Musaf Service for Rosh Hashanah, Part 1

 

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Liner Notes

 Annotated tracklisting:

1. HIN'NI	Moses J. Silverman
2. ḤATZI KADDISH	Joshua Lind
3. AVOT	Traditional
4. AVOT, continued, Zokhreinu G'VUROT: ata gibbor M'kalkel Ḥayyim Tefen B'makhon Mi Khamokha av Haraḥamim	Traditional; anon. cantorial recitation attrib. Israel Goldfarb cantorial recitation Israel Goldfarb
5. YIMLOKH ADONAI ... el emuna	cantorial recitation
6. MELEKH ELYON	Joshua Samuel Weisser
7. UN'TANEH TOKEF	Abraham Ellstein; cantorial improvisation
8. UVASHOFAR GADOL	Max Helfman
9. B'ROSH HASHANA	cantorial recitative after Moshe Ganchoff
10. KI K'SHIMKHA	Paul Discount
11. EIN KITZVA . . . .	cantorial recitation
12. K'DUSHA	Traditional; cantorial recitation
13. ḤAMOL AL MA'ASEKHA . . . uv'khen yitkadash . . .  b'ein melitz yosher	cantorial recitation Max Goldstein
14. V'KHOL MA'AMINIM	various
15. TUSGAV L'VADEKHA … uv'khen ten  paḥd'kha, uv'khen ten kavod, uv'khen tzaddikim	cantorial
16. V'YE'ETAYU	Louis Lewandowski
17. V'TIMLOKH ATA . . . KADOSH ATA ATA V'KHARTANU . . . .	cantorial recitation Zavel Zilberts cantorial recitation
18. UMIP'NEI ḤATA'EINU AVINU MALKENU GALEH K'VOD	cantorial improvisation after Jacob Rappaport and Moshe Ganchoff attrib. David Moshe Steinberg Tenor duettist: Matthew Klein*

* cantorial student at time of recording; subsequently ordained/invested as hazzan.

The notes below pertain to the individual liturgical settings contained within this recording of the Musaf Service for Rosh Hashanah. For more on the liturgical and aesthetic parameters of the musaf service, see here. 

HIN’NI (Track 1): Loosely fashioned in the manner of a r’shut (a type of quasi-introductory piyyut in the first person, in which the cantor asks leave to begin something or to recite a succeeding piyyut), this anonymous text is assumed to be of medieval origin. But how, when, and where this private pious meditation became a lasting vehicle for virtuoso hazzanut infused with high drama is unknown. Even if this began in Europe, for which we have only anecdotal evidence at best, the vocal renditions would have been improvised or, perhaps in a few cases, musically notated in manuscripts as “composed improvisations.” Apart from simple, straightforward, and mostly syllabic notations in nineteenth-century instructional or documentary manuals for lay cantors or students—and for the most part recording merely what was heard in one or more synagogues within the German-speaking or German cultural orbit—cantorial settings of hin’ni are absent from even the most comprehensive cantorial-choral anthologies published in Europe by serious cantor-composers. In America, however, given the prominent place hin’ni came to occupy, numerous settings were circulated in manuscript, and a number were published.

At some point apparently early on in the American experience, it became common for the cantor to add an unabashedly theatrical element by beginning hin’ni at the rear of the synagogue and then continuing it while proceeding up the aisle to the bima, where he and the choir would complete it. The only evidence of this in Europe resides in dubious folk legends, one of which outdoes by far any theatrics American cantors would dare to pursue.

This setting is by Cantor Moses J. Silverman (1914–1986), the esteemed, illustrious cantor of Anshe Emet Synagogue in Chicago for forty-six years and the premier iconic figure among Chicago’s cantorial community throughout that period. It was he who gave Anshe Emet its national reputation as a platform for dignified cantorial artistry—a standard followed to this day.

Moses Silverman was a fourth-generation cantor whose father was his principal teacher, and he began his cantorial life as a synagogue boy chorister—a typical initiation for most of the great cantors of former times. When he arrived in Chicago in 1940, Cantor Joshua Lind (see below) was already established as the paterfamilias to traditionally oriented cantors in the Chicago area. He became a mentor to Cantor Silverman, helping him further develop the cantorial skills that he eventually refined within the framework of his own propensity for classical restraint and liturgical integrity. That artistic amalgam is reflected in his setting of hin’ni, which he sang annually at Anshe Emet along with many of the other pieces heard in this replicated musaf.

