Shine A Light
Hasidic soul duo, Zusha, redefines Jewish music and finds meaning in quarantine
According to Shlomo Gaisin, the primary vocalist in the Hasidic duo, Zusha, music, ultimately, is about closeness. “My father-in-law once told me that if a you have room that’s, say, 1,000-feet-by-1,000-feet, and you put a guitarist in one corner, a piano player in another, a drummer in another, and a singer in another, that the music won't sound harmonious because the musicians can’t hear each other. In music, there has to be a proximity between the people making the music for it to be truly unified and together. If you’re not in the same place, it is really complicated to make gorgeous, inspiring, moving music. Music in its very essence requires proximity, and it requires truly being close to someone.”
For Zusha, that closeness isn’t just about the physical proximity of the musicians, it’s also their working M.O. The band, which has been together since 2013, vibes intimacy and spiritual connection. Their outlook is grounded in Hasidic teachings, and their sound is an amalgamation of their varied and disparate influences, which, as they see it, isn’t a contradiction.
“Growing up as more or less Americans, our culture is a little unclear what it is,” Zachariah Goldschmiedt, the group’s guitarist and second vocalist, says. “But I think that reflects in our Jewish identity, which is that we, as a people, have been all over the world. The Lubavitcher Rebbe said that the Torah is a light that illuminates what’s already there. Life isn’t about creating something new, but illuminating that which is already there. When you illuminate something, you reveal it’s purpose. God is bringing us all around the world—wherever you are now, whatever you’re experiencing now—and that’s what He wants you to work with.”
Gaisin and Goldschmiedt don’t see Jewish music as rooted in specific traditions, scales, or rhythms, rather it’s about the musician and his spiritual mission. “It’s less about using only these sounds or genres—because they are the only kosher ones—and it’s more about if you have something kosher coming through you,” Gaisin says. “You use all the utensils of this world in a kosher way. Music is more inclusive than it is exclusive in terms of what defines Jewish music. The vessels used—the sounds and the genres—they’re inclusive. But when it comes to intention, that also has to be inclusive. It has to include many people other than yourself to make it holy Jewish music.”
That inclusivity seems to be paying off. Zusha has released three full-length albums, plus an EP and a number of singles, and they’ve even charted on Billboard’s World Albums chart—their second release, Kavana, peaked at number two—which, for a band whose focus is, seemingly, Jewish-insider music, is nothing short of incredible. They’ve accepted the challenges of quarantine in stride, too, and their upcoming release, Cave Of Healing—which even includes some vocals recorded via WhatsApp—is due out this fall.
I spoke with Gaisin and Goldschmiedt—or as their manager, Paltiel Ratzenberg put it, we farbrengened—and discussed their thoughts on Jewish music and identity, music’s ability to transcend differences and disagreement, and their innovative approach to recording on lockdown. Our conversation was chockfull of Hasidic lessons and teachings, and when necessary, I added translation or additional context.
Shlomo, did you grow up in Silver Spring?
Shlomo Gaisin: That is where my body grew up, where my body and my soul became friends. I started taking piano lessons at eight or nine. Every member of my family was supposed to take up an instrument. That was the goal of my parents, that we should all at least have the opportunity to learn music, and to have music as an outlet in our lives growing up. But I personally started creating music of my own when I was 11, which was when I wrote my first composition. When I was in the ninth grade, I decided that the music that I make would be solely for Hashem [Hashem, which literally means, “The Name,” refers to the four-letter name of God used throughout the bible and other Jewish writings, and many people use it in conversation when referring to God]. In ninth grade, something social was going on, and I decided to write a song [about it]. I decided that there were two ways that I could take the song: I could make the song about that scenario, and direct it toward other people or towards myself, or, I could take that energy and translate it into a prayer. I chose the latter path, and I decided that this is what I wanted to do in general.
Zach, how about you?
Zachariah Goldschmiedt: I grew up in Teaneck, New Jersey. My brother was a drummer, and I started playing the drums when I was eight years old because I wanted to be like him. But then, I felt that the drums really weren’t an instrument you could play on their own. I imagined myself sitting on a porch somewhere playing the drums, and something was missing, so I switched to guitar. I think I was nine when I switched to guitar, and I’ve been playing music ever since. At some point, I started DJ-ing, and I got into electronic music. Right before I met Shlomo, I was in a different band with some of my roommates from NYU, and I was producing music for that. I was still playing guitar, but I put the guitar down for a little bit. Then I met Shlomo, and the first time we met we actually wrote a song together. That felt a lot more organic. I felt like I was expressing more of my soul than I was through a computer.
