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The hora, the hora! How Jewish wedding music got that way
(JTA) — When my wife and I were planning our wedding, we thought it might be cool to hire a klezmer band. This was during the first wave of the klezmer revival, when groups like The Klezmatics and The Klezmer Conservatory Band were rediscovering the genre of Jewish wedding music popular for centuries in Yiddish-speaking Eastern Europe.
Of course we also wanted to dance to rock ‘n’ roll and needed musicians who could handle Sinatra for our parents’ benefit, so we went with a more typical wedding band. Modernity won out over tradition.
Or did it? Musician and musicologist Uri Schreter argues that the music heard at American Jewish weddings since the 1950s has become a tradition all its own, especially in the way Old World traditions coexist with contemporary pop. In a dissertation he is writing about the politics of Jewish music in the early postwar period, Schreter argues that American Jewish musical traditions — especially among secularized Conservative and Reform Jews — reflect events happening outside the wedding hall, including the Holocaust, the creation of Israel and the rapid assimilation of American Jews.
That will be the subject of a talk he’ll be giving Monday for YIVO, titled “Yiddish to the Core: Wedding Music and Jewish Identity in Postwar New York City.”
Because it’s June — and because I’m busy planning a wedding for one of my kids one year from now — I wanted to speak to Schreter about Jewish weddings and how they got that way. Our Zoom conversation Wednesday touched on the indestructibility of the hora, the role of musicians as “secular clergy” and why my Ashkenazi parents danced the cha-cha-cha.
Born in Tel Aviv, Schreter is pursuing his PhD in historical musicology at Harvard University. He is a composer, pianist and film editor.
Our conversation was edited for length and clarity.
I was struck by your research because we’re helping to plan a child’s wedding now. It’s the first wedding we’ve planned since our own, and we’re still asking the same questions, like, you’ve got to make sure the band can handle the hora and the Motown set and, I don’t know, “Uptown Funk.” Your research explores when that began — when American Jewish weddings began to combine the traditional and secular cultures.
In the period that I’m talking about, post-World War II America, this is already a fact of life for musicians. A lot of my work is based on interviews with musicians from that period, folks now in their 80s and 90s. The oldest one I have started playing professionally in 1947 or ’48. Popular American music was played at Jewish weddings as early as the 1930s, but it’s a question of proportion — how much the wedding would feature foxtrots and swing and Lindy Hop and other popular dance tunes of the day, and how much of it is going to be klezmer music.
In the postwar period, most of the [non-Orthodox] American Jewish weddings would have featured American pop. For musicians who wanted to be in what they called the “club date” business, they needed to be able to do all these things. And some “offices” — a term they used for a business that books wedding bands — would have specialists that they could call on to do a Jewish wedding.
You’re writing about a period when the Conservative movement becomes the dominant American Jewish denomination. They have one foot in tradition, and the other in modernity. What does a wedding look like in 1958 when they’re building the big suburban synagogues?
The difference is not so much denominational but between the wide spectrum of Orthodoxy and the diverse spectrum of what I describe as “secular.”
Meaning non-Orthodox — Reform, Conservative, etc.?
Right. Only in the sense that they are broadly speaking more secular than the Orthodox. And if so they are going to have, for the most part, one, maybe two sets of Jewish dance music — basically a medley of a few Jewish tunes. You might have a wedding where it could be a quarter of the music or even half would be Jewish music, but this would be for families that have a much stronger degree of attachment to traditional Jewish culture, and primarily Yiddish culture.
There’s a few interrelated elements that shape this. Class is an important thing. For lower class communities in some areas, and I am talking primarily about New York, you’d have communities that are a little bit more secluded, probably speaking more Yiddish at home and hanging out more with other Jewish people from similar backgrounds. So these kinds of communities might have as much as a third or half of the music be Jewish, even though they consider themselves secular. It’s actually very similar to an Orthodox wedding, where you might also have half and half [Jewish and “American” music].
Jews in the higher socioeconomic class might, in general, be more Americanized, and want to project a more mainstream American identity. They might have as little as five minutes of Jewish music, just to mark it that they did this. Still, it’s very important for almost all of them to have those five minutes — because it’s one of the things that makes the wedding Jewish. I interviewed couples that were getting married in the ’50s, and a lot of them told me, “You need to have Jewish dance music for this to be a Jewish wedding.”
