The Objective within the Subjective: A Look at Mizrahi Music (Column 488)

How Is a Song Born?

Like a baby

At first it hurts

Then it comes out

and everyone is happy

And suddenly how lovely

it walks on its own…

(Yehonatan Geffen, The Sixteenth Sheep)

A few days ago I received by email from a mutual friend a column by Prof. Ziva Shamir that dealt with criticism of Mizrahi music. She is, of course, not the first to critique the shallowness of this genre, but her piece stirred up various reflections in me that came together into a picture I thought to share with you. But I shall begin, naturally, with Yehoram Gaon.

The Yehoram Gaon Controversy

The most visceral and lively controversy surrounding Mizrahi music (its special feature was that it took place already in the age of political correctness) erupted in 2011 around Gaon’s criticism of the genre. I assume that Gaon, who is not Ashkenazi, thought it would pass more easily coming from him, that he was “allowed.” Needless to say, he was mistaken. Accusations of racism flew immediately, as expected, and things spiraled out of control. I assume it also goes without saying that very soon came the apology, also predictable, in which Yehoram issued a revealing confession: “I’m Mizrahi too.”

Gaon’s claim (before it turned out his words were taken out of context and that this was not his intent) was that Mizrahi music is “garbage not created by Satan,” a “natural disaster,” and “a disgrace to intelligence.” In more detail:

It’s awful trash. The Hebrew is clumsy. There are even mistakes in Hebrew. They take one motif and bang it into your head so it will thump in the brain.

Note that even in the original article it says:

Gaon later qualified his statement and said that if we’re talking about songs by Avihu Medina or Shlomo Bar—“that’s beautiful”; but he emphasized that in his opinion, “most of it is a disgrace to intelligence. I long for the moment when this accursed wave will pass and give way to quality.”

You won’t be surprised to hear that a witch hunt immediately broke out against him, Ashkenazim and Mizrahim alike. They spoke of his racism and chauvinism, of rigidity and lack of openness to other cultures. There were also the expected voices trotting out the postmodern claims that there is no way to determine the level of music or art in general, and who is he to criticize music that is so popular among a wide audience of various kinds (including Ashkenazim). Some even added the expected Marxist dash, that it’s all a matter of hegemony and power plots and colonialist oppression. No less.

Is There Racism Here?

As noted, afterwards it seemed that Gaon apologized. Yet if you read the description of his words, you’ll see he didn’t really retract; he merely tried to argue that there was no racism, since he himself is Mizrahi. This argument is simple and correct, and it points to the demagoguery of his attackers. Beyond the fact that he himself is Mizrahi (granted, there can also be auto-racism—some would say “Stockholm syndrome”), he did not reject a singer, lyricist, or song because of the creators’ origin. He rejected a genre (or most of it), and from the outset he said there are Mizrahi creators who wrote excellent songs (some of which are even considered Mizrahi music). Why would such a claim be racist? For a systematic discussion of the concept of racism and its definitions, see Column 445 (and much more on the site).

In this context I’ll note that Ziva Shamir, in her piece, also addresses the charge of racism, but she explains it differently:

On the subject of “racism,” I accept the distinction of Chaim-Nachman Bialik, who said that if a person seeks to distinguish himself from others through cultural separation, he has the right to do so, and one should not accuse him of “racism.” Racism is discrimination against another on the basis of data like hair color, skin color, or eye color—i.e., external features over which one has no control. Cultural separation, by contrast, is not “racism.” In other words: it is certainly permissible for a person to prefer the sounds of Andalusian music over the tunes of Moshe Wilensky and Sasha Argov, but one who prefers the latter is not a “racist.”

She invokes Bialik’s claim that cultural separation is not racism. But there are two problems with her claim:

• We don’t need Bialik to argue that personal taste isn’t racism. I have the right to like or not like whatever singer I wish. Incidentally, the addendum that the basis is not racial is baseless and actually contradicts the first claim. Even cultural separation on a racial basis is entirely legitimate. I have the right to like or not like whomever I wish, so long as I do not discriminate against him or cause him harm. And if I don’t like Moroccan or Mizrahi singers, is that racism? That’s my taste. Conversely, discrimination and exclusion on a non-racial basis are essentially flawed, just like racism. It’s no wonder that in our parts every form of discrimination and exclusion (profiling) is commonly labeled “racism.”
• In her article (discussed further below) she is not arguing for cultural separation, for if her aim were only to say that this is her personal taste, why write an article at all?! It is clear that the aim of the piece is to judge Mizrahi music as such and not merely to express a personal taste. She is not only claiming she doesn’t like it; she claims it is objectively inferior. Her comparison to Andalusian music is, of course, a mistaken and misleading analogy (below I point to another problematic comparison in her piece), since her claims there are not directed at Andalusian music—which is high-level Mizrahi music (perhaps not to her taste, which is perfectly legitimate)—but at a lowly Mediterranean pop. Therefore Bialik’s argument is insufficient to acquit her of the charge of racism. But as noted in (a), it isn’t needed either. There’s no need for exculpatory arguments, since we’re not dealing with racism here. I think that the very need to explain why such a cultural stance—and as noted even a judgment—is not racism indicates a misunderstanding of the concept and of the moral flaw it describes.

Returning to our subject, unsurprisingly Yehoram Gaon received unexpected support from the Mizrahi singer-composer Avihu Medina, who responded and said:

I think he says it out of pain—not out of rejection. It pains him that the level of the texts in the new Israeli Mediterranean music is unworthy. I’m with him, and kudos to him for saying it courageously.

