Klezmer

Klezmer

A noodling clarinet sets the scene
A barn, a wedding chuppa, a ghetto Synagogue in the Warsaw slums
A shtetl in the fields south of Minsk

And then the steps begin

*1, 3-1, 3-1, 3-1 on French horn and cello
The first notes of Boiberiker Hora rise from the accordion
My fingers fumble the fretboard
Right hand quavers over the lowest string

But I’m a shit musician
I hit bum notes, miss my timing
My mandolin is flat, the intonation’s off
And panic is rising just behind my heart
As I try, again, to play the tremolo

But I’m not really me any more
My edges are blending with violin and clarinet
Mistakes are becoming colour and variation

And I’m not me any more
I’m us, the Kapelye
I’m the band, the music, the key of Ahava Raba
I’m the ancestors I don’t even know for sure that I’ve got
I’m the damp mornings, the brocha over bread
I’m the Yiddish I don’t speak

I’m not me any more
I’m us, the Kapelye
I’m community and moment and now

The final trill, the sign to end
The last eight bars
And we stop*

The next dance will be a Freylekhs

 

October 2024
* - * beat time by clapping

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