Composer and pianist Uri Schreter is pursuing his PhD in historical musicology at Harvard University. (Nicole Loeb)
When I was growing up in the 1970s at a suburban Reform synagogue on Long Island, klezmer was never spoken about. I don’t know any parents who owned klezmer albums. Then when I got married a decade later, it was in the middle of the klezmer revival. Am I right about that? Were the ’50s and ’60s fallow periods for klezmer?
You’re definitely right. Up until the mid-1920s, you still have waves of immigration coming from Eastern Europe. So you still have new people feeding this desire for the traditional culture. But as immigration stops and people basically tried to become American, the tides shift away from traditional klezmer.
The other important thing that happens in the period that I’m looking at is both a negative rejection of klezmer and a positive attraction to other new things. Klezmer becomes associated with immigrant culture, so people who are trying to be American don’t want to be associated with it. It also becomes associated with the Holocaust, which is very problematic. Anything sounding Yiddish becomes associated for some people with tragedy.
At the same time, and very much related to this, there’s the rise of Israeli popular culture, and especially Israeli folk songs. A really strong symbol of this is in the summer of 1950, when the Weavers record a song called “Tzena, Tzena,” a Hebrew Israeli song written in the 1940s which becomes a massive hit in America — it’s like number two in the Billboard charts for about 10 weeks. Israeli culture becomes this symbol of hope and the future and a new society that’s inspiring. This is all in very stark contrast to what klezmer represents for people. And a lot of the composers of Israeli folk song of its first decades had this very clearly stated ideology that they’re moving away from Ashkenazi musical traditions and Yiddish.
So the Jewish set at a wedding becomes an Israeli set.
At a typical Conservative wedding in the 1950s and ’60s, you might hear 10 minutes of Jewish music. The first one would be “Hava Nagila,” then they went to “Tzena, Tzena,” then they would do a song called “Artza Alinu,” which is today not very well known, and then “Hevenu Shalom Aleichem.” They are songs that are perceived to be Israeli folk songs, even though if you actually look at their origins, it’s a lot murkier than that. Like two of the songs I just mentioned are actually Hasidic songs that received Hebrew words in pre-state Palestine. Another probably comes from some sort of German, non-Jewish composer in 1900, but is in Hebrew and is perceived to be a representation of Israeli culture.
But even when the repertoire already represents a shift towards what’s easier to digest for American Jewry, the arrangements and the instruments and the musical ornamentation are essentially klezmer. The musicians I spoke to said they did this because they felt that this is the only way that it would actually sound Jewish.
That is to say, to be “Jewish” the music had to gesture towards Ashkenazi and Yiddish, even if it were Israeli and Hebrew. As if Jews wanted to distance themselves from Eastern Europe — but only so far.
Someone like Dave Tarras or the Epstein Brothers, musicians who were really at the forefront of klezmer in New York at the time, were really focused on bringing it closer to Ashkenazi traditions. Ashkenazi Jewish weddings in America are not the totality of Jewish weddings in America, and Israeli music itself is made up of all these different traditions — North African, Middle Eastern, Turkish, Greek — but in effect most of the really popular songs of the time were composed by Ashkenazi composers. Even “Hava Nagila” is based on a melody from the Sadigura Hasidic sect in Eastern Europe.
Of course, if you’re a klezmer musician you’re allergic to “Hava Nagila.”
Then-Vice President Joe Biden dances the hora with his daughter Ashley at her wedding to Howard Krein in Wilmington, Delaware on June 2, 2012. (White House/David Lienemann)
You spoke earlier about Latin music, which seemed to become a Jewish thing in the 1950s and ’60s — I know a few scholars have focused on Jews and Latinos and how Latin musical genres like the mambo and cha-cha-cha became popular in the Catskill Mountain resorts and at Jewish weddings.
Latin music is not exclusively a Jewish thing, but it’s part of American popular culture by the late 40s. But Jews are very eagerly adopting it for sure. In the Catskills, you would often have two separate bands that alternated every evening. One is a Latin band, one is a generic American band playing everything else. And part of that is American Jews wanting to become American. And how do you become American? By doing what Americans do: by appropriating “exotic” cultures, in this case Latin. This is a way of being American.