It is no accident that Avihu Medina’s music is one of the exceptions Gaon did not address. In his words and his work he demonstrates that this is not racism but a legitimate (and to a large extent correct) judgment of the genre.

A Critical Look at the Debate

Some of the critiques of Yehoram Gaon’s words were actually evidence to the contrary. Thus, for example, the article quotes a radio host named Eliko:

“Shlomo Artzi sings, ‘I’m traveling, don’t know, where, where, where,’ and Matti Caspi sings, ‘A path in the middle, a path on the side,’” said Eliko. “Who decides what’s quality and what’s not? Apparently there are people for whom the advance of Mizrahi music is simply bothersome, and they think it’s music of the old Central Bus Station. To go against Mizrahi music is an ugly phenomenon.”

Incidentally, within his words he implicitly agrees with the negative judgment regarding “Central Bus Station” music.

Joining him was Yossi Gispan (a very talented musician—something that only further proves Gaon’s words), in a scathing critique of Yehoram Gaon. As I recall from then (I didn’t find the source now), he brought Matti Caspi’s song “Kalblev, Oh Bidi Bam Bam” as an example of “stupid” lyrics in an “Ashkenazi” song.

Eliko and Gispan display here an embarrassing misunderstanding that only proves the case against them. Banality, childlike tone, and seemingly “silly” words can be written in a very sophisticated way and produce a song of very high quality. Even if it’s not at the level of a poet’s lyric, there is still a work of art worthy of appreciation, since it uses a child’s jargon (Matti Caspi) or everyday speech (Shlomo Artzi) to say something and pluck at different strings. A song like “What Do the Does Do at Night?” deals with a child’s innocent question and a parent’s simplistic, fanciful answers. Seemingly silly and lowly, but it’s clear to all of us the song is anything but silly. It’s simply written from a childlike (or child-like) perspective. There are also examples in prose, like Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, or Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass. These literary works are likewise written from a child’s perspective and in a child’s language, and yet it should be clear to all (I hope) that they are genuine literary creations.

In that sense, there’s no room to compare such works to the Mizrahi kitsch of the Central Bus Station, what used to be called “the cassettes” (cf. “I’m the King of the Central Station Cassettes”). I heard that Ze’ev Nechama once called this sub-genre “haflot songs.” These are songs that use clumsy Hebrew, without context or subtle connotation, lacking sophistication, with a very low register, poor rhyme, tired clichés, without metaphors and without clever or playful use of language, and above all a repellent kitschy content that’s all “I love you” and “you love me,” or an embarrassing lament that “you don’t love me” and “how hard it is for me.” Tragedies in a dime-store Romeo-and-Juliet mode (actually closer to West Side Story). These are shouty or whiny songs, moving between heart-rending crying and festive hafla whoops, and you will scarcely find there subtlety and poetics.

Needless to say, topics like love or unrequited love are entirely legitimate human themes and therefore perfectly worthy of songs and lyrics, and they have been written about extensively in poetry and prose. In “Ashkenazi” music too there is a (to my taste, painfully high) dose of love and romance, definitely brushing up against kitsch—on both sides of the border. But even these fraught themes can be treated in a somewhat more refined and elevated way. Instead of whining in street language with tear-jerking music, or pounding us with a beat and volume that smash the head like tom-toms, one can write more sophisticated and delicate music (preferably without kitsch in the melody as well) and use a higher register of language.

Beyond this, it’s desirable to write the song itself in a subtler manner, less direct, blunt, and simplistic. Not everything needs to be placed on the table and hurled straight into the face and heart. There is a certain power in quiet, or to quote another Ashkenazi (Yechiel Mohar): “There is silence within the storms” (the source is apparently Rashi on 1 Kings 19:12: “I heard there is a voice that emerges from the silence”). I don’t expect everything to be like that—after all, the need for haflot is entirely legitimate, and it seems to me that at such events lowly songs of this sort are indeed called for. That’s how you make things lively. But at least alongside that, I would expect also some higher-level song, something not intended only for haflot and preferably not served with glitter.

To sharpen what I mean, take as an example the song “We Set Out Slowly,” by David Zehavi and Haim Hefer (and of course performed by the one and only Arik Einstein). The song is quite kitschy, speaks of longing for a beloved and nostalgia for a relationship, and even has a tragic element of a soldier heading to battle. But it is written more delicately, with words in a much higher register, and it even leaves us at the end with an ambiguous image (was there a breakup or not? did the soldier fall in battle or not? if he fell, then who is speaking here?). The tune itself is more delicate and less whiny and tear-squeezing (the tears here trickle slowly; they do not pour out like water before the Lord). We must admit honestly that kitsch is not lacking in the Israeli songbook (“A fair son was born on the shoulder of Mount Carmel”), but as in this example, it is usually gentle and far from the wailing, withered, lowly Mizrahi lament. And no, I don’t say this only because of my Ashkenazi racism and chauvinism.

