Drunk on the possibility,
Of love. Of oozing tears of holy light that illuminate the path of those who have lost their way.
Drunk on the free love that
Shines out of corners full of cob webs and
draped on lace dresses and torn begeds
crying out to hold your hand.
Drinking, slowly, the masks we wear, feeling tipsy off the revelation that comes when we peel back layers of juicy, painful frustration that liquifies and mystifies our souls.
Sipping, buzzing, dreaming – Drunk!
Off that divine source of magic that sparkles in your teeth and glows in your eyes and is the source of all light when I have taken a wrong turn.
Silly, smiley, warm, drunken mess that makes my cheeks red and dress light up.
The kind of drunken mess that pours out of your breathe and kisses the Ether of God (the place from which you came). Drunk!
Drunk off your lovingkindness, sweet God
Of the celestial fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters that sing the song of the Cosmos, dance on the wind and
Fill our Cups with divine juice-
So sweet on my hands, as I clap the elixir back up to you,
To be at peace- amen!
There are some exceptionally pallid evenings just after the big hot egg yolk above has been done for hours flinging parabolically and is ready to settle down as if with a good, good book, or in a billowing hammock of the western mountains, or a quiet sojourn after a large meal, and is solaced with light streaks of beet roots and in some cloudier parts of the sky marbled with dollops of pink bubblegum, as if being chewed ever so slowly.
And then there is this utmost frightful silence–palpable, like the taste of a wooden stick on the back of your tongue, and God is telling you to open up and say ahhh–and the only extraordinarily vain thought that is allowed to enter your paralysed circuit board is how lovely the smell of bitter juniper and spruce, such a beautiful eyesore that amiable Jackson Pollock sky. These all combine to mirror the moment that the universe was seethed, and how it must have racked its silent brain cave as to how it would like to present itself in front of its dusty progenies, each eve, for eternity and onward–this resurgence of fire against the cooling east–and yet we still have the audacity to compare this one to that one, to retouch the red sky that melts to brown like chemicals in a gutter. We’re little pettifoggers with our own distinct pair of reflectors and our hearts strung up like little toy airplanes on a mobile.
It is only our shift to watch over the long teal eastern, with clouds as easy riders, clouds as spindrifters, clouds as a glass of spilled milk.
This is only our first and certainly most ungraceful dance to the best fucking jazz we’ve ever heard.
I was recently gifted with some niggun field recordings from a gaggle of Chassidim here. The bulk of these come from two main tischen in the Chassidic world, Channukah and Tu B’shvat. Most of these niggunim come from the Boyan tisch, though there are also ones from Slonim, Nedevorna and Premishlan.
They are real rough around the edges, but I feel that they capture the spirit of the rawness of a tisch: thousands of chassidim crowded into one room, clapping and screaming along when appropriate, and on the especially rowdy ones, getting swept up in the ecstatic fervor of the mystical shtetl mantra.
these are some clips from the most recent Zohar lesson with Rav Froman, this time featuring Israeli rock star and all-around oddball ברי סחרוף (Barry Sachrof).
The first is some general rowdiness, and the second is rav froman doing what he does best: tripping out with upturned hands and eyes towards the heavens to receive the infinite treasures that descend from beyond. standard.
Been sittin’ on this stuff for too long now. The second installment of Orchard Recordings features Jake Marmer‘s Jazz Talmud with the Ayn Sof Arkestra, some Hasidic New Wave from the East Village Radical Jewish Music Festival, Julianna Barwick enchantmentness, a quick dose of Andy Statman‘s basement sessions, a slow dose of Rashanim, the newborn mandolin-tabla duo of Joey Weisenberg and Sameer Gupta, a damn cute acoustic group The Relatives and, again, the teaching and soaring faciliated by Rav Raz Hartman.
There tracks are pretty raw, and I hope you’ll forgive me if my off-key chords chime in once or twice too often. Most of the track names are completely made up and probably do not reflect the artists’ intentions. Having said that, it’s a pretty accurate representation of my musical world of late. Now, it can be your musical world, too.
Enjoy, in joy.