Jews and Chinese food would be another example.
And by the way, in a similar vein, it also becomes very popular to dance to Israeli folk songs. A lot of people are taking lessons. A lot of people are going to their Jewish Y to learn Israeli folk dance.
I’ve been to Jewish weddings where the “Jewish set” feels very perfunctory — you know, dance a hora or two long enough to lift the couple on chairs and then let’s get to the Motown. Or the Black Eyed Peas because they were smart enough to include the words “Mazel Tov!” in the lyrics to “I Gotta Feeling.”
So that’s why we always hear that song! I will say though, even when the Jewish music appears superficial, it does have this deeper layer of meaning. It’s very interesting how, despite all these changes, and despite the secularization process of American Jewish weddings, the music still connects people to their Jewishness. These pieces of music are so meshed with other religious components. Of course, most people see this as secular. But a lot of people connect to their Jewish identity through elements such as Jewish music, Jewish food, certain Jewish customs that are easier to accommodate in your secular lifestyle, and the music specifically has this kind of flexibility, this fluidity between the sacred and the profane.
That’s beautiful. It sort of makes the musicians secular clergy.
It’s interesting that you say that. In his history of klezmer, Walter Zev Feldman refers to the klezmer — the word itself means “musician” — as a kind of a liminal character, an interstitial character between the secular and the mundane. The music is not liturgical, but when the klezmer or the band is playing, it is an interval woven with all these other religious components and things that have ritual meaning.
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‘It’s a whole ‘nother level of hate’: Pro-Palestinian groups target Oregon Hillel director
The fall semester at Oregon Hillel started with a stolen sukkah. Days later, the director found his face plastered on flyers around University of Oregon’s campus, branding him “Enemy of the People.”
Then came the Oct. 7 anniversary, when pro-Palestinian demonstrators marched to the Hillel House and set fire to an American-Israeli flag on the sidewalk outside.
“It’s a whole ‘nother level of hate and protesting,” said Oregon Hillel Director Lenny Steinberg. “These intimidation factors are starting to grow.”
A tense start
Oregon Hillel serves the University of Oregon in Eugene along with Oregon State University in Corvallis, where the sukkah was stolen. After being up for only a few days, the entire structure, its decorations and everything in it disappeared. The theft is still under investigation and it’s unclear if it was hate motivated.
For Steinberg, who has led Oregon Hillel since 2024, the incidents marked a tense start to the school year — but not an entirely unexpected one. Tensions in Eugene have run high since the Hamas attacks on Israel in 2023 and the subsequent war in Gaza. The university saw an encampment, protests that sometimes offered support for Hamas, the tearing down of Israeli hostage posters and a drawing of a swastika on a dorm bulletin board.
During the spring semester, Oregon Hillel scheduled an event with the 2021 Miss Israel title holder Noa Cochva. She planned to speak with students and answer questions about her home country, but decided to cancel the event due to protests and safety concerns. Instead, she spoke with Hillel students off campus.
While anti-Israel protests are now commonplace across American campuses, protesters’ demands in Oregon have gone beyond simply calling for their university to cut ties with Israel, they want their university to cut ties with Hillel.
“The director of Oregon Hillel supports the continuation of Zionism and genocide in Palestine,” the flyers state. “Hillel off Campus!!!”
A QR code on the posters links to an article about how students in the academic senate at the New School voted to defund and cut ties with Hillel. The New School did not ban Hillel, as the students had no authority to make such a decision.
Steinberg said campus security footage captured two masked individuals wearing sunglasses and all-black clothing putting up the flyers. Four campus activist groups posted an online statement defending the flyers but didn’t explicitly claim to be responsible for them.
“The poster says nothing about Judaism,” the statement reads in all caps. “The reality of the situation is that Oregon Hillel, a staunchly Zionist group, and the administration create a dangerous space for Jews by synchronizing a Zionist agenda with Judaic practice on campus.”
The statement was shared on Instagram by the local chapters of Jewish Voice for Peace, Revolutionary Women’s Committee, Young Democratic Socialists of America and the Eugene Revolutionary Study Group. None of the organizations responded to the Forward’s request for comment.