Are you bringing that electronic element back into the band with songs like, “Ad Shetehe”?
Gaisin: I would say yes. There are definitely things that we are working on now, where that element of Zach’s skillset and tendency musically will be better expressed in a more revealed way. A lot of our songs that have already been put out were written in such a way in Zach’s home studio. “Ad Shetehe” is a glimpse of reintroducing the electronic elements into the trajectory of what Zach and I do together. It may actually be the beginning for me. I don’t think I ever had electronic elements in the music that I was interested in. But Zach introduced me to that, and allowed me to appreciate the beauty of including electronics in a tasteful, creative, and genuine way.
What’s the genesis of Zusha? How did you start making music together?
Goldschmiedt: I had a roommate who knew Shlomo. He knew I was doing music, and he knew that Shlomo was doing music, and he connected us. There was no particular agenda, but like I said, the first time we met up we wrote a song together. From day one, it felt that we balance each other out in a lot of different ways. We come from different places, and our backgrounds are different, but we ended up in the same place. Even though we both grew up Modern Orthodox, coming from different towns, and different places, and having different friends, and different experiences, it was nice to see someone that you could harmonize with. Not just musically, but in life. A lot of our sessions together, half of it is music, but the other half is talking about life and making the music of life.
How did you get Elisha Mlotek into the fold?
Goldschmiedt: My roommate also knew Elisha, and he brought the three of us together. When we started, we had no agenda in terms of making a band, or making music, or anything like that, it was just a friendship. We spent a lot of Shabbosim [Sabbaths], and a lot of time together. We were writing nigunim for the sake of writing nigunim, and that was an important first step for us, because it was never about anything other than making music. Like Shlomo is saying, it was to make music for Hashem, and for people to get inspired. We used to do a lot of iPhone voice recordings, and it was Elisha’s brother who heard some of our jams, and encouraged us to record. Before that, we weren’t even thinking about recording it, it was just fun for us.
But that first EP ended up on the Billboard charts. How did that happen?
Goldschmiedt: It did really well in the world music genre. One of the most difficult decisions for us is the dropdown menu that asks, “What genre is your music?” It isn’t gospel. It isn’t alternative. It isn’t folk. We’re making music for the world, this is not just for us, so we felt that “world music” was relevant. Our roommate was also our manager, and he was involved in journalism and had a lot of connections to different editors. He pushed hard to get the message out there in a very accessible way. I feel like the success of the first EP was that it was something that not many people have heard before, and it was interesting for a lot people to listen to.
Are you still getting written up in secular outlets?
Goldschmiedt: Everyone we speak to who’s in the secular music world, they keep pushing us to use English lyrics. There are two opinions: one is if you send an English song then the chances of getting a review are much higher, and the other—which is where our producer’s mindset is—is you don’t need to be anything else. You don’t need to try to do anything else. You have to do what feels right for you, and if it’s right enough, and it’s real enough, then it will speak to anybody.
What makes music “Jewish”?
Goldschmiedt: Any music we make is Jewish music, because Jews making music is Jewish music. We never wanted to copy anybody else. We never felt that copying what was considered to be Jewish music felt right for us. We grew up with such a wide array of influences, and listening to such different kinds of music. If Hashem exposed us to those types of songs or experiences or whatever they might be, it is important to us to weave that into whatever our music is. It also felt like a lot of Jewish music got stuck in the 1980s, it just got stuck in a box, and part of our method in our expression is to open up and to reveal. The Lubavitcher Rebbe said, “The Torah is a light, and it’s a light that exposes. It doesn’t create something new, but exposes that which is already there.” Using the Torah exposes all these things we already knew, but perhaps they were shrouded in darkness. But it’s like Shlomo says, you to have the right intentions.
