Jesse Olsen Bay uses his grandmother’s unpublished prose on ‘Makings,’ by turns a whimsical and melancholy album
By Vox Tablet in Tablet Magazine
Writer Tillie Olsen died in 2007, at age 94. During her life, she worked at many jobs—as a union organizer, waitress, hotel maid, and factory worker, among others—and, with her husband, raised four daughters. That didn’t leave a lot of time to write. But once Olsen got to it, publishing her first story at the age of 43—she made a name for herself, writing elliptical, realist short stories and often angry essays taking on the plight of working people, social injustice, and the many ways that creativity is stifled.Several years before she died, Olsen recruited her grandson Jesse Olsen Bay to help her move out of her San Francisco apartment. Olsen Bay is a musician and singer, and in the move he came upon a couple of boxes of what his grandmother called “blueys.” Named for the light blue type-writer paper Tillie Olsen favored, they contained writing of all sorts—poems, story ideas, phrases, ideas. Jesse was captivated by what he found on these “blueys” and asked his grandmother if they could collaborate on setting them to music. She agreed, and the result is an album called Makings. It has just come out, and Jesse Olsen Bay speaks from his home studio in Sebastopol, Calif., with Vox Tablet host Sara Ivry about the kind of grandmother Olsen was, what Olsen Bay found so compelling in these text fragments, and how her Jewishly grounded activism informed his life.
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He’s
been called the Jewish Elvis; he’s been called the Lady Gaga of Hasidic
Music. He’s a rock star, he’s a YouTube sensation, and he’s a Hasidic
Jew. He is Lipa Schmeltzer, and his wardrobe is way more interesting
than yours.
Zion80
is a big band with a big sound—a full horn section alongside multiple
percussionists, keyboards, and guitars. They’re a combination of Jewish
music, Afrobeat, and avant-garde jazz—late last year, during their
residency at a jazz club in the Lower East Side, the band had sixteen
players, plus a surprise guest sitting in. Their first album featured
funky, super-danceable versions of traditional Jewish liturgical tunes
by rabbi/songwriter Shlomo Carlebach.
(JTA)
— A bronze sculpture of Leonard Bernstein (1918-1990), one of the last
century’s towering musical figures, was unveiled last week at
Tanglewood, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra (BSO).
A
few days ago, I called a young relative who is serving in the Israeli
air force and asked him: “Do you know that song—“Kum, Aseh Piguim”?
In
2011, adventure-seeking rock drummer-turned-Hasidic mother of four
Dalia Shusterman became a widow. At about the same time, Perl Wolfe,
born and raised in the Lubavitch sect of Hasidism, married and divorced,
was living with her parents and beginning to write her own music. A few
months later, the two women would meet in Crown Heights, Brooklyn and
soon after that begin recording their first EP, titled “Down to the
Top.”
In
the gallery of Jewish Museum Milwaukee, sunlight streams in through
windows that display colorful floor-to-ceiling banners from a concert
shot taken at Milwaukee Summerfest in 1995. Nearby is a display of a
redwood and abalone inlay bass guitar loaned to the museum by members of
Howie Epstein’s family. Howie, bassist for Tom Petty and the
Heartbreakers, also played on recordings by Bob Dylan, Stevie Nicks, the
Village People, Warren Zevon and others, and was born in Milwaukee and
attended local Nicolet High School.
The
Lincoln Center Festival’s publicity for an opera titled The Passenger,
aimed at New Yorkers eager for an unusual musical experience, is
magnetic: a “forgotten Holocaust opera,” as the copy calls it, adding
that Dmitri Shostakovich hailed it “a perfect masterpiece.” Completed by
the Polish-Jewish composer Mieczyslaw Weinberg in 1968, much of the
opera is set in Auschwitz. But beyond a few lines given to a Jewish
character, there’s no explicit Jewish presence in this concentration
camp. Seeing the work, it’s hard to believe: An opera set in the killing
factory known for subtracting Jews from the world, and it subtracts
Jews.
Founder
of the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra, rescuer of over 1,000 Jews from
Nazi persecution, world-renowned virtuoso violinist. This is a guy we
can get behind.
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Aviv
Geffen wasn’t Israel’s first rocker, but he may have been the first to
adopt the rocker’s role in an unprecedented totality: The unrelenting
struggle for an audience coupled with the refusal to please fans, to
whom the wrong things must be said at the wrong time. Indeed, Geffen,
one of Israel’s most iconic and enduring rock stars, was, for years,
filled with rage. He used to chant, “We’re a f*&#ed-up generation” and
sing songs that dealt, not always kindly, with Geffen’s favorite subject
matter of the last 20 years: his painful childhood, courtesy of a
father who wasn’t available when the son needed him most. (The father is
Yonatan Geffen, a songwriter who penned some of Israel’s greatest
hits.) His musical influences include the local—notably Shalom Hanoch
and Arik Einstein—and the foreign—David Bowie, Bob Dylan, and
Supertramp. A dozen of his albums in Hebrew, for which he wrote most of
the lyrics and music, reached gold and platinum.
The
Rolling Stones taking the stage at HaYarkon Park in Tel Aviv on June 4,
represented more than just the world’s greatest and longest-running
rock band’s first concert in Israel. It also marked one small victory in
the war against a rock ’n’ roll boycott of Israel being waged by some
English rockers, mostly at the instigation of Roger Waters of Pink Floyd
who, despite some very public efforts, couldn’t sway Mick Jagger and
Keith Richards against finally making their Holy Land debut.
It
was a bleak January morning in Portland, Maine. Clouds heavy with foul
weather and wet snow enshrouded the city’s stern Victorian houses and
dormant factories. Casco Bay, white-capped and gray and dotted with
mournful tankers, blew an icy gale. In the lobby of the Holiday Inn,
where I was staying, wildly cheerful out-of-towners, members of a
booster club for a visiting minor-league hockey team, milled about,
looking beefy and hungover. Stacks of complimentary USA Today gathered
dust at strategic locations. A Mainer—I swear he was wearing a flannel
shirt and one of those plaid hunting caps with the earflaps—was drunk at
8 a.m. and arguing with a receptionist that he’d accused of stealing
his medications.
Talia
Lakritz, 20, a Modern Orthodox Jewish sophomore at Barnard College, and
her two girlfriends got off a very crowded No. 3 train at Kingston
Avenue in a fevered hurry of glee, as they headed to an open-mic night
for women at the gallery at The Creative Soul, an organization in the
Crown Heights section of Brooklyn.