Incidentally, Ariana Melamed also agrees with Yehoram Gaon. She argues that he’s right, but in her words this is only a Mizrahi version of popular pop. She rightly claims that in other genres too—that is, non-Mizrahi—you will find this shallowness (as with Justin Bieber, in her view, and I assume with quite a few contemporary Israeli singers; I confess I’m less familiar). But in my overall estimate, even there the material is less lowly. Moreover, in general pop there is also a reasonable proportion of works at a higher, more appropriate level—something you almost don’t find in our genre at hand. Beyond that, at least I don’t know of a Mizrahi or Mediterranean singer who uses the work of poets, as is sometimes done in mainstream “Ashkenazi” music. I don’t know of lyrics that set contemporary Mizrahi poets to music—like Erez Biton and many other fine poets—or that give Mediterranean tunes to Alterman (there are Mediterranean-style performances of “Ashkenazi” tunes, à la Amir Benayoun, but these are almost always covers. See below). The exception is piyyutim (liturgical poetry), which by definition belong to Mizrahi song (though not to haflot), and there in many cases we are dealing with superb poetics and complex, high-level music (which I do not understand much, to my regret). But where are the new Mizrahi poets in the world of Mizrahi music? Where are the Mizrahi Alterman, Naomi Shemer, Zehavi, and Sasha Argov? I, at least, am not aware of them.

Moreover, even if a Mizrahi creator were to do something like this, his song simply would not be considered “Mizrahi music,” and rightly so. Such a song would truly not belong to the genre. And that’s not because of racism, nor because of begging the question (that Mizrahi music must be lowly), but simply because it doesn’t belong to that genre. Avihu Medina and Shlomo Bar prove that their songs are considered Mizrahi music even though at least some of them are quality works. Despite their quality, they do belong to the genre (though they are certainly not haflot songs). By way of example, a few years ago I heard a beautiful song by Orel Gispan (Yossi’s son), titled “Almost Romantic.” It’s truly a wonderful love song to the city of Tel Aviv, and its delivery is excellent. Incidentally, the lyrics (not poetry, but definitely lovely) were written by none other than his father, Yossi Gispan. I recommend you listen. After you have—does anyone think it falls under the “Mizrahi music” genre? Why not?

Interim Summary

Yehoram Gaon did not come out against Mizrahi music, certainly not against Mizrahim, but against a lowly genre of songs. Almost any song written by a Mizrahi creator but in a higher linguistic register and with a less kitschy tune simply won’t be considered “Mizrahi” or “Mediterranean” music. That is, the critique is of the genre, not of Mizrahim. True, among Mizrahim there is a tendency toward this genre, and that is indeed to their discredit. The inclination to “make merry” is excellent and worthy, of course, but I’m not sure the only way to do so is haflot. Nevertheless, there are certainly many works by Mizrahi creators that are good and even high-level. But there is very little Mizrahi or Mediterranean music at a good or high level (there is some, but little). In a sense, the claim becomes tautological: if one defines the genre as low-level music (and anything non-lowly doesn’t enter it), it’s no wonder we find low-level music there. The problem is that there is very little else. There’s a certain asymmetry here that, with all the good will and generous eye, cannot be ignored. But the asymmetry is not between Mizrahim and Ashkenazim; it is between genres of songs.

In recent years even the usual correlations in the consumption of these genres are fading. Young Ashkenazim consume Mizrahi music and haflot songs just like their Mizrahi peers. Mizrahi music has burst onto center stage, in the words of Eliko above. Ziva Shamir in her article brings a spot-on example of this from a sketch of the satire show “Eretz Nehederet”:

In one of the sketches of the satirical program “Eretz Nehederet,” a Mizrahi singer named “Dedi Dadon” arrives, tie-clad and wrapped in an elegant white suit, with a request: to join “The Gevatron”—the “mythic” singing group that won the affection of the “old elites” thanks to songs of Labor Zionist Israel (such as “Sea of Sheaves” and “The Blossoms Appeared in the Land”). Today, in the third millennium, we must admit, this group and its songs no longer stir the hearts of young listeners.

In the sketch, members of “The Gevatron,” a singing group founded in 1948, audition him and refuse to accept the trilling singer who emphasizes the ḥet and ‘ayin, claiming he does not fit them. Sad and crestfallen, the Mizrahi singer leaves the hall adorned with stacks of hay stuck with a pitchfork like a set piece, gets into the luxurious giant car parked outside, and says to his driver: “That’s it. We’re off to Caesarea!” Moral: whoever excluded, if indeed they excluded, Mizrahi music for decades now receives it “big time.”

Incidentally, Dedi Dadon (Assi Cohen) is a character whose whole point is criticism of Mizrahi music and its shallowness, but the charm and talent of “Eretz Nehederet” apparently immunize them against the critics of Yehoram Gaon. This sketch, beyond the criticism it contains, actually illustrates well the other side of the coin: the immense and growing popularity of this genre among the public at large.

It seems to me this is precisely what stirred Gaon’s and Shamir’s critiques—and of course the objections to them. For many protesters, popularity is a measure of legitimacy, and therefore anyone who opposes it is by definition condescending and paternalistic. But just as well you could infer that Gaon’s and Shamir’s critiques actually come from an anti-racist vantage point, one that expects and believes in high-quality creation also in Mizrahi contexts. In recent years we all see this is not unique to Mizrahim; it’s simply a low-level genre consumed by both Ashkenazim and Mizrahim. Gaon and Shamir are merely calling on them—and on all of us—not to consume inferior art.

Act II: Ziva Shamir

Into this discussion recently (December 2020) stepped Prof. Ziva Shamir, one of the prominent literature scholars today, who often deals with Alterman. I already mentioned that a few days ago a mutual friend sent me a piece of hers in which she goes after Mizrahi music. She uses a comparison between an Alterman song, “With You and Without You” (to the melody of Nurit Hirsh, and here in a performance by Yehoram Gaon, master of this sugya), and a thin Mediterranean song, in her words, called “I Love You” (lyrics by Yossi Gispan, melody by Adi Leon, performed by Stalos and Oren Chen).