Gaisin: The point is that music is innately a sanctuary of sorts. I would maybe call it a “sanctuary of experience,” or a “sanctuary of turning toward something or someone or some movement.” The Modzitzer Rebbe famously said, “The sanctuary of song is adjacent to the sanctuary of t’shuva [repentance or growth]. But I say, the sanctuary of song is the sanctuary of t’shuva.” The first Lubavitcher Rebbe said that the word t’shuva [is from the word, shuv, which means, to turn]: to turn towards our soul, to turn towards Hashem, or to turn towards our origins. With Jewish music—or music in any way, shape, or form—there is no one who’s singing for naught. Everyone’s singing for something. Everyone is singing because speaking won’t be enough to convey what they want to say. Therefore, the only medium which could possibly contain all that they’re feeling is melodies, with or without words. Where speech ends, music begins. When you can no longer contain it in words alone, you then go to songs with words, and if even those words don’t do it, then you go to the wordless melody. The wordless melody is the deepest place of a person, where almost all of their all-ness is. Since it’s not saying one thing, it's saying everything. Rebbe Nachman of Breslov’s opinion is that either the guy singing is taking you to the greatest of places, or to different degrees of the lowest of places.
Your approach is universal.
Goldschmiedt: I’ll give you an example. In a lot of yeshivas, they have their own basketball league, and some people have the goal that they want to be the best basketball player in the yeshiva league, which is a noble and beautiful goal. But perhaps, when that best player in that league goes to play for the world—to play in a competition where anybody can play—maybe he’s the worst. Something we’re trying to do is not be necessarily the best Jewish artist, not to create the best Jewish music, but to create the best music that the world has ever heard. Hashem is asking us to be light for the nations, and it’s not enough to be just the best player in our own little circle. It has to be the best music ever. It’s a tough challenge, but that’s why our music doesn’t necessarily sound like any other Jewish music out there, because we are not just trying to be the best Jewish artists. We’re looking everywhere to say, “If we’re Hashem’s children and He is giving us this special challenge of creating something that’s a light for the world, we need to look to the world, and we need to inspire the world in a way that can actually inspire them.”
Gaisin: If today’s music doesn’t speak to a millennial—to a contemporary Jew, of whatever age, but particularly the youth of the generation—then is it really serving the purpose of what music is supposed to do? Music is supposed to call your attention to this moment in time, into this experience and the challenges of today, and to allow your soul to shine through. If the music is not inspiring a young child, or a teenager, or a young adult, or a young professional, or a young married couple to cultivate a harmonious lifestyle that allows their soul to express brightly and profoundly and effectively, is it really Jewish music even if it sounds like it is? I don’t think so. If in order to do that, you need to borrow from a little electronic music here, or a little bit of old school classical music, or a little bit of rock, or a little indie, or a little pop, ok. The goal is to not make a habit of continuing to use sounds that are outdated, but to use them thoughtfully, and to use them effectively, in a way that they actually compel a person to the present moment, so that he can do the t’shuva that the music was intended to allow. If the music doesn’t have an intention for t’shuva, but it is purely so I can show how good I am at making music, or how easy it is for me, or it’s just for fun—and there is no higher purpose for the music being created—then I think that’s also an issue. I am not sure how Jewish that music is, no matter how “Jewish” it may sound.
Part of music’s power is that it bypasses the intellect, connects to a more primal part of the brain, and works in a way that transcends language. Music also works on a level of connecting people to each other. Has that been your experience as well?
Gaisin: Music was used in the Temple for reconnecting. Innate to music, and the way it’s understood from the Torah’s perspective, is that music is something that is unifying. [In the Temple, the people who’s job it was to make music were from the Tribe of Levi, and the name, “Levi,” comes from the following verse], “This time, my husband will become attached to me.” (Genesis 29:34, “become attached,” is ילוה, which is the same root as, “Levi/לוי”). Leah was saying when she named Levi, “Now my husband will come close, or will draw near to me.” And music, in the Temple, comes specifically from the Tribe of Levi. Rebbe Nachman of Breslov explains that that’s why when two souls connect at a wedding, there has to be music, it’s inevitable. That is what music is all about. Music is about connecting one note that’s, say, a very high pitch, to a very low note a few moments before, as well as all those notes in between. Music is intrinsically connectional, and when it is connecting someone to something that’s worth connecting to, that’s Jewish music.
