“Politics Aren’t Interesting”
Songwriter and activist, Yael Deckelbaum, would rather love people for who they are
Israeli singer-songwriter and activist, Yael Deckelbaum, had about four years of traveling, collaborating, and recording in the can before the pandemic hit and brought the world to a grinding halt. “I have an album that I did,” she says. “It hasn’t been released yet because corona really confused me, as it did the whole world. I stopped and rested for the past year, concentrating on the inner work and looking inside and healing. I did a lot of healing work this past year for myself in nature and in this eco village where I live. Practicing how to walk the talk in the small things. How to really do it and it was amazing.”
But despite that powerful introspective experience, her album was finished and ready for release. “I have Zap Mama, Joss Stone, Nikki Glaspie—the former drummer for Beyoncé—and Meera Eilabouni as guests,” she says about some of the people involved with the project. “Also Amyra León, a spoken word artist from the UK, and an African choir from South Africa, and also a choir from New York. I gathered many women as I was traveling and recording with them and I wrote songs, all inspired by this global women’s movement I had witnessed.”
Needless to say, the album is slated for an unorthodox rollout. “I thought and thought, ‘What am I going to do with this album?’” she says. “I decided to release a song a month, and do a live performance connected to it online.” [The song releases and online performances are imminent, visit her website and Facebook page for details.]
But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Deckelbaum is a gifted vocalist with a huge range and powerful chops. She’s been performing since childhood—her father, originally from Canada, was in a Jerusalem-based folk group with whom she used to sit in—and after her stint as a singer in the army, performed with the Israeli Philharmonic and legendary producer, George Martin (yes, that George Martin). That experience led to touring and recording with the iconic Israeli folk singer, Shlomo Artzi, and numerous other projects as well.
But it was with Habanot Nechama, her trio with Karolina and Dana Adini, that she began to garner national acclaim, and was finally able to quit her day job. “The minute we sang these songs together it was like everybody knew that something different was happening,” she says about the group’s first performance. “Something special was being born at that moment.”
That’s carried over into her solo work as well. She’s released five albums as a leader, which showcase her direct, but engaging songwriting, and has been involved various projects—including the anthem, “Prayer for the Mothers,” and an accompanying march in the desert—that, until the world shut down, kept her more than a little busy.
I spoke with Deckelbaum from her home in Klil, an eco-village in northern Israel. We discussed her first gigs with Habanot Nechama, the power of writing in two languages, her experiences using music to transcend cultural barriers and differences, and how, despite her profile and reputation, her artistry and outlook is, in essence, not political.
Where did you grow up?
I grew up in Jerusalem. I was born to an Israeli mother and a Canadian father. I grew up speaking English at home. It was our spoken language. My father was a dentist, but also a banjo player, and he was in a band called the Taverners, which was a good time folk music band based in Israel. It was people from different English-speaking countries like Ireland, the U.S., and England. The band was a bunch of men who got together in a tavern in Jerusalem back in the 1960s—I think that’s when they started to play music together—and that is how I grew up, surrounded by folk music and country music in Israel.
Did you start playing guitar early on?
Yeah, my father taught me some chords when I was young. I took one year of classical guitar lessons when I was fifth grade, and then I just continued on my own.
How did you end up doing that program with George Martin and the Israeli Philharmonic?
I was a singer in the army, in a military band, and the musical producer for our band was a keyboard player named Gil Feldman. He was also a keyboard player for Shlomo Artzi—Shlomo Artzi like the Israeli Bruce Springsteen—and he also was the musical director what happened with Sir George Martin. They needed a young singer who could sing in English and he knew me from the military band. He called me and said, “Do you want to sing in this project?” Of course I said yes, and that’s how it happened.
Was that your first big performance?
No, my first really big performance was when I was a child. There was a music festival that took place in Israel every year called the Jacob’s Ladder Festival. It was a folk festival, and sometimes there could be 3,000 people in the audience. I performed there as a kid with my father’s band on stage. I went up and sang two songs.