Shamir begins with a brief analysis of several aspects of Alterman’s song. She does not attempt to exhaust the poem, its structure and content, but to show its greatness and poetic level (some of the terms she uses are unfamiliar to me, so I could certainly have been even more impressed by its greatness. How can one not be impressed by the appearance of “the trochaic hexameter” at the beginning of the song?! though she claims it exists with Gispan as well). She then uses this to make a comparison to the parallel Mizrahi song (she offers several indications that it was written under the inspiration of Alterman’s song above), to show how thin it is in content and ideas, and essentially lowly and shallow on all the aspects I described above.

Shamir also notes that there are exceptions, like Ze’ev Nechama, a wonderfully gifted musician from the band Ethnix. But I think Nechama is actually an unfortunate example, not only because he himself is not completely Mizrahi (on his father’s side he is of Sephardi-Jerusalem-Salonikan origin, and on his mother’s side Ashkenazi), but because as far as I know, even his songs are not “Mizrahi music” in the sense meant here (I already noted I heard that he himself distinguished between haflot songs and Mizrahi music, and even partly joins in the laments over the level of the former). As I said, there is a kind of tautology in these claims that begs the question: Lowly music is lowly music, and if there is non-lowly Mizrahi music then it simply isn’t “Mizrahi music” (granted there are a few exceptions; hence it’s not a perfect tautology).

Incidentally, in this context I would point as well to a song of exactly the same name (“With You and Without You”) composed and performed by a Mizrahi creator named Avi Sinwani, with lyrics by Ilan Goldhirsh (who, judging by his name, is Ashkenazi). I allow myself to assume he too was influenced by Alterman (though I don’t know if it has “trochaic hexameter”). I think that anyone seeking an interesting exercise should try to classify it along the axis of Mediterranean/Mizrahi or not.

This is the place to note that sometimes the performance of an “Ashkenazi to a tee” song turns it into Mediterranean pop. Shamir herself brings the example of “In the Shade of a Date Palm and Moonlight,” which, due to its performance by Zohar Argov and others, was considered for years a Mizrahi classic, until its Ashkenazi creators were discovered (see the fascinating podcast on Kan’s site that went truly viral), and until non-Mediterranean performances were born. Similarly, in recent years quite a few “Land of Israel” songs have been released in performances by Mediterranean singers (cf. Amir Benayoun). See here, for example, Mark Eliyahu with Aviv Bahar and the Ashkenazi cellist Hadas Kleinman. In general, Mark Eliyahu is an example of marvelous Eastern music (I think usually in the realm of piyyut). The feeling upon hearing such performances is quite surprising. It seems to me that in many cases, had I not known the original, I would have taken it for a Mediterranean song. This phenomenon casts serious doubt on the possibility of defining a clear, distinct Mizrahi-music genre. But all these songs are covers. It’s hard to find a Mizrahi singer who sets poetry to music (outside of liturgical poets).

On Words and Melody

Up to this point Shamir roughly reiterates Gaon’s critique that we discussed above. But she adds, among other things, the following:

In the history of Hebrew song, the proper order prevailed through the years: first and foremost importance was given to the words, afterwards came the melody, and finally some importance was also given to the performing singer. Everyone understood that the poet cannot be replaced, whereas the performer can be replaced over the years, and many of Alterman’s songs testify to this, each having multiple performances, old and new.

Today, however, the order is reversed: the performing singer stands at the top, followed by the melody. And the words?… The words and the “lyricist” who wrote them can be replaced by a text generator, because who listens to them? No wonder the value of the Hebrew song—which was once a paragon of originality and innovation—has faded.

Indeed, Yossi Gispan’s lyric shows that nowadays the words do not matter at all. The main thing is that the root A-H-V (“love”) appears in all its inflections. The melody too has lost the important role it once had. Today only the voice, appearance, and popularity of the performing singer matter.

Here there is an additional claim worth considering. Shamir ties a song’s quality first and foremost to the words, and only afterwards to the melody (and finally to performance). Incidentally, if one defines Mizrahi music by the words and then the melody (with performance and delivery only at the end), then it is clear that a Mizrahi performance of a “Land of Israel” song is not Mizrahi music—apropos my earlier remark before this quotation.

Before addressing Shamir’s claim itself, I must note that in my view she draws here an unfair comparison (as we saw above regarding Andalusian music). Alterman was a poet with virtuoso command of words and of language in general, and it is not fair to compare him to a lyricist—talented as he may be—who does not work on the same plane and register. The quality of the words of most songs called “Land of Israel” songs is far from Altermanic qualities. Precisely the use of a concrete example to sharpen her general claim—which seemingly amplifies and validates its force—is somewhat demagogic. If anything, I would compare Gispan to Naomi Shemer or Rachel Shapira, who are considered lyricists (not entirely clear to me that justly so). I must say that to my judgment even in those comparisons Gispan would come out on the losing end, and yet these comparisons are more relevant.

Critique

Despite the intuitive agreement that stirs in me with these criticisms (which I will qualify below), I wish to begin with several criticisms of them. I don’t know whence Ziva Shamir draws the assumption that the main thing is the words. How should we relate to musical works (classical music, for example)? There are no words there at all. Why assume that in a song the main thing is the words and the melody only comes second? I think there are songs like this and songs like that, and the combination between words and melody need not always be weighted and ordered by the same hierarchy. In a poet’s words, naturally the quality of the song will be tied mainly to the words and less to the melody (though the latter is very important). But if someone sets words to a quality musical composition, there the quality will be determined mainly on the basis of the music and melody and less by the words.