ḤATZI KADDISH (Track 2): The ḥatzi kaddish preceding musaf on the High Holy Days is intoned according to one of the most familiar misinai motifs. The motif comprises a pattern of individual motives and phrases, beginning with the signature three-note incipit, with its intervallic leap of a perfect fourth that then descends a half step to rest on the third tone of the scale or perceived scale of the moment. Among other easily recognizable constituents of the motif are a return to the tonic, or initial note, but with a flatted second scale degree whose augmented interval provides an emblematic modal flavor, followed by a brief modulatory phrase suggesting momentary major tonality before resuming the pattern with repetition of earlier motives.

The misinai motif, however, applies only to parts of this ḥatzi kaddish. Other passages (for example, b’ḥayyekhon uv’yomeikhon and l’eila ul’eila kol birkhata) are always left to a variety of unrelated, frequently tonal, and lilting secondary melodies of much more recent origin. The ones in this setting/arrangement by Joshua Lind are his own. The congregation is expected to join the choir in these melodies as responses. (An alternative tune for these passages, emanating from Europe and attributed to Wolf Shestapol, a.k.a. Velvele Khersoner, 1832–72, somehow emerged as the predominant one in American congregations by or after the 1950s. It appears in the ḥatzi kaddish arrangement heard on the Milken Archive recording of the “First S’liḥot”.)

AVOT (Track 3): The first of the nine b’rakhot of musaf, so called because it begins by addressing God as the God of each of the three patriarchs—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The threefold reference to God with respect to each of them individually rather than collectively has been interpreted as reinforcing the conviction that each person must seek and find God for himself, without relying solely on inherited faith. In his Duties of the Heart, the medieval theologian R. Baḥya ibn Pakuda cautioned that “you are obligated to use your own faculties to gain clear and definite knowledge of the truth, so that your faith and conduct may rest on a foundation of tradition, reason, and personal understanding.”

A misinai motif is also assigned to the avot of musaf on the High Holy Days. Its easily recognizable original incipit, even apart from its now customary embellishment, consists simply of two adjacent notes a whole step apart—establishing the basic skeleton as indicated in some of our earliest extant notated sources. When the full initial phrase then comes to rest temporarily on the fifth tone of what suggests a major scale for the first reference to God’s name, the High Holy Day association is yet more readily grasped by lay worshippers. The overall contour of the motif that is outlined by and within the interval of a major fifth, culminating with the cadence over a major triad, is further emblematic of this associative motif.

The introductory humming or wordless vocalization is not part of the misinai motif. It is a much later but now common discretionary acquisition, probably of Hassidic origin in principle, but not in actual musical content insofar as we know. It sets the mood for the b’rakha.

The inserted misod ḥakhamim is a r’shut, essentially a preludal “piyyut before a piyyut”, in which, in this case, the cantor seeks permission to recite the following piyyut, upad me’az—an alphabetical acrostic by Eleazar Kallir of the seventh or eighth century.

In the modal network of this part of musaf, misod ḥakhamim is typically begun by descending a whole tone on the incipit to modulate to a new key or scalar framework of motives and phrases.

Inserted into the avot on the High Holy Days, the hosafa (a “special occasion” liturgical addition) zokhreinu l’ḥayyim refers to the poetic image of a divinely recorded “Book of Life”—an image that will recur with increased intensity and visceral detail in the piyyut that follows shortly afterward, un’taneh tokef. Meanwhile, this brief hosafa is a plea for inscription in that book for the coming year, based of course on implied repentance and resolve to begin a fresh year of righteous conduct, because God “delights in life”.

The Book of Life theme has a long, complicated, and not undisputed evolution, with a possible Near Eastern precursor in the supposed divine dossiers kept on the living, dating to the time of a contemporary of the Babylonian king Hammurabi—five hundred years before the time of Moses. Following the golden calf incident in the Torah, Moses refers to a Divine book, from which he asks to be erased if the egregious communal transgression will not be forgiven. Whether that request refers to his being relieved of his role or whether that Divine Book refers to the Torah itself is a matter of scholarly contention, as is the proposition that Moses’s reference related to or was born of a Hebrew version of the Babylonian-Sumerian “Book of Life”. Other biblical passages imply God’s recording His judgments in a book, but the actual phrase “book of life” occurs only once in the Hebrew Bible: Psalm 69, in which the author asks that his enemies be expunged from that book and not appear together with the righteous.

