In 2012, I left the bicycle industry and decided to devote more time and energy to pursuing a career (of sorts) in Jewish music.
The decision was not without its hazards. I lived far from the major Jewish centers and lived on far less money than nearly
all of my colleagues across the US, but was growing my reach across
smaller Jewish communities in mostly "red" states -- there are Jews
there, too, so why not? I traveled to places other artists seldom, if ever, went, and had a grand time doing it, meeting some truly lovely people and establishing connections that, in a few cases, would lead to return visits later on. I wasn't earning much, but enough to feel encouraged to keep at it. I also had part-time employment at a large synagogue here at home, which helped with the bills each month.
Ten years into my Jewish music career, I was en route to my 50th birthday, and for the better part of a year had struggled with mood swings (which I didn't know were mood swings at the time), feeling out of place in the local Jewish community and wrestling with the successes of fellow Jewish artists, all of whom had a combination of greater financial security and deeper roots and connections in Jewish community than I did.
A year later, I stumbled and fell, without knowing why at the time.
I lashed out at people around me and had what can only be described as a nervous breakdown.
Among those I lashed out at, rather publicly, were the people I worked for, at the large synagogue where I had taught and made music for over a decade.
When the mushroom cloud cleared, I was seated in the rabbi's office trying to understand what had happened and to figure out how I could best make amends with those I'd hurt.
The rabbi wasn't so concerned with the emotional hurt I might have caused, but with the professional ramifications of my breakdown. And I felt truly horrible on all accounts.
Until the rabbi said, and I quote, "Your outburst comes as no surprise. We've been watching you for some time." He went on to tell me that I would continue to work for the synagogue that year and work on my issues alone, without any support from them.
Sadly, I did not remember that sentence being said until well after our meeting had ended and I was on my way home. When I did remember it, I stopped and pulled over, and sat on the bridge staring at the water below for a long time. The fact that they were keeping me on for the year was a surprise. I had expected to be fired on the spot. (I would learn later that it was likely because they had no one else to take over my multiple duties on such short notice.) So we all carried on, the clergy and School director and me, as if nothing had happened.
It was the hardest year of my working life, pretending that everything was okay while figuring I'd be let go in the spring. Meanwhile I had to go through the long and difficult process of also learning about the emotional effects of entering perimenopause -- including wild mood swings that synced up with my monthly cycle and for which there was little cure, in my case, except anti-depression medication and counseling. I spent the year doing my synagogue job, seeing a counselor and finally arriving at a diagnosis of depression exacerbated by perimenopause, and trying to find gigs outside my local area. It was hard going, though I did manage to build connections with a few places out of state. In the back of my mind the entire year was the rabbi's comment that he had seen it all coming. I never got to ask him why he hadn't mentioned anything sooner. He and I were on rocky ground the rest of the year and I interacted with him as little as I could.
In the spring, as I had predicted, I was told I would not be offered a contract for the following year. I doubled down on my efforts to find other work in the Jewish world, and although it was almost entirely outside of my local scene, I began touring as a Jewish recording artist.
Also during that year, I recorded and self-produced my second album of original Jewish music, raising enough money to go into a small studio and make enough copies of CDs to sell on tour.
In the years that followed, I would add to my list of cities I'd bring my music to; spend six summers working at a Jewish day camp; and record two more albums, bringing my total to four collections of original Jewish music. My songs got a very small amount of airplay on Jewish Rock Radio, but it was something. I went to some Jewish music conferences, networked with clergy there and on Facebook, and built up a small but respectable following with little local support.
I recorded my fourth album in the fall of 2019, and officially released it in February of 2020.
The following month, the world closed for business while COVID stormed across the landscape, taking millions of lives along the way. I got sick and was eventually diagnosed with Long Covid, which I lived with for almost two years. I'm still not all the way back to where I was before Covid, but I'm a lot better than I was.
While we all struggled to find our way through and out of lockdown, I wrote more songs, recorded a fifth album at home and released it, and began looking ahead to the possibility of touring again. I also came out the other side of perimenopause and noted that my mental health was greatly improved by then.
It has not been easy finding my way back to something resembling normalcy.
Without the loving support of my partner, my family and my friends, I might not have made it.
I have been beating the bushes for gigs, writing new music and carrying on as best I can. Gigs are slowly happening again. I just wrapped up a wonderful High Holy Days in Washington State, and am looking ahead to a Chanukah Shabbaton in Northern California. I'm going to local mics to test my mettle against secular musicians, and have picked up a very part-time position at another local, smaller synagogue, working for a relatively new rabbi who knows my story and has warmly welcomed me.
So here I find myself, over twenty years after embarking on this path, still able to create music and share it with others. I am grateful. And I know that, if nothing had happened at the large synagogue I used to work at, I might have found myself on a path to a larger national audience based in one of the major Jewish movements.
But it didn't go that way, and so I have made a point of seeking out underserved synagogue communities, and charging a little less than the going rate so I could travel and they could bring in a visiting artist. That choice has helped me to clarify a fair number of things about my values, my career, about the role of the major movements in everyday Jewish life, and about my place in the Jewsh world in general.
My path has helped me to understand that, as a Jew from the margins in multiple ways, I might well be an appropriate person to be of use to other Jews on the margins, and communities on the margins (as most independent minyanim are). I got to within inches of the "big time," so to speak, found it crazy-making, expensive and unsustainable, and decided that missing out on a breakthrough there wasn't so bad after all.
I'll keep sharing my music, helping small Jewish communities to sing together, and touring until I can't do it anymore. And that will make a fine career for me.
Next up: The start of a new religious school year and Chanukah in Northern California.
You can stay tuned by checking out my Facebook Music page.
Have a wonderful New Year, and be kind to everyone you meet.