The conclusion is that sometimes the words are a value-add to the music and sometimes the reverse. And witness melodies that—even without hearing the words—one can judge as kitschy. Music is a kind of language (one I am not versed in), and within it too one can discuss all the aspects I addressed here: low and high registers, complex and less complex structure, rhythm, meter, and so on. Therefore I see no real basis for Shamir’s claim that the words are what chiefly determine a song’s quality. I recall hearing once from Daniel Shelit how one can extract the Tetragrammaton from a Chabad melody (I think it was “Tzama Lecha Nafshi”). I understood from him (also in later conversations) that someone expert in this language (music) understands that it too speaks to us and has richness no less than the verbal richness of poetry. Again, in any such combination the “secondary” component (whether words or melody) is important, and in fact what creates the quality is probably the fusion between words and melody. That is what ultimately makes the song. But if one insists on positing a hierarchy, I think Shamir’s sweeping hierarchy has neither basis nor justification. I do agree that a song built on a poet’s words immediately gets a few extra points from me as well.

Now I wish to get to the substantive point in my critique of Shamir’s and Gaon’s critiques, and here I will partly retract my agreements with them. I shall then point to implications and principled aspects that follow from this partial disagreement.

On the Crux of the Problem: Is There Room for an Objective Judgment of a Song?

In everything I’ve said so far is embedded the assumption that one can indeed determine objectively the quality of a song or work of art. Those who hang everything on norms and cultural constructions and see artistic taste as purely subjective are wrong. I now wish to qualify that assumption somewhat.

It is quite clear to me that when I am outside a given culture it is very hard for me to judge it and, of course, the qualities of artworks created within it. To understand nuances you must live the meanings and wrinkles of the culture in question; then you can understand the context, what things allude to, what they play with—and from there try to judge whether indeed we have here a significant work or a low text. One unfamiliar with the context will see in a song like “Kalblev, Oh Bidi Bam Bam” a silly creation. One who has not experienced love himself will not understand the meaning of love songs. And, of course, in different cultures there are different kinds of love—not to mention love of God or love of homeland—which to some may appear primitive or like crude, lowly fascism, and to others, who live the culture in question, seem like the pinnacle of artistic creation and a delicate discourse on the depths of the soul, feelings, and spiritual phenomena.

In that sense, when someone like me or like Ziva Shamir, unfamiliar with the culture of haflot and the full Mizrahi contexts, arrives, it may well be that we will miss nuances and think we’re dealing with contextless creations and mere noise. Think of listening to African or Mongolian music. I assume many of us would be unable to bear that “trash.” Does that necessarily mean it’s low-quality music? Absolutely not. We’re unaware of the nuances; hence it’s very hard for us to judge. Of course, we’re entitled not to like such music (“cultural separation”), but it would not be correct to judge it from our vantage point. If so, it may be that the feelings I described here regarding Mizrahi music are the outcome of unfamiliarity; and seemingly one could bring as evidence that in recent years, as familiarity grows, so does the interest in and appreciation for Mizrahi music among the general public.

Granted, we must beware of exaggeration. Eastern culture is known to me—and I assume also to Shamir—to some degree. But due to the distance, it is indeed possible there are nuances we are missing. Lack of deep familiarity can lead to insensitivity to nuances. That, among other things, is what is meant by differences of taste, and in particular by the cliché (and erroneous) claim that there’s “no accounting for taste.”

An instructive example of these processes is the well-known song by “Dedi Dadon” (Assi Cohen), “Metuka Meha-Chayim” (“Sweeter Than Life”). This song, created as a blunt and mocking critique of Mizrahi music, itself became a hysterical Mediterranean hit. One who hears the song without knowing the background would naturally think it’s as lowly and pathetic as I described above. But one who knows the context—that is, is familiar with Mizrahi music and with the “Ashkenazi” critique of it, and within the framework of “Eretz Nehederet”—understands that it is a parody. Suddenly it becomes a wonderful, sharp creation, and decidedly not shallow and withered.

Incidentally, I think the fact that this song became a hysterical hit among consumers of Mediterranean music themselves does not stem from its qualities. Without being a major expert, I assume we can find in Mediterranean music songs far better (even by the genre’s own rules). Therefore I think the song’s success stems from the fact that the entire public, including those to whom the critique is directed, are aware of the parodic aspect. They respond with a kind of uplift and scorn, and ostensibly join the critique and tell the critics, with self-confidence, that they frankly don’t care. When I saw this enthusiastic adoption of the parody and its transformation into a successful Mizrahi song, my sense was that there is a powerful message here that the dogs bark and the caravan moves on. I think this is essentially the “shtreimel effect”: what began as a decree by the gentiles and part of the persecution of Jews became, among the Hasidim, an ideology and binding norm. Now they have a religious commandment to wear a shtreimel.

