It says something about me that on a Saturday evening in Jerusalem, about an hour before sunset, when I stepped outdoors to take my dog for a walk I couldn't for the life of me figure out just who all these people were and where, exactly, they were going.
And then it dawned on me: It wasn't the good townspeople of Anatevka fleeing a pogrom but rather Torah-observers, dressed in their Sabbath best, hurrying to shul to daven mincha/maariv.
Recently one of the great American newspapers carried a long guide to recent recordings of world music in its arts pages. The article was thoughtful, intelligent and, for the most part, a splendid introduction to the field, covering everything from sub-Saharan Africa to Celtic music.
There was only one striking omission: the author didn’t discuss a single recording of Jewish music of any kind.
Young Families, Singles Flocking to Upper East Side; ‘The Memory Is In Their Taste Buds’: The Lure of Sephardic Food; Safra Synagogue Rabbi’s Growing Empire; Sephardic And Egalitarian at B’nai Jeshurun; Giving Voice to Sephardic Music.