Goldschmiedt: Also music has the capacity to bypass all the areas of disagreement that people might have. Music is such a primal force, it bypasses opposing ideas, or the natures of different people. We see that by the kinds of people who come to our shows. If they’re Jews, they’re all types of Jews. If they’re non-Jews, they're also all types of non-Jews. How could you have an experience like that? If you’re speaking about politics, or climate change, or COVID, or anything really—everyone is going to have 14 different opinions about it. But at the same time, if they come to a room and experience music, which is the universal language, they experience it as one. Music is so primal, it goes straight to the source.
What have you been doing during the lockdown?
Goldschmiedt: During the quarantine, when everyone was separate, we worked on our next six-song EP, or album, called Cave of Healing. When everyone is alone or separate or entering their cave, it’s an attempt to use that time to heal oneself. Music was our way of connecting with each other, because everyone is recording in his home studio, and music brought those pieces together. That should start coming out in October, after Succos, and it is really our first self-produced album
Gaisin: Self-produced in the sense that we invested more creative energy than we have in terms of envisioning each song on our own, with the inspiration that Hashem sent us. We’re trying to invest more of ourselves into every step of the process. More than just sharing a song with the producer, and asking him to help us finish it off. We really wanted to see where our creativity would take us, and then share that with people.
Meaning what? Everything from composing and arranging to doing the final mix?
Goldschmiedt: Mixing and mastering we had someone else do, but the vocals are interesting. We did record some of the vocals in the studio, but part of the process of creating this album was that Shlomo and I were sending a lot of voice notes to each other—WhatsApp voice notes—and I would take those voice notes and plug them into the song so we would have a place holder. But it turned out that we actually used a couple of those. It fits with the album, because it is from the home. It is very lo-fi in a lot of ways. It is not trying to be in a studio. It’s trying to make the best with what you’re given, and in this circumstance we weren’t able to go spend a lot of time in the studio. It actually came out with a homey vibe. It’s haimish and endearing in a lot of ways.
Gaisin: We started the album as COVID began, and we were talking about what to do. Zach said, “Let’s work on the new album.” I thought, “New album? Don’t we need a studio?” But that perspective that Zach has is something we’re hoping to share. There’s an idea that when Hashem brings out these big clouds, it only means that He is preparing rain to storm through those clouds to the earth. Hashem is creating a shift, or a change, to allow things that already exist in the earth to sprout. The songs that are within us—our soul already has all our songs, and it has all our potential in it—but sometimes when we’re challenged, it actually brings it out of us. As Rebbe Nachman says that there is tzara [suffering or pain], and there is tzura [form or shape]. Every tzara we have, the distress, the trouble, the truth is that it is also part of Hashem’s divine plan, and retroactively we have to see it as part of the divine plan to bring tzura—the form and contour. To shift the conduit to be broader and bigger, and to be able to give something that we’ve never been able to give before.
During the recording process, were you not physically together at all?
Goldschmiedt: For the vocals, we went into the studio for one day together, but more or less we were on the phone together 99 percent of the time. We’d sing it to each other on the phone, and then Shlomo would say, “I have an idea, let me voice note it to you.” We’d hang up and voice note it, and I’d put it in. We’d back call again, so 99 percent of it was over the phone.
We’re you Dropbox-ing bigger files as well?
Goldschmiedt: It was majority WhatsApp voice notes. WhatsApp reduces the quality, but that was the funny part. We sent the demos to the guy who was going to mix it, and he said, “I like the way it is, from before you did the professional stuff.” We were comparing the two, and part of the question was, do we keep it or not? it was a big debate. We ended up keeping some of them and some we did both, recording professionally and the voice notes. Our engineer’s whole logic is that it’s not about the equipment, it’s about the performance.
Gaisin: Even with the worst equipment, if you give it your all, it will record your all in the way that it can, and that will sound awesome.
Goldschmiedt: It has this quality, for example, Shlomo is singing late at night and he doesn’t want to wake anyone up, so he’s quieter than he’d normally be, or the baby’s sleeping and I can’t be so loud. It has these moments where we weren’t trying to do anything in particular, but the performance has that energy. We’re in our houses. We’re alone. We’re trying to connect, and you can feel that on it.
Photos by Avraham Edery
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