Steinberg said that, when he saw the flyers, his first thoughts were about the safety of his family, himself and the Jewish community. While he was directly targeted in the posters, he said many Jews reached out to him with their own safety concerns.
Steinberg took offense at the poster, saying it was spreading lies about him and that he in no way supports genocide. As for the accusation of being a Zionist, he said those who distributed the poster have a different definition of the term than he does. He believes that to them, Zionism means Jewish supremacy in Israel, full support of the Israeli government, support for settlers in the West Bank and denial of Palestinians’ right to self-determination.
To him, Zionism means having an ancestral home and self-determination alongside Arabs.
“Zionism doesn’t necessarily, to me, mean everything has to be Jewish,” he said. “It doesn’t mean that the State of Israel gets everything right. They don’t. We don’t get everything right here, but it’s my home, and I love it for all of its amazing beauties and even its flaws.”
Oregon’s Hillel is not unique. It fosters Jewish community through events and offers a space for students to gather, and like many Hillels, funds trips to Israel via both the Birthright and Perspectives programs. Birthright is the free 10-day trip to Israel offered to young adults with one Jewish parent, while Perspectives is a trip offered to students of Jewish and non-Jewish backgrounds to experience both Israel and parts of the West Bank.
Throughout his professional career, Steinberg, 38, has worked for numerous Jewish organizations including the Jewish Federation, the Jewish Community Center in Portland and most recently the Jewish fraternity Alpha Epsilon Pi. Given his line of work he was well aware of the “encampments, and political climates and what hostilities there might be” brewing on campuses before he took the Hillel position in 2024.
“Still, I don’t think any of that truly prepared me for what’s really transpired and happened over these last few weeks,” he said.
While the pro-Palestine groups that shared a statement on the flyer insist it is not antisemitic, Steinberg disagrees. He argues the posters are intended to make Jews feel uncomfortable, while calling for the removal of one of the only Jewish groups on campus.
“That to me is antisemitism masked heavily in anti-Zionism,” he said.
While these events have strained the Jewish community, Steinberg said students have displayed “resilience.” Dozens of people donated to the Corvallis’s new sukkah, the University of Oregon and multiple politicians made statements supporting the Jewish community, and many attended Hillel’s recent unity shabbat.
“Students came, and for the first time in almost two weeks, you could see the weight lifted off their shoulders,” Steinberg said. “You could see that they felt like they belonged and they actually mattered at a time when so many other people are telling them ‘you don’t.’”
The post ‘It’s a whole ‘nother level of hate’: Pro-Palestinian groups target Oregon Hillel director appeared first on The Forward.
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NYC Comptroller breaks campaign promise to Jewish voters to buy Israel Bonds, drawing praise from Mamdani
New York City Comptroller Mark Levine’s decision not to resume the city’s investments in Israel Bonds, breaking a campaign promise he made to Jewish voters last year, drew mixed reactions Wednesday from supporters of Israel and advocates for the Palestinian cause. It also marked another symbolic shift in the city’s relationship with Israel under Mayor Zohran Mamdani.
The decision, first reported by The New York Times, is a significant reversal for Levine, the city’s highest-ranking Jewish elected official, who repeatedly promised last year to restore the investments after his predecessor ended a nearly 50-year practice of buying Israeli government debt.
The city’s pension funds previously held $39 million in Israel Bonds, which returned roughly 5%. Former Comptroller Brad Lander, who is also Jewish, decided not to purchase new bonds when the holdings matured in 2023, citing the city’s policy against investing in foreign government debt.
In an interview with the Times, Levine cited financial concerns and technical challenges, including those related to the war in Gaza and Israel’s political instability, in explaining why Israel Bonds are “not an investment that we can make right now.”
He insisted the decision was not driven by political pressure or a shift in his personal support for Israel, and left open the possibility of purchasing Israel Bonds in the future. The pension funds still hold $285 million in Israel-related assets, including common stocks and more than $1 million in Israeli real estate investment trusts.
The move was nonetheless a political victory for Mamdani, a longtime supporter of boycotts of Israel, who opposed the bond purchases and has sought to reshape New York City’s relationship with Israel, politically, emotionally and economically.
