How did you become acquainted with the niggunim of Reb Berish Vishever?
It all began with the Shalom Aleichem my father sang on Friday nights; I don’t know how old I was when I found out that there were other tunes for it as well. I also didn’t know that it was composed by Reb Berish. To me, it was the Satmar Rebbe’s niggun. Then there was the Rebbe’s Naanu’im Niggun, which was also composed by Reb Berish. It had seven stanzas and was Reb Berish’s magnum opus. Everyone knows the Baal HaTanya’s Daled Bavos; this is the Hungarian answer to it.
Legend has it that the Satmar Rebbe asked Reb Berish, “Why don’t I have a niggun for naanu’im from you?” Reb Berish replied, “Because I’ve never seen the Rebbe’s naanu’im.” So the Rebbe invited him to come to the naanu’im, and he composed the niggun. The problem is that it’s so long and complicated that the oilam didn’t really know it; this guy knew two parts and someone else knew another two parts. Only the Rebbe knew the whole niggun. Hoshana Rabbah was the big day to hear it, because that’s when everyone came from all over. Afterwards we would run home to have the seudah for two or three minutes and then run right back for Shemini Atzeres, which was also very special.
You grew up in Williamsburg.
I did. That’s how I came to do the Vishever project, because it was in my parents’ home and in the Satmar beis midrash that I first heard those melodies. But the project isn’t only about my past. It’s about this tzaddik, Reb Berish, who was nebach sent to Auschwitz in 1944 with his family and his grandchildren. It’s an incredible zechus to be able to connect to him in this way. This was a Yid who lit up the previous generations. In those days, they didn’t daven with my niggunim; they davened with his.
I interpret it as a connection to your father.
That’s definitely a part of it. I once had a very interesting conversation with the Bostoner Rebbe from 48th Street because his daughter worked for me as an accountant. One day, she told me that her father wanted to meet me, so I sat with him for a long time. He was familiar with my songs. Somehow we started talking about my father, and he asked me about our relationship. “To tell you the truth,” I replied, “I loved him, but he was much older than me and from a previous generation. Even now, when I go to his kever for the yahrtzeit, I sometimes stand there and don’t know what to think.” “What do you remember about him that was very pleasant?” he wanted to know. “His singing,” I said. “I’ll tell you what to do. Take a chair and a booklet of zemiros along with you. Don’t be embarrassed. Sing the zemiros at the kever.” That’s what I do.
I try to make sure that no one sees me because I’m afraid they’ll haul me off to the nuthouse. So in a way you hit it on the head, because Shalom Aleichem is one of the songs I sing there. I remember the way he looked and how happy he was on Shabbos. He worked very hard and was very tired during the week. He was a mashgiach for Barney’s Food Products in Newark, even though he wouldn’t let us eat from there.
Your father liked to sing, but he didn’t necessarily appreciate your musical career.
My father had very high expectations that were very difficult to reach, no matter what I did. I once did an album with Dov Hoffman called Torah Hakedoshah, because I knew that the ads for it would be in Der Yid and my father would see my name. But when he did, his reaction was, “A hoiker! Ein mikvah is mir besser fin di ale narishkeiten (To me, building a single mikvah is better than all this nonsense).”
When my father would come to weddings and see me playing the trumpet—I played the trumpet for Neginah for years—he would be so tzubrochen that he turned around and went home. I would ask Neginah, “You have ten weddings a night. Why do you have to send me to Bais Rochel?” “Because they want Yossi Green,” I would be told. My father wouldn’t speak to me for weeks afterwards. He would tell my mother, “Why does he have to play in Williamsburg? It reminds me of the tziganer (gypsies).” Who played music in the heim? The lowest of the low. Contrast that with Mendy Hershkowitz, whose father got him music lessons in Kiryas Yoel.
People would ask my father, “Reb Moshe, the velt has already accepted this. Why does it still bother you?” He would reply, “I’d rather have him work for a car service.” Sometimes I’d be playing and someone would come over to me and say, “Uh-oh. Don’t look now, but I think your father just walked into the room.” I would try to cover myself with one hand. He always hoped that I would become a moreh horaah and wear vaise zukken, back when it meant something. Today, it wouldn’t be enough. He would want strukkes (velvet trimming) on my bekeshe.
I do understand that being a musician was anathema to his generation, but today it’s a beautiful thing, a b’kavodike parnasah. A lot of modern guys try to put together a choir and it doesn’t really work, whereas the chasidishe choirs are extremely successful.
Where is your father buried?
In Kiryas Yoel. My mother is buried in the Satmar “Deans” beis olam in New Jersey. My wife and I already have chelkos there. When I was in my 20s and trying to be cool, Moshe Levy and I got into an argument about whether I was a Satmarer. I told him I wasn’t, and he kept insisting I was. Finally, he said, “Do you want me to prove that you’re a Satmarer? If you drop dead right now, where do you think you’re going to be buried? And if you’re not Satmar, go out and buy a chelkah somewhere else, because otherwise you’re a Satmarer.” It made me realize that he was right. That’s when you find out who you really are. My oldest son recently told me that he’s thinking about buying a chelkah there as well.
I find it ironic that the Satmar Rebbe’s songs were your first musical influence.
To read more, subscribe to Ami
