions category already forfeited all credibility. Another insisted there simply couldn’t be ten songs ahead of “Mama Rochel,” regardless of what they were. Apparently, the as of yet unknown Top 10 was already guilty until proven innocent.

I casually suggested that perhaps we ought to wait until we actually see the Top 10 before declaring the list a total disaster. My argument received all the consideration it deserved: about four seconds. His response “What do I need to see? Mama Rochel is Mama Rochel.” Fair point. Hard to counter that kind of detailed analysis. I thanked them for their time and quietly rested my case.

I walked away with two observations:

First, I was reminded just how far the Five Towns Jewish Times travels. It’s one thing to watch stacks disappear from kosher supermarkets throughout the Five Towns. It’s another thing to walk into a shul in South Florida and find that same paper being read and debated a thousand miles from home. Second, Jewish music aficionados are wonderfully irrational. They’ll defend their favorite songs with remarkable conviction, impressive historical detail, and apparently no need to see the evidence first. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, if a Jewish music countdown doesn’t spark a passion, did anyone really read it?

#7 “Vezakeini” (2006) – Rabbi Baruch Levine. Imagine releasing your first album and somewhere near the beginning of your career, recording the song people will still be identifying you with twenty years later. Apparently, Baruch Levine likes to work efficiently. When “Vezakeini” appeared as the title track of Levine’s debut album in 2006, audiences were still getting to know the young singer and composer. They wouldn’t need much time. The song didn’t merely introduce Baruch Levine. It announced the arrival of one of the most gifted composers of his generation. Nearly twenty years and countless songs later, “Vezakeini” remains the song most closely associated with his name. Not bad for Track 2 on Album 1. Most artists spend years trying to find their signature song. Baruch Levine apparently decided it would be more efficient to get that out of the way immediately.

The lyrics come from the tefillah traditionally recited after lighting Shabbos candles: “Vezakeini l’gadel banim u’vnei vanim…” a timeless plea to merit raising children and grandchildren who are wise and understanding, who love Hashem, live lives of truth and kedushah, and illuminate the world through Torah and good deeds. In other words, Baruch Levine took approximately every Jewish parent’s hopes, dreams, fears, aspirations, and anxieties, and set them to music. This was always going to have an audience.

What makes the song even more remarkable is that Rabbi Levine himself has said he never expected it to become the phenomenon it did. In fact, he has described the song as relatively simple. What was different was the marriage between the melody and the message. At a time when parents were becoming increasingly conscious of the challenges involved in raising the next generation, “Vezakeini” gave musical expression to something they were already carrying around inside. And apparently, we were carrying around quite a bit.

The melody doesn’t overpower the lyrics. It gives them room. It starts gently, almost tentatively, and then builds along with the hopes contained in the tefillah itself. By the time Levine reaches the soaring conclusion, you’re no longer listening to someone else’s song. You’re thinking about your own children and grandchildren. Or the children you hope to have one day. That’s an extraordinary thing for a piece of music to accomplish. It also helps explain the song’s remarkable staying power. Nearly two decades later, “Vezakeini” has not been relegated to the oldies category. It remains instantly recognizable and deeply emotional because the subject matter doesn’t age.

Twenty years after the song’s initial release, if someone were to name the quintessential Baruch Levine song, there’s a good chance they’ll choose “Vezakeini.” A singer’s debut album is supposed to introduce you to the world. Baruch Levine’s introduced him…and then refused to leave.

That’s why “Vezakeini” comes in at #7.

#6 “Tatty My King” (2018) – Waterbury Mesivta (feat. Dovid Edell). Some songs become hits because they’re brilliantly written. Others become hits because someone brilliant recognizes what they’ve been given. “Tatty My King” was both.

When “Tatty My King” debuted in 2018, few could have imagined it would become one of the defining Jewish songs of the decade. Written and composed by Dovid Edell, then a senior at Waterbury Mesivta, and featuring his soulful vocals, the song introduced many listeners to what would become the unmistakable Waterbury sound. It also marked the arrival of a musical style that would soon influence yeshivas and camps far beyond Waterbury itself.

