And Then Suddenly, You’re Everywhere

Ori Kaplan talks about his band, Balkan Beat Box, and the thrill of hearing his music sampled on Top 40 mega hits

Ori Kaplan—saxophonist, producer, and co-founder of the Mediterranean-electronic-groove-centric group, Balkan Beat Box—spent years studying myriad genres and styles, honing his craft, and refining his voice. “Maybe that’s part of the journey,” he says in our interview below. “Learning, immersing yourself for years in a style, and treating it as a schooling. But then don’t judge yourself. You learn a lot, and just whatever comes out, [is fine]. I think that’s part of maturing into being a mature musician. You don’t think about it anymore, you just let all the influences come out in that stream of consciousness, and try to make it as good as you can within your own standards.”

For Kaplan, ‘making it as good as you can’ means near-global recognition. His sampled sax lines are the backbone of massive hits like “Talk Dirty,” by Jason Derulo, and “Worth It,” by Fifth Harmony, which, in addition to the other elements that make up the samples, showcase his distinctive sound. “Whatever I’ve acquired, it’s always there,” he says. “It’s recognizable. The funny thing is when you suddenly hear it on mainstream radio. Your real authentic sound that you developed is encapsulated into a few seconds that evolves into this mega pop hit.”

Kaplan originally hails from Tel Aviv, where he currently resides, although he spent decades overseas in both New York and Vienna. During those years, he did seemingly everything. He was a part of the burgeoning downtown avant-garde scene in New York, as well as DJ-ing dance parties at alternative hangs on Canal Street, and touring with high-energy world party bands like Firewater and Gogol Bordello. He started Balkan Beat Box in 2004 with drummer, beat maker, and producer, Tamir Muskat, plus vocalist, Tomer Yosef, who joined later in 2006. He also leads his own projects, usually under some version of the moniker, Shotnez—borrowed from the Biblical injunction against mixing together wool and linen (Deuteronomy 22:11, שעטנז)—as well as Digital Monx, a recent collaboration with Muskat. 

But Kaplan is just getting started. “It’s like the glass ceiling has opened for musicians,” he says about the booming Israeli music scene. “They just realized, ‘Why be stuck here in Israel? Let’s go everywhere.’ The internet is everywhere, and that made it easy.” 

I spoke with Kaplan from his studio in Tel Aviv. We talked about his experiences paying his dues on the streets of New York, the exciting and experimental birth of Balkan Beat Box, DJ-ing around the world in many different situations, his kitchen sink approach to blending styles, influences, and grooves, and the inevitable cultural explosion he thinks is waiting on the other side of Corona.

Looking through your discography, I didn’t realize you did so much work with bassist William Parker.

William is one of my heroes. I was introduced to him in New York. I saw him play solos in galleries—that was still the good old days, when people played—it was like Knitting Factory-meets-downtown lofts, places like Roulette and Tonic. It was a nice time.

Were you in his band?

I was in the Little Huey Creative Music Orchestra, which was William’s orchestra. We got to travel and play, and just recently, shortly before Corona, William was in Tel Aviv, and I got to play with him. But we did tons of Vision Festival performances, and in Amherst, and all kinds of shows.

At that time, you weren’t only doing ethnic folk music, but you were also a part of the downtown avant-garde scene as well. 

Yeah. I have a couple of albums as a trio on CIMP Records—Creative Improvised Music Projects—which is this little label in upstate New York. I have a few albums on the Knitting Factory label, too. There’s the Ori Kaplan Trio Plus with drummer Geoff Mann and bassist Tom Abbs. Shaat'Nez Band with Andrew Bemkey, Marcus Rojas, Geoff Mann, Tamir Muskat. I saw a lot of action at the time, and I was really excited to find a voice inside that huge improvised music jazz world. 

Is Shaat’Nez a name you’ve been using for a long time?

Yeah. We changed the spelling—today it’s Shotnez—and created a quartet later that was with Stephen Ulrich from Big Lazy, Tamir Muskat, Itamar Ziegler, and myself. We were a quartet, and the music changed a little bit, as I was touring with some punk rock bands, like Firewater and Gogol Bordello, who were a big influence on me.