Given early Christianity’s reliance on a number of Judaic precedents, it is perhaps not surprising that the New Testament’s late-first-century Book of Revelations (written in Greek) includes a notion of a “book of life”, which is said to reflect influence from its mention a century or so earlier in the apocryphal Book of Enoch—in its Ethiopian Christian translation. In that construct, the book is reserved for the worthy, while “sinners” are recorded in “other files”.

In the view of some biblical students, that division in Revelations appears to mesh with rabbinic understanding among the Amoraim, who, in the talmudic tractate Rosh Hashana, opined that three books are opened on Rosh Hashana: one for the unalloyed righteous, who are automatically inscribed in it and sealed at once for life; one for the totally wicked, who are inscribed and sealed for death; and a third for those who fall in between (viz., nearly all of us) and are thus left in suspension. In the subsequently developed liturgy, however, a single “Book of Life” is sealed only at the last moment—at the conclusion of Yom Kippur.

Zokhreinu is sung here to an anonymous melody, one of several that are familiar to American congregations. Worshippers customarily join the choir until the formulaic conclusion of the b’rakha, whose final cadence is the signature downward minor triad that will recur to conclude the succeeding b’rakhot of musaf. The final words of this first b’rakha, “adonai, shield of Abraham,” contain the gist of the avot: confidence in God’s ultimate protection and redemption—as our shield, too.

G’VUROT (Track 4): The second b’rakha, beginning with ata gibbor and surrounding the theme of eternal life (however one might choose to interpret or relate to this concept) as well as salvation in this life. The familiar tunes for the passages beginning with m’khalkel ḥayyim and mi khamokha av haraḥamim are attributed to Rabbi Israel Goldfarb (1879–1956), who was also a cantor and a teacher of biblical cantillation and basic prayer modes to rabbinical students. He and his brother, Samuel, compiled and in many cases composed numerous congregational melodies and responses that became traditional among American congregations. 

The inserted piyyut, tefen b’makhon—which, like all piyyutim in the musaf of Rosh Hashana, belongs to the special umbrella category of k’rovot (those intended for a particular “location”)— is an inverted alphabetical acrostic by Eleazar Kallir. Like zokhreinu in the avot, mi khamokha av haraḥamim is a hosafa. 

EL EMUNA (Track 5): Preceded by an advance quotation from the upcoming k’dusha, this text appears to be a partial “leftover” from some piyyut—perhaps from one of many that were excised or abbreviated at some point in the process of reducing what had become excessive and prolonged singing of piyyutim. The cantorial recitation follows a traditional pattern. 

MELEKH ELYON (Track 6): An anonymous piyyut sung only on the first day of Rosh Hashana. Even though its theme is anything but frivolous in its majestic contrasting of God the true eternal King against the temporal limitations of mortal kings, nearly all settings have a customarily lighthearted character, employing for congregational singing as a refrain the words la’adei ad yimlokh melekh elyon. This setting is by Joshua Samuel Weisser, a.k.a. Pilderwasser (1888–1952), a learned cantor-composer and cantorial teacher who was born in the Ukraine. He came to the United States in 1914 and soon became a dean ipso facto of Greater New York area cantors. For students as well as accomplished cantors, he published a large number of cantorial recitatives for every service throughout the year, in addition to numerous choral compositions. Twice in the 1930s Weisser received first prize in an international competition for choral settings, sponsored by Di Khazonim Velt (The Cantors’ World) in Warsaw. 

UN’TANEH TOKEF (Tracks 7–11): A lengthy, multi-sectional piyyut that leads to the k’dusha but is not part of the silently recited amida. It is sometimes incorrectly described and even announced to worshippers as the “central prayer” of Rosh Hashana musaf (it occurs on Yom Kippur as well)—perhaps because of the increased musical importance and emphasis it acquired in America but also possibly because of its focus on Divine judgment, to which congregations seem ready and able to relate. Despite its acquired centrality, it is, however, neither a prayer per se nor part of the statutory liturgy, but rather an amalgam of interpolated, undeniably stirring poetry. As such, it has invited a wealth of cantorial and choral expression in a variety of styles.