So much for one side of the coin: the relativity of artistic judgment. But this coin has another side. I absolutely reject the postmodern-narrative picture that denies objective quality—that is, that each individual (or society) has its own “qualities.” According to the prevalent, politically correct picture, there is no room for such critiques—not because they are wrong, but because there are no yardsticks by which to formulate them at all. The postmodern view holds that claims like those of Yehoram Gaon or Ziva Shamir are not correct—but they are not mistaken either. They are just nonsense. The assumption is that speaking of objective quality is a conceptual mistake, not an error in judgment. To treat it as an error in judgment presupposes there is another, correct judgment; but the radical view says such a correct judgment does not and cannot exist. No wonder this view is very popular in our cheerful times, where political correctness turns it into a quasi-religious obligation and norm. You can see how pleasant it is to live in a world where everyone is right and everyone is wise, a world where there are no wrongs and no fools. A world where everyone is equal, everyone a creator, everyone an artist, and of course everyone “quality.” An actual utopia of “the wolf shall dwell with the lamb,” that even smells like ultra-morality toward the Other and the Different.

But pleasant does not mean correct. The communists in George Orwell tried to sell us that war is peace, freedom is slavery, and ignorance is strength. But even if they repeat it thousands of times, it will not become true. Ignorance is not strength but stupidity. And likewise slavery is not freedom, and war is not peace. Similarly, if they keep dulling our minds with this politically correct verbiage, a bad song still won’t be a good song, and vice versa. I strongly oppose this relativistic picture and indeed believe in the existence of objective quality. I must clarify that I am not claiming that every statement about quality is objective, merely that some are (that is, not all are subjective). Conversely, I also understand the limitations I described at the start of this section—namely, the lack of ability to judge when one is outside the culture in question.

Formulating the Difficulty and Broadening It

How, then, do these two statements fit together? Is there objective quality, or is everything culture-dependent and in the eyes of the beholder? In this formulation we already meet the dilemma from a very general, theoretical angle. We are no longer dealing only with judging a song or work of art, but with quality in general. In fact, we are not dealing only with the subject of quality but with the relationship between the objective and the subjective in many domains. How can we speak of objective judgment if I am aware that every judgment is saturated (rightly so; it ought to be saturated) with subjective cultural freight? I have touched in the past on these questions and their kin in several places; here I will clarify the principled point and refer to places where I dealt with it from different angles.

A Look at Quality

I have mentioned several times (see Columns 143 and 193) Robert Pirsig’s claim, in his book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, regarding quality. Phaedrus, the book’s protagonist, is a rhetoric lecturer in an American college; and within a Zen-philosophical cross-continental journey on a motorcycle with his son Chris, he wonders whether there is any measure for quality. He asks himself on what basis he himself grades the papers submitted to him. Is it not merely a matter of personal taste? Who is he to rank the quality of others’ work? His surprising conclusion there is that indeed one cannot define the concept of quality (and even if you find criteria, you would have to justify those themselves, of course), but this does not mean it does not exist. He explains that there is a failure to distinguish between the definability of a concept and its existence, and he pins the failure on Greek philosophy (Aristotle). In any case, it is clear there are quite a few concepts (indeed all fundamental concepts are such) that we cannot define, but we cannot deny their existence. In fact, if you examine a concept that can be defined, you will see we use the definition in a set of more fundamental concepts, and so on. Thus there is no escape; ultimately we are left with a set of basic concepts that are not definable.[1] So too with the concept of “quality”: despite the difficulty of defining it, that does not mean it does not exist.

But here we must grapple with a deeper, more fundamental claim. The claim is not that we cannot define quality and therefore it does not exist, but the reverse: because it is clear it does not exist, therefore it cannot be defined. Why do we assume the concept of quality does not exist? Because the quality of a work of art or a paper is a mental feeling that arises in the listener/viewer; therefore it is clearly dependent on structures ingrained in him. Since there is no reason to assume that we all have the same structures, there is no justification to impose my measures on you and vice versa.

To address this fundamental difficulty, I will draw here on another thinker we have met more than once, C. S. Lewis (author of Narnia, among others). In Columns 371 and 155 I mentioned the discussion he conducts at the start of his booklet The Abolition of Man concerning admiration for a natural scene or a work of art (a waterfall, in a poem by Coleridge). In brief, he confronts the claim that statements of admiration for a sight or a work of art are claims about the admirer and not about reality. This seems a natural interpretation, since the person is expressing his feelings produced by the sight he views. Admiration is a mental event that occurs within us. But if we adopt this interpretation, then there is no room to judge such statements or argue with them. Reuven feels certain feelings in front of the sight; Shimon feels different feelings. Is there a debate between them? Each has his own mental structure; and there’s no accounting for taste. What can one who thinks there is nonetheless some claim here that can be judged, assented to, or disputed say?

Such a view presupposes that admiration contains a statement about the sight itself and not only about the admirer (about the cheftza and not only about the gavra). The claim is that I indeed admire, but this sight is worthy of arousing admiration. The admiration reflects some quality in the sight or the work itself. One who does not admire it has likely missed something and failed to grasp the depth of the matter. Here we have a real dispute between Reuven who admires and Shimon who does not. It is not true that admiration is the outcome of the admirer’s mental structure. That structure is merely the form of expression that such a sight should—and is worthy to—receive (the noumenon). Just as the yellow color is merely a reflection of something in the world itself; and therefore if we dispute whether the table is yellow or pink, this is an argument and not a report of different feelings resulting from different mental structures (or perceptions). One can, of course, agree or disagree with Lewis, but at least he provides a platform that can ground and justify an objectivist conception of quality. Relativism is no longer a necessary—or even natural—conclusion. There is now something to discuss.