Have you done DJ-ing under that name as well?

DJ Shotnez as well. I DJ-ed a bunch of festivals. I lived in Europe for five years, and every weekend I was somewhere. I was producing tracks and DJ-ing—it was more than just DJ-ing—I was also experimenting with music I was producing. It was a good tool to check out some of the beats.

How so, to gauge audience reaction and to see if it works?

Yeah. We did that already with Balkan Beat Box. I was the house DJ at Nublu for a couple of years, and also the house DJ for three years at Rubulad Parties, which was like an early Burning Man. 

Why were you in New York? 

I went to the New School. I transferred to an extension of the New School, the Mannes School of Music for two years, and then went back to New School to finish the degree. 

In New York at that time, which was the 1990s, there was an explosion of Jewish music, and other Balkan and Mediterranean sounds. What was going on?

I think it started with saxophonist Roy Nathanson, the Lounge Lizards, and John Zorn’s Radical Jewish movement. It exploded into a lot of bands who took some gypsy and Jewish and klezmer elements, and rocked out on them. It was a lot of amazing stuff actually. I used to have a steady gig at the Tap Bar in the Knitting Factory. A lot of students came, and it was a real scene. I then took that vocabulary that I acquired and put that into Firewater. In Firewater, there was this punk/klezmer element in the band, and then later in Gogol Bordello, but in more complete way maybe. It was more of an Eastern European polka punk vibe. I think I was that element. 

There are a lot of similarities between those musics as well.

I guess so. Gogol Bordello was special, because it was a really wild band. Eugene Hütz had an amazing magnetic authority over the audience. The band really broke out and it was quite huge for that scene. I was touring with Gogol Bordello for three years, and later when I left, I started Balkan Beat Box with Tamir Muskat and later on Tomer Yosef.

Did you know Tamir from Gogol Bordello? 

Actually, we met on the Firewater tour van. It’s funny because we both grew up in Tel Aviv, but I didn’t really know him. We started talking about other experiments we could do, and Tamir was experimenting with electronics. We had a project called JUF—Jewish Ukrainian Freundschaft, which is Friendship—and made an album that utilized a lot of Tamir’s production abilities and electronics. Tamir and I sat for many hours preparing beats for that, along with Oren Kaplan, a guitar player in Gogol Bordello, and we discovered something with our own voice, which is not necessarily gypsy or Mediterranean, but more Mediterranean and Middle Eastern. We realized that we had this vocabulary together that is different, and continued to explore with different singers. That’s basically how Balkan Beat Box evolved. 

When did you and Tamir find Tomer Yosef? Was he one of the singers you were working with?

While we were working on the first and second album, Tamir told me about Tomer. He said, “Let’s call this amazing guy to be our MC.” I didn’t know him, but he was a comedian on TV. I had missed that because I was in New York. So I just knocked on his door in Tel Aviv while I was visiting, introduced myself, and we hit it off really nice. He came to New York, recorded some, and we started touring like that. It evolved to become a real trio—Tomer has an amazing talent and capacity with the audience—and we started writing more and more songs. That became our core trio with amazing other musicians like guitarists Itamar Ziegler, Jeremiah Lockwood, and Uri Kinrot; and different horn players like Peter Hess or Eyal Talmudi. We had a rotating group, because different continents sometimes meant different musicians who came on tour.

How does the songwriting process work in that band? It seems like it’s very collaborative.

It was. It could have started from a cappella, or making a beat and inviting a singer to come and write with us on the spot—to bring in some kind of a chant. It’s very hip hop style. Also, on every album we made a different palette, and limited ourselves in some ways. One album we went to Serbia and recorded this whole family of Gypsy/Roma musicians from a village. We worked with them for three days, taught them some of the melodies, recorded, and then took it to the studio and reprocessed it and resampled it. That’s on Blue Eyed Black Boy.

But your focus is melody, as opposed to riffs and jamming, like how a more guitar-centric band would do it. 

Definitely with the writing, we’re not a guitar-centric band. It’s more like a melodic brass band vibe—Romani brass band vibe, electronica, punk rock, funk, hip hop. It’s a big mix. 