Notwithstanding the perpetuation of a poignant legend that attributes un’taneh tokef (or at least its first three parts) to a medieval rabbi and martyr, Amnon of Mayence—a tempting story with neither historical basis nor means of verification—its authorship remains a mystery, subject to various suppositions. It is widely held to date to the seventh century C.E., at least in its incipient skeletal form. Even so, it is likely that it became expanded to its present form by the early medieval period, whether the product of single or multiple authorship.

From surviving notated musical evidence, along with verbal accounts, it appears that the paramountcy of un’taneh tokef in relation to other parts of the musaf liturgy was not necessarily a European inheritance. Apart from completely improvised and spontaneous cantorial renditions that we have no way of assessing, published European settings as well as manuscript notations of this piyyut are relatively brief and modest by comparison with many of their typically lengthier and more indulgent American-born counterparts.

A. UN’TANEH TOKEF (Opening section; Track 7): In the absence of an ur-manuscript score in the composer’s handwriting for this well-known but unpublished setting, it has been known consistently in the cantorial world as the work of Abraham Ellstein (1907–1963). The male-voice arrangement (sung here by the men of the larger mixed choir) offers timbral variety enhanced by appropriate, tasteful cantorial extensions. The awesome proclamation of the “mighty holiness of this day, when all-knowing God is both judge and witness as He considers the record of human deeds and behaviors in the preceding year” is reflected in the music with a humble blend of reverence and restrained emotion. Emphasis on the truth of this proposition is provided by deliberate sequential repetition of the word emet (truth), first as a duet and then followed by choral confirmation.

Among the most prominent composers of the American Yiddish theater, film, and radio, Ellstein was the only native-born American. Like a number of his theater-based colleagues, he also addressed synagogue music as a composer, conductor, arranger, and accompanist; and he collaborated with some of the giants in the cantorial pantheon. A graduate of The Juilliard School, he also pursued serious classical music, and his oeuvre includes two oratorios, a piano concerto, chamber music, and two operas—one of which, The Golem, was produced by New York City Opera.

B. UVASHOFAR GADOL (Track 8): This setting by Max Helfman (1901–1963) is the most artistically sophisticated composition in this replicated service. Nonetheless rich in veiled, refined, and imaginative references to a number of expected conventions and clichés of many older settings, echoed and adapted with fresh artistry, the piece had joined the repertoire of quite a few Conservative movement–affiliated synagogues by the late 1950s/early 1960s. In the published score, Helfman included an organ part for those congregations within the Conservative movement’s fold that used organ (a considerable number at the time), but he was careful to make that part dispensable. The piece thus works equally well (better in some views) in a cappella performance.

The poetic imagery, metaphors, analogies, and other literary devices connected to the theme of yom hadin readily ignited Helfman’s artistic imagination: the majestic, ceremonious yet reverential sounding of a “great shofar” in the cosmos to herald the Day of Judgment; even the angels trembling in fear, anticipation, and awe; the Almighty as a shepherd recording the lives and weighing the merits of each one of His flock as they pass under His staff; and the ultimate decree that will determine each one’s destiny in the coming year. Without ignoring traditional musical templates, Helfman captured the essence of this poetry anew with cultivated sensitivity, refinement, melodic initiative, and subtle details of harmonic invention.

Particularly captivating, for example, is the treatment of the shepherd-and-flock metaphor. Its words are given voice with exquisite delicacy by their assignment to angelic-sounding light sopranos. This is Helfman’s reinterpretation of a convention involving the more forceful, labored timbre of a pleading boy alto or soprano soloist. Also noteworthy is the dramatic conclusion. Focusing on anticipation of the ultimate decree, it builds to a climax with increasing agitation while still suggesting optimism and confidence in a merciful judgment that will balance in our favor. Yet the setting comes to rest with an intentionally post-climactic, hushed reminder of the solemnity and reverence with which that decree is awaited.