On Logic, Halakhah, and Artistic Judgment

To understand this better, I will explain a notion I presented in my lecture “Walking Among the Standing” (which was the source of the title of the third book in the trilogy). Consider first a typical logical argument: if all frogs have legs and Moshe is a frog, then Moshe has legs. This argument consists of two premises leading to a conclusion. It does not deal with the question of whether frogs have legs, nor even with whether Moshe has legs. The first is one of the premises of the argument, and the latter its conclusion. The argument is not dependent only on the truth or falsity of the statements that comprise it, but on the quality of the inference from the premises to the conclusion (validity). Logic—which deals with the structure and validity of arguments (and not with the truth or falsity of statements)—deals solely with logical inference, i.e., with the argument, not with the truth of the statements involved. Therefore logic is a collection of content-empty structures (this is the root of the phenomenon in philosophy called “the emptiness of the analytic”). It does not deal with premises and not with conclusions, but with the derivation of the latter from the former. If we return to the frog example, logic deals with the abstract structure that can be formalized thus: if every X is Y, and a is X, then a is Y. This empty structure is the concern of logic, for it deals only with the inference of the conclusion from the premises. So too in mathematics. Mathematics does not deal with the axioms, nor with the theorems derived from them, but with the derivation of the theorems from the axioms. From the mathematician’s and logician’s perspective there is nothing wrong with adopting other, even opposite, premises, as long as your conclusions are consistent with the premises you chose. He focuses on consistency (i.e., the inference, the argument) and not on the statements (their truth and falsity).

I explained there that the same is true of halakhah. Halakhah does not say that “a person does not repay a debt before it’s due” (Bava Batra 5a). That is an empirical psychological-sociological claim and, as such, ought to be established by observation. But halakhah does not state the normative conclusion either—that one who claims to have repaid before it’s due is not believed. That is indeed not a fact but a halakhic norm; still, it is the conclusion of an argument. At a deeper look, halakhah does not actually deal with that either. Halakhah states only the following: if, as a matter of fact, people do not repay before it is due, then someone who claims to have repaid before the due date will not be believed. Or, in other words: if factual proposition X has been established, then one may rely on it in rules of evidence to require a defendant to pay or to prove his claims. More generally, a chazakah (a reliable factual presumption) helps shift the burden of proof—from the plaintiff to the defendant. The picture that emerges is that, just like mathematics and logic, halakhah does not deal with premises (the factual circumstances, in this case) nor with the conclusion (the halakhic norm), but with the passage between them. Halakhah’s subject is attaching a norm to factual circumstances, and its focus is on the procedure of attachment, not on the circumstances and not even on the norm itself.

I would argue that the same is true of artistic and aesthetic judgments. I once illustrated this by the following argument (see Column 143). The composer Johann Sebastian Bach is considered by connoisseurs (among whom I do not count myself) a musical genius. I have often wondered why that is so. Consider a musical work in reverse. Suppose a computer creates a musical composition utterly arbitrarily and randomly. Clearly, if I had no capacity constraints (assume, for the sake of argument, that I am God Himself), I would have the ability to create a community of creatures built such that this composition seems to them the epitome of musical genius. I would fit their mental structure so that their musical taste (which derives from their mental structure) matches the composition exactly. In principle one can always create such a group of creatures. If so, Bach simply enjoyed excellent luck, for the population of creatures who listen to his works (humanity, or at least its European part) is built such that this is perfect in their eyes. He just “landed well.” If he had arisen in a different environment, he would not have been considered anything special. I, by contrast—unlucky me—am not considered a musical genius. But seemingly this is only due to bad luck. I did not “land well,” and therefore my compositions do not strike the taste of the human society in which I live (alas). If I had been created on Mars, perhaps there would have been worms there who would have regarded me as a musical genius. Why, then, is it justified to think that Bach is a musical genius and I am not? Apparently the difference between us is only a matter of luck. In other words, musical ability is purely subjective.

The answer I give myself is that this examination is reversed—and not by accident. Bach did not create an arbitrary composition that by chance matched the audience’s taste. He knew the audience and created a work that hit its taste exactly. He did not shoot an arrow and then draw the target around it; he shot the arrow straight into the bullseye. I assume that even among other audiences that would set him different “targets,” Bach would succeed in hitting them better than I. If so, this is an objective ability he has and I lack. I am not trying to shoot such arrows, but if I were to try, I assume I would fail. For me to succeed, someone would need to create ad hoc an audience to fit my music. That does not testify to my musical ability (but to his technological capacity). The conclusion is that ability is tested by shooting at a target that already exists. One who succeeds in hitting such a target indeed deserves to be considered talented in his field.

Note that this is exactly parallel to the picture we saw in halakhah and in logic/mathematics. Musical ability is not the final work, and certainly not the creation of the circumstances under which this work succeeds and is considered quality. Musical genius is the ability to fit music to circumstances (audience taste). Note that when a person has such an ability, it does not dictate the work he produces. The latter depends on the circumstances in which he acts, and each set of circumstances dictates a different kind of work. Yet all these different works reflect the same objective genius: the ability to attach a work to circumstances.

It is easy to confuse this picture with postmodern narrativism, but they are two entirely different pictures. Here there is an objective judgment and yardsticks for it. Logic, by all accounts, is an exact field, and there is right and wrong (a valid and an invalid argument). No one would say there are different logics because different premises lead to different results.[2] Yet this is precisely the mistake of many who hold to the narrative stance because of the insight that judgment is circumstance-dependent (narrative). This is a mistake because the dependency between circumstances and judgment is itself objective. This objective dependency creates different outcomes under different circumstances. Different input yields different output, but the machine that processes the input into output is the same (genius and quality).