Was it through that performance with George Martin that you ended up working with Shlomo Artzi?
Yeah. Shlomo Artzi picked me up at that gig with Sir George Martin. He came up to me at one of the rehearsals and he said, “You have no idea how much magic is following through you.” I really had no idea, but he knew how to detect things and pick them up. He contacted me about six months later offering to sing a duet with him. I sang this duet with him (“לא יודע מה עובר לה בראש”), and it was released on his album, Ahavtihem (אהבתיהם), and that’s when I started to sing with him. I toured for two years with his band.
How did you hook up with Karolina and Dana Adini from Habanot Nechama?
Dana and I met in military band. There was an audition for the military band, and the first time I met Dana, I was singing “Aquarius,” from the musical, Hair, outside on a bench.
I was swinging my guitar, singing “Aquarius,” and showing off at the entrance to the auditions. Dana passed by, and I looked at her and asked her for a light, and that’s it. We’ve been friends since then. We both served in the military band—not the same band—but we did some guard duty together, and we had some good times. After we were released from the army, we went to Tel Aviv and that’s where we met Karolina.
I saw Karolina for the first time on stage at a show in Tel Aviv. I couldn’t believe it. I heard this amazing voice from far away, and I was sure it was a DJ. I went into the club and I saw this woman, and it was actually live. I couldn’t believe that I was seeing that in Israel. Hearing this voice. After she got off stage, I just took her and I kidnapped her. I couldn’t stop praising her and telling her how amazing she made me feel when she was singing. That’s when we started to be friends.
Dana and Karolina worked on Bugrashav [a street and beach in Tel Aviv]. Karolina was working in a clothes shop and Dana was working in a clothes shop that was across the street. I was a failing waitress. We were kind of depressed because we weren’t making any money and we didn’t feel like we knew what to do with our lives. We were very despaired. I knew I wasn’t going to be a waitress forever and they knew that they weren’t going to sell clothes. One time, we met outside Dana’s shop and stood there, the three of us just complaining about how hard everything was. Karolina said, “Why don’t we do a band and make a living?” There was a women’s talent night in Jaffa—it was like a historical club, in Florentin—and we decided that we would give it a shot. Each of us did her own songs, and at the end we connected for three songs. We did three songs together, and the minute we sang these songs together it was like everybody knew that something different was happening. Something special was being born at that moment. It was magic, and that’s how Habanot Nechama started.
Did you spend a lot of times working out arrangements or was it organic?
We worked on it, but it was also very organic. It was a lot of intuition. Everyone felt what she needed to sing, and sometimes we would put our brains in it, too, to make it better.
Did you write original music for that project or did you draw from your individual repertoires?
The minute we started, songs started appearing from each of us. Individually we knew, “This is for Habanot,” or “This is not for Habanot.” Sometimes you had a dilemma. You don’t know if you want this song for yourself, or do you want to give it to the band. Sometimes you do it in both contexts. You do it in your own show as well as with Habanot, and it’s a bit different.
What’s your songwriting process like?
There are no rules. Sometimes I need to deliver music, and I have a deadline, and I just sit and do it. Many times the music and the words come together. Sometimes the words come and then I write music. There are just no rules. But the best songs, the most authentic songs that I’ve written, they came from touching the edges of life. Connecting to something deep like a prayer or a request or just reaching to some kind of source. I can tell you, the best songs always come out when I am not noticing.
They pop out of nowhere?
I can try to write something, but the minute I am not exactly—I don’t know exactly where I am, or I am not in complete control—and that’s where it cracks. I call it the cracks, those unknown things that you don’t know where they come from. You don’t know how this thing is not just another melody but something you feel is alive, like an entity. It just comes through. I try not to interfere with it. I try to create as many circumstances where these things can appear. To give it time, practice it, and then let it happen. It’s like a collaboration with God or something. Give the unknown the space to do what it does, and help it and not interfere too much.