Born in Radzyn, Poland, Max Helfman was eight years old when he came to the United States, where he distinguished himself as a boy chorister and soloist in New York area orthodox synagogue choirs and also acquired a traditional Jewish education. By young adulthood he had already directed his attention to choral conducting and composition, approaching liturgical as well as secular Hebrew and Yiddish choral music with exacting, classically oriented standards. One of his teachers at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia was the renowned conductor Fritz Reiner. For many years prior to his permanent relocation to the West Coast in 1952, Helfman was a beloved conductor of secular Hebrew and Yiddish choruses in the Greater New York area and choirmaster at leading East Coast synagogues. The relatively modest volume of his sacred music opera is due not only to his premature death but also to the time and energies he devoted to choral conducting and, perhaps most significantly, to Jewish arts education. Even in the twenty-first century there are those who remember him, having sung as youngsters under his baton at the Brandeis Camp in Pennsylvania during the early-to-mid 1940s, or in Santa Susana, California, beginning in 1947.

C. B’ROSH HASHANA (Track 9): The most familiar, even alluring parts of this otherwise potentially terrifying and, for some, uncomfortable section of un’taneh tokef are undoubtedly the seven-word introductory phrase and the coda, both of which offer the opportunity for obtaining lenient judgment through heartfelt repentance and resolve to alter or elevate one’s ways.

Without specifying a “book” in this case, the opening phrase articulates the notion that each person’s destiny for the coming year is “written” on Rosh Hashana but subject to reconsideration and revision (“sealed”) on Yom Kippur. Following an acquired, frequent practice, that announcement is introduced here with an ominous bass solo passage. This particular melody is of uncertain origin but stylistically conventional. Precisely when, why, and by whom that introductory proclamation was turned artificially into a congregational refrain as an entirely American invention has proved impossible to determine. But the practice was unknown anywhere in Europe. The structure of the text provides for no refrain of any type, and none of the many European settings provide for any refrain—nor for any repetition of that opening phrase. Still, as an irreversible American custom, the entrenched seizure as a refrain to punctuate the body of the poem at several points violates no rule. We can only speculate about the rationale behind the innovation—whether simply to provide an opportunity for vocal congregational participation, to deflect from the intensity and frightening imagery of possible awaiting fates, or possibly to underscore the assurance that destinies can yet be influenced by human recommitment and rededication.

The melody employed here for the refrain is one of several that remain well-known among American congregations.

The balance of the poem (between or surrounding the refrains) is Cantor Mizrahi’s own carefully worked-out improvisation, based on a recitative by his mentor and teacher, Odessa-born Cantor Moshe Ganchoff (1905–1997). One of the most distinguished, influential, and revered cantors of his and younger generations, he was known affectionately as “the cantors’ cantor” (though he was wont to shove aside that honor). Ganchoff is known especially for his sophisticated artistic approach to cantorial exposition and his meticulous attention to the words and their meanings. This musical realization of the poem incorporates various traditional characteristic motifs and phrases that correspond to references and images in the text—all or most of which were inherited from European practice. Among those long-standing customs, for example, is the sudden shift to major tonality at the words mi yanu’aḥ—“who shall have tranquillity [versus anxiety]”.

The coda, which encapsulates and sums up the operative theme—that “repentance, prayer, and righteous acts avert the severe decree”—is sung here to its best-known melodic adjunct, a melody by Louis Lewandowski (1821–1894), who created it for the opening of his own setting of un’taneh tokef and cleverly reprised it for this postscript to b’rosh hashana.

D. KI K’SHIMKHA (Track 10): This sensitive, introspective setting by Paul Discount (1886–1952) mirrors the poet’s description of humanity’s frailty, humble origin, susceptibility to transgression, and earthly brevity—circumstances of which the Creator remains consistently cognizant in His long-suffering, quasi-parental patience and His desire for reconciliation rather than retribution. Discount treated this theme with consummate, sublime tenderness. The contrasting stately conclusion reflects the unalloyed affirmation that despite humanity’s fragility, we are sustained by confidence in the knowledge that the Almighty is indeed “our eternal living God and King.”

Born in Kovno, Lithuania, Paul Discount is reputed to have directed a choir at age sixteen at the progressive yet orthodox synagogue in Riga, Latvia, for the renowned Cantor Borukh Leib Rosowsky—whose own compositions reveal a synthesis of traditional eastern European hazzanut and Western musical knowledge. That learned approach would later influence Discount’s own settings following his immigration to America in 1905, where he served a succession of pulpits—the last of which was in Los Angeles.