Conclusions

The conclusion is that one can indeed speak of objective quality, despite dependence on circumstances (on the audience, its culture, and its taste). There is no contradiction between saying that quality is circumstance-dependent and saying that quality is an objective feature (and not relative). Indeed, in each set of circumstances a quality work will look different. But given specific circumstances (the audience’s culture and taste), there are successful works and there are those that are not. The conclusion we reached is that both horns of the dilemma I described above are true at once: the quality work is indeed culture-dependent, but quality itself is not culture-dependent. Quality (and talent) is determined by the relation between the work and the circumstances, and that relation is objective. Exactly as we saw in logic: quality (and talent) lies not in the work and not in the circumstances, but in the relation between the work and the circumstances.

From here a few conclusions arise for our matter:

1. Given a specific set of circumstances, there will be quality works (and quality creators) and works that are not.
2. Therefore even if we encounter a work that was very successful with a given audience, this does not necessarily mean it is a quality work—even in those circumstances (that is, for that audience). Success does not necessarily testify to quality, since quality is an objective feature. Only one with talent will produce a quality work in the existing circumstances. Even if many people think a certain work is quality, they are not necessarily right.
3. Contrary to the first two conclusions, which point in an objectivist direction, here is the subjective caveat: objective quality must be examined from very deep familiarity with the circumstances. When one evaluates the quality of a song or work of art from outside the culture in question, it will be very difficult (and perhaps impossible) to assess whether it is quality or not. But this is not because quality is subjective. It is a practical difficulty in judgment. In other words, it is an epistemic problem, not an ontic one.

It seems to me that a good measure of quality in this picture is the opinion of talented creators within the culture in question. Regarding Mizrahi music, statements by people like Avihu Medina, Aviv Bahar, Shlomo Bar, and the like can be a good indication of good or flawed quality, since they are familiar with the circumstances and attuned to the nuances, and there is a broad consensus that they are knowledgeable and gifted. They can judge the work “from within,” not “from without.”

And what of the opinions of people outside that circle (like me and like Ziva Shamir)? They can, of course, express a position. It is not correct to think they are necessarily wrong, and certainly not correct to think there is no objective definition of quality because it is circumstance-dependent. I have shown here that there is no connection between dependence on circumstances and the objectivity of quality. But it is correct that such people must take into account the possibility that they are mistaken due to unfamiliarity with the circumstances—something that can cause them to miss nuances and contexts and thus to a failed judgment. What is circumstance-dependent is not quality but the quality work (in each circumstance there will be different quality works) and also our ability to judge it. This brings us to the final point.

On Judging “From Within” and “From Without”

In Column 57 I dealt with Talmudic lamdanut and, within it, with judging claims “from within” and “from without.” I cited there the story of a conference I attended at the Israel Democracy Institute (with conclusions regarding legal and halakhic discourse “from within” and “from without”). I won’t repeat it here, but I will draw your attention to how similar the picture there is to what I have sketched here.

I sketched a similar picture regarding halakhic ruling “from within” and “from without” (see my article here and Columns 439 and 446 and in Chapter 30 of my book Walking Among the Standing), about a decisor whose situation is foreign to him. There I noted that the ability to rule halakhah for people in a given situation depends on our distance from it and from them, and I brought several examples. A not-too-great distance allows us to enter the situation and understand it “from within,” even though we are not entirely within it. Similarly, our distance from the culture in question should allow us to judge what happens within it. Therefore the ability to judge Mizrahi music depends on our distance from the culture in which it is created and on our ability to bridge it, to enter into it, and to judge it “from within.”

It is important to understand that we are not dealing only with theoretical, conceptual familiarity with the culture and its contexts. More than once I brought the example of Mary’s Room (see, for example, Column 452), which demonstrates the gap between familiarity with a field like optics and immediate experience of it. The information that an electromagnetic wave of a certain wavelength behaves in a certain way is theoretical knowledge. But immediate acquaintance with it involves a visual encounter with the color red (the color that appears to us when we look at that wavelength). Even a great expert in optics cannot say he understands what the color red is and the connotations it evokes in people. For that you need immediate acquaintance. So too with cultures. It is not enough to be theoretically familiar with the principles of the culture in question. One who has read an encyclopedia entry about Native Americans may know the principles of their culture, but he does not necessarily understand what those principles mean to them. To judge a work one must also experience it “from within” and understand its meaning for people in that culture.

If we return to Mediterranean music, my sense is that I am at a not-so-great distance and therefore can judge it and claim that we are dealing with lowly creations. But at the same time I must also take into account the possibility that this world is too far from me and perhaps is foreign to me to such an extent that I cannot truly judge it. My conclusion is that judgment in such cases is legitimate, but it must be treated with the humility required by the distance. Conversely, it is not correct to claim, across the board, that there is no objective judgment, and certainly not correct to dismiss a priori and categorically its practical feasibility. The smaller the distance, the more likely the judgment will hit the target. Avihu Medina’s judgment of Mizrahi music is certainly better than mine, and even than that of music experts who observe the phenomenon “from without.” But that does not mean mine is necessarily mistaken—certainly not if he agrees with me.

[1] The philosopher Willard Van Orman Quine proposed another solution: our understanding of concepts is not done linearly, each built on its predecessors, but holistically as a web whose nodes depend on one another. We understand all the concepts together, each clarifying its fellows, with them in turn clarifying it.

[2] There are claims about the existence of different logics, and almost all of them err precisely at this point. I noted this briefly in my article “What Is ‘Chalut’?”