Edell wasn’t trying to compose the next Jewish music phenomenon. He was putting heartfelt words to Hashem to music in such a way that resonated with thousands. There are no complicated metaphors, no soaring poetry, just the kind of conversation almost every Jew has with the Ribbono Shel Olam at one point or another. Enter the Five Towns’ own Aryeh Kunstler. By then, Reb Aryeh had already established himself as one of the most gifted and versatile figures in contemporary Jewish music, a phenomenal singer, exceptional guitarist, accomplished songwriter, and one of the industry’s premier producers and arrangers. Even he has shared that “Tatty My King” didn’t fully reveal itself until he grasped the progression of the lyrics. This wasn’t merely a beautiful melody; it was a conversation. A child speaking to his Father in Heaven. Once he understood that, the production stopped being about creating a hit and became about allowing that conversation to unfold naturally.

That partnership proved magical. Edell supplied the conversation. Kunstler built the setting in which it could be heard. Perhaps that’s why the song resonated so deeply. Children embraced it because it was simple. Adults embraced it because deep down they realized they were saying the very same things. And somewhere along the way, the boys lost exclusive custody of the song. Girls embraced it just as enthusiastically, making “Tatty My King” one of those rare Jewish songs whose appeal effortlessly crossed schools, camps, communities, and hashkafos.

Unlike many songs that dominate a season and quietly fade away, “Tatty My King” never really left. It simply became part of the vocabulary. Some songs become popular because they’re catchy. “Tatty My King” became unforgettable because it gave an entire generation words they were already trying to say.

Apparently, years after “Tatty My King” was released, a Mennonite choir in Arkansas recorded it. I feel like that’s the kind of fact an article should not omit, and it proves the universal themes of the song.

#5 “L’maancha” (2005) – Eitan Katz. Timing, as they say, is everything. By the time you read this, Selichos will be almost upon us. And somewhere during those opening nights of Selichos, we’ll encounter the very words that open our #5 song: “L’maancha Elokeinu, aseh v’lo lanu. Re’eh amidaseinu dalim v’reikim…” These are words of Selichos. Humble, pleading, deeply introspective. Not exactly the obvious raw material for one of the great kumzits anthems of the 21st century. Yet, Eitan Katz somehow heard a sing-along.

Released in 2005, “L’maancha” gave these words a melody so warm, so accessible, so instantly singable that they eventually escaped Selichos altogether. And I do mean escaped. Twenty-one years later, “L’maancha” is equally at home during Selichos as at a kumzits surrounded by 200 people, three guitars, and at least seven guys who believe the song sounds better if they close their eyes. That’s quite a journey. And that’s the genius of “L’maancha.”

Eitan didn’t turn the words into something they weren’t. He didn’t make them less serious. Somehow, his melody made their vulnerability universal. What begins as a plea before Hashem becomes something a roomful of Jews can sing together. Quietly at first. Then a little louder. Then louder again. Because no Eitan Katz kumzitssong can ever be sung once.

Musically, there is almost nothing standing between the singer and the words. That’s been one of Katz’s great gifts throughout his career. His warm, soulful voice and guitar-driven style have always felt less like a performance and more like someone simply starting a niggun and trusting that the room will figure out what to do next. The room usually does. Give someone a guitar, approximately three functioning chords, and a group of Jews, and “L’maancha” can pretty much take it from there.

If you want evidence, look no further than Eitan Katz’s legendary Live in Jerusalem kumzits. Nearly a decade after the song was first released, Katz gathered more than 400 bochurim from a wide range of backgrounds in Yerushalayim for the 2014 recording. And when “L’maancha” began, something remarkable happened. For more than nine minutes, the room just sang. Nine minutes. One song. Four hundred bochurim. And apparently nobody in Yerushalayim had anywhere else to be. At some point, the distinction between performer and audience simply disappeared. Katz sings, the crowd sings, Katz pulls back, and the crowd keeps going. Eventually you’re not entirely sure who’s performing for whom. Which, come to think of it, may be the most Eitan Katz thing imaginable.

“L’maancha” isn’t really a song you listen to. It’s a song you join. And perhaps that explains its remarkable staying power. There are plenty of melodies we associate with Selichos. We hear them once a year, they stir something deep inside us, and then we lovingly return them to storage until next Elul. “L’maancha” never goes back into storage. It follows us out of shul and into our yeshivas, camps, and kumzitsen. Into concerts and gatherings and countless circles of people singing together. At some point, it stopped being merely a melody for Selichos and became one of those rare songs that carries the feeling of Selichos wherever it’s sung. Perhaps that’s the ultimate test of staying power. Not whether people remember a song, but if they forgot it ever needed to be remembered. “L’maancha” crossed that line a long time ago.

That’s why it comes in at #5.

Next week we’ll tackle #4 and #3. Stay tuned.