E. EIN KITZVA . . . aseh l’ma’an (Track 11): This is considered the remainder of un’taneh tokef. (According to a manuscript found in the Cairo Geniza, the piyyut extends up to the k’dusha.) Whether the entirety of un’taneh tokef should be considered a silluk—a special type of piyyut leading to the k’dusha in any service—or only this part, which follows the concluding affirmation of ki k’shimkha, is open to question among liturgical authorities. In any case, this cantorial recitation exhibits bits of motifs and turns of phrases that belong to the prayer modes of Rosh Hashana musaf; and these will recur throughout many of the recitations. Especially memorable in this one is the final four-note cadence, which is distinct from the cadences that conclude all b’rakhot after the avot.

K’DUSHA (Track 12): The proclamation of God’s supreme holiness and sanctity. Its recitation in musaf of Rosh Hashana (as well as Yom Kippur) must employ part of the misinai motif for the avoda service of Yom Kippur, which recalls in detail the priestly rituals and procedures in the ancient Temple on that holiest of days. This misinai motif is immediately recognizable by its opening upward leap and return, spanning a major third, then momentarily descending a minor third with the fleeting hint of minor before returning to the initial pitch. The invocation of this misinai motif for k’dusha provides a foretaste of the distinct avoda service, with its turn to collective memory of antiquity. Established practice requires that cantorial delivery of k’dusha on the High Holy Days be straightforward and brief. In the same vein, congregational responses are concise, with no indulgence in extended melodies. L’dor vador, however, is not subject to the misinai motif, nor is it an appropriate occasion for congregational singing on the High Holy Days.

ḤAMOL AL MA’ASEKHA . . . UV’KHEN YITKADASH (Track 13): Part of an originally single piyyut, or perhaps two distinct ones that were fused together at some point. Many cantorial-choral settings begin at uv’khen yitkadash and are so titled. Others begin at a midway point, most commonly either at od yizkor lanu or b’ein melitz yosher, which is where the choir enters here—picking up on the preceding recitation. This is, however, merely the concluding part of what is undoubtedly the best-known setting of uv'khen yitkadash, a "classic" in synagogue choral repertoire by Max [Mali] Goldstein (1857-1917), a highly respected but now little remembered Hungarian cantor and cantorial-choral composer who served various pulpits in the Austro-Hungarian Empire—the most significant of which was in Stein-am-Anger (now Szombathely, in Hungary) in what was then known as Western Trans-Danubia. He published two volumes of his own music, N'ginat Yisra'el and Shirei N'imot, but only his setting of uv'khen yitkadash (actually two consecutive settings, since the section beginning at od yizkor lanu appears as an independent piece in his published version) became part of the cantorial-choral canon for the High Holy Days—known throughout the Ashkenazi world. It has been widely circulated in America, however, in the expanded, harmonically adjusted arrangement by Max Graumann, an émigré cantor from Central Europe who served Reform pulpits in the New York area in the early part of the 20th century but whose own settings indicate traditional cantorial leanings; and he was active in the then young Society of American Cantors. Like nearly all settings of this text, the Goldstein-Graumann one extends into the first four words of the succeeding piyyut, v'khol ma'aminim, for its final cadence.

V’KHOL MA’AMINIM (Track 14): A strophic alphabetical acrostic piyyut by Yannai (seventh century). The strophes enumerate specific Divine attributes that, the poet presumes, all should believe or, as the faithful, do believe to be true. The first two words of the second line of each strophe, v’khol ma’aminim (“And all believe [that . . .]”) function as a refrain. The musical realization here is anything but a structurally unified setting. To the contrary, following an accepted practice, it is unapologetically a pastiche of unrelated melodies, choral treatments, duets and solo statements, and cantorial expressions—not from any single source, but found in manuscript repertoires of various choirmasters and linked by the congregationally joined refrains. In many congregations, only some of the strophes are sung, while others are skipped or presumably left to rapid, unsynchronized recitation by the worshippers.