In the band’s early days, you were with JDub Records. Were they a big part of that scene in New York as well?

Yes. J Dub gained some muscles while being Matisyahu’s label. They started up really nice, and we were on tour with Matisyahu during his peak days—if you could say that—because it was really big, on MTV and stuff like that. There would be 8,000 people at a show, plus touring with him, doing the U.S. in big Nokia arenas, and it was a really nice time with him. I liked Dub Trio a lot, and they were his band at the time. 

When you do stuff as DJ Shotnez, is that stuff you don’t think is appropriate for Balkan Beat Box, or just other music you’re experimenting with?

It’s everything. It’s all the projects I am involved with, plus stuff I am experimenting with by myself production-wise, as well as things I am doing on my own, as a DJ Shotnez production. Sometimes I was touring and doing festivals—also opening for Matisyahu as a DJ, with a sampler, two CDs, and stuff at the time—I was exposing people to a lot of music before anybody knew about it, mixing it with dub and Balkan, and putting together this whole mishmash. Although it’s a different style, I was also inspired by Canal Street parties [in New York City] and Gogol Bordello. Eugene was doing these crazy, insane mixes, and he made us all see that it is possible to F- it up [laughs], and not do the BPM-style DJ-ing. It could be anything, and it was like this huge mash of styles. It was a good time to experiment. You could have a crazy Serbian brass band and then mix it up with PJ Harvey. You can try a lot of crazy things that are magical, and see if it works out. 

You have a jazz background as a sax player. Do you incorporate those influences into other styles of music you’re playing, or do you try to stick within a given style? 

I try to use all my utility. Not all, but a lot. I’ll use some of the free jazz energy, Coltrane, as well as changes playing, which is more of a linear approach also, as well in my solos. But it’s pretty much this kind of mashup. It could start with a Turkish-style snake charmer thing, and going to this modal approach of late Coltrane, and just fly high with whatever I know.

Meaning that you’re not a stylistic purist.

No. Because I have different tools. I was taking some lessons with Yuri Yunakov, the Bulgarian saxophone player, and he’s amazing, such a mastery. To be playing in that authentic style, I think you really have to do it from since you are a child. And that’s what he does. I played him some of my style, and he said, “Teach me that. What is that?” I said, “I can’t do what you do.” We just played and I learned a lot from him. But I knew that whatever came out would not sound like the authentic Bulgarian style. It will have this personal mashup. I am not a purist. I am trying to be authentic to myself. We were never into this revival mode as a band. There was never this idea of authentic beats or anything like that in Balkan Beat Box, or any of my stuff. You just try to be true to what’s in the back of your ear, your own history, and my history has other influences. 

Do you feel the same way when you’re playing the blues or other American types of music? That it’s not necessarily yours, the same way you feel about Bulgarian music?

I am not in a blues band. I do have a blues thing and I use what I learned from the blues, but then it will be whatever I make out of it. I haven’t tried to be in a blues band or play the blues or jazz per se, and maybe that’s part of the journey. Learning, immersing yourself for years in a style, and treating it as a schooling. But then don’t judge yourself. You learn a lot, and just whatever comes out, [is fine]. I think that’s part of maturing into being a mature musician. You don’t think about it anymore, you just let all the influences come out in that stream of consciousness, and try to make it as good as you can within your own standards.

And that’s your authentic expression. You’re the sum total of your experiences and what you’ve learned.

Yeah, and then, in the end, if people tell you, “I can recognize your sound everywhere. Whatever you do, I can hear it’s you.” To me, that’s a compliment. It's like whatever I’ve acquired, it’s always there. It’s recognizable. The funny thing is when you suddenly hear it on mainstream radio. Your real authentic sound that you developed is encapsulated into a few seconds that evolves into this mega pop hit. That was funny. 

Somebody sampled you?