Your lyrics go back and forth between English and Hebrew. Is that a similar, intuitive type of thing?
Yes. Music came to me first in English because of the way I grew up—my father and the folk band—so it was very natural for me to sing in English. Over the years living in Israel, I started absorbing the Israeli culture and language, and fell in love with Hebrew and the magic in the language. I love playing around with it.
Karolina told me she felt that English was more rhythmic or groovy, but Hebrew was deeper. Do you feel the same way?
It’s easier to sing in English because it’s more “round.” But rhythmical? You can play with rhythm in both languages, it’s just a different kind of rhythm. But I would say that Hebrew is much more mystical. There is more magic in the letters and playing around with the many meanings that a word can have in Hebrew. The root of a word can take you to many places. It is a bit more magical and more mystical, and therefore I think it is deeper.
Tell me about your song, “This Land” (הארץ הזאת). It’s not in 4/4.
It’s in 11. The rhythm comes from the melody. I wrote it on the piano, and after it came, I counted it and discovered that it’s in 11. I was like, “Oh my God, I wrote a song in 11 [laughs].”
In the video, it looks like the band didn’t have a problem with it.
Yes, that’s actually the first rehearsal we did. I don’t know how we made it happen. I sent everyone the notes. Adam Ben Amitai, the producer, made the arrangement. I prerecorded all the vocals and sent them to everyone to learn. Adam was on top of the musical arrangement of the instruments, and everybody knew the song. We came and did it in five hours. I called some camera people and said, “Let’s make a video of it,” and boom.
Does the multiculturalism, or borderless-ness, of music play into your political activism?
I wanted to take all the differences that keep us apart and turn them into this beautiful fusion. It’s not the differences. The differences between us can be portrayed through singing, through music, and through connecting styles. It is like creating a new culture, a culture that we can share, and that we can all love. When we love something together it connects us. For example, in Israel, one of the places you see a lot of Haredi and Arabic people is when you go to water sources in the middle of the week. You can see that people are people. We all love going to the water, and when we go to the water we’re just people. Another place you see a lot of people from everywhere is in hospitals or airports. Corona shows it, too. We’re all wearing masks. It doesn’t matter where you come from, the corona or whatever it is doesn’t distinguish between your beliefs.
Through music, I think it is a way to bring people together in a way that we can share our love for something. And when we share love, we share love. Love is what it’s all about. Being able to do this ensemble with the Mothers—Arabic women, Jewish women, and there are even some religious women, and different political opinions for sure—and still, when we got together and made this music together we realized, the minute we pressed play, we started singing that song, and all of this dissolved. It doesn’t mater. We’re all just beating hearts. We want to be loved, want to be part of something good, want to do something good, and feel that we’re on the right path. That for me was really amazing, but today, now—I think at that time I was very idealistic about it, and today I am not even idealistic any more.
What do you mean?
I mean that it is not like critical for me anymore. At that time I chose to sing with women and it was important for me to have a Muslim woman and a Christian woman and a religious woman and that we connected together and did this thing. It was driven by an ideal and also connected to the philosophy of Women Wage Peace. It was this thing that was very important for me to do.
Today, I am less. It doesn’t matter for me. I mean, it matters, but it doesn’t matter like it did. I think the ideal at the time was more important to me than the love. And I think that today the love is above all. If I am going to sing with an Arabic woman or a religious woman or bring these people together, I first see the heart and the person. It is not as important for me to bring this kind and that kind together. I don’t look anymore at those things. I just search for the right people that I can be open with and connect with and just make music. It is less political for me today than it was.
Meaning that through being open and looking for good collaborations, that’s the political statement. You don’t have to make a political statement. You just make good music.
I don’t want to make a political statement though. It is not interesting for me. People can look at what I do and call it political if they want, and they do, but for me it’s not. I am not going to argue, but I am not political. I am not a political person, and I think that will make my music even more [laughs].
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