'Sing and cry with him': Shlomo Artzi performs for evacuees of Kibbutz Be'eri

Shlomo Artzi is a man of words. He writes them, weaves them together, and adds melody. But more than anything, it seems, he loves to take his songs apart—especially during performances. Perhaps it's age affecting the clarity of his voice, but he strips away the familiar melody, reciting the words instead, giving them a new meaning. A third meaning, different from the original, and even from the one we've all gotten used to humming.

Not long ago, someone asked me, "Do you like Shlomo Artzi?" Honestly, the question felt strange, almost like asking if I like the waves crashing against the shore in Tel Aviv or the Ayalon Freeway. Because whether you love him more or less, Artzi is already part of the landscape. He’s part of the soundtrack of the movie we all live in.

In his own words, "he was part of the landscape, and now he’s only a guest," leaving the audience to reflect on his changing role. That question kept gnawing at the back of my mind while watching A Heart Broken into Pieces—the film documenting his last concert in Sderot, before the war. And later, seeing him in hotels where some of the residents were evacuated, trying to return to his “regular” performances in the shadow of war and the hostage crisis that still hasn’t ended.

One of the reasons it’s hard for me to answer the question, “Do I like Shlomo Artzi?” is that sometimes it seems no one takes Artzi as seriously as Artzi himself. Sure, some of his songs, especially the older ones, remind me of key moments from my past. Or, at the very least, they capture them perfectly. It's like every song is, as he puts it, “an inevitable memory.” But the pretense—at least the way I see it—behind some of his other work is hard for me to bear.

If I had to place myself somewhere on the Shlomo Artzi fan scale, I do find myself humming his songs now and then. Not just when I’m lost, wandering on a balcony, but also when I look up at the moon. Still, I haven’t been to one of his concerts since Dance at the Haifa Municipal Theater, back in the mid-80s, when the woman who is now my wife was still just my girlfriend.

I sat down to watch A Heart Broken into Pieces with a bit of skepticism, wondering if Artzi would cause me to collapse under the gap between how I want to sing with him and the way he insists I should stress his words.

And that’s exactly what happened. The film zigzags between these two poles. Give Artzi an open mic, and within minutes, he’ll touch your heart. But at the same time, he might make you pull back, put off by the self-importance that seems to be woven into almost every sentence. It’s as if he’s always trying to sound profound, even when simplicity would be enough.

Music and art before October 7

Take the black-and-white cinematography, for example. It loads the film with an art-like meaning, but I would have preferred to see Sderot in its natural colors—before October 7. Then there’s Artzi quoting himself, asking, “What are words if not silence?”—as though he’s just discovered a biblical truth. Moments like that make me, as a viewer, start counting down the minutes, feeling a bit like a cat from one of his songs.

But then, when Artzi performs for the evacuees from Kibbutz Be’eri, in the hotel where they’ve been relocated at the Dead Sea, and he makes them sing and cry with him, with the song about “the paradise of childhood” playing in the background—it’s impossible not to shed a tear. It’s one of those moments that, like a great song, grabs you at first glance and only deepens the more you focus on its details.

Artzi had previously performed in honor of the hostages held by Hamas in Gaza, including performances with their posters in the background at rallies. 

שלמה ארצי הופיע היום בהיכל התרבות בתל אביב, כשעל הבמה מוצגות תמונותיהם של כל החטופות והחטופים. במהלך ההופעה, ראה הזמר את אשירה, אלמנתו מעוררת ההשראה של סא"ל תומר גרינברג ז"ל - וכל הקהל נעמד ומחא כפיים@Noam92Cohen pic.twitter.com/1Gcx1eILbi

— החדשות - N12 (@N12News) January 12, 2024

And when Artzi, with his vast experience performing for soldiers and civilians through Israel’s wars—from the War of Attrition through Yom Kippur and Lebanon—says, “I’ve never seen pain like in this war,” you not only believe him, you feel it too. The pain mirrors a Shlomo Artzi song—building up, only to be taken apart again into words and melody, creating something different. It’s both absolute and relative.

The absolute doesn’t need much explanation, as our dead still lie before us and our hostages remain in Gaza. The relative—what makes the pain even sharper—is revealed every time you see your people, your brothers, living through these days like a miracle. And knowing that we’ll never sing together again at a Shlomo Artzi concert.

Why? Because, much like that filmed concert of his in Sderot, we’ve gone from being a country of a thousand shades to a picture painted only in black and white.

Jerusalem Post Staff contributed to this report.