We have a song, “Hermetico,” that was sampled by Jason Derulo into a song called, “Talk Dirty.” It’s with our beat and everything. It’s like a full remix of Balkan Beat Box. Ricky Reed produced it. He’s like a mega producer in L.A. He’s done Lizzo and a lot of things. That exploded and became a big hit on the mainstream Billboard chart for a few weeks [editor: in the U.S. it peaked at #3 on the Billboard Hot 100]. I heard it everywhere. In Dwane Reed, in Texas, at gas stations—it was just everywhere. It’s like my experience encapsulated in one line, and of course, Tamir’s beat, whatever we made was there, and somebody finally recognized it out there in the world and managed to put it straight into the mainstream. That was cool.

Did people investigate the sample and find out about you?

Yeah, there was a lot of talk, “Hey, they stole that from Balkan Beat Box.” I said, “That’s ok.” Once it’s out there, it’s like rubber, and anybody can do whatever they want with it. As far as a moral problem, “Did I give away my sample?” I mean, I don’t think hip hop would have evolved to what it was if it didn’t use samples from disco or Kraftwerk or whatever. I kept producing beats and one of them became, “Worth It,” by Fifth Harmony. It has almost two billion clicks on YouTube, and that’s my beat and my melody. The Balkan, and the extension of Balkan in my production became crazy, right in the middle of the mainstream. That is some kind of recognition. Even though I don’t necessarily listen to that kind of pop, certainly my daughter dances to it and gets a lot of pleasure [laughs]. 

We’ve been talking a lot about authenticity, and a lot of people talk about appropriating other cultures and other sounds, but it seems like over the last 20 years, that’s not such an argument because with the internet, you can grow up anywhere, but grow up with music from everywhere. 

I think it’s amazing. What we had to do, we had to really pay our dues on the streets of New York. Today, a lot of people can acquire this information via the comfort of YouTube. But there is something to be said about the leg work and the years of experience, and I would never give that up. For me, personally, I love the experience acquired through being there without information, acquiring the information from people, going to master’s homes and studying, and struggling. I wouldn’t give that up.

What’s the story with Digital Monx?

Digital Monx is a project of Tamir Muskat and myself. It is a little bit going back to that mixtape vibe. It is a different style, and we are back into exploring different singers. It’s just us back into production, writing, and with different signers. It’s like a journey from Noga Erez to Eden Derso to Racquel Jones from Thievery Corporation to Gili Yalo. It’s a wonderful project, and is like a current day’s mixtape. We hope to have a video for each song, and we’ll start releasing them really soon.

Do you collaborate with the singers, or bring them in to sing on something you’ve already put together?

We bring a beat, and they write on the spot with us, or they bring in. Each one is different. But it’s this kind of easy attitude, “Come into the studio, write some. Let’s talk about what we’re going to write about. Come for a first sketch, then think about it, put it up, comment, come back.” With Racquel Jones, we sent her the beat and then she came back with the whole thing. It was amazing. 

Do you have your own studio, or do share a space with Tamir?

No, we each have our own studios.

Do you do a lot of production, too, in addition to your own stuff?

Yeah, mostly beat-making collaborations with different musicians and practicing in my studio. I need my own space. I’m experimenting with my stuff, sending my stuff to producers in L.A., lots of back-and-forth like that. We all have our own little workshops, and then we meet once or twice a week in one studio, and work together on our common projects. 

Is there new Balkan Beat Box music on the horizon?

Yes, we have a couple of things that are in the making, and we’re planning on going into the studio and completing an EP of a sort. We’re working on a few songs and will release some stuff. We’re just peeking out of this corona window. It is time for that. There is so much music we’ve accumulated, it would be nice if it’s heard.  

Do you mean live?

Live, anywhere. Just people being out there, exploring new things, consuming. All over the world, production has been waiting, so there is going to be an explosion of music soon. People are waiting because people are at home and they are consuming things—and of course there is a lot of stuff on TikTok and Soundcloud and exposure to new things—but people just put on Spotify in the house and they are less curious. It’s a kind of apathy. 

But you think when the world opens back up that people will be more open and receptive, and will be hearing more live music, too?  

Yeah, a lot more energy. Shows that lead to curiosity, and wanting to hear what you heard live. Definitely.

Photo by Danielle Shitrit

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