“I welcome the comptroller’s decision,” Mamdani told the Forward on Wednesday. “It is something that I’ve said in the past … I don’t believe that our city should purchase Israel bonds. We don’t purchase the bonds of any other sovereign nation. I don’t think that we should make an exception when it comes to Israel.” The mayor can neither prevent the investment nor overrule it.
Lander, now a congressional candidate, also voiced his approval via text message. “The pension funds are not invested in the bonds of other foreign countries,” Lander said, “and previous comptrollers’ decisions to buy Israel bonds nonetheless were a political move, not a fiduciary one.”
Why Levine changed his mind
For Jewish voters who supported Levine’s campaign, the reversal raises questions about a promise he made while seeking the office of the city’s chief financial officer.
“This has been a rock-solid investment for decades,” he said during the campaign. “Israel has never missed a bond payment, and a good, balanced portfolio should have global diversity.”
When Mamdani suggested Lander’s move should become permanent, Levine pushed back. “Israel bonds have never missed a payment in 70 years, ever, not once,” he said in April. “They pay excellent interest.”
He also called out critics who had been protesting outside his office. “We have had no protesting about our investments in Saudi Arabia, our investments in Pakistan or China, only this one little, tiny sliver,” Levine said.
A spokesperson for Levine’s office said the decision was strictly financial, not political, and noted that the decision applies only to the city’s short-term investments, where concerns about regional instability and financial risks make Israel Bonds “less attractive than other options.” Though the office did acknowledge that it invests in some bonds with lower returns.
Levine conceded that when he made the campaign promise, he did not have a complete understanding of the city’s financial options. “Perhaps a year and a half ago,” Levine told the Times, “I would have expected that the ratings would have been improved by now and/or that the interest rate would have gone up.”
Jewish leaders, who criticized Lander’s decision when it was revealed last year, remained largely silent on Wednesday.
Former comptroller warns of consequences
Scott Stringer, who served as comptroller from 2013 to 2021 and also ran for mayor last year, warned that Levine’s decision could have broader political and social consequences. ”This is a major victory for BDS, and it’s going to have long-term ramifications,” Stringer told the Forward. “This indecision will, unfortunately, spark more BDS calls that could cause further antisemitism.”
Stringer and his predecessors — John Liu and Bill Thompson — purchased tens of millions of dollars in bonds during their time in office. Stringer called Israel Bonds a “sound long-term investment” and argued that the city should not base its decisions on short-term developments.
“It’s a sound investment today, and it’s a sound investment for the future,” he said, adding that it also sends an important symbolic message, especially “because of the politics of the moment.”
When Landers ended the investment in 2023, former Mayor Eric Adams protested but couldn’t stop it. Moshe Davis, who was Adams’ Jewish liaison and worked with then-First Deputy Mayor Randy Mastro, drafted a letter to Lander, saying the decision called into question his “fiduciary duty to the city’s pensioners.” On Wednesday, Davis suggested Levine was “feeding the BDS lie” just like his predecessor.
“Our city deserves a comptroller who stands up to anti-Israel propaganda,” Davis said, “the way he promised on the campaign trail.”
An Israel Bonds spokesperson criticized Levine’s reversal, pointing to his repeated campaign promises. Nate Miller, a spokesperson for Israel Bonds, pointed to the strength of Israel’s economy and said investors have purchased more than $8.5 billion in Israel Bonds since the Oct. 7, 2023 attack on Israel and the Gaza war. Despite Levine’s decision, Miller said, “We look forward to sitting down with him and his team.”
Levine’s spokesperson said the comptroller’s office “continues to evaluate investment opportunities based on their financial merits and our fiduciary responsibilities.”
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A town in the Alps that rescued Jews from the Nazis
Read the original Yiddish article here.
During a trip to the French Alps this year, I discovered a village with a fascinating Jewish history.
Saint-Martin-Vésubie sprawls across a mountain in southern France near the Italian border, its slopes dotted with colorful houses. A river runs through the center of town, lined with pine trees and ripening grapes.
On my first day there, the town’s tour guide, Anne Sivirine, told us that for a year during World War II, Saint-Martin-Vésubie actually served as a city of refuge for more than 1,200 Jews.
Among those refugees were Jews from Germany, Poland, Holland and Belgium, who had escaped to the zone libre, the French term referring to the territory in southern France, which, during the first two years of the war, was not yet occupied by the Nazis. My grandmother Feyge and her family had tried to flee Belgium for southern France, but due to various circumstances, didn’t manage and remained in the Belgian city of Antwerp.
