A passionate but unsentimental tribute to a source that should never have receded into mere folk memory. The Ganovim-Lider was first published in 1928, collected by Shmuel Lehman, the eminent and courageous Jewish folklorist. Lehman collected songs from the underworld, from prostitutes and prisoners and petty criminals, from backstreets, from suffering, from the weight of early twentieth century history. Of course, we now listen with hindsight, with the full and certain knowledge of what befell the collector and the collected in mid twentieth century Central Europe. With that benefit, the material seems horribly prescient, full of clues and foreboding as to what was to come, in the wholly limited time that these characters and stories had left. This is the sound of that time and that dance, beautifully excavated, played with raw verve. The sounds of life and loss, of keening and lament, of resignation and desperation, of broken-phrased drama and self-lampooning.
Lehman met his death as an early victim of the Warsaw ghetto. But not before he had collected the experience and consciousness of suffering, and allowed the sufferers to breathe through hisunfashionable conviction that matters of social upheaval were, indeed, folklore. Much of his legendary and invaluable work was lost in the ghetto, after his death. Here, on this album, his work sings again, as in the rasp of Heyrt Oys, Mentshn, which flows surely over the accordeon, until both break up, hurting until a sudden defiant soar of a crescendo.
Lehman’s poetic reflection and articulate vitality is captured, in an album that slices through the mist of linguistic and historical challenges. Opening medley, Ikh Hob Arumgerayzt / Vintsht Mir A Bisele Glik, immediately showcases sparse, sharp and dramatic harmonies, as vocals flutter and break against a stark and fragile atmosphere, in entirely memorable cabaret.
Tragically, this is Schikker Wi Lot’s swansong, being a tribute to accordeonist Franka Lampe, who passed away earlier this year. And immersion is rewarded, as Lampe and singer, Fabian Schnedler,sensitively and forensically delineate despair. This triumph of pathos is testament to Lampe’s astute and vigorous playing, entwined around sparse arrangements and Schnedler’s vocals, which ooze panache, often crooning, always averring.
A poignant and sonorous duet of desperation with the void.
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