The sounds were piercing sometimes, shrill even, hitting high dissonant tones that were mocking any tacked-on western harmonies. This wasn’t strummy guitar music, or beery St. Patricks day music. This was realer than that. Klezmer straddles the line between Eastern and Western. Usually it has the harmonic chords and 4/4 feel of European music, but the minor keys and scales, not to mention the improvisation are straight up alien to the West. It’s weird to think that it’s so much older than Israel, it fits the country perfectly—especially Tzfat.
I was walking down the unpaved street, no cars, hearing a street clarinet player project himself, laying down pure personal expression like a B-Boy freestyle. It’s so rare to hear music like that, unrecorded but virtuoso. The rhythm was more like speech than a regular beat, actually deeply reminiscent of Torah chanting, more pulsing than counting. You couldn’t dance to it, but why would you want to?
It wasn’t just acoustic though. In the lower part of the city, there was an Israeli rock band with traditional influence, which meant klezmer with drums and basslines. I liked it, but it was background music for the night. Martin and I were chilling at the Tzfat equivalent of a hookah bar. This wasn’t a preppy hangout though. Some guys with like thirty nargilot had taken over an old ruin. They’d set up mattresses, pillows, and pseudo-Indian artwork. Now they were making a killing charging anywhere from 5 to twenty shkalim to rent a nargilah, depending on your Hebrew. We paid twenty, everyone else paid 5. Smoking, tasting lemons, feeling the bass from the stage, more content than I’d ever been, I felt like I was at home. “This is what you miss in America.” Martín said. “In the third world they’re relaxed enough that they have places like this.”
“Israel’s not third world.” I looked around. “Maybe it’s not first world but it’s not third world.”
“Whatever, Max. It’s not America.”
“L’chaim.” We clinked bottles.
When the sun was about to come up we were looking for somewhere to eat. All the street vendors had gone home. We ended up at a restaurant that had thankfully decided to extend its hours for the festival. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen took my money at the counter, handed me my fanta and my change, I honestly smiled when our fingers touched, she looked that good.
“Max you look so stupid right now.” Martín whispered when we were waiting for the shawarma.
“What? Shut up dude.”
“No, YOU shut up! You look like ODB about to OD.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m enjoying the moment.”
“What moment?”
“Shawarma girl.”
Writing now, I remember exactly what she looked like, long black hair, tight black jeans, face like the shekhina. “I’m going to offer her a green card.” I’d said to Martín. “You should!” he said. Believe me, I was seriously considering it.