In November 1942, the Nazis entered the zone libre, while their allies, the Italians, occupied the southeast region of France. Although the Italians administered their own “race laws,” the Jews in Italy, and for a while in southern France, weren’t in danger, and that was no small thing towards the end of 1942, when most Jews in Europe had already been murdered by the Germans.
Thanks to the efforts of Angelo Donati, an Italian Jew living in Nice at the time, the Italians agreed to establish a center for Jewish refugees in Saint-Martin-Vésubie where they could live a relatively normal life. Although prior to the war, only one Jewish family — the Levin-Drisdos — lived there, it soon became a fully Jewish shtetl.
At the beginning of 1943, in the middle of the war, Jews learned, prayed, worked, founded youth and sports organizations, and even married. The French residents, for the most part, were friendly to the Jews, and many provided food and other means of support. Such kindness towards Jewish refugees was rare then.
Those halcyon days ended in September when the Italians surrendered. The Germans occupied Italy, and within a few days — Saint-Martin-Vésubie too. When the Jews heard the news, local residents helped them escape to the mountains, where they aimed to sneak over the border into Italy. The days were cold and rainy, and the exodus from Saint-Martin-Vésubie became immeasurably difficult. (Even I, a tourist during peacetime, found climbing those hills very difficult.)
In Italy, hundreds of Jews found hiding places, but the Germans caught many of them. They, and those Jews who stayed in the village, especially the elderly and children, were deported to Drancy, the detention center near Paris, and from there to Auschwitz.
Even then, dozens of Jews remained in Saint-Martin-Vésubie, and local people continued to hide them. Not everyone in the village lent a hand, but most of them knew what was going on and kept silent. Only one Jew was actually handed over to the authorities: Gregoire Dridso, the patriarch of the Levin-Dridso family, who had lived there before the war began.
Years later, Yad VaShem designated 10 of the locals as Righteous Gentiles.
If you’ve never heard of this heroic, humble village, you aren’t alone. Even in Saint-Martin-Vésubie, the events of World War II weren’t publicly mentioned for years.
The reason for the silence was a practical one, Sivirine explained. “There were those who helped the Jews, and those who collaborated with the Nazis, and everyone needed to live together after the war. But one day a young woman overheard the old folks talking about ‘the hidden Jews’, and that opened up a Pandora’s box.”
Since then, the residents of Saint-Martin-Vésubie openly acknowledge what their town did to save the Jews. Aside from the main memorial in Saint-Martin-Vésubie, the village now has three others: one for the Jews who perished; a second one in honor of the Righteous Gentiles, and a third that describes how the townspeople risked their lives to help the Jews under the Nazis.
Since Saint-Martin-Vésubie began sharing this chapter of its history, several books have been published on the subject. The town itself released a book in French, called The Jews and the Righteous Ones of Saint-Martin-Vésubie. Later, historian Susan Ziccotti penned a book in English, Holocaust Odysseys: The Jews of Saint-Martin-Vésubie and their Flight through France and Italy. There were also three novels inspired by this chapter in the town’s history, including Wandering Star by French Nobel laureate writer J. M. G. Le Clézio.
Saint-Martin-Vésubie takes pride in something else, too. The town’s main church has a wooden statue of the Madonna that dates back to the Middle Ages, and is revered by its residents. Each year the townspeople carry it in a procession into the mountains, believing that the statue was created there.
About 10 years ago, the residents of Saint-Martin-Vésubie established a new tradition: Each year on Sept. 3, in memory of the Jews who escaped to the mountains, they march to the mountain pass at the border with Italy. There, at a marker honoring the Jews, they memorialize those who died and those who survived, thanks to the Saint-Martin-Vésubie residents at the time. Occasionally, the children or grandchildren of the rescued Jews participate.
In Italian and in French, the inscription says: “Through this mountain pass, in September 1943, hundreds of Jews from all over Europe passed through, seeking ways to save themselves from antisemitic predators.”
Then, movingly, the text adopts a different tone: “You, who’ve arrived here as a free person, need to remember that this is what could happen when equal rights aren’t extended to all.”
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