TUSGAV L’VADEKHA . . . UV’KHEN TEN PAḤD’KHA—UV’KHEN TZADDIKIM (Track 15): The t’filla that commences the third b’rakha, k’dushat hashem (the holiness of God’s name). The cantorial recitation follows an established mosaic of traditionally associated motives, phrases, and cadential formulae for the most part peculiar to this liturgical section as its own prayer mode. The choir’s melisma on the word uv’khen introduces each of the three prayers that follow, corresponding to their common initial word: “And [now] therefore . . .” Viz., since, as prophesied, God will ultimately reign unchallenged, exclusively, and with unity as King over all, THEREFORE (uv’khen) may all mankind and all creation be permeated with reverence for God, culminating in universal brotherhood; may honor and glory be granted expeditiously to the people who revere Him with confidence, so that joy and gladness will come to God’s holy land and city; and may evil and tyranny vanish from the earth to the benefit of all humanity. The origin of this vocal custom, which echoes the descending cadential minor triad emblematic of this musaf service, is uncertain, but it became increasingly widespread among American congregations in the postwar period. The optional interpolated fragmentary tune at the words simḥa l’artzekha (Bring joy to Your land and gladness to Your city), which refer to the hope for speedy redemption, was already known and sung in many eastern European synagogues, and it became a part of tradition in America.

V’YE’ETAYU (Track 16): An anonymous medieval piyyut interpolated into the t’filla belonging to k’dushat hashem (the third b’rakha), which is thought to date to the eighth century if not earlier. This setting is one of Louis Lewandowski’s most famous and enduring pieces, one of only a small part of his opera that transcended the orbit of German-speaking Jewry to penetrate eastern European repertoires—almost as a sine qua non of this piyyut. It is not clear whether the melodic substance was his own or if he might have devised and harmonized this setting based on preexisting traditional material. Although the harmonization is emblematic of Lewandowski’s procedures, the tune seems atypical of his melodic invention, more reminiscent of much older piyyutim melodies of minhag ashkenaz (established Ashkenazi custom)—in particular, some of those emanating from southwestern German areas. In that case, which of course is only a supposition, it might have been transmitted to him by Jacob Lichtenstein, one of the cantors for whom he directed choirs, who is known to have given him various melodies to arrange.

V’TIMLOKH ATA . . . KADOSH ATA . . . (Track 17): The resumption of the t’filla leading to the conclusion of k’dushat hashem and the third b’rakha, which, beginning with the words kadosh ata, is sung in a well-known setting by Zavel Zilberts (1881–1949).

Born in Karlin, a suburb of Minsk, Belarus (then known as White Russia), Zilberts was equally acclaimed as a choral conductor and as a composer before and after his immigration to America in 1920. In Poland and Russia he held important secular Jewish as well as synagogal conducting posts, including that of choirmaster at Moscow’s Choral Synagogue. He continued that twin focus in the United States, and his works reveal a classical artistic approach, often skillfully blending cantorial lines and choral expression in partnership.

UMIP’NEI ḤATA’EINU (Track 18): A section that gives voice to the historical hope for national redemption and reunification as an end to involuntary diaspora. In modern readings, remembrance of Zion, Jerusalem, and the Temple in this connection can be a symbol of unity as well as religious, moral, and ethical recommitment. Well-known cantorial-choral settings of this section abound. Such musical emphasis with elaborate compositions, however, is usually reserved for the occurrence of this liturgy on the Three Festivals. The realization here is therefore a combination of two restrained cantorial recitatives, one by Jacob Rappaport (1890–1943), who is especially known for his creativity in this genre, and the other by Moshe Ganchoff. (The Rappaport excerpt here was arranged by Seymour Silbermintz.) The duet beginning at avinu malkenu galei k’vod is an exception to the unwritten “rule” of reserving musical emphasis for the Three Festivals, inasmuch as it is known to have been sung in Europe on the High Holy Days. The melody (and perhaps the duet) is generally attributed to David Moshe Steinberg (1871–1941), a titan in the history of virtuoso cantorial art, although we have no firm documentation apart from the fame he brought to it through his recording. The tune beginning at v’korev p’zureinu—only one of many for these words—gives the impression of Hassidic influence in principle, but its origin has not been traced to the repertoire of any particular Hassidic dynasty. The custom of attaching the Hatikva tune to the passage commencing with vahavi’enu (And lead us to Zion), which refers to “joyous song” that will accompany that procession, emerged in Europe as a briefly echoed anthem of Jewish unity even apart from any political overtones. The custom has been perpetuated in American congregations.

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Lyrics

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Credits

Composer: Various

Performers: Neil Levin, Conductor;  Alberto Mizrahi, Cantor;  New York Cantorial Choir

Additional Credits:

Translation from the Hebrew by Rabbi Morton M. Leifman (edited by Eli Mishulovin and Neil Levin).