Let’s face it, he wasn’t much of a singer, he had no voice and just memorized few simple chords. But he wasn’t afraid (stoned out of it) to break through the cantorial cacophonous regurgitation and dared to bring his personal voice into the music. There is one song I like on the Village Gate album and even that one is really a Viennese waltz. But I am not writing about the music here.
Shlomo practiced the insipid craft of taking fresh berries and dumping them into a sugary paste for the long winter. He would take the Izbitzer and many others and would deny them their humanity by turning them into a cinematographic sweetness. And what goes around comes around. It’s only fitting that he is now being denied his own humanity. Shlomo Carlebach’s mummy emptied of the guts, the heart and his distinct hyperactive balls is thoroughly soaked in the sugary spirits. He is denied the humanity and the heroes of his imagination are no longer there to pull him by his pubic curls for making a honey babka out of their despair.
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